The Kind Taxi Driver and the Israeli

I get in a taxi to head back home. The ride will take about 25 minutes, so I pull out a book that I can study on the way there. The driver is in early 50s and says to me, "Is it okay if I chat with you?" (可以聊天吗?) I put down my book and I say, "Of course!" with a smile.

The first question that any taxi driver (or most anybody) in China will ask you is where you are from. These days, I tell them all I am Israeli (that's where my parents are from). I'm just tired of the typical response I get from people when I say I am from the States that goes like this:

Chinese Man: Where are you from?
Me: I'm from the States.
Chinese Man: [Pauses. Rubs his chin. Looks to the left.] Oh, the U.S. is a good country.

You know, if I ask you if you love your boyfriend and you start rubbing your chin and looking away before you answer, I think the answer is clear.

Of course, who can blame them? The behavior and actions of the United States in the last eight years have been those of a drunken frat boy. Relations with the rest of the world have gone down the drain.

So, I'm Israeli.

Taxi drivers (and most other Chinese people) always then respond in the same way. "Oh, Jewish people. The world's smartest people!"

Today, this driver responds this way and asks if I can tell him more about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. He says ever since he was a kid, he's always read news about the conflict, and it seems never-ending. He'd like me to help him understand why it's so difficult for both sides to work it out.

I, of course, have been thinking about this question for the last twenty years of my life, so I give him my hit on it. We talk for a while about my take on the conflict and he is very thankful.

I tell him that I think every country has their difficult problems. Take you guys here in China. You have Tibet and Taiwan. I tell him that he can now be my teacher and help me understand.

He is a very humble and respectful man. He says he wouldn't dare call himself anyone's teacher. He is wise and doesn't want to get too deep into those difficult issues. But he asks me another question.

"Do you think that democracy, like they have in Thailand and Taiwan, are really good for the people? I mean look at what is happening in the news," he says.

I tell him that although it may look messy to a Chinese person, I sincerely believe that it's a necessary process. If you look at the modern, free countries of the world you see that they've all gone through this messy process.

However, I want him to know that understand where he and all the other bajillion Chinese people are coming from.

I tell him that I am different from most foreigners. Whereas many foreigners just write off China's government as an evil authoritarian dictatorship that ignores human rights, I understand that they are trying to keep China stable. And above all, above freedom and democracy, Chinese people want stability. I tell him that I would like to communicate this to more foreigners, so they understand where Chinese people are coming from. He is very moved and he thanks me in a very sincere way.

I tell him that I hope one day, maybe not tomorrow, but maybe in fifty years, China will become a democracy. He says it might take longer and says a hundred years aren't enough.

We reach my apartment and he wishes his new Israeli friend well and says that he hopes to give me a ride home again some day. I hope so, too, and warmly say goodbye to him.

The Dao of Cellphones

Did you know that when your cellphone is working, it has profound effects on your life? Listen up...

I call my friend on my cell and the phone indicates that I am connected, but I can't hear anything. Later in the day, I call a restaurant. Again, the phone says I am connected, but I can't hear anyone. After the third time this happens, I realize the speaker in my phone is broken.

Later on in the evening, my friend Michael calls. I speak into the phone and tell him that I can't hear him, that my phone is broken, and that I'll call him back.

So, the next day I take the phone to the young cellphone fixer guy who has a little station in the corner supermarket. I tell him the problem with the phone and he looks at it for a minute. He tells me it will cost about $10 to fix and so I give it to him to fix.

I can see that he replaces a part and then he screws the casing back on, but there's something wrong. He does this several times. I'm worried that maybe I shouldn't get my cellphone fixed at the same place where I buy my soymilk. Finally, after waiting for over an hour, he gets it right.

It works, but the next day, someone calls me and says she can't hear what I'm saying. I hear her fine. It looks like my phone has a new problem. The speaker seems to be malfunctioning.

So, I decide to head back to the soymilk cellphone fixer and see what he says. I know he is going to be a little defensive. After all, it doesn't seem like this problem is related.

I tell him about the problem, and tell him I didn't have this problem before he worked on my phone yesterday. He, of course, is defensive, but I tell him to not worry. I tell him I will pay him to fix it. And so, he puts in a new microphone and doesn't charge me for labor. He is very kind and tells me if there's anything I need to come back.

For some reason, after these repairs, I feel more at peace. More clear, perhaps, because my cellphone has a new speaker and microphone.

I don't know, call it cellphone fengshui.

Memorizing the Card Catalog

I'm immersed in studying Chinese. I love it.

It's hard to convey to people who've never studied Chinese what it's like. For those of you who've studied French or Spanish or German, I would say that it's nothing like studying a language related to English, because it's not.

Here's the best that I can do. If you are old enough, you might remember the wooden card catalog at your elementary school. Well, once you learn how to use it, it's not a big deal. Just look up whatever book you need and then you can start looking for it on the shelves.

Well, learning Chinese is sort of like that. Except you have to memorize the card catalog. Unlike those other languages above, you can't really make associations with cognates, because there are none (except email, which is pronounced "yi-mei-er", and aspirin, which is pronounced "a-si-pi-lin").

Of course, perhaps there's another way to describe it. Perhaps it's like visiting a little village in a fantasy novel, like in Lord of the Rings. You meet all these new people and see things you haven't seen before, and have experiences that you haven't seen before, and then after you've been there for a while (and you think you know it), more is revealed to you and you realize there is a little pond you've never seen, a quiet elf who never goes to the town square, a path behind the tavern that goes to a meadow in the woods....

The Old Man with the Cal Hat

The weather has been beautiful in Beijing lately. As I ride my bike down Qinghua Street, I see an old guy. Face wrinkled, looks like he has a lot of stories to tell.

He's got a Cal (University of California) hat on. I'm sure he has no idea what those letters mean. But it makes me think of Berkeley, of walking around campus, on Telegraph, and up near Strawberry Canyon, near the football stadium.

I want to stop and tell him what his hat means to me. Even for me to stop and talk to him, much less about the University of California at Berkeley, would be strange in China.

So, I keep on going, enjoying the sunshine and those memories.

The Little Red Book

In the school library, there is a little bookstore where you can buy texts to study Chinese. I find a small dictionary that I want and bring it to the cashier at the front.

On the desk where she is sitting are a stack of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book. They're all over China, sold as kitch to tourists. Let's just say I (and plenty of foreigners, and lots of Chinese people, too) don't like Mao all that much. (Dear Chinese censors, please don't deport me. I really like Chinese culture and I have some good friends here who can vouch for me.)

As I give her the dictionary, I point to Mao's book and I tell her I don't want it. She is a little confused as to why I am telling her that I don't want the book, but she realizes what I am trying to say.

"Why don't you like the book?", she asks.

"Because I don't like Mao," I answer. I can see that the air is becoming a little thick, and the air around her coworker, another young Chinese girl, is even thicker.

"Why don't you like Mao?" she asks.

I explain to her that I like Chinese culture and I support the Chinese people, so I feel that if I answer this question honestly, she will think I don't like China. But I tell her my answer, "The Cultural Revolution".

I am surprised to hear someone so young so interested in talking to a foreigner about politics.

She responds by saying that the Chinese people also believe that the Cultural Revolution was a big mistake. But, she says, we don't think it was Mao's fault. He was old, he wasn't really in control of China. The people around him were the ones who orchestrated the Cultural Revolution.

I don't buy her answer. In the West, we tend to not make excuses for leaders who make mistakes. We just say they fucked up.

I expain to her that in Western countries, you are allowed to criticize the country's leaders. As a matter of fact, it's sort of like learning a new language. If the teacher doesn't point out your mistakes, you're never going to get better.

I thank her for telling me her opinion and head out for some more studying.

The Two Jiao Heist

Back in Shanghai, for change, they use coins (like in the States). But here in Beijing, they prefer paper. Even for tiny amounts.

Today, someone gave me a tattered 2 jiao bill (there are 100 maos in a yuan) that would be like a 2 cent bill in the States). You can't buy a small piece of candy with it.

Later on in the day, I was paying for some things in the campus grocery store. It cost 5 yuan and 2 jiao (let's say 78 cents). So, I say to her, I think I have 2 jiao. I reach into my wallet and grab the 2 jiao bill. I am excited to get rid of it.

The cashier, a young Chinese girl of about 20 says I can't use it. I tell her someone just gave it to me earlier today. She starts to get on the defensive and says that she didn't give it to me earlier in the day. It's torn and wrinkled, no one will accept it, she says.

I think she is making a big deal, so I laugh and say, "I'm not trying to cheat you, I'm just an innocent foreigner trying to buy something at your store. Here, take this other bill."

Her friend laughs, and so does she. And I'm off to go study at the library.

Writing What I See in China

Because of the Olympics, Chinese people can now read my blog (Blogspot is not censored for the time being). A Chinese woman reads my blog and writes me a long letter about how I don't understand China, how I don't like China, how I like Taiwan too much, etc. She says that there are other countries to criticize, why criticize China?

Well, my dear friend, I live in China right now. I write what I see. The old guy at the Xierqi subway station who pops popcorn in a kettle over a fire. The guy in Shanghai trying to cheat me. People spitting. All the beautiful Chinese kids. Old guys transporting goldfish on the back of their bikes.

You can leave the censorship to your government, protecting you from, well, whatever it is they are trying to protect you from. As for me, I'll continue writing what I see in China.

The Chinese Matrix

Remember in the Matrix when Neo sees a black cat, and then it repeats, a deja vu? It's a sign that something's going on in the Matrix. Maybe that can explain some of the mysterious things I have seen in the last few weeks here in Beijing.

The other day, I was riding my bike along one of the roads on the campus of the university where I am studying. I large bus speeds by all of us and honks. Very loudly. Of course, none of the students make a fuss about this. I like that about the people here in China. It seems like they are aware that life has its hassles and they don't make a big fuss of it.

Suddenly, I see a student look back at the bus and turn to his friend, obviously pissed off, raising his hands. It's like it's happening in slow motion. I see his facial expression, his turning angrily to his friend. I am totally surprised that a Chinese student would ever react like this, to anything.

Then suddenly it all makes sense.

"Seriously!" he says (in American English) loudly, adding a "What the fuck!" to make his American English more authentic. And so I realize that he's not a Chinese student after all, but most probably an ABC (American-born Chinese) studying here for a semester.

It makes sense, but for about two seconds, I felt I was in the Matrix.

Then yesterday, I was washing my hands in the bathroom when a young foreigner walks in (he looked European or American). As he heads to the urinals, he spits on the bathroom floor. I find this quite strange.

In China there are some people who spit indoors (not everyone, but for instance, at subway stations and other public places, it is pretty common). But, I have never seen a foreigner do it (and I have never seen anyone do it in the university where I am studying).

I laugh and say to him, "Wow, that's a first." I don't think he understands.

Another day in the Chinese Matrix.

The Turtle of Longevity

I bump into my real estate agent on the street the other day and we start chatting. I tell him a "secret": a few days after moving into my apartment, I hear something rustling near my TV, and see that there's a turtle, about eight inches long, walking around. I don't freak out, I just buy him some vegetables and put him in a plastic basin in some water. I now understand why there is a big plastic basin under my bed.

My real estate agent thinks for a minute: "Oh yeah, in Chinese culture, turtles mean longevity."

I knew it was a good sign.

Dropping It

To get an apartment in Beijing, as most people do, I used the services of a real estate agent. The good ones don't charge a commission, as the landlord pays them a fee.

And so, I got an apartment not far from the university and a few days later needed my agent to help me with a tricky problem. I'll spare you the details, but I was hoping that he could talk to my landlord and work it out. But, he was too busy cashing in on the rush of foreign students moving to Wudaokou and, like a genius, I interpreted his slow responses to mean, "I couldn't care less about your problems, bud, I already made your money and there's a lot more to be made before the end of September."

I got a little upset about this, but I figured this was a very natural way for him to respond. He is a forty year old Chinese guy with a wife and a kid. He needs to make as much money as possible in the next month or too before the student market dries up. If I taught English full-time, I might make three times as much as he does in a month.

So I decided to completely drop my American expectations of how he should have responded.

A few days later, a few foreign friends were looking for an apartment and I connected them with my agent. A few hours later, my friends had found a nice, modern two-bedroom apartment near the university and my agent made a lot of money.

He called me up and told me he had a present for me and that he wanted to take me to dinner. I told him that was fine, I didn't need a present.

I'm glad he could make some more money and I hope that kid of his grows up to be a smart, wealthy CEO.

Shanghainese Couple in Beijing

I've been in Beijing for a month and I like it. Since I am in China to learn Mandarin, Beijing, despite the pollution, is a breath of fresh air because everyone speaks Mandarin here. You see, in Shanghai, everywhere you go, everyone, young and old, is speaking Shanghainese.

Of course, I miss all my friends in Shanghai, and I miss my apartment in Puxi. But I don't miss people always trying to sell my "watches and bags" on the street. For that matter, I got tired, really fast, of all the "wheeling and dealing" on the street and in the stores, in Shanghai.

I once tried to make small talk with a Shanghainese woman who I had just started to work with. Using typical Shanghainese logic, after about one sentence, she stops me and say, "Oh, you are practicing your Mandarin with me." "No," I responded, "I am saying hello to you, just like I do to all my other friends and coworkers." I tried to never speak to her again.

Life in Beijing is a little slower, and people are friendlier. Nobody is trying to sell me things on the street. The Shanghainese people are famous for their arguing prowess. Every week, as you walk around Shanghai, you can hear many people yelling at each other in Shanghainese, which to put it nicely, is not the most beautiful language invented. It's hard to describe, but if you go three nights without sleep and drink lots of coffee (and to make it authentic, have your landlord or someone else do something to really piss you off) and then try to speak Chinese. It will probably sound almost like Shanghainese.

I haven't seen anyone here in Beijing argue on the street.

Of course, after a while, you get used to whatever place you are living in, and nothing really phased me anymore in Shanghai--the arguing, the hawking, the attitude.

Tonight, I was waiting in line at the supermarket with my groceries and, I'll be darned, I hear an old couple speaking Shanghainese, or more accurately, arguing in Shanghainese. The old man grumbles something to his wife and then stamps off to another part of the store. Then he comes back and they start arguing again in Shanghai. Or then again, maybe they are discussing dinner (or maybe he is reciting a love poem to her). In Shanghainese, it all sounds like arguing.

I couldn't stop laughing. It's like a caricature of what I saw in Shanghai every day.

As I collect my bag of groceries and leave the store, I see them walk toward the exit of the store, and I say to them, "You are from Shanghai!"

The man gets a big smile on his face and he tells his wife, "He heard us speak Shanghainese!" I tell them I used to live in Shanghai and they light up. They ask me if I know Shanghainese and I say no, but I say a few words. They tell me that they are both professors at Beijing Aerospace University around the corner and have been living in Beijing for a long time.

The interaction is very warm and they are very kind people.

It makes me think of my friend Bruce in Taiwan who once said to me, "It just personality." In other words, those characteristics we inherit from the city we live in, or country we live in, aren't who we really are.

With a smile on my face, I get my bike, load my groceries in it, head home to cook some of my famous soup and continue my Beijing life.

Alpha Male

My new life in Beijing is mostly occupied by studying Mandarin, but you still gotta eat sometimes.

I notice it's a little late to eat in the school cafeteria, so I decide to stop at the cheap Chinese restaurant near my place. It's a Friday night and it's packed. In addition to all the other full tables, there are two tables full of young guys surrounded by lots of green glass bottles of Qing Dao.

Luckily, they have a seat for one, so I sit down and look at the menu while the waiter waits for me to make my decision. Different from Western waiters who give you the menu and then leave (although Chinese waiters do this, too). In most restaurants, I have to say: "Could you give me a few minutes?"

Actually, I don't give her a few minutes and just order a Gong Bao Ji Ding. You can tell I didn't really thoughtfully look at the menu. You know this because whenever I don't feel like reading through a Chinese menu, I order Gong Bao Ji Ding. In the United States, this dish is known as Kung Pao chicken. I seem to have permanent amnesia that the dish is too spicy and way too sweet for my taste, but I guess I really want to eat and then go study.

While I am waiting, the host seats a girl at my table and says, "Here's a new friend for you." On this Friday night, when all the tables are packed, the two people who are eating alone cannot take up their own tables. So I being the friendly guy that I am, begin talking to her. I find out she's a year out of university, majored in English, and works as an editor of English texts at a publishing company in Beijing. We talk in Chinese the whole time because even the English majors in China, not to mention most everyone else, is shy about their spoken English. This is good for me because it means I can always easily find a little English teaching gig or two (or three) on the side to support myself.

We are trying to communicate but we can barely hear each other. The two table of young guys next to us are getting rowdier and rowdier. They're making toasts and one guy in particular seems to be the leader of the rowdiness.

Alpha male is thin, has the face and skin of a boy of sixteen, but my friend tells me he is most certainly a university student. He grabs the bottle of baijiu (Chinese hard liquor) and pours glassfuls (not shotfuls) for himself and all his friends. They all make a toast and drink. Suddenly, there's the sound of a loud crash as the young Alpha Male slams his glass on the table after downing it. It hits the table and breaks. This is when I start thinking, "Okay, there is something wrong here, get ready for anything to happen. Use aikido moves if necessary."

I continue talking with my friend, who is probably still ecstatic that I am not making her talk in English. But as we talk, I am distracted. Alpha male is about two feet from me, just over the railing that divides the restaurant. His skin is flushed and his arm is around his nerdy pimply friend who's wearing glasses and who is totally wasted. Nerdy talks to his friend and at times sounds like he is going to cry.

The boys pop up again like a flock of birds rushing toward the sky for another toast. This time Alpha Male and another friend end up chugging large beer bottles. While his friend quits after chugging for about thirty seconds, Alpha Male keeps going. That's a lot of beer to chug at once, and it seems like two minutes have passed and he hasn't even finished half the bottle. This boy's going to be in big trouble soon if he keeps drinking like this.

Fortunately, one of his friends grabs the bottle out of his mouth. I go back to talking to my English major friend some more. The boys are still rowdy and now they are going up for another toast of baijiu. I can't believe it. And then Alpha Male starts yelling for another round of beers.

I look at him. I think, people only drink like this when they hate life, when they are not brave enough to just kill themselves. I mean, this is a form of death what he's doing. The phrase "the folly of youth" comes to my mind.This kid is going to paying all weekend for his few hours in the restaurant.

I begin to wonder about this boy. I was a teenage boy once and I can understand his impulse. Most of us guys have memories like this. For me, it was speeding my car in the rain on the Balitmore beltway at age seventeen or eighteen. I was upset about something, and fortunately I didn't kill myself or anyone else. So, I can understand this kid.

I wish I had someone to talk to at that time so many years ago about whatever was going on, and I pray that this kid doesn't hurt himself. Tonight's drinking isn't child's play. This kid is in trouble.

Suddenly, they all get up and Alpha Male stumbles out, supported by a friend. I think about how he's going to be tomorrow. I wonder if he's going to alive in five years. I pray for him and hope he makes it.

Soymilk

I'm getting used to my new neighborhood in Beijing. Finding a small market where I can buy some dou jiang (soy milk, 豆漿) every day for my breakfast has been talking up more of my consciousness than I am willing to admit (hey, breakfast is important).

On the way home today, I find a market about a block away from my home that sells little plastic bags of it. In the back, there is a little stall where they sell chicken eggs, tofu, and soymilk. It's run by a kid who must be about 16. I like his Beijing accent and I like how he's not afraid to talk to me in Chinese. He's a working class straightforward kind of kid, and I really appreciate that he talks to me like he talks to everyone. He even understands what I am saying.

I pay him and walk home. It's Friday evening and I'm in no rush. You gotta love that feeling.

Next door, there's a fruit stand, and so I buy some big fragrant peaches, some soft purple plums, and a few apples. Some fruit stands in China are better than others (I suppose like any other country), and I hope this one is a keeper.

The fifteen year-old girl who works there is rushing, helping customers and tells me to hold on. I tell her to take her time. I'm still not in a rush.

I pay her and thank her. She replies as everyone in China does, and with feeling, bu yong xie (不用謝), there's no need to thank me.

As I walk home, the small bag of soymilk drops from my hand. I turn around to pick it up and behind me there is a grandmother and her three year-old granddaughter. I slowly pick up the soymilk and of course, she is looking at me, curious. Her mother moves her aside so I can go about picking up my little plastic bags.

I give her a big smile and she gives me a big smile back. It is unfettered joy, our natural state, as only children are in touch with.

I pick up my soymilk and say bye to her. She is still smiling, and I'm almost home.

The Temple of Heaven

I have just arrived in Beijing. I am downtown with nothing to do. There's a station where Olympic volunteers are hanging out in their blue and white shirts. They're all patriotic Chinese twenty-somethings who have been practicing their English intensively in the past few weeks. Thankfully, I just missed the Olympics and the city is quieting down.

I approach them and can see their faces get excited ("Get ready to talk English, here comes a foreigner!") I approach them slowly because I want to savor the moment. I want them to savor the moment, too.

And of course, I want to surprise them. So, I ask them in Chinese, "So, what can I do around here?"

I think the guy talking to me is relieved that he can talk to me in Chinese. In this way, he can speak with authority. As we talk, I notice another volunteer is photographing us with her high-tech super-expensive Nikon digital SLR. Maybe I will be in the newspaper tomorrow: "Chinese Volunteers Help Foreigner Enjoy Beijing".

They tell me the Temple of Heaven (天壇) is nearby, and so I start walking.

About twenty minutes later, I get there. You pay a fee to enter, but before you enter the actual temple grounds, you need to walk through the adjacent park. It is full of Chinese retirees doing what they do best: singing, dancing, playing cards, drinking tea. I sit down and watch two women in their 50s do some traditional Chinese dances.



If you want to see real life in action in China, you can always hang out with kids, dogs, or old people.

I figure I should continue to see the famous temple.

I walk through the grounds, picturing the old emperors doing their prayers for the land. It seems a little superstitious. The emperor would come here every year and go through all kinds of ritual so that the coming harvest would be good. But I think, it's good to have a reverent attitude toward nature, so I think, "Yeah, you go Emperor!"

After walking around for over an hour, I want to sit down, and I find there's a park on the grounds. There are many older Chinese people and a few of them look at me while I pull out my guide to Beijing and read it.

Across from me, there is another bench with an old couple. The man is lying down and his wife is sitting next to him, combing his hair. I just watch.

And now I know why I was supposed to come to see the Temple of Heaven today. When you are old (or young), and someone can comb your hair like that, isn't that heaven?

A "Chance" Meeting

In a few days, I'll be leaving Shanghai. The old mystics say that at the threshold, when the water meets the land, magical things happen.

I'm in Pudong and I walk down into the Dongchang subway station to go home to Puxi. On the train platform I see a guy who looks like my friend CJ from Taiwan. He's sitting on the bench waiting for a train to Puxi. As I walk closer to him, I think, this really is CJ. I have forgotten his name, but I walk up to him and say, "Taiwan."

CJ turns to me and we are both a little 不知所錯 ("like, no way, dude!"). The train is coming and we both get on. CJ is just visiting Shanghai for a few days. He wants to know what I am doing here. The last time we saw each other was at the 市政府捷運站 subway station in Taipei.

He tells me he doesn't like 大陸 at all, and that every time he gets back to Taiwan, he kisses the ground. I have to admit, I understand the feeling.

But for now, I like the grit of China. There are good people everywhere, and the good thing about life is that if you want to grow, life is always giving you good lessons, especially here in the People's Republic.

Taiwan will always have a place deep in my heart, and it's nice to have this reminder from my Soul (in the form of CJ), right here on line 1 of the Shanghai subway.

My New Taiji Teacher

I've been studying Wu style taiji for about six months now. I'm slowly loosening up my upper body and strengthening my lower body, both essential to good form. I'm unlearning some of the hardness I picked up in aikido (and in life) and learning how to soften and relax. I sometimes do miss the aikido samurai spirit, but taiji has its gifts, too.

On Friday, I had lunch with my Israeli friend Oren, who is a long-time practitioner of taiji. He told me that sometimes when he practices in parks, Chinese people (who usually have a lot less experience than he does) like to come up to him and correct his movements. We both wondered why Chinese people like to do this. I've seen Oren do taiji. He's quite advanced. For instance, when he and my teacher do push-hands, Oren wins every time.

We both laughed. Chinese people, upon seeing his caucasian face, perhaps, feel like it's a good opportunity to be cultural teachers. Chinese people are proud of their culture and they would like to share it with Westerners.

I practice taiji every day, and sometimes in parks, but I haven't been "corrected" by a stranger--until today.

This evening, while practicing outside of my apartment, I notice a slightly overweight, bald Chinese guy in his thirties watching me. He was out walking his little dog, which looked like Lassy, but was tiny and long.

I kept practicing my set, but after closing it, he began to present his evaluation.

"Taiji is supposed to be round, and soft. You need to be softer. Also, you should squat lower," he said.

Uh-oh, I thought. I guess this was what Oren was talking about.

"What kind of taiji do you practice?" I ask him.

"I don't practice. I mean I learned a little a long time ago. But my mother is an expert and has been practicing for a long time," he explains.

He suggested that I buy a video and study the movements to get the feel of taiji.

"But I have a teacher," I told him.

"You can still learn from watching the video," he says. "You can study how Chinese people move differently from Western people."

It sounds like he has a lot to express this evening, and I decide to be receptive and listen. After all, I am still just a beginner and I need all the help I can get. At this point, I think Oren would have wrestled him to the ground and thrown his miniature dog onto the roof of the building next to me.

"One thing you can do is do a standing meditation for a half an hour and feel a round ball in front of you. Your hands will also start to get hot," he explains. "And you can pretend like you are holding balloons in your hands, too."

"I see," I respond as I nod my head.

"You see," he continues, "taijiquan is based on the Doctrine of the Mean, everything is balanced. So you shouldn't be so tight. You need to be soft."

"You must live according to this Doctrine of the Mean," I say. "which is why, even though you don't practice taiji, you can still me taiji."

"Yes," he replies.

Actually, I appreciate the feedback and it inspires me to ask my teacher to soften my movements. I know I still have a long way to go.

"Thanks for your help," I tell him.

I ask him one more question: "Do you do Chinese calligraphy (shufa,書法) ?" I figure he's probably not really into exercise, but wonder if he practices a more sedentary art. And I figure even if he doesn't practice shufa, he'll probably still offer to teach me and who knows, he could probably teach me something.

"No, I don't," he response, "but I could probably find you someone who does."

"That's okay," I say. "It was nice to meet you." I thank him and he walks off.

Understanding the Chinese Mind

I have a new student on Tuesdays. He's around thirty, overweight, a Chinese manager at a German company. His boss has sent him to me to improve his English. Good thing, because he's got a heavy accent and has forgotton most of the grammar that he memorized in grade school.

During our first meeting, I ask him what topics he wants us to focus on and he tells me he wants to be able to explain to his manager, who is a foreigner, the fundamental differences between Western and Chinese culture.

He feels frustrated that sometimes his boss just doesn’t "get" the Chinese mentality. For instance, he tells me, his boss doesn’t understand that Chinese people will always choose the familiar and the stable over the risky, even if it’s fun, creative, and has been successful in the West.

In class lately, we have been talking about the youth of China and their views of their country. My student by now knows that I’m not a typical foreigner, that I’m interested in Chinese culture and that I’m probably almost as smart and sophisticated, intellectually, as he is.

First, he tells me how optimistic the youth of China are about the growth of their country, and how proud they are of China’s resilience. I listen and correct his English mistakes, but I can’t resist asking him a question. I suspect that he will like this, that it will enliven our class together.

I draw a line and on one end write “1949” and toward the other end write “1979”. I say to him that I understand that after Deng Xiaoping opened up China to the West in 1979, its economy has been developing. I draw a line from “1949” to “1979” and asked him, “What do young people think about this time period? If China had been developing during this time, don’t you think China could have become a developed country, like Japan? Was this period of time a waste?”

My student tells me that, in fact, he believes it was. But he says it was a “process.” I think that this means that China needed to go through this period to get to where it is today. He likes to emphasize that Chinese people focus on process.

I ask him what he thinks of Mao. “Winston Churchill, who led England during wartime, when asked to continue leading the country after the war, said that while he was good at leading England during wartime, he wouldn’t be a good leader during peacetime, as he didn’t especially understand economics. So, Churchill was better than Mao. Mao didn’t step down after the revolution. In fact, he wanted to be another emperor of China,” my student responds.

I have to say, it is refreshing to hear a young Chinese person criticizing Mao.

My student is making a lot of English errors, which I correct from time to time, but our conversation is getting juicy.

He knows Western people always criticize China for its handling of the Tiananmen Square protestors in 1989 and he wants to explain his governments actions to me, a Westerner. The governments actions, he says, were understandable for several reason, and he enumerates them:

First, at that time, the government didn’t have a police force capable of dealing with the protesters, so they had to send in tanks. Second, army men aren’t used to dealing with civilians, so they used their war strategies with the protesters, which explains why they killed them. Third, he explains that at that time, the army didn’t have tear gas, and so they had to use guns and bullets against the protesters.

I am incredulous and I can't quite believe what I am hearing. For some reason, the word "BRAINWASH" starts flashing in my brain.

I ask him, “In 1989, did the Chinese government have nuclear weapons (of course, I know they did)?” And of course, he responds affirmatively. “So, you are saying the government had nuclear weapons, but didn’t have teargas?”

“Yes,” he responds. He honestly believes that the government didn’t have teargas. I suppose at this point I should have asked if the government had water and hoses.

I laugh and I tell him, “Honestly, you are not going to find a foreigner that is going to believe that the Chinese government didn’t have teargas or didn’t know that you can use teargas against protesters instead of killing them.”

I tell him his reasons are “interesting”, but I ask him, ultimately, do people think that what the government did was wrong? I make an analogy to Germany, saying that although there are probably some Germans who understood the intellectual reasons why the majority of Germans behaved the way they did during the war, still, most of them are ashamed of what happened and their government apologized for the atrocities.

He tells me no, we Chinese people don't believe the government was wrong. He tells me that Chinese people are different from Western people. Chinese people have an obligation to love and take care of their parents, and they also have an obligation to love their country. He tells me that if his boss, for instance, tells him to cheat or lie, he'll do that, because he also has an obligation to his boss.

I explain to him that in the West, if your boss tells you to do something unethical, you are expected to refuse, and if he threatens you with your job, you say, "Okay, bahbah-yi!"

He just continues to smile and says that in Chinese culture, there is no "right" and "wrong", that Chinese culture believes that everything is relative. "Our cultures are very different."

He says that Chinese people don't understand how anyone in the United States could criticize China. Is the United States a perfect society? And he brings up the Iraq War. He says that Chinese people know why Bush invaded Iraq—oil.

Perhaps he thinks that all of us in the United States are like the Chinese, that we unthinkingly support our government. Does he have any idea how many people in the United States would agree with him about Iraq?

I tell him, in fact, I agree with him. I am critical of my government, and I know a lot of Americans who are also very critical of the US. At this point in our conversation, I think it’s a good time to talk about freedom, specifically freedom of speech and freedom of information.

I bring up Tibet and he smiles.

I tell him how my Chinese teacher didn't even know Tibet was an issue until a foreign student of hers mentioned it to her last year. And as I mentioned in a previous post, she concluded that "there are two sides to every story."

I tell my student the conclusion I came to after hearing my Chinese teacher's story, which is that while there are two sides to every story, that you've got to let people have access to both sides so they can make up their own minds. I tell him that in the West, we have access to both sides and we can make up our own minds. Yes, we know how the Tibetans are better off economically than they were a hundred years ago, how they have better infrastructure and universities, but most of us still are opposed to China's policy on Tibet.

My student responds by saying that you can't give the Chinese people full access to all information because it will cause chaos. In fact, restricting this access if an important way of keeping China stable.

I am beginning to understand the Chinese mentality better. China has been through so much upheaval through the ages that this stability is of utmost importance. This perceived need for stability means that most Chinese people are willing to forego a lot of freedom and democracy so that they don't have to go through another period of chaos again.

I imagine that if Chinese magically became a democratic country overnight, it might collapse. I tell my student that I understand this, but I hope that China can move gradually to more freedom. I tell him if young people in China also want to move in this direction, then perhaps there is hope.

He tells me that they do want China to move forward, slowly, in this area.

I am happy we can talk freely about these things and I would like to learn more about what Chinese people think. My student is also happy and says that he believes he can learn more from our conversations.

I think there might be hope for China.

The Trashman Gets Busted

Today the Trashman got busted. Let me explain.

The Trashman is the eighty year-old guy who lives next door to me. Every time I see him on the stairs or in front of the building I say, "There goes the Trashman" or in Chinese "你好，垃圾人”.

The Trashman's day consists of dozens, if not hundreds, of short trips to the collection of trash bins in the center of our apartment complex. As a matter of fact, I can always be sure that if I am taking out my trash, he is either there fishing for trash or on his way back (with his arms full of trash) to his apartment.

In the beginning, I thought this was strange. The front door of the Trashman's apartment is usually open. When I have friends over, they get a look at the Trashman's kitchen. It is packed with--you guessed it--trash. They ask me, "How can he live like that?" and say "He must be a little crazy."

I am used to the Trashman. Despite his habit, you could say he is a sweet old man. Every morning, I do taiji in front of our building, and almost every morning, the Trashman walks by, his hands full of his catch for the morning, and he smiles at me, like the Buddha of Trash.

The Trashman's operation is multifaceted. He uses a corner of the garden in front of our building as a station where he dumps trash and sorts through it. At least he doesn't want to dump those rotting fish innards and papaya rinds on his kitchen floor. The other day, I was doing taiji and suddenly smelled something terrible. Sure enough, the Trashman was in his corner, cracking open a new shipment. It definitely affected my qi.

The Trashman has always had an operation on the bottom landing of our building. He has a small stool and he sorts through all his wares there. A little pile of plastic bottles, paper, all kinds of shit. Usually, it is hard to walk out of the building. But, he politely steps aside so I can get through.

In the mornings, when I am cooking my breakfast, I look through the window and see him bringing his haul in. I realize that everyone has their routine, their work, their livelihood--something that keeps them going everyday. Some might say that the work of the advertising executive is unnecessary, that it is "Vanity, all vanity" as one famous dude in the Ecclesiastes once said.

Yet, perhaps in whatever we find that keeps our interest, maybe there is something holy. Maybe it keeps us going, looking forward to the next day. It keeps us curious, young, keeps that spark in our eyes. Michael Jordan would spend hours and hours on layups and jumpshots. The Trashman has his own practice.

Sometimes I find myself wondering, "What kind of stories does the Trashman have?"

Up until last month, there hasn't been much of a smell. Only a little inconvenience because the Trashman's annex at the bottom of our building has gradually gotten larger. And if he wants to keep his kitchen knee deep in trash, what business is that of mine?

But recently, there has been a smell. And I have wondered why no one has said anything.

I thought, well, this is China. The rules are different here. I figure no one has said anything because, perhaps, people think this is normal. You know, all that suffering for the past sixty years and that Cultural Revolution--peoples' thresholds are different here.

It's true, China is opening up. But while you can build skyscrapers and shopping centers like Xintiandi, it takes a little more time for peoples' thinking to change. Think, "another generation."

Any foreigner living here knows what I am talking about. In the beginning, it's a bit apalling, but you get used to it. People spitting. Parents holding their kids while they pee in a corner of the subway station. A guy sitting across from me in the school cafeteria from me shoveling down his food with chopsticks, directly from his plate into his mouth.

It doesn't really phase me anymore, especially since I have made friends here and see the good that exists here, the humanity.

So, the smell isn't that bad, this sorting through the trash is probably keeping this sweet old guy alive, and besides, I think, he is doing a hell of a recycling job. Save the earth!

This morning, though, while doing taiji, two official-looking dudes and a lady descend on the Trashman and start lightly scolding him in Shanghainese (actually, to tell you the truth, I can't honestly tell you if they were scolding him, because everything said in Shanghainese sounds like a scolding). But I think they are telling him, "Look, guy, you can't do this."

Suddenly a woman yells from her window high in the building across from us. In a few minutes, she's down talking to the dudes and the lady, telling them something obviously related to the Trashman. They all look at the rags that the Trashman has hung on the tree across from our apartment (I forgot to tell you about the trash-hanging operation). A bamboo pole with about fifteen small white rages hanging from balances on two trees. Sometimes, the Trashman dries newspapers.

People walk by and linger. I want to put in my word, so I grab one of the dudes and tell him, "I am his neighbor. I just want to tell you that if I leave, no foreigner seeing all that trash in the front of our building will want to rent my apartment, and my landlord will be very upset."

The dude is very nice and says they are trying to take care of the problem. He tells me that someone else in the building complained of the smell and the trash on the landing. I go back to doing my taiji, away from the group of people who have assembled in front of my apartment. It looks cathartic.

The nice old lady who doesn't speak Mandarin (only Shanghainese) in the next building over sees me doing my taiji and she starts talking to me in what sounds like very heavily accented Mandarin, only some of which I can understand. She says, "He is crazy, he is crazy!" (“病了病了！”） and "I always see you doing taiji every morning--good job!".

There's an older man, let's call him Da Ye, about sixty, in our building who is always talking to the Trashman. He comes back and see the ruckus and starts arguing (again, it's Shanghainese, so for all I know, he was reciting Tang love poetry). I know that he is the Trashman's friend. I assume that in a very Confucian way, he is doing his best to honor the elderly and honor his neighbor. He helps the old man clean up.

Later today, I return home and see Da Ye and the Trashman doing more cleanup. I feel relieved and hope there won't be so much trashing lying around and I won't have to smell some of those smells. I see them bring back an old, battered suitcase from the trash bins. I go out to get dinner and see the big suitcase in the Trashman's kitchen.

Somehow, I don't think that Buddha smile has left the Trashman's face. He hasn't really said a word today, as usual. He just smiles at people. I figure tomorrow morning, he will be at it again, running a tighter, leaner operation, but nevertheless, still in business.

You got to keep on going.

A Walk in the Park

My Chinese reading class at the university has been cancelled this morning, so instead of practicing taiji in my little xiao qu (neighborhood) in front of my apartment, I go to Fu Xing Park. I ride my bike there and find a spot to do taiji.

In the background, I can hear retired people singing in a chorus, and in every direction there are people practicing taiji. Next to me there is a young Chinese man in his late 20s practicing taiji. As soon as I see his movements, I know he is practicing the same style as I do, wu shi, as I do. Shanghai is a center for Wu style taiji, so this is not uncommon.

I start doing my stretches and watch this guy practice. He looks like a beginner just like me. Behind me, there's an older man, probably in his late 60s. He looks at the young man and it looks like he is imitating his movements. He doesn't look like he's been practicing very long, but I figure, better late than never.

After my stretches, I go up to the young man and ask him if he wants to practice the basic form together. He asks me "Which form?" I say Wu style and tell him who my teacher is. He tells me that he practices Wu style and that his teacher is right behind us! It's the old man. In fact, his teacher is probably the most senior Wu style teacher of southern style Wu taiji in Shanghai!

We practice together and his teacher, seeing me practice, asks his student where this laowai studied. I'm sure he can tell that I am only a beginner. My new young friend tells him who my teacher is. In his lineage my teacher would be considered a "nephew." We are essential "family."

After we practice, I ask my friend to introduce me to his teacher, Zhou Laoshi, and we begin talking. A few old men join in our conversation. Zhou Laoshi asks me if I have done some other martial arts, and I tell him I studied aikido for a few years. He asks me to do push-hands, tuishou, with him so he can feel my level, but I have never done tuishou. He say, "Just do aikido." And so, I practice aikido with him.

He is what you would expect a taiji master to be. My big samurai moves are nothing for him. You expect him to fall back, but instead you find yourself falling back. There is no resistance, but at the same time he is strong. I've never explored this martial aspect of taiji, and I'm inspired.

As usual, the old guys think it's cool that I'm a laowai who does taiji. We talk about martial arts, Chinese medicine, calligraphy (shufa), and more. They tell me to come back and practice some more with them.

I get back on my bike and return home. On the way, I realize that there's no use in seeking any kind of peak experiences, of planning a "glorious life" in the conventional way. Maybe that's the way I was when I was when I was a young punk living in Upper Haight in San Francisco, but thankfully, life has its way of wearing down your rough edges (and I think I've got a hell of lot more to go!).

This morning, my Chinese class was cancelled. All I had to do was to take a walk in the park, and life naturally presented me with aliveness, warmth, and some new friends.

The Precious Korean Boy

A company has hired me to teach business English to one of their up-and-coming managers. From Korea, he and his family have just relocated to Shanghai. Like most Asian managers, he's got his bad speaking habits. He doesn't know when to use the present perfect and when to use the present continuous. He gets lazy and drops things like the "s" on the end of words and those annoying prepositions. He needs my help.

I go to his house in a wealthy section of Shanghai once a week and his wife gives us tea and I teach him. His young son, about three years-old, always greets me--he's shy but he always has a big smile. I've been teaching at their house a few times, so he is used to me. This time, he gives me "five" and I pat him on the head and smile back. He is supercute and his smile gets bigger every time I see him.

At the end of our lesson today, my student, who is in his early thirties and is exhausted from his recent business trip to Europe, tells me of something that happened in his son's nursery school class this week. Since it's almost Father's Day, the teacher asked the children to talk about what Daddy does at home. Some kids said their dad fixes things, helps clean up, reads me stories, plays with me, etc. But when the teacher asked my student's boy this question, he started crying.

My student said that his son was sad because he didn't know what his daddy does at home. The fact is, his daddy comes home late and often goes on business trips. I imagine that this is quite common in Asia (as it is everywhere in the world).

To imagine this precious boy crying in class was a little heartbreaking. I know his dad works really hard to be successful so he can be a good husband and father. The pressure is incredible. I know, because every week I hear stories of his corporate battles (in English).

But, somehow, I hope he will be able to spend some more time with that beautiful boy of his.

First Taste of Yangmei Berries

It's early June in Shanghai, and you know what that means. It means that the short, bronzed waidi ren from the provinces who live in Shanghai start selling cherries and yangmei. They carry them on their shoulders on a bamboo pole, two baskets swinging beneath, one with cherries and one with yangmei. You can find them on street corners or on the sidewalk your way to take the subway.

What is yangmei, you ask? Well, in my opinion, yangmei (also called red bayberry in English) is the most beautiful of fruits (although you have to admit, most fruits are beautiful, aren't they?). They're deep wine red-purple, a berry, a little larger than a cherry, with a textured surface like some exotic sea creature.

For a few weeks after they appeared on the streets of Shanghai in late May, I got curious about them, and then one day, while walking on Yan An Road, I saw one of those hardy waidiren selling them. "How much?" I ask. "Ten kuai for a jin (about a dollar and change for a pound)," he says. "I'll take a jin," I say.

He pours a basket into a bag and hands it to me, charging me for two jin. I can't tell you how Shanghai this is, but I am used to it, so I just say to him, calmly, "I'll take a jin." He's obviously disappointed, and he pours out half the bag. I put my yangmei in the basket of my bike. It's a beautiful summer day in Shanghai and I get to ride through the tree-lined streets of the French Concession, anticipating my first bite of yangmei.

I finally get home twenty minutes later, wash them, and taste. They are wonderful. Sweet, juicy, and just a little tart. For the next day, I eat my yangmei. I give one to a friend and she says, "You got some good yangmei."

A few days pass and I want to get more before the season passes and they're no longer available. So, while shopping in the upscale grocery store near my house, I pick up some more. Once again, I take them home, wash them, and then take a bite of the new batch.

They're all too sour and not sweet at all. I eat a few, hoping that there will be a sweet one in there, but they're all disappointing. I throw them away.

Today, while waiting for the light to turn green on Huang Pi Road, I notice another yangmei/cherry vendor. "How much is a jin?" I ask. I can see him thinking for a second, wondering how much his markup should be because I am a foreigner. "Thirteen kuai," he finally spits out. This is at least seven kuai more than I would pay in a typical fruit stand. In a generous mood, I tell him ten and he gives them to me.

I lovingly take the bag of yangmei with me on the subway, get off at my stop, and walk them home. I wash them and take a bite. They're better than those sour berries from the frufru supermarket, but they still aren't close to my first bite.

I'm thankful for those first berries and I figure, with any luck, perhaps next year, I'll taste them again. In the meantime, I still have a few more to eat of this last bag of yangmei.

Watchers

I am doing taiji with my taiji teacher in the park. People stare at us. One man walks up to us. He stands about two or three feet about from us and watches. I feel like someone from Chinese intelligence is checking up on me, making sure I am not saying anything illegal to my Chinese friend.

After five minutes, our intelligence officer walks away, lights a cigarette, and heads back to his office to type up a report on the foreigner learning Wu style taiji.

I imagine that my government file has just gotten longer by one line: "RE: Laowai studying Wu style taiji in park. COMMENTS: Movements--slow and precise. Shoulders are a little tight. Nose--big."

Today, I am in a KFC studying Chinese. It's a convenient place to study, although I rarely go there because it is too loud. I find that it is quite a community gathering place. Behind me, a group of Filipina woman are yapping about, teasing each other. In front of me, there is a little play area where kids are laughing out loud.

The oldest girl, probably about nine, is really sweet with the other kids. She always has a smile on her face. There is a little boy of about four who is not a happy kid. He either tries to hit other kids or frowning, moans. The big girl protects the others and she holds little troublemaker's hand.

I try not to focus on the kids and focus on writing characters. I love writing them in my elementary school notebook, which has many little squares where I can write the same characters over and over again, just like elementary school students do every day.

As I am writing, I feel someone is looking at me. I look up and see a fifty year-old guy watching me write. His face is red, like he drank too much bai jiu last night. I'm not going to say anything to him. I'm already used to this. I keep writing, and he keeps staring.

It's a little uncomfortable. I look up at him. I extend my hand, turn my palm up to invite him to sit down. I smile and say to him in Chinese, please sit down, qing zuo. He smiles back at me and politely declines my offer.

His family walks by and they are leaving, their fried chicken gently digesting in their stomachs. Now they all look at me. The bai jiu drinking dad says to his family: "He's using his left hand to write characters." They all look curiously.

One day, I won't be so alien to so many people here in China. In the meantime, I continue to practice my characters and do my taiji, seemingly unperturbed.

The Sichuan Earthquake

I've always wanted a pair of green jeans. And so recently, when I was visiting Nanjing, I couldn't help myself when I saw a pair at the local Baleno, which is a store like the Gap here in China.

In China, when you buy pants, you only have to worry about width. I don't think I have bought a pair of pants here that is the correct length. It's easy enough--after buying your pants, you take them over to the tailor in the Xijiahui district of Shanghai, across the street from the used cell phone repair shops, and he cuts them to the right size. All for 5 yuan (I think that is 75 cents US). What a deal.

He likes me because I always try to crack jokes in Chinese with him. A few times, I asked him to make the waist smaller because "I just gave birth to a baby". I didn't have change last time and he just said, pay me the extra kuai (quarter) next time. Today, I give it to him. "I forgot all about it," he says, laughing.

As he is altering my green jeans, I stand inside his shop (well, actually, it's his house--his "shop" is in the alley just outside his front door). His wife is getting dinner ready inside and I stand in front of the kitchen, where he has a small digital TV with the news on.

While she is soaking her slab of meat, she talks to me about the quake. I tell her that I feel for everyone, that I have been sad, too. I tell her my friends in the States who watch the news have been moved to tears, too.

We watch together and talk. Lately, I am interested in the news, am interested in TV. Since the age of 18, I have probably watched a total of 6 hours of TV (okay, maybe 10; and this definitely does not include movies rented at 5 Star Video in Berkeley).

One time, when my uncle was visiting my place in Berkeley with my cousin Oren, we came back to my apartment after dinner, where my uncle expected to sit on the sofa and watch TV. Unfortunately, I had neither a sofa or a TV. This threw him into an unexpected, momentary existential crisis, which resolved itself when he said, "Hey, Oren, go out and get me a New York Times."

Of course, the reason why I am watching TV these days is because of the earthquake. For the first few days after it happened, I felt out of the loop until I started watching the news. To see the images of rescuers, of victims, of the military and doctors at work--it's been quite important, and quite moving. There was a show with people from Sichuan, mostly young people, and each got up to talk. They all cried, and I cried, too.

Every channel is reporting on the Wenchuan earthquake. There are no commercials, no soap operas. Just the government news station, CCTV reporting on every channel with a few programs.

The rescue efforts look efficient and impressive. Everyone's impressed with the premier and president, as they are both out there in the field holding peoples' hands and kissing babies. "Don't worry, the government will take care of you," the president says to a child orphaned by the quake.

A broadcaster reports on the latest rescue efforts and then pauses to say, "We will overcome this, we are strong." Every day there are poems about the situation shown on TV, with a moving reading by someone in the background, someone who knows how to read poems in a moving way.

On Monday morning, my Chinese teacher announces to the class that the government has announced that at 2:28 in the afternoon, for three minutes, there will be a moment of silence to remember those dead in the quake. The next three days will be official days of mourning. All karaoke joints, bars, movie theatres, and the like will be closed.

This has never before happened in the history of modern China. My teacher says she is impressed--these days of mourning in the past have been used to mourn heads of State like Deng Xiaoping and Mao. But these three days are for ordinary, common people, more than 30,000 of them (update: as of May 26th, the death toll is 63,ooo with 24,ooo missing).

On the subway, some kids are wearing red stickers with the flag of China in a heart. I'm finding people here are super-patriotic. It is common for people these days to say, "What a bad year it has been--first the snow storms in winter, second the Tibet protests around the world, and now this." They feel they are terribly unlucky. They know that many in the world don't support them, and they are sensitive to this.

At this point, some might say it's time to talk politics. However, what I'd like to do instead is to just pray for everyone here--the people in Sichuan who have lost loved ones and friends, and for the people of China, who are desperately trying to turn their developing country into a modern society.

The Kindness of Strangers

While in Beijing, because I didn't bring the right clothes (and no jacket), I "caught a wind", as we say in Chinese medicine. A couple days after I get back from Beijing, my voice suddenly becomes low and scratchy. One of my students says it sounds sexy.

I'm on the subway, and am coughing a little. Even though I know which Chinese medicine I can take, for colds, I rarely take anything. All you need to do, rest, drink enough water, and wait it out. A healthy body knows what to do and I try not to interfere.

Next to me is a young girl, maybe 22. She takes out a shiny orange flyer and start writing on it. Three stops later, she turns to me, point to the piece of paper, and asks in Chinese "Can you read this?" as if she knows me, knows that I speak Chinese, knows that I am intersted in Chinese medicine.

I look at it and say yes. I can make out most characters. "Drink more water. Drink ginger ale. Rest. Take Yin Qiao San. Take Yu Xing Cao."

That's good advice, I say, but I prefer to boil up fresh ginger instead of drinking ginger ale.

She tells me her mother is a doctor. A "Chinese doctor?", I ask. "No, a Western one, but we like Chinese medicine," she replies.

I tell her I know a little about Chinese medicine. I am curious to hear about her thoughts about traditional medicine. It is rare to run into young people who know much about Chinese medicine, and I find that she is a "fan." She tells me she doesn't like Western medicine much, that it ends up doing more harm than good.

I ask her what she does. She tells me she's an accountant. I tell her she should be in the health profession, but she tells me she'll probably stick with accounting.

"Very stable," I say.

We've come to the end of the line. We get off together. She's got a rolling carry-on suitcase, and I offer to take it down the stairs of the station for her.

I thank her for her advice and we say goodbye.

Worried About Internal Heat?

Chinese medicine pervades Chinese culture, because it is Chinese culture. Some of its concepts are just basic--everyone here understands them. The West has its way of integrating this medical tradition, and it is slowly becoming an accepted part of what is called "alternative medicine".

But right now, I don't really care about that. I just like the fact that this toothpick holder in the restaurant where I am eating beef noodle soup (and it is very good, I must add) says, "Worried about internal heat? Drink Wang Lao Ji!"

In Memoriam: The Rape of Nanjing

Today, I went to visit the Memorial to the Rape of Nanjing. If you have never heard about it, you can learn more by going here or by reading Iris Chang's book, The Rape of Nanking. In short, during World War II, in December 1937, the Japanese invaded Nanjing, the capital of the Republic, and in the course of six weeks, brutally killed 300,000 people. The massacre is called the Rape of Nanking because so many women of all ages were raped by Japanese soldiers during the massacre.

Perhaps some don't want to think about such terrible events. I understand. We all want to be comfortable and avoid suffering. But perhaps being able to face this fact of life can make us better people, more compassionate, more awake and alive. Maybe you want to flinch, but you try to face the brutality. Sure, you could keep watching reality shows and going to the gym and reading low-carb diet books. But perhaps this accumulated ignorance is what led to such an event.

And perhaps if we can listen to the cruel stories, see those terrible pictures, we can see how precious our freedom is, how insignificant our dramas really are.

Visiting the Tomb of Sun Yat Sen in Nanjing

I am visiting Sun Yat Sen's tomb today. If you don't already know, Sun Yat Sen (孫中山) is the founder of modern China. He wished to be buried in Nanjing, and his tomb is located about a five minute drive from that of the first Ming Emperor. This, of course, is no coincidence. Sun Yat Sen is as important as any Chinese emperor.

As a matter of fact, his tomb is about three or four times as crowded as the Emperor's. I would estimate that on this national holiday, about two or three thousand people, every hour, are entering the grounds to climb up to his mausoleum.

Since I lived in Taiwan and saw his image often (on money, mostly, but in parks in the form of statues as well), I feel at home.

To tell you the truth, I don't feel "at home" when I see communist statues. I see Mao's image all over the place, and I definitely don't feel at home looking at the image of a man whose rule brought the death of millions upon millions, whose whims caused not only the loss of lives but also of pieces of Chinese culture which can never return.

I am starting to get close to my Chinese friends on the mainland, and I want them to forget Mao. A Chinese person I met (who will of course remain nameless) tells me, in fact, he doesn't like Mao, and that about half of the Chinese people don't like him either. This makes me hopeful. I don't like seeing his face everywhere.

But I am happy to see Sun Yat Sen again. As I approach the memorial, I hear a Chinese person trying to make out the old seal script characters above the hall where the founder. In fact, the characters are the three principles of the revolution of 1911: Nationalism, Democracy, and Livelihood. It's funny (or sad?) that he can't quite make out the characters and isn't sure what the third principle is.

Unfortunately, Sun Yat Sen died too early. The Chinese people were left with a choice between Chiang Kai-Shek (Sun's successor) and Mao. In the words of my ABC (American-born Chinese) friend (who will definitely remain nameless), it was a choice between a pr&ck and a d%ckh$d, and the Chinese people chose the d%ckh$d.

Having lived in Taiwan, and now living on the mainland, I can't help but feel I am witnessing an old, deep family feud that hasn't gone away, even after almost 60 years.

You want dear old Sun to come back and set things straight.

But, it's too late, and all you can do is hope and pray.

A Sudden Realization on the Bus in Nanjing

I'm on a bus from the outskirts of Nanjing to the center of town and the bus is jam packed. It's a national holiday and everyone wants to go shopping or see the sights. People can't get on in the front and are packing in through the back door. This prompts the driver to get up and start yelling at people who haven't paid their fare.

I often see people in China arguing on the streets. People store up frustration and arguing gives you a way to vent it. So I always watch with unattached amusement, like a marriage counselor.

The driver continues to yell and somehow they figure it out. I suddenly figure something out myself. When I first started using buses in Shanghai, I couldn't figure out why there was always a lady collecting your fare seated toward the back of the bus. Isn't this a waste of money when you can just put a little electronic box up at the front? I concluded it was just a remnant of over 50 years of communism. There are lots of Chinese people--you gotta give them all jobs, somehow, even if they don't make sense, even if they only make the equivalent of $250 a month.

But today, I get it. If there were a lady at the back of the bus today, she could be arguing with the people trying to get on the bus, allowing the bus driver to drive....

We Are Ready!

It's May Day (Labor Day; 勞動節) in China. The trains and buses are packed with people going home to see their families, people going to scenic spots like Hangzhou, and those on vacation to see important historical sites. I'm headed to Nanjing to see the former capital of China.

At a friend's house on the eve of May Day, I catch the holiday program produced by CCTV, the goverment's main TV channel. I am surprised to see Jackie Chan singing to a crowd of thousands. He can really sing, and my friend tells me that he has cut a few albums in his time. The refrain of the song is in English and it goes like this: "WE ARE READY!" And as you would expect, Chan is singing it with panache.

So, this is the flavor of China right now. This evening marks 100 days until the Olympics. Everyone is extremely proud and wants their country to show the world that not only are they ready for the Olympics, but they are ready to become a modern country, the New China.

From my perspective, living in an authoritarian country that limits the freedom of it's citizens (speech, press, assembly, mostly), I feel that China has a long way to go. But I am hopeful that the Olympics will give them a push into modernity.




I say that giving China the opportunity to host the Olympics is a good thing, despite this country's human rights record. For one thing, China people can actually read my blog as of a few weeks ago!

As I walk down Shiziqiao (獅子橋), one of the main drags of Nanjing, with a friend, I look at the throngs of people, mostly kids, and I start my Jackie Chan impression, singing, "WE ARE READY!"

Get ready guys, sincerely hoping you can join the free world.

Chinese Version of "Dialogue"

People in China know that the West is protesting their country's human rights abuses, but they feel Western people just don't get it. They feel Western people are being unreasonable.

A student of mine, a young Chinese woman, hearing the recent news (at least the Chinese version of it) asks me about Tibet. She asks me why Westerners have such a problem with Tibet. She tells me that until a few weeks ago, she had no idea that there was any problem in Tibet at all. To her, and most Chinese people, Tibet is just another province, the Tibetan people are just another minority.

I am happy to give her an "alternative view." I explain that Tibetans in the West tell of their culture being wiped out, their religion being restricted, their temples, their holy places, their books destroyed. Communism doesn't really value religion, does it?

But my friend believes that there are always two sides to every story. People in the West have their story. We in China have our story.

I don't say anything to my friend (I try not to talk about politics when I teach English), but I think to myself, "There are always two sides to every story. Does your government allow you to have access to both sides so you can make up your own mind?" The answer, of course, is no.

I'm hanging out with an American friend who likes to watch the government-run English channel on TV (CCTV). I've never seen it. My friend says she likes like channel, as it has helped her understand a lot about Chinese culture. Today, they have a program called "Dialogue."

The host of the show says we're going to talk about Tibet today, and to his right are three Tibetan scholars. Before beginning his "dialogue" with the scholars, they show a short historical summary of the plight of the Tibetan people before and after the revolution. In sum, a few wealthy Tibetans enslaved the majority of poor Tibetans, that is until Mao's men came onto the scene and made things right.

After the historical short, the host begins discussing the plight of the Tibetan peasants, emphasizing how they had been exploited. The three Tibetan scholars all confirm what we just saw in the short historical film.

I have a hunch that not only is the host on the government payroll, but our three Tibetan professors also get extra cartons of cigarettes in their mail several times a month, courtesy of party-central.

I wonder, if Chinese people saw this show, would they look at me with pride and say, "You see, China has only helped the Tibetan people!"

And then I would ask them, "Is this show the Chinese version of a dialogue?"

The Cat is Still in the Bag

The spring weather in Shanghai--makes you want to take long walks and ride your bike with no destination at all. I particularly like my neighborhood. There are the cool boutiques which I never go into, little teashops, trees lining the streets, and old buildings. It's what they call the French Concession.

I walk around the corner on Fuxing Rd. and see an old, dark-skinned Chinese man with ragged clothes and a wrinkled face (he looks like what people here would call a "waidi ren", one who is not from Shanghai). He is carrying what looks like is a heavy bag.

As he passes me, I hear a loud cry from his bag--I realize it's a cat. She sounds like she is in pain, like she wants to escape. A little shocked from hearing the sound of this prisoner-cat, I stop and I turn to look back at the man and his bag. He must see me, so he turns to look at me and stops.

He makes a gesture to his bag, and his facial expression looks like he wants to ask me a question. What is the question? Does he want to sell me his kidnapped cat? This is Shanghai, after all. Every single frigging interaction (even the "hello" on the street from the smiling young man dressed in the 400RMB cheap, dusty, stained suit) has to do with money. Well, almost every one.

I stand and we look at each other, and it feels like this is all happening in slow motion. I am looking at the pitiful look on the man's face. That sad cat cry is still ringing in my head.

The slow motion sequence ends and we both turn around to continue along our ways. It's just another day in romantic Shanghai.

About that Plane Designer Job

Tonight, I saw an ad for a "High-Level Plane Designer" in Shanghai and I thought it would be fun to apply. So, below you'll find the job description and then after, my cover letter. Wish me luck!

Position description:

1.Analysize the demand of goal customer and understands the intention of customers fully.

2.the corresponding advertisements propaganda material and other demonstration work in the creation design project plan.

Position request:

1, below 35 years old, above arts and design class specialized faculty school record

2, five years the plane project work experience, has the knowledge of plane design, the advertisement, making lithograph plates and the printing ; Has the rich design experience of brand demonstration, the large-scale convention and so on, can design independently and also coordinate the team work, can achieve the idea and the effect unification;

3, the creativity are rich, have the unique design idea as well as comprehensive carry out ability, can complete the project independently;

4, use plane design software skilled and skilled in the computer related operation;

5, has the good handpainted effect chart ability and the strong color feeling;

6, has the good language competence and communication ability, patient,careful, and pursues perfectly, can withstand the strong working pressure.

My Cover Letter

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am responding to your ad in enjoyclassifieds.com for a High-Level Plane Designer. I am quite excited to apply for this position and hope you feel that my qualifications and experience are suitable.

I am 28, from the United States (Berkeley, California), and am quite proficient in all aspects of designing planes. During college, I studied plane design and became quite familiar with the major manufacturers and models of planes used in the world today.

I am not only familiar with high-level planes, but also low-level planes. While commercial planes are my specialty, I have also learned military plane design. In college, I interned with Boeing and learned about the best ways to design planes. For instance, the wings must be long enough, otherwise the plane will not fly.

After college, I went to Europe to work for Airbus and learned even more about planes. There, I learned many software programs used to design planes. I was considered very creative by my boss, and I even handpainted the planes I designed. From your description, I can see that handpainting will also be important at your company. Therefore, I am very excited about this job opportunity. In addition to handpainting, I also introduced other creative ideas such as installing very small microwave oven at every seat for making popcorn, and also covering the walls with feathers so they would be more softer. Clients were very surprised by these ideas. I think they liked these ideas very much, because I was not fired after they saw the new prototypes.

The job description also mentions creating propaganda, and I am sure I will be very good at this. As you know, every citizen of every country is used to reading much propaganda from the government from a very young age. For instance, since I was a boy, I learned that the president is honest and a good person, but as we all have seen with the current president, this is only government propaganda.

Please tell me what kind of propaganda you would like me to write, and it will be my pleasure to write it. I am looking forward to handpainting this propaganda on the planes that I design for you.

Thank you for your consideration and I am looking forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Ron Elkayam
Shanghai PRC

Tibet Censorship

I have a friend who is in Dharamsala, India right now, the location of the Tibetan government in exile. He's gone there to do some spiritual searching, but just mentioned in an email that the current situation is "not exactly conducive to engaging with young monks about the origin of the universe." I suppose that right now, the spiritual wisdom can be found in what is happening in the current turmoil in Tibet.

On Sunday morning, I got a text message from a Canadian friend. "Is CNN blocked, or is it just me?" I tried to log on and couldn't. I assumed Chinese censors were blocking the site. However, later on in the day, I was able to read the news on CNN. Youtube, though, was blocked. Just for fun, I decided to read Xinhuanet, the State news presence on the net, and wasn't surprised by the party line.

It's reminding us foreigners that we're living in an authoritarian dictatorship.

Bjork was here in concert a few weeks ago, and after her last song started yelling, "Tibet, Tibet." Most people, I heard, didn't understand what she was talking about because the word for "Tibet "in Chinese is different. Afterwards, the government condemned her action as illegal, and apparently has its eyes open for similar "stunts" by foreign performers.

Letting Go

Lately, I've been spending time looking for wisdom on the web. Actually, I think there's a lot of wisdom on the web if you know where to look, and if you do so with a critical eye.

Yesterday, I found the site of well-known teacher, Adyashanti , who lives in Bay Area. I have a few friends who used to go and listen to him talk and always spoke highly of him. He is a former Zen practitioner. I haven't heard him speak much, but I just downloaded an excerpt of a talk of his, and I think it is very helpful.

In it, he explains the importance of letting go, of not trying to control your life. What a concept. It's the opposite of the way most everyone lives their lives. This is the way I aspire to live my life, and I hope others can come to this understanding as well. It sure is liberating.

Maybe you've come to my blog today for a reason. Maybe you need to hear his words of wisdom.

Check it out:



This video is copyrighted, but I am not making any money off of this, and just trying to benefit people, like you. So, I would like to pray that Adyashanti does not sue me for posting his video here. Actually, I read on his site that Adyashanti is sick, so I would like to send him many blessings for healing.

Toys in Front of IKEA

Yesterday, I take the subway to IKEA. I walk underground for a while until I emerge at exit 5, and walk a block to the big, big store. It's more like a church, and I when I need to go their to pray to the gods of domestic consumption, I try to go on a weekday. In some way, it's very nourishing, which is why I suspect that this church is much more attended than most churches around the world.

I return the pillows with Swedish names that I bought last week and then return to the subway. Just in front of IKEA are people with small carts and goods spread on the sideway, selling things that they think IKEA shoppers might like, like plates and foldup laundry hampers with colorful, modern designs.

As I cross the street, there is a young, dark-skinned man, probably in his late 20s, squatting on the grass beside the sidewalk. He is wearing a suit, which is pretty much the standard uniform of most adult men in Shanghai, even if they are from the countryside. These suits are usually a little dingy and the coat and pants sometimes don't match. They are best worn with sweaters and beat-up shoes.

On the sidewalk in front of him is a flat piece of brown cardboard, and on it are about eight or ten small wind-up toys. They are all about the size of a ping-ping ball, in different colors. You wind them up and they walk. He is tending to his wind-up toys, making sure they are all doing their assigned exercise for the evening. I bet you they each sell for 3 kuai (50 cents) a piece, and if he sells a few of them, he could eat a good bowl of noodle soup tonight.

The Ice Cream-Eating Girl

I am walking one of the long underground passageways near People's Square station and I notice several girls eating ice cream as the walk toward the subway entrance. There's a mall food court that connects to the passageway, and there is certainly an ice cream shop there. Even on the coldest Shanghai nights, I always see them eating their ice cream. They are always young girls. I have never seen a boy eating ice cream in this passageway.

Tonight's featured ice-cream eating girl, in her early twenties, is holding her cone in one hand, her cell phone in another. She's not fat, but you can tell that she likes ice cream.

She stops and holds the cell phone in front of her, and she holds her ice cream cone in front of her mouth, like she is about to eat some. She is taking a picture of herself. Before she snaps her ice cream picture, she sticks out her tongue slightly. Curiously, she doesn't smile. Perhaps she is embarrassed to smile like this in public, or this is for her boyfriend and she thinks not smiling would make her look a little sexier. As I pass her, she clicks her cell-phone camera and continues on her way.

Neighbors

I wake in the morning, and while I am pouring my tea, and hear the clop, clop, clop of the woman running down the stairs of my apartment building as she does every morning at around 8:30, rushing to work. I look at the window in my kitchen, waiting for her to appear out of the front door to our building. She is always carrying something, a department store bag filled with something, and always leans forward the same way as she sprints out the door, like she's got a lot to do today. I never see her face.

For the first time, looking up from my kitchen window, I notice an older man on his balcony three or floors up in the building across from me. He is standing, leaning on the railing, taking his morning drags of his cigarette. I am far away from him, looking through screen mesh, so I don't worry about being spotted. He is lost in thought, or perhaps worry, or maybe at peace, or maybe inspired. I think that cigarette is his friend, his meditation, and this moment perhaps nourishes him in some way, making the time until his next cigarette a little more bearable, maybe even enjoyable.

Yesterday, I am walking one of the long underground passageways near People's Square station and I notice several girls eating ice cream as the walk toward the subway entrance. There's a mall food court that connects to the passageway, and there is certainly an ice cream shop there. Even on the coldest Shanghai nights, I always see them eating their ice cream. They are always young girls. I have never seen a boy eating ice cream in this passageway.

Tonight's featured ice-cream eating girl, in her early twenties, is holding her cone in one hand, her cell phone in another. She's not fat, but you can tell that she likes ice cream.

She stops and holds the cell phone in front of her, and she holds her ice cream cone in front of her mouth, like she is about to eat some. She is taking a picture of herself. Before she snaps her ice cream picture, she sticks out her tongue slightly. Curiously, she doesn't smile. Perhaps she is embarrassed to smile like this in public, or this is for her boyfriend and she thinks not smiling would make her look a little sexier. As I pass her, she clicks her cell-phone camera and continues on her way.

Yesterday, I take the subway to IKEA. I walk underground for a while until I emerge at exit 5, and walk a block to the big, big store. It's more like a church, and I when I need to go their to pray to the gods of domestic consumption, I try to go on a weekday. In some way, it's very nourishing, which is why I suspect that this church is much more attended than most churches around the world.

I return the pillows with Swedish names that I bought last week and then return to the subway. Just in front of IKEA are people with small carts and goods spread on the sideway, selling things that they think IKEA shoppers might like, like plates and foldup laundry hampers with colorful, modern designs.

As I cross the street, there is a young, dark-skinned man, probably in his late 20s, squatting on the grass beside the sidewalk. He is wearing a suit, which is pretty much the standard uniform of most adult men in Shanghai, even if they are from the countryside. These suits are usually a little dingy and the coat and pants sometimes don't match. They are best worn with sweaters and beat-up shoes.

On the sidewalk in front of him is a flat piece of brown cardboard, and on it are about eight or ten small wind-up toys. They are all about the size of a ping-ping ball, in different colors. You wind them up and they walk. He is tending to his wind-up toys, making sure they are all doing their assigned exercise for the evening. I bet you they each sell for 3 kuai (50 cents) a piece, and if he sells a few of them, he could eat a good bowl of noodle soup tonight.