#LivingInChina with the #CoronaVirus
Yes, the fatality rate for the virus is low. Just saying…
I’ll probably not die because of this—that’s true. But living in China, being in the media’s crosshairs, receiving tons of messages from family and friends abroad, and witnessing a country where everything just STOPPED is quite surreal.
We arrived at Beijing airport on January 31st and had to wait inside the plane for about two hours because they were testing people. Not to mention how it felt flying for 14 hours wearing a face mask, with a voice inside my head saying, “You’re going back to China in the middle of the coronavirus outbreak.”
On the way home, the streets were deserted. But that was fine—it was Chinese New Year, and generally, there’s no one around during the holiday.
When we arrived at our compound, we had to register our names and apartment number. Weeks later, they gave us an entry card that we now have to show EVERY time we enter the complex. It feels very strange because if you forget your card, you almost feel guilty of a crime—you can’t enter your own home easily. You’ll likely have to talk to multiple guards just to prove you live there.
Anyway, after checking in, they took our temperature (not every thermometer works well: once, mine read 13°C—I’m glad my hypothermia still allowed me to walk home).
Since then, we’ve had to wear a mask every time we leave the apartment—even when walking the dog. Even though the WHO says it’s unnecessary outdoors, people don’t like it if you don’t wear one. And you definitely don’t want to be the distinguishable foreigner walking around maskless.
Our first week of working from home was fine. We didn’t have our dog with us because the owner of the dog hotel didn’t want to come to Beijing—he was afraid of getting the virus. Understandable. But we missed our dog (we hadn’t seen him for way too many weeks). We finally got him back weeks later.
The weekend came, and we wanted to hang out, but everything was closed—except for one good restaurant. Even now, most restaurants remain closed. The ones that are open close early (around 6-7 pm, except for two that stay open until 11 pm). You still can’t go to the cinema or anywhere people could gather. Everything is shut down.
You also can’t visit all your friends. Many condominiums and hutongs don’t allow outsiders. So now we (video) call our friends for coffee. On the bright side, it’s definitely cheaper.
Some supermarkets are open, but most small grocery shops were closed until March 1st—some are still closed. If you’re willing to take the risk, you go to the supermarket. If not, China has great delivery apps, and you can order food straight to your door—well, actually, to your condo’s door. Every time you receive a package or delivery, you have to walk a few (k)m to pick it up. Great exercise, given that you’re home all day.
Working from home was fun at first. Then, it started to get a little too much. #CabinFever Especially when they cut your salary by 50% because companies “aren’t doing well financially.”
Hundreds of businesses across China have shut down. Tons of services are out of order.
If you need something fixed (e.g., your phone), you can’t. “The person in charge is still in his hometown.”
If you want to take silversmith classes, you can’t. “The building is closed until further notice.”
You’ll have to carry hand sanitizer everywhere.
You’ll have to get used to entering a restaurant and getting a thermometer pointed at your forehead or wrist, writing down your name, phone number, and body temperature.
You’ll also get used to (not really) receiving at least one message every day from someone different asking:
"How’s China with the Coronavirus situation?"
At the end of the day, all of this will make you feel (even just a little) more stressed.
You’ll have to learn to see the positive side of things; otherwise, you’ll go crazy (if you haven’t already).
A lot of your friends will leave China.
The city (Beijing, in this case) is eerily empty—no cars on the streets (compared to “normal”). Many friends are abroad and don’t know when they’ll return.
You can’t really leave the country because most borders are closed to anyone who has “been in China for the past 15 days.”
Planning for the future—whatever that means—comes with a huge dose of uncertainty (and anxiety).
On the bright side, you’ll be able to watch A LOT of Netflix, read books, and dabble in new hobbies.
And in the end, you’ll learn.
You’ll learn to value the small things in daily life.
You’ll learn about the economy (and how much this crisis is affecting China and the world).
You’ll learn how much CO2 China emits (A LOT).
You’ll learn that walking on empty streets in Beijing (in March) is possible.
You’ll learn that fake news is real and that people post a lot of bu@&#* on Instagram.
And, unbelievably, you’ll know that when this is over, you’ll be the happiest person in the world when you see 1.3 billion people walking on the streets again.
Your text remains intact, but now it reads more smoothly, with improved clarity and flow. Let me know if you’d like any further tweaks! 😊Here’s your text with grammar, syntax, and clarity improvements while keeping your original tone and style intact:
#LivingInChina with the #CoronaVirus
Yes, the fatality rate for the virus is low. Just saying…
I’ll probably not die because of this—that’s true. But living in China, being in the media’s crosshairs, receiving tons of messages from family and friends abroad, and witnessing a country where everything just STOPPED is quite surreal.
We arrived at Beijing airport on January 31st and had to wait inside the plane for about two hours because they were testing people. Not to mention how it felt flying for 14 hours wearing a face mask, with a voice inside my head saying, “You’re going back to China in the middle of the coronavirus outbreak.”
On the way home, the streets were deserted. But that was fine—it was Chinese New Year, and generally, there’s no one around during the holiday.
When we arrived at our compound, we had to register our names and apartment number. Weeks later, they gave us an entry card that we now have to show EVERY time we enter the complex. It feels very strange because if you forget your card, you almost feel guilty of a crime—you can’t enter your own home easily. You’ll likely have to talk to multiple guards just to prove you live there.
Anyway, after checking in, they took our temperature (not every thermometer works well: once, mine read 13°C—I’m glad my hypothermia still allowed me to walk home).
Since then, we’ve had to wear a mask every time we leave the apartment—even when walking the dog. Even though the WHO says it’s unnecessary outdoors, people don’t like it if you don’t wear one. And you definitely don’t want to be the distinguishable foreigner walking around maskless.
Our first week of working from home was fine. We didn’t have our dog with us because the owner of the dog hotel didn’t want to come to Beijing—he was afraid of getting the virus. Understandable. But we missed our dog (we hadn’t seen him for way too many weeks). We finally got him back weeks later.
The weekend came, and we wanted to hang out, but everything was closed—except for one good restaurant. Even now, most restaurants remain closed. The ones that are open close early (around 6-7 pm, except for two that stay open until 11 pm). You still can’t go to the cinema or anywhere people could gather. Everything is shut down.
You also can’t visit all your friends. Many condominiums and hutongs don’t allow outsiders. So now we (video) call our friends for coffee. On the bright side, it’s definitely cheaper.
Some supermarkets are open, but most small grocery shops were closed until March 1st—some are still closed. If you’re willing to take the risk, you go to the supermarket. If not, China has great delivery apps, and you can order food straight to your door—well, actually, to your condo’s door. Every time you receive a package or delivery, you have to walk a few (k)m to pick it up. Great exercise, given that you’re home all day.
Working from home was fun at first. Then, it started to get a little too much. #CabinFever Especially when they cut your salary by 50% because companies “aren’t doing well financially.”
Hundreds of businesses across China have shut down. Tons of services are out of order.
If you need something fixed (e.g., your phone), you can’t. “The person in charge is still in his hometown.”
If you want to take silversmith classes, you can’t. “The building is closed until further notice.”
You’ll have to carry hand sanitizer everywhere.
You’ll have to get used to entering a restaurant and getting a thermometer pointed at your forehead or wrist, writing down your name, phone number, and body temperature.
You’ll also get used to (not really) receiving at least one message every day from someone different asking:
"How’s China with the Coronavirus situation?"
At the end of the day, all of this will make you feel (even just a little) more stressed.
You’ll have to learn to see the positive side of things; otherwise, you’ll go crazy (if you haven’t already).
A lot of your friends will leave China.
The city (Beijing, in this case) is eerily empty—no cars on the streets (compared to “normal”). Many friends are abroad and don’t know when they’ll return.
You can’t really leave the country because most borders are closed to anyone who has “been in China for the past 15 days.”
Planning for the future—whatever that means—comes with a huge dose of uncertainty (and anxiety).
On the bright side, you’ll be able to watch A LOT of Netflix, read books, and dabble in new hobbies.
And in the end, you’ll learn.
You’ll learn to value the small things in daily life.
You’ll learn about the economy (and how much this crisis is affecting China and the world).
You’ll learn how much CO2 China emits (A LOT).
You’ll learn that walking on empty streets in Beijing (in March) is possible.
You’ll learn that fake news is real and that people post a lot of bu@&#* on Instagram.
And, unbelievably, you’ll know that when this is over, you’ll be the happiest person in the world when you see 1.3 billion people walking on the streets again.
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