When the early morning dawn sets our bedroom a-glow, my eyes touch on the things which surround me: a commissioned bookshelf half full of books that were mailed across the ocean; a large warddrobe that guards the left side of our room (because closets do not exist here); a creeping mold that has wedged its way under the paint and plaster and threatens to frame our window in its discoloured and leperous scars.

(I am in Xining.)

I groggily roll out of bed as Sarah enters the room on pattering little feet. 

She mews for milk like a kitten.

Barely clothed in "pajamas", I make my way to the kitchen in search of sippy cups and milk. If the windows are fogged over, frozen, or covered in moisture I am safe. If it is warmer outside the windows will be clear (with shades never drawn) I run the risk of exposure inside my fish bowl. I look outside to see who might be looking inside.

(I am in Xining.)

The appliances, almost all new, are foreign. I think in differences…superlatives. This fridge is smaller. The freezer is on the bottom instead of the top. The outlets are like randomly situated towns connected by meandering byways of extension cords. Hot water is precious lasting only minutes before requiring electricity and a healthy flow of precious time. The counters are shorter. I bang my head on the low cabinets. There are dishes racked up like refugees, dried, and ready to return to their cupboard homes.

(I am in Xining.)

What is new? What is routine? What surprises will the day spring on us like trigger-happy jack-in-the-boxes? In the shower, I am hyper-aware of my placement. The bathtub has exalted me, but the shower head brings me low. I weigh the minutes as I clean; I stare down the hot water heater hovering above my head in a futile effort to measure out more. I wonder often about leaks. They are "fixed" but could be hiding like mice in their holes…only needing a bit of cheese to entice them out again. The heat lamp bakes the room as I shave. I think back and remember picking the appliance out at the department store with my Chinese-English dictionary in hand. They said the brand Aipu was Australian…as a selling point I think.

(I am in Xining.)

I slam the front door so that the lock clicks in place. The concrete stairwell turns the whole world gray and echoing. I descend three dusty flights and think of penitentiaries. The early sun greets me with unspoken promises of more warmth. I tend to believe these things but still pull my warm hat tighter around my ears.

The short walk to the end of our apartment building is like a solitary runway. I think about where I am again like pre-flight checks (I am in Xining) and realize this litany is still unavoidable. I begin to see people taxi-ing on the tarmac preparing for their own day’s departures. They are the commuter flights, familiar thirty minutes jumps from known place to known place. They almost yawn with the familiarity. They do not look out the windows or up from their newspapers. I am the international flight to exotic destinations–sixteen to twenty hours through the night and chasing the sun. I fidget my way through this flight down the streets, scannning the horizon through round windows, breathing heavy and fogging up the view. There is still some anxiety, some nerves, some subtle fears that lurk into view like the upturned corner of the barf bag tucked snugly in the seat pouch in front of me. As I walk people now catch sight of me in their periphery (my wheels have left the ground) and their eyes tend to pause (if only for a nano-second) and I cause a ripple, I leave a residual wake, a riptide, like a shimmering cloud of burning jet feul.

(I am still in Xining.)

I can’t blend in (I am in Xining) but I can become motion. I am in it. The people on the street are in it. The cars, the motor bikes, the taxis, buses, and jeeps…we all stir this same dust. We create a whirlwind that blows tumbleweeds past Tibetan shepherds on the distant plateau. Car horns blare and bicycle spokes whir as they are caught up in our motion. Men and women, boys and girls, the old and young, all the people the eyes see have become geometrical features of purpose, connecting and bisecting lines that run through this city and form its shape. I weave within the motion of this street and create corners.

There are potholes and manholes, broken bricks, and trash. Women in masks pick the streets clean with their brooms like friendly vultures. Older men and women perform choreographed exercises on the sidewalk.  They move in-tempo to Asian songs wailed over a loudspeaker. Some have swords; others have sashes.  Black-suited "made" men in walk in unison, Asian Reservoir Dogs, they hit the streets early enough and I think it would be fun to follow them for a while.  Instead I move with the student herds towards campus.

When I cross the busy road (named after a date 8-1) I hold my breath (I am in Xining) and I make sure my moves are strategic and well-timed. I am a gymnist. When I artfully manuever across I want to throw my arms wide (in a Y) and stick the landing. The crowd will roar, the judges will put their heads together and add up their tens. But I don’t stop for applause. My clothes get too much notice already. My hat. My coat.  My pants.  My shoes. My big nose.  My coffee mug carabined to my backpack.  All are on display. Sometimes I am hopeful for smiles or friendly chuckles, but as we move together (and in dissonance) it usually does not play out this way. Curious (and shocked) stares are the commodity of the people. And I am rich. I am on Wall Street. Here (right here) in the morn before school starts, when stoic glances are practically the same as being ignored entirely, I make this obvious discovery. In (so many) more ways than one, I am rich.

(I am in Xining.)