• After years of hiding away, I am shamelessly monetizing my past experiences in the hopes that a) I might help others, and b) there might be some record of the life that I’ve lived, while earning an income for the effort. TL,DR: if you click on a link, it might make me money ;-).

My first day in a new country, I wake up paralyzed, perplexed by where I am and the choices I have made. I chastise myself a bit, thinking, Why are you like this? Why can’t you just enjoy living in the US? Alas, it seems a habit of mine to reside elsewhere.

August 2 in Beijing, China was no different; I was thrilled to have fulfilled my lifelong dream of living in China, but the first day there, my new school’s HR liaisons had provided generous hand-holding. Waking up alone, knowing only numbers in Chinese, the idea of leaving my temporary home–a dorm room in the teachers’ wing of the school’s main campus–was petrifying.

For a moment in a new country, especially if you do not know the language, there is–for me, at least–an inkling of pure terror, the sheer unknown-ness of the world outside enough to keep me in if I don’t blow past it. Thankfully, I had rehearsed this moment in previous countries, and gathered up enough courage to overcome the weighty feeling on my chest.

I got up, though not without effort–I had just endured something like 20 hours of flying, after all–and made my way around the little space. One secret weapon that I use when I travel is the humble plastic cone to make pour-over coffee, with coffee and a travel mug from a place I love to serve as its carafe, and this day wasn’t any different. (While I loved my time at UGA, and much of my teen years in Georgia, I will always claim Deland as my hometown. Boston Coffeehouse–particularly its historic spot downtown–is one of my favorite places in the world, and I have brought its coffee beans to many places.) Throw in some cone filters, or the reusable kind if you like a stronger brew, and you have a bit of home from the jump.

The other thing that steadies me in a new place is my journal. While it’s hard sometimes to force myself to stop and write, it has proved cathartic time and time again. It sounds cliche, but sitting down with a cup made my favorite way, with my favorite pens and journal that has been continued on from the day prior, wherever I was then, is simple but compelling ritual that has acclimated me to many homes.

It helps that now, a decade later, I have a concrete record of events.

I can remember it even without that old journal, though. On August 1, 2014, I arrived at PEK, the older of the two Beijing airports, a full two-and-a-half weeks before I needed to come for onboarding. I wanted time to acclimate myself, to grow used to Beijing’s rhythms and customs before plunging into a new job. And so, perhaps, due to this early arrival, I got first-class treatment: my new school’s HR liaison picked me up at the arrivals gate, and we immediately stopped at a little China Mobile–or was it China Unicom?–store inside the terminal. They scanned my passport, and then I had a new SIM card (and phone? I can’t remember) in a quarter of the time it would have taken at T-Mobile or Verizon in the US. It cost less, too, though the exact numbers escape me.

With that, we took a taxi to the main campus of the public school, where both student and teacher dorms were. Since I would be working at the international campus, I wouldn’t live there full-time, but it was a starting place while we looked for our new homes. I learned the hard way that the dorm’s doors locked at 10 PM, but I was soooo deeply into the ether that I didn’t care. It was all part of the story! I was living the dream! Besides, I soon found my ideal spot, and perfect it would be–up until December, with the advent of winter and a construction project next door.

But I digress.

That first day, there was nothing wrong. The woman who would later give me my Chinese name–郝悦，a reflection of my ridiculous enthusiasm and joy at having fulfilled this lifelong dream–took me on a walk. When I stepped into the street faster than she would like, she grabbed me, and then said, “Do not step into the street without looking carefully both ways!” While this is common sense, in the US, you’re usually somewhat safe if the green “Walk” sign has flashed on–but not so much here, at least not in 2014.

“I worry most about this with new foreigners to China,” my guide told me, a wry smile upon her face, “that they will step into the street and get run over by a motorcycle.”

This proved prescient, as in 2018, I was hit roundly by a motorcycle on Halloween.

After her careful warning, we headed first into a grocery store, and she showed me popular treats that you could buy, which were arranged in large bins. After that, we walked on towards a former church that had been renovated into a coffee shop and dubbed the 1901 Cafe after the year that the church was built.

I instantly loved, and still love, this place, which reminded me a bit of Argentine cafes, where alcohol, caffeine and simple food are served all day for practical fees.

I loved its dissonant menu, which served sandwiches, cocktails and espresso drinks, and ended up returning there often to contemplate that chaotic first year: at times, to tutor while drinking an Americano; at others, alone, to process some significant shifts that had gathered speed inside me. I loved its Long Islands, a drink mocked by the craft cocktail sphere (I ended up there for awhile, but not yet! Not back in 2014), but made excellently here.

The regal coffeehouse is still there to this day, a testament to the businesses that do survive the whirlwind pace of life in an ever-changing nation. It no longer serves cocktails, but there is still a little sting with each sip, because I ended up hurting the woman–and the school–that brought me there.

But that first day? Even before I woke up paralyzed by my new life? It was perfect, and remains enshrined in my life forever, much like the pews-turned-seats in the 1901 Cafe.

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