To not be continued... 有缘分

Destiny. Fate. Serendipity.

In English, we often times use these words to describe our romantic entanglements, first impressions, secret affairs... love or what have you. For some reason, those words are often pulled out during weddings, anniversaries, and Valentine’s Day… or in a really sappy love scene in the latest romantic comedy.

It was an inevitable course of events. A series of fortunate events. God, or whatever higher power you may believe in, planned for you to meet this person, at that time, under those circumstances, for whatever reason. Let’s keep it simple so I'm not forced to pummel you with my philosophy minor and thoughts on religion.

In Chinese there’s a saying that can’t quite be translated quite as accurately, as meaningfully, or as perfectly into English --

有缘无分
To have destiny, but not be fated.
To be destined to meet, but not be fated to end up together.

But in Chinese, it doesn’t sound corny, clichéd, or even remotely exaggerated. I avoid translating this concept as "star-crossed lovers" because it's not necesssarily depressing and no where near tragic. It’s a phrase that can be used to describe a variety of people, situations, or events – not just past lovers, ex flames, ex-boyfriends, and ex-complicated.

Like the strangers that have crossed my path, infiltrated my memory bank, and ambled away without a second glance back…

I remember... one winter’s day, I found myself pleasantly lost, by luck, in a back-alley record store located in one of the many 胡同's in Beijing. The record store itself was a tiny cramped room, the floor space perhaps no larger than the last elevator you were in. The door to which, barely barred the wind from forcing its way inside, and would loudly clang the bells attached to the doorknob every time a customer entered… as if the owner wouldn’t notice when a customer entered and immediately took up one fourth of the space in the room.... Shelves and shelves of CDs hid the walls from view, threatening to topple over at any second, daring customers to just try and jam a CD just a little too roughly, a little too harshly, back into the shelf. Band posters and concert flyers served as a table cloth for the “cashier’s desk”… where a tiny Chinese hipster was hunched over his laptop (black rimmed glasses and all) – intent on whatever new album he seemed to have gotten his tattooed hands on.

And for whatever reason, destiny, fate, or not… I met him.

Not as if he or I had a choice in the matter… just entering the shop, I had already found myself right by his side. A step to the right, a duck, and a weave – as we naturally revolved around each other, trying to take in the music collection contained within the overly cramped room. Carefully picking our steps so as to not crash into each other - a dance between strangers.

As I perused the collection, I noticed that most of the music I already had… which isn’t surprising as my CD collection is on the brink of reaching 300.... (You can laugh if you want but I’m an old soul at heart, hate new technology, still prefer record players to the newest iHome, and only recently succumbed to iTunes). So as I thumbed distractedly through the CDs, I found the time to discretely take in my fellow music-enthusiast…

Now, he wasn’t dashing, and by no means gorgeous… But he had a strong jaw line, a lean figure, and from what I gathered he was just a little under 6’. To be honest, I can't remember his face... only that he was handsome at the very least. What I do remember? He was immaculately dressed. Underneath his grey wool peacoat, a sleek skinny tie peaked out of a dark blue cardigan – dark washed jeans, and leather lace up boots completed his outfit. A too careless look that had to have been planned. A stark contrast to the shadow of a stubble I noticed he seemed to have neglected that morning... He moves slowly, fluidly. I lower my eyes, focusing just a little too hard on the album in front of me as he turns to speak to the owner in Chinese...

It was his accent which first captured my full-attention.
Startled, curious, intrigued – I had to ask,

“Excusez-moi, mais… est-ce que vous-êtes français?”

And indeed he was. A French grad-student who’s been living in China for the last six years. We held a conversation in three languages, and he held my heart within three seconds. Was I French too? No, I spent time in France because of family -- but why was he in China? Oh, really? No, I’ve only been here for a few weeks. He spent some time in Vietnam, he says -- oh, and yes, of course I love jazz. And, could he recommend me some French music? Reaching above me to a shelf located to the left of my head, he quickly pulled out a few CDs handing them to me with a promise that I'd enjoy his selection.

Songs by Gotan Project breathes this memory into life every time one of them manages to shuffle itself onto my playlist.

If I had bothered to get his number? What’s the most that would have happened? We would have become facebook friends? We would have exchanged maybe three or four emails – before our moments in the record store, would be nothing but a muddled memory. I’d discover that he’s like any other man -- with flaws, defects, and not the Parisian I had imagined him to be. He'd be average. My first memory of him would be tainted. Our correspondence? Would fizzle, with a last crack to signal its death, then like the embers of a campfire of the next morning, be buried in grey ashes. No, I couldn’t let that happen.

I wanted to keep him as a perfect memory. Distinct. Vivid. A memory of a cold, clear day -- in a record store in Beijing. Some moments are only perfect, because of the beauty that can be captured by its brevity. Like a transient daydream. An artifice of your imagination. Fleeting yet enduring. A moment to revisit and romanticize. His character, forever slightly a mystery, which only my imagination could serve to fill in the blanks.


Which is why I walked away…without a second glance back. And without regret.