Today, after working out at the gym, I am dying to get something to drink, so I go to the Watson's (a chain drugstore) around the corner. As I am about to pay for my drink and a box of band-aids, which in total probably costs about four US dollars, the employee says to me in heavily accented English: "You must pay MONEY!"
He says this to me again. I think to myself, this is probably why I am able to make money as an English teacher in China.
I am thirsty and tired, living in a foreign country. It's late. I want to go home and write in my blog and eat dinner. And this guy is telling me I have to actually pay money.
I don't get it. Isn't that the deal? You go to a store to get something, and you give them money for it?
Has there been a rash of foreigners walking into their store, demanding merchandise without paying for it? Is this employee traumatized by that? It certainly sounds like it.
So, in a very un-Buddha-like way, I say to him in Chinese: "You want me to pay money? Do you think I am so dumb as to think I don't have to pay for these?"
He then tells me that he cannot accept credit cards at this register, and I realize that he meant to say that he can only accept "cash" (not "money") at his register. This realization does not exactly bring a wave of Buddha-like compassion in me. I think to myself, would he tell a Chinese person that he can't use a credit card for a $4 purchase?
I feel like I'm being discriminated against, and I probably am.
I realize, even though his English is bad, he is just trying to help me. I decide to give him some advice. "If you tell foreigners 'You must pay me MONEY!', they will not understand you because "money" is not the word for xianjin (cash)."
The people watching this interchange are not entertained. It's late and they want to get home, too. So, I cut my lesson short, and get on the subway home.
As I am getting on, a man starts pushing me, getting a little frustrated as the car is quite full and he wants a little room to stand. But then he looks at my face and notices that I'm a foreigner. "Sorry, sorry," he says apologetically.
"That's all right," I answer him, in English, happy that I'm almost home.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
My New Zipper
I have blue jeans and green jeans, so I go to the local discount department store and buy some brown jeans. I go up to the third floor and start looking at jeans when I encounter the woman in the men's clothing department who starts her many sales pitches.
I am starting to get used to this very Chinese phenomenon. Even in the local drugstores there are women in uniforms everywhere who, in addition to making sure you don't steal anything, will also give you the hard sell for things you are looking for, and for some things you're not. The other day, one of them tried to sell me "Essence of Kangaroo Meat", pouncing upon me in the vitamin section. As we say in the States, "Yeah, right."
After trying on a pair of jeans I like, I tell the department store woman I'll take them. I pay her my money, and then she kindly walks me to the tailor next door. My new brown jeans are too long and I need them shortened. I put them on in the old tailor's kitchen and he marks them. In about fifteen minutes, I walk out with my new brown jeans. As we also say in the States, I am a happy camper.
The next day, I notice that the zipper won't stay closed. You need to try a few times, and then it closes, but then if your movements are too vigorous, then it opens again. Shit, I think, they warned me about the lack of quality control in China.
So, instead of heading all the way back to the department store in Xujiahui, I just take the pants to the tailor five minutes from my house, and ask him to put in a new zipper. "Tomorrow," he says in Chinese. "No problem," I answer.
I pick up my pants the next day, give him some money for his time and materials, and can't wait to wear my newly improved brown jeans the next day.
Sure enough, the zipper fails again. "Ha, they probably didn't even put in a new zipper," my Chinese friend says.
Well, I take it back and tell the tailor that the new zipper doesn't work. He doesn't even blink. "Tomorrow," he says. "No, problem," I tell him.
I come back the next day to pick up my jeans and check the zipper to make sure it's new this time. With keen perception, similar to that of Sherlock Holmes (with a specialty in clothing), I notice the zipper's brand name, different from the previous zipper. He's actually sewn in a new zipper.
Not only do I get a new zipper, but the tailor graciously begins a lesson in zipping for me. "You see, make sure you zip it all the way up, okay..."
I stop him before he moves onto lesson two of Zipping 101. "Mister," I say, laughing, "you are teaching me how to zip my pants? You know, I have a lot of experience doing this, since I was a young boy!"
I get a smile out of him, and head home with my new pants and zipper. Just another normal day in China.
The Hard Sell at the Foreign Language Bookstore
I'm meeting my friend Carrie from acupuncture school and her husband at the Foreign Languages Bookstore on Fuzhou St., and we're getting vegetarian food afterwards. But, after I find her, since it's my first time there, I tell her to give me ten minutes to look at the books in the section on learning Chinese. I don't think there's anything I love looking at more in a bookstore, besides, perhaps, the children's books (in Chinese).
As I am browsing, an employee, a peppy young Chinese girl in her early twenties, gives me the hard sell for some "learn Chinese" software. After having been spoiled by the independent bookstores of the Bay Area for so long, I can't tell you how annoying this is. But, instead of getting annoyed, in some aikido-like way, I turn the experience into an opportunity to practice my Chinese, with a passion.
"You know, I think this software is for wealthy foreigners who would like to learn Chinese but don't have time to," I say. "If they really wanted to learn Chinese, they would get a real teacher and start studying their books every day for a few hours instead of buying this expensive software that they'll never use."
The young salesgirl is astute. I think she knows I am not thrilled with her sales approach. So, she tries to one-up me with an even better approach.
"You know," she tells me, "when I started working at this bookstore, my spoken English wasn't so great. But then I discovered that the best way to learn a language is to use it everyday, and that's what I do. I practice my English with foreigners every day here in the bookstore. So, really, that is the best way to improve your Chinese, to practice speaking your Chinese every day with Chinese people," she tells me in her smart-alecky tone.
"Well, that's EXACTLY what I am doing with you RIGHT NOW!" I respond. I don't know, I still might be doing aikido with her.
I don't want to keep Carrie and her husband waiting, so I say goodbye to my unexpected language exchange partner, and get ready for some fake meat and tofu on Nanjing Dong Rd.
I return to the store in a few days when I know I won't be rushed, to look at the plethora of books for Chinese study. Suddenly, my language exchange partner finds me and tries once again to sell me that software. I level with her honestly: we foreigners can't walk six steps on some streets in Shanghai (especially Huaihai Rd., where I live, and Nanjing Dong Rd., not far from the store) without fourteen Chinese people trying to sell us "watch-bag" (meaning fake LV bags and Rolexes). I explain to her that for us, coming to a bookstore is supposed to be a relaxing experience (if I could say it, I would have told her it's a place we can explore new worlds, find new authors, be inspired, and let our imaginations run free, but my Chinese isn't good enough).
She responds by telling me that some foreigners have already told her this. In fact, she tells me that some foreigners, who don't speak Chinese, tell her directly to leave them alone and stop selling shit to them!
I give her a hint and a free English lesson. I tell her that when she sees foreigners, she should just walk up to them and say, "Let me know if I can help you with anything", and then walk away! I explain to her if she can just leave them alone, she'll be able to sell a lot more books. Conversely, the more she annoys them with her hard sell, the more they won't want to come back. They'll even tell their friends not to come because the employees are selling shit to them, I tell her.
I ask her if she has a book with the 3000 characters needed to test the standardized HSK exam. Within thirty seconds, she brings me exactly the book I am looking for, for about $5 US.
That a girl. I tell her that's exactly what we want, and leave to appreciate my find.
As I am browsing, an employee, a peppy young Chinese girl in her early twenties, gives me the hard sell for some "learn Chinese" software. After having been spoiled by the independent bookstores of the Bay Area for so long, I can't tell you how annoying this is. But, instead of getting annoyed, in some aikido-like way, I turn the experience into an opportunity to practice my Chinese, with a passion.
"You know, I think this software is for wealthy foreigners who would like to learn Chinese but don't have time to," I say. "If they really wanted to learn Chinese, they would get a real teacher and start studying their books every day for a few hours instead of buying this expensive software that they'll never use."
The young salesgirl is astute. I think she knows I am not thrilled with her sales approach. So, she tries to one-up me with an even better approach.
"You know," she tells me, "when I started working at this bookstore, my spoken English wasn't so great. But then I discovered that the best way to learn a language is to use it everyday, and that's what I do. I practice my English with foreigners every day here in the bookstore. So, really, that is the best way to improve your Chinese, to practice speaking your Chinese every day with Chinese people," she tells me in her smart-alecky tone.
"Well, that's EXACTLY what I am doing with you RIGHT NOW!" I respond. I don't know, I still might be doing aikido with her.
I don't want to keep Carrie and her husband waiting, so I say goodbye to my unexpected language exchange partner, and get ready for some fake meat and tofu on Nanjing Dong Rd.
I return to the store in a few days when I know I won't be rushed, to look at the plethora of books for Chinese study. Suddenly, my language exchange partner finds me and tries once again to sell me that software. I level with her honestly: we foreigners can't walk six steps on some streets in Shanghai (especially Huaihai Rd., where I live, and Nanjing Dong Rd., not far from the store) without fourteen Chinese people trying to sell us "watch-bag" (meaning fake LV bags and Rolexes). I explain to her that for us, coming to a bookstore is supposed to be a relaxing experience (if I could say it, I would have told her it's a place we can explore new worlds, find new authors, be inspired, and let our imaginations run free, but my Chinese isn't good enough).
She responds by telling me that some foreigners have already told her this. In fact, she tells me that some foreigners, who don't speak Chinese, tell her directly to leave them alone and stop selling shit to them!
I give her a hint and a free English lesson. I tell her that when she sees foreigners, she should just walk up to them and say, "Let me know if I can help you with anything", and then walk away! I explain to her if she can just leave them alone, she'll be able to sell a lot more books. Conversely, the more she annoys them with her hard sell, the more they won't want to come back. They'll even tell their friends not to come because the employees are selling shit to them, I tell her.
I ask her if she has a book with the 3000 characters needed to test the standardized HSK exam. Within thirty seconds, she brings me exactly the book I am looking for, for about $5 US.
That a girl. I tell her that's exactly what we want, and leave to appreciate my find.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Angry Customer
It's getting cold in Shanghai, so I decide to go and buy long underwear. I go to a large Chinese hypermarket near Xujiahui that has food on one floor and clothes, electric appliances, and everything else on the other.
After selecting my underwear (I learn the word for "stretchy" when talking to the saleslady), I take the escalator downstairs to pay at the register. The cashier, a young guy, about 30, is scanning my underwear when an older man with dark skin, freckles, and thick-framed black glasses walks up and starts arguing with him in Shanghainese. They argue for the next minute, and as the seconds pass, so does the volume of their yelling increase. After about a minute or two, the front half of the store is watching eagerly. They look extremely entertained, and I am sure they are wondering what the outcome will be. The store manager walks up and takes the baton from his employee, and they start agruing in Shanghainese.
Everyone still seems very entertained. The old man sticks his finger in the face of the manager. The manager is trying to escort the old guy out. But, like the Energizer bunny, the guy justs keeps going and going.
The checker finally rings me up despite the commotion, and I pay. Instead of leaving the store, I walk up to another employee, a guy in his 20s who looks the most entertained out of all the employees watching, and ask him what they are fighting about. He tells me the old guy says that he didn't get the correct change. In the background, the old man is still yelling, starting to walk out accompanied by several other customers and a few employees. The manager has already finished with him, and as he passes me, returning to his office in the back no doubt, he graciously explains to me that the frustrated old man is just arguing over a few pennies.
So, by now, I understand the situation. In China, I've already seen people getting upset like this more than a few times. For example, two guys walk out of their cars in traffic and start yelling at each other near People's Square the other day. I figure that after almost 60 years of communism, including the Cultural Revolution, there is a lot of accumulated tension, and people need some way to let it loose. I would, too.
So, today, I decide I will do my part to help the Chinese people let go of this frustration, to help them move into a new, more laid-back, easy-going era. You could say I want to do a little activism.
As I walk toward the door, behind the old man (still yelling!), I reach into my backpack and find some change. There's a 1 jiao (penny) coin and I tap him on the shoulder and say, "Sir, here, I want to give you some change."
He looks at me and says, "It's not just the change, that guy back there was mocking me before."
"Just ignore him," I say. "Come on, let's go." I like to think that perhaps my listening to his side of the story defuses some of his anger. The locals watch and they are starting to smile as I talk to him. He doesn't take the penny, but I am still trying to get him out of the store, tugging him a little.
I decide to let him go, and I turn around and head for the door, holding my newly purchased long underwear in a bag. As I walk out, at the counter in front of me, there is a woman who is selling tea, and she gives me a smile.
After selecting my underwear (I learn the word for "stretchy" when talking to the saleslady), I take the escalator downstairs to pay at the register. The cashier, a young guy, about 30, is scanning my underwear when an older man with dark skin, freckles, and thick-framed black glasses walks up and starts arguing with him in Shanghainese. They argue for the next minute, and as the seconds pass, so does the volume of their yelling increase. After about a minute or two, the front half of the store is watching eagerly. They look extremely entertained, and I am sure they are wondering what the outcome will be. The store manager walks up and takes the baton from his employee, and they start agruing in Shanghainese.
Everyone still seems very entertained. The old man sticks his finger in the face of the manager. The manager is trying to escort the old guy out. But, like the Energizer bunny, the guy justs keeps going and going.
The checker finally rings me up despite the commotion, and I pay. Instead of leaving the store, I walk up to another employee, a guy in his 20s who looks the most entertained out of all the employees watching, and ask him what they are fighting about. He tells me the old guy says that he didn't get the correct change. In the background, the old man is still yelling, starting to walk out accompanied by several other customers and a few employees. The manager has already finished with him, and as he passes me, returning to his office in the back no doubt, he graciously explains to me that the frustrated old man is just arguing over a few pennies.
So, by now, I understand the situation. In China, I've already seen people getting upset like this more than a few times. For example, two guys walk out of their cars in traffic and start yelling at each other near People's Square the other day. I figure that after almost 60 years of communism, including the Cultural Revolution, there is a lot of accumulated tension, and people need some way to let it loose. I would, too.
So, today, I decide I will do my part to help the Chinese people let go of this frustration, to help them move into a new, more laid-back, easy-going era. You could say I want to do a little activism.
As I walk toward the door, behind the old man (still yelling!), I reach into my backpack and find some change. There's a 1 jiao (penny) coin and I tap him on the shoulder and say, "Sir, here, I want to give you some change."
He looks at me and says, "It's not just the change, that guy back there was mocking me before."
"Just ignore him," I say. "Come on, let's go." I like to think that perhaps my listening to his side of the story defuses some of his anger. The locals watch and they are starting to smile as I talk to him. He doesn't take the penny, but I am still trying to get him out of the store, tugging him a little.
I decide to let him go, and I turn around and head for the door, holding my newly purchased long underwear in a bag. As I walk out, at the counter in front of me, there is a woman who is selling tea, and she gives me a smile.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Using the Library in China
I am looking for a quiet place to study Chinese, and so I decide to go to the Shanghai Public Library. It is a huge structure on Gaoan Rd. near the Hengshan subway station.
I walk upstairs and the lady at the entrance gate to the stacks stops me. "You can't bring your bag in, you need to put it in a locker," she says.
"But, I have my textbook in there. I need to use it to study," I say.
"You can't take it in," she repeats.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because those are the rules," she responds.
Finally, I ask if I can take my notebook in with me, and she tells me that's okay. I sit down and ask the girl across from me why I can't take any books into the library.
"Well," she says, "you're supposed to read the books in the library."
"Yes, I know that," I say. "But why can't you bring in your own, like your school textbook?"
"Well," she says, "if everyone brings their own books, then it will be difficult to tell which books are the library's and which are peoples' own books."
I think for a second. "You mean, there are some bad people who would take books from the library and then claim that they are their books?" I ask. You see, four years of college really did help my analytical skills.
"That is correct," she says.
Oh, I get it. That makes sense. Of course, you can't bring your own books into a library here.
Welcome to China.
I walk upstairs and the lady at the entrance gate to the stacks stops me. "You can't bring your bag in, you need to put it in a locker," she says.
"But, I have my textbook in there. I need to use it to study," I say.
"You can't take it in," she repeats.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because those are the rules," she responds.
Finally, I ask if I can take my notebook in with me, and she tells me that's okay. I sit down and ask the girl across from me why I can't take any books into the library.
"Well," she says, "you're supposed to read the books in the library."
"Yes, I know that," I say. "But why can't you bring in your own, like your school textbook?"
"Well," she says, "if everyone brings their own books, then it will be difficult to tell which books are the library's and which are peoples' own books."
I think for a second. "You mean, there are some bad people who would take books from the library and then claim that they are their books?" I ask. You see, four years of college really did help my analytical skills.
"That is correct," she says.
Oh, I get it. That makes sense. Of course, you can't bring your own books into a library here.
Welcome to China.
Looking for a Book of Cheng Yu
I am always amazed by large stores in Shanghai. There are always twice as many employees working there as is necessary. They stand in their bright orange or green or whatever uniforms, chatting. I approach them with a question and they are always nervous. "I'm not paid for this shit!" they are probably saying to themselves, in Shanghainese.
They are usually not helpful, like they never actually went to the orientation after they were hired and have never really bothered to look over the merchandise in the store. "Soymilk, I don't think we have it," they say, and then a few minutes later I find it myself.
"You want a book on chengyu (traditional Chinese proverbs) for kids? Okay, follow me," says an employee in the largest bookstore in Shanghai, and he picks up one from a display table and hurries away. "There's one chengyu book for kids in this whole bookstore?" I think to myself.
(Unbelievable. Not to compare, but even in the smallest of bookstores in Taiwan, there are ten times that number. I check with another employee, and she confirms that there are actually only two in the store.)
I'm waiting in line in an upscale supermarket and suddenly I notice there's another checker who is sitting in front of a register, totally bored. I must have been waiting a few minutes, before I spot her, no doubt praying to her lucky angels that I don't see her.
China is busy catching up with the rest of the developed world after wasting sixty years of precious human life. If you're here for a few days, you wonder if this is actually a communist country, but after living here for a little while, you realize that old habits die hard.
Tea on Taikang Road
I keep joking with my friends in Shanghai how Taiwan is my second home, my 老家 (laojia).
Today, I am walking with a friend at the Taikang Art Center in Shanghai, a lane full of the kind of art galleries that Westerners love. We enter the lane and ask an old Shanghainese lady who is working a stall there if this is the lane where the art galleries are. "It's a place where foreigners drink coffee," she answers in her thick Shanghainese accent. I laugh to think that she's probably been on the corner there longer than all the art galleries, and she doesn't even know what all the fuss is about.
French people sit around a table at cafes charming bystanders with the melodies and rhythm of their French, drinking wine or espresso. We walk around browsing the shops for a while and I think we've seen enough of the galleries and the French people, too and I want to check out the nice tea shop that we saw on the walk over here. My friend notices that I'm not thrilled by it all. "No, I am, I am," I protest, but she's right--it doesn't feel juicy.
We leave the artsy cafe quarter and turn around the corner to find the tea shop. A half-minute later, we are there. I look in and ask the laoban (owner) and his partner if we can join them for some tea. It looks like they already have a guest. "Of course," he says, and invites us to have a seat. This is the kind of place you would see in Taiwan that I miss. There are a lot of teas, all the implements needed to drink them, old Chinese furniture, and sentimental Chinese music in the background. It's cozy and aesthetically pleasing.
I ask the laoban if he has any gaoshan (High Mountain) tea, from Taiwan. He says he does and he goes to the back to get some. Gaoshan tea is my favorite wulong from Taiwan, fragrant and slightly roasted. It always gets me "drunk", which is what tea connoisseurs say is the effect of drinking a few rounds. They are definitely right.
He comes back with the tea, and then he lays on me the revelation that will make this night: He is from Taiwan. From Taipei. From the Xinyi district. My old stomping grounds.
Let the fun begin.
I don't speak Taiwanese, but I know enough to make Taiwanese people laugh, and so I tell him, "I am Taiwanese, I am not a foreigner! (wa shee daiwan leng, wa um shee adoa!"). We start having a conversation, although I don't really understand.
I tell him that I lived in Muzha (he explains to me that it's makza in Taiwanese) and that I know the Xinyi area well. Being a true Taiwanren, he starts making fun of me. "So you lived near the zoo? Did you live in the zoo?" Everyone is having a good laugh.
I forget the winding paths our conversation took in the next hour or two, the five of us, but like a good hike, it was beautiful and refreshed the soul. That gaoshan tea didn't hurt either.
I tell him I know a Taiwanese song and ask him if he wants to hear it. "Which one?" he asks."望春風," I reply. He asks me to sing it, and then we begin a duet for our friends.
It's time for us to leave and have our dinner. We all give each other hugs and he welcomes us to return anytime, and I finally realize why it is we visited the Taikang Art Center tonight.
Today, I am walking with a friend at the Taikang Art Center in Shanghai, a lane full of the kind of art galleries that Westerners love. We enter the lane and ask an old Shanghainese lady who is working a stall there if this is the lane where the art galleries are. "It's a place where foreigners drink coffee," she answers in her thick Shanghainese accent. I laugh to think that she's probably been on the corner there longer than all the art galleries, and she doesn't even know what all the fuss is about.
French people sit around a table at cafes charming bystanders with the melodies and rhythm of their French, drinking wine or espresso. We walk around browsing the shops for a while and I think we've seen enough of the galleries and the French people, too and I want to check out the nice tea shop that we saw on the walk over here. My friend notices that I'm not thrilled by it all. "No, I am, I am," I protest, but she's right--it doesn't feel juicy.
We leave the artsy cafe quarter and turn around the corner to find the tea shop. A half-minute later, we are there. I look in and ask the laoban (owner) and his partner if we can join them for some tea. It looks like they already have a guest. "Of course," he says, and invites us to have a seat. This is the kind of place you would see in Taiwan that I miss. There are a lot of teas, all the implements needed to drink them, old Chinese furniture, and sentimental Chinese music in the background. It's cozy and aesthetically pleasing.
I ask the laoban if he has any gaoshan (High Mountain) tea, from Taiwan. He says he does and he goes to the back to get some. Gaoshan tea is my favorite wulong from Taiwan, fragrant and slightly roasted. It always gets me "drunk", which is what tea connoisseurs say is the effect of drinking a few rounds. They are definitely right.
He comes back with the tea, and then he lays on me the revelation that will make this night: He is from Taiwan. From Taipei. From the Xinyi district. My old stomping grounds.
Let the fun begin.
I don't speak Taiwanese, but I know enough to make Taiwanese people laugh, and so I tell him, "I am Taiwanese, I am not a foreigner! (wa shee daiwan leng, wa um shee adoa!"). We start having a conversation, although I don't really understand.
I tell him that I lived in Muzha (he explains to me that it's makza in Taiwanese) and that I know the Xinyi area well. Being a true Taiwanren, he starts making fun of me. "So you lived near the zoo? Did you live in the zoo?" Everyone is having a good laugh.
I forget the winding paths our conversation took in the next hour or two, the five of us, but like a good hike, it was beautiful and refreshed the soul. That gaoshan tea didn't hurt either.
I tell him I know a Taiwanese song and ask him if he wants to hear it. "Which one?" he asks."望春風," I reply. He asks me to sing it, and then we begin a duet for our friends.
It's time for us to leave and have our dinner. We all give each other hugs and he welcomes us to return anytime, and I finally realize why it is we visited the Taikang Art Center tonight.
An Encounter in the TCM Twilight Zone
For those of us Chinese medicine practitioners from the West who come to Asia to deepen our understanding of Chinese culture and traditional medicine, we are always living with the knowledge that no matter how much Chinese we learn, we'll be lucky, extremely lucky, if our Chinese gets to the level of a middle-school punk (a Chinese one, that is). And of course, once our Chinese gets to a certain level, we also know that there's a hell of a lot of Chinese Medicine we'll never be able to learn, either.
Nevertheless, we continue. We don't get any real recognition (besides daily encouragement from locals, who, god bless them, are impressed with "nihao" and "xiexie"). We study hard, writing characters late at night, reading books of Chinese idioms. A whole new world opens up to us, and this is what keeps us going. You do it because it is a passion, for the intrinsic rewards.
I walk into a TCM clinic near my house and I notice there's a "Weight Reduction Clinic for Women". I ask a secretary about it and she points me to the woman standing near the entrance to the room where they do the actual weight reduction. She's in her early 30s, pretty, but looks bored and a little tired.
So, I tell her that I have a license in the States and ask her to tell me about the treatment principles involved in helping people lose weight. She tells me more, mostly that they are using needles to do this, not herbs so much. The acupuncture reduces appetite. I'm actually not that interested in helping people lose weight with acupuncture, in the same way that I'm not interested in giving them "acupuncture facials" or "acupuncture breast-lifts" (they do exist, just ask Jolin, the famous Taiwanese pop singer). Just curious.
The doctor has some questions for me. She asks me about the licensing process in the States, about people's perception of Chinese Medicine there. I tell her how I changed careers to study Chinese Medicine, that there is indeed a lot of interest in the States.
She tells me how she finds it curious how others switch from mainstream careers into Chinese Medicine. She tells me of some Japanese classmates of hers who were corporate types in the 20s and then, after burnout, decided to study Chinese Medicine.
"It's so strange. I've been a doctor for ten years and I find it so boring. I don't make much money. And I don't have any marketable skills--I could never work at a big company. It's hard to understand why people would want to do this. I wish I could do their office jobs," she says.
I do not miss the irony of this conversation. Here I am in China, after a four-year program in Chinese Medicine and a year and a half of formal Chinese study, still struggling to improve my Chinese so I can learn more medicine. If I study Chinese for the next years and then study traditional medicine for another five or ten years, who knows if I will approach this doctor's level of medical knowledge. I've given up (with joy, you might say) the six-figure income nice house I would have had by now if I had stayed in the corporate world, and am living like a student halfway across the world to do this.
"I guess I've had the benefit of actually living that life, and then making a conscious decision to let it go and follow my dream of studying Chinese Medicine," I tell her. So, I don't have any regrets. I guess what a friend told me a long time ago is true: "We've all got to kill our own snakes."
I like to think I inspire people. So, who knows, maybe I've inspired this young Chinese doctor here in Shanghai to go to business school so she can pursue her dream of working at an office in front of a computer to make the big bucks.
Nevertheless, we continue. We don't get any real recognition (besides daily encouragement from locals, who, god bless them, are impressed with "nihao" and "xiexie"). We study hard, writing characters late at night, reading books of Chinese idioms. A whole new world opens up to us, and this is what keeps us going. You do it because it is a passion, for the intrinsic rewards.
I walk into a TCM clinic near my house and I notice there's a "Weight Reduction Clinic for Women". I ask a secretary about it and she points me to the woman standing near the entrance to the room where they do the actual weight reduction. She's in her early 30s, pretty, but looks bored and a little tired.
So, I tell her that I have a license in the States and ask her to tell me about the treatment principles involved in helping people lose weight. She tells me more, mostly that they are using needles to do this, not herbs so much. The acupuncture reduces appetite. I'm actually not that interested in helping people lose weight with acupuncture, in the same way that I'm not interested in giving them "acupuncture facials" or "acupuncture breast-lifts" (they do exist, just ask Jolin, the famous Taiwanese pop singer). Just curious.
The doctor has some questions for me. She asks me about the licensing process in the States, about people's perception of Chinese Medicine there. I tell her how I changed careers to study Chinese Medicine, that there is indeed a lot of interest in the States.
She tells me how she finds it curious how others switch from mainstream careers into Chinese Medicine. She tells me of some Japanese classmates of hers who were corporate types in the 20s and then, after burnout, decided to study Chinese Medicine.
"It's so strange. I've been a doctor for ten years and I find it so boring. I don't make much money. And I don't have any marketable skills--I could never work at a big company. It's hard to understand why people would want to do this. I wish I could do their office jobs," she says.
I do not miss the irony of this conversation. Here I am in China, after a four-year program in Chinese Medicine and a year and a half of formal Chinese study, still struggling to improve my Chinese so I can learn more medicine. If I study Chinese for the next years and then study traditional medicine for another five or ten years, who knows if I will approach this doctor's level of medical knowledge. I've given up (with joy, you might say) the six-figure income nice house I would have had by now if I had stayed in the corporate world, and am living like a student halfway across the world to do this.
"I guess I've had the benefit of actually living that life, and then making a conscious decision to let it go and follow my dream of studying Chinese Medicine," I tell her. So, I don't have any regrets. I guess what a friend told me a long time ago is true: "We've all got to kill our own snakes."
I like to think I inspire people. So, who knows, maybe I've inspired this young Chinese doctor here in Shanghai to go to business school so she can pursue her dream of working at an office in front of a computer to make the big bucks.
The Guitar Strummer at Renmin Gongyuan
It's early in the morning (for me at least), and I am heading out of People's Park subway station to go teach, about to climb the stairs and emerge into the chilly Shanghai winter (yeah, according to traditional Chinese science, the solstice marks the middle of winter, not the beginning, which I think is pretty damn smart).
There are always a few old men standing at the foot of the stairs. One is always carrying a newspaper and a bag and looking expectingly, for what, I have no idea. He's not holding Christian fundamentalist magazines. Perhaps he is a middleman for the Shanghai mafia. I don't think I will find this out anytime soon, so I like to think every time I pass him, it's like a getting a whiff of the mystery of life.
This morning, before I see mafia man, I hear a kid in his early 20s strumming his guitar and singing. I wish I had time to stand there and listen to him. It makes me happy to see him here, bringing a bit of art into the crowds of Shanghai people walking out to start their day of money-making. Perhaps he'll never become the spokesman for Nokia phones like those other big Chinese popstars, but his music and song is heartfelt.
You know, you can't really walk out and protest the government in this country. And even in the States, that "freest" of countries, there are things that need to be said that only art can express fully, purely. What things are there in my heart today that I need to express fully and purely?
With thanks to that brave disheveled Chinese kid and his guitar, I move on, up the stairs into People's Park, to do a little moneymaking, just like everyone else.
There are always a few old men standing at the foot of the stairs. One is always carrying a newspaper and a bag and looking expectingly, for what, I have no idea. He's not holding Christian fundamentalist magazines. Perhaps he is a middleman for the Shanghai mafia. I don't think I will find this out anytime soon, so I like to think every time I pass him, it's like a getting a whiff of the mystery of life.
This morning, before I see mafia man, I hear a kid in his early 20s strumming his guitar and singing. I wish I had time to stand there and listen to him. It makes me happy to see him here, bringing a bit of art into the crowds of Shanghai people walking out to start their day of money-making. Perhaps he'll never become the spokesman for Nokia phones like those other big Chinese popstars, but his music and song is heartfelt.
You know, you can't really walk out and protest the government in this country. And even in the States, that "freest" of countries, there are things that need to be said that only art can express fully, purely. What things are there in my heart today that I need to express fully and purely?
With thanks to that brave disheveled Chinese kid and his guitar, I move on, up the stairs into People's Park, to do a little moneymaking, just like everyone else.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Fun Things Lao Wai Can Do When They Know a Little Chinese
I'm teaching a class at a large well-known international consulting firm. My students are all auditors in their 20s, representing the cream of the crop of the Chinese educational system. They all work ridiculous hours, travel all over Chinese for work, and now, their boss says they need to come in weekends to learn English in an intensive class (i.e., all day Saturday and Sunday) . As with most Chinese people, even highly educated ones, their spoken English is poor. However, they are sincere and like to laugh, too, and I thoroughly enjoy teaching them.
I arrive this Sunday to teach the afternoon session, and notice a joker has joined my class. Everyone, including him, obviously, is tired of taking classes all weekend. They haven't had much time to rest after their last week of deadlines, presentations, and general capitalistic competition. And Monday morning, when it starts all over again, is right around the corner.
Our class joker is slightly spoiling the spirit of the group. They are supportive of each other and sincerely interested in learning. Joker, a primadonna, prissy boy in his early 20s slouches, eats cupcakes obnoxiously in the middle of class, answers for others whose English level is not quite at his extremely advanced level (or, he wishes), and of course, answers questions with silly, prissy answers.
I ignore him and just do my best to engage the class, have fun, challenge them--help them learn better English. There is a small but persistent voice in my head that keeps rehearsing how I am going to throw him out of class, which goes something like this: "Okay, joker boy, we are all trying to learn here. You're outta here! See ya later!"
But, I realize that he's probably just tired from his consulting firm life (or perhaps he had a fight with his boyfriend?) and I understand what it feels like to be at a company training on a Sunday afternoon that you really don't want to be at. Besides, his coworkers, who are also his friends, would feel quite uncomfortable by this public scolding.
My inner Buddha, thankfully, takes precedence over my inner American cowboy. This made me look like a woos sometimes in the States ("Come on, yer going to let him just cut you off like that without giving him the finger?"), but it saves me today.
While I was hoping that my teaching style and my ignoring him would bring him into the spirit of the group, by the end of class, Joker has partipated honestly for a full two minutes, and unfortunately, just never quite joined us. I am not upset, really, just think it is too bad these young auditors are put through this grind.
I dismiss class and everyone is no doubt relieved and happy to have some downtime, finally. They all start talking in Chinese. I never tell my students that I speak some Chinese, because I don't want them to try to revert to Chinese while we're studying English, so no one knows.
Joker picks up his stuff, starting to leave, and says to his friends in Chinese: "Damn, this teacher is exhausting, always at a hundred percent, continuously correcting our mistakes!"
I turn to him as he is approaching the door, "Sorry!" I say in Chinese. The whole class cracks up!
"But, I thought you didn't speak any Chinese! Oh, I mean you are a very good teacher," he says, embarrassed.
I need a bit of a rest tonight as well, and I ride my bike home, smiling a Buddha smile.
I arrive this Sunday to teach the afternoon session, and notice a joker has joined my class. Everyone, including him, obviously, is tired of taking classes all weekend. They haven't had much time to rest after their last week of deadlines, presentations, and general capitalistic competition. And Monday morning, when it starts all over again, is right around the corner.
Our class joker is slightly spoiling the spirit of the group. They are supportive of each other and sincerely interested in learning. Joker, a primadonna, prissy boy in his early 20s slouches, eats cupcakes obnoxiously in the middle of class, answers for others whose English level is not quite at his extremely advanced level (or, he wishes), and of course, answers questions with silly, prissy answers.
I ignore him and just do my best to engage the class, have fun, challenge them--help them learn better English. There is a small but persistent voice in my head that keeps rehearsing how I am going to throw him out of class, which goes something like this: "Okay, joker boy, we are all trying to learn here. You're outta here! See ya later!"
But, I realize that he's probably just tired from his consulting firm life (or perhaps he had a fight with his boyfriend?) and I understand what it feels like to be at a company training on a Sunday afternoon that you really don't want to be at. Besides, his coworkers, who are also his friends, would feel quite uncomfortable by this public scolding.
My inner Buddha, thankfully, takes precedence over my inner American cowboy. This made me look like a woos sometimes in the States ("Come on, yer going to let him just cut you off like that without giving him the finger?"), but it saves me today.
While I was hoping that my teaching style and my ignoring him would bring him into the spirit of the group, by the end of class, Joker has partipated honestly for a full two minutes, and unfortunately, just never quite joined us. I am not upset, really, just think it is too bad these young auditors are put through this grind.
I dismiss class and everyone is no doubt relieved and happy to have some downtime, finally. They all start talking in Chinese. I never tell my students that I speak some Chinese, because I don't want them to try to revert to Chinese while we're studying English, so no one knows.
Joker picks up his stuff, starting to leave, and says to his friends in Chinese: "Damn, this teacher is exhausting, always at a hundred percent, continuously correcting our mistakes!"
I turn to him as he is approaching the door, "Sorry!" I say in Chinese. The whole class cracks up!
"But, I thought you didn't speak any Chinese! Oh, I mean you are a very good teacher," he says, embarrassed.
I need a bit of a rest tonight as well, and I ride my bike home, smiling a Buddha smile.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Looking at Childrens' Books
I am still looking for a good stationery shop to buy some flashcards, so wherever I go, I ask people if they know if there's a good stationery shop nearby. It seems that everywhere you go in Taiwan, there are these magnificent stationery shops everywhere. Perhaps on a certain level, I am not really looking for stationery, but just missing my laojia in Taiwan.
I get off the subway and see an older woman selling kids' books in a stall in the station. I figure she might know. She doesn't, but I start looking at the childrens' books (which are perfect for my level of Chinese). She asks me where I am from. I tell her from the States.
She tells me she has applied for a visa to the States five times already, and has been rejected every time. She tells me that her 80 year-old brother lives there. He is ill and she wants to see him before he dies. He lives in Maryland, which is where I am from. She tells me that before he dies, she wants to cook him food from his childhood that he loves and can't get in the States.
I tell her I know I am lucky. I am a U.S. citizen and can basically go wherever I want in the world. I haven't even been in China for two months, and I have already encountered lots of Chinese people who want to travel abroad but can't due to political reasons.
I tell her I am sorry that she isn't able to get permission to see her brother. "Did you tell the people at the consulate your story?" I ask. She replies that she has, but that obviously, it hasn't moved them to help her.
"Maybe you should meet him in Canada. It's not that far from Maryland," I suggest.
I look in her eyes and I sense her deep sadness. She has cried a lot about this. It's time for me to go. I tell her I live near here and will come back and look at her books again.
"Thank you, thank you," she says.
I get off the subway and see an older woman selling kids' books in a stall in the station. I figure she might know. She doesn't, but I start looking at the childrens' books (which are perfect for my level of Chinese). She asks me where I am from. I tell her from the States.
She tells me she has applied for a visa to the States five times already, and has been rejected every time. She tells me that her 80 year-old brother lives there. He is ill and she wants to see him before he dies. He lives in Maryland, which is where I am from. She tells me that before he dies, she wants to cook him food from his childhood that he loves and can't get in the States.
I tell her I know I am lucky. I am a U.S. citizen and can basically go wherever I want in the world. I haven't even been in China for two months, and I have already encountered lots of Chinese people who want to travel abroad but can't due to political reasons.
I tell her I am sorry that she isn't able to get permission to see her brother. "Did you tell the people at the consulate your story?" I ask. She replies that she has, but that obviously, it hasn't moved them to help her.
"Maybe you should meet him in Canada. It's not that far from Maryland," I suggest.
I look in her eyes and I sense her deep sadness. She has cried a lot about this. It's time for me to go. I tell her I live near here and will come back and look at her books again.
"Thank you, thank you," she says.
Meetings with Ordinary People
I am riding my bike home at about nine in the evening on a chilly Shanghai night. My Israeli friend Yuval sold it to me. It has no gears, so I feel like a true urban biker. Shanghai has no hills, so you don't really need the gears, and besides, I don't feel like a spoiled Westerner.
I actually have no idea how to get home, so at the nearest intersection where there are some bikers waiting for the light to turn green. I ask a girl in her early 20s on her bike how to get Shanxi Rd. She looks at me in horror, as if I am about to mug her and immediately shakes her head to indicate that she either doesn't know, or ain't going to help me with this.
I would say about 10% of the time, I get this response from people in Shanghai, usually younger women who are working in shops. I ask them a question and they look like they might go into anaphylactic shock at any moment. Perhaps this is because of my dashing good looks (see Blogger profile photo), but I doubt it. I wonder if they can't possibly imagine that a foreigner speaks Chinese. That's why, after I ask them a question in reasonably correct Chinese, they still don't respond in Chinese. Sometimes, they talk really bad English with me. It's very entertaining.
Tip of the day to younger Chinese clerks of Shanghai: If a foreigner asks you in Chinese, "Excuse me, do you know if there is a stationery store near here?", there's a pretty good chance he probably speaks Chinese, and he probably won't mug you either. So, take a chill pill, okay?
Perhaps I should learn Shanghainese. They might finally give me a straight answer. On the other hand I am worried they might have a heart attack.
This girl on her bike isn't helping me and I don't have time for charades, so I ask the middle-aged guy on the bike behind me. The light is about to turn green. He says, "Follow me."
I am relieved, and we ride together toward Shanxi Rd. "Your Chinese is pretty good," he says, as we ride past a park.
"No, it's not. Chinese is really hard," I answer. He asks me where I am from and I ask him if he has just gotten off work, because it's pretty late. He sounds like he is educated and has the demeanor of a professor, so I ask him if he is a professor.
"No, I'm just an ordinary worker," he says self-deprecatingly. He tells me I'm going to have to make a left at the next intersection. I say goodbye and pull over to the intersection to wait for the light to turn green.
He continues on and looks back a couple times to make sure I'm heading in the right direction.
I actually have no idea how to get home, so at the nearest intersection where there are some bikers waiting for the light to turn green. I ask a girl in her early 20s on her bike how to get Shanxi Rd. She looks at me in horror, as if I am about to mug her and immediately shakes her head to indicate that she either doesn't know, or ain't going to help me with this.
I would say about 10% of the time, I get this response from people in Shanghai, usually younger women who are working in shops. I ask them a question and they look like they might go into anaphylactic shock at any moment. Perhaps this is because of my dashing good looks (see Blogger profile photo), but I doubt it. I wonder if they can't possibly imagine that a foreigner speaks Chinese. That's why, after I ask them a question in reasonably correct Chinese, they still don't respond in Chinese. Sometimes, they talk really bad English with me. It's very entertaining.
Tip of the day to younger Chinese clerks of Shanghai: If a foreigner asks you in Chinese, "Excuse me, do you know if there is a stationery store near here?", there's a pretty good chance he probably speaks Chinese, and he probably won't mug you either. So, take a chill pill, okay?
Perhaps I should learn Shanghainese. They might finally give me a straight answer. On the other hand I am worried they might have a heart attack.
This girl on her bike isn't helping me and I don't have time for charades, so I ask the middle-aged guy on the bike behind me. The light is about to turn green. He says, "Follow me."
I am relieved, and we ride together toward Shanxi Rd. "Your Chinese is pretty good," he says, as we ride past a park.
"No, it's not. Chinese is really hard," I answer. He asks me where I am from and I ask him if he has just gotten off work, because it's pretty late. He sounds like he is educated and has the demeanor of a professor, so I ask him if he is a professor.
"No, I'm just an ordinary worker," he says self-deprecatingly. He tells me I'm going to have to make a left at the next intersection. I say goodbye and pull over to the intersection to wait for the light to turn green.
He continues on and looks back a couple times to make sure I'm heading in the right direction.
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