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? Why did the author watch the fireworks on TV?
She didn't want to get wet and cold again. The square is far away from where she lives. She doesn't like fireworks very much. She was too hungry to go out.