The pace is fast, the rules are complicated, and the players are often competitive, but it's more accessible than ever to try your hand. People around the Bay Area are gravitating toward mahjong at brewpubs, bookstores and other public spaces to learn this age-old pastime, which developed in China in the 19th century and spread around the globe in the 20th.
I noticed this shift in my own life when I started having dinner with my partner most nights, phones deliberately tucked away in another room. We made this change after too many evenings disappeared into "just checking one thing" that turned into hours of parallel scrolling. The difference was immediate and profound. Conversations went deeper. We actually looked at each other. Time seemed to stretch in the best possible way.
I was thirty-eight years old the first time I stopped performing at Chinese New Year dinner. Not dramatically-I didn't stand up and deliver a monologue about authenticity or announce that I was done pretending. I just stopped smiling when I wasn't amused. I stopped nodding when I disagreed. I stopped telling my aunt that her unsolicited career advice was helpful when it wasn't. I stopped pretending that the version of me sitting at that table was the real one.
My dad would be up at dawn, not to prepare some elaborate feast, but to set up the treasure hunt he'd created using clues written on the backs of old envelopes. Each riddle led us kids to another spot in the house, building anticipation for modest gifts hidden in creative places. The whole thing probably cost him nothing but time and imagination, yet thirty years later, I remember those hunts more vividly than any expensive present I've ever received.