Lian is middle-aged and vivacious with a short bob haircut. A typical well-bred Chinese woman, her life revolves around raising her young daughter and performing her duties acceptably as a faithful wife. The “one-child” policy of China does not really bother her since she understands that it is a necessity for the stability of the nation. It also gives her the opportunity to invest everything she has into her single offspring. Staying trim by daily walks through the park, she has developed a keen sense of adventure. The desire to know more of the outside world encourages her to establish friendships with foreigners. Lian and I became good friends and spent many hours playing badminton together in a flat, open area without bothering with a net. Our most unusual game involved playing in the snow, with several inches on the ground and more falling from the sky while we batted the shuttlecock back and forth.

Exhibiting the Chinese characteristic of unlimited patience, Lian was always happy to take time to explain the more cryptic aspects of the Chinese culture and traditions. Like most Chinese she is fiercely proud of her country, but somewhat frustrated by the restrictions and limited opportunities that exist for the huge population. Though her own desire to travel remains largely unfulfilled, she focuses her attention on her daughter and dreams that there will be more freedoms when she enters adulthood in the coming years.

As a contemporary individual Lian often finds herself caught between two worlds where she doesn’t always agree with the classical traditions and superstitions of the past, but is hesitant to disregard such an inseparable part of her own history. Though she doesn’t ascribe to any particular religious faith, she lights incense sticks and prays to her ancestors on infrequent visits to the Buddhist temples. A willing companion with a smile for everyone, she patiently translated the fine points of important literary puns and outlined the origins of China’s past for me during days when inclement weather kept us inside.

With the advent of autumn, the temperatures begin their steady drop to the ultimate frigid negatives common throughout northern China. Falling leaves and street workers on every corner, sweeping with large home-made twig brooms, are common sights. The rich fall colors across the mountains glisten with the special beauty of deep reds in the maple trees. The harvest, particularly of rice and grain, is carried in from the fields by donkeys pulling decrepit wooden carts. Drying and winnowing occur along the roadsides or along any other convenient flat patch of concrete which the farmers can find. Plastic sheets are positioned on the ground with a brick at each corner, where the grain can be piled while workers rake away the chaff. The fact that buses and trucks drive over the piles of grain while they are drying doesn’t seem to bother anyone.

All labor is done by hand, but heading to market I observed every type of conveyance imaginable from hand pedal carts, to emaciated donkeys, to three-wheeled motorcycle rickshaws, to full-size trucks chockablock full of produce. Some of the three-wheeled trucks were piled so high with loaded gunnysacks that it was difficult to identify the presence of a vehicle underneath. One longstanding tradition in the Northeast involves preserving food for the winter by putting a mixture of cabbage, onions, green peppers, and other vegetables into a large vat to ferment together. After mid-October, load upon load of vegetables is transported into the city from the fields, insulated in old rugs and tarps, to be placed on the street corners for bulk purchase. I found it extraordinary to peer at the enormous heaps of cabbage and onions drying in the sun all over the city, as each family prepared their winter stockpile of food. The entire process takes weeks before the mixture is ready to eat, but results in a tasty dish that sustains the people through the long winter months when no fresh fruit or vegetables are available.

As winter edged closer, I followed the example of many of the locals and merely put on more layers of clothing so I could continue to ride my bicycle rather than fight the battle required to stand sandwiched among hundreds of other passengers on the bumpy buses. Riding to work at 6:30 A.M., the typical morning sight as I breezed by was people, diligently brushing their teeth, standing in long underwear on the edge of the street. The afternoon commute home provided an exhibition of ladies sitting on the sidewalks or along the canal banks, holding old washboards with their weathered hands immersed in cold water. Dryers are virtually unheard of, and all clothing hangs outside to dry, providing a colorful display from apartment windows all across the city.

Just as bright as the drying laundry are the large umbrellas under which bicycle repairmen rest on their haunches while they wait for customers. Every block one such laborer is available with his tools of the trade (a bowl of water and a repair kit) to patch the frequent punctures that plague bicycle tires from the rough roads. I found that China is appropriately referred to as the “bicycle kingdom” since cycling is the universally accepted form of transportation. Bicycle traffic jams are quite common, especially at the time when schools finish classes for the day. Most people ride around on old single-speed clunkers painted in bright colors like pink or maroon. Standard equipment on all bikes includes a basket, a rear carrier rack for an extra rider, and a bell to be rung at every opportunity, much like the beeping horns on the taxis. In everyday practice, rules of the road simply mean yielding to the loudest honk.