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.