I’ve spoken more Italian since I came to Beijing than at almost any time since I left Europe three years ago. Why? Because I’m white, and I don’t speak Chinese.

My hosts this week, Lindsey and Alex, warned me my first night here about two common scams used to separate foreigners from their money. One involves inviting the unsuspecting laowai to tea, where everyone orders and the new guy is stuck with an exorbitant bill. I haven’t run across this one, yet, but give it time.

The second trick, and the one I ran into at least a dozen times my first day, involves an English-speaking Chinese offering to show the cash-laden tourist some “Chinese art.” Unfortunately, the art is crap and over-priced.

How does this lead me to speak Italian, you ask? Because very few Chinese people speak it, and it’s really hard to scam somebody who doesn’t understand what you’re saying. After the third or fourth offer to see a special art exhibit, I switched to my Italian alter-ego. As soon as I heard the telltale “halloo,” I’d respond with “Ciao, come stai.” I told my new pseudo-friends in a Senese dialect: “Mi dispiace, ma non parlo cinese. Non ti capisco. Sono di Siena, vicino Firenze. Lo conosci?”

At this point, the puzzled predator would slink off in search of someone more pliable. It even got fun for a while. I invited several art enthusiasts to come visit Italy and see some fine works. Only one man persisted through our apparent language barrier (he barely spoke English, so I guess it wasn’t an issue) and somehow corralled me and two Canadians into a room lined with cheap paintings of tigers and water lilies. We looked around, then ducked out quickly.

My second encounter with my old second language came at the Yonghe Gong lama temple. While wandering between giant Buddhas and watching faithful pilgrims burn incense and bow in prayer, I heard a familiar-sounding tongue in the same courtyard. I stumbled into a group of middle-aged tourists from Perugia, a cosmopolitan town in central Italy.

The language came back to me quickly, and I spent about an hour exploring the shrine with the Italians. Giaccomo, the group’s leader, named off 20+ countries he’d seen in a lifetime of traveling, including most of East and Southeast Asia, the Mediterranean, the Middle East and elsewhere.

It’s easy to forget just how good my Italian was, and how far I have to go in Chinese. I’m so much more confident, and I know how to ask questions when I don’t know a word. I haven’t practiced seriously since my study-abroad in Siena, but it’s still there.

But the fact that my Italian is still functional after three years makes my lack of Chinese all the more frustrating. As China has gotten tough, I’ve caught myself reminiscing about Italy and how easy it was. I even briefly pondered just boarding the Trans-Siberian Railway and heading for Europe, where at least I can communicate, even if I can’t afford anything. I have to remind myself that I’m in China for a reason, and the challenge is part of that reason. I want to know what I’m capable of, and if Beijing scares me off, then I’ve really fallen short.

This entry was posted on Thursday, August 24th, 2006 at 1:12 am and is filed under mess of a language, roadside blogging. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.