I had a colleague, Thomas, whose childhood was spent in Shanghai. During high school he lived in Hong Kong and for university he went to Europe.
The smell of metal under duress pours out of the kitchen. I race in, scoop the frying pan off the heat and dash it into the sink - only to be told: "You ruined my eggs!"
I got into a taxi one day after work and recited my address to the driver. The loquacious, middle-aged man with a pronounced double chin turned around and asked: "Where are you from?"
I have always claimed that taking a public bus in Beijing is the best way to discover Chinese culture, and I still believe it after 20 years.
I know I'm not the only one feeling a desperate need for acceptance in China. I've been here for a while and I can't get any foothold into the society.
No matter how many years an expat lives in China, he will always be a foreigner.
There are countless ways of getting from one place to another, but pop me on the back of a motorcycle and I am happiest.
"Let's see what's happening!", cried Ellen, as she saw a line that stretched around the corner.
Why would any visitor to Beijing stay in a hotel when they can stay in a hutong?
I sit 10 centimeters above the tarmac floor on a wooden stool made for dwarfs and I am happy.
My first week in China was spent wondering if there really was refrigeration in The Middle Kingdom.
Since I last went to Yashow Market in Beijing, I have had the image of wide-eyed shoppers lumbering about with wads of cash and salesmen stroking thin moustaches with gleaming eyes ingrained in my mind.