CALL ME SALAD: an almost love story lost in translation
One month into China life, I joined a gym. Being one of the only two foreigners who worked out at this gym, not to mention within the entire city, incessant eyeballing was daily life.
After a while, though, everyone became more comfortable and less intrigued by my presence. I was grateful & threw up all the praise hands.I took yoga classes & became friends with the personal trainers & won the tug-of-war contest at the gym Halloween party. I interacted with the majority of the gym staff often, with the exception of the manager, who intrigued me the most.
In group texts with stateside friends, he was referred to as HAGM: Hott Asian Gym Man.
He had a wicked scar on his right arm, chiseled biceps I appreciated from afar, a quiet, mysterious demeanor, and a blue blazer he wore often. His name literally translated as “King Handsome”, which was ironic & mostly accurate.
One evening after yoga, I casually asked my friend Zhen Zhen about him. She giggled like a teenage girl and told me he had a girlfriend.
A week later I discovered that fiancé is not really a word in Mandarin.
The following Saturday, HAGM got married.
Zhen Zhen’s pictures of the wedding on social media also reminded me that no matter what culture, all the beans enjoy being spilled.
“Salad is so brokenhearted” a friend from the gym commented.
Salad? Who is? What the? Why Salad?
A few translations later, I realized: ohmygosh I AM SALAD.
(In Chinese, my name is pronounced exactly the same as the word salad.)
(In Chinese, my name is pronounced exactly the same as the word salad.)
So there you go, world. This is my life. Summarized by translation. And I don't exactly hate it.
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