An open letter to expatriates in Xiamen

Hi. Most of you know who I am, I’m the one people call a social butterfly and I run that website about Xiamen.

I’d like you to know something about me. I’m not a social butterfly. If I was to be a metaphor, wallflower would be more appropriate. I’m not quite painfully shy, but I’m much happier sitting in a corner and watching people interact rather than being well into a party.

Here’s something else. I did not have a good time being unemployed for over a year. Yes, Neil is in a good job and makes decent money, but when I was looking for a job, I wanted a real job that required actual work and use of my brain, something I enjoyed, maybe even a career-builder. Just because we live together doesn’t mean I don’t have to work — I need to earn and save money, too. I was depressed a lot and felt worthless.

(I do run that website about Xiamen, though, and I do it all by myself.)

I came to Xiamen about 18 months ago, and it’s as new to me as many of you. To answer the usual questions:

• Yes, I speak Chinese, I studied it in school. I’m not fluent, though.
• Yes, most of my family is from these parts. My mother’s side is from Fuzhou, but they moved to Sarawak. No, I don’t know when. My father’s family is from around Xiamen and Chaozhou (in Guangdong province), and they were the first generation to move to Singapore.
• Yes, I can understand some Minnanhua. I call it Hokkien. A lot of people in Singapore can speak Hokkien.
• Yes, I still have family here. I don’t know where or who they are, as my grandfather took that knowledge to his urn.

Why am I telling you this after 18 months, long after most of these questions have been asked and answered? Because I don’t think many of you will remember.

I don’t blame you, there are new people coming to Xiamen all the time. It must be quite confusing, to meet new people and to try and keep people’s names, faces, and occupations straight. I know I have a hard time now and again.

There is more to me than what you know. And I know there is more to you than what I know. I see you at the pubs and (what my sister calls) restobars, mostly every week, and we say, “Hi, how’s it going?” We chat and we move on. Some of you I like very much and I think we could really be friends. I wish I could discover more about your likes and dislikes, and actually buy you stuff you’d appreciate for your birthday (that’s another thing: when’s your birthday?) and Christmas.

I feel that I know a lot of you, but I don’t know many of you, if you know what I’m saying.

Not everyone likes to go out in a big group — I like the times when we can all actually talk to one another and no one has to fight for food (most will know about my preoccupation with food). I had Sunday brunch with some acquaintances the other day, and it was great. I learned more about K and J’s jobs, how they felt about their work, things that have happened to them (K lost his mobile phone again and got knocked off his feet by a bicycle). J’s girlfriend C has got a six-month tourist visa for her three-week trip to the UK, what a great consulate! We left with a, “Bye, see you around,” and I don’t have K’s phone number to call and say Let’s hang out.

And it’s not that I would call K to say Let’s hang out, I don’t think we have enough in common (he’s a middle-aged teacher with grown children, I’m a twenty-something geek with no children). But I don’t even have the chance to find out if we have nothing in common.

You know that episode of Seinfeld where Jerry says it’s hard to make new friends, to allow them into your space or group once you’ve got past a certain age? That whole friend quota thing. Maybe that’s what’s going on. Maybe we’ve all reached our friend quotas and there’s no room for any more.

It’s partly my fault, that whole wallflower thing again. I don’t think people know or like me enough to want to hang out if I call, so I don’t call. I feel like I’m intruding if I try to make plans, I don’t know enough about your lives to know if it’s okay to want to meet for a coffee. A vicious cycle is doomed to repeat itself.

I guess I’ll see you next time at the restobar, eh?

Sincerely yours,
Andrea