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.