the not pot

I am sitting in a restaurant, eating a local favorite called huoguo. That translates into “hot pot”. This is because the food is served raw and in bit-size pieces and is cooked in pot of boiling broth that sits in the middle of the table. The broth is divided into two sections, one section spicy and the other section not spicy, and it is the diners’ job to drop the food into the broth and cook the food before eating. The spicy side is very spicy and by western standards it is very, very, very, very spicy. I am eating dinner tonight after a day’s work of English lessons at my school. My friends and colleagues are seated with me around the table.
Although crowds are more common than not in a country of 1.4 billion people, I am the ninth person to sit at a table that properly seats eight. As I sit down, I scan the people with whom I share the responsibility of educating the clients of our school, and I think of what I would say if I were writing about them in my blog. It is obvious to me that these people are young, adventurous, and extraordinarily charitable individuals, but what else would I say?
I see a young British man who has a past that is colorful and a smile that is genuine and contagious. Through his beaming facade I am reminded of how right I was to trust him when I drank too much beer and needed a true friend to stop my further drinking and guide me home safely. Next to him is a young American woman who is wearing her hair differently than she usually does during her classes. It is neatly worn in a way that reflects her northeastern heritage and their classic style. She will wear her hair in this simple and elegant fashion all her life, as her mother and her grandmother did. Looking at this woman that I call my “little sister,” I see a timeless beauty and I am convinced that she will be as beautiful at 50 as she is now. Next to her is a man who is responsible beyond his years, and next to him more of the same. The young British woman sitting next to me is my lovely ex-roommate whose 21 years of existence belies her strength of character. At 21, like all good Englishmen and women, she can drink this ex-sailor under the table with incredible style.
All the people around this table are equally charming and entirely kind-hearted and we are slowly getting drunk. We are at the table and drinking or smoking or eating or laughing or talking or any combination of these things. We are a jovial group of individuals thrown together by fate, living and working together, while tens of thousands of miles from home. The plates of uncooked meat, tofu, and vegetables arrive and everyone jumps in with both chopsticks. I order another beer and think of that Lou Reed song about “lookin’ for soul food and a place to eat.”
So I think of what I would say if I were writing about these young colleagues in my blog and I realize the convenience in that. Our age difference means that it is easier for me to write about them than to talk directly to them. I am happy to be older because when I was their age I was not as responsible or disciplined, but our opinions and views reflect the dramatic differences in our ages and experiences. Youth can be pretentious and writing comes without the glares, stunned expressions, and cruel judgments. As I wonder what I would write about these people I see the distance and difference between us as much as I admire our closeness and their exuberant good will. I sit and eat my food while thinking about how to write my blog entry, and I quickly drink another beer while rummaging through the thoughts I will never share.