Crop Dusted in China

4.23.2008

Yesterday evening I scratched the slang I had planned to teach my students (nerd, dork, dweeb, doofus..) and taught them words from a whole different category: fart, toot, gas, butt, bottom, ass, booty, tush, buns...

I started with 'butt' and tried my best to describe the meaning with words to the 4 innocent Chinese women staring at me. "Buttocks? It's short for buttocks?"

Nope.

"Ummm, bottom? Does anyone know bottom?"

One girl sheepishly lifted her water bottle and pointed to the bottom of it. "Yes," I tell her, "but not quite what I'm going for."

Sigh. Okay. "It's this," I said and turned around and pointed.

"Ohhhh.."

"Alright. And these are all names for your butt... " I went onto pronounce each synonym for them. Moving on, "Now, 'fart' and 'toot' is slang for, um, when your butt makes noise."

Giggles.

"And when you have a lot of that going on, you say, 'I have gas.'"

More giggles.

"But, of course, us women never do such things."

Agreeing giggles.

I then preceded to tell them why I was teaching them such words: "These are very important slang words to know-- especially fart, toot, and gas. If you hear someone say, 'I just farted' or 'I have really bad gas' now you'll know to move away as quickly as possible," I darted across the room to demonstrate the suggested speed in which to remove yourself from such volatile situations. "However, the whole reason I decided to teach these words today is because of what just happened to my brother and I..."

Flash back to the day before, Tuesday, our "day off" [there is no such thing as a day off in China]. We were casually strolling through WalMart filling our already overflowing basket with god knows what and talking (most likely about the next ten items we'd throw in there). We turn the corner and--

"FLLLBBBPPRRRBBPPP!"

Collin and I throw each other a quick glance. "Did you just hear that?" he asks me.

"Yes!" It took a second to realize, but the old man standing in front of us (in a FOOD aisle nonetheless), just ripped one.

"Wow.." Collin said, "That was my first Chinese fart."

I, of course, could not contain my laughter at this statement. I completely lost it, right there in WalMart, right behind this gaseous old man. Did he know why we were laughing? Don't know. Don't care. He should feel a bit of shame for this deed.

Flash forward to the next day, one hour before my class. Collin and I are again walking and talking and minding our own business-- this time on a street in our neighborhood. Collin is discussing the craziness of battle between bikers and drivers: "Now, in Portland, if a car came that close to a cyclist--"

"FLLLBBBPPRRRBBPPP!"

Collin was literally stopped mid-sentence by the man in front of us. Again, an old man. Again, he didn't excuse himself or apologize. Again, he didn't break stride or even blink, for that matter.

We rushed past him because we were both laughing so hard we knew we'd offend him if he saw and heard us. [Why did we care about offending him? Not sure. The reverse was certainly not true]. Once we had a half block lead, we conferred through our chuckling.

"Two days in a row??! Two months and we never hear a single Chinese fart and now TWO days in a row??" I wondered aloud.

"We just got Chinese CROP DUSTED! For the second time!" Collin said.

Crop dusted indeed. "Crop dusted" is something I would never attempt to explain to my students, but for the sake of anyone reading that might not be familiar with this particular phrase, I'll provide a definition:

Crop Dust: to expel gas onto unsuspecting victims as you stroll by, just as a crop dusting plane sprays the fields below.

I shared these stories with my students, in much simpler English, and found that farting is universally funny. Not that I doubted this for a second.

-T

Just Add Soundtrack

4.22.2008

"No matter what happens now
I shouldn't be afraid
Because I know today has been the most perfect day I've ever seen..."

I walk through my neighborhood.. the same streets I've walked everyday for the last 2 months.. but this time-- tonight-- it's different. My MP3 player sends sound waves through my ears, through my mind, through my body, that remind me of life in America. Each step I take subconsciously synchronizes with each beat. The traffic, the honking, the bicycle bell ringing, the random Mandarin talking & shouting may as well be a million miles away.

"Today you were far away
and I didn't ask you why
what could I say
I was far away
You just walked away
and I just watched you
What could I say..."

I am viewing Beijing from a new point of view. The air seems crisper. The lights brighter. The streets cleaner. The buildings don't look so strange. For a few moments, I feel as if I could be walking in any large city-- New York, London, or even Paris. Even the people don't seem as foreign. And most important: I don't feel so foreign. With my earphones plugged securely inside my ears, I've created a musical force field that is now protecting me from the harsh sounds and hard stares I normally encounter. I can't hear them. They can't see me. It doesn't make any sense, but it feels this way. Guarded by my harmonic shield, I feel at home, happy, safe.

"This time it's on my own
Minutes from somewhere else
Hurry go on ahead
Good things won't let you wait
I'll catch up when we get home
At home..."

I imagine everyone hearing the same tunes and lyrics that I'm hearing. They walk in step as well. A bike turns, a light turns, a car turns-- all in perfect rhythm.

"Jigsaw falling into place
There is nothing to explain
Regard each other as you pass
She looks back, you look back..."


I learned an important lesson tonight: music is magic. In an instant it can turn the most alien of places into a familiar haven. Beijing isn't so different after all-- if you just open your mind... and add your own soundtrack.

Oceans Apart

4.20.2008

We've been in China for just over two months now. Each day flies by, yet these last two months is an eternity. I'm starting to feel the impact of being 6, 000 miles away from California, the only home I have ever known.

I explain the term "homesick" to my students. I encourage them to talk about it. None of them have ever left home, excepting short vacations.

"What would you miss if you moved abroad?" I probe.

"Family."

"Friends."

"Chinese food."

"Family."

"My cat."

"Friends."

"Classmates."

I start to tear a bit as I listen to their lists. They're listing my list. Well, save for Chinese food. And cats. I quickly change the subject to my disdain of cats, avoiding my own tears by inducing their laughter.

I'm feeling the sting of being disconnected from American culture. Once upon a time I followed American and world news daily. Politics, sports, good news, bad news. Now I don't even know the weather forecast. I woke up, surprised, to rain falling on my window today. Will it rain tomorrow? I don't even know.

A coworker hums a song to herself, "Man, I have 'Bunny Hop' stuck in my head!" I didn't fully hear "bunny" but I did hear "hop" and assumed it was some new American hip-hop or pop song I've yet again missed. I said, "I'm so out of mainstream America now that I've never even heard of that song. Is it new?"

"The bunny hop? It's like really, really old." She hums it again, louder: "Buh dun-uh-dun-uh-dun-uh. Buh dun dun dun. Buh dun-uh-dun-uh-dun-uh. DUN DUN DUN."

"Ohhhhh..... that song." I feel ignorant. I realize I am so out of the loop that I actually believed for a second that a song called "Bunny Hop" could be topping the charts back home. I scold myself for losing that much faith in my country. What's next, John McCain becoming president?

New movies, new songs, best sellers, top stories, my family and friends' daily events are all 6,000 miles away now. And I feel it.

I understand a lot of this is my fault. I have daily access to the internet-- my only portal to my past life. However, I don't have access to time. Chinese time goes faster than American time. It must. In San Diego I worked 40 hour weeks, played on 5 softball teams, went to school at night, went to the gym twice a week, went out with friends at least 2 times a week and still had time for TV watching, news reading, email sending, random phone chatting, MySpacing, blogging, and sleeping. In Beijing, I [technically] only work 25 hours a week. I have managed to make it to the gym 2 times... since I've been here. I don't play softball, I don't have class, I don't talk on the phone, I don't have a TV, I hardly have time for email or MySpace. Blogging and sleeping are indirectly proportional. As I type this, my laptop clock ticks to 2:28 AM.

The rain poured down today as I walked to work. I instinctively reached for my phone to call my sister to tell her how my street was a sludgy mess and my freshly ironed work pants were now drenched to my knees. Oh, yeah. 6,000 miles. How easily I often forget.

--
My last class this evening had "dating" themed vocabulary. I attempted to explain how you go on a date with someone you are dating, and this person is called your date. Date is a noun, a verb, and another noun. [Thanks American English for making my job more difficult!] Next came "stood me up." This was much easier to explain-- the bold rudeness of someone not showing for a date is definitely international. One of my darling students, a 20-something law student with very good English asks, "You could also say 'flashed,' right?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Flashed. One of our Chinese teachers said that if you get stood up, you can also say, 'she flashed me.' Is this right?"

I immediately doubled over in laughter. I had to contain myself enough to ensure her I was not laughing at her, as I did not want to discourage her from asking questions or seeking clarification. But she just said the sentence "she flashed me" and conjured images in my mind that would cause any nice girl to immediately blush. I looked around at my students-- women and men ranging from late 40s to early 20s. I would have loved to skip this particular explanation to this group but knew I had to clarify. For their sake.

"Ummm.. 'she flashed me' has a totally different meaning," I began. "If you were to say 'she flashed me' to someone, they would think that she took her shirt and went like this," I made a mocking motion of lifting my shirt to neck level.

Puzzlement. (Damn. I really don't want to keep talking about this). "You know, like she would show, um, her front side to you."

I see some comprehension cross their faces. I continue. I have to. "And if you were to say HE flashed you, that would mean he did this," I pretend to pull my pants down.

"Ohhhhhhhh...." they get it. They better get it-- I just made a fool of myself in front of them.

"So," I conclude, "if you were to say, 'I went on a date last night and he flashed me' that would NOT mean he didn't show up. That would mean he showed up and showed off."

We all laughed. I told my student I was very glad she asked that question. She assured me she was also very glad she asked and was very thankful for my clarification.

Moments like these-- precious, priceless, humorous moments-- throw the thought of those 6,000 miles to the back of my mind. Even if just for a moment, this, to me, is invaluable. These stories, these memories, these experiences will forever be mine. And when I do someday return home, I know there will be times where I feel "homesick" for China.

"Students."

"Friends."

"Chinese food."

"Coworkers."

"My street."

"JOE!"

"Beijing."

"China."

-T

I'm in Love!

4.13.2008

.... with my street.

If you want to eat on our street, you have many options. You can grab food from a street vendor who simply has a cart or sometimes just a blanket on the ground displaying their wares. Some vendors have a small space with just a window... you walk up to the window, hand them money, they hand you food and off you go. Others still have a small space for eating-- they may have a few tables and chairs inside and/or some out on the sidewalk and they cook the food on hot plates & make-shift stoves while you sit and wait. There are a few bigger "sit-down restaurants" as well-- there is one we frequent often & not having any idea of its name, we simply refer to it as "Our Restaurant."

So, we have our certain "go to" places (our pastry girl, our restaurant, our produce guy) but we have a long way to go before we've tried every little place on our street, something I definitely plan to do. With that goal in mind, today I decided to grab some lunch at a new shop. This shop fits into the "hole-in-the-wall-with-a-window" category. I walk up and poke my head into the window. I see a man working on a table covered in flour, making fresh dough. Another man is working with some meat and vegetables, and a women is manning 3 large metal bins near the window. All three look up at me, returning the same quizzical look I am sure I am giving them. I'm thinking, What in the world are they making? while they're thinking, What in the world is this white girl doing here?

I point at a metal bin, assuming there is food inside. "Duoshao?" (How much?)

The lady responds with a few words. I hear the word "chi" (seven), most likely because she is also making the Chinese hand signal for "chi/seven." [Side note: Chinese people have hand gestures for each number, 0-10. 1-5 is simply holding up each finger, as we do, but they only count with one hand, so 6-10 are not shown with both hands. 6 = thumb and pinky out; 7 = all five finger tips together; 8 = index finger and thumb out, similar to making a "gun signal" in America; 9 = hooking your index finger while making a fist with the other fingers; 10 = crossing your index and middle finger, like a "R" in ASL. You all just tried to do each of those while I described it, huh? I knew it.] Anyway, so she's making the hand sign for "chi" so I repeat, "Chi?" and she says "Dui" (Correct). Ok, I assume whatever deliciousness is in these tins is 7 kuai ($1). Sweet, I'll take two.

"Liangu" (Two of those).

The lady laughs at my Chinese, or Enlgese, I'm sure, and takes the lid off to reveal a bin full of steaming Chinese buns. Yum. I hand her a 10 and a 5.

"Bu, bu" (no, no) she says and waves her hand. She hands me back my 10 and takes my 5. I'm a bit puzzled because I could've sworn I heard "chi" and know she was doing the sign. Then she hands me back 3 kuai and 60 fen ["kuai" is their "dollar" and "fen" is their "cent"]. Ahhh, now I see. She was telling me each ball of freshly made heaven is 70 fen (10 cents).

I walk away with a small bag of awesome homemade treats to eat for lunch and a huge smile on my face. Not only did I just get lunch for 20 cents, but that lady was actually honest with the dumb white girl handing her way too much cash. She could have easily taken my money, but didn't. I love her. And her buns.

I turn the corner and wave to my true love. His name is JOE! The reason I write JOE! instead of Joe is because I don't know if JOE! is his English name or his Chinese name. All I know is that when I asked his name he said, "JOE!" I repeated, "Joe?" And he said, "JOE!" So maybe he likes to yell his English name, or maybe his Chinese name is "Zho." I'll never know. But it doesn't matter, because I do know this: I love him.

Leston, a fellow teacher, introduced us one day as we walked home together. He stopped us on the corner of my street and said, "Wait, I'm gonna grab dinner." I'd passed this "hole-in-the-wall-with-a-window" many times, but never stopped to check out the wares. Boy had I been missing out.

JOE! became very excited when he saw Leston. "Leston!" he yelled and held up one finger. Leston held up two fingers and Joe began working his magic. He stood directly in front of us, with only a tall, hot plate-looking thing between us. He poured a scoopful of batter on top of the hot plate. As it began to sizzle and bubble, he pulled out a small tool and artfully spread the batter in circles, making it about 10 inches in diameter. He then cracked a fresh egg and spread this on top of the batter circle, which was now turning into a crepe. Then JOE! threw a handful of cilantro and white onion on the egg layer. Next, he carefully & quickly flipped it over and pointed at three small bowls of sauces next to the hot plate and asked Leston something in Chinese. At Leston's confirmation, JOE! grabbed a small paintbrush tool and dipped it into the first bowl, spreading the sauce all over the freshly cooked side of the crepe. He repeated the process for bowl #2 and bowl #3. Then he grabbed something that looks like a thin rice cracker and placed it in the middle of the crepe. He folded it up, crunching the cracker into small pieces and threw the whle thing into a plastic bag. He handed it, steaming hot, to Leston. "Here you go," Leston handed it to me.

"How much?" I asked.

"Don't worry, I got it."

After JOE! made Leston's crepe he gave us our total: "Liu kuai" (six kuai; $0.90)

"It's only 3 kuai each?"

"Yup. Have some."

Oh... my... god... it was all I could do to keep from devouring the entire thing on the walk home-- I had to save some to share with Collin. Collin took one bite and said the same thing we say every time we eat in China: "Best thing ever." Agreed. Best thing ever.

Now I visit JOE! all the time. The magic he makes is perfect for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. It's only 3 kuai. It's amazing. AND it's made by the most adorable person in Beijing. Every time I pass by, I always wave and shout, "Ni hao!" at JOE!. Everyone in the shop laughs. [Side note: It isn't customary for people to wave and say hello here-- you only say hi to people you know or when you want something. My students had to explain this to me when I told them we walk down our street saying, "Ni hao!" to strangers. They died laughing. They said everyone we say "ni hao" to must think we want something from them, and are probably very confused when we pass them by without another word.]

JOE! is coming back with me to America... he just doesn't know it yet. I'm going to kidnap him if I must and take him and his hot plate and batter and spice bowls and paintbrush home. We will get married. Every morning he will make me his delicious crepe. And we will live happily ever after.

I love my street.