Phone

Lin Da work unit housing for faculty and staff. (Our waiban lived here somewhere.)

Four fellow teachers lived less than a mile away in Beijing. At our Youyi Hotel meeting they loaned me money and gave me their phone number. Since I didn’t know mine, it was up to me to call.

Trouble was, I still wasn’t getting a dial tone. I mentioned this three times to Xiao Ming, the apartment superintendent, only to be told each time my phone was fine.

It wasn’t. Day after day it emitted the same unmotivated, high-pitched squawk.

Eventually, on a lark, I dialed my friends’ number anyway. It worked! I never guessed China’s dial tone would sound nothing like ours.

After dialing I heard another tone, a low beeping. Was that ringing? A busy signal? How long should I listen? Unable to figure out something as simple as a phone, I felt sheepish.

Thankfully I didn’t have to wait long. The line clicked harshly and a woman answered, “Wei!” (No translation, simply the greeting used when answering the phone.)

I didn’t expect a human operator, but it made sense – my friends’ number included an extension. This was the moment of truth for my fledgling Mandarin: could I communicate without facial expressions or hand gestures? I inhaled, then pronounced: “San ling san ling (Three zero three zero).”

“Shen me (What)?”

A little louder, a little clearer: “San ling san ling.”

“Shen me?” An added flurry of words came over the line.

Again, clownishly articulate: “San ling san ling.”

She had no clue what I was saying.

The next day, after a language brainstorm, I tried again: “Qing gei wo san ling san ling (Please give me three zero three zero).”

“Shen me?”

Sigh. Louder, slower: “Qing gei wo san ling san ling.”

Flurry of words.

Typically I preplanned any attempt to speak Mandarin with some vigorous mental rehearsal, but desperation inspired an improvised plea for mercy: “Wo shi meiguoren (I am American). Qing gei wo san ling san ling.”

No go.

Every day I tried, hoping for a different operator. Every day the same voice answered, wondering why this strange Lao Wai insisted on bleating gibberish in her ear.

Weeks later I was perusing a traveler’s dictionary when I came across this phrase: “Qing zhuan.” Translation? “Please give me extension …”

Armed, confident, I dialed again and spoke, “Qing zhuan san ling san ling.”

“Oh!” she answered. The line clicked, and there was Chuck on the other end.

“We’ve been worried about you!” he chastised. “Why didn’t you call?”

Small independent market near Lin Da work unit housing.

Read next ->