Priceless Currency

I see her smile first.

She sits cross-legged on the cobblestoned corner with one bony hand protruding through brown rags. The fine lines etched across her dirt-smeared face converge in the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. Teenage girls wearing Hello Kitty backpacks and business men on cell phones pass by, oblivious to us both. The brightness of her smile dazes me. I pause, three feet from the outdoor escalator that threads through the west and central districts of Hong Kong, and wait for my vision to clear.

The street around us pulses with activity. The discordant symphony of hooting horns mingles with the staccato speech of Filipino maids en route to Victoria Park for an afternoon exchanging Merienda and gossip. The aromas of dim sum, sweet buns, Big Macs and fresh fish mingle in the early afternoon air. A ginger tabby darts across the cobblestones and disappears between the legs of an old man hunched over a chess board. To the left of the woman, past a store selling Gucci handbags and a tea house, is the skeleton of a high-rise residential building. Bamboo struts encircle the exterior in a confluence of tradition and contemporary. In line with Feng Shui principles, the floor numbers skip the inauspicious number four.

The woman smiles at all of this and nothing at all. As I pass her, she beckons me with one curled finger.
"Weixiào," she says, her mouth curving impossibly upwards. I pat the empty pockets of my cargo pants and shake my head. I offer her a tuna sandwich from my bag. She throws her head back and roars with laughter.
"Méiyou, méiyou," she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Weixiào."

After the sun sinks behind the South China Sea, I curl up on my brother's sofa with a translation dictionary and mug of sweet milk tea. The skyline sparkles with the electric stars from over 7, 000 skyscrapers as my index finger traces the unfamiliar words on the page. Finally, I see it.
Weixiào.
It means, smile.