Panders: Living the Dream

Despite all the cool animals, zoos have a tendency to make me a little sad. I love almost all critters (with the notable exception of snakes), and seeing them in cages is a bit of a heartbreaking experience. The time I spent at the Oregon Zoo as a kid (and more recently as a pseudo-adult) was always great, but seeing animals in captivity makes me want to do little more than set them free. And while Portland may have a severe shortage of giraffes, I just don’t think the hipsters there are ready for Savannah animals to be roaming their streets yet. Outside of the obvious logistical problems of street-giraffes, they don’t wear nearly enough plaid. Though their legs might just be skinny enough for a pair of Levis 510s… Hmm.

Anyway, I was fully expecting my Chinese zoo experience to be one of my worst. In my mind, I began to picture terrible bouts of animal cruelty, small cages, and an entire population that was acting like that one kid at the zoo who thinks it’s funny to knock on the glass at the monkeys. Sure, I had heard whimsical tales of White Lions and Ligers and Sunbears, oh my! But let’s be honest: China’s population has a tendency to live in what I’ve come to refer to as the “socially acceptable grey-area.” Things are perfectly okay here—if not encouraged—that would just not be considered normal in America: babies defecating in the street, people spitting on restaurant floors, and women wearing cartoon-print pajamas at all times of the day, to name a few. These may not directly relate to any negative zoo experience—though I have witnessed all of these things during my time here—but my point is that China’s standard for what is acceptable, especially in terms of how animals are treated, is very different than in the US—and not always for the better.

…

But then again, sometimes the unexpected happens: and if Charlie Sheen can be successful, then so too can China. Not only do they make the best damn xiaolongbao in the world, but they also know how to make a good zoo—at least in Shanghai.

Firstly, what zoo would be complete without a racetrack? Sure, one could be content with racing horses or dogs, but China likes to shoot for the moon; they don’t settle for mediocrity here. Between the camels, horses, dogs, ostriches, and cheetahs, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I can’t help but think that if Momma and Papa Wolf had dealt in Cheetahs, and not Arabian Horses, that they’d still have a showing at Portland Meadows. What a shame—my childhood, spent standing up on the railings trying to catch a glimpse of horses racing, could have been so different. Why Momma Wolf would settle for housecats, and not cheetahs, I doubt I’ll ever fully understand. I guess the majestic Orange Tabby is the next best thing to anything you might see on an African safari.

But back to the zoo, and away from yet another tangent making fun of my mother’s cats. Next up on my list of why Chinese zoos are better than American zoos: the petting zoo. As any small child, or person with the maturity of a small child, will tell you, this is a necessary stop for any day spent zooing. However, after enough experiences, you begin to feel a sense of numbness towards Dexter cows; once you’ve hand-fed enough, they all start to feel the same. By the tender age of 19, I had all but lost that sense of adventure that petting zoos once provoked…

But China has reinvigorated me. Let me introduce: the kangaroo petting zoo. It’s a slightly sketchy operation, as there’s no gate and the "entrance fee" is paid to two men who are standing nearby a sign, but there’s a large grassy area with about 20 kangaroos being chased by Chinese children and their mothers. There’s no hand-washing station—this is China, people—but there’s a small spicket coming from the ground where you can rinse yourself off with some of Shanghai’s unpotable tap water. The kangaroos are (relatively) tame, and for $3 USD anything goes.

…And once you go kangaroo, you never go backaroo. Sorry, Dexter.

But kangaroos and racetracks aside, there is one aspect of the Chinese zoo that simply cannot be ignored: panders (“pandas”, for those of you who are less cultured in Chinese accents). China has a habit of milking its cash cows for all they’re worth, and panders are no exception. These charming, lazy critters have become a national treasure, and China has made sure that they are not going anywhere anytime soon. There’s the argument that we shouldn’t focus so much time and resources trying to carry on a breed of animal that would clearly otherwise be extinct, but they’re just so damned cute. How could you not do everything possible to keep these little bundles of joy alive? Sure, they have no desire to procreate, and sure, they can often not differentiate between sexes of their own kind in captivity, and sure, their bodies cannot properly digest the only type of bamboo—of almost 30 varieties—that they choose to eat, but… Whatever. Shut up, they’re awesome. So awesome.

As I mentioned earlier though, zoos generally make me sad. These guys, however, completely broke the zoo animal stereotype; they loved their life—everything about it. I have honestly never seen an animal that was so genuinely happy. It’s as if bamboo was the most amazing thing that they had ever tasted or imagined, and every meal of it was the first and last time that they would ever get a chance to experience it. I truly cannot understand how someone could not love a Pander. If you ever have the opportunity to see one, please do; quite frankly I think we could all learn a thing or two from them. Instead of taking after their pickiness over food and utter laziness though, focus on how happily they live their life: even in captivity, they’re still living the dream. God bless you, panders.

On a mostly unrelated subject…

Type in “can pandas” into Google, and the top 10 suggestions to finish this search are as follows: swim, be pets, eat people, be dangerous, be domesticated, kill, purr, run, eat meat, and run backwards. Just for the record, the “purr” search is inconclusive—though apparently raccoons can.

Also: the red panda (only the “lesser” panda in name, not in my heart) thrived in the mountains of eastern Tennessee roughly 4.5 million year ago.

Thanks, Wikipedia. And the quest for knowledge continues…

Zai jian,

Jhw

Babies “R” Us

Not that it matters—as I’m not in a position of authority in America or China—but I very much question how many people actually follow the one-child policy here. Babies are everywhere. I’ve been told that there are four babies in China for every one in the US, but it doesn’t seem like this could possibly be true. Maybe it’s because I live in Boston—where basically a quarter of the population is in college—but I see far fewer babies in America than this ratio suggests. Not that I’m saying I wish I saw more babies in Boston, I’m merely trying to point out a personal observation: in order for this baby factoid to hold true, most of Boston’s student populace would have to be parents. Anyone who knows me will probably agree that I shouldn’t be having kids any time soon, and quite frankly neither should the rest of my demographic.

Does coat-check accept kids?

The idea of my friends trying to raise children right now terrifies me. I hear news of people I that knew back in the day procreating, and it frightens me that they are raising the next generation of Americans. I shan’t mention any specific names, but I think we all know a few people who fit the description of “they just had a kid? Oh f***…”

But I digress. My point is that Baby (as Asian babies all look the same, I shall refer to them as a single entity) is everywhere. Really. Everywhere I look, I see future-Mao wearing his ubiquitous puffy jacket and pseudo-pants. You can’t walk down the street without Baby holding you captive as he goes through his usual daily errands: Baby walking; Baby sleeping; Baby defecating in the street; Baby eating; Baby throwing cats; Baby laughing; Baby playing with raw meat; Baby drinking Coca-Cola; Baby falling down; Baby darting in front of traffic; Baby running with sharp objects. Everyday it’s the same. On occasion you want to tell Baby to stop, but you just can’t bring yourself to pull him aside and explain “no, Baby, orange kitty doesn’t like it when you sit on his face.”

I’d consider some of his usual activities normal, but surely some of these are only until he knows better. It’s tough, but you have to watch Baby make his own mistakes. Baby’s parents seem to be of the mindset that Baby should learn through experience; quite the contrary to many over-protective American parents, Baby’s seem to adhere to more of a hands-off approach. Baby is rolling around in trash? Good for him. Maybe he’ll find something better to play with than those rusty scissors he has now.

I’m sure Momma and Papa Wolf have had a tough time watching me struggle through many of my own life lessons. There was never any shortage of advice, but sadly it was all-too-often cast aside in attempts to do things my own way (teenagers say the darnedest things, right?). And now, as Baby begins to go through the same motions that I once did, I have to just sit back, watch, and restrain myself from intervention: Baby’s first steps; Baby’s first solid food; Baby’s first bike ride; Baby’s first time driving a clutch; Baby’s first trip to Montreal; Baby’s first tequila shot; Baby’s first time waking up behind a toilet.

Oh, Baby, the places you’ll go.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Free Bird

It was Magical—love at first sight. If such a thing were ever possible, this was it. I don’t know what caused it, but it was the kind of thing that would we’d be describing in stories to our children someday. I couldn’t look away. Everything was perfect—the setting, the mood, the ambiance. Truly, the stars had aligned. Was it the way her dark, forbidden eyes glistened in the fluorescent lighting? Or perhaps her words that flowed like a song over the intermingled backdrop of Chinese families and reggae beats? Could it have been the way her hair flowed as it danced with the windblown steam of hotpot and rice?

Perhaps I’ll never know what instilled this fervor in me, but the words that came from my mouth could not be stopped.

“Mamacita,” I whispered.

“Marisella,” she corrected.

“Mamacita,” I whispered, “will you share this pigeon with me?”H

I’ve made jokes about this before, but I’d never actually seen it on a menu—or tried it—until today. That’s right; I ate one.

Flying rat.

Street chicken.

Tuscaloosa firehawk.

…Pigeon.

I ate my first earlier this evening. Actually I shared three pigeons with three other people—which in all actuality means I only ate ¾ of a pigeon—but let’s just round to the nearest bird. I may have romanticized the scenario a bit, but it was a life-changing moment nonetheless. Having eaten this, I now consider myself part of the Chinese “in” crowd; which, by the same standard, also coincides with the Westernized “out” crowd.

I guess this means that I still don’t know who I can eat lunch with in the middle school cafeteria.

…Damn.

Anyway, I’ll give it 4 out of 5 stars. This, despite my relatively modest palette, should hold some clout, as I’ve been eating nothing but Chinese food for the last 3 months. It was slightly gamey, moderately boney, but with a hint of ginger which really set the tone for the tone rest of the meal—which happened to be more pigeon. Perfect. If you’re ever in the Zhongshan neighborhood, be sure to stop by and try some. It’s the little restaurant on the right (between 4 others that look exactly the same except for different colored signs), with the crowd of Chinese people sitting in lawn chairs outside. There should be a man nearby displaying his pirated reggae wares via his moped’s over-powered speaker system, and a floral awning in front of the restaurant. The subtle tones of energy-saving white lights, draped artistically from the awning with extension cords, will let you know you’re in the right place.

…Or just try making flying hand-gestures towards your mouth, while repeating “gezi” (guh-zi) in an exaggerated first tone. The locals will know what you came for.

Ask for Willy, and be sure to preorder any wings for your Superbowl party ahead of time, as they get pretty busy that time of year.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Green Means Go

Unless you’re a car, van, bus, moped, taxi, truck, or motorcycle, in which case so do red and yellow. Although really, red and yellow don’t necessarily mean “go”, so much as they are just signs that you shouldn’t bother slowing down or stopping. And why should you? You, my dear Chinese driver, are the only one on the road. Therefore, there is no reason that you should follow rules or laws; 5 PM in Shanghai has essentially the same amount of traffic that Wilsonville does at 2 AM on a Monday. And despite the light clearly having turned red 5 seconds ago, there are no other vehicles on the road that might be in the intersection that you are not slowing down for. You have the right of way—always. And who could deserve it more than you? Your taxi is a gift from god that is exempt from moral righteousness and traffic signals.

And pedestrians? They don’t have wheels; they don’t have an internal combustion engine; they don’t have souls. Peons. If they’re not bigger than you—and few are—what concern is it to you? So don’t worry about giving them the “right” to walk across the street; it’s more of a privilege anyway. If they’re in the way, they need to move regardless of what their petty crosswalk sign may be instructing them to do. Little green man, or little red man, you’re still perfectly entitled to turn right, left, or hell, even go straight on red. After all, you’re more important than everyone else—especially pedestrians.

So keep driving Shanghai, and enjoy every minute of it. Someday you may actually have traffic laws to worry about...

Zai jian,

Jhw

ATM Withdrawal Withdrawals

As many of you know, until this Tuesday I’d been without a debit card for two weeks. Yes, I’d become “that guy”; I was borrowing money from people with absolutely no way of paying them back. I had an expired credit card, no working debit card, and no way to access my savings. Regardless of my situation though, the Bank of Rachel invested a lot of capital into my pursuits. I should take this moment to not only thank her, but also the Bank of Reed, as well as Lauren Financial Services, as they were my three largest financers. I really am fortunate that I’m here with other American students, because if I’d been traveling alone I would’ve been in a pretty tough situation.

Lesson learned: always have back up.

On a less serious note though, despite all being finance or economics students, no one who lent me money questioned how or when I would be paying them back. I found that kind of funny in its own way.

Other lesson learned: the sympathy card works better than the one-arm-pushup guy.

[For those of you who are not Northeastern students, and therefore don’t frequent Cappy’s at 2AM: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mlnzd8TO4kE. Feel free to fast-forward 30 or 40 seconds.]

Now this whole fiasco wasn’t entirely my own fault, and had Bank of America sent my [first] replacement card to China like I’d asked—and not Oregon—I would’ve only been without money for three to five days. I still question how they confused “Zhongshan Bei Yi Lu” with “35^th Drive”, but I have to give them credit for trying to make it up to me by rush-delivering my [second] replacement card to China. It would’ve been helpful, however, if they hadn’t taken it upon themselves to change my pin number without telling me. Cool, Bank of America, thanks for that one. They also have a strict policy of not giving out pin numbers over the phone, so sending it to me with my [second] replacement card would’ve been a nice touch. After a significant amount of begging, however, I was transferred to a department which reset my new pin number to my original one. Need I remind you of the powers of the sympathy card? It’s almost as if 20 one-arm-pushup guys were in that call center hustling them for me. How wonderful.

Anyway, I like to think that I’ve learned a few things in my life, one of which is to always look on the bright side. Sometimes things may not work out how you would’ve hoped, but you can’t let that bring you down. If there’s one thing that Grandma Wolf has taught me, it’s that when life throws you lemons, you take those lemons and make them into a delicious glaze to put on poppy seed bread. She also taught me how to make cheesecake, and that I’m remotely related to a pirate—the cool kind, not the Somali kind. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing she doesn’t know.

But I digress. This debit card fiasco caused me to have some interesting exchanges with people, which I might not have had otherwise. These are the kinds of things that make you grow as a person—or at least give you fodder to write about at a later date.

Firstly, I really hate having to ask people for money; it’s probably the biggest reason I’ve held nearly back-to-back jobs since I was 16. I thought that I could handle it for a week, but when Momma Wolf informed me of Bank of America’s street name—and country—mix-up, I accepted that I was in it for the long haul. I became strangely okay with knocking on people’s doors and requesting money, or asking “who wants to pay for Jason?” when dining out for meals. I think the only motivating factor for people was that they knew I was keeping track of my debts on a yellow post-it note—obviously a highly accurate and sophisticated method—and that I was probably going to pay them back later. I consider myself to have a high level of integrity though, and I can honestly say that I repaid everyone I owed money to. So that’s nice, makes me a good person, yada yada yada…

Anyway, the next interactions are only related because they happened while I was still on a high from my first ATM withdrawal in two weeks; it’s bizarre how much of a rush I got when the ATM didn’t immediately decline my card. Actually, it felt so good that I made the maximum withdrawal four times in a row just because of the feeling it gave me. Does that mean I have a problem…? Maybe. Pseudo-psychological issues aside, as I walked home from the bank with more Yuan than would fit in my wallet, I had a strong craving for xiaolongbao (dumplings). There’s a restaurant on the way home that serves them (“Red Place”), so I stopped in for a bite. Because it was an awkward dining hour, the restaurant was deserted and I got to enjoy my dumplings free of the usual crowds, cigarette smoke, and old men taking noodles to the face. You pay for your food at the same time you order it, so when I finished my dumplings I was about to leave—when the waitress brought over another plate of food. I was intrigued. I hadn’t ordered it, nor had I paid for it, so maybe this was karma’s way of apologizing for Bank of America’s tomfoolery? I had to investigate further.

The people at Red Place don’t speak any English, nor do they speak broken Chinese, so when I tried to tell the waitress that I hadn’t ordered the food, she just smile-and-nodded at me. I get that a lot here. She then brought me a bowl of soup, and yet another plate of food. Of course my first thought was that she had brought me someone else’s meal by mistake, but the restaurant was literally empty. I then ran through a list of other possible scenarios in my mind, but finally decided that she was just really happy that my bank issues were settled too. I finally had money, so it was the perfect time to give me a free meal. It’s so simple.

Thanks, China, I love you too.

In my defense though, I tried again to tell her that I hadn’t ordered the food, but got the same response; I then ate as much as I could, and actually had the audacity to ask for the rest of my free meal “to go”. 

My name is Jason, and I have no shame.

I’ll reiterate the fact that the people at Red Place don’t speak English or broken Chinese, so when I tried to make hand motions of me leaving with cabbage and chow mien, I got the same enthusiastic smile-and-nod response. I’m a little embarrassed to say that I actually thought she understood me; after 10 or so minutes of being ignored, I decided that I was better off just going home.

While I was walking back though, I remembered that I had promised myself that I would get a haircut as soon as I had money again. Let me take this opportunity to make it clear that I didn’t ever enjoy borrowing money from [13] people, and I did so only for necessary expenditures—like St. Patrick’s Day pub crawls. Haircuts, however, did not fit into the “necessary” category, so my curly locks had begun to fall into their natural, unruly state. Some of the other guys in my program had already gotten haircuts, and though they told wild stories of shampooing and head massages, one thing they all mentioned was that English was never spoken. I didn’t want to end up with some kind of reverse mullet—as is so popular here—so I came up with a plan: rather than smile-and-nodding at everything they asked me, I would have Figo [my Chinese roommate] write down instructions for the people who worked at the hair salon. Brilliant.

…Or so I thought. Figo was pretty confused by my request, and asked me no less than four times what he was writing and for whom. This obviously concerned me, because between me only knowing a few characters, and his terrible handwriting, I couldn’t read anything he wrote. Though I wasn’t sure what he actually put down, I figured at the very least that having something was better than having nothing. Then again, while I may love surprises, there’s always the possibility that Figo secretly thinks I’d look better with bangs or something. Whatever, the mystery note could be fun, right?

Right.

I walked into the hair salon, one of the employees made a scissoring motion to his hair, and I eagerly smile-and-nodded in response. (See? It goes both ways.) Anyway, I was in; at least they knew I wasn’t just another lost white person. The hairstylist fired off some questions, none of which I understood the first, second, or third time that I asked him to repeat them, and I finally just succumbed to the fact that I had to trust Figo’s taste in hair.

I’ll admit that I haven’t spent much time in hair salons—my roommate Nick has been cutting my hair in our living room for the past year and a half—but I’m fairly certain that the Chinese have a different take on the haircutting process than Americans do. There were four people in this haircutting establishment, all of whom touched my hair at some point. I don’t know if they had some kind of strange affinity for curly hair, or if all haircuts required this level of sheer inefficiency, but surely they could have managed the process with just one person. It took one to wash my hair, one to cut it, one person to wash it again, and one to blow-dry it. The last step was completely unnecessary anyway—though I did kind of enjoy the warm-breeze sensation—as the guy who washed my hair also dried it off with a towel. To finish it up, all four were involved in the payment process.

This is another exciting, though sometimes embarrassing facet of language barriers: paying for things when you have no idea how much they cost. It’s very similar to playing The Price is Right, but with the added bonus of incorporating purchasing power parity into your guesses. If you pay too little: game over. You get confused looks, and then yelled at by some very small Chinese woman for more money. If you pay too much: well, you still lose, and now Bob Barker is muttering about you under his breath while he struggles to find you an absurd amount of change. I’m getting better at this, but that’s still a relative concept because I was absolutely terrible when I first got here. Airing on the side of caution, I gave the haircutting collective 100 Yuan ($15 USD). They gave me blank stares for a second, sighed, and then all four of them began the process of finding me change.

It turned out to be a $3 USD haircut.

…Game over.

In the end though, I could’ve picked a worse country to have no money in. Bank of America may have left me high and dry for two weeks, but at least China gives me free meals and cheap haircuts. Most importantly, I’m here with other American students who are kind enough to buy me meals and loan me cash for basic necessities.

…

But that being said, you have no idea how good it feels to have money again. Can you imagine two weeks of your life without making any impulse buys? No gum? No busts of Mao? No pirated versions of the movie Shark-topus? It’s horrible. Having to constrain yourself in China is like going to Disneyland and spending the whole time sitting on a bench. But now, cross you fingers that this doesn’t happen again, those days are behind me at last. Next up: tailor-made footie pajamas.

I love this country.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Professor Wu

I really like Asian jokes. I don’t mean jokes about Asians, I mean jokes by Asians—my Finance teacher, to be specific. Please allow me to introduce: Professor Wu.

She’s a lovely gal, and makes sure to tell at least one mid-lecture joke per class. I’m not particularly sure why, as they don’t relate to the topics she discusses at all, but they do make for an excellent source of entertainment. They've also almost all had an underlying violent theme, which seems a little bizarre since she’s such a small and adorable Asian woman. It’s quite the juxtaposition. Anyway, it’s not just the jokes themselves though; it’s the person telling the jokes and the way she tells them that makes them so good. There’s something special about how bad she is at giving punchlines—laughing right before, during, and after them. I wish I could do them justice, but I will do my best via writing.

So yes, I’m considering making this a sort of pseudo sub-blog. I write her jokes down word-for-word as she tells them, so why should I be selfish and keep these little bits of joy all to myself?

Enjoy!

Today’s class lecture topic:

Foreign exchange reserves management in China.

Today’s completely unrelated mid-lecture joke:

One day, a professor gave his class some homework. He asked his class to give him their own opinions about other country’s food shortages.

The American student raised his hand and asked the professor, “What is another country?”

The European student raised his hand and asked the professor, “What is a shortage?”

The African student raised his hand and asked the professor, “What is food?”

The Chinese student raised his hand and asked the professor, “What is my own opinion?”

[Get it?]

I’ll admit today’s joke was a little lame and potentially slightly controversial, but don’t worry. She’s had some real gems in the past. Please enjoy this one from two weeks ago:

Class lecture topic:

RMB exchange rate and exchange rate policies in China

Completely unrelated mid-lecture joke:

A panda walked into a restaurant and ordered a huge meal. He ate lots of food until he was very full. When he was all finished, he pulled out a big gun and started shooting everyone. People outside were very concerned, so they called the police. When the police came to arrest the panda, he said “no, no! It’s fine.” He then pulled out a dictionary and flipped through until he found the definition of panda.

“Panda: eats shoots and leafs.”

I think everyone in the class was a little surprised by the violent mid-joke plot twist. Need I remind you that she’s a very small, adorable Asian woman? Anyway, please don’t think that I’m trying to associate my blog with violent Pandas. Any panda that tries to dine and dash—let alone shoot restaurant patrons—is not a panda I want to play with. But then again, I’m sure not all pandas are like that, and you shouldn't pass judgment on a species just because of a few bad seeds that grew up in a rough neighborhood…

Zai jian,

Jhw 

A Purrfect Situation

I guess I’ll start off by talking about “Cat Place”. It’s a little restaurant that we call such not because of the food it serves, but because of the loving, slightly-feral cat that calls it home. Don’t worry, America, cats are still one of the few things here classified under the “non-food” category. Instead, they serve the dual purpose of rodent-control, and providing me something to play with while I eat meals. Cats freely wandering an eating establishment may not give off the impression of cleanliness to the average Westerner, but try to see it from a perspective of trade-offs. Would you rather have mice in your food, or get to play with kitties while you eat?

…Kitties!

I don’t know all the laws in China, or even if there are any, but there’s a few “suggestions” that I've noticed. For one, there seems to be some kind of restaurant safety code, monitored with inspections similar to those that take place in the US. It’s based on a three tiered scale of exceeding, passing, and failing. However, the results are represented with graphics so that they are internationally understood: a green happy face, the Wal-Mart smiley face after a long day at work, and Charlie Sheen. Restaurants don’t need to put up their results, nor will they be shut down because of them, but I’ve seen them posted in certain upscale establishments. KFC, for example, proudly shows their pissed-off Wal-Mart smiley face, proclaiming to the world that they passed their inspection. Cat Place, however, doesn’t display their results. I can’t help but assume that their cat isn’t doing a good enough job. Perhaps they just need more cats; this has generally been my solution to problems in the past. Just ask Momma Wolf. She’s up to six now.

After all, they’re a purrfect solution to everything.

And isn’t that one thing the world needs more of? Cats? Big cats, small cats, fluffy cats, skinny cats, catty cats? Absolutely. Not everyone may agree with me, but China seems to understand of my logic because cats are everywhere. These majestic beings roam the backstreets, sing out beautiful melodies at night, and most importantly, faithfully serve restaurants such as Cat Place. They’re doing their catly duties so well, in fact, that Shanghai is seemingly devoid of rats—both those flying and non-flying. While Boston and New York are plagued by pigeon herds, I have yet to see any here besides those that are caged with chickens in the back alleyways. I can therefore partly explain away their downfall by their lack of “non-food” designation, but rats are another story: I’m relatively certain that they are not one of the indulgences in “three delicacies” dumplings, so what could it be?

That’s right, America, kitties.

I think we can all agree though, that America already has enough feral cats. So really, what we need are better feral cats. The problem here is obviously that American cats are getting too lazy. Obesity is an epidemic not only for our people, but apparently for our pets as well. If they were doing their jobs right, I wouldn’t get jumped by street-thug pigeons every time I tried to get into my apartment building in Boston. I can’t think of a solution outside of importing Chinese cats, but I’d love to hear your thoughts.

In the meantime, please spay or neuter your pets. Not only are they not doing their jobs well enough, but Momma Wolf will not accept anymore kittens. I’ve tried. She does have a certain fondness for Tabbies though…

Good luck.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Merry Christmas

To say the least, I’m facing a few challenges with the language here. I spend three hours a day in my Chinese class, but all it does is make me miss the alphabet. I daydream for hours about roman letters—about words with Latin roots. Though writing and I had our disagreements in the past, we’ve been on relatively good terms for a few years now. Ever since I learned how to read in third grade, it’s been pretty smooth sailing. But now? Learning characters? It’s like I’m playing Pictionary 24 hours a day. I’ve even started to dream about little stick-figure men wearing various hats and standing on top of compartmentalized boxes.

This one has a friend, this one likes flags. Can’t guess it? Oops, time’s up.

Anyway, Mandarin is rough, but I’m building a nice foundation. You wouldn’t believe how well I can introduce myself to strangers and ask for their surnames. Where would I be if I couldn’t tell them my nationality and (after politely letting them know how nice it is to meet them) ask where the cafeteria is? I can even invite them into said cafeteria and ask them to sit! Wonderful. 1.3 billion friends-I-haven’t-met-yet, and all of them love dumplings just as much as I do. We’re perfect for each other.

…But maybe not yet.

Food is where it gets slightly problematic. Sure, I can ask the waiter what time he went swimming yesterday, but I don’t know how to order what I want for lunch yet. You’d probably think that this is a huge problem, but once again you’d be underestimating the wonders of Chinese ingenuity. Like many other things, the US has this, but China just manages to do it better.

But where am I going with this, you ask? The rail system? Counterfeit products? Economic growth?

Nay. Picture menus.

China has the best usage of picture menus that I have ever seen. It’s fantastic. Not only are menus covered with pictures though, but so are the walls! Everywhere you look there are portraits of food; there’s artwork everywhere. It’s like the Louve, but instead of angelic murals above the furniture, there’s chow mien. Even better.

There’s no question about how much I’ll be paying, or what my meal will look like. All I need to do is find something that looks pretty, point, and then smile and nod at every question the waiter asks me afterwards. Language barrier schmanguage barrier, it’s like Christmas three times a day. I may or may not know exactly what I’m eating, but who cares as long as it looks good? And regardless, I love surprises. It may be mystery meat, but it helps if you try not to think about that.

…Just assume it's pork, and think happy thoughts.

“Ooo! What did Chairman Claus bring for me today?”

Zai jian,

Jhw

I’m breaking up with you, Milk.

I thought that I could trust you, but now I see you for your true colors. You’re not the same. Something changed the day I stepped foot in China. You changed, Milk; you changed. I went overseas and suddenly you were completely different. Maybe you want another chance, but I’m done. I’m finished. Your actions as of late just proved to me that you never loved me the same way that I loved you. This is the final straw. We’re over.

As I lay there Monday, struggling to cling to life, I thought about you. I thought about all those fond memories we had had, and all those that I thought we would have. Through the good and the bad, I had stuck with you and you with me. I had stood up for you when others attacked you, and even defied my own family to defend your name—my own blood, my own cousins. But after all those thoughts came and went, the question still remained: why, Milk, after all these years, had you suddenly chosen to do this to me? Why now? What happened? Was there someone else? I just didn’t understand.

Some claimed food poisoning, others tried to tell me it was lactose intolerance, but I know what it really was: a broken heart.

I still can’t believe that I’d had the audacity to think that being in China would bring us closer together... No, what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. And try as you might, I’m still alive. Still surviving. Still here to tell you that I’m done. I’m through with you, Milk.

I look back and all I see are warnings—cautionary signals that I was too young and foolish to care about. I remember when I was a teenager, and they tried to tell me that you were too hormonal to be healthy for me; they said that you were going to be a problem down the road. At the time, I told myself that it was just part of growing up. After all, I was hormonal too. Nobody “understood” either of us, but we still had each other. You and me, Milk, through thick and thin—through whole and skim.

How naïve.

I want you out of my life. Please don’t try to contact me, I won’t answer. I don’t think we can be friends. I already deleted you from my phone and untagged the pictures of us on Facebook. Oh, and all the CDs you left in my car? I threw them out. I still can’t believe that I used to bring you on road trips with me. But try to understand, I just don’t want the reminders. It’s still too soon to think about you without feeling sick.

I feel as if I’m rambling. All these raw emotions I have are just bursting from the seams. I can’t even hold a solid train of thought. You know me, Milk, and I’ve never been one with words. Remember all those poems we used to share with each other? Maybe a haiku can help you understand what I’m feeling:

Yummy China cow.

I’d drink you up, but you’re not

Refrigerated.

Zai jian,

Jhw

An Ode to...

Chopsticks. They’re more than just a song; they’re a way of life. And up until a few weeks ago, I thought that I was pretty handy with a pair.

I was sadly mistaken.

But not to worry, my dear followers, my skills are slowly developing. More and more, formerly elusive dumplings are becoming mine. All mine. And when the time comes that I truly master the art of forklessness, I will no longer have to share their delicious flavor with the Lazy Susan. My skills have already greatly improved, and Susan’s hunger grows with every meal…

Anyway, creepy personifications aside, chopsticks are little more than bamboo twigs coated in a food-grade layer of frustration. Actually, the bamboo ones aren’t so bad. The wooden apparatuses are much easier to use than their plastic counterparts, and harder yet are the metal versions that you'll find in nicer restaurants. Lucky for me though, I rarely dine in places that have meals for more than $2 USD.

…Or doors.

But who needs doors, windows, or heat when you have a steaming bowl of noodles an inch away from your face? Need I remind you that table manners are useless in a country without heaters?

…

Speaking of noodles, table manners, and a complete lack of indoor heating, I’ve recently discovered another joy of China: Baozi. I presume that you’ve never heard of it, so please allow me to explain. Picture a little scoop of heaven, enclosed in a fluffy white bun, and handed to you in a small plastic bag. This is Baozi. You can buy 2 of them for 1 Yuan ($.15 USD), and they are fantastic. They make a delicious breakfast.

…I think.

There’s a question that has been plaguing me, but I haven’t actually figured it out yet: what is breakfast in China? There’s seemingly no set meal or food group associated with it. In a sense, it’s like I’ve been eating at Denny’s for a month: “breakfast served all day!” I mean, I have no problem with it—growing up I always wanted waffles for dinner—but I just can’t fully comprehend it. It’s so foreign to me. How do Chinese children learn to spell, if not from playing with sugary letters floating in their (soy)milk? Impossible.

Anyway, the discovery of Baozi solved this breakfast-conundrum for me. They only serve it in the morning (at least at the 2-for-1 place), thereby making it a breakfast food by association. Best of all, as I mentioned earlier, they serve it to you in a plastic bag. Not only is this highly sanitary, but it also means that you can eat it on the go. And since I haven’t purchased a carrying case for my chopsticks yet, I’ve had to leave them at home. What a shame.

So what does this all mean, Jason?

Only one thing: that I have no choice but to eat my Baozi with the opposable chopsticks I was born with.

Step one: Baozi to the face.

Step two: chew.

Step three: repeat.

I can’t imagine a more perfect meal.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Americana

I’ve discovered the true American dream. I refer to America specifically because I doubt any other culture would appreciate this as much as we would. It’s been right in front of us this entire time, but it still hasn’t caught on. It’s so simple. It’s so beautiful. It’s so round. Think you’ve figured it out? No?

America, if I may, I’d like to introduce you to: 

The Lazy Susan.

Maybe I should leave you two alone for a bit to get to know each other a little better…

Kidding, you all know my attention span is far too short for that. Anyway, this wonderful gadget has been present in the US for years, and yet it gets less mainstream usage than the Segway. Truly, it’s a shame. The only explanation I can give as to why it isn’t in every restaurant is ignorance; maybe we Americans just don’t know how good things could be. Fortunately for you and me though, I’ve been given this great opportunity to go abroad and expand my horizons. This, my dear followers, is why it is so important to travel: to embrace foreign cultures.

(Cough)

But let me start from the top: Chinese restaurants are essentially the same as American restaurants, the main difference being that the menus are in Chinese. They also typically serve some kind of Chinese cuisine, and people will sometimes spit on the floor. Sorry if this seems remedial, but some of you are slower than others. Anyway, this is where it gets fascinating: smaller tables are fundamentally the same, but the larger, rounded tables have this heavenly device on them known as a Lazy Susan. Your group will order dishes, the waiter will place them on the Lazy Susan, and then this contraption will spin! How delightful.

Tired of your Kung Pao Chicken? Don’t feel like asking your friend to “please” pass you the Lo Mien? Give her a whirl! It’s the pinnacle of ease and the downfall of table manners. Perfect. And in this fast-paced, internet-fueled world we live in, who has the time table manners? Who has the time to wait for dishes to be physically passed around a table? We have places to go and people to see! The Google generation is the Lazy Susan generation.

Generation Y? Hardly. Generation LS.

Better yet, you don’t have to settle for overeating from your own dish, you can overeat from the plates of your entire table! Truly, a more American device does not exist. So why then is it so common in China and not the US? It’s beyond explanation. Maybe this is why the Chinese economy is set to overtake us within a generation. Maybe this is their secret. But I’m here to tell you America, if this is it, then we still have a chance. We just need to embrace who we are and go back to our roots:

A chicken in every pot, and a Lazy Susan under it.

Zai jian,

Jhw

Repackaged antifreeze

To haggle is to live, and to haggle well is to thrive. Some may call me cheap, others may call me frugal, but it all just boils down to the same thing: I really like to get my money’s worth—really like it. Be it Craigslist, or any other opportunity for haggling, I can’t get enough. It’s one of my vices. Of course, this leads to many different responses: my mother compliments me on how wisely I spend my money, but my roommates make fun of me because of how much fruit I buy at Haymarket. Granted, the amount of produce I buy can sometimes be staggering, but I just can’t pass up a great deal. After all, “a great deal, is a great deal, is a great deal!” Right?

Wrong.

Once upon a time, I believed that I could piece together words, repeat myself three times, and that it would be true. I’ve since learned my lesson. One must understand though, that as a child of self-employed real estate agents, I grew up in an environment that sometimes confused me and led to a slightly distorted vision of the world. For one, because of how many properties were in it, I used to think that “Escrow” was a town in Oregon. More importantly though, “location, location, location!” was preached to me as if it were some kind of biblical truth. And in my simple, fragile mind, I somehow made the connection between truths and alliterations. If “location, location, location!” was true, then surely all alliterations were true. It made perfect sense.

Try to keep following my logic; it’s not over yet, but it does make a “great leap forward”… (Get it? Chinese history reference, anyone? Bueller?)

Anyway, if all alliterations were fact, then I decided that I could make up some new facts as well—so long as they were alliterations. If I repeated a phrase three times, then that would be true too. Perfect! (It never occurred to me that these weren’t alliterations at all, and were actually just fragments that I had repeated three times.) Naïvely, I thought to myself, “a great deal, is a great deal, is a great deal!” However, one cannot tamper with a higher power, and—as I discovered recently—my firm belief that this was an alliteration did not actually make it so. “Would a rose by any other name smell just as sweet?" Yes. Is a phrase that you claim is an alliteration, but in reality isn’t at all, actually an alliteration? No. Because of that, “a great deal, is a great deal, is a great deal!” is not true. Because it is not alliteration. The logic is flawless. Just go with it.

Now that you understand my pseudo-beliefs, allow me to delve into what this blog entry is really about: repackaged antifreeze. I’m not talking about some kind of FDA recall, I’m referring to the horrible Chinese concoction known as rice wine. Or, as they prefer to call it, Bijou. It’s often pronounced “bye-joe”, and I can only assume that they did that on purpose. You’ll have to try to believe me when I tell you that I’ve never actually tasted antifreeze, due to the advice bestowed upon me by my father, but I’ve been told that it has a slightly sweet taste—hence the reason you should keep your pets away from any spills.

…

It also kills you.

Due to these striking product similarities—death and a slightly sweet taste—I’ve come to the conclusion that Bijou is probably some kind of distilled, repackaged antifreeze. It could not possibly be made from rice—rice is far too delicious.

But how does this relate to you being so cheap, Jason?

Excuse me, frugal.

Because, my dear followers, Bijou costs about $6 USD per gallon. Sadly, I was drawn in by my belief that “a great deal, is a great deal, is a great deal!” and purchased some—mind you, not a gallon. Despite the warnings by my former Shanghaier friend, Hana Nobel, I went ahead and decided to actually drink this horrible swill, and immediately regretted the consequences. Actually, I regretted the consequences the next morning. In any case, I've decided to disregard all the non-alliteration truths that I have come to believe. A phrase is not an alliteration, an alliteration, an alliteration. I still believe that true alliterations, however, are rock solid—they’re just too convenient not to be. (Need I remind you of “location, location, location!”?)

***Disclaimer: yes, I am 21 years old and therefore of legal drinking age. And yes, I am in China where there is no legal drinking age***

But back to the story…

I don’t typically overindulge, nor did I with Bijou. Nay, I actually had a very small amount of this poison. What I failed to understand though, is that there is a very large difference between alcohol and Bijou. You can drink alcohol and be perfectly fine the next morning. If you choose to drink Bijou, however, you will be anything but that. The two words, alcohol and Bijou, are not synonymous. Bijou is not alcohol; Bijou is a life lesson in a glass—or plastic, if you dare—bottle.

So, what life lesson did I learn?

(Drum roll please)

…

Don’t drink antifreeze.

Thanks for trying, Papa Wolf, but I guess sometimes I have to learn these things on my own. I promise to heed your advice in the future.

Zai jian,

Jhw

“Eat da broccoli—make you jump high-uh”

There are few things I love more than accents. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bigot, nor am I particularly ignorant, I just love the way that English sounds when it is spoken with strange inflections. Those who know me well will likely have some kind of memory of me speaking with a French accent; my love for them almost certainly had something to do with my desire to travel to Europe last summer. It doesn’t even have to be from a foreigner though—Southern accents fit my fancy too. Whenever my aunt says “ya’ll”, for example, I can’t help but giggle to myself. I love her dearly, of course, but that will never stop me from making fun of her drawl.

The same holds true for Chinese accents. Not making fun of them, just my love for them. I’ve never lived amongst a large population of Asian people before, so my exposure up until this point has been relatively minimal. I remember my 1 Symphony neighbor (Oh, how I’ll miss that mouse-infested apartment building…) telling me about his plans to teach English overseas. Or as he put it, he was going to “teach Engrish” to schoolchildren in Asia. What a noble cause.

Sadly, I haven’t actually heard anyone refer to it as “Engrish” yet. It’d make my day, but the Chinese whom I have the most contact with have an excellent grasp on the language. My roommate, “Figo”, is a wonderful example of this. His English is fantastic, and his grammar is almost better than mine. He also enjoys video games, magic tricks, and long walks on the beach (and he’s fresh on the market, ladies!). Kidding, he’s a great guy who has been a huge asset to me and has already helped teach me the language. Actually, only joking about the “long walks on the beach” part—the other two activities were the first things he told me about himself. He and I have already had several discussions about the differences between adolescents in China and the US…

Once again, I’ve strayed from my point. My point being, you ask?

That I’m learning the basics of Mandarin?

That my roommate and I are getting along nicely?

Nay. Those are both true, but it’s much simpler than that: while I may love being able to speak English with people in Shanghai (it makes my life easier), I love hearing them speak English even more.

…

And that just makes me a good listener, right?

Right.

Zai jian,

Jhw

The darkness of the Chinese pseudo-internet is behind me at last!

****I'm unable to upload pictures to this blog due to the VPN. Please check out my facebook album "China Spring 2011" though! I've uploaded all of the photos I wanted to include there.****



I do apologize to anyone who is trying to stay up-to-date on my whereabouts via this blog. However, as you are probably aware by now, China decided to block blogspot.com. But! I anticipated that this might be a problem, and--thanks to the wonders of Northeastern University’s VPN (Virtual Private Network, to those of you who are not particularly acronym-friendly)--I once again have access to Blogspot.com, Facebook, Youtube, and the rest of the “good” internet that you all take for granted in the US. It’s a painfully slow connection, but lest I forget my childhood of dial-up internet, I can’t complain. Let’s all just take a moment and be grateful that those days are behind us at last.
…
Thank you.

But I digress. Where in the world is Jason H Wolf? Why hasn’t he learned to speak Mandarin yet? When is he going to mail me my panda? Answers to these questions, and more, are coming. Simply read on my followers…

I arrived in China on the evening of the 2nd. This was, of course, Chinese New Year, and roughly 19 hours after I had left Oregon. I was tired. Very, very tired. After taking the metro from Pudong airport to the Shanghai city center, I did my best to find the hostel where I was staying. 2 hours later, I managed to stumble upon the Mingtown Youth Hiker Hostel (a lovely place with clean, albeit windowless, rooms for about $8 USD). I immediately fell asleep, though I woke up several times to the sound of chaos outside. It’s almost two weeks later, by the way, and people are still lighting off fireworks. It seems that there is very little that the Chinese love more than explosives.

(insert pictures)

The next day was uneventful. I went out to explore The Bund in the morning, took a nap around 2PM, and woke up 14 hours later craving cheese and clean air. Neither of which are available in Shanghai.

Again, I digress. After sleeping for the better part of two days, I was finally ready to set out and see China. I ventured out to the train station in search of a ticket to Huangshan. Communicating where I wanted to go was easy; finding a ticket for that day was the hard part. I finally managed to purchase a train ticket, but it wasn’t for a seat—I was supposed to stand for 13 hours. Obviously this was a less-than-ideal situation, but in my eagerness to get to Huangshan, I purchased the ticket anyway. However, after realizing the hell I was about to put myself through, I decided to seek out an alternative. Thanks to the help of an English-speaking woman who was behind me in line at the train station, I found out that I could purchase an overnight “hard seat” ticket that left later that day. I switched my ticket to the later train, and occupied myself by wandering around the city for a few hours. At 5:45PM, I boarded my first Chinese train!

…And 13 hours later, I was in Huangshan.

Never again will I subject myself to a “hard seat” for such a long period of time. It could have been worse—I could’ve been standing—but it couldn’t have been much worse. To those of you who do not understand the concept of a hard seat, let me explain. First, picture a train compartment enclosed by 3 sides (there is no door), with two adjacent bunk beds, each with three bunks. The top two bunks on each side are enjoyed by one person each (known as a “hard sleeper”), while the bottom beds are shared by eight people, four on each side, facing one another. Your legroom is communal, and also shared with the belongings of the seven other people around you, and the four people above you. If you are lucky, or smart, you have purchased the seat nearest the window, so that you have something to lie against and sleep. If you are like me, a dumb American, you will have purchased any ticket available to you and will be forced to sleep sitting upright. The mattress—if you would dare to call such a thing a mattress—is the only “padded” component of your seat. Your backrest is actually just the plastic divider between your train compartment and the poor souls in the hard sleeper compartment behind you. Though the bunks above you may not be occupied, you dare not take them because of some strange social taboo.

At 7AM I arrived at the train station and was greeted by a “friend” of Mr. Hu, the owner of the hostel I was staying at. I question how close they actually were, but the woman was holding a piece of cardboard with my name scratched onto it. I was a little concerned by this, but she pulled me aside (I was the only white person in the crowd) and forced me to follow her back to a minibus full of hikers. As we pulled away, she jumped off the moving bus. I was assured by other passengers, however, that I was going to the right place. After a terrifying ride (I’ve discovered that there is truth behind the stereotype that Asians are bad drivers) I was dropped off outside of “Mr. Hu’s Restaurant,” which also happens to be a hostel.

Mr. Hu is a strange man. Words can do very little describe him, but is overly friendly, speaks excellent English, and has an absurd amount of connections. In a sense, he runs a sort of underground, cash-only travel agency. He also makes cheap Chinese food, has an English menu, but charges an absurd amount for a “western breakfast” that he pushes upon you at all hours.
“No thanks, I think I’ll just have a Chinese alternative for about $2.”
…
“Really, Mr. Hu, I’m sure. But thank you.”
…
“No, really.”

I spent the first day traveling around some UNESCO villages in the area, stayed in Mr. Hu’s hostel that night, and made for Huangshan the next morning. I started at the very base, thinking that it was a cheaper alternative to paying the entrance fee where the gondola starts, about halfway up. I learned 6KM later that this was not the case, and was forced to pay a second entrance fee. I shouldn’t complain though, there was a beautiful waterfall and stream that followed the trail the majority of way up.

The trail. I should take a minute and explain this. It’s terrifying, really. The trail I took, from the very base of the mountain, was 13KM long. Granted, there is a road that leads halfway up the mountain (to the gondola, if you can afford it), but the last 6 KM of the hike are in areas seemingly inaccessible to anyone but monkeys and porters. And here’s where it gets strange: the entire path was a nicely paved staircase—practically a sidewalk. I don’t know how they actually built it, but I can’t see any way to do it besides physically carrying up individual bags of concrete. I wouldn’t put it past the Chinese government to do that, either. Regardless, the feat of building a staircase up an entire mountain astounds me.
…It also made for a much easier hike.

(insert pictures)

Easy, of course, is a very relative term. I was carrying my full pack with me, and by the time I reached the summit—6 hours later—I was exhausted. This is where Mr. Hu’s underground, cash-only travel agency came into play again. As I wanted to see the sunrise, I had asked him where the cheapest place to stay was on top. He had given me a price (far cheaper than anything my guidebook had suggested), and said that I could pay him cash and he would handle it. After all, he had a friend. His last “friend” may have jumped out of a moving bus after picking me up, but I decided that trusting his friend to make my reservation was better than no reservation at all. At the summit, I found out that the name of the hostel Mr. Hu had given me was actually a four-star hotel. The reception desk, of course, had no idea who I was. She asked which travel agency I had used, to which I responded confidently “Mr. Hu.” The confused look she gave me as she mouthed back “Mr. Hu…?” will never leave me. I only wish I had a picture to post on this blog.

Anyway, she laughed in my face when I told her the price I had paid, and handed me off to a doorman who led to me a derelict building. It was devoid of windows, doors, and was empty except for a few rusted-out beds with pads and filthy sheets. I cursed Mr. Hu, and began to accept my fate just as the doorman tried to charge me again. I argued that I had already paid (though I was beginning to suspect that Mr. Hu’s underground, cash-only travel agency might not be as legitimate as I had blinded hoped), but the doorman wouldn’t believe me. He did, however, make me call Mr. Hu. I put him and the doorman on the phone together, they argued in Mandarin for a minute, and then the doorman hung up.

If I’d had a seat, I would’ve been on the edge of it waiting to see what was going to happen next. As it was, I was on the edge of the bed anyway because I was too disgusted to sit on it fully.

The doorman threw me my phone, barked something at me, and walked out of the room. I could only assume that he meant for me to follow him, so I grabbed my bag off the molding carpet and did just that. He led me back up the steps of the Beihai Hotel, through the reception area, down a long hallway, up three flights of stairs, through a small conventional hall, and knocked on an unmarked door. A man came out, they talked, and the doorman left without saying anything to me. I started to follow, but he motioned for me to stay. The man led me into his room, asked for my passport, and began to go through the necessary paperwork for a foreigner to stay at the hotel. I couldn’t help but wonder where I was expected to sleep, but at this point I was so exhausted that I was prepared to stay on the floor of the empty convention hall. I’ve slept on floors before, so at least this carpet wasn’t covered in mildew, and there was no snow inside—two big differences between the first place and this one.

As he finished the paperwork, he led me out of the room—which was obviously also his living quarters—and into a hallway adjacent to the conventional hall. Splitting off from this hallway were four large rooms, each with 14 beds in them. The man told me to pick a spot, and left. All four of the rooms were deserted, and—besides a periodic dripping noise coming from a leak in the ceiling—there was complete silence. It was eerie, to say the least, but the beds were clean and I slept well.

In the morning I discovered that there was not a men’s bathroom. There was no one present to care about me using either of the women’s bathrooms, but it was just another weird quirk that I couldn’t help but ponder. Why was there a conventional hall in a four-star hotel with a strange man living in it, 52 empty beds in connecting rooms, and no men’s bathroom? I never asked. Maybe I should have.

The sunrise was beautiful. I followed some Chinese tourists to the poetically named “Now I Believe It Peak” and waited for about an hour in the cold. I was one of the first people there, but it was crowded by the time the sun rose. I shouldn’t have expected much else; when you build a gondola to the top of one of the most famous mountains in China, everyone and their dog is going to take advantage of that.

After wandering around the top of Huangshan for a bit, I ran out of food (thanks for the protein bars, ma!) and decided it was time to climb down rather than pay for a steeply overpriced meal. Everything that is used on the mountaintop is carried up by hand. The porters make two trips a day, and get paid about $5 USD per trip. It’s cheaper than using the gondola, apparently. I saw men carrying everything from propane tanks, to bed sheets, to eggs. What a life…

(insert pictures)

The climb down was uneventful. Several strangers asked for my picture, and a woman tried to charge me an exit fee, but I walked past and openly refused. She didn’t stop me. I got back to Mr. Hu’s hostel around 1, and enlisted the help of his pseudo travel agency again. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but he’s so overly friendly that you can’t help but trust him a little bit. Probably 60% of me was saying “this guy is really shady,” while the rest was saying “Well. At least he speaks English.” Regardless, I asked him to help me get a bus ticket, as I didn’t want to take another overnight train back to Shanghai. The bus only takes about six hours. Without even making a phone call, he told me the price, a time, and asked for the money. It matched the rate my guidebook listed, so I gave him the money, assuming he must have a “friend” in the bus company as well.

The next morning I got up, refused his offer of a western breakfast again, and he led me outside to the “bus stop.” I asked about my ticket, but he just told me not to worry about it. Several buses drove by, but he flagged one down specifically and spoke to the driver. I’m not sure what he told him, but the driver let me on board, allowing me to only sit in the back of the bus. I never did get a ticket, but six hours later we were in Shanghai. Mr. Hu’s ”travel agency” came through for me again…

I spent the night in the same hostel as I had for the first two nights, and made my way to SUFE (Shanghai University of Finance and Economics) the next day for orientation. And here I am! Almost a week later, I just finished my first day of class.

I think this is enough of a blog entry for one day, but I’ll be sure to post another soon that describes some of my shenanigans since the start of Orientation. We still don’t have internet in our rooms, so I’ve been forced to get online in the computer lab. It isn’t the most ideal place to spend hours writing blog entries…

Until next time, zai jian!

Happy trails,
JHW

Zai jian, America. Ni hao, Canada!

Airporting in Vancouver, B.C.

So, describing myself as tired would be a bit of an understatement. As I'm writing this, I'm simultaneously falling asleep in a big blue chair. Granted, these airport chairs are super comfortable, but they're not what's causing this. I really need to learn how to sleep on planes. This is not so pleasant.

Anyway, the flight here was pretty uneventful. Momma and Papa Wolf were kind enough to take me to the airport at 4AM this morning. After being hassled by airport security for the strange objects in my luggage (I don't think I can remember a time that they didn't search me or my bag) I patiently waited at my gate for a while. We took off a little after 6AM in one of those small double prop planes. It was supposed to be full, but I think just about everyone had an aisle to themselves. I had lots of legroom, got to see the sunrise, but couldn't fall asleep. Oh well.

There's a very large group of Asian (presumably Chinese) high school kids waiting at my gate with me. The tallest one is up to my shoulders. I can't help but feel like this is going to be an ongoing theme during my trip...
I'm pretty seriously considering asking for a group picture with them, but I'm not sure whether or not that falls into the "grey area" of social acceptability.
...
More to come.

3 days? 2 days?

Well. It's just about time.
I'm starting to get a little concerned about whether or not I will even be able to use this blog while abroad though (along with a number of other sites/email addresses...). The great firewall of China seems to be in control of just about everything.
Anyway, nothing too exciting to update. I finally have a place to stay in Shanghai. I tried to go the couchsurfing route again (my preferred method of travel for several reasons...), but alas it appears that that won't be working out. Everyone I contacted was leaving Shanghai for the holiday. It seems that people (who aren't staying with family) prefer to go to the warmer climates of SE Asia when they have a week off? Funny thing about that. I'm sure there's a lot of folks in Boston who wouldn't mind a week in Thailand right about now...
Anywho: I'll be hosteling in Shanghai for the 2nd and 3rd of February. After that, I have a notion to go to Huang Shan (google it) for a few days.
Good thing I have a new raincoat?
Can't wait to break her in.
Not sure where after that. I've got a 19 hour flight to figure it out though...

Also: learned how to say "China" and Mandarin today! Big step in the right direction.
"Zhong guo."
...Yup.
Throw in a "zai" here, and a "shu" there, and I'm sure no one will be the wiser.
I'll fit right in!

9 Days to go!

Ah yes, the first post of (probably) many to come. While I'm alive, I'll do my best to keep these up. If the posts stop, well then I suppose that's the time to be lightly concerned. I know ("the elusive") Momma Wolf will probably be checking in regularly, but there's a few other folks out there who might like to keep updated on my well being too. I even have one "follower" already! How cool.
Anywho, still in lovely Oregon. Just spending my days getting ready to go. Been reading up on China, waiting for my visa to show up in the mail, pretending to tie up my loose ends....
In the end though, what else do I really need to do to get ready to go?
Visa: check
Love for Chinese food: check
Address and directions to panda sanctuary: check
...
Yup. Good to go.