Chinese medicine. We were looking forward to trying it. The pharmacist couldn’t speak English. No one spoke English. But someone emerged from the back of the store with a handheld translator. So what was it that I needed so bad from the pharmacy? A thousand things. Jet lag (even though this time it wasn’t too bad, miraculously); some anti-aging miracle? an energizer? a remedy against the common cold or the flu? The pharmacist was getting impatient. What on earth did I want? “Feel good”, that is what I managed to ask, a bit doubtful of how that would translate in her language. To my surprise, she opened a smile of recognition and repeated excitedly “feel good, feel good”, she didn’t need a translator for that. I was thrilled with our sudden successful communication and managed to understand, with the help of embarrassing gestures, that I was supposed to take three little pills of the mysterious composition in the morning and four at night. According to the pharmacist, in order to experience optimal feel-goodness I should buy a minimum of three boxes. I bought two and, whenever I remember, I take two pills, attributing my well being to Chinese medicine and to a triumphant linguistic exchange. Encouraged by the success of the feel-good pills, I also bought some killer jet lag vials that I should take before bed time. Whatever it is made of, it is good stuff. I slept like a baby in China.
At the end of the trip, returning to Beijing from Xiang airport, I succumb to my Western ways and decide to buy some melatonin for our long distance flight back home. “It costs 200 yuans”, the Chinese saleswoman says. But at this stage I was a seasoned shopper in China: I offered 100 yuans. She disdains. I disdain more. She capitulates and I buy my melatonin, victoriously.
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