Picture this

It was the summer of 2007 and I was braving China—10 days of cultural fascination as I traversed the Central Kingdom. I had just graduated, and my friend and her parents had allowed me to accompany. On our trip, we stopped at an imperial garden in Xi’an, somewhere in the middle, or as close as I could guess was the middle, of China. It proved to be a slow-paced land, in a sedated, calming kind of way. Bright orange koi fish dawdling in green ponds, red angular roofs reflecting in their waters, and that unnamable smell that is China —something between mildew, lizard, and honey—enticed my senses (and my camera). But the nearly 100 degrees of heat marinating through slush-like humidity left much to be said about my mood, let alone my hair, which was starting to plaster to my head not unlike a swim cap. But then, limp hair and sweaty brow aside, a young lady and her male friend approached me with their camera.

Brave, if you ask me.

“Picture?” she asked me, trying out the foreign word. She wore tiny bejeweled shoes and was gripping a camera. Understanding her request, I made an attempt to take the camera so she and her partner could photograph this moment. You can imagine my confusion when she handed the camera off to the gentleman and stepped next to me, a shrine with blue tiles as our backdrop. Puzzled and mouth wide open, I heard the click go off. The boy gave a thumbs-up and pocketed the camera. Before I could say ni hau, I had become a victim of a surprise picture (I’m sure I looked fantastic). The couple nodded their heads in thanks and continued down the pebbly steps. Before I could think about the bizarre paparazzi moment, my group and I were whisked off to Beijing, nudging pigeons in Tiananmen Square and staring at Mao’s mug painted on the palace gates.

And it happened again.

The elderly couple with smiles in their wrinkles had followed me for about two minutes before they spoke.

“Picture?”

This time I approached with caution; I thought they were peddling guidebooks. But when I saw the man—he was three inches short of my 5’4”—raise the bulky black camera, my spider senses started tingling. The wife was putting her arms around me and the husband cranking the film. Could it be? No…But sure enough, repeat offender: I had just become a celebrity in another photo shoot, smiling nervously and patting these strangers on the back.

What was going on? I started to convince myself they thought I was some famous actress. Drew Barrymore? I fancied… After three more instances of Chinese tourists selecting me from our group of dark-haired, brown-eyed Caucasians, though, I realized why I was the chosen one: my light red hair, an explosion of freckles, and shorts you can’t wear to grandma’s hardly belonged in China. I was no longer the typical girl-next-door, although I’d been labeled it many times at home. Nor was I Lindsay Lohan.

I was just different.