Apples From My Home Province

I got a call.  It was from the front desk. “You have a guest.”  “I see.”  I wasn’t expecting any guests.  “Who is it?  Did they give a name?”  I responded to the English inquiry in English.  I immediately regretted this.  The woman began a yelling conversation with one and then another person, trying to answer my inquiry.  I called out a few times.  She didn't’ have the phone up to her ear and I waited impatiently for the chance to yell out: “It doesn’t matter.  Forget it.  Just let them in.”

“It doesn’t matter. Forget it.  Just let them in.”  I finally told her. “You need the names?”  Now in Chinese: “No, forget it.  It doesn’t matter.  Whoever it is, they can come.”  “Oh.  OK.”  I hung up the phone and asked my older daughter if she was expecting anyone over.  “Nope.”  Soon, I was convinced that someone had chosen a random number, our house, just to get passed the gate.  I would have done the same thing picking up my kids at some other compound if it got me passed the consistently navigable villa security teams.

Much time went by.  Twenty minutes perhaps?  I had forgotten about the imminent visitor.  Ding Dong.  I see.  And it was . . . the local real estate client who had helped us to close the deal on this house about eighteen months ago.  I hadn’t seen him since that time.  “Hi.  Do you recognize me?”  “Of course.  Nice to see you.”  It reminded me of a compromised time.  We hadn't wanted to move.  He had a large crate in his hands.   “Here.  Please.  These are apples from my home province. “  “Well.  Right.”

He then set about tying to clarify things: “You know how you recently had your hot water fixed?  That was me.”  He said with a smile.  “You see, I’ve recently lost my cell phone so I didn’t have your number.  I wanted to pop by and try to update my contact information.”  This was reasonable.  For some reason I didn’t bother to ask him what his home province was.  My home “province” back in upstate New York also has some remarkable apples.  Thought I never think to present cases of them, anywhere. 

Certainly though, this is how it works.  A gift, simple but substantive, personal and rare, in a way, but essentially unnecessary, is given.  It all reminds me, not unfavorably of visits from my Shandong in-laws, who are gracious about sharing bushels worth of produce, only a fraction of which will ever be consumed.  In China, this is opening gesture of a three-four-cadence waltz.  Given the choreography one is now predisposed to respond favorably to otherwise intrusive requests like “please remind me of your contact details.”  I may get a bag of tomatoes from a neighbor in New York someday, but I doubt I’ll feel as effortless about it as I do here.