West Lake After Dark
My first working week ended with colleagues, milk tea and a view that made Hangzhou feel magical.
At eight o’clock on Saturday evening, I had made it through my first full week at the centre.
I had dressed carefully every day: navy trousers and a light-blue, high-necked silk shirt. If I didn’t yet feel like a confident teacher, I could at least try to look like one.
During the week, I had observed about five classes and taught half a lesson myself. My student’s English was already advanced, which was reassuring. I mostly followed the slides and asked the student to repeat things. It hadn’t been awful, I thought.
As the office emptied, Andy, Dan and Chris stayed behind. Andy suggested buying some drinks at Lawson and going to the lake.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t drink,’ I said.
They looked surprised, but nobody made an issue of it. Andy’s wife, Alice, didn’t drink either, so I had company.
Outside Lawson, the men drank beer while Alice had a large milk tea with tapioca pearls. Their daughter sang a Chinese song.
‘I don’t want to go and drink by the lake,’ Alice said. ‘We do that every Saturday.’
For them, this was routine. For me, it was all new.
We went to the lake anyway.
By around nine, it was quieter, with occasional walkers and security staff passing by. Lights picked out the distant hills and reflected across the water. Something about the scene reminded me of the worlds in the Disney films I had grown up with—somewhere Peter Pan and Tinker Bell might have felt at home.
I tried not to look too impressed. Nobody else seemed particularly astonished by the view. Alice was from Hangzhou; the others had seen it many times before.
But I was taken in. This was the first evening when ‘Paradise on Earth’ felt like more than a phrase I had read before coming.
We settled near the water, talking and listening to music. Alice and her daughter stayed a little further along. After a week of lessons and unfamiliar routines, it was good to spend time with my colleagues outside the centre.
An older woman approached me with a rose. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, and she persisted while I tried to work out whether she was offering it or selling it.
Andy spoke to her in Chinese, and she moved on. I later understood that she was selling flowers. At the time, I simply felt relieved that someone else knew how to handle the conversation.
After about an hour and a half, everyone began heading home. The others had longer journeys; I could walk to my apartment in roughly ten minutes.
The lake would become one of my regular places to think, especially when I could avoid the crowds. That evening was the beginning of it.
I had been in China for only about two weeks. Apart from occasional emails to my parents, I had barely paused to look back. Work, colleagues and unfamiliar routines were filling my days.
To everyone else, it had been another Saturday night. To me, it felt like the beginning of belonging.