Hutong Companions

As a foreigner living in a hutong, a traditional alleyway made up of one-storey brick structures, I am not a path breaker. These ancient buildings, some of which date back many centuries (mine's at least 81 years old as my next door neighbor attests), have hosted several China hands. Peter Hessler, formerly the New Yorker's China correspondent, wrote Oracle Bones while living in Ju'er Hutong. Hessler's successor, Evan, keeps his blog from Mianhua Hutong. Michael Meyer (not the funny guy or the murderer) penned the Last Days of Old Beijing in the 800 year-old Dashilan'r business district. Jeremiah, proprietor of the Granite Studio, updates his Chinese history blog from a hutong somewhere near Dongsi. I'm in good company.

Every morning, I cling to my covers and summon the courage to get out of bed. I sleep under two comforters. The small space heater, kept closer to the bed than fire safety enthusiasts would recommend, is useless. My bedroom's air is harsh, cold and when I'm in a good mood, refreshing. After I boldly step forward into the freezing air, the most interesting challenge of hutong-living comes: the daily constitutional. The public toilet is a place of social interaction. Mr. Yin, a sixty-year-old recent retiree, who was born in the year Ox, seems to time his daily bowel movements to coordinate with mine. The bathroom designer somehow forgot to put dividers between the toilets, which has made me more closely acquainted with some of my neighbors than I was expecting.

Squatting, newspaper in hand and cigarette in mouth, a feat I'm somewhat envious of, Mr. Yin tells me that he's found a marriage prospect for me. "I'm already fine on that front," I reply, to no avail. "Chinese girls make better wives than your American girls, you know." My girlfriend being Chinese-American doesn't sidetrack the rant. "They're quiet, obedient, and good homemakers, ya know," he informs me as a gust of wind blows through the bathroom, my naked butt unprotected. Suddenly, a muscle in my left leg, which I believe is called the soleus, begins to remind me that I was not made for squat toilets and I take my leave. These toilet talks, surprisingly, have been pretty enjoyable so far. I've learned the courtyard kids' names (which I immediately forgot) and occasionally someone decides to sing. And I can forget about the cold.