Of Banquets, Baijou, and Beer

Those who know me well are aware that alcohol and I do not have the smoothest of relationships.  I get along just fine with moderate amounts of wine, and the few times I’ve sampled champagne no severe consequences have shown themselves.  However, I have never been able to stomach the fizzy and foamy quality of beer, and my apparently picky belly has a strict and swift rejection policy when it comes to anything stronger.  Even a whiff of something like vodka or tequila is enough to start it churning.  I have been mocked several times for my sensitivity—and even more for how quickly I reach the state of being tipsy—but no matter how much I try, I have never been able to get over it.

            As a result of this queer handicap, I found myself ill prepared for the formal dining scene in China.  Drinking is a big part of formal events, and especially honored guests are expected to down quite a lot of alcohol.  One of the first new phrases I learned upon my arrival in China was “gan bei,” which essentially means “bottoms up.”  When someone toasts you with these words, you are expected to drain your glass in one go, and refusing is considered rather rude.  I probably would have been able to handle this with no problem if I had my choice of drink.  However, another tradition at formal events is the drinking of baijou, a Chinese alcohol that is quite frankly one of the most foul-smelling liquids I have ever been confronted with.  To me, its odor contains hints of very strong cheese crossed with the scent of rotting fruit.  I don’t believe its alcohol content is particularly strong, but just the taste is enough to send anyone into a dizzy spell.  Most of my fellow teachers avoid it at all costs, and those that don’t tend to adopt very interesting and loud mannerisms by the end of the evening.

Baijou before and after shots

           But to continue, I quickly discovered after settling in at Qufu University that my distaste for most forms of alcohol was going to be a problem.  At the conclusion of our first week of teaching, all of the foreign teachers were required to attend a formal welcome banquet.  Also in attendance were the deans of the English, French, Korean, and Russian departments and the President of the college.  I ended up sitting just two seats down from the President, who made it very clear from the start that he did not intend to spare anyone when it came to drinking.  I struggled through my first glass of baijou with several rushed sips and what I’m sure was a fascinating routine of odd faces hidden behind my hand or my napkin.  Luckily for me, the President noticed my predicament and decided to take pity on me.  When it came time to have our glasses refilled, I was given a large glass of orange juice instead.

            However, the President and the other guests at my table were not about to let me miss out on the fun.  I was directed several times to “gan bei,” and was cheered on with enthusiasm as I downed glass after towering glass of juice.  The intake of so much sugar along with the many plates of food I consumed did not make for the best combination.  By the end of the two-hour banquet I could actually hear sloshing in my stomach.  I felt rather like an upright waterbed, and as I teetered to the van that had been hired to drive us home I wondered if I had actually gotten the better deal.  My colleagues were pretty far gone, but at least they all seemed to be exceedingly happy about it.

            When our second banquet came around, I decided to strategize.  I would politely but firmly refuse the baijou and ask immediately for wine.  I definitely wouldn’t mind pounding down a glass or two of wine.

            But things never really go according to plan.

            This banquet was much more casual.  Stella, the Dean of the College of Foreign Languages, was our host.  She is a very quiet and kind woman, and announced right from the start that she had no intention of forcing us to drink.  We could choose what we wanted and be left alone.

The banquet spread

            I, however, was not sitting next to Stella.  I was sitting next to Roger, the boisterous Assistant Dean, who upon hearing that I wasn’t much of a drinker decided that his mission for the evening would be to change that fact.

            I sensed that I could be straight with Roger.  “I’m not drinking baijou,” I told him, with my sternest of looks.

            “No, no.  You must drink beer!”

            “Um…wine?  Could I—“

            But Roger was already handing me a glass nearly overflowing with beer.  “Gan bei!” he cried cheerfully.

            I sighed, and I gan bei’d.  Just managing to keep from making a rather impolite face, I gave Roger a slightly strained smile.

            He cast me a knowing glance.  “Three glasses,” he said.  “Then you can drink at your pleasure.”

            I watched as my glass was again filled to the brim and gave thanks that glasses for alcohol in China are actually quite small.  The next time I was asked to finish off my beer, I only made it about half way through.  Roger gave me a critical look.  “You have obviously not been to the Great Wall,” he concluded.

            “No, I haven’t yet.  Why?”

            “It is said in China that when you have been to the Great Wall you are a real man.”

            “I’m not a man at all,” I pointed out.

            “No, no, you are a pretty girl!”

            I suggested that perhaps this was why he was so eager to get me to drink.  Roger laughed.  “Finish your beer!” he ordered.  I obeyed, and watched as it was once again replaced.

            “This is the last one, right?” I asked eagerly.  “Three glasses, and then I’m done.”

            “No, no, no, you misunderstood!  Three after the first one!”  Roger grinned in delight.  I could tell he was really enjoying this.  Fixing him with a frosty stare, I took a big swig of beer.

            Roger took my challenge and raised his glass.  “Gan bei!”

            When my fourth glass was handed to me, I felt it was time to take action.  A waitress had recently brought me a bowl of soup, which Roger—knowing I was a vegetarian—had informed me I shouldn’t eat as it contained seafood.  The next time Roger gave a toast, I waited until he turned to raise his glass to the guests on the other side of the table.  Then I swiftly poured my beer into the soup.

            This didn’t work quite as well as I had hoped.  The foam from the beer combined with something in the soup caused a bit a of a strange reaction, and I had to stir the soup vigorously to hide the rapid bubbling that had commenced.  But by the time Roger had turned back to me I had gotten it under control and was sitting with glass in hand, smiling calmly.

            Roger looked surprised.  “You drank!”

            “Yes,” I lied.  “That’s four glasses!”  I waved a no-thank-you to the waitress who approached me with a fresh bottle of beer, and cheerfully accepted the replacement of tea.

            Roger sighed and shook his head, disappointed in me.

            “It’s okay, Roger,” I consoled him.  “I’m supposed to visit the Great Wall soon.”

            He grinned.  “Yes!  Next time, we drink more!”

Midnight Massacre

            I’ve noticed that every time I move to a new place, it takes a while for me to get over the initial rose-colored-glasses syndrome.  My first few weeks anywhere—college, studying abroad, or a new hometown—are always too overwhelming to actually inspire any sort of opinion.  I am always so in awe of everything that is different and new that I am more pleasantly surprised or impressed than anything else.  As a consequence, it takes a while before I find myself capable of really hating something about a new place.  Still, no matter how much I struggle to remain positive and bright, the turn-around always arrives.  In Qufu it came a few nights ago, barreling along at full speed like a raging bull.  What inspired the change?  Two things, actually: mosquitoes and fireworks.

            Since arriving in China, I have discovered that both fireworks and mosquitoes are a big part of daily life.  Fireworks are used to celebrate everything, and often used for no reason at all other than that they make lots of noise.  They are set off at every time of day.  You will hear them at three o’clock in the afternoon, or more often at three in the morning.  Most of the time they are far enough from campus that they don’t really bother me, but it does occasionally get old.

            Now, for the mosquitoes.  I’m fairly accustomed to mosquitoes.  I grew up in a humid climate where such bugs abound, and although I get a few nasty bites every summer it’s not too bad.  But I’ve quickly learned that the Chinese mosquito is a much heartier and more vindictive breed than that found in New England.  Have you ever seen Jumanji?  Do you remember the scene where Robin Williams is trapped in a car with the two kids and a mosquito the size of a pit bull is stabbing through the roof with fierce and bloodthirsty determination?  Okay, now you’re getting the picture.

            Separately, neither the fireworks nor the mosquitoes are much of an irritant.  If I fall asleep early enough, I can usually sleep through any late night crackles and pops.  And with some strategic dressing and sleeping arrangements, I don’t have much of a problem with the mosquitoes, either.  However, on Friday night the two forces decided to form an alliance against me, and the result was not pleasant.

            I had not had a good week.  Scrambled by classes, attempts to plan my October vacation, and the nasty habit of falling asleep in the late afternoon, I had not been sleeping well.  A dinner of street food with a couple of students had left me a bit queasy for a few days, all of my clothes were sopping wet as a result of some very monsoon-like weather, and a girl in my debate class had informed me that I looked like the murderer in an American horror movie she had just seen.  All in all, my mood was not very good.  I was tired, irritable, and prone to very violent thoughts.

            In this ill-humored state, I was not at all prepared for Friday night.  Things began with a mosquito in my bedroom that was determined to get at me no matter what—and to do it in as annoying a fashion as was possible.  This mosquito was clever.  She (she buzzed, so I know it was a she) waited until I was just about to drift off into sleep, and then she dove directly at my face, emitting a high-pitched wail like the drone of a miniature World War II bomber plane.  This happened repeatedly, over and over for about two hours while I tossed and turned swatted frantically.  At one point, I did manage to drift off for about thirty minutes, but an incessant buzzing woke me again.  Not only had she returned, but she had also discovered that I had left one of my hands exposed, hanging out of my roll of sheets.  I was rewarded with fifteen bites and fingers that looked like they belonged to a leper.  But the assailant seemed to have temporarily disappeared.

            At this point, I was too tired to fight anymore.  I stuffed my hand back into my sheets and prepared to go back to sleep.  But just as I was dozing off, a long series of loud booms echoed through the air.  Somebody somewhere had found a reason to set off fireworks.  Again.  And they showed no sign of stopping.

            I rolled over and waited.  Maybe the fireworks would go away.

            BOOM.

            Hmm.  That seemed to be the end of it.

            BZZZZZZ.

            She was back!  I swatted frantically and yanked my sheets up over my face.  A few more angry buzzes and she disappeared again.  I held my breath.  Silence.  I closed my eyes, and soon I was drifting into sleep.

            BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. CRACK. BOOM.

            BZZZZZZZ.

            This was too much.  Seething with rage against all mosquitoes and all creatures like them, and cursing aloud whoever the hell was responsible for the booming, I flung myself out of bed and stood in an angry fighting stance.  After a few seconds, I realized that there wasn’t actually anyone around for me to take out my frustration on.  So, instead, I made my way to the kitchen.  The kitchen was the perfect place for my current predicament.  For one thing, I could cook something to take my mind off the fact that I wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight.  For another, it was damp and warm—the perfect place to lie in wait for my buzzing enemy.  I would kill them all, I vowed to myself.

            I decided to make a grape cobbler.  I had had a few groups of students over during the week, and they had all presented me with enormous bags of grapes as a gift.  I love fruit, but eating grapes in China is a bit of a challenge.  It requires both peeling and seeding; not something you look for in a quick and easy snack.  But now, it was about one in the morning and I had the rest of the night ahead of me.  I had plenty of time!

            I got to work.  My counter was neatly organized: a cutting board and a knife for slicing and seeding my grapes, my trash can nearby for the disposal of seeds, a pot in which to deposit my grapes for boiling, and a small notebook for the use of self defense.  I turned on some music to drown out the fireworks, hummed along, and occasionally contributed to the beat with a hearty smack of my notebook against the kitchen wall whenever I caught sight of anything resembling an insect.  By the time my grapes were boiling away on the stovetop, it was after two and my wall looked like a Jackson Pollock painting.  Study in Mashed Mosquitoes.

            I drained the grapes, mixed them with some sugar and lemon juice, plopped them in a pan, sprinkled them with oatmeal streusel, and slid the concoction into my toaster oven.  I had a while to wait.  Now what?  Hmm.

            The following thirty minutes or so was not pretty, and I personally blame my behavior on sleep deprivation, a sort of mania caused by several ragingly itchy mosquito bites, and far too many finger dips into the sugar bag while cooking.  Taking my trusty notepad with me, I stalked around my apartment and commenced what is likely the largest mosquito massacre ever committed by humankind.  I lay in wait in my bedroom, lights off and bedside lamp alight, beating wildly at anything that flew.  I desecrated my mirror in the bathroom, its surface smeared with tiny little bodies.  I cackled with glee as I skipped through my living room and back to the kitchen, where I pounded the last survivors into smithereens.

            Let me pause a moment to say that I am not usually all that big on killing.  I’m very much a “let it be” type of person when it comes to the dirtier parts of nature, and this even applies to bugs.  Spiders, bees, and all things that crawl are generally safe from me.  But I must admit, after the night I’d had smashing those mosquitoes to their deaths filled me with no less than pure serenity.

            The timer dinged, and I removed my cobbler from the toaster oven.  It smelled delicious.  I grabbed a spoon, surveyed with pride my accomplishment spattered across the walls, and retreated to bed and a movie.

Badly in Need of Catching Up

Hey, everybody!


When I arrived in China, I began recording stories in a Word document on my computer, intending to start a blog as soon as possible.  But apparently, my sense of time is not all that good, and I am also pretty easily distracted.  So here, with my first (belated) entry, I am posting several stories that I've already written.  I hope that you enjoy them, and I promise to actually stay up-to-date with this blog from now on.  Really.

The bridge between modern-day Qufu and the "old town"

From San Francisco to Beijing with Dan the Biker (August 29th, 2011)

            My voyage to China commenced with the making of a new acquaintance.  Dan looked just like the stereotypical American biker: mid-fifties, a graying mullet, a burly build that only barely squeezed into his airplane seat, and a vibrantly colored Harley Davidson t-shirt.  I was surprised to see such an icon on a plane to Beijing, and even more surprised when I discovered that he was headed to China for the same purpose as myself.  Dan was a senior English teacher at a medical school in Hunan, and he had been living and teaching in China for six years.

            I was torn between the opportunity to gather some information and advice and my desire to make up for the sleep I had lost during my days of preparation.  However, before I had time to weigh the options, Dan made the decision for me.  Before we were even off the ground, he commenced a long lecture rich with various tips, all delivered in a brusque and unabashed language that was at once amusing and a bit unsettling.

            “Don’t let them disrespect you ‘cause you’re young,” he told me, fixing me with a narrow stare.  “Make them call you ‘Miss,’ don’t let them use your first name.  And they’re not going to want to do homework.  You know what you do?”

            I was agog to know.

            “You fail ‘em.  I’m nasty, but my kids love me.  See, I love them, and once they figure out you love them they’re gonna love you, too.  But you gotta be hard on ‘em or you won’t get anywhere.”

            This seemed sensible enough.  I tried to picture Dan at the head of a classroom carrying out his strict teacher role, but I had trouble picturing him outside of his biker get-up.

            “I dress like this in class,” he told me.  “They love it when I wear my boots and wrap-arounds!  On Christmas I put on my leathers and a Santa hat and go downtown.  Last year I had 48 people ask me for pictures.”

            I took a moment to mull this image over in my mind.  The residents of Hunan received a great deal of credit, in my opinion, for wanting a picture rather than running away or summoning the local police.  I wondered if anyone expected Dan to actually play the part of Santa.  Perhaps I would make a pilgrimage to Hunan at Christmas.  I could ask for a Harley Davidson t-shirt.

            Our conversation continued, and I was given some more tips on daily life in China.  Dan taught me how to correctly haggle in the market, warned me to boil all of my water before drinking it, and gave me some culinary advice.  “When you go in the market and you see all those pretty leafy greens?  Don’t buy those and make one of your girly salads, ‘less you want a case of the blazing Chinese runs.”

            Although my initial reaction to Dan was one of serious caution, over the course of our flight he began to soften considerably.  By the third hour of our flight, in fact, Dan had transformed in my estimation from an intimidating biker to something more akin to a bad-mouthed yet winsome teddy bear.  He gushed about his favorite students, whom he’d come to think of as his own children.  His oldest “baby” had just finished her nursing degree in China and hoped to travel to the U.S. to pursue a more advanced degree.  His youngest was in the midst of college, at the head of the class.  He dug into his carry-on and produced the engagement ring he had purchased for his girlfriend, Ping, for my inspection.  “It’s a full half karat,” he said.  “I got a guy to look at it, and he couldn’t believe the good shape it was in.  The guy I bought it from didn’t know it was worth anything, so I got it for five bucks.  Don’t tell Ping!” he put a cautionary finger to his lips.  I was shown photos of Ping and her daughter, and all three of the soon-to-be family squashed into a photo booth grinning broadly.

            As much as I was enjoying our chat, I was relieved when Dan announced it was time for a nap.  My eyelids were becoming increasingly heavy, and the desire for sleep was strong enough that I thought I might just pass out right there, awkwardly draped over one arm of my seat.  Dan fixed this without a problem.  Rolling up a sweater, he propped it on his shoulder and patted it invitingly.  “There, that’s easy, isn’t it?”

            Growing ever more thankful for my new friend, I leaned over and drifted into a deep sleep.  I awoke when the flight attendant made the announcement that we were about to land.  Dan was already awake, scowling at the seats in front of us.  They were occupied by a brother and sister, who had leaned their seats back almost into our laps and were blatantly ignoring requests to sit back up for landing.

            Again, Dan provided the solution.  Grabbing the top of one seat in each of his giant paws, he shook them vigorously and growled, “That means you!  Sit up!  Just ‘cause you’re home now it doesn’t mean you get to ignore the rules.”

            Eyes wide with terror, the two siblings jerked their seats up and slumped out of sight.  Dan looked at my surprised (and probably slightly scolding) expression and shrugged.  “Hey, I’m a teacher,” he said.  “I’m a mean asshole.”

My living room (top) and my bedroom (right)










Small Adventures with Large Appliances (August 30th, 2011)

            I am slowly becoming comfortable with Qufu and day-to-day life, and also discovering that loads of free time is at once a blessing and a curse.  No matter what I do that feels “productive,” I usually end up in my apartment for hours and feel very useless.  I am hoping to eventually get comfortable enough with the area to be able to go on long walks and bike rides, but at the moment the heat, as well as a lack of company and a bike, is holding me back.  For now, wandering around campus and the grocery store will have to suffice.

            This morning I did my first load of laundry, which was a small adventure.  The machines are cute little uprights, produced by Samsung (who knew) and, of course, with all of their labels and instructions written in characters.  Yesterday evening before dinner Rob, Dani, and I pondered over the smallest of the three in hopes of deciphering some of the characters.  We decided that “piào liàng” was delicates since it means “pretty,” but that’s about as far as we got.  This morning, up at 5am as usual, I decided to try my first load.  Rather than succeeding, I managed only to attain a flooded washing machine that read “4E” in angry flashes when I went to the basement to pick up my clothes.  I puzzled over this for a moment, wondering if I was going to be lynched for breaking a washing machine.  Had I opened the washer too early?  The machines didn’t seem to lock, and there was still soap all over my clothes.  Would the water drain on its own?  Should I find a bucket somewhere and scoop it out?  Should I start over in hopes of success the second time around?  If I did nothing, would anyone know it was me?

            For the moment, I opted for the latter choice, as everyone else in the building was probably still asleep and our mystery housekeeper was nowhere to be seen.  Considering our language barrier, I’m not sure how much use asking her assistance would be anyway.  I hauled my sopping clothes from the original washer and plopped them into a new one.  This time, I avoided pressing any buttons.  Perhaps selecting “pretty” on the first go had been what got me into trouble.  Pressing the big, red “go” button, I crossed my fingers and said a little prayer to myself.  Casting a strained look at the now empty, water logged washer I retreated upstairs to my apartment.

            Upon returning, everything seemed normal.  My clothes were rinsed and spun, the machine sang a delightful tune when it was ready to be opened (silenced only by a vigorous jab at the power button), and the flooded washer (or so I told myself) appeared to slowly be draining.  Smiling happily, and surprisingly giddy considering what a small feat using a washing machine is, I trundled back up the stairs and hung my clothes on my patio.  Now my only concern was that they would grow mold before they had the chance to dry.  Perhaps I will purchase a large fan.

The Egg Incident (August 31st, 2011)

            Since I’ve been here, I’ve been continuously surprised at how little knowledge of Chinese is needed to actually get around day to day.  If you can pronounce your intended destination (a risk, granted), ask how much, and mime with your fingers, taking a taxi is fairly simple.  So is buying anything at the market, as long as you can point.  The grocery store is incredibly simple, as the price of your goods gleams from the cash register in familiar numbers.  Everything else requires very little interaction.  Just try not to get lost, or you might be stuck.  According to my fellow teacher Rob, it is common in China to point when giving directions—but not necessarily in the right direction.

            However, despite the relative ease of getting around, you do occasionally run into trouble.  I learned just how big a problem a language barrier can be the first time I went to the grocery store to buy eggs.

            I had been to the grocery store a few times before.  The store on Qufu’s campus is something that I hold close to my heart.  It’s about a two minute walk from my apartment, the attendants in the produce section are friendly and appreciative of my stuttering phrases, and it houses an endless amount of fascinating goodies.  I had made my way to the bright, Pepto Bismol colored building almost every day since my arrival to explore and to purchase various groceries or snacks.  Today, my mission was to buy eggs.  I love eggs, but the way they are sold in China can be a little unnerving to the newcomer.  I was accustomed to safe cardboard cartons, easy to carry and useful if you want to prevent a mess in your shopping bag.  In China, however, eggs seem to be sold in one of two ways: either you hand pick them yourself and drop them into a bag, or they come in a ready-made mesh bag 20 or so at a time.

            When I made my way to the back of the produce section, I opted for the mesh bag.  I like eggs, and I planned to eat a lot.  Plus, I was buying other groceries and thought it would be safer to carry my eggs separately rather than risk them bobbing around among my vegetables and sunflower oil.  So, after carefully watching a man perform the necessary procedure across the room, I collected my bag of eggs and presented them to the attendant.  She weighed them, stuck them with a price tag, and handed them to me with an encouraging grin.  I was very proud of myself; this seemed simple enough.

            Everything was going according to plan until I hit the cash register.  For reasons still completely unknown to myself, the arrival of my eggs at the checkout caused a storm of confusion.  After swiping all of my items, the girl at the checkout grasped the bag, fixed me with a scolding stare, and said something far beyond my tiny grasp of Mandarin.  I gave her a bewildered look.  She pointed at the bag and repeated her statement, perhaps thinking that I was a bit thick headed but deserved another go.  She set the eggs aside and asked me to pay for the rest of my items.  Not knowing what else to do, I did.  Then I stood there, wondering what to do next.

            “Wǒ yào mǎi, kěyi ma?” I stumbled out, pointing at the eggs.  I want to buy, may I?  She shook her head.

            “Bù kěyi?” I asked, knowing I probably made no sense whatsoever, and attempting a swiping “no” gesture from left to right with my hand.

            It seemed I had gotten the gist, or something like it.  She nodded at me, then looked around her as if for assistance.  But it didn’t make sense.  Why couldn’t I buy the eggs?  Why were they there if I couldn’t buy them?  I scanned the store helplessly to see if anyone else was buying a similar bag of eggs, someone I could point at to prove I wasn’t crazy.

            In the meantime, the checkout girl began to shriek dialogue across the store.  This is another phenomenon that took some getting used to.  In China, apparently, if you want something or someone, you yell.  No matter how far away you are.  If your friend lives on the seventh floor of the building and you’re in the parking lot, you yell at their window until they appear.  If you’re working at the checkout counter and a clueless American makes a mistake with her eggs, you yell until someone comes to assist you.

            A flurry of workers came to see what was going on.  Most of them paused to ask what was happening and upon hearing the explanation giggled and turned away.  This was even more baffling.  What on earth had I done wrong?  And why was it so funny?  I cast an ever-more flummoxed glance at my friend and fellow teacher Eliza who was in line behind me.  She looked equally confused, and gave a terrified glance downward at her own bag of eggs that she had been intending to purchase.

            Finally, a senior-looking staff woman showed up and began conversing with the original checkout girl.  She spun my bag of eggs around and inspected it closely, then pointed to the price tag.  Was that it?  Was all of this insanity over a missed price tag?

            But it wasn’t over yet.  The price seemed suspicious, and the two women puzzled over it for a moment with small frowns darkening their usually cheery faces.  The manager-looking woman inspected Eliza’s bag, and upon seeing that it was priced the same seemed to decide everything was fine.  I attempted to offer the checkout girl money at this juncture, hoping it was finally over.  She gave me a withering look, but accepted it.  There seemed to still be some sort of issue.  The manager woman helped her to count out change, handed it to me, and gestured at the eggs.  I took them reluctantly, thinking perhaps it was a trick.  But I got them off the counter without a hitch, and all seemed back to normal.  Eliza, upon being greeted by the checkout girl, decided upon a different method.  After handing over the rest of her groceries, she placed the eggs deliberately into the checkout girl’s hands and vigorously shook her head no.  “I don’t want eggs that badly,” she told me.


Food Poisoning 101 (September 2nd, 2011)

            When preparing to live and work in China for about 10 months, I was fully aware that at some point during the year I would experience a moment of regret.  I would ask myself what the hell I had gotten myself into, scold myself for being stupid enough to come sign up for this in the first place, and beg the universe for some sort of legitimate excuse to turn around and go straight back home.  I knew I would probably have moments like this several times throughout the school year, but I had spent my first week wondering when exactly that first moment would arrive.

            This was it.  I had gone out to dinner with my fellow English teachers in a little restaurant in downtown Qufu, and now, as 5:00 am approached, I found myself begging the ceiling to grant me relief.  Let me go home, I prayed.  Kill me; I don’t care.  Just make it stop!

            I had been warned that I would get sick at least once in the first few weeks of my trip, but I had had no idea it would be so severe.  I had pictured a few moments of running to the bathroom, a bit of queasiness, maybe a few days of not being able to handle food.  But this—this felt like a sign from all the Gods of every religion that I should just give up.  I had spent the entire night running back and forth between my bed and the toilet, with a fever that forced me to grapple onto various articles of furniture in order to not simply fall over or pass out.  I was sick in every possible direction, my belly was experiencing a type of pain that I had always associated with descriptions of medieval torture, and I was beginning to wonder if by the end of this thing I would have any shred of my stomach left at all.  I cursed all the food I had ever consumed in China, and vowed never to eat it again.  Invitations to dine out would be scoffed at; at banquets and obligatory outings I would stuff my food into my purse.  I would live off of oatmeal and the tiny envelopes of peanut and almond butter I had brought over in my suitcase.  Who cared if I only had enough to last me a few days?  Eating was overrated.  By the end of my ten months I would be undernourished and underweight, but I would never have to experience this pain again!

            This outburst of rage against the local cuisine soon spiraled into a full out meltdown of film worthy proportions.  As the day went on, I became increasingly homesick and panicked.  What the hell was I doing here?  I couldn’t teach!  I had no idea what I was doing!  I wanted to go home.  I wanted to eat bread and pie and cereal, and go out to dinner without fear of illness.  I missed my cat.  I missed speaking to people in the grocery store instead of miming to them.  I missed my friends, I missed my family, I missed being a college student and having nothing to worry about except essays.  I wanted to go home NOW.  Blasting the most depressing music I could find, I sobbed my way through the afternoon like an overgrown infant.

            I’ve had several people remark to me how rapidly my moods change, and it’s true that I do tend to swing between the extremes.  In as short a time frame as an hour I’ve been known to leap from happy, sad, excited, frustrated, and back to happy without much explanation, a quality that is alarming even to myself at times.  But occasionally, such as during the day of my first China meltdown, it proves a useful personality trait—even if it does sometimes make me feel like an overdramatic idiot.  By the end of the day, I was feeling much better.  My stomach and everything in my southern regions were making a speedy recovery, and suddenly I was ecstatic about the concept of teaching in a few days.  I began blasting cheerful music and bounced around my apartment, cleaning up the remains of the previous night with very little memory of what had actually occurred.  This bright mood was improved even more by the arrival of Andy, one of our sort-of bosses, who presented me with my first paycheck.  I felt karma kicking in.  Okay, all that sickness was rewarding me with money?  Cool!  The world was once again a happy place.

            This would not be my last unpleasant reaction to local food, nor would it be my only downward spiral into panic and homesickness.  But making it through the first episode instilled me with a sense of confidence.  “This too shall pass,” I am able to proverbially encourage myself whenever things get a bit too much.  And, luckily, I have somehow over the course of my life developed the ability to laugh at myself—a talent that is absolutely requisite when living abroad.  I promise you, all of you who plan to travel, that you will make an idiot of yourself countless times.  But it’s all part of the experience, and it serves for great writing material!

Downtown Qufu

Rickshaws and Roller Coasters (September 3rd, 2011)

            One of the most enjoyable things about living abroad is witnessing all of the cultural differences that exist between countries.  Some of them can be a little unsettling, like the difference between the American and the Chinese definition of a sanitary bathroom.  Some are simply curious, like the groups of people who spontaneously begin a dance in the street in downtown Qufu every night, then break up and walk away at the end of the song as if nothing has happened.  Some you experience more directly, like haggling for a taxi price or learning to stop obsessively thanking attendants at the grocery store.

            One of my first more notable experiences in China came when I, along with three of my fellow teachers, took a rickshaw across town to the university’s second campus to meet friends for dinner.  Most of the rickshaws in Qufu are of the modern variety—a small moped with some variation of an attached wagon.  Our rickshaw had a tall, narrow box attached with a front and back wall, open sides, and seats with just enough room for four people, two on each side.  Rob, the most fluent of all of us, negotiated the price while Dani, Eliza, and I squeezed into the box.  I had to hunch over to fit under the low roof, but otherwise it was quite comfortable.  Rob hopped into the last space, and off we went.

            Sort of.  Our first obstacle came pretty quickly: a speed bump.  Our driver revved his tiny engine, we went up—up—and came sliding back down.  He tried again.  Back down we came again.  He tried a third time, with no success.  Someone cracked a joke about fat Americans, and we all contributed some verbal support as we approached the speed bump a fourth time.  A little more distance and speed, and this time we just made it over.  We cheered happily.  A glance at the driver made me wonder if he found us endearing or simply obnoxious.  But we were on our way.

            Things went fairly smoothly until we hit town.  While we were still in the outskirts, the rickshaw was a fun and cute way to travel, bumping along at a quiet and peaceful pace.  But once we hit the main roads of downtown, we suddenly realized how vulnerable and tiny our little vehicle was in comparison to all of the real cars on the road.

            When I first witnessed driving in downtown Qufu, I was surprised by how little rules seem to be a part of it.  Bicycles, rickshaws, cars, carts, and even pedestrians mill in every direction all over the place.  There are two sides of the road, one for each direction, but other than that the general rule seems to be “do whatever you can get away with.”  People veer and swerve around each other willy-nilly, shoot across the street in front of cars, blare their horns as they narrowly miss collisions and battle for who gets to go first—and all without blinking an eye.

            But despite the hectic and rather dangerous situation we found ourselves in, crammed into a tiny and easily destructible vehicle in all this chaos, Dani and I were having a good time.  We leaned out the side to peer at passers-by, emitted several “wheee!” sounds like children as we veered around turns, and in general maintained the attitude of people riding the theme park’s main attraction.  Rob and Eliza, on the other hand, were experiencing a problem.  Apparently, their side of the rickshaw had begun to tilt quite noticeably to the side, and they found themselves sliding against their will out the open side of our little box.

            Eliza, ever the calm traveler, began a quiet mantra: “We’re going to die, we’re going to die, we’re going to die!” while Rob attempted to brace his feet against the frame of the rickshaw in order to avoid spilling out onto the busy street.  Dani and I attempted to reassure Eliza, promising her that we were completely safe.  Nothing bad was going to happen.

            Our reassurances were interrupted by the sudden near-collision of our rickshaw with a delivery truck.  This time we all shrieked as the massive face of the truck screeched to a halt about three inches from our open box, its headlights plunging us all swiftly into temporary blindness.  Horns blared angrily at the two vehicles blocking the road, and our driver—much to our surprise—revved his engine and darted out in front of the truck, determined to gain first place in what was apparently some sort of competition.  As we proceeded down the road, the truck’s lights leered at us threateningly, barely six inches behind, waiting to mow us down at the nearest opportunity.  Luckily, we were almost at our destination.  A few more wobbling twists and turns, and we came sliding to a halt.

            Eliza tumbled out of the rickshaw with a firm “Never again!” while Dani happily praised the thrills of the ride.  “I like roller coasters,” she joked.  I had also enjoyed myself, though I was still a little shaken by our run-in with the truck.  Rob decided to refrain from an opinion, but gratefully stretched out his legs.

            We took a real cab home after dinner.