For almost each of the twenty-plus years I worked at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse, Manyu and I hosted an incoming international college student. Hosting, in this case, did not mean that students lived with us, but rather that we introduced them to La Crosse and, once they’d acclimated themselves to life in the American Midwest, took them to special events on occasion (e.g., a concert, Thanksgiving dinner). The volunteer group that matches students with their host families always assigned us Mandarin-speaking students, and what the majority of them wanted more than anything was to have Manyu cook them an authentic Chinese meal once or twice a semester. Sometimes they brought so many fellow Chinese/Taiwanese students with them to dinner that I’d forget which one had been assigned to us.
I have lost track of most of these students, but a few have become lifelong friends. One of those friends is Sammi. Sammi received her masters degree from UWL several years ago, found work in the States upon graduation, and never moved back to Taiwan. Last week her mom, brother, and sister-in-law crossed the Pacific Ocean for the first time, and they all stayed with Manyu and me for a couple of days.
Guests from Asia always make the same observation when they wake up after their first night in our house. Sammi’s mom was no exception. She took a short morning walk and returned to tell us that she could not believe how quiet our street was. Manyu and I live on the end of a cul-de-sac, and except for repairmen and delivery guys, there might be no traffic at all. Of all the neighbors living on our circle, all but two are retired, so we don’t even have a morning rush hour.
The reaction of our Asian guests is a reminder to not take the absence of constant traffic for granted. This morning I am sitting outside on my front porch, and I haven’t seen a vehicle for twenty minutes. One neighbor is using a table saw in his garage, but otherwise the only sounds are birds in the trees and traffic noise from two blocks away.
The first Asian visitors to our house nearly thirty years ago were Manyu’s parents. We picked them up at the airport after a long flight from Taipei, and they went to bed soon after they arrived. The next morning I went to work and Manyu went grocery shopping, so no one was home when they first woke up. By the time Manyu returned from the store less than an hour later, they were panicked. In the entire time she’d been away, not a single car or dog walker or kid on a bicycle had passed by. Manyu’s parents thought that there was a tornado or an enemy attack. For them, disaster seemed more plausible than solitude.
There is about a 50/50 chance that Manyu and I have one more move left in us. It might be to Asia, it might be to live closer to wherever Clare settles down. The fifty percent that holds us to La Crosse is the peace and quiet.
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