Uh…
Ooookay, here we go again. You can do this. Maybe this one won't be so bad.
The waitress glides up to my table, and drops a menu in front of me with a cheerful smile. Then she stands there and waits, pen and pad in hand. I hesitate, and she asks me a question, her Chinese accent too unfamiliar and her delivery too rapid-fire for me to assimilate.
"Uh... Give me a minute," I say in English.
This was not, by all indications, the expected response. I am the subject of a blank stare for a few moments, then her head turns to the side a bit as she calls for reinforcements, her eyes never leaving mine.
Another waitress slips across to us, conferences with her colleague in a low murmur, and turns to gape helpfully in support.
At about this point I start to gradually ease in the Chinese, to help them deal with this new reality. I've quickly learned not to start off in Chinese, since it's far more embarrassing when my vocabulary deserts me mid-stream, leaving me marooned on some distant planet.
Sadly, this effort is not about to raise myself in their estimation.
I point at a picture on the menu, and ask what it is.
Four eyes glance at the menu, then back to me. Hesitantly, the first waitress responds, and an enlightening cultural exchange follows.
"That's pork."
"I see."
"With garlic greens and chilies."
"Ah."
"Would you like that?"
"Ermm... Okay, what's this?"
"That's also pork. It has vegetables."
"Ah. Truly? I'll have that, then. Also, a beer and one bowl of white rice."
I've ventured too far with that last sally, and here comes another flurry of Chinese, too fast for me to follow. Back to English:
"Uh... What?"
Aaaand...
Yes, welcome back to the staring.
This latest exchange seems to have cemented some kind of pact between us though. It is now our tacit agreement that I will continue to act like I should be wearing a foam helmet at all times, and they will proceed accordingly.
For the duration of the meal then, I am offered such delights as "Chopsticks. Okay? These are CHOPSTICKS," and a nice glass of "Tea. T-E-A." When I have gathered the strength of will to ask for the check, I am told that they are owed forty-three yuan, and when I'm fumbling around for my cash, they are happy to illustrate this with a series of raised fingers.
Occasionally, I volunteer that I'm from the States, which is generally greeted with a kind of condescending indulgence, as if to a child who insists he is from outer space despite an obvious lack of antennae and tentacles.
So I imagine my most lasting legacy in Shanghai will be as a short-lived story, passed between hotel and restaurant staff, about that guy who looks Chinese but doesn't speak Chinese.
It can't be that bad, you may be thinking.
I wish, but no... I have independent confirmation, from the closest thing to a friend I've made in Shanghai so far. Today, Lily -- the girl who works in the business center of my hotel -- was delighted to be able to tell me about her friend who works in the gym, who had regaled her that very morning with a story about a Chinese guy who insisted on speaking English to him.
Well. This certainly bodes well for me, when I head into the more rural areas tomorrow.