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