In over 30 years as a foreign correspondent, the New York Times’ Howard French has struggled with his fair share of language lessons, taking on everything from Haitian Creole to Japanese.  He recalls these sometimes exhausting attempts in his last ”Letter from China,” written as he prepares to leave his posting in Shanghai to return to the U.S.

French’s recollection of one Japanese teacher who urged him to “keep climbing the mountain” triggered memories of the many Mandarin teachers I’ve had in the last four years, each of whom helped me reach a new plateau in my quest to master the language. Teacher Wu, a tiny slip of a woman who frequently wore a bright red vest, refused to speak a word of English and improved my listening comprehension immensely. Teacher Huang, my movie-going partner in Taipei, taught me to expound on the faults of Cameron Diaz and Jennifer Aniston in Chinese. And Teacher Meng, a surprisingly energetic, 70-ish Beijinger, inspired great affection in his all-female class of four by entertaining the most wayward questions on Chinese culture. When we’d trip over a disconnect, he would squint in exasperation, tap his left temple and exhort:  “This is not Chinese way of thinking!”

“Good teachers make for good journeys,” French writes, “and fortunately for me, Omura sensei, my first Japanese instructor, wouldn’t allow me to be discouraged.” Though my own Mandarin journey often gets the better of me, a dedicated and curious band of teachers have helped me stop and enjoy the view.

Photo by Aplomb via Flickr (Creative Commons).