Perspective, or Things That Are More Important Than Iced Tea

Disclaimer: This is only loosely related to China, in that some of my days at the country club make me very excited that said days are numbered. 

Tuesday, 6:45 a.m.: Ladies are set to show up for breakfast before a morning of golf. I made coffee, juice, and several other all-important breakfast buffet elements, and was just finishing up when—“Where’s the TEA?! Girls, I need that tea in fifteen minutes! What the hell have you been doing up here?!”

A word about brewing our particular brand of industrial kitchen tea: It takes five minutes. I did not major in math, but if elementary school taught me one thing, it’s that five is one-third of fifteen. That gives me time to finish brewing tea and pick my nose before these proper ladies show up.

My manager’s unwarranted panic, which he feeds off of to get through most of his shifts governing the all-important functioning of our Club For The Uncomfortably Wealthy, got me thinking about perspective. You know, that bygone concept of measuring seemingly challenging things against actually challenging things to assure yourself that the apocalypse will (likely) not be caused by the timing of tea production? 

Sunday, 8:00 a.m.: A second incident solidifies my belief that something must be said. I’m working in the golf course concession stand, pouring too-strong bloody marys for guys who, doubtless, should be at home helping their wives get the family ready for church. This guy saunters up with two friends, shouts his order over their heads—I don’t hear it, an important detail—and then disappears to the bathroom. He reappears minutes later, looking annoyed. Where is his drink? He ordered a drink? I didn’t know. Thanks to this misunderstanding, I present for your enjoyment:

How To Have a Vodka-Water-Lemonade Made Without Telling the Server What She’s Doing, as told by Some Jerk

1) “Now, put some ice in a glass.”

2) “Good, ok, now get the Absolut out.”

3) “Now pour a shot.”

4) “That’s not enough. Pour a bigger shot.”

5) “Charge me for a goddamn quadruple shot if you have to, just put more vodka in there.”

6) “Now pour some water in there. No, like this.” (Forcibly remove water from server’s hands.)

7) “Aaand get out the lemonade.” (While server is retrieving lemonade from cooler, still baffled by why, exactly, this is happening, lay hands on bottle of Absolut and indiscriminately pour the amount of vodka you really wanted in that drink).

8) “Now pour the lemonade. Good. That’s how you make a vodka-water-lemonade. What’s your name? How long have you been working here? Did you have a late night? Yeah, I can tell you have no idea what you’re doing out here, Whitney.”

9) Disappear into a burning inferno. No one will miss you.

I was confused about what would make anyone behave this way, until my friend Erika cleared it up for me: “His penis is too small, he’s cheating on his wife, and he has so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it.” A-ha!

One can only assume, from their complete absorption in the drink-related details of their lives, that my manager and this friendly club member haven’t watched or read the news—golf scores don’t count—in the past week. Had they, they’d know that people are facing some rather formidable odds in places like North Korea, Iran, and Somalia (And elsewhere in Des Moines, for that matter.) They would understand why how drunk they get this morning is not my primary concern, and shouldn’t be theirs, either.

But I know we all do it. We all get caught up in the minute details of our own lives, and forget that expensive gas is a light burden to bear, being ten minutes late won’t end the world, and it actually doesn’t matter what the neighbors think of your infrequently-mowed yard. So, the next time you’re stressed about iced tea, or your professional or personal equivalent, be thankful you are not:

1) A journalist sentenced to twelve years of hard labor for attempting to expose human rights abuses: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8103006.stm

2) Living in a theocratic nation where a Supreme Leader trumps any charade of democracy:http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/8102406.stm

3) Attempting to operate a navy in an area where most income comes from criminal activity and there hasn’t been a functioning government for nearly 20 years:http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8096137.stm

4) This guy: http://www.facepalm.org/images/03.jpg

 

Airplanes, and other Thoughts on Space

According to the plane ticket I purchased last Monday—with half of my life savings, if you must know—I have exactly 67 days to accomplish all the things I planned to do before undertaking my Chinese adventure: Learn to operate chopsticks with grace, train my vocal apparatus to navigate Mandarin tones (also, with grace, or something that sounds like it.) And, in my most extravagant scheme, replenish my grossly-severed savings account.

So far, I’ve learned to count to ten and utter incredibly useful phrases such as, “I am not a man” and “That woman is fat.” (Presumably, I could construe my meager linguistic feats to also form sentences such as, “That woman is not a fat man.” China, here I come.)

In addition to the standard responses detailed in my first post, other sentiments expressed about my move to China include “You’re so brave!” and “Aren’t you worried about culture shock?” My pocket answer to these was, previously, “No, I do not think I’m incredibly brave, just terribly curious about the world. And I appreciate cultures for what they are, not how they compare to mine.” That was until one night not too long ago—and no, whether or not I was slightly inebriated is not a vital detail in this anecdote—I took to wondering what’s in a traditional Chinese breakfast dish. Google delivered me here.  Brief, terrifying summary of ingredients:

3 tablespoons short or medium grain rice

1 litre/2 pints/4 cups water

Oh, and if you’re feeling especially ravenous, it’s common to stir in some white fish. Now, I’ve once or twice enjoyed salmon and cream cheese on a bagel for breakfast, but as a general rule I relegate seafood to after-breakfast pursuits. The other option my search yielded was just your basic, artery-clogging, morning ball of dough and grease. With a side of rice gruel, I presume.

Admittedly, it’s difficult to find a corner of the earth where the basic cereal/milk combo can’t be acquired. I’m sure I won’t be plugging my nose and drinking my breakfast (heh.) throughout the year. But I do think it’s important to immerse yourself in local traditions rather than scoping out the omnipresent American comforts abroad.

Speaking of comforts:

I’m out for a run today, and a man has a bucket and his garden hose camped out on the sidewalk. He sees me coming, drags his hose a good 3 feet away from the sidewalk, still looks up apologetically and offers a “Sorry!” as I jog by. This charming old man expressed remorse because his garden hose came within three feet of my personal space. Midwesterners enjoy approximately 100 feet of personal space each*, and, I’ve noticed, are incredibly apologetic if we invade this space without express permission (rock concerts, crowded bars, and the occasional food-related festival excluded.) I offered the man a smile and a, “You’re fine!”—although in running mode, it may have come off as a grimace and a “FINE.” But I meant well.

The incident reminded me of our first exercise during our week of teacher training. Twenty-six of us crammed into one of Drake’s cozier men’s restrooms (the first time, I assure you, that a urinal and its accompanying scents so severely violated my personal space). Starting with the poor soul in the back of the pack, we had to push our way through the unmoving crowd as they maintained eye contact with us but refused to move out of our path. The lesson: Men’s bathrooms are gross. Oh, and China is a crowded place where the “100 feet of personal space” rule does not apply.

This is not to say I’m conceding defeat and admitting fears of culture shock. Merely an observation that I may be hurdling quite a few Chinese garden hoses, and gardeners, unapologetically blocking my path.

*could be gross over- or under-estimation. What do you think I am, a journalist?