foreigners, just like us
With less than seven hours of language pledge under our belts and with no afternoon classes to worry us, where else could we head but to the Forbidden City? Let's hope our synchronized jumping skills improve over the next couple of months.
Today is my tenth day in Beijing, and so far, it is the easiest. It’s a Saturday, so of course I slept in, though in the context of my life as a college student, “sleeping in” is hardly the word for what I did, which was wake up at 9:30. For Luke Wander, the history major with a tendency towards spasmodic fits of what some people call ‘acting,’ waking up at 9:30 means that either he has a malady of the gastrointestinal persuasion, or he just needs to go back so sleep. But I don’t know that guy with the bourgeois sleep schedule and the coffee grounds running through his veins. For me, 王宏志, the American student studying Mandarin at the CET Intensive Language Institute in Beijing, bedtime is before midnight and wake-up time is whenever the sun rises. I’ve been told that’s just the jetlag flexing its muscles, but I’m determined to use the semispherical shift in time zones as a tool to realign the way my body rests. That said, the fact that class here starts at 8:25 a.m. every morning, along with the harsh reality that being late to class in China is akin to saying “f*** you” to the teacher helps a little too. Of course, there have been some exceptions, like on night three, when I went with ten or so people up the subway tracks to Helen’s, a bar filled with 外国人 (waiguoren; foreigners) and danced to Ke$ha & Co. until past two. That night aside, the cultural shock has been substantial. Especially difficult for me is the transition from rural to urban, from Sugar Hollow View Drive, where cows cause two-car traffic jams and deer visit daily, and from Knolls Street, where grass grows and neighbors ask for ibuprofen, to Wenxing Street, where hundreds of cars beep and vendors sell and schoolchildren have shouting contests, and that’s just at six in the morning. It’s not that I despise the city for having so much going on, I just would like to have a break every once in a while. Luckily, the dormitories here are incredibly well-suited to that need. Whodathunk my dorm here in Beijing, with its high ceilings and wood floor, would feel more luxurious than my humble digs at 804A Hinton James?
Here on Wenxing Street, cars and bicycles and pedestrians share the road with pinpoint accuracy. The Chinese lovingly call this 乱中有序, or finding order in chaos.
In the average Chinese class at an American University, you might have to study 50 new characters a week at most. Here at CET, every day is a practicum in repetition, where memorizing the stroke order and accompanying tones of 80 characters in one night is normal.
The good thing about culture shock is that it’s what I’m here for, it’s what makes Beijing such a good place to study Mandarin. On Monday, our first day of class, we talked about different types of Chinese food for three hours. A couple of hours later, we were ordering food at a restaurant so authentic that its menus were sans-foto, and we at least had some vague idea of what we were doing. On Tuesday, we talked about the hectic state of Beijing traffic and how to avoid dangerous situations. During a ten-minute break I went across the street to buy a bottle of water and immediately put that knowledge to use. Because we didn’t have afternoon classes during our first week, on Monday I went with about a dozen CETers to Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City. Someone with us asked me what the phrase written in giant characters next to the portrait of Mao meant, and I had no idea. Fast forward to Wednesday morning classes, where we talked about the use of phraseology in Chinese culture and of course we learned the meaning of the phrase from two days prior: 中华人民共和国万岁；世界人民大团结万岁！(Long live the People’s Republic of China; Workers of the world, unite!). Mmmmmmm， communism. But those are the just the big things, the obvious ways in which culture
Khaki jacket? Check. Khaki pants? Check. Khaki shoes? Check. My brothers call this as a "brown-out." I call it "sandstorm-readiness attire."
will come at me in the coming months, but I tend to appreciate more the smaller things, like how it’s not rude to spit in the street as long as it is into a grate, how every dog wears a jacket, how my roommate casually wakes up one morning and declares, “宏志，你比我高，还有比我胖！” “Hongzhi, you are taller than I am, also you are fatter!” how even when only one person knows my phone number I still received four text message advertisements in a few hours, how air pollution can make an entire day smell like a fart, how the CET chef can call you out for taking too much of a specialty item, how a giant plate of steaming food costs little more than a dollar, and how people only stare at you if you’re rolling at least six foreigners deep. If it’s a dozen, they don’t just stare. They gawk. But it doesn’t matter much, because after everything, they’re foreigners just like us.
Something Happens Here
My grandma always tells me to “look up” whenever I get to a new place that I am not familiar with. My arrival in Prague was one of those times when I was so thankful for her advice. The minute we stepped off the bus that took us from the airport to our apartments, I was fascinated by the pure beauty of this city. Every building has an interesting facade, ornate moldings, beautiful beveled-glass windows. At home in New York, of course, there are pretty streets, like the brownstones down Saint Marks Place, or the view from a Central Park West avenue. But here, my breath is continually lost.
I am so looking forward to everything CET has planned for me and my fellow students this upcoming semester. We have already done so many fun things that I have never experienced before, like being let loose on the city for a six hour scavenger hunt. Forget the cold, or how easy it can be to trip on the cobblestones, I absolutely loved every minute with my giant map spread out on my lap or a cafe table, searching with my new team for the entrance to the Charles Bridge.
I am especially happy that I chose the Jewish Studies program, because even a quick flip through my textbooks shows me that I am going to leave Prague (reluctantly, I already know) with a totally different background on Jewish history. My Judaic Studies Minor at the George Washington University has afforded me a great western outlook on Jewish Culture, but, especially as I walk around the Jewish Quarter, I get the distinct feeling that so much of that culture was formed here, where I am now. At GWU we have a saying: “Something happens here.” I can already sense a distinct feeling that something happened here, and I can’t wait to learn about all of the history and culture. And, most importantly, I know that something is happening here in Prague. Prague is at a definite turning point, especially in Jewish history, culture, and life, and I can’t wait to participate in the present, and marvel at the future, of all that Prague has to offer me. And hopefully, I to it.
Oh No, Not another “Czech Out My Prague Blogue”!!!
Wenceslas Square
I’m actually here! I’m currently sitting on my low-to-the-ground, blue floral print bed and typing up the first post I will officially make in Prague, hardly awake from my first of many naps to come. To sum it up in a few words: Prague is amazing. It’s beautiful with the cobble stone walkways, the statue in Wenceslas Square surrounded by red candles and flowers to honor the memory of recently deceased Vaclav Havel (the first president of the Czech Republic and quite an amazing man), the bold and vibrant graffiti lined tunnels, etc. This is so clearly a hub of culture and expression, a fact that only makes me more excited to begin my classes about its history and evolution. Those classes, however, start in a week and a half. For now, I will focus on the here and the now.
Tonight we attended a dinner party for everyone in the CET program from Central European/Jewish Studies to the Film/Art Studies. Though the food was not necessarily “typical Czech” as one of our Czech buddies says, it was delicious. And to top if off, it was free—a concept that all students can agree is ideal. People shoveled down the buffet-style dinner and the dessert nut cake alike, most likely because nobody had braved the Czech grocery stores yet—something about packaged goods and a lack of English making for a tough combination. My roommate was smart enough to pack an emergency box of good, old-fashioned Pop Tarts. I definitely wish I’d packed some kind of snack. Luckily, living in Flora, my apartment is incredibly close to a mall. I can only imagine that somewhere in there granola bars sit on a shelf, waiting for me to arrive. Until then, however, I will be mooching off my amazingly sweet roommate. Can’t wait to see what’s to come!
Stay Tuned!
Locked and Confused
Yesterday, we learned about opening things.
Sarah, my roommate and I began our day with showers in our 3×3 foot shower box (that has surprisingly strong water pressure! Yay!), tea, espresso, and Italian breakfast cookies. We walked out of our apartment about two blocks down the main shopping street to il Piazza del Campo, the main square in Siena, to begin our orientation. As a group of 13, we followed our Resident Director Christina around Siena to all the different important places in the city. After this tour, we were set loose for a few hours. Eric, another UVa student, Sarah and I chose to wander.
Our first stop was back at our apartment to pick up some scarves to increase both our warmth and Italian-ness. We struggled to open the front door to the apartment. Little did we know how this small obstacle would foreshadow the events that followed.
We walked around, finding various beautiful views, and feeling mildly self-conscious of how American we seemed. However, we couldn’t help but exclaim in excited English when we discovered these views:
Naturally, we got lost immediately afterwards.
Don’t worry, Dad. We figured it out. Plus, Siena is tiny, has signs everywhere for Piazza del Campo (from which I at least know my way home and to school by now) and furthermore, it has a violent crime rate of virtually zero.
We made it to Eric’s homestay house, and got to look around inside a real, beautiful Italian home. We found the Italian version of Risk the board game (“Risiko”) and only then were we entirely satisfied. Then we were set to leave and continue our explorations.
However. Um. Well…we were locked inside. We could not figure out how to open the strange Italian door. There were two knobs. Both gold, the same size and shape, one over the other. No door handle, no directions. The bottom knob twisted, but only to add four more deadbolts to the one already barring our exit. The top knob did not twist, pull out, pull down, push in, or move at all, as far as we could figure out. We all tried. Eric was calling his homestay mom to ask her how to open the door from the inside, trying to figure out how to ask her in Italian, all of us desperate for our escape, when finally Sarah tried pulling the knob to the side. VICTORY! It opened! One strange, strange Italian door figured out. Four months more of them to go.
That afternoon, we took a tour of the Selva Contrada (neighborhood) and its museum commemorating all of the Palios it has won, as well as its Contrada church. Afterwards, the thirteen of us returned to the CET school for some more orientating lectures.
When Sarah and I returned home, we were hankering for uno spuntino (a snack) so we heated some water for tea, and pulled out some biscotti to munch on. But try as we might, we could NOT for the lives of us undo the metal clip that was holding the bag closed. We tried prying it and squeezing it and bending it and pulling it, but in the end we had to ask Lorenza for help.
Do you see the opening in the bag? Yeah. Being the brilliant university students we are, we did not observe the gaping hole in the side of the bag. We blamed it on the cultural differences.
Last night we went out to dinner with the entire CET program, Italian roommates, Resident Director Christina and Director Emiliana included. Italian dinners, at least when you go out to eat them, don’t typically begin until around 8pm. Ours began at 7:30pm. When Gianluigi, the biggest character of all the Italian roommates and our liaison into Italian nightlife (“I’m not an alcoholic; I just drink alcohol all the time.”), heard the time of dinner, he said, “What? That’s lunchtime.”
After dinner, a group of us went to a bar on the main square called Fonte Gaia, we all got drinks and sat around talking. Andrea, the other guy Italian roommate, had a friend, Mattia hang out with us. Mattia is leaving on Sunday for Sweden as a part of the Erasmus program.
Cultural side note: You don’t tip in Italy. Everything, tax, and tip, is included. Also, people don’t go to bars until midnight or later. Furthermore, people don’t binge drink. You drink enough to loosen up, but not to get drunk.
Back to bars. Gianluigi, Andrea, and Mattia brought Sarah, Ari, Ashton and I out with them to various bars. We spoke a pretty even mixture of Italian and English, and I was pleased that Gianluigi felt comfortable enough to tease me and tell my friends to hate me and exclude me, etc, since he’d only do that if he thought I was comfortable enough to handle it. He proceeded to lump Sarah and I together, and make fun of us both.
Gianluigi, Andrea and Mattia were fascinated by Ashton’s naturally Euro-hipster aura. At one point, he was teaching Andrea’s friends Roberta, Roberta and Laura how to do ‘the sprinkler’ and ‘the shopping cart’ and how to jump around instead of real dancing, and Gianluigi goes, “He’s a genius with women. He’s my favorite. I don’t know how he does it.”
We made it back home around 2:30am, happy, sleepy, and significantly better at Italian language and culture.
CET Academic Programs