Jian Ping's column
A visit home
A visit home
By Jian Ping
In late April, when a planned business trip to China was postponed to the fall, I decided to take the time off to
visit my mother in Changchun, with a stopover in Beijing. This was my third trip to China in 10 months. Despite
the frequency of my visits, I was filled with anticipation. China has been going through drastic changes over the
last two decades. As always, I was eager to witness the transformation.
The new Beijing International Terminal still dazzled me as I walked from the landing gate to the customs
counter: sparkling marble floor, high ceiling, and bright digital and print ads on the walls. It’s the largest and
most contemporary airport in the world. Such a difference from the Beijing Airport in the mid 1990s when the first
class lounge was infested with cockroaches and mice.
Beijing was much warmer than I expected. While Chicago was still in a chilly spell, Beijing was covered with
waves of roses, marigolds, and pansies, all lined up in different color schemes. Their brilliant blossoms filled
the air with a sweet fragrance and made the sidewalks and small city gardens so appealing to the eye. A friend
of mine drove me around the city, showing me the new developments of residential high-rises, a golf course
close to the Olympic arena right in the city, and many large restaurants of different cuisines nearby. In the
evening, I joined more friends for a wonderful dinner in a Thai restaurant, the first time I had non-Chinese ethnic
food in Beijing. Of course, all these developments come with a price: the traffic jam, the pollution, and the
disappearance of traditional architectures. I left Beijing shortly after dinner with mixed feelings.
In late April, when a planned business trip to China was postponed to the fall, I decided to take the time off to
visit my mother in Changchun, with a stopover in Beijing. This was my third trip to China in 10 months. Despite
the frequency of my visits, I was filled with anticipation. China has been going through drastic changes over the
last two decades. As always, I was eager to witness the transformation.
The new Beijing International Terminal still dazzled me as I walked from the landing gate to the customs
counter: sparkling marble floor, high ceiling, and bright digital and print ads on the walls. It’s the largest and
most contemporary airport in the world. Such a difference from the Beijing Airport in the mid 1990s when the first
class lounge was infested with cockroaches and mice.
Beijing was much warmer than I expected. While Chicago was still in a chilly spell, Beijing was covered with
waves of roses, marigolds, and pansies, all lined up in different color schemes. Their brilliant blossoms filled
the air with a sweet fragrance and made the sidewalks and small city gardens so appealing to the eye. A friend
of mine drove me around the city, showing me the new developments of residential high-rises, a golf course
close to the Olympic arena right in the city, and many large restaurants of different cuisines nearby. In the
evening, I joined more friends for a wonderful dinner in a Thai restaurant, the first time I had non-Chinese ethnic
food in Beijing. Of course, all these developments come with a price: the traffic jam, the pollution, and the
disappearance of traditional architectures. I left Beijing shortly after dinner with mixed feelings.
The moment I arrived at Changchun, the capital of Jilin Province where my mother and two older sisters live today, I felt the warmth of family. Despite
my insisting on taking a cab home on my own, my sister Wen and brother-in-law came to the train station at 6 a.m. to meet me. The moment I stepped into
my mother’s apartment, a table of food—more variety than what I would prepare for dinner — was placed in front of me, all cooked by my sister Yan who
had recently moved back home, along with her husband, to care for and keep company with my mother. I knew right there and then that no matter how old
I was or where I lived, the deeper sense of home would always be where my mother was.
Changchun, located in the northeast of China, had been slower to change than the coastal cities or Beijing. However, in the past decade, the pace of
development picked up and each time I visit, I marvel at the new roads, new buildings, and of course, the brand new airport. Even the City Hall had been
moved from the old downtown center to a newly developed area. This time during my visit, what struck me most were the gated residential communities,
with civilian guards and automated bars for passing vehicles. Residents of these communities all use magnetic cards to go through the side metal doors.
The Aviation Garden where my mother and sister live was set up in the same format. The muddy construction site three years before was now neatly lined
up with nine 11 or 12-floor condo buildings, complete with paved roads, blooming trees, small parks, and of course, a guarded gate. The ground level of
the three buildings facing a busy street is designed for commercial use and most of the space has been occupied by restaurants. From the 5th floor of my
mother’s apartment, I could see their flashing neon lights day and night. I was happy about the dining convenience, but relieved that the smell of the stir-
fries permeating the air at ground level didn’t reach this high.
Thanks to my jetlag, I was up at 4 a.m. every day. I wrote for a couple of hours before taking off for a nice jog in the South Lake Park nearby. I started
each day with anticipation: more cherry and lilac trees burst with bloom with the sudden rise of temperature; the dirt on the side streets being dug up one
day and filled with bushes the next; and the new green produce offered at a nearby farmer’s market each day. Every morning when I returned home from
my morning jog, I stopped by the market and picked up a slice of freshly-made tofu, my favorite, with its steam still rising. I observed everything with the
curiosity and excitement of a visitor. Part of me felt right at home, but the other part was keenly aware of the land that I was no longer so accustomed to.
I soon established a routine for each day: writing, jogging, taking a walk with my mother in the morning and a swim with my sister and brother-in-law
when they return from work, plus the indulgence of a daily massage, along with my sisters Wen or Yan, or both. My visit coincided with May 1, the Labor
Day, and Wen had three days off. Between family gatherings and large meals, I also squeezed in some time to meet with a couple of old friends. Mother
started calling me a “buzzing bee.” “Don’t you feel tired?” she asked, shaking her head.
“No,” I answered loud and clear. On the contrary, I was excited and full of energy. I didn’t get enough sleep because of the jetlag, but the daily massage
rejuvenated me. A neighborhood massage parlor became my favorite place. For 320 RMB, about US$50, one could get a pass for 10 sessions of 80-
minute full body massage or 20 times of 40-minute partial massage, with focus on shoulders, back or feet. Three blind men work at the parlor as
masseurs. Every time I visit Changchun, I get one or two passes and invite my sisters to join me. The masseurs were trained at different schools for the
disabled and had been doing massages for more than 10 years. My sister Wen and I were there last September and both of us were amazed that one of the
masseurs called her by name the moment he heard her voice. The condition at the parlor was quite primitive: three narrow massage tables jammed in
one room, the edges of the table worn, and the windows coated with so much dirt and dust that there was no need for a curtain to shield the room from the
passersby outside. The masseurs work on their fully clothed clients through a layer sheet. But the bedding is clean and changed for each client. More
importantly, the deep tissue massage is first rate.
Through the introduction of a friend, I also met with Mr. Zhao, the editor-in-chief of the City Evening Post in Changchun, one of four similar newspapers
in the city. I learned that this particular newspaper had a circulation of more than 300,000 and was distributed throughout the province. “Only 80 people
out of a thousand read newspapers,” Mr. Zhao told me. “We still have plenty of room for further development.”
We discussed about my contributing to the “Supplement Section” of the paper on a regular basis. “You are free to write on anything of your interest,” Mr.
Zhao said. “The only limitation is the length of each article.”
Mr. Zhao looked very young for his position. The newspaper was changing to a new layout the day we met and our conversation was interrupted
several times by incoming phone calls or knockings on his door, all sounding urgent to my ears. But Mr. Zhao resumed our talk in the same calm and
friendly manner. I liked him right away. I am looking forward to our cooperation.
I was reluctant to leave when the time for departure arrived. Mother’s eyes were filled with tears as I bid her goodbye. Despite my own emotions, I
tried to cheer her up. “Don’t be sad, Mother,” I murmured into her ear as I gave her a farewell hug. “I’ll be back again in October.” Mother nodded. She
tried to smile without success. In the end, she raised one arm and waved for me to leave.
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China.” Visit www.mulberrychild.com for more information or her blog, www.smearedtype.com for
feedback and comments.
my insisting on taking a cab home on my own, my sister Wen and brother-in-law came to the train station at 6 a.m. to meet me. The moment I stepped into
my mother’s apartment, a table of food—more variety than what I would prepare for dinner — was placed in front of me, all cooked by my sister Yan who
had recently moved back home, along with her husband, to care for and keep company with my mother. I knew right there and then that no matter how old
I was or where I lived, the deeper sense of home would always be where my mother was.
Changchun, located in the northeast of China, had been slower to change than the coastal cities or Beijing. However, in the past decade, the pace of
development picked up and each time I visit, I marvel at the new roads, new buildings, and of course, the brand new airport. Even the City Hall had been
moved from the old downtown center to a newly developed area. This time during my visit, what struck me most were the gated residential communities,
with civilian guards and automated bars for passing vehicles. Residents of these communities all use magnetic cards to go through the side metal doors.
The Aviation Garden where my mother and sister live was set up in the same format. The muddy construction site three years before was now neatly lined
up with nine 11 or 12-floor condo buildings, complete with paved roads, blooming trees, small parks, and of course, a guarded gate. The ground level of
the three buildings facing a busy street is designed for commercial use and most of the space has been occupied by restaurants. From the 5th floor of my
mother’s apartment, I could see their flashing neon lights day and night. I was happy about the dining convenience, but relieved that the smell of the stir-
fries permeating the air at ground level didn’t reach this high.
Thanks to my jetlag, I was up at 4 a.m. every day. I wrote for a couple of hours before taking off for a nice jog in the South Lake Park nearby. I started
each day with anticipation: more cherry and lilac trees burst with bloom with the sudden rise of temperature; the dirt on the side streets being dug up one
day and filled with bushes the next; and the new green produce offered at a nearby farmer’s market each day. Every morning when I returned home from
my morning jog, I stopped by the market and picked up a slice of freshly-made tofu, my favorite, with its steam still rising. I observed everything with the
curiosity and excitement of a visitor. Part of me felt right at home, but the other part was keenly aware of the land that I was no longer so accustomed to.
I soon established a routine for each day: writing, jogging, taking a walk with my mother in the morning and a swim with my sister and brother-in-law
when they return from work, plus the indulgence of a daily massage, along with my sisters Wen or Yan, or both. My visit coincided with May 1, the Labor
Day, and Wen had three days off. Between family gatherings and large meals, I also squeezed in some time to meet with a couple of old friends. Mother
started calling me a “buzzing bee.” “Don’t you feel tired?” she asked, shaking her head.
“No,” I answered loud and clear. On the contrary, I was excited and full of energy. I didn’t get enough sleep because of the jetlag, but the daily massage
rejuvenated me. A neighborhood massage parlor became my favorite place. For 320 RMB, about US$50, one could get a pass for 10 sessions of 80-
minute full body massage or 20 times of 40-minute partial massage, with focus on shoulders, back or feet. Three blind men work at the parlor as
masseurs. Every time I visit Changchun, I get one or two passes and invite my sisters to join me. The masseurs were trained at different schools for the
disabled and had been doing massages for more than 10 years. My sister Wen and I were there last September and both of us were amazed that one of the
masseurs called her by name the moment he heard her voice. The condition at the parlor was quite primitive: three narrow massage tables jammed in
one room, the edges of the table worn, and the windows coated with so much dirt and dust that there was no need for a curtain to shield the room from the
passersby outside. The masseurs work on their fully clothed clients through a layer sheet. But the bedding is clean and changed for each client. More
importantly, the deep tissue massage is first rate.
Through the introduction of a friend, I also met with Mr. Zhao, the editor-in-chief of the City Evening Post in Changchun, one of four similar newspapers
in the city. I learned that this particular newspaper had a circulation of more than 300,000 and was distributed throughout the province. “Only 80 people
out of a thousand read newspapers,” Mr. Zhao told me. “We still have plenty of room for further development.”
We discussed about my contributing to the “Supplement Section” of the paper on a regular basis. “You are free to write on anything of your interest,” Mr.
Zhao said. “The only limitation is the length of each article.”
Mr. Zhao looked very young for his position. The newspaper was changing to a new layout the day we met and our conversation was interrupted
several times by incoming phone calls or knockings on his door, all sounding urgent to my ears. But Mr. Zhao resumed our talk in the same calm and
friendly manner. I liked him right away. I am looking forward to our cooperation.
I was reluctant to leave when the time for departure arrived. Mother’s eyes were filled with tears as I bid her goodbye. Despite my own emotions, I
tried to cheer her up. “Don’t be sad, Mother,” I murmured into her ear as I gave her a farewell hug. “I’ll be back again in October.” Mother nodded. She
tried to smile without success. In the end, she raised one arm and waved for me to leave.
Jian Ping is author of “Mulberry Child: A Memoir of China.” Visit www.mulberrychild.com for more information or her blog, www.smearedtype.com for
feedback and comments.
