Falling for a Feeling

Thinking about America, I’m now struck by the emptiness of sensation. Walking down wide boulevards, the next person at least five feet away. Hearing the slight hum of cars passing by. And the complete lack of smell. While at times I miss the sterility of the United States, like when I watch a little kid with split pants pee in the street, I’m a little sad to return. As human beings, we’ve been given this remarkable ability to feel/see/smell/hear/taste our environment, and to perceive it, and create thoughts about it. I find it hard to believe that I’ve lived so long without experiencing the richness of the world.

 

For better or for worse, the following as some of the things I sense. Despite some of the negative connotations of some, I’ve fallen in love with every single on of these.

 

• Walking down the street and seeing all the vendors packed together. I smell roasted sweet potatoes. I walk five feet more – now it’s candied crab apples. Next, the bitter metallic smell of chestnuts warmed by hot stones. Jianbing being sold from the stand attached to the back of a bike. All the sweet aromas swirl together as I continue walking passed, causing my stomach to pang with a hunger I didn’t even know was there.
• The thin layer of dust that covers every surface. My shoes track it into the floor of the lobby (which is cleaned every ten minutes). It filters through my window and settles on my desk. It reminds me of how much time had passed while I’ve been here, and how much I miss my friends.
• The feel of bodies hitting mine as a subway car comes to a halt. Or just the jostling during the mass exodus that occurs at every stop, or just standing crammed up against each other in between stops.
• The sickly sour smell that accompanies every bathroom that assures you that, yes, indeed, that is urine.
• The rust on every bike tire and chain in China – and the friends, and girlfriends, and new acquaintances that pile on bike racks as a precarious escape from walking.
• The biting in my nostrils every time a car passes by. Unrefined gasoline never smelled so good.
• The excess amounts of fat attached to every piece of meat I get from the dining hall. After some time, I’ve given up on trying to remove it. As my teeth slide effortlessly through a chunk of translucent gelatinous matter, I think about what I’ve been missing all these years. Maybe Chinese fat just tastes better…

Who Needs a Shovel?

The following is a list of quotables from Chinese men. Mind you that each comment was made within the “get to know you” phase, and that were made with the aim (please don’t think I’m being arrogant here, I’m just trying to put things into context) to garner romantic interest. Yay for cultural/language barrier…

• Hilary Duff is my idol.
• You know, I can cook red bean soup. The girls always want me to make it because it’s sweet. They come over all the time.
• I like to get over my discrimination of other races and cultures through my girlfriends.
• I want to marry a black woman.
• I went to the Great Wall today. It was horrible. I had diarrhea the whole time and I had to keep going to the bathroom.

I’ll keep them coming as they make their appearance, but after the first few incidences, I might be steering clear.

If April is Cruel, August is Confusing…

I met August within the first week of being at Beida. I was sitting in the dining hall, contemplating my first vocab list with my book in front of me. My choice of fare included rice, some veggies, and meat in a mysterious sauce. Tasty, but the contents of such dishes always mystify me.

Enter August. Out of a four possible chairs, he sits in the one farthest away from me (just in case things go south, I suppose), and we strike up a conversation. Well, as much of a conversation as one can manage when we don’t really speak each other’s respective languages. We stumbled over words, we laughed, we asked our questions slowly (including the question to request that we speak slower). All in all, a good language exchange.

A week later, he offered to show me around the local shopping market, Carrefour. If you want to know what Carrefour is like, imagine a super Safeway and Walmart merged together, then add an extra floor. If I hadn’t had a guide, I would have been lost to the belly of consumerism. Never to be seen again. Luckily, I emerged with a hair dryer and a new friend. The totally trip took three hours simply because we walked so slowly because communication took so much effort. We each brought our pocket dictionaries and relied on the constantly.

At this point, I’m viewing August as a nice boy who is really good for practicing Chinese. He’s kind of adorable in that stereotypically Chinese way: short, shallow-chested, baby smooth face. No interest what so ever, and I’m thinking that he’s on the same wavelength. We’ll be friends, and we’ll be good for each other’s language.

Last week I get an e-mail, “Do you have time to watch maple leaves?” – Stop. It’s that short. I thought that free communication would lend itself to more descriptive, but perhaps this somewhat cryptic message was intentional. I send a reply, “Sure, how about Friday?” In retrospect, I should have asked for more details.

We meet Friday for what I think is going to be a brisk walk around Wei Ming Hou – the famous lake at Beida. We start walking in the other direction, and I think to myself, ‘Well, maybe he didn’t mean Wei Ming Hou. Ah, but we’re close to the Summer Palace. I hear it’s really pretty there.” We get in a cab. I ask, “Where are we going?” and he says something to the effect of “We’re just going to the bus stop a few stops away from Beida.” Okay, great.

We arrive at a bus station, and we board a bus. This is when I really begin to question where we’re going, but now I’m a little too far in. He’s already paid for a cab ride, we’ve obviously had a misunderstanding, but hell, I’m in China. Just roll with it. At least you get to practice your Chinese. The bus is slowly moving further and further away from the center of Beijing…

I ask again, “Where are we going?” “Let me ask.” He replies. Language barrier and all, I feel like this is a huge warning sign. He eagerly comes back from talking to the ticket lady, and presents me with the knowledge he’s gained: “It’s about an hour from here.” WHAT?! My inner monologue is screaming. AN HOUR AWAY?! Where the fuck is he taking me… Okay, Laura, no turning back. This will be an “experience”.

We arrive in the mountains. Our unintentionally clandestine location is Phoenix Mountain, a pretty park outside of Beijing. I know nothing about it. We begin to walk down a paved path lined with conspicuously manicured foliage. China’s parks are never left all-natural. Because, seriously, where’s the beauty in raw nature (Yosemite, I can’t wait to return to you!). But I can do paved strolls through parks. Nice and quick. I begin to anticipate an hour, two hour walk. Manageable. We begin to walk further. We meet some people, and August asks something about the trail. The informer says something about going up… Little did I know.

We spent five hours hiking. We crested the range, summated the mountain. And I accomplished this all on the existing nutritional content in my stomach plus a Hostess styled egg custard pastry. Earlier in the morning, I was contemplating wearing heels. I don’t even know what would have happened. The hike was gorgeous, but way too long, especially when I had to spend all of it speaking Chinese, or a bastardized form of Chinglish. Total overload. We returned home at 6:45 PM, almost nine hours after I had left.

During our nine hours together, I learned many things about August. He likes to cook (because all the girls love it when you cook, well, he does have a point), he used to play baseball in Taiwan, and now he’s a Kung Fu referee. When he was in the Taiwanese army, his Sergeant made him write love letters for him. The fruits of August’s labor came to fruition twice. I didn’t ask for details. He thinks that if you drink alcohol, that automatically means that you’re going to throw up. Therefore, he doesn’t drink. He also asked me about pot.

Upon returning to Beida, I rushed up to my room and was greeted by a group of Stanford students in the hallway making dinner plans. Never have I been more excited to speak with a native English speaker. And next time I know, maple leaf watching isn’t exactly what it may seem.

P.S. Some things you may be wondering about: August is the name he chose for himself, because that’s the month he was born in. Also, I did not see any maple leaves.

China Goggles and How China’s going to Kill Me

On the Phenomenon of China Goggles: Prior to my arrival, I prepared myself for the worst – no men for the next three months. As much as I hate to say this, but I’m not attracted to Chinese men. Maybe it’s a bit of self-hatred or something, but I’m just being honest.

But China has a funny way of screwing with your head.

It’s not just me; every other girl in my program has experienced the same thing. When we arrived in China, we looked around with searching eyes, and we were met with disappointment. Three and a half weeks have passed, and the goggles are descending over my head. I look around and think to myself, ‘hey, he’s not bad looking… oh! And neither is he.’ I have even ventured to think that there are even some attractive men here.

Whether we’re just learning to appreciate the Chinese male form, or we’re just getting desperate, China has started to look better with every day.

Okay, enough on that.

I have to apologize for my blogging lag, but my absence is excused. I’ve been really sick the past few days. Wednesday morning greeted me with chills and a headache. Things progressed to Thursday, where I sat in the bathroom with a trashcan balanced on my lap. On Thursday morning, I lay in bed and spent five minutes debating the pluses and minuses of moving my blanket. In the end I decided it was too much effort.

China may yet kill me, but I’ve survived this round.

China’s arsenal includes:

1)      Illness – as demonstrated by the above anecdote. Thankfully, I’ve received all of the appropriate vaccinations, so chances are reduced, but I must restrain myself from buying food from street vendors. It just looks so good.

2)      Paranoia – I was so scared about this last episode, I asked a friend to check on my every two hours while I slept to make sure I was still breathing. I just don’t know what to expect here.

3)      Traffic Accident – Although I’m making great strides, no pun intended, crossing the street is still like playing Russian roulette.

4)      Squeezed to Death – Subways are crowded, need I say more?

5)      Murder – No, not from the hands of the Chinese! But there are only 22 of us in this program, and I’m sure tensions during the Red Guard simulation may get high.

6)      Machine Failure – At our dormitory, we have a revolving door with hair-trigger motion sensor that will catch your heels if you’re not careful and elevator doors with a vendetta.

As I think of more, I will continue to add them.

Hola!

I saw them as I turned in my half-finished tray of food. Big red athletic jackets with a yellow, block “VENEZULA” printed across the back in an arc. If that wasn’t enough to make them stick out in a crowd, they were the first Latinos/Hispanics/whatever-you-want-to-call-them (it’s a touchy subject) I’d seen since I’d left the states. However, feeling slightly sick from my poor choice of lunch fare (too much grease!), I decided to stare straight ahead and walk briskly past. As I pushed past the plastic sheets covering the door to the dining hall, I insincerely regretted my missed opportunity on a cultural exchange.

Still recovering from the excess fat I’d just consumed, I went on a trip to the convenience store to pick up some hangers from my room. Sadly, most of my clothes lay carelessly strewn across my room. 

That’s when I saw them again, while I stood with hangers in hand.

They filled in, one by one, as I was coming up the stairs. We were the only ones in the staircase, so there was no avoiding them. The leader of the pack did the characteristic ear-prick as many foreigners do at the sight of another foreigner. His eyes zeroed in. He spoke: “Hola!” 

Thrown instantly back to Spain, where I greeted every passerby with an energetic greeting so I could feel like three years in high school language classes weren’t wasted, I immediately threw back an upbeat, “Hola!” and continued to walk up the stairs. Not possible.

I was pounced upon by about eight men in red, polyester jackets, speaking rapidly. The only words I could pick out were “puedes” and “espanol”. “Lo siento! No puedo! No puedo!” I said as quickly as I could. A few faces fell. Some kept going, more slowly now. 

I inwardly strained to find the words to say I’d been in Spain earlier that summer, but Spanish escaped me. I started putting the Chinese word for summer in front of the sentence, but I realized that was wrong too. Both on counts of vocabulary and grammar. I gave up.

The obvious leader spoke a little English, so I asked him what they were doing here. “Kung Fu Tournament”, he replied. “And you?” “Estudiar…” A chorus of “Estudio”s chimed in to correct my mistake, but all in cheerful smiles. I started to search for something to say in Spanish. The only words I could think of were ‘good luck’, but I wasn’t even sure if that was right. Slightly stuttering, I meekly sputtered out, “Buenos suerte…?” Obviously the correct thing to say, the pack of Venezuelans energetically replied with “Buenos suerte”s directed at me. Having reached the limits of my language ability, I decided to make my departure and headed out the door with an “Adios”. 

I stepped back into China, immediately surrounded by that layer of dust that covers everything. I stepped onto the hard packed earth outside the convenience store that begs for grass, but instead is only adorned by discarded wrappers.

Wait, what’s going on, I was just back in Spain a second ago. And now I’m in China… 

The disorientation lasted for a good half an hour. Having been to such completely different places, with completely different people, and having the two converge unexpectedly in a flurry of broken language – it was a bit too much to handle.

At least I know that my Chinese has begun to totally own my Spanish.