Soymilk

I'm getting used to my new neighborhood in Beijing. Finding a small market where I can buy some dou jiang (soy milk, 豆漿) every day for my breakfast has been talking up more of my consciousness than I am willing to admit (hey, breakfast is important).

On the way home today, I find a market about a block away from my home that sells little plastic bags of it. In the back, there is a little stall where they sell chicken eggs, tofu, and soymilk. It's run by a kid who must be about 16. I like his Beijing accent and I like how he's not afraid to talk to me in Chinese. He's a working class straightforward kind of kid, and I really appreciate that he talks to me like he talks to everyone. He even understands what I am saying.

I pay him and walk home. It's Friday evening and I'm in no rush. You gotta love that feeling.

Next door, there's a fruit stand, and so I buy some big fragrant peaches, some soft purple plums, and a few apples. Some fruit stands in China are better than others (I suppose like any other country), and I hope this one is a keeper.

The fifteen year-old girl who works there is rushing, helping customers and tells me to hold on. I tell her to take her time. I'm still not in a rush.

I pay her and thank her. She replies as everyone in China does, and with feeling, bu yong xie (不用謝), there's no need to thank me.

As I walk home, the small bag of soymilk drops from my hand. I turn around to pick it up and behind me there is a grandmother and her three year-old granddaughter. I slowly pick up the soymilk and of course, she is looking at me, curious. Her mother moves her aside so I can go about picking up my little plastic bags.

I give her a big smile and she gives me a big smile back. It is unfettered joy, our natural state, as only children are in touch with.

I pick up my soymilk and say bye to her. She is still smiling, and I'm almost home.