Some Things You Should Know

All right: it's now so hot and humid here and going out, even at night, is the equivilent of walking around in  a dirty sauna or two. I feel like I'm walking through hot dirty butter. Each breath of air fills my lungs with even more hot moist crap. Last night I waited over an hour and a half in a queue to get a taxi--in downtown Beijing--at eleven at night. The driver I finally got was VERY unhappy about having to take me so far--in the direct opposite of where he lived, btw--but he did it, and I tipped him a hundred kuai for doing so. Patronizing? I think not. I took him an hour away from his final destination.

Here's what you should know if you are unfortunate enough to be here in summer:

First: it's really hot and humid. St. Louis humid with third world pollution as a cherry on top. You think you can take that? Then welcome. If not, stay home and watch "Big Bird Goes to China." Take a quiz about China on Enchanted Learning dot com. You'll learn about as much.

Second: if you come here and have a really, really uncomfortable day or two due to lies, incompetent workers, and just general fuck-ups over which you have no control, then you have had a Bad China Day. This includes things like your plane being grounded because of high wind---even though not a breath of air is stirring and you see other planes landing and taking off---or the teller at Bank of China announcing into the loudspeaker, "You don't have any money. Go away." Or an  ATM eating your card on a Friday afternoon just as the bank office is closing. Bad, but not undoable. (They have all happened to me, except for the "plane can't take off due to high winds. That happened to my friend and as a consequence she missed her own Going Away Party. No kidding.)

Third, however, is the Bad China Day which turns into the Fucked Over Big Time in China which is better known as "chucked." As in, "Wow, the guy who was arranging my visa for my trip to Vietnam kept my passport for two weeks longer than he said he would and now my visa for China has expired and the police are escorting me to the airport right now and I can't call my girlfriend as my phone just ran out of minutes and they won't let me stop and buy more minutes..." Or, as I was witness to the other day, a visa agent called in sick and for some reason she had taken all the passports home with her, so my friend was unable to pick up her passport as promised that morning and was due to fly to the US three hours later...the meltdown and tantrum were worth of an Oscar, truly awe-inspiring, and if I were the clerk that had to deal with that histrionic, vitriolic and totally justified fit of rage, I would have probably done exactly what she did, which was this: Hang up.

Chucked. It happens. Just try really hard to make sure it doesn't happen to you. But if it does, do what I did: head to the Writer's Bar at Raffles Hotel and see if three Singapore Slings and some congenial company don't make it all a lot, lot better.

Updating Myself

There are weeks from hell, and then there are Weeks From Hell. This week: hmm, let's see: Realtor still messin' with me, showing me unsuitable apartments at double my proposed rent WHICH STILL DON'T HAVE KITCHENS. Gee, for 2,000 USD a month, you'd think there'd be something more than a basin and a toaster oven on a cardboard box, but apparently not. I just finished a graduate class which keeps my teaching certification up for another five years--plus I learned how to do cool things like wikis, podcasts, and Web Quests, so that's all good.

New School had problems with my paperwork which has resulted in my passport being held for another two weeks, which means that I can't withdraw money from the bank (except small amounts by ATM) or send money home to Canada to my account there or sign a contract or register my dog Duchess at the local police station or move. This is frustrating, to say the least. This begins week four of not having a passport and I'm kind of edgy and nervous now as I have so much to do before the new job begins, including finding a suitable house, moving, and having house guests for two weeks. I am also working Mysterious Job Number Two this weekend (well, Friday, Saturday and Sunday) and then I'm kissing it goodbye for the simple fact that I'd rather be a bit more broke but have a social life again. To kick start the social life, I'm meeting The Ladies for cocktails tonight during Happy Hour somewhere swank. You know you're middle aged when you meet up somewhere swank not to meet men but to sample something you couldn't otherwise afford... Also, I am attempting to corral a group of suitable friends to refer to as "The Ladies." My friends are scattered and largely collected from various jobs I've had (and left) and I don't have a solid group of homies. I'd love to be able to press "send" on just ONE group address in my phone and know that it's going to a group of people who, if they don't love me, at least like me a little. What I miss about college: getting that tight-knit group of friends you can hang with (and grow by.)

This is the part that makes me laugh: of the five women getting together tonight for cocktails, three were missionaries and the fourth is a Wiccan priestess. You can probably understand why I said the first round's on me--a few Singapore slings later, they'll be lovin' the Jesus and the Goddess out of each other. Or else.ooUSD a month, you'd think there'd be something more than a basin and a toaster oven on a cardboard box, but apparently not. I just finished a graduate class which keeps my teaching certification up for another five years--plus I learned how to do cool things like wikis, podcasts, and Web Quests, so that's all good.

New School had problems with my paperwork which has resulted in my passport being held for another two weeks, which means that I can't withdraw money from the bank (except small amounts by ATM) or send money home to Canada to my account there or sign a contract or register my dog Duchess at the local police station or move. This is frustrating, to say the least. This begins week four of not having a passport and I'm kind of edgy and nervous now as I have so much to do before the new job begins, including finding a suitable house, moving, and having house guests for two weeks. I am also working Mysterious Job Number Two this weekend (well, Friday, Saturday and Sunday) and then I'm kissing it goodbye for the simple fact that I'd rather be a bit more broke but have a social life again. To kick start the social life, I'm meeting The Ladies for cocktails tonight during Happy Hour somewhere swank. You know you're middle aged when you meet up somewhere swank not to meet men but to sample something you couldn't otherwise afford... Also, I am attempting to corral a group of suitable friends to refer to as "The Ladies." My friends are scattered and largely collected from various jobs I've had (and left) and I don't have a solid group of homies. I'd love to be able to press "send" on just ONE group address in my phone and know that it's going to a group of people who, if they don't love me, at least like me a little. What I miss about college: getting that tight-knit group of friends you can hang with (and grow by.)

This is the part that makes me laugh: of the five women getting together tonight for cocktails, three were missionaries and the fourth is a Wiccan priestess. You can probably understand why I said the first round's on me--a few Singapore slings later, they'll be lovin' the Jesus and the Goddess out of each other. Or else.

Hot hot hot

It's actually not THAT hot--I've been here when it was into the 100's F/40's C, which is miserable. There's a thick cloud cover (I call it clouds, you call it smog) and the humidity is very very high. How high? It's over 80 percent humidity in my living room, and the bowl full of child-sized snack packs of raisins which I keep on the coffee table for tiny guests is now full of slightly soggy tiny cartons of plump, rehydrated raisins. It looks like some sick bunny planted them as a cruel cruel joke. One box actually exploded and I found what looked like soft pellets from an extremely large rabbit clinging to the bowl. Ugh.

So naturally, in this weather, it's time to look at different housing options. I was given the name of a realtor whom I told was "a real sharp gal." Two minutes after someone texted me her phone number, Realtor texted me herself. While I like good service, I dislike pushy people, so that was not a good start. Worse--she's Chinese--and I have learned that most Chinese realtors are as horrible as Western ones, if not more so, especially if they think you can't speak Chinese. I told her my requirements---location, MUST-HAVE Western Kitchen, dog-friendly, price, plus a few other key details. She got back to me and we agreed to meet.

Realtor had lined up five properties, three of which I knew immediately Wouldn't Work. For one thing the first two properties were 20 kilometers NORTH of the area I had described (in itself a very, very large area) and I don't have a car. As we floundered about on back country roads I asked, "So, how did you think I was going to get to work?" and she replied airily, "You can take bus." Uh, honey? No. First house: filthy. Huge. Filthy. Tons of furniture, owners STILL LIVING there, not available until September or October depending on when they could find somewhere else to live. Did I mention that I specified "empty, unfurnished, available August 1st"? No? Well, I certainly had told HER that. Second apartment: ideal in many ways, except for location, the fact it was located up one flight of rickety stairs, and did not have a Western kitchen--and by that I mean a proper oven, or the space in which to fit one. It was was stuffed full of the type of Nouveau Riche furnishings Chinese people think of as Western--think heavily tassled and embroidered tapestry, usually in red velvet with hunting scenes--which I call nouveau riche choinoise. Also, for some reason, one of the rooms had a round bed which struck me as being funny as I had just seen an ad for a round bed with bedding that made it look like a giant hamburger.

I vetoed going to the third place as it was a)out of my price range and b) the owner hated small dogs and had informed the realtor that if I wished to take the place my dogs would have to be put down. She actually asked me if I was willing to have my dogs killed to take this apartment. I said no, and resolved not to work with anyone that insensitive again. We went to place number four, which oddly enough was the best of the lost--it was huge, but it was filthy, and it had horrible furniture, BUT it had potential, largely because the kitchen was completely unfinished in the cheapest possible way---but it was large, there was room to put in a stove (and a sink too, come to think of it) and it had room for a refrigerator in the kitchen instead of my pet peeve, which is a fridge in the living room or worse, a BEDROOM. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, small room off kitchen that could serve as pantry but which at present time had a horrid bunk bed in it. When I say the place was filthy, I mean crack-house filthy, but then, so were most of the places we saw. Chinese are not notably good housekeepers, particularly renters. There's a type of settled filth that I always associate with new money Taiwanese, and for good reason (although my landlady in Taiwan was very very clean, and her house was spotless, my apartment was horribly dirty when I first moved in.) Anyway, most of the little emperors and empresses I have the bad luck of knowing can't clean and are not willing to shell out any money for a decent ayi and I've been in houses that had bedbugs, vermin, mountains of clothing left scattered everywhere, litter boxes that were criminal--you get the idea.

Fifth place: advertised at 120 square meters, but closer to 80, if that. Nicely furnished, but tiny, with a refrigerator by the front door. Tiny bedrooms. One closet, which is such a rarity it deserves a mention. The landlady/owner ascertained immediately that I could speak some Chinese yet this did not prevent her from making comments about my outfit, my weight, my general size--she even pointed out the bathtub and said I was too fat for it and I said coldly in Chinese, "You've managed with it just fine." For the record, I am a size fourteen--not huge, not slim, can fit into any airplane seat or carnival ride. Landlady had about 10 kilos on me. I said to the realtor, "Isn't this advertised at 120 meters? It feels like 80," and she said, "Yes, apartment is 80 but then the share of the common space outside and the hallway brings it to 120 or so." Yes, I LOVE paying rent on space in a hallway. Suddenly the landlady seized me by the arm and tried to propel me to the small balcony and so did the realtor--I don't know why, both exclaimed that I HAD to see the balcony and as I loathe loathe loathe strangers touching me I literally squirmed out of their grasp and headed off to the bedroom, both of them at my heels shrieking that there was NOTHING to be seen there, I had already seen it. Where is this wrong--for a customer to view something twice? At that point I decided this realtor was an idiot as well as a bitch and I had to get out of there, fast.

We left. Once outside I thanked her for her time and said, "None of the places you showed me have a Western kitchen. My biggest requirements are the location, dog-friendly, and a big kitchen with a Western oven because as I told you, I film a TV show in my house and I need a proper kitchen." This is her reply: "This is Western kitchen because it have sink."

Um, I've lived in China 20 years, and while I have had the worst kitchens ever--including one with a bathroom hand-sink in the kitchen, they've ALL had sinks. Realtor spoke very good English, and had found my friend an apartment with an oven--so what's the problem? I thanked her for her time and left. I didn't even want them to take me back to town. I walked out to the highway and got and cab and went to Ikea where I soothed my rage by buying a bat hand-puppet for the dogs to play with. When I got home, I ignored my work and watched the X-files until I felt more peppy. I mean REALLY, only in China would someone feed you a line of shit and then expect you to pay them for it while intoning "This is delicious foods!" I have a HUGE project due for grad school and I wasted a day in the heat looking at things which were completely unsuitable. Had I not told the bitch exactly what I was looking for, I'd take some responsibility for this, but COME ON! NOT ONE WAS SUITABLE GIVEN THE CRITERIA. And she knew it. Bitch.

Two Charming Pictures



Who's the cleanest?

Study Hard Every Day!

What does it say about me that I chose to post these rather than do what I should be doing, namely taking a shower and finishing up a paper for graduate school? Those who can, do: those who don't wanna, post about it.

Klingon Ho!

I don't write much about my mother, first for mortal fear of offending her, and second, from a dislike of supplying her with even more ammunition against me, but lately it's occured to me that since she doesn't read anything I write anyway, I'm probably in the clear.

My mother thinks I should learn Klingon. No, wait: let me rephrase that: my mother thinks I should move back home (because what's more attractive than a woman who is almost 50 who lives with her parents?) so that I can enroll in the local state college in a night class in Klingon. The point is not to learn Klingon, mind you, or to expand my glorious knowledge of linguistics, or to exercise my brain cells to prevent further deterioration. No: my mother wants me to take Klingon so I can Meet a Man.

Her reasoning: smart people learn Klingon. Smart nerdy men who don't have girlfriends learn Klingon. If I'm lucky, one of those smart nerdy virgins will simply not notice my age and be so thrilled to be in the proximity of my rapidly waning estrogen that he won't notice anything except my tatas, and be content. In other words, if he's over 18, my mother reasons, he's game.

There are some problems with this whole line of thinking. First of all, I know several people who are fluent in Klingon, including a Catholic priest with a Ph. D in linguistics, and trust me, he ain't interested. I also have several married male friends who are fine husbands and good fathers who speak Latin and Klingon and yes, even Esperanto, and guess what, they're not interested either. (Two way street, that.) On the flip side of the coin, I know several incredibly socially awkward young men who think they can speak Klingon, but who are far more likely to shout "Q'apla!" (sorry, didn't know where to put accent mark) and call it a day before they race home and squeeze themselves into the XXL vinyl authentic Klingon battle dress they ordered at Comic Con (damn those Klingon sizes! Pass me the talc!) 

I once knew one of those man boys: at 24 he worked as a fry cook at McDonald's, where he had flipped patties for 7 years without once making it off the fry line into counter service, or even drive-through. He wore the same vinyl coat (looks almost like real leather!) year in and year out, summer or winter: in fact, he wore it under his regulation McDonald's uniform but as the line leader was afraid of him nothing was said. It was not fear perhaps so much as an olfactory sense kicking in: in order to correct his behavior she would have had to get close enough to him to say something as delicate as "Take off that fucking piece of crap!" As I recall, when McDonald's stopped giving its workers free food, he decided to dine solely off those things which were free, namely condiments, and he began to feast on exquisite lunches of pickles, mustard, and ketchup, which didn't help the odor problem any.

As I related all this to my mother, her eyes glazed over, and she stared thoughtfully into the distance. Suddenly her eyes focused, and she glared at me. "Does he have a car?" she asked. "Yes," I replied, "It's a 70's model El Camino."  "Don't be such a snob. He can still take you places," she snapped. Hmm. Let's see. He's 24. I'm 47. Yes, there are so many places a couple in love can go, particularly when neither are thin and one is --how shall I put this?-- stinky.

My Tutor in Authentic Vulgarity

 When I have to work the weekend gig, I usually say the hell with economy and book a driver for myself. First of all, having spent the day listening to applicants rattle on decorative and insincere crap about Why They Want This Scholarship (which often consists of, "I am pretty girl go Murrica for MBA be luxury brand businesswoman") I don't want to join the group of people desperately searching for a taxi after work. One of the locations is particularly brutal and I've waited up to two hours in the cold and dark trying to flag down a taxi, only to give up and slink away to a subway that takes two hours and six changes in order to get home. I don't have the time, and my dogs don't have that large of bladders. Now I hire someone to come scoop me up and extract me like a watermelon seed and it's well worth every kuai.

I use the same driver I've used for several years, a pleasant rogue we refer to as "Uncle Driver." Uncle Driver has a heart of gold only where my daughter is concerned--he once literally carried her up four flights of stairs at the local hospital when she had appendicitis and the elevator was broken, hurting his own back so badly in the process he was out of work for a month. As for me--well, he tolerates me, knowing I pay well, and knowing also that when I have a good TV gig I'll throw as much work his way as possible, including featuring him on a segment I did for a talk show entitled, "True Stories of Beijing Taxis." Uncle Driver lived in another country doing construction for a number of years, plays the sax, and is fond enough of animals to drive my dogs and guinea pig to the vet when needed. He gets along with Ayi (the one who looks like Oprah) and he has, on occasion, been kind enough to haul something to my house, let himself in with a key, leave it there, then lock the house back up before heading on his merry way. He also fixes things. I may not have a husband but I do have a handyman, and considering I don't have to put out anything but cash, it works well for both of us.

Uncle Driver is the reason I swear so well in Chinese. He has a running commentary on everything which usually consists of "Stupid Cunt," muttered in tolerant, amused tones. This epitaph is frequently bandied about for a variety of reasons--a car crash, someone cutting him off, a light which changed color rather too quickly for his liking. Occasionally he throws in a more personally directed rant, a favorite being, "Did you just shoot our your mother's pussy?" For some reason, he's allowed to say this, but he finds it the height of bad taste if I say it. (Why, I don't know. I say it quite well.)

 As we raced through the traffic yesterday, he saw a large truck which had crashed into the traffic barriers. "Stupid Cunt," Uncle Driver said amiably. I started to laugh and sing, "Ni Bu Yao Xin Tai Ruan" which means, "Don't be so soft-hearted" and he gave a chuckle, the first I've raised off of him in seven years. Still, as he dropped me off, and I paid a very, very large taxi fee (the amount on the meter plus a special agreed upon "I had to wait for you for an hour" beck-and-call fee) I could have sworn, as he pocketed the money, that he smiled and muttered, "S*&*%d  C$^t."

Now with Even More Thrilling Updates!

In the past week I have worked MJN2 a total of four days (plus three more, starting today) cleaned out my classroom and office, carted all that shite to the appropriate place (garbage can, home office, and a division of spoils that rivaled the finest potlatch ever) and wrote a big, big paper for grad school. Oh yes, I also graded 147 final exams, including over 120 final essays, and calucated out the final grades for each of those little dears, plus I wrote two sets of reports on everybody--one set for the report card, one set (private comments) for the principal for next year's universiity reference letters. I also added a new member to the household menagerie, but he's in a cage and not any bother, so that's not really a major time committment. I also had my hair styled and colored and I loathe it, although it looks good, and I am longing for four weeks go pass so I can go back in to the stylist without him losing face and say blandly, "This cut is outgrown, let's try another style." (Yes, I am that nice.)

Hairstyles are not easy for me to deal with. My mother has yet to walk out of a beauty parlor without crying (although given the state of her hair, you'd think she'd be crying when she walked in.) It's a sensitive topic in our house--how often we cut, how much we pay, what style we chose. Basically, over here, if you find someone who can cut your Western hair without turning you into an eyesore, you stick with them forever. This person might be Chinese or Western, doesn't matter--but once they know you are hooked on them, forget what YOU want, you are now going to sport, forever, what they want you to have. I once used the most expensive foreign hairdresser/barber/hair stylist/whatever you call it in Beijing, who decided to make me blonde (yech) and at one point gave me a Florence Brady shag, flippy back piece and all. It was with great relief that I moved to the US for grad school so I didn't have to go back anymore, as he was the sort who would call and give reminders, as in "It's been three weeks since your last appointment, should I book you in for Saturday for a touch-up?" I did not leave him my number in the US.

I am not that fussy: I don't like to blow dry my hair at all, as it's really, really hot right now and I hate wasting time on shit like that. I find blow-drying is fine for a general dry-enough toss of the head, and that's it. Standing there wielding a hot, heavy machine while "flipping" my ends out is boring and I frankly don't have the time. I have what is known technically as a buttload of hair--tons of fine, straight hair--tons of it--which is best left alone. I like hair that's long enough to go into a chignon or something similar, without the use of horrible pins or clips, or hair short enough to stay out of my damn eyes and off my neck as I find both annoying in the extreme. In either words--- either a pixie cut or shoulder-length and tied up and back. So what did the new stylist give me? Hair too short to be pulled back, and yet long enough to annoy the hell out of me when I exercise, read, type, or wash dishes.

Since I don't want to be one of those women with the sad little ponytail of the terminally disappointed, I want a fresh new look, a cute crop which will be easy to manage and look more polished and professional. Now to convince the stylist that I am worthy of such a cut...evidently the 200 bucks I pay for coloring and cut, or the fact I can afford that much, is not enough. What do I have to do to force him to give me what I want---threaten his manhood, like I did the three-wheeled hunchback pedicab driver? Isn't the fact I am paying for a service ENOUGH to convince the stylist to give me what I am paying for? Well, over here, it's not. Sigh.

My Very Own Blacklist

I am putting together  a list of companies and schools NEVER to work for in China. This is based on my own experience with the organizations, as well as a handful of people I trust who have had verifiably awful run-ins with their place of employment. I won't put it up on the Net, but I will have it as a handy-dandy reference tool.

If you are considering taking a job in China as "an English Teacher" and you are NOT going to be working for a proper school --ie, International School of Beijing, Western Academy, BISS---send me your contact info and I will relate to you what I know about your future place of employment, or if possible, put you in touch with people who have worked there or are working there now.  You can take my word for it or leave it, it's up to you. If you are a properly certified teacher going to work for a proper school--the aforementioned--then no worries, as they are legitimate enterprises who know how to recruit, hire, and settle in new staff (and do it beautifully.)

But if you're going to some place you read about on Craig's List, or something of that ilk, let me give you an example of a tragedy that could have been avoided (had someone paid any attention whatsoever): an acquaintance had my contact info but did NOT contact me, came to China to "teach English" and found herself stuck in a distant city without working papers, under contract for the most punitive schedule I have ever seen, and being "home-stayed" with a family that expected her to sleep on the sofa while they stayed up all night playing cards, smoking,  and talking on the phone. She was expected to give English lessons on demand to anyone who walked into their house--for free, as partial payment for her share of the rent, and to pose for pictures on demand with anyone who asked for it--smiling and doing that horrid two-finger v thing the locals find so damned adorable.  She was told repeatedly she'd get paid after a month--one month came and went--no money. After two months, she finally got ahold of a mutual friend in China via email (she borrowed a student's phone) and said friend scooped in and extracted her like a watermelon seed. The family she was staying with demanded 6,000 RMB in "rent" for two months of living on a sofa (rent in that city is closer to 800 RMB for a two-bedroom apartment) and tried to hold the girl's suitcase and belongings. The police were called, at which point the school backed off because it turns out they had never processed any of the girl's paperwork, she was not legally entitled to work, and the paperwork allowing her to stay in that apartment had never been filed with the local police station. Who's in trouble now with the coppers, the girl or the school? I leave it to you to guess.

I have tremendous respect for the laws regarding employment, residence, and taxes, and legitimate employers will jump through the requisite hoops to hire legally. Schools and "consultancies" which are out to make a quick buck will not, and you, the foreigner, are at the mercy of the law if any issues are not resolved legally and cleanly. Because education is a venture with very high returns, extremely unscrupulous people, often foreign people with Chinese wives, or overseas Chinese, enter the business with no knowledge of business or education or language acquisition, and they make a fortune exploiting their clients and teachers. Trust me--I worked for a place for 300 bucks A MONTH and later found out they were billing my clients over 200 USD per hour--of which I received about four bucks. The "free" accommodation was in incredibly bad shape, they never gave me a telephone, or furniture for that matter, and I slept on a mattresson the floor. I am embarrassed to tell you how long it took to extricate myself from that mess. If only I had known...but I didn't and I let myself get thrown to the local wolves.

If you are coming here to teach, for goodness sake, do some research, contact people, network! Just because your first job offer doesn't pan out does NOT mean you shouldn't come out here--it just means you have spared yourself some unpleasantness and that leaves you open to the possibility of working somewhere decent and having an interesting time of it. There are a lot of smaller schools and agencies which will work you hard but treat you fairly, and it is very possible to walk into one of these situations and walk out at the end of a year having had a good time. Knowledge is power: use the internet to make your life easier. Remember--it's there for you to read AND share.