Tai Shan is one of the holy mountains in China that has been thoroughly commercially exploited by the Chinese government for its holiness. It's outside of the city, so I figured it would be a good place to go relax for a bit. Of course I didn't figure that I would do so much walking in Qingdao (8 hours straight, then 2 more after that on the first day, similar figures the second day) that I would injure the arch of my foot the day before climbing the thing. This resulted in me limping up to the entrance to the mountain trail while Chinese people looked on skeptically. Imagine Verbal Kint showing up in Chinatown with a big backpack and beanie, except before he turned back into Keyser Soze, and that was pretty much me.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I managed to make it up to the top of the mountain, where I stayed the night in the hopes of seeing the sunrise the next morning. Here's a rundown of what happened the second day when I woke up at the top of the mountain, in running diary format as usual:
5:45 I wake up and get my things to head outside. The hotel keeper has told me that sunrise is at 6:30.
6:20 I arrive at the spot from which I'm going to view the sunrise. There is some light on the horizon, so I think it might be soon.
6:35 More light, but no sunrise.
6:50 Seriously, this is the longest sunrise ever. Also, I'm at the top of a mountain in winter, so my fingers are numb.
7:20 An hour after I got to the spot, the sun rises. Halfway though, I walk out in protest. Has anyone every officially protested the rising of the sun? I don't know, but I did.
8:45 On my way down, a Chinese guy tries to tell me to hop down the stairs of the mountain to go faster. Thanks, buddy. If I could move at more than a slow shuffle, I probably would.
9:15 I get to the place where there is supposedly another trail that splits off to the west. I can see it. It's on the map. However, there seems to be no way to actually get there. What am I supposed to do? Will myself over there? Hop on my hoverboard? Are they selling magic carpets somewhere?
10:00 My magic carpet stalls mid-flight, so I give up and go back down the way I came up.
10:20 I'm almost down when a couple of Chinese teenagers ask me to take a picture with them. I agree, not knowing that there are about 25 more waiting in photo-op ambush somewhere. I don't know why they ask, since I'm wearing a massive backpack, limping, and clearly look like I spent the night at the top of the mountain. I soon find myself surrounded by a horde of Chinese teenagers wanting to take a picture with Quasimodo. Such is the price of a white face.
11:25 I arrive at a cafe, announcing that I'm the only one eating. I always hate doing this because there's some kind of stigma against eating alone here. There's no stigma against spitting on the floor indoors or taking a leak in public, but there's a stigma against eating alone. I always get this look from the waitress that says: “Eating alone are we? Well, come right this way, I have a table just for you. We usually feed the cockroaches back here, but it should do just fine for you.” Geez.
11:30 I end up at a cafe back in town where I inadvertently order pork fat or cartilage or something else in the not-really-meat-but-eaten-like-meat-in-China category.
1:30 After I catch the waitresses trading one of those, “Is he going to leave or are we going to have to ask him” looks, I leave the cafe and catch the train. I leave smelling like raging sweat and stale anger.
8:30ish I arrive back at the train station and retrieve my deodorant. Then, smelling only like stale anger, I shuffle home.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Trip to Qingdao: The Amble
The actual time I spent in Qingdao wasn't too memorable. For those not in the know, Qingdao is the city where Tsingtao beer was originally brewed. There's a different spelling because the phonetic systems used to express the Chinese language in English have been changed about 543.6 times. It was occupied by the Germans at some point, who gave it streets, electricity, a sewer system, and a safe drinking water supply (according to Wikipedia anyway), not to mention the brewery. This was all before the Germans realized that they had absoutely no business running a colony in China and coughed it up. If you ask me, they left it better than they found it, but say that to a Chinese person and the threat level measuring the odds of your being hit upside the head with a wok changes from a rosy orange to more of a menacing magenta.
Anyway, history aside, the city is a pleasant enough place to walk around. I would say that I spent the majority of my time there walking, actually. The best place I went was the Naval Musuem, which had an old Chinese sub and several ships. The highlights:
One of the boats bore marks from an engagement with the KMT (phonetics strike again!), in which it broke through a line somewhere, “leaving the GMD boats at a loss what to do,” according to the inscription. Judging by the number of rounds the boat took (more than 100), the GMD boats didn't seem to have had too much trouble figuring out what to do after all.
The other highlight of the Naval Museum involved a plane that was manufactured, “in the Soviet Union” that still very clearly had “US Air Force” on its side. It was thinly repainted by workers who were apparently not familiar with the purpose of repainting the plane in the first place.
I also got to walk by a bunch of old ordnance including mines and torpedoes. I hoped that they had all been defused, but I began to have my doubts when one of the workers walked by me kicking a “used” pressurized gas tank along the cobblestones. I think I tripped over my dignity on my way to the back side of the nearest solid object.
Possibly the best part was the unusually large number of Chinglish signs dotting the museum. My favorites by far were the “No Striding” signs. Guess I'll have to restrict myself to an “amble,” a “shuffle,” or perhaps a “mosey” as I peruse the various curiosities of the Naval Museum.
My other experiences in Qingdao mostly involved me looking for places that I couldn't find. I looked for the Qingdao Museum for a while and couldn't find the place, so I had to settle for the Qingdao Art Museum. Most of the paintings looked like they had been started with great detail, but that the painter had gotten lazy at the end and sort of splashed a bunch of vaguely appropriate-looking colors in the corners to finish them. I was not amused. On the other hand, I don't exactly have a discerning eye when it comes to art. I'm one of those classless slobs that walks into the museum, looks at one of the pieces of abstract art and scoffs, “That's just a streak on a white canvas! The artist probably spilled his coffee on the thing, missed his deadline, and handed it in like that. I could have done that!” This is why I don't really go to art museums any more... or ever really went in the first place.
Oh, and two different taxi drivers cheated me out of money. “Irate” doesn't really do justice to my mood at the time. It was one step above, “screaming at the taxi driver in Chinese” and about two steps from “violent.” The third taxi driver looked genuinely alarmed when I got in his taxi, probably due to the topographical map standing out on my forehead. However, I decided that it would be a good idea to say where I needed to go instead of, “Hulk smash!” which was much closer to what was really going through my head at the time. I'm officially changing China's subtitle to: Land of Rice, Girls Who Look 5-10 Years Younger Than They Really Are, and Frustration that Leads to Becoming the Incredible Hulk. Unfortunately, while it would be fun to take on thieving taxi drivers, sluggish supermarket shoppers, and the Chinese military as a big green monster, I'd rather not end up on the side of a Chinese road with my thumb out while sad music plays in the background.
I'd be run over by a bus in about three seconds.
Anyway, history aside, the city is a pleasant enough place to walk around. I would say that I spent the majority of my time there walking, actually. The best place I went was the Naval Musuem, which had an old Chinese sub and several ships. The highlights:
One of the boats bore marks from an engagement with the KMT (phonetics strike again!), in which it broke through a line somewhere, “leaving the GMD boats at a loss what to do,” according to the inscription. Judging by the number of rounds the boat took (more than 100), the GMD boats didn't seem to have had too much trouble figuring out what to do after all.
The other highlight of the Naval Museum involved a plane that was manufactured, “in the Soviet Union” that still very clearly had “US Air Force” on its side. It was thinly repainted by workers who were apparently not familiar with the purpose of repainting the plane in the first place.
I also got to walk by a bunch of old ordnance including mines and torpedoes. I hoped that they had all been defused, but I began to have my doubts when one of the workers walked by me kicking a “used” pressurized gas tank along the cobblestones. I think I tripped over my dignity on my way to the back side of the nearest solid object.
Possibly the best part was the unusually large number of Chinglish signs dotting the museum. My favorites by far were the “No Striding” signs. Guess I'll have to restrict myself to an “amble,” a “shuffle,” or perhaps a “mosey” as I peruse the various curiosities of the Naval Museum.
My other experiences in Qingdao mostly involved me looking for places that I couldn't find. I looked for the Qingdao Museum for a while and couldn't find the place, so I had to settle for the Qingdao Art Museum. Most of the paintings looked like they had been started with great detail, but that the painter had gotten lazy at the end and sort of splashed a bunch of vaguely appropriate-looking colors in the corners to finish them. I was not amused. On the other hand, I don't exactly have a discerning eye when it comes to art. I'm one of those classless slobs that walks into the museum, looks at one of the pieces of abstract art and scoffs, “That's just a streak on a white canvas! The artist probably spilled his coffee on the thing, missed his deadline, and handed it in like that. I could have done that!” This is why I don't really go to art museums any more... or ever really went in the first place.
Oh, and two different taxi drivers cheated me out of money. “Irate” doesn't really do justice to my mood at the time. It was one step above, “screaming at the taxi driver in Chinese” and about two steps from “violent.” The third taxi driver looked genuinely alarmed when I got in his taxi, probably due to the topographical map standing out on my forehead. However, I decided that it would be a good idea to say where I needed to go instead of, “Hulk smash!” which was much closer to what was really going through my head at the time. I'm officially changing China's subtitle to: Land of Rice, Girls Who Look 5-10 Years Younger Than They Really Are, and Frustration that Leads to Becoming the Incredible Hulk. Unfortunately, while it would be fun to take on thieving taxi drivers, sluggish supermarket shoppers, and the Chinese military as a big green monster, I'd rather not end up on the side of a Chinese road with my thumb out while sad music plays in the background.
I'd be run over by a bus in about three seconds.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A Trip to Qingdao: Preamble
8:20 Sunday evening: After having all day to get to the bus station, I arrive with a few minutes to spare. I am informed that I am not allowed to bring my bottle of deodorant on the bus because it's flammable. After arguing with the guard for a while, I start to feel a little flammable myself, but I let it go. Bad news for anyone who has to travel in the same vicinity as me for the next four days, though.
8:30 I board the bus. A movie starts.
9:00 The lights go out.
9:30 The movie goes out.
9:35 The inevitable snoring starts. However, this isn't just regular loud snoring. This dude seems to have every nasal deviation possible. He's snoring through his nose, mouth, throat, and possibly ears.
10:30 I have almost grown accustomed to the snoring.
10:31 The snoring changes rhythm and, sickeningly, form. Now it involves a puddle (blob? stream?) of phlegm that vibrates with a wet sound at every breath. It was, I assure you, every bit as disgusting as it sounds.
11:00 Someone Everyone has finally gotten tired of listening to this guy and after plenty of “humphing,” loud coughing, and possibly a flying ashtray, the snoring has mercifully stopped.
11:15 I begin to get drowsy, so I take out my contacts and go to the bathroom.
11:20 Now I can't sleep.
2:00 Finally, having exhausted every line of thought possible, my brain gets tired of mentally flogging me and I drift off.
4:50 We arrive in Qingdao.
4:50:30 Every Chinese person is off the bus. How they woke up from a sound sleep, got all their belongings together and got off the bus so fast, I will never know.
4:52 Still groggy, I finally get off the bus. The driver looks like he wants to punch me.
5:40 I arrive at my hostel after passing it twice. Apparently I didn't notice the “youth hostel” in small print on a huge sign for a cafe/lounge. On the other hand, I spent 30 minutes looking for 61 Jining Lu when I was supposed to be looking for 31 Jining Lu. Stupidity always seems to rear its ugly head in the worst situations.
6:00 I collapse in bed and try to think of beautiful Bavarian barmaids serving me cold beer. Instead, my last thought before going to sleep is, “Crap, I forgot my cell phone charger.”
8:30 I board the bus. A movie starts.
9:00 The lights go out.
9:30 The movie goes out.
9:35 The inevitable snoring starts. However, this isn't just regular loud snoring. This dude seems to have every nasal deviation possible. He's snoring through his nose, mouth, throat, and possibly ears.
10:30 I have almost grown accustomed to the snoring.
10:31 The snoring changes rhythm and, sickeningly, form. Now it involves a puddle (blob? stream?) of phlegm that vibrates with a wet sound at every breath. It was, I assure you, every bit as disgusting as it sounds.
11:00 Someone Everyone has finally gotten tired of listening to this guy and after plenty of “humphing,” loud coughing, and possibly a flying ashtray, the snoring has mercifully stopped.
11:15 I begin to get drowsy, so I take out my contacts and go to the bathroom.
11:20 Now I can't sleep.
2:00 Finally, having exhausted every line of thought possible, my brain gets tired of mentally flogging me and I drift off.
4:50 We arrive in Qingdao.
4:50:30 Every Chinese person is off the bus. How they woke up from a sound sleep, got all their belongings together and got off the bus so fast, I will never know.
4:52 Still groggy, I finally get off the bus. The driver looks like he wants to punch me.
5:40 I arrive at my hostel after passing it twice. Apparently I didn't notice the “youth hostel” in small print on a huge sign for a cafe/lounge. On the other hand, I spent 30 minutes looking for 61 Jining Lu when I was supposed to be looking for 31 Jining Lu. Stupidity always seems to rear its ugly head in the worst situations.
6:00 I collapse in bed and try to think of beautiful Bavarian barmaids serving me cold beer. Instead, my last thought before going to sleep is, “Crap, I forgot my cell phone charger.”
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Quantum Physics, Roald Dahl, and the Trade Deficit
Pop quiz: You're standing in a place so crowded that the handle of the umbrella held by the girl next to you has actually fused with your L4 and L5 vertebrae and the person on the other side of you has skillfully managed to pinpoint your floating rib with their elbow. Suddenly everyone lurches forward, though 'forward' for everyone else seems to be directly at you. Where are you?
A Chinese bus, obviously.
At least it should be obvious if you followed the clues from the introduction and you've seen the movie Speed. Maybe you haven't seen the movie, but Chinese bus drivers definitely have. The only difference (aside from the distinct lack of morons with shaved heads hanging out of the bus and desperately trying to emote after losing Jeff Daniels) is that the drivers have absolutely no qualms about bringing the bus to a complete stop from an initial speed of about 60mph in about 1.8 seconds. How they accomplish this feat is beyond me.
The reasons for these stoppages naturally range from strange to idiotic, but never even veer close to reasonable. A little old lady is crossing during a walk signal with 18 bags of groceries and a newborn puppy? She'd better keep her wits about her lest she end up traveling the next 50 feet adorning the side view mirror of a bus. A taxi is switching lanes away from the bus to escape to a safe distance? Better hit the emergency brake for this one; not sure we can stop in time before we hit... the open lane stretching before us. It always amazes me when I see a bus blast its way through a crowded intersection and not come out with hapless pedestrians and bike riders flapping against the side like so many Christmas ornaments.
It took me a while to groggily realize that my chances of sustaining massive head trauma are probably greater on the bus than on the football field or while sparring for martial arts. At least I'm expecting those impacts. I remember looking up after a few incidents where my head slammed into the metal handrails with a force normally reserved for action movies or slapstick comedy to find absolutely nothing threatening within eyesight. Of course it's not just your head you have to watch out for when holding on for dear life during one of these G-force tests. Many of the elderly simply don't have the arm strength to maintain their (probably already precarious) positions, transforming them into a kind of geriatric missile aimed for my sternum.
When not finding some way to injure or annoy me, the passengers on the bus pull a trick that I will never be able to explain or duplicate. Being enclosed spaces located in China, buses are frequently the site of physics experiments involving how much of the available volume of the bus can actually be occupied by living, breathing flesh. The bus will often pull up to a stop and a load of people will get on, apparently packing the bus to capacity. I mean, you couldn't fit a dumpling into the space between any two people.
The bus then merrily pulls out in front of a dump truck and two taxis and makes its way to the next stop, where more people get on. Not having seen anyone exit, I look around, my mind thoroughly boggled by this phenomenon. A second ago, I had to bench press two peasants just to breathe, yet somehow ten people just boarded the bus loaded down with bags of rice, four children, and a futon. How is this physically possible? Did some of the people spontaneously accelerate to the speed of light squared and simply become energy? If so, I'm pretty impressed. I mean, what are the other explanations? Were they unplugged from the Matrix to avoid overloading the system? Is there a trap door under the bus that I don't know about? I feel like this has to involve quantum physics in some way or other. Were they simultaneously on the bus and not on the bus at the same time? Somebody get me Schrodinger's cat.
Maybe this is finally the answer to the question of how China manages to export so much stuff to America every year. It's all placed on one container ship, which is then unloaded non-stop for literally an entire year by baffled, yet unquestioning dockworkers. Is there a Chinese Willy Wonka involved in all this? Are the dockworkers really Oompah Loompahs? What the heck is going on here?!
Any proposed solutions are welcome...
A Chinese bus, obviously.
At least it should be obvious if you followed the clues from the introduction and you've seen the movie Speed. Maybe you haven't seen the movie, but Chinese bus drivers definitely have. The only difference (aside from the distinct lack of morons with shaved heads hanging out of the bus and desperately trying to emote after losing Jeff Daniels) is that the drivers have absolutely no qualms about bringing the bus to a complete stop from an initial speed of about 60mph in about 1.8 seconds. How they accomplish this feat is beyond me.
The reasons for these stoppages naturally range from strange to idiotic, but never even veer close to reasonable. A little old lady is crossing during a walk signal with 18 bags of groceries and a newborn puppy? She'd better keep her wits about her lest she end up traveling the next 50 feet adorning the side view mirror of a bus. A taxi is switching lanes away from the bus to escape to a safe distance? Better hit the emergency brake for this one; not sure we can stop in time before we hit... the open lane stretching before us. It always amazes me when I see a bus blast its way through a crowded intersection and not come out with hapless pedestrians and bike riders flapping against the side like so many Christmas ornaments.
It took me a while to groggily realize that my chances of sustaining massive head trauma are probably greater on the bus than on the football field or while sparring for martial arts. At least I'm expecting those impacts. I remember looking up after a few incidents where my head slammed into the metal handrails with a force normally reserved for action movies or slapstick comedy to find absolutely nothing threatening within eyesight. Of course it's not just your head you have to watch out for when holding on for dear life during one of these G-force tests. Many of the elderly simply don't have the arm strength to maintain their (probably already precarious) positions, transforming them into a kind of geriatric missile aimed for my sternum.
When not finding some way to injure or annoy me, the passengers on the bus pull a trick that I will never be able to explain or duplicate. Being enclosed spaces located in China, buses are frequently the site of physics experiments involving how much of the available volume of the bus can actually be occupied by living, breathing flesh. The bus will often pull up to a stop and a load of people will get on, apparently packing the bus to capacity. I mean, you couldn't fit a dumpling into the space between any two people.
The bus then merrily pulls out in front of a dump truck and two taxis and makes its way to the next stop, where more people get on. Not having seen anyone exit, I look around, my mind thoroughly boggled by this phenomenon. A second ago, I had to bench press two peasants just to breathe, yet somehow ten people just boarded the bus loaded down with bags of rice, four children, and a futon. How is this physically possible? Did some of the people spontaneously accelerate to the speed of light squared and simply become energy? If so, I'm pretty impressed. I mean, what are the other explanations? Were they unplugged from the Matrix to avoid overloading the system? Is there a trap door under the bus that I don't know about? I feel like this has to involve quantum physics in some way or other. Were they simultaneously on the bus and not on the bus at the same time? Somebody get me Schrodinger's cat.
Maybe this is finally the answer to the question of how China manages to export so much stuff to America every year. It's all placed on one container ship, which is then unloaded non-stop for literally an entire year by baffled, yet unquestioning dockworkers. Is there a Chinese Willy Wonka involved in all this? Are the dockworkers really Oompah Loompahs? What the heck is going on here?!
Any proposed solutions are welcome...
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Oh My God, They Killed Kenny!
Will we see the day that LeBron James grabs his crotch and moonwalks across the court? Or maybe he’ll get plastic surgery and marry his nurse. Maybe. He has declared in the past that he wants to become a Global Icon. In the past couple weeks it has become clear that the world has lost such an icon. Even across the world this icon’s death was noted and his passing is mourned. Naturally, it seems that his death and the events surrounding it are just as bizarre as those surrounding his life. However, I submit that there is one consequence that nobody could have foreseen: the rise of Kenny G.
You see, China has been stuck in the 80s ever since I got here. I could hear MJ songs from my students’ cell phones and of course there were the horrible Chinese remixes that you would hear in supermarkets and in cabs. The music of Michael Jackson was everywhere. I went to the gym once and got treated to The Best Videos of Michael Jackson DVD as I was running on the treadmill. Let me tell you, there’s nothing more heart-thumping and adrenaline-pumping than seeing faces morph from type to type using what was the latest technology of the time, even if it did eventually become a cruel parody of real life. In the digital artists’ defense, they couldn’t have known that someone would actually try to recreate this effect with their own face.
However, a few months ago the background noise of China began to shift, almost imperceptibly at first, but becoming more and more noticeable. Where before the clothes shops and electronics stores blasted rock music from oversized speakers placed in front of the doors, now the music had a much different feel. I knew I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then it came to me and it was a little funny at first. It was Kenny G. I laughed it off and figured that China was just discovering more Western music that should have been collected, put in a time capsule, and then blown up long ago. You know, like the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and Celine Dion (who merits another round of scorn later in this entry).
But this was no passing fad. Soon every supermarket, restaurant, and street peddler was playing saxophone versions of what used to be good songs. At last I came to the horrifying conclusion that China’s music had moved from the 80s and instead of settling on the grunge scene or any other genre of music from the time period, the People’s High Music Council (or whatever distinguished body of elders decides these things) chose the early-to-mid 90s soft rock scene. I was personally rooting for early-90s hip-hop, but alas, it seems that the day I see a Chinese pedestrian strolling along the boulevard to the dulcet tones of Run-DMC or Ice Cube will never come. Such a shame.
I suppose I can understand why the PHMC would pick Kenny G. If you look up “opiate of the masses” in the dictionary, you won’t see religion, but rather a picture of Mr. G and his flowing locks. Even his hair is hypnotic. I don’t know how to combat an evil so innocuous and so… non-threatening. I fear that the only way to precipitate another shift in China’s music landscape is to once again remove its one defining personality. Now I’m not necessarily advocating the use of deadly force or anything so drastic as that. But if Mr.G, if that is in fact his real name, were to be chloroformed on the way to his next appointment with five gallons of perm sauce or whatever they use in hair salons and were to wake up on an island inhabited solely by giant, man-eating chinchillas, I certainly wouldn’t complain. Who could orchestrate such a dastardly scheme you may ask (and probably would, if you’re somehow still reading this entry)? There are always certain three-letter agencies who have been out of favor with certain governments lately. I mean, I can’t think of a better possible way to sabotage peace here.
Paradoxically, it would almost certainly bring me peace. I would be slightly less tempted to look for the nearest pronged object to jam into my eye as I hear “My Heart Will Go On” for approximately the 8,593,376th time. Does it mean that I would probably have to suffer the soul-rending agony of Celine Dion singing it again? Probably yes, but I’ve learned something today: sometimes in life we have to make sacrifices for the greater good.
You see, China has been stuck in the 80s ever since I got here. I could hear MJ songs from my students’ cell phones and of course there were the horrible Chinese remixes that you would hear in supermarkets and in cabs. The music of Michael Jackson was everywhere. I went to the gym once and got treated to The Best Videos of Michael Jackson DVD as I was running on the treadmill. Let me tell you, there’s nothing more heart-thumping and adrenaline-pumping than seeing faces morph from type to type using what was the latest technology of the time, even if it did eventually become a cruel parody of real life. In the digital artists’ defense, they couldn’t have known that someone would actually try to recreate this effect with their own face.
However, a few months ago the background noise of China began to shift, almost imperceptibly at first, but becoming more and more noticeable. Where before the clothes shops and electronics stores blasted rock music from oversized speakers placed in front of the doors, now the music had a much different feel. I knew I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t quite place it. Then it came to me and it was a little funny at first. It was Kenny G. I laughed it off and figured that China was just discovering more Western music that should have been collected, put in a time capsule, and then blown up long ago. You know, like the Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and Celine Dion (who merits another round of scorn later in this entry).
But this was no passing fad. Soon every supermarket, restaurant, and street peddler was playing saxophone versions of what used to be good songs. At last I came to the horrifying conclusion that China’s music had moved from the 80s and instead of settling on the grunge scene or any other genre of music from the time period, the People’s High Music Council (or whatever distinguished body of elders decides these things) chose the early-to-mid 90s soft rock scene. I was personally rooting for early-90s hip-hop, but alas, it seems that the day I see a Chinese pedestrian strolling along the boulevard to the dulcet tones of Run-DMC or Ice Cube will never come. Such a shame.
I suppose I can understand why the PHMC would pick Kenny G. If you look up “opiate of the masses” in the dictionary, you won’t see religion, but rather a picture of Mr. G and his flowing locks. Even his hair is hypnotic. I don’t know how to combat an evil so innocuous and so… non-threatening. I fear that the only way to precipitate another shift in China’s music landscape is to once again remove its one defining personality. Now I’m not necessarily advocating the use of deadly force or anything so drastic as that. But if Mr.G, if that is in fact his real name, were to be chloroformed on the way to his next appointment with five gallons of perm sauce or whatever they use in hair salons and were to wake up on an island inhabited solely by giant, man-eating chinchillas, I certainly wouldn’t complain. Who could orchestrate such a dastardly scheme you may ask (and probably would, if you’re somehow still reading this entry)? There are always certain three-letter agencies who have been out of favor with certain governments lately. I mean, I can’t think of a better possible way to sabotage peace here.
Paradoxically, it would almost certainly bring me peace. I would be slightly less tempted to look for the nearest pronged object to jam into my eye as I hear “My Heart Will Go On” for approximately the 8,593,376th time. Does it mean that I would probably have to suffer the soul-rending agony of Celine Dion singing it again? Probably yes, but I’ve learned something today: sometimes in life we have to make sacrifices for the greater good.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Hey, Good Lookin'...
If you’re not careful, a place like China can give you a big head. Just having white skin pretty much guarantees that you’re going to be called beautiful or handsome at least a couple times here. One of my Chinese coworkers from the first company I worked at told me that when she first arrived there, she thought all the teachers looked like Western movie stars. A random student once told me that I looked like Sean William Scott. I still haven’t decided whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.
At first it’s quite nice being called handsome by people you don’t know or by people on the street. Chinese people tend to blurt out their opinion of you as they walk by you. I’m not sure if that’s a result of the seemingly direct way they can pass judgment on people in front of their faces or because they just assume that I can’t understand them. It's probably a bit of both. I mention their directness because from a Western point of view, it seems quite rude to call someone fat to their face, but it’s not really seen that way here. It’s only now becoming taboo to call a woman fat partly because Western standards of beauty are infiltrating and changing the traditional Chinese concepts of beauty.
On the other hand, I find that it’s still very common and not generally seen as insulting to call a man fat. I’ve been called fat a couple of times, most notably by my girlfriend of the time. Now I could probably trim a bit here and there (and most likely will as summer sets in and people start taking other elevators when they see me slosh in wearing what appears to be a business suit as a towel), but I admit that I took a little offense to that. I politely reminded her that she had more stomach fat than I did. Of course, that didn’t help matters. She proceeded to point out how skinny her arms and legs were directly prior to her pummeling me with those skinny arms and legs. Eventually it dawned on me that anyone who has a husky build here is automatically categorized as fat, regardless of whether their size comes from muscle or just a big frame. One of the girls who works in my school at the moment is a perfect example of this. She has quite a big frame in relation to most Chinese girls, which means that she is also quite well...um, endowed…compared to most Chinese girls. Basically this makes her the Dolly Parton of these parts. Anyway, most of the other girls think she’s fat, which is (a) not true and (b) not helpful because now she thinks she’s fat too. I don’t know why girls do this to each other. But I digress.
As I said, it’s nice to be called handsome by people you don’t know, but eventually you begin to notice a pattern in the people who do so. Almost all of them stand to gain something from you. When you realize that it’s just a not-very-subtle attempt at flattery aimed at your wallet, the thrill of having random people compliment your looks is cheapened juuust a little bit. On top of that, half the time it’s some guy calling you handsome. I know it means nothing to them, but it still makes me feel awkward. (Really, you didn’t think you’d get a post that neglected to mention some sort of awkwardness from me, did you?) There’s nothing quite like having some dude at the barber shop who looks like a Korean pop star tell you that you’re a handsome guy as he runs his fingers through your hair. This accounts for about five or six of the literally hundreds of times in China that I’ve thought to myself, “Um, what have I gotten myself into here?”
These strange situations are certainly not limited to the barbershops. The street vendor who sells me my afternoon snack once called me handsome and asked if I had a girlfriend. I know where it sounds like this is going, but he was actually leading to the next question, which is whether I like Chinese girls. They’re quite proud of their women here. That question is easily in the top five questions that I get asked by Chinese people. He then went a step further and told me that he saw me walking with a girl the night before and wondered if she was my girlfriend. It was actually my Chinese teacher, but you’ve got to love the fact that even the street vendors seem to have a vested interest in my relationships. He proceeded to tell me how he judged her appearance and gave me his advice about whether I should date her. It took me a while to straighten things out, but not until after I got a 'you sly dog look' from the vendor that made me uncomfortable. Anyway, after I left Dr. Ruth at the snack stand, I remembered one of the most important facts about China. There is absolutely no privacy here whatsoever. Not in terms of personal space and apparently not in terms of personal relationships either.
One memorable incident occurred when I went to McDonalds to get a cup of coffee one morning. One of the male cashiers took it upon himself to inform me that his female co-worker, who was standing next to him, thought I was attractive. I half-smiled sheepishly and looked somewhere else, trying to avoid embarrassment for both our sakes and hoping that we could just move along to the part where I ordered my coffee and left. The cashier, evidently mistaking my reaction for a lack of understanding, repeated his comment in English this time. The female cashier, by now certain that I understood what the guy said, turned red, shouted (that is to say, spoke in a normal tone of voice) at him, and gave him a smack just to get her point across. He then left, leaving the two of us to stand there looking at everything but each other. I finally got to ask for my cup of coffee, cringing as I watched her react like I had just asked her to the prom. In the end, she gave me the coffee, so I guess I can take that as a ‘yes.’ McDonald’s in China now proudly offers a new addition to the breakfast menu: awkwardness you haven’t experienced since high school. Not quite as successful as the Egg McMuffin, but I’m sure it’ll catch on.
At first it’s quite nice being called handsome by people you don’t know or by people on the street. Chinese people tend to blurt out their opinion of you as they walk by you. I’m not sure if that’s a result of the seemingly direct way they can pass judgment on people in front of their faces or because they just assume that I can’t understand them. It's probably a bit of both. I mention their directness because from a Western point of view, it seems quite rude to call someone fat to their face, but it’s not really seen that way here. It’s only now becoming taboo to call a woman fat partly because Western standards of beauty are infiltrating and changing the traditional Chinese concepts of beauty.
On the other hand, I find that it’s still very common and not generally seen as insulting to call a man fat. I’ve been called fat a couple of times, most notably by my girlfriend of the time. Now I could probably trim a bit here and there (and most likely will as summer sets in and people start taking other elevators when they see me slosh in wearing what appears to be a business suit as a towel), but I admit that I took a little offense to that. I politely reminded her that she had more stomach fat than I did. Of course, that didn’t help matters. She proceeded to point out how skinny her arms and legs were directly prior to her pummeling me with those skinny arms and legs. Eventually it dawned on me that anyone who has a husky build here is automatically categorized as fat, regardless of whether their size comes from muscle or just a big frame. One of the girls who works in my school at the moment is a perfect example of this. She has quite a big frame in relation to most Chinese girls, which means that she is also quite well...um, endowed…compared to most Chinese girls. Basically this makes her the Dolly Parton of these parts. Anyway, most of the other girls think she’s fat, which is (a) not true and (b) not helpful because now she thinks she’s fat too. I don’t know why girls do this to each other. But I digress.
As I said, it’s nice to be called handsome by people you don’t know, but eventually you begin to notice a pattern in the people who do so. Almost all of them stand to gain something from you. When you realize that it’s just a not-very-subtle attempt at flattery aimed at your wallet, the thrill of having random people compliment your looks is cheapened juuust a little bit. On top of that, half the time it’s some guy calling you handsome. I know it means nothing to them, but it still makes me feel awkward. (Really, you didn’t think you’d get a post that neglected to mention some sort of awkwardness from me, did you?) There’s nothing quite like having some dude at the barber shop who looks like a Korean pop star tell you that you’re a handsome guy as he runs his fingers through your hair. This accounts for about five or six of the literally hundreds of times in China that I’ve thought to myself, “Um, what have I gotten myself into here?”
These strange situations are certainly not limited to the barbershops. The street vendor who sells me my afternoon snack once called me handsome and asked if I had a girlfriend. I know where it sounds like this is going, but he was actually leading to the next question, which is whether I like Chinese girls. They’re quite proud of their women here. That question is easily in the top five questions that I get asked by Chinese people. He then went a step further and told me that he saw me walking with a girl the night before and wondered if she was my girlfriend. It was actually my Chinese teacher, but you’ve got to love the fact that even the street vendors seem to have a vested interest in my relationships. He proceeded to tell me how he judged her appearance and gave me his advice about whether I should date her. It took me a while to straighten things out, but not until after I got a 'you sly dog look' from the vendor that made me uncomfortable. Anyway, after I left Dr. Ruth at the snack stand, I remembered one of the most important facts about China. There is absolutely no privacy here whatsoever. Not in terms of personal space and apparently not in terms of personal relationships either.
One memorable incident occurred when I went to McDonalds to get a cup of coffee one morning. One of the male cashiers took it upon himself to inform me that his female co-worker, who was standing next to him, thought I was attractive. I half-smiled sheepishly and looked somewhere else, trying to avoid embarrassment for both our sakes and hoping that we could just move along to the part where I ordered my coffee and left. The cashier, evidently mistaking my reaction for a lack of understanding, repeated his comment in English this time. The female cashier, by now certain that I understood what the guy said, turned red, shouted (that is to say, spoke in a normal tone of voice) at him, and gave him a smack just to get her point across. He then left, leaving the two of us to stand there looking at everything but each other. I finally got to ask for my cup of coffee, cringing as I watched her react like I had just asked her to the prom. In the end, she gave me the coffee, so I guess I can take that as a ‘yes.’ McDonald’s in China now proudly offers a new addition to the breakfast menu: awkwardness you haven’t experienced since high school. Not quite as successful as the Egg McMuffin, but I’m sure it’ll catch on.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Potpourri 2: Revenge of the Fallen
I guess I should mention right off the bat that, despite the title, this post will in no way deal with the new Transformers movie. But you have to admit that it does sound catchy and kind of menacing, like I might talk about some long-standing feud I’ve had here. Sadly, nothing that interesting happens here so I have to resort to hitting you with a collection of random, mostly pointless thoughts that I’ve had at various times while I’ve been here. So, without further ado, and with one more colon than is really necessary, I give you Potpourri 2: Revenge of the Fallen:
Bikinis and Flak Jackets
I went to a relatively small town for a friend’s wedding the other day. The wedding was great and all that, but I’ll talk about that another time. After the wedding, some of us decided to go to the only bar/club that existed in this town. We knew we were in for an experience when we had to pay a cover charge (unusual outside of really Westernized parts of Shanghai and Beijing). The charge was for a show of some sort that was to take place there. Lacking any other options, we paid the money and went in. Our first surprise was the presence of a group of security guards sporting helmets and flak jackets. They were apparently meant to discourage any trouble that might arise as a result of the show. (They didn’t, by the way.) Eventually we were treated to some dancing girls and a show that was honestly no racier than prime time TV in America. It was kind of awkward, though, because one of the guys’ girlfriends was there as well. I’ve always wondered what goes through girls’ minds when they’re watching a show that involves other girls running around in bikinis. Are you girls secretly judging the performers on a ten-point basis or a sliding scale or something? Are you really thinking, “I really love that outfit on her and those shoes are to die for! She’s moving really well and – oh, she just tripped a little. She’s going to lose some points for that…”
Tilting at… well, not windmills
The other day I went to the supermarket to buy a shower curtain rod for my bathroom. Of course this was after I bought a curtain rod that was the wrong size the first time. But the fact that I’m an idiot is not the point of this ramble. I’m even going to shift gears for a moment and talk to you about the shameful way that beggars use children here. I don’t know exactly where they get these kids (and I don’t really want to know because they’re definitely not the beggars’ kids), but the beggars teach them to run after people and beg for money. It doesn’t stop there, either. The kids purposely try to run in front of your legs so you can’t walk past them. The ones who work the turf outside of this particular supermarket even try to take things out of your bags. After the first 15 times this happens, you tend to move beyond ‘pity’ territory and into ‘highly annoyed’ territory. Anyway, as I was walking out of the supermarket with this shower curtain rod and one of these kids came running over in my direction, I admit that I briefly entertained the thought of fending it off with the curtain rod. In the end I decided against it, but I strongly suspect that the thought alone makes me a bad person.
A Chainsaw in Her Future?
There’s a female student that I have taught a few times who has what I can only describe as a strange face. Even though she’s about my age, her face looks like it might be made of leather. You know, it looks a little bit like a baseball mitt or a leather glove. But no matter how many times I tell myself this, I keep catching myself thinking, “Yeah, but it’s kind of an attractive leather glove.” I should note here that if the baby-jousting thing didn’t make me a bad person, I’m pretty sure that comparing girls’ faces to leather gloves (attractive leather gloves mind you) might tip the scales on that one. In other news, I might be losing my mind.
Irish Cream
Believe it or not, there are actually two redeeming things about shopping for food here. One of them of course is finding hilariously translated descriptions of the some of the products, which I think I wrote about a long time ago. The other would have to be the wonderfully bizarre combinations of products that packagers have managed to come up with. My personal favorite was the bottle of Baileys that had a tube of skin cream strapped to the side of it. Really? Baileys and skin cream? Who thought this was going to be a successful marketing ploy? Did they think that I would pass on the bottle of Baileys until I saw the skin cream attached and figured I just had to have it? Exactly who is sitting at home drinking their Baileys and thinking, “You know what I really wish I had to go with this liqueur? Some skin cream. I would slather that right on.”
The Obligatory Rocky IV Reference
And most importantly, will the directors of the Bank of China and the Bank of America meet in an epic boxing match to determine economic (and ultimately world) supremacy, single-handedly ending the Cold War, I mean Currency War, with the bloody and brain-damaged winner declaring to a stunned Russian (whoops, meant Chinese) crowd, "If I can change... and you can change... everybody can change"? Really, who wouldn’t pay to see this? The proceeds could go to hard-hit CEOs who have had to downgrade their Gates diamond-plated toilets to the ‘loser’ gold-plated edition. And as an added bonus, ticket holders could receive complimentary bottles of Baileys and skin cream.
Bikinis and Flak Jackets
I went to a relatively small town for a friend’s wedding the other day. The wedding was great and all that, but I’ll talk about that another time. After the wedding, some of us decided to go to the only bar/club that existed in this town. We knew we were in for an experience when we had to pay a cover charge (unusual outside of really Westernized parts of Shanghai and Beijing). The charge was for a show of some sort that was to take place there. Lacking any other options, we paid the money and went in. Our first surprise was the presence of a group of security guards sporting helmets and flak jackets. They were apparently meant to discourage any trouble that might arise as a result of the show. (They didn’t, by the way.) Eventually we were treated to some dancing girls and a show that was honestly no racier than prime time TV in America. It was kind of awkward, though, because one of the guys’ girlfriends was there as well. I’ve always wondered what goes through girls’ minds when they’re watching a show that involves other girls running around in bikinis. Are you girls secretly judging the performers on a ten-point basis or a sliding scale or something? Are you really thinking, “I really love that outfit on her and those shoes are to die for! She’s moving really well and – oh, she just tripped a little. She’s going to lose some points for that…”
Tilting at… well, not windmills
The other day I went to the supermarket to buy a shower curtain rod for my bathroom. Of course this was after I bought a curtain rod that was the wrong size the first time. But the fact that I’m an idiot is not the point of this ramble. I’m even going to shift gears for a moment and talk to you about the shameful way that beggars use children here. I don’t know exactly where they get these kids (and I don’t really want to know because they’re definitely not the beggars’ kids), but the beggars teach them to run after people and beg for money. It doesn’t stop there, either. The kids purposely try to run in front of your legs so you can’t walk past them. The ones who work the turf outside of this particular supermarket even try to take things out of your bags. After the first 15 times this happens, you tend to move beyond ‘pity’ territory and into ‘highly annoyed’ territory. Anyway, as I was walking out of the supermarket with this shower curtain rod and one of these kids came running over in my direction, I admit that I briefly entertained the thought of fending it off with the curtain rod. In the end I decided against it, but I strongly suspect that the thought alone makes me a bad person.
A Chainsaw in Her Future?
There’s a female student that I have taught a few times who has what I can only describe as a strange face. Even though she’s about my age, her face looks like it might be made of leather. You know, it looks a little bit like a baseball mitt or a leather glove. But no matter how many times I tell myself this, I keep catching myself thinking, “Yeah, but it’s kind of an attractive leather glove.” I should note here that if the baby-jousting thing didn’t make me a bad person, I’m pretty sure that comparing girls’ faces to leather gloves (attractive leather gloves mind you) might tip the scales on that one. In other news, I might be losing my mind.
Irish Cream
Believe it or not, there are actually two redeeming things about shopping for food here. One of them of course is finding hilariously translated descriptions of the some of the products, which I think I wrote about a long time ago. The other would have to be the wonderfully bizarre combinations of products that packagers have managed to come up with. My personal favorite was the bottle of Baileys that had a tube of skin cream strapped to the side of it. Really? Baileys and skin cream? Who thought this was going to be a successful marketing ploy? Did they think that I would pass on the bottle of Baileys until I saw the skin cream attached and figured I just had to have it? Exactly who is sitting at home drinking their Baileys and thinking, “You know what I really wish I had to go with this liqueur? Some skin cream. I would slather that right on.”
The Obligatory Rocky IV Reference
And most importantly, will the directors of the Bank of China and the Bank of America meet in an epic boxing match to determine economic (and ultimately world) supremacy, single-handedly ending the Cold War, I mean Currency War, with the bloody and brain-damaged winner declaring to a stunned Russian (whoops, meant Chinese) crowd, "If I can change... and you can change... everybody can change"? Really, who wouldn’t pay to see this? The proceeds could go to hard-hit CEOs who have had to downgrade their Gates diamond-plated toilets to the ‘loser’ gold-plated edition. And as an added bonus, ticket holders could receive complimentary bottles of Baileys and skin cream.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)