Beijing is big, so this evening, after hanging out with Michael at the tea market in the city center, it will take me a while to get home. I'll have to switch trains twice, including taking the fifteen minute walk through the Xizhimen station, which is usually an annoyance, probably because my life in Beijing has been too busy with school and work.
But this evening, I'm in no rush to get home. No tests. No students to teach. I don't even have to go to the gym to work out. I can totally take my time.
I walk slowly through the stations, watching the multitudes. I watch them as they get ready for their Saturday nights with friends. Some young girls next to me are all done up and it looks like they're on their way to a bar or a restaurant. I notice the train station employees, scattered throughout the stations, trying to make a living. I have a little book of Chinese vocabulary in my pocket and read it on the train.
After I get off line two and on the way to line thirteen, there's a guy in front of me who is walking slowly. But this evening, it doesn't bother me one bit.
From the train station, I take a taxi home. I finally get to my building and have to wait some more for the elevator. A youngish Chinese woman and I get in.
Perhaps she's been at the office all day putting in overtime. Her floor approaches and the doors open. She breathes an obvious sigh of relief to finally be home and walks out of the elevator.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Frank the Peasant Scholar
Living in China, I have already met a certain type of Chinese man several times. He is proud of Chinese culture, knowledgeable of Chinese history, literature, philosophy, arts, and politics. He assumes he understands much about Western culture, but in actuality, he knows little. As a matter of fact, he is quite wary of Western culture and to tell you the truth, he feels Chinese culture is vastly superior to anything the West has to offer.
I call this man the "Peasant Scholar".
Stuck in the back of a Mercedes with Frank on my recent business trip to Shandong, I figured I should make small-talk with him. We were introduced and he began speaking English to me (he did not at the time know that I speak Chinese). Within several minutes, I could tell several things. First, being an English teacher, it was obvious that like most Chinese people, his spoken English was poor. Second, Frank was a condescending asshole.
Frank is about my age, has a degree in civil engineering, an MBA, and is now working on a doctorate in project management. He dresses in the standard dress of the Chinese peasant scholar--mismatching suit jacket and pants, no tie, cheap sweater, and soiled, cheap shoes.
After listening to Frank's shitty English for several minutes, I decided to start talking Chinese to him. After all, I'm not getting paid to teach him English here.
I figure I'm going to have to sit in the back seat of this car for the next four hours with him, so I figure I should make the most of it. I start calling him 老師 ("laoshi", teacher) and tell him that I would like him to help me with my Chinese. He tells me he has a deep understanding of Chinese culture and that he is willing to teach me.
As we all talk in Chinese, I ask Frank to teach me the meaning of some words I don't understand. He explains them to me. Although I feel I am being gracious and allowing Frank to be my teacher, relieving him of the need to speak his shitty English, he nevertheless is still quite condescending.
Frank waxes philosophical about the wonders of the Chinese language. He then begins to dis the English language saying that Chinese has so many subtle ways to describe certain things, but that the English language doesn't.
I think back to my Chinese Literature teacher at the university where I am studying, Professor He (pronounced Huh) . Professor He studied Chinese in college (including classical Chinese) and has written books. Recently, his greatest passion is reading English literature, and during our class breaks he shows me passages (in English) in the Virginia Woolf book he is reading that he needs me to help him understand. I look at the passages and they bowl me over with their beauty, their complexity. I tell He Laoshi that even most college students would have difficulty interpreting these passages, but I do my best explaining to him what they mean. In Chinese. The English language is indeed beautiful.
So, when Frank tells me, in his way, that Chinese is so beautiful and subtle and complex, and English isn't, I quickly retort, "Frank, maybe your English level isn't quite advanced." For the time being, Frank shuts up.
Later in our journey, I tell Frank about the story we just read in Professor He's class, about a man who gives up his dream of music so that he can have a stable marriage to a woman he's not in love with. I ask him why most Chinese people would support the man's decision. Of course, I know why most Chinese people would, but I want to hear Frank's opinion.
Frank remarks about my Western lack of understanding of Chinese culture to his coworkers in the front of the car. His tone is mocking and once again condescending. Our car is going about 80 MPH. I think to myself that it's not a good time to push him out of the car and so I restrain myself.
The conversation lulls and then Frank turns to his coworkers and makes a remark about my Chinese name. "Do you know whose name Kaiyuan's name sounds like? It's a person in Chinese history."
David and Candy are too young to know, but I know, because I've lived in Chinese culture for a little while and some others have made the same remark. My name, Yao Kaiyuan, sounds like one of the members of the Gang of Four, Yao Wenyuan. Frank asks again, but David and Candy still don't know.
With no response from the front, I tell Frank I know and he seems astounded. "Really?", he asks, "Who?"
I tell him Yao Wenyuan and he is flabbergasted (I mean how could a Western guy know this stuff?). He is truly dumbfounded and can't believe I know. He asks me how the heck I know this.
I tell him, "You know, Frank, you're not the first smart Chinese guy I've ever met."
David looks at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a big smile. I'm not even good with clever lines in English. I can't believe I was able to pull that one off in Chinese.
The car grows silent, and thankfully, Frank shuts the fuck up for the rest of the afternoon.
The next morning, Frank and I head back to Beijing by plane. We are driven to the airport in the client's van and when the driver drops us off at the airport, he pulls out two small flashlights. He gives them to Frank, and in Chinese he says, "This is a small gift to you and the foreigner guy. It uses our company's technology."
Frank smiles and puts both of the flashlights into his purse and we continue to check-in. I am curious if Frank is going to give me one of the flashlights, but I don't say anything yet.
We line up to check in and I get out my passport, which I am now holding in my hand. Frank turns to me and says "Get out your passport."
"I have it in my hand," I say, and show it to him. I really want to say, "I have it in my hand, fuckhead!" but I know his listening ability isn't up to the task.
I then say to him in Chinese, "Hey, can I see that gift the client just gave you?" Frank gives me a half smile and a slightly nervous laugh that says, "Hey, I wasn't going to give that to you, but you are a clever laowai, so here you go", as he pulls out a flashlight and gives it to me.
Of course, I don't really give a shit about the flashlight, I just want to bust Frank.
We get on the plane, and I think I perhaps should ignore Frank. After all, he just tried to steal a flashlight from me. But, I let it go and read my Chinese book. Of course, Frank is curious and tries to help me with my Chinese. I let him do this and of course he tries to explain very basic words to me, as if I am an idiot.
I find it ironic that Frank, who has devoted years of schooling to studying subjects that were invented in the West, has little respect for a Westerner. There are so many ways that living in China tests my patience. Unfortunately, I feel I've probably failed the Frank test.
But fortunately for me, I haven't lost it and for the rest of the flight, I continue with the "Frank Laoshi" game and the Peasant Scholar teaches me some more Chinese.
I call this man the "Peasant Scholar".
Stuck in the back of a Mercedes with Frank on my recent business trip to Shandong, I figured I should make small-talk with him. We were introduced and he began speaking English to me (he did not at the time know that I speak Chinese). Within several minutes, I could tell several things. First, being an English teacher, it was obvious that like most Chinese people, his spoken English was poor. Second, Frank was a condescending asshole.
Frank is about my age, has a degree in civil engineering, an MBA, and is now working on a doctorate in project management. He dresses in the standard dress of the Chinese peasant scholar--mismatching suit jacket and pants, no tie, cheap sweater, and soiled, cheap shoes.
After listening to Frank's shitty English for several minutes, I decided to start talking Chinese to him. After all, I'm not getting paid to teach him English here.
I figure I'm going to have to sit in the back seat of this car for the next four hours with him, so I figure I should make the most of it. I start calling him 老師 ("laoshi", teacher) and tell him that I would like him to help me with my Chinese. He tells me he has a deep understanding of Chinese culture and that he is willing to teach me.
As we all talk in Chinese, I ask Frank to teach me the meaning of some words I don't understand. He explains them to me. Although I feel I am being gracious and allowing Frank to be my teacher, relieving him of the need to speak his shitty English, he nevertheless is still quite condescending.
Frank waxes philosophical about the wonders of the Chinese language. He then begins to dis the English language saying that Chinese has so many subtle ways to describe certain things, but that the English language doesn't.
I think back to my Chinese Literature teacher at the university where I am studying, Professor He (pronounced Huh) . Professor He studied Chinese in college (including classical Chinese) and has written books. Recently, his greatest passion is reading English literature, and during our class breaks he shows me passages (in English) in the Virginia Woolf book he is reading that he needs me to help him understand. I look at the passages and they bowl me over with their beauty, their complexity. I tell He Laoshi that even most college students would have difficulty interpreting these passages, but I do my best explaining to him what they mean. In Chinese. The English language is indeed beautiful.
So, when Frank tells me, in his way, that Chinese is so beautiful and subtle and complex, and English isn't, I quickly retort, "Frank, maybe your English level isn't quite advanced." For the time being, Frank shuts up.
Later in our journey, I tell Frank about the story we just read in Professor He's class, about a man who gives up his dream of music so that he can have a stable marriage to a woman he's not in love with. I ask him why most Chinese people would support the man's decision. Of course, I know why most Chinese people would, but I want to hear Frank's opinion.
Frank remarks about my Western lack of understanding of Chinese culture to his coworkers in the front of the car. His tone is mocking and once again condescending. Our car is going about 80 MPH. I think to myself that it's not a good time to push him out of the car and so I restrain myself.
The conversation lulls and then Frank turns to his coworkers and makes a remark about my Chinese name. "Do you know whose name Kaiyuan's name sounds like? It's a person in Chinese history."
David and Candy are too young to know, but I know, because I've lived in Chinese culture for a little while and some others have made the same remark. My name, Yao Kaiyuan, sounds like one of the members of the Gang of Four, Yao Wenyuan. Frank asks again, but David and Candy still don't know.
With no response from the front, I tell Frank I know and he seems astounded. "Really?", he asks, "Who?"
I tell him Yao Wenyuan and he is flabbergasted (I mean how could a Western guy know this stuff?). He is truly dumbfounded and can't believe I know. He asks me how the heck I know this.
I tell him, "You know, Frank, you're not the first smart Chinese guy I've ever met."
David looks at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a big smile. I'm not even good with clever lines in English. I can't believe I was able to pull that one off in Chinese.
The car grows silent, and thankfully, Frank shuts the fuck up for the rest of the afternoon.
The next morning, Frank and I head back to Beijing by plane. We are driven to the airport in the client's van and when the driver drops us off at the airport, he pulls out two small flashlights. He gives them to Frank, and in Chinese he says, "This is a small gift to you and the foreigner guy. It uses our company's technology."
Frank smiles and puts both of the flashlights into his purse and we continue to check-in. I am curious if Frank is going to give me one of the flashlights, but I don't say anything yet.
We line up to check in and I get out my passport, which I am now holding in my hand. Frank turns to me and says "Get out your passport."
"I have it in my hand," I say, and show it to him. I really want to say, "I have it in my hand, fuckhead!" but I know his listening ability isn't up to the task.
I then say to him in Chinese, "Hey, can I see that gift the client just gave you?" Frank gives me a half smile and a slightly nervous laugh that says, "Hey, I wasn't going to give that to you, but you are a clever laowai, so here you go", as he pulls out a flashlight and gives it to me.
Of course, I don't really give a shit about the flashlight, I just want to bust Frank.
We get on the plane, and I think I perhaps should ignore Frank. After all, he just tried to steal a flashlight from me. But, I let it go and read my Chinese book. Of course, Frank is curious and tries to help me with my Chinese. I let him do this and of course he tries to explain very basic words to me, as if I am an idiot.
I find it ironic that Frank, who has devoted years of schooling to studying subjects that were invented in the West, has little respect for a Westerner. There are so many ways that living in China tests my patience. Unfortunately, I feel I've probably failed the Frank test.
But fortunately for me, I haven't lost it and for the rest of the flight, I continue with the "Frank Laoshi" game and the Peasant Scholar teaches me some more Chinese.
Roni's Chinese Mafia Story
David calls me on a Tuesday. "I got your name from Rebecca. We need someone to do some proofreading for us. We'll go to Shandong and we need you to come with us. But first we need to interview you."
I don't know David, and to be honest, I don't know Rebecca, but I tell him sure, let's set up an interview. He says he'll come to my campus tomorrow at two. Later in the day, I remember that I did interview for a teaching job with a woman named Rebecca. I call her and ask her if she knows this David guy and if she sent him to me. She has no idea about this guy.
The next day, while in the library studying, I get a call from David. He says he's at the west gate of the university waiting for me in a black Mercedes. I ride my bike over to the west gate and find his car. It's a new, black Mercedes, and there's a twenty-five year-old Chinese kid sitting in the seat talking on his cellphone inside. "David?" I say. He tells me to come in.
David speaks English well and says he has a master's degree from Oxford. His English isn't bad, and it's possible that he is actually telling me the truth (any Chinese person who knows about "A-levels", i.e., the university entrance exams in the UK, must have done his homework).
He tells me he works at an investment company and that they have a new client located in Shandong, which is about a four hour drive from Beijing. Since they'll need to do some Powerpoint presentations in English related to the client in the future, he explains, he'd like to take me along so I can get familiar with this project. He tells me that we'll stay in a five-star hotel and all meals will be covered. We negotiate a rate and he gives me a business card, telling me that he'll send more information to me by email. We depart on Thursday morning.
"You know," he say, "there are many bad guys in China, but don't worry, we're not going to kidnap you or anything."
I feel reassured and on my way back to the library I call up a couple of good friends and tell them about the interview, joking that I think I was just hired to be an English teacher for the Chinese mafia. One friend is completely worried, telling me to not be so naive.
I come home that evening and look up the website on David's card. Nothing comes up. I try google the name of his company (which has "offices in Beijing and London"). Again, nothing. The whole theory about becoming English teacher to the Chinese mafia is looking more probable.
The next day, I call David and tell him that his website doesn't exist. He tells me that sometimes the Chinese government blocks it, not to worry. I tell him that he should have a contract ready for me in the morning. With any new project, especially with a Chinese company, I always get a contract to make sure they pay me and that the terms of the job are clear. He says there's no time for a contract, that he'll just pay me in full, in cash, at the beginning of our trip. See you tomorrow morning at 8:30, he says.
I call up a few friends. "Listen, if you don't hear from me by Friday afternoon, call the police," I tell them. The friend who told me I'm naive still thinks I'm taking a big risk. One of my friends doesn't understand what's the big deal. I make some money, get to visit another province, and get to stay in a five-star hotel. Not a bad deal, she says, right?
That evening, I go out to the local department store and buy a killer blue-striped tie. I come home and get out my fake Armani suit that I bought in Shanghai for $86. I swear, I am ready for GQ. I am ready for an adventure. At best, I get a high-paying job with the Chinese mafia. At worst, I have to defend myself against a couple of skinny Chinese thugs using all those aikido moves I've practiced maybe thousands of times. I have been lifting weights recently and doing taiji, so I figure I am up for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?
I wake up early the next morning, get dressed, and walk out of my shitty apartment building in the suburbs of Beijing, looking like a half-Moroccan Ashkenazi Jewish-American-Israeli James Bond.
David arrives in his Mercedes at the agreed-upon location with two of his coworkers, Candy and Frank. I sit in the back with Frank and David makes introductions. We're going to be in the car together for the next four hours, so we try to get to know each other. David senses I'm a little nervous, so he tries to reassure me again that he's not going to try to kidnap me. I am once again reassured.
Candy's English isn't bad, but I'm sitting in the back with Frank, and his English sucks, so I start speaking with them in my passable Chinese. David tells me that when we get to Shandong and meet with the client I should not speak any Chinese at all. He doesn't want them asking me all kinds of questions. He tells me to especially avoid the Taiwanese guys that work for the client because their English is better than the mainlanders. He tells me that if they ask about my background, I should tell them that I have a background in investment banking and have worked for several firms in the States. No problem, I say.
He further explains that the client is a tech company looking for investors and so not only will we be investigating their operation, but they will also be trying to ascertain whether we are a legitimate investment company. I ask him a few questions about the field of investment banking and figure I should be okay.
We finally arrive in Shandong, where the client meets us for lunch. About six people meet us at a hotel and we have a short but elegant lunch there. The director of the client's operation, a young man with an authoritarian demeanor in his mid-thirties, makes toasts with wine and smokes a cigar, inviting Frank to smoke with him. For some reason, Frank suddenly becomes a big shot.
Sitting next to me is one of the Taiwanese guys. I know I am not supposed to talk too much to him, but I tell him that I "visited" Taiwan before. Of course, I am dying to tell him I lived there, to tell him how much I love Taiwan, how much I miss it. But, I hold my tongue.
Lunch is short so that we can begin the afternoon meeting with the client. We go to the factory, which has been recently built and is not yet in operation, and after a brief tour, the games begin. We sit, about fifteen of us, in a conference room, with David presenting the terms of the contract. I sit at David's left, listening to them talk in Chinese. A lot of the Chinese that they use, of course, is legalese and is related to finance and investments, so I only understand about 70%. Nevertheless, it's an excellent exercise in my Chinese listening skills.
The factory director smokes several cigars and speaks with the forcefulness of someone with a military background. Besides the two Taiwanese engineers with PhDs from the U.S., I have no clue who the rest of the people are.
David introduces me as the guy in charge of client relations for his company and tells them I don't speak Chinese. We sit there for about four hours and since the talks are exclusively in Chinese I wonder what everyone is thinking I am doing at this meeting.
When they say, "Everyone turn to page four, paragraph three" (in Chinese), I turn to page four, paragraph three and try to practice my Chinese reading skills. I wonder if any of the guys around the table notice.
At one point, one of the Taiwanese engineers introduces their technology to us, a metal tube that conducts heat very quickly. He puts it in a cup of boiling water and asks me to touch it. It's very hot and without thinking, in Chinese I burst out saying, "很快就熱了!" ("It gets hot really fast!"). Too late, I realize I've blurted out Chinese when I am not supposed to know any Chinese. The hyper cigar-smoking factory chief's jaw is on the table. Fortunately, it's not a big deal. For us foreigners, it takes two years to learn to respond like that spontaneously in Chinese, but to a Chinese person, you couldn't convince him that I've studied for more than a month or two.
Finally, the big meeting is over and it's time for the time-honored custom of the business banquet. We all head back to the hotel for a big dinner, which includes, of course, lots of alcohol.
The food is traditional cuisine from Shandong. I figure I haven't gotten kidnapped yet, and as an extra bonus I get this incredible food, so I am quite delighted. The waitress pours me a small cup of expensive baijiu ("white alcohol", Chinese vodka) and during our meal, everyone makes toasts. I think the baijiu is about 58% alcohol, so each sip is like drinking a beer to me. While I like drinking, I'm not a professional drinker. A couple of beers are enough for me.
I notice to my right that the guy two seats over just poured his water into his baijiu glass, and so after I finish by baijiu, I follow suit. Throughout the evening, people are making toasts and somehow I get by with just drinking water.
At one point, a member of the client's delegation tells the waiter something quickly in Chinese and she comes out with a small glass of baijiu. It looks like I've been found out, and I have no choice but to drink it down with him. It's okay, given all the water I've been drinking, I think I should be fine.
What I like about drinking in China is that you don't do it alone and that you do it with dinner. In China, if you want to drink, you raise your glass, look at the person (or people) you are toasting, and then drink with them. This continues throughout the night as people toast each other. David's face is very red. As the head of our operation, he is getting heavily toasted.
I think I'm a bit tipsy by now and I know I'm not supposed to speak any Chinese, but I can't resist turning to one of the Taiwanese engineers and saying (in Taiwanese), "Hodala!" ("Bottoms up!"). He is surprised and looks pleased. Later in the evening, he says, perhaps half-jokingly, that he knows I know Chinese.
The banquet wraps up and a young member of the client's team pays me a compliment, "You can really drink that baijiu!"
"Thanks," I respond, as humbly as possible.
After dinner, David and his team finish up the negotiations with the client and we meet back in his hotel room. It turns out it has all been successful. He asks for my passport number so he can book an airline ticket for me and Frank back to Beijing in the morning. He and Candy will stay in Shandong for another day to get a tour or the area.
David gives me details about tomorrow's flight and says I did a good job. The next morning, I wake up and a car is waiting for me and Frank and we fly back to Beijing. I arrive back in Beijing and send text messages to my friends letting them know I haven't been harmed or kidnapped.
I realize that not once did David or his team talk about any Powerpoint presentations. And I realize that I have just performed an essential function in the negotiations with David's client--I was just paid to be a Western "flower vase" (花瓶), as they say in Chinese. In other words, David hired me to be a white guy in a suit sitting next to him during negotiations.
I arrive back home at about lunch time with a good story for my friends. And a hope that the Chinese mafia might need my services again.
I don't know David, and to be honest, I don't know Rebecca, but I tell him sure, let's set up an interview. He says he'll come to my campus tomorrow at two. Later in the day, I remember that I did interview for a teaching job with a woman named Rebecca. I call her and ask her if she knows this David guy and if she sent him to me. She has no idea about this guy.
The next day, while in the library studying, I get a call from David. He says he's at the west gate of the university waiting for me in a black Mercedes. I ride my bike over to the west gate and find his car. It's a new, black Mercedes, and there's a twenty-five year-old Chinese kid sitting in the seat talking on his cellphone inside. "David?" I say. He tells me to come in.
David speaks English well and says he has a master's degree from Oxford. His English isn't bad, and it's possible that he is actually telling me the truth (any Chinese person who knows about "A-levels", i.e., the university entrance exams in the UK, must have done his homework).
He tells me he works at an investment company and that they have a new client located in Shandong, which is about a four hour drive from Beijing. Since they'll need to do some Powerpoint presentations in English related to the client in the future, he explains, he'd like to take me along so I can get familiar with this project. He tells me that we'll stay in a five-star hotel and all meals will be covered. We negotiate a rate and he gives me a business card, telling me that he'll send more information to me by email. We depart on Thursday morning.
"You know," he say, "there are many bad guys in China, but don't worry, we're not going to kidnap you or anything."
I feel reassured and on my way back to the library I call up a couple of good friends and tell them about the interview, joking that I think I was just hired to be an English teacher for the Chinese mafia. One friend is completely worried, telling me to not be so naive.
I come home that evening and look up the website on David's card. Nothing comes up. I try google the name of his company (which has "offices in Beijing and London"). Again, nothing. The whole theory about becoming English teacher to the Chinese mafia is looking more probable.
The next day, I call David and tell him that his website doesn't exist. He tells me that sometimes the Chinese government blocks it, not to worry. I tell him that he should have a contract ready for me in the morning. With any new project, especially with a Chinese company, I always get a contract to make sure they pay me and that the terms of the job are clear. He says there's no time for a contract, that he'll just pay me in full, in cash, at the beginning of our trip. See you tomorrow morning at 8:30, he says.
I call up a few friends. "Listen, if you don't hear from me by Friday afternoon, call the police," I tell them. The friend who told me I'm naive still thinks I'm taking a big risk. One of my friends doesn't understand what's the big deal. I make some money, get to visit another province, and get to stay in a five-star hotel. Not a bad deal, she says, right?
That evening, I go out to the local department store and buy a killer blue-striped tie. I come home and get out my fake Armani suit that I bought in Shanghai for $86. I swear, I am ready for GQ. I am ready for an adventure. At best, I get a high-paying job with the Chinese mafia. At worst, I have to defend myself against a couple of skinny Chinese thugs using all those aikido moves I've practiced maybe thousands of times. I have been lifting weights recently and doing taiji, so I figure I am up for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know?
I wake up early the next morning, get dressed, and walk out of my shitty apartment building in the suburbs of Beijing, looking like a half-Moroccan Ashkenazi Jewish-American-Israeli James Bond.
David arrives in his Mercedes at the agreed-upon location with two of his coworkers, Candy and Frank. I sit in the back with Frank and David makes introductions. We're going to be in the car together for the next four hours, so we try to get to know each other. David senses I'm a little nervous, so he tries to reassure me again that he's not going to try to kidnap me. I am once again reassured.
Candy's English isn't bad, but I'm sitting in the back with Frank, and his English sucks, so I start speaking with them in my passable Chinese. David tells me that when we get to Shandong and meet with the client I should not speak any Chinese at all. He doesn't want them asking me all kinds of questions. He tells me to especially avoid the Taiwanese guys that work for the client because their English is better than the mainlanders. He tells me that if they ask about my background, I should tell them that I have a background in investment banking and have worked for several firms in the States. No problem, I say.
He further explains that the client is a tech company looking for investors and so not only will we be investigating their operation, but they will also be trying to ascertain whether we are a legitimate investment company. I ask him a few questions about the field of investment banking and figure I should be okay.
We finally arrive in Shandong, where the client meets us for lunch. About six people meet us at a hotel and we have a short but elegant lunch there. The director of the client's operation, a young man with an authoritarian demeanor in his mid-thirties, makes toasts with wine and smokes a cigar, inviting Frank to smoke with him. For some reason, Frank suddenly becomes a big shot.
Sitting next to me is one of the Taiwanese guys. I know I am not supposed to talk too much to him, but I tell him that I "visited" Taiwan before. Of course, I am dying to tell him I lived there, to tell him how much I love Taiwan, how much I miss it. But, I hold my tongue.
Lunch is short so that we can begin the afternoon meeting with the client. We go to the factory, which has been recently built and is not yet in operation, and after a brief tour, the games begin. We sit, about fifteen of us, in a conference room, with David presenting the terms of the contract. I sit at David's left, listening to them talk in Chinese. A lot of the Chinese that they use, of course, is legalese and is related to finance and investments, so I only understand about 70%. Nevertheless, it's an excellent exercise in my Chinese listening skills.
The factory director smokes several cigars and speaks with the forcefulness of someone with a military background. Besides the two Taiwanese engineers with PhDs from the U.S., I have no clue who the rest of the people are.
David introduces me as the guy in charge of client relations for his company and tells them I don't speak Chinese. We sit there for about four hours and since the talks are exclusively in Chinese I wonder what everyone is thinking I am doing at this meeting.
When they say, "Everyone turn to page four, paragraph three" (in Chinese), I turn to page four, paragraph three and try to practice my Chinese reading skills. I wonder if any of the guys around the table notice.
At one point, one of the Taiwanese engineers introduces their technology to us, a metal tube that conducts heat very quickly. He puts it in a cup of boiling water and asks me to touch it. It's very hot and without thinking, in Chinese I burst out saying, "很快就熱了!" ("It gets hot really fast!"). Too late, I realize I've blurted out Chinese when I am not supposed to know any Chinese. The hyper cigar-smoking factory chief's jaw is on the table. Fortunately, it's not a big deal. For us foreigners, it takes two years to learn to respond like that spontaneously in Chinese, but to a Chinese person, you couldn't convince him that I've studied for more than a month or two.
Finally, the big meeting is over and it's time for the time-honored custom of the business banquet. We all head back to the hotel for a big dinner, which includes, of course, lots of alcohol.
The food is traditional cuisine from Shandong. I figure I haven't gotten kidnapped yet, and as an extra bonus I get this incredible food, so I am quite delighted. The waitress pours me a small cup of expensive baijiu ("white alcohol", Chinese vodka) and during our meal, everyone makes toasts. I think the baijiu is about 58% alcohol, so each sip is like drinking a beer to me. While I like drinking, I'm not a professional drinker. A couple of beers are enough for me.
I notice to my right that the guy two seats over just poured his water into his baijiu glass, and so after I finish by baijiu, I follow suit. Throughout the evening, people are making toasts and somehow I get by with just drinking water.
At one point, a member of the client's delegation tells the waiter something quickly in Chinese and she comes out with a small glass of baijiu. It looks like I've been found out, and I have no choice but to drink it down with him. It's okay, given all the water I've been drinking, I think I should be fine.
What I like about drinking in China is that you don't do it alone and that you do it with dinner. In China, if you want to drink, you raise your glass, look at the person (or people) you are toasting, and then drink with them. This continues throughout the night as people toast each other. David's face is very red. As the head of our operation, he is getting heavily toasted.
I think I'm a bit tipsy by now and I know I'm not supposed to speak any Chinese, but I can't resist turning to one of the Taiwanese engineers and saying (in Taiwanese), "Hodala!" ("Bottoms up!"). He is surprised and looks pleased. Later in the evening, he says, perhaps half-jokingly, that he knows I know Chinese.
The banquet wraps up and a young member of the client's team pays me a compliment, "You can really drink that baijiu!"
"Thanks," I respond, as humbly as possible.
After dinner, David and his team finish up the negotiations with the client and we meet back in his hotel room. It turns out it has all been successful. He asks for my passport number so he can book an airline ticket for me and Frank back to Beijing in the morning. He and Candy will stay in Shandong for another day to get a tour or the area.
David gives me details about tomorrow's flight and says I did a good job. The next morning, I wake up and a car is waiting for me and Frank and we fly back to Beijing. I arrive back in Beijing and send text messages to my friends letting them know I haven't been harmed or kidnapped.
I realize that not once did David or his team talk about any Powerpoint presentations. And I realize that I have just performed an essential function in the negotiations with David's client--I was just paid to be a Western "flower vase" (花瓶), as they say in Chinese. In other words, David hired me to be a white guy in a suit sitting next to him during negotiations.
I arrive back home at about lunch time with a good story for my friends. And a hope that the Chinese mafia might need my services again.
Chinese Police
At the start of the semester at Beijing Language University, the head of the local police station station comes to our orientation and speaks to us for an hour and a half. Actually, the whole orientation is just him talking.
He is an animated kind of guy in his fifties. He tells us what you would expect--try to be on good behavior, don't drink too much, don't ride gas-powered motorcycles with large motors, don't overstay your visa, don't visit brothels--common sense kind of stuff. He is very down-to-earth and his stories of former students getting drunk and doing stupid things are funny.
You can't help but like him.
At one point during his talk he mentions that although he'd like students to drink responsibly, he enjoys drinking. After the talk, I am outside unlocking my bike and see him pass by, lighting up a cigarette (as most middle-aged men in China do). I almost introduce myself to him and tell him I'd like to have a beer with him, but I let him go on his way, surrounded by a group of what look like fans.
Fast forward about four months later. I come home from Christmas Eve out with friends and before going to bed, I get a text message. In Chinese it says: "You want a girl?" I have no idea who would send me this kind of message. I get several more and I finally send back a message asking them who they are. They tell me that they are a "massage center".
I am a little dumbfounded and I still have absolutely no idea how they could even get my cellphone number. Now I am curious. I call them up. A guy answers the phone. It's quite loud in the background. I ask the guy where he got my name from. Surprisingly, he is not shy about telling me the answer. He tells me very matter-of-factly, "from the police station."
Only after I talk to him do I remember the police chief's orientation speech. He tells us not to "visit brothels" but at the same time, someone in his office is selling the names of foreigners to "massage centers".
I send the guy back a text message telling him to stop with his promotional text messages and I can only laugh and shake my head.
Welcome to China, folks.
He is an animated kind of guy in his fifties. He tells us what you would expect--try to be on good behavior, don't drink too much, don't ride gas-powered motorcycles with large motors, don't overstay your visa, don't visit brothels--common sense kind of stuff. He is very down-to-earth and his stories of former students getting drunk and doing stupid things are funny.
You can't help but like him.
At one point during his talk he mentions that although he'd like students to drink responsibly, he enjoys drinking. After the talk, I am outside unlocking my bike and see him pass by, lighting up a cigarette (as most middle-aged men in China do). I almost introduce myself to him and tell him I'd like to have a beer with him, but I let him go on his way, surrounded by a group of what look like fans.
Fast forward about four months later. I come home from Christmas Eve out with friends and before going to bed, I get a text message. In Chinese it says: "You want a girl?" I have no idea who would send me this kind of message. I get several more and I finally send back a message asking them who they are. They tell me that they are a "massage center".
I am a little dumbfounded and I still have absolutely no idea how they could even get my cellphone number. Now I am curious. I call them up. A guy answers the phone. It's quite loud in the background. I ask the guy where he got my name from. Surprisingly, he is not shy about telling me the answer. He tells me very matter-of-factly, "from the police station."
Only after I talk to him do I remember the police chief's orientation speech. He tells us not to "visit brothels" but at the same time, someone in his office is selling the names of foreigners to "massage centers".
I send the guy back a text message telling him to stop with his promotional text messages and I can only laugh and shake my head.
Welcome to China, folks.
Tea at Maliandao
I teach this morning and then feel some excitement as the class ends. My friend Michael has invited me to Maliandao, the home to Beijing's tea markets, where we'll sample some tea. Malindao is blocks and blocks of tea markets and if you are looking for tea, teapots or tea paraphernalia, this is your heaven.
Michael and I both love zhongguocha (Chinese tea) and so as you can imagine, we are both in heaven.
We first walk around a large indoor tea market. It's the New Year's vacation and everyone must be out of town or at home watching TV, because this place is empty. Seriously, walking around we don't see any other customers--we're the only kids in the candy store.
First, we check out teapots. If it's a good teapot, looking at a teapot is like looking at a whole universe. There's all the time and effort that was put into crafting it. You feel it in your hand when you pick it up and see it in the finish of the clay. And then there are all your future pours.
There are the standard red ones, brown ones, the odd ivory or black ones. I love the teapots with small Chinese characters etched on them. Sometimes it's the whole Heart Sutra. But mostly, I like the simple pots with flowing, classic lines, nothing too avant garde.
As we walk by one shop, we see that the sign is for heicha ("black tea") from Hunan. We've never seen this before and soon Michael, who is very curious, is leading us into the shop to sample some.
Keep in mind, what we know as "black tea" in the West is called "red tea" in China, so this tea seems special. We find out that it is an aged tea similar to pu-er, with fungi introduced into it to give it a special fungi taste. The young girl gives a magnifying glass so we can look at the fungi, and then she pours us some.
The truth--it's nothing special, but it is fun to try something new and practice our Chinese. We both decide it's time to get some real tea. Michael loves Taiwan Tie Guan Yin, a roasted wulong tea, and he's in search of a tea on the mainland that comes close to what he's tasted in Taiwan, and so we find a shop that sells the famous Da Hong Pao (Large Red Robe) wulong tea from Fujian with hopes that it'll come close.
The owner of the shops and her mother, who are from Fujian, pour tea for us and ask us personal questions. The tea is great stuff and I think Michael is in heaven. I love it too, but I'll always be in love with Alishan Gaoshan (High Mountain) wulong from Taiwan.
Having lived in Beijing for about four months now, it is a breath of fresh air to hear their southern accent and their southern sense of humor. Northerners and southerners are quite different in China, and being that my laojia (my "hometown", my first home in this part of the world) is in Taiwan, I am quite enchanted.
It's not always easy living here in China, living your life in another language, in another culture. But there are times that are clear, sublime. Laughing in Chinese and drinking tea, I forget about all my cares. As we leave, the owner's mother tells us to come back soon, that there are lots more teas to try.
We tell her we surely will.
Michael and I both love zhongguocha (Chinese tea) and so as you can imagine, we are both in heaven.
We first walk around a large indoor tea market. It's the New Year's vacation and everyone must be out of town or at home watching TV, because this place is empty. Seriously, walking around we don't see any other customers--we're the only kids in the candy store.
First, we check out teapots. If it's a good teapot, looking at a teapot is like looking at a whole universe. There's all the time and effort that was put into crafting it. You feel it in your hand when you pick it up and see it in the finish of the clay. And then there are all your future pours.
There are the standard red ones, brown ones, the odd ivory or black ones. I love the teapots with small Chinese characters etched on them. Sometimes it's the whole Heart Sutra. But mostly, I like the simple pots with flowing, classic lines, nothing too avant garde.
As we walk by one shop, we see that the sign is for heicha ("black tea") from Hunan. We've never seen this before and soon Michael, who is very curious, is leading us into the shop to sample some.
Keep in mind, what we know as "black tea" in the West is called "red tea" in China, so this tea seems special. We find out that it is an aged tea similar to pu-er, with fungi introduced into it to give it a special fungi taste. The young girl gives a magnifying glass so we can look at the fungi, and then she pours us some.
The truth--it's nothing special, but it is fun to try something new and practice our Chinese. We both decide it's time to get some real tea. Michael loves Taiwan Tie Guan Yin, a roasted wulong tea, and he's in search of a tea on the mainland that comes close to what he's tasted in Taiwan, and so we find a shop that sells the famous Da Hong Pao (Large Red Robe) wulong tea from Fujian with hopes that it'll come close.
The owner of the shops and her mother, who are from Fujian, pour tea for us and ask us personal questions. The tea is great stuff and I think Michael is in heaven. I love it too, but I'll always be in love with Alishan Gaoshan (High Mountain) wulong from Taiwan.
Having lived in Beijing for about four months now, it is a breath of fresh air to hear their southern accent and their southern sense of humor. Northerners and southerners are quite different in China, and being that my laojia (my "hometown", my first home in this part of the world) is in Taiwan, I am quite enchanted.
It's not always easy living here in China, living your life in another language, in another culture. But there are times that are clear, sublime. Laughing in Chinese and drinking tea, I forget about all my cares. As we leave, the owner's mother tells us to come back soon, that there are lots more teas to try.
We tell her we surely will.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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 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.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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....
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.
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.
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 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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
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?
Thursday, August 28, 2008
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.
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.
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