The Golden Ticket

Day 1

On the day of our hospital trip, Dan and I chose a hospital using a Chengdu expat forum since we were unfamiliar with the hospitals in Chengdu. Then after lunch, we made our merry way with stool samples (placed in a very Asian-looking cookie box with cute little raccoons and bunnies decorating it which we then put inside an oversized H&M paper bag—I know, I know) to Huaxi Hospital, Chengdu’s biggest and most well-known hospital. In retrospect, choosing the largest and most popular hospital wasn't the brightest idea, but hey, it's all part of the adventure, right? All the while I was hoping the process would be direct and simple. In and out.

          We walked into Huaxi, and I thought for a second I was at Penn Station at 5:30 PM. Except instead of businessmen in crisp dress pants with glossy briefcases, Tibetans with elaborate, colorful patterned vests, dark brown skin, and messy hair were walking with purpose to their respective destinations. The part of Chengdu we were in, the Tibetan Quarter (or Little Lhasa), is populated by many Tibetans. The area is filled with monks and shops boasting Tibetan handicraft, furniture, and jewelry. Many backpackers pass through Little Lhasa as the last city on the mainland before they head into Tibet. The floor was unmistakably crowded, but not so packed I was constantly rubbing shoulders with people. I felt like a captured sand crab after being released back onto the sand—scuttling back and forth as I tried to orient myself and recover in a new world.

At the same time I was mesmerized by the whole damn thing and wanted to find out as much as I could about Chinese hospitals and the provision of health care. I've learned a little about Chinese medicine since I've been here. Chinese traditional is based on the idea that sickness is caused by a disruption to your 'chi'. 'Chi' translates to energy flow or life force, and when that flow moving through your body is disrupted you become ill. Chinese traditional medicine revolves around this idea that good health is achieved by maintaining harmony in your body. Ensuring harmony among the 5 bodily elements is another way to stay healthy. The Chinese believe your body represents 5 elements (water, fire, earth, metal, and wood) and if these components are not in equilibrium, then your body becomes sick like when your 'chi' is disrupted. The medicine you take is supposed to correct these imbalances, and help you overcome your illness. I was only scratching the surface though.

I absorbed the people, the limps, the crowded elevators and waiting people, the shuffle of feet, and the Tibetans. I couldn’t help notice how different the Tibetans look from the Han. Tibetans have darker skin-- even if they are from Chengdu where the sun is a rare sight-- and darker, thicker, and much more unkempt hair than the Han. Tibetan eyes also affect me differently from the Han's. Tibetan eyes are pure, piercing, and a striking coal black. The Han's Coca-Cola black eyes seem muddled and less penetrating.

There are distinct differences beyond physical appearance though. I observed this a month ago when I went to the Tibetan Quarter with my cousin, Carolyn, and Dan. Since that visit I have become fascinated with Tibetan art and its meaning and use in Tibetan life. The interior and exterior of the places they live, and the handicrafts that adorn their bodies and homes are all gorgeous. Their homes are decorated with delicately carved, painted wooden tables, ceramic bowls with heavy flowery patterns, and thangka paintings with ridiculous amount of detail. Everything from their lamps to the architecture of their homes is intricate in pattern and design, as well as energetic and bold in color. Art is an integral part of their culture; it's neither a separate entity nor a messy collision of the beautiful and the living. To the Tibetans art is more than a painting on a wall only appreciated when guests are over. Tibetans themselves are art. 

Once I had dinner with friends and colleagues at a Tibetan restaurant in the Tibetan Quarter where I met the most stunning woman. She was the owner of the restaurant, and although her face wasn't particularly beautiful or refined, she made me stop and stare. When she smiled I could see that a golden cap was fixed over one of her front teeth. Her necklace was clunky, fiery orange and red, and impressive in size and color. Her wrists were adorned with bracelets of Tibetan silver (apparently high-quality silver); I saw jade, turquoise, copper, silver, and a veiny red. Her silver earrings played soft music whenever she walked, and her butt-length thick black hair, tied in a simple ponytail at the nape of her neck, swayed with each step. Her body radiated the warmth of a rainbow. She was wearing a dark red long sleeved shirt with silver threading and an ankle-length skirt of mixed colors covered with gold spiraling designs. I marveled at her use of jewelry as art; the composition was stunning. She was a walking Dali (think Les Elephants).

The utility and pleasure Tibetans pursue and find in art is remarkable, but I know I digress. I bring up my fascination because most of the people in the hospital were Tibetans, adding another interesting element to the novelty of the experience.

The first floor was filled solely with windows-- hospital workers behind and lines of people waiting in front. The scene reminded me of the end of a day in a factory when everybody is punching out. The windows had various lettering on each, signifying the type of service that could be found at the window. Even knowing what the windows read, we were still unsure what our first step should be. We sought help from a nurse in white chatting happily with another fellow nurse. She instructed us to go to the 3^rd floor in rapid Chinese, but then suddenly decided to accompany us. Thankful, we parted ways on the 3^rd floor where there were several information service desks, people seated on plastic chairs, and one very long line leading to a closed double door. Dan could read from a sign that this was indeed the infection department. We chose an information desk and filled the receptionist in on our situation. She smiled in her tiny white paper hat and said we needed a number and that she couldn't give us one because she had run out of them. We didn't ask what the number was for; we figured it was a number for a queue like at the bank. After she told us where we could get tickets, we obediently took the escalator down to the 2^nd floor in search of them.

          On the 2^nd floor we found ourselves among a crowd of Chinese people elbowing their way to the front of a black marble countertop separating three hospital workers sitting at computers from a swarm of Chinese people (no line in true Chinese fashion). It was a fierce competition among the Chinese as they talked over one another in an attempt to get a worker to take care of them first. Other than this desk area, the rest of the floor was occupied by people walking to wherever they were supposed to be-- maternity ward, operation room, blood test site.

There was a regular exchange occurring at the countertop-- a person would hand over a plastic card to a worker who would swipe it and then entertain her computer. We were close to the countertop when I heard a familiar voice yelling directly in front of me, recognition and dread filled me almost instantly. Other than his voice, I could recognize my landlord from his oddly shaped head (think of a basketball with the top and bottom cut off). My landlord speaks in only one volume: LOUD. Dan and I exchanged knowing glances and silently moved to the other end of the countertop.

          Once we had captured the attention of a hospital worker wearing a blue face mask and sitting at a computer, we asked for a ticket, but once again we were sent away and instructed to go to a different floor. On the 1^st floor, we finally found several windows with green lettering that said “TICKETS”. We got on the shortest line. You'd think I was scouting for Willy Wonka's last golden ticket because of how difficult it was to find these tickets. Well, I didn't get the ticket, and I didn't get to see the inside of the chocolate factory because the woman behind the window told us we couldn’t see anyone today and that we’d have to come back tomorrow.

There we were in front of the hospital, holding a bag of poop, still infected, and confused. We decided to try a different hospital and after a quick call to my co-worker we left for the No. 363 Hospital. She recommended the hospital because it was a military hospital, which meant it had better health care than other hospitals, and because it wouldn’t be busy. Renewed hope filled me as I clutched the H&M bag on my lap and as the cab hurtled down the street, weaving in and out of cautious Chinese pedestrians. After a short cab ride, the driver pulled up in front of a hospital complex consisting of several numbered buildings (1 to 6). All the buildings were concentrated in an area roughly half the size of a football field, and I could see several trees peeking out from behind the scattered buildings.

There were only two windows in the entry building’s lobby. A man seated behind one told us to go to the main building to get a ticket. The walk to the main building took a minute; the inside looked like a mini-version of Huaxi with fewer people (still mostly Tibetan). There weren't many lines and some windows were completely open for service. At an empty window, a woman handed us two plastic cards (our tickets) and asked us to pay 18 yuan in total (less than $3). We forked over the colorful big money, and with our cards in hand, retraced our steps back to the previous building. We handed the man we had talked to before our plastic cards, prompting him to ask us what was wrong. Dan explained that we thought we had a parasitic infection which provoked a look of confusion on his face. He insisted that the hospital wasn't capable of treating our infection. I didn't believe hiim because I knew our type of infection was fairly common here, but we didn't argue, and instead we reluctantly left the main building. I didn’t want to give up just yet though.

I spotted a small building with glass walls next door that looked like the hospital's pharmacy, and convinced Dan to find out what the pharmacists knew. Inside the pharmacy, a pleasant, young female pharmacist told us that there was a 'laoshi' (teacher) who could help us on the 2^nd floor of the main building in Room 9. She added that today was the teacher's day off, but we could come back tomorrow when the teacher would be in. I had no idea why she kept using the word 'laoshi' instead of the word for doctor 'yisheng'. I found out later that you call a doctor a teacher if the doctor is also a professor. Regardless of what the man said, I was still skeptical of any information given to us because of what experience had taught me that day. We persisted and went to go see if she was indeed out today.

Dan and I walked to the 2^nd floor to look for Room 9, and when we found it we came face-to-face with the teacher’s smiling portrait next to a closed office door. A curious receptionist who had been eyeing us came up to us and informed us the teacher would be in tomorrow (finally coinciding information!). She suggested we talk to another doctor at the hospital in the meantime. She waltzed us right in a room where a doctor heard us out and told us that the teacher was better suited for diagnosing and treating our infection. She even mentioned seeds and nuts as a treatment, but we figured something had gotten lost in translation. We thanked her and left. Dan and I immediately cabbed to a Starbucks near our apartment where I stuffed my face with a walnut muffin and hazelnut hot chocolate. Parasite and all.

Invasion of the Parasite!!!

Day 0

        Dan and I’ve got problems. There's no need for alarm though (ahem, family members!). I'll be fine. It’s a common, but unusual (for me) health problem that could be fixed with a one-time pill.  I discovered a symptom that seemed all too familiar (won't say where) while I was at work, and called Dan in a panic. We shared each other's disgusted sentiments, promised we'd go to the hospital, and hung up the phone. Dan called me back later that day after making a similar discovery. I felt slightly better knowing my friend had a little friend too. We made a plan to go to the hospital the next week. After the call, I opened up Google and immediately typed in "____________", looking over my shoulder to make sure I could be horrified and in awe in solitude.

        I'm not going to tell you straight out what kind of infection I have because I'm half mortified and I half want to leave you guessing (the writer needs to have some fun too).

        All I’ll say is that I have a parasitic infection.

This End is Just a Beginning

Day 2

I handed the pharmacist the white slip of paper with the medicines and instructions the teacher had prescribed me. She had outlined the process in 4 easy steps:

1. Eat 100 grams of pumpkin seeds.
2. After 2 hours (once the pumpkin seeds are digested), add 60 grams of betel nut (a mild stimulant the Sanya locals often chewed) to water. Boil water, let cool, and drink.
3. Pour 20 grams of white crystal (I forget the Chinese name) into a cup of hot water. Drink.
4. Shit.

The pharmacist rummaged briefly in several plastic compartments that made up an entire wall until she found what she was looking for. She handed Dan and me 24 bags of Chinese sorcery and potions. I touched them gingerly in wonder and awe. I felt uncertain and nervous, but I was curious more than anything. I was practically a Chinese-traditional-medicine virgin (other than my bout with the cold), but regardless my teacher decided my journey would be Chinese traditional. Since we weren't opposed to the idea, we consented to taking the scenic route. We were in for the ride. There was no denying it though, the entire process, including the medicine, was so foreign and unusual, like a bizarre aquatic creature. I was accustomed to the simple Western solutions: take 1 tablet every 4 hours. But Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas anymore. That’s for sure. When in China do as the Chinese do.

The pharmacist was completely unaware of my slight anxiety in seeing weird white crystals and dried nuts as the answer to my health problem. She was interested more in the fact we were foreigners, and that the white one could speak decent Chinese. She casually tossed all 24 bags in two small plastic bags, tied them, and placed them on top of the glass display case containing more Chinese medicine. She explained each medicine, and the directions more thoroughly-- patiently responding to our questions. She ended the entire affair by praising Dan’s Chinese, an appropriate ending to our two-day ordeal. After all, it was his Chinese that maneuvered us through the affair, bringing us to the tiny pharmacy at the No. 363 hospital, and to the end of our trek through China's hospitals.

Mr. B

        I don't know how many 11 year olds I've met in my life. Can't say I remember the number or their faces, but this is all probably for good reason. Not too impressive those young'ns, mayhaps. B* is different though. B told me on the first day of class to call him Mr. B. B is fucking weird, and brilliant although I don't agree with all of his ideas. My disagreement is irrelevant because I still appreciate his theories and concepts of the world for someone who is still so young. Did I mention he's sick? Not sick physically, but in a twisted-mind-kind-of-way. He's obsessed with nuclear bombs (he brings them up every single class with a big grin on his face), and he has a non-conciliatory stance on the Chinese education system. And he's 11 years old. This is a guaranteed winning combination for the kind of class where one hour passes and you don't even notice because you're too absorbed in the direction that your student's mind is traveling in, and in his simple yet observant view of the world. I don't think I was ever that insightful at age 11. Mom... Dad?

        We were supposed to be discussing the lesson plan. Well, correction, as the teacher I was supposed to be following the lesson plan, but he's 11 years old and the lesson was on making appointments. Seriously? Regardless of his age, B* knows English better than most of the students at WEB, and I knew this lesson would neither be challenging nor interesting for him so I began asking him about his day and school.

        He's currently studying for this Olympic math test you need to take in order to go to high school. All students take this test and their score on this test eventually determines which high school they will be placed into. If you receive a high score, you'll be able to get into a great school, and vice versa: if you do poorly on the test, then you end up at a bad school. I obtained all this information from B. I asked him what makes a “bad school” a “bad school” and he told me that a “bad school” consists of bad teachers and bad students. Bad teachers are people with little to no experience. Good teachers have a lot of experience. Other than the level of experience B did not clearly distinguish the differences between good and bad teachers. Bad students are those individuals with no motivation, and kids who have “problems in the mind” (he's not referring to those who are mentally handicapped) since they show no intelligence, drive, or desire to learn. He went on to say that all the good students go to good schools.

        After he explained this I couldn't help but think the system was quite unfair. It seemed like a perpetual cycle in which students who perhaps need more inspiration and motivation are the ones who are receiving poor quality education. It seems to me that these “good teachers” are needed more in these “bad schools.” B disagreed wholeheartedly and said that “good teachers” simply couldn't teach bad students and that no one could motivate or inspire these bad students. Also, he said that good teachers only know how to teach good students, and don't know how to handle bad students. I scoffed and said that if a teacher was truly good then she should be able to teach anybody, and should try to inspire those who lack motivation.

        I ventured to ask him if he thought that a good score on this math test truly means that you are intelligent and a “good student.” He seemed to think so, even though I told him that some students perhaps need extra attention, aren't good test takers, or may learn at a different pace than other people which might result in them doing poorly on a test. I tried to tell him that a bad score for these individuals doesn't necessarily mean they're bad students or stupid. He understood my point, but he argued that China has way too many people to dish out individual, specialized attention to students who may need it. He went even further and agreed that what I might be saying could be somewhat valid, but argued that there is nothing you can do to change the system, and that's that. He said China's education system is purely based on examination scores, but he contradicted himself a little later and said the Chengdu education department is attempting to instill a quality education system to replace what they have now, which is an examination education system.

        Like I said before, the current system is based on examination scores, even at higher levels of education. For example, before you go to college you have to take an entrance exam which determines which school you'll be able to go, as well as your major. YUP, your major. The better you do on the examination, the more major options you'll be able to choose from. Some people aren't so fortunate and get stuck with obscure majors like the science of plants. I asked him if he thought changing the system was a good idea, and he replied with a resounding “NO.” He thinks that now there are, let's say, at least 10 AMAZING schools in Chengdu, and all the rest are average, but if the system were to change to a quality education system, then the quality of ALL the schools would decrease to be just “good” and those 10 amazing schools would no longer exist. He said that that's worse than having 10 wonderful schools and the rest being okay. He said his parents would be furious, and most parents would be enraged because they want the opportunity for their children to get into these top 10 schools. I asked him what if their sons or daughters received poor scores, and were unable get into these top schools? Then wouldn't everybody in the end want their children to at least get into a good school? Isn't having all good schools in your district, better than just having 10 great ones and all of the rest just average? B disagreed.

        B, B, B... and of course he HAD to somehow sneak the topic of nuclear bombs into the conversation like every single class. B is not going to build a bomb or use it, but he does have a fascination with the idea of nuclear bombs and the nuclear arms race. In fact, B is giving a speech at his school, and he's allowed to choose any topic he wants. You probably have figured out what his topic is by now... Nuclear bombs. Specifically the science behind them and how to build one (I asked him if he ran this idea with anyone at school yet, and he said he hasn't-- go figure). He loves reciting the chemical equation of nuclear fission, and I've probably heard it about 50 times from him (I swear he's not a nut job). WTF? He's done intensive research on nuclear bombs for his upcoming speech, and he definitely knows a lot about them, but I'm not impressed with his keen memory. I'm impressed by his ideas about the nuclear arms race.

         Most people think nuclear bombs are the antithesis of peace (and for good reason too), but B thinks nuclear bombs are essential in maintaing peace on Earth. Well, as B explained, a lot of countries possess nuclear weapons, but although most people possess these weapons, they're too afraid to use them because then other countries might retaliate with their nuclear weapons and then the entire country's people would be fucked. Bye bye. It creates a stalemate in which one country wouldn't dare to use their nuclear weapons in fear that the other country would do the same and wreak chaos (many of us are familiar with this concept). Then another country, perhaps an ally or enemy, might decide to join in on this nuclear tango and use their nuclear weapons, causing a giant nuclear disaster and the end of humankind. Nobody wants that. He also said that smaller countries are protected by the fact that they create and possess nuclear weapons because a bigger country is less likely to attack the smaller country knowing the smaller country has a nuclear stockpile. I've heard that one before, B, but interesting nonetheless coming from an 11 year old. In short he thinks nuclear weapons are absolutely essential in maintaining peace on this planet. Although I can hardly call what we're experiencing now on Earth “peace,” but I won't be picky at the moment.

        Needless to say I had a fun class, and the only new word B* learned was “cadaver,” but I'm not going to get into how that word came up. His English is that damn good though. Most students are constantly writing new words during lessons, but not B. With B you don't know what to expect. You just never know what's going to come out of his 11 year old mouth. So thanks B. Thanks for being unpredictable, firm in your beliefs, and unforgiving. Most of all, thanks for being so talkative and weird.

*Name is shortened to protect the identity of said lovable sicko.

Living in Spicy City

Three distinct characteristics I've uncovered that give this Spicy City its flavor and personality:


Hua Jou---


     “Hua jou” translates to mouth-numbing peppers, and most dishes will be accompanied with these small black balls of FURY AND FIRE. Although I'm getting used to the numbing sensation and the spiciness, I can't stand hua jou in large amounts. It will ruin an otherwise perfect dish of “jja jang mien,” and nothing will rid the taste in your mouth, not even water (I think milk just might do it). The Chinese laugh while they say you're not actually supposed to eat the “hua jou” as if you are being incredibly silly. They say something along the lines of “silly, you're not supposed to eat them! They just add to the flavor of the dish, you should avoid eating them!” 


     Would if I could, but are you kidding me? You can't even see the damn things most of the time because they're so small, and this is especially true when they grind the little guys. It's impossible to avoid eating them when they're literally stuck to all of your noodles from bottom to top, and are the size of dirt flecks. I suppose the Sichuanese have evolved a small compartment in their mouths where their tongue immediately removes the “hua jou” from the food once it enters their mouth and stores it into this said compartment for a form of future personal torture. In reality they are enamored and tolerant of the numbing effects of “hua jou” and most enjoy it while I shudder and try to keep from retching when accidentally biting right through a small ball of “hua jou.” If you can't handle a little bit of spice then you might just end up bursting into flames after trying some of the popular local dishes of Chengdu. I like to keep it real by keepin' it spicy (without the “hua jou,” please).


Personal Space (or the lack of)---


     I'm not a needy person. I don't require a sea of personal space and I don't need it all the time. I like it when people get all up in my space sometimes. I like hugs. I like them firm and tight. Too bad what I experience on a daily basis is nothing like the hugs I enjoy. It's a serious clusterfuck out here, and nobody's going to stop for you. There's just not enough space. It's nothing but hustlin' and bustlin' out there in the concrete jungle. People aren't walking especially fast, but imagine a sidewalk with a lot of people who are walking very slowly-- it gets congested very quickly. You must act like a Chinese person to maintain your dignity and to keep from toppling over. Imitating Chinese behavior encompasses walking aggressively, but not necessarily in terms of speed, and trying not to be too offended when someone treats you rudely out on the streets. Don't afraid to get a little up close and personal and jostle somebody if need be. While waiting to get on the bus, if you're not on the look out, you'll get shoved and cut in the blink of an eye, by not 1 Chinese person, but 5. Be ready to stand your ground and do not budge for the cutters. Edge them out. If they still succeed, and believe me, they will, then politely tell them "WAIT IN LINE!" in Chinese.


     The Chinese don't really have a concept of personal space-- they'll get up in your business without a second thought or an apology. Once someone actually pushed Dan aside so he could read the bus stop schedule. There was no “sorry” or “excuse me” involved, just a quick push and then it was over. I think it stems from the fact that there are so many damn people everywhere and people are so used to being in crowded areas they kind of have to push their way past people and jostle a few others to get where they want to go. What I'm saying is that perhaps it's unavoidable bumping into people because there are so many people out on the streets and on the bus. Maybe sometimes it's simply a lack of manners (I don't know, manners CAN be culturally relative, but this is a whole other blog post in and of itself) but it's fairly common phenomenon so I attribute it to the cultural perception of “personal space” and how the Chinese manage that concept with such a large population.


     A lot of people also use bikes, both electric and regular, and they take over the sidewalks and the bike lanes on the street so you also have to maneuver around those guys in addition to the slow walkers. You'll never find yourself alone on a sidewalk. You'll never walk down the sidewalk or cross a street without the possibility of being run over by a bike or a crazy Chengdu taxi driver. You'll never walk without having to sidestep a walker. You'll also never be waiting in a line without being cut by at least 3 people. My friends, this is Chengdu, for better and for worse.


     You'll also seldom hear silence. I miss hearing absolutely nothing. Instead I hear a lot of incessant honking punctuating short periods of “quiet.” I think at any given minute you will hear multiple honks out in the streets. Even as I sit here typing in my apartment I can hear honks virtually every couple of seconds. A Chinese driver will honk at you to let you know she's driving past you, honk to let you know she's 100 feet behind you, honk to let you know she's not going to stop for you crossing the street, honk to let you know you're in the way (even if you might not be), and honk for whatever both good and bad reason you can think of. I think Chengdu is like NYC on crack. NYC's population is larger than Chengdu's, but it sure feels more crowded and hectic in Chengdu than it does in the Big Apple. I've gone running outside, and now I enjoy the company of a treadmill more (which I used to hate using) because I simply can't run without stopping every 10 seconds for some kind of obstacle. Also people rarely run outside so when you're out for a jog you'll find yourself being stared at as if your 3^rd head just sprouted another head on its side.


Good ol' street barbeque----


     YUM! Once you get off the main streets and venture into the side alleys you'll find yourself walking past street barbeque stands. Street barbeques consist of a grill and a stand/platform with an array of vegetables, meat, and fish speared with wooden sticks for easy handling and eating. The stand usually is attached to a bike. Easy. You can get anything from cabbage, lotus, quail eggs, potatoes, mini buns, whole fish, lettuce stalks, cabbage leaves, chicken, to peppers. It's absolutely ridiculous, and absolutely necessary. 


     Unfortunately the police don't think so and there's been a recent crackdown on street vendors. Street vendors are now banned because of health, cosmetic, and space reasons. The Chinese call the department of police who maintain peace and order on the streets a special word, but I can't remember what it is. The Chinese say this name with scorn and contempt because they're not fond of them. These police people are in charge of keeping food vendors off the street and enforcing traffic rules. Essentially these police people are the most direct form of law enforcement common people encounter daily. Once we were ordering cold noodles from a guy with a stand in front of our apartment and he wheeled away immediately when he saw headlights coming down the street, thinking it was a cop. It wasn't, and he chuckled while he explained and and handed us our $1 cold noodles in a small styrofoam box held shut with a toothpick.


     Back to barbeque. Usually you get a tray or a small basket in which you put in everything you've chosen to eat from the stand. You then hand the tray/basket to the “lao ban” (owner) and he'll count everything up and calculate the price, at which point he'll hand off your basket/tray to the grill master (shitty job as they stand there inhaling all the smoke) who masterfully brushes the veggies, fish, and meat with oil then adds cumin, salt, and some other spices as all the food grills slowly. Meanwhile you're sitting at a small table with dwarf-sized plastic stools that come up halfway up your calf and ask the “waiter” for two cold beers to wash everything down with. The barbequed food is delivered to you on the same tray, and you gobble it up as fast as you can off the wooden sticks and with chopsticks (sometimes this isn't very fast). The food tastes the same in the sense the grill master uses the same spicy coating for all of the food items, but it's still good, and a great, convenient experience. Barbeques are usually set up at night and will continue late into the night for hungry people to stumble upon, and feast. And feast I do.

The P in the PRC

I've got things to share with you. There's no rhyme and reason to the string of events, revelations, and conclusions I've been making since my last post, but the accumulation of said things is solidifying this new, strange country in my mind and in my eyes. In this moving mass-- ants moving from point A to point B-- I'm stringing pieces together, I'm seeing a route behind what seemed like mere wanderings. I'm far from really understanding this complex society, but I'm in a better position than I was when I first arrived in China.

Teaching English is... What is it? I can't honestly describe it as fun, thought-provoking, or interesting... I'm referring to the basic teaching of English vocabulary and concepts. Don't get me wrong, these classes can sometimes be engaging and fun when students choose to be talkative and insightful, but more often than not you plug through the lesson, and try to make a class on “business negotiations” seem interesting. No, what I find interesting are the conversations that somehow sneak into my lessons-- these conversations usually revolve around the Chinese mentality, the Chinese culture, and how American culture perhaps differs from Chinese.

These kinds of topics are what I consider stimulating, and I know my students are more than curious about life in America and Americans. Through these basic conversations I've gotten a feel for Chinese hate towards the Japanese, but also found a student who is learning Japanese, can speak Japanese better than English, and finds the history between Japan and China intriguing and wants to learn more than her history textbooks have fed her (aka the Chinese government). I've also realized the differences between American and Chinese dating culture, and how marriages are viewed by the Chinese. The Chinese think Americans date many people before finally getting married whereas the Chinese only date a few people and then will get married. The Chinese will also bring home their boo if and only if they are going to marry them so you know if you're invited to eat dinner with the parents it's serious. Of course in America it's quite different.

My favorite class is the social club, which I have 4 times a week, because I can choose a topic to teach and discuss with a group of students usually ranging from 4 to 30. I'm ready to admit I like to choose controversial topics, but always making sure to respect Chinese culture and the taboo of directly speaking of government and Chinese politics. I've chosen topics like vegetarianism, the ban on video game consoles, war, the anniversary of 9/11 and the “war on terror”, homosexuality in China, and gun violence and control in China and America. I like to choose these kind of topics because I take pride in knowing I expanded my students' minds and forced them to think about something they may have never thought about on their own.

In return, I learn about what my Chinese students think about the aforementioned topics, helping me understand Chinese culture a little bit better. So I've learned that the Chinese (of course this is a generalization) believe that people aren't entitled to all these rights Americans believe they deserve, such as the right to own guns. There is a nationwide campaign against guns in China, and owning, selling, or producing guns is illegal. The only people who can own guns are law enforcement types-- the military and police. Although guns are illegal, they aren't non-existent, but levels of gun use and production are much, much, much lower in China than in the US. The Chinese hold sacrifice and harmony in higher regard than freedom. For example, they think if someone is secretly gay and has a family perhaps it's better to keep it inside to maintain the happiness and harmony of his/her family. You might think it's because Chinese are fed this kind of propaganda about the importance and virtue of harmony, but they're not completely ignorant. They know it's propaganda, and they certainly don't think having no rights is acceptable either. When it came to the video game ban, they argued that the Chinese government had no right to tell people what to do and that it was a private matter whether or not students were spending too much time playing video games. I learned a lot about what the Chinese think about 9/11 and the American “war on terror”, and was impressed by some students' profound thinking and sensitivity. One of my favorite students Jack (who apparently was the sole survivor on the Chinese “Survivor” TV show) explained how he believes the 9/11 terrorist attack was a result of misunderstanding and fear between two very different cultures. Another student told me she thinks that it was a long time coming because America's unnecessary involvement in everybody else's business. So while the world may think that Chinese people are ignorant and believe everything the government tells them, I have come to find this is completely untrue. Although the Chinese may not know the truth behind an event, they certainly know what they know is a lie. They are completely aware the Chinese government lies, covers up, and feeds its people bullshit. They eat it, noses wrinkled, but they don't swallow and digest. Some even throw it right back up. I guess my question now is how do Chinese people find a balance? How do they operate in such a society, under a government they know is so blatantly disrespectful and dishonest with them? But then again, I guess I can ask myself the very same question about living in America.

I think I even changed the minds of some students on the subject of homosexuality after reading personal stories of 3 homosexuals in China whose lives are very difficult in such a traditional society where most people (the older generation) aren't very accepting of homosexuals. Initially a lot of the students thought that homosexuals are born gay, while some even argued on the “nurture” side and said societal conditions and experiences (perhaps a lack of a father figure or a bad experience with the opposite sex) turn someone gay. After posing the question “Well, those who are straight, do you choose to like the opposite sex? Do you make a conscious decision to like and be attracted to the opposite sex?”, most students sat in silence and I could see the cogs turning in their brains as they seriously considered this question. Then a student raised his hand and said, “I guess it's instinct... I don't choose, it just comes from the heart so it must be the same for homosexuals.” These are the kind of moments that make teaching English worthwhile, it's not the English itself, but communicating and learning and trading different ideas in English.

Through these kind of off-hand conversations I've come to accept that I didn't come to China for the teaching experience. I think teaching has its value in society, but I personally don't think I'm meant to be a teacher, especially an English teacher. I consider myself to have a lot of patience but when a student is at the beginner level I find myself flustered sometimes, and then when I come home to Doodle who is in essence a very active child who doesn't know any better, my patience runs dry. What this experience is turning into though is a cultural experience in which I get to sit down and talk to people. Culture can be a stubborn thing sometimes-- at times culture is obvious and can easily be seen although it may be hard to digest, and difficult to understand at such a surface level. Due to this aspect of culture, you need to provoke it and be relentless. You need to ask people questions because culture speaks volumes through the people it envelopes. Culture is a breathing force, and a very colossal one at that, but it's difficult to discern and identify at times because it's invisible like the wind. At times you can't see it, but you can feel it, pushing you forward, moving you.

Orienting Myself in the Orient

In another life I may have been to Chengdu, or even to China for that matter. I can't shake off this feeling. Everything is new, but nothing feels strange or uncomfortable. It's not a sense of familiarity, it's something else and I wish I could put my finger on it, but I can't-- the feeling just hovers over me while I prowl the city. I walk and walk, and spot small stores that peculiarly sell one good and one good only (air conditioners, gas pumps, safes, curtains, picture frames, and on and on), a vendor who you're separated from by a window selling chicken and goose livers, and drivers ready to mow you down in the middle of the street even though the light is red. (God I hate Chinese drivers, they are their own authority and they listen and respond to absolutely no one). Nothing feels like home, but nothing seems strange or out of place either...

Maybe it's the McDonald's across the street and the pretzel Goldfish I can buy at the store around the corner that don't make me feel completely out of place. I think it has more to do with the people I'm walking amongst who seem... well, just like me. I'm witnessing recognizable motions of life among the crowds of people who are also strolling out on the street (not so much strolling as they are taking baby steps-- FACT: Chengdu people walk so slow I'm hesitant to call it walking and they would never survive the pace of NYC) . Motions of life that are so very familiar: businessmen going to work, dressed up girls meeting friends at a mall, couples sharing a waffle treat at Dairy Queen's, rowdy men drinking Tsingtsao with their shirts pulled up, restaurant owners steaming noodles outside on the sidewalk, a Chinese man in a rush shoving you out of the way while passing, and stray dogs sniffing at garbage and marking poles. I've seen scenes similar to these before in another place, at another time so even though I feel so far away from home, I don't feel entirely like an alien living in a far out planet. I'm more like a space cowgirl. I guess now I'm a space cowgirl tethered to Chengdu since Dan and I have fleshed out a temporary permanent life here. Huh? Are you still following?

We're not living in a hostel anymore after 3 months of sleeping in strange beds in rooms that had constant influxes and outflows of people who smelled differently, who snored loudly, who didn't know how to whisper at 6 AM, and who smoked cigars out on the deck every morning at 5 AM. The last hostel we stayed at was Sim's Cozy Hostel in Chengdu where there were rabbits roaming around sprawling gardens, a menu boasting homemade museli, fried yakisoba noodles, mapo tofu, and baked beans with toast and eggs, an extensive DVD collection (yes! Finding Nemo), and people from all over the world willing to hang out and hear about your adventures as well as share theirs. The world is overflowing with curiosity and those itching to munch on the grass on the other side. The grass definitely is a different green over here.

After about a week-long stint there, I'm casually writing about my experiences on my bright green couch where Dan and I are the only ones in our 2-bedroom apartment (well, okay, Doodle is here too*). The view is mediocre, but the windows provide a generous 135 degree range of vision. The shower isn't separated from the rest of the bathroom (there's just a shower head, but no tub or ledge to keep the water from seeping out to the toilet and to the sink and even out the door) which is annoying, but we have a Western toilet (try shitting in a Chinese toilet every day for a year-- good for your thigh muscles, but a little too uncomfortable for my “Western” ass). The bedrooms aren't very big, but the beds could fit 3 people easily (won't be testing that out). The apartment is just what Dan and I need, and we pounced on it once given the opportunity, especially after the 2 day apartment hunt that ended in confusion and bitterness. The Chinese rental system is completely different from the American's: in China you pay 3- or 6-month increments, or a year upfront. The commission for the apartment broker also costs the same as 1 month's rent. We only found this out at the very end of the process when we were meeting with the landlord and the apartment brokers after Dan and I had found a perfect apartment after viewing 4 the day before. Dan and I didn't have the cash to pay the landlord 6 months upfront (+security deposit+broker's commission), and unfortunately the guy would neither crack a smile nor budge from his payment plan. After that Dan and I decided to go to an apartment complex we knew our workmate lived in to talk directly to a landlord.

It worked and here we are! We had to deal and haggle with an elderly short Chinese man and a plump elderly Chinese lady whose bags were so puffy it kind of looked like the cheeks of a bullfrog when it puffs out. You're probably thinking, they're old, they probably weren't too bad to deal with, old people are usually so nice and calm. FUCK THAT. This Chinese duo was anything but calm-- they screamed and spat trying to outdo each other in voice volume while giving us information about the apartment. They kept calling us the next morning when we were supposed to move in demanding to know where we were (we were on the way, stuck in traffic). They demanded us to pay more and more money upfront, even though we would be paying them that money the next day anyway. They were fucking relentless and so loud I thought they were angry the entire time. I needed an Advil after going through all the details in the contract and signing it; my head was going to explode if I heard another loud Chinese outburst.

At the end of the day though, we now have quite the experience under our belts, and an apartment nestled in between 2 main streets. One main street, People's Road South, is filled with business buildings, couture shops, and a Starbucks whereas the other one, Keuhua Beilu, is populated by local restaurants, bars, and hot pot places. There's quite a difference between the two streets and I think it accurately highlights the direction China is heading. No one can dispute China is quite the cultural haven, you'd be blind not to see it when walking down Keuhua Beilu where you can see many hole-in-the-wall restaurants offering Sichuan's special noodle dish and smell greasy hot pot soup wafting down the street from your favorite hot pot spot. Yet when you walk to its parallel street, People's Road South, you're hard pressed to find the local flavor of Chengdu anywhere. You can find a Western sports bar called “Shamrocks”, a Starbucks, and to Dan's amazement a Western style Grandma's Kitchen (he always had raved about Grandma's Kitchen and their Chinese food so he was really disappointed to find this particular one only offered Western food), Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and skyscrapers filled with hundreds of offices and even more cubicles. You can't even smell the stench of hot pot on this street. The only thing that remains the same as Keuhua Beilu is the aggressive Chinese drivers.

China is becoming quite the consumerist nation as both the government and international businesses try to tap into such an unsaturated market (except the damn beer market-- where's my Hoegaarden?!). I mean there are so many fucking Chinese people, so much potential, so much money to be made that practically every government official and multinational corporation is wielding a giant boner at the possibilities. I think the challenge will be to balance China's distinct history and culture with this consumer culture, and to retain its original cultural uniqueness. I really hope China doesn't whore herself out completely to the sleazy capitalistic, consumerist tendencies that slowly eat away at cultural relevance. I'm hopeful because although China has already adopted free market principles, at the heart of it she holds substance and a distinct essence that set it apart from other countries. When I was in Costa Rica, for example, I didn't feel any real culture. Costa Rica at that point had become quite modernized and developed, and was in fact ashamed of its indigenous history with all its rich culture. The result was that Costa Rica lacked a certain cultural sparkle, although its beautiful nature made up for it. I wanted that living breathing thing I fondly call “CULTURE” because it arouses my senses, piques my interest and curiosity, and opens my mind's horizons. The sad thing about consumer culture is that it looks more or less like any other consumer culture in any other country. When you walk around the streets, it feels the same; they're filled with buying robots constantly wanting more, more of the most expensive, more of the newest, more of the flashiest, more, more, more. The flashing lights of Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Brooks Brothers, Tiffany & Co look the same on People's Road South as they do on Fifth Ave. I want my cramped, dirty restaurant with my fucking delicious, greasy noodles served by a sweaty Chinese man in a wife beater, please.

*I have the cutest dog now. Dan and I were walking down the street after signing our contract with the landlords and stumbled upon 2 people selling very small puppies. There was a particular one we fell in love with, and finding it very hard to walk away from her we bought it for about US $8. The puppy's name is Doodle (named after ChengDU), she's about a month old, and she's a local Sichuan breed. We absolutely love her, and I hope she's falling in love with us too.