Life as a Sore Thumb

In case it’s not obvious, I have a pretty good sense of humor about the various adventures and misadventures tied in with study abroad here. I’m enjoying myself here and enjoying familiarizing myself with the city and it’s culture. The aspect of life here that is most amusing, but also most trying, is my status as blatantly obvious outsider.

The first week I encountered very little direct interaction due to my foreign looks. There was an older woman working at a supermarket who half seriously asked if my freckles were dirt, and I got used to receiving sideways glances as I passed people on the street, and the occasional oddly pronounced “hello” wafting my way from children and adults alike. My second day here my roommate eagerly asked if she could touch my hair, because she’d never felt blonde hair before. I don’t really mind except for the occasional blatant stare. I’ve perfected my “I’m aware that you’re looking at me” smile with an occasional wave to get the point across. If I feel brave I may try a more upfront “Can I help you?” type face. There has been, however, the occasional incident worth comment.

One day I was walking with my roommate and a girl about 5 years old passed by with her mother, exclaiming “Look at THAT person!” My roommate and I both heard, of course, and laughed about it for a while.

Most people I talk to, especially shopkeepers, all seem impressed at my grasp of the Chinese language. One asked how long I’d been studying, and I told him I’d started studying two years ago. He remarked how well I spoke for only having studied for two years. Seeing as the extent of our conversation was “Where are you from?” and “How long have you studied Chinese”, I’m less flattered. I should certainly HOPE that after two years I could talk about those things.

Last Friday on a Hangzhou city bus, a woman started chatting up my roommate. I could tell they were talking about me, but I wasn’t sure what they were saying. After she discovered that I could speak Chinese, she got out of her seat and walked across to me, asking earnestly about my freckles. Her daughter, about 3 years old, has recently been afflicted with a similar problem, and the doctors don’t seem sufficiently concerned. I sat, next to a somewhat more amused Yazhen, and chatted with her for several stops about the history and nature of my freckles.

This morning I passed by a flock of freshman boys, who are perhaps not yet used to the foreigners living on campus and throughout the city. One of them laughed and in a rather sing-song voice said to his friends “Foreigner”. As I passed I retorted with an equally sing-song “I understand you”. Ugh. Boys.