Being a long-term expat in China is, by turns, fascinating, exhilarating and disappointing. The fascination and exhilaration come from having the opportunity to immerse oneself in a totally different world, learn a seemingly impossible new language and have one's innards fried alive by Sichuan hotpot.
The disappointment comes from the constant state of flux in which things seem to exist. One of the great joys of expat life is discovering a favorite restaurant which welcomes you like family every time and serves the kind of sumptuous fare which you wish could be home delivered via airmail, upon your eventual return to your country of origin.
Shuddering disappointment sticks its unwelcome head into this otherwise happy equation when you discover, one sunny afternoon, that your favorite dinner haunt/watering hole is being renovated. Or, worse still, has been replaced by another of the ubiquitous "fast food" noodle establishments which seem perpetually ready to pounce the moment any business shuts up shop. Not that I am opposed to noodle restaurants, per se. Just not at the expense of my cozy, just-round-the-corner place with its delicious chicken, eggplant, and egg-fried rice, thank you very much.
Like a good friend, I spent six months getting to know it. I noted every change of mood, every new dish and every new member of staff. The restaurant's regular window table provided solace after many a long deadline-ridden Monday and Tuesday evening. Such reliability is to be cherished. Arriving at your favorite restaurant to find that it now resembles a building site is dispiriting, for both body and soul. In some ways, the "here today, gone tomorrow" nature of shops and restaurants in China is something of a metaphor for expat life itself.
Think about it: You arrive, in your new, shiny excitable state, ready to welcome new people and experiences into your lives. For a while, you revel in your new friends, job, and city. Then, one day, one of your friends returns home. Where once existed a tranquil evening of good food, conversation and wine, now stands a metaphorical building site, empty and barren. Of course, new friends and restaurants may come to take the place of what stood before, but one is left with the unsettling sense that things could change forever at any moment. Like restaurants, expat friends come in all flavors and varieties, from all corners of the world. They are a delicious feast of friendship and it's painful to think that I may, one day, be suddenly deprived of their company.
Now, every time I discover a new restaurant, I am instinctively wary. I fear allowing myself to get too attached to the ebullient, friendly staff, or the endlessly inviting menu. After all, next week it could be a cigar shop or yet another instant noodle establishment. Like any new expat friend, the question is: How close should I get, lest it should one day disappear without trace? For all the shared loyalty, good times and mutual dependence, my new friends may, one day, vanish into the bellowing March wind.
Perhaps I should simply stop panicking and accept the situation in which I find myself. After all, I might one day be someone else's vacant building site, dusty and barren. Expats, like their favorite restaurants and shops, are a transient population, adding flavor, enjoyment and perhaps, eventually, disappointment. So, I choose to revel in what is wonderful today, and let whatever happens tomorrow unfold, as it will.
The disappointment comes from the constant state of flux in which things seem to exist. One of the great joys of expat life is discovering a favorite restaurant which welcomes you like family every time and serves the kind of sumptuous fare which you wish could be home delivered via airmail, upon your eventual return to your country of origin.
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Shuddering disappointment sticks its unwelcome head into this otherwise happy equation when you discover, one sunny afternoon, that your favorite dinner haunt/watering hole is being renovated. Or, worse still, has been replaced by another of the ubiquitous "fast food" noodle establishments which seem perpetually ready to pounce the moment any business shuts up shop. Not that I am opposed to noodle restaurants, per se. Just not at the expense of my cozy, just-round-the-corner place with its delicious chicken, eggplant, and egg-fried rice, thank you very much.
Like a good friend, I spent six months getting to know it. I noted every change of mood, every new dish and every new member of staff. The restaurant's regular window table provided solace after many a long deadline-ridden Monday and Tuesday evening. Such reliability is to be cherished. Arriving at your favorite restaurant to find that it now resembles a building site is dispiriting, for both body and soul. In some ways, the "here today, gone tomorrow" nature of shops and restaurants in China is something of a metaphor for expat life itself.
 |
Think about it: You arrive, in your new, shiny excitable state, ready to welcome new people and experiences into your lives. For a while, you revel in your new friends, job, and city. Then, one day, one of your friends returns home. Where once existed a tranquil evening of good food, conversation and wine, now stands a metaphorical building site, empty and barren. Of course, new friends and restaurants may come to take the place of what stood before, but one is left with the unsettling sense that things could change forever at any moment. Like restaurants, expat friends come in all flavors and varieties, from all corners of the world. They are a delicious feast of friendship and it's painful to think that I may, one day, be suddenly deprived of their company.
Now, every time I discover a new restaurant, I am instinctively wary. I fear allowing myself to get too attached to the ebullient, friendly staff, or the endlessly inviting menu. After all, next week it could be a cigar shop or yet another instant noodle establishment. Like any new expat friend, the question is: How close should I get, lest it should one day disappear without trace? For all the shared loyalty, good times and mutual dependence, my new friends may, one day, vanish into the bellowing March wind.
Perhaps I should simply stop panicking and accept the situation in which I find myself. After all, I might one day be someone else's vacant building site, dusty and barren. Expats, like their favorite restaurants and shops, are a transient population, adding flavor, enjoyment and perhaps, eventually, disappointment. So, I choose to revel in what is wonderful today, and let whatever happens tomorrow unfold, as it will.
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