In a bustling Shanghai restaurant, the air was thick with the aroma of ginger and steamed fish. Our waitress was young — perhaps 19 or 20 — with a face as fresh as a new leaf on a spring tree. As she leaned in to serve our main course, the world seemed to tilt. The plate slipped, and a wave of pungent, oily fish broth splashed recklessly across my leather bag.

My reaction was visceral. I jumped up, my chair legs screeching against the floor. My face darkened like a storm cloud over the Bund, and a sharp reprimand sat on the tip of my tongue. That bag was a prized possession, and all I could see was the stain and the damage to the leather.

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