shorts

LOST IN TRANSLATION

By Larry Jer

I noticed beggars gradually singling me out more than most. Of Asian descent, living and working amid the four million the Chinese city, Shenyang, boasted, looks couldn’t be the problem-- could they? I raised the iffy question to my new colleagues and was told in clear, certain terms, that though I looked Chinese, I dressed "foreign."

In the dog days of Northeast China, the local uniform was a T-shirt and shorts. Now a two-part ensemble hadn't much room for error so where did I go wrong? Apparently the shorts were dead giveaways. Fresh from Vancouver, long baggies were all I had. I decided to do something about it.

I pause here to tell you that though I looked the part, I don’t speak a lick of Mandarin-- all my Chinese was sandwiched in my Lonely Planet Survival Phrasebook. I plucked out a few relevant phrases, practiced them until my tongue cramped and set off for the outdoor market around the corner from my flat where I hoped to find a sympathetic tailor.

Between the watermelon seller and the al fresco dentist sporting the dodgy smock, I spotted our hero, a tape measure draped around his neck and the pair of scissors he wielded marked his profession as clearly as my clamdiggers pegged me a soft touch for panhandlers.

I approached him and in halting Chinese, requested he shorten the hem of my shorts. He understood and, using hand gestures and snipping fingers, told me the job would cost five yuan (about a buck) and shouldn't take long. Proud and happy with the smooth bargain, I agreed to return the next day.

It rained. Against hope, I pedaled to the street market and, lo, it was still operating in high gear. My tailor, however, was nowhere to be seen. I recognized the fruit vendor from the day before, though, so I asked her where might the tailor be?

No matter how loudly she repeated it, she couldn’t get her message across to me, finally motioning to follow her. It was useless to argue-- because I didn't know how-- so I acquiesced and fell into step behind her.

She led me through a maze of streets, then alleys, then pathways so intricate I couldn't find my way back to the market if I tried. And as we got deeper into the journey, I began to worry. Here I was, unfamiliar with the land, the language, and being led . . . where?

I was about to abandon the mission, count my shorts as lost and tally the incident as experience gained when, hallelujah, we came out into a small plaza. There, the lady pointed, was the tailor's shop. Sure enough, hanging in the window proudly displayed were my shorts, hemmed and pressed. For sale.

Appeared online Nov. '05 at journeybeyondtravel.com