Thanksgiving Dinner

Years ago, when I was studying abroad in Sacramento, California, I drove around the city and out into the suburban towns looking for a weekend job. It was a freezing December day. The long streets were practically empty, save for a few pedestrians blowing out warm breath as they walked in and out of traditional American shops. Although Sacramento is the state capital, it wasn't as bustling as Los Angeles or San Francisco, and there weren't many Chinese residents. Plus, since I was on a student visa and legally barred from working part-time, I found absolutely nothing after searching all afternoon.

Exhausted, I eventually drove into a vast, deserted open area. There, standing lonely in the thick mist and endless white emptiness, was an elegant Chinese restaurant. Its isolation was almost heartbreaking. I parked the car, took a deep breath of the freezing air, and mentally rehearsed my fabricated restaurant experience one last time before gathering the courage to walk to the front door. The door was slightly ajar, and a Chinese woman in her fifties walked up to greet me with a warm "Good evening." She led me to a seat in the corner of the dining room; there wasn't a single customer inside. As she handed me the menu, I quickly explained my situation and braced myself for the rejection. After listening to me, she simply said, "Wait a moment," and disappeared behind a folding screen. My heart sank, assuming there was no hope and that my made-up work experience had been full of holes. I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and was just about to leave when she walked back out carrying a steaming bowl of food. She handed it to me and said, "Today is the Laba Festival. Have a bowl of hot porridge."

That night, the steam from the hot porridge blurred my vision. She was the owner, and that bowl of porridge became the gentlest sanctuary during my time wandering a foreign land. Six months later, I left for bustling San Francisco to continue my unfinished studies.

Three years later, chance brought me back to Sacramento. I followed my memory to find the restaurant, wanting to thank my benefactor from back then. To my dismay, the place was completely deserted, leaving only desolation among the wild grass. After asking around, I learned that because the restaurant was so isolated, a man with a gun had walked in one day, pointed it at the owner's face, and demanded she open the register. Terrified and trembling, she handed over all the cash. Fortunately, the robber only wanted the money. Still shaken by the ordeal, she closed down the restaurant shortly after and moved far away. No one had heard from her since.

A student's life abroad is always a whirlwind, moving from one station to the next, overcoming one hurdle after another. On that long, lonely journey, I never got the chance to say thank you to her in person, leaving behind a lingering regret that time could never erase.