I was leaving my classroom, planner in hand, on the way to the “staff meeting” that was rumored to be just a staff birthday party. My doorway filled with Chinese adults, men and women in business suits and collared shirts. I waved them in, as I always do, welcoming them (in gesture, of course) to take a look around. Sometimes they shake their hands in front of their bodies, heads shaking down, no, no, before they walk away. This crowd came in as if they had been instructed.
In fact, they had been. Two Chinese interpreters/Admissions staff came in with the crowd. I couldn’t help but staring as more and more people poured into my room, until every chair and morning meeting seat was filled, with standing room only for the last few adults.
“Can you please explain progressive education?” I was asked after being introduced as the second grade teacher.
To anyone who knows education right now, this is like being asked, “So what is America?” or maybe “Can you explain what it means to be Chinese?” There are a lot of answers, and none that can be given on the spot in front of no less than 40 strangers, especially when you have to pause every two or three sentences for translation.
I did my best to talk about what it looks like in my classroom, about community building and collaboration, and about the Farmer’s Market study.
Then the Vice Principal came in and did a Q and A while I waited by my desk, constantly picking up my planner when it looked like he was leaving, and then putting back down when he was asked another question. He mentioned at the beginning of his talk that he had a staff meeting to go to, and I figured it was my best bet to sneak out when he did.
Fifteen minutes later, he made off and I was stopped two feet before the door. “Could you please talk?”
“Sure…about progressive education? Or the second grade curriculum?”
“They want to know how you teach.”
How am I supposed to explain to a crowd of Chinese adults, exactly how I teach? I did my best explanation of the teacher as “facilitator of discovery” rather than an all-knowing fact provider. Then they asked if I could do a lesson, pretending that they were students.
Sure! Let me just whip out the demo lesson I’ve prepared which is to stand for all westerners and all progressive education.
Luckily, I did have a lesson I’d done earlier in the week that I hadn’t taken out of finished work yet. The lesson was the first in a study about shelter. I showed the pseudo-class of adults how I grouped the students and had them each examine a Chinese house and a house from another culture, talking and asking questions before they explained which was the Chinese house and why. The point for them to realize what they already know about houses comes with a framework of being in China, and that if they were somewhere else in the world, they would think about houses in a different way.
A few more questions and answers, and the group was sent out of the room. I tried to leave again and was told, “Please stay for conference notes.” It turns out that “conference notes” was just this woman telling me that someone asked why we don’t teach our kids to respect their parents, which is very important in Chinese schools.
I told her that we teach them to respect others, which they should transfer to their parents if they have truly learned it. She looked at me like I hadn’t finished talking.
It’s been a hell of a year.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Wrong Variety
When I first heard about the International Women’s Day Variety Show, I was naturally thrilled. What doesn’t appeal to me about a variety of acts celebrating women’s day? It’s put on by Beijing Independent Artists, and the proceeds go to female entrepreneurs in rural parts of China. All good.
The show consisted of musical performances, dance numbers, and short plays. I heard about it from a friend, who wrote one of the plays in the second half.
I loved the theater. There was a front room with a bar and some random tables and chairs, whose broken-down look with a classy feel reminded me of New York. I was ready for the show.
The first performance was by what looked like a Chinese high school band, except for the white, middle-aged, male lead-singer. In fact, all the members were male except for the drummer. I definitely appreciated seeing an elusive female Chinese drummer, but she certainly wasn’t featured in their one song. I should have known, with an opening act like this, that I wasn’t about to get what I expect.
The next was a dance called Gypsy. It featured three girls with belly-dancing outfits, hip-thrusting on stage.
After that a Russian singer, in a head wrap and African dress, in front of an African sunset backdrop, singing with a saxophonist. She came out again later in heels and a seriously tight black dress singing as the white saxophonist rapped about women. Sometimes it’s hard to be in Beijing, because anyone who can’t make it where they came from can come here and take themselves way too seriously.
Their self-righteous performance was hilarious, but the clinchers of the evening, and why I had to leave early, were the plays.
The first was set in the imaginary world where women get their own parking spaces, “because we have so many shopping bags and babies that we need to be closer to elevators.” In the skit, a cocky, self-assured boy begins on the phone to his girlfriend, convincing her that she’s crazy for thinking he’s cheating on her just because he didn’t come home last night.
The skit centers around dialogue between him and a business woman who is complaining that he’s parked in a woman’s spot. He spends the skit explaining how much he knows about women, complaining how unfair it is that they get any privileges, and congratulating himself for being a stud. She barks at him for most of the play to give her the parking spot, and then eventually starts flirting with him. At the end, they decide to hook up and she calls her boyfriend, demanding that she’s not cheating on him, and then concludes the skit by phoning another friend to tell her she’s about to hook up with a nothing shoe-salesman saying, “He’s not all that, I am.”
Another skit featured two women cat-fighting after they realized they were dating the same man. He stops the hair pulling only to show them martial-arts and Japanese sword techniques. Only after he has enjoyed their fighting do they turn on him and beat the crap out of him before bonding and buying each other drinks. The play ends when he crawls up from the ground and goes off to meet his other girlfriend.
I’ve mentioned how desperate I am for the English language, so you can imagine how painful it was for me to walk away from this night. Of course, as I’ve explained what I was seeing, you can understand how painful it was for me to watch.
I realized later that the trouble is that I assumed that if it was in celebration of women that it would be feminist. I expected to see strong women on stage, talking about things that matter to us, not performing glittery belly-dancing and pseudo-rap. I did not expect to see women clawing at each other over men, or flirting with them even when they’re acting like pricks.
Happy Women’s Day
The show consisted of musical performances, dance numbers, and short plays. I heard about it from a friend, who wrote one of the plays in the second half.
I loved the theater. There was a front room with a bar and some random tables and chairs, whose broken-down look with a classy feel reminded me of New York. I was ready for the show.
The first performance was by what looked like a Chinese high school band, except for the white, middle-aged, male lead-singer. In fact, all the members were male except for the drummer. I definitely appreciated seeing an elusive female Chinese drummer, but she certainly wasn’t featured in their one song. I should have known, with an opening act like this, that I wasn’t about to get what I expect.
The next was a dance called Gypsy. It featured three girls with belly-dancing outfits, hip-thrusting on stage.
After that a Russian singer, in a head wrap and African dress, in front of an African sunset backdrop, singing with a saxophonist. She came out again later in heels and a seriously tight black dress singing as the white saxophonist rapped about women. Sometimes it’s hard to be in Beijing, because anyone who can’t make it where they came from can come here and take themselves way too seriously.
Their self-righteous performance was hilarious, but the clinchers of the evening, and why I had to leave early, were the plays.
The first was set in the imaginary world where women get their own parking spaces, “because we have so many shopping bags and babies that we need to be closer to elevators.” In the skit, a cocky, self-assured boy begins on the phone to his girlfriend, convincing her that she’s crazy for thinking he’s cheating on her just because he didn’t come home last night.
The skit centers around dialogue between him and a business woman who is complaining that he’s parked in a woman’s spot. He spends the skit explaining how much he knows about women, complaining how unfair it is that they get any privileges, and congratulating himself for being a stud. She barks at him for most of the play to give her the parking spot, and then eventually starts flirting with him. At the end, they decide to hook up and she calls her boyfriend, demanding that she’s not cheating on him, and then concludes the skit by phoning another friend to tell her she’s about to hook up with a nothing shoe-salesman saying, “He’s not all that, I am.”
Another skit featured two women cat-fighting after they realized they were dating the same man. He stops the hair pulling only to show them martial-arts and Japanese sword techniques. Only after he has enjoyed their fighting do they turn on him and beat the crap out of him before bonding and buying each other drinks. The play ends when he crawls up from the ground and goes off to meet his other girlfriend.
I’ve mentioned how desperate I am for the English language, so you can imagine how painful it was for me to walk away from this night. Of course, as I’ve explained what I was seeing, you can understand how painful it was for me to watch.
I realized later that the trouble is that I assumed that if it was in celebration of women that it would be feminist. I expected to see strong women on stage, talking about things that matter to us, not performing glittery belly-dancing and pseudo-rap. I did not expect to see women clawing at each other over men, or flirting with them even when they’re acting like pricks.
Happy Women’s Day
Monday, March 21, 2011
They Do Exist
After trying to find people from weliveinbeijing.com, I joined the “lesbians in Beijing” group. Of 5 members, one was a guy, and the rest were 16-18 yr-old self-identified bi girls. Basically, I’m the only lesbian in Beijing. I put up a profile just saying that I’m here in a relationship and looking for friends and the lesbian night life, if it exists here. The only messages I got were from shady men letting me know they have a girlfriend who’s interested in getting us all together or just stating, (and this is verbatim): “hi sweet dear very nice pic would you like to make friendship with me?” or “i’m not a girl but may i know that are you interested in boys too.”
I’d pretty much given up hope when I met Sarah. She’s a friend of another teacher from my school. He’d be promising me for months that he knew a lesbian, and would connect us. After 4 months and 4 failed attempts at meeting up, I was betting money that she was a lie he constructed to keep some hope alive for me.
Luckily, I was wrong. Sarah’s an ethnically Chinese lesbian from San Fran who’s been living here long enough to speak the language. Aka, she’s a gold mind find. More importantly, she’s a really sweet and awesome human, which is even rarer.
I was more than excited when Sarah invited me and my friend Roxanne to hot pot dinner with her friends. Just sitting at the long table with mostly gay and lesbian crowd was like Christmas for me. I just kept thinking, “Where have you been for the last seven months?” Overhearing phrases from girls like, “My girlfriend is in Shanghai” or “We…” with the implication being another girl, was intensely refreshing for me.
It was because of this crowd and the warm and fuzzies I had from finally finding a community that I agreed to go with them to Destination. Destination is the “premier gay club” in Beijing, the only one even included in guidebooks. The club did not disappoint. I was absolutely shell-shocked by the people inside. The club is two floors, at least five rooms on each floor, and each of which were absolutely packed. I may never see so many gay Chinese men in my life.
It was new to me, because I’m mostly out at Lao wai (ex-pat) clubs dancing with foreigners. It’s not, but in some way in my brain I was thinking, “This is how Chinese people go out.” Regardless of the culture shock, I was amazed at the sheer number. All the lesbians in Beijing could barely fill my living room, but here just out on any regular Saturday night were gay men as far as the eye can see.
Different country, different side of the world, same problem. Come out, come out, wherever you are!
I’d pretty much given up hope when I met Sarah. She’s a friend of another teacher from my school. He’d be promising me for months that he knew a lesbian, and would connect us. After 4 months and 4 failed attempts at meeting up, I was betting money that she was a lie he constructed to keep some hope alive for me.
Luckily, I was wrong. Sarah’s an ethnically Chinese lesbian from San Fran who’s been living here long enough to speak the language. Aka, she’s a gold mind find. More importantly, she’s a really sweet and awesome human, which is even rarer.
I was more than excited when Sarah invited me and my friend Roxanne to hot pot dinner with her friends. Just sitting at the long table with mostly gay and lesbian crowd was like Christmas for me. I just kept thinking, “Where have you been for the last seven months?” Overhearing phrases from girls like, “My girlfriend is in Shanghai” or “We…” with the implication being another girl, was intensely refreshing for me.
It was because of this crowd and the warm and fuzzies I had from finally finding a community that I agreed to go with them to Destination. Destination is the “premier gay club” in Beijing, the only one even included in guidebooks. The club did not disappoint. I was absolutely shell-shocked by the people inside. The club is two floors, at least five rooms on each floor, and each of which were absolutely packed. I may never see so many gay Chinese men in my life.
It was new to me, because I’m mostly out at Lao wai (ex-pat) clubs dancing with foreigners. It’s not, but in some way in my brain I was thinking, “This is how Chinese people go out.” Regardless of the culture shock, I was amazed at the sheer number. All the lesbians in Beijing could barely fill my living room, but here just out on any regular Saturday night were gay men as far as the eye can see.
Different country, different side of the world, same problem. Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
What Keeps Me Going?
People ask me where I’m from, and I always have to pause. My first instinct is to say, “New York”, because that’s where I’ve been for the past seven years. But I’m not really a New Yorker.
My second impulse is to say, “Massachusetts”, because I was born and raised there for 18 years in the same house in a small town off of Cape Cod. But I’m not the same teenager just out of high school I was when I left that place.
Sometimes I say, “America”, which, thanks to Obama, is finally an option again. But I know it’s kind of a cop-out, because I don’t know how else to qualify where I come from over here.
In New York I had routines that kept me going. I had Wednesday-night bars, where I found familiar faces even from the strangers in the crowd. I had a restaurant for tapas, and a spot for Saturday brunch. I had friends I called on to meet me out dancing, and those I knew I could call after a hard day. I had favorite spots in different parks, where I could sit and read without being bothered, or loose myself in a crowd.
In New York I had the subway. I had an hour plus commute that gave me all the time I needed to my own thoughts, dreams, plans.
In MA I had a bathtub. I had a room whose door I could close, and, eventually, a car that could take me away from the home I lived in for 18 consecutive years.
Here I have a meditation room. I have a writing corner with pillows and a green rug that I call “the garden.” I have a 20 minute bike ride to work that forces me to move my body, no matter how lazy I feel in my bones. I have a thousand angry bikers, motorists, and drivers who wake me up at 7 a.m., forcing my senses to sharpen and my adrenaline to pump even without early morning caffeine. I have all the fresh vegetables I want for pocket change.
Each day I have ten “Good morning, Rebecca!”s, surprise hugs from little arms, and a countless number drawings and notes that remind me of why I’m here.
My second impulse is to say, “Massachusetts”, because I was born and raised there for 18 years in the same house in a small town off of Cape Cod. But I’m not the same teenager just out of high school I was when I left that place.
Sometimes I say, “America”, which, thanks to Obama, is finally an option again. But I know it’s kind of a cop-out, because I don’t know how else to qualify where I come from over here.
In New York I had routines that kept me going. I had Wednesday-night bars, where I found familiar faces even from the strangers in the crowd. I had a restaurant for tapas, and a spot for Saturday brunch. I had friends I called on to meet me out dancing, and those I knew I could call after a hard day. I had favorite spots in different parks, where I could sit and read without being bothered, or loose myself in a crowd.
In New York I had the subway. I had an hour plus commute that gave me all the time I needed to my own thoughts, dreams, plans.
In MA I had a bathtub. I had a room whose door I could close, and, eventually, a car that could take me away from the home I lived in for 18 consecutive years.
Here I have a meditation room. I have a writing corner with pillows and a green rug that I call “the garden.” I have a 20 minute bike ride to work that forces me to move my body, no matter how lazy I feel in my bones. I have a thousand angry bikers, motorists, and drivers who wake me up at 7 a.m., forcing my senses to sharpen and my adrenaline to pump even without early morning caffeine. I have all the fresh vegetables I want for pocket change.
Each day I have ten “Good morning, Rebecca!”s, surprise hugs from little arms, and a countless number drawings and notes that remind me of why I’m here.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
No Great Expectations
At this point, I’m so used to expecting nothing and difficulty in all interactions. That sounds cynical, but it’s really been good for me. I don’t take things for granted, like finding where I’m going, asking for directions, food that’s supposed to taste a certain way. I wonder what it’ll be like to order “cheese fries” or “Hawaiian pizza” and know exactly how it will come out, unlike here, when I’ve gotten garlic fries and pineapple, ham, and green olives instead.
I had a heart attack the first time I saw my water bill for what looked like ¥3,300, before my assistant told me that it was really ¥33.
I’ve ordered what looked like eggplant and turned out to be fish. I ordered two vegetable dishes because I was in a rush and ended up with three meal’s worth of food. My plain crackers turned out to be seaweed and wasabi-flavored. My noodles were actually squid. What I thought was lemon jam turned out to be citron tea.
Even familiar packaging does not mean familiar product. I’ve smothered sticky “Johnson & Johnson” on my arm before school, only to find out that it’s body wash in a misleading container. The toilet paper I bought feels right but was tall as paper-towels, with no cardboard roll in the middle. My “Herbal Essences” runs like liquid and my “Colgate” froths uncontrollably.
At this point, though, I’m used to it. I expect nothing. But better than that, I’m starting to appreciate the unpredictability of my life here. Everything I try is a gamble. I’ve looked at maps from the subway to where I’m going, drawing myself a map and counting just three streets, two rights and a left. Simple, right?
Fourty-five minutes later, I’m stopping on the side of hutongs (old Chinese houses), showing the address in Chinese characters to anyone who might or might not be able to read, and going just by thumb points to vague directions. Apparently what looks like a street to my eyes is really just a hutong-ally that doesn’t even show up on maps.
Eventually, though, I found the tiny theater I was looking for, down an ally, distinguished by one tiny flyer. There is no success like a success from inside China as an English-speaking expat.
I don’t know how I’ll handle when my destinations are as exact as the north-west corner of 1st and 5th.
I had a heart attack the first time I saw my water bill for what looked like ¥3,300, before my assistant told me that it was really ¥33.
I’ve ordered what looked like eggplant and turned out to be fish. I ordered two vegetable dishes because I was in a rush and ended up with three meal’s worth of food. My plain crackers turned out to be seaweed and wasabi-flavored. My noodles were actually squid. What I thought was lemon jam turned out to be citron tea.
Even familiar packaging does not mean familiar product. I’ve smothered sticky “Johnson & Johnson” on my arm before school, only to find out that it’s body wash in a misleading container. The toilet paper I bought feels right but was tall as paper-towels, with no cardboard roll in the middle. My “Herbal Essences” runs like liquid and my “Colgate” froths uncontrollably.
At this point, though, I’m used to it. I expect nothing. But better than that, I’m starting to appreciate the unpredictability of my life here. Everything I try is a gamble. I’ve looked at maps from the subway to where I’m going, drawing myself a map and counting just three streets, two rights and a left. Simple, right?
Fourty-five minutes later, I’m stopping on the side of hutongs (old Chinese houses), showing the address in Chinese characters to anyone who might or might not be able to read, and going just by thumb points to vague directions. Apparently what looks like a street to my eyes is really just a hutong-ally that doesn’t even show up on maps.
Eventually, though, I found the tiny theater I was looking for, down an ally, distinguished by one tiny flyer. There is no success like a success from inside China as an English-speaking expat.
I don’t know how I’ll handle when my destinations are as exact as the north-west corner of 1st and 5th.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Up a Creek without a Doorcard
So I got locked out of my building today. It was particularly brutal, being a Friday afternoon and I just wanted to get inside and home. It hurt especially badly because Kelly was in the apartment, but I had conveniently chosen this day to be the first that I forget my phone at home.
I had my keys, and I had my wallet. What I was missing was the door card to let me into my building. I decided to wait for someone to come out. Ten minutes passed. I pretended to read to calm myself down. No one came.
I gave up and decided to walk towards the guards, getting my miming hands ready. I passed what looked like a 14-yr old boy presumably walking home, backpack slung over his shoulder. I thought, “He might be going into my building!” but I forced myself not to drastically pivot and scare the kid. I tried as best as I could to casually turn, although there’s really no easy way to make a 180 degree turn in direction without looking like a stalker…especially if you essentially, are intently watching the movements of another person. I tried to stay far enough away not to totally creep out the teenage boy (or lead him into a run) while still staying close enough that I would be able to catch the door if he opened it. After 20 yards of this, my hopes were rising higher and higher. That is, until he walked right past my front door and to the next building.
So I made another 180-pivot and decided to get help. There are some random businesses at the front of my complex, strewn in between deli-like convenience stores. Many of these are real-estate agencies. I walked into the room full of men in cubicles and identical suits, first just asking, “English? English?” They all shook their heads, talked to each other in Chinese, looked at me, then looked at each other again. One of them eventually jumped up and ran out of the office, chasing after a car half-way down the street. He managed to flag it down, opened the door and dragged out anther suit-man. The door slammed behind him and the car took off.
Apparently this man was the only one who knew some English. I did my best “cear cear” (thank you), and led the man to my building, happy to be able to explain my situation in mostly words. With his bi-lingual help, he was able to call the omni-guard (who apparently lives somewhere with the power to open any of our doors) and explain my situation.
When I finally got upstairs, 40 minutes after I had arrived in my complex, I was greeted with, “Late night at work, huh?”
I had my keys, and I had my wallet. What I was missing was the door card to let me into my building. I decided to wait for someone to come out. Ten minutes passed. I pretended to read to calm myself down. No one came.
I gave up and decided to walk towards the guards, getting my miming hands ready. I passed what looked like a 14-yr old boy presumably walking home, backpack slung over his shoulder. I thought, “He might be going into my building!” but I forced myself not to drastically pivot and scare the kid. I tried as best as I could to casually turn, although there’s really no easy way to make a 180 degree turn in direction without looking like a stalker…especially if you essentially, are intently watching the movements of another person. I tried to stay far enough away not to totally creep out the teenage boy (or lead him into a run) while still staying close enough that I would be able to catch the door if he opened it. After 20 yards of this, my hopes were rising higher and higher. That is, until he walked right past my front door and to the next building.
So I made another 180-pivot and decided to get help. There are some random businesses at the front of my complex, strewn in between deli-like convenience stores. Many of these are real-estate agencies. I walked into the room full of men in cubicles and identical suits, first just asking, “English? English?” They all shook their heads, talked to each other in Chinese, looked at me, then looked at each other again. One of them eventually jumped up and ran out of the office, chasing after a car half-way down the street. He managed to flag it down, opened the door and dragged out anther suit-man. The door slammed behind him and the car took off.
Apparently this man was the only one who knew some English. I did my best “cear cear” (thank you), and led the man to my building, happy to be able to explain my situation in mostly words. With his bi-lingual help, he was able to call the omni-guard (who apparently lives somewhere with the power to open any of our doors) and explain my situation.
When I finally got upstairs, 40 minutes after I had arrived in my complex, I was greeted with, “Late night at work, huh?”
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Taxi Updates
I’m Used To: Needing Warm Layers in Cabs
Yes, Chinese people open the windows in the winter to change the air. What’s worse is when you’re in a cab in freezing weather with a driver whose window is half way down on the highway.
I’m Completely Shocked By: Women Cab Drivers
I saw my FIRST female cabby last Sunday driving by. I thought maybe it was a mirage, but then later that day I got in a cab with another woman driver! I don’t even know many women in China who dare to drive in this city, let alone drive for a living.
The other shocking thing that I saw was when I was watching a Chinese teenager hail a taxi. She lazily had her thumb out and when the cab was the wrong direction, she mumbled something and gestured breezily for the cab to change direction and pick her up.
It’s hard to describe how amazing this was to me. My interaction with cabs has always been much more forceful. Never mind standing on street corners, me and my friends fan out in the middle of the road, waving our hands like mad birds trying to get someone’s attention, “Pick me! Pick me!” we beg. Once inside, I’m just praying I get dropped off close enough to figure out where I’m going in the end. The taxis here do have a red light on when they’re open, but these lights don’t seem to be so much a definite system as a suggestion.
Biggest Taxi Life Saver: Guanxi
Finally! Seven months in and I’ve been given the best gift in the world. My friend casually mentioned it to me one day, and had no idea it would blow my mind.
The way it works is that you can txt that number with the name of where you want to go, and it will txt you the full name and address. Then if you txt “c” it will reply with the address in Chinese, so that you can show a taxi driver. You still need to know the area, and to have a subway map to point to the general vicinity, but given those things, you can actually get to where you’re going! Score!
Yes, Chinese people open the windows in the winter to change the air. What’s worse is when you’re in a cab in freezing weather with a driver whose window is half way down on the highway.
I’m Completely Shocked By: Women Cab Drivers
I saw my FIRST female cabby last Sunday driving by. I thought maybe it was a mirage, but then later that day I got in a cab with another woman driver! I don’t even know many women in China who dare to drive in this city, let alone drive for a living.
The other shocking thing that I saw was when I was watching a Chinese teenager hail a taxi. She lazily had her thumb out and when the cab was the wrong direction, she mumbled something and gestured breezily for the cab to change direction and pick her up.
It’s hard to describe how amazing this was to me. My interaction with cabs has always been much more forceful. Never mind standing on street corners, me and my friends fan out in the middle of the road, waving our hands like mad birds trying to get someone’s attention, “Pick me! Pick me!” we beg. Once inside, I’m just praying I get dropped off close enough to figure out where I’m going in the end. The taxis here do have a red light on when they’re open, but these lights don’t seem to be so much a definite system as a suggestion.
Biggest Taxi Life Saver: Guanxi
Finally! Seven months in and I’ve been given the best gift in the world. My friend casually mentioned it to me one day, and had no idea it would blow my mind.
The way it works is that you can txt that number with the name of where you want to go, and it will txt you the full name and address. Then if you txt “c” it will reply with the address in Chinese, so that you can show a taxi driver. You still need to know the area, and to have a subway map to point to the general vicinity, but given those things, you can actually get to where you’re going! Score!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Seven Months In
Either I finally found milk that tastes like milk
or it's been so long since I had real milk that I can't remember how it's supposed to taste.
or it's been so long since I had real milk that I can't remember how it's supposed to taste.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Dreaded Errand
I’d been putting it off all year. You’ve seen my entries about being a “balla” in Beijing. Part of that is definitely the exchange rate/cost of living, but another part is that, unlike most of my colleagues, I haven’t transferred any money back home. Going to the bank is one of the worst experiences an Expat has to suffer through. Not only does no one speak a shred of English, but bank workers for some reason don’t even have the skills of mime that help me get by with all the waiters and shop owners. (Or, perhaps they know exactly what I’m trying to mime, but attempting to communicate with a mute is beneath them.) If that was enough, though, a simple translator could solve the problem.
The trickiest and most frustrating part of the bank experience in Beijing is that, much like traffic laws, banks seem to run on a day-by-day-mood-by-mood rule system that rarely is in an ex-pat’s favor. The worst part of the bank experience is that you need them so desperately. Anytime that an expat makes the dreaded errand that is going to the bank, it’s because they really need to get something done. Every time I go I shudder with flashbacks of first arriving, completely broke and having to go through the nightmare of trying to get my traveler’s cheques turned into RMB. Now I needed the opposite, trying to get my RMB back to my bank account in Bank of America.
I accept by now that the bank teller will decide based on his or her mood that day if my request will be granted. The first time my friend Roxanne went for a transfer, it went through with no problem. When she went back to the same branch a few months later, she was told that that branch did not complete this type of transaction. When she showed the slip of success from before, she was told it was a new policy. So she went to another branch. There she was told there was a transfer limit of 500 USD. She again showed her slip, and was told it was a new policy.
My friend Erica went to the same branch this week and was told she had to first transfer her money into a Chinese person’s account and then they could transfer it to America. Kelly went once with no problems; then the second time she was told it was impossible.
My first real improvement was going in with zero expectations. I brought my TA, L with me, just for good measure. We were first told to stand in one line, and then another. Then told to sit and wait for two different windows that were not calling out the type of number on our waiting ticket. Fine.
Then I was told I had to fill out the form again because it was in blue and not black ink. Ok.
I asked (through L) to have them make sure everything else was right. It’s a complicated form with ID numbers, phone numbers, account numbers, bank and personal addresses from here and America, and I didn’t want to fill it out again. I was told it was fine.
We waited, with no expectations, and L told me that the women Bank workers who had given me the second form were talking about me. “Just stop looking at her,” one of them had said, “you’ll never get to be like her.” Then they told L, “Just tell her that we’re jealous of her.”
I may have dressed in a pinstriped skirt, hoping that looking more like a professional and less like a teenager in jeans would help me. Still, this took me by total surprise, as I joked with L, I’m a second grade teacher. Oh the glamour!
We were finally called to The Window, and I handed all of my documents, passport, card, etc. over for judgment. Lucikly, L lied and said we’d done this before, and things seemed to be going well. I saw the red rubber stamp of approval hovering in the air and dared to imagine my request would be granted. Then she stopped and handed me my form again. My name was in the wrong place, and I was to leave Bank of Beijing out of the spot for Bank Name. (Sure, third time’s a charm.)
I sat at the window for 25 minutes, sweating and telling myself over and over again that it was ok if it didn’t work. Then, 250 deep breaths later, I was handed all of my things, covered in red stamps. Success!
I’d like to share some of my credit with the fact that it’s Women’s Day here in China. They actually celebrate it (apparently it’s a National Holiday), and my kids made me cards, I got a flower on the way to work, and women employees get bonuses!
The trickiest and most frustrating part of the bank experience in Beijing is that, much like traffic laws, banks seem to run on a day-by-day-mood-by-mood rule system that rarely is in an ex-pat’s favor. The worst part of the bank experience is that you need them so desperately. Anytime that an expat makes the dreaded errand that is going to the bank, it’s because they really need to get something done. Every time I go I shudder with flashbacks of first arriving, completely broke and having to go through the nightmare of trying to get my traveler’s cheques turned into RMB. Now I needed the opposite, trying to get my RMB back to my bank account in Bank of America.
I accept by now that the bank teller will decide based on his or her mood that day if my request will be granted. The first time my friend Roxanne went for a transfer, it went through with no problem. When she went back to the same branch a few months later, she was told that that branch did not complete this type of transaction. When she showed the slip of success from before, she was told it was a new policy. So she went to another branch. There she was told there was a transfer limit of 500 USD. She again showed her slip, and was told it was a new policy.
My friend Erica went to the same branch this week and was told she had to first transfer her money into a Chinese person’s account and then they could transfer it to America. Kelly went once with no problems; then the second time she was told it was impossible.
My first real improvement was going in with zero expectations. I brought my TA, L with me, just for good measure. We were first told to stand in one line, and then another. Then told to sit and wait for two different windows that were not calling out the type of number on our waiting ticket. Fine.
Then I was told I had to fill out the form again because it was in blue and not black ink. Ok.
I asked (through L) to have them make sure everything else was right. It’s a complicated form with ID numbers, phone numbers, account numbers, bank and personal addresses from here and America, and I didn’t want to fill it out again. I was told it was fine.
We waited, with no expectations, and L told me that the women Bank workers who had given me the second form were talking about me. “Just stop looking at her,” one of them had said, “you’ll never get to be like her.” Then they told L, “Just tell her that we’re jealous of her.”
I may have dressed in a pinstriped skirt, hoping that looking more like a professional and less like a teenager in jeans would help me. Still, this took me by total surprise, as I joked with L, I’m a second grade teacher. Oh the glamour!
We were finally called to The Window, and I handed all of my documents, passport, card, etc. over for judgment. Lucikly, L lied and said we’d done this before, and things seemed to be going well. I saw the red rubber stamp of approval hovering in the air and dared to imagine my request would be granted. Then she stopped and handed me my form again. My name was in the wrong place, and I was to leave Bank of Beijing out of the spot for Bank Name. (Sure, third time’s a charm.)
I sat at the window for 25 minutes, sweating and telling myself over and over again that it was ok if it didn’t work. Then, 250 deep breaths later, I was handed all of my things, covered in red stamps. Success!
I’d like to share some of my credit with the fact that it’s Women’s Day here in China. They actually celebrate it (apparently it’s a National Holiday), and my kids made me cards, I got a flower on the way to work, and women employees get bonuses!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Double Take
I was waiting for the elevator. Three Chinese twenty-somethings were squatting down to play with the filthy street cat that’s been living in the front hallway for the past few days. It looked as though they were cradling the cat in their arms, and I’ll admit I was surprised that people choose to get to close to this animal. As I looked closer, it looked like another cat, a white one, was hanging around one of the guy’s necks. I could see the thin shape of what I thought was a cat’s arm from his chest to the side of his neck.
I thought this was odd, to be sure, but then I looked closer. When the other two shifted I could clearly see that it was a necklace. Well, not a necklace, although it was hanging around his neck. What I thought was a cat’s arm, was actually a stuffed “necklace” leading down to the face of a stuffed teddy bear.
I looked away immediately, so as to hide the surely-inappropriate expression on my face. But I couldn’t keep myself from stealing a few more glances before the elevator came. He was dressed otherwise normally in jeans and a hoodie, but hanging from this grown man’s neck was a giant teddy bear head.
I thought this was odd, to be sure, but then I looked closer. When the other two shifted I could clearly see that it was a necklace. Well, not a necklace, although it was hanging around his neck. What I thought was a cat’s arm, was actually a stuffed “necklace” leading down to the face of a stuffed teddy bear.
I looked away immediately, so as to hide the surely-inappropriate expression on my face. But I couldn’t keep myself from stealing a few more glances before the elevator came. He was dressed otherwise normally in jeans and a hoodie, but hanging from this grown man’s neck was a giant teddy bear head.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
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