It’s raining again. I remember I used to like this tiny mist-like rain at night on the streets of Chengdu, thinking it’s quite romantic. It’s just enough to rinse off the dust accumulated during the day on the roads and on the leaves, yielding a fresh-looking city the very next morning. Plus, it produces a calming sound outside of the window, making me appreciate staying at home.
But tonight, it’s a different story. I had to ride back home with inappropriate clothes in the dark, against the wind, with an old and half-broken bike, the kind with no brakes. Under the cover of darkness, fearless drivers made roads their own heavenly kingdom … Suddenly, I feel like a heroine, fighting against all the odds, with one goal in mind—going home!
My adrenaline is running, my blood is warm, but my feet are cold. I’m still wearing a pair of sandals in this fall temperature, the water having wet my only pair of thick socks. I remember how excited I was when I re-discovered them along with my favorite scarf in my mom’s closet a few days ago, as if I had seen an old friend. I left them at my parents’ place a few years ago. But now, the wet socks only make my feet even colder. Dad offered to buy me a pair of new leather shoes more than once, but I refused, thinking I had many shoes and autumn clothes back in the States. I don’t want to waste money buying more, only for temporary needs. Now I’m paying the price for my pride.
Nothing on my body is mine except my underwear. The sandals belong to my aunt. The pants are my cousin’s. She gained weight and could no longer fit into them. That’s how I got most of my clothes my entire childhood. The sweater was my mom’s, and it’s no longer trendy. I borrowed the oversized men’s shirt from my landlord’s husband. The short wool coat, holey in obvious places, is from my grandma, who passed away a few years ago. I feel myself being so in-authentically “me,” yet this strangely patched look is so typically my style.
Many times, I feel like I am going to be run over by other bikes and cars as they’re riding directly toward me. But somehow, mysteriously, at the last second, they change their direction. It makes me think of many other “mental games” that Chinese are good at playing. Without speaking, without turn on the turning signals, without even ringing the bells, they guess where you’ll go. In most cases, they’re right; thus, my life is saved many times. But I’m really bad at playing those games, and that’s why I find myself making all kinds of weird sounds during those scary moments—screaming. In any case, they work, and even better than my shiny bicycle bell. China is a place to discover your potential talents for survival.
Sophie replied to my e-mail tonight. My e-mails seem to always bring her great joy, and I can make her laugh easily. She is one of my best friends. I can tell her anything. This time she’s laughing at the fact that I’ve turned into a toilet-cleaning freak everywhere I go in Chengdu, even at a dinner host’s flat I was invited to. I am glad my stories have brought her laughter, but I don’t’ think they’re funny. On the contrary, I feel sad.
Where I voluntarily clean bathrooms, people express anything but appreciation. Mostly, my feedback is: “You’re neurotic!,” “obsessive cleaner,” or “Why did you make our bathroom so clean?”
“Well, because I had nothing else to do.” The truth is I can’t stand the condition. I don’t think I have OCD. But in many cases, the bathrooms are way over my tolerance limit, and I’ve had to do something to get this image out of my mind.
Why can I make my very close friends laugh easily? Is it because they love me—that’s why? Or is it because I can make them laugh easily that they’re my great friends? ... I don’t think I can find out the answer, at least not tonight, on this dangerous ride in the rain.
My God! This taxi made a sharp turn right in front of my bike! And he honked his horn at me! So rude! What’s wrong with you!? … Only I can hear my heart screaming.
Maybe the harsh living condition make us, the Chinese, smart—my personal hypothesis. At least it has its contribution. It’s clear: Here, as compared to the real native locals, I’m not so qualified to be called “smart” as I hardly ever win the battle of price negotiation, nor am I a good bike rider. But I remember many times I felt lucky to be Chinese in foreign schools …
I’m so cold.
It’s almost there.
--- It's written during my first winter back in Chengu for work in Oct 07. It's published on Chengdoo Magazine "Cultural hopping" Issue.
