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?
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