Temple-crazy or how I learned to love China

The first opportunity I got to see the beauty of China came at the end of our first week in Xiamen. After a week of rain, my fellow professor and I decided that rain or not, it was time to take our students out of the classroom and show them a slice of China that didn't involve campus. So on Friday afternoon, we told our students to put on their walking shoes, bring their umbrellas, and meet us in the lobby of our building. We were going to explore the temple to the north of campus, rain and wind be d%^$ed. Heck, if the rain were to let up, we might even hike up the boulder-strewn mountain behind it. The initial grumbling we heard behind us as we trekked across campus in the rain immediately subsided when we entered the temple grounds, for it was gorgeous.

As we explored the different temples and then, when the rain finally ceased, trekked up the long and soggy mountain, it was as though someone flipped a switch inside our heads. Yes, we were on a study abroad. One that involved class time and projects and deadlines. But it suddenly hit all of us: we're doing all of this in China. In China. Yes, we're taking/teaching summer school, but holy cow, we're halfway across the world. On a different continent. In China.

Suddenly all the difficulties of the previous week, the horrible rooms, the paperwork, the rain, all of it became less important as we realized we were exploring a country most people only got to dream about visiting. This feeling persisted all throughout the weekend, as we visited two other temples, a historical site across the river from Xiamen, and had lunch with a local family. All of a sudden, we started to notice the bright colors that Chinese people used in everything, from their buildings to their temples to their foods. We noticed the small little temples hidden away in the parks across Xiamen. Instead of having to scramble for the bus exit when we realized we were at our stop, we were able to recognize the name of our bus stop as it was broadcast on the bus ("xia da bai chen" for those interested). Danger became a competition ("my taxi driver didn't have his lights on last night", "yeah well mine decided to drive on the wrong side of the street"), nuisances became entertaining ("oh, it looks like we're going to play the very popular 'how many Chinese people can we squeeze on to a bus' game again"), and creepy became a source of discussion ("I think I just saw rats crawl under that dumpster", "You sure? It looked like a cat to me", "Really? No way").

Although I don't think any of us appreciated knowing there were rats living next to our building, or fearing for our life while our taxi driver tried to break all speed records getting us home, it had all slowly become part of our "normal", and no longer distracted from the beauty and riches of the country we were in. It was funny to see how everyone took to different aspects of the country. While some of our students couldn't get enough of the different skylines we saw in each city, others got a thrill out of observing how people behaved, and I became a a real lover of temples.

I always knew I had a thing for temples ever since I visited Thailand and took close to a hundred pictures of the different temples I saw. In an era where there were only 24 (or if you felt very wild and daring, 36) pictures to a roll of film, this showed true love. And it was. I loved the bright blues and whites, the golden details, and the bright red roofs. Compared to temples in neighboring countries, with their brown hues and earth tones, these were the Elvis of temples, and I loved them. I was also pretty convinced that no other temples could rival those Thai pictures of ostentation. But then I went to China, and I have to tell you that Chinese temples can definitely give their Thai counterparts a run for their money. Although not as ostentatious (there are no shiny blue tiles on the walls, for instance), Chinese temples are awash in intricate carvings and figurines, tastefully decorated in rich reds and golds, and sport colorful dragons on each of their elegant roof lines. It was, again, true love at first sight. And for me, after seeing Nanputuo temple, with its many courtyards, its red and green roofs, its golden decorations, and watching the sun come out after days of rain, I knew that there was much more to China than bugs, paperwork, and lots and lots of people.

Our excursions continued through that second week. We visited a local school, the Xiamen port authority, the local television station and newspaper, and learned how to tell pushy vendors that we were absolutely not interested. But the highlight of the tour came on the second weekend: a trip to China's naughty half-sibling: Taiwan. 

Because I'm too lazy to upload all of my pictures to flickr and create a slideshow, here's a selection of some of the temples we visited that first weekend.

Exploring China: Daily life

Once we had conquered the mounds of red tape, had figured out how to keep the local bug population under control, and had accepted the fact that going to the bathroom was just going to be an adventure every single time, we were ready to start living life the Chinese way.

The most important decision one has to make almost every day once you've settled into a foreign country is whether to venture out for your meals, or whether to play it safe and eat what you know. As Anderwoud predicted in her guest post last month, once the students discovered that there was a McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut, and a Subway right outside of campus, they rarely ventured back into the on-campus dining halls, but instead opted for the fries, pizzas, and subs they knew so well from back home. I wish I could be all awesome and inter-cultural and tell you that during that whole month I -never- ate at any of those places, and actually actively avoided them, because I really wanted to immerse myself in the local culture, but that is just not true. Out of the entire month, I probably ate at a non-Chinese restaurant once, maybe twice a week, and yes, every time I did it was usually because I had just about had it with the peeing bugs/overcrowded buses/lack of AC/iffy internet and needed something that was familiar and "normal". I ate all of my other meals at the campus dining hall (or local restaurants when were out on excursions), but again, not only because I had this lofty ideal to be all global and immersed. Sure, it played a role, but it also helped that the dining hall was a five-minute walk away from my dorm, while the western-style restaurants entailed a good twenty-five minute trek across campus; that I could buy close to four meals at the dining hall for the amount of money I was going to spend at, say, McDonald's on their number 2; and that the dining hall actually served fresh fruits and vegetables. Sure, gaining the cultural experience was nice, but money and convenience played as much a role as a desire to be this galloping global ambassador.

Even though I would have never guessed this when I first walked into the dining hall and thought the amount of people swarming around coupled with the smell was enough to make me go off food for an entire month, I really learned to like the place. Since none of our students ever went there (in spite of their spiffy e-cards), it meant that it was one of the few places where I could be little old me and not Dr. D. It was the place where I would meet with our other professors and assess the day's events. It was the place where other foreign students and faculty members I had met came as well, and made me feel at home by greeting me like an old friend, and in some cases, stopping to chat for a while. And it was the place where I learned how to eat with chopsticks like a pro.

Chinese dining halls, you see, really are Chinese dining halls. They don't seem to care a whole lot that a sizable chunk of Xia da's student and faculty population is not Chinese. The only food you can purchase there is local and the only utensils available are chopsticks and the little spoons for noodle soup. The staff does not speak English, and unlike most European and American dining halls, the concept of queuing is yet to be introduced. If you want to eat, you will need to jostle your way to the front of the buffet, and push your plate at one of the workers waiting to ladle your choice of food on to your dish or bowl. And you had better remember to get your rice first. No rice? Well, then no meat or no veggies either. The rice comes from a gigantic trough in the corner of the buffet, and even though seeing the rice slopped onto your plate by a man who looks as though he'd rather be dead than serve one more annoying student did little for my appetite, it was the best sticky rice I ever had. And the same goes for the rest of the food. Yes, the workers are surly, rude, and will gladly avoid serving the foreigner if they can help it, but the food they served was magnificent. Lunch and dinner always featured a mouth-water selection. Shrimp, salmon, flounder, pork, beef, tofu, sweet and sour chicken so succulent it makes me hungry just thinking about it. There was Chinese broccoli, "hollow tube" greens, beets, carrots, corn, and lots of other green veggies that tasted like heaven but whose names I could never remember. And breakfast was no different. There was rice porridge (which, by the way, absolutely rocks), sauteed green beans (odd, I know, but very tasty when it's hot outside), hash browns, eggs, assorted pastries, and the best of all: nai cha (tea with milk).

When I first walked into the dining hall, the hustle and bustle, as well as the apparent lack of organization completely overwhelmed me. Where did I start? Where were the plates? Where was the silverware? How did I pay? How did I order? It took a few tries, but eventually, I learned to navigate the place like an old pro. Pick up your plate with rice from the dead-rice-man, elbow your way to the front of the queue to see if they were serving sweet and sour chicken today, swipe your e-card across the little register hung above the buffet, then cut across a line to find the basket of chopsticks, and then sit and enjoy.

So as far as the food was concerned, all was well in China.  

The dining hall at its busiest: right around dinner time

 

 

 

The famous chopstick-bucket

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Who can tell which is which?

Surviving China: Big bugs, little bugs, everything-in-between bugs

This part of my China travels was not so much a hurdle to be overcome, as all the other things I have talked about so far, as it was more of a theme that persisted throughout the entire month in Xiamen. A really large, creepy, flying-slash-crawly theme.

As most of my loyal readers know, I'm not big on bugs. Roaches give me the heebie-jeebies, fire ants, no matter where their mound is located, always seem to find -my- legs, and yellow flies are really God's way to punish mankind, and me in particular (just read this, this, and this if you want proof). So you can imagine my absolute joy when, upon stepping into my bathroom in Xiamen for the first time, I saw two long feelers slowly coming up out of the sink. Two skinny, brownish red feelers that were attached to what appeared to be the largest cockroach I have ever seen. Granted, it was two in the morning, and my powers of observation might have been a little diminished, but people, that cockroach had to be at least five inches long. Unperturbed by my presence, the bug calmly crawled out of the sink, and started to work its way up the wall towards the mirror. In the ten seconds it took the bug to get out of the sink, I not only realized it was -truly- enormous, but that a) with everything I had brought, Raid wasn't one of the things on my list, and b) that my go-to roach killer (a.k.a husband-dear) was about 6000 miles away, blissfully unaware of this creepy crawler threatening his wife. So I did what any sane person would do to get rid of a cockroach, I screamed. Apparently, cockroaches do have ears, for as soon as my piercing yell finished reverberating around the bathroom, the roach scurried down into the hole between the two faucets on the sink. Relieved, I immediately sprung into action, and while intoning "eeuw, eeuw, eeuw, eeuw", took out all of my jars and bottles, and strategically placed them over every single hole in the bathroom. After all, if I couldn't kill the damn thing, I could at least stop it from invading my space.

If only that had been the end of the bug problems, but the nighttime visit by the largest roach on campus was only a sign of things to come.

First, there was the American graduate student one floor down from me, who, when my students moved into the rooms next to hers, regaled them and myself with tales about the bedbugs she may or may not have had. Another student soon joined her, and almost casually mentioned that bed bugs were really very common in China and nothing to worry about. I think her attempt was to assuage our, now obvious, fears, but I am pretty sure she achieved the exact opposite. My students weren't sure if they had just gone from the frying pan, i.e., plywood beds, into the fire, i.e., beds with bed bugs, or if they should just chalk this up to this particular student's active imagination, but to say they were less than thrilled was an understatement. Fortunately, this student also had a solution: Chinese bug spray. I'm not sure if Chinese bug spray contains particularly vile chemicals, has magical powers, or if the creatures bugging this student weren't bed bugs at all, but it got rid of whatever was ailing this student. So my students immediately went out to the local convenience store to stock up on this bug killer, and refused to take their luggage into their rooms until they had bombed every corner of their rooms, while wearing trash bags (yeah, I'm not sure about that part either).

Now you all might be cool cucumbers, laid back and unconcerned about minor details such as bugs, but that is not me. Not if I have to live somewhere for a month, and then want to go back to a bug-free home. I know I just jested at my students for being less than thrilled, but, as husband-dear will gladly tell you, my response was slightly hysterical as well. Slightly, I promise. Really. I mean, all I did was immediately  stalk up to my room and strip my entire bed looking for signs for the little buggers, and even though I couldn't find any, I still went out to purchase said bug spray, and liberally sprayed it all over my room, mattress, sheets, and everything else I could get my hands on, oh, and then asked husband-dear to order one of these for when I got home. And then checked myself for bug bites every morning for a month. That's not over the top at all, is it?
Right.

Anyway, once again, I would love to tell you that was it as far as bug tales were concerned, but it's not. Our second issue centered on China's stealth mosquitoes. Call me spoiled, but I'm used to mosquitoes that make noise. You know, that annoying buzz that will keep you up half the night, convinced the little bugger is about to fly into your ear. Chinese mosquitoes have apparently evolved into a more superior nuisance, as they're small, and quiet. If you look very closely, you can see them hovering near the ceiling right before bedtime, but most of the time, you have no idea that there are mosquitoes in your room until you see them using your arm or leg as a meal. Or when you check into a hotel, and see the tiny blood spots and mosquito remnants on the walls. Now add to this the fact that most of us didn't have weatherstripping on our doors (as I mentioned last week), that my window had a nice gaping crack on the side that didn't have a screen, and you can imagine that our lives were just filled with mosquito-induced joy. Now you may wonder why we didn't bring any bug repellent and use it if these suckers were so bad. Well, we did. Some of us brought the heavy-duty Off! Deep Woods with 25% deet, while others went for the more gentle approach with Avon's Skin So Soft, while one student had even brought a mosquito repellent coil (no, I am not kidding). None of them, and I do mean none of them, worked. None. We were very lucky that Xiamen is not known for having malaria-spreading mosquitoes, or we would all be up a creek without a paddle. Instead, the only that did work, as we found out after about ten days, was an obscure Chinese remedy that came in a green glass bottle. Lime green, it smelled surprisingly good, moisturized your skin, and kept bugs at bay, so in all, it was quite the little miracle drug.

Overall, however, our biggest bug-related problem could not be solved by any sort of repellent. The largest problem we faced every day and night was the Chinese cicada. I'm actually not sure if these particular creates are cicadas, or locusts (which is what the locals called them), but I do know that they were a true pest. Chinese cicadas are, first of all, incredibly large. Put your two thumbs together, and you're close.
Second, they fly. And that's OK, because cicadas here in Georgia fly too. What's less OK is that there are thousands and thousands of cicadas who all love the warmth and light of a building filled with humans at night, and who thus try their very best to get into every building on campus. They will fly at windows, doors, and into humans if that's what it takes. So imagine walking back to your building after eating dinner, or going into town, and having over-sized bugs fly into your arms, your head, your body incessantly. Or walking up your stairwell only to be attacked by a cicada that is trying to fly into your corridor but can't seem to find the door. Or, the best part, stepping over what you think its a dead cicada, only to have it come to life, and attempt to fly up your skirt. It's just plain creepy.
And third, while we were in China, it was cicada-mating season. Great. Good for them. Find a mate and love on them is what I say. The problem is that during mating season, locusts or cicadas or whatever they are do two things. Number one: they die right after doing the deed. Yep. They find their soul mate, make sweet locust-love to them, excrete eggs, bury them, and die. It's like Titanic for bugs. So this means that those black, hard-shelled insects that were madly flying around your hallway and trying to get into your room via the missing weather stripping (told you it was relevant), will be dead little carcasses in the morning. One morning I counted as many as 52 dead locusts on our floor and in our stairwell. Just what one wants to see before having breakfast, I assure you. Number two: they "excrete mating fluids" (don't ask) to attract their mate. Again, awesome. Do whatever it takes. But they do this during the day, while trilling and clicking away in the hundreds of trees around campus. So as an unknown foreigner, it's very possible to spend the first few days, or maybe even the first week (or in the case of one professor, all four weeks until the very last day) wondering what those drops of water are that keep raining down on you from the canopy of leaves overhead, and to possibly delight in their coolness. Until a local fills you in, and you realize why everyone carries around umbrellas even when it's not raining, and in you're in the shade.
And the best part? Chinese people eat the little buggers. So whenever several would make their way into the lobby of our building (where we liked to converge at night after dinner), the owner of the little convenience store there would ask us to catch them so she could stir fry them, while the night guard spend many evenings scaring the women in my group by catching a cicada, pulling its wings off, before handing it over to "a yi" as the woman running the store was affectionately known.

I'm sure I was supposed to learn something from this experience, maybe something about how bugs in Georgia really aren't that bad, or perhaps how you do get used to even the worst living conditions (because you do), but all I really care about is how I'm no longer surrounded by wound-up horny cicadas whose sole purpose in life is to scare the living daylights out of me.

Now it might seem to hard to believe after all these tales, but we did actually have a good time in China too. I will talk about that next. Promise.

Surviving China: Dealing with water

Having survived the first day at Xiamen University, and having successfully acquired internet, a bank account, a meal card, and appropriate beds for our poor students, we figured that things were going to start looking up. And they did. Sort of. Because we all know what happens once you have food and shelter figured out: It's time to really adjust. And adjusting to life in southern China was quite the challenge. One common theme throughout our adaptation woes was water.

It started on that infamous first day, when the international coordinator for Xia da (as Xiamen University is affectionately known in Chinese) warned that several typhoons were on their way towards us. As the only person in our entire group who had not lived through at least one major hurricane, I was probably the only one to be slightly concerned at this statement. But my fears soon proved to be unfounded, as none of the typhoons actually hit Xiamen, but all safely skirted by the island. Now this is a good thing. Obviously. The last time Xia da was hit by a typhoon (in the mid 1990s), all the buildings on our side of campus flooded as the result of a mini-tsunami. But, like in Georgia, when a typhoon "skirts by", it means that although you're not hit by the worst of the winds of the rains, you will get to share in some significant rainfall. And we did. For three typhoons straight, we got to share some of its never-ending rains, which, in case you were wondering, lasted the entire first week. From the moment I got up on Saturday morning, until the moment we climbed the ten-thousand boulder mountain behind campus Friday evening, it rained.

But we took it in stride. We all bought Chinese umbrellas decked out in the mandatory sparkles and flowers. We stopped wearing closed shoes as they just weren't getting dry, and we swapped tips on how to do laundry and get it to dry regardless of the incessant downpour, as Xia da did not provide dryers (hint: patience). However, there comes that moment when you just want it to stop raining. Your feet haven't been dry in days, and are so saturated with water that simply walking to the dining hall will leave them white and wrinkled. The underwear that you hung out to dry under your AC unit in your room are still damp two days after you washed them. The Chinese sewers have, like you, given up, leaving you to slosh through two inches of water to get in and out of buildings. And you realize that the only way to get a dry towel is to buy a new one.

And then it stopped. I think it actually stopped raining when we were climbing this insane mountain full of little steps and stairs. It was almost divine. Now once it stopped raining, summer started. And summer in southern China is for real. Temperatures rose to at least 100F every day, with humidity hovering in the high 90% range. This not only meant you got to sweat in places you didn't think could sweat (ankles! wrists! stomach! elbows!), and you didn't have to use moisturizer or body lotion for weeks, it also meant that if you weren't drinking water constantly, your body was telling you in no uncertain terms you were going to die. In the next thirty minutes.  Now the water in China is absolutely not drinkable, and so bottled water is the way to go. Which is fine, once you figure out how much water you need to bring with you on excursions so you don't have to purchase anything from iffy-looking vendors. Not that I don't want to support the Chinese entrepreneur, because I do, but we were actually warned that some of these budding entrepreneurs are known to dig used water bottles out of trash cans, fill them with tap water, and sell them to unsuspecting tourists. Anything to make a yuen, I'm sure, but for a people who come from a country where water is so filtered and chlorinated people buy water filters to avoid the taste, this is just not a good idea.

Which brings me to the third way in which water is an important part of your life in China: the toilet. Whether you're in a private home, or in a public stall, on a squatting toilet or a "Western" one, there is one rule that applies throughout China: do not flush your toilet paper. I was told it has something to do with the water pressure and the size of the pipes. Whatever the reason, I can tell you from personal experience that if you do flush paper down the toilet, especially if it's a lot of paper, because, say, your stomach has just decided it does not care for what you ate for dinner that night, your toilet will clog. And someone will need to come and unclog it for you. And that can potentially be very embarrassing. Just saying.

Anyway, what this means is that every bathroom is outfitted with a trashcan for your used toilet paper. Had you come to visit me (and if only you had, it would have been so much fun!), you would have found an empty trash can, as I emptied that disgusting thing into the main trashcan out in the hallway as soon as I had put something in it. I mean, I see no need to keep a memento of my bathroom visit around any longer than I need to. Now the trash can in the hallway (used by everyone for this purpose) was emptied once a day. Yep. Once a day, which meant it had a whole glorious 24 hours to attract every single bug on the floor. An entomologist's dream come true. Now before you all start wrinkling your noses, please note that once a day is absolutely awesome when compared to most public toilets. Most public toilets had trash cans that were overflowing with, and I'll say it again, used toilet paper. I don't know when those things were emptied, but judging by the faded colors I had the chance to observe on some of this toilet paper, I would venture at least several days. Maybe a week or so. Now add to that the fact that all public toilets in China are the squatting kind, the additional fact that aiming with those kinds of toilets gets tricky, especially if one is wearing long pants and one's knees are no longer as supple as they used to be, and you can imagine the smell that greeted most bathroom users. It was truly amazingly disgusting.

All of this really made me appreciate the drainage systems in our street, the water purification systems in our town, our faucets, but most especially our bathroom. I vividly remember coming home from the airport, walking into our bathroom, and sitting down on our toilet with the most satisfying, welcome-home sigh ever. Of course, when it was time to rid myself of my toilet paper, it -almost- ended up in the trash can. You can't undo a month of training that easily.

But like everything else, you get used to it. If a bathroom is too disgusting to use, you hold it, or find a nice-sized bush outside. If you run out of water, and you all see are "iffy" vendors, you buy something bottled that is not water (as that's harder to fake). And if it rains a lot, you simply learn to identify people you know by their umbrellas. Simple as that.

Of course our adjustment wasn't over yet. Because just when we thought we had conquered the water, the next thing was around the corner: bugs. Really big bugs.

Surviving China: Paperwork

So after a night that left us all, professors included, wondering what exactly we had signed for when we agreed to go on a study abroad, it was time to make our stay in China a little more comfortable. Fully aware that our students were about ready to jump on the next flight to Beijing, we met up with our students first thing that Friday morning, and laid out the different things we were going to accomplish that day: Food, internet, and a room change for the students who'd spent the night on plywood boards.

One would think all of these things would be easily achievable. After all, we had a Chinese speaking professor with us, we were all fairly well-educated, eager to learn new ways of doing things, and, most importantly, we had brought every singly document that could possibly be of importance to our stay in China with us, in triplicate.  What we did not have, however, was an understanding of how much bureaucracy is a way of life in China. How it isn't just a necessary evil one accepts in going about one's daily life, no, bureaucracy is daily life.

If you want to buy train tickets, for instance, you need to "queue"at a designated spot at the railway station, have an acceptable ID with you (i.e., passport or residence permit), and if you're a student, a very specific kind of student ID. You can't just have a normal handwritten student ID, as all foreign students have, no you have to have one with a bar code. Otherwise the railway employee can't swipe it. And if the railway employee can't swipe it, you can't travel on a student ticket. And if you're a student, you'll want to travel on a student ticket.

Or "free" wifi. Beiing airport advertises its "free wifi" with a vengeance. It's everywhere, on billboards, signs, buses, people movers, you name it. What they neglect to mention is that in order to get this "free wifi" you have to go a specific kiosk (of which there is one in each terminal. Yes, one), swipe your passport, and type in your name, address, and date of birth. You then receive a stub with a user name and ID that is valid for one hour. Assuming the wifi lets you on in the first place. Because most Chinese wifi does not appear to like the Mac OS. Or many other random PCs. Or smartphones for that matter.

I wish I could tell you that things are different when it comes to basic necessities such as room and board, but I can't. Obtaining the e-card necessary to purchase food in any dining hall or store on campus involved a long, hot trek across campus to an obscure administrative office where they, based on the amount of time it took them, memorized the little sayings at the top of each visa page in all of our passports, and then an extended stay at one of the many banks on campus to set up a local bank account. The bank tellers (each of whom sported a little communist party flag above the tag that displayed a number instead of their name) looked as though they had just been told Chinese New Year was canceled when they saw a large group of loud, sweaty Americans walk into their building. But they hid their dismay well, and simply shoved lots and lost of forms at us to fill out. In Chinese. In spite of the scary-looking uniformed man with nightstick hovering over us (and who turned out to be none other than the "lobby manager"), and the four signed copies the tellers needed of everything we filled out, including our passports, we did finally get our bank accounts set up.  And once we realized that, although the e-card charging machine was all in Chinese, all we had to do was remember to press "1", "3", and enter the amount of money we wanted to transfer, we were all set to have lunch like real Chinese people.

Finding new rooms for the students who had the great opportunity to experience what it's like to sleep on a piece of wood was an equally daunting undertaking. There appeared to be nothing less than a fundamental disconnect between an American and a Chinese point of view of "acceptable sleeping arrangements". Add to that the fact that the building manager had already turned on the utilities for those rooms, and thus started keeping track of their usage (as one does pay for one's own water and electricity in Chinese dorms), and you'll understand that changing rooms was seen as pretty much impossible. After all, how on earth were they ever going to be able to figure out what to charge our program if some of our students had stayed in two separate rooms? The math was simply unfathomable. In the end, it took an act of divine intervention, i.e., the appearance of a Swedish exchange student who not only spoke perfect Chinese, but was also friends with the entire staff in the building, to resolve the issue.

The last thing on our list was obtaining internet for all the rooms. Ah, yes, internet. That thing that keeps you connected with your own personal slice of reality. That thing that even the most remote military locations seem to have set up. That thing that everyone on this side of the pacific takes for granted. I won't go into the details of this particular adventure, but let's just say that while it started with what we thought would be a quick stop at the local China Telecomm office, it quickly devolved into a multi-legged adventure involving  a trip to the international office for a specific ID (up four flights of stairs), a trip to the local convenience store for pictures for this ID (down four flights of stairs), a trip back up to the office to pick up the ID (yep, same stairs), a trip back to the China Telecomm store (down the stairs again), a trip to the little electronics store near our building (up two flights of stairs) to buy a cable (as in China rooms come with a modem but not an ethernet cable), and another trip back to the China Telecomm store, with our now famous Swedish exchange student, to finalize the contract. Four hours after first stepping into the store, I finally had internet. Yep, just me and one of my fellow professors. We still had all of our students to take care of as well.

And that people, was day one of our stay in Xiamen. It got better, it really did, but let's just say we had some kinks to work out first. Tomorrow, let's talk about water, and the numerous ways in which that can complicate your life.

...And she's back!

Well, technically, I've been back almost six days. Or maybe five. Traveling for three (two?) days and crossing the date line will really mess with your understanding of time and space ("I left on Tuesday. No, wait, I left on your Tuesday but my Wednesday. Well, my Wednesday then."). Let's just say that as far as the world of blogging is concerned, I'm back. Not as soon as I'd liked to have been, though.  But, for the better part of the past five (or six) days days I've been either sleeping or talking about how much I'd like to go to sleep, unpacking, doing laundry, folding clothes, and trying to remember who I bought the fan with the roses for. But now all that appears to be behind me, and I'm ready to re-enter the world of blogging with a vengeance.

I realize that after a month of radio-silence, I owe you all lots and lots of pictures and the usual cynical anecdotes. Breaking four-plus weeks of wall-to-wall activities, classes, excursions, walking tours, stairs, bugs, and lots of Chinese people into small bite-size pieces is proving to be quite the challenge, however, so bear with me if I start off a little haphazardly.

When we left Atlanta on Tuesday morning, I don't think any of us really knew what to expect. We were going to teach summer school, and do some excursions, and hopefully make it home in one piece. Three long flights later, we arrived in Beijing late Wednesday night, and everything appeared honkey dorey. Our hotel was lovely (although the beds were surprisingly hard), the wifi was complimentary, and the breakfast was scrumptious. Our trip to the Great Wall was well-planned, the Great Wall itself was breath-taking, and everyone agreed that our lunch was tasty too. Spirits were high as we got on the bus to the airport, if this was a sign of things to come, our stay in China was going to be one awesome adventure.

When we arrived at Xiamen University about six hours later at one in the morning (thanks to a delayed flight out of Beijing), we realized it was going to be an adventure, but that perhaps "awesome" was not the proper adjective. Not only was it beyond hot and sticky even in the middle of the night, when the students walked into their rooms, they were stunned into silence. Their beds were nothing more than a plywood board with a comforter. Their bathrooms had a typical Chinese style squatting toilet, and a hose with a nozzle for a shower. Their rooms were thoughtfully outfitted with a laundry area complete with sink, hose, drain, and clotheslines, in the middle of the room. The faculty's rooms, situated in a different building, were, thank the Lord and all His Guardian Angels above, a little better. There were neither plywood boards, nor squatting toilets, nor laundry areas. Instead, I got chairs with backs that fell off when you leaned against them, an AC unit with a hose covered in a mold, a cracked window, and, goodness me, three gigantic roaches that had taken up residence in my mildewy bathroom. Not to mention grimy granite floors, a mattress where the springs were visible through the fitted sheet, and a door with no weatherstripping (and this is very relevant, as I shall explain later).

The next day did little to assuage our traumatized students. The cafeteria stopped serving breakfast at 8:30, the campus tour quickly revealed the campus to be sprawled across several mountains, which meant everything required walking up or down numerous stairs, mysterious water kept raining down on our group from random trees (again, very relevant, and I will explain later), and the international coordinator was quick to inform the group that a typhoon (or possibly two) was headed our way, and that although we were right on the beach, we shouldn't swim in the sea due to riptides and "dirt", as he euphemistically called it (we later realized the sewers run straight into the sea in China). Oh, and internet was not only not free, wifi was almost non-existent, and obtaining internet access took an act from God. Or perhaps Buddha.

Although as one of the professors, my job was to stay upbeat, optimistic, and solution-focused at all times, that first day in Xiamen was possibly the hardest day I've ever had on the job. We were tired, caffeine-deprived (as we had not yet discovered any of the coffee shops on campus), completely overwhelmed with all the new information thrown at us, and none of us was really sure how we were going to make it through the next month.

Obviously, things did get better, and although I'm not sure any of our students would simply call this study abroad "awesome", or whatever other simple adjective they picked on that first day in Beijing, they did learn to see it all as one amazing experience.

Tomorrow, I'll try to update you all on how we managed to get settled in, and things turned out not to be so bad after all.

p.s. if someone can show an easy way to set up a slide show in my blog (as opposed to uploading tens of pictures separately), that would be great!

Een NederAmerikaan op reis

Omdat ik niet weet of ik vanuit China bij mijn blog kan, heb ik een aantal posts in het vooruit geshreven. Dit is er een van. Mocht ik niet kunnen bloggen vanuit China, dan zal ik er zeker voor zorgen dat ik bij thuiskomst al mijn interessante bevindingen in een paar posts op mijn blog plaats! 

Het hele "Ik heb twee nationaliteiten" is meestal bijzonder leuk. Natuurlijk is er het hele gegeven dat je twee paspoorten perfect weergeven hoe je je van binnen voelt, maar er zijn nog veel meer voordelen. Als je ene thuisland iets vreemds doet bijvoorbeeld, dan kun je je onmiddelijk distantieren door in geval van land #1, "Ja maar ik ben er ook al zo lang weg!", en in het geval van land #2 te roepen, "Ja maar ik ben niet een geboren staatsburger. Da's toch anders". Je mag in twee landen stemmen (ook al heb ik dat, tot groot genoegen van sommige polici in beide landen nog nooit gedaan), en je hebt, tijdens de Olympische spelen, altijd twee landen om voor te juichen (en in het geval van een te enthousiaste Willem Alexander, dan treedt voorbeeld 1 onmiddelijk in werking).  Ideaal.

Het wordt alleen wat ingewikkelder als je naar een derde land reist, en helemaal als dat derde land een visum vereist. Want sja, wat ben je dan? Wat is het handigst/eerlijkst/goedkoopst*? Toen ik mijn visum voor China aanvroeg, was dit besluit gelukkig snel gemaakt. In het geval van een Chinees visum moet je namelijk, als je je aanvraag doet vanuit een land waarvan je niet de nationaliteit bezit, een wettige verblijfsvergunning kunnen overhandigen. En die heb ik voor de VS natuurlijk niet meer. Dus vroeg ik het visum aan als Amerikaan**.

Maar ja, dan is er de visum aanvraag zelf. Want de Chinese ambassade wil zo mogelijk nog meer van je weten dan de Amerikaanse overheid bij de aanvraag voor een groene kaart. Zo willen ze de namen, addressen, beroepen, en werkgevers van je echtgenoot, kinderen, ouders, broers, en zussen weten. Ze willen weten wie er voor je reis betaald heeft, en waar je het laatste jaar allemaal naar toe gereisd bent. En als klap op de vuurpijl willen ze ook weten of je nog andere nationaliteiten bezit dan de Amerikaanse.

In eerste instantie had ik, als brood-eerlijke NederAmerikaan dus gewoon ingevuld dat ik ook Nederlander was. Want dan ben ik. En wie gaat daar nou moeilijk over doen? Iedereen met een beetje boerenverstand kon bedenken dat dat geen enkel probleem kon zijn. Vond ik dan. Maar blijkbaar is mijn versie van boerenverstand toch niet helemaal hetzelfde als het Chinese boerenverstand. Want niet alleen was onze Chinese visum-agent het niet met me eens, ook onze reisagent, een bevriende reisagent, een ervaren China-reiziger, en een tweetal Chinese professoren op mijn universiteit het daar niet mee eens. Volgens al deze mensen erkent China namelijk het principe van de dubbele nationaliteit niet, en zou ik het mezelf enorm moeilijk maken door dit aan te geven.

En wat doe je dan, als brood-eerlijke NederAmerikaan? Want liegen, of vooruit dan, niet de hele waarheid vertellen, daar doen we niet aan. Maar ja, als ik als enige geen visum naar China zou krijgen, dan hadden we toch best wel een probleem van enorme proporties. Van "het hele programma kan niet doorgaan" proporties. Maar ja, niet eerlijk zijn...mensen, dat kan ik niet. En dan heb je dus een dilemma.

Gelukkig komt de oplossing soms geheel onverwachts. In mijn geval werd mijn visum aanvraag als voorbeeld opgestuurd naar onze visum agent (onder het mom van "controleer dit even voordat we alle studenten het verkeerd laten invullen"). In deze versie was het vakje voor de andere nationaliteit toevallig leeg (application v1 was-ie ingevuld, app v2 niet, app v3 wel, app v4 niet...u snapt hem), en in de email die ik terugkreeg was het vakje keurig netjes ingevuld met het woord "Netherlands", met als verklaring van de agent, "Er staat op het formulier dat je in Nederland geboren bent, en dus weten ze automatisch dat je Nederlander bent."

Hmm. Dit zou een mega-logisch redenering zijn, ware het niet dat in Nederland de regelgeving omtrent nationaliteit nou juist niet zo werkt. Maar goed. Ik heb het maar zo gelaten. En drie weken later had ik, alle doemscenarios ten spijt, mijn Amerikaanse paspoort, met Chinese visum in mijn hand.

Zo zie je maar, dat hele dubbele nationaliteit gedoe is nog best wel ingewikkeld. Dus terecht dat ze er in Nederland vanaf willen. Al die profiteurs ook


*We benne natuurlijk wel 'ne Hollander, he?
** En dat was dan weer erg jammer, want een visum aanvraag voor China is veel goedkoper voor een Nederlander dan voor een Amerikaan.

Italy’s Inconvenient Nap-time

Thanks, DixieChick for asking me to write a guest post! I’ve been meaning to get this off my chest and write about this on my blog, but I kept getting sidetracked. Luckily, Southern Tales is the perfect outlet for my rant! Living in Italy isn’t always paradise.

I like naps just as much as the next person. Actually, that’s a lie. I like naps WAY more than normal people. I like naps so much that my nickname is “Nappy.” True story. Clearly life doesn’t always allow time for a snooze, but when it does, things are good; I’m a happy camper if I can fit in a catnap.

So when I moved to Italy and heard they had a siesta-like approach to afternoons, I was over the moon. In Spain a siesta means, “nap,” and they take their siesta during the hottest part of the afternoon—between 2 and 4 pm, roughly. The concept is great: You eat lunch, finish running your errands, then go home to cool off and take a quick nap; you wake up just in time to start prepping dinner. I fell madly in love with Spain for being in sync with my nap schedule and couldn’t wait to have a built-in naptime every day in Italy.

On paper, Italy’s siesta is even better than Spain’s version. It’s called riposo in Italian, which means, “rest” in English, and it’s from about noon until aound 4 pm. Riposo is a four-hour break in the middle of the day—every day. Like I said, in theory, that sounds like a fantastic plan. In reality, it’s horrible, which says something coming from a die-hard napper.

During that four-hour timeframe almost everything closes. Is your car running low on gas and you need to fill up? Too bad, the gas stations are all closed*. Decide to take a “late” lunch or want a snack in the middle of the afternoon? Should’ve thought about eating before noon since almost all of the restaurants are closed and they don’t have fast food out here (not a bad thing, just not convenient when you’re driving around and you can hear your stomach growl over your car radio). Want to go shopping in the afternoon? Forget about it. Your errands, clothes, crafts, and groceries will just have to wait. Between the hours of 12 pm and 4 pm my little bustling city becomes a ghost town. Of course in the larger (touristy) cities, riposo goes practically unnoticed, but in rural Italy, it’s pretty routine.

Another quirky aspect of living in Italy is that on top of closing for a good chunk of the afternoon, each little Italian town usually closes one or two days a week. Almost everything is closed in my town on Wednesdays, but the town over is closed on Thursdays. Can you see where this can get a little frustrating? Oh, but it gets better…

There are exceptions to every rule since each business is in charge of their own hours. Here’s an example of a store around the corner from our house.

At first glance, it may seem confusing, so I’ll break it down for you in English:

Hours:

Monday: 11 am—2 pm; closed in the afternoon

Tuesday: 11 am—2 pm; 5 pm—10 pm

Wednesday: 11 am—2 pm; 5 pm—10 pm

Thursday: closed all day

Friday: 11 am—2 pm; 5 pm—10 pm

Saturday: 11 am—2 pm; 5 pm—10 pm

Sunday: closed all day

Long story short: riposo sounds like a wonderful idea, but I miss knowing that a business or restaurant will be open during “normal” business hours. We’ve been here for just over eight months and while Italy’s unique way-of-life still annoys me, I’m finally learning how to take a deep breath and just go with the flow. Luckily, the bar next to me is one of the few places that’s open all the time (except all day Sunday and Wednesday afternoons), so if I’m not taking a nap during riposo you’ll most likely find me becoming one with the Italians. I’ll be the loudmouth American drinking wine in the corner.

*Since we are here with military orders, we get gas ration cards that can only be used at certain gas stations. The gas pumps are open during riposo; however, we have to give our rations to an actual person, so we can’t fill up until they re-open.