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01 February 2012

Slow Boat To China

They say your life flashes in front of you before you die. But while flight 968 was plunging toward the East China Sea, I was not thinking about my third birthday party where I had frosted cupcakes and chicken pox or about how I took my first date with a girl to McDonalds because she had a coupon. I know how to treat the ladies right. While I was sitting next to an emergency exit (which I try to get as often as possible since it has the most leg room in the poor class section) and the possibility of actually having to use it, I was thinking about what a royal pain in the ass it took to get here.

When I first moved to China I thought it would be a good idea to visit China as long as I was in the neighborhood. They have a famous wall near Beijing that people seem to like and some fancy old buildings. I might as well go while I was living relatively close. I have also noticed that wherever I go I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time climbing stairs and steep slopes. I will spend the night in my car if the elevator to my fifth floor apartment is broken, but I never give a second thought to taking on twenty thousand steps up Notre Dame or walking up the side of Mt Kilimanjaro. My enthusiasm for physically exhausting myself whenever I am out of town seems to be waning exponentially with age. It might be best if I climb that famous wall before I am in a wheelchair and diapers, or before this decade is over. Whichever comes first.

The problem with going to China is that it is one of the few nations on this planet that forces people of my nationality to buy a visa. As long as I have a job in the part of China where I live and work I will have a visa to live and work here. Or until they decide I should not live and work here. The laws can and will change at random. But I need a different visa to go to the part of China that has the famous wall. One cannot get a visa to that part of China from this part of China unless one lives and works in this part of China. Fortunately, I am one. Unfortunately, I cannot get a visa from here to there because I cannot live and work here without a visa. Sometimes it is worth remembering that the Chinese invented bureaucracy.

If I were a citizen of this part of China I could get a visa to that part of China as long as I had pressing business there. The standard procedure is to let some travel agent fill out all the forms and provide the bullshit letters of introduction that show how pressing is your business. I have no doubt that the Chinese government is aware of all the lying on all the forms, but as long as everyone is doing it, they seem not to particularly care. The unenforcement of any given Chinese law is directly proportional to the number of Chinese people breaking it. Murder is a very serious crime because it rarely happens. If Chinese people murdered each other like it was New Jersey, it would not even be frowned upon.

As a citizen of my nation it is much easier to get a visa to China. All that is required are a simple visit to the nearest embassy, properly filled forms that meet the definition of properly filled as interpreted by whichever civil servant happens to look at them at any given time, and a sack of a few hundred happinesses.

But there are no Chinese embassies where I live. And why would there be. If this is China, as the Chinese say, why would there be a Chinese embassy. There is no American embassy in New York. As a citizen of my nation I am expected to go to a Chinese embassy in my nation. That may be reasonable for people who live in their own nations, but for those of us who live in parts of China that have no Chinese embassies it is inconvenient. Traveling to the other side of the world just to get a visa for this side of the world strikes me as somewhat asinine.

As luck would have it, back when the British were hell bent on world domination and drug addiction, they took over the Hong Kong part of China and made it the kind of place where pretty much anyone not from China could go without a visa. Anyone with a passport from the same nation as mine can go to the Hong Kong part of China from any other part of China. Ironically, anyone with a passport from any part of China other than Hong Kong needs a visa to go to the Hong Kong part of China.

In September of the Year of the Rabbit, I flew from my part of China where I have a visa to the Hong Kong part of China where I do not need a visa, in order to get a visa to another part of China. This was at the end of Ghost Month, when it is unlucky to travel or make travel arrangements. Not only did I travel, but the sole purpose of my travel was to make arrangements for more travel. I am the unluck.

It has been said that the Chinese invented bureaucracy. Scroll up if you doubt my veracity. Being a highly bureaucratic people, they do not simply hand out visas like Junior Mints, which are impossible to find here. Or umpossibow, in the local patois. There is not a single person in the known universe who can give concise and accurate instructions on the obtainment of a legal Chinese visa. Illegal visas are pretty easy.

I cruised the information superhighway before going to the Hong Kong part of China. There was very little information. More accurately, there was very little accurate information. There was plenty of information, but everything I read contradicted whatever I had previously read. The official Chinese government website designed and maintained for the sole purpose of giving out information about visas contradicts itself from page to page, and often on the same page.

Talking to live people is about as useless as asking the Chinese why they tilt their windshield wipers up when they park. Ask a billion people and you will get a billion different answers. Although in all fairness, I have not yet actually spoken to a billion Chinese people about either issue.

Talking to other foreigners is simply useless. Foreigners in a country like China are generally the worst sources of information about countries like China. Myself included. My experience in any given situation will likely not be similar to anyone else’s experience in the same situation. The laws change without notice and are enforced arbitrarily.

If a Canadian and I go to a government office for the same reason at the same time, we will have to follow completely different protocols because our passports are from completely different nations. Despite the fact that Canada is little more than the 52nd state. Puerto Rico comes first, hosers. If an American and I go to a government office for the same reason at different times, we will have to follow completely different protocols because the clerk behind the counter might not be the same person or is in a different mood that day. This is one of the reasons I give absolutely no advice whatsoever to people who may one day need to know how to do something I have already done. Another reason is that I simply don’t give a shit.

China is also the kind of place where foreigners come for two weeks and think they understand the culture. Taking a foreigner’s advice about how to do things in China is like taking a five-year-old’s advice about contemplative meditation. Several years ago I read a blog by a Canadian about living pretty close to where I now live. This was back before only shut-ins and people with Asperger syndrome had blogs. When I read it I was all like, “Dude. What the hell, eh?” It seemed to me that he was talking about a completely different place. Then I bothered to look at the dates and noticed that it was all written several years before. So much had changed from his time served and mine that we might as well have been in different countries altogether.

After minutes of exhaustive research I just went ahead and followed the official government website’s opinions vis à vis the visa. For my convenience, they even have all the forms one needs online that can be printed out on the Wife’s printer that always needs ink. Filling out those forms before entering the Chinese visa office saved me several hours.

My experience with getting a Chinese visa in the Hong Kong part of China was interesting only because it was very easy and relatively quick. I arrived at the visa office on Monday morning and picked up my visa on Thursday afternoon. I could have paid extra to get it earlier, but I have no strong desire to give these bureaucrats any more money. Americans already pay more than anyone else to get Chinese visas. This is partly because we are all billionaires and mostly because our country makes it terribly difficult for pretty much everyone else to get an American visa. There is also no guarantee that I would actually get a visa from a country that rarely follows any known guidelines for giving out visas. Like every visa office in the world, they keep your money whether they say yes or no. Staying in Hong Kong longer was more expensive than paying extra to leave earlier, but I still won. Because I say so.

When one enters the Chinese visa office one is inclined to mutter to one’s self, “Holy Hell. There are a shit ton of people here.” Large crowds are nothing unique in the Chinese part of Asia. China is about the same size as the United States, but it has a billion more people. One hundred people on a bus designed for fifty is a slow day.

Despite the huddled masses yearning to breathe communism, this particular Chinese government office is run efficiently. This is unique to the Chinese part of Asia. Efficient is not anything anyone has ever said of any Chinese government office. Except this one. I was both gobsmacked, befuddled, dumbfounded and stupefied.

There was a line of people near the door and uniformed agents giving out information. The Chinese are not known for their willingness to wait their turn or give out information. Yet here were people waiting in line for people whose purpose was to tell us if our forms were properly filled. If so then we were given a number and allowed to wait. If not then were were given the option of joining the biometric mass at the far end of the room filling out forms or, if this seemed like too much trouble, we could always lie down and die.

Having already filled out all my forms and copied all the necessary copies, I was one of the lucky many to get a number and wait. When I sat down on a predictably uncomfortable Chinese government office plastic chair, I looked up at the rather large electronic tote board and saw that the latest number being served was 23. There were nine windows wherein one could argue with a government employee and all of two were open. The number in my hand read 14,864. I knew that this might take a while.

With time to spare, I decided to observe the people around me. This turned out to be an unpleasant experience, so I went back into my fantasy world of a dystopian society and robots that make a pretty decent sandwich. The O Henryan ending is that they use too much mayonnaise.

If I leave behind only one slice of wisdom from my time at this mortal coil it is that you should never trust a Chinese sandwich robot.

Some time later, never mind how long precisely, having little money in my pocket, I approached the appropriate window at the appropriate time and gave the bored woman all my forms and copies. She looked at everything without enthusiasm and told me to give her cash, as bored women often do. Receipt in hand, I skipped jauntily into the oppressive Hong Kong humidity. I used to feel apprehension about handing my passport to a complete stranger and leaving the building, but that poor little booklet has been manhandled by so many that I never even think about it anymore. Especially whilst skipping jauntily.

When I arrived back at the office on Thursday, I went directly to the pick-up line and waited. While there, I could not help but notice an American who was dissatisfied with the service. Americans in foreign lands have a way of making themselves noticeable. He was bitching and moaning to no one in particular about how overly complicated the system was. I laughed to myself because I found the system uncharacteristically simple and because I derive joy from the pain and suffering of others. Then it occurred to me that he would probably go home and tell Facebook about how horrible the Chinese visa office is and write something garrulous with Moby Dick references that nobody gives a shit about. I thought that was funny because Facebook is a stupid waste of time for losers, while blogs are hip and happening.

I have to wonder how many times I have written about some horribly wanton experience that a similar foreigner found satisfying. But as Socrates famously said, “Introspection is for fags. Y’all should just watch tv, yo.”




In January of the Year of the Dragon I was in the Chinese part of China. The Dragon symbolizes strength and power, and Dragon years are prosperous with great happinesses. Not so much for Bruce Lee. As a Dragon year, 2012 is supposed to be lucky. This contradicts the Mayan version of 2012, unless lucky is the same as absolute annihilation. The Maya were destroyed by the Spanish; the people who invented religious conversion through torture, and paella. The Chinese were destroyed by their own apathy. Which ancient and ultimately useless culture you choose to believe should boil down to one simple factor: would you rather eat Mayan food or Chinese food?

There was a time when traveling from this part of China to that part of China required going through the Hong Kong part of China. But when the Chinese leapt into the 20th century three or four years ago they decided that since so many people travel from here to there, it might be a good idea to make it physically possible to travel from here to there. Now there are direct flights from select cities.

That was the good news. While I had to go to Hong Kong to get a visa to go where I wanted to go, I did not need to go back to Hong Kong to go where I wanted to go. The bad news was that I decided to go during the Chinese New Year, which the Chinese do not call Chinese New Year. Traveling to, from or through any Chinese territory during the Chinese New Year is generally a bad idea. Since every Chinese person on the planet is supposed to go to wherever their parents live or risk the ultimate shame of losing face, and since every Chinese person on the planet seems to live nowhere near wherever their parents live, there is considerable moving to and fro during the Chinese New Year. Planes and trains and boats and buses characteristically are filled to the brim with Chinese people. Not at all coincidentally, prices for everything increase dramatically.

Flying from any part of China to the civilized world is usually considerably less expensive than flying from one part of the civilized world to another. Flying from any part of China to the civilized world during the Chinese New Year tends to be as expensive as flying to and from civilization. Flying from any part of China to another part of China during the Chinese New Year is just stupid. That is why most of your Chinese types will take a train to get to wherever their parents live. That and the fact that standing on a train for eight hours surrounded by a hundred people within sneezing distance who have never heard of soap is a pretty good time. If you think you are going to sit on this train then you have clearly never ridden a Chinese train during the Chinese New Year. If you think the people constantly pushing into you like a New Zealand teenager on a sheep farm are going to cover their mouths when they sneeze then you have clearly never spent any time in China.

There is also the issue of hotels. While almost all of these Chinese travelers are going to visit their parents, most of them have no fervent desire to stay in their parents’ homes. This increases the prices of hotel rooms in and around all Chinese parts of China during the Chinese New Year. Since I was going to the Chinese part of China and had no intention of staying in anyone’s parents’ home, a hotel room was virtually the only option available to me.

However, for reasons that make no sense to anyone, my plane ticket was more than reasonable for any time of the year and the hotel was at a bargain basement price. I have been told that it was because I flew just before the actual New Year’s Day, but that is the same time that everyone else flies. The flights and airports were not especially crowded, which supports the price, but contradicts the fact that every Chinese person on the planet was also traveling on that day. I have also been told that I am simply the luck.

What I would learn not long after arriving in the Chinese part of China was that the hotel I had chosen was a bit of a dump.




The Chinese propensity for inefficiency quickly reared its ugly dragon horns when the plane from my part of China landed in their part of China. My experience with landing at airports has generally involved either the plane stopping directly at the gate, with passengers disembarking via a jetway, or the plane stopping somewhere on the apron and passengers unloading themselves down a flight of rickety stairs. When disembarked on an apron, passengers are usually shoved into a bus and driven to the nearest (or farthest) available gate.

In this particular instance, we were all herded into a bus where we waited for every last man, woman and dog to waddle down the stairs. It was at least ten minutes between the bus doors closing and the bus moving in a forward direction. And ten minutes in this age and day of microwave ovens and push button telephones is an eternity. When the packed bus finally moved, even the inefficient Chinese passengers were surprised to be taken all of ten feet away across a narrow street. It would have taken seconds to simply walk across this street directly from the plane. Crossing a Chinese street is usually very dangerous, but this was a small service lane at an airport. The only traffic I saw was our slow bus, and it spent more time stationary than moving.

What I liked about this unnecessarily overcomplicated operation was that it forced the Chinese people who always push their way out of the plane to arrive at the gate at the same time as everyone else. They ordinarily force themselves in front of everyone only to move much slower than the rest of us as soon as we are all inside the building. Here we all had no choice but to arrive at the same time. Maybe this is what communism is all about.




We stayed at 闽南大酒店, which I chose because it is listed as a four star hotel with Motel 6 prices. What I already knew was that four stars in China are roughly equal to two stars in the civilized world. Hence the Motel 6 price.

When we checked in they wanted to see both my and the Wife’s passports. Showing my passport at a hotel means nothing to me as this is customary pretty much everywhere in the world. But the Wife was having none of it. She saw no need for them to look at her passport since the room was in my name. I saw no need to point out to her that it was standard operating procedure and not some fiendish Chinese scheme since I have to live with her. For their part, the Chinese peons simply wanted to make sure that my Chinese wife was not Chinese Chinese. Your average international hotel in China has television and newspaper access that the Chinese government does not want their people to see. Even at a four star Motel 6. Chinese indolence prevented the hotel staff from really caring about it either way, and the Wife won in the end.

I quickly noticed that our room had no refrigerator. One of the first things that I check when I enter a new hotel room is the refrigerator since it is likely either turned to the warmest setting or turned off entirely. Refrigerators in East Asia hotels are as standard as vacuum tube television sets. Your standard Asian would find a room without either completely unacceptable. But the standard Asian definition of refrigeration does not entirely match my own. I like cold drinks cold. The standard Asian likes cold drinks at room temperature. If this makes one wonder why they insist on having refrigerators in their rooms then one is using western logic and ignoring the mystical ways of the Orient.

The websites that I used to find and book this hotel all said that there were refrigerators in every room. I did not doubt this since refrigerators in East Asia hotels are as standard as hard mattresses. This room had the hard mattress and low definition television, but no refrigerator. It took some time to convince the front desk minions that our room with a refrigerator had no refrigerator. I expected them to move us to another room since we had just checked in and that is what most hotels would do in this situation. But they brought up a refrigerator to our room instead. Eventually.

One thing they never wanted to bring to our room was toilet paper. Apparently there is a shortage in China. Or perhaps the housekeeping staff was simply too lazy to keep house. I could assume that Chinese people use less than normal humans, but the things these people eat has to result in using more.

One of my least favorite things to do in a hotel is to sit on a hard mattress with a tepid beverage and watch local television, but I was lucky enough to do that more than once here because I was with the Wife and when you are with the Wife, you wait. This is not a Chinese thing. All married men understand. Since I am married more often than most people, basic math dictates that I understand this more than most.

While waiting for the Wife on the hard mattress, tepid beverage in hand, I watched the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics on the low definition television receptor. I checked with the clock next to the bed, because you never know, and it was indeed 2012. There was no explanation as to why they were showing the 1984 Olympics or why they only showed the opening ceremonies.

It was interesting to compare the very low tech 1984 opening ceremonies with Beijing’s digital laser and fireworks show of 2008, especially as Los Angeles knows all about putting on an ostentatious show while Beijing is mostly known for KFCs on every corner and a bicycle every four inches. Four inches being a great length to Chinese people. It was disappointing to remember how popular pastels were in 1984.

Beijing had a million drummers doing the Chinese Bang with Dolby digital 6.0 surround sound while Los Angeles had John Williams wearing a tuxedo in Los Angeles in July. The Beijing torch runner ran the torch up the side of the stadium. Literally. The Los Angeles torch runner went up a staircase and lit a fuse. Beijing had a laser whale swimming on the roof and eating imperialist plankton. Los Angeles had a dude in a jet pack. Beijing had a few crouching tiger flying dragons doing wire dances all over the place. Los Angeles had some local cheerleaders spelling out USA.

The most noticeable difference between the two was that Los Angeles’ opening ceremonies can be shown on commercial television with only a few interruptions. Beijing’s opening ceremonies took 37 hours.

My favorite part of the endless parade of athletes marching into the Memorial Coliseum was watching the tiny teams make their way in; Singapore – 5 athletes, Sri Lanka – 4, Syria – 7, Togo – 6, UAE – 7, followed by the United States – 615. People from the big countries love to brag about how many medals they win, but when you have three times as many athletes as China or Australia, you probably should win. If Djibouti’s three athletes take home the most medals, something is wrong.

I cannot say that I remember much about the 1984 Olympics, or even 1984 itself, but I am almost sure that Ronald Reagan was involved in some way. He was president of the host country at the time and had lived and made some dreadful movies in Los Angeles several centuries before. He was completely absent from the Chinese broadcast that I watched. I also believe the modern Chinese commentary was inaccurate in its declaration that China won the most gold medals in 1984. As far as I remember, the United States won the most medals since the Soviet Union and its lackeys boycotted the games.

Outside of the hotel I learned that this Chinese part of China in January is colder than a blind date when she sees what kind of car you drive, and that the Wife is terrified of cats.

They say that cat people are more compatible with cat people and dog people with dog people. I like cats and agree with Thomas Jefferson about dogs. The Wife is perfectly comfortable sharing Chinese streets with packs of roving dogs but cannot eat if a cat is present. She says that she does not like cats because she was born in the Year of the Rat. But I was born in the Year of the Dog.

We went to some shitty restaurant that she thought would be good because it was “American”. Ignoring the fact that being American is not necessarily a good thing, what the Chinese call American rarely resembles anything that I might call American. There were a few American flags in the restaurant and I believe I saw a cowboy hat nailed to a wall, but the food seemed more Chinese to me.

There was a mechanical bull in the corner with all the KTV equipment, so I suppose the restaurant was more American than most. Nothing says American dining like KTV and mechanical bulls.

This American restaurant was also entirely outdoors. It looked like a restaurant with all the random and pointless crap nailed to the walls and was certainly not one of those plastic stool restaurants where the food comes from the back of some dude’s truck, but there was no interior.

Since this part of China is as cold in January as was previously mentioned, the American restaurant had a few tiki torches spread out. Nothing says American dining like KTV, mechanical bulls and Polynesian bamboo. While sitting under a precarious flame and eating our American mifen with seaweed and mung beans, we noticed a cat lurking about. It seemed to want to get as close to us as possible, either because we had the fire stick or because we had food. I was going to give it some food just to see how brave and/or aggressive it got, but the Wife practically panicked as soon as she realized there was a cat fumbling about her feet. When I pointed out another cat perched on a potted plant a few feet away from her, she froze. I mentioned that being mostly motionless is probably not the best way to keep a cat from filchering some food.

It soon became obvious to me and my anxious wife that there were more than a few cats lurking about this American restaurant. I found it interesting since China is infested with packs of roving dogs. One does not ordinarily see many stray cats in a place with so many stray dogs.

In addition to the American restaurant that did not remind me of an American restaurant, this part of China also has an American grocery store. It looks and smells nothing like an American grocery store, but it had more than a few genuine American products that I have never seen outside of the United States. These were not things made and packaged in China with “make in Amerca” stickers. These were honest to Buddha American grocery store items made, packaged and sold from the good ol’ US of A.

What amuses me is that despite all the anti-American rhetoric, China has absolutely no qualms about buying and selling American goods. Most of the cheap counterfeit crap is supposed to be American; not British, African or from some lesser country. Conversely, Chinese people do not seem all that interested in American products. Barack Hussein Osama recently said that “anyone who tells you that America is in decline or that our influence has waned doesn't know what they're talking about”. I assume he did not mean that people want to buy American crap. The American restaurant was practically empty. And it may have well been a Saturday night for all I remember. The American grocery store mostly sold Chinese products. Their American variety was impressive, but they had more Chinese than anything else. I have seen a few stores managed by and that cater to foreigners with nothing but foreign goods. They have all gone out of business.

American goods are most definitely in decline and the American influence over Chinese culture has more than waned. It has been replaced by Japanese and Korean culture. Forty years ago Chinese people wanted nothing more than American blue jeans. Today they want Japanese electronics, many of which are made in China, and Korean music.

Back at the hotel, we both noticed something that everyone should notice about every hotel in China, and indeed in most of East Asia. Our non-smoking room was in fact a smoking room. Most Asian hotels will gladly rent you a non-smoking room, but what makes it a smoking or non-smoking room is whether or not you smoke in it. Since five out of four Asians smoke, this never bothers them. Better hotels will do what they can to drive the reek away, but your average four star hotel with Motel 6 prices will simply open your window for you. This pretty much never does anything useful and is essentially a bad idea in the middle of winter.

As luck would have it, your average Asian is deathly afraid of sunlight, and most hotels have very heavy blackout curtains. These come in handy when your sleeping options are freezing to death or wearing an ashtray respirator.

The funny thing about smokers, other than how selfish they are and their horrid stench, is that they will use the cold to rationalize their smoking. Apparently it keeps them warm. This is also why they smoke in summer. Alcoholics are just as delusional, but only smell like shit up close.




What I will probably remember the least about this particular trip was how polite and efficient the airport security were when I left. We again had to wait for a bus to take us from the boarding gate all the way across the street to the plane, but the journey from check-in counter to shopping mall was as easy as any I have ever seen. It probably helped that I was there at the crack of dawn, before the shoving hordes of Chinese arrived.

After checking in, which I always do since the advance check-in system at whatever airport I happen to be in either does not apply to my flight or is out of order, I moved lively to the immigration desk. This is usually the slowest part, whether there is a line or not. Tiny uniformed people in tiny booths love to look at every single page in my passport, and the new American passports have a lot of pages. The Chinese woman at this airport went straight for the Chinese visa page, stamped her little stamp and sent me on my way. I assume she spoke no English and she likely assumed I speak no Chinese. This is useful when you have nothing useful to say to someone.

There was no one in front of or behind me at the security line and my bag and I went through faster than I have ever gone through any security checkpoint. My bag was mostly full of food, which often causes problems, but this airport’s x-ray machine did not seem to care. The tiny uniformed man manning the machine may have been asleep.

With the entire process taking mere minutes, I had more than enough time to indulge in the one thing I loathe more than waiting for the Wife on a hard mattress while watching local television; waiting in the airport shopping mall.

I have no idea when airports became shopping malls, but they all seem to be today. Even the smallest airports seem to be designed for shopping first, with all that pesky flying to and fro an afterthought. Hong Kong International is more shopping mall than anything else, but they used to have an area near the old food court where you could sit comfortably and listen to the bad loudspeaker music, almost like what they still have upstairs at Schiphol. Now it is more shopping.

Maybe someday someone will put a library in an airport. I suppose that is unlikely since most people would rather buy overpriced trinkets and eat overpriced microwaved food than read a book. Maybe I should buy one of those electronic books the next time I eat a pretzel at an airport.

They say the music you think about just before you die is the soundtrack of your life. While flight 968 was plunging toward the East China Sea, I could not get the Ofarim version of “Cinderella Rockefella” out of my head. I am glad I did not buy the CD at any of the twelve record stores in the airport.

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