August 24
The morning following my last night in the dorms of Nanjing Da Xue’s Foreign Students Building, all the CIEE students (all those that had already arrived, at least: there were still a few who were deterred from travel by the typhoon raging off the coast of Hong Kong) met at 8 AM for what turned out to be a grueling, frustrating 2 full hours of placement testing. The test began with a listening comprehension section (my strength) but that was soon over and followed by an arduous hour & a half of reading comprehension that increased with difficulty as the test went on. It was comprehensible at the start, but after the first 10 pages, my brain was strained after trying to construe the meaning of han.zi (Chinese characters) I’d never encountered before. And there were still over 10 pages to go.
I did my best and stuck it out to the bitter end. It turned out that many of my tong xue (classmates) had given up in frustration and just started filling in random bubbles. Every one of us left our desks feeling discouraged. Let’s just say we’ve got a l o n g way to go. (Not until the next day did I discover that I’d done comparatively well on the test of doom and was placed into the highest-level class: A1 Ban). Following another orientation, we were freed from the testing room and set loose to explore the city on our own.
Tomorrow is to be our first day of classes, and I was feeling a bit lost with a lack of school supplies (in that curious way that they have of disappearing, I was down to my last mechanical pencil). So I rounded up a group of tong xue also interested in school supply shopping for a trip to the main Chao Shi (Supermarket) in our neighborhood. We strolled down the crowded streets, attracting stares even in this huge city of nearly 7 million where people seem used to the sight of foreigners but where we “Lao Wai” (a colloquial Chinese word for “foreigner”) will still inevitably attract stares and attention. My ears have been attuned to respond to calls of “Lao Wai”: I’ll be walking around town and, all of a sudden, hear a child’s—or adult’s—voice exclaim, “Kan, shi ge lao wai!” (“Look, it’s a foreigner!”).
Life in this Chinese city is certainly not fraught with the hardships that I know many back home imagined for me. Take the supermarket for example: there, I can buy practically anything I could get back in the U.S., and more (well, with the notable exception of deodorant, but I’ll worry about that later…), and often for a cheaper price. So our school supply shopping expedition was a success. In the process of exploring the store, however, our group got separated, so when we had found all we needed and were preparing to pay, it was just my friend Courtney and I left. The cash registers in front of the exit seemed plentiful, but looked to be blocked off from the rest of the store. Then, to the right side, I noticed a sign on which the few characters I recognized could be roughly translated to (maybe, I think…), “For customers paying for items.” The sign was pointing to a ridiculously long and slow-moving line. But, seeing no other way out of the store if we actually wanted to bring our school supplies with us, we accepted our fate and moved to the back of the line.
In the course of what was practically an hour of waiting in this line, I struck up some friendly conversation with the elderly couple standing in front of us and the group of friendly women standing behind. So we talked. And waited. And waited. “What could be taking so long,” I wondered. But as I was enjoying the friendly banter, and as the surrounding group seemed to have more or less adopted us, the time passed pleasantly. After almost an hour, the line turned a corner and I at last caught sight of its destination in the distance: a counter before which the orderly cue seemed to break into a frenzy and the harried “fu wu yuan” (employees) behind the desk appeared to be handing out giant—and precariously fragile-looking—plastic bags brimming with brown eggs. So this is what we waited an hour for!
Then, to our left, I noticed that, alas, the cash registers, a huge line of them at that, were open for business. No lines, no waiting. As soon as Courtney and I saw that we’d been waiting in vain for something we neither wanted nor could even possibly use, we were about to give up on the egg line. Before we did, however, one of the kindly old women waiting behind us sensed our discouragement and fought her way to the front of the line—no easy task—to get a bag of eggs on our behalf. After a heated exchange at the egg counter, she returned to her rightful spot in line, victorious, holding up a big bag of brown eggs. Embarrassment mixed with the hilarity of it all, I explained apologetically that we ended up in this line not because we wanted a bag of eggs but due to a misunderstanding and our pathetic Chinese skills. We left the line laughing, everyone around us undoubtedly thinking “ben dan de lao wai…” (“stupid foreigners…”), the woman who’d fought to the front of the line on our behalf still victoriously holding her prize, looking happy to have had us as an excuse to bypass the line.
School supplies paid for and good to go, the next task in store for Courtney and I was to get her a cell phone and SIM card (she’d been one of the students to get stuck in Hong Kong due to the typhoon and thus missed out on the previous day’s en masse cell phone / SIM card purchasing party. That taken care of, we had a tasty lunch of what must have been the only 2 non-red-meat dishes served at what seemed to be Nanjing’s equivalent of a Longhorn or Outback Steakhouse. As the patrons around us set aside their chopsticks to slice the sizzling slabs of steak in front of them into bite-size pieces, Courtney and I enjoyed our lunch platters, hers featuring eggplant and mine a whole fish surrounded by sides of sautéed greens, soy beans, egg soufflé and pigeon-part soup. By that point, it was time for us to return and take part in our host family orientations (the 2 of us are among the 10 out of 33 CIEE students who opted to live with a host family), followed by—finally!—our host family meet-up.
Don’t stick your chopsticks upright into a plate of food or bowl of rice: it looks reminiscent of offerings made to ancestors. Don’t be an untidy slob. These were some of the points covered in the host family orientation, some insightful and interesting, most just common sense and courtesy. After sitting through Host Family Living 101, we were given some time to gather our things and then told to wait in our dorm rooms between 2 and 4 PM, during which our host families were scheduled to come and claim us. By 1:30 PM, my 2 backpacks were packed and I anxiously sat and waited. And waited. Hmm, that seemed to be a theme of the day, between the egg line and now for the host family meeting.
Minutes before 4 PM, Ping Ping (our program’s assistant director) came to my door, looking apologetic: “Melissa, I know you said you’d prefer not to have a family with young children…” which I’m sure I never actually said but secretly hoped, “but would it be alright if…” “Of course!” I said, knowing what was coming and slightly disappointed at the prospect of having to deal with a “Little Emperor” or “Empress” (as the spoiled only children of the One Child Policy generation are sometimes called) that I didn’t know how to handle. “I’m sure I never said anything about preferring a family without kids.” I replied and knew to be true. In fact, I was the only 1 in 10 home stay students that made no specifications, listed no preferences, was open to anything. Although, at the moment, I had a pang of regret for it. “No worries, I’m open to anything!” And I thought that would be it. My family with one child would come whisk me away.
Not yet. More waiting. Ping Ping returns. “Your host sister is so adorable!” she said reassuringly, probably sensing my discomfort at the prospect of dealing with young kids. Don’t get me wrong: I love kids, but I always have this sense of unease that I’ll break or otherwise damage them. “Right after she came into our office, she lost a tooth and she looks so proud of it. You can come and meet them now.” Ma Yu Jie, my family’s sweet 7-year old Little Empress, was clinging bashfully to my host mom’s skirt. But her bashfulness was soon to disappear for good. My host mom, a friendly, beautiful, slight and slightly shy woman, greeted me with a smile. My host dad was in the next room over, watching the Olympic men’s basketball finals between Spain and the U.S. They seemed an agreeable threesome.
My host dad, who I was told I could call Shu Shu (or Uncle) stepped away from the sports match to help me fetch my luggage. “Ni de xing li zhe me shao!?” he exclaimed, expressing surprise at the lack of bulk to my luggage. He saw my hiking backpack and asked excitedly, “You like camping?” That wasn’t exactly the reason why I brought the backpack, but I do love camping. “Dang ran!” I answered, “Of course.” It looked like we’d already found something in common.
Along the relatively short & straightforward (I heard that some of my fellow CIEE students’ host families live over a half hour bike ride away from the school!) route home in the family car, we made a brief stop and my host dad ran up a side street, returning with a steaming bag of Nanjing kaoya (Nanjing’s take on Peking duck). Upon arriving home, the duck was added to a table already laden with excellent-looking Zhong Guo Cai (Chinese food). And I got to meet the wonderful woman responsible for these dishes and all the other wonderful food I’ve enjoyed since. Ayi, though not related to anyone in the family, is nonetheless at its heart. I later found out that many well-to-do Chinese families with 2 working parents pay for the services of live-in housekeepers/cooks/caretakers like Ayi to help raise their children (or, in most cases, as with my family, single child). The dinner was outstanding, with vegetables, meat, rice, and soup each adding their own distinct colors and flavors to the palette of the meal. My first introduction to the fine art of Chinese home cooking. And let me tell you, America’s take on Chinese food pales in comparison.
While being shown around the spacious apartment (much more roomy than I had been expecting), one of the first things that caught my eye apart from the general impression of spaciousness and cleanliness was this: in a prominent place over the TV cabinet (the size of their big-screen plasma TV is likely larger than all the TV’s at my home combined) were the large portraits of 2 children, 1 boy and 1 girl, neither of which resembled my sister Ma Yu Jie. Just décor, I guess, these pictures of random Chinese children. The apartment’s sleek dark hardwood flooring and classy white space-saving furniture, the simple uncluttered décor (which made the two portraits stand out so much) and the general pristine-ness of it all was a contrast to the clutter bustle dilapidation of the world outside.
Like the overwhelming majority of the people in the world outside, however (I’d estimate a good several hundred million out of the 1.3 billion plus people that now make up China’s population), my family was taking part in a mass ritual. When the time turned to 7 PM, my family tuned our TV to the closing ceremony of the Olympics. Their giant plasma TV, the centerpiece of the living room under the watchful eyes of the 2 Chinese children’s portraits, I found out that they’d bought only about a month ago for the express purpose of being able to watch the Olympics.
The morning following my last night in the dorms of Nanjing Da Xue’s Foreign Students Building, all the CIEE students (all those that had already arrived, at least: there were still a few who were deterred from travel by the typhoon raging off the coast of Hong Kong) met at 8 AM for what turned out to be a grueling, frustrating 2 full hours of placement testing. The test began with a listening comprehension section (my strength) but that was soon over and followed by an arduous hour & a half of reading comprehension that increased with difficulty as the test went on. It was comprehensible at the start, but after the first 10 pages, my brain was strained after trying to construe the meaning of han.zi (Chinese characters) I’d never encountered before. And there were still over 10 pages to go.
I did my best and stuck it out to the bitter end. It turned out that many of my tong xue (classmates) had given up in frustration and just started filling in random bubbles. Every one of us left our desks feeling discouraged. Let’s just say we’ve got a l o n g way to go. (Not until the next day did I discover that I’d done comparatively well on the test of doom and was placed into the highest-level class: A1 Ban). Following another orientation, we were freed from the testing room and set loose to explore the city on our own.
Tomorrow is to be our first day of classes, and I was feeling a bit lost with a lack of school supplies (in that curious way that they have of disappearing, I was down to my last mechanical pencil). So I rounded up a group of tong xue also interested in school supply shopping for a trip to the main Chao Shi (Supermarket) in our neighborhood. We strolled down the crowded streets, attracting stares even in this huge city of nearly 7 million where people seem used to the sight of foreigners but where we “Lao Wai” (a colloquial Chinese word for “foreigner”) will still inevitably attract stares and attention. My ears have been attuned to respond to calls of “Lao Wai”: I’ll be walking around town and, all of a sudden, hear a child’s—or adult’s—voice exclaim, “Kan, shi ge lao wai!” (“Look, it’s a foreigner!”).
Life in this Chinese city is certainly not fraught with the hardships that I know many back home imagined for me. Take the supermarket for example: there, I can buy practically anything I could get back in the U.S., and more (well, with the notable exception of deodorant, but I’ll worry about that later…), and often for a cheaper price. So our school supply shopping expedition was a success. In the process of exploring the store, however, our group got separated, so when we had found all we needed and were preparing to pay, it was just my friend Courtney and I left. The cash registers in front of the exit seemed plentiful, but looked to be blocked off from the rest of the store. Then, to the right side, I noticed a sign on which the few characters I recognized could be roughly translated to (maybe, I think…), “For customers paying for items.” The sign was pointing to a ridiculously long and slow-moving line. But, seeing no other way out of the store if we actually wanted to bring our school supplies with us, we accepted our fate and moved to the back of the line.
In the course of what was practically an hour of waiting in this line, I struck up some friendly conversation with the elderly couple standing in front of us and the group of friendly women standing behind. So we talked. And waited. And waited. “What could be taking so long,” I wondered. But as I was enjoying the friendly banter, and as the surrounding group seemed to have more or less adopted us, the time passed pleasantly. After almost an hour, the line turned a corner and I at last caught sight of its destination in the distance: a counter before which the orderly cue seemed to break into a frenzy and the harried “fu wu yuan” (employees) behind the desk appeared to be handing out giant—and precariously fragile-looking—plastic bags brimming with brown eggs. So this is what we waited an hour for!
Then, to our left, I noticed that, alas, the cash registers, a huge line of them at that, were open for business. No lines, no waiting. As soon as Courtney and I saw that we’d been waiting in vain for something we neither wanted nor could even possibly use, we were about to give up on the egg line. Before we did, however, one of the kindly old women waiting behind us sensed our discouragement and fought her way to the front of the line—no easy task—to get a bag of eggs on our behalf. After a heated exchange at the egg counter, she returned to her rightful spot in line, victorious, holding up a big bag of brown eggs. Embarrassment mixed with the hilarity of it all, I explained apologetically that we ended up in this line not because we wanted a bag of eggs but due to a misunderstanding and our pathetic Chinese skills. We left the line laughing, everyone around us undoubtedly thinking “ben dan de lao wai…” (“stupid foreigners…”), the woman who’d fought to the front of the line on our behalf still victoriously holding her prize, looking happy to have had us as an excuse to bypass the line.
School supplies paid for and good to go, the next task in store for Courtney and I was to get her a cell phone and SIM card (she’d been one of the students to get stuck in Hong Kong due to the typhoon and thus missed out on the previous day’s en masse cell phone / SIM card purchasing party. That taken care of, we had a tasty lunch of what must have been the only 2 non-red-meat dishes served at what seemed to be Nanjing’s equivalent of a Longhorn or Outback Steakhouse. As the patrons around us set aside their chopsticks to slice the sizzling slabs of steak in front of them into bite-size pieces, Courtney and I enjoyed our lunch platters, hers featuring eggplant and mine a whole fish surrounded by sides of sautéed greens, soy beans, egg soufflé and pigeon-part soup. By that point, it was time for us to return and take part in our host family orientations (the 2 of us are among the 10 out of 33 CIEE students who opted to live with a host family), followed by—finally!—our host family meet-up.
Don’t stick your chopsticks upright into a plate of food or bowl of rice: it looks reminiscent of offerings made to ancestors. Don’t be an untidy slob. These were some of the points covered in the host family orientation, some insightful and interesting, most just common sense and courtesy. After sitting through Host Family Living 101, we were given some time to gather our things and then told to wait in our dorm rooms between 2 and 4 PM, during which our host families were scheduled to come and claim us. By 1:30 PM, my 2 backpacks were packed and I anxiously sat and waited. And waited. Hmm, that seemed to be a theme of the day, between the egg line and now for the host family meeting.
Minutes before 4 PM, Ping Ping (our program’s assistant director) came to my door, looking apologetic: “Melissa, I know you said you’d prefer not to have a family with young children…” which I’m sure I never actually said but secretly hoped, “but would it be alright if…” “Of course!” I said, knowing what was coming and slightly disappointed at the prospect of having to deal with a “Little Emperor” or “Empress” (as the spoiled only children of the One Child Policy generation are sometimes called) that I didn’t know how to handle. “I’m sure I never said anything about preferring a family without kids.” I replied and knew to be true. In fact, I was the only 1 in 10 home stay students that made no specifications, listed no preferences, was open to anything. Although, at the moment, I had a pang of regret for it. “No worries, I’m open to anything!” And I thought that would be it. My family with one child would come whisk me away.
Not yet. More waiting. Ping Ping returns. “Your host sister is so adorable!” she said reassuringly, probably sensing my discomfort at the prospect of dealing with young kids. Don’t get me wrong: I love kids, but I always have this sense of unease that I’ll break or otherwise damage them. “Right after she came into our office, she lost a tooth and she looks so proud of it. You can come and meet them now.” Ma Yu Jie, my family’s sweet 7-year old Little Empress, was clinging bashfully to my host mom’s skirt. But her bashfulness was soon to disappear for good. My host mom, a friendly, beautiful, slight and slightly shy woman, greeted me with a smile. My host dad was in the next room over, watching the Olympic men’s basketball finals between Spain and the U.S. They seemed an agreeable threesome.
My host dad, who I was told I could call Shu Shu (or Uncle) stepped away from the sports match to help me fetch my luggage. “Ni de xing li zhe me shao!?” he exclaimed, expressing surprise at the lack of bulk to my luggage. He saw my hiking backpack and asked excitedly, “You like camping?” That wasn’t exactly the reason why I brought the backpack, but I do love camping. “Dang ran!” I answered, “Of course.” It looked like we’d already found something in common.
Along the relatively short & straightforward (I heard that some of my fellow CIEE students’ host families live over a half hour bike ride away from the school!) route home in the family car, we made a brief stop and my host dad ran up a side street, returning with a steaming bag of Nanjing kaoya (Nanjing’s take on Peking duck). Upon arriving home, the duck was added to a table already laden with excellent-looking Zhong Guo Cai (Chinese food). And I got to meet the wonderful woman responsible for these dishes and all the other wonderful food I’ve enjoyed since. Ayi, though not related to anyone in the family, is nonetheless at its heart. I later found out that many well-to-do Chinese families with 2 working parents pay for the services of live-in housekeepers/cooks/caretakers like Ayi to help raise their children (or, in most cases, as with my family, single child). The dinner was outstanding, with vegetables, meat, rice, and soup each adding their own distinct colors and flavors to the palette of the meal. My first introduction to the fine art of Chinese home cooking. And let me tell you, America’s take on Chinese food pales in comparison.
While being shown around the spacious apartment (much more roomy than I had been expecting), one of the first things that caught my eye apart from the general impression of spaciousness and cleanliness was this: in a prominent place over the TV cabinet (the size of their big-screen plasma TV is likely larger than all the TV’s at my home combined) were the large portraits of 2 children, 1 boy and 1 girl, neither of which resembled my sister Ma Yu Jie. Just décor, I guess, these pictures of random Chinese children. The apartment’s sleek dark hardwood flooring and classy white space-saving furniture, the simple uncluttered décor (which made the two portraits stand out so much) and the general pristine-ness of it all was a contrast to the clutter bustle dilapidation of the world outside.
Like the overwhelming majority of the people in the world outside, however (I’d estimate a good several hundred million out of the 1.3 billion plus people that now make up China’s population), my family was taking part in a mass ritual. When the time turned to 7 PM, my family tuned our TV to the closing ceremony of the Olympics. Their giant plasma TV, the centerpiece of the living room under the watchful eyes of the 2 Chinese children’s portraits, I found out that they’d bought only about a month ago for the express purpose of being able to watch the Olympics.
For the past 16 days, the competitions had been full swing in Beijing. Emotions are running high here--on many levels--as China as a nation is basking in the glory of its success at the Beijing Olympics and, on a more personal level, as I become accustomed to my new life in my new home in the spectacular city Nanjing. All the Chinese people I've spoken with over the past several days have mde a point of asking whether I know the latest results in the unofficial Olympic competition between China and the U.S.: which country had secured the largest number of golds, which nation had won the most medals overall.
Here, I've perceived an overwhelming sense that this was more than an athletic event: like an India vs. Pakistan cricket match, China's people at all levels--from the highest ranks of the Chinese communist party to the lowest levels of social standing--seem to take the competition personally. It's not just the individual athletes that are vying for peak performance: it's country as a whole. In preparation for hosting the games, China's government has pulled out all the stops and spared no expense (expense in terms of dollars, cents, sense, and can't forget the cost in terms of citizens' rights...). To the people of China, this Olympics is more than a mere sporting match: this is China's chance to prove its power and worth to the world.
Aside from the huge living room with a cluster of comfy couches facing the TV (and the aforementioned portraits), there was a connecting dining room, a well-equipped kitchen, an office, 2 bathrooms and 3 large bedrooms. The most noticeable Chinese aspects of the place was the poster with the character 福 “fu” for happiness turned upside down on their front door, the portraits of random Chinese children, the small dragon statuette made of small shells next to the portraits, and the map of China in their office. For other signs that this was a Chinese household, you had to look a little harder; on their bookshelves, at the photos of family and friends adorning the sliding doors leading to the kitchen, at the writing on the tube of toothpaste in the bathroom, at the rice cooker and the food in the fridge. This certainly wasn’t what I’d imagined, but I’m certainly not complaining. It’s a spacious and lovely home, now my new home, a home all the more lovely for the people who have so graciously welcomed me into it.
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