REPORTS FROM BEIJING

Report #34 Podcast #7

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Tue, 5 Aug 2014 20:16:00 -0700

The latest podcast: how not to buy art on a cruise ship.

Report #33 Podcast #6

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 05:28:00 -0700

This is the first podcast in a series of episodes documenting our travels over the past few months:

Report #32

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 02:06:00 -0700

This is an information-only report to announce that the blog is up and running again. Everything below is Beijing-related....new stuff from elsewhere is above....

Report #31

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 4 Dec 2011 02:15:00 -0800

Last October I was sleeping on a couch, confused about what to eat for breakfast, searching for housing, taking Beijing’s busiest subway to work everyday (something I vowed never to do again), and unsure of how I fit into this new world. I’ve come a long way since then. I found an apartment, started taking Chinese lessons, switched to a better job, but I somehow ended up on that damn subway again. A two-hour roundtrip commute is doable when you have to do it, but it is on my list of things that are deal breakers between Beijing and me, like:

-sanctioned smoking in the stairwell and bathroom at my office
-coughing and sneezing without covering one’s mouth
-snorking, hacking, and spitting (indoors and outdoors)
-polluted air
-overpopulation
-the neighbor child who cries at 5:30a and 11:30a and various times in the day
-non-yielding motorists

When I think back to the decisions that brought me here I was zoomed much farther out. I thought it would be interesting to live in another country for a year. It has been. I also wanted to learn another language, which I’ve been working on although I’m nowhere near fluent as I naively predicted in my cover letter to OPEN. I think I told them nine months…I guess I mistook working at architecture firm for an intensive language immersion program of fulltime study. But the last ingredient in all of this was that I had no office experience at an architecture firm. Finding work in China was easy compared to the States when the health of each economy is on opposite ends of the spectrum. The first place I applied to in Beijing hired me, and so the story the goes.

People call what I’m doing a ‘great experience’, which is rhetoric I bought into as well, but now I hold it at a distance with some suspicion. Perhaps this is particular to me, but what has been the encompassing experience of living here is a form of resistance. The first couple of months were like being thrown out to orbit where everything was foreign and all of my routines were uprooted. Vacations are like that to some extent where you put yourself outside your daily routine, but it’s usually pleasurable because you don’t have to work, you spend at least three to four times the amount of money you would on a normal day, and you’re probably somewhere of visual interest. In short, vacations are like being rich for a week or two in a nice place. Here in Beijing I feel like I’m rich, even though I probably only square up on the middle-class rung of the ladder, but the place is not that nice. Interesting is a better word for it. And what I’ve found myself doing since I got my feet on the ground was trying to reestablish my routines in some form or another…this has been my form of resistance.

It starts with the basic things like figuring out what food you like and where to get it, then shelter –my apartment was a huge victory on the resistance front. Finally comes the creature comforts –the internet, the ikea bedding, the wireless router, the microwave, the space heaters, the water dispenser (and the men who laboriously carry the bottles up five flights of stairs) and so on. While I was sitting in my apartment the other day something dawned on me, which was that I was completely insulated from Beijing. If I didn’t look out my window I would have no clue that I was in China…I have everything I need and it is all very familiar –internet, good food, comfortable space, etc. For me, the ‘experience’ of Beijing is not augmented by living in some beat down apartment and having to eat dumplings on the street corner. While that may call up a more authentic experience westerners imagine it is not my reality. However if I want to walk around some dilapidated hutongs and eat street food I can do it, but on my own terms and it has an off switch.

When I started thinking about this notion of resistance and how it’s really a form of control it seemed neurotic. But I actually think it is the process of ‘experience’…. getting thrown into something (deliberately or accidentally) and getting out of it or getting back into your comfort zone. Figuring out a routine in a foreign place is the experience and the irony is it’s precisely the antithesis of the place. Just looking at my progression in grocery shopping is telling of this transformation:

-Early Days at Carrfore: I show up with big ikea shopping bags on foot, and wield a full size cart around the crowded aisles. I’m nervous about giving the old peasant ladies my receipts when I leave. What would they want with them? Identity fraud?

-Junior Days at Carrfore: I show up with a granny cart on foot, and thread a small shopping cart around the aisles with the granny cart ingeniously placed on the cart as though the two were married. I start giving my receipts to the peasant ladies. They just need bonus points.

-Senior Days at Carrefore: I show up with the granny cart in tow on the back of my bicycle, I’m in and out within 30 minutes for a week’s worth of food and I tow it home with my bicycle. I only give my receipts to one peasant lady in particular, whom I have adopted in my mind as my Chinese grandmother, and have even started stashing pocket change inside the folded receipts.

While I’ve successfully figured out the basics of living here and continue to find comforting ways to do so, what I’ve failed at is really living here. This has always been a temporary project that had an end date off in the distance. Living in anticipation of the next thing is something I’ve been doing for almost as long as I can remember…I guess it’s inevitable when you’re trying to get into school, then going to school, and starting new jobs etc. But this leaves you with blank apartment walls, no possession too big to put in a suitcase or too expensive to abandon altogether, and a general level of disconnect that prevents full engagement in a place. I can see why Buddhism is all about living in the present…it’s a much healthier way to be in the world than counting days on a calendar and combing through job postings, although I might still be possession-less with blank walls if I become a monk.

Zooming out again, I have accomplished the things I set out to do by moving to Beijing; the year in another place, the work experience, and some new language skills, but not all was gained without losses. The one thing that I cannot reengineer into my routine is proximity to friends and family. Being far away from those you love is probably the most difficult thing. I find myself thinking about all the people I want to see when I get back home, all the visits I’ll make, old friends I want to look up and familiar places I want to revisit. Nostalgia.

Many people have asked me if I’ll miss Beijing when I leave and I’m quick to answer no. Not because I’m miserable here, but I’m really not in love with this place either. The one thing I do think I will end up longing for is the routine I’ve established because it’s simple and authored in isolation. It’s the kind of routine that leaves evenings open for anything, yet my energy levels have waned to the point that the internet often overpowers my motivation to read books or do anything of creative worth. I’m sure I’ll look back and wish I’d done more outside of work because the only positive thing about being away from friends and family is that there are no distractions. This is as close as I’ll get to being on a writer’s retreat, but I’m ready to go home now.

I’ve crossed the threshold I made up in my head: just get into December and it will be down hill from there. I have four weeks of work left starting now. Four weeks I can wrap my head around in the same way a little kid understands Christmas Eve to be just one night to get through before Santa comes. Waiting for the Camino to arrive last summer was felt with the same anticipation…and it came…and it went. While part of me doesn’t want to fully develop the skill of comprehending large chunks of time the way old people can throw around years like days, it would be nice to have right now. But I’m also happy to accept my position closer to the squirmy, writhing kid that can’t wait for his birthday to come around or only understands sleep as closing his eyes all of a sudden it’s morning…which is much closer to living in the present where pain is great and joy is greater, because those are the moments in life you really remember.

Report #30 Podcast #5

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 07:06:00 -0700

A self-organized flea market in the northeast corner of Beijing persists over the years despite its status as an illegal market.

Report #27

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Mon, 23 May 2011 11:36:00 -0700

Consider this Report as notice that Reports From Beijing is currently on vacation. Ellen and I are walking the Camino de Santiago for a second time and I will be migrating over to that blog, which is also linked at the top of Reports From Beijing...just follow Peregrino on the Camino: a 500 mile walk across northern spain. Once there, please sign up for email delivery, which will feed each entry into your inbox when I make a post. If I can get really advanced...I will make a new domain name, like theamateurcanaffordtolose.com and point the blog that I´m currently operating under to the home page. More on that later. But for now, please follow peregrino on the camino, and sign up via email. And so it begins....

Report #25

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 8 May 2011 11:32:00 -0700

As a creature of the night you’re either prey or predator. At least that’s how I feel during my long walks around Beijing. I’m training for the Camino and my evening strolls are pushing the three-hour mark at this stage in the schedule. By the time I finish with work, go home, eat dinner and check my email, I’m hitting the streets past nine or ten at night. And with that, I’ve really learned my area, which I won’t deem as a neighborhood because there is nothing remarkably characteristic of it, just never ending sameness. My area covers roughly an 8 mile diameter, and is growing wider as my schedule demands more time.

The area is surprisingly quiet past 11p. The traffic wanes, pedestrians are few, and often I’m the only one on the sidewalk. This is especially true if I let my route take me through a park, like it did tonight. I wasn’t feeling like charting new territory beyond the current boundary so I stayed close to home winding through the long park that runs parallel to the airport expressway. The parks in Beijing are well manicured with brick-paved paths and pruned shrubs. Despite the tamed landscape there is still something wild about the isolation it affords in such a bustling city.

On this particular night just after a long rainy day, the park was foggy and smelled clean like a forest. Headlights from cars shone through the trees and cast jesus style beams in the air. I turned along one of the meandering curves and spotted a small sapling that I mistook for a person. Chills ran through my body and I wondered to myself, why am I so freaked out?

I was, like I always am during these walks, listening to This American Life podcasts through headphones. My brother gave me all 400 episodes that he downloaded and I started at the bottom working my way up. The nightly walks have me moving through the episodes at a steady clip. But as a creature of the night, and as a species’ with poor nocturnal eyesight, my only other worthwhile sense is sound, which I’ve obfuscated through this podcast habit, and most certainly rendered myself as prey. My body knows this.

It wouldn’t take much for me to kick into full flight mode and shriek like a schoolgirl if someone or something jumped out of the bushes. I actually consider this a possibility and speculate on the availability of weapons the park has to offer like stacks of old paving bricks. I also question my ability to run, to run really fast, faster than most predators. Would I even notice the weight of my own backpack? Or would I chug along the way an obese person is encumbered by excess? Of the few stray cats that crossed my path tonight, each one gave my heart some extra juice. This got me thinking as I looped back and forth along the linear park. What would it be to take up the role of the predator? Speed? Yes. Arms flailing? Yes. Growling? Yes.

On my long walks there are others like me too. Often it’s a couple, enamored with one another on a park bench feeling like they have the whole place to themselves, and I approach stealthily only breaking the silence with the scuff of my boot on a lump in the path or kicking a stone to cause them to jump. Arrrghhhhhrrrrooowllllllalalalalala! I run towards them, flailing. That’s all it would take. That’s all you need to simulate a predator, and then I’d just keep walking like nothing happened, while they considered death in a gust of fear. A boogie man, who prowls at night boogifying unsuspecting strangers; feigning an attack, but swooping away reducing his victims to nervous rodents narrowly missed by the grasps of talons. I could do that. I could really scare people in the park, and I would no longer be prey.

Jesus. What two hours in a desolate park will do to the mind.

I think I’ll stick to the streets next time….

Report #24

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 10:35:00 -0700

(This story makes the most sense if you listen to part 2 of my last podcast)

It’s funny how we put things off…like the battery that you know your car needs and promise you’ll get soon, just after the engine barely turns over. You accept this lurking threat but keep hitting the snooze button of ‘later’ to prolong the inevitable. And then, when you go out one morning, it just clicks when you turn the key…and you think, damn, why didn’t I get the battery?

To append my last report, Podcast #3, the saga of the electro-magnetic door continues: it started working again. I noticed the LCD display next to the keypad was turned on last week. Someone had also taped cardboard over the metal part of the doorframe to keep the electromagnet from engaging. It seemed appropriately tailored to my needs; my key swab still didn’t work as I verified by swiping across the sensor and confirmed the audible quadruple-beep as ‘denied’. No problem, that’s why the cardboard is there…

A day later the big piece of cardboard had been traded for a smaller piece that wasn’t taped to anything, just wedged into a little gap in the frame. It still did the job, but looked sneaky and far less official. The next morning on my way to work the door was locked and the only way to exit the building was to hit the button to release the door for a few seconds. I looked down and saw the hopeless piece of cardboard on the ground. I naively wedged it back into its previous home, tested the door a few times, and left for the office. We were in the middle of deadline for the Lagos Hotel.

Snooze.

It’s one in the morning, and I’m in the exact same predicament as before. This time there are only two neighbors with lights on: the annoying neighbor and someone two floors below him. Now that I’m explicitly aware of my two neighbors apartment numbers I make sure to get it right this time. I dial the annoying neighbor and it just rings and rings and rings. I hang up, hating him even more. I sit. I think. I think about climbing. I think about electrical wires and why my building has so many and how they could be old and frayed. I call the annoying neighbor again and nothing happens. Then I watch his light go off and stay off. I try calling the neighbor at 303 and it rings and rings, and then someone picks up…

“Eh?”
I run my script, the same one that worked last time.
“Ni hao, wo joo zai wu bai r how, kuyea kai ma?” (Hello, I live at 501, could you open?)
“Huh?”
“Um, Ni hao, wo joo—“

Click. He hangs up.

I sat out front for thirty minutes not ready to accept the fact that I had put off the inevitable; that this wasn’t going to work, not twice. I had actually gone home early that night. Back at the office, 4 of my co-workers were still going hard. T.T, a Chinese girl with hair down to her waist, was acting as DJ and rocking out to her death metal music, which is basically fast drums and lots of growling. The other three, Flavia, Liqiang, and Ben just sat there motionless, staring at their computer screens, clicking away as if there was no music at all. It felt like I had walked into a dream. It was loud and certainly not conducive to sleep. I couldn’t bring myself to do work, at least not real work. Instead I cranked out an essay for an internship application that was due the next day, one that I had threatened myself I would get to but kept hitting the snooze button on.

Locked out of my apartment, sleep deprived, satanic growling in the background. Snoozing was no longer an option.

This story continues….

Report #22

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 08:23:00 -0700

Dear Chinese Neighbor,

Our walls are thin and you must know this. I can hear your TV so you should be able to hear mine. I find this acoustic problem troubling because one night when I angrily banged on the wall I nearly crippled my hand against the concrete. Yes! Concrete! You’d think we’d be sealed up like prisoners in solitary confinement alone with only our thoughts behind walls like these. Maybe our ceiling is made of straw. I don’t know. In any case I need you to pipe down a bit, especially that girlfriend of yours. How can you stand her whiny voice? I liken it to a mosquito or a crow cawing at sunrise. You’ve been inviting her over more frequently these past few months and I can tell it’s not going very well. She seems to do all the talking and sometimes her whininess becomes so intense it sounds like you’re arguing with a child over there. I suppose with all that stress you’ve taken to smoking an occasional cigarette in the hallway. This is the real purpose of my letter, to inform you that our little platform at the top of the stairs is no lounge. Actually it’s not the street either, so for god sake don’t spit on the ground and don’t ash your entire cigarette where we walk. I should also inform you that in addition to our building’s thin walls we have large cracks under our doors, which act like high-powered air intakes. I get about 25% of your cigarette under my door if the little window in the stairwell is shut. Damn you for this. I’ve tried to catch you in the act, but when I smell the scent and explode out of my door unprepared for what I might say to you, you’re gone, just a plume of smoke, ashes, and spit.

I have little hope for correcting this cultural fault of yours, but do note that in 40 years or so this act will be considered a faux pas and with luck will get you kicked out of the building. You see, in America, we used to be able to smoke everywhere too, in airports, grocery stores, restaurants, even bars! But then people realized that only smokers like smoke. Your days are numbered.

Sincerely,

Your neighbor

Report #21

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 09:23:00 -0700

It is rare to find individuals who are uniquely their own character. I think the Coen brothers can say this better than me:

Now this story I'm about to unfold took place back in the early nineties--just about the time of our conflict with Sad'm and the Eye-rackies. I only mention it 'cause some- times there's a man--I won't say a hee-ro, 'cause what's a hee-ro?--but sometimes there's a man. And I'm talkin' about the Dude here-- sometimes there's a man who, wal, he's the man for his time'n place, he fits right in there--and that's the Dude, in Los Angeles.

I went out on the 2nd ring again, this time to the Northwest section at Xizhimen. There is a large public plaza that spans across the entire highway as it dips below grade. On top of this land bridge are kite-flyers scattered throughout the square and a few kite vendors. There were also inline skaters blasting dub-step through a tiny boom-box while they weaved in and out of plastic cones and did fancier versions of hockey-stops. Four or five tricycles with boxed enclosures rolled up and began unloading dozens of roller skates and inline skates, laying them out in an orderly array. These were mobile roller skate vendors, unaffiliated with one another, but cooperative in that they kept their prices fixed: 5 RMB for a pair of skates for the evening.

The real treasure of the visit was this Dude, an old Beijing man who also had a tricycle (pickup truck style, no box) with four ‘Wangtong Birds’ tethered to a homemade perch on the handlebars. At first I was drawn to the birds, which are a cobalt blue and grey with bright yellow beaks, a little bigger than a cardinal. It wasn’t clear whom they belonged to until Jenny spotted a man casually strolling about 10 feet away from the tricycle who was wearing, not by accident, a blue and yellow jumpsuit. This man was in his 70’s, his white hair wind-blown, but he was fit and the jumpsuit and fanny pack he wore made him look the part too. He had the swagger of guy who was completely at home.

We wanted to get a photo of him with the birds to show the matching outfits, but his purposeful vibe made him seem unapproachable. Then he walked over to his four birds and took one off from the perch, grasping its body in his hand. He took out some sort wooden tube, which he stuck under his bottom lip pointing it up in the air. With both hands he hurled the bird into the air and it began to fly about 30 feet up. He blew into the tube and bird came flying back to his hand. It was though the bird was attached to string like a yo-yo. Once it returned to his hand he fed it some seeds. We watched this routine several times until it was clear that the tube was actually a miniature blowgun and there were no strings attached, the bird is trained to catch a plastic bead that the man fired into the air, return it to his hand, and get a reward of seeds.

The man went through his birds one by one, giving each one a turn. He put away the blowgun and took out a slingshot from his fanny pack, and hurled the bird into the air. This time the bird really took off. It flew about 100 feet up in the air making large circles around the plaza. The man walked about 20 paces away from his trike and fired the sling shot straight up just as the bird was circling around. Its wings flapped haphazardly for a moment and it maneuvered off course, then loyally flew back to the man’s hand as he walked back with his arm extended not even looking as the bird approached from behind.

This was his act. He didn’t have a tip jar asking for money, he just did his thing, and then rode home. Jenny and I tried to interview him, but he wasn’t very talkative, which my white face and long microphone didn’t make any better. We did manage to get a few tidbits out of him: he’s retired, he just does this when he feels like it, he lives in the neighborhood, it takes a year to train one of the birds, and his birds are about 4 years old. There wasn’t enough time before he began riding away to ask: How did you become so cool? Do you wear the jumpsuit all the time or just during your routine? Are you a wizard? Do you want an apprentice?

Report #18

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 07:39:00 -0800

Hong Liang came to work for OPEN shortly after Stardy was fired. Both interns have made appearances in Reports from Beijing; most recently Hong Liang was a guinea pig for my first podcast interview. Unlike Stardy, whose charm and confidence made for fast friends, Hong Liang was slow to emerge from his shell. At first he was quiet, very serious, and I only knew him as the guy that picked out all the peanuts from the salad at our evening dinners. His English wasn’t very good, actually the worst in the office. During his first three weeks he was hunkered down over a model with the overbearing supervision of Li Hu. He was modeling Li Hu’s personal house that had already been built. This was just fluff to have in the office, an object to photograph for the website, and therefore had to be perfect. And three weeks later it was. Hong Liang was then freed up and ready to be put on another project; that’s when I got him.

We had a weird project come into the office for a large development in Ordos, Mongolia called 20+10, code named for twenty architects to build twenty buildings in 2010. They had an impressive line up of a well know architects. OPEN was asked to participate later, which is like being the unpopular kid that gets invited to the party to fill in space. We were given a tortured site, severely eroded from years of rain and hastily routed drainage from the adjacent highway. Li Hu saw this and was enamored by the “nature”. It was a gorge to be sure, and he wanted to preserve it. This wasn’t a real project for us, no money in it up front. The developer was the Ordos government itself, and they wanted to create enough hype to attract private investors. So this thing was kind of joke, which is how I got put in charge.

In architecture school you’re taught to work iteratively. You make a sketch, build a model, sketch the model, draw in the computer, make a diagram, and on and on. It’s like the way a cow chews cud. The process is supposed to refine the design. In my situation, Li Hu delivers a vague sketch and we start chewing cud. The first few days were a little bumpy. I didn’t really know how to deal with Hong Liang.

We quickly moved into the model making stage, which was like a vacation in the office, and easily my most enjoyable time thus far. It was one of those rare moments when you think wow I’m actually getting paid for this (albeit not very much). Hong Liang and I cranked out model after model. It was easy to communicate with him over such basic tasks like ‘make this drawing into a model’ as opposed to trying to simplify the instructions to make a collage in the computer that has the look and feel of ‘nature’…

After awhile Hong Liang came out of his shell and his funny sense of humor emerged out of a very limited vocabulary. It was fun working with him, and I was sad to him return to school just before the Chinese New Year. He had made a lot of friends in the office, and before he left we urged him to make a facebook account so we could stay in touch. And that’s when he asked me to name him.

Hong Liang wanted an American name for his facebook account. I tried to persuade him to keep his Chinese name.

“Hong Liang, you don’t want an American name. Your name is good. It sounds weird when I meet a Chinese person and they say, ‘hellro, I’m Paul’. It seems fake.”

He wasn’t convinced.

I have also gone through the naming process, but stood my ground and held onto my American name, which sounds like ‘Marc-uhh’ in Chinese. Ying was the biggest proponent in the campaign to give me a Chinese name.

“But Marc-uhh doesn’t really mean anything.” She protested.
“Neither does Marc.”
“It doesn’t?” She seemed disappointed. Chinese names are notorious for translating into warrior like poems, like ‘Strong Horse Lucky Tiger’, things like that.
“No Ying, my name is just Marc. I was named after a metal recycler, I guess.”
“What? What does that mean.”
“My mom’s friend. He spelled his name with a C.”
(Silence)
“But in Chinese Marc-uhh means like a marker, or a mark on the wall.”
“Yeah, it’s the same in English.” I think Ying felt embarrassed after that, and I am to this day known in the office as Marc-uhh, or sometimes Mar-gong, which means ‘architect marc’…not really a warrior or anything.

Usually when you name a person it’s at the beginning and the name bears an optimism of who the person will become. It’s hard to say whether or not a person lives up to their name, but often enough there seems to be some correlation, I think. My first instinct was to find a name that bore some resemblance to the sound of ‘Hong Liang’, and I wrote down Homer, and Javier for some reason. Then I thought whom does he look like, who is his character? Simon. No, maybe an Alex. I read off my list of names none of which he liked, except for Alex, but he couldn’t really pronounce it.

“Arrex”? He asked.
“No, Alllllex, la, la, llllllllaaa, Alex.” I tried correcting.
“Arex” he said confidently.

I imagined him introducing himself to people, using his American name, and the problems that would ensue. It’s like when you meet someone with an unusual name in a noisy bar, and it takes several exchanges before you get it right. That should be avoided if possible.

Mengyi shouted out “Toby!”
“Yes!” I said in agreement. She hit the nail on the head. Hong Liang is a Toby, through and through. He seemed to like it, and he could say it fairly well.

We took him out dinner as a going away celebration before the Chinese New Year and before I left for the states. We went to his favorite restaurant ,which he always talked about being ‘sooo delishurrrrse’, and it usually came up during his criticism of the food Ying orders for the office dinners….because ‘that food is not so delishurrrrse’.

A couple weeks later I got a friend request from (Toby) Hong Liang Shen.

Accept.

Report #16

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 23 Jan 2011 08:04:00 -0800

Other Jobs I’ve heard about in China, and Imagine myself Pursuing:

1) I’m dressed in a slick black suit that was hand made to fit me by a child with nimble hands. I feel overly proud for once in my life, to be white. My only task today is to be present, because, after all I’m a business escort. Not the kind that performs unspeakable things for cash, but the kind that accompanies Chinese businessmen to meetings in order to gain credibility. I’m the symbol for western modernity, a white face, and for this I charge 1200 yuan / hour. Riding around in the black Audis is nice, except for all the smoking. This I’ve had to adopt because it’s customary for cigarettes to be exchanged during a business deal. While I thought this career move would eventually lead to a deeper understanding of high stakes business I’ve absorbed nothing because most negotiations occur in Chinese. During these talks I drink bitter green tea and burn my mouth.

2) Before me are eager adult faces ready to learn like children. I teach English as a second language and make four times as much as a junior architect. I cannot speak Chinese and feel sheepish that my students are gossiping about me under my nose. I embrace myself for the call that will get there attention “Hi yo Ho Hello!” This is gibberish and means nothing but it sounds like a mix between English and Chinese and quiets them down nonetheless. I zero in a younger student giggling and feel uncomfortably warm like I’m turning red.

3) I borrowed $40,000 to buy a BMW in the States and sent it to China. I can do this once with the right kind of visa. Back in China I sell it to a nouveaux riche Chinese guy who is willing to pay $60,000 because BMW’s are in short supply, and he can’t easily go to the States like I can. This job is easy, and has earned me two years of comfortable, work-free life in Beijing. Now I spend my time like a free-spirited artist unencumbered by everyday affairs. I make strange things out of fabric and take photographs as though I am a visitor from another planet. This mushy life has both softened my palms and my speech. I can also touch my toes once again.

Report #15

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 05:42:00 -0800

There are some stories that must be told:

My toilet seat broke the other day. Without getting to graphic, there are those who stand and cleanse and those who take care of the job while sitting. I fall into the latter category, which requires some weight shifting. And with that said, ‘Snap’, my plastic toilet seat cracked underneath me, and a big fragment of the seat fell into the toilet.

Now, my toilet is not like others. There really isn’t any water in it, except way down the hole, past where the eye can see. It flushes like regular toilets, swishing water across the bowl and making everything disappear. This design has its advantages and disadvantages. For one thing you have act fast on the courtesy flush, otherwise your small bathroom quickly turns into an outhouse at summer camp. The only advantage of the waterless bowl is there is never, ever any back splashing, which easily outweighs any disadvantages.

This could have been worse with a conventional toilet; it might have even clogged it. When the chunk of seat when down the hole I was in the safe zone in terms of the flushing sequence, just paper, which I tried to flush past with limited success. The fragment was too big to flush down, and even though it was far enough down the hole that I couldn’t really see it, there is no doubt it would cause future problems. So, with rubber kitchen gloves on, I went in and pulled out what looked like a white jellyfish. That was my first gross encounter.

The seat was still usable, although with the big chunk missing it gained the ability to bite and gnaw at your thigh like a lobster. To my disappointment, Carefour didn’t carry toilet seats. The only other place I knew would have it was taobao, the Chinese eBay, but this required the help of a Chinese person.

“Ying, I need a new toilet seat.”
“What? Why?”
“I broke it.”
“How did you break a toilet seat?” she asked.
“It just broke.” I said, trying to avoid going into details about the two different camps.
“But what size, there are probably different sizes?” she said. I was afraid of this. “You should probably measure it.” She suggested.
“Okay, well maybe you can just look on taobao and see if they are different sizes.” I pleaded.

Two weeks went by and the lobster claw pinched me many times, and never followed up with Ying. I also never got around to measuring my toilet seat, and even I had remembered to bring a tape measure home, the seat mounting screws were hidden from the top. And that’s what is really important when it comes to toilet seats, the seat mounting screws.

My apartment has been very reliable, but lately the bathroom is cursed. The next thing that went in the bathroom was the fluorescent light. This seemed easier to deal with. I pulled the cover off the ceiling fixture and unplugged the compact tube. It looked advanced but it seemed like something Carrefour would have in their aisle of light bulbs, but they didn’t. I had gone back to Carrefour for a second time that day on a return visit to stock up on Chinese candy to bring home when I head back to the States at the end of the month. I had my granny cart loaded with bags full of little candies from the bulk section. There are a lot of souvenirs one can bring home in trying to sum up a culture, but for some reason I think candy does a good a job, especially for kids.

On my way home with the granny cart in tow, I paid special attention to the strip of stores across from where I live. I see people out there making vinyl windows from scratch, and welding window cages for apartment buildings. In their tiny square storefronts you can see building materials like large looms of wire, PVC pipe, and bags of sand. I never really considered this strip of little stores to be hardware stores; it seemed more serious like a lumberyard where only professionals are allowed. I walked slowly past each glass window, peering in for clues that might lead to a D2 light bulb or better yet, a toilet seat. I went inside one of them that had lots of electrical wire. There were two women and two children behind the counter, lounging on a day bed. This is common to see in small stores, which double as the family’s apartment as well. I pulled out the D2 light bulb.

“Je ge Ni yo, ma?” I asked (do you have this?)
“yo” she replied (have)…this is a funny thing in Chinese, where you can just answer with the verb.
The store lady said more things in Chinese, of which the only thing I caught was something about ‘cheaper’. She pulled out three different brands of D2 light bulbs each a different price. I went with the middle of the road one. Next, I was going to try for a toilet seat. I didn’t see any in the store, which is no bigger than 8x12 feet. I waved my hand in the air for a pen as I gestured in a scribbling motion. This took longer than it should’ve, and finally they understood. While my mandarin is slowly improving, my ability to sketch thumbnails pic-tionary style has increase three-fold. I drew a toilet seat, which was easily understood judging by the eight-year old boy’s hysterical laughs. Actually, they were all laughing. The lady went in the back of the store and fished out new seat. I opened the box to check the seat mounting screws and was relieved to discover that they were universal, adjustable in fact. Twelve dollars later I was in business.

As I was leaving I realized that I had in my granny cart what was the equivalent to pirates treasure for kids, candy. I pulled out a bag and turned to the little boy and offered him a couple pieces. He declined in an almost automatic way. When the two ladies saw the candy they encouraged him. His older sister, probably ten, came running from the day bed behind the counter and gladly took some. I unrolled the bag and let them take their pick…. and he slowly took one, two, three, then four…the mothers were laughing and I could tell they seemed a little embarrassed, but it was funny.

Back home, I put in the light bulb and once again could see in my bathroom. I carefully put on my rubber gloves. Just when you think you’ve cleaned your apartment from top to bottom and all things disgusting are gone, you remove a toilet seat. I was careful to keep one sanitary hand for tearing off sheets of paper towel and administering spray cleaner. I scrubbed through the nastiest, gummy brown rectangle that was the extents of the toilet seat hinge. I felt clean and fresh putting the new seat on the now, completely white porcelain rim. I disposed of the old seat in the empty box, treating like evidence from a crime scene. My rubber gloves were retired after that episode, which concludes my second gross encounter.

Report #14

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 9 Jan 2011 04:31:00 -0800

Short Accounts of Things I’ve Seen Recently in Exactly 100 Words:

The white painted walls in my office are made of concrete, which makes them thumbtack-proof. Chinese tape sucks and Beijing air dries out the sticky-ness, so hanging drawings on the wall is limited at best. Enter the Chinese carpenter man who screwed 4x8 sheets of soft, dense foam to the walls for a pin up space. He does good work, but what is even more impressive is when he mounted the 6’ folding stepladder like one would a horse, legs over each side, feet on opposite rungs, and started walking across the room as if he were on stilts.

I heard an explosion like a bomb went off, and then smoke filled the air and poured into my apartment as I leaned out the window to investigate. A small hair salon three buildings from my apartment had gone up in flames. I think the fire happened first and the explosion came later because when I joined the mob of onlookers in the street to watch the firemen hose the flames, they only seemed concerned about pulling out mangled furniture, not bodies. The roof was gone, and only the walls remained. Now, three weeks later, the salon is completely rebuilt.

One night I rode my bike to Sanlitun to meet some friends for a drink. On my way there I saw a large group of people and police cars gathered next to a canal below the airport expressway. People were yelling and pushing one another around. The subject of the dispute was a body on the bank of the canal between the water and the road covered with a tarp. When I rode home, the crowd and the body were gone, what remained was a wet spot in the dirt in the shape of the person who drowned that night.

It hasn’t snowed in Beijing this winter. Not once. However last weekend I went snowboarding with some friends an hour outside of Beijing where they don’t have snow either, just artificial snow blown onto the slopes. This makes for a strange scene in the landscape….drab brown then bright white slopes. Normally when I ride a chairlift at great heights and think of horrible things like falling or getting stuck for days, the jump down to the white blanket below seems feasible, even safe. Riding a chairlift over rocks and scrub brush makes one explicitly aware that chairlifts lack seat belts.

Report #13

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 2 Jan 2011 21:24:00 -0800

No carts were available at the Carrefour grocery store, only a few stragglers at the front entrance that were either crippled or just passed up; because who wants to push a cart half a block when you can get one at the door? Not today. I doubled backed and rescued one of the castaways. Inside it was crazy. Carrefour was having a huge New Years Day sale that made Black Friday look tame. I suppose their weekend sale was perfectly timed with the first of the month. Unlike the states, where people seem broke on the first because their rent is due along with many other bills, in China today is payday. Most salaries are dished out in monthly installments, not weekly or bi-weekly as we’re used to. And people don’t pay rent here every month, most pay quarterly or bi-annually.

I visit Carrefour once a week to stock up on food and other necessities. It’s a two-story building with a grocery store on the first floor and a department store above where you can get almost anything. A ‘Report’ dedicated to this large grocery store is long overdue.

My first few visits to Carrefour were stressful and produced much anxiety. I just wasn’t prepared for the noise, the number of people, or the tactics required for actually gathering food. I’d leave exhausted, sweating from the winter clothes I didn’t need inside, and keeled over with a heavy Ikea bag to lug home. I dreaded going to Carrefour. Everything about it seemed awful.

The entrance is a wide and steep concrete ramp that leads up to carwash-style octopus cleaners, except they’re not blue and soft, they’re dingy, hard plastic and you have to fight your way through a slit opening to get inside. If you’re afraid of germs on a public door handle, this like getting the full body treatment if you’re not careful. The entrance foyer is flanked with official-looking people behind several different service counters. I’m not sure what they do, but it seems financial and large lines form from these service areas. It has the austerity of customer service or layaway. There are two ways to actually get into the store, a narrow path along the corral of check out lines, or up the long ramp to the 2nd floor, which deposits you into the electronics section with an empty grocery cart.

The scene inside is like a crowded subway car where everyone has a cart and they’re all shopping. One might think this scenario would produce anger or violence, I mean it certainly would in the states. I can just imagine impatient soccer mom’s wielding oversize carts around saying, “Excuse me! Your cart is in MY way.” That was my first problem -I was the impatient soccer mom, trying to bob and weave, and getting frustrated. But I quickly learned when to be aggressive and when to lay back and just flow with through the store with the sea of people. Below is a FIELD GUIDE that I should’ve been given upon first entering the store, it would read: “ADVICE TO WESTERNERS”

FRESH PRODUCE: First you must find the lone roll of plastic bags (this might take 10 minutes). And because there is only one roll, you must pull it like a careless toddler pulls toilet paper, getting your entire supply of vegetable bags in one go. Don’t bother sorting through piles of produce with all the Chinese people, their sorting and identification techniques are far superior and you’ll be left with bruised and blemished veggies and fruit.

Just watch one of them go through the miniature oranges, you’ll see no rhyme or reason why they choose one over another. Try it yourself and you’ll be disappointed with what you bring home. Your best bet is to stick with pre-packaged produce that the grocery store prepares. You’ll pay a little bit more money for a really perfect pair of spinney cucumbers because their hand picked by the best sorters, and 50 cents isn’t that much extra. Plus you can skip the line to weigh and price produce.

THE LINE TO WEIGH AND PRICE PRODUCE: Avoid this at all costs because it’s cutthroat. You’ll quickly learn that Chinese people cut in line, but it’s not the same as where you come from; a place where such blatantly unjust acts would be cause for verbal assault, or even violence. Here there are no managers to call, no customer service to soothe your temper. You just wait a little longer. It’s like “Oops, I guess I shouldn’t have looked at those apples for two seconds.” And the other guy is like “Ha, ha, foreigners are so slrrow and rlazy.” And everyone walks away happy. If you make it as far as the weigh machine, you’ll have to get into gear and start firing bags of fruit and veggies to the scale-lady, who is a teenager. Quickly hand each bag onto her scale, use both hands because it’s go time! She won’t look at you and wont touch anything in your basket. It’s kind of like interfacing with a human robot. She just weighs, bundles, stickers, and hands off. It will feel like the bottle return machine at Kroger with someone grabbing each one and crushing it with their hands before you. And no matter how fast you go, the ‘overload’ alarm will never sound.

PREPARED FOODS SECTION: This is worse than old country buffet, but equally fascinating. Lot’s of yelling happens here and you won’t be able to understand any of it. Just know they’re trying to sell stuff, even though you know that shouting out what can be imagined as “Get your greasy-boiled-spicy-pig’s-feet-liver-stomach-noodles. So tasty and delicious!” is no way to sell anything in a super market. But this where you’re wrong and the FIELD GUIDE is right; Carrefour has 50% of their staff loitering at every aisle and every corner to sell you something, by yelling. Avoid the prepared foods section, except to take photographs and send to your loved ones back home.

MEAT, FISH, AND POULTRY: This is very raw. The butcher shop is front and center, and while all of the land-animals have already been finished, it will be more than you’re used to seeing in the deli section back home. You’ll be tempted to buy one of the turtles for a pet, saving its life, but this is a bad idea. You won’t be so sympathetic to the carp because they’re carp and as Westerners we despise these fish for being gross and trying to get into our Great Lakes. With that said, same advice on the meat as the fruit and vegetables: go for the pre-packaged, unless you want to ladle through a pile of boneless chicken breasts. Also, don’t be alarmed when you see someone put a whole rack of ribs into their cart, unwrapped. Why waste a bag? You’ll also be impressed by how inexpensive meat is. What might cost you $11 dollars for boneless chicken breasts back home will only cost $1. It’s the same for beef and pork. At first you’ll be excited, and then a little nervous as you wonder why this price differential is so large. The FIELD GUIDE has no answer.

YOGURT AISLE: This is the one of the most happening spots of the whole grocery store. It just has that look and feel like something’s going on. There are big banners of yogurt-like Chinese models, eating yogurt, and feeling great about yogurt. You will also see what look like 60’s go-go dancer / anime pop star girls offering free samples of yogurt. They all wear brightly colored mini-skirt dresses, white leather boots, and microphone headsets, which project their voice x10 from a small speaker worn on their hip. They also wear medical facemasks. The go-go anime pop-star girls don’t work for Carrefour, they work for big-yogurt and are there to cut deals, like buy 5 get 1 free. The sample girls never turn off their hip-mounted loudspeakers even when having a conversation with a potential buyer, which really helps with the theme of yell-to-sell.

WINE AISLE: This is where they put the lowest-functioning aisle sellers. Chinese people don’t drink a lot of wine, so it’s basically a dead zone. The wine aisle seller will follow you but remain silent due to the language barrier. Once you make your selection they’ll mutter something and point to an adjacent bottle, which is a little more expensive. That’s it. That’s the wine aisle.

CHECK OUT LINE: This is where your ice cream will melt, so let it be the last thing you put in your cart before getting in line. Here you can observe a wide a cross section of Chinese people, short ones, tall ones, fat ones, old ones, every kind. It’s almost as varied as the ecology of Walmart shoppers, but fewer degenerates and outright wrong creations. You can observe the rising obesity epidemic among Chinese children here as well. The checkout line is almost as hurried as the line to weigh and price produce. There are no conveyor belts, just a little shelf to place your basket onto. This is where strategy counts. Of the three grocery vehicles: lone basket, cart that accommodates two baskets, and classic cart, the cart that is a frame for two baskets is ideal. Keep heavy items in one basket and light-fluffy-delicate things in the other. This will help ensure you get all the heavy stuff first because there is no time for sorting in the check out line. Unlike the States where the checkout ladies and gents seem deficiently slow or hopelessly depressed, the Carrefour workers are like black-jack dealers hopped up on Vegas oxygen. There is a manager that cycles through the check out lanes, but not to do overrides or price checks, it seems that this person’s job is to yell at the cashiers. You’d think that a public display of verbal abuse would be cause for protest amongst the sympathetic shoppers, but that’s just soft, western ideology. Quickly load your granny cart with the heavy stuff first, and then the light stuff on top. The granny cart is a nescessity for the 15-minute walk home. Don’t bother using a big shoulder bag or a backpack, use gravity and leverage to your advantage.

THE END.

Report #12

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 01:53:00 -0800

I threatened myself a couple months ago that I would find a gym, but the threat level has gone from red to orange to yellow. Maybe it’s the cold or maybe it’s the routine I’m stuck in now. However in my defense, there aren’t a lot of gyms out there screaming at you to join. A fitness center with big glass windows and frantic members running like hamsters staring at you just doesn’t happen here like it does, say in New York. If I lived near one of those 24-hour New York fitness centers, I’m sure I would’ve caved under the pressure of walking past it everyday, and I would be locked into a contract that I’d later regret, and eventually my regret would be replaced by financial motivation to get my money’s worth, and I would become a hamster.

What I do see everyday are the Chinese version of gyms. They’re outside and have a communist flare to them…in that they’re free and open to the public. Chinese gyms are basically playgrounds for adults. To illustrate what a Chinese gym is, here is a set of instructions on how to make one:

1) Imagine all the popular fitness equipment you might find in a Bally’s Total Fitness…
2) Now remove any motors or easily damaged parts like rubber, electronics, cables, etc. and make sure there are no loose pieces like individual weights.
3) Beef up the equipment with thick, round tube-steel.
4) Next, paint the skeleton-like machines with bright yellow and blue paint
5) Mount your machines on a paved surface and bolt each one to the ground
6) Also, add a concrete ping-pong table or two with a concrete net.
7) And also add other fitness-machine-imaginations like large steering wheels mounted to poles. You’re not sure what those do, but you have a feeling they’ll be a huge hit.
8) Wait…

Before long, the gym will be crawling with people…. but not young, healthy Chinese people or even children, your gym will be a senior citizen hot spot. This is true.

On a sunny 30 degree day like today in Beijing, you’ll see dozens of elderly people going hard on what looks like a playground. It’s as if the old people showed up and kicked out the kids. It’s such a strange scene a photograph would do so much, but I haven’t mustered up the gumption to stand before 20-30 senior citizens, moving rhythmically on colorful equipment, staring aimlessly at me, and take a photo. I just watch, and slowly walk past trying to unpack why exactly does the sight seem so wrong. And here are some thoughts.

What we know to be ‘gym’, is a very standardized place with certain types of floor coverings, mirrors, machines, weights, towels, people dressed in gym clothes, etc. We take for granted how all the gym-ness signs amount to an overall image of a fitness center. But when you start removing these signs, taking away the building, the soft and futuristic edges of the fixtures and furnishings, removing the young people and their athletic clothing…you start to get close to what a Chinese gym looks like. I think the real deal-breaker is the outerwear. The senior citizens who are the most devoted patrons aren’t too worried about athletic pants or running shoes, they pretty much just show up in their street clothes, which right now consists of heavy overcoats and puffy looking slacks inflated by thick, long-underwear, and black or brown shoes. In their everyday garb they start making the rounds between different exercise contraptions. Some machines do the same as we’re used to seeing in a proper gym, and some make the body do really strange movements like we’re used to seeing in a proper gym, and others are entirely foreign, like the large steering wheel, which I see people grab onto with their back turned to it and sort of roll and sway with it as if their hands are stuck. Sometimes I see guys spin the wheel really fast, back and forth like they’re on a ship dodging an iceberg. Then there are also the self-administered beatings –these seem to be independent of the exercise equipment. There’s a lot of leg slapping and punching and it reads like “Come on you goddamn hip! Work! Work!” Then more punching…. really anywhere you can land a blow to the body, the back, the hip, the quad, the arm, the other arm, the calf, just not the face.

The American aesthetic of gyms and exercise is explicitly linked with youth, vitality, and sex, not geriatrics. The American gym is so much more about looking good than being healthy. And why shouldn’t it be, I mean just think about the popular exercise equipment we grew up with. We had Suzanne Somers lying on her side, pumping a thighmaster on late night TV, there was the ab-master awkwardly working your core, and Tony Little taking long strides in spandex on his Gazelle…and while not exactly a role model per se, he did seem to have an agressive agenda…

For better or worse, as a young person growing up with tv in America, infomercials somehow became embedded in the collective consciousness. Late nights, boredom, and adolescence I guess. So now imagine this scene…all these old Chinese people 60+ years old, in their street clothes in the middle of winter…and they’re bobbing, swinging, lifting, rotating, pulling, humping, and beating themselves, with calm faces, some even have on big sunglasses and Russian fur hats, and they’re on what looks like children’s playground equipment… and that’s about when the strangeness sets in…

Report #11

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 07:37:00 -0800

This week's Report is in the form of a podcast. You'll need itunes (or similar) media browser to listen to the podcast. To subscribe to Reports From Beijing Podcasts, follow these steps:

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If you don't have itunes, and can't play an MP4 use this MP3 link instead.

Report #10

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 05:56:00 -0800

This is what thirty thousand Yuan looks like. It’s the most money I’ve ever held in my hand before….the most, as in physically, because it’s nowhere near thirty thousand dollars. But it is three hundred of one thing--three hundred bills of money--and feels equally provocative. This is how I paid for my apartment; one lump sum for one year’s rent. That’s just how hot the rental market is in Beijing and goes to show how unscathed the Chinese economy is after the financial Crisis.

One of my co-workers, Qing Bo, couldn’t come into work one Saturday a few weeks back because he and his wife had to sell their house. I asked our project manager “So, does he have to go to a closing or something?”
“No…he’s just doing an open house.”
“Oh, I see…”
When Qing Bo came into work on Monday his house was sold. Just one day on the market, and he already bought another, an even bigger one.

I suppose when making large transactions most people get cashier checks or something equivalent, but I had to pull money out of ATM machines from several of my US bank accounts to pay a year’s rent. In the end I racked up hefty fees from the servicing bank, the kind that don’t show up right away. I had half a dozen $15 dollar fees from the Chinese bank. I guess they don’t like TCF back home, but I had no way of knowing at the time. It’s not like the $2.00 fee you agree to upfront. In hindsight I should have consolidated funds between my US accounts and made a single wire transfer to my Chinese bank account, but at the time speed was all that mattered.

Logistics aside, what I want to focus on is the rawness of this stack. The weight of it in the folded envelope I used to cart it around. The secret I was carrying as I passed any number of potential thieves that could smell giant stacks of money like wolves smell blood. At the lease signing I wasn’t sure when to pull out the fat envelope as it would somehow prove I was vulnerable in the deal, no room to negotiate any last hiccups, I had the money, I was all in.

A big stack of money is dirty. Counting and handling it makes your hands a little grimmey. My landlady is an amazing counter of money. She used a technique where she held the folded wad with both hands and meticulously pulled each bill off the stack with her pinky and ring finger while keeping everything perfectly aligned with her thumbs and fingers. It was like watching a fiddler crab eat a piece of meat.

My counting technique was awkward and sloppy, monopoly-style. I made little stacks in equal amounts so that when I screwed up I didn’t have to start all over. As careful as I tried to be I still messed up by giving her 100 Yuan too much, which she was nice enough to pull out. I left that day feeling a little nervous at what, if any influence I had with my landlord if something were to go wrong with the apartment. I mean…. I couldn’t exactly stop paying rent. I also wondered what she was going to do with that chunk of money. Would it go to pay off something? Or would she stuff it in a shoebox under a mattress?

Handing over the money seemed like something far more criminal was happening than a simple rental agreement; the Chinese contract that was illegible to me, the two apartment broker girls standing there in black suits looking bored, the landlady and her husband who wandered around the apartment as if it was the first time he had seen it. For a moment I wondered if I was living out the email scam that you’re not supposed to reply to. Having Ying, the office secretary, there made things seem safer. My tensions of future apartment problems eased when my landlady fixed a leak and some cracked plaster on my porch and bought me two space heaters within the first week. And every so often she text messages Ying to ask if I need anything. Now, two months into it I couldn’t be happier with this little home, the thing that thirty thousand other things was traded for.

Report #9

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sat, 4 Dec 2010 22:36:00 -0800

Dear Chinese Cleaning Lady,

Hey, it’s me the American. You know, the one that showed up too early on the first day and you had to unlock the door after hearing the doorbell ring repeatedly? You were pretty confused, especially when I tried to tell you that I just started working here. We didn’t understand one another, so I just sat at the table and read a book while I waited for other people to show up. Anyway, that was two months ago and I’ve had time to get to know you a bit better. I know we haven’t really talked much, except for the occasional “Ni hao” exchange, but I’ve done some reflecting on your services.

First off, I must say that I’m a little uncomfortable having a cleaning lady, like when I tried to wash my own mug and you took it out of my hands. Hey, you wanted that mug and I backed off. Don’t worry, I wasn’t trying to make you irrelevant, I just thought I’d give it a pre-rinse to make things easier for you. I’ve since moved beyond my initial sheepishness of your services, and now I marvel at the fact that I can create dirty dishes and just leave them in the sink for you. This makes me feel wealthy. In fact, I’m so comfortable with your services that I inquired about hiring you to clean my own apartment. I mean, two-dollars an hour! That’s a deal! My place would be a cakewalk for you it’s so small. But apparently you’re too busy with other clients for the next two months. No need to worry, put me on the waiting list. I do however have a few tips and suggestions.

I’ve noticed that you continue to use the same kitchen towels for most tasks around the office. I realize that we don’t have a washing machine, but it’s a good practice to change these towels once and awhile. It’s been two months since I arrived, and I’m pretty sure that white dish-towel hasn’t been washed once…and it shows. I even feel a little queasy just thinking about the few times early on I used it to dry off the rim of my glass. And that brings up another issue, all the hand washing you do. The large serving plate that you use to dry the glasses upside down inevitably creates a small pond. This prevents the cup from drying on the inside and taints the rim of the glass…hence my propensity to seek a drying cloth. Maybe that’s just what you’re used to but our kitchen has a dishwasher, however you seem to use the dishwasher to store wet plates and bowls. I realize the dishwasher may look like the perfect place to store wet dishes, but this is quite backwards. When I open the dishwasher to fetch a plate or bowl it smells damp like a moldy cellar because you continue to populate it with wet things and proceed to close the airtight door. This is bad. Please run it once in awhile, and it will even dry everything inside so you can put bowls and plates in the cabinets where they belong.

While on the subject of misused storage spaces, I must inform you that the shower is not a closet. Yes, it does share the same shape as one, but unlike a typical closet, which is used to hide unsightly things, our shower has glass walls. I’m sure we can relocate your brooms and mops to a more appropriate storage area, like the closet. Don’t worry, I’m not angry with you, I just think there is some room for improvement. I still want to be put on the waiting list, if you even have one.

I do have some positive feedback to give you as well. Thank you for the fresh fruit you bring each morning. I certainly eat my fair share of clementines. One time I ate so many when I looked at my tongue in the mirror it was orange. Weird, I know. I also appreciate how each morning you try to straighten the things on my desk so everything is perpendicular to each other. But please stop returning the books I’ve taken out from the office library. These I have on my desk because I’m reading them, they’re not misplaced. Oops, here I go complaining again. Let’s just leave things on a positive note. Chinese Cleaning Lady, you’re worth every penny!

Sincerely,

The American

Report #8

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 21:39:00 -0800

Adjusting to Beijing is similar to going grocery shopping in a new store. You know it has all the stuff you need, you’re just not sure where to find everything, and aimlessly circle around the same loops. My existence here is limited to several key locations. I imagine myself a ground squirrel darting to and fro points of safety, those being: my apartment, the office, Carrefore (the grocery store), and occasionally IKEA. This would be my routine if a spy satellite studied me for several weeks, the operators of which completely bored out of their mind. And like the ground squirrel, I’m just looking for necessities on these journeys. In the spirit of the newly kicked off holiday season, below are three new products to consider:

BLACK Q-TIPS (cost: $2.00): After lamenting that Carrefore does not seem to carry Q-tips to the rest of the office, the office manager Ying, returned from an errand to 7-elleven with a small canister that appeared to be filled with charcoal. “Here, I got these for you” she said. “See if they’re okay, otherwise I’ll keep them for myself.”
“But they’re black…” I said. “Why are they black?” The label on the package had a cartoon character marveling at the glowing-yellow end of a completely black Q-tip, stick and all. I wasn’t sure if the black cotton was supposed to amplify the yellow glow or reduce it. “Come on, try one” Mengyi said. “No way, I’ve been out of Q-tips for two weeks.” The thought of having half the office watch me as I attended to my neglected ears with Q-tips that might be designed to enhance the glow of earwax was horrifying. I kept the Q-tips, and after several trials in the privacy of my own bathroom here is what I have to report:

BLACK Q-TIPS do function the same as their white counterpart, however they do not reveal earwax. This must be the intended result, but troubling nonetheless. There are some hygienic functions that everyone does, and we code these with polite numbers, one and two. Ladies, maybe you have three? Regardless, the importance of ‘white’ to these functions is critical. Feedback is key. BLACK Q-TIPSS are not the best invention, which is no surprise because if it were there would be black toilet paper, tissues, etc. on the market, and there aren’t.

GRANNY CART (cost $5.00): As a ground squirrel, speed and precision is critical between safety points. On my return trips from Carrefore, my awkward IKEA sack is filled to an almost unmanageable weight. It makes it nearly impossible to ride my bike, and dangerous too as the taxi drivers and buses are the closest thing to predators I can think of for someone on two wheels in Beijing. So, last week the granny cart that I ordered from Taobao.com (like Chinese ebay) arrived at the office. Ying was skeptical to order this for me at first, “But it’s for girls, I think…” she giggled. “It’s okay I’m comfortable with those sorts of things. Just try to get the red and white one, K-14”, which was the least feminine looking one of them all. Other options include colorful strips, flowers, etc. The GRANNY CART is a small pull behind cart with a metal frame and backpack-like sack to keep your groceries in. It’s has wheels that look like they were stolen from a set of rollerblades, three on each side which are held together by a bracket, which spins 360 degrees. The wheel system is strange, four wheels are on the ground at any given time, and when you hit a curb the whole bracket spins. I guess it’s like an all-terrain wheel system, ready to roll up anything. The cart has an umbrella holder, and a zipper pouch on the underside of the top flap to keep money or coupons in. Some of my co-workers compared the look of the granny cart to a bicycle messenger bag or a Freitag bag. “It looks hip.” Ben told me. And in fact it does. It’s tempting to import these because if I paid only $5 dollars they could easily sell for four or five times as much in the states. The GRANNY CART is very simple to put together, only becoming complex with the lack of instructions (my only complaint).

WATER DISPENSER (cost: free with the purchase of 30 bottles: $100) I don’t trust the dispenser because it is brand new and cost me nothing. The first glass of water I drank tasted like it came out of a new water dispenser. The heating spigot excited me with the thought of boiling hot water for tea any time I wanted, even though I don’t really drink tea. I kept it plugged in until I realized that I was wasting electricity on hot water I’ll never use. I’m hoping the new-dispenser taste will go away soon, so for now I just cook with the water. The delivery service for the large water bottles is very reliable. The guy lugs one up 5 stories to my apartment for nothing within a couple hours of calling. He shows up out of breath and wears these strange knee-pad shin guards things, making it clear that he rides an electric three-wheeler. These knee/shin pads are more closely related to cross-country skiing gators than a real knee-pad or shin-guard. They’re soft looking like the sleeve of a puffy winter jacket, lined on the inside with fake fur, and partially wrap the leg like a pair of chaps. That’s really what they are, Chinese chaps. And that’s really what this new product report is about; the water dispenser delivery guy’s Chinese motorcycle chaps. I’m going to get a pair….but where?

Report #5

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sat, 6 Nov 2010 21:59:00 -0700

Dear My body,

I’m sorry. I know this transition must be hard for you. Isn’t it funny how when we told people about our move to Beijing they thought I might let you get too thin as they pegged all Chinese people to be skinny or something? Ha! Looks like we’ve proved them wrong, which is the concern of this letter. You’ve probably noticed by now how I keep you sitting in a chair for about 12 hours a day. What? Yes, I know the 5 minute bike ride to work could have been longer, but I questioned your ability to withstand the coldest part of Beijing’s winter on a longer commute. So, now we live a few blocks away from work. You’ll thank me later.

As for the all the weird food I’ve fed you, this is just customary in china –all the grease, all the oil, and all the sauce that can only be categorized as ‘sauce’ because I have no idea what products it owes its existence too. Yeah, I know the sweet and sour tofu sauce is strangely neon red in color, which is why I go for the chunks with the least amount. Don’t worry, pretty soon I’ll start cooking for you again, just like in Michigan.

As for exercise, you may have noticed that our jogging routine has ceased. The reason for this lull in activity is multiple. Do you remember when I kept you up most of the night for about four days straight? Well you caught a cold after that sleep-deprived spell and I figured you needed a little recuperation time. You still haven’t quite kicked it yet, which is why I’ve been letting you sleep a bit longer. The other reason why we haven’t been out again is that when I queried my dad about the health risks of jogging in Beijing he equated exercising in polluted air to smoking a pack a day. I know, that scared you and me both even though he said your risk of lung cancer would zero out after a year of being home. Now, I’m looking for a gym that we can go to, maybe one that has pool too. This exercise thing is a must!

I’m worried about your legs, which just seem sprawl lifelessly under the desk at work all day. I have thoughts about atrophy, and soft things becoming tight and gnarled. Hey, this thing takes two, just because I’m staring at a computer doesn’t mean you have to shrivel away, bounce a leg nervously or something, I don’t care, anything. You just seem so lethargic when I go to the water cooler to fill up our glass. I’m trying to keep you hydrated because according to the tint of yellow I see in the toilet, you can get pretty dehydrated by doing nothing all day. The first few steps out of the chair can be painful, like you’re a paraplegic at physical therapy. What? That IS what you feel like? Don’t you remember that 560 mile walk we did a few months ago? I can show you that photo someone took of you flexing your leg muscles at the end. That looked crazy!

Okay, we’re losing focus now. Oh, yes, the coffee. I’m sorry I’ve put you back on caffeine. I remember how annoying that three-day headache was when I had you quit cold turkey, but come on this espresso machine at work is pretty nice, right? It’s also making us money…sort of. I mean, we could pay five dollars for a latte downstairs, but we’re drinking for free up here. It’s like getting a ten-percent raise….

I’m also concerned about your belly. You’ve been skinny most of your life, except for those early years as a toddler, which from what I gather in the mirror you seem to be reverting back to. Don’t you remember how we always gawked in disgust at those men at Stadium Hardware with the big pregnant-bellies? Well it’s clear where you’re putting any extra fat, and shockingly specific I might add. It would be nice if you could spread it out a bit more instead of stockpiling it in the mid-section. Don’t you remember when your stomach was tight like a drum? I didn’t take you to the gym or anything and yet you still had a default four-pack. Now when you flex your abdomen its like looking for potatoes buried in the mud.

Actually, don’t worry about this I’ll take care of it. It’s a simple equation really, you just need to burn more calories than I put in you. Done! But it’s not easy when you start craving sweet things after every meal. The other employees have already noticed how much sugar I put in our coffee, and when you nag me to go downstairs to the “Wow-New” market and buy an ice cream after lunch they seem to be even more confused. This all has to stop. Crave an apple or an orange because we get those for free from the fruit bowl.

I know this move has been hard for you, but I promise we’ll find our routine and go back to our old self. These things just take a little time and planning. In closing, I have a few more requests, please do not let your hands soften and fingernails grow long like a nerdy gamer-type. You can start grabbing rough surfaces if they strike you enough to warrant a touch. Try to sit more upright with your shoulders back -I fear you’re getting too comfortable with a turtle-like posture. Look proud in front of that computer dammit! That’s all for now, but we should communicate like this more often. Thanks for being there for me.

Sincerely,
Your Mind

Report #4

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sat, 30 Oct 2010 06:36:00 -0700

I’ve spent the last few days researching pedestrian traffic patterns and shopping psychology for the Metro Valley project in India, which is a mega-structure in a Special Economic Zone (SEZ) just outside of Dehli. I’ve filled my head with things like the invariant-right principle (our bias to turn right), merchandising layout psychology (the items we need are always farthest away from the entrance), the male tendency to shop without a list (and therefore impulsively). And with that, I went to the Beijing IKEA.

The escalator led me to third floor along with everyone else…it just flowed up there. There was no reason to get off at the second floor (although one could, but it looked like a service entry not a main thoroughfare). The only logical thing to do was ride it all the way to top. Once I was embedded deep within the snake-like maze I realized that there was nothing to buy. It was just a showroom. This was a time to educate myself of IKEA’s potential to create the space and subsequently the life that I didn’t know I wanted. However, I already knew I wanted this. I was there. I was ready.

I tried to rush through the rest of the third floor, but I was handicapped by a giant yellow bag and little folding cart that I was enticed to pick up along the way. There is a pace to IKEA, which cannot be violated; it’s a slow pace. Hurrying does no good other than cause anxiety. I finally emerged on the other side and discovered a giant dinning area with fancy food. It was such a smart set up they had, wooing the shoppers with ultimate IKEA lifestyle and then feeding their hunger with good but inexpensive food. After that, staying at IKEA for hours on end was no problem.

I finally made it down to the second floor where I traded my empty yellow bag and grandma cart for a real shopping cart. I went through the kitchen section slowly and recited some strange narrative that I conjured up about a potential dinner party or brunch that I might have at my apartment, and wanted to be sure I had enough settings for everyone. I couldn’t get this out of my mind. I kept going back and forth. First two wine glasses and then four. I tried to give myself a reality check every so often, which is that I’ll probably never have anyone over to my apartment. For one it’s so damn small, and two I just don’t lead that leisurely of life right now. But…..it could happen…and this glass is only $1.50, so what’s a couple more. I continued through getting multiples of four and even trading up in some instances. Choosing between the absolute cheapest option and next one up was an easy move. It’s hard to distinguish quality online (where I first did all of my browsing). This quality issue kept coming up, until I had a meltdown in the bedding department.

The quilts seemed so thin, so wimpy. I feared for the cold as I pinched the quilt between my fingers (this is the “petting principle” which is huge for shopping psychology….we have to touch things, we just have too) The sheets seemed so crappy. I was looking for the trade up but never found it. Every sheet, flat or fitted, looked grainy and see-through. The goose down comforter I thought I was going to buy wasn’t there; everything was synthetic. If only a marketing strategist would have caught me on tape (this is how many studies are done, viewing hours and hours of footage to see how and why shoppers make decisions) I would have looked crazy going back and forth to the sheets, then the duvet covers, back to the sheets, even putting a few selections in my cart, wheeling around a little bit, and taking them out, going back to the comforters…ughh there were so many things to consider and what threw the whole thing off was that DIVLA sheet set in crimson orange was out of stock in my bed size! I was falling prey to the fact that men are not as good as color matching as women and IKEA seems to take a democratic position on this and keep the fields level, whereas Gap and Banana Republic will match outfits for men and leave it up to the women to find their own combos (because women like to do that, I guess) While browsing online I thought I would go for the super-graphic, lots of color bedding, but later realized I just couldn’t handle that much action in small apartment. I finally broke down, and took out all the bedding-related stuff in my cart and headed for checkout. I would do my linen shopping at Carrefore instead, which has been described to me as the French version of Walmart.

I fish tailed my way to the escalator ramp and braced my overloaded cart for the incline only to be presently surprised that IKEA had thought of that too. My cart fused itself to the metal ramp through a strong magnetic force. I let go and it stayed in place. At the bottom I meandered through the warehouse like space at the end of the IKEA experience where the reality sets in: you have put this shit together; it’s just not as easy pointing your finger in the showroom. I approached the long gate of check out aisles and intently considered the “point of sale” items laid out for me (these are the last minute impulse buys one can make…very common for men). After my purchase, which included the default-blue IKEA bags because I didn’t think to bring my giant suitcases, I rewarded myself with 15-cent ice-cream cone and an 80-cent hot dog. The hot dog was odd looking, skinny and too long for the bun. It crookedly poked out on either end in a gross way, like a problem bowel movement for a small dog. It tasted good though.

Outside taxicabs were lined up waiting for the shoppers. I loaded up my stuff in the trunk and backseat of one and hopped up front (customary in China). It was short trip home. I managed to schlep everything up 5 flights in one shot, but created a ruckass as I squeezed my oversized bags through the narrow stairwell. I was panting at the top and it seemed inevitable my neighbors would appear out of curiosity.

I unloaded my stuff and continued the shopping mission, this time on bike to Carrefore. Upstairs about a dozen women in yellow shirts swarmed like bees around the comforters. This was too much. I pointed to the goose down and one took me down an aisle “Ty gway la!” I said (too expensive) at the $300 dollar price tag. They were all following me, saying what little English they knew “Hello, hello, you like this one?” This went on for a while until two of them coerced me into getting a wool-filled comforter. They even convinced me to do the trade up. They pointed to the different packages, one had a small sheep that looked kind of young and thin, the other package had this robust, super furry sheep. It was clear which one was better.

I rolled around with it in my cart looking at sheets. Another yellow shirt approached me with a brick-like sheet set, but the dimensions were all wrong. I showed her the measurements I had taken of my bed 150cm x 190cm, and she pointed out that my comforter was 200cm x 230cm. “I know” I said “I really like to wrap up…” but it quickly became clear that this was not a pick and choose set up. I would have to buy a comforter precisely the dimensions of my bed if I wanted to buy sheets here. This is fucked, I thought.

I rode home and parked my bike, then walked back out to the street and caught another cab to IKEA. I only rode the escalator up to the second floor this time, and took a few cut-throughs between aisles. Everything in the bedding aisle now made sense. Winter quilt with a coldness rating of 6, done! Duvet cover that is kind of textured and a soft gray-blue, got it! GOSSA HILLA pillows, you guys are so soft, in the cart! White sheets because those crimson ones are still missing, I’ll take you! Two white pillowcases that are 50cm x 80cm, that’s a match!

Back at the check out aisle I filled the conveyor belt with all my stuff and showed the clerk my blue bags like I was a seasoned veteran. I handed over my card and she seemed confused after trying it on her machine, and went to another. I knew what was happening. It’s either my US bank or China that doesn’t want you going on wild spending sprees, so it only works once per day at any given store (no repeat trips). I quickly handed her my Visa and she seemed surprised and almost humored. Yes, I thought, it is true that Americans have many of these cards. One of my co-workers was shocked when I pulled out my rubber-band wrapped stack of cards. “They’re for different banks!” I said. “I heard Americans get many cards and spend all the money.” He replied. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.” I recalled this conversation as the clerk swiped the new card and it went through. I signed the receipt and wheeled over to ice cream and hot dog stand for another cone. After all that I had been through, I needed another reward.

The next day at work I became a “marketing maven”, the term used for the consumers who are in the know and have a great influence over other consumers (they apparently watch a lot of tv, read junk mail, and like to talk about products). I told my co-worker, Ben, about shopping for linen and how IKEA was way better than Carrefore. “Really, how far away is it.” He asked “Just right up the street. A straight shot. Fourteen-kwi cab ride” I said with confidence. “Oh man, I’m definitely going…” And it is precisely that sell that is most effective and the hardest for companies to influence, and most of the time the “maven’s” don’t even know they’re doing it.

Report #2

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Tue, 19 Oct 2010 06:53:00 -0700

There are some things you just have to do, like eating a duck foot when you're out to dinner with your boss. Rubber and cartilage.

Report #1

marc.maxey@gmail.com (Marc Maxey) — Sun, 17 Oct 2010 02:35:00 -0700

My blog is now up and running with some new features. I've created links to my old blogs below the title page, and best of all there is an email subscription link to receive notifications each time a new "report" is posted (that's for you Janyki)

REPORT #1: The Acclimation Period, Two Weeks Chinese

From Detroit to JFK and then 5 hours of layover. I had two bags checked in Detroit, which were being shuffled somewhere in the airport system. I took the subway to Rockaway Beach to have one last fish-taco deluxe, but to my disappointment Rockaway Taco Stand was closed for the season. The cafe next door sufficed. I ate a fancy baguette sandwich, and then felt panic like I always do when I leave the airport on a layover. I headed back to JFK and the security line had grown exponentially since I had left. I tried to inquire with one of the line monitors about skipping it if my boarding time started in 45 min., but they assured me I would get through by then. "Don't worry your airline will come looking for you if you're late" she replied. That seemed too easy, too friendly for the airline industry.

On the plane I sat in one of the four seats in the center. The headrest unfortunately did not have one of those little tv screens to watch movies...I guess I got spoiled flying back and forth to Spain this past summer. My neighbors, a young chinese couple, had a baby....the kind that cries on airplanes. Air China served us dinner after a couple hours in the air. I got mine first, before anyone else because I had requested a vegetarian meal when I booked my ticket -it just seemed like a safer bet. The tray had a piece of tape stuck to it with my seat number written on it. I had mixed feelings of VIP status coupled with some type of deficiency.

I slept, and woke up to another dinner...again with my tray arriving first. It was similar to the first dish, pasta and vegetables in some type of alfredo sauce. I walked around some to stretch out my knees. The plane was so large you could easily do laps around the 4-seat center aisle, cutting through the flight attendant's prep area. Out one of the emergency exit doors the sky was turning a pale gray. I wasn't sure if it was dusk or dawn. We were flying pretty far north over the ocean off the coast of Alaska according to animation map. I could see the water below was covered in a sheet of ice. This would be certain death.

At the airport my luggage arrived promptly. I exited the baggage area and bought a chinese SIM card from a young girl standing next to the SIM card vending machine. She assured me that her cards were cheaper because I would get an additional 20RMB of talk time. I popped the sim card into my iphone (which I jailbroke and unlocked back at home) and she activated the prepaid minutes and I was up and running. I called Tom Lee, another UM architecture alum, who also flew into the airport that evening after a 3 day stint in Hong Kong to reset his visa. We met up and took a cab back to his place where I would stay for the next week.

Tom lives in this massive block of apartment high rises just east of the 4th ring rd. His roommate, Nick, an Englishman from Manchester teaches english classes and can speak mandarin. Both Tom and Nick smoke in the apartment, and when casually asked "Oh, do you mind?" when Tom lit a cigarette, I lied and said no. I slept on the couch and went to bed when the living room was vacated. Nick stays up late watching internet television, drinking cheap chinese beer and chain smoking. He often brings home chinese girls he meets at the bars, and from what I could gather sleeplessly on the couch, he has no regard for intimate audio levels. That was my last night on the couch. I started sleeping on the floor of Tom's room who was sympathetic to my need for sleep. My commute to work was 1.5 hrs via a bus, two subways, and a short walk. After a week I had worn out my welcome, or rather Nick inquired about my progress in apartment hunting to Tom, and also added that he felt the apartment was not big enough for three people. I was glad to leave, and would have done so before then had I known that staying on the couch in the office was fine with my boss.

My office is in the top floor of a Steven Holl building called "The Linked Hybrid". It's a 3 bedroom 3 bath condo. Most of the desks are in what would be considered the living room, and the rest take up the master bedroom. The other two bedrooms are dedicated to a library and a conference room. Our roof deck has a nice sized grass lawn, and on a clear day you can see mountains surrounding the beijing skyline. Living here has been awesome. The shower has one of those "rain shower" heads on it and just dumps out water. We have a full kitchen with a fairly robust cappuccino machine that has already swung me back into the coffee habit. It's just too easy to steam up some milk and pull a couple shots...and it's on the house.

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OBSERVATION: Riding The Subway During Rush Hour

In the subway tunnels people form thick lines on the platform waiting for the next train. When the door opens only a small void exists inside the subway car, which is far too small to fit everyone. The line slowly shuffles forward....and then....there's the push. The shuffles turn into fast wobbles, and the thick line several people across, compresses into compacted chunk of bodies squeezed tightly like a stampede that might suffer casualties. It's a frantic moment but doesn't seem to cause panic. The subway doors slice through the mono-body separating the chunk of people. Five minutes later the scene is repeated. It took three trains before I got on. When I was part of the push it felt like we were one big organism. Inside we were all packed together, bodies against bodies, all movement was felt collectively. The fat chinese men had sweat on their foreheads -the air conditioning just couldn't overcome the body heat present in the car.