The Comedy of Errors

This is simultaneously so unbelievable and believable at the same time it’s hard to know how to tell you. As the devil is in the details, I’m going to try to describe the last two days in such excruciating detail that only the painfully patient of you will make it to the end. Still, to get the full impact, a bit of imagination will be useful.

Today is Saturday. That would make yesterday Friday. As I will be leaving this coming Friday for America, I thought I would try to accomplish something I’ve been putting off until I had what I estimated to be the required time: Go to the bank and transfer money to my U.S. account.

I’ve been working hard on my overall recommendation document, which now, at 22 pages, is longer than anything I’ve written since I worked at EPA in the early 1980s. Then I was told a week ago that I would have to prepare a 5-minute PPT presentation for government officials as part of a full day of festivities here at RDFZ this coming Monday. I’ve done 3 versions of the PPT interspersed among 2 rehearsals (and my presentation was one of the best). Someone must think this is a big deal on Monday.

OK, back to the bank thing. The bank with which RDFZ does its teacher salary business is ICBC (International Commercial Bank of China, or something like that). When I arrived here last August ICBC had no ability to transfer money overseas, which I found odd for a bank with “International” in its name. I was going to have to open a second account at China Construction Bank (CCB), transfer some money there, then go to CCB and arrange an overseas transfer. A couple weeks ago, however, I learned that ICBC had just acquired the rights to transfer money overseas. Phew!

In order to transfer more than $500, I must have proof that I’m working here in China and paying taxes. To get that documentation, I had to take my passport to one of the business people here at RDFZ (her name is J) and sign a letter that allows her to have access to my tax information. She took both the letter and my passport to a local government tax office and obtained proof that I have paid taxes in October and November. She came back and told me they couldn’t find any information about my taxes for September and that information about my December taxes would not be available until February. J assured me that this government document showing that I’ve paid at least some taxes should be sufficient for the bank to waive the $500 limit.

I went online, gained access to my account, and printed the latest statement, just in case the bank had trouble finding it. I printed my deposit slip from my American bank that had the routing and account numbers.

This was 2:30 p.m. yesterday, and the temperature had soared to 36, so I thought I’d put on my old sweatshirts and smoke a cigar as I walked. So I grabbed my paperwork, lighter, wallet, and half-smoked cigar I’d been storing in a jar in the fridge and set off. It was chillier than I had expected so I put the sweatshirt’s hood over my wool hat.

I quickly got into the swing of things and enjoyed my stroll. Just before reaching my bank I encountered some children feeding and enjoying the company of their feathered neighbors.

Sorry about the finger over the lens in this picture; I’m still getting use to my cell phone. (It’s only been 4 months, after all.)

I reached ICBC, went in, and approached the receptionist who, I learned on previous visits, speaks a little English. At the entrance to Chinese banks is a receptionist who inquires as to the nature of your visit, then hits the appropriate buttons on her machine, producing a number. You then sit and wait for your number to be called, in Chinese, of course, at which time approach the designated window.

Not this time. The receptionist spoke no English, and though I was prepared to mime, gesture, and play Pictionary with her, she indicated that I should stand there and wait while she found someone who spoke my language. Very kind of her. She called to an assistant, who went through the private door and called, I presume, for an English-speaking employee. Exercising my new Chinese patience, I waited 10 minutes until a guy came out of the office and asked how he could help me. I said I wanted to transfer money from my account at ICBC to my bank in America.

He told me that this branch doesn’t do that kind of transaction and that I’d have to go up the street to another branch of ICBC. He graciously took me outside and pointed the direction I was to go, and I set off.

I came across some conifers that had some wind shields erected around them as protection from northern or western winds. This reminded me that virtually everyone I’ve met has warned me about Beijing’s heavy winds in spring.

In another block I encountered some interesting items (sorry, that’s the best I can do) in a recently dug up flower bed.

At first I thought they might be plastic tubes around the delicate stems of newly planted plants, topped by a white balloon. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the white things were perfectly round, though not uniform in size.

I also saw things at the tips of uncovered green tubes something that looked like bulbs, though I couldn’t be certain because (1) I did not have my glasses, and (2) I refrained for leaning over and touching them as a work was laboring nearby – with her keen eye on me, of course. At the moment, I’m assuming they’re lights, but who knows?

I reached the other ICBC branch and went in. This time I didn’t have to wait long for an English speaker to tell me that they don’t do international transfers at that branch. She pointed farther up the road, evidently toward a third ICBC branch.

I patiently walked another couple LONG blocks and found the ICBC. I went in and told the English-speaking receptionist what I’d like to do, she punched her buttons, then gave me the slip with my number on it. I smiled and sat down, preparing myself for a long wait. I sat there for 15 minutes with no apparent progression of the numbers displayed over the tellers’ windows. Guess what happened next?

One of my favorite contemporary singer-songwriters is John Gorka. He has a song “Shape of the World” that is particularly apropos here because the opening lines are, “Sometime I’m an idiot; many of you know that by now.” I’m sitting there when suddenly I realize that, although I remembered to print and bring all the necessary paperwork, I’d forgotten my passport, and there’s no way they’re gonna let me do this without a passport.

So I got up and left. Though feeling like an idiot, I decided to go easy on myself and simply enjoy the walk back. I arrived at school just in time for the 4:30 rehearsal for Monday’s presentations.

I spent this morning and early afternoon in my apartment, working on THE document. I took out a frozen chicken breast to thaw, deciding to eat not only breakfast and lunch at home but dinner, also. (I think I’m beginning to miss the variety of foods we have in America.) At 2:30 I headed out again for the bank, old sweatshirts, new cigar, paperwork, AND passport.

It’s about a mile to branch #3 of ICBC, but I was feeling spry and enjoyed the walk. I forgot to check the air quality index before I left and thus did not have my mask with me. I noticed a large number of people wearing them, though, so I checked my phone and saw the levels were close to 600 (“Hazardous”). Oh, well. By this time I was almost to the bank.

Once again I told the receptionist what I needed, only this time I more gesturing was required. I got my number (Y-3004) and sat down near the only teller window that does Y-3000 numbers and waited. I didn’t think I’d have to wait long as the sign above indicated Y-3002 was being served.

About 15 minutes later I saw that Y-3002 was still being served, so I got out my cell phone and took a picture of the VIP sign. *****VIP

I wondered what I had to be to qualify as a VIP. I was a little concerned because many (all?) banks frown on photos being taken inside. My stupid Taiwanese phone makes a loud clicking noise when I take a photo, so I turned down the volume to zero because I wanted to take another picture, of the teller windows with the red numbers. I tried to be as surreptitious as possible, but the @#$% phone still made that loud noise. I looked at the photo and saw that it was blurred.

Should I dare take another? (Does anyone out there know how to turn off the clicking noise?) I looked around carefully, and the armed and Kevlar-cloaked guards seemed pre-occupied. I took another. Note that after 20 minutes Y-3002 is STILL being served. *****Tellers

I sensed rather than saw the guard approach me from behind. As quickly as these piano-trained fingers could do it, I changed to a text screen and began texting. The guard came directly to me, looked at my screen, and moved on. (Sigh of relief.)

Soon thereafter, Y-3003 was called. Y-3003 was a very old man with a shopping cart not unlike my own. He groped around in there for his paperwork, handed it over, and proceeded to interact with the teller for at least 20 minutes. Meanwhile, I waited patiently while a blue-collar worker talked loudly on his cell phone and a 20-year-old girl showed her frustration at having to wait so long.

At last the old man was starting to pack up, so I stood up, getting ready to move to the window when the lady there changed the number. Before I could do so, another guy who was standing nearby rushed to the window to ask for change of some 100 RMB some notes. Fortunately (for him) it took only a minute and I finally got my chance at the teller. She was new to the job, but her English was sufficient and we quickly established what I wanted. She asked how much I wanted to transfer and I told her. She said that she’s sorry but there is a $500 limit. I looked surprised, so then she said “unless I can show that I’m working in China and paying taxes.” I smiled and pulled out my documentation. She smiled.

She began doing something that I hoped would lead to completion of this transaction. That’s when the teller next to her said something official sounding. She slowly turned to me, grinning sheepishly, and said she’s sorry but they don’t do international transfers on weekends. Would I mind coming back on Monday? I won’t say I lost my temper, but I clearly displayed some degree of frustration, revealing that I had waited a long time and that I had already told the receptionist what I needed.

I said I didn’t need to have the money transferred today, that next week would be fine, but could we do the paperwork today? She consulted her official colleague, then said she could give me the forms to complete at home prior to my returning on Monday. I sighed.

She gave me a long form in triplicate that looked very complicated…complicated because the terms they use in the English translation of this (and most) forms in China don’t always (ever?) coincide with the analogous concepts and words on America’s bank forms. I said “This looks complicated” and she nodded that it was indeed complicated, whereupon she gave me another copy of the same form in case I made a mistake, explaining that there can be no corrections whatsoever on the form when I bring it back on Monday. She added that they have a sample completed form in English to aid me, and I asked her if I might have a copy. She called to the receptionist to find a bring over said sample so she could make a copy for me.

I sat. She sat. During the 5-minute wait she occasionally called over to ask how’s it going. Finally they gave up and said they couldn’t find it. I must admit that by now I have grown used to these frustrations and suspect this will have a positive effect on my demeanor when I return home – at least for a while.

She said she was sorry, but she then pulled out someone else’s form recently completed to show me how it’s to be done. She apologized for not being able to give me a photocopy of it, but we spent several minutes going over it as I asked several questions. (I hope she doesn’t do this with MY form.)

It was 4:06 when my cell phone buzzed, and the text said “We’re here in the lobby.” That’s when I remembered I had a 4:00 appointment with a parent and his son, who is my student with the lowest grade. I apologized profusely (by text, of course) and asked if he could wait 20 minutes until I get there. He said no problem and that I should take my time, which resulted in my rushing out of the bank and running down the sidewalk, at least for a few steps.

I maintained a fast walk, peppered by occasional bursts of jogging, for the mile back to school. On the way there one of my teacher colleagues texted me, Where are you? I was supposed to be at another rehearsal. I said I’d get there ASAP, which of course meant no sooner than an hour.

As I approached the dorm where the parent and student were waiting, I picked up my jogging pace so I’d be actually winded when I approached him. That’s when I hurt my hip. So I arrived not only panting like a poodle but also limping. We shook hands, I apologized again, and he smiled graciously and said no problem.

I took them up to my office on the 5th floor, deposited them into chairs, and said I’d be right back with his son’s grade sheet. I took the elevator up to my apartment on the 8th floor, surprisingly found the grade sheet right away, then headed back to the 5th floor. In my haste, I hit floor 6 on the elevator panel as well as 5. The meeting went well, but lasted 45 minutes. He was a bright guy and asked all kinds of good questions, some of which required me to explain the neurobiology of learning and others that required a brief explanation of brain development. In the end he was convinced, and I had gained an ally.

I went back to my room, got my jacket, and went over to the rehearsal, which had been in progress for over 3 hours. They were still at it, so I limped in, hoping that would garner enough sympathy to counter my slight (2-hour) tardiness. My translator for the presentation was gone, so I sat for a respectable length of time (10 minutes) then left.

I was too drained to cook, so I went down 4 flights to the cafeteria, got some vegetables and rice, and came home to put away the chicken breast and write this post.

保罗

Need I Say More?

Bad air.

Bad water.

Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?

You’d think I’d have learned by now to be ready for last minute stuff.  Although this wasn’t an unannounced event.

Last week one of the biology teachers (Li Li) invited me to attend the award ceremony for 8^th grade students who participated in the experimental science contest held December 27.  Here’s a shock:  I forgot.

So after returning from lunch today with the badminton champion, I quickly shed my outdoor clothing for my sweat suit and sandals, then settled down to continue working on my documents.  At 4:06 Mi Qi called to talk a minute about the grading procedure, but speaking to him reminded me that the award ceremony had started at 3:35.  I reminded him, and it turns out that he, too, had forgotten.

Once more I rushed out the door, met him outside his building, and we continued on to the library building where the ceremony was well underway.

The 8^th graders who participated in the contest were gathered with the teachers scattered around the room.

There were awards for experimental design, creativity and innovation, and final presentation, as well as overall winners.  This girl was very happy that she won 2 medals.

The medals were very nicely put together, with writing on both sides.

The metal had sufficient weight and the students were very delighted and excited to be part of this wonderful ceremony.  I asked Mi Qi if the students were aware that the red, white, and blue of the ribbon portion were the colors of the American flag.  He said he wasn’t sure, but he immediately pointed out that they are also the colors in the French, British, and Russian flags.

After the students were awarded their prizes – in addition to the earned medals, there was also a sort of lottery where they pulled names out of a hat and distributed several other little prizes – the teachers who were part of this event were asked to go up front to get awards themselves.  At this time, the head of the entire event came over to Mi Qi and me where we stood way off to the side and insisted that we come down to the front, too.  I tried to resist, explaining that I didn’t really do anything to help this contest, but I was literally dragged down there, still videotaping.

Here we are after the students gave each of us a little plaque expressing their gratitude.

Mi Qi is to my right and the Deputy Principal in charge of this is to my left.  I’m the Caucasian.  If it looks like I’m an underdressed bum with a 3-day beard, that’s because I am.  I’m glad the press wasn’t there.

I felt guilty accepting this plaque for doing nothing, but it would have been worse if I had refused.  The two black characters in the first line constitutes my name, which evidently is close to the word for “polo.”

The Air That I Breathe

Nothing very cryptic about this title, I reckon.  In the early 1960s, The Hollies formed in Manchester, they became popular in America in the mid-1960s.  For about 10 years, they were one of my favorite groups, and they had some popular and interesting songs – at least for those days – such as “Bus Stop,” “Carrie-Anne,” which had a steel drum in it, I believe, “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother,” and, in 1974, “The Air That I Breathe.”

In Il Nome della Rosa (“The Name of the Rose”), Umberto Eco’s first novel, he describes monks who spent their days holed up in an eerie, medieval library copying books by hand – only books that wouldn’t offend the keepers of the Inquisition, of course.  Anyway, that’s what my life has been like for the past several days:  sequestered in my apartment due to the bad air outside, working on documents that are overdue, finishing my grades for the first semester, etc.  How did they survive mentally – no cell phones or TV or anything cool.

Early in the week I was looking forward to the weekend because predictions were that it would warm up, i.e., go above freezing for the first time in 3 weeks.  Well, it did, but just barely.  I had planned on making a long-awaited pilgrimage to the neighborhood park to have a cigar, but on Saturday the air quality index for PM_2.5 was about 800 µg/m³.

PM stands for “particulate matter” and 2.5 refers to particulates that are smaller than 2.5 microns in diameter.  By comparison, at the same time it was 800 here it was 19 in New York.  Here’s a picture of downtown Beijing…

and another…

and one from my apartment window this weekend.

For comparison, here’s a similar photo taken late in September.

Tong Jing, who seems to be particularly health-conscious, came down and put an application on my cell phone that shows the air quality feed from the U.S. Embassy here in Beijing.  All day long my eyes burned and I had a headache.  This picture shows the readings for the last 7 days.

Note that the scale goes up to only 500.  Yesterday and Saturday this chart was simply a flat line at 500, obviously indicating that all readings were over 500.  Here’s the same chart for just today.

You see that the PM_2.5 levels have declined, though not nearly to where they should be for healthy air.  People here tell me that we’re supposed to slow down our outdoor activity when it goes above 50 and that it starts to get very unhealthy above 100.

They cancelled PE classes here last week.  There will be no PE classes this week, though that’s because of the end-of-term tests everyone is taking in all their classes.

The weekend was not one of complete hermitic existence, however.  I went over to Renmin University and found the seamstress in this little row of shops inside the building that also houses the grocery.  Because I knew I could not explain the problem with the broken zipper on my jacket adequately, Tong Jing came along to help.  In the end it was agreed that they would have to replace the whole zipper, both sides.  I questioned them several times as to the strength of the metal in the new zipper, and they assured me that it would not bend like the original.  They (husband and wife) told me to return at 4:00; the total cost would be 25 RMB (about $4).  I did, and I tested the zipper before leaving.  Fuerte como toro!

I was so excited about now having a jacket that actually zipped up that I decided to splurge on some vegetables (parsley and leeks – total cost 3 RMB) and to make my mushroom soup.  I forgot to get cream, however, so instead of cream of mushroom soup, I made a simple chicken broth (using “Better Than Bouillon”) and sautéed all those mushrooms I bought the other day.  I did so one package at a time for 2 reasons:  (1) different kinds of mushrooms cook at different rates, and you don’t want any that are either under- or overcooked, and (2) my only frying pan is too small.

Then I combined slightly sautéed leeks and onions with raw, crushed garlic and parsley (lots of both), creating something akin to a French persillade.

I combined all the mushrooms into my now burned tin pot, then added the persillade and gently sautéed the entirety for one minute.  I ladled the broth into bowls, then laid mushroom mixture on top.  The result was an absolutely delicious wild mushroom soup.

Tong Jing joined me and had 3 bowls.  Here she is, showing off her new braces.

Sunday morning Tong Jing told me that she was very sick all night long and she wondered if I was, too – implying, of course, that my mushroom soup may have been tainted.  NOT!  Still, she may be off of mushroom soup for a few years.

Today, Monday, I planned to stay, as instructed, indoors all day.  I had a mushroom, cheddar, scallion (yellow) omelet for breakfast, then a couple small rolls around noon.  At 12:30 I got a text from student who reminded me that I was supposed to be in the cafeteria at 12:30 to by the badminton champion lunch according to the wager we had.  (See “Bye Bye Birdie.”)  In response to his question “Where are you?” I said I was on the way to the cafeteria and that he and the other guys (3 of them came to celebrate their friend’s gloating) should wait until I get there.  I threw of my blavy sweat suit, threw on some clothes, passed a little mouthwash past my mouth, and headed off within 60 seconds.

On a day when I was supposed to stay indoors and do nothing requiring exertion, I suddenly found myself half-running down the track in polluted air towards the cafeteria.  I don’t know how late I was because I didn’t have time to look at my watch; they were shutting down all the food lines and we had to go from the 3^rd floor down to the 2^nd until we found a section still serving something edible.

The 5 of us enjoyed our lunch, and this was the last time I’d see them until March 1, first Friday of the second semester.  I think they’re going to miss me because they asked if we could get the class together over the winter holiday and do something, like a hike.  I was forced to inform them that I was leaving Jan. 25 for America and that I wouldn’t return until Feb. 14.  I did not tell them that I was returning with an old friend (Phil S.) and that he and I would be leaving shortly thereafter for Yunnan Province to visit Lijiang, Shaxi, Tiger Leaping Gorge, and Shangri-La.  Many people tell me this is the most beautiful part of China.  It’s very high up in the mountains, though, so it will be very cold.  Few tourists venture there this time of year – like only a few knuckleheads like my friend and I.  (Yikes!  Watch out for the duck!)

Cookie Monster

I have just a few minutes before I have to run off to class, so I’ll keep this short.  Previously I showed the weird Oreos I picked up at the store:  one filled with some mango/passion fruit stuff and the other with green tea stuff.  I decided that, as bad as the green tea one was, the fruity one was worse, so when Mi Qi came over for dinner and enjoyed the fruity ones, I insisted that he take them with him, which he did.

So now I’m left with the task of disposing of the green tea Oreos.  Not wanting to waste anything (a philosophy that undoubtedly emanates from being raised in a house with 3 siblings and little money), I’ve been eating them one at a time after dinner and have restrained myself from purchasing other desserts until these are gone.

Then it struck me:  MILK!  Yes, use that time-honored method of eating these delicacies by dipping them in milk.  Surely that would enable these slightly tart, definitely strange little morsels metamorphose into that soggy mess – melts in your hand, not in your mouth – that we all know and love.

I poured a cup of milk and proceeded to hold my Oreo under as if I were drowning it.

This is when I discovered that the cookie part of the cookie, manufactured here in the Orient, is physically different from those manufactured in civilized countries.  I held that little devil under the milk for several minutes, frequently testing its consistency like all good little scientists do.

The outcome had two significant aspects:  (1) the milk scarcely penetrated the obviously densely packed molecules, thus resulting in an Oreo structurally indistinguishable from the original, and (2) frostbitten fingers.

Regardless, overcoming my inherently high standards of gourmet dining, I ate the thing anyway.  Only 12 to go.

Bye Bye Birdie

I know I’ve been MIA for a while and to all you loyal fans I apologize.  It’s not because of any laziness – note that this phraseology does not specifically deny laziness – but I’m currently writing a massive tome that needs to get done ASAP and if I do anything else but write (which I do) I feel guilty.

Anyway, here’s a short note, hopefully of interest.  The other day I had dinner with a bunch of students from a Midwestern high school; they are here visiting the school.  One of them asked me what I thought was the single most negative aspect of working here.  At the time, I could not think of an appropriate answer, but since then I’ve come to realize what is: the last-minute way of doing almost everything drives me crazy.

Some examples:

1. This morning I got a call at 9:06 I got a call from someone telling me that I had to be at the front circle by 9:30 for a group photo.  I, of course, was still in my blavy sweat pants and sweatshirt (one dark blue, the other black), hadn’t showered or shaved for 3 days (yeah, I know, I know).  I hate rushing but after a quick shower and shave, I was headed across the track at a leisurely pace, knowing full well that no one else would be on time.  I even said to myself that I’d eat my hat if I were the last one there, but I quickly withdrew that threat, knowing I wouldn’t survive an hour out here without my wool hat.  (Tomorrow it’s supposed to go above freezing for the first time in 3 weeks.)  Don’t know when I got there, I was the 4^th out of 30 to arrive.
2. Today at noon I got a call from one of my teacher colleagues who said, I thought, “I’m setting up the room now,” by which I assumed he was in the room where we were to have a meeting at 12:30 with 10 other teachers about the new course (Science Communication) I’m designing for next semester.  I responded that I’ll be right over to help, upon which he clarified that he was coming to my room right now…which is OK, because he and everyone else does that all the time.  So I quickly cleared the kitchen table of the excess crumbs I missed licking up earlier, got dressed, used the toilet, and though I’d go out and check the electric meter, now that I’m paranoid about that.  I opened the door and was startled to see this teacher already standing right at my door.  It turns out that what he said on the phone was that he was “outside [my] door” though I still don’t know why he came over.  I picked up my stuff and we headed over to the meeting room.
3. The meeting ended at 1:00, and I’m pleased to say we actually got a couple things accomplished.  As I emerged from the building, I realized I hadn’t had lunch yet, so I asked if the cafeteria was still surviving.  Nope, too late.  So, on the spur of the moment, this teacher and I decided to walk to a nearby noodle place to grab a bite.  It was a new place for me, where they served rice noodle soup in the style of Yunnan province.
4. Earlier this evening I got a call from another teacher who said she’s glad she caught me at home because she’s crossing the track on her way over here.  I did more 11^th-hour cleaning, finishing just in time.  I made a little red tea, we sipped, she talked about her problems for 15 minutes while I listened and refilled the tea cups, then she left.  In general, Chinese people (at least those in Beijing) drink red tea in winter and green tea in summer.  Every Chinese person here knows the health benefits of this routine, but though it’s been recounted to me several times, I’ve forgotten.  No surprise there.
5. As soon as this teacher closed my door, my cell phone rang.  It was another teacher who wanted to know if I’d like to play badminton.  I said sure, when?  He said he’s over in the gym now.  So I removed my jeans, sweatshirt, and thermals, put on shorts and a T-shirt, then my coat and hat, grabbed my new $6 badminton racket and headed over to the gym, unwrapping the cellophane from the handle as I walked.  He finished hitting the birdie back and forth with another teacher, then we did the same.  I was a little better than last time, primarily because I remembered my glasses.  Now I could actually see the birdie coming directly toward my face, though my ancient reflexes still failed to respond in time for me to avoid getting hit.  After about 15 minutes of this, I had to stop and rest.  That’s when one of my Neuro students came over and reminded me that we had a wager from a couple months ago, that whoever won a badminton match would get a free lunch from the other in the cafeteria.  I said, “What?”  I won’t say I gave it a really decent showing; he beat me 21-9, but I regard it as a victory on my part by not dying or breaking anything.

That was my day.  How was yours?

Climb Every Mountain

Every Chinese person I’ve spoken with who has been to Tibet says it’s the most beautiful part of China.

Around the 3^rd week of August my brother and I were planning to go to Tibet, but we’ve encountered a snag:  current Chinese policy requires foreigners to travel in groups no fewer than 5, all holding passports from the same country.

So, is there anyone out there with an American passport who would like to see Tibet this August?  I (or rather my travel agent) would make all the in-China arrangements.  Most likely I would be able to meet you at the Beijing airport (PEK).

Of course, anyone with a Chinese passport is welcome, also, but he/she wouldn’t count toward the minimum of 5.