Beijing Puddle

In May of 1998, somewhere in the darkened alley ways of China’s premier city, a small motley group of foreigners and locals made their way toward Mabel’s apartment.

She was a feisty octogenarian, barely 90 pounds and full of fire as she told us stories to be passed on for generations to come. Over dinner, she described the execution of her grandfather during the Boxer Rebellion, religious persecution, humiliation during the Cultural Revolution, and her earnest desire to return to Tibet.

And though we yearned to eat more of the candied-walnut shrimp, fried eggplant, and steaming jiaozi, our chopsticks fell silent when she sang for us with a beautiful voice and a beaming smile. Who was this woman, so close to death yet more alive than anyone I’d ever met?

As we walked Mabel home after dinner past heaps of street rubbish, several wafts of sewage and rancid matter caused us to forget briefly our magical dinner. Small animals scurried in the dark corners, and a light acid drizzle damped the uneven cobblestone. We seemed to walk on a slick black fluid; and yet our tiny matriarch marched on, navigating potholes while skillfully narrating proverbial anecdotes.

Her gate was slow but steady, often showing a delightful contempt for her hostile environment – knowing full well she could break an ankle with the very next step, yet stubbornly refusing to take my arm. She wouldn’t let anyone help her. So feisty, so stubborn, strong and beautiful.

And suddenly, there it was – black and foreboding, an imposing obstacle spanning from brick wall to brick wall, of unknown depth and content, harboring unseen chemicals, creatures and peril. This Beijing puddle stopped Mabel in her tracks, presenting itself as a poisonous tar pit ready to swallow her alive dare she take another step. And so we stopped as well, only a few brazen venturers crossing the murky shallows of the puddle; a feat simple for legs in their early twenties, but what of those four times their age?

I’m not sure whether for a sudden sentiment of chivalry, a youthful impropriety, the frustration over coming this far, or just a sincere desire to hold this ancient beauty in my arms – but in one gallant motion, I swept the fair lady up into my clutches and ferried her over the waters.

Mabel laughed and protested, throwing a half-hearted fit, and time seemed to slow. How long was this brief moment together? Perhaps 10 seconds, 15 at most. And yet it is with me today. I can still remember her holding me, smiling at my attempt to be a good Boy Scout, an honorable young man, braving a puddle to save this damsel in distress. My small passenger had forded treacherous waters for over 84 years of life, braving untold dangers with courageous fortitude. Perhaps I could help with this one little puddle, even if the motive was a bit selfish on my part.

When I lowered my captive back to earth, she returned my favor with a small swat on the arm, a furtive smile, and a gesture for the rest of the group to continue our post-dinner walk through the narrows of Beijing. It was a good evening in China.