Bridge outside of Chengdu

​It was raining. What else does it do in Chengdu in July? There was a western restaurant I wanted to try. So I hopped on the Chengdu Metro and got off at the station closest to the restaurant. My hamstring suddenly screamed at me. I was finding it hard to walk. Lately, I have had to stretch my hamstring to be able to walk very far. But today it had crept up on me. Here I was in a deluge and two blocks to walk to my destination. But I could not walk; I was stuck in the rain. I found a bench to stretch my leg while trying to stay dry. I was not staying dry. But I did get my hamstring back in tolerable shape. So I pressed on. I knew the restaurant was on the other side of the street but decided to find the restaurant before crossing.
The side of the street I was walking had construction going on. I went down one of those alleys with businesses on one side and temporary walls placed there by the construction folk. Little did I know this path would not have an exit for another four blocks. Along the way peering over and between the wall I saw no restaurant. I was drenched now. When the alley stopped I found myself far removed from where the restaurant was located. I decided to get a cab and return home.  But I had anticipated going back by metro and did not have my hotel address card with me. So when I stopped a cab he did not know where I was telling him to take me. I had to exit the cab.
There is no more lonely feeling to look around and not know where you are, hungry, and to be totally drenched in a foreign country. I reminded myself I was a champion traveler even if I did not look it at this particular moment and looked closely around. Suddenly I saw an ugly pvc pipe sculpture that sat in front of a vegetarian restaurant we had ate at last week. Of course I did not know where that was but at least it was familiar. I looked across the street and saw a sign MUNCHWICH. I had seen reviews of this before when I had researched western restaurants. I knew there was probably an English speaker in there. So I went to the door and entered.
I was a polite customer I folded my umbrella up and left it beside the door. Of course my clothes were drenched so I left a trail of water behind with every step. I finally arrived at the counter and asked to see the menu. It was only right it was a French woman who spoke English who handed me the menu. Many ages ago on a trip to New York City I visited the Guggenheim Museum. I had Maya my daughter in tow. She was two. The Guggenheim for some ungodly reason did not allow strollers in the building. But they had awkward backpack child holders to tote your child around the museum. The backpack child holder was unwieldy and stretched a foot from my back. But art and Frank Lloyd Wright demanded I proceed.
Maya was sound asleep and everything was going well. Until in one gallery I turned to see a painting behind me. I heard a gasp. I turned to see where the gasp came. Suddenly my companion Monica said Mike be careful. So naturally I turned to see what she was talking about. She pointed behind me and I turned once again only to realize this time that the back pack child holder was hitting this young French girl every time I turned. The French apparently are not a particularly bright bunch. Instead of moving out of the way she stood frozen as I hit her each time giving me a stare of incredulous disdain at the Awkward American who kept hitting her with the backpack. As I apologized she only spoke in French with disgust and started to berate me when my good friend Monica stepped between us with a menacing look. At this point she backed off. Maya never woke up. But through the rest of the museum the French girl kept her disdainful look askance at me. And when I sat in an arty chair in the hallway of the museum she gasped and called everyone’s attention to my complete lack of respect for art. She apparently thought the chair was for looks only and the stupid American did not know any better. So yes it was only fitting it was a young French girl behind the counter now.
I made my order and sat down next to a table of Chinese college students. The college students looked at me and spoke softly with one another. They were concerned; they probably had heard of the crazed white man who entered buildings and shot everyone. I ate my meal and drank my precious hot tea and slowly regained more of my dignity. After I finished I walked up to the counter to the French girl and said, ’It is probably obvious but I am wet and lost and need help. Do you know how to get to the Ascott Hotel.” She nodded, grinned and with a Mother Theresa compassion started to draw me a map to the hotel. I considered adopting her as my daughter but I probably did not look much like adopting material at the moment. “Then she asked was I planning to walk in the rain.” I said, No my plan was to take a cab.” She looked and said,’ Do you have money to do that.” I said yes but could she write the address of the hotel in Chinese for the cab driver. After a moment on her smart phone she had written the address for me. Yes it was over a decade later but the French had finally redeemed themselves in my eyes.
I left and five minutes later I was in a cab headed for the hotel. The cabdriver dropped me off at the front of the building. All I had to do now was walk two hundred yards around the side of the building to be home. It started raining hard again. I opened my umbrella and it immediately folded up and would not work. I trod the last hundred yards. I passed the concierge with my head held high, walked through the lobby to looks of ‘does he really belong here’ and with gusto arrived home.
And as I changed and dried off I thought I now had my Chengdu story of me and my French Girl. It was a wet day and she was a beautiful young woman with a French accent. She showed me love in a time when I had forgotten what love was about. But her French sensibility and sense of joy of life was what I was left with. Aw the last fling of my summer and the French girl will live with me forever.

Chengdu Buddhist Prayer Tower