Jolly J!

As we enter the herbal medicine shop, we are awed to see a phletora of alternative medicine options before us — shelves and glass counter top displays of medicines in plastic jars eagerly awaiting us.

I ask the balding, middle-aged male shopkeeper, probably a Chinese herbal doctor, if he has in stock a ready cure for skin asthma. He answers in Cantonese. Great, another language-barrier situation here, I say to myself.

I resort to body language and pidgin English, “See this?” I ask while pointing at my left arm, where one can see some red spots here and some blemishes there. “Do you have something here that can treat this? It’s skin asthma. I have skin asthma.”

He scratches his head and says something in Cantonese. I repeat what I have just said, and show him my arm again.

He shakes his head. “Clearly, he cannot speak and understand English,” my sister tells me.

Desperate, I try another way to communicate with him. I look at his flawless Chinese skin and say, “Look at your arms. So nice skin…so nice. Clear and smooth. Compare it to mine.” I extend both my arms for him to see the state of the skin asthma condition.

Then I do the unthinkable: I take his right hand and let his middle fingers caress my now raised left arm with my careful guidance — from left to right, then from right to left, and back. “Can you feel that? It’s not as smooth as your skin.” My sister, who is standing on my left side, murmurs in Tagalog, “Ano ba yan.”

But despite my best effort to send the message across, the shopkeeper’s face looks blank.

Minutes pass, and the non-communication is beginning to frustrate me. I then look around for herbal medicines I might need. I spot a plastic container labelled “Stomach Pills.” Thank God…English!

I ask the shopkeeper to give me some details on how to take these pills. His face lights up. He then explains everything to me in speedy Cantonese. 

After his clear-as-mud explanation, I buy the “Stomach Pills” just for the heck of it, and leave the shop with my sister.

All that touching (a self-imposed dermatological exam) for nothing makes my stomach churn all of a sudden. (Hong Kong/September 1994)

Still reeling from the flu caused by the cold climate, I hurriedly pack my school stuff and wear my favorite cashmere sweater on my way to my afternoon French class.

Things go well in the classroom — I manage to answer some questions correctly — despite my illness.

During the class break, I get some chocolate drink from the vending machine and talk to two of my classmates, a Russian lady and an African guy.

My Russian classmate is a chic lady with a very good fashion sense. Based on what she wears in class, one can see that her taste of clothes is impeccable. She appears to have a very updated (and huge) wardrobe.

In the middle of our friendly chitchat, my Russian classmate suddenly touches my sweater with her right index finger, and leans forward to take a closer look at the fabric. I feel flattered that she has taken notice of my newly bought cashmere sweater.

She says something to me in French, which I didn’t quite catch. Thinking she has just complimented me for choosing a very nice sweater design, I say, “Thank you. I bought it at the Manor department store…in Lugano.”

“No…no. I was trying to tell you that you wore your pullover the wrong way,” she clarifies in a tactful way.

I then look down on my sweater, quite shocked to see that I have worn it inside out the whole time! (Biel-Bienne, Switzerland/October 2008)