Earlier this week I took a language test over the phone. Because of the 12-hour time difference, my “noontime” test actually took place at 12am Beijing time. This was great for me, because it combined my twin loves of inconvenience and standardized testing.
Because this test was required by my fellowship but there was no minimum score I had to earn, all I had to do was take it—regardless of the result—and I’d be fine. But, if I had to reschedule for whatever reason, I would have to pay out of pocket for the new test. Anyone who knows me knows that this result is inconceivable. I would not reschedule, not for any reason.
However, despite my best efforts to remember about my midnight exam, I indeed forgot—and so midnight found me out on the street a mile from my home receiving a call from an American telephone number. In a jolt, I remembered the test, and picked up the phone.
“Hi, Jesse,” a woman on the other line said. “Are you ready for your test?”
I looked around. To my left, a woman was picking bottles out of a reeking trashcan. On my right, a bunch of shirtless drunk men were complaining about how women were not interested in shirtless drunk men. In front of me, traffic sputtered by in the Beijing night, horns honking. Prime test-taking conditions.
“I’m ready.”
My tester asked me a series of questions designed to test my language ability. Most of the questions were as expected: Who was my favorite actor and why; What was I planning on doing tomorrow; Which restaurant would I eat at if I were to be put to death tomorrow and what would I eat there
E-Z MODE. Daniel Day-Lewis because he hits people with wooden bowling pins; going to the tea market; Comellas, and a mess (which I translated as a “tomato, cheese, and spaghetti bowl”).
However, what neither of us expected was the terrible phone reception that left me cut off in the middle of my responses. Worried that the tester would lose patience and demand I reschedule the test (read: the only way I could fail and need to pay money), I stood stock still in hopes of holding good reception, until it cut off again and I would hop around until I found another connection spot.
In my head, everything was fine. But passerby saw a random white guy in the street, with a burning, single-minded focus on a plethora of bizarre and unrelated topics that seemingly could only be discussed at 12:30 am on this particular street corner. And who would hop side to side every twenty seconds.
“I think Esperanto is a flawed idea… hello?” Hop, hop, hop. “Yes! Okay. Esperanto and other planned languages are doomed to fail because language and culture are innately connected. Attempting to separate them from one another is… are you still there?” Hop, hop, hop.
The old lady collecting bottles on the street stopped, looked at me, and shook her head. China had changed since she was young.