benlehman

Summer is a nice girl. She is 22 years old, gorgeous and doesn't really know it, and works at the Fuzimiao International Youth Hostel in Nanjing. She smiles and laughs, jokes in her good, thick English with the guests, and is never tired, even when she's worked from nine in the morning to two in the morning. Her name in Chinese is 夏雨 (xiayu), and it means "summer rain" and is homophonous with "raining" but she always goes by the English "Summer." She flirts with the guys when no one is watching, and they flirt back with her, in slow English or broken, atonal Chinese, mostly smiles and eyes and winks. The things we all understand.

She teases me because I never speak English with any of the staff, only Chinese. She says it's because my English must be bad. I tell her that her English is better than mine, and she laughs. She has a pretty laugh.

Two nights ago she was crying, and I still don't know why. I tried to approach her, but the aphasia struck, the words are missing, I don't know what to say. I don't have comfort, not here, not for myself and not for others, and so I let the other staff, the older women and grumpy men, take care of her. Whatever it was, she was smiling the next day. It's her job, I guess, to be the happy one.

She forgets her underwear, at least, I think it's her underwear, in the shower stall, on the clothes hooks. It's pink and black, mismatched. I don't have the heart to tell her I saw it. She cares for the two dirty white kittens that run the hostel, and they in return give her a strange, fierce loyalty. She feeds the fish, and tells me which ones are smart and which ones are dumb.

When she charges me my room fees, she forgets a bit here and there. I've been sick, pretty bad cough but nothing fatal, but she brings me medicine and hot water, and tells me what vegetables and meats are good for colds. She puts them in front of me when I sit down to eat dinner with all the staff. She worries that she's too fat.

She only spends one night out of three at home, with her father and her mother, but that's okay with her, she says, because she doesn't like her mother's cooking. She has a brother that works in Los Angeles. She hasn't seen him in six years, and doesn't know if she ever will again. She wants to travel, but she can't afford it.

When I told her I was a writer, she told me that I should write about the hostel. She told me that I should write it to the world and Lonely Planet, and that when I do, I should tell them that Summer is a good girl.

If you go to Nanjing, and you decide to stay in this hostel, ask for Summer. Tell her you read what I wrote, and that I said she was a good girl. I doubt she'll remember me, but if she does, I want her to know that I keep my promises.