A Familiar Face

Last week I took my first trip to Yellowstone National Park. Unfortunately, I only have one day off a week, so the trip was less than 24 hours. A moment is long enough to leave lasting impressions.

My friend and I didn't reach the west entrance until 7:00 pm. The drive was stunning down 287, one of Montana's main 2-lane highways. It was like driving through a postcard with mountains in all directions and grass dancing in the wind. My thoughts went to the Native Americans who used to roam these vast expanses of land and of the pioneers the first time they saw this captivating country. As my friend's 19 month old said, "Ahhhh..." as she let out a deep breath, sighing yogi style at the change from Chicago air. Everything is different here.

Upon arriving outside the gate, I felt jolted by all the commercialism masquerading as a quaint town. Hundreds of people from all over the world were walking the crowded streets, and my friend kept repeating, "I've never seen it like this. I've only come in May or October when there's literally no one around." In the midst of the chaos, my eyes rested on a familiar sight. Not the Best Western. A Chinese restaurant.

It didn't take much to persuade my curious friend to join me for a Chinese meal. He's heard and read many of my stories and has even begun to learn tidbits of 中文 (zhong wen). 50 steps before the entrance I began to feel a little nervous. What if all my Chinese was gone? What if there were no Chinese natives there like my other 2 failed attempts at a decent Chinese meal? Fear alone is not an acceptable excuse to back out of something one's heart truly desires.

Like so many mornings in the classroom, I walked through the threshold and all jitters subsided. I asked the first 服务员 fuwuyuan I saw for a menu using Chinese, and after a few eye blinks of disbelief responded in Chinese, handing me the menu. I then asked him if they served traditional Chinese dishes and gave him some examples. His smile and the relative authenticity of the restaurant convinced me and we took our seats.

"Do you have 西红柿炒蛋 xihongshi chao dan (tomato with egg)?"
"Yes!"
"Eggplant with meat?" "Red fatty pork?" "Eggplant anything?" "Fish?"
"No," he said disappointingly. "We can't get all the ingredients here."
"No worries," I said.

I was just happy that he actually knew the dishes I was talking about. When I was about to leave China, I knew that besides all the names, people, and places, that food would be what I would miss the most. Real Chinese food is phenomenal.

The more I travel and live in various places, the more I have come to value food. Each place has its specialty. When I lived in Boston, I couldn't get sweet tea or decent barbecue, but Atlanta rarely had a truly hearty New England Clam Chowder or cannoli from the North End. Tortilla Espanolas don't taste the same outside Spain. Even in China, the food in Hunan drastically differed from that in Hangzhou. It reminds me on a daily and basic level to appreciate where I am.

My friend melted into the booth and sat back, smiling as if he were watching a great TV show. I continued my conversation with the waiter in Chinese, asking him about his background. Did he like America? Where was he from? I was so excited that I couldn't stop clapping my hands and saying, "I'm so happy!" in both languages.

When the waiter left to place our order, I turned to my friend, "I ordered tomato with egg, green beans, and Mongolian beef, which isn't really a Chinese dish, but it's a good American substitute, two bowls of rice and some tea."
"I figured you had ordered. Whatever is fine." He paused. "I've never seen you like this," he said.
"Like what?" I asked.
"You're just so happy and in your element. You're home."

For the first time, I looked around me at the other patrons in the mid-sized restaurant. It felt odd to be in a Chinese restaurant and see so many others who looked like me. Every time I saw another Chinese group or family enter, I felt more comfortable and at ease.

The food came quickly, and although it was no where near as good as food I've eaten in China, it was the experience that counted. The club sandwiches in Ningyuan (only Western thing we could get) were terrible by American standards. The ham was something akin to spam, but it didn't matter at that time because it symbolized something from home.

I explained to my friend that the host usually orders the food for the guest, asking what he/she prefers. Then, it is polite to serve the guest first, filling up his/her rice bowl and then the guest usually waits for the host to fill his/her own bowl before both begin. I showed him how to hold his rice bowl and chopsticks, and we enjoyed the shared dishes together. It was so satisfying to eat out of a bowl again, with chopsticks, and not have to have to use an individual plate. I explained the customs for tea. Unlike in the States, it is rude to help oneself to the tea first. Instead, he/she should offer the tea to the other person first, and then pour his/her own cup. At the end of the meal, I paid. Going dutch is a somewhat recent phenomenon amongst young people but traditionally the host or the one that invited the other should pay for the meal. The guest should also falsely protest, saying that he/she should grab the check, but this is all in an attempt to preserve face for both parties. Fortune cookies seemed to complete the American Chinese experience as did the line to add a tip on the check. Chinese people don't tip. I settled for over 20% because as my English fortune reminded me, I was in the States.

As I was saying goodbye to the waiter and other waitstaff, I thanked them whole heartedly and wished them 每天快乐 (mei tian kuai le) or wishing you happiness everyday. We stepped out the door onto the cement and walked towards his car. Before we got in, he looked at my face, a familiar happiness across my lips.

A Taoist Observation

The more I move around the world I find that time and space play tricks on our concepts of reality. In layman's terms, I can't believe that yesterday marked 2 months back in the States.

8 weeks ago my primary language was not English. I lived in a city of 8 million. I was a minority. Americans accounted for less than 5% of the people I interacted with on a regular basis. I now live and work on a 10,000 acre ranch outside of Missoula, Montana that's only accessible by several twists and turns down a 6 mile dirt road. Population: less than 100. All American. All English. In China I couldn't go more than 5 minutes without seeing another person, car, or bike. I see more deer, horses, and squirrels here than I do people. I've traded chopsticks and bowls of rice for forks and bowls of oatmeal. Circular tables for rectangular ones. Shared food in the center of the table for buffet style with individual plates. Squatters for seaters. Grey skies for blue. The only thing that is the same is that I can see mountains from my window and bike to water in under 30 minutes.

Am I the butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi or Zhuangzi dreaming of the butterfly?

A friend that lived abroad in Spain for several years once told me that living overseas is like being pregnant. Everyone always raves about the glowing mom-to-be but neglects to share the details of bizarre cravings, swollen ankles, and watching one's body completely metamorphis into something she can't recognize as herself (or so I've heard). I guess the trick is to realize that a life based on outside reality is one destined for constant confusion and morning sickness.