Dear Cleaning Lady,

Thank you so much for your hard work. I came home from work last night and I was nearly blinded by the sun streaming in the windows and glancing off my shiny tile floor. It was like walking into the plushest of hotel rooms, except it was my apartment! 

Not only did you wash the floors, but you dusted everything, including the annoying extra shelf under the TV, and you arranged all my reusable bags into a nice, small, neat pile. I am in awe of your organizational abilities. You put my dishes away (after cleaning them). And the bathroom? Well, what isn't there to love about a sparkling clean bathroom, even one as cutely decorated in light blue and light pink flowers as mine is. 

But I admit I am confused about a couple of things. First, why did you make the bed like that? I don't sleep with my head inside the wall, so why were all the blankets flush with the top of the bed? You turned down the comforter, true, but the comforter was at the very edge of the bottom of the mattress -- once I got in bed, my feet would be in the cold air! It just doesn't make sense to make the bed like that. But please don't get me wrong, just because I know how to make a bed doesn't mean that I DO make a bed, and I am grateful for your hard work. (I heard on NPR once that you shouldn't make you bed in the morning because it encourages the growth of dust mites -- who thrive in warm, moist environments, just like your bed after you get out of it. You should leave the covers off so it drys and cools quickly. Yeah, that's why I don't make my bed each morning!)

Secondly, why did you throw away my ear plugs? Since you did throw them away, I can only imagine what you thought they were. Actually, I can't imagine what you thought they were. They're bright pink ear-canal-shaped squishy things. No, they are not bizarre, Western... I don't know whats. They're sleep aids. Haven't you noticed how loud this place is? I live near the garage/parking lot and I hear car alarms and honking at all hours of the day and night. I can hear the loud rumble of construction trucks rolling in and out at midnight. And don't even get me started on the honking on the street corner. I'm half a block away, and I can hear it through my closed windows. And then there's the hammering and drilling from the apartments still being finished in my building. The loud fire door clanging in the hallway. My neighbors. How can you sleep without ear plugs?

Don't worry, I have a few more stashed away, and I've learned that ear plugs can be washed and reused for quite some time. I'll just remember to put them in the drawer before you come the next time.

See you in two weeks!

Love, -c

No Cats Were Harmed in the Writing of This Post

We have a lot of groomers in my apartment complex. There are cleaners for each building, both those that clean the common spaces inside the buildings and those that pick up the trash located in the cans outside. There are guards to open the gates. There are people to cut the grass, water the lawn, and drain the fountains. There is also someone to brush the grass.

Huh? My thoughts exactly.

On my way to the store on Sunday, I noticed a worker along the edge of the lawn. He had a long, straw broom. Imagine the best caricature of a witch's broom. I'm talking long, rough-hewn handle with sparse, jagged twigs tied to the end. He was on the walkway and facing the grass. He was brushing the grass, as far as I could tell.

You'll have to picture this, but whatever he was doing, it couldn't have been very effective. Anything he wanted to pick up would have been much easier to do with his glove-covered hands. If he were raking leaves, it would have been much easier if he had been standing in the grass and pulling the broom towards him, not pushing it away. All I can think is that he was brushing the blades of grass so they'd ... point in the same direction?

It reminded me of the scenes in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where people are hitting cats against trees. It makes no sense. But, I guess it gives you something to do. And in a country of 1.5 billion (and counting), having something to do isn't such a bad thing.

Slip-Sliding Away

The floors in this country are very slippery. I mean polished to a super-fine sheen slippery. Coated with a thin layer of water in the middle of the day because there is no concern for students' tripping slippery. No conception of sand in the outdoor paint slippery. Slippery.

I find myself sliding along our school corridors all the time. My Dansko clogs are no match for the floor. I can slide down the hall like a professional skater. I thought it was just me, and then I looked around. I noticed that all the teachers slide down the halls. Then I realized that everyone, students and teacher, taking a running slide in the first-floor foyer. It's a wide-open space (opening into a row of glass doors followed by rather unforgiving pavement and some stairs) of super-slippery floor. It's toot tempting. A nice running start... and sliiiiiiiiiiiide to the doors.

The thing is, it's not just the school. The subway floors are exactly the same, except, well, it's a subway platform. I'm not too worried about going over the edge into an oncoming train, but I am worried about tripping down the stairs and taking the mass of humanity out like a bowling ball crashing into the pins. Imagine what it's like when it rains.

Of All the Fried Bread Stands in All the World

Many of you know my penchant for breakfast. I love breakfast. Specifically, I love hot breakfast. I will eat cereal, but I consider it expedient, not good. Still, a morning must start with breakfast. I get mighty grumpy without any food in my belly, and there is nothing worse than a grumpy teacher.

I've been having problems in China because I don't have access to good breakfast. Although Katy stepped up and shipped me some Joe's Os (it turns out, I don't like Cheerios anymore), the post office ate them (perhaps literally). Without Joe's Os and sketchy milk (at best), I've been at something of a loss. I could cook eggs every morning, but that's a drag. I'm too lazy for that.

Fortunately, I live in China, and even in my remote, backwoods part of the city, street food abounds.

I've been going to the Fried Bread Man and His Wife lately, and it's good. Very good.

The man has a pedal cart with a griddle on it. He mans the griddle and his wife mans the counter. I think she also rolls out the bread dough. There is a bucket with a bunch of ones and fives in it on the counter.

As you walk up, the man is deftly flipping pieces of fried bread (think a sorta thick tortilla, like a chalupa) and dousing them with oil. Flip, oil. Flip oil. Flip. Then, he dips his chopsticks in some corn starch (or something similar), cracks an egg in a bowl and scrambles the egg. He pokes a little hole in a bubble in a piece of bread and pours in the egg. The egg fills the center cavity and cooks up. Flip, flip. Then, he slides the top of the griddle to the side and places the bread in the oven (think of a tandoor). You can see the glowing hot coals in the center of the oven and a shelf around the edge where the bread sits.

As you get to the front of the line, the woman shouts something at you. You don't know, so like the people ahead of you, you throw a five in the bucket and take out a couple of ones. (Crepe Man charges 3 kwai, maybe Fried Bread Man and His Wife do, too.) Nope, she yells at you some more, then finally tosses another kwai your way. She tried to not touch the money. I guess fried bread only costs two kwai.

She takes a bread from the man and paints on the ubiquitous red bean paste. She asks about your hot sauce preference, and you motion "just a little" with your thumb and forefinger. Then, she chopsticks on a piece of green leaf lettuce and a chopsticks-full bunch of pickled something. Into a plastic baggie and off you go.

Dear me. Is it good. The bread is hot and crisp. The egg is filling. The lettuce is crunchy. The hot sauce is enough to wake you up, but not so much that your poor mei guo ren (American) taste buds scream in anger. It is half a block up the street from where you turn right to go to school. It means crossing a street (twice), but it is worth it.

Remember, two kwai is $.30. 

This morning, I took the hint of a man ahead of me in line last time, and I got two fried breads. She puts them face to face, like a giant sammich. It seemed she remembered me, too. I got a big, toothy grin when I dropped my money in the bucket (and then took the correct change).

I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

And at that Time a Decree Went Out that All the World Should Be Enrolled

That's right folks, it's census time in China! I have seen advertisements all around town, and even got a visit from some women a few months ago. I guess that was the advance team, however, and not the real peeps. Of course, people living with residency papers is a big problem in China, and I assume the census is in no small part an attempt to get a handle on the illegals. Sort of like living along the Mexican border, you know. 

Well, today there was a pounding on the door. My Canadian friend had already left the building and there is still a lot of construction going on in the place, so I didn't think much of it. But it kept on... Wait, was there someone at the door.

Sure enough, two ladies in their census outfits were at my door. Suddenly, the whole floor was involved. The family across the hall were on their way out, and the man spoke a little English. I was supposed to fill in something, but I couldn't figure out if I was supposed to write down my current address (which I don't know) or my birthplace. Because frankly, the census women know my address. The form was partly in English, but it asked for things like "prefectures" and "townships" and whatnot. I don't even know what district I live in (I live across the street from school, but it's a different district. It's the "s" one -- but that doesn't cut it.)

So, as usual, I called my Handler. He talked to the women for 5 minutes and then they were very happy and thanked me profusely, and left.

After about 15 minutes, there was more knocking at my door. Huh? They were back with the same form. I filled out something on the inside, although I don't know if I did it correctly. There weren't check boxes. Was I supposed to write my name on every line? At least I know my birthday and my country of origin! I still ignored the front because I still don't know my address. (Seriously. I know where I live in the actual world, and I know my apartment number, but I don't know how to write it down -- or even say it. I can say my cross streets because that's what a taxi needs.) I signed the back, and then they gave me a present!

Yes, when you complete the census, you get a gift. It looks like a Swiss Army knife, but it has a spoon and a fork! Talk about useful. Strangely, though, it has no removable chopsticks. 

And those ladies were absolutely wonderful. Once the one spoke with my Handler, both their attitudes completely changed. They went from slightly annoyed and confused to, well, deferential. It's got to be the teacher thang. I can only assume that my Handler said I taught across the street. I don't think the xi-xis (thank-yous) were for my filling out the form; I think it was for teaching their children. Well, in my Imaginary Universe of Chinese Conversations, that's what they were saying.

That African American Man Is Still Laughing...

Every time I walk into a store in this town, a clerk watches me and shadows me. When it happens in the swank part of town, I'm never quite sure if it's because I dress like a slob and have a messenger bag so they think I'm going to slip something into said bag, or if it's because I'm white and they expect me to drop scads of money on things I don't need. 

It's probably just that there are too many clerks (job creation) and they're bored silly.

Regardless, it makes me nervous.

Somewhere in New York City...

... An African American man is laughing.

We headed over to the east side on Saturday night to meet up with my colleague's husband and get some dinner. We left at 6pm (always a mistake, even on a Saturday, by the way). We stood out front of our building, taxi book in hand and flagged down a taxi.

The woman pulled over, took one look at the book in my hand, and proceeded to tell us that she wouldn't take us anywhere. I guess three white women are dangerous and/or scary. I thought of taking down her taxi number and reporting her, but that's really a tactic you use when you need the taxi and no one else will stop.

She didn't want to pick us up so much, she made sure she told us so instead of just driving past. Fortunately, I didn't want to take her taxi anyway.