Dinner

When you're in a country where you don't speak the language, even the simplest tasks (read: going to the supermarket, taking a taxi, etc.) become a challenge. For someone who prides herself on being fairly independent, this can be frustrating, as it requires partial if not total dependence on others to complete even basic errands. And this becomes especially difficult when it's 7pm, you haven't eaten a thing all day besides a small packet of Chinese Oreo cookies (similar to the original, except that the cream kind of makes my tongue tingle a little... I won't analyze that too much!), and you really don't want to bother the sweet little undergraduate nursing students who've so kindly led you around the city since you've arrived and patiently tolerated your complete lack of Chinese language abilities. So tonight, I do something I've never done before. After consulting the cheat-sheet of "survival Chinese" my friend put together for me, I pick out a phrase that seems relatively easy to pronounce and decide that will be my dinner. And I head out to the little restaurant near my dorm on campus, march inside, approach the counter, and try to say in my best Mandarin intonation, chao fan (that is, fried rice). With the woman behind the counter shooting me a puzzled look, I repeat myself: chao fan, hoping against hope that she'll simply nod and jot down my order on her little notepad. This time, she seems to catch my drift, but asks a question in return. Crap. I nod my head, clueless as to what she is saying; truth be told, it could have been anything from, "Would you like crickets on that?" to "Extra spicy?" to "Stupid American girl, what's wrong with you?" I have no clue. But I do succeed in ordering a dish that I hope will in some way resemble fried rice. Victory!

Five minutes later, the woman hands me a plastic bag with a small styrofoam takeout container inside and I grasp it, victorious, and practically skip out of the restaurant with my head held high, my first food order in Chinese an apparent success. Back up in my dorm room, I open the container excitedly and... well, it's food. It's fried. But it's definitely not rice. (Presumably, though, the noodles are made of rice, right? Close enough!) I dig in, satisfied both with my achievement -- however small -- and my dinner.