China Fitness

Since the second day of class, I’ve been trying to go to the gym every day or at least do some kind of physical activity. I figure that because I’m so hopelessly slothful at school, I can somehow bank exercise points over the summer which I can then cash in several times a week once school starts.

Regardless of whether this is indeed a good yearlong strategy, it’s definitely a good summer one. I’m beginning to understand all this hype about being healthy. I started going “spinning” every other day in a dark room full of Chinese women peddling as fast as they can on their standing bikes, all while listening to the thumping beats of Flo Rida juxtaposed with the soft lull of Puff the Magic Dragon. All in all, it’s a very strange experience. Whoever told me that I’d feel like a stud at a Chinese gym had their information seriously confused. I often feel like even the tiniest girls in my spinning class are consistently peddling twice as fast as I am and sweating half as much.

The biggest benefit of being a foreigner in a Chinese gym, which also happens to be the biggest problem, is that everyone loves me. The trainers have declared me as their personal English teachers and in turn teach me Tae Kwon Do, jump-rope, and how to show off on a pull-up bar, all of which are the things I neglected to learn when I should have (in 2^nd grade). I do often feel like I’m learning more Chinese at the gym than in class because I make everyone repeat things so many times that eventually it sticks. Not only do they make no effort to slow down their Chinese, most of them have thick accents. For example, this one kid who I see every day looks very young and from afar seems like he’d have a perfect accent. Strangely enough, he’s 26 and speaks with a thicker Beijing accent than anyone else I’ve talked to in China. At times, he sounds like he’s growling just to make me confused. While all this discourse is great for my Chinese, it’s terrible for my exercise regimen. The better friends I become with everyone at the gym, the less I exercise. Every day when I walk in, the spiky-haired Tae-Kwon-Do trainer sits me down, asks me about how to translate odd sentences like “Michael Jackson is a performer with a lot of strength and power,” and then kicks a bunch of things and tries his hardest to teach me his favorite move of “肚子，脖子，kill,” which literally translates as “stomach, neck, kill.” Of course, he looks like someone out of a Stephen Chow movie and I look like a stupid white person trying my hardest not to make an ass of myself (and failing).

After two weeks of meaningful conversations about traditional Beijing snacks (more on that topic in a later post) and where to buy bike shorts, which is surprisingly deep, I decided to explore other fitness options. I’m still working out everyday but as much as possible, I’ve been “training” with this other Yale student whom I had hardly met before coming to China. Whereas working out at the gym is slightly distracting, working out with Miles Grimshaw is exactly the opposite. His thing is to design workouts based on different places and then film them and post them on the internet. The first serious workout I did with him resulted in four days of near immobility on my part. We raced the clock squatting while holding big metal pipes we found in a construction yard. After about 100 squats, my legs gave up and I basically had to crawl back to my dorm. What I’m finding is that working out at the gym is good for my Chinese, but working with Miles is harder and way more fun. It’s just about doing stupid things throughout the city and luckily, since he’s on the lightweight crew team and has run the Boston Marathon twice, he seems to know what he’s doing. We climb walls, crawl down stairs, lift pipes, roll tires, and lunge around Tian’anmen, at least that’s the plan. That said, when I couldn’t walk down stairs without wanting to scream, I was not at all happy. I was especially grouchy when we learned Kungfu with some monks and I could barely bend my legs past fifteen degrees (more on that later too).

Oh well, good thing I’m getting in shape in China, the land of cheap, since I’m going to need to buy new pants.

My Home Sweet Home

Chinese is not a terribly translatable language because it is so closely tied to Chinese culture, which is equally foreign to westerners. The Chinese equivalent of homesick, 想家, literally means “want home” or “think about home,” two English phrases that are virtually identical in Chinese culture. In English, however, to want or think about home is very different than homesickness. Being homesick, for me, means I can’t reconcile the differences between the new and the old and that I yearn for the easier existence of living squarely in my comfort zone. To think about home is just simply to think about home.

Today is July 4th, the sort-of birthday of the USA, the day of fireworks and of bad parades, and my favorite holiday.

In Chicago, we gather Lake Michigan to watch Chinese fireworks while sitting on Chinese-made towels and buy our kids (well, not my kids, not yet) glow sticks and light-up toys that are all made in China. We wear Chinese made clothing and shoes, and take pictures with Chinese-manufactured cameras while somebody blasts American composed music through Chinese made speakers. We might even decorate our tables with red, white and blue flowers, all of which were grown and harvested in China.
If Independence Day is so firmly rooted in Chinese culture, then celebrating it overseas should be easy. I think.

Yesterday, I went to Union Bar and Grille in the Foreigner district of 三里屯 to have a little bit of an early celebration. I ordered Dutch beer in Chinese, ate French fries, and chatted about European soccer clubs with a Brit. Half-way through the meal he said, “Oh! Happy early Independence Day; we can order some apple pie to celebrate.”
The burger pictures in the menu had a little paper American Flag sticking out and were made in true American fashion with 100% grain fed beef, something that we Americans probably shouldn’t be so desperate to eat. We finished eating and walked to a British owned American-style “book shop and coffee bar.” This didn’t feel all that American to me. I walked home past the largest screen in the world at 110 meters long (designed to be just larger than the one in Las Vegas) and thought about how even though I’ve never even been to Vegas, nor do I really want to go, I’m still a little peeved that we were one-upped.

Last night while raising half-liter glasses of Chinese beer brewed in the style of German lagers, we toasted to America-driven globalism.

Even with the revelry and the celebrations, today is missing something, and even though I might talk about American values and listen to American music with other Americans, we’re not in America. No number of ex-pats, bars, or little paper flags can make me feel at home. Even listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s version of Battle Hymn of the Republic on loop, the most American performance of a song I can imagine, will not transport me home for just a day.

When hostel Germans scowl at my nationality and fanatic football fans glare at me, I know why. Americans make mistakes: we’re often arrogant, ignorant, and hot-blooded. But what makes July 4th my favorite day of the year has nothing to do with Americans, only with America. In general, people are just people. Beneath the layers of culture, manner, and language, the Chinese and the Americans are the same. For me, I’m just thankful that I have what I have. July 4th is more thanksgiving than the November feast because everything that I have can be traced to one main event, my family’s immigration into the USA. Even when the government is lousy and there are online clips of “typical” Americans displaying their ignorance to the world, American values stand. The truths that we hold to be self-evident are still truths and because of Thomas Jefferson’s powerful sentence, I’m in China, I’m at Yale, and I’m alive.

So what’s a patriot to do? I’m not homesick; Beijing is still exciting. It holds so much opportunity to explore and learn that I’m too distracted to be too sad, but I am thinking about home. I do want home. I want to watch the Chinese fireworks over Lake Michigan, I want to eat American flag cake, and most of all I want to listen to the Aaron Copeland marathon on WFMT.

And thanks to the Internet, I can at least to do the last one.

Happy 4th. Eat an extra piece of cake for me.

Love Affair With a Dog

Over the last few days, I’ve attempted to blog about a few silly situations but I kept getting distracted half way through, so I’ll describe the best of them now.

On the day that Julius and I left the hostel, we hauled our three bags each (two suitcase-ish items and a backpack) into the street to wait for a cab to take us to 首经贸大学 (also known as CUEB). We left the hostel at around four thinking we had a good hour and a half to catch a taxi and get to the dorm in time for dinner, but it wasn’t until 8:30 when we actually arrived.

We waited on the side of the road for taxi and while more than one hundred came by, none of them stopped for us. Of those that drove past us, about seventy percent had people in them. Our more positive theories suggest that they thought we were going to the airport.

After about forty minutes of waiting, we gave up and decided to walk to a half mile to Tiananmen Square where there would be more cabs.

After stopping several times along the way, we made it to Tiananmen. After watching us for several minutes, an old man came up to us and in his thick Chinese accent said, “Hello. Where are you from?”

Our reaction to him requires a little bit of background. Earlier in the week, Julius and I were tricked in one of those tea scams. As “very clever” Yale students (a poor translation of 聪明 which Chinese people love), we thought ourselves impervious to con-artistry. As it turns out, we’re actually pretty stupid. We were walking in Old Beijing when man and his ‘sister’ claiming to be from 西安 said the same line: “Hello. Where are you from?” I was tired and cranky so I lied and claimed to be from Germany (I can’t speak English or Chinese!), but Julius, ever eager to make Chinese friends, told them we were actually from America. They took us to a “very famous tea house” from their guidebook, which they obsessively read because it was also their “first time in Beijing.” He said he’d buy us tea, but instead asked to split the bill with us. We stupidly said yes and then realized our half of the bill was about 150 dollars. At least it was good tea.

When the old man came up to us with the same greeting, Julius blatantly ignored him while I told him we were trying to catch a cab, but nobody would pick us up. He told us it would be easier back towards the hostel. Frustrated, I called Bow to ask him how to take the subway. He told us to get off at 大王路 and catch a cab.

Nothing compares to the rush hour crowds on the Chinese subway. When the train came, it looked like an overstuffed toy box, where some little kid has put just few too many action figures. Determined to get on, we shoved our way onto the train.

Chinese commuters have no conception of full. Though our car was packed, at the next stop, several people jumped from the platform and bounced off the impenetrable crowd. At one point, I saw one girl lying on the floor, hanging on to my suitcase for dear life. When we had to get off, Julius said, “Scream 下车 and push.” We then swam through the crown onto the platform.

After about an hour of waiting for a cab, a Chinese woman, who had been standing with us the whole time, surprised us by saying, “Are you trying to get a taxi? Pay attention. You’ve missed three already.”

No matter how many English-speaking Chinese people I meet, I’m shocked to realize that some people can understand me. She tried to help us catch a cab, but we were equally unsuccessful. She told us she was getting a ride and wanted to offer us one, but she had two dogs in her back seat. I said, “It’s okay” but she said, “So, would you like a ride?” I let Julius decide.

We looked in the back seat and stared in the eyes of a golden retriever and a husky, but we were desperate so we crammed into her back seat with our luggage and started driving. Curious, the golden retriever stared at us, panting heavily.

I definitely think the worst part of China is the bad breath. I imagine it has something to do with the food and the pollution, but however bad people’s breath may be, nothing compares to that dog. I swear that Julius’s face curled up so quickly, I thought he was evaporating.

The husky quickly realized we liked the other dog and wanted some attention for himself, so he climbed on top of Julius and (accidentally? purposefully?) placed his paw on Julius’s groin, at which he yelped (Julius, not the dog). The dog was moving and shedding and feeling up Julius and then it started barking loudly. The lady told us he doesn’t bite. The dog stopped barking and Julius whispered “Oh my god Adam, the dog is licking my nipple” This lasted a while. After feeling little reciprocation, the dog just licked at Julius’s head for a couple minutes.

We drove from the subway to 首经贸大学, a total of four blocks, which took about twenty minutes in rush hour traffic. After what seemed like an eternity, we got out of the car, but were so crammed that when the lady opened the child-locked door, I spilled out onto the sidewalk. I gave her the traditional American thank you present of a comic book where Obama teams up with Spiderman to save inauguration. She looked at me puzzled and said thank you.

We entered the double doors, ready to learn Chinese.