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When I arrived in Beijing nearly three months ago, the unexpected happened.
Before coming to China’s mainland, I had lived in the Asia-Pacific for over three years—South Korea, the Philippines and Taiwan, where I studied Mandarin and interned at a newspaper.
When I left Taipei in 2010 for graduate school at home in Canada, I was miserable: I wasn’t ready to leave Asia. The day I landed at Montreal’s Trudeau Airport, I was determined to go back. Would it be in a year after I finished my program? Two? Surely no longer than three. Eventually, no doubt.
I enrolled in a 12-month master’s in journalism at Western University (then called the University of Western Ontario), a top-notch school in London, Ontario.
My classmates were feverishly passionate and knowledgeable about Canadian politics and were eager to work for one of the country’s top brass media. I, on the other hand, took no interest. Canadian politics were a snore, the country’s economy—with an orientation obsessively geared toward the United States—equally dull. I knew little about the country’s media, despite having spent most of my life in Canada. But it didn’t matter because my heart wasn’t set on a career at home.
I just wanted to finish so I could return to the Asia-Pacific—this time the Chinese mainland—to work in journalism. Canada was sleepy and settled; the Asia-Pacific by contrast was not.
Throughout the school year, my stories and assignments were largely Asia-centric. I did stories on Canadians learning Mandarin and the tough decision faced by Chinese students upon completing their degrees: Would they stay in Canada or return home? I wrote an essay on the emergence of K-pop (long before Gangnam Style made the genre fashionable) and another on the Chinese media’s(positive) coverage of the nation’s growing LGBT community.
My body was in Canada; my mind clearly wasn’t.
After graduating, I worked as a researcher and journalist in Quebec City and Montreal. I was lucky to land a job right out of school at a time when news organizations were frantically slashing resources. Despite having been back in Canada for over a year, I remained unhappy. I spent much of my time devouring news from China and studying Mandarin. I knew more about what was happening in China and the region than I did Canada—and it was my job to know Canada.
After a year of work, I bought a ticket to Beijing. Finally, after two long years, I would return to Asia. I couldn’t be happier. I was thrilled. That is, however, until I arrived.
After embracing the city the first few days—sightseeing and meeting friends—I became a hermit, spending a fair part of each day in the hotel. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to go out there. I felt sad, I had little energy.
What was happening?
I speak Mandarin at a low-intermediate level. My reading ability is pretty good, so street signs and restaurant menus aren’t always a barrier. I’ve been to China before and lived in the region for years. So what’s the problem?
Was I in culture shock? How could this be? Not me.
Yes, me.
I spent my days reading up on local news back home. Quebec—my home province—was in the throes of an election campaign, and I couldn’t get enough.
I voraciously consumed everything I could find in English and French for the latest. I was entrapped! I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so gripped by news back home. Would a separatist party come back into power after nearly a decade in the opposition benches? Would the newly formed Coalition Avenir Quebec pick up momentum and steal the show? Or would the corruptionplagued Liberals hang on?
My body was in China. My mind certainly wasn’t.
When I wasn’t out with my Chinese friends, my diet was appalling. I was bouncing between McDonald’s and KFC—and packing on the pounds in the process. I eat McDonald’s back home about once a month, not once or twice a day.
On one of my several trips to fast-food joints during my first 10 days, I saw a Western woman dressed to the tee. I don’t think she ever stepped foot in a McDonald’s before, but she was scarfing down a double cheeseburger in one hand and fries in the other as if food were scarce.
She was hungry. Starving. McDonald’s was familiar and easy.
When I wasn’t in my room or compromising my health, I was at a Starbucks. I don’t normally drink their coffee—I make my own or grab a cup at the cafeteria at work. But with my laptop in hand and a (somewhat decent) WiFi connection, I felt at ease.
After three months in Beijing, I’m back to normal. I still go to McDonald’s and Starbucks from time to time, but not to escape.
For many of us who move away from home long term, a transition period —with one foot in the country and the other dangling out—awaits.
The period can be fraught with difficulty, sadness and uncertainty. Some give up and return home. Others never quite make the transition, locked in a perpetual state of culture shock. The rest of us cozy in —although perhaps never completely.
Transitioning from one culture to another is never easy. Challenges abound, even for the experienced among us.
Before coming to China’s mainland, I had lived in the Asia-Pacific for over three years—South Korea, the Philippines and Taiwan, where I studied Mandarin and interned at a newspaper.
When I left Taipei in 2010 for graduate school at home in Canada, I was miserable: I wasn’t ready to leave Asia. The day I landed at Montreal’s Trudeau Airport, I was determined to go back. Would it be in a year after I finished my program? Two? Surely no longer than three. Eventually, no doubt.
I enrolled in a 12-month master’s in journalism at Western University (then called the University of Western Ontario), a top-notch school in London, Ontario.
My classmates were feverishly passionate and knowledgeable about Canadian politics and were eager to work for one of the country’s top brass media. I, on the other hand, took no interest. Canadian politics were a snore, the country’s economy—with an orientation obsessively geared toward the United States—equally dull. I knew little about the country’s media, despite having spent most of my life in Canada. But it didn’t matter because my heart wasn’t set on a career at home.
I just wanted to finish so I could return to the Asia-Pacific—this time the Chinese mainland—to work in journalism. Canada was sleepy and settled; the Asia-Pacific by contrast was not.
Throughout the school year, my stories and assignments were largely Asia-centric. I did stories on Canadians learning Mandarin and the tough decision faced by Chinese students upon completing their degrees: Would they stay in Canada or return home? I wrote an essay on the emergence of K-pop (long before Gangnam Style made the genre fashionable) and another on the Chinese media’s(positive) coverage of the nation’s growing LGBT community.
My body was in Canada; my mind clearly wasn’t.
After graduating, I worked as a researcher and journalist in Quebec City and Montreal. I was lucky to land a job right out of school at a time when news organizations were frantically slashing resources. Despite having been back in Canada for over a year, I remained unhappy. I spent much of my time devouring news from China and studying Mandarin. I knew more about what was happening in China and the region than I did Canada—and it was my job to know Canada.
After a year of work, I bought a ticket to Beijing. Finally, after two long years, I would return to Asia. I couldn’t be happier. I was thrilled. That is, however, until I arrived.
After embracing the city the first few days—sightseeing and meeting friends—I became a hermit, spending a fair part of each day in the hotel. I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to go out there. I felt sad, I had little energy.
What was happening?
I speak Mandarin at a low-intermediate level. My reading ability is pretty good, so street signs and restaurant menus aren’t always a barrier. I’ve been to China before and lived in the region for years. So what’s the problem?
Was I in culture shock? How could this be? Not me.
Yes, me.
I spent my days reading up on local news back home. Quebec—my home province—was in the throes of an election campaign, and I couldn’t get enough.
I voraciously consumed everything I could find in English and French for the latest. I was entrapped! I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so gripped by news back home. Would a separatist party come back into power after nearly a decade in the opposition benches? Would the newly formed Coalition Avenir Quebec pick up momentum and steal the show? Or would the corruptionplagued Liberals hang on?
My body was in China. My mind certainly wasn’t.
When I wasn’t out with my Chinese friends, my diet was appalling. I was bouncing between McDonald’s and KFC—and packing on the pounds in the process. I eat McDonald’s back home about once a month, not once or twice a day.
On one of my several trips to fast-food joints during my first 10 days, I saw a Western woman dressed to the tee. I don’t think she ever stepped foot in a McDonald’s before, but she was scarfing down a double cheeseburger in one hand and fries in the other as if food were scarce.
She was hungry. Starving. McDonald’s was familiar and easy.
When I wasn’t in my room or compromising my health, I was at a Starbucks. I don’t normally drink their coffee—I make my own or grab a cup at the cafeteria at work. But with my laptop in hand and a (somewhat decent) WiFi connection, I felt at ease.
After three months in Beijing, I’m back to normal. I still go to McDonald’s and Starbucks from time to time, but not to escape.
For many of us who move away from home long term, a transition period —with one foot in the country and the other dangling out—awaits.
The period can be fraught with difficulty, sadness and uncertainty. Some give up and return home. Others never quite make the transition, locked in a perpetual state of culture shock. The rest of us cozy in —although perhaps never completely.
Transitioning from one culture to another is never easy. Challenges abound, even for the experienced among us.