Pleasant Goat and Big Big Wolf

I have latey been fascinated by a popular cartoon in China. Its title is translated in English as "Pleasant Goat and Big Big Wolf." The animated adventures are aimed at children, who watch as a beret-wearing grey wolf schemes to capture a colony of young goats at the orders of his overbearing, crown-capped wife. What always follows is a set of hiliarious circumstances in which the goats foil the wolf's plans, taking many of the ideas directly from the playbook which the Road Runner used against Wile E. Coyote in the West. The poor wolf always ends up with cuts, bruises, and a damaged ego. To make matter worse, his angry wife usually clobbers him on the head with a frying pan as punishment for his failure.

Anyone from the West who watches this cartoon will immediately see similarities with the Smurfs. The goat leader is a teenage boy called "Pleasant." There is another goat who is a fitness freak, a pretty girl goat sometimes named "Betty" in English, and a gluttonous goat dubbed "Fatty." An older, wise goat resembling Albert Einstein plays the Papa Smurf role. The formulaic plot puts the goats briefly in harm's way thanks to the wolf's nefarious plans, but a glitch always allows the goats to go free and leaves the wolf with a wife-induced knock on his noggin. As you might realize by now, I've watched this cartoon series much too often, many times accompanied by a few pints of chilled beer.

"Pleasant Goat and Big Big Wolf" is at the center of a Disney-esqe merchandising bonanza. Kids all across China can buy a vast assortment of things emblazoned with the characters' image: balloons, lunchboxes, stuffed animals, and all kinds of toys. Some Westerners who bemoan the advancement of modern, materialistic China are troubled by this fact. I am more troubled by the idea that many women believe the wolf character represents "the perfect husband, because he does what his wife asks and never complains." Not even while suffering the most heinous serial acts of domestic violence ever seen on Chinese television.

But I'm pretty sure that after consuming enough Tsingdao brew, even I would accept being whacked in the head with a frying pan if my wolf-wife was cute enough.

Apology

Something went wrong at work.

It was my fault, but one of my co-workers was convinced that she was in line to take the blame. After all, no one at the company would suggest a foreigner on the staff could be responsible for causing trouble. They would just call-out the Chinese who was standing nearest to the foreigner and make that person suffer. My co-worker was so consumed by anger at this thought that she screamed and yelled at me for two solid minutes, and had to finally be restrained by a small, kindly, older woman in the office. I felt really bad about it. The scene was worse than a walk-off blind date disaster.

I said I would take responsiblity, no problem. But my apoplectic colleague wasn't hearing it. "You don't understand," she pouted. "I must go to the boss and apologize. I will lose face. I could lose my job."

The concept of face is well-known in Eastern social circles. It's been passed down through the centuries in places like Japan, Korea, and China. One must show he or she is properly apologetic for wrongdoing, or the apology is not considered genuine. Appearance and opinion are very important here, just like in an American middle school. This idea creates significant consequences for any kind of personal interaction in the society.

"To risk losing face is unacceptable," I was told. "Everyone knows this."

In the West, I explained, there is no apology in the workplace. There simply isn't time. You admit to the problem, you fix it, you resolve to make sure it never happens again, and then you get on with the work. The End.

With all of the worry and concern over keeping and losing face in China, I sometimes wonder how anything gets done. I decided to keep the concept in mind and avoid any more mistakes. But I am also going to keep that little old lady around, just in case.

Pushing The Button Does Not Close The Elevator Door Faster

Back at my former, isolated, iron-fenced, prison-yarded, hostile-to-foreigners-of-all-nationalities apartment compound, the building where I lived suffered a power outage. The elevators did not work. I had just arrived home from my job and saw residents standing around outside. I'd long-before realized that communication was impossible, so I didn't try to ask anyone what was going on. I just walked inside and pushed the "up" button for the elevator and it didn't even light up. No problem. I began walking the stairs...to my apartment on the 15th floor.

By the time I reached the 3rd floor, the immediate meaning of the number "15" began to sink in. But just when I'd mentally settled-in for a long, exhausting slog up the steps, I suddenly noticed I had already climbed to the 14th floor, and moments later, I arrived at my apartment door. It was as if I'd skipped a couple of floors altogether, which, indeed was exactly what happened.

Beijing is a city of thousands of high rise buildings, and among the more unusual things at some of them is that there is no 4th or 13th floor. It is all due to the legendary Chinese attention to superstition. The number "4," or any number that includes a "4," is considered bad luck, because "4" is similar to the sound for the Chinese character representing "death." (As for 13, apparently it is internationally, even universally, infamous. If you're tagged with a 13, you can't get away with anything, not even in outer space.)

But that fact does not come close to explaining the habit which Beijingers have of pushing the "door close" button on the elevator. From office ladies to maintenance workers, everyone seems convinced that hitting this magic button makes the elevator door close faster, and starts the ride quicker.

I know better. I regularly ignore the "door close" button whenever I step into an elevator. I just punch the button for my floor and get ready to ride. Sometimes I like to annoy the other riders by taking up position directly in front of the panel so no one else can get to the button, thus causing the perceived, interminable, 1.225-second wait before the door shuts and the elevator leaps into action. It is just my way of trying to make it clear: Pushing the Button Does Not Close the Elevator Door Any Faster. I can't believe anyone on the elevator is in such a hurry that they believe the time it takes for the door to close will make any real difference in their journey. Maybe they don't think the door will close at all.

Another high-rise behavior I like is how people misinterpret the "down" button in the lobby. Some impatient riders, unfamiliar with the way an elevator works, notice the car is stopped on an upper floor. So they push the "down" button, to bring the elevator "down." Then they climb aboard the elevator and get angry when it continues to go down to the basement, when they expected it to go up to their desired floor instead.

Yes, it wastes a few minutes during my day, but it's still amusing to watch. And I need to laugh.

What I really want to do is mechanically engineer an elevator in Beijing which automatically rises from the lobby straight to the 4th floor when someone hits the "door-close" button. It's a fair bet, then, that "emergency stop" will be a popular option.

Chinglish

On January 1, I received a text message from one of my English-speaking friends in Beijing. "Happy New Year," she wrote. "I wish the New Year bring you and your families more good lucks." I didn't care that her message did not look entirely correct. The sincerity and kindness shined through, and it was so cute and charming that I almost cried.

Just as with any second language, English is difficult for Chinese citizens. I know it's as tough for them as Mandarin is for me. The languages are different, but the solution is the same. Using the language every day, saying it, reading it, writing it, whatever, is the only way to achieve fluency. Yet there is a trend in China that criticizes those who struggle with English, and ridicules the odd combinations of English and Mandarin dubbed "Chinglish."

Unlike "Spanglish," the mashup of Spanish and English that produced various words, terms, and three-fourths of the street names in the Los Angeles Basin, "Chinglish" will never be accepted into Chinese mainstream society. That's because a certain, small element of said society is embarassed and shamed by it. Big mainland cities like Beijing and Shanghai undertake great efforts to eradicate Cinglish from street signage, restaurant menus, and public service advisories, especially in areas that tourists might visit.

The fact of the matter is, China has more pressing concerns than whether or not some English-speaking visitors get confused, get insulted, or just get a laugh from the strangely deformed words or sentences they see. The tourists should just be glad there's something translated for them to read at all. Pinyin, the form of the Chinese language that uses alphabetical characters, is learned by all Chinese, but no one really uses it. In fact, its a waste of space on the sides of buildings and on highway signs. I'm sure if it was up to most Chinese citizens, they would drop Pinyin altogether and force the rest of the world to learn Chinese characters or face economic oblivion.

So if you are in Beijing, Shanghai, Xian, Shanxi, or Guangxi, don't complain when you read "Hope You Kindly Understanding, Please Note Security." Remember that trying to figure out China is part of the reason why you showed up in the first place, and deciphering Chinglish is one of the most interesting places to start.

Hot Water

Some of my colleagues at work decided to go to a nearby fast food place to buy lunch. As a kindness to me, the only foreigner in the office, they chose a Western restaurant to grab a sandwich and drink to bring back. (Now, those of you who have lived in China for a while know where I'm going with this one. The rest of you, keep reading.)

It took almost 20 minutes before I got the phone call: the only sandwiches available were the ones with the spicy meat. And there was no Coca-Cola, just water, fruit juice and tea. OK, I said. Just get me the spicy sandwich and I'll douse the burning sensation with the fruit juice.

So by the time the crew returns to the office, I am so hungry I could eat my way through the Great Wall. But beyond that, I am unbelieveably thirsty. "Sorry it took so long," one of my co-workers apologized. "The sandwich might be cold by now." "Mei wen ti," I responded. "No problem." I ignored the sandwich and went straight for the fruit juice...which happened to be heated to a temperature close to that of Starbucks' hottest latte.

"WHAT THE #@&!?" I exclaimed, spewing the drink back into the cup. "This $#%#" is boiling!"
"Of course," my workmates explained. "Hot drinks are good for your health. Everyone knows this."

But not freakin' orange juice, I replied. I expected it to be warm, but this was like Satan's citrus revenge. It was Anita Bryant's worst nightmare come true.

After researching the facts, it turned out that my co-workers were correct. When they ordered the drink, they asked for fruit juice "without ice," which apparently meant "crazy hot." And hot water is truly necessary in China, not only because it's favored for tea, but also it guards against impurities that come with contaminated water. Years of environmental neglect combined with rapid industrial development has left much of the tap water in Beijing unfit to consume. So it's boiled, bottled, and sometimes served at high temperature. The complimentary glass of water which you receive upon being seated at a traditional restaurant in Beijing is typically steaming.

The ultimate irony came when I finally bit into the food, which was indeed as chilled as the Harbin winter festival. It just goes to show you how China sometimes resembles an upside-down world: the sandwiches show up cold, but the drinks are hot.

China and The Carpenters

If there is something about mainland China which I never expected before, and absolutely amazes me now, it is the connection its citizens have with the music of the Carpenters. You might think that, when referring to best-known American music, people in Beijing would mention Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson, or various jazz artists like Louis Armstrong or Dave Brubeck. Instead, I encounter evidence almost every day that mainland Chinese have a special place in their minds and in their hearts for Richard and Karen Carpenter.

The Carpenters popularized their brand of soft-rock music in the U. S. during the 1970s, and became that decade's top selling popular music act. That makes it all the more remarkable that they are so revered in mainland China, where millions of people spent the same decade dying of famine during the Cultural Revolution. Add to that the irony of Karen Carpenter's anorexia-related death to Chinese suffering from a lack of food and you have the makings for an amazing TV documentary, or at least a follow up episode of "True Hollywood Story."

I've heard the Carpenters' music inside bathrooms, bars, and bookstores in Beijing. I even heard a taxi driver singing along -- in English -- to a Carpenters tune on the radio. When I asked one of my co-workers about the Carpenters' music, she said, "oh yes, it's great. Everyone knows a Carpenters song." "But it's some of the most bland, dull, non-threatening pop music ever recorded in America," I replied. Yet it appears those are the qualities about the music that appeal to some Chinese listeners the most.

It seems that in the late 1980s, Carpenters music began to be heard on radio stations in mainland China. In those days, that was virtually the only kind of foreign-produced music allowed to be heard from the West in Beijing: something safe, sweet, and unlikely to make a serious political situation worse. Glasnost had just brought down the Soviet Union. There was no way the Chinese in charge were going to let rock artists like the Rolling Stones help finish the job of dismantling Communism. As the years went on and China grew in economic clout, the Carpenters became a staple in kareoke joints and KTVs. Drunken Chinese businessmen staggered out of bars with "Close To You" and "We've Only Just Begun" bouncing around in their heads. "For All We Know" became a sentimental favorite at wedding receptions. Kids in English class learned the lyrics to "Rainy Days and Mondays" alongside Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech.

In the U. S., critics labled the Carpenters' work as the music of politically-conservative, stationwagon-driving, flat-and-sterile, white middle-America. Karen Carpenter's death changed some of that, but I hardly knew anyone who ranked the Carpenters ahead of anyone on the radio, except for maybe The Captain and Tennille, when they unleashed "Muskrat Love" on the masses. In Beijing, Carpenters music continues to stir the feelings of many people who grew up in a certain generation. While most teenagers today prefer Avril Lavigne and Linkin Park, their older siblings and parents indentify the American brother-and-sister duo as their favorite Western musical artists, connecting their songs to quiet walks in the park, or a stroll along the water in Houhai, or maybe sightseeing at the Summer Palace.

At least until they hear the sounds of muskrats making-out in the lakeside weeds.

Pimp My Ride

What would happen if Xzibit showed up in Beijing at the request of Chinese President Hu Jintao? After all, President Hu desperately needs some new wheels from which to review the massed troops in the 14th Military Parade on China's National Day.

President Hu Jintao's ride is a Hong Qi, also known as the HQE, China's only domestically-produced luxury limo. It is 6.4 meters long, 2.05 meters wide, and 1.72 meters high, originally built at the First Automobile Works of Changchun in Jilin Province. But due to China's rapid economic growth and emergence on the world stage as an international playa, the HQE looks horribly out of date. But all that is about to change. In short, the HQE is in need of some serious TLC. President Hu doesn't know it yet, but we're about to pimp his ride.

"I am Hu Jintao. I am the President of the People's Republic of China. And this is my ride."

It is an ordinary black limousine. "While mainland China boasts a rapidly developing upper class that can afford fine cars like this," says Hu, "most of our nation is poor and its people lacking in what you in the West could call the 'social graces.' These will come in time, but I have only a half-hour before I must review the country's top military detatchments during a globally-viewed parade in Beijing. We need to impress the leaders of the world's developed nations, as well as frighten the lesser countries in our region of East Asia. We cannot look weak. We cannot make a mistake. We cannot fail. So please, pimp my ride."

Xzibit shows up outside the gates of Zhongnanhai, home of the Chinese political leadership, and sees the Hong Qi for the first time: "What we have here is a basic black, bulletproof, no-frills, no-style, no-character, piece of s--- Soviet-era automotive engineering. We've never pimped a car like this one before. But there's always a first time. Let's go meet President Hu."

Xzibit knocks at the gate and an excited President Hu walks out: "This is a great moment for our people. I knew you would come. So where is Shaq?"

Xzibit: "???"

Xzibit and President Hu look over the vehicle. Xzibit observes the exterior: "I see that the favorite color for official cars in Beijing is black. Did you ever think of updating the style of this car?" President Hu: "It is updated."

Xzibit: "???!!!"

Xzibit and President Hu check out the interior. Xzibit: "There is...wait, that is some nasty...hey, do people spit in your car?" President Hu: "The people spit everywhere. Everyone knows this." Xzibit: "But inside your car? The next thing you'll tell me is that they let small children pee on the back seat." President Hu doesn't respond.

Xzibit: $@#^%???!!!

Xzibit squirms into the driver's seat and President Hu hands him the keys. "Off to the west coast," Xzibit says. "We do not have a west coast," counters the President. "Only east coast." Xzibit drives across the street and arrives in the Forbidden City right after the commercial break. Workers at the shop throw up their hands in exasperation upon seeing the Hong Qi pull into the garage.

"Here I am," exclaims Xzibit as he hits the HQE's metallic-sounding horn, "...in the President's Robo-Car!"

The workers hurriedly convene their staff meeting in the shop's conference room: "This is the car which will carry the President of the world's most populous country. The people of his nation make everything we buy, including many of the parts we will be pimping his car with. Paint, what you got for us?"

"We are going to repaint this fine car in basic black. Or maybe not."

"OK, interior?"

"Not only will we remove that nasty spit-and-crap-stained back seat, but we will give the President enough room to stand up if he wants."

"All right. Body work, what ya got?"

"We are going to cut a hole in the roof. YES, THE ROOF! President Hu can stand at attention and reward the crowd with his presence and, POW, review the troops directly from his limo's sunroof. Oh yeah, we're going to attach Chinese flags above the headlights for a patriotic touch. It is National Day, after all."

"Nice. Electronics?"

"We will outfit this ride with an audio system like no other. We will mount four, count-em, FOUR microphones on the roof, which will transmit President Hu's words through wireless technology to speakers up and down Chang'an Jie. His booming voice will be heard from the Forbidden City all the way to Wangfujing and back."

The meeting ends. "Well, President Hu, take one last peek at your Hong Qi. It will never look like this again. Well, not exactly like this, but it will be pretty close."

Twenty minutes later: President Hu and Xzibit are in attendance at the shop with several bodyguards as the workers unveil the newly-pimped HQE. The bodyguards gasp as President Hu nods in approval: "A fine job."

Hu Jintao climbs into the limousine, pokes his head out of the sunroof, and faces the microphones. The driver proceeds to power the car through the gate and heads toward Tian'anmen Square.

President Hu's voice blasts through the streetside speakers, amid the throng of 300,000 parade watchers and participants:

"Xie xie for pimping my ride! Now go Serve The People!"

Mooncake vs. Fruitcake

It is time for the Chinese to celebrate the annual Mid-Autumn Festival. It is an event marked by the traditional giving of mooncakes, similar to the holiday gift of fruitcakes in other countries. I decided to see how the two delectibles matched up in a classic, stomach-churning, tale-of-the-tape comparison.

So, for the 1.3 billion Chinese citizens in attendance, and the half-dozen fans reading this blog around the world..."ladies and gentlemen...L-L-L-L-LET'S GET READY TO RUMB-L-L-L-L-L-E!"

Ingredients: Fruitcake is a heavy and sometimes alcohol-fueled cake packed with candied fruit, dried fruit, and nuts. Mooncake is not even a cake, but actually a dense pastry about the size of a Hostess Twinkie, which includes fillings of kidney bean paste, or lotus seed paste, or yolk from salted duck eggs in the center. At least 4 or 6 come in a highly-decorative, holiday-themed box.

ADVANTAGE: FRUITCAKE. Fruitcake occasionally features alcohol. Mooncake features paste. Any food that uses something called "paste" in the center should automatically give one pause. The last time I remember anyone actually eating paste was during pre-school activity time.

Calories: Fruitcake = 250 (per slice). Mooncake = 800 (per cake).

ADVANTAGE: FRUITCAKE (given that the slice of fruicake and the mooncake are the same basic size). In terms of health, neither is a good option. If you decide to eat one slice of fruitcake, hope that a lawyer remembered to leave his business card in the package. Your fruitcake might be soaked in so much rum that you'll earn a DUI violation on the way home from the holiday dinner. On the other hand, consume an entire box of 4-to-6 mooncakes and put your cardiologist on speed dial.

Gift Value: Fruitcake is a traditional staple for Christmas parties or wedding receptions, and one cake be used several times per year. Even if consumed by the recipient, it can accurately be called the gift that keeps on giving. Mooncakes can be tossed in the fridge, but the filling won't last long. Besides, the packaging is so cool that you'll want to buy new ones each year, anyway.

ADVANTAGE: MOONCAKE. Some people determine the value on the artistic packaging alone. After all, it's the thought -- and the colorful design on the box -- that counts.

Humor Value: Older, rock-hard fruitcake has legendary alternative uses, including but not limited to: sledgehammers, doorstops, tire blocks, and various blunt force trauma-inducing instruments of violence. Mooncakes are at the center of a Yuan dynasty legend which says messages got smuggled inside the pastries in a plot to overthrow the Mongols.

ADVANTAGE: EVEN. Curious how both can be counted on as weapons of some sort.

Post-Gift Use: One U. S. city hosted a festival in which a time-hardened fruitcake was fired 1,400 feet from a purpose-built, air-compressed cannon. I suspect China will find a way to appropriately blast mooncakes into outer space, once engineers increase their rockets' weight-to-lift ratio.

ADVANTAGE: MOONCAKE. Maybe fruitcake's already been enjoyed on the International Space Station, but mooncake has the capability to reach lunar orbit.

WINNER: MOONCAKE BY SPLIT DECISION, despite the fact that few people in China see anything funny about either food.

The line, "nutty as a mooncake" doesn't seem to fit, somehow.

Quality

Chinese youth love basketball. If 60 years ago, they carried copies of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book, today they carry LeBron James' career stat line. In their heads.

But you cannot convince anyone here of the love fans have for college basketball in the United States. Whenever I try to explain the wild action of the campus scene, the high-flying exploits of the David vs. Goliath matchups, the drama of the Big Dance, all I get from my hoops-adoring Chinese friends is a collective yawn. It's not because they don't get to hear about the college game, its legendary coaches, and its budding pro basketball stars.

It's because American college basketball isn't the NBA.

"I appreciate the passion of the college game," one co-worker told me. "But it does not compare to the NBA."

"The NBA is simply better," said another colleague. "Everyone knows this."

Instead of launching into a definition involving the Western saying which compares apples to oranges, I decided to try to understand the Chinese obsession with quality. In the U. S., quality goods can be found practically anywhere. But in China, you've got to hunt for them. Chinese people know good from bad quality products, and don't think the recent international concerns about Chinese-made goods hasn't struck a raw nerve. Maybe it's because there are so many cheaply-made products floating around the Chinese domestic market. Believe me, Chinese consumers are every bit as disgusted with corporate corner-cutting as we are in the West. But when you manufacture stuff in a country with so much demand and such limited supply, the temptation is too hard to ignore. So, shoppers in China are always on the lookout for top quality goods. They don't want anything less than the best.

So don't go hatin' on the Chinese because they don't like college hoops; it's just not good enough for them. It's seen as an inferior brand, like Tiger beer.

Or the Euroleague.

Fanta Orange Soda vs. %#@&%

Western-style soft drinks rank a poor second to tea in China, even among young people. Therefore, I am so grateful to find Fanta orange soda on the shelves alongside a similar international brand. (My computer keyboard isn't equipped to use Chinese characters, so I'll call the other brand "%#@&%", not just because the symbols are the closest thing I can find to the actual Chinese characters, but because the other drink actually tastes like %#@&%.)

Gone are the days when I'd automatically turn down Powerade, Gatorade, or some kind of heavily-marketed energy drink because they were too sour, or too dry, or left an aftertaste worse than the metal monkey bars at my old neighborhood playground. In Beijing, I will choose sugar-free Red Bull over a tea-based Chinese soft drink in an instant.

My colleagues at work cannot understand my opinion at all. Why, they ask, would anyone choose a foreign soft drink over the many delicious Chinese brands? "They are all much healthier than your colas," one co-worker told me. "Everyone knows this."

But in fact, these Chinese drinks are heavy in glucose content; sort of like slurping down maple syrup. Their relative popularity lent itself to a wide variety of tea drinks: bubble tea, milk tea, herbal tea, etc., which come and go with the seasons. Fortunately for me, Fanta orange soda is a drink for all seasons. Yet it fails to outdistance its domestic competitors in sales.

Summer temperatures in Beijing routinely reach 105 degrees F. in the afternoon, and it takes approximately 30 seconds of exposure to the sun and choking humidity level to make your respiratory system feel like you've run 20 laps on the track at the Birds' Nest Olympic stadium. It was on one of these days that I had no choice but to stagger into a convenience store and choke down a bottle of orange-flavored %#@&%. The fact that the drink was nice and cold didn't keep it from rocketing back up my throat and exploding out of my mouth, along with the exclaimation, "...W-T-F?!! NAS-TY %#@&%!!!"

Whereupon I immediately purchased a cold bottled water and drank it instead. Sometimes the most obvious solutions are the ones hiding in plain sight.

I think Confucius said that.

Visor

Beijing is a city of bicycles, upholding a tradition that dates back centuries. This is despite the fact that dozens of new cars and drivers hit the road every hour. I am positive that, in 100 years, a simple bicycle will ultimately be the symbol of what Old Beijing used to be. And, alongside the bicycle, there will be the biggie-sized visor, a giant, tough, tinted-plastic shield that goes from the top of the rider's head to the tip of her chin.

I think the windshield-visor combination is cool. I've always wanted to arrive at my destination looking like I'm ready to cut and mend metal. If I happened to crash and break my bike frame, I could just fire-up the acetylene torch, make the repairs, and be back on the streets within seconds.

Seriously, it's a positive idea, achieving full-face protection from the sun's glare and debris from the road. If Dale Earnhardt was wearing this -- in addition to a proper seat belt -- maybe he would still be alive and winning races. Even more impressive are the lengths that some riders take to protect their exposed forearms from the harmful effects of the sun, especially among older mainland Chinese women. By custom, they try to avoid dark-tanned arms and shoulders. It's partly due to concern about keeping healthy, but it's also a fact that, in China, dark skin implies a life of manual labor, inviting social discrimination. So silk gloves that go up past the elbow are among the summer-season necessities for these easy-riding grannies.

Somehow, I'm not so sure the Intimidator would have followed that trend.

When I Rule

Upon celebrating my 19 month anniversary of being in Beijing, I feel compelled to admit something: the first 12 months were none too pleasant. The shock of trying to adjust to a completely new culture without benefit of language skills or accurate information about day-to-day living took its toll, and although I am able to laugh about most of it now, I was in some very serious trouble more times than I want to count. Sickness, starvation, the threat of deportation, insufficient funds, lousy living arrangements, and more.

I thought a great deal about the advice I was given early in the experience: "approach China with an open mind and give it a chance, and things will work out." Well, I did have an open mind and I did give it a chance, but no, things did not work out -- well, not like I'd hoped, anyway -- not until I'd finished my first year in Beijing.

To get through the longest of days and the darkest of hours, I came up with a list of things I would change if given the opportunity...the opportunity to rule China. I mean, everyone else has had their chance; I think it's my turn.

The instant I become fluent in Mandarin, I will simply take over, and When I Rule China, this is what will happen:

1. ...taxi drivers will work for tips. They'll figure out once they deliver better service in a kind and helpful manner, they'll get paid more, on-the-spot. That's got to be good, right?

2. ...people must clean up whatever it is they spit on the streets. With their tongues. Forget the idea of issuing fines, this plan will be more dramatic and instantly effective. And don't try to tell me there aren't enough police to enforce it.

3. ...there will be three, no, four McDonalds' restaurants on every block.

4. ...there will be no more rusted bikes, scooters, cars, or trucks. People must take pride in their wheels and reject the beat-up rentals; from now on you are what you ride / drive, just like in Southern California.

5. ...workers, stop bringing power tools with you on the subway. I am surprised people are getting away with this now.

6. ...a loaf of bread must have more than 6 slices in the bag. French bread will be subject to an additional 10 percent sales tax. Accordingly...

7. ...all French Carrefour stores will close and be immediately replaced by SuperTarget from the USA.

8. ...the spelling of words in Pinyin will become standardized. No more 5-different-ways-to-say-4th-Ring-Road on a map.

9. ...two thirds of all football, er, soccer fields will be plowed-over and replaced with basketball courts across the land. The final third will be used for golf driving ranges or tennis courts.

10. ...we hire the mayor of Macau to run Beijing, and order him to light up the Forbidden City like Las Vegas all year 'round.

By the way, I just learned how to make banking transactions using Mandarin. Get those Big Macs ready.

Chinese Food

I went to eat dinner at a very old-fashioned Beijing restaurant. My companion, a young lady who was born and raised in Beijing, explained to me that this restaurant was so traditional that the famous Peking Duck was not even on the menu.

Unlike foreigners who dine in Beijing, most Chinese find only rare opportunities to eat Peking Duck. Most of the time, they're eating at smaller, less-expensive establishments like the one in which we were seated. Restaurants which, my companion explained, do not have the same standard of cleanliness that we enjoy in the West. As if to prove her point, she refused to eat with the wooden chopsticks which the restaurant provided. Once the food arrived at the table, she slowly pulled out her own set of stainless steel chopsticks, which came in four parts. She assembled the chopsticks as carefully and silently as an assassin would put together a high-powered rifle, and only then was she ready to enjoy her meal. This scene left me extremely impressed. I was having dinner with the Chinese Girl from U.N.C.L.E.

I am not ashamed to admit that I am basically clueless when it comes to using chopsticks. Restaruant staffers tend to expect it. After observing my fumbling-around with the 'sticks, someone will usually bring a knife and fork, and plop them down in front of the idiot-foreigner-who-should-not-have-even-showed-up-in-our-country-if-he-did-not-know-how-to-eat-our-food. This was kind of humiliating at first, but I got used to it. If I wasn't so concerned about carrying dangerous weapons around, I would bring my own eating utensils wherever I go in China. It would undoubtedly shock whomever accompanied me to dinner:

Dinner Companion: "Hey. What are you doing?"

Me: "I am getting ready to cut my food. WITH A KNIFE."

DC: "AAAAAH! How barbaric! One eats the pig's intestinal organs with chopsticks only! Everybody knows this!"

Me: "Sorry, but my stomach is learning as we go. Now, where is the ketchup?"

That being said, I really admire anyone who can eat with chopsticks in old Beijing; someone who can manage to look at the food on the plate, grab it cleanly with the 'sticks, and consume the stuff while declaring it utterly delicious. And since you might swear some of the food is still moving when it's brought to your table, knowledge from special weapons training is nice to have, too.

DaWangLu

Da Wang Lu.

That was the first set of Chinese characters I tried to say in public. It was the location of a store which I was trying to locate during my first weeks in Beijing. So I asked one of my colleagues at work how to get there. But apparently I didn't say Da Wang Lu correctly, because her answer was a long, drawn-out, aggrieved response:

"EHHHHHH?!"

My heart sank to the floor. Not only had I failed to speak the language, failed to pronounce the name of a simple street, but I had screwed it up so badly that I was causing my poor colleague's brain to burst.

"Um, yeah, Da Wang Lu," I said. "I think it's on the east side, past the 3rd Ring Road."

"Da Wang Lu," she confirmed.

"Right," I said. "Da Wang Lu."

"No," she replied. "It's Da Wang Lu."

"I know," I answered. "That's what I said. Da Wang Lu."

"No. It's Da Wang Lu."

"Yeah, right, Da Wang Lu," I said. "So where is it?"

"No. You mean Da Wang Lu."

"Right," I replied. "That's the name of the street. I need to find Da Wang Lu."

Before the conversation could turn into a Chinese version of Abbott and Costello's famous "Who's On First" routine, my colleague's voice charged up an octave, and now she was yelling at me and stomping her foot.

"NO! IT'S DA WANG LU! DA - WANG - LU! DA...WANG...LU!"

I had no idea what could have triggered the level of anger in her voice. So I said to myself, it's OK, I'll figure it out. It was then that I understood how subtle differences in pronounciation and tone matter when you try to speak Mandarin Chinese. It can literally spell the difference between the name of a street and a personal insult. And after almost two years of living in Beijing and trying to learn the language, I am convinced that you need at least 5 years of study, or be born-and-raised in the culture, to get Mandarin right. Speaking with an accent, or an unusual dialect, or simply with a fatigued tone of voice means you can't order dinner from the menu, or ask the taxi driver to just stop at the next corner.

Some Beijingers hear me struggling with the language, and they ask me, "what's wrong with you? DaShan is a foreigner and he can speak Chinese better than the Chinese." My conclusion is that DaShan (the Canadian guy who became a TV star in China...everybody knows who he is, trust me) is really Superman. He's got the mild-mannered alter ego perfected, right down to the eyewear. The only thing that keeps him from flying faster than a speeding bullet is the lack of phone booths in the CBD.

Learning a new language requires patience, from teachers and students alike. I found the store, along Da Wang Lu near Chang'an Jie, and purchased a Mandarin study guide. Maybe it will show me how to keep my words from hurting the ears of the Chinese people.

Mandarin Oriental Hotel

One of the more unusual things you will see during a walk around Beijing's Central Business District is the burned-out shell of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. There appears to be no ongoing work at the site, four months since the fire that reduced the planned luxury hotel into the charred hulk that stands alongside the gleaming new CCTV tower near the east side Third Ring Road. What's left of the 44-story wrecked colossus is most starkly seen in the late afternoon sunshine, and it is among the most frightening sights in the Capital, just behind the foaming loogies left on the sidewalks by the city's serial mucous spitters.

I am sure someone, somewhere is discussing how to rebuild the hotel, but my idea for its future happens to be very cost-effective. The Mandarin Oriental Hotel has the potential to become the East's scariest tourist draw: Beijing's original Tower of Terror.

Just leave the building alone. It already has a nasty reputation. As part of the new CCTV complex, the hotel was derided and detested by many Chinese netizens as a symbol of ridiculous State spending. And that was before it burned. The hotel climbed to a new level of bad karma after the February 9 blaze that killed one firefighter and injured a half dozen others. So why not re-open it as China's biggest haunted house? Its operators can follow the successful blueprint from Disney's Tower of Terror thrill ride, where people are seated in a "freight elevator" and suddenly dropped hundreds of feet in the space of a few seconds. They could include scary characters to enhance the experience, including 1) the now-unemployed goofball official who ignored the warning not to use the fireworks that triggered the calamity, 2) city residents displaced by the original multi-million dollar project, and 3) spectators who watched the fire burn while ironically holding sparklers. Just as with Disney's Tower of Terror, these characters can entertain people as they wait in the inevitable long lines to get inside the attraction. That is, when the visitors aren't busy busting into the queue like NASCAR drivers charging out of the pit lane at Daytona.

At Disney's Tower of Terror, the riders are photographed at the moment they're dropped down the "elevator shaft", capturing the instant of stark, raving horror on their faces. In Beijing, there will be voice recordings in which you will not hear anyone screaming. Instead, they'll be chatting animatedly about how the ride isn't scary enough, in which case, real fire might actually be necessary.

Squatting

I used to live in a high-construction zone in Beijing. I saw many workers who, when they weren't using 19th century tools to do 21st century jobs, were relaxing in a very traditional way. By squatting. When I asked one of my colleagues about squatting, the answer was predictable.


"Squatting? Yes, of course. Everyone does this."


Yet when I saw it in action for the first time, my mind echoed the words of James Carter from "Rush Hour 2": "Now I KNOW I don't think I'm seeing what I see I'm thinking!"


Here was a guy sitting flat-footed on his heels -- on the edge of a raised platform, no less -- as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And what I wanted to say was, "Sir, please. Find a comfortable seat. You are not an animal in a zoo." Besides, it looked too much like he was taking a dump, and in a city where defecating indoors seems optional, it was not a pleasant image to behold. Get 5 or 6 guys squatting together around an open flame, and you're imagining the campfire scene from "Blazing Saddles."


The unfortunate truth is that, in fact, squatting is kind of necessary, because there are very few clean public places to sit. Suppose you're tired enough to rest on a park bench for a while. You might wind up sitting on 1) a fine coating of dirt from a dusty building project, or 2) an oily film from smokestack pollutants, or 3) someone else's spit, or 4) a slimy combination of all three.


So, while in Beijing, always have a newspaper available to put between your butt and the seat of your choice, and be thankful that pork and beans is not a popular item in the Chinese grocery stores.

Sayings

If there is anything mainland Chinese like more than tea, it is old sayings. Many of America's most notable sayings trace their history to Mark Twain, or maybe a hundred years earlier, to George Washington. The Chinese always refer to a fellow named Confucius, who was spouting aphorisms all the way back in 500 B. C.

But what is weird about modern-day China is how the Chinese like to claim many popular sayings worldwide originated with Confucius, and became standard lexicon in other countries. One colleague told me:

"We have a saying that 'one should harvest dry wheat while the sun is at its peak,' meaning people should not waste time when work is to be done."

"I know that one," I replied. "It's 'make hay while the sun shines'."

"Yes," said my colleague. "Confucius said it first."

"No, he didn't."

"Yes, he did. Everyone knows this."

OK, well, maybe it is possible that Confucius did originate the phrase. There are all sorts of things no one knows or fully understands about Chinese history and culture. But then I found out about some other alleged Chinese proverbs, and now I'm not so sure.

"Perception is Reality" may be traced back to the teachings of Confucius. Perhaps Confucius determined that what he saw in his garden was pretty much what was actually happening; he simply had the foresight to put it in writing.

"Possession is Nine-Tenths of the Law." Also attributed to Confucius at one time or another, this claim is very likely to be true. In fact, given what appears to be an historical Chinese obsession with obtaining material wealth, it should be amended to read: "Posession is Nine-Tenths of the Law. Especially OUR law."

"It Was Not Over When The Germans Bombed Pearl Harbor." A 20th-century update of an old Confucius saying, I'm sure. This one was apparently circulated by some misbehaving students at Peking University in the 1950s, demonstrating again that the Chinese know more about our history than we do.

Language

I avoided learning Mandarin for a year, because, first of all, I was told that I wouldn't need to know it. That advice turned out to be second only to Lord Chamberlain's "don't worry about Hitler. It's not like he's going to kill anybody" in flat-out wrong. Second, I didn't have time and my work schedule was all over the place. But after about 18 months, the level of frustration with trying to learn on my own and being misunderstood at literally every turn became too much.

So I decided to take private language lessons. My biggest fear now is that I will need Chinese anger management therapy, because once I can speak Mandarin fluently, I'm just going to go-off on cranky taxi drivers, nosy store clerks, nasty spitters and public poopers. Once I know Mandarin, I'll see something every day that will make me so angry, I'll just Hulk-out and start tossing cars and bicycles, and destroy property all over Beijing. I'll be so bad that the Chinese will ask Japan to send over Godzilla to put me in check.

JAPAN (answers hot line from Beijing): "Moshi-moshi."

CHINA: "We need Godzilla!"

JAPAN: "What you say?"

CHINA: "Godzilla! This is urgent! We have (an) angry foreigner who is trashing our 5000-year civilization, disrupting our goal of social harmony, and threating our promise of 21st century world economic domination!"

JAPAN: "Ah, so sorry, but Godzilla (is) not available for rent."

CHINA: "We own (70 percent of) your national debt. Everyone knows this."

JAPAN: "He is on his way."

The toughest thing about learning Mandarin in Beijing is finding a good Chinese teacher who knows something about languages. People here who have known nothing but Mandarin their entire lives simply cannot teach the language to someone from another culture. Until Beijing instructors can get an idea of what the language is like from the perspective of the student's original culture, they can forget about teaching Mandarin.

Some teachers here also fail to understand that language is learned gradually. They seem to think that students merely need to repeat what they've heard, at normal speed, and they will automatically pick up the language. Finally, they quickly run out of patience. "Why can't you GET this?" I wonder if this is a characteristic of learning in the Chinese culture.

Plus, I have a suspicion that if you speak Mandarin slowly, folks identify you as mentally disabled. So everyone refrains from speaking deliberately. They even criticize politicians for speaking slowly during their speeches. In a relatively un-diversified society, you apparently need some sophisticated means to separate those who are smart from those who are stupid, and language is one way Beijingers manage to do this. I think this means that I should be able to get anger management training and learn Mandarin at the same time. It would be just like in America where you can rent violent videos, buy guns and ammo, and purchase hard liquor, all in the same place.

Fashion

You know summertime is coming to Beijing when young people begin wearing t-shirts with nonsensical or utterly-inappropriate English phrases written on them. You realize quickly that they have no idea what the words mean, just like rappers in the U. S. don't know what the Chinese lettering on their tattoos mean.

My favorite T-shirt message last year was worn by a young lady in a shopping mall, and it read, "What The Woman Wants, She Gets." Her husband/boyfriend/whomever accompanying her should have just given her his cash and waited outside. Instead, he was carrying her purse.

Teens here are like teens anywhere else. They follow trends and want to look cool. The kids in Beijing are not at the extreme edge, as in Tokyo's Harajuku district, for example, but they're making their best effort. They're making colorful choices and prefer radical -- but not too radical -- artistic design. The words on the shirt are just extras, slogans that don't mean anything. Not that anyone aside from the few English-speaking foreigners in Beijing like me would be able to read them, anyway.

So far this spring, I've already seen a girl's shirt with the message "Let's Make Out." And a guy nearby was sporting a baseball cap reading, "I Don't Give A F***." Charming. I think those two were made for each other.

Evil Landlord

I recently traded one hulking high-rise Beijing apartment building for another. A different compound catering to foreigners, a different group of uniformed security guards, a different community convenience store cleverly referred to as a "supermarket." But the real plus is losing an evil landlord, and gaining one who chooses to do business with honesty and integrity. The former landlord chose greed and avarice, in classic ancient Chinese style, threatening at one point to kick me out the apartment I'd rented after only 2 weeks.

I discovered that to understand the landlord-tenant relationship in China, you must, as usual, know a bit of Chinese history. "Landlord" has a completely different meaning here than in the West. The landlord is, literally, lord over the land he owns. In the old days, that meant he allowed poor people to live on his land just because he was a nice guy. And then, he would kick them off his land because, on that particular day, he decided to be a bad guy. That feudal-era tradition continues in China to this very day, with some nice 21st century touches.

An English-speaking realtor helped me arrange the deal with my first landlord, who only spoke Chinese. I was told I would need to sign the lease at the apartment, at 10 o'clock at night, in the presence of the landlord and her assistant. I would bring a security deposit equivalent to two months' rent, in addition to the first month's rent, all in cash. I would place the cash in an 8 x 11 inch envelope, and place the envelope on the table at which we would be seated. Then, I would slide the envelope, with both hands, slowly across the table, with my head bowed as a sign of respect to the landlord.

WHAT?

No big deal, I figured. This is China, and a neat learning experience about another culture. Except it became unnerving the way it all went down.

The realtor and I rode silently up to the 15th floor of the high rise building, and walked down a very dark hallway. I'd viewed the apartment in the daytime; I had no idea that none of the hallway lights worked. When we walked in the door, we encountered the unsmiling landlord-lady and her equally sinister-looking assistant. We sat at the table, and I followed all of the instructions regarding the lease-signing, money-transfering ritual. Nobody said a word. The landlord and her Mini-Me lackey slowly opened the envelope and counted the cash. They counted every 100 RMB bill. Twice.

I thought I was living an episode of Miami Vice. The only things missing were the guns, the drugs, and the metal briefcase.

The landlord spoke to the realtor; apparently all was in order. There was no handshake, nor any eye contact. I got the keys and everyone walked out of the apartment, which was quite a bit more empty and cold than I'd ever remembered before.

The 12 months I spent at the place were highlighted by a rent dispute, three power failures that killed the elevators, and a handful of moments in which police officers knocked on my door to see my identification. On the other hand, the compound threw a heck of a Chinese New Year party.

My experience there turned out to be less than typical. I moved to my new place with none of the drama. The new landlord speaks English, and the supermarket is actually a nice 7-11. The security guards at my new apartment building wear military-style uniforms, but they're young women who look like supermodels, and that learning experience is probably the neatest of all.

Bargaining and the DVD Man

The Silk Market, along Jianguomen Street near Beijing's old Embassy District, is the city's best-known buying, selling and tourist-fleecing location. Foreigners are encouraged to step inside this multi-level landmark building, where they are immediately set upon by aggressive merchants selling goods of dubious quality, and pushed into buying something they don't remotely want or need.


It is said that purchasing something at the ticketed price is relatively new for China, where negotiating for products has been the norm for thousands of years. People will bargain for everything from a pair of athletic shoes to a single cigarette. But for me, the basic fact of bargaining is this: At its core, the simple truth is someone wants to cheat you. Someone is trying to get you to pay more than what the item you want to buy is worth. Why would you ever want to deal with someone like that? Especially in a foreign country?


The biggest proponent of bargaining in Beijing is a guy who stands outside the Silk Market, whom I call DVD Man. He can target a foreigner in Beijing from a hundred yards away, twice that distance if you're obviously non-Asian like me. So, DVD Man recognizes me every time I walk along Jianguomenwai, and comes up with the same pitch, in English:


"DVDs here for you!"


"Dui bu qi. Bu yao", I reply, meaning, sorry, but I don't want any pirated DVD movies. And that should be the end of it. But noooo! If DVD Man was not persistent, he would not be a successful street merchant.


"DVDs here for you! Cheap DVDs! New DVDs!" He pulled out a handful of titles from a knapsack.


"Nicolas Cage! Bruce Willis! Will Smith!"


All of the "sorrys" and "don't wants" in China won't put this guy off. So one day, I decided to extend the game and make him try to sell me all of the DVDs he had in his bag. One...by...one.


D-MAN: "Look, you see! 'National Treasure'!"


ME: "No, sorry. What else you got?"


D: "Shrek 3!"


ME: "Watched it on the plane here. Anything else?"


D: "James Bond! New!"


ME: "Saw it. Next."


D: "Blue's Clues!"


ME: "Don't have kids."


He pulled out a copy of the Oliver Stone biopic, "W": "I got Boosh!"


ME: "Don't want any."


D: "Look! USA! 'Rambo' !"


ME: "No."


I figured he'd get fatigued or run out of selection after maybe about 10-to-15 titles. Instead, he pulled out 48...forty-eight...DVDs, one at a time, and I patiently rejected each one. DVD Man sighed, finally realizing that I was in no mood to buy a movie today.


D: "See, cheap DVDs, 5 kuai."


ME: "Sorry."


D: "1 kuai."


ME: "How about free?"


D: "Free? No, no! I make money!"


That should have been it. Bargaining is just not my thing. But just as I was about to walk away, DVD Man reached into his pocket and pulled out a knock-off wristwatch.


D: "Look! Rolex! Cheap!"


If I wasn't going to buy a DVD off the street, why would I want to buy a watch? I, again politely and patiently in both languages, said I wasn't interested. But as I walked away, I felt bad about wasting DVD Man's valuable time. I started to worry about him, and wondered how much success he really has selling to foreign dupes. Someone must be buying his stuff, or he would have given up long ago. Is it the Russians? The French? How did this nonsense get started?


FRENCH TOURIST 1: "Sac-re bleu! I have juzt arrived in Beijing, and ze first thing I want to do is buy a bunch of dirt cheap movies off ze street!"


FRENCH TOURIST 2: "Oui oui, Monseur! I have ze same fee-ling! But how many movies?"


FRENCH TOURIST 1: "As many as we can carry, of course!"


DVD MAN: "Look! I have cheap DVDs for you!"


FRENCH TOURIST 2: "Magnifique! We will buy zem all!"


FRENCH TOURIST 1: "And by ze way, we do not know what time it is in your fab-ulous country. Do you have ze cheap, piece-of-crap Rolex watch for us, too?"


RUSSIAN TOURIST: "Nyet! I have already purchased his entire supply, comrade. Go find Rolex Man. He is in Wangfujing."

Motorola C118 Cell Phone

How and when did purchasing a cell phone turn into buying a new car? In China, as you might expect, cell phones are a necessity and wildly popular. So, you will find cell phone dealerships...yes, DEALERSHIPS...all over Beijing. And the people who work there will turn your simple cell phone purchase into an ordeal every bit as taxing and tiring as buying the latest set of wheels.

One of the first things I had to do when I arrived in Beijing was buy a new cellular phone. My old phone, a nice Motorola Q PDA, was rendered all but useless due to the telecommunications differences between China and everyone else. What was once an internet-surfing, information-gathering, phone-calling, spreadsheet-accounting, stock market-monitoring wonder of technology turned into an expensive hand-held alarm clock. So I went to a hole-in-the-wall phone store in the Gongzhufen neighborhood, accompanied by a Chinese-speaking co-worker, to make a purchase that should have taken all of 5 minutes...including waiting in line at the checkout counter. We walked into what was basically a cell phone showroom packed with hyper-aggressive salespeople. Dozens of varieties of phones were on display.

"Just pick one" said the co-worker.

"But I was hoping to buy a dozen," I replied. "That's a joke."

Nothing.

Seriously, though, at least I knew exactly what I wanted -- a phone that had all of the basics and none of the extras, just to get me started: texting in English, local and international calling, and a clock.

The co-worker told the salesperson about my choice, and then the fun began. "How about a cameraphone?" Not now, maybe later. "Video function?" I had no plans to shoot a movie, thank you. "Gaming applications?" Only if it can transport me, Star Trek-style, straight to a craps table in Vegas. Then, a dozen more questions. In each case, my "no" response was not taken to mean "no, I don't want that," but instead, "no, not for that price. Let's make a deal." The salesperson, and my co-worker as well, thought I was negotiating for a bargain. I was not. The salesperson even walked away from the counter, as if it was time for her to try to sell a scalped NFL ticket to some other Giants fan across the Meadowlands parking lot.

Apparently, this was my cue to consider the "final offer." So I considered how many steps it would take to walk out the door and into another store. All I needed was a simple cell phone, no bells or whistles, no flashing LED lights. No ringtone that played Michael Jackson's "Thriller." My co-worker explained that the routine would be the same, regardless of which shop we went to. So we called the salesperson back over, and I suggested, "OK, I'll take the phone plus the charger and the 3 dozen ringtone options (but not "Thriller") and THAT'S IT." Thirty minutes and tons of paperwork later, we were done, and I finally had my phone.

I suppose, upon further review, I should have asked if the Motorola C118 included a taser application to use against cell phone salesworkers. But in the end, this phone does everything I want it to do. Except beam me to Ceasar's Palace for a night at the tables.

Prison Break

Most TV shows from the West are either banned or unavailable here, but if you are enterprising and have a computer, you can watch just about anything from anywhere. Some foreign television programs have a huge, albeit unlikely, following in the Far East.

I cannot figure out why "Prison Break" is one of the most popular foreign TV shows in China. I raised that question with a friend of mine in the States and his reply was, "DUH? Isn't it OBVIOUS?"

I replied that, contrary to reports, the Chinese population is not complaining about living beneath a back-breaking, soul-sucking, uniformity-worshipping dictatorship like The Home Depot. Or North Korea.

The fascination with some guy breaking out of prison apparently has some kind of appeal here. Beijing is, after all, a city of high concrete walls and tall iron gates, but Beijingers like it that way. Every housing complex and private business seems to be surrounded by a wall of some sort, some of them topped by shards of broken glass, as if there wasn't enough money in the construction budget for razor wire. Each place appears to have a gate manned by security guards wearing some sort of military uniform. But when you look at scenes of Chinese history, you find that walls are nothing new here. In fact, they're celebrated as part of the nation's unique character, beginning with the famous Great Wall. Without a wall, you wouldn't have a courtyard for your home. Without a gate, you couldn't stage a fabulous Zhang Yimou movie-style entrance. Without guards, who would fight the invading ninjas?

"Prison Break" star Wentworth Miller has displaced Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps as the most recognized foreign face in Chinese product advertising. But I doubt anyone will produce a Chinese version of "Prison Break" anytime soon. A Chinese man busting out of prison every week probably wouldn't be too popular here. On the other hand, if he spent more time trying to break back into prison, the show might go somewhere.

Surgical Mask

I've read about the concern swine flu is causing in the U. S. But no matter how bad it gets, it is another opportunity for people in the West to learn from China's example and begin wearing surgical masks on a regular basis.

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The masks are very popular -- if you want to really use that term -- in China, but then again, the Chinese have had experience with the SARS epidemic a few years ago. People in Beijing celebrated May Day recently in massive numbers, without fear of H1N1, H2O, the NHL, NHK, NASCAR, or whatever other health-threatening numerical or alphabetical acronysm you could throw at them. It is really no surprise to see dozens of my co-workers wearing the masks, even when there is no crisis afoot. But they are shocked and amazed when I tell them the only American who wears something like that in public is Michael Jackson.

One of my Chinese co-workers was having a serious discussion with me, and I asked her to stop talking for a minute, because I couldn't take her seriously while she had the mask on. It sort-of muffled her voice a bit. So I asked if she was planning to rob a convenience store later on, and if so, could she get me some donuts?

She did not think that was very funny.


But seriously, it is really ironic that the same culture that doesn't care if people spit, poop, piss, and pick their noses in public, and then proceed to blow snot without tissue on the street, would be so careful as to wear surgical masks to protect themselves or their fellow citizens from germs.

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By the way, you can buy cheap paper masks like the ones from the hospital, or cute cotton masks with pictures of Garfield and Snoopy. Just make sure they match the footwear.

China and Wealth

The world seems to be under the impression that China is a country soon to be overflowing with big spenders. In fact, it is in the Chinese tradition to save, not spend money. Unlike developed nations in the West, China has no experience with a Social Security system or a retirement safety net. So it has always made good common sense to save as much money as you possibly can. The new, wealthier China promises to change all that, but ditching a value system that has held fast for centuries will take a lot of time.


Too many Western businesspeople worship a well-worn set of statistics, that hundreds of thousands of millionaires live in China, and more are being created every week. The potential for making a killing in this market is huge. As a result, you see the phenomenon of one high-end specialty retailer after another setting up shop in Beijing: Gucci, Armani, Prada, Chanel, and more. But I can tell you that on any given day, from the moment each store opens until it closes, it is devoid of customers. Empty. The managers and workers stand around, creating and updating window displays, hoping for that day when one of those Chinese millionaires or family members shows up and drops hundreds of thousands of RMB on purchases. Then, they'll wait for another 7 months before the same millionaire -- or, good heavens, another one! -- will arrive and buy something else.


The high-priced, highly-sought-after stuff has led to a lucrative counterfeit business in China. Fake items ranging from handbags to footwear are extremely popular. A history of social division between elitists and peasants has created a middle class obsessed with status, and it will buy a fake Rolex or Gucci item in a heartbeat.


It might take 40 more years of wealth accumulation before average Chinese citizens can even think about walking into a high-end retail store to make a purchase. But once they start, who knows what will be left for the rest of us?

Kids Without Pants

Before I arrived in Beijing, my image of China was that of a modern skyline with tall buildings, flashy neon signs along the waterfront, civilians and soldiers saluting the flag during the ceremonies at dawn. But now, if you ask me about an enduring visual symbol of this Far East economic and cultural giant, I can only conjure up one thing: children who don't wear pants.

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Upon seeing this sight a few times, I was reminded of the classic print ad for Coppertone tanning lotion, you know, the one with the dog yanking down the kid's shorts to reveal the tan line? Except in China, the mutt has managed to tear the youngster's pants completely off, and no one...NO ONE...seems bothered by it one bit.

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In the U. S., the debate rages on about "who wears the pants in the family." In China, there is no question about who does not. It is always the child between 2 and 5 years of age, a toddler that clearly should be well on his-or-her way to pre-school development, who is seen in public sans shorts or trousers. Or, even worse, wearing pants with the crotch panel missing so the child's bare butt sticks out. Putting aside the chill factor, wouldn't you think a country seemingly obsessed with national humiliation could spare of the feelings of millions of its youngest citizens by making sure they are fully clothed?

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The answer, as usual, lies in the ancient recesses of Chinese culture. This one suggests that Chinese children are historically taught to eliminate bodily waste as soon as the urge strikes, and must not allow a few inches of fabric get in the way. Hence the sight of a mother holding a toddler over a public wastebasket along a busy city street, letting the child eject a solid stream of urine into the can. Or the scene of another child, squatting and dropping #2 while a woman, presumably mom again, stands at a distance looking the other way, as if she's letting her dog do its thing during its morning walk.

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The variety of places where I've witnessed parental-supervised kids whizzing and pooping in public is mind-boggling, at least to my Western-raised mind, anyway: busy sidewalks, city parks, bus stops, subway platforms, office plazas, bicycle parking lots, picnic tables, potted plants, bar-b-que pits, taxi stands, produce markets, train stations, and even on the airport tarmac.

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In fairness, many Chinese have told me that this behavior is slowly being learned out of the culture, and it is frowned upon by most urban residents. But I don't imagine it will change anytime soon. It's one of the surest signs of spring: all of the kids get to play outside, and half of the clothes will stay in the closet.

Take Beijing Subway

I love the Beijing Subway system. It is clean, simple, and efficient. The signage, although mostly in Chinese, is easily understandable for foreigners. If you've tried to get around in any big international city, you know that once you've seen one subway map, you've seen them all.

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The only bad thing, and this is the case with all public transportation in this part of the world, is that it is outrageously congested. Once rush hour strikes, the rule of order completely breaks down. The sole authority figures are a few cops and mostly little old ladies, shouting crass language through bullhorns and stuffing commuters into already overcrowded subway cars.

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One charming aspect of the cultural divide is how standing in line -- queing-up for our Continental readers -- is not a custom at the Beijing subway ticket booth. I've heard it said that when you live in a country with 1.3 billion other people, waiting for your turn is not an option. There might be a line of 20 people standing patiently ahead of you, but if you are sneaky enough to get around the edge of the counter and slide your cash through the hole in the window, and quick enough to grab the ticket meant for the guy in the front of the line, then you are a real man (or woman) indeed.

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Then there is the fun of getting on the train itself. One time, I found myself waiting along with a crowd of commuters as the subway rolled to a stop in front of us, and noticed something unusual when the doors opened. The passengers were not just stepping out of the car, they were running away from it, as if the carriage was on fire. Looking inside, I witnessed a full-on, screaming, kicking, fist-swinging fracas had broken out among people on the train. Not just between a couple of guys, but between two entire families. It appeared that one group, hauling a number of bags and suitcases, had pushed their way onto the crowded train at a previous stop, and the other group had taken offense. This was during the height of the Spring Festival travel season, during which a large percentage of Beijing's migrant population returns to the countryside for family reunions.

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Each subway stop lasts for only about 30 seconds, but it was more than enough time for the rapidly escalating, violent spectacle between these Chinese Hatfields and McCoys to spill off the train and onto the platform. Forget all those stories about a tranquil and harmonious society: members of one family forcibly shoved the others out of the subway car, and tossed their bags out with them. And then some of them left the train themselves to continue trading haymakers and uppercuts as the subway police ignored the scene altogether, opting instead to move waiting passengers into the carriage.

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A few family members from the group still on the train -- Jed, Jethro, Elly Mae and even Granny -- grabbed and dragged their kin back into the car, while their counterparts outside yelled insults and obscenities through the closing doors. Finally, members of each rural clan began punching the glass in a vain attempt to get in some more shots as the train pulled away.

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Then suddenly, silence, as if none of it had ever happened. One group of commuters on the platform was quietly replaced by another, as the next train was due within two minutes, and the rush hour circle of life continued. Maybe there is a sense of order here after all.

Friendship Hotel

About a month after I arrived in Beijing, my employer assigned me to live in an apartment in the Friendship Hotel compound, a complex of residential buildings surrounding a hotel in northwest Beijing. The Friendship Hotel -- a.k.a. "Youyi Binguan" -- is well-known and has a long and interesting history. Within ten years after the formation of the People's Republic, China and Russia had become wary rivals. This less-than-comradely relationship gave rise to a series of "friendship" gestures, with the Chinese looking to lessen the chance that Beijing would be blown to itty-bitty pieces in a nuclear confrontation with the Soviet Union. The Friendship Hotel, built especially to house Soviet engineers helping to build Beijing in the 1950s and 1960s, is the literal monument to those lofty hopes.


Living in the Friendship Hotel apartments is like taking a step back in time. It is easy...a little too easy...to imagine yourself as a homesick, hard-working, vodka-swilling Russian drone stuck in a big city in a strange country, where no one spoke your language, no stores stocked any familiar food, and no communication reached you from Moscow for weeks at a time. My apartment featured a stove and a fridge that were created in the era of the Philco television sets in the U. S. The walls were painted a depressing shade of Soviet-era grey, and the courtyard had all the charm of a Siberian gulag.


The hotel itself was magnificent, but the staffers were decidedly less than friendly. Once they discovered I was a foreigner who was living in an apartment in the compound -- not a hotel guest -- the reception turned as chilly as a Cold War launch code conference. When I arrived with my two 40-pound suitcases, I asked the concierge if I could check them at the desk while I inspected the apartment, which was on the 5th floor of the building next door.


"I'm sorry, we do not allow that," he replied, in barely-accented English.

"Yeah," I said, "but if the apartment isn't in good condition, I'll need to ask for another one, and it wouldn't make sense to take all the stuff up there just to bring it back down here."

"We cannot store suitcases at the desk," came the response.

"Can't I just leave the bags here for just a few minutes, while I check the apartment out?" I protested again, trying hard to be a good, patient foreign guest.

"Why?" said the concierge.

"BECAUSE THEY'RE FREAKIN' HEAVY, THAT'S WHY," I shot back.

There went the Nobel Peace Prize.


So, I toted both bags up the five flights of stairs (no elevators for the Soviet strongmen), and fortunately, the place was in decent shape, complete with a full-sized bed featuring a mattress as rock-solid as the Berlin Wall. Plus, there was a western restaurant, a TGIFriday's no less, right across the street. However, my angry act-out in the lobby earned me more than the typical mistrust of foreigners among the staff. I was ordered to the desk for a "routine" passport check on more than one occasion.


I witnessed my first Chinese New Year celebration during my residency at the Friendship Hotel. Beijing residents casually blasted their own fireworks displays from the sidewalks in and around the compound. At one point, a stray Roman Candle landed in some dry hedges at the gate and caused the landscaping to immediately burst into flame. The fire raged for more than 15 minutes before a crew showed up to put it out. The next morning, I walked past the charred brush which left a blemish on the hotel's otherwise immaculate front entrance. Now, I'm not saying I know just exactly how it happened. But I've got some ideas.

I Have A (Chinese) Name

In my never-ceasing attempts to learn Mandarin in my spare time, I decided to watch and listen to sports highlights on Chinese TV stations. All of the pictures were packaged and sequenced exactly the same as in the U. S. and other countries, and the presenter enthusiastically summarized the action on the screen. Except I noticed one thing. I didn't hear the presenter say any of the names of the athletes. It was all run-together-Mandarin as-usual to my untrained ear. And these were highlights from NBA basketball, the sport that the Chinese are supposedly crazy about. At no time did I hear the names of any the players on the screen: not Carmelo Anthony, not Paul Pierce, not Kevin Garnett, not Tim Duncan, not even celebrated superstar LeBron James.


I asked one of my co-workers about what I watched. "All of the sports stars are recognized only by their Chinese names," he said. "Everyone knows this."


Now I know that this should not have surprised me at all, but I was nonetheless shocked and amazed. In South Africa, no one makes up a different name for the Yankees' Derek Jeter. There's no made-up moniker for Shaquille O'Neal in Germany. Even the French call NFL quarterback Peyton Manning, "Peyton Manning." They don't call him "Le Mannion des Peyton" or something stupid like that. But the Chinese apparently find it way too tough to say anyone's name in anything but Mandarin. Unless it's Kobe Bryant, who is known simply as "Ko-bay", likely because his first name naturally fits into 2 familiar Chinese characters.


Still, it's hard for me to understand. I mean, we Americans didn't start calling Yao Ming anything different when he joined the NBA. The worst we did to fellow Chinese hoops hero Yi Jianlian was shorten his name to two letters -"Yi" - and stuck it to the back of his jersey.


The implications for talking to someone in China about sports or popular culture are huge. If I want to talk to a Chinese person about legendary painter Picasso, it's "who?" Singer Mariah Carey: "Eh?" Even one of their own, actor Jackie Chan, is known by an entirely different name. I need to point to his picture before people get it. "See, it's Jackie Chan! Jackie CHAN! JACK-IE CHANNN!"


Forget it. And don't fall into the bad habit of thinking that raising the volume or pitch of your voice helps; it doesn't.


Movie titles? Never mind. The title of the recent Will Smith movie "Hancock" is referred-to as something like "flying black superhero man with sunglasses." Simply calling it "Hancock" would be too easy.


"Enter The Dragon"? You know, Bruce Lee? ("BRUCE LEE?") Nope. But if I spoke about the most famous movie starring Li Xiaolong, then we're going somewhere.


I can't believe it.


I finally asked someone what my Chinese name would be, if I could choose it. To my surprise, I discovered I already have one. It's even written on my Foreign Experts Certificate, in Chinese characters, "An Dong Ni." That is apparently the closest anyone could get to saying my given name in Mandarin. I still don't know how to say it myself, nor which tones you're supposed to use. With my luck in China, it can probably be misinterpreted to mean "dung of a perverted sheep-owning peasant." When I hear raucous laughter the next time I introduce myself, then I'll know.