“……建于14世纪，作为军事防御系统。你看到那边的箭楼了吗？” 姑姑指着远处一座寺庙式的建筑问我。眯着眼看着渐渐褪色的日落，我心不在焉地点点头。当我们继续走在西安的城墙上的时候，她的声音渐渐地消失了。一条光滑的看上去是无穷无尽的石头路被红灯笼照亮，随着天空变暗，在前面慢慢地展开。此刻在我周围，情侣们手拉着手散步，朋友们在路上停下来自拍，家人们骑着出租来的自行车经过。就像一个小孩子，我在高墙的每一个缝隙之间停下来，向下窥视我的故乡。从高处往下，我看到街道上小小的行人熙熙攘攘，护城河上灯火通明的船只，以及街头各色小贩摊的彩色顶棚。我还听到出租车司机不耐烦的喇叭声，闻到汽油和油炸食品的混合味道，既令人闻着怪怪的又很美妙。片刻之间，我停下来观望，思绪突然集中起来，我不敢相信自己终于高中毕业了，我又一次回到了故乡，从外面的家来到了自己出生的地方。我充满了幻想、好奇、怀旧和熟悉感。这是我第一次登上故乡的城墙。---- Thoughts from China Trip ----
“…built in the 14th century, as a military defense system. Do you see the Archery Tower over there?” my aunt points to a temple-styled building in the far distance. Squinting against the fading sunset, I nod absently. Her voice drifts off as we continue to walk along the Xi’an City wall. It’s seemingly endless, a smooth stone road illuminated by red lanterns that slowly turn on as the sky darkens. Around me, couples walk by hand-in-hand, friends stop along the way to take selfies, and families ride by on rental bikes. Like a little kid, I stop between each gap of the tall walls to peek down at my hometown below. From up high, I see miniature people walking along the brightly lit ships and the colorful tops of different street vendors, hear impatient honks from taxi drivers, and smell a mix of gasoline and fried food that’s both unpleasant and wonderful. For quick moments, I stop and take it all in, unable to believe that I’ve finally graduated high school and that I’m here, once again, in my hometown across the world from home. I’m filled with a sense of wonder and curiosity, nostalgia and familiarity. This is my first time on the City Wall.
Throughout my recent trip to China, I can’t help but compare it to the last time I was back, in 2009. I came home that summer full of fond memories: warm, lazy days spent in the house I was born in, having the rare opportunity of petting a panda in Chengdu, buying squid kabobs in infamous night markets. This time around, some things are still the same, like the clay figurines sold at Xingqinggong Park and the crowded afternoon busses. However, the changes, big and small, are stark. The house that I fondly loved has long been sold. Transactions are paid by smartphone so often now that many places no longer accept cash. The sugary orange juice I used to buy every morning is no longer being sold.
And, of course, nine years have passed since I last came back. From a scrawny third grader, I’m now (dangerously) approaching being a college student. This time around, I’m much more aware of the cultural differences I see around me. I get off the plane in Beijing, desperately trying to install a new VPN app so that I can keep up my snapchat streaks. Having always prided myself on retaining my Chinese abilities, I’m surprised when I can’t understand the tour guide’s rapid speech on why the Terracotta Warriors were created. Before ordering a drink, I’m embarrassed by the cashier’s curious glances as my aunt reads the menu aloud for me.
Though by appearance, I blend in perfectly with any pedestrian crossing the busy street, I can’t help but feel like an outsider, dressed in disguise and clumsily trying understand a place that’s both dear to my heart and very foreign.
Many of my favorite memories on this trip come from small moments. Buying flowers strung dedicating by a string from a smiling old lady on the street. Tasting once again the infamous Old Beijing Popsicle only to have ice shards pierce my tongue a second later. Riding a metro so crowded half of the people struggling to get on were only pushed back out again (an ordeal that I can’t help but feel is very Chinese). Of course, bigger events have captured by heart as well. Having my breath taken away at the over 200 feet tall Buddha nestled in the heart of Le Mountain. Meeting my five-year-old cousin for the first time. Sliding down the Great Wall on a four-wheel scooter after a long hike.
And, throughout the course of two weeks, I’ve unknowingly dipped my toes into an ocean of Chinese history and culture. While visiting Westlake in Hangzhou, I sit in a boat and listen sleepily as the guide tells the Legend of the White Snake, a tragic love story that occurred on the Broken Bridge across the lake. In Chengdu’s Kuanzhai Alley, I sip on green tea and watch the traditional Bian Lian, pondering with the rest of the audience how the performers are able to change their masks so instantaneously.
The outsider feeling still lingers, but I’ve come to realize that it’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ve used it to guide me instead, to be curious, to learn, and to experience. After a rough 30 hour trip, I make it home to Texas feeling slightly more insightful, and just as happy as I was after visiting China all those years ago.
