note: this is an excerpt an unpublished article written for The Toronto Star (after numerous drafts the editor decided she didn’t want it). It’s apt considering my third anniversary in 中国 is today.

I knew I was in trouble when the first taxi driver approached me. It was February 26, 2005, just before noon, Beijing time. I sat outside the Shenzhen ferry terminal, Guangdong Province, the People’s Republic of China.

Taxi was the only word I understood. The sentence that followed was a melodic sing-song that made as much sense as radio static. I couldn’t understand, or explain I didn’t. He smiled from a dark, weathered face at a freshed-face newb, surrounded by a curious assortment of cast-off luggage. With a shake of my head he was gone. I had been extremely naïve. I had told myself: Of course people speak English in China. Maybe half of them do. Right?

In a moment of absolute and numbing fright I realized I was in way over my head.

I don’t know what I expected. A new life? I had traveled 7,838 kilometers to a country I knew only from research. I was on a precipice and it was a long way down.

Under contract as an English teacher at a prestigious private school, I thought a drastic change might make a difference and give me both perspective and insight. My life in Canada had become stagnant. Given my age, slipping slowly from 35 to 40, I wanted an adventure. I had never had one.