Christmas had passed, all the students' exams were graded, and my final marks were turned in. While I was glad to be finished teaching, I was heart-broken that it was time to leave China. In the past three and a half years, this had become my home and my life. Family, though, is the most important element of life, so to my husband and his family's needs I was returning. I soon realized that it wouldn't be easy.
My tooth had been bothering me again for some time, but given my previous experiences with Chinese dentistry, I figured my teeth could wait a while longer. One morning, though, I awoke to an excruciating throbbing in my lower jaw. I called Frank, my guardian angel for sure, and he arranged for me to visit a "good" local dentist. I found out it was not the gold crown — my customary nemesis — that was causing the pain and swelling, but the molar behind it. I convinced the dentist to just give me some strong antibiotics since I was leaving so soon and would get it taken care of back in America. After several days the pain subsided, but I was careful not to bite anything hard on that side. One problem salved, I said a prayer of thanksgiving!
Over the past years we had saved up a bit of money. Foreign workers are allowed to exchange only 25 percent of their salary into foreign currency. The rest must remain in yuan, which is worthless outside of China. At the beginning of the school year it was time to get my work and residence permits renewed. Since my old permits had already been renewed several times, they had to issue me a new permit. Based on the new permit, I was now only entitled to exchange 25 percent of my last 6 months of salary. This was much less than what we had saved in the bank. I got a letter from my university stating my actual length of employment and headed into town with Frank to withdraw the money and convert it to dollars. Unfortunately, I couldn't remember the password to our account since Tim had always deposited the money. I returned home empty handed. After a long distance call to Tim in America, I returned the next day. The bank informed me that they could not release that much money to me at their branch and that I had to go to the main branch. Frank explained that this would take hours. Maybe, he went on, we would not even be able to get the money without lining some high official's pocket. It would take less time and probably cost less if we used the black market instead, he advised. I finally agreed to try this, with great misgivings. Frank made a call and arranged for us to meet a man who was trusted in black-market dealings the next day.
It was pouring down rain as we waited outside the bank. The man finally showed up, but he glanced up and down the street before strolling over to us. We proceeded into the bank and I withdrew all of our yuan. I carefully counted it and then closed out the account. I walked over to Frank and asked him what to do next. We joined the other man; he asked for the money; I handed it over. He counted it and then got out a pocket calculator and figured out the dollar equivalent and his fee. He pulled out a wad of $100 bills and began to count them out. I had brought along a $100 bill from America that I knew was not counterfeit. After he handed me the money I counted it all and compared his bills to mine. One looked questionable, and I said so. The man took all the money over to the bank manager, along with my good bill, and asked him to make sure the money was genuine. I sat next to Frank, unable to believe that a black-market deal was not only being carried out in a government bank, but with the assistance of the bank official. After much discussion it was agreed that one bill was suspect, so the bank manager exchanged it for another. The man returned to us and gave me the money. We shook hands all around, and Frank and I headed for the door. The man calmly walked up to the teller window and proceeded to deposit the Chinese yuan into his account. TIC — This is China.
At home the children were sorting out their possessions. They had several piles: give away to friends, throw away, and pack to take with them. Over the next few days, we distributed sleeping bags to university students; clothes to Frank to give to workers at his factory; games and teaching aids to Alfa, the foreign English teacher who worked at the elementary school; and English children's books to the school library. To poor friends and neighbors we gave away food, shoes, and all our warm clothes except the five layers we were wearing. Gradually we whittled down three years of accumulated possessions into what would fit into four suitcases, albeit that two were giant size. Included were my five framed embroideries, several gifts from friends, and all our Chinese books. The apartment looked like a shell of its former self — bare walls, worn furniture, and a pile of suitcases.
Since we were leaving on New Years Eve, the department head decided that the annual talent show and New Years party would be held two days early. That evening, faculty and their families piled onto two buses. Since we had not arrived 30 minutes early, there wasn't even standing room for us, so we were sandwiched into one of the university cars along with the other three foreign teachers. After the traditional hair- raising trip into town, we arrived at a restaurant that the Foreign Language Department had rented for the evening. We were shown to a table right inside the door, situated directly in front of speakers that were almost as tall as myself. I immediately pulled out the ear plugs that were still in my purse from the summer's swimming lessons. The other teachers at the table stuffed wads of tissue into their ears. Even then the volume was so loud that we had to shout at each other to make ourselves heard. The evening's entertainment was the usual mix of children singing and playing musical instruments, comedy acts, and door prizes. Scott played several songs on his guitar while Emily held his music. {The Chinese usually memorize their pieces and don't bother with music stands.) They got a great ovation. Thank goodness I wasn't asked to perform; Tim was the entertainer in our family, and everyone knew it.
As the evening drew to a close, all the foreigners were asked to come forward to receive a small gift. As I was leaving they gave me a special gift to remember our stay at the university. It was a carving of Buddha figures reclining in various positions beneath a pine tree, all hand-carved from the base of a giant bamboo. It was lovely, but it was also a foot tall and about 8 inches in diameter. How on earth was I going to fit it into my already bulging suitcases? I decided to leave that problem until tomorrow. We all posed for an endless series of pictures with the staff and children. At this point I was so exhausted, from lack of sleep and noise and accumulated stress, that I just wanted to go home and collapse. Thankfully, my wish was soon fulfilled and I dropped into bed.
I awoke knowing that this would be the final day in our China home. Throughout the day my students dropped by, helping to clean the apartment and pass the last few hours together. Naturally the apartment was a scene of constant chaos, with people coming and going, fridges being defrosted, floors swept, furniture moved, and so on. I entertained, finished packing, gave away the last items, carried the turtles and guinea pig to their new homes, and took out the trash. Several full classes of students arrived to have pictures taken with me. Some of the children's friends dropped by, and they all went off to play and visit everyone one last time. Later we ate stuffed dumplings with Alfa, Scott, and Emily at the jiaozi restaurant. I had spent the day fluctuating between tears and laughter, hugs and sighs. I felt exhausted, but ready to go.
The morning of our departure arrived cold and much too soon. I still needed to pack my carry-on bag. Ere I could gather scattered senses, we were invaded. Trying to get everything down the stairs, finish the final cleaning up of the apartment, and say good- byes to friends who had come to see us off; all this left me flustered and scattered. I finally barricaded myself in my room. I needed to change purses, because a strap had broken the night before. I emptied everything onto the bed and got out an old purse from the cupboard. After weeding out a pile of old receipts and other obsolete items, I had the replacement purse neatly organized.
Mr. Zhu, our waiban, was calling me from downstairs; it was time to leave. I rechecked the pockets of the broken purse, hurried downstairs, and carefully placed it in the recycle pile. As we lined up for a last round of pictures, I saw the trash lady down the alley and called her over for hugs, goodbyes, and of course a few more pictures. She hugged me over and over again, telling me that I was a good person, such a good person. I knew I would miss her as much as anyone. She was the worker who had cleaned our section of the campus for the past two years. She began early every morning with a broom and shovel and hauled away everyone's garbage in a big-wheeled handcart. She picked up the trash everyone brought down from their apartments, the trash that shopkeepers threw onto the sidewalk, and the trash that people tossed on the ground because society allowed and encouraged them to do so. It was a thankless job, but from her we had known only smiles and never complaints. Certainly, her lot could have been worse. Even though she was poor and basically shunned by people above her class, she had a job, a place to live, and the companionship of her fellow workers. She hadn't been reduced to looking for leftover food scraps, as some old widows who had no family nor income, and who lived — well, we never knew where, though we had always aided them when we had known of the chance. With bittersweet thoughts such as these, I said goodbye and turned toward the waiting car.
Mr. Zhu was going to drive me to the airport, but we were short of space. Earnest, his assistant and our good student-friend, went in his stead, along with Bobbie and the driver. I climbed into the front seat; the children and our friends squeezed into the back. Before pulling away, I checked to make sure I had the money and passports.
After driving for almost two hours, we arrived at the airport in Changsha, our provincial capital. There was time for lunch, so we all piled out and went into a small restaurant. I decided that I would check in while we waited for the food to be served. Bobbie and I walked up to the airport and waited in line. I rummaged through my purse, but couldn't find the plane tickets. Growing desperate, I stepped out of line, went to a counter, and dumped everything out. No tickets. Money — yes, passports — yes, plane tickets — no, U.S. driver's license and green card — no. I rubbed my forehead in despair. Thinking back, I realized that I had forgotten to clean out a small inner pocket in my broken bag. That was where I had safely tucked the plane tickets to Shanghai and my ID cards. Thank goodness that I had left behind the tickets for only the first leg of our journey. For the main trip, from Shanghai to Fort Myers, we had booked E-tickets.
Bobbie called Mr. Zhu about the tickets. He called Scott to see if my purse was still outside the building. Nope, it had been picked up by the trash lady. After spending 45 minutes tracking her down, Mr. Zhu called Bobbie back to say that the ID cards and plane tickets had been recovered. During that time, though, the airport had told me that they could not cancel the lost tickets and reissue new ones to me. I had to buy new tickets and, if the old ones were found, personally return them to the ticket agency where I purchased them to get the money refunded. Of course, there was no time for that. Bobbie and I went to a nearby bank and exchanged $400 into Chinese currency. I bought new tickets for 2,200 yuan, leaving 1,000 yuan, which I figured would be plenty of money for our needs until we left Shanghai the next day.
We finally got to eat some lunch and then checked in the luggage. It was overweight, so had to pay an additional 400 yuan. Even though international flights allow 70 kg per passenger, domestic flights only allow 22 kg. Mei guanxi, no matter. We all hugged each other and then lined up to leave. My purse was pulled out going through the security system. My tiny pocket knife on my keychain was not allowed onto the plane. It took some time to explain that they could keep the knife, but I really needed the key chain and keys. Finally we reached the gate and found places to sit. After waiting 30 minutes, there was an announcement in Chinese. Our plane had been rerouted to another airport that had priority. We would have to wait until another plane was freed up. Nope, they did not know how long it would take. The airport staff showed up and gave everyone a boxed lunch of rice and pork and vegetables. Since we were vegetarian, we ate the rice and skipped the pork. An hour later, following another announcement everyone rose en masse and started down the concourse. We packed up our belongings and tagged onto the end of the line. Our plane had finally arrived. Once aboard, the flight went without a hitch.
We arrived at the Shanghai airport, and hooked up with a Baha'i lady that we had contacted earlier. Luckily, she had a station wagon. We loaded the back with the suitcases and yangqin, piled ourselves in, and wedged the guitar and backpacks at our feet. After driving for 45 minutes, she pulled up at a nice, inexpensive hotel. We unloaded everything and checked in. We then piled back into the station wagon and drove to the home of another Baha'i. We met with several families and chatted about China, our teaching experiences, and our plans. I realized that I would need around 200 yuan for taxi fares, and another 200 for airport-construction fees the next day. (You can't get on the plane without a receipt.) I needed to exchange some more money. Luckily, one friend had enough to exchange a $50 bill for me, giving me an extra 420 yuan.
Then we walked over to a very fancy new restaurant and were treated to a delicious dinner, trying various local Shanghai specialties. As we left the restaurant, the children and I hailed a taxi. Our new found friends told the taxi the name of our hotel, and we climbed in and waved goodbye. On arriving at the hotel, we arranged with the taxi driver to pick us up again in the morning to take us to the airport. The fee and time were agreed upon. We said good night, arranged with the front desk to wake us, and fell into bed. The next morning we were awakened by the phone. It was the front desk, telling us the taxi was waiting for us downstairs. They had forgotten our wakeup call. After ten frantic minutes, we arrived downstairs, blurry-eyed, but standing. The taxi was loaded and we proceeded along empty roads to the airport. We had expected heavy traffic and an hour's ride, but it took only 25 minutes.
We unloaded and made our way inside the large and modern terminal. After waiting in line we finally picked up our E-tickets and checked our bags. We set the bags on the scales, confident that we weren't overweight. Nope, we were informed that, although the overall weight was OK, the two big bags were too heavy. They brought a small nylon bag and instructed us to empty out 20 kilos from each bag. We lugged the bags away and reallocated the weight. We approached the counter again. Now the bags were OK , but they would not check in our guitar and yangqin. (The yangqin is quite bulky, especially when loaded into its case. Fortunately, the case has wheels.) We had to take them to a special area where they would be hand-loaded onto the plane. We thanked them and walked the length of the concourse carrying the guitar and rolling the yanqqin. After several inquiries, we finally found the special place, where they sealed the instruments and put on the correct tags. We walked back up the concourse, paid the construction fees, and joined the line going through security and immigration. Thank goodness we had no problems, though it saddened me to have to give up my foreign expert's document. It was the final reminder that I wasn't coming back any time soon.
We left the Shanghai airport at 9:00 a.m. on December 31, and arrived in Tokyo at 11:30 a.m. We changed planes and left Tokyo at 1:30 p.m. Our bags were checked through to Fort Myers, so we didn't need to pick them up and recheck them, except when we went through immigration in San Francisco. We arrived in San Francisco at 8:30 a.m. the same morning, December 31, after flying for over 10 hours.
I was a bit nervous at the immigration counter. I didn't have any U.S. identification, only my Canadian passport. The children had both their U.S. and Canadian passports, so they had no problems. The immigration officer pulled me out and sent me to another area for questioning. When I was called up, I explained the situation. I was a permanent resident, had accidentally left my green card in China, and I was going home to Fort Myers, where my husband was waiting for me. How long had I been in China? Three and a half years. When had you last returned to the United States? January, 2002. Did you not know that it was illegal to have a green card if you were living outside of the United States for more than two years? No, I had no idea. You should have returned your green card when you came back in January. Oops, sorry. Well, since it's New Year's Eve, we'll be nice and just make a notation on your passport and not fine you $150. Here you go, collect your bags and go along to customs.
The customs officials were wonderful. Since I had lived in China for three years, I was entitled to bring back much more than a short-term visitor. My yangqin raised many questions. In fact I had to open the case for one official who was a music connoisseur. He had never seen a yangqin and was fascinated with my description of it — a large, wooden, dulcimer-like instrument with 164 steel strings, and capable of playing 4 full octaves.
We boarded our plane in San Francisco at 10:30 a.m., flew another 8 hours to Detroit, and changed planes yet again. After another 5 hours in the air, we finally arrived in Fort Myers at 5:30 in the afternoon, still on New Year's Eve. After visiting Tim's mom and sister, we headed to our new home to await the turn of the new year. With the crossing of the international dateline and other time-zone changes, our day might qualify for the Guinness Book of Records as the longest New Year's Eve in history. Mei guanxi, no matter, our journey is over, for now. Uncertain of the year, but certain of the fact, someday we will return to China.
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