A Little Portuguese Goes A Long Way In Chinatown

Lower Manhattan from Liberty State Park

It should come as no surprise that I love New York City. I visit several times a year, and have done so since I was small. I've gone the tourist route and frequented Times Square and Ellis Island. I've gone off the beaten track to the Morgan Library, a fabulous sushi bar on 45th Street, and Dean and Deluca down on Prince Street. Lots of discoveries, lots of memories. However, my most vivid (and unfortunate) memory is a time I had dinner in Chinatown.

My parents, Jonathan, and I all spent the weekend at a friend's closet-sized apartment several years ago. We were down near Ground Zero (sans the 9/11 Memorial Garden, which tells you how long ago it was) and decided to mosey up to Chinatown for dinner. It was November, cold and rainy. Upon reaching Canal Street, which runs straight through the "touristy" section of Chinatown, we decided we didn't want to eat with the rest of the tourist riffraff. So we started wandering down side-streets and found a small place that had what appeared to be "locals" wandering in and out. It didn't look too scary, so we went in, sat down, and started perusing the menu.

Normally I'm a "standard fare" person when ordering from a menu. I don't venture too far away from what I know I'll like. Yet feeling adventurous, I flipped the menu over and looked at some more adventurous dishes. I finally landed on: Portuguese Chicken.

Many of you already are shaking your head. Why, you may be asking yourselves, would she order something Portuguese from a Chinese menu? Excellent question. And one for which I don't have any reasonable answer other than I experienced a moment of abject insanity (or stupidity, which might be more precise).

We ordered. We waited. Finally everyone's dinner arrived . . . except mine. I nibbled from Jonathan's plate. He ordered Sweet and Sour Chicken. Wise man. It was the best S&S chicken I'd ever had! That palate-pleasing experience encouraged me, and since my meal was taking so long it must mean it was going to be even better!

Finally our server returned with a steaming dish. My mouth watered. With a flourish he placed my Portuguese Chicken before me. I looked down. And I saw what can only be described as a boiling bowl of vomit.

Yes. That is precisely what it looked like. I looked up at my parents, at Jonathan, all of whom had finished their meals by this time. They looked at my Portuguese vomit.

"Maybe it tastes better than it looks," my dad said with an unconvincing smile.

It did not.

I muscled down about 3 bites and was done. Jonathan and Dad even tried to help me finish it off without success. I was left with a growling stomach and a feeling of utter dejection. (This feeling was somewhat alleviated by the fact that we wandered into a quaint little shop** that sold authentic china and housewares--it was the oldest store of its kind in Chinatown, we were told.)

That day I learned a valuable lesson:

When in Chinatown, order Chinese!

**I've been unable to ever find that little shop again, unfortunately. So if anyone knows of this store's location--PLEASE let me know!

Had I But Known: The Loveliness of No

guest post by: terry price

“I’m just a girl who cain’t say no…” Ado Annie from Oklahoma

As a card-carrying optimist, I constantly look for advantages of growing older. Experience might be a harsh teacher but is a wonderful traveling companion. And as I look back over the years, there are many things from which I’ve learned and grown. But one of the greatest lessons, and the one with which I struggle the most to this day, is the discipline to say no.

When I was younger, my ego constantly whispered that I not only could do anything, but muddled the waters such that I thought I could also do everything. And what complicated things even more was that, to varying degrees, I did “do” everything. “Sure” and “no problem” became my most used phrases. Saying no was a blow to my ego. Saying no was an admission of my limitations. Someone needed help and someone needed me. And because of some law of social physics, the more I did, the more I was asked to do. I became a young man who was constantly stressed and constantly exhausted.

One day, I confided in an older, wiser friend about my quandary, admitting that I was just a guy who couldn’t say no. She quickly corrected me. “Actually, you’re very good at saying no.”

Maybe she hadn’t understood me I thought. Maybe I needed to share more of my sad story. But she had understood completely. She continued, explaining that because I was young, I was under the illusion that time was infinite. And worse, I believed that energy and my ability to absorb stress were also limitless. Of course, none of this was true.

Because there are limits, she went on, there are a finite number of things you can do, things you can experience, things you can accomplish.

You see, every time you say “yes” to something, you are automatically saying “no” to something else.

As soon as the words left her mouth, I knew she was right. What had I been so good at saying no to? I began to think of all of the things I wanted to do, things I really needed to do during this all too brief life.

So what have I learned?

Well, once you come to grips with the finite, then you must take time to learn the things that take priority in your life. And once you have that list, you rank them in order of importance to you. Some of the things will be selfless, but you must also include the things that nurture and nourish you too. Our culture, unfortunately, teaches that when you do things for yourself, it’s selfish. The truth is, that you must make time to nurture yourself so you have the physical and emotional energy to take care of those around you. It’s like the flight attendant instructions before takeoff – If the oxygen masks are needed, put yours on first, so you’ll be able to help those around you. Balance and moderation are the keys.

So now you have a prioritized list of the important things in your life. Call this your “yes” list. Visit it often. Life is a dynamic process. Things change. Priorities change. You grow.

Keep your list handy. And when there is a request for your time, a demand upon your very life, look at your list. Ask yourself if you have enough time to take it on AFTER you’ve budgeted time for everything on your priority list. You’ll be amazed how much easier this makes your decision. If you don’t have the extra time, well guess what.

You say no. Or you can say the next best words.

I can’t at this time. But check with me again in the future.

What next?

Well, then you smile. Because not only have you just learned to say no, at that same exact moment you’ve said yes to the most important things in your life. And always remember…it’s your life.

Terry Price is a Tennessee based writer, writing coach and mentor, having attended The Writer’s Loft creative writing program at Middle Tennessee State University and graduated with his MFA in Writing from Spalding University in Louisville.  He has published several short stories, one of which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, became the program director of The Writer’s Loft and now is a Director Emeritus of, and a mentor with, the program.  Terry is currently revising his short story collection for publication and is writing his first novel set in Nashville, with the working title of An Angel’s Share.

He is an accomplished photographer, long distance cyclist, Appalachian Trail section hiker, and sailor. He is an aspiring bon vivant and raconteur, likes bourbon neat but his journal messy and lives on a small farm in Springfield, Tennessee with his family and two dogs and lots of squirrels.  Find out more at www.terryprice.net

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I am exceptionally honored to have Terry with us today. He is a man ever on the go. And, as always, inspiration follows wherever he roams. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again, Terry!

Also, if any of you, my dear readers, have a spare moment, a brief travel piece ran today that I wrote for a local (and awesome!) tour company's travel blog about my recent trip to New York City. I'd love to see your smiling faces over there! Happy Monday everyone!

51st and Broadway

New York City, when I was eight, made me feel small. Much smaller even then my slight eight-year-old, hometown-girl-from-Lancaster-County self. The buildings towered. The taxis whooshed. The people knocked into you without an “excuse me.” And I couldn’t hold on to my mom’s hand tightly enough. But despite the enormity of it all, New York City captivated me. The purposefulness of the brusquely-walking pedestrians. The surprise of the December wind as it swooped around the corner of a building and stole my breath. The salty, sour pungency of roasting chestnuts that geysered out from a curbside stand. The Santas and ice skaters and toy trains that decorated the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue. After many, many returns to the city, these things that brought such an overwhelming response—that held such allure—to me as an eight year old, have faded over the years. I now come to the city for a day away. To see a show. To visit The Met. To buy pashmina scarves and sunglasses in Chinatown. Though I still love the city, the wide-eyed wonder has dulled.

Until last week. 

I took my six-year-old daughter to Manhattan. As we neared the Lincoln Tunnel and saw the city skyline arrayed before us, her big brown eyes that never miss a single detail grew wide. She sat very still. She studied intently this city I had told her so much about—this city where on so many occasions I had gone and she had been only able to wave good-bye and await my return. After several moments, she rested back into her seat. “It doesn’t look as big as I thought,” she said. It was not a statement of disappointment. More an objective observation. (She is quite pragmatic, after all.)

Yet when her feet touched the sidewalk on 51^st and Broadway, her grip on my hand can only be called “vice-like.” Even when I tried to let go for a brief moment to adjust my coat, she wouldn’t release her hold. Her gaze traveled up the towering buildings, followed a cab racing through the cross street, studied the hats and scarves peddled along the curb. And, watching her, I was eight years old again. Not in a vulnerable or overwhelmed-child kind of way. But in the discovery (now, rediscovery) of this dynamic city of effusive sights and sounds and smells—a city I love. Now a city my daughter loves. A city to which we will return time and again because it is a city that forever mingles the new with the old and familiar. Like seeing an old friend after a long absence and, though much has happened, your conversation picks up as though no time has passed at all. And aren't those the best kind of friendships?

My mom was also along to share this memorable day with us. (So fun!!)

She was our photographer.

Here we are in Times Square just outside Toys R Us.

(As you can see, it was a bit cold, and, yes, I broke down and bought

her that bird hat from one of the street vendors. 

I voted for the cute penguin hat, she chose the parrot. What's a mother to do?)