Saving Face (or, A Litle China in My Cup)

I must climb thousands of stairs each week. At work, climbing to my classes. Returning from work, and making the hike up to my forth floor apartment. Out in the city, descending and ascending mountains of them to reach subway tunnels meters below the street. Up to elevated crosswalks at too busy intersections. Back down to the street.

Until today, as far as my memory can recall, I have only tripped once. Descending the elevated crosswalk in Xuijiahui. Wearing heels. At night. Carrying a heavy bag, in a crowd of people. A tricky situation indeed. I managed to save that one, and only wobbled about for a split second.

Today, I was not so lucky. Today, I fell. Going up the stairs. In broad daylight. Wearing sneakers. I was on my way to class. With books and papers in my hand. Holding a cup of hot tang. Yes, hot tang. Tang like the delicious orange imitation. I’ll explain later.

My hands -- restricted by copies of a New Yorker article, comprehension worksheets, and vocabulary lists -- were unable to break my fall. My knee and my elbow smashed into the metal edge of the tiled stair. Great for no slip gripping on the way down and, apparently, great for bone breaking impact on the way up.

In a frantic attempt to save my face (in the literal sense) I put out my right hand. My right hand, however, had my beloved grey and white Ikea mug, so skillfully filled with hot tang, only moments before. Scalding hot tang. The cup, upon making contact with the metal corner of the tiled stair, exploded. The contents exploded with it, sending searing hot bright orange fluid everywhere.

Unsure of what to do, of what hurt most, and of the damage done to my precious lesson plans, I simply walked away. I set down my papers in a tang-free zone, and went back to collect the dozens of pieces of mutilated and humiliated Swedish kitchenware. What a sad fate, I thought. Perhaps it was a form of suicide, in reaction to the disgrace of being filled with hot tang for the past few days. I picked up the pieces, and dropped them in the trashcan nearby.

Having seen the event unfold from the warmth and comfort of her front office, the nice office lady came out with a mop and began wiping up the mess. Forgetting that I spoke no Chinese and she no English, I asked her if I could help. She half-yelled something in Chinese, and I decided it would be best for my face (in both the literal and figurative sense) to calmly walk away and seek quiet solace in my office in the few precious minutes before I had to be standing in front of my English 10 class, supposedly teaching them English.

The futility of the situation grew at the same rate as the swelling in my knee as I attempted to communicate with them the gravity of the economic situation overtaking the print industry. Their nonchalance and near delight at the notion that books, the bane of their existence, might actually meet their end made the throbbing in my knee almost unbearable.

To put it simply, there was a little too much China in my cup for one day.