The end of the road.

How time flies. My job as an English teacher is complete, and in reflection, I've concluded that the Chinese work too hard. Whenever I asked students to recap their weekends, the usual response was homework and sleep, and maybe a computer game in between if they're lucky. When 72 hours of your week is dedicated to formal education, you don't have time for many extracurricular activities.

Despite the workoholic mentality, there are several entertaining aspects about education in China that I'll miss. These are best experienced in a visual format, so what follows are some video highlights of my teaching experience, concluding with a slide show of my students, coworkers, and campus. Ive thoroughly enjoyed myself here, almost to the point of not wanting to leave, but as one of my students commented, "I live like a bird," meaning its about time for me to head south to warmer pastures.

Happy New Year...

Every morning, at 7 O'clock on the dot, all the youngin's engage in their high energy morning exercise:



The high school kids have their own equivalent, being summoned to the athletic field by what I think is the national anthem blaring through the loudspeakers.


Every day, all of my students have periodic breaks between classes to do eye exercises. They perform a routine of self eye massage, to the soothing soundtrack of the numbers 1-8.



With rested eyes, they're ready for musical chairs...



Xue Xiao

Zhu wo sheng ri kuai le.

The week of my 26th birthday served as a metaphor for all that China is, a roller coaster of emotions, sharply dipping into confusion and disappointment, then soaring to peaks of happiness and amazement. To celebrate the occasion, I went to Shanghai for the third time with two seemingly modest birthday goals in mind:

1) Eat Mexican food
2) Buy new shoes

Both were accomplished, but in typical China fashion the levels of success varied widely. First and foremost, I will address the issue most likely to be of concern to others; is it possible to eat Mexican food in China? Due to all previous attempts to consume Mexican food outside of California and Mexico, I’ve developed an exaggerated skepticism regarding its existence elsewhere. Past attempts to contradict this pessimism have only added high octane fuel to an already raging inferno. Despite vowing to never raise my hopes again in this particular type of venture, I entered Shanghai riding a rising wave of optimism that my dreams of being reunited with the ever elusive taco would come to fruition.

The first destination on this journey, and unfortunately not the last, was the ‘Maya Restaurant.’ As soon as the threshold of the door was crossed, I realized this wasn’t going to be the place where my specific needs were going to be satiated. An elaborate lighting scheme, plush lounge couches, and what looked like the cast from a Michelob Light commercial are all blatant signs that a genuine taco will not be located anywhere on the premises. Still, as the sleet and snow increased in severity, I stubbornly sailed deeper into the storm of desire, ordering the taco combo ($10 for 3 tacos). The price tag, which exceeds many Chinese people’s daily salary, was a dead giveaway as to what kind of “tacos” these were going to be, i.e. delicious, but in an “I sense a hint of rosemary and paprika” kind of way. My intuition served me well, as the tacos were well seasoned, but definitely not Mexican food.

With stubborn determination overriding my better judgment, I refused to extinguish my diminished flame of hope, and the following day a second and final attempt was made to reach El Promised Land. A delivery order was placed to El Mexicano, which according to a review on a Shanghai expatriate website “…is, hands down (and up, and sideways, and perpendicular, don't forget diagonal, also rotating in a clock-wise fashion) the best Mexican resty in the WORLD!!! No, but it's awesome, trust me.” In response to this, and several other reviews from people who appeared to possibly have a relevant opinion, I felt like El Mexicano was the light at the end of my tacoless tunnel.

Something appeared to be afoul the moment the food arrived, based on the two pint sized plastic bags in which it was delivered. We ordered what should have been a bounty of tacos, burritos, and enchiladas, which couldn’t possibly be contained in the modest package that was presented to us. Still, I held onto a final shred of hope that perhaps quality over quantity would be a fair exchange. Words cannot describe the utter disappointment that ensued upon opening the tinfoil containing the tacos and finding this:
This image hasn’t been Photoshopped, nor has somebody eaten the first half of the taco. What you see is the taco exactly as it was presented to me. I could go on indefinitely about the disappointment this caused, but I’m ready to begin removing this tragedy from my memory. Please take a moment to look at this picture and be reminded of it the next time you’re biting into a succulent, salsa splattered, cilantro garnished masterpiece on East 14th or wherever else your nearest taco dealer resides.

A far more successful experience was my replacement of a pair of shoes I’ve worn for the last 2.5 years. Unfortunately, I was in such a hurry to get rid of them that I didn’t take a picture to document their utterly disheveled state, but to illustrate their condition, the soles held animated conversations with one another whenever I walked, flapping uncontrollably with every step. My quest to replace these poor soles led me to a giant bootleg market, which caused great anxiety, based on my previous experiences in these places, which I would describe as the musty armpits of capitalism. I had to be focused in order to get my desired item and get the hell out before having a debilitating panic attack from the onslaught of fake Louis Vutton bags and bug eyed manikins. Luckily, within 15 minutes, fate led me past a colorful display of fake Jordan’s. After being sucked in by a friendly sales pitch, I spotted a pair of New Balance, which appeared to be an adequate mode of transportation for my quickly approaching journey through Southeast Asia. After trying them on, my feet quickly became attached to their new state of comfort, so I eagerly entered the treacherous ring of bootleg market bargaining. Ironically, my opponent, according to her personalized business card, was Ms. Xu (pronounced shoe). So, Ms. Xu busted out her calculator, and through a combination of body language and my slightly improving grasp of mandarin, I was able to decipher the following information, as she violently typed numbers into the calculator.
“These shoes are very good, and they usually cost 680 yuan. Our price is 340 yuan, but because you are my friend, I will give you the special price of 240.”
So without having uttered a word, I got a friendly discount of 440 yuan. In response, I quickly offered to pay 90, which produced a pleasant chuckle from Ms. Xu. After pretending that I’d be content to exit the store in my soulless shoes, she was convinced to lower the price to 150. Meeting her halfway, I agreed that 120 would be a fair price, but not a penny more. She initially refused, but after gratuitous use of “tai gui le” and “pian yi diar ba,” (too expensive, and make it cheaper), she dropped to 130, which she insisted was the lowest price she could possibly offer. I happily handed over the equivalent of $20, bid adieu to Ms. Shoe, and swiftly walked out of bootleg hell with comfortable feet.

Back in Huzhou, the festivities continued, culminating in my most elaborate birthday party since elementary school, organized by a special, unexpected group. Through all my highs and lows as a teacher, there has been one constant cornerstone in the maintenance of my sanity, my seventh grade students. Initially, I was most concerned about teaching these kids because 13 seems to be a universal age of bubbling excitation, when kids think they’re grown, but still engage in fart jokes and snot rockets to no end. So, the shockingly positive experience I’ve had with these kids thus far was already a grand birthday present in and of itself.

On the day of the party, I was summoned to the classroom, where I was greeted by an ocean of smiling children screaming “Happy Birthday” and a nice welcome message.
Once I was seated front and center, the students were individually called upon to approach me bearing gifts. As each of the 44 names was called, a bright face approached, bearing an elaborately wrapped box or an awkward grin. The latter group, who must’ve secretly known about my aversion to materialism, provided some of the most memorable gifts. They timidly explained how they didn't have a tangible present for me, but would like to present me with an English sentence. Various verbal offerings included “you’re such a good teacher, I like you, you’re so cool, and I hope you are happy everyday.” The highlight came from a boy named Snake (pictured above), who explained that since he couldn’t afford to buy me a present, he would like to give me a hug instead. I accepted with open arms, as his peers applauded wildly. By the time student 44 was called upon, I was swamped in shiny boxes and moving messages.

Upon opening these packages, I found among other things, a rabbit puppet, an hourglass, a wallet, a bow and arrow set, a scarf, snowboarding gloves, a basketball, a set of mugs, a Chinese pop CD, and a poster of the 1995 Houston rockets. Also included were a handful of items whose identity and function remain unknown to me, but it’s the thought that counts.
After my newest possessions were laid aside, my students indulged me in an hour of raucous games, singing, and dancing. The highlight was a lively round of musical chairs, which they blatantly let me win, being the kind hearted souls they are. The grand finale came in the form of what looked like the bottom tier of a massive wedding cake. In typical China fashion, the birthday boy was delegated to the role of cake cutter, meaning I faced the daunting task of evenly dividing a 10 pound cake amongst 44 sugar craving 13 year olds. Through the good grace of some divine force, I chopped off a slice for the last student, with just enough left to spare for a midnight snack.

In the end, my 26th birthday will go down as one of my most memorable, and despite el decepcion, it was a smashing success. I don’t want to downplay the gravity of my realization that many moons will pass before I encounter another taco, but just like other let downs I’ve had in China, it doesn’t come close to counteracting the moments of amazement and appreciation for the spirit of the people who call this place home. My departure from Huzhou and the teaching life is now one week away, which will be a bittersweet farewell. Its clear that despite any headaches I may have endured in the process, I really am going to miss my students.

Coming soon: a slide show of pictures from my school.

Adapt(N)ation

Despite a steady flow of logic deprived moments, I’ve noticed that in just 16 weeks, I’ve quietly become acclimated to life in China. There are plenty of examples to document this strange phenomenon, but what follows is the crème of the crop. As a throwback to an earlier post, I’ve thrown in a second round of random English phrases found on Chinese T-shirts, serving as an additional indicator of my adaptation. During my first few weeks here, I amassed a mountain of paper scraps, on which I had documented the many amusing word combinations I’d encounter on the streets of Huzhou. In recent weeks, my collection has been at a standstill because I’ve become completely immune illogical grammar to.

Comming
to my party?

For the last six weeks, I’ve been commuting to work on a bicycle, joining the morning rush of two wheelers packed together like a school of fish, navigating the currents of Huzhou’s impressive network of bike lanes. My ability to engage in this mayhem and survive to tell the story is exhibit A in the trial of my successful adjustment to China. Coming from a place where people get shot for stepping on each others shoes cultivates a profound entitlement to personal space that is incompatible with life in the middle kingdom, where the populous is generally unarmed. Initially, I was engulfed in the gut reaction of absolute outrage at being seemingly invisible to other motorists, resulting in various chains of expletives spilling forth from my mouth. Seeing how these tirades weren’t going to change anything, it didn’t take long for me to adjust my attitude, and join in the party of swerving dangerously close to everyone in my path. In return, I made a verbal agreement not to take offense to anyone returning the favor, as long as they don’t actually make contact with me. At this point, my only response to being aggressively cut off is to intuitively swerve out of harms way and peacefully continue on my journey. I have yet to get in an accident or altercation, knock on wood, and I’ve even come to enjoy the video game sensation of weaving in and out of oncoming traffic.

A related and equally surprising turn of events, given my country of origin, is my overcoming the primal rage which results from being incessantly honked at like a stripper in high heels and a mini skirt. Use of the horn in China seems to be a subject of great cultural misunderstanding. In the U.S., the horn is either an absolute last resort, or a tool used for initiating confrontation, but in China it’s more like a mechanical, “hello.” Once the driver starts the engine, the horn becomes an extra appendage, continuously used to announce ones presence to the world, as if the automobile were some kind of fantastical machine which makes you invisible. As a result, it’s a common occurrence to be enjoying a stroll thru town, only to hear the rapidly approaching sound of an attention grabbing honking spree, the perpetrator seemingly making every effort to force an unreasonably slow motorist out of the way. Then, in turning around to see what all the commotion is about, you realize that it’s the lone vehicle on the road, completely unobstructed by anyone or anything. That’s when you realize he’s just saying hello to all the people who would otherwise be unaware of his existence. Frivolous as this sounds, the constant honking serves a practical purpose, which can be embraced, once you get over the initial, “What the f*** is your problem?” response that’s been ingrained in you. The logic here is that I much prefer an audible warning, obnoxious as it may be, to narrowly escaping collisions with silent scooters, whose tailwinds ruffle the hairs on my knuckles. Not to give myself too much credit, but I think I’ve been pretty open minded in my acceptance of Chinese road etiquette, and in turn, I’ve had many entertaining and stress free journeys around town.

Sweat the dream

On a recent commute, I encountered exhibit B of my apparent Chinafication. Buzzing past me was an old man on a rickety, electric tricycle, with a flat bed attached for hauling purposes. This seems to be the transportation mode of choice for anyone carrying cardboard collections, uprooted trees, family members, or in this case, meat products. On the edge of the platform, amongst an array of animal parts, was the hindquarter of a pig, distinguishable by its curly tail, bouncing in response to every bump in the road. My first reaction was nothing more than, “Hey, that looks like a pig.” It wasn’t until later, upon further reflection, that I realized, “That’s raw pork wandering around on the back of some old dude’s dusty cart, unrefrigerated in the filthy open air!” Who knows how long he was riding around with that unfortunate pig’s ass dangling form his cart, but I’m pretty sure raw pork isn’t meant to be paraded around in the not so pristine Chinese air for anytime whatsoever. The fact that I didn’t immediately stomp on the kickstand and vomit on the side of the road is one thing, but that I have since eaten “the other white meat,” maybe even that very same day, leads me to believe that I’m on my way to being fully adjusted.

Eastern we r
the camel generation

Exhibit C was found on my trip to Hangzhou, where I was already being pissed on by Mother Nature. There, while enjoying an already mediocre meal, an old man came walking swiftly through the restaurant clutching a little girl in his arms like a 50 pound sack of rice. The duo approached the bathroom sink, which is located not in the bathroom, but in the communal dining area. The man repositioned his cargo until she was symmetrically situated over the sink, at which point she proceeded to relieve herself, roughly 4 feet from the nearest diners. Everyone went about their business, and yours truly, made a casual comment like, “That girl’s taking a piss in the sink,” but carried on with my meal. Like the bouncing pig tail, it wasn’t until later that I reflected on the situation, imagining how it would have unfolded in the American realm of hand sanitizer and bathroom sinks located inside of the bathroom. I can see it now, a hockey mom up in arms and demanding to speak to the manager, and Joe six pack dropping a few atomic F bombs before busting out of the door.

You are
what you eat
(A picture of a hot dog)

My conclusion upon semi adapting to these situations is that the level of comfort enjoyed in many peoples’ day to day lives, especially Americans, is responsible for the de-evolution of the species. I’m not saying that having girls piss in the sink while you eat lunch will promote intellectual stimulation or further critical thinking skills, but people are generally confined within too narrow a comfort zone. Inside of this little air conditioned, pleather box, creativity and resourcefulness are rarely required, and as a result, these traits are disappearing. China will violently break down the walls of your comfort zone and move them somewhere over the horizon from your current vantage point. For this reason, I’m eternally grateful to this place, for should I decide to live in the United States again, I will require so little in terms of material comfort and personal space, I could essentially be content living in a cardboard box on BART.

DIE
YUPPY
SCUM

Side Trippin

The province in which I reside, Zhejiang, is only China’s 11th most populated, yet it has 11 million more people than California, despite being one fourth its size. Even more disproportionate, is its recorded history, being inhabited for over 7,000 years, with the last 2,500 and change contained within one continuous civilization. Basically, there are people everywhere, and they’ve been around for a minute, for lack of a better word. This becomes increasingly apparent when venturing out of the confines of my present hometown of Huzhou, with its modest population of 2 million, and limited sites of historical significance that have survived the current construction craze. Life here is pretty laid back by Chinese standards, which can lull you into a false notion about the reality of this country. Possibly more shocking than being injected into the human pinball of Shanghai is a quick flip through a China guidebook. Within a 200 mile radius of Huzhou, there are an abundance of mega cities that 99% of the world’s population has never heard of, like Wuxi, population 4.3 million, Yangzhou 4.46 million, , Shaoxing 4.3 million, Ningbo 5.4 million, and Wenzhou 7.4 million. The list could continue for quite a while, since China has more than 100 cities with a population over 1 million.

I’ve recently been escaping from Huzhou on the weekends to explore larger cities of interest that folks outside of China may have actually heard of. My first destination, Hangzhou, is a fellow Zhejiangian city, while Suzhou and Nanjing required crossing a border into the neighboring province of Jiangsu, population a modest 74 million.

The first thing any Chinese person will say when you mention Hangzhou, is “You must go to the West Lake.” The famed lake is located in the center of this town of six plus million people and is one of China’s major tourist attractions. It’s surrounded by pagodas, finely manicured shrubbery, and to my dismay, a handful of Starbucks. Hangzhou was founded 2,200 years ago and visited in the 13th century by Marco Polo, who then called it the finest city in the world. Unfortunately, my introduction to the city was slightly dampened, since it was raining relentlessly during my entire stay. Despite the non-cooperating weather, my English teaching crew and I went for a boat ride on the West Lake, which was relaxing, but didn’t quite live up to the hype that had been heaped upon me leading up to my visit.
My Hangzhou journey took place before Halloween, so an afternoon was spent searching for costume materials. This quest led to a gigantic, cavernous mall featuring five floors of utterly useless crap. Claustrophobia sunk in quickly while navigating through a mass of manikins and bootleg sunglasses, all housed under an 8 foot ceiling that seemed to get increasingly shorter by the minute. I’m not a fan of shopping to begin with, but I promptly came to refer to this place as hell incarnate.

The highlight of the entire weekend was an Indian food buffet, featuring a stage which rotated between a live belly dancer and a projection TV playing classic bollywood music videos. Here, my taste buds were graced by the likes of daal, naan, and chicken massala, which equaled such a mainlined overdose of non-Chinese flavor, it’s a miracle I didn’t eat myself into an eternal coma.

Another noteworthy experience in Hangzhou was my daring first attempt to eat a burrito in China. I had no expectations, although I couldn’t help but hold onto a shred of optimism, and wonder if I would be served a greasy, tinfoil wrapped, bean filled, masterpiece of Mexican origami, at which point I would go straight to KTV and sing “Reunited” by Peaches and Herb. Back in stone cold reality, I was met by shredded chicken and lettuce inside of a tortilla, the only saving grace being a conservative scoop of sour cream on the side.

I would never admit it to a Chinese person, but on this particular visit, the Indian food was more impressive than the West Lake. I imagine Hangzhou would be much more majestic when seen without an umbrella obstructed view, so hopefully I’ll be able to return and formulate a more Marco Polo-esque opinion.

According to a famous Chinese proverb, Suzhou is the equivalent of Heaven on earth. Upon arrival, with its population of 5.7 million, it looks just like any other sprawling city in China, but once you crack through its generic exterior, Suzhou becomes exponentially more heavenly. The old city, bounded on all sides by a moat, is about 5 square miles and features surviving patches of cobblestone streets, traversed by canals and bridges, hence its nickname, Venice of the East.

My first stop in Suzhou was the Humble Administrator’s Garden. I’d give the benefit of the doubt and assume the name is a joke, but the Chinese don’t really use irony, so it just appears to be a bold faced lie. Suzhou is famous for its gardens and this one is the largest and most renowned. It’s a meticulously designed oasis of coy filled ponds, pagodas, and precisely placed plant life, as to not disrupt the feng shui. Doesn’t seem like a place that would be dedicated to any so called humble administrator. As hypocritical as it sounds, this could’ve been one of the most relaxing places I’ve been in China, were it not for swarms of tourists spreading over every available square inch of the place. I’m aware that I’m just another tourist in the crowd, but i couldn't help imagining the garden without the armies of annoying tour groups, in which everyone sports matching hats, aimlessly following a flag waving tour guide like a flock of camera wielding sheep. In theory, this is the absolute low season for tourism, which makes me cringe at the thought of visiting in the high season. I’d personally recommend risking execution and hopping the fence after hours to enjoy the garden in peace and quiet.
Another significant event was a visit to the Pintan Opera Museum, which featured my first live theater experience in China, performed in Suzhouhua, the local regional dialect. If you’ve ever wondered why Chinese television always has Chinese subtitles, it’s because every region speaks a different dialect which is completely incomprehensible to its neighbors. Remarkably, the written language remains the same, so logically the performance had a digital projector displaying the written mandarin translation. Unfortunately, this did me no good, as I've managed to learn about 3 Chinese characters thus far (People, land, and building). Entertaining as it was to temporarily invent my own dialogue, it was difficult to become fully immersed in the drama without having the slightest idea as to what was going on.

Even though my 30 hour stay was too short to form any kind of accurate opinion, Suzhou is the best place I’ve been so far in China. Wandering around a maze of old one story buildings and canals, polluted as they may be, was a welcome relief to the soulless high rises that dominate the landscape elsewhere.

Most recently, I traveled to yet another metropolis, Nanjing, where 5.29 million people battle for personal space on tree lined streets. The city was originally founded 2,500 years ago and features the longest city wall in the world. It’s famous for being the capital of China from 1368 to 1644, and was believed to have been the largest city in the world at the turn of the 14th century. In modern times, it briefly regained capital status in the early 20th century, and is home to one of the worst atrocities committed in the atrocity plagued 20th century.

With a preconceived understanding that despair about the state of the world would follow, my first excursion in Nanjing was to the Massacre Memorial Hall, which chronicles the Rape of Nanjing, perpetrated by invading Japanese troops at the close of 1937. During a devastating 6 weeks, it’s estimated that over 300,000 Chinese were killed and 80,000 raped, in the midst of an all out assault on the capital. Not surprisingly, the exterior of the museum is a dark, lifeless landscape occupied by a few suffering sculptures. The interior provides an in-depth look at the lives of various victims and documents the details of the killing, torture, and rape that decimated the city. The most haunting image was a recently beheaded Chinese man's cranium, placed on a fence post with a cigarette hanging from his mouth for the amusement of Japanese soldiers. Less revolting but equally disturbing were a pair of massive walls identifying the names of the departed.
As expected, I left the museum depressed about the disturbing history of humanity. I believe people are born inherently good, so it’s hard to cope with the reality of masses of people being consistently led into the absolute depths of evil and madness. I don’t think any Japanese soldiers, Nazi’s, or corporate CEO's were born with a biological thirst for blood, but somewhere along the way they were steered violently in the wrong direction. For all that we claim to be, humans are still a bunch of savage beasts killing each other for reasons unknown to most. I guess it takes more than a memorial museum for people to learn from the mistakes of the past.

To end on a lighter note, I do have tremendous hope for the future. Hope on all levels. Hope that a taco truck will be lurking deep in the jungles of Cambodia. Hope that the world isn’t completely fucked beyond repair. Hope not in an individual, but in the collective power of all the rational, free thinking, peace loving people who are destined to reclaim the throne from those who have abused it for so long.

While exploring my neighboring cities, I've begun to realize the extent to which China now plays a mandatory role in the direction of mankind. With a fifth of the world’s population, the fate of humanity is intimately tied to whatever happens here, for better or worse. So far, I’ve only been to 6 Chinese cities, and their combined population is more than California’s. In each place, my understanding of China, and therefore the world, has been shattered and rebuilt. It's a parallel universe where women in knock off designer jeans walk side by side with monks. Kids who can barely walk have cell phone conversations, while construction crews navigate bamboo scaffolding. In each city, the past and present are strangely interacting on a scale that's too ginormous to explain. With all this change happening for so many people, China has some serious issues that need to be addressed. Most importantly will be how the country can keep its economy growing without continuing to rape the environment, and how many opportunities can be created for some 750 million poor rural peasants, who are supposed to be the beneficiaries of communism. About 1 in 9 people on earth is a Chinese peasant, a population with the potential for revolution on a scale the world has never seen, if they recognize how badly they're being screwed and organize accordingly. For the sake of the world, I'm hopeful that China will somehow be able to resolve these issues peacefully.

In one month, I will be switching careers from professional educator to nomadic vagabond. I'm sure that when 2009 hits, my understanding of China will have transformed several times, and once I hit the road, the transformation will continue. That's pretty much what traveling is all about.

"Find your Feeling."

Given the remarkable regularity of my presence in KTV, an entertaining story was bound to emerge from the neon haze sooner or later. My journey began in a high caliber establishment, complete with artificial gold and marble adornments, and a three person team of KTV employees who cater to your every need, ensuring an abundant flow of liquor and watermelon. Along with a handful of other lao wai’s, I was invited to this elaborate party, hosted by some local Chinese VIP’s. Being a rare commodity in these parts, foreigners often find themselves invited to gatherings full of people they’ve never met, either as a hospitable gesture, or to be paraded around as a status symbol. In this case, it seemed that good old fashioned Chinese hospitality was the only motivating factor.

The host of the function was a local bank president, who was looking distantly at sobriety in his rear view mirror when we arrived. Within an hour, everybody else was headed in the same direction, as the Chinese are not shy about peer pressuring any and everyone into drinking excessive amounts of alcohol at an unreasonable pace. Before the clock strikes ten, Mr. CEO enters a vicious cycle of spilling drinks on the table, laying his head in his wife’s lap, and singing his drunken heart out, in no particular order. As the night finds its way to a close, the crowd gives up on singing and dances to techno instrumentals instead. While feasting on watermelon and duck necks, casually enjoying the show from the comfort of a plush couch, I’m invited onto the makeshift dance floor. The combination of the “When In China, or W.I.C.” philosophy and the open bar, result in the fateful decision to leave the safety of the sofa and hit the Chinese with a sample of life in the Bay Area. To an unlikely soundtrack, with an unusually fast tempo, a brief introduction to hyphy ensues. (The cauldron of emotions inspired by the fact that this word has a wikipedia page could be the topic of a lengthy blog, but back to the story). Soon after this outburst, I’m approached by the youngest member of the party, a high school student named Susan. She insists that I teach her “my moves,” despite my insistence that “moves” are not something I posses in my repertoire. I then proceed to simultaneously instruct her and her father how to do whatever it was that I was doing into some ungodly hour of the night. This all seemed like innocent fun at the time, but I would soon learn that the story was far from over.

The following afternoon, I was awoken on my bamboo mattress by the annoying chirp of my cell phone. In a state of delirium, I flipped it open to find a message from Susan, which read as follows;

“Hi gino- my headmaster (principal) wants me to give a hip hop dance performance at my school. Can you help me? SOS!!”

My initial response is, “Who in their right mind would ask me to do such a thing?” I mentally rewind to the events of the previous evening and realize why such a seemingly random request is being made. My imagination floods my consciousness with nightmarish images of being booed off the stage by an unruly mob of Chinese high school kids. Despite every rational bone in my body attempting to avoid the situation, I agree to participate, not knowing exactly what this will entail.

Following our verbal agreement, a week passes, during which time I assume that she has come to her senses and found someone more qualified for the job, but come Friday she’s eagerly requesting a choreography lesson. Still in disbelief as to how this situation even came about, I agree based on the “W.I.C.” principle, and agree to “help” her. All along, I’m hoping to Buddha that there are no kids at her school who actually know how to dance, otherwise whatever sham of a production I lead her into will be exposed as a fraud.

Our initial practice takes place in her father’s home office, where I struggle to mimic whatever I was doing in the realm of KTV, with its nightclub lighting and free flowing whiskey. Fortunately, I’m informed that my presence will not be requested on stage, and my services are confined to choreography, which it turns out is much more difficult than dancing. The only major progress of day one occurs when I am given free reign to choose the music for the performance. First, I attempt to convince her that she should reenact a routine from the break dancing flick “Breakin and Enterin,” but she specifically says “no popping.” After this dream was shattered, the natural choice was “Tell me when to go.” If you haven’t had the fortune of being exposed to this song or phrase, it’s basically a rhetorical question asking “When should I go (dumb)?,” with the assumed response being immediately. Once the soundtrack is settled, I manage to teach her a few so called moves before her mother makes us dinner, and lesson one is complete.

Another week passes, filled with the same ambivalent feelings as the first, but by Sunday, another meeting is arranged. This time we rendezvous in a place I had previously attempted to avoid at all costs, KFC. So, here I find myself on a Sunday afternoon, surrounded by a group of high school kids in KFC, in China. Luckily practice is destined to be outdoors, so we head to a park overlooking the river that snakes its way though Huzhou. This aquatic thoroughfare is constantly traversed by a barrage of barges, which are either filled to capacity with raw natural materials heading East to Shanghai, or empty and heading West for a refill.

To this backdrop, ‘the crew’ displays their routine, which is in serious need of some polishing. Susan is the only one who knows what she’s doing and puts all the other kids to shame. The remaining misfits look like they’re having trouble just walking in a straight line with their awkward, pubescent coordination. Susan explains, “They don’t know how to find their feeling.” Basically, they’re as stiff as my bamboo mattress and don’t seem intent on breaking out of their current state. An hour passes with “tell me when to go” on repeat, becoming permanently embedded in my psyche, which I’m sure will have some kind of negative impact on my sanity somewhere down the line. By the end of the session they’ve strung together something resembling a routine, but they’re far from being ready to display themselves in front of their peers. Here’s the shui guo (fruit) of their labor at this point.

Unfortunately, this is where the visual evidence of the story terminates. Teaching obligations prevented me from witnessing the final product, but according to Susan, the rest of the group members failed to ever “find their feeling,” which was blatantly obvious to the crowd. Luckily, Susan put on a quality individual performance, which met rave reviews, and the boys didn’t mind being laughed at. They actually requested that the crew stay intact and keep performing, which could one day result in a battle, should another crew spring up from the Huzhou underground and challenge their authority. In the end, despite all the anxiety that was inflicted upon me for being involved in this project, it was satisfying to see Susan succeed in isolation, while attempting to pump some life into the listless limbs of her peers. More than anything this tale is just another indicator of life in China. It is completely unpredictable, which is why you can’t be surprised when you suddenly go from singing love ballads with a bank president to choreographing a hip hop dance routine for a group of high school students. Just another day in tomorrowland.

All Hallows' Eve

For the glorious occasion of "Wan Sheng Jie," my fellow English teachers and I made a triumphant return to the city of the future, Shanghai. To demonstrate my spirit, I paraded around the provincial capital as a thugged out elephant, which was the end product of a late night trip of costume searching desperation to the local supermarket, where I spotted my trunk to be. Greeting my plastic drainage pipe, inside out Cheerio’s box and diamond studded peanut medallion, were a variety of facial expressions ranging from the gleeful amusement of the taxi driver to the sheer terror of an unsuspecting old woman. Despite the mushrooming population of foreigners, Halloween has yet to fully catch on in China, so our unusual attire caused us to command even more attention than usual. Joined by my cohorts, Dexter the scientist, Gwen Stefani, Gem, rock star dude, Mr. Plumage, and 60’s girl, we set about terrorizing the city, and educating the locals about our strange cultural phenomenon.
In the aftermath of the festivities, my weekend was filled with the gluttony that Shanghai inspires in visitors arriving from places lacking culinary diversity (Huzhou). To cap off my visit and walk off the repercussions of some overindulgence at the bakery, I went to the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition Center, which chronicles the rapid accent of a fishing village into a modern, international super city, and optimistically projects its growth into the near future. Besides a fine spread of interesting before and after pictures highlighting the city’s capitalist makeover, the main attraction is a massive scale model of Shanghai, as it is projected to appear in 2020.
I’ve only spent a total of 7 days here, and they’ve all been contained within a pint sized 2 mile radius in the center of this labyrinth. Sprawling in every direction are masses of interchangeable skyscrapers and high rise apartment complexes. The most obvious difference between the present and the proposed future is the massive influx of the color green. Additional exhibits explain many of the strategies that Shanghai will utilize in its attempted greening process, which will be a monumental challenge, as the city continues its constant vertical and horizontal expansion. It’s a good sign that this attempt is being made, but for Shanghai to become more eco-friendly and simultaneously develop as projected seems impossible. Hopefully, for the sake of the world, China can make it happen.

A final noteworthy attraction of the museum is a complex promotional package, aka propaganda, for the 2010 International Expo. The centerpiece is a virtual tour of the city in 2010, when all of the planned facilities will be completed. Patrons huddle in the middle of a 360 degree screen that wraps around the room, blanketing your entire field of vision. The tour simulates flying at dangerously high speeds and low altitudes over the proposed future and is narrated by two overly enthusiastic Chinese children. In addition to the nausea resulting from this combination, just thinking about a future filled with automatically flushing toilets and bluetooth headsets caused the army of egg custard pastries in my stomach to stand at attention. I think I’m finding myself increasingly uncomfortable and ill equipped for life in the digital age.
The take home message of my second visit to Shanghai is that the more I know about the place, the more overwhelming it becomes. Explaining its massive scale is like describing snow to someone who has never been outside of the tropics, but I’ll attempt to do so by drawing a parallel to home. If you're like me, and you sometimes find yourself slightly overwhelmed when navigating through the chaos that can be San Francisco, this may help put things in perspective. Shanghai is roughly 9 times bigger than San Francisco, with TRIPLE the population density. Again, that's 9 times bigger AND 3 times more crowded. At this point, I’m still no closer to comprehending this place, but right now it’s probably one of the most fascinating places to be on earth.

Havings of good times.

When it’s time to unwind and enjoy yourself in China, you will likely be presented with a fork in the road leading in two seemingly opposing directions. Even if there are no legible signs posted, your intuition will inform you that your duo of choices are singing karaoke or drinking tea. Whether you’re in the middle of a crowded downtown intersection, or wandering through a dark alley, you’ll never be far from a KTV (karaoke), or a chaguan (teahouse). The former will be desperately attempting to grab your attention from 5 blocks away with a neon light show engineered to deliver you into a mind altering seizure. The latter will calmly convince you of its worthiness, subtly pulling you in with soothing plants and tranquil fish tanks. The appeal of both venues, different as they may seem, lies in their distinguishing feature; a private room for you and your friends to entertain each other, usually in embarrassing ways that are better kept behind closed doors. Both are available at any desired level of quality, ranging from a soggy couch surrounded by four blank walls, to an elaborately designed suite that could be the set of an extravagant music video.

I would guess that the mutual success of KTV and the chaguan are owed to the traditional structure of the Chinese family. People generally live with their parents until they get married, so there is great appeal in having a private space to escape to. Maybe people are so infatuated with sipping tea and singing love songs that the opportunity to partake in either exists within any 1 block radius, but I think more likely is that they just want to get away from home for a few hours. I’m pretty sure a private room with an etch-a-sketch and a trampoline would be equally successful if marketed properly. I wouldn’t describe singing or drinking 'cha' as my ideal way of spending a Friday night, but in keeping with my pledge to follow through on the philosophy "When in China…," I’ve ended up in both of these settings on a more than a handful of occasions.

It seems that in the domain of KTV, every Chinese person reveals their secret identity as an aspiring vocalist. If you’re one of the unfortunate souls in China who can’t sing, you’ll likely be ostracized by your peers like a Brazilian who doesn’t know how to dance. On the surface, Chinese people may mislead you into assuming that they are reserved, but put a microphone in their hand and display a bootleg music video on a giant projection screen, and you’ll open up the floodgates to some serious outpouring of heart and soul. Since nobody managed to tell me that the Chinese are petitioning the International Olympic Committee to make karaoke an official event at the 2012 Olympics, (Not really, but they do take it very seriously), I managed to embarrass myself, and my country, by my making a complete mockery of every song I attempted to recreate. After butchering such musical masterpieces as ‘Hey Jude,’ and ‘Gangsta’s paradise,’ I witnessed my Chinese counterparts clear their throats and proceed to belt out a variety of ballads, showcasing their extraordinary vocal range. During a KTV birthday party for my assistant, Penny, my American co-stars and I noticed that the majority of the Chinese contingent seemed to flee the room whenever we were singing. This was justified as their being courteous enough to step outside of the room to smoke cigarettes, but I wonder if it was just to escape the ridiculous exhibition that was taking place inside.
My most notable experience at a chaguan took place with a Chinese coworker and her array of acquaintances, who invited Guen and me to join in a game of ‘Mafia,’ which involves imaginary murder.

So the scene is as follows; Guen and I form the southwest boundary of a circle of people who identify themselves by such English names as “Do, Shrek, Spirit hunter, Pear, House, Dream,” and our coworker “Coco.” All told, there are 14 people awkwardly squeezed into a room intended to accommodate 7. Spread before us on an ill-equipped coffee table, are the usual suspects in the world of Chinese snacks, including the typical watermelon, cantaloupe, and cherry tomato trifecta. Smothering almost every other available square inch of the table are sunflower seeds, cold chicken feet, peanuts, and random stringy substances amongst a variety of herbal infusions. In the audible background, Chinese music videos compete with the steady hum of the air conditioner.
For 3 hours, we participate in the psychological warfare that ‘Mafia’ demands, and I manage to learn and forget many new and interesting phrases like “He is the killer because he blinks too much when he talks.” By the time the fifth game comes to a close, the novelty of the situation begins to fade, and I enter a state of wonder as to how this group in their late twenties is still entertained by a game that I use as a reward for my tenth grade students when they’re on good behavior. Particularly intriguing is the absolute absence of alcohol from this gathering, other than the bottle of beer that I’ve smuggled into the premises. People have random, inexplicable outbursts of laughter that might usually be associated with intoxication, but there is nothing but herbal goodness being consumed at this party. Is it the synergy of foliage in hot water and mock violence that inspires such unadulterated amusement, or is it the universal appreciation for quality time spent with friends?

Ni hao lao shi?

The halfway point of my teaching gig is fast approaching, which warrants an update on my trials and tribulations as an educator. I’m starting to adapt to life in the jungle, but it’s not necessarily getting easier. Never have I had a job where success is so intimately tied to preparation. The time I invest in assembling lessons directly correlates to whether or not I can create the illusion that I’m actually an experienced professional.

Also included in this equation is the quality, or lack thereof, of the textbooks I’ve been assigned to teach. The books I use for my 7th to 10th grade students are mostly useful, but the travashamockery of an educational device known as “New Concept English,” which I have been relegated to use with my 6 graders, should be cordially invited to a book burning party. It would be a disgrace even if it was written in the 1950’s, but unfortunately it was published as recently as 1997.

Tucked neatly amongst a surplus of Britishism laden lessons, such as “Sorry, sir” and “What make (car) is it?” are assortments of confusing, annoying, and offensive situations. For example, a few lessons feature an unusually busty French exchange student. I buried my shamed face in chalk encrusted hands on several occasions after subjecting my students to the audio tape featuring Sophie, and her equally ridiculous and inaccurate French accent.

“Ha eeh, mah eeh nay um eez Soh fee. Nigh us to meet yew.”

The list of grievances could proceed indefinitely, but several other egregious offenses come to mind. Actual quotes from the text, which are intended to be repeated by the students, include such gems as “Would you care for some whisky?” “How about a cigarette?” or “Let’s go have a drink. There’s a bar next to the station.” The epitome of the book’s message can be wrapped up in the following example. A lesson about opposites featured various images and captions, such as a dirty mechanic and a clean nurse. Corresponding with an image of a “busy hair dresser,” was a woman kicking back with her feat up, while a mountain of dirty dishes sits idly by the sink in the foreground. The caption is “lazy housewife.”

So, as the semester has progressed, I’ve shifted towards abandoning the book completely and creating my own lessons from scratch, which is far more time consuming, but less conscience crushing. The combination of terrible teaching materials and the inexhaustible energy of 12 year olds, who are trapped in the confines of the classroom from 7am to 7pm, make my 6th grade classes by far the most difficult.

Luckily, this age group has an incredibly long attention span when it comes to hangman. I’ve realized, in the thinking outside of the box which goes along with being in another country, hangman is a really strange and violent game to teach small children. Anyways, they love it, and wouldn’t mind if it consumed every available minute of class time. However, there is a growing league of saboteurs who are intent on seeing the helpless man perish, constantly guessing letters such as z, x, and q, followed by a chorus of giggles from fellow saboteurs when an appendage is added to our sacrificial stick man. So, you can imagine their disappointment when they accidentally succeeded in solving the word “crazy.”
Taming these swarms of “Bebe’s Kids” has taken a toll on my mental stability. Most folks find it hard to imagine me directing the energy of a large group of children, and rightfully so. My usual carefree attitude is incompatible with commanding a mass of ten-second attention spans. I’ve been able to step my game up, but it requires such a departure from my ordinary state of being that it completely drains my energy reserves. I’ve adapted my daily routine by including afternoon naps and occasional meditation to repair the resulting psychological dissonance (I guess that Psychology degree is finally paying off).

These kids do have one redeeming factor, which is the unconditional enthusiasm and adoration they express towards their lao shi. This is most often manifested in the incessant screaming of my name whenever they spot me on campus, which may be the easiest “Where’s Waldo?” the world has ever seen. Sometimes, they show hints of being wiser beyond their years, and they manage to reach me on a deeper level. In the lesson about opposites which featured the lazy housewife, I was able to at least teach them the difference between hot and cold, and clean versus dirty. As the lesson was winding down, I put myself in a vulnerable situation by asking several all or nothing questions, such as, “Am I fat or thin, tall or short, and most importantly, am I young or old?” I wasn’t really concerned about the first two, but given my recent realization about being almost a decade removed from high school, I had doubts about the potential responses to the final question. To my surprise, all 168 of the little ones emphatically agreed that I was young, which resulted in me rewarding them with wild praise and temporarily forgiving them for their past transgressions.

For the most part, my experience with the high school students has been much more relaxing. Despite being prone to dozing off in class, before being violently awoken by my fist against their desk, they become actively engaged when I present them with an interesting lesson. Lively discussions have revolved around such topics as how to meet a girlfriend in America, which was essentially a crash course in terrible pick up lines. These kids are all planning to make it to the U.S., so don’t be surprised or offended if a lightweight Chinese boy approaches you and asks if your feet are tired. If you don’t know the line that follows this question, I would suggest remaining in blissful ignorance.
In a completely unexpected turn of events, I had to break up a full blown fist fight in my 10th grade class. During an otherwise innocent game of poker, there was apparently some instigation going on in Chinese, which ended up spiraling out of control. It took exactly 2 seconds of having my back turned for all hell to effectively break loose. Reacting to the horrified looks on the faces of my other 8 students, I did a one-eighty to find the remaining two in the midst of exchanging some passionate haymakers. In hindsight, I ran a significant risk of getting caught in the crossfire, but I immediately entered the ring and managed to shut down the dueling hormone factories. I thought my reaction was swift, but not before plenty of blood had been shed, and a pair of glasses crushed and tossed out the window. I still haven’t figured out if this event was an indication of the increasing Americanization of China, the behavior of the spoiled little emperor generation, or some other outside force I have yet to comprehend.

My brief halftime conclusion is that everyone should experience being a teacher at some point in life. Standing on “the other side” provides a perspective that’s hard to grasp when your just one of many menacing faces behind a desk. It’s a constant challenge that’s about as comfortable as sleeping standing up, but it’s a guaranteed escape from monotony that provokes constant creativity. There have been rare days I’ve cursed my current profession, along with my present nation of residence, but usually by the time the weekend rolls around I look back at the week in a favorable light. Basically, my experience as a teacher is similar to being a Raiders fan for the last few years. I put up with a lot of bullshit, and constant disorganization, but when even the slightest things go well I celebrate like I’ve won the Super Bowl.

Back in the day...

Since breaking out of the bubble of adolescence and into the collective pool of adulthood, I’ve acquired an increasing hunger for the wisdom of my more youth-impaired acquaintances. My assumptions about people over the age of thirty used to be that their conversations revolve solely around stock prices, arthritis, and nutritional values. Since clearing this mental hurdle I’ve obtained a bounty of valuable information and insight to life, which had previously eluded me. Although there’s times when I miss the feeling of being part of an exclusive mind-state that’s incomprehensible to adults, it’s impossible to turn back now that I know how much they have to offer. I recently had a mind blowing revelation that an entire decade has passed since I was in the identical position as my tenth grade students. My philosophy as a sixteen year old is now so foreign to me that my high school experience may as well have happened here in China. Anyways, I’ll save my viewpoints about my own personal aging process for a later date, but the point here is that as people age, they generally, or hopefully, become wiser and more interesting. This is the model of thinking that recently led me down a historical rabbit hole about a certain tier of the Chinese population.

Like any typical midday Wednesday, I was riding home for lunch on the city bus, staring blankly out of the rickety, blemish infested window. I was snapped out of my teaching induced daze, by a scooter silently blazing through my field of vision. Piloting the vehicle was a trendy looking Chinese kid, engaged in an animated conversation on a cell phone, while maneuvering the handlebars with his free hand. Clutching to his midsection for her dear life was an elderly woman, who I will assume was the kid’s grandmother. For a brief moment, while overtaking the bus, our eyes met, and the look on the woman’s face seemed to echo my exact sentiment of the moment; “China is so confusing.” The look in her gloomy, black eyes conveyed a feeling of being lost in the storm of change that has blanketed China’s recent history. I began to think of the tremendous transformation she's witnessed in her days. As soon as she vanished from my field of vision, my mind departed on a tangent, creating various imaginary biographies of her life leading up to this moment where she made eye contact with a rare lao wai, “foreigner,” on a city bus.

Eventually, I decided her fate as being born in the 1930’s to a large family in a small rural village, while Mao was leading a diminishing group of communist peasants on the long march. Her childhood memories probably consist of various forms of back breaking manual labor interspersed with various wars against outsiders, or between opposing Chinese groups. As a teenager, she witnessed Mao’s rejuvenated group rise to power, proclaiming the Peoples Republic of China. Maybe she met her husband while working in a steel factory, then participated in China's population explosion by birthing a handful of offspring. There’s no doubt she’s endured years of mass starvation, possibly claiming the lives of her own family members. She’s lived through Mao’s death, China’s ensuing economic reforms, the Tiananmen Square massacre, and most recently the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. In her lifetime, she’s seen China go from suffering repeated, embarrassing exploitation at the hands of foreign invaders, to recently surpassing one of those countries, England, as the worlds 4th largest economy. Now she’s riding on an electric scooter, clutching onto a teenager in designer clothes talking on a mobile phone, being observed by a Californian.

Realistically, my language skills won’t allow me to directly obtain the information I would like from this woman's generation, but I cant help but wonder about their interpretation of modern China. I assume they must resent the naiveté that's likely rampant among the younger generations. All of my students were born in the era of China’s meteoric rise on the world stage. Certainly, in those 72 hours of weekly schooling they're indoctrinated with volumes of Chinese history, but if they’re anything like me in high school, they likely fail to grasp their position in the grand scheme of things. The only reality they know first hand is a China where you can buy anything your heart desires, burritos not included, where plasma screens and neon lights cover every available public space, and designer pants flash you the peace sign (see below). They can probably rattle off a list of dynasties and famous battles, but how would they possibly be able to comprehend obtaining food with ration tickets, or any of the other day to day realities of their predecessors?
Some members of the elder echelon of society seem to walk around with a subtle, mischievous smile glued to their face. It’s a look that exudes the advice, “Yeah, life is good now, but don’t get too used to it, or you’ll never be able to survive what I’ve been through.” This portion of the population has an unparalleled perspective of the world after living through the majority of 20th century China. Their world is a vastly different place than it was when they were children, or even compared to when they were 50. It's beyond my own comprehension as to how they're able to adjust to a society that bombards them with bizarre new images and icons, such as the aforementioned peace pants, that inspire feelings of intense confusion that I can only describe as WTF?! Who knows if that old woman on the scooter was even born in China, or what the exact sentiments are of the elderly, but one thing is certain, reality is in constant fluctuation in modern China. It's a frightening prospect, but my students could see more transformation in their lifetimes than was witnessed by their grandparents. Where that will leave China is unknown, but hopefully some wisdom and peace signs will be exchanged in the process.

Hi, Haibo.

After a torrential first four weeks of teaching in China, I was rewarded with an 8 day vacation to commemorate Chinese National Day, the annual celebration of the founding of The Peoples Republic of China on October 1, 1949. To demonstrate my nationalism, I escaped on a two hour bus ride to one of China’s, and therefore the world’s, most rapidly developing cities, Shanghai.

After briefly passing through several random rural enclaves, mountains of concrete began to sprout from the horizon as we approached one of the various satellite neighborhoods that are leeching onto Shanghai for dear life. Supposedly, each month the city expands with an addition the size of Houston, Texas! Before I could ask if we had reached our destination, we were floating through an ocean of air conditioning units, satellite dishes, and BMW’s.

Eerily reminiscent of my entry into Sao Paolo, Brazil, my entire field of vision was blanketed by concrete monstrosities and an army of cranes racing to increase the scope of this modern metropolis. I gazed wide-eyed out of the window like a country bumpkin completing a pilgrimage to the big city for the very first time. For more than thirty minutes we cruised along the elevated expressway past countless, identical apartment buildings, piercing the roof of a surprisingly clear sky. As the bus lurched to a halt, the passengers poured out onto the street, disappearing into the overwhelming anonymity that only a city of 20 million people can provide.

Navigating through the chaos, it didn’t take long for me to sharply revise my perception of China, which had been almost entirely based on life in quiet, little Huzhou. Quickly catching my attention was the existence of multiple foreigners on every block. Doing as the Chinese do, I found myself staring curiously at each one that crossed my path. There are somewhere in the neighborhood of 100,000 foreigners living in Shanghai, and with this large population of foreign appetites comes a vast increase in the diversity of dining venues. Opportunities for culinary indulgence pulled me in every possible direction. My 5 days can mostly be summed up by my meals, which included a Brazilian steakhouse buffet, spaghetti Bolognese, a bacon mushroom burger, iced lattes, and Johnny Walker. Consuming almost anything my heart desired, strolling by Pizza Hut and Prada boutiques on tree lined streets, and hearing an array of non-Chinese languages, all nurtured the strange feeling that I was no longer in China. I could have easily been in any big city in the U.S. or Europe, which was an unusually disappointing feeling. All this points to a peculiar conundrum; Shanghai appears to be China’s least Chinese city, yet it seems to be the embodiment of everything that's currently taking place in this vast land.
Shanghai is developing at a staggering pace with increasing foreign influence, and the results are equally upsetting and amazing. I wonder how it’s possible for such blind expansion to continue without ruthless repercussions down the road, while simultaneously being in awe of the monumental organization and creativity required for such a place to even exist. While wandering the labyrinth of streets and expressways, you can’t help but catch the contagious feeling that you’re undoubtedly located in the center of the known universe.

Through most of China’s history, it has regarded itself as the center of the earth, most evident in its name, Zhongguo, or literally, the middle kingdom. To observe a single serving of this epic history, I paid a visit to the Shanghai museum, which is widely regarded as the best in China, featuring four floors of national artifacts spanning 5 millennia. My visit fell on the first of October, National Day, and as a result, entrance to the museum was free. The price for free admission was waiting in a line that came snaking out of the building and maneuvering myself around the masses once I made it inside. Most impressive was an exhibit of ancient, intricately adorned bronze sculptures. Admiring the exhibited works and contemplating their history provoked many a deep thought, but equally intriguing was observing the ways in which the museum patrons interacted with the exhibit. There's something strangely ironic about flocks of Chinese tourists taking pictures of a 5,000 year old bronze wine vessel with state-of-the-art cell phone cameras.

In retrospect, my time in Shanghai was an eye opening and perplexing introduction to one of the world’s greatest cities. It’s a place in constant motion and transformation where everything is for sale. It’s a poor peasant selling oranges to a Scandinavian tourist, while sharply dressed men abrasively chant, “Rolex, Rolex, Rolex,” in the ear of each male passerby. It’s where western appetites are satiated at unreasonably inflated prices and curious minds are further confused upon departure. Basically, it’s a city, and a country impossibly attempting to meld 5,000 years of continuous civilization and a communist façade with modern capitalistic globalization. Despite the difficulty of this endeavor, along with its center-of-the galaxy aura, Shanghai seems like an incredibly optimistic place.

This feeling is currently being conveyed by Haibo, an apparently friendly, sky blue, cartoon spokesman for the Shanghai 2010 International Expo, aka the world’s fair. Within a 50 mile radius of downtown Shanghai, you’re never likely to be more than 100 yards from some kind of Haibo manifestation, his ever waving hand greeting you at every turn, in preparation for an event that doesn’t begin for another 20 months. The expo is expected to generate over 50 million visitors during its five months of existence, which is impossible to comprehend, based on my experiences in the already overcrowded subway stations, continuously brimming at capacity. I don't doubt that Shanghai will be well prepared for their exhibition to the world in 2010, I just hope by that time I'm able to better comprehend this crazy place.

KFC vs. McDonald's vs The Future

China is currently in the midst of a mushrooming epidemic. KFC has been on the offensive, resulting in a grand total of over 1,000 chains across the land, and a new location emerging every other day. Is this attributable to the perceived Southern hospitality of Colonel Sanders? Is it the universal fascination with the state of Kentucky? Or, is it simply the inevitable result of a nation in love with bones? In case you chose, a or b, allow me to illuminate the situation. To eat a boneless piece of meat in China, is to tailgate a Raiders’ game with caviar and wine coolers, while wearing a Broncos jersey. People will question your integrity, and may even interpret your behavior as an attack on their way of life.

The Chinese logic is that the bone possesses a magnetic pull on all the flavor particles contained in a given piece of meat, and therefore, the concept of a chicken breast is nothing more than a bland abomination. It’s no wonder chicken feet are such a popular dining item, as they contain more bones per square inch than any other part of the body. So, it could be argued that KFC’s Chinese success is due entirely to its wide assortment of bone riddled ji rou (chicken).

Despite the fact that KFC is the fast food of choice, the holy grail of American influence lies below the golden arches in the heart of downtown Huzhou. The lone “Mai Don Lao” seems to be the centerpiece of the city, the capitalist bull’s-eye, located in the exact geographic center of the map. It features two fluorescently lit floors, open 24 hours a day, vigilantly watched over by none other than Ronald himself, whose life-size plastic incarnation occupies a permanent seat on the bench at the entrance. In Ronald’s immediate vicinity, opportunities abound for purchasing whatever random item seems appropriate at the given moment. Peddlers of baby turtles battle for position with puppy pushers, who pack their furry merchandise in cages as tightly as a box of cigarettes. In typical downtown fashion, a great wall of scooters surrounds the perimeter.
As if this setting wasn’t confusing enough already, I was further perplexed by stumbling upon a disgusting display of consumerism, that I will admit was equally entertaining. Like the aftermath of a gruesome car accident, I couldn’t bear to watch, but I couldn’t look away either.

A Mai Don Lao employee, decked out in heels and a mini skirt, cordless microphone in hand, was leading a dozen of Huzhou’s most adorable and impressionable knee-high residents through an aerobic workout. Twenty four bright, eager eyes were glued in an upward gaze, awaiting instruction in an improvisational song and dance routine. Parents, and innocent bystanders like myself observed the proceedings, generously applauding the performers. As the class winded down, the instructor led the lemmings, who had obviously worked up a value meal sized appetite, directly past Ronald’s grinning likeness, into the fluorescent Promised Land. There, they were bombarded by larger than life images of Big Mac’s, which will forever be engrained in their psyche as the happy place where you get to dance and eat hamburgers.

China has opened up the floodgates of western influence, and marketing departments everywhere are salivating at the ocean of opportunity that is business in modern China. Unfortunately, the euthanasia may be ripe for the picking for the sole fact that they’re the 2nd generation of the one child policy.

In my attempts to make small talk with people, I often mistakenly ask if they have any brothers or sisters. The answer to this question is always no for anyone born after China's one child policy was implemented in 1979. This generation has been dubbed 'the little emperors' because they are a mass of supposedly spoiled single children. Many of the people I’ve talked to confirm these allegations, with their personal opinions, but not necessarily their behavior. Those little emperors are now having children of their own, which you could call the little Napoleons. A recent amendment to the policy allows couples to have two children, provided they are both single children. Citing mostly economic reasons, many who have been granted this opportunity are passing it up, keeping the one child family alive for at least one more generation. There will now be only one grandchild for every 4 grandparents. Translation; children who will likely be spoiled beyond Mao’s wildest nightmares, and the guaranteed future propagation of KFC and Mai Don Lao.

Don't believe the hype.

Before departing for China, I had an array of concerns and assumptions about my experience to be. Will I be able to breathe? Do babies come out of the womb clutching a pack of cigarettes? Will I be able to walk down the street without being repeatedly spat upon? Are the Chinese familiar with the concept of waiting in line?

Ive now been in China for just over a month, during which time, Ive had a crash course in Chinese culture and customs, providing me with some initial reactions to my preconceived curiosities. What follows is a variety of experiences and observations that have shaped the foundation of my opinion about those questions.

Also, to cleanse your literary palette, Ive interspersed these little Chinese nuggets with some of the entertaining English phrases that keep popping up on clothing everywhere.

*****

Blue skies have been few and far between in my experience thus far, and by few, I literally mean 2 days. This reality led to me being particularly amused by one of my high school student’s response to the question, “What are your favorite activities?” Among other things, she enjoys “looking at the clear blue sky”. The hue of the heavens navigates strictly on a gray scale, which paints a not so pretty picture when combined with the overwhelming humidity.

The air quality compounds my feeling of being on another planet, like I’m in some kind of black and white amphibious, industrial wonderland where the atmosphere is composed of a milky, grey, gelatinous soup, which you can literally feel yourself moving through. Still, somehow the air isn’t as bad as I had actually anticipated, and for a city of its size in China, Huzhou does have relatively clean air. Things could always be worse; for example, my fate could have led me to be located in Beijing. Supposedly, one day of walking and breathing in the capital is equivalent to smoking 70 cigarettes, which leads me to my next topic.

HAVE
A NIKE
DAY!

Fortunately, Chinese babies do not smoke cigarettes, and neither do most young people. There is actually an age requirement to buy them, which is strictly enforced, or maybe Chinese D.A.R.E. has been on a successful crusade to prevent teenage smoking. Lighting up is still much more prevalent here than in the States, but my over exaggerated expectations haven't even been met halfway. The most noteworthy characteristic of smoking in China are the places where it takes place, which is in every imaginable location. This attitude extends far beyond restaurants and bars, and into the uncharted territory of teachers offices, hospitals, and beyond.
I was contemplating joining a gym for the sole purpose of having a place to run where I could breathe freely and deeply without feeling like I'm inside of a coal mine. This pipe dream quickly evaporated when I found out that Chinese men, from time to time, have been known to enjoy a smoke, in the process of running on the treadmill! I guess life is all about balance. For those Chinese folks over the legal age of 18, there are several key attributes which may be utilized to identify smoking potentiality; if you are a male, over 30, or a construction worker. If you, like most construction workers in China, are a male over 30, you will likely have a cigarette permanently dangling from your lower lip like an extra appendage.

IT'S MY SELF
CAMERA
LOVE

The reality of smoking in China is similar to my interpretation of spitting. Its prevalence has been ludicrously less than I imagined, but its location of occurrence has been it's distinguishing feature. I came in with an irrational fear that I would awaken everyday to the sound of phlegm being cultivated in the throat like an urban rooster’s crow. In reality, my natural alarm clock has been the stampeding of small children, racing towards their congee breakfast (rice porridge). Just as with smoking, I wonder if my arrival came on the heels of a massive countrywide campaign to cut down on the excessive oral removal of the previous day's cigarette remnants.

Among a host of other spitting experiences, the prototype thus far occurred at the Huzhou Police Station, which is where I went to get my residence permit, in case you were wondering. Immediately after turning down the hallway from the main lobby, a senior looking officer emerged from a side room. Before his black boots crossed the threshold of the doorway, a deep, primal sound which I will attempt to transcribe as, HHHUUGGKKT!, emanated from his core, followed by the the transportation of the contents of his mouth onto the tiles of the hallway floor. He casually marched right by me, and in a rare China moment, didn't even do a double take as I walked by.

SUCH A
CRAZY
IDEA!

I have realized an overall pattern, seeping into every aspect of life in China, which relates to a perceived lack of courtesy or patience to the untrained eye. This perception is a simple case of cultural misunderstanding. Chinese people are not intentionally rude or impatient, they just have an unspoken agreement as to how to pursue their desired object or physical space. This rule applies to entering a busy intersection as a driver or a pedestrian. It applies to getting on the bus, boarding a crowded elevator, or checking out of the grocery store.

The universal law of the land is this; whoever can make their way into an unoccupied space first, is entitled to be there. There’s no such concept as cutting someone off because if somebody has enough of a window to squeeze in front of you, then it was there for the taking. In other words, there is no courtesy barrier of personal space. Your personal space extends to the culmination of your hair follicles, then disappears at the border with international waters, where the laws of your home nation no longer apply. Keeping this rule in mind can prevent many feelings of animosity and puzzled amazement and allow you to actually get on to the bus, rather than being passed up by every Chinese person operating under the unspoken agreement.

THE
PARTY'S
OVER!

Buddha transcends space and time.

After a mild night of ganbei and pijiu, I woke up at 7am to join Ring, one of my colleagues in the English department at the high school, for what I assumed would be an ordinary visit to her Buddhist temple. We were chauffeured by her father, and after he accidentally put the car in reverse, causing it to violently lurch forward, Ring explained that he is a "new driver." At this point the non-functional seat belt in the backseat quickly escalated on the scale of significance. Ring’s mother and aunt joined the driver's ed session, and we escaped from the city along a dirt road, which winded up into the mountains through fields of green tea and bamboo trees. Our destination was the elaborately decorated facade of a temple, set amongst bamboo saturated mountains and the cleanest air I have thus far inhaled in China. Ring escorted me on a tour of the interior of the temple, which was a barren concrete wasteland, mostly void of decoration. I would shortly find out why this was the case.

Back outside, I joined in the burning of candles and incense, which Ring convinced me to participate in my saying, “When you are in Rome.” While doing my best to do as the Chinese Buddhists do, a demolition squad began smothering the ground around me with fireworks. I wasted no time in relocating to the safe haven of the nearest shelter, just before the commencement of a 20 minute barrage of thunderous explosions, each one giving off the deafening boom of an M-80. Ring explained that they were welcoming the Buddha, which turned out to be much more literal than I assumed. Through the smoke and over the carnage of the perished fireworks, hordes of people made their way down the mountain, towards a trio of open bed trucks, which contained all of the interior decorations for the temple, including 5 gargantuan Buddha statues. What followed was probably one of the craziest moments I have ever witnessed.

To my surprise, a combination of monks, ordinary men, women and children squeezed up against the truck to have the statues transferred onto their outstretched arms. Caving in to my temptation not to let this moment go undocumented, I captured a quick photo of the operation before filing into the Buddha transportation assembly line. The weight of the statue being transferred onto the backs of a crew of moderately sized humans was met with a chorus of grunts and moans and laughter from the observers. Up the muddy hill we marched, with a grandma to my left and a monk in slippers to my right, and a portable cheering section screaming a combination of directions and encouragements along the way. After navigating around several trees and 3 flights of stairs, we delicately delivered the 800 pound statue of His Holiness to what is hopefully His final resting place inside of the temple.

Once all 5 of the Buddha’s were in place, the congregation paid their respects in a lengthy prayer. What followed was a moment that will likely be recurring throughout my trip. My brain navigated through a whirlwind of emotions, trying to comprehend exactly what was taking place. It was another China moment, one in which I wasn’t sure if I’d traveled;

a) back in time,
b) into the future, or
c) to some alternate universe where past and present have collided with fascinating results.

So, here I am in a bamboo forest, in a mist shrouded Buddhist temple, with a trance inducing soundtrack of slow drums and chanting monks who could have easily stepped out of the 12th century. In this same moment, spread before me are a legion of urban Chinese, kneeling on yellow pleather prayer pads, before 3 giant cellophane wrapped Buddhas, while decked out in the latest knock off Versace, and Dolce & Gabbana. Suddenly, the soothing soundtrack is interrupted by an obnoxious Chinese pop song, delivered via the ring tone of a woman bowing before Buddha with a Loius Vutton bag draped around her shoulder, who removes herself from the ceremony to take the phone call. Where and when in the hell am I?

Shortly after, I’m treated to one of the best meals I’ve had in china, a spread of faux meat dishes over rice. Gathered around me are Ring’s family and several others who all insist on shoveling food into my bowl at a slightly faster pace than I’m able to transfer it into my mouth. Just before my bowl begins to overflow, I insist “Wo bao le,” or, “I’m full,” which I try to reserve for the last possible moment. To avoid any unintentional disrespect, I’ve decided to avoid declining any invitations in China unless they’re completely unreasonable. This strategy has put me on the brink of disaster, as I nearly reached the stage of gluttony that results in returning all of the food I was offered, but it’s also the philosophy that led to me going through with the blind massage, and waking up at 7am on a Saturday morning to experience the moving of the Buddha.