A Little of This and a Little of That

     I have so many stories from my time in China, and some of them are short enough that they can't be posts by themselves. So, here are four short stories. I haven't decided if there is a common theme threading through the stories; I'll leave you to decide that. I'm sharing them, because, for me, it is in the quieter moments that our humanity reveals itself. It was during the late night conversations that I saw--saw and understood--my friends and the vulnerabilities that they are forced to hide because of their culture. The quick morning meal showed a lifetime of work and love. It was in the moments that I looked into a person's eyes and knew them--just for a moment. Even though we hardly spoke each others' language.

     But enough exposition. Here we go.

***

     I lived in the dorm, which meant that I didn’t have a kitchen handy to make food. This was fine, because in all honesty, I am lazy and there were plenty of places on the walk to school where I could buy a ready-made meal for less than one U.S. dollar.

     My favorite shop was run by an older woman, who had a craggy face and a full laugh. She sold these delicious pastries which were like crepes with egg folded into a package of deliciousness. From what I could tell—she had the thickest Sichuan accent—these were called momos. I would unabashedly inhale a momo for breakfast every single day on my walk to school. She sold a yogurt drink which I often bought too. The shop, by the way, was her apartment. She'd had one of the outside walls of her ground floor home taken out, and sold food which had been made right in her own kitchen. I would peek into the living room and see her husband or grandchildren watching TV. Her home always seemed full of people and chatter.

     It wasn’t long before she began expecting me in the morning, and when I walked up to her stall, she would stop whatever it was she was doing and cry, “Momos!”

     To which I would reply “Yes please!”

     Her voice matched her appearance. It sounded the years of life and hard work she’d lived through. It was rough and often broke, but when she laughed, it was glorious. Her laughter would fly over the conversation and into the sky. It had a life of its own and it was so totally unexpected from this small, tough woman. In the privacy of my mind, I nicknamed her the Momo Mama.

     When I would go for a run, she would sometimes give me an encouraging wave or shout from her stall as I passed, sweating and tired.

      I would have kept going to her stall, but unfortunately all the food stalls and makeshift restaurants were closed on that street about halfway through the semester. They were technically unlicensed, I think, and the school had finally gotten around to shutting them down.

     I didn’t see much of her after that, but when I did, I would give her a wave and a smile.

***           

           

     Often, I walked over to InCoffee, a fancy coffee shop with good drinks and comfy chairs. This coffee shop has three stories, by the way, and waiters to bring your caffeinated beverages to your table. All the waiters wear impeccable white shirts and black aprons. I usually went during the afternoon, which is a time when few customers come through the double doors. Meaning, that the waiters have little to do but stand around talking.

      I leaned back in the leather armchair, idly sipping my iced mocha, eyes wandering. This was one of my first times at InCoffee, and I was fascinated by the décor. It was deliberately eclectic, with reclaimed tables, which were made from old doors, and a menagerie of chairs, which ranged from worn leather armchairs to wooden deck chairs. Over each table was a chandelier, each one unique and vibrant. On our table sat a purple teddy bear, which served as a reminder to the servers that we had an order waiting.

     One of the aforementioned servers approached our table, tray in hand. On the tray sat a decadent coffee drink. Whipped cream and chocolate syrup glistened in the chandelier-light. I raised my eyebrows. I’d thought my mocha was fancy with its elegant, curving glass.

     “Here’s your drink.” The server said, placing the coffee on our table with practiced grace. She looked to be about our age, with short spiked hair and a thin face. Her movements and words were well-worn, practiced enough to have become natural.

     “Thanks,” Jeremiah replied.

I leaned forward for a closer inspection. The chocolate swirls formed hearts on top of the whipped cream. I sucked in a surprised breath. “Wow! That is a piece of art!”

     The server, who had been walking away, teddy bear under her arm, glanced over her shoulder at my exclamation. A satisfied smile—one that was unscripted—appeared, and I could tell, despite not knowing English, she’d understood my admiration. 

***

     The enveloping warmth of the monastery was welcoming after the frosty blue sky and chill wind outside. The Tibetan monastery had been built solidly, enough to keep the frigid weather at bay. We—my classmates, Professor Hamilton, and I—were visiting the kitchen of one of the many monasteries on our trip to Tibet. It was a working monastery—meaning that there were still monks who lived and worshipped there. It wasn’t merely a tourist site.

     The weather, as I have already mentioned, was cold at best, and the clothes I had brought were inadequate. The wool shawl I had gotten helped enormously and I burrowed my chin into the rough fabric. The dark kitchen had giant pots—they had to feed quite a lot of monks—and there were stacks of tea bricks lining the back of the room. We wove through the pillars and cooking utensils, stopping here and there to examine the decorations on the walls--the elegant curving Tibetan script. Hand-painted, obviously, and meticulously done. 

     Two older monks sat in the corner, wrapped in bright red robes. They silently watched us with sable eyes. Our guide, Penba, gathered us near that corner and explained how the cooking schedule worked when it clashed with prayer times. I listened only vaguely—it was interesting to hear, but I was distracted by my surroundings.

     I accidentally caught the eye of one monk. He had strand of prayer beads and was mouthing the mantras under his breath. He had been watching Penba, but when I looked at him, his eyes flicked to mine. For a moment, I was shy—he was so foreboding with his heavily lined face and weathered skin—but then I smiled at him—I had learned how to smile with my eyes, since my mouth was covered most of the time with my gray shawl.

     So, I smiled, and, after a moment of hesitation, the monk smiled back. His white teeth gleamed and his eyes almost disappeared in folds of skin. It was a surprised smile, I think, and it was like the sun coming out of storm clouds. I got the impression that many tourists treat the monks as if they were part of the monastery and therefore part of the site-seeing, but not really human.

     “Hello” I ventured. Penba had taught us basic Tibetan.
     The monk chuckled, "hello."

***

     “He just wanted my young body, my youth.” My friend said, gesticulating with his hands, hitting his knees. “He saw nothing on the inside. My personality, my heart.”

Our gazes locked, and I saw the pain in his dark-chocolate eyes. I wanted to reach over and hug him, but the realization that I couldn’t give him the comfort he was looking for struggled out of my alcohol blurred brain.

     “He’d just wanted to fuck, fuck, fuck. If I’d wanted that, I would have stayed home and masturbated.” He shook his head and his gaze dropped to the ground. “During sex, there should be communication between partners. There should be—“ he leaned over and caressed my arm gently, “this. Words and touches.” I nodded in understanding when he paused. His liquid brown eyes traveled back up to mine. “He hurt me.”

     His words were vulnerable, but his tone was almost defiant. Like so many who had experienced a damaging affair, he put up defenses around his memory, to prevent further hurt from being done.

     My friend did not prolong the moment. He took a sip of Rio and asked, “you masturbate, right?”

     My cheeks burned and I giggled, the alcohol making me giddy. Seeing my flaming face, he quickly added, “It shouldn’t be a shameful thing. This should be okay to talk about. Don’t be ashamed." he said this earnestly, wanting me to believe it--despite all the shame both our cultures associate with sex. As if by saying this, we could change things for the better. He picked up his drink and said, "Girls here won’t talk about sex at all.” 
     There was another pause in the conversation. My friend was gathering his thoughts. 
     "There should just be more love."

     We meandered off to other topics, as drunk people are often wont to do. At the end of the night, when he walked me back to my dorm, I finally did give him a hug. He smelled, as always, of the kitchen--warm food and spices--and of the clean scent of soap. 

     “Thanks.”