I took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “。 . . I was thinking of asking you that same question.”
In the morning I called my parents in America. They were having dinner， the kind of dinner we used to have together around the big table with the dogs lying quietly in the floor waiting for a bite to eat， the nightly news on the TV， the quiet conversation. My mother answered the phone.
“Mom， I have something to tell you. I‘m engaged.”
The town where I grew up is hidden far away in the hills of southern West Virginia in America. During the night， only the sound of crickets and occasionally an owl can be heard somewhere off in the distance， and during the day， line upon line of gentle mountains can be seen rolling off under the sky.
My college town was not much different from where I grew up. A small town of only a few thousand people quietly living their lives out on the west bank of the Potomac River， not far from Washington D.C.， but far enough so that it seemed a different world from the chaos of the city—the traffic， the crowds， the constant noise.
I spent my childhood and my young adulthood living in the country， accustomed to the quiet， untouched by the bustle and clamor of the metropolis. So when I was twenty-three， I decided to come to Shanghai. It was like bomb had gone off. Everywhere there were people—people upon people—the crowd seemed uncontrollable， suffocating. And so much was new. Not just things like buses and the metro， the taxis choking the streets， the smog and construction and constant racket， but all the faces were new too. First， describe everything you have ever known， everything that feels like home to you， and then try to imagine being plunged into a world that is the complete opposite. There was where I was. I could not have imagined a more alien place than Shanghai.
Even though the initial months of my time in Shanghai were a shock， I began to adjust， to figure out how to get the things I needed， to learn survival Chinese， and to enjoy my year teaching. I never thought， however， that I would stay in Shanghai—until I met her.
I sometimes try to imagine her life， to see her life and myself through her eyes. Wu Jun Yi was born in Shanghai to a Shanghainese family. Her entire life was and is played out under the skyscrapers and the thick crowds in the street. I did not know at the time I first met her in the last weeks of the cold， wet winter last year， that Jun Yi would become the only person I could ever conceive of asking to be my wife.
There she was. Attractive， yes， but there is something else about her. She stands straight， holding herself confidently. She speaks directly， demanding action， demanding attention and respect. She demands， but she is tender， loving， and soft. She is a woman in the fullest sense， but at times just a little girl who is scared and lonely. She has loved， and she has lost. She knows what she wants of life and refuses to sacrifice an inch. There is an air about her， a kind of energy which radiates her self-determination， and you can see it in the way that she holds herself， the way she walks down the street， the way she smiles and speaks.
After living in Shanghai for nearly six months， I had grown accustomed to seeing foreigners with their local Chinese girlfriends， but I had also heard some things about the local girls that had made me cautious of ever becoming emotionally involved with one of them. But more than this， I was certain that if I ever had had a chance to have a relationship， I would never take it because I felt I could never understand the world of Chinese girl. Someone from a culture so different from my own， how could I ever identify with her thoughts? How could we communicate our deepest feelings? How could we truly understand one another? How could our sense of love possibly be the same? But then another question began coming more and more often into my mind， and it was question which I believed and still believe has no answer： At what moment does a man fall in love?
When do we fall in love? I turned this over and over again in my mind last spring， but in a place deeper than my mind， a place beyond the intellect， I knew I felt something for her. When we were alone there were times when I found myself absently staring at the way her neck curves， the curious shape of her ears， her slender fingers， her small hands. All to the point where I could no longer deny that I was anything but in love with her. She was the last thought I had at night before I slept; she was my first thought in the morning when I woke.
The day was warm， late April， when all the flowers were still in bloom， and we met beneath a veranda by which ran a slow canal. “There is something that I have been wanting to tell you for a long time，” was how I began.
Last December Jun Yi and her first serious boyfriend broke up. I was raised in conservative cultural surroundings in America though my family is not conservative at all， and I was not surprised when， to her credit， she rejected my advance that day. I think that if she had simply accepted me， then I would have had some doubts about her sincerity. The romantic idea of falling desperately in love with a strange foreigner is a delicious fantasy that perhaps too many people in Shanghai have.
We were friends， becoming the best of friends， and we decided that our friendship should be preserved more than anything else. And perhaps it was out of that feeling， the feeling of being the best of friends， that on an evening in late April I asked her to kiss me， and she did.
Jun Yi was instantly accepted into my family. My family is very liberal， and we hold human equality as a basic standard， so she did not run into any racism or any other difficulty in finding acceptance with them. And amazingly enough， almost as easily as Jun Yi was accepted into my family， I was accepted into hers. Now I consider her father and mother， her aunts and uncles， as my family—people who love me and whom I love. It is amazing that even though we do not speak the same language， we communicate nonetheless， and I learn so much about what it means to be a family by taking part in hers.
In the end， my questions were answered. Yes， two people from completely different cultures can have the same sense of feeling， the same understanding of what it means to love. And that two sets of eyes from two worlds can find happiness and joy together， this gives me so much hope.
今年6月的一個傍晚，當浦東溫柔的橙色燈光緩緩照進窗內(nèi)，窗外公路上汽車飛馳而過的聲音已漸漸遠去時，她看著我問道：“你認為我們應該結婚嗎?”我深深吸了一口氣，緩緩地說：“……我也正考慮問你這個問題。”
一個早上，我打電話給了在美國的父母。我可以想得到——他們正在吃晚餐，像以前那樣，大家圍在大桌子旁，我們的狗安靜地趴在地上，等著我們時不時地喂它一口，電視里播著當天的晚間新聞，大家安靜地談論著某些東西。電話是母親接的。我說：“媽媽，我有話想跟您說，我訂婚了。”
我從小生活的那個小鎮(zhèn)，隱藏在美國西弗吉尼亞州南部的群山深處。晚上，這里只有蟋蟀的叫聲，和偶爾可以聽到遠處貓頭鷹的叫聲。白天放眼望去，天空底下盡是綿延的山峰。大學時候，學校所在的那個鎮(zhèn)，跟我從小生活的地方?jīng)]有太大區(qū)別。雖然它離華盛頓特區(qū)不太遠，但這已足以將城市的喧囂置于世外了。我的童年及青年時期都生活在這樣的地方，習慣了安靜，好像與大都市的匆忙和喧囂嘈雜扯不上什么關系。
所以，23歲那年，我決定來上海。這里到處都是人，擁擠得有些失控，并讓人窒息，然而這一切是如此新鮮。盡管在上海頭幾個月的生活對我來說無疑是個不小的震動，然而我已開始學著調(diào)整，比如弄明白怎樣才能買到我所需的東西，學習簡單的生活用語以及享受教學的樂趣。但是，我從沒有想過我會留在上海，直到我遇到她。
有時我會試著去想像她的生活，去了解她以及她眼中的我。Maggie是上海人，從小就生活在摩天大樓和人潮中間。去年那個濕冷冬季的最后一周，我第一次遇見她，當時我還不知道她將成為惟一一個我想要結婚的人。
她是一個充滿魅力的女孩。是的，她總是站得筆直，充滿自信。她很有想法，但有時卻是一個有點恐懼和落寞的小女孩。她愛過，也失去過。她知道自己想要什么樣的生活，拒絕犧牲其中的任何一點。在她身上有一種氣息，一種能量，全身散發(fā)著她的獨立自主。
在上海生活大概6個月后，我已漸漸習慣了身邊的外國人和他們的中國女友們，但我也聽說了一些中國女孩的事情，這使我謹慎小心，避免與她們中的某個人糾纏不清。即使我有機會發(fā)展這樣的關系，我也不會接受，因為我完全不能理解中國女孩的世界。一個文化背景和我截然不同的人，我該如何才能了解她的想法?我們?nèi)绾文芙涣魃顚拥母惺?我們是否能真正理解對方?我們對愛的體會是否相同
去年春天，我曾無數(shù)次地問過自己“我們是什么時候戀愛的?”有好多次我們獨處時，我出神地看著她脖子上彎曲的紋路，好奇她耳朵的形狀，纖細的手指，還有她的小手。所有這一切讓我不再否認我愛上了她。每天睡覺前我想的最后一個人是她，每天醒來我想的第一個人還是她。
4月底的一天，各種花兒爭奇斗艷，我們相約在河邊的回廊下見面。我的開場白是：“有一件事很久以來我一直想跟你說”。Maggie去年12月和她的第一個男朋友分手。盡管我的父母不是什么保守的人，但我從小生活在一個保守的環(huán)境里。所以那天她拒絕我時，我并不感到意外。我想如果她這么輕易就接受我了，那我可能就會懷疑她的真誠了。
開始時我們僅是朋友，接著是最好的朋友，之后我們覺得應該更珍視我們的友誼�；蛟S這可能已超出了朋友的情感，直到4月底的一個晚上，我讓她吻我，結果她同意了。
我的家人很快就接受她了。讓我驚喜的是，她的家人也很快授受了我。她的父母、叔叔、阿姨像我的家人一樣愛著我，當然我也愛他們。令人驚奇的是，盡管我們說著不同的語言，但我們依然能溝通。這讓我深刻體會到只有參與其中你才能成為家庭中的一員。
最后，我的問題已有了答案了。是的，兩個來自完全不同文化背景的人，是能夠體會相同的感受，對愛的意義是可以有相同理解的。此外，兩雙來自兩個世界的眼睛，是能夠在一起尋找快樂和幸福的，這讓我充滿期待。
