Oh-leem-peek-uh…

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Otherwise known as The Olympics in the western pronunciation. 

I have had the “joy” of being able to watch the Olympics while here.  But of course, watching the games here is decidedly different than watching in the states. 

Obviously, all commentary is in Chinese. I prefer watching coverage on Pearl TV; I guess I just like the lulling singsong of Cantonese better.  I have learned that I am in no way qualified to be a judge in any sport.  While watching diving, I see a dive and come to my own conclusion as to what the score should be. Since I can’t understand the immediate reaction of the tv commentators, I am on my own to come up with a score.  I am generally WAY off. 

I’ve also missed out on a lot of the athletes’ back-stories.  Which really make these games much more compelling.  This I miss.

When I first started watching the games, I was amazed by the number of times CCTV showed montages of Chinese athletes being wildly successful while playing “We are the Champions.” My immediate reaction was, “Nice propaganda, China.”  But then when I really thought about it, we do the exact same thing!  Well, maybe we choose a more timely song, but we do the same thing and call it patriotism!  Yay America!  So, why not? Yay, China. (Don’t get me wrong.  I cheer for the US.  Always.  But in the absence of any US competitors, I support the Chinese athletes.  This is my home-away-from-home country for the time being.)

I have really enjoyed the coverage of CCTV and it’s differences with the NBC networks.  Racquet sports are covered much more in depth here, for obvious reasons.  Badminton is crazy popular, as is table tennis.  The ‘stars’ of badminton are on soda and beer commercials.  Picture LeBron James with a racquet and birdy and you are starting to get the idea.  The badminton fiasco with the Chinese and South Korean teams was a big deal here.  I kind of can't wait to see the public apology they have to give upon their return.  I have seen more shooting, archery and synchronized everything than in all of my previous Olympic experience combined. Yet I didn’t see a single beach volleyball match.  Darn it. 

My favorite CCTV moment though was during an interview of an athlete.  I have no idea what happened. I can’t remember the sport. I have no idea what the outcome of the athlete’s performance was, but during the interview he started crying.  Small tears really, nothing big.  In fact, I would just call it ‘misty eyed.’  But boy did CCTV’s cameraman pounce on that little bit of drama.  The camera slowly zoomed in to the one eye that was producing the tear.  And stayed zoomed in for the remainder of the interview.  I’d say if he wanted to capture “drama”, he missed and just captured “painfully awkward” instead. 

I have to say, I have really missed the Olympics coverage in the US.  I missed being a part of all of the proud moments for our US athletes… you know, the ones that made you a bit misty eyed.  I miss hearing the Olympic Theme (They don’t play that here!).

But hey, I’ve also missed out on political commercials, so…

Home

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The U.S.A chant began on the jet way in Hong Kong.  The flight attendant noted, “Wow, your excited.” Yep.  On my 14-hour flight, I woke up often from my prescription drug induced haze to remind myself that at the end of that torture, I would be home.  I nearly skipped through the U.S. citizen channel at immigration.  If felt so good to not be considered a “visitor.”

With great fervor I began eating favorite meals, seeing favorite people and packing in as much “‘Merica” as I could.  I got behind the wheel of a car and did my own laundry for the first time in 10 months.  Thus began the surprisingly tricky process of becoming reacquainted with my home. 

I found myself often saying, “That’s weird.” But I guess that was my simplistic way of saying, “Whoa.  I know this is a normal situation/thing and no one else is acting like this is a strange situation/thing, but really, this feels foreign to me.”

A week after I returned, I traveled with a group of friends to southern Missouri for a camping and canoeing trip.  Talk about culture shock.  If you have ever been on the Niangua River on a Saturday in the summer, you will understand what I am talking about.  For those who haven’t, imagine spring break on a river with significantly more country music and chewing tobacco.  Now I love camping, canoeing and campfires, but after having spent an entire year in a country that is so NOT like southern Missouri… It was a little overwhelming. 

I was also shocked about my reaction to things I saw in the news.  I went on a rant one evening after seeing a story about a shooting at a local swimming pool. I know there is crime in Shekou.  I’m sure there is violence of some type, but I haven’t seen it and I’m fairly certain it doesn’t involve shootings at swimming pools.  Besides dealing with drunken expat businessmen, I have never felt unsafe in Shekou.  To be honest, I was a little pissed off that I felt so unsafe in my own city.  This incident combined with the raging hatred that was spewed after the Supreme Court decision on healthcare made me a little angry with and ashamed of America. 

To be honest, the first couple weeks were rough. 

I’m not sure when it was, but at some point I stopped looking at my home country as some kind of freak show and remembered how great and wonderful it really is. 

I mean… the US has roller derby. 

And 4^th of July parades with Shriners and John Deere tractors.

And bar trivia.

And delicious finely crafted Boulevard Beer (and coozies to keep that beer cold).

And Bluegrass music at open mic nights.

And Jacob’s Well Church, among others.

And a free and unfiltered Internet.

It is pretty great, isn’t it?

{I purposefully decided not to write my blog while I was in the US.  It just didn’t seem right.  I feel like being here, ironically, gives me freedom to really express what I am thinking and feeling. Distance makes me a bit bolder I guess.  I saw many of you this summer and several of you told me that you read this and enjoy it.  Thank you. I am so glad you do.}

End of Year One

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 At my old school we had some wonderful last day of school traditions.  We go outside to the bus lot, let the kids run around and sign yearbooks then we go in for our final assembly.  The end of the day is marked by a loud countdown followed by the bell and a huge cheer from both staff and students.  We herd the kids out the door and do the “wave” for buses as they leave.  It’s one of my favorites times of the year.  Not just because it begins my summer vacation, but it is such a happy time.

I have to say, the last day at an international school or at least our school is quite different.  Bittersweet is the word, I think.  More bitter than sweet.

We began the day with our awards assembly.  And I have to say, it was so cool seeing kids get really and truly excited about receiving recognition for their achievements in academics and citizenship.  And to watch the audience really cheer for them!  So often in US schools the kids with good grades and good behavior are considered “nerds” and don’t get the accolades they deserve, except from teachers and parents. It’s exciting to see kids making “good” the new “cool.”

On the other hand, it was sad to see a few of my kids upset when they didn’t get honors or high honors.  One said, “I was so close, if it wasn’t for PE.” So she and I had a discussion about how to improve in PE.  (Really teachers, can you imagine having this conversation! Most kids LOVE PE!)We tried to make it a learning experience.

Then our students had time to mosey the middle school floor and sign yearbooks.  This is when the crying started.  Yes, there was crying at my old school, but that was more like, “Oh, I’m so sad.  What if I don’t see you at the pool this summer? Boo hoo.” This crying was, “Oh my gosh, my best friend is moving to Qatar/Finland/Singapore/The United States and I will probably never see them again. “  Multiply that by all of the students who were leaving (many).  And you can begin to understand the sadness. 

But this is when Third Culture Kids shine the most.  They are so intensely supportive of each other.  I have never seen anything like it.  They say things to each other like, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” and “It’s not good-bye, it’s see you soon.”  I watched as two of my 8^th graders, 14 year old boys, comfort each other like grown men.  There were strong man hugs, pats on the back and “Man, it’s gonna be okay, man.  You’ll do great, man.” It was enough to make me tear up a bit as well. 

When the end of the day came, there was no fanfare. No countdown, no bell, no cheers of joy.  It was more like, “Ms Jarr, can we go?”  I look at my watch, “Uh, yeah.  Have a good summer!” Anti- climax if there ever was one. 

The kids slowly found their way out of the building with much encouragement from teachers.  Except for the high school floor where students could be seen for hours getting yearbooks signed and chatting with teachers. I even found students at the reception desk four hours after school let out to make sure they got Peggy and Coco (our administrative assistants) to sign their yearbooks. So cool. .

I don’t think it was until after lunch (and a celebratory beer) that I really had time to think about the momentous occasion that had occurred. With that fizzling anti-climax came the end of my first year of international teaching.  Whoa. 

I look back to the poor sad sap that was hanging about for most of the year and I almost don’t recognize her.  I feel like next year will be much better. I hopefully won’t be spending every weekend at work.  Hopefully I won’t stay at work every night until dinnertime.  Maybe I might even be able to do a bit more traveling on the weekends (Sadly, I still haven’t been to Macau!) I already feel a bit of a China veteran, so I look forward to being helpful next year to new teachers instead of just constantly asking questions! 

So year one is finished.  It’s packed up.  And it’s on its way home to the US. 

Dichotomy

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Sometimes when I describe it to others, I feel as though I am not painting a fair picture of how Shekou truly is. If I talk about how nice my life is here and how I live in a pretty posh place, I feel like I’m neglecting the “rougher” side of Shekou. However when I tell stories of the dirty, gritty, and downright disgusting parts of Shekou I truly feel bad, because, really it’s not that bad. 

So I’m stuck with it dichotomy as my word of choice. 

As per usual, I am writing in the coffee shop, Emily’s (formerly Ande’s).  It is a really nice place.  Good breakfasts, sandwiches and a decent cup of coffee.  As I look around there are no Chinese here.  Not a one.  Wait one lady just walked in for a take away coffee.  But what I love is that all of those delicious sandwiches and mango chicken salad fixings come from the wet market just a few streets over.  I see the delivery guy come with bags of groceries in a giant laundry basket on the back of his electric bike.  The wet market is the same place where you find chickens being deplumed and various pieces of unidentifiable flesh laying out on tables for purchase.  Most ‘green’ westerners would at least utter a few “ughs” while exploring the wet market. But those ingredients take a magical trip through a makeshift kitchen in the closet of a bar or café and suddenly the food is not only acceptable, but it is worth at least three times as much.

It is true that I live a pretty charmed life here.  I can call the coffee shop and have a coffee (yes, one coffee) delivered to my school.  I can order groceries from an online grocery and have them delivered that day.  Many of my co-workers have drivers; someone to call up when they want to go somewhere.  Yesterday a co-workers driver picked us up from work, took us to Ikea, waited, drove us back to her apartment and then proceeded to carry a very large parcel to the apartment for us. 

There are truly two sides to Shekou.  Old Shekou.  Real(er) China.  And the posh, fancy expat side.

There is an area of Shekou called Sea World.  It is not a marine wonderland with whales named Shamu, but it is for sure a wonderland of western style shops and restaurants.  Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonald’s, TCBY, and Kodak as well as western style restaurants ranging from Mexican to German.  It surrounds an open square.  Currently you can rent motorized, plush animals to ride around the square.  Picture fuzzy Powerwheels with blinking eyes and music playing.  It’s meant for kids, but every time I’ve been through there are always adults enjoying the ride. This is truly fake China; plastic, perfect, clean and shiny. 

However if you walk just two blocks toward the water, you will find where the workers live.  The migrant workers who are building this new fake China, of shoddy skyscrapers and flashy Hilton’s.  What they live in, I would best describe as something like shipping containers, stacked one on top of the other.  Their compounds smell strangely like mothballs, I imagine in order to cover the more offensive smells. These men and women have come to the “big city” for a better life.  Every time I see them trudging home from work, I wonder, “Have they found that better life here, or are they just stuck here?”

As much as I try to explain this place, I’m afraid you have the wrong idea.  It’s not a bad as you think.  And it’s not a great as you think. I’ll never do it complete justice, so I feel like I just have to give up on describing Shekou.  So to make things easier, just come and visit. 

Third Culture Kids

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 I guess before I took on this adventure, I believed that people, when they moved abroad, do it for only a few years. I had heard many stories of, “I have a friend who taught in China for two years.”Or, “She did her student teaching in Prague.”

But never had I heard, “We’ve been living abroad for 20 years.”  Or “We’ll go back…never.”

Wha-what?  This is a possibility? This is a way of life?  Living as a modern gypsy, but with a career and a vacation home in Thailand?

Yes, this is a way of life.

I have met many people here who live or plan to live this way.  And in my classroom are the children of these adults.

Enter the Third Culture Child.

She can tell you where she was born, what languages she speaks, where she’s lived, where her parents are from, and what passports she holds. But, ask her where she is from and there is an uncomfortable pause before she begins repeating the litany of personal facts she can tell.

This third culture kid (or TCK) usually has developed the most interesting language skills.  They speak their native language (most of the time) and have taken on English as well.  But not the “American” English we know well, but this lovely hybrid of British, Canadian, Australian, Kiwi and American English.  It is not rare to meet a child, whose parents are Malaysian, who speaks the most perfect valley girl American English. 

Their social skills are amazing.  As they move around the world, TCKs develop skills to easily navigate the ins and outs of expat communities and international schools.  They are quick to make friends, generally extroverts and adapt easily to change.  They are very welcoming and accepting of others differences, which makes teaching them a really satisfying endeavor. 

As great as these traits are, they also have some social difficulties. As TCKs move from place to place, they also develop the coping mechanism of easy detachment.  They never get too invested since they never know when they will be leaving.  They are not very good at future planning. Since they do not know where they might be in the future, to a TCK, there is nothing more important than the present. 

The end of the school year is a tumultuous time for many kids, but especially for TCKs. They are dealing with huge emotions that even adults would deal have difficulties with.  Some of my students are moving back “home.”  Some feel the joy of returning to a familiar place with friends and family waiting.  For others, home is simply the country listed on their passport. It is actually an unfamiliar place with strange customs, strange family and no friends waiting.  But your parents expect you to be happy, because it is home… at least to them.

 The other day in advisory, I had to lead a discussion about our feelings for this time of transition at the end of the year.  Actually, I was a little afraid to try to have a conversation with middle schoolers about their feelings.  I was afraid all I would hear would be chirping of crickets.  But truly I was amazed.  It was like my kids were just waiting for an adult to ask them about how they were feeling.  Words tumbled out of their mouths:  Scared, sad, angry, excited, lonely, why, again, etc.  One of my students just said, “Comma.” When I asked for clarification she just said, “Like, it’s not the end, like to be continued.”

People ask me often about my students.  This is what I want you to know about them.  They are extremely diverse.  They are socially sophisticated in so many ways.  They deal with complex issues of identity and culture on a daily basis. But in the end, they are kids. 

This video is an excellent introduction to TCKs.  I see my students in these interviews.  Thank you Lynne for posting it.  

April Fool's Day in China. No Foolin'.

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I swear the following events to be true and factual or at least they are my interpretations of the events of April 1, 2012.  Also, these events are not out of the ordinary for me.  At most they rouse a giggle or a raised eyebrow, but not shock.

This morning I went to my local coffee shop to have a bagel and a latte and get some writing done.  In one corner of the coffee shop sat two middle-aged western businessmen.  I think most people would be shocked by the conversation.  They clearly and loudly were discussing graphic sexual encounters with their Chinese girlfriends. I hate to say, but I almost expect conversation like that wherever one finds a group of two or more western men.  I actually heard later in the day a man say, “Stuff some Chinese girls in my suitcase.” Yeah.  Really. Not a lie.

While eating my cheese quesadilla at Jordan’s (a bar/restaurant) I noticed the masseuses from the spa next door lining up for their afternoon “teambuilding’.  This is the best name I have for this event.  It happens daily at many different businesses.  Sometimes this teambuilding comes in the form of lining up to receive a tongue-lashing or possibly a pep talk.  I don’t speak Chinese, so I can only infer what is being said to them by their manager. I imagine it is something like, “We only did three massages this morning. We need to do more!  Let’s go team!” Sometimes they line up and do cheers. Again, I have no idea what they are cheering, but they do it with great enthusiasm.  This particular spa was building its team spirit through call and respond cheers and dance routines.  I know if I were asked to participate, I would do the bear minimum to show my boss that I was “dedicated to the team” but these ladies were having fun! Real fun! There was giggling and smiles everywhere.  I’m not sure if they sold more massages, but at least they were revved up for the afternoon.

Later in the afternoon, Colleen and I decided to go get our nails done.  On the way to the nail salon we saw a large tanker truck driving slowly down the road.  They were using a water cannon to water the plants beside the sidewalk all the while watering the walkway as well.  Since we were quickly running out of space we tried to figure out what to do to avoid being doused by a torrent of questionable water.  The truck began honking at us, like we were totally in the wrong for even thinking of walking on the sidewalk.  Colleen and I decided that walking into the middle of the street was our best option.  We nearly avoided being hit by oncoming traffic.  But to be honest, neither of us was bothered much.  So goes walking anywhere in China.

While walking around, I see amazing t-shirts.  I imagine they are the left overs and the misprints that don’t get sent to the US.  On my way home from getting noodles from the Noodle Lady, I saw a man wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Dr. Zaius from planet of the apes.  Around the face were the words- Bathing Chocolate Monkey.  The shirts here are hilarious.  I often wonder if when we wear clothing or get tattoos in Chinese, they actually say things like ‘love Sunday chicken happy feet.’ I’m pretty sure I want to pack my bags with Chinese misprint tees and sell them to hipster consignment stores when I come back.  They’d love this stuff.

So April 1, 2012 was also a Sunday.  I’m not sure why, but often there is loud music playing on Sunday nights.  It is usually someone singing in a wavering Mandarin tone from a few blocks away.  I have explored to see where it was coming from before, but I was just not motivated last night.  Even with all of my doors and windows closed, I could hear every syllable.  I couldn’t understand a word, but it had a good beat and I could tap my feet to it. Also, most nights (I’m writing this on Monday at 9:15 pm and it is happening now) there is a group of middle-aged women who meet in a parking lot across the street to dance together.  They play REALLY LOUD Chinese pop music and do elaborate dance routines that involve a lot of turns, swishing of arms and clapping.  It’s fun to watch. 

I suppose if I saw any one of these events in the U.S. I would be totally weirded out, but this is China. So… par for the course.

Panic and Pacifying Andrea

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Last night, I lost the keys to my apartment.  

I had spent a lovely evening with my friend Rachel and her husband Glenn. We stopped off at Cheer’s to hear the tales of the Great Shekou Beer Olympics that had occurred that day.  When it came time to go, I had the great idea of riding Rachel on the back of my scooter to the gate of her complex. 

I used the keys to unlock my scooter. I used them to start my scooter.  I scooted a two blocks to drop Rachel off.  I scooted two blocks home. Then, they were gone. 

Panic.

I scooted the same two blocks again.  And again. 

I texted Rachel and she started walking my direction as I walked the route towards her.  Nothing.

Panic. 

“Call your ayi.  That’s what she is there for.  She will come and bring you your extra set of keys”, cooed Rachel.  “It’ll be fine! “

Genius.  I scrolled down the contacts list on my phone to the Zs, Z for Zhou.  No entry. 

Stupid phone.

Problem solving.  Claire. Claire would have Zhou’s number.  But it was midnight.  Claire was surely asleep.  I battled my well-mannered Midwest inner voice that said, “Don’t bother her. It’s too late.” I texted Claire for the number and resigned myself to the fact that I was going to spend the night out. 

For those of you who know me well, you know how much I hate staying at other peoples’ houses.  I hate being ‘in the way’ even if I am not.  Spending the night in someone else’s house is just about the top of my nightmare list, right below losing my house keys.

We started walking towards Rachel’s house, and I slipped into freak out mode. Sobbing, hyperventilating, whining. Rach went into social worker/counselor mode and wrapped her arms around me and walked me to her house. The entire way she repeated, “This is China.  This is not a big deal.  This happens all the time. No one cares that you lost your keys (oh yeah, my office keys were on that key ring as well).  You’ll be fine.” 

At one point she straightforward asked me, “Why are you crying? Really? “ 

“I hate not being in control,” I admitted. “And I have zero control right now.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew she would know exactly how to handle that fragile piece of information.

When I got to her house, she had her daughter’s bed waiting and pajamas set out for me.  After about four hours of fretting, I even got some sleep. 

In the morning, Claire sent me Zhou’s number.  I sent a quick message to Zhou explaining in simple English that I needed my keys.  To which I received the sweetest response. “Ok. I go.”

10 minutes later, Zhou rode up with my keys:  A blessing on a bicycle at 7:30 in the morning. 

Claire took me to get a new set of keys cut and helped me negotiate the price.  She wouldn’t let me get kicked while I was down. 

Four hours later, I received a call from my leasing agent, Connie.  It seems that someone turned in a set of Costal Rose Garden keys to the security guards in my complex.  The super sleuths managed to figure out what apartment they belonged to based on the mailbox key that was on the key ring.  By 1:00 I had my keys in hand. 

At 2:00, I had a man come change my locks.  It took about three minutes and a few twists of his American flag screwdriver. 

And now all is well.

It took a team: Rachel, Zhou, Claire, Connie, Security guards, patriotic screwdriver toting key guy and some unknown good Samaritan.  I guess that is what it takes to pacify Andrea.

Supermarket Sweep

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Do you remember that game show?  It took place in a fabricated grocery store and the contestants had to run around with grocery carts to find items before the clock ran out, or something like that.  I can recall the faces of pure anxiety as they searched desperately for the Ritz crackers.  Sadly, I often feel just like these poor souls when I go grocery shopping in Shekou.

I mainly do my grocery shopping at three or four different shops.  “Why so many?” you may be wondering. I find to make one meal I usually have to go to at least two shops to get what I need. 

For vegetables and basic pantry staples I go to the Chinese grocery store, Ren Ren Le.  After I got over the pushing and shoving, I found it a decent place to shop.  I try to stay away from the meat counter and the live fish corner, but besides that it is an inexpensive place to get basic items.  I really like the yogurt called “Classy Kiss.” For a country that isn’t known for its dairy, this stuff is pretty good.  I especially recommend the Chinese date flavored. 

There is a great shop next door to Ren Ren Le that I call “The Nut Guy.” He offers nuts, seeds and dried fruits in bulk.  They are quite tasty and make the best trail mixes. 

 I get my fruit at this cute little fruit market on the corner near the store.  They are really proud of their fruits and always have REALLY loud pop-music playing.  I kind of love it.  They always offer tastes of their fruit and suggest new things to try.  They introduced me to a melon I refer to as “rugby melon” and I’ve been a loyal customer ever since.  (I call it rugby melon because I don’t know what it is in Chinese. Besides, it’s rugby ball shaped and it was in season during the Rugby World Cup, so rugby melon it is.) 

In order to get “western” items I have to go to a western style grocery store.  Luckily I live very close to a few.  If one store doesn’t have an item I’m looking for, like sour cream let’s say, I go to the next one…then the next… then possibly another… then I get on my scooter and go to a store that’s about a five minute ride away.  It can be very frustrating to try to cook a recipe when you can’t find one stinking ingredient.

Even so, if they have the ingredient in stock, it can be quite the task to actually find it.  Back in the states, the aisles are so nicely organized.  You want black beans? Well, you’ll find them in either the Mexican aisle or the canned foods aisle with the other beans!  Spaghetti sauce? Why that would be found in the Italian section!  Oh, how I long for a grocery store that is organized in a logical way!  Salsa?  You’ll find that next to the spaghetti sauce.  They’re both red.  Logically, they should be next to each other.  Black beans.  Those are made by Progresso, so you will find them in the soup section.  Duh.   Marmite?  Next to the honey. 

But wait; let’s put things in perspective here.  I don’t read Chinese.  Can you imagine the mess I’d make of a Chinese grocery store if I were given the task of organizing it?  I’m sure I’d consider moving the peanut butter out of the soy sauce aisle. And then where would we be? Chaos I tell you.

I dream of the days when I find a recipe I like, I can just go to the grocery store and get the items I want.  And probably even have a few different brands to choose from.  Maybe I should even offer my services as a personal grocery shopper, just so I can savor simple shopping as often as possible.  Watch out Hy-Vee and Price Chopper. I’ve got my eye on you too, Whole Foods!

Duped

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I have no room to complain.  I moved here and I didn’t bother to learn the language.  I have picked up a few choice phrases. I can order food, direct a cab (If I actually know where I’m going), say hello and thank you, and with a little effort and counting of fingers, I can decipher numbers.  But my inability to speak Mandarin combined with my humble Midwest upbringing marks me as a fairly good target for being fleeced. 

When I first moved here, I ended up paying something like three times the regular fare to the ferry terminal.  I didn’t know my numbers yet, didn’t know a normal rate, and was too scared to argue with the man.  I handed over the wad of cash and grumbled my way to the ferry terminal.  When I finally calculated how much I actually spent on that ride, I was down right mad at myself.  That would be the last time I’d be duped, by golly!

Right.

Enter Luohu.

Luohu is a shopping center on the border with Hong Kong.  It has cheap “replica” purses, wallets, clothing, shoes, art, luggage, etc.  “Missy, missy, want Gucci, Prada? Just looking?” 

Nothing at Luohu has a set price.  It is adjustable, meaning you bargain.  Bargaining is a sport at Luohu.  Many factors affect the base price.  If you are western, you get the western price.  To which you always reply, “That’s too expensive” and walk away.  At that point, the games begin. 

“Okay, what will you pay?”

Back and forth the bargaining goes. 

“I am local; I live in Shenzhen. I have many friends.  You give me a good price, I’ll send many people to your shop.” 

Phrases like, “Best price, special price for you, top quality” are hurled at you to try and make you stumble and accept the price. The Holy Grail is when you walk away and they run down the hallway after you, grab your arm (yes, they grab you) and say quietly, “Okay”. 

A general rule is if you pay 50% or less of the price that they initially quote you, you’ve done okay. I shoot for 60% off. Experts get up to 70%. 

Truly, I am terrible at bargaining.  I believe the lines.  I trust that they really are giving me a “special price.” I don’t want to offend them by offering a price that is too low.  Basically, I just get exhausted with the process and end up paying way too much for poor quality merchandise.  Some people I’ve gone with are ninja’s at bargaining.  I learned quite a lot about the process, but I’m still a grasshopper when it comes to this.

A tell tale sign that you are getting worked over is when the shopkeepers switch to speaking in Cantonese … just in case the white girl speaks Mandarin.  Last weekend, I went and had Boc Choi, my scooter fixed.  The shop owner replaced a spark plug (which I’m 90% certain it didn’t need) and did a little tuning up of the motor.  He turns to the other guy in the shop and starts speaking in Cantonese before he turns to me and asks in Mandarin for 20 RMB.  Now I know 20 kwai is only $3.00 for parts and labor, but still.  I’m pretty sure if I spoke Mandarin or Cantonese the price would have been half or even on the house. 

The coup de grace occurred after paying rent the other day.  I went to pay for my tax receipt (fapiao) and saw an advertisement for MY apartment hanging on the outer window of the rental agency. It was my exact apartment with the crazy yellow walls and everything and it was advertised for 1000 RMB less than what I am paying!  Seriously!  Have I really been swindled into paying an extra $150 a month for the past six months?  I ran the situation past my teaching assistant who basically said that it is an advertising strategy that many agencies use.  They advertise an apartment that is no longer available to get people to inquire and come into the business.   Well that explains the advertisement, but it doesn’t explain the price.  What do I do with this knowledge?  Part of me, the Midwest part of me, wants to just leave it be. I don’t want to trouble anyone. It’s my own fault; I agreed to the rent.  Andrea, accept you’re a rube and suck it up.

But then there is the other part of me.

The part who has lived in China for six and a half months.

The part who was hoodwinked by a taxi driver.

The part who was fooled into paying entirely too much for a purse.

The part who knows that every single price quoted to me is raised just because I’m from the U.S.

And that part of me is pissed.

Xīn nián kuài lè!

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Monday, January 23^rd will mark the official beginning of the Year of the Dragon, but the preparations have been in full swing for weeks now.  This is a really big deal. Last night we celebrated "China Day" at our school.  There were games, dancers, acrobats, face changers, lion and dragon dancers and amazing Chinese food.  It was a super event.

For the past few weeks auspicious decorations and symbols have been popping up over night.  Lanterns have been hung, plant sellers are hawking beautiful potted plants, and mandarin oranges are everywhere. Last night, while walking to work (yes, I worked on a Saturday night) I witnessed a musically coordinated light display that sang, “Xīn nián kuài lè!” to the tune of “Happy Birthday.”  It was something to behold. All of these displays have meaning of their own, but in truth I think the singing lights display was just delicious tackiness.

Before Christmas break, we were given a primer about Chinese New Year from the Chinese staff at our school. Rachel taught us the basic ins and outs of the season… mainly so we westerners don’t do something totally culturally insensitive.  We discussed lucky numbers, red envelopes and the appropriate amount to give ayis and doormen for a New Year’s bonus.  I for sure wouldn’t want to give Zhou a big fat envelope of bad luck for the New Year. 

[Side note:  During this presentation I also learned that it is bad luck to talk about things being broken or not working during New Year.  The conundrum I am facing is that Boc Choi (my scooter) is currently out of commission.  So, do I go get it fixed (and possibly spread bad luck) or do I just hold tight till the end of New Year celebrations?  So far, I’m going with being culturally sensitive and Boc Choi is staying parked. ]

In the PowerPoint, she also shared pictures of the mass exodus that happens during the week of the New Year.  It is intensely important for everyone to return home and be with family for the celebration.  Madeline, one of our Chinese teachers, spent 30 hours on a train to see her family.  People spend days in lines to buy train tickets. And these are not tickets for seats; these are tickets to get on the train.  After that, the space that you claim as your own is up to you.  Madeline spent something like 16 hours standing on one train before she found a seat.  So, when you complain about road traffic or lines at the airline ticket counters, think of sweet little Madeline crammed in the upper corner of a sleeping berth of a train.  What amazing dedication they show to their families. 

This year marks the Year of the Dragon, a very auspicious sign.  This year is the year to be born and the Chinese are taking this quite literally.  There are SO MANY pregnant women!  It seems like every Chinese woman of child bearing age (who doesn’t already have one child…) is pregnant right now.  In fact, a friend reported that if you want to have a baby in the Year of the Dragon, you would be hard pressed to find a place to give birth; all of the rooms in all of the hospitals in Hong Kong are already booked for the entire year.  I’m no demographer, but I’d predict a surge in population this year in Asian countries.  Just a hunch.

Meanwhile, just as the fireworks hit their zenith, I will be meandering through the Philippines.  I board a plane for Manila the Saturday before the New Year.  I will come back about five days after the New Year, but the party will still be in full swing.  Fireworks should last until the Lantern Festival which the 15^th day of the celebration.  I’ve been told to expect very little sleep until then as the fireworks are deafening and come at regular interval throughout the night.  Gotta keep those evil spirits at bay.  At least the week in the Philippines will be restful!

Happy New Year All!

I Heart HK

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 A little primer for those not up to snuff on the geography and culture of Hong Kong. 

Hong Kong is comprised of many islands and a peninsula that juts off Mainland China.  Victoria harbor divides the peninsula (Kowloon) from the main island (Hong Kong Island).  When you picture the hustle and bustle of Hong Kong, this is the place you are picturing. However, just outside of the frenetic quarters of Central, SoHo, Tsim Sha Tsui, Kowloon, and Wan Chai you find beautiful hiking trails, camping sights and beaches. 

Culturally speaking, Hong Kong is a completely different world. Technically, it is under the control of the Peoples’ Republic of China (PRC), but it’s citizens have much more political freedom than the rest of the Mainland.  The people who live in Hong Kong speak Cantonese and English and consider themselves Hong Kongers or Cantonese, not Chinese. 

So, why do I love this place so much?

It’s not China.

Again, I don’t hate China. But seriously think about this:  Imagine a completely different country, where they have more resources than your country.  There is more freedom there.  You understand the language and their manners are familiar.  The transportation is accessible and there is a lot to see and do.  Stylish clothing (in your size) and delicious foods are readily available.  Oh yeah, and there are western men there who speak English… often with British accents. You can see that country from your office window and it’s only a 45 min. ferry ride away.

Yeah, you’d love this place too.

When I go to Hong Kong, I relax.  Which seems counter-intuitive for such a frantic and crazy city.  I don’t know how it happens, but as I walk down the gangplank of the ferry I get a skip in my step.  I smile quite uncontrollably.  I’m sure the Hong Kong immigration officials think I’m crazy, but I know that on the other side of that yellow line on the floor is Hong Kong. 

As I exit the ferry terminal, I am swept up into the swirling mass of people that is Central Hong Kong.  This is truly a part of the city where you have to literally go with the flow.  I always imagine myself as a part of a huge dance and everyone has moves to follow.  If I know where I’m going, I take my prescribed route and dance my way through the crowds.  If I’m not quite sure where I’m headed I mimic the moves of others and keep my eyes open for my destination knowing that if I get lost, I can ask for directions.  Generally people understand English and are helpful.   

On the outset, Hong Kong looks to be complete chaos.  The sheer number of people completely overwhelmed me on my first visit.  This is one of the most densely populated cities in the world and when trying to work you way through Central on a weekend day, you feel it.  But there is order to the chaos.  There are manners and rules to be followed here.  There are laws against spitting on the sidewalks.  People wish you a good day. People queue up for subway tickets.  Cars allow pedestrians to cross the street.  On escalators, people stand on the right and walk on the left.  It’s orderly.  And for me, there is such peace found in that order.

Yesterday I headed to Hong Kong for a hike with a group of co-workers and their kids.  After taking a ferry, a subway and a bus, I found myself on the side of the island opposite from the crazy pace of Central.  We hiked up to a ridge trail called Dragon’s Back.  On one side of the trail you could see Big Wave Beach and the outer islands of Hong Kong. On the other side was the upscale town of Stanley and it’s beaches.  With views like these, we were inspired to dream up plans of retirement on the island of Hong Kong. We ended our hike in the sleepy beachside town of Shek O.  We found our way to the beach (I see a trip to the beach in my future, when its warmer) and ate lunch in an adorable little café where the food was homemade and fantastic.  I had a lime ale made with freshly squeezed lime and ginger juice.  Amazing.

A short but twisty double decker bus ride returned us to the bus station and chaos of city life.  All of this in the span of about 7 hours. Heck of a day trip.

Shenzhen is not glamorous, but it is home.  As I left the ferry terminal in Shekou, I was not swept up into any mass of people.  I slowly meandered home, stopping to buy some DVDs and say, “Ni hao” to the homeless man with no legs. This time, no one spit in my direction and I didn’t have to dodge any buses as I crossed the street. I was greeted by one of my doormen, the one who always says, “Ni hao” and “You’re welcome (in Chinese of course).” So yeah, until my next trip to HK, this’ll do.