Episode 4 — Ugly Americans

Getting my hair done is pretty much my worst nightmare. First, I have unruly hair that is difficult and expensive to tame. Second, it’s the small talk. I hate it. Don’t get me wrong, I can gossip with the best of ’em. Hell, gossip has practically surpassed baseball as America’s favorite past time. I just prefer to do it with people I know.

Play dates with strangers are my second worst nightmare. Again, it’s the small talk. It’s like going to a cocktail party where you don’t know anyone, but with no booze and kids to supervise. Few things are worse than sitting in some woman’s kitchen listening to a bunch of hens cackle about how gifted their kids are.

Of course, in this “day and age” children rely heavily on their parents to be their social directors. In the US we can’t just throw kids outside and let them fend for themselves like we did when we were kids — pesky child molesters, and such. We have to plan “dates” for our kids to play, like a courtship. The weird thing is it’s as much of a courtship for the parents as it is for the children. Suzy and Johnny may get along just fine, but if you don’t answer the interview questions just right (including are you team Edward or team What’s His Name) Johnny and Suzy won’t be playing together again.

This is why I hate meeting new people. After the “Where are you from” and the, “Let me brag about my kids,” conversation, there ain’t much else to talk about. Important things like, “How ‘bout that war in Iraq?” are a little too polarizing for a casual chat with someone you just met. It’s much easier to gossip about poor Lindsay Lohan and how shitty her parents are.

When we lived in the states, I avoided play dates with potential new friends at all costs. After all, we had our own built-in network of friends and so we didn’t need to make new ones. Phew. But, when we moved to China, there were no friends. And it was my responsibility to make them. Though Rob is much more suited for this type of thing he was going to be too busy working to be bothered. So, I made a promise to myself, and to Rob, that I would make an effort to make friends. I would, no matter how painful, be more social so my kids could have some friends.

The sacrifices we make for our children.

Enter Kristin McBride.

On our fourth day in China, Robby went back to work and the kids and I were left to our own devices. We decided to go to the aquarium with Xiao Li in tow in case we ran into any … trouble. Poor girl. I dragged her around with us those first few weeks like she was a suit of armor.

I stood in line to buy the tickets and heard a distinct American accent say, “Oh, here’s two more western kids. Let’s get them in the picture, too.”

I turned around and there was an American lady, camera dangling from around her neck, pulling my kids in her direction, “You don’t mind do you?” she said. I scanned the scene. There were about 10 Chinese children and two western kids nestled amongst them, one girl about 8 and one boy about 5, all lined up for a picture. The western kids reminded me of E.T. when he was hiding in Elliot’s stuffed animals. “Not at all,” I said, and turned back around to pay for our tickets.

When the photo op finished, the kids paired off giggling with Xiao Li following close behind. She had one hand reached out herding them like sheep and the other hand tucked in one of her back pockets. How I envied their ability to just — POOF — be long lost BFFs. In the natural order of things, I paired off with the parents of these American kids and I could feel my blood pressure rise. Oh how I hoped they’d be cool.

“So, how often does this happen?” the woman asked, pointing back to where the kids were lined up like she was hitchin’ a ride.

“What’s that?” I asked, confused.

“You know, local kids lining up to get their picture with your kids.”

“Oh, I uh, don’t know. This is the first time, really. We just got here four days ago.”

“Oh, us too. We flew in from Chicago last Friday. This must be the fourth or fifth time for us…John? Wouldn’t you say this was the fourth or fifth time the kids have had their picture taken? It’s Jr., our little one. They love him….being a blonde-haired boy and all.”

Her husband just shrugged his shoulders never looking up from his Blackberry.

“Oh, us, too. We were probably on the same flight.”

“Oh, I didn’t see you. We were up top. How ‘bout you?”

Trying not to laugh I said, “Uh, no. We were at the back of the bus, so, no you wouldn’t have seen us.”

“In economy?” She was aghast.

“Uh, yeah. In economy.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe your husband’s company doesn’t fly you at least business class.”

I tried to respond, “Well it’s a small…”, but she cut me off and asked, “If you just got here, how did you get her so fast?” She pointed at Xiao Li like she was admiring a designer handbag.

Definitely not cool.

“Who?”

“Your I.E. That is your I.E. isn’t it?”

“My what?”

“I.E.” She looked at me like I was crazy, but she was really pronouncing it wrong and I didn’t understand what she was saying. It’s pronounced Ah-(y)ee. I kept my comments to myself, but surmised that if it had been the other way around she was definitely the type to correct me.

“Oh, Xiao Li. Yeah, she’s my Ayi. Oh, she was my landlord’s. She moved to the UAE so she off loaded her domestic helpers onto us. Her umm, Ayi and Driver.” Though I absolutely loved having an Ayi, I hated talking about her like she wasn’t even there. It seemed so pretentious and unnatural like I was a slave owner. Even though she couldn’t understand what we were talking about, I still felt guilty.

“Oh my God. You are so lucky. Is she good? I’ve interviewed probably ten and none of them suit me. I think I’ll have to settle on one soon so I can have a life. It’s just I’ve heard the worst horror stories and I’m sooo not looking forward to training her. Language barrier and all. And, we have to have a Chinese Ayi because it’s imperative that our kids, especially Jr., are fluent in Mandarin. He’s extremely bright and it will really help to cement his future.”

“Oh, really. How old is he?”

“He’ll be five next month, but he’s starting kindergarten next week.”

I think I rolled my eyes at her but it must’ve gone undetected.

“Well it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve read that…”

She cut me off again, and said, “Oh, honey, you don’t need to tell me. I have a PhD in Linguistics, of all things, and my Dad is a professor of Psychology at the University of Illinois so I had access to all the latest research on language development and acquisition…”

Someone’s proud of herself.

I had to cut her off to get a word in, “In Champaign?”

“Of course. I grew up there, though I didn’t go to school there…too close to home, if you know what I mean.”

“I went to the U of I.”

“Oh My God. I can’t believe it. Here we are half way around the world and you went to school in my hometown.”

She nudged me on the shoulder with manicured hot pink nails.

Here I am hoping I never see this woman again and I fear this small world coincidence will bind me to her for all of eternity.

At one point, her kids wanted to go one way and I forced my kids to go another just so I could shake her. It occurred to me that we’d been walking through the aquarium but I hadn’t looked at a single fish.

She stopped in her tracks, dug around in her purse and pulled out a Blackberry causing a traffic jam of anxious fish viewers. People simply poured around us like we were invisible. “Can I get your number? I think its fate that we ran into each other. We were even on the same flight.” She shook her head smiling, and looked at her phone, trying to add me as a contact.

I continued to walk so the kids didn’t get too far ahead. “Umm. Well, I don’t have a mobile phone yet.”

“What about your home number?”

“Oh, well, I don’t know it.”

“Well, where do you live? We live in Vizcaya.”

“Where?”

“Vizcaya. It’s only like the most popular expat compound for Americans. It’s the one with the Spanish tile roofs.”

“I dunno know.” My anxiety level had officially gone off the charts. Why was this woman such a know-it-all?

“It’s across from the ghost town compound?”

“Ghost town?”

She leaned in close to me as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear her gossip. “Oh yeah, you haven’t heard? I can’t remember the name of the place but it used to be the most popular compound but now it’s a total ghost town. Rumor has it that there was a ring of robberies and they turned out to be an inside job. Now, the place just sits empty.”

“Nope. I hadn’t heard.”

She started to get impatient. “It’s down the street from Concordia.”

“Oh, that’s where my kids are going to school.”

“So is my daughter. Will you be at orientation tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

“Great, then we’ll probably see you there.”

God I hope not.

“Great. See ya ‘round.”

Before I could make the great escape, she added, “Oh, wait. You never told me where you lived.”

“Oh — I’m not sure really. We live in kind of a quasi-local apartment complex across the street from Century Park.”

“You live in an apartment? Oh how awful. Your husband’s company must be really on a shoestring.”

“Oh, well, yeah. As I was saying earlier, it’s a small company.”

“I’ll say. Well, John is a partner at TPG -it’s a private equity firm- so we get all the bells and whistles. You should see our house. It’s like a palace. It’s over 5000 sq. ft including the basement. It’s even bigger than our house back home. Thank God I’ll have someone to clean it full time instead of just once a week. I don’t know how I’d manage otherwise.”

“How nice for you.” I forced a smile.

I officially hate this woman. Sadly, I am also hopelessly jealous of her. The mind fuck continues.

Her kids finally grabbed her by both hands and dragged her in a different direction. Her husband was a few steps ahead, nose still in his Black Berry.

“OK then, we’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, and try to remember your phone number by then.” She smiled, and then shook her head at me as she finally turned and walked out of sight.

Free at last.

As for us, we zoomed through the rest of the aquarium in record time. I had to get out of there. I was feeling about as pathetic as I ever had. I wasn’t sure what was going to be harder? Dealing with the local culture shock, or dealing with the expat ladies like her. I had to bribe the kids with ice cream to get them to leave the aquarium.

As we left the cool air conditioning and stepped outside, the oppressive heat smacked us in the face like the gates of hell just opened up for us to walk on in.

“Ewww!” The kids yelled in unison. They were pointing at a little baby peeing through split pants on a small patch of grass.

“Look at that baby.”

I smacked their hands back down to their sides and reminded them that we were in a foreign country and the cultures and customs in China are different than those of the United States. After my little lecture, I handed each kid 10 RMB and sent them a few steps away to buy themselves some ice cream. Xiao Li shadowed them to the ice cream stand.

Typically, Chinese babies do not wear diapers. Instead, they wear little pants with a slit down the back. Every so often the mother (or Grandmother or Ayi) whistles in the babies’ ear to imitate the tinkle of tinkle and he eventually pees. The whistle acts like Pavlov’s bell and within a month they are trained to pee on whistle demand and within the first 6 months, or so, they are fully potty trained (during waking hours, anyway).

Saves on diapers.

I looked around for a park bench but none were in sight, so I popped a squat on a brick wall and watched, part in awe and part in disgust, the baby continue to relieve himself on the grass.

I knew at that very moment I was a goner. I’d made a promise to myself and my husband that I would make friends. Not for my sake, but for the kids. I promised myself I wouldn’t be anti-social. I would get involved and I would like it. But how was I supposed to do it with people like her? Was everyone going to be like her?

On their way back, ice cream in hand, I could see Grace looking around for something and then they started talking. Willy pointed at something on the ground and they both threw their wrappers on the ground.

I stood up and put my hands on my hips. “What are you doing? You can’t just throw your trash on the ground.”

Xiao Li just stood there. She looked surprised, like why is this lady yelling at her kids? They didn’t do anything.

“What? We couldn’t find a trashcan,” Grace said.

I scanned the surroundings. She was right; there wasn’t a trashcan in sight.

“That doesn’t mean you throw your trash on the ground. Come on you guys. You know better than that.”

“Yeah, but Mommy, look. Everyone else throws their trash on the ground,” Willy said, pointing at everything from ice cream wrappers to empty Coke bottles.

I took a deep breath. He was right. Trash was literally everywhere. “I see what you’re saying, guys, but from now on, if you can’t find a trashcan, please just hold on to your trash until you find one.”

“Fine,” Grace agreed for both of them.

And then in true form Willy had to get the last word in, “Yeah, but Mommy, maybe that is just the culture of the Chinese. Maybe they just throw their trash on the ground.”

“Willy, please don’t argue with me. I’m tired and I’m not in the mood.”

“Yeah, but you said…”

“Zip it,” I scolded, pretending to zip my mouth shut with my fingers. Then I grabbed the kids’ hands and guided them to our chauffeured Toyota Corolla, passing two street sweepers with their bamboo brooms along the way.

***

The next day the kids and I ventured to the school for orientation. Though there were several international schools to choose from, we’d enrolled the kids at a Christian-based American school that was nearby the apartment. Since we were never actually going to take them to church, we thought it prudent to introduce the kids to religion at school. After all, how else would we answer difficult questions like, “Where do you go when you die?” If it were up to us, we’d say something like, “Umm, nowhere. You just turn into dust and feed the trees.” Since that answer is probably not 100% responsible to tell a five year old with a vivid imagination, we thought handing that task over to the school seemed appropriate. After all, “Heaven” paints a much prettier image of the unknown than “worm food.”

Driver Chen dropped us off at the admissions office. As we made our way to the school, I couldn’t help but notice that it suddenly felt like we’d teleported back to the US. As if a tornado swept up this glorious educational campus along with all of its accoutrements and placed it in the middle of Shanghai. And though I knew we weren’t in Kansas anymore, it certainly looked like we were.

One particular Midwestern housewife caught my eye — with freshly highlighted hair and perfectly manicured nails, she strutted her stuff in pressed linen Capri pants, a pale green silk shell and Birkenstock sandals. She escorted her sandy haired, blue-eyed future investment banker like he was a Golden Retriever just anointed “Best in Show” at Westminster. Off they strode into the sparkling school complete with a padded, rooftop playground, (so as not to skin one’s knee), a theatre fit for Broadway and colorful, Asian-inspired artwork strategically placed to stimulate young minds eager to learn.

The parking lot was a sea of navy blue and silver Buick mini-vans. Though this was a familiar sight by American standards, one difference, of course, were the drivers. Smokin’ and jokin’, they were gathered in little sewing circles on patches of grass between parking spaces, some sat on miniature folding chairs while others stood jiggling the change in their pockets.

God I wish I knew what they were talking about.

I couldn’t help but notice as we drove around the block looking for a spot to park (as the parking lot was full of mini vans), right next door to this model educational facility, by western standards, was a drab gray building surrounded by concrete. An army of expressionless uniformed Chinese children were lined up, military style preparing to start their day. Not usually one to feel guilt over the fairness of the world, I couldn’t help but think that the juxtaposition of the two schools was, well, unfair.

As we entered the admissions office, we were greeted by a petite American lady. She had coppery red hair that was cut in a pristine pixie. Freckles that matched the color of her hair covered nearly every inch of her skin. She spoke with a heavy Boston accent — through her nose.

She introduced herself and showed us where to go, then struck up a little side chit chat.

“So, you’re new to Shanghai. And, where are you living?” she said, crossing her arms in front of her.

“We’re living in the high rises across the street from Century Park…I…don’t know the name of the compound, though.” I was impressed with myself that I was getting the expat lingo down a little bit.

“Ohhh, I know those. Are you in one of the penthouses? I’ve heard the view is faaah-bulous — the only one in the city where you can see Lujiazui and Century Park.”

“Oh. Nope. We’re just on the seventh floor.”

Luijiazui (pronounced Lou-Jia-dzway) is the financial district of Shanghai on the Pudong side. It is famous for, well financial stuff, but also the futuristic looking skyline. And, I didn’t tell her this because I didn’t know it at the time, but we had views of both the park and Lujiazui from the seventh floor.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Willy found a candy dish and she waved him on, “It’s OK, go ahead.”

He and Grace helped themselves to some M & Ms while I tried to figure out how to get away.

“Oh. Oh well. I guess the good news is that’s still high enough to keep away from the mosquitoes. If you haaave to live in an apartment, at least there is a silver lining.”

“Yeah, I suppose that is a silver lining.” She was right. I had seen a few mosquitoes and imagined they could do some damage; they were about the size of baby birds. I paused and searched for something else to say, but my mind was blank. “Well, I guess we’ll be going now. Thanks for the info and we’ll see you around I’m sure.”

She gave me a weak smile and a quick nod of her head, opened the door for us and we were off.

What is it with these stuck up people?

We went through the checklist: We picked up their uniforms, found out who their teachers would be, and scoped out their classrooms.

On our way back to the car we stumbled across the cafeteria where light snacks were being served. My anxiety level rose. I wanted no part of light snacks. This might force me to talk to someone. Worse yet, if we stayed idle too long, we might run into that obnoxious woman and her kids from the aquarium.

Before I could preemptively say “No” to their pending request for a snack, I heard a shrill, “Hey, it’s you guys.”

It was the woman from the aquarium, her two kids and her husband who, again, had his nose buried in his Blackberry in a group of other families. She waved her arms motioning for us to join them.

Perfect. More expat chat.

“Hey, how are you guys? Hey, you know, I didn’t even catch your name yesterday. My name is Kristin. Kristin McBride. This is John, Brittany, grade 3, and John Jr., he’s in kindergarten at the bilingual Montessori school.”

“I’m Jennifer. Jennifer Smith. And this is Grace, grade 1, and Willy, kindergarten.”

“Oh my God. Will and Grace? How adorable. Did you plan it that way … After the show?”

She nodded her head.

“Oh, no, just a lucky coincidence. They’re both family names.”

Unsure if she picked up on my sarcasm, she continued, “So anyway, we were planning on doing something special tomorrow since school starts the following day. Would you guys like to join us? I was thinking either…” She had a Shanghai for Kids book open to the Family Outing section.”… the Science and Technology Museum or the other aquarium…the one with the Belugas.”

“Oh, I dunno…” I looked down at my kids. Having been in this exact situation countless times before they remained silent, but their eyes screamed can we please go. Then I remembered the promise I’d made to myself and I forced myself to say, “Yeah, sure. We’d love to join you.”

“Really?” said Grace, incredulous. “We can go?”

“Yes, of course. Why not? I’m a little fished out, though. Why don’t we try the museum?”

“Great. So, do you know your number yet?” she asked, suddenly sounding like my mother, but not in a good way.

“Nope. I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t memorized it yet,” I lied. I wasn’t embarrassed at all, but for some reason she made me feel like I should be. Like it was some sort of crime that I didn’t know my phone number. I could barely remember my name at this point, I had no idea where I lived — how was I supposed to know my phone number?

“We could just meet where we buy the tickets at say, 10?”

“Great idea. Alright then, we’ll see you guys later.”

“OK, see you tomorrow,” I said, and took the kids by their hands and off we went to find our Toyota Corolla in a sea of mini vans.

Although it was the last thing I wanted to do, the next day we met the McBride’s, sans husband, at the Science and Technology Museum. It was bad. All she did was talk about her package and what they got that we didn’t. But to be honest, it wasn’t horrible. I had to admit that after being in China for almost a week it was nice to talk to someone who understood my language, even if she didn’t speak my language.

***

I think I learned more about life in those first few days than I had in my entire 34 years (at the time): The Price of Tea — Tales of an Errant Expat in China