At the train station today on my way home, I met a Chinese woman who's teaching economics and philosophy in a multicultural academy. We were waiting for the train to come. She approached me and said in English, "Can I ask a question? Where is a good restaurant?" I looked at her, puzzled.
"To eat," she said and mimed putting something in her mouth. She pointed at the monitor above us which was showing all the stations the train would stop at. I was still puzzled. Was she expecting me to pick one station as if the list was a menu?
"Are you Chinese?" she asked. I nodded. "I am looking for a nice restaurant to eat at. My daughter is waiting for me and she wants to have dinner," she explained, this time in Mandarin.
"Erm, Central has a lot of Chinese restaurants. It's where Chinatown is," I said in English. We were at Central station.
"Yes, but I've been to the restaurants in Chinatown," she said in English as well. I suggested a couple of places I've only heard about, and even offered my own suburb. But they were inconvenient for her. We were switching between English and Chinese because I couldn't speak in straight Mandarin. It turns out she's been in Australia for seven years. It figures she knows most of the stations I recommended, and I felt stupid for suggesting Chinatown. We moved on to talking about the weather, and she inquired about my background. In turn she told me about her daughter.
I caught her observing me. "Is that your real hair? Or did you dye it?" My hand instinctively went to my hair which had become bedraggled because of the awful heat. I tried to smooth it. "Um, it's my natural color," I said, embarrassed.
"Beautiful. Beautiful color. Beautiful girl," she said in English, to which I responded by thanking her shyly.
The train finally came. "Sit together?" she said with a smile. "It's nice to talk." The train ride felt like being stuck in an oven. There was no air conditioning; thankfully what little wind that was coming in through the windows was helping the air circulate.
We'd been talking for more than twenty minutes when I realized we still haven't formally introduced ourselves. Her name is Connie, 52. She has a 22 year old daughter working for the government in an auditing office. Her family came from Beijing, and now that they have settled in Australia, they have no plans of going back.
"Do you have a cellphone?" she asked. When I told her I do, she asked if I could text Angela, her daughter, for her. She handed me an outdated Motorola which I had to figure out. "I'm too slow, and I need to use reading glasses," she explained. She wanted to tell Angela she doesn't feel like going out tonight because it was too hot. Then she told me that it's Angela's birthday today, which was why she's insisting on eating out. I felt it wasn't unreasonable at all.
"Your parents must like you very much," she said after a while. "Do you have a boyfriend?" She seemed disappointed when she learned I do. She asked he looked like and whether I'm serious about him. She said if I didn't have a boyfriend, she knows many Chinese guys she can introduce to me. But she said it was nice that my boyfriend is many years my senior. "He must take good care of you, yes? Angela would also like an older boyfriend."
The train ride was becoming more and more unbearable. We moved to a roomier seat and fell quiet. "Rong Zhu ah," she said suddenly, calling me by my Chinese name. "You must stay. Stay. Australia is good." She said it like it was paining her that I was going home. It was the third time she tried to convince me. I just smiled.
"If you stay, I'd like you to be friends with my daughter," she said. I was flattered that she trusted me so quickly. "Last night," she said, suddenly excited, "my daughter's bestfriend-- also a girl-- celebrated her birthday. She had a party in a club in the city. There were many people there, a lot of Chinese. If we had met earlier, I'd have made you go. It would've been good. You would meet people."
I was beginning to wonder if she'd invite me to join them for dinner tonight. Thankfully, she didn't. She invited me to go to her church in Strathfield, however. I had confessed that I felt bad for not being able to speak Mandarin fluently, considering I spent 10 years of my life learning it. She said if I attended church with Chinese people, I'd be able to practice my Mandarin, and she could ask someone to accompany me. I thanked her but pointed out I don't have much time left in the country.
Finally, we were approaching her station. She got off but not before giving me her daughter's number and her email address. "You can give her a call, hang out," she said. "It was very pleasant meeting you, Rong Zhu! Goodbye!" And she was gone.
Funny the chance encounters that happen when we are alone. For that I love being a traveler. I am going to keep Angela's number. I'm curious about this girl who seems interesting; Connie says she hosts weddings because she can sing too. I've always wanted to have an entertainer friend. Who knows, I may get to meet her.
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