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The fluorescent airport lights buzz overhead like angry wasps, casting harsh shadows across faces that seem carved from stone. Bodies shuffle past in wrinkled yoga pants and backward baseball caps, their expressions twisted into permanent scowls of hurry and inconvenience. The vile smell of fast food mingles with industrial cleaning solution and the faint desperation of delayed flights. Someone bumps into me — hard — without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment, their eyes locked on their phone screen, consumed by some urgent digital fire that apparently justifies bulldozing through fellow humans.
Welcome back to America.
After 14 hours suspended between worlds, 35,000 feet above the Pacific, I just experienced one of the most jarring culture shocks of my life. But here’s the twist that’s scrambling my brain: I’m not adjusting to a foreign culture. I’m readjusting to my own.
The contrast hits me like a physical blow. Just hours ago, I was surrounded by people who dressed with intention, who smiled genuinely, who seemed to radiate a contentment I’d forgotten existed. Now I’m drowning in a sea of distracted faces, each person seemingly at war with the world around them. The colors here seem muted, angry — even the advertisements feel aggressive, demanding rather than inviting.
The Prophecies of Doom
Before I left for China, the warnings came from every direction, like arrows from some ancient battlefield. “It’s a communist country, you know.” “Don’t eat the food.” “Don’t drink the water — it’s worse than Mexico.” “You’ll probably get kidnapped and have your organs harvested.” The fear-mongering was so intense, so universal, that I almost believed it myself.
I packed like I was heading into a post-apocalyptic wasteland: extra medications, over-the-counter remedies for every possible disaster, Vicks VapoRub to combat the supposed omnipresent smell of human waste, and backup shoes because mine would surely be destroyed by the filth I’d be wading through. I was preparing for hell on earth, convinced by a chorus of voices that didn’t think I should go.
A Beautiful Shock
What I discovered upon arrival was one of the most beautiful, modern airports I’ve ever seen. Streets filled with electric vehicles that put our technology to shame. Neon cities that rose from the landscape like something from a utopian dream. The scenery rivaled Switzerland’s magnetic Alps, only bigger, or Italy’s romance, including vineyards and wineries — every vista seemed designed by an artist with an eye for beauty. The food wasn’t a survival challenge, it was a celebration — course after course of flavors I’d never imagined, presented with a generosity that overwhelmed my senses. Yes, there were a few foods that are mainstream there that made me shudder, but they were indeed tasty. Now I can say I’ve eaten snake and esophagus.
But here’s what shocked me most: the people. Their faces carried something I’d forgotten existed in abundance — joy. Not the manic, caffeine-fueled energy we mistake for happiness here, but a deep contentment that seemed to emanate from their very souls. They had smartphones more advanced than ours (a trifold phone that becomes a full-size tablet), 20 brands of electric cars more modern than anything in our showrooms, and yet their pace felt … human. Even the busiest people in a hurry would still stop and chat.
The Wisdom of a Slow Pace
I had to learn to adjust. Going from my usual 130-mile-per-hour business pace to long lunches, tea breaks, and extended dinners felt like learning to breathe underwater. But these weren’t interruptions to productivity — they were the point. Every meal was about connection, every conversation was about understanding how they could serve you better. People went out of their way to be generous, to help, and they were truly interested in my life and family. I learned quickly to be careful about complimenting something beautiful because before I knew it, they were wrapping it up and handing it to me as a gift. These are profoundly generous people — my extra suitcase filled with gifts is evidence.
I found myself saying something I never thought I would: “I could live here.” Not because it was perfect — I saw heavy smoking, pollution, massive crowds of people, and some disparities between rich and poor — but because the foundation seemed built on something we’ve lost: the understanding that quality of life matters more than quantity of things.
A Mirror of Truth
What does it say about us when a “communist” country feels more generous than our “land of the free”? When the people I met who were living in one-room houses without bathrooms seem happier than our neighbors in McMansions? When elderly painters in small studios radiate more joy than our “Type A” executives in corner offices?
The Chinese culture places art everywhere — buildings filled with paintings, beauty woven into daily life. Here, we’ve relegated beauty to museums and galleries, as if it’s too precious for everyday consumption. There, beauty is considered essential nourishment for the soul. Everything centers around quality aesthetics.
Questions That Haunt Me
As I sat in a sterile airport seat , surrounded by the familiar hostility of home, I was haunted by questions that feel both uncomfortable and necessary:
*What else do I believe that isn’t true?*
*How many other experiences have I avoided because of secondhand fear?*
*When did we decide that being perpetually busy was more valuable than being present?*
*Why do we treat generosity as naive and kindness as weakness?*
I realized something profound during my almost four weeks making speeches, holding business meetings, attending banquets and countless feasts, conducting seminars and round tables with dozens of Chinese people, and painting the landscape with hundreds of local artists: We don’t see countries or cultures or people — we see the stories we’ve been told about them.
I went to China wearing glasses tinted by decades of media narratives, political rhetoric, and inherited biases. I kept looking for evidence of what I’ve heard, yet saw only small pieces of it. What I saw when I finally removed those glasses was a revelation that shook me to my core.
The “dirty, dangerous, communist hellscape” turned out to be a vibrant, modern, deeply human place where people have figured out something we seem to have forgotten: that life is about more than accumulating wealth and moving fast. It’s about connection, beauty, generosity, and taking time to actually taste your food and see your friends.
Do oppression and control actually exist? Of course. I would be naive to think they don’t. But the people I talked with don’t seem to be bothered by that. They just live their lives
The Return to Color
Will I change? Will I remember the lessons of slowness, the power of generosity, the importance of beauty in daily life? Or will I fall back into the familiar patterns of rush and worry and digital distraction?
Only time will tell. But I know this: I’ll return to China someday, and I’ll bring others who are open-minded and who want to see what I saw, who want to experience the incredible beauty and camaraderie of painting alongside Chinese artists who understand that art isn’t decoration — it’s oxygen for the soul.
What stories do you believe without questioning? What colors are you seeing through the lens of someone else’s fear or propaganda? And what might you discover if you removed those glasses and looked with your own eyes, finding out for yourself? I'm glad I did. Otherwise I’d still be operating on incorrect perceptions.
Sometimes the most revolutionary act is the simplest: choosing to see for yourself rather than through the filter of others’ fear. The world is more beautiful — and more complex — than any story we’ve been told about it.
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