I saw it coming.

The older Chinese woman waiting to pick up her granddaughter from daycare wanted to chat. She strolled up next to my neighbor and me, both of us there to pick up our kids from the same place.

It was a warm summer afternoon in Beijing. The humidity was rising, and anyone outside was constantly looking for relief. I, wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a light-colored polo made from a lighter fabric, sporting my navy St. Louis Cardinals hat, and a pair of prescription Ray Band sunnies, had found a spot underneath a tree just opposite the daycare’s pickup gate. The courtyard was mostly shaded, but this tree added even more protection.

My neighbor, a Japanese woman, a trailing spouse like me, arrived a few minutes after me. She had a loose-fitting ensemble–a flowing burnt siena skirt, a taupe blouse, and sandals. We exchanged pleasantries, but the language barrier meant that was as far as it would go.

The grandmother arrived after us, sauntering up and nodding in acknowledgment. She wore a dark-colored button-up with some random pattern, long gray pants, and light-colored canvas lace-up shoes. After a few moments and a few checks of my watch, I noticed her eyeing both of us. She shifted from side to side, her gaze signaling a desire to chat.

My neighbor (who lives in the same building as my family and me) also starts to notice. She glances over. The older woman nods back, taking my neighbor’s look as a cue to begin, and starts her soliloquy.

I don’t speak Mandarin, and I’m not sure about my neighbor’s skills either. At first, I think maybe she understands because she nods along, smiles, and perhaps even responds. But then the grandmother takes that as a signal to continue further. Whatever notion I had of my neighbor's Mandarin skills ended soon after that.

She realized that the grandmother had wanted to chat, have a full-on exchange of ideas, and wasn’t just passing mundane pleasantries. There was a pause in the grandmother’s monologue, and she took that opportunity to lean in and politely say that she was Japanese and didn’t speak Mandarin.

Most folks would get this sort of response and give a sheepish apology. Maybe nod, put their hands up in mock surrender as they do so. But this is China. And folks here take the ‘I don’t speak Mandarin’ cue, which can be verbalized or not, as a sign to keep right on with whatever statement they’re trying to make.

Now, before folks get all up in arms about any of this. Let me remind you that in America, the tradition isn’t just to keep talkin’ but to do it louder.

And in both cases, neither approach helps the listener better understand what’s being said. In fact, there’s not much else to do other than shut the fuck and move on.

I suppose, though, in the pantheon of responses to this sort of thing, continuing on in a normal voice is better than an exponential increase in volume.

Here’s the thing. This happens all the time here. A delivery driver calls to say they’ve dropped off our dinner at the front desk; after providing the necessary signal that I don’t speak the language, they continue anyway. At a restaurant or grocery store, there’s an exchange in which it becomes clear that you don’t and won’t likely understand. Yet, they continue, undaunted by your lack of comprehension.

I want to be clear here–I’m not complaining. It’s simply a thing I’ve noticed, and I’d rather they continue chatting away instead of stopping altogether. And really, it helps me get used to the sounds and cadence of the language, which is already difficult as it is. I just hope they’re not cussing me out because I don’t speak the language. But, hey, I’m the interloper here, so if they are, then well, I kind of asked for it.