Journey to the West

Xi'an is one of Chinese history's oldest and most significant cities.  While today it is considered to be part of China's "west" and plays a key role in modern China's effort to develop westward, it is in reality exactly at the center of the Chinese mainland and plays more of a central role in Chinese history than many of the larger, more cosmopolitan cities of the east.  In fact, some of China's earliest inhabitants lived in and around what is today Xi'an over a million years ago, and actual fossil evidence of Lantian Man, who lived there at least 500,000, is on display at the Shaanxi History Museum.

More recently (as in within the past 3,000 years or so), several of the China's dynasties established their capitals in this area, including perhaps most importantly, the relatively brief but fiercely powerful Qin (pronounced like English "chin" hence "China"), which united a confused mass of warring states into a vast empire and ultimately modern China.  Emperor Qin Shi Huang was responsible for the unification of China's monetary, measurement, and writing systems, as well as the development of infrastructure, including canals, roads, and China's most iconic landmark, the Great Wall.

Granted, Emperor Qin Shi Huang ruled with an iron first of legendary ruthlessness.  Under his reign, countless slave laborers died while expanding his empire.  The saying goes that at least one man died for every brick in the Great Wall, stretching thousands of miles across China.  Additionally, the Emperor was intent on destroying any and all remnants of the past, including the classic Confucian and Daoist texts, which most fortunately have survived.

Xi'an today is perhaps best known around the world for what the Chinese like to call the "Eighth Wonder of the World," Qin Shi Huang's Terracotta Warriors.  The collection of over 6,000 unique, hand-crafted, life-size terracotta figures is indeed one of the most breathtaking sites/sights I have ever seen.  What's more, this army of warriors, which also includes life-size horses and chariots, was found entirely by accident in 1974 by a group of peasants who were digging a well.  Instead of water, they unearthed one of the greatest archeological finds of all time, and the man whose spade first struck one of these warriors is himself part of the exhibit.  He concludes the tour, offering to take pictures with visitors and autograph copies of books about his discovery.  Since he is illiterate, however, and grew up not being able to write his own name, he continues to this day to draw a circle in place of a more formal signature.

Upon seeing the Terracotta Army for the first time from the main balcony of the colossal hall which houses the exhibit, a friend of mine remarked, "You know, it's sad.  I feel like we are so used to seeing mass production these days that this looks almost insignificant."  At first glance, he was right.  From afar, there doesn't appear to be anything particularly special about the army.  It was as if we were standing in the Terracotta Warrior Mfg. Co., Ltd. warehouse, inspecting the quality of the latest line of products.  However, upon further examination, we quickly discovered that it is exactly this fact about our modern production capabilities that makes the site so extraordinary.

As you approach the warriors and examine them more closely, you begin to observe that each has a unique face with its own expression, is dressed in clothes reflecting one of a series of military ranks, and is positioned to hold his weapon of choice in his own personal style.  It is exactly then that you start to understand how limited modern factory production really is, where everything looks exactly, exactly the same. Furthermore, in a time when indeed everything was done by hand, even if with tools, the sheer time and labor that it must have taken to create this vast army is beyond any modern conception.  To reproduce the army in the same way in today's world, the monetary costs alone would simply astronomical, and, for other reasons, I believe, would just simply be impossible.

The Rise of the Shining Phoenix

Well, if you’re wondering what’s been going on with my “language partner,” you’re not the only one.  In fact, it’s become a hot topic of conversation in some circles around here; even the Ayis are talking about it.  A classmate of mine came up to me the other day and told me that our Ayi was over his place the other night gossiping about it.  (We all live in the same apartment complex, and it turns out actually that our Ayi is their Ayi’s older sister.  It appears Henan migrants have cornered the Ayi market.) 

In any event, as we left it, I tried to tell Yufeng in as subtle of a way as possible that I was not interested.  If you recall, I told her that we did not know each other that well, and it would be best to remain friends for now.  I’ll reiterate, I was at one point quite interested in becoming friends with her, since in reality it would be nice to have a “no air quotes” language partner.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that it would be a precarious road to pursue a platonic relationship with someone who was so clearly interested in more.  However, as I usually do, I decided to forge ahead boldly and hope for the best.  I figured that inviting her along to go out to a local bar with some of my friends might be a good place to start (“group status,” as a friend put it). 

She came straight to the bar from class (which she somehow has on Saturday evenings).  She was wearing the same turquoise track pants from nunchucking the week before and the same black zip-up.  She must have been hot in the zip-up, but when I suggested that she remove it, she whispered that she didn’t have anything on underneath, so that might not be a good idea…

She was quiet at first, which is to be expected.  A girl, by herself, in an uncomfortable environment, with a bunch of people she doesn’t know.  However, after a few rounds of a tried and true "social activity" (originally called “Horses and Dragons,” credit Prague summer 2011, which I then adapted to fit the Chinese) and the consequential beers, she loosened up and the conversation started flowing. 

Minutes turned to hours, and before I knew it, the rest of our group had mysteriously disappeared.  Yufeng and I sat alone.  It was actually quite late, but regardless the situation had taken a drastic turn for which I was ill prepared.  I suggested with a sense of urgency that it was time to head home, so rose from the table and motioned toward the door.

Despite the typical Saturday night commotion in Wudaokou, my attention was solely focused on Yufeng’s left hand, which was insistently grasping mine.  Her skin was softer than I had expected, given her nunchucking habits, but also quite cold, probably because of the cool autumn night and the past several hours of cupping a beer glass with both hands, pulled close to her chest.  I tried to resist her advances, but her persistence eventually got the better of a “weary” me.  We held hands for the last twenty or so meters as we walked to the corner outside my apartment complex.

I thanked her for coming and said goodnight.  I was not about to offer to see her home, since I neither knew where she lived nor wanted complicate matters any further.  I offered a friendly hug.  Yufeng, though, being that much more forward than I had ever expected any Chinese girl to be, quickly moved her head to the right, intercepted my hug, and accomplished ultimately in turning it into a kiss.

Taken aback, and, again, for lack of a better word, “weary,” I took longer than I would have hoped to react.  In all honesty it happened so quickly that now I can barely remember.  I managed eventually to push her away, and subsequently put my hands on her hips, turned her 90 degrees, and goaded her on homewards.

I did not hear from her for days.  Perhaps she was waiting for me to call her?  Little did she know, she would wait an eternity.  Eventually, she sent me a text, which read, in proper Yufeng style : “The lightest of leaves creates ripples on the water’s surface; but does not disturb the quietude of the deep, how happened the tranquil kiss.  And that seed I have, a seed that I perhaps cannot plant or do not want to, is still a seed I have.”

It had become clear to me then that this had all gone too far and terribly wrong.  It was indeed time for me to make things clear and rectify any misunderstandings, which, evidently, were many and grave, regardless of who was to blame for them.  I responded then, perhaps harshly but at least engaging her theme: “Your words are endlessly shrouded in mystery.  Either way, I must say, you may have a seed, but I have none; and the leaf makes ripples on the water's surface in your heart alone.  If you understand this, then you already know.” 

I did not hear back from her those next few days, and honestly I was hoping that I never would, that this short but confusing chapter in the book of my life would be buried deep beneath the pages that would follow.  But as the days passed, a feeling of fear and trepidation overcame me: Yufeng, the shining phoenix, was sure to rise from the ashes with renewed youth and the resolve to live anew.

Thursday night, the calls began.  I was studying for our first exam, which was the next morning.  I did not have time to waste on this.  My phone went into the drawer of the desk, out of sight, but not out of mind.  The calls continued during my exam the next morning, which I successfully ignored, and continued Friday afternoon, while I was packing for our weekend trip to Xi’an, one of China’s most historic cities (stay tuned for this).  My phone, fully charged, continued to ring in my pocket all evening.  I had said my piece and honestly was not in any position to talk, since I was then stuffed into a train, six beds to a cabin, and barely enough room to breath.  At ten, the lights went out.  I turned my phone to silent and went to bed, hoping that eventually the calls would cease.

The next morning, finally in Xi’an after over 14 hours on the train, I pulled my phone out of my backpack.  Frighteningly, there were, I kid you not, 64 missed calls from the now surely fiery, vengeful phoenix.  Perhaps if there had been only 63 calls, I would not have been so worried, but 64, a square eight by eight, or a cube of four by four by four (the unluckiest of numbers here, as "four" in Chinese sounds the same as "death") was far too bad an omen for me to ignore.  I decided to seek some advice.

My advice-seeking led, naturally, to the entire group – students, teachers, boys, girls, Americans and Chinese alike – discussing how best to handle the situation.  Unfortunately, there was no consensus, but rather the two general schools of thought.  The first, sympathetic to her disillusionment, advocated that I attempt to again express my disinterest one last time and henceforth break all ties. The other, seeing her behavior as evidence that she is fundamentally irrational, unstable, and perhaps even crazy, advocated that I continue on my current path and let the fire burn out naturally.  One would hope that the Chinese girls would gravitate toward the right answer, but that were as divided as everyone else.  Two schools of equal size and diversity offered me little other than confirmation that I had indeed -- 陷入了走不了，不走又干不下去的窘境 -- found myself in quite a predicament.

I sided with the latter group, mostly because it required that I continue to do nothing. And so, appropriately, the decision availed me exactly that: nothing.  That day, I received 36 calls from Yufeng, in total now 100 in less than 24 hours’ time.  (A friend shouted as the hundredth call came in, perhaps the only glimpse of humor in the course of the entire episode: “One hundred!! You win!!”)

Since my battery had been sufficiently drained by the constant stream of calls, I was forced to conserve power and shut the phone off entirely.  I turned it back on only once we were back on the train to Beijing, late at night after the lights had gone out.  Unable to call, Yufeng had resorted to text messages, which by this point had become quite inconsistent in their content and overall incoherent.

I turned to a classmate in the bunk across the aisle and whispered, my voice desperate and sincere  “What do I do?”

Although I could not see, I hear in his voice that he was looking me in the eyes: “You’ve got to just tell her, just one time.  And then forget it.”

“I think you’re right,” I finally admitted. “This actually might never end otherwise.”

I composed the message slowly and sent her finally: “Yufeng, I do not know the feelings in your heart, but I know that whatever they are, my heart does not feel the same.  We must end this relationship.”

With that, it was done, and my phone promptly ran out of battery.  I put my head down and fell asleep.

Popcorn and Progress

This past weekend a few of us spent the day walking around 798, one of Beijing’s premiere art districts.  The buildings in the area are mostly abandoned equipment factories that artists and merchants began to rent and occupy some years ago. The name 798 comes from the factory number 798, the first building to be used in this way.  The district has grown to include countless vendors, artists, designers, shops, exhibits, and restaurants.  The art is modern and often quite experimental, which, coupled with the industrial aesthetic of brick factory walls and cast iron drums serves as a constant reminder of where China has been and where it is going…

After a long day, we decided it was finally time to head home, but since there is no subway connection so far out from the city center (that line won't be added for a few more years), we had to search for a cab.  As we were walking toward what seemed like a more favorable intersection, we encountered a man and (I assume) his wife running a kettle-cooked popcorn stand.  In the traditional Chinese spirit of hard work and cooperation, the man toiled away churning the cooker and his wife bagged the popcorn and carried out the transactions.

Two of my friends, having insatiable sweet tooths, couldn’t resist the intoxicating smell and decided to split a bag.  The bag was, if you can imagine, even bigger than a contemporary large popcorn at the American movies.  Not only that, but the popcorn was sweet, crispy, and steaming hot when it came out of the kettle.  Unfortunately for the vendors, they can’t claim the same advantage as movie theater concession stands (which are effectively monopolies, since once you’ve entered the theater you have no other choice) and therefore have to sell at competitive market prices: which hovers around a mere 4RMB (or about $0.60) per bag.  Can’t believe you pay $7 for a large (stale, fake-buttered, over-salted, chewy) popcorn, can you?

We were thanking Mr. and Mrs. Kettle Corn for their services when two young blondes came up and tried to ask where the bus stop was.  It was obvious to us that they spoke almost no Chinese and were dreadfully lost, so we translated and helped to send them in the right direction.  One of the girls thanked us and said, “We’ve only been here a week, hopefully after a year here our Chinese will be fluent.”  I couldn’t help myself, “Don’t count on it, sweetheart,” I retorted and sent her on her way down the street with her friend.

The reality is, she shouldn’t count on it.  Real progress takes time, and is actually quite slow.  798 didn’t just pop up over night, and it will be years still before Chinese movie theaters are over-charging customers for shitty popcorn.  I just hope I didn’t discourage her.

Language Partner?

A while back I met up with some expats at an American bar.  One of these gentlemen (to use the word loosely), asked me if I'd yet found a "language partner."  To say the least, he was disappointed when I told him no, that I hadn't found one just yet, and left his premature high five hanging embarrassingly in the air.  I felt badly, actually, since I could tell he was really looking forward to hearing about and congratulating me on my conquests.  I tried to bolster my waning reputation with a story about Ayi (the maid), but for whatever reason that did not quite cut the mustard.

However, just yesterday the winds of change seemed to blow straight through Beijing and into my simple life here.  It was 中秋节 (the Mid-Autumn Festival), and I went to the supermarket to buy some moon-cakes, tea, and some school supplies that I needed for class.  As I was examining the notebooks (an activity on which I can easily squander a entire day's valuable time), a girl approached me and said "你好!" (nihao; hello).  We wound up having a conversation about pens, ink, and the art of writing the Chinese character. 

After helping me select the proper supplies, which included a fountain pen, a child's character tracing book, and a notepad, she asked if I had any plans that evening.  I said no in hopes of making some actual Chinese friends.  Sure enough, she asked if I wanted to go to the soccer field down the road and learn how to use nun-chucks.  Strange, but, hey, what the hell, I thought, why not?  We exchanged names and numbers. (Her name was Yufeng, or shining phoenix.)  I bought her a moon-cake, and we agreed to meet at 5-ish to walk over to the field.

I actually wound up being quite adroit with nun-chucks, so much so that the other nun-chuck practitioners did not believe that I hadn't handled them before.  I chalked it up to playing a lot of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on my Super Nintendo when I was younger.  They didn't know what I was talking about, much like when Ayi didn't know what I was talking about when I asked her how to translate the name of the supreme leader of a rogue foreign nation.  In other words, I'm used to it.

As night fell, Yufeng and I walked towards home.  Neither of us spoke until finally she broke the silence, "You know when two people walk together and no one speaks, they usually have something on their mind."  In fact, Chinese uses "心" (a pictograph of the heart) to mean both heart and mind.  I asked her what was on her mind/heart, but she replied that it was not an easy thing to say.  Fearing the worst and hoping to avoid a potentially awkward situation (although that ship had sailed), I told her that perhaps it was best to think it over and tell me next time.  We left it at that and went our separate ways.

Today, she called me twice, both of which times I did not answer.  Finally, she sent me a message:  "I would like us to be boyfriend and girlfriend."  When I read it, for whatever reason I thought of the guard at the door of the Emerald City in Oz... "The notice!! It's on the door -- as plain as the nose on my face!!"  Of course she wants to be my girlfriend!

I pored over my dictionary for hours looking for the right words... finally I replied, "We've only just met.  Wouldn't you like to just be friends for now?"  As I hit send, I thought again of my fratty expat friend at the American bar asking me if I'd found a "language partner."  I could see the look of utter despondency on his face at the thought of my passing up such an easy opportunity.  I mean, really, by any standards this one was a layup.

But still I maintain I've done the right thing.  After all, she really did just meet me, and G-d help anyone who still wants me after date number two...

Chopsticks

I think chopsticks are absolutely fabulous.  Elegant, sleek, and simple.  By the way, please no hate mail from the Cutco people – I’ll be the first to admit, it’s tough to eat a porterhouse with two bamboo shoots.  Unfortunately, either way the Chinese market for steak knives is rather limited at this point.  Chinese people in general find the use of chopsticks more civilized than forks and knives, which to them are weapons and remind them of times of war.  Sorry, Cutco.

As with Western flatware, there is an etiquette surrounding the Eastern eating tools. As you might imagine, it is rude to make noise by tapping chopsticks on the edges of bowls or plates, just as in the West it would be improper to make noise with cutlery. Beggars do this to attract attention from passersby, and it is seen as lowly.  Also, chopsticks should not be used to move bowls or plates or to eat out of the communal bowls if serving chopsticks are provided (although, if they are not, it is not uncommon to use ones own chopsticks to skillfully pick up individual pieces from the serving dish, avoiding contact with other food in the dish).

You might have suspected that impaling food is considered unrefined but might not have realized that it is perfectly fine to lift the bowl to one’s face and shovel directly into the mouth any food that is difficult to grab.  And two things you probably didn’t know are that it is rude to point chopsticks directly at another person sitting at the table and that the biggest transgression of all is to leave chopsticks sticking up in a bowl or rice or other food, as this resembles the incense burning rituals conducted in reverence to deceased ancestors.

As interesting as it was to learn all that, I was still left wondering when the practice of using chopsticks actually started.  It turns out that no one seems to know for sure.  But rest assured, there are plenty of fantastical theories, as with most everything else here.  Below is one of my favorites, which I’ve translated into English for your convenience and reading pleasure:

It is said that a man named Jiang Ziya knew nothing but how to fish (and even that he did poorly), and such he lived without nary a sou.  His wife could not bear these hard times and thus wanted to kill him off and marry anew. (And you thought you were the only one!)

One day when Ziya again returned from fishing empty handed, his wife said to him, “You must be hungry.  I’ve cooked you up some meat.  Eat up!”  Ziya was indeed hungry and so reached out his hand to grab a piece of meat.  Just then, a bird flew in through the window and pecked at Ziya’s hand.  “Aya!” he yelped in pain, dropping the piece of meat and forgetting it in unsuccessful pursuit of the bird.

On the second day, when Ziya went to pick up a piece of meat, the bird again flew in and pecked the back of his hand.  Ziya suspected that the bird might be trying telling him something.  “Should I not eat this meat?” he wondered -- and put it aside.  To test his theory, Ziya waited for the bird on the third day.  Sure enough, when he reached for the meat, the bird came again to peck at his hand.  Ziya was now sure that this was a divine bird and chased it out of the house, following it to a remote hillside.  The bird was perched upon a bamboo branch and sung out to Ziya, “Jiang Ziya! Oh, Jiang Ziya!  To eat meat, use not your hands, but pinch it with what is just beneath my feet.”

Hearing this and taking heed, Ziya snapped off two bamboo shoots from the plant upon which the bird was perched and returned home.  When he arrived, his wife again urged him to eat some meat.  This time, however, he took his two bamboo shoots and stuck them into the bowl.  Suddenly, the shoots began to sizzle and smoke!  Feigning ignorance, Ziya said, “Why should there be such smoke?!  Could there be poison in this meat?!”  As he said this, he offered the piece of meat to his wife.  Her faced went white with fear, and she ran out the door.

Jiang Ziya understood that these bamboo shoots were sent from the divine bird, and he could use them to test for poison.  Thereafter, he used them every time he ate, although his wife would not dare try this trick again. 

And there you have it.

Throw It in the Bag: A Day at the Silk Street Market

Today was my first free Sunday in Beijing.  So what did I do?  Go shopping, of course.  All jokes aside, there are many things here I still need.  I didn't bring sufficient footwear, for example, and since I've been so diligent about getting to the gym (can you believe it?), some new shoes and a gym bag were in order.  Even with my sufficiently meager experience living in Beijing, I knew that I would surely score a bull's-eye at the world-famous Silk Street Market (秀水街), a staggeringly large complex of over 1,700 boutique retailers, which in 2005 replaced the old alley-based market system.  Hopefully, when I'm one day world-famous (right, Jared...), it will not be for selling counterfeit designer handbags and Chinese tschotskes...

This is of course Silk Street Market's specialty, despite mounting pressure from the development's management, government authorities, and the fashion industry at large.  Unsurprisingly, the individual retailers insist that the items are real, and being the lay consumer of fashionable consumer goods that I am, I am in no position to determine whether any particular item is genuine or counterfeit.  That is my final and unwavering position.

I will say, though, that my skill in the ancient Chinese art of haggling is quite refined, although my disposition to the activity stems from different genealogy.  I left the Silk Street Market arms full, pockets with money to spare, and the unfortunate moniker "Fat Niggardly Baby," an amalgamation of the various insults I received from the retailers in the market.  It's unclear how much of it was an act on their part to make me feel like I had gotten a good deal.  Either way, I have no qualms about my conduct despite their indignation.

Throughout the day, I was guided by a few rules I had learned in Hebrew school as a kid: 1) Never waste a salesperson's time.  It's rude and wrong to toy with someone's livelihood.  2) Don't offer a price you're not willing to pay.  If you've offered a price that's been accepted, you've overpaid, but the fault lies with no one but yourself, and you must pay.  And 3) Only shop for things you actually need or will really, really make you happy (either by using it yourself or giving it to someone else).  That way you'll never feel guilty and won't wind up with a bunch of junk to schlepp around with you.  Follow these rules and you will go far... and 满载而归 -- return from a rewarding journey.

Oh, and by the way, the shoes I bought are absolutely fabulous.

The Prettiest Bike in Beijing

Absolutely fabulous...

Just bought a bike. And when I say "just," I mean I paid for it two days ago and the guy who sold it to me gave me the run-around for two days before he actually getting around to putting it together.  He sells and constructs bicycles outside our building.  His "shop" consists of two tattered, red Barca Loungers and an assortment of wrenches in a tin toolkit.  His skin is dark for a Chinese, and he has an oddly shaped roll of fat around his midsection which droops down into his pants.  We call him Zixingche Da Wang (自行车大王; literally: The Big Bicycle King).  He's got quite a nice sense of humor actually and calls us pengyou (朋友; friends).  Unfortunately, though, it doesn't appear that we get the pengyou discount.  In reality, it wasn't so bad of a deal, 260RMB for the bike, just about $40, and a few bucks for a lock.

As I said, getting the bike put together was the hardest part of the whole ordeal. Since Da Wang is just outside our building, I went down continually to check to see if he had yet assembled my new machine.  Invariably, his response was, 明天吧 (tomorrow, then).  One time he even told me that he was just too busy right now with so many customers buying bikes.  I just looked at him and laughed; I don't know how to say "chopped liver" yet in Chinese.

I realized that I'd have to start playing hardball if I ever wanted to see this bike.  On my way out to dinner this evening (now two days after the sale), I told him that I'd had enough and to give me my money back.  He pleaded, “OK了, OK了” promising to have it done by the time I got back from dinner. Fast forward to 9:30pm, after some not so inexpensive Peking Duck at 便宜坊 ("cheap shop"), the bike is of course not done, but Da Wang is (surprisingly) still there.  He tried to give me a sob story about how he's not even eaten yet, but I told him that there was no more 明天 and that I wanted my bike now, now.  I was about to suggest that perhaps skipping a few meals would not kill him...but then re-evaluated and decided it would be in my best interest to keep that thought to myself.

In any event, now at 10:30pm two and a half days later, I have my bike. It is bright hot pink, totally fabulous, and easily the prettiest bike in all of Beijing...totally worth it.

Chinese People Dunno 'Bout Google Translate

Liyade glases? I believe she means glasses...

One source of comic relief here is the multitude of mispeled words and translations you'll find in store windows and around town. Above, for example, you'll see a sign in a shop window for Liyade's "Glases" -- fortunately anyone who needs glases will probably not be able to spot the mistake.  Now some of you might be thinking, "C'mon, Jared... Don't be so hard on the poor shop owner.  She's just trying to pander to wealthy foriegners to make a few bucks."  Really, I'm sympathetic.  Being here and trying to speak proper Chinese is one of the hardest things I've ever done, and I would likely make plenty of mistakes on my own shop window.  However, in this case I cannot let it slide, for a simple Google translate entry of "眼镜" will reveal that the proper English speling is indeed "glasses" and not "glases." All I can say is, "C'mon, Liyade, get it together, girl!"