art of being up close and personal in Beijing

I guess China really is the most populated country in the world.

I anticipated that before, but honestly, I was unprepared for the masses. For example, Heidi and I decided be foreigners, so we touristed Beijing (Tianamen, Forbidden City). To get the full effect, you must imagine yourself in a crowded platform, everyone pushing and pulling to be first in line to the subway. Not that it matters, because the subway is so full of people, you can't imagine how anyone else could get on.

And then the doors open, immediately the warning bells sound, and you feel a panic about not getting on in time, because Heidi is already on (If you don't have a Heidi, you can substitute a name), and just yesterday you watched the subway doors close with her on one side and you on the other waving good-bye sadly.

Suddenly, you are riding a wave of people that almost lift and propel you inside. You didn't even feel your feet touch the ground. If you are a little shocked and disoriented, and wondering how in the world everyone just fit in, you are in the same subway car as I was. Heidi told me later that a security guard pushed from the back and stuffed the twenty people behind me onto the car. I have never been touched by so many people in my life. Ever.

You think Disneyland in summer is bad? LA on the freeway? Midnight showing for Twilight? Boston on the Fourth of July? I've been stuck in all of those places (minus Twilight), and I am still astounded.

And it really didn't help that our trip was during Moon Festival. In Beijing, there are so many people, that you couldn't possible imagine anyone coming "out of the woodwork," so to speak, but mix in a festival and the crowds grow by fives. Duh, there is going to be traffic.

Actually there was so much traffic, even on the subway, that we missed our train home. Ticket exchange is masses of lines, and since we don't read Chinese characters, we spent hours in the wrong places. Now the only thing I can say in Chinese is "bang bang wo" (Help me) with a pitiful look. They speak exasperated Chinese in return, but the pitiful look gets things done.

I'll give you one sentence of our misfortune: We took the wrong subway exit, We were 9 minutes late to our first train, we stood in the wrong lines, we lost our new ticket, we walked up to policemen and motioned them to talk to our Chinese friends on the phone so we could find a bus, and we were refused rides and help by taxi drivers and security guards because, apparently, we have the leprous disease of too much english, not enough chinese. And we were astonishingly late to work, which is hard to do, since it starts at 6 o'clock at night.

Can you say that in one breath?

And on top of that (please remember that this is about being up close and personal), something is rotten in Beijing, and I couldn't eat anything without severe abdominal pain.   And even though the Olympic subway is new, they only have squatter toilets, much to my horror. So if you are still imagining yourself in the subway, please stop, because you CAN'T imagine the panic I felt when we got lost coming out of the subway and couldn't find the apartment where I knew had a western bathroom.

art of the crazy american

Remember, these stories have been stored up because China hates Google, and I didn't have access:

Since we were anticipating seven hundred students, Heidi brought ten dollars worth of pennies to give away to special people that we met, students and nice people who told us ancient Chinese wisdom and the like. Unfortunately for her, and me, we only have twenty students, and one thousand pennies to unload.

Which brings us to the train. It pulls into the station, I manuever my way through the mass of people down the aisle, when I notice everyone in front of me is looking at me or past me to Heidi, craning their necks, and some stretching out their hands. "Oh, do you want a penny?" She asks, in English, smiling. "It's from America."

"Oh, my gosh, Heidi, it's a penny." I say, facing forward, a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, and I have a thousand of them," she says, still giving everyone a penny. As we pass, more and more people are looking to see what the commotion is about with those crazy Americans. I look back again and see a woman refuse the penny. Heidi places one in her hand anyway.

The crazy American thing is something I really should be getting used to. It's an everyday occurence, largely resulting in not being able to explain normalish things that either Heidi or I do--like drink ice water. The Chinese think that's bad for your health. When I was sick last week, the Chinese receptionist, Carrie, told me that I need to drink more hot water. I can't think of anything more disgusting to drink. Especially when it tastes like dirt.

Something else that I'm sure has confused them, is when I try to be friendly and carry on certain conversations that should have been left alone. Like when they ask me if I've eaten dinner. Up until YESTERDAY, I've taken that literally. The conversations have all gone like this:

Crazy American:  Ni Hao (hello)
Chinese Man:  Have you eaten dinner?
Crazy American gets confused look on her face:  Yes. I had a potato....with some green beans.

Pause

Crazy American, very politely:  What did you have for dinner?
Chinese Man has really confused look on his face. Then he turns away.


I believe this conversation has happened around ten times since coming to China. Here are my thoughts each time:

Have I eaten dinner? That's a weird question. What time is it? It's eight thirty at night. I know these people are protective, but you'd think that I would know what time to eat dinner. Just because I can't speak the language doesn't mean I'm 10 years old.  Maybe he hasn't eaten dinner. Oh, maybe he's asking to see if he can take the American teachers out to some new Chinese food.  Oh...nope. That's not it.

End quote.

I learned yesterday that "Have you eaten dinner?" with all it's forms actually means, "What's up" or "How was your day?" and the correct response is not to ask them what food they ate that night, but say the equivalent of "Hey, how are you" back.

Oh.

Technically, I can blame everything I do that's weird on being a crazy American. So when we break all our eggs in the shopping basket by accidentaly dumping waterbottles in on top of them, we can say that we do that kind of thing in America all the time. Or when we blow the breaker in our apartment by having too many appliances on. Or when I want to wear black pants with a brown shirt and light blue shoes--I can do all that (and more) because I. am. crazy.

the art of chinese speaking

Here's an adventure about when I was a teacher in China; It would have gone on this blog earlier, but Google and China are not friends:

At KFC, they know to bring out the picture menu. Once, I tried a new phrase: "how much" that sounds like "dua shaou," and I was excited when they understand me enough to respond in chinese about how much things cost, but then I remembered that I didn't understand anything else and panicked. I just handed them the money that I think covered my bill.

The progress on learning Chinese is slow. I imagine that since I'm fluent in Human, I can understand what they should be asking me-where are you from, why are you here. I can't answer back at all, which is frustrating. Heidi just decided to answer back in English the questions she thinks they say; she did that on the train with four ladies who thought that if they just repeated everything slower we would understand. So they were speaking in Chinese and she responded in English, and I was torn  between embarrassment and laughing hysterically. I'm sure they thought we were crazy, but they still loved us, which was the amazing part.

I was surprised when they opened my hand and slapped a flour tortilla in it. I was also kind of excited, because I was imagining tacos, and then they slapped a fried fish in it and I got a little nervous. My survival mode kicked in, just like I was on a mission and eating something less than desirable. All the fish was missing was it's head. I tried to tell them in Chinese that I didn't want it (bu Yao), but they got conveniently deaf to some of the only Chinese I know. Then they gave us some more unidentifiable green stuff, and then part of chicken. I ate it like a foreigner, picking out everything I couldn't handle, but eating most of it. Heidi actually received applause (APPLAUSE!) when she just rolled it up together to eat it, just like them, but she told me after that she almost threw up twice. I was a lot better. You know, the fish wasn't all that bad...I think I handled it pretty well. And maybe I deserve applause.

They were so nice though; they kept snapping pictures with us. I really should put some make-up on because my face is all over China now. They gave us their phone number. (I guess they didn't pick up on the fact that I don't speak Chinese.) We also gave them Idaho pins. Idaho is rapidly becoming the most well known state in China.

And then, as we were leaving, Heidi noticed one of them had a cute knit drawstring purse. She told the lady she liked it, and to our horror, the woman emptied it out and gave it to her!! We tried and tried to give it back, but of course we left the train in embarrassed possession of the bag. I am a little grateful for the example. I shouldn't have the mindset that all my possessions are to be held on to for dear life, I guess. As we were exiting the train station, Heidi commented on how cute the girl's pants were in front of us.

"Well, don't tell her!" I replied.

We took ourselves to a Chinese place for real chinese food called Mr. Lee. The waitress saw we were American and came to help us read the menu. She and Heidi acted out the pictures; Heidi made a snorting sound for pig because the waitress forgot the word in English. She told us she wanted to be our friend and got our cell phone numbers. We were very popular.

Later another university student came by to help us read the menu as well; she was studying English. Students here like to practice on us. I try not to feel too cynical about being used.

 One of the receptionists at my school asked me if I had had some Chinese food, and I was really proud of Mr. Lee. She wrinkled her nose and said that was fake Chinese food "almost real," which burst my bubble. It also disconerned me, because I had a bit of a hard time enjoying what I ordered.

Speaking of Chinese, it looks like my Spanish is kicking in. If at any time I have a hard time  communicaing (frequently) or my charades act doesn't work out, my brain starts switching over to the only other programmed language in there--Espanol. So sometimes there are accidents. Like when I said "Adios" to the bewildered shopkeeper and waved goodbye. Now they just think I'm making things up.

the art of eRATication

I'm a modern gal, born and bred for these modern times. And I've been on my own, little town girl in the great big city and all. I've proven to the universe and anyone watching that I will do what needs to be done, when I need to.

But that doesn't stop me from playing the gender role trump when there is a rat in the house.

In my opinion, if there is a man available, including and not limited to the guy next door who once helped push my car out of a snow drift, that man should seriously consider the possiblility that rat eradication is his God-given role. (Now, in my neighbor's defense, how is he to know that the bloodcurdling, three octave screetches coming from next door were his cue to come rescue me from the rodents in our house? I probably wasn't screaming loud enough.)

So I shut rat in the kitchen drawer and raced to get into position holding the broom high in the air, and thought, what am I doing? Am I actually going to hit it? I would probably miss, or worse, strike it down and guts would get all over. Plus, part of me thought it was kind of cute....and disgusting....but what if I missed, and it decided to come after me and I kept swinging and accidentally knocked noodles off shelves, while the rat clutched on to my pant leg and started climbing--

I could feel myself weakening. Was I supposed to wait until my father and brother came home from work? What do you do, call a specialist? What would they do? Is there a procedure for this kind of thing? I wish someone would just come home and deal with this!!

I had (legitimately) other errands, so when I returned my brother and dad were already on rat patrol, bless them. I have been grateful for males before, but I believe this instance was in my top ten.

"Get out of the doorway," my brother hissed. "We are trying to chase it out!"

So we moved the table and all the chairs and pulled up the area rugs to makeshift a wall, the rat rustling behind the shelves, running up the curtains, and behind another set of cabinets.

In the end, it was a group victory. Of course, my dad and brother get all the bravery points, but in this case, I was content to be a coward. We looked like a band of villagers holding pitchforks and shovels, brooms, and Tupperware lids. We chased the (poor) thing out into the open and blocked his way until he found the open door and ran out into the wide, wide world.

"What was that?" we asked each other. We had seen its tail, and its tail was furry.  Was that a squirrel?? I can't believe we would terrorize a cute little squirrel.

"It's not a squirrel," my sister announced from the computer. "It is a bushy-tailed wood rat. And I hope it didn't have any babies, because it will try to get back in."

To which my brother ran after it, yelling and holding the shovel above his head. Take that, rat.

the art of juggling

“It’s easy!” B says, miming a juggler, “you just throw the ball up and when it comes and hits its apaje, you throw another!”

Its what? I raise my eyebrows. “Apaje!” He eyes follow the balls that he has mentally created (and apparently hallucinated) into thin air, “It’s a French word.”

Why didn’t you just say ‘apex’? As I wonder if his French is influenced by being raised in Canada, he continues, “Get me three identical objects.” I contemplated handing him three DVD cases, but someone else handed him the miniature oranges, the kind that come in the huge cardboard box.

“Don’t look at your hands, just the balls in the air.” He tosses an orange slowly in one hand, over and over. “Use muscle memory for the timing. At the apex, do something else with your other hand.” He then snaps his fingers when the orange reaches the top. Toss, snap, toss, snap, again and again.

I am kind of sad that he replaced his invisible balls with tangible tangerines. Because though juggling is an accepted metaphor for life—“dropping the ball” and all that— I think about how his hallucinated juggle session was a much better reflection on me and my experiences. In the end, all my stresses and pressures have been made up by me. And, since my worries are usually self-imposed, I should not care so much when, inevitably, I drop a ball.

For this metaphor to work, I quote Mr. Finnigan, the one with The Joy of Juggling: “A drop is a sign of progress, and everyone learns to juggle, drop by drop.”

Heck, I could even turn by life/juggling into a comedy routine. When something doesn’t quite go my way I can make up excuses for my juggling errors.

Me: Welcome to my juggling act. See my amazing dexterity as I…ooph. Well, we’ll just chalk that up to a sudden burst of gravity. I get three tries for the hard ones. Ok, here we go again…

art of decking the halls/building

When my boss hinted that if I wanted I could hang up Christmas lights on our building, I thought, yeah RIGHT. Maybe if you pay me triple—even then, I’d only consider it.

My internal dialog dubbed over his explanations; his mouth formed: "extension cords," "ladders," and "climb on roof," "blah blah," as my mind acknowledged that there was no way was I even doing this. I wasn't hanging lights outside, or using a rickety ladder—I’ve never even used a ladder before. I was not the person for the job.

“You’ve never used a ladder?” my mother later laughed, in disbelief. I noted that she didn’t give me any helpful advice, or stern warnings for the morrow, and talking to her made me realize that somehow, I was suddenly.... doing it.

My boss must have mind-controlled me, and by holly, I was now Decorator-in-Charge.


I was a little nervous. Are ladders even safe? I had only experienced ladders in Calculus and other math problems. Ladders in math problems tend to dump people/things off of them at calculable velocities and distances. So how was this going to turn out?

But then, there I was--I examined the situation, the ground space and existing shrubbery, the roof where I would lean my ladder, the lumber yard full of gawkers across the street...

NO--Focus.
Switch mind off. Side jump up porch railing to ladder over shrub. Tunnel vision. Don't look down. Don't look at the view. Don't listen to cars driving past. Grab wire, pop in hooks.

Done with Side One. I climbed down.

And realized that my ladder was stuck in the bushes. Stupid, stupid bushes.

If any of those lumber yard gawkers were asking themselves why I was taking so darn long, and why I was yelling, they might have considered HELPING ME, which is something I actually screamed at them (in my mind) in one of my more frustrated moments. They were probably just taking bets at when I was going to break my leg.

Here is some ladder etiquette that I breached:

Don’t drop ladder---NO check

Don’t put ladder upside down— no check (my boss casually mentioned the ladder feet as I was positioning it. "Oh, yeah. Of course," I said--as I was thinking, ladder feet?)

Don’t walk under ladder—no check. 7 more years bad luck. I'll probably be single until I'm 35 for that one.

Don’t place ladder on top of shrubbery for a better position—no check....again. Hopefully my boss doesn't notice certain damage until spring.

And I have some pretty serious questions for ladder professionals and maybe physicists:

1) Haven't we invented some sort of arm extension with pincher on the end yet? Useful, I would think.

2) Why is it that when you stretch with one hand extended it is longer than the two handed stretch? The two handed stretch makes more sense, as there are two hands to help with the work; the one handed stretch, while longer in length, takes longer in time, because only one hand is fumbling around. It is mind boggling.

So, can you show me how to do that? No, please--no more ladders, no more lights. Wake me up in January.

art of being a jaded old hag

Jaded Old Hag--a nickname thought up by educated college roommates who tired of basing their life happiness on boyfriends. I stumbled into the association one day after an eloquent tirade on dating and was inducted as a JOHer in the twinkle of an eye.

What followed was a flurry of parties, movie nights, cackles, and the occasional night on the town that only a group of girls can do. I love being a JOH so much that I have vowed to be one my whole life--even after I marry and have kids. Watch out world.

For the record--a "jaded old hag" is not a "bitter bleepy witch."

"Jaded" is synonymous with being Freed--freed from pressure, hope, and from some conventions, and from unrealistic expectations--usually freed by a healthy sense of Irony, given through experience.

When your helium-balloon-hopes loudly pop! on life's power lines, being jaded means you laugh at the noise instead of being startled into crying (and you collect on the betting pool you had going on the side.)

"Old" and "hag"--those are mostly relative terms--a young girl can slip past JOH security if she demonstrates a correct form of jadedness. Though, for her safety, her membership is merely Honorary.

In other news, I invited a girl of sufficient age to hang out with the JOHers,because she seemed smart enough to appreciate reality, but she reprovingly responded, "I am NOT old!"

And I kicked her out before she got in.

Sometimes it's hard not to be jealous of girls who have no reason to be jaded. This girl looked like a cross between Pocahontas and a ballerina. And she's bubbly. Basically, she's a bodacious babe. I recently went to a dance with her and forgot that jaded means that I shouldn't care that boys flock to the Poc-allerinas of the world. To compensate for being ignored, I danced like a crazy and carefree windmill, and sometimes like a shopping cart. I couldn't decide if I was trying to attract attention, or was just flailing my arms defiantly at the universe.

Take that, universe! I'm jaded and I just don't care! Although, two days later, my knees still kind of hurt from dancing so hardcore. Not that it means anything.