SO HOW'S YOUR CHINESE?

A few of you have asked me this question at some point since I got back to China three months ago and the answer I have given has varied by the day. Sometimes I feel wildly confident and optimistic, as the day I was at a market asking questions about a sweater and upon turning to leave a woman saw my face and squawked with surprise that I was a foreigner, saying that she assumed I was Chinese from overhearing me. More common are the days when I feel uncertain and pessimistic or just fully failtastic, as when I go to conduct an interview and only understand %70 of what the respondent is saying or attend a colloquium at my university and miss the point entirely.

Most frequently, however, I'm somewhere in the middle, and it isn't a bad place to be. When I'm at the Treehouse talking to Wu Jie or Sophie or hanging out with my old Chinese teachers or new friends we can talk about practically anything, although those topics that sometimes tongue-tie me in English (postmodernism, Xenu, my enduring attraction to David Byrne) do the same thing in Mandarin.

And have I mentioned how much fun it is? Oh my goodness, I had no idea! To be able, in a language other than your own, to joke and tease, to make puns, to share secrets, to cut down would-be suitors with a judicious proverb... And that is leaving aside how satisfying and enriching it is to speak at length, or even briefly, to someone that has never talked to a foreigner before. I feel like even if I'm hardly getting any actual research done I'm half earning my fellowships by putting to rest some of the ridiculous ideas some people have about Americans and America.

I have also experienced vast improvements in my ability to speak and understand Uncle Mu, to have phone conversations with less than perfect connections, and to introduce myself clearly and with confidence to start a conversation on the right foot.

Most surprisingly of all is that my tones are pretty goddamn good. After all the time I spent at IUP anxious and depressed, fearing that I would always sound like a moron because I couldn't remember if a character was tone 2 or tone 3 (or if, and when, it changed tone) or because I had trouble reciting a whole row of 4th tones without feeling like a cheerleader, I've discovered that it was never hopeless; that time and practice make all the difference. It is also pleasant to discover that my tendency to pick up the cadence and/or accent of any place I spend considerable time (the multiple times someone in an Irish pub has tried to determine which county I was from being testament to this embarrassing habit) is a boon in language learning. In the past, when caught with British vowels on my tongue I've usually tried to spin it by arguing that unconsciously picking up the local characteristics of a language is a natural way to try making yourself more easily understood, but lets be honest here: I really would prefer to sound British.

But I'm not the only one with this tendency - I've heard the illustrious Carrie, a native English speaker, talk to Indian friends with adorably Hindi-accented English, and I've heard a lovely Irish lilt in the voices of both of my expat friends there who have made the island their home. I truly believe that it usually isn't an affectation, and even if it is, it's a damn useful one. The more I speak to people here, the better I seem to imitate the way they talk. I may stumble in remembering the tones for 解释 off hand, but I hear and use it so frequently that I say it correctly. The more stubborn problems are with words I use very infrequently or only encounter when reading, but I'll get them eventually - I hope.

It is a great relief that when I'm working on interview transcripts the sound of my own voice speaking Mandarin is not a source of pain, but of pride. Sometimes I REALLY nail a phrase or use the perfect proverb for the occasion and at those times I am happy beyond words. At other times, I merely stumble along, speaking imperfectly but communicating fluently. I never dreamed it would get this good. Now if only research wasn't driving me completely mad.

But a break is coming soon! My mad Chinese skills have recommended me to a California wine broker who needs some translation help to make a deal next week in Xi'an. I'll be off by the time you read this and will be spending xmas there as well - I'm not partial about where I'll be over the holidays but I'd like to be far away from the internet and all the happy stories of reunion. No need to feel sorry for myself when instead I can distract my lonely self with terracotta armies and tasty tasty noodles!

I miss you all very much and wish you each the happiest of holidays!

日坛公园 // RITAN PARK (Temple of the Sun)

It is strange to recall that less than five years ago I didn't know a word of Mandarin and had never given a thought to making the study of Chinese society and culture my life. Strange I say, but hardly difficult: rarely does a day pass when I don't see/hear something that strikes me as extraordinary, or that I don't wonder, with a fresh gust of sharp Siberian winds or yet another set of curious eyes fixed upon me, at what a surprising turn my life has taken.

I first came to China in the summer of 2005, traveling overland from Laos with treasured friend and collaborator Carrie (aka "the care bear") to visit Kunming, Suzhou, and Shanghai. I was taken with China from the first: it was nothing like I expected and so big, so fast-changing, so difficult to wrap one's mind around. I found it thrilling. I wanted it from the very beginning but was also terrified by the challenge it posed. I loved listening to Carrie speak Mandarin with cab drivers and merchants, wondering what the meaning of all those funny sounds were and what these crazy things called "tones" were. Carrie and I sat in smoky teahouses surrounded by bemused old men (or took coffee and tea at the Astor, as below)

taking silly pictures and having long anthro-tastic conversations: I picked her brain about her time in China and all she knew of its history, and she prodded me to tackle it as my subject area, insisting that "you should do what scares you the most" [editor's note: don't take this advice. this is terrible advice]. It was a rich, heady, very good time, but after two weeks in the country, Carrie had to hurry back to her research in Western India and I had to go on alone. For those of you who are under the impression that I am somehow "brave" or "courageous" for taking this route, please disabuse yourself of that notion. I was petrified. Carrie helped me buy a train ticket to Beijing from Shanghai and I set off. The last time I was at Beijing Railway station I remembered how I felt arriving that morning: disoriented, tired, and just plain scared. I think I started crying before I found the subway station and still it took hours to find a hostel with a free bed. Once I did, I didn't want to leave. But I had an Indian visa to obtain if I was going to make my flight 10 days hence and so I set out.

I walked all over the city that day and many of the following. The subway only had two lines at that time, I couldn't communicate with cab drivers (or show them the English maps that I could read), and the bus system seemed impossible: if you could somehow figure out which one to board you had then to tell the conductor your destination and pay a distance-based fare. There were thunderstorms every other day that came out of nowhere and everybody seemed to be shouting at me. I hated Beijing. To make things worse, my visa was taking forever. I made a total of four trips to the Indian embassy, which at that time seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

The one thing it was very close to, however, was a place that didn't appear in any of my travel literature: a park called Ritan, or Temple of the Sun. Here are some pictures I took way back then when I stumbled upon it.

(useful directions to the "slaughter pavillion")

A fair few of my anxieties about my visa and discontentments with the city burned off easily as I strolled through the shady park: more prettily dappled light I had never seen! Atop the small lake above, at the highest point of the park, was a pagoda with a 360 degree view of the metropolis.

One afternoon I visited the pagoda and found a small group of men flying kites and playing the erhu, a stringed instrument that sounds like a Chinese violin. I was especially charmed by the erhu player, who seemed to be moving his bow in concert with a kite he was watching. I didn't stay long, maybe 20 minutes, but it felt heavy, in the way that something you know will be memorable usually does. I felt like perhaps I was earning the city, and perhaps it was letting me in. Maybe I could do this; maybe I could take on this great challenge. When I left I stammered out a poorly pronounced "xie xie" (Carrie had attempted to teach me to say "thank you") to the erhu player and skipped down the stone steps to start my walk back to the hostel.

Ever since that day Ritan Park has been one of my favorite parts of the city, a special place with strong memories that keeps safe a little part of my soul. I am firmly of the mind that everyone should have such a place, and I hope you all have at least one. But it isn't my secret place. I go there to recharge, to remember the fear and mystery I first confronted this country with, and to remember how far I've come (holy shit guys, I can speak Chinese now!), but I also like to bring my friends.

Here are some recent pictures of Ritan in the winter, on a day I took my teachers Song Fang and Chang Hong for a stroll.

It remains, even in the cold winter months, a popular place for flying kites:

And if you want to hear what an erhu sounds like, as well as learn a few more interesting things like how the Chinese slang for "fucking awesome" literally means "cow cunt" (no seriously, young people actually say this - often), you should watch this Danwei interview set in the park.

Fisting in Chinese, etc. from Danwei on Vimeo.

Me, I'm going to try to pretend I never heard that last bit and hope that someday I will once again be able to eat mantou without experiencing a very unpleasant association.

THE LEGEND OF DOUBLE CAT

I'm sorry but I just ain't got time for blogging this week. Instead I offer this wonderful tale from the brain of the inimitable John Osebold. The story arrived in my inbox in reply to a picture sent of a pair of cats watching me, guardian-like, through a latticed window in the bathroom of a cafe.

Little is known of the Legend of Double Cat. Some say China was once ruled by dual cat giants who lorded over what were then two provinces that made up the whole of Felina (now called China). Xiao Bin was a black cat that brought prosperous crop yields, general merriment, and peaceful weather. Jing Zhai was a calico cat that excelled in war, riches, and good ideas for inventions. Together, the Double Cat society ruled for centuries until Shiaji, the panda that ruled Ja Panda (now called Japan) came around and beat the crap out of Double Cat. Although Felina fell into ruin for many years, Shiaji's actions angered the Council of the Gods (made up of a giant lizard, giant mango, giant waterfall, giant headache, and regular-sized bunny). The Council deemed that Shiaji would have to clean up all of Felina, which Shiaji did for fear of the wrathful sentence of Eternal Circle (being forced to run in a tight circle until death). Eventually, Shiaji became a symbol of what then started to become China, with the name changed for obvious reasons. Although Xiao Bin and Jing Zhai were no more, the spirit of the Double Cat has been known to manifest itself in modern day Chinese society. Sight of the Double Cat is considered extremely good luck, and a sign of great intellect, wisdom, and hotness.

And now I must insist that you make your way here to obtain a free download of John's new December album (my favorite part of this last month of the solar year!). After you finish with that I permit you to satisfy your every aural fantasy with the 2008 and 2007 December albums.

See you next week, and until then, may the spirit of Double Cat be with you!

JUST ANOTHER DAY AND NIGHT IN BEIJING

I was in a rotten mood and Mr. Zhuo wasn’t helping things. It was Sunday afternoon and my friend Ms. Chen had picked me up at the subway station for some badminton and an early dinner. I met Ms. Chen about 3 days after I arrived in Beijing in September at a celebration for the twin boys of my favorite Chinese teacher’s younger brother. It seems to be generally agreed here that a token foreigner really spices up any occasion and it isn’t too difficult to find patron-friends who are willing to take you out or show you around. Some are good-natured, curious, and hospitable, others are more pragmatic, looking to improve their status or practice their English. Of course my motives are hardly pure: I like meeting folks, but I’m usually more interested in opportunities for observation than for friendship. Seems like a fair trade, and it’s not as if I’m faking the comradery – I do usually have a good time.

The first time Ms. Chen, a business lawyer originally from Inner Mongolia, invited me out we had a long, fun-packed day, playing badminton for a few hours with some friends of hers, eating hotpot for dinner, and finishing the evening with a viewing of an absurd and rather black Chinese comedy, 掘强萝卜 (“Tenacious Radish”). This time around it was just us two and Ms. Chen’s badminton instructor, Mr. Zhuo, and I wasn’t pleased. Instead of rallying merrily at a speed acceptable to anyone with a racquet in one hand and a cocktail in the other (which is how I believe badminton should always be played), I spent two hours standing to the side of the court practicing my stance and my serve, and destroying my once awesome backhand by learning How Things Should Be Done. I was trying to maintain the cheery, chipper countenance by which Qiao Wei, my Chinese alter ego, is known, but I’d had a bad week already and this was making me hate life even more. I wanted to punch Mr. Zhuo every time he barked “bu dui!” (wrong!) and fiddled with the position of my wrist. I thought I might start crying. What the fuck was I doing in this dingy indoor court on the Northern outskirts of the city, being berated by some asshole whose notion of pedagogy was impatient criticism and looking forward to dinner with a “friend” with whom I have little more in common than the Chinese language?

I scowled a lot but I made it through without exploding at anyone, beating the shit out of quite a few birdies along the way. After our court time was up we headed back to Ms. Chen’s car, a swanky BMW with plush sheepskin seat coverings, an I Dream Of Jeannie-worthy scent lamp, and an endless selection of emotional music from the grasslands of Inner Mongolia. Safe in the car I grew less and less interested in choking Mr. Zhuo and began talking to him of dinner. Had I eaten Zhejiang cuisine? [No] Did I like spicy food? [Yes] How was my jiuliang? (ability to drink, or "liquor amount" in direct translation). Hai keyi (it's ok), I replied. He was pleased. He may have cackled.

We picked up another Ms. Chen, a former Badminton partner, and then circled around to meet Mr. San, a friend of the coach. Settling into the front passenger seat as Mr. Zhuo, Ms. Chen the 2^nd, and I all squeezed into the back, Mr. San glanced back and noticed me: you ge laowai (Oh, there’s a foreigner). Yes, it’s my dear friend Qiao Wei, said Ms. Chen the 1^st.

There were further introductions all around once we were seated in one of the VIP rooms of a multi-story Sichuan restaurant whose revolving front door made the most non-committal promise of food quality I’ve ever seen:

In the restaurant, Mr. San was greeted familiarly by everyone from the doorperson to the elevator lady to the hostess, who visited our room several times and even drank a round of toasts with us. Our erstwhile host, it emerged, was an architect originally from the Northern city of Harbin. He mentioned a few shopping centers and apartment complexes he’d designed and let it drop that the cigarettes he was smoking are $150 a carton. The ladies Chen are also from the North, and so an atmosphere of hometown conviviality was established. Mr. Zhuo was acquainted with Mr. San on account of also being his badminton coach. The rather corpulent Mr. San insisted that playing Badminton was not an effective way to lose weight and Ms. Chen the 1^st made the boldly rational observation that going out eating and drinking after every lesson probably didn't help.

I’ve gotten awfully sick of trying to explain my research while skirting around its politically sensitive aspects and so was glad that Mr. San didn’t seem to care. His heavy, Jaba the Hut-like eyelids only flickered with interest in my affiliation with the top university in China and my sweater. He agreed with our hostess that I appeared to be Russian, because American women weren’t as pale and beautiful as I. Patriotism did not prevent me from taking that as a compliment, though I did protest on behalf of my countrywomen.

I had been forced into taking the high-backed chair facing the door, the seat of the guest of honor, a role I’m not particularly fond of as I’m never sure what to do. On the plus side, it gave me ample opportunity to appreciate the garishly decorated VIP room, covered in so much brocade and sparkle it made the Queen Mary look plain in comparison. We had our own bathroom and attached prep kitchen, into which the food arrived by means of some kind of high-tech dumbwaiter. It was good stuff: steamed fish, spicy shrimp hot pot, some kind of tender beef, and an assortment of cold dishes. But my party seemed less interested in the food than the drink. Cold bottles of Harbin beer materialized in our kitchen and our personal waitress refilled our goblets mere moments after we set down an empty glass. The ladies Chen weren’t big drinkers, but participated in all of the countless toasts (to the coach, to the hostess, to Mr. San, to the North, even to my choice of cell phone), taking small lady-like sips and marveling at my jiuliang. It could have been a vicious cycle were we not drinking weak-ass lager: I would empty my cup, be congratulated and pronounced lihai (fierce or impressive), and be toasted again. Mr. San was delighted and Ms. Chen the 1^st kept asking me in disbelief “but aren’t you yun (confused or dizzy)?” Nope. Keep ‘em coming.

The party was growing livelier, the health and spirit of the Northern Chinese (excepting native Beijingers, who were widely disparaged) spoken of ever more gloriously, and soon it became inevitable that the evening must continue. I didn’t have any other plans for the evening, did I? I did not. Mr. San’s personal driver met us at the entrance of the restaurant and we rode in a van out to Haidian. I was a prisoner of the tunnel of fun and was starting to feel just a little yun and wonder vaguely what I was getting myself into.

Entering the highway, the van was pulled over and a random breathalyzer was administered to the driver, who passed with flying colors. We hurtled out to the NW corner of the city, finally pulling into a parking lot not far from the west gate of my university and stopping at a brightly lit compound with neon letters on the eaves spelling out “Western Drink Town”. The name of the place was SCALA, a modest choice to be sure.

Mr. San was greeted familiarly once again at the door and at the table and I was appraised by his acquaintances as an agreeable addition to the party. I seemed to be the only round-eyes in the establishment, supposedly the biggest bar in Beijing. The place probably seated 2 or 3 hundred and had rustic, old-West style tables and chairs (and the odd wagon wheel) facing a large golden stage with the word SCALA and the characters 东方斯卡拉 (Si-ka-la of the East) as backdrop. Mr. San ordered a round of English beer and some snacks, and I overheard the bill: just under $100 US.

More toasts and nibbling commenced. The 1^st Ms. Chen speared wedges of watermelon from our elaborate fruit plate and handed one to everyone in our party. I was uncomfortable with the seeming obsequiousness but assumed it expressed the proper deference to our generous host. When I was given a second wedge I joked with Ms. Chen that she was 给我面子 (literally, "giving me face”). She thought this was utterly hilarious and repeated it for the benefit of the table. I should really start renting myself out for such events.

I have forgotten to mention the light sticks: a terrible oversight. Mr. San was offered a selection when he ordered our drinks and chose three, all in different colors, for us ladies. I struggled to translate Star Wars in order that we might have mini light saber battles before the show began and was finally successful.

Delighted with my blue light stick I wondered briefly how long it had been since I’d had one, then recalled finding one in my freezer last spring and having a vague memory of wearing it home from the Vid.

The show began and I waved my light stick enthusiastically and beat it on the table rapturously. I don’t remember my introductory sociology textbook ever explaining that mob mentality could be such F-U-N. The acts were numerous and spectacular (emphasis on the “spectacle”). I marveled, applauded, and tried to surreptitiously take notes on my phone. A sampling:

• è 6 gorgeous women in beaded, flesh-colored panties and brassieres and Vegas showgirl headdresses and feathers strutted across the stage and danced with men wearing hot pink matador suits.
• èA man wearing a tight rhinestone encrusted Ed Hardy shirt (who later visited our table and greeted Mr. San) belted out Chinese pop songs, pounding beers in between.
• è A Michael Jackson impersonator. But you knew that already.
• è A group of acrobats performed a variety of impressive balancing tricks involving a bicycle, a ladder, headstands, flips, and lots of stacked bodies. For the finale, the smallest member, who looked to be about 12, was used as a jump rope.
• è The ladies returned wearing cheetah bodysuits (I’ll let you guess where the beast’s head was positioned) with hot pink feathered tails. A woman dressed like Cruella Deville and bearing a whip arrived to “tame” the kitties and, then, bafflingly, morphed into Madonna.

For the closer, a clown-type sang a medley including the Lionel Richie song “Say you, Say me”, and guzzled beer, spewing a fair amount of it on the sharply-dressed host. The crowd went crazy.

It was late when we exited and I tried to convince Mr. San to allow me to take a cab home since I live in the center of the city and it would be out of the way. He refused and directed his driver to deliver me to my door. I acquiesced, enjoying the nighttime sights of the city and the roads nearly empty of traffic. I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow, waking a few hours later to smile at the strange blue glow of the light stick next to me and roll over. Kind of like having a one-night stand with Tron I imagine.

CougDom CAT OF THE YEAR: XIAO BAO

The competition never had a chance.

He's like the Mother Teresa of the cat world. Except Mother Teresa never scratched my face when I dared remove her from my lap (although, to be fair, she never had the opportunity).

Photos by the lovely and talented 吴洁