quelquefois

I try to befriend those who work to keep my life clean and safe, including ??? (servers), ?? (security guards), and cleaning ladies. They have interesting stories and share nuanced viewpoints you cannot get from Chinese students or books. I am unsure how many Americans living in China know how underpaid and overworked they are, but I try to make it so that their job is more bearable. The last thing they need is another douche expat to deal with.

We live in a pretty upscale building, and I have made it my goal to befriend the security guard, named ??? (Yang Yuanyi), who works from 3 p.m. until 11 p.m. every day of the week. He stands all afternoon and evening, because he is not allowed to sit. A draft usually pours through the double doors as residents flow in and out, drenching the first floor with a bone-chilling cold. He wears an oversized guard coat and guard hat, that, despite his young age and the obvious ill-fitting, still manage to look incredibly flattering on him. While his co-workers wear sneakers, he even has sleek black shoes to match his outfit.

One evening, Julia and I baked brownies and brought them down with glasses of milk to share with him. He responded that he could not eat, so he just drank the milk. Our conversations always fall dead after a few minutes, not from running out of things to say to each other, just because it gets so awkward that it becomes too uncomfortable to continue. We left two pieces of brownies with him, though we never knew if he liked them. He never said anything.

* * *

Most of the time I speak to him, he is so shy he cannot even look me in the eye. One day we were talking, and he asked if I’ve ever been to ???–Forbidden City. I replied no, and Julia and I proposed we all go together sometime. I gave him my phone number and we started to text each other. I told him we wanted to play with him. From what I got in his text, he seemed happy, excited, even.

The next morning I received a call asking if we’d like to go to a market. I hadn’t woken up by then, and neither had Julia. We declined.

The guards who went to the market got in trouble. They weren’t supposed to freely walk around, even though they weren’t working at the time. I deeply regretted turning him down that morning.

* * *

He’s a different person in his texts, on the phone. His voice is more animated and he speaks with confidence. His texts are more truthful than anything he ever says to me face-to-face.

Yang: ???? (Potatoes and cabbage)
Me: ?????????(Is that your favorite dish?)
Yang: ??????????????????????????(No, they are two of my most hated vegetables, because I only eat these two things every day)
Me: ??????????? (One day we’ll eat different dishes together)
Yang: ????????????? (Okay! I hope I can wait until that day)

Julia, Yang, and myself after setting off sparklers for the Lunar New Year (25 January 2009)

About to set off more fireworks (30 January 2009)

* * *

Our friendship has, relatively speaking, grown leaps and bounds since the last week of January. Yang (and a few of his co-workers) has been up to our apartment a few times, and stayed for a while to watch TV or log on to QQ (a chat program similar to MSN or gchat)–a luxury they haven’t been able to enjoy. They’ve eaten curry, rice, northeastern Chinese sausages, and dumplings at our place. We even try to hang out after they get off work at 11 p.m. by making plans to go to the local noodle stand and eat a steaming bowl of ??? ?dao xiao mian, knife-shaved noodles).

* * *

He’s clearly unhappy, and it’s readily apparent in his expressions and texts. He can’t do anything; he’s sheltered in a small living community when there’s the whole world to discover. He’s leaving on the 15th to go to home before he finds another job in the south.

I wish him the best. I hope he finds happiness.

On Tuesday, I had this conversation:
Woman at camera shop: Are you from (whispers) Xinjiang?
Me: No, I’m Chinese-American. You thought I was a Uyghur?
Man at camera shop: Uyghur women are very beautiful, you are very beautiful, that is why we asked you. 
Me: Ummm.

I don’t know what goes on in Chinese people’s minds when they get all wound up in determining someone’s ethnic background.  

Today I wanted to make sandwiches for dinner, and since it’s not convenient to purchased sliced meat nearby, I went to a few places that sell ??? (rou jia mo, meat sandwiched between steamed bread) to buy some meat. I asked them if they sold their meat separately.

Me: Do you sell your meat separately?
Supermarket woman: This meat is expensive and hard to cook.
Me: Okay, can I buy some? How much would 10RMB buy?
SW: 3 pieces
Me: 3 pieces? You put more than that in one ???, and those only cost 3 RMB.
SW: This meat is tasty! It is hard to cook! I spent a lot of time making it!
Me: Fuck you. (walks away)

I try another place that sells the meat outside the supermarket.

Me: Do you sell your meat separately?
Meat man: No, this meat is expensive.
Me: Why can’t you just cut some off like you were making a ??? and just give me the meat equivalent and I will pay for it like it was a regular ????
MM: Why do you just want the meat?
Me: I want to make a sandwich:
MM: Then you can bring your bread slices here and I will cut the meat for you.
Me: Why can’t you just give me the meat?
MM: I just can’t do that.
Meat Man’s Friend: Are you Korean?
Me: No, I’m not fucking Korean! (walks away) Fuck you!

If anything, wouldn’t benefit more financially by just selling some of your meat and keeping all the extras that come with it? Also, I approached them towards the end of the day–are you going to keep the meat and use it tomorrow (knowing China, though, probably)? I don’t understand the lack of entrepreneurial spirit and inability to think outside the box. Chinese people have so many of these rigid rules and criteria that often make no sense or contradict each other. For example, I cannot bring a backpack into the supermarket, but I can bring a huge tote bag. Are these rules made up because there are too many Chinese people, and thus, too much hassle, to make exceptions?

I just wanted some meat for my sandwich…

Me: How’s work?
Isaac: Lots of baijiu
Me: Mmm, delicious. Do you like that stuff?
Isaac: Would rather drink pee

This past weekend I went to Dandong with the language program I’m currently at. Some highlights included:

Bonfire on the beach at Dalu Island at night, with innumerable bottles of beer, pseudo-s’mores, and (literally) long walks on the beach (to get to the water, as it recedes at night).

Exploring Dalu Island, meeting fisherman on the beach and farmers on the mountain.

Beach at Dalu Island.

Seeing yet another Mao statue, this one at the Dandong train station.

Seeing the half-lit bridge that connects China and North Korea.

North Korea at night

On a boat on Yalu River to get a close-up of North Korea(‘s border).

There were three things that I will remember about Dandong. First, that besides the riverside, the city looks like (get this) every other Chinese city in the country.

Second, there’s this phenomenon that I experience here in China, where many many citizens always ask me, “Are you Korean?” Coming to Dandong, a city that borders North Korea and has a lot of Korean immigrants, I was surprised when people came up to me and asked, “Are you from North Korea or South Korea?” AnnyonghaseNO? I am surprised by the inability of Chinese people (surrounded by Koreans) to recognize Koreans and non-Koreans. Or at least, instead of asking whether I am A or B race (if you were so curious), you could ask what nationality I am. Though they never believe me when I tell them I’m American.

Lastly, and most strongly, I was struck by–and I’m sure any tourist that comes to Dandong–the stark difference of standards of living between the two sides of the Yalu River. You saw what North Korea looks like at night–almost completely black. I didn’t post a photo of China, but the half-lit bridge pretty accurately describes the state of development each state is in. Flashing neon lights floor the Chinese side of the river, signs of a bustling economy are prominent on the riverside, and people are dressed in whatever which fashion they wish. High-rise buildings are featured prominently, and cars bustle all over the streets. As mentioned before, it is just like any other Chinese city.

North Korea, on the other hand, was characterized by a sparsely populated, propagandized landscape. Signs proclaming, “Long Live Kim Jong-Il in the 21st Century!” were plastered on buildings. The clothing people wore matched, and were various shades of navy, olive, and brown. Guards watched over everything construction workers and fishers did on the border, some of them shooting dirty glances when I caught their faces with my camera. Children threw rocks towards our boat (perhaps in spite?) and yelled at us. Some people say that North Korea was China 25 years ago. I wonder how true that may be, and whether any hope lies for the North Koreans.

Last Wednesday, a friend (named Jon) and I decided to take action against our aching backs and decided to get a massage. We had two choices: go to a hospital or to a massage parlour. One of our Chinese friends told us that there was only one masseuse at the hospital, so we opted for the parlour.

Once we entered the door we were a little sketched out. Men started trying to explain to us the different types of treatment. We finally decided on the 100 kuai (about $15 USD) 2-hour treatment. We went to our respective rooms to change.

The second I entered the ladies changing room, there was a half naked woman eating porridge and watching me. I have no idea why she was just sitting there half naked eating. Another lady asked if I wanted to shower before my massage. It seemed that if I chose to shower, I would have to do it while they watched me. I chose not to, and despite trying to find a corner to change, they watched me. Why? I have no clue.

I walked out and started to wait for Jon but the masseuses quickly rushed me into one of the massage rooms. There were about six beds separated by a half wall. In the room I was in, there were a few heavyset men smoking cigarettes and talking loudly. I was not very comfortable. The masseuse started to talk to me.

My masseuse asked me, “Are you Korean?”
“No, I am not.” I answered.
“Are you sure?”
“Look lady, I know what I am and I am not Korean.”
“Oh…well you look like a Korean. What are you then?”
“I’m American.”
“American? You don’t look American.”*

Once Jon came we started our massages. Highlights include her sticking her fingers into my ears, her putting her fingers close to my crotch, her climbing onto the massage table with me and massaging me wit her legs, her sitting on my ass and “massaging” my back (more like rocking back and forth on my ass), and ending with her lying on top of my back. I asked her if mostly men came in, and she replied, “Yes.” And as these incredibly unprofessional massaging techniques occurred, I realised that they were for the benefit of the male clients.

After the massage, I quickly changed back into my clothes. As I waited for Jon, I noticed that there was a board with 70 female masseuses’ head shots that men could choose from (there was only one male masseuse, and he only worked with feet). Jon later reported that the male changing room was more like a spa. There was a jacuzzi, Chinese chess, *two* floors, and many showers. My changing room was the size of a dorm room with a tiny shower.

Well, we learned our lesson. Our backs still ached, we were 100 kuai poorer, but we now know never to return to that place again.

*To the Chinese, being an American means you’re white, with deep-set eyes and a pointy nose.