If there’s anything from living in Washington, DC that prepared me for living in Beijing, it has to be spending the previous four and half years living on Georgia Avenue. I know what you’re thinking, ‘But David, Georgia Ave and Beijing are nothing alike.’ Au contraire, mon ami. They very much are. Well, at least in this one very narrow aspect…bad driving maneuvers, specifically U-Turns.

There’s nothing more shocking than walking into the local nut store (yes, there is a local nut store) only to be greeted by a timid ‘ni-hao’ from behind one of these pastel face coverings. Am I speaking to the man in the iron mask or the lovely woman who sold me Turkish pistachios during my first week here? I don’t know because that mask makes it impossible to sort out what’s what.

I was reminded of it early on after our move to Beijing. Dog ownership isn’t a new thing in China, but the rapid rise of it over the last decade has turned it from a novelty into something more commonplace. This is especially true for millennials who have, for several reasons, put off starting a family.

But unlike in the US, where certain, dirtier aspects of pet ownership see both widely held adherence and some level of public opprobrium if not followed, those things are the exception rather than the rule in China.

But here’s the thing: I’m out of shape. Even if I had taken it easy, there’s a good chance I would have been fucked halfway up the mountainside anyway. Because, like the ambitious fool I am, I tried to take this thing like I was in high school or college. You know, back when you could go out partying, put away the better part of a 12-pack of the worst beer imaginable, and still wake up the following day to run three miles in twenty-one minutes.

Here’s the thing. This happens all the time here. A delivery driver calls to say they’ve dropped off our dinner at the front desk; after providing the necessary signal that I don’t speak the language, they continue anyway. At a restaurant or grocery store, there’s an exchange in which it becomes clear that you don’t and won’t likely understand. Yet, they continue, undaunted by your lack of comprehension.

But there are things that folks would be less used to, even if they do live in a big city. As I’ve described in previous posts, they’re everywhere and go in every direction. Any surface on which they can make progress toward their endpoint is useable. They sneak up on you, though. Most are electric and barely make a sound. They whir along at ungodly speeds in the tightest of spaces making hardly any noise. Heads must always be on a swivel.

The shift in topics helped, kind of. But in every quiet moment between then and now, it returned. This deep sense of emptiness. There was a realization that my race to write every fucking thing I see and tell it to the whole fucking world was some sort of desire to fill that space. To engage in ways that I usually would be but through different means.

I didn’t care. At that stage of my college life, I thought it was cool not to be into anything mainstream. We had a great foreign film series every semester, and I absolutely loved it. First of all, it was free. And second, it was an excellent way to figure out if the chick you were trying to holler at was willing to expand her horizons.

Like jaywalking and lack of salt in our food, it has been one the constants of our short time here in Beijing. Old men, and it’s almost always old men, sitting on the banks of the restored river casting a line in hopes of catching whatever swims in the waters below.

Miyun’s White River Valley has higher, sharper cliffs of limestone and granite, a slow but more prolonged descent into the valley, and a broader river plain that provides easier access to river crossings by foot. The park is a place one could explore for days and still not experience everything. It gave every impression of being a popular destination for folks looking to escape the hustle-bustle of the Chinese capital. Yurts and tents were visible throughout our hike, and a fly fishing competition was underway.

One of three things happens when white folks find out I’m Iranian-American. It’s like clockwork, and I can usually predict people's responses just by looking at them. I’ve gotten so used to them that I’ve been disappointed when my assumptions are proven incorrect, and none of the potential outcomes occur.

Before me was a man that can only be described as a Chinese version of The Dude from The Big Lebowski–disheveled hair, a scruffy five-day shadow that probably took a month to grow, a ratty, holey t-shirt, shorts that just as easily could have been boxers, and flip flops that likely doubled as house shoes. I am convinced he had a robe, but that’s likely chalked up to projection.

So it should come as no surprise that the prevalence of jaywalking in Beijing shook my American sensibilities to their core. I mean, folks, when I first arrived, it felt like it was a god damned free for all on the side streets of Beijing.