Today, after working out at the gym, I am dying to get something to drink, so I go to the Watson's (a chain drugstore) around the corner. As I am about to pay for my drink and a box of band-aids, which in total probably costs about four US dollars, the employee says to me in heavily accented English: "You must pay MONEY!"
He says this to me again. I think to myself, this is probably why I am able to make money as an English teacher in China.
I am thirsty and tired, living in a foreign country. It's late. I want to go home and write in my blog and eat dinner. And this guy is telling me I have to actually pay money.
I don't get it. Isn't that the deal? You go to a store to get something, and you give them money for it?
Has there been a rash of foreigners walking into their store, demanding merchandise without paying for it? Is this employee traumatized by that? It certainly sounds like it.
So, in a very un-Buddha-like way, I say to him in Chinese: "You want me to pay money? Do you think I am so dumb as to think I don't have to pay for these?"
He then tells me that he cannot accept credit cards at this register, and I realize that he meant to say that he can only accept "cash" (not "money") at his register. This realization does not exactly bring a wave of Buddha-like compassion in me. I think to myself, would he tell a Chinese person that he can't use a credit card for a $4 purchase?
I feel like I'm being discriminated against, and I probably am.
I realize, even though his English is bad, he is just trying to help me. I decide to give him some advice. "If you tell foreigners 'You must pay me MONEY!', they will not understand you because "money" is not the word for xianjin (cash)."
The people watching this interchange are not entertained. It's late and they want to get home, too. So, I cut my lesson short, and get on the subway home.
As I am getting on, a man starts pushing me, getting a little frustrated as the car is quite full and he wants a little room to stand. But then he looks at my face and notices that I'm a foreigner. "Sorry, sorry," he says apologetically.
"That's all right," I answer him, in English, happy that I'm almost home.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
My New Zipper
I have blue jeans and green jeans, so I go to the local discount department store and buy some brown jeans. I go up to the third floor and start looking at jeans when I encounter the woman in the men's clothing department who starts her many sales pitches.
I am starting to get used to this very Chinese phenomenon. Even in the local drugstores there are women in uniforms everywhere who, in addition to making sure you don't steal anything, will also give you the hard sell for things you are looking for, and for some things you're not. The other day, one of them tried to sell me "Essence of Kangaroo Meat", pouncing upon me in the vitamin section. As we say in the States, "Yeah, right."
After trying on a pair of jeans I like, I tell the department store woman I'll take them. I pay her my money, and then she kindly walks me to the tailor next door. My new brown jeans are too long and I need them shortened. I put them on in the old tailor's kitchen and he marks them. In about fifteen minutes, I walk out with my new brown jeans. As we also say in the States, I am a happy camper.
The next day, I notice that the zipper won't stay closed. You need to try a few times, and then it closes, but then if your movements are too vigorous, then it opens again. Shit, I think, they warned me about the lack of quality control in China.
So, instead of heading all the way back to the department store in Xujiahui, I just take the pants to the tailor five minutes from my house, and ask him to put in a new zipper. "Tomorrow," he says in Chinese. "No problem," I answer.
I pick up my pants the next day, give him some money for his time and materials, and can't wait to wear my newly improved brown jeans the next day.
Sure enough, the zipper fails again. "Ha, they probably didn't even put in a new zipper," my Chinese friend says.
Well, I take it back and tell the tailor that the new zipper doesn't work. He doesn't even blink. "Tomorrow," he says. "No, problem," I tell him.
I come back the next day to pick up my jeans and check the zipper to make sure it's new this time. With keen perception, similar to that of Sherlock Holmes (with a specialty in clothing), I notice the zipper's brand name, different from the previous zipper. He's actually sewn in a new zipper.
Not only do I get a new zipper, but the tailor graciously begins a lesson in zipping for me. "You see, make sure you zip it all the way up, okay..."
I stop him before he moves onto lesson two of Zipping 101. "Mister," I say, laughing, "you are teaching me how to zip my pants? You know, I have a lot of experience doing this, since I was a young boy!"
I get a smile out of him, and head home with my new pants and zipper. Just another normal day in China.
The Hard Sell at the Foreign Language Bookstore
I'm meeting my friend Carrie from acupuncture school and her husband at the Foreign Languages Bookstore on Fuzhou St., and we're getting vegetarian food afterwards. But, after I find her, since it's my first time there, I tell her to give me ten minutes to look at the books in the section on learning Chinese. I don't think there's anything I love looking at more in a bookstore, besides, perhaps, the children's books (in Chinese).
As I am browsing, an employee, a peppy young Chinese girl in her early twenties, gives me the hard sell for some "learn Chinese" software. After having been spoiled by the independent bookstores of the Bay Area for so long, I can't tell you how annoying this is. But, instead of getting annoyed, in some aikido-like way, I turn the experience into an opportunity to practice my Chinese, with a passion.
"You know, I think this software is for wealthy foreigners who would like to learn Chinese but don't have time to," I say. "If they really wanted to learn Chinese, they would get a real teacher and start studying their books every day for a few hours instead of buying this expensive software that they'll never use."
The young salesgirl is astute. I think she knows I am not thrilled with her sales approach. So, she tries to one-up me with an even better approach.
"You know," she tells me, "when I started working at this bookstore, my spoken English wasn't so great. But then I discovered that the best way to learn a language is to use it everyday, and that's what I do. I practice my English with foreigners every day here in the bookstore. So, really, that is the best way to improve your Chinese, to practice speaking your Chinese every day with Chinese people," she tells me in her smart-alecky tone.
"Well, that's EXACTLY what I am doing with you RIGHT NOW!" I respond. I don't know, I still might be doing aikido with her.
I don't want to keep Carrie and her husband waiting, so I say goodbye to my unexpected language exchange partner, and get ready for some fake meat and tofu on Nanjing Dong Rd.
I return to the store in a few days when I know I won't be rushed, to look at the plethora of books for Chinese study. Suddenly, my language exchange partner finds me and tries once again to sell me that software. I level with her honestly: we foreigners can't walk six steps on some streets in Shanghai (especially Huaihai Rd., where I live, and Nanjing Dong Rd., not far from the store) without fourteen Chinese people trying to sell us "watch-bag" (meaning fake LV bags and Rolexes). I explain to her that for us, coming to a bookstore is supposed to be a relaxing experience (if I could say it, I would have told her it's a place we can explore new worlds, find new authors, be inspired, and let our imaginations run free, but my Chinese isn't good enough).
She responds by telling me that some foreigners have already told her this. In fact, she tells me that some foreigners, who don't speak Chinese, tell her directly to leave them alone and stop selling shit to them!
I give her a hint and a free English lesson. I tell her that when she sees foreigners, she should just walk up to them and say, "Let me know if I can help you with anything", and then walk away! I explain to her if she can just leave them alone, she'll be able to sell a lot more books. Conversely, the more she annoys them with her hard sell, the more they won't want to come back. They'll even tell their friends not to come because the employees are selling shit to them, I tell her.
I ask her if she has a book with the 3000 characters needed to test the standardized HSK exam. Within thirty seconds, she brings me exactly the book I am looking for, for about $5 US.
That a girl. I tell her that's exactly what we want, and leave to appreciate my find.
As I am browsing, an employee, a peppy young Chinese girl in her early twenties, gives me the hard sell for some "learn Chinese" software. After having been spoiled by the independent bookstores of the Bay Area for so long, I can't tell you how annoying this is. But, instead of getting annoyed, in some aikido-like way, I turn the experience into an opportunity to practice my Chinese, with a passion.
"You know, I think this software is for wealthy foreigners who would like to learn Chinese but don't have time to," I say. "If they really wanted to learn Chinese, they would get a real teacher and start studying their books every day for a few hours instead of buying this expensive software that they'll never use."
The young salesgirl is astute. I think she knows I am not thrilled with her sales approach. So, she tries to one-up me with an even better approach.
"You know," she tells me, "when I started working at this bookstore, my spoken English wasn't so great. But then I discovered that the best way to learn a language is to use it everyday, and that's what I do. I practice my English with foreigners every day here in the bookstore. So, really, that is the best way to improve your Chinese, to practice speaking your Chinese every day with Chinese people," she tells me in her smart-alecky tone.
"Well, that's EXACTLY what I am doing with you RIGHT NOW!" I respond. I don't know, I still might be doing aikido with her.
I don't want to keep Carrie and her husband waiting, so I say goodbye to my unexpected language exchange partner, and get ready for some fake meat and tofu on Nanjing Dong Rd.
I return to the store in a few days when I know I won't be rushed, to look at the plethora of books for Chinese study. Suddenly, my language exchange partner finds me and tries once again to sell me that software. I level with her honestly: we foreigners can't walk six steps on some streets in Shanghai (especially Huaihai Rd., where I live, and Nanjing Dong Rd., not far from the store) without fourteen Chinese people trying to sell us "watch-bag" (meaning fake LV bags and Rolexes). I explain to her that for us, coming to a bookstore is supposed to be a relaxing experience (if I could say it, I would have told her it's a place we can explore new worlds, find new authors, be inspired, and let our imaginations run free, but my Chinese isn't good enough).
She responds by telling me that some foreigners have already told her this. In fact, she tells me that some foreigners, who don't speak Chinese, tell her directly to leave them alone and stop selling shit to them!
I give her a hint and a free English lesson. I tell her that when she sees foreigners, she should just walk up to them and say, "Let me know if I can help you with anything", and then walk away! I explain to her if she can just leave them alone, she'll be able to sell a lot more books. Conversely, the more she annoys them with her hard sell, the more they won't want to come back. They'll even tell their friends not to come because the employees are selling shit to them, I tell her.
I ask her if she has a book with the 3000 characters needed to test the standardized HSK exam. Within thirty seconds, she brings me exactly the book I am looking for, for about $5 US.
That a girl. I tell her that's exactly what we want, and leave to appreciate my find.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Angry Customer
It's getting cold in Shanghai, so I decide to go and buy long underwear. I go to a large Chinese hypermarket near Xujiahui that has food on one floor and clothes, electric appliances, and everything else on the other.
After selecting my underwear (I learn the word for "stretchy" when talking to the saleslady), I take the escalator downstairs to pay at the register. The cashier, a young guy, about 30, is scanning my underwear when an older man with dark skin, freckles, and thick-framed black glasses walks up and starts arguing with him in Shanghainese. They argue for the next minute, and as the seconds pass, so does the volume of their yelling increase. After about a minute or two, the front half of the store is watching eagerly. They look extremely entertained, and I am sure they are wondering what the outcome will be. The store manager walks up and takes the baton from his employee, and they start agruing in Shanghainese.
Everyone still seems very entertained. The old man sticks his finger in the face of the manager. The manager is trying to escort the old guy out. But, like the Energizer bunny, the guy justs keeps going and going.
The checker finally rings me up despite the commotion, and I pay. Instead of leaving the store, I walk up to another employee, a guy in his 20s who looks the most entertained out of all the employees watching, and ask him what they are fighting about. He tells me the old guy says that he didn't get the correct change. In the background, the old man is still yelling, starting to walk out accompanied by several other customers and a few employees. The manager has already finished with him, and as he passes me, returning to his office in the back no doubt, he graciously explains to me that the frustrated old man is just arguing over a few pennies.
So, by now, I understand the situation. In China, I've already seen people getting upset like this more than a few times. For example, two guys walk out of their cars in traffic and start yelling at each other near People's Square the other day. I figure that after almost 60 years of communism, including the Cultural Revolution, there is a lot of accumulated tension, and people need some way to let it loose. I would, too.
So, today, I decide I will do my part to help the Chinese people let go of this frustration, to help them move into a new, more laid-back, easy-going era. You could say I want to do a little activism.
As I walk toward the door, behind the old man (still yelling!), I reach into my backpack and find some change. There's a 1 jiao (penny) coin and I tap him on the shoulder and say, "Sir, here, I want to give you some change."
He looks at me and says, "It's not just the change, that guy back there was mocking me before."
"Just ignore him," I say. "Come on, let's go." I like to think that perhaps my listening to his side of the story defuses some of his anger. The locals watch and they are starting to smile as I talk to him. He doesn't take the penny, but I am still trying to get him out of the store, tugging him a little.
I decide to let him go, and I turn around and head for the door, holding my newly purchased long underwear in a bag. As I walk out, at the counter in front of me, there is a woman who is selling tea, and she gives me a smile.
After selecting my underwear (I learn the word for "stretchy" when talking to the saleslady), I take the escalator downstairs to pay at the register. The cashier, a young guy, about 30, is scanning my underwear when an older man with dark skin, freckles, and thick-framed black glasses walks up and starts arguing with him in Shanghainese. They argue for the next minute, and as the seconds pass, so does the volume of their yelling increase. After about a minute or two, the front half of the store is watching eagerly. They look extremely entertained, and I am sure they are wondering what the outcome will be. The store manager walks up and takes the baton from his employee, and they start agruing in Shanghainese.
Everyone still seems very entertained. The old man sticks his finger in the face of the manager. The manager is trying to escort the old guy out. But, like the Energizer bunny, the guy justs keeps going and going.
The checker finally rings me up despite the commotion, and I pay. Instead of leaving the store, I walk up to another employee, a guy in his 20s who looks the most entertained out of all the employees watching, and ask him what they are fighting about. He tells me the old guy says that he didn't get the correct change. In the background, the old man is still yelling, starting to walk out accompanied by several other customers and a few employees. The manager has already finished with him, and as he passes me, returning to his office in the back no doubt, he graciously explains to me that the frustrated old man is just arguing over a few pennies.
So, by now, I understand the situation. In China, I've already seen people getting upset like this more than a few times. For example, two guys walk out of their cars in traffic and start yelling at each other near People's Square the other day. I figure that after almost 60 years of communism, including the Cultural Revolution, there is a lot of accumulated tension, and people need some way to let it loose. I would, too.
So, today, I decide I will do my part to help the Chinese people let go of this frustration, to help them move into a new, more laid-back, easy-going era. You could say I want to do a little activism.
As I walk toward the door, behind the old man (still yelling!), I reach into my backpack and find some change. There's a 1 jiao (penny) coin and I tap him on the shoulder and say, "Sir, here, I want to give you some change."
He looks at me and says, "It's not just the change, that guy back there was mocking me before."
"Just ignore him," I say. "Come on, let's go." I like to think that perhaps my listening to his side of the story defuses some of his anger. The locals watch and they are starting to smile as I talk to him. He doesn't take the penny, but I am still trying to get him out of the store, tugging him a little.
I decide to let him go, and I turn around and head for the door, holding my newly purchased long underwear in a bag. As I walk out, at the counter in front of me, there is a woman who is selling tea, and she gives me a smile.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Using the Library in China
I am looking for a quiet place to study Chinese, and so I decide to go to the Shanghai Public Library. It is a huge structure on Gaoan Rd. near the Hengshan subway station.
I walk upstairs and the lady at the entrance gate to the stacks stops me. "You can't bring your bag in, you need to put it in a locker," she says.
"But, I have my textbook in there. I need to use it to study," I say.
"You can't take it in," she repeats.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because those are the rules," she responds.
Finally, I ask if I can take my notebook in with me, and she tells me that's okay. I sit down and ask the girl across from me why I can't take any books into the library.
"Well," she says, "you're supposed to read the books in the library."
"Yes, I know that," I say. "But why can't you bring in your own, like your school textbook?"
"Well," she says, "if everyone brings their own books, then it will be difficult to tell which books are the library's and which are peoples' own books."
I think for a second. "You mean, there are some bad people who would take books from the library and then claim that they are their books?" I ask. You see, four years of college really did help my analytical skills.
"That is correct," she says.
Oh, I get it. That makes sense. Of course, you can't bring your own books into a library here.
Welcome to China.
I walk upstairs and the lady at the entrance gate to the stacks stops me. "You can't bring your bag in, you need to put it in a locker," she says.
"But, I have my textbook in there. I need to use it to study," I say.
"You can't take it in," she repeats.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because those are the rules," she responds.
Finally, I ask if I can take my notebook in with me, and she tells me that's okay. I sit down and ask the girl across from me why I can't take any books into the library.
"Well," she says, "you're supposed to read the books in the library."
"Yes, I know that," I say. "But why can't you bring in your own, like your school textbook?"
"Well," she says, "if everyone brings their own books, then it will be difficult to tell which books are the library's and which are peoples' own books."
I think for a second. "You mean, there are some bad people who would take books from the library and then claim that they are their books?" I ask. You see, four years of college really did help my analytical skills.
"That is correct," she says.
Oh, I get it. That makes sense. Of course, you can't bring your own books into a library here.
Welcome to China.
Looking for a Book of Cheng Yu
I am always amazed by large stores in Shanghai. There are always twice as many employees working there as is necessary. They stand in their bright orange or green or whatever uniforms, chatting. I approach them with a question and they are always nervous. "I'm not paid for this shit!" they are probably saying to themselves, in Shanghainese.
They are usually not helpful, like they never actually went to the orientation after they were hired and have never really bothered to look over the merchandise in the store. "Soymilk, I don't think we have it," they say, and then a few minutes later I find it myself.
"You want a book on chengyu (traditional Chinese proverbs) for kids? Okay, follow me," says an employee in the largest bookstore in Shanghai, and he picks up one from a display table and hurries away. "There's one chengyu book for kids in this whole bookstore?" I think to myself.
(Unbelievable. Not to compare, but even in the smallest of bookstores in Taiwan, there are ten times that number. I check with another employee, and she confirms that there are actually only two in the store.)
I'm waiting in line in an upscale supermarket and suddenly I notice there's another checker who is sitting in front of a register, totally bored. I must have been waiting a few minutes, before I spot her, no doubt praying to her lucky angels that I don't see her.
China is busy catching up with the rest of the developed world after wasting sixty years of precious human life. If you're here for a few days, you wonder if this is actually a communist country, but after living here for a little while, you realize that old habits die hard.
Tea on Taikang Road
I keep joking with my friends in Shanghai how Taiwan is my second home, my 老家 (laojia).
Today, I am walking with a friend at the Taikang Art Center in Shanghai, a lane full of the kind of art galleries that Westerners love. We enter the lane and ask an old Shanghainese lady who is working a stall there if this is the lane where the art galleries are. "It's a place where foreigners drink coffee," she answers in her thick Shanghainese accent. I laugh to think that she's probably been on the corner there longer than all the art galleries, and she doesn't even know what all the fuss is about.
French people sit around a table at cafes charming bystanders with the melodies and rhythm of their French, drinking wine or espresso. We walk around browsing the shops for a while and I think we've seen enough of the galleries and the French people, too and I want to check out the nice tea shop that we saw on the walk over here. My friend notices that I'm not thrilled by it all. "No, I am, I am," I protest, but she's right--it doesn't feel juicy.
We leave the artsy cafe quarter and turn around the corner to find the tea shop. A half-minute later, we are there. I look in and ask the laoban (owner) and his partner if we can join them for some tea. It looks like they already have a guest. "Of course," he says, and invites us to have a seat. This is the kind of place you would see in Taiwan that I miss. There are a lot of teas, all the implements needed to drink them, old Chinese furniture, and sentimental Chinese music in the background. It's cozy and aesthetically pleasing.
I ask the laoban if he has any gaoshan (High Mountain) tea, from Taiwan. He says he does and he goes to the back to get some. Gaoshan tea is my favorite wulong from Taiwan, fragrant and slightly roasted. It always gets me "drunk", which is what tea connoisseurs say is the effect of drinking a few rounds. They are definitely right.
He comes back with the tea, and then he lays on me the revelation that will make this night: He is from Taiwan. From Taipei. From the Xinyi district. My old stomping grounds.
Let the fun begin.
I don't speak Taiwanese, but I know enough to make Taiwanese people laugh, and so I tell him, "I am Taiwanese, I am not a foreigner! (wa shee daiwan leng, wa um shee adoa!"). We start having a conversation, although I don't really understand.
I tell him that I lived in Muzha (he explains to me that it's makza in Taiwanese) and that I know the Xinyi area well. Being a true Taiwanren, he starts making fun of me. "So you lived near the zoo? Did you live in the zoo?" Everyone is having a good laugh.
I forget the winding paths our conversation took in the next hour or two, the five of us, but like a good hike, it was beautiful and refreshed the soul. That gaoshan tea didn't hurt either.
I tell him I know a Taiwanese song and ask him if he wants to hear it. "Which one?" he asks."望春風," I reply. He asks me to sing it, and then we begin a duet for our friends.
It's time for us to leave and have our dinner. We all give each other hugs and he welcomes us to return anytime, and I finally realize why it is we visited the Taikang Art Center tonight.
Today, I am walking with a friend at the Taikang Art Center in Shanghai, a lane full of the kind of art galleries that Westerners love. We enter the lane and ask an old Shanghainese lady who is working a stall there if this is the lane where the art galleries are. "It's a place where foreigners drink coffee," she answers in her thick Shanghainese accent. I laugh to think that she's probably been on the corner there longer than all the art galleries, and she doesn't even know what all the fuss is about.
French people sit around a table at cafes charming bystanders with the melodies and rhythm of their French, drinking wine or espresso. We walk around browsing the shops for a while and I think we've seen enough of the galleries and the French people, too and I want to check out the nice tea shop that we saw on the walk over here. My friend notices that I'm not thrilled by it all. "No, I am, I am," I protest, but she's right--it doesn't feel juicy.
We leave the artsy cafe quarter and turn around the corner to find the tea shop. A half-minute later, we are there. I look in and ask the laoban (owner) and his partner if we can join them for some tea. It looks like they already have a guest. "Of course," he says, and invites us to have a seat. This is the kind of place you would see in Taiwan that I miss. There are a lot of teas, all the implements needed to drink them, old Chinese furniture, and sentimental Chinese music in the background. It's cozy and aesthetically pleasing.
I ask the laoban if he has any gaoshan (High Mountain) tea, from Taiwan. He says he does and he goes to the back to get some. Gaoshan tea is my favorite wulong from Taiwan, fragrant and slightly roasted. It always gets me "drunk", which is what tea connoisseurs say is the effect of drinking a few rounds. They are definitely right.
He comes back with the tea, and then he lays on me the revelation that will make this night: He is from Taiwan. From Taipei. From the Xinyi district. My old stomping grounds.
Let the fun begin.
I don't speak Taiwanese, but I know enough to make Taiwanese people laugh, and so I tell him, "I am Taiwanese, I am not a foreigner! (wa shee daiwan leng, wa um shee adoa!"). We start having a conversation, although I don't really understand.
I tell him that I lived in Muzha (he explains to me that it's makza in Taiwanese) and that I know the Xinyi area well. Being a true Taiwanren, he starts making fun of me. "So you lived near the zoo? Did you live in the zoo?" Everyone is having a good laugh.
I forget the winding paths our conversation took in the next hour or two, the five of us, but like a good hike, it was beautiful and refreshed the soul. That gaoshan tea didn't hurt either.
I tell him I know a Taiwanese song and ask him if he wants to hear it. "Which one?" he asks."望春風," I reply. He asks me to sing it, and then we begin a duet for our friends.
It's time for us to leave and have our dinner. We all give each other hugs and he welcomes us to return anytime, and I finally realize why it is we visited the Taikang Art Center tonight.
An Encounter in the TCM Twilight Zone
For those of us Chinese medicine practitioners from the West who come to Asia to deepen our understanding of Chinese culture and traditional medicine, we are always living with the knowledge that no matter how much Chinese we learn, we'll be lucky, extremely lucky, if our Chinese gets to the level of a middle-school punk (a Chinese one, that is). And of course, once our Chinese gets to a certain level, we also know that there's a hell of a lot of Chinese Medicine we'll never be able to learn, either.
Nevertheless, we continue. We don't get any real recognition (besides daily encouragement from locals, who, god bless them, are impressed with "nihao" and "xiexie"). We study hard, writing characters late at night, reading books of Chinese idioms. A whole new world opens up to us, and this is what keeps us going. You do it because it is a passion, for the intrinsic rewards.
I walk into a TCM clinic near my house and I notice there's a "Weight Reduction Clinic for Women". I ask a secretary about it and she points me to the woman standing near the entrance to the room where they do the actual weight reduction. She's in her early 30s, pretty, but looks bored and a little tired.
So, I tell her that I have a license in the States and ask her to tell me about the treatment principles involved in helping people lose weight. She tells me more, mostly that they are using needles to do this, not herbs so much. The acupuncture reduces appetite. I'm actually not that interested in helping people lose weight with acupuncture, in the same way that I'm not interested in giving them "acupuncture facials" or "acupuncture breast-lifts" (they do exist, just ask Jolin, the famous Taiwanese pop singer). Just curious.
The doctor has some questions for me. She asks me about the licensing process in the States, about people's perception of Chinese Medicine there. I tell her how I changed careers to study Chinese Medicine, that there is indeed a lot of interest in the States.
She tells me how she finds it curious how others switch from mainstream careers into Chinese Medicine. She tells me of some Japanese classmates of hers who were corporate types in the 20s and then, after burnout, decided to study Chinese Medicine.
"It's so strange. I've been a doctor for ten years and I find it so boring. I don't make much money. And I don't have any marketable skills--I could never work at a big company. It's hard to understand why people would want to do this. I wish I could do their office jobs," she says.
I do not miss the irony of this conversation. Here I am in China, after a four-year program in Chinese Medicine and a year and a half of formal Chinese study, still struggling to improve my Chinese so I can learn more medicine. If I study Chinese for the next years and then study traditional medicine for another five or ten years, who knows if I will approach this doctor's level of medical knowledge. I've given up (with joy, you might say) the six-figure income nice house I would have had by now if I had stayed in the corporate world, and am living like a student halfway across the world to do this.
"I guess I've had the benefit of actually living that life, and then making a conscious decision to let it go and follow my dream of studying Chinese Medicine," I tell her. So, I don't have any regrets. I guess what a friend told me a long time ago is true: "We've all got to kill our own snakes."
I like to think I inspire people. So, who knows, maybe I've inspired this young Chinese doctor here in Shanghai to go to business school so she can pursue her dream of working at an office in front of a computer to make the big bucks.
Nevertheless, we continue. We don't get any real recognition (besides daily encouragement from locals, who, god bless them, are impressed with "nihao" and "xiexie"). We study hard, writing characters late at night, reading books of Chinese idioms. A whole new world opens up to us, and this is what keeps us going. You do it because it is a passion, for the intrinsic rewards.
I walk into a TCM clinic near my house and I notice there's a "Weight Reduction Clinic for Women". I ask a secretary about it and she points me to the woman standing near the entrance to the room where they do the actual weight reduction. She's in her early 30s, pretty, but looks bored and a little tired.
So, I tell her that I have a license in the States and ask her to tell me about the treatment principles involved in helping people lose weight. She tells me more, mostly that they are using needles to do this, not herbs so much. The acupuncture reduces appetite. I'm actually not that interested in helping people lose weight with acupuncture, in the same way that I'm not interested in giving them "acupuncture facials" or "acupuncture breast-lifts" (they do exist, just ask Jolin, the famous Taiwanese pop singer). Just curious.
The doctor has some questions for me. She asks me about the licensing process in the States, about people's perception of Chinese Medicine there. I tell her how I changed careers to study Chinese Medicine, that there is indeed a lot of interest in the States.
She tells me how she finds it curious how others switch from mainstream careers into Chinese Medicine. She tells me of some Japanese classmates of hers who were corporate types in the 20s and then, after burnout, decided to study Chinese Medicine.
"It's so strange. I've been a doctor for ten years and I find it so boring. I don't make much money. And I don't have any marketable skills--I could never work at a big company. It's hard to understand why people would want to do this. I wish I could do their office jobs," she says.
I do not miss the irony of this conversation. Here I am in China, after a four-year program in Chinese Medicine and a year and a half of formal Chinese study, still struggling to improve my Chinese so I can learn more medicine. If I study Chinese for the next years and then study traditional medicine for another five or ten years, who knows if I will approach this doctor's level of medical knowledge. I've given up (with joy, you might say) the six-figure income nice house I would have had by now if I had stayed in the corporate world, and am living like a student halfway across the world to do this.
"I guess I've had the benefit of actually living that life, and then making a conscious decision to let it go and follow my dream of studying Chinese Medicine," I tell her. So, I don't have any regrets. I guess what a friend told me a long time ago is true: "We've all got to kill our own snakes."
I like to think I inspire people. So, who knows, maybe I've inspired this young Chinese doctor here in Shanghai to go to business school so she can pursue her dream of working at an office in front of a computer to make the big bucks.
The Guitar Strummer at Renmin Gongyuan
It's early in the morning (for me at least), and I am heading out of People's Park subway station to go teach, about to climb the stairs and emerge into the chilly Shanghai winter (yeah, according to traditional Chinese science, the solstice marks the middle of winter, not the beginning, which I think is pretty damn smart).
There are always a few old men standing at the foot of the stairs. One is always carrying a newspaper and a bag and looking expectingly, for what, I have no idea. He's not holding Christian fundamentalist magazines. Perhaps he is a middleman for the Shanghai mafia. I don't think I will find this out anytime soon, so I like to think every time I pass him, it's like a getting a whiff of the mystery of life.
This morning, before I see mafia man, I hear a kid in his early 20s strumming his guitar and singing. I wish I had time to stand there and listen to him. It makes me happy to see him here, bringing a bit of art into the crowds of Shanghai people walking out to start their day of money-making. Perhaps he'll never become the spokesman for Nokia phones like those other big Chinese popstars, but his music and song is heartfelt.
You know, you can't really walk out and protest the government in this country. And even in the States, that "freest" of countries, there are things that need to be said that only art can express fully, purely. What things are there in my heart today that I need to express fully and purely?
With thanks to that brave disheveled Chinese kid and his guitar, I move on, up the stairs into People's Park, to do a little moneymaking, just like everyone else.
There are always a few old men standing at the foot of the stairs. One is always carrying a newspaper and a bag and looking expectingly, for what, I have no idea. He's not holding Christian fundamentalist magazines. Perhaps he is a middleman for the Shanghai mafia. I don't think I will find this out anytime soon, so I like to think every time I pass him, it's like a getting a whiff of the mystery of life.
This morning, before I see mafia man, I hear a kid in his early 20s strumming his guitar and singing. I wish I had time to stand there and listen to him. It makes me happy to see him here, bringing a bit of art into the crowds of Shanghai people walking out to start their day of money-making. Perhaps he'll never become the spokesman for Nokia phones like those other big Chinese popstars, but his music and song is heartfelt.
You know, you can't really walk out and protest the government in this country. And even in the States, that "freest" of countries, there are things that need to be said that only art can express fully, purely. What things are there in my heart today that I need to express fully and purely?
With thanks to that brave disheveled Chinese kid and his guitar, I move on, up the stairs into People's Park, to do a little moneymaking, just like everyone else.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Fun Things Lao Wai Can Do When They Know a Little Chinese
I'm teaching a class at a large well-known international consulting firm. My students are all auditors in their 20s, representing the cream of the crop of the Chinese educational system. They all work ridiculous hours, travel all over Chinese for work, and now, their boss says they need to come in weekends to learn English in an intensive class (i.e., all day Saturday and Sunday) . As with most Chinese people, even highly educated ones, their spoken English is poor. However, they are sincere and like to laugh, too, and I thoroughly enjoy teaching them.
I arrive this Sunday to teach the afternoon session, and notice a joker has joined my class. Everyone, including him, obviously, is tired of taking classes all weekend. They haven't had much time to rest after their last week of deadlines, presentations, and general capitalistic competition. And Monday morning, when it starts all over again, is right around the corner.
Our class joker is slightly spoiling the spirit of the group. They are supportive of each other and sincerely interested in learning. Joker, a primadonna, prissy boy in his early 20s slouches, eats cupcakes obnoxiously in the middle of class, answers for others whose English level is not quite at his extremely advanced level (or, he wishes), and of course, answers questions with silly, prissy answers.
I ignore him and just do my best to engage the class, have fun, challenge them--help them learn better English. There is a small but persistent voice in my head that keeps rehearsing how I am going to throw him out of class, which goes something like this: "Okay, joker boy, we are all trying to learn here. You're outta here! See ya later!"
But, I realize that he's probably just tired from his consulting firm life (or perhaps he had a fight with his boyfriend?) and I understand what it feels like to be at a company training on a Sunday afternoon that you really don't want to be at. Besides, his coworkers, who are also his friends, would feel quite uncomfortable by this public scolding.
My inner Buddha, thankfully, takes precedence over my inner American cowboy. This made me look like a woos sometimes in the States ("Come on, yer going to let him just cut you off like that without giving him the finger?"), but it saves me today.
While I was hoping that my teaching style and my ignoring him would bring him into the spirit of the group, by the end of class, Joker has partipated honestly for a full two minutes, and unfortunately, just never quite joined us. I am not upset, really, just think it is too bad these young auditors are put through this grind.
I dismiss class and everyone is no doubt relieved and happy to have some downtime, finally. They all start talking in Chinese. I never tell my students that I speak some Chinese, because I don't want them to try to revert to Chinese while we're studying English, so no one knows.
Joker picks up his stuff, starting to leave, and says to his friends in Chinese: "Damn, this teacher is exhausting, always at a hundred percent, continuously correcting our mistakes!"
I turn to him as he is approaching the door, "Sorry!" I say in Chinese. The whole class cracks up!
"But, I thought you didn't speak any Chinese! Oh, I mean you are a very good teacher," he says, embarrassed.
I need a bit of a rest tonight as well, and I ride my bike home, smiling a Buddha smile.
I arrive this Sunday to teach the afternoon session, and notice a joker has joined my class. Everyone, including him, obviously, is tired of taking classes all weekend. They haven't had much time to rest after their last week of deadlines, presentations, and general capitalistic competition. And Monday morning, when it starts all over again, is right around the corner.
Our class joker is slightly spoiling the spirit of the group. They are supportive of each other and sincerely interested in learning. Joker, a primadonna, prissy boy in his early 20s slouches, eats cupcakes obnoxiously in the middle of class, answers for others whose English level is not quite at his extremely advanced level (or, he wishes), and of course, answers questions with silly, prissy answers.
I ignore him and just do my best to engage the class, have fun, challenge them--help them learn better English. There is a small but persistent voice in my head that keeps rehearsing how I am going to throw him out of class, which goes something like this: "Okay, joker boy, we are all trying to learn here. You're outta here! See ya later!"
But, I realize that he's probably just tired from his consulting firm life (or perhaps he had a fight with his boyfriend?) and I understand what it feels like to be at a company training on a Sunday afternoon that you really don't want to be at. Besides, his coworkers, who are also his friends, would feel quite uncomfortable by this public scolding.
My inner Buddha, thankfully, takes precedence over my inner American cowboy. This made me look like a woos sometimes in the States ("Come on, yer going to let him just cut you off like that without giving him the finger?"), but it saves me today.
While I was hoping that my teaching style and my ignoring him would bring him into the spirit of the group, by the end of class, Joker has partipated honestly for a full two minutes, and unfortunately, just never quite joined us. I am not upset, really, just think it is too bad these young auditors are put through this grind.
I dismiss class and everyone is no doubt relieved and happy to have some downtime, finally. They all start talking in Chinese. I never tell my students that I speak some Chinese, because I don't want them to try to revert to Chinese while we're studying English, so no one knows.
Joker picks up his stuff, starting to leave, and says to his friends in Chinese: "Damn, this teacher is exhausting, always at a hundred percent, continuously correcting our mistakes!"
I turn to him as he is approaching the door, "Sorry!" I say in Chinese. The whole class cracks up!
"But, I thought you didn't speak any Chinese! Oh, I mean you are a very good teacher," he says, embarrassed.
I need a bit of a rest tonight as well, and I ride my bike home, smiling a Buddha smile.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Looking at Childrens' Books
I am still looking for a good stationery shop to buy some flashcards, so wherever I go, I ask people if they know if there's a good stationery shop nearby. It seems that everywhere you go in Taiwan, there are these magnificent stationery shops everywhere. Perhaps on a certain level, I am not really looking for stationery, but just missing my laojia in Taiwan.
I get off the subway and see an older woman selling kids' books in a stall in the station. I figure she might know. She doesn't, but I start looking at the childrens' books (which are perfect for my level of Chinese). She asks me where I am from. I tell her from the States.
She tells me she has applied for a visa to the States five times already, and has been rejected every time. She tells me that her 80 year-old brother lives there. He is ill and she wants to see him before he dies. He lives in Maryland, which is where I am from. She tells me that before he dies, she wants to cook him food from his childhood that he loves and can't get in the States.
I tell her I know I am lucky. I am a U.S. citizen and can basically go wherever I want in the world. I haven't even been in China for two months, and I have already encountered lots of Chinese people who want to travel abroad but can't due to political reasons.
I tell her I am sorry that she isn't able to get permission to see her brother. "Did you tell the people at the consulate your story?" I ask. She replies that she has, but that obviously, it hasn't moved them to help her.
"Maybe you should meet him in Canada. It's not that far from Maryland," I suggest.
I look in her eyes and I sense her deep sadness. She has cried a lot about this. It's time for me to go. I tell her I live near here and will come back and look at her books again.
"Thank you, thank you," she says.
I get off the subway and see an older woman selling kids' books in a stall in the station. I figure she might know. She doesn't, but I start looking at the childrens' books (which are perfect for my level of Chinese). She asks me where I am from. I tell her from the States.
She tells me she has applied for a visa to the States five times already, and has been rejected every time. She tells me that her 80 year-old brother lives there. He is ill and she wants to see him before he dies. He lives in Maryland, which is where I am from. She tells me that before he dies, she wants to cook him food from his childhood that he loves and can't get in the States.
I tell her I know I am lucky. I am a U.S. citizen and can basically go wherever I want in the world. I haven't even been in China for two months, and I have already encountered lots of Chinese people who want to travel abroad but can't due to political reasons.
I tell her I am sorry that she isn't able to get permission to see her brother. "Did you tell the people at the consulate your story?" I ask. She replies that she has, but that obviously, it hasn't moved them to help her.
"Maybe you should meet him in Canada. It's not that far from Maryland," I suggest.
I look in her eyes and I sense her deep sadness. She has cried a lot about this. It's time for me to go. I tell her I live near here and will come back and look at her books again.
"Thank you, thank you," she says.
Meetings with Ordinary People
I am riding my bike home at about nine in the evening on a chilly Shanghai night. My Israeli friend Yuval sold it to me. It has no gears, so I feel like a true urban biker. Shanghai has no hills, so you don't really need the gears, and besides, I don't feel like a spoiled Westerner.
I actually have no idea how to get home, so at the nearest intersection where there are some bikers waiting for the light to turn green. I ask a girl in her early 20s on her bike how to get Shanxi Rd. She looks at me in horror, as if I am about to mug her and immediately shakes her head to indicate that she either doesn't know, or ain't going to help me with this.
I would say about 10% of the time, I get this response from people in Shanghai, usually younger women who are working in shops. I ask them a question and they look like they might go into anaphylactic shock at any moment. Perhaps this is because of my dashing good looks (see Blogger profile photo), but I doubt it. I wonder if they can't possibly imagine that a foreigner speaks Chinese. That's why, after I ask them a question in reasonably correct Chinese, they still don't respond in Chinese. Sometimes, they talk really bad English with me. It's very entertaining.
Tip of the day to younger Chinese clerks of Shanghai: If a foreigner asks you in Chinese, "Excuse me, do you know if there is a stationery store near here?", there's a pretty good chance he probably speaks Chinese, and he probably won't mug you either. So, take a chill pill, okay?
Perhaps I should learn Shanghainese. They might finally give me a straight answer. On the other hand I am worried they might have a heart attack.
This girl on her bike isn't helping me and I don't have time for charades, so I ask the middle-aged guy on the bike behind me. The light is about to turn green. He says, "Follow me."
I am relieved, and we ride together toward Shanxi Rd. "Your Chinese is pretty good," he says, as we ride past a park.
"No, it's not. Chinese is really hard," I answer. He asks me where I am from and I ask him if he has just gotten off work, because it's pretty late. He sounds like he is educated and has the demeanor of a professor, so I ask him if he is a professor.
"No, I'm just an ordinary worker," he says self-deprecatingly. He tells me I'm going to have to make a left at the next intersection. I say goodbye and pull over to the intersection to wait for the light to turn green.
He continues on and looks back a couple times to make sure I'm heading in the right direction.
I actually have no idea how to get home, so at the nearest intersection where there are some bikers waiting for the light to turn green. I ask a girl in her early 20s on her bike how to get Shanxi Rd. She looks at me in horror, as if I am about to mug her and immediately shakes her head to indicate that she either doesn't know, or ain't going to help me with this.
I would say about 10% of the time, I get this response from people in Shanghai, usually younger women who are working in shops. I ask them a question and they look like they might go into anaphylactic shock at any moment. Perhaps this is because of my dashing good looks (see Blogger profile photo), but I doubt it. I wonder if they can't possibly imagine that a foreigner speaks Chinese. That's why, after I ask them a question in reasonably correct Chinese, they still don't respond in Chinese. Sometimes, they talk really bad English with me. It's very entertaining.
Tip of the day to younger Chinese clerks of Shanghai: If a foreigner asks you in Chinese, "Excuse me, do you know if there is a stationery store near here?", there's a pretty good chance he probably speaks Chinese, and he probably won't mug you either. So, take a chill pill, okay?
Perhaps I should learn Shanghainese. They might finally give me a straight answer. On the other hand I am worried they might have a heart attack.
This girl on her bike isn't helping me and I don't have time for charades, so I ask the middle-aged guy on the bike behind me. The light is about to turn green. He says, "Follow me."
I am relieved, and we ride together toward Shanxi Rd. "Your Chinese is pretty good," he says, as we ride past a park.
"No, it's not. Chinese is really hard," I answer. He asks me where I am from and I ask him if he has just gotten off work, because it's pretty late. He sounds like he is educated and has the demeanor of a professor, so I ask him if he is a professor.
"No, I'm just an ordinary worker," he says self-deprecatingly. He tells me I'm going to have to make a left at the next intersection. I say goodbye and pull over to the intersection to wait for the light to turn green.
He continues on and looks back a couple times to make sure I'm heading in the right direction.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Surfing in Shanghai
I am walking home from the subway this evening. The way to my apartment in quiet, considering it's the downtown shopping district in Shanghai. There are three large department stores near the subway station, probably several more within a two block radius that I am not aware of. I'm not really big on shopping in big department stores.
A block away from the subway station, the street is quiet, lined with small boutiques selling custom-made Chinese dresses for women, custom-made ("bespoke") suits for men, and modern women's clothing. My first week here, I notice a shop with a cool Hindu name, and then a few days later, I walk by it at night and see several workmen inside bashing the walls down.
Within a week, the Hindu sign is gone. I can faintly hear the voice of an old Hindu guru echoing in the distance as I walk by, his Indian accent rising and falling playfully in staccato tones, saying "This is the nature of maya, the illusory world, one day Hindu women's fashion boutique is here, one day, it is gone. Accept this fact and do not cling, my son."
So, they're bashing the walls down, and a week later, there's a funky new boutique there.
Today, I walk by and notice there's an English quote written on the front door of the new, hip boutique, and so I stop in front of the store. The women who is standing at the door wonders why I have stopped there, maybe to buy a scarf for a friend? However, I tell her I would like to read the English quote on the door. I am sure she has no idea what it says, and I'm curious if it actually makes sense. Who knows, maybe I have happened upon a bit of wisdom for the day.
The quote talks about finding that wave, paddling into it, standing up, and savoring the sweetness of the ride. It's proper English, and I like it. I have several friends who surf, and to them, there's nothing like it. An experience of "flow" that sounds closer to God than any morning in church reciting three hundred year-old hymns.
She asks me what it's about, and unbelieveably, I remember how to say surfing (衝浪; chong1 lang4) in Chinese. I tell her I like it and then head home, surfing this wave that is my life in Shanghai.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
My Kitchen in Shanghai
Tonight, I did something amazing. I cooked dinner. I know, I know. You are saying, cooking your own dinner, what's the big deal?
Oh, maybe because it's because I'm a guy, right? No, wrong!
It's just that I haven't had my own kitchen in the past three years. And now, living in the French Concession in Shanghai in my own apartment, I do!
I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to go to the grocery store and buy ginger, garlic, a bottle of tea oil, fresh vegetables, some meat... and then to come home and start preparing dinner. I get out my cutting board and chop garlic while the water is boiling. The pot, it's shiny and new, and almost in slow motion, I throw in the garlic and ginger, adding some soy sauce and tea oil. At the appropriate time, I throw in the mushrooms, and then later the greens, with the thinly sliced beef.
I know, I know, you are getting hungry just reading this!
And voila, dinner is ready. I even bought a small table for my kitchen so I can eat like a mensch (that's Yiddish for a real human being).
After dinner, I clean up. Rinse the cutting board and wash my bowl, my spoon, chopsticks. The countertop is littered with garlic skin, and so I grab a sponge a wash it all clean. All my dishes are drying on my new metal dish rack (from IKEA, of course).
I check my email, and when I return to the kitchen to get a drink, I stop and look with pride at my kitchen in Shanghai.
These are the simple pleasures of life.
Oh, maybe because it's because I'm a guy, right? No, wrong!
It's just that I haven't had my own kitchen in the past three years. And now, living in the French Concession in Shanghai in my own apartment, I do!
I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to go to the grocery store and buy ginger, garlic, a bottle of tea oil, fresh vegetables, some meat... and then to come home and start preparing dinner. I get out my cutting board and chop garlic while the water is boiling. The pot, it's shiny and new, and almost in slow motion, I throw in the garlic and ginger, adding some soy sauce and tea oil. At the appropriate time, I throw in the mushrooms, and then later the greens, with the thinly sliced beef.
I know, I know, you are getting hungry just reading this!
And voila, dinner is ready. I even bought a small table for my kitchen so I can eat like a mensch (that's Yiddish for a real human being).
After dinner, I clean up. Rinse the cutting board and wash my bowl, my spoon, chopsticks. The countertop is littered with garlic skin, and so I grab a sponge a wash it all clean. All my dishes are drying on my new metal dish rack (from IKEA, of course).
I check my email, and when I return to the kitchen to get a drink, I stop and look with pride at my kitchen in Shanghai.
These are the simple pleasures of life.
To Richard Moon, My Old Aikido Teacher With Love and Respect
When I was back in California recently, I had the honor to take an aikido class with my old teacher, Richard Moon. I was only 23 when I started studying with him. I would take the BART train to Civic Center after working at the law firm where I worked in San Francisco's Financial district, and on Thursday nights, I was his disciple.
Richard always had a way of putting things in perspective, so however shitty a day you were having, you always felt good, revived, and back to your old self after practice.
That's why I kept practicing aikido.
"Stress is a good way to find your center," he used to say. Just like when we stand, we rock back and forth, side t0 side to feel exactly where center is.
Over a decade later, I suddenly appear in practice. It's so strange to be back. Richard looks about the same. He tells me I look younger! This is probably because I used to meet with him at Pete's Coffee and tell him how much I wanted to change careers. And I finally did.
Richard leads us in stretching exercises. He asks us to stretch and then he tells us that after we stretch, it's very important to relax and feel the effect on the body. He tells us that some people who practice yoga move from one pose to the next, never stopping to feel how each pose affects the body.
It's like yin (陰) and yang (陽).
I think about this because I'm now in a very yin phase. I spent the past few months working hard, getting ready for Shanghai. And now, because of my recent injury (it's getting better), I'm forced to relax and rest.
Well, Richard, here's to you. Thanks for all your many gifts.
Richard always had a way of putting things in perspective, so however shitty a day you were having, you always felt good, revived, and back to your old self after practice.
That's why I kept practicing aikido.
"Stress is a good way to find your center," he used to say. Just like when we stand, we rock back and forth, side t0 side to feel exactly where center is.
Over a decade later, I suddenly appear in practice. It's so strange to be back. Richard looks about the same. He tells me I look younger! This is probably because I used to meet with him at Pete's Coffee and tell him how much I wanted to change careers. And I finally did.
Richard leads us in stretching exercises. He asks us to stretch and then he tells us that after we stretch, it's very important to relax and feel the effect on the body. He tells us that some people who practice yoga move from one pose to the next, never stopping to feel how each pose affects the body.
It's like yin (陰) and yang (陽).
I think about this because I'm now in a very yin phase. I spent the past few months working hard, getting ready for Shanghai. And now, because of my recent injury (it's getting better), I'm forced to relax and rest.
Well, Richard, here's to you. Thanks for all your many gifts.
Censorship in China
哎呀, I am missing YouTube and Wikipedia. They are censored in China. Oh, and I am missing seeing my own blog entries. Blogger is censored, too.
I told my sister, a high-powered Manhattan girl about this, and she couldn't believe it. "They all must think it sucks." Well, I don't know, I think most Chinese are so patriotic, they probably are happy their government is "protecting" them.
From Wikipedia and YouTube?
I told my sister, a high-powered Manhattan girl about this, and she couldn't believe it. "They all must think it sucks." Well, I don't know, I think most Chinese are so patriotic, they probably are happy their government is "protecting" them.
From Wikipedia and YouTube?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Whisky Drinker
I'm coming home on the subway here in Shanghai at about 10 p.m. and walk out the turnstile toward exit 4. That's the Maoming Lu exit at the Shanxi Nan Lu subway station. In other words, home.
A guy in his early 20s, wearing nice pants and a suit jacket walks past me with a bare bottle of whisky in hand (half empty), his face completely flushed. He's not swaying, so it looks like his ability to hold his alcohol is pretty strong. He is walking ahead of me, and when he approaches exit 4, he looks around and turns back to walk to the other side of the station, as if searching for someone and not finding her.
The phrase "All dressed up and no place to go" comes to my mind. I start wondering what happened to him.
It's getting late and I need to get home. I stop wondering and just chalk it up to "another human being looking for truth", take the escalator to street level, and call it a day.
A guy in his early 20s, wearing nice pants and a suit jacket walks past me with a bare bottle of whisky in hand (half empty), his face completely flushed. He's not swaying, so it looks like his ability to hold his alcohol is pretty strong. He is walking ahead of me, and when he approaches exit 4, he looks around and turns back to walk to the other side of the station, as if searching for someone and not finding her.
The phrase "All dressed up and no place to go" comes to my mind. I start wondering what happened to him.
It's getting late and I need to get home. I stop wondering and just chalk it up to "another human being looking for truth", take the escalator to street level, and call it a day.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Thank You, Thank You, Thank You...
I am negotiating my contract for my new apartment and I bring along an Israeli friend. During the negotiation process, I get a lower monthly rent, and some other bonuses. I speak Chinese to my new landlord, who is a lovely middle-aged Shanghainese woman. I want her to know that I am a down-to-earth person, not another faceless, incomprehensible waiguoren. And so throughout the process, I try to keep it friendly and light, and when she says something kind or offers something to me in the negotiation process, I thank her profusely. It's a habit I picked up from people in Taiwan, and it's pretty aligned with my own nature.
It goes like this in Chinese: "謝,謝,謝,謝,謝謝謝謝..." You say "thanks" very quickly about eight times in a row, so it sounds like this: "shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh..."
My Israeli friend, who's lived in a Shanghai for several years pulls me aside after and says, "Look, you've got to stop the profuse 'thank you's'! One is enough!" Shanghai is indeed a city of deals, and I think I might have to unlearn a few "bad" habits.
Or maybe not. "謝,謝,謝,謝,謝謝謝謝..."
It goes like this in Chinese: "謝,謝,謝,謝,謝謝謝謝..." You say "thanks" very quickly about eight times in a row, so it sounds like this: "shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh, shyeh..."
My Israeli friend, who's lived in a Shanghai for several years pulls me aside after and says, "Look, you've got to stop the profuse 'thank you's'! One is enough!" Shanghai is indeed a city of deals, and I think I might have to unlearn a few "bad" habits.
Or maybe not. "謝,謝,謝,謝,謝謝謝謝..."
China is Gritty
I know that many of my dear friends have been wondering how I'm doing here in China. It's been over month, and all you've gotten is a couple excited blog entries and some words from a monk in Thailand. You've probably figured that I am busy getting settled, and you would be right.
China is gritty. People like to spit. And honk their horns. People are just starting to enter the modern world. Sure, some people have some money (I saw a nice Ferrari the other day, and a Porsche SUV today), but you need time to evolve. It's like they've all been busy catching up after a long nightmare.
And my first month here has been gritty as well. I didn't come here with an especially detailed plan. I knew that I needed to study Chinese. I knew I needed to study medicine. And I knew I somehow needed to support my studies. And so I figured, as usual, I would get here and the "plan" would become clear. And so it has. The Chinese call it "yuan fen".
Within a day (I'm being serious), I had an apartment and a job lined up. I even found an authentic aikido dojo with a real live Japanese sensei straight from Hombu dojo in Tokyo and a room full of enthusiastic aikidoka who I would be able to practice with. I was expansive, excited for the coming journey.
And then, of course, everything went wrong. That's just the way it goes sometimes, isn't it?
My apartment didn't work out--I found out that landlord is a terrible man, greedy, to be exact. I would have had to wait until my Israeli friend moved out at the end of the month, and I felt like I needed a home soon, anyway.
That job, well, I soon found out the rate they were offering me was well below market. If I'm here to study Chinese and medicine (and not to work as an English teacher), I figured I should get paid enough money. And the job search continued. One day looking at a new apartment, one day interviewing, and sometimes both.
And then, on my second day practicing aikido, sensei asked us to dive head-first over a kneeling white belt. No problem. Then two white belts. Really, no problem. Finally, we ended up having to jump over four people. I figured I am a blue belt, one of the senior students. I better do this. And so I did. And I did just fine. I jumped head first over four people and rolled out of it, just like a good aikidoka should.
But after practice, my back was really sore. And so, for the last few weeks, I've been humbled. Looking for apartments, looking for work, and experiencing the worst aikido injury I've ever had.
I remember the expansiveness and excitement of coming to Shanghai, and it's as if someone said, "Okay, Roniboy, we're goin' get you a little closer to your roots in the deep ground."
Humility. Humiliation. As the poet David Whyte once explained, they both come from the latin root "humus", or soil. And so, in the past month, I have been brought back to my own roots, to my own ground, far removed from that expansiveness.
The good thing about being a healer is that when you experience any kind of pain or illness, you know you can "use" it to become a better practitioner. So many times, I've needled patients with back pain, but I have never experienced it myself. I like to think that the soreness in my back is making me a more compassionate healer.
I also think about Jacky Chan and Steven Seagal. It is unbelieveable to think that these two guys haven't taken hard falls and had to pay for it for a month afterwards. So, at least the soreness in my back is coming from doing a stunt jump, and not, say, from slipping on a wet floor in a McDonalds bathroom.
People in China can't read my posts, because their most gracious of governments won't let them read any blogger blogs. Perhaps if the people here learn about what is happening outside of China, they might get some ideas into their heads that they wouldn't be able to shake. Ideas about freedom of expression, democracy, creativity. Dangerous ideas indeed.
Perhaps they've lived under such an oppressive system for so long that now is too early for all this "freedom". My Chinese friend says she knows her country is "behind" in the "freedom" department. And so I said, well, maybe it takes time, evolution, maybe now is too early. Maybe it will take 30 or 50 years until the people here can actually handle it all. I hope that one day, people in China can read my blog on blogger.
Since I would like all people, people living under repressive communist regimes that are opening up their markets, as well as people living under capitalist regimes ruled by large multinationals, to read my blog, I will soon move this blog to a site that can be viewed by all.
I'll let you know the new URL as soon as its ready. In the meantime, keep living your dreams. Yes, there are obstacles that get in the way, but keep going. How else do you think Steven Seagal got so frigging big?
China is gritty. People like to spit. And honk their horns. People are just starting to enter the modern world. Sure, some people have some money (I saw a nice Ferrari the other day, and a Porsche SUV today), but you need time to evolve. It's like they've all been busy catching up after a long nightmare.
And my first month here has been gritty as well. I didn't come here with an especially detailed plan. I knew that I needed to study Chinese. I knew I needed to study medicine. And I knew I somehow needed to support my studies. And so I figured, as usual, I would get here and the "plan" would become clear. And so it has. The Chinese call it "yuan fen".
Within a day (I'm being serious), I had an apartment and a job lined up. I even found an authentic aikido dojo with a real live Japanese sensei straight from Hombu dojo in Tokyo and a room full of enthusiastic aikidoka who I would be able to practice with. I was expansive, excited for the coming journey.
And then, of course, everything went wrong. That's just the way it goes sometimes, isn't it?
My apartment didn't work out--I found out that landlord is a terrible man, greedy, to be exact. I would have had to wait until my Israeli friend moved out at the end of the month, and I felt like I needed a home soon, anyway.
That job, well, I soon found out the rate they were offering me was well below market. If I'm here to study Chinese and medicine (and not to work as an English teacher), I figured I should get paid enough money. And the job search continued. One day looking at a new apartment, one day interviewing, and sometimes both.
And then, on my second day practicing aikido, sensei asked us to dive head-first over a kneeling white belt. No problem. Then two white belts. Really, no problem. Finally, we ended up having to jump over four people. I figured I am a blue belt, one of the senior students. I better do this. And so I did. And I did just fine. I jumped head first over four people and rolled out of it, just like a good aikidoka should.
But after practice, my back was really sore. And so, for the last few weeks, I've been humbled. Looking for apartments, looking for work, and experiencing the worst aikido injury I've ever had.
I remember the expansiveness and excitement of coming to Shanghai, and it's as if someone said, "Okay, Roniboy, we're goin' get you a little closer to your roots in the deep ground."
Humility. Humiliation. As the poet David Whyte once explained, they both come from the latin root "humus", or soil. And so, in the past month, I have been brought back to my own roots, to my own ground, far removed from that expansiveness.
The good thing about being a healer is that when you experience any kind of pain or illness, you know you can "use" it to become a better practitioner. So many times, I've needled patients with back pain, but I have never experienced it myself. I like to think that the soreness in my back is making me a more compassionate healer.
I also think about Jacky Chan and Steven Seagal. It is unbelieveable to think that these two guys haven't taken hard falls and had to pay for it for a month afterwards. So, at least the soreness in my back is coming from doing a stunt jump, and not, say, from slipping on a wet floor in a McDonalds bathroom.
People in China can't read my posts, because their most gracious of governments won't let them read any blogger blogs. Perhaps if the people here learn about what is happening outside of China, they might get some ideas into their heads that they wouldn't be able to shake. Ideas about freedom of expression, democracy, creativity. Dangerous ideas indeed.
Perhaps they've lived under such an oppressive system for so long that now is too early for all this "freedom". My Chinese friend says she knows her country is "behind" in the "freedom" department. And so I said, well, maybe it takes time, evolution, maybe now is too early. Maybe it will take 30 or 50 years until the people here can actually handle it all. I hope that one day, people in China can read my blog on blogger.
Since I would like all people, people living under repressive communist regimes that are opening up their markets, as well as people living under capitalist regimes ruled by large multinationals, to read my blog, I will soon move this blog to a site that can be viewed by all.
I'll let you know the new URL as soon as its ready. In the meantime, keep living your dreams. Yes, there are obstacles that get in the way, but keep going. How else do you think Steven Seagal got so frigging big?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Meeting the Monkey
I'm settling down here in Shanghai. Finding a place to live, making friends, learning the city streets, taking care of the specifics so I can feel supported as I continue living my dream.
I just dug up an email I sent to friends a few years ago, thought it would be helpful to remember the words of a monk whose book once inspired me. You might appreciate them, too. Here they are.
I just dug up an email I sent to friends a few years ago, thought it would be helpful to remember the words of a monk whose book once inspired me. You might appreciate them, too. Here they are.
Many things we consume in our daily lives are spiked to create addiction. Not only cigarettes, but TV, ice cream, pop music, mainstream news, etc. Everything that is ubiquitous is addictive.
The quality of your life depends on your relationship to wisdom. If you choose to live your life on the comic book level, pursuing material objects and immersing yourself in drama, your life will lack subtle refinement or poetry.
Aspire to go beyond the ordinary.
Although we all need to live our lives through our conditioned character, we don’t need to act like a character. Life is not a sitcom.
Examine your life carefully and sensitively. There are areas of your life that you avoid.
If you really want to resolve your problems, you must sit with them patiently until the solution reveals itself. If a solution doesn’t come, then it isn’t your problem and there is nothing you need to do.
Follow your gut feeling about what is right and do it! Do what you need to do with a willing heart and with all the energy you can muster.
Do the difficult and meet the challenge!
Patience is the most important element in “problem solving.” Action is next in importance. We usually get it backwards.
By continually putting yourself in the present, the future sorts itself out.
Focus on the big problems. Then, the small problems will sort themselves out.
Silence is a great asset. If you don’t have any in your life, be kind to yourself and create some. Silence is a form of mercy.
The best medicines are those that work gradually to restore the original balance of the body, such as herbs and homeopathic remedies. Medicines that are formulated to kill the problem end up overkilling it. Nature will not tolerate this type of problem solving, as it presents the same situation in another form.
Keep your body balanced and nourish it with healthy food.
Illness is more a warning than a problem. It is a signal that something is out of harmony.
Moderation and balance are a way to honor your life. On one hand, there is intoxication. On the other despair and depression. When you find the middle way, your life unexpectedly gets better.
Shocking but true: we are all going to die.
The less you take things personally, the more cool and at peace you will feel.
Be modest. Be content and grateful for whatever you have.
To get exactly what you need at precisely the right time, put yourself in a mindful and reflective state of mind. You will put yourself directly into the hands of the universe.
The way in which you do things is more important than what you do. The way we do anything is the way we do everything.
If you don’t do good, who will?
Can you be as happy when things are “just okay” as when life is “high”? If you can, you have passed the course.
Leave everything better than when you came upon it.
Be careful of overthinking. This can lead to total confusion.
Meditation is not just sitting on a cushion. Awareness of reality should be seamless, continuing on and off the cushion.
Future plans are built on banana peels. Cultivate an effort to do your best in the present without expectation. Be at peace with whatever comes up, whether it is cherries, oranges, or the big jackpot.
Remember: everything, yes everything, changes.
Unplug yourself from that which drains your heart.
Don’t feel stuck at red lights. Use them as opportunities for reflection. The red light is actually our ally. If life were all green lights, we would have run ourselves over the edge by now.
Peace means no trouble. Period. If you live peacefully, you don’t make trouble.
To connect to the present moment, take five deep breaths. Five deep breaths can take you out from under any heavy situation.
Five things to encourage awakening: 1) Don’t take things personally, 2) All situations are really lessons, 3) Be a student in every moment, 4) Exceed your patience barrier (i.e., feel the distress of impatience), 5) Listen to silence.
Subdue the fear of death until death is afraid of you. Fear of death is a cultural implant.
The harder you drive your life toward money and security, the harder it is to get enough of it. You can never get enough of what you don’t need.
Life is more about letting go than about grasping more and more.
(From Meeting the Monkey Halfway by Ajahn Sumano Bhikku. Edited, with minor changes, by Ron Elkayam.)
Saturday, October 20, 2007
My Chinese Eyes
Before I go to sleep last night, I go to the corner store to buy a bottle of water. As usual, when Chinese people with poor English accents try to talk to me in English, I tell them in Chinese, "Excuse me, I don't understand English." The laoban (shop owner) is trying to tell me how much my water costs. We start talking in Chinese and he thinks my Chinese is pretty good. He guesses I like Chinese culture. "I do, I do," I respond.
"Are you Chinese?" he asks, making me think he must have had one too many Tsing Tao beers with dinner. "Well, look at my face," I say. He says, "Perhaps you are of mixed Chinese blood." Of course, I am smiling. "Yeah," he says, "I can see it in your eyes."
"Well, maybe in a past life," I say. "A hundred years ago, two hundred, three hundred?" he asks. "I don't know," I say.
"If you have time during your stay, come by and talk," he says as I leave.
I go back to my hotel, have a drink of my water, and get ready for bed, but not without checking out my Chinese eyes in the mirror.
"Are you Chinese?" he asks, making me think he must have had one too many Tsing Tao beers with dinner. "Well, look at my face," I say. He says, "Perhaps you are of mixed Chinese blood." Of course, I am smiling. "Yeah," he says, "I can see it in your eyes."
"Well, maybe in a past life," I say. "A hundred years ago, two hundred, three hundred?" he asks. "I don't know," I say.
"If you have time during your stay, come by and talk," he says as I leave.
I go back to my hotel, have a drink of my water, and get ready for bed, but not without checking out my Chinese eyes in the mirror.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Making Friends with China
I'm in the south of China in Guilin in Guangxi province. If I were Vietnamese, I could hop on a train and cross the border to Hanoi in about ten hours. However, I'm not Vietnamese, so I have other dreams.
I've just gotten off the plane from Shanghai and am sitting not too far from the baggage claim area of the Guilin airport in an internet "business center" where you can check your email for about 75 cents an hour. There aren't any businessmen here, just a few high school students fooling around on the net. One girl is yapping away in her mainland Chinese accent with her tongxue (classmates) on an instant messenging program.
After working hard to save money for my trip in the past month, I feel like I am coming alive again as I begin to explore this new place. I was happy to be in the States--to see my family on the East coast, to see my friends in Berkeley. To feel how much my psyche is changing living in Chinese culture. To see the things about American culture that I am finding stranger and stranger the more I live here in Asia. But it's good to be on the road again here in Asia, speaking Chinese, working toward my dream, whatever that may be.
I am in the middle of something. Something that feels much larger than me. I am reminded of the words of Seung Sahn, the Korean Zen master. "Don't know, only don't know." Westerners (and I think most people) have a tough time with this. We always want to know what comes next. For now, I am okay with "don't know". It's fun to be curious, to live with mystery, to listen to the present as it unfolds. "Dancing with the moment as she flies," a famous poet once said.
This morning, I woke up in Shanghai in my friend's high-rise apartment which looks out directly on the modern Pudong skyline. Next to the famous Jinmao building (which sure looks like Taipei's 101 to me), they are building an even taller structure, the World Finance Building, which will be 90 storeys and 460m, in case you were wondering.
After showering and preparing my pack for my trip to Yangshuo, I head out for my first day in China. I go to the bank and while waiting for my number to be called, one of the managers asks whether everything is all right. I explain to her what I need and she kindly helps me at the bank teller's window. The bank teller is smiling as we walk away and talk more. I tell her that today is my first day in China and that she is my first friend. Our meeting is yuan fen, she says. Meant to be.
It's a good way to start the day.
Across the street from the bank is Yuyuan Gardens, where I will get some breakfast. This is a beautiful compound full of classical Chinese pavilions where you can buy all manner of Chinese gifts, from marble chops to calligraphy brushes and scarfs to knockoff watches and luggage. There are salespeople walking around hawking their wares. When they see me, a foreigner, they say "watchey, luggitch?" And I really appreciate how just as soon as I said "bu yao" they stop and smile. And most importantly, continue on in their search for another waiguoren.
I ask one of the hawkers where I can get some food and he points me around the corner with a smile. I get some carrot dumpings and a cup of wulong tea at a little stall and began to talk to the laobanniang (the owner). Fortunately, everyone here understands my Chinese and everyone is pretty complimentary. I guess they're all used to a lot of Danish retirees. (These compliments are good encouragement, but as my friend Michael says, if one day you are not complimented, you know you are getting really good.)
There's a McDonald's nearby and I tell her that I don't eat McDonald's, that I prefer more traditional, natural food. She admits that she doesn't like it either. She explains that it's mostly a place for foreigners and young kids.
I tell her it's my first day here and that she is my second friend in China. It's time for me to be on my way and I thank her for the good and authentic food.
Now, time to get a card for my cellphone. These are the things you do when you land in a new place. I go to the China Mobile shop around the corner and get a phone number here in China. I have to tell you that life is a lot easier (and much more fun) because I can speak basic Chinese. I get my card and phone number, noticing that mobile phone numbers in China are eleven digits long. It's a big country.
I need some tea and I need to charge my phone, so I go to one of the many tea shops in Yuyuan Gardens. The shopkeeper is friendly and asks me to sit down for some wulong tea. I tell him a little about my story, that I've studied Chinese, and that I want to study more Chinese Medicine here. He is happy to let me charge my phone while we chat.
He brings out his wife, who tells me she was a rash that itches and won't go away. She is not more than thirty, and very friendly. As if I am her doctor, she starts pulling up her pantslegs to show me the red marks near her knees. I look at her tongue and feel her pulse and tell her what I think is going on. But then I tell her that I'm not such an experienced doctor and that she should find one nearby who specializes in dermatology.
The laoban gives me his card and says that I will be a good doctor in a few years and that he would like to visit me in my clinic. He's got some good tea and some fine-looking teapots, and so I make a note to go back there when I return to Shanghai in about a week.
After an overpriced lunch in Yuyuan gardens, I get on a taxi to Hongqiao airport, check in, and all of us passengers board a bus which takes us to our plane. Behind me is a young couple. The husband is on the phone and I start talking to his wife. In the next fifteen minutes, I discover some more of that yuan fen as I find my fifth and sixth friends here in China.
I am lucky. And hopefully, I'll be lucky enough to lose count of my friends in China in the next few days.
I've just gotten off the plane from Shanghai and am sitting not too far from the baggage claim area of the Guilin airport in an internet "business center" where you can check your email for about 75 cents an hour. There aren't any businessmen here, just a few high school students fooling around on the net. One girl is yapping away in her mainland Chinese accent with her tongxue (classmates) on an instant messenging program.
After working hard to save money for my trip in the past month, I feel like I am coming alive again as I begin to explore this new place. I was happy to be in the States--to see my family on the East coast, to see my friends in Berkeley. To feel how much my psyche is changing living in Chinese culture. To see the things about American culture that I am finding stranger and stranger the more I live here in Asia. But it's good to be on the road again here in Asia, speaking Chinese, working toward my dream, whatever that may be.
I am in the middle of something. Something that feels much larger than me. I am reminded of the words of Seung Sahn, the Korean Zen master. "Don't know, only don't know." Westerners (and I think most people) have a tough time with this. We always want to know what comes next. For now, I am okay with "don't know". It's fun to be curious, to live with mystery, to listen to the present as it unfolds. "Dancing with the moment as she flies," a famous poet once said.
This morning, I woke up in Shanghai in my friend's high-rise apartment which looks out directly on the modern Pudong skyline. Next to the famous Jinmao building (which sure looks like Taipei's 101 to me), they are building an even taller structure, the World Finance Building, which will be 90 storeys and 460m, in case you were wondering.
After showering and preparing my pack for my trip to Yangshuo, I head out for my first day in China. I go to the bank and while waiting for my number to be called, one of the managers asks whether everything is all right. I explain to her what I need and she kindly helps me at the bank teller's window. The bank teller is smiling as we walk away and talk more. I tell her that today is my first day in China and that she is my first friend. Our meeting is yuan fen, she says. Meant to be.
It's a good way to start the day.
Across the street from the bank is Yuyuan Gardens, where I will get some breakfast. This is a beautiful compound full of classical Chinese pavilions where you can buy all manner of Chinese gifts, from marble chops to calligraphy brushes and scarfs to knockoff watches and luggage. There are salespeople walking around hawking their wares. When they see me, a foreigner, they say "watchey, luggitch?" And I really appreciate how just as soon as I said "bu yao" they stop and smile. And most importantly, continue on in their search for another waiguoren.
I ask one of the hawkers where I can get some food and he points me around the corner with a smile. I get some carrot dumpings and a cup of wulong tea at a little stall and began to talk to the laobanniang (the owner). Fortunately, everyone here understands my Chinese and everyone is pretty complimentary. I guess they're all used to a lot of Danish retirees. (These compliments are good encouragement, but as my friend Michael says, if one day you are not complimented, you know you are getting really good.)
There's a McDonald's nearby and I tell her that I don't eat McDonald's, that I prefer more traditional, natural food. She admits that she doesn't like it either. She explains that it's mostly a place for foreigners and young kids.
I tell her it's my first day here and that she is my second friend in China. It's time for me to be on my way and I thank her for the good and authentic food.
Now, time to get a card for my cellphone. These are the things you do when you land in a new place. I go to the China Mobile shop around the corner and get a phone number here in China. I have to tell you that life is a lot easier (and much more fun) because I can speak basic Chinese. I get my card and phone number, noticing that mobile phone numbers in China are eleven digits long. It's a big country.
I need some tea and I need to charge my phone, so I go to one of the many tea shops in Yuyuan Gardens. The shopkeeper is friendly and asks me to sit down for some wulong tea. I tell him a little about my story, that I've studied Chinese, and that I want to study more Chinese Medicine here. He is happy to let me charge my phone while we chat.
He brings out his wife, who tells me she was a rash that itches and won't go away. She is not more than thirty, and very friendly. As if I am her doctor, she starts pulling up her pantslegs to show me the red marks near her knees. I look at her tongue and feel her pulse and tell her what I think is going on. But then I tell her that I'm not such an experienced doctor and that she should find one nearby who specializes in dermatology.
The laoban gives me his card and says that I will be a good doctor in a few years and that he would like to visit me in my clinic. He's got some good tea and some fine-looking teapots, and so I make a note to go back there when I return to Shanghai in about a week.
After an overpriced lunch in Yuyuan gardens, I get on a taxi to Hongqiao airport, check in, and all of us passengers board a bus which takes us to our plane. Behind me is a young couple. The husband is on the phone and I start talking to his wife. In the next fifteen minutes, I discover some more of that yuan fen as I find my fifth and sixth friends here in China.
I am lucky. And hopefully, I'll be lucky enough to lose count of my friends in China in the next few days.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Taiwanese Buddhists at the Airport
I arrive at the San Francisco Airport about to embark on my journey to China. For the past six weeks, I have been working, saving up some extra money for my trip, connecting with my family on both coasts, talking lots of English, and eating as much Middle Eastern food as possible. I almost can't believe it. The time has come to get on a plane to China.
The line at United check-in is long, mostly Chinese people. I assume they are all going to Shanghai like me. But in front of me is a group of people and they're all speaking Chinese with a Taiwanese accent (then they speak Taiwanese). It feels comfortable, reminds me of my time in Taiwan. So, I start talking to them.
They are from Banqiao, a suburb of Taipei which I have been to several times, and they are going home. They are disciples of the Chinese Zen master Sheng Yen and have come to the States to teach meditation for a few weeks to stressed-out American Buddhists (or perhaps Taiwanese/Chinese American Buddhists).
I tell them that I studied at National Cheng Chi University for the past year, and of course they are very warm. Of course, I tell them I miss Taiwan and all my friends there.
It's a good way to start my trip. More good yuan fen.
The line at United check-in is long, mostly Chinese people. I assume they are all going to Shanghai like me. But in front of me is a group of people and they're all speaking Chinese with a Taiwanese accent (then they speak Taiwanese). It feels comfortable, reminds me of my time in Taiwan. So, I start talking to them.
They are from Banqiao, a suburb of Taipei which I have been to several times, and they are going home. They are disciples of the Chinese Zen master Sheng Yen and have come to the States to teach meditation for a few weeks to stressed-out American Buddhists (or perhaps Taiwanese/Chinese American Buddhists).
I tell them that I studied at National Cheng Chi University for the past year, and of course they are very warm. Of course, I tell them I miss Taiwan and all my friends there.
It's a good way to start my trip. More good yuan fen.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Hardware Store Meditation
My friend Ted is not only a certified enlightened Tibetan Buddhist, but also makes a good casserole. He is also letting me crash at his place while I'm in Berkeley. May the Karmapa bless you, Ted Rinpoche.
Ted's place is in the Berkeley Hills. It's beautiful. Raspberries and plums grow in the garden. Mice scurry in the wooden rafters at night while I crash on the couch. The dogs howl and every morning, a persian cats strolls through the garden on his way home after a night of partying. The other morning, there was a flock of wild turkeys in his driveway.
The only thing that needs fixing at Ted's cottage is his shower. You see, after you shower, the floor gets all soggy--the flimsy shower curtain isn't enough. Since I like doing handyman kinds of things, and I like helping out my friends, I decided to pick up a few pieces of plastic that you can install on the edges of the tub so that water doesn't spill over and make a mess.
So, I go to the hardware store yesterday to pick up the supplies. I walk in and ask an employee in a red company vest which aisle. She doesn't know, so she asks another employee in a red vest and he sends me downstairs. I go downstairs. I see another guy in a red vest and ask him.
I smell alcohol on his breath immediately and describe what I need. "Well, let me show you because you don't know what you are talking about."
"Okay," I think. This is going to be fun. I am amused and say to him, "Well, you are the expert, so show me what I need!" He takes me over and shows me the plastic pieces. I ask him if I need glue and he says, "upstairs."
I thank him, grab my shower shields, and go back upstairs. I ask someone to recommend a glue, but she doesn't know which one is best, so she asks another employee. He asks me what I need and I tell him I need glue for the plastic pieces I just bought.
"Downstairs," he tells me.
"Okay," I think. I go downstairs and look for the glue, but don't see it. I turn around to drunk employee number one, who is now talking to helpful but confused employee number two. "Where is the glue?" I ask.
Employee one says it is upstairs, just like he did before. Employee two says, "Oh, I thought you needed to know where to get those plastic shields." I say to him, "Why do I need these? I have them, in my hand." I'm not really mad, I just feel like I am on some hidden camera TV show.
So, I go upstairs, and someone recommends the right glue, and I pay and get out of there.
On my way out, I spot whiskey-breathed employee number one lighting up a cigarette on a break. I smile at him, "So how long should I let the glue dry before I can use my shower?" I ask.
"Oh, a day," he says.
"Don't get into any trouble today!" I say, laughing.
He smiles big. "Okay!" he says.
Ted's place is in the Berkeley Hills. It's beautiful. Raspberries and plums grow in the garden. Mice scurry in the wooden rafters at night while I crash on the couch. The dogs howl and every morning, a persian cats strolls through the garden on his way home after a night of partying. The other morning, there was a flock of wild turkeys in his driveway.
The only thing that needs fixing at Ted's cottage is his shower. You see, after you shower, the floor gets all soggy--the flimsy shower curtain isn't enough. Since I like doing handyman kinds of things, and I like helping out my friends, I decided to pick up a few pieces of plastic that you can install on the edges of the tub so that water doesn't spill over and make a mess.
So, I go to the hardware store yesterday to pick up the supplies. I walk in and ask an employee in a red company vest which aisle. She doesn't know, so she asks another employee in a red vest and he sends me downstairs. I go downstairs. I see another guy in a red vest and ask him.
I smell alcohol on his breath immediately and describe what I need. "Well, let me show you because you don't know what you are talking about."
"Okay," I think. This is going to be fun. I am amused and say to him, "Well, you are the expert, so show me what I need!" He takes me over and shows me the plastic pieces. I ask him if I need glue and he says, "upstairs."
I thank him, grab my shower shields, and go back upstairs. I ask someone to recommend a glue, but she doesn't know which one is best, so she asks another employee. He asks me what I need and I tell him I need glue for the plastic pieces I just bought.
"Downstairs," he tells me.
"Okay," I think. I go downstairs and look for the glue, but don't see it. I turn around to drunk employee number one, who is now talking to helpful but confused employee number two. "Where is the glue?" I ask.
Employee one says it is upstairs, just like he did before. Employee two says, "Oh, I thought you needed to know where to get those plastic shields." I say to him, "Why do I need these? I have them, in my hand." I'm not really mad, I just feel like I am on some hidden camera TV show.
So, I go upstairs, and someone recommends the right glue, and I pay and get out of there.
On my way out, I spot whiskey-breathed employee number one lighting up a cigarette on a break. I smile at him, "So how long should I let the glue dry before I can use my shower?" I ask.
"Oh, a day," he says.
"Don't get into any trouble today!" I say, laughing.
He smiles big. "Okay!" he says.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Employees of the Month Award
My friend Ted is not only a certified enlightened Tibetan Buddhist, but also makes a good casserole. He is also letting me crash at his place while I'm in Berkeley. May the Karmapa bless you, Ted Rinpoche.
Ted's place is in the Berkeley Hills. It's beautiful. Raspberries and plums grow in the garden. Mice scurry in the wooden rafters at night while I crash on the couch. The dogs howl and every morning, a persian cats strolls through the garden on his way home after a night of partying.
The only thing that needs fixing is Ted's shower. You see, after you shower, the floor gets all soggy--the flimsy shower curtain isn't enough. Since I like doing handyman kinds of things, and I like helping out my friends, I decided to pick up a few pieces of plastic that you can install on the edges of the tub so that water doesn't spill over and make a mess.
So, I go to the hardware store yesterday to pick up the supplies. I walk in and ask an employee in a red company vest which aisle. She doesn't know, so she asks another employee in a red vest and he sends me downstairs. I go downstairs. I see another guy in a red vest and ask him.
I smell alcohol on his breath immediately and describe what I need. "Well, let me show you because you don't know what you are talking about."
"Okay," I think. This is going to be fun. Inside I smile and say to him, "Well, you are the expert, so show me what I need!" He takes me over and shows me the plastic pieces. I ask him if I need glue and he says, "upstairs."
I thank him, grab my shower shields, and go back upstairs. I ask someone to recommend a glue, but she doesn't know which one is best, so she asks another employee. He asks me what I need and I tell him I need glue for the plastic pieces I just bought.
"Downstairs," he tells me.
"Okay," I think. I go downstairs and look for the glue, but don't see it. I turn around to drunk employee number one, who is now talking to helpful but confused employee number two. "Where is the glue?" I ask.
Employee one says it is upstairs, just like he did before. Employee two says, "Oh, I thought you needed to know where to get those plastic shields." I say to him, "Why do I need these? I have them, in my hand." I'm not really mad, I just feel like I am on some hidden camera TV show.
So, I go upstairs, and someone recommends the right glue, and I pay and get out of there.
On my way out, I spot whiskey-breathed employee number one lighting up a cigarette on a break. I smile at him, "So how long should I let the glue dry before I can use my shower?" I ask.
"Oh, a day," he says.
I am laughing, "Don't get into any trouble today!" I say.
He smiles big and says, "okay."
Ted's place is in the Berkeley Hills. It's beautiful. Raspberries and plums grow in the garden. Mice scurry in the wooden rafters at night while I crash on the couch. The dogs howl and every morning, a persian cats strolls through the garden on his way home after a night of partying.
The only thing that needs fixing is Ted's shower. You see, after you shower, the floor gets all soggy--the flimsy shower curtain isn't enough. Since I like doing handyman kinds of things, and I like helping out my friends, I decided to pick up a few pieces of plastic that you can install on the edges of the tub so that water doesn't spill over and make a mess.
So, I go to the hardware store yesterday to pick up the supplies. I walk in and ask an employee in a red company vest which aisle. She doesn't know, so she asks another employee in a red vest and he sends me downstairs. I go downstairs. I see another guy in a red vest and ask him.
I smell alcohol on his breath immediately and describe what I need. "Well, let me show you because you don't know what you are talking about."
"Okay," I think. This is going to be fun. Inside I smile and say to him, "Well, you are the expert, so show me what I need!" He takes me over and shows me the plastic pieces. I ask him if I need glue and he says, "upstairs."
I thank him, grab my shower shields, and go back upstairs. I ask someone to recommend a glue, but she doesn't know which one is best, so she asks another employee. He asks me what I need and I tell him I need glue for the plastic pieces I just bought.
"Downstairs," he tells me.
"Okay," I think. I go downstairs and look for the glue, but don't see it. I turn around to drunk employee number one, who is now talking to helpful but confused employee number two. "Where is the glue?" I ask.
Employee one says it is upstairs, just like he did before. Employee two says, "Oh, I thought you needed to know where to get those plastic shields." I say to him, "Why do I need these? I have them, in my hand." I'm not really mad, I just feel like I am on some hidden camera TV show.
So, I go upstairs, and someone recommends the right glue, and I pay and get out of there.
On my way out, I spot whiskey-breathed employee number one lighting up a cigarette on a break. I smile at him, "So how long should I let the glue dry before I can use my shower?" I ask.
"Oh, a day," he says.
I am laughing, "Don't get into any trouble today!" I say.
He smiles big and says, "okay."
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Taiwanese Ladies in Cafe Gratitude
Today, I had lunch with my friend Ross at a very Bay Area establishment, Cafe Gratitude. It's a restaurant that serves vegan food (no animal products) with a new age flair. I ordered Pesto Pizza, which on the menu is called "You are Sensational." So when the waitress brought our food to the table, she says "You are Sensational?" and I said "Yes!"
Even though there are some organic restaurants in Taiwan, there's just nothing like Gratitude there. So, while I am here in the Bay Area, I figure I better get my fill of organic-hippie-granola culture.
Ross and I had a great time catching up. Although I answered his questions about what it was like in Taiwan, I couldn't quite convey to him what it was like to live there. I don't know if it is possible to explain it in words to anyone who hasn't been there.
As we were talking, I noticed that a group of older Taiwanese women sat down next to us and began speaking in Chinese. I recognized their accent.
When Ross and I got up to leave, I turned and asked them: "好不好吃?" ("How's the food?"). Ross saw my big smile (and their's) as we started to speak in Chinese. They asked me to sit down and we talked for five minutes.
Outside of the restaurant, Ross and I say goodbye, and for once, magically, one of my friends here gets a taste of my life in Taiwan.
Even though there are some organic restaurants in Taiwan, there's just nothing like Gratitude there. So, while I am here in the Bay Area, I figure I better get my fill of organic-hippie-granola culture.
Ross and I had a great time catching up. Although I answered his questions about what it was like in Taiwan, I couldn't quite convey to him what it was like to live there. I don't know if it is possible to explain it in words to anyone who hasn't been there.
As we were talking, I noticed that a group of older Taiwanese women sat down next to us and began speaking in Chinese. I recognized their accent.
When Ross and I got up to leave, I turned and asked them: "好不好吃?" ("How's the food?"). Ross saw my big smile (and their's) as we started to speak in Chinese. They asked me to sit down and we talked for five minutes.
Outside of the restaurant, Ross and I say goodbye, and for once, magically, one of my friends here gets a taste of my life in Taiwan.
Aikido Time Machine to the Past
While living in Taiwan, a few months ago, I found out that my first two aikido teachers (both well-known in California) were teaching a workshop. Since I knew I would back in the States then, I signed up.I found aikido just out of college, and I trained instensely with my teachers at least three times a week. I would finish my job in a law firm in San Francisco's Financial District and practice with my aikido buddies. About a year and a half later, I moved to Berkeley and never found a teacher near me with whom I connected as deeply as I had with my teachers in San Francisco, so I stopped practicing. But, aikido and my teachers had already touched me deeply.
For years, I always had the calligraphy of aikido's founder, Morihei Uyeshiba (O'Sensei) on my wall above a small altar I had in my living room. And on the altar I had a book of his sayings. Even though I wasn't practicing on the mat, I remember the lessons my teachers taught me and tried to embody them in everything I did.
I didn't know what it would feel like to practice with them again. Would I want to stay here in the Bay Area to continue my aikido practice with them? Would I feel deeply moved? Would it be an incredible experience, a high?
Fortunately, I have been practicing aikido for the past year in Taiwan, so I was confident that at least I would be able to do all the techniques. I figured my old teachers would remind me of the deeper principles of aikido: being one with your attacker, staying present in the technique instead of trying to "win", allowing ki/chi (energy) to flow through you during the technique. These were the things we practiced so hard in the old days.
My teachers looked a little older, but their words and teaching were the same as they were so many years ago. It has been over ten years since I trained with them, and it felt like I had entered a time machine and went back in time, like meeting an old girlfriend I was in love with a long time ago. My teacher even told me that I hadn't aged, in fact, that I looked younger. (As we say in English, flattery will get you everywhere.)
The workshop was fun, but it wasn't the peak experience that I thought it might be. After it ended, I felt incredible gratitude for both of my dear teachers, remembering what a large influence they had on me at a very important time in my life. At the same time, I realized how much I had changed and grown, how much had happened in my life since then.
I talked to them briefly to thank them, then quickly dressed and left.
On the way home, I went to get a haircut and it happened that the woman who cut my hair was from Taiwan. We spoke in Chinese and she was very friendly. I had visited the past today, and this haircut brought me back to my present, living in Asia, studying Chinese, studying aikido, getting ready to study more medicine.
For the first time that day, I had a big smile and was beaming.
Stop and Take the Time to Listen to the Guitar Music
Today, I am riding my bike on College Avenue to the cafe where I'll check my email. It's getting close to dinner time, but still sunny and warm. I park and lock my bike in front of the produce store with the fruit and flowers in the front and notice there's a musician playing classical Spanish guitar on the sidewalk.I stand there and listen to him play. I have always loved this kind of music and it hypnotizes me. The way children are always hypnotized by music. There's something essential about it for us human beings, sort of like how dogs are always transfixed by smells.
He is playing something familiar, sounds like a piece I know by a famous Spanish composer whose name I have forgotten. I stand there in the late afternoon sun while highly educated North Oakland professionals rush by, perhaps picking up takeout for their kids or going to a yoga class.
After he finishes the piece, I ask him who wrote it, and he tells me Albeniz. Yes, Albeniz, that's it! "What's his most famous piece?" I ask. He starts playing Leyenda, Albeniz's most famous piece adapted for guitar.
I will go in a few minutes, off to check my email, but not before I put a couple of dollars in his hat, and hopefully he'll continue to do this for a long time.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Practicing Taiwanese at the Supermarket
I go with my mom to the supermarket. A store employee helps us bag our few items. His name tag says "Chen" and he's Chinese.
I can't help asking, "You speak Chinese?"
"Yes, I am from Taiwan."
I start speaking to him in Chinese. I insert the little Taiwanese I know. He starts talking to me in Taiwanese, but I tell him to that I don't speak Taiwanese, just a few words.
I am happy. I tell him I just lived in Taiwan for a year, that I am here visiting my mom.
"Welcome!" he says in Chinese.
I want to come back everyday and talk to him
I can't help asking, "You speak Chinese?"
"Yes, I am from Taiwan."
I start speaking to him in Chinese. I insert the little Taiwanese I know. He starts talking to me in Taiwanese, but I tell him to that I don't speak Taiwanese, just a few words.
I am happy. I tell him I just lived in Taiwan for a year, that I am here visiting my mom.
"Welcome!" he says in Chinese.
I want to come back everyday and talk to him
The US Open
My sister gets us tickets to the last day of the US Open, and on Sunday, we head out to Queens to catch the Men's Finals. When we arrive, the Women's doubles are just finishing.Taiwan's Chan/Chuang are playing Dechy (France)/Safina (Russian). I see the Taiwanese players in red, and I am rooting for them. I feel like I know them. I feel that if we went out to dinner, we would have a good time, talking about Taiwan.
Every time they score, or every time they mess up, they come together and give each other a quick handslap. I want them to win.
They remind me that I miss Taiwan. Fortunately, I am wearing my sunglasses, so nobody can see my eyes, tearing up a little.
Chinatown New York
In Taiwan, I spoke Chinese every day. Perhaps not the most articulate Chinese, but I was able to tell all my juicy secrets to several Taiwanese friends using the words contained in my textbook, Practical Audio-Visual Chinese, Volumes 1, 2, and the first eight chapters of Volume 3. Oh, I also threw in some slang for effect, taught to me by my hip Taiwanese friends.
However, having been in the States for two weeks so far, I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to practice my Chinese, except for my thirty minute conversation with my friend Michael, who is another Jewish acupuncturist who lives on the West Coast. If you are Taiwanese, you would have loved to listen to our conversation. Two laowai talking Chinese. Very entertaining.
You could say that I have been a little thirsty to speak Chinese. So, when my mother and I went to New York this past weekend, I thought I might have an opportunity to go to Chinatown and practice, quench that thirst a little, perhaps.
We stayed in Tribeca, where many famous, beautiful, and glamorous people live, including: Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, Kate Winslet, Meryl Streep... oh, and let's not forget my sister, Alona.
On Saturday, my Mom and I took a walk from Tribeca to Chinatown, which is actually only about a ten minute walk, maybe fifteen minutes. I was so happy to see sign after sign in Chinese. Remember, I am still experiencing culture shock after having lived in Taiwan for a year. In the States, there are so many big white people, and so much correct English! I'm not used to it.
As I do in Taiwan, I look up and start trying to read the street signs, the billboards, the Chinese calligraphy on windows and above stores. I really do miss it all, even though it makes my head spin.
Our plan is to get some tea before we grab a cab to meet my sister in the East Village. We walk, and I keep my eyes open for a traditional teahouse.
My mom tells me to wait while she goes into a store that sells knick-knacks from Asia, like wooden reflexology sandals that have small raised wooden "fingers" which massage the soles of your feet while you walk.
The shop is a big stall--there is no door. The shopkeeper sits behind a table. He's in his 30's, Chinese, perhaps my age, and he's facing me. His expression is focused, and as I look at him, he looks straight ahead. He doesn't talk to me even though I am a customer looking right at him. I wonder if he is Chinese mafia and paid to look tough. But as I stand there, I realize there is a tape recorder next to him repeating sentences in Chinese and in English.
"I am studying English" the woman on the tape recorder says. "我在學英文" she repeats in Chinese. I realize that my opportunity to speak Chinese is here.
I smile and ask him in Chinese, "So, are you studying English?"
He is surprised to hear a laowai speak Chinese, and he goes from mafia-face to smile. He tells me he is studying English because he wants to get a green card and become a US citizen. He compliments me on my Chinese ("很表準"). As usual, I reply that my Chinese is actually not that good, but thanks for the compliment.
I ask him where there's a good place to get some tea. He tells me that around the corner there's a cheap place. We say goodbye, and I walk out with my mother. I am so happy to finally speak Chinese!
Later, I go to the tea place and I tell the kid I want some wulong tea. He tells me there are no tapioca pearls (珍珠; zhen zhu) in the kind of tea I have just ordered. I know this. I don't want zhen zhu in my cha. That's for kids. So I say, "不要,不要"("I don't want them!").
In Chinese, he responds, "You want it hot?(熱的嗎?)"
"Yes, 對," I reply, "Hot, 熱的."
My mother is waiting for me outside. We've got to get a cab and meet my sister in the Village, but I'm a little less parched, and am ready for our next adventure in the US of A.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
The Food Essay
One of my English students in Taiwan returns from a business trip in the Netherlands and tells me that she is so happy to be back. "Why?" I ask.
If you are Taiwanese, you know the anwer.
"The food. I had to eat hamburgers, sandwiches, and pasta every day" she says, whining a little bit.
If you are not Taiwanese, I will educate you a little now.
If you are foreign, you think, "Taiwanese food, not bad, maybe a little oily sometimes, but sometimes pretty good." A burger or a sandwich every once in a while is necessary to ease the monotomy, but, you know, it's not terrible.
However, if you are Taiwanese, you love Taiwanese food. You could eat at Maxim's in Paris every day for a month, and you'd still be pining for some niu rou mian (牛肉麵, beef noodle soup) with a little manguo bing (芒果冰, mango on ice) for dessert. Such is the nature of human beings.
Food brings us home. We remember those meals our grandmother made us when we were kids. If you feel nostalgic for home, you can always make yourself some traditional dishes, right?
And so, I am home. I spend the weekend with my dear grandmother. She makes me the most incredible food. My food. Jewish food. Hummus, baba ghanoush, borscht, meatloaf, her homemade pie, a Middle Eastern lentil salad, all served with pita.
It's all fresh, simple. A world away from Taiwan. Grandma smiles as I eat all her food, as I thank her profusely.
"I'm going to get fat," I tell her.
"Nobody loses weight in my house," she quickly responds.
I am back home.
Good People Abound, Everywhere
I'm back in the States, as all my fans (!) know. It's strange not to speak Chinese everyday. No old guys on their bin lang (穦榔) buzz talking Taiwanese. No Taiwanese ladies fixing oil-laden dan bing (蛋餅; egg crepes fried in about a gallon of oil) for breakfast, saying "Your Chinese is getting a lot better." And no 7-11s, where I can always pick up a cha ye dan (茶葉蛋; hard boiled tea eggs) or two. Taiwan, I miss you.
My friend Michael, another American acupuncturist on a mission, asks me about my experience of American people since I've been back. I think for a second and realize that I haven't really been spending much time with "American people"--I've been spending time with my dear family, and I am happy to see them. But I do notice that Americans are friendly and willing to talk and joke with you, even if they don't know you, like the flight attendant on the flight back from Tokyo, joking with the passengers ("Oh, you're one of those passengers--difficult!" she joked, with a big smile.)
I must be becoming Asian, as I think, "Wow, these Americans are a little guo fen (過分; too much)." On the other hand, as I told Michael, it's refreshing.
Since I am here in Virginia visiting my mother, I find a dojo (道館) nearby where I can practice aikido. We all know, without aikido, life is not worth living. Right? And so, this evening I set off to the local dojo to practice this noble art. On the way there, I think I have missed a turn, and so I stop at a gas station to ask.
I pull up to a pump and asked the lady in front of me directions, and she kindly tells me that I have one more block to go, in other words, I am on the right track. And so, thanking her much, I get back in my car (actually, my mother's car), and try to start it.
Uh-oh. I find I can't. The battery seemed to be dead. The only thing I can hink about is that I have aikido class nearby in fifteen minutes, and need to get there. And so I decide to just park the car in the gas station's parking lot for a few hours, run to class, and come back at 9 p.m. and deal with the battery issue later.
An Indian man sees me pushing my car into the parking space and offers to help. We get it there, and he asks if I have jumper cables. I tell him no. "Do you?" I ask hopefully. Alas, he doesn't. However, a guy walking by hears us, "Did you guys say jumper cables?"
I am happy. This guy has jumper cables in his truck, and he wants to do a good deed. "Do you have cables?" I ask. "Yes," he says. I'm in luck.
In Taiwan, I always have a lucky star overhead. I find out that she hasn't abandoned me. Thanks, lucky star.
After I get my mom's car's battery charged, I profusely thank this nice tatooed man who just helped me (and his wife, too, who is in the truck) and I am off. I need to get to aikido.
I know that after I park the car and turn it off at aikido, I will have a problem later, but I don't care. I need to get to aikido, and hopefully, my lucky star will still be there during and after practice.
Thank you lucky star.
Since we are near Washington D.C., I find there are a few military people practicing. The teacher asks me where I have been practicing and I tell him I have been in Taiwan for the past year.
"State Department?" he asks.
"No, Chinese Medicine Department," I respond.
We practice, all of us aikido brothers and sisters, and like an old friend, aikido says, "Welcome back, I am always here for you." I meet new friends. I learn some things. I exercise and sweat.
After practice, I know my mom's car will need a jump start. And so, I hang around and ask if anyone has jumper cables. Surprisingly, nobody does, even the military guys. I check in my mother's car. No jumper cables.
The retired Air Force pilot says he lives nearby and would be willing to stop by his house to pick up cables. I thank him, and we head to his place and then return with a flashlight and cables.
Within five minutes, I am back on the road, back to my mother's house. It's a good welcome back to America.
There are good people everywhere.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Fish in Water
After a long flight back from Taiwan, I am home. I arrived yesterday afternoon, and because I didn't sleep on the plane, was in a daze for most of the day. It's just too surreal to be living close to a big Daoist temple on a mountain south of Taipei one minute and then a few hours later find yourself in the progressive capital of the United States, where the buses run on hydrogen.
So, after four hours of sleep last night (believe me, I tried to get back to sleep after waking up at four in the morning, but I couldn't), I got up, dressed, got on my friend Jono's bike and rode to my old neighborhood.
It's autumn, the air is crisp and in my bones, I can feel the many autumns I've spent here. Climate itself can be like Proust's "madeleines", you know, you bite into a cookie you once ate a long time ago, and the memories start flowing.
It's quite a contrast to Taipei's heat and mugginess.
Walking around my old neighborhood on this cool autumn morning, I remember moving to Berkeley around this time of year (a long, long time ago!), I remember what it felt like to live in my old, beautiful apartment (I walk by it this morning and see the name of the person who lives in apartment 103, my old abode), I remember my community of friends way back when, walking with them on Shattuck Avenue. It's all more than I can communicate in words, but I think you understand.
A fish is back in the water.
At five this morning, I find a bakery (the famous Cheeseboard) in my old neighboorhood that has some benches in front. Even though it's not open yet, the lights are on and the bakers are bustling about. So, I open the book that my dear friend bought me before I left (A Fish the Smiled at Me, by Jimmie), and what else do I do but, of course, study Chinese!
A baker in an apron is pushing a cart of flour on the sidewalk and we start chatting. "You have enough light?" he asks as he smiles at me. "Yes, thanks." I say. I explain to him that I just got back from Asia and am jetlagged, and so am back in my old neighborhood, reminiscing.
"Want a muffin?" he asks. "They're just out of the oven," he says. "Bran, blueberry millet, and I can't remember the other one."
"I'd love a bran muffin," I reply. I've had many of them in my years here, and I might be about to have my own Proustian bakery experience.
So, he brings me my warm muffin, and I get to work on Jimmie's story. It is beautiful, about real love and letting go.
It feels like a few minutes have gone by, but I look at my watch, and it's almost six. That means I can go to my favorite cafe and get a cup of tea. It's on the next block. I pack up my book, and walk to Peet's Coffee and Tea, the original store on Walnut and Vine.
There, I get (what else?) and pot of Tie Guan Yin tea. "I'll give you a big mug in case you need room for cream and sugar," the dian yuan/woman at the register says.
I smile ("cream and sugar?") and say thank you.
I sit down at a table, pour myself a cup of tea (who knows, maybe it's from Maokong!), and get back to work on my story of the man and his fish.
I finish the story, feeling inspired (and happy to learn some new Chinese). The sun is starting to come up, and I need to get breakfast.
I am back home.
So, after four hours of sleep last night (believe me, I tried to get back to sleep after waking up at four in the morning, but I couldn't), I got up, dressed, got on my friend Jono's bike and rode to my old neighborhood.
It's autumn, the air is crisp and in my bones, I can feel the many autumns I've spent here. Climate itself can be like Proust's "madeleines", you know, you bite into a cookie you once ate a long time ago, and the memories start flowing.
It's quite a contrast to Taipei's heat and mugginess.
Walking around my old neighborhood on this cool autumn morning, I remember moving to Berkeley around this time of year (a long, long time ago!), I remember what it felt like to live in my old, beautiful apartment (I walk by it this morning and see the name of the person who lives in apartment 103, my old abode), I remember my community of friends way back when, walking with them on Shattuck Avenue. It's all more than I can communicate in words, but I think you understand.
A fish is back in the water.
At five this morning, I find a bakery (the famous Cheeseboard) in my old neighboorhood that has some benches in front. Even though it's not open yet, the lights are on and the bakers are bustling about. So, I open the book that my dear friend bought me before I left (A Fish the Smiled at Me, by Jimmie), and what else do I do but, of course, study Chinese!
A baker in an apron is pushing a cart of flour on the sidewalk and we start chatting. "You have enough light?" he asks as he smiles at me. "Yes, thanks." I say. I explain to him that I just got back from Asia and am jetlagged, and so am back in my old neighborhood, reminiscing.
"Want a muffin?" he asks. "They're just out of the oven," he says. "Bran, blueberry millet, and I can't remember the other one."
"I'd love a bran muffin," I reply. I've had many of them in my years here, and I might be about to have my own Proustian bakery experience.
So, he brings me my warm muffin, and I get to work on Jimmie's story. It is beautiful, about real love and letting go.
It feels like a few minutes have gone by, but I look at my watch, and it's almost six. That means I can go to my favorite cafe and get a cup of tea. It's on the next block. I pack up my book, and walk to Peet's Coffee and Tea, the original store on Walnut and Vine.
There, I get (what else?) and pot of Tie Guan Yin tea. "I'll give you a big mug in case you need room for cream and sugar," the dian yuan/woman at the register says.
I smile ("cream and sugar?") and say thank you.
I sit down at a table, pour myself a cup of tea (who knows, maybe it's from Maokong!), and get back to work on my story of the man and his fish.
I finish the story, feeling inspired (and happy to learn some new Chinese). The sun is starting to come up, and I need to get breakfast.
I am back home.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Rainy Night on Zhinan Mountain
I've leaving Taiwan on Monday morning, early. This evening, I have focused on packing, and finally, I am done. It's a good feeling.
It's a beautiful night in Muzha. It's been lightly raining for the past few hours. I love when it rains on the mountain. It's a feeling of nourishment, strengthening, release.
I need to take a walk and move my body. I don't mind that it's raining, and besides, I won't be able to take a walk in my neighborhood on the mountain for a long time. So, I grab an umbrella and walk down Wanshou Rd.
It's always good to walk after being cramped up inside. After twenty or thirty minutes, I am done my short hike and am back at the stairs that lead up to my small apartment building. I walk up, slowly. There are big lamps along the path, and their light is reflected on the water as it tumbles over the stairs, which are all made of thousands of small pebbles.
I get to the top of the path where my apartment is. This is one of my last walks here, and I am glad I have slowed down tonight to appreciate this place.
It's still raining outside. A fine moment to finish my last blog entry in Taiwan.
It's a beautiful night in Muzha. It's been lightly raining for the past few hours. I love when it rains on the mountain. It's a feeling of nourishment, strengthening, release.
I need to take a walk and move my body. I don't mind that it's raining, and besides, I won't be able to take a walk in my neighborhood on the mountain for a long time. So, I grab an umbrella and walk down Wanshou Rd.
It's always good to walk after being cramped up inside. After twenty or thirty minutes, I am done my short hike and am back at the stairs that lead up to my small apartment building. I walk up, slowly. There are big lamps along the path, and their light is reflected on the water as it tumbles over the stairs, which are all made of thousands of small pebbles.
I get to the top of the path where my apartment is. This is one of my last walks here, and I am glad I have slowed down tonight to appreciate this place.
It's still raining outside. A fine moment to finish my last blog entry in Taiwan.
Chinese Studying and Peoplewatching in Taipei 101
I am often in Taipei 101, until last month, the tallest building in the world. Since I am a poor student, perhaps being there makes me feel, well, a little richer. I study on the fourth floor where there are several cafes and Taipei's best bookstore for English books, and in between memorizing new vocabulary and writing sentences in Chinese that are a mixture of both proper Chinese and English grammar (I get points off for the latter, though), I peoplewatch.
There are the grandmothers who knit and gossip at the table next to me every time I am there. They know me well (well, because they see me all the time), and hopefully, they've gossiped about me.
Then there are the business people who are on a coffee break, business people in meetings with their laptops, salespeople making big deals. Students who are on summer break who are either chilling together after a little shopping, or organizing some big activity, like a play. At least that's what it looks to me.
The boys are usually skinny, mostly with tan complexions and funky haircuts, and a few are more plump. There's usually one guy who's really loud, and the girls all pay attention to him. I am sure they go home together afterwards and tell each other how they think he is so cute. They secretly want to marry him.
Usually, there are a few retired couples drinking tea and eating dessert. There is a large TV above our heads on the fourth floor, mostly advertising expensive watches and other luxury products, including mutual funds. Skinny Versace models (mostly blonde) cross their legs in front of each other while they walk on the catwalk (why do they walk like that?; it looks like they are going to pull their anterior lateral cruciate ligament or something), but they don't look that pretty to me. They look forced and mechanical, unnatural. They look like they can't wait for the show to end so they can go out for another night of dancing, drinking, and perhaps taking expensive drugs. And they're not even twenty yet. Poor girls.
So the old men just look blankly at the screen while the wives talk and sip their tea. But sometimes, they look like they are having a good conversation, like they actually like each other after fifty years of marriage.
I notice that the elderly woman at the table next to me with her husband looking over at my table a few times, curious about what I am studying, and then when I got up to refill my cup of tea with hot water, she looks at me, interested. So, when I have a Chinese question, I walk over to her and say politely, "Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a Chinese question?"
"Sure," the woman responds. She seems very happy to help, and I ask my question. She gives me a confident and clear explanation and I smile and thank her. Her husband smiles at me and says that his wife is a retired elementary school teacher. "Perfect for my level," I say. We all chat for a while.
Actually, the truth is that after you've studied a year and a half of solid Chinese and lived in Taiwan for that long, I am sorry to say, but the large majority of elementary school students are much more advanced than you. I'm talking about writing and reading. If we're talking about speaking, then I would think it would be appropriate to compare us to nursery school kids in Taiwan, all of whom are far more advanced in their Chinese speaking and listening abilities. For instance, most of my classmates (and me), have a hard time understanding most animated movies in Chinese.
The other day, I got up to go for a bathroom break, and as I was washing my hands, I see a little kid, maybe four years old, with his mom, at the door. She is trying to send him in to pee, but the little boy wants her to go in there with him and help. But she tells him she can't.
I walk over and smile at him and say, "Okay, come in, I'll help you, okay?" When I see that his mother hasn't freaked out and called the police (she is actually smiling and looks a little relieved), I take his hand. His mother tells him to go with me and I lead him to the low urinal where young boys can urinate hygienically and accurately. I walk away and wait for him to finish. As he is getting ready to pee, he looks over at me. I smile and make a face at him. During the process of peeing, he looks over at me several times. This might be the first time a foreigner is supervising his peeing process.
He is all zipped up and walks out toward his mother, but I remind him that he needs to wash his hands. So, I take the toy motorcycle in his hand and put his hands in front of the automatic faucet. He's done washing and I can tell he misses him mom a lot--he forgets all about his motorcycle. So, I remind him, hey, your motorcycle, dude.
I walk out with him, and his mom looks at me, thankful.
I am thankful, too. I sit back down, and am ready for some more Chinese studying and peoplewatching in Taipei 101.
There are the grandmothers who knit and gossip at the table next to me every time I am there. They know me well (well, because they see me all the time), and hopefully, they've gossiped about me.
Then there are the business people who are on a coffee break, business people in meetings with their laptops, salespeople making big deals. Students who are on summer break who are either chilling together after a little shopping, or organizing some big activity, like a play. At least that's what it looks to me.
The boys are usually skinny, mostly with tan complexions and funky haircuts, and a few are more plump. There's usually one guy who's really loud, and the girls all pay attention to him. I am sure they go home together afterwards and tell each other how they think he is so cute. They secretly want to marry him.
Usually, there are a few retired couples drinking tea and eating dessert. There is a large TV above our heads on the fourth floor, mostly advertising expensive watches and other luxury products, including mutual funds. Skinny Versace models (mostly blonde) cross their legs in front of each other while they walk on the catwalk (why do they walk like that?; it looks like they are going to pull their anterior lateral cruciate ligament or something), but they don't look that pretty to me. They look forced and mechanical, unnatural. They look like they can't wait for the show to end so they can go out for another night of dancing, drinking, and perhaps taking expensive drugs. And they're not even twenty yet. Poor girls.
So the old men just look blankly at the screen while the wives talk and sip their tea. But sometimes, they look like they are having a good conversation, like they actually like each other after fifty years of marriage.
I notice that the elderly woman at the table next to me with her husband looking over at my table a few times, curious about what I am studying, and then when I got up to refill my cup of tea with hot water, she looks at me, interested. So, when I have a Chinese question, I walk over to her and say politely, "Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you a Chinese question?"
"Sure," the woman responds. She seems very happy to help, and I ask my question. She gives me a confident and clear explanation and I smile and thank her. Her husband smiles at me and says that his wife is a retired elementary school teacher. "Perfect for my level," I say. We all chat for a while.
Actually, the truth is that after you've studied a year and a half of solid Chinese and lived in Taiwan for that long, I am sorry to say, but the large majority of elementary school students are much more advanced than you. I'm talking about writing and reading. If we're talking about speaking, then I would think it would be appropriate to compare us to nursery school kids in Taiwan, all of whom are far more advanced in their Chinese speaking and listening abilities. For instance, most of my classmates (and me), have a hard time understanding most animated movies in Chinese.
The other day, I got up to go for a bathroom break, and as I was washing my hands, I see a little kid, maybe four years old, with his mom, at the door. She is trying to send him in to pee, but the little boy wants her to go in there with him and help. But she tells him she can't.
I walk over and smile at him and say, "Okay, come in, I'll help you, okay?" When I see that his mother hasn't freaked out and called the police (she is actually smiling and looks a little relieved), I take his hand. His mother tells him to go with me and I lead him to the low urinal where young boys can urinate hygienically and accurately. I walk away and wait for him to finish. As he is getting ready to pee, he looks over at me. I smile and make a face at him. During the process of peeing, he looks over at me several times. This might be the first time a foreigner is supervising his peeing process.
He is all zipped up and walks out toward his mother, but I remind him that he needs to wash his hands. So, I take the toy motorcycle in his hand and put his hands in front of the automatic faucet. He's done washing and I can tell he misses him mom a lot--he forgets all about his motorcycle. So, I remind him, hey, your motorcycle, dude.
I walk out with him, and his mom looks at me, thankful.
I am thankful, too. I sit back down, and am ready for some more Chinese studying and peoplewatching in Taipei 101.
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