Susan Jackson

At the Laoshan cycling cluster, my knowledge of track cycling, BMX, and mountain biking changed from theoretical to first-hand. I went from reading about each discipline to seeing the world’s top athletes compete in them. The Brits dominated on the track, the United States didn’t quite pull off a BMX sweep, and a French guy ran away (or pedaled, I suppose) with the Mens Mountain Bike gold. I sacrificed my bucket hat to an athlete from the Netherlands who looked like she was about to die of heat exhaustion after coming off the mountain bike course. I used the (not so) stylish lid as a pillow filled with ice water to help cool her until the medics arrived.

I collected dozens of pins, a few business cards, and a cadre of new friends—friends I may never see again, but who were a major part of my experience and understanding of China. Especially the realization that I never will fully understand China.

They walk slowly and follow the rules; they are afraid of the rules; they don’t question the rules. They giggle like children over silly things; they’ve seen families in poverty who can’t eat everyday or attend school—one was only one generation away from this. They taught me how to say “delicious” and “I’m hungry”; I taught them how to say “What I mean is…” and “Internet cable.” Their English names are Pony, Johnson, and Joy; their English names are French—Portia and Yvonne. They ask if Beijing is like New York City. They’d like to study in America, but fear the GMAT, the cost, and U.S. Customs. They hang charms from their cell phones; they eat black eggs and processed chicken meat in stick form for breakfast. They have surprise in their eyes when I insist that I am able to walk to the subway alone—they didn’t believe I knew where I was going, seven weeks later.

They made my experience. They gave me gifts of chopsticks, bookmarks, and silk bags. They opened up to me over time, admitting that the volunteer experience wasn’t all they were promised it would be during their year of training. In doing so, they quietly spoke out against the rules. They trusted me enough to do this. They surprise me with their depth, even seven weeks later. I’d been in their ranks and changed their lines a little, and they changed me as well.

They cried when I left them on the last day of competition.

I cried too.

Thinking I wasn’t going to see any Olympic events besides those I’d be in uniform for, I didn’t bring any patriotic t-shirts, flags, or face paint to Beijing. The United States wasn’t on the ticket at the gymnastics and softball events I’d attended, so it wasn’t too much of an issue. The night the world would crown its new fastest man however, was a different story. I had some scrambling to do.

Taking pity on those of us who did not land assignments in the Bird’s Nest, BOCOG wrangled us tickets to the highlight of track and field events—the Men’s 100m finals.

It’s old news now—Gay didn’t make it and Bolt broke the world record—but nothing about being there that night feels old. I’d had several “Olympic moments” by that evening; moments where I felt the intensity of the whole experience, that the whole world was watching and cheering, and pulling for what was happening there. But that night topped them all. Just being in the stadium would have been enough. Ninety-thousand people emoting and flags of every country waving. That we were only a few hundred yards away from the most talked about race in any Olympics was just gravy.

Clad in a red shirt, white skirt, and blue neck tie (I said I had to scramble), I joined my classmates on the end of the stadium closest to the 100m starting blocks. My first look at the field through the corridor brought tears to my eyes, but by the end of the night, after Bolt had run his barefoot victory lap in front of us, I was on my feet dancing to the reggae music blaring through the Bird’s Nest’s speakers. Reggae music playing in China’s National Stadium—just another Olympic moment.

Pre-Olympics, the exchange rate in China was approximately seven Yuan to one U.S. Dollar. During the Games though, a different kind of currency was king—the pin. Every country, team, newspaper, college, sponsor, etc. had a pin with its logo emblazoned across it, and for many people, collecting them was of utmost importance—for good reason. In addition to being cool little keepsakes, they greased wheels all over the city. From sneaking into private parties to making sure a cabbie didn’t go the long way, a pin could sometimes get you farther than cash.

Before the Games even started, I significantly bargained down the price on a nice leather purse by throwing two Emerson College pins into the deal. That the back of the pins said “Made in USA” was a big selling point for the vendor.

By the end of the Olympics, I’d racked up close to 25 pins, upping the weight of my credentials to what felt like 10 pounds—a great reason to get another massage.

With my new(ish) short doo I need a trim every six weeks or so to combat against a raging case of the mullet. Spending seven weeks in China meant that even with a pre-trip cut, I was getting a little shaggy toward the end. So I did what any good high-maintenance girl would do in a country where she doesn’t speak the language—I strolled through the local hutong and plopped myself in a chair at one of the (seemingly) bazillion hair salons in Beijing. I did my best to say yiyang—the same, and yi dian—a little. The stylist looked at me, we smiled, and I hoped for the best. There were plenty of people in the city with cute short haircuts, which was a comfort. A concern though, was the equal amount of dramatic and angular precision cuts in abundance. For example, if there was something appealing about the female crew cut complete with spiked bangs and accompanying two-foot rat tail I’d seen on the subway the day before, it was lost on me (Note: this was not an attempt at a punk rock look, trust me).

Fortunately, things turned out all right. When was the last time you could say that about a hair cut that cost $2? Though my stylish didn’t speak any English and my hair salon Chinese didn’t go far beyond “good!” and a thumbs up, we made it work. But, the best part of the experience may have been before the actual cut. While seated in a chair nowhere near a sink, I received a shampoo and head scratch/massage that would make a dog’s leg spasm. With only a glob of shampoo on the back of my head, a few spritzes from a water bottle, and 10 magic fingers, the shampoo boy created a nice foam mountain on top of my head which he began to work from the front to the back. When he finished and I awoke from my head-scratch-induced near-coma, he led me to the orange-walled, golden Buddha, sink room in the back, for a rinse. Try and top that on Newbury Street.

Dad’s pants? I haven’t posted in a month after being banned the Chinese government and the title of this one is Dad’s Pants? It was the Olympics, not the tailor shop (which, I incidentally visited multiple times). But, anyway, while I toil away on getting you all up to speed, enjoy these photos of the new China Central Television tower, lovingly referred to by some Beijingers as Dad’s Pants. Along with the Bird’s Nest and the Water Cube, the building is one of the city’s favorite new architectural gems, and I nearly broke my neck staring at it each time I passed it in a taxi. Since its construction isn’t quite complete and it isn’t yet lit up like a Christmas tree (or Chinese lantern), the building is barely distinguishable from the dark, smoggy sky around it in the evenings. It therefore looms in the night sky, and illogically made me think that it was about to fire a laser or tractor beam at any minute, that is how modern, unusual, and huge it is. Or, that is just how weird my thought process is. It’s up to you.