Holiday In Beijing

Did you know that each year on National Day, when the entire population of China gets one week off for vacation, it’s the biggest migration of people in the world? Well, as you can imagine, that happens to make traveling pretty difficult. And it makes planning your vacation nearly impossible if you can only communicate with one person at the whole train station. I should probably buy the English-speaking teller at window no. 2 of the South Shanghai Railway Station a drink.

In fact, if the travel gods had gotten their way, Buffin and I wouldn’t have made it to Beijing at all. In a series of mishaps involving miscommunication, a lack of funds and the fact that a centralized computer system for the Chinese railway doesn’t exist, the train tickets we wanted to buy were sold out by the time we had everything figured out. The day that our travel snafus came to a head was my first bona fide ABCD (“A Bad China Day” – a term that Thomas introduced to us). Luckily, the stars aligned, and we were able to book a cheap one-way flight to Beijing and get an overnight train back to Shanghai. It would’ve been a damn shame, too, because our holiday in Beijing (with Helen and Elliot, travel companions extraordinaire) was exactly what the doctor ordered. This is a long one folks, so settle in. Here are the highlights:

• The Chinese Box: Our precious hostel was tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the capital city, down one of Beijing’s famous hutongs (alleys). I had never stayed in a hostel before, but Buffin (who traveled through Europe last summer and stayed at plenty) tells me that we got lucky. It was clean and quaint with a super friendly staff. Every morning, Joe (the hostel manager) would bring me my coffee with a design drawn into the froth. The Chinese Box also hosted a variety of free weekly activities, from a BBQ dinner to a walking tour of the area. We got the chance to participate in Friday’s dumpling party, and even made it back home from the day’s activities in time to help make them. I found out that I’m not so good at folding dumplings, but I am very helpful when it comes to consuming them. The hostel guests were all young and friendly, but we didn’t exactly pal around with any of them. With Helen, Elliot and Buffin around, making new buddies seems unnecessary and, quite frankly, unappealing. Countries of origin included America, Australia, England, Ireland and France. There was also a supremely creepy 60-something-year-old man who was Canadian by way of Finland. Naturally, he was in our room the first night. We had a “small world” moment when we realized that one of the guys staying at the hostel was not only from “Houston” (I have my suspicions he was really from one of the Cy or Spring what-have-you’s), but also a fellow Longhorn. Too bad he blew really hard. We also happened to share the hostel with a family of cats, who were something like local celebrities.

• Silk Street Market: When we first met up with Helen and Elliot we attempted to go to The Underground City, a series of tunnels that were built during the nuclear war panic of the 1970s. Even with Helen’s Mandarin skills we couldn’t find the place, so we went shopping instead. I don’t know what Elliot was thinking when he agreed to travel with three women. The Silk Street Market is bargain shopping at its finest. Helen bought some faux pearl earrings and candy red Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Elliot bought a belt because “he can’t stop losing weight over here” (I’m crying for you, really I am) and some brown checkered Ray-Ban Wayfarers. And thus The Ray-Ban Brigade was born (Buffin and I already had pairs with us). As for Buff, she made a big purchase of “Bulgari” eyeglasses. The prescription turned out to be too strong (girlfriend was a wee bit cross-eyed), so we “just had to go back” on our last day to get them fixed. On our second go round, I finally bought something (I get shopper’s panic in overwhelming situations) – postcards and red, flower-shaped, faux-coral studs. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

• Tiananmen Square: The weather for our entire trip was gorgeous, and the day we went to Tiananmen was no exception. Elliot got to Beijing before us and sent me a text message that read: “They made the weather here beautiful.” No really. They made it. Turns out the Chinese government set off these rocket-type deals that cleared the air of all the suffocating pollution for National Day (they did the same thing before the 2008 Summer Olympics). They can’t possibly be good for the environment, so thanks for taking one for the team, Mother Nature. Tiananmen (the largest public square in the world) was filled with floats from the previous day’s parade. This year’s National Day marked the 60th Anniversary of the People’s Republic of China and they were freaking their freak over it. Apparently, the number 60 holds special significance in Eastern culture. Each province had a float, and we had fun trying to guess which was which. It was curious that there was one for the “province” of Taiwan. Don’t want to get into too much detail about that since I’d like to return to America at some point, but Google it.

• The Forbidden City: After we’d had our fill of floats in Tiananmen, we crossed the street (which took about 30 minutes, because apparently all of China had the same brilliant idea to vacation in Beijing) to go see The Forbidden City. The entrance gate, which you have undoubtedly seen before on a China postcard, has a giant portrait of Chairman Mao Zedong (the founder of the PRC) hanging on it. Helen was feeling a little cheeky and got a picture diggin’ for gold in his nose. After walking through a series of identical, ornate entrances we were finally inside. I’m not going to mince my words here - it was kind of boring. So sue me. It was pretty, I’ll give you that, but it was just a lot of the same-looking buildings over and over. Elliot was determined to see this special clock exhibit, so we paid the extra 10 kuai to go in and it was a bust across the board. A room full of clocks. Thrilling. The Imperial Garden, which we walked through before the exit, was my favorite part. It was really beautiful – full of pagodas, massive rocks and ancient trees.

• The Lama Temple: Next up was the Lama Temple. It felt a little intrusive to be visiting as a tourist when so many other people were there to actually worship, but I managed to get a few choice pictures. There were some amazing statues of Buddha – one of which is in The Guinness Book of World Records for being carved from the trunk of a single sandalwood tree. It’s 26 meters high, and if you’re like me and your brain just doesn’t think in metric mode, let me assure you that it’s staggeringly tall. We didn’t stay there very long because we were pretty exhausted. I was game to leave since the fog of incense made me want to hurl. Looks like I can narrow down my man search to ones that aren’t Buddhist, Catholic or Episcopalian, because there’s no way I’m converting to a pro-incense religion.

• Peking Duck at Da Dong: I’m not exactly the most adventuresome eater when it comes to meat – especially when it’s on the bone. One of my dad’s favorite “Hallie Stories” to tell involves dinner at Smith & Wollensky, half a roasted chicken on the bone and lots of tears. Not my finest moment. But I’ve come leaps and bounds since then, because I can now say that Peking Duck is one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted. It’s right up there with Camp Mystic coffee cake and my mom’s chicken pot pie. There are a few different ways to eat the duck: plain, dipped in sugar (which makes it practically melt in your mouth), in a bun, or wrapped up in a crepe. The last option was my favorite, kind of a duck fajita. The plum sauce (or guacamole, if we’re sticking with this fajita metaphor here) was crucial. Oh, my mouth is watering just thinking about it. You have never seen happier campers than the four of us after that meal.

• The Site of the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics: Rounding out what had to be one of the most jam-packed days of my life, we navigated the Beijing metro system to the north of town where the Olympic stadiums are located. We were told to go at night because you can see them lit up in all their glory, and I’m so glad we listened. I have an only-slightly-inappropriate obsession with the Olympics (the NBC theme song gives me goosebumps), so I was really excited to see these things. Also, my cousin Michael made a special request that I take his Flat Stanley to the Bird’s Nest and the Water Cube, and you can’t say no to a kid as cute as “Rico.” [Side Note: Flat Stanley is a wee paper man that came to visit me in China as part of Michael’s third grade class project. We had quite a few adventures together, all of which were documented on camera for his class to see. If the Chinese weren’t already staring at me before, they sure were when I whipped out Stan for an impromptu photo shoot]. At this point in the day, we were all a little delirious – and we have the photographic evidence to prove it, too. There is quite the montage of us acting out Olympic sports in front of the stadiums. But the most hilarious part of the night was when Chinese people started asking us to take pictures with them. Once we had agreed to the first, it was like we had opened Pandora’s box. We should’ve started charging for those puppies. Buffin and I would be rollin’ in the RMBs, baby.

• The Great Wall: Far and away my favorite part of the trip, despite the fact that it whipped my butt better than even Jillian or Bob could (if you’re not watching The Biggest Loser, then you should be – that is quality television programming right there). The views were breathtaking, thanks to those weather rockets, and it was amazing to experience something I have always dreamed of doing. We woke up around 5 a.m. to take a two-hour bus ride out to the Jinshanling portion of the wall. From there, we hiked six miles to the Simatai section. I know that doesn’t sound bad, but trust me, it was painful. “Hiked” is probably not a strong enough word since half of the time we were using our hands, climbing like animals. For the most part, the stairs were practically at a 90-degree angle. Once at the top, you had to very carefully maneuver your way down the other side, which was just as steep. Sometimes you could tell that what you were walking on used to be stairs, but had pretty much disintegrated at some point over the wall’s 2,000-year life span. One set was particularly challenging; it was 103 steps in total and I counted every last one of them. Given both of our proclivities to eat shit, I am pretty shocked that neither Buffin nor I had a terrible accident. By the time we spotted the bridge (our final marker) in the distance, my legs had turned into Jell-o, my breathing was irregular and my mental state was shaky at best. We were very excited to partake in the “boofay” (buffet) lunch that our guide kept talking about. Sweet relief. After four hours together on The Great Wall, Helen, Buffin and I will always have a special friendship. I’m talking the kind of bond that soldiers forge during a war.

• The Overnight Train Back to Shanghai: This was a surprisingly pleasant experience. After a full day in Beijing, we boarded the train at 9:20 p.m. – but not before Buffin engaged in an epic battle with a middle-aged Chinese lady over a chair in the designated waiting area. The chair, as it so happened, was for me. Buffin, my knight in shining armor! It was, essentially, a tug-of-war and the valiant Buffin prevailed. She was gripping that sucker like it was one of Willy Wonka’s golden tickets. I will forever cherish that visual image. We booked seats in a soft-sleeper compartment (at 730 kuai a pop) and, lo and behold, discovered that we had the whole thing to ourselves. That is beyond rare. So we tucked ourselves into our little bunk beds (which had pretty decent white linens) and watched – just watched – Mr. and Mrs. Smith (it was dubbed in Chinese), wrote some postcards and indulged in a few of the gossip magazines that Jenny had sent me. We arrived back in Shanghai at 7:30 a.m. the following morning. Easy breezy. It would be my no-brainer, first-choice way to travel if I wasn’t such an insomniac. I got no more than five hours of sleep on that clickety-clackety train.

Is it possible to get nostalgic over something that happened only a few days ago? Because I think writing this just made that happen. So, Helen, Elliot and Buffin – who’s going to start making plans for our trip to Suzhou?

As Seen On The Streets

Shanghai has this uncanny ability to turn even the most mundane, everyday occurrences into noteworthy experiences. Take, for example, walking down the street. In the ten minutes it takes me to get from my apartment to the metro, I have seen enough bat-shit crazy stuff to provide me with all of the conversation starters I need to survive a lifetime of awkward pauses and uncomfortable situations. I thought I had pretty much seen it all when I lived in New York last summer, but that was the minor leagues. Shanghai is the majors. Here are just a few of the things I am guaranteed to witness on a daily basis:

• Little children...and their genitalia: When it comes to the baby dress code, diapers are more “optional” than “required.” Instead, children who aren’t yet potty trained wear these hilarious pants with a huge chunk of fabric cut out from between the legs. Buffin and I call them split pants, but, honestly, the closest thing I can compare them to are ass-less chaps. Say this out loud right now – “Babies in ass-less chaps.” You can’t tell me that a pee-in-your-pants-inducing image did not just pop into your head. Hineys and hoo-has and wee-wees...oh my.

• The sidewalk being used as a toilet: Well, without diapers, the babies have gotta go somewhere. I’ve seen many a child being held by their parents over drains and trashcans, but most of the time they just straight up squat on the sidewalk. And the other day, Buffin saw a grown man peeing out in the open. For a culture that’s pretty hung up on stuff like physical contact, I find it ironic that they have no problem showing off their business in public.

• Lots and lots of spitting: I had heard that spitting was really common before I came here, but I definitely wasn’t prepared. Loogies are constantly being hocked left and right. Once at a stoplight, our cab driver opened his door and spit on the road. And it’s not just the men; the ladies are in on the action as well. It kind of catches me off guard when I walk by a sweet old grandma who unloads a wad of spit at my feet. Let me leave you with a visual: the ground in the metro sometimes looks like it’s polk-a-dotted. Yeah.

• Pantyhose socks: You know those bras with the clear straps? Sartorially speaking, there is nothing I hate more than those things. Well, maybe kitten heels. I mean, what’s the point? If you’re going to wear heels, go big or go home. But back to the clear bra straps. Hey lady, you’re not fooling anyone. It doesn’t look like you’re wearing a strapless bra, it looks like you’re wearing a bra with some tacky, plastic straps. Well the footwear equivalent of clear bra straps are these pantyhose socks that the Chinese ladies love. They wear them with sandals and heels, or any other shoe that doesn’t allow for regular socks. I understand that you don't want to get blisters and whatnot, sister. I get that. But you just look silly. They are made from lycra and nylon, not the same magical material as Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak.

• Felines galore: Shanghai would be the purr-fect place for Mary Stewart – she’d think she’d died and gone to cat heaven. [MSA – I’m sorry that one off-the-cuff joke on the OU bus junior year has survived this long]. But in all seriousness, this place is crawling with cats of all ages – from kittens to Grizabellas (Broadway reference for a certain Miss Paige Cantrell). Wow, can you tell I’m missing my friends right now? Anyhow, I’ve always been a cat person, but it’s all just a little too much here. What is it about a colony of cats that seems so unsanitary? Maybe it has to do with the image I have in my mind of a crazy, old cat lady living the kind of lifestyle I once saw on an Oprah special about hoarders.

There is a host of other bizarre behavior that I don’t have the energy to get into (people rockin’ PJs during the daytime, chickens being beheaded in plain sight, and so on). Despite the fact that a lot of these things skeeve me out, at least I’m guaranteed a good giggle or two every time I set foot outside my door. And Lord knows I love a good giggle.

To Market, To Market

Located at 399 Lujiabang Lu, there is a veritable fashion wonderland that would make Tim Gunn drool. It’s called the Shanghai South Bund Fabric Market, and Buffin and I are in love.

The first time we paid the market a visit was two weeks ago with my Uncle Bill’s friend and co-worker Sarah, who has been working in the Shanghai branch of their law firm for the last few months. The night before, Sarah had taken us for drinks at Sasha’s, a hip bar in a 1920s, concession-era mansion.

“Oh please, I make a Western salary over here,” she said. “They’re probably paying you beans. I’m buying.” Not gonna argue with that logic.

Over Lemon Drop martinis, Sarah convinced us to come with her the next morning to the fabric market (“I’m addicted,” she admitted). So, bright and early, we hopped in a taxi to meet her. Normally, we would’ve just taken the subway, but she couldn’t give us directions since she “is so not a metro girl.” This woman cracks me up.

Housed in a non-descript, run-of-the-mill building, the fabric market is anything but. Picture this: three floors of stall after stall of beautiful, insanely inexpensive fabrics (cashmere, silk, chiffon – you name it) backed up by an army of tailors who can custom-make anything your heart desires. It might not turn out exactly as you’d envisioned, but, hey, when you’re paying the equivalent of $50 for an intricately detailed coat, tailored to your personal body measurements, you learn to deal with it.

All morning, Buffin and I followed Sarah around like little puppies as she picked up her completed orders. When we got to a stall specializing in jersey-knit cotton, Buffin and I found dress patterns in the tailor’s look book that we liked. Spurred on by Sarah (seriously, she refused to leave until we agreed to have something made), we were both measured and paid our deposits. Not after some hard bargaining, though. I’m not one to back down, as any family member or friend can probably attest to (sorry, I love you?), so I got a pretty good deal.

Fast forward to today, when we finally found the time to pick up our dresses. Buffin tried hers on first – a red v-neck dress with ruffles down the middle. Then it was my turn to get behind the thin sheet that was masquerading as a changing room. Besides the fact that it’s so short I should probably wear it as a shirt, I was pretty happy with my deep purple, one-shouldered little number.

“Pretty happy” might be an understatement since I’ve already found myself going through my closet to see what clothes I’d like copied in another fabric and flipping through the lone fashion magazine that survived the trek to China to get inspiration. Oh, Sarah...what have you done?

A Day In People’s Square

Buffin and I decided it was high time we invested in a little one-on-one, quality time with Shanghai. After scouring our guidebooks, we decided that today would be dedicated to the area of town known as People’s Square. Our first stop was People’s Park, a bastion of vegetation amid the concrete jungle. Ahem, Central Park much? We hopped the metro and were soon smack dab in the middle of a huge park with no sense of direction whatsoever. So we did what we seem to do best – wander.

With our cameras at the ready, we strolled along a winding pathway, past green lawns, a lily pond, flowerbeds and tree after tree after tree. There were several people napping alone on benches and swings, plus a few random, old men jogging in their regular, everyday clothes. Some pretty intense card games were taking place at the tables dotting the park, which drew an inordinate amount of spectators.

After re-booting at one of the three Starbucks surrounding the park (I mean, really, three?) we headed toward the Shanghai Museum. Or so we thought. Truth be told, we kind of assumed we would just stumble upon it. But instead of finding the museum, we found something even better – a life-size replica of Yao Ming. Turns out we inadvertently found one of those Madam Tussauds wax museums. While we had absolutely no desire to actually go in, we couldn’t resist taking a picture with one of Shanghai’s most beloved sons, whose statue was stationed at the entrance. Neither could a lot of people, apparently, because we had to wait in line. Not quite as good as my little brother’s picture with the real Yao, but it’ll do.

We finally admitted to ourselves that we were lost, so Buff and I found a Marriott Hotel and asked the concierge for directions. “People’s Avenue,” he said, pointing down the road. They sure do love the word “people,” don’t they? As soon as we stepped on the museum grounds, we were besieged by Chinese people. “You so lovely! Where you from? America? What your name?” Buffin and I have been repeatedly warned to avoid these people. There is a common tourist trap known as the teahouse scam, where locals befriend unwitting foreigners and invite them to tea; afterward, a bill for an outrageous sum will arrive. So, the only thing to do is ignore them. I have no problem doing that.

Safely inside the museum, we perused the four levels of exhibits – from ceramics and bronze, to paintings and furniture. Given that China has been in the game for quite a while (they are very proud of this longstanding heritage, FYI), the museum had some pretty incredible things to see. My favorite exhibit was the calligraphy, which is done on very delicate scrolls of parchment. The room is kept dim to prevent damage to the ancient pieces of paper, but the cases are rigged with motion sensors, so when you walk by the light goes on. Not gonna lie, we probably enjoyed that a little too much.

After a full day of gettin’ cultured, we were ready to crash. And so begins the extensive process of slowly checking things of our master list of “Things in Shanghai That We Better Not Forget to Do Before We Leave”...

A Whole Lotta Man Thigh

This past Saturday I witnessed my very first rugby match – and then my second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth right after that. Buffin and I took a 1 ½ hour metro ride out to a very remote area of Pudong (which, to be honest, looked like industrial wasteland) to see our friend Thomas play in the Shanghai Sevens rugby tournament. While I didn’t exactly walk away from the event with a firm grasp on the sport (surprise, surprise, huh Dad?), I did learn that if you go to a rugby match you’re going to see a whole lotta man thigh.

There is something uncomfortable and unnatural about seeing a man’s exposed upper thigh. On this past season of The Bachelorette (yes, I just went there), Ed wore some ridiculously short, green swim trunks while he and Jillian were in Hawaii. I think I speak for all Bachelorette junkies when I say that it was just plain wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on the specific reason then, per se, but I believe I know the answer now. Man thigh.

Now, Ed had no good reason to showcase his upper gams – on national television, nonetheless – but rugby players do. Their Gap Kids-like shorts make it easier for them to run around the pitch (new rugby vocabulary!). Or so says Thomas. Luckily, he and a few other players opted to wear bike shorts underneath, so I can still look him in the eye.

Thomas plays for a local club team called the Shanghai Hairy Crabs (which my guidebook calls “local legends”). Their biggest match was against the Beijing Devils, whose players, like the Hairy Crabs, are all foreigners – Brits, Aussies, Americans, and so on. The Hairy Crabs beat the Devils in what was probably the most exciting game of the day because of a longstanding rivalry.

But my favorite team (sorry, Thomas) had to be the French. Not only were their uniforms a very delicate shade of princess pink, but across the rear end of their shorts (very short, keep in mind) the words “French Flair” were emblazoned. And between matches, they put on T-shirts with a French phrase meaning “Not a circle, not a square, but an oval!” (in reference to the rugby ball). Thomas said the Frenchmen think it’s hilarious. Ah, French humor. Will I ever get you? But it doesn’t stop there. During downtime they would also put on (and I shit you not) berets. And they wonder why Americans patronize them?

Apart from the uncharacteristically cool, dreary weather (Buffin even managed to get goosebumps), we had a great time. We each had a hotdog, which will probably account for 90% of our protein intake for the entire week, and also had the distinct pleasure of looking at cute men all day. Buffin and I agreed that the tournament brought out the cutest collective group of guys we have seen the entire time we’ve been here. Hey rugby players, where do you hide on the weekends?

The parts of the match that I found most interesting to watch, which also happen to be the things that come to mind when people think rugby (what, like you don’t ever think about rugby?) are the lineout and the scrum. During a lineout, two players from each team lift one of their teammates into the air by their shorts (even though they look like something out of Heidi Montag’s closet, they are made of some seriously sturdy material) to try to catch the ball. It’s kind of like a soccer throw-in. A scrum is when players from each team form a circle and lock arms with their teammates, then try to kick the ball out of the middle of the circle and toward their side of the pitch. Both the lineout and the scrum look oddy familiar to things you would do in cheerleading – like building a pyramid (scrum) or stunting (lineout). But don’t let that analogy fool you, rugby is a rough and tumble sport. Women and girls do, however, play the sport, and we got to see a match or two. But Buffin had it right when she said, “I can’t imagine my mom ever letting me play rugby.”

At the end of the day, while we were waiting for the metro to take us home, the British team (on the other side of the platform) flagged us down. “Texas! Texas!” they yelled, pointing at my University of Texas T-shirt. We smiled and I instinctively put up my horns. Rugby might be the closest thing I’m going to get to football this fall, but it definitely doesn’t hold a candle to a Texas game – especially, when it comes to the uniforms. Colt McCoy in mini-shorts? I think I’ll pass.

Back In The School Grind

In the weeks leading up to my departure – in the midst of planning, packing and a panic attack or two – I had a tendency to forget the real reason I was coming to China. It wasn’t to travel or put off real responsibility just a little bit longer. It wasn’t to go on an adventure or learn about a new culture. Sure, those things were a (very) positive bonus to the experience, but the real reason was to teach. Right?

Well, I’ve now finished my first full week of school and I’m feeling pretty teacher-y already. As the week wore on, I began to choose outfits based on comfort (gasp!) rather than style. I used hand sanitizer like it was my personal responsibility to keep Purell in business. In the compartment of my backpack that used to carry the latest issue of US Weekly, I now keep lesson plans. A few times, I even had to put on my best “stare-at-the-class-in-silence-while-tapping-my-foot-impatiently-until-they-shut-up” face, for crying out loud.

And I’ve experienced a kind of exhaustion that my body has never known before. There is “tired” and then there’s “teacher tired.” The latter is a whole new ball game. I always thought that Mariann, my third-grade-teaching sister, was just exaggerating. She is a master in the art of hyperbole, but I won’t roll my eyes anymore when she complains of exhaustion. I get it now. Oh, do I ever get it. I gave in to temptation and made my first trip to Starbucks (yes, Starbucks) just so I could get through Wednesday. It had the same heavenly Starbucks smell that I’ve grown to love, which was pretty comforting.

A major contributing factor to my fatigue is the fact that I have fourteen different classes at five different schools (Hang Hui, Tian Lin, Wu Yuan, Zi Wei and Xian Yang). Over the course of one week, I teach twenty-five classes, which vary in length from 1 ½ hours to just 30 minutes. Complicated, I know. New Beat, the company I work for, hires out its staff to local schools to teach a specific curriculum they have developed, which leads to this ridiculous master schedule. It’s inefficient, obnoxious and, frankly, makes no sense. But, that’s just the way it goes. The government hasn’t set a concrete school calendar yet, so I don’t even know when exactly I’ll be done with the semester. Apparently, they didn’t get around to doing that until December last year. Go figure.

But the thing that has made the heinously mismatched outfits, hellish schedule and sheer exhaustion all worth it, is the kids (as cliché as it may sound). They are so adorable, in fact, that Buffin and I had to expand upon our term for cute kids (“muffins”) to include a word for the teeniest, tiniest, most muffin-y ones of all – “nuggets.” I’ve got quite a few of them in my classes, especially my Book One kids who are just three years old. The only downside to teaching the younger ones is that the odds of having a crier in the room increase exponentially. It’s a real self-esteem booster when a kid bursts into tears at the mere sight of your scary, white-person face. Bonus points if the little boy happens to have a rattail that reaches the middle of his back (yep, believe it).

But the most hilarious part of the teaching experience so far has been the students’ English names, which are chosen by their parents. Here are just a few of my favorites: Apple, Berry, Princess, Fish, Mountain, Alpha, Dora, Boots, Hanson, Calvin, Elf, Cain, Twinkle, Kitty and Candy. Ah, priceless. I love that inspiration seems to come from just about anywhere. A mid-90s boy band phenomenon? Sure. Nickelodeon TV show? Why not. Strip club? You betcha. Almost as good are the ones with names that make them sound like they’re 80 years old (i.e., Cathy, Frank, Nancy).

Aside from two mildly traumatizing incidents of pseudo sexual harassment (my bottom was slapped and my cleavage investigated), the kids are very well behaved. The Chinese teachers are strict and a little scary, so I’m sort of like this smiling novelty that comes twice a week to sing, dance and play with them. They’re enthusiastic about learning English, very clever and almost always willing to participate.

I’ve done a little bit of everything with my students – ABCs, numbers, colors, animal names, phonics. But the one thing I’ve done (over and over and over again) is sing and dance. I’ve always known there was a Broadway star trapped inside me just waiting to get out, but this is not how I imagined fulfilling that dream. Each class begins with a greeting song that corresponds to the book I’m teaching from, and almost every other section of each lesson includes a song or two. When you’re practicing counting, well wouldn’t you know, there’s the “1-20 Apples” song. But what about teaching countries, you say? Not to worry, there’s the “Where Are We?” song.

I think it suffices to say that by the time Thursday rolled around, we were ready to have a little fun. Elliot (our CIEE friend who was placed at a university in nearby Jiaxing) came to visit for the night since he hasn’t started teaching yet. It was nice to see a friendly face again, especially since said face tosses out hilarious comments like, “We’re going to paint the town redder than it already is.” See, communism can be funny! Buff and I cooked our guest dinner (the go-to meal of noodles and sautéed veggies) and then met up with Josh and Becky, the married couple from our program. We grabbed a very watered-down cocktail at Blue Frog before heading to Mural where it was 50 kuai ($8-ish) all-you-can-drink Carlsberg draft. Becky can throw back a beer as fast as a frat boy can shotgun. I was impressed.

As it so often does, all-you-can-drink beer led to making new random friends, which, naturally, ended in an awesome dance party. I believe it was when I saw Buffin being flung around by a random Chinese guy – whose moves could best be described as that of a twitching robot on speed – that I stopped to consider the fact that we should probably be acting a little more grown up now that we’re in charge of molding young minds. Then I laughed, grabbed Elliot’s hand and headed for the dancefloor.

That's China For You

There is a Chinese man in my bathroom right now. He doesn’t speak any English, so we are communicating through a medley of sign language, voice inflection and Touba, my waiban (school liaison), via cell phone. All this just to fix a toilet.

“He says he will come back tomorrow morning because he doesn’t have his tools. He has to take the toilet off,” Touba says.

“Off?”

“Yes, off,” she replies, like it’s something normal.

“Umm...ok.” This should be interesting.

So, someone really should have told us that you can’t put toilet paper in the toilet. But, that’s essentially how it goes here. I’m usually just straight up uninformed (the toilet paper situation) or misinformed (we were given the wrong internet password because c and v sound very similar to the non-native-English-speaker’s ear). And even when I am actually informed about something, it can change at a moment’s notice (like this morning when I arrived at my first day of school and was told that one of my classes would be a different level than I had prepared for). That’s China for you.

Now, that may have sounded incredibly bitter and angry, but truthfully, it’s not. This is one of the hugest lessons in cultural differences that I have learned so far, and it’s actually making me ease up on my control-freak tendencies. I know, who’da thunk it. (Ah, I’ve missed being able to use certain Hablinski-isms like that). But in all honesty, I’d go crazy if I didn’t just learn to go with the flow. That should be the country’s slogan or something. It makes me appreciate the efficiency in which things get done in America. Those of you in the States may be scoffing now, but try another country on for size and you’ll see that America runs a pretty tight ship.

However, (and that’s a big however), China trumps America by and large when it comes to road construction. It takes ages – absolutely ages – to finish construction work in America. We all know that. But the day Buffin and I moved into our apartment, it really drove the point home. The street where we live was torn up, repaved and repainted (complete with traffic signage) in less than 24 hours. Bravo.

Which brings me to a very important topic – our home. Buffin and I live near the intersection of Qinzhou and Liuzhou in the Southwest area of Shanghai. We’re where what most people would consider “the outskirts” of the city since it’s not in the middle of everything, but I’m learning to like it more and more. The commute is easy (we’re just a few metro stops away from our school’s headquarters, The French Concession and all the Western restaurant and bars), but it usually ends up taking 45 minutes to an hour to get anywhere because we always end up having to walk a bit.

One of the big positives is that things tend to be cheaper in our neighborhood since it doesn’t cater to expats. There’s a great open-air market right by us that sells fruit, vegetables and (my favorite) fresh noodles. For our first attempt at cooking, we bought a heaping serving for 1 kuai (that’s slang for yuan), which is roughly 17 cents. Paired with our favorite brand of red wine, Imperial Court (its tagline is “Red Wine for Joyful Occasion” – how could you not love that?), it was a delicious meal. Plus, we got to drink it out of the plastic Minnie Mouse cups we bought, so that way we felt super classy. Naturally, I promptly spilled some on the table. You know, just to christen the place. It appears that my magical ability to spill any liquid within a 10-foot radius is just as powerful in China as it is in America.

The apartment is great – much better than I could have hoped for. We have hard wood floors in both bedrooms and tile in the kitchen, and everything has been recently updated (bathroom, kitchen, A/C, furniture, etc.). Neither of us cared which room we got (both had pros and cons), so we just went with whichever room our suitcases were in. I took the smaller room with the bigger bed; Buff has the bigger room with the smaller bed. I think it may be even smaller than a standard twin. The headboard has two cartoon mice on it and is still covered in plastic wrap. My room isn’t without its own kitsch, though. The closet doors are bright red with cartoon Dalmatians on them and gribouille (which I can only assume is French for Dalmatian?) written below. Because, hey why not? Both rooms are accented by neon orange dressers and cabinets. We have a giant flat screen in Buffin’s room (that works most of the time), and a covered, outdoor laundry area attached there as well. Dryers apparently do not exist here. But the walls of our little patio are adorned with images of french fries, hamburgers, strawberries and the phrase “Loving It.” So we have that going for us.

Our place came with most everything we needed, but we did make trips to Carrefour and Trust-Mart (both like Wal-Mart) to stock up on essentials. After our trip to Carrefour, with two huge bags a piece and a set of plastic drawers in between us, Buffin and I realized that we had left the little plastic card that has our address written on it in Chinese at home. Big mistake. That meant we had to take the metro home, hauling all of our crap. Well, if we didn’t already look like conspicuous Western idiots lugging bags of Carrefour goodies through the metro station, then we most certainly did when I attempted to go through the turnstile with said bags and somehow got stuck – with one leg behind me, over the top of one of the spokes. I was essentially straddling the thing. Don’t ask me how I managed that one. So here I am stuck in the turnstile, Buffin and I are laughing so hysterically we are practically peeing in our pants and an entire metro station of Chinese people are crowded around us, gawking and laughing. Did I mention that teaching abroad gives you an incredible opportunity to be a cultural ambassador for your country?

It’s almost been two weeks since I’ve been here, and I’m kind of starting to feel like a resident as opposed to a tourist. I have a bank account with Bank of China (that was a hoot to set up, let me tell you) and a cell phone, too. I’m trying to embrace the culture and lifestyle as best I can, but I’m still holding on to a few remnants of my old life to keep me sane. Buffin brought a bunch of granola bars, beef jerky and cereal, and when that runs out I will most likely cry. We’ve already gone through a giant jar of peanut butter and have visited the Dairy Queen in the metro station. I will bear witness that Oreo Blizzards are just as delicious – if not more so – over here. And tonight we treated ourselves with a visit to the Western grocery store that’s above the metro stop by our school. We made a leafy green salad with fresh mozzarella and balsamic dressing. I have never been more excited for some lettuce and cheese in my entire life.

There is another little luxury that has sustained both Buffin and me even more so than the comfort food – American television and movies. If you know me at all, you know that TV and movies are my drug of choice, so I’m sure you can only imagine the kind of solace it has offered. We quickly raced through the lone Friends DVD that Buffin brought, but, luckily, there is a DVD store right by our school. Last week we got our fix: the entire series thus far of both 30 Rock and Weeds (this is where we started and we’re already on Season 2), Sunshine Cleaning, Love Actually (for Christmas time), The Hangover, Pride & Prejudice: The BBC Miniseries, and Young Victoria. Yes, I was the purchaser of the last two. How’d you know? Each movie is between 8-12 kuai (that’s like $1.30-$2.00). Be jealous.

But don’t be jealous that I’m getting up early tomorrow (on my day off, no less) to let in the toilet repairman. I will be sure to let you know what exactly taking a toilet “off” entails. Oh, China. You’re teaching me so much already.