slip and fall down slowly

I’m even clumsier in China than I am at home. Shocking, I know. Uneven surfaces, ancient sandals, and an inherent lack of grace have conspired to leave me stumbling or flat-out falling every few hundred yards or so. Luckily, China has removed any shred of dignity I had left: in a land where you’re a complete anomaly, you can get away with almost anything. I look so strange, so utterly foreign, that people expect me to be odd. So I am. I just smile and make a funny face, as if I toppled face-first into that statue on purpose, and keep walking. By my calculations, it’s a suitable trade-off for all the ogling I do myself: at the midnight barbeques, smoke filling the street corners with the scent of some unmentionable meat; at the families piled four deep on one precarious-looking bicycle; at the wizened elderly couples strolling arm-in-arm at twilight. I may fall down— perhaps not slowly, or carefully, as the Chinese say—but it’s a price I’m more than happy to pay.

China has also stripped me of my vices: chocolate, cheese, wine—and with it, the occasional drunken cigarette—hair straighteners, my beloved morning coffee….

And men. Perhaps the most challenging and suitable vice to give up after a year of having my heart batted around like a soccer ball in a muddy field. It’s not as though I was expecting to meet someone here—jokes about Chinese sugar daddies aside—but after last night’s excursion, it’s clear that the closest I’ll get to the opposite sex is probably with the toothless old man at the market who sells me leechee and mangos each morning.

Case in point: Last night, my roommates and I went to a concert at a hostel/bar called “The Hump” (another Chinese malapropism? Or just an ironic twist on my current predicament?). The band, endearingly named “The Sea-loving Mammals” (apparently “Dolphins” was taken), was mediocre at best, the beer warm, and I found myself physically propping my eyelids open with my fingers. The men-- the first Western guys I’ve seen since I’ve arrived—were all sporting some form of strange uniform: Wayne’s World-style hair-do/ponytail, sleeveless t-shirt, and (optional) sunglasses-at-night. What god of fashion decided this was a good idea? I wondered, before ironically adjusting on my own ridiculous skinny jeans and trendy little top.

Thankfully, my roommates wanted to leave rather early. On our way out, I was approached by a man whose hair resembles mine now that I am sans-straightener: an uneven mop of blonde frizz. He must have thought I liked him, given the way I was staring and giggling—but he misinterpreted my gaze for a not-unkindly snicker at his ridiculous rose-colored sunglasses and 90’s style hemp necklace.

“Why are you leaving?” He asked in some unknown accent, sidling up to me with an arrogant grin.

“I’m jetlagged, and she’s tired,” I replied, gesturing at my roommate, who was slowly creeping towards the door.

“This is why girls suck!” He complained, sucking noisily on his cigarette (at which I secretly stared with envy).

“Well,” I retorted, “Perhaps if men were capable of making more interesting conversation, we wouldn’t be so bored and tired!” Triumphant, I turned on my heels, delighted at the facile of English words and my ability to manipulate a language at my will. Chinese, I’ve found, is a slippery language. It lacks the rough weight of English, heavy like marbles, or the sweet melody of Spanish. Beautiful in its own right, at the moment Chinese words are like snakes to me: difficult to catch, and impossible to hold. It was nice, if even for a moment, to feel in control of words again.

In any case, I went home to my room and settled in for a night with a long-lost literary love, Dave Eggers. This looks like it may turn out to be a man-less summer, but I think that I am more than okay with that. I need to learn to be alone again—even in this country of a billion people—and to savor the luxury of silence for a change. To learn Chinese, and Buddhism, and yoga. To listen more, and talk less. And maybe to slip and fall a little more slowly :)