A Sense of Humor

A Sense of Humor            

     The American loved going to China more than anywhere in the world, and with a Chinese best friend, he occasionally got to go there when his buddy visited his family. How blessed he felt having his own personal tour guide who was fluent in Mandarin. It thrilled him to be in a culture where so many things struck him as exotic and fascinating, especially China’s history, architecture, natural beauty, phenomenal food, and the extraordinarily friendly folks who seemed so charmed merely to see a Westerner, particularly an American. Even in major cities, but especially in smaller ones, it was not uncommon for strangers to ask to be photographed with the foreigner. 

     The first time it happened, a beautiful young lady kept saying “Hello” while pointing to her phone. Since no beauty had ever stopped him on the street to ask for a picture with him, he instinctively had one hand on his wallet while the lady’s mother took their photograph. He figured this was the closest he would ever come to feeling like a rock star. 

     Such enchanting encounters were not unusual in his Chinese travels, and more than a few times he was embarrassed by how generous many locals were with the smiling tourist who, in his own words, could only speak a little “Chinglish.” Most Chinese appeared surprised and grateful he could speak any Mandarin at all. He also made a point of being a good tipper in a country where tipping was not the norm.

     He adored his friend’s relatives, and they were pleased that he enthusiastically embraced their ways. His buddy’s mother told her son how refreshing it was to finally find a man who did not talk so much, prompting his friend to chuckle and remark – in English – “It helps that he can’t speak Chinese.”     

     But several days into a Chinese visit, the American would get bored being the only person who could not understand the family conversations, and his exceptionally patient friend would tire of being a full-time translator. So the foreigner would head out on his own to explore another city and let his buddy devote himself entirely to visiting relatives.

     They decided he would fly to the large metropolis of Xining in north central/western China for a few days where his friend’s cousin who spoke English lived. Since most of his friend’s family resided in eastern cities like Beijing, Nanjing and Shanghai, the American had never been “out west” and was extra excited. He even looked forward to flying on a Chinese airliner since its stewardesses were all so fetching in lovely silk outfits, the food was far better than on Western airlines, and the passengers were more polite. 

     The cousin picked him up at the airport and took him to his hotel downtown. Happy to meet and improve their language skills, in the evenings they would get together for dinner and see various historic sites, while during the days the tourist would walk all over the city while his host worked.

     The American relished roaming the streets of a new city, especially in China where there were endless sights, people were remarkably warm, and he never worried about crime. He treasured taking pictures of traditional and modern buildings, pretty parks, and street scenes not seen in his homeland. It was liberating to have no schedule and be completely free to investigate anywhere. 

     Being a minority of one in a foreign land also made him savor the chance to learn about a society markedly different from his own. Yet he appreciated how many universal qualities still united people everywhere. Xining struck him as an especially intoxicating mix of vibrant energy, large parks, splendid restaurants, and cheerful citizens.

     Leaving his hotel early one morning, he first walked to the little eatery where he had enjoyed some fabulous fry bread the day before. Fortunately, he could order items by pointing to their pictures on the menu. The waitress smiled when he used the chopsticks already on the table instead of the knife and fork she brought, and she giggled at his efforts to exclaim how tasty the meal was.

     Waving goodbye to the smiling staff, he made his way down streets he missed the day before. In contrast with larger cities in eastern China, Xining had many more Muslims, and the Westerner enjoyed taking pictures of their attractive mosques. He also liked the handsome prayer caps worn by older Muslim gentlemen, and he loved the colorful, bejeweled hijabs worn by young ladies in stylish outfits. 

     Photographing a grinning teenage cook stretching noodles by a few feet behind a restaurant’s front window, admiring rows of uniformed workers moving in unison to music on big buildings’ front steps (They could never get Americans to do this, he laughed), and marveling at the large parks with enormous displays of exquisitely arranged flowers all thoroughly amused him. Everything struck him as intriguing and fun.   

     Turning down a busy street he had yet to canvass, on his right in front of a big brick building sat about twenty old ladies holding pictures of homes. Getting closer, he saw three young policemen standing by them before realizing they were all right in front of the police station. Stunned to see what looked to be a bona fide housing protest in China, the visitor immediately pulled out his phone to take a picture. 

     I never dreamed of seeing an actual protest over here, he thought. But I guess not even a communist regime wants to be seen arresting little old ladies. Wait ’til everyone sees these pictures. 

     But the instant he clicked the first one, the three policemen marched toward him with the lead cop in the middle angrily pointing at his phone. Slowly lowering it to look at them, the tourist felt his entire chest clench. Despite all the warnings from Americans about arbitrary arrests in China -- none of whom had ever been there -- all his dealings with Chinese law enforcement had been positive since officers had been glad to point the lost foreigner in the right direction. But now his mind reeled with nightmarish images of Maoist gulags, and he suddenly felt more alone that at any point in his life. 

     The police stopped in front of him with the lead officer continuing to point at his phone while loudly instructing him in Mandarin. Not understanding, the American looked desperately at the two younger officers for any glimmer of sympathy, but only found expressions of distinct disapproval.

     Turning back to the lead officer, he took a deep breath realizing what he was up against. How he wished his friend or any of his relatives was with him, some of whom were members of the Communist Party. Of all times for this to happen, this is literally the worst possible – and right in front of the police department. He shook his head in stunned disbelief looking at the pavement.     

     He imagined himself languishing in a jail cell while his friend frantically tried to secure his release and his heartsick parents fervently prayed back home. Looking forlornly at the upset officer, he remembered someone telling him, “I’ve known some nice folks to become mean, but I’ve never known any mean folks to become nice.” Desperately trying to comprehend the young man speaking and gesturing at him so heatedly, as well as to explain himself, he was too scared even to recall how to say he was sorry in Mandarin. Suddenly very hot, he realized he was sweating and recollected his paternal grandfather laughing about the time “sweat was just a-coming down my back like pouring peas out of a sack.”

     Looking around to see if anyone else might speak English, he saw only the grandmothers, some of whom were chatting amiably while the rest observed his little drama in silence. Okay, buddy. It’s showtime and ain’t nobody getting me out of this mess but me. I got myself in it and now I’ve got to get out of it. I am the cavalry. 

     When he asked if any of the officers spoke English, the lead officer quickly shook his head while the other two just stared at him. One now had his hands on his hips. With the tourist’s mind almost blank with fear, he noticed his left hand was gripping the back of his neck. 

     He then remembered the Chinese word for “good” was how, and the word for “bad” was boo-how. Feeling as if his mind was on auto-pilot, he decided to try to look as naïve and innocent as a confused but well-intentioned foreigner could possibly be. Opening his eyes as wide as he could and pointing to his phone, he shouted, “Boo-how!”

     The lead officer blinked and fell silent. For a second his face went blank, and then he burst out laughing. His two comrades looked at him and then at each other with wide eyes and smiles. The lead officer started to speak again, but could not for laughing. The tourist sensed he might actually be embarrassed in front of his colleagues.

     “Boo-how! Boo-how!” he exclaimed again, at which point the lead officer lowered his head to stifle a laugh while waving for the foreigner to stop. The American showed the officers that he had turned off the phone and put it in his pants pocket. Then he pointed to himself, turned in the opposite direction, and with rapid hand gestures indicated he would walk away fast. Starting to guffaw again, the senior policeman nodded and the other two officers laughed.

     Suddenly recalling certain Mandarin words, the tourist bowed to the men with his hands clasped and kept repeating in Chinese, “Thank you,” “Sorry,” and “Goodbye.” Trying hard not to laugh again, the lead officer waved and turned around to return to the ladies.

     Quickly heading the other way, the American detected sweat under his armpits and noticed part of his shirt was already sticking to his back even though it was only mid-morning. He felt like taking a cold shower. For several seconds he did not think while staring at the sidewalk. Gradually he looked up to see lots of people walking briskly and cars going by him. When a truck honked, he jumped. Soon aware of just how enormously physically relieved he felt, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving. 

     When he slowly started to smile and chuckle, he turned around to make sure the officers were far out of sight. I’ll never do anything like that again, but what a tale to tell, he marveled. Thank God that man has a sense of humor.

Biography: Douglas Young is an author and professor emeritus whose essays, poems, and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications in America, Canada and Europe. His first novel, Deep in the Forest, was published in 2021 and the second, Due South, came out in 2022. His first book of essays, This Little Opinion Plus $1.50 Will Buy You a Coke: A Collection of Essays, appeared in 2024.

Image: Unsplash, downloaded (https://unsplash.com/photos/silhouette-of-man-during-golden-hour-qk49jLmA6-U) 19. 5. 2025.

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