Dear China,
When I first lived in Asia, I always felt so remarkably unfashionable. Black skater shoes and "funky" metal earrings were chewed-up bubble gum in comparison to the ultra-feminine looks worn by so many.
Then, I moved to Hefei.
A vision manifested. Tossed me a smile at the movie theater. Nice teeth, great hair, tall(ish) -- WOAH!! What's happening from the neck-down?
Say "hello" to the latest fashion craze in Hefei:
Quilted Pyjamas (don't forget your slippers!)
I wish I were lying. I wish I could tell you that this man at the movie theater didn't try his luck with a foreign girl while wearing his quilted pyjamas. Sadly, there's no escaping the truth.
Let me also tantalize your senses with this: not only were they quilted, but white in colour with some sort of burgundy floral pattern... ah yes, and to finish this vision of haute couture, there's the footwear. In this case, carefully chosen brown Ugg boots. Mom, Dad - I've found my future husband.
I thought perhaps it was an anomaly. A mistake. An error of judgement after a wild night at Phebe Bar.
No.
Everywhere you look, the quilted pjs are there. In the grocery store. In the front courtyard. In the hallway of the apartment building. If you're lucky, you'll also have the great joy of seeing someone wear their slippers (maybe even with a little brown bear on front). Nothing says Sunday morning in the meat aisle like pjs and slippers. Hello Salmonella.
Criticism aside, I have a confession. Last week when taking out my garbage, I stopped and asked myself, "Puh, should I put shoes on, or just wear my slippers? I'm only taking out the garbage..." I know some of you are screaming now, but don't worry; I put real shoes on and trundled outside.
But, when I walked up the stairs to the fourth floor, I was greeted by vision number two and wondered why I had even bothered. Imagine if you will: a 50-ish year old man, with a buzz cut, tan leathery skin and... white quilted pyjamas! This time though, with a blue floral pattern and his footwear of choice, a brown loafer. Don't forget the cigarette dangling from his right hand.
Just today, when I thought I had seen all the possible combinations of pyjamas and footwear, a new one crossed my path. Coming home from work, with my Forever rolling along beside me, a woman took the prize for best outfit. With her hair tucked up in a tight ponytail, she strutted her white fleece pyjamas while wearing 3-inch black leather heels. If I had Mr. Movie PJs' number, I would have certainly passed it along.
All I can do is hope that I don't succumb to this epidemic. If I do, please send clothes.
Yours in real footwear,
A.
Wednesday, 19 March 2014
Saturday, 25 January 2014
Air Apocalypse
Dear China,
Luckily, I can see past my fourth floor balcony. I can see into the courtyard and watch children play. I can see the red lanterns hanging off trees in honour of Lunar New Year. I can even see the apartment building's security guards, smoking away in their tiny office; eyes carefully scanning the comings and goings in Shuxiang Mendi.
What I can barely see, is the 30-floor apartment building being built half a block away. If I squint, I can see the white wing-shaped form of street lights in front of this new building, and even the outline of a blue construction tarp. I cannot see beyond this new building, nor can I really see the top of the construction crane standing in front.
I am constantly asked about the pollution in China. I am also regularly asked about my health, my lungs, whether or not I'm crazy enough to run outside (I'm not), and if this affects my decision on living here.
On days like today, when the pollution index reads 371 and screams "hazardous!", a heaviness clouds my mind. I can do nothing but stare out the window, watching the dust slowly encroach on my balcony and think about one thing: why.
Officials here have varied answers: it's the overpopulation; it's the number of cars; it's the industry; it's the coal power used for heat. The list seems endless and circuitous; one source feeds into another with no real solution in sight.
Before coming here, my issues with the countless factories in China stemmed from poor working conditions and the abuses that workers endure. That being said, upon my first visit to the country, a Chinese friend politely informed me, "Working in factories is the livelihood for many people. If we were to shut down the factories, where would they work?" I don't have an answer to that question, but now, having been in the country for just two months, my concerns with the factories spreads beyond workers' rights.
When the pollution soars to such monumental levels that records are broken, (and pictures of Shanghai's skyline is splayed across world newspapers) I begin to focus less on myself and more on how to make a difference in a country that is slowly choking to death. Seeing small children play outside with toy cars or flying kites in air that is pregnant with contaminates makes me sick to my stomach. It's as though, at any moment, the entire country will disappear into the haze; leaving nothing behind but cheap manufactured goods that cost next to nothing in China to make or buy, yet cost everything in human health and welfare.
I never thought that I would adhere to the "buy local" mentality, but I strongly feel that upon my return to Vancouver, I may never look at a "Made in China" label in the same way. The distance between myself and the country in which these products are made has been forever changed. While I may not be able to put a face to the maker of the products, I can certainly put faces to the individuals who suffer from this environmental devastation.
On days like today, I am saddened by the picture outside my window and dreaming of a solution to a most devastating problem.
Yours in smog,
A.
Luckily, I can see past my fourth floor balcony. I can see into the courtyard and watch children play. I can see the red lanterns hanging off trees in honour of Lunar New Year. I can even see the apartment building's security guards, smoking away in their tiny office; eyes carefully scanning the comings and goings in Shuxiang Mendi.
What I can barely see, is the 30-floor apartment building being built half a block away. If I squint, I can see the white wing-shaped form of street lights in front of this new building, and even the outline of a blue construction tarp. I cannot see beyond this new building, nor can I really see the top of the construction crane standing in front.
I am constantly asked about the pollution in China. I am also regularly asked about my health, my lungs, whether or not I'm crazy enough to run outside (I'm not), and if this affects my decision on living here.
On days like today, when the pollution index reads 371 and screams "hazardous!", a heaviness clouds my mind. I can do nothing but stare out the window, watching the dust slowly encroach on my balcony and think about one thing: why.
Officials here have varied answers: it's the overpopulation; it's the number of cars; it's the industry; it's the coal power used for heat. The list seems endless and circuitous; one source feeds into another with no real solution in sight.
Before coming here, my issues with the countless factories in China stemmed from poor working conditions and the abuses that workers endure. That being said, upon my first visit to the country, a Chinese friend politely informed me, "Working in factories is the livelihood for many people. If we were to shut down the factories, where would they work?" I don't have an answer to that question, but now, having been in the country for just two months, my concerns with the factories spreads beyond workers' rights.
When the pollution soars to such monumental levels that records are broken, (and pictures of Shanghai's skyline is splayed across world newspapers) I begin to focus less on myself and more on how to make a difference in a country that is slowly choking to death. Seeing small children play outside with toy cars or flying kites in air that is pregnant with contaminates makes me sick to my stomach. It's as though, at any moment, the entire country will disappear into the haze; leaving nothing behind but cheap manufactured goods that cost next to nothing in China to make or buy, yet cost everything in human health and welfare.
I never thought that I would adhere to the "buy local" mentality, but I strongly feel that upon my return to Vancouver, I may never look at a "Made in China" label in the same way. The distance between myself and the country in which these products are made has been forever changed. While I may not be able to put a face to the maker of the products, I can certainly put faces to the individuals who suffer from this environmental devastation.
On days like today, I am saddened by the picture outside my window and dreaming of a solution to a most devastating problem.
Yours in smog,
A.
Monday, 20 January 2014
Lunchtime Love Triangle
Dear China,
While sitting in a quaint local coffee shop called Habitat, a very soap opera-esque scene unfolded. (Honestly, I felt as though I'd stepped onto the set of "Days of Our Lives"; albeit, the Chinese version...)
My colleagues and I were sitting in a half-moon booth, with the loveliest purple velvet cushions. Our eyes could look in only two directions: outside the window (where to our surprise we spotted another laowai and wondered how we didn't know this Caucasian woman - don't we know every foreigner living in Hefei?) or to a slightly elevated seating area before us.
While munching away on our meals, a very angry woman with short black hair and a pink sweater angrily shoved a wooden serving tray, complete with lunch, onto a man's lap. At first we thought it was an accident however, from my direction, I knew that she had done it intentionally. Without much reaction, the man placed the tray back onto the table and began wiping off his black jacket with a napkin.
In the meantime, pink sweater lady began to yell. At first it was a quiet murmur, perhaps an attempt at some degree of social decorum. Then, the murmur turned into a high-pitched attack, whereby the man just sat in his chair, rather stunned-looking and quiet.
Thank goodness that our Chinese friend, April, had joined our Mandarin-deficient group for lunch. While we all stared, mouths agape, at this scene, April began to explain the situation.
Our pink sweater lady was yelling at her husband, who at this time, was having lunch with his girlfriend!! Can you believe it? While the wife yelled at her husband, the girlfriend who was sitting directly across from the guilty party, maintained a blank face and continued to eat her lunch.
To make matters worse, his wife asked him to leave the restaurant with her, and he refused! After more loud yelling (by this point, even the most cell-phone addicted individual is staring at the threesome) the husband succumbed and left with his wife; hence leaving the girlfriend with the bill.
What a lunch!
A.
While sitting in a quaint local coffee shop called Habitat, a very soap opera-esque scene unfolded. (Honestly, I felt as though I'd stepped onto the set of "Days of Our Lives"; albeit, the Chinese version...)
My colleagues and I were sitting in a half-moon booth, with the loveliest purple velvet cushions. Our eyes could look in only two directions: outside the window (where to our surprise we spotted another laowai and wondered how we didn't know this Caucasian woman - don't we know every foreigner living in Hefei?) or to a slightly elevated seating area before us.
While munching away on our meals, a very angry woman with short black hair and a pink sweater angrily shoved a wooden serving tray, complete with lunch, onto a man's lap. At first we thought it was an accident however, from my direction, I knew that she had done it intentionally. Without much reaction, the man placed the tray back onto the table and began wiping off his black jacket with a napkin.
In the meantime, pink sweater lady began to yell. At first it was a quiet murmur, perhaps an attempt at some degree of social decorum. Then, the murmur turned into a high-pitched attack, whereby the man just sat in his chair, rather stunned-looking and quiet.
Thank goodness that our Chinese friend, April, had joined our Mandarin-deficient group for lunch. While we all stared, mouths agape, at this scene, April began to explain the situation.
Our pink sweater lady was yelling at her husband, who at this time, was having lunch with his girlfriend!! Can you believe it? While the wife yelled at her husband, the girlfriend who was sitting directly across from the guilty party, maintained a blank face and continued to eat her lunch.
To make matters worse, his wife asked him to leave the restaurant with her, and he refused! After more loud yelling (by this point, even the most cell-phone addicted individual is staring at the threesome) the husband succumbed and left with his wife; hence leaving the girlfriend with the bill.
What a lunch!
A.
Thursday, 9 January 2014
$10 For a Haircut
Dear China,
I've never felt financially wealthy, but living here has altered my perspective on the value of a dollar. While I could write you a letter about the severe income gap between the rich and poor, or the abject poverty I routinely witness while downtown, today I'm going to focus on something a little different.
First, a little background information: I joined a gym when I first arrived in the city. To my great surprise, one of the girls working at the gym speaks English really well. Due to this, we've become fast friends and enjoyed our first outing last Saturday.
Janet was excited about our big day out, so carefully planned our excursion to include: shopping, eating, and a movie. We met at the infamous GR Shopping Mall (apparently one of the most comprehensive shopping malls in Anhui province) and proceeded on local bus number one into the city center.
Chinese hospitality is far-reaching and much to my dismay, Janet attempted to cover many of the costs. I had to politely, but firmly, decline her offer to pay for lunch (71RMB or $12CAD) and only allowed her to pay for the movie because she receives a discount on tickets.
At home, I would always split the cost of an outing with a friend. Not because I'm worried about how much money my friend earns, but because it's polite. Last Saturday, my desire to pay appeared to emerge for two reasons: to be polite and also due to an awareness of the vast income gap between my friend and I.
The topic of money seemed to surface quite often. From comparing prices of restaurants while deciding on lunch, to discussions over clothing costs, I was faced with the reality of my foreign workers' financial privilege. While looking at a sweater, with an adorable black and white dog on the front wearing a studded collar, my friend peered at the price tag and shook her head. The tag read 169RMB, which is approximately $30. Apparently my concept of a good deal contradicts mainstream thinking.
Our money talks were not solely limited to food and clothing. While walking by a sleek, modern hair salon, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the following conversation ensued:
"How much do you think they charge for a haircut"? I asked, with genuine interest in using their services.
"Hmm, I don't know. Maybe 50RMB. Too much for haircut. Expensive".
As I ran the calculation in my limited mathematical mind, I thought, I think that works out to about $10. Hah! $10 for a haircut at a decent looking salon. What a deal! My next thought: Crap, I pay about $80 back in Vancouver... what is that, about 450RMB? Holy, aren't I spoliled...
I know what you're thinking; no need to say it aloud. It's all a matter of perspective isn't it? I fear that living in Vancouver for too long has skewed my definition of expensive. I wonder how long I'll have to live here before coming back around...
Dreaming of a haircut,
A.
I've never felt financially wealthy, but living here has altered my perspective on the value of a dollar. While I could write you a letter about the severe income gap between the rich and poor, or the abject poverty I routinely witness while downtown, today I'm going to focus on something a little different.
First, a little background information: I joined a gym when I first arrived in the city. To my great surprise, one of the girls working at the gym speaks English really well. Due to this, we've become fast friends and enjoyed our first outing last Saturday.
Janet was excited about our big day out, so carefully planned our excursion to include: shopping, eating, and a movie. We met at the infamous GR Shopping Mall (apparently one of the most comprehensive shopping malls in Anhui province) and proceeded on local bus number one into the city center.
Chinese hospitality is far-reaching and much to my dismay, Janet attempted to cover many of the costs. I had to politely, but firmly, decline her offer to pay for lunch (71RMB or $12CAD) and only allowed her to pay for the movie because she receives a discount on tickets.
At home, I would always split the cost of an outing with a friend. Not because I'm worried about how much money my friend earns, but because it's polite. Last Saturday, my desire to pay appeared to emerge for two reasons: to be polite and also due to an awareness of the vast income gap between my friend and I.
The topic of money seemed to surface quite often. From comparing prices of restaurants while deciding on lunch, to discussions over clothing costs, I was faced with the reality of my foreign workers' financial privilege. While looking at a sweater, with an adorable black and white dog on the front wearing a studded collar, my friend peered at the price tag and shook her head. The tag read 169RMB, which is approximately $30. Apparently my concept of a good deal contradicts mainstream thinking.
Our money talks were not solely limited to food and clothing. While walking by a sleek, modern hair salon, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the following conversation ensued:
"How much do you think they charge for a haircut"? I asked, with genuine interest in using their services.
"Hmm, I don't know. Maybe 50RMB. Too much for haircut. Expensive".
As I ran the calculation in my limited mathematical mind, I thought, I think that works out to about $10. Hah! $10 for a haircut at a decent looking salon. What a deal! My next thought: Crap, I pay about $80 back in Vancouver... what is that, about 450RMB? Holy, aren't I spoliled...
I know what you're thinking; no need to say it aloud. It's all a matter of perspective isn't it? I fear that living in Vancouver for too long has skewed my definition of expensive. I wonder how long I'll have to live here before coming back around...
Dreaming of a haircut,
A.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Good Morning?
Dear China,
I'm never quite sure what will greet me on Saturday mornings. Will I awake naturally, to the sun streaming through my curtains? Or perhaps to the symphony of horns from overzealous drivers? Usually, it's the machine-gun rat-tat-tat of firecrackers, alerting everyone in the neighbourhood that someone new is moving into their apartment. (That's my all-time favourite at 5a.m. in the morning)
But today, it was something different. A high-pitched nasal soprano, singing traditional Chinese music, shook me from my slumber. With one eye open, I rolled over and stared at my alarm clock: 8:23a.m. "You've got to be kidding me!" When I finally managed to peel myself out of bed, I thought it wise to investigate. When my apartment courtyard revealed nothing, I noted that the noise seemed loudest from the bedroom. As I peeked out my bedroom window, I discovered the source of this rude awakening:
The new spa.
While I was first excited about the opening of a spa a mere fifteen steps from my apartment gate, this excitement has now been replaced by sheer annoyance. While I appreciate the fanfare that every new business brings to its corner of the world, I can't imagine that anyone really cares about a spa at 8a.m. on a Saturday morning. Or perhaps, it's just me.
Returning now to the scene across the street: a red inflated half-circle banner created a welcome gate to the spa. I've seen these before. Every new business (or so it seems) erects one, although I don't know what the Chinese writing on these banners say. In front of the banner, there was a stage with two giant speakers flanking either side. No singer in sight - nothing beats the recorded version. Periodically, a male host (assumedly) would take the stage and make some sort of announcement or comment.
I'd love to tell you when the music stopped, but it's been two hours and I've heard the same song one too many times.
I would love to know your thoughts on this - am I judging too harshly?
A.
I'm never quite sure what will greet me on Saturday mornings. Will I awake naturally, to the sun streaming through my curtains? Or perhaps to the symphony of horns from overzealous drivers? Usually, it's the machine-gun rat-tat-tat of firecrackers, alerting everyone in the neighbourhood that someone new is moving into their apartment. (That's my all-time favourite at 5a.m. in the morning)
But today, it was something different. A high-pitched nasal soprano, singing traditional Chinese music, shook me from my slumber. With one eye open, I rolled over and stared at my alarm clock: 8:23a.m. "You've got to be kidding me!" When I finally managed to peel myself out of bed, I thought it wise to investigate. When my apartment courtyard revealed nothing, I noted that the noise seemed loudest from the bedroom. As I peeked out my bedroom window, I discovered the source of this rude awakening:
The new spa.
While I was first excited about the opening of a spa a mere fifteen steps from my apartment gate, this excitement has now been replaced by sheer annoyance. While I appreciate the fanfare that every new business brings to its corner of the world, I can't imagine that anyone really cares about a spa at 8a.m. on a Saturday morning. Or perhaps, it's just me.
Returning now to the scene across the street: a red inflated half-circle banner created a welcome gate to the spa. I've seen these before. Every new business (or so it seems) erects one, although I don't know what the Chinese writing on these banners say. In front of the banner, there was a stage with two giant speakers flanking either side. No singer in sight - nothing beats the recorded version. Periodically, a male host (assumedly) would take the stage and make some sort of announcement or comment.
I'd love to tell you when the music stopped, but it's been two hours and I've heard the same song one too many times.
I would love to know your thoughts on this - am I judging too harshly?
A.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
A Belated Letter
Dear China,
My apologies for having waited so long to write. In fact, it's been even longer since we last saw one another. When was the last time - two or three years ago? Either way, my quiet day at home made me think that I should probably make contact. After all, there's much to say.
After nearly twenty-four hours of blurry travel, I arrived in Hefei exactly one month ago. While I'd love to say that my city selection emerged from careful consideration, such is not the case. Rather, I learned that a job existed in a secondary school, briefly googled the city, then said, "why not?" After living in a small town in Japan with six restaurants, two gas stations, and a very poor wine selection, I figured that anywhere with a Starbucks outside of Vancouver might be alright.
I suppose you're wondering about my first impressions of the city. In many ways, I'm lucky that I've traveled in China before. Much of my earlier shock over the garbage, never-ending dust, spitting, and toddler pants with slits in the rear for waste disposal, have only fleetingly occupied my mind. Instead, I have time to focus my energy on other happenings such as roadside farmers markets, elementary girls enjoying sweets after school, or the neverending stares that drink up my white skin and blond hair.
This isn't to say that my arrival here has been seamless, but for once at least, I have a tiny ounce of familiarity with my new surroundings.
I'll do my best to write more often. Perhaps this shall be my New Year's resolution - I'm sure you would appreciate more frequent letters from your Canadian friend.
Wishing you all the best,
A.
My apologies for having waited so long to write. In fact, it's been even longer since we last saw one another. When was the last time - two or three years ago? Either way, my quiet day at home made me think that I should probably make contact. After all, there's much to say.
After nearly twenty-four hours of blurry travel, I arrived in Hefei exactly one month ago. While I'd love to say that my city selection emerged from careful consideration, such is not the case. Rather, I learned that a job existed in a secondary school, briefly googled the city, then said, "why not?" After living in a small town in Japan with six restaurants, two gas stations, and a very poor wine selection, I figured that anywhere with a Starbucks outside of Vancouver might be alright.
I suppose you're wondering about my first impressions of the city. In many ways, I'm lucky that I've traveled in China before. Much of my earlier shock over the garbage, never-ending dust, spitting, and toddler pants with slits in the rear for waste disposal, have only fleetingly occupied my mind. Instead, I have time to focus my energy on other happenings such as roadside farmers markets, elementary girls enjoying sweets after school, or the neverending stares that drink up my white skin and blond hair.
This isn't to say that my arrival here has been seamless, but for once at least, I have a tiny ounce of familiarity with my new surroundings.
I'll do my best to write more often. Perhaps this shall be my New Year's resolution - I'm sure you would appreciate more frequent letters from your Canadian friend.
Wishing you all the best,
A.
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