Upon returning to the United States after my first stint in China, I needed to get a medical examination as part of the working visa process to return to China. At first, I thought that one of the hundreds of clinics catering to the majority Hispanic population of Los Angeles would be the cheapest easiest option. When I met the doctor, Latino with a heavy accent, and handed him the medical form with both Chinese and English, he was utterly confused. No doubt he was accustomed to seeing forms with both Spanish and English, and normally examined those concerned with staying in the United States. I almost laughed out loud when he asked my nationality, repeatedly asking the wrong questions, perplexed as to why I would bring him a form with Chinese when I appeared as a white American. It’s no surprise that the Spanish-speaking communities of Southern California have a hard time grasping why an American would seek a visa to live in any foreign country.

       I soon realized that there was little chance of this doctor completing the form to the satisfaction of Chinese visa officers, and knew my mistake lay in going to the wrong clinic. I quickly left and headed to Chinatown. There, an ethnic Chinese doctor with perfect American accent related anecdotes of his several charitable excursions to China while casually completing the reasonably-priced examination, even including Chinese characters on the form to ensure that it would be satisfactory. When his nurse seemed to have trouble understanding my phone number, I eagerly started repeating the numbers in Mandarin, but was quickly reminded that the majority of Chinatowners in Los Angeles speak Cantonese (although latest census figures show that in all of Southern California, Mandarin and Cantonese speakers are almost equal).

       Because of a network of artist friends in LA, I was already well-familiar with Chinatown, and knew it as a haven for painters of all ethnicities, due to its ideal studio spaces for rent at reasonable prices. So, when I took my Chinese girlfriend for a visit to my old stomping ground, it was an obvious choice to drop by Chinatown. As soon as we stepped off the airplane, I was greeted outside the airport by an extremely friendly stranger, who soon started asking me for money, reminding me of an annoying begging tactic in LA. In the week I spent in Los Angeles, I was approached by at least a dozen friendly strangers who feigned interest in my life for some amount of time before hitting me up for cash.