Beijing Lung
It’s official—I’m a smoker. Now, everyone who actually knows me, pick you jaws up off the floor and let me elaborate. I’m diagnosing myself (and not with the help of Web MD) as having the Beijing Lung, an ailment I may or may not have just invented. It started with a tiny cough each morning that I thought came from my roommate permanently keeping the air conditioner on the Antarctic Winter setting. Wrong.
I’ve heard from several people that breathing the air in Beijing for one day is equivalent to smoking from 50–700 cigarettes per day; it depends on whom you ask. I know that figure sounds scientifically solid and all, but I think it might be partly true.
As I type, I’m hacking a volley of what my doctor would call “productive” coughs—my new morning revelry. And just so my roommate isn’t the only one who gets to enjoy my symphonic loogie removal, I’ve started taking it out in public. It’s an especially big hit at my venue, where each cough brings 3–4 people to my side, asking if I need to “have a rest” (they love resting here). And, last night when I accidentally ordered nuclear-fire beef noodles, it was wonderful to simultaneously cough up a lung and inhale a rocket-fueled noodle while my five Chinese coworkers tried desperately not to choke as well from laughing at me.
I figure that I’m smoking the equivalent of two packs per day right now, without enjoying all the great things people love about smoking (whatever those are). To get something out of this (besides phlegm), I’m on the market for one of those long, costumey cigarette holders that Miss Scarlet used in Clue. That way I can blame the coughing on something tangible, start using the word daaarling at the end of every sentence, and maybe kill Colonel Mustard with the rope in the conservatory if I have time after work. Track cycling starts today, and I’m going to be busy.
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