The Sino-American War in Me

I just got sucker punched by Karma, and now I’ve been laid out for a day.

SPU got here on Sunday, and as soon as they arrived, my lazy afternoons turned into frantic translation-fests. It’s really good to be busy. Sunday was a blur of room assignments and welcome-to-the-campus pomp and pageantry. On Monday I went on a long hike that, at five hours and 2,000 feet of elevation gain via uneven stone steps, was a bit more than I was planning on. Monday evening involved a bar, and I had a good time because I was enjoying getting to know everyone. Tuesday I left the apartment at 7:30, and did not get back until 11:30. The day was pretty mundane: trips to the market, trips to the grocery store, trips to the bakery, where my job was to roam around and speak Chinese whenever someone pulled my string (or that’s how it felt). When we sat down at a snack shop at about 3:30, I realized that I had skipped lunch and that this was the first time I had sat down all day long. Tuesday night also involved a bar.

So, come Wednesday, I found my legs stiff with overexertion, my head sore with exhaustion, and my voice nonexistent from overuse. I was doing my best to act responsibly, even sleeping about 7 hours a night, but my body had become accustomed to its Chinese lifestyle and was resenting this intrusion of American ideology.

A meal in China is the building block upon which relationships are built. To know someone is to share a meal with them. It seems that every “Business in China” book makes particular mention of the “business banquet,” where people are weighed and measured, deals are struck or destroyed, and the eating, if not an afterthought, is more a medium than an end in itself. This ethos is not restricted to official gatherings, but tends to be scaled down according to context, all the way down to the humble fare of which our daily routine now consists. As such, they tend to be languid affairs. The food takes a long time to come, it is eaten slowly, and it is not uncommon for half an hour to pass between the last morsel eaten and when the check is finally called for.

Not so now. Lunches are now eating with purpose, the food is consumed, the tables soon vacated. I must confess that up until this week, I tended to be the pointedly check his watch or clear his throat and ask what everyone’s plan for the day was. But one day I was left at the table, solitarily picking at the last peanuts out of the Kung Pao Chicken as everyone else rushed off to their mid day naps. Seriously. I was filled with a strange anti-patriotic regret that Chinese food is often relegated to the sub-strata of take-out. If everything someone eats reminds her or him of Panda Express, how can you blame that person for eating it quickly? Maybe I should commend them learning the names of things instead of trying to order the “Special For Two With Extra Spring Rolls.”

I have also grown to love my xioxi (rest) time. Xioxi time extends from noon until 2:30, where very little is open, and even if it is open, then the shopkeeper is probably asleep on a stool. This may be due to the Chinese habit of eating a light breakfast and then a heavy lunch. It seems reasonable that a mornings activity, fueled only by a piece of bread, then followed by a large, greasy meal could knock your system to its knees for a few hours. Bottom line is, I don’t know why we xioxi, but I like it. And, apparently, have come to depend on it.

Many of the SPU’ers, tired from their travels, have adopted the xioxi, unwittingly paying homage to their new cultural host. However, with 33 of them, someone is always doing something at any given time. And those things tend to involve translating. A moment of silence for my dearly departed xioxi time.

I think the coup-de-gras to my system was actually the bars. Now I’m going to cut you off before anyone starts waving blue and white flags or picketing… whatever it is you might feel the urge to picket. (That means you, God-squaders) This has nothing to do with alcohol, dancing, or any other of the devil’s delights. This has simply to do with loud music. (Crap. Rock n’ Roll. Fine. Only one of the devil’s delights) I’m a talker. It’s my own fault, really, but I enjoy talking, no matter how loud, and at the end of the night, my throat is pretty torn up. Factor in a mountain hike in the pollution two days ago, throw in a karaoke song or two (It’s China, I get amnesty. Especially when I’m singing Sinatra) and should I even be surprised that I can’t talk?

Part of me is detached and curious. Which lifestyle will emerge dominant? I have lamented the solitude of the last month, and wistfully remembered my American days of unending motion. Now, though, I am not so sure. Apparently being busy means I don’t have time to read or write. Being busy means that I am running around, translating for one mundane task or another, while doing nothing of consequence for myself. I’m a little curious to see which way the pendulum swings for these next three months.

Curiosity or no, the fact of the matter is that I am sitting here in between my peanut butter crackers and my empty bowl of instant noodles (closest thing to chicken noodle), sipping hot water like it’s going out of style. I guess in the end, it’s not really karma, but causality that that has been my downfall. Stupid consequences…

PS There is a cricket on my living room floor. How did it get to the fourth floor? And now, as I watch the tiny cricket hopping around the bare expanse of my living room, I can't help but sing to myself, "I'm a big, big girl, in a big, big world..."