From San Francisco to Shanghai, Chinese everywhere are obsessed with numbers. A quick read through my mini glossary here will not only equip you to prosper in life with the aid of auspicious numbers (if you believe the popular superstitions), it might also help you engage in some naughty business.
The digit with the biggest and bestest reputation is “8,” which in Cantonese is spoken as “baht,” a near homonym to “faht” (“prosper”). Chinese people routinely and happily pay up to decorate their car plates with as many eight’s as possible, to live at #8 on Eighth Avenue, and to secure a phone number with the triply potent “888” sequence.
A lesser known happy number is “6,” which in Mandarin indicates a smooth journey. Six is commonly paired with eight, like in the number string “168” (roughly translating to “a swift road to prosperity”). Wishing your Chinese friends “one hundred sixty-eight” will surely bring smiles to their faces.
Among the amorous young the number “9” is also significant. “Jiu” means both “nine” and “everlasting,” an unfortunate coincidence that hits hard at Chinese men’s wallets come Valentine’s Day when their ladies hope (or expect) to be gifted with a bouquet of nine hundred and ninety-nine roses. Imagine what would’ve become of the floral industry had the number “0” meant “long lasting” instead.
Numbers can carry a lot of good meaning in Chinese but there are also inauspicious ones. Chinese avoid the number “4” like the plague, for it sounds morbidly similar to “death.” Being a bad Chinese I don’t pay much attention to filter unlucky numbers out of my life. I still remember my mother’s mortification when I moved to New York and told her to call me at my new home line, 646-414-4450. My randomly assigned phone number was the Chinese equivalent of 1-800-DIE-DEAD.
Another bad digit you want to avoid offending your significant other with is “7,” connoted with “anger.” When bound-foot grannies sit down to tell their granddaughters’ fortunes with a stack of cards you can just see their brows furrowing deeper as more seven’s appear. While it’s a lucky number in America, in China the appearance of seven augers “a lifetime of anger and frustration.”
A strange and inexplicably disdained number sequence is “250.” In mainland China, to call someone two-fifty (either as a noun or adjective) is to suggest that they are a blundering moron. I’m not sure how this evolved but it makes daily commerce a tad more difficult as sellers and buyers dance around the number, careful to charge RMB249 or RMB251, but never two hundred and fifty yuan.
These are some of the older, more traditional number superstitions. In popular culture and chat (or text) speak there are plenty of meaningful digits, the equivalent of English acronyms like “LOL” and “BRB.” Take “521” for example, which is read as “wu er yao” but accepted as short hand for “wo ai ni” (“I love you”). Another cutesy phrase is “7758,” which sounds out as “qi qi wu ba” but slurs into “qin qin wo ba” (“kiss me”). If romantic and touchy feely expressions aren’t your thing you can always opt for proposing a “419” to your online chat buddy or pub pick up. That’s “four one nine,” or “for one night” (one night stand) to the young and number savvy!
Showing posts with label Daily Anecdote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daily Anecdote. Show all posts
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Daily Anecdotes: Whatchamacallit
While working at the Canadian school in Beijing many of my fellow teachers would asked me, "Why do the students call us 'teacher' instead of 'Ms. Smith'?" New arrivals to China are often baffled by this method of address. Some wonder if it is akin to calling a school custodian "janitor." Is it impolite to address someone by his occupation?
This is one of those counterintuitive issues that get new arrivals in cultural trouble. Unlike in many western countries it is a sign of respect here in China to call a person by his post in life. In fact, the number of instances when it's acceptable to address another person directly by name, or simply starting a conversation without prefacing with a proper appellation is significantly more limited than in Anglophone societies.
This emphasis on titles of respect is most apparent in the extensive Chinese vocabulary for familial relations. Whereas in America a simple lexicon of "aunt," "uncle," "cousin," "grandparents," and "in-law" will get you through most family gatherings, this limited set of labels in China equips you to speak with the precision of a 3-year-old.
The intricate web of Chinese family titles begins with the paternal and maternal dichotomy. For example, my mother's brother and my father’s brother are both “uncle” in English, but in Chinese they would be "jiu" and "shu," respectively. A relative’s age also determines the appropriate title. Thus, my father's younger brother is "shu" but his older brother is "da ye" to me. Whether one is related by blood or marriage also shapes their appellation. When it comes to aunts my father’s younger brother’s wife is “shen” while his sister is "gu." There are even specific titles for the more tenuous familial relationships, like “lian qiao,” which describes two men married to two sisters. Now, when have you ever called someone a name to such telling detail in English?
Family titles may be complex but at least things are clear. What to call people outside of the family is a trickier question. There seems to be labels to endless specificity for addressing people in every station in life. Using the wrong one can be disrespectful.
The general rule for acquaintances is to address each other by job titles. Hence, even though my mom only taught classes for a few years at the start of her career, legions of people they knew in university still refer to her as "Li lao shi." This naming scheme is also transitive, so students of my mother’s one-time students take to calling her "shi nai" (literally "teacher grandma"), even if they are her age or older. Other common job-based titles include "chu zhang," "ju zhang," (two mid-level bureaucratic ranks) and the pervasive “zong” (meaning “chief,” short for “chief executive officer”). In fact, the latter is a widely abused title as everyone likes to flatter their business associates with the “zong” title regardless of whether they are CEO of anything.
If you think figuring out what to call acquaintances can get you in a pickle things get even fuzzier when it comes to near strangers and service people. Life was easy as a child when I had a simple system of calling everyone that looked younger than my parents “shu shu” and “ayi” (“uncle” and “auntie”); men slightly older than my father were shown due respect with “bai bai”; and people with white hair undoubtedly became “ye ye” and “nai nai” (“grandpa” and “grandma”).
Now that I'm an adult I can no longer resort to these childish titles and have to figure out for myself what the appropriate appellations are in any social situation. Last week, while crossing China westward in a train I mistakenly called a train attendant "fu wu yuan" (“waiter,” the most common way of addressing service people) when the proper name should've been "lie che yuan" (“train car attendant”). On my return flight I tried to avoid repeating my mistake and didn’t dare to ask for water until I could remember the name for “flight attendant” is “cheng wu yuan.”
There’s plenty of room for blunders when you’re unsure of someone’s occupation or age. For example, when asking a stranger for directions it’s always hard to know whether to call him “lao da ye” (someone of your parents’ generation but slight older) or “lao ye ye” (“old grandpa”).
My greatest solace in this maze of respectful labels is in knowing that many Chinese feel just as awkward as I do addressing strangers. So much has changed in China over the last twenty years -- titles have come and gone – frequently leaving people grappling for the right word.
Before the economic open door policy and its moderating effect on communist ideology, Chinese commonly addressed each other by “tong zhi” (“comrade”). Nowadays this title is hopelessly outdated and it has also been re-appropriated as a tongue-in-cheek method of address among gay people.
Immediately after “comrade” went out of fashion, Western sensibilities became a la mode and Chinese began calling each other “Mister” and “Miss” (“xian sheng”, "xiao jie"). Today, it’s still fine to call a man “Mister” but if you call a young lady “Miss” she might slap you in the face for insinuating that she works in the world’s oldest profession.
Eager-to-please merchants and vendors have tried to circumvent potential embarassments by speaking to their customers in a familial tone. Older customers are called “ayi” (“auntie”) or “da jie” (“big sister”), younger ones become “xiao mei” (“little sister”). It’s a delicate balance for salespeople between showing an older woman due respect (“ayi”) and flattering her (“big sister”). Things often take a hilarious turn when I shop with my mother, whom vendors like to call “da jie,” but then they turn to me and address me as “xiao mei.” Mixing of generations (calling my mother and me both “sister”) is a big cultural no-no.
In recent years I’ve noticed a new trend among innovative merchants. “Mei nu” (“pretty girl”) and “shuai ge” (“handsome guy”) have become hugely popular. Even elderly vendors sporting heads full of white hair have adopted this hip vernacular in an attempt to attract customers’ attention. Now there’s something really uncomfortable for me to have a “lao ye ye” call out “hey hottie”! This set of titles, like others, will probably fade from common usage soon enough, leaving us once again with the question of what to call each other!
This is one of those counterintuitive issues that get new arrivals in cultural trouble. Unlike in many western countries it is a sign of respect here in China to call a person by his post in life. In fact, the number of instances when it's acceptable to address another person directly by name, or simply starting a conversation without prefacing with a proper appellation is significantly more limited than in Anglophone societies.
This emphasis on titles of respect is most apparent in the extensive Chinese vocabulary for familial relations. Whereas in America a simple lexicon of "aunt," "uncle," "cousin," "grandparents," and "in-law" will get you through most family gatherings, this limited set of labels in China equips you to speak with the precision of a 3-year-old.
The intricate web of Chinese family titles begins with the paternal and maternal dichotomy. For example, my mother's brother and my father’s brother are both “uncle” in English, but in Chinese they would be "jiu" and "shu," respectively. A relative’s age also determines the appropriate title. Thus, my father's younger brother is "shu" but his older brother is "da ye" to me. Whether one is related by blood or marriage also shapes their appellation. When it comes to aunts my father’s younger brother’s wife is “shen” while his sister is "gu." There are even specific titles for the more tenuous familial relationships, like “lian qiao,” which describes two men married to two sisters. Now, when have you ever called someone a name to such telling detail in English?
Family titles may be complex but at least things are clear. What to call people outside of the family is a trickier question. There seems to be labels to endless specificity for addressing people in every station in life. Using the wrong one can be disrespectful.
The general rule for acquaintances is to address each other by job titles. Hence, even though my mom only taught classes for a few years at the start of her career, legions of people they knew in university still refer to her as "Li lao shi." This naming scheme is also transitive, so students of my mother’s one-time students take to calling her "shi nai" (literally "teacher grandma"), even if they are her age or older. Other common job-based titles include "chu zhang," "ju zhang," (two mid-level bureaucratic ranks) and the pervasive “zong” (meaning “chief,” short for “chief executive officer”). In fact, the latter is a widely abused title as everyone likes to flatter their business associates with the “zong” title regardless of whether they are CEO of anything.
If you think figuring out what to call acquaintances can get you in a pickle things get even fuzzier when it comes to near strangers and service people. Life was easy as a child when I had a simple system of calling everyone that looked younger than my parents “shu shu” and “ayi” (“uncle” and “auntie”); men slightly older than my father were shown due respect with “bai bai”; and people with white hair undoubtedly became “ye ye” and “nai nai” (“grandpa” and “grandma”).
Now that I'm an adult I can no longer resort to these childish titles and have to figure out for myself what the appropriate appellations are in any social situation. Last week, while crossing China westward in a train I mistakenly called a train attendant "fu wu yuan" (“waiter,” the most common way of addressing service people) when the proper name should've been "lie che yuan" (“train car attendant”). On my return flight I tried to avoid repeating my mistake and didn’t dare to ask for water until I could remember the name for “flight attendant” is “cheng wu yuan.”
There’s plenty of room for blunders when you’re unsure of someone’s occupation or age. For example, when asking a stranger for directions it’s always hard to know whether to call him “lao da ye” (someone of your parents’ generation but slight older) or “lao ye ye” (“old grandpa”).
My greatest solace in this maze of respectful labels is in knowing that many Chinese feel just as awkward as I do addressing strangers. So much has changed in China over the last twenty years -- titles have come and gone – frequently leaving people grappling for the right word.
Before the economic open door policy and its moderating effect on communist ideology, Chinese commonly addressed each other by “tong zhi” (“comrade”). Nowadays this title is hopelessly outdated and it has also been re-appropriated as a tongue-in-cheek method of address among gay people.
Immediately after “comrade” went out of fashion, Western sensibilities became a la mode and Chinese began calling each other “Mister” and “Miss” (“xian sheng”, "xiao jie"). Today, it’s still fine to call a man “Mister” but if you call a young lady “Miss” she might slap you in the face for insinuating that she works in the world’s oldest profession.
Eager-to-please merchants and vendors have tried to circumvent potential embarassments by speaking to their customers in a familial tone. Older customers are called “ayi” (“auntie”) or “da jie” (“big sister”), younger ones become “xiao mei” (“little sister”). It’s a delicate balance for salespeople between showing an older woman due respect (“ayi”) and flattering her (“big sister”). Things often take a hilarious turn when I shop with my mother, whom vendors like to call “da jie,” but then they turn to me and address me as “xiao mei.” Mixing of generations (calling my mother and me both “sister”) is a big cultural no-no.
In recent years I’ve noticed a new trend among innovative merchants. “Mei nu” (“pretty girl”) and “shuai ge” (“handsome guy”) have become hugely popular. Even elderly vendors sporting heads full of white hair have adopted this hip vernacular in an attempt to attract customers’ attention. Now there’s something really uncomfortable for me to have a “lao ye ye” call out “hey hottie”! This set of titles, like others, will probably fade from common usage soon enough, leaving us once again with the question of what to call each other!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Birthday Stats
In the half hour before I have to set off on my arduous journey to the railway station I'm glued to my TV watching live broadcasts of the final preparations for the China's 60th birthday celebration. Some interesting statistics I've just heard:
1.7 million -- people participating in the parade
2 -- AM since performers started standing in position at Tiananmen Square
169 -- steps flag bearers will walk on Chang'an Avenue
1'6" -- minutes and seconds it takes for a certain portion of the parade to pass
8 -- the number of teeth each singer in the children's choir is to show in a smile
80,000 -- children bearing colored banners forming patterns you can see from aerial view
1 -- second each banner change is supposed to be done in
I'm sure there'll be more astounding numbers rattled off on TV today. I'll be watching from my train car!
Signing off for a week...tales from the desert to come after!
1.7 million -- people participating in the parade
2 -- AM since performers started standing in position at Tiananmen Square
169 -- steps flag bearers will walk on Chang'an Avenue
1'6" -- minutes and seconds it takes for a certain portion of the parade to pass
8 -- the number of teeth each singer in the children's choir is to show in a smile
80,000 -- children bearing colored banners forming patterns you can see from aerial view
1 -- second each banner change is supposed to be done in
I'm sure there'll be more astounding numbers rattled off on TV today. I'll be watching from my train car!
Signing off for a week...tales from the desert to come after!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Ringing In the 60th
China’s 60th birthday is just two days away. Here in Beijing it feels like the entire city is on spring-cleaning duty. Potted plants in bright greens, reds, and yellows are everywhere – lining sidewalks, stacked onto metal stands to form the shape of pagodas, and arranged according to color to spell out “National Celebration.” Banners bearing upbeat slogans (“Continue striving for ‘xiaokang’ society!“) have been strung over bridges and tunnels. Large structures, be they residential complexes or commercial space, proudly bear China’s “five star red flag.” Everything has to be spic and span when the largest parade in China’s history (1.7 million people are reported to be taking part) rolls onto Chang’an Avenue.
The works don’t end at making the city look its best. Beijing is also making sure everyone is behaving their best. For weeks I puzzled over the groups of middle-aged people sitting on folding stools at street corners. Are they exercise groups? Conversation clubs? Who are these early birds plunking themselves down at busy intersections before the clock even strikes 8 AM?
The mystery was solved on Monday when these rag tag groups showed up uniformly decked out in bright yellow t-shirts painted with the “60” logo. Their red armbands now say “Capital Security Volunteer.” These citizens are “voluntarily” (in truth this is a paid temp job) patrolling street corners to spot suspicious activity that could get in the way of the celebrations. All security personnel in the city – private guards employed by banks, offices, and homes – have also been given this volunteer uniform and instructed to look out for party poopers. In the extensive subway system there’s yet another group of temporary recruits wearing bright blue hats and shirts (emblazoned with “Beijing Volunteer”) and sporting matching fanny packs. Their job is to watch every metro car. With this many people out on surveillance there’s little chance that a group of disgruntled Uighurs or Tibetans or anyone harboring the host of contemporary Chinese discontents can disrupt the festivities.
It wouldn’t be a party if everyone were just being watched. There are fun parts too for the everyman. The government has promoted a whopping sixty patriotic films for release around the October 1 holiday. I’m not talking about black and white propaganda films here. It’s stuff that people actually want to watch! The biggest movie release of the bunch is “The Founding of a Republic”, directed by a group of big ticket filmmakers, including Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige. This two-hour movie is a starfest – I counted over forty famous faces making appearances, most of them in cameo roles. The Brad Pitts and Angelina Jolies of Chinese cinema (including HK) are all involved. It’s like “Ocean’s 11” times twenty. You won’t find artistic collaboration to this extent under any other circumstance.
“Founding” tells the epic story of the Chinese civil war and how Mao Zedong and the Communist Party eventually won. Other patriotic movies promoted for the 60th anniversary are themed around espionage and WWII. These also bear long lists of A-list actors and the trailers have the seductive appeal of last year’s “Lust Caution.”
I watched “Founding,” out of a sense of duty to accompany my mother and also because the trailer was poignantly appealing. I have to say I quite enjoyed it – the cinematography was phenomenal (I doubt any other Chinese film has had so generous a budget), the costumes exquisite, and the representation of modern Chinese history was not as biased as I expected. Even the English subtitles were all written correctly, making the film, in theory, internationally distributable. The only gaffe in the movie was the miscasting of two foreign characters – an African American soldier was played by what I can guess to be a Kenyan and John Stuart Leighton (the famous American ambassador) was played by an Australian. (With so many foreigners living in China I would’ve expected more appropriate foreign casting). Small faux pas aside, if this were a purely commercial film it would rank among the “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” types and garner international awards for its arresting visuals.
The biggest downer to the big ole party is the mobility restrictions it has placed on Beijing residents. On the big day, I’m scheduled to set off for a week-long tour of Inner Mongolia and nearby areas, including a few days of camping in the desert. But, like most other travelers, I’m still confused as to whether I can actually get myself to the train station. The government has severely limited private traffic for security concerns and to ensure the logistics of transporting almost two million people to their performing post goes smoothly.
Beijing’s main subway line, the East-West Line 1, will be suspended from midnight on September 30 to midnight the next day. Chang’an Avenue is closed to traffic for the 24-hour period, as are the 2nd and 3rd Ring roads. There are rumors – but no reliable official word – that parts of the 4th Ring road will also be closed. This essentially means citizens can’t get from point to point within the city starting on the eve of the birthday.
Already my commute tonight became onerous. On the way home from work I saw more police cars and starchy navy uniforms than taxis. Forced to take a bus, I found myself squished against other human sardines in a bus spilling over with riders eager to get home before the virtual lock down begins. Gridlock traffic was worse than usual.
I'm nervously awaiting an official announcement on road conditions, but even if this comes out tomorrow there’s always the possibility of the government making last minute changes to make sure its agenda gets carried out first and foremost. Here’s hoping that I won’t celebrate the 60th anniversary of my country’s founding with a backpack strapped to me, trekking 30km across Beijing to get to the train station on time!
The works don’t end at making the city look its best. Beijing is also making sure everyone is behaving their best. For weeks I puzzled over the groups of middle-aged people sitting on folding stools at street corners. Are they exercise groups? Conversation clubs? Who are these early birds plunking themselves down at busy intersections before the clock even strikes 8 AM?
The mystery was solved on Monday when these rag tag groups showed up uniformly decked out in bright yellow t-shirts painted with the “60” logo. Their red armbands now say “Capital Security Volunteer.” These citizens are “voluntarily” (in truth this is a paid temp job) patrolling street corners to spot suspicious activity that could get in the way of the celebrations. All security personnel in the city – private guards employed by banks, offices, and homes – have also been given this volunteer uniform and instructed to look out for party poopers. In the extensive subway system there’s yet another group of temporary recruits wearing bright blue hats and shirts (emblazoned with “Beijing Volunteer”) and sporting matching fanny packs. Their job is to watch every metro car. With this many people out on surveillance there’s little chance that a group of disgruntled Uighurs or Tibetans or anyone harboring the host of contemporary Chinese discontents can disrupt the festivities.
It wouldn’t be a party if everyone were just being watched. There are fun parts too for the everyman. The government has promoted a whopping sixty patriotic films for release around the October 1 holiday. I’m not talking about black and white propaganda films here. It’s stuff that people actually want to watch! The biggest movie release of the bunch is “The Founding of a Republic”, directed by a group of big ticket filmmakers, including Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige. This two-hour movie is a starfest – I counted over forty famous faces making appearances, most of them in cameo roles. The Brad Pitts and Angelina Jolies of Chinese cinema (including HK) are all involved. It’s like “Ocean’s 11” times twenty. You won’t find artistic collaboration to this extent under any other circumstance.
“Founding” tells the epic story of the Chinese civil war and how Mao Zedong and the Communist Party eventually won. Other patriotic movies promoted for the 60th anniversary are themed around espionage and WWII. These also bear long lists of A-list actors and the trailers have the seductive appeal of last year’s “Lust Caution.”
I watched “Founding,” out of a sense of duty to accompany my mother and also because the trailer was poignantly appealing. I have to say I quite enjoyed it – the cinematography was phenomenal (I doubt any other Chinese film has had so generous a budget), the costumes exquisite, and the representation of modern Chinese history was not as biased as I expected. Even the English subtitles were all written correctly, making the film, in theory, internationally distributable. The only gaffe in the movie was the miscasting of two foreign characters – an African American soldier was played by what I can guess to be a Kenyan and John Stuart Leighton (the famous American ambassador) was played by an Australian. (With so many foreigners living in China I would’ve expected more appropriate foreign casting). Small faux pas aside, if this were a purely commercial film it would rank among the “Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon” types and garner international awards for its arresting visuals.
The biggest downer to the big ole party is the mobility restrictions it has placed on Beijing residents. On the big day, I’m scheduled to set off for a week-long tour of Inner Mongolia and nearby areas, including a few days of camping in the desert. But, like most other travelers, I’m still confused as to whether I can actually get myself to the train station. The government has severely limited private traffic for security concerns and to ensure the logistics of transporting almost two million people to their performing post goes smoothly.
Beijing’s main subway line, the East-West Line 1, will be suspended from midnight on September 30 to midnight the next day. Chang’an Avenue is closed to traffic for the 24-hour period, as are the 2nd and 3rd Ring roads. There are rumors – but no reliable official word – that parts of the 4th Ring road will also be closed. This essentially means citizens can’t get from point to point within the city starting on the eve of the birthday.
Already my commute tonight became onerous. On the way home from work I saw more police cars and starchy navy uniforms than taxis. Forced to take a bus, I found myself squished against other human sardines in a bus spilling over with riders eager to get home before the virtual lock down begins. Gridlock traffic was worse than usual.
I'm nervously awaiting an official announcement on road conditions, but even if this comes out tomorrow there’s always the possibility of the government making last minute changes to make sure its agenda gets carried out first and foremost. Here’s hoping that I won’t celebrate the 60th anniversary of my country’s founding with a backpack strapped to me, trekking 30km across Beijing to get to the train station on time!
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Mom and Pop Recycling
I’m on a budding green streak so I did a little poking and digging into recycling in China. I was always under the impression that Chinese people don’t care about recycling; we’re too busy making our newfound wealth to bother with separating the trash or participating in green fundraisers. Apparently I’m wrong. Recycling in China is a big deal, it just happens in a different way than I’m used to.
My perception that Chinese “don’t care” comes from the fact that I’m accustomed to seeing recycling born out of a moral decision. People living in developed countries choose to rinse out their milk bottles and sort their garbage because they are environmentally conscious. Although this level of green morality is not yet be widespread in China, recycling happens here -- and extensively so -- as a result of a million small economic decisions. People recycle in developing countries because they can make a living doing it.
The truth is in the numbers. China is one of the world leaders in recycling waste paper, which makes up some 60% of the fiber used to manufacture paper products here. I suspect there are similarly surprising statistics in plastics and glass.
Indeed, everywhere I look I see mom and pop recyclers busily going about their work. On most street corners there are old ladies fishing treasures out of the city garbage cans with tongs. The more vigilant ones follow me around if they see me carrying a half empty bottle of beverage, waiting to snatch it up the minute I dispose of it. I’ve even had people come up to me to ask, “Are you going to finish that?” (This usually leads to my gulping the drink down to save them the trouble of sifting through the bin). Tricycles regularly go through residential neighborhoods, their riders beating drums, singing in loud voices for people to sell their household waste.
Once the reusables are gathered, they are collected via an extensive network of centers. Tricycles zip by every road with their “trunks” piled high with aluminum cans, plastic bottles, or corrugated board. They’re en route to the recycling centers, which seem to have multiplied over the years when I wasn’t watching. If you go by a nondescript warehouse at the right hour you’ll see tricycles lining up to deposit their finds in exchange for cash. The dinky rooms hold monstrously large mountains of recyclable goods.
Whether economic or moral, environmentally-friendly decisions are made on a daily basis here. The government is doing its part to bridge the gap between moral and cash-incentivized green behavior. I’ve already mentioned the “no free plastic bags” policy now in place in China. Public awareness campaigns are also on the rise. On subway cars, an animated frog named Leon lights up the screens and to entertain commuters with cartoon clips about the merits of recycling. On buses, valuable advertising space is taken up with little diagrams about how many trees or barrels of oil can be saved from recycling. I hope that as China makes the transition from developing to developed country our green behavior will evolve seamlessly from cash-based decisions to morality-driven ones.
My perception that Chinese “don’t care” comes from the fact that I’m accustomed to seeing recycling born out of a moral decision. People living in developed countries choose to rinse out their milk bottles and sort their garbage because they are environmentally conscious. Although this level of green morality is not yet be widespread in China, recycling happens here -- and extensively so -- as a result of a million small economic decisions. People recycle in developing countries because they can make a living doing it.
The truth is in the numbers. China is one of the world leaders in recycling waste paper, which makes up some 60% of the fiber used to manufacture paper products here. I suspect there are similarly surprising statistics in plastics and glass.
Indeed, everywhere I look I see mom and pop recyclers busily going about their work. On most street corners there are old ladies fishing treasures out of the city garbage cans with tongs. The more vigilant ones follow me around if they see me carrying a half empty bottle of beverage, waiting to snatch it up the minute I dispose of it. I’ve even had people come up to me to ask, “Are you going to finish that?” (This usually leads to my gulping the drink down to save them the trouble of sifting through the bin). Tricycles regularly go through residential neighborhoods, their riders beating drums, singing in loud voices for people to sell their household waste.
Once the reusables are gathered, they are collected via an extensive network of centers. Tricycles zip by every road with their “trunks” piled high with aluminum cans, plastic bottles, or corrugated board. They’re en route to the recycling centers, which seem to have multiplied over the years when I wasn’t watching. If you go by a nondescript warehouse at the right hour you’ll see tricycles lining up to deposit their finds in exchange for cash. The dinky rooms hold monstrously large mountains of recyclable goods.
Whether economic or moral, environmentally-friendly decisions are made on a daily basis here. The government is doing its part to bridge the gap between moral and cash-incentivized green behavior. I’ve already mentioned the “no free plastic bags” policy now in place in China. Public awareness campaigns are also on the rise. On subway cars, an animated frog named Leon lights up the screens and to entertain commuters with cartoon clips about the merits of recycling. On buses, valuable advertising space is taken up with little diagrams about how many trees or barrels of oil can be saved from recycling. I hope that as China makes the transition from developing to developed country our green behavior will evolve seamlessly from cash-based decisions to morality-driven ones.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Bargaining 101
Inflation and currency appreciation have killed my game. I used to come to China for annual wardrobe updates on the cheap. Now China is so expensive that I’m resorting to the markets for a good deal. (The department stores long ago exceeded my willingness to pay for domestic brands and Shenzhen factory quality). Although I didn’t find what I needed (a fake North Face bag to replace my broken real one) at the right price at Silk Street market, the trip did refresh my memory of just how varied bargaining styles are. Here’s a modest catalogue of bargaining strategies for novices…
The Aggro
Shopkeepers like to wear you down with loud and persistent haggling. After a while I usually figure that my eardrums are worth more than the measly dollars I’m trying to bargain down, so I pay up. But the Aggro bargainer never caves in. He counters the seller’s strategy by being even more unbearable himself. My cousin Evan is an expert Aggro. He’ll plants himself firmly in a stall and shout ludicrous things until the vendor gives him the discount, just to get him out of there. A typical Evan line, “What? 30RMB? For 30 RMB I’ll make one and sell it back to you! 5RMB, that’s all I’m going to pay!”
The Poor Card
The polar opposite to the Aggro, the Poor Card approach is an exercise in solemnity and silence. The buyer remains uncomfortably stoic while the vendor chatters away. He doesn’t engage in the two-way negotiation, he just reiterates a desired price when the seller takes a breather from talking. A classic line is, “But this is all the money I have,” said over and over again. There’s also a Poor Card expert in my family -- my mom. Her skillful silence got me a fancy set of bedding (pillow cases, cushions, sheets, the whole shebang) for 300 when the seller asked for 900.
“This Sucks”
This strategy works for people who can bring themselves to shamelessly nitpick. The buyers see something they like, try it on, decide it is a good thing, and then proceeds to disparage it. Disdainful body language is a helpful complement -- holding up the item with two fingers, shaking it, screwing up your face to say, “Look at this shoddy stitching” all work. Disdain quickly turns to glee when the seller gives up and hands you that piece of clothing you really didn’t want just half a minute ago.
The Cutesies
This occasionally works for pretty, young girls. You’d have to try the clothes on, look dazzlingly good, prance about the stall attracting other shoppers’ attention, and sweetly ask “Ayi” (auntie) or “Jie” (older sister) to please give you a discount. Shopkeepers are pretty immune to buyers’ tricks, but once in a while they soften to a pleading girl.
The Non-bargaining Bargain
This works surprisingly well for foreigners. Often you see big white men shrugging their shoulders with an “I don’t know what I’m doing” expression, smiling guiltily, tentatively saying “No, no, I can’t pay that much.” These buyers don’t know the rules, don’t know how much things should be, don’t know how to set their price…and it works! They’re blissfully and ignorantly playing the “how low will you go” patience game.
For every buyer bargaining style in the book there’s probably a dozen matching sells. Let’s take a look at how the merchants hold up their end of the bargain.
The Linguists
Walk down any crowded alley way at Silk Street and you’ll see foreign buyers delighted with the shopkeepers’ linguistic dexterity. These guys work hard for their money, learning how to say, “Your wife is beautiful!” and “You’re killing me with your prices” in English, French, German, Spanish, Japanese, Russian, just to name a few. The sight of so many vendors speaking so many languages to lure buyers may be the number one draw at the markets.
The Soft Sell
I learned about this first hand when Geoff and I were separated for a few brief minutes at Silk Street. When I found him again he had three salesgirls on his arms, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his biceps, pulling him into their stall. They don’t do this to couples but any time an unsupervised male shows up the shopkeepers pounce and show them what it means to “sa jiao.” (If you don’t know what this is, ask a friend who has dated a Chinese girl, or wait for a future posting!)
The Flatterers
White lies, even blatant lies, are rampant as sellers stroke buyers’ egos. “This dress could only work on a figure like yours! Bigger girls come by and I don’t even let them try it, I know it won’t fit.” If a piece is too big on you the vendors says, “It’s perfectly breezy for the summer.” If it’s too tight, “You don’t want to wear things loose and dowdy!” If you’re wondering about how a linen skirt will fare when the weather cools, vendors reply, “This is heavy linen, it’ll work well into the fall.” If it’s wool you’re fingering in the summer, they say, “This is good material, it’s seasonless.”
The Poor Card
Just as buyers cry poor, so do sellers. Shopkeepers love to mutter, “I tell you, I’m not making any money on this, I’m giving it to you at cost (or at a loss)!” as they start to wrap up your purchase. Right after a smile appears as he bids you adieu, and you know you might’ve asked for an even lower price.
“This Quality!”
Even though 99.9% of the goods in the big markets are made in shady factories somewhere down south (Dongguan?), that doesn’t stop the sellers from asking a high price for superior quality. Over the years I’ve heard, “This is imported.” “This is export quality.” “This is a famous Italian brand, Goocci.” “That’s a Nordic model, that’s why the sizes run big.” “This (fake) is better than the real thing.”
This last pitch threw me into some trouble at Silk Street this time. I found some North Face copies but balked when the sellers demanded RMB380 (~$55). I blurted, not as a bargaining tactic but out of pure surprise, “But a real North Face costs only $30 on sale at a US outlet.” This really didn’t sit well with the shopkeeper who insisted that his bags were made at the same factory as the real ones, with better materials.
After huffing and puffing at me for a while, the vendor resorted to the last bargaining ploy, The Dismissal. He waved me away with one hand, saying, “If you don’t have money to buy good quality why don’t you just go buy the real one.” This must be one for the ages, a fake goods peddler telling me that the real goods are cheaper!
The Aggro
Shopkeepers like to wear you down with loud and persistent haggling. After a while I usually figure that my eardrums are worth more than the measly dollars I’m trying to bargain down, so I pay up. But the Aggro bargainer never caves in. He counters the seller’s strategy by being even more unbearable himself. My cousin Evan is an expert Aggro. He’ll plants himself firmly in a stall and shout ludicrous things until the vendor gives him the discount, just to get him out of there. A typical Evan line, “What? 30RMB? For 30 RMB I’ll make one and sell it back to you! 5RMB, that’s all I’m going to pay!”
The Poor Card
The polar opposite to the Aggro, the Poor Card approach is an exercise in solemnity and silence. The buyer remains uncomfortably stoic while the vendor chatters away. He doesn’t engage in the two-way negotiation, he just reiterates a desired price when the seller takes a breather from talking. A classic line is, “But this is all the money I have,” said over and over again. There’s also a Poor Card expert in my family -- my mom. Her skillful silence got me a fancy set of bedding (pillow cases, cushions, sheets, the whole shebang) for 300 when the seller asked for 900.
“This Sucks”
This strategy works for people who can bring themselves to shamelessly nitpick. The buyers see something they like, try it on, decide it is a good thing, and then proceeds to disparage it. Disdainful body language is a helpful complement -- holding up the item with two fingers, shaking it, screwing up your face to say, “Look at this shoddy stitching” all work. Disdain quickly turns to glee when the seller gives up and hands you that piece of clothing you really didn’t want just half a minute ago.
The Cutesies
This occasionally works for pretty, young girls. You’d have to try the clothes on, look dazzlingly good, prance about the stall attracting other shoppers’ attention, and sweetly ask “Ayi” (auntie) or “Jie” (older sister) to please give you a discount. Shopkeepers are pretty immune to buyers’ tricks, but once in a while they soften to a pleading girl.
The Non-bargaining Bargain
This works surprisingly well for foreigners. Often you see big white men shrugging their shoulders with an “I don’t know what I’m doing” expression, smiling guiltily, tentatively saying “No, no, I can’t pay that much.” These buyers don’t know the rules, don’t know how much things should be, don’t know how to set their price…and it works! They’re blissfully and ignorantly playing the “how low will you go” patience game.
For every buyer bargaining style in the book there’s probably a dozen matching sells. Let’s take a look at how the merchants hold up their end of the bargain.
The Linguists
Walk down any crowded alley way at Silk Street and you’ll see foreign buyers delighted with the shopkeepers’ linguistic dexterity. These guys work hard for their money, learning how to say, “Your wife is beautiful!” and “You’re killing me with your prices” in English, French, German, Spanish, Japanese, Russian, just to name a few. The sight of so many vendors speaking so many languages to lure buyers may be the number one draw at the markets.
The Soft Sell
I learned about this first hand when Geoff and I were separated for a few brief minutes at Silk Street. When I found him again he had three salesgirls on his arms, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his biceps, pulling him into their stall. They don’t do this to couples but any time an unsupervised male shows up the shopkeepers pounce and show them what it means to “sa jiao.” (If you don’t know what this is, ask a friend who has dated a Chinese girl, or wait for a future posting!)
The Flatterers
White lies, even blatant lies, are rampant as sellers stroke buyers’ egos. “This dress could only work on a figure like yours! Bigger girls come by and I don’t even let them try it, I know it won’t fit.” If a piece is too big on you the vendors says, “It’s perfectly breezy for the summer.” If it’s too tight, “You don’t want to wear things loose and dowdy!” If you’re wondering about how a linen skirt will fare when the weather cools, vendors reply, “This is heavy linen, it’ll work well into the fall.” If it’s wool you’re fingering in the summer, they say, “This is good material, it’s seasonless.”
The Poor Card
Just as buyers cry poor, so do sellers. Shopkeepers love to mutter, “I tell you, I’m not making any money on this, I’m giving it to you at cost (or at a loss)!” as they start to wrap up your purchase. Right after a smile appears as he bids you adieu, and you know you might’ve asked for an even lower price.
“This Quality!”
Even though 99.9% of the goods in the big markets are made in shady factories somewhere down south (Dongguan?), that doesn’t stop the sellers from asking a high price for superior quality. Over the years I’ve heard, “This is imported.” “This is export quality.” “This is a famous Italian brand, Goocci.” “That’s a Nordic model, that’s why the sizes run big.” “This (fake) is better than the real thing.”
This last pitch threw me into some trouble at Silk Street this time. I found some North Face copies but balked when the sellers demanded RMB380 (~$55). I blurted, not as a bargaining tactic but out of pure surprise, “But a real North Face costs only $30 on sale at a US outlet.” This really didn’t sit well with the shopkeeper who insisted that his bags were made at the same factory as the real ones, with better materials.
After huffing and puffing at me for a while, the vendor resorted to the last bargaining ploy, The Dismissal. He waved me away with one hand, saying, “If you don’t have money to buy good quality why don’t you just go buy the real one.” This must be one for the ages, a fake goods peddler telling me that the real goods are cheaper!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Daily Anecdote: The Gays, the Comrades
I got to know a little about the gay community in China during my second year at university. One of my best friends from school was an openly gay Chinese man. When I came to Beijing for a summer internship I spent much of my free time hanging out with his large group of successful, confident, irreverent, and gay friends.
Prior to that summer, I hadn’t given serious thought to homosexuality in China. I was raised like most Chinese, happily oblivious to issues surrounding cultural stigmas. Gayness, like incest or serial murder, were things that we assumed only afflicted post-industrial societies, where people developed strange conditions from having too much free time on their hands.
During that summer, almost ten years ago, my first lesson on the gay scene was gay vernacular. Just as homosexuals in the west re-appropriated derogatory terms like “queer” as their own, Chinese gays also developed a tongue-in-cheek lingo. They took to calling themselves “tong zhi” (literally “comrade”). You could be a “nan tong zhi” (gay man) or “nu tong zhi” (lesbian woman), or alternatively, a “lala” (lesbian). You could also label yourself “zhi de” (straight) or “wan de” (“crooked”). I laughed at the secretive glee the gay pioneers must’ve felt when they addressed each other by the very terms of endearment used by a regime that, until 1997, deemed sodomy illegal, and until 2001, registered homosexuality as a mental illness. I, too, felt an illicit joy at being included in this largely underground community of rebels.
Nearly a decade later I’m finding a much more “out” scene in China. In the time I spent away, busily toiling as a corporate slave, China’s 30 million homosexuals have made quiet progress. I was surprised to find that I can pick up a copy of TimeOut and read about gay nightlife in Beijing. I can also now Google search China’s first ever Gay Pride Parade (in Shanghai this June) without running into a firewall. Gay activists and organizers can speak about their ambitions to set up Beijing’s first Pride Parade next year in interviews. I can even watch subtly “gay” programming on cable TV.
It is this last point that shocks me the most. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have imagined China’s tightly controlled broadcast media being remotely gay-friendly. But here I was on a Sunday afternoon watching a TV show with strong homosexual undertones.
I was attempting to bond with my broody teenage cousin who has just moved to Beijing for university, so I subjected myself to the torture of watching a celebrity variety show. Hunan Satellite, one of the more popular entertainment channels, was doing a show featuring Coco Lee, an over-the-hill Chinese American R&B singer. There were the usual vapid segments -- Coco’s life secrets, her beauty tricks and favorite foods. Then came the fan segment of the show. The producers had combed the country to find the most fanatical devotees who could sing like Coco, dress like Coco, do Coco’s signature “motor butt” hip-gyrating dance.
It was mind numbing…until the featured fans came on stage. I sat up in alert fascination – they were all men! There was a make-up artist who demonstrated how he transforms his masculine face into an uncanny resemblance to Coco (supposedly even her mom couldn’t tell the difference when shown a photo of the fake Coco). There was a young man who proudly performed the “motor butt” dance. There was even a boy who sang with Coco’s signature voice (think Mariah Carey, but in Chinese). Every minute I was expecting the central censors to cut off the programming. But it didn’t happen. The studio audience kept watching and laughing. I kept wondering how the conservative viewers at home were reacting to this overt display of male femininity.
An hour of TV convinced me that China’s mainstream view towards “comraderie” has indeed changed. We’re not quite at the point of aspirational equality yet, but people have changed enough to tolerate public representations of alternative lifestyles. Later, I learned that the unspoken official stance on homosexuality is the “Triple No” policy – no approval, no disapproval, no promotion. This leaves enough grey area for gay activists to set up support networks, but also murkiness for the government to crack down any time it feels uneasy about gay activities. It seems that with all citizen groups in China the government is happy to keep one eye shut as long as the organizations don’t get too political.
It’s still a long way to social acceptance of homosexuality from here, but at least for now China’s “comrades” and “lala’s” can party it up like never before.
Prior to that summer, I hadn’t given serious thought to homosexuality in China. I was raised like most Chinese, happily oblivious to issues surrounding cultural stigmas. Gayness, like incest or serial murder, were things that we assumed only afflicted post-industrial societies, where people developed strange conditions from having too much free time on their hands.
During that summer, almost ten years ago, my first lesson on the gay scene was gay vernacular. Just as homosexuals in the west re-appropriated derogatory terms like “queer” as their own, Chinese gays also developed a tongue-in-cheek lingo. They took to calling themselves “tong zhi” (literally “comrade”). You could be a “nan tong zhi” (gay man) or “nu tong zhi” (lesbian woman), or alternatively, a “lala” (lesbian). You could also label yourself “zhi de” (straight) or “wan de” (“crooked”). I laughed at the secretive glee the gay pioneers must’ve felt when they addressed each other by the very terms of endearment used by a regime that, until 1997, deemed sodomy illegal, and until 2001, registered homosexuality as a mental illness. I, too, felt an illicit joy at being included in this largely underground community of rebels.
Nearly a decade later I’m finding a much more “out” scene in China. In the time I spent away, busily toiling as a corporate slave, China’s 30 million homosexuals have made quiet progress. I was surprised to find that I can pick up a copy of TimeOut and read about gay nightlife in Beijing. I can also now Google search China’s first ever Gay Pride Parade (in Shanghai this June) without running into a firewall. Gay activists and organizers can speak about their ambitions to set up Beijing’s first Pride Parade next year in interviews. I can even watch subtly “gay” programming on cable TV.
It is this last point that shocks me the most. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have imagined China’s tightly controlled broadcast media being remotely gay-friendly. But here I was on a Sunday afternoon watching a TV show with strong homosexual undertones.
I was attempting to bond with my broody teenage cousin who has just moved to Beijing for university, so I subjected myself to the torture of watching a celebrity variety show. Hunan Satellite, one of the more popular entertainment channels, was doing a show featuring Coco Lee, an over-the-hill Chinese American R&B singer. There were the usual vapid segments -- Coco’s life secrets, her beauty tricks and favorite foods. Then came the fan segment of the show. The producers had combed the country to find the most fanatical devotees who could sing like Coco, dress like Coco, do Coco’s signature “motor butt” hip-gyrating dance.
It was mind numbing…until the featured fans came on stage. I sat up in alert fascination – they were all men! There was a make-up artist who demonstrated how he transforms his masculine face into an uncanny resemblance to Coco (supposedly even her mom couldn’t tell the difference when shown a photo of the fake Coco). There was a young man who proudly performed the “motor butt” dance. There was even a boy who sang with Coco’s signature voice (think Mariah Carey, but in Chinese). Every minute I was expecting the central censors to cut off the programming. But it didn’t happen. The studio audience kept watching and laughing. I kept wondering how the conservative viewers at home were reacting to this overt display of male femininity.
An hour of TV convinced me that China’s mainstream view towards “comraderie” has indeed changed. We’re not quite at the point of aspirational equality yet, but people have changed enough to tolerate public representations of alternative lifestyles. Later, I learned that the unspoken official stance on homosexuality is the “Triple No” policy – no approval, no disapproval, no promotion. This leaves enough grey area for gay activists to set up support networks, but also murkiness for the government to crack down any time it feels uneasy about gay activities. It seems that with all citizen groups in China the government is happy to keep one eye shut as long as the organizations don’t get too political.
It’s still a long way to social acceptance of homosexuality from here, but at least for now China’s “comrades” and “lala’s” can party it up like never before.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Daily Anecdote: The Elusive Fold
Anyone who is Asian, whether here in China, or in Korea and Japan, or an Asian American or Eurasian living overseas, knows the difference between a monolid and a double lid. If you didn’t grow up in a culture that prizes the elusive eye folds, here is the 101: a double eyelid is a fold of skin that creases over your eye, giving it some depth (and a natural place to put eye shadow). Many Asians aren’t blessed with this piece of non-functional anatomy and have developed “lid obsessed” cultures (and industries) to compensate.
When I was just five years old, aunties and female neighbors were already discussing the condition of my eyelids and what implications they had on my marital prospects. I had monolids when I was little, but they grew into an imbalanced pair in grade school (one mono- and one double lid). In my teenage years my eyelids morphed into a steady state, which my husband now calls the “thousand folds.” Instead of mono- or double lids, I have countless tiny creases on my eyes. It’s a bit of an anomaly, but not too displeasing to the male sex as to cause my female relations further concern.
In earlier days, the only thing people could do about their eyelids was talk. Catchy phrases and rhymes sprang forth from women’s laments and self consolations on the subject of monolids, also connoted with small eyes (another biological “flaw” common to Asians). A popular one is, “Small eyes focus light better. Big eyes disperse light.” As if optics were the primary concern here! Another one that caught on with urbanization and increasing household wealth is, “Small eyes are city chic. Big eyes are for the farms.” Depending on the eyelids of the person you ask, everyone in China seems to have their favorite lid motto.
Over time there came to be things that people could do to change the look of their lids. Cosmetics came into the picture first. I cringe now as I tell the story about my battle with lid-enhancing makeup. Years ago I walked into my senior yearbook photo session with light makeup on my face that I had applied myself. The photographer took one unimpressed look, uttered a “tsk tsk”, and ordered his makeup artist to do some “work” on my eyelids. After an uncomfortable twenty minutes in the chair I turned to see a raccoon staring back at me from the mirror. The “work” done on me was precisely the kind I always avoided – heavy-handed application of brown eye shadow to create depth where little existed and fool viewers into thinking a bigger crease has miraculously grown. I protested but the photo session was already behind schedule and I was forced to smile with raccoon eyes. That year I didn’t ask anyone to sign my yearbook page.
Makeup was but the first step towards eyelid modification. Soon, plastic surgeons had developed techniques for sewing two parts of an eyelid together into an artificial fold. This quickly became the most popular knife procedure for Chinese women. In the beginning, the handiwork wasn’t so great, leaving millions of women marching around town with protruding eyelids. To this day I see women looking unnaturally awake and alert. Knife styles have since improved, but there’s no cure for the perma-puff-lid the surgery pioneers are still sporting.
Nowadays women are more selective about jumping on the next irreversible surgery bandwagon. More sophisticated cosmetic products – not the raccoon brown eye shadow -- are a common alternative. As I flipped through a glossy magazine recently, I noted with fascination all the lid enhancing options. There is lid tape, a double-sided adhesive wearers can cut into slim strips and stick onto the eye where a crease should be. This keeps the top part of the lid stuck to the bottom part, creating a double lid…in theory. Often I see oblivious girls, after a night of partying or a particularly sweaty afternoon, with a piece of dangling tape hanging off their fake creases.
There is also lid glue. It’s probably the same stuff as you use to glue on false eyelashes, except it comes with a nifty little spatula. This tool is curved and fits the shape of a convex eye. You push it against your monolid, making a dent where a crease would be had you been so endowed, and insert a trail of glue. This seems to work better than tape and keeps the lids stuck for longer.
Who knows what the beauticians of our lid-obsessed culture will come up with next! I’m happy to report that I’ve never used a cosmetic eyelid enhancer (except under coercion a la the yearbook incident) and have managed to marry myself off. Maybe it’s because I found a foreigner who doesn’t know just what he’s missing with the double lids!
When I was just five years old, aunties and female neighbors were already discussing the condition of my eyelids and what implications they had on my marital prospects. I had monolids when I was little, but they grew into an imbalanced pair in grade school (one mono- and one double lid). In my teenage years my eyelids morphed into a steady state, which my husband now calls the “thousand folds.” Instead of mono- or double lids, I have countless tiny creases on my eyes. It’s a bit of an anomaly, but not too displeasing to the male sex as to cause my female relations further concern.
In earlier days, the only thing people could do about their eyelids was talk. Catchy phrases and rhymes sprang forth from women’s laments and self consolations on the subject of monolids, also connoted with small eyes (another biological “flaw” common to Asians). A popular one is, “Small eyes focus light better. Big eyes disperse light.” As if optics were the primary concern here! Another one that caught on with urbanization and increasing household wealth is, “Small eyes are city chic. Big eyes are for the farms.” Depending on the eyelids of the person you ask, everyone in China seems to have their favorite lid motto.
Over time there came to be things that people could do to change the look of their lids. Cosmetics came into the picture first. I cringe now as I tell the story about my battle with lid-enhancing makeup. Years ago I walked into my senior yearbook photo session with light makeup on my face that I had applied myself. The photographer took one unimpressed look, uttered a “tsk tsk”, and ordered his makeup artist to do some “work” on my eyelids. After an uncomfortable twenty minutes in the chair I turned to see a raccoon staring back at me from the mirror. The “work” done on me was precisely the kind I always avoided – heavy-handed application of brown eye shadow to create depth where little existed and fool viewers into thinking a bigger crease has miraculously grown. I protested but the photo session was already behind schedule and I was forced to smile with raccoon eyes. That year I didn’t ask anyone to sign my yearbook page.
Makeup was but the first step towards eyelid modification. Soon, plastic surgeons had developed techniques for sewing two parts of an eyelid together into an artificial fold. This quickly became the most popular knife procedure for Chinese women. In the beginning, the handiwork wasn’t so great, leaving millions of women marching around town with protruding eyelids. To this day I see women looking unnaturally awake and alert. Knife styles have since improved, but there’s no cure for the perma-puff-lid the surgery pioneers are still sporting.
Nowadays women are more selective about jumping on the next irreversible surgery bandwagon. More sophisticated cosmetic products – not the raccoon brown eye shadow -- are a common alternative. As I flipped through a glossy magazine recently, I noted with fascination all the lid enhancing options. There is lid tape, a double-sided adhesive wearers can cut into slim strips and stick onto the eye where a crease should be. This keeps the top part of the lid stuck to the bottom part, creating a double lid…in theory. Often I see oblivious girls, after a night of partying or a particularly sweaty afternoon, with a piece of dangling tape hanging off their fake creases.
There is also lid glue. It’s probably the same stuff as you use to glue on false eyelashes, except it comes with a nifty little spatula. This tool is curved and fits the shape of a convex eye. You push it against your monolid, making a dent where a crease would be had you been so endowed, and insert a trail of glue. This seems to work better than tape and keeps the lids stuck for longer.
Who knows what the beauticians of our lid-obsessed culture will come up with next! I’m happy to report that I’ve never used a cosmetic eyelid enhancer (except under coercion a la the yearbook incident) and have managed to marry myself off. Maybe it’s because I found a foreigner who doesn’t know just what he’s missing with the double lids!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Big Ole Party
On October 1, China will celebrate its 60th birthday. That’s counting from 1949 when Mao Zedong announced the founding of the People’s Republic of China atop Tiananmen to an audience of 500,000 in the Square down below. Unless you’re deaf, mute, and blind, there’s no way you can be in Beijing and not have an idea of just how big this birthday bash is going to be.
Starting from September 12, stretches of Chang’an Street – the widest, longest, and most important of Beijing’s grand avenues that runs from East to West (through Tiananmen in the middle) – will be closed so the party organizers will have a chance to run rehearsals and set up for the big show. This also means that the Palace Museum, Tiananmen’s viewing levels, and a host of other central attractions in Beijing will stop receiving visitors. In terms of impact to tourism, this is equivalent to Paris shutting down the Louvre for more than two weeks or New York halting ferry service to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
Hey, if the government is taking such great pains to prepare for the big event it should be one hell of a spectacle, right? Yes, you can bet your Mao suit that it will be and you can see all of it…on your TV. Unlike Fourth of July parades and other national day festivities, Beijing’s bash is closed to the public. There’ll be a lot of people there (I would guess at least a thousand invitees), but all of them will be Very Very Very Important Persons (VVVIP) and people with to-die-for “guanxi” (connections). The average citizen won’t be able to get within miles of Tiananmen Square leading up to and on the big day itself. The Grand Hyatt and other hotels in the epicenter of action have been wholly booked out by the government. Hotels within viewing periphery are also out of the question – when a journalist called up to ask about the possibility of a room with a view he was met with an embarrassed laugh.
It’s not just the touristy areas that will be affected. Everyday life is also ramping up and changing shape as we head into national day. The judicial centers that receive millions of petitioners – most of them desperately poor and having travelled great distances across the country to bring their grievances to the capital – have closed. Without a place to go and having some idea of how to get their sad stories heard, the petitioners have taken to milling about in front of the China Central Television (CCTV) headquarters. The evening news and important daytime radio programs are already starting to recite the litany of key messages that will be harped on during the national day address. Last night I heard an unequivocal radio report on an exhibit of the recent ethnic violence in Xinjiang. On smaller issues, even before rehearsals start, congestion is increasingly common as roads are cleared for scores of official vehicles to pass through. Last week, I sat at an intersection 500 meters away from my apartment for twenty minutes watching with dull boredom as fifty or so squeaky new (and empty) buses whizzed by with uniform speed and flashing lights. I can only guess that these are the cars that will transport performers or VIPs (for the VVVIPs will surely have classier rides). Word on the street is that President Hu Jintao will arrive at the jubilee in a 17-foot stretch limo. Bling bling, that’s how the socialists roll these days.
No question about it, it’s going to be one fantastic shindig, communist style. Tens of thousands of performers will showcase their skills for precisely choreographed dance and musical praise of our great nation. An equally impressive number of army, air force, and navy men will also undoubtedly be strutting their stuff in awesome military parades. And if I remember correctly from my days as a Young Pioneer (I still have my red neckerchief) and as class monitor at Shuangyushu Elementary, there’ll be a bigger array of brightly colored flora arranged in appropriate motifs or spelling out sprightly messages (“Ecstatically Celebrate the Motherland!” perhaps) than any world class botanical garden has ever seen. Elsewhere, in Shanghai and Guangzhou I presume, there will be public celebrating, parties and events at entertainment establishments. But here in Beijing, the partying is for the Party members, everyone else is encouraged to be home. And that’s where I’ll be, at home, on my couch, tuning into a historical show.
Starting from September 12, stretches of Chang’an Street – the widest, longest, and most important of Beijing’s grand avenues that runs from East to West (through Tiananmen in the middle) – will be closed so the party organizers will have a chance to run rehearsals and set up for the big show. This also means that the Palace Museum, Tiananmen’s viewing levels, and a host of other central attractions in Beijing will stop receiving visitors. In terms of impact to tourism, this is equivalent to Paris shutting down the Louvre for more than two weeks or New York halting ferry service to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.
Hey, if the government is taking such great pains to prepare for the big event it should be one hell of a spectacle, right? Yes, you can bet your Mao suit that it will be and you can see all of it…on your TV. Unlike Fourth of July parades and other national day festivities, Beijing’s bash is closed to the public. There’ll be a lot of people there (I would guess at least a thousand invitees), but all of them will be Very Very Very Important Persons (VVVIP) and people with to-die-for “guanxi” (connections). The average citizen won’t be able to get within miles of Tiananmen Square leading up to and on the big day itself. The Grand Hyatt and other hotels in the epicenter of action have been wholly booked out by the government. Hotels within viewing periphery are also out of the question – when a journalist called up to ask about the possibility of a room with a view he was met with an embarrassed laugh.
It’s not just the touristy areas that will be affected. Everyday life is also ramping up and changing shape as we head into national day. The judicial centers that receive millions of petitioners – most of them desperately poor and having travelled great distances across the country to bring their grievances to the capital – have closed. Without a place to go and having some idea of how to get their sad stories heard, the petitioners have taken to milling about in front of the China Central Television (CCTV) headquarters. The evening news and important daytime radio programs are already starting to recite the litany of key messages that will be harped on during the national day address. Last night I heard an unequivocal radio report on an exhibit of the recent ethnic violence in Xinjiang. On smaller issues, even before rehearsals start, congestion is increasingly common as roads are cleared for scores of official vehicles to pass through. Last week, I sat at an intersection 500 meters away from my apartment for twenty minutes watching with dull boredom as fifty or so squeaky new (and empty) buses whizzed by with uniform speed and flashing lights. I can only guess that these are the cars that will transport performers or VIPs (for the VVVIPs will surely have classier rides). Word on the street is that President Hu Jintao will arrive at the jubilee in a 17-foot stretch limo. Bling bling, that’s how the socialists roll these days.
No question about it, it’s going to be one fantastic shindig, communist style. Tens of thousands of performers will showcase their skills for precisely choreographed dance and musical praise of our great nation. An equally impressive number of army, air force, and navy men will also undoubtedly be strutting their stuff in awesome military parades. And if I remember correctly from my days as a Young Pioneer (I still have my red neckerchief) and as class monitor at Shuangyushu Elementary, there’ll be a bigger array of brightly colored flora arranged in appropriate motifs or spelling out sprightly messages (“Ecstatically Celebrate the Motherland!” perhaps) than any world class botanical garden has ever seen. Elsewhere, in Shanghai and Guangzhou I presume, there will be public celebrating, parties and events at entertainment establishments. But here in Beijing, the partying is for the Party members, everyone else is encouraged to be home. And that’s where I’ll be, at home, on my couch, tuning into a historical show.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Daily Anecdotes: "Oh, Robert!"
I started the Daily Anecdote series to give everyone a glimpse of the joys, hilarities, and mysteries of everyday life in China. I also want to share a bit about what Chinese people think life outside of China is like.
I was reminded of our popular misconceptions of foreigners last week while stuck in traffic and boredom. A furniture delivery truck happened to roll by my window then. Plastered along the length of the truck body was a giant ad depicting three Caucasians lounging about a living room. These characters sat on an excessively flowery sofa, dressed in fine evening attire (slinky gowns and monkey suits) and holding champagne flutes. Hovering around them were two other Caucasian figures, also dressed to the nines, playing the saxophone and oboe.
I laughed out loud. Is this what Chinese people think foreigners do all day? Sit around in cocktail dresses listening to jazz? And does an ad like this really help the furniture company sell tacky couches?
The answer to question one is, yes, this scene IS what Chinese people think foreigners do all day…sort of. At least, it WAS at some point in our recent history what we believed westerners were up to. (As for number two, I have no idea if more or less couches were sold as a result of this dubious ad strategy).
ALL DRESSED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO
On the question of attire, when China first opened up to the West most of us were “informed” of how foreigners dress through TV images of parties and revelry, things we had not experienced first-hand under previously austere regimes. Thus, we believed this is how people ALWAYS dressed. So we channeled our newfound fashion freedom and modest prosperity into dressing UP. I had a happy childhood staring with jaw agape at Chinese women aerating park lawns in their stiletto heels or elbowing onto public buses in sequined gowns.
As more and more westerners came to China to study or work, and as more Chinese were able to travel overseas, this misconception gradually dissipated. We now accept that casual wear is appropriate for the weekends, sportswear for doing sports, and so on so forth. Yet, there is still the chance these days that when an adventurous backpacker makes his way to a remote inland province, he is disappointing hundreds of Chinese with his preference for cargo shorts and Tevas. What a letdown for a farmer’s first encounter with a foreigner not to be with one dressed in coat and tails!
SO JAZZY
The choice of sax and oboe on the furniture truck ad is also an apt, albeit a bit outdated, cultural generalization. For us, jazz is western and Kenny G is jazz. In 1996, my family took a cruise down the Yangtze River to have our first and last look at the sights along the Three Gorges before they would be flooded by our nation’s magnificent hydropower plans. On this relatively luxurious yacht we awoke daily to the sound of Kenny G’s “Going Home” piping through the centralized speaker system. At the time, we thought it was pleasant and terribly sophisticated. It wasn’t until I went to college in the US that I learned that jazz doesn’t start and stop at the sax. Nor has Kenny G ever come up in any discussion I’ve had with serious jazz aficionados!
“OH, ROBERT!”
I like to save the best for last, and nothing is better than how Chinese people think foreigners talk. Every country has its own sounds for imitating, or mocking, foreign languages (“ching ching chong chong” comes to mind). In China, the equivalent is “ji li gu lu,” a sound halfway between what a happy pig frolicking in mud may make and the rumble of a rolling wheel. This is not deprecatory, it’s just exceedingly happy.
There is the even more amusing issue of voice dubbing in imported movies and TV shows. I can almost attest with certainty that five voice actors do all of the dubbing for western characters in the media. Whether it’s Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City” or the Virgin Queen on the screen, the same nasal female voice does the speaking.
The signature dubbed voice is higher pitched than usual, deliberately “airy”, and persistently sing-songy. The dubbers insist on saying English names in translation a rolly-polly half Chinese, half English mix…like, “Oh, Luo-buh-ta” for “Oh, Robert!” It’s uncanny, really, and you have to hear it to believe it.
Chinese misconceptions of foreigners have evolved over the years, for the better. We no longer think westerners do their household chores in gowns and tuxes, we don’t always associate their musical tastes with Kenny G, but we haven’t gotten around to hiring some new voice actors yet. So, for the time being, we still have to put up with “Oh, Robert!”
I was reminded of our popular misconceptions of foreigners last week while stuck in traffic and boredom. A furniture delivery truck happened to roll by my window then. Plastered along the length of the truck body was a giant ad depicting three Caucasians lounging about a living room. These characters sat on an excessively flowery sofa, dressed in fine evening attire (slinky gowns and monkey suits) and holding champagne flutes. Hovering around them were two other Caucasian figures, also dressed to the nines, playing the saxophone and oboe.
I laughed out loud. Is this what Chinese people think foreigners do all day? Sit around in cocktail dresses listening to jazz? And does an ad like this really help the furniture company sell tacky couches?
The answer to question one is, yes, this scene IS what Chinese people think foreigners do all day…sort of. At least, it WAS at some point in our recent history what we believed westerners were up to. (As for number two, I have no idea if more or less couches were sold as a result of this dubious ad strategy).
ALL DRESSED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO
On the question of attire, when China first opened up to the West most of us were “informed” of how foreigners dress through TV images of parties and revelry, things we had not experienced first-hand under previously austere regimes. Thus, we believed this is how people ALWAYS dressed. So we channeled our newfound fashion freedom and modest prosperity into dressing UP. I had a happy childhood staring with jaw agape at Chinese women aerating park lawns in their stiletto heels or elbowing onto public buses in sequined gowns.
As more and more westerners came to China to study or work, and as more Chinese were able to travel overseas, this misconception gradually dissipated. We now accept that casual wear is appropriate for the weekends, sportswear for doing sports, and so on so forth. Yet, there is still the chance these days that when an adventurous backpacker makes his way to a remote inland province, he is disappointing hundreds of Chinese with his preference for cargo shorts and Tevas. What a letdown for a farmer’s first encounter with a foreigner not to be with one dressed in coat and tails!
SO JAZZY
The choice of sax and oboe on the furniture truck ad is also an apt, albeit a bit outdated, cultural generalization. For us, jazz is western and Kenny G is jazz. In 1996, my family took a cruise down the Yangtze River to have our first and last look at the sights along the Three Gorges before they would be flooded by our nation’s magnificent hydropower plans. On this relatively luxurious yacht we awoke daily to the sound of Kenny G’s “Going Home” piping through the centralized speaker system. At the time, we thought it was pleasant and terribly sophisticated. It wasn’t until I went to college in the US that I learned that jazz doesn’t start and stop at the sax. Nor has Kenny G ever come up in any discussion I’ve had with serious jazz aficionados!
“OH, ROBERT!”
I like to save the best for last, and nothing is better than how Chinese people think foreigners talk. Every country has its own sounds for imitating, or mocking, foreign languages (“ching ching chong chong” comes to mind). In China, the equivalent is “ji li gu lu,” a sound halfway between what a happy pig frolicking in mud may make and the rumble of a rolling wheel. This is not deprecatory, it’s just exceedingly happy.
There is the even more amusing issue of voice dubbing in imported movies and TV shows. I can almost attest with certainty that five voice actors do all of the dubbing for western characters in the media. Whether it’s Carrie Bradshaw from “Sex and the City” or the Virgin Queen on the screen, the same nasal female voice does the speaking.
The signature dubbed voice is higher pitched than usual, deliberately “airy”, and persistently sing-songy. The dubbers insist on saying English names in translation a rolly-polly half Chinese, half English mix…like, “Oh, Luo-buh-ta” for “Oh, Robert!” It’s uncanny, really, and you have to hear it to believe it.
Chinese misconceptions of foreigners have evolved over the years, for the better. We no longer think westerners do their household chores in gowns and tuxes, we don’t always associate their musical tastes with Kenny G, but we haven’t gotten around to hiring some new voice actors yet. So, for the time being, we still have to put up with “Oh, Robert!”
Friday, September 4, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Meal Time at the Construction Site
When I started working in Manhattan in 2004, swanky restaurants and elaborate dinners became part of the weekly “team-building” or “client meeting” routine. After I moved over to finance, the meals got better and more frequent. My taste buds developed into these thousand little discerning and fickle things. The “Dining Out” portion of the household expense report that my then-boyfriend diligently drew up every month grew and grew. At the peak of the Asian equity bubble two years ago, I didn’t blink twice when I charged a few hundred euros on brunch for one at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris.
I’ve wined and I’ve dined, but none of these gourmet meals ever made me salivate like I did two weeks ago. I was walking in the “expatty” Sanlitun area with some friends when we passed by a construction site. It was seven PM sharp and a battalion of dusty-haired, brown-skinned construction workers had emerged from the walled-in compound and was lining up on the street to get their dinner rations. The men were dirty and dressed in rags, a decrepit-looking crowd. Most of them wore shoes with holes in the sides, pieces of string around the waist to hold up ill-fitting pants, and raggedy shirts that were fraying everywhere. Not your typical unionized construction worker with a uniform of flannel shirt, Caterpillar boots, and regulation hardhat.
Normally I would’ve crossed the street to avoid being stared at by such a crowd. Next to them, my clean and simple clothing looked like extravagant finery. But something in the faces of these construction workers captivated me. They all showed expressions of…sheer excitement!
I slowed down to look and saw that each man held in his hands two large tin bowls. The ones at the back of the line jostled with each other in a friendly manner to get closer to the food. At the head of the line, dinner was being ladled out of two giant oil-barrel-like things. One barrel was heaped high with gleaming white rice. The other contained an ambiguous-looking yellowish soup, maybe boiled cabbage. When a man reached the head of the line, the “cafeteria lady” would serve him an enormous pile of rice (about the quantity that a personal-sized rice cooker yields) and a generous spoonful of slop.
The food itself was not appetizing. No enticing colors or visual presentation, likely day-old vegetables, and way too much carb for an evening meal. But the men were buzzing around the barrels happily, like bees around a succulent flower, ripe with pollen. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation of the filling meal ahead, they elbowed each other with laughter, and some even rubbed their bellies with impatience.
Right then I realized that their meal was probably better than any caviar, frois gras, or Dom Perignon that ever passed through my lips. They had worked hard, expended all their energy, and were now looking forward to replenishing nourishment. This meal would taste heavenly because their bodies deserved every bite of what the “cafeteria lady” would ladle into their tins, and most likely more.
I remembered with guilt and shame on the times I ordered an unnecessary dessert just to end my dinner on a sweet note, commanded an extra dish “just to taste,” and had threw out an expensive doggy bag because I left it in the fridge for too long. With material abundance and the alleviation of my personal hunger, I no longer remembered what it was like to enjoy food because you NEEDED it, worked hard for it, and savored it.
Night began to fall and I walked away from the scene. With every step I resolved to work more, eat less, and minimize waste because somewhere, someone really deserves the simple meals that I’ve come to take for granted.
I’ve wined and I’ve dined, but none of these gourmet meals ever made me salivate like I did two weeks ago. I was walking in the “expatty” Sanlitun area with some friends when we passed by a construction site. It was seven PM sharp and a battalion of dusty-haired, brown-skinned construction workers had emerged from the walled-in compound and was lining up on the street to get their dinner rations. The men were dirty and dressed in rags, a decrepit-looking crowd. Most of them wore shoes with holes in the sides, pieces of string around the waist to hold up ill-fitting pants, and raggedy shirts that were fraying everywhere. Not your typical unionized construction worker with a uniform of flannel shirt, Caterpillar boots, and regulation hardhat.
Normally I would’ve crossed the street to avoid being stared at by such a crowd. Next to them, my clean and simple clothing looked like extravagant finery. But something in the faces of these construction workers captivated me. They all showed expressions of…sheer excitement!
I slowed down to look and saw that each man held in his hands two large tin bowls. The ones at the back of the line jostled with each other in a friendly manner to get closer to the food. At the head of the line, dinner was being ladled out of two giant oil-barrel-like things. One barrel was heaped high with gleaming white rice. The other contained an ambiguous-looking yellowish soup, maybe boiled cabbage. When a man reached the head of the line, the “cafeteria lady” would serve him an enormous pile of rice (about the quantity that a personal-sized rice cooker yields) and a generous spoonful of slop.
The food itself was not appetizing. No enticing colors or visual presentation, likely day-old vegetables, and way too much carb for an evening meal. But the men were buzzing around the barrels happily, like bees around a succulent flower, ripe with pollen. Their eyes gleamed with anticipation of the filling meal ahead, they elbowed each other with laughter, and some even rubbed their bellies with impatience.
Right then I realized that their meal was probably better than any caviar, frois gras, or Dom Perignon that ever passed through my lips. They had worked hard, expended all their energy, and were now looking forward to replenishing nourishment. This meal would taste heavenly because their bodies deserved every bite of what the “cafeteria lady” would ladle into their tins, and most likely more.
I remembered with guilt and shame on the times I ordered an unnecessary dessert just to end my dinner on a sweet note, commanded an extra dish “just to taste,” and had threw out an expensive doggy bag because I left it in the fridge for too long. With material abundance and the alleviation of my personal hunger, I no longer remembered what it was like to enjoy food because you NEEDED it, worked hard for it, and savored it.
Night began to fall and I walked away from the scene. With every step I resolved to work more, eat less, and minimize waste because somewhere, someone really deserves the simple meals that I’ve come to take for granted.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Those Chinese Quads
If it could be said that every people, every culture, has its own distinctive physical posture then the squat would be the Chinese stance. Over my summer travels I observed three cultures closely – French, American, and Chinese – and came to generalize that that the Chinese squat, the French lie, and the Americans walk, or, rather, the Americans run.
In the early summer, all around France I saw the “national posture” – the lounge, or the laying about. Wherever I looked there were insouciant French people lying on their many grassy lawns partaking in their endless picnics. Or they were prostrate on any permitting architecture – under an impressive arch, beside a refreshing fountain, atop an ancient slab of stone, reading, smoking, or, quite often, making out. Even the legions of white-collar office workers seemed to find time to lounge around during their lunch hour when they would grab a gourmet sandwich at Paul, walk to the Tuileries or Luxembourg gardens, and pull up a green lounge chair provided for by their magnificent Socialist state.
By late summer I was in the US and was constantly reminded of the favored American stance – the brisk walk or the full on run. New Yorkers bumped me left and right as I tried to cross intersections at the leisurely gait I had acquired in France. Busy people pounding the pavement with their purposeful steps bustled everywhere. Even in their free time the Americans like to step it up – the preferred leisure activity seems to be a jog through the neighborhood. Outside of New York, in retirement towns on the Northeast, I saw much of the same, albeit at a more moderate pace. It may be true that in the sedentary South or in the Midwest people are more likely to be driving than to be running anywhere, but even so I think a generally upright posture is the norm.
Fall rolled around and I was back in China, peering out of taxi windows at groups of men squatting on the sidewalks, stepping around hoards of squatters at the train stations, and navigating the occasional squat-style toilet. None of this would’ve raised my eyebrows before, but this time I had my husband with me and he was continuously remarking on what strong quadriceps the Chinese must have to be able to squat all day long.
I thought about it and realized that there was some truth to what he said. Whether we Chinese are born with stronger, more squat-friendly quads or if we simply build them up from squatting at an early age (the more likely explanation) it did seem that foreigners don’t manage this posture as well as the locals. Many times my husband has tried my national posture in his joking effort to become a “good Chinese man,” but he either tips over from not balancing his weight evenly or his squat just looks somehow WRONG.
I also remember an instance ten years ago when a friend brought his study abroad host mother from San Diego to Beijing on holiday and we had to drive home every time the old lady needed to use the toilet. She couldn’t squat for peanuts. One time, we were out at lunch far from home and the only way she could use the restaurant toilet was if my friend and I each held one of her hands and lowered her into a tentative squat, pulling all the while so she wouldn’t tip over into a pile of unpleasantness behind her. That was quite an experience and I’m glad to report that in the intervening decade most public establishments in big cities like Beijing and Shanghai have converted their toilets to the Western commode.
Just how did the squat become the favorable idle stance for Chinese then? A social anthropologist might have a good answer, but I’ll add my two cents here. It may have something to do with our more recent agrarian past and the generally confined spaces we face. Take an example here, an American farmer is out on his field and wants to spend some time surveying his kingdom and see that nothing is amiss. He can stand around and when he gets tired he’s going to sit down on the wide variety of sitting implements available to him -- his tractor, his chairs, or even the tops of nicely packaged sacks of industrial farming supplies. Now, if a Chinese farmer wants to do the same thing he’s strapped for options out on the field. Is he going to sit on his manual hoe and plow? On the dirt? Or maybe on some fresh fertilizer? Note quite. He’s probably going to squat as a way of resting his feet (once you get used to squatting it actually IS less tiring than standing) and keeping most of his clothing.
While a large proportion of Chinese still farm, not ALL of us do it. So how do we explain the popularity of the squat elsewhere? Well, a lack of clean sitting spaces seems to be a pervasive problem in a generally poor country. An average American kitchen has a relative abundance of counter space, professional stoves, and various sitting devices. But a regular Chinese mom cooks in a cramped space tucked into the corner of her abode. Never have I seen a chair in a Chinese kitchen and not infrequently do people cook off makeshift gas or coal burners set on the floor. Here, the squat is actually a comfortable position of a suitable height as you stir your fry.
I have creative license here on my blog and it’s possible that I just dreamed up a far-fetched socioeconomic explanation for a “national posture.” It would be interesting to see in another fifty years when China’s GDP is hopefully much higher than it is today whether people will have forgotten how to use their quads.
In the early summer, all around France I saw the “national posture” – the lounge, or the laying about. Wherever I looked there were insouciant French people lying on their many grassy lawns partaking in their endless picnics. Or they were prostrate on any permitting architecture – under an impressive arch, beside a refreshing fountain, atop an ancient slab of stone, reading, smoking, or, quite often, making out. Even the legions of white-collar office workers seemed to find time to lounge around during their lunch hour when they would grab a gourmet sandwich at Paul, walk to the Tuileries or Luxembourg gardens, and pull up a green lounge chair provided for by their magnificent Socialist state.
By late summer I was in the US and was constantly reminded of the favored American stance – the brisk walk or the full on run. New Yorkers bumped me left and right as I tried to cross intersections at the leisurely gait I had acquired in France. Busy people pounding the pavement with their purposeful steps bustled everywhere. Even in their free time the Americans like to step it up – the preferred leisure activity seems to be a jog through the neighborhood. Outside of New York, in retirement towns on the Northeast, I saw much of the same, albeit at a more moderate pace. It may be true that in the sedentary South or in the Midwest people are more likely to be driving than to be running anywhere, but even so I think a generally upright posture is the norm.
Fall rolled around and I was back in China, peering out of taxi windows at groups of men squatting on the sidewalks, stepping around hoards of squatters at the train stations, and navigating the occasional squat-style toilet. None of this would’ve raised my eyebrows before, but this time I had my husband with me and he was continuously remarking on what strong quadriceps the Chinese must have to be able to squat all day long.
I thought about it and realized that there was some truth to what he said. Whether we Chinese are born with stronger, more squat-friendly quads or if we simply build them up from squatting at an early age (the more likely explanation) it did seem that foreigners don’t manage this posture as well as the locals. Many times my husband has tried my national posture in his joking effort to become a “good Chinese man,” but he either tips over from not balancing his weight evenly or his squat just looks somehow WRONG.
I also remember an instance ten years ago when a friend brought his study abroad host mother from San Diego to Beijing on holiday and we had to drive home every time the old lady needed to use the toilet. She couldn’t squat for peanuts. One time, we were out at lunch far from home and the only way she could use the restaurant toilet was if my friend and I each held one of her hands and lowered her into a tentative squat, pulling all the while so she wouldn’t tip over into a pile of unpleasantness behind her. That was quite an experience and I’m glad to report that in the intervening decade most public establishments in big cities like Beijing and Shanghai have converted their toilets to the Western commode.
Just how did the squat become the favorable idle stance for Chinese then? A social anthropologist might have a good answer, but I’ll add my two cents here. It may have something to do with our more recent agrarian past and the generally confined spaces we face. Take an example here, an American farmer is out on his field and wants to spend some time surveying his kingdom and see that nothing is amiss. He can stand around and when he gets tired he’s going to sit down on the wide variety of sitting implements available to him -- his tractor, his chairs, or even the tops of nicely packaged sacks of industrial farming supplies. Now, if a Chinese farmer wants to do the same thing he’s strapped for options out on the field. Is he going to sit on his manual hoe and plow? On the dirt? Or maybe on some fresh fertilizer? Note quite. He’s probably going to squat as a way of resting his feet (once you get used to squatting it actually IS less tiring than standing) and keeping most of his clothing.
While a large proportion of Chinese still farm, not ALL of us do it. So how do we explain the popularity of the squat elsewhere? Well, a lack of clean sitting spaces seems to be a pervasive problem in a generally poor country. An average American kitchen has a relative abundance of counter space, professional stoves, and various sitting devices. But a regular Chinese mom cooks in a cramped space tucked into the corner of her abode. Never have I seen a chair in a Chinese kitchen and not infrequently do people cook off makeshift gas or coal burners set on the floor. Here, the squat is actually a comfortable position of a suitable height as you stir your fry.
I have creative license here on my blog and it’s possible that I just dreamed up a far-fetched socioeconomic explanation for a “national posture.” It would be interesting to see in another fifty years when China’s GDP is hopefully much higher than it is today whether people will have forgotten how to use their quads.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Daily Anecdote: If It’s White, It Must Be Good
For nearly twenty of my twenty-eight years I lived in English-speaking countries. In all this time I was known as “Zhai Qi”, or “Qi Zhai”, if you’d like. Occasionally I thought about giving myself an English name and saving a poor substitute teacher from struggling with the gaggle of weird letters at the bottom of her role call sheet, or to give myself an easier time when meeting clients in Toledo, Ohio.
Yet, “Mary” or “Samantha” never felt right. So, for better or worse, I stuck with my Chinese name, the only name I know. Now I’m getting to the punch line. Here I am returning to China and every week that I’ve been here someone has asked me to kindly consider giving myself an English name. Really? Here where people actually know how to verbally handle the “Q” and “Zh” sounds?
This seeming perplexity boils down to a Chinese attitude that all things foreign (especially associated with white-skinned and blond-haired people) must be better. In recent years, the new Chinese nationalism has been much remarked on in the international press. Yet, alongside this fierce sense of Chinese pride coexists an equally persistent admiration of all things Western. We even have a word for it, “chong yang.”
There are plenty of examples of the reverse discrimination that my people impose on themselves. Last week, after seeing copies of my two degrees from a top American university, hearing my Californian English, and seeing that I was competent enough to have worked at a global bank, a staffer at an English tutoring agency suggested that I give myself an English name to increase my chances of getting students. She was embarrassed, to be sure, but felt professionally compelled to warn me that with a name like “Qi”, no parent would ever believe I could speak English better than a lighter-skinned backpacker who may have made his way to Beijing and needed some spare cash.
This attitude, acknowledged by some, but for the most part taken for granted, is deeply ingrained in our culture through our vocabulary. The word “yang”, meaning “ocean” or “Pacific”, refers to things that came to us from abroad, specifically from the West. “Yang ren” means “ocean person”, that is, “foreigner” or “Westerner.” Walk into any clothing stall at a market and you’ll hear salesgirls chirping accolades, “Oh this dress makes you so ‘yang qi’,” meaning, literally, “an air of Westerness.” Years ago when clothing pirates down in Shenzhen started to get wind of the GAP brand, I was being sold on “G-A-P” pajamas at the silk market. Affordable T-shirts favored by the lower income earners are nine times out of ten emblazoned with nonsensical English lettering. Restauranteurs who can’t even come up with “Chinglish” names or slogans frequently choose based on what SOUNDS Western in Chinese. Hence, the proliferation of the words “luo,” “man,” and “si” in eateries (that’s “ro-man-ce” for the non-Chinese speaking reader).
Even among the elderly dinosaurs this vocabulary of Western idolization is prevalent. This morning I played ping pong in my neighborhood park with a bunch of retirees (my mom included). Every time an expert player lobbed a skillful shot at his opponent, the defeated player exclaimed, “Wow, you’re playing ‘yang de,’” as in, “You’re bringing out some Western skills!”
This is my generalized observation, of course, and there ARE instances where “yang” doesn’t denote something good. Most notably, the phrase “chu yang xiang,” which literally means “exhibit a Western countenance,” but really means to do something ridiculous. But these, for the time being, seem to be the exception. For now, if I want to start making some pocket change, I’ve got to brainstorm a Western-sounding name for myself. How about “Ro-Man-Ce”?
Yet, “Mary” or “Samantha” never felt right. So, for better or worse, I stuck with my Chinese name, the only name I know. Now I’m getting to the punch line. Here I am returning to China and every week that I’ve been here someone has asked me to kindly consider giving myself an English name. Really? Here where people actually know how to verbally handle the “Q” and “Zh” sounds?
This seeming perplexity boils down to a Chinese attitude that all things foreign (especially associated with white-skinned and blond-haired people) must be better. In recent years, the new Chinese nationalism has been much remarked on in the international press. Yet, alongside this fierce sense of Chinese pride coexists an equally persistent admiration of all things Western. We even have a word for it, “chong yang.”
There are plenty of examples of the reverse discrimination that my people impose on themselves. Last week, after seeing copies of my two degrees from a top American university, hearing my Californian English, and seeing that I was competent enough to have worked at a global bank, a staffer at an English tutoring agency suggested that I give myself an English name to increase my chances of getting students. She was embarrassed, to be sure, but felt professionally compelled to warn me that with a name like “Qi”, no parent would ever believe I could speak English better than a lighter-skinned backpacker who may have made his way to Beijing and needed some spare cash.
This attitude, acknowledged by some, but for the most part taken for granted, is deeply ingrained in our culture through our vocabulary. The word “yang”, meaning “ocean” or “Pacific”, refers to things that came to us from abroad, specifically from the West. “Yang ren” means “ocean person”, that is, “foreigner” or “Westerner.” Walk into any clothing stall at a market and you’ll hear salesgirls chirping accolades, “Oh this dress makes you so ‘yang qi’,” meaning, literally, “an air of Westerness.” Years ago when clothing pirates down in Shenzhen started to get wind of the GAP brand, I was being sold on “G-A-P” pajamas at the silk market. Affordable T-shirts favored by the lower income earners are nine times out of ten emblazoned with nonsensical English lettering. Restauranteurs who can’t even come up with “Chinglish” names or slogans frequently choose based on what SOUNDS Western in Chinese. Hence, the proliferation of the words “luo,” “man,” and “si” in eateries (that’s “ro-man-ce” for the non-Chinese speaking reader).
Even among the elderly dinosaurs this vocabulary of Western idolization is prevalent. This morning I played ping pong in my neighborhood park with a bunch of retirees (my mom included). Every time an expert player lobbed a skillful shot at his opponent, the defeated player exclaimed, “Wow, you’re playing ‘yang de,’” as in, “You’re bringing out some Western skills!”
This is my generalized observation, of course, and there ARE instances where “yang” doesn’t denote something good. Most notably, the phrase “chu yang xiang,” which literally means “exhibit a Western countenance,” but really means to do something ridiculous. But these, for the time being, seem to be the exception. For now, if I want to start making some pocket change, I’ve got to brainstorm a Western-sounding name for myself. How about “Ro-Man-Ce”?
Monday, August 31, 2009
Daily Anecdote: The Party (Pant) Line
You see this image often. A televised press conference, two heads of state shaking hands and making nice for the cameras. Lets say it’s Tony Blair and Jiang Zemin. Now, how many differences can you spot between the dashing figure of the British statesman compared to his severe Chinese counterpart? I can pinpoint at least two – at eye level and at the waistline. Almost inevitably, the Chinese politician will have his pants hiked up a good eight inches above that of the Westerner, and his eyewear will cover at least 60% of his facial area.
Many foreign friends have asked me in bemused perplexity about the Chinese male “uniform.” For those of you who don’t yet know, the outfit of choice for grown Chinese men (over the age of twenty-five) is a Western suit, black leather dress shoes, and a dress shirt. There are personal variations to be sure. Sometimes the suit is worn without the jacket, or the dress shoes worn with a pair of shorts, or often a proper shirt is substituted for a short-sleeved one. But for the most part, any male leaving the house wanting to look “respectable” will don some version of this uniform.
It’s not always a practical or functional outfit. I’ve seen this attire in use at business lunches (seems appropriate enough), on physical laborers at a construction site, and even on idlers squatting by the roadside.
Nor is it a normally a fashionable choice. For the most part the suits you see around China are ill-fitting, slouching at the shoulders and held up to an artificially high waist with stretched belts (or even pieces of cloth or rope). The shoe styles haven’t been updated in the near three decades that I’ve been living.
So why then do people low as the farm hand and high as our Party Secretaries go in public looking like this? And why do the latter make a bad thing worse by pulling the pant line higher than high and topping the look off with retro eyewear?
It all comes down to some rigidly held ideas of what a serious adult male “ought” to look like. Among the many unspoken rules are:
- A real man doesn’t leave the house wearing shorts
- A low waistline is unbecoming of doers of serious business. Leave the hip-level fashionable waists to hoodlums and gangsters.
- Shirts without buttons and collars are for children, or for sleeping in
- Slippers and sneakers are abominably casual, and traditional cloth flats are for retirees
- Anything trendy, especially worn on the face, detracts your social standing
- Basically, when it come to dressing, the bottom line is that Chinese men want to look anything BUT fashionable. Serious and somber is what we’re going for.
My personal hypothesis for the popularity of the Chinese male uniform is that from the 1940’s our Great Leader Mao wiped out variety in clothing his all-purpose military khaki suits (also unisex). After Mao’s passing, Chinese men, never in history known for sartorial creativity, didn’t know what to do with the vast amount of choice they faced in the dressing room. So they reverted to the last real trend they remembered – in the early 1900’s wealthy, progressive men adopted the Western suit as a sign of their worldly education. For better or worse, the suited up look became ubiquitous in modern China.
If I could do just one thing for my country I would hold a Fashion 101 seminar for our top leaders so that the next time they go on TV with something important to say, the world will be listening to their words instead of freaking out over the sight of a Communist dinosaur talking head on the screen.
Many foreign friends have asked me in bemused perplexity about the Chinese male “uniform.” For those of you who don’t yet know, the outfit of choice for grown Chinese men (over the age of twenty-five) is a Western suit, black leather dress shoes, and a dress shirt. There are personal variations to be sure. Sometimes the suit is worn without the jacket, or the dress shoes worn with a pair of shorts, or often a proper shirt is substituted for a short-sleeved one. But for the most part, any male leaving the house wanting to look “respectable” will don some version of this uniform.
It’s not always a practical or functional outfit. I’ve seen this attire in use at business lunches (seems appropriate enough), on physical laborers at a construction site, and even on idlers squatting by the roadside.
Nor is it a normally a fashionable choice. For the most part the suits you see around China are ill-fitting, slouching at the shoulders and held up to an artificially high waist with stretched belts (or even pieces of cloth or rope). The shoe styles haven’t been updated in the near three decades that I’ve been living.
So why then do people low as the farm hand and high as our Party Secretaries go in public looking like this? And why do the latter make a bad thing worse by pulling the pant line higher than high and topping the look off with retro eyewear?
It all comes down to some rigidly held ideas of what a serious adult male “ought” to look like. Among the many unspoken rules are:
- A real man doesn’t leave the house wearing shorts
- A low waistline is unbecoming of doers of serious business. Leave the hip-level fashionable waists to hoodlums and gangsters.
- Shirts without buttons and collars are for children, or for sleeping in
- Slippers and sneakers are abominably casual, and traditional cloth flats are for retirees
- Anything trendy, especially worn on the face, detracts your social standing
- Basically, when it come to dressing, the bottom line is that Chinese men want to look anything BUT fashionable. Serious and somber is what we’re going for.
My personal hypothesis for the popularity of the Chinese male uniform is that from the 1940’s our Great Leader Mao wiped out variety in clothing his all-purpose military khaki suits (also unisex). After Mao’s passing, Chinese men, never in history known for sartorial creativity, didn’t know what to do with the vast amount of choice they faced in the dressing room. So they reverted to the last real trend they remembered – in the early 1900’s wealthy, progressive men adopted the Western suit as a sign of their worldly education. For better or worse, the suited up look became ubiquitous in modern China.
If I could do just one thing for my country I would hold a Fashion 101 seminar for our top leaders so that the next time they go on TV with something important to say, the world will be listening to their words instead of freaking out over the sight of a Communist dinosaur talking head on the screen.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Daily Anecdote: Bending the Rules, the Nouveau Riche, and Meatmarket Grannies
** I’m starting a new series called Daily Anecdote. Everyday I post an amusing or peculiar little tale about life in China. There are so many particularities and cultural quirks here, why not share them with people who have never been or may not have noticed the small things while sightseeing?
My weekend is off to an early start. Tomorrow early morning I’ll take the train to Chengde Summer Resort, old hunting grounds of the emperors. So here’s three Daily Anecdotes to get yours and my weekend started.
Thursday: The Rules Don’t Apply To Us
People who haven’t been to China probably imagine an Orwellian society of rule followers. But anyone who has spent a day here knows that the classic Chinese attitude is one of, “The rules don’t apply to me.” After thousands of years of political turmoil (dynasty after dynasty, revolution upon revolution), we know that the only way to get anything done is to bend the rules. There are so many ways to circumvent the standard procedure that there’s a whole vocabulary dedicated to these practices – “walking the back door” (going in the unofficial way), “finding people” (contacting someone you know to get your child into college, or progress to the next round of job interviews), “giving gifts” (buying off anyone from minor clerks to powerful officials).
The big things in life are most often achieved with some sort of “back door” aid, but even in daily small things you see this rule-bending in action. I once confronted a man who cut in front of me in line at immigration at the Xiamen airport. “Hey, you have to line up,” I protested. He turned to me and with a face of sincere beleif, he said, “Oh, I don’t have to line up.” I was convinced but minutes later realized, “What do you mean YOU don’t have to line up?” We’re all SUPPOSED to line up here.
Yesterday I was at the train station early to pick up my cousin who has just come to Beijing to begin his freshman year. I dutifully bought a platform ticket so I could help him unload his bags as soon as the train pulls up, instead of waiting outside the station. But once I got close to the train tracks I saw uniformed station attendants keeping people back with velvet ropes. Through the shouts and muttered complaints I gathered that a “VIP” was on the same train as my cousin and the attendants were clearing the platform for his comfort.
This didn’t fly with people and there was a lot of disgruntled platform ticketholders trying to sneak around the velvet ropes. As the train pulled up, the crowd turned righteous and simply burst through the barricades. It began with someone kicking over the velvet rope, then another stepped on it, and finally everyone decided that it was ok to disobey. We ran as one unruly crowd towards the train and as more attendants approached to ward us off, a few angry mothers got into a minor shoving match with the uniformed enforcers. In a matter of minutes I was happily jumping into the open train door to greet my cousin. And to think, I broke the rules without even having to do anything. I just followed the “rules don’t apply to us” tide!
Friday: The Nouveau Riche
The part of China that I come from, the forbiddingly cold Northeast, is known for its annual ice sculpture festival, heavy drinking, and conspicuous consumption. Something about the hearty disposition of the northerners makes them especially susceptible to the pitfalls of newfound wealth. It is not uncommon to hear of people spending ludicrous sums of money on heavily logoed clothing and jewelry, just for show. The locals often joke, “If Old Li makes $10 he’s bound to wear $12 of it around his neck (in a gawdy gold chain).” The retailers know it and play into it – China’s first Lane Crawford opened up in Harbin years ago when a piece of underclothing from its racks would’ve been multiple times the average resident’s monthly salary.
Last week my cousin called from Harbin to tell me the latest. Louis Vuitton had set up shop in Harbin earlier this year and that outlet became one of the best performing boutiques for the global luxury emporium. One day he was in there browsing out of curiosity when behind him a booming, heavily northern accented male voice commanded a salesgirl, “Bring me the most expensive bag in here!” Unflustered, the seasoned employee (probably used to this kind of showy shopping) replied, “Sir, we have a whole range of bags, priced from RMB10,000 to the RMB200,000’s. What kind would you like?” Sticker shocked and humbled, the man retracted and quietly said, “Oh, is that right. I’ll just take a RMB10,000 bag then. No need to spend too much.” What a guy! My cousin wanted to laugh out loud, but also felt mildly sorry for the guy. Not knowing what Louis Vuitton was but merely knowing that it was an expensive status symbol he barged in to the store hoping to impress everyone there, and later all his friends, with his ability to buy an impossibly expensive bag (without knowing what it looks like). But it seems, even his audacious spending habits couldn’t keep up with the large price tags at LV!
Saturday: Chinese People Love Their Parks
For thousands of years, Chinese people have built pavilions, lakes, and elaborate rock-scapes in profusion. Even today, no Chinese week is complete without a family trip to a nearby park and millions of retirees would be put out to roaming the streets should their beloved parks shut down. Alongside restaurants and homes, public parks are at the heart of social gatherings.
In any park you’ll observe a host of amusing activity. Hundreds of spontaneous hobby groups gather at unspoken but agreed upon times. Sports make up the most normal stuff -- Qigong and Taichi practitioners moving en masse, silently and fluidly; badminton, Ping Pong, and basketball lovers dart around their respective courts noisily; even social dancers strut their stuff in public.
Organized sport is one thing, but quite a few retirees adhere to calisthenics of their own bizarre invention. I often chuckle at groups of three or four old women brutally pounding their fists against their thighs, each convinced that this routine keeps the muscles limber. Elderly men bending from the waist to reach down, then up, all in rigid and rapid succession. Some even beat their heads with grenade-shaped dumb-bells, to keep the brains supple?
Music is a big part of park life and most often it consists of people over the age of forty gathering under shady trees to rigorously belt out revolutionary songs. Usually someone acts as unofficial conductor, holding up a sheet of music and waving his arms enthusiastically to elicit vocal harmony. Newcomers to China may be a bit taken aback by this public outpouring of Communist sentiment, but realize that revolutionary music is the basically the only music (the “pop” music you might say) that this age group had access to when they were growing up. When people are loudly singing “The East is Red” or “Socialism is Good” they aren’t expressing the lyrics literally, but rather just indulging in a shared nostalgia.
Calligraphy is another favorite and the more skilled writers wield broom-sized brushes dipped in water to cover concrete paths with artful characters. The beautiful shapes last but a while before they evaporate into the hot summer air.
My favorite of all time is the “meatmarket grandparents.” Every grown Chinese man or woman has a quartet of parents and grandparents eagerly awaiting their marriage to a suitable partner. To hasten the process, concerned grannies gather in parks holding up wooden signboards advertising their “goods” – “My grandson, 25-yr old Bachelor Degree holder, Beijing resident, honest, hard working, employed at a foreign company” or “Granddaughter, high school graduate, good job, down to earth girl.” The gramps and grams mingle, exchange signboards, and when a suitable match is found, the parties collude to set their grandchildren up on a blind date. This is even better than going on a dating show!
My weekend is off to an early start. Tomorrow early morning I’ll take the train to Chengde Summer Resort, old hunting grounds of the emperors. So here’s three Daily Anecdotes to get yours and my weekend started.
Thursday: The Rules Don’t Apply To Us
People who haven’t been to China probably imagine an Orwellian society of rule followers. But anyone who has spent a day here knows that the classic Chinese attitude is one of, “The rules don’t apply to me.” After thousands of years of political turmoil (dynasty after dynasty, revolution upon revolution), we know that the only way to get anything done is to bend the rules. There are so many ways to circumvent the standard procedure that there’s a whole vocabulary dedicated to these practices – “walking the back door” (going in the unofficial way), “finding people” (contacting someone you know to get your child into college, or progress to the next round of job interviews), “giving gifts” (buying off anyone from minor clerks to powerful officials).
The big things in life are most often achieved with some sort of “back door” aid, but even in daily small things you see this rule-bending in action. I once confronted a man who cut in front of me in line at immigration at the Xiamen airport. “Hey, you have to line up,” I protested. He turned to me and with a face of sincere beleif, he said, “Oh, I don’t have to line up.” I was convinced but minutes later realized, “What do you mean YOU don’t have to line up?” We’re all SUPPOSED to line up here.
Yesterday I was at the train station early to pick up my cousin who has just come to Beijing to begin his freshman year. I dutifully bought a platform ticket so I could help him unload his bags as soon as the train pulls up, instead of waiting outside the station. But once I got close to the train tracks I saw uniformed station attendants keeping people back with velvet ropes. Through the shouts and muttered complaints I gathered that a “VIP” was on the same train as my cousin and the attendants were clearing the platform for his comfort.
This didn’t fly with people and there was a lot of disgruntled platform ticketholders trying to sneak around the velvet ropes. As the train pulled up, the crowd turned righteous and simply burst through the barricades. It began with someone kicking over the velvet rope, then another stepped on it, and finally everyone decided that it was ok to disobey. We ran as one unruly crowd towards the train and as more attendants approached to ward us off, a few angry mothers got into a minor shoving match with the uniformed enforcers. In a matter of minutes I was happily jumping into the open train door to greet my cousin. And to think, I broke the rules without even having to do anything. I just followed the “rules don’t apply to us” tide!
Friday: The Nouveau Riche
The part of China that I come from, the forbiddingly cold Northeast, is known for its annual ice sculpture festival, heavy drinking, and conspicuous consumption. Something about the hearty disposition of the northerners makes them especially susceptible to the pitfalls of newfound wealth. It is not uncommon to hear of people spending ludicrous sums of money on heavily logoed clothing and jewelry, just for show. The locals often joke, “If Old Li makes $10 he’s bound to wear $12 of it around his neck (in a gawdy gold chain).” The retailers know it and play into it – China’s first Lane Crawford opened up in Harbin years ago when a piece of underclothing from its racks would’ve been multiple times the average resident’s monthly salary.
Last week my cousin called from Harbin to tell me the latest. Louis Vuitton had set up shop in Harbin earlier this year and that outlet became one of the best performing boutiques for the global luxury emporium. One day he was in there browsing out of curiosity when behind him a booming, heavily northern accented male voice commanded a salesgirl, “Bring me the most expensive bag in here!” Unflustered, the seasoned employee (probably used to this kind of showy shopping) replied, “Sir, we have a whole range of bags, priced from RMB10,000 to the RMB200,000’s. What kind would you like?” Sticker shocked and humbled, the man retracted and quietly said, “Oh, is that right. I’ll just take a RMB10,000 bag then. No need to spend too much.” What a guy! My cousin wanted to laugh out loud, but also felt mildly sorry for the guy. Not knowing what Louis Vuitton was but merely knowing that it was an expensive status symbol he barged in to the store hoping to impress everyone there, and later all his friends, with his ability to buy an impossibly expensive bag (without knowing what it looks like). But it seems, even his audacious spending habits couldn’t keep up with the large price tags at LV!
Saturday: Chinese People Love Their Parks
For thousands of years, Chinese people have built pavilions, lakes, and elaborate rock-scapes in profusion. Even today, no Chinese week is complete without a family trip to a nearby park and millions of retirees would be put out to roaming the streets should their beloved parks shut down. Alongside restaurants and homes, public parks are at the heart of social gatherings.
In any park you’ll observe a host of amusing activity. Hundreds of spontaneous hobby groups gather at unspoken but agreed upon times. Sports make up the most normal stuff -- Qigong and Taichi practitioners moving en masse, silently and fluidly; badminton, Ping Pong, and basketball lovers dart around their respective courts noisily; even social dancers strut their stuff in public.
Organized sport is one thing, but quite a few retirees adhere to calisthenics of their own bizarre invention. I often chuckle at groups of three or four old women brutally pounding their fists against their thighs, each convinced that this routine keeps the muscles limber. Elderly men bending from the waist to reach down, then up, all in rigid and rapid succession. Some even beat their heads with grenade-shaped dumb-bells, to keep the brains supple?
Music is a big part of park life and most often it consists of people over the age of forty gathering under shady trees to rigorously belt out revolutionary songs. Usually someone acts as unofficial conductor, holding up a sheet of music and waving his arms enthusiastically to elicit vocal harmony. Newcomers to China may be a bit taken aback by this public outpouring of Communist sentiment, but realize that revolutionary music is the basically the only music (the “pop” music you might say) that this age group had access to when they were growing up. When people are loudly singing “The East is Red” or “Socialism is Good” they aren’t expressing the lyrics literally, but rather just indulging in a shared nostalgia.
Calligraphy is another favorite and the more skilled writers wield broom-sized brushes dipped in water to cover concrete paths with artful characters. The beautiful shapes last but a while before they evaporate into the hot summer air.
My favorite of all time is the “meatmarket grandparents.” Every grown Chinese man or woman has a quartet of parents and grandparents eagerly awaiting their marriage to a suitable partner. To hasten the process, concerned grannies gather in parks holding up wooden signboards advertising their “goods” – “My grandson, 25-yr old Bachelor Degree holder, Beijing resident, honest, hard working, employed at a foreign company” or “Granddaughter, high school graduate, good job, down to earth girl.” The gramps and grams mingle, exchange signboards, and when a suitable match is found, the parties collude to set their grandchildren up on a blind date. This is even better than going on a dating show!
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