Saturday, August 29

Tuesday night after my massage I decided to take myself out to supper at “Jackpot,” a neighborhood cafe which has, like all Beijing restaurants, a photo-illustrated menu. I figured I couldn’t go wrong because I could point and choose. So I ordered Rice Dish #322, Chicken Curry, and Vegetable Dish #731, Green vegetable in garlic sauce. The server smiled, nodded, and left with my order written in Chinese on her notepad. A minute later, she came back and pointed to the vegetable choice again. I pointed to the words, “Chinese green vegetable in garlic sauce” and she left. She came back a minute later and pointed to the words and picture on the menu. This time I shrugged my shoulders and pointed to the picture, Chinese green vegetables, and to the word “garlic.” She nodded and left. A minute later another young woman came back with the menu and pointed to the veggie page. I pointed to the picture and the words and she left, nodding. Another minute later, a young man brought me Chinese green vegetable in garlic sauce--delicious. I used my chopsticks to pick them up one at a time and sort of suck them in, the way Chinese people do.

Then my main dish came: a mound of white rice on a platter next to a bowl of what looked liked beef stew. I was starved, so I took a beef short rib out of the bowl and started to eat it, even though I figured it was someone else’s order because it sure as hell wasn’t chicken curry. The waitress came by and I smiled and pointed to the menu, “Chicken Curry,” and I pointed to my food, clearly not chicken curry. Actually, according to the picture, the curry came in one bowl and was yellow with chunks of chicken. On the menu underneath the curry was a picture of beef in a bowl like mine with a mound of rice on a platter like mine. I pointed to my food and then to the picture of the beef, and said, “I ordered chicken (pointing to the picture) and you brought me beef (pointing first to my food and then to the picture.” The server shook her head and said, “Chicken.” I said, “Yes, I ordered chicken, but you brought me beef.” She went and got her supervisor (the one who had double checked that I wanted Chinese green vegetables). The supervisor looked at my food and said, “Chicken.” I said, “It’s not chicken, it’s beef.” She said, “Chicken,” and pointed to her knuckles. I said, “Beef,” and pointed to the menu. I gave up, though, and ate. They charged me 32Y, the price for the beef, and not 28Y, the price for the chicken. Did you know b-e-e-f spells “chik-uhn”?

Yesterday was my last day teaching. I seem to have fallen in love with these kids, too--these shy Chinese students who were so unwilling to even try to speak English that first day last week. Each of them presented a speech--in front of the class--about a famous site in or near Beijing. Some of the speeches were only two sentences long, but they all talked, in English, to the whole class. I was very, very proud of them and told them so. Then we watched Pearl Harbor. (We spent a lot of time this week watching movies--Mulan, Good Will Hunting, Dream Girls, Notting Hill in addition to yesterday’s. Because the kids, when they did speak, tended to speak in two-words phrases, we ran through all the planned lessons very quickly. I did many of Kacie’s and my American Culture presentations--Urban/Rural in America and China, Families in America, Teenagers and Money--but again, with no questions and limited discussion, it was easy to run through plans. Reminds me of the first class I ever taught--7th graders in South Carolina--we read & discussed The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in a week. I had no idea what to ask or how to get the kids talking...)

Anyway, at the end of Pearl Harbor, I (along with all the girls in the class) was quietly sobbing (okay, it’s a sappy, melodramatic movie, but it is a tear-jerker). I knew I had to say something, so I stood up and said, “I’m crying not only because it’s the end of the movie, but because I have to say good-bye, and you’re my last class in China...” So the kids said nice things to me (“Come again, Teacher, ” “Don’t go, Teacher!”) and many of the girls wanted their pictures taken with me. I was really thinking, “This is the last class I will ever teach...I am not a teacher any more...” but I decided that thought was melodramatic. Once a teacher, always a teacher, and my wise Finnish grandmother said, “Never say never: it’s a very long time.”

Thanks for reading.

Love,
Chris