Since May, users of blogspot in China haven't been able to post. Many assume that this had to do with the 20th anniversary of the events at Tiananmen on June 4, 1989.
So, for those of you who have missed my blog posts--now you know.
Unfortunately, blogspot is still blocked in China. Tonight, I did a little research on the net and found a workaround and hope I can continue to use it.
To any of you who don't already know--while Chinese culture is beautiful and the great majority of Chinese people are kind and giving people--the government here is a racket.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Communist Party Member Infiltration
Yesterday, my English class was infiltrated by a member of the Communist Party Propaganda Committee. I don't know how he got in there. Here's what happened.
I was teaching an intermediate English class and the topic was "customs". We started by talking about customs of different cultures ("In Spain, people eat dinner late", "In Korea, diners slurp their noodles", etc.). And so for the speaking activity, I asked my students to pretend that they were giving a presentation to foreigners visiting China. What advice would they give foreigners to make their stay go more smoothly? What customs are specific to China that would be important for foreigners to learn about?
My students began their presentations. Bring a gift if you are invited to dinner. Give a red envelope if you are invited to a wedding. If you are a man and go on a date with a girl, pay for dinner. All very helpful.
And then suddenly, one student started telling us about another "custom" in China. He says: "In China, do not cut in line. You must wait in line."
This is a traditional custom in China? This is something that is different from Western culture that foreign visitors must learn about?
I almost fell to the ground laughing. I think after falling to the ground laughing, I would have begun crying from laughing too much. But I restrained myself.
I thought about all the times Chinese people have cut in front of me here. In stores, waiting in line for the subway, buying tickets. I have become used to it, and I don't even get upset about it anymore. It is just part of life here in China. Once, when I politely asked the guy in line behind me why a woman just cut in line he said: "When you live in China for more time, you will understand."
And so, how do I respond to the Communist Party member who has infiltrated my class? I tell him that "waiting in line" is not a traditional custom in China. I tell him that it is quite common for people to cut in line here. Despite the government's trying to educate people to "civilize" (wenming) themselves, people still spit and people still butt in line. Yes, this is government propaganda, but not a "traditional Chinese custom".
And so, as the teacher, I correct him. I tell him, "If you are giving advice to foreigners, here is what you can say: 'In China, when you wait in line, sometimes people will try to cut in, but don't get upset--just politely tell them to wait in line.'"
The Communist Party member operative who had snuck into my class was finished. It was time to hear the next presentation and learn about some more beautiful, strange Chinese customs.
I was teaching an intermediate English class and the topic was "customs". We started by talking about customs of different cultures ("In Spain, people eat dinner late", "In Korea, diners slurp their noodles", etc.). And so for the speaking activity, I asked my students to pretend that they were giving a presentation to foreigners visiting China. What advice would they give foreigners to make their stay go more smoothly? What customs are specific to China that would be important for foreigners to learn about?
My students began their presentations. Bring a gift if you are invited to dinner. Give a red envelope if you are invited to a wedding. If you are a man and go on a date with a girl, pay for dinner. All very helpful.
And then suddenly, one student started telling us about another "custom" in China. He says: "In China, do not cut in line. You must wait in line."
This is a traditional custom in China? This is something that is different from Western culture that foreign visitors must learn about?
I almost fell to the ground laughing. I think after falling to the ground laughing, I would have begun crying from laughing too much. But I restrained myself.
I thought about all the times Chinese people have cut in front of me here. In stores, waiting in line for the subway, buying tickets. I have become used to it, and I don't even get upset about it anymore. It is just part of life here in China. Once, when I politely asked the guy in line behind me why a woman just cut in line he said: "When you live in China for more time, you will understand."
And so, how do I respond to the Communist Party member who has infiltrated my class? I tell him that "waiting in line" is not a traditional custom in China. I tell him that it is quite common for people to cut in line here. Despite the government's trying to educate people to "civilize" (wenming) themselves, people still spit and people still butt in line. Yes, this is government propaganda, but not a "traditional Chinese custom".
And so, as the teacher, I correct him. I tell him, "If you are giving advice to foreigners, here is what you can say: 'In China, when you wait in line, sometimes people will try to cut in, but don't get upset--just politely tell them to wait in line.'"
The Communist Party member operative who had snuck into my class was finished. It was time to hear the next presentation and learn about some more beautiful, strange Chinese customs.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Baseball Reflexes on Beijing Streets
Today, as I was walking on the streets of Beijing, I made two saves.
As I was walking near Ditan Park this afternoon, two boy were driving in their motorized cart when I bottle of water (one of many) came tumbling down. They stopped their cart and one of them got off. As the water was rolling toward me, I grabbed it and then I tossed it across the street into the arms of the boy. It was just like making a doubleplay in little league. The bottle looked like it bounced off of the boys chest and that he wasn't going to catch it, but he made his own save. He smiled and said thanks.
Then, later in the day, a women is playing with a golf ball in front of her shop when it gets away. I step forward to catch it and then walk up to her and give it back. She tell me in English: "Thanks!"
As I was walking near Ditan Park this afternoon, two boy were driving in their motorized cart when I bottle of water (one of many) came tumbling down. They stopped their cart and one of them got off. As the water was rolling toward me, I grabbed it and then I tossed it across the street into the arms of the boy. It was just like making a doubleplay in little league. The bottle looked like it bounced off of the boys chest and that he wasn't going to catch it, but he made his own save. He smiled and said thanks.
Then, later in the day, a women is playing with a golf ball in front of her shop when it gets away. I step forward to catch it and then walk up to her and give it back. She tell me in English: "Thanks!"
The Shitty Fruit Stand
In front of my apartment there's a small fruit stand, the Shitty Fruit Stand. Most of the fruit I get there is a waste of my money.
For example, the bananas, even when fully ripened, still taste like they're still green. I love mangoes, so for me it's torture to eat the shitty mangoes at the Shitty Fruit Stand. While they're beautiful on the outside, and even beautiful on the inside, they taste like shit. Their flesh is soft and gleaming in the light streaming into my kitchen, but when I bite into them, I'm always disappointed. They're slightly sweet. Do you know anyone who wants to eat a "slightly" sweet mango? I want my mangoes supersweet and tangy (which is why I'll never forget my first bite that I even took of a mango when I went to Florida on a trip with my grandmother when I was twelve).
The tangerines. Well, I'm not even going to talk about the tangerines at the Shitty Fruit Stand. The other day, I went through about four of them, peeling them, biting into them and then spitting them out. They were all very dry and tasted like fertilizer. Nevertheless, since I am a hopeful kind of guy, I kept trying them in hopes that I would get a good one. My hopes, however, were dashed.
Oh, by they way. The papayas are shitty, too. They taste like potatoes. I'm going to boil them and mash them and add butter and salt. I'll bet they'll taste great like that served with a steak.
I am sure my eighty year-old neighbor (who likes to look for recycling in the common trash can on our floor where everyone throws away their trash) wonders why I always throw fruit away. Last week, though, instead of throwing the tangerines away, I brought the ones I had leftover back to the old woman who works at the stand. "They taste bad," I say. She takes them and start to weigh them to figure out how much credit I should get for them. "Just give me a banana, that'll be fine," I say. So, she gives me a shitty banana and I'm on my way.
The other day, I found another fruit stand not too far from my house and bought some strawberries from them. They were sweet! They tasted like real strawberries! They weren't shitty!
And so today, on my way home, in the mood for fruit, I decided to head to this new fruit stand. The Non-Shitty Fruit Stand.
I pick up some bananas and the woman immediately asks what else I would like. This is Chinese service for you, very different from what we are used to in the West. I tell her I don't know what else I would like, I still need to look around.
There are some papayas, and I pick one. I pick up some mangoes and strawberries as well. I pay for them, put them into the basket of my bike and ride home, anticipating a fine fruit salad.
After I walk into my apartment, I put the fruit down on my kitchen counter. I pour some water in a bowl and dump the strawberries in it. Then, I hastily grab a banana and I chop it up using the only knife I have--a chef's chopping knife. I pretend I am a Chinese chef and chop it into 100 (well, almost 100) thin slices and throw them into some tupperware. Then, I grab a few strawberries and chop them up with the same pseudo-masterful technique and add them to the bananas. (Of course, I have to sample the berries and they are sweet. They're not rotten!).
It's time to get a mango. I cut it up and as I slice it into the salad, I sample some and I am practically on the floor writhing in ecstasy. It's been so long since I've tasted a real mango. I guess I'm too used to eating "pirated" mangoes (if you live in China and you've ever watched a DVD here, you know what I am talking about).
I notice in my haste to make my fruit salad that I'm still wearing my backpack, but I don't take it off. I finish my salad by chopping up the papaya. I mix all the fruit together and begin eating.
My ecstasy continues and I wonder why I've bought so much fruit at the Shitty Fruit Stand. Was it because it was so convenient? Because of that old woman's smile? Or maybe was I worried that I would get "caught" bringing in fruit from other stands as I entered my building?
I don't know the answer, but I do know one thing. I don't think I'll ever go back to Shitty Fruit Stand again.
For example, the bananas, even when fully ripened, still taste like they're still green. I love mangoes, so for me it's torture to eat the shitty mangoes at the Shitty Fruit Stand. While they're beautiful on the outside, and even beautiful on the inside, they taste like shit. Their flesh is soft and gleaming in the light streaming into my kitchen, but when I bite into them, I'm always disappointed. They're slightly sweet. Do you know anyone who wants to eat a "slightly" sweet mango? I want my mangoes supersweet and tangy (which is why I'll never forget my first bite that I even took of a mango when I went to Florida on a trip with my grandmother when I was twelve).
The tangerines. Well, I'm not even going to talk about the tangerines at the Shitty Fruit Stand. The other day, I went through about four of them, peeling them, biting into them and then spitting them out. They were all very dry and tasted like fertilizer. Nevertheless, since I am a hopeful kind of guy, I kept trying them in hopes that I would get a good one. My hopes, however, were dashed.
Oh, by they way. The papayas are shitty, too. They taste like potatoes. I'm going to boil them and mash them and add butter and salt. I'll bet they'll taste great like that served with a steak.
I am sure my eighty year-old neighbor (who likes to look for recycling in the common trash can on our floor where everyone throws away their trash) wonders why I always throw fruit away. Last week, though, instead of throwing the tangerines away, I brought the ones I had leftover back to the old woman who works at the stand. "They taste bad," I say. She takes them and start to weigh them to figure out how much credit I should get for them. "Just give me a banana, that'll be fine," I say. So, she gives me a shitty banana and I'm on my way.
The other day, I found another fruit stand not too far from my house and bought some strawberries from them. They were sweet! They tasted like real strawberries! They weren't shitty!
And so today, on my way home, in the mood for fruit, I decided to head to this new fruit stand. The Non-Shitty Fruit Stand.
I pick up some bananas and the woman immediately asks what else I would like. This is Chinese service for you, very different from what we are used to in the West. I tell her I don't know what else I would like, I still need to look around.
There are some papayas, and I pick one. I pick up some mangoes and strawberries as well. I pay for them, put them into the basket of my bike and ride home, anticipating a fine fruit salad.
After I walk into my apartment, I put the fruit down on my kitchen counter. I pour some water in a bowl and dump the strawberries in it. Then, I hastily grab a banana and I chop it up using the only knife I have--a chef's chopping knife. I pretend I am a Chinese chef and chop it into 100 (well, almost 100) thin slices and throw them into some tupperware. Then, I grab a few strawberries and chop them up with the same pseudo-masterful technique and add them to the bananas. (Of course, I have to sample the berries and they are sweet. They're not rotten!).
It's time to get a mango. I cut it up and as I slice it into the salad, I sample some and I am practically on the floor writhing in ecstasy. It's been so long since I've tasted a real mango. I guess I'm too used to eating "pirated" mangoes (if you live in China and you've ever watched a DVD here, you know what I am talking about).
I notice in my haste to make my fruit salad that I'm still wearing my backpack, but I don't take it off. I finish my salad by chopping up the papaya. I mix all the fruit together and begin eating.
My ecstasy continues and I wonder why I've bought so much fruit at the Shitty Fruit Stand. Was it because it was so convenient? Because of that old woman's smile? Or maybe was I worried that I would get "caught" bringing in fruit from other stands as I entered my building?
I don't know the answer, but I do know one thing. I don't think I'll ever go back to Shitty Fruit Stand again.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Spring in Beijing
Two weeks ago, suddenly, it started snowing lightly in Beijing and I dug up my wool hat. Spring has been teasing us, as it surely has since humans began experiencing it (before that, who was Spring without her admirers?).
Returning from Israel last week, the last of those snowflakes have melted and I can walk around in a short-sleeves shirt (except for that wind). Spring, as Chinese people say, is like a stepmother. Sometimes oh so nice, and sometimes evil. This of course fits with the view of it in traditional Chinese Medicine. Both the wind and Spring are manifestations of the wood element, always growing and coursing nervously like the new branches, erratic).
Today, I am in Northeastern Beijing, Wangjing, and it's snowing again! Except this time it's pollen that is snowing. I've never seen anything like it. I'm not talking about a few dandelions shedding their seeds in the wind. It's like millions of dandelion seeds in the air. Honestly, Hollywood could come here and film a few heartwarming Christmas films (It's a Wonderful Life with Chinese Characteristics and Kaoya Roasting on an Open Fire).
This is poplar pollen. I'm in a Sichuan restaurant eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup and people walk in with specks of poplar pollen covering their hair. A girl walks by with her hand covering her face. It's particularly bad in this neighborhood.
Taking a cab back to the subway, I point to some floating in his car and the driver tells me it will all be gone in a few weeks.
The Stumbling Son
I'm in a taxi and we stop at the light. I see a thin old man with grey-white hair and his taller thirty-something son walk arm in arm slowly across the street.
I'm always amazed at how integral xiaoshun (孝順, filial piety) is to Chinese people, that a grown man would be walking his father across the street. I remember returning to the States and walking with my grandmother across a parking lot to go into a shopping mall. I instinctively held her arm. In that way, perhaps China has changed me.
I watch them cross and then upon closer examination, I realize the young man isn't walking his father across the street at all. I see that the young man has difficulty walking and his face is slightly distorted, tilted, and has a haze as if he has some musculoskeletal disease.
The father, however, walks upright with clear eyes, guiding his son as they slowly make the trek. As they approach the curve at the other side, the son stumbles a little over his own two feet and his father supports him, as he surely has been for a very long time.
I'm always amazed at how integral xiaoshun (孝順, filial piety) is to Chinese people, that a grown man would be walking his father across the street. I remember returning to the States and walking with my grandmother across a parking lot to go into a shopping mall. I instinctively held her arm. In that way, perhaps China has changed me.
I watch them cross and then upon closer examination, I realize the young man isn't walking his father across the street at all. I see that the young man has difficulty walking and his face is slightly distorted, tilted, and has a haze as if he has some musculoskeletal disease.
The father, however, walks upright with clear eyes, guiding his son as they slowly make the trek. As they approach the curve at the other side, the son stumbles a little over his own two feet and his father supports him, as he surely has been for a very long time.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Taiji Corrections
I'm doing taiji "cloud hands" near my building and a neighbor walks by me. I say good morning to her, a short woman with white hair, probably in her seventies. She smiles back at me and says something in Chinese. I don't catch it and ask again. "手跟着眼睛走," she says. ("Your eyes should follow your hands.")
I thank her for reminding me and practice the technique over again, the correct way.
I thank her for reminding me and practice the technique over again, the correct way.
The New Leaves of Spring
I get a text message from my friend Michael who lives in Beijing: "It's nice to see the trees are getting leaves!" I reply: "My English is getting pretty bad, too!"
Despite my joke-making, I wake up this morning (after the first spring rain) and notice that all the trees do have leaves on them, and it brings a sense of relief (yeah!), a burst of joy (yeah!), and hope (yeah!) to my heart.
I wake up and after my cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal, go outside to do my daily set of taiji. People walking in my neighborhood walk by and stare with perplexed looks and they sometimes smile.
Surrounding me is a yard full of trees and I notice their tiny leaves are just beginning to sprout. As I am doing doing taiji, I notice an old man behind me walk into the yard with a plastic bag. The yard is usually messy, filled with trash, and I am happy because it looks like he wants to clean up a little. But as I continue my set, I notice he's not cleaning up at all.
He walks up to a small tree with small greenish-purplish leaves and starts picking them and putting them into his bag. I assume he is just going to pick a few leaves, but he keeps picking.
I am curious and instinctively, want to stop him. I want to "protect" those young leaves. I stop my taiji. I wonder what he wants to do, maybe take the pickings home and grow them in glasses of water or something.
I decide to continue doing my taiji, but then I notice that he keeps picking those leaves. All those new young leaves are almost gone!
I stop my taiji and turn around to him. "Good morning!" I say. He is short, in his 70s, with white hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. He looks over to me. I ask him politely what he is doing and he tells me that you can eat these leaves. "Fried eggs," he tells me. They are good with fried eggs!
I ask him what that name of the plant is. He tells me and I thank him and go back to taiji.
He's finished picking leaves. I turn back again and look at the tree. It's bare and only the top most bunch of small leaves are left.
I guess someone will have some tasty eggs for the next few days.
Despite my joke-making, I wake up this morning (after the first spring rain) and notice that all the trees do have leaves on them, and it brings a sense of relief (yeah!), a burst of joy (yeah!), and hope (yeah!) to my heart.
I wake up and after my cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal, go outside to do my daily set of taiji. People walking in my neighborhood walk by and stare with perplexed looks and they sometimes smile.
Surrounding me is a yard full of trees and I notice their tiny leaves are just beginning to sprout. As I am doing doing taiji, I notice an old man behind me walk into the yard with a plastic bag. The yard is usually messy, filled with trash, and I am happy because it looks like he wants to clean up a little. But as I continue my set, I notice he's not cleaning up at all.
He walks up to a small tree with small greenish-purplish leaves and starts picking them and putting them into his bag. I assume he is just going to pick a few leaves, but he keeps picking.
I am curious and instinctively, want to stop him. I want to "protect" those young leaves. I stop my taiji. I wonder what he wants to do, maybe take the pickings home and grow them in glasses of water or something.
I decide to continue doing my taiji, but then I notice that he keeps picking those leaves. All those new young leaves are almost gone!
I stop my taiji and turn around to him. "Good morning!" I say. He is short, in his 70s, with white hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. He looks over to me. I ask him politely what he is doing and he tells me that you can eat these leaves. "Fried eggs," he tells me. They are good with fried eggs!
I ask him what that name of the plant is. He tells me and I thank him and go back to taiji.
He's finished picking leaves. I turn back again and look at the tree. It's bare and only the top most bunch of small leaves are left.
I guess someone will have some tasty eggs for the next few days.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Turkish Flavor
I flew Turkish Airlines to Israel and enjoyed getting a taste of the Mediterranean even before I got there. I have to say the food was excellent. Salads with cucumbers, olives, feta cheese, yogurt, spiced beef, dolmas. Please allow me to stop or else I might fall on the floor as I might not be able to deal with the ecstasy of it all...
I loved that when we landed in Istanbul, people started applauding! I remember as a kid, flying El Al to Israel, people would clap when we landed after our long transatlantic flight. But since then, have never heard anyone doing this. Landing safely after sitting on your butt for ten hours is definitely applause-worthy.
There was also another taste of the Mediterranean--the plane left Istanbul about an hour late.
Of course, living in China and having at least 78% of my "American-ness" forced out of me (and fortunately for me, it never really has been strongly rooted there anyway), it wasn't such a big deal.
Waiting for my flight to Israel from Istanbul, I got a chance to see hundreds of Turkish people on the way to their flights. This was my first time in a Muslim country and it seemed like everyone was dressed in traditional costume. Walking around the airport to find a water fountain (I never did find one), I remember seeing men (who could have easily been transported from one thousand years ago) sitting in their white dresses that were made from patterned towels, reading what certainly must have been holy books. All the women's heads were covered and some had their face covered.
On the way back to China, my flight from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was also delayed an hour. This meant that soon after landing, I unofficially broke the Olympic record for the 500 meter dash (with carry-on luggage) to gate 212 at the Istanbul airport.
I arrived panting at the gate not sure how late I was. I was curious to know what was happening, so I asked the Turkish woman from security if we were boarding. Her English was like my Turkish and as soon as I figured this out, I grabbed my carry-on and turned around to a Chinese guy and asked him in Chinese if we had already started the boarding process and he told me we hadn't.
I made my way into the small waiting area which was full of Chinese and Turkish people. It was good to hear Chinese again, and soon, I realized, I would be back in Beijing, far away from the flavor of Turkey and that good feta cheese.
I loved that when we landed in Istanbul, people started applauding! I remember as a kid, flying El Al to Israel, people would clap when we landed after our long transatlantic flight. But since then, have never heard anyone doing this. Landing safely after sitting on your butt for ten hours is definitely applause-worthy.
There was also another taste of the Mediterranean--the plane left Istanbul about an hour late.
Of course, living in China and having at least 78% of my "American-ness" forced out of me (and fortunately for me, it never really has been strongly rooted there anyway), it wasn't such a big deal.
Waiting for my flight to Israel from Istanbul, I got a chance to see hundreds of Turkish people on the way to their flights. This was my first time in a Muslim country and it seemed like everyone was dressed in traditional costume. Walking around the airport to find a water fountain (I never did find one), I remember seeing men (who could have easily been transported from one thousand years ago) sitting in their white dresses that were made from patterned towels, reading what certainly must have been holy books. All the women's heads were covered and some had their face covered.
On the way back to China, my flight from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was also delayed an hour. This meant that soon after landing, I unofficially broke the Olympic record for the 500 meter dash (with carry-on luggage) to gate 212 at the Istanbul airport.
I arrived panting at the gate not sure how late I was. I was curious to know what was happening, so I asked the Turkish woman from security if we were boarding. Her English was like my Turkish and as soon as I figured this out, I grabbed my carry-on and turned around to a Chinese guy and asked him in Chinese if we had already started the boarding process and he told me we hadn't.
I made my way into the small waiting area which was full of Chinese and Turkish people. It was good to hear Chinese again, and soon, I realized, I would be back in Beijing, far away from the flavor of Turkey and that good feta cheese.
Friday, April 03, 2009
The Old Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv
It's my second-to-last day in Israel and since I have been so (happily) busy visiting with family, I haven't had time to buy gifts for my Chinese friends. This is part of Chinese culture and I am more than happy to give my friends here a taste of Israel. Funny, once I bought gifts for friends and family in the States and most of them told me lovingly, "You don't need to get us gifts!" Ah, cultural differences.
I've been hanging out with my mother, sister, and grandmother and we've just arrived in Tel Aviv. We have plans to visit with more family in the afternoon and I'm afraid that since the shops close on Friday afternoon until Saturday evening for the sabbath (in Hebrew, "Shabbat") that I won't be able to buy any gifts. At about six, after we say goodbye to our family who lives in Tel Aviv, I start my search for a place to buy some typical Israeli gifts.
Everything is closed. When I ask a shopkeeper of a convenience store if there are any places where I can buy these gifts, he smiles with a look that says "you are basically screwed" and says I'll have to wait until shabbat is over. He does suggest though, that I head to where the old bus station is, about a twenty-minute walk away.
I take a cab there and it is packed. There is a main pedestrian walkway filled with shops selling used cellphones, small restaurants, and vendors lining the streets. Unfortunately, I find that there are no places selling gifts. I realize that I might need to just buy my gifts at the airport tomorrow and I decide to just enjoy this promenade.
The area, I notice, is full of immigrants. Lots of Ethiopians, Russians, Filipinos, and Chinese. I stop a Chinese man in his thirties and start talking to him in Chinese. I ask him how life is for him in Israel. He says it's hard, that right now jobs are hard to find. He's from Fujian and works in construction. As we are talking several other Chinese guys start watching us, amazed that I am speaking Chinese. I start "interviewing" them, too.
They're from small villages from Fujian and Jiangsu and they're doing the same thing their friends are doing in Shanghai and Beijing--here for a few years saving up money for their families. To them, Israel is just Western culture--very different from what they know. They miss home.
I continue walking on the crowded street. Russians are sitting at plastic tables in front of small restaurants drinking and talking loudly.
There is a guy who has set up a small table with three cups and a foam ball. He is playing a cup game and people are crowded around, placing money on top of cups after he shuffles them around. He's got a strong Russian accent he's a born performer. You do what you gotta do to survive.
I know what he's doing. He gets people hooked and confident and then takes all their money. He's a pro.
I continue walking to the end of the street and notice that someone has called my cellphone, a missed call alert. It is my cousin Shlomi, who I am supposed to see tomorrow because he has to work late this evening. I call him back and he asks me where I am. I tell him I am near the old Tahana Mercazit, the old Central Bus Station. He starts laughing. "You're in the worst and most dangerous place in Tel Aviv, full of poor immigrants!"
As we talk I turn around and suddenly it hits me. I am standing in the old bus station! It has mostly been demolished, but you can see most of the concrete structures, the islands where people would wait for buses, perhaps ten lanes. I think it used to be covered, but that is gone and it is all exposed and deteriorated.
I am suddenly taken to the past. Twenty years ago. I was just a teenager. I never really knew Tel Aviv, except for the bus station. I was working in the south, in Kiryat Gat, and I would transfer here on my way to see my family in Haifa. Or, I was younger and was traveling around Israel to see the sights, perhaps to go to Masada or Eilat.
I can see the old bus station clearly, how alive it was with all the people, all the buses. And I remember the small shops facing the bus station where I could buy cassette tapes. I remember looking for a Shlomo Artzi double cassette (Hom Yuli August) and when I told the young shopkeeper it was too expensive and walked away, he called me back. He affectionately slapped me on my face, like a cousin, and said, "Okay, okay, hamud, it's yours!"
Standing here, I am in shock, like I am visiting an old holy place, and I mention this to Shlomi. We were both teenagers then, and the best part of visiting Haifa was seeing him and hanging out with his friends. Shlomi was like my older brother. I was a "good" kid, the smart kid in class. I won the big spelling bee. Shlomi was the daredevil. Surfer. Into fast cars and going to discos. Living life on the edge. I learned a lot from him.
Now, he's a trader and works for one of the largest banks in Tel Aviv. He tells me to look up and look for the tallest building. I look up and read the words on the tallest building I can find. He says that's it, that's where his office is. He wants me to come over and see his office and then join him for dinner.
So, I do. I walk about ten minutes and go to the 22nd floor, where my cousin Shlomi and I are reunited.
His office is full of computers showing stock quites and showing the business news in English. We take a walk to a nearby sushi restaurant and I admire how beautiful Tel Aviv is. It's a warm spring evening and people sit on benches and cafes chatting as their weekends begin. Shlomi tells me more about his new life in Tel Aviv and I tell him about my life in China.
The evening winds down and we go and get my things from the hotel and he takes me back where I'll get my things. I'll stay with him and his family during my last hours in Israel.
I haven't gotten my gifts yet for my Chinese friends (I'll have to wait for tomorrow, when we visit the namal, the port of Tel Aviv), but now I know why I was magically brought to the old bus station, where I found some other kinds of gifts...
I've been hanging out with my mother, sister, and grandmother and we've just arrived in Tel Aviv. We have plans to visit with more family in the afternoon and I'm afraid that since the shops close on Friday afternoon until Saturday evening for the sabbath (in Hebrew, "Shabbat") that I won't be able to buy any gifts. At about six, after we say goodbye to our family who lives in Tel Aviv, I start my search for a place to buy some typical Israeli gifts.
Everything is closed. When I ask a shopkeeper of a convenience store if there are any places where I can buy these gifts, he smiles with a look that says "you are basically screwed" and says I'll have to wait until shabbat is over. He does suggest though, that I head to where the old bus station is, about a twenty-minute walk away.
I take a cab there and it is packed. There is a main pedestrian walkway filled with shops selling used cellphones, small restaurants, and vendors lining the streets. Unfortunately, I find that there are no places selling gifts. I realize that I might need to just buy my gifts at the airport tomorrow and I decide to just enjoy this promenade.
The area, I notice, is full of immigrants. Lots of Ethiopians, Russians, Filipinos, and Chinese. I stop a Chinese man in his thirties and start talking to him in Chinese. I ask him how life is for him in Israel. He says it's hard, that right now jobs are hard to find. He's from Fujian and works in construction. As we are talking several other Chinese guys start watching us, amazed that I am speaking Chinese. I start "interviewing" them, too.
They're from small villages from Fujian and Jiangsu and they're doing the same thing their friends are doing in Shanghai and Beijing--here for a few years saving up money for their families. To them, Israel is just Western culture--very different from what they know. They miss home.
I continue walking on the crowded street. Russians are sitting at plastic tables in front of small restaurants drinking and talking loudly.
There is a guy who has set up a small table with three cups and a foam ball. He is playing a cup game and people are crowded around, placing money on top of cups after he shuffles them around. He's got a strong Russian accent he's a born performer. You do what you gotta do to survive.
I know what he's doing. He gets people hooked and confident and then takes all their money. He's a pro.
I continue walking to the end of the street and notice that someone has called my cellphone, a missed call alert. It is my cousin Shlomi, who I am supposed to see tomorrow because he has to work late this evening. I call him back and he asks me where I am. I tell him I am near the old Tahana Mercazit, the old Central Bus Station. He starts laughing. "You're in the worst and most dangerous place in Tel Aviv, full of poor immigrants!"
As we talk I turn around and suddenly it hits me. I am standing in the old bus station! It has mostly been demolished, but you can see most of the concrete structures, the islands where people would wait for buses, perhaps ten lanes. I think it used to be covered, but that is gone and it is all exposed and deteriorated.
I am suddenly taken to the past. Twenty years ago. I was just a teenager. I never really knew Tel Aviv, except for the bus station. I was working in the south, in Kiryat Gat, and I would transfer here on my way to see my family in Haifa. Or, I was younger and was traveling around Israel to see the sights, perhaps to go to Masada or Eilat.
I can see the old bus station clearly, how alive it was with all the people, all the buses. And I remember the small shops facing the bus station where I could buy cassette tapes. I remember looking for a Shlomo Artzi double cassette (Hom Yuli August) and when I told the young shopkeeper it was too expensive and walked away, he called me back. He affectionately slapped me on my face, like a cousin, and said, "Okay, okay, hamud, it's yours!"
Standing here, I am in shock, like I am visiting an old holy place, and I mention this to Shlomi. We were both teenagers then, and the best part of visiting Haifa was seeing him and hanging out with his friends. Shlomi was like my older brother. I was a "good" kid, the smart kid in class. I won the big spelling bee. Shlomi was the daredevil. Surfer. Into fast cars and going to discos. Living life on the edge. I learned a lot from him.
Now, he's a trader and works for one of the largest banks in Tel Aviv. He tells me to look up and look for the tallest building. I look up and read the words on the tallest building I can find. He says that's it, that's where his office is. He wants me to come over and see his office and then join him for dinner.
So, I do. I walk about ten minutes and go to the 22nd floor, where my cousin Shlomi and I are reunited.
His office is full of computers showing stock quites and showing the business news in English. We take a walk to a nearby sushi restaurant and I admire how beautiful Tel Aviv is. It's a warm spring evening and people sit on benches and cafes chatting as their weekends begin. Shlomi tells me more about his new life in Tel Aviv and I tell him about my life in China.
The evening winds down and we go and get my things from the hotel and he takes me back where I'll get my things. I'll stay with him and his family during my last hours in Israel.
I haven't gotten my gifts yet for my Chinese friends (I'll have to wait for tomorrow, when we visit the namal, the port of Tel Aviv), but now I know why I was magically brought to the old bus station, where I found some other kinds of gifts...
Thursday, April 02, 2009
The Crying Girl at the Bus Stop
I walk past a bus stop. It's a beautiful spring day and to my left is the Mediterranean sea.
A pudgy, dark-skinned Israeli girl in her twenties is taking out a pack of cigarettes and as I walk by her, I see tears streaming down her face.
Her heart must be broken in one of the thousand and one ways our fragile human hearts can be broken. I hope she has gone home and talked to her mom or her best friend, and that soon, she can smile again.
A pudgy, dark-skinned Israeli girl in her twenties is taking out a pack of cigarettes and as I walk by her, I see tears streaming down her face.
Her heart must be broken in one of the thousand and one ways our fragile human hearts can be broken. I hope she has gone home and talked to her mom or her best friend, and that soon, she can smile again.
Visiting My Homeland
I'm walking on the Carmel, Haifa. Israel. It's good to be back here, the land of my ancestors, the land where my parents spent their childhoods.
I used to come here as a kid during the summers, sort of like the way those Taiwanese ABCs come back to Taiwan every summer (and my Hebrew is like their Mandarin). I went to the beach with my cousins, ate a lot of good middle eastern food, slept in my grandmother's house, not too far from the famous Bahai temple.
Walking along the streets I once walked as a teenager brings back a lot of memories. Who would have guessed that I would be living in China?
Drinking tea with family I haven't seen in twenty years, I tell them that in China, I have magically "become" Israeli. This is because I used to tell the cab drivers of China that I'm American, but they all would take so long to respond, trying to figure out a polite way to cover up their dislike of the States. I saw right through their hesitation, and so decided to tell them I'm Israeli and now they are always so friendly, complimenting me and my homeland.
I get on an elevator at the hotel where I am staying and say hello to a middle-aged Israeli man. He looks like he likes sports and the outdoors. He suddenly says to me, "You look Israeli, but then when you said hi, I realized that you aren't."
"Thanks for the compliment," I tell him, after explaining to him that my parents are from Israel.
Talking to my Israeli family, it saddens me to realize how difficult the situation is for them here. They just want to live in peace in their land. Others don't see it that way. And of course, there are fanatics to blame on both sides.
As I walk around Haifa, especially because I live in China now, a waiguoren (foreigner), I look at these people and I realize that I am home.
I used to come here as a kid during the summers, sort of like the way those Taiwanese ABCs come back to Taiwan every summer (and my Hebrew is like their Mandarin). I went to the beach with my cousins, ate a lot of good middle eastern food, slept in my grandmother's house, not too far from the famous Bahai temple.
Walking along the streets I once walked as a teenager brings back a lot of memories. Who would have guessed that I would be living in China?
Drinking tea with family I haven't seen in twenty years, I tell them that in China, I have magically "become" Israeli. This is because I used to tell the cab drivers of China that I'm American, but they all would take so long to respond, trying to figure out a polite way to cover up their dislike of the States. I saw right through their hesitation, and so decided to tell them I'm Israeli and now they are always so friendly, complimenting me and my homeland.
I get on an elevator at the hotel where I am staying and say hello to a middle-aged Israeli man. He looks like he likes sports and the outdoors. He suddenly says to me, "You look Israeli, but then when you said hi, I realized that you aren't."
"Thanks for the compliment," I tell him, after explaining to him that my parents are from Israel.
Talking to my Israeli family, it saddens me to realize how difficult the situation is for them here. They just want to live in peace in their land. Others don't see it that way. And of course, there are fanatics to blame on both sides.
As I walk around Haifa, especially because I live in China now, a waiguoren (foreigner), I look at these people and I realize that I am home.
Monday, March 16, 2009
A New Friend
Lately, I've been having very positive interactions with random people I meet during the course of my day. I guess this shows you that if you are happy inside, you will attract the right people into your life. China (or perhaps anywhere) is a good training ground.
I get on the train and I see a man in his mid-forties reading a book on shufa (Chinese calligraphy). As everyone knows, I am a shufa fan! I can't help but walk over to him and tell him that I love shufa. Actually, I always like meeting Chinese people who are into shufa.
He responds very warmly and we begin talking about Chinese characters. We both have to change trains and walk together to line 13. He sometimes uses English, and it's pretty good. It's good to make a new friend. We exchange cards and say goodbye. "Keep in touch!" we both say. Perhaps we can get together for tea and talk more about shufa.
I am waiting for the door of the subway car to open and as it does, I hear him call my name. "Kaiyuan," he says.
I turn around, and he's holding out the book of shufa to me. "Here," he says, and puts it in my hands.
I am totally suprised and I tell him "Buyong, buyong! You don't have to, you don't have to!" But the doors are about to close and he won't take it back.
I am touched by the warmth and kindness of this Chinese man I just met fifteen minutes ago. A new friend.
I get on the train and I see a man in his mid-forties reading a book on shufa (Chinese calligraphy). As everyone knows, I am a shufa fan! I can't help but walk over to him and tell him that I love shufa. Actually, I always like meeting Chinese people who are into shufa.
He responds very warmly and we begin talking about Chinese characters. We both have to change trains and walk together to line 13. He sometimes uses English, and it's pretty good. It's good to make a new friend. We exchange cards and say goodbye. "Keep in touch!" we both say. Perhaps we can get together for tea and talk more about shufa.
I am waiting for the door of the subway car to open and as it does, I hear him call my name. "Kaiyuan," he says.
I turn around, and he's holding out the book of shufa to me. "Here," he says, and puts it in my hands.
I am totally suprised and I tell him "Buyong, buyong! You don't have to, you don't have to!" But the doors are about to close and he won't take it back.
I am touched by the warmth and kindness of this Chinese man I just met fifteen minutes ago. A new friend.
The Lonely Wife and Bottle of Wine
I'm sitting in a cafe where I like to study here in the suburbs of Beijing. It's as close as you're going to get to a cafe in California. Cafe culture is pretty new to China, but they do a pretty good job of it here.
I order an omelette and get ready to study more poetry. While I'm eating it, I notice at the table next to me is a young couple in their early thirties. The woman is quite beautiful and looks educated--she looks like she's still in graduate school working on her dissertation.
Her husband is on the plump side, short, with glasses. He feeds the girl some food and she smiles and eats it. Then, the server brings a bottle of wine. He inspects it and nods his head and then the server opens it and pours it into very wide wine glasses. He shows her how to swirl the wine in the glass to open it up and give it some air.
The same thing most people do in the U.S. when we don't know much about wine!
Suddenly, of course, I get it. They are married and are on an afternoon date. He must be a rich businessman and she his exquisite trophy wife.
(I know what you are thinking, "Damn, Ron, you are like a modern day American-Israeli Moroccan-Ashkenazi-Jewish Daoist Sherlock Holmes!" Thanks!)
I return to my omelette, which is pretty good. The owner of the cafe is a Westerner, I think, and I can just picture the omelette training seminar he had for the cooks. ("Guys, try to add only a few teaspoons of oil to the pan and use low heat....")
I look up and the pudgy businessman is putting on his jacket and then gets up to kiss his wife goodbye. He goes to pay and leaves.
He must have just received a phone call requesting him to attend an urgent meeting in which they will talk about the new factory they are building in Shandong. In fact, he probably has to get on a plane to go there now and will be drinking lots of baijiu tonight.
His wife is left at the table with a bottle of wine, almost full. She takes small sips and reads the textbook in front of her, hiding her sadness.
I order an omelette and get ready to study more poetry. While I'm eating it, I notice at the table next to me is a young couple in their early thirties. The woman is quite beautiful and looks educated--she looks like she's still in graduate school working on her dissertation.
Her husband is on the plump side, short, with glasses. He feeds the girl some food and she smiles and eats it. Then, the server brings a bottle of wine. He inspects it and nods his head and then the server opens it and pours it into very wide wine glasses. He shows her how to swirl the wine in the glass to open it up and give it some air.
The same thing most people do in the U.S. when we don't know much about wine!
Suddenly, of course, I get it. They are married and are on an afternoon date. He must be a rich businessman and she his exquisite trophy wife.
(I know what you are thinking, "Damn, Ron, you are like a modern day American-Israeli Moroccan-Ashkenazi-Jewish Daoist Sherlock Holmes!" Thanks!)
I return to my omelette, which is pretty good. The owner of the cafe is a Westerner, I think, and I can just picture the omelette training seminar he had for the cooks. ("Guys, try to add only a few teaspoons of oil to the pan and use low heat....")
I look up and the pudgy businessman is putting on his jacket and then gets up to kiss his wife goodbye. He goes to pay and leaves.
He must have just received a phone call requesting him to attend an urgent meeting in which they will talk about the new factory they are building in Shandong. In fact, he probably has to get on a plane to go there now and will be drinking lots of baijiu tonight.
His wife is left at the table with a bottle of wine, almost full. She takes small sips and reads the textbook in front of her, hiding her sadness.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Practical Joke in Taxi
I flag a cab on Xue Yuan Road after getting off the subway, and upon opening the door I find there's a 10 RMB bill hiding on the right side of the passenger seat. I pick it up and give it to the driver. He is thankful.
I make conversation with him and we have a good time talking. It's time for me to get off and he says the fare is 13 RMB. I pull 3 one-RMB bills out of my wallet and hand them to him. His face turns to a slight frown as I say to him, "Didn't I just give you 10 RMB before?" Of course, I immediately tell him that I am just playing with him and he lets out a big laugh, realizing he's been had.
"Chinese people like joking, and so do I!" I say. I pat him on the shoulder and wish him good luck.
I make conversation with him and we have a good time talking. It's time for me to get off and he says the fare is 13 RMB. I pull 3 one-RMB bills out of my wallet and hand them to him. His face turns to a slight frown as I say to him, "Didn't I just give you 10 RMB before?" Of course, I immediately tell him that I am just playing with him and he lets out a big laugh, realizing he's been had.
"Chinese people like joking, and so do I!" I say. I pat him on the shoulder and wish him good luck.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Ecstatic Chinese Poetry
Lately, I've been studying Tang poetry. I'm reading well-known poem by Meng Jiao called Deng Ke Hou (登科後，孟郊). Here's the poem in Chinese:
I like it so much, I decide to translate it into English:
I like Meng Jiao and his poem, as it reminds me of Rumi's poetry. Meng Jiao is definitely the "lame goat" that Rumi mentions, and he's got the ecstatic joy that is so central to most Sufi poetry.
Of course, after he passed his exam, he gets assigned to a low-level post and "goes back" to being poor!
More ecstatic poetry!
登科後
昔日齷齪不足誇
今朝放蕩思無涯
春風得意馬蹄疾
一日看儘長安花
I like it so much, I decide to translate it into English:
After Passing the Imperial ExamA little background. Meng Jiao was 42 when he first took the Imperial Exam, but failed it. He took it again, but failed again. Finally, when he was 45, he passed it.
My life before this (just think "destitute) isn't worth a mention.
Today, though, I'm wild and my thoughts soar.
Filled with delight, I gallop around town, furiously.
In one day, I've just seen all the flowers in Chang An.
I like Meng Jiao and his poem, as it reminds me of Rumi's poetry. Meng Jiao is definitely the "lame goat" that Rumi mentions, and he's got the ecstatic joy that is so central to most Sufi poetry.
Of course, after he passed his exam, he gets assigned to a low-level post and "goes back" to being poor!
More ecstatic poetry!
Reading Children's Books on the Subway
Lately, I have been studying childrens' books on the subway. They're useful because: 1) they're easy to read (all have pinyin) and I can practice my pronunciation, 2) they use characters I haven't learned in my textbooks that I probably should know, and 3) they allow me to go through the same process of learning that every Chinese person goes through, ensuring I have a better grasp of the culture.
I get on the train at Wudaokou, and since it is rush hour, the car is full. I have just enough room to pull out a book I found called "Study Good Character" (学习好品德). I'm interested in learning more about basic Chinese values taught to children. I know they are different from what we learn in the West. I know that if I can understand them, I'll understand more of the situations I encounter in China every day.
I read the book, which talks about the importance of having a happy family ("mom, dad, dad's parents, and me"), getting good grades, being humble, not focusing on material possessions, etc. All along, a young guy is observing.
Do you speak Chinese?" he asks curiously.
"Yes," I say. And so we begin chatting.
He tells me he is a freshman at a university studying computer science. He compliments me on my Chinese and tells me his English is bad. He is a sincere young man and he probably hasn't met many foreigners before. We have a very warm interaction and get off at the terminal station together. I wish him good luck.
I am moved by his sincerity and his reaching out to speak to me. Perhaps because lately I just have been annoyed by the way some people stare at me in public. It doesn't seem very friendly. In fact, sometimes, I can see people grimace as their mind starts along it's train of thought! It's uncomfortable sometimes, although my Chinese friend says people are just curious.
Well, instead of just staring at me, this brave kid reaches out and talks to me and that made a big difference.
A few days later, I am reading my book of Tang poetry on line 10. I pull out the green children's book, full of colorful watercolor paintings accompanying each poem (along with explanations in simple, modern Chinese, and the hanyu pinyin for each character).
There's one line that I'm stuck on, so I decided to ask the woman standing next to me, as she looks like she is smart and would be willing to help (and also looks a little bored). She is happy to help and explains the line (遙看瀑布掛前川), which although is a line from a children's poem, is still considered formal classical Chinese.
We get to talking and once again, it is a very friendly interaction. She asks me where I learned my Chinese and I tell her in Taiwan. She says that foreigners who learn Chinese in Taiwan usually have very standard pronunciation. There are people who have told me this before here, but usually most people say the standard: "Taiwanese people's putonghua isn't good" (at which point I usually roll my eyes).
I guess China is all about maintaing a positive attitude. When you fall down (or are shoved), you just get up and keep going, because there are kind and good people everywhere.
I get on the train at Wudaokou, and since it is rush hour, the car is full. I have just enough room to pull out a book I found called "Study Good Character" (学习好品德). I'm interested in learning more about basic Chinese values taught to children. I know they are different from what we learn in the West. I know that if I can understand them, I'll understand more of the situations I encounter in China every day.
I read the book, which talks about the importance of having a happy family ("mom, dad, dad's parents, and me"), getting good grades, being humble, not focusing on material possessions, etc. All along, a young guy is observing.
Do you speak Chinese?" he asks curiously.
"Yes," I say. And so we begin chatting.
He tells me he is a freshman at a university studying computer science. He compliments me on my Chinese and tells me his English is bad. He is a sincere young man and he probably hasn't met many foreigners before. We have a very warm interaction and get off at the terminal station together. I wish him good luck.
I am moved by his sincerity and his reaching out to speak to me. Perhaps because lately I just have been annoyed by the way some people stare at me in public. It doesn't seem very friendly. In fact, sometimes, I can see people grimace as their mind starts along it's train of thought! It's uncomfortable sometimes, although my Chinese friend says people are just curious.
Well, instead of just staring at me, this brave kid reaches out and talks to me and that made a big difference.
A few days later, I am reading my book of Tang poetry on line 10. I pull out the green children's book, full of colorful watercolor paintings accompanying each poem (along with explanations in simple, modern Chinese, and the hanyu pinyin for each character).
There's one line that I'm stuck on, so I decided to ask the woman standing next to me, as she looks like she is smart and would be willing to help (and also looks a little bored). She is happy to help and explains the line (遙看瀑布掛前川), which although is a line from a children's poem, is still considered formal classical Chinese.
We get to talking and once again, it is a very friendly interaction. She asks me where I learned my Chinese and I tell her in Taiwan. She says that foreigners who learn Chinese in Taiwan usually have very standard pronunciation. There are people who have told me this before here, but usually most people say the standard: "Taiwanese people's putonghua isn't good" (at which point I usually roll my eyes).
I guess China is all about maintaing a positive attitude. When you fall down (or are shoved), you just get up and keep going, because there are kind and good people everywhere.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Review of Escalator Rules in China
I'm walking with my Chinese friend in the subway station and we get to an escalator. I stand to her left, which is something I would never do in the States. But in China, they must not have that rule, because there doesn't seem to be another way to use an escalator in China besides just standing on it. I've been in China for about a year and a half now and have given up on trying to pass anyone on it.
This is part of living abroad--you don't know "the rules" and so you just have to "go with the flow" and surrender to a different culture. I usually find I grow in the process, maybe become a little less impatient.
Of course, sometimes I just feel like bashing something.
So, you can imagine my surprise when my friend--using the tone of a kindergarten teacher--says to me "stand on the right, pass on the left."
I am speechless for what seems like a few minutes as my mind reels (perhaps trying to search for a chengyu, or Chinese proverb, that can accurately express that most subtle and sublime of American chengyu: "Uh, what the FUCK????").
At first, I try to tell her that I wasn't aware that this rule existed in China. I try to tell her that I never see Chinese people standing on the right and passing on the left on escalators. I tell her that in subway stations (and most other places) in the States, that's what most everyone is doing. Pretty much everyone.
But whatever I say, I still feel like I was just busted by a Communist kindergarten teacher, so I decide to let it go and shut up.
A few weeks go by, and I still haven't forgotten this story. It really sums up what it feels like to live in China sometimes. The mixture of idealism and clunkiness, authoritarianism and denial, a superiority complex and an inferiority complex, good intentions and more clunkiness.
And of course, as I always have to say, there's always that character-building element for me. (As my friend Michael F. says, "I don't buy that character-building shit!" God bless good friends!)
Today, I'm at the same subway station going up the same escalator and not one tongbao (comrade) is moving. They are all just standing there in an orderly double-file line on the escalator. I surrender to it, as usual. What choice do I have?
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Wudaokou Station and swipe my card to exit the system. I see the security guy sitting looking at the x-ray screen.
"Can I ask you a question?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says, looking up from the screen. He's a big guy, about 25, and his skin is rosy and still looks fresh like that of a child.
"Well, in my country, on the escalator you stand on the right and pass on the left...." I say.
He starts to smile as he realizes what my question is about.
I continue, telling him about my experience just a few minutes ago. As I talk to him, it appears as if his smile gets bigger.
He interrupts me, telling me, in his thick Beijing accent, that in China they have the same rule.
"Really?" I say.
Still smiling, he says, "We have the same rule, it's just that people's suzhi (caliber, quality of their character) is low. 只是人的素质太低."
This is not the first time I have heard a Chinese person criticizing his compatriots about their suzhi.
I imagine myself yelling out the rules to Chinese people the next time I ride an escalator, giving them a bit of education. Being an "escalator activist" of sorts.
On the other hand, I realize that if I can simply just accept Chinese people for who they are, life will get a whole lot simpler.
This is part of living abroad--you don't know "the rules" and so you just have to "go with the flow" and surrender to a different culture. I usually find I grow in the process, maybe become a little less impatient.
Of course, sometimes I just feel like bashing something.
So, you can imagine my surprise when my friend--using the tone of a kindergarten teacher--says to me "stand on the right, pass on the left."
I am speechless for what seems like a few minutes as my mind reels (perhaps trying to search for a chengyu, or Chinese proverb, that can accurately express that most subtle and sublime of American chengyu: "Uh, what the FUCK????").
At first, I try to tell her that I wasn't aware that this rule existed in China. I try to tell her that I never see Chinese people standing on the right and passing on the left on escalators. I tell her that in subway stations (and most other places) in the States, that's what most everyone is doing. Pretty much everyone.
But whatever I say, I still feel like I was just busted by a Communist kindergarten teacher, so I decide to let it go and shut up.
A few weeks go by, and I still haven't forgotten this story. It really sums up what it feels like to live in China sometimes. The mixture of idealism and clunkiness, authoritarianism and denial, a superiority complex and an inferiority complex, good intentions and more clunkiness.
And of course, as I always have to say, there's always that character-building element for me. (As my friend Michael F. says, "I don't buy that character-building shit!" God bless good friends!)
Today, I'm at the same subway station going up the same escalator and not one tongbao (comrade) is moving. They are all just standing there in an orderly double-file line on the escalator. I surrender to it, as usual. What choice do I have?
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Wudaokou Station and swipe my card to exit the system. I see the security guy sitting looking at the x-ray screen.
"Can I ask you a question?" I ask him.
"Yes," he says, looking up from the screen. He's a big guy, about 25, and his skin is rosy and still looks fresh like that of a child.
"Well, in my country, on the escalator you stand on the right and pass on the left...." I say.
He starts to smile as he realizes what my question is about.
I continue, telling him about my experience just a few minutes ago. As I talk to him, it appears as if his smile gets bigger.
He interrupts me, telling me, in his thick Beijing accent, that in China they have the same rule.
"Really?" I say.
Still smiling, he says, "We have the same rule, it's just that people's suzhi (caliber, quality of their character) is low. 只是人的素质太低."
This is not the first time I have heard a Chinese person criticizing his compatriots about their suzhi.
I imagine myself yelling out the rules to Chinese people the next time I ride an escalator, giving them a bit of education. Being an "escalator activist" of sorts.
On the other hand, I realize that if I can simply just accept Chinese people for who they are, life will get a whole lot simpler.
Passing a Shufa Master
I teach a 15 year-old Chinese boy on Sundays, Peter. He's a very smart kid and his English isn't bad either. He's really into science.
Actually, Peter is lucky. He's what they call "Balinghou" or a "Nineties Child" in China. He's grown up with more, in terms of material wealth than most Chinese kids have in all of history. Except for the emperors' kids.
Speaking of emperors, since China adopted its one child policy, they call these only children "Little Emperors" and "Little Princesses", as their parents and families doting and spoiling and hopes all go to them and no other siblings.
Peter is definitely a little Emperor and while his parents are strict with him at times, he gets a lot of attention, as would befit royalty. He also gets an expensive English teacher.
After our lessons, his parents always ask him to walk me out and today as we walk to the corner and chat in English, I spot an old man walking toward us. I notice in his hand a large shufa (calligraphy) brush, the kind that is dipped in water and used in parks by shufa masters.
In most large parks in China on Sunday mornings, you can see many of them writing Chinese characters with their brushes. People, old and young, walk by and admire and comment on their style. Such is the importance of the Chinese character and calligraphy in Chinese culture. (And as everyone knows, I love shufa.)
Peter, as always, is happy-go-lucky, skipping a little to the left or the right, smiling goofily. Perhaps he is happy that English class is over or that both his parents are home and that it's dinner time on a Sunday evening. Do you remember that giddiness you had as a kid? I do.
The shufa master notices Peter's animated way and a slight, slow motion smile comes to his face as he watches Peter go by.
I notice the old shufa master and I must have a similar smile on mine.
Actually, Peter is lucky. He's what they call "Balinghou" or a "Nineties Child" in China. He's grown up with more, in terms of material wealth than most Chinese kids have in all of history. Except for the emperors' kids.
Speaking of emperors, since China adopted its one child policy, they call these only children "Little Emperors" and "Little Princesses", as their parents and families doting and spoiling and hopes all go to them and no other siblings.
Peter is definitely a little Emperor and while his parents are strict with him at times, he gets a lot of attention, as would befit royalty. He also gets an expensive English teacher.
After our lessons, his parents always ask him to walk me out and today as we walk to the corner and chat in English, I spot an old man walking toward us. I notice in his hand a large shufa (calligraphy) brush, the kind that is dipped in water and used in parks by shufa masters.
In most large parks in China on Sunday mornings, you can see many of them writing Chinese characters with their brushes. People, old and young, walk by and admire and comment on their style. Such is the importance of the Chinese character and calligraphy in Chinese culture. (And as everyone knows, I love shufa.)
Peter, as always, is happy-go-lucky, skipping a little to the left or the right, smiling goofily. Perhaps he is happy that English class is over or that both his parents are home and that it's dinner time on a Sunday evening. Do you remember that giddiness you had as a kid? I do.
The shufa master notices Peter's animated way and a slight, slow motion smile comes to his face as he watches Peter go by.
I notice the old shufa master and I must have a similar smile on mine.
Something Strange in the Gymnasium
This morning, I go to the wide stone walkway in front of my university's gymnasium to do taiji, as I sometimes do. There are lots of parents waiting outside. There are more people here than normal and it looks like they are waiting around for something. A guy in front of me has a tool box. Something's strange. There are numbers stuck to the walkway.
Since it's the late morning, I assume that they are waiting to pick up kids inside--maybe the university has opened up an experimental kindergarten.
I do my taiji anyway, until a few guys near me light up. The smoke will definitely affect my qi, so I move closer to the soccer field to the left side of the building and continue my set.
After I'm done, I go inside the gym to work out some more. As I pass one of the entrances to the upper stands of the gymnasium, I see a wondrous site. There are hundreds of students on the basketball court... all drawing and painting.
There are groups of about 50 or 60 students, and in the center of each group are either a few white busts of European-looking guys from the 1700s (they look like Beethoven), or a still-life scene of a pineapple, a vase, and some other objects, all laid out on a patterned olive drape.
There are about nine groups of students, half of them are painting the still-life scene with oils or acrylic paints, and half of them are drawing busts of the old stern European guys in pencil.
I take a seat in the empty stands and watch. Every painting or drawing I am able to see is accurate and beautiful. They are all superb artists. The intensity of focus and passion in that room is palpable and I sit there in awe of them all.
How the world needs more of this.
After my workout, I use the bathroom in the basement of the gym, and see some boys cleaning their palettes. There's black water in the sinks. I ask them what's going on? Is there some sort of competition going on?
One of the boys says that they are all high school students testing for university art programs. Now it all comes together--why all the parents are nervously waiting outside, some with "toolboxes". I tell them that I wish them all good luck!
I leave the building and go to unlock my bike, parked in front of the gym. A girl and her father have found a little niche where they sit and chat. The girl is curiously watching the laowai as he gets his bike ready.
"Wish you good luck!" I say to both of them.
"Thanks," the girl says.
"His Chinese isn't bad," the father says.
To all of you dear high school students, full of your passion, your dedication, your focus: Good luck to ALL of you!
Since it's the late morning, I assume that they are waiting to pick up kids inside--maybe the university has opened up an experimental kindergarten.
I do my taiji anyway, until a few guys near me light up. The smoke will definitely affect my qi, so I move closer to the soccer field to the left side of the building and continue my set.
After I'm done, I go inside the gym to work out some more. As I pass one of the entrances to the upper stands of the gymnasium, I see a wondrous site. There are hundreds of students on the basketball court... all drawing and painting.
There are groups of about 50 or 60 students, and in the center of each group are either a few white busts of European-looking guys from the 1700s (they look like Beethoven), or a still-life scene of a pineapple, a vase, and some other objects, all laid out on a patterned olive drape.
There are about nine groups of students, half of them are painting the still-life scene with oils or acrylic paints, and half of them are drawing busts of the old stern European guys in pencil.
I take a seat in the empty stands and watch. Every painting or drawing I am able to see is accurate and beautiful. They are all superb artists. The intensity of focus and passion in that room is palpable and I sit there in awe of them all.
How the world needs more of this.
After my workout, I use the bathroom in the basement of the gym, and see some boys cleaning their palettes. There's black water in the sinks. I ask them what's going on? Is there some sort of competition going on?
One of the boys says that they are all high school students testing for university art programs. Now it all comes together--why all the parents are nervously waiting outside, some with "toolboxes". I tell them that I wish them all good luck!
I leave the building and go to unlock my bike, parked in front of the gym. A girl and her father have found a little niche where they sit and chat. The girl is curiously watching the laowai as he gets his bike ready.
"Wish you good luck!" I say to both of them.
"Thanks," the girl says.
"His Chinese isn't bad," the father says.
To all of you dear high school students, full of your passion, your dedication, your focus: Good luck to ALL of you!
Friday, March 06, 2009
Olympic Spirit Lives On... and On and On
Lately, I have noticed that the video monitors in the subway in Beijing are still showing the same videos they've been showing for the past seven months. They show athletes in training, perhaps preparing for the Olympics, and a music video of all the famous singers of China singing the theme songs of the Olympics, "Beijing Welcomes You".
If you are reading this and have any connections in the Beijing government, please send the following message to highly placed government officials:
"Dudes, the Olympics are over. Let's move on."
If you are reading this and have any connections in the Beijing government, please send the following message to highly placed government officials:
"Dudes, the Olympics are over. Let's move on."
Monday, March 02, 2009
Staring at a Dragon
I walk into the subway car at Xitucheng station and find a place to stand toward the center of the car. In front of me sits a tough looking kid in his early 20s, his hair closely shaven, wearing hip young clothing. He looks like he's a rock star, actually. He's staring at me, as so many people do throughout my days in China.
I sometimes get tired of these stares because, frankly, they don't look friendly to me. Indeed, I think because Chinese society is so homogeneous that, sometimes, they aren't that friendly and are more like the way someone might look at a miniature dragon as it walks into a subway car. But I know this is only fear of the unknown, and I also know that many times it is only simple curiosity. Perhaps someone wants to look at the bridge of my nose or the shape of my face. I have hazel eyes, maybe they want to look at them.
I've talked to some of my Russian classmates about this and we all agree--it happens too much and we get tired of it. (Perhaps this explains the t-shirt I saw on one foreigner here saying: 你看什么看！("What are you looking at?!")). One day in class, we shared our experiences with our Chinese teacher, who was surprised to hear our stories.
Having lived in China for a little while, though, I've learned not to get upset. I'll usually break the stare with a smile and the person will usually respond with a smile. I suppose it is good "PR" for us laowai.
Today, I give the tough rock star a smile and he smiles back. Ten minutes later, he gets up and walks to get off the train and looks back again. I give him another smile and he smiles again at his new foreign friend. There's a certain innocence and friendliness about many Chinese people that I see often, and I like it.
Perhaps next time, it'll be no big deal the next time he sees a dragon on the subway.
I sometimes get tired of these stares because, frankly, they don't look friendly to me. Indeed, I think because Chinese society is so homogeneous that, sometimes, they aren't that friendly and are more like the way someone might look at a miniature dragon as it walks into a subway car. But I know this is only fear of the unknown, and I also know that many times it is only simple curiosity. Perhaps someone wants to look at the bridge of my nose or the shape of my face. I have hazel eyes, maybe they want to look at them.
I've talked to some of my Russian classmates about this and we all agree--it happens too much and we get tired of it. (Perhaps this explains the t-shirt I saw on one foreigner here saying: 你看什么看！("What are you looking at?!")). One day in class, we shared our experiences with our Chinese teacher, who was surprised to hear our stories.
Having lived in China for a little while, though, I've learned not to get upset. I'll usually break the stare with a smile and the person will usually respond with a smile. I suppose it is good "PR" for us laowai.
Today, I give the tough rock star a smile and he smiles back. Ten minutes later, he gets up and walks to get off the train and looks back again. I give him another smile and he smiles again at his new foreign friend. There's a certain innocence and friendliness about many Chinese people that I see often, and I like it.
Perhaps next time, it'll be no big deal the next time he sees a dragon on the subway.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Flying Fingernails
I'm standing in one of the sleek new cars of Beijing's subway line 10. It's clean and new. There's a map of the line about the door with little LED lights that tell you where we are now and videos showing game shows.
As usual, I'm reviewing Chinese vocabulary, reading my mini-dictionary. If you don't review your characters, you will forget what they look like, and you will definitely forget the tones. The simple pleasures of life.
Suddenly, something drops into my little pocket book. I look more closely. It's a fingernail. No way!
I look around to see if someone is cutting his fingernails on the train. Sure enough, about a meter away from me, standing up with his back to me, is a 30 year-old guy clipping his nails.
I guess I should retitle this blog, "A Spoiled American in China" because I am not particularly happy about this guy's nail in my book. And I am pretty sure that less that 0.0015% of the Chinese population would actually mind that he is doing it.
There's nothing I can do except what I have to do all the time in China: "adjust my attitude."
For fun, I send a text message to my American friend Michael who live in Beijing, telling him what just happened. "You're lucky you weren't yawning," he tells me.
I guess I should look on the bright side.
On my way back to my apartment, I still haven't stopped thinking about this. I happen to see my American neighbor, a hip 22-year old guy from Manhattan. I tell him about the fingernail in my book.
"That just shouldn't happen on the subway. That's gross!" he remarks. My heart leaps for joy knowing that I am not the only one who thinks that it's just not sanitary for people to cut their nails on the subway. Especially on the nice and shiny line 10. Just imagine if everybody were cutting their nails at once! Now that would be really gross. You would definitely not want to yawn and when you got home, you'd have to wipe all those fingernails out of your hair.
As I walk into the building, I decide to consult with one of the drivers of the illegal taxis (黑车) in front of my building. He's an old, weathered, friendly, guy who I've met before.
I tell him I need to consult with him about Chinese social etiquette and he says fine. I tell him about what happened. "In your country, that's not okay?" he asks.
I tell him it's not, not indoors in a subway car or other public place. He explains that for Chinese people, it's just a way to efficiently use your public transportation time. I remember that I've seen this more than once in Beijing and Shanghai. I thank him for this bit of education.
As I walk away he adds one more thing: "You just can't spit in the subway car."
Cool, I think, maybe I won't have to adjust my attitude the next time I see someone spitting on the subway.
For a taste of another Westerner (a Brit) reacting to nailclipping on subways (in the States), check this link out: http://pdberger.com/subway-etiquette/.
As usual, I'm reviewing Chinese vocabulary, reading my mini-dictionary. If you don't review your characters, you will forget what they look like, and you will definitely forget the tones. The simple pleasures of life.
Suddenly, something drops into my little pocket book. I look more closely. It's a fingernail. No way!
I look around to see if someone is cutting his fingernails on the train. Sure enough, about a meter away from me, standing up with his back to me, is a 30 year-old guy clipping his nails.
I guess I should retitle this blog, "A Spoiled American in China" because I am not particularly happy about this guy's nail in my book. And I am pretty sure that less that 0.0015% of the Chinese population would actually mind that he is doing it.
There's nothing I can do except what I have to do all the time in China: "adjust my attitude."
For fun, I send a text message to my American friend Michael who live in Beijing, telling him what just happened. "You're lucky you weren't yawning," he tells me.
I guess I should look on the bright side.
On my way back to my apartment, I still haven't stopped thinking about this. I happen to see my American neighbor, a hip 22-year old guy from Manhattan. I tell him about the fingernail in my book.
"That just shouldn't happen on the subway. That's gross!" he remarks. My heart leaps for joy knowing that I am not the only one who thinks that it's just not sanitary for people to cut their nails on the subway. Especially on the nice and shiny line 10. Just imagine if everybody were cutting their nails at once! Now that would be really gross. You would definitely not want to yawn and when you got home, you'd have to wipe all those fingernails out of your hair.
As I walk into the building, I decide to consult with one of the drivers of the illegal taxis (黑车) in front of my building. He's an old, weathered, friendly, guy who I've met before.
I tell him I need to consult with him about Chinese social etiquette and he says fine. I tell him about what happened. "In your country, that's not okay?" he asks.
I tell him it's not, not indoors in a subway car or other public place. He explains that for Chinese people, it's just a way to efficiently use your public transportation time. I remember that I've seen this more than once in Beijing and Shanghai. I thank him for this bit of education.
As I walk away he adds one more thing: "You just can't spit in the subway car."
Cool, I think, maybe I won't have to adjust my attitude the next time I see someone spitting on the subway.
For a taste of another Westerner (a Brit) reacting to nailclipping on subways (in the States), check this link out: http://pdberger.com/subway-etiquette/.
Yappy the Dog
It's Saturday morning. Around 5:30 a.m. The little dog in the apartment directly below me is yapping like crazy. He normally yaps only a few times in the evening and then I never hear from him again. But right now he won't stop.
I get up and fix myself a cup of spring water and get back in bed. I see the morning is starting to light up. It means that although I have just been awakened prematurely by a little two pound dog, things could be worse--it could be three a.m. or something like that.
I get back in bad hoping his owners will do something, like take him out for a pee or something, but it doesn't stop. I have a sense that there are no owners downstairs. Just that poor dog yapping away. I'm not only upset that my beauty sleep has been disturbed, but you can't help but feel for the poor dog.
I put on my sweatpant over my boxers, a light sweater, and my sneakers, and I walk out of my apartment. The building administrative office is theoretically open 24 hours a day. I decide to talk to them and have them call the landlord.
I arrive at the basement where the office is, but it looks locked. I walk a few doors down and ask a building employee if they are open. She walks me to the door and as we approach it, it opens.
A skinny middle-aged guy who needs a shave and a shower appears. He looks like he just woke up about 17 seconds ago. He asks me what's up and I walk into his office with him.
"The dog in the apartment below me won't stop barking. Call the landlord," I say. I tell him the apartment number.
"Oh, they are leaving today," he says, as if that is going to help me or the poor dog. "And I can't call the landlord, he's not going to come," he says very grouchily.
"Well, the dog is not going to stop," I say. "Call the landlord!"
He repeats what he just said, except this time he loses his temper. It's not worth it for me to get upset at him. He makes $250 a month to sleep in this dungeon and probably has to deal with all the drunk Korean kids in the building. I'm not going to waste my energy fighting with him.
As I leave I tell him that if I hear the dog tonight, I'm coming back.
Then, suddenly, I turn around, grab him by the neck, slam him against the wall. As he whimpers, I say in perfect Beijing dialect, "If I hear that little dog tonight, your ass is going to roast like a local delicacy, got it?"
Well, just kidding about that last paragraph, but it felt good to write it.
I get back to my apartment and the dog is still yapping away. I've no choice but to begin my day. I get dressed for my taiji practice and then go outside to do my stretches and a few sets.
As I exercise, I remember that a friend of mine was looking at the apartment below me in the last few days and was using the real estate agency on the first floor of my building. By now, I have figured out what is going with little Yappy. His owners moved out of the apartment early this morning and have abandoned him. They're not coming back.
After my taiji, I walk over to the real estate office (believe it or not, its a Century 21 office like we have in the States), full of pimply 25 year-old boys in yellow Century 21 sportcoats who like to smoke. I ask them if they know apartment 1409. They say yes. I tell them that the tenants moved out this morning and abandoned their pet.
(I tell them that when I moved into my apartment, I found an abandoned pet--a turtle--behind my TV, after about my third day in the apartment.)
They are apparently moved by my story and one of them says he'll call the landlord. As he is speaking to the landlord on his cell, one of the guys turns to me and says, "I really respect you--you care for that dog." His colleague chimes in, "No, he just is upset about the dog making too much noise!"
I laugh with them, "My first priority is the dog, second is my sleep! Of course!"
One of the boys seems excited and says to the other, "I'll take the dog and raise him!"
Their colleague gets off the phone with the landlord and tells me that the landlord's going to send someone with a key over to get the dog. I'm really appreciative and thank them all.
I come back to the apartment and make some tea and breakfast. The dog keeps at it. I decide I better leave because I can't bear to hear that poor dog and his cries for help.
I return to my building in the afternoon, open the door to my apartment, walk in and wait a few seconds. Fortunately, it's quiet.
I get up and fix myself a cup of spring water and get back in bed. I see the morning is starting to light up. It means that although I have just been awakened prematurely by a little two pound dog, things could be worse--it could be three a.m. or something like that.
I get back in bad hoping his owners will do something, like take him out for a pee or something, but it doesn't stop. I have a sense that there are no owners downstairs. Just that poor dog yapping away. I'm not only upset that my beauty sleep has been disturbed, but you can't help but feel for the poor dog.
I put on my sweatpant over my boxers, a light sweater, and my sneakers, and I walk out of my apartment. The building administrative office is theoretically open 24 hours a day. I decide to talk to them and have them call the landlord.
I arrive at the basement where the office is, but it looks locked. I walk a few doors down and ask a building employee if they are open. She walks me to the door and as we approach it, it opens.
A skinny middle-aged guy who needs a shave and a shower appears. He looks like he just woke up about 17 seconds ago. He asks me what's up and I walk into his office with him.
"The dog in the apartment below me won't stop barking. Call the landlord," I say. I tell him the apartment number.
"Oh, they are leaving today," he says, as if that is going to help me or the poor dog. "And I can't call the landlord, he's not going to come," he says very grouchily.
"Well, the dog is not going to stop," I say. "Call the landlord!"
He repeats what he just said, except this time he loses his temper. It's not worth it for me to get upset at him. He makes $250 a month to sleep in this dungeon and probably has to deal with all the drunk Korean kids in the building. I'm not going to waste my energy fighting with him.
As I leave I tell him that if I hear the dog tonight, I'm coming back.
Then, suddenly, I turn around, grab him by the neck, slam him against the wall. As he whimpers, I say in perfect Beijing dialect, "If I hear that little dog tonight, your ass is going to roast like a local delicacy, got it?"
Well, just kidding about that last paragraph, but it felt good to write it.
I get back to my apartment and the dog is still yapping away. I've no choice but to begin my day. I get dressed for my taiji practice and then go outside to do my stretches and a few sets.
As I exercise, I remember that a friend of mine was looking at the apartment below me in the last few days and was using the real estate agency on the first floor of my building. By now, I have figured out what is going with little Yappy. His owners moved out of the apartment early this morning and have abandoned him. They're not coming back.
After my taiji, I walk over to the real estate office (believe it or not, its a Century 21 office like we have in the States), full of pimply 25 year-old boys in yellow Century 21 sportcoats who like to smoke. I ask them if they know apartment 1409. They say yes. I tell them that the tenants moved out this morning and abandoned their pet.
(I tell them that when I moved into my apartment, I found an abandoned pet--a turtle--behind my TV, after about my third day in the apartment.)
They are apparently moved by my story and one of them says he'll call the landlord. As he is speaking to the landlord on his cell, one of the guys turns to me and says, "I really respect you--you care for that dog." His colleague chimes in, "No, he just is upset about the dog making too much noise!"
I laugh with them, "My first priority is the dog, second is my sleep! Of course!"
One of the boys seems excited and says to the other, "I'll take the dog and raise him!"
Their colleague gets off the phone with the landlord and tells me that the landlord's going to send someone with a key over to get the dog. I'm really appreciative and thank them all.
I come back to the apartment and make some tea and breakfast. The dog keeps at it. I decide I better leave because I can't bear to hear that poor dog and his cries for help.
I return to my building in the afternoon, open the door to my apartment, walk in and wait a few seconds. Fortunately, it's quiet.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Too Long
I'm eating dinner on campus with my young friend Qing Yan and since the school restaurant is full, we sit at a table already occupied by a young couple. They're far enough away so we can pretend that we have our own table and start catching up, but of course, after a while we start talking with our dinnermates.
The woman across from me asks my friend if she's Taiwanese, since it's obvious she has a southern accent. I respond saying that she's in fact "one of your compatriots" (she's from Guangxi). Uh oh, I'm getting political. Bad Roni.
Of course, my new mainland friend across the table doesn't waste a second to inform me that "Taiwanese people are our compatriots." I have many Taiwanese friends I know that that's not true and I tell her that. She disagrees, saying young people might say that, but not old people. I decide not to argue with her.
After she and her boyfriend leave, I tell my friend that you're not going to find old or young people in Taiwan who would agree that they are this woman's compatriots. I don't know, either I'm wrong, or people on the mainland are brainwashed. Hmm, which one is it? If I am wrong, can you do me a favor, please humble me and let me know.
Later in the evening, I am on the phone with my Taiwanese friend Jennie. I tell Jennie about my interaction at dinner, and about my semester studying Chinese in Beijing. In literature class, we read a story by the famous Lu Xun. Lu Xun lived in the early 20th century and was a revolutionary, advocating that Chinese people modernize their ways. He believed that Confucius was that worst enemy of the Chinese people. For these reasons, after his death, Lu Xun was beloved by Mao and (therefore) the people of the new communist state.
I am curious, I ask Jennie if in Taiwan they even know about Lu Xun, since Lu Xun seems to be so identified with Mao and the communists. I figure the government of Taiwan would not want his works read.
Jennie kindly tells me that Taiwan is a democratic society and that what they read has nothing to do with what the government thinks, and that people can read Lu Xun there.
We start cracking up together. I have definitely been on the mainland too long.
Feedback? Please send me your thoughts. My mind is open...
Sunday, January 04, 2009
No Rush
Beijing is big, so this evening, after hanging out with Michael at the tea market in the city center, it will take me a while to get home. I'll have to switch trains twice, including taking the fifteen minute walk through the Xizhimen station, which is usually an annoyance, probably because my life in Beijing has been too busy with school and work.
But this evening, I'm in no rush to get home. No tests. No students to teach. I don't even have to go to the gym to work out. I can totally take my time.
I walk slowly through the stations, watching the multitudes. I watch them as they get ready for their Saturday nights with friends. Some young girls next to me are all done up and it looks like they're on their way to a bar or a restaurant. I notice the train station employees, scattered throughout the stations, trying to make a living. I have a little book of Chinese vocabulary in my pocket and read it on the train.
After I get off line two and on the way to line thirteen, there's a guy in front of me who is walking slowly. But this evening, it doesn't bother me one bit.
From the train station, I take a taxi home. I finally get to my building and have to wait some more for the elevator. A youngish Chinese woman and I get in.
Perhaps she's been at the office all day putting in overtime. Her floor approaches and the doors open. She breathes an obvious sigh of relief to finally be home and walks out of the elevator.
But this evening, I'm in no rush to get home. No tests. No students to teach. I don't even have to go to the gym to work out. I can totally take my time.
I walk slowly through the stations, watching the multitudes. I watch them as they get ready for their Saturday nights with friends. Some young girls next to me are all done up and it looks like they're on their way to a bar or a restaurant. I notice the train station employees, scattered throughout the stations, trying to make a living. I have a little book of Chinese vocabulary in my pocket and read it on the train.
After I get off line two and on the way to line thirteen, there's a guy in front of me who is walking slowly. But this evening, it doesn't bother me one bit.
From the train station, I take a taxi home. I finally get to my building and have to wait some more for the elevator. A youngish Chinese woman and I get in.
Perhaps she's been at the office all day putting in overtime. Her floor approaches and the doors open. She breathes an obvious sigh of relief to finally be home and walks out of the elevator.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Frank the Peasant Scholar
Living in China, I have already met a certain type of Chinese man several times. He is proud of Chinese culture, knowledgeable of Chinese history, literature, philosophy, arts, and politics. He assumes he understands much about Western culture, but in actuality, he knows little. As a matter of fact, he is quite wary of Western culture and to tell you the truth, he feels Chinese culture is vastly superior to anything the West has to offer.
I call this man the "Peasant Scholar".
Stuck in the back of a Mercedes with Frank on my recent business trip to Shandong, I figured I should make small-talk with him. We were introduced and he began speaking English to me (he did not at the time know that I speak Chinese). Within several minutes, I could tell several things. First, being an English teacher, it was obvious that like most Chinese people, his spoken English was poor. Second, Frank was a condescending asshole.
Frank is about my age, has a degree in civil engineering, an MBA, and is now working on a doctorate in project management. He dresses in the standard dress of the Chinese peasant scholar--mismatching suit jacket and pants, no tie, cheap sweater, and soiled, cheap shoes.
After listening to Frank's shitty English for several minutes, I decided to start talking Chinese to him. After all, I'm not getting paid to teach him English here.
I figure I'm going to have to sit in the back seat of this car for the next four hours with him, so I figure I should make the most of it. I start calling him 老師 ("laoshi", teacher) and tell him that I would like him to help me with my Chinese. He tells me he has a deep understanding of Chinese culture and that he is willing to teach me.
As we all talk in Chinese, I ask Frank to teach me the meaning of some words I don't understand. He explains them to me. Although I feel I am being gracious and allowing Frank to be my teacher, relieving him of the need to speak his shitty English, he nevertheless is still quite condescending.
Frank waxes philosophical about the wonders of the Chinese language. He then begins to dis the English language saying that Chinese has so many subtle ways to describe certain things, but that the English language doesn't.
I think back to my Chinese Literature teacher at the university where I am studying, Professor He (pronounced Huh) . Professor He studied Chinese in college (including classical Chinese) and has written books. Recently, his greatest passion is reading English literature, and during our class breaks he shows me passages (in English) in the Virginia Woolf book he is reading that he needs me to help him understand. I look at the passages and they bowl me over with their beauty, their complexity. I tell He Laoshi that even most college students would have difficulty interpreting these passages, but I do my best explaining to him what they mean. In Chinese. The English language is indeed beautiful.
So, when Frank tells me, in his way, that Chinese is so beautiful and subtle and complex, and English isn't, I quickly retort, "Frank, maybe your English level isn't quite advanced." For the time being, Frank shuts up.
Later in our journey, I tell Frank about the story we just read in Professor He's class, about a man who gives up his dream of music so that he can have a stable marriage to a woman he's not in love with. I ask him why most Chinese people would support the man's decision. Of course, I know why most Chinese people would, but I want to hear Frank's opinion.
Frank remarks about my Western lack of understanding of Chinese culture to his coworkers in the front of the car. His tone is mocking and once again condescending. Our car is going about 80 MPH. I think to myself that it's not a good time to push him out of the car and so I restrain myself.
The conversation lulls and then Frank turns to his coworkers and makes a remark about my Chinese name. "Do you know whose name Kaiyuan's name sounds like? It's a person in Chinese history."
David and Candy are too young to know, but I know, because I've lived in Chinese culture for a little while and some others have made the same remark. My name, Yao Kaiyuan, sounds like one of the members of the Gang of Four, Yao Wenyuan. Frank asks again, but David and Candy still don't know.
With no response from the front, I tell Frank I know and he seems astounded. "Really?", he asks, "Who?"
I tell him Yao Wenyuan and he is flabbergasted (I mean how could a Western guy know this stuff?). He is truly dumbfounded and can't believe I know. He asks me how the heck I know this.
I tell him, "You know, Frank, you're not the first smart Chinese guy I've ever met."
David looks at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a big smile. I'm not even good with clever lines in English. I can't believe I was able to pull that one off in Chinese.
The car grows silent, and thankfully, Frank shuts the fuck up for the rest of the afternoon.
The next morning, Frank and I head back to Beijing by plane. We are driven to the airport in the client's van and when the driver drops us off at the airport, he pulls out two small flashlights. He gives them to Frank, and in Chinese he says, "This is a small gift to you and the foreigner guy. It uses our company's technology."
Frank smiles and puts both of the flashlights into his purse and we continue to check-in. I am curious if Frank is going to give me one of the flashlights, but I don't say anything yet.
We line up to check in and I get out my passport, which I am now holding in my hand. Frank turns to me and says "Get out your passport."
"I have it in my hand," I say, and show it to him. I really want to say, "I have it in my hand, fuckhead!" but I know his listening ability isn't up to the task.
I then say to him in Chinese, "Hey, can I see that gift the client just gave you?" Frank gives me a half smile and a slightly nervous laugh that says, "Hey, I wasn't going to give that to you, but you are a clever laowai, so here you go", as he pulls out a flashlight and gives it to me.
Of course, I don't really give a shit about the flashlight, I just want to bust Frank.
We get on the plane, and I think I perhaps should ignore Frank. After all, he just tried to steal a flashlight from me. But, I let it go and read my Chinese book. Of course, Frank is curious and tries to help me with my Chinese. I let him do this and of course he tries to explain very basic words to me, as if I am an idiot.
I find it ironic that Frank, who has devoted years of schooling to studying subjects that were invented in the West, has little respect for a Westerner. There are so many ways that living in China tests my patience. Unfortunately, I feel I've probably failed the Frank test.
But fortunately for me, I haven't lost it and for the rest of the flight, I continue with the "Frank Laoshi" game and the Peasant Scholar teaches me some more Chinese.
I call this man the "Peasant Scholar".
Stuck in the back of a Mercedes with Frank on my recent business trip to Shandong, I figured I should make small-talk with him. We were introduced and he began speaking English to me (he did not at the time know that I speak Chinese). Within several minutes, I could tell several things. First, being an English teacher, it was obvious that like most Chinese people, his spoken English was poor. Second, Frank was a condescending asshole.
Frank is about my age, has a degree in civil engineering, an MBA, and is now working on a doctorate in project management. He dresses in the standard dress of the Chinese peasant scholar--mismatching suit jacket and pants, no tie, cheap sweater, and soiled, cheap shoes.
After listening to Frank's shitty English for several minutes, I decided to start talking Chinese to him. After all, I'm not getting paid to teach him English here.
I figure I'm going to have to sit in the back seat of this car for the next four hours with him, so I figure I should make the most of it. I start calling him 老師 ("laoshi", teacher) and tell him that I would like him to help me with my Chinese. He tells me he has a deep understanding of Chinese culture and that he is willing to teach me.
As we all talk in Chinese, I ask Frank to teach me the meaning of some words I don't understand. He explains them to me. Although I feel I am being gracious and allowing Frank to be my teacher, relieving him of the need to speak his shitty English, he nevertheless is still quite condescending.
Frank waxes philosophical about the wonders of the Chinese language. He then begins to dis the English language saying that Chinese has so many subtle ways to describe certain things, but that the English language doesn't.
I think back to my Chinese Literature teacher at the university where I am studying, Professor He (pronounced Huh) . Professor He studied Chinese in college (including classical Chinese) and has written books. Recently, his greatest passion is reading English literature, and during our class breaks he shows me passages (in English) in the Virginia Woolf book he is reading that he needs me to help him understand. I look at the passages and they bowl me over with their beauty, their complexity. I tell He Laoshi that even most college students would have difficulty interpreting these passages, but I do my best explaining to him what they mean. In Chinese. The English language is indeed beautiful.
So, when Frank tells me, in his way, that Chinese is so beautiful and subtle and complex, and English isn't, I quickly retort, "Frank, maybe your English level isn't quite advanced." For the time being, Frank shuts up.
Later in our journey, I tell Frank about the story we just read in Professor He's class, about a man who gives up his dream of music so that he can have a stable marriage to a woman he's not in love with. I ask him why most Chinese people would support the man's decision. Of course, I know why most Chinese people would, but I want to hear Frank's opinion.
Frank remarks about my Western lack of understanding of Chinese culture to his coworkers in the front of the car. His tone is mocking and once again condescending. Our car is going about 80 MPH. I think to myself that it's not a good time to push him out of the car and so I restrain myself.
The conversation lulls and then Frank turns to his coworkers and makes a remark about my Chinese name. "Do you know whose name Kaiyuan's name sounds like? It's a person in Chinese history."
David and Candy are too young to know, but I know, because I've lived in Chinese culture for a little while and some others have made the same remark. My name, Yao Kaiyuan, sounds like one of the members of the Gang of Four, Yao Wenyuan. Frank asks again, but David and Candy still don't know.
With no response from the front, I tell Frank I know and he seems astounded. "Really?", he asks, "Who?"
I tell him Yao Wenyuan and he is flabbergasted (I mean how could a Western guy know this stuff?). He is truly dumbfounded and can't believe I know. He asks me how the heck I know this.
I tell him, "You know, Frank, you're not the first smart Chinese guy I've ever met."
David looks at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a big smile. I'm not even good with clever lines in English. I can't believe I was able to pull that one off in Chinese.
The car grows silent, and thankfully, Frank shuts the fuck up for the rest of the afternoon.
The next morning, Frank and I head back to Beijing by plane. We are driven to the airport in the client's van and when the driver drops us off at the airport, he pulls out two small flashlights. He gives them to Frank, and in Chinese he says, "This is a small gift to you and the foreigner guy. It uses our company's technology."
Frank smiles and puts both of the flashlights into his purse and we continue to check-in. I am curious if Frank is going to give me one of the flashlights, but I don't say anything yet.
We line up to check in and I get out my passport, which I am now holding in my hand. Frank turns to me and says "Get out your passport."
"I have it in my hand," I say, and show it to him. I really want to say, "I have it in my hand, fuckhead!" but I know his listening ability isn't up to the task.
I then say to him in Chinese, "Hey, can I see that gift the client just gave you?" Frank gives me a half smile and a slightly nervous laugh that says, "Hey, I wasn't going to give that to you, but you are a clever laowai, so here you go", as he pulls out a flashlight and gives it to me.
Of course, I don't really give a shit about the flashlight, I just want to bust Frank.
We get on the plane, and I think I perhaps should ignore Frank. After all, he just tried to steal a flashlight from me. But, I let it go and read my Chinese book. Of course, Frank is curious and tries to help me with my Chinese. I let him do this and of course he tries to explain very basic words to me, as if I am an idiot.
I find it ironic that Frank, who has devoted years of schooling to studying subjects that were invented in the West, has little respect for a Westerner. There are so many ways that living in China tests my patience. Unfortunately, I feel I've probably failed the Frank test.
But fortunately for me, I haven't lost it and for the rest of the flight, I continue with the "Frank Laoshi" game and the Peasant Scholar teaches me some more Chinese.
Roni's Chinese Mafia Story
David calls me on a Tuesday. "I got your name from Rebecca. We need someone to do some proofreading for us. We'll go to Shandong and we need you to come with us. But first we need to interview you."
I don't know David, and to be honest, I don't know Rebecca, but I tell him sure, let's set up an interview. He says he'll come to my campus tomorrow at two. Later in the day, I remember that I did interview for a teaching job with a woman named Rebecca. I call her and ask her if she knows this David guy and if she sent him to me. She has no idea about this guy.
The next day, while in the library studying, I get a call from David. He says he's at the west gate of the university waiting for me in a black Mercedes. I ride my bike over to the west gate and find his car. It's a new, black Mercedes, and there's a twenty-five year-old Chinese kid sitting in the seat talking on his cellphone inside. "David?" I say. He tells me to come in.
David speaks English well and says he has a master's degree from Oxford. His English isn't bad, and it's possible that he is actually telling me the truth (any Chinese person who knows about "A-levels", i.e., the university entrance exams in the UK, must have done his homework).
He tells me he works at an investment company and that they have a new client located in Shandong, which is about a four hour drive from Beijing. Since they'll need to do some Powerpoint presentations in English related to the client in the future, he explains, he'd like to take me along so I can get familiar with this project. He tells me that we'll stay in a five-star hotel and all meals will be covered. We negotiate a rate and he gives me a business card, telling me that he'll send more information to me by email. We depart on Thursday morning.
"You know," he say, "there are many bad guys in China, but don't worry, we're not going to kidnap you or anything."
I feel reassured and on my way back to the library I call up a couple of good friends and tell them about the interview, joking that I think I was just hired to be an English teacher for the Chinese mafia. One friend is completely worried, telling me to not be so naive.
I come home that evening and look up the website on David's card. Nothing comes up. I try google the name of his company (which has "offices in Beijing and London"). Again, nothing. The whole theory about becoming English teacher to the Chinese mafia is looking more probable.
The next day, I call David and tell him that his website doesn't exist. He tells me that sometimes the Chinese government blocks it, not to worry. I tell him that he should have a contract ready for me in the morning. With any new project, especially with a Chinese company, I always get a contract to make sure they pay me and that the terms of the job are clear. He says there's no time for a contract, that he'll just pay me in full, in cash, at the beginning of our trip. See you tomorrow morning at 8:30, he says.
I call up a few friends. "Listen, if you don't hear from me by Friday afternoon, call the police," I tell them. The friend who told me I'm naive still thinks I'm taking a big risk. One of my friends doesn't understand what's the big deal. I make some money, get to visit another province, and get to stay in a five-star hotel. Not a bad deal, she says, right?
That evening, I go out to the local department store and buy a killer blue-striped tie. I come home and get out my fake Armani suit that I bought in Shanghai for $86. I swear, I am ready for GQ. I am ready for an adventure. At best, I get a high-paying job with the Chinese mafia. At worst, I have to defend myself against a couple of skinny Chinese thugs using all those aikido moves I've practiced maybe thousands of times. I have been lifting weights recently and doing taiji, so I figure I am up for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?
I wake up early the next morning, get dressed, and walk out of my shitty apartment building in the suburbs of Beijing, looking like a half-Moroccan Ashkenazi Jewish-American-Israeli James Bond.
David arrives in his Mercedes at the agreed-upon location with two of his coworkers, Candy and Frank. I sit in the back with Frank and David makes introductions. We're going to be in the car together for the next four hours, so we try to get to know each other. David senses I'm a little nervous, so he tries to reassure me again that he's not going to try to kidnap me. I am once again reassured.
Candy's English isn't bad, but I'm sitting in the back with Frank, and his English sucks, so I start speaking with them in my passable Chinese. David tells me that when we get to Shandong and meet with the client I should not speak any Chinese at all. He doesn't want them asking me all kinds of questions. He tells me to especially avoid the Taiwanese guys that work for the client because their English is better than the mainlanders. He tells me that if they ask about my background, I should tell them that I have a background in investment banking and have worked for several firms in the States. No problem, I say.
He further explains that the client is a tech company looking for investors and so not only will we be investigating their operation, but they will also be trying to ascertain whether we are a legitimate investment company. I ask him a few questions about the field of investment banking and figure I should be okay.
We finally arrive in Shandong, where the client meets us for lunch. About six people meet us at a hotel and we have a short but elegant lunch there. The director of the client's operation, a young man with an authoritarian demeanor in his mid-thirties, makes toasts with wine and smokes a cigar, inviting Frank to smoke with him. For some reason, Frank suddenly becomes a big shot.
Sitting next to me is one of the Taiwanese guys. I know I am not supposed to talk too much to him, but I tell him that I "visited" Taiwan before. Of course, I am dying to tell him I lived there, to tell him how much I love Taiwan, how much I miss it. But, I hold my tongue.
Lunch is short so that we can begin the afternoon meeting with the client. We go to the factory, which has been recently built and is not yet in operation, and after a brief tour, the games begin. We sit, about fifteen of us, in a conference room, with David presenting the terms of the contract. I sit at David's left, listening to them talk in Chinese. A lot of the Chinese that they use, of course, is legalese and is related to finance and investments, so I only understand about 70%. Nevertheless, it's an excellent exercise in my Chinese listening skills.
The factory director smokes several cigars and speaks with the forcefulness of someone with a military background. Besides the two Taiwanese engineers with PhDs from the U.S., I have no clue who the rest of the people are.
David introduces me as the guy in charge of client relations for his company and tells them I don't speak Chinese. We sit there for about four hours and since the talks are exclusively in Chinese I wonder what everyone is thinking I am doing at this meeting.
When they say, "Everyone turn to page four, paragraph three" (in Chinese), I turn to page four, paragraph three and try to practice my Chinese reading skills. I wonder if any of the guys around the table notice.
At one point, one of the Taiwanese engineers introduces their technology to us, a metal tube that conducts heat very quickly. He puts it in a cup of boiling water and asks me to touch it. It's very hot and without thinking, in Chinese I burst out saying, "很快就熱了!" ("It gets hot really fast!"). Too late, I realize I've blurted out Chinese when I am not supposed to know any Chinese. The hyper cigar-smoking factory chief's jaw is on the table. Fortunately, it's not a big deal. For us foreigners, it takes two years to learn to respond like that spontaneously in Chinese, but to a Chinese person, you couldn't convince him that I've studied for more than a month or two.
Finally, the big meeting is over and it's time for the time-honored custom of the business banquet. We all head back to the hotel for a big dinner, which includes, of course, lots of alcohol.
The food is traditional cuisine from Shandong. I figure I haven't gotten kidnapped yet, and as an extra bonus I get this incredible food, so I am quite delighted. The waitress pours me a small cup of expensive baijiu ("white alcohol", Chinese vodka) and during our meal, everyone makes toasts. I think the baijiu is about 58% alcohol, so each sip is like drinking a beer to me. While I like drinking, I'm not a professional drinker. A couple of beers are enough for me.
I notice to my right that the guy two seats over just poured his water into his baijiu glass, and so after I finish by baijiu, I follow suit. Throughout the evening, people are making toasts and somehow I get by with just drinking water.
At one point, a member of the client's delegation tells the waiter something quickly in Chinese and she comes out with a small glass of baijiu. It looks like I've been found out, and I have no choice but to drink it down with him. It's okay, given all the water I've been drinking, I think I should be fine.
What I like about drinking in China is that you don't do it alone and that you do it with dinner. In China, if you want to drink, you raise your glass, look at the person (or people) you are toasting, and then drink with them. This continues throughout the night as people toast each other. David's face is very red. As the head of our operation, he is getting heavily toasted.
I think I'm a bit tipsy by now and I know I'm not supposed to speak any Chinese, but I can't resist turning to one of the Taiwanese engineers and saying (in Taiwanese), "Hodala!" ("Bottoms up!"). He is surprised and looks pleased. Later in the evening, he says, perhaps half-jokingly, that he knows I know Chinese.
The banquet wraps up and a young member of the client's team pays me a compliment, "You can really drink that baijiu!"
"Thanks," I respond, as humbly as possible.
After dinner, David and his team finish up the negotiations with the client and we meet back in his hotel room. It turns out it has all been successful. He asks for my passport number so he can book an airline ticket for me and Frank back to Beijing in the morning. He and Candy will stay in Shandong for another day to get a tour or the area.
David gives me details about tomorrow's flight and says I did a good job. The next morning, I wake up and a car is waiting for me and Frank and we fly back to Beijing. I arrive back in Beijing and send text messages to my friends letting them know I haven't been harmed or kidnapped.
I realize that not once did David or his team talk about any Powerpoint presentations. And I realize that I have just performed an essential function in the negotiations with David's client--I was just paid to be a Western "flower vase" (花瓶), as they say in Chinese. In other words, David hired me to be a white guy in a suit sitting next to him during negotiations.
I arrive back home at about lunch time with a good story for my friends. And a hope that the Chinese mafia might need my services again.
I don't know David, and to be honest, I don't know Rebecca, but I tell him sure, let's set up an interview. He says he'll come to my campus tomorrow at two. Later in the day, I remember that I did interview for a teaching job with a woman named Rebecca. I call her and ask her if she knows this David guy and if she sent him to me. She has no idea about this guy.
The next day, while in the library studying, I get a call from David. He says he's at the west gate of the university waiting for me in a black Mercedes. I ride my bike over to the west gate and find his car. It's a new, black Mercedes, and there's a twenty-five year-old Chinese kid sitting in the seat talking on his cellphone inside. "David?" I say. He tells me to come in.
David speaks English well and says he has a master's degree from Oxford. His English isn't bad, and it's possible that he is actually telling me the truth (any Chinese person who knows about "A-levels", i.e., the university entrance exams in the UK, must have done his homework).
He tells me he works at an investment company and that they have a new client located in Shandong, which is about a four hour drive from Beijing. Since they'll need to do some Powerpoint presentations in English related to the client in the future, he explains, he'd like to take me along so I can get familiar with this project. He tells me that we'll stay in a five-star hotel and all meals will be covered. We negotiate a rate and he gives me a business card, telling me that he'll send more information to me by email. We depart on Thursday morning.
"You know," he say, "there are many bad guys in China, but don't worry, we're not going to kidnap you or anything."
I feel reassured and on my way back to the library I call up a couple of good friends and tell them about the interview, joking that I think I was just hired to be an English teacher for the Chinese mafia. One friend is completely worried, telling me to not be so naive.
I come home that evening and look up the website on David's card. Nothing comes up. I try google the name of his company (which has "offices in Beijing and London"). Again, nothing. The whole theory about becoming English teacher to the Chinese mafia is looking more probable.
The next day, I call David and tell him that his website doesn't exist. He tells me that sometimes the Chinese government blocks it, not to worry. I tell him that he should have a contract ready for me in the morning. With any new project, especially with a Chinese company, I always get a contract to make sure they pay me and that the terms of the job are clear. He says there's no time for a contract, that he'll just pay me in full, in cash, at the beginning of our trip. See you tomorrow morning at 8:30, he says.
I call up a few friends. "Listen, if you don't hear from me by Friday afternoon, call the police," I tell them. The friend who told me I'm naive still thinks I'm taking a big risk. One of my friends doesn't understand what's the big deal. I make some money, get to visit another province, and get to stay in a five-star hotel. Not a bad deal, she says, right?
That evening, I go out to the local department store and buy a killer blue-striped tie. I come home and get out my fake Armani suit that I bought in Shanghai for $86. I swear, I am ready for GQ. I am ready for an adventure. At best, I get a high-paying job with the Chinese mafia. At worst, I have to defend myself against a couple of skinny Chinese thugs using all those aikido moves I've practiced maybe thousands of times. I have been lifting weights recently and doing taiji, so I figure I am up for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?
I wake up early the next morning, get dressed, and walk out of my shitty apartment building in the suburbs of Beijing, looking like a half-Moroccan Ashkenazi Jewish-American-Israeli James Bond.
David arrives in his Mercedes at the agreed-upon location with two of his coworkers, Candy and Frank. I sit in the back with Frank and David makes introductions. We're going to be in the car together for the next four hours, so we try to get to know each other. David senses I'm a little nervous, so he tries to reassure me again that he's not going to try to kidnap me. I am once again reassured.
Candy's English isn't bad, but I'm sitting in the back with Frank, and his English sucks, so I start speaking with them in my passable Chinese. David tells me that when we get to Shandong and meet with the client I should not speak any Chinese at all. He doesn't want them asking me all kinds of questions. He tells me to especially avoid the Taiwanese guys that work for the client because their English is better than the mainlanders. He tells me that if they ask about my background, I should tell them that I have a background in investment banking and have worked for several firms in the States. No problem, I say.
He further explains that the client is a tech company looking for investors and so not only will we be investigating their operation, but they will also be trying to ascertain whether we are a legitimate investment company. I ask him a few questions about the field of investment banking and figure I should be okay.
We finally arrive in Shandong, where the client meets us for lunch. About six people meet us at a hotel and we have a short but elegant lunch there. The director of the client's operation, a young man with an authoritarian demeanor in his mid-thirties, makes toasts with wine and smokes a cigar, inviting Frank to smoke with him. For some reason, Frank suddenly becomes a big shot.
Sitting next to me is one of the Taiwanese guys. I know I am not supposed to talk too much to him, but I tell him that I "visited" Taiwan before. Of course, I am dying to tell him I lived there, to tell him how much I love Taiwan, how much I miss it. But, I hold my tongue.
Lunch is short so that we can begin the afternoon meeting with the client. We go to the factory, which has been recently built and is not yet in operation, and after a brief tour, the games begin. We sit, about fifteen of us, in a conference room, with David presenting the terms of the contract. I sit at David's left, listening to them talk in Chinese. A lot of the Chinese that they use, of course, is legalese and is related to finance and investments, so I only understand about 70%. Nevertheless, it's an excellent exercise in my Chinese listening skills.
The factory director smokes several cigars and speaks with the forcefulness of someone with a military background. Besides the two Taiwanese engineers with PhDs from the U.S., I have no clue who the rest of the people are.
David introduces me as the guy in charge of client relations for his company and tells them I don't speak Chinese. We sit there for about four hours and since the talks are exclusively in Chinese I wonder what everyone is thinking I am doing at this meeting.
When they say, "Everyone turn to page four, paragraph three" (in Chinese), I turn to page four, paragraph three and try to practice my Chinese reading skills. I wonder if any of the guys around the table notice.
At one point, one of the Taiwanese engineers introduces their technology to us, a metal tube that conducts heat very quickly. He puts it in a cup of boiling water and asks me to touch it. It's very hot and without thinking, in Chinese I burst out saying, "很快就熱了!" ("It gets hot really fast!"). Too late, I realize I've blurted out Chinese when I am not supposed to know any Chinese. The hyper cigar-smoking factory chief's jaw is on the table. Fortunately, it's not a big deal. For us foreigners, it takes two years to learn to respond like that spontaneously in Chinese, but to a Chinese person, you couldn't convince him that I've studied for more than a month or two.
Finally, the big meeting is over and it's time for the time-honored custom of the business banquet. We all head back to the hotel for a big dinner, which includes, of course, lots of alcohol.
The food is traditional cuisine from Shandong. I figure I haven't gotten kidnapped yet, and as an extra bonus I get this incredible food, so I am quite delighted. The waitress pours me a small cup of expensive baijiu ("white alcohol", Chinese vodka) and during our meal, everyone makes toasts. I think the baijiu is about 58% alcohol, so each sip is like drinking a beer to me. While I like drinking, I'm not a professional drinker. A couple of beers are enough for me.
I notice to my right that the guy two seats over just poured his water into his baijiu glass, and so after I finish by baijiu, I follow suit. Throughout the evening, people are making toasts and somehow I get by with just drinking water.
At one point, a member of the client's delegation tells the waiter something quickly in Chinese and she comes out with a small glass of baijiu. It looks like I've been found out, and I have no choice but to drink it down with him. It's okay, given all the water I've been drinking, I think I should be fine.
What I like about drinking in China is that you don't do it alone and that you do it with dinner. In China, if you want to drink, you raise your glass, look at the person (or people) you are toasting, and then drink with them. This continues throughout the night as people toast each other. David's face is very red. As the head of our operation, he is getting heavily toasted.
I think I'm a bit tipsy by now and I know I'm not supposed to speak any Chinese, but I can't resist turning to one of the Taiwanese engineers and saying (in Taiwanese), "Hodala!" ("Bottoms up!"). He is surprised and looks pleased. Later in the evening, he says, perhaps half-jokingly, that he knows I know Chinese.
The banquet wraps up and a young member of the client's team pays me a compliment, "You can really drink that baijiu!"
"Thanks," I respond, as humbly as possible.
After dinner, David and his team finish up the negotiations with the client and we meet back in his hotel room. It turns out it has all been successful. He asks for my passport number so he can book an airline ticket for me and Frank back to Beijing in the morning. He and Candy will stay in Shandong for another day to get a tour or the area.
David gives me details about tomorrow's flight and says I did a good job. The next morning, I wake up and a car is waiting for me and Frank and we fly back to Beijing. I arrive back in Beijing and send text messages to my friends letting them know I haven't been harmed or kidnapped.
I realize that not once did David or his team talk about any Powerpoint presentations. And I realize that I have just performed an essential function in the negotiations with David's client--I was just paid to be a Western "flower vase" (花瓶), as they say in Chinese. In other words, David hired me to be a white guy in a suit sitting next to him during negotiations.
I arrive back home at about lunch time with a good story for my friends. And a hope that the Chinese mafia might need my services again.
Chinese Police
At the start of the semester at Beijing Language University, the head of the local police station station comes to our orientation and speaks to us for an hour and a half. Actually, the whole orientation is just him talking.
He is an animated kind of guy in his fifties. He tells us what you would expect--try to be on good behavior, don't drink too much, don't ride gas-powered motorcycles with large motors, don't overstay your visa, don't visit brothels--common sense kind of stuff. He is very down-to-earth and his stories of former students getting drunk and doing stupid things are funny.
You can't help but like him.
At one point during his talk he mentions that although he'd like students to drink responsibly, he enjoys drinking. After the talk, I am outside unlocking my bike and see him pass by, lighting up a cigarette (as most middle-aged men in China do). I almost introduce myself to him and tell him I'd like to have a beer with him, but I let him go on his way, surrounded by a group of what look like fans.
Fast forward about four months later. I come home from Christmas Eve out with friends and before going to bed, I get a text message. In Chinese it says: "You want a girl?" I have no idea who would send me this kind of message. I get several more and I finally send back a message asking them who they are. They tell me that they are a "massage center".
I am a little dumbfounded and I still have absolutely no idea how they could even get my cellphone number. Now I am curious. I call them up. A guy answers the phone. It's quite loud in the background. I ask the guy where he got my name from. Surprisingly, he is not shy about telling me the answer. He tells me very matter-of-factly, "from the police station."
Only after I talk to him do I remember the police chief's orientation speech. He tells us not to "visit brothels" but at the same time, someone in his office is selling the names of foreigners to "massage centers".
I send the guy back a text message telling him to stop with his promotional text messages and I can only laugh and shake my head.
Welcome to China, folks.
He is an animated kind of guy in his fifties. He tells us what you would expect--try to be on good behavior, don't drink too much, don't ride gas-powered motorcycles with large motors, don't overstay your visa, don't visit brothels--common sense kind of stuff. He is very down-to-earth and his stories of former students getting drunk and doing stupid things are funny.
You can't help but like him.
At one point during his talk he mentions that although he'd like students to drink responsibly, he enjoys drinking. After the talk, I am outside unlocking my bike and see him pass by, lighting up a cigarette (as most middle-aged men in China do). I almost introduce myself to him and tell him I'd like to have a beer with him, but I let him go on his way, surrounded by a group of what look like fans.
Fast forward about four months later. I come home from Christmas Eve out with friends and before going to bed, I get a text message. In Chinese it says: "You want a girl?" I have no idea who would send me this kind of message. I get several more and I finally send back a message asking them who they are. They tell me that they are a "massage center".
I am a little dumbfounded and I still have absolutely no idea how they could even get my cellphone number. Now I am curious. I call them up. A guy answers the phone. It's quite loud in the background. I ask the guy where he got my name from. Surprisingly, he is not shy about telling me the answer. He tells me very matter-of-factly, "from the police station."
Only after I talk to him do I remember the police chief's orientation speech. He tells us not to "visit brothels" but at the same time, someone in his office is selling the names of foreigners to "massage centers".
I send the guy back a text message telling him to stop with his promotional text messages and I can only laugh and shake my head.
Welcome to China, folks.
Tea at Maliandao
I teach this morning and then feel some excitement as the class ends. My friend Michael has invited me to Maliandao, the home to Beijing's tea markets, where we'll sample some tea. Malindao is blocks and blocks of tea markets and if you are looking for tea, teapots or tea paraphernalia, this is your heaven.
Michael and I both love zhongguocha (Chinese tea) and so as you can imagine, we are both in heaven.
We first walk around a large indoor tea market. It's the New Year's vacation and everyone must be out of town or at home watching TV, because this place is empty. Seriously, walking around we don't see any other customers--we're the only kids in the candy store.
First, we check out teapots. If it's a good teapot, looking at a teapot is like looking at a whole universe. There's all the time and effort that was put into crafting it. You feel it in your hand when you pick it up and see it in the finish of the clay. And then there are all your future pours.
There are the standard red ones, brown ones, the odd ivory or black ones. I love the teapots with small Chinese characters etched on them. Sometimes it's the whole Heart Sutra. But mostly, I like the simple pots with flowing, classic lines, nothing too avant garde.
As we walk by one shop, we see that the sign is for heicha ("black tea") from Hunan. We've never seen this before and soon Michael, who is very curious, is leading us into the shop to sample some.
Keep in mind, what we know as "black tea" in the West is called "red tea" in China, so this tea seems special. We find out that it is an aged tea similar to pu-er, with fungi introduced into it to give it a special fungi taste. The young girl gives a magnifying glass so we can look at the fungi, and then she pours us some.
The truth--it's nothing special, but it is fun to try something new and practice our Chinese. We both decide it's time to get some real tea. Michael loves Taiwan Tie Guan Yin, a roasted wulong tea, and he's in search of a tea on the mainland that comes close to what he's tasted in Taiwan, and so we find a shop that sells the famous Da Hong Pao (Large Red Robe) wulong tea from Fujian with hopes that it'll come close.
The owner of the shops and her mother, who are from Fujian, pour tea for us and ask us personal questions. The tea is great stuff and I think Michael is in heaven. I love it too, but I'll always be in love with Alishan Gaoshan (High Mountain) wulong from Taiwan.
Having lived in Beijing for about four months now, it is a breath of fresh air to hear their southern accent and their southern sense of humor. Northerners and southerners are quite different in China, and being that my laojia (my "hometown", my first home in this part of the world) is in Taiwan, I am quite enchanted.
It's not always easy living here in China, living your life in another language, in another culture. But there are times that are clear, sublime. Laughing in Chinese and drinking tea, I forget about all my cares. As we leave, the owner's mother tells us to come back soon, that there are lots more teas to try.
We tell her we surely will.
Michael and I both love zhongguocha (Chinese tea) and so as you can imagine, we are both in heaven.
We first walk around a large indoor tea market. It's the New Year's vacation and everyone must be out of town or at home watching TV, because this place is empty. Seriously, walking around we don't see any other customers--we're the only kids in the candy store.
First, we check out teapots. If it's a good teapot, looking at a teapot is like looking at a whole universe. There's all the time and effort that was put into crafting it. You feel it in your hand when you pick it up and see it in the finish of the clay. And then there are all your future pours.
There are the standard red ones, brown ones, the odd ivory or black ones. I love the teapots with small Chinese characters etched on them. Sometimes it's the whole Heart Sutra. But mostly, I like the simple pots with flowing, classic lines, nothing too avant garde.
As we walk by one shop, we see that the sign is for heicha ("black tea") from Hunan. We've never seen this before and soon Michael, who is very curious, is leading us into the shop to sample some.
Keep in mind, what we know as "black tea" in the West is called "red tea" in China, so this tea seems special. We find out that it is an aged tea similar to pu-er, with fungi introduced into it to give it a special fungi taste. The young girl gives a magnifying glass so we can look at the fungi, and then she pours us some.
The truth--it's nothing special, but it is fun to try something new and practice our Chinese. We both decide it's time to get some real tea. Michael loves Taiwan Tie Guan Yin, a roasted wulong tea, and he's in search of a tea on the mainland that comes close to what he's tasted in Taiwan, and so we find a shop that sells the famous Da Hong Pao (Large Red Robe) wulong tea from Fujian with hopes that it'll come close.
The owner of the shops and her mother, who are from Fujian, pour tea for us and ask us personal questions. The tea is great stuff and I think Michael is in heaven. I love it too, but I'll always be in love with Alishan Gaoshan (High Mountain) wulong from Taiwan.
Having lived in Beijing for about four months now, it is a breath of fresh air to hear their southern accent and their southern sense of humor. Northerners and southerners are quite different in China, and being that my laojia (my "hometown", my first home in this part of the world) is in Taiwan, I am quite enchanted.
It's not always easy living here in China, living your life in another language, in another culture. But there are times that are clear, sublime. Laughing in Chinese and drinking tea, I forget about all my cares. As we leave, the owner's mother tells us to come back soon, that there are lots more teas to try.
We tell her we surely will.
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