| Monday, January 07, 2008 |
| "China Does Not Release Official Statistics of Its Executions." |
Get the BBC on the phone. I want that on a bumper sticker.
According to the BBC, China is considering increasing the number of death penalties carried out by way of lethal injection, as opposed to by other methods. Previously, their weapon of choice was execution by shooting. Allegedly, some felt this caused too much pain and suffering. Personally, I would be worried about marksmanship.
Even without transparency on the part of the Chinese, Amnesty International (and a few other media sources) guesstimate that China executes more people than the rest of the world. Combined.
Look, China. I know you're playing up that whole "fear of the unknown" thing, and quite nicely I might add. But how about throwing out something warm and cuddly once in a while, huh? |
posted by Rachel @ 4:50 AM   |
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| Monday, October 22, 2007 |
| Red Herring (Actually, more like a silver grouper, but who's counting?) |
Saturday night was the Rugby World Cup and, even though I didn't plan on actually watching the match that started at 3 o'clock in the morning, I still went out in the evening to hang out with some British friends who would be watching it (and wound up sorely disappointed - sorry guys!). In all the pre-game chaos and beer, I somehow managed to accidentally leave my cell phone in the restroom (well, you probably figured out for yourself that it was accidental, though Chris has a few OTHER theories). I was e-biking to pick it up and, under the Wudaokou subway overpass, I suddenly came across a fish. A whole, dead, full-on fish just taking an eternal nap in the middle of the street.
I don't remember seeing any fish markets in the area. Could it have fallen off a truck? How do you lose a whole fish? And who is going to be the one to clean it up? Is this China's version of roadkill? Or on-the-road-already-dead-kill?
I have so many questions. |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:03 AM |
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| Monday, October 15, 2007 |
| W hat are you C razy? |
Can you spot the differences between these two photos?
It's difficult, I know.
I tend to think of "WC" as a rather tame, neutral acronym for those unhygienic pits, those malodorous trenches, those squeel-inducing squatting stations littered about all over town. But apparently, these two tiny little letters have caused a rather significant squabble at...the DMV?Some Beijing motorists are flushed with anger over new license plate numbers that contain the letter combination "WC," saying it gives them "unpleasant images." (Reuters) Okay, look. I know that the big, fancy executives who earn enough bread to own their big, fancy automobiles are a high-maintenence class, but seriously? That would be the equivalent of every driver in the Western world with the letters F and U on their license plates demanding immediate, large-scale restitution.
Personally, I would be proud to have FU on my license plate. Shows people I mean business. While we're at it, why don't we put the state bird on there. Which state? The state of Rachel. Which bird? Well, I think you can guess. And it ain't no cockatoo. |
| posted by Rachel @ 3:30 PM |
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| Thursday, October 11, 2007 |
| Religion is the Opiate of the Masses. And the Opium Wars Ended in 1856. |
Benjamin Franklin once said, "In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes." He forgot the ominpresent Chinese government. According to my favorite news source in the whole wide world, the New York Times:
China's State Administration of Religious Affairs announced Order No. 5, a law covering "management measures for the reincarnation of living Buddhas in Tibetan Buddhism."
What does that mean exactly?
Translation: Buddhist monks are not allowed to return from the dead unless they get permission from the Chinese government.
Although you would think they'd already be aware of that. Death doesn't free you from the bonds of your national heritage. And it just so happens that China's national heritage involves a bit of a tight leash and some major Big Brother action.
Personally, I think it's smart. Don't want to have too many of those good monks coming back in their next life as government officials. With all that patience, attentiveness, and work ethic - they could really screw some stuff up. |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:24 PM |
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| Rub-A-Dub-Dub, I've Got A Tub |
The latest exciting news: I'm moving into a new apartment in a Western style building and it has - get this - A BATHTUB!
Bathtubs, much like dryers, soft mattresses, and effective traffic cops, are an elusive rarety in China. I can hardly put into words the pure joy of being in possession of a truly Western bathroom (as opposed to what I've been using - a shower head pointed over a drain in the floor with no shower rod, curtain, or discernible boundaries whatsoever).
It really is the little things, folks. |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:18 PM |
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| Wednesday, September 26, 2007 |
| RoboCop, Sort Of |
I was on my way to work this morning when I saw something interesting: a traffic cop holding a video camera. He seemed to be trying to capture the license plates of cars running the red light.
It's a nice idea. But they DO have traffic cameras in Beijing. I've seen them.
Doesn't this seem like a step backward? I mean, Frederico Fellini this guy is not. What if he misses someone? Or what if the shot's not clear? Does he get a bad review in Variety? Two thumbs down from Ebut and Wo-puh?
I think they need a plan B. |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:50 AM |
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| Give A Hoot, Don't Pollute |
I bet you thought this was going to be yet another rant about the environment. Well, you'd be wrong. Mostly, anyway.
It is a pollution of a sort - the cultural kind. For you fans of foreign Americanization, McDonald's and Starbucks were just baby steps.
Now, years later, we have a medium-sized leap: Hooters has moved into town. Yes, you heard right. Hooters. In China. It may seem like an oxymoron to some, but then again, there it is.
I'll grant you, their wings recipe is hard to beat. However, the Beijing Hooters seems to be lacking in, well, actual “hooters.” It seems most Chinese think the name Hooters is some sort of reference to owls. I guess subtle, witty, double-entendre English-language humor just isn’t their bag.
The giant orange Hooters monstrosity has found a home for itself on the second floor of a small strip center, with a prime location smack dab between the Worker's Stadium and Sanlitun Bar Street – two extremely popular western nightspot locations - so they will probably draw in pretty good business.
At least one upside? Finally, men in China can stop lying to their wives and girlfriends: for once, it really WILL just be the food... |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:39 AM |
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| Thursday, September 20, 2007 |
| Guide For The Harried (Chinese) Man |
I read the following in an article citing problems with crime in areas of Britain with high immigrant populations:
"Cambridgeshire Police has produced a guide to behaving in Britain that is available in 15 languages. It warns immigrants not to touch or fondle people without their permission; not to urinate or spit in public; and that people may find it intimidating to be stared at."
Where is this guide and is it printed in Chinese? |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:26 AM |
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| His Parents Must Have Seriously Wanted Him Beaten On The Playground |
I came across a gentleman while doing research at work with the unfortunate luck of being named
Dr. NIMROD Baranovitch.
Hey, part of the joy of youth is brainstorming creatively cruel nicknames for your peers. Where's the challenge? |
| posted by Rachel @ 3:19 PM |
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| Friday, September 07, 2007 |
| NEW HEALTH BREAKTHROUGH: Air-Conditioning Leads to Back Pain |
You may be asking yourself:
Air-Conditioning? Back Pain? What does one have to do with the other? They're not related!
Well, you'd be wrong. According to my newest acquaintance - a (mostly) blind Chinese "an moi" masseur - they ARE related. And if he said it, then it MUST be true.
While getting a company-sponsored massage to work out the kinks and muscle tightness from my bicycle accident a couple days ago (What does YOUR company do for YOU?), the masseur said just that. He found a knot in one back muscle just inside my right scapula and apparently deduced from this that I have a love for air conditioning (oh, do I ever...).
"The Chinese understand balance and know how to engineer natural ventilation of their homes," he began. "Often, foreigners don't get this. They use air conditioning to control the temperature of the home. That's what causes this difficult type of muscle knot."
Really? If anything, I would've guessed it would be the horribly contorted way I sleep, the stiff office chair I sit in nine hours a day, getting thrown from my bike just a few short days before, or cycling an hour and a half every day through stressful Beijing traffic. But air conditioning? He definitely got me on that one. I would never have guessed.
He also kept telling me how strong my muscles were and repeatedly asked me if I was a swimmer. Which I will choose to take as a compliment. Despite the fact that, in reality, it probably translates as, "you're husky for a girl and built larger than most men I've encountered."
Which, all things considered, is probably true. I don't know if that says more about me or Chinese men. I'll let you decide. |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:23 PM |
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| Wednesday, September 05, 2007 |
| Greatest Headline in the History of Journalism: |
"CHINESE BOOKWORMS GOING POTTY ABOUT POTTER"
You can't just stick "-y" on the end of a word and magically turn it into a properly-used adjective. But good try People's Daily... |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:09 PM |
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| No Use Crying Over Spilt Soy Milk |
Why was my soy milk spilt, you ask? Because I got into a little bike accident this morning. It was bound to happen sooner or later, and if you would've asked me where it was going to happen, I could've told you it would be the third ring road. Don't worry Mom, I 'm FINE.
The thing I didn't expect, though, was that it wouldn't be my fault. Over the past few months, I've been wavering between being a "polite, law-abiding" bicyclist or going "Chinese-style," for lack of a better descriptive term. Well, most times I now go kung-fu bicycling to work, which can be pretty aggressive, so I would've expected that my first official Beijing bicycle accident would be the fault of yours truly. (I say first "official" accident, because unofficially I was bumped by a car a few months ago, but both the other car and I were barely moving at the time and no words were exchanged. Just a few choice hand gestures. You know what I'm talking about. And apparently in China they mean EXACTLY the same thing that they do in America.)
So I was riding along my merry way on the third ring road, only about 5 minutes from the office, when out of nowhere, one of these three-wheeler, fully enclosed golf cart-type vehicles cuts directly in front of me, forcing me to swerve into the front portion of a parked minibus and throwing me off the bike onto the pavement. Of course, passersby gathered around. There was general concern for my and my bike's well-being. The guy who had cut me off got out of the car and pointed at a taxicab that was speeding away. "It was that guy. That guy cut me off." I had seen the cab cut him off in my peripheral vision, which forced the guy to cut into me. Only by the time I saw it happening, there was nothing I could do about it.
Apparently, the cabbie had already dropped off the woman he was driving and she kept the receipt which had the cab and license number on it. She gave it to the guy who had been forced into me. He had a few choice words for that cab driver, and now he was going to make sure that cab driver heard them. That cabbie is SO screwed.
Hitting someone (especially a foreigner?) = NOT GOOD.
But, all in all, the damage was minimal- a bloody toe, a few scrapes, and a bruised knee. All in all, it could've been a hell of a lot worse. I'm just glad I didn't slam into the parked minivan, but instead aimed ahead of it. I'm also exceedingly glad I chose to wear jeans today instead of the shorts I was going to; my legs would've been scraped up to hell. My bike didn't fare too badly either: one of the handlebar grips shifted a little (I manually shifted it back) and the screw that attaches the basket and headlight to the bike came loose, which I can have fixed this evening. So far no major problems, although the ride home this evening will be the true test of that. And once again: Mom, I'm FINE.
How's that for a little adrenaline kick on the way to work? Certainly got me rolling...
Oh, and the soy milk only spilled a little...still some left for lunch! |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:05 PM |
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| Friday, August 31, 2007 |
| Arrivederci Roma and the "Homecoming" (a.k.a. the "Beijing Fiasco") |
All roads lead to Rome. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Veni, vidi, vici.
Nothing compared to the real thing. And hell yeah, I conquered.
I arrived in Rome mid-morning on the 2nd of August, and walked the ten minutes from the train station to my hostel, which at first appeared to be nothing more than a Laundromat/Internet shop. This laundry center/computer lab was actually just the “office” of the hostel. They handed me the key, led me to the (world’s most annoying) elevator, and brought me up to the top floor of the next building over. The hostel consisted of an apartment of four bedrooms with four beds in each (and no bunk beds either!) and one shared bathroom for all. Each room was equipped with only two oscillating fans to try and temper the oppressive heat of a Roman summer. Now I know why they wore togas. The “management” gifted me with a bottle of wine (which was put to good use, I promise you) and I settled into the room.
I made a plan for the afternoon and went to wait for the elevator. The apartment to the right of ours had a nameplate on the door that read, “E. Morricone.” I wandered off in my head, wondering if it was indeed THE Ennio Morricone who lived there. If he did, why would he announce it on his door? Gee, this elevator was taking an inordinately long time to arrive…and then I realized why. It was stuck on another floor. In order for this elevator to move, the outside AND inside doors had to be completely closed. A group of inept twenty-somethings living on the second floor never seemed to be able to close the doors properly. I gave up, took the stairs down, and opened the front door. There I was: in Rome!
I totally got Publius beat. In one day, and ON FOOT, I conquered the Roman Forum, the Coliseum, the Fontana di Trevi, the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona (where I had the world’s most picturesque lunch – and the best gnocchi I’ve had, EVER), the Castel St. Angelo, and the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. Actually, three-quarters of a day, if you discount that morning’s travel time. AND I even had time for a haircut. I found a great salon in Piazza del Popolo that is run by a few Italian guys from California. I didn’t really need my hair cut since I had just recently gotten it done in Beijing, but I had to undo the mess made by the Chinese stylist who had hacked his way through it before my trip.
“You should give Chinese stylists a chance,” they said. Well, I did. And I’m pretty sure I looked like a cross between Diana Ross and Don King. THAT would make one ugly-looking child. The Italians fixed it up beautifully (though it is resultantly a bit shorter than I’d like, but thank goodness hair grows…unless you’re Rudy Giuliani) and I headed back to the hostel. I hopped on the underground from Popolo back to Stazione Termini (the train station) which was the closest stop to my hostel. As I was walking back, I suddenly did a double take. I stared and squinted a little. Walking forward hesitantly, I wanted to be sure my eyes were not deceiving me. They were not. It was Jess!
Jess was a good friend of mine from college that I hadn’t seen in over a year. And here, coincidentally, we had found each other on the streets of Rome. What were the odds?
(I’m not looking for actual numbers here. Geeks - put away your calculators!)
Jess had been living in a convent in Florence studying Italian. Rome was the first of several European cities she would be visiting now that her summer study program was over. Joined by her friend Tess, we went food shopping and made plans to meet up later that evening. The plans fell through and we didn’t get to meet up again since they were leaving the next morning. But it was fantastic if for no other reason than that it makes for a great anecdote.
Not going out was okay by me anyway since I had to get up SUPER early to do the Musei Vaticani the next morning. I was not about to sit out in the stifling summer heat for two and half hours because I was lazy and got there late and an early start wouldn’t kill me. I woke up around seven. My roommates, who originally said they would accompany me no matter the wake-up time lay fast asleep and so - as with the majority of my trip - I set off solo seeking adventure and a hearty dose of Papal infallibility. I got there fairly early, but found myself in the tour group line instead of the individual line. I had lost about ten minutes, but I was still pretty close to the front entrance. I had brought my iPod, a book, and a breakfast of rice cakes and apricot jam. Oh, and HUGE bottles of water. Those who had neglected this tiny thing had to pay 5 euro for a tiny little bottle of Italian-brand water. I had been there, done that, and not wasted money on the t-shirt.
I was leaning against the walls of the Vatican waiting on line when the guy standing in front of me tapped me on the shoulder. I looked up and took the iPod buds out of my ears.
“[In a Spanish accent] Watch those people behind you, they’re trying to cut.”
“Excuse me?”
“See those women over there? They just got here and they are trying to cut the line.”
Behind us and just to the right of the line, three women were standing, looking like they were ready to play some line-cutting double-dutch.
“Has anyone told them?”
The girl he was with walked over to them and told them to go to the back of the line. They pretended not to speak English, even though we had clearly heard English coming from them just minutes before. So she switched into both Spanish and Italian, and the women got huffy.
“What are you going to do about it?” they spat.
Slighted, the girl came back to her boyfriend.
“Just tell the people behind you. Hopefully no one will let them in.”
I told the two girls behind me who, it turned out, were very nice girls from Indiana who were just as livid about the situation. The line was now around the block for probably about 100 meters. All these people waiting in the hot sun, and these two women thought they were Paris and Nicky Hilton at the velvet Ropes of Hyde. But thankfully, these women were fully dressed and under-garmented and being thoroughly ostracized by everyone we told about the cut-attempt. The girls from Indiana decided to take a picture of the women to show to the guards. The women did eventually cut in about ten or fifteen people behind us and the guards of course did nothing, but the situation was funny and it killed some time.
I spent the whole morning checking out the Vatican and the Basilica, and had a picnic lunch on the Spanish Steps. The whole experience was breathtaking, and cannot truly be described in words - you just have to go yourself.
Oh, and the Swiss Guard? Like elves taking a Mediterranean vacation from Santa’s Workshop. I know it’s a big honor and all, but:
Seriously? And that one on the left looks a bit mischievous. Maybe he’s got something on the Pope? Even the lollipop guild didn’t have quite so many colors. I love the preservation of “European tradition” - makes for truly memorable photo ops.
I spent the day, eventually retiring back to the hostel to pack and get a good night of sleep before the trek back to China. Rome was my last stop before returning to Beijing and I had a long day of flying ahead of me.
I asked one of the people at the hostel’s front desk about trains to the airport. She said that one left every half-hour on the hour and half-hour. Great. This would be easy. No stress…I knew exactly when I needed to be ready and when I needed to leave. My flight wasn’t until almost noon. I would take the ten A.M. train, arrive at the airport around ten-thirty and be there in plenty of time for my flight. I woke up the next morning bright and early. I got myself together, made sure I had all my things packed properly, attended to some last minute correspondence, and walked myself over to the train station, arriving about seven minutes before the train was to leave.
Of course the airport train line was the furthest one from the entrance, but I had plenty of time. I checked out the board to check out which number I needed to go to and it said the train was departing at 9:53. Two minutes ago. But that can’t be! I asked one of the conductors on the platform and, unfortunately for me, it WAS to be.
The next train didn’t leave until 10:23, putting me a little tighter than I would’ve liked. Had I known I would have been in this scenario, I would’ve gotten my airline boarding passes before I left to ensure I wouldn’t miss the cut-off for check-in (like I did in London that first week). Agitated and feeling rushed (exactly what I DIDN’T want), I got on the train and willed it with my mind to move faster. I found out that day that I indeed do NOT have telekinetic powers. Sitting on the train, I read the newspaper over another girls’ shoulder. It read something to the extent of: “Heathrow loses a hell of a lot of baggage, especially if you’re flying British Airways, and people aren’t really big fans of that.” I was flying through Heathrow. On British Airways. With the luck I was having today, that would surely be me.
At just before eleven, I arrived huffing and puffing - wanting to make sure I was checked in before the “forty-minutes prior” check-in window closed. I did make it, but there was a hitch. There always is. At least for me. Thanks, Murphy.
Going in and out of Heathrow, you’re only allowed ONE carry-on. This I already knew. So in the past, I had just carried on my computer in my hands (since you had to take it out of your carry-on to go through security anyway) and I would take that plus my gigantic monster of a purse on the plane. I had done it that way from Beijing to London and London to Amsterdam. But in Rome, they weren’t having it. I had a choice between carrying the things I needed from my purse and bringing my computer or packing my laptop and bringing my purse on intact. Since my passport, wallet, Bose headset, iPod, and all the other etc. were of much greater immediate need, I decided to pack in my laptop and hope for the best. If I didn’t hurry this up, I would miss my connecting flight in London going back to Beijing. I calmed myself down, took an easy flight from Rome to London and figured, “when I get to London and I have to recheck my bags through customs or what have you, I’ll just take out the laptop and give it another try. With the layover, I can always just buy a bigger backpack/suitcase to take on the plane.”
I got through the extra security check after getting off the plane. I walked up to the transfers and connections counter. Handing over my passport, I asked for my ticket for the connecting flight to Beijing.
“Luggage tags please.”
“Oh, okay. Here.”
“Thank you.”
The airline rep input the luggage tag numbers and handed them back to me.
“You’ll be able to pick your luggage up in Beijing.”
“It’s connecting through?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure they’ll make the connection and get through to Beijing?”
“Yes.”
Not wanting to be the pest who pisses off the airline personnel who are “just trying to do their job,” I decided to leave it at that. I was not going to get to see my luggage in London. No computer.
“And you’re sure they’ll make the connection and get through to Beijing?” Those final words…
By the time I got through all this and switched to the international terminal, I had only 45 minutes left of my originally three-hour layover. I grabbed a bite to eat and then boarded the flight, which proved to be uneventful. I tried to make myself sleep, but despite prodding with comfortable blankets and wine, my body was not having it. But soon, I’d be back in MY apartment. After five long weeks.
We touch down in Beijing. I, of course, end up on the world’s slowest customs line because some lady was having immigration issues. Finally, I get through to the conveyor belt to grab my bags. I wait. And I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more. You know what’s coming.
The bags stopped coming off the belt and I didn’t see either of mine yet. But I wasn’t the only one, which was somewhat reassuring. Maybe one load of bags is just taking longer? Then I heard one of the airport workers on his radio: Mei le? Mei le?
My stomach dropped and I just KNEW. I walked over to him and told him my bags had still not arrived from the London flight.
“Just a moment…There are no more bags. Come to the baggage office and we will figure this out.”
I noticed there were other passengers looking around at each other, confused and anxious. I walked over to them and explained the situation. Despite exhaustion and frustration, my mad Chinese translation skills hadn’t skipped a beat. Thank goodness for small miracles.
I went to the office, produced my tickets, passport, and luggage tags and filled out some paperwork. The women in this office had already been yelled at enough. Yet another angry shouting match wasn’t going to do anything. Besides, it was Heathrow’s fault. I thanked the woman in Chinese, which relieved her, and I headed out to grab a cab.
I was worried about my laptop and my bags but, more than anything else, I was tired. I got in the cab line and told the line captain where I was going. He pointed out a cab and I went over, got in, and gave him my address.
“Tai jin le!” (It’s too close!)
“Shen me ya?! Tai jin le ma? Wo zenme yinggai hui jia? Zoulu ne?” (What?! It’s too close? How should I get home then? Walk?)
“Tai jin le!”
Tired and fed up, I got out - slamming the door behind me – got in the next cab in line, and gave him the address. He was just getting ready to start the meter when the taxi line captain came over and asked me why I hadn’t used the other taxi.
[translation:] “The other guy told me where I live is too close. He doesn’t want to take me, so I’ll just go with someone else!”
“No, no - you need to go with him. He will take you. I assure you he will take you”
He opened the door for me and I got out with my one giant purse and nothing else. Great. Now I had to sit and listen to this stupid cab driver guy be miserable for half an hour. I got into his taxi and we drove off. Without even a pause for breath, the guy starts yelling at me.
[translation:] “I have to wait in this line all day to get a fare and you tell the line captain you only want to go to Dongzhimen? I am only allowed to come once a day unless the fare is only to Wangjing (which is really close to the airport). Then, I’m allowed to come back again and wait on line again for another airport fare. You should have told him you were going to Wangjing!” From the way I’m writing it, it sounds like he was being fairly even tempered, but he was sneering at me the whole time. It’s all in the delivery.
Now let me ask two questions: 1) Am I supposed to lie to the taxi line captain about where I’m going? Isn’t this system in place for a reason? The Beijing government is always talking about treatment of foreigners when the Olympics come. Is this the image they’re going to present? What difference does it make that it’s still 2007 and not yet 2008? And, 2) How is it my responsibility to do this on his behalf? If he chooses to wait on line all day at the airport for fares and wants to come back again to get two major scores instead of just doing it once and then getting back out on the street and hustling like every other cab driver, what is that my concern? Especially after sitting through a fourteen hour plane flight and then not getting back my luggage. So, I ignored him. I noticed that he messed with the meter to make it charge me more per mile, but I was so tired that I let him get away with it. I yelled at him a bit before I got out of the cab for overcharging me, to at least let him know that I was aware he was a crooked jerk of a cab driver, slammed the door and got out. Beijing, you have some work to do.
But I was back.
I got in the elevator, a little worried. I hadn’t been home in a while and for sure there would be bills to catch up on. The gas and the internet, I had been told by my boss, could be paid upon my return. The internet they might turn off, but as soon as you paid, it would start up again. The gas, they wouldn’t - but since it works on a meter, you would just have to pay the extra months’ worth all at once. Fine. But when I got back to my door, there were no notices, no fliers, NOTHING. Good. Or so it would seem.
All the things that needed to be done, I would do the next day since it was Sunday anyway. I opened the outside iron security door, opened the small lock on the inside door, pushed and…nothing.
The door wouldn’t budge. You’ve GOT to be kidding me. To give you a bit of background, when I first moved in, there was a “top lock,” sort of like a bolt, that was broken. I had never used it, nor had I been given a key for it. Apparently, in my absence, the landlord had chosen to fix it. And he didn’t leave me a note or a key.
I called my leasing agent. No answer. I called someone from his office. They called the landlord’s assistant who then called me. This took an hour. It was definitely the most un-fun, draining game of phone tag I’d ever played. Finally, I got him to come over. He said, “so you lost your key inside.”
“NO! For the millionth time, SOMEONE changed the lock while I was away on vacation and I’ve never been given a key!”
The assistant tried his keys and realized that he also didn’t have the key needed to get in. (By this time another whole hour had passed.) Finally TRULY understanding my anger and frustration, he called the locksmith. It took the locksmith an hour and five “Kuai yidianr! (Hurry up!)” phone calls from the assistant to get to my building.
Picking the lock didn’t work. He had to break it. Finally, we got into the apartment, and I saw that someone (to this day, I still don’t know who…I assume the landlord) had reattached and fixed the broken bolt lock and repainted the aqua green door frame so that it was pristine, but could barely be budged. The thing was practically painted shut. The assistant and the locksmith put on two whole new locks (so officially I am the ONLY person able to get into my apartment) and, using a scissor and a knife, shaved off the freshly painted layer of green from the door’s edge so that I could actually close the thing.
In China, aesthetics often trump pragmatism. This was a perfect example. Yes, the door was mean, green, and perfectly clean. But it wouldn’t open or close because it had five layers of paint on it. Good going, guys…
I had to pay the locksmith 120 yuan, but it was worth it just to get back in my apartment and to get them out of it so I could sleep. And of course, whoever it was that changed the lock while I was gone was never held accountable. That always seems to be the way my life works in China: the person who causes me difficulty never has to take responsibility or own up to it and I end up losing cash.
To end this story on a bittersweet high note, eventually - after three days of hounding them on the phone and making such a nuisance of myself that I could not be ignored - the Beijing airport baggage people got me my luggage back, one piece at a time. My computer was still inside and completely intact, although my camera fell as a casualty of war somewhere along the way. I suppose it could’ve been worse. Although now that I’ve reread my whole post, I’m not sure it could have. What luck I have. (Or have not.)
P.S. Wikipedia is down again. And apparently, so is Blogger. Gotta love living here! |
| posted by Rachel @ 4:33 PM |
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| Wednesday, August 29, 2007 |
| Wikipedia is Wiki-Working! |
Wednesday night is Quiz Night in Beijing and, as such, I decided to take a couple minutes out of my busy work day to brush up on the news and whatever topic is the focus of the week to get myself trivia-ready. The theme for tonight's match will be "The Simpsons" and though I've watched my share just like everyone else, I figured it might be helpful to brush up just a little more.
I put in the Google search terms "Simpsons characters," figuring at least a rundown of the characters in the show would refresh my memory, and - lo and behold - the perfect search result: "List of characters in The Simpsons."
Fantastic! But wait. It's from Wikipedia, the "free" encyclopedia. Normally "free" is not in quotes, but here in China it tends to be. Wikipedia, like the BBC website and Blogger blogs, is inaccessible within China's borders. Period.
Until now! I clicked on the link, figuring I could always highlight the web address and stick it in a proxy server when, suddenly, there it appeared in all its glory! The Wikipedia entry, in its entirety, without even using the cache feature!
So, at least for a short while (until the Wikipedia amenders once again start adding "inappropriate content"), we have Wikipedia lift-off! Thank you "Chinese-government-equivalent-of-standards-&-practices" for making my day! |
| posted by Rachel @ 4:21 PM |
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| Monday, August 27, 2007 |
| This Boot Was Made For Walking |
Figuring that my family is about 98.5% of my readership, I've decided to skip the cruise portion of my trip since my family was there and just summarize it as such: I hadn't seen my family in about seven months and I really missed seeing them, but no one should be crammed in tight quarters on a boat nearly twenty-four hours a day with their relatives - or anyone else for that matter. Now I know why pirates always seem so angry. Suffice it to say, it was a lovely trip and a much-needed respite from sharing hostel rooms with strangers and eating roadside shawarma two to three times a day.
Now onto the final leg of my trip: Italy. After my family headed for home, I spent a day in Venice, managing to catch a tour at the Murano glass factory and walk every single street/canal-side pathway from the train station to San Marco, and all the way back. Probably should've brought hiking boots as I literally wore my feet off. I gave myself the evening off and the next morning, I hopped a train to Florence. I arrived at Stazione Santa Maria Novella and - without getting lost for more than fifteen or twenty minutes in the staggering Florence heat (which seemed so romantic in Under the Tuscan Sun...) - I made it to my hostel.
The reviews about this hostel, Ostello Gallo D'Oro, were fabulous. All I had been hearing from previous visitors was Massimo this, and Sylvia that. Well, I arrived and though it wasn't Massimo or Sylvia at the front desk, I was greeted with warmth, espresso, and no immediate request for payment. This was a welcome change from five weeks of forking over room fee after room fee before I could even put my bags down. Feeding my caffeine addiction with delicious Italian espresso didn't hurt either. At the front desk, I met Leann, an Australian traveler who - as it turned out - had been staying at the exact same hostel in Venice that I had at exactly the same time I had and who had taken the exact same train from Venice to Florence that I had that very morning. And yet, we never met. This was the first of two major Italian coincidences. There is just something about that giant boot...maybe my love of shoes gives me good boot-country karma.
Later that day, (the just as amazing as advertised) Sylvia made reservations for me at the Accademia and Ufizi Galleries and helped me arrange a night at the opera in the Giardani Boboli. She told me I could take a bus from the train station if I didn't want to walk the whole way and I thought that sounded like a good idea, seeing as my feet were worn down to stubs from a full day of sightseeing on foot. I bought a bus ticket at one of the "Tabacchi" (tobacco) shops, which seems to be THE place to buy public transport in Europe, and jumped on a bus at Stazione SMN to go to Boboli. Sylvia said I would see the gate to Boboli when I arrived so I figured I could wing it.
Bad idea.
I looked at the bus stop signs as we passed and noticed there were fewer and fewer people on the bus. Not having seen the Boboli Gardens yet and knowing that it shouldn't have been that long a trip, I decided to get off the bus. I didn't recognize the stop name, and had not a clue as to where I was. I still had to buy tickets for the opera and the show started in only a couple of hours. I stopped a woman walking by to ask her where I was on my map. She looked for a bit, tracing the road with her finger. I was off the map. Oh, lord.
There were buses going back toward the city, but I was going to miss buying tickets and the opera since the buses this far out of the city center came so seldomly. So I walked. And walked. And walked. I started passing the bus stops I had seen on my way out. Finally, my feet were ready to give up. I mean, I had taken a bus so I WOULDN'T have to walk. There was another girl waiting next to the bus stop sign, so I figured maybe the next bus was going to come soon. Just to figure out where I was, I asked her - in my most broken Italian - how long it was to Giardani Boboli. Though most of what I said was probably some gibberish-y mix of what little three days worth of Italian I had picked up so far, the remnants of my high school Spanish, and even a little English, but when I said "Giardani Boboli" she said (in Italian, of course): "Oh, Giardani Boboli! Just a little bit that way."
I thanked her and decided I would keep walking. I saw signs for it and finally, just five minutes later, there it was: trees, a gigantic arched entrance, and no other significant markings. No wonder I missed it.
After forty-five minutes of trudging, I had made it. The falafel sandwich I had thrown in my bag for the road was smelling pretty darn good right then, and lord knows I earned it. I bought my tickets, sat down at one of the outdoor picnic tables, and dug in. When people started making their way into the outdoor ampitheater's stadium-style bleachers, I followed behind and situated myself for Rigoletto, a tragic tale about a court jester whose jokes and taunts come back to haunt him. Though the acoustics probably would've been better in an indoor theater, it was a moving production and even more rewarding for having hiked miles to get there. I had been so worried they would run out of tickets. But not only were there plenty of extra to go around, it didn't even matter much which level of ticket you bought; After the first act, everyone moved down from the upper rows to fill in the vacant spots anyway.
The show let out just before midnight and, though I was a little wary of returning alone in the middle of the dark night, I did have a map to guide me back. Besides, it was doubtful that I had enough money on me for cab fare. So back I walked. Crossing over the river on the Ponte Vecchio, I caught a glimpse of the full moon reflecting over the water. I distinctly recall inhaling deeply, exhaling, and thinking aloud, "you just don't get this kind of beautiful stillness in Beijing, do you?"
No, my dear girl. You sure don't.
That evening I had chosen to wear an Italia football (soccer for the Americans and Aussies) zip-up I had bought in a fit of wind in Venice. I was glad I had brought it because in the windy Giardani Boboli's outdoor theater it was quite cold - despite its being mid-summer. However, during my walk back, I was serenaded with team Italia's fight song more than a few times by drunken twenty- and thirty-somethings hanging out on the street in the wee hours of the morning. I grinned at the inebriated chorus of football fans with my lips tight, ducked my head down, and kept walking. Perhaps just a little faster than before. I finally got back to the hostel around 1 AM and fell into the soundest sleep I'd had my entire trip.
Next: Rome, Heathrow, and my most frustrating fiasco to date (a.k.a just another day in Beijing). Tune in to see what goes down. |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:53 PM |
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| Tuesday, August 14, 2007 |
| "Once the rockets go up, who cares where they come down? That's not my department," says Werner von Braun. |
So I found myself on this very crowded, very HOT overnight train to Munich and - due to the heat and rumbling of the train - I was awake all night, minus about twenty minutes of zzz's I managed to fit in just before wake-up call. I drained my computer battery watching License to Wed (not the highest quality cinema, but it killed some time) and then took to staring at the scenery out the window to a soundtrack of snoring, tossing, and the occasional rap on the door by transportation authorities seeking passports and tickets. I actually felt sort of bad for my (all-Korean) counterparts as they had obviously only recently arrived in Europe and were still feeling the drain of the 6-7 hour time difference (which I had managed to knock off quite easily by partying all night at my hostel in London). I mean, there was a bar and karaoke IN THE HOSTEL! Do you know a better way to beat jet lag...?
The train arrived in Muenchen (Munich) at around 6-something in the morning. Working on what little German I had picked up, I asked directions to Senefelderstrasse (Seinfeld Street!) and five minutes later easily stumbled upon Wombat's - by and large the awesomest hostel I had been to yet. And NO, "awesomest" is generally NOT actual English. But for the moment, I say it is and it's my blog. I have spoken.
I check into the hostel. The room is not ready this early, but I'm fading and quick. Getting to Munich "bright and chipper" was great because I wouldn't miss any tours and I could fully milk my two whole days in Bavaria for what they were worth, but I was walk-sleeping (the inverse of sleep-walking) my way around with exhaustion. Luckily, there was "the Wintergarten." (You like the German spelling?) Below are Ray and Souma demonstrating how to properly "use" the Wintergarten.
 Nestled in between the hostel's internet hot-spot and gigantic bar stood this beautiful, glass-ceilinged meditation lounge with (real!) trees, beanbag chairs, sleeping mats, couches, and - the coup de grace - industrial-strength air conditioning.
Under the guise of reading, I nodded off on the long leather couch and was only two hours later awoken by the sound of clinking glass, as one of the maintenance guys collected the beer bottles and pint glasses left from the night before. And thank goodness - or else I would've missed the tour (and the whole point of my early morning).
Then I meet...Ozzy.  Ozzy is a Wombat-ian, a kickass tour guide, and the self-proclaimed "only black native Bavarian. I mean, just look around. Seriously."
After a brief introduction to Munich's history and a series of questions posed to see how much the audience already knows about German history (by the way, the answer to 60% of his questions was "beer"), we headed off and started our tour with a quick grocery stop for water and supplies. As we were reassembling, I noticed that one of the guys in the group had an angry-looking yellow-jacket printed on the back of his shirt. Noting this to be unusual - and knowing the origin of the mascot since my big brother went to Georgia Tech - I figured the odds were pretty good that these guys went to Georgia Tech, too. As such, they were probably from the States and with a quality university degree, would also prove to be reasonably well-educated minds for primed for good conversation. As my Aussie friend Leanne would say, "They weren't those Paris Hilton-y, gossiping Americans I keep running into."
Me too, Leanne. Me too.
So I chatted one of them up and, pretty soon, I had traveling companions. Aaron, Ray, Souma, J.B. and Greg were a year or so shy of graduation and were on a trip away from their study abroad campus in France. We - me, the guys and super-vegan Kelly, another single traveler I had met at the hostel - got to know each other during the tour, having a mid-tour alcohol-fuelled lunch and a post-tour beer (or ten) at two of Munich's largest biergartens.
What is lunch at a biergarten? Pretzels, veggie-cheese spread, and onions with a pint of beer. Compare the size of the pretzel to the size of the pint and the plate. Not even photoshopped...and oh-s0-delicious. The crew "at work," a.k.a. beer at lunchtime.  We returned to the hostel, weary, and changed to go out, grab some dinner, and hit some clubs. We were in the bar waiting for the group to assemble, when we were approached by this (I think) German guy who told us it was his bachelor party and that, for some reason or by some custom, he had to sell a whole bunch of things. The items included dirty magazines, tampons, lingerie, and action figures (don't know how that LAST one got in there...). At one point, the very drunk "bachelor" wanted Greg to try on a woman's thong. Greg put it on over his shorts for a laugh, but this was not exactly what the guy had in my mind. The guy takes the thong back, peels off his pants, and puts the thong on over his underwear, wandering around the bar, strangely proud.
 Laughs all around. NOW, we were ready to go. (Above are Greg and Ray cracking up at the "pink-thonged bachelor.")
We had a fairly uneventful dinner (with a waiter who clearly didn't like us - yay, America!) and then went to the "club street," basically a sketchy, large alley with about fifteen clubs all lined up, one after the other. When heads began to collide, we split up. Aaron, J.B., Kelly, and I went one way - to the America bar (which was nowhere near as lame as it sounds, thank goodness), while the others figured out where they wanted to go. We went dancing for about an hour and a half before calling it quits. We would be getting up early the next day to visit Dachau and the Deutsches Museum and were already exhausted from the day. So back we went.
The next day we went to Dachau, which was amazing to see, but less informative than I would have liked. However, the highlight of my time in Munich - the Deutsches Museum - was absolutely historic. It’s basically the world's most fabulous and comprehensive science museum. We saw the V2 rocket, and were disappointed to find barely a mention of Dr. Werner von Braun - immortalized by musical satirist Tom Lehrer in his comedic ditty "Werner von Braun" (which I highly recommend giving a listen to if you don't know it). The Techies were singing it and surprised when I jumped right on in with them. I may not be a nerdy engineer, but I know classic comedy when I hear it.
After touring through the museum for about three and a half hours, we visited the giftshop, where merchandise plastered with Albert Einstein and E = mc-squared abounded, but not a glimpse of Werner von Braun was to be found. Avowing that we would create a company solely to the creation of "Werner von Braun" t-shirts and memorabilia, we set off in search of evening activities.
We passed a movie poster of Harry Potter and, worn out from the night before, decided a movie night would be nice. We went back to the hostel where the front desk pointed out two English-language theaters where the new Harry Potter would be playing. We followed the instructions, planning on catching an 8-ish showing, and found the theater. We went inside and asked if Harry Potter was playing here in English. "No, you want the NEXT theater down. Just keep walking." And so we did. Finally we got to the next theater with about 20 minutes before the showing.
"They're showing Harry Potter in English here, right?"
"No. This one is in German. It's the next theater down."
Okay. So we keep walking. The front desk had told us it would be near the Deutsches Museum and we saw the movie posters for Harry Potter just beside the museum entrance. Exasperated, we had finally arrived. Or had we?
"This theater is only German. There is another theater if you continue walking along the river."
Oy vey. So we keep walking and finally we reach yet ANOTHER theater, and this time, the movie posters are in English. A good sign. We ask, and YES! it is the English-language cinema – one out of four in a five block radius. Those Munich-ers must really like their movies.
We returned to the hostel after our fantastic cinematic adventures and I bid my new friends adieu, as I would be leaving early the next morning and they the next afternoon.
From Munich I was on to Vienna, which I can sum up in the conclusion to this entry:
Churches, shopping, old buildings, more churches, statues, creepy grocery store attendants who like to try to get "friendly" with their foreign female patrons after seriously overcharging them in a "push-button error" that forces said patron to wait around for twenty minutes while the manager (who actually knows what she's doing) comes back to fix it, AND more churches.
The grocery guy charged me 850 Euro instead of 8.50. Nice move, slick. And get your disgusting, pervy hands away from me. What is it about being American that screams, "do whatever you want, I'm SUPER friendly"? I had to sit around and wait while some woman - I sincerely hope not his wife, because that would make me exceedingly sad - came back and cancelled the transaction.
Geez, you go to the same grocery store twice because it's the only one open after 7 and THIS is the repayment you get...Despite that, Vienna was quiet and relaxing, just what I needed before my sea-bound, inescapable (short of a woman-overboard situation, that is) family reunion. Which actually turned out to be a lot of fun. Tune in next time.
P.S. For those of you who were asking for pictures, I hope this week was better. |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:07 PM |
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| Friday, August 10, 2007 |
| Fishing For Trouble |
From China's highly reputed food industry to your neighborhood supermarket. You're welcome.
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| posted by Rachel @ 4:28 PM |
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| Thursday, August 09, 2007 |
| Mass Transit, 'Black-Riding', and Czech Roulette (With Diagrams) |
Last we left our heroine, she was headed toward Prague. There she was to meet up with the fabulously awesome Nina and take in Prague for everything it was worth. Prague was a welcome change after the illness that plagued me in Berlin - while my first day in Berlin was fantastic, the second was spent indoors with cold medicine (which had German instructions, so I hope I didn't overdose too terribly), baby juice with extra vitamins, fresh fruits and veggies, and my computer (acting in the capacity of a television/DVD player). I did venture out of doors once (to get food, I think) but - much like America's love-hate relationship with Chinese manufactured goods - the on-again/off-again nature of the rainy weather really got me down. And yes, my toothpaste is fine, thank you. (The Chinese don't taint their OWN people, after all...)
Praha (Prague) was amazing. Nina lived in beautiful Mala Strana - the "touristy" part of town if ever there was one - though the personal highlight for me was having my own room after sharing rooms in hostels for weeks. That, and all the Babybel cheese (good call, Nina!). I wandered by day while Nina worked, and by night we wandered the streets looking for trouble. Actually, we went in search of really good Czech food. And boy, did we find it. On the evening of my first full day in Prague, Nina and I met up first with some of her students for drinks, followed by other students for a (rather tame) bachelorette party, and finally with a fellow teacher, Darryl. We went out for drinks and regaled each other with stories - and then we went...
SALSA DANCING!
That's right. I went all the way to Prague to salsa. Makes perfect sense...
The next day, I was going to meet up with Nina for lunch. First, let me preface this by explaining that in most countries in Europe (particularly the ones I had just come from like the Netherlands and Germany), you buy a public transport ticket, validate it, and get on the transport of choice (bus, tram, subway, train, etc.) and - throughout this process - it's entirely likely that no one will ever check to ensure you have a valid pass. Call it "the European Mass Transit Honor System."
Well, I was running late to meet Nina and there was no place to buy passes for mass transit at the tram stop, only at the convenience store down the street. So I decided to tram it without one. I got to the subway - still running late, of course - and I figured, my luck being what it was, why not keep the rush going and try it again. Darryl and Nina had been telling me all about their "black riding" experiences the night before and they had only each been caught once or twice in all their time in Prague. They also mentioned that these guys have little or no authority and that most Czech people, when caught, just ignore them or run away. Fantastic!
So, back to the story. If only someone had told me that the place I had to transfer always has guards waiting to stop you (sort of like a checkpoint) during the daytime. So I get off the first train and go to transfer to the second one, and there I see them. There were probably about six of them.
I'm the red circle and the black "X"s are the guards checking tickets. Now, I had reached the point where you see the circle above and I had a major decision to make: should I turn back or keep going? I slowed down a bit and realized that they had seen me and that turning back was definitely not an option. So I had to suck it up and take it like a man, er, woman.
Looking busy and hassled in my best performance yet (so VERY Oscar-worthy), I waited for the gentleman in front of me to set up a block as he was stopped by the guard all the way to the left (I feel incredibly like Bob Costas at the moment), I pick-and-rolled past the left-most guard along the railing, slid my way down the stairs, and jumped onto a train that was just pulling up to the platform. See diagram below.
I didn't much care whether the train was going the correct direction or not; I couldn't risk being stopped while waiting on the platform if it wasn't. Once on the train, I took a quick seat and blended in with the other passengers. If there had been a guard on the train, I might've been caught. I was wearing shorts that day - OBVIOUS TOURIST. But as it turned out, I WAS on the correct train and two stops later - with not a guard in sight - I stepped off the train, glided across the platform and exited the station with my eyes peeled for Nina. Oh, the skills I possess. Maybe I should go into espionage...
I told Nina the whole story and she laughed, mentioning that she should've warned me that they would be waiting there. We toasted my moment of stealth and triumph over a plate of chicken vindaloo (which nearly burned the roof of my mouth off, but OH was it tasty), after which we walked back to the subway. I bought a ticket this time, don't worry. I wasn't about to go through THAT again. And upon arriving at the transfer station, that same guy I slipped past the first time eyed me and stopped Nina and me both. I reached into my pocket and my ticket was GONE!
Just kidding. I proudly displayed my freshly purchased ticket and walked right on by, smug and satisfied. So there.
That evening, Darryl came over and we rehashed the whole story to a similar reaction and we chilled out at Nina's place until I had to catch my train at 8-something. There was a tram that went directly to the station. I jumped on and bid Nina and Darryl adieu. Or however you say it in Czech. When I got off, I only saw a park, so I began to wander a bit looking for the train station. When I finally asked someone, they pointed out a train station behind me. However, this was not the correct one and a guard outside motioned that I would have to go through the park I had just walked ten minutes away from to the other side to reach my train. And I had only
twelve minutes to do it.
I rushed across the street - baggage and all - and bounded across the park, reaching the front entrance of the station with about three minutes to go. Mine was the third train down the corridor. I got to the platform about a minute and a half before the train was set to leave. The engines were already pumping. I found my compartment, opened my couchette (this would be a sleeper train between Prague and Munich), stowed my baggage and stretched out to rest.
Settled into my hot, cramped compartment (which I shared with four Korean girls and one snoring Korean guy) day faded to night as I made my way back to Germany. In the next installment, Munich and beyond.
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| posted by Rachel @ 3:12 PM |
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| Tuesday, July 10, 2007 |
| The Rain, Coffeeshops, the Infamous Hagen, and the Hamburger Hamburger |
Internet access has been a bit sparse until now, but I'm pretty sure that - at least for the time being - I'm back in business. I'm currently in Berlin with quite a lot of catching up to do, so let's start at the very best place: the beginning.
We last left our heroine in Amsterdam. No drug jokes, please. After a day of wandering aimlessly and trusting my gut to take me a-wanderin' around the city, I decided to relax an afternoon away sitting in a nearby cafe, indulging in a late lunch and coffee and watching the street performer doing silly things with fire in the square outside. The performer finished up his act just as I was finishing off my rather decadent salade chevre (if there is one thing the Dutch know, it is their fine, fine cuisine) and kaffee (yes, I'm picking up a bit of German along the way too) as I raised my hand to call for the check. Just behind me was a gentleman who had, all this time, been sitting rather quietly. He was old, a bit dishevelled - though not in a scary or intimidating sort of way - and missing most of his teeth, which he later and rather matter-of-factly informed me he had decided not to put in that day.
His name was Peter. He looked to be in about his mid-seventies, which I gauged by way of his stories about World War II. He was German but moved to Amsterdam when the war became serious. Of course, we all know that World War II eventually found its way into Holland. But Peter was still sad and even bitter. He mentioned many times that he could not believe the Dutch would let the Nazis in - which of course was not their choice, but that was his phrasing of it. He was angry over his Jewish business partner who survived the war, but with scars; angry over his house right across from the zoo that was destroyed and burned; angry for his mother who died amongst the inhumanity. In a city of tolerance - one of the things you notice quite easily about Amsterdam - he was against organized religion, having been assaulted by a priest in the parish where he acted as altar boy. Though we often joke about such a cliche, we often forget it is based in a harsh and gritty reality.
I mostly listened, which anyone who knows me will tell you is a miracle, though with a story like his it was not all that hard. We sat as the busboys and waiters hovered. We were taking up two tables and we were both done ordering, but we didn't yield. And after about an hour and a half of conversation, we parted ways. Later, I saw his old house across from the zoo. Though restored, you could still see remnants of what was previously there. Though Peter lives on the other side of town now anyway.
I headed back to the hostel, where I met two of my roomies, Thomas and John. From Norway, they were making their way through Amsterdam one coffeeshop at a time. If you don't know what an Amsterdam coffeeshop is, look it up. And, by the way, on a separate type of coffee shop note, there are NO Starbuckses in Amsterdam. Though I do like to indulge in Starbucks on occasion and they do make a pretty good panini-on-the-go, it was nice for once to drink REAL ESPRESSO. Which will of course be topped only upon my arrival in Italy later this month.
My final day in Amsterdam, I met up with my university chum, Chris, and his sister, Laura. We did the full-fledged walking tour together, which was really fun and nothing if not comprehensive. One of the great things they have now in Europe is called NewEurope Tours. They're free - the guides work only off of tips and they're quite enthusiastic and well-versed. So far, they have them in London, Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich, and Paris. They also have paid tours, though those usually cover a smaller area but in more detail. At the end of a long walking day, we unwound for dinner and I prepared myself to up and out to Germany.
The next morning, I arose early to meet my morning train to Cologne (Koln). It was a rather uneventful trip, but a very unseasonably rainy and cold one. I thought the weather would calm down upon arriving on the Continent though, alas, it was not to be. I followed the directions from the train station to the subway stop at Neumarkt, followed by a tram to Rudolfplatz. I got off the tram and looked around seeing no Engelbertstrasse in sight. Nor were the rest of the directions I was given any clearer. Even after calling the hostel, I could not seem to find the place. After wandering about in the most dismal weather you can imagine, I finally stumbled across Wall Street English. I was familiar with the company because my friend Candy works for them in Beijing.
I would also like to point out at this juncture that in every city I have been to thus far, I have encountered a Wall Street English and a Bang & Olufsen - don't ask me why or how. It's by that same logic that, in every city I travel to, I always land in Chinatown talking to some old Chinese lady in Mandarin about my strange expat life in Laiwu.
Anyway, I told them where I was staying and they didn't even need the address. Turns out I'm not the first non German-speaking foreigner to be unable to locate this place. They need better directions, because the ones they gave me were just wrong. But I did find the place. And though the room was empty upon my arrival, upon my return at the end of a day of Doms and German brew, I met my lovely roommates who I will kindly refer to as the Professor and his son (sorry, no Mary Ann here). They were both professors, in fact, and - outside of those Americans I intentionally met up with - they were the first Americans I had met amidst my travels. We spent the evening chatting about our trips and plans and giving and getting travel advice (in my case, only getting). The senior professor had even taught at the University of Florida (go Gators!) and they seemed excited to have an English-speaking roommate. As it turned out, though very sweet, the lady in the bunk bed underneath me was Austrian, spoke no English, and was a bit crazy. She also kicked in her sleep.
Next, it was off to the beautiful harbor town of Hamburg. Though I had originally planned to take a mid-morning train, I took an earlier one instead. I wanted the extra time in Hamburg, as I would only be spending two days there. As we will later see, this proved to be a not-so-wise decision.
I settled in on the train and got to work on my memoirs. Memoirs? A little early you say? It's NEVER too early. Just kidding. Or am I? Anyway, a couple of stations down the line, I was joined in the seat next to me by a German teacher named Dorothea. She saw me typing in English and she immediately jumped into a rather fluent strain of English, as we did brief introductions and exchanged pleasantries. About a half hour later, we pulled into the now infamous (at least in my story) Hagen Hauptbahnhof. I heard announcements in German, which there usually were, though there were no announcements in English, as there also usually were. I saw a couple of "polizei" go by, though that was hardly strange, and went back to my typing. After about seven minutes, I realized we hadn't moved. For a station as relatively small as the one in Hagen, this was rather odd. When I looked up again, there were police, emergency workers, and firemen all suited up. I turned to Dorothea and asked what was going on. She sighed and said, "oh yes, they've stopped making announcements in English, haven't they?"
As I nodded, she continued, "I think there is someone underneath the train. People often commit suicide this way."
I though about this for a moment. People often commit suicide this way? What kind of a comment is that? But she explained further that they did not know the cause or what exactly had happened - just that someone had ended up beneath the train and they had not yet determined what the people on the train should do.
By this time, the police had cordoned off the area with police tape and some people - those whose destinations were easily reachable on other trains or relatively nearby - had already begun to disembark. Finally, an announcement came on which Dorothea proceeded to translate. We would all have to take a train to Dortmund, another nearby train hub, and from there we would have to join another train to Hamburg. Anyone whose destinations were beyond there would have to take yet another train. Luckily, Hamburg was my last stop, though Dorothea would have to continue on even further. She was kind enough to wait for me and guide me. I must admit, amidst all of my independent travels, it was nice to have someone guiding ME around for a while. Like a puppy, I followed where she led, afraid to get lost in the German jumble of a creek without an English-speaking paddle. English-speaking paddle? Yeah. I'm sticking with it.
Though we had to stand the whole three-and-a-half hour journey (which is exactly why I made reservations in the first place...sigh), I did finally make it to Hamburg, with a brief but grateful goodbye to Dorothea.
Once in Hamburg, travel was easy. I didn't know how to go, but figured I'd give the traveler information area a try before ringing up the hostel itself. I had no directional information about the hostel, knowing only that it was on a street called Lubecker Strasse. And it turns out, that is indeed the name of a subway stop on the main line from the train station, heading northward. I figured, what the heck, right? The day couldn't get much more difficult. The worst part had to have passed. And wouldn't you know it, as I came out of the subway exit at Lubecker Strasse, there it was. Too easy, you say? Yeah, I thought so too.
I get inside, and they tell me they only accept cash. Which is fine. I just need an ATM. And as I'm heading out the door, they also throw in that there is a 50 Euro key deposit. What? Is the key made of diamond-encrusted platinum? So I go, and since I left my umbrella behind, it of course begins to rain. Hard. It's cold and I'm tired, having been on a train that ran over someone and all, and though the guy at the front desk says the ATM is only 40 or 50 meters away, it is most definitely not. Upon reaching the ATM vestibule in the rain, I find the door is locked. Because it's a Saturday afternoon and only in China are the banks open on a Saturday afternoon. Sort of makes me miss Beijing. SORT OF.
I try both banks on both sides of the road. Nothing. I go back and tell the guy at the hostel. He insists that even an American debit card should work to open the vestibule. So I go back and try it again. This time I bring my umbrella. Except it's not raining anymore. I get there and it doesn't work. But this time, there's someone inside who lets me in. And the ATM seems okay with my card - it's apparently only the door that's cranky. So I go back, check in, and it turns out the "dormitory-style" rooms are all full so I'm going to have to settle for a single room all to myself. How sad. Though I was supposed to change into the dormitory-style room the second day, it apparently was not worth moving my single, wheel-able suitcase down the hall and so I got the single both nights. It was an EXTREMELY welcome change after sharing rooms for the previous week and a half.
The first day I was recovering and too tired to do anything as a result of, what would turn out to be, my current rhinovirus (why do I always get sick on my vacations?), but the second day turned out to be a LOT more fun. Letting my internal compass be my guide (well, I didn't really have a choice seeing as I had neither a good Hamburg guidebook nor internet access in my hostel) I managed to find the Rathaus, the harbor, and the entire downtown section of Hamburg. I strolled around on a beautiful Sunday morning in which (GASP!) the sun actually came out. Everything was closed as it was Sunday, but I did get to go inside the Rathaus (the city hall) and the (world's most beautiful) city park, also partaking in the outdoor market and food and drink festival going on next door.
As it turns out, there was also some sort of motorcycle gathering going on and all day, throughout my activities, I would constantly hear the roar of engines. Some of the bikes were quite cool, especially these mini ones that looked like Tonka bikes. There were even a few mini racecars driving around.
That evening, I dined the way dining was meant to be done in Hamburg. Eating hamburgers. Though usually touted as American fare, the hamburger does come from Hamburg, and they do a pretty damn good job of it. McDonald's? You should be ashamed! I'm not even sure fast food burger should be allowed in this fair city!
I left early the next morning to head on to Berlin. Upon arriving at my hostel on Pariser Strasse, I settled in taking in all of the touring materials (and free internet!) that the hostel had to offer. I decided not to waste time and jumped in on a city tour that afternoon with Annabel, the world's biggest Berlin Wall buff. We saw the spot of Hitler's bunker and suicide spot (currently a truly ugly carpark/dog poo grounds and a sewer pipe respectively - a fitting end if ever I saw one) as well as the remains of the Berlin Wall, the location of Checkpoint Charlie (currently the world's funniest-looking tourist trap), and Schinkel's architecture and columns, amongst the rest. Boy, did that Schinkel love his columns...well, I guess that one's only funny if you know Annabel.
On this tour, I also met Emma from Scotland, who will be meeting me again at the end of the month when our paths cross once again in Florence. Unfortunately, this second day in Berlin has been not as much fun as the first. The cold, biting rain of this morning is only now just calming down and I am, as I mentioned before, living out the old 50s flick, Attack of the Rhinovirus! Aaaaaah! So I'm bulking up on vitamins (which I must surely be deficient in by now through my travels), drinking fortified baby juice (apparently much healthier and less sugary than the adult version), and eating lots and lots of fruit, in hopes I will quickly recover.
Silver lining? At least it gave me time to write. I know I've missed it! |
| posted by Rachel @ 9:14 PM |
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| Wednesday, July 04, 2007 |
| London Calling |
I know it's been a while. For those of you who have been waiting with bated breath for my next post, you may exhale now. I've just come from three days in England. Did I have a nice time? In between the rain, perhaps. Actually despite rain, traffic, and, you know, TERRORIST ATTACKS, it was a pretty nice time. On my first day there they had many of the roads blocked off - some for security, some for a charity race that was going on. Bringing me to one of the funniest things I came across. Toward the final leg of the rainy, rainy race guess what came out of the loudspeakers as a morale boost to the exhausted runners? "Do You Hear the People Sing?" from Les Miserables. In the United States we use MC Hammer and 50 Cent to get pumped up. Not in England. How very prim and proper of them. When I heard a subway street musician playing "Castle on a Cloud" later that same evening, I thought I must be cracking up.
In one day I did a self-imposed, (almost) neverending, 7 and a half hour walking tour through every imaginable touristy district in London. I witnessed race-fueled fisticuffs in Soho (London's Red Light District of sorts) and had to filter through Bobbies three rows thick in front of 10 Downing Street. At Buckingham Palace, royal guards were placed side-by-side with automatic gun-wielding police officers. Cars on nearly every block were being secured and towed and the tube was milling with police in fluorescent yellow vests. Quite an interesting time to be visiting. But I did the tube and buses and walked on foot - all without incident. Which I will treat as a testament to London's awesome law enforcement and leave it at that. Though I should note, if the government is reading this, I was walking by St. James' Palace near where the princes' apartments are and found it someone disconcerting that I saw nary a guard in sight. I'm not here to tell you how to do your job. Just a note.
Other highlights include taking in Don Giovanni at the Royal Opera House and landing on the recieving end of catcalls by male prostitutes. Good times were had by all. Wishing you were here!
Note: I am currently in Amsterdam. Having seen tulips, Rembrandts, and more wooden shoes than you can shake a stick at, I already consider this trip a success. However, I should note that my official policy is to write about (not take pictures of) my experiences. This philosophy goes something along the lines of: pictures should be of people, not of THINGS. So I will not drone on and on over pictures of fields of flowers, windmills, and Vermeers (the equivalent of shoving pictures of your baby in a stranger's face and asking about how cute she is). Instead, I'll try to give you a sense of the experience. For now, I will merely document the obvious. You'll get a better overview when I have more time to reflect. Until then, over and out. |
| posted by Rachel @ 7:43 PM |
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| Thursday, June 28, 2007 |
| Spar Wars: The Saga Continues |
Why is it that I feel I am constantly in a grudge match with my landlord and the property management company? Though I have not yet regaled you, the reader, with tales of sitting for hours in the heat waiting for company representatives and people forcing me to pay fees that I shouldn’t have to pay, just know that this battle has been going on since the beginning of time. Or at least since the day I moved in. Well, it has taken an interesting turn. Well, not so much interesting as frustrating to the maximum. But close enough. Let’s go back, shall we?
After the “pickpocket fiasco” of last week, things were finally getting back to normal. I was back in the mindset of trip preparation, with new credit cards and rail tickets having arrived at my office early in the week. I had even started planning my packing. Then Monday night, I was laying in bed ready to fall asleep, when I suddenly heard a click. I jumped up in bed and pivoted my head around, but there was nothing. I mean not a sound - no air conditioner or anything. I got up and looked around, pulling the switch for the light. No electricity whatsoever. I looked outside to brightly lit windows and caught the glint of light streaming in from the hallway through my front door. My electricity was out. Mine, and only mine. I went into the hallway and there it was - the meter at zero. And then I got mad.
Let me go back yet a bit further and explain the scenario that led to this situation in the first place. Over the last several months, I have been bothering my building’s management company (and through them, the landlord) for three things: 1) the key to my mailbox (which I still have not yet received and don’t count on ever getting), 2) a new residence permit (which took a lot of hammering and a bit of manipulation on my part, but I got it - else I would have no Chinese visa), and 3) the electricity card for my apartment. The way electric works in China goes something like this: every apartment has an electricity card. You read the meter using the card to see how much money there is left for your electric. When it runs low, you go to the bank and recharge it. Seems simple, right? And it is, provided you have the card in your possession. Most people do. But no matter how much I nagged them, the property managers and the landlords refused to yield the card to me.
Do you know what their reasoning was? They didn’t want me to lose it. And implied in the way they said this was the fact that foreigners are irresponsible with their property. Though I took them a bit by surprise in accurately surmising the “subtext” of their statement and acting in an accordingly offended manner, they still refused to give in. I called the property managers about two weeks ago, perhaps less, asking about the levels on the electricity card. He said there was still plenty of money left. And I believed him. Which was stupid because - in all likelihood - he would have said anything to keep from getting off his lazy rear end and recharging my card. Now, before you take offense to this and tell me I’m stereotyping or making mass generalizations, know that every time I went to the company to run an errand or pay rent, half of the employees at the office were playing computer games and the other half were taking naps.
Now, back to the present situation. I have no electricity. There’s NO money on the card and here’s the kicker that’s going to make this whole thing more difficult - after hanging out at a friend’s place the night before, I accidentally left my cell phone behind, meaning I had no way to call the company the next day. Not only did I not have a phone, but the numbers for the company and the representatives I normally deal with were all in my phone. I had a general “company number” - but it is more like the number for a corporate headquarters and I could not manage to get through to the people I normally deal with. And so, I was without electricity: no air conditioner, no refrigerator, no charger for my bicycle battery, no computer - nothing.
I went over to the property management company’s office first thing in the morning (figuring that was the only way around the “no phone” situation), arriving around 8:15. I rang the doorbell and no one responded. So I sat and waited. I thought I heard noises so I rang the doorbell again. Still nothing. More waiting. By now it was around 8:40 and I was definitely not getting to work on time. But without a cell phone, I couldn’t even call to let anyone know. Just then I heard voices and they were DEFINITELY coming from inside the office. I rang the doorbell again. A half-dressed Chinese kid (well, at least he LOOKED like a kid) cracked open the door and looked very surprised to see anyone standing on the other side of it, let alone me. He closed the door and went back in. Then nothing. He knew I was there. I knew he knew I was there.
I rang the doorbell again and FINALLY someone came to the door and actually spoke with me. I explained the situation, at which time the snot-nosed pain in the ass who always keeps me waiting and makes me jump through a hundred hoops (only the majority of which are legal) every time I need a residence permit for my visa poked his head through the door. I explained the situation again and also the issue of my not having a cell phone. After much back-and-forth, he informed me that he would wait for me in the downstairs outside my building at noon and that I should meet him there, at which time he would bring me the electricity card.
So, I ride on my merry way to work, fill my boss in on the situation and break off at around 11:30 - enough time to grab a quick bite and head back to the apartment. I get there at a couple minutes after twelve. And I wait. It’s 12:30. More waiting. 12:40. Then I wait some more (are you sensing a pattern here?). I’ll give him until 1:00. He’s nowhere in sight. And without a cell phone, I couldn’t track him down even if I wanted to - which at this point I almost don’t, I’m so angry. I decide, rather than going back to the office which is across town, I will go back over to their company’s offices and see who I can’t give a piece of my mind to.
Upon arriving there, I get nothing more than blank stares and the occasional “I don’t know.” Finally, amongst the two people smoking and chatting and the four on the computer playing hearts/solitaire/insert random pointless computer game here, someone managed to get someone I had spoken with on the phone. He explained that the landlord would not give up the card and that he would come by when I was home that evening (at which time I could call him, since I would be picking my phone up on my way home from work). He offered no explanation for his not showing up earlier and only changed the subject each time I brought it up. I’ve pretty much given up on trying to figure out why things happen the way they do here. I go where the tide takes me. And if it’s a rip tide, so be it.
I went back to work, finished up my day, picked up my phone at my friend’s apartment and then headed home. Once there, I called the property people who said they were en route and would be arriving soon. The “snot-nosed one” (as he shall be called from here on out) arrived while I was waiting for takeout in the restaurant downstairs. He came over and pulled me aside in a “I don’t want other people to hear what I have to say to you because it’s not completely on the up-and-up or it’s just THAT bad” kind of way. He said that the landlord would not give him the card and that for some reason, I was supposed to pay 2000 kuai for electricity.
Now, this was clearly wrong. It’s about 5 mao (the Chinese equivalent of 50 cents) for one unit of electricity. I could barely use 1000, let alone 4000 units of electricity in the short time left on my lease. To give you an idea, most people use about 200-300 units per month. So I kicked up a fuss telling him that I didn’t understand and that he wasn’t being clear because this made no sense. All he kept repeating was that he was telling me what the landlord had told him and repeatedly asking me if I believed what he was telling me. And with each “do you believe me?” he uttered, I trusted him less and less. He then said that we should go up to the apartment to discuss it. Fine.
We went upstairs and he went through the same drill. I yelled at him, telling him I didn’t have that kind of money period, let alone having that much on my person - and that much to pay for ELECTRICITY no less (which is normally quite cheap). I told him I would call a friend of mine who is Chinese to help clarify and sort out the situation. I called my boss Emily and apologized for being bothersome, but continued that something really important had come up and I needed help.
This in and of itself was a turning point indeed because I’m not big on the whole “asking other people for help” thing. It’s outside my nature. BUT I know when I’m stuck and I’m certainly not arrogant enough to think I could’ve gotten out of this mess without some outside assistance. Emily started talking to the guy. It got heated pretty fast. I’m pretty sure amongst the comments were veiled threats to report the guy to his supervisor, report their company to the legal authorities, and expose their company’s tactics to the media for taking advantage of a poor little foreigner like me. With that, the guy started backtracking - confirmation that I was right to not take him at his word. 2000 kuai? I am NOT that gullible.
With my cell phone back in my possession, I gave Emily the phone number of the guy that leased me the place. He seemed a bit more managerial than the snot-nosed peon who’d been pissing me off for the last day and a half. Emily got each of them to call back the landlord and figure out a proper solution to the situation. It turns out it was actually 2000 UNITS (a more reasonable 1000 kuai - still pricey, but I could handle it) and the landlord would issue me a receipt stating that I would be reimbursed for whatever energy was left on the meter upon completion of my lease.
As he was leaving, the imbecile still in my apartment said he would call my boss tomorrow to confirm an appointment time for the landlord to come refill the meter. At the last moment he threw in that he would call Emily instead of me because I never seem to understand what he’s saying. And the beast reemerged. He had already admitted, “Wo shuo cuo le (I made a mistake/spoke incorrectly),” an admission difficult enough to obtain in the first place in a country whose culture is based on pride and “saving face.” With that in my back pocket, it was not all that large a leap for me to insult him into a corner, telling him the only reason I said “Wo bu mingbai (I don’t understand/I’m not clear)” was because he told me completely the wrong thing and how could he possibly expect me to understand if he’s going to say things that make no sense? I continued lambasting him, saying that my Chinese was obviously good enough to understand him NOW - when he’s not saying things that aren’t right - and I obviously know how to speak well enough to tell him so, so he daren’t tell me that MY Chinese isn’t good enough. AND I’m sticking it to you in a language I started learning only three years ago. So there.
It was awesome. And finally, only an hour-and-a-half after this whole episode began, I was able to kick the peon out and enjoy my solitary, air condition-less, extremely dark, but rather peaceful apartment. Well, peaceful minus the sound of industrial-sized brakes screeching to a halt at the bus stop down the street.
I slept through the night and jumped on my bike to head to work the next day. Without electricity however, my bike was barely charged and only got me about 92% of the way. I must say, having an electric bicycle is fantastic as it gets me across town without leaving me drenched in sweat and feeling generally more disgusting than everyday life in Beijing normally entails. But what they don’t tell you is that if the battery is not working, the bike is actually 10 times harder to pedal than even a normal bicycle. Mine stopped mid-intersection. I got to work, but it was as though I was towing a car behind me the whole rest of the way. Make that a big rig. Luckily, I had the foresight to bring my charger with me to work. And once I arrived (only mildly drenched in sweat), I was able to fill up the battery for the long haul home.
The meeting with the landlord and the property people was set for 3pm. Yes, that’s right. I had to make an APPOINTMENT for me to give someone money and have them slide a card into a slot above my door. Anyway, I figured I would have to head back to my apartment around 2:15 or so to meet them. But after returning from lunch and looking out the office window to a pitch black, stormy-looking sky, my boss Emily and I nodded in agreement that it would be best if I went home straight away, hopefully beating the rain there.
Of course, this was not to be. As soon as I started cycling, the drizzling began, and within less than 30 seconds, it was a full-fledged downpour. Due to the heavy winds, the raindrops felt like pellets stinging my arms. I clung to the handlebars and ducked my head low. Then came the lightning and thunder, which no amount of clinging or ducking would let me avoid.
Oh, geez. What have I gotten myself into? I thought. Maybe I should just turn around. But I was already soaked and about ten minutes along an approximately forty minute journey, so I figured I would trudge on and if the gods were smiling, I would make it home in one piece. Since I wanted to be as safe and aware as possible, I chose to not put my iPod on. This allowed my mind to wander. I starting thinking about the current state of things and the conclusions they were headed to. Especially after the wallet and passport debacle and now the electricity, it was like there was all this tension and frustration that had built up. And now, the rain and the lightning had come to physically and metaphorically diffuse it all.
This made me chuckle to myself. How lofty was I! Symbolism and all that whatnot...glad to know AP English was good for SOMETHING. The chuckle brought out a smile. When life hands you lemons, right? Besides, at this point, what’s the difference between “really soaked” and “really really soaked”? At one point, I attacked a giant puddle, not realizing it was deep enough to be a reservoir, and the water rose to my knees. Luckily the battery on my bike is waterproof. Any normal motorbike would’ve shorted out.
But splashing through puddles and running around in the rain made me feel a whole lot better. And since I was thoroughly drenched anyway, it was better than being like all the other Chinese who were also soaked, but huddling in from the rain and staring confusedly at the smiling foreigner sloshing through the water and singing Otis Redding. “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone…”
Jumping ahead, at 3:15 - in dry clothes and lounging around my apartment - I called the representatives at the property management company to see if they were going to make it. They were. They arrived with the landlord at 3:30 and, after several minutes of exchange and fumbling, I once again had power. And that was all it took.
So to recap. This week we’ve been pickpocketed. We’ve scoured the police stations of Beijing. Shelled out for new passports and visas. Planned trips. Lost electricity. Found electricity. And engaged in the equivalent of a four-year-old jumping through mud puddles in her rain boots. I suppose if they asked me, I could write a book.
Now if only Rosemary were here to sing it. |
| posted by Rachel @ 2:35 PM |
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| Friday, June 22, 2007 |
| Rachel's Travels: Like Gulliver's, Only Better. |
I've been checking the readouts on my viewership and I have to say that I'm quite impressed with the diversity of my blog's audience. I was convinced it was confined to family and friends and the occasional stray who had lost his or her way in the woods. As it turns out, people from over sixty countries visit me - some even more than once.
And with that in mind, I would like to publish a rough sketch of my travel plans, as I am headed on a five week summer vacation in Europe starting next Saturday. If you are or will be in any of these places and want to meet the face behind the blog, leave a comment on the site or in my guestbook and I'll be sure to get back to you!
The Route:
London, UK
Amsterdam, Netherlands
Cologne, Germany
Hamburg, Germany
Berlin, Germany
Prague, Czech Republic
Munich, Germany
Vienna, Austria
Venice, Italy
Florence, Italy
Rome, Italy
London, UK --> Return to Beijing
I will also be in Turkey, Greece, and Croatia in the midst of everything, but my travels at that point will be pretty inflexible, so I figured best not to list them. And for those who have asked, I will definitely be reporting from the road. Have a wonderful summer! |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:48 AM |
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| Aliens Exist? |
Probably not. But I have noticed something a bit strange. For the past several weeks, I have been taking a new, faster route to work that involves more highway (a bit more dangerous, but definitely a smoother ride) and fewer roadways (less clutter/people in my way). For a while, everything was normal, but then - starting about two days ago - every time I pass under a certain bridge, my iPod freezes. At first, I thought I had just gone over a bump the wrong way, jilting the iPod (since I have it clipped onto my handlebars) and that THAT was the cause. But yesterday and today, it happened again.
Once is fine, twice is coincidence, three times and you've got verifiable data. It's not much more than a pain in the neck (because I have to reset the iPod, preferably without stopping to pull over to the side of the road, which would add time to my commute). And before you give me a lecture on safety and awareness while driving in a big city, YES I really do need the iPod THAT much. Have you ever heard what traffic sounds like in Beijing? Honking here is like saying "hello." Or actually, "ni hao."
Could it be aliens? Poltergeist? A secret military experiment gone awry? Probably not. It's likely just some transportation or communications system that they're working on that's interfering with my iPod's ability to function. Something along the logic of forcing you to turn off electronic devices and cell phones before takeoff. But still...it's weird. |
| posted by Rachel @ 9:55 AM |
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| Of all days, TODAY I wish I had my camera... |
You know how sometimes you say you got stuck behind some ass on the road heading to work in the morning and it gets you all annoyed and impatient? I had that happen today. There really was some ass blocking up the road. I mean literally. There were two asses pulling carts on the highway this morning and they were blocking traffic because they didn't know which ass was up and which was down. I've always wanted to be able to say that.
Normally, the commute to work is, well, a pain in the ass. Did you like that one? The asses themselves were pretty funny, bellowing and confused-looking. The scene was especially comical as there was a guy in a Mercedes who had managed to convince himself that honking at and agitating the donkeys in the street was going to get him to work any faster. The visual was priceless.
Update to earlier posts: My visa is in order and life is pretty much back to normal. A four day turnaround time? Not too shabby. Thanks to everyone who lent me a helping hand after the events of Sunday. It was and is deeply appreciated. I don't normally do this because it's a little lowbrow, but a smiley face for all of you! :o) |
| posted by Rachel @ 9:46 AM |
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| Thursday, June 21, 2007 |
| The Grinch Who Stole My Wallet (and Almost Ruined My Birthday) |
Okay, this is a long and treacherous one, so brace yourselves. Due to the nature of this post, I must disclaim that this entry is in all forms FICTITIOUS - it is merely an exercise in creative writing and only based "loosely" on the events of what really happened this past Sunday. Be advised. Now, on with the story:
The weekend's activities started innocently enough - Saturday night brought dinner and beers at Hutong Pizza (which just so happens to be the best pizza in all of Beijing; anyone who disagrees can challenge me and we can take this outside!). Hutong Pizza was followed by the opening of a new bar called Block 8 in Chaoyang Park's West Gate. However, after being struck about 25 minutes in by the realization that "no air conditioning" + "100 kuai glasses of champagne" = ABSURDLY AWFUL, we made our way out of the 3rd circle of Hell and meandered our way to the casual Black Sun Bar down the street. Hours of drinks and good conversation were had by all, which confirms my belief that the simpler the venue, the better the times to be had. Something about pretentious, stuffy bars makes me want to show them where they can shove their snooty 600 yuan bottles of Moet.
Since after midnight it was 'officially' Sunday, the birthday toasts were abundant and hearty. Being hungry party people, we decided to switch venues and made our way to the rooftop patio at Kokomo for French fries, pitchers of beer, and champagne on the house, care of my birthday.
By the time we ambled down the stairs to hop a cab home, it was about 4:30AM. Which not only meant that the sun was up and our Sunday was already well underway, but that I was going to have to climb the fourteen flights of stairs to my apartment as I did not feel like waiting around for the 18-hour lift to start running again at six. I finally crashed, waking at 7:00AM to the sound of hammering in the apartment above mine. Good timing, guys!
Being awake, I decided to do my normal thing: read my emails, check for drunken texts (there really aren't drunken voice messages since no one in China owns voicemail), watch a little TV, eat some breakfast. There was a text from my friend (let's call her 'Annie') that we would meet up at 11 to go shopping in some really cute, haggling-style markets across town. Though I had originally planned to go to a brunch being held by my friend 'Ben' at noon, I hadn't seen Annie in quite some time (and had already spent two of the previous three nights with the 'brunch crew'), and so decided that was the way to go. Besides, it's SHOPPING. Which - strangely enough - I hadn't done in months (I'm sure mom and dad will appreciate that!).
I got myself together grabbed my bag and biked over to the subway stop. I made my way across the city, got out of the station, and walked over to grab a bus that would take me to the shopping center. Having lived just three blocks away from the station for six weeks last summer, I already knew where I needed to go and how I needed to get there. The 105 pulled up amidst a throng of people and I jumped on the bus, 1 kuai in hand to pay the fare. I sat down toward the front of the bus, looked down, and saw my bag was open. "That's strange," I thought. I had taken the 1 kuai bill out so that I WOULDN'T have to open my bag. I went to close my bag and realized that something just wasn't right. Then it struck me...I didn't feel my wallet. I carry around a gigantic wallet, about the size of an organizer. Humongous, I know, but it fits all my stuff. I felt around for it. I checked the other pockets of my bag. I checked the seat around me on the bus. But it was gone. And then it hit me. Getting on the bus I had been bumped and nudged - and pickpocketed.
Luckily, I hadn't brought a terribly large amount of money (or at least not as much as I had originally planned), but there was a greater loss at hand. Not only were all my credit and bank cards gone, but so was my passport. Now, normally I don't keep my passport in my wallet, but I had planned to apply for a new visa that afternoon after we finished shopping. And now it was all gone. I got off at the Beijing Zoo stop and called Annie. She was en route and would be meeting me soon. Needing a bit more comfort, I called my friend Ben who, upon hearing the words "wallet" and "stolen," proclaimed he was already slipping on his shoes and jumping into the next cab to meet me with no way to convince him otherwise.
After surmising the situation and figuring out what needed to be done, I started calling to cancel credit cards left and right. My passport and residence permit would also need replacing. I placed a call to the American Embassy in Beijing's emergency line and was connected with a gentleman who may literally be the nicest phone operator I have ever spoken with. He slowly explained the steps of what I would need to do: First, I would have to go to the police precinct and file a police report saying that the passport was stolen. I would then have to bring this document to the American Embassy's American Citizen Services Department, at which time I could apply for a new passport. He explained which entrance to use and how I would need to explain myself.
He asked me if I knew where the embassy was and if I had a photocopy of my passport and visa. I told him I knew where it was and that I keep a scanned copy of my documents in my computer. To this he exclaimed, “You’re so prepared – you should teach other people how to lose their passports!” He then noticed that it was my birthday and, like everyone else I had spoken with that day (credit card people, bank people, etc.), I got the requisite, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, but happy birthday!” It might sound obnoxious to readers, but this actually DID make me feel a little better.
After getting all the important stuff out of the way and realizing that it had hit almost noon, we decided to go have something to eat. Having originally planned to do brunch anyway, we decided to go back to the first plan and paid a visit to my favorite brunching eatery, Grandma's Kitchen (a slice of Americana in Beijing). We had a fantastic meal and I was already feeling better about the whole thing. What happened had happened and nothing could change that, right? I figured the hardest part was over. Which is something you should NEVER think, let alone say aloud.
Ben decided to go home and take a nap before the dinner festivities that would commence later that evening. Annie (with her amazing Chinese skills) and I went to go file the police report. We went over to the police station near my apartment, which was easy since I already knew where it was, and went in to talk to the officers who were (of course) lounging around in the lobby, chatting lazily. Annie presented the situation to the policemen there. They asked what exactly happened and where it happened. Annie explained.
We were then abruptly told that it was not their jurisdiction and, therefore, not their responsibility to fill out a police report for us. Which essentially means they didn’t feel like it and had enough justification to lay the work on somebody else. We told them straight out that we didn't expect to get anything back - I only needed the form so I could go first thing Monday morning to the Embassy and get a new passport. The conversation that ensued went something like this:
"We can't. It didn't happen in our district."
"It might have...she was on a bus."
"Yes, but it matters where she DISCOVERED it, not where it might have happened."
"So what do we have to do?"
"You have to go back to the spot where it happened, call for a police car, and have them take you to the appropriate police precinct. Then they will do that for you."
"You mean we have to go all the way back across town?"
"Yes."
To go all the way across town would not only have been a majorly time-consuming pain in our rear ends, but would also have wasted what precious shopping time we had left during the day. Sure, the day had somewhat of a hitch in it, but I still wanted to enjoy what was left of my birthday. So Annie and I decided to do the Chinese thing: improvise. We hopped a cab and headed toward the police district that was near her apartment, about ten minutes away. We would tell the same story with just a few minor alterations. This time, instead of a bus, it would be a cab (to ensure that the police wouldn’t try to pawn it off on someone else by saying that it was stolen somewhere along the route - which of course could once again mean it was someone else's jurisdiction; they could play that game all day and I would be stuck) and instead of all the way across town, it would have occurred a bit closer to home.
We went through the motions once again. We explained what had happened and - more important to the policemen - WHERE it had happened (apparently being robbed was not enough cause to muster some assistance, or at least a bit of empathy; being a foreigner means I deserve it). And once again, we were told we were in the wrong place. They redirected us once more to one more police station, where we went through the whole spiel ONE MORE TIME. And the guy interrogated us about the location of the crime like his career depended on it (now that I think about it, that might actually be true...).
"Where did you discover it missing?"
"I went to go buy something. My bag was opened and my wallet was gone."
"And you didn't just leave it somewhere?"
"No, I had to get money out to pay the fare, so I definitely had it then."
"And there's no way you just dropped it."
"No. I closed my bag when I was getting out."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." (I almost went with a sarcastic “no” and an eye roll to this last one, but thought that might not be the wisest move if I wanted to actually get this thing done in a timely manner.)
"Okay."
Wait. Did he just say okay? Yes! Finally!
So the officer sat down and started asking me questions. But since he had what I call the "slurring" Beijing accent (where the beginning of the sentence is clear, but the end just becomes a jumble of moans and grunts), Annie had to explain half the questions to me. The officer then got up and went into the back office area while we waited.
What you have to understand, dear reader, is that by this point, we had been jumping from police station to police station for two and a half hours – we were tired and rather fed up by the apathy of most of these so-called "policemen" toward us and our situation. All that seemed to matter to them was keeping their "foreign robbery" numbers low and getting out of doing paperwork (or actual work of any sort, for that matter). There was little (if any) concern for the person who for all they know could be stuck in a foreign country whose language she doesn’t speak (I do - but they don't know that), with no money, no credit or bank cards, no passport, and no way of resolving the situation without their help.
But being the upbeat and well-adjusted human beings that we are, Annie and I started to see the humor in the whole ordeal. We had started taking "I'm so sad because my wallet's been stolen and we're here at the police station pictures" - though we tried not to do it in front of the officers because we thought that might make us appear a bit disingenuous, like we were just making fools out of them, and we really did need their help.
SO, back to the story: The guy comes back in and says that he spoke with some people on the phone at a place called the Dongcheng Fangju (a different branch of the police). He said we had to go to their office in Jiaodaokou and that they would be able to help us. He told us that he had explained our situation to them and they knew we were coming. After the events of the day thus far, it was hard to be optimistic about this next stop on our journey, but what choice did we really have?
So we hopped yet ANOTHER cab to the Dongcheng Fangju. We explained our situation and, shockingly enough, they produced forms! The forms were half-Chinese, half-English, and read "Certificate of Loss of Passport" and "Certificate of Loss of Property." SUCCESS!
They asked me some questions about myself: name, age, occupation, current address, what was taken, etc. Filled out the forms and voila! I was ready to go. By this point, it was already four o'clock, three hours since the "police document scavenger hunt" saga had begun. We went to a mall back near where we lived and wandered around a bit before heading back home to shower off the grime of the day and prepare for the party that night.
The evening festivities definitely belong in the record books. We managed to get "Jasper" on stage with a snake around his neck, "Ben" outshook the Uygher dancing girls, and "Mack" and I broke it down on stage while the Chinese girls attempting to dance behind us looked on in awe. The hips don't lie, baby! It was a fantastic night and we definitely brought the house down.
The next morning, I took off work to go get my passport stuff done since I also needed to apply for a new visa and time was running short. First thing, I went to a nearby internet café that I often passed, hoping they would have a printer so I could bring a hard copy of my passport to the embassy with me. Once that was finished, I hopped a bus to take me down to the embassy district and, after wandering the street aimlessly for a few minutes, decided to ask a guard at a gate on Guanghua Lu how to get to the American Embassy. Apparently, I had found it. I explained the situation, showing him the copy of my American passport and the certificate of loss of passport. He confirmed that I indeed did look something like my picture and let me in the gate. Once you get in the gate of the American Embassy here in Beijing, you still have a whole other block to walk inside the gates before you actually reach the building. I went through security, who made me leave my cell phone at the gate, took the number they gave me, and made my way through the second security outpost and into the American Citizen Services Office.
On my way in, I saw the triad of pictures hanging on the wall - George W., Dick Cheney, and Condi Rice. It was actually a bit strange, I have to say. Living overseas, you see American politics in the news and hear about it in discussion, but looking at that picture, I couldn't remember the last time I thought of the triad as "my government." Perhaps living in China has made me more Chinese than I thought. I doubt it. I don't have any particular allegiances to Mao or Hu, but perhaps I have become ambivalent about the whole concept without even noticing.
My number was called; I explained - for the zillionth time - my current situation. I filled out a form for a stolen passport and filled out the paperwork for a new passport. But when it came to payment time, I was short. Apparently it is 776 yuan (US$97) for a new passport. I can’t even IMAGINE what would happen if the money that was stolen was all the money I had in the world. I was riled up about the whole thing, but couldn't really get mad at the woman behind the window as it wasn't HER fault that we really are "foreign capitalist pigs." She said she would hold onto my paperwork and that I should go out get the money and come back. She also noted that my passport photos were not the right size and that I would need new ones, so may as well do those while I was out as well.
Okay. So, deciding that I didn't want to waste much more time, I hopped a cab home. We arrived at my apartment and I produced a 100RMB bill - and 100RMB bills, at that time, were all that I had since all of my small change had been in my wallet. The guy said he didn't have change. Knowing that sometimes the drivers just don't like to have to break a 100 yuan note, I reiterated that I had nothing else but this 100 note. He said he had no change. Wanting to be nice (which needs to change because apparently I need to be meaner to get things done in China), I went to a store (which said they had no change - probably untrue, but I wasn’t about to buy anything just to get change) and to a bank (who insisted that I had to wait on line with everyone else just to break the hundred). The people at the bank asked why I needed to break it. I told them I needed to pay the cab driver. They got really mad and told me that I should tell him off - cabbies are supposed to be able to break 100 yuan notes. If they can't, it's their fault.
I went out to the cab driver and told him that I wasn't about to waste 20 minutes waiting on line at the bank for change since I had things to do. He said, "why don't you go into the store?"
I replied, "Didn't you see? I already went in there! It's not my responsibility to find change for you!"
He just yelled, "Ok. Bye-bye!" rolled up his window and drove off.
I was mad that I even had to deal with this, especially when I was already stressed out enough about getting this passport stuff done. But on the bright side, I had gotten a free cab ride out of it!
Upstairs in my apartment, I grabbed the money I would need, and headed back down to grab another cab going back. After a short drive, we arrived at the corner near the embassy where I once again handed the cab driver the 100RMB note - the only type of bill I had.
"I have no change for that!" Here we go again.
"Fine. Pull over there and I'll ask the woman in the kiosk if she has change." See? Still too nice.
He crossed the intersection, pulled to the side of the road and, suddenly, produced a large black bag. He unzipped it and inside were wads of bills - 1's, 5's, 10's, 20's - all neatly rolled up. Are you KIDDING me?! The stress, the earlier idiot cabbie, and now this moron unleashed my inner gorgon as I started on a Chinese cursing rant.
"How the f#@$ could you tell me that you didn't have any f#$@ing change when you have an entire g@#damn wallet full of money?! You are such a f@#$ing a@$#hole!" I snatched the change he had made for me, threw the 100RMB note in his face and stormed off, slamming the taxi door behind me. Bear in mind, that cursing in China - especially when done by someone like me - is rather intense for the recipient, though cursing generally does not go over particularly well here no matter who is dishing it out. He left it be as I had already stormed off in the general direction of the embassy and I doubt he wanted any further firefight, having already been embarrassed in a public place by a Chinese-speaking foreigner.
I got back to the embassy, with no problems getting in this time around. On my way in, I came across a foreigner who was attempting - in English - to ask the Chinese guard where to get passport photos taken. "Perfect!" I thought. I needed to get those done too and, in my mental state at the time, probably would’ve forgotten all about it if I hadn’t heard him mention it. I walked up to the guard and asked him, in Chinese, where the place was to take the passport photos. The American man looked extremely grateful.
The guard directed us both over to the American Embassy's Service Hall across the way. The gentleman I met was from Illinois and we chatted while waiting for the photos to be processed. He had been living in Shaanxi Province, working with a coal mining company and had his passport stolen after someone broke into his car. We got our photos and walked back over to American Citizens' Services. Once again, I waited for my number to be called. I handed the woman my pictures and the money and was told to do what I do best - sit around and wait. Finally, another woman called me up and told me that because of my time crunch, I would be issued an emergency passport that would be ready that afternoon but was only good for one year. I would need a new visa (which I needed ANYWAY) and I could come back and pick up my new passport after 2PM.
So finally, things were looking like they were back on track. Don't worry - nothing bad happens. In fact, if I may say so, the story gets even more interesting from here. I hopped a bus back home and was walking over to a restaurant to buy some lunch when I received a phone call. It was Nirvana Gym (where I work out). Someone had found my stuff and had contacted them because my Nirvana membership card was the only thing in there with any sort of Chinese identification on it (since most of my cards, my driver's license, and passport are all in English). Nirvana then called me and gave me the contact number of the person who had found it.
I gave her a call and told her I would be right over to meet her, since I needed to get back to the American Embassy around two. I met her over by her office building, which turned out to be several blocks from where the incident had occurred. I didn't know exactly what she would have for me (the more the better, obviously), but it was worth getting back anything I could.
When I met up with her, she had in hand my passport, and a stack of cards. First of all, let me say that getting the passport back is a major shocker. You can get so much money for passports – American and European ones especially – on the black market (even if the person it was stolen from gets a new one and cancels the old one), so we're obviously not dealing with a criminal mastermind here. Included in the stack were my credit cards (which had been cancelled), my bank cards (two of which were still active, so at least now I could get money!), my insurance card, a $50 iTunes giftcard (essentially free money - as I said, not exactly a criminal mastermind), and my driver's license (which had expired, but was nice to have for two reasons: posterity and the knowledge that some Chinese pickpocket wasn't holding onto my home address).
She told me she had found them thrown over a fence next to her office and - especially seeing as there was a passport there - wanted to make sure it got back to me. She cautioned me to be careful, particularly in this area as thieves often target foreigners around this particular stop (and it's not like they can tell who is a tourist and who is a foreigner who lives here). I thanked her and headed home to grab some lunch.
That afternoon, I went back to the embassy to pick up my new passport. The deed had already been done, so I couldn't undo the cancellation of my previous passport, but at least now they could place it in the computer as 'recovered' and I could keep it (and the cool-looking visas and entry/exit stamps inside it) for posterity and for my records. Since then, I have finished getting my materials together to apply for my visa, found a reputable visa service through a friend, and am fully back on track.
So that is my birthday story. For pictures of ACTUAL events, see the post below. And - as always - thanks for reading! |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:07 PM |
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| "You're only young once, but you can be immature for a lifetime." |
-John P. Grier
And here's the proof:
 Wine and treats at Capone's.
 Sophie gettin' flirty with Bobby Taylor of Motown fame (see picture below).
Our special Capone's guest star: Bobby Taylor of Bobby Taylor and the Vancouvers (the guy who wrote ABC, I Want You Back, and Midnight Train to Georgia)!
 Dinner at Hutong Pizza
Hanging out at the Black Sun Bar at Chaoyang Park's West Gate.
Kasper is introduced to the snake.
Kasper dancing while trying not to agitate the snake. He survived.
Me and Zach showing the Chinese girls how it's done.
Ken and his bootyshakin' skills (it looked better in person - he literally had the whole restaurant on their feet!).
The final group birthday pic. :o) |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:49 AM |
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| Friday, June 15, 2007 |
| To Yield or Not To Yield...I Can't Believe That's the Question? |
I cannot believe it's come to this.
As most of you know, I bike my commute on major roads of Beijing and I must admit, I have come to a cultural crossroads. Here is my predicament:
When you take to the road in Beijing you have two choices. Follow the "rules" or don't. And I put "rules" in quotes because, like black holes and the ghost of Elvis, I'm not even sure if they really exist. There is a traffic test to get your driver's license and I know they ask about traffic laws, so there is some semblance of a system, but I'VE never seen it.
Anyway, I've always claimed the mentality that if I act in a proper manner and teach rather then scorn, I will be assisting in the effort to even out the culture gap and form a modern, globalized Chinese society. But then, I get on my bike and I want to throw it all out the window.
No, wait. I take that back. I want to smash it with a sledgehammer, violently stuff it down a garbage chute with a broomstick, and shower it in last night's smelly tofu and curdled cabbage. A little graphic, I know. But necessary. Next time I'll be sure to include a warning for children under 12.
Seriously though, it's a horrible decision-making process to try to navigate. I want to follow the rules and be a good, traffic-law-abiding non-citizen. But then someone cuts me off and proceeds to halve their speed until I come to a near stand-still. Or a car driver that decides that waiting is for everyone else but him cuts off the entire bicycle lane trying to pull around traffic that ISN'T MOVING. Or a car nearly hits you when you have the "green light" (okay - the "green light" definitely DOES exist, but it might just as well not because green or red, it makes no bloody difference anyway). From there, it starts off with a little cursing (which no one here understands anyway). Then it segues into a pointed glare and fierce, squinty eyes. Finally, like the gradual transformation into The Hulk, the anger turns into full-force, Chinese style, horn honking, bell-ringing road rage.
By then, I'm long past "stooping to their level." So, do I continue to fight the urge or throw any and all knowledge of proper traffic etiquette out with the tofu and cabbage? I haven't really decided yet. Perhaps my brain will create some sort of weird hybrid. I'll let people pass me, but I'll curse and ring my bell at them while they do. Ack! What has life in Beijing done to me?! |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:51 AM |
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| Tuesday, June 12, 2007 |
| If Speech Is Truly Free, Then Why Are There Phone Bills? |
Just kidding everyone! I'm a capitalist at heart - you know that.
Anyway, I came to the realization this morning that though I have paid my gas bill (recounted in "Men (and Women) of Honor") and I pay my electricity and water directly to my apartment's management company, my internet bill (and accordingly, my phone bill) was going mysteriously unpaid. Now, I still HAVE internet - a sign that things are not too far gone. But still, I have to pay some time, right? Or perhaps not.
I hadn't received a bill: not by mail, stuck on my door, or - as my other bills are usually delivered - handed to me by the lady who operates the elevator. And pray tell, what happens if you choose to take the stairs? And on that tack, what on Earth does this country have against stair climbing? (which really should go in another post altogether, entitled: Why the Chinese Are Willing to Wait Twenty-five Minutes for the World's Slowest, Most Obstinate Lift In Order to Go Up ONE Freakin' Floor in an Air-conditioned Office Building).
And so, I asked some colleagues how I was to go about paying this bill. I could have just called CNC and asked, but despite my Mandarin's improvement since my arrival in China, I generally prefer not to pay my bills (or do anything else, for that matter) over the phone. It limits my ability to gesticulate wildly in order to ensure that I'm understood. Besides, bill paying more often occurs at the banks which are tapped into the utility companies' databases (oh, the beauty of government-run utilities!). I was told that in the Bank of China in the lobby of my office building, there was a machine that I could use - just swipe your ATM card, punch in your phone number, and you're done. Sounds easy, right?
Well it is. Except the machine was broken. So I had to wait in line like everyone else, not wanting to prolong the non-payment too much longer and, honestly, not even sure how much I was going to owe. I finally had my number called and went up to the window (waiting at a bank in China is much like waiting at a deli counter everywhere else - you get a ticket with a number and a mysterious electronic woman extremely politely beckons you when it's your turn). I handed the teller the sheet with my phone information on it and paid the bill. Turns out I was catching up on two months of payments. But, strangely, with no late fees. Hmmmm...
This made me hearken back on my first apartment experience in Yayuncun, when I worked for the consulting company in northern Beijing. Though they paid my rent, I still had to pay for utilities and internet (a pretty raw deal, looking back on it). Here's the thing: I never paid for the internet after the initial installation. Then, when I moved out, the consulting company said there was an outstanding bill for three months worth of phone/internet service. Not that I ever received a notice of any kind. And the internet was still running without issue.
The way things work here in China, you could almost forget you have bills to pay at all. Many places don't have proper mailboxes or locatable addresses (I never had a postbox in Yayuncun and I still haven't received the key to my mailbox where I live now), and so bills are often delivered by someone taping them to your door or coming by to collect, or - I guess for that matter - they are sometimes not delivered at all.
I went for three months without paying the internet bill at my old apartment, and wouldn't have known it needed paying when I moved out if the company hadn't been trying to lease the place out to someone else. With bills so easily left unpaid, I wonder how on earth the utility companies manage to enforce payment?
I've been told that, when time comes for my European vacation (much like National Lampoon's except with fewer tribulations - but just as fun!), it is fine for me to pay my bills upon my return. I don't know how THAT works exactly. But we'll give it a shot and see how things turn out. Perhaps I'll have to have a discussion with the management people when I give my visa another go. Should be interesting at least! |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:29 PM |
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| Friday, June 08, 2007 |
| A Practical Treatise on the Global Networking Capacity of the Internet and the Paleo-Conservatives |
As an American living in China, I often feel rather displaced from the goings-on in America. Yes, I know Paris Hilton went to prison (and was released early). And yes, I know that Larry Flint is intent on bringing yet ANOTHER sex scandal to our nation’s capital. But I find that - since it isn't exactly first page Chinese news - information on the presidential hopeful debates is sparse at best. Only top notch Chinese newspapers cover it well and, let's face it, my Chinese is not THAT good. And so, I get my information where everyone else does: the internet.
But the internet revolution that has taken place over the last five years has managed to create a true marketplace of information, unlike the previous decade's incarnation of the internet as a sounding board for those who had fallen off the deep-end. It used to be: "it's on the internet, so of course it must be true" accompanied by a sarcastic tone and a roll of the eyes. Now it really IS: "it's on the internet, so of course it must be true." Well, maybe not exactly. But I think we can muster: "it's on the internet, so there may be some kernel of truth to this that we can pursue and investigate." Sure, there are sites for ranting and raving, sites for venting bigotry and hatred, sites built by the ignorant for the ignorant. But with so many people currently relying on the internet as a resource for reference, exchange, and discussion, I find that the truth usually finds its way to the surface in the end.
And it's amazing what one is provided with once open to the power of the internet. On YouTube, I watch the debates firsthand. I read the candidates' webpages. I read the pundits' webpages. I read the pundits' pundits' webpages. I read opinion blogs, news blogs, credible blogs, and incredible blogs. I download The Daily Show, The Colbert Report, Bill Maher, and other (usually comedic) "political roundtable" programs. As someone living abroad, far from home and far from the trappings of Western society, I maintain a full appreciation of the globally accessible, inter-connected web we weave.
For those who would ask about censorship and the internet in China, I will tell you that - at least as regards the sites I frequent - I find the constraints to be relatively limited. This is not to say that I condone censorship in any way, shape or form, but that the foreign media often over-hypes it to make a super-sized news story where there is perhaps only a medium-sized one. I hope that more internet freedoms arise in the future, but must concede that China is making a noticeable, though regulated, effort to limit restrictions and open more avenues of exchange.
As regards formulating my opinions on the candidates, I have to admit that my experience in China wields a heavy hand. This influence is not just a consequence of experiencing life from a different perspective on a foreign soil or an ability to view the United States objectively from abroad. Rather, it is largely the result of Beijing's international environment. People who come here to work, study, or travel come from all walks of life. Engaging in debate over U.S. policy (which, no matter where someone you meet hails from, happens the second I tell anyone I'm an American) has not changed my personal belief system. Rather, it has forced me to clarify my political leanings to make a more informed choice.
For those curious as to what that choice is, let me first say that (for those who do not know) I am a (paleo-conservative) Republican, though I have decidedly moderate leanings on social policy.
It was my social leanings that initially led me to the Giuliani camp. Amidst the initial contenders, Rudy seemed to have what I was looking for. But from what I've seen and heard thus far, there are holes in his rhetoric. Plus, a presidential candidate that is not open to and accommodating of the views of others sounds to me like a candidate prone to groupthink. That I will not have. At least not if I can help it. And in that respect, Rudy's not the only one either.
A penny for your thoughts - feel free to leave commentary on the issues or the candidates on this page or in my guestbook.
Wait a minute...sending a penny from China would probably cost, like, $30 FedEx.
So, $30.01 for your thoughts? |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:16 PM |
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| Tuesday, June 05, 2007 |
| A Slice of American Pie |
First there was humble pie. Then came its cousin, hypocritical pie. But what's the one we all know and love? American pie, baby. Don McLean, red-white-and-blue, Old Glory-style American pie. I know my audience gets a whole lot of China through this American's [gorgeous and all-seeing] eyes, but rarely on this blog do you - the viewers - get the flip side: the Chinese perspective on America.
I decided to ask a couple questions to get opinions on the current state of American pop culture and I swear to you, it turned into an episode of Jay-walking. Or I guess in this case, Rachel-walking. Nope. Doesn't sound as good. Don't worry - I'll think of something.
In the meanwhile, my "interviews" (which were conducted in Chinese, by the way - go me!) went something like this:
(the names have been abbreviated to protect the innocent)
Rachel: So what do you all think about Paris Hilton going to jail?
J: Who's Paris Hilton?
A: I think she's stupid. How do you not know that when your license is suspended, you're not supposed to drive? I barely speak any English and even I know that!
C: I think she's pretty but that she doesn't treat herself right. I'm sure parties are fun, and I know she's rich, but what about self-respect?
Rachel: Good question. I have no good answer.
C: She should come to China. I could teach her.
Rachel: Teach her what exactly?
C: How to be normal and nice to people and be part of a community.
Rachel: Do you think it's too late for that now?
C: Maybe. I mean she made that sex video and the DUI and that music CD she made.
Rachel: I like how you put her music in with her public image problems. Moving along, have any of you heard of Scientology?
All: No.
Rachel: It's a religion that's talked about a lot in the magazines. Tom Cruise and John Travolta are both in it. Here I'll try to explain it...
Insert: I spent about twenty-five minutes trying to explain all about Xenu and the falling to Earth and the e-meters, but I think somewhere along the way the explanation turned into a seventh installment of Star Wars in which Luke Skywalker joins a cult to subconciously lash out at the father who abandoned him and seeks to drain the universe of its financial solvency to support his new choice of "spiritual outlet."
Rachel: ...and so you see, Tom Cruise went all crazy and married Katie Holmes after interviewing her for a "movie role," and then some weird stuff happened. This led to an [hilarious] episode of the show South Park that further emphasized the public's view that Scientology followers are part of a crazy religion that only wants to grub money off its loyal worshippers, that are often celebrities.
C: That seems stupid.
Insert: I couldn't have said it better myself.
Rachel: Okay, next question. Have any of you seen stories about the Rosie O'Donnell-Donald Trump feud?
A: I read about that. Honestly, Donald Trump is ugly, so he shouldn't be so arrogant just because he can buy other people's love.
J: Isn't that the guy whose hair is falling off?
Rachel: Yep, that's the one.
J: He is ugly. But I like The Apprentice a lot. His daughter's hot.
C: Who's his daughter?
Rachel: Ivanka Trump.
J: Trust me, she's hot.
Rachel: Do any of you know about the fighting between him and Rosie O'Donnell? She's a comedienne who was on a show called The View where she made fun of him. Then they just started fighting in the news.
C: Was any of what they said true?
Rachel: I'm sure some of it was.
C: And they fought in public?
Rachel: Yep.
C: They need to find a hobby.
Rachel: You should tell THEM that. You'd be doing all of America a great service. Finally, what do you think of American music right now?
A: I like punk music. I like Blink-182 and Linkin Park.
J: I've been listening to that also. I love Blink-182. And Silverchair.
C: I like some of it, but I mostly listen to Chinese music. I don't understand English well enough.
Rachel plays Maroon 5's new single "Makes Me Wonder" and Lily Allen's "Ldn" for them.
C: I like the tunes, but I don't understand the song.
J: I like punk! The first one was okay, but the second one was too slow.
A: Yeah, it's too slow. Play punk rock!
Good thing I didn't break out the Dylan. If they dissed Bob Dylan for singing "too slow" I might've had to get physical.
So, there you have it. I like some of their responses quite a bit. Especially the one about Donald Trump's hair. Perhaps there's something to be said for being an objective observer. I sorta feel that way now. Whatever news I do read is from too far a distance to feel real. So this is "pop culture" at its finest, huh? Maybe I'll make this "Chinese man-on-the-street intervew" a regular installment. I mean, it's not like American pop culture will find itself in a stupidity shortage anytime soon. |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:33 PM |
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| Monday, June 04, 2007 |
| Rachel's Modern Life: The Movie |
SCENE I
We find ourselves underground. Enter with a wide shot - heads gently shaking with the movement of a subway car. We see Rachel, our protagonist, sitting with iPod buds in ears, nodding off with her head against the window. Enter the faint sound of singing, followed by a fading echo. A dirty, unkempt man begging for change shuffles by, singing into a microphone pack that is strapped to his back, stopping in front of each person and shaking his begging fists toward them as he goes. Rachel sits up and turns her head to face the window opposite. And there she sees a thirty-something male squeezed in between an elderly woman and a young girl. The man coughs. Then he coughs again. Rachel looks toward him and sees him doubled forward.
Wait. Those were chickens just outside the subway entrance. And he's coughing. Chicken. Coughing. Avian. Flu. Oh, god.
Rachel covers her mouth and turns away. Cue crowds of people mobbing the streets screaming and running for the airports and train stations.
SCENE II
Rachel exits the subway and notices an olive-green passenger van stuffed to capacity with thin Chinese teenagers in black uniforms. Bank guards? I suppose so. Another three Chinese officers bearing the same black uniform and armed with heavy artillery (think bazooka) stand outside the bank. They stare Rachel down as she walks by, making her feel guilty of a crime just for existing. And being foreign. Because foreigners are capitalist pig thiefs. Or at least that's what the stares tell her.
Just then a car comes screeching around the corner, speeding directly at the Chinese guards. The officers brace for what is OBVIOUSLY an attempted bank heist. They brandish their weapons and crouch, preparing for the onslaught. Except they have forgotten one thing. Beijing drivers are stupid and refuse to follow traffic laws. As soon as the offending vehicle rights itself, it continues driving on as if nothing has happened, leaving the seriously overstaffed, overprepared, and under-utilized Chinese guard sad that they, once again, managed to look "not cool." And you wonder why bao an are so goddamn difficult. Can anyone say "inferiority complex?"
Tune in for the next installment which will star George Clooney as the hunky doctor that manages to help Rachel find a single freakin' pharmacy in Beijing that sells Tylenol. |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:47 PM |
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| Tuesday, May 29, 2007 |
| Wolfowitz and Gonzales Had Better Be Thanking Their Lucky Stars |
You think the high-profile hullabaloo currently going on both in and out of our nation's capital is bad? Check this out:
"The former head of China's top food and drug safety agency was sentenced to death today after pleading guilty to corruption and accepting bribes, according to the state-controlled news media." -from (where else?) The New York Times
First of all, "state-controlled news media"?...Uh, is there any other kind? And second of all, in the immortal words of Frankie Goes to Hollywood, "RELAX."
Let's think about this. He's sentenced to DEATH. For BRIBERY. If we enforced that in the U.S., we'd have three politicans and two Fortune 500 CEOs left. Maybe fewer. I kid, of course. Still, it is a rather effective maneuver. Very Singapore-style. Accept bribes and you die - a very concise message if you ask me. This comes on the heels of China's increased focus on stringent (and sometimes overly exaggerated and trumped up) responses to and charges against dirty politicians, lawbreakers, and miscreants of all kinds.
One could attribute this to the Olympics looming on the horizon, but I see it as part of a general trend to increase Chinese moral authority on the world stage. And to some extent, it's working. I mean, how do you claim moral superiority over a country that executes corrupt politicians as an example to others (which would hopefully mean other politicos would clean up their acts though, I suppose, one way or another, they are decreasing the overall number of dirty politicians). Makes me glad I've chosen to stay out of political debate on this side of the globe. I think I'll stick to Hello Kitty, Supergirl, Jay Chou, and Prison Break. And, knowing what I do about Chinese pop culture, that should keep me busy for decades to come. |
| posted by Rachel @ 4:22 PM |
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| Monday, May 28, 2007 |
| Them's Fightin' Words |
According to Reuters, AHEM, and I quote:
"The Pentagon report [about the state of China's military] exaggerates China's military strength and expenditure with ulterior motives," the Foreign Ministry said in a statement posted in its Web site (www.fmprc.gov.cn). "It continues spreading the 'China threat' theory, seriously violates the norms of international relations, and is a gross interference in China's internal affairs..."
Here's what happened. Basically, the U.S. Pentagon sent out a report saying that China's reported projections for defence spending this year are significant underestimates, adding that they believe China to be aggressively stockpiling weaponry and formulating military strategy outside the "usual" realms of Taiwan, North Korea, and - most recently publicized - Africa. Though, to keep things level, I must of course mention that the Chinese maintain their position in Africa is focused on "economic cooperation" (with military involvement limited to such situations as threaten Chinese in Africa, as in Ethiopia, or in cases of mass genocide, as in Darfur).
Normally, I could rant on for days and days about how the Chinese government is just posturing to deflect public scrutiny while avoiding answering the "real questions," that they can try to lambast the U.S. all they want for pointing out "the truth" but that doesn't make it any less true, and that - as a major player on the world's stage - their business IS the world's business, etc., etc. Except that in this case, the U.S. should be scooping itself a hefty portion of hypocritical pie (cousin of the famous "humble pie"). Not only are we involved in EVERYONE ELSE's business but our own(whether we should or should not be there may or may not be open to debate; however this is not the forum for that) but, on top of everything else, our numbers make China's look like chump change.
Consider, if you will, the latter portion of the Reuters article:
"In March, China said it would boost defence spending by 17.8 percent to about $45 billion in 2007. But the Pentagon report cited U.S. intelligence estimates that China's total military-related spending for 2007 could really be between $85 billion and $125 billion. The Bush administration had requested $484.1 billion for the Defence Department in the fiscal year starting from October 2007, a figure that does not include military operations in Iraq and Afghanistan."
I love my home country with all my heart and I am certainly by no means 'Chinese,' but take THAT United States. Come on - let's get it together, fellas. Think before you speak. Do some freakin' research before you go putting out Pentagon reports. At least Google some stuff. People who live in glass countries should NOT throw nuclear weapons. |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:14 PM |
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| Thursday, May 24, 2007 |
| Making Amends |
Or amendments, I should say. My earlier statement that "one-handed bicycle smoking" was the newest and greatest Olympic sport was one-upped today on my way to work. The latest? One-handed cell phone bicycle smoking. That's right. The guy was balancing the cigarette and the cell phone IN THE SAME HAND (no headsets here!) while bicycling...and on the second ring road, no less (think highway).
Chinese one-handed cell phone bicycle smoker, I admire your gusto! Now if only I felt steady enough to engage in some one-handed bicycle photography... |
| posted by Rachel @ 11:55 AM |
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| Wednesday, May 23, 2007 |
| Prostitutes Beware! |
This requires no explanation whatsoever:
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| posted by Rachel @ 5:31 PM |
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| It's Just My Bowl of Rice |
It certainly ain't no cup of tea...
One of my favorite sites (which - though still up and running - doesn't really post new material anymore) is http://www.ChinaRant.com. Though to be fair, if you haven't read it before, I guess it's news. Some of you may recall the "Queue Jumper" story - also a product of ChinaRant.com's volatile love-hate relationship with the city I temporarily call home. Well, they published a list called "The Comprehensive 'You know You've Been In China Too Long...' List," rattling off 301 reasons that would indicate it's time to go home. Like, NOW.
While some of these were not relevant, I thought I'd give some commentary on the ones that hit a little too close to the mark, both to give you a sense of how 'Chinese' I've become and to ensure you that I will definitely be coming home.
#12. You have grown used to the picture quality of pirated VCDs. Well that one's a no brainer.
#24. You find yourself exiting a major highway...on your bike. Hell yeah, I do!
#30. You draw characters on your hand to make yourself understood. Chinese even do this amongst themselves, so it makes me feel like part of the club.
#36. You can't put a proper sentence together in your native language. Phone calls home serve as evidence of this.
#43. You believe that pressing the lift button 63 times will make it move faster. I swear it! The elevator definitely goes more quickly when it thinks you're angry!
#56. You use the word "Ayyiieeaaahh" every few sentences to convey surprise, pleasure, pain or anger. Think the 'oy vey' of the Chinese language...
#64. You think that a $7 shirt is a rip-off. Well it IS...
#74. You are no longer flinching every few seconds in a taxi ride. It's actually becoming sorta fun, though I pretty much bike everywhere now.
#98. When you take a cab, you give play-by-play driving directions to the driver. In fact, I have it on record from several drivers (who, frustratingly enough, INSISTED I had no idea where I was going) that I know Beijing better than most Beijingers. Score one for me!
#102. You can pick up any type of food using just your chopsticks... even peanuts. In any kind of sauce. I can even get individual grains of rice! I've been trained by the best.
#110. You no longer wonder how someone who earns US$ 400.00 per month can drive a Mercedes. Knock-off Mercedes, anyone? I kid! I think...
#112. You accept without question the mechanic/handyman's analysis that your [fill in item here] is "broken" and that it will cost you a lot of money to get it "fixed." Which is why I now try to do all my own handiwork. If all it takes is a screwdriver or a wrench, just call me the Chinese Rosie the Riveter.
#113. You find that it saves time to stand and retrieve your hand luggage while the plane is on final approach. This really only works on domestic flights, so be wary.
#117. You regard traffic signals, stop signs, and fake watch peddlers with equal disdain. They interrupt my cruise control flow!
#128. You would rather SMS someone than actually meet to talk 'face to face.' It's true. I'm pretty sure my Chinese has suffered from texting people who were sitting two tables over instead of just TALKING TO THEM. #140. You get your first case of bronchitis and you have never smoked a cigarette in your life. My first case, and second case, and third case...This is also known as the Beijing-hacking-cough-that-never-goes-away-and-just-lingers-forever-until-you-finally-get-smart-and-go-home.
#155. You have learnt how to detect someone is in a hurry behind you, and now have the ability to not only walk very slowly but also grow eyes in the back of your head, so when they start to overtake on the right hand side, you automatically cut in and walk very slowly directly in front of them. It's only fair to even the score! Hah! Vengeance is sweet...
#162. When you are able to jump the queue because the idiot laowai left 2 centimeters between himself and the person in front of him. I can scare the living daylights out of tourists boarding the subway like the best of them!
#174. You start calling other foreigners Lao Wai. Many times. And not jokingly, either.
#199. You ask fellow foreigners the all-important question "How long have you been here?" in order to be able to properly categorize them. Anyone under 5 months ain't got nothing!
#204. You can swear in 3 different dialects. Cabbies LOVE that...
#205. Pollution, what pollution?
#211. You stop enjoying telling newcomers and tourists "all about China." It's a really big country with lots of people and really good, cheap food. There. Satisfied?
#224. There are more things strapped to your cycle than you would ever put in a car. Imagine this: two bags of groceries, a medium-sized room fan, a mop, two folding chairs and a set of pots and pans. Literally everything but the kitchen sink. I thought I would die. But it beats paying cab fare!
#227. Your family stops asking when you'll be coming back. They haven't yet. But they will.
#235. You speak Chinese to your foreign friends. Most times, I can't remember how to speak in English anyway.
#238. Chinese stop you on the street to ask for directions. True story. Once I even explained the entire bus system to a nice old Chinese man from Henan. He invited me to dine with his family. In Henan. I politely declined.
#241. The shortest distance between two points involves going through an alley. Especially during rush hour.
#248. You realize that smiling and nodding is Chinese body language for, "Go away; leave me alone." Actually, that one works all around...
#252. It has been at least 18 months since you used the word "tacky" to describe anything. Sad but true.
#266. You think of "salad" as diced apples in mayonnaise. I still prefer fresh vegetables. Order salad from a Chinese restaurant? I dare not!
#286. You get offended when people admire your chopsticks skills. Yes - I'm foreign AND I use chopsticks. Quite well in fact. The two things are NOT MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE, you know!
#287. You compiled a 3-page list of weird English first names that Chinese people of your acquaintance have chosen for themselves. My favorite one? Sean and Jason will remember this one: Sunny-like. Not just Sunny. Sunny-like. Makes me think of Sunny-D every time...
Close runners-up include Blade, Dooger, and Zeke. Oh and - by the way - Zeke is a girl.
#293. You always get a seat on a bus. Because I'm just awesome like that.
#294. You cannot say a number without making the appropriate hand sign. THAT one I can actually appreciate - otherwise I would've definitely overpaid at the bargaining tables!
Hopefully, this gives you a sense of the current state of my life in China. Any questions or additional comments should be addressed to the management.
Oh, and as a final note, I've added a guestbook to the upper right corner of the homepage. Feel free to write comments, questions, a quick NON-OBSCENE note (you know who you are...) |
| posted by Rachel @ 4:06 PM |
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| Tuesday, May 22, 2007 |
| Chinarella and the Fuzzy White Slipper |
Once upon a time, there was a gentle and fair young maiden named Rachel. Rachel lived in a chaotic city in a distant land, far far away. One Saturday afternoon, she was sweeping and cleaning (there are no ugly stepsisters, but her mother would be happy to know that my apartment is clean. I mean, her apartment...oh nevermind.), when she received a note on a mystical device that receives strange characters from far abroad and...this is stupid. Okay - she gets a text message. There will be a gathering at Ye Olde Durty Nellie's Irish Pub for the FA football championships betwixt Chelsea and MANCHESTER UNITED! HUZZAH! Ahem. Sorry about that.
Her rooms are clean and - thankfully - there are no mice or birds inside the abode to sing and/or help her dress, as that would be really creepy. She slips on her shoes, grabs her purse and heads out the door. Alas, she has no carriage as that would cost her 10 kuài and she is but a poor young girl (and her cool new electric bicycle is parked beneath the building, which is majorly má fán to take out...).
So she walks. She strolls along merrily (for about half an hour) and not long after, the pub comes into sight. She can see the bright lights awaiting her. But just then, the unthinkable occurs. She feels a tug. Then a yank. And suddenly, a foot that moves light as air - she has but one shoe! Whatever shall she do?!
She hobbles to her friends whom she has spotted at a nearby table, and when they see this sorry young maiden, they laugh at her shoelessness. But she scolds them for this malice and strikes pity and sympathy into their hearts. She argues until, at last, drunk Sir Adrian offers to find her another in the dark of night. Off he goes as Rachel chats with Sir Frank, who is at that moment partaking in a feast of hamburger and french fries.
Ten minutes later, he has not returned. Nor in fifteen or twenty. Where has Sir Adrian run off to? Thirty minutes passes and, finally, his visage reappears in the distance, triumphant. He sits down and delicately hands Rachel two plastic sheaths. Inside are white, fuzzy slippers.
White fuzzy slippers?! From the Kempinski Hotel? How luxurious! Sir Adrian, it turns out, found a former student of his working the lobby. How's that for guān xì？And so, she cheered on the footballers the whole night through in her comfortable-as-sin white, fuzzy Kempinski slippers. That is, until Chelsea took ManU in the end. At which point her overly drunk, visibly unhappy comrades decided the pub was too depressing and left for greener bars. I mean pastures.
The End. |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:20 PM |
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| TRUTH?! |
You can't handle the  !
Who remembers that old thing? Talk about dusting off old antiques from the attic...whew!
Well, I wish they would resurrect it here in China. Actually, you get used to the smoking after a while. After all, a love of or tendency toward smoking is quite common in many countries around the world. But the thing I don't get, the thing that annoys me the most, is a bicyclist with the handlebars in one hand and a cigarette in the other. What? You couldn't wait ten minutes? Or at least pull over to the side of the road?
Not only is one-handed bicycle smoking (which sounds like my favorite new Olympic sport!) dangerous. Especially since the Chinese - generally speaking - are bad enough in the traffic and transportation department without devoting half of the balance in their upper body - and most of their attention - to smoking a cigarette. But they consistently blow smoke in the face of the person cycling behind, which - on numerous occasions - has been me. I'm already getting the black lung. I don't need cancer and emphysema, too.
Wow - I've been ranting a lot lately. Perhaps it's time for a vacation. Or my nap. Makes me actually miss Laiwu... |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:07 PM |
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| Monday, May 14, 2007 |
| I Mooove to Remooove this Legislative Mooovement! |
Because it's a post about cows! Get it?
The latest in silliness from Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick, care of the Boston Herald: "Governor Deval Patrick has filed legislation to declare a 'dairy emergency' and distribute $3.6 million among the state's 179 dairy farms."
I repeat, a DAIRY EMERGENCY?!
What's next? We declare a war on vegans? We raise the 'dairy threat level' from 'white' to 'sour yellow'? Bono writes From Our Hands to Your Hooves, a 'dairy ditty' paying tribute to the floundering American dairy industry? What WILL these people think of next... |
| posted by Rachel @ 4:20 PM |
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| Studying For Standardized Tests CAN Be Fun. Wait, Don't Laugh. No, Seriously. I SWEAR. |
Some people may scoff at that statement, but I'm sticking to my guns on this one. And having taken the PSAT, SAT (both I and II(s)), ACT and LSAT - and now moving onto the GMAT - I find myself as something of an expert on the topic. It is statements like the following, plucked straight out of my McGraw-Hill GMAT prep book, that make all the drudgery at least a smidge more comical:
"The GMAT includes these passages [dealing with either women or a minority ethnic group] in part as a response to long-term criticism that the specific subject matter of its tests provides an advantage to white males. The question of whether these minority-themed passages rectify this historical imbalance is outside the scope of this book, but what is relevant to this book is that these reading passages invariably present minority groups in a positive light. If you see an answer choice that suggests something negative about a minority group, you can be sure that it is the wrong answer."
No joke. Word-for-word, verbatim. So I'm guessing Treason and The Way Things Ought To Be are off the reading list, huh?
NOTE: Clicking on the books' titles will take you to their respective Amazon.com pages. Allow me to say that I in NO WAY endorse or support their politics or ideologies. If anything, I suppose I should've linked them to the "Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh Are Insipid Bigots Who Wouldn't Know a Quality Human Being If One Slapped Them Across the Head Repeatedly For An Hour" website. They probably wouldn't even feel it. Their nerve endings are that dead from being unfeeling, self-centered idiots. And now my rant is done. Thank you. |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:39 PM |
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| Wednesday, May 09, 2007 |
| Chariots of Garbage |
Driving down the roads of Beijing, as I do rather often these days, it is common to see big carts (usually brown or blue) attached to bicycles, ambling down the avenue. These belong to the street sweepers of Beijing. There's one for almost every block you pass. Part of the reasoning behind this is the tendency of the Chinese to litter. They have not yet been indoctrinated with the whole "Give A Hoot, Don't Pollute" spiel. You can tell how effective the EPA's "advertising" has been in the U.S. by the very fact that I still remember it from my television watching at age 7. But I commonly see the nonchalant discard of a wrapper or flick of a cigarette in plain view, only to be scooped up but moments later by one of these quick and agile creatures (I think this is turning into an episode of Crocodile Hunter: Beijing Edition - all it needs is a "Croikey, 朋友!"). Funnier, of course, if you speak the language.
Getting back to the point, while on my way to work today I got stuck behind this scooter that was just inching along. Since my personality dictates that I be impatient and attempt to speed ahead of any who get in my path, I managed to slide in beside him and slip around in front. But when I took a quick glance around, I realized WHY he was merely plodding along.
He had one hand on the handlebars. In the other, a rod with a sharp, pointed end. As he approached a piece of styrofoam on the ground he stabbed it and flicked it back into his garbage bag, all while continuously gliding forward. Would that not be the coolest job ever? Spending your days riding around the city on a small motor scooter, playing "Litter Polo" with a sharp instrument that can be used to frighten off small animals and children? Awesome.
Sorry, Mom. Change of career plans. Shame you had to spend all that money on a private top-tier university...
Perhaps in a later post, I will formally introduce you all to the rules of the latest outdoor gaming trend that's sweeping this Chinese nation (care of yours truly), "Litter Polo." |
| posted by Rachel @ 2:05 PM |
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| Men (and Women) of Honor |
I have to say that by and large, one of the most interesting things about living in China is actually LIVING in China. The experience of finding an apartment in Beijing (and all the particulars that go along with it) is miles apart from that in the U.S. - or from what little of it I know. I've already recounted my experience with apartment hunting (though it was thoroughly plagued with other bureaucratic pestilence like visas and, you know, trying to be employed). Now onto round two, the actual "being in the apartment" part.
Though rent on my eight-month lease is paid three months at a time (the last one being two months and an opportunity to renew), all utilities are paid monthly. And from what I knew of utility payments for water and gas in China thus far, someone from the respective company would come by your apartment, check your meters, and leave you a bill to be paid at a bank that is in cooperation with the (state-owned) company. Usually, ICBC or Bank of China will do. In my last apartment, they always dropped by nice and early, around 7AM on a Saturday (and bear in mind, when I was living there and working at the bar Friday nights, I usually didn't get home until after 3...). Nonetheless, it was easy because I was always around.
But now? Now, during the week, I commute to work (which I've gotten down from an hour to 40 minutes, thank you very much). And despite this extra speed, with the trip to work and just generally being a busy person, I'm never really in the apartment unless I'm sleeping. So imagine my disappointment when I saw the 通知 (a sort of posted notice or announcement) next to the elevator that said workers would be coming to check the gas meters the next day on the 8th - a Tuesday. Before the elevator arrived to take me upstairs, that was all the Chinese I managed to read. I figured the next time I went downstairs, I would take a couple moments to fully read the notice. The next time I was heading out and read it again, I got to the next part, underlined in red marker. Essentially, it said if you're not going to be there, put the amount on the door.
Wait...what?! Come again? If you're not going to be there, write an amount on the door and that's how we'll charge you? I bet NO ONE takes advantage of THAT. Nonetheless, knowing I would be at work, I went yesterday morning to look at the meters, figuring that I understood what the notice was saying and that leaving the amount on the door was sufficient. However, my "new" apartment still used a meter with "old" dials.
My last apartment had a numbered meter (that looked sort of like an odometer), whereas this place had three dials in a triangular formation marked "100," "10," and "1." It looks something like the above, except A LOT grimier and bearing barely discernible, faded writing. The readout on the machine looks something like this below, minus the "1 MILLION" dial all the way on the left. And remember - grimy and faded. It just wouldn't be my apartment without the grimy and faded...
I figured that these were the hundreds, tens, and ones places of the amount I was supposed to give the gas company, but since I wasn't sure (and I was assured by my Chinese friend, Candy, that a day made no difference), I thought I'd ask some people at work.
I came home that night to a note on my door with a big red stamp on it and some Chinese writing. Now, the stamp I recognized as the name and phone number of the gas company. However, the rest was handwritten and I'm not quite good enough with written Chinese to understand the horrible, illegible handwriting (think a doctor's, times twenty) that was on this scrap of paper stuck to my door. I doubt they figured some American novice Chinese speaker was living there. So I brought the note into work this morning. Turns out, the note was just saying that during the daytime, I should call the number on the stamp and in the evening, I could call the number on the bottom to tell them the levels of my gas meter. Cool, no?
They must have quite an honor system going. I have noticed it before in small ways, like on the bus. Though the fare-takers are usually pretty aggressive in pursuing people, they become more anxious and hostile about getting their money or making sure you've swiped your card when someone like me comes on the bus (because apparently, as a foreigner, I have no sense of morality) than when other Chinese board. And it seems even when the buses are packed like sardines, people are still quite honest about paying their fares. I even saw someone pay after they had already disembarked at their stop. It is a bit different in that, with the gas company, you're paying for an actual product (colorless and (nearly) odorless as it may be), whereas on the bus, it would continue to run regardless of whether one more person came on or not. So without cameras, the bus people wouldn't know the 1元 difference. But still, it's a fairly coherent theme so I'll run with it.
I think it's nice that there's so much trust here. The more I think about it, the more I realize that such a system would never work back home. They would still have to send someone out to check the numbers. But to level the playing field, I think the U.S. system is more efficient (surprise, surprise). The meters are outdoors and accessible without having to be checked on-site, apartment-by-apartment, every month. Plus, I can pay my bills online. I think we're still more than a hop, skip, and a jump away from that here. I can only dream of making utility payments in my PJs. It's things like that and not having clothes dryers that make me miss home. Oh, and I suppose there are a few people I wouldn't mind seeing again either. |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:24 PM |
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| Saturday, April 28, 2007 |
| No Place Like Home For The Holidays - Except I'm Not There |
If someone told you that a national holiday was coming up and you were getting time off from work, you'd be happy, right? With the exception of my workaholic readers, I'm guessing most of you would agree. It is lovely to have some time off for relaxation or travel. But what if they still made you work? This interesting phenomenon is what I like to call a "Chinese holiday." Instead of just giving you the day off for the national holiday (like giving you one day off for President's Day, Boxing Day or Bastille Day [for my non-existent French audience]), they make you work on days you normally wouldn't work so that they can "reallocate" your days off.
What exactly comprises this reallocation? you may be wondering. Well I'm glad you asked, because I was going to tell you anyway. Basically, instead of working my normal five-day work week, getting the Labor Day holiday on Tuesday and Wednesday free, and then working the rest of the week as usual, I have to work through the weekend including Monday. And if you worked out your dates correctly, you would have figured out that I am currently composing this post at work. On a Saturday. And I'm not even at Berlitz (which, by the way, I still had to teach for this morning).
So, in advance, I apologize if I'm a bit grumpy. But today and tomorrow are going to be 7:00AM-6:00PM workdays on a weekend that I was really hoping to have off, especially coming as it is after a long week of working and biking (see post "On A Collision Course?" below). Eight days a week - my professional life is the reincarnation of a Beatles song that I believe subconciously promotes slave-driving (though, admittedly, the Beatles song is talking about 'loving' eight days a week and I'm talking about staring at a computer screen for nine hours at a clip).
But to be fair - in return - we get Tuesday, May 1st through Monday, May 7th off - returning on the 8th. Rest assured that every night next week, I will be out until dawn and sleeping until dinner. May I also say that I am thoroughly excited for the arrival of some long-lost friends who will be making their way to Beijing: the ever-feisty Drea (who is currently living and studying in Lhasa) and Amy (my favorite real estate mogul/coffee-fetcher) who is based out of Hong Kong. If I make it through the looooong weekend, we're looking forward to some good times! |
| posted by Rachel @ 1:38 PM |
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| Wednesday, April 25, 2007 |
| On A Collision Course? |
My latest and greatest China experience is far beyond any expectations I could have held. I've heard about it and even talked about it (without having tried it for myself) on many occasions, and despite my fear, I was excited at the prospect of giving it a shot.
The name? Biking. The game? Beijing's rush hour traffic. The player? Yours truly.
About a week and a half ago, I finally broke down and bought a bike. But not just any bike. A FOLDING bike. This extremely portable form of transportation is in high stock here in China, as such a large population bikes just to get around. Knowing that I would now be commuting to work (since I work in Haidian, but chose to live in Dongzhimen, downtown) I figured having a bike would speed up the process. And it did. Little did I know, my commute would be manually powered.
That's right. I bike to and from work every day. I can cross town in forty-five minutes if I'm on my game. I've tried it all: bus, cab, combination of the two. Biking the whole way is still fastest. My mornings and evenings have turned into one giant game of Frogger, as the fastest, smoothest routes with the fewest intersections involve weaving through Beijing's busiest roads, around buses, cars, motorcycles, and most dangerous of them all: other bicyclists.
You would think that I would be most afraid of the biggest beasts on the road, the buses - or at least the agile, darting cars - but it is actually other bicyclists who are the most dangerous. Firstly, due to rush hour traffic, at most points I'm actually biking faster than the cars are moving. Second, the car drivers tend to be hypervigilant of bicyclists since they're everywhere and often pop out as if from nowhere on any given road. And they know that if they hit a bicyclist, they're in for MAJOR trouble. As such, they usually (somewhat unwillingly) yield if you're in their path.
But other bicyclists? They tend to act carelessly. They will cut you off or slip in between you and another bike with barely a centimeter to spare. Different bicyclists go different speeds (unlike cars, which generally keep a fairly uniform pace) and so bicycles attempting to pass often get tangled up and frustrated in packs of slower-moving bicycles. This leads to a sort of "bicycle rage" that can cause terrible bike accidents. Lest we forget that bike lanes are generally connected to the road, bike accidents can also lead to terrible car accidents.
I don't mean to frighten, and I have not even been near any close calls as yet (other than the occasional getting cut off by some know-it-all bicyclist who has decided waiting is below him - and it usually is a him, as Chinese female bicyclists tend to be overly cautious and slow). The main benefit of bicycling is really getting to see the city - biking through the hutongs, the side streets, trying different routes, finding places I want to revisit - all part of the experience. There are health benefits - the benefit of minimum 90 minutes of cycling exercise being one of them. Though the downsides include the sensation of having "The Black Lung" upon arriving at work and making it back home. A thorough shower is usually required to remove the layer of grime from the road. Chinese emissions standards may be "improving," but with so many cars in so little space (and especially now that the weather is warming up), you can't help but feel gross.
Despite the drawbacks and the dangerous nature of bicycle travel in Beijing, I have to come out with an overall positive review. Three-and-a-half out of four stars. I like the view of Beijing from the road.
As Rascal Flatts says, life is a highway. I'm gonna ride it. All night long. Or at least until I get where I'm going. |
| posted by Rachel @ 12:55 PM |
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| Tuesday, April 24, 2007 |
| A Little Interior Decorating |
In case you didn't notice (and if you didn't, you should probably have your eyes or your memory checked!), I've done a little site renovating. I thought it was about time. I don't much like pink and I thought it couldn't hurt to expand my horizons.
The boat pictured at the header of the page is called a "sampan." A sampan is a type of flat-bottomed Chinese wooden boat anywhere from twelve to fifteen feet long. They can often be found along coastal waters or mild rivers, but rarely stray far from land as they lack the sturdiness required for rough waters. Sampan literally means "three planks" in Cantonese, a combination of the words "sam," meaning three and "pan," meaning plank.
I hope you like the blog's new look - I'll keep writing if you'll keep reading! |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:32 PM |
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| Lethal Weapon 12: This Time It's For Real |
How many of those things were there again? Five? Six? Not the point.
Today, a story emerged claiming what many scientists have believed for quite some time now - that there is a flaw in the lethal injection method employed when carrying out a death penalty sentence. After reading the article, I hearkened back to about a year or so ago when I heard a similar story while working for Chief Judge Joseph H.H. Kaplan (now retired) at the Circuit Court for Baltimore City in Maryland. It was a Friday and we had a convict whose execution was scheduled for midnight, Monday. Talk about procrastination...
The judge declined the appeal, although to be fair, the attorneys had already sung the same song for the State Supreme Court and they weren't having any of it either. And though their motivations may have been more selfish than humanitarian, they did bring up some interesting points. Up until that day, I had little knowledge of the process of lethal injection. I just thought they stuck a needle in someone and that was it. It turns out it's a bit more involved that that. There are actually THREE drugs involved (at least in most states) each of which, individually, can kill. Though I guess they're hoping that if they give you three, they'll get at least one. I'd take that bet.
There's Thiopental, an anesthetic; Pancuronium Bromide, which blocks nerves and paralyzes the muscle; and Potassium Chloride, a drug used to stop the heart. However, the drugs are not pain-free. Sedation is supposed to prevent the sensation of pain from these drugs, but there have been reports of sedation wearing off or being ineffective. Apparently, state governments have chosen to take the "one-size-fits-all" approach, not so good when the inmates have been pumping iron in the yard or, for that matter, are just plain heavy.
Why doesn't a doctor just monitor the injections - instead of the State - to ensure that everything goes properly? Well, I'm glad you asked. Technically, it's unethical. It's that whole Hippocratic "do no harm" thing. Geez, these doctors and their oaths. Taking everything so LITERALLY. One time, a federal judge in California tried to order that doctors assist in a lethal injection. The doctors said no, and the case is still ongoing.
Which brings us back to why the lawyers brought up this last-minute case in hopes of stalling the process. With the right judge, sometimes it DOES work. Somehow, it seems bittersweet getting out on a technicality. But I guess beggars can't be choosers, eh? |
| posted by Rachel @ 5:07 PM |
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| Monday, April 23, 2007 |
| The Rump Stump... |
...is the winner of my, "What Should This Fantastically Awesome Chair Be Called?" Contest. Sure, I was the only contestant. But I take my victories VERY seriously.
Other possible names included (but were not limited to): The Colossal Caboose The Porcelain 屁股 (which will only be understood by my Chinese-speaking friends) The Butt Rut The Crack Stack (but I thought that sounded a little too druggy) The Squat Spot
For those who are curious, these stools are part of a practical sculpture art display in a park located in Chong Qing (重庆), China. Once I finally get a more permanent living arrangement, I am definitely investing in a set! |
| posted by Rachel @ 10:17 AM |
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| Friday, April 13, 2007 |
| X Marks the Spot |
I was reading a Times article (so you know it HAS to be true) called, "Pas de Deux of Sexuality Is Written in the Genes" - discussing the recent discoveries of the links between genetics and brain function as delineated by gender.
And I quote:
Several profound consequences follow from the fact that men have only one copy of the many X-related brain genes and women two...Men, as a group, will have more variable brain phenotypes,” Dr. Arnold writes, because women’s second copy of every gene dampens the effects of mutations that arise in the other. Greater male variance means that although average IQ is identical in men and women, there are fewer average men and more at both extremes.”
If I'm interpreting this correctly (and for the sake of ease, we'll just agree that I am), this brings up quite an interesting scientific phenomenon. And here is an experiment/exercise I have invented expressly to move this from theory into practice:
Step 1: Find a mirror (a hand mirror or a wall mirror, either will suffice for our purposes).
Step 2: Analyze your appearance and determine from that (as well as several other factors) whether you are male or female. If you find that you are a female, your part of the experiment is over. If you find that you are indeed male, move on to the next step.
Step 3: Assess whether or not you possess the ability to solve problems of an average to complex nature, succeed in academic pursuits, and just generally act in a competent manner.
If you answered yes to at least two of the aforementioned three conditions, Congratulations! You fall into the "smart" extreme of the male IQ spectrum and you will live a wonderful life filled with moments of genius and inspiration. If not, better luck next time. Which I guess would only work if you're Hindu. Sorry.
I realize that my male IQ "extremes" experiment is taking the article's claim to, well, an extreme. And though we made the tacit agreement earlier that I was interpreting this with 100% accuracy, I know there are those who may be, let's say, miffed at my suggestion that males can only be either really smart or really...not.
So, to preempt the angry non-fan mail and cover my theoretical experimenting tuchis:
This product is meant for educational purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. Batteries not included. Contents may shift during flight. Use only as directed. No other warranty expressed or implied. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Postage will be paid by addressee. Apply only to affected area. May be too intense for some viewers. For recreational use only. All models over 18 years of age. If condition persists, consult your physician. No user-serviceable parts inside. Freshest if eaten before date on carton. Subject to change without notice. No postage necessary if mailed in the United States. Breaking of seal constitutes acceptance of agreement. For off-road use only. As seen on TV. One size fits all. Slippery when wet. For office use only. Edited for television. Post office will not deliver without postage. List was current at time of printing. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. At participating locations only. Not the Beatles. Penalty for private use. Substantial penalty for early withdrawal. Do not write below this line. Falling rock. Lost ticket pays maximum rate. Your canceled check is your receipt. Avoid contact with skin. Sanitized for your protection. Employees and their families are not eligible. Beware of dog. Contestants have been briefed on some questions before the show. Limited time offer, call now to ensure prompt delivery. You must be present to win. No purchase necessary. Use only in a well-ventilated area. Keep away from fire or flames. No Canadian coins. Not recommended for children. Pre-recorded for this time zone. Reproduction strictly prohibited. No solicitors. No anchovies unless otherwise specified. Restaurant package, not for resale. Driver does not carry cash. Do not fold, spindle or mutilate. No transfers issued until the bus comes to a complete stop. Your mileage may vary. This supersedes all previous notices.
There, that should do it. Makes me rubber. Guess who's glue? Go on, guess. Here, I'll give you a hint. Step 1: Find a mirror... |
| posted by Rachel @ 2:17 PM |
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| The Gang's All Here |
If you've read my postings, you'll be at least vaguely familiar with a weekly event called, "Quiz Night." Wednesdays at Bar Blu 蓝吧 in Sanlitun 三里屯 are somewhat of a staple with us since some of my crew have five-a-side football (NOT American football! That would be soccer, for you Yanks out there!) on Tuesdays - the evening of the other Beijing "Quiz Night" at Tim's Texas BBQ. Essentially, it's five rounds of ten questions with bonus questions and prizes. And, unlike before when I was using "Quiz Night" to meet new people in this city, I now come with crew in tow. So far, we've managed to not come in last, and that seems to be good enough for the time being. This past Wednesday, the theme was "the 70's"; and oh, how I wish my parents were there. Our team had not a person born before 1980 in attendance. Unfair, if I do say so myself. I'm pretty sure the group in the next booth over had two certified hippies and a 70's rock groupie who looked like he was still styled to tour with Zeppelin.
Despite our age handicap, we managed to recognize pictures of Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army, pinpoint the year 1975 as the official end of the Vietnam war, and guess that it was no other than Edwinn Star belting out "War! Hugh!" Seriously - who doesn't love that song? And I find it fascinating that the music trivia category (which consists completely of audio clues) always turns into a bad karaoke contest.
We took fourth place - in the middle of the pack, but not too shabby, all things considered. We got free drinks care of the happy hour machine (when you buy a drink, they give you a small remote - you hit a button which stops a wheel, telling you what prize you receive), won a bonus prize of 100元 for answering that the capital of modern Ethiopia is Addis Ababa, and had a pretty damn good time in the process. After the gaming was over, the four of us who were still up for merrymaking took our bonus prize winnings and bought ourselves kebabs and a final round of drinks at Butterfly Bar around the corner (100 元 won't buy much elsewhere), before calling it a night.
 The "Quiz Night" crew. Clockwise starting from the Chinese girl in the white jacket on the left side of the photo: Jojo, Zach, Danny, Dave, Candy, yours truly, Paul, and the girl in grey on the right is Emily. You can click on the photo and it should enlarge, though I can't be sure about that (I'm still firewalled - ever the controversial blogger I am!).
I've had a few questions about documentation of the rest of my experiences, particularly my time in Laiwu. They're still here! But this last post reaches the limit of what Blogger will allow me to display on one page. For earlier posts, check out the Archives section on the sidebar. Happy reading! |
| posted by Rachel @ 10:14 AM |
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BRAND NEW:
SIGN MY GUESTBOOK!
THE WILD WILD EAST:
Everything you never knew you didn't know about life on the other side. |
| In China, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. The Chinese, who call this land "home," and the expats who migrate here. My name is Rachel. I am an expat. These are my stories. |
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| This is a satirical site intended for the entertainment of an online audience. None of the features on this site are real (except in my own distorted view of reality), nor are they intended to harm the subjects mentioned. This site uses fictional names in all its stories, except in cases when public figures are being satirized or when I choose to use this site as a platform for someone's public humiliation (usually my own). Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental (or purposeful, but with good reason).
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| Welcome! |
Despite the trivial nature of my random daily (sometimes weekly) musings, I hope you enjoy your stay at my site. If there is anything you need, don't hesitate to ring up the concierge, because I just travel in style like that. Have a pleasant stay and I hope that you will come see us again soon! |
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