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The Scent of a Second Home |
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14:11, June 26, 2008 |
There is something about the smell of a place that sinks deep into one's memory. I think the texture of memories is often incomplete without smell. Yet it is nearly impossible to define and describe in words.
I first visited China in the summer of 1994, when I was only eight years old. My family is from Shanghai, so we went there for two weeks to visit my many relatives, my 94 year old great-grandmother in particular. At that time she and some of her children and grandchildren were still living in the old three-story apartment my late great-grandfather had owned for decades. It was on Kang Ping Road.
I don't remember too much of what I did in Shanghai during that trip, but I fondly recall meeting my great-grandmother, who still played mah-jong basically every day, knew the names of all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and spoke to me in a thick accent I could not understand. Very few people owned cars back then, and I was still small enough to fit on the back of my uncle's bike as he took me to pick up my cousin from school. Life was simpler; the most advanced mode of entertainment for kids was Tetris and other basic videogames on an old TV. I played Go with my grandfather and cards with my cousins on sweltering afternoons. I visited my aunt's workplace, riding on the back of her bike through traffic in the center of town, which was absent of the ubiquitous high rises, office buildings, and condominiums of today.
Several years later in high school, I suddenly began to think about that first trip to China. I wasn't sure why, but sometimes there is no explanation for nostalgia. I sat in the silence of my room and began to write what I could still remember, just letting the thoughts flow on paper. Much of it ended up being sensory images and feelings, not specific occurrences. The deep impression I had received of the country where my parents were born had not left me even though I seldom visited China and could hardly speak the language. This is the list I made that day in high school, with some notes elaborating on each sensory detail.
Mixing iced tea in a heavy cup with a spoon that rang against its sides
(Please excuse the poor high school-level sentence construction. I was recalling the Lipton iced tea that my grandma mixed for me. She would open the packets and pour the dark sugary crystals into a cup, pour cold water and ice on top, and stir it with a long metal spoon that was crooked from overuse. I would lick the spoon afterward to get the remaining crystals and then start drinking the tea. It was such a relief on hot afternoons. I would drink iced tea and read or just talk to one of my family members.)
Turning on a noisy fan in the middle of a hot summer day
(We had one of those large fans that shook in the first few seconds after you turned it on. It swiveled slowly from across the room when I came in from playing badminton with someone or visiting another relative with my parents. The air from the fan was lukewarm, but it smelled fresh enough in contrast with the heavy humidity.)
The drone of the cicada outside along with the rushing by of cars
(Again, please excuse the poor sentence construction. It all makes more sense in my head with just feelings and no words. I had first seen a cicada in New York when my cousin caught one and kept it alive on tomato slices and water. It looked like a gigantic fly, and I was usually terrified of insects, but I somehow grew to like cicadas. I didn't catch any in China, but sometimes I would see some that had fallen from trees. There really weren't many cars in Shanghai at that time, so I actually noticed when a car rushed by. Today, I don't even notice the sound of cars anymore since they're everywhere. Back then, there wasn't any car exhaust in the air either; I just smelled humid summer air.)
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