“Lao shi! Lao shi,” called the old woman. I was walking across the lobby of the library building that holds my office. She was a typical Chinese grandmother, with a round, lined face, and a generous smile. Her once-raven hair was shot with grey. Her Mandarin was tainted with a Cantonese accent.

I stopped. Why do I always seem to be called upon to speak Chinese when still groggy from a nap? She approached, a quick shuffle across the white tiles. Her granddaughter, a chubby Grade 2 student, stood a few paces away. Behind her, two green-shirted cleaners sat on a bench. I lifted the sunglasses from eyes, a final indicator that I was not in fact Chinese, in case my skin, hair and size had not been a give away.

“Lao shi, xue xiao de yi fu zai na li?” she asked.

I didn’t understand. The Mandarin, full of Guangdong pronunciations, and my semi-awake state had me at a loss.

“Ting bu dong,” I replied.

She waved over her granddaughter. The girl rolled her eyes, and sighed. I could almost read her thoughts: Me, talk to the foreigner?

“Yi fu?” asked the old woman again.

I understood before she pinched the girl’s shirt. Where are the school clothes, she was asking. The first floor of my building is often used to distribute the blue and white uniforms worn by the students.

“Bu zhe dao,” I said. It was true, I didn’t know.

The cleaners piped up, one standing from the bench she had been lounging on. “Ta ting bu dong,” she said. The other repeated the line to emphasis my lack of understanding, and stupidity.

“Wo dong,” I said, “Yi fu, bu zhe dao.”

Then I did what I often do in such situations: I smiled.

“Ta ting bu dong,” called the cleaners.

I grinned like an idiot and shrugged.

“Lao shi,” said the old woman.

“Ting bu dong,” I said, admitting defeat and allowing for an easy escape. For once I had understood. She didn’t understand me. Such is my life.