So, liquor still tastes terrible, I’ve forgotten how much I miss cycling, I never knew I could move so slowly, and I don’t remember being scared of salamanders.
I.
Friday night, after my last class earlier in the morning, we had our official welcome banquet at a Chinese restaurant here in town. All the big names were there. The Dean, Vice Dean, Party Secretary, Foreign Teachers, and the like. It was basically a joint-welcome for the new foreign teachers (Ashley, Lynn, and myself) as well as the new Chinese teachers who would be teaching in the Foreign studies Department.
Not unlike the previous banquet (see: “Chinese Dinners and Hard Liquors”), the atmosphere was one of strange, spinning food and traditional Chinese liquor, called baijou. Luckily for me they gave us shot glasses this time, so it was less sipping and more throw-your-head-back-and-let-it-burn-down-your-throat action. The only time I’ve ever used anything that even resembles a shot glass was in church, so I did what I did there and just gulp it down, eyes closed, and feel the goodness fill me up inside. Unfortunately, unlike in church where I feel refreshed, rejuvenated, and generally cleansed after communion, when I toss baijou down my throat it feels like Satan himself is washing down into my inner being and setting fire to anything good and wholesome that resides there. Now I know what it means to be baptized in fire.
Luckily, I was able to stay away from too much baijou this time, even though I helped Ashley with some of hers because getting drunk for friends is apparently a courageous and respectful thing to do. I do what I can.
I have been reading a lot of books on China lately and have learned that it is disrespectful to not drink when someone offers it to you during a banquet or dinner. The only true way to get out of it without offending the host party is to plead allergies. Unfortunately, I was not aware of this at the first dinner and already I had a reputation of a “good drinker.”
“That is not a reputation you want to have here,” explained Brando, another one of the foreign teachers who has been in Xuzhou for nearly four years. “I nearly ruined my liver the first year I was here.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him, “these banquets will be the only time I ever drink.” Maybe.
Luckily I made my way to the beautifully watered down Chinese beer, fittingly called shanshui or “mountain water.” It tasted more like Sprite than beer and I was just fine with using that to go around and toast the other tables, including the new foreign teachers and the Communist Party Secretary and the other Cadres.
I spoke with another new teacher called Wang Mina for a short while and we finally agreed to give each other language lessons. Wang Mina is Chinese and studied Japanese as her second language and she is now teaching Japanese at CUMT. She heard that I was desperately searching for a Chinese teacher and because she wanted to sharpen up her English, her third language, she asked me if I’d like to trade lessons off with her. I agreed to in a heartbeat. We are meeting this Tuesday to work out a formal schedule and hopefully I can have as many lessons with her as possible to improve my Chinese. I also tried to use some of my Japanese that I learned when I was much younger (konichiwa!), but failed miserably. Sorry, Mom – those lessons weren’t as useful as we hoped.
Afterwards Brando took us and some of the other new teachers out to explore the nightlife of Xuzhou, however limited it may be. We found ourselves at a interesting little bar called Soho, and soon found that our group of ten individuals made up 66% of the bars total attendees.
This is my kind of bar on a Friday night, I thought. Only in China could a city of nearly nine million people only have fifteen total people in one of the few bars in the entire city.
After a round of Budweiser, we went out onto the makeshift dance floor to get our groove on. During which I was recruited to play on the school basketball team by the other teachers (“we need you very bad!”).
After a good forty-five minutes of dancing (Thrashing? Head-bobbing? Writhing? Flailing?) nearly everyone left the dance floor and Lynn and I were about to do the same when a familiar line struck over the unbelievable, way-too-loud, eardrum splitting sound system.
“Coouuuuntttryyyyy rooooaaadddsss… taaake me hoooome”
“It’s John Denver!” I yelled to Lynn and without really wondering why in the world a techno version of “Country Roads” was playing in same random bar in Xuzhou, China we were kicking our legs up and spinning each other dosey-doe. We got seriously country with it.
We kicked our legs out sideways like a bad riverdance impression and thrust our fists down towards the floor. I got a small running start and did a heel click to cheers from our Chinese colleagues. I spread my arms wide and with just me and Lynn in the middle of bar, singing at the top of our lungs, I tried desperately to hear myself over the thumping bass and blasting speakers.
“Country roads, take me home to the place where I belong: West Virginia! Mountain Momma! Take me home!”
It was a moment that both made me proud to be where I was from and for the first time truly feel that I was far, far from home. I’m about as far away from West Virginia as you can be, exactly a half day, twelve hours, in a country that is so unlike anything I have ever experienced, and yet here I was, arms outstretched, voice straining, clicking my heels like Huckleberry Finn, and singing the one song that every West Virginian knows. And it made me realize how much everything in the United States (my family, our freedom, Wal-Mart, bike lanes, toilets that project from the ground, silence, air-conditioning, internet, McDonalds, M&M’s, books in English, people who never use their horn, toilet paper, clean water, dryers, people who have taken driving lessons, crosswalks, and cheese) really means to me. And it’s funny, that how when you get that small, fleeting touch from home, this time in the form of a techno-version of a song, it may be the first time you realize just how much everything back home really means to you. I will be happy to have it back, that comfortableness. But I came here to be uncomfortable. I came here to be challenged, and I came here to see just what I’m made of.
In the end, I may crack and cry for my mommy, but right now I am in China and I am loving it. I love its differences and I love its mysteriousness. I love how people either love me or yell obscenities at me as I walk down the street. I figure either way, I have caught their attention, and I intend to show them that while I may be an illiterate loawai now, I won’t always be that way, and the next time they throw an obscenity in my direction, I’ll understand what they are saying and knowingly ignore them, instead of ignorantly ignoring them now.
Wait, is that a good thing?
II.
The following morning Brando, along with his Chinese girlfriend Lena, invited Ashley and I on a bike ride of the surrounding countryside.
The day before Ashley and I decided, after a week of fleeting deliberation, that we would just go ahead and buy bikes. She went with the well-known brand Giant and got a light greenish, bluish, white-ish, velvetish (is that color?) bike with a nice frame and a little carrying rack on the back.
I looked thoroughly at the other bikes on display, paying particularly close attention to the darker, blacker, manlier looking ones with full suspension and four inches of travel on the front shock and Shimano components and twenty-eight speeds. I spun the pedals and checked how smoothly the gears shifted. Ran my hands along the seams of the tires, making sure each bit was clean and smooth. I checked the traction on the tires, noting their strength and reflected on how they would hold up if I was to hit rough streets, and because this is Xuzhou, China, the chances of me meeting rough streets was about 99%. The only way I wouldn’t hit rough streets would be if I carried the bike home and let it sit in my room for the whole year. I checked the air in the tires. I rang all the bells and horns on the bikes handlebars, noting that it would be my most useful weapon on the busy streets of China.
In the end though, I basically made my decision by what it said on the side of the bike.
“Check this out!” I said to Ashley as I pointed out a red and black bike with a hard-tail. “It says “Feel the Force and Strike For Freedom on the side!” I grabbed the bike out of the rack and quickly took it for a short spin down the aisle. Despite the fact that it said ‘aluminum frame’ on the side, It felt like it weighed about 100 pounds, and I’m pretty sure that was a pretty close estimate.
“I am soooo getting this one!” I said in my best thirteen-year old girl impression.
And so, after the helpful bike mechanic at The Lotus general store (Xuzhou’s Wal-Mart), pumped up my tires, installed my horn, and wiped off the seven years of dust that my bike had collected, we paid for our bikes (around 200 dollars together, including locks, pumps, and other bike necessities) and hit the streets.
As we walked through the crowds shopping for noodles and dumplings, I turned to Ashley.
“Hey Ashley.”
“Yes?”
“Did you see what my bike says on the side? Feel the Force and Strike For Freedom! How American is that?!”
“America!” she said in a deep Texas-like tone, which has become our habit whenever we speak of something that reminds us of the great country to the West. (Or East. It doesn’t really matter which way you go, I suppose.)
“America!” I echoed.
We made our way outside, probably bought some ice cream, though I can’t be sure, and made our way to the busy, hectic, and downright deadly streets of China. Walking on the streets is one thing, because you are generally secluded from them since you are able to take refuge and seek safety on sidewalks or on the grass somewhere. But when you are on a bike, you become one with this moving mass of death, and we did not belittle the danger of such an undertaking.
“Lets try to not get killed on our first ride.” I said.
We made our way out to the crosswalk and watched as the cars hurtled by in every direction. And just when you thought it was safe, bikes, mopeds, and motorcycles ran red lights and whizzed in front of you. It was like being underwater watching killer whales swim by only to be replaced by great white sharks and giant octopuses. Whichever one you chose, they could all kill you fairly equally.
I mounted my bike. It’s go time. I waited for the light to turn red on the street we were crossing, and once it did the green-walking sign across the street began to flash. The greatest part about these signs is the little green guy rarely just walks, he looks like he is running for his life (or dancing madly), and it really shows the urgency and danger of crossing a street in China.
“Lets go!” I yelled excitedly behind me to Ashley as I pushed off. I checked for cars and bikers turning right from our left. All clear. Safe. That eighteen wheeler passed behind me with at least two feet of clearance! No problem. I checked for motorcyclists running the red light from the other side as I began to pick up speed. All clear again. This is easy. I had made it nearly halfway across the street; the part that generally meant safety, as the cars going the other way were obviously still sitting and waiting for the red light. I began to think that this crossing had been pretty easy. A little tooo easy.
That was when I saw them: Left hand turners from the far street! They were bearing down on me like an elephant charging, their ears fanned out to their sides like I had just cut them off from their young. Actually, they looked more like black VW’s coming at me like a swarm of black, killer ladybugs. Or maybe they looked like the jaws of death waiting to munch on me with their molars and grind me down into dust, just like everything else is ground down in China. Whatever simile they may have appeared to represent, I knew they looked a bit like forthcoming pain.
“oooh booooyy…” I whimpered. I thought about slamming on my brakes, but I was afraid that doing so at my five miles-per-hour speed would send me flailing over my handlebars. Dodge and weave, I told myself. Dodge and weave. The first few cars buzzed right in front of me, nearly clipping the cars in the other lane (though, that was nothing new) and another buzzed behind me, cutting Ashley off as she stopped, hopefully, safely behind me.
Before I was able to confirm her safety, another black VW was coming straight at me, coming too sharp to go behind me and too late in coming to go between me and the cars in the opposite lane. Wheels screeched and brakes burned as the driver attempted to stop before ramming me with his front bumper. I pulled hard to the right and realized that while I had dodged certain death from the black VW I was now on a course to T-bone a small, blue taxi. I whipped my handle back to the left, brought my chest lower to the handlebars and pumped my legs furiously to build up speed and shoot through the small gap that remained between the two cars. The black VW’s momentum took him just behind me and I picked up just enough speed to keep him from clipping my back tire. I rocketed through the gap to safety.
“Feel the force!” I yelled in the direction of a twelve-year old girl on a scooter beside me, who seemed very unconcerned with what I thought was a death-defying ride full of skill and determination. “And strike for freeeeedom!”
She looked in my direction, probably rolled her eyes and then turned her head back to begin ignoring me again.
“America!” I added for emphasis.
III.
The following day we went on a five-hour excursion with Brando and Lena to tour the countryside around Xuzhou. We biked through old, traditional villages and towns and it was amazing to see the real China. The hills were very beautiful and we stopped next to a small lake/pond to go for a short swim.
“Most of the water in China is very dirty,” Lena explained. “But this water is clean.”
Suuuure.
“As long as I don’t have an leeches attaching themselves to me, I’ll be fine.” Ashley said.
“Agreed.” I said.
The water was cool and refreshing. Afterwards we snaked around the countryside, stopping to try some delicious street foods and Chinese sodas. My butt hurt. A lot.
Brando, who has been here for four years, has been truly helpful this weekend it telling us the ins and outs of the city and the school. Also, because he is dating a Chinese woman, we have learned a lot about the Chinese culture and way of doing things.
The bike trip was a lot fun and I hope to take my camera back into that area again to do a photograph tour of the area.
IV.
The next day Ashley, Lynn, and I all agree to join Brando and Lena to their weekly, Sunday Tai-Chi class.
We watched as the master demonstrated the techniques of Tai-chi, his flowing gold uniform whispered through the light breeze. His moves were calm and deliberate, like a flowing river running smoothly over rocks and round branches. It was a beautiful and astonishing sight, and many people stopped to watch.
The park where the training was held was found in the middle of the city and one would never believe it was there if they just walked around downtown Xuzhou. Everywhere one looked there were people playing games such as Mahjong and Chinese Checkers on tables surrounded by others intently watching the game unfold. Across the water a man with his violin played as men surrounding him bellowed out loud, patriotic songs. Their voices rang into the evening and I was sure the whole city could hear their bellows.
I did my best to follow our masters movements and techniques, melding my hand motions with weight shifts and breathing exercises. Multi-tasking has never been my strong suit. After nearly three hours of exercises, stretches, and basic training I was feeling limber and cleansed, and I told our teacher that I would see him next Sunday.
V.
The weekend culminated in grand style.
Ashley was over watching a documentary on China when she paused it and said she needed to use the restroom. I figured this would be a good time to run and get some water and as Ashley went into the bathroom I went into my kitchen, which shares a wall with the bathroom. I was just opening the fridge when I heard her shriek come throught wall.
“Oh my gooooshh!” I heard some quick rustling and the bathroom door being ripped open as I came out of the kitchen to see the disturbance. Ashley came sprinting out of the bathroom and scross my small dining room, toilet paper streaming off her pants.
“Oh my gosh! There’s a creature in there!” she exclaimed.
“Why do you have toilet paper hanging from your pants?” I asked, for this seemed much more mysterious and important.
“What? Oh… I wanted to make sure you had some so I tore some off and I had it in my hand when I was pulling my pants back up…. It doesn’t matter! There’s a huge lizard in your bathroom!”
“What? Seriously?” I asked
“Yes! There is a creature skittering across your ceiling.”
“Oh man.”
Geez China. Keep your critters and creatures outside. I went to my little outside porch and grabbed a broom. Ashley and I armed ourselves with wastebaskets that we planned to throw over the little feller if he ever fell to the ground. Though, I didn’t really know what I would do once I had caught him.
“You need to go in there,” Ashley explained. “Do you want me to close the door behind you when you get in?”
“Close the door? You want to trap me in there with that creature?”
“Well I don’t want it to get out!”
“It could be a Komodo Dragon!” I said. “He could jump on my head or something!”
“Well, go in there and check it out.”
I worked up my courage. I moved into the bathroom, moving over to the far wall into the shower, head down low, and looked back up behind me across the ceiling. Nothing. Not a trace of any sort of creature, and since I had just cleaned the entire bathroom earlier that day, no trace of dust either! However, this was a small victory and not really one that appeased my fears of the critter crawling somewhere across my ceiling.
“I think he’s behind the water heater,” I said motioning to the large, white water heater that took up half of the head room in the restroom. I grabbed my broom and started sticking it behind the water heater, with my wastebasket at the ready in case I needed to catch a slightly terrified and jumping lizard.
“There he is!” Ashley shrieked and I looked up as a small lizard that resembled a salamander skittered out from behind the water heater and across the ceiling. I ducked low in surprise and darted towards the door, more surprised and terrified by Ashley’s scream than by the creature himself. Ashley turned and skittered herself away from the door as I came throttling through.
“Is it on me? Is it on me?” She asked.
“No.” I replied. “It was on the ceiling.”
She breathed a sigh of relief and we began to think about what we could do with the little salamander crawling around my apartment ceilings, something that I did not entirely condone, but wasn’t really opposed to either. Live and let live, I say.
Upon returning to the door of the bathroom, crouched low, I looked back up towards the ceiling. The lizard had gone. He was nowhere to be found.
“He must have crawled back behind the water heater,” Ashley said. “Why don’t you use the shower head to spray him out?”
The funny thing about my bathroom is that there is no real place where the restroom ends and the shower area begins. No lip on the floor, no door, not really much of anything. Just a short shower curtain you pull across to keep the water from splashing all over your toilet and sink. Otherwise, it was just a few drains sporadically placed around the floor. Also, my shower head had a long hose on it so you could sort of pull it around the bathroom in case you wanted to, I don’t know, spray down your toilet after each use.
“Yes,” I said upon realizing another advantage my shower had: scalding hot water, “I will spray the water behind the hot water heater and burn him out!” PETA is going to be all over me when they read this.
I grabbed the shower head and pulled it towards the door. It was just long enough for me to angle it up towards the ceiling and behind the large, hot water heater, where we assumed the suspect was hiding. Ironic, I thought, your hiding place is also the same thing that is creating this scalding weapon that I will use to flush you out of your little fortress! Literally fighting fire with fire (if by ‘fire’ you mean ‘heat’ – I do).
I turned on the water and began spraying above and behind the water heater to the best of my ability. Water splashed across its side and ricocheted back into the bathroom, soaking the floor, toilet, sink, and my face. The hot water ran down my arm and into my armpit. I gave a quick jerk of surprise and water splashed on the door and onto the mirror. Puddles were beginning to form at my feet and the drains on the other side of the bathroom seemed to not be doing their job very well.
“Where are you, you little bugger! Where are you?”
No response. He was a good hider.
Finally, after my whole right side was quite damp and the floor had an inch of standing water I turned off the shower and hung my head in defeat.
“Why don’t you check to see if he’s up there?” Ashley suggested.
I realized that I probably should have done this before I blasted hot water all over the bathroom, but sometimes the syntax of thought is all screwed up. I came back outside and grabbed my cycling shades and put them on.
“What are those for?” Ashley asked.
“Well, once I put my head up there, I will be at eye level with the beast. So I need to wear these in case he decides to leap at me and rip out my eyeballs.”
I went and stood on the toilet. I slowly straightened my legs as my head came closer to the ceiling, nearly level with the top of the hot water heater. I held my little wastebasket in front of my face like a shield, hoping that somehow the creature would believe it to be a haven for his ostensibly soaked and burning self and just jump right in. My legs were nearly locked out now, and I waited for the imminent encounter between man and beast; the most storied and harrowing of confrontations. My eyes could now see over the hot water heater and I squinted to focus into the dark corners. Nothing. Emptiness. The beast was not up there.
“He’s gone,” I whispered carefully. “Oh man – he could be anywhere!”
“What do we do?” Ashley asked as I came down from the toilet, stepped over the puddles on my floor and came back into the dining room.
I didn’t know what to do... So, in the end we named the creature Sally the Salamander and kept her as a pet. Maybe one day, while I’m innocently showering or brushing my teeth, having forgotten about our little encounter, Sally will return from wherever she went, drop down on my head without even a notice and say hello.
I look forward to such a day.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Teaching Made Easy!
I am a teacher of English. A ridiculously good-looking teacher of English. Apparently.
I.
My first two days of teaching are officially over. I have taught three total classes, at just under two hours each. On Tuesday, I had my first conversation class and today I had two writing classes.
I was a bit nervous walking into each class for the first time. Besides soccer, watching television, or playing video games, I can’t remember a time when I did anything for two hours straight, especially standing in front of thirty Chinese students to teach them something. Luckily, as I have mentioned in previous posts, being a foreigner automatically makes me pretty popular and instantly likeable. Therefore, it is my fault, and my fault alone (besides G.W. Bush), if I screw that up and everyone dislikes me.
My first class was a conversation class. I walked into the classroom ten minutes before I was supposed to start class and to my surprise nearly every single one of my students were already seated at their desk, either quietly chatting or reading their textbook. However, when I walked in there was a collective gasp throughout the room and everyone turned to stare. I smiled as the students murmured to each other and whispered silently. I still had ten minutes to kill before class, so naturally I stood there awkwardly, reprieved every so often when one or two students walked in and I was able to say “hello”.
Soon, chatter picked up again and just a few minutes before class started I decided to just go ahead and get going.
“Okay,” I said.
Every word that was being said throughout the classroom died off. Every conversation wafted towards the ceilings. Thoughts were lost before they were formed. And there was silence. Dead silence.
Every pair of eyes was focused on me, and the power of my English words began to become apparent. I am an English teacher, and I am a foreigner; listen to me, the bringer of incredible language revelations!
Chinese students are known to be very shy and quiet in class, and this class generally fit that description. I had each student interview a partner and then introduce their partner to the class. This took some time and it was a good way for me to learn some names. But it wasn’t long before I realized that most students had grown a little tired of hearing about their classmates.
I can’t lose them on the first day, I thought. This is supposed to be the easy day!
So I went to my one weapon that I knew would not fail.
After I gave them a short five-minute break, I decided to show them pictures of my family and my hometown. We had been told during orientation that Chinese students love pictures of families, hometowns, and the United States. Unfortunately for me, I had very few pictures with me. So, I went to the one place where I knew I had plenty: my computer.
As I pulled my computer out of my bag, placed it on my desk and opened it, the students gasped and giggled with delight. One thing about the Chinese is that they always want to have the newest and best equipment, and you can always see students and older citizens showing off new cell phones and mp3 players. But the Apple computer is apparently at the top of the totem poll, and here was this foreigner who had one. The double whammy.
I went to my photo section and put a short slideshow on full screen. Then I turned it around and held it in my arms so the students would be able to see. And, to my amazement, the students broke into spontaneous applause and cheers, enthralled by the large photograph of me in my graduation outfit with a funny hat on my head. Suddenly the room came alive. Suddenly I had them right where I wanted them. Thank you Steve Jobs. Class was officially saved.
II.
The students in my writing class the following day were much easier to get along with. As I walked towards my classroom, again ten minutes early, the students were all huddled outside the room, which was locked. When one of the students saw me coming from down the hall, she turned to everyone else, said something to them, and soon every student turned and stared at me as I approached.
As I got closer I heard one sophomore girl exclaim, “He is so handsome!” I couldn’t help but smile and when she realized that I had heard her she covered her face and giggled uncontrollably. As I broke into their small semi-circle I gave a warm “Good morning!” and everyone echoed the notion and smiled cheerfully. Soon the students were swarming around me. A few girls were more forward than girl number one, offering their praise in the form of: “you are so hot.”
“Thank you,” I said, not really sure what else to say (“I work out,” was a quip I quickly decided against).
Even the few guys (most English majors are girls) were praiseworthy of my American appearance.
“You are the most handsome man!” one particularly friendly boy said.
Again: “thank you,” for I really didn’t know how to reply to that.
Feeling more and more confident about my abilities to teach English, bolstered by my ostensible good looks, I began to chat with a few of the students. They were very kind, not nearly as shy as the first class, and incredibly praiseworthy of my appearance. Just when I thought that my ego had inflated to its maximum capacity (which is quite difficult to do, I assure you) one student named Kenneth gave a fist pump of excitement into the air and yelled, “Hooray for our hero!”
Now we’re talking.
Class went smoothly and as students introduced themselves and talked about where they were from, I could tell they were excited to have a young, foreign teacher. Mostly because they told me. The Chinese may generally be fairly quiet in class, but when they speak, they say exactly what they are thinking. And gosh darn it, they were thinking about me.
After my incredibly popular picture show, I let students ask me questions about where I am from and who I am. There were some similarities in the questions asked:
“Are you married?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Michael Owen?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Michael Phelps?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Matt Damon?”
“You are so handsome!” (not a question, I pointed out).
“How old are you?” – (This particular question’s answer made every student gasp in surprise and excitement. Apparently, being 23 means that I am young, cool, and hip. Gosh, these students know me so well. So intuitive, the Chinese).
“Do you like China?”
“Did you watch the Olympics?” (also asked by everyone – very proud, the Chinese).
“You are single!” (also not a question, I noted).
“You look like…” wait, let me guess. A famous American or soccer player? I Thought so.
And so it continued on until class was over. And I decided that if all my classes centered around me talking about myself, this was going to be the easiest and most pleasant job ever. I think there are things these students know about me now that even my family has never asked me. So Nolan, Kyle, or Lauren, if you want to know at what age I first held a girls hand, had my first girlfriend, had my first kiss or are wondering what famous person I most closely resemble (probably a Michael of some kind), please ask Mirror in row 3 or Deer from row one. They will tell you all about it.
III.
Even though class two was very upbeat and easy to get along with, they were easily topped by my second writing class of the day and third overall. Ashley and I both decided that going ten minutes early to class was sort of awkward and since we weren’t really supposed to start class early, we would just sort of stand in the front as the class gawked at us. So, we thought, it would be much better if we went into the classroom right before class was supposed to begin. This afternoon she was teaching directly across the hall from where I was and I waited for her to walk into her classroom before I went into mine. As she moved in through the door to her classroom I heard her entire class break out in rapturous applause.
Man, I thought, I really wish one of my classes would break into applause when I came in. This whole thing about me being the most handsome and beautiful man on earth just wasn’t enough.
I decided, with thirty seconds before class started, I had better go inside and get going. I turned the handle and any talking that I heard from outside the door died down. I pushed the door open and stepped through, and there was my final class of the day: nearly 30 students, their faces beaming. I stepped through and smiled at them, and after just a split-second of hesitation, they all began applauding with a joy that I’ve only seen on the faces of children at Christmas. I thanked them, but wasted no time in writing my name on the board and getting down to business.
“This is English! This is college! This is serious!” I yelled.
Not really.
I joked about my poor Chinese skills. We looked at pictures. They commented on how beautiful my family is (even Timmy got a “he is so handsome!” – though, it was from a dude), how Moatsville, WV looks like “paradise”, and laughed at my sister Lauren’s ability to get the Dairy Queen people to write “cake” in Chinese characters on, who would have guessed, a cake. Very creative.
They were a very bright group as well, and when my favorite segment came along, “Questions For Kerrin”, they asked whether I thought it was important to visit other countries and experience other cultures, learn about Chinese history, learn another language, and how much an ipod, and other various Apple products, would cost in the United States.
They laughed merrily and were very obedient, telling others to be quiet when someone spoke during class, which made my job as a semi-disciplinarian very easy.
III.
Across the hall, Ashley was having a similar experience. She walked in, to applause remember, and quickly noticed that something was different about this class. Unlike in every other class that we have had, the front row was filled with all the boys in the class, who usually number around five or six and sit near the back of the class. After the applause died down, a student stood up to explain the situation, sensing Ashley’s confusion.
“I am your monitor (which is a student handpicked by the rest of the class to help the teachers). And there is a reason why all the boys are sitting in the front of the class.”
His English name was Mr. Cool, and boy, the guy was living up to his name.
“The reason is that our friends from your other classes told us how beautiful you were, and so all the boys decided to come early to get the seats in front.”
Smooth, Mr. Cool. So smooth.
Later, as Ashley was going through her introductions, she noticed a young girl texting on her cell-phone, something that is not generally allowed in class.
“Who are you texting?” Ashley asked.
“I have a friend in the other class,” the girl explained. “She is telling me that there is a very handsome boy teaching their class!”
Back in my room, I had just given the entire class the usual five minute break halfway through class. Most of the girls filed out, and before long the door to my class kept opening and closing, and each time it slowly creaked open, another Chinese girl poked her head in, smiled sheepishly, said “Hi!” and then quickly retreated. This continued for the better part of the next three minutes and each time it happened the students in my class burst into laughter.
“Who are those people?” I asked.
“They are from the other class across the hall!” they explained, laughing.
Apparently, every girl in Ashley’s class had filed out during the break to try and get a peek at the other new English teacher. Me.
It’s really not healthy to be adored this much. I really shouldn’t let it go to my head. I really shouldn’t think too much about it. Fame will never get to me. I should stay grounded and understand that I am here to teach English and that the students are here to learn as much as they can from me.
But hey – I’m just going to assume it wont last, so for now, I’ll just soak it up. Come tests and papers, I’m sure I will become very ugly in their eyes. (Beautifully ugly, anyway).
Note: despite the fact that the author seems to be very impressed with himself, he assures his readers that he is not that good looking. Promise.
Note 2: Some of the Chinese students come up with finest of English names. Here are some of our favorites:
Apple
Cherry
Pure-Blue
Bamboo
Rain
Mr. Cool (of course)
Kitty
God (seriously)
Song
Laugh
Haergraves
Mirror
Nada
Queena
I.
My first two days of teaching are officially over. I have taught three total classes, at just under two hours each. On Tuesday, I had my first conversation class and today I had two writing classes.
I was a bit nervous walking into each class for the first time. Besides soccer, watching television, or playing video games, I can’t remember a time when I did anything for two hours straight, especially standing in front of thirty Chinese students to teach them something. Luckily, as I have mentioned in previous posts, being a foreigner automatically makes me pretty popular and instantly likeable. Therefore, it is my fault, and my fault alone (besides G.W. Bush), if I screw that up and everyone dislikes me.
My first class was a conversation class. I walked into the classroom ten minutes before I was supposed to start class and to my surprise nearly every single one of my students were already seated at their desk, either quietly chatting or reading their textbook. However, when I walked in there was a collective gasp throughout the room and everyone turned to stare. I smiled as the students murmured to each other and whispered silently. I still had ten minutes to kill before class, so naturally I stood there awkwardly, reprieved every so often when one or two students walked in and I was able to say “hello”.
Soon, chatter picked up again and just a few minutes before class started I decided to just go ahead and get going.
“Okay,” I said.
Every word that was being said throughout the classroom died off. Every conversation wafted towards the ceilings. Thoughts were lost before they were formed. And there was silence. Dead silence.
Every pair of eyes was focused on me, and the power of my English words began to become apparent. I am an English teacher, and I am a foreigner; listen to me, the bringer of incredible language revelations!
Chinese students are known to be very shy and quiet in class, and this class generally fit that description. I had each student interview a partner and then introduce their partner to the class. This took some time and it was a good way for me to learn some names. But it wasn’t long before I realized that most students had grown a little tired of hearing about their classmates.
I can’t lose them on the first day, I thought. This is supposed to be the easy day!
So I went to my one weapon that I knew would not fail.
After I gave them a short five-minute break, I decided to show them pictures of my family and my hometown. We had been told during orientation that Chinese students love pictures of families, hometowns, and the United States. Unfortunately for me, I had very few pictures with me. So, I went to the one place where I knew I had plenty: my computer.
As I pulled my computer out of my bag, placed it on my desk and opened it, the students gasped and giggled with delight. One thing about the Chinese is that they always want to have the newest and best equipment, and you can always see students and older citizens showing off new cell phones and mp3 players. But the Apple computer is apparently at the top of the totem poll, and here was this foreigner who had one. The double whammy.
I went to my photo section and put a short slideshow on full screen. Then I turned it around and held it in my arms so the students would be able to see. And, to my amazement, the students broke into spontaneous applause and cheers, enthralled by the large photograph of me in my graduation outfit with a funny hat on my head. Suddenly the room came alive. Suddenly I had them right where I wanted them. Thank you Steve Jobs. Class was officially saved.
II.
The students in my writing class the following day were much easier to get along with. As I walked towards my classroom, again ten minutes early, the students were all huddled outside the room, which was locked. When one of the students saw me coming from down the hall, she turned to everyone else, said something to them, and soon every student turned and stared at me as I approached.
As I got closer I heard one sophomore girl exclaim, “He is so handsome!” I couldn’t help but smile and when she realized that I had heard her she covered her face and giggled uncontrollably. As I broke into their small semi-circle I gave a warm “Good morning!” and everyone echoed the notion and smiled cheerfully. Soon the students were swarming around me. A few girls were more forward than girl number one, offering their praise in the form of: “you are so hot.”
“Thank you,” I said, not really sure what else to say (“I work out,” was a quip I quickly decided against).
Even the few guys (most English majors are girls) were praiseworthy of my American appearance.
“You are the most handsome man!” one particularly friendly boy said.
Again: “thank you,” for I really didn’t know how to reply to that.
Feeling more and more confident about my abilities to teach English, bolstered by my ostensible good looks, I began to chat with a few of the students. They were very kind, not nearly as shy as the first class, and incredibly praiseworthy of my appearance. Just when I thought that my ego had inflated to its maximum capacity (which is quite difficult to do, I assure you) one student named Kenneth gave a fist pump of excitement into the air and yelled, “Hooray for our hero!”
Now we’re talking.
Class went smoothly and as students introduced themselves and talked about where they were from, I could tell they were excited to have a young, foreign teacher. Mostly because they told me. The Chinese may generally be fairly quiet in class, but when they speak, they say exactly what they are thinking. And gosh darn it, they were thinking about me.
After my incredibly popular picture show, I let students ask me questions about where I am from and who I am. There were some similarities in the questions asked:
“Are you married?”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Michael Owen?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Michael Phelps?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Matt Damon?”
“You are so handsome!” (not a question, I pointed out).
“How old are you?” – (This particular question’s answer made every student gasp in surprise and excitement. Apparently, being 23 means that I am young, cool, and hip. Gosh, these students know me so well. So intuitive, the Chinese).
“Do you like China?”
“Did you watch the Olympics?” (also asked by everyone – very proud, the Chinese).
“You are single!” (also not a question, I noted).
“You look like…” wait, let me guess. A famous American or soccer player? I Thought so.
And so it continued on until class was over. And I decided that if all my classes centered around me talking about myself, this was going to be the easiest and most pleasant job ever. I think there are things these students know about me now that even my family has never asked me. So Nolan, Kyle, or Lauren, if you want to know at what age I first held a girls hand, had my first girlfriend, had my first kiss or are wondering what famous person I most closely resemble (probably a Michael of some kind), please ask Mirror in row 3 or Deer from row one. They will tell you all about it.
III.
Even though class two was very upbeat and easy to get along with, they were easily topped by my second writing class of the day and third overall. Ashley and I both decided that going ten minutes early to class was sort of awkward and since we weren’t really supposed to start class early, we would just sort of stand in the front as the class gawked at us. So, we thought, it would be much better if we went into the classroom right before class was supposed to begin. This afternoon she was teaching directly across the hall from where I was and I waited for her to walk into her classroom before I went into mine. As she moved in through the door to her classroom I heard her entire class break out in rapturous applause.
Man, I thought, I really wish one of my classes would break into applause when I came in. This whole thing about me being the most handsome and beautiful man on earth just wasn’t enough.
I decided, with thirty seconds before class started, I had better go inside and get going. I turned the handle and any talking that I heard from outside the door died down. I pushed the door open and stepped through, and there was my final class of the day: nearly 30 students, their faces beaming. I stepped through and smiled at them, and after just a split-second of hesitation, they all began applauding with a joy that I’ve only seen on the faces of children at Christmas. I thanked them, but wasted no time in writing my name on the board and getting down to business.
“This is English! This is college! This is serious!” I yelled.
Not really.
I joked about my poor Chinese skills. We looked at pictures. They commented on how beautiful my family is (even Timmy got a “he is so handsome!” – though, it was from a dude), how Moatsville, WV looks like “paradise”, and laughed at my sister Lauren’s ability to get the Dairy Queen people to write “cake” in Chinese characters on, who would have guessed, a cake. Very creative.
They were a very bright group as well, and when my favorite segment came along, “Questions For Kerrin”, they asked whether I thought it was important to visit other countries and experience other cultures, learn about Chinese history, learn another language, and how much an ipod, and other various Apple products, would cost in the United States.
They laughed merrily and were very obedient, telling others to be quiet when someone spoke during class, which made my job as a semi-disciplinarian very easy.
III.
Across the hall, Ashley was having a similar experience. She walked in, to applause remember, and quickly noticed that something was different about this class. Unlike in every other class that we have had, the front row was filled with all the boys in the class, who usually number around five or six and sit near the back of the class. After the applause died down, a student stood up to explain the situation, sensing Ashley’s confusion.
“I am your monitor (which is a student handpicked by the rest of the class to help the teachers). And there is a reason why all the boys are sitting in the front of the class.”
His English name was Mr. Cool, and boy, the guy was living up to his name.
“The reason is that our friends from your other classes told us how beautiful you were, and so all the boys decided to come early to get the seats in front.”
Smooth, Mr. Cool. So smooth.
Later, as Ashley was going through her introductions, she noticed a young girl texting on her cell-phone, something that is not generally allowed in class.
“Who are you texting?” Ashley asked.
“I have a friend in the other class,” the girl explained. “She is telling me that there is a very handsome boy teaching their class!”
Back in my room, I had just given the entire class the usual five minute break halfway through class. Most of the girls filed out, and before long the door to my class kept opening and closing, and each time it slowly creaked open, another Chinese girl poked her head in, smiled sheepishly, said “Hi!” and then quickly retreated. This continued for the better part of the next three minutes and each time it happened the students in my class burst into laughter.
“Who are those people?” I asked.
“They are from the other class across the hall!” they explained, laughing.
Apparently, every girl in Ashley’s class had filed out during the break to try and get a peek at the other new English teacher. Me.
It’s really not healthy to be adored this much. I really shouldn’t let it go to my head. I really shouldn’t think too much about it. Fame will never get to me. I should stay grounded and understand that I am here to teach English and that the students are here to learn as much as they can from me.
But hey – I’m just going to assume it wont last, so for now, I’ll just soak it up. Come tests and papers, I’m sure I will become very ugly in their eyes. (Beautifully ugly, anyway).
Note: despite the fact that the author seems to be very impressed with himself, he assures his readers that he is not that good looking. Promise.
Note 2: Some of the Chinese students come up with finest of English names. Here are some of our favorites:
Apple
Cherry
Pure-Blue
Bamboo
Rain
Mr. Cool (of course)
Kitty
God (seriously)
Song
Laugh
Haergraves
Mirror
Nada
Queena
Monday, September 8, 2008
Chinese Dinners & Hard Liquors
I am not much of a drinker.
Anyone who knows me for some time knows this statement to be true. Over the course of my lifetime, I could probably count the times I have had “too much” to drink on one hand. And has there ever been a more subjective phrase than “too much” when it comes to drinking?
The good thing about being someone who doesn’t drink much is that it makes it possible to run only a few miles here and there and still keep a relatively flat stomach. Also, I am less likely to get arrested in crazy, foreign countries for picking fights in a bar because of my inability to think straight (I hear that’s what happens when you drink “too much” alcohol, I wouldn’t know for sure).
The bad part about being an infrequent drinker, and also, I should admit, an avid detester of all things that taste and smell like alcohol, is that in certain social situations it is quite common to order drinks and share in the merry mood that is brought on by alcohol.
No thank you, kind sir. I would love to share that one thousand dollar bottle of wine with you, but may I just have some kiwi-strawberry propel instead?
Unfortunately for me, I recently found myself in just that sort of situation.
I was with my fellow American colleagues (or “foreign experts” as we prefer to be called), Ashley and Lynn, when we piled into our waiban’s van and headed off to a traditional Chinese restaurant for a bit of dinner. Our waiban is Chester. An amiable mid-thirties Chinese man whose English is superb and who works in the International Studies program here at the Chinese University of Mining and Technology. His basic job pertaining to the three of us, and all the rest of the foreign experts in our building, is to make sure we are safe and provide us with anything we may need (“where is my internet Chester!?”). Chester notified us earlier in the day that his boss wanted to take the three of us out to dinner. Because we had already visited the same restaurant on campus five times, and were actually already getting sick of ramen noodles, we were more than delighted to join Chester and his boss for a night out dining on traditional Chinese dishes.
Xuzhou City isn’t known for much of anything. I mean, we aren’t even mentioned in the Lonely Planet guidebook, and this is a city of nearly nine million, so obviously, we aren’t known for much. But there are some mountains surrounding the city with some traditional Chinese temples and buildings laid out on the mountainside. Besides a few Buddhist Temples, much of these are said to be replicas of buildings from the Han Dynasty, whose first ruler was born very close to Xuzhou’s city limits. As a result, our hosts, Chester and Professor Yu-something, decided to take us to a traditional Han Dynasty Restaurant. I’ve learned that most of the time, the word ‘traditional’ means “alive, squirming, venomous, or appallingly nauseating”, but that didn’t deter my excitement from a night of free food.
Why is their a snake crawling around on my plate? Oh, it’s free, you say? Well hand me some golden chopsticks and color me Red, China’s fantastic!
We entered a thin, stretched-out restaurant with a beautiful painting of the clouds and sky that ran along its entire roof. The six of us, counting the driver, all sat around a large round table and were soon surrounded by no less than five waiters, all asking which of the “traditional” dishes we would like to eat. The beautiful thing about China dining is that it is never one-and-done. If you order one thing you don’t like, no problem, about twenty-five other dishes are close behind.
Soon there was a parade of food being placed on the large, spinning plate before us and we were soon twisting it to get to the best and most scrumptious of dishes. In China, manners go out the window. Mostly because it is impossible to be neat and tidy when you are sucking down noodles that never end, and with no knife or fork to cut anything into manageable pieces, dinner resembles more like lions ripping flesh from bones than civilized beings who took etiquette classes when they were younger (Ashley).
“Could you please pass the duck eyeballs wrapped in snake skin, madam?” would never be heard at a Chinese table. Mostly, because there is no passing of anything. Just spinning and grabbing. Spinning and grabbing. One must bring only two things to a Chinese dinner: a really, really strong stomach and really good chopstick skills. No one is going to wait for you to spend three minutes stabbing at a nut while the duck head is getting cold and mushy (or maybe it comes that way?).
Luckily for me, my chopsticks skills have improved exponentially over the course of my two weeks in China. Considering two weeks ago I commented, “this must have been what it was like hunting for food back in olden times. It may take longer, but once it gets to your mouth, it feels like utter victory!”
I attempted to sample everything that I knew wouldn’t cause me to go for my Cipro in the middle of the night and we heartily had a good chat with our two new colleagues. But then, the professor decided to make things serious. And in China, everything is seemingly serious.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked me.
As is my immediate response in China, I said cha, or tea.
“No, no, no” he replied, “you must drink something harder. Beer, wine, or liquor?”
Given the choices, I had to go with wine. Mostly because out of the three, it’s the only thing I can drink without having to make sure I don’t grimace as I swallow. So, I gave him my preference and he tapped the waitress on the shoulder and soon they brought him a small bottle with a creamy colored sleeve that had some indiscernible Chinese characteristics emblazoned on every side. They might as well have been skull and crossbones.
“In China,” he said, “we give toasts to everyone in the party!”
Super.
He popped off the cap from across the table and poured it’s contents into Ashley’s glass first, and even from nearly eight feet away I could tell by the smell that it was definitely not wine. I heard Ashley give out a long “whoooo” as she lowered her nose to smell the drink, and I knew I was in trouble. He filled Chester’s glass, then Lynn’s, then his and finally my own (thankfully, our driver respectfully declined). As my glass was filled nearly halfway with this drink that seemed to cling to the sides as it poured down the inside of my glass, I could already feel the little hairs inside my nostrils wither up and die. It was the most potent drink that had ever laid siege to my nasal passage and I began to wonder if it’s PH level was possibly lower than that of the gastric juices within my own stomach.
“Now,” Professor Yu began, “A toast to new teachers and good teaching.” We clanked our glasses together and I brought mine to my lips. My eyes began to water. This is some hard liquor, I thought. It HAS to be, I hoped. Like awkward cousins kissing, the glass met my lips and I tipped it ever so slowly, watching as the thick, clear liquid crawled down my glass like a three-toed sloth. I wanted to pull my nose outside the glass because the stench had to have been worse than the taste. Oh sweet mercy, please let it be worse than the taste. The first of the liquid touched my lips, which clasped the side of the glass like a vice and I could feel the liquor trying to burn it’s way through them and begin its assault on my tongue and throat. I parted my lips slightly, the liquor seeped into my mouth and I didn’t waste time by sloshing it around my mouth to taste all it’s little intricacies. I threw my head back and sucked it down my throat. The involuntary action of peristalsis never felt more voluntary. The dragon liquor burned down my throat, breathing fire and clawing all the way down. I heard Lynn give a long “oooofff” as if she had been punched in the stomach. The professor gave a soft laugh as I laid my glass back on the table, confident that my face did not give away the torture taking place within the deep recesses of my soul.
I had done it. Not that bad, I thought. I mean, I’m alive. So, in that respect, not that bad. Now, I can sit back, enjoy my fish heads and hot tea and we’ll have a good time together with friends. No problem.
“Another toast to each person at the table!”
Say what now?
And so we drank. And we drank. We toasted Ashley because the ‘sh’ in her name is hard to pronounce. We toasted Virginia because Profesor Yu had been there recently. We toasted Lynn because she was born in South Korea. We toasted to ‘good teaching’ again. We toasted to each person. Again. And we drank. Or we sipped. Gosh, how I sipped.
Chester and Professor did not sip. They downed. They challenged.
“Kerrin,” they would say (apparently everyone pronounces my name right in China, because there is no common name like Karen to confuse it with). “Half?” They pointed to their glasses, and then to mine, signaling that we should drink at least half of the liquor that still remained in our glasses. Unfortunately for me, my glass was pretty much still as full as it was when we began. So we drank.
“No, no, no. Not enough!” they said, pointing to my glass after I took my sweet little, girlish sip. So, because peer pressure, especially in China with Chinese professors at a dinner they paid for, is a powerful thing, I drank some more.
“Finish!” came the next toast. And so we finished those glasses. I let out a sigh of relief, chased the nasty smelling, worse tasting, liquor with some tea and felt confident that since I had gotten to the bottom of my glass, however difficult it may have been, I was now finished. Before I could even feel fully confident in this ideal, Chester had rounded the table and was refilling my glass.
“Now I know you can drink!” he said delightedly in his thick Chinese accent.
No. No I really can’t. Trust me.
We toasted some more. Drank a lot more. They refilled my glass. Ashley and Lynn were spared. I was the man of the group. I had to drink!
Second glass finished. Third. Fourth. The large, center plate began to spin the large assortment of food much faster than it had been an hour before. So much spinning. For goodness sakes, please stop the plate from spinning… please.
My stomach began to feel awfully strange. I could feel it churning and squirming and eager to be rid of whatever it was I was putting into it. I could sense it wondering where the ice water, tea, and propel had gone. What is this new devilry that has been thrust into me?
I needed to get up and walk around. I had to stretch out my stomach and let it breathe. I went to the bathroom. Slowly and ever so carefully.
“Wei sheng jian zai na li” I sputtered (thanks Rosetta Stone). They pointed and I was on my way. Careful to place each step in its proper place. I first made my way towards the stalls, but quickly decided against going in there. Squat toilets. Even in a fairly upscale restaurant, squat toilets are not uncommon. They run parallel with the floor and anyone without a few years of gymnastics training may find it difficult to balance over these small holes in the ground, let alone someone with a few glasses of liquor broiling within them.
Instead, I went for the urinals. I really just needed to get up, walk around, and escape the table for a while, so this was just so I didn’t look weird to all the Chinese men already in there, as I didn’t really have any need to urinate. After what I believed to be an acceptable amount of time standing over the urinal, I washed my hands and made my way back to the table.
To my great relief, the party had finished the second bottle of liquor that we ordered. To my distress, they had instead ordered a large bottle of beer. My glass was already filled.
“In China,” good ‘ol Chester pleasantly explained, “When we toast with beer, we always finish the glass.”
Fantastic! I majored in chugging at college! (or maybe that was communications…little good that has done me in China. I can’t communicate squat.)
“Bottoms up,” I proclaimed, brought the glass to my lips and began to drink. And wouldn’t you know it, it was the greatest and sweetest tasting beer that has ever touched my lips. After the liquor, it felt like sweet, liquefied gold draining down my gullet. It was cold and delicious. My stomach rejoiced. Happily, I placed my glass back onto the table and it was quickly refilled. I looked over at Ashley and she mouthed “are you alright?”, knowing that I had ingested more liquor than either of the two girls at the table. I nodded an emphatic yes, feeling jubilant at my new fond love for beer.
“The beer is only 2% alcohol,” she said, which made sense, considering China is known for it’s watered down beer. That would also explain why it went down like water. It practically was.
“But,” she continued, “The liquor was 46% alcohol.”
Hoooolllyyyy…
I didn’t really feel like doing the math, but I understood that however much liquor I did down, it was probably “too much”. I soaked it up with chicken dumplings and crackers (and beer), and before long I was feeling like my normal, balanced self again (though probably not squat toilet ready, I thought). I guess there are advantages to getting semi-drunk before it even gets dark. Plenty of time to eat crackers, drink water, and let the lovely sands of time flush you clean of debilitating intoxication.
Chester was raising his beer glass: “To new teachers!” again?
I smiled, face flushed red.
“Bottoms up!”
Anyone who knows me for some time knows this statement to be true. Over the course of my lifetime, I could probably count the times I have had “too much” to drink on one hand. And has there ever been a more subjective phrase than “too much” when it comes to drinking?
The good thing about being someone who doesn’t drink much is that it makes it possible to run only a few miles here and there and still keep a relatively flat stomach. Also, I am less likely to get arrested in crazy, foreign countries for picking fights in a bar because of my inability to think straight (I hear that’s what happens when you drink “too much” alcohol, I wouldn’t know for sure).
The bad part about being an infrequent drinker, and also, I should admit, an avid detester of all things that taste and smell like alcohol, is that in certain social situations it is quite common to order drinks and share in the merry mood that is brought on by alcohol.
No thank you, kind sir. I would love to share that one thousand dollar bottle of wine with you, but may I just have some kiwi-strawberry propel instead?
Unfortunately for me, I recently found myself in just that sort of situation.
I was with my fellow American colleagues (or “foreign experts” as we prefer to be called), Ashley and Lynn, when we piled into our waiban’s van and headed off to a traditional Chinese restaurant for a bit of dinner. Our waiban is Chester. An amiable mid-thirties Chinese man whose English is superb and who works in the International Studies program here at the Chinese University of Mining and Technology. His basic job pertaining to the three of us, and all the rest of the foreign experts in our building, is to make sure we are safe and provide us with anything we may need (“where is my internet Chester!?”). Chester notified us earlier in the day that his boss wanted to take the three of us out to dinner. Because we had already visited the same restaurant on campus five times, and were actually already getting sick of ramen noodles, we were more than delighted to join Chester and his boss for a night out dining on traditional Chinese dishes.
Xuzhou City isn’t known for much of anything. I mean, we aren’t even mentioned in the Lonely Planet guidebook, and this is a city of nearly nine million, so obviously, we aren’t known for much. But there are some mountains surrounding the city with some traditional Chinese temples and buildings laid out on the mountainside. Besides a few Buddhist Temples, much of these are said to be replicas of buildings from the Han Dynasty, whose first ruler was born very close to Xuzhou’s city limits. As a result, our hosts, Chester and Professor Yu-something, decided to take us to a traditional Han Dynasty Restaurant. I’ve learned that most of the time, the word ‘traditional’ means “alive, squirming, venomous, or appallingly nauseating”, but that didn’t deter my excitement from a night of free food.
Why is their a snake crawling around on my plate? Oh, it’s free, you say? Well hand me some golden chopsticks and color me Red, China’s fantastic!
We entered a thin, stretched-out restaurant with a beautiful painting of the clouds and sky that ran along its entire roof. The six of us, counting the driver, all sat around a large round table and were soon surrounded by no less than five waiters, all asking which of the “traditional” dishes we would like to eat. The beautiful thing about China dining is that it is never one-and-done. If you order one thing you don’t like, no problem, about twenty-five other dishes are close behind.
Soon there was a parade of food being placed on the large, spinning plate before us and we were soon twisting it to get to the best and most scrumptious of dishes. In China, manners go out the window. Mostly because it is impossible to be neat and tidy when you are sucking down noodles that never end, and with no knife or fork to cut anything into manageable pieces, dinner resembles more like lions ripping flesh from bones than civilized beings who took etiquette classes when they were younger (Ashley).
“Could you please pass the duck eyeballs wrapped in snake skin, madam?” would never be heard at a Chinese table. Mostly, because there is no passing of anything. Just spinning and grabbing. Spinning and grabbing. One must bring only two things to a Chinese dinner: a really, really strong stomach and really good chopstick skills. No one is going to wait for you to spend three minutes stabbing at a nut while the duck head is getting cold and mushy (or maybe it comes that way?).
Luckily for me, my chopsticks skills have improved exponentially over the course of my two weeks in China. Considering two weeks ago I commented, “this must have been what it was like hunting for food back in olden times. It may take longer, but once it gets to your mouth, it feels like utter victory!”
I attempted to sample everything that I knew wouldn’t cause me to go for my Cipro in the middle of the night and we heartily had a good chat with our two new colleagues. But then, the professor decided to make things serious. And in China, everything is seemingly serious.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked me.
As is my immediate response in China, I said cha, or tea.
“No, no, no” he replied, “you must drink something harder. Beer, wine, or liquor?”
Given the choices, I had to go with wine. Mostly because out of the three, it’s the only thing I can drink without having to make sure I don’t grimace as I swallow. So, I gave him my preference and he tapped the waitress on the shoulder and soon they brought him a small bottle with a creamy colored sleeve that had some indiscernible Chinese characteristics emblazoned on every side. They might as well have been skull and crossbones.
“In China,” he said, “we give toasts to everyone in the party!”
Super.
He popped off the cap from across the table and poured it’s contents into Ashley’s glass first, and even from nearly eight feet away I could tell by the smell that it was definitely not wine. I heard Ashley give out a long “whoooo” as she lowered her nose to smell the drink, and I knew I was in trouble. He filled Chester’s glass, then Lynn’s, then his and finally my own (thankfully, our driver respectfully declined). As my glass was filled nearly halfway with this drink that seemed to cling to the sides as it poured down the inside of my glass, I could already feel the little hairs inside my nostrils wither up and die. It was the most potent drink that had ever laid siege to my nasal passage and I began to wonder if it’s PH level was possibly lower than that of the gastric juices within my own stomach.
“Now,” Professor Yu began, “A toast to new teachers and good teaching.” We clanked our glasses together and I brought mine to my lips. My eyes began to water. This is some hard liquor, I thought. It HAS to be, I hoped. Like awkward cousins kissing, the glass met my lips and I tipped it ever so slowly, watching as the thick, clear liquid crawled down my glass like a three-toed sloth. I wanted to pull my nose outside the glass because the stench had to have been worse than the taste. Oh sweet mercy, please let it be worse than the taste. The first of the liquid touched my lips, which clasped the side of the glass like a vice and I could feel the liquor trying to burn it’s way through them and begin its assault on my tongue and throat. I parted my lips slightly, the liquor seeped into my mouth and I didn’t waste time by sloshing it around my mouth to taste all it’s little intricacies. I threw my head back and sucked it down my throat. The involuntary action of peristalsis never felt more voluntary. The dragon liquor burned down my throat, breathing fire and clawing all the way down. I heard Lynn give a long “oooofff” as if she had been punched in the stomach. The professor gave a soft laugh as I laid my glass back on the table, confident that my face did not give away the torture taking place within the deep recesses of my soul.
I had done it. Not that bad, I thought. I mean, I’m alive. So, in that respect, not that bad. Now, I can sit back, enjoy my fish heads and hot tea and we’ll have a good time together with friends. No problem.
“Another toast to each person at the table!”
Say what now?
And so we drank. And we drank. We toasted Ashley because the ‘sh’ in her name is hard to pronounce. We toasted Virginia because Profesor Yu had been there recently. We toasted Lynn because she was born in South Korea. We toasted to ‘good teaching’ again. We toasted to each person. Again. And we drank. Or we sipped. Gosh, how I sipped.
Chester and Professor did not sip. They downed. They challenged.
“Kerrin,” they would say (apparently everyone pronounces my name right in China, because there is no common name like Karen to confuse it with). “Half?” They pointed to their glasses, and then to mine, signaling that we should drink at least half of the liquor that still remained in our glasses. Unfortunately for me, my glass was pretty much still as full as it was when we began. So we drank.
“No, no, no. Not enough!” they said, pointing to my glass after I took my sweet little, girlish sip. So, because peer pressure, especially in China with Chinese professors at a dinner they paid for, is a powerful thing, I drank some more.
“Finish!” came the next toast. And so we finished those glasses. I let out a sigh of relief, chased the nasty smelling, worse tasting, liquor with some tea and felt confident that since I had gotten to the bottom of my glass, however difficult it may have been, I was now finished. Before I could even feel fully confident in this ideal, Chester had rounded the table and was refilling my glass.
“Now I know you can drink!” he said delightedly in his thick Chinese accent.
No. No I really can’t. Trust me.
We toasted some more. Drank a lot more. They refilled my glass. Ashley and Lynn were spared. I was the man of the group. I had to drink!
Second glass finished. Third. Fourth. The large, center plate began to spin the large assortment of food much faster than it had been an hour before. So much spinning. For goodness sakes, please stop the plate from spinning… please.
My stomach began to feel awfully strange. I could feel it churning and squirming and eager to be rid of whatever it was I was putting into it. I could sense it wondering where the ice water, tea, and propel had gone. What is this new devilry that has been thrust into me?
I needed to get up and walk around. I had to stretch out my stomach and let it breathe. I went to the bathroom. Slowly and ever so carefully.
“Wei sheng jian zai na li” I sputtered (thanks Rosetta Stone). They pointed and I was on my way. Careful to place each step in its proper place. I first made my way towards the stalls, but quickly decided against going in there. Squat toilets. Even in a fairly upscale restaurant, squat toilets are not uncommon. They run parallel with the floor and anyone without a few years of gymnastics training may find it difficult to balance over these small holes in the ground, let alone someone with a few glasses of liquor broiling within them.
Instead, I went for the urinals. I really just needed to get up, walk around, and escape the table for a while, so this was just so I didn’t look weird to all the Chinese men already in there, as I didn’t really have any need to urinate. After what I believed to be an acceptable amount of time standing over the urinal, I washed my hands and made my way back to the table.
To my great relief, the party had finished the second bottle of liquor that we ordered. To my distress, they had instead ordered a large bottle of beer. My glass was already filled.
“In China,” good ‘ol Chester pleasantly explained, “When we toast with beer, we always finish the glass.”
Fantastic! I majored in chugging at college! (or maybe that was communications…little good that has done me in China. I can’t communicate squat.)
“Bottoms up,” I proclaimed, brought the glass to my lips and began to drink. And wouldn’t you know it, it was the greatest and sweetest tasting beer that has ever touched my lips. After the liquor, it felt like sweet, liquefied gold draining down my gullet. It was cold and delicious. My stomach rejoiced. Happily, I placed my glass back onto the table and it was quickly refilled. I looked over at Ashley and she mouthed “are you alright?”, knowing that I had ingested more liquor than either of the two girls at the table. I nodded an emphatic yes, feeling jubilant at my new fond love for beer.
“The beer is only 2% alcohol,” she said, which made sense, considering China is known for it’s watered down beer. That would also explain why it went down like water. It practically was.
“But,” she continued, “The liquor was 46% alcohol.”
Hoooolllyyyy…
I didn’t really feel like doing the math, but I understood that however much liquor I did down, it was probably “too much”. I soaked it up with chicken dumplings and crackers (and beer), and before long I was feeling like my normal, balanced self again (though probably not squat toilet ready, I thought). I guess there are advantages to getting semi-drunk before it even gets dark. Plenty of time to eat crackers, drink water, and let the lovely sands of time flush you clean of debilitating intoxication.
Chester was raising his beer glass: “To new teachers!” again?
I smiled, face flushed red.
“Bottoms up!”
Loawai!
I am famous.
I.
I've never really wanted to be famous. I thought it might be nice to be recognized or admired, but I never really thought I would go out and seek such attention. And yet, here I am. The most famous man in town. And the best part about it is that I didn't actually have to do anything to achieve this fame. Just be born with white skin and speak English.
Apparently, in China, being a foreigner makes you one of the most interesting and complicated creatures in the world, especially if you are from the United States, which every white foreigner is expected of being. I've never been stared at more intently in my whole life than I am when I walk around Xuzhou City. One time, when I was much younger mind you, I peed myself while waiting for my parents to come out of a kitchen store and then had to walk through the entire store with my whole right pant leg of my overalls (yes, I wore those) completely soaked. And even then I only got a few furtive glances, maybe a few giggles. But the way I am looked at in China would make it seem that I make it a habit of walking around in my underwear and walking on my hands all the while whistling the theme song to Three's Company (if I actually knew how it went).
While walking back from the store the other day, I, along with my two colleagues and friends Ashley and Lynn, came upon a grade school just letting out for the afternoon. As a result, there were dozens of parents standing outside waiting for their, and most likely only, child. We just happened to be walking through the middle of them as all the kids began to pour out of the gate and we got more than a few stares as we weaved our way through the masses. About midway through the crowd I came upon a young boy, no older than seven or eight, who was one second jogging excitedly towards his mother and the next turning and looking in my direction. As I approached within just a few feet of the young boy his eyes grew wide, his face became a bit flushed and his hand shot up into an acute point and directed it straight at my face.
"Loawai! Loawai!" He screamed with a look on his face that appeared to be a fusion of excited awe and absolute terror.
His mother quickly reached for him and pulled him back towards her, looking embarrassed by her child's sudden outburst. But just when I thought that the mother was about to give a good scolding to the child for his evident rudeness, they both burst into excited giggles and continued to whisper "loawai" to one another.
Only later did I find out that the word Loawai means "foreigner", but I don't believe it's the kindest of terms. Either way, I am a Loawai. A person who is obviously susceptible to high prices and cheap scams and will surely buy anything that has any sort of redeeming value (like the roller skates that hook to the bottom of your tennis shoes and light up as you spin your way around town - yes, I bought those. They were only 4 dollars!)
So, since my new find fame, whether it's the sort of fame that a respectable actor like Tom Hanks enjoys, or maybe a more irritating, asphyxiating fame like that that stalks Britney Spears, is here to stay, I might as well get used to being stared at everywhere I go, chased when I run, ripped off in taxicabs, and utterly adored by all those not appalled by the United States. I mean, hey, isn't that what fame is all about?
I hope not.
I.
I've never really wanted to be famous. I thought it might be nice to be recognized or admired, but I never really thought I would go out and seek such attention. And yet, here I am. The most famous man in town. And the best part about it is that I didn't actually have to do anything to achieve this fame. Just be born with white skin and speak English.
Apparently, in China, being a foreigner makes you one of the most interesting and complicated creatures in the world, especially if you are from the United States, which every white foreigner is expected of being. I've never been stared at more intently in my whole life than I am when I walk around Xuzhou City. One time, when I was much younger mind you, I peed myself while waiting for my parents to come out of a kitchen store and then had to walk through the entire store with my whole right pant leg of my overalls (yes, I wore those) completely soaked. And even then I only got a few furtive glances, maybe a few giggles. But the way I am looked at in China would make it seem that I make it a habit of walking around in my underwear and walking on my hands all the while whistling the theme song to Three's Company (if I actually knew how it went).
While walking back from the store the other day, I, along with my two colleagues and friends Ashley and Lynn, came upon a grade school just letting out for the afternoon. As a result, there were dozens of parents standing outside waiting for their, and most likely only, child. We just happened to be walking through the middle of them as all the kids began to pour out of the gate and we got more than a few stares as we weaved our way through the masses. About midway through the crowd I came upon a young boy, no older than seven or eight, who was one second jogging excitedly towards his mother and the next turning and looking in my direction. As I approached within just a few feet of the young boy his eyes grew wide, his face became a bit flushed and his hand shot up into an acute point and directed it straight at my face.
"Loawai! Loawai!" He screamed with a look on his face that appeared to be a fusion of excited awe and absolute terror.
His mother quickly reached for him and pulled him back towards her, looking embarrassed by her child's sudden outburst. But just when I thought that the mother was about to give a good scolding to the child for his evident rudeness, they both burst into excited giggles and continued to whisper "loawai" to one another.
Only later did I find out that the word Loawai means "foreigner", but I don't believe it's the kindest of terms. Either way, I am a Loawai. A person who is obviously susceptible to high prices and cheap scams and will surely buy anything that has any sort of redeeming value (like the roller skates that hook to the bottom of your tennis shoes and light up as you spin your way around town - yes, I bought those. They were only 4 dollars!)
So, since my new find fame, whether it's the sort of fame that a respectable actor like Tom Hanks enjoys, or maybe a more irritating, asphyxiating fame like that that stalks Britney Spears, is here to stay, I might as well get used to being stared at everywhere I go, chased when I run, ripped off in taxicabs, and utterly adored by all those not appalled by the United States. I mean, hey, isn't that what fame is all about?
I hope not.
Dodge & Weave
I'm not sure what is scarier: being in the back of a taxi as you drive through the streets of China or actually being on the streets of China.
I.
While driving around the overly crowded (and getting more crowded everyday) streets of Shanghai there is only one constant: the horn. Apparently, using your horn in China is like a language all itself. Drivers use their horn while their backing out and then again while they're performing a three-point turn, and some more while they are pulling forward. Once on the road, the horn is used to tell other drivers that they are approaching, and then blasted more furiously to tell them that they are passing them, and then again to make it known they are about to cut in front of them and possibly send them squealing off onto the curb. Thanks for the heads-up...
Cars are a relatively new thing in China, where up until a decade ago the mass form of transportation was the bicycle, and millions and millions of new cars are added to the roads in major cities each year. As a result, it's like having a bunch of brand new driving teenagers on the road, except that they are fifty and have no time to learn how to actually drive. So road signs are ignored, red lights are a suggestion, pedestrians are figments of the imagination, and crosswalks are there only to show where an intersection is.
Ashley and I had just arrived in Shanghai when we decided to take a taxi down to The Bund, Shanghai's famous river-front walkway full of restaurants and tourist attractions. Ashley was absent-mindedly staring out her window while I had my eyes transfixed on the road before us. Our taxi driver blasted his horn as he throttled through the busy streets past the endless line of construction trucks and fellow taxicabs. We barely dodged an elderly man pedaling his bicycle in the right lane and our taxi's blasted horn gave another cyclist a split second to decide to either move over or get sent sailing into the smoggy Shanghai afternoon. I thought I was in for a short relief of the hypnotic mayhem unfolding before me when we approached two large, slow-moving dump trucks that took up both lanes. As we moved closer our taxi driver refused to slow down and instead laid into his horn with the fervor of a jazz player blasting his trumpet, and before I knew what our driver was planning we swerved across the single, solid yellow line and onto the opposite side of the road.
We're American, I felt like telling him. Not British, so please get on the right side of the darn road!
But as my eyes grew wider with a mixture of surprise and fear my throat bottled up and I sat mesmerized at the scene through the windshield. Oncoming cars blasted their horns and swerved to avoid our taxi. A little black VW nearly popped up onto two wheels as it veered to our right, nearly entering the wrong side of traffic itself. It's a strange thing, sitting on the right hand side of a car, and seeing another car pass you on that side - You don't really realize how strange the situation would be until it actually happens at 60 miles per hour in one of the most populated cities on earth.
I forced my eyelids closed and imagined I was in some Hollywood film and was in the middle of some elaborate car chase.
"Follow that car!" I would yell as I dramatically pointed towards some other taxicab that looked like three million others in the city. "Don't lose it! They have my daughter... or wife, or girlfriend, or son, or grandma, or cousin, or that one guy who speaks Chinese and English!"
And, of course, my driver would be more than willing to oblige, and he would turn on his disco ball that he just happened to have on the roof of his car for situations just like these. We would careen down the busy roads with our disco-ball lights flashing and reflecting off other cars windows and mirrors. We would dodge cars and bullets seemingly coming from everywhere and I would theatrically yell "don't lose him!" as the captors streaked around a sharp right turn that seemed almost impossible for a car to make. Of course we would follow, and as two of our wheels popped off the pavement and our skid marks burned into the road, we would send pedestrians scattering and other, innocent drivers flying off of our hood, flipping twice and exploding as they barreled into a bus full of poor citizens. As our two wheels landed back on the road and my taxi driver, who apparently has had years and years of Nascar experience, once again sped off after the other car, I would look through the back window at the explosions and chaos that we left behind with a small smirk on my face (while cocking my magnum pistol, of course).
Unfortunately for me, this was not a movie and all those CGI explosions seemed all to real on the streets of Shanghai. After what seemed like hours, but was really only a second or two, I opened my eyes again in hopes that I would find that our driver had driven back onto the correct side of the road. Alas, he had not and we continued to send other cars and cyclists onto the curb. Despite our continued destruction, no other cars seemed to get overly excited about this seemingly normal escapade, and some cars, who we nearly smashed head on, would give a short honk, swerve out of our way and then give another short, amiable honk and give a wave that seemed to say, "oh hey Xia Sheng Wei. Driving on the other side of the road again? That's cool. See you tomorrow!" And on we would go.
Just when I thought the traffic ahead of us (mind you, still on the other side of the road) was becoming to thick for us to possibly weave our way through, we cut back into the correct lane of traffic, barely missing the front bumper of a school bus full of yelping children. I let out a sigh of relief and looked over at Ashley, who was happily snapping pictures of the Shanghai skyline, oblivious to the nearly twenty-second ride from hell that we just went on. I decided it was better if she didn't know...
II.
Pedestrians do not have the right-of-way in China. Ever. Never, ever.
It is better if you understand this notion before you ever set foot in China, for it will save you a lot of pain. Serious, physical pain.
If the opposite light shows a little green, walking man and you are in a crosswalk, it is not safe to walk. Ever. Forget what you have learned growing up in the United States or any other Western country, where the idea is that those on their feet should be more protected than those who are sitting in a steel cage of destruction. But, in China, that is not how it is. Whoever is in the more expensive and more vicious of vehicles and drives more recklessly than everyone else on the road, has the right away - if they choose to earn it. It is never something that is given to you. You have to fight for it.
Unfortunately, with no horn (the weapon of choice in China), pedestrians are nearly helpless when it comes to navigating the overcrowded and dangerous streets of a Chinese city. Whereas back home, if I had the green walking man sign I would gladly step out in front of an oncoming car, because I knew they would either stop, or they would hit me (hopefully at a relatively slow speed) and I would become a rich man. In China, I'm not sure if suing people for hitting you in a crosswalk is even possible, but it doesn't really matter because if you do actually step out in front of an oncoming car in China, they will not stop and they will not slow down. And you will die. Never play tough on the streets in China. Again, you will die.
More dangerous than cars even is the new alternative to the slowly fading bicycle: the electric, scooter bicycle. This silent but deadly machine is like the stealth fighter that bombs you while you're taking a short stroll through the park smelling daisies when out of nowhere your whole world bursts into flames of terror. Unlike cars, which are usually loud, squeaky, and have some jurisdiction about where they can be located (somewhere on pavement), the electric scooter comes from everywhere. It is on the road, the bike lane, the sidewalks, the hotel, the store. Everywhere it can possibly fit, it will go. It's horn is weak and, unlike cars, who never take their hand off their horn, it is less seldom used. It is not uncommon to be sauntering along the sidewalk, breathing in the fresh, new smog and enjoying your day, when behind you, with nary a whistle of wind, a whole gang of electric scooters will buzz by you without warning, brushing your elbows and barely succeeding in not picking you up with their front wheel and displaying you like an expensive hood ornament. All you have time for is to mutter some obscenities, freeze where you stand, and hold yourself like a child lost in the mall. Weeping is optional, but strongly suggested.
Never walk in front of car. Make sure your head is always on a swivel in China, for danger comes from everywhere - and it comes ever so silently. Again, if you do not adhere to these rules, you will die...
I.
While driving around the overly crowded (and getting more crowded everyday) streets of Shanghai there is only one constant: the horn. Apparently, using your horn in China is like a language all itself. Drivers use their horn while their backing out and then again while they're performing a three-point turn, and some more while they are pulling forward. Once on the road, the horn is used to tell other drivers that they are approaching, and then blasted more furiously to tell them that they are passing them, and then again to make it known they are about to cut in front of them and possibly send them squealing off onto the curb. Thanks for the heads-up...
Cars are a relatively new thing in China, where up until a decade ago the mass form of transportation was the bicycle, and millions and millions of new cars are added to the roads in major cities each year. As a result, it's like having a bunch of brand new driving teenagers on the road, except that they are fifty and have no time to learn how to actually drive. So road signs are ignored, red lights are a suggestion, pedestrians are figments of the imagination, and crosswalks are there only to show where an intersection is.
Ashley and I had just arrived in Shanghai when we decided to take a taxi down to The Bund, Shanghai's famous river-front walkway full of restaurants and tourist attractions. Ashley was absent-mindedly staring out her window while I had my eyes transfixed on the road before us. Our taxi driver blasted his horn as he throttled through the busy streets past the endless line of construction trucks and fellow taxicabs. We barely dodged an elderly man pedaling his bicycle in the right lane and our taxi's blasted horn gave another cyclist a split second to decide to either move over or get sent sailing into the smoggy Shanghai afternoon. I thought I was in for a short relief of the hypnotic mayhem unfolding before me when we approached two large, slow-moving dump trucks that took up both lanes. As we moved closer our taxi driver refused to slow down and instead laid into his horn with the fervor of a jazz player blasting his trumpet, and before I knew what our driver was planning we swerved across the single, solid yellow line and onto the opposite side of the road.
We're American, I felt like telling him. Not British, so please get on the right side of the darn road!
But as my eyes grew wider with a mixture of surprise and fear my throat bottled up and I sat mesmerized at the scene through the windshield. Oncoming cars blasted their horns and swerved to avoid our taxi. A little black VW nearly popped up onto two wheels as it veered to our right, nearly entering the wrong side of traffic itself. It's a strange thing, sitting on the right hand side of a car, and seeing another car pass you on that side - You don't really realize how strange the situation would be until it actually happens at 60 miles per hour in one of the most populated cities on earth.
I forced my eyelids closed and imagined I was in some Hollywood film and was in the middle of some elaborate car chase.
"Follow that car!" I would yell as I dramatically pointed towards some other taxicab that looked like three million others in the city. "Don't lose it! They have my daughter... or wife, or girlfriend, or son, or grandma, or cousin, or that one guy who speaks Chinese and English!"
And, of course, my driver would be more than willing to oblige, and he would turn on his disco ball that he just happened to have on the roof of his car for situations just like these. We would careen down the busy roads with our disco-ball lights flashing and reflecting off other cars windows and mirrors. We would dodge cars and bullets seemingly coming from everywhere and I would theatrically yell "don't lose him!" as the captors streaked around a sharp right turn that seemed almost impossible for a car to make. Of course we would follow, and as two of our wheels popped off the pavement and our skid marks burned into the road, we would send pedestrians scattering and other, innocent drivers flying off of our hood, flipping twice and exploding as they barreled into a bus full of poor citizens. As our two wheels landed back on the road and my taxi driver, who apparently has had years and years of Nascar experience, once again sped off after the other car, I would look through the back window at the explosions and chaos that we left behind with a small smirk on my face (while cocking my magnum pistol, of course).
Unfortunately for me, this was not a movie and all those CGI explosions seemed all to real on the streets of Shanghai. After what seemed like hours, but was really only a second or two, I opened my eyes again in hopes that I would find that our driver had driven back onto the correct side of the road. Alas, he had not and we continued to send other cars and cyclists onto the curb. Despite our continued destruction, no other cars seemed to get overly excited about this seemingly normal escapade, and some cars, who we nearly smashed head on, would give a short honk, swerve out of our way and then give another short, amiable honk and give a wave that seemed to say, "oh hey Xia Sheng Wei. Driving on the other side of the road again? That's cool. See you tomorrow!" And on we would go.
Just when I thought the traffic ahead of us (mind you, still on the other side of the road) was becoming to thick for us to possibly weave our way through, we cut back into the correct lane of traffic, barely missing the front bumper of a school bus full of yelping children. I let out a sigh of relief and looked over at Ashley, who was happily snapping pictures of the Shanghai skyline, oblivious to the nearly twenty-second ride from hell that we just went on. I decided it was better if she didn't know...
II.
Pedestrians do not have the right-of-way in China. Ever. Never, ever.
It is better if you understand this notion before you ever set foot in China, for it will save you a lot of pain. Serious, physical pain.
If the opposite light shows a little green, walking man and you are in a crosswalk, it is not safe to walk. Ever. Forget what you have learned growing up in the United States or any other Western country, where the idea is that those on their feet should be more protected than those who are sitting in a steel cage of destruction. But, in China, that is not how it is. Whoever is in the more expensive and more vicious of vehicles and drives more recklessly than everyone else on the road, has the right away - if they choose to earn it. It is never something that is given to you. You have to fight for it.
Unfortunately, with no horn (the weapon of choice in China), pedestrians are nearly helpless when it comes to navigating the overcrowded and dangerous streets of a Chinese city. Whereas back home, if I had the green walking man sign I would gladly step out in front of an oncoming car, because I knew they would either stop, or they would hit me (hopefully at a relatively slow speed) and I would become a rich man. In China, I'm not sure if suing people for hitting you in a crosswalk is even possible, but it doesn't really matter because if you do actually step out in front of an oncoming car in China, they will not stop and they will not slow down. And you will die. Never play tough on the streets in China. Again, you will die.
More dangerous than cars even is the new alternative to the slowly fading bicycle: the electric, scooter bicycle. This silent but deadly machine is like the stealth fighter that bombs you while you're taking a short stroll through the park smelling daisies when out of nowhere your whole world bursts into flames of terror. Unlike cars, which are usually loud, squeaky, and have some jurisdiction about where they can be located (somewhere on pavement), the electric scooter comes from everywhere. It is on the road, the bike lane, the sidewalks, the hotel, the store. Everywhere it can possibly fit, it will go. It's horn is weak and, unlike cars, who never take their hand off their horn, it is less seldom used. It is not uncommon to be sauntering along the sidewalk, breathing in the fresh, new smog and enjoying your day, when behind you, with nary a whistle of wind, a whole gang of electric scooters will buzz by you without warning, brushing your elbows and barely succeeding in not picking you up with their front wheel and displaying you like an expensive hood ornament. All you have time for is to mutter some obscenities, freeze where you stand, and hold yourself like a child lost in the mall. Weeping is optional, but strongly suggested.
Never walk in front of car. Make sure your head is always on a swivel in China, for danger comes from everywhere - and it comes ever so silently. Again, if you do not adhere to these rules, you will die...
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