¡Que Sopresa!

Oh hey guys, guess what?

I'M BACK IN THE 'MERICA.

Yes, I have returned a tad earlier than I had previously anticipated. Well, that's a lie. It's really earlier than some of you had anticipated because I've been planning this for month. Months.

See, I decided when I bought my plane ticket home that I would give some people some big surprises because who doesn't love a surprise? Me, I don't. Well, they're fun and I can enjoy them, but I like giving them more! The joy, the tears, that small moment when you believe you might have given someone a heart attack, to that longer, more disappointing moment when you realize that they're not going down. Who doesn't love PLAYING WITH PEOPLE'S LIVES?

So now that I'm back, I'm going to answer all those questions that you totally want to ask me (Yes, I'm making the assumption that someone would ask these questions. I reserve the right to make up hypothetical situations in my mind that I believe could happen in real life).

Here we go:

1. Holy guacamole, you must be tired. Plane flight; how long?

Well, including layovers, 32 hours. Total flight time: about 18.

2. Oh my gosh, did the man next to you on the plane invade your space!?

How did you know?! He breached the unwritten rule of, "This is my armrest and that is your armrest." I might have noticeably pushed his arm a few hundred times during the 13 hours.

3. Isn't The 'Merica just so great?

Yeah, and quiet. Where are all the people?

4. These are all the people.

Really?

5. Really.

Oh.

6. Welcome back to the land of preservatives!

Thank you, glad to be back. But isn't Oreo a preservative? Because I'm pretty sure I ate enough of those paired with McDonald's to preserve my body for the next millennium (But wouldn't that seriously be cool if my body was so well preserved from the chemicals in the food that I ate that future archaeologists just found me perfectly preserved, skin and all, eating a doughnut off the ground or something? This is assuming we have a sudden disaster that kills everyone. Like Vesuvius, but much less...ashy.)

7. What do you miss?

Dodging cars in traffic BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE. But seriously, I miss some foods (Cheap noodles everywhere!), cheap public transportation, and other things that I'm sure I'll be aware of the more time that I'm back.

8. So you totally speak Chinese now, right?

Wo jiao Ryan. Wo xi huan noodles. Wo bu hui shuo hao zhongyue ...ni shi xigua.

9. What it's like being  back in the 'Merica?

You've been here for awhile, so it must be pretty OK.

Glad to be back y'all.

Things I Didn't Know: Part II

Oh look at that! We're back to things about China that I didn't know but forgot to tell you about last time! Is there an acronym for that? Yes, it's TACTIDNBFTTYALT. It's not the easiest to remember or say, but if you could slip it into everyday conversation, that'd be great (I'm trying to make it a thing).

Yes, these are more things that I instantly remembered as soon as the original post had been up for about a day. I sat on the bus and smacked myself in the head--not only because the bus lurched to a stop, but also because how could I forget some of these things? So without further ado, here are more things I didn't know about China (Also, I'm not done editing the other post that I really wanted to get up because sometimes I want things to be perfect. Not super perfect, but pretty dang good. I didn't want there to be such a large gap between posts and this one probably won't be edited much or at all! This is for youuuuuuuuu. Writing something in a list form is just so much easier and it means that I can listen to music and eat Oreo's while I write instead of concentrating really hard--and typos are just so much easier to ignore! I mean, it's like if I promised you guys a cake in two weeks, but halfway through that I decided to give you cookies. They're probably store bought, but they're still cookies, so you can't complain. Just take the cookies!):

1.* How Lines Work
They don't. Really more of the fact that they don't exist to an extent. I'll use the example of waiting for the bus: People wait in a large clump where the bus will be. When the bus arrives, everyone just kind of walks as a collective clump to try and attempt to board the bus. If you've ever tried to shove a ball of hamsters through a vacuum tube (not that I have), you know that it doesn't exactly work very well. This also applies to getting off the bus. Take the hamster metaphor, but imagine the hamsters coming out of the tube (Not that I've done that either.) Never have I ever strong-armed so many people.

2. Belly Shirts
For ladies? Of course not! I first arrived in China at the beginning of summer when the temperature was just starting to climb. Eventually, the heat reached what I would call the "unbearable" zone and an interesting phenomenon began: the belly shirts. Men between the ages of 20's to late middle age (Some older, too.) began to roll up their shirts to just below their nipples. This could be on the bus, in the elevator, or just a nice stroll on the town. Just...bellies, everywhere. The cold has now put the bellies back from where they came, but I know once it gets above 65 degrees, they will reemerge...

3. Bangs
As far as I can tell, bangs are really in right now for Asian women. It could be the population density that I live in, but I'd guess that about 50% of women have bangs that are cut straight across, right above their eyes. (Which of course reminds of this old commercial that I enjoy.)

4. Hot Water
I may have talked about this before, but double the information for you! Hot water has magic properties. At least, that is what I'm led to believe. You have a small cold? Hot water. Your back hurts? Hot water. You've been stabbed? Hot water...and maybe a trip to the hospital. I've been recommended to drink hot water for all of these things (minus the stabbing) to see if it helps. I guess I can't say it doesn't work, but I can say I've scalded my mouth more than I ever have before when water used to be so innocent.

5. Backstreet Boys
They had a tour here recently which means I hear my childhood on the radio a lot. Every time those songs come on I get flashes of Pokémon cards and Beanie Babies.

6. Spitting.
Oh sweet Beyoncé above us, the spitting! It can be sly and dribble out the mouth, or a loud hacking accompanied by a noisy spat, but it all goes to the same place: the ground. Be you old woman or teenage boy, you spit what you want, when you want, where you want.

7. Baby Clothes (How did I forget this one?)
There is this interesting little modification to baby clothes here. Almost each and every pair of baby pants comes included with a slit that goes from crotch to bum. Yes; also the babies don't wear underwear a lot (and diapers are a rarity). These handy little slits mean that the baby can just release the floods (1 & 2) whenever they feel like it. Places such as: On the bus onto your feet; in the Walmart garbage can; multiple street corners;  and playgrounds.

There are more things to give you entertainment for a while. Remember, just take the cookies.



*Can you guys also not get on my case about the numbering? I know this is a semi-continuation of the old list, but now it's new numbering because I want it to be. I am God in this situation.

Things I Didn't Know

Recently I read an article that was a compilation of people's thoughts and observations about America when they were living there for the first time (The article is actually titled 16 People On Things They Couldn't Believe About American Until They Moved Here). It's a whole lot of perspective on what we as a society consider "normal," or at least pretty native to the US.

With this in mind, I thought I'd try and give my own list of what I've experienced living in a city in China.

Let me be clear and preface this with: These are my own experiences and I am not generalizing them to the culture or country as a whole. It may be that I've only seen/experienced an isolated occurrence, so please don't get on my case saying things like, "But I went to that same city and I didn't have any of those happen to me!" or, "You're taking things out of context and RUINING NATIONS." or, "I really wish you would tell me the recipe for your chocolate chip cookies, they're just so delightful!" We might have been to the same place, but this is my life. Also, I'll die before I tell you the recipe, Barbara. Trying to steal my spotlight at the county fair each year, you harpy.

Let's begin:

1. Traffic
Holy Hannah Montana the traffic! People had told me that the traffic was a little ridiculous, but I really didn't know what they meant. I think the only rule that applies is that there are no rules. If you want to change lanes, you swerve into the other lane. You may do this if you're a small e-bike or a 2-ton bus; it really doesn't matter. Pedestrians walking into the middle of a crowded intersection? No problem; just walk a little quicker grandma. (The sad thing is that I've gotten used to this and if a taxi isn't cutting people off, I think it's going too slow).

2. Sqautter Toilets
The actual preferred method of excreting your bowels is by squatting. To do so, there's usually a toilet like structure planted into the ground where you just do your business. I'm still not good and and probably won't ever be good at mastering this skill. I'm alright with that. Also, there's usually no toilet paper in the stalls.

That's a squatter in case you didn't know.

3. Grocery Shopping

Grocery shopping is much more frequent here than it is in the states. People don't usually buy things to stock up for a week or two, but usually opt just for what they need to make the meals for the next day or so. After the meal is made and everyone has eaten, a lot of the time the excess is thrown out.

4. Credit & Cash
Most stores in my city don't accept credit cards. The preferred method of payment is debit or plain old cash. Thinking back, I usually never carried much actual cash in the states whereas now that's really all I deal with.

5. Pay As You Go Plans
As far as I know, monthly subscriptions to most things don't exist. Your phone bill you pay for until the credit runs out, your gas until the gas is out, the internet until you use all your data, and your bus card until you've taken so many trips. Depending on how much you use something, this can be beneficial (seeing as how my phone bill comes to about 30$ in the past six months).

6. Eating Out
Having a dinner party at one's home is mostly unheard of here. Usually, the home is reserved for immediate family. If one has a guest they'd like to treat to a meal, they always take them out to a restaurant.

7. Eating Out Part II
Eating dinner at a restaurant can mean a very long meal. It's rude to just leave mid-meal without the host suggesting that the dinner is over, so sometimes you gotta get comfy.

8. Transportion
Everyone takes public transportation. It's a lot more convenient and reliable than most American cities--also cheaper. Having a car in the city is more a sign of wealth and status than it is the only mode of transportation.

9. Long Pinky Nail (or other fingers)
Exactly what it sounds like. I still do not know what the utility of it is. Is it for aesthetics? Protection? Opening cans of soda?

10. Chinese Food is Spicy (and Other Things)
Really, I just didn't know it was that spicy. Generally, there are also more bones in a meat dish and lots of fish are served with the face still attached. Congealed blood? I didn't know that was a dish. Restaurants serve a lot more of the animal than US restaurants do.

11. No Tipping
Really, no tipping. Never ever. You just don't. (I've been told that it's offensive, but I don't have enough solid facts to say that's the sole reason, though it could be).

12. Portion Size
I guess I should have expected this, but gone are the days of a really large order. Drinks are about the size of an American small (if that even exists anymore) and dinner is usually served on a small plate where you can dish up your own portions. What I would kill for an Iceberg milkshake...

13. Fruit on Pizza.
NO.

There you have it as that's what I can think of right now. Like I said before, this is just my experience and it's to try and give you a little better look at my current life. Who doesn't want to step into my shoes? They really don't smell that bad. Do you know whose shoes smell bad? My neighbor who puts his shoes outside his door into the hallway in my apartment building. The entire hall just ruined by rancid feet smell. One of these days I'm going to throw them out the window, but I'm also afraid to touch them because they smell so bad.

...So in comparison, my feet really aren't that bad.

Sandwiches

I found myself wanting Subway on a Friday night. After having eaten authentic Chinese food all week, I was craving some small slice of America (preferably with turkey, tomato, and some mayo). With there being two Subways in the area, I decided to hit up the one closest to the night market. This way I would be able to hit two birds with one stone; a wonderful mediocre sub and a busy market with things I'll never need but I always love to look at.

The small journey began as going to Subway is actually a small trek. Unlike my old city with a Subway built in my backyard, basement, and infesting every street corner; I would have to take a bus across town. When I say town, I mean through rush hour Chinese traffic. Take a pickle. Now shove that pickle through some peanut butter. You have about the same effect. Still, I was set on getting my sub so I headed out.

After sitting on the bus pressed up against a bunch of the Zhengzhou natives, I walked a few blocks to my destination: Subway! Oh, sweet glorious American capitalism invading each country coast to coast. On my final street cross, I jogged up an elevated sidewalk and down the other side where I spied a woman sitting on the stairs jingling a small cup filled with coins. I quickly thought about how I didn't have any small bills, so I walked quickly by and hopped down the stairs.

Subway was in sight...but so was another symbol of the American way, McDonald's. Despite my hour trek and my initial reason to make my way over to this part of town in the first place, my brain suddenly wanted a hamburger.

No, Ryan; you came over here for Subway. 

But, hamburger.

I know, but do you really need to eat that junk?

Yes.

Well, OK then.

I didn't struggle too long before I walked underneath the glowing yellow 'M' and through the doors. I made an order and, like its name, the food was fast. Sitting down, my mind kept going back to the old woman on the stairs.

Weeks before, I had been going to a trivia night with my old roommate, Jake. We would always walk through an underpass and occasionally there would be people sleeping underground in the alley-like structure. "You know," I said, "some people can really just sleep anywhere." Jake didn't really respond. When we made our way to the top, Jake told me to go on ahead and that he'd be there soon. Instead of doing as he suggested, I came with him to wherever he was going (mostly out of curiosity). We found our way into a small convenient liquor store (because most stores are just liquor with random things scattered here and there) where Jake bought a few bottled drinks. I decided I was thirsty, so I bought one too. When we walked out the door, I began walking towards our original destination but Jake was walking back towards the underpass. Huh?

I followed, still oblivious to what was going on, as we made our way back down the stairs. Jake went back the way we came and set a drink by each of the men sleeping on the ground. Yup. Douchebag, was all the echoed through my head.

Growing up, I had always been taught to usually ignore homeless people because a lot of the time they weren't actually homeless, just scamming people. I really took that mentality with me everywhere, putting on these people blinders so I could walk by without being accosted. In my mind, I had made these people nothing and forgot that these people actually were homeless. No home. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And here I was making a joke about how they were able to sleep on the ground. Douchebag.

Back to McDonald's, I'm sitting there remembering my former douchebaggery and I kept thinking to the woman outside on the stairs. Maybe this would be the opportunity to redeem myself. I stared down at my three sandwiches: two small cheeseburgers and a chicken sandwich. Would she really enjoy any of these? I told myself that she probably wouldn't. I ate my two hamburgers and being full, I took it as a sign that she was meant to have the chicken sandwich. Yes, by this point, I was accepting that fast food from a mega-corporation were giving me existential signs.

Cleaning up my garbage, I headed back outside with sandwich in tow to see if the woman was still on the stairs. She looked to be cleaning up and moving on, so I hurried towards her.

"Ni hao..." I held out the sandwich and she gingerly took it, not really looking up to see what she was actually taking. When she looked down in her hands she had a slightly confused look on her face as if this was definitely not what had been expecting. Without missing a beat, I kept making my way up the stairs not really wanting to see what would happen next. I had that little light feeling I get when I've deemed something I've done worthy of correcting all past misdeeds. It was a chicken sandwich of karmic justice, it was.

Then I coughed. Oh shit. The past week I had been sick. The kind of sick with loose bowels, dry heaving, and a nasty cough. I had also just given a chicken sandwich that I had handled to a homeless stranger.

I walked a little faster.

Murdered As An Adult

"I really shouldn't be buying these..." I said to myself as I picked up a packet of Milano cookies at the local Wal-Mart. These tasty little cookies had always been something I had deemed "too-pricey" for my treat category and had always secretly desired them but never actually bought them. I mean, how could a small packet of cookies cost five dollars. Were they magic cookies? Did they come with small gold nuggets? Were they being endorsed by Oprah? Better yet, she should make an appearance when you open the package. "Well, I guess it is in my budget to try them..."

The cookies were packed in my backpack along with the other spoils from the grocery store and I made my way back to my apartment. By the time I opened my door, everything was dark out leaving me to have my hands crawl along the wall looking for a light switch. Find it find it quick! With a switch of the light, I set down my groceries and quickly went back to the door to fasten the dead bolt. The small click I heard meant I would live another day.

Recently, my friend Beth sent me a link to a series of scary and bizarre stories (66 stories to be exact). Normally I really like being scared, but like most things that I do I tend to over-think them. One scary story gives me a smile. Twenty makes me begin to check the locks on the windows. Forty and I've locked myself in my room hiding underneath the blankets. I start to hear sounds I've normally heard (plumbing, creaking, neighbors fighting) and now they've become sinister. Around every corner was death of some kind and there was no way to escape it.

This continued for a few days. Me going to bed, double-checking everything to make sure no people-face-wearing murderers were lurking behind my couch or hiding under my bed. Each day I'd chip away at some of the Milano cookies as well. Why would anyone buy these? There just aren't enough, even if they are pretty good. I was forcing myself to ration these cookies believing that I would never actually buy them again. What was stopping me though? Nothing.

As I lay in bed one night listening to the sounds of a murderer scratching on my door, I came to the weird realization that this was my adult life. Never before had I been allowed to "splurge" on name-brand cookies just to see what they really tasted like. Never before had I had enough time to eat these cookies and then worry about if I was going to live to see the next day.

In my head, adulthood was a phase that I was going to reach with some sort of obvious "Ah-ha!" moment. It was going to be something special like me renting my first car, having an embossed business card, or realizing I pay too much for cable; it was supposed to be special.

Really, I wanted it to be special. I wanted there to be one specific moment that I would be able to pass on to younger generations and really be able to give them some wisdom. "You know, Tiny Tim, the first moment I knew I was a real adult was when I helped my friend hide the body of that asphyxiated stripper." I'd get my adult card in the mail and adult magazine would arrive at my house every month...not that kind of magazine.

But that wasn't how it turned out. Without thinking, I jumped into the fast lane of adulthood by buying five dollar cookies. Now I have to acknowledge my cookie choices and start worrying about when I'll pay too much for cable (which won't be soon considering I don't own a TV). What else do adults do? Wash their hair every other day? Make investments? Buy three dollar cookies?

All these important decisions and here I was, stuck with my 5 dollar cookies on a road to destruction. This was what adult life was going to be like: worrying about irrational things like expensive designer cookies while there are real problems like a man with chainsaws for hands in my closet.

Egg

This morning I had to catch a taxi to the airport. I headed out of my apartment pretty early to sit on the empty streets waiting for an empty taxi to drive by. The first one some strangers stole from me, but I caught another one as it was crossing the intersection.

Whenever I need to use certain Chinese words, I always make sure to look them up before whatever situation I'll be in. I then repeat the words over and over in my head and out loud. This way, I can anticipate the question and give my rehearsed answer. I know it's not much for learning a language, but it's coming along.

Today, the word was 'airport.' All I had to say to the driver was that I needed to go to the airport. The day before this though, I had been practicing a few other words.

"Where are you going?" the taxi driver asked.

"Zhengzhou egg."

"..."

"Egg. Egg."

"Do you mean airport?"

I looked down at my small pocket dictionary and then held it up to show him the character.

"Airport," he said.

I looked back down again. Sure enough, I had been trying so hard to remember the word that I spit out the first similar word that I knew. Egg.

"Yes, airport," I said.

China: 150 points. Ryan: 0

You win this time, China.

Why I Can't Teach Forever

If you didn't know, I teach English to small children in China. Children between the ages of 3-7, to be specific. I'm going to preface this with the fact that I really do like my job, I do. Small children who babble Chinese at me are pretty cute and it's actually really enjoyable to see their progress when they start shouting English words at me for no other reason than because they can. Guys, they even like me. They genuinely enjoy interacting with me on a daily basis. It's strange. There are even those moments that make you go, "Ahhhh," like this one:

and this one:

(And yes, I am only showing you these because they're cute. Inflate my ego.)

But I've decided that I really can't do this forever. Here is my list of why I shouldn't teach English forever:

1. Sticky everything

Little children are just sticky all the time always.Whether it's snot coming out their nose, or food covering their hands, it's always there. Then they want to touch me.

2. I've thought on more than one occasion "I really wish this kid would stop hugging me..."

3. One can only sing Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star, so many times (this also includes all other nursery rhyme teaching songs).

4. I'm tall enough that a kid's fists are at crotch level. You do the math.

5. The younger kids sometimes get so upset they throw up. On me.

6. Educational videos for children are terrifying.

Whoever made those things did too many drugs while reading the dictionary.

7. I've been tempted to "Trunchbull" (from the hit comedy/drama/sci-fi thriller, Matilda) a kid out the window.

Don't worry, these feelings pass.

8. I've wanted to tell some of the parents that their kids act like little shits.

But I don't. Because some of them are. They're still cute, but I will discipline them, and they might cry.

9. Playing Head, Shoulders, Fingers, Toes, is quickening the arthritis in my knees.

10. Pee.

I do love these kids, but I've been able to cross off teaching children on my list of jobs for the future. Like my friend Tamara says, "Kids are like farts. Your own are tolerable, but other people's are unacceptable and gross."

Bargaining

I've recently discovered that I like bargaining. It's such a large part of this culture and I really hadn't taken much part in it because I usually got this stressed feeling debating over how much I thought an item was worth with the seller. My upbringing just wanted to pay for something at a set price--none of this proving that something I was buying was worth it!

Then I went to Beijing.*

My old roommate Jake gave me the run-down of what to do:

-Look for flaws in whatever you're buying because there might actually be some and then you can haggle down the price. This also makes them prove to you that it's quality (Like when you buy a bag and they hold a lighter up to it to prove that it's real leather).

-Start pretty low so you can work up.

-Talk about how you saw said item at another booth (this will get the seller to talk about how theirs is better). Example: Gee, I saw this same bag at the booth right over there. I'm sure they'd give me a better price.

-If all else fails, start to walk away. Never have I had so many Chinese women yell at me about how they were "lying," because now they can really give you a better price.

-If their boss starts yelling at them to accept the offer, then you know it's too much. Walk away man, just walk away.


With all this in mind, I went in for my first kill. We were in a 4 story department-like store where they had booths for every kind of thing you can imagine; bags, shirts, electronics, fragrances, trinkets; all the things. Working up a courage, I went to my first booth. I was nervous and had to keep fighting for a price I wanted over a bag that I was pretty sure I was invested in. My heart was pounding and I was getting really frustrated...but then I won! We both settled on a price and she told me, "Oh, you're just too smart." Yes I am, thank you very much. I had that kind of rush like you get after bidding on something from eBay. I had to do more.

Over the course of the hour, I perfected my bargaining and was getting a weird rush out of thinking I was getting the best deals around (though I'm sure that they were always getting the better deal no matter what). At one point a lady told me I was lying to her when I said I didn't have enough money to pay what she was asking. Yes, she said I was lying because, "You're American and rich."

It's a very loud setting and also cramped for space. All the booth operators yell at you if you so much as glance at their wares and I happened upon a large purse booth. The woman running it was holding a bag and began to speak to me.

"Hey, would you like to buy a bag for your girlfriend."

"No, I don't have a girlfriend."

Should I have engaged? No, you never engage. The goal is to pretend that you're Frodo fending off the Ring Wraiths after he puts on the ring--you just ignore it.

"Oh, well how about for your mother, I think you should get a purse for your mother." she said to me, smiling.

"No, I think that my mother is OK too. She already has a purse."

"Yes, but I think that she'll like this purse." she said to me, holding up the bag in her hand.

"Actually I don't think that she will."

"How do you know what your mother will like?"

"Oh, I know."

"I don't think you do."

Oh. No. She. Did. Not.

I had been walking away but I was now rooted on the spot. Had she really questioned my authority on knowing a woman that she has never met? How could I pass up this opportunity to engage in a conversation that wasn't really necessary? At the time, I really didn't know why I was engaging either, but I did.

"I know what she likes. She wouldn't like that purse."

"Yes she would. All women would like this purse, it's Prada."

"Yeah, well I don't think it's a very nice purse."

"It IS a nice purse. I know that your mother would like it."

"No she would not and I don't want to buy it."

"You don't know."

The nerve. I wanted to take that purse and set it on fire, screaming something like, "HOW DO YOU LIKE IT NOW? WOULD SHE LIKE IT NOW?," but I have a modicum of self control. Also, I was lacking kindling.

I turned my back on the woman as she was still speaking, trying to get me to come back. No lady, you would receive no niceties now that you besmirched my own knowledge of my mother. This had to be remedied with another win.

So, I turned the corner and figured I'd try at my hand again at the woman who "lied" to me.


*If you were wondering, a lot of people in Beijing speak English. Otherwise this would not be at all possible. I've haggled a couple times in Chinese and never got great prices. One time I offered a man a price he deemed offensive because he grabbed the trinket from my hand. Just snatched it right up.

Sick

I've been sick for the past week. When things like this happen, I can never think back to a source because I always tell myself that I'm some sort of beacon of health. Then I remember instead of making real food for dinner, I substituted cereal. That before giving me a high five, a five year old Chinese student plucked his hand out of his nose. That the pollution in my city is often deemed "hazardous" to my health. Those kind of things.

While I've been sick, I've still been going to work because taking a few days off isn't a super big option for me. I mean, the children need to learn English, right? The first few days weren't terrible as I'd occasionally substitute a few words in a children's song with coughing and sniffling. But then came the body aching. If I had no need to move, this wouldn't have been a problem, but the children. Picking up, setting down, fending off their hugs. I sound like some sort of monster denying small Chinese children from hugging me, but it's actually rather terrifying. One kid runs up to embrace your leg and before you know it there are 25 pairs of little hands hanging off your pants pockets, pulling your shirt, and untying your shoelaces. It's like dropping a co-ed in a scary movie into a lake infested with piranhas: you know they're doomed.

I struggle and have even tried to say, "No hugging!" but that usually doesn't do me any good. Stop it children, stop loving me.

At one point, one of my student's parents noticed I my condition. "You know," he said, "you should drink some hot water." I've discovered that hot water is basically the remedy for any malady here in Asia. You're sick? Hot water. Back aches? Hot water. You lost your cat and you're apartment just went up in flames? Better get some hot water.

 With my first day off, I started to go to that place in my mind where everything is the extreme. What if this wasn't just some sort of flu-like illness? Yup, I definitely had to have Japanese-encephalitis and my brain was about to turn into jelly. Yes, I know you took certain vaccinations to prevent this, but the nurse said that it wasn't actually 100% effective, just more of a precautionary thing. What other Asian viruses could I have garnered here?

I stopped myself before going to WebMD which we all know causes mental instability as every symptom comes out to be something like:

-Oh, you have a headache? You must have a malignant brain tumor and you're going to be dead within the hour.

-You have a small dry patch on your elbow? Definitely leprosy.

-You cracked a nail? Better get the arm taken off.

Instead, I waited around for my brain to turn to jelly. The tissues piled up in the corner as I stopped caring to make them into the wastebasket and Netflix became my only companion. This was it, this was how my life was going to end. Listening to fireworks go off at 9 in the morning for no particular reason while episodes of 30 Rock played in the background--and me, slowly feeling my brain turn into chowder as I reach for another spoonful of cereal and take a sip of some hot water.

That, or I just have the flu.

"Cool" Hair

I dyed my hair recently. By recently, I mean within the past month or so and I kind of just neglected to tell anyone about it. I mean, I can't do all the things all the time. There's just so many movies that are calling my name! Netflix takes a hold on me and clings on like a gator pulling down a Floridian.

Dyeing hair is something really foreign to me. I've never really done it before and when I was younger, I just figured that it was something that disturbed teenagers did when they needed to "express" themselves. This could be categorized as that part of my life that I never got to experience, the disturbed teenager breaching the confines of my mental walls.

My hair hadn't been cut since before I got to China and I had honestly been avoiding it.  The obvious language barrier would keep me from saying exactly what I wanted done and who knows what I would come out with. Gigantic purple spikes? Bright blue mohawk? How about all the things because I have no idea what I'm doing. Lord knows I was horrified that I'd have to shave my head again. But, the heat had been getting to me, so I gave in. My roommate Jake had gotten his hair cut recently, so I looked into where.

"Oh, I'll just show you where it is."

Saturday morning, I hopped on a bus to meet Jake a stop where he took me to a salon. After a quick walk through a park, we came upon the building. The outside had two spinning barber poles (what I would have to assume was a good sign) large plate glass doors. Walking in, to my right was the reception desk with a sign reading, "Worship of Fashion" hung above it. The floors were white, as were the walls and fixtures. A rather immaculate looking place. I motioned (quite literally) that I wanted my hair cut and they ushered me over to the standard barber chair. There happened to be one employee there who spoke English and they had summoned her to deal with me.

"So, what do you want?"

What did I want? I had told myself coming in that I just needed a haircut, but part of me also wanted to put a streak of color in my hair. Nothing too extreme, just a stripe down the side. I'm aware that doing this usually proclaims that your hair is now trying to make some kind of statement. I'm not really one who tries too hard to give speeches with their hair, so I figured that if things went south, I could buzz everything off.

"Just buzz it on the sides and don't take too much off the top." This is the haircut that I have found to most flatter my weird head. It's easy to maintain while still hinting that I have a little bit of self-respect to take care of my hair. During all of this, my roommate Jake was at the front desk trying to explain everything that I wanted dyed. He came over to me with an outline of a human head.

"OK, so show them where you want to put the color."

I honestly hadn't thought out the plan this far and couldn't really give an answer. I ended up deciding to get the hair cut first, then save the dyeing for last.

"What do you want to do?" The female employee asked again in plain English.

"Well, I want it short on the sides, like...that guy." I said, pointed to one of the other salon employees.

"But his hair is permed."

"I can see that, I just want it like his hair."

"Then we're going to need to perm your hair."

"No, I just want you to shave it short on the sides."

The girl quickly conversed with the man who was currently cutting my hair and she came back to me with this message:

"He says that your hair is not like his. It won't look good."

Well that's exactly what I wanted to hear.

Eventually, we came to a compromise on the actually way to cut my hair. I tried to guide them the best I could with a few words here and there, but I let him go and hoped he'd do his best.

After all my excess locks had fallen to the floor, the man went and brought out a large book. This was apparently the bible of hair colors because upon opening, I saw the rainbow. Every which color was available and I started to doubt my original plan of a simple red. Did I really want red, or was blue better? Purple? The American flag dyed into the side of my head with a skull and crossbones made out of every color at the back!

"You probably don't want to go too bright of red, you know."

Jake was right, now was not the time to get carried away. In the end, I had them choose a middle ground between two different shades of red.

"OK."

The plunge began. The combed out my hair and procured a little basin of colorful goo that smelled like bleach. The man put on some plastic gloves and commenced to comb out my hair in the specified spot and apply the goo with his special comb. I had nothing to do but sit and smile. I mean, what does one do waiting for their hair to color? They answered this for me by handing me a Chinese fashion magazine. I will admit that I love flipping through these kinds of magazines, but I had to feint reading so as not to look completely inept. Sorry I can't read Chinese characters.

While I wait, the man left a plastic glove plastered to the top of my head. I still have no idea what normal procedures are in this type of situation, so I figured this was normal. By this time, all the other patrons of the hair salon had left, which left the me to the mercy of all the employees. One by one, they would come by, put on the plastic glove stuck to my head, and pick through my hair what I assumed was making sure all was going according to plan. At one point, I had every employees surrounding me, quickly talking to one another while pointing at my head. I felt like a patient on an operating table.

"Quick! Grab the shears!"

"Oh no! We need a comb, STAT. He's not going to make it!"

"His vitals are low. Someone grab the hair dryer!"

What was only ten or fifteen minutes felt like an eternity as hands fussed over my head. My salvation came when the female employee who spoke some English told me I could get up and have them wash my hair. After a quick rinse, I sat back down in the chair to stare at the creation on my head. It was definitely...red. Just down my head. My thoughts jumped from, "What have you done!?" to, "I think it looks pretty good." to, "Grab the buzzer, now!"

After getting my hair cut, I'm usually dissatisfied with it. While this could be operator error or simple mis-communication, I just don't think my hair looks nice after a hair cut. It always reminds me of a baby duck, with the hair sticking up every which way. This leaves me in the moral dilemma of what to tell the hairdresser. There is the part of me that wants to request some type of re-cut, but I never can. I tell myself that this will only offend them since they had already spent so much time shearing everything off to what they thought I'd want. These are the people who hold your hair in their hands--you can't offend them. I honestly think there is never anyone who is pleased with their initial haircut but we all do what I do: Opting for a large smile and tell them that it's "Great!" and then walk to the car and pull their hairs screaming, "WHY?"

They all seemed so happy, though. Each employee standing over me beaming at the work they had done as a group. Like I had been some hideous street bum and they had transformed me into the Cinderella of haircuts. They even styled my hair so that I'd have something to go home with.

"You look much cooler than when you came in." the Chinese girl said to me.

"Well, thank you very much. I think I do too." I said walking towards the door followed by each employee.

I paid at the counter and waved goodbye as each employee stood by the door watching me go. I made sure to be out of eyesight of the door to put my cap back on.

The Frenchie In The Elevator

I've been learning Chinese progressively as I try and establish my life here in Zhengzhou. When I first got here, my vocabulary consisted of only, "Hello," "What," and "Hello, how are you?"

To supplement, one of the first things I learned was the phrase for, "I don't understand." I've used this in basically every occasion you can think of. Now that my understanding of Chinese is getting a little better, I try and use it less, but people talk quickly so I'm subject to what I know.

Today I arrived at my building and ran to the elevator as the doors were slowly closing. Missing the elevator is basically the worst waiting game since everyone ever seems to be leaving or entering the building and it can take awhile for it to go all the way up and down (I've waited 10 minutes to get out of my building before. Why didn't I take the stairs? Because I live on the fourteenth floor and I do that justification thing where I've already been waiting for long enough so I just have to stay.). I reached the button just in time and climbed into the elevator where an older woman walked in after me.

As the doors closed, the woman looked at me and said something quickly. It was only minutes later that I understood it to vaguely mean, "You barely got in," but at the time I had no idea what she meant so I relied on my go to phrase.

"I don't understand."

She looked at me with a rather quizzical look. This phrase can backfire because when you say, "I don't understand." A lot of the time, Chinese take that for meaning you didn't hear or catch the meaning, so they say it again. I also see the irony that I'm saying I don't understand in the language I'm not understanding.

She looked at me and said, "You don't understand..." I looked down at her and smiled, trying to not really engage and just make it to my floor. The elevator bounced and opened up on the fifth floor where two other women hopped along for the ride. The first woman in the elevator turned to the first two and pointed at me,

"He told me he doesn't understand."

"He doesn't understand?" said the other women.

"Yes, he said he doesn't understand, in chinese." said the first woman

The group looked up at me and laughed a bit, repeatedly saying, "He doesn't understand..." followed by a little chuckle. The other two women arrived at their floor and exited the lift which left me and my first companion. We shortly rode to her floor and as the doors were beginning to open, she muttered to herself,"

"Ugh, French."

French? "No," I said in English, "I'm American," I said in Chinese.

She looked me up and down, shook her head, and walked out of the elevator.

Throwing Up

It's been one of the few days that I've decided not to wear my headphones on the way home from my kindergarten. I usually wear them to drown out the noise and also to avoid general conversation, but the new headphones I have don't really cooperate with the size of my ear-hole and after awhile they begin to hurt. Not that these headphones really stop anyone from talking to me here anyways, but I always hope that the western influence will leak over and that social barrier will come into effect.

Without my headphones, I got to hear a little splash on my last bus. It was right next to me and was accompanied by a wet feeling on my foot. Great, someone must have spilled some kind of juice all over me. I turned and expected to find some child being scolded by their mother for spilling their drink. I kept looking. And looking. I turned my head up and found the source of the liquid; a twenty-something year old man with glasses and little wet spots all down the front of his grey-blue polo. Then I noticed this was dripping down from his mouth.

Bodily fluids usually fall into a category that most people can agree upon as things that don't belong on anyone but yourself. Swallowing our own spittle: acceptable. Even consider swallowing another person's spittle: completely unacceptable beyond all reason. I'm not a stickler when it comes to sharing food or drink, but the very idea that someone else has inserted their saliva into something I'm about to consume makes my whole body seize up. I think this goes along with eating things off the ground. As a child, I'm sure I wouldn't have hesitated to rescue a fallen piece of chocolate had it escaped my grasp, no matter where it came to land. But like most people, I grew into a greater knowledge that ground food is off limits. Every single day I see children under the age of five picking food off the floor and stuffing it into their small mouths without a second thought. Basically anything can go into their mouth as far as they're concerned.

What really gets me now is the weird defining difference that I feel about these things whether they're coming from an adult or a child. If a child has their hand in their mouth and wants a high five, I try and steer them towards using the other hand, but if they manage to grab me, I try not to mind. Even when one student got so upset that their mother left them at school that they vomited all over my foot, I was surprisingly not very agitated. A quick wipe from a tissue and the vomit went out of my head.

But with an adult, there is a comfort threshold that is breached. All of the sudden my senses are heightened and I can feel every little droplet of vomit dripping down my leg. My mind identifies some sort of smell that must be everything littered all over the floor. I can feel my skin pull slightly tighter as the liquid begins to dry to the hairs on my leg and all I want to do is die.

What is this arbitrary line? Maybe it was just some point of innocence. Children usually don't intentionally mean to wrong you (in this case, vomiting on you, but other liquids are in the same category), they just do. An adult has this type of responsibility to the community to try and keep their fluids inside their bodies (at least until we get to the next bus stop). Is it really some kind of innocent vomit if it comes from a child's mouth? What is the distinction? There was the possibility that I was being highly inconsiderate with this man's expulsion. I really took no account of what had been happening to him, maybe he had innocent vomit too.

Despite this, I found myself sitting on a bus for another ten minutes as saw the liquid spread itself throughout the bus. I had been fortunate in that aspect that nothing was chunky and he hadn't fully thrown up on me.

I stared at this man with a look of utter disgust on my face. I'm sure that I made an audible sound of disgust, but the man never noticed as he seemed to be in his own world. Whether drunk or sick, the man stood up with some after-vomit still clinging to his nose, and stumbled off at the next stop, leaving the rest of us to deal with his mess.

Moving my head around, I gave a look that said, "I can't believe something disgusting like this could happen." and expected to get this look in return. As I kept looking, the look I read on people's faces generally said something like, "Eh." as they turned their heads back to the windows. It was like I was the only one who knew what this man had done. I looked around again, almost desperate for someone to agree with me in this. Was it the same look, or were they saying, "It was an innocent vomit."?

I resigned myself to staring down resentfully at the mess that was now moving towards my other foot until my stop came. As the doors opened, the next crowd of people exited and entered the bus as I hopped over a puddle, now smeared and forgotten so quickly.

The Saga of the Toilet

The bathroom has been in revolt. As a crucial part of my apartment, I was getting fed up with its constant complaining and spewing up shit that I plainly didn't want to deal with.

My bathroom first started behaving terribly awhile ago. We thought we fixed the problem with a copious amount of cement but that only held down our anarchist toilet...for awhile. I couldn't have known that it was just quietly plotting its revenge for this insurrection.

Like most upheavals, things started off small and quietly. A few times the flush wouldn't completely flush everything in the bowl. Next, I would hear a gurgling noise, a noise that would soon be synonymous with a rebellion; the cries of the toilet empire.

In the passing weeks, things started to move more quickly with this little troublemaker. His sudden cries would be accompanied by a small stream of water trickling out from the bottom of the sink. How dare he. Roping the poor, innocent sink into this he was risking war, war I say! What started off as water soon became littered with the casualties of the fallen toilet paper that had braved the porcelain bowl, only to see the light of day again so soon. To have pledged their service so young, it was heart-wrenching.

Not wanting to risk any more casualties, we made the pact of not sending in any more troops to fuel the fire. We figured that this would stop the floods and for a time, we thought we had won. We cleaned up the mess left behind by the toilet and hoped for the best. He stayed quiet for some time, but there was still that aching fear that he would once again try his hand at overtaking the bathroom.

We went on and off like this for a few days until the toilet decided that it was time to pull out the big guns. One fateful Saturday night, my roommate and I were having people over to our house to eat pizza and socialize. One of our Chinese friends ventured into the bathroom, only to return with the sound of an attack.

"Something is wrong with your toilet."

Our fears had come to a head. We were sure that without the assistance of toilet paper, nothing would come up. Our toilet had decided it was going to just send everything back up. Everything. From sink to wall, the feces looked up at us while we looked down in defeat. We locked the bathroom door and resigned that the bathroom was simply "broken."

The next few days we feared to enter the room. The toilet was seemingly winning with each flush. We attempted a plunger, but nothing could calm his rage. The poop remained stale on the floor as we waited for backup to arrive. It was kind of a shitty time.

The next Friday rolled around and tensions were growing high. Our bathroom had become an unusable mess with a smell that lingered any time we ever tried to venture into it. We even sacrificed a pair of unwanted flip-flops that we'd use like a hazmat suit when we'd walk into the poop zone.

Fortunately to our rescue came our landlord. She ventured into the bathroom and gave the toilet a few flushes to see what the problem was (because fecal matter strewn across the floor wasn't enough). Lacking the ability to properly communicate with her, I can only assume she said, "The plumber will be here soon." That or, "You're on your own, bud."

Fortunately, it was the former. I went to work and came back to find a spotless bathroom accompanied by our toilet standing alone. I doused the bathroom floor in bleach just to make sure things were...sanitized. The cement that had been holding it back was gone, only leaving behind a faint ring to remind us it had actually been there. I walked tentatively into the room, staring at the toilet expecting there to be still be some recoil from our battles, but he didn't make a move. In fact, he seemed slightly askew from his previous position. He was stuck to the floor with actual sealant that was going to forever hold him in this new angle to remind us of his past misdoings.

Could this really be true? I texted my roommate the joyous news.

 "The cement around our toilet is gone."

He responded in kind.

"The toilet gods have blessed us!"

It actually felt like that, like some porcelain deity had intervened to let us release our bowels peacefully. That, or a plumber.

I gave it a flush. Only the sweet sound of trickling water going down a drain was heard. No backing up, no gurgling, no more rebellion; we had won. Every time I flushed, there's still that slight feeling of fear that our own sewage is going to come breaching the borders of the sink, but nothing has happened yet.

He sits in the bathroom quietly now. I wonder if he's resigned his plans to take over the apartment or he's simply biding his time for when we get too comfortable. Strangely, I got used to being on my toes all the time.

 Looking at him without the cement made him seem kind of naked. Now, he was just a toilet that sat slightly askew instead of toilet that seemingly sprang from the ground bursting forth from the cement that housed him.

Still Here

I feel like I've been neglecting you all. I mean, I told myself that I'd write more all about the experiences I would have in China since they are more unique. I wouldn't go as far to say that they're one of a kind since there are about nine million people in my city, but I can at least share my perspective, right? It's the least I could do.

I'd like to say that this sort of hiatus is due to some sort of influx in work, but that's a lie. I always seem to find myself with time on my hands and instead of writing things down, I find myself watching reruns of America's Next Top Model and The Newsroom (Which I'm kind of obsessed with; thanks a lot, Brad.). The closest thing that I think I could call this would be some kind of mental rut. I know that I have the time and capacity to do something, but I find it a lot easier to just lie back and drink in someone else's creation. You should be writing in your journal. You should be studying your Chinese. You should researching something. These could-a, should-a, would-a's start to pile up and it's really easy to tell myself that it's too much. I've done enough today, I can always do it tomorrow. I don't though and it's frustrating.

I've mostly been the type of person that tries to keep up to date on their word and when I don't, I put myself down. It becomes a weird cycle where I eventually have to force myself to do something. Even if I think the project I churn out is mediocre, I force myself to do it to kick my brain into gear. Oh yeah, this is something that I like doing. It becomes less of a chore and I can pull myself out of that mental rut.

Part of the downward cycle I've been in recently is attributed to my move, I won't lie. Was it the expectation that I set things so high that I'd have the most interesting time; more so than everyone else? I really must have just not been looking hard enough at the situations I was having to get anything out of them, which means I'm a dull person. These thoughts that I kept having didn't really get me anywhere at the time. They are valid questions, but in the state of mind I was in they just cemented the idea that I didn't need to--that a lot of didn't matter.

Moving halfway across the world was incredibly exciting at first and still is. What I hadn't prepared for was the reality of the different. Back in little Cedar City, even going to the store to pick up some groceries meant I would be able to communicate with a human being. Now, just leaving my house and talking to another presents problems on its own, mostly dealing with communication. Growing up in a largely individualistic society, I wasn't prepared for the different sense of community here. It'd be false to say that I didn't find some things annoying, because I can name several, but that's culture. I'd say I'm experiencing a certain type of longing for the culture I grew up in; to have people back to how I was used to them acting. In truth it's lonely.

But do I have to stay lonely? No, was the conclusion I came to. I could take the path I seem to be going and drudge through my days, just waiting for an end, or, I could try and alter my perspective. In no way am I forcing myself into a mold that makes me uncomfortable, but more of like into a new speedo that I have to break in. It feels kind of foreign, but I've already known the feeling, and before long I can get back to swimming the laps...of life.

 So bad simile/metaphor aside, I gave myself attainable goals. Literally, wrote out goals and posted them on my wall to remind myself. Each one has a subheading to further explain the point and also to give myself a pep talk so I can't weasel my way out of it. I can take this chance to redefine my mental vocabulary and set myself on a better path. If I've learned anything from watching internet videos, is that you can't reach too far and expect to not fall off of a moving car. I can start at the bottom of the stairs and take one at a time...or any other goal reaching metaphor you can think of.

That makes this the mediocre jump start. Even in writing this, I veered way off topic of what I was actually going to write about (simple updates, blah blah blah) and my brain guilted me into being honest with how I really feel sometimes. To me the public declaration to be more proactive says that I have to hold myself to that promise. Even though this could turn on itself in the ugly spiral of defeat, I'm still taking that chance. Euch, feelings. But now I have the goal to keep myself on some type of schedule, sharing with you whether you like it or not.

Now how about something to take your mind off all that. Here you go:

I actually own this entire calendar.
Cats doing yoga. Yup.

"I Want To Be A Bro"

In my city, I attend a rather small gym. It has all the necessary equipment that I could want (considering I try and do pretty basic exercises) and it usually isn't very crowded.

Occasionally, a stranger will approach me and strike up some type of conversation. If they speak a little English, the conversation usually is minced words like, "strong" and "good." But most of the time these conversations are with people who speak English. Culturally, I've just had to get used to people approaching me for no reason other than to engage in conversation. That's basically a normal thing to do here. Oh, you look interesting. I'm going to come ask you questions now.

With that in mind, I met a few students who actually went to (or currently attend) school in the states, but had come home for the summer holiday. One in particular is named Ming. He's approached me many times before and he usually likes to talk about one thing: working out. I know some things about working out, but I'm definitely no source of wisdom, which means I always just nod along when he approaches. Oh, you're doing a cross-fit workout? Awesome. No, I don't eat six raw eggs a day, that's not really something for me.

Last week I found myself doing sit-ups, dangling on the apparatus by my feet and sweating, when who should approach, but Ming. Despite the fact I was mid sit-up, Ming decided that this was a perfect time for conversation,
   
"Hey Ryan, what are you doing?"

"Just doing some sit-ups." as I expelled air, moving up and down

"Cool, cool. Today is my upper body day."

"That's awesome." I said, very breathy

"Yeah, I want to be able to curl as much with my arms as most people bench press."

"Well, then your arms would be bigger than your head." I let out, sitting up for a second to catch my breath

"Ryan, do you know what they call the guys who wear tight shirts?"

"Huh?" OK, now he'd lost me

"The guys who wear backwards baseball hats, tight shirts, and are really...jacked."

"You mean a 'bro?'"

"What's a bro?"

"Those guys who wear the hats and the shirts and have lots of muscles. A bro."

"Oh...well I want to be a bro."

Oh no--what had I done. In my absence of thought, I had perpetuated an American stereotype; particularly one that I didn't like. What was I doing? I had come to this country to educate people about American culture and to teach English to the best of my ability. Now, I was introducing crappy vernacular to strangers. Failure filled my mind as I felt the Chinese/American cultural pool being tainted with my words. I had become the poison in the well. I usually joke about words like this, usually trying to use them in ironic ways, but with obvious language and cultural barriers, things had been overlooked in my speech.

With this in mind, I figured that I might as well just teach my Kindergarten class words like, "thug," "YOLO," and maybe "dawg." I was already on a downward spiral, I might as well just help the rest of the country get there too.

I sighed a little. Being a bro was something I had never aspired to, but apparently this was a Chinese university student's ultimate goal. Bro-status, I guess you could call it.

"Ryan, is there a Chinese word for this 'bro?'" Ming asked

"Mm...nah, I don't think there is. It's just kind of an...American thing I guess."

"Oh, well that's cool."

I had already taught him 'bro,' so by then I figured I might as well seal the deal.

"Yeah, now you're going to want to start wearing long socks with shorts." I said to him jokingly. If he was going to transition into bro, he should at least be thorough.

"Long socks with shorts?"

"Yeah, bro's wear long socks with shorts."

"...Why would I do that?"

Well, She Lives In The Moon...

The following are conversations I've had in my oral English classes. The class is centered around having conversations about certain topics picked every day in a group setting. My students are between the ages of 12-16 with varying levels of English speaking ability, so some concepts and ideas are lost in the translation from Chinese to English. The conversations have been slightly edited for the sake of understanding and continuity. 

Subject of Conversation: Hobbies

Ryan: So Charlotte, tell me about your hobbies.

Charlotte: I like to watch TV

Ryan: That is your only hobby? TV?

Charlotte: Yes, that is all.

Ryan: Oh...well what is your favorite TV show

Charlotte: I like... *motions two fingers towards her neck* ...Diaries.

Ryan: Vampire Diaries?

Charlotte: Yes, Vampire Diaries.

Alice: What is your favorite show?

Ryan: Me? I don't really watch a lot of TV.

Alice: What do you do?

Ryan: I like to read a lot. Actually, I don't even own a TV.

Alice: (with an incredulous look on her face) Are you poor?


Subject of Conversation: The Chinese Mid-Autumn Festival or Moon Cake Festival

Ryan: OK, Charlotte, what is your favorite holiday?

Charlotte: I like Mid-Autumn Festival.

Ryan: Tell me about the Mid-Autumn Festival.

Jack: We eat moon cakes.

Ryan: What's a moon cake?

Sherlock: Like a...small pie.

Ryan: OK, why do you celebrate Mid-Autumn festival; or, why do you do it?

Jack: We have Mid-Autumn festival because the moon give birth to the girl.

Ryan: Wait, what?

Jack: The girl, Chang'e, lives in the moon...with her rabbit.

Ryan: So why does she live in the moon?

Harriet: One day, the girl was sad so she ate a...pill.

Charlotte: --then she flew to the moon.

Ryan: So this girl flew to the moon because she ate a pill...and she lives with her rabbit?

Jack: Yes.

Harriet: One day, bad people were trying to steal the...pill.

Charlotte: And her husband wanted to live with her in the moon.

Harriet: Then they could be together forever.

Ryan: People tried to take the pill?

Harriet: Yes, and the husband did not want them to take.

Jack: So the woman ate the pill.

Harriet: And flew to the moon.

Charlotte: Now we eat moon cakes.


Subject of conversation: Hobbies

Ryan: Reya, tell me your hobbies.

Viola with a sad face. Get it? Get it? Ehhhhehe.
Puns people, puns.

Reya: (after a long awkward pause)...I don't have hobbies, I only have things I do every day.

Ryan: OK then, tell me what you do every day.

Reya: I have a piano. It lives in my room. I like to read Shakespeare.

Ryan: Very good, what else do you like to do?

Reya: I play the viola. I play the viola...with a sad face.

Ryan: OK, so you play the viola...what do you guys think of that (motioning to the rest of the class)

(The rest of the class sits in silence with scared/confused looks on their face)

Ryan: --So, Harriet! Tell me about your hobbies.

The Massage

I've never had a massage before. Yes, I really haven't (at least the ones that you pay for). That is, until last week.

The week prior had been especially trying (as most people justify in their minds that their week is harder and more difficult than anyone else's ever) since work had really just worn me out. The constant traveling and heat, coupled with there always being people everywhere always was just enough to make me want to start stabbing myself in the eye with anything that came into view. This would probably unsuccessful since I see a lot of rice and noodles. 

Friday progressed as usual; work was finished and Jake and I decided to venture to the store to replenish our juice supply before the weekend. Walking around the packed Wal-Mart, Jake had, what I could call an, "I'm not dealing with this anymore," moment.

"We're getting massages." he said. The week had done him in as well, enough that he needed another human to rub his body and then he would pay them. With that, he pulled out his phone and called one of our friends to help us set up an appointment for later that night. I've never had a massage before, I thought to myself. Please don't let things get weird.

A couple hours later, we were entering a large building that was neighbor to a, for lack of better words, pseudo-hooker palace. Jake had informed me that this was a Thai massage parlor and that our friend Nicholas would meet us there. 

Upon arrival, the staff gave us black rubber sandals that had been warmed, as if by putting them inside a microwave and hitting the popcorn setting. This was surprisingly comfortable as I was escorted into the room where we would be receiving our massages. After the staff opened the door, three beds lay in front of me each with crisp white sheets and two large pillows that appeared incredibly soft like clouds unaffected by the Chinese pollution. We were instructed to take a seat and relax (which is a word that I've learned is a staple in Chinese culture) until the staff returned and dropped off on each of our beds a small plastic bag. The bags were clear and inside I could see the contents consisted of what looked to be an outfit.

"Change!" our friend Nicholas urged. We opened the bags and discarded the wrapping and unfolded a pair of blue shorts and blue shirt. Both were embroidered with gold vine-like designs that wrapped up and down the fabric in a way that suggested they were royal. The shorts and shirt themselves resembled what would closely resemble a pair of pajamas a middle aged man had obtained in his early teens and had decided to keep despite the fact they began to climb up his body.

I quickly slipped into my new outfit and resumed my seat on the bed when three masseuses entered the room. My first initial thought was that we had ordered the wrong kind of massage due to how these women were dressed. Each girl was wearing a dress that resembled a flight attendants uniform. Though, these flight attendants were most likely starring in an adult film. The blue fabric clung close to their body as the neckline dove down to areas unknown. The hem ventured into the area that most would describe as "swimsuit" zone and this only made me convinced that I might be seeing more of her than she would of me (not that I wanted to be naked in front of a masseuse).

"Chinese medicine!...for your kidneys."

Not speaking any Chinese to understand, the girl motioned for me to lay on my stomach while she plopped the pillow down at the foot of the bed and began to rub my back.

"Nicholas, do they offer any other services here, like having your feet cleaned?" Jake asked, motioning towards his well-trodden feet, covered in the days dirt.


"Oh yes, yes! Would you like them to do that now?" Without hesitation, Nicholas proceeded to speak to the girls in Chinese as they left the room to prepare to take care of our feet.

"Well, we don't have to today..." Jake said, "I was just wondering if they did. But I guess now is good too."

The three returned with buckets full of scalding hot water and motioned for us to dunk our feet in. I looked down at the bucket in front of my bed and saw the steam radiating upwards and knew this wasn't going to be without pain. Not wanting to be "that guy" that takes his sweet time to actually take the dive into the pool, I plunged my feet into the water and silently screamed in my head. I wasn't exactly sure how to deal with this pain and the only thing around me to distract myself with was the television that was blaring the Chinese version of the popular TV show, "The Voice." I had to surmise that everyone that entered into this competition had surprisingly sad back-stories, like severe anal bleeding as a child or a cruel encounter with a wombat, and that gave them a certain star appeal. It was certainly enough appeal that our masseuses paid more attention to the screen than they did to our feet.

After pulling my feet out of the water, the masseuse gently rubbed my feet,which I will admit felt rather good. Other than the occasional urge to laugh when she trickled her fingernails down the arch of my foot, she did a nice job.

"What services would you like to receive?" Nicholas chimed in from his neighbor bed. We were to be given three out of five services that night: A foot scraping (that Jake was currently participating in), a facial scrub, a hand treatment, an ear cleaning, or an eyelid cleaning. As enticing as it was to have someone stick their fingers into my ears or near my eyeballs, I opted for feet, face, and hands.

With a quick jump, the masseuse and her small dress were now on my bed and she had rested the fluffy pillow onto her lap. She sat cross-legged and motioned for me to lay down my head, basically right in between her thighs. Jake later mentioned that this was "the closest we had been to lady parts since birth." All the while I was having my face rubbed up and down, another man went to work on my feet. With a small headlamp that one might wear if they were going spelunking, the man took what looked to be some sort of dull razor and scraped away the dead skin on the bottom of my feet and between my toes. He looked to be some sort of explorer, searching beneath the crust of an ancient artifact, while I wriggled beneath a girl with her hands on my face as I stifled my laughter.

To add to my feet, the masseuses went out and brought in what appeared to be some sort of putty. "It's a mixture of ginger and crushed pearls." Nicholas told us. Pearls? Pearls? Huh, all of the sudden I was feeling like some kind of classy individual. That is, until my feet started to burn once they poured this mixture on. "Oh yes, it will start to burn your feet." Nicholas mentioned. Yes, yes it did. They had poured some sort of pearl concrete onto our feet where we sit and burn. I was starting to get the distinct impression that most Chinese medicine consisted of copious amounts of pain.

With my feet cleaned off, the real massage began. The masseuse hopped back up onto the bed and proceeded to set my legs on top of hers. This is the part of the massage I had actually been expecting, the part where a stranger rubs your body for an extended period of time and you tell yourself that everything feels better. Then I quickly reminded myself how Chinese medicine didn't work that way.

No sooner had she rubbed my legs had the masseuse moved onto my stomach. With force, she pressed both hands down hard into the area that would be where my bladder resides along with many other vital organs. I could only imagine the surprise of many other previous patrons that had experienced the same thing unprepared but with less bowel control. Oh, please let these sheets have been bleached...

"Would you like something to eat?" Nicholas chimed in through my stomach rub. Eating had been the last thing I had really expected after I had received a massage. Apparently, it was customary to try and include everything you could into one large package. I wonder if they also included dinner theatre? No, I think the farthest they would probably go is to include someone punching you in the spleen to deal with digestive health; as Chinese medicine does.

Songs For Your Bowels

Since living in China, I've had people at home ask me about my experiences living here. Thinking about it, one would usually hope to hear some story about a great cultural experience where I saw something that, "I'll never forget," or that "My life has been forever changed."

While I would like to tell them such things, I usually opt for a much different path:

My bowels.

Yes, when people ask me what is going on in China I tell them about my current bowel movements. Basically since living here, my GI tract has decided that it was no longer going to function at 100% ability and instead function at about, I'd say, 36%. All the plumbing is seriously jacked up.

Since I started spending an inordinate amount of time sitting down wishing I could just die instead of enduring the bathroom agony, I began thinking of inspiration or motivation. Purely, the motivation to try and get through your bowel movement that has quarantined you to the toilet seat. I figured that everyone in the world poops and that I'm not the only one who has had problems. I would even venture to say that everyone has, at one point, sat on a toilet for much longer than they desired to. With this in mind, I decided that the world needed a motivational playlist to get through this. This way, when you rest your hands on your head and wish that this moment in your life would cease to exist, you can listen to some tunes that will power you through...your dump.

1. Sweet Nothing (feat. Florence Welch) by Calvin Harris

Because maybe you've had sweet nothings for long enough. Yes, you GI tract. Please stop giving me sweet nothing.

2. Radioactive by Marina and The Diamonds

We all know that you've been in the bathroom for about a half hour. It's quite obvious that anyone else who wants to enter in the next 3 hours needs a hazmat suit.

3. Lonely Boy by The Black Keys

Just listen. Listen. This will help you when you're crying and realize that you--YOU are the lonely boy. Hopefully, you won't be alone for long.

4. Gimme More by Britney Spears

Gimme more! OoooOooo!

5. Mirror by Justin Timberlake

I can see you sitting there, looking at yourself in the mirror--CAUSE I DON'T WANNA LOSE YOU NOW, I'M LOOKIN' RIGHT AT THE OTHER HALF OF ME.

6. Every Teardrop Is A Waterfall

There definitely is some serious waterfall going on...

7.I Feel It All by Feist

You're feeling it all. Just...so many feels.

8.Die Young by Ke$ha

That's really all you're hoping for right now. You thought it was a good idea to eat that block of cheddar cheese. Boy, you were wrong...

9.Let's Have A Kiki by The Scissor Sisters

"I'm gonna let you have it--NOT" said the intestines.

So there you have it. A quick playlist that you can jam to and try and survive your short isolation from the real world while you enter the world of the porcelain throne. There isn't any rule that says you have to agree with me on any song in this list, I'm just trying to help. So put on your game face and step up to the plate. Because in the game of porcelain thrones, you win...or you die.

The Self Crusade

Self-image is always a weird thing for me. I wouldn't say that I have terribly low self-esteem or low self-image, but on a spectrum, I also wouldn't venture to say that I'm up at the top. What I consider the top, I consider, "Wow, look at my sculpted abs and biceps and tell me how pretty I am because I can cut diamonds on my gluts."...or something like that. Mostly, I would just say that I really don't have to be reminded of how I look very often unless I'm standing in front of a mirror trying to pop a zit.

Since I've moved to China, this is not the case. Upon arrival, there was some sort of magical wave I walked through when I left the airport that told everyone to stare. Stare at me. Just keep staring. Without shame.

At first, this was a little disconcerting. All I had to think in my head was, "They know. They know that I'm not from here and they hate me. They think I'm weird and am wondering why I even got on the plane in the first place." While some of that could be true (since I'm just speculating here), I've been informed a lot of the time that this stare is associated with pretty, handsome, good-looking, and maybe even exotic. Haha, me? Handsome, you say? I began taking this with the mindset that this was what you did when you met someone: you give them compliments."Oh, I really like the color of your shoes." "Your hair looks very nice today." "You look much better in jeans and a t-shirt than in an orange jumpsuit."

Over time though, I find myself beginning to think a little bit differently. This constant barrage or compliments has begun to inflate my ego. I find myself sitting on the bus, watching young teenage girls trying to take a picture of me discretely and thinking to myself, "You know what's going on."

Huh?

Who is that person talking? Where most places I would consider myself plain, they have started to give me fodder to flame a small ego into a bonfire. I've recently started watching an obscene amount of America's Next Top Model* and found myself thinking how vain a lot of these girls are. "Wow, these girls are so vain; deep as puddles, they are." Then I thought back to myself and how the kids in kindergarten had told me I looked "like a movie star." Then I sit there with a stupid grin on my face.

Part of me would like to sit here and soak up the flood of compliments that come in, but it only makes me wonder where this is coming from. Yes, I am concerned about the self-image of the Chinese people.

While a lot of Chinese do not actually believe that I'm American (brown skin, dark hair, brown eyes), sometimes they tell me that I look kind of like northern Chinese. "Don't worry, they are very beautiful!" They tell me if this subject is approached. I'm usually not worried when someone gives me a compliment, but it's the fact that they have to clarify that this specific Chinese people are "beautiful" or "pretty" or "handsome."

"This can only be due to a general lack of self-image in the Chinese culture itself," I concluded. Somehow, I must fix this or at least ensure some kind of self-worth in these people. I've overcome bad body image (somewhat) and I can do it to them to!

"You're handsome." They will say.

"No, YOU'RE handsome!" I will say to the old woman on the bus.

I can hear now of all the ballads they will play after I leave their country. How I transformed every person into a proud creature who had some pride in their heritage. It would be me who led the "March of Self Image" down the streets of Zhengzhou where everyone could proudly say they were Chinese! Oh, what a glorious day that would be. I can only picture myself on a float, hoisted above the rest surveying my movement...

Then I find myself walking down the street, ready to start changing the world with a new positive attitude. I smile at the passersby while they stare with a rather blank expression. I pass children and then an old man where I hear a noise. A deep, guttural noise that sounds as if the phlegm he is trying to expel is connected to his very soul. Said phlegm then lands next to my right foot in a sad, yellow puddle, that slowly drips into the cracks where it will remain for the next few hours (possibly accompanied by others).

With my day spit upon, I walk down the street. Eventually, I get onto the bus where I'll sit down with a sour look on my face while I think to myself, "China can fix its own damn self-image problem."



*Don't judge, it's a fascinating show. Girls fighting over who gets to be prettiest doing ridiculous things to prove that they are "tougher than the rest." Someone always has a sob-story background and they all hate each other. The reality show fodder!