It is a given that Russia in the post-Soviet era is eagerly awaiting American instruction in the proper way to live and prosper. So it came as some surprise to us when, bound for St. Petersburg from New York recently, we found ourselves under the care of a Russian tour guide, Natasha, who felt compelled to regale us nonstop with American- tourist horror stories. Her accounts were enough to make even the most smug of our group start bleating manic apologies—for our fellow Americans, and for simply being Americans ourselves.

“In your lead, don’t spill the beans,”he said. "If-you do, let them be soy beans— because they are mysterious. On interviewing, get cozy ... become one with the interviewee's 'existential condition.' On writing, ‘manipulate the reader’... bring gamesmanship to your piece. Work yourself into a 'fair state of mind'... Stay low ...."

It's the first night of class at the University of Washington's Non-Fiction Writers' Program. I open the classroom door and, seemingly, enter a recurring dream I had in undergrad. I feel as though I'm in the wrong classroom, but I don't know where I'm supposed to be.

With the onset of my pregnancy came nonstop poking, prodding, and probing—not by my physician, but by my peers. Friends and acquaintances have become predators, assaulting me with persistent personal questions and person-best procreation horror stories.