Musings On The 200th Day

Hohhot is finally coming back to life after the New Year’s holiday. Over half of the little shops that line every street are still closed—big grey shutters surrounded by the red banners wishing New Year’s good luck and prosperity—and all of the restaurants on Mongolia Street (our “go to” place when we don’t feel like cooking) are still closed, resulting in serious Chinese food withdrawal. What are we going to do when we’re on the other side of the world, out of reach of the “Happy Man” or the “Blue Chair” restaurant?

For days following the New Year we had to scrounge for vegetables and fruit since the meat and vegetable ladies were closed and the little store behind us had replaced all of the vegetables with fancy boxes full of flavored yogurt, bai jiu (the alcohol of preference for all toasting—and strong enough to peel paint, not to mention put hair on your chest), “classic” milk boxes, and other such offerings when going to someone’s house for a meal. Our busy street out front—the same one I wrote about way back in early August that absolutely terrified us every time we tried to cross—was so devoid of traffic that you could almost cross the road without looking both ways. Believe it or not, I actually started to miss all the traffic. It was so quiet, so lonely, so empty. And it has been so cold (highs in single digits, lows in negative teens), and we were still cycling through that Shanghai illness, that we hardly even left the apartment.

Then it all turned around, seemingly overnight. The American teachers started coming back so our building no longer echoes with only our own footsteps (the students will probably return in another week); the meat and vegetable ladies re-opened and the gift boxes have been relegated to a corner of the grocery store, allowing the vegetables to take up their usual place; the post office branch across the street re-opened, one day after I had to make a giant trek around town trying to find a place to put money on my phone (normally we can amble across the street to do this); there are more taxis, buses, and pedestrians than I’ve seen in weeks; the sweet potato guys are back on the street (hooray!!); and most unbelievably, we are undergoing a bit of a warm spell, with temps up in the 20s, causing people to break out their lighter coats and stroll through the streets with giddy looks that are generally reserved for the first appearance of green buds and crocuses.

Yesterday we took the kids to Da Zhao, the Tibetan Buddhist temple we visited back in August and again in October. The kids have been begging us to return to the gift shop—ack—and we finally gave in, even though we dreaded having to pay the fairly steep entry fee just so they could shop. Just as we pulled up in front, Dave remarked that he had forgotten the camera, to which I replied that we don’t need any more pictures of Da Zhao, especially if we’re just visiting the gift shop. Okay, so maybe Dave was right, we should have had the camera. The taxi dropped us off and our fears that perhaps the temple might be closed vanished as we waded into a throng of people where normally there is just a wide open square. Not being able to read the banners floating overhead we never did figure out exactly what was going on, but it was some kind of carnival/antique market/cultural expo. Mongolian men and women dressed in traditional clothing (the everyday kind for really cold weather) lined the square with blankets of wares spread out in front of them. There were the kinds of items the kids were looking for inside: bracelets, necklaces, trinkets, most of a Tibetan Buddhist nature; there were also blankets loaded with antiques. Interspersing these were vendors selling food, balloons, and drinks, making paintings, selling junk and non-junk.

Mostly, though, there were lots and lots of people. And at every place we stopped to look at a vendor’s wares we instantly attracted a crowd. They especially pressed in closer when either Dave or I started to bargain for something we wanted—what could be more interesting than seeing the only foreigners in the whole square attempt to bargain in a language they don’t speak? It was a little claustrophobic but everyone around us was in great spirits and we just figured we were bringing more business to whatever blanket we were patronizing at the moment. After a couple weeks of enforced solitude our shopping expedition catapulted us back into the usual crowded scenes of life in Hohhot. And it didn’t really feel so bad after all.

Now we have only 13 days left.

I think that statement deserves its own paragraph, don’t you? It’s really hard to believe that we have finally arrived at the proverbial home-stretch. I mean, I still vividly remember drawing a bell-curve for Samuel, the top being 106 days (this was before we realized that 2008 is a leap year), trying to illustrate for my very homesick boy that we were now on the down slope, sliding to the end of our stay here. And now we’re no longer sliding downhill, we’re coasting along the flat part where you hope your sled stops before you hit the street, but luckily you are losing momentum quickly so you’re pretty sure you won’t have to make a side dive to safety. Okay, maybe that’s stretching the metaphor a little too thin, but I do feel like we’re just coasting now. It’s an unbelievably weird feeling. We are eager to go home to friends and family but also already starting to miss our life here. The list of things we’ll miss is growing exponentially with each day. (The bathroom will never make that list, of that I am very certain.) At the same time, the prospect of re-entering our busy lives at home, with Little League, driving, gymnastics, driving, gigantic stores like Costco, driving, Dave’s work, and a big house waiting for us, all seems a little daunting.

And most importantly, if the restaurants on Mongolia Street don’t open soon I think I’m going to freak out.