Adventures in the Hard Seat

So, I just back from an amazing weekend in Beijing. Princeton in Asia was having a reunion dinner, so I headed up there to engage in some good old-fashioned revelry with my fellow PiA China teachers and to see more of the city since my last trip there in 2007. I have to admit, I loooove Beijing. It’s cold, it’s gritty, it’s historical, it’s cultural…basically, it’s awesome.

However, the most blog-worthy experience from my weekend in China’s capital actually stems from my journey back to Hangzhou. Some background: China has one of the world’s most extensive rail transit systems, and it’s cheap, clean, and convenient.

There are four “classes” of train tickets from which you can choose, in descending order of cost:
•The “soft sleeper”—the most expensive; a comfy cabin with four beds and a good amount of privacy.
•The “hard sleeper”—a slightly less private bed cabin with six less-cushioned beds.
•The “soft seat”—a cushioned, reclining chair very similar to those on airplanes.
•The fabled “hard seat”—more of a glorified bench, un-cushioned, that seats two (and sometimes three) people.

Now, I’ve never been on a long-distance train before in my life, and I’ve been really excited to have the experience of traveling on a Chinese sleeper train. So, when I decided to head up to Beijing for the weekend, the natural choice for me was to travel by train. I consulted my more-experienced train traveling friends on which class of tickets to buy, and all of them suggested the “hard sleeper”—apparently the ticket of choice for expats. Hardly any, they informed me, ever take the seats. “Too Chinese” I was told. “Too uncomfortable, you’ll never get any sleep.” “It’s hell on train tracks.”

Yikes. So, the hard sleeper it was!

Only one very big problem. When I went to the train station to buy my tickets, there were no hard sleeper tickets left. Nor were there any soft sleeper tickets left.

Uh oh…So, I left the train station with a dreaded hard seat ticket in hand. And I’d be traveling alone. (cue the dramatic music).

Needless to say, I was nervous. My friends pitied my terrible misfortune of having to travel 14 hours on an overnight train on a hard seat. “Get ready to mingle with the locals!” they told me. “This will be a story that you tell for the rest of your life,” they said.


Yikes. So, Monday afternoon, I boarded the hard seat car at the Beijing train station, a place where no foreigner has ever ventured. This fact was immediately apparent due to the multitude of stares I received from my fellow Chinese hard-seat goers as I jostled and fumbled my way to my bench in the back of the car. I finally found it, and before long I was sitting gawkily on a rock-hard bench with a congested woman and facing two men sitting on the opposite bench.

Awkward silence ensued for the first 10 minutes of the train ride. I struggled to make myself comfortable on the bench, relegating myself to the knowledge that I’d be sitting here all night. Unfortunately, 10 minutes into the train ride, the flimsy covering on my side of the bench broke. As I clumsily tried to repair it myself, one of the men jumped up and fixed it for me. Expressing my appreciation for his assistance, I thanked him in Chinese.

“You speak Chinese!?” he exclaimed, dumbfounded that Chinese words could come out of a foreigner’s mouth.

“A little?” I replied, suddenly self-conscious of my ability to mingle with the locals in their native tongue.

“The foreigner speaks Chinese!” the man announced to the people sitting across the aisle, with whom he had been conversing. However, he proclaimed this loudly enough so that the entire back half of the car heard him.

Suddenly, about 15 pairs of eyes were trained on me. Right on me. People were turned around in their seats, waiting for me to utter some more words in Putonghua.

Ooooh boy.

This is how the entire night goes. Different brave passengers approach me to converse, obviously having considered what to ask beforehand.

“What is America like?”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“What do Americans know about Chinese history?”
“Why are you sitting in the hard seat? Foreigners should sleep in the beds!”
“I’m a traditional Chinese medicine doctor. Can I demonstrate some of my techniques on you?”
“Can we look at your English books?”
“What are some traditional Western medicine practices?”

Needless to say, being the primary mode of entertainment for my fellow passengers, I got no sleep on the train that night. And yes, the bench became almost unbearably uncomfortable as the night wore on.

But, it was still a great experience. I got to chat with people with whom I probably would never have talked otherwise. I got to tell them a little bit about America (or rather, as much as I could given the limits of my Chinese) and give them a better understanding of what it’s like to live in the US.

And, best of all, I got to learn a little bit about their lives: about the Chinese woman who teaches Spanish to classes that are less than half full because students would rather study English, and thus struggles to make enough money. About the traditional Chinese medicine doctor who carries his book of medicinal techniques around in case somebody needs curing, but is worried about Western medicine overshadowing his practice. About the student who lives in Hangzhou, but is trying desperately to get into one of Beijing’s colleges so that she can experience more of China (she’s only left Hangzhou’s Zhejiang Province four times in her entire life).

So, despite the fact that I got to Hangzhou at 6:42am exhausted and with no sleep, I don’t regret “mingling with the locals” in the hard-seat section. It was an interesting experience, and I’m glad I did it.

The. Best. Dinner. Ever.

You know how sometimes, when you’re in the middle of an awesome experience, you have moment of recognition when you realize that you’re a part of something really cool?
When you mentally step outside of the experience, become an observer, and tell yourself, “Wow, I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life?”

More often than not, these epiphanies don’t happen during particularly momentous or significant events; they happen when we least expect them: laughing with friends in the car, getting ready for a night out on the town, or just sitting around the table for a meal.

This happened to me the other night at dinner. Two friends from Dalian were in town—Jess and her boyfriend, Rob—and we’d decided to grab some dumplings with our friend, Allie, from a little restaurant by my house. Now, mind you, this restaurant is exceedingly small, i.e., it has one table inside its tiny confines. Upon entering, we immediately noticed that the lone table was already occupied by a very loquacious Chinese man and a stoic monk, waiting for their dumplings and chatting.

As soon as they saw us enter, the restaurant’s owners—two exceedingly sweet and gracious women who have since become my BFFs—immediately invited us to pull up a chair with the two men. As we hesitantly took our seats at the table, the loquacious man pulled out two bottles of intense Chinese liquor and set them in the middle of the table. He then gathered four cups, and placed them ceremoniously in front of each of us. It was at this moment that I realized that this was going to be an interesting meal.

“Ganbei!” cried the man dramatically. (In China, this means: drink every last drop of alcohol remaining in your glass. You must do it. There really is no polite way to say no to a ganbei invitation).

So, we’re all looking at each other with amused, slightly unsure expressions. We weren’t really in the mood to drink tonight. How to refuse this invitation tactfully….

It always helps to have a monk around to diffuse awkward alcohol-related social situations. “I apologize for this man,” the monk said to us in Chinese. “He is very drunk. You do not have to drink with him.”

So, we sat back and let the man get progressively drunker while we chatted with the monk and the owners.

Pretty normal thus far. Until the drunk man decided that he was a kung fu master. And subsequently decided that Rob was going to be his kung fu apprentice.

“Watch this,” the man said, as he positioned Rob’s arms at awkward angles and grasped his wrists.

“Hiiiya!” And with a melodramatic kung fu-esque squeal, he karate-chopped Rob’s arm. Multiple times.

“Give it a rest! Give it a rest!” the monk said, disentangling the man’s arms from Rob’s.

But Rob was a great sport about it, and humored the man’s delusionary conviction that he was a kung fu master throughout the remainder of the meal.

Little did we know that the best was yet to come.

As the dumplings arrived, the man started singing. Well, it wasn’t really singing; it was more of a loud, drunken effort to recreate a melodious Chinese tune. And he wouldn’t stop. Despite the hilarity of listening to this man butcher some traditional Chinese song, we decided that we should sing our own song.

I started by offering up my best rendition of what little I knew of the Chinese national anthem. It always gets a laugh, so why not? So, with my best imitation of a proud, military-esque baritone, I started singing. “Rise upppppp! We are not willing to be slaves anymoreeeeee…!”

The man loves it. So does the monk. And the owners. After breaking into hysterics over the silly foreigner who’s singing the national anthem, the drunken man decides to join in and finish off our patriotic performance. Awesomeee.

But, not to be outdone, Jess, Rob, Allie, and I convened a quick meeting, and decided to counter with a stirring rendition of Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.”

Oh, yes. We brought Disney to the table.

So picture this: four foreigners belting out Aladdin at the top of our lungs in a small dumplings restaurant, the monk and owners clapping their hands to the beat, and the drunken man interjecting with random, incongruous, and pitchy hums to “go along” with the song.

It was at this moment that I suddenly stepped outside of the experience and realized, Wow, I’m going to remember this forever. This is amazing.

Okay. So I want to brag on my students a little bit.

On Monday, I judged the ZJUT Zhijiang College English Speech Competition. As I rolled up to the auditorium, I didn’t really know what to expect. How many speeches was I going to hear? Who was giving them? What were these alleged speeches even about? Was anyone even going to show up for an English speech competition? I had nooooo idea.

I arrived to a packed house, with students filling all the seats, the aisles, and lining the walls along the sides and rear of the auditorium. Wow. Intense.
Turns out there were 31 speeches for the first round of the competition. Yes, just for the first round. These were to be given by students from all majors and all grade levels. And they were all going to be discussing the same general topic, that topic being “Why China is Awesome.” For each speaker, the judges (that’s me!) scored the speech according to fluency, pronunciation, presence, and all that jazz. The top 10 scoring speakers moved on to an extemporaneous speaking final round. The 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners were to be determined by averaging each speaker’s scores from both rounds.

So, I have to admit. The first round wasn’t super thrilling. One can only listen to the same speech about how “the most beautiful sentence in the world is ‘I love you, China’” so many times.

But, the final round was very exciting. Even more so for me, because five of my freshmen students made it into the final 10! Fivvvve of my freshmen, who were competing against seniors! I was so proud (And noooo, it wasn’t because I was inflating my students’ scores—I was only one out of five judges. It’s just that my students are that awesome). One of my students even became the crowd favorite for her hilarious extemporaneous speech on the topic of “loneliness.” Her speech went something like this:

“When I got this topic, I have to admit I was very confused, because loneliness is seeming to me like a sad thing, which I don’t understand, because I am always so very happy! Am I right!? Am I right!? (at this point, the crowd goes “Yeah! You’re right!”) So, I don’t know what loneliness is, but I have advice for anyone who is lonely. If you are a boy, you should go talk to pretty girls, like our foreign teachers, Candle and Wendy (Wendy and I are simultaneously blushing and dying with laughter). And if you are a girl, you should go shopping! You don’t have money? I will give you money!”

Needless to say, the crowd loved it. She ended up being one of two third place winners! But my pride does not end there: two of my other students (pictured here) won the two second place prizes! So, so proud of my little chickadees that night!

Who Says English Parties Can't be Legit?

Since arriving in Hangzhou, it’s been a goal of mine to have my students actually enjoy taking my class. Being a student for the vast majority of my life, I realize how painful a class can be if there aren’t good vibes flowing between the teacher and his/her students. So, to this end, I’ve been overzealously wacky, weird, strange, and entertaining during class in hopes that this will win me “cool” points from the kiddies.

--A small, illustrative example: This week, I’m celebrating Halloween in my classes by showing the movie Casper. (Yes, this means I’m watching Casper five times this week. Oh, joy of joys.) Anyway, I had a great time explaining Halloween customs to my classes beforehand, the best part being illustrating how we silly Americans like to scare people. I did this by hiding by the classroom door at the beginning of class and screaming “Boo!” in the ears of students who were walking in late. I succeeded in getting a few girly screams out of the late boys, and howls of laughter from the rest of the class. Hollaaaa.--

But, I digress. My main point is that I think I have finally succeeded in winning over the hearts and minds of the majority of my students. Case in point, the English party we held on Saturday.

So, Wendy, Roger, and I (the lone three foreign teachers at our college) decided to throw our students an English Party, where they could hang out with foreigners, play games, and practice English. So, we invited most of our classes, not expecting very many students to actually give up their Saturday afternoon to hang with teachers.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. Wendy and I leisurely walk over to the designated meeting place on campus, from which we are going to travel to the party locale. On the way, I receiv a phone call from one of my students.

“Candle! (yes, they call me Candle. It’s the closest they can get to Chandler.) Candle! It’s Monica. There are too many people here for one bus, so I am taking 25 students and leaving now. See you there!”

…Umm…what? Too many people to fit on one bus? Taking 25 now?

We were expecting 25 total.

So, I turn the corner, now infinitely more intrigued/anxious to see the turn-out.
There are about 70 students milling about in front of the English building. As Wendy and I approach the mob, they all start waving excitedly and pulling out their cameras to snap photos of us. (Nope, the photo-taking has not ceased, two months in.)

Woooow. So I’m shocked. Are we this popular? Are the students that bored on a Saturday afternoon? Did we buy enough Sprite?

These are irrelevant questions as Wendy and I automatically shift into Tour Guide/Recruitment Counselor/Teacher Mode and start herding the students out of campus, across the street, and to the bus stop.

“OK! Get on buses Y5, K504, or K308 to Song Cheng! Any of those! Got it! Okay!”

The poor, unsuspecting bystanders quietly waiting for their respective buses eye us curiously/incredulously/warily. I don’t blame them. Who would want to get on a city bus with about 75 boisterous college students?

So, Wendy and I valiantly lead our army of students to the party location, which was woefully unprepared for so many guests. But, I have to hand it to the guys there—they rose to the occasion: moving around furniture, setting up drinks, and throwing cards and mahjong sets at various groups of students to get them occupied and having a good time.


It turns out to be awessssome. The boys had a great time filling up water balloons and throwing them onto the girls from the balcony. And a big group of students whipped up some awesome dumplings in the kitchen. It was also so great to be able to talk to my students in a more relaxed, natural environment outside of the intimidating confines of the classroom. In fact, I found that the students who were most eager to approach me during the party to chat were the ones who seldom do so in class. I had an absolute blast getting to know them a little better! All in all, a great success.

So, at the end of the day, as the students were packing up and heading out, a group of students came up to me and said “Candle, Candle! Thank you so much. No teacher has ever done this for us before!”

Operation “Get My Students to Think Somewhat Fondly of Me”: Accomplished (for now, anyway).

Oh, China. You are too good to me.

Yikes. It’s been a while. I had every intention of writing a nice, introspective post in honor of my “monthiversary” last week, but life got in the way. I’m all for that. Vikki Lee keeps telling me that I need to stop thinking so much and just start living. Not bad advice.

I have to admit, I’m really happy here. It’s not an “Ahhh I’m –so-excited-I’m-going-to-scream-and-flail-my-arms-about-in-a-fit-of-unbridled-joy” kind of happy; it’s more of a quiet, unexpressed satisfaction with the way my life is unfolding. The friends I’ve made thus far are some of the most positive, flexible, happy, and interesting people I’ve ever met—and I need friends like that so I can learn how to be more flexible and open-minded.

A big lesson that I’m also learning is the value of being comfortable in your awkwardness. In China, I’m awkward pretty much 24/7. I’m the only laowai on a bus packed with Chinese, and the only one who seems to fall over when the bus lurches around corners. I’m the silly foreigner who stares dumbly at a waitress when she asks me something in Chinese too quickly and I have no idea what she said. I’m the mentally insane tourist who weaves through a stampede of oncoming bicycles in pursuit of an snapshot of an adorable Chinese child (yes, I’m that creepy). I’m the bizarre English teacher who pantomimes and overdramatically gestures in attempts to make myself understood to my students (and I oftentimes only succeed in making them cry with laughter, not understand my English). Yep, all signs point to helplessly and irrevocably awk.

In the States, I was very awkward-averse. I purposely avoided situations in which I felt uncomfortable or unsure. Here, it’s impossible to avoid these kinds of circumstances. And that’s becoming more and more okay with me. I’m learning that making a life in a foreign country requires a kind of fearlessness—a willingness to roll with the punches and to be vulnerable; to be comfortable with your abilities and your (increasingly apparent) limitations. I think I’m coming to know myself better here than I ever did in the US, and that’s a really cool feeling.

Another awesome thing about China is that I get to hang out with monks. Well, as close to hanging out with them as I can get as a non-practitioner of Buddhism. A quick story: so, the other day, I woke up at 3am to watch an unmentionable college football game (don’t ask). Anyway, by about 7am, I was feeling pretty stressed out and tense, and I needed to let off some steam. So, I pulled on my running shoes and headed out the door in the general direction of a Buddhist monastery nestled among a crop of mountains that line the western edge of Hangzhou. And I jogged, passing monks in their gold and silver robes on the way to meditation, and stopping to chat with a few who were enjoying a morning cup of tea in front of the monastery gates. Being surrounded by the serenity and beauty of a crisp, clear fall morning in the Buddhist hills made the ill-fated football game seem like a distant and hazy memory. Oooh China, you are too good to me.

Taxi!

A common theme of life in China is that nothing ever goes the way you planned. Everrrr. Take my taxi odyssey today, for instance. A new PiA teacher, Paul, had just arrived in Hangzhou, and I—wanting to be a good hostess—decided I’d show him around my new home sweet home.

Which necessitated a few taxi rides. Harmless, right?

So, fresh from a relaxing cup of coffee at the West Lake Starbucks, Paul and I pile into a taxi headed for our university, Zhe Gong Da. Feeling confident in my ability to say the name of my own college accurately, I nonchalantly tell the cabbie, “Zhe Gong Da.”

Yep, sound like the perfect tones and pronunciation to me.

The cabbie repeats what I’d just said, and I assure him that he understood my impeccable Chinese. All’s well. So, Paul and I are gabbing away in the backseat about life, literature, and the like while the cabbie drives on.

And on.

Wait…none of this scenery looks familiar.

I figure he’s taking us on a new route. That’s legit—I need to get to know new parts of Hangzhou, anyway.

But, then he pulls into the East Hangzhou Train Station and turns off the meter.

…Uh…

The East Hangzhou Train Station is on the completely opposite side of town from Zhe Gong Da. Not even close.

“Where is Zhe Gong Da? This is not Zhe Gong Da! This is the train station!” I start scribbling the characters on my hand to make myself understood.

“Zhe Gong Da?? You didn’t say Gong! You said Dong! Aiiyaaaaa” cries the frustrated cabbie in an accusatory way.

“Aiiyaaaaa!” I cry in response (mostly because it’s a fun sound to make, but also because I was frustrated and humbled by the fact that my tonal pronunciation was obviously not as awesome as I’d thought).

So, a 10 minute cab ride turned into a 35 minute, and infinitely more expensive, ride. But, Paul and I finally make it to campus and wander around amidst the imposing academic buildings and carefully manicured Chinese landscapings before deciding to head home.

Which required another taxi. Our next stop? The Grand Hyatt Hangzhou, where Paul dropped off his luggage before heading out on the town.

I’m determined to redeem myself here.

I had been practicing the tones for “Hyatt Hotel” for about 3 blocks before we got into the taxi. But, just to make sure he reallllly understood me, I handed him the Hyatt’s brochure with the hotel’s name and address written in Chinese characters. He nods and whips the car around a corner, seemingly in hot pursuit of the Hyatt.

Seems promising.

…Until the wayward cabbie drops us off on a different road, makes up some excuse about one-way streets, points in the general eastern direction, and tells us to walk that way one block.

A little peeved that he didn’t take us directly to the Hyatt, we start to walk.

Only, there’s no Hyatt.

Maybe he meant two blocks. So we keep walking. Nope, not a hotel in sight.

Finally convinced that the cabby either A) didn’t know what he was talking about or B) decided to pull a fast one on the laowai just for fun, we turn around and start wandering blindly down the street, asking random passersby if they know where the Hyatt is. Of course, no one does.

So we wander. In the rain. In the windy rain. So windy, in fact, that our umbrellas start flipping inside out and we feel like we’re going to get carried away Wizard of Oz-style. A sitcom writer couldn’t have come up with a more pathetic sight.

But, we finally find a shop owner with knowledge of the fabled Hyatt, and reach our destination. After reuniting Paul with his luggage, we leave in search of our final cab to take us home.

Surely nothing will happen this time. The Chinese believe in good karma, right?

After waiting for a taxi at the height of rush hour for about 30 minutes, we finally manage to wave one down. After running through the sloshy, wet rain in pursuit of the cab (and awkwardly kicking off a drenched, slippery flip flop in the process), we tumble into the car and give the cabbie directions for home.

Ah, an end is in sight.

So, we’re driving through Hangzhou’s quiet, dark Buddhist hills outside of town, tired and ready for some food, when all of the sudden the cabbie lurches the car onto a sidewalk on a deserted stretch of road.

Thinking he must have misunderstood my directions (wouldn’t be the first time), I tell him that the house is farther up the road.

But then the guy goes nuts, turns off the car and the meter, and wails, “I can’t take it anymore!” and jumps out of the cab.

…Uh….

What can’t he take anymore? Our annoying English conversations? His dreary life as a cabbie? Life, in general? What kind of dramatic fit were we witnessing?

“Oh…he just had to go.” Paul realized.

I turn around and peer out the back window. Yep, there was our cabbie, about 100 yards away, relieving himself and not even trying to hide it.

All Paul and I could do was laugh. Ooooh, China.

“Do you have a boyfriennnd?"

So. Today I taught my first class at the university. I got up two hours beforehand to get myself pumped up for teaching, left my apartment 30 minutes early to ensure a prompt arrival, and confidently inserted my key into the lock at Room 601 of the Foreign Language Building and turned.

Pop.

Um. What? I pull out the key, only to find that half of it has broken off into the lock. FML.

Be cool, be cool, you have 20 minutes to solve this problem, I think to myself as I look around for some assistance. I find one of the staff members and launch into some broken Chinese about how half my key is in my hand and half of it is wedged deep inside the door and I need to teach in less than 20 minutes. She takes me to another room down the hall to use for the day while the staff sorts out the lock issue.

As I set up shop in the new room, I think to myself: Okay, we’re good to go. I’ll just direct my eager students down the hall into this new, spiffy classroom, where they will be immediately enthralled with my awesome instructional capabilities.

And I wait. And wait. 9:45am comes and go, and no students. Nowhere. My classroom is conspicuously lacking in students. Just me and the crickets. Yep, it’s looking like I’m going to be teaching myself today.

By 9:55am, I head down to the secretary’s office to inquire into the whereabouts of my 35 missing freshmen. Again, I launch into some broken Chinese, which seems to do the trick, and the secretary says, “Room 104! Go there! They are running there right now!”

Sounds urgent. So I hoist my backpack full of teaching goodies onto my back, hurry down 5 flights of stairs, and rush breathlessly into Room 104.

No students. Again, just me and the crickets.

Just when I’m about to start wondering if I’m really teaching at this university, I hear a stampede coming down the hall, and poke my head through the doorway just in time to see 35 Chinese freshmen literally sprinting down the hall, books in hand, shouting, “sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry!!”

I do have students. This seems promising. So, I welcome them into our makeshift classroom in Room 104 and try to introduce myself and begin the lesson (only about 25 minutes late).

So, here I am, telling my pupils where I’m from and the classroom rules, when all of the sudden, I notice something strange. About 6 of the students have their cell phones out. Pointed at me. Pointed directly at my face.

Click, click, click, click, click.

Seriously? They ‘re taking pictures of me? During class?

“What are you guys doing? It’s the middle of class!” I say, motioning for them to put away the cell phones.

A particularly vocal and fearless student quips, “It’s just that you are sooo beautiful.”

….Hmm….

“That is not appropriate. Put your phones away!” I try to be casual and humorous about the situation, but I soon find that this is a mistake, because the flirtatious banter continues sporadically throughout the hour.

“Do you have any questions?” I ask the class after the introduction, hoping for some penetrating questions about American culture.

“Do you have a boyfriennnnnd?”

“Is everyone in the US as beautiful as you?”

“Can I take a photo with you?”

“Do you want to make happy with us this weekend?” (A disclaimer: the student meant “have fun”—as in play.)

…This is getting ridiculous here. Finally, one of the shyer girls pipes up, “What’s American college life like?”

Hallelujah! Something relevant! Something completed unrelated to inappropriate student-teach dynamics. I thank her for her question and direct the class into a conversation related to the differences between American and Chinese universities.

Thus, my first day as a college teacher in Hangzhou. Extremely entertaining, yes, but also exceedingly disturbing. I have four more classes to meet this week—it shall be interesting to see how bold the rest of my students will be.

Toto…I Don’t Think We’re in Shanghai Anymore

I'm settling in to my role as the town “slightly mentally infirm but nevertheless exhilarating and hilarious” foreigner quite nicely. Our campus is a little ways outside of downtown Hangzhou, so the locals here see very, very few foreigners. Our foreign teacher’s liaison, Victor, commented that I might be the first one ever to have spent a significant amount of time in this part of town. So, needless to say, I’m a source of entertainment for the people here: a little bit of a freak show and a little bit of a stand-up comedian.

I’m embracing it. I even sang along to my Ipod this morning on the walk home from grabbing breakfast. There’s nothing like watching the Chinese eye you curiously as you bemusedly belt out “Defying Gravity” while dodging rickshaws and chickens. Maybe I’m going slightly insane already? Hopefully not—the Chinese aren’t fond of feeble mindedness.

In other news, I have made a new friend. She is the worker stationed in the hair care department at the supermarket across the street from our campus.

Now, I realize that living in China is an opportunity for me to shed my materialism and embrace a simpler existence. I’m all for that. I am not, however, all for unleashing the bushy, beasty ‘fro that grows on my head (those of you who know me well know that this is not an option). Hence my dire need for a hairdryer and straightener. So, for the past few days, I’ve been trekking to and from that hair care department on the 3rd floor of the supermarket in search of all my hair care necessities. And the same woman is always there to help me find exactly what my hair needs to be “soft, straight, and beautiful.” Yesterday, she broke out some hard-core Chinese on me. I had no idea what she was saying. No clue. My Chinese vocabulary of renting an apartment, ordering food, and politely declining dinner date invitations got me nowhere here.

So, of course, I enlist Wendy’s assistance, who helpfully tells me that the woman is critiquing my skin. Fannntastic. I know I haven’t been exfoliating lately, but c’mon, cut me some slack here, I just moved from the other side of the world. Anyway, long story short, the woman wants to be friends with the funny looking, nasty skinned, bushy haired foreigner. In Facebook terms, she added me as a friend, and I accepted the request.

China 101

Hmm…how to describe my first 24 hours in China? Unnerving? Overwhelming? New, exciting, and awesomely unique and different from America in every way?

No. The United States of China would be more accurate. Four hours of delays, 23 hours of plane travel, three countries, and roughly 9000 miles later, I land in Shanghai: a Chinese oasis of Western commercialism, Western languages, and—unfortunately—Western price tags.

My first meal in China? Chocolate and whipped cream crepes (a la Max Brenner’s in NYC yummmmm) at a place called Abbey Road.

My first entertainment in China? Streaming in College Gameday to watch Lee Corso make a fool of himself in front of crowds of drunk, obnoxious football fans—airing live from Atlanta, no less.

My first purchase in China? A Budweiser.

My first business patronage in China? A sports bar run by a Texan called “Bubba’s” that also, coincidentally, streams in college football games during the fall.

So, here I am, my first day in China, sitting in a bar adorned with deer heads, Texas flags, and a classy sign that reads “Guys: No Shirt, No Service. Girls: No Shirt, Free Drinks,” watching the UGA/OK State game with a bunch of UGA fans clad in red and black—most of whom were cheering on the Dawgs with the same familiar southern twang that I never expected to hear in China.

…I’m a little befuddled here. Did I just spend the last 24 hours traversing mountain, ocean, tundra, and desert to end up back in Georgia? Not that I’m complaining. This Bubba’s place seems like a little piece of heaven right now—a nice transitional oasis that will help me transition easily from American culture to Chinese. This whole “living in China” thing is going to be a breeze, I think confidently to myself as I commiserate with a fellow UGA fan over the Bulldogs’ disappointing season opener—in this quaint little sports bar in Shanghai.

Ooooh, Canada.

En route to Shanghai, I experienced my first foray into the wild party above America better known as “Canada.” Among the several differences I noted between us and our North American brethren (including the confusing use of Celsius, military time, and the term “cheddar burgers” rather than cheeseburgers), I discovered that Canadian customs agents are much more…um…diligent than those in the good old US of A.

Pretty pleased with myself for having successfully made it this far into my journey across the world, I confidently walk up to the “B” counter for international connections and hand over my passport and boarding pass to the gruff looking agent behind the desk.

…And the Canadian interrogation commences. “Where did you come from.” Sounds more like an accusation than a question to me.

“…America?”

“No. Airport.”

“Oh…uh…Atlanta.”

“Where are you going.”

This one I can answer with confidence. (Although I do wonder why he didn’t just consult my boarding pass, still resting idly in his left hand). But whatev, to each his own. “Shanghai.”

At this point, the agent looks up at me, rearranges his glasses in characteristic Mafia fashion, and goes, “Why are you going.”

“Oh. Uh… A job.”

A quizzical expression crosses his face, and he starts to size me up. Incredulously, he says, “A job? What kind of job do you have in China?”

What, does this guy not believe me? Does he think I’m trying to pull a fast one on him—do I look like an international woman of mystery to him? (My exceedingly unintimidating brown cardigan and capris imply otherwise) I figure, at this point, it’s better to specify the job so as to diffuse the skepticism that is permeating this increasingly awkward exchange. “I’m teaching.”

“Teaching. Where are you teaching.” I can feel the proverbial glow of the interrogation light on my face. Weren’t these the type of questions the (justifiably suspicious) Chinese government was supposed to ask, not some guy behind the international connections counter in Toronto?

I am also noticing that my old friend behind the counter hasn’t written any of this classified information down. That is the suspicious thing about this exchange, in my opinion.

“Hangzhou.”

His brow furrows. “Never heard of it.” And he looks at me as though he is trying to decide if I had made up the 6-million-person city of Hangzhou in a futile attempt to conceal my true motivation for flying to Shanghai on this (apparently) exceedingly suspicious of September mornings.

“Yeeeah..It’s nice….” is the only response I can muster at this point. But, what I really want to say is: Just give me my completely legitimate boarding pass and work visa back, and my suspicious cardigan and I will be on our way.

Old Man Gruff smirks, scrawls a seemingly meaningless scribble across my boarding pass and says, “Enjoy the flight.” He pushes my captive passport and boarding pass across the desk and abruptly swivels his chair around to face the desk counter behind him—an obvious and melodramatic signal that the interrogation is over.

Of course, I take this opportunity to shoot him an unnoticed, but no less gratifying, scowl and make my way to the gate, convinced that, if I can survive Canadian interrogation methods, Chinese customs will be a breeze.

Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait a little longer to test out my mad customs skills. My flight has been delayed 3 hours (hoooooray). Hence, here I sit in the Toronto airport, watching a CNN-like news loop with more references to Canada than I’ve ever heard in my life, waiting to make my second sojourn to the Middle Kingdom.

In other news, in Canada, I have also learned the 0.3% of Canadian traffic accidents involve a moose. Use this information as you see fit.