I love eating at chinese restaurants. There's a lot of reasons that i do, but maybe a large part of it is that it makes me feel a little closer to my racial roots even though nearly everything chinese is alien to me.
There's this small chinese restaurant named "Kom Jug" that's basically my default late-night eating destination. It's open until around 3 am, and it's really cheap, so it's perfect. Whenever I go, I always try to order my usual order in chinese, in hopes that one day if i practice enough... maybe i'll actually be able to speak a bit of chinese, even if it sounds terrible. Somehow though, the servers always manage to decipher what i'm trying to say even through my triple-thick Canadian accent (I know you, like me, also thought of McDonald's Triple Thick Smoothies after reading that). The thing is, I've been there enough that all of the servers know me and my friends as well as our usual orders. And that gets me thinking that there's a good possibility that they really don't understand me everytime i order my "pei dan sow yook jook" Maybe, they only just had to decode my ramblings the first, second and third time that i ordered it, and have just resolved to smile politely each time that i return, all the while not understanding a thing that i'm saying. I wonder if there really is no hope for me being able to speak any amount of chinese...
Most of my friends in university speak chinese, and even the one white boy that hangs out with us speaks a huge amount more than I do, he only started learning this year too... It's gotten to the point where he can actually hold conversation in chinese with them, as i stand by listening intently for one of the five words in total that i actually understand. I kind of see him as my rival in proving to the rest of the group that I, contrary to their firm beliefs, am quite in touch with my chinese side. Unfortunately, he as long surpassed me in China-man-likeness. Very sad Justin... very sad.
Whatever, i'm sure that all of you love me simply for who I am... right?
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