It had been nearly two years since I had gone back to visit. And if you put it into context, two years doesn’t seem like enough time for things to happen— for things to change. Little did I know that although the trip would be the third time I visited China, it would be the first time I truly opened my eyes to the culture.

Lost in translation. I guess those phrases wouldn’t be an adequate way of describing it because I still speak the language. However the broken language barrier between me and my “birth place” still didn’t allow me to truly understand what life was like on the other side of the globe. Having moved to the United States shortly after I turned one, the only connections I had to the country were achieved through the month long visits we went on every couple of years.

However, my travels prior to the one in December left me only with impressions of China’s material goods; the elaborate cityscape of Shanghai, the six-story malls, and the seven-course meals that came with every pair of chopsticks. I guess I could also say I had some recollection of the people. Or at least I remembered that there were a lot of them.

The trip lasted only as long as winter break permitted. So between the days lost to the actual commute there and back, we only had a little over a week to visit. So it meant I only had a week of time to eat all the food I wanted to eat. It meant I had only a week to see all the places I wanted to see. And it meant I had only a week to spend time with the grandparents, aunt, and uncles I never got to see. A week. Seven days. Not enough time to leave an impression on anyone, or I supposed.

After 13 hours of flying, we arrived at the Pudong Airport in Shanghai around 4 p.m. We were greeted by a spacious airport with slick white floors and a staff fully equipped with matching suits and smiles.

The atmosphere of the place seemed worlds away from the airport back in St. Louis. The airport was huge, yet there was a very small population of travelers. The absence of frantic commuters made the place quiet. The terminals were lined with high end shops, each sporting their own elaborate window displays. And all the staff there seemed to be no older than the age of 30; the girls with their hair tucked neatly in a bun, decked out in suits, two-inch heals, and scarves. It seemed almost staged.

This, however, changed after we got past luggage claim. It was as if between there and the terminals, someone had switched off the mute button, and we were back on play. Wheeling around our massive load of suitcases, we were soon bombarded with other travelers frantically rushing to catch their next flight. Upon getting in line at the customs area, we were pushed by commuters rushing to their place in line. They swept by us without any words of apology, not even a mere “excuse me”. I took it as a sign of cultural differences, but their lack of manners still came as a shock.

When we finally arrived in Wuhan, it was already midnight. The air port was on the outskirts of the city, about a half hour commute to my grandparent’s house. As we sped down the highway, the driver paid little attention to the lane lines. Pale peach street lights illuminated the deserted road. Through the trees bordering the high way, you could see signs of the city. However it was too quiet, the car’s engine being the only thing to fill the silence.

After living a week in Wuhan, Hubei’s capital and the most populous city in central China, you begin to truly appreciate the luxury of having family cars. Taking a cab was the usual way of transportation, and if that failed there were always public buses. But due to the construction of seven subway stations, the roads were always blocked with traffic; turning a 15-minute commute easily into 45 minutes.

So it was impossible to get a taxi, and impossible to get onto a bus, for the buses always looked like the metrolink after a Cardinals game. As a result, walking to places within 5 minutes away was the best solution. However as you walk on the side walk, you also become endangered of getting run over with mopeds that ride off road.

Standing in the middle of a busy intersection felt like standing in the middle of the city. As you wait on the island for the light to turn green, you begin to see and feel the city. Sounds of horns and music blaring came from all directions. Dust drifted in the air, covering all cars with in a dirty suit. Kids sitting on the back of their parents mopeds stare blankly into space as they eat sausages on a stick. Women decked out in 3-inch heals thumb frantically through their phone, as they haul a load of shopping bags in the other hand.

And when it rained, I saw couples huddled together under the same umbrella, mesmerized in each other’s gazes. I saw business men frantically running in their suits, covering their heads with their leather man-purses. I saw mothers running, with their children in one hand and backpacks in the other. When it rained, the city’s dusty smell got swept away. But horns continued to beep, and stereo’s continued to sing.

The city came to life at night; the streets buzzed with street vendors and college couples on their first dates. The fog and air pollution gets swallowed in the darkness and is replaced with vibrantly flashing lights of an awakening city. Walking on the streets music blares loudly from the surrounding shops, accompanied by the shouts of various store workers informing consumers of the latest deals. I encountered workers handing out ad sheets every couple of blocks; which at first I ignored until I realized that they couldn’t go home until they distributed a certain amount of ads. So as a result, I found myself taking them regardless of what it was advertising.

The aspect of the country that left the deepest impression on me, however, was the people. It seemed as though my blood pressure increased every time I stepped foot outside. Life was like a giant race. People raced to get across the street; they raced to pay at the cash register; and they raced to get through the door. It was a nation where you had to fight to get to where you wanted to be.

I remember helping my uncle move in to their new home. As we got into the elevator, my mom, holding parts of a desk drawer, was cut off by a man running into the elevator. He didn’t hold the door open for her, nor did he wait for her to get on first; instead he took the last available spot leaving my mom waiting for the next elevator. This of course doesn’t stand as an accurate representation of the whole nation, but it is still safe to conclude that nearly everyone seemed a lot more aggressive.

Coming back to the States, the thing I miss the most is the company we had China. Living in the States only with my parents, I had forgotten the meaning of extended family. I never realized just how close we all could be even after years of separation. It seemed as though the shortage of time made each moment we spent together even more precious.

My grandma had spent hours cooking upon our arrival and took the liberty of packing all her cooking into lunch boxes so we could eat right when we arrived at the airport. The moment I saw her face light up when she saw us, it occurred to me just how much pain the distance between us had caused her. After the round of hugs, she held my hand and proceeded to chatter enthusiastically about how much I had changed.

When I arrived at my grandparent’s house, I found that they had stashed the cupboard with all the snacks I had told them I liked from my previous visit. They had hired a tuner to tune the piano and my uncle had gone on a shopping spree for DVDs that he thought I might enjoy. Visiting my great grandma, I found that her room was filled with pictures of when I was younger. Despite her age, it seemed as though she remembered all events that had occurred to me, even ones that even I didn’t remember.

My uncle took me out to eat at every restaurant possible; constantly bribing my parents into letting me go out for breakfast. My aunt took me out shopping, encouraging me to buy everything I remotely liked. From their small gestures, I could sense that they truly cared about me and wanted what was best.

The days that followed passed in the same rhythm. The city buzzed with strangers and home buzzed with enthusiastic chatter. So coming home to an empty house was none the less awkward. I had gotten used to loud nights filled with the chattering of my relatives and the sizzling of a wok as we all gathered in one dining room to eat.

The streets outside no longer sang with beeps of horns or dazzled with lights. Instead the sidewalks were deserted, only populated occasionally with someone walking their dog. Yes, life had slowed down a pace; no more late night walks in city streets, day long shopping sprees, and elaborate seven course meals. Although I had traveled back to where I was born, I realized that home was still here, and that it was exactly where I wanted to be.