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分享一篇文章： The moving-home experience in China is just like anywhere else, one big hassle. Before the truck arrived and five Sichuan migrant workers stomped through my apartment, a rigorous stock-take was needed. What do you keep and what do you throw away? I gazed at the cardboard boxes, filled with all sorts of useless little things and realized how much junk I'd gathered. One day that marvelous, must-have, antique-looking mahjong set is treasure, the next it's another piece of trash, which was never used, despite all the best intentions. When I first moved to China everything was interesting. It's a bit like getting drunk as a teenager. It is quite a thrill at first, but soon the buzz flattens out. The kitschy "cultural revolution (1966-76)" posters, the framed picture of the qipao-wearing Shanghai lady gracefully holding a cigarette, the 1932 hand-drawn map of old Beijing and the spear-wielding statue of Guan Yu (that crazy-looking bearded general from the Three Kingdoms classic) had all lost their novel appeal. And what about my gold fish and my monster 4,000-yuan fish tank? This was by far my biggest moral dilemma. To be or not to be, that was the question. Getting rid of material things is an easy throwing in-the-bin exercise, but these living, breathing little friends, who had flapped around so many mornings, with hungry mouths open, calling for breakfast, were my good mates. | 
