Featured writer: Scott Saalman

A teen breaks the concentration of a bomb sniffing dog with a tennis ball.

Foghorn Leghorn’s worst nightmare in Nanjing–mine too.

 I can’t believe I’m here, was my first thought upon landing in Hong Kong, its airport—an island really—home to a breathtaking holding pattern, an expansive sparkle of city, ribbon-misted mountain, river and sea converging into clearer focus through each second of cloud sink like the time-lapsed birth of a Polaroid picture; the crowded 747 did lazy loops over the approaching Orient, as if in slow dance, landing gear locked, a final approach, then the white-knuckle rush for a touch of runway.

Once inside the international airport, it truly hit home that I had touched down in China. Nothing but Asian-speak as I worked through the jumble of travelers, their collective voices as mysterious as jungle chatter, nothing but gibberish to an ear perpetually tuned to English mode. This year, I have been to six overseas countries—none prior—and I have learned to love the sound of native tongues not my own. I have learned to love being outside my geographic element.

The time zones crossed en route to the Far East brought a sense of time travel. I was now 12 hours ahead of my former self. The 12-hour difference didn’t require me to adjust the watch hand; I just had to remember that a.m. here was p.m. there or vice versa, important to remember when calling home.

From Hong Kong then to Shanghai to Nanjing to Bangkok, a nine-day business trip with almost two of those days airborne.

Lovely view while eating outdoors.

The honking never ceases in Nanjing, city of seven million, the horns sounding not to signal hello or express anger but done as a courtesy to let other drivers know he will be cutting in or passing with toe-curling, razor precision. The first honker goes uncontested, like a fielder calling for a pop fly. Motor scooters, coming from all directions, buzz by like pesky, flying insects. Not once did I see a middle-finger salute or traffic mishap.

 In Thailand, I watched a wild monkey navigate a neighborhood via tin roofs. I tested my negotiating skills at an open market in steamy Pattaya. Word was it was a breeze to bring prices down.

 “How much?” I asked the salesman.

 “50 bhats.”

 “40,” I countered, feeling like an international tightwad since 50 bahts converted to a measly $1.50. I was anxious to see how low this Thai would go. American, I obviously had an advantage. Before it was all over, the man would likely pay me to take the purse.

“50 bahts,” he said firmly.

“I’ll take it,” I said, cracking as I usually do, ending perhaps the shortest price negotiation in Thai history.

Receiving my change, I said, “Well played, sir.”

“50 bhats,” he said.

In front of my Nanjing hotel, there was a pistol-wearing soldier with a bomb dog, the canine sniffing at guests’ cars forced to stop before entering the parking garage. An Asian teen approached the German shepherd, pulled a tennis ball from his pants and tossed it in the air. After a few lunges, the dog caught the ball in its mouth. Instead of shooting the boy—or the dog—on the spot, the soldier seemed amused. It was weird watching a dog trained for such a serious mission to suddenly have a car bomb be the farthest thing from his mind. That night, on the 49^th floor, I remained wide awake worrying about how many cars bombs snuck by due to some terrorist’s tennis ball.

Much of the food was phenomenal, though some seemingly indigestible. I could live on Pad Thai noodle dishes, chilled watermelon juice and meat-stuffed Chinese dumplings alone. Unfortunately, the fish always looked at me from the plate in a pained way, and a severed chicken’s head appeared before me during one meal. Holding the head up with a chopstick, I created something akin to a puppet. “Go…I say go away boy…you bother me,” I said, in my best Foghorn Leghorn voice, which resulted in silence as if a sacred line had been crossed. Let’s just say Foghorn Leghorn doesn’t play well in old Nanjing.

My greatest fear in China was chopsticks: noodles, dumplings, rice, vegetables and meats (pigeon included {tasted like squirrel}) missed my plate and mouth, plopping onto the table and lap. The one time I actually felt good about my progress, a Chinese cohort announced, “Scott, you are using the wrong ends.” Embarrassed, I turned the sticks around, but the spell was broken, and I had to rely on silverware that a waitress delivered as if on cue (did someone press an emergency button under the table?).

Welcome to the other side of the world, I remember also thinking at the Hong Kong airport, an incredulous thought for someone who, as a  six-year-old, southern Indiana, barefooted boy, had dug deep holes in the backyard dirt, certain it was the right route to China.

It took 40 years of digging, but I finally made it. What a lucky boy.

(The following essays appears in Nose Hairs Gone Wild: Collected Humor Essays by Scott Saalman, available as an e-book on Amazon, etc. or as a paperback by contacting him.)