Summer
Beijing in the summers is a different beast. The hutong bars spill out into the alleys as people meet for al fresco day drinking –the beers always a tiny bit warmer than ideal because, China. They’re hole-in-the-wall establishments, all of them, with a fridge packed with beers, a couple of couches and scattered seating, generally good music and always kooky decor. Parks get taken over by groups of expats and locals –the latter eminently better prepared with their inflatable couches, folding tables, picnic-hampers and hand-fans of course. Relaxing is serious business.
Chaoyang Park, Yuyuantan Park, Beihai Park that overlooks the water — they’re all dotted with groups of people nibbling on chuanr skewers, chugging Yanjing or Tsingtao in the shade, maybe indulging in a token bit of grumbling about how much hotter Beijing is this year, compared to the last. They said the same last year. The newer expats — your very own Mumbai transplant included— do some whining too, only to be reminded that there’s still the whole of June, and then July and August to soldier through.
My colleagues remind me of this too, in between occasional passive-aggressive wars over the air-conditioning. Several Chinese people believe the AC is bad for your health, and will open the windows to let the breeze in instead. Except, there is no breeze and you sit there, feeling rather like an expertly steamed jiaozi until a respectable enough length of time has passed and you stride over to put the AC back in, maybe for an hour before someone else sneakily attempts turning it off again. Currently as I type this, I and the one-other colleague still left at work (it’s Children’s Day so several have taken the day off or left early) have compromised and left one of the two ACs on. It’s not quite enough for me and probably still too cold for her but we’ve managed to meet halfway so for now, the AC-dance has paused. It rained a few days ago, and that had been most lovely, and I was so happy and so excited to be reminded of Mumbai monsoons — I may or may not have played Rim Jhim Gire Saawan on loop. But just like that, we were back to the blistering sun again, alas.
Tài rè le! It’s way too hot, my dudes.
Literally every single one of the heavy coats and knits and scarves that had seemed essential to survival a couple of months ago have been packed away. I’m pretty pleased though with my current summery Old Navy and Taobao and Baopals haul, and I’m going to live out this entire season in sneakers, because cannot be arsed to coordinate shoes with outfit like back home. Kinda do miss looking incredibly put together as winter clothing has a way of doing. Those of colder countries, check yer fashion privilege.
Everyone’s kitted out in t-shirts and shorts and flouncy dresses. A friend told me this very specific thing about what’s “decent” and not as regards Chinese women’s clothing. “So, cleavage is considered slutty. Legs, not at all,” he had explained, as we waddled down Baochao hutong after a massive meal at Mr Shi’s Dumplings. “So you could be wearing the shortest shorts that literally display your ass cheeks, and it’d be okay but any sign of cleavage is out.” It made sense because while I’ve seen miles and miles of legs here, across ages, women wearing low-cut tops is way rarer. I’m wearing a pair of short shorts and a tight tank top that I’d only wear maybe in Bandra when back home, and I can walk down this street and people stare but they stare because I look foreign, not because of what I’m wearing. There’s no leching, no fixed, creepy gazing at my chest or legs, and I don’t feel like I’m being methodically, unwillingly, helplessly undressed. It’s almost unsettling, this feeling, and deliciously liberating.
Everybody, very justifiably, wants to be wearing as few clothes as possible really. As the day gets even hotter and sweatier, the local men’s t-shirts or vests get rolled up over their bellies, which is something the expats here call the “Beijing Bikini”. I once came across a metal status of a Chinese gent sitting down for a meal and the artist, in an excellent display of attention to detail, had him wear the very eponymous Bikini.
This is clearly not my ideal weather, of course. It was perfect a few weeks ago, I snarl to myself, when it was slightly chilly and breezy and there was sunshine but not this annoying, humid, excessive kind, ugh, that makes my hair cling to the back of my neck and my nose and chin turn all shiny within minutes of putting my damn make-up on. At least it’s not as humid as Hong Kong, I suppose where my hair went on a disastrous adventure of its own and I could not wait for Beijing’s super-dry, winter air to make it all glossy and falling just so again. November-January were brutal as fuck, yep, but bygod did I have excellent hair days. They almost made up for living in permanent terror of every single, static-y tap in the house, yes they did.
Almost.
