I traveled to the United States to see family. The country was waging two wars, yet life proceeded as normal, except for the voice on the airport intercom announcing, "Threat Level Orange." Advertisements said Americans were plagued by an affliction called restless legs syndrome. My friends were settling down with kids and dogs, though they seemed to have reversed the monikers - a retriever called Jeff, a son named Ranger. Chai was a beverage, not an order to destroy. The air was clean, and my lungs expelled sticky souvenirs of Beijing's pollution. The book I carried from the courtyard released a musty smell when opened, transporting me back.

 

At a construction site I read the posted notices ordering the builder to prepare a Historic Resource Protection Plan and halt work should "human skeletal remains be encountered." The builder had to submit test results for on-site groundwater and hazardous materials, as well as a safety plan. There were noise restraints (no pile drivers, no rigs), and rules governing traffic rerouting. If the public had questions or objections to the project, it could attend a hearing scheduled at city hall. I wished America could export that transparency to China, along with open-stack libraries.

 

Life in the United States felt convenient, if lonely. Telephone and electric bills could be paid over the Internet, not by waiting in line at the bank. The mail was delivered at four, and the recycling picked up from the curb on Mondays. I didn't know by whom. Neighbors said "Hello." On a university campus, I often passed a couple that stood holding a sign protesting nuclear weapons. I never saw anyone approach them. Ameican granted the freedom to be ignored.