Like many expats in Beijing, I’ve moved around a handful of times: from the couches of friends, to a duplex in Shaoyaoju shared with two foreigners, to a brief subletting experience in Dongsishitiao, to Jinsong with two hip locals and a schizophrenic poodle – the ideal goal was always to get a snug one bedroom or studio.
A year ago, I felt like I found a sliver of utopia when I discovered a one bedroom, second floor walk-up located right next to Ritan Park, my favorite park in the city.
The apartment was in a traditional Chinese housing complex, the kind undergarments hang out to dry and middle-aged men linger outside, bellies exposed, playing Chinese chess. The homey touch that sold me instantly was the blue accent color that adorned every window frame and door.
I signed the yearlong contract immediately. Small problems aside, life was running smoothly the first few weeks. But like many things in Beijing, this peace of mind was transient.
One fine day, I was awoken suddenly at 6am by noises worthy of a horror movie soundtrack. Jolting me from my deep slumber was what sounded like a twenty-pound bag of marbles hurled against the floor while some creature, on the brink of death, tried to claw its way out of the slippery mess. It was alarming, to say the least. Groggy eyed, I looked out my window to find myself staring at a piece of steel hitting my window.
The steel, being hoisted to the floor above by a makeshift pulley system — later replaced with pieces of wood — banged against my rickety window and the already-precariously perched air conditioner, setting off sparks.
Though this was already worrisome, it was nothing compared to the main event: drilling that sounded like there were undiscovered fossil fuels located at my apartment. Because the floors and ceiling were paper thin, the sound ricocheted and magnified, the way a conductor would hope for his orchestra. The sound literally shook my bedroom drawer. This was not the noise that earplugs could counter.
The unpleasant wake-up call, my upstairs neighbor’s massive construction project, continued for the next three days, starting at 6am and lasting until the end of the workday.
Beijing municipality laws confines construction to the hours of 8am-12:00pm, 2:00pm-6:00pm. So on day four, as soon as the torture soundtrack started around sunrise, I marched upstairs in my polka dotted pajamas and knocked on the perpetrator’s door.
From inside, my neighbor yelled, “What do you want?”
“Construction!” I shouted back, in my ABC-accented Chinese, more so the subject of discussion than what I wanted.
A 50-year old, raggedy-tooth Chinese man in a wife beater pushed the door open, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Diplomatically, I explained that his drilling was disturbing my sleep, regulations state you can only start construction at 8am, and I would be thankful for his cooperation.
My neighbor took one look at me, sized me up as a person of probably zero authority or government connections, blew his cigarette smoke in my face and told me to stop annoying him.
He then slammed the door in my face, shouting, “wake up earlier!”
Following this failed confrontation, I tried everything from calling our building wuye (superintendent) to the police, begging my landlord to help. Had this situation happened in the U.S., I’d have taken direct action, probably in the form of a lawsuit.
In China, it is a traditional virtue to be able to ren 忍, or tolerate. The character is composed of a knife with a heart beneath. Taken literally, if someone thrusts a knife into your heart, you’re supposed to suppress your desire for revenge, just grin and bear it.
But eventually, I couldn’t bear the pain any longer, and I ended up moving out early. I now find myself dwelling in a sterile modern building, deliberately chosen to avoid dealing with the same problem again.
What I had failed to neglect was that new buildings are, well, also always undergoing construction. As is China. The good news is, here, the hammering and drilling doesn’t start until 8am. And because it’s new, the walls don’t shake.
像在北京的许多外国人一样，我已经搬了无数次的家了，从朋友的沙发，到与两个外国人在北京芍药居附近的复式小楼合租，到在东四十条短暂的短租经历，还有在劲松和两个当地人还有一个患了精神分裂症的狮子狗的一起住的日子。总之唯一的理想目标就是得到一个舒适的一个卧室或者一个一室一厅。
一年前，当我发现了一个临街的二楼卧室，毗邻日坛公园，这个我最喜欢的城市公园。
这个公寓是一个传统式的中国住宅，是那种内衣需要晾在外面，街上漫步的中年男子，露着肚子，下中国象棋。家庭的这种感觉，让我立即决定签署了为期一年的合同。除了一些小问题以外，在头几个星期里小日子过得还是很美满的。但就像在北京的很多事情一样，这种平和的心态是很短暂的。
在一个晴朗的早上六点，我突然被一阵可以用来当作恐怖电影配乐的噪音给吵醒。让我一下子从深度睡眠的状态下惊醒的声音是听起来像一个二十磅重的大理石狠狠地砸在地板上的同时某种生物，在死亡的边缘，试图用爪子在湿滑的混乱中挠出一条生路的感觉。至少可以用惊悚来形容。迷迷糊糊的睁开了眼睛，望向窗外，发现一块钢板击中我的窗口。
这块钢铁悬挂在地板上面的一个临时的滑轮系统，紧接着就碰到了木头 – 砰的一声撞到了我的摇摇晃晃的窗口和已经摇摇欲坠的空调，擦出了火花。
虽然这已经够令人担忧的了，但这根本不能和后来发生的事情相提并论：钻孔，听起来像我家里蕴藏了未被发现的化石燃料。因为地板和楼下的天花板之间就像纸那样薄，弹跳的声音逐渐放大，就像一个指挥希望他的乐队能够做到的那样。这种声音简直震得我卧室的抽屉都在跟着颤。这噪音不是耳塞能抗衡的。
这种不愉快的起床音乐，由于我楼上邻居大规模的装修，持续了整整三天，从早上6点开始直到工作日的最后一天。
北京市的市政法律规定施工时间限于上午8时至中午12：00，下午2:00 – 6：00。 所以在第4天的时候当折磨人的配乐伴着日出再次响起的时候，我直接穿着我的波尔卡点状的睡衣就冲上了楼敲响了肇事者的门。
从里面，我的邻居对我大喊，“你想干什么？”
“装修！”我喊回来，带着我这种ABC的口音的中文，更何况这并不是我想要讨论的主题。
一个50岁的呲牙咧嘴的老男人在他老婆的怂恿下，把门推开了，嘴里还叼着一根香烟。
出于礼貌，我解释说，他的钻孔打扰到了我的睡眠，法规说明你只能在上午8时的时候才能施工，如果他能这样做，我会很感谢他的合作。
我的邻居瞟了我一眼，打量着我这个一看就不像什么有权有关系的人，朝我的脸上吹了口香烟，告诉我别来烦他。
然后，把门重重地摔在我脸上，喊道，“不会早点儿起床啊！”
这次失败的对抗之后，我几乎尝试了所有的办法，我去找我们的物业公司，向警方求助，乞求我的房东帮助。如果这种情况发生在美国，我早就采取直接行动，很可能在打官司了。
在中国，忍或容忍是中华民族的传统美德之一。这个字是由上面一个刀字下面一个心字组成的。从字面上看，如果有人把一把刀猛刺你的心，你应该做的是压抑自己复仇的欲望，然后忍下来。
但最终，我再也无法承受这样痛苦了，我提早搬了出来。我现在居住在一个故意挑的比较偏远的现代建筑里，为的是避免同样的问题再次发生。
但是我很失败的是，因为我忽视了新的建筑装修的人更多。由于这是中国，新房子都要装修。好消息是，在这里，锤和钻只有过了八点以后才会开始响。还有因为楼是新的，墙壁就不会一直抖了。