27. Gypsies.

Nan peeked through the doorway of her parents' living room. They lived in a comfortable brownstone in Brooklyn, which they had filled with bric-a-brac from all over the world: African masks, Indonesian shadow puppets, Indian fabrics, and wafting through the place was a strong scent of incense that barely covered the smoky tang of pot.

"Hi Mom, Dad. This is, uh--" The man had stepped through the doorway behind her. "--someone I met on the street. Or in Union Square, more precisely."

Nan's mother smiled a little blearily. "That's nice, dear. We're watching that documentary about the Gypsies."

Nan's father tugged at his beard. "Not Gypsies, Isabel. That term is pejorative."

Nan's mother held up the box the documentary had come in. "It says it right here."

"The correct way to refer to those people is to call them the 'Rom.'"

"But that's not what they put on this cover."

And so it continued. The man and Nan walked through the living room unnoticed, and climbed up the stairs.