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Expat's Eye
Expat's Eye
UPDATED: January 10, 2011 NO. 2 JANUARY 13, 2011
Homesick for the Holidays
By KYLE WHITNEY
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(LI SHIGONG)

I admit it. I get too protective of Christmas. But Christmas is, far and away, my favorite holiday, and I love it dearly. From the carols, the tree, the gifts and the drifting blankets of snow to the gaudy decorations and the soulless, put-it-on-my-credit-card consumerism—I love it all.

So although I've been in China since last spring, I figured I would battle my most serious wave of homesickness when, finally, the holiday season rolled around again.

As would be expected, the Chinese don't put much effort into celebrating most Western holidays. But when I discovered that Chinese culture has a serious love affair with Christmas, I was intrigued. And when I witnessed it first-hand, I was confused, to say the least.

I have told people that it is tough to feel homesick in China, because everything is so fundamentally different from home. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the Chinese celebration of Christmas, which goes against nearly everything I've come to love about the holiday.

On the same block as my apartment building, frightening Christmas trees grace the sidewalks. Little more than spindly, misshapen, green metal frames, the "trees," propped upright by concrete blocks, are adorned with dozens of shiny bulbs that are larger than human heads. The bulbs are often accented by what seem to be thousands of the brightest LED lights I have ever seen. Turns out I didn't know what gaudy decorations looked like until I experienced December in Beijing.

In addition to such flashy displays, there are barely recognizable versions of Western Christmas carols, various paper renditions of a Santa Claus who always appears to be intoxicated and absolutely no snow to be found. This last point is a major issue.

Since I came to Beijing nearly a year ago, it has snowed once. When I complained about the lack of snow just last month, a Chinese friend told me it actually snows a lot in Beijing each winter. Then he paused before saying, "Maybe two or three times."

To put this in perspective, I should point out that my hometown is in a part of America called the "snow belt." We get dozens of feet of the white stuff each winter and, with very few exceptions, it snows every day. I haven't spent a Christmas season without snow since I was 10 years old.

So although it didn't make me homesick in the slightest, the Beijing holiday season did manage to foul my mood in a major way.

Then, in early December, I made a work trip to Shenyang, a city in northeast China's Liaoning Province. I thought I knew pretty much what to expect, culturally. The people would be friendly—and confused to see a foreign face so far north—the drivers would be dangerous and prone to horn honking and the holiday celebrations would be cringe-worthy. What I experienced, though, surprised me.

After engrossing myself in a book for most of my northbound rail journey, I glanced up when we were less than an hour from our destination. Beyond my window, I could see only white. For the first time in a year, I was in a blizzard.

Shenyang, I soon found out, is a modest, surprisingly diverse city dripping with history. I toured the Imperial Palace, bought coffee at Starbucks, took in a show at a local theater and spent an evening walking aimlessly through the frozen, empty, snow-covered streets. It is a deeply Chinese city—with a sprinkling of Russian influence—attempting to be Western and, very often, succeeding.

After trudging back through the snow one night, I sat in the first-floor lounge of my hotel as Christmas music—real, original Christmas music!—wafted through the climate-controlled air. The distinct smell of gingerbread floated up from the tiny bakery nestled in the corner of the lobby. Stockings and a reflection of an enormous, brilliant lobby Christmas tree hung in the hotel's large glass windows. My gaze drifted past them, though, to a snowstorm.

Outside, I could see hundreds of people marching hurriedly down a brick-laden, store-lined pedestrian street, shopping bags in hand. To a Bing Crosby soundtrack, they skirted past each other in the twilight, beneath the soft glow of storefronts. There were shoe stores, bookstores, bakeries and banks; I saw major international logos and local hand-written signs. For a moment, through the music and the smells, the reflections and the snow, I caught a glimpse of New York. Chicago. Shenyang.

Shenyang is 11,000 miles and a lifetime away from the towns that I grew up in and the area where most of my family and friends spent this past Christmas. 11,000 miles. That number is excruciatingly large, and on most days—buried beneath heaps of Chinese LED holiday lights and a million paper snowflakes—I can forget about it.

So maybe it was the accurate depiction of a Christmas tree. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe it was the classic carols, resurrected from Christmases past. Or maybe it was just the eggnog.

But for one December night, China surprised me yet again and the city of Shenyang far exceeded my expectations. It made me feel homesick.

The writer is an American living in China

 



 
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