Summer of 2017 – Beijing, China
The boy sitting a few seats from Derrick and I stared at us, with curiosity, probably because we were speaking in English in a Chinese speaking country.
“Do you think our lives were pre-destined when we were born?” I asked Derrick. We were sitting in a cafe in Beijing, called Costa, a coffee chain headquartered in Europe, similar to Starbucks. The chairs were leather cushioned and the air conditioning made our ice coffees even colder.
“It’s 50/50,” Derrick said. “No matter how much I practice I’m never going to be like Michael Phelps. I don’t have his physique.” Derrick was above the average height for Chinese men; he stood over six feet, lean, with thick, black hair and the shorts he wore revealed his toned calves. “So, 50% of my life was predetermined when I was born – the other fifty is free will,” he concluded.
I spun the plastic straw around the iced cubes in my coffee and said, “I see.”
“What do you think?” Derrick asked. Unlike the men I knew in New York City, he did not gel his hair so a few strands hit his eyelashes, which gave him a natural, laid-back look.
I dropped my shoulders and let out a sigh. “I’m back and forth on that,” I said. “But I think I do agree with you, it is fifty-fifty.”
“Well you know – people who achieve their career goals do a few things – one is that they have a vision. When you have a strong vision, you’ll lift barriers and get through obstacles because you believe in it.” The young boy sitting a few feet away still could not lift his eyes away from Derrick. Derrick noticed him noticing him and gave him a high five.
My fingers rested on the right side of my chin as I digested what he just shared.
“You should get this bike sharing app, it comes in handy – the traffic in Beijing can be horrible,” Derrick told me.
“I don’t know how to ride a bike.”
“Well, lift that barrier!”
“I’m just joking with you,” I said.
I knew how to ride a bike. I just did not yet have a vision.
Nine months later – Pristina, Kosovo
At the only communal space in the three-bedroom hostel – the kitchen – I continued journaling on the dining room table. The sounds from the turning of a door knob and footsteps from heavy boots – the only other guest in this hostel arrived. He was sent here from the United Nations just a week ago and was staying in this hostel until he could find a long-term rental.
The man had on a pair of eyeglasses and was in his mid-thirties. We said our Hello’s as he leaned on the kitchen counter, across from where I was sitting, and faced me. He took off his gloves and placed them into the pocket of his jacket. I saw that the snowflakes on his shoulders had not yet melted.
“So what country are you from?” he asked.
“United States.”
“I’m from craig-ga-stand,” he shared.
Was that a country or a city? He shared that it was a country, but it was protected by the Russian military and they had beautiful women – a blend of Russian and Asian blood.
“Are you backpacking right now?” he asked.
“Oh no,” I laughed as I was flattered that he thought I looked like I was fresh out of college instead of a woman in her early thirties, “Just simple travel.”
“What do you do for work?” he asked as turned on the water boiler, stationed close to the backsplash of the kitchen counter.
“I’m not working right now, probably write a book when I’m done traveling,” I said.
The non-fan styled space heater in the kitchen began to make these beating noises like a hammer, hitting steel. I looked over to make sure it wasn’t catching fire as I had not used such a heater since the early 1990’s. This guest though seemed unbothered by it as if these sounds were normal.
“I’ve been just here for one week and one thing I don’t get is why the parents here don’t send their kids to school,” he commented. “It’s all free.”
“Maybe they see things short-term, they just want what they can get today,” I said.
“I grew up in a village in craig-ga-stand so making money is my priority. It’s to survive.” He took out a tea bag from the paper carton by the microwave and waited for the water to boil.
I listened, thinking that making money was not my first priority. I just wanted to be happy and fulfilled.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re smart and hard-working,” he said. “There are just no opportunities in my country.”
I didn’t know what to say as I could not imagine growing up like that. When host and writer, Conan O’Brien signed off one of his last shows, he said, “Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.” So whenever I failed to get what I wanted, I crawled back to Conan’s words, telling myself to treat others well and to work hard, and that amazing things would happen. I respected Conan and believed him. But was his advice only applicable to people living in the United States?
“You said you’re writing a book. It means you could easily find jobs. You have that. You were born into a place that offered you that,” this guest from craig-ga-stand said. His torso was still against the kitchen counter.
He was right. This was the fifty percent that I was born into, predestined.