Last night, we arrived in Hong Kong, the “fragrant harbor” city, the land where East supposedly meets West. It’s a city where all the announcements are in Cantonese, Mandarin, and English (in that order), where signs are labeled in traditional Chinese, simplified Chinese, and English. I was lazy about reviewing Cantonese before we arrived and figured I could get by with my decent Mandarin and English, but because I am not used to speaking Mandarin on a daily basis, I was caught off guard a few times when I needed to respond in Chinese and paused for uncomfortable seconds, which indicated to others that I wasn’t a native speaker.

After checking into our hotel in the Central/Sheung Wan area, we proceeded to scout out our first desired meal — roasted duck and goose. We arrived at a restaurant where a friendly server greeted us at our table and asked me in Cantonese if I spoke Chinese. I responded back in Mandarin after a two-second pause, and said I could speak Mandarin Chinese, yet when ordering, I ordered certain dishes in Mandarin, certain dishes in Cantonese, then stumbled on how to say the word “goose” in either language. The server could see I was trying to read the Chinese and told me how to pronounce “goose” in Mandarin – “e2 (2nd tone).” Friendly Chinese people always compliment you when you are trying, and this one said to me, “So smart – you can speak both Mandarin and Cantonese!” It’s kind of funny because even though it literally sounds like a compliment, the underlying meaning is, “We feel sorry for you because you aren’t fluent in what should be your native language based on your ethnicity. But we’ll make you feel good about yourself for at least trying.”

I really never properly learned Cantonese since my grandparents’ native language was Toisan, which is what I spoke when I was little, so all my Cantonese knowledge has been based on listening to Cantonese and identifying its similarities to Toisan, even though native Cantonese speakers say they are two completely different languages, and that Toisan is pigeon/loser Cantonese. Looking back, I wish I had made more effort to learn Cantonese. But when I look back at my college experience, though I majored in economics and minored in women’s studies, what I am most happy about is that I studied 3.5 years of Mandarin Chinese. It’s helped so much with communicating with other people, developing rapport, getting around China and ordering food, and even understanding cultural nuances based on the idioms used.

The other thing I wasn’t expecting was how friendly in general people would be here. The only thing I could compare Hong Kong to would be mainland China, where I spent four weeks in the summer of 2006, so in my head, I was just preparing myself for rude service and pushy people. Service overall has not only been smooth and easy, but also warm and smiley — not what I was expecting at all. Sometimes I forget that Hong Kong is technically a part of China as an SAR, but it certainly feels like a world in itself — different currency, different passport, different standard of living, higher level of cleanliness, and even higher level of friendliness and service as I am seeing now.

I was so overwhelmed with how fragrant and cheap the mangoes were at the Sydney Fish Market yesterday that I decided to buy three fat ripe ones from one of the market stands. Little did I know that we’re technically not allowed to bring fresh produce over state lines, so if we were to strictly follow Australian laws, I was not supposed to go from New South Wales back down to Victoria with my mangoes in hand. Chris informed me of this when I met him at the end of his work day, and I was devastated. I told him we needed to eat one of them and just risk getting the remaining two confiscated through airport security later that evening.

We went back to our hotel, where I went up to the hotel bar and asked them if they had plastic cutlery to give us. The bartender politely gave us some after some wait time. I returned back to Chris where he was sitting in the lobby, and he asked where the plates were. Silly me, I had forgotten we needed plates! So I went back to the bartender with my mango in one hand and the cutlery in another, and I asked him if we could borrow some plates. He looked at me from one hand to the next and asked me how I was planning to cut that mango. “With the plastic knife you gave me?” I said, smiling back at him. He smiled and laughed, shaking his head. “No, no no,” he replied. “I will cut the mango for you.” Someone who looked like the manager said they could not give me a real knife to cut, but they’d happily cut it up for us. I got so excited at this; this man was going to cut a mango I brought in from the outside just like that, no charge, no nothing! Most places would never do this for you. He cut it neatly, cubed the mangoes and peeled the skin back so professionally (“Of course he knows how to cut a mango; he’s Indian!” Chris exclaimed). He presented it to me and told me to enjoy, and I thanked him and brought them back to Chris.

As an American, I felt a strong need to tip him or give him some sort of compensation. He just did this service for me and expected absolutely nothing, but I felt compelled to do something, anything for him to show my gratitude. I know he would not accept a tip given local customs, so I thought about what else I could do.,. I could give him one of the two remaining mangoes! I took one of them after we finished eating and presented it to him. He laughed again. “Do you want me to cut another one for you?” He asked. No, no! I said to him. “This is for you to take home. Thank you for being so kind as to cut my mango for me.” Of course, he said it was unnecessary, that he was happy to cut it for me and could not accept my gift. “I have many mangoes at home,” he said. I insisted again and said he must take it, so he did. He thanked me profusely and I said goodbye to him.

I will always remember this man as the bartender who cut my mango and expected nothing from me. This completely made my day.