Episode 1: Culture Shock
I traveled to China for the first time on Easter Sunday in 1980 — in my imagination. We’d just come home from church. My mom was yelling about this and that. As a single mother of three equally ungrateful and unruly children, she had the tendency to yell a bit and then kick me and my two brothers outside. I’d been eating a grapefruit with an iced tea spoon and got the boot with the spoon in tow. I’d have preferred my Easter basket.
I sat down on the stoop in front of 1303 Walnut Ridge, tapping my elongated teaspoon on the concrete and wondered, Now what am I supposed to do? My parents had divorced the year before, so there was no money for toys. Since we didn’t have any cool toys, that pretty much meant we didn’t have many friends. Consequently, I was used to relying heavily on my imagination for entertainment.
I sat there in my favorite lavender and white gingham checked dress. Even though my Holly Hobby underwear was peeking out and it was bunched up at the armpits, I insisted on wearing it for Easter
I found a rock that was buried under the dirt right next to the concrete walkway that led to our townhouse.
I wiggled it and wiggled it and wiggled it some more, but I couldn’t get it to budge. I looked around to see if one of my brothers could help, but they’d already gone to the construction site to look at the old porno magazines left behind by the construction workers.
Next I looked around for my Mom. If she’d seen what I was about to do, I’d be sent to my room for sure. Though there was nothing to do outside, getting sent to my room was much less desirable. Mom was nowhere in sight, so I crouched down in the grass-less front yard that was still a little muddy from the rain we’d had a few days prior, and I started to dig.
After a few minutes I was able to unearth the rock. I smiled in triumph as though I’d just lost my first tooth. With the rock gone, continuing with the tooth theme, there was a wonderful gap in the dirt leaving me with unlimited exploration possibilities.
And so I dug. With my iced tea spoon, I dug. At first with no real purpose other than to turn the gap into a hole. But then, I remembered I had learned in school that if we dug straight down to the other side of the earth, (never mind the molten lava among a few other obstacles) I’d be in China.
Off I went. I dug with great fervor because I was on my way to the foreign land of chopsticks and rice paddies.
Before long I was wandering the crowded streets of China. Darting in and out of rickshaws, surrounded by nothing but people and rice, I gazed in awe at the straight black hair and slant-eyed people who seemed to be totally unaware of my presence.
“Jennifer!?” I heard my mom shout. “What are you doing? You’re covered in mud! What happened to my spoon?” I looked at the once shiny and elegantly long spoon, wiped my tangled red hair out of my eyes with mud-crusted hands to find the spoon was bent at a 90 degree angle and had somehow lost is sheen.
Then I looked at the hole I’d dug to China. Though it was only about six inches deep, in my mind I’d traveled thousands of miles.
As my first trip to China ended, yet another trip to my room commenced.
***
The second time I traveled to China was on July, 23 2007 — Only one year and two months after I’d quit my job to move there. As they say, “Better late than never.” As we pulled out of the driveway headed for the airport, Van Morrison’s Tupelo Honey came on the radio. For some reason, my eyes filled with tears and I struggled to keep my throat from closing shut.
“You can take all the tea in China…you can’t stop us on the road to freedom…”
I was on the road to freedom. My freedom. I’d already been freed from the constraints of a job, but I never fully embraced it because we were kept in this perpetual state of limbo. We’re moving; we’re not moving. Now, we’d no longer be in limbo and we could begin our lives abroad — free from the constraints of the American middle class ideal. Free to travel and explore the sights and sounds of exotic foreign lands. It was finally my time to be free. I was now free to do something for me.
So why was I on the verge of tears?
After years upon years of mind numbing work in a lackluster marketing career, giving birth to two children — and all the fun that comes with that honor, I was now free to do whatever I chose.
The kids would be at school and Robby would be at work. I’d be left alone to my own devices. The thought of it was so liberating I couldn’t stand the anticipation. I was so ready. It was like I was starting my life over again with a blank slate — new home, new friends, new life — but with the experience of being a grown up, well, at least in age.
When people asked me what I was going to do with myself, I told them the fantasy. I was going to study Mandarin and become fluent in two years. After all, languages had always come very easily to me. I was going to study Tai Chi and become a black belt in two years. After all, I had done yoga, Pilates, and Tae Kwon Do. Tai Chi was a natural progression in my quest for mental and physical fitness. I was even going to finally take my final class to get my Bachelor’s Degree after all these years. And, it was a class on the History of Southeast Asia. How perfect was that? I was also going to start a blog and be smart and funny and develop a following and some producer would discover me and want to make a movie out of our experiences. (OK, so I never actually said that one out loud, not even to Rob. Delusions of grandeur are best kept to oneself).
Don’t get me wrong, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy — initially. I knew there would be issues with culture shock. As a perennial insomniac, I’d conducted countless hours of research in the wee hours of the morning. I’d read somewhere that culture shock could be compared to the five stages of grief — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Having never really gone through the stages of grief, I read the words, but couldn’t fully comprehend their meaning. I had no idea what to expect. No matter how much research I did, I knew that on some level we were just going to have to wait and see. All I knew is that I’d done my homework upfront, and that was all I could do to prepare us for the move.
The facts were the facts: We were moving our family from a modest home in the suburbs in the land of the free and the home of the brave into a small apartment in a big city in a developing, communist country. Dark images of the Cold War would sometimes flood my mind. Yikes — the big, scary “C” word. But, I simply brushed them aside with visions of hanging with baby elephants on the beach in Thailand a few times a year.
A lot of people, mostly of my parents’ generation, thought we were absolutely nuts — different language, different culture, different everything. “What about health care?” they’d ask.
“What about health care? We have international health insurance. There are western hospitals and clinics, of course. I’m certainly not going to move my family to a place where we can’t get proper healthcare. Could it be any worse than my existing HMO?”
“What about crime? Is it safe in China?”
“Of course it’s safe. These people execute jay-walkers. Petty theft is what I’ve read. Pick pockets, that kind of thing. It’s probably more dangerous going to Atlantic City.”
“What about the food. You hate Chinese food.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m not sure about that. I lived on rice my sophomore year in college. I could do it again.”
I honestly just thought there would be an adjustment period and then life would move on.
As we pulled up to the airport some negative thoughts about the unknown crept into my naive voice of reason.
Maybe some of these concerns are legitimate?
I simply went to my happy place — on the beach with baby elephants in Thailand — and swept the negativity under the rug. (The hand-woven, silk rug I’d buy in Indonesia someday for the price of a rag I could buy at Target).
***
Knowing that I’m a half-empty kind of girl, and at the same time a rose colored glasses kind of girl (I know, it’s incongruous, but true) my Mom suggested that I read The Secret. Never one to shy away from flakey new age gobbled-gook, I took her advice and read it just before we left for China. Surprisingly it helped me a little bit with my pre-move depression. So, the morning of the flight, I worked my positive mojo all the way through security, on to the gate and throughout the flight.
And it was painless. The Secret seemed to be working, aside from the fat guy who spilled into my seat for the entire thirteen hour flight. He must’ve taken a lifetime supply of Ambien before we took off. He did wake up one time, about mid-flight, downed two mini bottles of rum that he pulled out of his back pack that was properly stowed under the seat in front of him, and then passed out again. He didn’t even get up to pee.
It helped that the kids slept nearly the entire time and they served free-flow wine — even for the peons in economy.
Once my teeth were purple, and I was properly hypnotized by the sing-songy voice of the Chinese flight attendant who periodically talked to us over the loud speaker, I passed out somewhere over the North Pole. When I awoke, the kids were still sleeping and Rob, glassy-eyed, was watching the end of a bad Jennifer Aniston romantic comedy.
“Hey, you’re up. Sleep good?” he said.
“Yeah, not bad considering…”I said, pointing at the fat man who was practically sitting on my lap.
He chuckled then added, “They’re about to serve breakfast which means we’ll be landing in less than two hours.”
“Really? That’s fantastic. I’m gonna go pee and hit the grill before the kids get up.” I slinked past my dozing neighbor, toothbrush in hand, and smiled knowing our big adventure was just a pinch away.
Couldn’t have planned this one better.
***
We went through the motions of traveling in China — temperature check, immigration, baggage claim, and customs. Going through Customs — in China — made me nervous. I’m not sure why, I wasn’t hiding any illegal contraband; I didn’t even buy anything at Duty Free. Something about the guards with their serious looks and their pristine uniforms gave me the creeps.
We passed through customs without incident, continued along with about a million other people, and were funneled through a serpentine-like passageway like we were standing in line at an amusement park. I noticed most people only had carry-on sized bags; maybe one carry-on and one suit case. We, on the other hand, had two full Smart Carts (which, as an added bonus, are free to use in China) with four huge suitcases a piece, two carry-ons and a child. To put it nicely, the people around us were a lot more nimble than we were.
To put it not so nicely, I couldn’t understand what the big fucking hurry was and why people kept treading on my heels. I couldn’t have moved any faster even if I wasn’t lugging my entire life, including my children, because there were 17,000 people in front of me moving at the same snail-like pace.
At one point I looked back at Rob, all the while still walking, and said, “Can’t we just stop and let all these people go by?”
“Just keep going, Honey,” he said, pointing behind us.”As you can see, it’ll never end. We’ve gotta just power through.”
At his request, I kept walking, but turned my head and stole a glance behind me. My blood pressure rose. I’d never seen so many people in one place. And they all had black hair. It was like a tsunami of blackness was headed right toward us and if we didn’t keep moving, we’d be swallowed whole.
Exasperated, I trudged forward cringing every time someone stepped on my heels.
The Secret?
At the end of the passageway, instead of being dumped out at a fabulous ride, we were dumped out into an even bigger sea of black hair. Apparently the tsunami hit land and we were now supposed to swim to safety.
The only problem was we didn’t know how to swim in China.
My heart was pounding and sweat wasn’t just beaded up on my forehead, it was pouring down the side of my face. The kids were beaming, perched on top of the suitcases like they were on top of the world. Rob was sweating, too, and looked like he was ready to go into battle.
Fortunately, Rob had pre-arranged for his corporate driver — Driver Jerry — to pick us up. Given that we were pretty easy to pick out of a crowd, within minutes he found us, collected our bags and guided us safely to a silver van.
Jerry was a friendly guy and spoke excellent English. He was short and very fit. His tightly wound muscles bulged out of his tight gray t-shirt like he’d just come from giving a personal training session — that or a night club. We learned that he used to be a Shanghai cop, but quit because he wanted to study to be a lawyer.
In China, one does not attend law school. You simply study for a test like the BAR. If you pass, voila, lawyer. I guess it’s like the way we do it without the formality, the expense, or pretense of going to law school.
Driver Jerry chatted non-stop as we piled into the seatbelt-less van, that was more like a tin can on wheels. And though his English was quite good, it was still sometimes difficult to discern what the hell he was saying.
He explained to us that he became a driver so he could learn English in a practical setting while studying to be a lawyer.
How resourceful of you.
Once we were on the road, he gave us a nickel tour of Shanghai. The kids fell fast asleep. “Shanghai is a very special place. It is very famous, you see. It is famous for its ocean port, but also for the river ports. The Huang Pu River splits Shanghai in half. Pu means river. Right now we are in Pudong and this is where you will be living. Pudong means east of the river. This is the new part of Shanghai. Twenty five years ago, Pudong was a swamp land filled with prostitutes and opium dens.”
Really? I feel like I could chase the dragon right about now.
“Puxi means west of the river. This is the old part of Shanghai. The cultural part.”
“Are you from Shanghai?” I asked, pronouncing it Shang (as in Tang) Hi.
“Jenny-fer, first, it is no pronounced Shanghai. This is with an American accent.”
Naturally, because I’m American.
“It is pronounced Shanghai.”
Oh, rhymes with thong.
“And, yes. I am Shanghainese.”
As we drove, I sat in silence and let Rob interact with Driver Jerry. I was exhausted and slightly hung-over from the free flow cheap red wine. I simply sat back and gazed in awe at the bigness around me.
The first thing I noticed was the pollution. Even though I had read about it, I still couldn’t believe my eyes. I’d come to find out that like so many things I’d researched about China, reading about it and actually experiencing it first-hand were two totally different things.
It’s like we’d been swallowed — whole — by a gray cloud.
At one point, I looked out at the horizon and for as far as my eyes could see were 50 story skyscrapers -one after the other. But the tops of the buildings were invisible because they were blanketed in this in this all-consuming gray cloud. It looked like a cemetery for giants on Halloween night. Or a nuclear winter.
The buildings seemed tired, like an army of downtrodden soldiers just come home from a war. Freshly washed laundry hung out to dry on long metal rods jutting out of open windows. I imagined they wouldn’t smell quite as nice if they were hanging in my backyard in Denver.
Traffic was atrocious. Driver Jerry wasn’t fazed at all by the cars and taxis darting in and out and all around, as he continued the nickel tour of Pudong. He even ignored this one car that was barreling down the street, headed right at us. Jerry simply moved around him like it was a fish swimming upstream in the middle of a school of fish swimming along with the current. I, on the other hand, had to swallow my heart.
After an hour drive (about 35 km) we arrived at our apartment which was in a complex that consisted of 10 apartment buildings, each 30 stories high, and 10 villas (or mansions where I’m from) that were tucked away behind the apartment buildings. It was a gated community with security guards milling around looking important. Like the guys at customs, they made me feel nervous.
The grounds were well-manicured with little benches throughout the gardens to take a rest. There were little patches of grass here and there, but I wondered if they were big enough to endure a Benny poo. The grass appeared thin, wispy and wilted — I imagined it was difficult for it to withstand the lethal combination of heat and pollution.
The kids were now awake; their excitement was palpable. Rob was on a mission to get everyone upstairs. We entered the apartment building and said, “Ni Hao,” to a lady behind the reception desk. She responded with a scowl.
Maybe we’ll have to work on our pronunciation. Too much American in our greeting, perhaps?
The elevator arrived and the man, who walked off, cigarette in hand, was followed by a cloud of smoke. The kids gave a little hack and wheeze. Rob and I exchanged a WTF kind of look.
Smoking in an elevator?
To my delight, the five of us and our eight pieces of luggage were able to squeeze into the elevator, and we made our ascent to the seventh floor. I was exhausted. The last thing I wanted to do was make six trips up and down. All I really wanted to do was sleep (Of course, I knew I couldn’t because of the jetlag issue.)
When we arrived on the seventh floor the elevator door opened to what looked like a hard hat area. I poked my head out and noticed six shirtless men in a dust filled room that was as smoky as a biker bar on a Saturday night. Three of the men were squatting, heels flat on the ground, to our left in the corner by the window shoveling rice and vegetables out of a Styrofoam container into their mouths. Two more were standing and smoking cigarettes to our right by the emergency exit, and one was squatting down, heels flat, smoking a cigarette while cutting tile with a circular saw — no safety guard or safety goggles, let alone hard hats, in sight.
Rob and I exchanged another WTF look.
Jerry said something that sounded curt to the guys in Chinese. The guy with the saw stopped for a moment and we entered the foyer.
It smelled of rotten food, cigarettes and sweat. I noticed a stack of half-empty Styrofoam food containers in the corner. Rotting food spilled onto the floor. Piles of wood and tile lined the walls of the room. Random tools were strewn about. A thick coat of dust and cigarette ash blanketed the floor with cigarette butts sprinkled randomly across it.
Seemingly un-phased, Jerry led the way, moving rubbish out of the way as he cleared a path to our front door.
“Welcome home,” I said with forced smile as we entered the apartment.
We were greeted at the door by our Ayi, Xiao Li (pronounced Shiao Lee, meaning Small Li). An Ayi, or Auntie, is a woman who basically is your cleaning lady, nanny, baby sitter, and your cook that most expats hire to help out for no reason other than — they can. Back home, of course, we could never afford a cleaning lady come to clean our house once a month, let alone every day from 10 AM-6 PM, six days a week all for less than a car payment for a Hyundai.
Our landlord had moved to the UAE and asked if we wanted to hire their Ayi. Without hesitation, we said yes.
She was a cute little thing dressed in skin tight acid wash jeans, a pink and white striped polo-style top and sparkly, strappy shoes with about a 2 inch heel.
Is this fashion forward or backward?
The apartment was sterile, aside from a bouquet of lilies Xiao Li had on display, and sparsely furnished. The dining room/living room had one small slate-gray colored love seat with a brown particle board console table behind it, one flat screen TV on a low and long table that matched the console table, one round kitchen table with a chandelier made from magnifying glasses. It was lined with windows from floor to ceiling that showed a spectacular view of Century Park, the largest park in Shanghai. The other walls were white.
The galley kitchen had a sliding glass door. Inside the kitchen were two gas burners, one big and one small, and a fridge slightly bigger than a college fridge. There was no oven and no dishwasher. I’d find out after doing my first round of dishes, that there was no garbage disposal, either.
There was a small balcony off of the kitchen which was where the clothes washer was. No clothes dryer, though.
Grace’s room had a bed and a small dresser. No closet. And four white walls.
Willy’s room had a bed and a small, blue plastic wardrobe. No closet. And four white walls.
There was a bathroom in their hallway with a toilet, a sink and a shower. It reeked of mold.
Our bedroom had a bed and a nice size closet. Our bathroom had a bath tub with no shower, toilet and a sink. Our bedroom was lined with windows and a ledge that could be window seat if there was a cushion. There were some red and pink floral curtains that I thought were cute in a funky kind of way. They reminded me of an old, floppy beach hat my mom had left over from the 70s. Rob hated them.
In retrospect, I think I liked them because they were the only source of color in this otherwise barren apartment.
There was a small office outside of our bedroom with a table, chair and bookshelf. The walls were white. There was a second balcony off of the office. We had a little bat that slept there during the days.
And that was it.
I didn’t want to complain, so I didn’t. I wanted to stay positive, like The Secret told me to, so I did. I’m sure Rob was thinking the exact same thing.
What the fuck?
But he didn’t say it. We didn’t even really complain about the mess outside. We didn’t even talk about it. And that was that.
We didn’t complain to the landlord, not to management, not even to each other. We kept all of our thoughts and feelings inside. At the time, we thought that was the right thing to do. After all, this was our dream. We weren’t going to admit that within the first hour it was already more like a nightmare.
We weren’t going to complain. We were going to make the best of it.
Unfortunately, it was probably the worst thing we could have done. Over time, it built and built and eventually things really went awry. But, lots happened in between though.
Once the kids were settled in to watch a movie we sent Xiao Li home for the day. I decided to run a bath. I turned on the water, plugged up the tub and realized I had to pee. I stripped down to nothing, lifted the lid and to my surprise, someone’s ass had exploded in the toilet. There was no water, just a dried shit explosion.
“Unbelievable” I whispered to myself, left the room and went in the kids’ bathroom.
I returned to my nice hot bath and noticed the water was the color of urine; it didn’t smell much better. I sighed, pulled the drain, got dressed and snuggled in with the kids to watch the 12 Dancing Princesses for the 40th time.
***
If you’re interested in reading more about our misadventures in China:
