Chocolate and Raindrops

Photo from: http://norhymeorreason.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/umbrella

Typhoon season doesn’t happen in Beijing, it happens in Shanghai, a night train ride away. Beijing is hot and sticky. Beijingers hide under their shade umbrellas. Beijing skin toasts under the morning sun on good days, and pores fill with dirty air on not-so-good days. Beijing walkers stare at bikers with envy as their speed circulates a light breeze. We’re blinded by the skyscrapers, teased by billboards of oceanside provinces miles away.

When it rains, we are grateful.

I was relieved by the light drizzle that had dampened the city as I began my 20 minute trek home for work. The water barely grazed my arms as I stopped at an ice cream stand to buy a treat for the walk. But as I crossed the intersection and took note of the locals in raincoats pedaling a bit faster, the rain started to pick up. By the time I had nearly finished my Magnum, the pelting rain forced me under an overhang only two blocks away from where I began walking. My glasses were smudged and my dress had begun to stick uncomfortably to my body as I plotted my next move.

I was waiting a week for a rain like this, so I decided to brave the weather, and slosh through the flowing water that now covered the streets.

But the Chinese won’t let a foreigner melt in the rain. It wasn’t long before I met a guy who had enough pity for me and offered me his umbrella as we were crossing the street. I crouched under the safe haven as the much shorter Asian dressed casually in flip-flops, a black jacket, skinny jeans, and a baseball cap led the way to the stairwell where soaked bikers had already began to line up. My Chinese wasn't fluent, so my umbrella carrier and I made only brief attempts to get to know more about each other under the bridge. I discovered he was around my age and had dropped out of college to be a singer. He learned that I was American (I love America! he said) and that I was teaching English. We mostly stood in silence, occasionally glancing at each other, anxiously waiting for the rain to stop, and taking turns holding the rainbow-colored umbrella.

Soon, his brother and girlfriend showed up with another umbrella and they accompanied me another block to my street corner. I insisted on departing at this point. “We want your friendship!” they said warmly as we said our goodbyes and parted ways. I continued the rest of the way alone and once again without cover while the rain dropped to a slow drizzle. Careful not to slip on the treacherous, water-coated concrete, I finally made it home and was greeted by a surprised, but laughing, host mom.

In the midst of explaining my earlier adventures to her, she made a motion that I had something on my face. I quickly went to a mirror and discovered that my mouth was painted with remnants of the chocolate ice cream. I looked like a drowned rat that just dug through the leftovers of someone's picnic.

And thus, I suppose, first impressions aren't always the right ones.