#16: On Coming Home - by Kai-Lin Wei and Ebie Bao

I spent a few summers in Beijing as a kid, doing the same stuff every day. I walked my neighbor’s dog every morning, then accompanied my grandmother to the market to help her pick out fresh ingredients for that day’s supper. There, whole ducks roasted red hung from butcher hooks and your eyes were sure to water walking past the spice stations, where you could buy peppercorn and star anises by the handful. I spent my afternoons skateboarding in the park with Liang-Liang, the grandson of a local artist who took English classes with my great-aunt. When it got too hot, we’d duck into one of the dozen hole-in-the-wall convenience stores and press our cheeks against the cold glass of the ice cream chest freezer until an ayi batted us off with a raffia fan. “We’re not chickens!” Liang-Liang used to complain. “Does your nai-nai know you’re skipping summer school to run around with American girls?” Ayi would bark back. “I’ll call her right now.” Of course, she never did. It only ever took him r

I spent a few summers in Beijing as a kid, doing the same stuff every day. I walked my neighbor’s dog every morning, then accompanied my grandmother to the market to help her pick out fresh ingredients for that day’s supper. There, whole ducks roasted red hung from butcher hooks and your eyes were sure to water walking past the spice stations, where you could buy peppercorn and star anises by the handful. I spent my afternoons skateboarding in the park with Liang-Liang, the grandson of a local artist who took English classes with my great-aunt. When it got too hot, we’d duck into one of the do