By 4 p.m., I’d had enough. It was the last real day before a week long break, and helping my 13 wiggly kids to keep it together took more energy than I had woken up with. I spent a 40 min. block just to tell my kids their homework over break. (I began with “Why do we have homework?” and “What homework do you think I have over break?” to try to calm the groaning I was sure to receive.)
At 2:45, just fifteen sweet minutes before the end of the day, my kids came trickling in from PE, instead of in a line, with the L, the T.A. in front (as usual). Bad signs. I found the rest of them outside, throwing their water bottles into the fish pond and generally running around. There’s nothing like an end of the day discussion with 6 and 7 year olds about what NOT to do with a water bottle to feel like a successful teacher.
I met Kelly, the Agent and the Landlord at the Police station at 4. It was our second attempt at getting another residency card, now that we finally have our multiple entry VISA (another long story of lines and paperwork that I’ve spared you.) Finally, after an hour of calls from L (who thankfully takes being my Chinese interpreter as her second job) to the Landlord and Agent, this time we had all of the people and documents.
Of course, the God of Apartments smites me again: our gas is broken…conveniently, when we have an entirely full fridge of fresh veggies. I can’t tell if it’s Chinese custom, or that everyone in China just thinks that we are idiots, but no one will take our word for it. We checked the gas. We tried using a match. We put even more money on the card. It’s broken. I had all of this written out in Chinese this time, as an attempt to skip right to the “let’s fix this problem and call the professionals” part.
Therefore, when I found myself walking my bike with the agent and the landlord on the 25 min. trek back to my apartment, I was seething. I said every silent complaint and groan I could think of as I walked. “Why am I even doing this? I should stop right now and call someone who will beg them to just call the fixer guys from here! I’ll just stop. They can’t make me walk to my apartment. They can just go on without me, I don’t care. No one would even notice if I wasn’t here, I can’t say anything! &@#^@ CHINA!”
Soon down the road, the landlord sent the agent home, and it was just us walking in silence, side by side. It was uncomfortably awkward and slow going, as walking a bike down the busy street, with cars and bikes and people swerving in and out, is actually the slowest way to go. Eventually the landlord made a gesture towards my handlebars. I took this in pantomime that he wanted to walk my bike for me. I made the laugh, smile, soft shake head of “no need”, but the second time he offered, I acquiesced. I figured that if we were going to be this awkward, I might as well let him feel chivalrous.
After a short while, though, he stopped. He looked at me, hit the thin metal grate over the rear tire, and then looked at me again. He wanted me to hop on. Most of my motivation was to end this growing silence, but part of me just wondered, can I do that?
Next thing I knew I was sitting side-saddle, holding my legs at a 90 degree angle and pretending there was an apple on top of my head. The landlord (yea, I don’t know his name), was whizzing down the street, taking corners without stopping and weaving past other bikes. I was thinking, “Can I hold on to him? What’s the line?” The line for me was swayed by a life-and-death need, so I compromised by gently resting one hand on the side of his jacket.
As he rode, I watched trees and buildings blur past. I took deep breaths and tried not to flinch as scooters going the wrong way on the street nearly brushed my knees.
I could feel all the stress of my day brush off me, and I thought: I’m having an experience.
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