时间：2022-09-12 07:05:23
It wasn’t even a taxi ride I needed to take it would have taken twenty minutes to walk from the subway station to my apartment， but I had bags. The first cab I hailed didn’t stop. By the time the second one pulled over I was already beginning to second guess myself， but climbed in anyway.
He wasn’t an obliging driver. Many are in Beijing， these days， but this one was old school gruff， ill-mannered and uncompromising.
I asked him not to take Ghost Street， the congested hotpot thoroughfare that is typically impassable at peak times， instead suggesting a parallel route. He took Ghost Street anyway， because it was “simpler.” When I told him to take a left at the junction near my apartment， a maneuver only possible by doing a U-turn because of day-time traffic restrictions， he needed a lot of persuading. A lot of persuading. He was one of those drivers who emanated the bad vibes that I would likely exude too， were it my job to drive demanding foreigners around all day for small change.
To cap it all， when he stopped and I passed him a hundred yuan note to break （guiltily）， he refused it and said I should give the exact fare， a total of 13 yuan just over US$2.
I don’t have any small change， I explained. Sorry.
No can do. It was clear he couldn’t， or wouldn’t， break this note.
I sighed， loudly. OK， drive forwards 50 meters， there’s a newsstand. I’ll break it there.
No can do. Give me 13 yuan.
I don’t have it. I only have a hundred！
No can do. Now he was getting irate. He either suspected I was hiding the correct change somewhere on my person， or thought I would vanish into the ether were I permitted to leave the cab. It was at this point in the conversation， despairing of a solution， that I turned away from him to think， and muttered an insult under my breath. A very offensive insult， which literally compares the recipient to the reproductive organs of a woman worse， the stupid reproductive organs of a woman. From a purely linguistic perspective， in Chinese， this insult is about as crude as you can get.
This charming metaphor is one that every student of Chinese picks up within their first year， and， except in certain unusual circumstances， not from a qualified teacher. The English equivalent is unprintable. Suffice it to say it has four letters， begins with a “c” and coincidentally refers to the same anatomical feature.
The problem is， when swearing in a foreign language， you feel badass but never fully understand the degree of the insult you’ve given. All offensive overtones fail to penetrate， much as spending foreign money feels like playing Monopoly. The word I unwisely deployed was merely a filthy arrow in my quiver， held in reserve for just such a situation as this.
The cabbie reached over with a meaty hand， grabbed me by my lapel， and jerked my head close to his.
What did you call me？
Nothing， I didn’t. My only thought now was to get out of this.
What did you call me？
I didn’t， I didn’t.
With one hand I reached over for the door， but it didn’t open. The driver had locked it. He was shaking me roughly and his other hand was held in a fist above my face.
I kept talking， quietly， watching my tone， repeating the same meaningless phrases that popped into my head to keep him mollified. I banged on the window to call over the attendant of the zone for locked bicycles next to the subway exit where we were parked. Between the three of us， we worked out a solution where the attendant broke my hundred， getting one yuan for his trouble. The driver let go of me， gave change for a twenty yuan note， and unlocked the door.
If that were the end of the story， it would have left a sour aftertaste. But as soon as the cabbie turned on me， I had realized the enormity of the affront. Had I done the same in London， I’d have been lucky to get away with a black eye. So I did the right thing. I turned back to the cabbie， and came clean.
“Mister， you were right. I did call you ‘[that word].’ That was really rude of me. I’m very sorry.”
The change was instantaneous. The beetroot-red color of his face dissipated and he broke into a smile. He reached out his hand again this time to shake mine. Because you’ve apologized， he said， it’s alright. I was too angry. Forgive me， forgive me. I wish you safe travels.
We shook hands， I got out with an exchange of goodbyes， and all was good.
I’ve modified my vocabulary now. These days， to insult someone I use the term “stupid melon” （shagua）， accompanied with an affectionate smile. The response is normally ni shagua！ “You’re a stupid melon！” and a grin.
Try it sometime.