How Eating French Fries Is Like Starring in a Peep Show

OR WHY DATING IN ASIA SUCKS

All I wanted was some fries with mayonnaise. Every so often, I get tired of Chinese food. We have hundreds of restaurants in Bai Yuanr, the part of campus with street stalls, knock-off 7-11's, and sit-down restaurants...but all they sell is one of four types of food: hot pot, noodles (soup usually, sometimes dry), street food (dumplings, steamed buns, or some sort of bread or sandwich knockoff) or dishes (anything remotely eatable, stir-fried). Don't want one of these four types? Too bad!

Dico's is a fifth type rarely found in rural China: non-Chinese food. Dico's is a Chinese knockoff of KFC. If given a choice, Chinese friends always choose KFC over Dico's. But we don't have a KFC.

This day was no different than any other eating experience at Dico's. I had my mulling session over whether to buy the "fried chicken sandwich" meal or the "Japanese fried chicken curry with rice" meal. Don't worry, they both come with a nice helping of fries and a medium-sized Coke. I order the curry, and completely confuse the waitress in the process. I don't know how to say "meal", so I have to wait until they ring up my "nine" (this number is what I say over and over until I'm sure that they know I want curry), and check the price. If it's terribly low, I start saying "Don't want! Don't want!" until she realizes I want the meal, not just the curry. Then I ask her to "add mayonnaise". (You can use "add" when you ask the waitress to fill your water bowl. "Add water.") First she cocks her head. See, Chinese folks understand ketchup. They put it on their fries. But mayo is a nightmare to order. Sometimes she brings me frozen yogurt. Eventually she points to the kitchen, and emphatically asks (this is what I imagine her Chinese means) "Do you really want more of that shit we put on the sandwiches? Really?" She is even more confused when I ask this of her without having ordered a sandwich in the first place. She eventually comes back with the bizarre white stuff contained in a small cup.

Now I can eat happily.

The entrance's wall of Dico's is made of glass and it's a sunny day in my polluted city, so I decide to sit at a table next to the window and people-watch. Little did I know that I was to be the one watched. The one to be put under glass, examined, prodded, poked, and gawked at like a zoo animal. By this rough-looking guy, who looked a bit like a bum, perhaps just unwashed from his job in the fields, who knows. He comes up to the glass. He presses himself against the glass immediately in front of me. He starts petting the glass. He is staring at me.

In America, I was stared at or not stared at. The former was awkward; the later, preferred. Since moving to Asia, I am always stared at. However, some stares are easier to take than others. I prefer the way Chinese people stare at me: in passing, eventually looking away of their own accord (though they stare longer than Americans), and if they see me staring back, they either look away or ask me what country I am from. Indian men's stares (you hardly see women or children in public spaces in India) are far worse: they don't stop when they catch you looking, if they try to talk to you, it's a sales pitch (the men not trying to sell you something kindly leave you alone), and they yell guilt-trips at you when you ignore them -- "This American is very mean!" or "Why don't you ever stop and talk to me?!" In Northern India's touristy areas, you may get this treatment from every shop stall you pass. And you will pass hundreds.

But this random Chinese dude took the cake. And then some. He stared at me. His body language screamed that he was only focused on me. He was standing way too close to me; even the glass didn't make me feel safe. And the look on his face was a mixture of desires -- wanting to worship and wanting to possess. In short, he looked at me as if he had an erection. And no one in the restaurant or out in the parking lot seemed to notice.

It was terrible. I didn't know what to do. No one has ever been so forward, so crass with me in my entire life. I was alone. I suddenly I realized I didn't know the Chinese words for "Stop!" or "Go away!". I started giving him a "what the fuck is your problem!" look, stopping mid-way upon realizing that it would probably make no sense to a non-American, and then just hid my face behind my palms, like the celebrities do when they see paparazzi. He went away. And came back. And came back a third time. And still, even though there were plenty of people inside and out, no one seemed to notice or take offense but me.

Outraged and scared, I gathered my things and bolted to the upstairs eating area. I was shaking and freaked out, and am still not sure how I could have handled the situation better. I haven't seen the guy since.

*   *   *

If you want to know what the dating life of Shansi fellow is like, this is it. A creepy guy visually assaulting me. Or one of our Chinese friends, while drunk, trying to make out with me while his girlfriend was sitting next to him. (I had to spend the whole night holding him off me. And later, when confronted about it, he didn't even remember it happening. He did, however, apologize profusely. Though perhaps it's his girlfriend who he should be apologizing so heartfeltly to.) Or having a Kashmiri stalker in India. Or being broken up with by an American. I miss dating. I miss flirting, having crushes, going on dates, having casual or serious boyfriends or girlfriends. But living abroad combined with my position as a teacher have taken away my ability, and the ability of most people in situations like me, to date. Pretty much no one's inter-continental long distance relationships last. And unless you're lucky enough to be attracted to someone in the expat or traveler community (aka another foreigner like yourself), you're out of luck. I work on campus and it would be throwing my reputation as a teacher and as a respectable woman away to date a student. But the only people I meet are students -- who do their best to treat me like some 40-year-old married lady. Not as someone who is just a year younger than them (or a few years older, depending on my students). Also, looks-wise, I make no sense to Chinese people. I am white (plus), blond (bizarre), with curly hair (huge plus in a land where many gets perms), with short hair (bizarre because only males and some teenage girls do that), who is not all that feminine (very bizarre), who does not own high heels (extremely bizarre) and who, as a rule, does not want rhinestones anywhere near her clothing or shoes (absurdly bizarre).

I am tired of being treated as weird, old, and ugly. The style of my short hair is worn by at least 80% of the Oberlin female-bodied population. I would blend there. But here, I stick out. Beautiful, ugly, and confusing eye-candy for the world at large.

This, I would say, is what the Shansi experience is all about.



Dico's photo is from http://chinabites.com/kunming/restaurants/dicos/178/.

Spring Cleaning at No. 13 Foreign Expert House (Pictures)

We're ready to clean!

"I've just discovered this 2-million-year-old artifact that leading experts believe will change the face of science." Ray, the sexy archaeologist.

.   .   .   4   h o u r s   l a t e r   .   .   .

Success!

Nap time.

My Homemade Hair (Pictures)

OR HOW YOUR PORCH CAN BECOME A HAIR SALON, GIVEN THE RIGHT WEATHER

Spring has come to Taigu, at least for the weekend. We put up Alexandra's Balinese hammock. We smiled in the sunshine. And I decided to fix my crazy hair.

Curly hair has a mind of its own. You can simply wash it, and people will ask you if it was cut recently. You can cut it, and no one will ask, because the shape and length will magically stay the same.

My wild hair has been getting long for a while. Since Christmas actually. Busy with travel, I decided to wait 2 months until doing something about it.

I wanted it short, really short. So I went to the most popular hairdresser in North Yard (in Taigu) with this picture of a girl with a cute boy cut.

Proceeding to ignore my picture entirely, they trimmed it. When it dried, it looked exactly the same as it had when I entered the shop...well, a neater version of the same cut [see above picture of me in India].

As you may have noticed, my hair has been on a long journey from short to shorter.

My hair in high school and as an Obie underclassman.

During spring 2008, in a bathroom off the main lounge of South, my friend gave me my first short haircut since early childhood.

Of course, it always grew back.

So this summer in Berkeley, I cut it myself in an I-house bathroom (and then had my friends smooth over the rough spots).

And back again. Yesterday, it was time to cut.

I had to get rid of the awful haircut the Chinese stylist had left me with.

We set up a outdoor porch salon.

Lynn was my head hair artist. I tried to help, but she had more fun than me cutting my hair.

Voila!

This is the shortest my hair has been since I was little. Rock!

Cute girl with boy cut was found on the internet. Source unknown.

Asian Birthdays

OR HOW I'VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO CELEBRATE BIRTHDAYS LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE

I hope that one day I will have a normal birthday. You know...the kind celebrated with friends, family, delicious cake, some presents, some cards, in your own community. Well in the last 5 years, I've had my birthday in the States twice. Sure, traveling on one's birthday is excellent. Glamorous and privileged. But often, when I travel, I travel alone. For every birthday since high school, in America and abroad, I've had to rely on people I barely know to help me make the moment special.

I blame it on the day. January 10th, what an awkward day. Right after New Year's, a little farther after Christmas, Hanukkah, Diwali, Winter Solstice, and Kwanzaa. People are just tired and gifted-out by the time the 10th rolls around. In Maryland, it is always cold, usually sunny, and perpetually brown. When I was little, I would always wish for snow as my birthday present.

That wish was granted on my first birthday away from Maryland -- Oberlin winter term 2007, my freshman year. I was one of the brave, and perhaps stupid, few who stayed for a Dascomb WT. It was cold, snowy, and lonely without most of my new friends around. With our cooking, we all set off the fire alarm at least once a day. (The day before my birthday, we set it off twice.) I had no plans for the day. I was just going to attend my TIMARA class, which was my WT project. Suddenly there is a knock. Old Mr. Gibson himself was outside my door! He wished me happy birthday and handed me the worst chocolate cake I've ever eaten. The surprise cake delivery was my mom's idea; what a memorable one at that.

2008 found me in north-western Germany. I was staying with my now-grown-up-with-a-family former au pair and her husband and sweet child. The couple works for the British military: he as a military police officer, her as a former military police officer, now as a military-families-only child welfare counselor. Britain maintains bases in Germany, which was why they were stationed there. I lived with them for 5 weeks -- chilling in their house working on personal projects, watching their baby and dog, and occasionally traveling to major cities in or around Germany on a Eurail pass. I had wanted Indian food -- so we splurged and went out to what looked like a nice restaurant. The meal was pretty bad, and we strongly suspected that they were microwaving our food in the back. But it was so lovely being around them, and having a family when I was so far away from home.

I turned the big 2-1 during 2009 in Mexico, a country where no one checks your age while drinking, as long as you pay for your drinks. I was studying Spanish for 3 weeks in Guadalajara. We had epic field trips every weekend; luckily, my birthday fell on one of them. We spent the day driving through the mountains surrounding the city, visiting a picturesque lake,and a chilled-out hot springs. I decided to go on this program without knowing a soul, and we, as a group, had only had about a week to get to know one another. So I announced it was my birthday and hoped for the best. I gathered a few new friends together and we made a crazy trek through the city to find this Cuban restaurant. The restaurant was urban chic -- writing and graffiti purposely covered the walls -- and the food was to die for. The food was so good we came back a few times in our 3.5 week stint in Guadalajara, included the night of Obama's inauguration. After food and a few mojitos, we ended the night at a discotheque. This club, like many we went to in the city, had a dance floor but no dancers. So it was us, the awkward Obies, who started the dance party. The festive birthday tequila shots helped. Epic, indeed.

My senior year (2010) birthday found me in Oberlin again. I was participating in the Shansi WT, learning to teach English by reading lots of pedagogy, getting teaching tips from Kim Faber, and trying our lesson planning skills out on a few willing foreign Oberlin Conservatory students. A few of my friends were also learning to be teachers, one of whom I had met during my stay in Guadalajara. My apartment was lonely without all four housemates. So I spent many nights inviting people over for games, Elyria-bought Indian food, and good times. My birthday was no different. I held it in my living room. I made a tasty pineapple and sprite special punch that we drank out of Sesame Street waxy paper cups. As presents, my friends brought over cakes, cookies, and candy. We all nearly passed out from the extreme amount of sugar! And after lighting candles on a pile of cookies and singing "Happy Birthday", we played Apples to Apples. Four hours of Apples to Apples. My friends, new and old, shuffled into the apartment for four hours straight, and to entertain them, I just kept on playing. And playing. And playing. It was an exhausting and fun time.

So this year, in 2011, I was in India. I was staying at a yoga ashram in Rishikesh. My birthday fell on the night we normally did kirtans -- a form of meditation where you bang on noisy stuff while chanting in call-and-response style. Every one would take their turn at the mic, if they dared. The yoga teachers always went first, leading chants in sanskrit. Then it was our turn. We could sing whatever we wanted, in whatever language. While many of the ashram students chickened out (I blame it on us being all Western), I never did. I always look them up on their offer, singing everything from "Wade in the Water" to "Over the Rainbow" (Israel Kamakawiwo'ole style). After we we all sang, my favorite yoga teacher took the mic again. He started singing me happy birthday. The drums started pounding. The shakers started rattling. He threw in Hindi and English phrases of good fortune. He then gave me a box of barfi, which I handed out, piece by piece, as the group of teachers and ashram students sang a more familiar version of "Happy Birthday", sans drums. Along with the desserts, I got a card, bought by this sweet American couple, former peace corps volunteers in Jamaica, that everyone had signed earlier, none too discreetly, while the kritans were being performed. A third of the box of barfi was left after firsts and a quite few seconds were passed out. "It's your birthday. You have to finish the box. Otherwise it's bad luck," said my favorite yoga teacher. I stuffed my face with the sugary, chalky barfi until the box was empty. Yummy! I had diarrhea the next morning.

Why have one Asian birthday when you can have two? On March 10th, two month late, the foreigners threw me a party. We met at my house, where my Chinese friends gave me hair clips (my hair was too short of them), a puzzle (I hate puzzles), bananas (2 dozen bananas), and an unripe pineapple (which they put salt on). We snacked on the fruit before leaving for the restaurant. We ate at my favorite restaurant in town: shrimp and squid dry hot pot. Alexandra and a Chinese friend were missing from most of the dinner, and when they returned, they had a huge box! That evening my China-induced dreams were fulfilled...they had bought me a cake with a huge dragon on it! I am born during the year of the dragon, and come on who doesn't want a cake that is half cake and half icing (all cakes in China are like this) in the form of a mystical beast? The foreigners toasted my health and happiness over SNOW beer and baijiu. Following Chinese tradition, a paper tiara was put on my head and all my friends started decorating my face with icing. Alexandra got so into it that she put the entire dragon's head on my face. James started calling me "Queen" (we both get two birthdays) and sang a drunken rendition of "Rule, Britannia!" in my honor. These lovely people even paid for my share of the expensive cake and meal. We then leaded back to the house to watch a favorite movie of mine, Shawn of the Dead. A delightful night. Though I got the icing off eventually, my face was stained blotchy red for the next day or two.



I wonder what next year's birthday will look like. What country will it be in? And with which friends?