Emily Wright • Chile
With limited internet access and a deadline for a major scholarship right in the middle of my backpacking adventure, I have had no time for my two favorite e-hobbies: blogging and facebook. Now that the deadline has passed, I can breathe again, and of course re-connect with my friends and my virtual pen and paper.
– — – — – — – — – — – –
Backpacking. Traveling the world. Catching buses. Bunking in hostels. Letting your heart lead you to your next destination. This is the college student’s dream. However, the “gringo trail” is not just for college kids needing a semester-long break from the school grind–classes, meetings, tests, working. No, on the road, you meet people from different places, seeking different answers to their respective life conundrums.
There is the traveling couple, looking for a little time to share apart from their daily routines. There is the middle-aged man just bouncing around for a brief hiatus from work. But perhaps the most interesting type of traveler I have met has been the guy, or gal, just chilling–no agenda, no timeline, and virtually no budget (it takes less than a week to find a well-paying job teaching English, or so we hear). No obligations, no worries about staying too long or too short in any single place. Just living on the road, always en route to the next unknown destination.
I find something beautiful in such a traveling lifestyle; to be able to free yourself completely of everything that could hold you back or tie you down somewhere seems to be a wonderfully cleansing and liberating experience. Yet when I think of myself in such a situation, I can’t see myself blissfully at peace. A weekend or even a week alone, relaxing at my family’s cottage or perhaps taking a short trip to a town outside of Buenos Aires, yes–that I can certainly do and would no doubt soak up every moment of solitude. But as much as I love running errands, sitting outside reading, and going for bike rides on my own, I love having someone with me at the end of the day to share my reflections with or to tell a funny story to.
While traveling solo does not necessarily mean you are alone–usually you can meet up with other backpackers or friends here and there–when it comes down to it, you don’t have that consistent companion to make mistakes with (and learn from them), laugh with, and grow with. I have met many travelers so far with whom I have developed a connection in a matter of hours or days. However, that bond can only go so deep. The history of a relationship is part of what makes it so special to share new places and cultures with that person; it is not just experiencing things here and now, but also in the context of things that you have shared in the past. To me, this is what makes the new experiences so beautiful.
I has been a wonderful time bonding and growing with Laura, and now Rachel, over the past four weeks. As we have gotten through mishaps and mischief, our adventures have compounded on each other, making every one that much better than the previous one.
The days fly by and my countdown has entered the single digits.
This time around, the idea of packing gave me an initial shock of fear, but it wore off quickly.
Itinerary is set, with minor buffers for flat tires, late trains, and washed-out roads.
Yellow Fever, H1N1, and Hepatitis A vaccinations all accounted for. Anti-malaria, anti-biotic, anti-altitude sickness medications purchased, thank you Walgreen’s and my insurance company.
Judging by the list, it appears I’m ready to go; I just hop on the plane and say “Adios, America.” Yet for some reason, I have experienced more butterflies fluttering around in my tummy in the past week than the number of monarchs that migrate to Mexico every year. I have already studied abroad, and it was in a much more distant land, so why is my mind buzzing with anxiety? I suppose the only answer I can supply is that the unknown is always a bit daunting, a twinge scary, and a pinch overwhelming, creating the perfect environment in which caterpillars can emerge from their cocoons to wreak havoc on your nerves.
Unlike the laundry list of diseases I may contract while traveling, my only prescription for this malady is similar to what I did during a therapeutic morning yoga session: deep breathing and a constant mental reminder that “It’s okay. Relax.”
I sat in a wicker chair with a colorfully patterned cushion. Across the small table from me, my dad perused the menu, reading the illustrative descriptions of the available options, which come from remote places all around the world. I flipped through the pages. Green, white, black, red—a rainbow of tea leaves, each offering a different experience for your taste buds and your mind.
Dobra Tea is a quaint little tea shop on Madison’s eclectic State Street, the shopping and eating (and Halloween) Mecca for university students, and is conveniently located a few blocks away from my parents’ condo. Walking into the store, a little bell signals your entrance and you are greeted by some funky global or jazz music, which is played at the perfect level to encourage conversation but also offer privacy. You can choose to sit at small tables for two, loveseat couches, or on raised carpeted platforms with little cushions and low tables, after you kick off your shoes of course. There is no internet access, which results in no computers, creating a temporary escape from the technologically centered world in which we live. Instead, you are left to sit, drink your tea, and converse with others in a state of heightened mindfulness. As my dad puts it, you get to zen out.
The tea times I have had with my parents during my short month at home have been opportunities for me to transition between my two journeys. While drinking my pu’er cha, I feel nostalgia for my time in China. Tea was served every time I sat down in a restaurant or at a meeting and I cherished its calming and restorative powers. But a few pages later in the menu I find mate, a strong caffeinated tea that is ubiquitous in Argentina. I always feel the urge to try it and get in the spirit of my coming South American adventure, but I never do; I want my first mate experience to be the real deal. Beyond the menu, my discussions with my parents about my past and future travels have been essential for me to reflect and process everything I experienced during the last three months and prepare myself mentally for what is to come.
Culture shock. It’s what you hear about time and again from Northwestern’s study abroad office. E-newsletter after e-newsletter includes a note reminding you about the difficulties of adjusting to a new country, a new culture, a new way of life. Despite all of the warnings, you traipse off to your destination of study with eyes that you believe to be wide open, yet they are blind to the threats that ignorance poses on your mind and soul in this new world you explore.
I say this as a victim. My name is Emily, and I went through culture shock.
For me, the blindness began five weeks after my plane landed in Hong Kong. That wonderful city was more like the European ones I had visited in my previous travels and thus, I was not shaken in the least by the transition. However, the leap to mainland China, beginning with Beijing and continuing in Shanghai, was like being dunked into an early morning ice-water bath after cozying up in your warm bed all night.
My daily life was like a tango of the worst sort. One bright Sunday morning I would be romanced by the older men and women competitively playing cards in the park and smile from the beautiful simplicity I saw all around me. The next day on the subway, I would feel self-conscious, guilty, and upset by people glancing my way or talking amongst themselves, which I believed to be unabashed stares and malicious whispers. My emotional dance threw me in opposite directions, putting me into a state of confusion about my place in China, in my local, temporary community, and my future prospects of returning to the country. During the peak of this phase, I wrote my post about the unappreciated attention I was receiving.
After a few weeks in Shanghai, the dance was over. During a conversation with my parents, which was precisely about my emotional tango, I suddenly realized that I was a victim of culture shock. I had foolishly permitted my guards to stand down, thinking I knew China and its culture. As a result, the infantry of ignorance crept in, planting grenades ready to shake my feelings and rattle my thoughts. Before I realized what had happened, I had been surrounded by the enemy, taken into captivity, and was already on my way back home after my side had regained their ground and won the battle.
Fortunately, I came to this realization in time to enjoy my remaining time in China and embrace every bit of its culture. This certainly became easier as I gained a better grasp of the language; like Samantha Rollins wrote about in her post, not being able to communicate creates a concrete wall between you and the people that can never be fully broken down. As I became a “regular” at the baozi stand down the street and the owner of the gym I joined became used to seeing my face, I felt as if I was proving myself, like I was saying, “Hey, I’m not your typical Westerner or American. I’m trying to learn your language, I want to learn about your history and your culture, and I want to listen to what you have to say. I don’t know anything, so will you teach me?” And even though I did not relate a word of this through spoken language, I felt like people heard me, loud and clear. I am certain this was directly a result of my mind slowly adapting and reevaluating my initial thoughts, but nevertheless, it felt good, to say the least.
In retrospect, I feel repulsed knowing that I had even the slightest negative sentiments toward anyone who looked at me for longer than a second. But at the same time, I understand and appreciate that I had to go through that phase to reach the place where I am now. I fell in love with the entirety of Chinese culture that I was exposed to, and that romance only came to be thanks to the attack of culture shock.
After a 13-hour flight, I groggily trooped off the plane and into the immigration line. The security guard responsible for keeping the waiting travelers in order was calling out, “Step on up people. Keep it moving. Pick a line, whichever one you would like.” My mind flashed back to the numerous times I had to go through Chinese immigration in the past three months. In those situations, the security guard directed people to specific lines and never let a queue grow longer than one person. I couldn’t help but laugh at this candid example of the dichotomy between the United States’ laxness and China’s strictness. I was back in the land of the free.
On the drive home from Chicago to Madison, the first thing I noticed was how sterile everything was. The air was so clear, I could see miles into the distance and the streetlights looked incredibly bright instead of just a dull glow. There weren’t large pieces of materials — wood, metals, plastic — on the sides of roads. The buildings didn’t have dirty streaks on the sides — it was as if they were newly painted. This is in comparison to what I had gotten used to during my time in China and to be honest, I wasn’t entirely happy to see everything so clean and tidy; the sterility I was surrounded with seemed void of the character that was so vibrant in China. I know from personal experience this isn’t actually the case in American communities, yet it still was an interesting feeling to be hit with on my first day home.
I thought I knew the meaning and importance of family. I cherish the little time I get to spend with my entire family and wholeheartedly believe that my hour-long skype chats with my parents have kept me from getting homesick. However, after spending a weekend with a classmate’s, Will Fan’s, distant relatives, I realized that my understanding of family is incredibly limited.
When we arrived in Shenyang after a four-hour flight delay, we were enthusiastically welcomed by about 8 members of the Fan Family Clan (the term of endearment we bestowed upon them) with huge smiles on their faces and holding a sign with Will’s name on it. They bustled us off into a van and during the 3-hour drive to Dandong, a city that borders North Korea, they repeatedly assured us that they did not mind waiting for our plane—they were just happy to have Will with them.
Our weekend was filled with family-style meals eaten around huge round tables with lazy susans in the middle. The beer never stop flowing and the toasts seemed to be an endless stream of thank-yous. Gifts were given and reciprocated.
We visited the small village, comprised of perhaps ten little homes surrounded by farmland, where Will’s grandfather grew up. The highlight was the bridge his grandfather built later in his life so the children could safely cross the dangerous river to go to school — for this, he was a local hero. Later, we visited the family’s ancestral gravesite, where flowers were laid, fireworks were blown off, and paper used for money was burned in order to honor their ancestors. (Confucius would be thrilled by these activities.)
Everything was carefully planned and executed down to the finest detail — even where we would sit around the dinner table. The entire time, I could not believe how welcoming, warm, and kind these people could be to strangers simply because of merely a family tie. It was truly amazing.
What I came to realize is that for Chinese families, family does not just mean the nuclear or even the extended family. Family means the most distant relatives with whom you share a great-great-great grandfather; it means treating someone who you have never met like a brother or son simply because you are somewhat related; it means changing schedules and spending more money and time than you can afford to lavishly welcome a long-lost relative, his three unexceptional classmates, and his professor and professor’s spouse.
By the end of the weekend, I found myself looking lovingly at Old Mr. Fan, whose weathered face and lean figure came to life whenever he told a story. I wanted to be a part of the family, share in the stories, and promise to visit next time I was somewhere in Asia. But even more, I could not help thinking about my own family. I did not know who my ancestors were or where my distant relatives were living now. I could have had the opportunity to go to my ancestral village when I was in Ireland earlier this year, but the thought did not even enter my family’s minds. To say the least, the weekend was an eye-opening experience and an extraordinary insight into the family—arguably the foundation of Chinese society.
A word of warning: If you plan to visit China and you are unaccustomed to cigarette smoke, be prepared for your virgin lungs to be inundated with a plethora of toxins. Because in China, like in many other places, you can smoke whenever and wherever your tense nerves desire.
For me, this has been one of the most difficult things to accept. I dislike cigarettes, the smoke they emit when burned, and the ever-lingering smell that remains on clothes, hair, and even skin. More specifically, I detest every effect cigarettes have externally and internally on the human body. I do not look down on smokers, I just do not want to be forced to inhale their smoke. Thus, I find myself in very uncomfortable situations on a daily basis. Whether I am typing away on my computer in a café, eating dinner at a restaurant, or doin’ my thing on a club dance floor, I am constantly inhaling second-hand smoke. While I am proud to say I have never smoked a cigarette in my life, I have come to the sad realization that my clean record has come to an end due to my indirect smoking since I’ve been in China.
Fortunately, there is some hope. In Shanghai, a widespread smoking ban will soon be implemented in the run-up to next year’s World Expo. Hopefully this ban will continue after the event’s conclusion and even spread to other cities and regions. As China becomes more globalized, there is a chance that it will embrace, or at least accommodate, norms in other countries where smoking is banned in public places.
Until that day comes, I rely on my scarf, shirt collar, and any other material item to cover my nose and mouth, trying unsuccessfully to prevent the 4,000 chemical compounds floating out of that tiny orange burning tip from entering my body.
Greasy. Fried. Unhealthy. Saucy.
These are words that come to many Americans’ minds when they hear “Chinese food”. But that kind of food that we all know of—the rice and stir-fry that comes in those little white take-out cartons; the food you order when you had a hard day at work and you just don’t feel like cooking, or you want to indulge a bit; the fortune cookies at the end of the meal—that food could not be further from the food you find on the streets and in the restaurants in China (just FYI, there are no fortune cookies in China). Like most of the American versions of international food, the Chinese food we typically have in the States does not do the real Chinese food justice, which is very unfortunate, because after two months of eating in this country, I already know I am going to miss the delicious cuisine.
Now, I must note here that I love food. I love the sensual experience of smelling, tasting, feeling the different textures. I am awed by the power that individual flavors can have and how those flavors can fuse together to create a delectable combination that can be so complex and simple at the same time. I yearn to try new dishes and cuisines and will force myself to try something a second time if I did not like it the first because appreciation comes with time. That said, you now might be able to understand why I can write my longest post yet about food.
Here are ten things I have had and my notes about them:
1. The Staple: As many know in Western culture, rice is the mainstay of Chinese cuisine. As my fellow classmate recently told me, rice is to Chinese food as bread is to American sandwiches—food isn’t food without it. White rice is meant to be the base of nearly every dish. At first, I felt a bit overloaded with this carb that was nothing like my whole-grain breads and pastas back home, but now I realize how it really does make the meal complete. The best part of every meal is using the leftover sauces to douse your remaining rice and enjoy.
2. Regional Variations: Like we see in the U.S., Chinese cuisine differs depending on the province you are in. Every region has its distinct spices and specialty dishes—sometimes it feels like there are many different countries in one. The four kinds of cuisine I have had are Sichuan, which makes my favorite peanut and chicken dish, Cantonese, Hunan, which cooks up wonderful lamb kabobs, and Shenzhen, which uses spices that are so hot, your mouth literally goes numb.
3. Farmers Market, not just on Saturday: Much like street food, you can find a fruit stand, store, or wagon on every block in China. The most common fruits are apples, bananas, and Clementine oranges. The quality is good and the price is cheap. “Wet markets” are a bit less common, but easy to find. These are indoor, permanent farmers’ markets that have fruit, vegetables, meats, and fish. Usually you can identify them by the fishy smell that hangs in the sidewalk area outside. It is so fun to walk through the aisles, looking at the different veggies, examining the live clams squirting water, and watching the vendors chop up fresh fish. Additionally, bakeries and butcher shops are on every street. I am still amazed that you could pretty much check off everything on your grocery list with a walk down the street.
4. Hot Pots and Clay Pots: Hot pots can be found in many areas of China, but usually it is associated with Korean cuisine. It is pretty much like what it sounds like. You have a big pot of stew or stock boiling over a burner in the middle of the table and you get to put your raw vegetables and meats into the pot, let it cook, fish it out, and eat it. It’s quite fun, if you can resist the temptation to eat medium-raw meat to ease your growling stomach.
Clay Pot Rice is a specialty in Hong Kong. Again, this is pretty self-explanatory. You receive a clay pot with cooked rice, meat, and veggies in it. Then, you put in some soy sauce, cover it up and let it cook in its remaining heat for a few minutes, and then enjoy. The best (or worst, depending on who you talk to) is the hard, fried rice stuck to the bottom of the pot.
5. Fresh Fish: It is fairly common for restaurants to have tanks filled with fish so diners can choose which one they want for their dinner. It is actually really neat to see the animal that is going to be on your plate; it’s a much more transparent process than what is common in the U.S. My favorite fish experience was on Lamma Island off the coast of Hong Kong. After a beautiful hike and a one-on-one experience with Hong Kong’s sole windmill, we ended up on a boardwalk that had about ten seafood restaurants along one side and the bay on the other. We got to eat incredibly fresh and wonderfully seasoned fish while we watched the last fishermen coming in with their catches from the day at sea.
6. Veggies Please!: Vegetables are not hard to come by in Chinese food, but they are certainly not a major part of the diet. The most common is boiled cabbage, which usually comes with any meat & rice dish you may order. Eggplant, mushrooms, and sweet potatoes are also very common. The difficult thing, though, is that it is nearly impossible to order a vegetarian dish. Almost all “vegetable dishes” are a mix of veggies and meat. Therefore, my choice to give up vegetarianism while studying abroad was a very smart move.
Chinese cuisine does redeem itself for its veggie deficiencies by using a lot of tofu. Usually, tofu will be mixed in with veggie or meat dishes, but there are quite a few tofu-only options in restaurants. China also has a special kind of tofu called “stinky tofu” and the name does not lie. In fact, it is an understatement. This tofu is perhaps the most revolting smelling food that my nose has encountered. I haven’t brought myself to taste it, just because I don’t think I could get near enough to it. However, I feel like I have an obligation to overcome this obstacle in the name of vegetarianism. We will see what happens.
7. Drinky Drinks—Mango and Milk: As you probably know, China is famous for its tea (this will be a topic for another post to come). One kind of tea I’ve become particularly fond of is milk tea. It is pretty much tea + milk + sugar, but for some reason it tastes like so much more. It often comes with “pearls”, which are like the tapioca balls we find in American “Bubble Tea”. This drink has been a near-daily ritual for me, which I justify with the fact that I will not be able to find it in a few weeks!
Mango is perhaps the most pervasive fruit in the Hong Kong area. There are entire stores devoted to mango deserts, dishes, and drinks. We certainly got our fair share of this delicious fruit in the shakes, smoothies, juices and every other liquid form you could think of.
8. Dim Sum and Then Some: Dim sum is the Chinese equivalent of the American Sunday brunch. It is a Cantonese specialty, which is the region that Hong Kong is situated in. To partake in the feast, big groups of family and friends go out to eat and sit at huge round tables with an enormous Lazy Susan in the middle. Waiters push carts around the restaurant with dishes that you can just take. Everyone shares the food, but instead of large, family-sized portions, it’s more like tapas. Two classic dim sum dishes are baozi, which are steamed buns filled with scrumptious meats and veggies, and steamed dumplings. Also, chicken feet are a classic dim sum dish, which I did in fact try! (It was chewy, but actually tasty.) I fell in love with a specific kind of baozi that was made of really sweet dough and it was filled with BBQ pork. Yummy.
9. (Portuguese) Egg Tarts: These amazing little pastries are a Hong Kong and Macau (the Portuguese colony) specialty and have established a place in my heart. The best way to describe them is as follows: think of crème brulee, but instead of in a dish, it is in a wonderfully light and crispy pastry crust. It is small—the diameter is about 2 inches—so you don’t feel too guilty, unless you choose to have 3 within 30 minutes, which I can tell you from experience is absolutely possible.
10. Street Food: You can find street food on every block on every street in every city in China. Vendors’ establishments vary from being housed in a storefront, a portable cart and bike, and everything in between. The most common kinds of food are fried noodles and fried rice. Some of the things I’ve tried and thoroughly enjoyed are pig intestines on a stick with spicy mustard drizzled on it, kabobs of every kind—meat, veggies, bread, you name it—, fried noodles with peanut sauce, pot stickers, black corn, and baked sweet potatoes. The community surrounding street food is perhaps one of the most beautiful parts about Chinese culture; from the interactions between the individual vendors to the groups of people that will pop a squat on the sidewalk to eat their food together, it is incredibly vibrant and I feel lucky to experience it.
I was roused from my nap on a park bench to find a Chinese family standing in front of me. The mom was holding their baby and the dad was waving a camera in his hand. A few seconds later, the baby was sitting in my lap and I was smiling as the mom and relatives were energetically trying to keep the baby’s attention focused toward the camera.
The explanation: I had the honor of being the first white person this child had seen and of course, the parents wanted to document this wonderful occasion, even if it meant waking me up from my dozing.
This picture was probably my tenth one with Chinese strangers. It has become a common occurrence, particularly when I go to a Chinese tourist hotspot (i.e. government buildings and large parks), rather than a Western tourist hotspot (i.e. cheap shopping districts). While this may sound like a very awkward, and even rude, interaction, it is only the tip of the iceberg.
Never before have I felt so aware of my skin color. Everywhere I go, people stop, stare, and snap pictures of me, with or without my permission. Some look like they have seen a ghost (and if you know my skin color, you know this is understandable), others giggle to their friends, and yet others will clearly talk to their comrades about me, knowing that I will not be able to understand them.
At first, this odd reception was quite amusing to me. I had heard of these kinds of things from other Americans who had traveled in China and it was interesting to actually experience them firsthand. However, I am sad to say that I am beginning to resent my skin color, which I never imagined a person could do. I cringe every time I hear street vendors call out, “Hey white lady!” as I walk down the street to get me to buy their silk scarves or fake purses. I get flushed and bothered when I can tell people are talking about me on the subway or at a restaurant. I desperately miss the anonymity I have in the U.S., where I couldn’t draw attention to myself unless, perhaps, I was wearing my birthday suit.
The worst part about the way I have been feeling is that I know I should not have this attitude. I understand that before China’s opening up in 1978, Westerners rarely visited, and generally did not venture further than their hotel and the main tourist attractions. The Chinese who are from rural areas, or really anywhere other than Beijing and Shanghai, may have never seen anyone other than their fellow citizens—it’s only natural that they react in these ways. Yet I cannot help but feel bothered, frustrated, and even hurt as I am treated not like a human being, but as some foreign species or rare animal. Is it so bad for me to have these sentiments, as long as I keep them separate from my actions?
One important part about this experience is that for the first time ever, I can actually understand how the color of one’s skin can determine how one is treated. I knew this, of course, but I believe it was on a superficial level. Actually being the subject of such behavior is an unexpectedly jarring wake up call. Questions and ideas swarm around my head about discrimination, “colorblindness”, and individuality, which, I realized, is so often discarded when grouping people together as a “race”. And so, while sometimes I just wish I was either Chinese or invisible, I am grateful to have this opportunity to be a minority and develop a bit of an understanding of skin color’s role on a daily basis, affecting not just how one is treated, but provoking some disturbing feelings about oneself.
