Strange logic: 01 (我先走了)

 

A common expression in Mandarin Chinese (and in some dialects as well) said when one's leaving a place is:  

我先走了

wǒ xiān zǒu le

"I first leave change-of-state-marker"

    The English equivalent would be, "I'm off now."

    It means "I’m leaving first", i.e., before the listener.

    To me, the logic is fine if the listener is leaving as well, just a bit later (e.g., staying on a bit longer at the office to do overtime), so the speaker is leaving first, to be followed by the listener at some later point.

    It is, however, very strange logic to me when it's said by a departing guest to the host who is remaining behind (maybe not leaving until the next day to go to work).

Chinese hospitality etiquette: 03 (Playing Host and Guest roles) (China)

Tuesday being the first day of Chinese New Year, I played a few Chinese word games with my Tuesday group students.

    One of them was a clue leading to a place name, which in this case was Changsha 长沙 / "long sand".  

    This then reminded me of a book I'd read in the 80s written by an American (Mark Salzman) who'd done his first degree in Chinese at Yale, no less.  He'd taught English in Changsha for two years but was mainly there because of his keen interest in kungfu, Changsha having a kungfu master he admires.  (For those who don't know but might be interested, Changsha has a political connection with Mao Zedong.)

    I told my students about his run-in with the concierge at the school where he was teaching English, but that will have to be recounted in a separate blog.

    Fired up by the memory, I went to YouTube to track down the film he'd subsequently made (and starred in), based on his book (Iron and Silk, also the name of the film).

    Fairly soon into the film, there's a scene where his (female) Chinese teacher arrives for his lesson in his room.

    (Below is my summary of the scene.)

    The teacher sits down.  The American is ready to start.  The teacher tells him that being the host (and the student in this case), he should begin by offering the teacher some tea.

    He fetches some tea, the teacher says no, he takes the tea back to the sideboard.  The teacher says that's not the right thing to do.  He says, "But you said no."  The teacher explains that the Chinese guest has to do that -- it's part of the ritual.

    This immediately got a bonus point from me (occupational hazard, teacher mode is never turned off):  one doesn't just learn the language, one has to learn about the history and cultural behaviour as well.  (In my teaching of the language, I distinguish between grammatical usage and cultural usage:  a sentence might be grammatically correct, but it might not really be how the Chinese would say it.)

    He then sits down again to start the lesson.  The teacher says he should offer her something to eat.  He fetches some sweets, the teacher says no, and the same thing happens again: he takes the sweets back to the sideboard.  The teacher launches another explanation about the host / guest routine.  Another bonus point from me.

    At the end of the lesson, the teacher gets up to leave.  He says goodbye to her at the door of his dormitory room.  The teacher tells him that as the host (and the student), he's supposed to walk her off the premises.  Another bonus point.

    Part of the way to the main entrance of the university compound, the teacher tells him that he doesn't have to go any further.  He starts to leave her there to make his way back to his room.  Again, the teacher explains what's expected of him.  It's another stage in the host / guest role-playing game.  (Reminds me of the oft-heard expression, in my younger days anyway, about women saying no but not really meaning it...)

    The above is my summary of the scene.  Some of the details might not match the original exactly, but you can watch the film for yourself.

    I've found it charming and fun to watch -- not just for the kungfu, which is a passion of mine as well, but more broadly for the social history.  It's a China that's not around anymore for the most part:  architecturally, people's attitude about foreigners, the way of life, the materialistic quality of life.  The teachers he was teaching English to remind me of the staff of China Airlines (the national carrier for the Republic of China) in Taipei that I used to teach on Saturdays:  their accents and their cultural behaviour.  

    A time warp watching this film.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cOIbalP7dj8 (1:31:53)

(China, 1986)

Spoonerism: ternlan (Singapore)

Doing my Spoonerism stories with the English conversation class yesterday for listening and guided speaking has awakened a memory from my childhood days.

    The Mandarin for lantern is 燈籠 / 灯笼 / dēng lóng / "lamp cage".

    In my southern Chinese dialect of Teochew (潮州 / Cháozhōu), it's pronounced deng lang.  As a child, I always called it leng dang.

(Singapore, 1960s)

Spoonerism: Shandy the dog (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/08/spoonerism-shandy-dog.html)

Spoonerism: kepala and kelapa (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/spoonerism-kepala-and-kelapa.html)

Spoonerism: crooks and nannies (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/spoonerism-crooks-and-nannies.html)

Spoonerism: I'll ask the chicken (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/spoonerism.html)

You said we could lie: 02 (names for fictitious children) (London)

For the Beginners class on the evening programme, the oral test was three minutes per student, which is a long time to be speaking in Mandarin for that level.

    This was the strategy I taught the generations of students during my 23 years of teaching on the evening programme, presenting the plan graphically on the board.

    The student is in a bubble in the middle, marked Self, with details such as surname, name, age, nationality.  (That might be 30 seconds of the test time covered.)

    Radiating from that central bubble, like a satellite network, are four different identity bubbles:

    1. Family (the one they were born into), with details such as parents and siblings, plus their names and ages.

    2. Family (the one they've created), with details of their spouse and children.  (I told them all to be married and to have lots of children, to fill up the speaking time.)

    3. Their studies:  I told them all to be full time students, because they knew how to say they were learning Mandarin, and describe their teacher and fellow students.

    4. Their work:  This was the part of their life I told them not to venture into, as their Mandarin wasn't anywhere near good enough to talk about their work in real life, e.g., Hilary was an IP (Intellectual Property) Rights specialist lawyer; Chris Welch was a professor of aeronautics and space engineering at Kingston University.

    Student Dennis, unattached at the time, in answer to my questions in Mandarin, "Are you married?  Do you have any children?  How many? Boy or girl?  What are their names?", would giggle after each of his made-up answers.

    Student Tom didn't even bother to spend time and energy on this.  He simply gave the names of his two fictitious children as Gubo and Palanka, the two characters in the mainland Chinese-designed textbook we were using at the time.

    Palanka could be the Chinese rendition for Blanca, a common enough European name, but I was at a loss (this was pre-googling days) to put a finger on a provenance for Gubo.  Plumping for Albania (since it was, like China, one of the few communist countries left in the world at the time) was exotic and always produced a smile, so I stuck to it.

    Tom coming up with Gubo and Palanka for the names of his two fictitious children took me by surprise.  My eyebrows went up, as I checked in Mandarin, "Your children are called Gubo and Palanka?!?"

    He gave me a look of frustration (and something else -- maybe a touch of derision?) as he switched to English, "It was you who told us to play this silly game."

    Yes, he passed the oral test.  Couldn't fault him on lack of imagination.  Nor even for telling the examiner off....  I did say that they could lie -- as long as they lied grammatically.

(London, early 1990s)

You said we could lie: 01 (age) (London)

Old friend Valerio and I have been talking about using AI for our queries.

    We've both had some wrong answers.  Sometimes, it's due to the question not being worded in a way that lets AI know exactly what the questioner is looking for, as I discovered when the answer was off course, and re-wording the question a bit got me what I was expecting.

Valerio said:

Quote

The interesting thing with AI is that you can prevent bad responses if you explicitly tell it not to do it. If you don't say " don't lie" it has no reason to tell the truth.

Unquote

My response to the above was:

Quote

Hahahaha, how devious of it! “You didn’t tell me not to lie.”

Unquote

    This reminds me of my teaching evening class students.  To encourage them to speak, I said to them, "You don't have to tell the truth.  You can lie, as long as you lie grammatically."

    One day, a student said in Mandarin during an exercise in class that he was 16.  The evening course didn't admit students below 18, and this student was in his 30s at least (and looked it), so instinctively, I said in surprise, in Mandarin, "You are 16 years old?!!?"

    He came back with, in English, "You told us we could lie."

(London, mid–late 1980s)

Going round and round in circles: 02 (London)

The first blog about Going round and round in circles (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2020/04/going-round-and-round-in-circles-london.html) reminds me of a phone conversation I once had with the secretary of one of our film directors on The Heart of the Dragon.

    The Heart of the Dragon was a 12-part Channel Four TV documentary series about China in the early 80s, made by a company specially set up for it, with each producer/director having their own company working on all sorts of other projects.

    Nigel’s company, Hawkshead Communications Limited, was a corporate training filmmaking company, specialising in communications.

    One day, a call came in from the Hawkshead secretary for Nigel.  He wasn’t in, so she said she’d like to leave a message for him.

Secretary:  Tell Nigel I can do it and you know what I mean…

Me:  Do what?  I don’t know what you mean.

Secretary:  No, those are the names of the training films:  “I can do it” and “You know what I mean”.

(London, 1983)

The nature vs nurture of food: 14 (They say it's very hot but...)

In my second year in London, I was invited by an Indonesian Chinese woman to visit her in Guildford.

    Her Caucasian husband (Belgian??) worked for Conoco, the American oil company I'd worked for in Singapore, Taiwan and London.  He was away on an offshore rig in the North Sea, so she thought I could go and stay with her for the weekend.

    I arrived on Saturday to find her having lunch:  roast lamb the Western way, but with a bowl of fresh, whole green chilli by the plate.  Like the Mauritian woman (in the blog https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2026/02/the-nature-vs-nurture-of-food-12-chilli.html) eating her afternoon tea biscuit with regular nibbles at her fresh, whole red chilli, this Indonesian woman worked her way through the bowl of fresh, whole green chilli with each forkful of roast lamb.

    For dinner that evening, she suggested having a takeaway curry.

    Going through the menu at the takeaway counter, she said to me, "This curry called vindaloo, they say is very hot, but it isn't, actually."

    After her derisive remark about the label of "very hot" for a vindaloo curry, she decided to go for the next one up, which is a phall (another one I'd not heard of, and which I've since discovered is not offered on the menus of a lot of high street curry houses, maybe because there isn't a huge demand for it).

    Back at her house, she opened her carton of phall curry to find it a vibrant orange red colour.  Her face lit up, "Now, this looks more like it!"

    She put a spoonful of it into her mouth, then shot up from the table, dashed over to the sink, spat it out, rushed over to the fridge, yanked the door open, pulled out the largest bottle of Coca Cola, and glugged it in huge gulps.

    When she turned round, her eyes were bloodshot and tears were streaming down her cheeks, as she squeaked, "My goodness, that was hot!"

    It was a bit later that the thought sneaked into my head:  maybe the man in the curry takeaway kitchen heard her scoffing at the categorisation of vindaloo, and decided to teach her a lesson by doctoring the phall to beyond how they'd normally serve it.

(Guildford, 1978)