Life In The Slow Lane

By Harper Ross ‘22, Taigu Fellow 2022-2024

“Walk slow.”

It’s a common way to say goodbye in China.

I have just thanked the chef, who was also my server, for the wonderful rice wrap I’ve just enjoyed, and I am on my way out the door to continue with the rest of my day when she calls after me, “Walk slow.”

I pause, still needing a second to translate in my head, especially after the long week it’s been. The meaning clicks, and despite the headache behind my eyes and the dread in my stomach about my upcoming Taigu dentist appointment, I offer her a genuine smile from behind my mask.

As I make my way back to my house, I think about that farewell: “Walk slow.”

Anyone who has traveled from Point A to Point B with me knows that this is a hard notion for me to embrace. I walk like a New Yorker, despite my wholeheartedly Midwestern roots. Don’t get me wrong, I have love in my heart for a good stroll, too. I enjoy meandering through the park to take pictures or eschewing movement altogether to curl up in a sunspot on the couch and read a story I’d bookmarked months ago.

But when I’ve got a purpose? A place to be? Route mapped, head down, legs pumping, arrival imminent.

It’s even worse in China.

How can I walk slow when I missed my first year of in-country experiences working remotely? How can I walk slow when I’ve only got a handful of months left in Taigu? How can I walk slow when I want to get to the top of Phoenix Mountain in time for the sunset? How can I walk slow when I have to get lunch with Yahui and catch the first serve of the volleyball game?

But I think about what walking fast really entails, what it really brings me. Sure, I get where I need to go on time, but I might show up out of breath, maybe even breaking a little sweat. Not great. Sure, I’ve made it to my desired location, but I’ve got an irritated little spot on my foot from where my gait slipped out of alignment in exchange for speed. Not optimal. I think about how likely I am to trip or to accidentally ignore a friend or to miss the beautiful scenery, and suddenly, my way of walking is looking far less worth it.

In Taigu, there is a literal nap time, like “siesta” in Spain. Businesses close, taxi drivers pull their hats over their eyes, and local attractions become inaccessible. When we Fellows suggested scheduling an English Language Table at lunch, akin to what we’d known at Oberlin, we were advised against doing so: students needed their naps. We all laughed a little and looked around at each other incredulously. “Not in the US,” we confirmed. And prior to coming here, I would have thought, “Not in China.”

But at least in Taigu. In this town, we nap. In a place where my friend’s son studies until midnight every night, a place where test scores can prohibit you from even applying to college, a place where running short on time is the lament of every student, still, the reminder issued so often is, “Walk slow.” A reminder that the rush to get somewhere doesn’t always get us there. A reminder that the process, the method, and the journey really do matter as much as the destination.

I am trying to live like that, savoring meals that let me respond to the customary greeting of, “Have you eaten yet?” with a satisfied tongue and a full-bellied, “Yes.”

I am trying to live like that, a daily break equal parts earned and expected.

I am trying to live like that, letting my feet take their time and sink deep enough into the earth to leave marks and be marked.

And honestly? Walking slow?

It’s been advice worth taking.

I might not see it all. I might not get to everything. But everything I see, everything I get to, will be delighted in.

And after all the hardships, all the delays, all the waiting and work it took to get here, why wouldn’t I want to delight in every last second?