Saying goodbye to my co-workers at the outdoor shop

It seems, sitting in my house, that the last year may not have happened. It probably didn't happen at all, because nothing else has changed. My grandparents eat hamburgers on Tuesdays, my family goes to church on Sundays, and my sister watches Friends DVDs at night.

Have I lived inside a Chinese University for 9 months? Gone from crying on the floor to clubbing in Hong Kong? Is it really possible that I've taken 31 airline flights in twelve months or gone by train across more than half of China? Have I made my best friends with Chinese workers and been to Beijing for the national baseball tournament? Been ill for weeks with diarrhea? Rented an apartment with an art student and worked at an outdoor shop? Has all that and more really happened?

Yes. But it doesn't feel like that.

On August 8th I returned to the U.S. I had spent the previous three days saying goodbye to my friends, in some sort of strange fog. Slowly shrinking my acquaintances, when all I had ever tried was to grow them. Chinese goodbyes. Wet eyes, no tears but tight throats. Thank you's and well wishes, but knowledge that this was the end. Unspoken understanding that we would not see each other again, that we would not communicate much once I left. And then we would turn, and walk our on way, and when I would turn around, my friend would be gone.

I am glad to be home, though I'm concerned Americans are going extinct. I go to the store and it's deserted. I go to the mall and it's empty. I walk outside and see strange green grass everywhere. And I can feel that I am an American and this is most comfortable. I don't wear pants to try and blend in, I can watch baseball on TV. But at the same time, I find that Chinese life became so normal. I miss the swarms of people, going out late at night for a meal, bartering with people on stuff.

It seems that life in America has advantages and yet so does life in Hangzhou. And that is extremely difficult to deal with, as I feel split between two cultures. And America is ironically a very defined place. White people are white, Black people are black, and Asian people are asian. We're all cool, just don't mix up what race you are.

In China, "How old are you?" is an extremely common question, sometimes even before your name. Except that I have no exact age. In America I'm 21. In China I am somewhere between 21 and 24, though most people say I'm 23. As a result, I just give my birth year and let the asker decide. For a long time I thought that question was funny, that a country couldn't calculate my age. But gradually I actually became unclear about my age. Am I 21? Or 23? Perhaps somewhere in the middle? I realized that I had assumed the factors that go into counting my age only have one answer. But they don't. And the resulting fuzzy range is reality. Sort of.

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This blog seems to have reached the end of its lifespan. I am, after all, no longer in China nor do I know when I will return. Thank you to all the people and friends that have read this blog, I am thankful to have an audience. Hopefully you enjoyed most of this blog. I'm not sure if I will continue this blog or not. If you have any thoughts, I'd love your input.