“We’re done eating. Where are you?”
“Close enough,” I texted. “Coming. Please don’t scream when you see me.”
My capacity for imitation is limited in China. I can’t squat gracefully, for instance, and it’s definitely not my default position to scroll on my phone or wait for the subway. I don’t crave many of the foods Chinese people seem to crave, and there’s no version of me driving a motorbike through Nanjing traffic with Feng clinging on behind and Mark wedged in front.
Oh, and as you may have noticed, I don’t exactly look Chinese—although to many Chinese people, I could be an exotic “xiǎoshù mínzú” (少数民族, literally “ethnic minority”) from the West, the very far West that can barely be reached from Beijing by train.
But in Suzhou, I decided to embrace my Chinese side.
I do have one, much like Feng has a French side by now—his fondness for Monoprix cacahouètes and his uncanny ability to say “oh, putain” without having mastered the rest of the French language speak volumes about adaptation.
Picture Suzhou. Oh wait, you can’t — no Great Wall, no pandas, no crazy skyline. It’s not exactly a place that makes it into Western media. That’s fine. Go anyway. It’s pretty. It’s the “Venice of the East,” with canals and classical gardens, about an hour by train from Nanjing—an easy day trip for us.
We weren’t sure where to start. All the research we had done pointed to “The Humble Administrator’s Garden,” a local must-see.
Sure, why not.
We followed quiet lanes lined with whitewashed walls, looking for the garden’s entrance.
“It’s eerily quiet,” I pointed out.
“Maybe it’s low season in Suzhou.”
Or maybe we just took the wrong metro exit and arrived at the garden’s entrance by the most convoluted way possible, because it suddenly got very, very crowded.
Goodbye, quiet lanes.
Looking back, we should have stayed in the quiet lanes, but the garden was a must-see, so we bought tickets.
And so had a million people, many of them from Guangdong or Hong Kong, judging by the many “gwoh lài” and “nī bīn!” shouted around us in Cantonese.
“Oh my God, it’s like the tulips all over again.”
Yes, the tulips. The goddamn Ottawa Tulip Festival, where you can’t even get close to the flowers if you go on the first sunny Sunday when the flowers are (hopefully) blooming.
Just replace tulips with water lilies.
Let’s just say exploring a crowded garden isn’t very enjoyable. It defeats the point. It’s supposed to be a quiet, relaxing place!
Since we were also part of the problem, adding to the crowd, we left after thirty minutes. The must-see had been seen, phew.
I braced myself for the canals, but it wasn’t nearly as busy and the historic area is huge, so people are more spread out.
And this time, I was happy there were people around because they were part of the entertainment.
See, in Suzhou, like in many picturesque or historic spots in China, many women, as well as some children and a few men, walk around in hànfú (traditional clothing) just for fun and to “出片 (chūpiàn)” for 小红书 (Xiǎohóngshū, “Little Red Book,” China’s answer to Instagram).
Suzhou is one of China’s most famous silk-producing cities, so there’s no shortage of exquisite qípáo (旗袍) sold just about everywhere.
We strolled around the canals, me half focused on the scenery and half focused on the street life.
Damn, the girls were pretty.
There was a photoshoot in progress every few steps despite the harsh midday light. Chin up, a playful pout, an umbrella artistically twirled — and silk, so much silk.
I suddenly felt very underdressed.
Just outside the old city, Mark got hungry, Feng got tired, and I left them at a noodle place and walked around the pedestrian streets, checking out Korean fashion and trying on shorts (one too small and one too big).
Then I stepped into a qípáo store.
I couldn’t help it.
It was love at first sight. It was a qípáo but not too traditional, not too long, and not too expensive—I mean, 139 yuan, about $20.
I tried it on.
Just like Cinderella’s glass slipper, it fit perfectly.
I tried a green one on just to compare. Nope, the first one was the right one.
“要不要现在就穿?”
Of course I wanted to wear it right away. I may be 43 and live in shorts and cropped tops, but I still like girly dresses.
The shop assistant folded my clothes neatly and handed me a plastic bag containing my Westerner identity.
And this is when Feng texted.
He smiled.
“You found one that fits!”
Trust a guy to always say the wrong thing, even though I’ve been teaching him for two decades…
“Yes, thank you so much, I can find clothes that fit. I’m not that big!” I replied, laughing.
He glanced at me several times, half amused, half confused, and definitely happy he hadn’t had to come with me to the store.
“I’m not used to seeing you wearing a qípáo…”
I finished exploring Suzhou gathering fewer curious glances than when I was wearing shorts. Apparently, the qípáo made me blend in better than my “normal” clothes ever did. Who would have known?
I should embrace my Chinese side more often—where will I wear the qípáo next?
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