A Provincial Province

Before I flew out of Shanghai, A asked me to do one thing for him. Please don't laugh at the Fujianese - everybody on my mission did. I smirked at his bizarre request and then took off.

My boss and I just landed in Fujian, a coastal province where people were known for being provincial, and breathed in the overwhelming humidity. The local taxi driver was playing the perennial favorite Chinese game of "Guess where the foreigner's from." Meanwhile, I was trying not to mimic his feminine quacking accent that was so stereotypical Fujian. As we drove away from the airport, the driver started tapping his steering wheel, perplexed that it was so hard to guess my boss' nationality.

My boss

Hmm. You don't look like us. 

Are you Japanese? But your Mandarin is so good. 

Oh wait, you're darker. Indian?

I know! You must be German. 

No, wait! You can't be - your arm hair is too long.

My boss was a standard six foot three American complete with five every day polos that he rotated.

--

Fujian is also known for its food.

A said that it was Fujian seafood that taught him to appreciate all other Chinese food.

After a late night dinner at a local stall, I finally gained more appreciation for Panda Express. Everything I was eating was just so . . . ugly.

These fish look like retired bull dogs who have given up on life.

 Worms writhing wearily in the water. 

Fish breathing thing.

 Surprising texture of chicken cartilage - crunchy yet chewy.

Durian. Gooey texture with pungent smell. 

A little like eating your own throw up. With chopsticks.

My colleague brought it back to our hotel room

 and I stayed up all night gagging.

Mini lobsters in chili oil. The messiest ever.

Definitely not a first date dish.

A Standing Ticket

One.

The man with the weathered face and the large canvas bag launches himself into the ticket office window. On the other side, the intern hears the dull thud, and yawns. She repositions the microphone and tries to explain to him again that without his confirmation code, he cannot collect his train ticket.

But I lost my code and my train is leaving in half an hour! He wails. He slaps down some creased bills and demands to buy a new ticket and even those in the long lines behind him shake their heads at his wishful thinking. During Chinese New Year season, the largest human migration in the world, who can magic up a ticket, especially to the undeveloped regions to which 350 million migrant workers must somehow make their way home?

She checks her phone. No new message, no legitimate distraction. Exhaling dramatically, she turns back to him and tells him that he should have brought his code. Now will he please stand aside so she can help these good people buy tickets?

He pounds on the window with his sun-baked hands, not in anger anymore, but in a futile attempt for her to really see him. I haven't been home in years. I have finally saved enough days off and money to buy them all presents. Find me a standing ticket, anything will do, please - my son, he doesn't even remember what I look like. 

She pauses and calls her boss. Her boss puffs his chest, confiscates the man's ID, and yells for the guards to kick him out of the train station.

Two.

The HR team passed out company postcards, with our smiling faces plastered all over, and encouraged us to write our loved ones during this festive season.

I wrote to him, thanking him for being the first one to encourage me to deviate from the secure path of a prestigious company and take the plunge into a roller coaster startup life. His was the voice that tipped the balance.

Three weeks later, the soppy words and the shaky handwriting are still on my desk - the cherry on top of the pile of presents I never sent.

He had made it clear that I was no longer welcome at the address on the postcard. I wasn't ready to find out if he was also referring to my mail.

Three. 

The team is trickling back from their Chinese New Year holidays. It's technically a work day, but everybody is still on their holiday high.

This is the part I dread every year. The proud procession of returnees bringing back their local specialty and insisting that you personally try it in front of them. You know, because I'm from Hong Kong and must have never tried homemade sesame biscuits gone stale from the days of train travel/ nameless nuts that break my nutcracker/ rubbery duck neck in spicy sauce/ pickled donkey meat/ suspicious brown goo in a plastic tube (liver paste?).

Later in heaven when God asks me how I've developed my talents, I definitely will show him how I can store semi-chewed pieces of chicken feet in my left cheek for eventual secret disposal while still cracking Chinese New Year jokes.

The Sounds of Hell

If hell had a sound effect, this would be it.

The moment I stepped out of the dust blaster, a tight compartment riddled with super blow dryers that pummeled your whole body with shots of stale air, I was bombarded by the high pitched wails.

It was an ungodly combination of the cries from a tortured elephant and the screechiness of yellowing nails scratching an old chalkboard. The heavy industrial machines shrieked out their frustrated sounds every five seconds, acting even more animated than the streams of workers loading plastic cups onto the conveyor belts woodenly below.

I tried my best not to cover up my ears (even though we already had ear plugs in), as some of my colleagues have done, because the plant boss was personally showing us around. I rearranged my expression, covering up my wide-eyed surprise with a seemingly relaxed professional smile.

I've been to many many factories and worker dorms and yet this was the first time I was so anxious to get out as soon as politely possible.

The plant boss pointed at the monster machines and explained how the giant rolls of plastic were molded and then shot up the tubes to be plastered with our favorite coffee and fast food brand labels. I watched as my little sister's favorite sundae cup twirled around the machine in a frenzied little dance. The plant was eerily devoid of human noises apart from our heels hitting the concrete floor. None of the workers were talking - everybody had hair nets on and ear plugs in. I wondered how much these workers knew about each other even after standing together, loading, unloading, loading, unloading plastic cups for years on end.

My eyes watered. The air inside the plant was hazy from the machine exhaust because windows had to be sealed to maintain the dust-free environment. My nose also twitched from smelling the burning plastic around the corner.

A line supervisor walked over to us slowly and nodded acknowledgement at the boss. I motioned to his ears and asked him why he was not wearing his ear plugs - I was barely staying sane with the noise. He gestured to the ink mixer behind us. These were his machines, he explained proudly, and he wanted to hear them. Every screech represented production and every wail meant smooth operation. He could decipher a breakdown issue just by hearing the sputtering of the machines. He patted the back of a nearby young man bent over the packaging boxes on our way out and told him to do a recount. He could tell with one glance that there were fewer than the required 300 plastic cups in there. It turned out that he was right.

Sporting the sexy hair net.

This is how we roll in factory towns. Because many plants are

in special export zones where taxis are not allowed to enter, so

we hitch rides on little motorbikes.

There are days like this when I wonder if we can even move the dial a little bit and make some sort of impact on the lives of the factory workers. When I run out of certain factories, gasping for fresh air, I can't imagine how our little apps can possibly make any dent in this overall situation. The plant managers I've met aren't evil, contrary to the easy monster archetypes Western media likes to draw of factory management, in fact, most of them are scratching their heads trying to figure out how to make meaningful improvements while meeting production quotas.

We're all scratching our heads. But sometimes I do see a glimmer of a solution. Sometimes, when we demo our CompanyIQ app to the workers and watch them compete with each other for the right answers in the fire safety manual quiz with intense concentration and loud, easy laughs, I see that we're heading in the right direction. We gamify corporate training so workers who have been eliminated from China's hyper competitive education system because they do not excel in the traditional classroom can continue to learn on their own terms and in a fun and interactive environment.

The promise of accessible education means that they also dare voice their dreams. Two girls shyly came up to me, nervously tugging at their hair nets, and asked if our app could teach them how to use computer programs like Word or Excel so that some day they could also work in an air-conditioned office. Another young man told us that he was convinced he could make it as a line supervisor one day if only he could learn the techniques to speak convincingly in front of a crowd. A middle-aged woman with a round, honest face wanted to know how to be a better mother via the crackling phone lines so she could actually emotionally connect with her little son back home.

I don't think we have it absolutely right right now. Heck, I'm only too painfully aware of all the ways we need to improve our app. But I do know the young man from the cup packaging department who stood up to be applauded by his fellow workers and receive a bottle of shampoo as a prize for getting the best scores on his app training quizzes. He had studied the training materials on the app back in his dorm the night before, he confided to us. He also added, shyly, that nobody had ever clapped for him before. Whenever I think of him and how he tried not to smile too broadly as he was being applauded, I know we must be doing something right.

Occupational Hazards

The thing about being an adult is that you get to take business trips. The thing about being a kid still is that you can gush about your first business trip where you actually fly somewhere (ok Mexico City was a different type of business trip, but still). And nothing is better than flying back to your childhood home.

There are so many more friends I need to see. 

These people know all about the obnoxious seventh grade me. 

And yet, they still like me.

Skyscrapers are so cold and yet so beautiful. 

Somehow eating oysters always make me feel like a King.

And when tapas are involved, just call me Juan Carlos the First.

One of the client factories is in Shen Zhen, a neighboring city linking HK with the Mainland. Despite being so close to HK and known for best fake copies of anything in China, I've only been there once before. I was sufficiently traumatized by my five hours in SZ back in high school. HK-ers have a collective distrust/fear/loathing for SZ. Growing up, whenever I refused to eat my food, the lady taking care of me would threaten to dump me in SZ. A friend was sitting in a cab, when a wild-eyed teenager forcibly opened the door, grabbed her designer purse, and ran off. My mom even heard that someone's secretary, pretty wisp of a girl, disappeared after going into a public bathroom. 

Regardless, I needed to make the sale so I woke up super early, hopped on a train across the border, and started eyeing everybody suspiciously, ready to jab my elbows into anybody's sensitive areas if needed. I locked all my taxi doors. I clutched my ipad tightly. And I texted my boss that it had been a pleasure working with him and that he shouldn't feel too bad in the event that I was never seen alive again. 

I don't have any nice photos of SZ to share. My HK prejudice is alive and well. But I must admit that SZ has changed a lot in the last ten years. I'm almost curious to go back and explore more, which is good because it sounds like I'll be spending a lot of time there in the future. I guess that's what happens when you made the sale. Maybe I should have thought it through before I tried so hard. 

Buying Relationship Stability

Some call it spineless. Others call it whipped. Here, we just call it financial planning.

As far as I can tell, it is pretty miserable to be a man in China. Not only are you competing with a surplus of 30 million other men for a wife by the time 2030 rolls around, but you're also expected to bring to the marriage alter a house, a car, and stocks.

Now the women are laughing even more.

All over weibo, China's twitter, women are celebrating the entrenchment of the "Wife's Gospel."

China's Merchant Bank (CMB) recently released a financial product that sends user A a text with user B's account balance every day, and automatically transfers (across banks even) any amount over the determined cap to user A's account.

To illustrate the horrifying ramifications, CMB even designed a cheerful poster that describes the perfect application:



"Newlyweds Xin and Wen want to save up for a house to build the beginnings of their sweet story. So Wen wisely decides to let Xin manage all their finances. Every month, Wen's bank account will retain $300 from his income and automatically transfer the rest to his wife's account. And he doesn't even have to go through the trouble of making sure that happens every month anymore!"

What a thoughtful bank.

Well it's working. Because weibo has been overwhelmed by men's desperate cries for patriarchal financial products too.









p.s. The word domanitrix was not what I thought it meant. And um. Don't look it up on bing to figure out how to spell it.

Props to Great Propaganda

I woke up yesterday and decided that I should spend the weekend in Hong Kong. So I picked the earliest flight the next day and now I find myself sitting at the gate, fiddling with my boarding pass.

The Shanghai Pudong airport is a glass castle, with streaming sunlight and curvy modernist wooden ceilings. The free wifi is fast and free (absolutey worth mentioning it twice in the same sentence). The customs officers are young, thin, and above average looking in their flattering black canvas suits and laced up combat boots. But the most endearing part of it all are the flat screen TVs playing propagandistic vids while unsuspecting travelers with wandering minds line up for customs.

My favorite one is the rousing clip about the pride that overseas Chinese feel in their worn, red Chinese passports. No matter where they are, they pull out their well-loved passports and dream of home. The little book is a constant badge of honor, pushing them onwards so they can come back to the motherland one day and contribute their all.

I've always wondered why they got a passport to leave in the first place if they love home so much.

But then again, propaganda requires a suspension of disbelief, and this one makes me come pretty close.

A Tale of Two Elections

When my family huddled together to watch the first US presidential debate in a hotel room in Cambodia, my younger brother declared somewhere around the Big Bird comment that he would support Romney. I casually asked why.

Across two queen beds, my mom stared me down and warned me not to "sway the hearts of the children." She didn't cut me any fruit that morning.

My typically apolitical mom had turned into an ardent supporter of Romney and a religious follower of CNN campaign coverage during this Mormon moment. My sister and BIL also sermonized on the perils of Obamacare and the economy in our skype calls in hopes of converting me. 

On election night, my Provo friends and I crowded around Thai takeout and the TV, anxiously monitoring the swing states. Some shared touching testimonials about personal experiences with the Romney campaign, others questioned the general binary Mormon sentiment that righteousness or Armageddon would prevail in the elections.

In order to stay amicable, we trusted the camera to keep our ballots secret until the election was called. 

1: A proud no-vote

2. Romney

3. Obama

4. Ron Paul??

5. Wasted vote like Gary Johnson

Amazing diversity.

Shh. My mom still has no idea who I voted for. 

-----

Fast forward a week later when China had its momentous leadership change. The leaders were pretty much lined up a year before, though the upsets and the public ousting of a previously high-ranking Communist official this spring provided some much needed Gingrich-like soap opera.  

Instead of the emotional facebook political rhetoric, China's cyberspace was eerily sterile after more-intense-than-normal censorship sweeps. The Propaganda Ministry flooded the silence of public opinion with revolutionary TV shows (the Japanese and Nationalists died every time), overly enthusiastic slogans of building a harmonious society, and blood red banners that proclaimed the bright future of China.  

The traffic slowed down even more because too many government officials were rushing to important meetings and requiring special road access. My favorite train ticket scalpers were shooed away when the train station instated temporary ID checks. Even my taxi rides were punctuated with the daily radio reading of the resumes of local Communist leaders.

I had to give our favorite Communist member a few days off so he could attend to his party obligations. After work for a week, some of the government employees in our office building banged noisy drums and rehearsed patriotic songs. They were very serious about their flag twirling too.

But even though the actual leadership handover event was broadcasted on giant public TVs and the theme was bombardment, the general sentiment was an indifferent meh.

It sure was a Party though. Just not the popular party. 

Patriotic Mobsters

On Friday, QQ was buzzing with posters that called for mass protests against the Japanese government's purchase of the disputed Diaoyu/ Senkaku Islands.

National fever burned hot. People were urged to bring their own banners and show their love for China. Most of the posters cautioned the masses to "demonstrate logically" - in small print. Instead, the mobs directed their pent up anger at Japanese stores, smashing and looting in many major cities. Rumor has it that many arrested looters sported ostentatious tattoos - signs that local gangsters infiltrated peaceful demonstrations to cause chaos. J bristled when he heard that his dream Lexus, probably a parked car belonging to one of the demonstrators, took literal beatings from incensed crowds. Apparently even some Japanese branded police cars got flipped and destroyed.

Face to face. Police and demonstrators.

On the main street where I typically go for my hot pot fixes.

Stores hung up the proverbial white flag, professing patriotism, or boarding up window displays to plead for clemency from angry mobs.

Jody's favorite Japanese noodle shop, Ajisan, strung up a desperate banner:

 "100% funded by Hong Kong. Same race. Same patriotism."

"Stopped selling Japanese goods. Please forgive us for any inconvenience caused."

- Suning, an electronics store

Yes. This is a tank. Made up of toothpaste boxes. 

The cutout boldly proclaimed that "Diaoyu Islands Belong to China!"

Oh and the box of patriotism that conveniently cleans your teeth

 as well is only sold for 2.8 RMB.

What a steal.

Tomorrow is 918. I expect even more scaled up demonstrations. Over lunch today, I casually mentioned to a colleague that I wanted to observe the protests and take photos. I had missed out last weekend because of girls' camp. He put his chopsticks down and solemnly warned me not to go. Apparently I looked Japanese. And that's not the most popular look right now.

. . . we'll see if I could get work off tomorrow.

When a gangster becomes a landlord

My friend's landlord already had two months of deposit (~ 5000 USD), but he was kicking my friend out of the house early and he wanted another 1500 USD to cover potential damages. The answer was no, so the landlord came and crashed our office. He smoked. He yelled. He threatened. 


We called the police.

Hour 1. Police station.


The landlord took a long puff at his cigar ("my own brand!") and scratched his beer belly. He wore a woolen version of a wife beater, a baseball hat, tinted pink glasses, and therapeutic shoes. He wagged a finger at me, "I came fully prepared!" as he poured himself a cup of tea from his thermos. His wife was clad in a purple leotard, mini skirt, and crocs. All dangerous signs that she intended to be comfortable for a long day.

They played good gangster, bad gangster. Or rather, mob boss and crazier right hand.

They claimed Canadian citizenship. The police spat and cursed them as "running dogs."

Hour 2.


The policeman questioned us individually while sipping his oolong tea. He nodded and drew a lot of diagrams. Finally, he sighed, leaned in, and told us that while he was sympathetic to our side, he could do nothing. The law was weak. The police were weaker. This was China.

He said it without frustration or indignation. It was simply a fact. He had probably said it many times to many different faces sitting across his table.

He then gave us tips on dragging this out with the landlord. He wanted us to stick it to them.

Hour 3.


The police told the landlord to settle with us peacefully. The landlady sat back, folded her arms, and told me that this was China. She would have their people stalk us 24 hours a day. Disrupt every meeting. Smoke in every room. Drag us to the police station every day. Until we pay.

The landlord then winked at me and whispered that he would probably be delegated the stalking duty. He asked me about our working hours and the company cafeteria food.

Hour 4.


In between negotiating terms, the landlady and the housing agent broke into another fight. After I calmed them down with a joke, the landlady suddenly turned to me.

"Do you know why I called you so often?"

"Because you didn't like calling the agent?"

"Well yes. But everytime I got so mad and wanted to yell at somebody, I called you, and then I felt so much better. Your voice is so gentle. You should switch jobs. How about going into counseling?"

She turned to the agent.

"You need to change your temper. This is why you're still not married. In fact, you should call Sisi more often. It's a great way to release stress."

While I was processing this dreaded compliment, I overheard the landlord telling my friend in the background that all this - the police  involvement, threats, extortion - was just business as usual and that he really liked him personally. He also offered to consult our company ("for small fee only!") on collecting defaulted micro-credit loans from factory workers. After all, he specialized in debt collection back on the streets of Hong Kong.

Hour 5.


I wrote out the new agreement, squeezing out as many pretentious "such as, but not limited to" and "Party A hereby agrees . . .," as a previous lawyer-wannabe would under duress.


We finally left the police station. I handed over the money. The landlady wanted my friend out by that night, otherwise he would incur another fine. So I called up all the boys I knew in the area and we packed and heaved and carried and shoved while the landlord worked on his third cigar.

Hour 6.


More of my friends piled into the house to help. The landlady kept thinking we were going to beat them up. So she had her cronies on alert, ready to come in and balance the numbers. She had security guards physically block the door and even turned off our electricity.

Hour 7.


The police was called in again. He came in, yelled a little bit, then paused to ask me if I had cried. He also asked the landlord whether he could take a tour around the big house. He even took off his hat reverently.

The landlord told me that I was silly for caring so much. He told my boss that I was a good worker and that I deserved a year-end bonus. He also offered to come and collect on my behalf if that bonus never materialized.

Hour 8. 


Last packing van pulled out. The landlady said she wanted to take me out to dinner. For once, I didn't feel guilty saying no.

Il Divo

Il Divo came to town and I went to watch their concert on a whim.

After I became hopelessly lost on my way to the concert, I hopped onto a tuk tuk, a box seat attached to the back of a motorcycle. The driver decided to forget about sending me to the designated taxi stand as I had asked, but tried to help out by directly hailing a cab for me. He would follow an empty taxi, speed up as fast as the tired, smoky engine would allow till we're in front of the taxi, and then make a screechy swerve against the grain of traffic to physically block the taxi so I could tell the taxi driver my address. After three or four failed attempts (and near death experiences), I finally told him to just take me to the taxi stand. Gosh. It never feels good to reject a Good Samaritan.

I made it right when Il Divo walked on stage.

Except, you could hardly see the guys' faces when they were singing. They must have brought in interns to do the lighting because they shone the light on whoever was not singing. It became a joke between the singers and the audience, with David waving his arms to catch the light guy's attention while he belted out his lines. The light stayed on Carlos the most though and the ladies absolutely went wild when he said "Hello, piao liang (beautiful)." Even I swooned. Just a little.

A lady sitting two rows behind me kept up a deep, throaty sing along routine. I finally turned around to give her a (mild!) evil eye. Instantly, I paused and retreated. "She" was actually a little boy, with thick framed glasses that rested on his round cheeks, gesticulating wildly as if he was singing alone in the middle of his room. His mom looked bored. But his eyes were shut, his imagination was untethered, and his chubby fists tightened as his voice sprang out of him, uninhibited.

Absolutely inspiring.

Would you be crazy enough to fly to another city for one night just to watch a concert? Well, that's what happened. 2 am nights. Those are always the best.

Regresa a mi.

Check out their videos. You will be hooked.

China doesn't breed pushovers

1 am. Doha airport. Waiting to board a flight back to Shanghai.

Around 80 travelers, mostly Chinese people who escaped obligatory family reunions during Chinese New Year by exporting themselves out of the affordable long-distance calling range, stood in a small glass room. There were two sliding doors, each on opposite ends. An airport bus pulled up on the right side, as if ready to pick up the people in the room and send them to their planes. The people hurried over, dragging carry on bags and crying children, determined to get in front. Competitive elbowing followed. After five minutes, the door still remained shut. The bus drove away, empty.

A few minutes later, another bus pulled up next to the door, but this time on the left side of the room. The crowd swarmed to the other side, showing even less restraint in their aggressive edging. Once again, the bus taunted the jet lagged bunch and drove away.

This scene happened four times, with the crowd rushing from one door to the other, all desperate to be the front of the line. 

4 observations:

1. There is no overt advantage in being in the front of the line. Instead, you get stuck at the back of the bus and end up being the last one to board.

2. There are enough buses to take everybody to the planes.

3. The travelers look well-educated, well-off, and well-coiffed. It is understandable to rush over to the door the first time, and maybe even the second. But the third and the fourth? Somebody must have seen the pattern of the faithless buses and hesitated. But instead, the people became more and more determined in vying for the first spot in front of the doors.

4. The first shall be last and the last shall be first. I was really hoping that the lady with the red sparkly boots would win.

-----

I see this behavior in China every day. People push, shove, elbow, bulldoze their way through everything. The concept of lining up is hazy at best. My friend, Andrew Woo, thinks that it's because the people, having lived through the Communist periods of scarcity, are conditioned to think that there is never enough supply. That's partly true. But that doesn't explain equally competitive scrambling in situations where the desired item is guaranteed and no advantage is conferred upon the most aggressive (i.e. Rushing to get through the gate first even when there is assigned seating on trains).

I think the people here are socialized to be pushers. Because the society maintains an ambivalent relationship with the rule of law, people are used to relying on themselves, and not an existing order, to obtain what they want. There is a subconscious lack of trust in rules and what adherence can deliver, so even if they know they should line up and that there is no self-interest in shoving, they do it, just because they see little merit in not pushing.

-----

Two summers ago, when I first arrived in China as an intern, my wai po moved in with me for a little while to teach me "how things were done here." In a suffocating metro station, with hundreds vying for standing room on the trains, my 78 year old, 4 ft 11 wai po pulled me towards the front of the line. I tugged at her shirt and motioned to the back of the line, shy about blatantly cutting in.

She jerked me forward once more and stared me down, "Don't be such a pushover, Sisi."

Celebratory Panic of the Bare Branches

The bachelors in China are panicking. By 2030, there will be at least 30 million more men than women in this country because of the female infanticides that resulted from the one child policy. Men are desperately trying to score wives. The ladies have become much more mercenary in love, taking their pick among those with the best cars, newest apartment, and biggest bank accounts. In an infamous Bachelorette spin off episode, a girl condemned her TV suitor with these cruel words: "I would rather cry at the back of a BMW than laugh at the back of a bicycle." Many men blanched. Many women nodded.

But on 11/11/11, bachelorhood was celebrated. The singles lorded over the couples, having exclusive KTV parties for the bare branches. The movie, 33 Days of Love Lost, was released on this special occasion (the anti 500 Days of Summer ?) and sold out weeks in advance. Weibo, China's twitter equivalent, even buzzed with the command for singles to buy all the odd number seats in the cinemas so couples would be forcibly separated.

Predictably, there were also a lot of brazen hookup solicitations. One leotard-wearing woman promised, on weibo, that if a man would spend bare branches day with her, then she would guarantee that he would be celebrating father's day the next year.

Hopefully the testosterone fueled suitors would cool down in time and realize that we're only 7 months till father's day.

But then again, she just might settle for a bike.

Ok, maybe an e-bike.

Black Cab Friday

My boss and I always debate over the issue of whether Chinese drivers are just really good or really bad. On one hand, there are probably way too many near-death collisions to count, and on the other, the average traffic accident casualty rate is actually surprisingly low.

I think I finally have an answer.

This morning, I broke most of my rules and hopped onto a black cab, an unregistered and illegal taxi service,  because my train was delayed and I needed to catch a flight in Shanghai. He absolutely gutted me on the price, but Hong Kong was calling.

The usual car ride to Shanghai takes two hours. I needed to be there in one and half hours. So I didn't say anything when he started driving 160 km/hr. But I clutched my seatbelt tightly, even though I wasn't strapped in because there weren't any buckles.

He played chicken with most of the cars on the highway. Often he would straddle two lanes, trying to edge out a car in front, while blaring his horn in the morning light. When there were no cars around us, he would pull out the wad of cash in his pocket and start counting it with both hands. He also liked to talk and kept turning around to look at me for the obligatory confirmation nods.

I think he sensed my nervousness. So he made a big show of unbuckling his own seat belt, probably hoping to get a vote of confidence from me. Or maybe it was just pure bravado, a sort of callousness in the face of danger, to make his dinner invitations to me seem more appealing.

Either way, I made it to the airport in an hour. Now that was pure talent.

So I booked him again for my way home from the airport since my late night flight gets in after the last train to Suzhou. And also because that's how I roll, always living on the edge . . .  of my seat.

Peeping Wangs

We don't really have a concept of peeping toms in China. Just an overly curious next-building neighbor who likes to look out of his window.

I've forgotten about this quaint feature of city life. And it wasn't until I was walking around my house in um not much, that I finally remembered.

Because he waved. Very enthusiastically.

Dinner Partiers

Government officials rule China - one over-priced dinner and seven bottles of red wine at a time.

Businesses scramble to pay the bill.Because everybody knows that unless you grease the wheels, nothing will ever get done without a nod from the local official.And so people smile and play ridiculous drinking games with each other. And sometimes the girls come in and play as well. At the end of the night, you end up with very drunk old men who flatter each other incessantly, very young girls who laugh at all the inane jokes, and probably very little value in the actual business that actually got discussed.But that's business as usual.

My boss typically tries to shield me from such company dinners. He's a non-drinker himself, so he'll need a subordinate to drink on his behalf. Besides, he doesn't think that I should be exposed to those scenes.

But tonight was different. When official Tang* said that it was not necessary for my boss to bring an assistant to translate, my colleague casually mentioned that I was the new girl. And so I was asked to go. Because official Tang apparently liked  new girls.

But Tang was tame though. And no girls ever came in. Probably because his boss was sitting there, reminiscing about his Vietnam War days and talking about the corruption in Chinese national sport teams.

I had a rather enjoyable time, except I hardly ate anything because I was busy translating.

My takeaway at my first dinner with government officials?

Two officials don't make it right. But they sure do make it better.

----

* This super common last name has been changed to another super common last name to ensure the anonymity of the official. If there's any resemblance to another official Tang,then I guess it validates my point about Chinese government officials in general.

Dating girls

The girls here just love me. Well some more than others. And they show it by grabbing my hands or clinging onto my arms. Especially when we're taking a romantic walk after dinner.

Just like the unspoken code where girls go to the bathroom together in droves, this is their affectionate way of demonstrating that they want to bring you into their group. They are so insistent. I just haven't figured out a culturally sensitive way of getting out of holding hands yet.

In the meantime, I just squirm. And try to engineer all sorts of ways to naturally loosen their grip on my arm. I point frantically to lamp posts or I look for non-existant objects in my bag. But mostly, I just suffer in silence.

I sympathize with the boys now. Girls are so clingy. And their hands are so soft. It makes me want to throw up.

I feel bad for the boys I've dated.

Casey - be prepared.

First Day

I started work yesterday.

I had to keep a straight face when some of my coworkers told me their names. Craven. Elvis. Cinderella. Candy. King. I'm still waiting to see if they live up to their names.

I translated for my boss while he interviewed a prospective employee. I guess when the guy wrote on his resume that he was fluent in English, he had a relatively loose interpretation of the word "fluent." Or "English." But he did have a spiffy one-liner when he told us his English name, "James. Clear and strong." Kind of reminded me of my cough medicine.

I should really tell you about how much I loved my first day. Five minutes after I tentatively walked into the office, I just knew that I had made the right choice. The enthusiasm and energy was absolutely contagious. I was so excited that I even worked overtime on my first day.

But right now, I'm sitting in a Starbucks siphoning internet access, while sipping overpriced cold chocolate, and I'm in more of a sarcastic mood. So I'll save the passionate/ idealistic post for later. Because a company as great as this, with the potential to improve so many Chinese workers' lives, deserves a better blogging effort. And I deserve a better drink.

Mosquito Dreams + Chinese Bets

I slept fantastically well last night, considering that the mosquitoes were having a party at my house. But as usual, mother dear made life so much more bearable by leaving behind tons of putting-mosquitoes-to-sleep pallets. They're tiny rectangular-shaped disks that you insert into mousepad-like machines that supposedly put mosquitoes to sleep so they won't bite you. America should import those in serious quantities, trade imbalance or no.

So why am I up at 3 a.m.? Well probably because I kept wondering what they were dreaming about. The mosquitoes, I mean. Do they have nightmares of a huge force crushing the wind out of their figurative lungs and then being crushed to death? Do they somehow find meaning to their existence as consistent nuisances?

Plus, it's so sticky hot over here. I'm aware that I have an air-con but somehow I feel like I have to win some non-existant bet to show Jayne, Dawn, and Hwanhi how Chinese people cool down. Apparently, during our last roomie (plus honorary roomie Jayne) sleepover before my parents came, I had told Jayne to just calm down when she complained about being hot while I was swaddled in my comforter. I eloquently explained to her the age-old wisdom that my grandma passed down: When you are calm, you are naturally cool. All this while I was semi-conscious. I remember none of it, but by golly, I will show Jayne how it is done - in true humid Shanghai style.

So I'm blogging - to stay calm and use my jetlag to document some momentary lapses of rationality.

--
So much to do today! Finish editting thesis (does it ever finish?!). Get haircut. Have lunch with a government relations lady to learn about customs in greeting Chinese officials. Get a facial + massage. And open a bank account so I can get paid.

Progressive dating advice

Tonight, over rocky road, I mentioned to my family that I probably wouldn't date for an entire year in China.

Well, one because there will probably be no church boys. And two because last summer when I did my internship in Beijing, I was mainly hit on by 30 year-old co-workers who still lived with their moms, creepy old men with jade rings, and overly buff marines who looked like they could crush me if they accidentally sat on me.

My mom just smirked and asked, "Well, do you know how to do email dating?"

She then told me that since I'm an intellectual (questionable), I can just email boys and be satisfied with imagined love. While reading poetry.

Jody jumped in with helpful tips about online dating websites that her other 11 year-old friends "accidentally" created profiles for.

But her advice did come with a warning: No matter what I do, I shouldn't share cups with those boys (the ones I meet online), because apparently in fifth grade, that's as good as getting married.

Packing up

Packing up and moving away to another country is a pain. I can't believe how much stuff I've hoarded. It almost makes me want to quit my job and just stay and bum around Utah.

And um I just realized that I have a lot of clothes. I used to think that people were exaggerating. I packed 53 skirts + dresses after DI-ing four to five garbage bags full of clothes. And I haven't even counted the winter skirts yet.

If I were a tragic heroine in a comic book series, a love for skirts with crazy patterns will definitely be one of my debilitating character flaws. Luckily dad and his frequent trips from China to US this summer plus his high roller flyer status means that my pieces of luggage will all be taken care of.

Spoiled much?

---

p.s. I don't think I'm ever going to be ready to say goodbye to all my friends. I don't know how people do it.