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.