China visit 2010: first few days

October 9, Beijing

The flight to China was long as expected (about 22 hours in total), which isn't pleasant if you're as unused to sitting still for so long (me, for instance), but is tolerable. I got up and stretched my legs a few times, and it got me through the flight still able to stand up at the end. We were well fed, mostly Western style and of reasonably good quality, but with chopsticks. Both of us are past masters of kuazi (kwhy-dzuh = chopsticks), so it was no problem to chow down.

Beijing Capital Airport is brand spanking new since it was built for the Olympics and it's a very pleasant space: like much Beijing architecture, the building is very "swoopy" (curvaceous) and airy, with long sweeping arches and high ceilings. It's clearly signposted in both Chinese and English, so we had no need of Shoshanna's legendary airport navigation skills (honed through years of practice). Getting through Immigration was no problem, other than the longish lines; the civilian-but-uniformed staff were a pleasant and efficient change from what I recall as a group of thuggish-looking crewcutted army recruits 8 years ago. We weren't asked even a single question, and when we took the detour marked "stuff to declare" while passing through Customs, the bored clerk waved us through without asking to see anything, even though I told her we had brought four bottles of alcohol (Quebec ice cider) as a gift. It was surprisingly laissez-faire for what used to be a distinctly police-stateish experience.

Getting to the baggage claim is a schlep, so you take a small train that whips you to another terminal where you retrieve your baggage. The handle of my case had been ripped off somewhere along the way, but the case and contents survived with no other significant damage. As at most airports, you must pass through the gantlet of local greeters bearing name signs, but there were a great many of them; Beijing is much, much bigger than Montreal, and the lines of greeters are correspondingly longer. Ma Hua (Dr. Cao's grad student) was waiting for us with Xie Zengwu, another grad student. Both seized our rolling luggage and would not hear of letting us take them ourselves. It took about 10 minutes to wend our way through the crowds and make it down to taxi level, but having done so, it was a matter of moments to seize a cab and dive into Beijing traffic—which wasn't bad at all, possibly because it was Saturday. The tiny trees that were being planted 8 years ago when I first visited were now tall and robust, easily 5 metres high or more. As a result, Beijing was substantially greener than it was last time, which was a pleasant change. We were still fairly jetlagged, so conversation with our hosts was nothing to write home about—so I won't. *g*

Ma's English is excellent, though she has a strong accent and Chinese inflection patterns; Xie is less skilled, but we had little problem communicating with him. A note on names: Family names come first, followed by given names. Chinese generally go by their family names (the first of the two names listed), sometimes accompanied by a nickname—such as "Quiet Wu"—when (as is common) there are several people with the same family name in the same workplace, though we didn't learn any such nicknames this trip. Only intimates refer to each other by their given names, so all single names henceforth will be family names unless otherwise noted. Interestingly, Cao referred to me by my given name, presumably in recognition of the Western approach, which takes it as a given that you speak to an acquaintance using their given name.

We were taken to the Jin Ma hotel, which is about a 10-minute walk from Beijing Forestry University, and were given enough time to shower and recover for a few minutes from our trip before meeting the rest of the gang. Nothing "special" to report about the hotel, but it was a nice, clean, quiet, and comfortable space during our stay, with nicely firm beds—not common, and not something we like to do without when we travel. Not long after we'd settled in, Ma and Xie brought us upstairs to the top-floor "viewing restaurant" to our first of many banquets. There we were met by our host (Dr. Cao Shixiong), Dr. Liu Junguo (who would be my translator during the lectures), and Dr. Xiao Huijie, a recent graduate who has recently returned from 4 years in Germany and who is still trying to establish his place (i.e., choose a research program, find grad students, etc.) at the university. In addition to Ma and Xie, Dr. Cao's third grad student, Wang Xinglian, was there. Wang is a very shy and quiet young woman, and not very confident of her English, but once she got to know us, we had several nice conversations.

Interesting notes about Chinese banquet etiquette: I need to remember that not all Chinese like to drink alcohol, other than under circumstances described later. Wang and Ma both refused alcohol at this and subsequent dinners Also, I suspect I might not have been offered beer (piejiu = pee jyo) if I had not asked for it. But having asked, I received a glass and most of the male diners also had some beer to keep me company. Beer is served like wine, from the bottle into everyone's glass in small doses, and is always shared among the diners. I never saw it drunk straight from the bottle during our meals, but did see other Chinese do this later. (A note for fellow beer tourists: Tsingtao beer is still a reliable standard in China, but Yanjing beer is a formidable competitor. Sadly, the Chinese don't brew dark beers, but both the aforementioned lager-style beers are good dinner companions.)

There are two other Chinese dinner traditions worth noting: first, you should never let your guest's plate be empty, and second, you should never serve yourself first. Since one of my goals during this trip was to be more polite than Emily Post, I combined the two by ensuring that I always served my neighbors first, before they had a chance to serve me in many cases. This seems to have been appreciated. When you're done eating, you always leave some rice or other edible debris on your plate; if you clean your plate, it's likely you'll keep being served more food until either you catch on or you burst. An amusing consequence of this custom is that the habit Shoshanna and I have of sampling each other's food and drink had unexpected consequences. Being tired from the trip, she drank mostly watermelon juice (watermelon being a hugely popular fruit in China, and served as dessert at most formal meals), and when I asked her for a taste, Ma and Xie immediately rushed to get me a glass of my own.

When the host considers dinner to be done, after more than a dozen dishes have arrived and been consumed during a typical banquet, they usually signal this with words such as "you must be very tired", and tonight was no exception. Since we really were very tired, it was probably obvious to everyone, so that statement wasn't just "protocol". The host having given everyone an excuse to leave, everyone gets up and leaves the table without any further ceremony. It may seem a bit abrupt if you don't know to expect it; having known to expect it, it came as no surprise and we didn't worry that we'd offended anyone.

October 10, Beijing

On Sunday morning, Ma helped us book our plane tickets to Kunming (the next stop on our tour) at the hotel travel agency—good thing, since the clerk was new on the job and not very skilled with English. We then met Wang Xiaochong, a man I'd met during my first trip to China in 2002. I'd enjoyed talking to him during our delegation's visit to Beijing, and had stayed in touch over the years. When he decided to form his own company, I worked with him for a few months to discuss various issues related to terminology and how to attract Western business, and even helped him to choose a name for his company. We chose "Alliance Localization" because he wanted to emphasize the relationship aspects of his business and the fact that he wanted to be an ally to his clients, not just a source of invoices. On this matter, we agree fully, since that's how I do business—and it's probably what earned me an invitation to China. I even helped him choose an English name (Derek). Over the years, we've kept in touch, and have enjoyed our conversations. Needless to say, I couldn't come to Beijing without finding time to meet with him.

One aspect of Chinese custom that I haven't mentioned is "guanxi" (gwahn-shee). It's much like the Western concept of "favors owed", only on steroids. When you establish a relationship with someone, this becomes guanxi, and you are thereafter entered into a kind of "marriage" more than a mere association and in business, more than just a contract: everyone keeps careful track of favors performed and favors owed, and it becomes an ongoing source of mutual commitments, which can sometimes become awkward to honor. Since I've been helping Wang for years purely for the pleasure of doing so, I expect he felt that our guanxi account was overdue for balancing. Thus, we had to do a bit of haggling to avoid letting him pay for everything during our day together.

We started the day walking around the "back lakes" area, north and west of the Forbidden City. Wang drove us there in his car, which was an "interesting" experience, though not in the "cling to your seat in terror" sense it was in India. Beijing driving is famously dangerous, at least by reputation, because there are so many new drivers with little experience or training, combined with a sea of pedestrians and others on two or three wheels to watch out for. Wang navigated the interweaving streams of cars, trucks, buses, bicycles, scooters, motorcycles, and pedestrians without any difficulty or any close calls. You need to have a considerable amount of sang froid to drive in Beijing, but more importantly, you need constant situational awareness of everything that's going on around you. I don't think I'd have the degree of concentration or vigilance, at least not this early in my recovery from jet lag, but he did and though it took a few minutes for us to relax, we never came close to anything scary. There are a great many near misses when you drive in Beijing, but everyone is used to the situation and seems to know instinctively when to brake or slip aside and let someone else through.

Pedestrians and other denizens of the streets (e.g., the huge number of scooters) seem clueless initially, and you find yourself wondering how any of them survive. But taking a step back to think about it, it seems to me that this is more a consequence of the Chinese cultural attitude that emphasizes harmony. If you assume, as anyone traversing the streets seems to do, that others will make an effort to avoid harming you, it makes sense to wander careless as a cloud. After all, you know that everyone else will try to avoid running over or into you. It seems to work in the vast majority of cases, though we spotted a few accidents that demonstrated clearly that harmony is sometimes more ideal than practical reality.

The back lakes area is a series of three linked lakes (seemingly artificial, or at least severely domesticated) surrounded by towering poplars and willows. It's a lovely place for a stroll because the margins of the lakes are draped in curtains of greenery. It was a cool and misty day (not smoggy, which I'd feared when I saw the haze over everything), which made the weather perfect for a leisurely stroll. Many others agreed; it wasn't crowded in the sense of having to jostle pedestrians and keep your elbows high, and certainly not crowded by Beijing standards, but there were plenty of people and no vistas empty of people in any direction. In particular, the lakes are a popular place for young couples to escape their relatives (many live with their parents in tiny apartments) so they can obtain some "privacy in public". Many were seated by the lake, cuddling and talking (often simultaneously talking to someone else on their cell phones). This is an interesting change from the past, when public displays of affection were verboten.

It's also interesting that so many of these young adults own electric motor scooters, and spend their evenings whizzing about the city, almost inevitably with the guy driving and his girlfriend riding pillion. This is another way they escape their parents and get some public privacy, surrounded by hundreds of their friends. Shared scooter rides are another given: mostly young couples, but you also see young moms with their youngster standing between their legs, hands on the handlebars, or riding behind them. Female friends also ride together, as do male friends, and sometimes you get a variety of threesomes.

There were a few boats on the lake, mostly paddle/pedal boats but also one Westerner in a sea kayak and one motorboat. The three lakes are surrounded by "hutongs", which are traditional forms of housing in Beijing: low-rise (if memory serves, the tallest was about 2 stories) and often centered around a shared courtyard, though we didn't go poking into anyone's courtyard. These areas are rapidly disappearing, since the land is a priceless resource for building high-rise buildings, whether apartments or office buildings. It's also worth noting that quaint as the old hutongs are for tourists, they often lack key amenities such as plumbing, giving residents little incentive to preserve them untouched just for the convenience of tourists. But in this area, the buildings are considered to have historic interest, and are being renovated and preserved to enhance their tourism value.

We circumnavigated the lake (strolling for a bit more than 2 hours), chatting all the while about nothing of much import, before stopping for lunch at Family Fu's teahouse. It's quite pricey by Chinese standards (aimed at tourists and a starred entry in our guidebook), enough so that Wang actually exclaimed at the prices, and that gave us an opportunity to insist that if he was driving us around all day and buying us dinner, we would pay for lunch. We had really good tea, droolworthy dumplings, and a plate of cookies and miscellany such as dates.

A sign by the door advertised Ming-era furniture, but since we sat outside on the patio to enjoy the air, we didn't really get to see much other than en route to the bathroom. It seems a pleasant and atmospheric place to dine, particularly at night once all the street lanterns are lit. The owner was a pleasant older woman with very good English, and was very interested in learning where we came from, so we had a nice chat with her. She brought us a nice document that she had calligraphed herself; it was a series of Chinese characters combined into a single image that meant "may wealth and happiness enter your house". We sat for about an hour sipping tea and munching dumplings, but when the sky started darkening, we decided it was time to leave. It mostly just sprinkled, so we made it back to Wang's car largely undampened before a more significant drizzle set in.

The last stop on our pre-dinner itinerary was the Yashow department store, which is nestled snugly on one side of a large city block dominated by 10-story (guesstimate) malls packed with Western brand-name stores. Consumerism has clearly hit Beijing hard, since the place was mobbed. Yashow is more interesting and traditional; imagine, if you will, a crowded flea market or soukh, packed into about 7 stories. Aisles so narrow you often have to turn sideways to pass someone; noisy, crowded, and packed to the rafters with "stuff". I loved it! It's the kind of place where you can find anything, from a wide range of clothing to sculptures to musical instruments to jewelry to iPhones and digital cameras, all in the form of tiny booths (most narrower than 10 feet) staffed by aggressively cheery young ladies and a few men. All calling out enticingly to get you into their booth so they can sell you something. You can also get tailor-made personalized suits and dresses made (or at least measured) while you wait. Unlike many stores, everything is negotiable. I hadn't yet hit my stride, so I expect I got scalped on the price of a couple knickknacks. (I'd forgotten the rule that initial prices for weiguoren (way-gwoa-run = foreigners) in such stores are always at least four times the final price they're prepared to accept.) Nonetheless, I got myself a nice bronze dragon small enough to fit on my desk and a stone turtle for a friend who'd requested one as a souvenir.

We ended the day driving to the Quanjude restaurant, one of the most famous in Beijing, where we met Wang's wife, Guo Peng. In 1864, the original Quanjude chef invented the Peking duck recipe, and his descendents have spent the last nearly 150 years perfecting the recipe. That history shows. In addition to the usual bevy of Chinese dishes (most restaurants serve dozens if not scores of dishes), they serve duck that has gone to heaven before it died, and has therefore transcended the bonds of mere flesh: it's roasted to perfection, then sliced into bite-size chunks by a surgical-masked toqued waiter who uses a surgically sharp cleaver to dismember the dear departed in a series of rapid and precise slashes. He creates two plates piled with crispy skin and duck slices. You dip the duck bits in a bit of hoisin sauce, place them on a thin pancake, add a few scallions and maybe a thin cucumber slice, and devour as much as you can fit into your belly. Yum! Every bit as good as I had remembered.

Home to bed earlyish (by 9) so that I could prepare for my lectures the next three days, and slept the sleep of the exhausted and overfed.

October 11 to 13: Beijing lectures and banquets

Beijing Forestry University is a few long blocks west of the hotel; an easy walk, even wearing a suit (my nemesis!) and schlepping a laptop plus about 50 pounds of anti-neurosis aids. (I have a minor form of speaker anxiety: I worry eternally that my laptop won't boot or won't talk to the projector, etc., so I always bring a CD containing the presentation files that will be readable on a PC, which I ask my hosts to provide as a backup, and printouts of the presentation and notes in case I have to resort to PowerPoint 0.9—the dreaded flip chart.) Xiao and Xie came to get me quite early, and we initially tried to hail a cab. In China, you do that by holding your hand out in front of you, roughly parallel to the ground, and open and close your hand against your thumb. You know the gesture you make when someone's talking too much? Kinda like that.

No luck getting a cab, so we walked. It's only about 10 to 15 minutes, depending on how bold you are at crossing the street (more details below), but it was a sunny day, I was wearing a dark grey suit, and was full of pre-presentation adrenaline: I sweated buckets. The lecture room was also way too hot, since it was packed with about 300 students (according to Liu, who knew its capacity) and overheated to begin with. I desperately need a belt-mounted air conditioner—or more accurately, I need someone to invent one.

I've done simultaneous translation before, so I knew the basics: enunciate, speak a bit slower than usual, pause after each sentence or so (certainly after each discrete thought), and wait for your interpreter to catch up. I'd written up extensive notes on what I was going to talk about and given them to Liu well before the lecture so he could read them and ask any questions. Even though he's not a professional interpreter, Liu did a brilliant job. I think I only confused him a couple times when I departed from the script to pursue an interesting thought. (I do this a lot. It works well for English audiences, but is probably considerably tougher for audiences with English as their second language, not to mention for an interpreter. *G*) I grew up during the Doonesbury years when Duke was the American ambassador to China, and I confess to wondering how some of what I said came through in translation; once or twice, a short English description became a surprisingly long Chinese discussion.

On the whole, our partnership worked very well indeed, particularly given that we hadn't had a chance to practice together and learn to read each other's nonverbal cues. Once or twice, one of us started talking before the other had finished, but it didn't happen nearly as often as I expected. I was really quite impressed—you don't know how difficult simultaneous translation is until you've tried it—and I said so at the end of each presentation, asking the audience to join me in thanking Liu for his excellent work. Everyone clearly agreed, and clapped enthusiastically. He seemed pleasantly surprised to be acknowledged, and just a little embarrassed. My understanding is that this approach is a good way to give "face" to someone and enhance their reputation and standing, and it seemed to work.

Over three days, I gave a total of three lectures, ranging from about 1.5 to 2.5 hours in length. Because many of the students were working on MSc or PhD research, or would be within a few years, the subject I'd been asked to talk about was writing for English science journals. I spoke first about the structure and contents of a journal paper, then about some of the insider's secrets of dealing with journal editors and the journal peer review process, and on the last day, I talked about some common difficulties of the English language faced by writers for whom English is a second language. Clearly there's no way to cover it all in one morning per talk, so I had to cherry-pick.

Because I didn't know how long the talks would take given the combination of doubling the duration because of translation and my tendency to depart from the script to pursue an occasional interesting thought, I asked the audience to hold their questions until the end. I don't think I'm anything like a world-class orator, but I do seem to have a good ability to be open and genuine and honest, and that seems to let me bond with my audience. It worked well here too: many smiles, nodding heads, and much note-taking. Chinese students don't traditionally ask questions, so I made a clear point of encouraging questions afterwards, and I'd asked Liu and Cao to suggest that their grad students get things rolling if nobody asked any questions.

That wasn't a problem, since there were many questions. The questions were intelligent and interesting, ranging from explorations of some of the picky details I'd alluded to but not discussed in depth to more interesting questions such as how to choose what area to study in grad school. For the latter, I noted that you need to balance several factors: choosing a subject that will keep you interested throughout a 30-year career, one that will get you a job (or be so interesting you'd do it even if you can't find someone to pay you to do so), one that will be funded, one that will satisfy the kinds of questions that keep you up at night so you can get a good sleep, and one that performs some socially useful role (e.g., defeating the desertification that is a major problem in China). On the whole, the answers were well received, with smiles and nods, and occasional laughter when I made a joke at my own expense or discussed some of the dirty secrets of journals.

The applause at the end was loud and enthusiastic, with many warm smiles. Very flattering. What particularly touched me (and still does, thinking about it several days later), was how happy everyone was when I greeted them and introduced myself in Chinese, and when I explicitly pulled in Chinese situations and used Chinese words whenever possible. I've often written about how important it is to make such efforts, and here's more proof that the efforts are really appreciated. Shoshanna keeps joking that I'm suffering from rock star syndrome; after the last lecture, this became literal when a couple young ladies from the audience came up and asked to be photographed with me. How could I say no?

After each lecture, we had a huge banquet lunch—different food each time, and all excellent. After the first lunch, Liu took me to his office and introduced me to his five graduate students, and we spent the afternoon discussing their research (how to choose a topic and plan their future career), journal publishing, and how we might collaborate together in future. Hospitality to a guest is all very well, and indeed it's de rigueur in China, but you're also expected to repay their kindness in kind, and one typical repayment is to eventually discuss "business" once you've established the initial relationship. It's important to note that this isn't nearly as mercenary as it might sound. The key point is that for a Chinese person, the relationship comes first, and only once they trust you will they move on to the business that is what brought you to them.

I made it clear that I wasn't accepting new clients (because I'm not... I'm way too busy already), but that because I now had guanxi with my hosts and the start of a friendship, that I would make an exception for them. And where I couldn't help them, I made it clear that I would introduce them to my guanxiwang (basically, my network of colleagues) so that someone competent would be able to help. I also indicated in response to repeated comments about how much they'd enjoyed my lectures that I'd happily return to Beijing as often as they invited me, and that I'd teach about whatever topics interested them. Liu seemed very interested and promised he'd speak to the dean of the faculty (with whom he has some pull via guanxi) to see whether this might be arranged. I mentioned that if money was any problem, possibly my colleagues down the road at Beijing Normal University would probably be willing to chip in to bring me to China. If it works out—and I'm cautiously optimistic—I might just end up with an ongoing annual teaching gig here in Beijing. Way cool!

One question that came up during the lectures was about problems choosing the right word, and this is the kind of thing that leads to much irreverent mocking of "Chinglish" (Chinese English, just as "franglais" is Quebec French-influenced English and Russlish is Russian-influenced English). You can see how this plays out in the following example from a note the hotel left in our room: "We regret that the out surface of our hotel tower will be cleaned [list of dates and times]. During these days the worker will be hanged by rope on the outside of your window to do cleaning job. Please won't be surprised and please keep your window closed." The hotel's a big building, so they must go through a lot of workers what with all the hanging, and must alarm a lot of guests who look out the window without knowing to expect all those dead workers. *G*

The example I gave during the lecture was about some of the menu items we'd been offered at meals: "rotting tofu". I explained that the technical meaning was correct (i.e., processed by microorganisms), but that the connotation (something you'd never consider putting in your mouth) wasn't even close; though this is often correctly translated as "stinky tofu" (used positively, like in the phrase "stinky cheese"), the actual word that was probably needed was "fermented". That's something you wouldn't know just from reading the dictionary entry, since the entries for rotting and fermented are probably very similar. My advice to the students was twofold: first, always look the word up in a good dictionary that explains differences in connotation if you're not 110% sure, and second, see what word other authors who have published in English choose in such situations.

After each lecture, and again at dinner, we experienced what I call "mother bird" syndrome: each time either of us opened our mouth, our hosts tried to feed us. Chinese hospitality dictates that no guest ever leave the table hungry, so it was rare for lunches to have fewer than a dozen dishes. I'd told my hosts repeatedly that Shoshanna and I love Chinese food, but that we only get Cantonese and Sichuan at home so we'd love to try something different. Thus, each meal we had different foods from different regions of China, all of it excellent. It will be hard to go back to Montreal Chinese food, which is fine for what it is, but not nearly as diverse and interesting. We'd mentioned that we didn't like organ meats, but that otherwise, the sky was the limit; despite that, we didn't stray too far from usual raw materials (e.g., no "intestine chafing dish"). The food was uniformly excellent and far too abundant; I joked (and got smiles) that next time I'd spend the weeks before our trip "training" by repeatedly stretching my stomach.

Highlights included the best orange squash and corn soup I've ever had, Yanxing noodles (thick and chewy) in broth, and Xinjiang lamb, deliciously tender and dipped in a salty-sweet sauce and rolled in a dry mix of pepper and other spices. Fried or roasted fish, covered in a variety of sauces, was a standard during each meal, and it was generally excellent. The most interesting dining technology was a "chafing dish" (hot pot) dinner we had one night with just the grad students. You sit around two bubbling trays of "soup" in the center of the table (one similar to wonton soup, the other a fiery and savory peppery soup) and periodically throw in something to cook. First to go in the pot was fish—fresh from the aquarium, and brought to the table for approval before being slaughtered by the chef. (Later in the meal we had beef, pork, and lamb, not to mention bamboo, cabbage, and a few other veggies.) The food initially sinks, but it floats to the top once it's cooked. You remove morsels with a ladle, dump them on your plate, and then dip them in any of several sauces; Shoshanna and I both ordered the sesame sauce. It was all tender and yummy, with the sesame taking some of the fire out of the spicier of the two soups.

Before our final meal with our hosts, Cao asked whether I liked baijiu (buy jyo)—basically, rice wine distilled to 110 proof. (Which I like a lot, but you really, REALLY have to pace yourself.) One of the grad students warned me that they were going to get me drunk that night, and indeed, they did their level best to try. The way it works is that at frequent intervals, each diner is expected to toast the assembled company, or individual diners. After announcing your toast, you state "gan bei" (gone bay = bottom of the cup "to the north" = bottoms up = drain the glass); if you're sufficiently stubborn, you can instead say "suiyi" (sway yee = at your will) and only sip the drink. The baijiu comes in shot glasses, and as soon as the level falls below the rim, someone immediately refills your glass. It's considered appropriately macho to down at least one glass with a hearty gan bei, so I did that a couple times; they were amused and pleased those times I stood up to them and only said suiyi. Still, I must have downed four or five glasses by the time the evening was over.

Most of the toasts are very simple things: wishing for happiness, expressing appreciation for your hosts, hoping for continuing collaboration in the future. The one I'm proudest of was when I wished everyone "new friends become old friends". That got many warm smiles, and appreciative e-mails the next day. They also gently directed me to confirm (now that I was somewhat drunkish) what I'd said repeatedly earlier while sober, namely that I loved much about Chinese culture and wanted to learn much more with their help. I did that, with enthusiasm, emphasizing that we weiguoren (way-gwowe-run = foreigners) have much to learn from the Chinese customs, such as the focus on social harmony, but that we have much to teach the Chinese too. In short, that we had much to learn from each other.

My first day in China, I wore the same polo short I'd had made up for my first trip to China, which is embroidered with the Chinese characters "jiao liu" (jyow lyo = an exchange of ideas = communication), and they all noticed and appreciated this, particularly when they realized that I understood the meaning of the words. Interestingly, part of the goal of this drinking process is to see what you're like when your inner censor is pleasantly sloshed and no longer diligently on the job. I try to be genuine and open even when I'm not drunk, so I doubt my overall message changed much, and I think that really impressed everyone. I was complimented repeatedly about being "very Chinese", which is very flattering indeed. However, since the Chinese also respect humility (something I'm not always good at), I always replied "more Chinese than before, and hoping to be better by the time I leave".

Miscellaneous Beijing observations:

Apparently, karaoke has made the leap from Japan to China, and "KTV" clubs are sprouting like mushrooms; our hotel had two separate KTV clubs! Ma told me it's very popular among the younger generation, but fortunately not among those of my generation. (I dreaded the possibility that I'd be asked. That might just set back China–Canada relations by a decade or two. *G*)

Bicycles are much diminished in just 8 years, and may become an endangered species; 8 years ago, there were so many bicycles that there was a constant tugging at the corner of your eye from the unceasing flow of hundreds of bicycles. Now, sadly, they've mostly been replaced by mopeds, scooters, and occasional bikes, not to mention cars. Cars are now so common that Ma told us authorities predict the mean travel speed on surface routes will decrease to 15 km/hour within a short time because of traffic logjams. We were fortunate to not hit really bad traffic most of the time, but we did spend significant amounts of time moving along at bicycle speed.

Pedestrians remain as bold as I remember. They cross streets whenever convenient, stepping between two-, three-, and four-wheeled vehicles as if there were no chance of getting creamed. So you see flocks of people standing out in the middle of multi-lane streets between two lanes of traffic whizzing past in opposite directions, not in the least bit concerned. You also see occasional people who get caught in the middle of 3 to 4 lanes of speeding traffic, calmly stepping forward to the gap between two adjacent lanes whenever opportunity permits. (Reminds me of that old 1980s video game "Frogger".) You eventually get used to it and start doing it yourself, though I don't think I ever got completely comfortable doing it.

Beijing is still growing like topsy, with big—nay, huge—buildings springing up everywhere. Most of the old buildings are Stalin-era drab, characterless, rotting or poorly maintained, and depressing. But all the new stuff is huge (gravitas is a big aspect of Chinese architecture), ultramodern, and always interesting. Most buildings have some kind of top cap (a pagoda, a sweeping curved silhouette) and/or some kind of cladding (i.e., an outer decorative skin) that transforms flat surfaces into eye-catching designs. The one that caused a double take—I had to look closely, twice, to be sure—was a line of apartments whose sides had been designed to look as if the buildings were collapsing. I wish I'd been able to take a picture, but I was looking into the sun from a speeding car. Alas!

Geoff graduates from pre-kindergarten: I never have quite enough time to study and practice Chinese, but I've spent enough time playing with Mandarin that it's starting to make sense to me. I can't actually converse with anyone, but I can introduce myself clearly (and with almost the correct tones), and ask for stuff just like a toddler learning his first words. I've successfully asked for bottled water, where the hotel was located on a map, specific foods, and the name of a food. I'm on the cusp of being able to converse, and a few more months of work will give me basic competence in asking for things. By next year, I hope to be up to kindergarten level in conversation. Wish me luck!