Over the Arctic Ocean and through the Hudson Bay...

And here I am in Washington DC almost 30 hours after leaving Jinan this morning…or was that yesterday morning? These long journeys amaze me. Poof! Its as if I snuck up on the other side of the world to see if it was still in motion. It is.

As I walk down the terminal, I am convinced that my Mom has been waiting at Reagan National ever since she dropped me off nine months ago. She comes back to life the very moment I lay eyes upon her. We hug to confirm each other’s warm living bodies. With similar astonishment, she examines me and asks, “Did you really just come from China? I can’t believe it! All that way.” Hugs and more hugs. We wait at baggage claim and I make stories out of nothings that happened on my flights. I characterize passengers and tilt my head subtly across the conveyor belt in their direction.

The journey was pleasantly uneventful. Meals, movies, screaming infants, travel documents, flotation devices and oxygen masks. For my own safety, and the safety of those around me, I dutifully watch the flight attendant’s demonstrations. I nod in all the right places hoping to give her encouragement as everyone else flips through the in-flight magazines and fiddles with carry-on luggage throughout her presentation. I wonder if she is annoyed that no one is listening and she will have to explain it all again in the event of an emergency. Only then, everyone will be panicking and she will think to herself, I told you to listen the first time, but did you? No.

Its nearly 1 am here and I am determined to get myself on this time zone pronto. We have quite a week ahead. All in honor of this unique lady who I call Mom:

Leaving on a Jetplane in seven hours

In a few days, I will watch my Mom receive a Presidential Award for Excellence in Mathematics and Science Teaching---the nations highest honor for mathematics and science teaching. My brother, aunt and uncle will all be there to join the weeklong celebrations in Washington DC. I am over the Earth with pride.
Seriously. Check this out.

Please remember me

Yesterday I bid farewell to my nurses. Belinda, another foreign teacher at Shanda, is going to replace me. It was a convenient transaction for a number of reasons. I have family coming for two weeks in May, I want to leave ASAP in June, and she needs some extra cash to ship her freight back to Finland this summer.

There were a few tears shed when we said our goodbyes. I sensed they felt slightly abandoned. A girl came up to me as I was leaving the classroom, “Why are you leaving? Our English is so poor?”

Heavens no! That’s not the whole reason.
I do think they will see more improvement under Belinda's instruction. She has been teaching English for 20 years.

The skits, activities and games I presented were designed to get them thinking on their own and give them a break from the usual books and drilling. But my plans somewhat backfired. I did not factor into the equation that it’s a lot easier to curl your eyelashes when you are working in a small group instead of repeating words after the teacher.
And its also much easier to text someone or pluck your arm hairs when you are supposed to be watching another group present a role-play. It felt like I gave them in inch and they took a mile.

They really are precious, though:














I took some photos and then they took some photos.

I think I have been preparing for this for a long time

They say there are two types of people in Jinan: those who have been in a bike accident and those who will be in a bike accident. Josh is now the former.
Easter Sunday started calmly enough, but when the phone rang at 5:45pm—30 minutes after Josh was due home—the day took a frantic turn.
It was Josh, “I’ve been in a bike accident.”
I gasped as my mind flashed through a dozen dreaded scenarios.

Where to begin? Josh and I have our own bikes. Nice bikes. Gears, shocks, working brakes, shiny paint, you name it. Our bikes stand out just as much we do and we are usually the fastest moving wheels on these congested streets. Very convenient, but potentially dangerous.

In this land where bicycles are built for two, men can be seen ferrying a dainty lady friend gingerly seated over the back wheel with a hand gently placed on the tummy of her partner, legs dangling off to the side. Josh has a need for speed, so his lady friend can be found 25 meters behind him.

Cut to the Easter dinner. I walk into a banquet room full of mingling foreigners and announce:

“Josh was in an accident.” (Pause for group to gasp) “He was on the bike path and hit by a car. A big car.” (Pause for group to shriek).

Caught up in the frenzy of newly concerned Christians, I forgot to mention that Josh said he wasn’t hurt and didn’t even sound all that shaken on the phone.

When Josh walked in to the dining room, I dramatically threw my arms around his neck. We all gathered around while he told us the real story:

“I wasn’t hurt at all. I was only hit by a motorcycle cart. Really, it was nothing.”

With Josh’s speedy ways established, I'd like to one thing make clear: The accident was not his fault. Not even in the slightest. The driver of a large cart-towing motorcycle is to blame. As Josh sped home along the bike path, a blue cart-towing motorcycle roared out of an alley and into Josh’s bike. Miraculously, Josh pushed himself off the back of the bicycle and watched as a reckless cart-towing motorcycle driver mangled the front wheel of his bike!

The man on the cart-towing motorcycle was a bad driver, but a good guy. He immediately stopped his cart-towing motorcycle and apologized. Next he took Josh’s bike across the street to a man with tools who fixes bikes and waited as the man with tools who fixes bikes fixed Josh’s bike. While Josh, and the cart-toting motorcycle driver waited for the man with tools who fixes bikes to fix the bike, I was at Easter dinner telling everyone about the big car that hit Josh.

I swear, I thought a car hit him.

Jinan Couture

The fashion sense in Jinan is undoubetdly unique. Basically anything goes.
What you might not even wear to a Mismatch Party is in vogue in Jinan.

This is the first in a series of entries introducing the highlights of Jinan fashion to you. Here is a taste of what the ladies are buying:
























Today's What's hot?:

The color Mustard is very hip with the ladies right now. Mustard pants, boots, tops and sleeve garters and assorted accessories...















Coming soon:

• More on sleeve garters
• black ankle socks and white high heels
• The "bloated pants" and acid wash denim jacket
• Mens fashion

J'adore China

Seems like there have been a lot of tears in my recent posts. Here are some photos to reassure you that I very much like the China! There's a lot around here that puts a smile on my face. Everyday, I am discovering things I will miss about this crazy life in China. [And one of Tui, because I think its so funny when her lip gets stuck like that! Happy Easter!]

































Birthday twins.













Josh's students.

Happy Easter!

Courtesy of DRevov 2005

Something to think about

Below is a thought-provoking and eloquent response to This Woman from Jake B. Following that is Josh B's response to Jake. I'm interested in any other thoughts anyone might have on the matter.

Jake B. wrote:

I would think of it not so much as her bragging, but rather her being extremely pleased that she made, with one set of customers, what it would likely otherwise have taken her a good four or five hours (at least) to make. Alternatively, you could think of it in terms of the number of street lunches she will, in turn, be able to buy for herself (her kids?) for the next week or so. Don't forget that, howevermuch it seems as though it isn't on a day-to-day basis, you're in a communist country. It might not be so much that she was charging 5 RMB for the coconuts because she thought she could get it from Waiguoren, but that you paid 5 RMB for coconuts because you could afford to. You know your budget while you're there. Did a fiver for a coconut seem too high? If so, don't pay it. If it didn't until you overheard the lady's reaction, then it probably wasn't too high. After all, not a whole lot of Westerners get the opportunity to drink coconut milk straight from the coconut while they walk down the street in an Asian city as complex as Jinan, and there are fewer of us still who get the opportunity to write about it on a blog for the equivalent of about seventy cents, US.As I recall, about three years ago the going rate for a glass of Pepsi at the TGI Friday's in Beijing was 12 RMB, of which I'd bet about 1 mao goes to the waiter that served it to you. Who's more deserving of the "tsk:" street-vendor lady and her coconut drink, or Fridays?Of course, if she made her remark in a condescending sorta way, I find that returning the next day and dropping 20 RMB or so into the can of the one-legged guy playing the erhu next to her cart, then throwing her a wink does the trick.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake, your reply is appreciated. I freely admit that your spin on the coconut event is definitely the broader view of the issue. You're right, Betsy and I are from wealthy families in a wealthy country. Most foreigners in China are pretty privileged folks, if they weren't they wouldn't have been able to afford the plane ticket. Even as foreign teachers living in China, we are paid a kingly sum for work that is not all that difficult or skilled (it is skilled in the hands of some teachers moreso than others). A woman who sells coconuts on the street in China was dealt a poorer hand in life, no doubt about that. 5 RMB means a helluvah lot more to her than to us. However, I don't think it's difficult to understand (rationalize?) our feelings about the matter.
Bets and I are, afterall, American. In the context of our own culture, charging one person more for an item based on their race, sex, nationality, ignorance etc. doesn't sit all that well in our collective stomach. Imagine a store owner in Cincinnati who didn't advertise his prices so he could charge white people more than blacks. What do we think about credit card companies who give cards with astronomical interest rates to college kids who don't know any better, even if they are rich? But, granted, Betsy and I live in China by choice. If we weren't in the mood to leave our own cultural beliefs at the door we wouldn't be here. But a good number of Chinese I know aren't particularly fond of the mercurial pricing in this country, either.

Perhaps all of this is not the point anyways. If there were a 10 or 15% increase in pricing across the board for foreigners, I'd complain about it but wouldn't resist. A woman who sets up her shop in a touristy area and advertises a price 50% higher than the price in the country, I can see that. That's the market at work, and how communist is China really? But I've seen Chinese students who help their foreign friends with bargaining get vehemently cursed by vendors who were asking a 200% mark up. I've noticed sly smiles and little giggles from shopkeepers who knew they were fleecing a tourist, they rarely look you in the eye. The behavior just seems a little underhanded to me. It doesn't feel like I'm paying a little extra to help balance the economic inequity of the world, the vendor and I both know I'm getting cheated. The many vendors who charge me a fair price and look at me with warm eyes, they have my business for the entire two years I'm in China. That woman will never sell me a coconut again.

This Woman

THIS WOMAN couldn't wait the three seconds for us to walk out of earshot before she bragged about how much she charged us for a coconut!
It was our first coconut, so we didn't know what price to expect. We handed over the 5 RMB (more than 50 cents) and turned to stroll away sipping sweet coconut milk. Just as we turned our backs I heard her exclaim, "Five RMB!!!" (in the same tone one uses to exclaim, "Suckerzz!!") to the pineapple guy. At that moment I turned and saw her face---she looked pretty satisfied with herself.

I heard a loud "tsk!" come out of my mouth. She looked over at me and instantly morphed into a 9-year-old girl about to get into trouble. I didn't say anything more, I just raised my finger--mouth still hanging open-- and pointed at her before I turned to walk away. Of course a minute later, a winning comeback came to me!

Boy am I ready for the next time!

Severing ties too soon

Last week, an emotional breakdown brought my beauty shop visits to a grinding halt.
There I was lying on my back as a young woman massaged my face with beautifying lotions and potions. My eyes were closed and I was drifting into deep relaxation, but acutely aware that four or five women standing nearby were talking about me. I know this because I heard, “She doesn’t understand” several times.
Suddenly there was tapping on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to find a box in front of my chin and a sales pitch for some aromatherapy kit followed. The price was outrageous, tailored to a foreigner’s wallet. I smiled and said, “No thank you, not today”. At this they looked very disappointed. One persistent woman knelt down close to my face and spoke so quickly I couldn't understand a word. “No, I don’t want it.”

She began to jab at my face-- my forehead, my cheek, my chin. Presumably she was explaining why I need whatever is in this box. At this point, they were all looking down at me frustrated at my unwillingness to comply. Each “Sorry, I don’t want it”, prompted them to reconvene and intensify the pitch. More jabbing. More words I don' know.

To discourage them, I closed my eyes. And then I felt my face wrinkle and harden. My eyes became moist under my eyelids and tears were trying to push their way out. Damn! They slid out and formed two small puddles in the corners of my eyes. Then, puddles overfull, the tears began to roll down my cheeks. I heard a woman inhale sharply. She alerted the others. The word spread fast. I closed my eyes tighter, but I could feel that a crowd had drawn around me. I could sense everyone’s confusion, especially my own. I felt someone blotting my tears with a towel. A woman spoke softly into my ear, “No problem. No problem”.
I choked out “I had a bad day”--a lie--and then I heard those words passed through the room in whispers. “She said she had a bad day.” I imagined watching myself from above, this extra large foreign woman laying on her back crying for no apparent reason. And at the embarrassment of this, the tears began to push themselves up and out faster.
Finally the room was quiet and I could breathe. With such a limited vocabulary, I found myself saying, “I don’t know why”.

After a half hour of silence, my facial was finished and my eyes were dry. I sat up to put on my shoes. Everyone was quiet, glancing at me sideways. I imagined they were thinking, “Don’t say anything. The foreign woman might cry again.”

My plan was to go back a week later and try to explain myself, so I asked my tutor, Sharon, to help me construct some sentences. After I told Sharon the whole story, she looked at me quizzically and said, “I think its best you just don’t go back. ”

Big minds, little board

Last night Maceo brought his chessboard down. Though I have played chess only a handful of times, I feel very comfortable in the presence of chessboards. I used to hang around at chess tournaments and watch my brother, Jake, compete. Or, more likely, play outside with the other little chess brothers and sisters. Despite Jake's efforts to mold me into a worthy enough opponent, I never did stay on the board long enough for him to practice the moves and strategies he read about.

He did get my Dad into the game, though. At the time, my Dad flew international flights for Delta Airlines and over the space of a few years Jake accumulated some 10 unique chessboards from maybe five or six different countries. As for my Dad, he stuck to the portable electronic boards in which you played against the computer. I remember he once told me, “Bets, flying is a breeze. After takeoff, I put the autopilot on and play chess until its time to land.”

Hospital or Hot Zone?

The sore throat is back and this time it’s angry. The real trouble is that I turn my entire mind and body over to its strangling grip of death. All I seem to want to do about is cry. Cry that I am in pain, cry that nothing helps, cry that I can’t decide whether or not I should miss work, cry that I feel guilty if I do. Enough already!

Last night something gave me hope. Josh and I had dinner with our friends Willa and Harmony. Willa is from Guangzhou and Harmony is from San Diego. They have lived together in Jinan for a few years now. Harmony is blonde with blue eyes and she speaks impeccable Chinese. Not only that, but the woman drives a seriously hard bargain. The standard price for eggs around here is 1.5 RMB/500g and when Harmony was quoted 1.7 RMB, she raised hell! I love to be with her in times like these, just to see the looks on people’s faces. We stroll around appearing to be the dopey foreigners, and then Harmony opens her mouth and jaws drop. I like to imagine that onlookers presume me to be just as savvy.

At dinner last night, after I mentioned my throat pain, Willa told me that there was too much heat in my body from over consumption of “hot foods”. Together Willa and Harmony went on to explain which foods were “hot”, which foods were “cold” and why it was so important to keep the yin (cold) and yang (hot) in balance.

Too many hot foods (chicken, onion, garlic, ginger, oats, apples, sweets) will give you a sore throat, a mild fever and night sweats, so many Chinese are careful to balance their diet with cold foods (lightly cooked vegetables, many fruits, tofu). There seems to be a little bit of debate over which category some foods fall under.

Indeed, the symptoms of too much yang in my diet fit me to a T, but just where did all that yang come from?
Up until last night, my knowledge of that black and white circle was pretty limited. In the sixth grade, Lizzy Brown and I bought a necklace set and each wore a half of the symbol.
In the seventh grade, when Pogs swept through Albuquerque, it was the yin yang symbol that decorated the top of my “slammer”. Other than that, I hadn’t ever given yin or yang much thought.

At last we discovered the source of heat. A couple of weeks ago, the city streets saw a small change: the baked sweet potatoes vendors disappeared and pineapple vendors took their places. Now, you can’t walk two blocks around here without passing a glass case full of pineapples peeled, quartered and skewered onto sticks. And I haven’t gone a single day without a slice of pineapple since they arrived. As soon as I said “pineapple”, Harmony and Willa smiled at each other. Together they looked across the table at me, and shared, “pineapple is very hot.”

I became an instant believer and felt a whole new world of knowledge had laid itself before me. It would become my mission to master the balance and release myself from an inflamed throat, among other ailments, once and for all.
Last night, I went to sleep hopeful and dreamt of cold foods.

At 4am, I woke up in agony. There was no chance of getting back to sleep and I desperately needed the kind of distraction that only the Internet can provide. I started with one of my favorite blogs, and followed one link to another to another and next thing I know, I’m reading about the sink in Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown’s “crack den”.

To get me through my morning class, I devoured two packages of lozenges. Seconds after the last one had disappeared in my mouth; I knew the tears weren’t too far off. Once home, I lunched on cold foods and continued to fight off the tears.
It wasn’t until Josh suggested that I go for a run to get my mind off the pain that the floodgates came unlatched. I nearly bit the poor man’s head off and then gave in to the tears of my mounting self-pity.

At last, with the urging of my Mom via MSN chatting, I decided to go to the hospital and have a Strep test. So quickly I had given up on the healing power of cold foods and yearned for my familiar antibiotic drugs. I roused a Chinese-speaking friend and hailed a cab to the hospital.

The hospital was a real run-around. In amidst the crowds of people, many of which, to my horror, were smoking, we ran up and down flights of stairs. We paid at one window, collected forms from another, and turned in forms at still a different window on a different floor.

At last, in a long crowded hallway, I hopped up into a dentist type chair and, with an oversized Popsicle stick restraining my tongue, and said “Ahhh”. Comfortingly, all tools were sterilized for a few moments over an “antifog machine” before they entered my mouth. The doctor pulled some matter out of my throat with long tweezers and declared that I had an infection. The specifics of which were lost in translation.
After her conclusion, I produced an enormous bottle of Amoxicillin from my pocket, wondering if she might tell me that’s what I need to be taking. But she was unable to recognize the name on the label and wrote me a new prescription. After standing in a new line in front of a new window, I collected my medicine. In amidst all the Chinese characters, it read “Amoxicillin Capsules”.
And with two of those capsules down the hatch, I just know the end is in sight.

A Sizable Cultural Difference

In February, our friend’s’ dad was visiting from Michigan. He is a rather large man and attracted more than the usual attention a foreigner can expect around Jinan. One morning, we went out to brunch at a nice hotel. A woman at a nearby table watched us. Despite our 'Okay, yep. That’ll do' glances in her direction, she continued to stare. Midway through our brunch, she walked over to our table, looked at Michigan and said, “I can help you”. She handed him a leaflet with before and after photos of people who had shed a considerable amount of weight. The woman lingered for a moment smiling at Michigan. He put his hand up and waved her away with a “No thanks, I am only visiting.” I wanted to reach up and sock her.

Recently I attended a culinary contest with a larger foreign teacher from Tennessee. Tennessee reached out to shake the hand of a Chinese chef. Chef shook Tennessee’s hand with his right, and reached for a handful of Tennessee’s midsection with his left. Chef nodded and smiled wide eyed. “Yes, I’m fat. I know.” Tennessee sighed in a manner that suggested to me this was not a new experience.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with Bonnie from the Jinan TV station and a student. As dinner was winding down, Bonnie reached out with her chopsticks to pluck some sliced pork off a dish. “Make sure to keep fit,” said my male student who was watching her.
My eyes bulged, What?!?
Bonnie nodded and then turned to me, “If a woman is overweight, but she is beautiful, what word can you use to describe her?”
“Uhh, ‘beautiful’.”
Bonnie laughed at this, “Chubby?”
“Nooo… just ‘beautiful’.”
She still looked disbelieving. Finally, I offered up ‘curvy’, but tried to explain that we wouldn’t necessarily choose an altogether separate adjective in this case.

My students’ favorite adjective is ‘beautiful’.
Your bike is so beautiful. Do you think this restaurant is beautiful? I like your camera; it’s beautiful.
I told them that, in America, "beautiful" was reserved for someone or something truly breath-taking and they were shocked.
Is that right? Don’t we usually use “great”, or “pretty”, or “nice”? I associate "beautiful" with exotic models, or girls headed off to senior prom.

I told my class the story of Michigan and going out to brunch. I explained that even though it was clear this Chinese woman was sincere in her offer to help, that kind of thing would never fly in America. If you approached someone who was trying to enjoy a meal with a line like "I can help you", you’d be asking for a knuckle sandwich. Again, they were surprised.

“We are very sensitive about our weight in America and unless you are well acquainted with someone, it is extremely rude to comment on his or her size. And even if you are well acquainted, it’s a very delicate subject.”

This year I've heard my students make a number of remarks about each other’s weight that we would never tolerate. It has gotten me to wondering if one way is better than the other. To ignore and avoid as we do in the West? Or to open up the subject for comments and discussion as is done here in China?
Could this difference be a contributing factor into why we are curvier than the Chinese?
I would be very interested to hear what you think. (Comments!!)

This class discussion led into one about offensive words pertaining to people with disabilities. Jinan is the largest city I have ever lived in, perhaps even visited, and yet it is extremely rare to see someone who is disabled here. Wheelchair accessibility is virtually non-existent. At a university of 40,000, none of my students knew of a student who used a wheelchair. They very frankly told me that those with any kind of disability go to different schools, and don’t go to universities at all. They said people with disabilities “just stay home.” I tried to hide the shock on my face.
It was the matter-of-factness with which they spoke that disturbed me a little. Of course, what they say might not be the whole story.
I think it would be interesting to meet a radical and outspoken Chinese. Someone who is outraged, and unwilling to comply! Like one of those 4 million “protesty” Kiwis!

A Day for Lovers

A special event took place at Qianfoshan (1000 Buddha mountain) yesterday, Qianfoshan Shanhui. Thousands gathered for the sole purpose of making a love connection. At the foot of the mountain flowed a sea of single people (and parents ready with attractive photographs) looking for a match. I don’t think Single’s Functions’get much bigger than that. Some of my students said they’d be heading there after class.
On the first day of class this term, many of my male students expressed that they want to find a girlfriend this year—a task made even more difficult by the unbalanced ratio of men to women. I’ve heard that there are some 16 million more men in China.

As far as I can tell, my university students are stressed out in just about every possible capacity. A fiercely competitive job market ramps up the stress level at university. And out of that environment, it seems to me that a number of students have developed a proclivity for cheating. During the final examination last term, I had at least one incident of cheating in each of my seven classes. A dictionary hidden under the desk, a note passed, a whisper.

The suspicious behavior is not hard to detect; I can feel when a student has one eye locked on me. If someone’s mind is consumed with how they will go about the process of cheating instead of the exam itself, I can see it on his or her face. I dread having to make eye contact with that person.

If I had it my way, no one would ever take the risk, but I’ve seen it a number of times and had to give that look. At the very moment of eye contact the recipient’s entire body stiffens and the lungs pump a huge swell of air into the throat. Damn.

Yesterday, I was faced with one of these uncomfortable situations. Right now, my university students are giving oral presentations. I’ve allowed them to have a few notes to refer to, but made one thing perfectly clear: use your own words.

One of the quieter students who sits in the very back corner (where seven men cram into a row designed for four when there is plenty of space up near the front) came up to present.
“These are my thoughts,” he began timidly. And without taking his eyes off his notebook he described his various moods, “heavy”, “soulful”, “playful”...
His descriptions were beautiful in such a simple way that had me convinced he was secretly a very talented writer. I considered that he might be slightly embarrassed to reveal his talent in the presence of the back-row posse.
He continued, “As I write this, I am in my playful mood. I am like my kitten ready to pounce.”

When he finished, he shyly looked in my direction. With complete sincerity, I raised my eyebrows to show my delight and then very softly and sincerely mouthed the words, “That was beautiful.” I hoped that only he could hear me and that my comment wouldn’t cause him any embarrassment.
Before he returned to his seat, I said, “Wait there just a moment.” I stood up to ask the class, “Do you all know the word ‘pounce’?”
Their faces were (not uncommonly) blank, so I looked at the speaker and asked him to translate the word “pounce” into Chinese. He too looked at me blankly. “Pounce.” I said again, “You wrote about your kitten, ‘ready to pounce’.”
I nodded at him waiting for him to register which word I was talking about. His face wrinkled nervously. I began to walk towards him in order to point out “pounce” in the notes that he had written. I was expecting him to respond, “ooOOooh, pownts” in a Chinese accent, revealing to all that the misunderstanding had been because of the way I pronounced the word (the correct way). That kind of thing happens a lot in class.
When I reached him, I looked down at his notebook and gestured for him to open it back up. He did it very slowly and, as I now recognize, reluctantly. He opened his notebook to reveal a page torn from a book.

Our eyes met for a split second, then I awkwardly turned to the class and began to describe the action of pouncing. The whole class knew exactly what had just happened. Maybe my face told them, but I hoped not. I don’t even remember what I said for the next minute of class. My heart was pounding.
Looking back, I wonder why these kinds of things make me so awkward and incapacitated. I think it would all be different if I were dealing with students a couple years younger than myself.

When I taught at Nature’s Classroom, last year, my weakest point was discipline. But by the end of the year, I had learned a great deal and felt I’d made vast improvements in my classroom management. I was no longer giving off the "I invite and encourage you to walk all over me” vibe.
Unfortunately, I feel as though I can’t apply any of what I learned to manage the university students. I guess it just feels rude somehow.