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