Living in the southwest mountains, the Chinese capital felt distant, while the world just beyond the borders seemed enticingly close. My hometown of Kunming was a gateway, a link to other communities, cultures, languages.
I remember flipping through a map book in primary school and discovering that across the vast ocean lay another “Spring City”—San Francisco. An impression of the US moulded itself into my brain early. The far shore of the ocean felt like a good place. Lakes under snow mountains and glittering skylines, layer upon layer of maple and prairie. A vast national park, called Yosemite, whose rocks were photographed for everyone’s computer wallpapers. The news often featured an inspirational figure, who also seemed to be a good father, leading the country. The world felt small; I assumed that my highland hometown must be special, too, to friends across the sea. People from every background crossed back and forth, searching for different lives; magazines in many languages wrote about a bright, open world. Children and adults dreamt of a single global village.
Like my hometown, San Francisco’s Bay Area is, curiously, neither hot nor cold. I’ve travelled across the four seasons, seen many plains and coasts, and wanted to flee most weather. Many times I thought: if I don’t stay in my hometown, I’ll live in the Bay.
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