come now, aren’t classes in study abroad supposed to be fake? I was preparing to indulge myself in the joke, enough to please Tufts to allow me transfer of credit, while really being a tourist in disguise and spending my days exploring the city. But I barely even have time to see the mingsheng guji of Kunming because I must always instead go to the library to learn vocab and translate Cinderella and The Departed into Mandarin and struggle with grammar structures quite above where I left off in Chinese 4. I am very shaky at speaking, and my nerves are made worse by the bell (Chinese universities have bells?) that goes off every twenty minutes like an oven timer (always when I am mid-sentence). The commuter rail in the backyard is mind-boggling loud, and there is some sort of construction either in the room next to, above, or below us, though I have never actually seen anyone with a hammer or nail. Two nights ago my roommate and I were awoken by a man shouting hysterical obscenities at the door of the woman who lives across the hall.

Every day when I walk to class I am stared at. It’s like some warped version of high school. Chinese girls hold hands and Chinese boys perpetually have their arms around each other, and their heads follow me when I walk by. There is nothing as frustrating as being trapped in a mob of Chinese students, who walk haphazardly and at a snail’s pace. I race and duck, trying to discern a logical pattern to their movement as I rush up the seven flights of stairs to my class. If anyone is capable of blocking an entire stairwell with naught but her own tiny frame, it is a Chinese student heading to class. One time I was caught behind a group of people eating corn on the cob.

Every morning we take a break between Chinese classes to do taijiquan in the courtyard with a spry old taiji master. You’d think we were the Olympics by the crowd of Chinese students we attract. They gawk and even take pictures, standing there for the entirety of our stretches and jabs. I’ve never been so aware of my whiteness.

My point not to suggest that I'm having a hard time, but to emphasize that studying abroad is no rocks for jocks. At least not here. It’s really hard to integrate into Chinese culture. We don’t like to eat what they eat, and we don’t wear the things they wear, and we constantly astound each other with our own cultural norms. I said “sorry” too much when I lived in the United States; here, I once said “duibuqi” after narrowly avoiding a collision on a hiking trail, and was met with astonishment at the fact that I had even thought to apologize. Crossing the road the other day, I started screaming when the line of buses and motorcycles suddenly broke free of the red light and came charging at me. The accents here sometimes make me feel like I’d never left Boston, hearing pronunciations like “idea-er” and “empher-size.”

Thursday we heard from a remarkable guy, a 90-year old man who was imprisoned under Mao for twenty years. He had sad old man eyes and responded “much obliged” whenever someone brought him some tea. We’ve been studying the Mao era this week, and I never got how messed up China was until I got here. I asked the old man how people still respected Mao here, never disputing his tyranny yet at the same time paying homage to his tomb and praising his contribution to Chinese history. How is that possible? It’s a walking contradiction, but people don’t bat an eye. I don’t think I can ever understand.