One Saturday morning in Spring 2005, about 10 minutes before crawling from bed, I heard it — a screeching sound akin to scratching a blackboard with your fingernails, but magnified more than 100 times over. Yes, just a little good old welding and drilling in the name of redecorating yet another apartment in my neighborhood, a process that happened seven days a week, from morning to evening, for as long as two to three months.
Sounds like this used to bring out my worst side (a side that, regretfully, I’d even bring outdoors on occasion to shout something I’d regret later).
But not this time. I yawned, rolled over, and then slept the rest of that 10 minutes (with a clear conscience). And when I did finally rise, I didn’t even have any residual hangover of rage when I finally rose from bed.
Before I went to China, I never believed in wearing cute pastels. But after living in the Middle Kingdom, adorable outfits slowly creeped into my wardrobe, and changed forever just how I saw clothing (photo by marco microbi reckmann)
Before I went to China, I couldn’t even remember the last time I wore a pastel. I’d exorcised everything pale pink and peach from my closet, instead preferring the deep, scruffy olives and maroons and blacks of my thrift-store wardrobe. No one would mistake me for some prep princess, ever.
But over the years, pastels started creeping into my wardrobe. It started with a T-shirt here, a tank top there. And before you know it, I’m wearing an outfit — just as I did yesterday — that would leave the old me screaming in horror: a cheerful pastel striped knit tank with blinding white cargo shorts (ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!).
China changed me.
I’ll never forget my first full day in the Middle Kingdom. I dressed in my usual, defiant clothes — a military green knit top, and don’t-mess-with-me khaki shorts, baggy (just to make me look even more dominant) — as I flitted from one famous Beijing site to another: the Forbidden City, Beihai Park, Tian’anmen Square.
The term "Chinese food," like many generalized categories, hides a richness and diversity beneath it all.
HYBRID AMBASSADORS: a blog-ring project of Dialogue2010
You met our multinational cultural innovators this spring in a roundtable discussion of hybrid life at expat+HAREM. Now in these interconnected blog posts they share reactions to a recent polarizing book promotion at the writing network SheWrites. Join the discussion on Twitter using #HybridAmbassadors or #Dialogue2010
Last summer, my Chinese husband and I swept through central China on a whirlwind tour of the highlights, from Shaolin Temple to the Terracotta Warriors to Chengdu’s gardens. Everywhere we went, we sampled local culinary fare — all Chinese — with as much gusto as the tourist draws. But not every meal went smoothly, especially not with my husband.
A dinner in Xi’an, infused with the aromatic flavors of the silk road. had him running for the bathroom later that night. Another Xi’an lunch the following day — noodles stewed in an exotic spiced broth — left him desperate to leave the region for our next stop: Sichuan.
He described the problem like this: “The spices disagree with me.” This was Chinese food, yet he spoke of it like many of the Western foods he would push away, claiming them as too foreign for his palate.
Thing is, there’s nothing so extraordinary about that. “Chinese food” encompasses such a variety of flavors, cooking styles and signature dishes that, chances are, most Chinese people and Chinese food aficionados would probably dislike at least one, if not more, of the foods available. I sure do. In fact, as a vegan, I probably eat far less Chinese food than almost everyone entranced with this broad style of cooking.
When August in China comes, the Autumn Tiger is on the prowl with a ferocious heat that knocked me over more than once (photo by Wong Mei Teng)
Come August, the summer bears its true canines as the temperatures leap above 35 degrees with a ferocious humidity. You find yourself devoured by a wave of sizzling moisture every time you step out onto the streets, and overcome by a dizziness, almost like prey stunned in the chase, that has you reaching for your traditional Chinese sunstroke meds (Huo Xiang Zhengqi Wan is mine). That’s when you know it’s here — the Autumn Tiger.
Like the American “Dog Days of Summer,” the Autumn Tiger prowls over much of China — including the Yangtze River Delta I know so well — in August. But while Americans imagine a dog, defenseless with its tongue out, desperate for relief, China imagines one of the fiercest wild felines attacking the country with a heatwave — because the Autumn tiger means some deadly weather.
I knew why my Chinese friends and family feared the season — the sunstroke, suntans (undesirable in a country that worships whiteness), and stagnant air. But I had no trepidation over rising temperatures. As a summer-born girl — and a Leo — I had a fondness for these months of endless sunshine, even if the humidity stuck to your body like spandex. Just the thought of summer ushered in thoughts of celebration, vacation, and inspiration.
Once upon a time, I feared China's foreign scissors -- until I discovered the delight of a haircut in the Middle Kingdom.
Just this past Tuesday, I visited my local US hair salon to tidy up my ‘do (an unruly mess of wavy, fickle brown hair). She snipped, she clipped and had me out the door within 10 minutes. It looked fine, but it was like the hairdressing equivalent of “wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” And the experience left me yearning for those hair salons I used to know in China.
Of course, when I first moved to China, as an English teacher, I yearned for the hair salons back in the US. Like every woman, I’d done the “dating around” with many a hair salon, until I discovered the perfect stylist, a woman who absolutely “got it” about my hair. I didn’t even need to give her directions, beyond “just make me look good.” And she did, every time.
When you have this almost spiritual connection with a stylist, you just don’t want to let go, and suddenly risk the unthinkable — a bad haircut, something powerful enough to spiral your day into a horrible abyss, and even make you think twice about stepping outside (for several days, even). Continue reading “My Hairstyling Nirvana in China”
I got an e-mail from a producer for House Hunters International, a show on the Home and Garden TV Network exploring the idiosyncrasies of buying real estate in other countries, and they’re looking for people who live in China to take part in their show. What kind of people? Cool, likeable folks under 50, who have purchased their house in China within the past two years.
People who take part get $1,500 and a DVD of the show as a memento.
After nearly one year of reviving this blog, and sharing a unique perspective on China, I’ve decided I need to make some changes in my schedule. Why? To work on refining the writing I’ve done here, and begin turning this skeleton of a blog into a manuscript.
So, what can you expect? Don’t worry, I’m not taking a “vacation.” In fact, you’ll still see the same content on my site — only I’m posting three days a week, not five. Here’s the revised schedule: Continue reading “Another Gift To You, A New Schedule”
Some Western women who love Chinese men can blog too. Let’s celebrate these unique voices on the web!
(NOTE: For the most up-to-date list of these blogs, read my 2018 update of this list)
March is women’s history month, and just last week, March 8 was international women’s day. As we remember the women who make a difference in our world, there’s one minority voice we shouldn’t forget — the Western women who love Chinese men.
China blogs are still a man’s world, so our voices are often lost in the comments and trackbacks. But Western women who love Chinese men have a unique perspective to a woman’s experience in China — which makes their blogs even more valuable in the blogsphere. Here’s my list, in alphabetical order (according to the blog’s name). Continue reading “China Blogs by Western Women who Love Chinese Men”
Are Chinese men generally attracted to Western women? Are they representative of Chinese men in general?
Is there anything culturally unique about the psychology of Chinese men, as a group, that Western women should be aware of?
How are dating etiquette and customs different in China in regard to men than in the States?
What is the best way to find English-speaking Chinese men?
What are Chinese men looking for in a wife?
What are the advantages of having a Chinese husband in China?
What are some common problems Western women face with a Chinese husband?
A big thanks to Susan, Melanie and Jessica (who put up with my copious e-mails and crazy requests for things like photos)! Your voices truly made this a valuable piece.
How did I spend this Chinese New Year? As a host — along with my Chinese husband, John — for our university’s “Chinese Night” on Feb 13, 2010, here in the mountain West of the US. It’s not CCTV’s Spring Festival Party (perhaps, thankfully so!), but it’ll do. 😉
My Chinese husband, John, and I dressed in auspicious red silk to host our university’s Chinese New Year celebration.
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