4 Weeks Old

It’s raining here today, for the first time since we arrived, four weeks ago.

I’ve been struggling to come up with topics for this blog lately. I think this means that we’re acclimating. I’ve finally prevailed over the washing machine. (I use only a smidgen of liquid Gain I found at Jenny Lou’s, a market that carries everything imported from the States and western Europe. I don’t even contemplate additives like bleach.)

We’ve also overcome small obstacles like how to order extra drinking water. The water here isn’t potable, though no one can tell me why – why makes a big difference when trying to decide if it’s ok to cook with, for instance. Boiling will solve a bacteria problem, but not a lead problem. A classmate of mine works for an environmental research and advocacy program (not Greenpeace, which, according to my classmate, is banned here because they openly advocate for democracy). She said she’d heard that the water coming out of the treatment plant was safe to drink, but it travels through old, sub-standard pipes to get to residents. Another classmate’s father-in-law is a water chemist, and she’ll take a bottle of tap water back with her at Christmas and let us know what he says. . . In the meantime, I’ve switched to purified water for my tea now, and all cooking. And teeth-brushing.

Sights that a couple of weeks ago were eye-popping have faded into the everyday: Bicycles towing towering loads of water bottles, building materials, or any kind scrap forcing a Mercedes or Audi to screech to a halt in an intersection as it lumbers past; the street vendors selling delicious smelling yams baked in a steel drum oven on wheels (I was all set to try one, they smelled so good, until someone wondered aloud, “Where do you suppose they get those steel drums and what do you suppose was in them before hot coals and yams?”); the ‘Chinglish’ that appears everywhere (I realize I lack examples, I’ll make a point to get some). I’ve even gotten used to the staring. (Beijingers assure me that the only provincials are amazed by the site of fair skin and blonde hair. If that’s true, there are a lot of ‘provincials’ in Beijing.)

It's a little sad to feel the newness wearing off, to stop being so amazed every time I look around. I don’t feel like an insider yet – I still carry a phrase book, a map, and the Insider’s Guide, the Beijing expat bible, whereever I go – but I now know the difference between the Shunyi, Dongcheng, Haidan and Chaoyang districts. I know what the Ring Roads are and where they go (generally). I’m no longer limited to the restaurants within walking distance. I can look out my window and know whether it’s better to take a taxi or the subway or my feet (Bus 11, in the local parlance). I can even say these things in Chinese, though whether or not I can be understood by anyone other than my teacher is another matter altogether. A few (a very few) words and phrases now jump out at me on the street, in a restaurant, bright comprehensible gems among the cacophonous clutter. I’m no longer exhausted by 4 o’clock, just from being here.

My eyes and ears aren’t what they used to be.