Our trip to Los Angeles for the 2004 Konkani Sammelan is not off to an auspicious start. The airport shuttle driver, an angry bull of a man, alternates between screaming at his colleagues through the two-way radio and swerving in and out of lanes down the freeway like the NASCAR fan his window decals proclaim him to be. Alarmed, I imagine the potential headlines: "Family Headed to Cultural Convention Killed in Road Rage Carnage!" Once we arrive at the hotel and shakily exit the shuttle, I turn to make a snarky comment about the driver to my mother. Halfway through the sentence, I clamp my mouth shut and dart a suspicious glance around. So few people understand and speak Konkani that even when there are desi people around, we can safely talk about them without fear of discovery (and we usually do). We are a minority even in India; the country's last census estimated only 2 million Konkani speakers. Our community leaders believe there are barely 5,000 Konkani families residing in North America. Looking into the lobby, it seems as if all 5,000 families have converged on this hotel, and we can heedlessly gossip no longer.

Instead, we head to the front desk to check in to our rooms. The woman asks for our name, and before we can offer any explanation, begins briskly typing away. We exchange amused glances and wait for the inevitable: In the Konkani community, Kamath is as common a name as Smith or Jones is in America. The receptionist is patently astonished at the number of Kamaths filling her screen. Taking pity on her, we offer our confirmation number, which she gratefully accepts.

As we navigate the lobby toward the convention registration desk, I am suddenly struck by the similarities between this cultural get-together and the Olympic Games. Scheduled every two years, both events feature a host committee, delegations from different states and a plethora of events scheduled from sun-up to sundown. The only major difference lies in what I like to think of as the "shadow convention," a sideshow which seems to outshine the official schedule of yoga seminars, Konkani cooking workshops and dance performances. The lack of official sanction, however, doesn't detract from its popularity.

The shadow convention usually opens with the genealogical long jump. Desi parents, veteran long jumpers, love to launch their bewildered offspring into the fray. "Don't you remember this auntie? She is your great-grandmother's cousin's son-in-law's nephew's wife." Perhaps the most popular and most competitive is the bragging marathon. Spanning from the opening ceremonies to the final day, the marathon requires determination, dedication and endurance. There are those who settle for the bronze: "My daughter double majored in molecular biology and biochemistry and was accepted into medical school at NYU." There are those who aspire for silver: "My son is finishing his master's in computer science at MIT and then he'll work full-time at the Internet start-up he founded during his freshman year in college. He expects to have an IPO later this year." And then there are those who go for the gold: "My daughter tripled majored in economics, biomedical engineering and nuclear physics. Once she finishes her MD-PhD and publishes her book on nanotechnology, she will spend a year in Cambodia, defusing landmines. Then she'll come back to Harvard to complete her JD, marry a suitable doctor boy we had especially imported from India and proceed to have 2.5 children and a large home in the suburbs. Some say it is technically not possible to have .5 children, but if anyone can do it, my daughter can."

And of course, who can forget the national pastime, the matrimonial bid process? This cutthroat and competitive race is reminiscent of potential host cities bidding for the upcoming games. Promotion committees and parents both put their best faces forward, while cities and "candidates" are intensely scrutinized. Examined from every possible angle, their merits and flaws are thoroughly discussed. And just as the cities are slowly eliminated from contention, so are the potential mates. While cities are excluded due to insufficient manpower, poor public transportation or a lack of accommodations, proposed matches are disqualified because of insufficient earning power, poor family backgrounds or simply a lack of good looks.

The similarities don't end there. Staying in the hotel where the convention is held is much like living in the Olympic Village. No part of the hotel, whether it's the lobby, the hallways, the bar or the bathrooms, is free from fellow attendees. I, of course, learn this lesson the hard way. Late Saturday night, I slip out of my room in my pajama pants and Harry Potter T-shirt, sans makeup and with my hair in a messy twist, to fill the ice bucket. Standing in front of the ice machine, I hear the elevator doors slide open and a crowd of people come down the hallway. From their accent-free voices, I can tell that they are probably my age, but quite honestly, I sometimes think desi girls are no less judgmental than their infamously opinionated mothers. I waver between crouching behind the vending machines or venturing forth. I decide to brazen it out and walk back to my room. I pass the crowd of teens in the hallway and smile as if I don't have a care in the world. I reach my room and duck back inside with a sigh of relief. After all, it could have been worse—I could have been caught in front of the snack machine with bags of chips in my hands.

But it's not all genealogical long jumps and bragging marathons. Just as the Olympic Games are founded on the premise of promoting peaceful international relations, the Konkani convention promotes the renewal of familial relations. During the weekend, both my parents are reunited with friends and relatives from their past, some of whom they had lost contact with for more than 40 years. Their happiness in these reunions makes me reflect upon my own connections to the Konkani community and culture. Caught up in the excitement and emotion, my sister and I suggest Chicago, our city, as the site for the upcoming youth convention. I decide that despite all the times I've gently mocked some aspects of my culture, I truly am proud of my heritage. While I won't be bringing 0.5 children to the next convention, I will be bringing my enthusiasm and respect for my community. That should at least get me a bronze.