From the Apple back to the Dragon
Since moving back to the States last fall, I have written about the concept of reverse culture shock caused by going home after several years abroad. Now, I'll have the opportunity to write about reverse-reverse-culture shock (if such a thing exists). For after ten months away, I am back in China.
The decision to come back after a year at school wasn't really hard. I knew that I was likely to do an unpaid internship of some sort, and 'unpaid' is a lot cheaper in China than in the United States. Also, I missed engaging with the language, wanted to have time to do more writing and thinking, and wanted to visit and hang out with old friends again. For these reasons, I have decided to spend my summer living in Beijing, sickly yellow skies and humid weather notwithstanding.
I arrived here just a couple days ago and have not really had time to adjust yet, but my first impressions have thus far been positive. Beijing has the great gift of street energy, a sine qua non of a vibrant, happening place. I love the little hutong areas and back alleys with hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops. For a city with such wide boulevards and tall skyscrapers, this intimacy is a big plus.
A few other notes...
- The internet situation here is as bad as I've ever seen it. In years past only computer geeks bothered to get a virtual private network (VPN) in order to get around the elaborate Chinese internet firewalls. Nowadays, living without one seems impossible for just about any internet user. Now, the firewall has gone beyond mere social networking sites and now threatens essential functions like gmail. Unfortunately, the government now seems adept at disrupting VPN service, too. One really wonders how much the hassle of using the internet in China has affected business practices here.
- The new subway lines are fresh, clean, fast, and efficient. I love the system of simply tapping your card against a sensor while walking in (why can't New York implement this?) Also- being able to use a transit card for the subway, bus, and even taxis is a brilliant innovation that I hope will be copied in other cities around the world.
- The much-discussed smoking ban implemented recently in Chinese businesses seems to be unenforceable. The only difference from what I can tell is that one has to ask for ashtrays rather than just use ones located right on the table.
- The ease with which one can acquire a Chinese telephone number continues to amaze me. Life would be so much easier if we in the US banished our cell phone companies and their idiotic 'plans'.
I'll have more thoughts to follow as I recover from jet lag and get into a rhythm here in Beijing.
Archives Added!
Back in September 2004 I started writing a blog called No Borders No Limits. I can't remember why I chose that name, but it seems appropriate for my mindset in those days. I had spent that summer backpacking through Europe, a trip that took me through Italy, Greece, Turkey, the Czech Republic, Austria, Spain, and Portugal. When I came back I began my search for a teaching job somewhere in Asia, with an eye warily trained toward the People's Republic of China. Whether I went to China- or somewhere else- was still in question then. All I knew was that I was destined to go overseas again. I had caught the bug- there was nothing I could do about it.
Here's the first post for NBNL that I ever wrote, from September 10, 2004:
I've been offered a position with the WITT school in China. Unfortunately, during our phone call last night, I couldn't decipher the lady's accent and thus didn't catch where the school was located. She seemed to want a decision urgently and didn't seem pleased with my wish for a 24-hour extension. Last night, I thought about throwing caution to the wind and just going for it, wherever I might end up. After all, I don't exactly have a specific place in mind, nor a set of conditions that would dictate my final decision.
Ha!
In 2007 I moved to Kunming and decided on a fresh start. I bought my own domain name, began using WordPress, and began orienting my writing toward China-related content. In the ensuing four years I've tried importing my archives* on numerous occasions but was always unable to do so- until now. It isn't perfect- my paragraphs didn't make the move so all of the NBNL posts are badly formatted- but I'm pleased to have them nonetheless. I'm sure I'll read through them on occasion when I feel the need to cringe.
Anyway- if you'd like to peruse please check the archives on the bottom right of the page. Enjoy!
* Boring technical aside: the reason I couldn't just leave the old site up was that Typepad, the blog platform that hosted NBNL, actually charged $5 a month at the time. That's why I had to shut it down.
A Californian’s Guide to New York Winters
I have had the good fortune to spend most of my 30 years living in places blessed with an excellent climate. San Carlos, California, where I grew up, has a gentle Bay Area climate that manages to skirt both the infamous San Francisco fog as well as the South Bay heat. At 18, I moved to San Diego which by some accounts has the best climate in the world, similar to the Bay Area but without the rainy, cool winters. Four of my six years in China were spent in Kunming, a city known as the "city of eternal spring" for a reason. With the exception of a brief rainy season Kunming's climate is warm and sunny year round.
The prospect of moving to New York City excited me for several reasons, but I will admit to being slightly nervous about the weather. I had seen enough clips of "Snowmaggeddon" on the news to teach me that New York winters weren't uniformly mild. Hot, humid summers seemed even less appealing- I dreaded the prospect of having my clothes stick to me.
Now that I've been here awhile I can safely report- the weather isn't that bad. Sure, we complain about it a lot, but it just isn't that bad. The winters, basically, consist of the following days in descending order of pleasantness:
1. Blue, sunny skies and temperatures around freezing with a slight wind. These days are pretty frequent.
2. Blue sunny skies but cooler temperatures- think -7 to -3 C or 18 to 27 F. These days aren't bad but are probably too cold to enjoy spending much time outside.
3. Snow. Pure, falling snow of course has a magical appeal, and the city (especially Central Park) looks beautiful when covered in snow. But it can be a hassle trying to accomplish things outside in the snow, and your clothes and shoes get slightly roughed up in the conditions.
4. Freezing rain (or wintry mix, as it is called by Accuweather). This is the absolute worst. This form of precipitation consists of a weird drizzle, almost invisible, that covers your clothes and makes you feel soaking wet. It falls onto the ground and creates slush, which is a disgusting bit of watery snow which is impossible to avoid stepping in. When this occurs, your mood blackens immediately.
For the most part, though, the weather here is pretty tolerable. For me the worst part wasn't the cold but the short days in December,when I'd leave class at 4:15 and be confronted with dark skies. I suddenly understood why depression is so rampant in Scandinavian countries despite the high standard of living and surprisingly mild temperatures- the seasonal shift in daylight hours can really wreak havoc on your mental health. The cold can be dealt with by investing in good winter clothes and by central heating. The darkness? Not much you can do about it.
So here's the prescription for a Californian who finds himself in the Big Apple through the winter months:
1. Buy a really good, solid jacket. Don't scrimp- it'll last you years. Make sure it's something you can wear without having to wear layers beneath it.
2. Buy tea. There's something really wonderful about drinking tea when it's freezing outside, especially- as is my wont- when you can listen to good music in your toasty, warm apartment.
3. Try to wake up earlier. When it's dark by 4:30 waking up at 11 gives you just a few precious hours of daylight. The sun rises by around 7 in winter so you can actually get a decent, long day in if you adjust your sleeping schedule.
4. Exercise. I think winter depression is compounded by the tendency of people to gain weight- a gym membership becomes a solid investment during the winter when it's too cold to exercise outside.
5. Take advantage of the mild days. To a Californian 30 degrees Fahrenheit seems freakishly cold, but in New York during the winter it truly isn't. These are the days when it pays to go for walks outside.
6. Central Park. In the middle of winter, New York's iconic park is at its best- stunningly beautiful and extremely peaceful.
Spring is coming late to the city this year but on the few days that the mercury has risen above 60 F, the sense of euphoria has been palpable. I suppose that's another advantage to living in a cold winter climate. When the spring finally comes you really, really appreciate it.
Anna Campana
Anna Campana was the sort of person you wouldn't notice at first. Short with salt and pepper hair and a dumpy frame, she sat most afternoons at the bar outside Salvador's Cafe in Kunming with her ubiquitous glass of gin and tonic and cigarette. In a city with many outsized personalities, Anna was usually very quiet; she seemed content to watch the world go by. I got to know Anna on the occasional lazy weekend afternoons I'd spend at the cafe, catching up on the all the town's latest gossip and hearsay. Sometimes, she'd be so cantankerous as to not welcome conversation at all, but as always Anna would sit comfortably in her own skin, not needing to insert herself into the hubbub surrounding her.
I suppose I am not the best person to write an obituary for Anna, who died two days ago after a lengthy illness. There were others who knew her far better. A trained nurse, Anna worked with the homeless in Kunming with tremendous compassion. When a fellow foreign friend went through a bitter divorce, Anna was there to help him and his two young children get through it. Characteristically, Anna never trumpeted her kindness to others; she never once, in my memory, boasted about it. It was simply something that she did. Anna was someone who truly gave more to life than she expected to get out of it.
I'll best remember Anna as a frequent contestant in Kunming's pub quizzes, an event I occasionally hosted. On one such occasion she objected- loudly- to a question whose answer she perceived to be incorrect. I don't remember what the question was, but I do remember seeing Anna, a middle-aged Swiss woman who stood barely five feet tall, slam her paper and pencil on the table with tremendous fury and then give me one of the bitterest looks I've ever received in my life. Of course, I found this to be completely hysterical, which only enraged her more. The next contest though Anna would come back and compete, yet again, for the standard prize of twelve bottles of Beerlao.
On the penultimate night I spent in Kunming I organized a farewell gathering at The Box, my favorite pub located just a few doors away from Salvador's. Anna walked in and planted a kiss on my cheek. For one of the first times I had seen, her eyes twinkled as she smiled. "You will be missed!" she said in her heavy Swiss German accent before exiting the bar and wandering back toward her favorite perch at Salvador's.
No Anna, you are the one who will be missed.
Beyond Borders
The first job I ever had- aside from a regrettable stint as a camp counselor- was working at a Borders bookstore in Palo Alto, California. This was in the summer of 1999, the year I graduated from high school. The sole objective of the summer as decreed from my parents? Get A Job. And so I went looking.
I was at the Borders one day when I saw an ad that spoke to me: 'You spend all of your time at bookstores. Why not work for one?'. Why not, indeed? I applied and was called in the next day for an interview. After unnecessarily trying to impress the middle-aged store manager of my bookstore bona fides ('actually, A Farewell to Arms is a better representative of Hemingway's minimalist style than The Sun Also Rises') I got the job on the spot.
Photo by Flickr user futantgeneration
The Palo Alto Borders was one of the nicer ones around, but it was not without controversy. The store had bought and renovated a beloved old movie theater that had gone out of business and the Palo Altans- never one to miss an opportunity to grandstand- declared the chain bookstore an abomination. In addition, the rise of Borders and Barnes & Noble were considered a threat to the independent bookstores in the area, especially a popular Menlo Park shop called Kepler's. Before the ubiquity of online alternatives like Amazon, big box chain retailers were the bete noir of civic-minded citizens across the nation's cities and college towns. Borders was indicative of the trend- it lacked soul and character, no matter how many musical performances or schoolkid readings the store organized.
But for a bookish kid chomping at the bit to go to college, Borders was the perfect place to work. My fellow employees that summer ranged from a Stanford grad student who moonlighted as a dot-com entrepreneur, a middle-aged New Yorker who had once played drums in a local punk band and had none of his original teeth ('lost 'em all in bar fights and hockey games'), an ex-con once hauled away by the police for violating his parole, and an HR manager who never talked- ever. On my breaks I would wander the aisles of the store, always removing my name tag so that customers wouldn't disturb me, and pick up books like a lawnmower scooping up blades of grass. I'd sit in a corner and gaze at titles I could barely read and couldn't understand.
Borders also had an extensive music section and in an era when Mp3s were still a novelty I gleefully used my employee discount to augment my CD collection. My partner in crime for this endeavor was a tall, black colleague ten years my senior whose knowledge of classic rock knew no bounds. Before closing time he would ask me if I had a certain Bob Dylan, Velvet Underground, or Grateful Dead album and when I said I didn't, he'd say "it's so great" in a soft, reverential tone which almost subconsciously would induce me to buy it. The stack of CDs in my room grew so large that my parents began wondering out loud whether there was anything else I might like to spend my money on.
The Borders in Palo Alto, in theory, was identical to the Borders' in San Mateo, in San Diego, in New York, in London, in Melbourne. That's the whole point of a chain, really. But the Palo Alto store was the setting for many of my most cherished teenage memories. There was the morose anarchist who taught me how to make cappuccinos and mochas ('and this is for the yuppie fucks who need chocolate in their coffee') There was the time sitting First Daughter Chelsea Clinton walked in with two well-built bodyguards in tow, calmly rejecting the one Borders employee with the cojones to ask her out on a date. There was the customer who commandeered our in-store PA system and pretended, with convincing accuracy, to be a commercial pilot ('we'll be taking things up to 30,000 and making a left right around Denver'). There was the time that I successfully persuaded my 21-year old colleague to buy me a six-pack of Coronas, only to realize that I had nowhere to hide it in my home.
Whenever I'm back in the Bay Area I make a point to stop in to the Palo Alto Borders, as it's a convenient place to loiter while waiting for friends. None of the people I worked with are still there, and the CDs- which once occupied a massive chunk of the ground floor- are mostly gone, swallowed by the all-powerful iTunes. But just as I did when I was 18, I walk through the aisles, picking out books that draw my attention, and find a comfortable place to sit and read. For all I know, Chelsea Clinton could walk in and I'd not notice.
So it is with sadness that I read the other day that Borders filed for bankruptcy and plans to close many of their stores. I have no idea if the Palo Alto one will survive, but something tell me that it'll eventually go, too. One day I'll walk down University Avenue and see that what was once Borders had since become a clothing shop, or maybe an office building. I wonder if the same Palo Alto folks who raged when Borders came would feel vindicated by its departure. I doubt it- because there's nothing good about a bookstore closing, about a little slice of culture and of memory- for me anyway- washed away forever.
Anatomy of a Satire
This semester I'm taking a course in Quantitative Analysis (aka Statistics) from Professor Paul Thurman. The course has a reputation at SIPA for being dull, but Professor Thurman's lectures lively and funny. He tends to pepper his lectures with funny, sharp jokes and regularly induces gales of laughter from his students.
Professor Thurman also has a reputation for being very strict on punctuality. He requires us to hand in our printed homework assignments before class and pointedly does not accept late papers. Recently, one of his students attempted to turn in her homework two minutes after class began. While she had arrived late, she truthfully explained that it was not her fault; her previous professor had kept her class well past the allotted time. Nevertheless Professor Thurman was unrepentant and would not accept her assignment.
At a school like ours, word spreads fast and this case was no exception. Before long most of the several hundred students taking Professor Thurman's class knew what had happened. Predictably, most of the buzz surrounding the professor's action was negative. Students felt he was being unfair and overly strict.
The story interested me so I decided to write something about it for The Morningside Post, a SIPA blog to which I occasionally contribute. Initially I wanted to write something critical about Professor Thurman's inflexibility, but decided that I didn't really feel strongly enough about the matter to make it worthwhile. Instead, I decided to write a fake news story in which the professor refused to accept a late homework assignment despite a student having an even more legitimate excuse: she was mugged on the way to class.
I wrote the article, submitted it to The Morningside Post, and received word late last night that it would be published right away. The editor, a friend of mine, suggested we not include any reference that the piece was satirical, instead choosing to let the reader figure it out. Nevertheless I was certain that a careful perusal of the text would indicate evidence that the story could not have possibly been real.
For one thing, the mugger in question extracted the victim's Statistics homework and laid it neatly on the ground. Secondly, I fabricated a quote from the professor in which he blames the student for walking down a road that was statistically prone to mugging. Both the editor and I felt that a typical reader's bullshit detector would go off at both of these points.
This morning, I discovered that a classmate of mine had taken the story seriously and had written on Facebook and Twitter that her professor was a real jerk. Fearing that the story could spiral out of control, I contacted the editor and requested he put a disclaimer in the piece stating explicitly that it was satire. This I thought would largely lay doubt to rest.
An hour or so later, I discovered that the popular Manhattan gossip blog Gawker had picked up the story and was reporting it as true. Entitled 'Columbia Professor Ruder than Columbia Muggers,' the post snarked that 'if [the fictional student I fabricated] had stayed within the fortress-like confines of her private security-patrolled Ivy League campus rather than setting foot on a public thoroughfare infested with race-card playing ruffians, this never would have happened'. After several of the comments revealed that the post was indeed satire, Gawker published a brief update, adding that 'Columbia students are still advised never to leave campus'.
The correction came after two other New York City blogs- Gothamist and DNA- gently chided Gawker for its gullibility, with Gothamist noting that Gawker 'prides itself on its astute bullshit detection'.
What does this all mean? Aside from making my day, this story has a few interesting implications. One, the satire 'worked' because its elements- a mugging outside of Columbia and a strict professor- fit within the narrative of the university. Though Morningside Heights has worked to improve its reputation in recent years, there are still occasional muggings in the streets surrounding Columbia. The strict professor part could be true anywhere, but the fact that Professor Thurman actually rejected a students' homework for being late gave the story credibility among students who know him.
Two, the incident showed that outlets like Gawker, who are often the first site to report on breaking news in New York, can be a little too quick to trust everything they hear. Though the Gawker writer did say that the piece 'strained credulity' he never contacted The Morningside Post to check whether the story was true. Of the two implications I've mentioned, this is by far the more interesting one and one worth writing about in more detail.
Just now I contacted Professor Thurman and said that I was sorry if the piece inconvenienced him in any way. He graciously replied that he found it funny, a testament that his reputation for good humor ought to be as familiar as his reputation for strictness.
Happy New Year
It's the last day of the year. How did that happen? A year ago today I was living in Kunming, feeling a palpable sense of relief that my grad school applications were out of my hands and wondering exactly where I might end up. Now, the first half of my first year of grad school is already over. I have an apartment in New York City and am a student at Columbia University, something that I did not think particularly likely a year ago. For the first time in several years, I am not in China and have no set plans to return. I am a student for the first time since 2004- at least a student in an accredited institution.
A year characterized by a major life transition also contained some wonderful highlights, such as a trip to Laos in July after several false starts. My Giants finally won the World Series, something I never would have expected. I was able to meet several of my "e-friends" in the flesh, both here and in China. At school, I've become acquainted with dozens of wonderful new people from around the world, and I am excited that we will be bound together by our common placement at Columbia.
All told I feel like I'm starting 2011 in better shape than 2010, giving me much to be thankful for. Here's hoping 2011 lives up to it!
Wikileaks and Me
A few days ago students in my Masters program- at the School of International and Public Affairs at Columbia University- received the following e-mail from administrators:
Hi students,
We received a call today from a SIPA alumnus who is working at the State Department. He asked us to pass along the following information to anyone who will be applying for jobs in the federal government, since all would require a background investigation and in some instances a security clearance.
The documents released during the past few months through Wikileaks are still considered classified documents. He recommends that you DO NOT post links to these documents nor make comments on social media sites such as Facebook or through Twitter. Engaging in these activities would call into question your ability to deal with confidential information, which is part of most positions with the federal government.
Regards,
Office of Career Services
This writer from the Morningside Post found the insinuation that we'll damage our careers by commenting on the Wikileaks scandal offensive. Even Democracy Now! picked up the story. I do find the story a little ridiculous. I wonder if in five years someone will get this e-mail:
Dear so and so,
We've reviewed your application to work for the Department of State and have decided we can't offer you the position you seek. Although you're eminently qualified and talented and we'd love to have you under ordinary circumstances, the fact that you referred to Julian Assange as a 'douchebag' in a Facebook post dated December 1, 2010 and wrote three pithy paragraphs evincing skepticism of the ultimate significance of Wikileaks means that you'll never get a security clearance and you'll never work for Uncle Sam. Don't even think about the Peace Corps, loser!
Sincerely,
Foggy Bottom
Who knows? I could be wrong. But it seems ridiculous to me that it's damaging to write about a current event that is on the front page of the newspaper every day. It isn't as if Private Bradley Manning leaked the cables to SIPA students!
UPDATE: Here's The Huffington Post with more, including this quote from one of my classmates:
"They seem to be unable to make the distinction between having an opinion and having a contractual obligation to keep a secret," said Hugh Sansom, a masters student from New York.
Students were taken aback by the email, said Sansom, who described his non-American classmates — nearly half of this year's incoming class at Columbia speaks a native language other than English — as "amused and surprised."
Exactly.
Thanks on Thanksgiving
It isn't quite Thanksgiving yet in this part of the world, but I wanted to express thanks this year for:
Waking up in my apartment, getting dressed, gathering my books, going outside and realizing: "whoa. I'm in the middle of New York City. How did this happen?"
Being able to sit in rooms full of smart people all day, listening to even smarter people tell me things I didn't know before.
Being able to go to the '2010 San Francisco Giants' page on Baseball Reference.com and see the 'World Series Champs' banner.
Breaking out laughing at the gym because I'm listening to 'Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me!' while running on the treadmill.
That I live in a time when amazing tools like Skype, GTalk allow me to keep in touch with my China friends- free.
That Bob Dylan wrote all those songs
That I can sit on the subway, listen to two people speak Mandarin to each other, and surreptitiously understand.
That people sometimes read my blog, and comment, and when they're being very nice say that they're even fans.
So to my readers- thank you.
Public Service Announcement About Smoking
Saturday marks a personal milestone for me: it is the second anniversary of the day that I finally quit smoking cigarettes. I had been a smoker on and off for nine years. If that doesn't seem like a very long time, at that point 9 years was exactly a third of my life.
Recently a friend who is trying to quit smoking asked me if I still think about cigarettes. I replied that I do, and I could see the look of frustration on his face. It would be impossible not to, I explained. I smoked on and off for 9 years, often quite heavily. When you stick 20+ cigarettes in your lips every day, it becomes the most pertinent aspect of your life. It is what you do. Smoking in many ways is like a job. Except instead of receiving a salary, you pay through the nose to do it. Instead of receiving satisfaction, you get self-loathing, poor health, and public scorn.
Yes, I still think about smoking. What matters, though, is what I think when I think about it. Mostly, I find it difficult to believe I did it for so long. I also feel an overwhelming sense of relief that I never have to do it again. I feel pity for those people I see here in New York, shuffling around in the cold, clutching a pack that they paid almost 13 dollars to obtain and breathing foul disgust into their lungs. My pity is mixed with disgust when I see a pretty girl sit near me in class and notice that she stinks of cigarettes. But I feel sympathetic, because I know what it is like to feel that kind of shame.
I used to think of myself as a sort of libertarian. I remember writing snotty little essays about the evils of trans-fat legislation or of other trappings of the regulatory state. I now understand that part of that voice came from a false sense of defiance about my smoking. This isn't to say that I'm a full-fledged believer in the nanny state. But when I see articles like this, talking about adding graphic images to the cigarette packs sold in this country, I applaud. When I read in the article that 1,000 people become smokers every day, I wish I could put them into one of those big auditoriums every university has and tell them, with all the powers of persuasion that I can muster, to stop while they're ahead.
Many of them will. Almost everyone, I suspect, tries cigarettes at some point in their lives. Most decide that it isn't for them. They're the lucky ones. The rest who get addicted have little idea what they're in for. The coughing sessions that greet each new morning. The yellow teeth and fingertips. The ashen, gray color of your skin. The constant discomfort of nicotine withdrawal. The having to go outside, stand alone for five minutes, and feed your addiction. The futile attempts to quit, cold turkey, and the feeling of shame when you inevitably give in. The foul smell that hangs onto you with annoying tenacity. The dirty looks of strangers. The knowledge that you, an intelligent, rational human being, are spending a fortune to engage in an activity that may eventually shorten and cheapen your life.
When a young person puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, he undoubtedly thinks that he's engaging in a five-minute ritual to punctuate his day. Instead, he's choosing to accept a lifetime of self-inflicted punishment.
If you're reading this and you're a smoker, don't be afraid to quit. I did- so have millions of others across the world. If you're a teenager who feels pressure from others to start, just don't. The easiest way to quit smoking is to never start in the first place. If you're the parent, or sibling, or relative or friend of a person in his teens vulnerable to the lure of smoking, do what you can to deter him.
As I start my third year of smoke-free bliss, I'm sure I'll continue thinking about it. It gives me strength, after all. When I face other challenges, knowing that I quit smoking gives me an extra jolt of confidence.
If you or anyone you know wants information about quitting smoking, please feel free to shoot me an e-mail.
And now back to regularly scheduled programming...