Mantis Versus

"You can observe a lot by watching." -Yogi Berra

Page 4 of 6

No, they didn't have a tree planted by either Gallagher or his brother (whom he sold his comedy act to). I checked.

The Real China: Chinglish

October 30, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Asia is famous, at least on the internet, for garbled translations of English (or should I say the Orient is famous since nobody knows about Kyrgyzstan). T-shirts and street signs mash up text that is ostensibly English, but grammar, word order, and especially coherency are completely off. The result of Chinese people using English in conversation and signage- Chinglish- is often bizarrely meaningless or outrageously vulgar.

Aunt Fong is here. Where are you?

Aunt Fong is here. Where are you?

I did see a fair share of pathway markers with Chinglish cautions in Chinese tourist sports. Next to a scenic stream, visitors were warned “Water depth! don’t near.” In a wooded area a sign minded onlookers “Experienced vicissitudes. No ravages undergone,” which I tried to follow, but failed. I got stuck halfway experiencing things when I realized I didn’t know what a vicissitude was.

These signs were good for a chuckle, as were the t-shirts I saw on young people that had everything from random words strung together, to letters mashed from a keyboard, to outright curse words that made my jaw drop. The kids wearing these clothes had no idea what they said; they only liked the “cool” style of English words. I was there to witness one college student’s embarrassment when my Foreign Affairs Officer at the university where I taught, Amy Hu, told the girl that the English text on her shirt was a description of breast feeding. Sometimes the naïve students’ t-shirts left me mortified, other times I just laughed, but I couldn’t really fault them since I come from a nation of gullible tattoo freaks who willingly and illiterately ink awkward Chinese characters onto their skin.

More common than the phenomenon of Chinglish text, sometimes more interesting but often only frustrating, were the spoken English sentences made by Chinese who were trying to transliterate typical Chinese phrases using English words.

Here are the most common Chinese-to-English phrases I heard during my stay:

“No, thank you.” (Instead of “You’re welcome.”)
In Chinese, it is standard to reply to thanks by saying bie keqi (sounds like “bee-yeh kutch”), which means roughly “Don’t be polite,” or bu yong xie (boo yowng shee-ay): “No need to thank me,” equivalent to “You’re welcome.” So a polite Chinese person, after hearing me say “Thank you,” was tripped up by the similarity of the Chinese phrases and would tell me “No, thank you,” sometimes being corrected by a classmate: “It’s ‘You’re welcome!’”

Pronounced, by Chinese speakers unused to that tricky th- sound, as “Sank you.”

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“He/She” Confusion
In China, the men are men and the women are women, but you could never trust who was which if you heard them spoken of by another person. For example, someone might begin talking about his mother, but then he would make a switch and say, “He lived in the south as a girl.” If the contradiction were ever as glaring as that, I would give my friend an obvious hint. “He lived?” They would pick up on my playful disbelief right away: “I mean she!” But I learned to be skeptical and expect conflation between “he” and “she.” In Chinese, “he” and “she” are pronounced the same (“ta” for both) and written not all that differently. It amazed me that these simple pronouns could be a stumbling stone for so many errors. That is, until I noticed myself switching pronouns when I tried to rush out a sentence in their language.

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“My brother/My sister”
These terms weren’t confused with each other; they were often substituted for “my cousin” or “my friend.” I heard quite a few young people mention their brother or sister and I started to become suspicious. “Don’t you all have a One-Child Policy?”

Many of the young people I met in my semi-rural province did have siblings because- I assumed- they were out of the government’s iron grip, probably because they lived in the country where enforcement was lax and it was an open secret that there were ways around the One-Child Policy. Some had parents who must have been wealthy enough to pay the fines and exorbitant extra costs of raising and educating a second child.

Once, I asked a young lady why she called her cousin her “brother.” She told me there wasn’t a good word for “cousin” in Chinese. Moreover, she grew up as an only child and so did her cousin, and because they were frequently around each other at every family gathering, they felt close like siblings and naturally called each other “brother” and “sister.”

One thing to note: having China’s One-Child Policy in mind will confuse you if you ever meet the people in China. There were many single-child households, sure, but there were also many young people with a (real) brother or sister. I would ask them, “What about the One-Child Policy? Are your parents in trouble with the government? Is your little brother a secret?” I never got a satisfactory response to my question. It was either a flat yes or no, or a “Yes, but we do” or “No, we can.” They had a hard time explaining it. Actually, none elected to give me a worthy explanation. Probably not unlike explaining the allowances granted by Freedom of Speech laws to a man from a state-controlled culture, or American gun laws and the Right to Bear Arms to a novice foreign visitor.

China's version of the Fountain of Youth.

China’s version of the Fountain of Youth, the Immortal Bed.

“I very like it.”
Grammatically, the sentence could be “I really like it,” or “I like it very much,” or even “I very much like it.” This is a fine distinction, easily unknown or forgotten by my congenial Chinese friends. It is easy to understand how someone learning English would say “I very like it” after they learned that “very” is an intensifying adverb to turn a word like “good” into the superlative “very good.”

“I know.”
I was not so charitable toward this phrase. No, I almost lost my temper and made a classroom outburst the first time I heard a middle school student say, “We know.” It was when I went to the chalkboard to make a distinction about two similar phrases. Maybe I was explaining the difference between replying, “I’m sorry?” and “Say again” to the Chinese students who thought that the latter was the preferred way to ask someone to repeat themselves. I don’t remember for sure. But as I was writing and explaining myself, a student said, “We know.” I immediately snapped over my shoulder and eyed the students to try and identify who said it. It sounded like an openly condescending remark, made by a student rolling their eyes at the redundant teacher. Being very green and lacking confidence in my authority as a foreign teacher, I held my peace and went on with the lesson. I wanted to scold them, “You know? Then why did you make the mistake?! Don’t stop me when I’m teaching you, you little smart alecks!”

When I saw this sign, I thought there had better be monkeys.

When I saw this sign, I thought there had better be wild monkeys.

I heard “I know” or “We know” replies a few other times, in class and in conversation, and it started to make me suspicious. It was spoken with a flat tone at times, not with a sarcastic edge, and it was spoken politely in friendly conversation with a smiling student. Something was amiss. Finally, after learning enough Chinese to become familiar with everyday phrases, I learned that a common response used to indicate understanding is, literally translated, “I know.” In English, if someone tells me news and I tell them, “I know,” of course it usually means “I already knew that.” In Chinese, “I know” (“Wo zhidao”, said “Wuh jih-dao”) means the English equivalent of “I see.” Or, the difference between telling someone you understand them and telling them they’re behind the curve because you understood that already.

Sure enough, the sign delivered.

The sign delivered as promised.

“Read. Follow me.”
It was either this or “Look. Follow me.” Or “Watch me.” Chinese is a language of simple commands, having no use for spare words to make a sentence flow or sound more polite. Chinese speakers, steeped in this straightforward grammar structure, naturally adapted it to English sentences.

The robotic commands I heard in China sounded very abrupt to my ears, conditioned to catch the subtle differences in tone between English words. A Chinese speaker with beginning or intermediate English skills might use Tarzan talk or baby talk, but I always gave them credit. I knew what they meant and I knew they had put forth a lot of effort to learn to speak English. Also, I knew firsthand how difficult and time-consuming it was to acquire a foreign language, and English was such a foreign language compared to Chinese.

Besides, once the students of English had worked with the language for a few years and been exposed to enough American movies, they started to phrase things naturally.

Sound advice.

Sound advice.

“Good, good study. Day, day up.”
This is a literal translation, I understood, from a motto of Chairman Mao. The very first time I heard someone use this cheer, the group of Chinese friends I was with laughed at the “Chinglish,” but I understood it perfectly, immediately. It seemed like a clever way to use English; the simplicity streamlined the words’ meaning. I heard this phrase fairly often, usually as a rallying cry after group exercise or spoken by students in discussions on difficult homework assignments.

Perhaps this is the finest example for English speakers, using the building blocks of our own language, of how Chinese works. Super simple, with no inflection or function words in between the main thoughts.

This one almost makes sense.

This one almost makes sense.

“Have a good sleep.”
Whenever I went out to lunch with someone (usually students I met in the cafeteria) they would bid me farewell by wishing me a good sleep. Naptime was assumed, a part of the culture built into work and school schedules. So it was expected that after our lunch was over, I would go back to my apartment and sleep. My friends were only being polite. This phrase is fine grammatically; it stood out to me only because I have never heard an American wish me a good nap and in China I heard it every time I went off to my after lunch rest.

“Wish you happy every day.”
My friendly well-wishers would also end conversations, text messages, greeting cards, and online chats with “Wish you happy every day.” I’ve never heard an American say this, either, and I doubt it was part of the Chinese English language textbooks. I had to assume that people were transliterating a standard Chinese phrase.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Speaking of English textbooks, in China (and all over eastern Asia) the students are taught to respond to the basic greeting, “Hello. How are you?” with “I’m fine, thank you.” It sounds as wooden and forced as you might imagine an uncomfortable Chinese student would sound when reciting strange, foreign sounds.

My fellow foreign English teacher, Grant (the Australian), and I would always tell students on the campus, “You don’t have to say, ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ You can say, ‘I’m good. How are you?’ or anything you want.” Grant would add a “mate” in there. It would have been a sweet dream for me to see a Chinese student referring to his friends as “blokes” or “mates.”

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“What a pity.”
The other stock phrase that was over-used to perplexing effect was “What a pity.” I heard this one tossed out hundreds of times over every mild disappointment. In America, the standard reaction I’ve heard to bad news is “That’s too bad” or “I’m sorry (to hear that).” Among my peers, I’m sorry to report, the popular reply is “That sucks.” My generation is no longer aware that this phrase is vulgar, and the Chinese were unaware that “What a pity” is thought quaint by contemporary Americans.

It sounds, I don’t know, British? There is something overly refined about “What a pity” that strikes Americans as something that might be spoken by a Gibson girl or white-gloved old matron. Americans are far too proud of their middle class-ness and informality to casually say, “What a pity.”

In my mind, I thought of the James Bond arch-villain, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, and his more famous parody, Dr. Evil from the Austin Powers’ movies.

By the time I saw the sign, somebody or bodies hadn't obeyed the sign, since the smiling flower was gone and not saying hello to anybody.

By the time I saw the sign, somebody or bodies hadn’t obeyed the sign, since the smiling flower was gone and not saying hello to anybody.

One time, I missed a Chinese lesson with my very strict teacher, Uncle Jiang. Aunt Fong had taken me out on an errand and told me it would be all right to postpone the lesson, but soon her husband called her up and chattered some harsh vibrations over the cell phone. Then, Aunt Fong handed the phone to me, stupefied. My first phone conversation in China with someone whose English skills were quite limited. What was I supposed to say?

“Hello?” I said.

“What a pity…” Uncle Jiang slowly growled. His voice was low; angry emotion seethed inside but he restrained it, I imagined, through clenched teeth and flared nostrils.

It was the first time I had heard “What a pity” in this kind of a context. I didn’t pick up on his meaning, and I tried to relay the explanation that Aunt Fong had told me in the clearest bullet points. “I’m with Aunt Fong. We are near your home. She is taking me to dinner. We will eat dinner.”

Uncle Jiang wasn’t interested in listening. “What a pity…” he breathily said again. I was confused at first, then taken aback. I could feel his rage through the phone. He went on and lectured me that when we agree to a meeting time, we have to commit to it. This happened during week 2 or 3 of our Chinese-English study, and up till that point I thought we intended to work hard but had mutually agreed to meet together as friends. Uncle Jiang didn’t take a casual interpretation.

“Okay… Okay… Okay,” I replied to him. It was my first brush with Chinese temper tantrums. While in China, I would witness a few other occasions where a man would become moody as a little boy and expect everyone to cater to him. This behavior was contemptible when I saw it in husbands or young adults, but it was worst in government officials and media spokesmen. I figured that Confucian social structure and the pampering of male children resulted in self-centered men who abused the attention they were entitled. Let me qualify this statement though: I saw Chinese men in private life on limited occasions. Mostly, in public, I saw standard behavior that I would expect from men anywhere, but with Chinese characteristics: joviality, conviviality, excitability, boisterousness, slovenliness, loudness. I am not saying that temper tantrums were typical, only that there were more than a couple conspicuous instances where I was shocked to see a man acting babyish, and disgusted to see the people around him having to accommodate him. Of course, American men lose their tempers too, just not with the same pouting I saw in China.

In the media, Chinese government spokesmen act contemptuous and high-handed when dismissing U.S. claims of computer hacking, for example, and they are outright bullies when denying claims in South China Seas territorial disputes with their Asian neighbors. When I see it, I have to soothe my indignation by humorously imagining them delicately stroking a white cat and haughtily saying, “What a pity.”

This blog, like this "world" in China, is non-smoking.

This blog, like this “world” in China, is non-smoking.

“What are you doing?” “Where are you going?”
Moving on to a lighter topic, “What are you doing?” was a typical Chinese greeting. Another traditional greeting was “Have you eaten?” I was told that this became common in China’s impoverished past, when people were many and food was scarce. Asking your neighbor if he had eaten showed your concern and indicated you were willing to feed him if he were hungry.

In the same way, friends and acquaintances meant to show concern and polite interest by asking me “Where are you going?” whenever I left my campus apartment. It could feel very direct and intrusive, as if I were being interrogated over suspicious activity. After righting my balance, I was able to rattle off a casual answer. In a way, I had to admit that it was a better information-gathering question than “How are you?” If someone replies, “Good,” then what is there to work with? In my experience the reply to that reply is “That’s good” and the dialogue is over. But if someone tells you what they are up to, then that might be enough to open a small conversational door. At least it’s better than the dead-end of “How are you?” “I’m good.” “That’s good.”

For once the English is perfectly proper. A good minder, too.

For once the English is perfectly proper. A good minder, too.

“Eat medicine”
This one was minor, but instead of pairing “medicine” with the verb “take,” the Chinese transliterated their own verb-noun pairing and said, in English, “eat medicine.”

I mention this because “eat medicine” sounded odd to my ear (you don’t eat medicine- that would involve chewing- you swallow it or drink it), and because it serves as a representative example of the many minor discrepancies in language and conceptual thinking between Chinese and English. (These minor phrasal discrepancies can be found in any language compared with another.)

Think about this one: why do we say “take medicine” but the Chinese say “eat medicine”? It is essentially describing the same thing, but the words “take” and “eat” have different usages and associations. In one language, “eat” can mean the intake of something like medicine, in the other it involves food and insults, but not medicine, and chewing and swallowing.

“Where are you come from?”
This phrase was the main offender while I was in China. Other Chinglish transliterations or mistranslations could be funny, confusing, awkward, charming, strange, nonsensical, off-putting, or just plain incorrect, but “Where are you come from?” annoyed me harshly and persistently.

Whenever a curious stranger approached me and asked me this question, my spine shivered, my hair rose on the back of my neck, and my jaw stiffened. Its sound was as pleasant to me as the screeches of an engine run without oil.

Most times, when speaking with a Chinese friend, student, or new acquaintance, I was very gracious with them and appreciative that they were trying to speak English with me. It took courage. So I had patience and I tried to build them up, only seldom correcting a language error when they were having difficulty. With “Where are you come from?” though, I insisted on slipping in “It’s ‘Where do you come from?’” in the snippy tone of a grammar pedant. I could not let it pass. It I could have, I would have rounded up all the attempted English speakers in China and conducted a one-hour class to drill “Where do you come from?” until no one could forget it.

You may ask what was so bad about this grammar error in particular. Well, I would have to answer its prevalence- sprouting up everywhere like an invasive weed- and more so its ugliness. It takes the brain along one path: “Where are you…” and then startles it with the jarring contradiction “…come from.” Plus, it was often blurted out with a glib smile, as if an enemy were insulting my injury with a grin.

This sign definitely wasn't minded by native Chinese speakers, a few of whom I saw carving their name into the Great Wall with car keys.

Signs aren’t always worth much to native speakers anyways. I saw a few of them carving their names into the Great Wall with car keys.

There were other common confusions I tried to clarify when I could, when necessary. The most prevalent item was the difference between “What’s the matter?” and “What’s the matter with you?” a significant tonal distinction in English but a similar meaning if the words are analyzed by a Chinese student. In these cases I was calm and I picked my battles- an English class I would correct, but a casual acquaintance I would not. I knew my place.

Any grammar ire was reserved for “Where are you come from?” which I immediately corrected before giving them my answer. Perhaps I gave them the impression that most Americans are difficult and sharp. Maybe I should have told them “I am come from France.”

Translates fine, but I thought it was funny that this amusement park was called "China Dinosaurs Park" and not just "Dinosaurs' Park."

Translates fine, but I thought it was funny that this amusement park was called “China Dinosaurs Park” and not just “Dinosaurs’ Park.”

The Real China: Traffic

October 28, 2015 / / 1 Comment

Traffic in China does not follow the laws, conventions, or assumptions of American roadways, as might be expected. Remember, China is a collectivist society, which means that drivers from opposing traffic will share your lane with you.

Driving and walking are dangerous prospects in China (not that driving is especially safe anyplace else). Sidewalk and street blend into one here, and cars split the street with whatever wanders into it: bicycles, dogs, buses, motorcycles, electric scooters, livestock, domestic fowl, and plenty of pedestrians. I often wondered why so many people walked in the street, without seeming to care for their safety, when there were always sidewalks or walkways nearby. I always set out to use the sidewalk myself, but after weaving through too many food carts, tables, chicken cages, broken concrete slabs, construction leftovers, parked bicycles, trash, dung, and motorbikes, I ended up taking to the street myself.

American cities might be crowded and busy like China, but at least there is a division of space: sidewalk and street are not the same, nor do they serve the same functions. In China, if you could drive or park there, it was fair game. The same lawless rule applied to walking: if people wanted to trot along the highway with their wheelbarrow behind them, then they did so.

In China, as in most developing countries, the drivers honked non-stop. This, along with many other experiences, made me question whether “developing” was just a euphemism for the opposite of decency. Honking served a theoretical purpose- alerting other motorists and pedestrians of one’s approach- but the people in China were so jaded and dulled to the sound that they would not step aside unless they had to, and then only at the last possible moment. Drivers honked whenever they backed up, whenever they started going forward, whenever they entered a gate or narrow street, whenever they rounded a blind corner, whenever they changed lanes (although I never saw anyone check their blind spots or mirrors), whenever someone was in front of them traveling at a slower speed, whenever they were overtaking another vehicle or weaving in between opposing traffic, or for pretty much any other contingency.

Honking was constant, and it often came in the from of three-round bursts from angry truck and bus drivers. Drivers in China refuse to yield, even when turning left through opposing traffic, so they simply honk and wind their way through other vehicles like a herd of confused cows.

One of my honking taxi drivers almost ran down a university student, but I can’t really fault the driver in that case, because he had his headlights on, was driving under 5 miles per hour, and had honked steadily at the young man several times before he finally flinched and stepped aside. Chinese pedestrians, too, could be shockingly passive.

One November morning, my “Uncle” Jiang (Aunt Fong’s husband) and I were driving back from his hometown to our university, which normally took 30 minutes; we each had class at 8:00. The fog that morning was intense- you would have tripped over your toes if you didn’t know your heels were behind them. Almost as thick as the fog outside was the tension inside the car. I watched wordlessly as my honorary uncle slowly traversed the maze of the once-familiar city streets and grunted and sighed while trying to determine which streets we were on. Then, insanely, and I do not use those italics lightly, pedestrians would appear- on the highway, not on the city streets- would appear in front of us, walking the wrong way, into oncoming traffic, when a perfectly usable pathway (flat, smooth, and clear) lay on the other side of a separating barrier. We would honk and swerve around them, and after surviving our 80-minute odyssey of missed turns and drowsy detours, we eventually arrived at our campus gates.

I often muttered to myself about Chinese drivers’ lack of courtesy and safety in relation to other drivers and especially to pedestrians, but those people walking on the highway, in the fog, were out of their minds in any culture.

Back to the taxi drivers. Of course, they showed the same temerity as taxi drivers the world over. But in China, no one showed respect to the dashes and lines indicating whose lane was whose. So, when passing, the taxi drivers would honk several times and go left or right- whichever was most convenient, not necessarily a legal or safe driving space- to overtake whatever was in front of them.

Once, on a four-lane road, I was a passenger in a taxi and we were in the left lane of northbound traffic (note: China, like America, drives on the right- theoretically). We were blocked in front by a charter bus and on the right by a semi. So, in his impatience, my driver passed the bus in front by going left. We were driving north in a southbound lane.

Traffic1

Driving the wrong way was fairly common for taxi drivers though. So common, in fact, that there was another taxi in front of us, also in the midst of passing the bus by driving into opposing traffic. Apparently, this fellow scofflaw was too slow for my taxi driver, so he went left around him– we were driving in the far lane of opposite-direction traffic. I do not remember how long it took to pass the car and then the bus, or by how little we missed a head-on collision, but if I counted it in breaths, it would have been zero.

Traffic2

Chinese motorists pile them in, too, at least on the motorbikes. Every morning, I could count on seeing husband and wife, or daughter and child, doubled-up on a motorbike, and if it was raining, wearing a parka made to drape over the handlebars. If it was cold, they used mittens that were fastened to the handlebars. Motorcycles were not a fair weather pleasure vehicle in China. Such a thing did not really exist outside the very few rich young men in large cities driving sport bikes as playthings. Two-wheeled vehicles were used year round; they were often a person’s primary transportation. I saw, more times than I could count, father driving the motorbike, mother holding on in the back, a son or daughter standing in the foot rest, and maybe a small child in mother’s arms. I saw them carrying dogs and chickens on the back, or so many cases of beer that I do not think I could have fit them in the passenger side of my car.

A local Chinese tractor loaded up with cardboard.

A local Chinese tractor loaded up with cardboard.

The funniest, most outrageous, motorbike scene I ever saw was a woman on a scooter trailing a motorbike-truck (motorcycle front with a truck bed attached- Uncle Jiang asked me what the American word was for this and I had no word to tell him other than jalopy), and with her extended right leg she was pressing against a stack of plywood on the motorbike-truck, preventing the sheets from sliding during travel. I will repeat that: loose plywood on a truck bed was being held in place by a woman’s extended foot as she followed the truck on her scooter.

I also saw- twice, so it seemed like a regular thing- a mattress on back of a motorbike-truck, and like the plywood pile, it was loose and held down by a person instead of a rope. A man was lying down on the mattress to weigh it down, and holding onto the front of the truck bed as his friend drove. I guess that rope and bungee cord are Western luxuries.

Chinese labor has saturated the supply side so much that bungee cord is more expensive in comparison.

Chinese labor has saturated the supply side so much that bungee cord is more expensive in comparison.

It was scary and sadly funny, but too often tragic. You have probably read in the news about children being carelessly crushed by oblivious drivers, like the two-year-old, Yue Yue, who was struck and left in the street for hours as passersby took no notice of her unconscious body. Or the story of the over-packed van filled with elementary school students that was in a head-on crash. There have been multiple stories like that one, with many fatalities and serious injuries, so you may have read about these incidents more than once. I first heard about the school van crash from my mother, on a computer call from America, and I told her that awful as it was, I was not surprised. It was sadly sobering to say something like that.

On foot, a person had to expect drivers to ignore them or spitefully zoom past them. Possibly, you could even become knocked down and then run over several more times by the same car until the driver was sure that you were splattered and your family could not extract lifelong healthcare support for your dead body. When crossing the street, it was usually necessary to join up with a bold mob that was big enough to force traffic to yield. The streets were scene to daily, cavalier contempt for human life. In the Real China, that is the way of life.

A crippled man pushed himself on a wheeled cart into the middle of a major four-way intersection, cars careening past, as I craned my neck to watch from the back of a bus window. Almost as alarming as the dangerous sight on the street was noticing that no one else in my bus seemed to regard it. When my aunt noticed me staring in surprise, she laughed at it and basically communicated to me, again: “That’s China.”

Film Review: The Martian

October 13, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I’ve got a review up at Critic Speak http://www.criticspeak.com/review-the-martian/ of The Martian, which is currently dominating the box office and making a big cultural splash. I went in expecting a more serious film, not quite on par with Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar, but still a meaty sci-fi experience with inspiring heroic elements. The heroism comes together in the end, yet by that point the film’s unrelenting sarcastic tone had worn me out and mostly turned me off.

Believe it or not, the comb is the tastiest part of the whole chicken.

The Real China: Bottoms Up! (Part 2)

October 9, 2015 / / 0 Comments

And here’s the most incredible thing: over the course of a two-hour dinner, bai jiu (a clear distilled spirit of 40-60% alcohol) would be the only beverage. No water; you had to wash everything down with hard liquor. And more: if you wanted to quench your thirst, you needed to be part of a toast. As Sue explained in her mother hen voice, “Don’t you dahyr bring that glass to your lips unless you’ve given somebody cheers! That’s why I always sit next to someone I know, so I can go, ‘Ahram, cheers!’ when I need a drink.”

Yes, that was the truth. The entire table would refrain from touching their glasses until the top social-tier had begun toasting each other, then everyone would join in and take turns raising their glasses to each other or walking over to an honoree and standing to have a drink with him while he remained seated. Standing up to show deference was an added honor when making a toast, as were lowering one’s glass below the honoree’s when clinking them, and downing the glass completely and tipping it upside down to show it was empty. To signal this impressive feat (basically it was taking a tall shot of sake, vodka, or a similar clear alcohol), the toaster would call out “Gan bei!” which meant “Bottoms up!”

Everyone loved Grant and Sue, they were usually the life of the party, so they would each receive a lot of toasts, and Sue would always decline the gan bei in a funny way. Standing with an excitable (i.e. Chinese) man toasting her, Sue would say in a booming, Australian voice, “You gan bei. Me meiyou gan bei!” All the Chinese speakers would smile because meiyou (pronounced “mayo”) meant “there is no” or “not have” and Sue was using it to try and say “no” or “will not.” So, in effect she was saying “There is no bottoms up!”

The way the toasting would work out, the men in the most prestigious seats would generally remain seated and let people come to them as the toasts worked their way like social order dominoes around the table. Dinner guests spaced their drinks out over the course of the meal by taking many turns raising their glasses or standing to drink with each of their friends at the table. Toasting served as a way for people to introduce themselves to the host and his friends- who had significant gwan-shee, and it also broke the ice between strangers of equal social standing. And, obviously it was a happy way for old friends to show affection to each other.

Although it was necessary to wait for the toasts to refresh oneself, once the toasting began there was a chain reaction of opportunities to have a drink. It was actually quite awkward as I made and attempted a succession of toasts because I had to either try and repetitively slide my stubborn chair backward or stand straight up and try to avoid buckling with the seat cushion pressing into the back of my knees. All the standing for toasts, in a way, nullified the need for the extra-long chopsticks. As long as we were up to drink we could have reached out to scoop some food into our bowls.

The most movement was for the highest honor-giving: making a pass around the table to make a toast with every seat. This did not happen often, but there were a couple times I went out for a dinner with a new group of people and Aunt Fong had me stand up to pay tribute to my hosts. She led me around to initiate the standing toasts and introduce myself to each guest; I was equipped with my tall glass in one hand and a bottle of bai jiu in the other, so I could refill my glass after each bottoms up. I knew the bai jiu was volatile, mind you, I refused to drink it unless strongly socially obligated, and I was sneaky about refilling my glass with very conservative pours (I held my fingers tightly together and gripped the bottom half of the glass in a sleight-of-hand attempt at blocking my hosts’ vision of my drink level), but their eyes were watching me and they made sure I emptied my glass with every drink.

Circling the table, I thought after my first drink Wow. That was a little much. I need to sit for a mome… after the second That’s enough. This was a bad i… After the third drink my mouth was numb to the burning sensation of the alcohol, after the fourth I forgot whether I was going clockwise or counterclockwise around the table, the fifth How many people are at this dinner? And who are they? Whatever number was after fifth What’s going on? Is this- is this China? I’m sitting down.

All right, I’ve embellished, but there were a few times when I had to sit down and turn away from the table to steady myself after drinking too tall a glass of bai jiu. I missed American culture, where I could choose my own beverage or, if out with friends, call it quits after a drink or two. The peer pressure in a Chinese business dinner was not very unlike the atmosphere in a college fraternity house party. I hated being socially forced to drink, especially when it was the sweet, vengeful bai jiu. One time, I saw Ahram successfully wave it off and I assumed she got away with having tea either because she was a lady or there was something forceful about the way she chuckled and said, “Actuarry, I don’t want dat.” (Not mocking, that’s how she actually spoke.) Whenever it was offered to me, I gladly accepted light beer as a compromise.

Something you may already know about the Chinese is that it is very common for their face to become flushed whenever they drink alcohol. I don’t understand the genetic reason for this, nor do I much care, but I find it a peculiar trait, like the way they have dry, crumbly earwax as opposed to the waxy, liquid substance in the ears of every white person (go ahead, look it up). Anyway, it was not uncommon to see a group of men walking in dress shirts and black slacks, two or three with rose pink or puce faces, one perhaps stumbling, at one in the afternoon.

I remember, one spring afternoon, seeing some young college students helping their friend who was dragging the tops of his feet against the sidewalk as he struggled to keep pace with his designated hoisters, carrying him with his arms spread across their shoulders. It was still the lunch hour, so I stood perplexed, thinking Did he get into a car crash or something? He was wailing and tears were streaming down his red face- maybe he got into a fight over a girl? Noticing my stare, my Chinese friends told me he was just having a hard time handling his alcohol, best to ignore him.

Ever naïve, it dawned on me that the culture of drinking is nearly universal, it only changes forms between societies. American binge drinking is an atrocious menace responsible for thousands of traffic fatalities and yearly freshmen deaths at university campuses, but of course ours is not the only nation with a drinking problem. The Chinese, while seemingly very cautious not to mix alcohol and cars, loved to get carried away with friends and colleagues as a standard practice. In my observation, drivers declined to have any drinks and no one would goad them “Just one…” I don’t have the drunken driving numbers on the national level to corroborate this; it was always plain who the driver was and his teetotal status was strictly kept.

One young man I met told me he was thinking about going back to school to change careers because he couldn’t abide all the drinking required of him as a businessman, where every deal was sealed over dinner by a show of alcohol tolerance. It crossed my mind that without the regular opportunity to get loaded at dinners and expel emotions in the KTV (karaoke) clubs, the overworked Chinese would reflect on their lives, trapped in a gray, decrepit communist state, and become either crack-brained or suicidal. Problem drinking there, as often here, was society’s pleasurable stress-relief valve.

That night, eating with Grant and Sue, the Korean teacher Ahram, and the collection of officials from the university, I was thankfully given a large bottle of beer to drink from as I sampled new foods during our dinner’s many rounds. I mentioned before that the food in China was strange, usually lying in a pool of oil and prepared either boiled or stir-fried. When the serving girl brought out vegetables, they were either limp greens on an oily platter (no one eats salad in China) or crispy or steamed vegetables like lotus root and corn on the cob. The lotus root was a new favorite of mine, but the flavorless corn was well below par for the tastes of a native Iowan. With the many meat dishes, there were a large variety of kinds and spices, but a sameness connected them all. Nearly every meat dish was served chopped up, bones and all, and served spiced, oily, and often served barely above room temperature.

A meal of steamed corn, bean soup, various and mysterious limp vegetables, some kind of oily meats, and sliced melon.

A meal of steamed corn, bean soup, various and mysterious limp vegetables, some kind of oily meats, and sliced melon.

Being an American, I have never been that interested in the path the animal takes from farmyard to table, nor have I ever been subjected to witness the work of the butcher. Looking at beef and chicken cuts, shrink-wrapped in plastic white trays in the grocer’s refrigerated, brightly lit display, I have had convenience in choosing my meat and ease of mind in divorcing it from any breathing, bleeding creature. However, it has seemed to me that the conventional cuts of meat must be fairly obvious to a trained butcher. For example, in every bucket of fried chicken are the main parts of the bird: breast, wings, thighs, and legs. The Chinese would also eat the feet and head (not the beak or skull, mind you), but the rest of the bird would be chopped into unrecognizable bits. Considering that Chinese consumers can choose to pick out their bird live, as we do with lobster, and watch it killed and maybe cleaned in front of them (as we don’t), I expected that they would all be expert in cleanly dividing the meat into its standard portions. But no, they took that naked hen and chopped it up, I imagined with two cleavers like the Muppets’ Swedish chef or a drummer on a snare solo. The meat was truly that messy. Every bite, and I mean that- no exaggeration, had bone and tendon in it.

The Chinese prized the nutrition in the bones, and so I learned to chew around the big bones and grind up and swallow the little ones. My aunt Fong would offer me a straw when we had beef bone soup so that I could follow her lead and suck out the marrow. Me: “What? Shen me? (‘shun-muh’)” Aunt Fong: “Mm! Very good!” Sluuuuurp.

On my aunt's adamant insistence, I tried sucking out some beef marrow for myself. I rate it two thumbs down.

On my aunt’s adamant insistence, I tried sucking out some beef marrow for myself. I rate it two thumbs down.

Speaking of soup, I cannot get through a discussion of the cockamamie cooking methods of Chinese cuisine without mentioning one unbelievable dish, one meat that I could manage to eat without bones in every bite. At a home-cooked meal, the main course we once had was chicken soup. That is, a whole cleaned chicken sitting in a weak, yellow broth. The broth we sipped with our spoons had less flavor than a single bouillon cube. I have never tasted thinner soup. I think it was only water and oil. And the chicken itself we comically tried to peel apart with our chopsticks. No one brought out a knife to slice cuts off for each guest; we twisted the flesh from the bone and often partnered to hold the meat and strip off strands like pigeons struggling with a large bread loaf. Besides the impractical hassle, it tasted bad, too. I thought I had traveled around the earth to visit another world, where the people didn’t have the sense to know how to prepare and eat chicken, or even realize that the way they were doing it lacked sense altogether. It was as if the natives had never prepared or eaten a chicken before, but I knew they were far more acquainted with the tasty creature than I was. Some of them had chicks in their house and pet roosters that would stalk the sidewalks. Small city residents saw live chickens every day.

Chickens strutting outside someone's house.

Chickens strutting outside someone’s house.

This is not to say that China was without tasty meat dishes- or protein dishes. China was a tofu lover’s paradise with bean curd in every shape, texture, flavor, and smell. Grant and Sue’s favorite meat dish at the restaurant, and an internationally famous dish, was the roast duck. This was a meat that was at least shaved thin by a cook and served mostly free of bone. We ate it wrapped in a thin pancake with scallions and dipped it in a sweet bean sauce. Quickly assembling a wrap and dipping it while the automatic lazy Susan rotated by was a test of timing and chopstick dexterity.

My favorite dish was the braised pork (hong shao rou/ 红烧肉), served hot in a round, black stew pot. China has not only different varieties of pork than America, but they also serve it in a way contrary to American expectations. Meat, fat, and skin were served in one three-layered, bite-sized piece. Stewing the meat this way made the pork succulent, sweet, and tender. I have complained about a lot of things in China, but without reservation I will say that their pork was far better than American pork, and I come from America’s largest pork-producing state.

Do yourself a favor and find a Chinese restaurant than can prepare this. Tell them you want "hoang shao ro."

Do yourself a favor and find a Chinese restaurant than can prepare this. Tell them you want “hoang shao ro.”

I fully realize that eating skin, fat, bones, feet, and chicken heads (cheeks, eyes, and brains) is repulsive, a near abomination, to Americans raised on diets of white meat chicken, ground beef, and thick steaks; really, raised on a diet of processed foods- foods processed far from view or thought. Well, tastes are individual, and I am a man with a big appetite and an adventurous palate, so take my word on this for its relative worth when I say the comb was the tastiest part of the chicken, the feet and knees were the best parts of the pig, and pickled chicken feet were not that bad. I eventually grew to like them. I avoided the blood sausage completely and I am fairly confident I avoided dog, but like I said, most meat dishes were chopped up into unrecognizable bits, so it is possible that the “beef” wasn’t always beef. I will move on so readers with weak stomachs won’t get sick.

After many rounds of new dishes and over an hour’s worth of toasting, as bellies swelled to capacity, the tempo slowed down and the feeling became very relaxed. Diners leaned back in their chairs, some might smoke (smoking was common in China, but not as much as I expected, though I once caught a little farm girl with a cigarette in her mouth), then the serving girl would clear away the empty platters and combine dwindling remainders together, and guests could even sip their drinks at will.

The last round was signaled by a dessert platter: watermelon, orange slices, dragon fruit, and sometimes a mildly sweet pastry. I think I ate a record amount of watermelon in China, or at least a personal best. Once springtime arrived, local farmers would drive trucks full of the round fruits (not oblong) into town every day, and a crowd of shoppers (not a queue- remember, this was China) would bring one home as a daily staple. After the meal, the group would polish off the thin slices of watermelon and lethargically pick at the dragon fruit, pausing to let the large meal settle and finish off the last remaining bits of the evening’s conversations.

Then, when the pause lasted for too long a moment, the group implicitly shared the understanding that the long affair was over. Grant or Sue said, “Well, all right then” and the whole table heaved themselves to their feet, using the chair backs and table top for support. Any contents remaining in the bottles were poured into glasses, and we all held our glasses high in the air and gave one final “Gan bei!”

After that, the real entertainment began. If it wasn’t clear who was footing the bill, if payment had not already been arranged and settled beforehand, then dinner guests would fight (push and shove, but not punch) for the check. It was at the same time alarming and charming to see them insist, “No! No! No!” and reach over their friend’s shoulder to snatch the check away. They each had honed techniques to get the winning end of this aggressive ritual and earn the prestige of paying for the meal. In American, I was used to “going Dutch” with friends, or seeing little scenes that might go back and forth for a few verbal rounds, each person saying, “No, you paid for it last time” or offering other pleas before the eventual payer holds his ground with something firm and the others graciously say, “If you insist.”

In China, they do not acquiesce. Whoever has the bill might hold it above his head or at an arm’s length away from his opponent, like a playground game of keep-away. Or, if trying to thrust cash on his friend, he would jam it into his friend’s pants’ pockets, or if his friend were playing defense with his hands already in his pockets, then the money would be dropped in the shirt or jacket pocket.

I once witnessed a great battle between Uncle Jiang (Aunt Fong’s husband) and his sister. Family honor was on the line. They knew each other’s tricks. From the dining room to the hallway, riding down the elevator, and out of the lobby and into the parking lot, she thrust cash at Uncle Jiang and he blocked or riposted every advance, opening her hand and stuffing the bills right back in. They chattered at each other like two squirrels fighting on a tree trunk, and I watched silently from the sidelines. Uncle Jiang’s sister made a brilliant strategic choice and gave the money to me, the stunned third party. Uncle Jiang wasn’t having it, so he snatched it right out of my frozen palms and stuck the money in his sister’s purse as she tried to walk away. As persistent as the widow in Jesus’ parable, she clung to the door of the taxi cab as Uncle Jiang and I tried to make our departure. I was sitting in the front passenger’s seat, and the window was open a crack. She made the winning move, dropping the wad of cash into my lap as the driver took off. There was nothing Uncle Jiang could do. He would have to wait to repay his sister another time.

Two odds and ends related to meals and restaurants: like the two English teachers in New York had suggested, I tried to find a local restaurant on the food streets which I knew and trusted. This seemingly simple task was made difficult by the unintelligible signs and haphazard set-ups of Chinese shops and street-side restaurants. If you were not literate in the written language and culture, you were not going to be able to approach a restaurant counter and sound out “taco” the way you might to a Spanish speaker at a Mexican restaurant (which, unlike the average unmarked restaurant in China, would have traditional Mexican architecture or a Mexican flag to help distinguish it to passersby). The dishes in China were many, strange, and puzzling, and even if you knew the name of a favorite, the locals probably wouldn’t grasp your pronunciation attempts. So what I did was scan the open-door restaurants and street vendors, looking for anything familiar I could recognize and use as a stepping stone to boldly request an order from a stranger in a foreign language. Relying on my very limited vocabulary, I spotted the characters for “beef noodles,” stopped into the four table small restaurant, and said the name of the dish in a very plain sentence with a voice that was quiet but nonetheless clear in pronunciation. They brought me out a big bowl of beef noodles (mostly noodles with a couple tidbits of beef) that cost only one American dollar, and I ended up returning to this same restaurant for the same meal several times.

Some places advertised "California" beef noodles. Most of the beef noodle shops I visited were run by Hui people, a Muslim minority, not the majority Han Chinese.

Some places advertised “California” beef noodles. Most of the beef noodle shops I visited were run by Hui people, a Muslim minority, not the majority Han Chinese.

The other thing: the Chinese, like healthy eating advocates in America, were always stressing the importance of breakfast. As a typical morning greeting, they would ask, “Have you had your breakfast?” Growing up and going through school in America, I heard classmates say countless times that they never ate breakfast. It was a common thing to skip, and people seemed to take pride in nonchalantly boasting that they never ate breakfast. In China, the attitude was the opposite; casually forgetting breakfast would have been a shock. They made sure to be up early to fill up on noodles, fried pastry sticks, potato and egg pancakes, hard-boiled eggs, soup, steamed buns, and congee (rice porridge).

My school's P.E. teacher once got me breakfast when I told him I hadn't eaten. An English teacher, Miss Liu, heard about it and said, "Small Black bought you breakfast!? Small Black is our leader."

My school’s P.E. teacher once got me breakfast when I told him I hadn’t eaten. An English teacher, Miss Liu, heard about it and said, “Small Black bought you breakfast!? Small Black is our leader.”

Lunch was likewise a big meal. The lunch “hour” was around two hours long, so people could enjoy a big meal with family or colleagues and take a mid-day nap. Dinner could be big, but it didn’t have to be. It was usually only a large affair if friends were gathering together at a restaurant or entertaining guests at home.

Perhaps it was all the strange food in China- its unsanitary preparation from farm to street market to kitchen to table- that caused me weekly stomach sickness. I made sure to always boil my water or drink from a water cooler, so I didn’t suspect that. Of course, the ever-present crowds of people and filthy environmental conditions could have been the main culprits or contributors. All the large meals, doused in oil and red chili sauce, and the unwanted glasses of alcohol certainly never allowed my stomach a moment’s peace. The dinners were at times tasty and fun, but no moment in China was ever pure bliss. Every intriguing bite concealed the potential for pain.

The answer to why I got sick so much in China: I never saw any health department grades in any restaurant windows, but I did see places thawing out their squid in a side alley.

The answer to why I got sick so much in China: I never saw any health department grades in any restaurant windows, but I did see places thawing out their squid in a side alley.

The Real China: Bottoms Up! (Part 1)

October 8, 2015 / / 1 Comment

As unappetizing as the food was in China, as dreary and dilapidated was the landscape, I have to say that my spirits were brightened whenever there was a big group dinner. I’ve never had such fun at an American dinner party.

If all the extraneous, all the vanity, is removed from life, the simple pleasure of enjoying a good meal with friends is the only sure form of happiness a man has. (Don’t believe me? Look it up in Ecclesiastes.) China, and much of life, hadn’t turned out to satisfy my expectations. English classes, city life, and new friendships were not playing out according to fantasy. My time was going to pass in China as quickly as it ever had; I was going to feel dejected and trapped in a foul country. That was my lot. But the dinners were something I could depend on to lift up my mood and remind me to be thankful for all the good I did have. They were the best occasions for sociability, and without them I probably would have lost 10 or 15 pounds like the two English teachers in New York had predicted.

Most of my dinners out were hosted by the university or it’s Department of Foreign Affairs. Any holiday or any event (e.g. the foreign teachers’ arrival on campus, the end of the semester), the school would host the other foreign teachers and me for dinner. Besides me, there were Grant and Sue, the retired Australian couple spending their third year in China, and Lee Ahram, the Korean teacher from Seoul. We were all brought in as language specialists of a sort, native speakers who could demonstrate to the pupils how the language they learned rote from chalkboard and textbook was supposed to be spoken by live people.

On our first dinner out together, at the hotel restaurant on campus (hotel restaurants were the best in China, and they are where I had most of my big, round table group dinners), Grant and Sue explained that I should not sit down before anyone else. It was best to follow the hosts’ lead in everything, and in the case of the seating arrangement, each seat was assigned certain prominence and would be allocated by the senior members in the group’s hierarchy.

So I followed behind our Chinese hosts as we walked through the lobby with its cold fish, meats, and vegetables on display in the glass-faced cooler, past the small group of undersized ladies dressed in matching fuchsia uniforms who wished us welcome in unison, up the worn, carpet steps to the second floor, turned right to walk down the narrow corridor, past the pungent odor emitting from the bathrooms- several yards away- and waited for the servants in the hallway to direct us into our room.

Me, in the red, at another dinner with teachers from a different school.

Me, in the red, at another dinner with teachers from a different school. Typical of a dinner out in a private dining room.

Each dining room was private, accessed by a single door from the hallway just like a typical large hotel’s floor plan. The dining rooms had enough space for a dozen or more people, and usually they were furnished with one very large, heavy round table on the far side, and cushioned chairs, couches, a coffee table (should that be called a tea table?), a tall air conditioner unit, a coat hook, and a card table on the near side. It was a large, private space where a party of extended family, friends, or business contacts could camp out for hours and smoke, sip tea, and eat and drink to their stomach’s content. Once the door was shut, a silent serving girl would be the only outside disturbance into the room, and there was often a small window that would slide open to reveal new dishes for her to serve so that she did not need to constantly interrupt the atmosphere by walking in and out.

Compared to America, I preferred the dining service in China. The serving girls never introduced themselves, they didn’t ask me how my first few bites were and how my meal was (“How’s that tastin’ for ya’?” “Can I get those plates attayer way?”), they stood by and waited for the group’s order, served it in silence or maybe announced the name of the dish, then stood aside to let people eat and converse. The only bad part was that in a Chinese restaurant without private rooms, with an open floor plan, or even in a private room if the serving girl were absent, diners who needed something would call out at the top of their voice, “Fuwuyuan!” (“Server!” This word looks like a mess of vowels on paper, like a bad Scrabble tray, and its pronunciation sounded just as sloppy.) The diners shouted like hungry infants, but their voices were the hoarse, throaty calls of men who had been smoking and drinking for decades. There was hardly a moment’s peace in China; a call for service, a merchant’s shout, a grandmother’s shrill minding, the buzz of talking from crowds, roosters’ crowing, car horns, and those terrible large truck and bus air horns that still haunt my memory- but nearly never the chattering of a squirrel, the melody of a song bird, or even the caw of a crow- would interrupt and invade the tranquility of the mind.

Something else to be thankful for in all service industries in China, not only in restaurants: no tipping. I left a couple small bills behind at a sandwich and coffee shop once, and the busboy chased me down outside the door, as I was zipping up my coat, and surprised me by speaking in intelligible English, “You forgot this” and handed me back my tip money. The price on the menu was assumed to include all expenses, including service labor. A tip, even given in generous appreciation for exceptional service, could not be received except at the breach of honor, and could even be taken as an insult that basically said, “Here, you need a little help to improve your business.”

Another time, I went in for my first haircut in China and wordlessly followed along as I was given a head and shoulders massage, a shampoo, and another massage before my haircut (pre-haircut massages were obligatory). Then my haircut. Then there was a final shampoo after the haircut. At least 60 minutes of service split between two hairdressers. Total charge: around six dollars U.S. I tried to insist on a tip. I couldn’t conceive how a business could stay afloat by charging so little, but the head hairdresser (I don’t know if that’s a pun, but I apologize if so) stiffly thrust out his palm and shook his head in adamant refusal. It would have been a serious violation of their code, their honor to dutifully serve, to accept a tip.

My aunt liked taking pictures of me all the time, even while I was getting this haircut.

My aunt liked taking pictures of me all the time, even while I was getting this haircut.

Back to the restaurants, I have to mention the numbers on the private room doors. They weren’t numbered according to floor level or distance left or right from the main stairs (well, they followed these conventions a little). The main determiner for door numbers was luck. I’ll spare a full discussion on Chinese lucky numbers and superstitions, which can be found in bland detail elsewhere, but I will say that the Chinese prefer even numbers, except for four, which is pronounced very similarly to “death” in their language. I read that tall buildings would skip floors four and fourteen in China, which I never actually encountered there, though I thought the rationale would have made a lot more sense than the way most American buildings omit the thirteenth floor. Any Chinese person could tell you, “We don’t like four and fourteen because they sound like ‘to die,’” but it would take an internet search by the common man to figure out the foggy details of why thriteen is unlucky in Western culture, or a Ph.D. in something like folklore or obscure history could explain offhand why that is so. And is it even that unlucky? It’s certainly not offensive like four is in China. If someone gave me thirteen of something, I wouldn’t mind (hey, a baker’s dozen!), but giving a gift of four items in China was considered a serious taboo, tacitly wishing for someone’s death.

Anyway, the room numbers were usually, needlessly, three or four digits long (there were probably never more than twenty or so rooms in a single restaurant), and the deluxe room was always “888” or “8888,” even if the rooms before it were “242” and “240.” This was because everyone loved eight because it meant something like “fortune” in Chinese, or at least it rhymed with a phrase that meant “to make a fortune.” (Note: “eight” in Chinese rhymes with the “to make” part of the phrase, not even the “fortune” part of “to make a fortune.”) I can’t quite explain it, it has something to do with the quality of auspiciousness too, but I know the Chinese mind equated being blessed with having obscene amounts of money and so they loved eight. I never actually got to eat in the 888 room, but it was always full of a lively crowed when I got a peek inside; probably it was always reserved for big occasions.

On the evening of my first big dinner in China, with Grant and Sue, Ahram, the two officials from the university’s Foreign Affairs Office: Miss “Amy” Hu and Mr. “Oliver” Zhang, and some assorted vice presidents from the university, I didn’t even know to check for the door number. My mind was being overwhelmed by all the subtle differences in the foreign surroundings and the shockingly strong bathroom odor wafting down the relatively nice, yet nonetheless dingy hallway. I kept my bearings by following Grant and Sue and listening to their commentary as we waited in the cushioned chairs around the coffee- no, tea- table. The serving girls spent about ten minutes filling the dining table up with about a half-dozen dishes when the senior members of the group, the vice presidents, decided it was time to begin. Sometimes the meats and vegetables would sit for twenty minutes before the meal began; lukewarm and cold meat dishes were common. As the group dined, the serving girls would bring more and more dishes until plates had to be removed, combined, or stacked on top of each other.

This restaurant was unique. A wood-burning stove underneath the table heated the soup in the center. We're all wearing coats because this restaurant, like most buildings, was unheated.

This restaurant was unique. A wood-burning stove underneath the table heated the soup in the center. We’re all wearing coats because this restaurant, like most buildings, was unheated.

Grant and Sue explained that the most prestigious seat was the one furthest away, facing the door. Grant inferred this was because the kings and officials from years past would be able to scan all approaching guests and look out for danger that way. Maybe he was onto something. Anyway, it always seemed like the most important-looking seat if I had to pick one. So the vice presidents on the second tier of the hierarchy insisted that the man with the highest status, the most guanxi (easier if I just write it “gwan-shee,” which means basically face/ social status/ reputation), sit there first. After that, the second-tier group members would fuss and jostle each other over seating arrangements, with guests energetically declining and then reluctantly accepting the honor (sometimes when being shoved into the seat by two of their lower-tiered friends) until the seats were filled up all the way around; the more important or higher status people sitting closer to the prestigious seat at the far side of the table.

I was seated next to Grant, a little past midway on the counterclockwise side of the descending hierarchy. I noticed that this table had an automatic lazy Susan (How classy! How convenient!) with a digital number displayed in front of every seat. I asked Amy Hu, who spoke flawless, refined English in a mixture of educated British and American accents that made her sound dignified and lovely, if not like a movie character from a period piece, why our seats were numbered. She said she thought the numbers corresponded to the seats’ position around the table, which was obvious enough, so I had to deduce my own answer that the numbers served no practical purpose. The serving girls would never call into their headset, “I need another bottle of beer for Seat 6!” They would either hand the person another drink directly, or if they were serving a new dish, they would make space for the platter on the lazy Susan wherever they could find it and let it slowly rotate around for every seat to grab a piece. The seat numbers, like those on the door, I figured, were just another arbitrary status marker to let people know how auspicious there seat was.

So as people remained in their seats and the large variety of dishes slowly made their laps around the table’s circumference, we reached out with our chopsticks to eat a bite directly from the communal dish or gathered a small portion into our small bowls. Almost no one in China had large dinner plates; only small bowls and small plates. Meals were eaten family style and diners gathered a little at a time with their chopsticks. Only in some soups was there a serving spoon, otherwise (prepare yourselves, germ-conscious Americans) people would take food from platters with the chopstick that had just touched their mouths. I read that the proper etiquette was to pass food from the communal plate with the blunt, untouched end of the chopsticks, but I never saw this rule followed. It never bothered me to eat from shared dishes. In fact, it was a relief to be in a culture where people weren’t watching for me to slip up so they could be the one to sound the social alarm and call out, “Double dipper!”

I knew from eating at Japanese, Korean, and Chinese restaurants that each culture used a different style of chopsticks. The Japanese use what I consider the standard: slender, square, or circular sticks of medium length made of wood or ceramic. They feel balanced and proportional in one’s hand. Koreans use thin, flat metal chopsticks that easily slipped and turned sideways in my hand so that I had to frequently reset my grip. They also set the table with a long-handled metal spoon (that I would call an ice cream spoon) instead of the short, deep spoon used by Chinese diners (the white, plastic spoon served with egg drop or miso soup in American Chinese restaurants). Chinese chopsticks were the longest and most difficult for me to wield. Cut three or four inches off the end and you would have the standard Japanese chopsticks. This aside information is redundant to anyone familiar with these cultures, but the difference and the extra length of the Chinese chopsticks puzzled me until I sat down to my first big dinner in China.

From l to r: standard-sized Japanese chopsticks, Korean chopsticks and spoon set, souvenir chopsticks of the larger Chinese size, barbecue tongs.

From l to r: standard-sized Japanese chopsticks, Korean chopsticks and spoon set, souvenir chopsticks of the larger Chinese size, barbecue tongs.

As the dishes rotated around for everyone to select a sample, your choice dish might be an arm’s length away. Keep in mind that these round tables had a large circumference that could fit ten or more people around them, and the lazy Susan would be filling up with rows of plates as the meal went on. To get that chicken leg without standing up and leaning over the table and the dishes in between, you would need an extra-long pair of chopsticks. Hence, Chinese chopsticks. It was like having extremely long, delicate fingers to take pinches of food, one small bowl full at a time.

And those plates would stack up. Because the meal was served family style, ten different mouths might try a little of every dish; a large group could easily finish off more than two dozen plates of food. I was at a wedding where the serving girls filled up the table as everyone watched the ceremony, so by the time my table started eating, the plates had piled up into a mound that was three deep in the middle, with turtle soup, shell and all, on top. The craziest example was when I went with Aunt Fong to meet one of her friends at a restaurant that served coffee and international foods. To the Chinese, Western food is KFC and McDonald’s, so I was used to people telling me no when I asked them if they liked Western food, or saying, “I love Kun-duh-ji” (“Kentucky” or KFC in Chinese). So I was skeptical about the international menu at this restaurant, but I had been griping for months about wanting pizza and Aunt Fong had promised me this place had it.

Sitting on the long couches in our private dining room, with the menu laid out on the long, rectangular tabletop (another Western touch of this café), I watched as Aunt Fong flipped back and forth through the menu’s twenty or so pages (Chinese menus are thick). She said “pizza” at one point and then she was looking at bowls of soup, so I said, “Okay.” A pizza and some soup seemed like enough to feed our party of three. But she continued browsing through the menu, looking at different entrees; I assumed she had changed her mind about the soup and pizza.

After our waitress brought out two large bowls of soup for Aunt Fong and me, followed by two other main dishes, I realized that what I thought were her audible suggestions were actually her selections. She had tabulated a huge order of food, uneatable even with my voracious appetite. I was already full and plates already covered the table when the medium-sized pizza was served. I didn’t have the stomach for it at that point, but I ate a sympathy piece just because Aunt Fong had ordered it just for me and I would have felt bad if a whole pizza went uneaten. The pizza itself was decent for a Chinese restaurant that didn’t specialize in pizza. Even after it was on the table, a few more dishes were brought out. I counted so I would be able to report it to my American friends, and at one point there were eleven dishes on the table, balanced on top of each other and nestled together. For three people. All were main dishes, like a Thai curry chicken and rice; it was not eleven side dishes holding dinner rolls or a small iceberg lettuce salad.

The copious spread for my birthday dinner.

The copious spread for my birthday dinner.

That was not atypical. I don’t know if it was a matter of the host’s prestige or a desire to make sure everyone got fed well, but the amount of food on the table was beyond abundant. Sometimes there were left-overs to take home, but usually the guests brought their appetites and would eat up most everything.

Each restaurant varied what Chinese staple foods it served, though every big restaurant had a menu over a hundred items deep. A small restaurant on a shopping street might specialize in a certain kind of dumpling or noodles, but a hotel restaurant had virtually whatever its guests could think off; they made all kinds of meats and regional favorites.

The drinks, though, were fairly standard. Each restaurant would set the table with a large bottle of Sprite and a Minute Maid orange drink that they don’t sell in the States. Then, for everyone who wasn’t a kid, a student, a person far younger than the median age of the group, or a lady who insisted on tea, there was light beer- possibly– and a clear rice liquor called bai jiu (“by jee-oh”) that translates to “white wine/liquor.” I would usually protest and ask for tea and only tea. By no means had China turned me into a tea connoisseur, but I dreaded having to drink the foul bai jiu and I was desperate for an alternative. Bottled water was not an option and there was no water cooler available to fill up a glass. Being a man, I was expected to have some kind of alcohol, so my only alternative was light beer, which I had only occasionally when the restaurant had bottles in stock and my hosts were passively content to let me drink it. I hated the bai jiu, I thought it should have been taken off the dinner tables and relegated to garages as a solvent to clean lawnmowers with. Then again, Chinese people don’t have private garages, and I didn’t hear or see a single lawnmower throughout China- no one had a yard.

But the men hosting the dinner always insisted I be given a glass of their hard liquor, and they outnumbered me, had way more gwan-shee than me, had the mandate of Chinese society, behaved a lot like boys who were used to bossing people around and getting their way, and they were the ones paying for dinner after all, so they lined up my glass next to all the others, smashed the top of the bai jiu bottle (no openers necessary) and drained a bottle or two, glug-glug-glug, among the row of glasses. Some of the men could drink a bottle or more by themselves in one sitting (maybe that should read, “in one sitting, one passing out, and one falling”). I would try to pull my glass away from the downpour, but they would always insist, “A little!” and continue the stream till my glass was filled far past my comfort zone.

Continued tomorrow in Part 2.

Cheers! with my friend Ma Cao.

Cheers! with my friend Ma Cao.

Comic: The Original Pyramid Scheme

October 3, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Pyramid Scheme

Modern architecture likes to brag that it is able to design and build shapes that people never could before, but my response to that is usually “why would they want to?” And I think the inverse boast is also true: if modern architecture is only possible for modern architects and builders, the great buildings of history need to be recognized as uniquely possible for their ages. Looking at the Great Pyramid of Giza, a simple geometric shape that can easily be drawn on paper, I eventually realized that, while ancient, these primitive mysteries would be impossible to create in today’s world. Perhaps a bad imitation could be made, but consider all that went into their production. Think of the millions of carved stone blocks that would have to have been dragged through the desert and assembled with near-perfect precision. Think of all the laborers it would take to do something like that. And then, think of the time and cost. Who could afford all that? What company or government today could convince so many people to work and make such an expense for this great burial chamber?

It had to be paid for somehow. Maybe this is the ancient forebear of today’s pyramid schemes and timeshare-funded resorts.

The Real China: Like a Child

October 1, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Living in China, and I am sure expatriates of all stripes would say the same, often made me feel like a child. Predominantly, this was because of my low language ability. Riding in the back of a taxi cab, watching the city streets scroll past the passenger window, unintelligible signs and store fronts would wash over me. In groups of people, I often had to sit without stirring and wait for the indecipherable conversation’s indeterminate end. Out shopping by myself, I could either point at what I wanted or go without it; good Samaritans did step in when the lady behind the counter became confused orstartled by me.

But not only my ignorance of the language sidelined me to watch the adults go about their business, every facet of life- social customs, city layouts, building aesthetics, manners of speaking, who was married to whom, everything– fit into a foreign grammar that I could not parse at first glance.

Understand- or actually, don’t understand- cousins would call each other “my brother” or “my sister,” friends might do the same, and any time I tried to ask questions to peel away the layers of whatever Chinese riddle was going on, I was met with an embarrassed giggle, or confused look, and maybe a jumbled answer about how Mei Mei was or wasn’t really Sho Sho’s brother, or they just called each other that, and no further explanation. With the question of who was married to whom, I suppose it was not always completely necessary to determine this, but Chinese married couples shared no common jewelry or beauty mark, and then I would see a svelte lady hanging around a sloppy-looking man and wonder why that would be, or see a pretty young lady and wonder if she could be single, so how could my curiosity not grow? I would be sitting among the same groups as certain pairs always seemed to be there together, so I kept a keen eye out to track which male and female pairs consistently came or went together. It really was not very transparent to tell.

I had to be shrewd to gather what clues I could. Wives in China keep their family name after marrying, so my aunt for instance, married to Uncle Jiang, was still Aunt Fong and not Jiang. During group chats, the couples almost never spoke my language and so they rarely introduced themselves to me directly. Sometimes they would arrive separately or sit apart according to the social rank of the whole mixed gathering. I merely absorbed the social scene from a silent distance.

The men and women there did not follow American modes of conspicuous “couplehood” like holding hands, sitting close together, or making inside jokes to try and look cute while grating on everyone else’s patience. People there had a habit of acting reserved, yet still jolly, in public and in private, which I did appreciate, but this clouded my social perception considerably. Eventually, it would dawn on me that a certain man and woman had been standing around each other in three different gatherings, and therefore there was no other explanation but that they had to be married.

The smoking gun that my friend, Ma Cao, was married to this cute lady: their mutual baby.

The smoking gun that my friend, Ma Cao, was married to this cute lady: their mutual baby.

Another example of the foreign cultural grammar I had to interpret: the basic arrangement of shopping spaces. To contrast, first consider America, the land of wide open space, where each commercial business often has its own rectangular building and parking lot. If combined, stores will form a mini-mall, still rectangular and with a much larger parking lot, and of course many stores can join up under the roof of a classic symbol of America, the very large, boxy shopping mall, with an encompassing parking lot or garage. Also do not forget the downtown districts, with specialty boutiques situated in a row of gentrified, old connected storefronts, separated by interior walls, with parking space on the streets.

In China, there are variations on these basic models, “with Chinese characteristics.” Commercial store giants like Carrefour and Wal-Mart often formed the core of the Chinese equivalent to a medium-sized mall (there were furniture malls and other grand shopping centers throughout the larger cities, too). They have an attached parking garage for the minority of customers who arrived by car, usually above or below the store, but most take public transportation or ride their electric scooters, so the most common parking is a long, cluttered line of scooters, with some charging up via extension cords and exterior building outlets. Inside the building, dozens of smaller shops line the way to the main store. The tactic is the same one your local supermarket uses in placing the milk and eggs in the back corner, past produce and aisles of impulse buys, only the Chinese line their corridors with so many clothing and gift shops that it was difficult to find the main interior entrance, usually requiring walking around corners, through corridors, and up or down escalator ramps- once I was unable to find the Carrefour altogether. I became frustrated and stranded like a gambler desperate to escape an ingeniously looping casino. And, like a cunning supermarket, immediately after the Wal-Mart check-outs are the tea and medicine shops, candy counters, cheap plastic trinkets, and arcade games. This much was easily understandable from an outsider’s view.

What I could not navigate were the shopping streets. In a big city, the shopping streets were major attractions with chain stores, popular food vendors, neon signs, and more people per square foot than I had seen in even Times Square or almost any other American equivalent.

Nanjing's Confucius Market, where filial piety and sales tax are included on every item.

Nanjing’s Confucius Market, where filial piety and sales tax are included on every item.

In streets like these, the super chains like McDonald’s, Starbucks, and the Nike and Adidas stores were easy to identify. But where I mostly stayed, in the real China (as opposed to the mega-cities which have every kind of commercial layout), shops were housed in rows of decaying architecture built centuries ago that stretched over several long city blocks. Each shop was recessed in the structure, as if cut out of a concrete cave, and there was no signage to signal what were the contents inside. Sure, there were names painted above the square openings, but always in a typical, sloppy or mechanical font of Chinese calligraphy. This was of no help to me or anyone accustomed to the marketing power of inviting icons. The hardware store did not post a picture of a wrench out front. The clothing stores did not have an icon of a fashion model or a simple graphic of a shirt, but if they were a big enough franchise then at least they had abundant sale posters hung up and a wide window view to the clothing racks inside. The fake Apple store, however, did use the trademarked white apple logo to try and fool the masses into buying a knock-off i-product. Or, maybe it was a real Apple store after all, but who was I, a foreigner, to tell?

The cumulative effect of these businesses in the row house style of an American downtown (note that Chinese cities do not have downtowns but urban centers with sprawling streets and cavernous back alleys) was an eyesore and a headache. The natives, who had spent their life getting acquainted with the language and the cityscape, could pick out the distinct business types by familiarity or by reading the writing scrawled above the doorway. Meanwhile, I was left scratching my head. I wondered what each shop contained, and I had to walk directly front and center to peek inside, like an audacious toddler, and scan with wide eyes all that the shop contained.

One city's not-so-inviting commercial street. The garage-door like openings were a dark mystery to me, but the chickens spoke, er, clucked for themselves.

One city’s not-so-inviting commercial street. The garage-door like openings were a dark mystery to me, but the chickens spoke, er, clucked for themselves.

A very Chinese feature of the multitude of small businesses was the overlap among neighboring shops with the same product line or service. Three hardware stores in a row might have slices of the same pie: one selling chain, cords, parts, and pieces of things; another, power appliances and generators; and the third, paint and bathroom fixtures. Or, there could be a whole street of nothing but small clothing shops, each selling a variation of the same shirts, purses, coats, scarves, and accessories. I walked down the streets of a small city where I saw four different bakeries in addition to the street snack vendors, each low in quality, not a threat to its competitors and not being threatened with lack of business. The Chinese economy, very unlike the American, makes tolerant allowance for small business owners to set up shop next to a near-duplicate line of competitors, sell little, and pay less in rent.

Go to any tourist area, any area that is could even conceivably attract a tourist in China, and you will soon be able to predict with great accuracy what booths and what gaudy junk will line the way to the attraction. Walkways led the way to every accessible part of the Great Wall- filled with tiny shops for folding fans, t-shirts, cheap jade amulets, and cheaper plastic toys- and it was the same at every other location. Permanent stores and booths might not be set up, but at the top of a mountain trail or outside the mouth of a cave an old woman might be waiting to show off wooden toy swords and bottled tea and fruit drinks to the only group of travelers she might see all day. How far had these vendors walked to set up shop, and how long were they sitting along this pathway? I always wondered. It seemed that, despite the saturation of identical souvenirs, the number of businesses in Chinese tourist sites and cities did not drive up the level of competition. I cannot imagine any greedy slumlords evicting tenants when I often stumbled upon shops in dark alleys after getting lost after several turns through rambling lanes, and to my surprise, saw an employee or owner lounging at the counter, watching TV. I peeked in my head for a moment out of sheer astonishment. Who would ever shop at this place? Who could even find it?

A typical line-up at a busy tourist attraction.

A typical line-up at a busy tourist attraction.

There were many times in China where, like a boy wandering away from his mother to explore the variety of aisles in a large store, I set off on my own to walk the streets of the city and chance to find new sights and adventures. This was my favorite thing to do when I visited the major cities. I would follow my street map and take a pedestrian tour through parts of Beijing, for instance, letting the streets take me where they would, stopping whenever I was hungry or something caught my eye. I spent the time mute, a stranger not only to the city-dwellers but to their language, culture, and society as well. Again, sights and sounds poured over me, like an infant hearing words for the first time, and to acquire an understanding of my surroundings I had to passively accept it.

In any new city or experience in China, having a friend to translate for me proved invaluable. On my own, I could gain a sense of my surroundings, but I often needed someone to confirm or correct my surmises. Occasionally, I would be blessed to meet a young man who had studied in America and, in addition to understanding the general differences between our cultures, spoke fluent English. Other times, some of my bolder female students would be willing to approach me, and eventually our conversation would turn to explanations of the Chinese way.

Mostly though, I was on my own in a country where a tall, white man is a strange novelty. When I bought vegetables or food at the campus food store, the check-out ladies would mostly refuse eye-contact, but sometimes they would laugh and I can only assume that they were exchanging in-jokes to each other like, “Hey! Here’s that big foreigner, and he’s buying peanuts again! Foreigners must love peanuts!”

And even though I knew how to count and speak a scant amount of phrases in Chinese, they would always hold up their fingers or their calculator display to show me how much I owed, which I recognize was a courtesy to me as a foreigner, even if it could feel a little patronizing. I shocked the cashier a few times by repeating the total in Chinese, or saying, “I know, four fifty” when they seemed skeptical that I could comprehend. Those rare times I spoke up, they would have a good-natured laugh. I was a surprise to them- precocious, even.

Walking the streets, children would see me and call out to everyone, “Laowai!” Foreigner! After living for months in a city as the only non-Chinese face, I too sat up in attention when I saw a bulbous, white body through a train or bus window- another foreign traveler or teacher. We were a special class, an odd and entertaining spectacle.

I will say that many people seemed delighted to have me in their country. In city life, strangers ignore each other as they walk past, and this happened to me for the most part, but there were still quite a few occasions where I perceived that the people in front of me were whispering about me or the group standing to my side was examining me as I walked by.

Thankfully, Aunt Fong or another volunteer would often accompany me into the city center or help me when I needed to do something important like go to the bank or doctor. This ensured that I got to where I wanted to go, my needs were communicated to the clerk, banker, or wait staff, and no sly vendors could cheat me out of my American dollars. After a while though, having someone escort me everywhere, order my food, and speak to store employees for me aggravated my American sense of independence. It ignited an urge to go see places and try things on my own, hence my solo excursions around Beijing and elsewhere. Still, I could not escape my dilemma. I either relied on an intermediary to help me and do most things for me, or I wandered on the outside of society, aloof to what was taking place before me.

Aunt Fong, literally taking me by the hand.

Aunt Fong, literally taking me by the hand.

It was not a very difficult burden to live with, but it was definitely humbling. The worst part about being a foreign guest was when people assumed I was stupid, or when they bossed me around like an ignorant beast. I held no ill feelings toward those who phrased things delicately or spoke to me simply, as if to a child. I knew from teaching English classes that expressing one’s meaning to speakers of other languages often required baby steps. The point wasn’t to demean but to convey. To do so subtly requires acute empathy of your listener’s perspective.

But not everyone took pains to explain things delicately to me. Oftentimes, with Uncle Jiang, I received rough orders that were his transliterations of Chinese grammar. “Look. Follow me.” Or: “Listen to me.” He would speak these commands with a stiff, stern face, and his tone and cadence were deep and slow, almost like Darth Vader, but without the booming sense of doom or space helmet.

This routine of listening to blunt statements got old quick, but I always reminded myself that Uncle Jiang was good enough to try and teach me Chinese and let me stay over at his and Aunt Fong’s apartment most weekends. I had to respond to his grace with patience. He and Aunt Fong also took me along on several weekend trips, which I have to credit him for, even if he tried to rush me through lines by pushing me in the back or tugging my wrist and chiding me “Quickly, quickly.”

My position in China was such that I could not change my treatment. In America, the fantasy of teenagers is to own a car and move away from their parents to drink and do whatever they want- right away at 18, if possible. In China, I was reverted to the childhood stage, unable to fend for myself. My travels and most of my commerce depended on someone else, not necessarily older, but culturally literate. I was relieved of certain responsibilities, cared for by others, often treated as the helpless outsider. I could not argue I was otherwise.

The Real China: Chinese Grandmothers

September 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I say “The Real China” because the famed China- the Great Wall, great mausoleums, and grand old palaces- was something I would only pass through once as a tourist, and it seemed so dusty and ancient when compared with its living historical descendants. I walked through “the real China” every day. Here is one of the many things I saw daily, and what that experience was like.

In China, the people are surprised to hear every foreigner comment on the grandmothers. Squat, square-shouldered women in cotton jackets, dark pants, white socks, and simple black shoes or sandals who spend their days taking care of their grandchild (usually there is only one per Chinese laws), walking hand in hand to the park or following behind a little boy on his toy scooter. This is a very common sight in China- it is their way of life- and the people cannot imagine why it should be any other way. Because parents are limited to one child, Chinese families are top heavy, inverted pyramids. Farm town families might get by with having multiple children, but city dwellers who have more than one child need to be wealthy enough to pay the extra fees, and then they should not be members of the Communist Party which is expected to model its own policy. So, while mom and dad go off to earn a paycheck, grandma gets to babysit her prized grandson (the current ratio between males and females significantly favors the boys). China does have preschools and kindergarten classes, but the daycare duties mostly fall on the grandmothers’ shoulders. Likewise, when elderly parents are too old to take care of themselves, their children don’t look into nursing homes or retirement communities. Parents move in or the children visit their parents several times a week.

Chinese families strive to stay close together, generations commonly living in the same town or the same house. When I queried my students about their post-graduation plans, nearly all of them, with their minds firmly made up, told me straightaway they were going to return to their hometown. The American customs: migrating wherever one’s career demands and shipping inconvenient parents off to a caregiver facility, are almost unthinkable to the Chinese. They are not alone in recoiling at America’s treatment of elderly parents. Ask an immigrant or foreign visitor what they think of our callous, businesslike handling of elderly parents and about other matters of family and hospitality.

A small example: when guests leave a home in America, the hosts might shut the door behind them, or even sit in their seats and say, “Okay, goodbye,” both which come across as rude, cold, or confusing (“Did I do something to offend them?”) to people from cultures that expect the hosts to escort the guests out to their car, or maybe walk them all the way down the street to the subway station.

But the focus back on China, the everyday sight of grandmothers walking with grandchildren has to be understood in Chinese terms. It is economically necessary for the parents to find a caregiver, and because life in the land of Confucius is very much centered on the family unit and esteem for parents, the child’s grandmother is the obvious choice. Also, grandma might have only one grandchild, so she prizes all the time she can spend with him. Then, factor in the incredible numbers of people- more than four times the population of the United States- nearly all living in modest apartments, and it is made clear why I saw groups of grandmothers and small children converging on and congregating in the parks every day. I’ve said this before, but in Iowa and other parts of America, I am often struck with melancholy when I see empty park benches and green spaces filled only with squirrels. Some architect or city planner had envisioned a thriving scene with children frolicking in the grass as students with backpacks walked past local residents having coffee and a chat on the benches. But the reality is that most Americans are busy at work, sitting at home, or driving between the two; park spaces are forlorn in favor of the TV screen. Television is of course also popular throughout China’s households, but limited personal space means people are inclined to spending their recreation time in public parks, practicing in Tai Chi groups or watching their children play together.

Mothers in the park with their children is a common sight, yes, but the sight of grandmothers tagging along behind youngsters, many times tugging a leash hooked to the back of the child’s overalls, was so much more common that every Westerner comments on how peculiar it seems. For the Chinese, seeing an elderly woman with craggy facial features chatter at a boy wearing thick, winter pajamas and a harness was as everyday as seeing a soccer mom with kids in a minivan. They didn’t look twice.

I had never seen so many pairings before, so I always looked them over and examined things like the baby’s clothes. Before the child is potty-trained (a relative term in China; I wonder if they might not even have an equivalent translation for “potty-trained”), he wears a one-piece outfit with a split down the rear seam. This made it so that all was on display whenever the child leaned over or crawled up on top of something. I could have taken pictures of all the baby bottoms I saw and compiled them into a desktop calendar for American women who like things like cats, pictures of naked babies, and being bizarre around co-workers.

"That's China."

“That’s China.”

Why the split in the pants? Why was I able to see bare skin where I expected a diaper? Because Chinese grandmothers hold their grandbaby on their lap, pull the garment open, and hiss air through their teeth until the child goes. On the sidewalk, on the street, the children grow up relieving themselves most anywhere. (Infamous pictures have gone viral on China’s internet- I know of one of a child squatting on a train car, and one in the aisle of an airplane; a quick internet search reveals more shocking stories like these.) To outsiders’ amazement, Chinese consider street-soiling a normal fact of life and shrug off suggestions to dispose of children’s waste otherwise. “What? It’s natural,” I was told.

As much as the grandmothers depicted the image of China to me, this defined it more so: seeing a girl, old enough to have thin, stork legs, squat down on a busy commercial street corner and watch herself in the act as her family conversed nearby after their Saturday night meal. What I thought must be universally disgusting was ignored or accepted with aloofness. But with such cramped and dirty conditions, it was impossible to turn a blind eye to the filth in and on the streets. One had to step around it constantly. As the natives would shrug and say, “That’s China.”

Recommendation: Peter Hitchens on China

September 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

I wouldn’t call my writing on China “travel writing.” The setting is China; Chinese culture and my experiences in China are the topics, but I am not just blogging my personal pictures and daily highlights of new foods and fun times. I have sharp points and observations to make (at least I think they are sharp) and my scope is really more about how life on this earth broadly, how it is lived and how upsetting one’s normal expectations by living abroad causes a new examination of life and that broad word “culture.”

I am still far from where I would like to be though. I lack the life experience, travel experience, writing experience, and the growth and responsibility that comes with being published and gaining a large readership. I am happy to admit that, in pursuing this vision of mine, I am learning from and emulating the writer Peter Hitchens. I’ve read three of his books, and I regularly read his blog posts (at http://hitchensblog.mailonsunday.co.uk/ ). I look forward to his Sunday column every week. His writing is- almost without fail- trenchant, lucid, and even poetic. It is fascinating to read him and pick up how much thought he must have put into his arguments, and even more so to hear his detailed descriptions of life in Britain during the post-war years, or of his many train rides throughout Europe, or of any of his remembrances of old books and the true details of life that are often overlooked or forgotten in the past.

I try to imitate him, but really he is inimitable. He puts too much thought and real experience into each paragraph. Only someone with his mind and life could write as he does.

Here is a sample of his writing abroad, this one- appropriately enough- on China. http://hitchensblog.mailonsunday.co.uk/2015/09/as-george-osborne-visits-chinas-dangerous-far-west-an-article-from-my-archives.html

I also highly recommend his book “Short Breaks in Mordor,” a collection of all his articles from abroad. http://www.amazon.com/Short-Breaks-Mordor-Departures-Scribblers-ebook/dp/B00L1AWJA2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1443494340&sr=8-1&keywords=short+breaks+in+mordor

Comic: Why Santa Never Vacations

September 26, 2015 / / 0 Comments

Santa Vacation

I like the idea of a grumpy Santa Claus better than a jolly one because the idea of one fictional character spending his whole year preparing for an impossible amount of work to be done on one night seems like it would turn him into a stressed-out cynic instead of everyone’s impossibly merry grandfather figure.

Also, I’d say this comic is more about the idiocy of strangers than the temperament of Santa himself. It seems like heedless comments can chase a man down and find a way to ruin any situation.

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