If there's one thing I've learned from
finishing and
starting over and
moving and
making friends and
breaking ties and
living on four continents and
one tropical island,
it is that
there are no such things
as endings.
Index
In Hong Kong again, I sat by a fountain with a book, waiting for my visa to come through. This time, the people from the orphanage were replaced by a mind reader/fortune teller guy.
My book wasn't that interesting, so I told him I wouldn't be giving him any money, and let him continue. "Think of a flower," he instructed.
"Okay."
He had written something down on a scrap of paper. I was pretty sure it said "rose".
"Now, what flower did you think of?"
"Petunia."
"Now think of another one."
"Goldenrod."
"And one more."
I didn't want to discourage him. Maybe he was a promising psychic, but was just having a bad day. Besides, this was more entertaining than my novel.
"Rose."
"Ah hah! Look!"
Sure enough, there it was--my very own thought written down on his paper.
"Wow! That's really incredible."
"Would you like to know your lucky letters?"
"Sure, but I can't afford to pay you anything."
"Okay, never mind that for now." He closed his eyes and concentrated. "M, L, and H. And your lucky date is November 17."
Pretty soon the free stuff had ended and I went back to my book.
sitting in GuangZhou station for eight hours. met ice there. we talked. outgoing, interesting, good English. She was going the other way to Shen Zhen. Swapped addresses.
Later, when I got to Beijing, I learned from CNN that a bomb had exploded that day. In Guang Zhou. In an airplane. In the air.
The China News, the local paper, said it was on the ground, different than CNN, which we could only pick up at German Joint-venture hotels. Somebody had hijacked it and wanted to go to Taiwan. Seconds before landing, he carried out his threat. did he do it there to save other lives? or to give the pilot a last chance?
The Chinese have developed an intricate way to read palms and finger prints. Lines show attributes, tendencies, and potentials. [more]
I spent a lot of time in Beijing, even after the cold, dry winds blew from the Gobi Desert, riding my one speed bicycle, purchased for twenty dollars, around the city.
Having become acclimatized to Taiwan's humidity, the arid weather dried out my hands, giving me a light case of exema. As my fingers dried, the lines on them smoothed out and nearly disappeared in spots.
"Is my destiny changing?"
I wondered this for a long time, and haven't yet found a satisfactory answer.
In my intermediate Chinese class at the Beijing Language Institute were two French, one German, an Italian, two Argentines, three Americans, a Quebecois, and a Vietnamese.
The favorite joke was: What do you call someone who speaks more than two languages? Multi-lingual. What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do you call someone who speaks only one language? North American.
Sweet girl!! she was awesome. spoke Spanish and English great. didn't at first. maybe experience with other classes taught her that we'd use it too much in class. maybe enjoyed hearing what we said. but once we got to know each other, she couldn't keep it back. we were too close. friends and love and her reticence was destroyed.
later, private teacher outside in leaves.
she wandered over one day on my and Teresa. looked like gremlin, munchkin. hired me.
she often spoke of Taiwan looking like before communism, which she represented as a good thing. kind. hospitable.
A film crew from Taiwan was filming on location in Beijing, and needed a group of Westerners to become visiting dignitaries of the Qing Dynasty. They found a few of us outside the cafeteria during a lunch break and signed us up, rather than going through the administration. It was 1990, just a year after the Tien An Men massacre, and the air was still heavy in Beijing. No one was taking any chances, while conservatism, tension, and depression thrived.
Shooting was set for three days later, and we were asked to not shave until then. Chinese don't tend to grow much in the way of beards, and the more Western we looked, the better.
When the big night came, we were loaded on a bus and taken to some sort of summer palace downtown. Some of us were chosen to be police, while others donned tuxedos and gowns. The setting was before the turn of the century. A band played on a pavilion surrounded by water and completed the scene. The Third World seems to still exist in some former century, anyway; the illusion was perfect.
The band started up, cameras rolled, Leslie and I waltzed around the pavilion, and the full moon shimmered on the water. Time stopped. While the cameras were off shooting a chase scene with the police, Leslie and I wandered through the palace, stepping through open doorways, watching the moon shimmer on the lake, laughing.
The palace grounds seemed to stretch on for miles! There were no lights, of course, but the full moon lit the way for us and cast shadows so heavy that it looked more like one of those old cowboy movies that they shoot during the day with a heavy neutral-density filter to give the illusion of darkness.
Narrow hallways would often give way to intricately designed rock gardens. The path would then lead though the rocks, and surprise us with a lane of manicured shrubs or a quiet pond. Rounding a bend, we would come upon another large, roofless courtyard. Stepping out the other side, a pavilion would appear in the moonlight.
"Would m'lady care to dance?" I stopped and looked down at Leslie, who had taken my arm. She nearly laughed, then quickly regained her composure and a timid Victorian deference. "Why yes, if you would be so kind." A light waltz floated on the still air from the band practicing somewhere across the palace grounds as I took Leslie's small hand and stepped up into the pavilion.
The steps I had learned in school came easily--box, turning box, and others I didn't know the names of or had made up myself, converting moves from fox trots and polkas. Leslie followed well despite my improvisation, her small frame nearly smothering in the slightly-too-large gown she had been given. I could feel the safety pins holding it tighter at her waist.
"Perhaps...." We stopped in the middle of the pavilion and I knew what she was thinking. Perhaps the band wasn't just practicing, and perhaps we ought to get back to the set. The night had worn on, we were tired and walking more slowly, and the moon was lower on the water as we started back. I let go of Leslie's hand and scooped her up into my arms to carry her back to the set. She draped one thin arm around my neck, closed her eyes, and rested her head on my shoulder. Her long gown hung over my arm and nearly reached the ground.
For one night, reality and illusion were synonymous. For one night, I could forget that life is not a movie. For a night, the plot made no difference; it was the mood that mattered.
Roundy: it is getting cold and cold here...
After that, Leslie would always call me Roundy.
sitting outside with Theresa, Mrs. Kuo comes, get job.
vocab/ conversation on priorities. the party. really? more than family? next week a few confide. I know we're friends now. this is repeated just above^.
At the Beijing Language Institute, the foreigners' dorms had two people to a room and got hot water six nights a week from seven until eleven. The Chinese dorms had four to six people to a room and got hot water on Thursdays.
When I got food poisoning from dinner across the street where I taught a few English classes at the Beijing Petroleum University, I barely made it downstairs to the showers on the second floor the second day where I squatted under the hot water for two hours. Then I had to rest on the stairs for half an hour before I could find the strength to climb back to my room on the fifth floor.
This was the only time I got sick in China.
starting over too often. no ties. this time there aren't others who are starting over with me. to need each other and bond. didn't want to go on vacations or adventures with me. I was the one, not the established group, so it didn't feel like my place to start others.
wandering around forbidden city, tien an men, etc. sometimes by bus, usually by bike.
out of the Southwest gate of BLI was a small market. one of the first places I had become acquainted with. buy flour by the pound, a little photographer, a cart that sold pieces of meat, etc. true third world style. felt weird at first, I still hadn't gotten used to China's style. exotic. exciting, though I sometimes missed the modern stuff elsewhere. the best thing was the guy who set up the Beijing Burrito stand.
I don't know official name, but they were made with batter, an egg, and hot sauce if you wanted it. spread it out on the grill, etc.
Teresa once told us they were from Tianjin, not Beijing, but they weren't enough like Tacos to call them Tianjin Tacos, so the name stuck.
As winter came on, another vendor set up there. Yams. Big steel barrel with fire inside, yams lined up along shelves inside. He'd pull a few out at a time to attract passersby. weighed them with little balance thing. wrapped them in newspaper.
I'd warm my hands on them when out alone until they had grown cool enough to eat with my fingers.
what I'd do in Beijing. got a bike. go around town. shop. talk with people. ride the bus and play the interview game with Leslie and Anna. Dog/Cat/Monkey people. new book on trend. give example.
riding to town, to wander around forbidden city, looking for something to do. catching on bus to get home (take from A View from the Peak).
found out where church was and went one Sunday morning. Getting on bus as crowded as ever--you could always count on that during the day until everyone got home from work. one filled and went on. the next time, as doors were closing, I did what I had learned, pulled them open, and shoved self on. Door shut on jacket. I remembered what Leslie had told me about how she could sometimes lift up her feet, but not fall down from all the pressure.
Next stop, counted how many got on. (One got off). Eight. So here's the question: how many fit on it? Ten more.
Once at the little market kitty corner from our block, two ladies got in a fight. I think one had butted in line in front of the other. They hit and screamed and scratched while a crowd gathered around and one lady's child wailed in fear.
I wanted to stop them, to say,"Hey! Knock it off!" But I didn't know how. Who was I, anyway, to butt in to their affairs?
The Tien An Men incident had come to a brutal halt over a year ago, but the pressure was still heavy in the capitol.
Literally translated, it means Gate of Heavenly Peace. The square is huge, and I love the openness, the size of the sky there, the dozens of people who I can sit and watch. Sometimes children, all dressed up in their bright yellow school uniforms march across in double file. Some people fly kites in the breeze. A few vendors keep their stands there. Old men sit on the steps.
Along the steps of the Obelisk, you can still see the marks left by the tanks that drove the students off the square a year previous, killing somewhere between two dozen and two thousand, depending on which report you read. The square is now surrounded by a low metal fence, added after the uprising.
I searched the other walls and pillars, but found no bullet marks.
One weekend, we took a trip to Xian (say shee-ahn). The name means Western Peace. That's where the Terra Cotta Warriors were discovered about fifteen years back. Hundreds of stone soldiers and horses and chariots are buried around the king's tomb to protect it.
In order to get back to Beijing in time for class Monday, we had to take hard seats on the train. The car was packed, and there was no way to fall asleep as five people crowded onto a seat that would comfortably hold only three. I take that back--the seats would never hold anyone comfortably.
The first three hours passed by alright, then between three a.m. and three fifteen, I looked at my watch four times, wondering how much longer the ride would last. The car was packed with dozens of people and chickens and even a pig or two. On the video tape that I recorded there, everyone looks dead.
Remembering my walkman stashed on the rack above got me by till morning when I wandered down to where other Western students we had met had hard sleepers, and they let me catch up on my sleep there.
On November 17, Joan, one of the students I had met in Xian, called and introduced me to her friends at another of the seventeen Beijing universities, and they became my new good friends. Kristen was a member of my faith, and she introduced me to still more friends.
After returning from a church social late one evening, Kihn, Kristin, Joan, and I rode the subway home together. They taught me a line dance in the station, we sang Christmas carols to the other passengers of the subway car, and played leap frog down the aisle from one end to the other.
I was the first to reach the end of the car, and I landed and looked through the glass and into the next car to find the entire car load of Chinese leaning forward on their seats and staring back through the glass at us with incredulous expressions on their faces.
A week later, I glanced at my calendar and saw that I had written "lucky day" on November 17--the day the fortune teller had predicted in Hong Kong.
going to summer palace--not far from our place--with Teresa Wong. drove in Argentine ambassador's kids car.
sweet, she had pretended to not speak English at first--for a long time, but it was good, as was her Spanish. Neat lady!! best friend actually from China.
Bored and restless. needed more adventure. Friends Joan and Steve (?) from Xian trip at summer palace, ram the tour boat (Chinese like to play, but maybe not too rough). ram the bridges. Felt good to do something.
going to the rock concert at the wai guo ju le bu. seemed totally modern, out of place. slam dancing, felt good. Leslie wanted to, but was holding back, so took her hand and pulled her into circle, then pushed her out into crowd. she loved it. saw Flora there, caught a cab home together. she seemed to keep her Englishness. had a proper seeming boy friend.
Matthew wore same outfit as Halloween--Italian leather with black eye that had got people to move over in the beer (for himself and a few others) line.
new start with new friends. riding bikes and yelling with Kihn, Kristin, and Joan. Shangrila. thanksgiving dinner. somehow show how I loved them and needed them. they were there for that, for me. crashing in Kristen's room sometimes. riding bike and yelling to scare people. summer palace lake and frustration and fun, crashing into boat and bridge.
also mention slam dancing, Halloween (Matthew, Italian leather, beers in store, covering child's eyes,)
The second time I ever saw Kihn was at Roxanne's, a dance club in a German joint venture hotel in Beijing. It was a little nicer than the club at the Shangri-La. When they played a Cha Cha, the dance floor emptied and the two of us danced--she'd been waiting for someone who knew how.
Some of my favorite friends have been Oriental-Americans. The combination of Oriental reserve and American ambition and free-spiritedness combine to create a genuine and dignified but intense character that I respect and love. Kihn's family is Cantonese, but she had been born in Vietnam, then moved to America when she was three.
December 7 arrived. Our BLI class threw a good-bye lunch for Matthew and I at a nearby restaurant. We teased each other and the video camera changed hands many times. Teresa, our BLI Instructor, and I biked down Xue Yuan Lu to Peking University and she pointed out the foreigners' dorms, the bookstore, and where the students used to gather, speak, and break bottles during the uprisings of 1989.
Two days earlier, the cold winds had come down from the North, and now the lake on the university grounds was frozen. A group of Chinese were taking their lunch break and skating on the ice. They loaned me a pair of skates and I went out.
The skates were too small and hurt my feet. They also only laced up to the ankle, and I have no idea how the Chinese kept them straight under their feet and skated gracefully around the lake, as my own blades shifted and wobbled uncontrollably below me. They got pretty nervous as I got near some areas of thin ice. Their nervousness was fun to watch as they shouted "No, no!" perhaps one of the only English words in their vocabulary. I'm glad I didn't have to pay for the entertainment by falling through the ice, of course.
An hour later, I said a bitter-sweet good-bye to my favorite teacher, and Matthew and I carried our luggage downstairs and called a cab.
Walking past the laundry room on the first floor, I knew without looking in that the Italian guys next door to my old room were doing their laundry. the smell of pot was strong, filling the air. They had smoked it through bamboo, apples, broken bottles, and I don't know what else.
The image of the lobby still clear, as well. people all over. don't know what significance this had, it was just like any other day after classes had let out. But it was so sad saying goodbye, and I write it now because the image is still clear in my mind, the tearing open of an oft-repeated wound still tugs at my heart, and I can't just leave it alone.
Remembering, and writing it down, are the only things i have left of that, one more in a long procession of homes i have loved, and somehow I think that if I write it down, then someone there may someday read it and know a bit about what they meant to me, and then it won't be meaningless anymore. someone will know that I am still their friend. maybe that's why I wrote this book in the first place (at first it was to figure it all out, all the stuff crashing through my brain).
While there, it was status quo. we were all in China studying. Once home, I realized that not just anybody would do that, and my esteem for every person there instantly jumped a notch.
Mainland China uses a romanization called Pin Ying. Romanization is a system used to spell Chinese sounds out in our alphabet. I'm not sure who made up Pin Ying--I think it was some Harvard type, but whoever it was, I'm not entirely impressed.
Have you ever wondered why the capitol has two names--Beijing and Peking? The truth is, it doesn't. Peking was originally intended to be pronounced Beijing. It means North Capitol. The p can sound like b, while the k sounds like j. The system uses apostrophes to discriminate between different sounds. I still don't know why Guang Zhou (say gwong joe) is called Canton in English.
Taiwan uses an even stranger romanization called Wei Giles. The French wrote that one. Lung Kang is pronounced Lohng Gahng and Kee Lung is Jee Lohng. At least two other romanizations can be found in various text books.
At the Beijng train station, three eager guys grabbed our luggage and helped carry it down the long flight of steps to the platform. We tried not to let them, knowing they'd ask for money, and we weren't sore from carrying it all yet, but they insisted, and there was no stopping them. We didn't feel exactly comfortable letting other people even get their hands on our stuff in the first place, and watched carefully not to let anything get out of our sight.
So when we got on the train and they ask for money as expected, we gave them seven mao--about a dollar, and said that was all the change we had and we had already told them we didn't want their help in the first place, that we could handle it.
Of course they got mad, even threatened us a bit, although we didn't exactly understand, so we ignore them and they eventually left.
All the other Chinese on the train stood around and watched, occasionally piping in to defend us. Later, a few agreed that they were proud of us for not giving in.
Shen Zhen sits on the Hong Kong border, and my friend Ice lives there. She is originally from the Northern province of Harbin, and her name means "Ice Clean." Her friends who speak English call her "Ice Cream."
it was hot again down south. nice. almost too warm. dry, hot sun, and I missed the trees in Beijing, but there would be no leaves there now, anyway.
redundant: Ice and I met in the Guang Zhou train station when I had to wait eight hours for my train to Beijing. She was waiting for a train to Shen Zhen. We had written letters and now she offered to keep my suitcases at her apartment while I toured Southern China for eleven days.
Matthew, Ice, and I met Rosella in the afternoon, and I said good-bye to my classmates after we had all sneaked onto the roof of a twenty-five floor hotel to watch the gold-red sun sink into the haze over unending rice fields and winding rivers to the West.
Ice dragging me around. "I'm not a child!" hurt her feelings. later she pretended not to see me after I followed her to a store to apologize. still room for cultural or personal misunderstandings, and I didn't know which.
I stepped off the train in Guilin, into perfect warm weather and a small crowd moving parcels and people from the train.
"Hi. You need motel? I get you motel."
One look and I knew his name. Slick dressed in a sharp European-style gray and black suit, double breasted and pressed. Slick had his counterparts in any city where tourism boomed. Not all would dress the same as Slick, but each was recognizable. I knew I could trust him to find me a hotel or restaurant for only five times the normal cost, and kept walking.
"Hey. You want motel? I get you motel."
"Bu yong. Wo keyi dze ji jiao yi jiao." I hoped he'd give up when he saw that I didn't need his help, that my Chinese was better than his English, but I was the only foreigner on the train, and he had a dry cleaning bill to keep up with.
"Hey. You want bus? I get you bus. Where you go?"
I kept walking.
Half an hour to the south lay Yang Shuo--a town I had heard about since arriving in Taiwan. The Guilin area is famous for mountains sticking straight up out of the ground and rising hundreds of feet above the lush green ground. The Chinese say that no one's really an artist until they've been there. I had my cameras, and now I'm an artist.
I made my way to the mini busses lined up in the parking lot and found the one headed for Yang Shou. A small woman sat at a table outside the bus, and I asked how much the tickets cost. No response. She wouldn't even look at me, and Slick answered from behind. "Forty yuan F.E.C."
Slick had apparently either intimidated the woman or struck a bargain. But I had no intention of paying for his next three months' rent.
Leaning into the bus, I asked other passengers. "Dao Yang Shuo, duo xiao chien?" No answer.
"Forty F.E.C."
Getting nowhere. I had sold my Lonely Planet China travel guide to a Check friend back in Beijing and didn't know exactly how much the ticket should cost, but I could guess. I turned to Slick and spoke Chinese. "The guide book says it costs seven. And I'm not giving you F.E.C.'s. I'll give you seven ren min bi's, and that's all."
"Ten ren min bi's."
"Okay." I paid slick and climbed on the bus. Driving down a straight, narrow lane lined with tall, thin trees blowing in the wind, the man next to me told me that tickets to Yang Shuo cost four yuan. I was satisfied that Slick wouldn't be retiring on my account.
In Mainland China, the people use ren min bi. Money. People money.
Foreigners use wai hui. F.E.C.s. Foreign Exchange Certificates. Hard money.
Certain "luxury items" like peanut butter and good cameras.... can only be purchased with F.E.C.s.
One hundred F.E.C.'s will sometimes get you one hundred twenty ren min bi's, if you trade on the street.
This is how they do it:
You make a deal. One hundred F.E.C.s for one hundred twenty five ren min bi's.
They give you the money--one hundred fifteen ren min bi's.
You count it and say,"Hey! This is only one hundred fifteen ren min bi's."
They say,"Oh, yeah? Let me count it."
And they do.
And as they count it, they pull forty ren min bi's off the bottom of the stack.
Then they give it back to you and say,"You're right. Here's another ten."
Then you give them one hundred F.E.C.s.
Then they disappear.
"Change money? Change money?" Teeth rotting red from beetle nut, smiling, waiting, laying a trap.
"Change money?" Running to catch up with me, he knows I'm onto his game.
"Change hashish?" I'm glad to have that one on video for the folks back home. By now, I'm a seasoned, but still collecting footage.
"Change money?" A new voice, a new face, same teeth.
"Change money?"
They have other ways to steal your money. If you are extremely careful, you can be safe. Re-count your money every time they hand it to you, and don't let them so much as touch your money until you have theirs. If they object, just leave. There's no point if there's no fair deal.
Someday when I'm with lots of friends, I'm going to turn the tables on them. After making a deal way too high, they'll short change me ten, which will still be a good deal, and I'll accept it and hand them my money.
"Wait!" they'll say.
"Leave me alone!" I'll answer. And I'll have recovered some of the twenty dollars that I paid for an early lesson in Black Market dealings and short change artists.
Until then, trade at more stable spots. they're safer than those who approach you on the street. Or trade at the bank. It's not a big loss.
Don't let anyone sell you Taiwan money in China as they did to one friend of mine.
Here are some bills from Taiwan, Hong Kong, and China. On the back of China bills, you can see a few of the dozens of languages spoken there.
My favorite town in the whole wide world is Yang Shuo in Southern China. My favorite restaurant in the whole wide world is Amy's Place in Yang Shuo, Southern China. When I first arrived there, I met up with five friends from Beijing, and we headed straight for Amy's Place. I ate:
One large sweet and sour fish
One bowl of cream of wheat with fruit
Three crepes with fruit and nuts and jam
Two pieces of apple pie
I paid:
forty kwai ren min bi
which is roughly the equivalent of two dollars.
In Yang Shou, we rented bicycles and paid:
Twenty cents a day.
We took the bicycles on a river cruise that cost:
Two dollars.
Kihn and I stayed in a hostel with community showers and paid:
Four dollars a night.
After everyone else had gone, we made our way to Canton by bus:
four hundred miles for Three dollars.
And by boat:
Two dollars.
I consider the Third World to be a great natural resource that I hope we never lose.
When Kihn and I first rented bikes in Yang Shuo, we hurried to catch up with the others who had already started pedaling south; but they had gotten too far ahead, and we followed the fork in the road in the other direction.
Kihn and I waited a while at Moon Hill, where we had all agreed to go, but eventually ended up climbing to the top alone. Moon Hill is named for the eighty-foot high arch cut out of the middle in a half-moon shape. We climbed through this arch and up a steep trial to the summit in time to get a good look around at the steep hills that rose and fell sharply for as far as the eye could see in every direction.
The sun set below the western horizon, and as the daylight faded, we watched the entire world sink into the rising haze. It was magical, a scene I will never forget. As the deep darkness of night set in, we realized that we ought to start down the steepest part of the trail before all light had disappeared. Just before leaving the summit, I couldn't help myself and let out a shrill Tarzan shout. That's when I discovered the best echo in the world. No matter which way I shouted or whistled, it circled around us and finally came back from the north, loud, clear, and with up to a ten second delay.
After walking back down through the high arch, the trail wound below tall, thick, greenery, leaving our path in pitch blackness. The only moon above us was the dim glow of light from the sky behind the arch above and behind us. We were careful of where we placed our feet and wary of any sounds around us. Two other tourists had reported a struggle and attempted robbery by two Chinese with a cattle prod just a day or two earlier.
All in all, every bit of danger or beauty or surprise or simply the peace of being in this place was wonderful and welcome. By this time, I was happy that we had lost the others on the road. Being alone together gave us a chance to take our time, to talk more intimately, to feel the experience on a deeper and more personal level. It gave us a chance to taste the sweet friendship growing between us, to make memories to keep forever, to continue starting over in this new place.
Kihn and I were the last of the group to leave Yang Shou. We rode a bus 150 miles to Wu Zhou, and boarded the overnight ferry down the Hsi River to Guang Zhou, where she'd meet and stay with an uncle for Christmas, and I would head on to Shen Zhen, Hong Kong, Honolulu, and home.
The boat left the dock late in the afternoon and we strolled around the deck after leaving our backpacks on our beds lined up side by side in two rows down below. Something about the feel of the ship under our feet made it seem like we could feel ourselves sliding along over the smooth river, like the boards under our feet were slick, wet, and smooth.
We leaned against the rail together, watching glowing red channel markers slide slowly past the boat and bob in the wake. We talked about how fun it would be to find a band playing on an upper deck, how we would dance under dim lights and sip drinks by the rail.
Behind the ship we found an empty deck, about fifteen by twenty five feet. We imagined a band playing favorites from Glen Miller, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald. I took Kihn's hand, slipped my right arm around her back, and the waltz began. Turning box, triple cross, hesitation, and then we stopped.
From two one-foot round fan holes into the kitchen, two chefs had noticed us and watched us dance through the holes. Their laughs and snickers had caught our attention. We laughed ourselves, took a deep bow, and walked further around the deck.
Sometime after midnight, we went below to where the other passengers had already fallen asleep in the rows of bunks lining the walls, each bed partitioned by only a small board. Holding hands on our bunk, we drifted off to dreamland together.
On page nine of The Roundy Family in America is a black and white portrait of Captain Charles Roundy, born in 1794 in Essex County, Massachusetts, part of the sixth generation of Roundys in America. I am the thirteenth generation. Charles wasn't actually my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather, as he had no children, but my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great third cousin. I like to think of him as a close relative just the same.
Charles' father, also a sea captain, was lost at sea when Charles was ten. His youngest brother was drown in New Orleans on his first sea voyage at 12. Charles himself left for the sea at 15. Before becoming a captain, Charles had sailed for thirteen years, to New Orleans, Liverpool, Sumatra, St. Bartholomew, Portland, St. Petersburg, Elsinore, Copenhagen, Baltimore, Lisbon, Leghorn, Manila, Surinam, Havana, Smyrna, Batavia, Pekalongan, Tegal, New York, Calcutta, Marseilles, Carthagena, Gibraltar, Malta, Antwerp, and Gottenburg.
Charles was once knocked overboard in a Mediterranean gale, but stayed afloat until a boat was sent to pick him up. He was a member of the Delaware flotilla at the defense of Baltimore and the bombardment when Francis Scott Key penned the lyrics to The Star Spangled Banner. As captain, he brought cargoes to Salem that paid $92, 392.94, $128, 363.94, $133,480.34, and $140, 761.96 in duties, when no other ship has ever brought in a single cargo that paid even $90, 000 (at least up until the first printing of the book in 1942).
The portrait was painted when Charles was twenty eight, on his first voyage as Captain in Antwerp. On his second trip as captain, he sailed to Canton and spent six months at dock, waiting for a new crop of tea to come down the river. In all, he made nine trips to Canton, including one which brought the first American women to China aboard the 287 ton ship Sumatra. A letter written in Canton on November 16, 1829 reads:
"[I] had the supreme felicity of landing the first American ladies in the Celestial Empire. The Chinese made considerable talk about it at first and requested that they should be immediately sent back to Macao, but we have nearly talked them out of the notion and at present they are very quiet and I fancy that nothing further will be said on the subject."
Personally, I never cared much for Canton. I prefer the streets, the bridges, the architecture, and the atmosphere of other Chinese cities. But knowing that my relative was here almost two hundred years ago, walking these same streets, speaking with the locals, buying food and supplies, navigating these same rivers, somehow changes everything for me.
Somehow not being the first of my family to live here makes me feel like I belong, like there is a place carved out for me here. Now I walk down the streets near the river, touching the railings, stopping on bridges, and wondering if he crossed in these same spots. I look into the eyes of the merchants and passers-by and wonder if our ancestors were acquainted. I think back to Captain Charles Roundy, and the nearness of our footsteps overrides the great distance of time, and he seems a close relative indeed.
Kihn and I stood together near the zoo in Guangzhou and held hands for one moment more. No more words. It was time for me to catch a bus back to Shen Zhen and for us to say good-bye, maybe forever. I gave her one last hug, lifted my pack to my shoulders, turned, and walked away.
The memory of sweet pain of that single moment is still clear, still intense, still burning inside when I think back, because I have felt it so often. The pain of endings is as much a part of me as the thrill of starting over.
After taking only thirty steps, I turned back and smiled at Kihn. In less than twenty yards, everything had changed inside my head and heart. I had made the transition between ending and starting over, and some kind of chemical reaction had entirely dissolved the pain into excitement. Before me lay more adventure, and the world was fresh and new all over again.
I was on my own and free again, traveling the world, doing great things, and I would be home too soon to start feeling lonely. I shouted good-bye again, this time with a huge beaming smile, and I hope I added "Wo ai ni!" I don't remember if I actually said it, but the feeling of love that I felt for Kihn, the joy for the adventures we had shared, is still clear and intense and sweet in my memory.
Two days later, I entered Hong Kong and climbed on a plane bound for America.