On Jan 23, 2012, I was aboard a ship on the Yangtze River, listening to the sound of fireworks and eating plate after plate of dumplings. On Sunday Feb 10, 2013, I was preparing to celebrate Chinese New Year again – in London’s Chinatown. It was raining. It was cold. But ever since I left Beijing in August, I had promised myself I would celebrate Chinese New Year – if only to help with my Beijing “homesickness”. Central London was dressed up for the occasion. There was a stage for a big fireworks display for the evening. Even so, it wasn’t like my real Beijing chunjie. Even buying a baozi didn’t cheer me up. It cost about 10 times as much as the real thing does in Beijing and got stuck to its rain-ruined paper bag. Cold, wet and depressed, I ran into a shop for shelter. Suddenly, there it was. Between the packets of dried meat and fish, the bags of rice and the smell of dried noodles in this little Chinese supermarket, I had found home. An hour later, I hurried into my house with bags of frozen jiaozi, packets of sauce and a large bottle of vinegar. I boiled water, tore open the packets, grabbed my chopsticks and settled down to a feast. This, I thought, is a Happy Chinese New Year. I even watched the fireworks on TV. After all, why face the British weather when I can bring China home in one bite? 小题1: We can conclude from the first three paragraphs that the author ______.
|