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.

"Be careful."

You will be naked and alone in an unfamiliar room where you will be massaged by a blind Chinese man, whose level of visual imparity is questionable. This was one of the various impressions I was given about the famed “Blind Massage.” After arriving in China, I immediately began to investigate where to go for a cheap massage. In case there’s any confusion about a westerner looking for a cheap massage in Asia, I mean the kind that’s needed to repair your body after 30 hours of traveling.
Shortly after beginning my quest, I was informed of the blind massage, preformed by a blind person, whose visual disability supposedly translates into heightened massaging ability. With my current Mandarin deficiency, I have enough trouble ordering meals, so the prospects were slim for finding out exactly what a blind massage would entail. Instead, I had to rely on the well intentioned, but incredibly confusing and conflicting accounts from Chinese English speakers of various skill levels. For example, one of these accounts was described in the opening sentence of this story. So, on the scheduled day of this event, I was ambivalent, to say the least.
We headed out in a party of 3, consisting of El Pro, (aka LP), Guen, (a fellow American English teacher), and Penny, our assistant/ translator/ mandarin instructor. The Americans agreed to wait down the block, while Penny inquired about the actual cost of the massage, versus the foreigner cost we would likely be quoted otherwise. Before parting at the corner, Penny left us with the encouraging last words; “He can see something, so be careful.” This was comprehended as; "He may not be fully blind, so don’t take off your shirt in front of him."
So, we reluctantly enter the premises, where several seemingly visually impaired Chinese people are milling around, and quickly led into a side room with 3 bamboo massage tables. Shortly after, 2 blind Chinese men enter the room, followed by a blind Chinese woman who feels her way towards my table and locates me by palming my scalp. She commences her massage, which initially consists of her rocking my body back and forth across the bamboo mattress. At this point, I begin to wonder if I’ve just become the latest victim of a con that gets pulled on every naive foreigner who comes to China. Eventually, she finds her groove and starts to relax my muscles and my paranoia. The next 40 minutes are the most relaxing I’ve had in China, and she even throws in a few chiropractic maneuvers along the way. When it was all said and done, it wasn't the best massage I’ve ever had, probably not even in the top 50. Still, its something I’m unlikely to forget anytime soon, and a bargain at 35 quai , or about $5.

"You are so very busy."

Now, for the life of a lao shi (teacher). First, let me elaborate on my living conditions. I'm living in what is basically a deluxe dorm room, in the same building as some of my actual students at the Huzhou New Century Foreign Language Primary School. For some background, Chinese people, and Chinese students in particular, work HARD. They go to school from 7am to 7pm, and those whose parents are wealthy enough and/or too busy to take care of them, send them to private schools, such as New Century, where the kids sleep on campus Sunday night through Friday evening.
My "apartment," features a microwave and a mini-fridge for a kitchen, which means that my meals have mostly been in the school cafeteria, which is free, but also free of any variety. The weekly menu is mostly made up of different variations of pork and rice, such as pork nuggets with pig sauce over rice, or rice with pork bits over bacon. Meanwhile, above the service counter, illusory images of fresh fruits and vegetables taunt the diners. Thankfully, one benefit of globalization is that I was able to find peanut butter in the local supermarket, which has helped me coat my stomach for the swine-ification of my diet. My bathroom consists of a squat toilet and a pipe emerging from the wall (the shower), both being contained within a 3' x 3' cell. On the bright side, every time I take a shower, I'm simultaneously cleaning the toilet!
By Chinese standards, my living situation is glamorous for a teacher. The Chinese teachers on campus actually share the same room that I have between two people, only with no computer, T.V., or air conditioning. My initial response to the location of my living quarters was the general awkwardness of living down the hall from my 12 year old pupils. This uneasiness has since come into fruition in the form of door bell ditch, which has conditioned me to never answer the door when I'm not expecting company. The biggest downfall so far is the random stampedes of kids who come barreling down the stairs in various waves between 6-9pm , when they're finally done with their days work. Headphones are able to drown out the noise of these herd migrations, but unable to keep the building from shaking.
I have absolutely no teaching experience, and as previously mentioned, very little formal training. So, you can imagine my response when I found out I would be teaching 225 students per week, in 7 different classes, ranging from grades 6-10. "Bu yao!" My favorite new phrase, which means "I don't want to," and sounds exactly how it looks.
Turns out, the students are mostly ideal language sponges. It's just unfortunate that their energy isn't constantly harnessed for productive learning. At the risk of losing some American masculinity points, I'll go ahead and say that Chinese kids, (before they reach the universal, grunting, indifference to the world age of high school), are adorable. They can then be further broken down into three sub-categories; the shy ones who avoid eye contact and cover their mouths when they speak, the out-going ones who raise their little T-Rex limbs as high as possible in any question answering opportunity, and then the ones who have some kind of energy imbalance and have continual outbursts of screaming and flailing limbs. The most difficult day of my week is Wednesday, when I have to catch the 7am bus to get to the high school, teach 2 classes of tenth grade, followed by one 9th grade class, then take the bus back to the primary school campus where I get to wind down in the afternoon with back to back classes of 42 6th graders, who for lack of a better word, are crazy. Hopefully, teaching 16 year-old's how to ask for directions to the bank, on the same day that I teach 11 year old's how to say "nice to meet you," won't turn me into a schizophrenic. In looking at what you could say is the tin lining of the situation, there's no shortage of enthusiasm in the younger students. A big hit in all of my classes was showing the students pictures of my family and friends, which caused so much commotion that they literally ripped one of the photos while fighting over who could look at it first. (Sorry Mom, it was a picture of you). It's nice that there's never a shortage of volunteers to read out loud in front of the class, but the trade off is that their enthusiasm knows no bounds. They're equally enthusiastic about rolling around on the ground and chest bumping each other whenever its time to stand up for a game of telephone. Contrast this with the tenth graders who would be perfectly content to sleep through every waking minute of the day, and you have a recipe for very difficult lesson planning. Every day when I leave the high school, my colleague, previously mentioned in the ganbei showdown, looks at me with a look of utter despair and says "Oh, you are so very busy," to which I can only nod my head, and say, "Yes, I am."
This is by far the most challenging job I've ever undertaken, and combined with trying to learn functional Mandarin I will be "so very busy" for the remainder of 2008.

Gone bay, bye Joe.

My stay in Dalian ended dramatically, thanks to "ganbei" and baijiu. "Ganbei" is Chinese for "cheers", only it's a much more serious proposition than a toast. When someone salutes you with a full glass and a "ganbei!" you're politely expected to consume the contents of your glass, or risk offending the inviting party. Baijiu is a 120 proof wonder potion that probably has many useful applications other than human consumption. Combine a few ganbeis and biejius and a bastard child of intoxication will soon be birthed. Fortunately, I managed to limit myself mostly to ganbei and pijiu (beer) collisions. Still, it was enough to make for a not so pleasant 800 mile flight South to Huzhou, my home for the next 4 months. Greeting me at my arrival dinner were 4 ganbei trigger happy women, representing my various schools to be. Luckily, this was a putaojiu (wine) party rather than a biejiu party, so I did my best not to offend anyone by participating in every requested ganbei. By the end of the night, I was initiating the ganbeis, to show my respect, and I ended up in a showdown with the lead teacher of the group. She protested that her glass was too full, at which point I offered that she only drink half. After we drank our respective half and full glasses, I overheard one woman whispering to another, "He is true gentleman."
As a disclaimer, I have only experienced a sliver of life in China, so anything I say is not a blanket statement. That being said, nearly every one of my personal daily interactions has been an unorganized, bureaucratic maze of confusion. Chalk some of it up to the language barrier, but I'm starting to get the impression that people are just acclimated to constant chaos. I already have enough examples of head-scratching moments to write volumes, but I'll illustrate my point with one shining specimen. When we arrived in Huzhou, one of my fellow teachers arrived at his assigned apartment and was greeted by an angry Chinese woman who was still living there, while preparing to move all of her worldly possessions down four narrow flights of stairs. The following night we had a gathering at his apartment, which was interrupted by the same angry woman, who burst into his bedroom to grab her bras that were drying in the window, while yelling a continuous chain of what is safe to assume was profanity. We found ourselves congregated in his kitchen, along with the angry woman, the landlady, and the next door neighbor. Since, none of us speak any Putonghua (Mandarin), all we were able to take away from the encounter, through body language, was that the next door neighbor wanted us to give free English lessons to her son, and the furious former tenant would be sharing the apartment with us for the night. The latter did take place, but without any drama, as the landlady seemed to have calmed her down. It seems that there's never any organized plan, and things are expected to haphazardly unfold, somehow for the better. So far, they eventually have, but probably more so than any other place I've been, China requires a sense of humor of epic proportions. To be perfectly clear, these frustrations are more observations of an outsider than complaints. Most of the people I've met have been incredibly helpful, and besides, a few misunderstandings don't even come close to counteracting the thrill of paying 45 cents for a pair of sandals. Not to mention, $5 for a 1 hour full-body massage, to be explained at a later date.
To briefly describe my new home, Huzhou is located in the Northern Zhejiang province, where there are guesstimated to be a total of 30 foreigners, including Mr. Lucky Promise. This means double takes galore, as people take a second or third look, or in most cases just one long continuous stare, at the rare sight of a non-Chinese person cruising down the block. (People are not surprised when I tell them I'm half Chinese, usually pointing to their eyes as the give away. Still, they can't seem to comprehend how I'm unable to speak any Putonghua, as if mastery of the language is built into my DNA, waiting to emerge once I step foot in the homeland.) Anyways, as uncomfortable as the non-stop gawking might sound, people are usually friendly, some bursting into laughter, and others offering up whatever English words they know, usually "hello," or if you're lucky, "I love you." The city has a population of about 1 million, which is small by Chinese standards. It's roughly the physical size of Oakland, but with the feel of a safe small town. One exception to this feeling is the fact that the streets are littered with what I've come to refer to as 'silent assassins', or electric scooters, silently zipping through every available square centimeter of pavement in the city, sidewalks included. Ive already been clipped by the side view mirror of one of these little vehicles of mayhem, and I live in constant fear of having my toes run over with no audible forewarning.
One of the most entertaining aspects of life in China is attempting to make sense of the most random possible combination's of English words and phrases that seem to appear on just about every article of clothing. For example, "Run if you see my gun," "bad boy girls," or my personal favorite, "Too young to be born." I assume the inverse must be true, and clothing in the U.S. with Chinese characters features equally ridiculous combination's of words that just cant be translated correctly. More importantly, I wonder about all those non-Chinese speaking people who get tattoos of Chinese characters, while not being entirely certain of the exact meaning. And you thought that you were showing the world you're a Pisces.

"Janky", for lack of a better word.

Taking off from SFO was like being launched out of a canon, and looking back at the insulated bubble known as "The Bay," in which I had previously resided for the last 2 years. Arriving in China was like being back-handed by Yao Ming, and not knowing whether to be deeply offended or appreciative. My initiation to the motherland occurred in Incheon International Airport in Seoul, South Korea, where I spent 20 hours sleeping on benches and trying to learn 2 months worth of Mandarin. At the ungodly hour of 6:00 AM, I awoke to what sounded like a communist marching band blaring through the loud speakers, followed by the entirely female staff of Asiana Airlines engaging in a collective bow, signaling the opening of the check-in counter. Two hours later, I took my first step onto Chinese soil in the city of Dalian, which is larger than Chicago.
I was whisked away to the office of my teaching company by Ed, the only American employee in the administrative branch of my program. Navigating the streets of downtown Dalian in a jet-lagged stupor is where I received my metaphorical back-hand. The smells and sounds of the street race into your orifices in a competition to see which sense will provoke your legs to move faster towards your destination.
Day two began with what is sure to be the first of many "China Moments," as I was sent to a Chinese hospital to get a health clearance to participate in the teaching program. To ease my worries about going through with the ordeal, Ed explained that Chinese hospitals are "janky, for lack of a better word." Supposedly, I was being sent to the least jankiest hospital in town. Once I arrived at this quality establishment, I underwent a battery of tests, the most notable being my first ever ultrasound. Despite the profound confusion this caused, it's nice to know for sure that I'm not carrying a child.
The same day, I was taken to the local police station to receive a residence permit, as well as the inspiration for the name of this blog's website. To complete my application, the police needed my non-existing Chinese name, so by default, I was given the closest sounding, most prosperous name they could think of, or Ji Nuo, which translates as "Lucky Promise." Please, feel free to make any jokes that this inspires in your imagination.
The majority of my first week was spent training with other equally inexperienced teachers in preparation for a teaching job of monumental proportions, which will be explained later. The take home message from these sessions, which were led by a Canadian named Rick, was along the lines of; "There may be up to fifty kids in each class, and they may consist of students at every possible level on the spectrum of language skills, but relax, and have fun with them!" Week one also contained several seemingly inconsequential, but unbelievably satisfying moments like successfully ordering food in a restaurant that didn't have pictures of the food, and participating in a pick-up game of basketball with 12 year old Chinese kids. Small victories must be celebrated.
Obviously, China is a crowded place, but there is absolutely no way to comprehend the magnitude of this statement until you've been in a Chinese elevator. The typical experience consists of three steps. First, waiting until the mass of people ahead of you gets on an empty elevator, and positioning yourself for the next one that's available. (People's eyes usually gloss over in a fierce, determined stare during this stage.) Then, fighting your way into any available crevice when the doors open, and managing not to get violently slapped by the all-too-qwickly-closing elevator doors. And finally, stopping on literally every single floor between you and your desired destination, as more people attempt to join the party. Adventures arise out of trivial acts, like crossing the street, which is viewed by both Chinese motorists and pedestrians as a real life version of Frogger. So far, China is everything I imagined it might be, unlike anything I have ever experienced, which is exactly what I was looking for. Stay tuned for the life of an Engrish teacher.