My folks came to see us during Spring Festival and we spent a couple days in Beijing. Ditan Park has Beijing’s biggest Spring Festival Temple Fair and it barely contains an unbelievable amount of people, noise and colour. We had a blast, though I wouldn’t recommend it for those who easily suffer from sensory overload! Click the link or the photos below to go to the photo gallery.

Beijing’s Ditan Park Temple Fair 地坛庙会 – 2010 Feb. 20

Midnight on Christmas Eve 2009 in Tianjin, China (they call it “Peaceful Night” 平安夜):

If you put New Year’s, Mardi Gras, Valentine’s Day and the commercial side of Christmas into a blender and then reincarnated the unappetizing mush into an overpopulated midnight carnival, you’d have Christmas Eve in Tianjin. Clowns, stage shows, blowing artificial snow (soap-sud machines), a countdown to midnight (pictured above), and a bunch of foreigners performing Christmas carols (us) were all out two nights ago among the masses and their blinky, battery-powered headgear. In between our two performances on stage there was a choreographed Michael Jackson dance routine by five 5-foot tall pelvis-thrusting minors who looked way too young to be grabbing the front of their pants that way in public (pictured left).

Random strangers occasionally asked to get their picture taken with us, since we’re foreigners. We obliged, of course, and I got my revenge when I saw this line up of 90-pound Santas:

But it was all for a good cause. A local company decided they wanted to get into the real spirit of Christmas by holding a fundraiser for the Special Education Project. They aggressively hawked these LED Christmas candle things all day and night to the throngs of people on Tianjin’s two busiest outdoor shopping streets, which is Christmas Eve Central for T. The two girls pictured on the right had me and a friend cornered before we had a chance to tell them we were with the group they were raising money for.

Since we’re associates of the N.G.O. that was receiving the money, the company asked us to put together some songs for before and after the midnight countdown. We had a group of carolers, which included some of our local friends and students, two guitars and a flute. They wanted us to get the crowd into it, and below you can see the line of police in front of the stage holding back all our rabid 粉丝. Ok, maybe they’re not actually our fěnsī, but they were in a good mood and it wasn’t hard to get a response from the crowd; all we had to do was show up. They’re supposed to play part of it on TV today, so I may have finally made it on TV in Tianjin. :) Here’s our the helmeted crowd control:

It didn’t actually feel all that Christmasy, but at least it was something to mark the day. Actually, packing into an apartment with a bunch of friends (Chinese, German, Brazilian, Canadian, American) earlier in the evening to practice the songs over snacks and coffee wasn’t a bad way to spend a Christmas Eve. For two of my students it was the first time they’d done anything to celebrate Christmas, so that was kind of special. A few more photos below (none of these photos are mine; I was too busy playing guitar).

All these blobs are the blowing artificial snow soapsud bubbles (it looked cooler in real life):

These are the LED things they sold for the fundraiser:

If I can find any photos of us on stage, I’ll add them below when I get them.

圣诞快乐！

Friends who also wrote on this surreal experience:

• Lindy — Christmas is for Shopping…
• Rob (the other guitar player) — Merry Something!
• Shannon — Merry MardiEasterValentineHalloweenNewYearChristmas! Ho Ho Ho?

[2010 Jan 08] Here we are in the newspaper:

The caption says:

The other day Tianjin TV’s “Art & Entertainment Food 8 Street” news column at Heping Lu business walking street held a groundbreaking special evening party, not only was there brilliant cultural performances, also can’t count the many different kinds of interactive games spectators were invited to participate in. Additionally, foreign volunteers working in Tianjin from the USA, France, Italy and etc. countries also got on stage and sang impromptu songs for the audience. Newspaper reporter: Cao Tongshe

Of course, we didn’t have anyone from France or Italy, but hey, who’s counting?
[2010 Jan 18] Finally got hold of some shots of us on stage:

Other Christmas and Christmas-in-Tianjin posts:

• Christmas Eve… with Chinese characteristics
• An UnChristmas party in Tianjin
• “And the 2008 Tianjin Grinch Award goes to…”
• Christmas doesn’t have to be Made In China
• 圣诞快乐! (Merry Christmas!)
• Some Tang dynasty poetry for the Christmas we’re missing
• Take this, capitalist!
• 聖誕快樂! – Shèng dàn Kuài lè! (first Christmas in Asia)

The first time I tried guāshā (刮痧), the traditional Chinese scraping/rubbing therapy for having too much “fire” in your body (which can make you get a cold), a Chinese friend told the shīfu to do it a little lighter than usual (轻一点儿) and it only got uncomfortable at the last two or so strokes on each line. The second time I told the shīfu the same thing and barely felt anything, which kind of seemed like a rip off. This time I’m ready for the real deal so I don’t tell the guy anything.

Instead of using a coin or an animal horn to do the scraping/rubbing he uses a small-size fire cup; it feels like having a magnet on your back that’s attracted to your skin. It also means I’m getting suctioned and scraped/rubbed at the same time. And he does 30 strokes per line — I know because I’m counting… oohhh, am I counting! I’m grinding my teeth by the time he gets to 24 or 25. It hurts the worst on the sides of my lower back (where it’s soft) and on the back of my neck, I guess because there’s less flesh there. But I’m determined, and try to make conversation to distract myself from the pain. The shīfu is a southerner who came to Tianjin from Anhui province in the early 90’s. Ow! Rrrrr… uuugh! The photo is from the morning after.

This bathhouse is a different kind from the first one we tried a few times. That first bathhouse was the lowest-level business/recreation-oriented kind that charge 10-12 kuài to get in. Last night’s bathhouse is a step below that. It was originally built as part of the neighbourhood either in 1980 or just before — one old man peeling off his callouses on the edge of the tub said he’d been going there since 1980. It’s 5-6 kuài to get in. Back then most people used public baths as much out of necessity as for recreation. Indoor plumbing and heating in these 30-year-old neighbourhoods is poor and back then people didn’t so much want to shower at home, especially in the winter. Many still don’t, because even though household gas or electric hot water heaters are now common and more affordable, the government-controlled heating is often virtually useless in these older places. Thankfully this bathhouse is too small for xiǎojiěs; there’s no back room or private rooms to put them in. Plus there’s a women’s side, too; when I entered the lobby a mother and her happily excited 11-year-old daughter were just receiving their locker keys for an after-dinner shower. This is the one (the only one in that area) that Mr. Lu said “doesn’t have any funny business” (没有乱七八糟).

It’s definitely a step down from the first place in terms of facilities. I’m glad I brought my own towel, because otherwise it’d be a public towel that has already been used by several people that evening. Same with the shower shoes. For soap and shampoo you’re also on your own. Signs on the wall overlooking the tubs list what kinds of skin, venereal, and other transmittable diseases are forbidden in the tubs. Next to the signs there’s a picture of puppies sitting on heart pillows, and next to that a 1970’s-looking pin-up drawing of a woman who would be considered too fat by North American pin-up “standards.”

It was definitely great for language practice, and relaxing, but I don’t know if I’ll go back. It was over a half-hour bike ride home straight on into heavy wind in sub-zero temperatures. There’s gotta be a similar place closer to our apartment. Plus, it was pretty dirty. Ideally I’d find a closer and cleaner place for around the same price without xiǎojiěs where I can return multiple times — that way I don’t have to have the same conversations (“What country are you from? blah blah blah…”) every time I go because I’ll see the same people. Maybe that’s a tall order, but it’s worth keeping an eye out, I think.

Other bathhouse & Chinese medicine/therapy posts:

• Dark side of a Tianjin bathhouse
• Fire-Cupping & Guasha for Dummies
• Chinese Medicine: Getting a Clue (Part 1)
• Getting guasha’d (刮痧) and octopussed (拔火罐) in a Tianjin bathhouse
• Getting fire cupped in a Tianjin bath house (or) Losing a wrestling match to a giant octopus
• Shower (洗澡)

I love going to the public bathhouse (大众浴池) and relaxing in a big tub chatting about whatever with whoever over some some cold drinks, getting guāshā‘d (刮痧) and firecupped (拔罐儿) just for the experience. It’s a cheap (30 kuài total = $4.60 CDN) and fun evening. But unfortunately — if our experience last night at the “Shared Happiness Bathing Garden” (同福浴園) is any indication — darker aspects of Tianjin society sometimes find you even when you aren’t looking for them. Foreigners with taxi Chinese, be ye warned. One of our language student American friends accidentally found himself in a rather awkward situation last night that would’ve been really funny had it not involved sexually exploited women.

Sexual exploitation of women is more common and widely available than many lǎowài (老外) realize. Of course we know most of the more obvious clues: red lights strung outside a foot massage place, a ‘hair salon’ window full of skimpily dressed young women, a vaguely worded and conspicuously expensive service listed among the usual bathhouse offerings… But we can’t read all the signs, we don’t pick up on the more subtle publicly visible cues, and we don’t come pre-equipped with the intuition and knowledge of cultural insiders.

The truth is — and this is consistent with what we’ve been told all along — when it comes to bathhouses, massage parlours, karaoke bars and hair salons in China, there are generally two kinds. The first kind are just fronts for brothel-type businesses; they have obvious indicators like the ones I just mentioned and you wouldn’t go there if all you wanted was a mundane hair cut. The second kind really are actual bathhouses, hair salons, etc.; their main business is their stated business, but sexual services are often (not always) available for those who want them and know how to ask. And it doesn’t require a great deal of tact or secret handshaking to ask; foreigners’ taxi Chinese is more than adequate. In China, money-and-status rules, especially over the millions of unprivileged and unempowered.

Last night six of us went for a soak after dinner. For two language students it was their first time. The hot tubs, guasha/soap-down tables and showers are in one big room of naked men only, while the massage beds and TV are in another room where some of the attendants are women (young and old) and everyone wears clothes. We figured we’d soak for a while, do guasha or whatever, shower off, and then go get firecupped in the other room like we had in the past.

One guy, a language student who was there for the first time, left us in the hot tubs and headed alone to the other room, thinking he’d get a cheap, quick back rub from the same kind of forty-something-year-old guy who does the firecupping. Instead giving him what he wanted, the male attendants tried to convince him to go into a back room for some sort of activity that he didn’t have the Chinese vocabulary for, though their obscene hand motions left no doubt about their meaning. He refused, but they still wouldn’t give him what he asked for. When I finally made my way from the showers to the firecupping bed (I was the last of the six), I discovered one of the female attendants walking up and down on my friend’s back, occasionally stopping to grind her knees into his ribs. Apparently she’d been smacking the snot out of him for the last thirty minutes, and she kept going for another thirty. Other than that (revenge?) they didn’t try anything sketchy with a whole crowd of us there.

I was all for making an evening at the bathhouse a monthly ritual, but I probably won’t go back to the “Shared Happiness Bathing Garden.” I’d wondered about this place before — perhaps I was willfully ignorant — but now we know. If it wasn’t a given that the police already know about and don’t care and maybe even frequent this place I’d have phoned them already. If anyone knows of anything that can be done, please let me know.

There’s an even smaller, dingier, more old school bathhouse just two blocks away that’s half the price… the kind that Mr. Chang the sidewalk barber says is too dirty. I suppose we could always try that one, or even try a different one every month. These places aren’t in short supply yet.

Other bathhouse & Chinese medicine/therapy posts:

• Fire-Cupping & Guasha for Dummies
• Chinese Medicine: Getting a Clue (Part 1)
• Getting guasha’d (刮痧) and octopussed (拔火罐) in a Tianjin bathhouse
• Getting fire cupped in a Tianjin bath house (or) Losing a wrestling match to a giant octopus
• Shower (洗澡)

A Tianjin bathhouse introduction to two popular traditional Chinese therapies.

I’d wanted to visit a local Tianjin bathhouse ever since getting to peek inside one that was located in some of Tianjin’s doomed hutongs. Watching the Chinese movie Shower gave me a glimpse of the charm and community these places provide in some older Chinese neighbourhoods. Two recent bathhouse trips with friends were the perfect opportunity try out two different forms of popular Chinese therapy: fire-cupping (拔火罐; báhuǒguànr) on the first trip and guāshā (刮痧) on the second.

Fire-cupping — 拔火罐儿 — bá huǒ guànr

It’s not every day that you return home looking like you’ve just lost a wrestling match with a giant octopus, but being pinned on your stomach by a sucker-wielding octopod is about what fire-cupping feels like. In the simplest terms, fire-cupping involves getting a bunch of really big, round, dark hickeys all over your back, or stomach, or wherever you want to get them. It doesn’t really hurt, and it’s good for you – kind of it like a massage, only in reverse.

Octopus Wrestling
After getting dizzy from soaking in the hot bathhouse pools for too long, we shower, dry off, and put on some shorts and shirts provided by the change room attendants. They lead us into a large, dimly lit room containing dozens of booths of two beds each. Some older middle-aged men are sleeping, some are smoking and watching T.V., and one or two others are getting foot massages from pretty young ladies.

A shīfu (师傅) arrives at our booth with a plastic tub full of what look to me like glass candle holders. I take off my shirt and lay down on my stomach. With a large flaming matchstick in one hand, the shīfu begins applying the glass cups to my back by briefly sticking the flame up inside the cup before quickly pressing the rim down onto my back. I can’t feel any heat, but one second of flame is enough to change the air pressure inside the cup and create strong suction against my skin. It takes him less than two minutes to apply them all. He says he’ll be back in a few minutes and leaves me lying there with my bulging skin turning various shades of purple under each of the seventeen glass cups. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s an odd, strong sensation.

Ten minutes later he comes back and begins pulling the cups off one at a time by sticking his finger under the rims to break the suction. They come off with a shklop! and leave seventeen big puffy red welts behind. Before letting me go he throws a blanket over my back and gives me a quick massage. The red dots aren’t sore; it feels like having a very slight sunburn but it’s not uncomfortable to put on a shirt or lean back in a chair. The entire procedure takes less than twenty minutes.

Guasha —刮痧 — guā shā

Despite what it looks like, guāshā doesn’t have too much in common with road rash. It can be a little more painful than fire-cupping, depending on hard or light you ask the shīfu to work, and people’s experiences range from comfortable to somewhat painful. Guāshā might be literally translated “to scrape fever.”

Playing Zebra
It’s our second trip to the Same Fortune Shared Happiness Bathing Garden (同福浴園 – across the road from the Sheraton Hotel on 紫金山路) and two of us are going to try guāshā. When the shīfu tells me and a Chinese friend that it’s our turn, we step out of the pool toward two of the three plastic tables lined up in the space between the hot pools along one wall and the showers along the opposite.

My table has just been vacated by an older middle-aged man who’d received a full-body soap down. The shīfu spreads a large sheet of thin plastic over the table and tells me to lay down on my stomach. I’m a little more nervous about getting guāshā’d than I was about getting fire-cupped because I’d heard guāshā can hurt -– that, and laying around naked on a table in a public place isn’t something I do every weekend.

The shīfu takes my dish-towel-sized Chinese towel (provided by the bathhouse) and wipes down my back before spreading oil on it. He doesn’t need the towel while he’s scraping so he wads it up and drops it on my butt, I guess for convenience. Then he starts repeatedly scraping lines into my skin; each line gets maybe ten or more strokes. I can’t see what he’s using to scrape; there are rounded instruments made for this purpose, sometimes polished buffalo horn, a soup spoon, or even old-style Chinese coins with the square holes in the middle. “Scrape” is actually too strong a verb for what he’s doing because he’s not breaking the skin or even rubbing it raw; there’s no scabbing. Still, glancing over at my friend on the table beside me I can see that it takes less than a minute for angry red lines to start appearing on his back.

It’s not uncomfortable except for the last two or three strokes on each line; those burn a little and I’m glad each time he moves to a new spot and starts a new line. After he’s made five stripes down along the length of my spine and a row of eight stripes along each set of ribs, he gives me a quick soapdown head-to-toe with my now soapy towel. Then he rinses me off with a bucket. The entire procedure only takes ten or fifteen minutes. After evaluating the colour of my guāshā stripes, he decides he’s not impressed with the state of my health and suggests I get fire-cupped as well. That night I return home both striped and dotted.

‘Healthiness’ with Chinese characteristics

Despite what it looks like in the photos, fire-cupping marks aren’t the same thing as a bruise, and they don’t hurt like a bruise. A doctor friend explains the difference:

When you get a bruise it is usually from some type of traumatic impact which has shredded the vessels and allowed blood to leak into the surrounding tissues. The blood can go to different layers of the skin and when it gets near the surface its purple color can be seen. That is why, depending on the injury, you don’t see a bruise till it’s starting to be spread out and taken away by the body a few days later. In contrast Cupping brings the blood up right away to the surface where the body easily breaks it down. If any damage is done to the tissues it is usually surface only, and not deeper. This is actually one of the beneficial effect of Cupping as part of its design is to pull out the stuck blood that may be left in a muscle which is not in a relaxed state (contracted, knotted, stiff, etc.) Its like wicked hickey designed to get the old, stuck blood out of the muscles.

Fire-cupping leaves marks because the suction causes the capillaries (minute blood vessels) to burst under the skin, but unlike a bruise there’s been no blunt trauma done to the tissues or nerve endings. The red discolouration caused by guāshā is also the result of blood from burst capillaries under the skin. In traditional Chinese medicine, moving the blood in this way can be a very good thing; hickeys are healthy.

Part of the idea behind treatments like fire-cuppping and guāshā is that there is a lining or layer in the body, which includes the connective tissues. Qi (something like ‘vital energy,’ but not exactly), blood, and other important substances need to flow and circulate through this layer so that deeper parts of the body, like internal organs, are properly connected with the rest of the body. Proper flow of these things allows the different parts of the body to live in proper relationship and balance with one another and for organs receive the nutrients they need and the immune system to be invigorated. Health problems develop when blood becomes congested and stagnant in this layer because this hinders the circulation of qi, blood, and other fluids and nutrients, thereby preventing the different areas of the body from properly relating to one another. This throws the body out of balance and can result in a myriad of health problems. Guāshā and fire-cupping pull this stagnant blood up closer to the surface, allowing qi, blood, fluids, and nutrients to begin circulating properly throughout the tissues and allowing the stagnant blood to be properly reabsorbed.

Regardless of how poorly I understand the basics of traditional Chinese healthiness, an evening at the neighbourhood bathhouse after dinner with a little fire-cupping or guāshā is a fun and relaxing way to spend time with a few good friends. I’ll be back for more!

(Haha – I really hope I didn’t totally mess up the Chinese medicine section, since this is one of the published pieces. Too late now! :D )

Other Chinese bathhouse and Chinese medicine-related posts:

• Tianjin bathhouse guasha: OWW!!!
• Chinese Medicine: Getting a Clue (Part 1)
• Getting guasha’d (刮痧) and octopussed (拔火罐) in a Tianjin bathhouse
• Getting fire cupped in a Tianjin bath house (or) Losing a wrestling match to a giant octopus
• Shower (洗澡)

On our second-to-last night in Tianjin before an extended stay in Canada, two friends and I went back to the Same Fortune Bathing Garden (同福浴園) to get dizzy in the hot tub and guāshā‘d (刮痧). We ended up getting fire cupped again, too.

Last time we tried the fire suction cups, so this time we thought we’d do guāshā, which is another common Chinese treatment for I’m not sure exactly what… something about your body’s inner fire being too hot or there being too much cold wind in your body. Anyway, for 10 kuai we figured hey why not.

For a description of the bathhouse see the octopus wrestling/fire cupping post. Here I’ll skip straight to the guāshā.

There are three plastic tables in between the hot tubs along one wall and the showers along the opposite wall. That’s where five minutes earlier some older middle-aged guys were getting massaged and soaped down. Me and a Chinese friend come straight out of the hot tub and lay down on two tables, which first get covered in a fresh piece of plastic. The attendant takes my dish towel-sized Chinese towel and wipes down my back before spreading oil on it. Then he starts repeatedly scraping lines into my skin; each line gets maybe ten or more strokes. He doesn’t need the towel while he’s scraping, so he just folds it up and drops it on my butt, which I guess is just convenient.

It doesn’t start to hurt until the last one or two scrapes on each spot. I never saw what he used to scrape with. After he’s made stripes down the length of my spine and rows of stripes across each side of my back, he without warning gives me a quick soap down with the now soapy towel (once down the left side head to toe, once down the right side, and then right up the middle… could have done without that!). Then he rinses me off with a bucket. It only takes ten or fifteen minutes.

While they were guāshā-ing the two of us, the guy suggested we both go get fire cupping (拔火罐儿) since our inner fires were too hot (or something like that). So after a shower to cool down, the three of us all went and got fire cupped. It was like last time, only he used twenty cups this time and stuck them everywhere from the bottom of my neck to the top of my butt. This video is really bad, but you can see his big matchstick and at 0:45 you can hear the suction cups squeaking:

All this happened after a dinner with friends at a superb and inexpensive Sichuan restaurant. Not bad for a second-to-last night in Tianjin (at least for a few months). The hot tub and the just-been-massaged feeling you get after the fire cupping makes you feel really nice and relaxed. The next day it feels like you have a slight sunburn.

PS - added some more photos to Jessica’s birthday karaoke post!

For Jessica’s birthday we had a karaoke party with a bunch friends:

If you haven’t been to a good Chinese karaoke party yet, you’re missing out! Here’s some photos and fun video clips.

Piao Laoshi’s Korean boyfriend gives Jessica a “Happy Birthday Jessica!” shout out in the middle of his song, and elicits praise from some of the ladies who start chanting his name:

Liu Wei, Greg, Dingle and Zhou Jun give a heartfelt(?) rendition of Air Supply’s All Out Of Love:

Cute (they’re engaged):

Jessica got some cute stuffed cows as gifts, since 2009 is the year of the cow.

The cake says, “Happy Birthday, Lin Yi An” (生日快乐林怡安；shēngrì kuàilè lín yí ān). Yí-ān is Jessica’s Chinese name.

(This time last winter, when my Chinese was even worse, I wrote about this funny experience with Mr. Lù but for some reason it never got posted. Here it is almost exactly a year later, but still funny. I like it ’cause it shows how these guys are sometimes.)

The first interview I wrote up was on Mr. Lù, the neighbourhood bike repairman, and I’m glad I didn’t delete this sentence: “…and he’s not too stiff to have a little fun at the foreigner’s expense.” It’s so true, as I am continually finding out.

Old men do polar bear swims here – they call it dōngyǒng (冬泳). It’s a health thing. One day on the way in I noticed that someone had carved a huge rectangle in the ice on the canal (Tianjin’s 卫津河), big enough for three men to tread water in. The ice fishermen usually only make little holes about a foot across. Just for fun I asked Mr. Lù, who was at his corner like usual, who’s been swimming in the canal. He immediately replied with a straight face, “Me.” I was like, “What? Really?” (I’ve come to recognize this immediate, straight-faced reply in other questionable situations involving the canal as well.)

Mr. Lù: “Of course. Me and a couple friends go every morning. Lots of people do this; it’s called dōngyǒng.”

Me: “Really?”

Mr. Lù: “Sure!”

Me: “When are you going next?”

Mr. Lù: “Tomorrow morning. You can meet us at 7am and have a look.”

I knew for a fact people did this at the Water Park where there’s a lake, but I’d never seen anyone swim in the canal. Still, I was all set to go have a look. I went to do some homework, and by the time I’d returned I’d decided I was going to join them — how could pass up an opportunity like that? Mr. Lù said sure, but tried to dissuade me, “First we exercise, then go in.”

Me: “How long do we swim?”

Mr. Lù: “Half and hour.”

Me: “30 minutes?!”

Mr. Lù: “Of course.”

Me: “I can maybe do half a minute!”

Mr. Lù: “Oh, we swim for half an hour.”

At this point Mr. Sòng, who’d discovered what was going on while I was away doing homework, stepped in. They had a conversation I couldn’t follow, and the end result was that Mr. Lù said Mr. Sòng wouldn’t let him let me swim in the river. I thought it was because they thought I’m a foreigner and I haven’t been working myself up to this all year long like the old guys in the water park lake.

It turns out, we discovered weeks later when we went to Mr. Sòng’s and Mrs. Li’s for lunch, that Mr. Lù was making the whole thing up just to have a little fun with the foreigner! I still don’t know why they bothered to carve such a huge hole in the ice, but it had nothing to do with polar bear swims.

(I got the exact same response from Mr. Lù this winter when I asked him when the ice was safe enough to walk on. He replied immediately, “Right now, let’s go!” just like he had last winter when I asked the same question, only that time I believed him.)

This makes two karaoke parties in a row where Bon Jovi has made an appearance in the form of a passionate, Chinese-accented rendition of “It’s My Life”.

I don’t know about office parties, because all the jobs I had in North America weren’t ever office party kind of jobs. Last night’s New Years party for the magazine and associated companies (about 80 people at a hotel banquet) was my first one. I sat next to the big boss at the international table, which had (including me): three Koreans, two Japanese, a Canadian, a Scot, a Chinese (the boss), and an American. The Koreans were fun, the Japanese were almost invisible, the Scot could really drink, and the American was considered masculine because she smoked (they told her so).

The Fun
So I don’t know how to compare this to the average North American office party. Do office parties in America involve nice banquets, door prizes, co-workers singing to karaoke tracks, fun balloon popping competitions, cute homemade videos of all the staff, and good food? They should; it was actually kind of fun. Do most people suddenly get up and leave, as if given some sudden, subtle signal? That was kind of weird, like all these happy-looking people were really just waiting for their first chance to split (I don’t think they really were).

The Booze
What about the booze? Do American office parties have endless beer, wine, and báijiǔ (白酒)? You know, in a sad sort of way I’m actually thankful that East Asians are genetically predisposed to be weaker drinkers; it makes it a little easier to remain both polite (if the boss toasts you…) and un-inebriated over the course of an evening. I’m not a big drinker and I flat out refuse to get drunk, but I don’t mind doing my duty within those limits, so it’s convenient that the people whom I don’t want to offend will probably quickly reach the point where they won’t remember me avoiding all those extra shots anyway.

The KTV
And what about an an ear-splitting karaoke after-party that involves revolutionary songs from elementary school, Bon Jovi, and an impromptu, drunken, yet sincere pre-national anthem speech about loving communism by a guy who’s made it rich in China’s current economy? I have to admit, if they don’t do karaoke after-parties in America then they are seriously missing out. Chinese karaoke parties are fun. It’s loud and crowded and rènao (热闹) the way Chinese like it. Everyone gets to have fun singing their hearts out and no one really cares if they don’t sound that good (this is also true of alcohol-free karaoke parties).

I left a little after 11pm (pregnant wife at home and all) after doing my obligatory KTV duty (it’s always satisfying to get the surprised looks when a lǎowài sings in Chinese) but before they made good their threat of making the lǎowàis sing Hotel California (I don’t know why it’s always Hotel California). After a half-hour flat-tire bike ride home, I discovered Jessica still had friends over. But the holidays end tomorrow morning at 8:05!

What could a lǎowài (老外) do in 2009 to better adjust to life in China? The list below contains some of the ideas I’ve collected (they’re not all mine), and I’m curious to hear what other ideas are out there. Bonus points for creativity, usefulness, and doability. Mucho uber bonus points if it’s Tianjin specific!

(If you don’t live in China, this should still be an interesting window into daily life in Tianjin.)

Some of these are easier than others, and each will suit some personalities better than others. Some are a one-time deal, some involve altering our lifestyle. All of them have potential to enhance our experience of Tianjin/China and create new opportunities for friendship.

Get a Clue

1) Read the local news.
Your neighbours probably also read the local news, or at least hear it word-of-mouth. It’s a good way to start finding out what people are thinking and talking about, and what’s going on in the city. You don’t have to be in it for China’s hard-hitting investigative journalism; just scan the headlines and ledes. Staying up on local news pulls us one step closer to the local experience and provides plenty of conversation fodder.

2) Visit the 3rd floor of the Tianjin Museum.
Tianjin is historically significant to China, especially where foreigners are concerned, but do you know why? Your neighbours do. A couple hours on the 3rd floor of the Tianjin Museum (天津博物馆) at the Yínhé Gōngyuán (银河公园 – the big park/plaza on Yǒuyì Lù/友谊路 next to the amusement park) will clue you in. It has plenty of English, and if you spend an afternoon walking and reading through the chronological displays that narrate Tianjin and China’s forced entry into the modern era, you’ll get a fine introduction to modern history from the official and popular Chinese perspective, and the respective places that foreigners and Tianjin each have in it. This particular historical narrative influences how Mainlanders see the world, and becoming familiar with it will help you better understand yourself as a foreigner in Tianjin.

3) Start paying attention to the lunar calendar’s key dates and mini-seasons.
Ever notice how sometimes what people wear isn’t necessarily dictated by how hot or cold it is outside, or how suddenly one night people go out and burn piles of paper in the street? The Chinese lunar calendar still impacts modern life through the traditions observed by many families in Tianjin. Taking note of the lunar calendar will help clue you in to the annual rhythms of life here.

4) Take Chinese lessons.
…even if you’re only planning to be here for a year or two, and even if it’s only part time with a private tutor who’s doubling as your ayi. Even taxi Chinese is better than no Chinese.

Start Living in Your Neighbourhood

5) Your neighbourhood bike repairman, security guards, food vendors, etc. are not named “Ni Hao” and “Xie Xie.” These are people you see everyday! Learn their names and appropriate titles, and make a point to take time to chat on your way in and out.

6) Go out for walks in the park after dinner – make it a habit.
If you haven’t noticed, after dinner is prime time in Tianjin’s parks. Near where we live along the canal south of the TV tower, people are out with their kids, chatting, dancing, rollerblading, flying kites, snogging, and exercising en masse in all but the most oppressive weather. Hiding inside after dinner every night can seem a little strange. The Yínhé Park on Yǒuyì Lù is another prime spot for after dinner family fun.

7) Get your fruit and vegetables from the vegetable market, not the supermarket.
At your local càishìchǎng (菜市场) you’ll see the same vendors every time, and they have time. At the supermarket it’s just a random anonymous cashier who’s in a hurry because of the lineup. (*Avoid bottled and packaged goods in the vegetable market, as these are often fake. Better chances with these things at the supermarket.)

8 ) What kind of public activities are going on in your neighbourhood?
We can see the neighbourhood activity centre from our windows, and we’ve seen everything from fashion shows to Beijing Opera going on in there. Get aware of the activities in your area and drop in on one or two.

Local Skills, Local Thrills

9) Go outside for a walk before midnight on Chinese New Year’s Eve.
It’s a total blast! Last year we were just south of the TV Tower along the canal when midnight hit on Chinese New Year; we won’t forget those sights and sounds anytime soon.

10) Learn to dance… in public.
I can think of at least three different parks near our apartment that have dancing daily or nightly. I’ve seen public dancing groups doing everything from the cha-cha to the macarena to the tango. This is a fun, potentially romantic opportunity too good to miss.

11) Visit the marriage market (that’s right: marriage market) at Tianjin’s Central Park (中心公园；Zhōngxīn Gōngyuán) in the heart of the old French concession area. On weekends in good weather, from morning until xiūxi time (Chinese siesta) in the early afternoon, hundreds of parents converge on the park to search for and screen potential mates on behalf of their children. It is the friendliest crowd I’ve found in the city. Language students will have more speaking opportunities than they can handle, and anyone with an interest in China, Chinese society, and Chinese culture will find it an interesting example of how Tianjin’s citizens are dealing with Chinese society’s rapid changes and pressures.

12) Learn to kick a jiànzi (毽子；also called a qiàor in Tianjin).
…those feathered Chinese hackeysack things that sound like coins when you kick them. They’re fun, and if you start kicking one of these around in a park with friends, people will invariably come close to watch, waiting to be invited into your circle.

13) Learn how to haggle in the market.
Tianjiners don’t do a lot of haggling, but they do haggle some and it can feel a little weird when haggling is completely absent. It’s not about the 5 máo.

14) Learn to play Chinese chess, and challenge one or more of your neighbourhood retirees to a game. You might be surprised to witness how a two-player game can suddenly become a team sport.

15) Do your reading in a public place.
If you’ve got reading to do and the weather’s decent, do it on a park bench. Eventually someone will come over and start talking to you.

Unlike many other big cities, many of Tianjin’s neighbourhoods and public parks are still characterized by small-town friendliness. This New Year is as good a time as any to start experiencing more of Tianjin’s local character.

Any more ideas out there…?