It's 7:00am. Snooze.
It's 7:09am -- and morning. First devos, then head to the shower. This means getting through the door, and each door is a new puzzle. By now, though, I've memorized every subtle flick of the key and pressure point needed. The door submits. I'm in luck -- today there is water. (Usually I have water, and hot water at that. But it doesn't always turn on promptly at 6am, and I'm too rushed to wait who knows how long.)
It's 8:30am. Time to prep for class, do some reading, and study Mandarin. Outside a man brushes snow from his storefront and a dog trots across the street. The traffic is not disturbed, it merely reacts. Cars bikes and pedestrians all register the new fact, find the path of least resistance, and life continues. Order and chaos. I watch behind a window. Until I learn Mandarin this is my lot -- to observe but not influence. Okay, not true. Still, that's how it feels. I turn back to my book, huddle against the radiator, and down a glass of hot tea. The widow always distracts me from my reading. My reading always distracts me from living in China. In the summer I will study in the park just down the way, and escape this cloistered existence. But for now I take breaks and chat with the Chinese staff in the community center.
It's 11:30am. The van is here to take me to Taiyuan. That usually means half an hour of highway speed-bumps and a car-sick Stan, trying to read on the way. Today, though, I have company. The other English teachers are here (Wendy, Nina, and Christine -- those are their American names), so we talk and laugh a lot. Half the time it's Chinese, so I practice listening for familiar words. We arrive, drink tea with the principle, talk, then to classes. Kids, kids, and more ordered chaos. Then order! Class has begun. We practice vocab, pronunciation, play games, learn grammar, the usual. They love me, I love them -- a good combination. Then the bell, a break, and round two. Afterwards I am swarmed. We return to Yangqu.
It's 6:00pm. Already? Yes. It's 6:00pm. I'm hungry and there are many restaurants to explore, so I'm out the door armed with a few but effective phrases: "I want to eat some noodles with meat sauce," and "I want to eat MANY noodles," and "How much does it cost?" I have my favorite dishes written down, so I can try those out too. I walk down the street. Everyone knows I'm walking down the street. Only the dogs aren't staring; they're more interested in garbage heaps growing against the curb. This restaurant looks clean, so I'll try it. I part the plastic strips veiling the door and step in. Cigarette smoke drifts aimlessly, and so do I until they point me to a seat. I order, they giggle, everyone is curious. Then I read (tonight it's Les Miserables), the food comes, and I eat. With chopsticks. China is famous for great food, and Yangqu is not one to disappoint. The specialty is noodles drenched in oil and flavor. If my brother Glenn were here he could name every spice and proportion, but I just close my eyes and enjoy. Ignorance is bliss, as they say. Better not to know what's going in, and since it's probably unexciting, I can at least pretend it's exotic. I pay, then talk to the crowd, eager to know my story. They're easy to please, which is good since I can only communicate my age, nationality, and that I'm learning Chinese. Then I walk back to the community center.
It's 7:00pm. My two friends are busy in the kitchen and invite me to join. I do, of course, and wish I'd skipped the restaurant. It's bean curd and millet soup for starters (both from Lisa's family farm), and then something else -- I don't know what. Everything is bland, but I like it. And who cares, food isn't the important part of meals anyway. Their English is good enough for light conversation (and with a little more effort, for deep conversation), so we chat into the night. I then grab my guitar, Lilly her piano (I actually just made that name up. Don't know her American one), and we worship.
It's 10pm. I read.
It's midnight. I sleep. Hard.
