BEIJING -- I met Beibei on the side of a small stream flanked by blossoming willow trees, cherry blossoms, and a warm spring wind. It was the perfect setting for a Chinese romance, one of classical novels that starts with a clandestine relationship that turns into a torrid love affair and then ends tragically. But it wasn't meant to be. Beibei, you see, is a baby.
Beibei's not talking yet, but she displayed her disinterest in other ways. Her caretaker, a young woman with a broad smile, tried to make her wave at me, propping up her tiny let arm. She refused to go along.
"Say hello, Beibei! Say hello!" the woman said. But Beibei looked tried. At three months old, she's not quite ready for idle conversation. Thankfully her roommates were more than willing to talk as I waited for a friend at the stream's edge. I was only about 400 meters from the Tsinghua gates -- from the stream's edge I could see my dorm -- but this isn't part of the campus world. This place, which the woman told me was Tsinghua No. 8 Hutong, stands apart.
Three hundred people live in this 胡同 (hutong), a traditional Beijing courtyard dwelling, that have been mostly demolished in the center of Beijing. There's no indoor plumbing, just makeshift electric wires thrown up haphazardly in different places. I think most people here are migrant workers: a sign in front advertising rooms for $120 a month said men and women were welcome, and no "户口" was necessary. The 户口 (hukou) is a home registration permit, which states whether someone is allowed to live in the city or the countryside. Without a city hukou, housing options are limited to gray-market dwellings on the city's fringes, like Tsinghua Hutong No. 8.
Beibei bore marks of this world. She wore a faded pair of heavily-pilled purple pants, and a shirt that looked quite used. They looked pretty poor, but they didn't wallow into despair to their guest. A few minutes into our conversation, Beibei's mother showed up, along with her big brother and girl of around the same age. They had just returned from elementary school, where the 9-year-old brother attends.
"Speak some English to this man," her mother said.
The brother, a tiny guy with glasses, turned red and refused to talk in any language. A bit of stage frightm I suppose. He wore smarter clothing, a crisp shirt that had obviously been neatly pressed before the school day. In 15 years, he might leave Tsinghua No. 8 Hutong behind for the nearby university.
"He's very smart," his mother said, as her son tried to hide behind her back rather than talk to the foriegner.
I could have gone on talking all day, but Beibei looked tired. She needed a nap, and I could just make out the distant figure of my friend on the side of the stream. I waved Beibei goodbye, and this time she waved back, as her mother said we could come back anytime.
