Alright, so here I am again, back in the magnificent, chaotic, deliciously overwhelming embrace of China—this time not as a wide-eyed tourist clutching a map and a thermos of lukewarm tea, but as a full-blown expat with a visa, a suitcase, and a slightly more confident walk. The first time I came here, I thought I’d mastered the art of navigating subway platforms like a seasoned ninja. Turns out, I was just a very anxious squirrel in a suit. Now, two years later, I’m back, and let me tell you—China doesn’t care if you’ve been here before. It still throws you a curveball every time you step out the door.
The moment I stepped into Beijing’s Capital Airport, the air itself seemed to whisper, “Welcome back, fool.” The scent of grilled skewers, exhaust fumes, and something faintly like old books and ambition hit me like a warm, slightly smelly hug. I nearly cried. Not because I missed anything—okay, maybe a little—but because I realized my second first impression was already being tested. I had to use my phone to figure out where the luggage claim was, even though I’d lived here for a year before. It’s like the airport changes its layout every time you blink. I swear, the signs keep getting more cryptic, and the people just stare at me like I’m the one who’s lost, when clearly, I’m just trying to find my suitcase that looks exactly like the other 500.
Walking through the city feels like being in a never-ending game of “Guess Who’s On the Subway?” The first time, I was convinced I could navigate the metro by memorizing lines and station names. Now, I’ve learned the real currency of Beijing transit is intuition, eye contact with fellow passengers, and a willingness to follow the crowd—especially if they’re all staring at a phone screen. I once followed a group of retirees to the wrong exit, only to end up in a shopping mall that sold nothing but novelty slippers shaped like pandas. I bought a pair. Why? Because I was emotionally vulnerable and the attendant winked.
The food scene, oh the food scene. My first time here, I was a brave adventurer daring to eat something called “dried squid with extra spice.” This time around, I’ve developed a full-on relationship with my local hot pot spot. The waitress knows my order by heart now—“One spicy, one mild, extra tofu, and please no soy sauce if you can avoid it.” I once tried to pay in cash and got a lecture on the finer points of digital payments. I had to explain to my mother, back in England, that I was now fluent in QR codes, not just Mandarin. My mum said, “So you’re basically a human wallet now?” I said, yes, and I’m proud of it.
There’s a kind of magic in being an expat twice. The first time, you’re trying to be cool, trying to fit in, trying to remember how to order tea without pointing. The second time, you’re still trying to fit in, but you’ve accepted that you’ll never truly fit in—so you might as well lean into the chaos. I caught myself laughing at a man arguing with a vending machine over a lost coin. I’ve been there. I’ve been that man. I just didn’t know the machine was a robot with a grudge.
I’ve learned that even though I’ve lived here before, the city still plays tricks on me. I walked into my old apartment building, only to realize I’d been going to the wrong entrance for six months. The super smiled and said, “Ah, you’re back. Still lost, huh?” I said, “Only slightly. I’ve brought snacks this time.” He didn’t laugh. He just nodded. I think he knew I was lying.
The beauty of returning as an expat isn’t just in the familiarity—it’s in the delightful absurdity of being both a visitor and a veteran. I now know the exact time it takes for a street vendor to pull out his phone and scan your face instead of your money. I know which bus route has a driver who nods at you like you’re a long-lost friend. I know the best spot to grab a steaming baozi at 7:30 a.m., even if it means standing in line with three other people who look like they’ve been doing this since the Tang Dynasty.
And if you’re thinking about making the leap—whether it’s to teach, to work, to live, to escape your old life—I’ll say this: **Find Work Abroad: Find Work Abroad** is not just a website, it’s a portal to chaos, connection, and the most deliciously unpredictable version of adulthood. It’s where I found my job, my friends, and my love for a city that still insists on surprising me—despite being in it for over three years now. I’m not just an expat anymore. I’m a veteran of the chaos. I’m a connoisseur of spicy food and confusing subway maps. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
So here’s to second first impressions—where you’re not just starting over, but starting with a laugh, a slightly sore foot, and a heart full of wonder. China hasn’t changed. It’s still a whirlwind of noise, color, and unpredictable kindness. And I? I’m still learning how to dance in it—barefoot, slightly dizzy, and utterly in love.
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Beijing,
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