Remembering the Summer Commute

I wrote the following during the summer, but somehow in the haze of heat and work, I never posted it. Now that the weather is chilly and descending into cold, I thought it might be appropriate to pause and remember what was. I mostly write these descriptive posts for myself so that I can remember the little details when I'm back in the States. Not sure if they're as enjoyable for the readers though...oh well! Hope you're all enjoying the scarf weather wherever you are! ~LucyP

The Summer Commute

There is construction noise at all times, without end. First comes the sound of hammers and drills, then a welder and you can see sparks falling from somewhere above you. This morning, they are replacing something outside, dangling from windows and scaffolding that you can’t quite tell without leaning out the window—which is a bad idea. It is 7:30 and the noise will continue in various forms all day. Later, they will replace cabinets next door. Then it will be the building that’s going up down the street. Horns and the wail of the cardboard cart passing far below. You wake to urban life. The bed is hard and the sun is partially obscured by the adjacent high-rise.

And so you brew your favorite tea and play the music that reminds you that God’s grace is sometimes just moments of peaceful breathing in the midst of chaos. Morning is for tea and coffee and toast and fruit and responding to emails and reading news headlines and whatever else comes along.

But then the hour comes and you must step out into the blazing street, radiating heat stored from years of summer and dust that smacks your eyes while your nose can now smell only the putrid puddles tossed from the street vendors along the curb. And you merge into the pedestrian traffic of all mankind and walk the twisted jittery line of fitful bump and dodge and halt and speed-up that is the daily walk to the bus stop. There is the hobbled man collecting plastic bottles out of the trash bins, the grandmother holding a toddler by both hands as he walks in wobbling half-steps, his baby genitals on proud display framed by the traditional split pants found everywhere here. There are the stands jutting out with jiaozi and baozi and zongzi, smoke envelops you briefly passing Xinjiang shaokao, the lamb skewers heating over open coals and somehow it always smells like dirt even when it tastes so good.

Now you pass the hair salon and this gets dangerous as they claim all sidewalk space in front of their shops blasting with Korean pop music and you skirt onto the road with the motos and bicycles and whizzing taxis and buses. Don’t swing arms too wide and look before you venture further away from the curb to avoid the grate that is clogged with strips of cabbage and corn husks and green shoots from nowhere in particular. Now you cross the street and look both ways regardless of the lane you are crossing because there are cars around you on all sides with no solid yellow lines seen in the eyes of these drivers. It is frogger but it is life, so you do it now with everyone else and without blinking and forget that it is a strange thing to see cars use the sidewalk as a lane, or to watch a bus form its own lane between two streams of oncoming traffic.

And then jump onto the bus as inches forward, never actually stopping because a full stop seems to make it stall. It just slows to a crawl at the stops, so you learn to hit the ground running. Wedge and squeeze your way to the back and maybe find a seat while now the heat of the street is replaced by all too many bodies crammed together. The windows will be open in the back and on the 2 kuai buses the a/c will be running weakly, so there might be slight relief enough to wipe your brow of the grit that is everywhere. Lurches, jolts, screeching brakes, the bus gets more and more packed along the route. Flashes of life pass blurred: a family of 6 all on one moto, a bicycle loaded with full 5 gallon water jugs so high that they hover over the rider’s head, a peasant carrying a splintery wooden yoke on his shoulders with sheets of glass wrapped in plastic hanging from both sides, so many women wearing tight cheap heels on the broken jutting tiles of the walkway, stores overflowing with chintzy plastic jewelry, blankets spread out on the sidewalk filled with parasols or rubiks cubes or knives or zip drives or watermelons, all for sale by the peasant squatting beside, idly fanning themselves with a feather fan.

Then it’s your stop and you know without sight because the stinky doufu (a fried toufu that’s known for it’s gag-inducing smell while being cooked) vendors congregate here all day every day. Wedge and ease your way off the bus and it’s the jigsaw dance of the pedestrian sidewalks again. The buildings are taller here and giant outdoor screens loom above you, casting their luminous digital tech or LCD colors onto your face advertising lexus cars and whitening cream and wahaha pure water.

The streets are busier and you use the crosswalk, but you must control yourself because the crosswalks are tiny battlefields over and over again all day long. The ranks stand shoulder to shoulder on each side waiting for the light, and at the signal of the flashing green man, they advance upon each other, banners waving the in wind of passing traffic. A wall of humanity marches straight for another wall, closer and closer and you wonder if you might all pause and begin yelling Red Rover Red Rover. But no, everyone keeps walking, a game of chicken, who will turn aside first. And something of a warrior or just an American rises angrily in you and you ask why you must be the one to make way for them to cross, why they can’t figure out that there are walking lanes just like traffic lanes and everyone should stay to their own right-hand side of the crosswalk instead of fanning out like an old-fashioned infantry. And so depending on the day and the goodness in your heart, you either swoop your shoulders to the side and walk sideways through the onslaught, dancing to the right then left then far right and making way for them to pass you as you pass them…or…you steel your face and square your shoulders and set your jaw and look straight forward with head held high and eyes of fire and you march. March! You march and you dare them to barrel into you or brush your shoulder. They do the same.

And then, after all the fury of the street, you are standing in front of another nondescript skyscraper of 60 floors (maybe) and walking through the revolving doors that are always too slow for you because you’re always so close to being late. There’s no a/c in the lobby but it’s cooler in a dark cave kind of way. The elevators on the left take you to the 10th floor. The office is modern with glass walled classrooms and new computers. You go first to the washroom to wash your hands and tidy your face and try to cool down, grab a water, and finally, it’s time to teach.