What I Didn't Know I've Missed

The boys and I went to Taiwan for a week after Christmas. We played the tourists, studied guidebooks, took lots of pictures, bought souvenirs, and walked until our feet had blisters. However, I had this comfortable, buoyant feeling the whole time I was there--something I haven't felt in a long time--something like having a gigantic downy mattress just a foot below me, so that no matter where I went I could not fall and hurt myself. I did not recognize it at first, but it was apparent to my children. As soon as I got off the plane in Taipei, I became a different person. I was confident and bold. I walked with bigger strides and had no qualms about asking directions of strangers. Even though this was only the second time I had set foot on this island in over twenty years, I knew with that gut feeling you just get when you return to the land of your childhood: this is a place where no one will dare to treat you as an outsider.

For a week, we shopped, bargained with stall keepers, sampled local delicacies. I even struck up a conversation with a shop keeper about my grandparents who used to live in the area (the storekeepers didn't know who my grandparents were, but it was fun trying to piece together the puzzle). Everywhere I went, the same familiar accent greeted my ears. It was the white noise of my childhood: Mandarin spoken with a Taiwanese lilt, and a few words of Taiwanese thrown in here and there, which I had always pretended not to understand as a child but really did.

The streets of Wu-Lai, where my grandparents used to live

I recognized what I have sorely missed over these last two years. It's the ability to strike up a random conversation with strangers. No, I'm not one to do that often; and one certainly does not make a habit of it in big cities such as San Francisco. But I miss having the ability to do so. I'd like to be able to compliment a stranger if the impulse takes me.

I was at an Apple repair center a while back. Across the desk from me sat a young woman busy keying in the data required to replace my power cord. I sat and admired her finger nails, which were painted a rich bluish purple, with tiny silver flowers dotted all over. They were the most exquisite finger nail painting I'd ever seen, and I said to the lady, "I like your nails." She looked at me, perplexed, and studied the power cord, as if I had just complained about something technical. You see, her mastery of the English language extended only into the sphere of her work, in this case, everything to do with the functionality of an Apple product. It would be inconceivable for her to switch gear and talk about her nails. "Never mind," I said with a wry smile, and let her get back to her typing.

My neighbor and I regularly go walking along the waterfront near our apartment building in the morning. The same old lady who's out exercising greets us with a smile day after day. This morning, I saw my neighbor chatting with her, and I wished I could do that. It's life's little encounters, insignificant, perhaps, in their own isolated vignettes, that somehow, together, piece together the landscape of our lives. It may appear foreign, austere, recessive, harsh, alienating, or it may feel familiar, colorful, safe, and welcoming. Sometimes the tongue, the tone, the accent, and the lilt make all the difference.

Sure, I can speak Mandarin (or as they say around here, Putonghua), and people assume that I should be able to get around in Hong Kong. What they don't realize is that Mandarin is not the language of choice in Hong Kong. It is the language forced upon the locals by the Chinese government. When I use Mandarin, I betray the fact that I am foreign. Worse, people associate me with the new-money, recent immigrants from China who are overrunning this tiny piece of land. The locals either fawn on me as a potential big-time spender or, more frequently, wave me away like a pesky fly. Mandarin is the language of business transactions and politics. It is not the language of friendly chats.

Sometimes it takes traveling to a different place to wake up to the fact that something is missing in your life. For me, it is the comfort of being able to connect with strangers, even at a superficial, mundane level. I am not isolated from friends; I am, everyday, isolated from strangers. Wouldn't it be nice to strike up a conversation with the lady who serves me coffee? But alas, all I do is smile and say "m-gwei" thank you.