The Dumb Laowai

It occurred to me last night, and was hammered home this morning, that I’m entering a new phase of life in China, one that will probably last the rest of my life, or at least 10 years or so. There is a common description of amateurs that describes them as knowing "just enough to be dangerous.” I’ve just reached the beginning stages of knowing "just enough to be even more confused, and possibly scared.”

From day one, as baffling as life sometimes got, I knew that it was simply a language/cultural adjustment and that things would improve. This knowledge helped me to laugh off a lot of life’s irritants, although the laughter was usually directed at myself. I knew I was at square one and that I couldn’t do anything but laugh.

However, after a couple of months, I’m starting to make real progress. I’m able to communicate simple things, such as where I live, the fact that I want rice with that, and even what kind, the size shoes I need, make sure my beer is cold, No I don’t want to buy your $1 antique – go away, I really like your $2 antique but it’s too expensive. You know, just the basics.

The problem is that each new success spawns multiple new problems. You make the mistake of speaking one perfectly good sentence and you’ve opened yourself up to a dozen follow-up questions. What route would you like to take? How much rice? What color shoes? How cold? It never ends. Of course, I just logically assume that these are the secondary questions; they may all be trying to sell me the Olympic Stadium for all I know. At this point in any conversation, I’ve simply started saying yes and hoping for the best. Other than those neon yellow tennis shoes, it seems to have worked out for the most part.

This recognition of this new phase, as I said, occurred to me last night at dinner. That’s when I realized that new knowledge, which led to fear, would be a great loss. I got the right amount and type of rice and my beer was perfectly frosty, but I’m still in the woods as far as entrees go. I’ve had what I think was simply stewed garlic with onions, some type of small eggplant, and now, God Forbid, LIVER! I would never knowingly order any of those dishes and would point disgustedly at anyone who did. I loved every one of them.

I’m convinced that if prison meals were limited to liver, possibly accompanied by onions, that the number of repeat offenders could fit into one cell. The only problem with this penal breakthrough is that the Supreme Court would rule against it as cruel and unusual punishment. Yet, one Chinese chef took this disgusting offal and turned it into one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. I didn’t even realize it was liver until I was almost done.

I looked back on all of the unidentifiable meals I’ve eaten and, for the most part, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have ordered them. When you get a meat dish that is diced into 3’4” chunks, and yet every piece manages to have a bone, you can be fairly sure it’s not beef, pork, or even chicken. In one of the best dishes, I even found a miniature, 1” ribcage. This is a case where I fear learning because I may not yet have overcome my prejudices and will miss out on a lot of terrific experiences. I still don’t want to know the origin of that ribcage, but I’ve been trying to find it on the menu ever since.

The other facet of the new phase dilemma smacked me upside the head this morning. I’ve started taking the same Black Taxi to the university on the occasional morning. I know I swore not to do this, but on a rainy morning, even Beijing doesn’t have as many taxis as you need. It’s been a pleasant surprise. Since the distance is only a mile and a half or so, the rate is inarguably 10 kuai (US$1.25). I can’t be cheated and his car is very nice, so it’s a great deal. The unexpectedly pleasant bonus is that he sings along with the radio the entire trip, conducting the music with his free hand. I would normally jump out, moving or not, but he’s got a great voice. Once in a while, I catch a word or two, but it’s mainly the tune that’s relaxing.

This morning, however, we were driving down the road as he sang a very heartfelt, romantic love song. The confusion entered in when he told me the guy was singing about his drinking buddy. No one from Nashville ever sang about his booze brother quite this way. That’s as far as I got. I couldn’t ask for details. There was the odd hope that his buddy was female, but I think it was a long shot. By the time I know enough to understand the mystery, the song will probably have disappeared. I understood just enough to get confused, but not enough to enlighten me. I’m afraid I’ll just have to get used to that as well, although it will be a chore.

I’ve always held a deep hatred for being confused. I get frustrated and, occasionally, quite angry because I’m accustomed to understanding my surroundings and processing new information easily. Maybe I’ve never challenged myself enough, because I’m finally realizing that confusion is simply a point on the learning curve. You’re presented with new data, you’re confused as hell, it starts to make sense and then the light bulb goes on. The next day, the process repeats itself. Actually, each step repeats itself, since there can be several details overlapping along the curve at any one time. In an environment such as China, there is something new and confusing every day, so the sooner I learn to not get angry and deal with it constructively, the less likely I am to end up being fed pills and oatmeal in an institution.

Having said that, as schizophrenic as it may sound, I sometimes seriously consider chucking my computer out of the highest window I can find. Although I’m constantly drawn to online forums and other blogs about China, it’s a habit well worth kicking. There’s something to be said for emotional support and an occasional reality check, but I don’t want my experiences to be colored by the opinions of others, often misinformed, biased and/or simply asinine. Even if it prolongs my confusion, at least it will be my confusion and not someone else’s. As much as I love this place, I want to get to know it intimately, on my own!

Sorry for the brevity, but I still need to study and prepare for Mongolia. The week-long holiday is only 3 days in reality. They have rearranged the schedule to give us seven days off, but we earn this by having classes this Saturday and on the Sunday we return. That certainly takes some of the joy out of it!

I appreciate you returning to my blog after suffering through my rants last week. Some study adjustments and additional materials I found have made it a little easier to keep up the pace. I just have to figure out how to deal with our listening teacher, so it’s only twice a week that I get so irritated now.

I’ve developed a conspiracy theory regarding our class. We have been segregated from the dozen or so other beginner classes. We are in an older building, amidst classes at a second year level and classes learning English, so it’s not easy to compare notes with similar students. In 14 days, we’ve completed 15 lessons in one book and 11 in another. I’ve found that other classes have generally completed 7 and 5, respectively. I’ve come to believe that we’re being used as a guinea pig class to test some new teaching theories on either accelerated learning or burnout rates. Something strange is going on here.

The upside of this pressure has been the rapid bonding of the class. It’s almost like boot camp, where recruits use a common enemy (the drill sergeant) to help them pull together. It’s been pretty interesting. With one exception, other college courses I’ve taken provided no real personal links and everyone scattered after class, not seeing one another until the next session. Here, we share three breaks per day, complaining about class and making outside plans. Most of us are going together on a school tour of the Great Wall this weekend. I know I said I didn’t want to do a tour, but this should be fun, regardless of how much we understand.

The unexpected result of this closeness has been my becoming the informal English instructor for the rest of the class. Only a few of them speak decent English and it is the only language we can all communicate in, so they want to improve. However, it’s not the standard, boring lessons that I’m asked to give. Today I tried to explain the meaningless phrase “What’s up?” A couple of students had no idea how to respond to this. Yesterday I had to help a Palestinian friend select the right words to say to a Russian girl he likes. I also spent fifteen minutes explaining many of the proper uses for the word “fuck” and, especially, the times when it should not be used. I like to think that I’m doing my part to bring us all a little closer together.

There are even a few benefits to our accelerated pace. I had just learned the words for dorm room and return when I mistakenly left my wallet in my room and went out to dinner. Being a regular bought me a little leeway, but without being able to explain where my money was and that I would return with it, I don’t think I would have gotten out of there without a police escort.

The fantastic news is that after four weeks of the grind, we are off from school the week of October 1^st to celebrate the Autumn Festival (this may be a loose translation; it was the result of a bar-room poll.) This is an important time for people to be with their families and I’m told that it can seem as if the entire country is traveling. I wanted to do some sightseeing without fighting the crowds, so several of us signed up for a weeklong, school sponsored trip. My blog post will be late that week, but don’t worry; I’m not in jail, I’m in Mongolia. Sounds like a punch line, doesn’t it? Substitute Alabama and you may have something there.

How many people can say they’ve been to Mongolia? I couldn’t miss the opportunity, especially since all expenses are included in the US$231 fee. And, to tell the truth, I’m sort of curious about what passes for a three star hotel in Mongolia. I guess we’ll be sleeping in yurts some of the time as well, although I would be just as glad to simply look at a few. Realism can be over-rated.

OLYMPIC FOLLIES

Last week I promised to share everything about the Olympic buildup. Unfortunately, my studies are beginning to limit how much I can write. New Olympic items pop up daily, so perhaps I’ll put together a more complete picture over the January break. For now, here are a few tidbits.

Although it remains to be seen how many goals go unmet, the athletes should be pampered in at least a few ways. The government is shooting for 100,000 bi-lingual volunteers and started signups in early September. At the World Jr. Championships in August, each athlete was assigned a personal volunteer to follow him/her all day and pick up their clothing and belongings, carrying everything in a personalized basket. I’m not sure how far the valet service extends.

The most unlikely goal to be met: all taxi drivers to speak English by the start of the Olympics. I’ve used over 100 legitimate taxi drivers and not one could say more than OK or bye-bye, most not even that much. Even the Black Taxi driver I used could only name Michael Jackson, missiles and aircraft carriers. That’s not going to be very useful.

This Olympics may be more overwhelmed by souvenirs than any event in history. There are already specialized shops selling every kind of trinket imaginable, and I’m sure they’ll imagine even more. Think about it: all of the stuff is made here anyway. There have already been crackdowns on fake mascot dolls. They were selling for $1.25 vs. the expected “real” price of US$9-10.

Speaking of mascots, get out your Whatizzit memorabilia. The 2008 mascots make Izzy look like a stroke of genius. (For those outside Atlanta, Whatizzit was the much maligned, identity challenged mascot of the ’96 Olympics. For Atlantans, I’m sorry for rehashing bad memories.) In Beijing you will be bombarded with five small mascots that are so disgustingly over-cute that even little girls may reject them. It’s as if the Teletubbies mated with Hello Kitty to produce four of them. I think the panda was adopted. To make matters worse, for the first time that I recall, the Olympic mascots will be equipped with gag-inducing, cute, little voices as well.

On August 8^th, the government announced a program to study air pollution in Beijing until December, 2007 and then make recommendations on improvements to be made for the Olympics. Eight months to fix the problem? They’re already moving the heavy polluting industries out of the area, but count on these being the “Smog Games.” The U.S. might want to look at moving the Olympic Training Center from Colorado to Los Angeles.

At the Women’s World Softball Championship in August, officials announced that it would be a good trial run for Olympic press accommodations. Reporters (how many could there have been?) were provided with a phone line, internet accommodation and two meals per day. This could get real ugly. My internet access is out for at least two days each week.

Tourists will be pointed to large areas of traditional Chinese hutongs, closely situated, courtyard homes of ancient design. The design may be ancient, but thousands of them will only be one or two years old. All of the flavor may be gone, replaced by cookie cutter blandness. Entire neighborhoods have been razed for these projects.

Many of the Olympic venues will be breath-taking, including the Olympic Stadium, nicknamed The Bird’s Nest for its artistic steel structure, and the aquatics center, with its unusual liquid appearance.

Almost everything I’ve mentioned is negative. I wish it weren’t so, but as a newcomer, it’s much easier to see glitches than perfection. You can watch three hours of a flawless operation, but what you will remember most is the one time the doctor said “Ooops!” It may not have been important at all; he may simply have stepped on a nurses toes. But that is what you’ll remember.

This is a country with vast experience in large scale organization. China believes it has, perhaps, a great deal more to prove than other hosts by staging a memorable Olympics. It’s had and continues to have its commercial successes, but this is China’s public debut, it’s unveiling to the world. For thousands of years, the Chinese have believed themselves to be the center of the world, superior to all else. They can not allow themselves to fail this challenge. The buildup process may be unorthodox and sometimes short-sighted, but it will be successful. Overall, I expect the presentation of the games to be exciting, stunning and exotic. I can’t wait!

** I had to post this from a bar with WiFi, as my access has been down for four days. As I left the bar I found a taxi driver that was listening to a tape of English phrases. His pronunciation was great and we had a good time comparing our limited knowledge. At least there's one driver who'll be ready for the Olympics, well ahead of time. If I run across him again, I'll get his number for anyone who will be here. He'll be worth booking.

In my pre-China research about the quality of education for foreign students, I frequently came across references to “eastern style teaching methods.” I got some inkling about how this worked and thought “Hey, if those students are producing all of our electronics, making the majority of our cars and buying up most of our debt, it must have something going for it.”

Western systems have developed a give-and-take approach to teaching that actively involves the student and encourages questions and discussion. Political correctness may have the system out of whack right now, but overall, I think it’s a pretty good approach. It worked for me.

The eastern method is perhaps closer to the old, Catholic school method, sans rulers. Or, to paraphrase my grandmother, “students are there to be seen, not heard.” Questions are rarely tolerated because they interrupt the flow of “repeat after me” and the teacher’s talking to himself in Chinese. When we get to the interrogation part of the day, the teacher enjoys firing off questions in full speed Chinese. For comprehension, we listen to 30 second conversations on a speaker and are asked to select the proper, multiple-choice answer phrase, again, written in Chinese. I got 3 of 20 correct and no one else made me look too bad. I would have gotten far more right by marking “B” every time. Just a reminder for those who have joined us late, this is the second week of classes.

I have never attempted anything this difficult in my life. More advanced students tell us that it will get easier in a few months, but I wonder how many of us will be left at that point. This morning I pondered seeking a transfer to the nuclear engineering program. At least mathematics is universal.

I could easily go off on a venting jag right now, but I’ll try to stick to just a few of the memorable low points of class life so far. When the class was practically in open revolt, one teacher explained that we had to progress at this pace. She added that we would slow down later, when we understood more. Can anyone explain this thought process to me? Go fast when we’re lost and slow down when we know what we’re doing? A little polling revealed that other, similar classes are on lessons 4-6, while we have just completed lesson 10.

One of the few times I felt I was really accomplishing something was when we had an informal pop quiz on the third day. The teacher read words in English and we were to write down the proper Chinese character. Since we usually use Pinyin to learn the pronunciation first and then work on the character, this was a three step process. I remembered the Chinese word, then the character and, finally, wrote down the character correctly. At this point, that was about as likely as a monkey driving a car safely. I was flushed with pride as the teacher strolled by and said “That’s correct, but it is not beautiful!” I picked up a book and took aim at the back of his head as he walked away, but something restrained me.

Our writing lesson the other day consisted of students being called to the blackboard and required to write a character. Most of the victims had the classic deer-in-the-headlight look but did as well or better than I would have. After a pause of a few seconds, the standard response from the teacher was a laugh. I suppose it was good natured, as he tried to get us to laugh along, but he killed a lot of good will.

He belabored the point that even if the character was correct and beautiful, the strokes were made in either the wrong direction or in the wrong order. It’s common to have character consisting of 10-12 lines, dashes, curves and dots. If you make the 9^th stroke dot before the 7^th stroke curve, it doesn’t matter if everything is correct and beautiful. You’re going to your seat accompanied by laughter. He’s really not that bad of a guy; the frustration just makes it easy to hate him occasionally.

Even with all of these challenges, I realize that I have it the easiest. When the teacher does mutter a clarification or random instruction in anything but Chinese, it is in English. I am the only native English speaker in the class and his is bad enough that I can barely understand him. The other students must really have headaches. Some barely speak English themselves. So far, I’ve identified students from Russia, Latvia, Japan, Kazakhstan, Belgium, Jordan, Korea, Mongolia and Iceland in my class.

On the ever-amusing administrative front, I’ve yet to claim my student ID booklet, which is like a second passport. I gave up on the line twice already. It moves approximately 1 person every 10 minutes. The traditional method of distribution is to allow one person to the desk (1 of 4) and have him look through all of the ID booklets until he finds his picture. They are not sorted in any fashion. I made it to the head of the line once and, after 15 minutes of looking, was told that I was looking at pictures of Russians and was at the wrong desk. The upside is that I can now swear quite well in Russian.

Since students living on campus need the ID for certain services, they’ll wait in line for hours. Living off campus, I’ve decided to wait until there are only two or three to choose from. With any luck, they will have lost mine and I can get them to reissue it with my proper name. Apparently the advisor liked my middle name of Richard better than Mike and that’s what I’ve been reborn as. After three days of my not answering roll call, the teachers started calling me Mike, or Maike, but the university still thinks of me as good ole Dick.

So, here I am, lost as hell in a sadistic system, where 4 hours of classes and 4-6 hours of study each day leave me feeling like an idiot. In this case, the fact that we’re all lost just isn’t very consoling. That’s quite enough of the self-pity though. A common affliction for expatriates here is called the Bad China Day. Pressure builds until some minor irritation puts you in an anti-China mood for a few hours. I guess I’m just having a Bad-China-Week.

I don’t need therapy yet, but I met a guy at a forums get-together who specializes in counseling expatriates with their adjustment blues. I guess there’s plenty of work. Somehow that makes me feel better already. Every day I see evidence of the need for his services. It seems that most expats who have lived here for a while walk around with a perpetual scowl on their face. I was here a month before classes, so almost every expat I saw fit this profile. I don’t remember a single smile from the bunch.

On the other hand, new arrivals fall into two classes: the people who can’t stop smiling because they’re finally here and the one ones with an extremely dazed look, like they had just been set down by a tornado and they aren’t quite sure where they are. Those are the people that are good for the soul. You feel like you’ve moved a little up the food chain just because you know where to buy electronics and where to take your laundry. Simple achievements I know, but they can mean a lot.

Last Friday I hosted an evening get-together for readers of Chinese Forums.com This is a great place to research anything about living and studying in China and it made it practical for me to be here. We had all talked online and traded advice for some time, so it was good to finally meet each other and trade questions and horror stories. Since the weather has been great, I arranged for us to meet at the International Beer Garden, as it was large and outside. I posted online that I would be wearing a Hawaiian shirt so that everyone could recognize me. As the sun went down at the appointed meeting time, the temperature dropped some 20 degrees and a wind picked up. Just the time to be the guy in a Hawaiian shirt!

After dinner and a few beers, someone bought a 5 oz. bottle of baijiu. Several of us had heard of it before and, being the explorer types, decided to join in. Days later, I downgraded Angelo’s status from friend to suspect. Angelo is a Chinese-American who told me that baijiu is like Chinese bourbon. Knowing me for a bourbon man, maybe he thought this would ensnare me. He thought right.

My immediate description and my description after thinking about it for a week are the same. Baijiu is apparently made by blending a form of Chinese rice wine, like Sake, with an equal portion of turpentine. Thinking that it couldn’t possibly be that bad, we tried it a few more times. I’m told that at one point, someone returned to the table with 5 bottles of this toxin. Needless to say, no one remembers who the culprit was. The only positive effect of this cultural experiment was that I suddenly became very warm in my Hawaiian shirt. I was more comfortable than people wearing jackets.

The down side is that none of us idiots remember getting home. I lost my backpack (fortunately empty to carry books to donate to the other expats). One person’s last recollection was being on stage in a night club making an ass of himself. He woke up without wallet or passport. None of us was any too chipper that weekend.

Thankfully, the baijiu arrived after we had met 25-30 fellow travelers and had a great time. I’m still meeting some of the later arrivals, even though they claim to have met me that night. I think we’ll ban baijiu from any future gatherings.

Studying and such infrequent gatherings must suffice to fill my time. Gone are the days when I could kill an afternoon with a good ballgame. I can’t even kill an hour reading the sports. I just saw a short article on American sports for the first time in six weeks. It described how Peyton Manning led the Colts over the Giants, led by his brother Eli. A one paragraph article for an entire weekend of football. This is going to be a very long fall!

Of course I do get some sports. I received plenty of coverage on the Basketball World Championship, which I rank right along with synchronized swimming. I also saw a lot about the Women’s Softball World Championship (yyaaaawwwwwnnn!) Other than that, it’s soccer, more soccer, cricket and F-1 auto racing, with an occasional oddball thrown in. I’ve even watched a three minute, detailed report on an international men’s field hockey game! As far as I knew, that game had to be played in skirts!

Thinking that I could get more online, I went to the People’s Daily website. I know I can get more from US sites, but by this time I was curious about what the Chinese did pay attention to. On the website, there were 45 sports stories listed in order. The only US story was about the US women’s softball team, and that was as #31! Some notable stories that are apparently more riveting than baseball or football include:

3. Israel to play 2008 soccer qualifier home match in Netherlands for security reasons.

7. Two Uruguayan soccer teams meet each other in 2^nd round of a South American

tournament.

17. Bangladeshi Ziauer Rahman places 3^rd in Malaysian Open Chess Championship

20. Indonesia vs. Myanmar in finals of a soccer tournament.

29. Egyptian soccer striker to switch from AS Roma to Tottenham Hotspur.

37. Zimbabwe starts selection of national Taekwondo team for the South African

Taekwondo Association games.

I’m not making these up! These are the hot news!

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I’ll get into the Olympics next time. That’s worth an entire post by itself.

Excerpts from the Learning Curve:

The weather cooled off a little and was finally able to ride in taxi with the windows down. Since I’ve adjusted to Beijing drivers, it took me a few minutes to realize that you never ride with your arm hanging out of the window. There isn’t room for it in traffic.

It takes some time for the human brain to begin thinking clearly at 6:00am. Overnight rain had cleared the dust and smog, leaving my bike seat muddy. I carefully wiped it off with my hand and proceeded to wipe my hand on the seat of my pants. DOH!

.

Loudly blowing one’s nose is offensive to the Chinese. I’ve got a honk that scares geese. I’m screwed. A farmer’s hanky is OK (plugging a nostril and letting fly). Picking is recreational, possibly a sport. Spitting is universal, male and female, often indoors. But a loud blow shows you have no class and makes you an outcast.

Forget about trying to buy DVDs. They’re inevitably pirated, so who knows what you’re going to get, even if it claims to be in English. My most recent acquisition is The Great Escape, with Steve McQueen and cast speaking in Chinese. The need for Chinese subtitles escapes me. A prior purchase was a film starring Selma Hayek and Penelope Cruz. Gotta see that, right? It’s dubbed in Russian with Chinese subtitles. The upside: Selma is really hot when she speaks Russian.

The basket of a parked bicycle is a perfectly good trash can. I’ve started returning the favor.

You’re an idiot if you leave napkins or packaging on the table at an outdoor café. If you don’t throw them on the ground, the waitress will come by and do it for you.

Dubbed shows and subtitles can be amusing. An infomercial dubbed in Chinese is quite funny. Translation is interesting too. A panel discussion on pet etiquette talked about picking up after one’s animal. In three minutes the word “shit” ran across the bottom no less than 15 times. Try that on American TV!

Every day in China holds adventures; some wonderful, some amusing, some frustrating, some painful, some a moment long and some that last for several days. Everywhere I go, I carry a camera and a notebook to jot down stray thoughts. Sometimes I feel like a restaurant critic. I only wish the locals knew what that was – I might get better service!

The result of so many new experiences is that I can’t write fast enough to convey them all chronologically. If I tried, I’d be writing about September while I was trying to figure out what to do for Christmas. I’ll have to skip to the high (or low) points occasionally and fill in the rest some other way. Let’s hope the story stays coherent, if it ever was, and on track.

To continue from the last post, I was on shaky ground trying to get my Residence Permit to live in China. I was missing an apparently holy form named JW202 and had conflicting advice on how necessary it was. I headed toward the Public Security Bureau offices looking like a corpse. Taxi drivers won’t drop you off or pick you up within a block of the place; that’s what they think of its reputation. If there hadn’t been a lot of foot traffic propelling me along, I might have stood in front for hours without going in. As I stood in line to meet my doom, I realized that everyone else had their JW202 form and acted as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I just knew this was going to be bad.

When I finally sat down in front of a very intimidating officer, she proceeded to process, stamp, fold, spindle and mutilate my paperwork very efficiently and without comment. As she progressed, I started breathing a little easier until, at the last moment, she looked at me like a small room and spotlights were in my future. “You have no JW202!” I tried to rekindle a long lost hope of mine that we do have a few efficient government employees and I was praying that if we did have any, they were in our Chinese Embassy.

I began telling my story, hoping the puppy-dog eyes were working, but it was a long shot. This woman could tame lions without a whip. She finally explained that the university should have sent me two of the JW202 form, one for their embassy and one for the PSB. Suddenly it was all clear. It WAS the university’s mistake! “They only sent me one” I half-whined, still striving for a little pity. With a loud “Huummppff” she scooped up everything and went to the back room. “Our father, who art in Heaven……..”

I’ll admit that I was shaking a little. After two minutes, I was sauna-sweating and after five minutes I qualified as an invertebrate; I was pretty much just a quivering blob. It hadn’t helped a bit when she poked her head back around the corner and pointed me out to her scowling superior. I wanted to see China, but not the parts I was surely headed for now.

My clerk-with-the-power-of-God marched back to her station, stamped a few more things for good measure and said to return next Thursday for my Passport and Residence Permit. “That’s it” I asked? “Yes, now go!” I was out of the chair in a flash and was so relieved and thankful that I actually backed away bowing, hands pressed together and saying “Thank you, thank you!” I did everything but call her Sahib.

It’s quite an ego adjustment, looking back on it. My preconceptions had gotten the best of me. Almost everyone was fairly reasonable and the one I truly feared, my PSB clerk, showed me more consideration than I’ve ever gotten from an American DMV employee. I swear, no more spy novels for this guy!

Even though it caused a little visa-related grief, I loved my month of bumming around Beijing. Going anywhere and everywhere on a whim is definitely the way to go. No organized tour could ever give you the same feel for a place. It is this attitude that has kept me from seeing the Three Gorges or the Great Wall yet. With my LIMITED vocabulary, I couldn’t have done them on my own and I didn’t want to hear quick descriptions of a place while zooming by on a crowded bus. I’ll wait until I can fully enjoy those places at my own pace and satisfy my own curiosities. That will have to come later, because now it was time to hit the books!

Since I had not been to college in almost 25 years, I had forgotten what a nightmare registration can be. Endless lines that often resulted in my being told that I should be in another line, sometimes even another building. Reams of paperwork, often wrong and sometimes missing. Various steps that can not be taken in the same day, necessitating several return trips. All in all, a sadistic process designed to weed out the casual or intellectually weak student before classes even begin.

After a quick reintroduction to this man-made hell, I realized that I’d had it easy the first time around. This time half of my paperwork was in Chinese only, including several sets of instructions. Asking for help was more than difficult. Getting an answer from an advisor meant waiting in line, often to be given another sheet in Chinese and told to go in a vague direction. After a few repeats of this, I had a much more specific direction in mind for him!

Hundreds of confused students couldn’t even compare notes because we were all from different countries. It was like the U.N., but worse; there were no translators. A student from Tibet who spoke passable English did manage to ask for my help in finding his registration desk. It seems that there was no listing for Tibet and he wasn’t sure if he was considered Chinese or not. Not wanting to delve into a sensitive, political discussion, I pointed in a vague direction, wished him well and returned to my registration line for the third time. Who says I don’t catch on?

My registration advisor, with one assistant, was solely responsible for students from USA, Canada, Philippines, Mauritius, Czech Republic, Romania, Myanmar, Mongolia, Germany, Greece, Bulgaria, Singapore, Hungary, Malaysia, and Denmark! I have no idea how they could have possibly handled it all successfully. I would bet practically anything that there is not one person on earth that can speak all of those languages! Somehow, I ended up with a fistful of forms and was told to leave. I didn’t know if I was truly done or if they were just sick of me, but I had had enough and raced for the exit.

Three days later, my advisor called and asked me to see him in his office. Given my past experiences with Chinese bureaucracy, I didn’t see any way this could possibly be a good thing. If I had been Catholic, I might have asked for the last rites before departing for the university. That fear of foreign bureaucracy runs deep in me, I guess.

I arrived in my now common, ashen state of panic to be given another slip of paper in Chinese with a few numbers interspersed in the text. I was told it said that I was to report to room 512 on Monday morning for class. That was all. With an enormous sigh of relief, I left to enjoy my last truly free weekend for a while.

I was up with the sun Monday morning. It was a school day! Suddenly I felt like a 7^th grader again, headed for my first day at middle school; excited and scared all at once. I got there well before classes and enjoyed a coffee at an outdoor café, where I tried to calm another panic-stricken American. He was hyperventilating over procedures and red tape that I had already surmounted and I was able to share some of my hard-earned lessons. As we walked toward the classroom building, I explained to him which procedures were easy and which were difficult, as well as a few ways to smooth things along. He felt quite a bit better as he headed for room 511 and I to 512.

Our class was a global mixture of 27 students, all somewhat nervous. When the teacher entered and spoke a few sentences of Chinese, expecting an answer, there was total silence and a sharing of shrugged, questioning looks. That was just enough to break the tension. As everyone realized that we were all in the same clueless boat, we relaxed and laughed. We were no longer taking on the government single-handed. There’s definitely comfort in numbers, even when you’re all lost. This understanding was to be driven home shortly.

During roll call, the teacher collected documents and handed out books to each student. Unfortunately, there were a few of us left over. She quickly let us know that we were in the wrong room 512 and gave vague directions as she pushed us out of the door. As you may have noticed, “vague” is a recurring theme when dealing with officialdom. It often falls just short of “Go bug him.” Our comforting group was now reduced to five; two Belgians, two Japanese and me. Luckily, everyone spoke at least a little English and we started our wanderings. As it turned out, Moses may have had a better game plan when he wandered through the desert.

To explain what we eventually learned, elevators are not considered necessary for anything below the 6^th floor. My American colleague and I had thought it a malfunction earlier when we forced to go to the 6^th floor and walk down. From the 5^th floor, we had to walk down and often had to walk up as well. This was to be repeated a few times.

After walking down five flights, our instructions had been to turn left. As I’ve learned, Chinese instructions are very relative. I guess we would have turned left if we had been facing the same direction she was, but as we exited the stairs we were facing the opposite way. Off we went to a different section of the building.

In what we thought was the appropriate area, we boarded an elevator for the 6^th floor and walked down a flight to find ourselves right back at the original room. Laughing, but still unsure, we drew straws to see which of us had to stick their head into the room and verify our predicament. The rest of the class could think all of us idiots if they wanted, but we didn’t want to refresh their memory of our faces. The unluckiest of us returned blushing and we headed for the stairs once again.

After showing my Chinese-only room assignment to an official in the lobby, we were instructed to go outside, circle the building and enter the south wing from what appeared to be the rear. It was on arrival at this entrance that our initial error became clear. On our maps there is a very large, horseshoe shaped building for classes. In reality, it is three separate, adjoining buildings with three different entrances; hence three different rooms marked 512.

As a sign of things worsening, this building was only five stories tall, and according to local thought, required no elevator. I’m not in great shape and I was glad to see that four kids of normal college age were just as unhappy as I was when we reached the top floor, which we had practically to ourselves. There was a partial, written schedule on the blackboard of room 512, but apparently, after handing out books at roll call, class was done for the day. After some debate and picking up a Korean-Russian straggler, we headed to the registration building to speak with an advisor, who told us to head back to the original building and go to the 10^th floor. At least we could use the elevator!

It was in the third 10^th floor room we had been directed to that we were told to return to the elevator-challenged building and wait for someone. This suggestion was met with quick and universal disapproval. Accustomed to dealing with confused students one on one, the sight of a small, seething mob prompted this official to conduct some actual research and we were told that we simply needed to report to the correct room 512 the following day. The Lost Student Brigade was dismissed.

I was sure that we would take a little ribbing the next morning, but at least we could back each other up and share the abuse. After all, we had just taken on an entire university and we felt like we had won in the end. Certainly we could handle a lone teacher and a few students!

I am constantly faced with information overload, so I often recall tidbits later in the evening and am unable to attribute them or place them in their proper context. However, at least one local adage needs no context; it applies to the country as a whole, and I’m learning to appreciate its wisdom. “In China, everything is impossible and nothing is impossible.” There is a method to the madness. I would be a fool to think that I could make everyone here think as I do. If you accept the things you can not change, to paraphrase a famous prayer, you can begin to understand the madness and adapt to it. Eventually it doesn’t always seem to be all that mad. It’s just a different way of looking at things. I think everyone could use a little bit of that understanding in today’s world.

Unrelated Observations

I’ve learned that almost anything can eventually be communicated with hand signals and grunts. However, this does NOT apply to describing how you want your hair to be cut. Unlike most discussions, there is a point of no return. As a result, I’m now ready for boot camp. HOOORAAAGH!

It’s hard to reset your mental holiday calendar. I was in school on Labor Day!

Interesting custom – hire strippers to perform at a funeral to draw a larger crowd, which indicates the importance of the deceased. (The government has just decided that they are not all that enthused about this practice.)

Regardless of how many times I get stabbed at an inopportune moment, I will never learn to check for stapled laundry tags in my underwear.

ALL tourists have the ability to be idiots. A Korean approached me and spoke in his native language for over a minute. Why would he think a Caucasian in China would speak Korean? I eventually figured out that he just wanted me to take his picture.

How long it took to see:

Auto accident – 3 weeks, a minor rear ender

A bicycle helmet – 3 weeks

A driver wave someone else ahead of him – 1 month

A guard holding a rifle – 1 month

Another Caucasian – 3 days (it was off-season)

IKEA – 15 minutes

McDonald’s – 1 day

KFC – 2 days

Fake KFC – 2 days, 10 seconds (they’re always next to each other)

Lucky numbers are incredibly important here. Recent results from a public auction of license plate numbers in Guangshou (one individual to another):

SL222 – US$39,250

99A99 – US$35,125

88A88 – US$28,875

People will buy new SIM cards for their phones or switch companies if a luckier number is available.

I probably should have ended with a cliff-hanger, but I hope you’ll check in next week anyway!