Year of the Dragon

The start of my classes last week make Mandarin Chinese the sixth language that I have officially studied with some degree of seriousness. Of the previous five, I would say I can hold a conversation comfortably enough in all but one, Portuguese, which I saw only for a semester and never got to practice. I am not saying this to brag or make some point about my intelligence, in fact, most of my languages were learned out of obligation and circumstance, and all but English are romance languages that are similar enough to each other that I can almost fake my way through them. As far as amateur linguists go, it’s pretty weak to speak the languages I do.

The point that I’m trying to make is that language classes are not a new thing for me. I was obviously aware that Chinese is wildly different from anything I’ve studied before: an entirely different language family means no cognates to speak of (my best friends!), a different and infinitely more complicated writing system, and the ever-dreaded tones. But even knowing that about Mandarin, I hoped for the best. I still thought of the ability to learn languages relatively easily as one of the few things I’d list as an actual skill of mine. I can’t dance at all, I can’t sing without hurting myself or others, and I fail at all activities that require any type of physical speed, coordination, flexibility or balance. I have forgotten all of my math, and I am pop culture illiterate so I am a dead weight on pub trivia teams. But I have languages on my side! Right? …Right?

Maybe it’s a little premature to write about how much I suck at Chinese. I am actually enjoying my classes very much, and I can’t believe how much I’ve learned in this short amount of time given that it’s, well, Chinese. However, I have discovered that, despite how many times I have been told that the more languages you know the easier they are to pick up, I have no noticeable relative advantage to anyone else starting from scratch. My ego is a little sore, but I’m trying hard. 

You don’t just have to memorize the character, what it means, how to say it, and what tone. You also should know the proper order of the strokes, which is why they are numbered in little circles here. That’s the back of Chen Laoshi (Teacher Chen) 

I think the thing I feared the most, like most Westerners, were the characters, but they haven’t turned out to be the worst.

Don’t get me wrong, the characters are insane. In seven days of class I have learned four or five different characters for the syllable “shi,” all with different meanings. There is little to do with characters but memorize them, which is not particularly fun, but here’s the thing: I can see the difference between characters. The tones, on the other hand, are a nightmare and currently the bane of my existence.

There are four different tones in Mandarin, and a fifth, “neutral” one. Each syllable you speak has a different tone, and the tone is related to the meaning of the word itself. For example, the word si can mean alternatively “four” or “death” depending on the tone. In pinyin (the standard spelling of Chinese using the roman alphabet,  the one you’re reading in right now) these tones are expressed as four different types of accent marks, like this: mā, má, mǎ or mà. The way I like to think about it, the first one sounds like you’re tuning in a music class, a little higher pitched than your normal voice. The second sounds like a question. The third, falling then rising, sounds to me like a teenage girl trying too hard to be flirty. The fourth’s like an angry Chinese dad yelling at you. 

These things should all be relatively easy to tell apart, you’d think. But you’re wrong. Not if you’re tone deaf, like me. Maybe all four tones in a row, over the same syllable sound obvious. But on their own, without hand gestures to help you figure it out, and combined with a million other tones over other syllables, I have an impossibly hard time. I already mentioned I suck at music, and a significant part of the time, Chinese class feels like chorus, with a score drawn on the board and all. We sit there and do drill after drill of the same syllable in every tone. And every time it’s my turn to say it, I just giggle because I can’t even tell what the difference is. It’s. So. Hard. 

If there is any positive side to this insanely difficult to pronounce language, it’s the fact that the grammar is so easy. Imagine this: No verb conjugations. No plurals. No gendered nouns. No agreement. Nothing. It’s like this, translated literally: 

I name Laura. I be Colombia person. Tomorrow I come class. I happy meet you.  I very good. You good? 

Here is my sneak video of Chen Laoshi (teacher Chen) teaching us tones. Notice me giggle every time it’s my turn. 

Remember that time I said a long day in Beijing made me feel like hugging the first Western-looking person I saw? I think I may not be the only one that feels this way.

Yesterday, I was hit on by two American men that I swear were just ecstatic to see someone else that most likely spoke English. Honestly, it had little to do with me. The way they did it was so bold for (possibly) sober people in the middle of the day, that it just speaks to the lowered inhibitions of living in a place where you feel so disconnected from your normal frame of reference. Silly things like embarrassment or fear of rejection don’t really register here.

The first happened when I was trying to order at Burger King (I know, I know, shame on me. Try eating unidentified chicken parts every day for every meal and see if you don’t crave a break every week or so!).  Before I even noticed he was there, this man, who had an easy 20 years on me, just leaps to say hello as soon as he sees me.  In the time it took me to awkwardly point at the spicy chicken sandwich I wanted and indicate in sign language that I didn’t want it to go, he had already told me he was from California, worked in Venture Capital (in the “green” space) and would love to get together some time for coffee or a meal. He also practiced what little Spanish he knew, sly devil, and said it might be great if I taught him some Chinese (if he’d been paying attention to my chicken sandwich ordering skills, he would have noticed I have little to offer in that field).

I thought that was a bit forward, and felt thankful that he didn’t ask for my number and just gave me his business card instead. I suspect he really wanted me to have it so I could read he’s a partner at the VC firm. But I’m not complaining. I like for the ball to be on my court, you know, so I can comfortably never return it.

Later, after walking around the garden of the Temple of Heaven, I got on the subway next to a group of three American college kids. This one, I also heard before I saw:

“Where are you from?”

“Umm. Colombia. You?”

“The United States.” He said it with great care. Like it was an exotic location whose name I might mishear. “There aren’t many people from Colombia here, there should be more.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true. We’re far away.”

“You’re very pretty.” 

“…”

Yes. A chubby, sober, slightly awkward kid from Oklahoma that reminded me of Seth from Superbad had the guts to come up to me in a train and tell me I was pretty in the middle of a huge crowd. In all my subway-riding life nothing like this had ever happened. Tell me I’m crazy, but being in a foreign country where no one knows your name makes people feel like they are a little drunk all the time. Not just because you’re uninhibited in ways you normally wouldn’t be, but also because you suddenly have beer goggles for anyone that speaks your language. To these guys my ability to speak English is SO ATTRACTIVE that they just had to strike up a conversation. 

Beijing is a gargantuan city. At 19 million people, it has well over twice the population of New York City, the largest in the US. Full of super sleek skyscrapers and highways so wide they make me fear for my life several times in a single crossing, it is easy to think that the city has lost most of its old charm, its “Chinese-ness.” Except for a few pockets of hutong neighborhoods, monuments, and old temples, most of old Beijing has disappeared under the unforgiving shovel of communism and later modernization. However, despite its gritty concrete jungle look, Beijing keeps finding ways to fill my days with enough bizarre little surprises to keep my heart content.

Yesterday, as I was walking to check out an apartment where I may end up living, I saw a lady with a cartful of stuff for sale. This is quite common on the sidewalks, with people selling all kinds of prepared foods, vegetables, or things like bootleg DVDs and jewelry. But this lady had a cartful of goldfish for sale. I was at first horrified, thinking she was selling them as some sort of snack (would be a pretty Chinese thing, actually. “Here, pick which goldfish you want us to deep fry alive for you!”) But thankfully, it turns out they were actually just pet goldfish. And tiny little turtles. And a minuscule baby rabbit (not sure the latter two won’t end up eaten anyway, once they fatten up a little). It’s not that crazy a thing, I guess, to have a little informal fish tank shop outside in subfreezing weather, but the image of the lady pedaling that thing all the way back to her place, fish flopping from side to side was enough to make my day. And I loved her amusement at how funny I found the whole thing; she even helped me take pictures!

And that’s the other really nice thing about Beijing. It’s a very international city, so except for the occasional country folk, you don’t get a lot of pointing and staring for being a foreigner, like people say you do in other parts of China. But, maybe because they don’t have large groups of immigrants that don’t speak their language, or maybe because they’re aware of how hard Chinese is, they have retained a level of curiosity for outsiders and patience for lack of language skills that would be unthinkable in the States or other places I have visited.

With no exception so far, locals I have interacted with remain cheerful, patient, and helpful to the village idiot that makes up for illiteracy and lack of communication skills by gesticulating wildly and smiling way too much (that would be me). This is so different from what I remember from my first years in the US, when I was terrified of something as simple as ordering food because, more often than not, having a heavy accent (even one that was saying perfectly constructed English sentences!) would result in huge amounts of attitude and even disparaging comments. Looks like this is a good place to try to pick up a new language, let’s hope it works!

PS. Speaking of language ineptitude, today I was walking around one of the remaining old neighborhoods and saw a man frying and selling what appeared to be delicious little round donuts. Craving some sugar in the bitter cold, I bought myself a few. Turns out they were very gooey fish balls. Once I got over the flavor shock, they were actually not bad, but I don’t think they’re something I’ll ever buy again.

PS 2. And further on little weird Chinese language things that amuse me, someone pointed out that our building has no 14th, 24th, or 34th floors. In Chinese, the number four is considered bad luck because it sounds almost the same as the word for “death” (though it is a different tone). I had seen a similar thing in the States, where my grandma’s old apartment complex didn’t have an apartment #13, just a 12A and 12B. But it was still surprising to see it done in such a modern and fancy building. 

What are some of the little things that make you happy in your city?

Of course I expected that sitting down and trying to learn how to write Chinese characters would be hard. Of course I know that it’s not like Italian and Portuguese where you sort of fake your way through the whole thing and it all works out. I knew those things, which is why this may be my most unoriginal statement of all time, but let me just say it again, guys: Chinese is really friggin’ hard.

It seems silly to complain about how hard the language is when I haven’t even taken my first Chinese lesson. But again, I’m not talking about constructing sentences or carrying out complex conversations here. This marks my first whole week in Beijing, and I am not exaggerating when I say I have not been able to memorize the name of the subway stop next to where I’m staying. And it’s not for lack of trying. When I am on the train, there’s is a helpful, sweet voice in English with a perfect American accent that repeats whatever the Chinese announcer is saying. When she says the name of my station, I repeat it after her, so it’ll stick. I say it out loud, ignoring the weirded-out stares of everyone around me: Jintaixizhao. JEEN THAI SHEE JAO. Jeen thai shee jao. 

And the minute I get off the train, I have once again forgotten the name of the station, except for the fact that it starts with the letter J. (As in, I actually had to google it to write this post!). This is the case with the name of every neighborhood I visit, every street, everything. When I’m trying to find my way around, another monumental task on itself, I look up and read the name of the street, and by the time my eyes travel down to the map in my hand, I have forgotten what I just read already. Really. This is not a figure of speech. 

If being incapable of memorizing the simplest of things didn’t have me questioning my intelligence enough on a regular basis, the fact that some basic hand gestures don’t match up is not helping me either. Did you know that holding up six fingers does not mean the number six? Nope. If you want to say six, you better be ready to close your hand and extend your thumb and pinky out to the sides like some sort of market-bargaining superstar. Here’s a picture so you can see what the rest of the numbers are like:

So every time I’m wildly nodding my head up and down (and smiling as much as possible in order to make up with niceness for my annoying communicational impairments) I am left wondering whether that even means yes at all. Freaking out, I get home and google the answer because knowing how to say “yes” and “no” seems pretty important. And I get the following disheartening result:

There are no words that mean “yes” or “no” in Chinese. There are, however, words that roughly compare to English words for “yes” and “no”. The closest word to “yes” in Chinese is shi the verb that means to be. Thus, if someone asks if such and such a condition is true, the answer could be, quite simply shi, “it is”. Another word that fits for general purposes is dui ”true”, which can also be used to affirm any question posed. However, beyond this, the easiest way to say “yes” in Chinese is just by using the appropriate verb for the sentence. For example, if asked ni yao chi wufan ma ”do you want to eat lunch”, the best response may be yao ”want”; or even by answering the entire question in the affirmative.

While trying to calm myself down, I made the firm decision to tell no one about this. I rationalized it as a way of protecting those who care about me, of not giving them reasons to worry. Lies to myself, of course, I was just trying to spare me the humiliation. But I guess if I’m going to do this blog thing, I might as well do it honestly, I might as well tell the unflattering stuff too, if I don’t want to end up writing a fifth grade report about my summer vacation.

I headed towards Tian’anmen, and on my way out of the subway station, a young girl and a guy saw me and excitedly asked me where I was from.  I keep reading that Chinese tourists from other provinces often come to Beijing and are fascinated when they see are foreigner for the first time. It’s supposedly quite common to be asked to be on a picture with them, like another landmark they need to brag about when they get back home. I figured this is what was going on so I ignored my instinct to keep going and decided to be nice.

The girl spoke pretty decent English and was genuinely excited to practice.  I thought this was cute, and didn’t mind when they walked out with me towards the entrance to the Forbidden City. It was closed already, since it was past 5pm, but I took a picture while my new friend “Anna” walked along with me. She pointed to the enormous picture of Mao and explained that he was the leader of her country but was now dead. She was very surprised when I told her that people knew Mao all over the world. She couldn’t believe that my hair wasn’t dyed, that in fact, it was naturally black “just like Chinese girl!”

I hesitated for a moment when they told me they were on their way to get a drink and would love for me to join them. But she had just told me that her brother, who was with her and was also an accounting student in college, had cost her parents a lot of money. A one-child policy fine! “Look at me,” I thought, “just on day four and so immersed with locals already!” I remembered the advice from the other Rockefeller fellows to say yes to things you normally wouldn’t consider, and decided to go for it. With so many priceless comments already this HAD to make for a good story!

A red flag that size of Mao’s portrait went off in my head, but I utterly ignored it, over and over. After all, these kids weren’t trying to sell me anything, and from my experience with other Chinese people my age, it seemed plausible that they would be that excited to get to hang out with a sort-of-American.

We walked on a street along the edge of the Forbidden City and they led me into a little hole-in-the-wall. We sat in a private room, a table with all sorts of jars with teas in them, and they brought us some tiny mandarin oranges, some sort of Chex Mix-like snack and two kinds of tea. It was precious. I took pictures and I was beginning to draft an imaginary blog post about it in my head, I was so excited about the whole experience. When they told me to put my bag on a chair in the side of the room, I retained the last shred of good judgment and kept it on my lap.

I said it was my treat, since I hear it’s rude in China to go Dutch.  But of course, the fun ended when the bill came. 1040 Yuan. To put that in perspective, I saw a room in an apartment today where the rent was 2000 Yuan a month. “This is a mistake” I said. Anna helpfully broke down the bill for me. “This is how much tea rooms cost in China. It’s because you can stay all day.” I felt my face flush with anger, I could feel my own heart beating faster. I wouldn’t pay that much if I were buying the damn place. But, in this vital “fight or flight” moment,  I neither fought nor fled.  Instead, I proceeded to act like a complete and total idiot.

“I’m not stupid” I said to them, but I was.  “I know this can’t cost this much, I don’t even have that much money”. Oh. It’s totally okay. Unlike pretty much any other friggin’ establishment in China, this helpful little tea room had access to a card reader. And because I have the mental speed of a dead slug, I didn’t even lie about having a card. I got flustered. Vague ideas about what to do fluttered through my head. The language barrier felt insurmountable. These people were two adorable little Chinese girls that looked at me with wide eyes like I was just confused and a post-pubescent boy that didn’t speak a lick of English, but they already were conspiring against me, and how could I know who else or how scary was hiding in the back of that stupid tea room? How would they react if I tried to walk out without paying? I got scared. I could make a scene, threaten to call the police, but the prices, and they pointed out after the fact, were helpfully set on the table in an easily ignored corner, in English. I guess it’s not a crime to charge too much if you say you’re going to?

I thought of calling Paul, of asking him for help. But interrupting him at work, or worse, at the beginning of his Valentine’s day date for such an embarrassing situation made me cringe. A million better alternatives are going through my head now, but, stupidly, inexplicably, the best I could come up with at the time was to say that we should split the bill then. I divided the damage in half, and yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is how I came to spend EIGHTY SIX American dollars on two cups of bitter tea.

I was so angry at China, at not being able to do anything about it or ask for help, at having been so naïve and trusting and nice at first, but most of all, at having been completely, absolutely incapable of dealing with the situation. On day four, I felt like I was already done with China. I was done with locals, and “authentic” experiences, and trying to do stuff for the good stories. I felt betrayed by the whole country, and my adventurous traveler identity was crushed. I couldn’t wait to get back to the sweet embrace of cushy expat life.

These things will pass, of course, and I feel a little better already. But it doesn’t help that was I nearly trampled to death on the subway at rush hour (more updates on that later). China was rough on me today. When I saw the one white guy all day, all hipster and bearded in the middle of the 6:30pm human traffic jam, I felt like I could hug him just for standing there, like he were almost family by virtue of being fellow outsiders in this sea of Chinese people.

And to think, after all that, that I freaking hate tea. That’s what I get for being such a poser.