Midnight Massacre

            I’ve noticed that every time I move to a new place, it takes a while for me to get over the initial rose-colored-glasses syndrome.  My first few weeks anywhere—college, studying abroad, or a new hometown—are always too overwhelming to actually inspire any sort of opinion.  I am always so in awe of everything that is different and new that I am more pleasantly surprised or impressed than anything else.  As a consequence, it takes a while before I find myself capable of really hating something about a new place.  Still, no matter how much I struggle to remain positive and bright, the turn-around always arrives.  In Qufu it came a few nights ago, barreling along at full speed like a raging bull.  What inspired the change?  Two things, actually: mosquitoes and fireworks.

            Since arriving in China, I have discovered that both fireworks and mosquitoes are a big part of daily life.  Fireworks are used to celebrate everything, and often used for no reason at all other than that they make lots of noise.  They are set off at every time of day.  You will hear them at three o’clock in the afternoon, or more often at three in the morning.  Most of the time they are far enough from campus that they don’t really bother me, but it does occasionally get old.

            Now, for the mosquitoes.  I’m fairly accustomed to mosquitoes.  I grew up in a humid climate where such bugs abound, and although I get a few nasty bites every summer it’s not too bad.  But I’ve quickly learned that the Chinese mosquito is a much heartier and more vindictive breed than that found in New England.  Have you ever seen Jumanji?  Do you remember the scene where Robin Williams is trapped in a car with the two kids and a mosquito the size of a pit bull is stabbing through the roof with fierce and bloodthirsty determination?  Okay, now you’re getting the picture.

            Separately, neither the fireworks nor the mosquitoes are much of an irritant.  If I fall asleep early enough, I can usually sleep through any late night crackles and pops.  And with some strategic dressing and sleeping arrangements, I don’t have much of a problem with the mosquitoes, either.  However, on Friday night the two forces decided to form an alliance against me, and the result was not pleasant.

            I had not had a good week.  Scrambled by classes, attempts to plan my October vacation, and the nasty habit of falling asleep in the late afternoon, I had not been sleeping well.  A dinner of street food with a couple of students had left me a bit queasy for a few days, all of my clothes were sopping wet as a result of some very monsoon-like weather, and a girl in my debate class had informed me that I looked like the murderer in an American horror movie she had just seen.  All in all, my mood was not very good.  I was tired, irritable, and prone to very violent thoughts.

            In this ill-humored state, I was not at all prepared for Friday night.  Things began with a mosquito in my bedroom that was determined to get at me no matter what—and to do it in as annoying a fashion as was possible.  This mosquito was clever.  She (she buzzed, so I know it was a she) waited until I was just about to drift off into sleep, and then she dove directly at my face, emitting a high-pitched wail like the drone of a miniature World War II bomber plane.  This happened repeatedly, over and over for about two hours while I tossed and turned swatted frantically.  At one point, I did manage to drift off for about thirty minutes, but an incessant buzzing woke me again.  Not only had she returned, but she had also discovered that I had left one of my hands exposed, hanging out of my roll of sheets.  I was rewarded with fifteen bites and fingers that looked like they belonged to a leper.  But the assailant seemed to have temporarily disappeared.

            At this point, I was too tired to fight anymore.  I stuffed my hand back into my sheets and prepared to go back to sleep.  But just as I was dozing off, a long series of loud booms echoed through the air.  Somebody somewhere had found a reason to set off fireworks.  Again.  And they showed no sign of stopping.

            I rolled over and waited.  Maybe the fireworks would go away.

            BOOM.

            Hmm.  That seemed to be the end of it.

            BZZZZZZ.

            She was back!  I swatted frantically and yanked my sheets up over my face.  A few more angry buzzes and she disappeared again.  I held my breath.  Silence.  I closed my eyes, and soon I was drifting into sleep.

            BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. CRACK. BOOM.

            BZZZZZZZ.

            This was too much.  Seething with rage against all mosquitoes and all creatures like them, and cursing aloud whoever the hell was responsible for the booming, I flung myself out of bed and stood in an angry fighting stance.  After a few seconds, I realized that there wasn’t actually anyone around for me to take out my frustration on.  So, instead, I made my way to the kitchen.  The kitchen was the perfect place for my current predicament.  For one thing, I could cook something to take my mind off the fact that I wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight.  For another, it was damp and warm—the perfect place to lie in wait for my buzzing enemy.  I would kill them all, I vowed to myself.

            I decided to make a grape cobbler.  I had had a few groups of students over during the week, and they had all presented me with enormous bags of grapes as a gift.  I love fruit, but eating grapes in China is a bit of a challenge.  It requires both peeling and seeding; not something you look for in a quick and easy snack.  But now, it was about one in the morning and I had the rest of the night ahead of me.  I had plenty of time!

            I got to work.  My counter was neatly organized: a cutting board and a knife for slicing and seeding my grapes, my trash can nearby for the disposal of seeds, a pot in which to deposit my grapes for boiling, and a small notebook for the use of self defense.  I turned on some music to drown out the fireworks, hummed along, and occasionally contributed to the beat with a hearty smack of my notebook against the kitchen wall whenever I caught sight of anything resembling an insect.  By the time my grapes were boiling away on the stovetop, it was after two and my wall looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.  Study in Mashed Mosquitoes.

            I drained the grapes, mixed them with some sugar and lemon juice, plopped them in a pan, sprinkled them with oatmeal streusel, and slid the concoction into my toaster oven.  I had a while to wait.  Now what?  Hmm.

            The following thirty minutes or so was not pretty, and I personally blame my behavior on sleep deprivation, a sort of mania caused by several ragingly itchy mosquito bites, and far too many finger dips into the sugar bag while cooking.  Taking my trusty notepad with me, I stalked around my apartment and commenced what is likely the largest mosquito massacre ever committed by humankind.  I lay in wait in my bedroom, lights off and bedside lamp alight, beating wildly at anything that flew.  I desecrated my mirror in the bathroom, its surface smeared with tiny little bodies.  I cackled with glee as I skipped through my living room and back to the kitchen, where I pounded the last survivors into smithereens.

            Let me pause a moment to say that I am not usually all that big on killing.  I’m very much a “let it be” type of person when it comes to the dirtier parts of nature, and this even applies to bugs.  Spiders, bees, and all things that crawl are generally safe from me.  But I must admit, after the night I’d had smashing those mosquitoes to their deaths filled me with no less than pure serenity.

            The timer dinged, and I removed my cobbler from the toaster oven.  It smelled delicious.  I grabbed a spoon, surveyed with pride my accomplishment spattered across the walls, and retreated to bed and a movie.