Riding My Bike

This is my trusty bike that take me to and from jiujitsu across town most evenings of the week.

I strap on my helmet and carry my bright blue fixed gear road bike across the overpass that connects my building with my neighbors’. The sight of the mountains on the horizon and the bright blue sky takes my breath away with their beauty as I stare out across the landscape before I take the elevator 15 floors down to street level. It’s 5:15 pm and it’s the height of rush hour. I plunge into the flow of cars passing the entrance to my building and I’m on my way, weaving in and out of traffic. I pedal past cart vendors and busses and stop at the bicycle shop for air in my tires. I’m on my way again, the crisp late afternoon air is warm and breezy against my skin and the sun warms my face. The traffic is backed up to a near crawl, and I zoom past the bumper to bumper traffic, delighted that I am faster than the BMWs and Mercedes and other fancy SUVs that I don’t know the name of that glint and shine with polish in the sun. 

I can’t go too fast because I am constantly weaving in and out of cars. The construction for the city’s first subway line is well underway and has wreaked havoc with the traffic—my street is now one way, and the once open and lively bazaar is enclosed on all sides by tall blue tin walls that “protect yours, mine, and their safety” during the construction. I make it to the center of the city and I stop at a red light, marveling at the near silence that envelopes me in the middle of a long line of cars heading home after a tiring day’s work. I can hardly believe my ears and I wonder if the government has instigated a no-honking campaign. We sit together quietly underneath towering skyscrapers interrupted by the dome of a mosque as we wait for the light to turn green. 

I make it to the gym and the ladies at the front desk greet me with smiles and hellos (“back so soon!” they exclaim). I teach class but I forget that three of my students don’t even know what jiujitsu is, so when I tell them to get in cexiang yazhi (side control), they stare at me with blank faces. I try to accommodate both the beginners and the more advanced students. After class, I stay for an extra 30 minutes rolling, stretching, and catching up with my gym-mates. One of my coaches warns me to change out of my rash guard lest I get cold, and to wear my helmet on the ride home. 

When I leave the gym, it’s already completely dark. A man outside is selling strawberries for 10 kuai a kilo. I buy half a kilo and put them in my backpack. The bus stop attendant recognizes me and we exchange pleasantries before I hop on my bike and head home. The ride home is uphill and it takes me almost twice as long to get home. 

It’s dinner time and I can taste the spicy peppers the restaurants are cooking with. I ride past the business district ablaze with massive jumbo-trons blazing blinding light full of never-ending commercials for tea that helps you fall asleep and lose weight, and the new home you’ve always dreamed of. The road is lined with towering concrete office buildings covered in flashing neon lights with Chinese restaurants on the street level. I can see through the large windows of the tables full of male suited businessmen negotiating over drinks and apparently very spicy food.

When I get home, I’m too exhausted to cook. I wash and eat the strawberries but I can taste the pesticide. I eat them anyway, hoping the vitamins from the fruit will cancel out any bad effects. I take a cold shower and collapse into bed too tired to even get dressed or brush my hair. I know it’s going to be a good year. Tiring as hell, lonely like nothing else, challenging, but good. The insomnia I struggled with since last summer seems to have abated with the powerful tug of jetlag and soon I’m lost in sleep, dreaming of the friends I left behind in the States. 

Moving Back to China

I posted a shorter version of this post on Facebook shortly after I left Boulder. Here is the long version for those interested.

When I arrived at DIA in November, I knew I had a hellish five months ahead of me. I returned from China to live in Boulder for one purpose and one purpose only: to prepare for and pass comps. I needed to reach PhD candidacy before my dissertation fieldwork could really begin. I knew I would need to be preparing for my comps, while writing grant proposals, analyzing data from my fieldwork, working on publications, and studying Uyghur. I was filled with an overwhelming feeling of despair as I imagined myself alone, toiling day and night at the library and in my cubicle sweet cubicle. Right then, I faced two choices. I could keep my head down, read for comps 24/7, and be miserable for the next five months. Or, I could enjoy this time I had in Boulder (how lucky I was to be able to spend the winter in sunny Boulder!) and re-connect with the people I care about, even though I knew it was only temporary (as everything always is).

Shortly after I moved back to Boulder and was contemplating my life, I saw one of those corny quotes on Facebook. It was this very one:

I decided right then and there that I was going to spend the next 5 months (metaphorically) dancing in the rain (the rain of comps, that is). I downloaded Tinder and Her, asked everyone who was willing to drill with me at the gym, and texted everyone I had in my phone who lived in Boulder, letting them know I had moved back.

And I am so grateful for these past 5 months. I did not expect that I would learn so much. About my research, yes, but much more importantly about myself and about my life.

And what a rich and colorful 5 months it has been! How lucky I am to be surrounded by so many wonderful people who have provided their love and support to me in so many ways--both those who live in Boulder and who do not.

These past 5 months have seen a lot of ups and downs for me. I’ve cried myself to sleep. I’ve considered dropping out of school and running away. I considered quitting jiujitsu. I considered giving up in the middle of every single Crossfit workout. I also have numerable and wonderful memories of Sunday brunches, strolling and dancing on Pearl Street, watching Netflix, seeing Anne Akiko Meyers live in concert, hiking, skiing, and meals over laughter and deep conversations.

I also learned a lot. I learned how to persevere even when I really, really wanted to give up. I also learned how to be independent. It’s funny. From the time I was young, I’ve always thought of myself as a very independent person. And yet, I struggle with being alone sometimes. 5 months ago, there was a part of me that dreaded returning to China in the spring. Living abroad requires a willingness to live in isolation (cultural, linguistic, and social isolation). I was filled with despair when I thought that I would have to endure that isolation for another year. I lived alone this time while I was in Boulder (first time in my life to live alone), and it was actually kind of nice. I actively worked on enjoying being alone. 

Now I’m kind of excited to return to China. I know it’s going to be hard. I know I’m going to get homesick. I know there are going to be times when I’m going to be looking up plane tickets for an early flight back. I know I’m going to be laughed at when I say the wrong word or use the wrong grammar. I know I’m going to be lonely. I know there are times I’m going to wish I had never gone to China. But I know it’s going to be worth it.

Living in China has absolutely been the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. From the language, to the culture, to the research, China is a challenging place to live. But without a doubt, it’s also been the most thrilling, the most rewarding, the most satisfying, and the most eye-opening experience that I’ve undertaken. I’m excited to continue that journey--I know it’s going to be a hell of a ride.