I WORKED at Palo Alto’s Restaurant for two months. Then I decided to look for a job in San Francisco because Palo Alto was just too far away.

      What I learned in two months was good enough to land me a job as cook at an Italian restaurant at the Fisherman’s Wharf.

      The restaurant was packed with customers all the time. Business was so busy we hardly had time for a break from breakfast till dinner. An Irish chef made the job a little less strenuous and more enjoyable with his jokes and laughter.

      My jobs with the restaurants were my first experiences of manual labor. I didn’t realize how this kind of job was so physically demanding until I was into it. Every day, I went to work early in the morning and got off at night after 13 long hours of work at the kitchen. My body ached all over, and I fell exhausted.

      One day when I went to the basement to pick up some canned goods, I lost control and fell down on the floor. When I regained consciousness, I was in one of the beds of the San Francisco General Hospital.

      The doctor subjected me to all kinds of test to find out what’s wrong with me. It was my first time to be confined in a hospital. I felt so depressed. I thought about my future and my family. I asked myself: “Why and how did I end up here?”

      Some of my co-workers visited me at my hospital bed. They brought some food and my mails. One of the letters came from my father.

      I was so moved by my father’s letter it made me cry. My co-workers asked me why I cried, but I did not say a word. They became more worried about me.

      I stayed in the hospital for four days. Without health insurance, I did not pay anything for my hospitalization. State funds took care of my bills.

      When I was discharged from the hospital, I requested for a two-week off. My Italian lady boss was so nice she gave me a two-week vacation with pay.

      The accident that landed me to the hospital gave me a lesson: never to overwork to the detriment of my health.

      I had over five thousand dollars from my salary after six months of hard work. It was my “blood” money. I decided to send part of it to my parents in Taiwan. The rest I set aside for my school tuition.

      A few more months and school would open. I was going to the San Francisco State College for my master’s degree.

      On the first day of registration, I met Charles Chen, who graduated from the same university I went to in Taiwan. Charles was kind and nice. He showed me around—the bookstore, my classrooms. He was just glad to have an Asian classmate, who were not too many in the political science class.

      Charles advised me one day to consider moving to Texas for my postgraduate course. He said some Texas universities do not charge tuition fees for graduate studies.

      I took Charles’ advice. I left San Francisco State. I didn’t even tell Charles about my plan. Many years later, I learned that Charles held a very important government foreign service position in Houston.

      So I moved on to Texas, where I had a friend who was opening a Chinese restaurant in the southeast city of Beaumont. He told me he needed a cook and a waiter to start. He asked me to help him, offering a very good salary.

      I had to make a choice: school or money. I knew that if I had to make money I had to sacrifice school for a while.

      Another reason I chose to leave San Francisco was the desire to learn more American. San Francisco simply was too Asian. I thought that if I went to Texas I could learn English much faster.

      So I talked to my friend, and decided to join him in Beaumont, Texas.

      I and another friend drove from San Francisco to Beaumont using his Opel sedan. It was a long travel, mostly through Interstate 10. We finally reached Beaumont, some 90 miles east of Houston, after more than two days on the road.

      “Blue Hawaii Restaurant.” This was my friend’s restaurant in Beaumont. Here, I would start a new chapter of my life.                                  

      (To be continued)