Thursday, September 21, 2006
B. Money
Today Jon and I met with our climbing buddy. He introduced himself as follows:
"My name is Qian Junwei. Qian as in jinqian (money). Jun as in yingjun (handsome). Wei as in weida (great). I don't have an English name, but my friends call me qianbao (wallet)."
Jon and I exchanged glances. After a brief, muted conversation, Jon turns to Qian Junwei and says, "How would you like it if we called you Badass Money?"
"My name is Qian Junwei. Qian as in jinqian (money). Jun as in yingjun (handsome). Wei as in weida (great). I don't have an English name, but my friends call me qianbao (wallet)."
Jon and I exchanged glances. After a brief, muted conversation, Jon turns to Qian Junwei and says, "How would you like it if we called you Badass Money?"
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Misadventures in Nanjing
Jon, Mike, and I on our trip down to Nanjing took a detour to what we thought was a park to the north of the city. What we found instead was a undeveloped zone along the banks of the Yangtze. I knew something was wrong when the asphalt road turned into dirt!
We spent some time walking around some developments that dated from the 80s and earlier. Jon and Mike drew quite a number of stares from the locals. After helping a local load her wheelbarrow (she had asked me how to say xiexie in English. I told her my friends understood Chinese, but she insisted. I said, "3Q"), we met a laid off crane operator. Having nothing else to do, he asked us if we would like to see the Yangtze from atop the nearby hills. We took him up on the offer. A memento of this event.
We spent some time walking around some developments that dated from the 80s and earlier. Jon and Mike drew quite a number of stares from the locals. After helping a local load her wheelbarrow (she had asked me how to say xiexie in English. I told her my friends understood Chinese, but she insisted. I said, "3Q"), we met a laid off crane operator. Having nothing else to do, he asked us if we would like to see the Yangtze from atop the nearby hills. We took him up on the offer. A memento of this event.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Picking Classes Part 2 (or asking for directions, the international phenomenon)
I must be blending in rather well. I've received ten inquires regarding directions from strangers so far this week. There were five requests today alone. They were:
1. Where is the nearest fruit vendor? (accosted in from the of the geology building)
2. Where can I find the Centennial Memorial Hall? (waylaid on the steps of the library)
3. Is this they way to the Qingniao building where they fix computers? (ambushed right in front the East Gate exit)
4. Can you tell me where the radio antenna building is? (intercepted right outside the international relations building)
5. Do you know where the Buoya Tower is? (surprised in front of Gym #1. What made this particular encounter more bizarre was that Jon was with me which should have made me foreign by association, hence, a non-target for lost strangers.)
1. Where is the nearest fruit vendor? (accosted in from the of the geology building)
2. Where can I find the Centennial Memorial Hall? (waylaid on the steps of the library)
3. Is this they way to the Qingniao building where they fix computers? (ambushed right in front the East Gate exit)
4. Can you tell me where the radio antenna building is? (intercepted right outside the international relations building)
5. Do you know where the Buoya Tower is? (surprised in front of Gym #1. What made this particular encounter more bizarre was that Jon was with me which should have made me foreign by association, hence, a non-target for lost strangers.)
Friday, September 08, 2006
International Acclaim (or which one was that again?)
I come from the Midwest. When I tell them I attend Penn, I must immediately follow-up with the clarification "the private one." In Beijing, I was stopped this morning on my daily walk to campus by a middle-aged lady riding her bike. She points her gloved finger at my shirt.
"You go to Wharton?"
Looking around to make sure she was speaking to me, I replied sheepishly, "Yes, I'm on exchange."
"Very good school!"
"A glorified vocational training center."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Have a nice day!"
"You go to Wharton?"
Looking around to make sure she was speaking to me, I replied sheepishly, "Yes, I'm on exchange."
"Very good school!"
"A glorified vocational training center."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind. Have a nice day!"
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Boys and Girls Part 1 (or remember to bring your own towel)
I admit I'm not an impressive guy physically. I don't think of myself as weak, but then I certainly could use being a little stronger (couldn't all boys?). The first thing I noticed when I plopped down in China was how much stronger I got. No, gravity doesn't work differently here. The 'got stronger' part was a relative comparison. All that milk I drank since I was just a lad is really showing itself. Since I started hitting the gym again, the difference was even more noticeable. If you want to feel good about your body, come to China.
My experience is not an isolated phenomenon. Dr. VH Mair, one of my all time favorite Penn profs, makes note of how his height changes when he comes to China to lecture. He's a tall guy - over 6'. In America, that's not a big deal. Here in China, Dr. Mair is a giant. It makes him easy to pick out at the arrival gate at the airport he says.
In defense of the real Chinese men, what I'm talking about are comparisons to the average. I see 6'+ guys all the time now in Beijing wearing their BBall jerseys and Air Nikes. At the gym, I see body builders painstakingly sculpt their bodies so that their rippling muscles seem about to burst out of their skin. Besides that, yes, China is great for my self-esteem (do I really need any more?).
My experience is not an isolated phenomenon. Dr. VH Mair, one of my all time favorite Penn profs, makes note of how his height changes when he comes to China to lecture. He's a tall guy - over 6'. In America, that's not a big deal. Here in China, Dr. Mair is a giant. It makes him easy to pick out at the arrival gate at the airport he says.
In defense of the real Chinese men, what I'm talking about are comparisons to the average. I see 6'+ guys all the time now in Beijing wearing their BBall jerseys and Air Nikes. At the gym, I see body builders painstakingly sculpt their bodies so that their rippling muscles seem about to burst out of their skin. Besides that, yes, China is great for my self-esteem (do I really need any more?).
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Oppressive Atmosphere (or the fast track to lung cancer)
I wake up in the morning and the sky feigns dew clouds. I put on a sweatshirt to guard against the morning chill, but when I step outside, I realize those clouds where not of water vapor.
So I've been in Beijing for nearly a week now and during that time I've seen a lot of things. There's one thing though I have yet to lay my eyes on: the sun. Sounds a bit ridiculous doesn't it? I mean, the sun should be everywhere right? Not here in Beijing. There is an ominous cloud of smog that hangs over this city. It's an oppressive beastly thing that fills your nostrils with soot, obscures your vision, and sucks out all the happy in you faster than a dementor from Azkaban. It's a red sun here in Beijing, not the happy yellow I'm so used to back amidst the cornfields of my hometown. This is not my sun.
I feel all the enterprising spirit sapped out of me and I wonder as I am a temporary visitor to this foreign land how this oppressive atmosphere must beat down those that must live with it all their lives. Yet, when I walk amidst these Beijingers, I see how hard they are all trying to live. Can I not applaud this defiant display of resilience?
So I've been in Beijing for nearly a week now and during that time I've seen a lot of things. There's one thing though I have yet to lay my eyes on: the sun. Sounds a bit ridiculous doesn't it? I mean, the sun should be everywhere right? Not here in Beijing. There is an ominous cloud of smog that hangs over this city. It's an oppressive beastly thing that fills your nostrils with soot, obscures your vision, and sucks out all the happy in you faster than a dementor from Azkaban. It's a red sun here in Beijing, not the happy yellow I'm so used to back amidst the cornfields of my hometown. This is not my sun.
I feel all the enterprising spirit sapped out of me and I wonder as I am a temporary visitor to this foreign land how this oppressive atmosphere must beat down those that must live with it all their lives. Yet, when I walk amidst these Beijingers, I see how hard they are all trying to live. Can I not applaud this defiant display of resilience?
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Living Well and Chinese Pirates (or how to not take things too personally)
I live off campus. The decision was not a very hard one to make. First, foreign students usually get the older dorms. Many have communal bathrooms (I don't mind if I must, but I prefer my own given a choice). None have private kitchens. After a arduous search process, Jon was able to secure a two bedroom unit in a mid-scale complex not far from Beida. Complete with living room, 2 bedrooms, a bath, a kitchen, a balcony, a washing machine, and faux hardwood floors, this little pad cost us only a bit more than living on campus. The improvement in quality of life though was fall greater than the premium we paid, imo.
Interesting notes: Chinese kitchen counters are noticeably lower than American ones. Preparing food has been a bit of a pain since I have to keep in a hunched position or my hands won't touch the counter's surface. The flip side to this and possibly a benefit is that there is literally nothing I can't reach. Need something on the highest shelf? No problem. Moving on. Chinese bathrooms don't have bath tubs. The entire room is like a big bath tub. The floor is slightly graded (unnoticeable) so that water runs off into a drain in the corner. We thankfully have a sitting toilet, but we're not allowed to flush tissues with it. All rent and utility fees are paid up front. This arrangement actually makes us more cognizant of the amount of power we use and the general cleanliness of our pad. Still it's kind of scary to think that the landlord has all your money.
Speaking of the landlord, ours is quite a character. He is a most interesting combination of vulgarity and niceness. Vulgar because he appends the phrase 'cao ni ma' to the end of all his sentences. For non-Putonghua speakers, it means "fuck your mom." You can't take things to personally when you speak with the man. "Hey, there's something wrong with our drain." "Fuck your mom, what's wrong?" "Don't know." "What's a mess, fuck your mom. Fuck, can I come take a look this afternoon?" "Uh, sure." "Alright, I'll fucking come at 4:00pm tonight, fuck your mom. Bye." Jon calls him a pirate which is a pretty apt description. He says "arr" a lot. He wears his shirts unbuttoned. He could use an eye patch. Despite all this, he's a really conscientious landlord. He comes whenever we have problems and he gets them fixed quickly, fuck your mom.
Interesting notes: Chinese kitchen counters are noticeably lower than American ones. Preparing food has been a bit of a pain since I have to keep in a hunched position or my hands won't touch the counter's surface. The flip side to this and possibly a benefit is that there is literally nothing I can't reach. Need something on the highest shelf? No problem. Moving on. Chinese bathrooms don't have bath tubs. The entire room is like a big bath tub. The floor is slightly graded (unnoticeable) so that water runs off into a drain in the corner. We thankfully have a sitting toilet, but we're not allowed to flush tissues with it. All rent and utility fees are paid up front. This arrangement actually makes us more cognizant of the amount of power we use and the general cleanliness of our pad. Still it's kind of scary to think that the landlord has all your money.
Speaking of the landlord, ours is quite a character. He is a most interesting combination of vulgarity and niceness. Vulgar because he appends the phrase 'cao ni ma' to the end of all his sentences. For non-Putonghua speakers, it means "fuck your mom." You can't take things to personally when you speak with the man. "Hey, there's something wrong with our drain." "Fuck your mom, what's wrong?" "Don't know." "What's a mess, fuck your mom. Fuck, can I come take a look this afternoon?" "Uh, sure." "Alright, I'll fucking come at 4:00pm tonight, fuck your mom. Bye." Jon calls him a pirate which is a pretty apt description. He says "arr" a lot. He wears his shirts unbuttoned. He could use an eye patch. Despite all this, he's a really conscientious landlord. He comes whenever we have problems and he gets them fixed quickly, fuck your mom.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Playing Spiderman (or some things that should never mix)
I heard about a quirky little bar around the China World Trade Center from Jon. He called it the Boulder Bar. I understood the Bar, but what of the Boulder? Some kind of haven for geophiles? Jon explained, "You can climb rocks and drink beer all in the same place!" Can you imagine a more irresponsible combination? Openning a place like this in the States must violate a couple hundred different regulations and stir the ire of more than one PAC. The Boulder Bar is something only China's three decades of rampant capitalism can produce.
Against my better judgement, I agree to go. In my defense, the only thing I could say is that it sounded like a good idea at the time. What am I saying? I'm glad that I went. After a hour long journey down to the trade centers and another 20 minutes of aimless wandering (Jon forgot where it was exactly), we finally found ourselves in front of the Boulder Bar. The motto: Extreme Experience. I thought I was walking into a EMS.
Since we went on a weekday and we arrived around 19:00, there was no one else hanging around in the bar. Asking the bartender, I learned that this outfit had only opened for about two months. Jon and I rented shoes and started working on the wall. The wall itself was not a formidable one. It was only about 15 feet talk and divided into sections with variable degrees of difficulty. It's a lot of fun to climb and works very well as a practice wall. About 30 minutes later, the climbing (panyan) coach arrived. Since we were the only ones there, Jon and I got a free one-on-one coaching on how to improve our techique.
It wasn't until after 90 minutes that we finally started busting out the alcohol. When you drink on an empty stomach, its really easy to get a bit tipsy. When one gets a bit tipsy, one gets happy. All those endorphins being released in your system makes you a bit crazy (this is also similar to what happens when falling in love). Thankfully, the cushions around the wall were extra thick.
Against my better judgement, I agree to go. In my defense, the only thing I could say is that it sounded like a good idea at the time. What am I saying? I'm glad that I went. After a hour long journey down to the trade centers and another 20 minutes of aimless wandering (Jon forgot where it was exactly), we finally found ourselves in front of the Boulder Bar. The motto: Extreme Experience. I thought I was walking into a EMS.
Since we went on a weekday and we arrived around 19:00, there was no one else hanging around in the bar. Asking the bartender, I learned that this outfit had only opened for about two months. Jon and I rented shoes and started working on the wall. The wall itself was not a formidable one. It was only about 15 feet talk and divided into sections with variable degrees of difficulty. It's a lot of fun to climb and works very well as a practice wall. About 30 minutes later, the climbing (panyan) coach arrived. Since we were the only ones there, Jon and I got a free one-on-one coaching on how to improve our techique.
It wasn't until after 90 minutes that we finally started busting out the alcohol. When you drink on an empty stomach, its really easy to get a bit tipsy. When one gets a bit tipsy, one gets happy. All those endorphins being released in your system makes you a bit crazy (this is also similar to what happens when falling in love). Thankfully, the cushions around the wall were extra thick.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Religious Foray (or how I found myself in a British embassy)
Judging from the title of this one, I assure you it's still a little too soon for me to get caught up in some FLG-esque mess, and even if I do, it wouldn't be the British embassy that I escape to. So here's the first of perhaps (hopefully) three such posts about the R word...
What am I saying? Religion is not that taboo in China. China is not that barbarous. Officially, the Chinese maintain that they respect the right for nationals and foreigners living in their territories to practice their religions with one important caveat: they may not, under any circumstance, evangelize. As Tubby, I mean, a Chinese cop explained to me during an orientation, so long as that caveat is observed foreigners may practice without fear. Just don't go around spreading your religious beliefs. As a foreign student, the worst thing that can happen is probably deportation or, more euphemistically, reduction in the time allotted for your stay by your visa.
Works well doesn't it? Unfortunately, my religion does place a heavy emphasis on evangelical work, heck, we coined that term (there's something wrong with how I just said, wasn't there?). Still, I'm not brazen (or stupid) enough to be distributing leaflets right outside Tiananmen. I'll be harming myself and helping no one. There are better alternatives. Give China a chance.
So Sunday came along and a group of friends and I headed to the China World Trade Centers district to the Kerry building where I was told a Catholic mass is held twice every week. The ride through the subway system lasted the good part of an hour, but cost only 5 rmb. We had to present our passports in order to attend (one of my friends forgot his, but they let him in anyway after he showed them a driver's license - another crack to fall through).
The service was held in the most, uh, humble of places. It was a waiting room in one of the offices of the British embassy. There were rows of blue, metal, pew-like chairs bolted to the floor divided up the middle. In front were teller stations where services (I have not idea) were rendered. A make-shift alter was set up in the front with a foldout table and an alter cloth (that's the official term) draped over it. Where the cross usually appears above the alter, there was the British coat of arms. That last one took some time getting used too. The priest was a jolly Irish fellow, who has a tendency to misspeak his lines. It would have been all right if he simply said something wrong - we can handle that. However, his oracular foibles always involved chanting lines for another part of mass, so unless the parishiners maintained diligence, they'd give the right response but at the wrong time. I'm sure this has caused quite a number of embarassments.
I also found myself standing at attention behind a column of PLA soldiers near Tiananmen today, but that's a story I'll save for another time.
What am I saying? Religion is not that taboo in China. China is not that barbarous. Officially, the Chinese maintain that they respect the right for nationals and foreigners living in their territories to practice their religions with one important caveat: they may not, under any circumstance, evangelize. As Tubby, I mean, a Chinese cop explained to me during an orientation, so long as that caveat is observed foreigners may practice without fear. Just don't go around spreading your religious beliefs. As a foreign student, the worst thing that can happen is probably deportation or, more euphemistically, reduction in the time allotted for your stay by your visa.
Works well doesn't it? Unfortunately, my religion does place a heavy emphasis on evangelical work, heck, we coined that term (there's something wrong with how I just said, wasn't there?). Still, I'm not brazen (or stupid) enough to be distributing leaflets right outside Tiananmen. I'll be harming myself and helping no one. There are better alternatives. Give China a chance.
So Sunday came along and a group of friends and I headed to the China World Trade Centers district to the Kerry building where I was told a Catholic mass is held twice every week. The ride through the subway system lasted the good part of an hour, but cost only 5 rmb. We had to present our passports in order to attend (one of my friends forgot his, but they let him in anyway after he showed them a driver's license - another crack to fall through).
The service was held in the most, uh, humble of places. It was a waiting room in one of the offices of the British embassy. There were rows of blue, metal, pew-like chairs bolted to the floor divided up the middle. In front were teller stations where services (I have not idea) were rendered. A make-shift alter was set up in the front with a foldout table and an alter cloth (that's the official term) draped over it. Where the cross usually appears above the alter, there was the British coat of arms. That last one took some time getting used too. The priest was a jolly Irish fellow, who has a tendency to misspeak his lines. It would have been all right if he simply said something wrong - we can handle that. However, his oracular foibles always involved chanting lines for another part of mass, so unless the parishiners maintained diligence, they'd give the right response but at the wrong time. I'm sure this has caused quite a number of embarassments.
I also found myself standing at attention behind a column of PLA soldiers near Tiananmen today, but that's a story I'll save for another time.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Adventure Start! (bureaucratic loopholes and excessive consumption )
Registration began today for the international students such as myself. The lines were long. That I can understand. What I did (and probably could not) prepare for was the slew of "cracks" the lot of confused registerees managed to fall through over the next few hours. As my friend Arthur described it, in China rules are like leaky mugs. If there is some rule that's holding you back and you manage to be annoying enough to the rule enforcer, you'll find a crack to fall through.
Example: One of my fellow adventurers managed to lose his official acceptance letter to Beida. Alright, this precious document was one of the few (very few) that you must - you MUST - present to the registration laoshi. Without it, it states clearly in bolded letters you will not be allowed to register - you will NOT be allowed to register. During the application for his visa, he had turned in his original acceptance letter and never received it back. Unluckily, he did not have the foresight to make even a photocopy. If that doesn't send a chill down your spine, you're either drunk or really high. Luckily for him, this was China, and he managed to fall through a crack as big as his head. After a tense struggle (kind of an anti-climax, huh?), the laoshi let him register any. It probably also helped that there were over 50 people waiting in that queue alone behind him. Which brings me to another point.
A few notes about the infamous Chinese bureaucracy. Note 1: it's expecting too much to find a person who actually knows what's going on. Beyond the narrow scope of their immediate bureaucratic functions, most funtionaries do not have a bigger picture of how they fit into the larger system. That means if you do not have exactly what they are looking for, you'll shushed away with little guidance of where to go or what to do. Note 2: bureaucrats will refuse your request without good reason so they can avoid the bother of having to serve you (I guess they don't get paid enough). Example: you'll be refused to apply for a dorm room even if there are technically available units. The Beida ISP office will send you to the photo office even though that's not a requirement to open your Internet access account. The solution generally is to annoy them (in a most pleasantly annoying way of course) enough so that the cost of your annoyance greatly outweighs the trouble of processing you. Yeah, what's a culture right?
After a embattled registration, Jon and I headed for the Carrefour, a French outfit that is trying to be for China what Wal-mart is for America. We were doing some very important shopping to stock out crib with necessities like rice cookers, pots and pans, and food. For a moment, I felt like I was in America again. We were throwing things into our cart at an accelerating rate until we realized any more, and we'll have trouble lugging it all back home. To the checkout line we go!
I remember reading a while back (I believe in the Economist) that one of the difficulties that many international supermarket chains were experiencing in China was the low spend per visit by the average Chinese customers. Chinese customers tend to shop often, but they buy a pithy amount each time. I think this phenomenon a vestige of open market shopping. Rather than do all their grocery shopping once a week, the Chinese will go every day to pick up just what they need. Well, this reality didn't hit me until Jon and I were at the checkout line. The Chinese like to stare - and what a lot of stares we did get. Jon, being a white American, only accentuated the effect of our excessive consumption. "What a bunch of bumbling American water buffaloes," they must have thought. A few even commented about how much we bought - statements to which we responded with (embarrassed) smiles and explanations that we were just moving into Beijing. In my estimation, we probably bought more merchandise (in value) than the rest of the customers in our line plus two lanes over (either way).
Example: One of my fellow adventurers managed to lose his official acceptance letter to Beida. Alright, this precious document was one of the few (very few) that you must - you MUST - present to the registration laoshi. Without it, it states clearly in bolded letters you will not be allowed to register - you will NOT be allowed to register. During the application for his visa, he had turned in his original acceptance letter and never received it back. Unluckily, he did not have the foresight to make even a photocopy. If that doesn't send a chill down your spine, you're either drunk or really high. Luckily for him, this was China, and he managed to fall through a crack as big as his head. After a tense struggle (kind of an anti-climax, huh?), the laoshi let him register any. It probably also helped that there were over 50 people waiting in that queue alone behind him. Which brings me to another point.
A few notes about the infamous Chinese bureaucracy. Note 1: it's expecting too much to find a person who actually knows what's going on. Beyond the narrow scope of their immediate bureaucratic functions, most funtionaries do not have a bigger picture of how they fit into the larger system. That means if you do not have exactly what they are looking for, you'll shushed away with little guidance of where to go or what to do. Note 2: bureaucrats will refuse your request without good reason so they can avoid the bother of having to serve you (I guess they don't get paid enough). Example: you'll be refused to apply for a dorm room even if there are technically available units. The Beida ISP office will send you to the photo office even though that's not a requirement to open your Internet access account. The solution generally is to annoy them (in a most pleasantly annoying way of course) enough so that the cost of your annoyance greatly outweighs the trouble of processing you. Yeah, what's a culture right?
After a embattled registration, Jon and I headed for the Carrefour, a French outfit that is trying to be for China what Wal-mart is for America. We were doing some very important shopping to stock out crib with necessities like rice cookers, pots and pans, and food. For a moment, I felt like I was in America again. We were throwing things into our cart at an accelerating rate until we realized any more, and we'll have trouble lugging it all back home. To the checkout line we go!
I remember reading a while back (I believe in the Economist) that one of the difficulties that many international supermarket chains were experiencing in China was the low spend per visit by the average Chinese customers. Chinese customers tend to shop often, but they buy a pithy amount each time. I think this phenomenon a vestige of open market shopping. Rather than do all their grocery shopping once a week, the Chinese will go every day to pick up just what they need. Well, this reality didn't hit me until Jon and I were at the checkout line. The Chinese like to stare - and what a lot of stares we did get. Jon, being a white American, only accentuated the effect of our excessive consumption. "What a bunch of bumbling American water buffaloes," they must have thought. A few even commented about how much we bought - statements to which we responded with (embarrassed) smiles and explanations that we were just moving into Beijing. In my estimation, we probably bought more merchandise (in value) than the rest of the customers in our line plus two lanes over (either way).
Friday, September 01, 2006
Arrival Beijing (of giggling rock stars and living large)
Since the time of my mandatory confinement in a foreign institution was finally upon me, I found myself on an 18 hour flight to the mysterious Orient. The arduous journey was made less formidable by the company I kept. I found myself sitting next to a MBA type who worked for VISA. If it wasn't enough already that I spew probability modeling on this blog, I was giving him a double whammy of the good stuff, which I hope he takes back and makes some serious money with it. Oh, the things we spoke about were dry to be sure - stocks, alternative energy, my research - but being such passionate people, it really wasn't bad at all. How can a man who listens intently while you explain the Dirichlet multinomial choice process to him be a bad person? If VISA was a public company, I'd buy its stock.
Having nothing to declare, I made it pass customs without a hitch. Had they gone through my bag, they would have found a few distasteful things such as my black tee that has the May Fourth protest imprinted on it. That would have been awkward. Speaking of awkward, Beijing taxi drivers speak an incomprehensible variate of Putonghua - something Victor Mair would point out as proof that standard Mandarin does not exist in any locale. Fortunately for me, it was only a matter of time before I began matching words with meanings. The chief difficulty in comprehension comes from their tendency to slur words and produce a guttural form of speech.
Jon took me to my first meal in Beijing. We went to a nice Szechuan place and proceeded to order all the most expensive items on the menu including fresh fish and bullfrog. We ate enough for four people and spent lavishly on all the little extras. At one point in the meal, I looked up from my plate and asked, "This is a bit too much isn't it?" "Yeah, we're living it up." Two hours later and fully sated, we headed out looking for more thrills. The bill came to around 140rmb.
After dinner, we headed for a bar call the 13 Club. There was supposed to be some live band performances that night and we figured it would be a shame not to check out Beijing's music scene. The bar was a seedy little establishment tucked away at the end of a small inlet away from the main road. It was here that I had my first taste of Erguotou, perhaps one of the nastiest liquors to take in straight shots. It clears your sinuses like bad tequila and burns as it travels down your throat like whiskey. There's still about 80% left in the little bottle I bought. I won't be finishing that any time soon.
The bands that night ranged from the okay to horrible. But that's to be expected considering that I only paid 10 rmb for the cover. I believe the cover is upped when better bands play. Anyway, the last story I care to share is about Jon. There was one particularly awesome band called Galaxy that made a good impression on him. I thought they were pretty good (well, for starters they had a full complement of musicians with 2 guitarists, 1 bassist, 1 drummer, and a lead vocal). Later that night when Jon and I stepped out for a moment to catch some less polluted Beijing air, we bumped into the female vocalist for the band hanging around the entrance. In the impeccable Mandarin that only Jon can pull off, he told her, "Ni chang de hen hao." (You sang very well). A statement to which she responded by covering her mouth with her hands to hide her embarrassed laughter. If the lighting was a bit better, we could have seen her blush too. Now tell me where else can I find a fobby rock star like this. What a classic Asian girl response!
Having nothing to declare, I made it pass customs without a hitch. Had they gone through my bag, they would have found a few distasteful things such as my black tee that has the May Fourth protest imprinted on it. That would have been awkward. Speaking of awkward, Beijing taxi drivers speak an incomprehensible variate of Putonghua - something Victor Mair would point out as proof that standard Mandarin does not exist in any locale. Fortunately for me, it was only a matter of time before I began matching words with meanings. The chief difficulty in comprehension comes from their tendency to slur words and produce a guttural form of speech.
Jon took me to my first meal in Beijing. We went to a nice Szechuan place and proceeded to order all the most expensive items on the menu including fresh fish and bullfrog. We ate enough for four people and spent lavishly on all the little extras. At one point in the meal, I looked up from my plate and asked, "This is a bit too much isn't it?" "Yeah, we're living it up." Two hours later and fully sated, we headed out looking for more thrills. The bill came to around 140rmb.
After dinner, we headed for a bar call the 13 Club. There was supposed to be some live band performances that night and we figured it would be a shame not to check out Beijing's music scene. The bar was a seedy little establishment tucked away at the end of a small inlet away from the main road. It was here that I had my first taste of Erguotou, perhaps one of the nastiest liquors to take in straight shots. It clears your sinuses like bad tequila and burns as it travels down your throat like whiskey. There's still about 80% left in the little bottle I bought. I won't be finishing that any time soon.
The bands that night ranged from the okay to horrible. But that's to be expected considering that I only paid 10 rmb for the cover. I believe the cover is upped when better bands play. Anyway, the last story I care to share is about Jon. There was one particularly awesome band called Galaxy that made a good impression on him. I thought they were pretty good (well, for starters they had a full complement of musicians with 2 guitarists, 1 bassist, 1 drummer, and a lead vocal). Later that night when Jon and I stepped out for a moment to catch some less polluted Beijing air, we bumped into the female vocalist for the band hanging around the entrance. In the impeccable Mandarin that only Jon can pull off, he told her, "Ni chang de hen hao." (You sang very well). A statement to which she responded by covering her mouth with her hands to hide her embarrassed laughter. If the lighting was a bit better, we could have seen her blush too. Now tell me where else can I find a fobby rock star like this. What a classic Asian girl response!
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