I Wonder if Mao Peed Here

As part of our language and cultural training in Shijiajuang, we took a field trip to nearby Xibaipo, where China’s modern government was drafted. The site is essentially a (dirty, dare I say boring) shrine to Chairman Mao. A guided tour consists of repeated “Mao sat here, Mao ate here, Mao wrote something down here,” and even a “Naked Mao was wrapped in a blanket and thrown into an air-raid shelter here” (pictures to come.)

Now, all props to Mao for Liberating the People and whatnot, but two days later as I stood in line after line after line (didn’t someone say they don’t queue in China?) for my foreign expert health exam, I wished the Great Chairman Mao had done a touch more to liberate goodwill ambassadors.

Line 1, which lasted a mere 45 minutes, culminated in me being called into a room to verify that I arrived on UA flight 501 from Chicago and to sign my name confirming the made-up body temperature that the doctor had surmised, presumably by noticing I looked cold.

Next, I slouched in a line for 10 minutes, only to be informed that the forms I was holding were not completely filled out, and I needed to get out of the line to do so. Unfortunately, five days of oral language training didn’t make me an expert character artist, so my waiban (foreign affairs officer from Chengde) had to fill it out for me anyway.

Line 3: Bloodletting. The scene: A hallway, two nurses sit behind what looks like a ticket booth, accepting veins through an opening in the glass. I watch two strangers get stabbed, then offer my arm (clean needles, no worries). I don’t get a bandage when it’s over, only a cotton ball I’m instructed to hold in place for five minutes.

Which proves impossible, because the next station involves hugging an x-ray machine for a chest x-ray. My open wound lines up conveniently with the spot where everyone in front of me has hugged the same un-sanitized machine post-bloodletting.

Although they do this exam under the pretense of scanning for infectious diseases, the next stations I suffer through are 1) an ultrasound. You know, in case I’m carrying the contagious disease called pregnancy. And 2) An EKG, which involved being topless in a doorless room. A man actually came to the doorway while the nurse was hooking me up to the machine, which was straight out of 1960, so there was literally a curtain between half-naked, electrocution-prepped me and some strange man. I hope the nurse was saying, “Get out of here, perv, this isn’t a free show.”

So I’ve had a pretty serious cough since a few days before I arrived in China, and the filthy city of Shijiajuang did nothing to alleviate my symptoms. I went through half my store of Robitussin and Sudafed in my first week. Naturally, I was dreading my visit to the “EENT” office, where I felt sure they would look in my throat and notice the most-definitely contagious, infected lump in the back of my throat. Lucky for me (unlucky for China) they dropped the “ENT” portion of the test and only checked my eyes (you know, contagious glaucoma and whatnot.) This test consisted of the doctor asking me to take my glasses off, then laughing at me when I finally successfully conveyed that, “No, really, I cannot see anything on the opposite wall.”

Finally, the most dreaded portion of all physical exams, I had to pee in a cup. As I squatted over a hole in the floor, attempting to hold a teacup-sized receptacle under me without urinating on my hand or falling over, I recalled Jason’s glib comment as we departed Xibaipo. I wonder if Mao peed here.

Beware the Dangerous!

The first of many interestingly translated signs I saw when I arrived in Beijing was displayed blocking a broken moving walkway. It read, “BEWARE THE DANGEROUS!” I foolishly thought the sign actually referred to the broken walkway. As soon as we loaded the bus and departed for Shiziajuang, I realized it foreshadowed a myriad of Dangerous to Beware of.

There are some things a traveler can prepare for pre-departure. Adequate clothing, comfortable shoes, a stockpile of medicine. Other things, while expected, cannot be fathomed until experienced. I understand that China is an extremely large nation, and therefore will not generalize based on my experiences in one province. As day ten draws to a close, I would like to share what I have surmised are the key themes of the Hebei Provincial Driver’s Manual:

1. DO NOT, under any circumstance, come to a complete stop.

2. Use your horn, use your horn, use your horn. There is no motor vehicle situation that cannot be resolved favorably by engaging the horn. A short honk is appropriate for announcing your intention to switch lanes in heavy traffic. A slightly longer honk may be necessary for announcing a left turn across several lanes. Finally, when passing large trucks on mountainous roads, do not release the horn, as it is of the utmost importance that you have only one functional hand on the wheel when another large truck comes careening in your direction.

3. Use your turn signal sporadically, preferably when it makes the least sense.

4. It is of utmost importance that you arrive at your destination as quickly as possible. Neither your life, nor the lives of your passengers, is worth the loss of face you will suffer if you follow cars at a reasonable distance, slow for pedestrians or cyclists, or choose not to drive into oncoming traffic whenever convenient. Do not embarrass yourself, and bring shame to your family name, for the sake of passenger safety and sanity.

5. Despite the numerous interstate signs commanding you to “buckle up,” seat belts are actually illegal. All vehicle owners are required to purchase seat covers which make seat belts inaccessible to passengers. Those who purchase seat covers with mistranslated English themes on them will receive reimbursement from the government. If you drive a taxi, wrap all seatbelts around headrests repeatedly until taut, so passengers understand that your ability to drive safely is unprecedented.

6. Where they happen to exist, lane markings are barely a suggestion. The expected behavior is to straddle them and engage your horn as specified above in order to announce your intention to move left, right, forward or back as is suitable.

7. In the event that you feel too important to stop at a red light, please press horn appropriately and accelerate into the cross-traffic. If you have installed flashing red and blue lights in your vehicle for personal use, this is an appropriate time to engage them.

8. Should you find yourself in the far right lane heading a direction you suddenly do not wish to go, begin U-turn by inching into opposing lanes and pressing the horn as prescribed for mountainside driving. DO NOT, under any circumstance, come to a complete stop.

9. Upon arrival at your destination, or if you feel compelled to drive on the pedestrian walkway for increased efficiency, you will need to cut through the bicycle/motor bike lane, usually 5-10 riders thick. Expect to be ignored, as bikers are busy text messaging with both hands, lighting or smoking cigarettes, balancing children and infants between their legs, etc., in addition pedaling. Simply engage the horn and proceed slowly. DO NOT, even for a family of four riding on one bike, come to a complete stop.

10. Simulation exercise: A bus meets a semi truck on a curve ascending a mountain. A car is passing the truck and there is no shoulder. No matter which driver you are, DO NOT slow down. Lay on your horn and increase your speed. If you are driving the bus or the semi, wish for good luck to save you from falling down the mountain as the car squeezes between you. If you are in the car, repeat this passing technique as frequently as necessary until you reach your destination.

The Pain of Unrequited Love

I've always been infatuated with the United States Postal Service. Long before the interwebs brought widespread friends and family a click away, the USPS carried cards, pictures, and the occasional (and now nearly extinct) letter with respectable grammar. Not surprisingly, I've marveled at how they manage to keep paper so smooth on cross-country journeys. I do love a nice, flat piece of paper.

People have a tendency to distrust my long-time lover, the USPS, insisting upon things like package insurance and delivery confirmation. My post office never misplaced so much as a post card. I balked whenever someone suggested such outlandish acts of treachery. Insure a package? Nonsense. Love really is blind.

I recently entrusted my dear United States Postal Service with another inanimate, government-owned object I'm quite fond of, my United States Passport, which needed to travel to the Chinese embassy in Chicago to be adorned with an employment visa. I loved my passport just enough to do something I've never done - certify my mail. You know what they say, put a lover on a leash and he's bound to run away.

Instantly, my true and faithful servant fell off the loyal service train (or interstate). Ten days after I left my well-traveled passport at the Forest Ave PO in Des Moines, it still had not arrived at its destination. Like any neglected girl would do, I started making phone calls, complete with hopeless pleas and angry tyraids delivered to automated devices that had no capacity to respond appropriately. Like a typical dishonest partner, the USPS returned with vague messages like, "Your case is open, but I can't tell you more than that until the end of the day," and "Your package is at the post office." As opposed to what, the damn zoo? The automated answering service for the track and confirm branch of the postal service actually has a statement when you ask to speak to a real person that says something along the lines of, "Just so you know, the person you are about to talk to likely does not know a damn thing. Do you still want to talk to them?"

I poked and prodded for a full two days before receiving confirmation--via the online tracking system--that my item had been delivered. There is speculation as to whether it sat in the DSM or Chicago post office undetected all those days. Jerk didn't even have the balls to call and apologize.

Things, Odds, & Ends

So, I wrote this note the night I got home from Des Moines, after enjoying my friend Liz's wedding and the ever-thrilling West Point bar scene. Suffice it to say, I was not sober. I apparently did not succeed in publishing it after I wrote it, which is probably good because waking to find that I wrote and published an entire blog that I didn't remember creating might have embarassed me. But I just read it and decided it might be important to publish. If you require proof of my inebriation, I would like you to know that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my parents' space bar. Read on:
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It is approximately 2 a.m., I've had a crazy 72-ish hours, and the best way I could serve the general populus is by rendering myself unconscious. Unlucky for you, I'm just crazy enough to feel like writing. Even though my parents apparently have a janky, barely functioning space bar.

First things first, Things:

Yesterday, I moved out of my lovely apartment on Des Moines' finest street, Brattleboro Ave. 2920. It was a lovely place to spend year 4 at Drake, and I enjoyed 67% of my time there. My landlord was pretty chill, as far as slum lords go. Unfortunately yesterday I proved myself less than chill, as far as tenants go. But that's a story for the "Odds" chapter.

As far as Things go, I would like to let everyone know that:

a) The YWCA (7th and Grand) has a "Dress for Success" closet. I donated a box of travel-sized shaving cream, which now resides in said closet. If you are of the professional variety and have apparel to dispose of, I suggest taking it there, where ladies who really need jobs will be able to utilize your threads to score a respectable job.

b) The Animal Rescue League takes couch cushions. If you've given up on your pile of dust, covers, and dirty hand-me-down pillows, take them to the ARL. The animals love you.

Awkwardly, Odds:

I lied to our landlord about the couch on the dumpster belonging to us. I will claim that the devil made me do it. Although, actually, it was my mother. I guess I was worried that he would make me take it out or pay a bunch of money or something, but I doubt that would have happened (apparently it only costs $5 to have furniture picked up from the curb). I was uncomfortable enough, though, to call him in the morning and tell him the truth. He thought it was honorable.

And, finally, Ends:

I really grew to think of Des Moines as my second home over the past 4 years, and it was impossibly difficult to leave the city and all of my friends who remain. As I bawled and told Nicole I didn't actually want to go to China anymore, she said, "Whitney, you will rock China. I wouldn't ordinarily tell a person that they would rock something as large as China, but it's you, and you will." While I don't know how true this is, I do appreciate the sentiment.

The Nadas wrote this song about their beloved DSM. I offer it to you all as a farewell:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tj3W7rBOq10