美国民俗学会会长迈克尔·欧文·琼斯教授回国后,《今日北京》(Beijing Today)记者琳达通过电子函件中向琼斯教授提出了以下问题：
"Was this your first time in Beijing? And what impressed you most? What is the worst thing and what is the best thing you saw in Beijing/China? " 她希望"try to understand how people from outside of China see the country."

下面是琼斯教授的回复。经刘版主允许转贴自民间文化论坛。
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Dear Linda,

I had an INCREDIBLE set of experiences in Beijing!!! I wish I had had more time to talk with you, because I enjoyed our few minutes together very much, but when I went downstairs to the conference it was re-convening and several people were looking for me. Thank you for your kind remarks. Re humor: I try not to take matters too seriously, at least not ALL matters, or all the time. Yes, this was my first time in Beijing, in China, and in Asia. . . .

What most impressed me about Beijing/China? Well, of course, there are landmarks like the Forbidden City and the Temple of Heaven that are impressive for their massiveness, their history, their power. And the Great Wall; now that truly boggles the mind.

But what impressed me MOST? It's not the human-made artifacts, but the people themselves. I have never been shown so much hospitality, generosity, and warmth. Professor Gao told me that his students (to many of whom I lectured on Friday, and several others served as guides throughout the week) liked me for being friendly, fatherly, and candid in my remarks. The sentiment is mutual. I enjoyed being with them. I found them to be highly intelligent as well as personable, and unstinting in the time, attention, and knowledge they shared with me. Professors Gao, Bamo, Liu, and many others were incredibly generous in every way imaginable. I will never be able to repay them, but I will often reflect on their friendship and remember my trip to China as the highlight of my life.

Ordinary people on the street, in parks, and on trains likewise extended to us hospitality on a scale that I have never seen before. The train that we took from the Great Wall to Beijing was absolutely packed with people--several times as many standing as seated. There was scarcely enough space for air to slip between those facing one another. A little boy about three years old was sitting at a table with his mother on one side and two men on the other side of the booth. The woman in our party (Beverly Stoltje) had been offered the edge of a seat across from the mother and boy. The boy peeked around at us several times. Finally he began waving and smiling. He was eating sunflower seeds and whatever else his mother would give him. Beverly and I smiled and waved at him. Then I gave him a stick of chewing gum. He tried to blow bubbles, and I did too. After a while his mother told one of the students with us that the little boy wanted me to have his seat. His mother lifted him onto her lap and insisted that I sit down. I did so reluctantly, thinking about how uncomfortable the woman would become with a squirming child in her lap. After a while I stood up, thanking the mother but explaining through the interpreter that I had to stand because my right knee ached (from an accident last year, not to mention just getting old). As I was standing in the aisle a man in the booth behind this one stood up and offered me his seat. I thanked him profusely but pointed at my knee; a student explained that the pain tended to increase when I was seated.

By about the third stop a number of people suddenly left the train. There was a vacant seat across the aisle and just behind the one that the woman and boy occupied. The conductor pointed at me and pounded her hand on the seat, insisting that I sit down. There were five other people in the booth: two couples in their 30s and a little girl who, I came to learn was seven years old. The little girl knew a few words and phrases in English. The adults were urging her--with good humor--to talk to me. Finally she said, "Happy New Year!" So I said happy new year to her. Then more urging from the adults for her to talk to me. Eventually she said, "Grandfather, how old are you?" I told her my age, then pulled out the notebook that I always carry and wrote down 62. One of the women, who it turned out was not her mother, also knew a bit of English. I asked the girl her age, which the woman translated. She was seven. We spent a lot of time smiling at one another, the girl and I, the adults and I, the girl and the other adults. She wished me happy new year again. I gave her the American thumbs up sign (hoping that it didn't mean something offensive in Chinese culture). She laughed and returned the thumbs up. After awhile she whispered to the woman beside her who then said to me, "She really like you." I said that I liked her also, and gave her another thumbs up. At the next stop the couple left. The little girl and I smiled at one another. I think she might have wished me happy new year again. Then her father asked for my notebook and pen. He wrote in Chinese characters and then pinyin, "Dzara," pointing toward the girl. “My name is Mike,” I said. Dzara nodded and smiled. She repeated it twice. Later I drew four stick figures of diminishing size, pointing to the tallest and then to me, writing "62" above the head. Then I wrote "37" above the next in size, and "7" and "1 1/2" above the others. I named each, beginning with me. I think I got across that these figures represented me, my son David, and his two sons Sebastian and Ray. At one point Dzara scooted to the edge of the bench, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Grandfather, I love you." I replied, Dzara, I love you, too!" She repeated, "I love you, TOO!"

Her father said to me, "Great Wall?" I nodded. I made walking motions with my fingers. Dzara picked up the pen. In the notebook she drew a section of the Great Wall with one tower. I nodded. Her father drew a stick figure. To the right he wrote, "62 ok." He gave me thumbs up. I took the pen and notebook. Dzara's drawing of the wall was horizontal as if the path I had struggled to climb were simply a flat road. I drew the wall at a 45-degree angle, which to my aching knee seemed more accurate. I showed it to Dzara and her father both of whom laughed.

There was a cardboard container with two small bottles of white liquid on the table next to the window. Dzara reached for one and with her father's help stabbed a plastic drinking straw into it. She handed it to me. She put a straw in the other bottle. Then she held hers up and said, "Happy New Year!" I toasted her in return. The yogurt drink was quenched my thirst. I thanked her profusely. Her father gestured for my notebook and pen. He roughly sketched the front of a building with three arches and a picture of a figure above the center one, then looked at me quizzically. Yes, I said, I had been to the Forbidden City and Tian'an Men Square.

On the outskirts of Beijing I pulled down my tote bag from the luggage rack several booths behind us. I dug around in the bottom, found a Tiger's Milk candy bar (a kind of health food "power bar") as well as a package of chewing gum that I gave to Dzara. Soon after she whispered to her father. He reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out something wrapped in a piece of newsprint. He gave it to Dzara. She then unwrapped it and handed the contents to me. It was a pair of hand-embroidered inserts for shoes or slippers covered with a design of watermelons. This act of generosity touched me deeply. I wear a man's size 12 shoe and these inserts likely fit a woman's size 8 or 9 shoe. I have no intentions of walking on them, however. I have put them in a place of honor where they remind me daily of the cordiality, warmth, and welcome that so many people extended to us.

Professor Kuili Liu, Chairman of the China Folklore Society; Ms. Xiuzhen Han, Curator of the Beijing Folklore Museum; and Professor Bingzhong Gao, General Secretary of the China Folklore Society, invited me to participate in this conference on traditional festivals and national holidays. The courtesies they extended to me, the financial arrangements they undertook to bring me to the event and keep me there, and the welcome they gave me were unsurpassed in my experience. Former student and now professor Haogun Gong at Zhong Shan University, along with students Rong Rong Li, Jing Lu, and Zhang Shao Zen took me on tours--holding fast to my hand to make sure I didn’t slip on the ice--as well as negotiated prices of items when we went shopping, translated, and made sure I had lunch. Professor Qubbumo Bamo translated my paper in English (and partly in Spanish) to include in the conference proceedings before I arrived, and she read the Chinese version when I delivered the paper in English; her sister, Dr. Shibbumo Bamo, served as my personal translator in one session along with Professor Lihui Yang.. Professor Chao Gejin, Deputy Directory of the Institute of Ethnic Literature, graciously sought my opinion regarding works on folklore in English that might be translated for a Chinese readership. . .

The list of people who helped me is nearly endless. Perhaps my greatest feelings of gratitude are toward Professors Bingzhong Gao and Qubbumo Bamo. Not having caught up with the technological advances in China, I wanted to show 35mm slides at the conference and at my lecture at Peking University rather than use Power Point or other digital technology that I am unfamiliar with. Professor Gao searched long and hard, but finally located a slide projector. Having learned that I wanted to return with some organic tea, he handed me a two-foot-long bag of three large containers just before I left. It was also he who had urged us to take the subway and then the train to the Great Wall in order to experience the transportation relied by ordinary people, thereby making possible the experiences I described above. Professor Bamo not only translated my paper, but she is seeking publication for it. She guided my tour of the Temple of Heaven and she took me on a shopping trip and then to lunch. I mentioned to both professors my interest in Chinese punk rock. (When he was young I took my son to punk rock concerts in Los Angeles; he plays electric base in several bands, including two punk rock groups, and he is writing a book about the history of punk rock in southern California, to be published by the University of California Press.) Not only did they locate a club where several bands were playing, but also Professor Bamo gave me a large number of CDs with performances by China’s best-known punk rock bands to share with my son.

Now you understand why I said that, as impressive as were the human-made edifices, the people I met impressed me the MOST. All were courteous, generous, and warm. I regret only that I do not know the names of some of them, for example, the three-year boy and his mother on the train. Dzara’s father gave me his card, but I cannot read it. I failed to ask her mother’s name. But I shall always remember them and the others I have mentioned.

Dzara’s parents readied themselves to leave the train as it pulled into the station in Beijing. Dzara reached out to shake my hand. "I love you, Grandfather," she said. I put my arms around her and she reached up to hug me. "I love you, too, Dzara." As we followed along behind them on the sidewalk for a few yards, she turned around twice and waved. "Bye, bye,” she said. I don’t have a photograph of this charming, precocious seven-year old child. But I have the inserts for shoes that she gave me. I recall vividly the refreshing taste of the yogurt drink she shared with me. Finally, I have two pages of precious drawings she and her father made as they attempted to communicate with a foreigner who could not speak their language.

Sincerely,
Mike Jones