During the summer of 2019, I found myself in France. I state this passively because I never expected it to happen, not to me. Since I’d begun studying French at the age of 12, France had felt like some mythological land—far away, idealized, romantic but unreal. Even after I was accepted to the study abroad program, after the whirlwind of planning and packing and scholarship applications, something in me felt that I would never actually go to France. Maybe my scholarship would fall through, or I’d find out this was some elaborate joke. Maybe I’d get in a car accident on the way to the airport. It wasn’t until the plane landed in Paris that I realized this was for real: I was studying abroad in France.

I went through most of the trip in a stunned haze—thrilled, of course, but shocked. The program took me to Dijon, a metropolitan city that retained its medieval charm. Nestled in historical buildings (including the old Duke’s Palace, a sprawling mansion that is now the museum of fine arts), I was to nurture my passion for art, history, culture, and language.

This trip was life changing. I learned and learned. I became more independent. I grew intellectually, personally, socially. But there was a strange dissonance present in my experience, the dull hum of something either unfulfilled or unfulfilling. I first noticed it in Vézélay.

Every week, the program took field trips to historic sites in the areas that surrounded Dijon. Most of these sites dated back to the Middle Ages—they were much older than anything I’d ever seen in the United States. It’s hard to describe the awe I felt, but I tried to in a postcard to my parents: I couldn’t believe that I was standing in a building that has witnessed so much more than I ever have, than I ever will…The past is somehow real, somehow alive in Burgundy, and I knew I was privileged to stand before it.

But with history comes responsibility. The past isn’t just stained glass and pruned hedges. My discomfort arose when I felt history’s more personal echoes.

I was raised Jewish, and I’ve always felt a strong connection to my cultural roots. This closeness to my own family history has manifested in a closeness to Jewish history in general: in fact, the semester before I studied abroad, I took a course on medieval Jewish history. I won’t rehash the details of the course, but I’ll say this: it really sucked to be Jewish during the Middle Ages.

This knowledge was sitting in the back of my mind when we visited Vézélay, but I was mostly excited. Vézélay was a charming town—really just one street with some old buildings covered in rose vines—and I immediately fell in love.

We took a guided tour of Vézélay’s cathedral. I gazed in awe at the high ceiling, the stained glass, the ornate carvings on each pillar. I was halfway listening as the tour guide described the architecture and history of the cathedral when I heard her say: Bernard of Clairvaux preached the Second Crusade here.

I remembered learning that the Crusaders, inflamed with religious zeal, had killed thousands of Jews on their way to the Holy Land. I knew that the visitors to this church, to whom I had just felt so connected, would have wanted me dead. I thought, how do I appreciate the past when the past hates me? This tension would only continue to grow the more churches I visited.

I did attempt to connect with Jewish history as well. I took a weekend to visit Troyes, the hometown of Rashi. In Paris, I wandered through the labyrinth of the Père Lachaise Cemetery, seeking out Jewish graves. The old synagogue in Dijon was almost never open, but I returned every week, hoping it would be.

And history is nuanced. I learned that the cathedral in Vézélay had also sheltered Jewish children during the Holocaust. It’s possible to unpack history, to sort the good from the bad from the in-between, to feel a connection in spite of fear. After all, we study history to learn. Sacrificing knowledge to some sense of comfort or affirmation will only stunt our growth. As I came to this realization during my time abroad, I found I could stand in a cathedral, speechless with both awe and fear, balancing history against its flaws while appreciating fully all I had the privilege to witness.

“I said to pack lightly!”, Profe joked to me as we waited in the Ministro Pistarini International Airport, looking at my massive suitcase. Little did I know, everything the Resiales would give and show me during my two weeks with them would not nearly come close to fitting within that suitcase, and instead, one song would come to represent so much.

With some trepidation, I waited to hear my name and host family pairing. At last, I heard Carlitos yell out mine followed by “con los Resiales!” Immediately, I heard whisperings around me which I quickly worked to translate in my head, focusing on the word “el campo.” El campo means farm or rural countryside… am I living on a farm, away from the other students… can I really do this?

I was immediately engulfed in a hug from Silvia and Juli. Most of my worries subsided with the warm embrace and smiles, but I feared for my ability to communicate with them, considering my Spanish skills mediocre at best and rather slow.

We departed for their muddied truck and headed home; I pronounced my name to them a few times en route. They struggled to pronounce it, so we settled on a nickname. In my mind, that nickname given to me by the Resiales is not a representation of the communication challenges, but rather synonymous with the love and compassion they showed to the “American” placed with their family in the tiny town of Colonia Almada:

When I freaked out in excitement after seeing the Lilo & Stitch statutes randomly in the park as we sped along the road, they stopped the truck just to take a picture for me as I tried to explain how, in a sense, my sister back home is Lilo, and I am Stitch… that the Disney art sculpture represented a merging of both my families.

When my expression looked overwhelmed at the kitchen table during our first dinner, trying to comprehend and keep up as Richard or Silvia rapidly spoke, my host sisters acutely read my visual cues, stopped the conversation, and began to slowly repeat in basic terms what was being discussed. They proceeded to repeat this practice at every meal if I needed it.

When I expressed my love for their homemade salami, they professed that Richard is the King of Salami, proudly showed me his awards, and proceeded to make sure they had some at every meal for me to enjoy.

When owners would stare at me in the stores of Río Tercero when I walked in with Silvia and my sisters, Silvia would explain that I was a new member of their family from the United States, studying and learning for a month in their country.

When I woke each morning for class and entered the kitchen for breakfast, Franco would greet me with a shout of “hello!”; it was one of the five English words he knew, but that one repeated effort meant more than he knew.

When Franco drove us to the final dinner in town with all of the students and our families, he put on the song “Taki Taki” for the drive. On the surface, it was just a popular English-Spanish song at the time, but we shared an understanding of its deeper meaning for our family. It was my alarm clock for the duration of my homestay, and we shared a long laugh when they first heard my alarm, followed by a little dance party in the kitchen.

Acts of love and compassion shown to me by the Resiales transcended the language barriers I so deeply feared.

We all speak the language of love and compassion across the globe, whether it is communicated through the song Taki Taki as my alarm clock, a cup of instant coffee awaiting me on the kitchen table each day before class, or the young Argentine boy repeatedly bringing me, a stranger to him, little flowers from the driveway bush as we watched the New Year’s fireworks at 2 o’clock in the morning.

It is because of the Resiales that I will return to Argentina to share that love and compassion given to me, for I have a new family over 5,000 miles away and a great appreciation for the generous Argentine people. When I miss the Resiales and my time in Colonia Almada, I just play “Taki Taki”, and the wonderful memories come flooding back.

Traveling abroad for the first time is as every bit as stereotypical as you thought it would be and you just have to accept that. You will stand out before you make one step or speak one word, simply through appearance, posture, mannerisms, facial expressions; in Paris, I’d like to say that you will stand out by the amount of joy you radiate. If you radiate none, you might just fit in. This is the first thing I learned in France. The second is that there is no point in having fear, as there is always something else to be afraid of with every new experience. Forgetting this fear will allow you to continuously adventure through Paris and not dwell on the process.

From Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris (2011), Gil Pender said that “Paris is the most beautiful in the rain”. I don’t agree, because it is the rain and clouds that dull the beauty that you seek in a city like Paris. Therefore, it’s most beautiful at dusk; the closing of a day and the opening of opportunity. You see the beauty of the sun setting over the city, knowing that it will come back up again tomorrow and with it, new hope and new adventure. In the meantime, the night offers exploration that even those who are scared of the dark can appreciate.

I’m first seeing this beauty at night. The bright colors create a map to outline the city and enhance the excitement of a new tomorrow. Despite the sour airplane yogurt breakfast, the lights below feed into the anticipation of discovering what is beneath. Physically, yes there is a city to explore, but there is also a deep inset reflection on personal life, cultural values, and development to be had. Paris is a place of historical discovery in which you can find personal understanding. You don’t go to Paris to find yourself, you go to Paris to find Paris. You look within yourself to discover what Paris means to you and more importantly, allow what you’ve learned from Paris to change you. It is a process of reinvention that I’m willing to start.

No place is perfect. Anyone can claim utopia, but it’s an unreachable dream. Nowadays, people all over the world—people like me—expect the worst of humanity, for fear of being hurt or abandoned. Far too often, this worst in humanity rears it’s head, and we all hear about it in the news, nothing more we can do. But I’m not here to talk about humanity and its downfalls. Here I talk about one small, seemingly insignificant, moment that showed me the true kindness of a country.

I studied abroad in Japan during the Summer of 2019. Japan is known as being a country where the residents are polite and proper. People mostly keep to themselves, follow the rules, act according to the social structure assigned by previous generations.

Every morning I rode the bus and underground metro to get to classes, and every evening I would do the same, only backwards. People of all ages did the same as me: from 6-year old children going to school to 40-some-year old business men rushing to their jobs. It’s quite a sight to see all of the people in the mornings: packed onto the trains like sardines in a tin. The buses are often similar, but with less sitting room.

One evening, I was waiting for the bus for the return home. The returns home were almost never crowded: I often got a seat to myself. It was raining, and it was in general a miserable, humid-hot day. The bus arrived, people filed on, and I fumbled with my umbrella and my metro card to put one away while taking the other out of my pocket.

It was at this point in the trip where I was aware of metro card holders, but I considered it too late to purchase one and feel as if I’d had my money’s worth. So, I just kept it in my pocket. It had worked for the last seven weeks, what was one and a half more?

Well, when I fumbled with the umbrella, my metro card came out of my pocket and bounced of my fingertips right under the bus. I didn’t even think twice: I hit the ground, the puddle beneath me splashing and instantly soaking the front of my shirt and jeans. I tried reaching under the bus, but my arm span was just a touch too short. As I reached up for my umbrella to use the handle as leverage, I noticed some people on the bus staring at me, wide eyed. ‘My card… went under the bus,’ I managed to say before reaching for it again.

When I looked up again, metro card in hand, one woman who had been on the bus was standing beside me, holding her own umbrella above me. I thanked her quickly and bowed multiple small times, embarrassed to no end, and swiped my card to get onto the bus. There were no open seats where I would usually sit in the evenings, so I decided to stand, knowing that people probably wouldn’t want to sit next to a soaked student.

An older lady, who must have been at least eighty years old, told me to sit next to her. I refused a couple times, saying it was ok, but she still encouraged me to sit. After being seated, she took off her light jacket and put it on top of me, telling me to put it on. ‘But it’s your jacket,’ I remember saying, still refusing as was customary. She practically commanded me to put it on, and I wore that jacket until the bus got to my stop. I lied to her that my house was close to the stop, so that she would take back the jacket: she was insistent on me keeping it on all the way home, but she did relent. I apologized again, to both her and quietly to the entire bus, then stepped off.

Something like this would never happen in America today. At least, not where I’m from. One thing that really touched me was the fact that they didn’t treat me like a foreigner: they treated me like any other person in the country. All in Japanese, all understanding, all humble and kind. It really made me think about what makes people kind, and what we can do as a whole to be better. We can’t be perfect, but what can we do to be better?

My human claimed me from a Burlington shoe rack back in January. It’s October now and together we’ve seen so much. We went on vacation, took a trip to a state we’ve never been to before, she made it through her first year of college, and I learned how mud can really do a number on my appearance… At the moment I rest under a bed in Auckland, New Zealand, in a room that has become my human’s temporary home.

We arrived in July, when the skies were cloudy and the rain never failed to say hello. I’m always fond of the rain; it keeps me clean. But I could tell my human wasn’t as enthused. She’s meant for the sunshine. And one day, she got it. She was so excited that she took a bus to St Helier’s Bay, and I came along too. She carried me as she let her feet sink in the sand and let the water touch her toes.

I got some water on my toes when we traveled down south. I met the edge of a lake and studied the colors of the rainbow found in a waterfall. I kept my human balanced on an occasionally swaying boat, kept her protected from Queenstown’s cold, and left her to dance on the warm carpet of a place she was falling in love with.

When we’re at university together, I get to learn too. Once we wandered around The Clock Tower, her taking notes and pictures, and I gliding on colorfully tiled floors. But most of the time, we journey from class to class with a backpack on shoulders, phone in hand, and me on foot. She scribbles away on notebook paper in lectures while I greet my fellow shoes underneath the tables. For lunch, we either sit on the benches or sit in the aisles of the library, her reading a random book and I counting the titles on the shelves.

Although I don’t eat, my human loves to. Queen Street and those surrounding it have a variety of culinary wonders for her to explore. She’s had Korean pancakes and a bubble waffle cone. She’s watched a bowl of fettuccine get mixed into a cheese wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano. She’s feasted on pumpkin soup, lamb, and raspberry chocolate cake in the Sky Tower. She’s done late night McDonald’s runs with friends and ice cream strolls along the harbor. Countdown has become our most visited spot.

If I had to pick one shared passion between me and my human, it would be our fondness for walks. We’ve walked down Queen Street and Quay; crossed the bridge to Newmarket; trekked to the top of Mount Eden.

When we’re in the apartment together after a long day, I rest as she continues moving. I’ll watch her type away on her computer or jot down words on a sticky note. Sometimes she’ll follow along with a ballet tutorial on Youtube or she’ll play music. She started listening to Italian music too, in the hopes it will make her a better learner. She adores movies and TV shows, and at least one or two New Zealand programs have caught and kept her attention. I’ll see her scroll through pictures on her phone, smiling. Although we have only been here for a few months, the images on that phone contain many memories.

Often, when I catch her staring out the window, I can imagine how she must feel. Instead of looking at frozen images on postcards and the internet, she’s here now, watching as the picture moves and breathes. I think occasionally she feels as if she’s in a dream. I don’t blame her. After all, traveling has been a dream of hers ever since I met her and before I even knew her. She’s half a world away from home right now, and my intuition tells me this won’t be the last time she is. I just hope the next time she is, I’ll be the one keeping her on her feet.

At the first time when I learned to play chess, my teacher taught me the rules before introducing any strategy. This is because despite all the fabulous strategies facilitating in winning, the basis of chess is actually its rules, a lack of which would lead to a meaninglessness of the game itself. As I arrived in the United States, what I noticed first were the strictly regulated custom and quiet visitors waiting in lines. When I arrived at university, it also impressed me that all professors emphasized the rules of their classes and the significance of academic integrity in their first lectures. Perhaps because an emphasis on rules was always the first thing I encountered upon arriving in the U.S. and my classes, I have developed an impression of the United States as a country in which citizens follow the rules at all times. It even seems like they are living on a chessboard. Of course, I now understand that violations of rules definitely take place all the times, and American people also speed on highways and get tickets from the police. However, my first impression on the significance of rules are so is and lasting that I myself become a person valuing rules.

Just in last month, one minor event took place on one of my psychology class, an event that showed American’s emphasis on rules and was unlikely to happen in any college in China. It was simple, short, and took my professor less than a minute: he apologized for an unclear question on our last quiz. I had to admit that I was shocked in class for this “unusual” behavior of my professor. I used to consider his apology as a consequence of his humbleness and sincerity. When I thought it through after class, however, I recognized that his apology was actually a result of following the social norm: to apologize when it is necessary. All people around the world, of course, have learned the necessity of apology, but this is not sufficient for a college professor to apologize to his students; the significance of rules must be emphasized in social norms as well. After realizing Americans’ value of rules, I still admire my professor’s humbleness and open-mindedness, but admire even more his complying with rules when he has power over us students.

Now I have become a person valuing rules, a result that is both beneficial and unfavorable in certain situations. As a fully enrolled Miami student, I am glad that my emphasis on rules has made me a more industrious student. For example, I become willing to read the textbooks before classes and perform according to instructors’ exact requirements in group discussions and projects. I have learned also to ask my professors’ expectations and requirements of assignments before starting to write. Unfortunately, my valuing of rules has also drawbacks. The most obvious one is that I would feel uncomfortable witnessing violations of rules when I go back to China. It is a pity that in China, sometimes following the rules leads to disadvantages since others could gain advantages by violating the rules without getting caught. I have to admit that I might join in the people who violate rules in such circumstances, even though I understand it is wrong. Despite the internal struggles I might have, I currently experience no bad becoming a person valuing rules. Thus, I would say, I am enjoying my life right now on a chessboard.

It was a sunny day when I was on my way to buy a pre-owned car. Three of my friends and I picked up an Uber to get to the automatic car store. Before deciding to go to the store, I had already searched on the apps for my preferred cars. Cheerfully and excitedly, I dressed in a yellow skirt and made up delicately. As soon as the Uber driver saw me, he immediately appreciated my dressings and said that “you look like a pop star.” I was really happy to hear that. Living in China for all of my previous life, I found that Chinese people will not usually appreciate others in such an obvious way. Although I knew that he was just greeting me, it still brought a good mood to me. During the process we went to the car store, the Uber driver chatted with us with enthusiasm. I had never thought of a person could be so passionate like him until I found that nearly all of the American people treat others in this way. We soon found the common interest of us. As a fan of Chinese songs, the Uber driver played a lot of music of Jay Chou’s, who is one of the most famous Chinese singers. We listened and sang the songs together all the way. The happy time often passed very fast and it was the time of arrival at our destination. While we were about to get off the car, the Uber driver suddenly stopped us. Under our puzzled eyes, he told us that this car store was an informal one and it could not guarantee the legal services and qualities. “I can carry you guys to another official one,” he said, “the cars in this store are awful, even American people will not buy a car here. You are cute Chinese students, and I do not want you to be cheated.” With zero experience of buying a car, nothing could explain our gratitude to him. Although I thought it was the best kindness of him, he said “I will take you to another place for free, and you just need to tell me where you want to go.” As we come to the store, we were still singing all the way. When we arrived at Nissan 4S store, the Uber driver talked to the workers there and told them to give us the best service as they could. During this journey, I found the good faith of American people. I could not even express my moods by words but held them in my heart. This experience removed all the tension about the unknown life since I came to America and I know that whenever I need help, no matter identity and nationality, people are always willing to give me a hand.

From a classmate at Miami University, I heard an interesting phrase, 'Freshman 15', which means that many freshmen typically increase their weight by 15 pounds. I have a deep understanding of this. As a student who has traveled across half the globe from China to the United States, I feel the pronounced difference in food culture. This difference made me gain almost 15 pounds, but I don't know the exact number because I don't dare to weigh myself, and to escape weighing, I didn't even buy a scale. One day, passing through the electronic scale area of Walmart, I pushed the shopping cart to go straight to the food area. In Walmart's food area, there are many quick-frozen foods and large packs of snacks, and I like them. In the end, I left Walmart with a shopping cart full of food.

I come from Shanghai, a typical southern Chinese city, and most food in Shanghai is small and exquisite. At lots of restaurants in Shanghai, the dishes are only the size of a palm. After coming to the United States, I have found that the size of food in American restaurants is much larger than expected. In Miami University canteen, fried chicken nuggets are about two times larger than China's, and hamburgers are also one and a half times larger. Even Coke is offered unlimited, and I can have as much as I want. In China's fast-food restaurants, Coke sold by a cup. If you're going to drink more, you have to pay for it in China. When I first came to the United States, I liked this kind of service in the restaurants, but it didn't take long for me to get fat. It may be because I don't want to waste food. Even if I am full, I will eat all the food I bought, and even greedily have another cup of Coke. I adapted to the different food in the two countries so well that I am distressed when looking at the fat on my belly.

As an introverted international student, I always feel lonely. Whenever I really can't bear the loneliness, I eat chocolate or chips, which always make me feel better. I am not good at communicating with American students, nor am I good at making friends with other students from China. However, I always have a soul resonance with my food. My friendship with food is quiet and profound, while my communication with my classmates is noisy and short. The life in universities in America is different from that of high schools in China. In high school, everyone is in the same classroom all day long, and it is easy to make friends. When it comes to the study at university, everyone has different courses and learns in different classes, and even classmates rarely communicate. Therefore, when I am alone and with no one to talk with, chewing snacks and making a squeaky voice always makes me comfortable.

The voice of the rain is getting milder and milder; finally, it softly stops. However, the rain in my heart never ends. When I was young, I thought the day I would become an adult was very far away from me. Now, it is still far away, but in my memory. To decide to leave the home nation and study abroad was not a big deal to me when I was at the age of 16, but it extraordinarily changed my destiny.

Many overseas students would feel hard to get into a new culture. I was in the same situation as well before. I was having struggles with many culture shocks in adapting to American life: different languages and different food. I doubted my decision to come to a strange country which I did not know. For example, when I bought a Coke, I read “To BFF.” I had no idea that BFF was “Best Friends Forever.” I could not understand the sentence: “A metaphor is like a simile.” I knew every single word by itself, but I could not understand what the sentence meant. Luckily, I got through it quickly, because I knew some tips for life. Anyway, this struggling was not the biggest problem for me. As I found the way in a different language, in a different country, I had overcome my fear of adapting to the new environment.

As much as I loved my daily routine in China, I lost this most precious part of my life in coming to the US. Leaving home always means being apart from those people who love me and who I love. It is painful to be in a lonely feeling, especially when I am sick. I miss my family and friends so much, but I know I could not meet them in the next moment. Besides, I guess many international students would have a similar situation, which is breaking up with their girlfriend or boyfriend. Breaking up brought me to suffer deeply because I still love her. I had never thought that the distance would wreck the relationship between us. However, I had to admit that it works. During day and night, my head was keeping flashing back to the old days she and I owned. The days, when we were together, appeared in my mind time after time, because they were so joyful, happy, blest, disappointing, sad, and painful. The fact that she left was like a needle in my heart, stinging over and over again. Even now, I miss her so much, and it is not for my loneliness. I do feel lonely when I miss her. I feel so alone because I miss her deeply. This feeling makes my day gray and rainy.

To get away from the ache in my heart, I tried reading, playing games, and hanging out with friends. Fortunately, I made some great friends in Maimi University. Some of them brought me to the church and prayed for me, which did move me a little bit. Some of them spent their time playing ping pong with me even they did not know how to play. The most important thing was that they cared about me. It warmed my heart because of the feeling that I knew some people loved me.

The rain was still in my heart, and the raindrop used to wash my face ruthlessly. However, I get the umbrella now. I know there will be a rainbow after the heavy rain and the sky will turn to colorful from gray. My life is getting more and more hopeful.

As a Chinese student major in computer science, there will and should be a lot of troubles when switching the language because most words and facilities we used are not common. That’s also why it surprised me that the language of academics like some proper nouns is not the most confusing thing that troubles me, but the different customs and culture. After passing the IELTS test, I thought my English level was good enough for normal communication, while the reality hit me in the head hard.

The first obstacle was when I went to a brunch restaurant. When I was ordering egg, I was asked how I wanted my egg cooked. The first idea came to my mind was “how can I choose it?” “Is it like when I ordered steak, should I say medium rare or medium?” My friend probably found out my confusion, laughed and said to me, “You can choose from scrambled, sun-side up, over easy, or boiled,” and he explained what each one like to me. This kind of awkward thing happened a lot when I go to restaurants. It also happened when I went to fast food restaurant for the first-time order. After ordering the meal I wanted, the waiter handed me a empty cup but not the drink I ordered. I asked the waiter about my curiosity. He just laughed and pointed to a place nearby—a drinking machine was just over there. What’s more, the ketchup’s offering way was also different from Chinese packed ketchup bag, but a huge bucket of ketchup on the serving bar, people can grab a little cup and fill whatever they want.

It also confused me that whenever someone made a sneeze, I always heard a “bless you” from different people. At first, I thought it was because that are a lot of people believe in god in the United States, but when I asked the people around me, it does not seem to be like that. I googled my question as soon as I arrived home, turning out that a sneeze typically precedes illness. For a reason, people always say “bless you” to pray for those who sneeze for a good health.

After more than a month living in America, I gradually get used to those different culture and customs. I found myself falling love with this country with diversification, which allows different cultures to come together and to communicate with each other. Nowadays, I can order my food fluently in a restaurant, knowing the basic procedure during ordering. I also say “bless you” when people make a sneeze, hoping them feel better.

When first I came to Miami, I didn't realize the importance of mailbox in the dorm. They looked like pigeonholes, not the mailboxes I’d imagined standing by the side of the road. Nearly two weeks later, I heard there was a lot of letters in those pigeonholes. So I went downstairs to the mailbox immediately.

When I was standing in front of the mailbox, I did not know what to do because I found they were opened by a rotating password lock, and I knew nothing about it. So I asked the guy who was next to me for help, and he told me that the password had been sent in the email before. So I started to look for my three number password in the emails sea and I soon found it. I'm a little excited, because it's exciting for me to try something I have never done before. I rotated the code lock to the right to those three digits, but I couldn't open it. I tried four more times and still couldn't open it. So I had to ask that kind person for help again. He said that it was very easy; I should turn left first to clean up, and then turn right to the passwords. While he was talking to me, he opened my mailbox. I am very grateful to him, not only because he helped me get the newest mail, but also because he taught me how to open the mailbox.

About a week later, one time when I went downstairs, I saw a girl who was worrying about how to open her mailbox. I was very confident to walk over. She asked me if I can open the mailbox, and I said definitely and started to show her what I had learned last time confidently in front of her. But when I found that I still could not open it, I was very surprised. My first thought was that the lock must be broken. I tried three more times, but I still couldn't open it. When we were very upset, an old lady who was sweeping the floor came to us. She asked if we needed help, and I reluctantly said yes. So she opened the mailbox easily in few seconds. But what was different from last time, she told me after turning left to clean up, I need to turn right, then turn left and finally turn right. Although I was a little embarrassed that I didn't help the girl open her mailbox, I finally learned the right thing this time.

A few days later, when I was hanging in the dormitory building, I saw the mailbox, and I decided to try it again because I didn’t believe these small mailboxes could not be opened by me. So I followed the way that old lady taught me, but I still could not open it. I tried at least seven more times, but it was still locked. At this time the old lady appeared again, I immediately asked her why I still can't open. I saw she pulled the mailbox’s door gently and it opened. She told me that after I had rotated to the correct password, I needed to pull the door to open it. So when I rotated to the correct password again, I tried to pull the mailbox’s door. But I found that no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't open the door. The old lady smiled and gently pulled the mailbox door open again by shaking her hands. She said that the password may not be stuck to the right card slot sometimes, so I need to shake my hands when I was pulling the door. I was shocked. At that time I believed the old lady standing in front of me must master the mysterious magic; and I just like those who can't do any magic in Harry Potter called Muggles, was trying to humiliate myself by trying to do something I couldn't do at all.

So after that, I always asked my roommate to help my pick up my mails. Compared to try to open those terrible designed mailboxes, I was more likely to say thank you to my kind roommate. Something even if you think you have the capacity to do it, but you really can’t do it. Everyone is good at something, but it never means that everyone can do everything well. This is the lesson I learned from the mailbox.