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The four of us sat around the squat, square table on those preschool-sized stools that come standard with every sidewalk barbecue business in China. The food, accompanied by the ever-present (though not always cold) magnums of Tsingtao, was a welcome respite from another day’s rough ride on our Chinese motorbikes.
It was one of those nights that earns July its off-season status, and families strolled by us on a cobblestone street of the old inner city, hoping to cross paths with an errant cool breeze. A woman and her daughter passing by overheard our talk (or perhaps it was our overt Americaness, noticeably adrift in the midst of this foreign land.) The daughter, subtly prodded from behind by her mother, asked if she could practice her English with us.
Education is considered essential in China (though learning seems less stressed,) and we were always happy to oblige these regular requests (often overwhelming with our American exuberence those whom approached us.)
We paid our bill (another five dollar dinner for four,) and walked with them along the ancient alleys of Confucius’ home town. “How are you?” “What is your name?” “Where are you from?” By the time we had exhausted every line of inquiry the young lady had learned, we were at their house.
The mother invited us in and gave us frozen Chinese push-up pops to chew upon as we toured their humble home. We snapped a group picture, thanked them for their hospitality, and continued on our trip.
Four days ago, a massive earthquake rocked Western China, over eight hundred miles from where we met our fleeting friends. I haven’t been to Sichuan province, where the quake was centered, but the collapsed city centers and parents grieving great loss all seem so familiar to me.
Here in the United States, we are distant from China in many ways, but at this time of tragedy in the East, I wish them well from far to the west.
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