Tone and content

I had a memorable Friday evening, circumstantially crashing a birthday
party: I ended up sitting at a large table with the party, and offered
to give them my seat, but was invited to stay because "the more, the
better." (My kind of people.) This segued into an evening of fun at a
nearby bar.

Among those assembled: three folks from Suzhou, two Italians (one of
whom was also a native French speaker), a Dane (also fluent in German)
and yours truly. It was fascinating to hear all the languages around
the table bubble and shift. I got to break out some of my very rusty
French and a couple of handy phrases in Italian. It was hard to say
whether Italian, English or Chinese was the dominant language over
dinner.

(So far, my feeble attempts at the tonality of Chinese speech have
inspired many half-formed thoughts about the role of language in
shaping mental constructs, a la Wittgenstein, and how this manifests
in intercultural communication when the root languages are so
different. I.e., the obvious fact that it's not as simple as having
different names for the same things.)

One member of the group at dinner was a guy I'd met briefly at the
hostel in Shanghai. We'd conversed for a couple of minutes in the
lobby just before setting out for Suzhou, and I had already felt
suffocated by him. One of those guys who will just keep talking and
talking about himself (now bear in my that I'm blogging this) without
taking a breath or asking what YOU think of him.

When I saw him again in Suzhou, I said hello before even really
thinking of it, and sure enough I had a companion for the evening.
He's gregarious (in his overbearing way), and definitely interesting
(in his late forties or early fifties, I'm guessing, and in the last
quarter of a year-long trip around the world). But my initial sense of
friction was quickly reconfirmed: we met while I was en route to
dinner. On the way to the restaurant, he decided to get a tea from a
sidewalk vendor. He approached the counter and "I'LL HAVE A STRAWBERRY
BUBBLE TEA" escaped his lips, in English, at a deafening volume. When
the poor teenagers behind the counter looked at him with mouths open,
he repeated it, a little slower and a little louder, and this time
accompanied by animated gestures directed at the large menu posted
above (sufficiently laden with items in small print that you'd be
challenged to specify your order with a laser pointer).

So much for blending in!

I was mortified, and without really meaning to, took a couple of steps
away from him.

As I've reflected on this moment, it's fairly obvious that a lot of my
reaction to this behavior stems from wanting at all costs not to be an
ugly American: to bull-doze the experience of being a guest in someone
else's home with an expectation that they rearrange the furniture to
suit me and, by the way, do you mind if we call this a "couch" instead
of a "sofa?"

A subtler aspect of this reaction is that, my word, there is simply no
way to escape that this IS what I'm doing by traveling here: walking
into a place equipped with three stock phrases and zero listening
comprehension, in the hope that gestures, smiles and good will will
make it all work out. Which, it usually does.

(For lunch yesterday, I popped into a busy noddle shop prepared with:
"Hello, I am a vegetarian. I would like to try your local specialty."
After lots of back-and-forth which I did not follow, and consultations
between the wait-staff and nearby patrons to decipher what I could
have meant, a plate of garlic-covered green beans, a bowl of rice and
a cup of hot water arrived at my table. Not what I had imagined, but
quite delicious.)

My point with this is not to say that I feel like an ass for traveling
here without being better equipped to blend in (I don't, even though
my lack of Chinese is an often a source of embarrassment, bemusement
or both): it is rather to say that between peaceful world traveling
and ugly Americana is a continuum with many, many shades of gray.

I am reminded of Okokon Udo's notion that connecting across difference
requires engaged curiosity and what he terms radical hospitality, or
Maria Lugones' essay on playfulness and world traveling: in both,
there's an element of openness and willingness to get a little messy
in the process that seems crucial and, to me, intoxicating.

And thankfully, I have yet to meet a stranger here who doesn't also
seem to approach my presence with a similar curiosity.

Which brings me back home: I have been repeatedly struck by the
contrast between the warm welcome I receive here on every street
corner, and suspicion, fear and derision we direct toward visitors and
immigrants back home. I am ashamed every time I hear stories (there
have been several) of how impossible it is to get an American visa,
even just to visit. I would so much prefer to be from a place that is
known for and prides itself on its hospitality. There's no reason in
the world why it should be any other way.