《1992美東紀事：學車驚魂、考官的圓眼與日內瓦的免費英語班》

在美過寒假期間 J 還教了我幾次開車。感覺是真不能跟一位不太有耐心的老公學開車。一會兒「accelerate！accelerate（加速）！」一會兒「stop！stop（停車）！」左拐、右拐、前進、倒退，「打燈！打燈！」弄得人心裡發慌、手腳冰涼、頭腦發漲；他還嫌你膽兒太小、反應太慢。搞得我們倆都真的是 nerve-wracking。

一天我們在一所中學操場上練習開車，正值寒假期間而且天快黑了，我們的車在空曠的操場上一會兒停、一會兒動的，引起了巡邏警察的注意。「嗚～嗚～」打亮刺眼的紅藍警燈，一閃一閃地就過來了。

我停了車，打開窗忐忑地等著警察過來。高大威武的警察走過來一看，是丈夫在教妻子學車，他聳了聳肩，對我們做了一個幽默的表情——J 可以理解為是同情他，我也可以理解成是同情我。

J 回日本前，在報紙上給我找了一家 40 美金一小時、在 20 英里以外塞內卡湖（Seneca）邊日內瓦小鎮（Geneva）的私人駕校。電話約了並送我去學開車。約了下午四點，估計教開車是老師的第二份工作，他要下班後才能有空。

說是私人學校，當時只有我一個學生。教練車頂上有個黃色的「Student Driver」（新手學車）字樣的警告頂燈，提醒路人「離我遠點兒」，副駕座側老師的腳底下也有煞車控制踏板。我這才體會到為什麼 J 會顯得那麼緊張了，因為自家車的副駕座沒有控制裝置，遇到我這既膽兒小又毛手毛腳的主兒，他能不 nerve-wracking 嗎？！

大致了解了我所掌握的開車技巧後，老師跟我過了一遍基本注意事項，就讓我開他的車直接上了路，我還尋思著哪兒是練車場呢。

湖濱小鎮相對繁忙些，路上車水馬龍的。岸邊有一所私立大學（霍巴特與威廉史密斯學院），那段日子 J 還帶我拿著自己畫的中國畫去他們藝術系打聽過，我還送了接待我們的女教授一張 16 開宣紙大小的臨摹菊花畫。不過他們系裡當時走的是「抽象派」路子，跟我的畫風不太對胃口。

類似這幅畫，當時送她的是兩朵菊花
Similar to this, I gave her a painting of two chrysanthemums.

校園附近靠湖邊的林蔭道兩旁一輛接著一輛停滿了車。大冬天的天色也暗得早。穿梭的車輛、晃眼的燈光，搞得我很緊張，心裡像是有十五隻吊桶打水。老師的一句話使我安下心來：「Stay in your lane, and you'll be fine.」（待在你自己的車道裡，你就會安全。）他說：「不要壓線、不要無緣無故地換車道。」

第二天 J 就回了日本，是 J 的大姐開車送我去的駕校。本來第三天還要繼續去的，不料天有不測風雲，第二天晚上大雪就鋪天蓋地地下了個不停，這一下就是兩個多月。三月中旬雪才停住，我就再也沒去找那專業老師學開車。J 的大姐坐在副駕駛座位上，我們在鄉村的路上轉悠，我也就學會了開車。

接著就是參加筆試，考了兩次才通過。路試也不順利，第一次四月底，考官一坐進車，就發覺 J 大姐車副駕駛座位的安全帶有問題，他一步跨下了車，提出要求把保險帶子修好了再來。盼到五月中旬，考試那天又由於平行停車失敗。

那次平行停車，要求並不高。考官要我把車泊在路邊停著的一輛小卡車後面，不是在兩輛車之間的空隙中泊車，後面就根本沒車。我卻蹭到了小卡車後邊的保險槓！考官驚詫得雙眼圓睜，我羞愧得兩頰通紅。

1992年6月15日終於通過了路試。但是在高速公路上開車還是比較慌，尤其是超大型集裝箱貨車時心裡總是要念叨：「你走你的陽關道，我走我的獨木橋。」才能慌慌張張地超過去。

回頭再說四個月前 J 還在紐約時，每週兩晚都要開車接送我去上 FLCC 社區大學提供的免費英語課。那地方也在日內瓦小鎮。班上有十幾個同學，來自不同國家。有五六個是大陸來的，大多是在康奈爾大學農業試驗站進修的訪問學者，或是讀研學生的家屬，另外還有一位是日內瓦中國餐館老闆的年輕太太。有法國人、德國人。一對老年夫婦是西班牙裔，好像是從南美洲過來的，J 跟他們聊天兒中得知那位老先生在本國曾是一位報刊主編或是 owner，曾受到當局打壓的異議人士。他們的女兒在美國定居，於是老兩口就來了住在女兒家。好巧不巧，他們跟我們是鄰居，兩家只隔了兩棟房子。於是 J 回日本前跟他們商量好，我就搭他們的車去上課。每次我都給他們 5 塊錢，善良的老兩口不肯收，我執意要給。他們也只好收下，每次都會先在附近的加油站停一下，將我給的那 5 塊錢加了油。學期結束了，5月30日大家帶著自己做的食物聚餐。

聚餐抓拍裡恰巧沒拍到中國同學，這張是一位外國同學好玩抱起一位中國小男孩——他爸爸在康奈爾農業試驗站讀研，那天他是跟著媽媽一起來的。

Since no Chinese classmates happened to be in the other potluck snapshots, here is a classmate playfully holding a little Chinese boy—his father was a graduate student at Cornell's Agricultural Experiment Station, and he had come along with his mother that day.

我還唱了一首台灣校園歌曲：「阿門阿前一棵葡萄樹，阿嫩阿嫩綠它剛發芽，蝸牛背著那重重的殼呀，一步一步地往上爬，阿樹阿上兩隻黃鸝鳥，阿嘻阿嘻哈哈在笑它，葡萄成熟還早得很哪，現在上來幹什麼，阿黃阿黃鸝兒不要笑，等我爬上它就成熟了……」

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Chronicles of Upstate New York in 1992: Driving Lessons, an Examiner's Wide Eyes, and Free English Classes in Geneva

During our winter break in the U.S., J tried teaching me how to drive a few times. I learned that you really shouldn't try to learn how to drive from a husband who lacks patience. It was a constant stream of "Accelerate! Accelerate!" followed by "Stop! Stop!"—left turns, right turns, going forward, reversing, "Turn on your blinker! Turn on your blinker!" It left me flustered, with cold hands and feet and my head spinning, while he still complained that I was too timid and my reactions were too slow. The whole experience was truly nerve-wracking for both of us.

One day, we were practicing in a middle school parking lot. It was during the winter break, and dusk was already falling. Our car, stopping and starting repeatedly in the empty lot, caught the attention of a patrolling police officer. With a wail of the siren and flashing red and blue lights, the patrol car pulled up. I stopped the car, rolled down the window, and waited anxiously. A tall, imposing officer walked over, took one look, and realized a husband was teaching his wife how to drive. He simply shrugged and gave us a humorous look—a gesture J could take as sympathy for him, while I could just as easily take as sympathy for me.

Before J returned to Japan, he found a private driving school for me—advertised in the newspaper—located in the town of Geneva, by Seneca Lake, about 20 miles away. He made the arrangements by phone and drove me there for my lesson. We had an appointment for 4:00 PM; I suspect that teaching driving was the instructor’s side job, as he was only available after finishing his primary work.

Although it was called a "private school," I was the only student at the time. The instructor’s car was equipped with a yellow "Student Driver" sign on the roof—a warning to others to "keep their distance"—and, on the passenger side, there was an auxiliary brake pedal for the instructor to use. It finally dawned on me why J had been so anxious: our own car lacked such controls. Given that I was both timid and clumsy behind the wheel, it’s no wonder he found the experience so nerve-wracking!

After briefly assessing my existing driving skills and running through the essential safety points, the instructor had me take the wheel and head straight out onto the road—leaving me wondering, "Wait, where’s the practice lot?"

The lakeside town was relatively busy, with heavy traffic on the roads. A private university (Hobart and William Smith Colleges) stood by the shore. Around that time, J even took me to their art department with some of my traditional Chinese paintings to make inquiries, and I gave the female professor who received us a copied painting of chrysanthemums on a roughly letter-sized sheet of Xuan paper. However, their department leaned heavily toward the abstract back then, which didn't quite suit my style. The tree-lined streets near the campus—running alongside the lake—were packed with cars parked bumper-to-bumper. In the depths of winter, darkness fell early. The constant flow of vehicles and the glaring headlights made me incredibly nervous; I was a bundle of frayed nerves. My instructor put me at ease with a single piece of advice: "Stay in your lane, and you'll be fine." He added, "Don't drive on the lane markings, and don't change lanes without a good reason."

The next day, J returned to Japan, and it was J’s oldest sister who drove me to the driving school. I had planned to continue my lessons on the third day, but the weather had other ideas—a massive, relentless snowstorm began that evening and didn't let up for over two months. The snow finally stopped in mid-March, but I never went back to that professional instructor. Instead, with J’s oldest sister in the passenger seat, I practiced driving along country roads and eventually learned how to drive.

Next came the written test, which I only passed on my second attempt. The road test didn't go smoothly either; the first time, in late April, the examiner noticed an issue with the seatbelt on the passenger side the moment he sat down. He stepped right back out of the car and told me to come back only after the seatbelt had been repaired. When the day for my next attempt finally arrived in mid-May, I failed again—this time because I couldn't manage the parallel parking.

The parallel parking task that time wasn’t even particularly demanding. The examiner asked me to park behind a small truck already stopped on the side of the road—it wasn’t a tight spot between two vehicles; there was simply nothing behind the truck. Yet, I still managed to scrape its rear bumper! The examiner’s eyes went wide with shock, and my cheeks burned with shame.

I finally passed my road test on June 15, 1992. Even then, driving on the highway remained a nerve-wracking experience—especially when overtaking massive semi-trucks. I would always have to mutter to myself, "You go your way, and I’ll go mine," just to summon the courage to make a frantic pass.

Looking back four months earlier, when J was still in New York, he would drive me to and from free English classes offered by Finger Lakes Community College (FLCC) twice a week. The classes were held in the town of Geneva. There were over a dozen students in the class from various countries; five or six were from mainland China—mostly visiting scholars or the spouses of graduate students at Cornell's New York State Agricultural Experiment Station, along with the young wife of a local Chinese restaurant owner in Geneva. There were also students from France and Germany. One elderly couple was Hispanic—likely from South America—and J learned through conversation that the husband had once been a newspaper editor-in-chief (or perhaps the owner) back in his home country, having faced persecution as a dissident. Their daughter had settled in the U.S., so the couple had moved over to live with her. As it turned out, they were our neighbors—our houses were only two doors apart. Before J returned to Japan, he arranged for me to catch a ride with them to class. I would offer them five dollars each time; the kind-hearted couple would try to refuse, but I insisted. Eventually, they would accept it, though they always made a point of stopping at a nearby gas station to put that five dollars toward fuel. 

When the semester ended on May 30, we held a potluck where everyone brought dishes they had prepared themselves. I also sang a Taiwanese campus song: "In front of the house stands a grapevine, its tender green shoots just beginning to sprout. A snail, carrying its heavy shell upon its back, inches its way upward, step by step. High up in the vine, two orioles look down and laugh—'Hee-hee, ha-ha!'—at the snail. 'The grapes are still a long way from ripening; why on earth are you climbing up now?' 'Oh orioles, oh orioles, don't you laugh—by the time I climb all the way up, they'll be ripe!'"

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百四十九篇

《冷水泡茶之後的陣痛：跨文化婚姻里的『Primitive』與時代烙印》

我們的第一次拌嘴，發生在1989年1月19日之後。之所以把日子記得這麼準，是因為當時拌嘴時他冒出了一句「primitive」，我沒聽懂，便讓他寫下來。他順手摸出一張購物小票——那是1989年1月19日，他在日本忠實屋大根店花1,850日元買了一盒錄音磁帶留下的發票——翻過背面，一連寫下了一串英文：「Some ways-- primitive- undeveloped- uncivilized --friendship between the sexes.」他還在「Some」底下重重劃了兩道線，「sexes」下面劃了一道線，大概是為了加重語氣。

我連忙捧起字典一個個去查，還在每個單詞下面用鉛筆寫下釋義：primitive——不發達的、簡單的、上古的、原始的；undeveloped——沒發展的；uncivilized——不開化。對著這串詞我才明白，他是在說我在某些方面、尤其是在男女正常交往的觀念上太原始、太跟不上時代了。

說起這個「primitive」的由來，其實繞不開一個叫 YD 的上海女生。她是在我來日本之前就認識 J 的。我到日本後，J 特意請她去日本餐館吃飯，讓我們見個面。那天我們坐在長條吧桌前，裡面的廚師一邊做生魚片、壽司等食物一邊直接遞過來。YD 坐在左側，J 坐在中間，我坐在右側。整頓飯下來，多數時間 J 都是側身面向她的。坐在我邊上的是一位日本中年男人，他大概都有些看不過去了，用日語問我旁邊的是誰。我說是我的丈夫——日本人管丈夫叫「主人」（發音「ご主人」）。那位日本大叔聽完，竟對我搖搖頭說：「ご主人、よくない」（你那丈夫不好），同時做了一個拇指朝下的動作。

吃完飯在店門口告別時，那個女生站在 J 面前，距離近得很。男女之間站立的遠近，往往能看出關係的深淺，我心裡明白，但表面上沒有流露出一絲不滿，還客客氣氣地用上海話招呼她：「歡迎儂經常來阿拉窩裡白相。」她卻回了一句：「吾勿認得㑚窩裡額。」這話我聽了心裡不太舒服。畢竟剛來日本沒幾天，我就在冰箱冷凍室裡見過幾大塊巧克力，J 說是 YD 喜歡吃的；剛進門時，我還在臥室角落看見一本手掌心大小的漢英字典——我能不知道那意味著什麼嗎？只是我這人喜怒不形於色，不管是巧克力還是那句客套話，我都裝作若無其事。

後來的日子裡，YD 隔三差五就給 J 打電話。每次若是我接起，她連一聲招呼都不打，直接讓 J 聽電話；而每次掛電話前，我總能聽見 J 在那頭說一句「Same to you」或「Same here」。我的英語再差，也聽得懂這句話的分量。

平日我在日語班上課，從不去 J 的辦公樓。有一天心血來潮，中午吃飯時去了他辦公室，坐了不一會兒，YD 也來了。J 提議大家一起去吃午飯，讓 YD 帶我先去校園附近的一條食街（東海大學近道商店街），怕我不熟路，還特意報了店名，叮囑她怎麼走、怎麼拐才能找到。他自己騎著（scooter）去要繞遠路，因為那條食街地勢在坡下；若步行的話，出了校園過馬路不遠，順著一長段露天的石階走下去便是。結果 YD 熟門熟路地帶著我，一點彎路沒走，徑直就找到了那家店。那頓飯，我依舊禮禮貌貌地吃完了。

我這人像一面鏡子，有火才反光，沒光也不亮。表面不聲不響，心裡卻全給記住了——如今回想，大概也是自己心胸不夠豁達。我是理智型的人，凡事喜歡擺事實、講道理，不會大聲喧嘩或無理取鬧，自己的錯就認、就改，也不會得理不饒人。或許正是這種在他看來過於「穩重端莊」的性格，既讓他覺得「boring」（乏味），也成了他眼裡「primitive」的由來吧。

很快，J 在東海大學的合約要到期了，我們得搬出學校安排的住處。在找房時，我們發生了第二次拌嘴——這一次，是我嫌他沒有生活常識。

看房期間，有一套二樓的公寓朝西，他看著挺滿意。我卻說朝西的房子不好，夏天西曬，冬天又刮西北風，得找坐北朝南、有朝南門窗的房子才會冬暖夏涼。他偏不信，我納悶這麼簡單的生活常識他怎麼都不懂。回到家，我特意找來一根筷子，在筷子頭上綁了一條尼龍繩，拿到屋外舉在風裡讓他看風向——外面正呼呼刮著西北風，可他依然不信我說的這一套。當時我還沒意識到，我們倆生長的環境截然不同，他在美國生活的地理氣候大抵與我生長的大陸東南沿海不一樣，況且他們早已習慣了熱了開空調、冷了開暖氣的現代生活方式，自然體會不到中國人對「坐北朝南」的執念。

不巧的是，就在那段日子我流產住院了。J 一個人忙著找新住所、整理打包、裝箱，他的一位同事 K 也來搭了把手，匆匆忙忙把家搬了，退租的舊屋也打掃得乾乾淨淨。這一切我都未能幫上忙，出院後直接去了新家。

幫忙搬家的朋友 K, who helped with the move

那房子還真是坐北朝南的：前邊是一片菜地，後院和臥室東窗外被一片樹林環繞；客廳鋪著木地板，書房和臥室則是榻榻米。因為剛搬進來，家裡還亂糟糟的，想來原先是間空屋子，J 臨時買了幾件簡易桌凳湊合著用。第二天清晨，我是被窗外啾啾的鳥鳴喚醒的，拉開紙糊的格子窗，縷縷陽光瞬間探進屋子，空氣清新極了。可當 J 走去開門時，卻發現門是反鎖著的。他回頭問：「是你把門鎖上的？」我答：「是啊。」從小養成的習慣，晚上睡覺總要鎖門才踏實。這下他居然生氣了，衝我道：「日本是最安全的國度，你鎖啥門？」這便是我們之間發生的第三次不愉快。

記得還有一個小故事，我到日本後遇到的第一次 J 的生日。我只是晚上準備了煮麵條，弄幾個菜。我們家過去條件差，只有我父親的生日，母親會煮一鍋打滷麵，和一桌好菜，其他人的生日都不過的。所以我沒有多想，那天 J 回到家，看到家乾乾淨淨的和往常一樣，只是桌上多了一根常春藤枝條。他有點不高興了，脫口而出「What is that?」我也僵住了。

當時的桌上只有一支常春藤
At the time, there was only a single sprig of ivy on the table.

不是生日那天的照片
This is not a photo from his birthday

後來才知道人家美國人的生日很熱鬧的，又是派對又是禮物，又是蛋糕又是蠟燭，也許還會有什麼 surprise（驚喜）。這就是另外一個文化衝擊。

1989 年夏天，TT 和她的丈夫來紐約 J 的母親家探望我們
TT and her husband came to visit us at J's mother's house in New York

後來我的生日 J 都會帶我出去吃，當時那個大美女 TT 的生日跟我就差一天，我們四個就在我生日那天一起去吃韓式燒烤（把烤好的肉裹在生菜裡吃，很好吃的）。

從東方的節儉保守走進西方的開放隨性，本就需要一個漫長的適應期。兩個文化背景南轅北轍的人走到一起，生活習性上的磕磕碰碰，注定會給婚姻帶來磨合的陣痛。當初他在中國與我交往時，曾很努力地入鄉隨俗，我們的開始也像「冷水泡茶」，這種慢慢浸潤、漸入佳境的交往方式最合東方人的審美，我也曾暗自慶幸他擁有東方人含蓄穩重的氣質。可真到了共同生活的屋簷下，差異還是顯露無遺。

在新家只住了一個晚上，我們便動身去了美國。每次出入境辦簽證的繁瑣手續都極其消磨人的耐性，向來對政府部門效率缺乏耐心的 J，也只好耐著性子坐在電話前，聽著移民局冗長的語音提示，按了無數次數字鍵，才終於等來人工接聽。他諮詢了關於我申請美國公民身份的條件，得到的答覆是：從拿到綠卡那天算起，三年之內只要在美國住滿18個月即可申請；一旦打斷這個三年期限，日後就得重新計算，而且必須住滿五年才能辦理。算下來，這幾年我來回進出美國已經攢了84天，到1993年7月底前，我還需在美國住滿464天。

權衡利弊後，J 獨自回了日本繼續工作，留下我和他母親同住，靜待入籍期限。臨回日本前，J 特意幫我聯繫了一所叫 FLCC（Finger Lakes Community College）的社區大學，報了每週兩個晚上的免費英語班；回到日本後，他還親口朗讀並錄製了好幾盒英國女作家艾米莉·勃朗特的《呼嘯山莊》，專門寄給我練聽力。只是那時的我不夠勤奮，總覺得沒有緊迫感、危機感，白白蹉跎了那段時光。

除此之外，我們在觀念上還有一層隱秘的隔閡。J 很喜歡談論時事政治，而我剛走出國門不久，許多看法在他眼中顯得片面甚至錯誤，為了減少摩擦，我總是盡量避開這類話題。

那段特殊時期，外面社會風波不斷，J 積極上街聲援、捐款。我因為瘸著腿、拄著拐杖沒去，他便顯出了老大不樂意。其實，除了腿腳不便，雖然我也同樣關切，但我有我深深的顧慮——那時海外還道聽途說，有眼線專門混在隊伍裡拍照。我實在害怕自己的行為，會給遠在國內的家人帶來傷害。

受連累的滋味，我是真真切切體驗過的。當年母親因為心直口快得罪了居委會女主任，在那個特殊的年代裡，母親被她趁機打擊報復、批鬥、關押。欲加之罪，何患無辭？一會兒說我們家出身不好，一會兒編造我舅舅是「境外特務」——其實我根本沒有舅舅；又說我姨嫁了地主，可我們跟北京的親戚早已沒有往來，直到如今我都沒見過姨夫。連家裡的小孩子也跟著受罪，大哥還特地囑咐我們幾個小的，在學校填表時「民族」一欄千萬別填滿族——毕竟祖上曾在清廷当差，在那个讲究「出身」的年代，填了满族只怕招来更多盘问与麻烦。

1966年，我那位「老三屆」的四哥原本是個躊躇滿志、在學校裡成績與人品俱佳的優異青年。那年秋天，他光榮地被學校批准成為去北京串聯的代表——若是去成，他就能在9月15日那天，站在數十萬人的大會上親眼見到領袖，這在當時可是至高無上的巨大榮譽。

然而，厄運驟然降臨。戴著袖箍的他興沖沖地跑回家，還沒來得及向家人報喜，就看見樓下家門口圍了一堆人；納悶著上樓推開門，只見我們幾個弟妹一溜靠牆低頭站著，一夥人正在屋裡翻箱倒櫃地抄家。母親突然遭難的消息，對他而言猶如當頭一棒。去北京的代表資格被瞬間取消，隨後他更是被無情地除名。四哥後來痛苦地回憶道：「我真是好像進了人間地獄一樣難受。」

噩夢並沒有就此結束。此後的歲月裡，四哥曾有兩次參軍和一次招警察的機會，每次的體檢和考核都順利通過了，可每到最後一關，都是被政治審查硬生生卡了下來。接二連三的沉重打擊，讓這位曾經意氣風發、待人熱忱的陽光青年從此一蹶不振，性格也變得沉默寡言、謹小慎微。

英語裡有個詞叫 traumatizing（創傷），指某件事給人一生帶來難以磨滅的負面烙印。四哥如此，我們全家也都在不同程度上留下了這樣的心理創傷，比如刻在骨子裡的膽小怕事。這種恐懼，在平靜順遂的環境中長大、向來習慣直抒胸臆的 J 很難真正感同身受。

倒是當時在現場做實況報道的哥倫比亞廣播公司（CBS）晚間新聞主播丹·拉瑟（Dan Rather），面對鏡頭隨口說的一句話，一直讓我感動至今。他說：「我們報道完這些具有歷史意義的事件，都將離開這裡。而這是他們的家園，他們、他們的親友還都將在這裡生存下去，所以有些話，我不能夠問，我不想給他們造成不便。」

我想，也許正是因為這份悲憫與清醒，丹·拉瑟才能跨越東西方文化的隔閡，真正把握住人性的實質。同樣是美國人，那位新聞主播懂得留在本土之人的生存不易，而 J 卻只看到我邁不出步子的退縮。

現在回頭看，我身上那些曾經深深吸引過 J 的「溫良恭儉讓」的東方品德，由於沒有隨著生活環境的變化及時豐富與充實，很快便成了他眼裡的單調乏味。對我個人和這段婚姻來說是如此；若放眼更大的時代，當東西方展開前所未有的政治、經濟與文化交匯時，一個不斷開放的社會所面臨的磨合與陣痛，只會比一個家庭內部更廣泛、也更尖銳。

**********************************

Growing Pains After Cold-Brewed Tea: 'Primitive' and the Imprints of an Era in a Cross-Cultural Marriage

Our first argument happened shortly after January 19, 1989. The reason I remember the date so precisely is that during our quarrel, he suddenly blurted out the word "primitive." I didn’t know what it meant, so I asked him to write it down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shopping receipt—dated January 19, 1989, from the Chujitsuya (Daikon) supermarket in Japan, where he had bought a blank cassette tape for 1,850 yen. Flipping it over, he scribbled a string of English words on the back: "Some ways-- primitive- undeveloped- uncivilized --friendship between the sexes." He underlined "Some" twice and "sexes" once, likely to emphasize his point.

I hurried to look up each word in my dictionary, carefully writing the Chinese definitions in pencil underneath: primitive—underdeveloped, simple, ancient, primeval; undeveloped—not developed; uncivilized—unenlightened. Staring at those definitions, it finally dawned on me: he was saying that in certain respects—especially when it came to views on normal friendships between men and women—I was backward and behind the times.

To understand where that "primitive" label came from, I have to mention a young woman from Shanghai named YD, whom J had known before I arrived in Japan. After I joined him there, J deliberately treated her to a meal at a Japanese restaurant so the two of us could meet. We sat at a long sushi bar where the chef prepared sashimi and sushi right in front of us and handed them over the counter. YD sat on the left, J in the middle, and I on the right. Throughout the meal, J spent most of his time turned sideways, facing her. Next to me sat a middle-aged Japanese man. Even he seemed unable to watch any longer; he asked me in Japanese who the man beside me was. I told him he was my husband—goshujin in Japanese. Hearing that, the Japanese man shook his head at me and said, "Goshujin, yokunai" ("Your husband is no good"), giving a thumbs-down gesture at the same time.

When we said goodbye outside the restaurant, YD stood remarkably close to J. You can always tell the closeness of a relationship between a man and a woman by the physical distance between them. I understood immediately, though I didn’t show a trace of displeasure on my face. Instead, I politely invited her in our native Shanghainese dialect: "You’re welcome to come visit our home often." She replied, "I don’t know where your home is." Her answer rubbed me the wrong way. After all, just days after arriving, I had found large bars of chocolate in the freezer, which J casually mentioned were YD’s favorites. When I first unpacked in the bedroom, I had also noticed a palm-sized Chinese-English dictionary sitting in the corner of the bedroom—how could I not guess what that meant? Still, I am someone who keeps emotions well hidden. Whether it was the chocolate or her polite brush-off, I acted as though nothing were amiss.

In the days that followed, YD called J every few days. Whenever I picked up the phone, she wouldn’t even greet me, asking straight away to speak to J. And before hanging up, I would inevitably hear J say, "Same to you" or "Same here." Poor as my English was, I knew the weight those words carried.

Usually, I attended my Japanese language classes and never visited J’s office building. One day, on a whim, I went to his office around lunchtime. Shortly after I sat down, YD walked in. J suggested we all grab lunch together and asked YD to lead me ahead to a nearby food street (Tokai University Chikamichi Shopping Street). Worried I wouldn't know the way, he told her the restaurant's name and gave detailed directions on how to find it, explaining that he had to take a longer detour on his scooter because the street lay down a steep slope. On foot, you simply crossed the road outside campus and walked down a long flight of open-air stone steps. Yet YD led me there effortlessly, without a single wrong turn, walking straight into the restaurant. I ate that meal with the same quiet courtesy.

I am like a mirror: I only reflect when there is fire, and without light, I do not shine. Outwardly, I stayed silent, yet I remembered everything in my heart—looking back, perhaps my mind wasn't broad enough. I am a rational person who prefers facts and reason. I don't raise my voice or throw tantrums; if I’m wrong, I admit it and change, and if I’m right, I don’t press the advantage. Perhaps it was precisely this composed, dignified temperament that made him find me "boring," and ultimately led him to call me "primitive."

Before long, J’s contract at Tokai University was coming to an end, and we had to move out of our university-provided housing. While house-hunting, we had our second argument—this time, because I thought he lacked basic common sense.

During our search, he took a liking to a second-floor apartment facing west. I told him west-facing apartments were terrible: scorching with afternoon sun in the summer and battered by northwest winds in the winter. You needed a north-south facing home with south-facing doors or windows to stay warm in winter and cool in summer. He refused to believe me, leaving me baffled as to how someone could miss such simple common sense. Back home, I tied a nylon string to the tip of a chopstick and held it outside in the breeze to show him the wind direction. A brisk northwest wind was blowing right then, yet he still dismissed my logic. At the time, I hadn't realized how vastly different our upbringings were. The climate where he grew up in the United States differed from China's southeastern coast, and accustomed as he was to turning on air conditioning in the heat and the heating in the cold, he naturally couldn't grasp the Chinese obsession with north-south orientation.

Unfortunately, I suffered a miscarriage and was hospitalized right around then. J had to handle everything on his own—finding a new place, packing boxes, and moving—with some help from his colleague K, even scrubbing our old apartment spotless before turning in the keys. I couldn't lift a finger to help, going straight from the hospital to our new home.

As it turned out, the new house actually faced south: a vegetable patch stretched out in front, while trees surrounded the backyard and the eastern bedroom window. The living room had wooden floors, and the study and bedroom had tatami mats. Because we had just moved in, the house was still cluttered; it must have been unfurnished, as J had bought a few temporary folding tables and stools to get by. The next morning, I woke to the chirping of birds outside. Sliding open the paper-latticed window, beams of sunlight poured in, filling the room with fresh air. Yet when J went to open the front door, he found it locked from the inside. Turning back, he asked, "Did you lock the door?" "Yes," I replied. Growing up, locking the door before bed was second nature for peace of mind. To my surprise, he grew angry and snapped, "Japan is the safest country in the world—why on earth would you lock the door?" That marked our third unpleasant clash.

I remember another little story—the first birthday of J’s that I experienced after arriving in Japan. For dinner that evening, I simply prepared boiled noodles and a few dishes. Back in my family, living conditions had been poor in the past; only on my father’s birthday would my mother cook a pot of noodles with thick gravy (da lu mian) and a table of good dishes, while no one else’s birthday was ever celebrated. So I didn't think much of it. When J came home that day and saw the house clean and tidy just like any ordinary day, except for a single sprig of ivy sitting on the table, he became a bit displeased and blurted out, "What is that?" I froze on the spot too. It was only later that I learned Americans celebrate birthdays with great fanfare—with parties and gifts, cakes and candles, and perhaps even a surprise. That was yet another cultural shock. Later on, J would always take me out to eat on my birthday. At the time, that great beauty TT’s birthday was just one day apart from mine, so the four of us went out together on my birthday for Korean barbecue (wrapping the grilled meat in fresh lettuce leaves—it was delicious).

Stepping from Eastern frugality and reserve into Western openness and spontaneity naturally requires a long period of adjustment. When two people from vastly different cultural backgrounds come together, clashes in daily habits inevitably bring growing pains to a marriage. Back when we first dated in China, he had made a genuine effort to adapt to local customs. Our relationship began like brewing tea in cold water—a slow, quiet infusion that matched traditional Eastern aesthetics—and I had secretly felt fortunate that he possessed such an understated, steady temperament. Yet once we lived under the same roof, our differences surfaced unmistakably.

After spending just one night in the new house, we left for the United States. The tedious visa and immigration paperwork at every border crossing always tested one's patience. Even J, who famously had zero tolerance for government bureaucracy, had to sit patiently by the phone, listening to endless automated prompts from the Immigration and Naturalization Service and pressing countless keys before finally reaching a live agent. He inquired about the requirements for me to apply for U.S. citizenship. The answer was clear: starting from the date I received my green card, I needed to reside in the U.S. for at least 18 months within a three-year window; if that three-year continuity were broken, the clock would reset, requiring a five-year residency instead. Tallying up my previous trips, I had already accumulated 84 days, meaning I needed to stay in the U.S. for 464 more days before the end of July 1993.

Weighing our options, J returned to Japan alone to continue working, leaving me to live with his mother while waiting out the residency requirement. Before flying back, he thoughtfully enrolled me in a free evening English class twice a week at a local community college called FLCC (Finger Lakes Community College). Once back in Japan, he even recorded himself reading several cassette tapes of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights and mailed them to me for listening practice. Looking back, I wasn't diligent enough; lacking a sense of urgency, I let much of that precious time slip away.

Beyond daily habits, there was also a subtle divide in our political outlooks. J loved discussing current events, whereas I had only recently left China, and many of my perspectives struck him as one-sided or mistaken. To avoid friction, I steered clear of politics whenever possible. During that turbulent spring and summer when major upheaval swept through China, J actively donated money and joined marches in support. Because I had injured my leg and was walking on crutches, I didn't go to the demonstrations, which left him visibly displeased.

In truth, beyond my physical injury, though I felt the same grief and indignation, I harbored deep fears of my own. At the time, rumors circulated among overseas Chinese that informants were mingling in the protest crowds taking photographs. I was terrified that my actions abroad might bring harm to my family back home.

I knew firsthand what it felt like to be implicated by association. Years earlier, my outspoken mother had offended the female director of our neighborhood committee. During that tumultuous era, the director seized the chance to retaliate, subjecting my mother to public denunciation and detention. When someone is determined to condemn you, any excuse will do: one day they claimed our family background was bad; the next, they fabricated a story that my maternal uncle was a "foreign spy"—even though I didn't have an uncle at all. They also accused my aunt of marrying a landlord, though we had long lost contact with our relatives in Beijing and I have never met my uncle-in-law to this day. Even the children suffered; my eldest brother specifically warned us younger ones never to write "Manchu" in the ethnicity column on school forms—after all, our ancestors had served in the Qing court, and in an era obsessed with family class origin, admitting to Manchu heritage only invited endless interrogation and trouble.

In 1966, my fourth brother, a high school student of the "Old Three Grades," was an ambitious, exemplary youth with outstanding grades and character. That autumn, he was honorably selected by his school as a representative to travel to Beijing—had he gone, he would have stood in Tiananmen Square on September 15 among hundreds of thousands of people, seeing the Chairman in person, an immense honor at the time.

Yet disaster struck without warning. Wearing his armband, he ran home excitedly, only to find a crowd gathered outside our building before he could even share the good news. Puzzled, he went upstairs and pushed open the door to see us younger siblings standing silently with our heads bowed against the wall while a group of people ransacked our home. The sudden news of our mother's downfall hit him like a thunderbolt. His qualification to go to Beijing was immediately revoked, and he was ruthlessly expelled from the organization. Years later, my fourth brother recalled painfully, "It truly felt like stepping into a living hell."

The nightmare didn't end there. In the years that followed, he had two opportunities to enlist in the military and one to join the police force. Each time, he passed all physical exams and assessments with flying colors, only to be rejected at the final hurdle by political background checks. Repeated blows crushed the spirit of a once-vibrant, warm-hearted young man, leaving him silent, withdrawn, and overly cautious for the rest of his life.

In English, there is a word: traumatizing—referring to an experience that leaves a lasting, negative scar on a person's life. It was true for my fourth brother, and it left varying degrees of psychological trauma on all of us, instilling a deep-seated timidity. Raised in a peaceful, stable society and accustomed to speaking his mind freely, J could scarcely comprehend that kind of fear.

Ironically, it was CBS Evening News anchor Dan Rather, reporting live from the square at the time, whose off-the-cuff remark on camera moved me deeply and stays with me to this day. He said: "After we finish covering these historic events, we will all leave here. But this is their home; they, and their loved ones, will continue to live here. So there are certain questions I cannot ask—I do not want to cause them any trouble."

Perhaps it was precisely this compassion and clarity that allowed Dan Rather to bridge the divide between Eastern and Western cultures and grasp the true essence of human nature. Both were Americans, yet the news anchor understood the fragile reality of those who had to remain behind, while J only saw my hesitation to step forward.

Looking back now, the traditional Eastern virtues I possessed—gentleness, kindness, courtesy, restraint, and modesty—had once deeply attracted J. Yet because I failed to continually enrich and adapt them as my life environment changed, they soon became monotonous and dull in his eyes. That was true for me and for our marriage; and on a broader scale, as East and West engage in unprecedented political, economic, and cultural exchange, the growing pains faced by an opening society are only wider and sharper than those within a single home.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百四十八篇

《1989—1991日本紀事：派金宮的鋼珠、老虎機與『瓦盧一』的誘惑》

1989年11月參加了學校組織的見學（短期旅行觀光）活動回來後，找了工資高的在派金宮裡打工，每小時800日元。

但是得不償失，不僅要忍受賭場裡嗆人的煙味，嘈雜的視覺和聽覺環境，還受到了誘惑，下了班後也會去玩一會兒。坐在彈子機前不知不覺中時間就過去了。

先把500日元投入「投幣口」，下方的出珠口裡會滾出一些鋼珠。放進上盤裡，捻動開關把手，鋼珠就會沿著圓框內側左邊的弧線往上打。手勁兒用大了，這500日元的鋼珠，往上亂竄一會兒就打光了，沒打到點子上還都輸掉了。手上要悠著點，慢慢來，但是用力不足的話，鋼珠蹦得不高，也就會滑下去，浪費了。

在見學途中，聽第一次去派金宮一起玩兒的同學說，使的勁兒要恰到好處，將那鋼珠朝一個點打，下滑時遇到觸發口的機率就大，小的觸發口會滾出十顆左右的鋼珠。就接著玩兒，如果鋼珠滾進了下面中部的大觸發口的話，那就是贏了，開獎了。它會不斷地一開一合，吸進珠子吐出珠子，吸進的少吐出的多。

1989年的最後一晚我們說好是去參加J的一位私教學生家舉辦的派對的。結果我在派金宮裡忘了時間，回到家J已經去了。1990年的跨年時光是一個人度過的。

還有一次，是1991年12月7日回上海之前的頭兩天。我又去玩兒了，這次是玩老虎機，感覺玩老虎機比玩彈珠機自己更能控制。老虎機的玻璃窗裡有三個並列著滾動的輪子，上面有著不同的花樣和數字七。當輪子停下後，玻璃窗裡會有九個圖案，上中下各占一行，如果圖案花樣對齊了你就贏了，但是只有三個七對上了才是大額開獎。你摁按鈕時可以根據自己喜歡的圖案摁，比如數字七，以及小紅果櫻桃，還有BAR。一旦它們在頭一條出現的次數多了往往離開獎不遠了。當然了也不是你想讓這些「喜」性的圖案出來就出來的，有時候它們就是不出來，因為時間沒到。但是時間到了的時候，也就是走勢上升期，就比較容易摁出來。

每次投幣三枚鋼幣，當然了投放一枚或兩枚鋼幣也行，但機率小。投放一枚的屏幕中只有中間那一行圖案或字母對齊的才管用。如果三個七對齊了，但出現在上一行或下一行也沒用。好不容易三個七出現了，但失之交臂，會後悔。投放兩枚鋼幣的，數字或圖案對齊的有三橫道，都能贏。投入三枚鋼幣的，圖案與數字對角線對齊的也管用。但是如果自己覺得盈利週期沒到，就放一枚或兩枚鋼幣，跟機器耗時間也可以，一旦發覺有上升趨勢了，比如說，第一個輪子上的小紅果出現的次數多了，則馬上投放三枚鋼幣，錯過了週期就沒轍了。

那次我坐在一溜老虎機的第一台前，玩兒了很久，一次也沒開過獎。通過玻璃窗的縫隙往裡看，那滾輪下面一兩尺見方的空間裡堆滿了鋼幣。越是輸，越捨不得離開座位，擔心一旦離開了，別人上來一下子把我餵給老虎的「食物」都「吐」給他人了，這就虧大了。那天玩兒的人還真不少，往右邊看一溜人頭，但不知咋地，在我右側第四個位置上沒人久坐。一會兒來了一個，機子不久就開獎了，那人也沒接著玩，一般老玩家見機子開了都會盯著玩兒，不出幾把獎都不挪窩的。那天也就奇了怪了，只見那位置上來了一個，開獎了，走人了。又來了一個，開獎後又走了，眼見著第三個人，開獎又走了。我也輸得差不多了，想著去那個位置碰碰運氣吧，手裡就最後一把鋼幣了。當我剛剛坐下，不久就開獎了，接著玩，又開了，一連開了幾次。結果把我在第一台機器裡投放的鋼幣都吐給了我，還不止這些。好險！好險！差點兒就回不了上海了。

打這次之後我就決定不再去派金宮玩兒了。記得在派金宮裡打工的一位歐巴桑也跟我說過：「不要玩，不要玩，女人玩派金宮的都是『瓦盧一』人（悪い，不正經的壞女人）。」不僅會耽誤了自己，也會影響夫妻關係。

當時還聽說過一樁慘事——有位年輕媽媽把兩個孩子留在車裡，自己跑進去玩派金宮，等玩完出來，孩子在車裡已經斷氣了，興許是車廂裡空氣不流通，又興許是外頭太陽太毒、車裡悶得太熱。听完这样的新闻，心里更是发怵。这派金宫，我是彻底戒了。

**********************************

Chronicles of Japan (1989–1991): Pachinko Steel Balls, Slot Machines, and the Temptation of Being 'Warui'

After returning from a school-organized field trip (a short sightseeing tour) in November 1989, I found a high-paying part-time job at a pachinko parlor earning 800 yen per hour, though the loss ultimately outweighed the gain. Not only did I have to endure the choking cigarette smoke and the noisy visual and auditory environment of the gambling hall, but I also succumbed to temptation and would play for a while after getting off work. Sitting in front of the pinball machine, time slipped away without me noticing.

First, you insert 500 yen into the coin slot, and some steel balls roll out from the dispenser below. You place them into the upper tray, twist the control knob, and the steel balls shoot upward along the curved arc on the left inner side of the circular frame. If you use too much wrist strength, these 500 yen worth of steel balls will bounce wildly upward and run out in no time, losing everything without hitting the right spot. You have to take it easy with your hand and go slowly; however, if you don't use enough force, the balls won't bounce high enough and will simply slide down, wasted. During the field trip, a classmate who had gone to a pachinko parlor with me for the first time told me that the force applied must be just right, aiming the steel balls toward a single spot so they have a higher chance of hitting the trigger pockets as they slide down. A small trigger pocket will release about ten steel balls, allowing you to keep playing. If a steel ball rolls into the large trigger pocket in the lower center, you win—you hit the jackpot. It will continuously open and close, swallowing balls and spitting them out, taking in a few while pouring out many.

On the last night of 1989, we had agreed to attend a party hosted by one of J's private tutoring students. As it turned out, I lost track of time at the pachinko parlor, and by the time I got home, J had already left. I spent the New Year's Eve transition into 1990 all by myself.

There was another occasion, two days before I returned to Shanghai on December 7, 1991. I went to play again, and this time I played the slot machines, feeling that I had more control over a slot machine than a pachinko machine. Behind the glass window of the slot machine are three spinning reels side by side, featuring various patterns and the number seven. When the reels stop, nine symbols appear in the window, occupying the top, middle, and bottom rows. If the symbols align, you win, though only lining up three sevens yields a major jackpot. When pressing the stop buttons, you can aim for your favorite symbols, such as the number seven, the little red cherries, and the "bar." Once they start appearing frequently on the first line, a jackpot usually isn't far off. Of course, it's not as if these "auspicious" symbols will appear just because you want them to; sometimes they simply won't come out because the timing isn't right. Yet when the timing arrives—that is, during an upward trend—it becomes much easier to press and land them.

Each play takes three metal coins; of course, inserting one or two coins also works, though the odds are smaller. With one coin, only an alignment of symbols or letters across the middle horizontal row counts. Even if three sevens line up, if they appear on the top or bottom row, it doesn't count. Seeing three sevens finally appear only to miss out on them by a hair makes you regretful. With two coins, aligning numbers or symbols across any of the three horizontal rows wins. With three coins, diagonal alignments of symbols and numbers also count. However, if you feel the payout cycle hasn't arrived yet, you can insert one or two coins just to stall for time with the machine. The moment you sense an upward trend—for example, when little red cherries start appearing more frequently on the first reel—you immediately put in three coins; if you miss the cycle, there's nothing you can do.

That day, I sat in front of the very first machine in a long row of slot machines and played for a long time without hitting a single jackpot. Peeking through the gap in the glass window, I saw the space of one or two square feet beneath the reels piled high with metal coins. The more I lost, the more reluctant I was to leave my seat, worried that the moment I walked away, someone else would step up and have the machine "spit out" all the "food" I had fed the tiger—that would be a huge loss. There were quite a few people playing that day; looking to my right, there was a whole row of heads, yet for some reason, nobody stayed long at the fourth seat to my right. Before long, someone came over, and the machine soon hit a jackpot, yet that person didn't keep playing—normally, seasoned players will stick to a machine once it pays out and won't budge until they hit a few jackpots. That day was truly strange: someone sat in that spot, hit a jackpot, and left. Another person came along, hit a jackpot, and left again; right before my eyes, a third person sat down, hit a jackpot, and walked away. Having nearly lost everything myself, I figured I might as well try my luck at that seat, holding just my very last handful of coins. Almost as soon as I sat down, it hit a jackpot. I kept playing, and it hit again—paying out several times in a row. In the end, it spit back all the coins I had fed into that first machine, and then some. How close! How close! I nearly didn't have enough money to fly back to Shanghai.

After that incident, I decided never to play at a pachinko parlor again. I remembered an obasan (middle-aged woman) who worked at the parlor had also told me: "Don't play, don't play—women who play pachinko are all warui (bad) people." Not only does it hold you back in life, but it also harms marital harmony.

I heard around that time: a mother had left her two young children locked inside her car while she went in to play pachinko. By the time she came out, the children had already stopped breathing—perhaps from the lack of fresh air, or perhaps from the stifling heat inside the car.  Hearing news like that sent a chill down my spine. From then on, I gave up pachinko for good.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百四十七篇

《1991歲末紀事：萬聖節面具、紅娘姻緣與上海「圓台面」》

東海大學國際會館 Tokai University International House

轉眼間1991年的萬聖節來到了，學校的國際會館按慣例要舉行外籍教師與家屬的化妝舞會。那晚我還帶了幾個女生一起去的，我的這件無袖衣裙還是一個台灣女生主動借給我穿的，她還拿了一對長長的翡翠耳墜給我戴，說是跟這件裙子很好的搭配，眼罩倒是自己做的。J沒刻意打扮，只是戴了一個長鬍子的京劇大花臉面具，他當年在上海戲劇用品商店買了兩個面具，另外一個也是京劇臉譜，給了我的朋友戴。

這照片的最右邊的那個大紅臉面具就是。她，小Z，是我1985年7月參加學校工會組織的黃山旅遊時認識的。她當時在華師大留學生食堂裡工作，後來學校組織留學生舞會時她叫上了我。這才認識了J，有了這段姻緣。一路走來機緣巧合，一環套一環，缺一不可。

小Z在1990年也來了日本。在我92年離開日本後，她也認識了一位住在我曾經住過的同一棟樓裡的東海大學加拿大籍的外教，之後便嫁給了他，相夫教子去了加拿大。她是通过我另一位朋友認識她丈夫的。那另外的朋友是我1987年在上海長風公園早鍛鍊打太極拳時候認識的小L，小L努力上進、好學好強，每天獨自來公園打一套太極劍，那套拳打得真是十分的漂亮。後來我把她介紹給了我在日本的鄰居W，W曾是西點軍校畢業的，也去過中國教書，後來也在東海大學任教。小L到日本時我已經離開了，我將人生地不熟的她介紹給了小Z，然後小Z才認識了她的丈夫。這一圈兒是不是把您給繞暈了？如果您有興趣，點擊這裡可以看到我與J認識過程中的神奇「推力」與「巧合」。《青春斷代史，1986：膳食科的暗道、哈桑的大格子手帕與專家樓403室的序幕》

回頭再說1991年那晚的鬼節舞會，到了會館的大廳裡，那真是五花八門，這大個子把自己打扮成富士山，他女友F扮成騎著馬在沙漠中行走的阿拉伯人，F也是中國族裔但是在加拿大出生長大的不會說中文，她也在東海大學教英語。那馬是她自己用紙板箱做的。

還有男扮女裝的、扮大相撲的、扮開刀醫生的、扮自由女神的、扮一隻大公雞的、扮日本武士的，還有幾個小孩兒扮成了小鬼。這對母女好像是俄羅斯人，小姑娘頭戴花環扮成個公主，跟她漂亮的臉蛋兒很相襯。歡聲笑語中度過了我的第二個萬聖節化妝舞會。跟第一次萬聖節舞會相比那種新鮮感找不到了，畢竟缺乏文化背景，沒有參與感。

1991年12月7日回上海探望母親和家人。這才一年多沒見面，我的倆侄兒跟我就顯得生疏了許多，倆小侄女兒還算比較貼心的。我給小女孩買了一些首飾，給小男孩兒一人一個小遊戲機，那時從國外可以免稅帶幾件家用電器進去。彩電、冰箱、洗衣機等稱為四大件，隨身聽、電子琴、微型計算器、和手錶稱四小件。我大哥的大女兒就托我給她帶了一個錄像電視一體機。

回上海也沒什麼事兒，除了輪流去幾個哥哥家吃飯，就是去華師大校園轉轉。畢竟在那兒呆了十年呢，舊地重遊和老朋友聊聊天兒還是蠻開心的。發覺我比較懷舊，看到校園裡多了一些拔地而起的新樓，覺得太突兀了，破壞了校園過去和諧、舒展的美。有時候想想我都快成「九斤老太」了，什麼都是過去的好。

我還特意路過曹楊二中看看，從這個角度看母校的大門和教學樓的外貌基本沒變。遺憾的是沒進去，估計門房也不會讓陌生人進去的。

老Y1991年12月於華師大

我還請老Y和她兒子去上海一家高級賓館吃了生魚片，幾年後她才告訴我，那次生魚片吃得她娘兒倆鬧肚子。還是腸胃不習慣，我吃了就沒事兒，當年70年代我在杭州灣五四農場漁業隊工作時，就站在河邊兒吃過直接從河裡撈上來的活蝦生吃。出國前我，老C和老Y關係比較鐵，那時候我們還算年輕，卻特別喜歡「裝老」，於是乎便相互稱老。記得當年我說我們現在是「老皮咔哧眼兒啦」，其實那時我們都三十不到呢。老C聽了哈哈大笑，說：「老皮咔嚓！」她學不了老北京的土話。後來老C去了德國，我也去了日本，輾轉來了美國，只有老Y還留在師大。

這張照片是那次（1991年12月）回上海時在師大新圖書館前拍的，我明顯胖了許多。那時沒有健身減肥意識，記得有一天在日本的一家大商場裡，突然感覺我的大腿根被內褲褲腿口勒的不舒服，不得不到商場的盥洗室裡將兩個褲腿口給各扯開一個口子。後來才知道是發胖了，是出國後吃的營養比過去豐盛太多造成的。

記得，那位曾在留學生食堂工作的小Z和另外一個上海過來的老朋友在1991年4月27日第一次來我日本的家做客，見面時就開玩笑地說：「啊呀呀～看看叫，儂搿啥都要快變成圓台面了。」不至於吧？！好朋友之間好開玩笑，怎麼誇張怎麼說。上海人關係比較鐵的朋友之間開玩笑喜歡把肥胖的臀部說成「圓台面」。這是我們那天吃飯的餐桌，在座的還有一位小男孩，是J在法國時認識的一位朋友的孩子正好來日本玩兒幾天。

以前每次跟J去吃意大利餐時我總喜歡點 Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo (蝦仁奶油寬麵)，那濃郁滑順可口的奶酪奶油拌寬意大利麵條，味道好極了。後來聽J說那道菜好吃但很肥，吃了容易發胖，之後我就不敢再吃了。

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Chronicles of Late 1991: Halloween Masks, Matchmaking Fates, and a Shanghai 'Round Tabletop'

In the blink of an eye, Halloween 1991 arrived. As was the custom, the university’s International House hosted a costume party for foreign faculty and their families. I went that evening accompanied by a few female friends. A girl from Taiwan kindly lent me the sleeveless dress I wore, and she also gave me a pair of long jade earrings to wear, noting they would go well with the outfit. I made the eye mask myself. J didn’t go for an elaborate costume; he simply wore a Peking Opera painted-face mask with a long beard. He had bought two such masks at a theatrical supply shop in Shanghai years earlier, and my friend wore the other one—also a Peking Opera mask. That is the big red-faced mask on the far right in this photo. That friend was Xiao Z, whom I had met in July 1985 during a trip to Mount Huangshan organized by our school's labor union. Back then, she worked in the international student cafeteria at East China Normal University. Later, when the school organized a dance for international students, she invited me along—and that was how I met J, leading to our marriage. Looking back, it was a chain of remarkable coincidences, one link interlocking with another, not a single one dispensable.

Xiao Z also arrived in Japan in 1990. After I left in 1992, she met a Canadian instructor from Tokai University who happened to live in my old apartment building. They eventually married and moved to Canada to start a family. She met her husband through another friend of mine, Xiao L, whom I first met in 1987 during morning Tai Chi sessions at Changfeng Park in Shanghai. Xiao L was ambitious, eager to learn, and driven; she came to the park every day to practice a Tai Chi sword routine that was truly graceful. Later, I introduced Xiao L to my neighbor in Japan, W, a West Point graduate who had previously taught in China before joining Tokai University. By the time Xiao L arrived in Japan, I had already left, so I introduced her—a newcomer in a strange land—to Xiao Z. It was through this chain of introductions that Xiao Z eventually met her husband. Does this web of connections make your head spin? If you are curious, click here to read about the remarkable "nudges" and "coincidences" that brought J and me together.

Returning to that Halloween party in 1991: the scene inside the hall was a wild, eclectic mix. One tall guy had dressed himself up as Mount Fuji, while his girlfriend, F—who was of Chinese descent, born and raised in Canada, and didn’t speak any Chinese—came as an Arab riding a horse across the desert. She also taught English at Tokai University, and she had even fashioned the horse herself out of cardboard boxes. There were men in drag, people dressed as sumo wrestlers, surgeons, the Statue of Liberty, a giant rooster, and a Japanese samurai; a few children were even dressed as little ghosts. A mother and daughter, who appeared to be Russian, were also there. The little girl wore a floral wreath and looked just like a princess, a perfect match for her lovely face. Amidst the laughter and cheer, I spent my second Halloween costume party. Compared to the first one, however, the sense of novelty was gone—after all, I lacked the cultural background to truly feel a part of it.

On December 7, 1991, I returned to Shanghai to visit my mother and family. Although it had only been a little over a year since we last saw each other, my two nephews seemed noticeably more distant, while my two nieces were still quite affectionate. I bought some jewelry for the girls and a handheld game console for each of the boys. Back then, travelers were allowed to bring a few household appliances into the country duty-free. Color televisions, refrigerators, and washing machines were known as the "four major appliances," while portable cassette players, electronic keyboards, pocket calculators, and wristwatches were called the "four minor appliances." My eldest brother’s daughter asked me to bring her a TV-VCR combo unit.

There wasn’t much to do back in Shanghai; aside from taking turns having meals at my brothers’ homes, I spent my time wandering around the campus of East China Normal University. After all, I had spent ten years there, so it was truly a joy to revisit old haunts and chat with old friends. I realized I had become quite nostalgic—seeing new, towering buildings spring up felt jarring, disrupting the harmonious, open beauty the campus once possessed. Sometimes I think I’m turning into a bit of a "Madame Nine-Pounder" (a classic literary character known for always complaining that things were better in the past). I also made a point to pass by Caoyang No. 2 High School, my alma mater. From that vantage point, the school gate and the exterior of the academic buildings looked essentially unchanged. It’s a pity I couldn’t go inside, though in all likelihood, the gatekeeper wouldn’t have let a stranger in anyway.

I once treated Lao Y and her son to sashimi at a high-end hotel in Shanghai. Years later, she confessed that the meal had given them both an upset stomach—their digestive systems simply weren’t used to it. I, on the other hand, was completely fine. Back in the 1970s, when I worked on the fishing crew at Wusi Farm along Hangzhou Bay, I used to stand right by the water and eat live shrimp raw, straight out of the river. Before moving abroad, Lao C, Lao Y, and I were very close. We were still quite young then, yet we had a peculiar fondness for "acting old," so we took to calling each other "Lao" (Old). I remember joking once that we were all getting "old and crusty-eyed" (lao pi ka chi yan'er in Beijing slang)—even though we weren't even thirty yet! Lao C burst out laughing and tried to mimic me, mispronouncing it as "lao pi ka cha!" ("old and crackling!"), as she couldn't quite master the authentic Beijing accent. Later on, Lao C moved to Germany, and I went to Japan before eventually making my way to the United States; only Lao Y remained at East China Normal University.

This photograph was taken in front of the new library at East China Normal University during my trip back to Shanghai in December 1991. As you can see, I was noticeably heavier. Back then, I had no concept of working out or dieting. I recall one day, while browsing a large department store in Japan, suddenly feeling terribly uncomfortable because the leg openings of my underwear were cutting into my upper thighs. I had no choice but to duck into the restroom and tear a small slit into each leg opening. It wasn't until later that I realized I had actually gained weight—the inevitable result of a much richer, more nutritious diet after moving abroad.

I remember that on April 27, 1991, Little Z—who used to work in the cafeteria for international students—came to visit my home in Japan, accompanied by another old friend from Shanghai. The moment they saw me, she joked, "My goodness! Look at you—you’re practically turning into a 'round tabletop'!" Surely it wasn't that bad, was it?! Close friends love to tease each other, and the more exaggerated the remark, the better. Among particularly close Shanghainese friends, it’s common to jokingly refer to a plump backside as a "round tabletop." That was the very dining table we gathered around for our meal that day; also joining us was a young boy, the son of a friend J had met back in France, who happened to be visiting Japan for a few days.

In the past, whenever I went out for Italian food with J, I always loved ordering Shrimp Fettuccine Alfredo. Those wide pasta noodles tossed in a rich, smooth, delicious cheese and cream sauce tasted heavenly. Later on, when J told me that the dish was delicious but terribly fattening, I never dared to eat it again.

特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。

Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.

第四百四十六篇