My friend and former student waited for me at the mall entrance across the street from the university campus. Earlier in the day, I had called to wish her a happy birthday and she had invited me to a celebratory dinner scheduled for that evening. “Who’s going?” I asked. When she told me that it would be her and her eleven dormitory mates-all my former students, I was hesitant. I didn’t want to intrude on their good time by making them feel self-conscious by my non-female, non-Chinese speaking presence. It was only after my friend cleared it with everyone that I agreed to go. I was happy to be invited but a little nervous, too. “What’s the tradition here? Do we split the bill or do you pay?” In the States, somebody had once told me that the one having the birthday pays for the dinner. “I pay.” she said. Tradition confirmed. A private room in the restaurant had been reserved for our group and as everyone gathered in it, I began to see and feel the boisterousness and good nature of people having a time that’s been patiently waited for. My fears of dampening the evening were very much unfounded. Everyone was chattering away in Chinese and occasionally giving it a go with their English, while I, every now and then, would form a simple little Chinese phrase and try it out, eliciting excited exclamations and positive reinforcement. The meal, as is typical in Chinese feasts, was served in a consistent stream of courses on a lazy Susan that could be rotated around to everyone. By the time it was fully underway, bowls and plates of food filled the serving tray and littered all of our table places. Occasionally, an overhanging handle would knock over one of the plastic glasses filled with Coke or orange juice after the tray had been spun by an unsuspecting guest, at which point those in the vicinity would scramble out of the way and everyone else would pull out their omnipresent plastic square packets of tissue paper to wipe up the mess (N.B. bathrooms very rarely have toilet paper). At one point during the meal, everyone but me seemed to be chuckling. When I asked what was going on, my friend told me that they were laughing because they noticed that people walking by the room were staring in at us. I paid more attention and the next time a waiter came in, I noticed that he couldn’t take his eyes off of me. Even as he walked out, he was still glancing over his shoulder. I wondered what he was thinking-“Who is this white guy hanging out with ten, count ‘em, TEN young Chinese ladies (who look like they’re having a pretty good time).” I checked out all of my dining companions as I ate-their side conversations, the nodding of their heads, their chuckles of amused agreement, their looks of interest as they picked up on other conversations that their friends were having. It was the same as friendly gatherings everywhere-the only difference was the language. They were at ease and enjoying themselves. I was too. Eventually, my friend disappeared to pay the bill and, as is also Chinese custom, when she returned we cleared out quickly, our group disbanding to go separate ways for the remainder of the evening. I’m glad I went.