LEAVING HOME

In less than a week we'll be at The Other Home, and in less than a month we will leave our digs there for the last time. For the first time since 1998 we will be Homeless At The Other Home. Shutting down the apartment, with it's uncomfortable beds, it's rickety plumbing, it's paltry storage, it's views of nothing special out the windows-- it will not be easy. We have loved the place, the boys spent a lot of time growing up there. A lot of lunches-- eight of us squashed around the dining table, a lot of nights watching a dvd movie or soccer or Journey To The West in Chinese, a lot of happy times. Being able to land at PEK and grab a cab or a bus, or sometimes hop into the car of a friend who had come to fetch us and then roll the roads for 45 minutes or an hour to a place we could call home, this was a gift, a pleasure, a treasure. We had an address, we had a landline, we knew where we lived. I think we'll be okay. We'll leave but then, as we always do, we'll come back, and when we come back that next time perhaps then we'll feel better. The old men, the old women, the familiars of the neighborhood, they'll still be there. It'll be okay. Xia yi ci.

HUTONG RAMBLE

For a start, there really isn't a great translation of the word,"hutong." Some dictionaries will suggest "alley", but that doesn't seem to be a good fit, nor does "lane". Hutongs are urban (lanes don't have to be, hutongs do) and I usually think of alleys as being secondary routes, whereas hutongs are the only way to reach the homes they serve. Hutongs are narrow, and they are generally not straight for any real length. Twisting, in fact, is what most hutongs are.

The houses-- called siheyuan, are courtyards with four rooms, one on each side. Existing cheek by jowl, the hutongs provide the only access. Because they are so narrow, in some places barely wide enough for a single automobile (forget two) things move in and out of the hutong neighborhoods on carts and bicycles for the most part. Narrow trucks can make it through partway, but after a while, they can go no further. Most households have a daily infusion of groceries-- the homes are small, the refrigerators are small, storage space is limited. There are no basements, and essentially no garages. Some families stockpile Chinese cabbage and onions for the winter, but fresh meat, fruit, fish and vegetables are usually bought daily.

hod

IN CHINESE CHESS THERE IS NO QUEEN

NOT A STRANGER, NOT A STRANGE LAND

We've been coming to China for very nearly 20 years. In that time, we've done something marvelous-- we've made a second home in a second culture across a very big distance. We've made quite a lot of friends, and as one might expect over nearly two decades, lost a few. But it is a great comfort to be here when we can manage it. Our trips here afford not merely time to explore this marvelous and (okay, sometimes strange) land, and to see our friends here (who always ask, as soon as we arrive, when we will next come back) but to glance back towards our primary home, and get a fresh look thereof. Anyone's home is a lot like a Monet painting-- it's nearly impossible to see from close proximity. And because of that fact alone, traveling a great distance at regular(ish) intervals is essential to getting a clearer view not of one's life, but of the place and circumstance under which the life is lived. For the boys, this is as natural as breathing, as they've made the long flights and learned the new language and whatever one grows up doing is always, however it appears to anyone else, normal. No matter how we might sometimes wish the distance were not so great, the fact is that without the distance we could not gain the perspective that it allows. So we'll continue to suffer the slings and arrows of the long flights, and focus on the goal-- time in our second world.

IN SEARCH OF THE NEW FORMER STRANGER

The tale was told that once, about half a century ago, when I was being wheeled through an airport, that someone in my family said something to me about strangers, and I, it is said, replied that "strangers are just friends we haven't met." Certainly, this is just more evidence that to see the child is to see the man, for I have to concede that this is an approach to people which has endured, without my giving it much thought, to the present day.
But I was thinking of it today, this attitude of mine, while packing for a trip the purpose of which is to seek out a stranger and turn him, or her, into a friend. I'll be heading deep into unfamiliar territory, a strange landscape in a distant place, and I'll be looking with my oldest and my youngest sons for a stranger, the right stranger, to turn into a friend, one that I would hope to begin an enduring personal and business relationship.
Some people, I understand, doing exactly what I am doing, would be looking for something else entirely. They might be looking for sources, for suppliers, for commodities. But while it would look to the outsider as though we wanted the same thing, nothing could be farther from the truth. To some, the oft quoted saying, "It's not personal, it's just business," makes perfect sense. They nod, as though this were the bedrock foundation of the universe, as though there could be no other foundation. But though I understand the words, they don't really make sense in that order. To me, the quote should be, "It's not business, it's just personal." One does not have a relationship with tea or steel or cloth, but with the people who make and buy and sell those things. And while the things have their uses, to make money or to reach some other goal, they are just things. But people and relationships with people, those are the important things.
My grandfather's business partner and he began a company with nothing more than a handshake and built it into a business that lasted more than 30 years, dissolving only when advanced age made it necessary-- for business purposes. But the partnership itself survived until the men were gone.
And I think that somehow, the lesson I learned without it being taught, was that even though this was how my grandfather earned his living, that the more important thing, the thing of true value, was the friendship, the partnership, between the two men. Perhaps they teach this in business school, while students are busy working towards an MBA, that personal relationships, and not money, are the most important thing. But if so, it's a lesson I learned at no cost and without being told at a very young age. And if not, if this is not taught in business school, then perhaps an MBA is not really worth the cost.
No matter. I'm off to find someone I don't know. It should be a lot of fun.

OUR GREAT WALL

William and Ayi, Wild Great Wall, Spring 2006

BIG CITY, SMALL TOWN

When we first came to China, more than 13 years ago, foreigners were not all that common, even in places like Beijing. Our six-year-old attracted a fair amount of attention, but it was our one-year-old who really stopped traffic.
What a difference a decade and a half makes.
Nowadays, unless we stray into those areas where hicks prevail (The Forbidden City, The Summer Palace, The Great Wall at BaDaLing) we can walk out, even en mob, and not attract very much attention. That doesn't mean we can walk around our neighborhood unimpeded. Quite the reverse. If strangers no longer stop us very often to riddle us with endless questions (How old are you Where are you from What country do you come from How many children do you have Is that your wife Is your wife Chinese How much money do you make How old is your wife HOW many children did you say you have!?) we now are likely to encounter people we know, and if we've been away for a few months they'll remark on how long it's been since they've seen us, ask when we got back, how long we're staying, when we're coming back the next time, ask how each of us are, how the research is going, what the eldest is studying. It can make a five minute trip to the store for a bottle of oil take half an hour.
But interestingly, despite the fact that at 16 million the population of Beijing is eight times that of northern New England, the youngest remarked the other day, "It's nice living in a small city." "Really," I asked? "Yes," he said, "everything is so close-- the regular grocery store, the new grocery store, Carrefour, our friends, all the restaurants-- it's all so close."
And it's true-- it can take 20 minutes to cross our town when there's no traffic (and there's never any traffic) to get to a friend's house or the grocery store, while nothing here is more than a five minute walk away. So which is the big city and which is the small town?