Happy 3rd, China

Last night marked the three-month anniversary of my arrival in China.  It’s a strange feeling.  Three months should probably feel like a great feat of some kind, but for some reason I’m actually surprised that I haven’t been here longer.  I suppose I’ve become so comfortable with my daily routine that it feels like I must have been here for ages.  Still, if I turned around and went home today I would probably complain that I’d barely spent any time here at all.

            When I realized that I was almost finished with my first semester of teaching, I thought it might be a good idea to do a basic evaluation of my experience thus far.  It’s impossible to label living and working here as either good or bad; like any other lifestyle it has its ups and downs.  So instead, I thought I would share some of the highlights—of both the pleasant and the troublesome.

A mid-November view of the campus

Pleasant: The Qufu locals.  Since I’ve been here, and after traveling to a few less friendly areas of China, I have often noticed how kind and helpful the people in Qufu are.  Perhaps with the exception of cab drivers (who mainly seem to view westerners as walking pots of money), everyone here is astonishingly sweet and tolerant.  I’m not sure if this is because there has been a fairly constant circulation of foreign teachers in Qufu for several years or if it’s a particular Qufu quality.  Either way, I am very grateful for everyone I have bumped into who has been willing to put up with me: the woman who sells me vegetables in the market and always knocks down the price or gives me something free to take away; the cheerful vendors in the East market who let me inspect everything extremely closely because I can’t actually ask anything; the staff at the tiny student gym who go out of their way to show me how to use everything and who seem charmed rather than annoyed by my slow uptake of information.  All of them have made adjusting to living here much easier than I anticipated.

Scenes from the Five Dragon Pool Park in Jinan

Troublesome: Sanitation—or lack thereof.  I have already mentioned that the state of most public bathrooms in China is rather alarming by western standards.  In fact, when we encounter clean bathrooms it is often something of an event.  The foreign teachers recently made a trip to Jinan and discovered that the mall’s bathroom was extremely clean and had real toilets, too.  Everyone bolted into the bathroom as if it was a local attraction.  Sad, isn’t it?

            There is also a Chinese habit that I have to say I don’t think I will ever get used to.  Here, if you have something stuck in your nose or your throat the way to take care of it is not by discreetly pulling out a tissue.  It is not uncommon to see people blowing their noses into the street, plugging one nostril shut with a finger and spraying the contents of the other all over the surrounding ground.  Hocking a loogie is also quite acceptable and something that I usually witness at least once a day.  I have had to dart quickly out of the way of several speeding bullets of phlegm.  This is definitely a cultural feature that I will not miss.

Pleasant: The food.  I have to say that the Chinese have far more tasty ways of preparing vegetables than Americans do.  I am also a big fan of how big street food is here.  For practically no money at all you can get a meal to carry home when you’re too lazy to cook and don’t feel like dining out.  One of my favorite ways to treat myself is to buy a bag of leek and egg baozi from the vendor down the street from my apartment, and if he has any on hand a few red bean paste ones, too.  My students and friends are constantly introducing me to new kinds of fruit, vegetables, and candy, and I never get tired of it.

These are, in my humble opinion, the best baozi to be found in Qufu

Troublesome: The side effects of food.  Unfortunately, I seem to have a strong sensitivity to a common ingredient in Chinese cooking, and since I have been here I have had food poisoning six times.  I would like to stress, for those of you considering trying out China for yourselves, that this seems to be my problem.  None of the other teachers have had the same problem, as far as I know.  But the joy of experiencing new kinds of food is dulled a bit by the knowledge that I might end up very unhappy in a matter of hours.  I’m beginning to wonder if my slight fear of dining out will follow me back to the states after so much conditioning.

Pleasant: My fellow teachers.  While admittedly I don’t have a perfect relationship with all of them, I don’t think I would ever be able to survive ten months, or even ten minutes, in China without them.  In such a new and different place, it is a relief to have a group of people who understand exactly where I’m coming from.  We help each other fumble through basic interactions in Mandarin (or more often Chinglish), give each other teaching tips, share food, clothing, furniture, and pretty much everything else, and most importantly can bitch to each other openly without worrying about offending anyone.  Above all of that, though, is the fact that together we are able to create a community that at least vaguely feels like home.  I never cared much about Thanksgiving until I realized I was going to miss it, and being able to celebrate it abroad with other displaced Americans helped me forget I was missing out.  And there’s nothing quite so adventurous as attempting to cook a traditional Thanksgiving meal with Chinese ingredients.

Gathering for Thanksgiving

In Qufu, Halloween includes the Bunny Hop

Troublesome: The language barrier.  Although I have done my best to pick up a little Chinese, the truth is that I rarely get a chance to use it.  During the day I am teaching English, hanging out with people who want to practice their English, or spending time with other westerners who don’t speak Chinese.  Aside from the market, which only requires a few phrases, I rarely use my Chinese at all, and as a result I have made little progress.

            The main problem with this is that it makes traveling very intimidating.  With the exception of Beijing, most locals in the average destination don’t speak much or any English, and all signs are in characters.  It’s very difficult to get around on your own when you can’t ask for or understand directions, and it’s quite terrifying knowing that if you get in an accident somewhere you will probably have no control over what happens to you.  I have been lucky a couple of times to find people who can make out my scrambled Chinese and who speak just enough English to help me out, but I am grateful that during the long winter break I will be traveling with a friend who speaks Mandarin fairly fluently.

Pleasant: My students.  Of course, there are days I wish I could throttle each of them in turn, but overall I have to say that I have fallen completely in love with most of them.  They are enthusiastic, hard working, and most of all very eager to learn as much as they can about me and about where I come from.  At this very moment, in fact, three of my girls are in my kitchen cooking oatmeal-raisin cookies.  My job is to make sure they don’t blow anything up, but they are determined to figure it out themselves.

Aimee and Lily showing off their first batch of cookies

            My students are also incredibly generous; in fact, they spoil me rotten.  I have been treated to dinner more times than I can count, and I often find students at my door bearing gifts.  One of my students is always munching on cookies in class, and will often leave two or three on my desk.  My student Aimee brings me about twenty pounds of fruit every time she comes to my apartment, and also once took me on an outing with her family and treated me to Pizza Hut, Haagen-Dazs, and a trip to the mall.

            But I think the best things about my students is that they have become very good friends; in fact, sometimes I wish I could quit being their teacher and just become one of their fellow students.  Avery, a senior who is a friend rather than a student, calls me “jiejie,” which means “big sister,” and I call her “meimei,” “little sister."  Sunny and April have become my best friends and spend a lot of time in my living room.  Jack and Bruce (who named themselves after Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee) are constantly making me laugh, especially with their scrambled English idioms.  If I could stuff a suitcase with my favorite students and haul it home at the end of the year, I would.

Me with my "meimei" Avery

Sunny and April dressed up for Halloween

  

          So there you have it: my slightly cheesy reflection on my past three months in China.  Despite the occasional bout of homesickness, I am very happy to be here.

An Evening of Chinese Dorm Life

            College students in the U.S. complain a lot about dorm rooms.  “They’re too small!”  “I can’t believe I have to share such a tiny room.  There’s not enough space for two people!”  “You mean I have to share a shower with a ton of strangers?  Seriously?”  I have seen many a first year college student cast a resentful glare at their RA after being shown to their dorm room, and bolt to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy shower shoes after being introduced to everyone in their suite.  I was no exception, either.  During my years as a college student I complained plenty about where I had to live.  Even when I had a single I thought it was too small and was appalled by the mysterious things that appeared to be growing in my suite’s shower.  I hated how loud and messy my suitemates were.  Dorm rooms were just awful, and I couldn’t wait until I was out of them.

            But when I first stepped into a Chinese university dorm room, I very quickly took back all the complaints I had ever made in college.  I also vowed to slap silly any resident of an American dorm room that I should happen to overhear whining in the future.

            Emily and I take an evening yoga class with two of my students, Sunny and April.  One night after class Sunny and April offered to give Emily and I a tour of their dorm.  Their building was only a few steps away from our yoga class, so we agreed to stop by on our way home.  The girls led us to a large and cheerful-looking building down the road, which was painted a bright turquoise.  From the outside it looked comfortable and homey.  Students walked in chattering groups in and out of the front doors, leaned out of their dorm room windows to hang laundry to dry, and bought nighttime snacks from the convenience store situated just inside.  How nice, I thought to myself.

            As Sunny and April led us up the stairs to their rooms on the second floor, they explained the basics of Chinese dorm life.  All dorms are gender-specific, with no co-ed mingling.  Students almost always live in the dorms all four years of their undergraduate education, and they do not get better rooms as upperclassman like most students do in the U.S.  Each dorm room houses six students and there is one bathroom on each floor.  At this point, April gave a little shudder.  “The true horror is to use our bathroom,” she told me.  “Wait, you will see.”

            One of April’s roommate’s was already asleep, so our tour of a typical dorm room took place in Sunny’s room.  Although I had been warned that the room would be cramped, I was still shocked by how little space there was.  I had thought that a room housing six girls would be of a fairly decent size, but instead I found a room roughly the size of my first double in college.  Somehow, someone had managed to cram six beds inside, stacked awkwardly along the walls.  Also jammed into the room were two tiny desks that the six girls shared.  I couldn’t see anything else, and I tried to figure out where the girls kept their clothes and books.

            When I explained my surprise, Sunny and April shrugged.  “This is China.  There are too many people,” they joked.  Emily and I laughed uncomfortably.  I think both of us were reflecting on our own college dorm rooms with a deep sense of guilt.

Sunny showing off her dorm room

            “Now for the bathroom,” April said, turning to us with a menacing grin.

            I smelled the bathroom before I saw it, and Emily and I exchanged a knowing glance.  Bathrooms in China are not known for their cleanliness.  Generally, toilets are “squatters” that do not flush well, and all toilet paper is deposited into a small trashcan in the corner of the cubicle.  The bathrooms are not cleaned very regularly, and a decent amount of experience has also taught me that many people have trouble hitting their mark.

            But when it came to unappealing bathrooms, this one took the cake.  As we approached and the smell grew stronger, April turned to us and said, “Ready?  Take a deep breath.  Okay, hold it!”  We obeyed and stepped inside.

            The main part of the bathroom was a large, hexagonal tiled room lined with what looked like a metal trough and several spigots for cold water.  This was where the girls washed, we were told.  Several girls were currently engaged in splashing their faces or under their shirts, wincing as the ice-cold water hit their skin.  But they waved happily at their visitors and waved us in to explore.

            In the center of the room was what could only be described as a pit of trash, where I assumed the girls dumped their own trashcans every day.  “How often do you think they clean that out?” Emily whispered to me.  I shrugged and wondered how many of these girls I could fit into my apartment.  Maybe I could adopt some of them and give them hot water.

            “The toilets are in there,” April pointed to a door on the right side of the room.

            As I had thought, the toilets were all squatters and not very clean.  But on top of that, there were also no cubicles.  Girls who needed to “answer nature’s call,” as one of my students always says, had to do it in full view of everyone else.  “It’s awful,” April said.  “And at nighttime there are no lights in the bathroom, so you have to go in the dark.”  I couldn’t imagine feeling my way in this bathroom, and I promised myself to buy the girls a flashlight.

            “Are there showers?” I asked.

            Sunny nodded and smiled.  “Yes, of course!  There are two public showers on campus that we can walk to.”

            When I got home to my apartment, I wanted to give it a hug.  I hoped for the sake of Chinese students everywhere that dorm room conditions would improve in the next few years.

            And as for all you American college students out there, you should get down on your knees and kiss your dorm room floor.

Shoving through Xi'an, Eating Up Beijing

How do we get to the Terracotta Army?

            During the first week of October, the entire country of China goes on holiday to celebrate National Day.  Excited to have a whole week of vacation after only four weeks of teaching, the English teachers of Qufu Normal University scurried to make plans.  We pored over maps and what was left of our September paycheck trying to decide where to go.  In the end, a good number of us settled on Xi’an, home to the famous Terracotta Army.  After a few days in Xi’an, we would then travel to Beijing to finish off our week.  It seemed like the perfect plan.

            My friend Irene and I departed a few days earlier than the rest of the crowd.  We took an overnight sleeper train and found ourselves blinking blearily in the Xi’an train station at about 6:00 am Saturday morning.  A little groggy after 16 hours of travel without much sleep, we were still determined to make the most of our day.  After making our way to the hostel, showering, and downing a few cups of much needed coffee, we set off to find our way to the Terracotta Army.

                                              My bunk on the sleeper train

            However, “finding our way” soon proved to be much more complicated than we had anticipated.  We had been spoiled by Qufu, which is small enough that getting lost isn’t really possible, and where we constantly had an army of students willing to tag along with us anywhere we wished to go.  Even when we were alone and completely befuddled, the marketplace vendors and shop attendants in Qufu were typically very helpful and willing to participate in a long-winded game of “mime that vegetable.”  But in Xi’an we found a very different culture.  Even the women who worked at the hostel front desk seemed irritated when we asked them for directions.  After giving me a long look that clearly asked “What, are you stupid?” one girl scribbled a few bus numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me.  “Um…thanks,” I said, having no idea how to reach the bus but a little afraid to ask.  Irene and I wandered out of the hostel and found a bus stop around the corner.  A bus with the appropriate number showed up, so we hopped on.

            Thus began a confusing series of bus rides, during which we were rewarded only with stares of fear or annoyance when we attempted to ask or gesture for help.  At one point we wasted almost an hour riding on a bus in the opposite direction from our intended destination.  But eventually we found our way to the train station, where tourists were being herded in droves onto the bus that led to the burial site.  We hopped on, paid our fare, and settled down happily.  Weren’t we clever?  We’d managed to figure it out even after getting lost!

            Our pride lasted until we were told to disembark from the bus.  We had arrived, the driver informed us all.  We stepped off the bus and found ourselves standing on a dirt road, with nothing that looked even remotely like a tourist attraction in sight.

            “Um…where do we go?” I asked Irene.

            “Follow the Chinese tourists,” she suggested.

            This seemed like a good plan.  After all, they could read the signs.  But after walking for a while, I realized that there weren’t any signs.  There was nothing indicating in what direction we should go, and the groups we were shadowing looked just as confused as we did.  Everyone seemed to be employing the same tactic: walk in a straight line and hope that eventually you reach something.  Finally, after about ten minutes, we began to catch sight of tour buses—the big ones that foreigners with real money pay for.  Passengers looked down their noses at the addled pedestrians on the side of the road, and I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to shout and shake my fists.  A few of the Chinese tourists in front of us, who appeared to be students, pointed after the buses.  Follow that bus!  We began to trot down the road, suddenly feeling hopeful.

            After a few minutes we reached our destination.

            “That’s crap,” Irene said angrily as we joined the swarms of tourists heading for the ticket booths.  “How can you have such a popular tourist destination and not have any signs?”

            I shrugged.  Maybe it was supposed to be part of the experience.  Maybe Emperor Qin felt that people had to prove themselves before they could see the contents of his tomb.

            “It’s crap,” Irene repeated.

            We bought our tickets, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that with my expired Skidmore College ID I got to buy one for half price.  Distracted by my cheer, I didn’t notice the real live army that was approaching me.

            “Tour guide?”

            It was a small, delicate woman in a business suit and holding up an umbrella to block out the sun.  In a semi-circle about ten feet behind her stood several identical figures, who were watching our interaction closely.  “You need tour guide?”

            “Oh.  No, thanks,” I told the woman politely, and proceeded towards the entrance.

            “Yes.  You need a tour guide!” she insisted, stepping in front of me to block my path.

            “No, I’m fine, really.  Thank you.”

            “No, No, you need tour guide!  Won’t understand without tour guide.”  The woman continued to shuffle backwards, hopping back and forth so that she was constantly right in front of me.

            “I don’t need a tour guide,” I countered firmly.

            “Yes!  Nothing in English, won’t understand.  You know nothing about story, about history.  You will get lost.  Need tour guide!”

            I wanted to ask this woman if she usually got clients by insulting them, and also to point out that every sign around us had a clear English translation.  But I thought discouraging any conversation was probably best, so I stepped around her once again and began to walk more rapidly towards the entrance, scanning the crowd desperately for Irene who was nowhere in sight.

            The woman continued to pursue me, and I began to speed walk, saying over and over again, “I don’t want a tour guide; bú yào!”  When I finally managed to break away from her, she stood angrily shouting after me.  “You will wish for tour guide!  You understand nothing!”

            Her words seemed to cue the rest of the tour guides who had been shadowing us from a distance.  Suddenly they swarmed me, all urging me to select them as my tour guide and waving maps in my face.  I refused in every language I knew, pushing and shoving my way past them until I reached the entrance and handed the guard my ticket.  Once I was safely through, I looked behind me.  They had gone, already pursuing a new victim.

            “Holy shit,” I said aloud.

            “I know.”  Irene had made it through the gate, apparently having gone through a similar experience.  “They’re crazy.”

            Permitting myself a small shudder, I turned and followed Irene down the path that led to the museums.

The entrance to the Terracotta Army park (above) and a view of the army (right)

 When life gives you a push, shove it back

           Someone once told me that every city has its own personality and that you can use one word to sum it up.  By the end of my stay in Xi’an, I felt I had found its word: shove.  Everywhere we went we were tossed about like animals in a herd that hadn’t figured out how to get with the program.  Standing in a line in China is never a sure thing, but in Xi’an it is reduced to a toned-down fist fight in which no one has anything to lose and everyone will do whatever it takes to get to the front.  In museums, in the market, waiting for the bus, and even just walking down the street everybody pushes and shoves as much as they can.

            At first, I tried to resist this slightly violent culture.  I was sure that if I just stayed out of everyone’s way and wove my way around people quietly, I would still get where I needed to go.  But after my first full day of constantly getting pushed from side to side, and once even punched, I decided that it was time to join the masses.  When in Rome, right?

            On our second night in Xi’an, Irene and I decided to go explore the Muslim quarter of the city for dinner.  According to our guidebook it was a cultural gem, and something you couldn’t leave Xi’an without seeing.  Naturally, it was packed with tourists and stalls selling hokey souvenirs.  It was so crowded that it was impossible to move a foot in any direction, and though we struggled mightily to make it to one of the few ethnic market stalls we could find, we struggled in vain.  It was also cold and raining, which made standing in the street hoping to find sustenance an even less pleasant experience than normal.

            “Let’s just give up,” Irene shouted over the noise.  “There’s nowhere to sit down, anyway, and it will take ages to get food.”

            We had spotted a restaurant on our way over that had looked cheap and tasty, so we turned to head back.  Irene emitted a groan, and I could see why.  Masses of people covered the street, and all of them were heading with deep determination in our direction.  Moving against them would be, to put it mildly, difficult.

            But I had had enough of being pushed around, and taking confidence from the fact that I was about twice the size of most of the tourists, I grabbed Irene’s arm and shouted, “Let’s go!” pointing down the street like some sort of Disney-fied army general.

            Hauling Irene behind me, I barreled my way through the crowd.  I was almost looking for someone to knock over, and while I elbowed and shoved I shot as many nasty looks as I could come up with at every person I passed.  Irene soon followed suit, and eventually we seemed to begin emitting some sort of “Get out of my way” vibe that leapt ahead of us and parted the sea of people.  Soon we were standing outside the restaurant, still crabby but slightly mollified.  Each of us had gotten in at least a few good shoves that had sent people flying.  Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice told me I shouldn’t be proud of my behavior, but I didn't listen.  Instead I sat down to enjoy my reward of hot noodle soup.

Comfort food 

           After the rude and violent attitude of Xi’an, Beijing seemed like a safe haven.  Not only was it cleaner, friendlier, and much more navigable, but it also had something that is extremely valuable to a westerner who has been away from home for six weeks: an abundance of western restaurants.

Our hostel was situated in Sanlitun, which is also where most of the foreign ambassadors and their families live.  As a result, in the streets surrounding the hostel almost any type of meal could be found: American, French, Mediterranean—you name it, they had it.  In an attempt to save money and to retain at least a slight grip on reality, I tried to eat at least one Chinese meal every day, but the familiar and comforting food all around me was extremely tempting.  Though I had been happy to experiment with cooking Asian (or at least my version of it) in Qufu, I had missed all of my old staples.  Still, I was determined that the western food I wolfed down with enthusiasm in Beijing would be just a vacation treat.  I wasn’t going to spend a ton of money on the few western ingredients available in Qufu.  I would live practically and enjoy my eastern meals.

My first meal in Beijing: a panini with beets, salad greens, the most delicious spicy mayo in the world, and Camembert

            My resolve was broken rather swiftly when I discovered the western grocery store around the corner from the hostel.  A fellow teacher, Sarah, had told me about it, and I thought it would be fun to explore.  I was only going to look.  Really.

            When I stepped into the store, I almost wanted to cry.  All of my favorite things were spread out across the aisles.  There was cheese—cheddar, mozzarella, Brie, and Camembert.  There was chocolate—real chocolate—everywhere, and an entire floor to ceiling stack of shelves lined with candy.  “Peanut M&M’s!” I shrieked with joy, snatching up a bag.  There was pasta, tomato sauce, ice cream, lentils, black beans, split peas, and hot chocolate.  There were peanut butter and fruit preserves.  There were western brands of bath products, and I could actually read the labels of the shampoo and the conditioner!

            There was butter.

            Turning the corner at the back of the store, I couldn’t manage to hold back a gasp of delight when I found myself standing in front of a wall of French baked goods.  There were baguettes, boules, the little square French rolls topped with pumpkin seeds I had eaten in Paris, and shelves and shelves of croissants.  I stared at it all like a deer frozen in headlights.  Where was I going to begin?

            A man who was unloading a fresh delivery of bread approached me and handed me serving tongs.  He smiled in understanding.  Clearly, he had seen this reaction before.  Perhaps hoping to help guide me, he pointed at what was probably one of the most popular items: two shelves of chocolate croissants.

            I gave a little squeal of jubilation and bounced over to snatch one.  The man started back, a little surprised at my enthusiasm, then grinned.  “This one is funny,” he seemed to be thinking.  Then began a game of “tempt the tourist” in which I lost all dignity I had ever possessed and very quickly ceased to care about the contents of my wallet.  The man, who spoke no English, led me about the bakery pointing at various items and giggling as my enthusiasm rose to astounding proportions.  I beamed happily when he showed me various breads, hopped up and down when he pointed out the pastries, and oo’d and aah’d in appreciation over the tarts.  Somehow managing to retain a little self-control, I selected just one roll and two chocolate croissants to take back to the hostel, miming and stuttering in broken Chinese to my new friend that I would return the next day.  He nodded knowingly, and I left making rapid calculations in my head of just how much money I could spend and how many groceries I could stuff into my backpack.

            The roll and croissants were gone within the hour.  On my way to the train station when it was time to go home, I made a quick stop at the grocery store.  Sitting in my seat on the train, I gazed lovingly at my shopping bag of bread, butter, preserves, and a host of other goodies.  Okay, I could have saved a little more money.  But it was worth it.

Pardon my reach...

Emily and I at the Temple of Heaven (left)


The Temple of Abstinence, appropriately closed (below)

            One of my favorite things about Beijing was that there was so much to see.  We trekked along the Great Wall, wondered if the Temple of Abstinence in the gardens of the Temple of Heaven was always closed, and explored the various shopping streets all over the city.  There were also a few oddities.  For example, whenever I was with Irene we seemed to run into something Scottish.  Irene, who hails from Glasgow, seemed to attract all things Scottish that could be found in Beijing.  We passed several St. Andrew’s golf stores, a Scottish pub, and at one point even ran into a fleet of Chinese men dressed in kilts and playing bagpipes.  While I laughed, took photos, and wondered what the occasion was, Irene muttered, “I fucking hate bagpipes.  If I can’t get away from them here, where can I?”

Did you know that you can take a ski lift up to the Great Wall?

Irene and I on the Wall

           But perhaps my most memorable experience in Beijing occurred in Tiananmen Square.  I had spent the day with two other teachers, Sarah and Emily, exploring the Temple of Heaven.  Tired and hungry, we were now packed tightly into a crowd of tourists waiting to watch the flag lowering ceremony in the square.  Guards were moving along the borders of the crowd and arranging us all in an attempt to allow everyone to see.  Most of us were asked to sit down in order to allow those behind us to have a clear view.

            Emily and I obediently maneuvered onto the ground, trying to get comfortable kneeling on the harsh stone.  But once we had settled ourselves, we discovered that comfort was the least of our problems.

            When I was studying abroad in Paris, one of the things I found most frustrating was how acceptable it was in Europe for men to harass women.  I was propositioned, groped, and followed more times than I could count, and it was the major downside to my time there.  One of the things I loved about China was that I had not run into any behavior of this kind.  Men stared every once in a while, but I always assumed it was simply because I stood out and never saw any hint of lewd behavior.  China, it seemed, was the land of the respectful.

            Or maybe not.

            The ceremony was beginning, and I was watching the soldiers march into the square when I felt an elbow prodding me in the ribs.  Emily was shooting me a look of alarm and jerking her head towards the people behind her.  I turned to see what the problem was.  A relatively senior-looking man, who was situated directly behind us, had chosen to squat rather than sit and seemed to be having trouble maintaining his balance.  To prop himself up, he had placed a hand on Emily’s back.  But as he leaned forward to watch the procession in the square, his hand was beginning to slide perilously downwards.  As Emily shot me increasingly desperate looks, I struggled to control the sudden urge to laugh.  The man didn’t seem at all interested in Emily’s behind and was watching the procession with great attention.  Emily shifted around, trying to dislodge his hand, and he rocked back away from her.  But in a few moments his hand was back in place and sliding down once again.

            “What do I do?”  Emily asked me.

            I shook my head.  We could hardly turn around and slap an old man.  We couldn’t be sure if he was doing it on purpose, and how were we supposed to explain ourselves when the rest of the crowd took notice?  I shrugged my shoulders and gave Emily a look of pity.  She was just going to have to sit it out.

            But Emily, it turned out, was not going to be the only one to receive this man’s attentions.  Near the end of the ceremony, the crowd in front of us began to get restless and move around.  I rose up on my knees to get a better look, and suddenly I felt a pair of hands wrapping around my thigh.  Turning to look, I saw that the old man had seized the opportunity of something sturdier to hold on to and was now using my thigh as a means of balance.  I shot a look at Emily, who was biting her lips in an attempt not to laugh.  I tried shifting around and wiggling my leg.  The man responded by removing one hand and returning it to Emily’s backside, still leaving his right hand on my leg.  No matter how much we squirmed, he seemed determined to use us as a means of staying upright.
           By now, Emily and I were both in a state of mixed hilarity and distress.  There was no room to stand up, and none of our limited Chinese phrases would be at all helpful.  I looked around, hoping that perhaps someone nearby had noticed and would give an indication of what I should do.  I made eye contact with a man standing just to my right.  He smiled, wiggled his eyebrows, and then leaned over to peer down my shirt.

            This was too much.  When the ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse, I jumped to my feet and Emily and I bolted for freedom.

            “That was so awkward!” Emily giggled.

            Feeling like I should be more offended, I laughed along with her and vowed never to wear a pair of shorts to a crowded place again. 

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.