The Memoirs of Someone Who Is Not a Tourist

It’s nice to be able to speak something other than your mother tongue. Not so nice when one contemplates the delicate intricacies lost in rough translation.

I cannot remember how many times I’ve mused over this， here at this very spot. Xihu， the Lake in the West， West Lake indeed. The difference is subtle， but always there — like two different shades of lipstick， Louboutin and Jimmy Choo.

The passers-by give me dirty looks as I sit like a pile of rubble on this bench. I don’t blame them — no doubt there are dozens out there casting coveteous looks at this seat， though I’m not going anywhere just yet. I’ve been to this city， what， sixty or seventy times already？ Not your average tourist， since nine times out of ten I am here for business rather than pleasure. nasty business too， those dentists with their whirring drills and tweezers and condescending attitudes. It’s been eight years since I got my braces， a stuffy train ride every few months for readjustments. And then I have to endure a nagging pain in my mouth for at least a week — sharp jabs of anguish that gradually fades into a dull throb before finally disappearing.

Well， here I am again， my jawbone feeling as though somebody had taken a screwdriver to it. A soothing breeze flowing over cool water， somehow untangling the snarls inside. Thank God it’s a cool morning. The first time I visited with Father， we weren’t so lucky. It was a blazing summer’s day， we were here because I had to take part in a speaking competition. Me， a skinny little seven-year-old with scabby knees and a gauzy pink dress， scratching away at the thick layers of petticoats with sweaty fingers. I stumbled through the procedures like a wooden doll， making stiff， jerky movements to accompany my narrative of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Bow， smile， then bow again. My father smirking to himself as a judge stopped us to ask where I got my perfect American accent — no， no， she’s never been abroad， we taught her at home … Then the two of us were out again in the merciless heat， sitting down right on the sidewalk. Why？ I guess we both needed a moment process the fact that I had just earned first place， along with the prettiest medallion I had ever seen. I dropped the gilded piece of metal in the dust and returned to scratching my legs again， something I had been too embaressed to do indoors.

Flash forward several years. I was thirteen， round-faced and awkward as I stroll by the lake， rubbing my fingerless gloves against the bare skin of my hands for a spark of warmth. It was winter， it was snowing， and I was wearing the most ridiculous purple parka you’ve ever imagined. Big， lacy snowflakes kept settling down on the cloth and melting. I pulled my pink furry baseball cap as low on my forehead as I could， while Father snapped pictures of various intriguing tourists. A squirrel scrambled up the side of a moss-covered tree， making children squeal and dogs bark. Aren’t squirrels supposed to hibernate this time of year？ I opened my mouth to ask this question， then shut it upon reconsidering. I was suffering from severe anemia， every gust of bitter wind pummelling my imperfect physique. Then there were those ever-tightening metal bands — they constricted every uneccessary word， I bite my tongue bloody from being so quiet. So docile， calm and collected， unlike the average teenager with raging hormones and a temper to match. Instead I smiled at everything — the children， the dogs， the vanishing squirrel， even the mossy tree. The water must be near freezing by now. A ring of stone columns surrounding this lake， connected by thick iron chains to form a protective fence. I swung a particularly nasty link with one foot， just to disturb the perfect whiteness of falling snow.

Other memories of this place are blurred now. I remember hoisting a shopping-bag full of brand-new books over one shoulder as Mama points to an Italian restaurant around the block. Actually， I was the one who did all the pointing. We always eat at the same places， that pizza hut was just so conveniently located — a few steps away from where I am sitting right now. I bounced on the plush leather cushions， barely able to contain my excitement as we flick through the menu. Pasta marinara and good old sirloin — this was back when I could still eat like a child， before I started paying attention to what I put in my mouth like every other schoolgirl. Then it was just the sirloin， from which I scraped every last drop of gravy speckled with black pepper.

Then there were those rare occasions when the three of us were here as a family， nobody missing. No matter how much we had to do， no matter how many nights we stayed， it was the same never-changing lake-side hotel. The three of us simply couldn’t get away from the water， even though it was grey and muddy and nothing remarkable. We would stroll aimlessly each morning， revelling in the after-dawn coolness. Once I pointed to a far-away tower， clear across the entire lake — can we go there， please？ sprinting ahead when the answer was yes. Sunlight dappled through the lush green canopy overhead， casting gold specks onto my straight black locks. We walked half the morning and actually got near the tower， so near I could feel my heart quivering with excitement. Then I saw the jostling crowd， and quickly turned away. No disappointment at all — weren’t there beautiful lotuses floating close by？

Now it is summer again， a day much like any other. Only I have changed. The dentists told me a few hows ago that the next time I visit them， they would be able to remove my braces for good. It’s only one more month， and what is 30 days when a girl has waited for eight years？ I had broken my medal， outgrown that parka， read those new books， devoured my pasta. I had stared and stared at the lotus leaves， watching each spiky bud unfurl like a delicate parasol. My own parasol， bought at a nearby shop so long ago， now lay discarded at the bottom of some old drawer.

Having a decent memory can be something of an affliction， too. Hangzhou， the Lake in the West. I’ve been to so many different places over these years， never abroad though many’s the chance. I did not go to Norway 18 months earlier， when most of my parents’ colleagues went to Scandinavia. I did not visit Los Angeles because my teachers deemed it unfit for me to be travelling with exams so near. Instead I got to see the things I did not want to see — a muddy cowpath from my hometown weaving through endless cornfields， fireworks skyrocketing so high up all there was left was grey smoke hovering above， the backs of my classmates’ heads as we bent low over our test papers. I was lucky to be here.

Of course there had been other cities. Suzhou， when my father plucked me out of primary school class one Friday afternoon， for a not-very-memorable trip to the place where he’d once been a college student. Nanjing， in 2012 when I took part in another speaking competition and wore a striped blue silk， one very smooth and not at all scratchy. Beijing， at least three times， I had walked along the Great Wallduring my last visit and come down again with wind-swept hair， wearing two expensive-looking enamel bracelets bought at a souvenir shop in the Forbidden Palace. Shaoxing， once with my father and once on a school expedition where I made such faces after tasting their famous rice wine.

Ningbo， where I wore beach clothes for the first time and frolicked in the muddy seawater. A man had walked up to me and offered me three tiny crabs he had caught. I refused the crabs and accepted his seashells instead， since I couldn’t find any myself. Gannan， a place I could only reach by plane， where I tasted yoghurt made from yak’s milk and watched with amusernent as all the other tourists retched and gagged due to discomfort from motion sickness. Shanghai， five times in the last three months alone for high school affairs. If I were 106 years old and had neither teeth nor braces， I’d be able to say that I have lived a pretty action-packed life. But I am only 16， clear-eyed and sharp-tongued， my one comment being that none of these places had been anywhere near interesting. I should know — I have a filing cabinet filled with trophies and seashells， bracelets and scraps of silk， and I am never tempted to look inside.

I know I am nowhere near fortunate enough to live right beside this lake. Too many famous people， too many tombstones and willow trees. Shiny subway stations packed with workers dressed in smart suits. sporting bluetooth earbuds and silvery laptops. This isn’t Shanghai， with its sky scrapers and tall spires and not a speck of nature anywhere in sight. Shanghai is where my new high school is located， golden hallways made to look big and grand with red velvet seats and crystal chandeliers. I’ve made my choice， to hell with any regrets. Why then， is there still unease？ Why can I not leave behind my memories of shimmering lakes and those riots of blooming flowers？

Many foreign celebrities have spoken about their itchy wandering feet during interviews in glossy magazines. I’ve read them. I know it . I guess it’s just not my type. Even at home I am drawn to still bodies of water and small animals. The community I live in is over-flowing with plants and small ponds. Pitiful substitutes for what I get here， with misty mountains floating in and out of sight on the horizon. Rippling emerald hills half-hidden in clouds， where folklore tells me fairy people live.

Finally I get up. No point in staying where I am not supposed to stay. My neck creaks a little， this tiny popping sound that comes from sitting too long in one position. I have a train to catch， after all. The dull ache behind my lips is as pronounced as ever， but I know it will go away.

Then I turn， and take one last look at what lies before me. The Lake in the West， Xihu， not West Lake. Not some weak， insipid translation devoid of any emotion. I learned this lesson long ago， when I first read Harry Potter in Chinese after finishing the original stories in English. Language is really the source of misunderstanding， the Little Prince was right. If I want something done correctly， I’ll do it myself. If I want to settle down in a new city and patiently toil for the next three years， I’ll have to steel my heart first.

But I know better than to forget. A good memory brings both joy and sorrow. I live and remember.

【作者簡(jiǎn)介】Li Xiaochun， Shanghai Starriver Bilingual School.