There are a couple Chinese phrases that I immediately forget every time I hear them. Since most of my non-English interaction takes place in restaurants or other food-centered arenas, it's not that surprising that both have to do with meals. I've mastered how to ask for take out: the phrase sounds like asking "Why die?" And asking for tea or coffee on ice is no challenge -"bing," 冰 (although getting the tone wrong would mean asking for a soldier or a disease, most of the girls who work tea stands can figure out I mean). But I can never remember how to ask for a drink to be hot, and I'm at a total loss when I need to explain that I'd like to actually eat inside of a restaurant instead of just toting around a parcel of food.
At a lo mein shop I tried gesturing to the seats inside, which just confused the chefs taking my order, when the woman behind me said, "Sorry, what exactly are you asking for?"
Considering how many kids are put in after hours "cram schools" that employ nearly all the foreigners in the city, it doesn't really surprise me that so many people in Kaohsiung speak English. What does surprise me is the way these people materialize exactly when they're needed.
I've dubbed this phenomenon "the Ahmedabad Effect" - essentially when a stranger suddenly interprets a language you can't understand and surprises you be solving a problem explaining a situation. While we were in India in 2007, Katie, Meagan and I routinely wound up in situations where we had no idea what the hell was going on, be it buying overnight train tickets or literally crossing the street. Every time a person would appear almost magically to show us what we needed to do or explain what was happening.
The lesson: to survive in a foreign country you just need to do a few things. 1) Be white, 2) look obviously confused about what's going on around you and 3) be very, very gracious to whoever helps out. If you're just rude about it they may decide to never help confused white people again, and then we'd all be in trouble.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Shut up. Adorable.
If there's just one reason to be jealous of Taiwanese students, it's the National Sun Yat-sen University (國立中山大學, Guólì Zhōngshān Dàxué) here in Kaohsiung. The campus is built into forested mountains that slope down directly into beaches, not far from Kaohsiung's main port. The setting easily trumps Millsaps' Bowl.
A few minutes from the university is a small open-air coffee shop hanging over a cliff. From the tables and bar there's nothing visible except the ocean and the roofs of a few houses and a temple. The owner immigrated from Ecuador after marrying his wife, a Taiwanese citizen, and the two of them run the shop and sell imported coffee, the strongest I've had since moving here.
The most entertaining thing about driving to and leaving the cafe are the buses that fly down the mountain roads. Not only do they add an element of danger that makes driving here at any given time exciting, crossing paths with a bus always throws me off for a moment as I come face to face with their giant eyes and smiles. Every one of the buses has a grinning kitten's face painted on its front.
Everywhere I look in the city there are disgustingly cute figures. Dentist offices have dancing and smiling molars on their signs. The mascots for this summer's World Games were a pair of blue and pink teletubbies (event winners took home plush dolls of each instead of a medal or trophy). There are motorcycle helmets with Powerpuff Girls, and turn in any given direction and you'll see either Spongebob or Stitch (from, of course, Lilo and Stitch).
Cuteness is not an age specific obsession - I see business women in power suits carrying pencil bags covered in crudely drawn laughing daisies or dandelion puffballs. If it has huge eyes and a swollen head then it makes for the perfect accessory.
If I want to see the ocean, or have a cup of real coffee, I have to run the risk of getting hit by grinning buses. It's a hell of a challenge trying to stay focused on the road while knowing a cat-bus is staring right you, reminding you that an entire population is in the grip of an adorable obsession.
A few minutes from the university is a small open-air coffee shop hanging over a cliff. From the tables and bar there's nothing visible except the ocean and the roofs of a few houses and a temple. The owner immigrated from Ecuador after marrying his wife, a Taiwanese citizen, and the two of them run the shop and sell imported coffee, the strongest I've had since moving here.
The most entertaining thing about driving to and leaving the cafe are the buses that fly down the mountain roads. Not only do they add an element of danger that makes driving here at any given time exciting, crossing paths with a bus always throws me off for a moment as I come face to face with their giant eyes and smiles. Every one of the buses has a grinning kitten's face painted on its front.
Everywhere I look in the city there are disgustingly cute figures. Dentist offices have dancing and smiling molars on their signs. The mascots for this summer's World Games were a pair of blue and pink teletubbies (event winners took home plush dolls of each instead of a medal or trophy). There are motorcycle helmets with Powerpuff Girls, and turn in any given direction and you'll see either Spongebob or Stitch (from, of course, Lilo and Stitch).
Cuteness is not an age specific obsession - I see business women in power suits carrying pencil bags covered in crudely drawn laughing daisies or dandelion puffballs. If it has huge eyes and a swollen head then it makes for the perfect accessory.
If I want to see the ocean, or have a cup of real coffee, I have to run the risk of getting hit by grinning buses. It's a hell of a challenge trying to stay focused on the road while knowing a cat-bus is staring right you, reminding you that an entire population is in the grip of an adorable obsession.
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