(from The Little Prince, by Saint Exupery)

 I fell in love in China.   What is love? And what does it mean to fall in love?   Only in Hollywood movies does falling in love mean finding that one person who will erase your past and brighten your future forever.  On this side of the screen, falling in love happens often, with a place, a book, a song, with a person, and often this person is ourselves. For the purpose of this post, love is what happens when our souls touch another's. In this particular case it's neither romantic nor physical, and maybe that just makes it more precious. Perhaps to fall in love is just leaning our candle into the flame of another, and relighting both.  After such encounter, I'm bursting with passion for life and I hope the other is as well, or at least, that I didn't diminish his light.  Let me start from the beginning... I sleep like a baby in Nanning.  The bed is comfortable, the temperature perfect, and so is the morning light coming from the window.  I lazily stretch myself and reach for my cell phone to check the time.  I am hoping to see 7 or 8 o'clock on the screen but to my surprise, it's past ten.  I stretch a little more while calculating the time I have been asleep.  About eight hours!  That's unusual for me.  I pat myself on the back -- figuratively --, get up and into my Tai Chi uniform because I have trained the martial art for almost thirty years but never in its birthplace and won't miss it for the world.  I leave the hotel and walk toward the park near Yonghe Bridge. It's hot and I'm looking for a cool and quiet place when I spot a man and a boy of about fifteen training a staff sequence.  I immediately recognize it as the one from my training days in Brazil.  I approach them.  Standing nearby is a girl of perhaps thirteen.  She notices me right away but the boy and his teacher are completely engrossed in their training.  The student makes a few mistakes, which the teacher readily corrects and explains the movement further.  Of course, I don't understand a word he says, but his gestures are clear enough.   I ask the girl if she speaks English and she nods shyly.  "Can you ask them (teacher and student) if I can take pictures?"  On the first opportunity, she relates my question to the teacher.  He regards me for a moment and says it's okay.  I ask him -- through her -- if he trains Tai Chi, and he says no, that he only trains Shaolin.  I ask if I can join their training and he says I can.  We train the part of a sequence I know well, and had I known any Chinese I would have told him so.  He does know that I'm a fellow practitioner, but the language barrier prevents us to talk details.  That's fine, as Tai Chi -- or Shaolin -- requires little talk.  

After about an hour of class, he asks his female student to translate what he wants to tell me.  Through her, he invites me to come the next day to train with him. He wants me to know that he is there every day at that same time and that I can come and train with him every day.  I'm touched by his generosity, but I tell him that I'm just visiting and will be departing Nanning soon.  In fact, I have to get back to the hotel and check out in a few minutes.  We take a few pictures together and the teacher asks the girl to take down my name and my contact information.  We don't have pens or paper and since it's China, she doesn't have Facebook, but she does have Instagram, and she tries to memorize my name.  It's a long shot, but it's all we've got. I leave the hotel soon after noon and walk toward the train station, to look for the office holding my ticket back to Hanoi.  It's hot and my bag is heavy but the walk allows me to see much of Nanning.  It's a busy, well-developed and well organized city, famous for its many parks. I see a Walmart store on my way but have no wish to stop. After about seventy minutes I start recognizing streets and sights as I approach the train station.  That's where I should be, but I can't find the address. I ask the locals, show the address in Chinese to many people, and they point me in the direction of their best guesses, but the actual place eludes me.  If the information I'm getting is at all reliable, I'm getting closer to the office with each step, though no one can tell me exactly where it's located. Two girls of about eighteen take it upon themselves to help me find it.  They both speak a little English.  They have two umbrellas to protect them from the sun and insist I take one.  They ask me if I have eaten lunch and when I say no they become concerned.  I don't tell them that I also didn't have breakfast and, to be perfectly honest, I didn't quite remember the last time I had a full meal.  They think I should halt my quest and have something to eat immediately.  They ask me if I have money for food.  I tell them I do but I don't want to stop to eat before I have the ticket in my hands.  

We walk in search of the address.  I can't understand how a place can be so hard to find, but it is.  The girls recruit the help of other people, just like I did before, and they all point to a similar direction.  The moment of relief comes when, at my request, they call the office and are told that yes, they are open and my ticket is there, waiting for me. The girls walk with me, but I feel like we're walking in circles.  They think we should take a taxi because it's too hot and it seems far.  I have already walked for over an hour from the hotel, and this is perhaps ten minutes more, so I don't see the point of taking a taxi.   We stop at a corner, and they're confused but I have an inkling of the way, which seems to be opposite to where they think it is.  And then I see him, the tuk-tuk driver from the day before! The girls ask him directions and he says it's kinda far but he'll take me there for ten yuan.  I tell him no, thank you very much.  Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me.  That's a  shame I can prevent from happening.  I return the umbrella to the girls, thank them for their time and tell them I'll find it by myself.   I walk for about ten minutes or so until I find myself near a couple of buildings that just might be it.  True, I have had this hope before but that's the thing about hope; it springs up again and again, even in the least promising situations. At one of the buildings, I ask a porter if he can use his cell phone to contact the office.  He kindly obliges. With the guy from the office on the line, giving him step-by-step directions, we walk around a block and, after a while, find the rather obscure entrance B on the back of the building. I'm deeply grateful to my helper, without whom I could have never found it.  After thanking him, I go up to the 17th floor.   The door of room number 17 opens into a large space with a few desks.  There's only one guy hiding behind a computer screen.  As soon as he sees me he gets up and gives me the ticket.  That's it! All that worry and hours looking for this office for the ticket now in my hand.  I let out a sigh of exhaustion and relief.  "Mind if I sit down for a moment?" He doesn't.  He points to the water cooler, in case I'm thirsty.  His English is limited but I assume he understands much more than he speaks since I've been communicating with him through email for a while.  As I rest I notice a door leading to a bedroom and a bathroom.  I assume this is probably his home.  The bathroom is the kind I've seen in some places in Vietnam, with a hole in the ground and only the very basic features.  I think of the ticket in my hand and I wonder whether it's legit.  It looks exactly like the one I bought in Hanoi, which was the real thing.  So I decide to trust that this is a small, but genuine business. My train doesn't leave until 6 p.m. and I still want to do two things in Nanning; have a late lunch and buy a fridge magnet. The restaurant where I stop could as well be located in Astoria, NY.  It's a place like the many popular Chinese restaurants in the States. But here it's harder to order than in New York. The lady behind the counter can't understand me and I, of course, can't understand her.  But we do want to understand each other because I'm hungry and she wants to sell.  I'm pointing at the pictures of rice and vegetables.  However, these are two dishes, and do I want two dishes?  No, I don't.  I try telling her that I don't want meat of any kind.   "I can help," says someone behind us.  A wave of relief washes over me as I turn to look at the speaker; a young man with a red t-shirt and an open face.  "I can help," he repeats. Through him, I order noodles with vegetables.  His willingness to help is infinite but his English is not.  We struggle to understand each other as he relates to me the lady's questions.  Do I eat eggs?  No.  But there's egg in the pasta.  I relent, fine, a little egg in the pasta won't kill me.   My young friend asks to sit with me.  He has just finished eating at another table but comes to mine and tells me that he's thrilled to meet me.  I'm the first foreigner he has ever met!  His friend won't believe it. Do I mind if he takes a picture with me?  No, I don't mind.  I'm happy to make his acquaintance and I too want a selfie with him.  My food comes and I realize that the egg was not in the making of the pasta as I thought but added to the dish.  And for vegetables, there are only a few leaves of cabbage.  I have tasted better "Chinese food" in the restaurants around my house.  I especially miss The Great Mandarin in Woburn, Gung Ho in Ludlow and Wong Wok in Springfield, but hey, this is the authentic Chinese food!  

However, in no restaurant in the States would I have found my new friend Juan.  (That's not his actual name but it's my best pronunciation of a rather long and difficult Chinese name for someone who doesn't speak the language. But since Duolingo has just added Chinese, things might change.)  As I eat, I learn a few things about Juan.  He's not from Nanning and in fact, knows few people in town.  He has one friend, to whom he has just sent our picture.  He is here for the summer to work.  Soon he will have to go back to his home to continue his studies.  He asks me a bunch of questions, where I'm from and what do I do in my country.  I show him pictures of my three grown children.  He is twenty years old, the same age as my youngest son and his birthday is Christmas Eve.   I tell him that I'm looking for fridge magnets.  He doesn't know what I'm talking about, but since the restaurant has wi-fi I can look online for pictures to show him what I mean.  However, I'm stuck with Bing since this is China, and Google is not allowed here.  (Please let's all take a moment for a collective eye-roll.  C'mon, China!)  Bing gives me pitiful images of magnets, but it's enough for Juan to know what I'm looking for.  He has never seen them, though.  I tell him they're most likely sold in places where you find things like maps and souvenirs.  He shakes his head, he has never seen them or any stores selling souvenirs in Nanning, for that matter.  He apologizes for not being able to help but then thinks of his friend, who just might know.  He texts him and his friend tells him that Nanning, not being a touristic destination, doesn't have this kind of store.  I decide I'll try my luck anyway. As soon as I push my plate away he asks, "are you ready?"  I'm surprised to see him get to his feet and pick up his backpack but it soon becomes clear that he intends to help me look for magnets.   It's incredibly hot and humid as we walk around the city, checking every little shop for magnets.  In Phnom Penh, I found magnets in the back of a little shop near the Wat Phnom, and in Bangkok, I found them on the table of a street vendor, both places that could easily have gone unnoticed.  My point is, fridge magnets are sold anywhere, and if you don't look well, you miss them completely. My friend, however, is more direct in his search.  He's looking for a souvenir store.  I stop to look at this and that store but he shakes his head, no, you won't find it in there.  Even though he is shy, I urge him to ask salespeople if they have magnets, which he does.   We talk as we walk.  He's an only child, of course, since he was born during the Chinese one-child policy.  He likes to study but resents the fact that school takes all his time and he cannot play any sports.  He'd love to play baseball but that's an impossible dream. He has to study.     His friend texts him about a department store in the city's center where we might find magnets.  Walking there I see some of the almost 7 million residents of Nanning.  The place is big and busy. There are hundreds of little shops, most of them selling clothes.  We quickly scan them, and, not finding magnets, we move on.  He points ahead, to where the department store is located.  It's a tall building amidst small shops, as though an organic growth from the agglomeration of shops surrounding it.  The streets are packed with shoppers, entering and leaving stores.  Toys, clothes, flashlights, and baseball hats are being sold everywhere, but we can't find one magnet.   We have been walking for a while now, sometimes in silence, partners on a quest, sometimes exchanging basic information about ourselves. As we approach the department store I check the time.  It's three minutes to five o'clock. "I think I should get back to the train station," I tell Juan. "What time does your train leave?" "Six o'clock." "We have to take a taxi." I think it unnecessary but Juan says we're too far and there's no way we can make it on foot.  I acquiesce and he quickly hails a cab.  As we ride to the train station I can appreciate just how far we have walked.  Traffic is heavy,  the streets are wide and as organized as any big American city at rush hour.  Unlike Hanoians, the Chinese obey traffic regulations and motorcycles do not drive on sidewalks.   Juan apologizes for not finding the magnet.  I tell him it's okay.  He texts his friend and chats with the taxi driver.  "Do you have ten minutes?" He asks me.  I'm not sure I do since I can't calculate how far I'm from the station. Juan tells me that the driver knows a place where they sell souvenirs.  Would I like to go there?  "Sure." He tells the driver, who quickly veers the car into a street then immediately stops at a traffic light.  I think I have just made a big mistake.  I'm wondering how I'll tell this story months from now, about the time I went to China and missed my train because I was trying to find a fridge magnet.  I decide it'll give the magnet a special meaning, but I don't know how I'll manage from today to one month from now.  I'm reminded of the time my son Marcelo went to Liverpool.  He was visiting the house where John Lennon used to live, aware of the limited time he had there when he saw a sign announcing that McCartney's house was close by.  He considered the time he had before his train left the station and made a bold decision; he chose to risk missing the train to see Paul's house.  After visiting it, he had to run all the way to the train station.  But he did get there in time and was happy to have made the right call.  That could happen to me today.  Or... I could be making a big mistake.   The cab stops. The driver points to a place and explains something to Juan, who tells me that from there we can take a shortcut on foot to the station.  I don't see the station and I'm afraid my situation is hopeless.  Juan quickly pays the driver ten Yuan and we ran to a market that sells crafts, but most of the booths are already closed.  Only two are still open but there's nobody to wait on us or answer questions.  We take a look around but there's nothing remotely resembling a fridge magnet.   So we leave the market and head to the station.  I expect Juan will just point me in the right direction but he's by my side, running with me, in the hot and muggy Nanning weather.  I realize that this guy has spent his only day off trying to help me.  I know where the station is, I can see it far ahead, but still, he is sweating beside me as we run.  We no longer talk, we barely look at each other, but the red blur of his shirt is a constant comfort beside me.  I want to tell him that he has done enough.  I want to pay him back for the taxi because he's in Nanning to work and save for his studies.  I want to tell him just how much I appreciate his company and that, even though we didn't find the magnet, I'm happy to have made his acquaintance.  But I can't afford to stop since every passing second increases the likelihood that I'll miss my train.   Finally, we're at the station.  It is big enough that from the gates you don't see the trains coming and going.  I have no idea of the time and I'm afraid to stop to look.  I just want to go in and try my luck.   At the gate, the guard asks for my ticket, and I quickly pull it from my bag.  He takes a look at it and lets me pass.  As soon as I step on the other side, I realize that Juan cannot pass, since he doesn't have a ticket.  I look back and see him watching me from the other side, his face red and sweaty, his breathing hard, looking utterly bereft.  I immediately turn around, cross the gate without asking permission and throw my arms around Juan's neck.  "Thank you so much for your help!" I say.  He's startled at first but holds me for a moment, before I pull away and dash through the gate again.  I look back one more time to wave goodbye, and of course, he's still there.   As I run to the right platform I see the time; 5:47.  A little way ahead is the train, which passengers are boarding now.  At the door, I give my ticket to the guard and find my compartment.  That's when I realize that I did not take Juan's contact or gave him mine.  I could've given him the Chinese yuan I have in my pocket, which I no longer need.  It would pay for the taxi and, if I left him my address, I'm sure he wouldn't mind finding a magnet and sending it to me in the States.  As it is, I have no way of ever contacting him again.  For reasons I don't quite understand, this makes me deeply sad.  I love to exchange virtual contact, and we did talk about Facebook, which he doesn't have, but we could have exchanged email addresses.  I lie down on my berth, feeling as bereft as Juan looked at the moment I waved goodbye.