For the shock of beggars...

The icy breeze blew through the open tea house door. We bent low to the peeling wobbly table to slurp the beefy noodles and let the steam warm our noses. The piercing sunlight of the door was darkened by a small boy.

His shaved head, raggedy clothes, and torn jacket didn't necessarily give him away. But the wadded handful of torn bits of small money did. A beggar, maybe the tenth we'd seen in that bowl of noodles alone.

I wiped the oil from my mouth. Sorry, we don't have any small money I patiently explained for the tenth time. The boy's eyes widened, he looked at my student next to me, is she Tibetan? he asked incredulously.

I laughed so hard noodles nearly came out of my nose. We beckoned the boy closer, learned his name and where he was from, gave him some not so small money and explained that I was a teacher from America.

Really? He asked, shaking his head as proof of his shock, She looks just like a Tibetan girl. At which point he turned to once again darken the door of the teahouse, but this time in wonder at the whitest pseudo Tibetan he'd ever seen.

For the record, I look nothing like a Tibetan girl... but that beggar made my day.