Saturday, December 01, 2007

Dining With Ghosts

There’s a huge street here in Beijing known as Guijie, meaning “Ghost Street,” and it’s full of bars and restaurants.  (Guijie is phonetically pronounced “Gway Tcheah.") Every one of them is lit up with lanterns and neon signs and the like, it’s spectacular at night.  My favorite restaurant in Beijing so far is Huajiayiyuan. Click the link for their website in English.

Click on “Savor Diet” and you can see photos of the inside of the place.  Click on “Siheyuan” and scroll down a ways for a birds-eye view drawing of the restaurant.  It’s basically an old courtyard with surrounding buildings, so the inside of the place is open-air.  That’s the best place to sit, and closest to the musicians playing traditional Chinese music.  Click on “Specialty” to see some of the food dishes they serve.  Their menu is excellent, written in English and Chinese, with a high-quality glossy picture showing each dish.  One of the pictures featured on this page is soft-shelled turtle soup.  Yes, that is a turtle inside that bowl.  One thing they unfortunately don’t show is seahorse soup.  I just about crapped the first time I saw that, a bowl full of seahorses in some kind of broth.

The Chinese will literally eat anything.

But the rest of the food is spectacular.  Just avoid the things you know sound disgusting ("Tripe in Oyster Sauce") and go for the good stuff—duck, lamb, pork, mushrooms, garlic snow peas, that sort of thing.  Richard and I went last night, and as usual ate and drank like pigs.  The grand total was about $40, and this is for five-star cuisine.  This is a “first night” restaurant, meaning that when you have guests come to visit, this is the place you take them on their first night here. 

Finally, click on the “Huajiayiyuan” button a the top and you can read some stories about the restaurant.  Or, more appropriately, you can look at pictures of stories about the restaurant, since they’re all written in Chinese.  Specifically, click on “Mxiao festival and Guijie’s rebuild” to see photos of Ghost Street and the restaurant.  The guys dressed in the lobster costumes, as well as the traditional Chinese dragon, are both featured in front of the restaurant.

It’s one of my favorite things about this city so far.  Here’s a little write-up about Ghost Street, and here’s some Google Images of the street itself.  You can also read more here.

After dinner we ended up in San Li Tun, the bar district frequented by expats.  (Pronounced in a Beijing accent the “-un” word has an “-urrr” sound, so when you get in a taxi you say “San Li Turrr.") We bought these little kebab things off the street vendors, which where absolutely delicious.  Their cost?  ¥1, which is about 12.5¢ each.  Fucking spectacular.

Damn this is a fun, fun city.  But you have to be prepared to pay… in hangovers.

One final bit of useless information:  as we all know, in Hong Kong the foreigners are known as gweilo, which is loosely translated as “white devils.” In Hong Kong they speak Cantonese, but Mandarin is the official language of the rest of China, so the words there are similar but different enough to where it’s often time hard for a Mandarin speaker to understand a Cantonese speaker.  (Think of Spanish and Portuguese—similar in many respects, with many words sounding the same with the same etymology, but still different.) The “gwei” component of “gweilo” is essentially the same as the “Gui” component of “Guijie.” It basically means “ghost” or “spirit.” The literal translation of “gewilo” into English means something like “gray ghost,” but the contextual meaning is closer to “white devil.”

If I ever open a company here for any reason it’s going to be called White Devil.  It doesn’t matter what the product or service is, I just like the name. I also named my WiFi network at home “White Devil.”

Friday, November 30, 2007

Paymonth

As you know by now, you only get paid monthly in China.  Because of the move and everything, I just got paid for the first time in over three months.

“Word up, my niggaz!  Chairman Mizz-ao in the hizz-ouse!”

Thursday, November 29, 2007

The DVD Process

Have you guys noticed the dots that started to appear in movies a few years ago?  They just appear for one frame, usually in a brightly lit area of the screen.  Most people don’t notice them because they’re only on the screen for less than 1/24 of a second, but I see them every time.  These are an anti-piracy measure.  Each print of the film is given a unique set of dots.  If a camcorder copy of a movie shows up somewhere, the studios can look for the dots, then tell which theater it was filmed in. 

Then there are the so-called “cigarette burns” that appear in the corners of the screen, indicating to the projectionist that it’s time to change the reel.  (While this term was popularized by the movie Fight Club, they’re actually called a “cue mark.") They’re an oval shape that appears for four frames in the top right corner of the screen.  When they appear it means that the projectionist has eight seconds to start the next reel.  The cue marks are only added to the prints that are released theatrically, not the masters.  As with the tracking dots, most people go their whole lives without ever noticing them.  (I learned about them when I was around eight years old.  We were at a drive-in movie theater in Australia, and my dad took me to the concession stand.  As we were walking back to the car we walked behind the projectionist’s shack and the door was open to where we could see the projector.  Dad noticed the cue mark and said, “Watch this.  You’ll never notice that he’s changing the reels.” Ever since then I’ve noticed them in every movie I’ve ever seen.)

Often times when you see DVDs of old movies (think 70s or earlier) you will see the cue marks.  There are two reasons for this:  either the original master print was lost or destroyed, or a release print was of better quality.  (Plus the studio was such a bunch of cheap bastards they didn’t want to pay a production studio a few thousand bucks to digitally remove them.) The process by which a 24 frames-per-second film (fps) is transferred to 30 fps video is called “telecine,” pronounced “telluh-sinny.”

I’ve noticed that many of the pirate DVDs that I am forced to buy here have both the tracking dots and the cigarette burns.  They’re not camcorder recordings, they’re perfect quality, so the only logical deduction I can come up with is that the DVD pirates are “borrowing” a theatrical print from somewhere, probably Taiwan or Hong Kong, then running it through a telecine and creating their own DVDs.  (Like this one.) I guess they just bribe a projectionist—they give him a week’s wages, and he lets them borrow a print overnight.  This is, I assume, how you can get perfect copies of theatrical releases for sale on DVD here so quickly after the release date.

My New Name

I just got my business cards, which are referred to as “name cards” over here.  On one side is my name, title, address, and phone info in English.  On the other it is written in Chinese.

My middle name is Jay.  My English name as been translated into Chinese as three characters:  “li jie yi” (pinyin) or “lee ja-yee” (phonetic).  When I asked why they didn’t put my family name on there they said that it would have taken three additional characters, and six characters was too long to remember or too difficult to pronounce, I don’t know.  Whatever.  So I will be forever known by my first and middle names.

When something is translated from English to Chinese they choose the glyph closest in sound to it and use it.  Even though each of the characters has a meaning, they don’t consider the meaning when used like this.  It’s like in English, the word “frank” means “forthright” or “straightforward,” but when you meet someone named Frank you don’t think that, you just think of it as a name.  The same thing happens here.

Nonetheless, I asked what “li jie yi” meant when literally translated.  There’s no real direct translation of these words, but loosely translated it means “lady boy who writes poetry.”

So that’s how I’m going to be known for the entire time I am in China, Li Jie Yi, lady boy who writes poetry.

Update: Just to clarify this a little further, you all know about my ex-girlfriend’s son who I have basically raised as my own.  Five years ago, when I was living in Shanghai, I bought him a chop, a traditional Chinese stamp that the Chinese use on official documents, sort of like signing your name on a contract.  His name translated into Chinese characters was “Nothing Thunder Beat,” with beat meaning “a short period of time.” It’s nonsensical.  My name is equally nonsensical.  Lee, or “Li,” is, as we all know, an incredibly common family name all across Asia.  The other words in my name mean something about someone who writes poetry, but it is only used in the context of the person being female.  So that’s what I mean by “loosely translated.”

Another example is Coca Cola.  In Chinese this is represented by four characers, “Ko Ka Ko La.” “Ko” means “can,” as in “I can do something.” “Ka” means “mouth, and “La” means happy.  (The “la” sound is also the same as in the first syllable of the dog breed “lhasa apso.") So Coca Cola literally means “can mouth can happy.” Even though this is nonsense, you could say that Coca Cola means “Your mouth can be happy.” You basically infer a logical sentence from disparate words.  It’s this inference that gets me from the literal translation to “lady boy who writes poetry.”

Still, it’s pretty fucking funny.

Win a Trip to the Olympics!

That’s right, folks.  There’s currently a competition underway to win a set of tickets to attend next summer’s Olympic games herein Beijing.  There are the rules.

WIN 2 TICKETS ALL EXPENSES PAID INCLUDING AIR FARES TO THE 2008 OLYMPIC GAMES IN BEIJING, CHINA.

To participate is very easy, just view the attached photo, correctly answer the following questions and send your answers to:
International Olympic Committee, Private Bag, Lausanne, Switzerland, 1083

1. Which student seems to appear tired / sleepy?
2. Which ones are male twins?
3. Which ones are the female twins?
4. How many women are in the group?
5. Which one is the teacher?

Good Luck!

Click here to begin!

Best of luck to you all, and if you win, the beers are on me.

(Thanks to my Aunt Lynne for forwarding this over.)

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Eyes On China

Many years ago, when I was working in software, I went on a business trip to Brazil.  I was working a trade show there.  The day before the exhibition opened I was in setting up the booth.  We had a projector that we were hooking up to the demo computer so the audience could see what I was doing on the desktop.  There was a metal pole with a flat plate on top set up for us, but there were no holes in the plate to secure the projector.  We found one of the carpenters, local union guys basically, who were setting up stuff and asked him to drill four holes.

No problem.  He grabs his drill, and proceeds to drill the holes while standing directly beneath the drill spot.  No safety goggles or ear protection.  He stood there with his eyes open while curled metal shavings bounced off his face.  I was just stunned.  He obviously didn’t give much of a shit about his eyesight.

I bring this anecdote up because at a building near my office they are installing a revolving door.  (Why the fuck they need a revolving door I have no idea—it probably just looks cool.) When I came in from lunch today there was a guy using a grinder on a piece of metal plate, smoothing out a weld.  No eye protection at all.  I was 15 feet away from him, wearing eyeglasses, and I still squinted, just in case.

Seriously, what is it about the third world that makes people do stupid shit like this?  I can understand the government not having safety regulations regarding this sort of thing, but you’d think that these guys would care enough about their own eyesight to stick on some goggles.  Welding is another issue.  Because of the Olympics there is construction EVERYWHERE in Beijing, and you see welders all the time.  They work almost around the clock, too.  One night last week I looked out my window and I could see six welders working on various buildings in the distance, and this was well past 10:00 pm.  I can’t honestly recall seeing any of them wearing a welder’s helmet.  They just stare right at that sun-like blaze while they work. 

It’s fucking ponderous, man.

Update: Walking from my apartment to the taxi stand this morning there were some workmen installing something over a set of steps.  Hopefully it’s lights, because right now you can’t see a damn thing when you go down them at night, and I almost bust my ass daily.  There were two guys welding, one holding the beam in place while the other did the welding.  One was wearing a pair of el cheapo sunglasses, nothing welding specific, and the other was wearing nothing at all.  Both of them were staring at the weld, with their faces not three feet from the weld area.

It defies any sort of logic or common sense.  But, then again, so does much of China, which is what makes it so interesting.

Drinking With Iosef

So on the way home I decided to have the cabbie drop me at 7-11 so I could buy some bread and yogurt and other stuff.  The ride was ¥22, and all I had were ¥100 notes and a few singles.  I handed one of the red notes to him and, as expected, he hissed out a soft curse.  The cabbies don’t like it when you give them 100s because it takes away all their change, plus there are a shitload of counterfeit notes out there, and it’s usually the lao wei who end up with them.  (One of the first things I was taught after I started work was how to tell a fake 100 from a real one.) Tough shit, asshole, take it or leave it.

The 7-11s here sell booze, the bottles are kept on shelves behind the cash registers.  As I was checking out I noticed the name on a bottle of vodka:  STALINSKAYA.  That’s right, folks.  Here in communist China invoking the name of one of history’s greatest genocidal maniacs is a marketing ploy.  I’ll keep my eye out for the Hitlerhausen bratwurst and the Pol Pot Noodle Flavor of Five Delights.

There’s also a flavor of Lay’s potato chips with a hilarious name:  “French Chicken.” Now all they need are flavors called “Irish Drunk” and “Smelly Mexican.”

The Sneeze Protocol

There’s an episode of Senifeld where George is out on a double date, and the wife of the other guy sneezes.  He waits to see if the other guy says “bless you,” and when he determines that the other guy is not, George says it.

I mention this because saying “bless you” when someone sneezes is a peculiar Western tradition.  There’s no logical reason for it, but we do it because not doing so is generally considered impolite.  It’s just force of habit more than anything else, something we’ve all heard our whole lives, and even though we know it’s stupid we do it anyway.  The Chinese, superstitious as they are about most things and riven with their own ridiculous traditions, have nothing comparable to “bless you” when someone sneezes.  So, every time one of my Chinese crew sneezes, I feel compelled to say it.

It’s asinine.  None of them would consider it impolite because it’s not their tradition, yet I feel compelled to do it, even though I realize that saying it is stupid and illogical.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Chinese Blues

I have to admit, despite how much I’m generally loving my life here, there are days where I get a little homesick.  Today was one of those days.  It’s an odd sensation, really.  I was sitting at work, doing my thing, and I realized that I was going to have to take a taxi home.  It irked the shit out of me.  After a day at work I wanted to leave work and not have to deal with anyone else.  In the US I would have driven myself home, gone into my apartment, and watched my choice of a thousand TV stations or shows off my TiVo—the evening would have been solo.  Tonight I had to get into a taxi, and in Chinese tell the driver where to take me.  Then I had to deal with the girl who works as a doorman of sorts in the lobby of the building.  She opens the door, says hello, then punches in the security code to let me in where the elevators are.  (I don’t know what the code is—the only way into the building is by the “doorgirl” punching it in.) I dread coming into the lobby every night and having to engage in the forced pleasantries with whichever girl is on duty that night.  She says “ni hau” as she opens the door, then I say “ni hau” in return.  When she punches the code in I say “xie xie,” after which she says “bu ke qi.” Then, when I finally get to my apartment, I have a choice of two or three stations to watch—HBO, CNN, and occasionally BBC News.  If HBO is showing something I’m not interested in watching or have seen before I have to watch DVDs.  While this might not seem like a big deal, it’s weird how much I miss watching TV. 

I’m out of bread.  I could easily walk over to the 7-11 and buy some, but then I’d have to engage in the same fucking dance with the lobby girl when I get back—ni hau, ni hau, xie xie, bu ke qi.  I’d rather go without the bread.

That’s just the essence of it, really.  All the boring, stupid, mundane things in your life, things you get used to, even things that bother you, are suddenly gone, and you notice their absence.  You miss them.  I really miss driving, even though I hated driving in LA and never really derived any pleasure from doing so at any other time.  I miss commercials, and being able to flip channels.  I miss being able to communicate with everyone, and having to constantly run everything I hear through an internal translation.  It’s irritating to have to constantly think, “Okay, I need to buy a microwave this weekend.  I need to find a Chinese-speaker to come with me so they can talk to the salesman.” It’s irritating to go to the supermarket to buy things and not being able to read the label, things like detergent for clothes.  Is it safe for colors, or is there bleach in it?  You have to guess. 

I’ve always been a solitary, independent guy.  It’s why I do things like move to China.  But here you can’t really be solitary.  You can’t blend in or be anonymous.  I’m as gregarious and open and friendly as anyone, but I also like telling the entire world to fuck off and retreating into my own cocoon.  The situation I’m in makes it more difficult to do so.  I tell you, this gives me a whole new level of appreciation for people who come to America and can’t speak English.  (of course, the fact that I’m learning Chinese also means I have no sympathy for those who come to America and refuse to do likewise.)

I miss being able to use the phone.  The internet and the phone were my ways of being with people while I was alone.  I could talk to people when I wanted, on my terms.  If I wanted to talk I did, if I wanted to be alone I was.  I think this is one of the reasons I’m 37 and have never been married or lived with anyone, the idea that I’ll have someone I’m obligated to constantly talk to and deal with.  Of course, though, I miss my girlfriend.  I miss talking to her every day.  I miss my mom, she and I have become astonishingly close since my father died and when I was in LA we talked almost every day for a few minutes.  I miss those calls.  I miss being able to call people without first having to figure out what time it is where they are at.  Everything is a fucking inconvenience.

I also miss my old job.  Even though this job is a fantastic opportunity for me, I’m not enjoying the current project.  It’s a complete goatfuck, and was that way when I got here.  I know that for the entire month of December I’m going to have to put in extra hours on this thing.  Not that I really have anything else to do, other than come home and watch DVDs and practice my Chinese.  But, I’ll get over it.  Every time I have these little bouts of homesickness I’m perfectly okay in the morning.  Tomorrow I’ll get in the taxi and enjoy speaking Chinese.  I’ll still marvel at the city as I drive in to work, and I’ll still be fascinated by observing this mysterious and ancient culture.

But dealing with the lobby girl will still piss me off.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Communism Killed the Radio Star

I’ve been meaning to write a post about this for a while, because it’s so peculiar.  When you get in a taxi here, you’ll notice two things.  One, the driver will have his window down to some degree, usually an inch or two, sometimes more.  Now remember, the temperatures here lately have been below freezing, but they all keep the windows open for some reason.  It wouldn’t surprise me if it was some superstition about germs, but I don’t really know.  So no matter how cold it gets, be prepared to freeze your ass off in the back of the cab.

Two, there are the radio stations.  There are a number of pop music stations here in Beijing, but very rarely do you ever hear a driver listening to one.  Almost always they’re listening to what I assume is the communist Chinese equivalent of talk radio.  I was told that these stations are aimed especially at taxi drivers, and include frequent traffic reports.  The weird thing are the voices.  Many of you will be familiar with the radio commentary of broadcasting legend Paul Harvey.  The only way I can describe the voices on the radio is to imagine Paul Harvey, angry as hell, speaking in Chinese.  Same voice, same baritone, same inflection, but in angry Chinese.  They’re quite peculiar.  I really wish I spoke more of the language, because I’d love to know what they were saying.

Everything is Cheaper in China, Part III

I just bought a pair of headphones.  They’re Sony MDR-XD900 DJ headphones.  Here’s a guy in Dallas selling a pair on Craigslist. 

BRAND NEW IN BOX - List at $180 asking only $70.00 - Cash only, Buyer must pick them up in person - South Arlington Area

My cost?  ¥100, which is $13.47.  No sales tax, either.  And these aren’t a knock-off “Somy” brand, either, these are the real deal.  A box of them probably mysteriously disappeared from the factory where they’re made.  Check out the Craigslist link, there’s photos of the headphones and the box, exactly the same one I have.

A year or so ago I bought a good set of Bose headphones at Best Buy for $140, but they got stolen along with my passports and other stuff.  These are the replacement set, and I’ll be damned if my ears can tell the difference.

Christmas shopping this year is going to be awesome.

The Policies of Snot

There’s a scene in one of the episodes of the old HBO show Six Feet Under where Ruth, the mother, notices that one of their employees, a weirdo named Arthur, carries a handkerchief.  Ruth mentions this to her teenage daughter Claire, bemoaning the fact that nobody really carries hankies any more.  Claire grimaces, then says something to the effect of, “Mom, it’s carrying around a rag with snot in it.  It’s disgusting.  Not all traditions are good.”

I mention this because I’ve had a runny nose pretty much continually since I got here.  The cold and flu bugs in China are different than those that you find in the US, so everyone gets sick when they first get here until their body develops antibodies to fend off the new biological invaders.  Since people who just sit and sniff really bother me, I started carrying a hankie with me.  Like the fictional Ruth, my mom also bemoans the demise of the use of hankies, and traditionally I always took Claire’s view—better to get a Kleenex or something disposable, use it once, and discard it.

I bring this up because of the way the Chinese treat snot and germs.  You see people walking around here all the time wearing surgical masks, part of which is over a lingering fear of SARS, part just a traditional Chinese view of germs.  If someone has a runny nose while they’re walking down the street they’ll just block one nostril and do a “farmer blow” right there on the sidewalk.  Blowing snot on the ground is completely acceptable socially, as are farting, picking your nose, spitting, and so on.  It goes without saying that, according to western sensibilities, blowing snot on the ground is something you do when you’re in your backyard in private, not walking down a public sidewalk.

Last night, while I was at the party, I was using my hankie and it got me thinking.  Who is right, Claire or the Chinese?  Think about it.  In my pocket is a piece of cloth filled with snot.  The snot contains whatever germs are causing my sickness, and I’m carrying them around with me.  Every time I stick my hand in my pocket it gets covered in cold germs, which will inevitably get passed on to other people.  Blowing snot on the ground, by comparison, gets rid of the problem.  Unless you somehow come into contact with the snot, you’re pretty much guaranteed not to be affected by it.

So, taken on the whole, which is a more disgusting habit, blowing snot on the ground or carrying it around with you in a piece of cloth?  The more I think about it, the more I think the Chinese are on to something.

Russians and Pool

What a night last night.  It began at my buddy Richard’s place, where about 30 people of varying nationalities celebrated Thanksgiving.  Oddly, I think I was the only American (there might have been one more) out of the whole group.  It was more of a “let’s get fucked up and eat turkey” party than it was a real Thanksgiving dinner, but the food was fantastic.  Then, when everyone was suitably shithammered, we ended up at one of Beijing’s popular expat bars, The Rickshaw.  I was standing there drinking, watching some white guy get his ass kicked at pool by two smoking hot Chinese girls.  One of them was wearing a skin-tight black t-shirt which said in white letters LIFE IS FULL OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS.  After losing yet another game his partner had to take off so he asked if I’d like to play.  Sure, I said.  He introduced himself as Jeremy and said he was from England.  I responded that I was Lee from America.  (That’s the usual way people are introduced here:  name, country of origin, and how long you have been in China.)

Jeremy said to me, “Okay, these girls have been kicking my arse and acting like a couple of right cunts about it, so we have to show them who’s boss.” I told him to break, and then he ran the table, getting all the way down to the 8 ball, which he just barely missed.  One of the Chinese girls took a shot and missed, after which I sank the 8.  Game over, the white devils are victorious.

Of course, pool here is different than pool in the US.  When I was in the Navy I used to play a lot of pool, and I got to be pretty good at it, so I know the proper way to play.  If I may be vulgar for a moment, what they play here would have been referred to by my Navy shipmates using the charming sobriquet “nigger pool.” (It’s not a racist thing, it’s like people using the word “gay” to describe something dumb, like in South Park—“Dude, that is so gay.” The context threfore wasn’t really racial in nature, it was just “What kinda nigger pool are you playing?” Of course, since the guys who used that phrase the most often were all from the South, draw your own conclusions.)

At any rate, since there are so many Brits here, the rules are sort of a weird hybrid of snooker and pool.  Slop is permitted, so if you accidentally sink something you still get to take another turn.  The weirdest things are when you scratch.  If you sink the cue ball they put the white ball anywhere on the table, rather than at the end where you shot the break ball.  (This is a snooker rule, if I remember correctly.) Then, if you shoot and don’t hit a ball, the other player gets to pick it up and put it anywhere they like on the table.  Very odd. You don’t have to call your shots, either.  You just hit the balls and if something goes in, whoo-wee, you get another turn.

It kinda reminds me of the two-shots rule they have playing pool in Australia.  If you shoot the ball and scratch, the other player gets two shots.  I remember being in Melbourne, playing pool in a dodgy bar in St. Kilda’s, and we almost got in a fight with some guys over this stupid rule.  I was with a couple of other Americans, and we were like, “What kinda fucking dumbass rule is this?” Lesson learned:  when in Rome, play pool the way the Romans do.

So, after a while at the Rickshaw drinking and playing pool, Richard and I decided to take off (it was about 2 am by this point) and go somewhere else.  We ended up at some bar down in the Russian district.  Think of every stupid cliche you’ve seen in the movies about Russian gangsters and the women who hang around with them.  Well, it’s all true.  Every Russian mafia cliche was present in that club—dark suit and sunglasses, big buff guys in black t-shirts with gold chains and goatees, tall lanky blondes wearing skin-tight clothes and too much makeup.  They were playing pop music but it was all in Russian.  The signs for the toilets were all in Cyrillic.  It was bizarre, but exactly the sort of amazingly cool experience which makes this city so much fun. 

Russian food is great, too.  Anyone who can take crispy chicken, mix it with lettuce and onions and about a gallon of mayonnaise, and call it a “salad” it okay by me.  You take that, smear it on some Russian black bread, and man, that’s good eating.

So I got home drunk off my ass at about 4:30.  God I love this life.  I could have done without the throbbing hangover this morning but, hey, you go to war you come back with scars.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Lubber

And now a little local news.

Beijing, preparing to host the 2008 Olympics, has ordered hotels to provide condoms in all bedrooms in a bid to stop the spread of HIV/AIDS after cases of infection soared to 54 percent in the first 10 months of this year.

Announcing the move, the official Xinhua news agency made no direct reference to the Games, saying only that all the Chinese capital’s 700 hotels must comply by the end of 2008.

With many thousands of visitors due to crowd into the city for the Olympics, which run from August 8 to August 24, every hotel is likely to be sold out.

I hadn’t heard this but it wouldn’t surprise me.  Prostitution is widespread here.  It’s completely illegal, of course, but it’s tolerated.  The government is more interested in the appearance of order than in actual order itself.  So, if allowing a few brothels to operate, or letting bars full of hookers peddle their wares keeps the public happy then it’s one less thing for the government to concern itself with.  (There’s that “oddly libertarian” thing again.)

The vast majority of China’s wealth is located in its three or four big cities.  The rest of the country, roughly a billion people, are dirt poor peasants.  So girls come in from the countryside to act as prostitutes, knowing they can make enough money to support their entire family back home.  Because of this AIDS is a growing problem here.  When people come for the Olympics they’re going to be partying in bars full of hookers, and the last thing the Chinese government wants in the western media are stories of how people came here for the games and went home with a nice viral souvenir.  If this happens the Chinese government can say, “Hey, we put a condom in every hotel room.  If Hans from Deutschland forgot to wrap his braunschweiger beforehand it is not our responsibility.”

Thus it wouldn’t surprise me at all if the Olympic committee did something like this.  Actually I think it’s quite a good idea, and should be mandatory for all hotels at all times.  You get drunk, you bring some chick back to your hotel, and oops, you forgot to pack your rubbers before you left, so you bang her anyway.  Then, two days later, your dick rots off and falls in the toilet while you’re taking a shit.  If the hotel had a condom in the bathroom along with the soaps and shampoos, and you didn’t have one of your own, wouldn’t you use it?  I know I sure as hell would.

Interestingly, the other night the film “Must Love Dogs” was on HBO here, and I watched it while I ate dinner.  There’s a whole scene where the two main characters drive all over town because they want to fuck and neither of them had a condom.  How responsible of them.  Of course, neither of them had been drinking 50¢ beers in a bar full of Mongolian hookers for the previous eight hours, an activity which may tend to impair one’s sense of judgment.

There ain’t no pussy worth dying over.  Killing over, maybe, but not dying over.

It’s A Helluva Language

One of the things that has been hardest about learning Chinese is the phonetic sounds the language requires which are often halfway between two sounds that we make in English.  For example, my apartment is located close to a well-known bridge in Beijing, the San Yuan Bridge.  The Chinese word for bridge is “chow” (phonetic spelling), and when taxi drivers say it they say it quickly and all in one word, like “sanyuanchow.”

When they do this the “n” in San is often only pronounced slightly.  Then there’s Yuan.  If you say it slowly and enunciate it correctly it’s “yoo-an.” However, when the locals speak it quickly it sounds different, closer to the Spanish name “Juan” than anything else.  So, in order to pronounce this correctly so that taxi drivers can understand it, you have to imagine a word that’s exactly half way between “yoo-an” and “Juan,” then say it quickly with the “semi-silent n” version of San before it and the word “chow” after it.

Seriously, try it right now.  It’s fucking damn near impossible.  It took me a hell of a lot of practice to get to where I could say it, and even then I don’t get it right half the time and have to repeat it a few times before I’m understood.  I’ll say it my way, and the cabbie will respond “sahwonchow?” Then I’ll say nod and say yes, indicating that he correctly understood my poor Chinese.

Update: Here’s one other example I just thought of.  One of the phonetic sounds in Chinese which is particularly difficult to pronounce correctly is represented in pinyin by the letters “zh.” Most people reading this would pronounce it the way the “zh” is pronounced in “Dr. Zhivago.” That’s partially correct.  But it’s closer to a “juh” sound, like in “justice.” So try to say a sound that’s halfway between “zhuh” and “juh” and you’ll have it.

Often times if you say either “zhuh” or “juh” in the word the Chinese can figure out what you mean.  But to say it accurately is quite difficult.