The french do not seem to take the drinking age seriously. Walking through the streets Paris at night, looking for a decent place to eat is a relatively simple task. Choosing a place is the difficult part… If someone is a vegetarian, or if they do not have a particular taste in a certain type of food, it can make deciding difficult. Finally, we found this humble restaurant tucked between two shops on a cobblestone street. It looked perfect. So, we went inside and found a table. We were sitting, waiting a few minutes for the waiter to come to our seats, listening to the woman playing upbeat music on the piano and singing in the corner. Then, the waiter came around to us. We chatted for a little as he asked us where we were from, being very social and welcoming. Then, he asked us what we wanted to drink. We all said water. He, politely, said no. Puzzled, we asked why? He asserted that we were all to order the wine if we did want an authentic dinner in Paris. We told him that we were underage (most of us by only a few months.) He said without pressuring us, “Underaged? As long as you are over two years old then it is legal to drink here,” So, we agreed and ordered wine and enjoyed it with our dinner. I thought, in America, there is no possible way that would have happened. It is absurd to think about. A simple drink with dinner can set two cultures apart and that interested me greatly. 

BEEEEP! I glanced at the speedometer, which read 60 mph. I felt dirty looks on me as drivers raced past the car. Sixty miles per hour was right below speed limit, I thought to myself. Why are these people horning? I was very confused. However, I did not have enough time to contemplate the matter any further. “Drive half mile and exit at Santa Ana South,” my GPS announced. Taking a quick look, my mom changed to the right again and again. “Six, five, four, three, two, one,” I slowly counted the number of lanes we still had to cut before we were in exit lane. A dimly lit lane appeared and the car drove down it. “Preparing to reroute,” the GPS declared almost too clearly- a dreaded moment that occurred for the fifth time that night. We were lost. Again.

I was under the impression that New York City would not be too different when compared to Los Angeles because NYC was also a fast-paced city. This is not true! Because people need to drive everywhere they go, California has designed freeways with seven lanes; whereas NYC has an average of four. Multiple signs line up side by side while more signs are posted next to the highway. How are these drivers able to choose a route when they are driving at 70 miles per hour? California is very different compared to New York in that driving has become second nature to residents. In NYC, a person is able to navigate everywhere within the city with the metro system, which runs all day. I had difficulty wrapping my mind around the idea that cars have become a necessity in some cultures. How would someone without a driver’s license navigate around the city? How difficult is it to find parking spaces in a city where every family owns a car? These questions remain unanswered. After this trip, I appreciated the metro system in NYC a lot more. I cannot imagine a day going by without having to run to the train station to catch the next train that will bring me to a new neighborhood in the city.

When people fall into a routine, they often lose their inquisitive nature, and in turn, transform into running horses with partly obscured vision. Today I decided to pull off my blinders and see the magnificent city in which I study, and to my surprise, I found something amazing with alarming speed. A few blocks from the Baruch library I stumbled upon one of the most grandiose works of architecture that I have seen. There, proudly sitting on 27Madison Avenue was a piece of history so rich, so beautiful, and so breathtaking. What I later discovered to be the Manhattan Appellate Courthouse, I immediately recognized as a form of Beaux art, modeled after ancient Roman architecture. With two stories, five lofty pillars, gleaming windows, and an assembly of marble heroes, this building shone with a godly radiance against the gray backdrop of generic skyscrapers. I approached the front of the building from its left side and in front of me I saw a finely sculpted masculine figure. Clothed in the apparel of a Roman general, he was sitting erect in a masterfully carved throne. His muscular arm, with well-defined veins and tendons, grasped the side of his throne, which was shaped into a winged lion. Below his feet, engraved into the marble of the platform was the word “Force”. Power, strength, and force; they were all words that crossed my mind as I stood below this statue with my head raised in awe and respect. The beauty of New York, I realized, is its appreciation for not only the new and improved, but also its dedication to honoring the ancient and legendary.

Whenever I hear someone speaking Chinese in the city, I usually hear the dialect used most around the world; Mandarin Chinese. But this wasn’t always the case. There was a time when Cantonese flourished among the streets of New York City. However, my story lies in a dialect of Chinese called Taishanese. It is the older breed of Cantonese that was once used by many of the first immigrants in New York City’s Chinatown and predates both Cantonese and the currently popular Mandarin.

About two weeks ago I was standing on the crowded 6 train. Arriving at the Wall St station, I finally had room to move my legs freely. It was then when an elderly woman approached me. As she came closer I couldn’t help but notice the piece of paper she was holding in her hand. From the looks of it, it seemed as if it would be like one of those times when I would need to give directions. If it went the way it normally did, the woman would ask me in Mandarin if I was Chinese and I would reply by saying I know a bit of Mandarin. Due to my limited use of the Mandarin dialect, we would eventually go on with our lives albeit in a manner that took forever due to the difficulty in trying to understand the differences in our dialects. However, this time was entirely different. The lady approached me and started speaking in a Cantonese dialect with a hint of Taishanese. I picked up on this discrepancy and spoke to her in Taishanese. She said nothing, she simply smiled. We were both amazed that we were from the same village back in China and she told me that, she was glad that I spoke Taishanese as her Cantonese was mediocre and was unable to speak any Mandarin. I ended up helping her by leading her to the building she needed to go to. Although in this great city, theres so many different cultures that make my own feel insignificant, it was nice to have a cultural encounter with my own culture for once.

It was time for dinner, but where were the chairs? And why was­ the table only two feet off the ground? It was my first time being a guest in a very traditional Korean household. I was cause by surprise when everyone sat on his or her legs on a cushion on the floor. As I sat down, I noticed right away that a Korean dinner is far more different than a Chinese dinner. I first noticed the air; it smelled savory and spicy, which I assumed to be coming from the kimchi that was sitting in a big bowl on the table. Then I noticed the way the rest of the meal was prepared. Each dish on the table was portioned much smaller compared to what I was used to. As if to make up for the amount of each dish, there were many options ranging from the Korean-styled stir fried noodles, spicy rice cakes, to marinated beef. The piquant flavor and burning of all the spices made the food even more appetizing and made me crave for more.

Thinking back to my experience that night, there were so many things that I haven’t done at my dinner table at home before. Back at home, it was always expected to be sitting properly at the dining table, with both my feet flat on the floor. Instead of having so many small dishes, my parents prepared two or three larger dishes for the family. The flavors of the food, needless to say, was far from similar.

Although we are of the same ethnicity, the two cultures have very different traditions and I thought it was a really nice and refreshing experience.

Today, as my family and I went out for a Labor Day outing at the beach, we bumped into my uncle’s coworker and her family. My cousin and I were too busy fishing by the shore to notice the company back at our base. My uncle yells out to us in Cantonese (our native language), “Hey, you two! Come greet Auntie and Uncle!” It was my first time meeting this family. A little white girl popped out from behind her Chinese mother. I turned around to see the father, a tall and slim Russian man. The little girl seemed shy, so I went over to introduce myself. “Hi, my name is Nancy. What’s your name?” I asked in English. “Wo jang pu tong hua,” she says, meaning, ‘I speak Mandarin’. To my surprise, her Mandarin was so clear; rather, it was much better than my self-taught (and not so fluent) Mandarin.

Here’s a little background on Chinese dialects: the national spoken language is Mandarin. Different dialects are not to be used in school and are usually spoken at home with the family and the community. Cantonese is the second most used spoken language in China, and the two dialects are very different.

The reason it was very surprising to me was that the little girl’s pale skin made me assume that English would be the language she preferred to speak in addition to it probably being the language she spoke at home and school, and even if it were to be Chinese, it would not be so clear, based on my experience of teaching Chinese to my American friends.

We had a language barrier, but it wasn’t so much that we could not communicate at all. I spoke in English, and she spoke in Mandarin. We both understood each other perfectly fine. And I learned that her name was Dasha, and she’s seven years old.

It was a hazy summer evening when I received a text message from my friend asking me if I would like to go to a free concert the next day. Without even thinking or asking the name of the band, I replied that I would like to go.

This was a first for me. I never went to a rock concert before. My parents had always dragged me to classical music concerts and I dreaded it. My friend gave me the name of the band. They were called the White Rabbits. Originally, I thought they were called the White Rabbis, but it turns out my friend misspelled the name. I started researching them and I found out that they were an indie rock band. I don’t tend to listen to indie music, but I decided why not.

We arrived at the Music Hall of Williamsburg and this definitely was not the music hall I was expecting. Normally, there would be chairs so the audience can sit in…not here! Everyone was pushing to get as close as possible to the stage. The music itself was unexpectedly loud. When the first song was over, I thought my ears were going to bleed. After a while, my ears adapted to the noise. Finally, there was the occasional smell of a drug used for medicinal purposes in some states.

The band was amazing! They were very skilled and hey, it was a free concert so I can’t complain. This cultural encounter showed me there is a side of the NY music scene, which I barely scrapped the surface of and I hope to go to more free concerts in the future.

All the way in the front!

White Rabbits – Kid On My Shoulders

I took French for seven years of high school and was on my way to becoming fluent. In addition to taking French in high school I traveled to France with the school on an academic trip. It in itself was a true experience, and in addition to learning French, I learned much of French culture. The first day we spent in France we went to a small café in Nice. The café had a place to sit down and order a la carte. So, we all ordered margherite pizza.

At first everything was fine, but being that it was our first day, we were all excited and a little riled up. One girl at our table was a little loud in the restaurant, but being that we were the only ones there, we didn’t see it as a big deal.  However, in French culture, it is rather rude to be loud in a restaurant. So, she received relatively dirty looks from all the staff that worked there. In addition,  she was unaware that in France, people do not take ‘doggy bags’ back to their homes after a meal. The meal is simply over and that is the end. She asked the staff to wrap up her pizza. The staff said that they did not do that in France and took the food away. Then, almost as to mock her, the staff took tin foil and wrapped her pizza in it and threw it on the table. The girl was extremely embarrassed and we all learned a small piece of French culture that day.

Arriving in New York City for the first time, I exit the airport, and quickly see an Old Italian man in front of a queue of people. He hastily barks orders in a heavy accent at taxi drivers and passengers alike. The honking of horns and strong smells of the city overwhelm my nostrils. I am totally enveloped in a whole new world, full of new sights and smells. The streets are dirty, littered with various things; empty plastic bottles, newspapers, and even unidentifiable objects. The novelty of it all is terrifying, but I am also eager to start a new adventure. I know that home can’t offer what New York can. The various sections from China Town to Little Italy provide a miniature tour of the world’s cultures; a tour that can be walked, a plane not needed. The city from the airport does appear to be a cement block. The light from the sun barely reaches the ground, and the weather seems cold and cave-like, although it is summer. I feel a sense of loneliness and I begin to comprehend what people mean when they say, “New York is a lonely city.” I quickly put my thoughts aside and walk to get in line, waiting for a taxi, to start my journey.  

As this upcoming school year approached, I knew change was afoot, but I was unaware of how much of it I would encounter.  Living my entire life in the reserved suburbs of Staten Island, I didn’t know that my world would be flipped upside down upon my arrival in Manhattan.  Choosing to dorm, as opposed to commute, I have temporarily escaped the stereotypical Italian families of Staten Island.  Since my arrival, I have observed a variety of people and their cultures, and these past two weeks have been quite an eye opening experience.

Everything here from the train rides to school to the diversity within the classrooms has been a unique, but rather enriching venture.  Meeting some of my classmates from all over, as well as eating at some distinct cultural restaurants that the city has to offer has opened my mind to a world of possibilities.  Since I am here, I have tasted some of the best Chinese, Mediterranean, and Mexican foods that are practically located in my own backyard.  While I have lived “here” in New York my entire life, these last two weeks have been incomparable to any other.  Just as this city “never sleeps,” I believe that my cultural experiences will also never rest for as long as I keep an open mind to what this great city has to offer.

My friends and I were walking around in the city, scouting for a new cuisine to try. When we approached Union Square, we found a restaurant with a bright, red sign that shouted, “Spice” at us. Immediately, we knew that this was the place. Spicy food isn’t something we eat on a daily basis, but it does leave an unforgettable taste in our mouths. After further research, we learned that we were standing in front of a Thai restaurant, a rare restaurant to come across in our neighborhood.  I walked into a dark, but loud room. The ambiance was very comfortable and relaxing. Women in woven, silky vests approached us and brought us to our table.

I ordered Pad Thai and Thai Iced Milk Tea. The combination of the two orders complemented each other. My first sip of the milk tea reminded me of the milk tea I make myself. However, simultaneously, there was an additional flavor that made the drink very unique and tasty. Then, I dug my fork into the pile of noodles, in hopes of scooping all the different ingredients at the same time. There were chicken, eggs, peanuts, bean sprouts, bean curd and scallion. The sauce used in this dish had a mild spicy flavor; it did not overpower the flavor of the other ingredients, but it was still noticeable. The combination of the ingredients reminds me of dishes that I would normally eat; yet, there is a distinctive taste that separates Chinese food from Thai food.

My experience at this Thai restaurant made me want to try new cuisines in the city. At the same time, I’m definitely coming back to this restaurant for more food.

It was a brisk and frosty winter evening. Halfway home on the train, the dispatcher announced that there were some service changes that called for a detour. As soon as I had gotten off the train, an elderly Chinese couple approached me, throwing questions at me in a different dialect. Growing up, I’ve been surrounded with family and relatives who, occasionally, would speak Cantonese; thus, what the elderly couple was saying was understandable to some extent, though there were a few words here and there that I couldn’t comprehend. However, my problem was that I had no idea how to respond in their dialect. A little caught off guard, I asked them, in my dialect, if they could understand Mandarin. They responded, “Yes,” in Cantonese. As I gave them directions to the train they were to take in Mandarin, they would respond in Cantonese. I realized that since they couldn’t read a word in English, they certainly would have trouble finding their way around the station. I decided to lead them to their platform, while exchanging a few more lines, me speaking in Mandarin, and them speaking in Cantonese. Looking back at the occasion, my encounter with the elderly couple must have sounded a little silly to someone who can tell the difference between the two dialects.

I lived in Forest Hills, Queens my whole life, but I rarely took the half hour subway ride to Flushing. I never saw the appeal because even though I am Chinese, my family is very American so we never went to Flushing for anything. It was an Asian cultural melting pot that had Chinese, Korean and Japanese food and stores everywhere you looked. Of course I would recognize all of the Chinese items, but would be a stranger to the rest of it.

In junior year, I went to Flushing with some Korean friends to try my first taste of an authentic Korean restaurant. Sitting down at a table, it looked similar to all of the Chinese restaurants I had eaten in growing up. But once the menu came, everything was different. I recognized nothing, so I let my friend order for me. She chose bibimbap, a signature Korean dish of warm rice served with seasoned vegetables, chili paste, meat and an egg on the side. I was under the impression that you eat it all separately, so I did and instantly everyone could tell I was a foreigner. My friend looked at me, shook her head, and threw everything in the bowl and mixed it for me. It was an awkward feeling, not only because a friend was serving me, but also because I was the odd one out and didn’t know the customs and culture enough to even eat the simplest dish correctly. We laughed about it and as I finished my meal, I could tell why they mixed it all together: it was much better. It was a good meal, and an even better encounter with Korean culture.

Wednesday is what I call hell day for me. I have 2 classes that day. My first class is from 9:30 to 10:45 and the next one from 2:55 to 4:15. I do not have a problem with classes themselves, but I do have an issue with that huge gap of time in between.

I woke up Wednesday and had set on my mind that I would pay a visit to Bloomingdales on East 59^th Street and Lexington. I always loved going to Bloomingdales and since Baruch was on East 25^th Street and Lexington, I believed I could survive the trek of 30 plus streets. I thought I was just going to find something amazing on sale, but I discovered something else instead. My Speech and Communication class ended at 10:45 and my journey began.

Between East 25^th and East 30^th, all I can see were food places ranging from the standard Subway sandwich shop to Chinese/Indian restaurant. There were an unusually high number of Indian restaurants and at times, the street smelled like curry and biryani. Then between East 30^th and East 40^th, I saw the residential area with a vast array of homes, but no stores. It was a pleasant sight to see because it made me feel like I was back in Brooklyn.

Then everything changed from East 40^th street. No more housing apartments. Instead, there were corporate buildings. No more people walking their dogs in shorts and sandals. Instead, people were walking and holding their Starbucks in suits and shoes. Even the signed changed from the authentic green street sign to a blue one! Then on East 50^th street, the tourists invaded. The streets became clogged and I couldn’t walk without bumping into somebody. Before I knew it, 30 minutes passed and I was one block away from Bloomingdales.

I had made it. I walked into Bloomingdales. Looked around and I saw nothing good on sale. I walked and thought I wasted my time, but I realized that the time wasn’t wasted because I knew I needed to walk back to Baruch and this time, I chose a different Avenue. This walk allowed me to see the different parts of Lexington Avenue and I consider it my cultural encounter.