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The Scent of a Second Home (2) |
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14:11, June 26, 2008 |
The ringing of bicyclists' bells
(This year in Beijing I've ridden my bike around Haidian to go to school and other places. I've noticed that not many bicyclists use bells now, at least around me. They shout, whistle, or don't say anything at all. The crisp sound of bells ringing as I sat behind my uncle or aunt on their bikes still resonates in my head when I think about Shanghai in 1994. Maybe because of the lack of car horns and the all-pervasive lazy summer atmosphere, the light sound of chimes stood out to me.)
The taste of grainy shrimps' eggs
(To this day, each time I go to Shanghai and see my grandparents, my grandma inevitably cooks shrimp for me. I've never tasted shrimp like this anywhere else except in Shanghai. They're very small, almost too small to bother peeling and eating, but they have a layer of eggs, either black or red, stuck along their myriad legs. They have a weird texture, but don't taste bad. I'm just too lazy to really prefer this food since it has to be peeled.)
The smell of old wood/The creaking of the crooked, worn stairs
(This smell was really just limited to my family's apartment on Kang Ping Road. The building was very old and had a distinct musty smell. After my great-grandmother passed away, my family sold the apartment, and thereafter my experience of Shanghai was very different. It seemed I had moved on from old Shanghai to new Shanghai, where everything was crisp, fashionable, fast-paced, and pricier than everywhere else in China. New Shanghai smells like air conditioning and cosmetics counters. But when I look back, I still remember the scent of leisure and old wood that made Shanghai feel like a pleasant home to me.)
The crooked-toothed smile of the ayi
(Like many families, we had an ayi who cooked and cleaned, and she also took care of my great-grandmother. She was pretty old herself, but she was diligent and persistent in all the work she did. In America, maids and cooks in private homes are not a common sight at all, as labor is expensive. But I soon got used to the sight of her kind smile and wrinkled face, and though we could not communicate because her accent was strong, we got along well for those two weeks.)
The clicking and clacking of mah-jong tiles
(My relatives played mah-jong almost every day. I hear this is common in the south; in Beijing I hardly ever see it. This lively game has always puzzled me, because from my experience of playing board games and videogames, one can only play something for so long before losing interest. But so many Chinese, especially the elderly, can play mah-jong all day every day and never get tired of it. Some people say it is because of the social atmosphere of a mah-jong game. Others say it is because the game itself is so complex and variable that one will never lose interest. I have never played so I still don't understand.)
The sweet cold taste of a fresh peach bigger than your fist
(I love peaches. They might be my favorite fruit. So it was amazing to taste Wuxi peaches in Shanghai. I often looked forward to dessert just to have peaches; I could eat three and still want more. I'll have to go out tonight and buy one; hopefully inflation hasn't pushed up the price of peaches too much.)
Somehow each of these memories is imbued with the scent of a second home, one that I sometimes return to in my mind. The Kang Ping Road apartment has been sold; I don't know what the new owner has done with it, but I know the creak of old wooden stairs and the clack of mah-jong tiles and the drone of cicadas on near-empty streets will not be heard again. Still, the memory of smell does not fade easily, ingrained deep into one's consciousness. Perhaps my love for China is rooted in the timelessness of that first summer, in the first impressions that remain in my senses today.
By Ann Chao, a Chinese-American university student who is studying and working in Beijing from 2007 to 2008.
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