Five Senses

I think, in writing about my experiences, I have an unfortunate tendency to focus on sights and events. I would be remiss, however, if I did not extrapolate a little more. After all, we have five senses with which to experience the world, and you can hardly recreate my wild tales without proper descriptions. So today, I shall further introduce you to my home away from home. Close your eyes (unless you're using them to read, in which case perhaps you'd better leave them a little open) and follow me.

If you were standing outside my front door today, you would be shivering a bit from the cold. Google tells me it is a balmy 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is a great cold wind blowing in from the west (which is to say, from the dry, dry Gobi desert). The wind whistles around the edges of the building and thunders down the cavernous channels made by streets running between sky scrapers. I can see more tall buildings from my window than exist in my dear state of Maine, I'm sure. The wind gusts rather constantly, and it makes the doors and windows rattle like discontented ghosts are trying the latches. Sometimes, the wind twists into some strange nook, and makes surprising sounds. Just yesterday, I was sure I heard the horns played by the Abydonians in Stargate when Ra's ship is descending. This afternoon, on the way to lunch, I looked up to see if the Nasgul were attacking.

When the wind isn't blowing quite so hard, my corner of the city is amazingly quite. Or, well, much quieter than I expected so large a city would be. Yes, the constant chorus of car horns is a little jarring (I believe all Chinese drivers follow the Massachusetts Driver model), but little other traffic noise finds its way down my little street. I often hear Chinese conversations shouted cheerfully, but more often than not, I haven't the foggiest what is said.

Every morning, Monday through Friday, I am treated to the Chinese National Anthem at 8am sharp. Across the street from me is an elementary school -- as I wash my face and brush my teeth in the morning, I watch hordes of little kids arrive at school, and a select few solemnly raise the flag in the courtyard. Now that is is warming up, and the kids aren't so bundled against the cold, I can see that their uniforms are bright blue track suit-like affairs. They have bright yellow knit caps with brims. All in all, very adorable. It's also very comforting, although it is disconcerting to realize how much of my education has been in close proximity to elementary schoolers -- first high school in the same building, then my college dorm across the street from one, and now, on the other side of the world, the same situation. Anyway, it's fun to see parents arriving with their children in the morning; at once reminding me of my childhood and at the same time so different. The Chinese school is a building, surrounded by ball courts and courtyard, and surrounded on all sides by two story, narrow buildings that form a wall. They enter through the front gate, which is where they are dropped off. There's nothing like a school bus here -- the kids arrive on foot, perched on the baggage racks or back seats of their parent's bicycles, or in a startling variety of cars (My favorite of these looks like the offspring of a Dodge Caravan and a VW Beetle, which got its looks from the van and its size from the bug -- I shall have to take a picture). Many of the children arrive alone or with peers, no adults. I distinctly remember not being allowed, by the school, to walk to or from primary school for fear of traffic and strangers with nondescript vans and candy. Apparently that is not a fear here, which just goes to show that six year olds are better at navigating Beijing traffic than I am -- but more on that later.

Back to the street, there is a long white metal fence, taller than me, in front of our buildings. It can be gated off at night, although the gate man is always on duty, so I think it does not close. Whatever it may say about my social life, I haven't been out past curfew to see. The walkway is paved with square grey concrete stones, perhaps 6 inches a side. They aren't very even, and it's a blessing my ankles are so willing to bend, otherwise I'd surely have broken them twice over by now. I have an alarming tendency not to look where I'm stepping. In the afternoon, around the time school lets out, the street occasionally gains a street vendor selling roasted sweet potatoes or pineapples artfully carved into a spiral pattern which takes off all the rough outer skin. You can get a hot, sweet, tender potato bigger than your fist for about 3 kuai, a medium sized pineapple is about 5 kuai -- so less than a US dollar each.

Let's step into the dorm, now. The front door is dark green, if you care to know. Inside, you weave through the collection of bicycles that people park inside, glance at the announcement board to your left, and sigh at the six storeys you have to climb to get to my room. Alas. Then you try not to breathe through your nose, because for some reason, the hallway smells like a poorly-tended outhouse today.

There's no way to put it gently, I don't think. Sometimes, my home away from home smells like shit. It's not a reflection on actually cleanliness, though. The dear ayis (ayi is Chinese for aunt; it's a respectful term of address for the two housekeeping ladies) climb up and down every day, cleaning the hall, cleaning our bathrooms, and washing our sheets. I'm sure it has something to do with the plumbing, or something. It's not too bad, really. Sometimes you just need to shut up and breathe through your mouth. Oh, and a pineapple in your room can soak up chemical smells -- but don't eat it afterwards.

I've taken you through sight, sound, taste, and smell now, the only sense left is touch. Much here is the same -- desks still feel like desks, concrete pavement still feels like concrete pavement. Perhaps the biggest difference is the bed. I've complained about this before, and I'll complain again, because my poor back just won't acclimate. Chinese beds are stiff as board. They take "firm" to a whole new level. It's like in the memory foam ad, where a scantily clad woman jumps up and down on one side of the bed while a glass of wine fails to spill on the other. Except in this case, the glass doesn't spill because solid rock doesn't transfer motion well. Aw, well, perhaps I'm exaggerating, but compared to the inner springs and three inches of memory foam I was luxuriating in for the two months before my arrival here, it's like sleeping on the floor. Thank goodness I'm young and can take it.

Although the bed aside, I think my desk chair was designed by the Spanish Inquisition. I can't feel my gluteus maximus at the moment, which makes me think this post is a wee bit long. I shall stop here and search out dinner. Tomorrow we go to the Summer Palace, and I'll lots to tell you then.