Twenty-four days. Twenty-four days. I keep repeating this phrase to myself, trying to get a grasp for just how long we’ve been in China. I’m right, it has been exactly twenty-four days since we zoomed over the top of the earth, leaving behind the familiar, but what I’ve come to discover, is that I don’t know what twenty-four days mean.
Rewind to two months ago. I’m in Boston, and in the past twenty-four days, I’ve done the same things I’ll do in the next twenty-four days. I’ve taken my dog on twenty-four walks, studied for two math tests, gotten an extra rotation on my backspin, and gone to a birthday party. Maybe we’ve had a snowstorm, or I’ve moved my bed to a different side of my room, but for the most part, things are the same as they’ve always been. If asked, I can recite my schedule for the next week, maybe even predicting what I’ll eat at each meal.
Stop, fast forward, and return to the present. To tell what I’ve done in the past twenty-four days would require hundreds of pages and dozens of pens. I’ve become a daughter to a new set of parents, a granddaughter to a woman half my size, and the older sister to some of the cutest, sweetest girls I’ve ever met. I’ve learned a new language/culture, been the new girl at school, embarrassed myself in front of hundreds of watchful eyes, battled my way through three colds, and have gotten used to sleeping on the thickest, hardest mattress I’ve ever encountered.
Volunteering in an orphanage, I’ve held hands, fed, and laughed with some of the smallest babies I’ve ever seen, seemingly perfect in every way besides the small fold in their lips. Baby formula’s sweet smell has wandered into my nose, its warm liquid has been spit up onto my jeans, and its nutrients have flown from my hands to the mouths of quivering bodies. I’ve seen coughs resembling small earthquakes shake chests the size of a deck of cards, and have believed my presence to be more important than ever before.
In the past twenty-four days, my life has become a complete jumble of East and West. The Motrin I take for my colds is washed down with a drink of boiled coke and ginger, and for breakfast I eat rice porridge with imported Swiss yogurt. Next to my Marc Jacobs sweater hangs a traditional Chinese chipao, and under my Rubix cube is a book of Mao Zedong’s quotes, published in 1967.
What I’ve come to discover is that twenty-four days means nothing when it comes to time. Most of what I’ve accomplished in Xi’an would have been next to impossible to accomplish in Boston- even in a period of twenty-four years. I truly believe my life has changed, something that would take hundreds of snowstorms, dog walks, and math tests had I remained at home. If all of this can happen during a twenty-four day stay in Xi’an, I predict that a four-month trip may very well turn into a lifetime.