Before It Felt Real

During the interview, I was asked where I would like to be based.

I had been looking up places in China and learning about Tier 1, 2 and 3 cities, trying to work out where I might fit. Nanjing caught my attention. It looked vibrant, with an expat community, but it didn’t seem quite as international as Shanghai. I liked the prospect of a more immersive experience—somewhere I could learn about the culture and, perhaps, the language.

Unfortunately, I was told that Nanjing was competitive and the available positions had already been filled. The woman interviewing me suggested Hangzhou instead. She explained that increased security had apparently prompted some expats to leave.

I did some research. Hangzhou had been described as “Heaven on Earth”, and photographs of West Lake appeared on my screen.

On that basis, I was pretty much sold.

The process began. The company provided a free online TEFL course, which I was told I needed to complete as part of the visa requirements before flying to Shanghai.

Even then, I don’t think I fully accepted that I was going to China. Somewhere in my mind, I expected to chicken out and stay in the UK. I Googled a few things about Chinese culture, looked at some language tips without taking much of it in, and read about cultural etiquette, most of which I promptly forgot.

I was preparing to go, but I wasn’t quite imagining myself there.

Then the company’s formal invitation letter arrived by secure delivery. I booked my visa appointment in Manchester and bought the train tickets.

That was when it started to sink in. A little.

On the train from Hull to Manchester, I met a young woman around my age who had spent a summer working as a ski instructor in France. Her father had been working in Saudi Arabia, and I enjoyed listening to her talk about their experiences.

It was a small encounter, but it made me realise that getting out of Beverley meant meeting people whose lives had taken different directions from mine. I was curious. For a while, that curiosity took up more space than the nerves.

When I arrived in Manchester, I used an old-fashioned map to find my way to the visa appointment. I had imagined a red-brick building, something rather grand and official. Instead, I found myself in a modern office that felt more like a bank.

A man near the entrance said hello. I remember being very conscious of the poppy I was wearing, as it was around Remembrance Day. My anxious mind immediately made a connection with the Opium Wars, and I wondered whether wearing it had been a mistake. Nobody said anything about it.

My understanding of China was still a mixture of things I had read, things I had been told, and things I was probably overthinking.

I went to the last counter on the right, where a glass barrier separated me from the man processing the applications. I handed over my passport, certificates and invitation letter.

I smiled. He didn’t smile back.

He looked through the documents.

“Oh… so you want to learn more…”

Perhaps he was trying to make conversation. Perhaps he had noticed my PhD. I wasn’t sure what he meant, and the exchange didn’t go much further.

To be honest, I barely understood the paperwork myself. I knew I was applying for a visa so that I could work in China, but the purpose of each certificate, form and letter was a mystery. I had brought everything because somebody had instructed me to bring it.

My application was submitted, and I made my way back to the station.

There, I discovered that my train had been cancelled. We were told that someone had died on the tracks.

I joined the queue for advice and began talking to an older woman who was due to catch the same train. After we were told to take a later service, she invited me upstairs for a cup of tea.

She was a lecturer at Durham University. Her son lived in Japan, and although he seemed to be doing well, she described his life there as lonely.

I told her about my visa appointment and my plans to move to China. In return, she shared stories of teaching English in Russia with her husband.

By the end of that day, two strangers had made the idea of working abroad feel a little less frightening. Neither had set out to reassure me. They had simply told me about their lives, and I had found comfort in hearing that other people had gone somewhere unfamiliar and made a life there.

About five working days later, I returned to collect my passport.

The visa was inside.

“I really like the stamps,” I said to the man behind the counter.

An Australian woman had once told me that stamps were a big thing in China, and this was apparently my attempt at friendly conversation.

I received very little response.

So far, my official interactions hadn’t felt especially warm, although I wasn’t exactly arriving with a natural opening line.

I didn’t meet any more interesting strangers on the collection trip. Nor did I venture far into Manchester. I’m geographically challenged, and I was convinced that if I went exploring, I might never find my way back to the station.

My mum had also thoroughly frightened me with her descriptions of crime in the city. She says this about most places, except wherever she happens to live. As a magistrate, I suppose she has spent rather a lot of time hearing about what can go wrong.

With my visa in my passport and my flight booked by the company, I was ready to go.

At least, the paperwork said I was.

I remember lying in bed and thinking, “This time next week, I’ll be there.”

Then, somehow, it became, “This time tomorrow, I’ll be there.”

I tried to imagine it, but China still felt like something happening on a screen, in an email, or inside a folder of documents.

Then there was the lasagne.

I remember looking at my dinner and thinking, “This will be my last meal here… and possibly the last one I recognise.”

My passport was ready. My flight was booked. I was eating my farewell lasagne.

And I still didn’t quite believe I was going.