Paper Key

Blegh! Smell and taste collide in disgust as my spoon hand jerks to a stop. I pull back and inspect the stained rice my teachers ordered for me. A sniff confirms my suspicion. Zenme shuo…vinegar?” Two bottles of dark liquid rest on the table. I bet it all on soy sauce and came up empty. “I’ll be back,” I mutter as I rise from a tiny orange stool they would welcome in Lilliput. 

Up to the counter. The cashier’s eyes stare blankly up at me, widening slightly at my appearance and height. Deep breath. Ok, here we go.  “Uh, wo…[quiero…? No!] Wo de shenme..…zenme shuo…..” Blank. The girl shyly smiles, then laughs. I’m jetlagged and hungry with a long day ahead. I would very, very much like a fresh bowl of rice that won’t explode if mixed with baking soda. And I absolutely, definitively cannot convey this request. Another glance at the line. My foreigner novelty clock has expired. I depart in defeat. A few sour spoonfuls and a hungry afternoon will have to do. 

Chinese class is beyond challenging. Four hours of whirlwind instruction in the morning, four hours of homework in the evening, and a whole hour of on-on-one conversation with my teacher after lunch, in a language I don’t speak. I draw lots of picture. 

Our first Friday we visit a high school. Hundreds of parents are crowded outside, waiting to meet their only children after class releases. Our cultural mission: talk with them. We all know we’re not ready, but after some awkward staring, I timidly engage. Their responses could break the sound barrier: “We………….daughter.............thank you……… student……...I……..” I’m furiously listening and wholly unsuccessful. I just can’t understand.  

Two weeks in we take our first trip. A noisy bus ride to Hangzhou, population Belgium. Halfway there we stop at a roadside park to stretch. In one store a paper fan catches my eye. I grab it and approach the shop owner, a plump lady with six teeth and a dazzling smile. Hello, comes my Chinese. She responds. I want to buy fan. How much? She replies. 10 kuai. Two spare coins, transaction completed. Thank you. But hang on one second. Where are you from ma’am? Shanghai, she answers. She returns the question, and magically, what’s she’s asking is clear. I come from Washington, DC. She knows it! We continue. I learn she has a child who is 27 years old. She learns I have two siblings, a Mom, and a Dad. She likes living near Hangzhou; I like visiting China. Meaning communicated. Connection made. In Chinese!

I leave the shop beaming with the distinct joy of utilized language. My walk turns into a sprint for the bus, impossible excitement bursting from inside as I realize what has happened.

“I just spoke Chinese!” Nice. “No you don’t get it. She understood me. And I understood her! Her daughter is 27 years old!” My excitable nature unleashed, I gush to any classmate who will listen. 

As the bus bounces along the highway, I replay and savor my humble conversation. My linguistic impasse has melted. Hearts has been broken. This simple item has shepherded me across an invisible threshold into a new world of possibility. All the future encounters with locals – late night rants with blue-collar cabbies, an hour conversation with the finance girl, language partners, return trips, Skype tutors, YouTube videos….all that will come, later, by way of this moment. For now, I’ve conversed in Chinese.