(click on photo for enlarged view.)
(Just as their Chinese counterparts in Orange County after Sunday service, our students in this small town in the Chinese hinterland have inordinant difficulties deciding where to eat for lunch. Finally, however, we decided on a place--incidentally, it turns out to be another hotpot restaurant...Upon reaching the place, we find that it's too small to accommodate both Katie & my, and Alvin & Brian's classes; we resolve that since Alvin & Brian hadn't experienced the joy of being steamed alive on the outside from humidity, while simultaneously being boiled alive in their innards from hotpot, their class would eat at the restaurant, while Katie & my class found a different dive.
Another 20 minutes of deliberation ensued, during which time one person suggested a special type of noodle. Another student, Angela, with sheer derision in her countenance, began a long tirade in Chinese, apparently in opposition to this latest suggestion. The volume of her voice raised by several decibels; her arms gesticulated frenziedly; I think I recall another student's turning to stone when she glared at him. After all this, Lily, the student with by far the most advanced English in the entire summer program, turned to Katie and me and translated Angela's sentiments as simply, "Angela does not think this food is good for lunch."
By this time, I was ravenous, and told the students they needed to pick something fast. In traditional Asian fashion, they tried to demure to Katie and me, but we explained that we had no idea where the good eats in Liping are, and that we had complete confidence in their gustatory judgements.
Angela, despite her strong opposition to noodles not fit for lunchtime fare, had no real alternatives to offer, and so further conferencing ensued. While most of the students formed a sort of huddle to gain consensus, Sam poked the back of my hand lightly with his index finger. "哥," ("ge") he said quietly, in a voice almost inaudible. Then, once more I felt the gentle tapping against the back of my left hand and the same monosyllable, "哥," or "older brother." He whispered something to me in Chinglish, probably a question about what kind of food I wanted to eat; I can't recall what exactly he said, because I wasn't paying attention. I was too absorbed in my new designation as Sam's 哥. I have no real experience with which to compare it, but I imagine this sensation is not unlike the first time a father hears his toddler son call him "da" or "pa", albeit on a smaller scale. That little tap and that single monosyllabic word produced the highest elation I have felt on this trip, hands down. Maybe it really is the little things in life that give it meaning.
Eventually, we ended up at a place that served claypot specialty dishes. Yum! Here's another photo of my 宝贝 with a crayfish; Aaron is on the left. They were being sold on the street right outside the restaurant.
Another 20 minutes of deliberation ensued, during which time one person suggested a special type of noodle. Another student, Angela, with sheer derision in her countenance, began a long tirade in Chinese, apparently in opposition to this latest suggestion. The volume of her voice raised by several decibels; her arms gesticulated frenziedly; I think I recall another student's turning to stone when she glared at him. After all this, Lily, the student with by far the most advanced English in the entire summer program, turned to Katie and me and translated Angela's sentiments as simply, "Angela does not think this food is good for lunch."
By this time, I was ravenous, and told the students they needed to pick something fast. In traditional Asian fashion, they tried to demure to Katie and me, but we explained that we had no idea where the good eats in Liping are, and that we had complete confidence in their gustatory judgements.
Angela, despite her strong opposition to noodles not fit for lunchtime fare, had no real alternatives to offer, and so further conferencing ensued. While most of the students formed a sort of huddle to gain consensus, Sam poked the back of my hand lightly with his index finger. "哥," ("ge") he said quietly, in a voice almost inaudible. Then, once more I felt the gentle tapping against the back of my left hand and the same monosyllable, "哥," or "older brother." He whispered something to me in Chinglish, probably a question about what kind of food I wanted to eat; I can't recall what exactly he said, because I wasn't paying attention. I was too absorbed in my new designation as Sam's 哥. I have no real experience with which to compare it, but I imagine this sensation is not unlike the first time a father hears his toddler son call him "da" or "pa", albeit on a smaller scale. That little tap and that single monosyllabic word produced the highest elation I have felt on this trip, hands down. Maybe it really is the little things in life that give it meaning.
Eventually, we ended up at a place that served claypot specialty dishes. Yum! Here's another photo of my 宝贝 with a crayfish; Aaron is on the left. They were being sold on the street right outside the restaurant.
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