- Unexpected Journey: A fiery university essay led to a cultural exchange in China, sparking a decade-long adventure filled with discovery and adaptation.
- Cultural Immersion: From Beijing’s history to Chengdu’s spice, Xi’an’s ancient walls, and Shanghai’s modernity, China offered a blend of awe and challenge.
- Life in China: Early struggles with smog, teaching, and homesickness were balanced by small joys—students’ laughter, street food, and misty mountain hikes.
- A Decade Later: Now rooted in China, married, and embracing local life, the author reflects on belonging as a series of leaps into the unknown.
“Why did you come to China?”
It’s a question I’ve been asked countless times over the past decade, by students, friends and strangers alike. The answer, like the country itself, is a tapestry of contradictions: equal parts serendipity, rebellion and a hunger for the unknown.
Rewind to 2014. There I was, a final-year university student in the UK, scribbling a fiery critique of my university’s Eurocentric English and History curriculum. Little did I know that scathing essay would become my golden ticket to Sichuan University’s cultural exchange programme. My argument? Simple; I knew almost nothing about China, and that faraway, mystical land had barely graced my education. That, I declared, was precisely why I needed to go.
The irony? My housemates; far more qualified, in their eyes; had also applied. When they didn’t make the cut, those friendships crumbled and turned stale. But as I boarded my first long-haul flight; the farthest I’d ever strayed from home; I felt no guilt, only the electric anticipation of an adventure of a lifetime.
China greeted me like a slap of Sichuan peppercorns: thrilling, disorienting, and impossible to forget. Beijing was my first stop, and it felt like stepping into a living history book. Beijing’s imperial grandeur left me breathless, the Forbidden City’s crimson gates loomed like portals to another era, while the Great Wall snaked across mountains, daring me to imagine the centuries of footsteps that had worn its stones smooth.
Then came Chengdu, the spice capital of the world. In between the cultural exchange programme events, I remember my first encounter with hot pot was less of a meal and more of a baptism by fire.
I remember sitting at a crowded table of university students, my face flushed, tears streaming down my cheeks as I braved my first taste of mala broth.
The Sichuan University students laughed,not unkindly, and handed me a tissue. It was my first lesson in the warmth and hospitality that would come to define my time in China.
Xi’an was our next stop, with its ancient city walls and the awe-inspiring Terracotta Warriors. I’ll never forget the surreal feeling of cycling atop those walls, the wind in my hair, the history beneath my wheels. And then there was our final destination: Shanghai, a city that felt like I’d stepped into the future. The neon rivers flowed beneath skyscrapers that whispered of futures I couldn’t yet imagine.
For 4 weeks, I ricocheted between awe and overload. Backpacking and travelling veterans in our university group swapped tales of European hostels and adventures, while I, a wide-eyed newbie, soaked it all in. By the time we flew home, I was irrevocably changed.
Reality hit hard post-graduation. No postgraduate studies lined up, no plan, and a firm aversion to teaching in UK state schools; just a gnawing restlessness. Sitting in a pub with my parents, still clad in my graduation gown, I blurted out a half-baked idea I’d been nursing since returning from China: “What if I teach in China… for six months?” Their response? A grin and a challenge: “Why not stay longer?”
10 years later, I’m still here.
Let’s be clear: this isn’t a fairy tale. My early years in Chengdu were a crash course in adaptation. Those first winters were brutal, not just for the cold but for the smog that blanketed the city like a thick, grey quilt. I remember days when I couldn’t see the building across the street from my apartment, let alone the sun. It was isolating, a stark reminder of the trade offs I’d made for this new life.
Work burnout left me questioning my choices, needless to say, my very first day of teaching fell on one of those dreaded Saturday make-up days; a concept I hadn’t even known existed. I stood in front of a classroom of sceptical teenagers, a battered copy of some textbook clutched in my hands, and I wondered what on Earth I’d got myself into. There were days when the workload felt overwhelming, when the cultural differences left me feeling like an outsider, and I remember when the homesickness hit like a tidal wave on that very first Christmas away from home.
Little needs to be mentioned about what happened from January 2020 onwards. Yet, even on the toughest days, that initial spark; the thrill of stepping off the plane into Beijing’s cacophony for the first time; still flickers through my memories. I quickly learned to find joy in the small things: the laughter of my students when I butchered a Chinese phrase, the warmth of a street vendor’s smile as she handed me a steaming baozi on my morning commutes, the quiet beauty of a misty morning on a mountain hike.
These days, my life is soundtracked by unexpected rhythms. I’ve swapped the Southwest of China for the south of the Yangtze. Ten years on, my hair might be thinner, my baggage heavier, but the wonder? Still intact.
That initial leap of faith; the decision to trade textbooks for street food stalls and gloomy seminar rooms for misty mountain hikes; was the right one. Over the years, I’ve learned to navigate the complexities of life in China with a mix of resilience and humour. I’ve celebrated Spring Festival with my wife; her family welcoming me like one of their own. I’ve mastered the art of haggling in Mandarin (sort of), and I discovered early on that KTV is the great equaliser, whether you’re belting out something from The Lion King or a classic Chinese ballad.
So, why China? Maybe it’s the way a steaming pot of spicy oil can feel like home. Or how a 2,000-year-old wall can make your Sunday stroll feel trivial. Or perhaps it’s the quiet revelation that “belonging” isn’t a place, but a series of leaps into the unknown.
10 years in, I’m still taking those leaps. And honestly?
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
