Differentiation

I'm revisiting this post after a very long hiatus. ~ The ideas presented here have been stewing in my mind since last summer, but tonight is when they will finally stream out of my fingertips and onto this digital page. ~

The scientific community has long been obsessed with the potential of stem cells (pun-intended). ~ Bone marrow transplants are currently the most widely accepted and implemented type of therapy involving stem cells, but the possibilities of their potential seems endless. ~ The thought of growing whole organs excites me as much as the next science geek out there, but that's not what the focus of this post will be. ~

Instead, the inspiration for this post originally sprung up sometime around August, while I was on a camping trip with two of my closest friends, AC and CZ. ~ Both of these gals are studying  business at prestigious American universities, and this summer trip was our first reunion after the end of our respective first years. ~ We'd been extremely close in high school, taking the same full IB courseload, with CZ and I sharing French immersion classes on top of that. ~ Although we had our own separate activities (I was in band and choir, CZ in orchestra, and AC in horseback riding), we still shared many of the same extracurriculars, such as Junior Achievement, debate, and science competitions. ~ All in all, I saw ourselves as pluripotent stem cells: not as innocent and undecided as we had been in elementary or junior high as totipotent cells, but still full of the potential of our lives stretching way ahead of us. ~

But during breakfast at a restaurant in Banff, as CZ and AC started chatting about business-related topics, such as rushing for a frat or interning at various companies, I reflected back on my own summer of studying for the MCAT and conducting research in a scientific laboratory and couldn't help feeling a bit depressed. ~ It seemed as though we were headed in a beeline for unipotency. ~ Everyone was specializing - even me, despite the fact that I had always thought of myself as a generalist. ~ Like stem cells receiving extracellular signals, we were undergoing a process of differentiation. ~

When this realization hit me, how I longed to remain a totipotent cell! All that potential stored within my genes, only to be thwarted by transcriptional, post-transcriptional, translational and post-translational modifications. (Yes, I've been taking a genetics class this past semester.)  ~ It seems a shame that eventually all that potential must be lost. ~ Maybe that's why I've taken some more unconventional routes, like doing an English minor along with my Bachelor of Health Sciences Biomedical Sciences major. ~ All my science friends scoff at me in disbelief - that someone would willingly subject themselves to the torture of English, imagine! - but I shrug and grin, continuing to puzzle over literary theory and Zizekian thought. ~ The thing is, I hate the thought of society shaping us so that we are each compartmentalized into our own little sector, with the cardiac cells pumping together as a unit, the neutrophils spreading their NETs and macrophages phagocytosing bacteria, the muscle cells contracting and relaxing in time... ~ Admittedly, this might paint a pretty picture of a cohesive organism functioning in a unified manner, but it also posits us as mere subjects serving an ideology (Althusser's structural Marxism, anyone?). ~

The way that I manage to console myself when I start spiraling into these dark thoughts is by referring back to what a wise teacher, Mr. A, recently told me: there are some things that you just have to accept will never become your career, but that can still remain part of your life in the form of hobbies. ~ You don't have to excel at everything you do, as long as it brings you joy. ~ A feeling of accomplishment need not be solely measured based on success in the traditional sense, but can also present itself in a feeling of fulfillment, of doing something new, of doing something different. ~ I can publish bad drawings on Deviantart and browse everyone else's gorgeous pictures without having to feel shame; I can try to sing Christmas carols hoarsely and accompany myself on piano, albeit out of time; I can try to bake cookies but accidentally use whipping cream instead of half-and-half and laugh it off. ~ We might be differentiating, but at the end of the day we are all still cells (even you, unnucleated RBC's!). We can't help focusing on something - indeed, that's the only way we'll ever get anything substantial done - but our attention spans may well be limited for a reason. ~ Instead of being despondent about the slow reduction in our potential, we should seek avenues to maintain it, to continue making ourselves plastic to change, while recognizing that we need not ever fully develop those new pathways. ~ They are simply our connecting points - our neuromuscular junctions - with the rest of the world. ~ It's what allows me to fall back in familiar stride with AC and CZ months after we haven't seen each other. ~ It's what takes away the boring edge from life, and makes our heartbeats quicken, whether in anticipation, fear or excitement. ~ Differentiating isn't reaching the end of the road - it's finally falling into your groove, doing what you're best at, and continuing to occasionally venture out there and take a jab at other things. ~ Our connections to other activities, people and ways of life don't just die; they serve as little dendrites that can help us continue to understand more of the world around us, and should be maintained and pruned, while helping to reinforce the strength of our axonal signals. ~ As this neuron metaphor stretches out of hand, I end my post with a question: where's the fun in classifying yourself as one type of person anyway? ~

"Cups" Cover: "I'm Gonna Miss You"

This is my version of the "Cups" song performed by Anna Kendrick on "Pitch Perfect", originally by Lulu and the Lampshades. ~ I played with the lyrics a bit to tailor this for my friend CZ, who's leaving Calgary (again) to go back to Berkeley. ~ Thanks for teaching me the cup thing yesterday! Please try to get past my incompetent singing. ~

Memory, Revisited

Because one post just wasn't enough. ~

The importance of memory in society today has been greatly diminished. ~

Educational systems have begun scorning rote memorization, arguing instead for more inquisitive-based learning. ~ Shakespeare speeches are no longer committed to memory and recited flawlessly. ~ Formula sheets are given and detail such equations as F= ma or even a² + b² = c². ~ Information is literally just a click away - on that shiny new Android device or that sleek new Ultrabook. ~ (Some self-criticism here - I own a Samsung Galaxy S II phone and an ASUS ZENBOOK Pro Ultrabook.) ~

It seems that with as technology advances in leaps and bounds, our minds shrink back to accommodate the very devices that are intended to accommodate us. ~ We rely so much on writing and digitization of data that perhaps we're losing the sharp edge and descending into laziness when it comes to thinking about the daily parts of life. ~

In my own life, I've realized how terrible my memory has become in relation to my new university schedule. ~ I recently registered for all my classes, spending a good few hours slaving over the timing, professor ratings and available option courses. ~ Just a week later, when a classmate asked me what classes I was taking next semester, I found myself unable to name more than three of the five courses each semester, much less the professors teaching each course. ~

That's why I'm skeptical to the typical advice of "just write it down!" to remember "it." ~ Day planners, agendas, online calenders... Admittedly, they're great tools, especially for busy university students/workers; however, I cringe when I see people scheduling in things such as "walk the dog" or "practice piano." ~ If we have to write down every single thing in order to remember it, activities beginning losing their meaningfulness, especially because I believe that looking forward to a special event contributes to half of its appeal. ~

Yet in today's society, we don't need to memorize something, so we don't. ~ Things are more accessible, cheaper, routine. ~ We have the nice, warm safety blanket of the notebook in case our memory  falls through. ~ I'm not trying to undermine the achievements of modern society - far from it. I'm as avid of an agenda/calendar-user as the next perfectionist, and I take notes that are so detailed, they may as well be a regurgitation of each lecture I attend. ~ Rather, I'm trying to draw attention to the inevitable flaws that accompany our very Western thinking - forward-driven and always improving our tools to facilitate our lives. ~ There is no legitimacy placed on the human memory anymore, because the goods delivered by consumerism provide an easier, more appealing means of remembering things. ~

So what are we losing? ~ A valuable skill, for one. ~ Indeed, the feats of memorization of our ancestors become truly remarkable when compared to the fact that best friends can no longer remember each other's phone numbers or birthdays without checking their contact list or Facebook. ~ See, back in the day, the epic poet Homer delivered oratories for hours on end, when a writing system hadn't been concretized as it is today. Yet somehow I can barely remember how I worded the starting sentence to this blog post (do you?). ~ In the past, memory was not just a convenience, it was necessary to pass on culture and traditions. ~ Sure, memory is fallible, which explains how myths have been blown out of proportion, but memory also helps each individual mold a story in their own mind and add a personal touch that just isn't the same as linking someone to a subreddit or online news article. ~ Indeed, there's something about memorization that's profoundly intimate. ~ When you memorize a text, you don't just study it - you absorb it, play with it, modify it to your own needs and tastes. A memorized piece of work no longer solely belongs to the author anymore - it belongs to you just as much as to the creator. It's personalized. ~

A devil's advocate might argue that memory is the exact opposite of personalized - it's rigid. ~ For instance, let's go back to rote learning. For anyone who's ever struggled in a class and miraculously discovered that simply memorizing the formula or idea could mean a pass on the exam, it's evident that memory can sometimes help us bypass the very important process of learning itself. ~ Yet in reality, memory should be treated as a much more fluid process than simple repetition. ~ It's becoming familiar with something - so much so that instead of simply knowing a fact or an idea, you begin developing synaesthetic connections to it - such as making up a mnemonic for the Linnaean classification system (Katy Perry Came Over For Great Sex, anyone?), or remembering a person based on their scent, or visualizing a scene from a novel when caressing the words of the story on your lips. ~

Memory can also denote some interesting aspects of a person. What we choose to remember (because I think memory is often a choice) reflects what type of person we are. "Forgive and forget." We often erase or modify the worst memories we have to soften their blows, and that's a healthy thing to do. However, over long periods of time, memory can indeed end up distorting the truth, which can be harmful to the overarching, lifetime process of self-discovery. ~ That's where writing down things comes into play. ~ Reading back on my old blogs is not only a trip down memory lane, it also shows me how my writing style has changed, and how deep down I'm still very much the same person. ~ As always, there is a fine balance between pure memorization and total digitization/documentation of our knowledge and memories. ~ But it sure wouldn't hurt once in awhile to reinforce those neuronal pathways and spend some time getting to know pieces of information by heart. ~

Why I Stay Up Late

Sleep has always been my Achilles' heel. I might be a food aficionado, and enjoy listening to all sorts of different music, but the real thing that I cannot go without is sleep. ~

The problem has gotten much, much worse this past year. ~ Since university allows greater freedom with schedules, I've started waking up at 12 pm to make it to 1 pm classes (note that I live 45 minutes away from the university), despite vowing to make it to the library at 9 am to study. ~ On weekends, I sleep in to 2 pm, 3 pm, 4 pm... It gets so bad that when my mom tries to shake me awake in the morning, I firmly yell, "No! No! No!" and turn over disgruntedly, despite not consciously being aware of my own actions. ~ Six hours later, I angrily call her, demanding why she let me sleep in. When she tells me the story, I am aghast. ~

My friends have attempted to help rectify this problem. ~ Several have been on alarm duty, calling me to wake me up. ~ I am ashamed to say that I often take their call, agree to get up, and then promptly fall back into bed, out cold. ~ Someone tried to get me using an app called "Sleep if U Can", whereby you dutifully take a picture in another room the previous night and have to get up in the morning to take the same picture in order to turn off your alarm. ~ Gleefully, I tried it, making all sorts of hopeful promises to myself about getting back on track. ~ The next morning, I sleep through three hours of my alarm going off. ~

I've missed many outings with friends because instead of waking up at 6 am, I find myself blinking away sleep at 3 in the afternoon. ~ One day, I missed the first bit of my 1 pm class because not only my ten alarms, but also my carbon monoxide detector going off, failed to wake me from my dreams. ~

My new house has only aggravated the issue. ~ My family now lives in an extremely quiet neighbourhood, where barely a car drives by all day. ~ My room faces the north, so that no sunlight streams through my shutters in the morning (not that that would help wake sleeping me much). ~ After my parents leave the house in the mornings, I might as well be the last person alive, unknowingly sleeping through the beginnings of a zombie apocalypse. ~

I can fall asleep absolutely anywhere. ~ As many of my summer camp friends can testify, neither heat nor cold nor loud noises can prevent me from catching a few Z's or a billion. ~ Whether it's sprawled across my desk, leaning against a wall, cuddled up in a library chair, or cramped atop a lab bench, sleep settles over me like a gentle blanket, engulfing me in darkness. ~

By this point, you're probably wondering: "If she loves sleep so much, then why not sleep more?" A simple question, posed to a complicated person. ~ You see, the reason sleep has become such an issue for me is that I'm wide awake at the worst times possible. ~ 1 am? Time to start a new TV series! 2 am? Let's launch into a full-length MCAT practice exam (which lasts for 4 hours straight)! ~ 6 am? Time to start banging away on the piano, rousing the entire house. ~ I'm a classic night owl. ~

What set me on this horrible routine? ~ Well, it's progressively gotten worse over the years. ~ It began when I snatched a few extra minutes past 10 to finish a project, then after 11 to read another page of my novel, then over midnight to finish up a report, then 1 to squeeze in another episode of Friends... It just seems that when no one else at home is awake, I'm most productive and alert. ~ Also, late night conversations are often the most meaningful and the most interesting. ~ Staying up just that much later gives me the chance to either spend some quality time catching up with a friend who's in the US, or getting in some last minute studying. ~
There's also an odd sense of excitement to be the last one awake. ~ It feels like the entire world has stopped for you, and everything you do will seem like you've warped time to people who wake up the next morning. ~ The adrenaline probably has something to do with this as well - you're forcing your body to extremes, so it responds duly and gives you that rush, that extra burst of concentration, so that you can achieve so much more. ~

This second life has begun to take its toll on me, however. ~ I'm often sluggish during the day, having to rely on coffee or tea in order to function properly. ~ I'm also a horribly cranky person in the morning, giving my mother sullen looks for having woken me and dozing in the car on the way to work (not behind the wheel, of course). ~ I'm always amazed by people who can wake up at 5 to spruce themselves up for the day, showing up at school or work like they've just been airbrushed into being. ~
So tonight, I'll be heading home, telling myself I'll go to bed "early" and wake up feeling refreshed and happy tomorrow morning, while knowing full well that I'll end up having some sort of epiphany at 11 pm and decide to stay up for the next few hours developing the idea. ~

Sweet dreams, everyone. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Olfactory and Gustatory Senses

Possibly the most memorable part of my past two China trips has been the delicious meals/snacks I've had the chance of savouring. ~ Although I maintain that taste and smell are two very distinct senses, my attempts to write separate posts for these two in my Assault on the Senses series has only led to repetition and redundancy. Therefore, I present a combined senses post. ~ Writing this late at night made me crave authentic Chinese food all the more - hopefully I've managed to convey a sense of that through the upcoming ramblings. ~ Also: I have so many pictures of the foods described here that I felt it necessary to break my one-picture-per-post tradition. Perhaps it's cheating to use visuals to complement a post on the olfactory and gustatory senses, but the inner foodie in me just can't resist. ~

Smells in China are very... strong. ~ There are two extremes - my nose either crinkles in disgust and I feel an uncomfortable roiling in my stomach that indicates I have enjoyed a meal much to rich for my usual tastes, and must now suffer in face of the abominable smells pelted at me - or my mouth waters at the delectable aromas that are so enticing, I can nearly feel the texture of the odours tickle my taste buds. ~

Below the apartment where my grandparents live (and where I spent most of my days in China this past summer), there's this little food market/street vendor alley that's always teeming with cars, people, bicycles, and smells. ~ In the mornings, I stroll down to grab breakfast. Delicious local Tianjin dishes are cooking everywhere: 煎饼果子 (Chinese pancakes), 锅巴菜 (sliced pancakes in broth), 豆腐脑 (tofu pudding)... It is perhaps a testament to how wonderful these smells and tastes are that I cannot help but worry over how I will find enough room in my stomach to satisfy my gluttony, or enough meals to even begin curbing my cravings. ~ I dart from booth to booth, placing orders, catching glimpses of the dishes made on the spot, gingerly accepting the little plastic sacs containing the steaming foods and paying the vendors. ~ It's lots of fun, and everything is so cheap and convenient that no one bothers to make their own breakfast at home. ~ The sizzle of frying 油条 (Chinese donuts) cooking next to the pure white soy milk make a perfect combo. ~ Freshly diced pineapples stand guard in a row, while newly picked strawberries line a wooden crate in perfect, soldierly formation. ~ Yet underneath all of the cooking smells, I also detect the ever-present hint of garbage that soils my mood somewhat. ~ The vendors don't bother with real garbage cans, throwing cracked-open egg shells and pouring dirty dish water right onto the streets and into the gutters. It saddens me that such a merry, fresh place should be dirtied repeatedly everyday. ~ The smell of rot reaches my nose and I wrinkle it in disgust. The source? A putrefied peach that's been lying on the sidewalk for the past two weeks now. Mold and all sorts of nasty bacteria have rendered it nearly unrecognizable, and its smell has morphed from a sweet perfume to a revolting stench. ~

In the evening, the scene transforms. ~ Spices fill the air, mixed in with the heady smell of coal smoke. ~ The breakfast vendors have been replaced by the night vendors - an assortment of cold veggie dishes, fried noodle concoctions, stinky tofu, and, of course, the kebabs. ~ In China, people will put anything and everything on a stick and grill it: eggplants, some sort of red meat that passes for lamb, squids, bok choy, fish balls, curly bits of spiced noodle, asparagus... The list is endless, and the customers many. ~ Every time I pass by the nightly motley (which is nearly every night, since it's much cooler out after nightfall, and I'm a night owl by nature), the smells draw me in, while my poor stomach screams "no!" at the recollection of the cramps and unfortunate visits to the loo that have inevitably followed my splurging in these hygienically-questionable foods. ~ Nevertheless, I stop for something every time. ~ My new favourite this year was a dish called 哈尔滨烤冷面, which roughly translates to "baked Harbin-style cold noodles" - interesting name, I agree. ~ Having watched the entire cooking process, I can confidently assert that it's a sheet of noodles cooked with rice mixed in with many different spices that constitute the vendor's secret recipe. Add in a dash of parsley, and the mini-meal is complete. ~  I dig in, savouring the sweet-n'-salty overtones mixed in with the strong cumin and fresh parsley. ~ 

While my favourite dishes are all under 10 RMB, the cost of food in China can skyrocket if you choose to visit a high-class restaurant. ~ A few hundred for a family of four is a regular occurrence at a middle-class restaurant. ~ Take Pizza Hut. ~ It's considered high-end cuisine because anything occidental carries a foreign - and thus luxurious - taste and appearance with it in China. ~ Sweet caviar shrimp balls, savoury escargots in oil, deliciously cold drinks... No wonder the decor inside the restaurant is so fancy. ~ Up it another scale, and you get places where there are napkin rings (napkin rings, of all things!), valet service, chandeliers, personal bathroom suites that smell like mint... ~ Although there is a certain delight to be had from acting all poised and grown-up in such settings, I must admit that the food is always average at best. ~ Then again, the Chinese always were known to place great emphasis on saving face and pride, though I much prefer satisfied tummy. ~


Yet another interesting meal was for my grandpa's birthday. ~ Our family booked a table at 海底捞火锅 (which translates very roughly to Deep Sea Fishing Hot Pot) - one of a chain of restaurants of the same name, known for their exceptional customer service, especially for a Chinese restaurant. (If you're a regular frequenter of dim sum restaurants or noodle houses, you should know what I mean - service tends to be rude and rushed compared to what's found in other culinary establishments.) ~ 海底捞 was a completely different experience. ~ Taking into account that some of us wore glasses, the waitress brought in soft cloths so that us bespectacled guests might wipe off any of the fog that so annoyingly accumulates when we tried to slurp up some fresh-out-of-the-pot noodles or tofu. ~ Seeing that we had a toddler and child with us, the waitress brought over two bowls of soft steamed egg so that they might eat something suitable for their teeth - or lack thereof. ~ When my uncle unveiled the ornately decorated birthday cake (which tasted just as fluffy as it looked), the waitress brought a lighter and lead us in a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" amidst the smell of burning wax. ~ A skilled young cook came over with a dollop of dough and put on quite a show by weaving is around and around in the air until the unsightly lump had become one long, continuous strand of 长寿面 (longevity noodle) - a traditional dish for the celebration of birthdays, with the length of the noodle supposedly reflecting the lifespan of its consumer. ~ Finally, the waitress brought over a spiked massage tool, wishing good health and good wealth upon my grandpa. ~ All in all, we were treated courteously, thoughtfully and warmly. ~ And he cherry on the cake was the lack of questionable odours in the bathroom. ~ Smells are such an integral part of the dining experience that they often linger in my memory long after the taste of the dishes have evaporated. ~

Indeed, even past their immediate effects, the flavours and scents of China left an incredibly complex and strong impact on me. ~ Much as I enjoyed the food, I could not help noticing the less appealing sides of Chinese society that were so openly reflected by the putrefying smells. ~ If there was ever a more poignant physical reflection of the apathy that results from living in an overcrowded space and being just another number among the millions, it's the sorry smells wafting off of some of the streets in China. ~ Much as I love my home country, I wasn't able to fully quell the desire to organize a huge city-wide clean-up every time I rode down the 23 floors from my grandparents' to the street vendor quarter below. ~ And perhaps that's what's contributed to the fact that I approached my second trip to China not as an adventure, as I had done the first time around, but rather as a critique. ~ I began noticing that the reason no one picked up the rotting peach was that no one paid it any attention anymore. ~ I fervently hope that the zombie-like, blank stare of Chinese people walking obliviously down the street isn't a future reflection of what all populations in a crowded country will look like. ~ Nor do I wish the smell of clean air and freshly mown grass to be tarnished by the forgotten rotting peaches of disregard. ~

Not the most optimistic ending to this post series, but certainly an accurate reflection of my current views and fears on the future of civilization, as pompous as that sounds. ~

China Chronicles: Assault on the Tactile Senses

Been nearly a year since I last blogged. University jumped on me and I got caught up in the novelties, as well as a few good TV shows, much to the detriment of this blog. But here I am, back from yet another China trip - so what better time to take up the "China Chronicles: Assault on the Senses" posts again? Check out my auditory and visual senses posts from last year if you haven't yet, then see what's changed of my perception of China this second time around. ~

The dirty wind crawls over my skin, weaves between my clothes, catches in my hair. ~ Sweat trickles down my back, adhering my shirt to my skin. ~ My shoes kick up the dust in the construction zone I am walking through, overlaying the rocks around me like a fine layer of powdered sugar. ~ One word pops repeatedly into my mind: shower. ~
Later, I walk through a dimly-lit, crowded shopping centre. I run one hand over cheap fabric, plastic toys and stacks of stationary, while protectively keeping the other over my shoulder bag. ~ "How much?" I ask a store owner, pointing at one of her items. "35." We haggle over the price. I eventually flip through the dog-eared, rough bills to hand her a five and a ten. The packaging of the product is dusty from having been on display for so long. ~ My fingers feel grimy. ~ Shower, whispers my brain. ~ I ask for a bag and am handed a tiny, red one. ~ Swinging it up and down, I walk away, the new owner of an iPhone 5 case for my friend. (It is only later, much to my chagrin, that I learn he owns an iPhone 4. The matte case seems grossly wrong in my hands as I play around with it, twirling it to and fro in a vain attempt to hide my embarrassment.) ~
I head back out. I pull out my cap and don it. ~ It fits snugly over my ears, with bits of hair sticking out at the sides like stray straw. ~ I tuck the strands behind my ears and pull the cap forward. ~ It's a vital need under the bright Tianjin sun, and quirky as well - camouflage-green, with a red star painted in the centre. ~ A lady at the grocery market asks me if I'm joining the army. I hide my snort under an embarrassed smile. ~ She then lights a cigarette right next to her own booth, releasing fumes of smoke in to the air that seem to find purchase all over my clothes. ~ Shower, grumbles my head. ~
Clammy hands. ~ Shower, presses my mental voice. ~ I clutch my cousin's little hand in mine as my head swings left and right, carefully judging the distance and speed of the dozen incoming cars. ~ His hand is limp in mine, his backpack bobbing up and down in rhythm to his footsteps. ~ We cross the wide street and I let go, releasing him to bound ahead. ~ The typical after-school scene. ~ Mondays, he wears his white school uniform - sweater and sweatpants, despite the cloying heat - in honour of the weekly flag raising. Today, he's wearing a yellow pinny indicating he's to act as hall monitor for the week. ~ I smile, then run to catch up. ~
At night, the city cools slightly. My shoes barely graze the ground as I race my cousin around the yard, at times chasing him, and at others being chased by him. ~ We come back huffing and puffing, falling into the chairs in the living room and kicking off our shoes. ~ Shower, my brain tuts disapprovingly. ~ The air conditioning washes over my arms and I rub them as sudden goosebumps pop up. ~ We share some ice cream, then sit down to watch an episode of Friends on my uncle's iPad. ~ The screen is smooth under my fingertips as I select the video, its clean surface smudging as I trace outlines. ~ We settle back against the couch; the bamboo covering digs into my back, but is better than the sticky sofa I'd be sitting on if it wasn't there. ~
I see my other cousin - the tiny infant I have named. ~ Candace. ~ Her skin is unbelievably soft and smooth as I hold her in my arms, marveling at how chubby she is. ~ She stares at me with huge, solemn eyes, then suddenly grins and claps her hands, gurgling happily. ~ A trail of saliva dribbles down her chin and lands on me, pooling. ~ I laugh and hand her to my aunt, running to grab a Kleenex. ~ Shower? asks my inner self hopefully. ~
I head back to my grandparents' in the dark. ~ Entering our apartment, I take a sudden turn away from the elevators and endeavour to take the stairs - all 23 flights of them. ~ By floor 8, I'm huffing and puffing, my hands pushing against the roughly-painted walls and my knees bent under the weight that has suddenly become so much harder to bear. ~ By floor 18, my leaden feet are pulling down on me, the strap of my shoulder bag is strangling me, and the uneven stairs nearly trip me. ~ But I push through, and emerge victorious on the 23^rd floor, leaning into my grandparents' doorbell and nearly getting flattened by the heavy door as it swings outwards. ~
Shower. ~ The chant has reached a crescendo by this point. ~ I rush to grab towel and pajamas. ~ In the bathroom, I gratefully step under the hot water and sigh in relief. ~ I'm not even bothered anymore by the fact that most showers in China aren't partitioned off - that is, they open up onto the entire bathroom, so that the whole room is sprayed with water every time I shower. ~ I take my sweet time, knowing that tomorrow, this whole cycle of tactile squalidness will just start all over again. ~ But for now, my neurons have stopped pestering me and the word shower plays through my mind as softly as a refreshing summer Calgary breeze. ~