He who asks is a fool for five minutes, but he who does not ask remains a fool forever.
-Chinese Proverb
As I prepare to embark on yet another journey outside of the U.S, I’m drawn to reflect on my time working as a photographer in China. I spent a little over three months in Beijing in 2009, riding my bike down hutong alleyways, playing ping pong at the park with a cohort of 70-something grandpas and grandmas, and snacking on homemade sesame buns for breakfast every morning from my neighborhood market.
When I think back, I scarcely recall trials and mishaps. Which is odd, because it was an arduous journey. But in spite of the language barrier, getting lost more times than I can count, breaking my computer, living in an apartment that was falling apart, struggling to learn Mandarin, and being miles away from some of the people I love most, it seems the positive memories have rented more space in my subconscious than the negative ones, and for that I’m grateful.
It was day 3 in Beijing. Settling into my apartment, I noted it was probably time to put some food in the fridge. For 2 days I had been living off of leftover Cliff bars and pure adrenaline. Opening my 1980′s mini-fridge decorated with rust I discovered an old fillet of fish. “I’ll deal with that later,” I thought to myself, all-the-while knowing it would remain like that for days, or possible weeks to come. “On to the next hurdle” I decided, “Food.” Piece of cake, “I’ll be back in 20 minutes.” I strolled out of my apartment, as the swinging bulb flickered light into the windowless corridor. I pressed both buttons for the elevator– unsure of “up” or “down” in Mandarin. Stepping into the elevator the contraption seemed to wince– like it felt every one of my pounds weighing it down. Hitting the ground floor safely with a ding I waltzed into the cement square as children kicked balls past me and roller-bladed by, waving and sending toothless smiles my direction. Shouting “Nihao” in return I rounded the corner on my simple voyage: to find a grocery store. Walking west a few blocks, my intuition seduced me right, and within 15 minutes I found what looked like a reasonable neighborhood grocery.
Walking in, awe-struck, my head rotated around the store, looking for something, anything, that looked remotely familiar. What I found, was a carrot. Everything else was packaged in bright red and yellow plastic, with Mandarin splashed across in groovy lettering. Strolling the aisles with my bag of carrots, near the back corner I found rice, eggs, and tofu. I kept trying to remember Chinese cooking recipes in my head, but was drawing a blank. I kept walking down every aisle like I was on a scavenger hunt, looking up and down, east and west for that one ingredient that I must have been forgetting. By the time I reached the cashier I had lost track of time. I could have been in the store for 45 minutes– an hour, two or three? I was jet-legged and hungry, and without a cellphone or watch. I managed to buy my food and let out a “xie xie” or “thank you” to the clerk.
Stepping outside, the sky had changed. Clouds and smog crowned the skyscrapers and my neighborhood looked alien. I had counted my blocks on my way to the store. Seven blocks west, and 6 south. Or was it 7 north? Or 6 east? Disoriented and confused I wondered down the street clasping a bag full of rice in my right hand and an assortment of fried-rice makings in my left. After walking for 45 minutes I collapsed on a park bench. Contemplating my next move I unfolded a piece of paper with my address on it written in Chinese from my pocket. Several elderly men were squatting and chatting about ten feet way, throwing dominoes on the table and raising their voices. Suddenly one slapped down on the table aspirated as the others threw up their hands and followed with crackling laughter… heeeee, heeee, heee, hooo, hooo, hooo. Smiling up at the grandpas, I felt a sense of peace. Did it really matter I was lost? Well, kind of. But I trusted I would make it home.
One of the men, just a couple inches taller than me, stretched his legs and headed my direction. Glancing from my crinkled address to him, I stood up, and squeaked, “duìbùqǐ” or, “excuse me.” That was the extent of my Mandarin lingo. Hunching over, he smiled as I handed him my paper. Glancing up, the wrinkles on his forehead folded into a wide V. “He doesn’t understand,” I thought to myself, “How on Earth can I mime ‘H-E-L-P, I’m lost, I live in a tall, pink (i think?) building several blocks away, can you take me there, please?” Suddenly it came to me. My index and pointer fingers began crisscrossing in midair to signal walking, while I threw my hands up, scrunching my face and freezing, looking like someone took a picture of me while attempting the “soulja boy.”
Smiling he shook his head up and down. Peeling the rice and the rest of my groceries from my fingers, he insisted on carrying all of my belongings, and hurriedly set off down the street motioning for me to follow him. We must have looked like an unlikely pair. Mr. Miyage leads a bewildered and naive wide-eyed karate kid down the streets of Beijing like an old shepherd. We walked block after block together, for nearly 25 minutes. Beginning to panic, I questioned, “What if he’s confused and taking me somewhere else?!” At last we turned to the left, and there 50 feet away, was my apartment compound. I sighed a breath of relief, and jubilantly gave him a thumbs up.
Reaching my gate he nodded once more, bowing his head to me. Shaking hands I rattled off “thank you, thank you, thank you!” I had an incredible urge to give him a giant bear hug, since I couldn’t fully communicate my appreciation for his act– but decided I might startle him. He waited outside my apartment until I unlocked the gate, insuring I could get in like any good parent does when dropping their child off for the first day of school. Waving through the bars I felt like I owed this 79-year old man my life. Pressing my elevator button once more, I couldn’t stop shaking my head from side to side. I was in awe at this stranger’s kindness. Here I was, lost when I shouldn’t be, and this old man walks me nearly a half hour home to my house. Collapsing on my couch, I looked up to find a mickey mouse sticker hanging from my ceiling. “Perhaps,this could be the happiest place on Earth,” I thought to myself, hugging my bag of rice.
