Enough about Tianjin has stayed the same that I am able to find my grounding in memories that align comfortingly with what I see and experience now.
Journey in May 2012
One thing that life in China lends me is the leisure I feel in the passing of time. Tianjin is pleasantly ironic. In this bustling and rushing city with streets too wide and people too unapologetic, I feel unhurried for the first time in a long time. I have spent a majority of my first few days in China with my grandparents and extended family. My grandparents and I would wake up early in the morning, typically at 7:00 a.m., to buy breakfast from vendors setting up shop in small pedestrian side alleys and then run small errands throughout the day. In my grandparents’ free time, they play mahjong with other family members. Yesterday, they lost a game of mahjong with my grandma’s brother and his wife; today, they won a game with my grandparents from my mother’s side.
While I feel time inches by on a daily basis, I know that Tianjin changes so fast that infrastructure can never be considered permanent. When I first left China in 1st grade, our apartment building was right in front of the street. When I returned the summer after 7th grade, a new building blocked that view of the street. Now, upon returning once again, I have learned from my grandmother that the building in front of us will be demolished in the upcoming months to make room for a new subway station. Everything about this city has shifted. Yet, nothing about the people I know here has changed. I hear their daily discussion about houses taken down and buildings developed from rubbish, and I wonder how they deal with such drastic level of change. One month of absence seems to be enough to feel like a foreigner in this city. I have been gone for six years.
Still, I’m slowly learning to adapt, not only to the changes of surroundings, but also the nuances of public interaction. I feel undeniably awkward in the streets of Tianjin. When I ride the bus, I’m the only one wearing open-toed shoes without socks. I hesitate when I cross 10-lane streets as cars turn left and right ruthlessly. I don’t push my way around and get caught in throngs of people. A small level of rudeness seems to be the social norm here as everyone excuses one another for a slight push or shove. Kindness, it seems, manifests itself in strange ways, as I realize the constant honks of the bus driver’s horn to other drivers, bicyclists and pedestrians on the streets are not out of rudeness, but caring. This city is all about tough love.
Luckily, enough about Tianjin has stayed the same that I am able to find my grounding in memories that align comfortingly with what I see and experience now. The apartments remain in the same dusty tint. Side streets are still unevenly paved and strewn with the occasional stray plastic bags or cigarette butts. The shao bing (small bread that comes in flavors: plain, slightly salty, red bean and peanut) and dou fu nao, (a type of salty soup with tofu, sometimes spicy or not) from street vendors, still taste as delicious as they smell and appear. We still have the old karaoke machine my dad and I used to sing along to when I was six years old. My grandparents still hang clothes up to dry by the window. My laoye (my grandfather on my mother’s side,) still goes out of his way to make sure that I feel at home by a welcome of the same endearing, wrinkled smile. We are home for the afternoon today. My grandparents are playing mahjong again. I’m stealing another chestnut from bags of warm, crisp Xiao Bao Li Zi (a famous brand of chestnuts in Tianjin,) that we bought this morning, expressing my guilt for taking yet another one when my grandpa tells me, “don’t worry; this is what it means to be home.”
Article by Ruoxi Yu.
