I flew to North East China on the 23rd of March, 2003. I’d been on plenty of long flights before, but this one was special because I wasn’t coming home for a year. I remember feeling scared and nervous. I had a hard time concentrating. I spent my time alternating between writing in my journal and reading my beloved copy of “My Several Worlds,” by Pearl S. Buck.

I remember that a kind-looking middle-aged woman came over to ask why I was writing so furiously and wondered where I was heading on my own. When I told her I was starting my first year of teaching English in a remote city in Northern China, she was shocked. I stood up to stretch and we chatted for several minutes. As I was making my way back to my seat, she stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. Then she gave me a hug and told me that it was from my mother, who would always be thinking of me. I tell you, I wanted to turn around right then.

I wasn’t sure what to think. Was I making a mistake? Was the leap that I was taking too big for me to handle on my own? Would people like me? Would I be able to teach? Would I be able to go for a whole year by myself without family or friends? I wrote in my journal non-stop, jagged entry after jagged entry. I barely slept because I didn’t want to miss a thing. On each connecting flight, I met people who were flabbergasted that I was moving so far away for so long. I had to keep pinching myself to keep it real.

When I arrived in Beijing, I was greeted by two young Chinese men who barely spoke any English. They whisked me through the airport and bundled me onto a bus before I even had time to think. I think we talked about Yao Ming that night. I have vague recollections of agreeing to a basketball game with them later in the week.

We spent that first night in a youth hostel and I was absolutely spooked. We would be boarding the train the next morning at 10am in order to make the 15 hour train ride to Changchun. Yun Ming and Frank turned out to be the nicest guys in the world, despite the language barrier. However, I have to admit that I was putty in their hands. I had no choice but to trust them and I had already heard all the stories about westerners being ripped off at the airport by strange men. I barely slept a wink that night, wondering whether I was stark raving mad. I was in the middle of Beijing with two Chinese men and I was further away from home than I had ever been in my life. It was too late to turn back.

The next day, I stumbled onto the sleeper train and lasted an hour into the journey before I fell unconcious. So much for seeing the countryside. I slept like the dead for the entire trip and barely saw anything worth noting. I arrived at 2am and was met at the train station by our teacher supervisor. I remember what Nell was wearing that night. She was wearing a blue ski jacket and purple ski hat riding low over her beautiful blue eyes. Her gear made me a little nervous. It was the end of March and she was all bundled up for the deep cold. Oh, and her accent. She’s from Tazmania. This also explains the heavy layers of winter clothing.

Nell was terrific with me. She took me under her wing and I stayed with her until my apartment was ready for me to move into. She organized soccer matches and dinners with the other teachers at our school and other foreign language schools within the city. When I moved to Changchun, there were barely 300 Westerners living in a city of 7 million. It was quite intimidating. I didn’t speak Chinese and I didn’t know anybody.

I spent a lot of time at the park those first six weeks. I liked to sit on the grass and watch people flying their kites. I couldn’t talk to anybody. I couldn’t do simple things like shop for food or answer the phone. I couldn’t even work the lock on my door and on more than one occasion, was locked outside. The first time I locked myself inside my apartment was a real treat. I waited for hours for someone to come and get me out. I couldn’t take the bus or take a taxi anywhere because I didn’t know how to get back to my apartment. By the end of my first week, I had had enough and finally hopped on a bus and rode it to the end of the line and back just to see some of the city.

Then, a month after I arrived, SARS hit and almost all the foreign teachers in the city were sent home. My school offered to let me stay on at reduced pay and I accepted. The city was like a ghost town. No one was in the streets and when people did go out, everyone wore hospital masks. Everyone was terrified of getting sick.

I also learned how truly messed up the media is. I’d hear accounts of what was happening in China from my mother in Canada and it wasn’t even close to the information we were getting in China. I finally stopped reading the news. I figured I was more likely to get sick on an crowded airplane than in China. Meanwhile, my family and friends were freaking out. They wondered why I wasn’t coming home. It was really a trying time and by the end of six weeks, I was wondering if I had made a mistake. SARS had put a hold on absolutely everything. I stuck it out though. I found myself a tutor and started learning Mandarin. I spent more time with my new Chinese friends and became accustomed to getting around the city. And, I was given a Chinese name, “weixiaotianshi” which means “Smiling Angel.” Eventually, everything returned to normal. That first year in China was one of the most pivotal years of my life.

Oh, and by the way, I don’t know if you missed the connection or not. That dog-eared copy of “My Several Worlds” has traveled with me throughout the past four years. It represents where and when the inspiration for my Chinese dream took flight. “My Several Worlds” is a personal account of the author’s childhood while growing up as the daughter of American Christian missionaries in rural China in the early 1900′s. Buck straddled the Eastern and Western worlds that she lived in for most of her lifetime and recounts every glorious and mind-stretching detail with poignancy and beauty. If you haven’t read this book, you might want to try it. It was life altering for me, and came highly recommended by my Grandma Louise, who I share a tremendous love of reading and writing with. It has also become the perfect name for my blog.