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.