Friday, August 22, 2014

Day 1: Upon Entry

BEIJING — After a 12-hour flight from Seattle, a 30-minute car ride from the Beijing airport, a brief introduction to the Dragon King Hostel's fine facilities, and an even briefer midnight walk around the neighborhood with a friendly Polish man, I was ready to retire to my adult bunk bed. Kristina's adult bunk bed was located two floors up from mine, so we said good night at the stairs and headed our separate ways. 

Kristina with the awesome night host of our hostel, who put up with many questions during our four days and nights in Beijing. 

I had already failed once to get in the door of my 6-bunk room with the provided key card. Luckily, the five people loudly getting to know each other on the other side kindly opened it for me that first time, explaining that it took them a full day to work out the door's finer details. 

"Most of our pictures today were of us trying to open it," said one.

During my second attempt at entry, I did my best to follow their instructions. Swift card swipe, followed by a particularly aggressive and immediate turn of the door handle. Nothing. Twice. I waited for them to take pity on me and open it, as they had before. Instead, I heard in a kind German accent, "Once more. You can do it."

I try again. "It's not working!" Plus some other words.

I expected they'd give me a hand at this point. But no. A slow chant started on the other side of the door, gaining momentum. 

"Han-nah. Han-nah. Han-nah!"

After a few moments the tall German advised me to please give it just one more go. This time when I wrenched down on the handle the door popped open. He was standing starkly straight to the right of the door, hands at his sides. 

"It wasn't me. I swear it to you. You finally did it."

The others applauded, laughing and congratulating me on a job well done, but suggested I give it some serious practice tomorrow. In this moment I am struck by how attractive I find German men, their confidence and humor. Which is lucky for me, as my roommates include two German men traveling together, a lone German, an American who says he is Mexican, and a Chinese girl. I give the American this qualifier because of his use of "y'all" and other linguistic/behavioral clues. I am sure he is both Mexican and American, but I'm curious, as always, of his choice to leave the latter out.

Dragon King Hostel

Kristina and I discussed at length prior to our trip whether or not we should just say that we're Canadian when asked. Not that either of us are unhappy to be American, but neither were we excited to broadcast this information while traveling. It's no secret that Americans are only the most popular people in the room when one is actually in the States. Everywhere else they seem to be generally regarded with some form of annoyance, pity, or indignation. I've experienced all three. 

(Like the Chinese college students that stopped us to talk on the street who, when they discovered that we were from the U.S. said, "Ooohhh." Like you would to a friend who just told you she's getting divorced. They're still nice, they just feel bad for you.)

Honestly, I fully understand why the rest of the world reacts to my nationality in this way. I think America — as well as every other nation on the planet — should take responsibility for the actions at home and abroad that spawned this complex and tenuous reputation, and always look seriously for ways to live more peacefully and sustainably in this world. I also think it's important that we not forget the many incredible things about America that make it a wonderful place to live.

All that being said, I'm not sure I'm equipped to defend its honor during casual social encounters where language barriers and time constraints are a real consideration. So, I brought hats. Two Canadian visors courtesy of one of my favorite Canucks. 

"Hats? Your backup for lying is hats?" she asked, handing them over. 

It was. Problem is, every time someone asks where we're from, I blurt out: Alaska. Before the lie can even formulate. Because that's where I'm from. I'm not sure if this means that I have taken a stand on representing my country in a positive way while traveling, or if I'm just a crappy liar. Either way, I'm once again fielding Sarah Palin jokes. Which may or may not be better than trying to explain Rob Ford. We've all got something, the comical and the gravely serious. 

That first night, my roommates were engaging in the common traveler practice of jovially vetting the stereotypes represented by their respective cultures. It didn't matter whether they were true or not, just that it broke the ice, and entertained a few sweaty people sharing a small room for the night. But in a single minute, I listened to the entire dynamic break apart when the cultural jokes got too real. The Latin-American man misunderstood a joke that may or may not have been about Latin America; he actually entered halfway through the conversation. This prompted him to laughingly suggest they shouldn't go there, or else he'd go THERE. Which he immediately did. 

"The 1940s. That's all I'm going to say," he said, still laughing. 

Though I was tucked squarely behind my bunk's privacy curtain, I could hear the smiles dropping. The German men became somber, quietly and politely trying to navigate the conversation past the comment that took them from congenial razing to revisiting the atrocities of their grandfathers' war; our grandfathers' war. The chatter fumbled through some awkward historical facts, some redirection, and finally back into safer territory. But there was no ignoring this evidence that — despite polite conversation — we carry the histories and hallmarks of our countries and people wherever we go. 

It's good to acknowledge these pieces of identity, use them as opportunities for discussions that broaden our understanding of the world, and maybe in some small way motivate us to make it a better one. But it's not easy. And the burden of shame for a nation's mistakes, a generation's mistakes, however lightly phrased, cannot be put on one individual at a time. A 24-year-old German man cannot alone answer for the trauma of World War II. I cannot for the life of me explain Sarah Palin, or the intricacies of the American military, or the tragedies that have befallen North America's First Nations people — just to name a few. But neither can I pretend that these things don't shape me and the place I call home, or that I don't have a responsibility to try to understand them, to do my part to mend what has been broken. 

And really maybe I need to analyze it all less, spend more time just quietly being in the world, trying to understand it, see it clearly, from as many angles as possible. Common ground can always be found in our humanity after all, as demonstrated by my roommates just one hour later, as they discussed the proper conjugations of the verb "to drink." They called out to each other sleepily from their bunks.

"I have not drunk enough."
 
"I drank a lot."
 
"I am drinking."

Ironically they were drunkly talking about water. Checking to make sure they were all well hydrated, and using the correct language. It was this kind of reasonable thinking that finally put me at ease and to sleep, leaning on life's most basic essentials: water, and proper grammar. Hallelujah. 



P.S. — Quote of the night, from the young Mexican-American, as he tried to sum up the experience of meeting four other interesting young people: "This is so the name for a Facebook Group — Dragon King Hostel: We're all here for a reason."

Alley view from hostel steps. 

1 comment:

  1. I love this! I wish someone from the Netherlands would've been in that awkward conversation so she could say to the Mexican/American "2014 World Cup. That's all I'm going to say." Or, if I had been there, I would have said, "The Alamo. That's all I'm going to say."

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