As I compose this blog in a river-side park in Huangshan, I am fully aware that at least six people in my periphery are watching me intently; one old woman has even stopped her once-purposeful walk to look. While aware of my spectators, I am already used to the sensation. For the past week, our group of six beiguoren (white people) is a walking sideshow in China. Wherever we walk, heads comically whip around to gaze at us. People walking near us slow their steps to pace us. Others pull out cameras and snap a picture (our own paparazzi).
Sitting on this bench, no less than three old men have stopped at different times to watch me write. When I say "stopped," I really mean that they stopped far away from me then purposely came within a foot of me to observe. Two stopped in front of me, while the other crossed behind me to lean over my shoulder and follow my motions. I don't worry that they know I am writing about them, as I am writing quickly and in cursive. Perhaps they haven't seen someone writing in English. Perhaps they haven't seen a young white woman writing in English. Who knows. I continue to write and they continue to watch. (It, like my whole life here, is an endless "personal private moment" for those readers who understand the term.)
Unlike Americans, who glance surreptitiously from beneath lowered lashes if they are intrigued by something, the Chinese indulge their fascination with the unknown. Staring, pointing, and blatantly taking pictures are not impolite. While accepting that my ideas of "politeness" are "privacy" are not universal has taken some getting used to, I understand the Chinese way. I, too, am curious about what I do not understand. At lunch, the people at the table next to us watched us eat, while I watched back. I was curious about methods of sharing communal food, discarding bones from meat, and chopstick etiquette. How much easier it was to simply watch, rather than try to hide that I was watching. When my eyes met theirs, we simply gazed at each other and then continued to eat. No apologies or embarrassment necessary.
Oh, and I must say "Happy Birthday, Hunter!" After celebrating with a wonderful dinner of hot-pot (buy ingredients, cook them in a pot at the table, then eat communally), we will give him his real gift tomorrow: the Yellow Mountain!
Sitting on this bench, no less than three old men have stopped at different times to watch me write. When I say "stopped," I really mean that they stopped far away from me then purposely came within a foot of me to observe. Two stopped in front of me, while the other crossed behind me to lean over my shoulder and follow my motions. I don't worry that they know I am writing about them, as I am writing quickly and in cursive. Perhaps they haven't seen someone writing in English. Perhaps they haven't seen a young white woman writing in English. Who knows. I continue to write and they continue to watch. (It, like my whole life here, is an endless "personal private moment" for those readers who understand the term.)
Unlike Americans, who glance surreptitiously from beneath lowered lashes if they are intrigued by something, the Chinese indulge their fascination with the unknown. Staring, pointing, and blatantly taking pictures are not impolite. While accepting that my ideas of "politeness" are "privacy" are not universal has taken some getting used to, I understand the Chinese way. I, too, am curious about what I do not understand. At lunch, the people at the table next to us watched us eat, while I watched back. I was curious about methods of sharing communal food, discarding bones from meat, and chopstick etiquette. How much easier it was to simply watch, rather than try to hide that I was watching. When my eyes met theirs, we simply gazed at each other and then continued to eat. No apologies or embarrassment necessary.
Oh, and I must say "Happy Birthday, Hunter!" After celebrating with a wonderful dinner of hot-pot (buy ingredients, cook them in a pot at the table, then eat communally), we will give him his real gift tomorrow: the Yellow Mountain!
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