My original one:
Back in the mid-1990s, when China’s economy took off in the south and leapfrogged under Deng’s open policy, Em followed her husband, then boyfriend and landed a job there. Moving from the southeast part of China to further south, about only one thousand kilometers, however felt like entering a new world. People there spoke a different dialect which was Greek to Em. The weather there was subtropical and thus humid and sultry. A sweater handwashed could go sour in days and never dry up. On top of all, local residents seemingly hungered to make money. From the peddler on the street to the professor on campus, everyone was as busy as bees, vying for beelines, if any, to become rich. Though Em worked on campus walled from the mercurial world outside, she felt swept by the surging tide, willy-nilly, in a front city called Canton.
Like most newcomers, Em was poor at the time. She shared a room with a married colleague, who never showed up but still occupied her other half room with dusted furniture and left unattended. The room was on the first floor, dilapidated and dark, with her own half empty, without any furniture. She remembered her first night on a hurriedly purchased twin-sized bed, an iron-framed placed with a piece of plank on the top.
Em’s boyfriend worked for an institute located on the other end of the city, an hour’s bike ride away beyond the city’s public transportation. As they got married later, the transportation problem loomed larger. Without a car or a motorcycle, their only affordable transportation facility （？）was a second-hand bike. Not that they could not afford a new one, but that anything new would be easily targeted by thieves and got stolen.
Daily two hours’ commute was daunting. He had to bike up and down steep bridges, meandering through bustling streets that were thronged with buses, motorcycles, taxis and bikes. Most city roads were paved, but the way leading to his institute was bumpy gravel. At first, he complained about hazy air, dusty wind or rain on rainy days. Then adding to the list was the bike tire. For a time, tires got flat almost every day. The fact that it always occurred right after he got off the long bridge made him wonder if there were maliciously scattered nails by the bike repairers who waited under the bridge. He was so enraged that he refused to let them make money out of him but learnt to mend the tire himself at home.
A year later, he got a chance to work in the states. He bid farewell to the family, the city and his old creaking bike. In the decades that followed, he owned one car after another, old and new. Riding a bike is a bygone memory, though they also own two bikes, for the daughter, idled in the garage collecting dust.
Come this May. A girl without a driver’s license came to their city for an internship. They offered her a bike but later found it to be gas leaking. The old days of his mending it sprang to his mind. He went to a store, bought a tool kit with sticker patches and rolled up his sleeves in the garage. The bike was placed upside down, the soft inner tire being pulled out of the hard one into a basin of water. Bit by bit, they tested it to see if there was a bubble, until a minuscule one finally formed and bulged out.
The afternoon sun slanted into the open garage, basking a quarter of the place in the sun, next to which Em and her husband were bending the knees over a bike, fixating on a flat tire. The muscle memory awakened, as well as the memory as he rotated the tire. A moment like this only reminded them of the good old days in their twenties in a faraway city in China.
Edited by ChatGPT:
Back in the mid-1990s, when China’s economy began to soar in the south under Deng Xiaoping’s open-door policy, Em followed her then-boyfriend (later husband) and landed a job in the region. Although she only moved about a thousand kilometers south from her hometown, it felt like stepping into a new world.
The local dialect was utterly foreign to Em—completely unintelligible. The subtropical climate was humid and stifling. A hand-washed sweater could turn sour in just a few days, never drying completely. Most striking, however, was the unrelenting drive of the people. From street vendors to university professors, everyone seemed consumed by the pursuit of wealth, moving with the urgency of bees chasing the shortest route to honey.
Although Em worked on a university campus somewhat insulated from the bustling world outside, she still felt swept up in the tide—drawn into the currents of this fast-paced city called Canton.
Like many newcomers, Em was poor at the time. She shared a small, dilapidated room on the ground floor with a married colleague who rarely showed up but left behind dust-covered furniture in her half of the room. Em’s side was bare, almost completely unfurnished. She vividly remembered her first night, sleeping on a hastily bought, twin-sized iron bed frame topped with a simple plank of wood.
Her boyfriend worked across the city at an institute unreachable by public transportation—an hour’s bike ride each way. When they eventually got married, the transportation issue became even more burdensome. They couldn’t afford a car or motorcycle, and even a new bicycle was too risky—new bikes were prime targets for thieves. So they made do with a second-hand bike.
His daily two-hour commute was grueling. He pedaled over steep bridges and through congested streets filled with buses, motorcycles, taxis, and bicycles. Most roads in the city were paved, but the final stretch to his institute was rough gravel. At first, he complained about the smog, dust, and rain. Later, it was the bike tires. For a time, they went flat almost daily. Oddly, the punctures always happened after crossing a long bridge. He suspected the bike repairers stationed underneath had scattered nails to drum up business. Enraged, he decided not to let them profit off him and learned to patch tires himself.
A year later, he got an opportunity to work in the United States. He said goodbye to his family, the city—and the creaking old bicycle. In the decades that followed, he owned car after car, both new and used. Biking became a distant memory, though they still kept two bikes in the garage for their daughter, now collecting dust.
Then came this May.
A young woman without a driver’s license came to their city for an internship. They offered her one of the bikes, only to find it had a leaky tire. Memories of those long-ago days came flooding back. He went to a store, bought a repair kit with sticker patches, and rolled up his sleeves in the garage.
They flipped the bike upside down and pulled out the soft inner tube, dipping it into a basin of water. Bit by bit, they searched for the leak. Finally, a tiny bubble formed and swelled—a pinhole breach.
The afternoon sun slanted into the open garage, lighting up one corner beside where Em and her husband knelt over the bike, eyes fixed on the tire. As he rotated it, muscle memory stirred—and with it, the memories of a simpler, tougher time. A moment like this brought back the warmth and grit of their twenties, in a distant city in southern China.
Any comment? ChatGPT is so powerful:-)我花了一兩天時間寫的，它一分鍾不到就改好了，改的比原文好。心哇涼哇涼的：）））
