Kill Me Now

-or-

How to Ensure I Want to Jam a Pencil into my Eye

My school is forcing us to attend a two-day conference they have organized on the future of education. I might think it was worthwhile if I hadn't once helped organize an entire series of conferences. I know the process of selecting speakers is totally random when developing a conference on a topic you have marginal knowledge of. This event is more of a face-creating event than it is a serious study of educational change based upon years of research and study by a respected graduate institute of education.

An example: One of the speakers cancelled, so they asked one of my colleagues to fill in and speak on the future of teaching. He is 24 years old. He does not hold a teaching credential (or qualification as they would say in Britain). His undergraduate degree is in physics, he spent the last two years doing administrative work for my employer, and is only teaching this year (his first year) because my colleague got cancer and had to spend the year at home. Forgive me for being a snotty M.Ed, but really. His only experience is with our keen, rather intelligent, rich students who come from well-connected, well-educated families.

I'm just saying.

From our first keynote speech:

The five "i"s of future education
Internationalization
Informationalization
Innovationalization
Individualization
Incessancy

I won't bore you with the details; I could barely pay attention long enough to write down the key words (we have a simultaneous translator).

And the Chinese man sitting next to me has the worst breath in the world. It's like being stuck on the subway. And when he yawns? Did I mention you could kill me now?

Keynote speaker two (who is American) just said "informed citizenry". In China. 'nuf said.

Keynote número tres is none other than the principal of my own august institution. His speeches are usually disconnected affairs filled with rampant name-dropping and no small amount of bragging. Today, his PowerPoint presentation included this gem: "Schoo [sic] is a place for children to find their companions."

Keynote #4 was saying something about technology changing our brains and making us more visual and less verbal, but I'm not sure. I was too busy checking Facebook.

And then there was lunch. They said we would be a Western buffet in the restaurant, but if that was Western, then I'm a blond. But it wasn't horrible and I managed to amaze some of the visiting teachers with my "intricate" knowledge of the Chinese educational system. Aside from the Chinese teachers at our table (and I don't think they spoke English), I have been in Beijing the longest. I did my best to put a positive spin on my spiel and keep it up-beat. I was actually impressed with myself given the level of sarcasm I've been spewing out all morning.

Now I'm sitting in break-out session yi (one). The a/v in the room is dicey and I'm in the very back so I can also hear the murmur of the simultaneous translator. And, while I went into it with somewhat positive hopes for actual learning because the speaker is a cognitive psychologist from the University of Southern California, he keeps on telling us that he actually works with adults, so I find my attention wavering. Angry Birds anyone? Wait — he just mentioned Angry Birds as a teaching tool. Let me finish level 6-1... When my colleague asked the key question — What to do when parents complain that you are using games instead if teaching to the test — he had no answer.

I totally skived off break-out two. Somehow, an IB commercial or a repeat of break-out one just wasn't my cup of tea. I hear the third choice was given by a Chinese principal who began his talk by saying he didn't have enough time to prepare his speech or a PowerPoint. Furthermore, he didn't know anything about the topic. See paragraph 1.

The last break-out options of the day were led by similarly uninspiring speakers, so I grabbed friend of mine who will also not be returning to the school next year and left. I know of a cute Chinese cafe just down the road a piece, so we grabbed a cab and I gave him the nearest subway station. When I say "down the road", I mean two subway stops in a straight line, but the cabbie felt the need to put it into his GPS. Yup. The perfect end to the perfect day: the world's most moronic cab driver. He didn't even have the sense to take the 3 kuai fuel surcharge.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:World Future Education Symposium, Haidian District, Beijing, China

You Have Four Minutes

A couple of months ago, a friend of mine was asking about appropriate attire for a polo match. Turns out, she had been speed-dating and had a first date out of the experience. That got me and my other notoriously single friend thinking.

We signed up in November, but the event was full. And the next month, we were busy. And then we went on vacation. So, there went the first half of the year.

Fast forward to when I got back to Beijing after Spring Festival. I saw that there was not one, but two (TWO!) opportunities to go speed-dating. Fairly confident that they would both be filled at such a late date, I signed up. E was still traveling, so I'd be flying solo, and solo speed-dating seemed... Daunting. Luckily for me, both events were indeed fully booked.

Friday rolled around, and I asked if the Boys were up for a pint after work. And then I got an email. There had been last minute cancellations, and suddenly there were open spots at speed-dating that evening. It was the moment of truth. Was I willing to reveal myself as the sad-sack, boyfriendless loser that I am and go?

Now, you all stepped into the breach and informed me I am not a loser, but maybe you can see my side for a moment. I hang out with a gang (past, present, likely future) that loves to take the piss. They are almost as good as piss artists as they are as, well, piss artists (aka drinkers). And being so blatant about looking for a date just screams desperation.

But, with some email support from my ladies, I signed up. As I was walking down the hall, one of the Boys asked if I was going out for beer that night because it was Paddy's birthday. "Oh," I said. "I just signed up for..." and I whispered, "speed dating."

He was walking into class to teach. Pause. As the bell rang, I heard, "Wait. What?"

Well, I got the official invite to speed-dating, so there was that. A frantic gchat with E later, and I had worked out an outfit for the evening. But, to be social, I stopped by the Local first to have a pint with the Boys. And it came out: I was going speed-dating. And I've got to give credit where credit is due: none of them gave me shit. In fact, they all wanted to know what it was like.

In an unprecedented move, I finally managed to pay for a substantial bar tab. (And by "substantial", I mean a whopping $15 for 9 people for a few hours.) Of course, I tried to give her 110 kuai for a 108 kuai bill. To show her gratitude, she brought me another pint! (They are proper 20 oz. pints, but only about 3.2% alcohol.) I was trying to leave before I'd had too much liquid courage.

I drank about half the pint before I jettisoned the bottle (by the side of the pavement on the way to the subway).

I showed up with about 20 minutes left in drinks hour, which let me chat with the two women who showed up ahead of me, go to the bathroom, and pick up my free beer (like I needed another, but it would give me something to do). And then we were directed to the seats: women to the outside seats and men to the inside.

There were 20 "couples", each with a number. We each took a seat (I sat near the two women I had met on the way in), and we started talking.

After about five minutes, the MC explained the rules: After four minutes of conversation, the MC will make a sound with the bullhorn, and the men will all move one seat to their right. We each have a score card. If two people both tick "yes", then you will receive the other person's email address. She then explained that we would begin in five minutes, so we all kept talking to the same person. Five minutes after that, she started the clock, and we officially began talking to the same person.

That first conversation was one of the most interesting, although it did center around things that annoyed us about China. Of course, the subway ranks high in the list, as does its ability to turn us into angry, rude assholes. (I'm paraphrasing here.) My "date" once hit a man in the face. What does it say about me that I found that a perfectly reasonable response?

Then the horn blew, and away he went.

I can talk to anyone for four minutes; that is not a problem. So while I'm having practically the same conversation with each man who's sitting in front of me, let me describe the scene.

This event was hosted by a group called Rotoract. I didn't think much about the name beforehand (I was focused in the speed-dating part). When I got there, I noticed the crowd was decidedly professional and Western. (There was only one Chinese man in the mix, and I think only a couple of women.) They were largely established, but which I mean somewhere mid-career, upper 20s to mid-40s, although there were a coupe of notable exceptions. Mostly, it felt like a Rotary Club turned JC. Later on I surmised that it is indeed an arm of Rotary International, but with a huge service bent (so exactly Rotary with a Junior Chamber of Commerce bent). They seem to arrange volunteer activities among the service-oriented professional crowd. If some business networking goes on as well, well hurrah.

There were also a lot of Americans in the group. Maybe it's all the Brits I hang with or maybe I live and play in the wrong neighborhoods, but I don't think I've been in a room with that many Americans since, well, America. Or maybe it's just that anything more than two Americans feels like a roomful (take whatever lesson you want from that statement).

There was only one man who was a complete dud, and man, was he a dud. He was dressed in baggy trousers and was wearing run-down trainers. His tone of voice was reminiscent of Marvin the Paranoid Android. The girl sitting next to me was genuinely torn about checking "Yes" on her score card, just because she knew no one else would.

When the event was over, I went home and waited by my email with baited breath. This was a few days before Valentine's Day, and it was my last chance for a date. When I received the email with my matches a day later, I had two matches, and one was with a man who said that he wasn't really there to date but to find cool people to hang out with. The other guy said nothing about dating. A third one emailed me directly because he wanted to build up stock footage of students from my school.

I went bowling with them a week later, and it was fun, but that was all it was. I met one guy who was in town on business for s few more days and took my email (he even stopped me from leaving before he got my deets), but he never emailed. One of my other "matches" was a closet weirdo with some pretty lame political ideas. He was far too intolerant even for my "I've been in this country too long and am getting a little frustrated" frame of mind.

Long story short: I went speed-dating, and I wasn't asked out on any second dates. I have been proven the loser I was afraid of being revealed as.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Beijing, China

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

As some of you are aware, it's been a crazy season for employment. Back in January, my current job became... untenable. So, in my last-minute/great-expense sort of way, I set about finding a new job.

My cunning plan involved a trip to Bangkok for a career fair. I had been trolling the postings for history jobs, but they were notoriously absent. Most jobs, as expected, were English. (Well, most were math and science, but that's neither here nor there.) I booked flights and a hotel at the conference venue (read: expensive) and actually found resume paper in Beijing (the Chinese are still new to the whole "applying for a job" scene). I even received an email asking me to interview with one school in particular.

And then, a few days before I left, I saw a posting. An international school in Beijing was looking was in need of a history teacher. The school was about as perfect as perfect can be, at least on paper (and we all know how that goes, but still). I wouldn't have to leave my friends, learn a new language, or leave China before I'd done and seen everything I wanted to do and see (and eat). I could stay in Beijing, but live in a Westernized part of town (but without it being in the middle of nowhere or being completely overrun with drunken ex-pats). For once, I didn't procrastinate. I immediately sent an interest letter and my resume.

And then, nothing.

No "thank you for your interest". No "thanks, but no thanks". Just. Silence.

So, I went to Bangkok. I interviewed with schools. A few were in China, some were not. A few had potential for some history, but none were straight-up social studies. So, I was playing more of the same: what would be my best bet to let me transition into a history job a few years down the line?

After some interviewing and some soul-searching, I accepted a position in Korea. There were some nice things about the school: it was on an island. A quiet, unpolluted, outdoorsy island. It followed an American curriculum. It was a real school, with real departments, and real cross-curricular collaboration. It was a new school, too. It wasn't really an international school, in the sense that the students weren't international, and it was an English job.

I got a few emails from my new school. I had some questions about the visa process, and received absolutely nothing in response. I got a list of books, which I tried to track down here. I was partially successful.

And then I got an email. From the school in Beijing.

And, although I knew it would be a big deal to back out of my contract in Korea, but I just had to talk to them. How often does someone call you up about a perfect job? I figured it couldn't hurt to talk. So I talked.

I talked to the Western administrators. I talked to the department chair. (That was a more informal interview, just to make sure that I would fit in the department.) And then I got called in for a third interview, this time with the Chinese administrator as well>

And then I got an offer.

And the real soul-searching began. Was I going to back out on my contract with Korea to accept the job in Beijing. As part of the agreement I signed with my search firm, I agreed to pay a $1500 penalty if I brokea contract. It was an expensive proposition, that's for sure. And I'd piss off the search firm and the school in Korea. But was it worth it? Would I survive another English gig? I would certainly go a better job teaching history than English, and that would mean better learning for my students.

Hoh-hoh-hoh

I Googled it, and it turns out that this really is a real word in French.

But I still wonder what Holden Caulfield would have to say about those Francophonies.

I'd Be a Horrible Spy

I spent the weekend putting together a quilt top. It's a wall quilt — an art quilt even — inspired by the rice paddies of Vietnam. In order to convey the irregularities that you find in a field that's farmed by hand, I decided to hand sew the quilt. No straight-lines and machine stitching for this gal! I started on Friday afternoon and finished putting on the border last night (with a break yesterday morning to find and drool over the Beijing fabric market).

As for the sewing, I only had to jam a needle under my thumbnail once before I talked. I told myself everything; I would never survive an interrogation.

People Will Pay You to Be Inhumane

I went to the dentist this morning and walked out with a filling and no Novocaine. Before you start imaging shades of Steve Martin in Little Shop of Horrors, let me start from the beginning.

I've been meaning to find a new dentist since I left Portland, but inertia is real. My procrastination bug doesn't help much either. I got a recommendation for a dentist in California, but dentists cost money and California is expensive. And doing things like visiting the dentist in Beijing is just downright scary. So while I got a referral from a well-connected Beijinger, it's taken me all year to make an appointment. Well, to get my Handler to make an appointment.

I am a big girl, however, and I figured I could manage the dentist on my own, so I left my Handler at home. (By all accounts, the dentist speaks plenty of English. I probably could have made the appointment myself.) I arrived on time, having not gotten lost walking around the block from the subway station to the apartment building housing the dentist's office (shades of Dragon Breath). However, unlike Dr. Osher's Biddeford office, this office was lovingly appointed, spacious, and welcoming (no horrible oil paintings of scary paint-by-number clowns here).

I filled out the requisite first-timer's form (that was mostly understandable). There was one term on it that I didn't understand at all, so I checked "no". I hope that was the right answer.

I was walked back to a spacious exam room and directed to hang my purse on the hook on the wall (no purses on the floor!). Then, my glasses were taken from me and the little blue bib was tied around my neck. (And I mean "tied", no metal roach clips here.) I was also greatly heartened to see a sink in the room (you do NOT want to know about the "cleanliness" of Chinese hospitals).

A couple of women came in the room, and I discovered that one was the dentist and one was the assistant. We talked briefly about my teeth and the slight gum recession I've noticed in the back of one of my teeth, and then she went in with the mirror and a poker tool thingy. And, ow. That hurt.

It turns out there is some inflammation in the gum behind one of my implants. Bu hao. However, my other teeth are looking great. Well, off we go to the x-ray room to have some x-rays taken. Each exam room does not have its own x-ray machine as you might have in the U.S., but this appears to be a pretty high-tech piece of machinery. It was a digital model, and as soon as my two snaps were done, they brought me into the observation booth to look at them on the computer.

Sure enough, there the swelling is indicative of problems around the one implant. Nothing hurts, so it seems that this is not an insurmountable problem, but she's going to put some medicine around the base of the tooth to help with the inflammation. There's also a dark spot around the tip of the root that has the crown on it. Now, I've known for years that that tooth isn't quite right, but I didn't figure it out until after the final crown went on. When Dr. Z. explained that it would mean taking the crown off and maybe re-doing the root canal, I decided to pass for the time being. It doesn't ache. I can't even feel it all the time. But sometimes I notice some sensation — which shouldn't happen in a tooth that has had the nerve destroyed. So, this bit of information doesn't really surprise me.

Back we go to the exam room (except we're going to a different exam room because there is a problem with the cleaning machine). But (not always sticklers for details) my purse and glasses have been left in the first room. I am walked back to get them, and there is a man in the chair having work done. I don't know if his work needs a different tool or if someone mistakenly put him in my room and they lied about it... but whatever.

There also seems to be excessive waiting. It is explained to me that many of the staff are upstairs at a class so they are a bit short-handed. Well, that's what I understand. I'm not sure if it's true or not. So after some more small-talk with the dentist (note: it is the dentist who is spending all her time with me, not the assistant) about implants, an assistant shows up and we're ready for a cleaning.

This is not your typical scrape 'em clean and leave the gums bleeding routine. Nope. The dentist picks up a machine that looks a lot like a dentists drill and starts running it along my gum line. It's not the most pleasant experience, but it's not horrible either. There are occasional moments where there's a sharp (but mild) jolt and sometimes I can hear a really really really high-pitched (and annoying) whine making me think this is some sort of newfangled sonic cleaning system, but it never really hurts. She tells me to be sure to raise my hand if at any time it hurts or I want a break. It's certainly no worse than an old-skool scrape, though, and I manage to soldier through.

In the middle of my cleaning, she finds a small cavity, so she's just going to fill it right then and there. Uh, OK. (At this point I start to wonder about the size of the bill and if I have enough money in my account to pay for this and eat for the last week of the month.) And, without any further ado (and by "ado" I mean Novocaine), she proceeds to drill and fill my tooth. She pauses briefly to tell me that it might be a little sore, and I question if by "a little" she really means "a lot". She demurs that she really only means a little. We'll see.

And the thing is, it doesn't hurt. I guess it's a really small cavity and we might as well fill it now before it gets bad enough to hurt. It takes about 5 minutes, and when she asks me to bite on that read paper they way they do, I get to teach her the phrase "grind your teeth" because I can't think of a better word to describe what she wants done (even though most dentists don't encourage grinding). And then she finishes cleaning my teeth.

I'll say this about the ultrasonic cleaning system: it is quick.

On the other side of my mouth, she discovers the slight gum recession that prompted this entire trip. That one isn't as bad as the one near my implant (maybe because there has always been less gum there and it's always been a little bit sore since the accident, I didn't notice a change). She'll put some medicine (antibiotic, I assume) on my gum, but we'll take a wait-and-see approach to everything else. Nothing is causing me any pain, and she doesn't seem too concerned, so I'll go back in six months (which I should do anyway) and we'll see if there are any changes for the worse.

And then it was time to pay. She filled out a little checklist and gave me her card, and I was walked back to the door.

I was charged a one-time fee, and then for a cleaning, a filling, two x-rays, and the antibiotic treatment. The grand total: 380 kuai. That's less than $60. Damn.

Chinese Fashion

Because it is the 60th Anniversary of my school this year, they are giving us all sorts of presents. One of the more outrageous gifts was a "suit" for us to wear (to the festivities?). Of course, the suit choices for women were limited, to say the least. There was nothing I would have called an actual "suit" and most of the separates were laughable. (Check out the wings pants if you don't believe me.) This does include the two items that I chose.

Enjoy!