Pretty Woman Spitting: An American's Travels in China Read online

  I lingered in the back of the bus station bathroom that first time, holding a wad of tissue over my mouth, watching people go to the trough without hesitation. I tried to find an opening where everyone wouldn’t see me. I had to leave the room twice to catch my breath and debate wetting my pants instead of suffering through the cess-filled air.

  Standing outside, gasping, I looked for a place to squat down behind a building. There weren’t any concealed spots and I feared that I might be arrested for public urination. Even then, Chinese prison seemed worse than a trough but just barely.

  Finally, knowing that I had no choice but to go, I swiftly walked in, held the clump of tissue and the collar of my shirt over my nose and mouth, found an open spot and squatted down to pee. Then, when a putrid liquid flowed through the trough, sweeping up large debris and emitting the smell of ten warm bowel movements that seeped through my tissue and cloth mask, I dry heaved over that gutter, emptied out half my bladder and ran like hell, barely wiping before I shot out of there. I later guessed that was the way they flushed the troughs.

  After that experience, I started keeping a diary of where the good bathrooms were so I could refer to them and save myself the pain I’d already experienced.

  The acceptable places I found to go to were Western hotels, Western restaurant chains like Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, KFC, and Wa Ma (translation: Walmart), all of which can now be found in any small Chinese city of two million or so. In China, Walmarts especially had sparkling squat pots with high stalls and toilet paper – it doesn’t get any better than that. The Chinese coffee houses had bearable restrooms, too.

  The unacceptable places are bus or train stations, Chinese restaurants, rest stops, bars and just about anywhere else not aforementioned as an acceptable place. The rest stops had no lights, wet walls with smelly puddles and holes instead of pots that lead into dark, scary places. At most of the bars in rural areas and larger cities that I visited, I found there to be at least a centimeter of urine covering the floors. Just the smell of that much stagnant, toxic liquid can singe your nose hairs. What can help you to avoid these places is to try not to drink much liquid when going on a trip in China and making sure to go ahead of time at home or in one of the places on the acceptable list.

  Margaret had the bladder of a water buffalo – she could wait for hours to go. When we would hit one of the places that we knew would be offensive, she would just decide not to go and that was that. I envied her so many times. However, I did get to give her a full report after each stop that I dragged her to.

  “Don’t do it Margaret. Just go in your pants.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Nope, go behind a building instead.”

  “I won’t.”

  “A trough Margaret! I saw two women shake and not wipe and one woman took a dump. Yes, I have now seen a woman do number two.”

  “Sick. And you’re sick for going in there.”

  I learned to never expect toilet paper. I decided to do as the Chinese do and carry tissues in my pockets and bags at all times and I made sure to take hand sanitizer everywhere I went. Everywhere.

  Slowly, I started to prefer a squat pot to a dirty toilet. Over time my leg muscles got used to the position and I got faster and more adept about where and when to go. Squatting is how we’re naturally supposed to go, if you think about it. By the end of my stay in Wuhu, I would prefer a mediocre pot to a dirty toilet any day.

  I WILL SURVIVE

  (Anhui Normal University’s English building)

  I stood in front of my class full of forty-five, twenty-something-year-old Chinese students and wondered if I had what it took to teach them anything. The Dean of the English department, Dean Li, had escorted Margaret and me to school that morning, given us our schedules and walked us to our first class. He suggested that we introduce ourselves to the class and get them talking. He said we would learn how to conduct our classes in greater depth over the weekend. Easier said than done. I had never taught before. I had never prepared lessons. I had never stood in front of an audience day in and day out and lectured.

  I had woken up that morning at 4:30 am – jetlag is an early-rising bitch – and thought about how I would introduce myself. How I would tell little jokes and how they would all love me. That morning, after Dean Li left me, I had strode into a large classroom packed with rows of desks with attached chairs that looked like they belonged in an abandoned junior high school to the sounds of forty-five students, standing, gasping and clapping. The students were huddled in their multicolored winter coats, wearing gloves and hats. I was easily the tallest, largest person in the room. There was no heat in the classroom and I could see my rapid breaths billowing out into the frigid room.

  Now, I’m not usually petrified in front of crowds, but at the sight of these forty students who seemed to be gulping down my presence, I could feel my whole body, from my face to my legs, stiffen up. I walked to the raised landing in front of the chalkboard where I found a podium to latch onto. I made sure not to trip in front of my eager audience. As I turned to write my name on the board, I could hear incessant chattering. It sounded like a flock of birds screeching at one another. When I turned around, the chattering abruptly stopped as if I’d pressed the mute button on the TV. When I said, “Hello,” the entire classroom erupted in shouts, clapping and raucous hellos. I knew then how Oprah must have felt every day on set. I was famous.

  (one of my English classes in winter)

  I told the students that they could call me Leanna. Then, I talked slowly about my education, my family and myself. It only took me about ten minutes, maybe fifteen. A lot shorter than I’d figured in the wee hours of the morning as I’d practiced in my head.

  When I opened the floor for the students to ask me questions, you could have heard my heart pounding in my chest. There was complete silence. Since this room full of people was treating me like a superstar, I would have thought they would’ve had at least one question for me. The students paired off then, whispering with each other and avoiding my eyes.

  “No one has a question for me?” I asked.

  I wondered how in the world we would get through the next hour and twenty minutes together staring at each other. What was I doing in China? I wasn’t a teacher. Then I saw a tiny hand raised on the left side of the room.

  “Yes, you have a question? What’s your name?”

  The thin girl had a cute, choppy, black bob with bangs that covered one of her eyes. She slowly stood up and looked sideways at me.

  “Hello, teacher, my name is Christina,” she said in a small uncertain voice before covering her mouth and giggling as she looked around the room at her peers, who yelled to her.

  “Hi, Christina, it’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Yes. I am the class monitor. I want to know, do you have a boyfriend?”

  The class went berserk. They were shouting at Christina and squealing with delight. After ten seconds, the class turned in unison like forty puppets to see my response.

  “Yes.”

  There was another ten seconds of hysteria. It was like I’d told them I could spin gold out of beans and I would give them each a little piece. I could only get the class to be quiet when I told them about George. He was in school. He had red hair and blue eyes. I loved him.

  I saw another small hand raised in the middle of the front row of the classroom. It was attached to a short girl with shoulder length black hair. On either side of her was a girl whispering in her ears.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “Teacher, my name is Gypsy. I want to know, why do you leave your boyfriend to come to China?”

  Dad? Is that you? At that moment, I didn’t feel too lonely, so I gave her my most appreciative response, “I wanted to come see China. I hear that China is going to be an economic super power and I love Chinese food.”

  Again, the class cheered. This was exactly what they wanted to hear. And it was mostly true. I didn’t add that I came to China to get away from my job in
a cubicle or that I needed a life change and didn’t know where else to go.

  After buttering the students up, I met each one individually. I was hoping this would kill our remaining hour and ten minutes together. I wanted them to tell me their names and something about themselves. Another perturbing silence only served to remind me that I was freezing in the unheated room.

  Starting in the back of the room, I went around the classroom and asked each one to introduce themselves. I’m not sure what I expected from a college language class, but I could not have been more amazed with what they told me. Each student slowly rose, not wanting to look at me until the last minute when they finally mustered the courage to tell me who they were in English.

  “Teacher, my name is Tea because I come from a region known for its tea.”

  “Teacher, my name is Smile. I don’t like sport. I like dancing.”

  “Teacher, my name is Apple. I like play balls, dancing, skating.”

  I had no idea that they would name themselves after fruit, food, mannerisms and elves. While taking six years of now-forgotten French, I had never once considered naming myself Bicyclette or Bleu. Many of them said that their names in English sounded like their given Chinese names. Others told me that they chose the English meaning of their given Chinese names. Others, like Coca and Cola, were best friends.

  There were only five boys sitting together in the back of the first class I met. Some things are universal, I guess. However, after hearing about how many more men there are in China, I was a little bit surprised by this small number. They later told me that there were so many more women here because a “Normal University” was a teachers’ college.

  After I got around to all forty-five of the students, I still had thirty minutes left to kill before the class ended. I asked if they had questions about Americans and American life. Again, silence. I heard a group of girls in the back laughing and I raced towards them to get them to talk.

  “Do you have a question for me?”

  A slender girl with short, spiky, black hair and a racing jacket that made her look like Chinese Michael Jackson pointed a delicate finger at the boy who sat next to her. He had hair and a jacket that was just like hers. They could have been twins. I guessed that they were probably dating.

  “He has.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you sing the American pop music song?” he asked with a shy grin.

  I was so desperate to kill time that I immediately agreed, regretting it as soon as I had.

  As the cheering started up again, I headed towards the podium and racked my brain for a song. “Doe a Dear” came to mind first. Then “Oops!… I Did It Again.” I was sure that I didn’t know all of the words to that one. As I got to the front of the room, trying to kill more time, I picked up an eraser from the chalkboard and held it in my hand like a microphone.

  They giggled and I saw the front row of girls covering their mouths as they laughed. They looked so innocent and naïve doing this. I cleared my throat and came out with the only song I knew all of the words to: “I Will Survive.”

  “At first I was afraid…I was petrified…” As I sang the words that mirrored what I was feeling right then, I started to loosen up and even started to feel warm in the subzero temperature. Usually it took me several beers and a shot of tequila to do this in front of a crowd of drunken friends, but the students were standing up now, clapping in unison, so I couldn’t disappoint them. The next thing I knew, I was slapping my hips and spinning around with the eraser in my hand and my head tilted back in exaltation.

  “Did you think I’d crumble? Did you think I’d lay down and die?”

  As a grand finale I threw my hands up in the air and gave them my best, “SURVI-A-IVE,” and did an exaggerated bow. The students were all on their feet clapping and cheering afterwards. This was how I imagined Tina Turner felt at the end of a good night.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Alright, who’s next?”

  Silence.

  Whispering.

  “No, No, I sang a song, now it’s your turn.”

  Silence.

  I could see that the karaoke concert I hoped would kill time after my performance wasn’t going to happen very easily.

  “Okay, who’s going to sing? We’re not going anywhere until one of you sings.”

  Finally a girl to the left of the room yelled out, “Christina.”

  I barreled toward my new friend.

  “Christina, will you sing for us today?”

  “Yes,” the class announced.

  “No, no, I can’t,” she whispered.

  “Oh, come on. Your friends think you’re a good singer. Let’s hear a Chinese pop song.”

  With her hair still draped over half her face, Christina rose slowly again, but this time she had a twinkle in her one visible eye and I could see that she was excited. I handed her the eraser-cum-microphone.

  She went up to the front of the classroom and clasping the eraser with both hands she brought it inches from her chin. Then she turned towards me and said, “I will sing a traditional Chinese song. It is not a pop music song.”

  With her head bent over the eraser and eyes closed, she started singing a sweet sounding tune in a low, soft voice. As the song went on, she seemed to gain momentum like a train leaving a station. Next thing I knew, this wisp of a girl had her eyes closed and was clenching a gloved fist. She belted out it out like she was on Chinese Idol.

  I felt just a little embarrassed for getting up there and caterwauling. I couldn’t understand a word this girl was singing, but it was beautiful sounds. Maybe that’s how “Oops!… I Did It Again” sounds to someone who doesn’t know a word of English.

  With inspiration from Christina and more coaxing from their peers, two of the five boys in the classroom got up to sing. Each one was very serious when he sang, holding the eraser close to their mouths. They all had smooth voices. It became clear to me how karaoke had been started on this side of the Earth. People in China love to sing. I couldn’t imagine a college class with forty students in America where three kids would get up and sing so well that the whole class would be into it, clapping and cheering. Where was the awkward adolescent angst?

  When the bell rang, Christina gave me a class roll with the students’ names in English, Chinese and pinyin, which is the system for transliterating Chinese ideograms into the Roman alphabet. Then, she had me sign a form to prove that I had been present. Obviously, she was there to monitor both the class and me. After signing, I told her that she was a good singer. She blushed.

  “No, no.” Then she smiled.

  “You were great!”

  Her yellow-brown cheeks turned pink like cotton candy. She gave a shy smile and said “No” again before leaving.

  I found it fascinating that the Chinese would never accept my compliments and that they would laugh when I accepted theirs. One of my students, Helen, put it well when she said, “Maybe, I say you are beautiful and you say, ‘Thank you.’ But you say that I am beautiful and I always say, ‘No.’ Maybe it is the Chinese way to be modest.”

  She was right. It has been their custom to always refuse praise and ours to accept it openly. Modesty is prized in their culture whereas individuality and achievement are valued in ours. Surely this was caused by nurture.

  I had another class that afternoon during which the students acted in pretty much the same hysterical way, asking about a boyfriend and begging me to sing. Word had gotten out that I put on concerts in my English classes. Then I was free for the weekend. Not a bad first day on the job.

  HWAAK CHUU

  On Saturday morning, I woke up around 5:45 a.m., and started emailing my family and a few friends the pictures I’d taken of Shanghai and Wuhu. At about 8:00 a.m., Linda rang my doorbell and offered to take Margaret, Dianne and me to the food street to show us where to buy things. I could only think about the pain I had suffered after the welcoming banquet two nights before. Since then, I’d mainly been living on the Power Bars and mixed n
uts I brought from home.

  We left the entrance of the campus together, and crossed the four-lane highway in front of the school to get to an area that sold food. The market looked like it came from a spread in National Geographic on the third world side of China. I took pictures of the lady standing over a hot drum with sweet potatoes roasting on it. Her face was weathered and wrinkled and looked a bit like the potatoes she was selling. Next to her, stood a woman making what looked like egg burritos on top of another, larger, searing drum.

  (a lady making Chinese “pancakes”)

  “This is where you can get pancakes,” Linda told us. “This is a new food on the street.”

  Using a metal scraper, the woman spread dough out and made these “pancakes” paper-thin on the top of the sizzling drum. She cracked two eggs onto the dough and spread those out. To that she added either turnips or scallions and covered those with sweet or spicy sauce. To me, it seemed more like a breakfast burrito than a pancake.

  I opted for the pancake with turnips and spicy sauce. It tasted like zesty, flakey paper with red pepper paste that made my whole mouth sting. The pancake was so thin that I was still hungry afterwards. We moved on down the line of vendors and came to a woman cooking what looked like flat biscuits.

  “These are cakes,” Linda informed us.

  “You can get them plain, with meat or with vegetable.”

  I split a meat cake with Linda, tasting oily meat inside.

  “What kind of meat is this?” I asked.

  “Maybe pork.”

  Maybe?

  Margaret went for the plain cake and Dianne had a veggie. All together, our breakfast cost a grand total of about fifty cents.

  I couldn’t help but calculate the cost in dollars every time I spent money in China. Before leaving, I read an article that said to save money in China one should think in Yuan and stop converting prices to dollars. However, saving money was never my strong suit. I certainly hadn’t traveled halfway across the world to save money for the first time. I was making five hundred dollars a month and I planned to spend every bit of it seeing sites and experiencing China.