What a Lush

BEIJING - What can you get with the legal names of all five Spice Girls, the country with the lowest population density, and the location of the annual Old Ivy tournament?

 

If you can recall all three quickly, the answer might be a free bottle of Jack Daniels. That's the prize for winning the weekly Quiz Night at Lush, a popular bar crammed in the second floor of a Wudaokou bookshop.

 

The place is famous. It's mentioned in Wudaokou's Wikipedia article: "Wudaokou's popularity as an international student area is reflected in its large number of bars and nightclubs (including Bar Loco, Lush and Propaganda), which generally offer cheaper prices than many similar clubs in more central areas, such as SanLiTun." I knew about Lush before I ever went to China, as people returning from summer language programs would discuss legendary nights out that began or ended at Lush.

 

I even popped in for a drink during my quick visit here last summer, chancing on the bar by accident, but stopping because I'd heard so much about it. I thought once I moved to Wudaokou I'd be here quite a bit.

 

I wouldn't be the only American to do so. Lush is so American that during the middle of last week's round two people stood up for no apparent reason and yelled, "Pitchfork sucks!" This is probably the only place in China where the majority of people would even know what was being referenced, let alone have an opinion on the matter. (It doesn't.)

 

But all is not well in Lush-land. First off, the quiz night is in transition, with this week seeing a new host replacing the other guy who's name I never learned. The new hosts were a chubby American and quite-fit Australian girl, who managed to piss off most of the crowd by insisting that the Black Eyed Peas single "Don't Phunk With My Heart" be spelled with a "ph" to receive points.

 

People are also complaining on the Lush Facebook group, which has nearly 1,000 members. One person wrote,"i go every wednesday but us new yorkers hate the questions...first off the music selections are all punk rock/indie rock etc etc...there were like 6 teams with zero points and all the punk/indie fans were taking over...the same with the movie quotes it seems like the questions are fit for only one type of person haha a punk rocker or an AE/Abercrombie wearing midwestern kid..."

 

Even more troublesome is the appearance of an "Lush is Not Cool" Facebook group, and another person posting, "Lush is a place for people who hate China," on the normal Lush Facebook wall.

 

That's a little harsh. Even though Lush makes few efforts to acknowledge that it's in China, especially during its extremely American Quiz Night, it's only following a very successful business plan. After all, outside the bar is all of China. It's not exactly like Lush is depriving people of China, only giving a change of pace for slightly homesick expats. I don't live at the place, but I certainly don't mind regular visits.

 

So far our team has managed a pair of third place finishes and one second place. But this week I'm studying my geography and girl group trivia, and perhaps next Wednesday, the Jack Daniels will be ours.

Listen More, Speak More, Next Test is 不错

BEIJING - Lately I've been thinking quite a bit about high school. Was it really that bad? At the time, I hated being cooped up in the same building for four years, not being able to use the toilet without a pass, easily detained at the whim of a hall monitor. I took my diploma and headed to Boston, returning only to Albany sporadically, and hardly ever to Colonie High School.

 

But now at Tsinghua I spend my days in one building, where every 50 minutes a bell rings to mark the beginning, end and periods of the school day. In between classes, students gather in the halls to talk about how that test was, what happened last night at the bar, and "can you spot me four kuai so i can buy a drink at the supermarket downstairs?" All of which happened pretty frequently in high school. There are even cliques here, although instead of goths, jocks and preps, here there are Americans, Koreans and Old Men Who Wear Beanies.

 

Today my life took another step back to high school land, as Lin Laoshi (aka Brown) handed back her most recent test with a sour look and a lecture. Apparently the test didn't go so well. To illustrate her point, Brown drew a diagram on the blackboard comparing our class' results to the one across the hall, which she also teaches. That class had a bunch of 80s and 90s on the test, while our class had an average right around a 72.

 

"I don't understand why the classes are different," Brown said, with that nagging tone that must come with a teaching certificate. "The lessons are the same, the teachers are the same, the methods are the same. I can only think of two reasons why it could be different. That class sits in a 'U' shape. (She actually didn't say "U," but rather drew the shape with her finger. Our class sits in rows.) I don't think that's it. Perhaps the people in that class are better students than this class."

 

Ouch. Brown offered at least the hope of redemption though. The class still has two weeks until the midterm, and promised results if we followed her advice. In true Chinese fashion, she presented it as a slogan:

 

下课　力学习

上课好好听

考试不错！

 

Which basically means if you study a lot outside of class, and pay attention in class, the test will go pretty well. Nothing revolutionary, but good advice.

 

I don't have much to worry about -- I actually did pretty well on the test, but I appreciate Brown's attempts to get the class in shape. Especially if it means bringing out some intriguing Chinese slogans to prove her point. That's something we never had at Colonie High School.

Kitsch Kills

BEIJING -- One thing industrialization has brought to China is a standardization of tourist crap.The same assemblage of fat Buddha statues, cheap metal coins and chops are for sale at attractions from the Mongolian border to Vietnam.

That predictability meant I wasn't surprised that the tiny alley market off Wangfujing Street hadn't changed in the three years since my last visit. The only noticeable new product was a pair of shiny stones, which somehow boomeranged and whistled when thrown in the air.

I came with a couple friends, capping off a rare day of sightseeing in Central Beijing. I have a certain affinity for Chinese kitsch, but having already purchased a good chunk of this stuff in 2004 I only observed this time. It was the first time for everyone else, and they slowly examined the items on display.

"Are you going to buy a Little Red Book?" I asked one of them, idly making conversation.

"No, I don't think so," he said, with just a hint of disgust.

The conversation quickly moved from there, but I became concerned at my own suggestion. Was it appropriate to encourage people to buy copies of something associated with the Cultural Revolution?

My own copy of the Little Red Book is sitting in my closet in Albany, next to a plastic drum and a crumbled entrance ticket to the Xi'an terracotta warriors. It came from Hong Kong's Temple Street Night Market, a series of clothing stalls, porn booths, fortune tellers and tiny seafood shops that comes together after sunset in the middle of Kowloon. I found my copy at a small antique place, underneath a pile of new English, German and Cantonese translations.

The newer copies use cheap plastic, but the older ones use a higher-quality leather. The book was worn, with many passages inside underlined and Chinese notes in the margin. I talked down the price, pointing out these deficiencies to the shop owner. The book cost about $5.

The big draw is a supposed collection of quotes from Mao Zedong. In reality many of these quotes were heavily edited before appearing in the text, but these edited entries were used as a gospel in a religion that condemned hundreds of thousands of people to death. The words themselves are certainly not responsible -- just as in the Bible, many of the quotes are vague enough to be bent in any particular direction -- but the Book represents an awful era. (What exactly does "every Communist working in the mass movements should be a friend of the masses and not a boss over them, an indefatigable teacher and not a bureaucratic politician," from Chapter 28 mean?)

And I think the book is less a Pop Artifact than some of the other artifacts from this era sold in the country. The propaganda posters represent a separate and important style, and I have fewer problems with their presence in American college dorm rooms than with that book in my closet.

I know enough Chinese history that the words "Cultural Revolution" bring to mind images of suffering, torture and death, but it can be hard to rectify this with the excitement of a Beijing market, where vendors encourage you to take a piece of this era home. I can only hope next time I have the smarts to say, "no thanks."

Ding-Ding-Ding Goes My Femmy Bell

BEIJING -- My bike The Gazelle is quite similar to its animal namesake. Both can go quite fast, but have severe problems coming to a quick stop.

 

I thought my Gazelle's problems could be fixed, so I once again returned to Bike Doctor Hu's repair shop for a tune-up. With a few twists of the wrench, Dr. Hu brought the brakes back to somewhat working condition, and moved on to more pressing topics.

 

"I lost your bike," he said, speaking in a slow cadence as if embarrassed at what he was admitting.

 

According to Dr. Hu, after I sold him the Catac last week, he left it outside his shop. The next day he returned to the shop to find the bike missing.

 

"So did someone steal it?" I asked.

 

"Maybe," Hu said, which I took to mean the Catac was stolen for a second time in less than two weeks. All this for a bike that's worth less than $10 and surrounded by thousands of other bikes that are more expensive, many without locks. How strange the world is.

 

I had another item of business with my favorite repairman. The Gazelle needed a bell, so that whenever someone cuts me off, I can take out my anger by making an inoffensive ringing, rather than screaming whatever Chinese profanity I learned that particular week. Dr. Hu chuckled at my request, said he could provide me with one for 4 RMB.

 

"I've got one for you," he said.

 

He made a sale.

 

So now, if you're ever on the Tsinghua campus and want to see my bike it's pretty easy. Just look for the one with an "I Love My Baby" bell on it.

The Day the Music Died

BEIJING - At the back of the Dongyue Temple in Beijing's Chaoyong District, there is a lovely courtyard. I wish I could give period dates or accurate descriptions of its features, but alas I never got around to studying imperial architecture in college.

Nevertheless I can say this is the Chinese courtyard as imagined by young Sinologists all over the world, with shiny blue curved roof tiles and large red lanterns hung every meter on the outside of the crimson-colored hallways.

The Dongyue Temple admission ticket includes entry to this courtyard, which is located behind the main Daoist statues and relics of the temple. My ticket - normally 30 RMB, but just 5 RMB with a student card - says this is the "Beijing Folk Museum," and is the only place in Beijing where large folk performances can be held.

Behind the final statue hall, roughly in the middle of the courtyard, is a large, tacky stage that is used for performances. It's brand-new, and designed in the Chinese "shiny red thing" category. All over China these tacky balloons and pixelated background montages are ruining historical sites and downtown shopping malls alike. The Dongyue Temple was no exception.

But despite the intrusion of the tacky, I still had a wonderful experience in the courtyard during my visit last summer. I visited the temple on a hot, sunny afternoon by myself, wanting to kill a couple hours before meeting an American friend in a language program. As I entered the courtyard, I heard music coming from a back corner. Three young musicians were playing Chinese instruments. One was the erhu, the other two I didn't recognize.

I went upstairs and stood next to where they were playing. The music was lovely, the perfect antidote to the broiling hot weather. I sat down and listened for over half an hour, nearly falling asleep to the sounds.

Yesterday I returned to the temple with a couple friends, and went back to that courtyard. There were no sounds, and no musicians in sight. A few workers played cards, uninterested in the few people at the temple. I again climbed the stairs to the second floor, and walked in the room where I heard people playing. There I saw a couple instruments, and three young Chinese, dressed in traditional but ill-fitting costumes.

I asked one with long curly black hair (recent perm?) when the music was going to start.

"Today's there's no music," she said.

I asked her if there was ever music. She said on Chinese New Year sometimes there were performers, other times no. I protested that I had heard music there nine months ago. She seemed confused, and called over a colleague. Yes, he said, there used to be musical performances, but now no longer. The music had died.

Cold Feet

BEIJING -- My reading teacher entered the classroom this afternoon and shot me an astonished look.

 

"Su Bin, aren't you cold?" she said.

 

"No, why?"

 

"Your feet. You're wearing 踢鞋."

 

"What?"

 

I didn't understand the last word, but I'm trying to communicate with my teachers only in Chinese. Instead of asking her the English word, I went for my bright yellow Chinese-English dictionary. After a minute, I found the right entry: sandals.

 

Even though Beijing's in the middle of a cold snap, I wore sandals with my jeans and light grey sweater today. I did it because I have no clean socks, and didn't expect anyone to notice. But nothing escapes the watchful eyes of Brown.

 

"You're going to get sick," she said.

 

"Why?"

 

"Chinese people say, 'If your feet are cold, then you will get a cold.'"

 

Strange. In America, we associate a cold head with sickness. I guess in China it's the other way around. I'm glad I wore sandals, even only to find out a Chinese taboo.

Birds of a Feather, Grill Together

BEIJING -- If Beijing needs information about traffic patterns, the government should first ask food vendors. After all, it's their job to know where the crowds are.

 

In Wudaokou, pineapple salesmen camp out at most major intersections, selling sticks of the tasty fruit for a yuan a pop. Outside Wudaokou's narrow strip of Western bars vendors sell meat on a stick. They line up soon after sundown, and stay there until the very end of the evening, reaping hundreds of dollars a night from the drunk munchies.

 

My Beijing crew's favorite wing place belongs to Wang Didi -- Younger Brother Wang -- a friendly man with a Chicago Cubs hat and three thumbs. Wang cooks his wings on a portable grill, a three-foot long trough fueled by small pieces of wood. He takes the uncooked wings from his basket, each one already balanced between two wooden sticks. Wang grills each one for about three minutes, then adds a few spices. After that they're ready to eat: 3 RMB for one, 5 RMB for two and 10 RMB for four.

 

They taste delicious: crispy, juicy with just a hint of spice. I could eat 20, and sometimes my friends do. There's even an idea floating around of hiring Wang Didi for a party: promise him a minimum of a few hundred yuan and transport him to the middle of the Tsinghua campus.

 

With some Chinese skills and a bit of friendly banter, it's possible to lower the price. Shannon -- when not popularizing "PTPA" -- gets his wings at 4.5 RMB a pair. Wang Didi cries "Pengyou!" when he recognizes a frequent customer, and takes a couple new wings out to grill.

 

Tonight I found out Wang's originally from Chongqing, and that his trademark Chicago Cubs hat was a gift from an American friend. It was enough to solicit a laugh or two, but not lower the price. Perhaps next time, I'll ask about his girlfriend.

Tree in a Box

BEIJING - This campus operates on a peculiar rhythm. Things happen in ways that seem illogical, but somehow they always seem to get done. At times my life is a constant kabuki performance, with no one around to explain the meaning behind the elaborate rituals.

Take the mystery of the scaffold tree. Three weeks ago, a dozen or so laborers appeared in the courtyard between my dormitory and its immediate neighbor. They wore matching yellow hats and dirty jeans. Probably migrants, these men spent two long days erecting a structure around a tree in the middle of the courtyard. A frame of thick metal poles boxed in the tree, whose thin upper branches looked pithy in comparsion.

After finishing, the workers wrapped large pieces of translucent plastic around the outside of the lattice work and headed home. Whatever they had come to do was now finished.

In my bike rides and walks around campus, I came across a few other trees covered in the same manner. The dressed trees were all middle-aged, neither new saplings planted to stave off erosion nor the thick trunks that date from the Qing Dyansty. They all appeared healthy, although it's hard to tell the health of a plant in winter on the other side of a plastic sheet.

I can't figure out why the university spent money on constructing these tree fences. At first I thought they were created as a precursor to removal, but no trees have fallen. It occured to me that these might be some type of protection against Beijing's spring sand storms. But today the city had its fiercest winds yet, and I saw the group of workers reappear. They weren't at my tree, but one a couple dorms to the north. They wore the same yellow hats and old clothes. This time they came not to build, but dismantle. So far my tree is untouched, but I'm sure they will come for it soon.

When they do, I hope they'll be in a mood to answer a couple questions. Neither the building staff nor my classmates seem to have any idea about these plastic towers. Hopefully with a little conversation I can tap into this campus' strange rhythm.

A Pleasant State of Affairs

BEIJING - I don't actually live in China.

I live in Wudaokou, a small area on the northwest side of Beijing. Although there are no embassies here, I'm pretty sure that crimes committed here aren't prosecuted in a normal Chinese court. If Wudaokou declared independence and became a Monaco-esque city-state, I wouldn't be surprised. Life here, at least in and around the Tsinghua campus, is different.

As I chugged closer to the Chinese border on the Trans-Siberian Express, I remembered the things that annoyed me during previous visits: the spitting, the crowds, car exhaust, yelling and eating of strange body organs. Near the frontier these concerns reached a fever pitch, and I wondered why I'd decided to trek halfway across the world to come here. Then I entered China, and immediately fell through a manhole cover, verifying my suspicions.

Turns out I was wrong. None of my Chinese "pet peeves" are noticeable here in the university district. In a month, I haven't seen anyone spit, there are few cars on campus, and the caps to on-campus manholes seem to be thoroughly in place.

While life here can hardly be considered calm, there's not the awe-inspiring hordes that can be found at many Chinese institutions such as a railway station, open-air market or McDonald's. People frequently queue, and in most of the campus loudspeakers don't blast continuous streams of pop music on nature-lovers.

In gaining phlegm-free streets, I've lost little. There are still the things I love about China, many of which I've already detailed on this blog: the people, the bikes, the food and the service.

Now if I wanted to seek out these Chinese characteristics (In Chinese: 特点. I can now count this blog entry as studying for tomorrow's listening exam.) I dislike, I merely need to bike ride 15 minutes south, west or east of the campus (it's hard to go north), to return to the China I once knew. But in my day-to-day life I see surprisingly little of it.

Perhaps life here at Tsinghua is a preview of what things will be like in 25, 30 years. If that's the case, I suspect I'll be very comfortable in the China of 2037.

Colorful Instructors

BEIJING - The Chinese don't have very many last names, which means in the short time I've been here I've already met three Lins, two Wangs and a fair number of Lis. And since everyone in the university insists on being called "laoshi" whether they're an instructor or merely an officer worker, confusion has erupted.

 

Is the short older man who works in the Foreign Students Office during afternoon Lin or Liu Laoshi? What was the name of the crazy van driver who couldn't get to Tian'anmen Square last week? I can't remember names in English, so Chinese requires some extra assistance. I've turned to nicknames.

 

My listening teacher -- Zhang Laoshi -- frequently wears a pink sweater. Her nickname is now Pink. When the class discovered that our speaking teacher -- Huang Laoshi -- uses the Huang character that means "Yellow," we had our theme. The third teacher, our reading instructor, had no particularly obvious color traits, so we christened her "Brown," after her most popular outfit.

 

Giving my teachers nicknames allowed me to easily remember their Chinese names. Pink? That's Zhang Laoshi. And if the first class is taught by Pink, Lin Laoshi -- Brown -- must be teaching next.

 

Friday afternoon the bell rang with no sign of our speaking teacher.

 

"Where's Yellow?" I said to a couple classmates.

 

Suddenly he appeared at the back of the class.

 

"不是'Yellow' ，我姓黄," he said. Which means something like, I'm not "Yellow," I'm Yellow.

 

Time for a new nickname.

This is a Library. You Can't Borrow Our Books.

BEIJING - Wasting time in China can be hard, for every annoying experience in Serviceland is a chance to practice Chinese.

 

Take Tsinghua's woefully ineffective library. One of the best in China with over four million volumes, the library's English collection would be laughed out of a tiny town in the middle of South Dakota. Tsinghua offers an English major, although I hope that students are not encouraged to practice based on what's on offer.

 

Despite the collection's small size, I wanted access to some of the only available English books. It took four seperate trips to the library -- one each to acquire a student card, library permission slip, borrowing form and a passport photograph, but I finally got the library card. The library charges a 300 RMB deposit on language students taking out books, presumably so I'm not tempted to swipe the 50-year-old copy of "Crime & Punishment" after I've finished it.

 

It took me around half an hour to choose two books from the five shelves of English literature. I decided on V.S. Naipual's "In a Free State" and a book by a Nigerian author whose name I did not recognize but had an interesting sleeve. Books in hand, I went to the checkout counter.

 

"You can't take these out," the woman behind the counter said. "Not with this library card."

 

She said it matter-of-factly, but this was the first I'd heard of a two-tiered library system.

 

"What do you mean?" I said.

 

"English books are very expensive. You can't take them out."

 

At this, I became quite angry. I'd been waiting to take out books for two weeks. Using new vocbulary from class, I unleashed a torrent of insults on the woman, including "This isn't fair," "This policy is stupid," "I'm very annoyed, not satisifed and still want to take these books out." The woman responded by getting her manager.

 

Mrs. Lin handled my complaint. She probably held a senior librarian post, and she looked the part, with long black hair with pieces of gray and a conservative, pilly blue sweater.

 

"Do you understand Chinese?" she said, "Because I don't speak English."

 

"A little," I said, and then we launched into a discussion of the differences between Chinese and English books. In the past Tsinghua has had problems with students taking foreign books and not returning them. To compensate, they don't allow certain types of cards to take out books. To take out an English book, I'd need to pay a deposit of 1,000 RMB, and an additional 10 RMB a month to use the library.

 

But the English books I wanted to take out weren't expensive, I said. They had their prices listed on them -- $1.50, $2 -- and hardly required such a large deposit. Besides, with Tsinghua in control of my student record, why would I want to cross the library?

 

Mrs. Lin nodded her head in agreement, but policy is policy. I couldn't justify keeping that much money at the library, and told her that I wouldn't be needing my library card. She arranged for my money to be returned.

"You can understand Chinese quite well," she said, as a salutation. I looked at my cell phone. My various library arguments took over an hour to resolve, during which I spoke only Chinese. I didn't realize the time passing, Chinese seemed less a skill to practice than a necessary tool in my battle to access literature. I lost that battle, but I didn't walk away empty-handed.

Losing to Hu

BEIJING - When it came time to choose bikes, I knew The Catac had to go. Its rusty, fake German frame couldn't compare to the Eisenhower-era flourishes of The Gazelle.

 

The Catac wasn't returned in perfect shape. Its new owner treated it poorly. The chain was loose, the tires deflated and the handlebars even more bent than when I lost it. With so many problems, I decided to take it back to the place where I bought it: Bike Doctor Hu's tiny repair shack on the west side of campus.

 

The loose chain meant I had to walk the Catac over to Dr. Hu's, turning a five minute bike ride into a 20 minute walk. I arrived to find Dr. Hu busy as ever. After four meetings, I've decided that Hu must be in his early 40s. His face has deep creases of a man much older, but he remains quite spry, getting on the ground to examine a bike with ease.

 

I went up to Hu with the bike. He got the idea, Hu's a smart man. "You want to sell the bike?" he said.

 

I nodded. "How much?"

 

Hu listed all the problems with the bike, mentioning the handlebars, tires, chain and even catching a couple others that I hadn't noticed, like bent wires and a new problem with my basket.

 

"But you just sold me this bike last week," I protested.

 

Hu offered me 50 for the bike. I bought it for 75, giving Hu an instant profit of 25. I countered with 60.

 

Hu didn't seem interested. "At 60 I don't want it," he said, and pushed 50 RMB into my hand.

 

Once again I was outsmarted by Hu. He sold me both bikes at slightly inflated rates, despite my frantic bargaining. Now he was making a profit off someone stealing from me. But I was unlikely to get any price at another place, where they wouldn't want my defective Catac.

 

I took Hu's offer, but left him with him with final joke. I took out the orange polyster seat cover the thief put on The Catac.

 

"I don't want that," Hu said.

 

But Hu would take it. "No, no. Take it. It's a gift for you."

 

And I left before he could give back.