Shenyang / 沈阳
2023-08-08
I went to 姥爷's old apartment yesterday. It was surreal pulling up to to the alley. I instantly recognized the tall building at the end where my second cousin used to live on the eighteenth floor, and I recognized the building itself. I think it had probably been nearly two decades since I'd been back last.
Entering the hallway and climbing up the stairs, the smell was immediately familiar. The wires hanging everywhere were familiar, as were all the phone numbers stamped all over the stairs. I recognized the sign indicating we were at the 6th floor, and I recognized the apartment door by the lock, but it wouldn't open when 姥爷 tried. Finally, he gave it a kick and tiredly, it creaked open. The door frame was really short and I had to duck through it. I guess I was a lot taller than I was the last time I'd been there.
It was dusty, and it was exactly as I remembered it. I spent so much time in that apartment and I knew it inside and out. The hard bed I used to sleep on was there, lit up by the golden light of dusk. There were some pictures of me in the room on the right. There was the circular burn mark on the ground where my cousin and I left a spiral of 蚊香 burning too long after we fell asleep. I saw afternoons cooking with 姥爷 in his kitchen. I saw evenings in the far left room, where 姥姥 would bring 姥爷 a hot basin of water for him to wash his feet in and scrape the dead skin into with an old pair of scissors. I saw bored days of jumping off of the shelves onto pillow forts and of poring over the books on the shelves, not understanding much even with a Chinese-English dictionary in hand. I saw baths at night in the washroom, under the harsh light, sitting in a giant bucket that 姥姥 would fill up over the entire day using a slow drip to avoid tripping the water meter, pouring water over myself repeatedly with a can and rinsing off the dirt of a successful day of playing outside. I saw my happy childhood summers lazily passing by.
I walked over to the space past the kitchen and peered across the alleyway, down to the roof across the way that I used to throw paper airplanes and whirlybirds and tomatoes and eggs onto. The same urge struck me, as a thirty year old, but I resisted, for we were short on time.
There was an old Russian doll on a shelf that I instantly recognized. I asked 姥爷 if I could take it, and he said I could. Opening up his closet, he pointed out his old clothing. I randomly pulled an old leather winter jacket out and he said I could take that too. Trying it on, it actually fit okay, so I did. I was glad that I could take some mementos from that old place. It's just sat here for all these years. 姥姥 wouldn't let 姥爷 sell it. And I suppose I'm grateful to her because it meant that I could see it one more time.
Outside was a city transformed beyond recognition. Giant malls, shiny rows of restaurants, a subway system. What happened to 铁西区? What happened to 沈阳? Walk thirty seconds in any direction and you wouldn't know where you were anymore. The courtyard of the old 化工学院 campus across the street that I used to mess around with the local kids in, catching 蜻蜓 in nets and playing 藏猫咪 and drinking bottles of 芬达 and eating 舌头没 from the corner store, was now an apartment complex. The building next door with the corner store had just been demolished, likely to make way for another new building. But miraculously, that old alleyway with its three surrounding buildings was still there, untouched by time. It felt impossible.
Walking out, 姥爷 ran into his old neighbor in the building across from ours, and they struck up a conversation. After a minute, they parted ways, and we walked out of the alley, back into the modern day, and towards a delicious dinner.