Friends

“Waan…Twooo… Tree! Ah-ah-ah-ah.”
This guy reminds me of The Count from Sesame Street. With a Chinese accent.
“Ni meiguoren?”
Yeah, I’m American. I nod.
He works himself up again, and poises his finger to draw on the shop counter. “Yooo… Esss… Aaay! Ah-ah-ah.”

Our Friend on The Corner, so named because his narrow booth is carved into a building on the corner of our street—and because we haven’t employed our burgeoning language skills to discover his real name—sells us juice for three kuai, beer for two, and ice cream bars for one. The cultural and linguistic exchange is free.

When he isn’t practicing his numbers in English (only up to 3, because nothing in his shop exceeds that amount) he and his wife perch on crates of warm beer and watch the small TV mounted in the corner above the Coca-Cola.

Our Friend on The Corner was my first street friend, but in a blatant snub of the United States Center for Disease Control, I’ve also stumbled upon street friends dealing in the culinary industry.

The Chinese use spices—cilantro, garlic, chives, green onion—the way I would use something more benign, like iceberg lettuce. My theory is that this habit evolved during hungrier times, when milder veggies didn’t thrive the way hearty seasonings did. But I could be way off. Maybe they’ve always enjoyed chewing up whole cloves of garlic.

Cilantro Sandwich Lady caters to this local palate. She camps in front of Our Friend on The Corner’s corner shop, expertly chopping equal parts cilantro, chicken, and chicken fat into pieces and tucking it into The Best Bread in China. I’ve embraced the omnipresence of cilantro. If I close my eyes and imagine the cheese and salsa, it almost resembles Mexican. Almost.

While the food and drink entrepreneurs of Chengde become our friends, the children continue to express their appreciation of our presence in different ways. Most impressively, a little girl stood in the aisle of the bus today, a mere 10 inches from Jason’s face, her mouth gaping at the sight of a clueless white boy listening to his ipod with his nose buried in Steven King. Doesn’t he know how funny he looks? her expression begged. She jabbed her friend in the seat in front of him. The friend turned around and peered curiously at him through the hole in the headrest.

Yesterday, a university student actually exclaimed “Bai!” (“White!”) when my dashing boyfriend walked by. I think they like him.

Finally, my absolute favorite Chinese friend thus far: Last Friday I wandered around the city with my incredibly conspicuous Canon XTi, taking photos of folks while they napped or played Mahjong in the midday heat. A man waved me over to join their table, and asked me the most wonderful series of questions, which I here translate:
"Do you speak Chinese?"
-"A little."
"I see that you're taking pictures. That's pretty cool."
- Whitney shrugs and smiles awkwardly.
-"You take pictures, are you writing a story? Do you write words?"
That's right, folks. I'm officially an internationally recognized journalist. Thank you, impressive-looking camera.