Organizing a Swap Event in Guangzhou, China

Today, my small little language company held it’s first ever swap event.  Actually, we called Earth Day Exchange Party, and it’s was a little dippy, but it ended up surprising me a little.

I got inspired to do this for purely selfish and stubborn cultural reasons.  I have said goodbye to well over a dozen close or good friends in my time living in China, and I’ve inherited a lot of things.  I’ve been itching to make my living space more simple, and that’s where the cultural stubbornness comes in.  I simply refuse to just throw away any kind of object that is functioning.  I’m a hoarder in that way.  Or, at least an unwilling hoarder.  I keep those things for what you might call moral reasons, not because I can’t let them go or want to wait until that random, distant day when I’ll need the various items I’ve collected, but because I can’t throw away something that is still useful, that still has function.  I guess you could say that’s the extent of my consistent environmentally-friendly living sense: my refusal to let energy – behind the use of non-renewable resources, the production of them into some shape, and the expenditure of whatever other energy that was used to operate the thing besides kinetic energy – go to waste.  I could easily avoid being a hoarder in the US because there are enough recycle centers, donation centers, and exchange/thrift stores to go around.  You didn’t need to keep things until they could see their usefulness again in your life because there were so many other ways to share things you don’t need with other people who actually need or at least want them.

That kind of thing doesn’t really exist in China.  For one, people are typically afraid of using things that other people owned before.  A few students have told me that it’s even shameful, but I don’t know how many people actually think that, especially considering the attitudes we had today.  I think it’s just not common practice, and I think that people just haven’t had enough time after the development of the middle class and the mass acquirement of useless, unnecessary wants due to increased disposable income to realize the need for second-hand businesses.  It’s nearly impossible to find a thrift shop, a donation center, a true vintage clothing shop or any kind of second-hand-sales business here.  Beats me where all the old stuff even goes but I still I needed any easy solution for my growing pile of stuff.  In the end, I decided to create one.

We advertised online on a popular foreign web site and on the Chinese Twitter, Weibo.  We called all our small community of students and asked them to come.  In the end, almost only students and teachers were there, a small group of a little less than 30 people.  We taught a short culture class about environmentally-friendly living, showed a National Geographic video in English about global warming, and then held a birthday party (although non of our May birthday students showed (but we ate the cake anyway, of course).  During the party, a beginner student read a short essay that his teacher basically wrote for him, some new students gave English speeches about the items they’d brought for the exchange, and then we had the exchange part.  We brought more items than necessary because we wanted students to know it was a regular event.  Some students brought things but didn’t take any home, and some students managed to get away without bringing anything major.  One student of my students (a stoic, adorable, quick-learning 10-year-old named Jim) exhibited his ability with Chinese calligraphy by making some Earth Day banners as a show.  He swapped his results with us for some items, and he took home two of mine, an artistic ceramic flute and a USB light (which I know passed through 3 sets of hands unopened before it found its home with Jim).

Considering all the drawbacks due to poor, hasty planning, mostly on part of a staff who didn’t really understand the concept to begin with, it was a success in a few ways, including the most important – it will happen again.  My boss witnessed it all, got inspired, and likes the concept.  She’s already considering how it can help us promote ourselves to the local and foreign community, while also spreading the kind of message that’s very dear to her personally it seems: environmentally-friendly living.

One surprise was the number of students who brought unique and interesting items.  And, the requirements of types of items was well-understood.  No one brought anything strange or odd or terribly useless.  I brought many things I’d never opened, silly travel nick-nacks that no one actually uses, and almost all of which I’d inherited.  People all had some sort of thing to swap, and no one stole anything when no one was looking, which was lucky considering where we had everything.  One walk-in client had even come while we were preparing for the party, gone home to shower and get more nicely dressed, and then come back to witness the end of the party and talk to our staff.  He liked what he saw and decided to come back tomorrow.  Of course, for sales, this is where I excel because our consultants and even occasionally our director are shy when talking to foreigners, but I’m more comfortable, and this guy happened to be an Armenian guy working for a Russian trading business in Guangzhou.

I organized the event terribly and misjudged or didn’t consider many different aspects of it, especially several cultural ones, but in the end it managed to work out.  That’s the best part of the place I work for – the director and staff are willing to try just about any sort of kooky, odd cultural concept, and the students themselves are a bit of an odd community anyway, with several individual and unique personalities.  I felt like such a hippie today, but in a setting where people don’t even know what a hippie is.  Ironic, and helpful, considering I don’t usually identify myself in that way.

My Out-of-Town Chinese-Italian Wedding Experience

I spent the last 5 days in Hangzhou, China, home of the famous Xi Hu (West Lake). I went there for the wedding of a friend of a friend who used to live in Hangzhou and knew several of the other attendees. This cultural experience was a gift, something I wouldn’t have stumbled upon on my own, and it entailed many intriguing and even humorous facets, especially as the very mellow, married couple-to-be were from two different countries and had a very international group of friends and supporters that they desired to celebrate with them in the bride’s hometown, a nearby village.

The most genius part of the wedding was that, because it’s difficult to get many people from out of town to gather with successful organization in a village, the bride and groom had everyone meet in Hangzhou, load onto a bus at around noon, and drive to the village, which was only about 90 minutes away. This decorated bus, full of cheerful foreigners and locals, was well-stocked with beer and some sub sandwiches, and it rolled up to a pit stop for a local spectacle of a restroom and smoke break halfway through the drive before finally making it to the bride’s house. It probably completely amazed the neighbors, who gathered to observe the colorful group. Few of the Chinese guests drank beer, while almost all of the foreigners did. Having indulged in the beer myself, I had to pee so badly that when I got there and said hello to a woman who was either the bride’s aunt or mother, she grabbed my arm and frantically rushed me to the nearest bathroom, which was ironically hidden in a space that made it seem looked like you were about to pee in a closet. We gathered in the bride’s house, nearly filling the living room to capacity. It reminded me of some family gatherings in my old home growing up, as every room was carefully made ready for guests; trinkets were packed away, furniture moved, and every inch scrubbed to a polished shine. The mixed-ethnicity couples and their children, the bride’s family’s local friends, and the wedding couple’s friends from many different Chinese cities and foreign countries filled the room with play, laughter and intriguing conversations.  I noticed, a bit shocked, that I was the only white woman attending with a white boyfriend, who even more ironically happens to also be an American, something quite coincidental considering our location and experiences living as expats.

The table contained an almost-overflowing collection of bowls, filled to the brim with pickles and finger foods, and cans of beer, which the foreigners continued the drink gleefully. The guests gathered in circles, chatting happily and meeting each other, while the bride’s family quietly kept order and cleaned up messes.  All the while, the bride got ready in a bedroom; she hadn’t been on the bus, and was unseen by all guests until that point. Then, she called all the women into the room with her, and the wedding traditions began. She stood in the corner, in a dim light in the colorful and cozy old-fashioned room, next to a bed that had very fine quality, bloodred bedsheets and folded up blankets and actually reflected a dim glow onto her brilliantly white dress and veil. She was barely moving but smiling brilliantly, obviously overcome with happiness. The room was packed with many nationalities of women, including the groom’s mother and cousin, some foreign English teachers from a few different countries, and Chinese women from all different cities of China, all brought together, each knowing only a few others in the room. The two Chinese bridesmaids in simple, classic dresses, announced that it was time for the Italian groomsman (whose mother tongue was Italian but who also spoke fluent, natural-sounding Chinese and English and taught English for a living) and his groomsmen to perform some difficult tasks. First he had to come to the locked door and answer questions asked by all the women present. He kept trying to slip his way in, and each almost-successful attempt led to a throng of screamish-squeals from the girls who anxiously tried to prevent him from entering or seeing the bride.

The groom and his groomsmen were a motley crew. They were called to the window overlooking a back balcony, through which the bride and her entourage handed them colorful hula skirts and ordered them to dance to music she played off her phone. They did, and they also followed suit when she pointed her thin, elegant finger, and demanded for them to move their hips more. The groomsmen were good sports, following every command with comedic gusto, being all the more interesting because they were a huge black guy from Kenya who grew up there, the UK and the States and a bald, slick Italian guy who looked a little like he was out of the mafia and who speaks impeccable Mandarin as a resident of Beijing. After the task was performed, they were given a handful of keys on red-ribbon strings, only one of which actually opened the bedroom door. The groomsmen did all of this while a crowd of the men and some older women from the bride’s family and their neighbors stood around and watched in entertained amusement.

When the groom made it in, he was allowed to approach his bride and kiss her. Some little boys (to symbolize a desire for sons, an aspect of the wedding ceremony explained to me by a fellow guest, a Chinese woman who was attending with her foreign English-teaching boyfriend) were called into the room to search for small presents hidden among the folded bed sheets. The bride’s-home rituals were then finished, and the bride and groom were together the rest of the wedding. They left the house to take pictures outside with the family and wedding party, and the guests followed, probably beginning to suffocate in the small apartment that the family was also probably happy to have emptied out. The house visit had included so many smaller cultural exchanges, including a moment I heard about later from the groom, in which the bride’s mother repeatedly hugged the groom’s mother, a beautiful, vivacious Italian woman who had begun learning Mandarin once she heard that her son was marrying a Chinese woman. We stood outside, mingling and drinking more beer, and then we were loaded back onto the bus and driven to the hotel, where we would dine for the main part of the wedding. We spent a decent amount of time figuring out how to go around a bridge that seemed too low for our tall coach, circling the town, and eventually just risking it and slickly making it through, a success which caused the passengers to erupt in victorious applause.

Once we pulled up to the hotel, we got whispered word that we were 2 hours early for dinner, so we dispersed to explore the grounds and hang out. Many of the bus attendees ended up in a guest sitting room which served food and drinks. I found myself at a table with my fellow American date, a Canadian teacher and his Chinese wife and their baby, a British teacher, the groomsmen, and the Chinese wife of the Kenyan-American groomsman. After more beers were ordered, our ensuing conversation covered multiple topics, such as beer, animal cruelty and which cities in China were the best to live in.

After a few hours were killed, we were called in to the dining hall, where we took our seats. I was later told that the pouring of guests into the room angered the bride of another wedding happening in the same hotel, who had to stand and watch her guests look on in awed distraction as this seemingly-random cluster of foreigners and Chinese filed into the Chinese-style wedding next door. Being the guest of a guest, I sat with my date at a table in the middle of the third row of tables, in a large room that contained perhaps 16 tables – 4 rows of 4. Of course, position and table-seating is an important part of the dinner, and the most fascinating part of the arrangement was that the bride’s family not only sat separate from the groom’s family, but also sat in the back of the room, in the row farthest from the stage. The groom’s Italian parents and cousins and their guests sat in the first row, at the table of most important location. The bride and groom entered, and the wedding dinner events began. Led by an MC, as is typical in Chinese weddings, the bride and groom exchanged rings and vows, poured an entire bottle of champagne into a stacked tower of glasses that cleverly allows the champagne to overflow slowly from glass to glass and symbolizes prosperity and abundance as all guests eagerly watched to see how many glasses can be filled by one bottle. They linked arms and drank together before cutting a wedding cake that I don’t remember ever seeing again.

After this, they turned to the audience and toasted them as a unit, and the dinner began. I enjoyed the adventure of eating almost all completely new dishes, new Chinese delicacies and feast staples I hadn’t before savored. Lobster, crab, and an amazing, chicken, simply cooked in salted water and some subtle sweet flavors in a Dutch oven-like pot were extraordinary additions to the new selections of pickles and appetizers I examined and tasted. The toasting alcohols included baijiu (rice wine), red wine and a special, strong-tasting brown Chinese drink that tasted a little like a less-sweet-vermouth-style ginger wine. The bride and groom began their rounds of toasting every individual dinner guest (the wedding party famously never has time to eat at weddings) while everyone else began the meal. The tables were served all the same dishes and in the same order, and each place setting contained not only several glasses for tea, for orange juice, water or soda, and for wine, but also small gifts, including chocolates, nuts and candies in little boxes. As the bride and groom went around, the bridesmaids gave out decorated chopsticks while the groomsmen toasted each guest with the groom and the groom’s mother gave out a traditional red bag containing small red Italian candies of nuts covered in chocolate and a candy shell. The note she hand-wrote in red ink and attached to each one contained: the bride’s Chinese name in characters – that she obviously practiced and wrote in the large fashion typical of people who haven’t been writing characters all their lives – on one side, the groom’s given name on the other side, and the date, written in typical European style, underneath.

Many of the foreign guests slowly and happily got drunk, and the families strove to make everything perfect. The bride, groom and their families all took turns making speeches, and the revelry lasted about two-three hours. Then, the bus was loaded back up, and with half its occupants passed out in drunken sleep, it returned to Hangzhou. The bride and groom came along, and a large group of closer friends and classmates went to a reggae bar to share bottles of tequila, whiskey and beer, play pool and relax with the bride and groom, who were finally relaxing after the long day, now in casual clothes and with very pleased and loving looks on their weary faces.

My favorite piano bar

The pictures below are from my favorite little hangout spot in GZ.  Cheap beer, nightly live music and comfortable couches and homey chairs and lighting.  What more could you need on a Friday night?

Who knew Pepé Le Pew was French?

The past few days have got me thinking about cultural differences.  I’ll always believe that people are people everywhere, but the little differences tickle or baffle me at times.  Here are a few reflections.

Last night, I went out with a few French friends.  The topic of stereotypes came up as it inevitably does when young intelligent men and women from different parts of the world start talking and drinking at the same time.  Somehow the character of Pepé Le Pew from Looney Tunes came up, and I was amazed to find out that none of them know that he is supposed to be French.  They’d grown up watching the show in French, so all of the characters spoke French.  They didn’t think that any of the characters represented nationalities, and this revelation appalled them all.  In their mock outrage, they even suggested encouraging the French government to make a statement of severe disapproval.

The entire conversation revealed some interesting stereotypes.  These representatives of French culture (at least regarding my generation), when asked what most French people think of American women, said that we’re seen as promiscuous (the same goes for men, with the added characteristic of being overly-macho in an unintelligent way).  The Americans in the conversation (including myself) shared that we’ve grown up hearing that French women never shave and that French men are very romantic (but also overly forward and often womanizing) and that all French people in general are arrogant.  This revelation was also amusing to my French comrades because they think that Italian men are the womanizing bunch among Europeans and that French men don’t deserve being characterized as romantic because they’re too lazy.

Another cultural exchange I have experienced of late has been a little less jovial.  Having recently traveled home for about 3 weeks (and to Thailand for a week before that, where I drank plenty of Thai beer and ate food so good I almost can’t bear to think about it), I’ve eaten a LOT of good food over the past few months.  Thus, upon returning to China, I was evidently noticeably plumper (though not by my roommate – bless his heart, he’s such a sweetie with those little white lies).  Almost every one of my Chinese colleagues and students, upon seeing me for the first time in over a month, remarked that I looked rested, happy, and fatter than usual.  I replied to their comments a bit coldly the first few times, but I eventually noticed the happy, sugary tones with which this compliment was delivered each time.  Finally, I asked a group of my students, all women, what a comment like that usually connotes, and they say that this kind of exchange between women is usually friendly rather than malicious and even a compliment at times.

It’s fascinating to me that such a vast difference in reactions to such a comment exists between cultures.  I would say that Americans are much more obsessed with image and perceived societal expectations regarding weight than the Chinese, but that’s simply not true.  Many Chinese women are very concerned with image, especially looking wealthy and/or trendy.  So many Chinese women are naturally small and thin, yet great concern over weight (especially by the smaller percentage of Chinese women that happen to be above the size 4) still exists and affects women psychologically.  However, being called a little fatter than usual by an acquaintance doesn’t seem to make them want to strangle someone.

And the electric hotplate goes to…

This is the story of how I found myself, at about 10 o’clock at night, walking home over the Guangzhou Da Dao bridge dressed in high heels, a skirt and dress shirt, and toting this eclectic bunch of things: an electric hotplate, a pair of Louis Vuitton g’s (probably knock-offs), and a gift package of spa-quality shampoo and body wash (I love those packages that don’t include as much conditioner as shampoo because goodness knows I don’t need any more conditioner with this short ‘do I’ve been sporting these days).

Let’s backtrack about 5 hours.  A friend of mine had invited me to a traditional Cantonese after-moon-festival dinner that her father (a former vice-mayor of Guangzhou and retired national team badminton coach) was attending.  It was also a special function because the most famous traditional Chinese landscape and calligraphy artists in the city or province (I’m not really sure which) were hosting the dinner.  So, after a semi-typical workday, I was picked up, with my friend, in the private car of her father’s friend, one of his former players (and evidently, last year’s “Mr. Guangzhou” – assuming that means he’s a local celebrity and all-around stud).  The ride across the city was adventurous both because I so rarely ride in a private sedan these days (although I put in my fair share of van time at my previous job), especially one so plush, and because Mr. GZ was quite a chaotic speed-demon.

We arrived at a very traditional, famous dim sum restaurant after we picked up another man, an elderly gent whom my friend called Mr. Dale.  Mr. Dale lives in San Francisco and imports wine from Germany to the U.S. and China.  I thought immediately that it would be nice to have another person to speak English to besides my friend, and Mr. Dale, with his zany, colorful worldview, didn’t disappoint.  The restaurant we went to was, coincidently, one I’d been to before, for a welcome luncheon with my former company.  It’s quite old and full of traditional decoration inside, including glass windows with hand-chisled designs of flowers and things, a wall of embroidery, and a wall of pictures from decades ago depicting all the momentous events that took place there, like contract signings and even a visit from a former German chancellor and Henry Kissenger.

When we got there, the artists were painting calligraphy and landscape scenes on tables all across the front of the room.  After a while, this slowly ended, and a host stood up and said a bunch of welcoming things and then ordered that raffle tickets be passed around.  Well, they were more like door prize numbers than raffle tickets.  The prizes were announced, and the first few lucky numbers drawn.  The first recipients got some of the new paintings.  Then a toast and the meal began.

As I remember from the first time I went there, the dim sum didn’t disspoint.  By now used to many of the traditional Cantonese dishes, I still managed to try a few new things, like the aforementioned duck feet.  But, I must admit that unlike in the psat, I didn’t let my desire to be open-minded trump my embarrassment at the clumsy and awkward task of gnawing on a giant bird foot; I gave up after the first small taste, but not before I admitted to myself and to the entire expectant table watching me that it tasted good (it’s no lie).  I also had some delicious shrimp dumplings, and too many other dishes to describe (there must have been 12).  The table I sat at had several badminton players, along with me, my friend, Mr. Dale, and a woman I know very little about except for what my friend told me (that she lived in France for over 20 years, where she made a fortune exporting wine to China, and that her ivory-looking bracelet cost around 600,000 RMB (that’s about 100,000 USD).

Throughout the dinner, the always-present Chinese toasting occurred as usual.  The host toasted the room.  Table members toasted each other.  The guests of honor, including my friend’s father and the artists, all of whom sat at a table in the front, made the rounds, toasting every single table individually.  During this time, I made a major faux paus, as I toasted the more famous artist there with the tip of my glass higher than his (here, it’s a sign of respect to put the tip of your glass lower than the person you’re toasting if you respect them, they are your elder, or they hold a higher position in society or at work than you do.  More raffle prizes happened steadily throughout the night; I think that out of about 200-300 people present, about 2/3 of them received presents.  After the first round of artwork, large items like cell phones and my electric cooker were given out (yes, I was one of the big winners, and my ridiculous, exuberant “thank you!” in response to being given a microphone and asked a question in Cantonese – while on stage on front of a few hundred people – turned me beet red).  Then, about 100 pairs of LV sunglasses made the door prize agenda, followed by the spa goodies and more artwork.  I wished so badly for some artwork, but unfortunately, I got stuck with just about every other kind of prize instead.

Finally, the dinner ended and we left, dropping of Mr. Dale on the way.  I had to walk over the GZ Da Dao bridge due to where I was dropped off by maniac-driver Mr. GZ, and I laughed all the way home over the absolute randomness of yet another one of my colorful Chinese experiences.

Click on the pictures below to see descriptions.

Across the market and through the hood…

Today was quite a typical day for me as an ESL teacher in China.  After promising a friend that I would help her by substitute-teaching a new class she has set up at a school, I woke up early and left the apartment by 8 a.m.  My only instructions on the job were to go to a certain subway stop in the city and stand around and look foreign.  Eventually, a Chinese person would come up and find me and lead me to the school.

That’s exactly what happened.  I woke up, headed to the subway stop and stood around looking confused.  Luckily, it’s not a terribly crowded stop, and it’s got only 2 exits, both near each other.  After a while, a smallish old Chinese lady walked up to me and said “hello?” with huge eyes and a quizzical look.  ”Yes?” I asked.  ”You…Robin?” she said, as if she’d rehearsed the name 30 times.  ”Mmm-hmm.”  And with that, she took me off.

That’s when the adventure began.  Not typically good with directions, I’ve been learning fast as a single woman living in this Chinese megalopolis.  Today was a test of all my observation skills.  We snaked our way down a main street, through a narrow residential alley, and across a small plaza with about 50 elderly Chinese men and women doing an exercise dance routine to poppy Chinese music.  Another 2 quick turns, and we entered a massive wet market.  Halves of hogs next to butchered fish and frogs and turtles and snakes and scorpions filled my nostrils and eyes.  Piles of beautiful fruits and veggies spilled over onto bags of rice and beans.  I couldn’t help thinking of the substances that my shoes were absorbing as I tried to keep from slipping on the slick floor that was covered in water from attempts at cleaning by the various vendors, dirt, wrappers and plastic bags, and a slight, gummy sheen of animal blood and other juices.

Quickly keeping up with the speed-demon of a little lady I was following, I had to concentrate to keep from running into busy grocery buyers and tripping over myself as I did double-take after double-take over all the strange sights I was absorbing the the fast 3 minutes we spent in the market.  Just as suddenly as we popped in, we popped out, back into the brilliant sunlight, and left the mad cacophony of the market behind us.  After we crossed another major street, one more neighborhood alley led us back around to a small kindergarten where I began the second part of my adventure:  figuring out how to teach babies songs in English.

The first class was nerve-wrecking.  I had 30 minutes with true kindergarten students (about 20 of them) to teach a simple song in English.  It went something like this:

Sitting on the carpet, one, two, three.

Sitting on the carpet, you and me.

Bunny stand up.  Yeah!  Bunny sit down.  Oh!

Bunny is dancing all around.

Somehow, I figured out how to make that last a whole fifteen minutes, and then we drew bunnies.  To my embarrassment, with the Chinese teachers helpfully assisting me, I realized very quickly that half of these children weren’t old enough to draw bunnies.  Luckily, enough adult hands were free to help them all form the arms, legs and bodies.  None of them cried, and the 30 minutes slowly, eventually came to a close.  I sighed in relief and moved on to the next class.

The kids seemed to shrink as we went on.  During two 20-minute classes, I taught pre-school-aged children (about 15 in each bunch) to sing this song:

Little bee, little bee, round, round, round.

Little bee, little bee, sound, sound, sound.

Bzzzzzzzz!

Oh my goodness.  That was excruciating.  The children were too young to understand most of what I said, except when I danced around like a bee and said “Bzzzzz!”  Not one to whom kinder-theatrics comes easily, I counted the minutes until each class was over, and sighed in relief after each one when none of the children had begun crying or had any traumatic accidents, like peeing all over the place.

Then, I moved on to the babies.  The only thing I was to teach them was “Hello!” while waving.  And, after a while, the words “bunny” and “bear” and to put them together by saying “Hello! bunny” and “Hello! bear.”  That’s it.  Fifteen minutes of trying to get children about 2-3 years old say “hello” and wave their hands at the same time was surprisingly un-fruitful (though very endearing).  In the end, only 4-5 to of them got it, even though I probably said “hello” in every voice imaginable and every speed imaginable.  Only one of them broke out in a tantrum, and none peed (though I think they all wear diapers still at that age).

Then, I was allowed to leave.  I had made it through an early, random morning teaching babies as a favor to a friend.  I happily took my pay and then embarked on my next adventure of the day:  figuring out how the hell I was going to make it back to the subway station by remembering the tedious, semi-treacherous  path I had taken before.  I will return with my camera soon to take pictures; the scenes and surroundings were too colorful not to.  I only wish I could record smells as well!

Sardine day

The other day I went shopping on a holiday (September 12th was the Moon Festival this year) and made the mistake of entering a mall.  After a few minutes in a department store, I literally had to run outside to be able to draw in a full deep breath.  I wish the picture below represented the full experience, but your imagination and trust in the truthfulness of my exaggeration will have to fill in the rest of the details.

Not your everyday KTV experience

I wrote the following story a few months ago.  For those of you unfamiliar, a KTV is a karaoke bar; it’s a very popular pastime in China.

It’s late on an unusual Friday night – unusual because I participated in a sort-of social experiment tonight.  On a spontaneous whim, I decided to accept an invitation to KTV given by one of my students, Mr. Y – an invitation I’d spent all day making up excuses to get out of.  At the end of the night, I remember him jovially shouting: “No English name!” to his cousin, a young woman who was also present at KTV, just before he put me in a taxi to send me home.  He’s an interesting man: a joker who’s very aware of his disquieting nature (he’s also a small-time celebrity in this city).  Hanging out with rich Chinese people is bewildering and downright crazy sometimes, and tonight was no exception.

I was the only foreigner present among a room full of professional football (and by that I mean soccer, my fellow Americans) players (Mr. Y is a retired player), their girlfriends and girl friends, and a very odd-looking, wacky as all-get-out middle-aged Chinese woman with a blondish curly fro and unusually curvy hips.  She was also drunk from the second I laid eyes on her.  Most of the people there couldn’t speak English.  A few of the women could, and one or two of the players on the team could speak a little.  They all took turns playing dice games with and toasting me.  They made a bit of a game out of seeing who could persuade me to kampei (when someone toasts you and says “kampei,” it’s rude not to down the contents of your glass).  They were all (loudly) vocally impressed when one of them could have a broken conversation with me; a successful attempt usually ended in the room breaking out in cheers and applause, and failed attempts garnered hilarious drunken heckling.  I was a downright novelty.

I spent most of the evening playing dice games and talking to K (another one of my students who is in Mr. Y’s class) and observing the fact that Mr. Y sang almost every one of the Chinese songs that played throughout the evening (which was all but 4 songs: 3 English and 1 German).  I finally believed him; in class, he had told his skeptical teacher several times that his favorite hobby was singing, and now I’m not really sure why I didn’t believe him save for a general impression that it didn’t match his personality much.

After Kelly left, the crazy lady sat next to me – or on me basically – and talked to me with terrible English…and slightly bad breath.  After a half-hour of this, Mr. Y finally rescued me from a hilariously awkward situation:  kooky fro-lady was talking to me constantly in one ear and a teammate of Mr. Y’s with crooked teeth and an uber-stylish haircut was talking into the other ear.  I don’t know his name, but I feel like I should because he kept telling me that “he loved me” (I’m pretty sure they were the only English words he knew) and then grinning like a silly fool when he realized that he’d spoken some English and been understood.  Although, no amount of my replying “thank you so much!” would get him to shut up.

I sang a total of 3 songs.  Two were English songs that Mr. Y put on the screen, demanding that I sing them with him as duets by the way, he was so proud to have his English teacher there, especially because most of his friends didn’t believe he was taking classes until I confirmed that he was); however, I didn’t know them at all because they were directly translated from Chinese songs.  Chinese people sure know those songs, though; each time that room was roaring as everyone who couldn’t hold a conversation in English showcased their ability to at least sing it!

Finally, I gave up on Mr. Y’s songs and suggested he sing one I pick out.  Foolishly, I chose Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” that – I’ll admit it world – I’ve memorized thoroughly.  I say foolish because it’s too fast for someone who’s never heard it to sing correctly the first time, especially a low-intermediate English student.  My little performance – more appropriately, solo – was actually the highlight of my evening.  The people there made me stand in the front of the room.  For about a minute in the middle of the song, the words on the prompt screen went out, and I sang every word without being a bit off-tempo (though I was unfortunately terribly out of tune).  The surprised and pleased room of then-mostly men (by then more than half of the people had gone, including most of the women) were jumping up and down, clapping, cheering, and stomping to the beat – sometimes all four at once.  I sat down, beet-red and teetering towards embarrassment until I realized how happy everyone in the room seemed to be from witnessing the performance.  In the end, I decided to just be flattered and be done with it.

It’s time’s like these when I shake my head and think: “Only in China.”  For people here, though, it was just another crazy night at the KTV.

Living in a concrete jungle

Inside of a little box, you can so easily forget how your box has been swallowed and sits in the bowels of the living, breathing, thriving, decaying, wheezing concrete beast that is this Chinese city. In each direction, just in your line of sight, you see thousands of other boxes. Forget “little boxes on a hillside.” We’ve got stacks of boxes all on top of each other, spilling into your face, your nose, your eyes and ears, filling your lungs and crawling under your skin. This city pushes into your perception, creeping right up to the barriers set by your sense of personal space. Frequently, spontaneously, it bursts through, poking, jabbing, groping, caressing, punching you. It is all of these things. It does all of these things. It’s a concrete jungle, and it understands no concepts relating to slowness or comfort or consequences.

It is simultaneously moving and unmoving. Stoic, massive buildings sit unmoving, mountainous rocks or legos or bricks. Yet they seem to perceive the world in and around them all too well for comfort. The little bleeps and movements of life swell and fade, poke in and out of every orifice, whisper and shout endlessly into the organized chaos around them.

Language barrier

I’ve been wanting to write for a little while about some of the experiences that have arisen from being in a country where so few people speak English and where I don’t speak the local language.  It’s an ironic thing, actually, because China is just so POPULATED.  It’s amazing to feel the sheer numbers, and it’s even more bazaar when there seems to be fewer people in a place than you might expect.  Rush hour in the metro station on line 1, the most frequented line, is just utter chaos.  Walking on the streets takes skill; the sidewalks are always under construction, you must watch every step to make sure you don’t trip, and you must walk quickly to keep up with the flow of traffic around you – of pedestrians.  And, Chinese people know how to get from point A to point B, and hesitation on your part just means an opening for them to squeeze past and get there a little faster than you.   Cars don’t hesitate; if you’re in the way, you just have to move – end of story.  It’s not uncommon to see cars driving on the sidewalks out of frustration – it’s where they all park anyway.  However, the streets look different after 9 p.m. and before 9 a.m.  Not so many people are bustling about, and I get a chance to walk slowly and observe things.  But, even during the more crowded times, my ever-present language barrier doesn’t keep me from seeing things, from observing the emotions that are more visible than internal and that are revealed by those who aren’t concerned with being watched.

Of course, people are people everywhere.  People here want the same basic things as people back home.  Some like to go to the grocery store and buy frozen dinners and most like to go out to eat and shop.  Parents want to be proud of their children.  Teenagers want to stand out and get noticed, and grandparents seem to want nothing else than to get to the store and back safely and to dote on their grandchildren.  The same surprises, angers, warmth, laughter, and intimacy bubbles forth from those same daily life situations that make us all the same at the end of the day.  But, these things are visible.  They belong in a world where a person doesn’t have to speak at all to get by, to witness life’s little dramas and paradoxes.

It’s the more verbal, intellectual things that I begin to miss sometimes.  I wish I could hear the sentiments behind the expressions I see.

Restaurants are a wonderful example.  Tonight, I went to dinner at an Italian Buffet.  I used a fork and knife, spoke to the waitress in English, and sat in a room filled almost exclusively with Western clients.  This was a rare experience.  My typical meals requires me to use chopsticks – something I’m really good at now – and to order in Mandarin.  In smaller, more local places, individual waiters will sometimes refuse to serve me, asking their managers to do it instead.  It’s not that they don’t like me, it’s just that they’re afraid of losing face by angering me or messing up my order due to the language barrier.  Perhaps a past experience with a foreigner tainted their view of serving other foreigners.  At many restaurants, I simply have to point to something on a menu (no pictures, no English translation) and just hopes it tastes good.  I can look up the characters for vegetables and tofu, so by ordering them, I’m usually sure to avoid animal cartilage and organs, which I just haven’t grown accustomed to yet.

The grocery store is also confusing at times.  There is a huge supermarket here that is like a 4-story Walmart, and it’s across the street from where I live.  At first, I looked blankly at the cashier each time I checked out and she asked me something in Mandarin.  It didn’t matter much because the total cost is always posted in English and Mandarin, so I was able to pay and leave without understanding a word.  After a while, I realized that one of the questions asked each time is whether I want a bag – and important question because that store charges for bags.

There are some instances, however, where I’m glad I can’t understand.  People, I know, talk about me right in front of me – not necessarily rudely or maliciously – but because they can because they know I don’t comprehend.  I’m sure my size provokes a few comments; I’m much taller and slightly thicker than most (though by no means all) women here (I think the average size is a 2).  Besides that, I’m just an oddity; many people really just don’t know what to make of foreigners, and a whole range of reactions express that.  Literally everything I do is odd to most people here, just because I’m so different.  It sometimes feels like being a celebrity.

Even though I’m learning enough Mandarin to order food more efficiently and to understand some basic questions frequently asked of me, I will most likely never be able to converse freely here.  While that is a shame in some respects, it does make this experience all the more interesting – and challenging.  Those who can speak English and volunteer help are always appreciated.  They certainly don’t HAVE to help; I’ve seen enough of people not being open and friendly to non-English speakers to realize that the people here wouldn’t be out of the ordinary if they treated me less kindly for not assimilating more quickly.  Perhaps they do have personal problems and express them, but since I can’t understand anyway…

My favorite example of the language barrier thus far was the other night at a very good dumpling place just around the corner from my apartment, near the vegetable market.  I practiced some basic ordering phrases in my phrasebook,and marked the pages for things like “pork” and “mushrooms” to show the cashier as a plan B.  I even picked out a few tasty-looking dishes being eaten by other customers to point to as a last resort.  All three failed, however, for one of two reasons.  First, the woman probably spoke only Cantonese, a problem I run in to from time to time here, especially with older locals.  Second, it sometimes happens that even when I’m saying something coherent, my listener can’t understand because he or she is predisposed to not understand.  It’s either fear or inexperience, or my accent, but it happens often.  For whatever reason, my attempts were failing and the woman eventually picked out some dishes for me (she picked well, by the way).  After all of that frustration on her part and confusion on mine, as I’m paying and about to sit and wait for my food, a Chinese businessman behind me says, in perfect English: “So, you are trying to learn some Mandarin?  Very good for you!”

Lifestyle differences

It’s amazing to me that I’ve been in China for less than a week.  So far, so much has already occurred that I feel like I’ve had weeks to adapt.  I’ve taken note of the differences between what life here will entail (of course not all of them yet) and what life is like back home.

My favorite difference is transportation.  I have always wished to live in a place where I can get around entirely by public transportation, and Guangzhou is the perfect city for such aspirations.  The subway is brand new and clean; the buses are fast, frequent and spacious and the taxis are cheap (usually 2-4 USD to most places in the city).  I’ve been very pleased with all three forms of transportation, not to mention just general walking, because it means I don’t have to drive a car.  I’ve never been a huge fan of driving.

My kitchen is tiny, and there are a lot more bugs, but that just means that the term cleanliness takes on a higher standard in its meaning.  I don’t have an oven, but the trade-off for a nice microwave (mine is questionable), big fridge (mine is dorm-size) and lots of counter space is a future education in cooking with a wok and bamboo steamer and using very, very fresh ingredients (the vegetable market is a 3-minute walk away, and I’ll be buying things the morning I cook them).

Clothing is certainly different.  I’ll have to get used to things being a little dirtier, but I don’t mind hanging my clothes to dry because at least I don’t have to wash everything by hand.  I have a large balcony with an excellent hanging system already in place for hanging all kinds of hangers with wet clothing.  Because of the location of my apartment, not much rainfall gets onto the porch even during heavy storms (like the one going on right now).  I’m very lucky in that regard; as I type, my neighbors in the apartments across the way are scrambling to bring in clothing about to be wet again from the rain.

It’s about as hot as Texas here, not in temperature, but in effect due to very heavy humidity.  Its more noticeable because I spend more time outside and because even though I have a wall-unit AC in each bedroom (making sleeping very comfortable), then rest of the apartment relies on open windows and fans.  The layout of the place, however, makes for excellent drafts, especially in the kitchen.

There is definitely more pollution here, in the water, in the air, on the surface of everything, but I’m planning on purchasing tons of house plants for some fresh air in the apartment.  My bevy of brand-new cleaning supplies has already made a huge difference; anything left un-polished for too long collects a black soot of sorts, residue from the smog outside.

One of the best things about life here (so far) is stocking up at IKEA.  I have just finished purchasing the majority of my small furnishings, the stuff that didn’t come with the apartment, like lamps, rugs, and kitchen supplies.  I could never afford to have bought this quantity of products at IKEA back home, and everything is the same great quality.  I am really excited because I just bought the best cutting board and cleaver I’ve ever owned, and for much less than I’ve paid for lesser quality knives in the past.

Beyond that, things are cheap and food is fresh (most fast-food places don’t last out here), since fresh food is so easy to get on the fly anyway.  I have wifi, cable TV (though only 2-5 channels are in English, depending on the time of day), and a radio built into my new cell phone.  People are very nice and helpful, even though I’m an immigrant who doesn’t yet speak their language (which is a blessing considering how many people from back home feel about non-English speakers).  Of course, there are about 5 stages to living in a new country with a very different culture, and I’m just in the first (the one where everything is new, fresh, and awesome).  We’ll see how things pan out, but for now, I’m really happy with the little differences in lifestyle.

Thank goodness, it’s just fish!

So, Brandon and I had our second meal out in China and our second adventure in ordering not knowing a word of the local language.

Brandon, foodie that he is, read all about this raved-about restaurant in Guangzhou that supposedly, according to the author of our travel guide, is the best on the planet at it’s type of dish (chang fen).  We also wanted to get some cash from an ATM and try our hand at riding the subway, all in one outing.

Well, it turned out to be a wonderful evening!  We walked down to the nearest subway station, which we found this morning, and went down into it.  The subway here is brand-spanking-new, and you can tell.  It’s pristine; it makes the New York City subway seem like a thing of the past.  Luckily, the machines for buying passes to nearby locations had an English option, so we successfully planned our trip to a nearby district.

We ended up in a shopping district of sorts, and it was hopping with people.  It was around rush hour, and we had to take a few breaks to step off the main streets and into a park or a residential area to get away from the crowds.  Eventually, we found not only our restaurant, but an ATM next door (China is still a cash-mainly place).

Then we faced the hard part.  After about 10 minutes of observation, we figured out that the system of the restaurant, one whole side of which was open to the street, was a pay-first-eat-second deal.  Our victory over figuring this out, however, was very short-lived because we then discovered that there were no menus except for a list of prices on a wall, everything in Chinese characters.  We had some dish recommendations from the guidebook and tried pronouncing them at the counter.  The cashier just laughed at us, not understanding a word.  Finally, we decided that we’d made it all the way there so we’d better try SOMETHING.  Brandon pointed to two characters on the wall menu, and the cashier told us a price, which we didn’t fully understand.  We gave her a largish bill, and she gave us the correct change (luckily, the place was very cheap; the meal was about two bucks total).

Then we sat down to wait with a number card.  We had no earthly idea what we ordered; the restaurant serves many things, not just chang fen, and we had a good chance of getting chicken feat or tripe.  After a worrisome 15-20 minutes, our order came to us, and it turned out not only to be the mouth-watering chang fen we had hoped for, but some amazing, no organ-y charred pork and fish.  It was absolutely delicious.  We decided then and there that we’d come back and do the same thing until we order everything on the menu; hopefully by the time we get to the end of it, we’ll have picked up some Cantonese and can actually order without pointing!  Try looking up images of chang fen…it’s a great dish, especially if you like dumplings.

As a bonus to a victorious adventure in trying some chang fen, we saw a beautiful park on the way back home.  There was a pond full of hugh lily pads and lotus flowers; the fragrance was overwhelming.  We also saw what seems to be an evening pastime of middle-aged women (and a few men) – group dancing in the park.  There were several groups (some with numbers up to 40-50) dancing around in this plaza, looking like they were doing some quick form of tai chi to a techo-type beat.  Hilarious and wonderful, and definitely something I’m glad I didn’t miss!