Sunday, October 26, 2008
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Things About China
I am already more than two months into my residency in China. I have been teaching for nearly that long as well. I have eaten at a variety of restaurants and drank many different things that have not been super good for my body (baijou!). I have used a squat toilet with differing results, been nearly hit by more cars than I can remember, signed up for a gym membership, have taken Chinese lessons, have failed miserably when attempting to speak Chinese, went running everywhere and anywhere, finally watched “Schindler’s List”, been to Pizza Hut twice, and have shopped for live snakes at the supermarket.
What I’m trying to say is, in the past two months, I have done a lot of random things that I usually don’t get to do. Also, I have written about a lot of them. In this post I just want to tell you about a few different things that make China a little more interesting than your average trip down Archwood Ave.
Slit Pants
Probably one of the more detestable and odd things you will see in China is the potty training system, or lack thereof. I am sure that potty-training your child is a lot of work and takes patience. When I become a parent I will probably not be incredibly keen on wiping the poop from my child’s bottom, but I will still understand that that is a required part of having a child in diapers. Unfortunately for me at this moment, that is not a concern for Chinese parents. Why buy all those expensive diapers and go through that messiness of changing your child when there is a way around it? The Chinese wonder that very thing, and so have found a way around it. So I give you: ‘Slit Pants”. Yes, it is exactly like what it sounds like. It is very common to be on the streets in China, maybe buying some delicious food, and just when you are about to take a bite of a pita wrap full of meat and lettuce you look over at the small cute child to your side. It is at this point, while your teeth are grinding through the tough meat and juicy spiciness, this child decides to take a squat on the sidewalk.
What is he doing? You may think. And then you realize. He is going the bathroom. With his clothes on. On the street. How is this possible you ask? Why, all you have to do is cut a large hole in the back of the child’s pants and underwear and you have yourself a portable toilet! Go anywhere, anytime. If you just can’t hold it, no worries – let it fly. Surely some poor person is hired to walk around and clean that stuff up. Surely.
Mopping The Floors With Toilet Water
As I was typing this post another foreign teacher, Chris, came into my office because he wanted to show me something. He led me out of my office and to the men’s restroom, which already concerned me. He pushed open a stall door, and to my horror I saw all the cleaning ladies supplies (mops, brooms, brushes) soaking in the toilet water. Twice a day, they take these mops and mop the floor of the bathroom, and I, thinking I have a nice clean bathroom to use, go in there happily to use the restroom, only to realize that the slightly wet floor that I am walking on may as well be the rim of a squat toilet.
I’ll have to clean the bottom of my shoes more often.
Squat Toilets
Briefly mentioned in past posts, such as “Chinese Dinners and Hard Liquors”, squat toilets are one of the more genuinely and uniquely disgusting things about China.
(I realize now that many of my posts revolve around either my own unabashed self-disclosure or relatively repulsive things, and for that I apologize. But both prove to be enjoyable source material, both to write and, hopefully, read. So I will continue to do both.)
What most of you readers use back home is what we refer to here as Western toilets. They protrude out of the ground, have a nice round hole, and a seat that you can comfortably sit down in like a Lay-Z-Boy while you do your business. This sort of arrangement makes it easy to take your time, read a magazine, chat on the phone, and possibly even get some work done. All in all, it is just a great way to outsmart nature and multi-task to your heart’s (and bottom’s) desire. Though, I do not condone too much of this type of behavior.
The squat toilet on the other hand, allows you only to do one thing and one thing only. Of course, that is what you came there to do in the first place, but still. Don’t expect a relaxing time to read your magazine or the morning newspaper. Don’t think there will be a phone next to you where you can call home and catch up on the family news. If the squat toilet allows you to do anything but the required business you came there to do in the first place, it is that it provides a good workout. For those unfamiliar with the squat toilet, the explanation is in the name. Unlike a Western toilet, where there is a seat, usually padded and equipped with a massage machine, the squat toilet has nothing on which to rest your haunches. Just empty air. The toilet is basically a hole in the ground, in which you practice your aim that you learned during your stint in the U.S. Army. If you have no formal training than you just whiz it (pun intended). On either side of the hole there are usually traction areas that look like the bottom of those padded socks you used to wear as a kid that prevented you from sliding across wood floors and bouncing off the walls at the end of the run. Actually, now that I think about, I realize now why I got a pair of those every Christmas for like six years. Very tricky mother. Anyway, these ‘traction’ areas are usually so wet from what I hope is water they do little good. In fact, they are probably more detrimental than helpful, because all they do is give you less surface area for the bottom of your shoes. With your feet in position you have to lower yourself down towards the toilet and, with the strength of a professional bodybuilder, you balance your entire weight in this position; knees next to your face, pants around your ankles, feet slipping forward and backwards like you’re cross country skiing, and your bottom shaking out into empty air.
It’s a pretty uncomfortable position, I assure you. The only redeeming part is that in public restrooms you don’t have to worry about small children and grown men being lazy and careless and urinating all over the seat. The bad part is, that instead they urinate all over the floor. Also, hopefully you aren’t sick or usually take a little too long in the restroom, because your legs will begin to fall asleep and your hips will start to get sore. Numbness will take over your toes and you knees will begin to creak in this unnatural position. So, make it quick.
Also, public restrooms never have toilet paper for you to use, so bring your own. I promise you, it is no fun to find this fact out too late. No fun at all.
Running Red Lights
I have more than once mentioned the traffic in China, both in my posts and in my podcast. But one thing has really started to bother me. As we leave the relatively peaceful roads inside the campus fence, we come out into the bustling streets of Xuzhou. Directly outside the gate we usually go out of there is a crosswalk and even a light that turns different colors (like green, yellow, and red), which apparently means something, but I have yet to figure out what. Previously, I lived in a land where vehicles powered by engines would see red and would magically come to a complete stop. It just happened. And then, once the red light changed into green, they would begin to move again. It is a phenomenon that if I had lived in China my whole life, I would be unable to wrap my head around.
I took this notion of ‘red light, green light’ that I learned from my previous home to this new, wild frontier. What a mistake this was. Green means “go”, yellow means “caution”, and red means “stop”. It seems so simple. Wrong! It is the most confusing concept for drivers in Xuzhou. I will admit that some people understand it, but the majority believe there are exceptions to this rule, and that they are the exception. Bus drivers, anyone on two wheels, which is about 50% of vehicles, taxicabs, black cars, and yellow tricycles all believe themselves to be above this rule. So when the green light shows that it is safe to cross the crosswalk there will undoubtedly be at least six or seven cars or buses and many more bikes and motorcycles that you will have to dodge. It really gets quite frustrating and I usually walk very slowly when a car is coming at me, and stare the driver down as if I was able to shoot fire out of my eyes. This doesn’t work, he usually honks loudly, revs his engine, and in fear I scamper towards the sidewalk. But at least I tried to show my unhappiness with this inability to follow basic rules of the road.
Instead of getting angry I now approach this situation as a type of game. Think “Frogger” with maximal ramifications. I am actually thinking about having a little friendly competition:
How quickly can you get a cross a road that is full of bikers, swerving taxis, and reckless buses?! Come to the West Gate at the old campus and find out! The winner gets the wonderful street food that awaits them on the opposite side of this death trap of a road. The loser gets pancakes… oh, I’m sorry. Not pancakes – I meant ‘pancaked’. Much less exciting and much more painful.
Yes, that game will be a hit. A fantastic hit. Call NBC.
Endless Noise
Apparently, the Chinese don’t like to think in silence. Ever. They must always be stimulated in some way with some noise or entertainment. Every morning, at 6:23am, the loudspeakers that cover the entire campus kick on and some nice music begins to play, acting as an alarm clock for millions of people (hyperbole!). For the first six weeks I lived in gorgeous Xuzhou (sarcasm!) the song was a very nice reminder of home. Just like “Country Roads” by John Denver that I heard in the bar last month, this song also reminds me of home, mainly because it is by the same singer. That’s right, every morning for the past six weeks I woke up to the instrumental version of the John Denver hit “Fill Up My Senses”.
You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest… I would sing it every morning while I shampooed my hair and put on my nice, classy work jeans. After “Fill Up My Senses” some other American songs would follow that I recognized but couldn’t name. Ashley told me that one of them was called “The Flight of the Bumblebee”. Either way, as the name suggest, it was crazy fun. The American-ness that I woke up to every morning was soon drowned out by the Chinese National Anthem, which was intertwined with either the morning news or Chinese propaganda, which are basically the same thing.
In the past week or so, much to my disappointment, John Denver has been replaced by the theme song from “The Pink Panther”, which isn’t nearly as fun to wake up to as you may think.
The music played every morning until classes started. And then, at work, after everyone was let out of their classes for lunch at noon, the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” pumped students and faculty full of uplifting determination for the vehement rush towards the dining halls, which fill up ridiculously quickly and never have enough hot food. I always enjoy looking out my window, eating my peanut-butter and honey sandwiches as every single person in this thirty-thousand strong university goes throttling towards the dining halls. So fun.
This music lasts for the entire lunch break until 2pm, and then shuts off your classes again. Once I return home at 5pm, there is news/propaganda and even stranger music playing over the loudspeakers again. It rarely stops, and I usually shut all my windows and play my own music really loud to drown it out, because I have much better taste in music than the loudspeakers do. Plus, they’re always speaking in Chinese, and I don’t know that yet. So that just makes it frustrating. Gosh darn it.
What I’m trying to say is, in the past two months, I have done a lot of random things that I usually don’t get to do. Also, I have written about a lot of them. In this post I just want to tell you about a few different things that make China a little more interesting than your average trip down Archwood Ave.
Slit Pants
Probably one of the more detestable and odd things you will see in China is the potty training system, or lack thereof. I am sure that potty-training your child is a lot of work and takes patience. When I become a parent I will probably not be incredibly keen on wiping the poop from my child’s bottom, but I will still understand that that is a required part of having a child in diapers. Unfortunately for me at this moment, that is not a concern for Chinese parents. Why buy all those expensive diapers and go through that messiness of changing your child when there is a way around it? The Chinese wonder that very thing, and so have found a way around it. So I give you: ‘Slit Pants”. Yes, it is exactly like what it sounds like. It is very common to be on the streets in China, maybe buying some delicious food, and just when you are about to take a bite of a pita wrap full of meat and lettuce you look over at the small cute child to your side. It is at this point, while your teeth are grinding through the tough meat and juicy spiciness, this child decides to take a squat on the sidewalk.
What is he doing? You may think. And then you realize. He is going the bathroom. With his clothes on. On the street. How is this possible you ask? Why, all you have to do is cut a large hole in the back of the child’s pants and underwear and you have yourself a portable toilet! Go anywhere, anytime. If you just can’t hold it, no worries – let it fly. Surely some poor person is hired to walk around and clean that stuff up. Surely.
Mopping The Floors With Toilet Water
As I was typing this post another foreign teacher, Chris, came into my office because he wanted to show me something. He led me out of my office and to the men’s restroom, which already concerned me. He pushed open a stall door, and to my horror I saw all the cleaning ladies supplies (mops, brooms, brushes) soaking in the toilet water. Twice a day, they take these mops and mop the floor of the bathroom, and I, thinking I have a nice clean bathroom to use, go in there happily to use the restroom, only to realize that the slightly wet floor that I am walking on may as well be the rim of a squat toilet.
I’ll have to clean the bottom of my shoes more often.
Squat Toilets
Briefly mentioned in past posts, such as “Chinese Dinners and Hard Liquors”, squat toilets are one of the more genuinely and uniquely disgusting things about China.
(I realize now that many of my posts revolve around either my own unabashed self-disclosure or relatively repulsive things, and for that I apologize. But both prove to be enjoyable source material, both to write and, hopefully, read. So I will continue to do both.)
What most of you readers use back home is what we refer to here as Western toilets. They protrude out of the ground, have a nice round hole, and a seat that you can comfortably sit down in like a Lay-Z-Boy while you do your business. This sort of arrangement makes it easy to take your time, read a magazine, chat on the phone, and possibly even get some work done. All in all, it is just a great way to outsmart nature and multi-task to your heart’s (and bottom’s) desire. Though, I do not condone too much of this type of behavior.
The squat toilet on the other hand, allows you only to do one thing and one thing only. Of course, that is what you came there to do in the first place, but still. Don’t expect a relaxing time to read your magazine or the morning newspaper. Don’t think there will be a phone next to you where you can call home and catch up on the family news. If the squat toilet allows you to do anything but the required business you came there to do in the first place, it is that it provides a good workout. For those unfamiliar with the squat toilet, the explanation is in the name. Unlike a Western toilet, where there is a seat, usually padded and equipped with a massage machine, the squat toilet has nothing on which to rest your haunches. Just empty air. The toilet is basically a hole in the ground, in which you practice your aim that you learned during your stint in the U.S. Army. If you have no formal training than you just whiz it (pun intended). On either side of the hole there are usually traction areas that look like the bottom of those padded socks you used to wear as a kid that prevented you from sliding across wood floors and bouncing off the walls at the end of the run. Actually, now that I think about, I realize now why I got a pair of those every Christmas for like six years. Very tricky mother. Anyway, these ‘traction’ areas are usually so wet from what I hope is water they do little good. In fact, they are probably more detrimental than helpful, because all they do is give you less surface area for the bottom of your shoes. With your feet in position you have to lower yourself down towards the toilet and, with the strength of a professional bodybuilder, you balance your entire weight in this position; knees next to your face, pants around your ankles, feet slipping forward and backwards like you’re cross country skiing, and your bottom shaking out into empty air.
It’s a pretty uncomfortable position, I assure you. The only redeeming part is that in public restrooms you don’t have to worry about small children and grown men being lazy and careless and urinating all over the seat. The bad part is, that instead they urinate all over the floor. Also, hopefully you aren’t sick or usually take a little too long in the restroom, because your legs will begin to fall asleep and your hips will start to get sore. Numbness will take over your toes and you knees will begin to creak in this unnatural position. So, make it quick.
Also, public restrooms never have toilet paper for you to use, so bring your own. I promise you, it is no fun to find this fact out too late. No fun at all.
Running Red Lights
I have more than once mentioned the traffic in China, both in my posts and in my podcast. But one thing has really started to bother me. As we leave the relatively peaceful roads inside the campus fence, we come out into the bustling streets of Xuzhou. Directly outside the gate we usually go out of there is a crosswalk and even a light that turns different colors (like green, yellow, and red), which apparently means something, but I have yet to figure out what. Previously, I lived in a land where vehicles powered by engines would see red and would magically come to a complete stop. It just happened. And then, once the red light changed into green, they would begin to move again. It is a phenomenon that if I had lived in China my whole life, I would be unable to wrap my head around.
I took this notion of ‘red light, green light’ that I learned from my previous home to this new, wild frontier. What a mistake this was. Green means “go”, yellow means “caution”, and red means “stop”. It seems so simple. Wrong! It is the most confusing concept for drivers in Xuzhou. I will admit that some people understand it, but the majority believe there are exceptions to this rule, and that they are the exception. Bus drivers, anyone on two wheels, which is about 50% of vehicles, taxicabs, black cars, and yellow tricycles all believe themselves to be above this rule. So when the green light shows that it is safe to cross the crosswalk there will undoubtedly be at least six or seven cars or buses and many more bikes and motorcycles that you will have to dodge. It really gets quite frustrating and I usually walk very slowly when a car is coming at me, and stare the driver down as if I was able to shoot fire out of my eyes. This doesn’t work, he usually honks loudly, revs his engine, and in fear I scamper towards the sidewalk. But at least I tried to show my unhappiness with this inability to follow basic rules of the road.
Instead of getting angry I now approach this situation as a type of game. Think “Frogger” with maximal ramifications. I am actually thinking about having a little friendly competition:
How quickly can you get a cross a road that is full of bikers, swerving taxis, and reckless buses?! Come to the West Gate at the old campus and find out! The winner gets the wonderful street food that awaits them on the opposite side of this death trap of a road. The loser gets pancakes… oh, I’m sorry. Not pancakes – I meant ‘pancaked’. Much less exciting and much more painful.
Yes, that game will be a hit. A fantastic hit. Call NBC.
Endless Noise
Apparently, the Chinese don’t like to think in silence. Ever. They must always be stimulated in some way with some noise or entertainment. Every morning, at 6:23am, the loudspeakers that cover the entire campus kick on and some nice music begins to play, acting as an alarm clock for millions of people (hyperbole!). For the first six weeks I lived in gorgeous Xuzhou (sarcasm!) the song was a very nice reminder of home. Just like “Country Roads” by John Denver that I heard in the bar last month, this song also reminds me of home, mainly because it is by the same singer. That’s right, every morning for the past six weeks I woke up to the instrumental version of the John Denver hit “Fill Up My Senses”.
You fill up my senses, like a night in the forest… I would sing it every morning while I shampooed my hair and put on my nice, classy work jeans. After “Fill Up My Senses” some other American songs would follow that I recognized but couldn’t name. Ashley told me that one of them was called “The Flight of the Bumblebee”. Either way, as the name suggest, it was crazy fun. The American-ness that I woke up to every morning was soon drowned out by the Chinese National Anthem, which was intertwined with either the morning news or Chinese propaganda, which are basically the same thing.
In the past week or so, much to my disappointment, John Denver has been replaced by the theme song from “The Pink Panther”, which isn’t nearly as fun to wake up to as you may think.
The music played every morning until classes started. And then, at work, after everyone was let out of their classes for lunch at noon, the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” pumped students and faculty full of uplifting determination for the vehement rush towards the dining halls, which fill up ridiculously quickly and never have enough hot food. I always enjoy looking out my window, eating my peanut-butter and honey sandwiches as every single person in this thirty-thousand strong university goes throttling towards the dining halls. So fun.
This music lasts for the entire lunch break until 2pm, and then shuts off your classes again. Once I return home at 5pm, there is news/propaganda and even stranger music playing over the loudspeakers again. It rarely stops, and I usually shut all my windows and play my own music really loud to drown it out, because I have much better taste in music than the loudspeakers do. Plus, they’re always speaking in Chinese, and I don’t know that yet. So that just makes it frustrating. Gosh darn it.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Healthy and Beauty Sir Madam Love Work Out Health Sir Beauty Club
(Parental Discretion Advised: This post is rated PG-13 due to some mature themes)
I have officially paid people money in order to make friends. And save my lungs.
I.
Actually, that is not entirely true. I guess besides my entire college education, which cost thousands of dollars, I have never paid anyone to make friends. And, in a way, I haven’t paid anyone to be my friend now either. But I have paid money to join something that may able me to make friends. So, indirectly, I guess you could say that I paid someone money in order to make friends. Is this making sense? Who knows.
Anyway, because I was concerned for my safety and health while running around outside in the dangerous and pollution-filled roads of China, I thought it best to find another suitable place to work out. Plus, it apparently gets quite cold here during the winter months and because of the cold thick air, the pollution and dirtiness become an even greater threat. Not that I don’t like going for a run and having to cough madly in order to breath every few minutes or so, because I do. But it would be nice to work out, breath heavily, and not have cigarette smoke enter your lungs and wreak havoc on your sinuses every few strides.
Solution: The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club!
Also known as the greatest ‘health club’ in my general are of Xuzhou, “The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club” will cater to all my needs as a workout fiend. They have a large assortment of classes that are running throughout the day, including running! (get it?!) They also have yoga, and hot yoga, which sounds like so much more fun than regular yoga, and I am sure my yogar readers will be quick to point out that this type of yoga is called vikram yoga (so many yoga’s in one run-on sentence). Apparently, they crank the heat up to nearly uncomfortable levels and then you get in all of your complicated downward dog and warrior poses and sweat your little heart out. Frankly, this sounds fantastic to me and when my apartment’s temperature is at a high of 55 degrees during the winter because of our buildings rumored heating problem, I am sure you will be able to find me warming up during yoga hen la (very hot!). Not only do they have yoga classes, but they also have perennial favorites such as street dancing, belly dancing, and, my favorite, pole dancing.
That’s right, ladies and gentleman, you too can be just like all the classical ladies we see in our 18th century time period films (think Jane Austen) and truly learn to become a classy lady by taking The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club’s Pole Dancing Class. Offered twice a day, every day, there are plenty of opportunities to get your pole-dancing groove on and live out your dream of being a lady-of-the-night!
I remember reading in National Geographic on the plane ride over that pole dancing is actually becoming a very popular form of exercise in China and that a lot of women are partaking in its seemingly wholesome fun. Apparently, it is not seen in such poor light here as it is seen in the USA, because there are not a lot of ‘pole dancers’, in the traditional meaning of the phrase, in China. So, there ya go. Now you can exercise around a pole just as you would exercise in any other way. Just think of it as that long, frayed rope hanging from the ceiling that you had to climb in your sixth grade gym class. Except instead of a swinging, oscillating rope, it is a rigid, unyielding, and cold metal pole.
One thing that is interesting about China, is that gender differences aren’t as clearly defined here as they are in the States. Of course, there is some crossover in the States, but generally things such as yoga, dance, and spinning classes are greatly attended by females, and not so much males. Upon my first, initial visit, when I was there to check out the equipment and hours, there was a dance class going on, and by the look of it I assumed it was either of the ‘street’ or ‘belly’ kind. Just as I thought, most of the people partaking in the class were women. Except: the leader.
Standing in front of the class was a tall, scrawny man with a bandanna on his head and sweat pouring from his face. He had his feet staggered and was yelling instructions at the mirror in front of him in high pitched tones, as the rest of the class tried to mirror his very explicit, and somewhat inappropriate, hip thrusting movements. He attacked his dance moves with the tenacity of a linebacker. His shirt was pulled up, baring his belly, and tied into a knot to make sure that it didn’t fall down during class. It was a sight I never expected to see in China. But here it was, and I had to give it to the emaciated little guy; he sure could dance.
The best class that is offered at the Handsome Beauty Sir Love Pole Club, or whatever it is called, is definitely cycling, or what we would know as ‘spinning’ in the United States.
When I returned this past Monday to sign up and begin to lift weights and work out, a ‘spinning’ class was going on, and just as I did not predict, it was full of men, instead of the usual women. The class was in a separate room and the blinds were pulled so you could only see in through a small door they left open. All the lights were turned off and the only illumination came from the red and blue disco-ball like lights that lined the ceiling. Popular mid-90’s American songs set to pounding techno music poured out of the room and flooded the entire building with eardrum shattering goodness. Over a super loudspeaker a leader was yelling out instructions to the rest of the riders in the room. Because the music itself was so loud, the leader’s microphone was jacked up to what I hoped was it’s maximum level, and from anywhere in the workout room you could hear the leader yelling:
“Yi! Er! San!” (One! Two! Three!) and then some word that I didn’t know that probably meant something like: “Put your bikes on the hardest gear possible, bend your chest over the bar, pump those legs like it’s the last thing you do, and let your sweat fly all over the place so as to form a puddle and possibly make an unassuming American slip and fall outside the door!” (some Chinese words have very long meanings)
And then, through the small door, you can see the riders rise their rear ends from their seats and pump furiously, just as the music pumps out it’s bass-thumping crescendo. The disco balls spin and sweat drips and flies from every biker in the room. Basically, ‘spinning’ in China is just a few glow sticks shy of an all out rave (don’t get me wrong, there are some glow sticks). It was awesome.
But, for the first visit, I just lifted weights and ran on the treadmill for a short while. But trust me, next time, I will either be tying my shirt into a knot and thrusting my hips, or doing the robot while holding sparklers during the cycling class. I can’t go wrong either way.
Note: The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club is the place’s actual name, and it’s mascot is a duck with very large muscles and a very small sailors cap. I really need to take pictures… So possibly look for those in a later update!
I have officially paid people money in order to make friends. And save my lungs.
I.
Actually, that is not entirely true. I guess besides my entire college education, which cost thousands of dollars, I have never paid anyone to make friends. And, in a way, I haven’t paid anyone to be my friend now either. But I have paid money to join something that may able me to make friends. So, indirectly, I guess you could say that I paid someone money in order to make friends. Is this making sense? Who knows.
Anyway, because I was concerned for my safety and health while running around outside in the dangerous and pollution-filled roads of China, I thought it best to find another suitable place to work out. Plus, it apparently gets quite cold here during the winter months and because of the cold thick air, the pollution and dirtiness become an even greater threat. Not that I don’t like going for a run and having to cough madly in order to breath every few minutes or so, because I do. But it would be nice to work out, breath heavily, and not have cigarette smoke enter your lungs and wreak havoc on your sinuses every few strides.
Solution: The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club!
Also known as the greatest ‘health club’ in my general are of Xuzhou, “The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club” will cater to all my needs as a workout fiend. They have a large assortment of classes that are running throughout the day, including running! (get it?!) They also have yoga, and hot yoga, which sounds like so much more fun than regular yoga, and I am sure my yogar readers will be quick to point out that this type of yoga is called vikram yoga (so many yoga’s in one run-on sentence). Apparently, they crank the heat up to nearly uncomfortable levels and then you get in all of your complicated downward dog and warrior poses and sweat your little heart out. Frankly, this sounds fantastic to me and when my apartment’s temperature is at a high of 55 degrees during the winter because of our buildings rumored heating problem, I am sure you will be able to find me warming up during yoga hen la (very hot!). Not only do they have yoga classes, but they also have perennial favorites such as street dancing, belly dancing, and, my favorite, pole dancing.
That’s right, ladies and gentleman, you too can be just like all the classical ladies we see in our 18th century time period films (think Jane Austen) and truly learn to become a classy lady by taking The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club’s Pole Dancing Class. Offered twice a day, every day, there are plenty of opportunities to get your pole-dancing groove on and live out your dream of being a lady-of-the-night!
I remember reading in National Geographic on the plane ride over that pole dancing is actually becoming a very popular form of exercise in China and that a lot of women are partaking in its seemingly wholesome fun. Apparently, it is not seen in such poor light here as it is seen in the USA, because there are not a lot of ‘pole dancers’, in the traditional meaning of the phrase, in China. So, there ya go. Now you can exercise around a pole just as you would exercise in any other way. Just think of it as that long, frayed rope hanging from the ceiling that you had to climb in your sixth grade gym class. Except instead of a swinging, oscillating rope, it is a rigid, unyielding, and cold metal pole.
One thing that is interesting about China, is that gender differences aren’t as clearly defined here as they are in the States. Of course, there is some crossover in the States, but generally things such as yoga, dance, and spinning classes are greatly attended by females, and not so much males. Upon my first, initial visit, when I was there to check out the equipment and hours, there was a dance class going on, and by the look of it I assumed it was either of the ‘street’ or ‘belly’ kind. Just as I thought, most of the people partaking in the class were women. Except: the leader.
Standing in front of the class was a tall, scrawny man with a bandanna on his head and sweat pouring from his face. He had his feet staggered and was yelling instructions at the mirror in front of him in high pitched tones, as the rest of the class tried to mirror his very explicit, and somewhat inappropriate, hip thrusting movements. He attacked his dance moves with the tenacity of a linebacker. His shirt was pulled up, baring his belly, and tied into a knot to make sure that it didn’t fall down during class. It was a sight I never expected to see in China. But here it was, and I had to give it to the emaciated little guy; he sure could dance.
The best class that is offered at the Handsome Beauty Sir Love Pole Club, or whatever it is called, is definitely cycling, or what we would know as ‘spinning’ in the United States.
When I returned this past Monday to sign up and begin to lift weights and work out, a ‘spinning’ class was going on, and just as I did not predict, it was full of men, instead of the usual women. The class was in a separate room and the blinds were pulled so you could only see in through a small door they left open. All the lights were turned off and the only illumination came from the red and blue disco-ball like lights that lined the ceiling. Popular mid-90’s American songs set to pounding techno music poured out of the room and flooded the entire building with eardrum shattering goodness. Over a super loudspeaker a leader was yelling out instructions to the rest of the riders in the room. Because the music itself was so loud, the leader’s microphone was jacked up to what I hoped was it’s maximum level, and from anywhere in the workout room you could hear the leader yelling:
“Yi! Er! San!” (One! Two! Three!) and then some word that I didn’t know that probably meant something like: “Put your bikes on the hardest gear possible, bend your chest over the bar, pump those legs like it’s the last thing you do, and let your sweat fly all over the place so as to form a puddle and possibly make an unassuming American slip and fall outside the door!” (some Chinese words have very long meanings)
And then, through the small door, you can see the riders rise their rear ends from their seats and pump furiously, just as the music pumps out it’s bass-thumping crescendo. The disco balls spin and sweat drips and flies from every biker in the room. Basically, ‘spinning’ in China is just a few glow sticks shy of an all out rave (don’t get me wrong, there are some glow sticks). It was awesome.
But, for the first visit, I just lifted weights and ran on the treadmill for a short while. But trust me, next time, I will either be tying my shirt into a knot and thrusting my hips, or doing the robot while holding sparklers during the cycling class. I can’t go wrong either way.
Note: The Strong and Handsome Beauty Sir Club is the place’s actual name, and it’s mascot is a duck with very large muscles and a very small sailors cap. I really need to take pictures… So possibly look for those in a later update!
National Holiday Trip #1: Beijing
Trains, Forbidden Cities, and Great Walls
I.
Ashley, Lynn, and I were waiting somewhat patiently in my room, glancing at our watches every few minutes with just a tad bit of nervousness. Our bags were full and we were ready to go. Our overnight train to Beijing left in just over an hour, but we were still in my room, waiting.
The previous Friday the three of us had all gone into town and with the help of Chester’s (or Waiban) assistant, we had applied for our Residency Permits. The only problem was that they had to have our passports to put a new stamp in. They said it would take one week, the exact amount of time we were scheduled to leave for Beijing on our trip. So now, we sat and waited for Chester’s assistant to return from the Foreign Affairs office with our passports, and due to some delays and heavy traffic, she was running about two hours later than we thought she would. Not a great start to the trip.
Our train was set to leave at 7:30. It was just past 6:00 now. I wasn’t entirely sure how train stations worked and if it took as long to get through them as it did to get through airports, but I really hoped that wasn’t the case, otherwise we would be cutting it super close.
Just before we were about to send Ashley up to her room to call Chester for the fourth time, I walked outside and saw his assistant hurrying up the street. She handed me the passports and hurried off as quickly as she came. “Thank you!” I called out as she scurried off. Ashley and Lynn came out and I passed out the correct passports, growing excited about our trip.
We lucked out when a taxi was sitting right outside our apartment and we hopped in and speeded off. We made our way through busy Friday evening traffic and made it to the train station with nearly forty-five minutes to spare. We sat down in the busy terminal area and watched as tons of people moved this way and that with their packed luggage and potato sacks, ostensibly all heading home or on vacations themselves for the break.
When it was our time to board we made our way down to the train and found our car. We got ‘soft-sleepers’ the most luxurious and expensive of the four options you can choose when riding on a Chinese train. It consists of two bunk beds smashed into a small room. Ashley and Lynn both had top bunks in the room next to mine, and I had a top bunk in a room with three other Chinese. They were an older husband and wife with a daughter who was probably in her late-20’s or early-30’s. After a few minutes of them talking back and forth between them and stealing glances up in my direction, I decided this was as good a time as any to practice my Chinese.
“Ni qu zai na li?” I asked (where are you going?)
The daughter smiled and answered that they were headed to Beijing, just like us. Then they asked me where I was from (about three times because I didn’t catch it the first two times) and I told her that I was from the United States and was spending a year teaching here. Turns out she also knew a little English and we spoke back and forth for about 10 minutes in half-Chinese and half-English. She was patient with my broken Chinese as I was with her scattered English. It was fun to have someone sort of understand me when I spoke, even if it was the most basic of questions and conversation.
The bunks were narrow and the beds hard, but by the time 9:00pm rolled around I was drifting off to sleep. Or at least I tried. Apparently, the Chinese think it is enjoyable for all the train passengers to listen to seriously loud music throughout the whole train. Right next to my head was a scratchy speaker that played a live concert of a male and female pop duo for the whole first hour. The crowd cheered and they spoke loudly and exhaustively between each song, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. I couldn’t believe anyone was actually enjoying this music, but I guess someone, somewhere was. The ear plugs that I brought helped muffle the sound somewhat, at least enough so that I could at least read a book and concentrate for a little while. But as I was growing more and more tired, I was really wishing that the music would stop. And just when I thought they were considering playing it the whole trip and throughout the night, it cut off. Delighted, I lay my head down on my pillow to sleep, reveling in the beautiful semi-silence,
Just as I was about to slip away to the world of sleep, the sounds returned from the speakers, but in a much different form. Now, I was hearing waves lapping at the shore and seagulls crying overhead. They are playing nature sounds on a Train in China as I am trying to fall asleep on a narrow bunk in a room with three other Chinese people, is a thought that I never believed would go through my head. To make things even stranger, the tune from Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” from the Lion King began to play along with the sounds of nature. For some reason, you hear this song everywhere in China, and I am sure Sir Elton could come over here and sue the pants off people for using his song without permission if he wanted to.
The ocean waves, seagulls, and Elton John gave way to crickets, forest sounds, and a string rendition of “Ave Maria” and despite the fact that I really do like that song (and forest sounds!) I found this to be a strange combination and an even stranger time and place to play Christmas music. But it was nice to be the last thing I heard as I drifted off to sleep, cradling my camera bag like a teddy bear.
Light. Burning light. Music. Loud music. My eyeballs hurt. Where am I?
At 4:30am these were my most coherent thoughts. They had snapped the lights back on throughout the whole train, and like a rude and annoying wake-up call they had decided to add a few decibels to the music from the night before to wake up every slumbering passenger. I opened my eyes and saw my cabin-mates already pulling their bags our and getting ready to go. Errghhh… sleeeeep.
It didn’t take me long to recover and get excited that I was nearly in Beijing though. And I was soon fully dressed and getting excited for the trip. To aid this process the DJ manning the music choices decided to play the most overplayed song of all time. More overplayed than any previous Britney Spears hit. It was the Beijing song, which apparently features many Chinese superstars and actors (even Jackie Chan!) singing a countless number of verses about how great Beijing is for hosting the Olympics, and even though the Olympics has been over for over a month now, they continue to play it all the time. I hear it when I go to the store, when I am walking through campus, when I go into restaurants, and when I am walking through the market and hear all the vendors singing it. It is everywhere and it is annoying. But it was not as annoying here, as I was thrilled to be visiting the Olympic city myself. Well, it wasn’t annoying for the first four minutes, but it grew increasingly irritating by the time it reached the seventeenth and eighteenth verses.
I found Ashley and Lynn and we made our way out of the train station. The sun was rising over the Beijing Railway Station and I snapped some pictures. We then made our way over to the taxi’s, hoping that one of them would know where our Marriott was. A guy agreed to take us there for eighty yuan. We agreed before we knew we were agreeing and soon we were walking across the square towards his van/taxi. I thought this was a bit expensive though and I told Lynn and Ashley that I was going to try and see if I could get the price lowered. I walked up to the man, and said:
“duibuqi, tai gui le” (Excuse me, that is too expensive).
He tried to convince me otherwise but soon he had to pull out his phone and we were punching numbers in to negotiate a fairer price. This is how all bartering is done in China. They pull out a calculator or phone and you punch numbers in back and forth until an agreement is reached somewhere in the middle. It is sort of like the businessman who asks for a raise by writing his wishful salary on a piece of paper and sliding it across his boss’ desk.
After a minute of back and forth arguing and bartering, I had gotten the price down to fifty yuan and we all felt pretty good about that progress. After we piled into the van and made our way out of the train station, we realized that we shouldn’t feel all that great. The Marriott (which we could stay at thanks to the friends and family rate! Thanks dad!) was only about two blocks away. A regular cab ride would have cost about ten yuan. So, in reality, this guy overcharged us by about five times. Oh well, at least it was eight times.
Feeling sort of stupid we checked into our hotel and Ashley and Lynn took naps while I researched the Forbidden City and Tinanmen Square. Excited to get this trip going.
II.
Both Lynn and I believed, through researching and watching television, that cameras were not allowed into the Forbidden City and because we didn’t want to stick our valuable possessions in some sketchy lock-box or leave it with people at the gate, we decided to just leave our cameras in the apartment.
Blunderfest.
After about thirty seconds in the Forbidden City, it was apparent that cameras were allowed. Chinese people everywhere were toting their expensive Nikon and Canon cameras. Many tourists also had beautiful HD video cameras. One guy had a large television camera, complete with a fuzzy microphone, adjustable tripod, a handheld microphone, three different lenses, headphones, and someone to giving a stand-up report.
So, to Anthony Bourdain from “No Reservations” and everyone at Lonely Planet: bite me.
Oh well. Ashley consoled the photographer in me by telling me her favorite little proverb-like tale of the guy who is behind the camera so often that he is actually never in the picture himself. Or maybe she was paraphrasing that one line from the chick flick her and Lynn made me watch called 27 Dresses (Nolan: you would love it!) that went something like this: “You are so busy making sure everyone else has their Kodak moment that you never have time to make a moment for yourself.” – Yes, it really was that cheesy. But if anyone knows anything about me, it is that I like cheese, especially the grilled kind. Or the kind that is spread over delicious, succulent macaroni. Mmmm. I also like Parmesan cheese, which I always sprinkle over the equally delicious spaghetti sauce which is, of course, spread over mouthwateringly delightful spaghetti, which they don’t have in China. At least, not for anything less than 10% of my monthly salary.
What were we talking about?
Ah yes! So, without cameras or any other way to document our trip I decided to try and soak up as much as I possibly could, so when I sat down to write about my experience I could be as specific and provide as many vivid details as possible. So, after wandering around the many different rooms and huge courtyards of the Forbidden City, I can now say that I have been to the Forbidden City! And really not much else. The place was unbelievably large and the amount of rooms was staggering. One of my students told me that if you lived in each room for a single day, it would take you nearly two years to visit every single room. That is a lot of rooms.
While the architecture was very beautiful, and the sheer magnitude of the courtyards and city walls were something to behold, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed about my overall experience at the Forbidden City. Maybe it was the immense crowd, or the fact that around every turn I was reminded of my monumental blunder of not bringing my camera by someone snapping a picture right in front of my face. Even worse were the people who asked me to take a picture with them!
Oh hey, look at that sad American without a camera. Lets go use our camera to take a picture of him to make him feel especially stupid!
In actuality, the most likely cause of my disappointment, however miniscule, probably laid in the city itself. Many of the rooms were barren and without much traditional furniture or décor. Most of the rooms were set up as just exhibits, showing off jade, silver, and gold pieces. While very interesting and cool to see the different jewels and treasures that the old Chinese rulers sought in the past, it still felt like walking through every other museum in the world. I guess that is what the Forbidden City is now: just a gargantuan museum, but I was definitely expecting something a little more, how should we say, medieval.
Also, it has turned into a huge tourist trap. Around every corner within the city there were shops selling Olympic gear and Chinese paintings that were incredibly overpriced. I understand that tourist attractions as large as the Forbidden City are guaranteed money in the bank, but it still felt like an exploitation of the past. But that is done everywhere, not just China, and not just in the Forbidden City, so I can’t point fingers and I can’t really complain. I just miss the true romance of history.
Note: how many synonyms of the word “big” or “large” can you find in this post? A lot, probably.
III.
Quick! When you think of China, what is the first thing you think of?
Rice? Beijing? Dragons? Olympics? Spicy Food? Diarrhea?
Yes! All of those would be correct, and in some way I have experienced all of them (TMI). But in the past, and probably now that the Olympics are over, the one thing that always comes to mind when you think about China is The Great Wall (Chang Cheng 长城).
The true symbol of China, the Great Wall stretches across Northern China like a dragon extending its rough, scaly tail. We took a whole day and decided to head towards Simitai to visit the Great Wall. We found the correct bus station and after some very helpful people gave us a hand, we found the correct bus and got dropped off in some random, sketchy town where 25 ‘drivers’ were waiting to meet us as soon as we got off the bus. One or two of them even clambered up the stairs of the bus before we even got off and started asking us in broken English if we were going to the Great Wall. We had made a conscious decision to only get real cabs from now on, for we had been royally ripped off by these private drivers twice before and we weren’t going to be ignorant lowai’s (foreigner) anymore!
We soon realized that there were no actual taxicabs around, so we decided to do a little bargaining. It didn’t go well. All 20 drivers, despite the fact that were competing for business, worked together and none of them would really let us try and drop the price to a level anywhere near what we thought was fair. After about ten minutes of deliberation, we got the price down 100 yuan to a somewhat reasonable 260 yuan.
It was about an hour ride and by the end we were growing anxious to finally catch a sight of The Great Wall. Finally, we came around a small hillside and we saw it: it ran up and down the side of a tall mountain in the distance and we were blown away by the sight. I was not expecting the wall to run over the highest peaks in the area, the tallest portion of the mountains, and the most treacherous areas, but that is exactly what it did and it was a sensational sight (see The Great Wall video for clarification).
We spent nearly four hours in The Great Wall and, unlike the Forbidden City, The Great Wall completely and totally blew away my expectations. Just like the Forbidden City, the utter power of the wall was astounding and I could have spent days sitting on its ledges or following its path through the mountainside. Originally we wanted to take a 10k hike from the city of Jinshanling to Simitai, but we did not have enough time. Hopefully, when I return here before I leave China, I will be able to complete this hike and really get an idea of what it was like to walk along the Wall’s ramparts back when it was actually used for defense against the Mongolian barbarians.
Beijing really was a very cool city, and trumped Shanghai in nearly every department. I hope I can spend more time here to truly explore many of the places I was unable to go on this short three-day trip. The Summer Palace, the Hutong district, the Temple of Heaven, and many other sights still await me. But, just like all of China, it is too huge to ever see every nook and cranny, but I hope that as I explore China in the coming months, I will be able to return to Beijing and explore a little more of this incredibly historical city.
Zai Jian.
I.
Ashley, Lynn, and I were waiting somewhat patiently in my room, glancing at our watches every few minutes with just a tad bit of nervousness. Our bags were full and we were ready to go. Our overnight train to Beijing left in just over an hour, but we were still in my room, waiting.
The previous Friday the three of us had all gone into town and with the help of Chester’s (or Waiban) assistant, we had applied for our Residency Permits. The only problem was that they had to have our passports to put a new stamp in. They said it would take one week, the exact amount of time we were scheduled to leave for Beijing on our trip. So now, we sat and waited for Chester’s assistant to return from the Foreign Affairs office with our passports, and due to some delays and heavy traffic, she was running about two hours later than we thought she would. Not a great start to the trip.
Our train was set to leave at 7:30. It was just past 6:00 now. I wasn’t entirely sure how train stations worked and if it took as long to get through them as it did to get through airports, but I really hoped that wasn’t the case, otherwise we would be cutting it super close.
Just before we were about to send Ashley up to her room to call Chester for the fourth time, I walked outside and saw his assistant hurrying up the street. She handed me the passports and hurried off as quickly as she came. “Thank you!” I called out as she scurried off. Ashley and Lynn came out and I passed out the correct passports, growing excited about our trip.
We lucked out when a taxi was sitting right outside our apartment and we hopped in and speeded off. We made our way through busy Friday evening traffic and made it to the train station with nearly forty-five minutes to spare. We sat down in the busy terminal area and watched as tons of people moved this way and that with their packed luggage and potato sacks, ostensibly all heading home or on vacations themselves for the break.
When it was our time to board we made our way down to the train and found our car. We got ‘soft-sleepers’ the most luxurious and expensive of the four options you can choose when riding on a Chinese train. It consists of two bunk beds smashed into a small room. Ashley and Lynn both had top bunks in the room next to mine, and I had a top bunk in a room with three other Chinese. They were an older husband and wife with a daughter who was probably in her late-20’s or early-30’s. After a few minutes of them talking back and forth between them and stealing glances up in my direction, I decided this was as good a time as any to practice my Chinese.
“Ni qu zai na li?” I asked (where are you going?)
The daughter smiled and answered that they were headed to Beijing, just like us. Then they asked me where I was from (about three times because I didn’t catch it the first two times) and I told her that I was from the United States and was spending a year teaching here. Turns out she also knew a little English and we spoke back and forth for about 10 minutes in half-Chinese and half-English. She was patient with my broken Chinese as I was with her scattered English. It was fun to have someone sort of understand me when I spoke, even if it was the most basic of questions and conversation.
The bunks were narrow and the beds hard, but by the time 9:00pm rolled around I was drifting off to sleep. Or at least I tried. Apparently, the Chinese think it is enjoyable for all the train passengers to listen to seriously loud music throughout the whole train. Right next to my head was a scratchy speaker that played a live concert of a male and female pop duo for the whole first hour. The crowd cheered and they spoke loudly and exhaustively between each song, and it was beginning to drive me crazy. I couldn’t believe anyone was actually enjoying this music, but I guess someone, somewhere was. The ear plugs that I brought helped muffle the sound somewhat, at least enough so that I could at least read a book and concentrate for a little while. But as I was growing more and more tired, I was really wishing that the music would stop. And just when I thought they were considering playing it the whole trip and throughout the night, it cut off. Delighted, I lay my head down on my pillow to sleep, reveling in the beautiful semi-silence,
Just as I was about to slip away to the world of sleep, the sounds returned from the speakers, but in a much different form. Now, I was hearing waves lapping at the shore and seagulls crying overhead. They are playing nature sounds on a Train in China as I am trying to fall asleep on a narrow bunk in a room with three other Chinese people, is a thought that I never believed would go through my head. To make things even stranger, the tune from Elton John’s “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” from the Lion King began to play along with the sounds of nature. For some reason, you hear this song everywhere in China, and I am sure Sir Elton could come over here and sue the pants off people for using his song without permission if he wanted to.
The ocean waves, seagulls, and Elton John gave way to crickets, forest sounds, and a string rendition of “Ave Maria” and despite the fact that I really do like that song (and forest sounds!) I found this to be a strange combination and an even stranger time and place to play Christmas music. But it was nice to be the last thing I heard as I drifted off to sleep, cradling my camera bag like a teddy bear.
Light. Burning light. Music. Loud music. My eyeballs hurt. Where am I?
At 4:30am these were my most coherent thoughts. They had snapped the lights back on throughout the whole train, and like a rude and annoying wake-up call they had decided to add a few decibels to the music from the night before to wake up every slumbering passenger. I opened my eyes and saw my cabin-mates already pulling their bags our and getting ready to go. Errghhh… sleeeeep.
It didn’t take me long to recover and get excited that I was nearly in Beijing though. And I was soon fully dressed and getting excited for the trip. To aid this process the DJ manning the music choices decided to play the most overplayed song of all time. More overplayed than any previous Britney Spears hit. It was the Beijing song, which apparently features many Chinese superstars and actors (even Jackie Chan!) singing a countless number of verses about how great Beijing is for hosting the Olympics, and even though the Olympics has been over for over a month now, they continue to play it all the time. I hear it when I go to the store, when I am walking through campus, when I go into restaurants, and when I am walking through the market and hear all the vendors singing it. It is everywhere and it is annoying. But it was not as annoying here, as I was thrilled to be visiting the Olympic city myself. Well, it wasn’t annoying for the first four minutes, but it grew increasingly irritating by the time it reached the seventeenth and eighteenth verses.
I found Ashley and Lynn and we made our way out of the train station. The sun was rising over the Beijing Railway Station and I snapped some pictures. We then made our way over to the taxi’s, hoping that one of them would know where our Marriott was. A guy agreed to take us there for eighty yuan. We agreed before we knew we were agreeing and soon we were walking across the square towards his van/taxi. I thought this was a bit expensive though and I told Lynn and Ashley that I was going to try and see if I could get the price lowered. I walked up to the man, and said:
“duibuqi, tai gui le” (Excuse me, that is too expensive).
He tried to convince me otherwise but soon he had to pull out his phone and we were punching numbers in to negotiate a fairer price. This is how all bartering is done in China. They pull out a calculator or phone and you punch numbers in back and forth until an agreement is reached somewhere in the middle. It is sort of like the businessman who asks for a raise by writing his wishful salary on a piece of paper and sliding it across his boss’ desk.
After a minute of back and forth arguing and bartering, I had gotten the price down to fifty yuan and we all felt pretty good about that progress. After we piled into the van and made our way out of the train station, we realized that we shouldn’t feel all that great. The Marriott (which we could stay at thanks to the friends and family rate! Thanks dad!) was only about two blocks away. A regular cab ride would have cost about ten yuan. So, in reality, this guy overcharged us by about five times. Oh well, at least it was eight times.
Feeling sort of stupid we checked into our hotel and Ashley and Lynn took naps while I researched the Forbidden City and Tinanmen Square. Excited to get this trip going.
II.
Both Lynn and I believed, through researching and watching television, that cameras were not allowed into the Forbidden City and because we didn’t want to stick our valuable possessions in some sketchy lock-box or leave it with people at the gate, we decided to just leave our cameras in the apartment.
Blunderfest.
After about thirty seconds in the Forbidden City, it was apparent that cameras were allowed. Chinese people everywhere were toting their expensive Nikon and Canon cameras. Many tourists also had beautiful HD video cameras. One guy had a large television camera, complete with a fuzzy microphone, adjustable tripod, a handheld microphone, three different lenses, headphones, and someone to giving a stand-up report.
So, to Anthony Bourdain from “No Reservations” and everyone at Lonely Planet: bite me.
Oh well. Ashley consoled the photographer in me by telling me her favorite little proverb-like tale of the guy who is behind the camera so often that he is actually never in the picture himself. Or maybe she was paraphrasing that one line from the chick flick her and Lynn made me watch called 27 Dresses (Nolan: you would love it!) that went something like this: “You are so busy making sure everyone else has their Kodak moment that you never have time to make a moment for yourself.” – Yes, it really was that cheesy. But if anyone knows anything about me, it is that I like cheese, especially the grilled kind. Or the kind that is spread over delicious, succulent macaroni. Mmmm. I also like Parmesan cheese, which I always sprinkle over the equally delicious spaghetti sauce which is, of course, spread over mouthwateringly delightful spaghetti, which they don’t have in China. At least, not for anything less than 10% of my monthly salary.
What were we talking about?
Ah yes! So, without cameras or any other way to document our trip I decided to try and soak up as much as I possibly could, so when I sat down to write about my experience I could be as specific and provide as many vivid details as possible. So, after wandering around the many different rooms and huge courtyards of the Forbidden City, I can now say that I have been to the Forbidden City! And really not much else. The place was unbelievably large and the amount of rooms was staggering. One of my students told me that if you lived in each room for a single day, it would take you nearly two years to visit every single room. That is a lot of rooms.
While the architecture was very beautiful, and the sheer magnitude of the courtyards and city walls were something to behold, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed about my overall experience at the Forbidden City. Maybe it was the immense crowd, or the fact that around every turn I was reminded of my monumental blunder of not bringing my camera by someone snapping a picture right in front of my face. Even worse were the people who asked me to take a picture with them!
Oh hey, look at that sad American without a camera. Lets go use our camera to take a picture of him to make him feel especially stupid!
In actuality, the most likely cause of my disappointment, however miniscule, probably laid in the city itself. Many of the rooms were barren and without much traditional furniture or décor. Most of the rooms were set up as just exhibits, showing off jade, silver, and gold pieces. While very interesting and cool to see the different jewels and treasures that the old Chinese rulers sought in the past, it still felt like walking through every other museum in the world. I guess that is what the Forbidden City is now: just a gargantuan museum, but I was definitely expecting something a little more, how should we say, medieval.
Also, it has turned into a huge tourist trap. Around every corner within the city there were shops selling Olympic gear and Chinese paintings that were incredibly overpriced. I understand that tourist attractions as large as the Forbidden City are guaranteed money in the bank, but it still felt like an exploitation of the past. But that is done everywhere, not just China, and not just in the Forbidden City, so I can’t point fingers and I can’t really complain. I just miss the true romance of history.
Note: how many synonyms of the word “big” or “large” can you find in this post? A lot, probably.
III.
Quick! When you think of China, what is the first thing you think of?
Rice? Beijing? Dragons? Olympics? Spicy Food? Diarrhea?
Yes! All of those would be correct, and in some way I have experienced all of them (TMI). But in the past, and probably now that the Olympics are over, the one thing that always comes to mind when you think about China is The Great Wall (Chang Cheng 长城).
The true symbol of China, the Great Wall stretches across Northern China like a dragon extending its rough, scaly tail. We took a whole day and decided to head towards Simitai to visit the Great Wall. We found the correct bus station and after some very helpful people gave us a hand, we found the correct bus and got dropped off in some random, sketchy town where 25 ‘drivers’ were waiting to meet us as soon as we got off the bus. One or two of them even clambered up the stairs of the bus before we even got off and started asking us in broken English if we were going to the Great Wall. We had made a conscious decision to only get real cabs from now on, for we had been royally ripped off by these private drivers twice before and we weren’t going to be ignorant lowai’s (foreigner) anymore!
We soon realized that there were no actual taxicabs around, so we decided to do a little bargaining. It didn’t go well. All 20 drivers, despite the fact that were competing for business, worked together and none of them would really let us try and drop the price to a level anywhere near what we thought was fair. After about ten minutes of deliberation, we got the price down 100 yuan to a somewhat reasonable 260 yuan.
It was about an hour ride and by the end we were growing anxious to finally catch a sight of The Great Wall. Finally, we came around a small hillside and we saw it: it ran up and down the side of a tall mountain in the distance and we were blown away by the sight. I was not expecting the wall to run over the highest peaks in the area, the tallest portion of the mountains, and the most treacherous areas, but that is exactly what it did and it was a sensational sight (see The Great Wall video for clarification).
We spent nearly four hours in The Great Wall and, unlike the Forbidden City, The Great Wall completely and totally blew away my expectations. Just like the Forbidden City, the utter power of the wall was astounding and I could have spent days sitting on its ledges or following its path through the mountainside. Originally we wanted to take a 10k hike from the city of Jinshanling to Simitai, but we did not have enough time. Hopefully, when I return here before I leave China, I will be able to complete this hike and really get an idea of what it was like to walk along the Wall’s ramparts back when it was actually used for defense against the Mongolian barbarians.
Beijing really was a very cool city, and trumped Shanghai in nearly every department. I hope I can spend more time here to truly explore many of the places I was unable to go on this short three-day trip. The Summer Palace, the Hutong district, the Temple of Heaven, and many other sights still await me. But, just like all of China, it is too huge to ever see every nook and cranny, but I hope that as I explore China in the coming months, I will be able to return to Beijing and explore a little more of this incredibly historical city.
Zai Jian.
Why is everyone here named Kobe or Lebron? Oohh…
Turns out, I am not very good at basketball.
I.
I knew this to be true before I ever came to China. But now I can say it is official.
Last weekend, after the banquet and too much Chinese liquor, I was recruited to play on a basketball team by a few men in the English department. At the time, I thought this was a fantastic idea; an activity that I could potentially dominate (due to me American-ness, the inventors and perfect-ers of the game), maybe have some fun, and hopefully be able to learn some new Chinese words and phrases, such as “shoot!”, “pass!”, “board!”, and “Oh my gosh! Look out for that ball coming straight at your face!” You know, things like that.
Unfortunately, all of these inklings were astoundingly miscalculated.
So, on Thursday, September 18, 2008, I decided that I would join my new ‘friends’ and help lead them to victory in this, the most important of Chinese activities. I was confident with my being both American and white, the latter of which used to make me very self-conscious back home, or at least ever since I saw the movie “White Man Can’t Jump” a few years ago. But here, in China, I was very confident in both my athletic ability and my usually sports-deficient white skin.
I was picked up by one of the players on the team, a man 45 years of age and a rounded stature and whose name I definitely should have known but still can’t quite remember, and we rode the elevator downstairs and got into his own personal car, which is an anomaly and also an impressive show of wealth in China. I tried to make conversation as we rode over to the basketball courts, and despite the fact it was only a two-minute drive, this proved to be quite difficult. Although he was able to speak to me and make his wishes known, it was very difficult for him to comprehend anything that I was saying, making it very difficult for us to actually ‘converse’.
“What time does our game start?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “we go to the basketball courts.”
“Are we playing other teams from the school?”
“Yes, we go to basketball courts.”
“Do you play in a league?”
“Okay, It’s no problem.” (every Chinese’s favorite phrase)
Alright then, I thought, good talk.
We pulled up to the basketball courts and I got out of the car. We walked up a set of stairs, still attempting at conversation, failing miserably. There was a pathway that cut between the two sections of basketball courts. On both sides of me were at least eight full courts, and it continued to climb up another set of stairs, where even more basketball courts were located on both sides of the pathway. All together there must have been at least thirty full basketball courts, each filled with two teams playing a full game and another two teams waiting for their turn to take the court.
I knew the Chinese loved basketball, but even this seemed a bit ridiculous. There were people everywhere, all Chinese, and they all turned to stare as I walked up, the only white boy in the whole complex, and possibly the only American who has attempted to play in this school league. It was just a bit intimidating, but my years and years of playing sports, and particularly basketball in the driveway of my friends, the Williams’, kept my confidence up and I would be lying if I said I was seriously impressed with the basketball skills that were on display on the courts. Not that they were particularly poor basketball players, but technique was much different (for lack of a better term) then what I have been used to seeing in the United States. There were no ‘elbow up-backspin-follow through’ Pistol Petes out on the court, that much was for sure.
We sat on the sidelines for nearly thirty minutes waiting for our turn to play and the other five guys on my team decided that was a good time to get warmed up for the game by smoking a pack of cigarettes. Nothing like a good chain-smoking social to get ready for the big game. They offered me a cigarette on more than one occasion, as the Chinese always do when you are in a social situation, and I respectfully declined.
I’d rather not cough up a lung during the second quarter, thanks though.
It was finally our time to take the court. We were a ragamuffin group of six. One guy was wearing a bright neon yellow shirt and the others were in an assortment of colors: red, blue, navy, and gray. I was dressed in my traditional workout color of all-black, and together our team nearly covered the entire color spectrum. I looked across the court and to my dismay saw the other team all had beautiful, ironed, matching uniforms. They had numbers and their names were emblazoned across their backs in neat, Chinese characters. Their team was also quite large. There must have been at least twelve members, enough for two full lines and a couple of leftovers, and they were running through gracefully choreographed warm-up drills: lay up, rebound, pass, a cut into the paint, sharp bounce pass, outside fade-away, rebound – repeat. I looked back at my team. The guy in neon was pushing the ball from his chest with all his might as he attempted to heave up a three pointer. Two other guys sat with their backs against the pole, double fisting cigarettes and smiling as they puffed away. Another guy was attempting to chase down yet another air ball and the ball slipped through his hands twice before he was able to reel it in and pass it back out to the guy in neon, who believed that after another thirty shots or so, he was bound to find his range, which I was convinced couldn’t have been farther than four feet.
To sum up: we were in trouble.
We had six guys, and since I didn’t want to be that outsider who just steps in and takes control, I quietly backpedaled my way off the court right before the game was going to start. I mean, I wasn’t scared or anything, but I was pretty sure we were about to get slaughtered, and I really didn’t feel like being a part of it right away. Maybe once the game was way out of range I could come in, no pressure, and bring the team back from certain defeat and save the day. Actually, sitting and watching it all unfold was even more tempting.
Unfortunately, neon guy saw me off the court and adamantly motioned for me to get on and he sent off one of the more heavy smokers, who obviously wasn’t mentally prepared for this sort of clash.
Alright, I thought. Just go out there, run around, play defense, and get home as soon as possible. I believed this to be the best game plan.
The referees (yes, they had two referees in full uniforms!) brought everyone to center court and threw the ball up for the tip, which, to the surprise of no one, we lost. The other team, in their beautiful navy uniforms, pounded the ball down the court. I searched frantically for someone to guard. As I swung my head back and forth in desperation, automatically realizing that if I wasn’t guarding anyone, than someone on the other team must open, I began to realize that every single player on my team was doing the exact same thing. Uh oh. So, as it turns out, somehow everyone on the other team was open and after a few quick passes, they scored with an easy lay-up from about a foot away.
The game went that way for some time. We went up the court, the guy in neon threw up a desperation three, missed by miles, and the navy team pounded it down our throats for another easy bucket. It wasn’t until our fourth trip up the floor that I actually touched the ball. Frustrated that we were losing 6-0 within the first three minutes, that no one would pass me (The American!) the ball, and Mr. Colorful-Neon was shooting up dead ducks like it was the Great Outdoor Games, I decided to get a bit demanding. I clapped my heads adamantly and yelled gibberish that I hoped was Chinese for “pass me the friggin ball you air-balling, weak-armed pansy!”
Sure enough the ball came to me and I was now in the game. It’s go time baby.
The Chinese are all about teamwork and good structure, and our opponents filled the stereotype wonderfully. They played stingy zone defense, moving and shifting as one, and no one ever took more than two dribbles before passing. Even if a player had an open shot, he would look for a teammate who had an even more wide-open shot, and against our team, that wasn’t hard to find. They were the epitome of a team, as so many Chinese are.
But I’m not Chinese.
While I have decided to adopt a lot of Chinese customs and traditions in my every day life (baijou liquor!), basketball is one thing that is inherently American, and if we know anything about American basketball players, it’s that the player is greater than the team, and, gosh darn it, I believed it was time for the Chinese to learn this wholesome and very important cultural difference.
A short Chinese man with glasses stood in front of me as I held the ball in both hands right outside the three point line. I guessed he was from the Chemistry Department. He looked like a guy who would work in the Chemistry Department, no offense to our science teachers out there (Uncle Hans). I almost smiled at the sheer unfairness of the situation: short Chinese man with glasses versus average sized American with contacts.
Advantage: Star-Spangled Banner.
I put the ball on the floor, bounced it twice and dribbled it between my legs, adding a soft juke to the left to throw off the defender. It worked. He took a short step to his right, biting on the juke, and as his weight shifted onto his right leg I brought the ball back in a quick crossover to my own right side, leaving him staggering and helpless. And before he could say “Kobe Bryant – very handsome!” I was by him and exploding into the paint.
Defensive help came from the center, who was also the tallest man on the court. He attempted to step into my path and draw a charge, but I was already near full speed and pushed off the ground as I picked up the ball, flying towards the rim. Two opponents gave out a loud yell to try and break my concentration, and I heard someone yell “loawaaiiii!” from the crowd.
As I look back on my development as a basketball player I realized, as I floated through the air, that it was somewhat limited. I was very confident in my defensive skills, where the quickness and speed I acquired from years of playing soccer aided me tremendously to make quick pokes and jump in between passes. I was also a fairly good dribbler, as I had worked on dribbling between my legs, pulling crossovers, and doing spins in the paint quite often. I could pass fairly well; between my legs, bounce pass, chest pass, and everything in between. But there was one part of my game that was not entirely honed; not completely developed, you could say. Unfortunately for me, that was the most important part of the game: shooting. Or, in general terms, putting the ball in the little round hoop and through the basket. Not my best skill.
This realization came to me just as I was floating ever so gracefully past Mr. Tall (which might actually be his English name). Suddenly, all the confidence that I had as I blew past the Chemist faded away, and all I became was a white boy who was way too high in the air and moving much to quickly to make any sort of feasible shot. At the last moment, I tried to do a Steve Nash scoop lay-up, hoping that I could slow down the velocity of the ball enough so that it would gently sink through the basket. Everyone watched as the ball left my hand and it felt good as it did so. I was still in the air, while Mr. Tall watched helplessly as I continued to float by him like Woody Harrelson in the end of “White Men Can’t Jump” when he finds out that he can jump and he dunks the ball. Or something.
The ball approached the rim, and I smiled as it did so, knowing that it was on its way for two points and I was going to bring my team back in this game, something that seemed impossible only moments before. I landed like a Care-Bear on a cloud and I kept my eyes up as the ball approached the rim. I was waiting for that soft swoosh sound (the sweetest sound in all of sports) as the ball sunk smoothly through the hoop.
CLANK!
The sound resounded across the court and my eardrums quivered as the ball clanged off the back rim and ricocheted back into the open court, where Mr. Tall was gladly waiting with his long arms and big, strong man-hands. I hung my head in utter dismay. I had failed myself and, more importantly, I had failed all of America. The small crowd and the opponents’ bench cheered madly at my miss, euphoric at the American’s inability to make a lay-up.
The navy team flew back down the court, leaving me staring at their wonderfully straight names and large, bold numbers on the back of their jerseys. By halftime, we were down big. No one actually knew the score except for the one score keeper sitting at a small table at midcourt, but I knew we were down, and by the look of everyone else on my team, so did they.
I decided to dedicate myself to playing strong defense and just pass to any one who seemed to be able to shoot at least a little bit, and as the second half begun, that is exactly what I did. I began to understand our opponents offense, and I jumped in front of pass after pass. At one point I stole the ball on three straight possessions, thundering down the court two of those times to make a lay-up and have another careen off the trampoline-like backboard. But still, I had disrupted their play and kept them from scoring for a little bit, which was good enough for our team. So, while our ability to score remained very, very low, our defense became strong, and soon I had stolen the ball so frequently, and grabbed so many rebounds, my teammates began to feel confident in my ability to play basketball once more. As long as I never shot, which, unless I was on a breakaway, I never did.
And then a funny thing happened. Something that during warm-ups I thought was impossible: The neon-shirted man found his range.
I don’t mean that he took a few short jumpers and they just happened to rattle in. No. I mean, he found his range. And just as he was so sure of during warm-ups, his range was behind the three-point line. After another steal by myself, I brought the ball up-court, gave it to our point guard, who found Mr. Neon sitting by himself on the far wing. He heaved up another three-pointer, and, as was my reaction every single time he did this, I broke towards the basket in hopes of catching the ball in my lap as it sailed wildly past the rim. But this time, it didn’t. It banged hard off the backboard and rocketed through the hoop. I looked up at him in surprise and he showed zero emotion, as did everyone else on my team. They all just turned and jogged back down the court, acting as if Mr. Neon had been doing this his whole life: spotting up and sinking threes. It was like if Reggie Miller had hit a three. Everyone sort of expected it to go in, so it wasn’t that big of a deal when it did. But this was Mr. Neon. He hadn’t hit the rim all day, let alone actually make a bucket. But everyone acted like he was their sure-handed sharp shooter. So, I gave him a thumbs-up and offered a “nice shot!” as I jogged back down the court.
The next trip down the floor, after another tough defensive stop, Mr. Neon once again found himself open in the corner and, once again, Mr. Neon delivered, swishing a three pointer effortlessly and then turning and jogging back down the court. If this was NBA Jam the announcer would be yelling “Heeeee’s heating up!”
I was amazed at this sudden show of skillful shooting, and before I knew it, Mr. Neon had hit five straight threes (“He’s ooooon fiiiiire!”). The energy of the game picked up considerably, and the rest of the team decided to join me in my one-man defensive effort. I jumped in front of another pass and knocked the ball out in front of me. I found myself in the open court and this time I took my time as I approached the basket and put in an easy lay-up. No problem, I thought, the first five were just practice.
Soon, the fourth quarter was drawing to a close, and I knew that we had to have been cutting the prim and proper Navy team’s lead, but I wasn’t sure if we were close enough. The whistle blew for the last time and we all made our way over to the bench. Within thirty seconds my entire team, just as they had done between each and every quarter, were smoking their cigarettes, without a trace of emotion on their face.
“Did we win?” I asked the other teammate who knew some English.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
And so there we were: smoking cigarettes after we had staged one of the most remarkable comebacks in China University of Mining and Technology Teacher League history, and no one even really cared to see if they had completed the comeback and stolen a victory from the seemingly heavily favored Team Navy Organization. Or maybe they already knew. Maybe they knew they were a second half team. Perhaps everyone expected Mr. Neon to just catch fire in the second half and pull us out of the huge hole we were in.
And all of that happened. And as I waited to hear the score, I expected some high-scoring, shooters delight tally to reflect what seemed like a fast-paced and intense game. Sure, there were A LOT of misses, but also a lot of fast breaks and second chances.
Finally, my teammate told me the score: 33-22.
That’s it? 33-22?
“We lost?” I asked.
“No, no!” he said, “we won!”
“Awesome!” I replied.
So, maybe it wasn’t the great offensive battle I had expected. But since all I did was play some defense and make two lay-ups the whole game, I was okay with that, because that just meant I had a greater impact on how the game went. As did Mr. Neon, who must have ended with more than half of our points, despite shooting 7% the first half.
Unfortunately, I was unable to make the next game the following day (I took a personal health day), but my first foray into the world of Chinese basketball was enjoyable, even if I wasn’t the dominating offensive force I hoped I would be. But hey, defense wins championships. Or so say the people who can’t play offense.
My Line:
Minutes: 40
FG: 2-6
Points: 4
Steals: 12
Rebounds: 8
TO's: 1
Fouls: 1
I.
I knew this to be true before I ever came to China. But now I can say it is official.
Last weekend, after the banquet and too much Chinese liquor, I was recruited to play on a basketball team by a few men in the English department. At the time, I thought this was a fantastic idea; an activity that I could potentially dominate (due to me American-ness, the inventors and perfect-ers of the game), maybe have some fun, and hopefully be able to learn some new Chinese words and phrases, such as “shoot!”, “pass!”, “board!”, and “Oh my gosh! Look out for that ball coming straight at your face!” You know, things like that.
Unfortunately, all of these inklings were astoundingly miscalculated.
So, on Thursday, September 18, 2008, I decided that I would join my new ‘friends’ and help lead them to victory in this, the most important of Chinese activities. I was confident with my being both American and white, the latter of which used to make me very self-conscious back home, or at least ever since I saw the movie “White Man Can’t Jump” a few years ago. But here, in China, I was very confident in both my athletic ability and my usually sports-deficient white skin.
I was picked up by one of the players on the team, a man 45 years of age and a rounded stature and whose name I definitely should have known but still can’t quite remember, and we rode the elevator downstairs and got into his own personal car, which is an anomaly and also an impressive show of wealth in China. I tried to make conversation as we rode over to the basketball courts, and despite the fact it was only a two-minute drive, this proved to be quite difficult. Although he was able to speak to me and make his wishes known, it was very difficult for him to comprehend anything that I was saying, making it very difficult for us to actually ‘converse’.
“What time does our game start?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “we go to the basketball courts.”
“Are we playing other teams from the school?”
“Yes, we go to basketball courts.”
“Do you play in a league?”
“Okay, It’s no problem.” (every Chinese’s favorite phrase)
Alright then, I thought, good talk.
We pulled up to the basketball courts and I got out of the car. We walked up a set of stairs, still attempting at conversation, failing miserably. There was a pathway that cut between the two sections of basketball courts. On both sides of me were at least eight full courts, and it continued to climb up another set of stairs, where even more basketball courts were located on both sides of the pathway. All together there must have been at least thirty full basketball courts, each filled with two teams playing a full game and another two teams waiting for their turn to take the court.
I knew the Chinese loved basketball, but even this seemed a bit ridiculous. There were people everywhere, all Chinese, and they all turned to stare as I walked up, the only white boy in the whole complex, and possibly the only American who has attempted to play in this school league. It was just a bit intimidating, but my years and years of playing sports, and particularly basketball in the driveway of my friends, the Williams’, kept my confidence up and I would be lying if I said I was seriously impressed with the basketball skills that were on display on the courts. Not that they were particularly poor basketball players, but technique was much different (for lack of a better term) then what I have been used to seeing in the United States. There were no ‘elbow up-backspin-follow through’ Pistol Petes out on the court, that much was for sure.
We sat on the sidelines for nearly thirty minutes waiting for our turn to play and the other five guys on my team decided that was a good time to get warmed up for the game by smoking a pack of cigarettes. Nothing like a good chain-smoking social to get ready for the big game. They offered me a cigarette on more than one occasion, as the Chinese always do when you are in a social situation, and I respectfully declined.
I’d rather not cough up a lung during the second quarter, thanks though.
It was finally our time to take the court. We were a ragamuffin group of six. One guy was wearing a bright neon yellow shirt and the others were in an assortment of colors: red, blue, navy, and gray. I was dressed in my traditional workout color of all-black, and together our team nearly covered the entire color spectrum. I looked across the court and to my dismay saw the other team all had beautiful, ironed, matching uniforms. They had numbers and their names were emblazoned across their backs in neat, Chinese characters. Their team was also quite large. There must have been at least twelve members, enough for two full lines and a couple of leftovers, and they were running through gracefully choreographed warm-up drills: lay up, rebound, pass, a cut into the paint, sharp bounce pass, outside fade-away, rebound – repeat. I looked back at my team. The guy in neon was pushing the ball from his chest with all his might as he attempted to heave up a three pointer. Two other guys sat with their backs against the pole, double fisting cigarettes and smiling as they puffed away. Another guy was attempting to chase down yet another air ball and the ball slipped through his hands twice before he was able to reel it in and pass it back out to the guy in neon, who believed that after another thirty shots or so, he was bound to find his range, which I was convinced couldn’t have been farther than four feet.
To sum up: we were in trouble.
We had six guys, and since I didn’t want to be that outsider who just steps in and takes control, I quietly backpedaled my way off the court right before the game was going to start. I mean, I wasn’t scared or anything, but I was pretty sure we were about to get slaughtered, and I really didn’t feel like being a part of it right away. Maybe once the game was way out of range I could come in, no pressure, and bring the team back from certain defeat and save the day. Actually, sitting and watching it all unfold was even more tempting.
Unfortunately, neon guy saw me off the court and adamantly motioned for me to get on and he sent off one of the more heavy smokers, who obviously wasn’t mentally prepared for this sort of clash.
Alright, I thought. Just go out there, run around, play defense, and get home as soon as possible. I believed this to be the best game plan.
The referees (yes, they had two referees in full uniforms!) brought everyone to center court and threw the ball up for the tip, which, to the surprise of no one, we lost. The other team, in their beautiful navy uniforms, pounded the ball down the court. I searched frantically for someone to guard. As I swung my head back and forth in desperation, automatically realizing that if I wasn’t guarding anyone, than someone on the other team must open, I began to realize that every single player on my team was doing the exact same thing. Uh oh. So, as it turns out, somehow everyone on the other team was open and after a few quick passes, they scored with an easy lay-up from about a foot away.
The game went that way for some time. We went up the court, the guy in neon threw up a desperation three, missed by miles, and the navy team pounded it down our throats for another easy bucket. It wasn’t until our fourth trip up the floor that I actually touched the ball. Frustrated that we were losing 6-0 within the first three minutes, that no one would pass me (The American!) the ball, and Mr. Colorful-Neon was shooting up dead ducks like it was the Great Outdoor Games, I decided to get a bit demanding. I clapped my heads adamantly and yelled gibberish that I hoped was Chinese for “pass me the friggin ball you air-balling, weak-armed pansy!”
Sure enough the ball came to me and I was now in the game. It’s go time baby.
The Chinese are all about teamwork and good structure, and our opponents filled the stereotype wonderfully. They played stingy zone defense, moving and shifting as one, and no one ever took more than two dribbles before passing. Even if a player had an open shot, he would look for a teammate who had an even more wide-open shot, and against our team, that wasn’t hard to find. They were the epitome of a team, as so many Chinese are.
But I’m not Chinese.
While I have decided to adopt a lot of Chinese customs and traditions in my every day life (baijou liquor!), basketball is one thing that is inherently American, and if we know anything about American basketball players, it’s that the player is greater than the team, and, gosh darn it, I believed it was time for the Chinese to learn this wholesome and very important cultural difference.
A short Chinese man with glasses stood in front of me as I held the ball in both hands right outside the three point line. I guessed he was from the Chemistry Department. He looked like a guy who would work in the Chemistry Department, no offense to our science teachers out there (Uncle Hans). I almost smiled at the sheer unfairness of the situation: short Chinese man with glasses versus average sized American with contacts.
Advantage: Star-Spangled Banner.
I put the ball on the floor, bounced it twice and dribbled it between my legs, adding a soft juke to the left to throw off the defender. It worked. He took a short step to his right, biting on the juke, and as his weight shifted onto his right leg I brought the ball back in a quick crossover to my own right side, leaving him staggering and helpless. And before he could say “Kobe Bryant – very handsome!” I was by him and exploding into the paint.
Defensive help came from the center, who was also the tallest man on the court. He attempted to step into my path and draw a charge, but I was already near full speed and pushed off the ground as I picked up the ball, flying towards the rim. Two opponents gave out a loud yell to try and break my concentration, and I heard someone yell “loawaaiiii!” from the crowd.
As I look back on my development as a basketball player I realized, as I floated through the air, that it was somewhat limited. I was very confident in my defensive skills, where the quickness and speed I acquired from years of playing soccer aided me tremendously to make quick pokes and jump in between passes. I was also a fairly good dribbler, as I had worked on dribbling between my legs, pulling crossovers, and doing spins in the paint quite often. I could pass fairly well; between my legs, bounce pass, chest pass, and everything in between. But there was one part of my game that was not entirely honed; not completely developed, you could say. Unfortunately for me, that was the most important part of the game: shooting. Or, in general terms, putting the ball in the little round hoop and through the basket. Not my best skill.
This realization came to me just as I was floating ever so gracefully past Mr. Tall (which might actually be his English name). Suddenly, all the confidence that I had as I blew past the Chemist faded away, and all I became was a white boy who was way too high in the air and moving much to quickly to make any sort of feasible shot. At the last moment, I tried to do a Steve Nash scoop lay-up, hoping that I could slow down the velocity of the ball enough so that it would gently sink through the basket. Everyone watched as the ball left my hand and it felt good as it did so. I was still in the air, while Mr. Tall watched helplessly as I continued to float by him like Woody Harrelson in the end of “White Men Can’t Jump” when he finds out that he can jump and he dunks the ball. Or something.
The ball approached the rim, and I smiled as it did so, knowing that it was on its way for two points and I was going to bring my team back in this game, something that seemed impossible only moments before. I landed like a Care-Bear on a cloud and I kept my eyes up as the ball approached the rim. I was waiting for that soft swoosh sound (the sweetest sound in all of sports) as the ball sunk smoothly through the hoop.
CLANK!
The sound resounded across the court and my eardrums quivered as the ball clanged off the back rim and ricocheted back into the open court, where Mr. Tall was gladly waiting with his long arms and big, strong man-hands. I hung my head in utter dismay. I had failed myself and, more importantly, I had failed all of America. The small crowd and the opponents’ bench cheered madly at my miss, euphoric at the American’s inability to make a lay-up.
The navy team flew back down the court, leaving me staring at their wonderfully straight names and large, bold numbers on the back of their jerseys. By halftime, we were down big. No one actually knew the score except for the one score keeper sitting at a small table at midcourt, but I knew we were down, and by the look of everyone else on my team, so did they.
I decided to dedicate myself to playing strong defense and just pass to any one who seemed to be able to shoot at least a little bit, and as the second half begun, that is exactly what I did. I began to understand our opponents offense, and I jumped in front of pass after pass. At one point I stole the ball on three straight possessions, thundering down the court two of those times to make a lay-up and have another careen off the trampoline-like backboard. But still, I had disrupted their play and kept them from scoring for a little bit, which was good enough for our team. So, while our ability to score remained very, very low, our defense became strong, and soon I had stolen the ball so frequently, and grabbed so many rebounds, my teammates began to feel confident in my ability to play basketball once more. As long as I never shot, which, unless I was on a breakaway, I never did.
And then a funny thing happened. Something that during warm-ups I thought was impossible: The neon-shirted man found his range.
I don’t mean that he took a few short jumpers and they just happened to rattle in. No. I mean, he found his range. And just as he was so sure of during warm-ups, his range was behind the three-point line. After another steal by myself, I brought the ball up-court, gave it to our point guard, who found Mr. Neon sitting by himself on the far wing. He heaved up another three-pointer, and, as was my reaction every single time he did this, I broke towards the basket in hopes of catching the ball in my lap as it sailed wildly past the rim. But this time, it didn’t. It banged hard off the backboard and rocketed through the hoop. I looked up at him in surprise and he showed zero emotion, as did everyone else on my team. They all just turned and jogged back down the court, acting as if Mr. Neon had been doing this his whole life: spotting up and sinking threes. It was like if Reggie Miller had hit a three. Everyone sort of expected it to go in, so it wasn’t that big of a deal when it did. But this was Mr. Neon. He hadn’t hit the rim all day, let alone actually make a bucket. But everyone acted like he was their sure-handed sharp shooter. So, I gave him a thumbs-up and offered a “nice shot!” as I jogged back down the court.
The next trip down the floor, after another tough defensive stop, Mr. Neon once again found himself open in the corner and, once again, Mr. Neon delivered, swishing a three pointer effortlessly and then turning and jogging back down the court. If this was NBA Jam the announcer would be yelling “Heeeee’s heating up!”
I was amazed at this sudden show of skillful shooting, and before I knew it, Mr. Neon had hit five straight threes (“He’s ooooon fiiiiire!”). The energy of the game picked up considerably, and the rest of the team decided to join me in my one-man defensive effort. I jumped in front of another pass and knocked the ball out in front of me. I found myself in the open court and this time I took my time as I approached the basket and put in an easy lay-up. No problem, I thought, the first five were just practice.
Soon, the fourth quarter was drawing to a close, and I knew that we had to have been cutting the prim and proper Navy team’s lead, but I wasn’t sure if we were close enough. The whistle blew for the last time and we all made our way over to the bench. Within thirty seconds my entire team, just as they had done between each and every quarter, were smoking their cigarettes, without a trace of emotion on their face.
“Did we win?” I asked the other teammate who knew some English.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”
And so there we were: smoking cigarettes after we had staged one of the most remarkable comebacks in China University of Mining and Technology Teacher League history, and no one even really cared to see if they had completed the comeback and stolen a victory from the seemingly heavily favored Team Navy Organization. Or maybe they already knew. Maybe they knew they were a second half team. Perhaps everyone expected Mr. Neon to just catch fire in the second half and pull us out of the huge hole we were in.
And all of that happened. And as I waited to hear the score, I expected some high-scoring, shooters delight tally to reflect what seemed like a fast-paced and intense game. Sure, there were A LOT of misses, but also a lot of fast breaks and second chances.
Finally, my teammate told me the score: 33-22.
That’s it? 33-22?
“We lost?” I asked.
“No, no!” he said, “we won!”
“Awesome!” I replied.
So, maybe it wasn’t the great offensive battle I had expected. But since all I did was play some defense and make two lay-ups the whole game, I was okay with that, because that just meant I had a greater impact on how the game went. As did Mr. Neon, who must have ended with more than half of our points, despite shooting 7% the first half.
Unfortunately, I was unable to make the next game the following day (I took a personal health day), but my first foray into the world of Chinese basketball was enjoyable, even if I wasn’t the dominating offensive force I hoped I would be. But hey, defense wins championships. Or so say the people who can’t play offense.
My Line:
Minutes: 40
FG: 2-6
Points: 4
Steals: 12
Rebounds: 8
TO's: 1
Fouls: 1
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Running Through Time
I run.
I.
I like to run and I do it for a few reasons.
Running is something that I have been doing since I was very little, whether it was in soccer or just for fun. It is something that has been so ingrained within my being that it has become a part of who I am. People know me as a runner (or a soccer player or a cyclist) before they know much else about me.
Running is a comfort. Something that wherever I go or wherever I am, such as China, it always feels the same. My rhythm never changes and my extreme amounts of perspiration rarely fluctuates. I can feel the familiarity as soon as I start my watch or ipod and take those first few steps to wherever it is I am going.
I rarely know where I’m going either. Not sure where, but going somewhere.
When you are running you can cover a lot of ground, see a lot of things, and truly get to know your surroundings much better. When you’re in a taxi or a bus everything goes by so quickly that it is hard to understand or see the different things that the world has to offer. When you are walking, you can only cover so much ground, not really stretching your limits when you go out.
But running is just the right speed. Slow enough so that you can appreciate the little details and intricacies of the always-changing landscape, but quick enough to see a lot of different things.
So, this morning, I decided I would strap on my shoes and take a run in a direction I had never been. And in China, there are a lot of directions. I went out the South gate of the old campus’ grounds and ran past a small outdoor market selling “fresh” vegetables and fruits. Took a left down a dirt street and ran past some old train tracks and a hungry lumber-yard. Before long I found myself running through some old streets. There were women sitting on small stools ripping lettuce and they watched me carefully as I passed. Men on motorbikes and bicycles turned to stare as I went by. Another couple had cobs of corn piled high in front of them and were stripping each one meticulously, spreading the corn kernels out onto the ground as if they were laying a carpet. The road was half paved and half dirt and stone. I felt that I had run out of the big city that is Xuzhou and entered into a remote area of China where foreigners rarely go. And in a way, that was indeed the case. I’m sure that the residents of these homes and restaurants never see foreigners dressed in all black go running by during their morning routines.
As I ran I came to a lot of turns and dead ends. I tried to keep my run as simple as possible so I would be able to find my way home again. I used anything I could find as markers; the corn laid out on the dirty pavement, an old fence that kept nothing in and kept nothing out, a clothesline with a variety of what may have once been brightly colored towels, but were now dusty and worn, as everything eventually became in the smoggy atmosphere of a Chinese city.
I came to a river and I figured that it would be easy to follow along its side and return the same way. I came to a bridge and decided to cross and run along the opposite side and see if there was anything it had to offer. As I crossed I looked down and noticed that I was on some sort of small dam. Behind it weeds and plants sprouted up from the middle of the river and now impeded the progress of piles and piles of trash. Garbage was strewn over the banks and the trash in the river stretched back for dozens of yards. It was a sad sight, as piles of garbage in a beautiful, natural area like a river always is.
Across the bridge was a large fenced in area. From inside the fence I could hear some sort of shouting and chanting and as I made my way closer I looked over the small, concrete wall that the fence sat on. Inside was a large soccer field, surrounded by a track. Scattered across the entire grounds were many groups of young men and women in full camouflage standing at attention as a single leader stood in front of them, giving them orders and having them repeat. They were speaking in Chinese of course, so I was not able to understand what they were saying, but it was an eerie sight.
Every year, new freshman in the colleges have to undertake discipline and military training from the government before they join the rest of the school in their new classes. As a result, I only have four out of my eight classes right now, and will be teaching four freshman classes come October. Sometimes when I am sitting in my office with the windows open, I can hear their chants and patriotic songs waft over the campus and through my window.
But as I slowly jogged by this large track and field area, it felt even more official and controlling than it has before. The students stood in sharp, clean rows and with a loud command from the leader, they began to march in unison across the track. Straight legs jabbing forward. Straight arms swinging at their sides, as if they were unable to bend any of their joints. Chanting along the way. There must have been more than a dozen groups of fifty students all joining in the same routine. I watched from behind the small concrete wall and through the fence as hundreds and hundreds of students marched together, chanting, learning how to become good Chinese citizens and support the one Chinese party. I was impressed with the discipline, and seriously hoped that the students would be just as attentive and responsive once I got them in class. But I was also a little frightened, and hoped that the students were not nearly as attentive and responsive once I got them in class.
I decided that I should return home, and so I turned and ran back through time. Through the old, worn houses and the ladies ripping lettuce on small stools. I ran past the corn laid out on the ground, all the while making sure that I didn’t step on any and ruin the couples’ meal for the evening. I smiled as people stared at me intently, watching me as I ran by. And before I knew it, I was surrounded by cars, buses, and bustling crowds again. Not three minutes ago I was in another city and another time altogether. China is always changing like that. At one moment you are in a large store where they are selling expensive suits for businessmen, and then you are running by a college campus that has students marching and chanting as if they were building an army. Finally, you come to a small street where residents lay their corn out on the ground and the street is merely a street because there are houses that separate it. There are no markings, no pavement, just space. And within a few more minutes, you are running past a cell phone and ipod store. It’s a strange journey that never proves to be uninteresting.
I.
I like to run and I do it for a few reasons.
Running is something that I have been doing since I was very little, whether it was in soccer or just for fun. It is something that has been so ingrained within my being that it has become a part of who I am. People know me as a runner (or a soccer player or a cyclist) before they know much else about me.
Running is a comfort. Something that wherever I go or wherever I am, such as China, it always feels the same. My rhythm never changes and my extreme amounts of perspiration rarely fluctuates. I can feel the familiarity as soon as I start my watch or ipod and take those first few steps to wherever it is I am going.
I rarely know where I’m going either. Not sure where, but going somewhere.
When you are running you can cover a lot of ground, see a lot of things, and truly get to know your surroundings much better. When you’re in a taxi or a bus everything goes by so quickly that it is hard to understand or see the different things that the world has to offer. When you are walking, you can only cover so much ground, not really stretching your limits when you go out.
But running is just the right speed. Slow enough so that you can appreciate the little details and intricacies of the always-changing landscape, but quick enough to see a lot of different things.
So, this morning, I decided I would strap on my shoes and take a run in a direction I had never been. And in China, there are a lot of directions. I went out the South gate of the old campus’ grounds and ran past a small outdoor market selling “fresh” vegetables and fruits. Took a left down a dirt street and ran past some old train tracks and a hungry lumber-yard. Before long I found myself running through some old streets. There were women sitting on small stools ripping lettuce and they watched me carefully as I passed. Men on motorbikes and bicycles turned to stare as I went by. Another couple had cobs of corn piled high in front of them and were stripping each one meticulously, spreading the corn kernels out onto the ground as if they were laying a carpet. The road was half paved and half dirt and stone. I felt that I had run out of the big city that is Xuzhou and entered into a remote area of China where foreigners rarely go. And in a way, that was indeed the case. I’m sure that the residents of these homes and restaurants never see foreigners dressed in all black go running by during their morning routines.
As I ran I came to a lot of turns and dead ends. I tried to keep my run as simple as possible so I would be able to find my way home again. I used anything I could find as markers; the corn laid out on the dirty pavement, an old fence that kept nothing in and kept nothing out, a clothesline with a variety of what may have once been brightly colored towels, but were now dusty and worn, as everything eventually became in the smoggy atmosphere of a Chinese city.
I came to a river and I figured that it would be easy to follow along its side and return the same way. I came to a bridge and decided to cross and run along the opposite side and see if there was anything it had to offer. As I crossed I looked down and noticed that I was on some sort of small dam. Behind it weeds and plants sprouted up from the middle of the river and now impeded the progress of piles and piles of trash. Garbage was strewn over the banks and the trash in the river stretched back for dozens of yards. It was a sad sight, as piles of garbage in a beautiful, natural area like a river always is.
Across the bridge was a large fenced in area. From inside the fence I could hear some sort of shouting and chanting and as I made my way closer I looked over the small, concrete wall that the fence sat on. Inside was a large soccer field, surrounded by a track. Scattered across the entire grounds were many groups of young men and women in full camouflage standing at attention as a single leader stood in front of them, giving them orders and having them repeat. They were speaking in Chinese of course, so I was not able to understand what they were saying, but it was an eerie sight.
Every year, new freshman in the colleges have to undertake discipline and military training from the government before they join the rest of the school in their new classes. As a result, I only have four out of my eight classes right now, and will be teaching four freshman classes come October. Sometimes when I am sitting in my office with the windows open, I can hear their chants and patriotic songs waft over the campus and through my window.
But as I slowly jogged by this large track and field area, it felt even more official and controlling than it has before. The students stood in sharp, clean rows and with a loud command from the leader, they began to march in unison across the track. Straight legs jabbing forward. Straight arms swinging at their sides, as if they were unable to bend any of their joints. Chanting along the way. There must have been more than a dozen groups of fifty students all joining in the same routine. I watched from behind the small concrete wall and through the fence as hundreds and hundreds of students marched together, chanting, learning how to become good Chinese citizens and support the one Chinese party. I was impressed with the discipline, and seriously hoped that the students would be just as attentive and responsive once I got them in class. But I was also a little frightened, and hoped that the students were not nearly as attentive and responsive once I got them in class.
I decided that I should return home, and so I turned and ran back through time. Through the old, worn houses and the ladies ripping lettuce on small stools. I ran past the corn laid out on the ground, all the while making sure that I didn’t step on any and ruin the couples’ meal for the evening. I smiled as people stared at me intently, watching me as I ran by. And before I knew it, I was surrounded by cars, buses, and bustling crowds again. Not three minutes ago I was in another city and another time altogether. China is always changing like that. At one moment you are in a large store where they are selling expensive suits for businessmen, and then you are running by a college campus that has students marching and chanting as if they were building an army. Finally, you come to a small street where residents lay their corn out on the ground and the street is merely a street because there are houses that separate it. There are no markings, no pavement, just space. And within a few more minutes, you are running past a cell phone and ipod store. It’s a strange journey that never proves to be uninteresting.
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