At first glance, that one-story whitewashed building nestled in the pear orchards could easily be mistaken for a charming little cottage in rural Hangzhou, Zhejiang province. The stone pathway to the building was perfumed with the ambrosial fragrance of ripe pears. Its facade featured a colorful mural of ethereal mountains and a golden pear, rendered in the style of traditional Chinese landscape paintings. Even the scenery behind it was spellbinding, with verdant mountains undulating under a blue sky punctuated by wispy swirls of clouds.
Who would have imagined that such a building displayed a sign that read “Toilet”?
The enchantment, however, doesn’t end for visitors with more practical needs in mind. The restroom is clean, odor-free and well-lit. There’s plenty of toilet paper in the containers inside each stall. Plus, you can wash your hands with liquid soap at sinks set in a black marble countertop.
My husband and I have dubbed the place a “five-star restroom”, yet the designation could apply to many remarkable rural facilities that we’ve discovered on road trips across the Zhejiang countryside.
The Irish Catholic tradition of my maternal grandmother’s upbringing that permeated my own childhood, from Sunday mass to the corned beef that my mother would prepare for St. Patrick’s Day, seemed so disconnected from my decision to venture to China and, later, marry a young man from Hangzhou.
Or so I thought, until the history of the Chinese in the US taught me of a long-forgotten affinity among Irish women and Chinese men.
“By the 1860s [in America], such Chinese-Irish marriages were so common that the New York Tribune remarked that ‘these Chinamen have a peculiar fancy for wives of Celtic origin,’” wrote historian Erika Lee in her book “The Making of Asian America.”
Journalist Iris Chang acknowledged the same trend in “The Chinese in America”: “As early as 1857, Harper’s Weekly took note of the marriages between Chinese cigar vendors and Irish apple peddlers in New York. By the end of the decade, the New York Times noted that most owners of Chinese boarding houses were married to either Irish or German women.”
For example, New York State census records in 1855 listed John Huston, a sailor and naturalized U.S. citizen originally from China, as living with his Irish wife in Manhattan.
During the same period, New York City’s Chinatown was home to the Chinese tea merchant Quimbo Appo and his Irish wife Catherine Fitzpatrick, who gave birth to their son George Washington Appo in 1856.
What drew Irish women and Chinese women together during this period, a time when interracial marriages were largely taboo? Immigrant demographics of the era played a prominent role. The Irish community in the U.S. overflowed with women (two for every man), while men dominated the burgeoning Chinese community.
According to Chang, Chinese-Irish couples of the era appeared to prosper. “When a New York World reporter told two Irish women they should be married to whites, not Chinese, one retorted that their Chinese husbands were as “white” as anyone, even “whiter” than most of their neighbors.” She also quotes from an article written for the New York Sun, where the newly married Irish wife of a Chinese man proudly announced “that the Chinamen were all good ‘fellows,’ that they work hard, go to night school, and are devoted to their wives.”
Writer Molly Mahoney Matthews was so inspired by this history that she penned the novel “Irish Luck, Chinese Medicine,” which tells the story of a love affair between an Irish single mother and a Chinese physician.
I’d like to think that my late grandmother and mother are smiling down upon me for discovering this delightful historical thread — and that they would encourage me, come St. Patrick’s Day, to serve a little soda bread with my mapo tofu.
What do you think about the history of marriages of Irish women and Chinese men in America? Do these Chinese-Irish couples resonate with you?
A flower that blooms straight from a bare branch, in the coldest days of winter, sounds like a dream. And yet, this reality has unfurled all around us in its late winter splendor here in Hangzhou.
Plum blossoms always cast a spell on me, no matter how many times I’ve witnessed their winter miracle. It’s not just the beauty of their blooms, which perk up the drab winter landscapes with their stunning colors, especially magenta and carnation pink. It’s also the way they perfume the air with their sweet, delicate fragrance that soothes your weary soul with the promise that, soon, warmer days will come.
In China, people talk of plum blossom spirit. If a flower can weather the winter cold, then surely we can endure hardship — and find ways to thrive.
At a time when we all long for winter to end, the plum blossom emerges as a much-needed seasonal friend.
These days, as I walk outside to enjoy the plum blossoms, I will remember that hope blooms, even in winter — and that some of the most beautiful things in life are willing to brave the cold.
Before Chinese New Year, neatly folded pairs of red clothing occupied a prominent position in my closet, and in my drawer lay a pendant in the shape of a pixiu, a mythical beast that confers protection and prosperity on its wearer. But, I had asked myself, was I ready for the coming Year of the Snake, my Chinese zodiac year? Would these auspicious items help shepherd me through this period in safety?
I grew up in Cleveland in the United States, where the Chinese zodiac was little more than a curiosity I encountered on place mats at Chinese restaurants while waiting for orders of spring rolls, fried rice and sweet-and-sour pork. But living in China has schooled me in the customs surrounding the Chinese zodiac, including warding off bad luck in one’s benmingnian, or Chinese zodiac year, by wearing red clothing or a special talisman.
Sparks fly when a young woman with a Ph.D. in literature has a chance encounter on the Beijing subway with a Beijing migrant who dreams of becoming an actor.
What reads like a romance novel blurb is actually reality for American Tammy Treichel, the author of the new memoir “Hutong Heartthrobs.”
Set primarily in one of Beijing’s iconic residences, the book charts the course of her unlikely romance as well as her beau’s rise from obscurity to becoming a stand-in for Jackie Chan. Anyone in a cross-cultural relationship, especially with someone Chinese, will relate to the many differences, cultural and otherwise, that emerge between the couple throughout the narrative. It also provides a fascinating inside look into breaking into the competitive world of acting in Beijing and what it takes to survive.
It’s my pleasure to introduce you to “Hutong Heartthrobs” through this interview with Tammy. Here’s Tammy’s bio from Goodreads:
Tammy (Tamara) Arehart Treichel is an American with a passion for two things: China and writing. After graduating with an award-winning PhD in English on Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, she worked as a freelancer for various China-related publications. Born in Washington DC, she found a second lease on life and true love in China, where she has lived for over a decade and is working as an English editor at a local news agency in Beijing. Tammy greatly enjoys exploring all things China with her Chinese man, a former security guard-turned-actor named Jackie. They live in an old hutong (alleyway) house in an historic part of Beijing together with three rescue cats and numerous house lizards.
You can buy “Hutong Heartthrobs” online — your purchases help support this blog!
What inspired you to write this book?
Writing is in my blood I suppose, I have been writing and creating characters since I was a child (short stories, mawkish poetry, plays, for fun). My mother is a science writer and we enjoy “talking shop.” I like to tell people that my mother focuses “on the human brain” in her books and articles, whereas I personally am more interested in the “complexities of the human heart.” I suppose we complement each other well!
I did some research and was unable to find directly competitive titles to what would eventually become my memoir, “Hutong Heartthrobs.” When I approached my publisher, Graham Earnshaw, he said he thought the idea of a book that encompasses a Chinese and “Western” point of view, namely that of my Chinese husband Jackie and myself, an American woman, in the framework of a love story could be of value to readers.
How did your husband feel about being spotlighted in your memoir?
Oh, he loves the spotlight! After all, he works in the film industry. So he wasn’t concerned about being one of the main focuses of my book. Of course, I ran everything by him first as best as I could and double-checked facts before submitting my manuscript. I conducted interviews with him about his life story for “Hutong Heartthrobs“; he was dictating to me at the computer from his notes while I typed down his answers in Chinese characters (we communicate in Chinese). I then translated and had a third party (Chinese native speaker who was highly proficient in English) ensure that my translations were correct.
As highlighted in the title of your book, you and your husband grow to love one another primarily while residing in a hutong. What did you enjoy writing about most regarding life in your hutong home?
I enjoyed writing about the ambience of our old, musty hutong house and all the quirks that came with it (electricity outages, house lizards, neighborhood cats wooing each other on the hutong house roof, the old poplar tree)…. it gave me an opportunity to give my story a bit of a poetic touch, and at times a comedic one when I wrote about what was going wrong again with the house. A lot of the drama involving the hutong house involves my reactions to its quirks; it seems at times to take on a life of its own (cf. Poe’s short story “The Fall of the House of Usher” where the house collapses…).
Throughout your memoir, you highlight some of the cultural differences that emerged in your relationship, in very relatable moments. Could you share with us one of your favorites?
I think in retrospect one of the funniest moments was when our night bus was “hijacked” on a Beijing highway by an elderly lady who was angry that she had missed her stop. The people involved (bus driver, security guard, my Chinese husband Jackie and myself) all reacted in different ways. Jackie reacted in a conflict-averse manner, which is typical for him, whereas I was more impatient and confrontational. He also said what he would have done to solve the problem if he had been the bus driver, and his answer pleasantly surprised me and opened up my eyes to different ways of solving the problems that life throws at us. It was, and is, refreshing to learn from him and his take on things. I wouldn’t necessarily say his is always “the Chinese point of view,” but the culture in which we are raised definitely informs our actions and reactions.
What do you hope readers come away with after reading your memoir?
I believe that Western readers will be able to learn more about life in China, both its complexities and rewards from an expat’s point of view, also about the joys and challenges of being in a cross-cultural relationship. For Chinese readers, they might be curious about how a “foreigner” regards their country and tackles life there. And of course, our love story might be a charming read for those who are romantics at heart, as I am. I initially believed that the majority of my readers would be women, but I was surprised at how many men have said they found “Hutong Heartthrobs” an entertaining read as well.
China Daily recently published my column titled Wonders of Wandering off Beaten Path in Zhejiang, detailing some of the delightful hikes Jun and I have discovered in the province. Here’s an excerpt:
On the summit of a mountain over 1,000 meters high in a Zhejiang nature reserve, I glimpsed a work of art on the horizon. Beyond the outstretched boughs of Huangshan pines, silhouettes of mountain upon mountain were painted across the sky in striking blues and grays. The scene belonged in a museum, yet it hung in the sky before us, challenging every notion I had of what a mountain should look like in nature.
How did we encounter such an extraordinary view on a trail so ordinary that it was largely empty, even on this holiday weekend? In the three-plus hours we spent hiking there that day, we saw only four other small groups of hikers. The trail wasn’t even marked on the maps; we wouldn’t have known it existed, had we not passed it during a drive in late January earlier this year. Yet, somehow, this forgotten place possessed a quiet magic of its own, revealed in resplendent moments that took us by surprise.
Head on over to China Daily to read the full piece. And if you like it, share it!
Ruth Silbermayr-Song, the author of the blog China Elevator Stories, was separated from her children in 2019. In 2020, all contact to her children was cut off by her ex-husband, as detailed in an interview on this blog.
Ruth asked me to share an update about her situation:
A few days ago, the court in Austria has declined my request for receiving sole custody of my children and has declined my request to see my children in their summer holidays. I have been allowed a call with my children two days a week, which is much less than the daily calls I have requested. (I have appealed the decision on January 23rd).
My children are not being protected from abuse, and in my opinion, the court’s decision is in violation of basic human rights, such as parents being allowed to parent their own children and being allowed to see their children.
Ruth has created a Change.org petition in German, which calls on signers to back the following text:
I support Ms. Ruth Silbermayr-Song, BA, in obtaining sole custody of her children, Emil and Nino Silbermayr-Song. I speak out against the protection of fathers who abuse their (ex-) wives and children mentally, emotionally, and in other ways, and endanger their children’s well-being. I support the victims (the mother and the children), not the perpetrator (the father).
The photograph that greeted me at the entrance to a special exhibition at the Cleveland Museum of Art had a startling familiarity.
The water bristled with the umbrella-like leaves of lotus plants, a grand gathering of bright green parasols under the summer sunlight. Behind them, the gentle slope of a long stone arch bridge balanced a white car and a handful of pedestrians. Willow trees bowed before the shoreline, while a mountain silhouette traced the horizon.
Excitement stirred within me as I realized I had gazed upon that lotus field, walked that bridge, wandered under those willows, and hiked those mountains. “Look, that’s the West Lake! That’s in Hangzhou, where I live!”
I lingered before the image, sharing my amazement with the family members who had accompanied me — my father, stepmother, uncles and aunt — and with a volunteer at the museum.
How did my hometown of Cleveland, Ohio, just happen to lead a special exhibition titled China’s Southern Paradise: Treasures from the Lower Yangtze River with a photograph from my adopted hometown in China?
Read the full piece online — and if you like it, share it!
Over four and a half years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve been back to the US.
As I prepare to return to the US for a short visit, the staggering amount of time that has separated us looms before me.
I never thought I would be away for so long. Years ago in the US, I often heard stories from Chinese students, of how their visas — and the potential to be denied re-entry to the US during their studies — snuffed out any plans of heading back to China. I remember being shocked to hear that they hadn’t seen their family and friends back home in three or four years.
One year of absence, give or take a few months, was about all I could bear when I first came to China. And once, while working in Shanghai, the one and a half years I ended up waiting to see my family already tested me, and left me aching within.
But since then, life has schooled me in the many ways that the best laid plans — such as regular, yearly international travel to see family and friends back home — can be dashed. Maybe circumstances have rendered the price tag for an international flight far beyond your tight budget. Or a pandemic dashes any further hopes of flying back home.
Being grounded for four and a half years reminded me that international travel is a privilege, not a right.
Now that I will travel home to the US very soon, it feels more like an imaginary story, rather than reality. How do you make up for all that lost time in just a short couple of weeks? What can you say to someone you haven’t seen face-to-face in over four years?
The pure pink resilience of the lotus blooms dazzled us on our late summer walks this year in Hangzhou, including by the city’s renowned West Lake.
Generations of Chinese have admired the lotus as a symbol of purity, as it emerges from the mud underwater without stain. I admire the shades of pink — from light rose to a deep flamingo — in these delicate flowers, which shine even brighter under the intense late summer sunshine, and offer some aesthetic consolation for those brave enough to endure the heat and humidity to gaze upon their beauty.
As summer draws to a close, I’m sharing a few of my favorite photos from strolls beside Hangzhou’s West Lake.
This corner of the West Lake bristles with lotus plants and their blossoms, growing upright toward the brilliant sun beside a pavillion.Up close, the lotus blossom appears as delicate as a porcelain tea cup.I couldn’t believe how tall the lotus blossoms were — some almost rivaled my height!Nature painted an almost flawless landscape that afternoon at the West Lake.The lotus plants and blossoms blanketed entire corners of the lake, with such lovely scenes to savor for both Jun and myself.
What are your favorite flowers of the summer? Where do you go to enjoy them?
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