See, I grew up in France in what North Americans call an heritage building. I mean, you would probably take a picture of it. Six storey, white façade, balconies, big wooden door leading to an inside courtyard, wooden stairs.

I left many places, many people, many times. I packed my bag following the same immutable ritual countless times: my sleeping bag at the bottom with plastic sandals, towel, sweaters and other light clothes piled up. A plastic bag at the top with shampoo, soap – the bare minimum yet enough to be clean and neat. Underwear in the side pocket, socks in the other. Laundry detergent. Toilet paper. A small photo album. My bag is light but my head is heavy.
I arrive and I leave. Me llaman el …

I’m a white female, 5’7, 20-30 years old. Sounds fairly common, doesn’t it ? I mean, really, I don’t have anything special. So why don’t I fit in these bloody boxes ?

See, back in France, it was quite simple. I had a small black & white TV with a broken antenna I had to trap between a pile of books and the edge of the couch in order to get a clear reception. I only watched TV when : 1) I was copying Chinese lessons 2) I was drawing 3) I was plucking my eyebrows.Well, yeah. What was I supposed to do ? Watch it ??

We were three friends sit at a small wobbly wooden table, set half on the sidewalk, half on the curb side of the dusty road. We just came back from a bar where my roommate’s Chinese boyfriend was performing and we were starving, craving for a platter of jiaozi. It was a hot and humid night in Nanjing, China.