The Shape of a Person

by afatpurplefig

It was a doozy of a week. The days leading up to this trip were packed to the brim, and every little task seemed determined to take its pound of flesh. (Actually, I’m not sure if ‘return email’ can be classified as a pound of flesh, but there you go – procrastinators feel things magnified.)

We meet at 8.20am and don our Griffith University red caps, in solidarity. I find myself hoping I won’t be wearing it in every one of the (already ubiquitous) photos of our group (I do not have a head made for caps). My last daughter-message read, “getting-to-know-you exchanges are so draining”, but I needn’t have worried – the conversation is easy.

My Mandarin? Not so much. I just can’t seem to hold the words in my head. Mid-flash-card test, or ‘Hello Chinese’ lesson, I feel positively bilingual, striding about my lounge, having mock conversations that involve pearlers such as, “你家有几口人?” (How many people in your family?), and “公园在医院后面” (the bank is behind the hospital). A few hours later, it is all but gone. It’s as though my brain is an extra-fine strainer, and the words just leak out, over time.

(And, just in case that paragraph somehow communicated that I am but a step or two away from painting Hanzi characters in calligraphy, I ought to state that the only characters in my repertoire are 一 二 三 四 五 (1 2 3 4 5), and 人 (person), because it actually looks like the shape of a person, walking.)

Onward and upwards – I nǐ hǎo and “xiè xiè” and zài jiàn the heck out of things as we take on the flights. They are straightforward – a tenner and a two-er – so require little more than bridge, naps, essay writing (under duress), and a couple of movies. I watch Small Things Like These (good, but utterly miserable), and The Dumpling Queen (the panacea – women being bloody brilliant). The only real disappointment is pulling the cover off a meal, only to discover that ‘chicken noodles’ is a penne bolognese, made with chicken mince. Deception of the highest order.

Beijing is two hours behind the Gold Coast, so, by the time we alight from our Shanghai-Beijing leg at 11.30pm, I am barely the shape of a person.

“累? 不累?” my teacher asks. No idea. Too much later to be useful, I realise I know what she asked. Very bloody tired, for the record.

We arrive at our hotel close to 1am. I have a sore neck from jerk sleeping on the coach, and am positively swaying by this stage. Review: the King Coil mattress does provide quality sleep for this traveller. Five stars.

The next morning, I escape the confines of my small (shared) room early, to give my lovely roommate some time to breathe. This way, I can enjoy the dual positives of being first to breakfast, and establishing myself as an early riser, which everyone knows is superior. (How do I know this? Because I was once a late riser, and the early risers passed it on.)

Here is my breakfast. Delicious. Note to self: breakfast at 7am is a contact sport.

I am typing this at a table in the corner of the hotel foyer, watching the people come and go. I suspect I will be here every morning, whilst in Beijing. I snap this photo of a woman, sweeping with a twig broom.

A small boy comes over to look at my screen, oblivious to the vigorous protestations of his family. He wants to press a button on my keypad, and see the character appear on the screen. “Yingu,” I tell him, “not Hanyu.” He nods sagely.

It sure is nice to be understood.