This Is Where I Live

As some of you will recall, I returned to China about two and a half weeks ago after seven glorious weeks in the United States. I had a lovely time in the U.S., and I even went so far as to tell some of you that I was excited to get back to China and start work.

And then I woke up at 6am in Salt Lake City and had to fly back to Beijing. I had to wake up at 6am after having a splendiferous weekend at my best friend's wedding. As you might imagine, a wedding does not mean lots of water and an early evening. It means food and wine and a late night talking with old and new friends! So 6am came rather early.

It was so early, I left my (white) sweatshirt on my friend's (white) bedspread. My 8:30am flight to Portland was a little chilly. Things were not going well. My tummy was unhappy with me and I had more than a little trepidation about my upcoming journey. I had flights to catch and baggage to get through customs and a cab to get to take me to my apartment... And I was cutting it close. School started in 4 days — and I lost one of those days in transit.

I made it to Portland with no delays, checked my luggage for my international flight, and even had breakfast with two of my best friends. You'd think I'd be happy and relaxed, but no. I am not a relaxed traveler. Breakfast done, I got a ride back to the airport, where I purchased a bright purple fleece from the Columbia store to replace my forgotten sweatshirt. Although Beijing would be hot when I landed, the airplane air conditioning would kill me, and winter would be coming soon enough.

At the gate, I had 15 minutes until I boarded. I was right next to the Rogue Brewery. Would my stomach handle a beer? Could I pass up the Last Known Good Oregon Beer for the Next Ten Months? In a word: No. I had the Best Bitter. It was good. And then I boarded the plane.

I tell you, it wasn't any easier this year; it might have been worse since I knew exactly what I was leaving behind. I was leaving everything clean, safe, and sane behind me. I was leaving behind driving and riding on the right side of the road and walking on the left. I was leaving behind trash collection and recycling and fines for littering. I was leaving behind my loving family and my wonderful friends and all the strangers I could have actual, understandable conversations with. I was leaving cheese and beer made with hops and chocolate malt and apple-wood smoked, thick-cut bacon and sweet Italian sausage and beer brats and avocados and tacos and tortilla chips and did I mention the cheese? I was leaving behind giant bookstores and unfettered access to the Internet. So there I was, again, on a plane, trying to not think too much or I'd end up in tears. Alone. On a plane. For 10 hours. Over the Pacific. And a little bit of Alaska and Russia.

I think it was 22 hours after I woke up that I landed in Beijing (according to the clock, it was more than a day and a half). I was exhausted. I was starving. I was still two hours from home. There was the long walk and the wait for passport control and baggage. And then there was the taxi. It wasn't tough getting the taxi (because they all queue up and you just jump in a nearby, empty taxi), but we did have some difficulty with my address. Go figure, but he didn't know the Yuquan Lu. Or Fuxing Lu. Or Fuxingmen. I tried to call my Handler, but I *should* have picked up an extra phone card inside the terminal, because I had run out of credit over the summer. I was exhausted. I couldn't communicate. And I just wanted to get myself, my two 50-lb. bags, my little wheelie bag, and my backpack back to my apartment and sleep.

Finally, he figured out my horrible Chinese (without my Handler's help) and we were off. And it was hot. And it was humid. And the windows were rolled down, but there was a haze of "fog" in air. And it smelled. It smelled like garbage and sewage and industrial waste. And I had willingly returned.

But, there was nothing to be done about it, so the next morning I dragged myself out of bed, put on some decent clothes, and walked to work. I had to show my face and figure out what was going on.

And I was welcomed with open arms. I got a hug and a kiss from each of my Western colleagues. I got a good Chinese hug (with three back pats) from my Chinese colleagues. I got smiles and shouts of "Scotty!" when I walked into a room. And although I did go home and go to sleep that night, the next night I met up with my colleagues at the (newly-named) Twinkle Bar. And I sat in the hot, humid Beijing air and breathed in the fumes and laughed and joked and drank crap beer. I looked around the table and realized I was sitting with my good friends and having a great time.

I walked back up the street and curled up in my bed, with my wool mattress topper, and my dodgeball quilt, and the afghan my grandmother knit for me, and my feather pillow, and my teddy bear. As I drifted off to sleep I realized that Beijing might not be home the way that Maine is home, or Portland is home, or Durham is home, but right here, right now — this is where I live.