Fifth time this week, I remarked, stepping into the now-familiar, shadowed 4×4 block of slate grey—one of four noise-canceling cubicles on the fourth floor of Tsinghua University’s Economics and Management building.
This was just another day, another monotonous step in the predictable loop of my summer. My 6 a.m. alarm. A few gulps of water—futile attempts to alleviate a throat raw from pollutants (remnants of the bike ride home the night before). A glance at the Moji Weather app: unbearably hot, of course. Note to self: buy new sunscreen. Helmet, university-branded obviously impractical tote, backpack, then out the door and onto an Alipay bike for the 20-minute ride through Wudaokou to campus. Four hours of classes, lunch, then to the E&M building. Between learning the subtleties of 特点 versus 特色 (hint: it depends on whether the reference object is human) and ‘memorizing’ revenue and cost drivers of upstream oil and gas E&P, little else occupied my attention. Hours later, dinner with my mates. Then, some groceries, a ride home, a shower, and at last, hitting the sack.
Many little, transient memories emerge as distinct, colorful petals from the branches that limned my summer. Each one displays its iridescent patterns as if to say, “I deserve your attention.” The dainty bike lane diverging from the chaos of Wudaokou’s main intersection, where schoolchildren, grasping tightly onto the hips of their mothers, would patiently wait for their e-motorcycles to rev again. The light chirping notification from Alipay thanking me for my 200th-something bike trip (only 16:38 today, I really did get lucky with the green lights). And, of course, the plethora of unhinged, meandering dialogues with my classmates over plates of roast duck and Chinese broccoli, our English dialogue clashing against the cacophony of Mandarin filling the Taoliyuan dining hall. Heck, my brain is even romanticizing ‘Presentation Day,’ with half of us decked out in our best attempts at buttoned-up yet breathable ensembles, as we stammered and sputtered through paragraphs of supposedly memorized text on Greek culture, Glen Powell, or, in my case, the business practices of Starbucks’ more successful Chinese counterpart, Luckin’ Coffee—our nervous inexperience was concealed behind the maple brown speaker stand that anchored the classroom-cum-lecture hall we found ourselves in.
Then come the big guns, the metaphorical prize blooms: that impromptu weekend trip to Xi’an, kneeling on the mildewed grass to enjoy the light show spectacle we had stumbled across. Or, that rallying of the troops to hit that fancy-schmancy karaoke bar, where I tried, with limited success, to recreate the belts of Queen Adele. Each iPhone picture, each WeChat message, each Beli rating sharpens the outlines of what I now see, but for so long struggled to see, was a gorgeous, imperfect rose.
When I reflect on this, and compare the dichotomy of routine and spontaneity—both in this case and in similar experiences at Yale—it’s natural for me to think, maybe I’ve learned to be more appreciative of the small, seemingly simple little things. Maybe I’ve learned to see these little petals as valuable moments between the “thorns” of repetitive routine.
But I’m not so certain that’s the full story. While those petals have their place, there’s a reason the strait-laced, unappealing thorns exist. (Pardon me for stretching the metaphor; I felt it both enjoyable and important to do so.) The seemingly tedious routines don’t just make the fleeting moments special—they are beautiful and necessary in their own right. Without the predictability of those 6 a.m. mornings, I wouldn’t have had the discipline to juggle school, work, job prep, and fully experience Tsinghua and Beijing. Were it not for the hours spent on one-on-one speaking sessions and dictation homework, I wouldn’t have had the stability or assurance to view those few months as a constructive part of my personal and academic growth.
Maybe they are thorns. It would be disingenuous of me to attempt to argue otherwise (only a pseudo-psycho would case prep solely for kicks). But when I reminisce fondly on all the vivid, colorful, and diverse memories of my summer—and of my time at Yale—there’s simultaneously something magical about its inconspicuous, periodic counterpart.
