image: Wikipedia

When I was in high school I worked on the floor of a popular department store. I don’t remember a lot about selling economically-priced, aesthetically lackluster clothing. But a recent article in the New York Times reminded me of an intimate story relayed by a coworker all those years ago. A woman who I worked with, let’s call her Samantha, told me that before working retail, she’d served in the Military. When I asked her why she quit, her face became dark, her gaze retracted. She said that she had enjoyed the army, but that something terrible had occurred that rapidly ended her career. The story that followed was a surprising and sad.

Samantha’s Story

One evening while Samantha was on base, in her room alone, she heard a knock at the door. As soon as she’d turned the handle the door flew open with great force and a group of 4 or 5 men, many whom she worked with, rushed into the room, locking the door behind them. Before she had a chance to understand what was happening, they proceeded to strip and rape her, each taking their turn. When they were done, they left her in a pile on the floor and walked out of the room. Samantha forced herself into the shower to rinse off, but fainted, slamming her head to the ground during the fall.

When she woke up she was being attended by an army doctor, the harsh medical lights shooting down on her face. She tried to explain what had happened to her—the attack, the rape—but no one seemed to listen. She felt heavy, like she was on drugs—they had sedated her. She said that while she was highly medicated they forced her to sign a document forbidding her from accusing her rapists. She realized then that her commander was in cahoots with her attackers and that her story would never be taken seriously. She was discharged from the military and refused the rights typically bestowed to service members.

I felt terrible for her, but what could I do? I wondered why this woman had chosen to tell me such a person story. How could something so terrible actually happen and go unpunished? The untouchable, insulated nature of the military became a frightening place in my mind. What happened in that world—acts of monstrosity—were not accountable to the civilian justice system that existed in my neighborhood, my workplace, my school.

Changing a Flawed System

As the years passed I slowly forgot Samantha and her story. But the whole interaction resurfaced in an instant when I read about a new proposal aimed at addressing the Military’s ongoing issue with sexual assault. Presented by Senator Kirsten E. Gillibrand of New York, the proposal aims to make it easier for men and women like Samantha to come forward with their stories with the confidence that their cases will be fairly tried. According to the current military prosecutorial structure, your own commander decides if your case is tried in court—which places a full stop on any chance of justice if your commander is your assaulter. If this power is withdrawn from commanders and bestowed on a more impartial party (military prosecutors), sex crimes can be reported with less fear of retaliation.

It seems that the topic of sexual assault in the military has been gaining momentum since a report on the subject was published by the Pentagon. As outlined in the NY Times, the report reveals that “an estimated 26,000 assaults took place in the armed services in 2012, most of them on women. Yet only a fraction of those attacks were reported and only 10 percent went to trial.” This is just last year! This is disgusting!

image: Anti-Rape Ad from Hancock Field Air National Guard Base Website

Resist the urge to think about the issue in terms of moral reform of rape-minded men and “slutty” women. Focus on the structural issues that are encouraging abusive behavior and discouraging victims from seeking support and justice. As Elspeth Reeve of the Atlantic explains, “The military’s problem is not that it’s filled with high-testosterone dudes. It’s that it’s a massive bureaucracy.” It is also important to consider that many of the assaults reported have male victims. This is not a women’s issue—it’s a human issue.

Support Senator Gillibrand, President Obama, Minnesota’s own Senator Amy Klobuchar, and the many other politicians and activists working to improve the military’s handling of sexual assault.

_____________________

Democracy Now: Anuradha Bhagwati Addresses the Military’s Sexual Assault Issue

The Atlantic: The Military’s Rape Problem Is a Lot Like Everyone’s Rape Problem

SWAN: Service Women’s Action Network

To me, the problem faced by millennials starts with what I like to call the “wrong map” issue. What I mean is this: After graduation from college, you find yourself in the center of some new and unknown world. Naturally you intend to rely on the tools and directions you received throughout your education in order to navigate. Eager and confident, you unfold the map you packed and begin to use it to explore. Only, the farther you get out the door, the more obvious it becomes that this map isn’t accurate at all. In fact, it seems like it was drawn from a different city entirely. Even if you know your destination, it’s obvious that it will be a lot harder to find your way there.

The route described by parents, teachers, colleges, and communities (Get a BA, start an entry-level job immediately after, find what you like and progress while earning income) turned out to be unrealistic for many among us. Not only are most 20-somethings forced to completely rewrite the plan, but they’re also dealing with the weight of stress, disappointment, and confusion during the struggle to uncover opportunities. As much as I appreciate Dr. Jay’s tips for personal and professional growth, I do not appreciate feeling as though we are all the equivalent of a sad-faced girl coming into her office every week to discuss boy troubles. I feel like this image is just another unfortunate contribution to the “silly nicknames” phenomena she alludes to in the beginning of her talk, and I don’t believe it to be true.

Although I admit that it doesn’t take long to think of a handful of people who exacerbate Dr. Jay’s ‘sad girl’, there are even more people who have been pushing themselves extremely hard for many years with little to show for it—cue the sweaty palms, dwindling expectations, and anxiety.

Is it possible that the arrested development addressed by Dr. Jay has more to do with the economy than she would like to admit? I would argue yes. Perhaps, although they would like to, many 20-somethings do not feel as though they can credit themselves with the “maturity” of adulthood because this concept is so intricately and securely tied with the more traditional notion of professional and financial success (a “real” job, a nice home/car, no debt, health insurance, a savings account, a retirement fund).

What happens to the self-image when you are offered a wage today that is the same as you were earning more than a decade ago when you were 15? How does the inability to secure a full-time position with benefits affect the self-esteem of a 30-year-old man with a Master’s Degree? How does it feel to have your entire generation accused of being lazy, cheap, and selfish just because you have a liberal/studio arts degree, own a smart phone, work at a restaurant, live with your parents, are afraid of a mortgage, or don’t want to buy a new car? I’ll tell you how it feels: crappy and unfair.

In addition to negatively coloring self-image, the delay in career launch is stunting the establishment of relationships. Certainly the link between financial/career stability and readiness for family isn’t difficult to identify. The encumbering of professional growth naturally restyles expectations for the timing of family and settling down. Those determined to find career success have to be willing to move across the country, or even the world, in order to pursue opportunities.

The act of committing seriously to another person or place can possibly undermine your own success in a world where dedication and flexibility of time, location, and skill are valued above all when deciding who will earn the prestigious position of employed. And since it now requires the full-time income of both partners in order to make a living, it leaves little room for flexibility in relationships before and after marriage.

Instead of clinging to the impression that millennials are just drifting along until 30, at which point they will scramble (and fail) to meet the requirements for being grown up, I think that it’s worthwhile to focus our energy on rethinking our own expectations. What should adult life look like? Is it realistic for it to involve multiple children, car ownership, spring break vacations, or a large backyard? I believe that you can have what you really want—but you must know what that is, and you can no longer rely on the default definition for concepts like adulthood, career, family, home, success, and other related vocabulary. I think that the real challenge faced by the millennial generation is to learn how to overcome the expectation of achieving the same level of wealth as our parents, make do with less, and to reinstate joy and pride into life by actively producing a new and more realistic definition of successful adulthood.

How did Dr. Jay’s Talk make you feel about where you are?

Back in 2007 when the economic struggles and foreclosures began, I had a feeling that it would become harder to find an affordable rental in the Twin Cities (Minneapolis+St.Paul). It was a logical conclusion that less people owning houses would mean more people renting. But it wasn’t until I started looking for an apartment in Shanghai that I realized how cutthroat the rental market had become back home. Akin to the fable about the frog in boiling water (toss a frog into a pot of boiling water and it will jump out. Place in a pot of cool water, raise the temperature slowly, and it allows itself to be boiled to death), I hadn’t realized what was gradually occurring all around me.

At the start of my search for a sublet in Minneapolis last summer, I thought finding a room would be a cinch. I imagined all of the places in the Como neighborhood by the University of Minnesota that would be abandoned by students who returned home for the break, along with the places that were surely overlooked during the summer months before the real moving season of August and September began.

Not long after initiating my search, my rose-colored expectations were replaced by frustration. A good apartment is hard to come by in Minneapolis! Instead of lining up a few viewings at my own convenience (like the ‘old days’ circa 2006), I suddenly felt as though I was going through a job application process: strategically writing my email inquiries, preparing my documents (including my last three paystubs) and responses ahead of time, putting on my game face like I was preparing for an interview.

How long did you live at your previous place of residence? [Spoken with demoralizing ‘concern’ face] Only six months? Did your previous landlord complete a tenant report? How long have you been working at your current job? What is your yearly salary? You’re self-employed? Hmm, that’s not good… Oh, just so you know, we have a lot of people coming to look at this place this weekend—oh, wait, here are some of them now—I’ll get back to you in the next few days and let you know who we chose.

And all for a 3-month summer sublease that I’ve offered to pay for in full up front! What do you care if I make $100,000/year or $10,000/year?

In order to secure an apartment, which was overpriced to begin with, I spent 3 weeks aggressively scouring craigslist, newspapers, Facebook, and my network; offered to pay an extra $100/month; and even took my possible future roommate out for drinks in order to smooth things over and convince him that I was responsible and socially likable. In the end, the person who’s room I was taking even had the audacity to suggest that I should let her stay for free a little while after I started paying for rent because she’d done me a favor by selecting me as her replacement. Talk about a complete 180°! Remember when subletting someone’s place was doing them a favor?

The helplessness of my rental experience in Minneapolis was amplified by the comparative ease with which I found an apartment in Shanghai. For a city where residents complain of skyrocketing rental prices, there were seemingly infinite options and armies of people ready to schedule showings and negotiate with owners for lower rent—all of them working to earn my business. The difference in experiences was so vast that I was driven to uncover the facts lurking behind my sour experience in MN.

Some notables include:

• Minnesota is the least affordable state for renters in the Midwest
• Rents are high and rising while wages are floundering
• Millions of families have transitioned into rentals since the recession hit
• Minneapolis renting is out of control—In 2012, Mpls ranked as the second worst city for renters in the US
• Finding a place is a serious competition—less than 3% of Mpls apartments are vacant
• Rent is expected to continue rising in 2013

Some suggest that high rental prices and lower mortgage rates will result in a rise in home purchases. But faced with a limited job market and in the wake of so many foreclosures, the risk of taking on more debt can be extremely intimidating. Paired with the fact that people today prefer to wait longer to settle/marry, I can’t imagine many recent graduates are preparing to hunker down in one place at the cost of an even larger mountain of lifelong debt, even if it means a slightly lower monthly payment. But I’ll leave that topic for a different post.

What has your rental experience been since the recession hit? Are you noticing changes?

Rooftop meat in Hangzhou, China

This morning I woke up, slipped my feet into a tacky pair of red and white, foam-filled slippers, and then promptly walked straight through our apartment and out the door. I crossed the dirty, dim hall space and ascended the narrow staircase beside a weird, pointless little sink mounted outside our door. I entered a tiny room at the top of the stairs that’s both essential to my daily life and baffling by American standards: a combination kitchen, laundry, shower, toilet room that’s altogether about the size of large closet. It’s a wonderful arrangement for anyone who’s into shaving their legs, frying an egg, washing the sheets, and going pee simultaneously.

The separation of the main apartment from the bath/kitchen room is a result of the original French-made design of the building, which is common to this area of Shanghai and features communal kitchens and bathrooms (ours is private, but some Shanghai residents still share). Adjusting to a permanent bathroom across the hall is just one of many shifts that I’ve made to my routine during the last half year.

In what way does your life change when you move across the globe? I suppose there are a lot of large differences, such as language, food, safety, familiarity, community. But there are also a lot of subtle shifts or exchanges that one takes in stride during days that seem otherwise familiar. Some habits look the same here as they did in Minneapolis, while others are strikingly different.

A different set of risks
In Minnesota, the risks I faced were chiefly political and economic. I struggled to find good employment, an apartment within my budget, pay for outrageously priced groceries and health insurance, and other challenges that result from living in a country that seems to be on the lookout for opportunities to attack the working class and women’s rights. In Shanghai, most of the immediate risks seem to be sanitation-related.

I take a shower with some of the most questionable tap water in the world, featuring toxic heavy metals, chlorine, bacteria, viruses and more. I greatly doubt the safety standards of most restaurants. I can’t trust news sources to reveal potentially harmful food and health risks in my own neighborhood, city, or country. I come into contact with millions of people directly and indirectly all day long, many of whom have very different hygiene practices and standards—people wash vegetables in the river (which recently featured about 16,000 dead mystery pigs), use toilet bowls to wet their mops, intermittently handle raw meat and vegetable with their bare hands all day long, and much more. Oh, and did I mention a new bird flu has arrived in Shanghai and the surrounding area? All of these things are just part of the daily smorgasbord that is living in China.

And then there are the things that seem the same, but slightly off. For instance, I’m currently using face wash made by a familiar brand (POND’S) that claims to “whiten” your skin. I bought it because it was pretty much the only cleanser available without a trip to some inconvenient ‘expat’ store, and I’m happy to report that it’s maintaining the status quo of my complexion effortlessly. I also shower every day under a set of four extremely powerful, built-in heat lamps, which provide a strange contrast to the general lack of insulation, central heating, and properly installed windows in China. In addition, I have to manually turn a water heater on and off to take a shower and remember to adhere to a strict no-flushing rule for toilet paper and everything else.

To squat or not to squat—that is the question
I must admit that the move from Hangzhou to Shanghai has made things easier—especially in respect to the dreaded Chinese-style toilet. Sometimes referred to as a squatting toilet, the Chinese-style toilet is ubiquitous in Hangzhou. To make a long story short, it always smells at least 50X worse than a western-style toilet and it took me about 4 months to realize that I was consistently facing the wrong way when I used it—or was I?

I assumed that Chinese people would welcome the western-style toilet, but a rather bizarre experience last winter revealed otherwise. I’ll never forget my shock at accidentally walking into an occupied bathroom stall in Hangzhou where I witnessed something wholly unbelievable. A woman had propped herself into perfect squatting-toilet position atop a Western toilet, her shoes pressing flatly into the top of the toilet seat with her whole body hovering 3 feet in the air. My thoughts were as follows: Oh, crap—excuse me! Sorry! Wait, what? Huh? That can’t be sanitary for the rest of us/isn’t that a little dangerous? and why, exactly? WHY?

From then on out I began to notice the sole prints on the seats and started hovering religiously. Apparently, standing atop toilets to squat into them is widely popular, even in Shanghai (notice below the sign posted in a Starbucks bathroom near our house). But I really don’t get it. New toilet, new technique, right? It’s not as if I EVER considered sitting my butt down on the designated foot spots of a squatting toilet!

Lucky for me and my bathroom challenges, toilets in Shanghai are generally much better than Hangzhou—i.e. they are almost always western-style and accompanied by: 1) an ample supply of toilet paper and 2) working sinks with SOAP (I can’t emphasize the importance of these two things enough, I really can’t. There is nothing like entering an extremely cramped, nose-curdling please god do not let me touch anything space without being able to properly wash your hands after).

Two positives in a whirlwind of change
Despite the terror, confusion, and smells, I’m confident that moving to China offers two major benefits: Firstly, with any luck (and assuming that I’m a halfway flexible, thoughtful person) it is helping to shape me into a more appreciative, tolerant person. Secondly, it exposes me to the finite nature of my own authority in life. A safe, controlled, risk-free world—whether in Minneapolis, Baton Rouge, Paris or Shanghai—is to a great extent an illusion. I am simply in the position of observing and deciphering the messages, choices, and unfamiliar toilets placed before me.

I’ve made a lot of decisions in the past few months, and years, that would have probably shocked my younger self. But, I must admit that the older I get, the more I realize that being a hypocrite is a necessary part of growing up. There have been times in the past when I’ve pulled a total 180 when it comes to my wardrobe, shocking those around me.

I get a real kick out of my mom’s memory, without which I would have an incomplete notion of my own caprices.

According to her, I have, at times, made impassioned declarations of lifelong abstention from certain items. In my teenage years, I was known for my fervent anti-skinny-jeans policy and in high school I made the famous declaration that Birkenstocks were invented to take advantage of the lagging brain functions of people who smelled like patchouli.

And now here I am, over a decade later, and I wear almost exclusively skinny jeans and have a pair of very nice camel-colored leather Birkenstocks wedged among my other footwear in an overloaded closet back in Minnesota.

The point is, I’ve dared to renege on a lot of (my mom assures me) emblazoned causes in my life. However, nothing will surpass the recent scandal of the latest lapse in adherence to my sartorial ethics. You see, the thing is, I bought a pair of caramel brown, completely synthetic, knockoff Uggs, and I wear them almost every day. If you know me at all, then you will certainly understand the gravity of this admission. I’m pretty sure that my mom actually gasped when I mentioned it over our breaky skype connection the other day. And what’s more, I even bought a pair of enormous fake fur, taupe colored earmuffs, so help me god.

These are things that I would never even consider, were I still living comfortably in my insulated, well-heated, cozy apartment in Minneapolis. But, alas, I have willingly reentered a place where it gets so hot in the summer that residents psychotically chose to tough out the freezing winters with little or no heating and walls made exclusively of cement or worse.

In my defense, it’s been cold here. Not Minnesota cold, but cold, nonetheless. The temperature for the last few weeks has been bobbing around freezing, and we’ve had an unusual amount of snow (so I’m told). Let’s just say that my chuck taylors were not cutting it.

In a way I feel like I’m reliving my time in Baton Rouge, where I spent 10 months volunteering in public schools (and completely humiliated myself *), all over again. My current room is on the corner of a huge student housing building, where the ceiling is easily 10 feet high, the floors are cement, and one of our walls is covered in single-pane windows with no screens. Our only source of heat is an air-conditioning unit located on the ceiling above our window-covered wall. None of the buildings here on campus, including all the public areas and classrooms, are heated, except for a possible hot-air blowing air-conditioner.

I am in awe of the resilience of the people here who sit behind a desk or in an open-front store during their 10-12 hour work day without heat. I fear that I would not have the constitution to survive such a challenge.

At the end of the day, it was obvious what I had to do. I say it was obvious because it was the only thing that was apparently an option—buy knockoff Uggs and earmuffs. Oh, and buy a slightly questionable but oh-so-warm electric “water” bottle that has a name, arms, and legs. Remember the phrase When in Rome? Well, it was like that, except that Rome was the communist/socialist/capitalist/democratic Republic of China and everyone was nearly freezing to death (or so I dramatically felt) and the only way to stay warm was to make concessions to my own appearance.

And this isn’t the first time that I’ve had dress counter-sartorially. I’ve had to wear much more humiliating things for past jobs, including Timberland boots and menswear, although I think I’ll save that topic for a future post. I guess dressing appropriately for weather or work, no matter how idiotic you look, is just the grownup thing to do.

How about you, is there something that you refused to wear, and then adopted later in life?

*In the State of Humiliation Caution: this story includes swearing.

A Chinese friend told us a great story the other day that has stuck with me ever since.

Charles (his English name) had recently arrived for a summer program at UC Berkeley when he went for a walk in the neighborhood surrounding the school. He waited for the light to change to red, the walking signal to alight, and then began to cross the street. Halfway through he noticed a large truck approaching to make a left turn in front of him. He immediately froze in his path, waiting for the truck to barrel past. But instead of driving, the truck came to a halt in the intersection. Charles also stuck to his spot, unsure of what the heck was going on. Everything remained at a standstill until the driver finally rolled down his window and shouted Are you going to walk? It was then that Charles realized that the truck was waiting for him to cross first.

When I heard this story I laughed because I understood how years of darting out of the path of vehicles could result in a deep sense of surprise at having the right of way. Expats in Hangzhou (including me) often complain about the crazy drivers here, and the terror of crossing a large intersection with buses, taxis, electric scooters, and so on roaring at you  and weaving within arms length of crowds of pedestrians. I appreciated Charles’s story not only for its funniness but for the fact that it spoke to the topic of culture clash and the altered habits that accompany this change.

A common topic at language school has been that of habits, hobbies, and traditions. I think that they write it into the textbooks because they think that talking all of the differences through will suddenly make us all a little more aware of each other, and therefore more at ease. But do hobbies and traditions bring us together or push us apart? Sometimes I find it frustrating when my Chinese instructors ask me what we like to do for Christmas or birthdays in the US. It’s not always easy to be so far away from familiar faces and settings during days that were previously laden with traditions. But I’m starting to realize that there’s something worth considering when it comes to the subject.

More than any other place before, China has challenged the habits that composed my everyday life in Minneapolis. A lot that was familiar in Minnesota became so habitual that I didn’t even realize the way it steered my life. At first (and still occasionally) differences really threw me off—more accurately, they upset me. It was always the little things. Why does the market have tape but no dispenser? or Why do the Chinese write their address in the opposite order in the opposite place on an envelope? or Why do Chinese people spit bones on the table? Suddenly I had become a sort of stuck-up ambassador, complaining from my democratic throne about the inefficiencies of this backwards country.

I found myself shocked with how quickly being placed in such an unfamiliar country could occasionally transform my voice into that of some colonizer I’d read about in an undergrad lit course. I’ve learned over the past four or so months that the essential antidote to the grating effect of new and different experiences is to give up the fight—that, and forget the way you did things back home. Most places here don’t sell what you’re looking for because nobody does what you do. Many times I found myself ready to scream, feeling like I’d been personally insulted by the fact that women in Hangzhou don’t use tampons or crochet hooks or blonde hair dye or tomato paste. All I can do is take what I see, buy what’s on the shelf, eat what’s on the menu, and leave it at that.

There are some hobbies, however, that I have managed to sustain across the ocean, and I find a strangely deep solace in them. After a few determined searches I finally tracked down some wool yarn and I’m making myself an emerald green scarf. I’ve also managed to circumvent the Chinese preference for “white coffee” (consisting mainly of powdered milk and sugar—instant) with the help of friends and family who have sent us the real stuff and a Vietnamese coffee filter. I may not have milk in my coffee anymore, due to the fact that we have no refrigerator and the milk here tastes eerie, but that damn cup of black coffee is the highlight of my morning.

Above all, there are four essential hobbies I’ve managed to keep:

1. Music: No matter where I stand or sit or walk, when I listen to my beloved Charlie Brown Christmas album or latest American release, I am home.
2. Writing: Although my internet connection is shoddy (WordPress is blacklisted here—damn you, firewall!) and my VPN stopped working during the Chinese “election”, I still have my computer, journal, and email to find some release.
3. Reading: I limited myself to three books in my suitcase. Lucky for me, there are a few bookstores in Hangzhou with English sections!
4. Boyfriend: I’m here in China aren’t I? In the end I had to lay it all down to stay with the person I love, and I can’t imagine life here, or at home, without him.

Although I mourn the loss of things such as the ability to shop enjoyably, communicate with strangers, or snuggle up with a book/computer at Spyhouse during a snowstorm, the balance of life is fair and I inevitably gain new interests. Because most of my previous sources of amusement have been curtailed, I’ve tried new things. For instance, Instagram is apparently the only social media site that works on my Chinese phone. Relaying my journey through pictures is fun and different. I’ve also adopted an interest in Chinese paper cutting, which can yield surprisingly awesome visual results.

When I start to think about this Christmas and New Year and how different it will be on the other side of the globe, I find solace in the fact that the absence of old traditions fashions new ones. In the spirit of the new, I’ve decided to go to Hong Kong and spend the holiday there. I will miss my family, but I will also have a memorable Christmas full of rich new experiences. I hope that you too can enjoy the comfort of the familiar and the excitement of the new this season.

Happy Holidays!

Yiwu is a business city located just 50 minutes by high-speed train from Hangzhou. Almost everyone I’ve met here who does business in China has heard about Yiwu. No, it’s not particularly beautiful. Nor is it the site of some special festival or touristy place. Instead, it’s famous for its gigantic, sprawling markets. It’s even called “the ‘Wall Street’ for the counterfeiting industry,” whatever that means (Wikipedia). The foreigners who know about the city are the ones who do business there. If it weren’t for a classmate of mine who happens to be the daughter of Bulgarian toy importer, the place would have remained forever a mystery to me.

When my classmate waxed poetic about the great jewelry, shoes, bags, and eastern European food, I could not abate my own curiosity. I was feeling frustrated with Hangzhou–its stuffy shopping malls and restaurants with identical menus.

While waiting in line at the train station I received a sign from god that I was on the right track. An Yiwu local heading home after the Mid-Autumn Festival holiday struck up a conversation. She explained that she worked for a distribution company. She asked us why we were visiting Yiwu. When I explained that we were going for the food and shopping she seemed surprised. Why would you go to Yiwu to go shopping? We like to come to Hangzhou to do that! I know it seems counter-intuitive  but I’ve actually begun to play the opposite game when it comes to local advice about shopping.

More often than not, people here have a very different preference for shopping and an opposite taste in clothing. People in Hangzhou seem to like paying extra to ensure that they get brand name items. This act of buying new and name brand, as explained recently by the guy behind the counter at a local technology market, is a point of pride.

In the book, The Party, author Richard McGregor’s outline of a Chinese businessman Zhou Zhengyi offers a perfect example of the special kind of spending that occurs here in China.

“Zhou was charmingly open about his arriviste status, complaining to his hosts that Chinese entrepreneurs had a more difficult time than their more experienced western counterparts in refining their lifestyles. When he first became rich, he said, he knew nothing about ‘standards and quality’, and so decorated his bathroom in gold. Later, after realizing what bad taste this was, he said he stocked his house with brand-name products only. Zhou at that time had a son at boarding school in the UK. Asked which school, Zhou was stumped. Picking up his mobile phone, he called his wife in Hong Kong, who didn’t know either. He then called his son in the UK, who finally told him the name of the institution, Millfield, one of the most exclusive schools in Britain. Why had he chose it, his dining companions asked. ‘Because it was the most expensive,’ he replied.”

Here, the value of new, flashy, and expensive is illustrated through businessman Zhou and his gold bathroom, followed swiftly by his name brand home. But expensive purchases in China are not simply about being flashy. Many people claim that it’s often necessary to pay an exorbitant price to ensure that the item is actually genuine. A recent headline about an abandoned home in Wenzhou caught my attention and appeared to confirm the Chinese fear of counterfeit goods.

The article explained that 10,000 bottles of one of the world’s most expensive wines, Chateau Lafite Rothschild, were discovered in an abandoned house. If real, the bottles would be worth a staggering $16 million. Of course, it’s probably not genuine. I was shocked to read that “70 percent of bottles of Chateau Lafite sold in China are not the real deal”. No wonder people are concerned about avoiding counterfeit!

The tough part comes when you pair the interest in purchasing the real deal with a serious lack of exposure to the real deal. People prefer to buy overpriced and over-bedecked clothes with name brands like “Jason Wood”, which they explain are ‘very famous’. But when they talk about these clothes, I can’t help but think of the real Jason Wood (Jason Wu) and all of the other Western brands that have Chinese counterparts that don’t remotely resemble the original.

I see funny copycat brands all over, and everyone buys them here, not just women. Tsing Tao-bellied dads stroll down the street in Armone Excannge T-shirts and Vrasache fanny packs. Women of all types cling to pleather Louise Vuitton bags. Most retailers don’t seem to mind that their products are so clearly cut from a different cloth, nor do they exhibit any shame in their copyright infringement. Chinese entrepreneurs actually believe that naming their store H&L and printing a storefront sign in the same font as the multinational Swedish original will attract customers, and I suppose it does—just not western ones.

In the end, Yiwu turned out to have a lot of the same stuff that you find everywhere else. There were the same sales women in the markets assuring me that the polyester Burberry knockoff  scarves were silk and the cotton dresses were cashmere. But it was fascinating to see a place that served as the epicenter for so much livelihood—so much commerce and haggling and deceit and bargain hunting and mass production. By then end of the weekend I had managed to settle on a nice down jacket for winter and a handful of socks.

Later, when I returned home and returned to my computer, I was humorously struck with how well my experience seemed to fall in line with the identity of the city, despite my feeling of barely touching the surface. When I read on Wikipedia that Yiwu apparently produces over 3 billion pairs of socks a year to be shipped worldwide, I couldn’t help but think about my own humble purchase. In a pathetic and strangely nostalgic way I felt as though I’d played a role in that city, without even realizing it. I was there. I bore witness to that place–I bought socks.

One day in speaking class my teacher asked us to compose a list Western and Chinese foods that we enjoy eating. One of the French students wrote macaroon on the board in cafe-menu cursive. When our teacher came to this item, she (of course) had no idea what it was.

“It’s a type of French cookie,” I offered.

“Mais non, it’s not a cookie,” the French students immediately rebutted, “it’s a macaroon!”

“Ok, so then it’s more like a cake–it’s a little cake,” I offered.

“No! It’s NOT a cake, it’s a MACAROON!”

All of this back and forth, and the insistence that a macaroon simply could not be labelled, left our instructor lost and ready to move on. In that very moment my understanding of the French way of life deepened. What could be more French than insisting that our Chinese language teacher learn the proper name and (non-)classification for a dessert that she will absolutely never see or taste in her entire life? But it’s important that she knows the correct name, I overheard them murmuring to themselves. I both admired and laughed at their conviction.

I have these girls to thank for my first attempt at cooking in China, which I imagine is rather akin to running your first marathon.

We were chatting in between class a few weeks ago, when I mentioned that I missed cooking. In China I have yet to see a single oven, and most foreigners I’ve met choose to abstain from cooking because of the hassle and low cost of eating out. For instance, I ate on campus tonight with another student. We ordered four dishes: egg fried rice, spicy tofu, baby bamboo with pork, and stir-fried potatoes with chili peppers. Our total was 18 yuan–the equivalent of less than $3.

Although I adore how inexpensive it is to go to a restaurant, I still yearn to cook what I want when I want it. Because of this, when the French girls suggested that we organize a class potluck of sorts I thought why not? I love cooking! 

Why not? Because the odds are stacked against me, that’s why! I soon realized that I would have to get more than a little creative to make a meal that I would classify as “easy” in the United States. I’ll give you the rundown:

My goal: tofu curry soup. It seemed easy enough. I figured that I would be able to find all the ingredients in China, since it’s an Asian dish.

Reality Check:

• Chicken broth does not exist (at least for someone with my level of Chinese), therefore chicken broth = a packet of mushroom chicken instant soup
• Coconut milk = coconut juice boxes supplemented with runny yogurt
• Limes = cannot be found in all of Hangzhou
• Red curry paste = yellow curry powder from the UK that smells very different
• Basil? basil? Can you hear me, basil? Are you there?

While attempting to wrangle up ingredients, I found myself in the cramped aisle of a local supermarket sweating over my basket as I pleaded with two Chinese clerks over the difference between coconut milk and coconut juice. This consisted of my repeating the only thing that I knew how to say, which was coconut milk, coconut milk, coconut MILK over and over again. I was suddenly feeling more than a little bit French.

In the end, the soup turned out miraculously edible, perhaps even tasty. I also learned an invaluable lesson:

Sometimes you have to fight for the food that you know and love, because at the end of the day coconut juice is not coconut milk, and a macaroon is not a cookie, it’s a macaroon.

Praying to Mao for Shopping Wisdom and Guidance

Yesterday I spent the afternoon shopping for what I previously thought was an international clothing staple: T-shirts. When packing for China, I had to be ruthlessly discerning of my wardrobe–was my spring/fall trench coat worth the space? Would I really wear that layered miniskirt? And then there were the season changes to consider. I reasoned that it was more important to bring certain staple items that I was sure I couldn’t find where I was going, such as some of my favorite dresses and purses.

My decision to eliminate the majority of my time-worn jersey shirts was the result of a certain rationale: A lot of my T-shirts were originally made in China, right? Therefore it will be really easy to find replacements in China. My problem was solved. Priceless space was preserved in my suitcase thanks to my infallible reasoning. Of course, you can imagine my surprise when I finally arrived in Hangzhou and realized that almost no Chinese women wear T-shirts, and when they do they’re layered in embellishments, frills, ribbons, or lace. That or they’re covered and typo-laden screen-prints featuring sexy women who look like they’ve been ripped strait from the worst pages of an Express advertisement from 2004.

Every morning I would wake up and stare into my closet. I had only packed two T-shirts. I always wear one to bed, so that leaves one shirt for a 7-day week. It didn’t take long for “find more shirts” to claim a higher place on my to-do list. In my quest to discover affordable, basic T-shirts I grilled every Chinese person I met for ideas. Every person we encountered steered us to the same place: upper-end, western-style shopping malls. These malls would have been fine in Minneapolis, but I wasn’t yet ready to face defeat and pay western prices.

I sought out night markets and Chinese stores, but no matter where I turned I was faced with ill-fitting tank tops and frilly, polyester blouses. Even worse are the top + skirt combinations that are actually dresses but supposed to look like two separate pieces, which they NEVER DO. After the first few hours of searching I could feel a headache setting in.

In an attempt to put an end to the misery and find a solution, my boyfriend suggested that maybe I should readjust my expectations and consider wearing something in the local style instead. I knew he meant well, but I also knew that I would rather walk down the streets of China in a shirt I made with my own two hands by candlelight than wear a shirt displaying the glittery outline of a busty or scantily clad teenager that says something like “Life is happy today. Help other people. Makes body goodness.”

Eventually I caved and headed to h & m and uniqlo. Even though the prices were a little higher, it was worth it. And that’s the story of how I paid luxury prices by Chinese standards to dress like a slob by American ones.

And with that, may I present some “local” fashion (as in, I searched “chinese fashion” on Pinterest):

From now on I would like you to imagine that I am wearing some combination of these items at all times.

Mali is a 21-year-old from the Philippines with ‘Chinese blood’. At first glance, most people living here in Zhejiang province in China assume that she’s local. As I sat across the table from Mali and her two friends, Biyu and Tainu, the three young people discussed their ethnicity with mathematical exactitude. Mali is 75% Chinese, Tainu is 80%, and Biyu is 100%. This didn’t mean anything to me (people in the United States have ancestries across the board!), but I could tell that it held important weight in the Philippines, where being Chinese meant something very different from being Filipino.

The distinction creates an interesting paradox when viewed from inside China. Some people here in Hangzhou, including the trio’s cab driver the other night, are openly racist toward people from the Philippines. When their driver learned where they were from, he began cursing and degrading Filipinos. The three reacted to the bigotry with incredible poise, simply explaining to me, When cab drivers ask us where we’re from, we just use our imagination—it’s easier that way.

The world Mali lived in at home seemed calculated and distanced. Everything was dealt with on her behalf. Everything was very secure and small for her in Manila. I asked if she had consider dating a local Filipino—had she ever met someone and been interested? Her response was polite yet immediate and matter of fact: No, not really. It’s just not something that’s done. My family really wants me to marry another Chinese Filipino. They wouldn’t allow me to date an ethnic Filipino.

When I met Mali, she had recently arrived to Zhejiang University in Hangzhou. It was her first time away from home and she seemed eager in a careful, meek way to make a life for herself. She kept alluding to some sort of freedom she hoped to gain in being here alone. It was obvious that she wasn’t quite sure what this new freedom would be, but she was curious. Within a week of her arrival, two of her friends from Manila decided to join her and study Chinese. She viewed this last-minute news with an ambivalent mix of disappointment and relief. Goodbye independence, hello comfort. Tainu’s family is close with my family in Manila, Mali explained. She told me that she suspected her family of sending Tainu here to spy on her and report back to them. When we went out for drinks, she admitted that she fibbed to Tainu, telling him, I’m just going to study and go to bed, when she was really heading out to socialize. I could sense her sincere fear of disappointing her family.

Although she’s finished her undergraduate degree and plans on being a teacher when she returns home, Mali has never had a job. She has never dated. Before last week she had never gone out to a bar or enjoyed a beer. She’s still never ridden a bike. Her English is immaculate. I complimented her on her language skills and asked her how she’d learned. She said that she was required to speak English in school. That, and western television—I watch a lot of American TV where her literal words.

During dinner one night I was able to see Mali in a whole new light, thanks to the arrival of her fellow Chinese Filipinos. There they sat, the three of them. They insisted on using pre-packaged chopsticks they’d bought themselves for every meal. They explained that they felt wary of the cleanliness of the cafeteria cutlery. My mom made me promise I’d never use the chopsticks anywhere in China, Mali explained. Never once had I seen a student, foreign or local, bring their own chopsticks to lunch. Suddenly there were three students in front of me convinced it was necessary.

Through a slightly muffled and embarrassed giggle, Mali admitted that her family has two maids. Two maids and 8 Pomeranians (it sounds like the makings of a reality tv show or a really bad Disney film). She also admitted that she’s never washed her own dishes or done her own laundry. When the subject was breached, we all had a good laugh at the expense of Tainu. Mali explained that she’d walked in on Tainu attempting to do laundry for the first time the other day. He’d done everything right, except that he’d used ¾ bottle of detergent for one load! I said I was shocked that the washer hadn’t overflowed with suds like it does in the cartoons.

Although Tainu may not be a whiz in the laundry department, he immediately adopted a special role for the girls in China. As soon as Tainu arrived in Hangzhou, Mali and Biyu happily deferred their financial responsibilities to him, explaining that it’s just easier to have him deal with the bills—he’s better at math! All I could manage to painfully offer in response was “Well, it’s probably not good for the life skills, but is sure does save you some hassle…”

This fall there will be weddings in both Mali’s and Tainu’s families. I asked them what these ceremonies would be like. Apparently there is a rather strict protocol for Chinese weddings in the Philippines.  To put it simply, they’re very large and the man pays for almost everything except the household appliances, which the bride is responsible for as a result of the fact that she’ll be the one spending more time in the home using them. I asked the three of them if they would marry according to these mores themselves. The women seemed comfortable with the idea of buying their own appliances.

Mali and Biyu’s knowledge of western language and culture may seem extensive, but I’ve realized that in reality their lives couldn’t be farther removed from my world. I felt a sense of amazement at the sheer difference of our lives. Behind this curiosity I recognized my own deep-set, omnipresent worry for these women. They seemed to me to be dangling precariously on the edge of a life of complete co-dependence.

Although a part of me yearned to extend some of my western, Independent Woman values on Mali and Biyu, a part of me also realized that there was still so much more to learn from them. I may be able to understand and appreciate my own skills and independence, but I will probably never understand the place where they come from or the barriers they’ve faced and will face in the future. Where I was raised it was relatively easy to declare I don’t need men! and go about my way safely and openly. I’m not sure if the streets of Manila are as friendly toward such acts of solo-female rebellion.