If you remember, I arrived in Beijing fresh off a two month long backpacking stint in Thailand. Thailand is perhaps the most laid back place on earth, second maybe only to Jamaica. I was picked up at the Beijing airport, wearing shorts and flip flops and lugging only my backpack. Beijing slapped me in the face.
The pollution was off the scale that day (“hazardous,” according to the US Embassy standards) and I remember asking Emily if she ever missed being able to see the tops of buildings. Emily seemed so expert that day, as she effortlessly set me up with a subway card, took me to lunch, and actually ordered food. It was nothing short of amazing. She was an incredible host, but the next morning she did something that was both terrifying and much needed: she left me to go to work. She wrote out subway directions so that I could spend the day buying pants that weren’t shorts to shield me against the not-so-Thailand-tropical weather, and promised to meet me back at her apartment at a certain hour. When she walked in that night, she asked me how my first day was. “I feel like there are 19 million people that know what’s going on, and I’m the only one that doesn’t.” I responded.
Fast forward a few months, and I’m a little less wide-eyed. I can pick out my own bus routes and order my own jiaozi. I’m the one pushing past people to get on or off a subway car. That’s not to say that I don’t revel in the oddity anymore. I was asked the other day what my favorite part of Beijing was. Simple. It’s easily the most “different” place I’ve ever been to, leaving southern Africa, Southeast Asia, even rural Mississippi in the dust. It’s partially because of the language barrier, of course, but it’s more than that. I love watching the old man walk on his knees around the mats at my gym, while I run on the treadmill. I love the fact that just yesterday I was sitting next to an older woman on the bus who had a bag of groceries at her feet. Suddenly, the bag started shaking violently. She peaked in and gave the bag a shake. Apparently, the foot-long fish at the bottom hadn’t completely died yet. It was still flopping. She didn’t seem phased.
Of course, there are days when these things don’t make me smile: when the stares on the subway make me feel self conscious, and the men and women line dancing on the sidewalk are simply blocking my way. But it’s hard to remember being in a place where there isn’t at least one questionable English translation on the menu that makes me smile. “Ohh, tepid pig pot again? We always get the tepid pig pot! Well, you know I can’t turn down ‘fried enema.’” It’ll be hard returning to a place where the taxi drivers probably will speak English, but probably won’t tell me I’m beautiful and spend the rest of the cab ride singing songs to me, like one recent experience. The service in restaurants may be better, but I won’t be able to bellow for a waitress to bring me more hot water. The line “that’s it, I’m not leaving a tip” will no longer be a joke, and will actually mean something. I might someday be ready to return to a place where the streets are a little quieter, and there’s a little less going on, but something tells me I’m going to miss the line dancing.
