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.