Montreal is arguably one of the better places to live in Canada, if not the world. The city mixes together styles, forms and cultures to produce a fascinating scene blending Europe and North America. It is clean, safe and full of that famous “joie de vivre” (translating into “liberal liquor laws” to students all across the continent). It is a city of multi-ethnic neighbourhoods, funky bars, sidewalk cafés, nice parks and lots of preserved historical architecture. And yes, all the signs are in French (How exotique!). Summers in Montreal are particularly alive: the city explodes with energy, street life, festivals and general good times, free from the shackles of those famous Canadian winters.
It was with these thoughts in my head that I temporarily returned home from China in July 2003, ready to enjoy Montreal’s legendary season and a much needed vacation from the Middle Kingdom. The first few days at home I was too busy unpacking, seeing friends and gorging myself on food to pay any real attention to my surroundings. But as time went by, I became increasingly aware of a creeping feeling that, somehow, things were just not right. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of my anxiety, but walking around in my once beloved city just made me feel strange. This “bustling” city had somehow become so…quiet. Where was everyone? Even the massive amount of car traffic (very noticeable after living in Zibo) produced little more than a quiet hum. The sky was so blue and the clouds so white I couldn’t help but stare at them. Everything seemed too clean and shiny: a gas station convenience store looked like it could have easily doubled as a hospital operating room. And somehow, everyone seemed rich.
What the hell was this place? It felt like I was living in a commercial. I felt the need to blabber on about this strange experience, much to the annoyance of my friends and family I’m sure. No matter where I was or what I was doing that summer, I had the same thought lurking in my mind: everything seemed too polished, too perfect. Where was the life? The spontaneity? Why were cars stopping at lights? Finally, the source of my uneasiness became quite clear to me. It was simple: I had become addicted to China.
Despite the requisite foreigner bitching about life in China (pollution and a general disregard for hygiene are usually near the top of the list), this place has a sheer energy that is hard to deny. Street life here has the ability to make even a rather large North American city seem like a cold ghost town. The cities are pulsing, and there always seems to be something crazy or interesting going on. The crowds, the chaotic traffic, the pollution, the smells; once you get used to them, they make the place seem so much more…alive. This is not some over-sanitized world, this is humanity unleashed. So when your body accepts these scenes as normal, as reality, it unavoidably experiences severe withdrawal going back to North America and moving several levels down the “craziness” meter. China is a rush, and you can easily get hooked. Once you’ve lived with one sixth of the world, it’s hard to return to the periphery and lead the quiet life.
As addicted as I am, I do realize that I cannot stay here forever. No matter how comfortable I feel, this is not where I want to build my life: this is not my culture, this is not my world. But how to quit China? Can I just do it cold turkey, or do I need a gradual rehab program such as living in Vancouver for a few years? Will I be able to ween myself off this energy level? Or will I need to seek out Canada’s dirtiest, most crowded neighbourhood?
No matter where I am or what I am doing in the future, I have the feeling that my mind will always wander to wondering just what this pulsating world of 1.3 billion people is up to. I will have hopefully long cured my addiction to the Middle Kingdom by then; however, I’m sure I will not be able to erase the feeling that I am, in simple terms, missing out on the action. Would it have been better to just never have come, to have lived my life in blissful, North American ignorance? I don’t think so. The experience has been too valuable, too eye-opening. Better to have loved China and left than to never have come at all.