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

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

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

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