At Xinjiekou subway station, there is a great maze holding many little shops and kiosks. Finding your way in this underground bazaar can very easily become confusing. You can get hot dogs just about anywhere in Nanjing, but they serve them kebab like, on sticks, with a spicy sauce brushed over them. While tasty and cheap, last weekend I was looking for the American variety, served in a bun with something close to the appropriate toppings. As far as I know, there’s only one place to get these: somewhere in the maze. Getting off the train, I saw a sign for the “underground shopping street” and walked into a narrow, neon-lit, claustrophobically crowded tunnel reverberating with music and the shouted conversations of those around me. It seemed to have no end. I had to get out. I saw a sign with an arrow and a running stick figure and followed it. I took the stairs right up into the middle of the outdoor shopping plaza. I knew this place. I backtracked. I had to cross the street. I was forced back downstairs at another entrance. I passed kiosks. Hot dogs on sticks…hot dogs on sticks...hot dogs in buns. Ah, yes. At this particular stand, there are some wax hot dogs on the counter (much like wax fruit) to make it easy for unintelligible foreigners and uninitiated Chinese to order. I was glad for this. When asked what I wanted, I pointed at the middle one, which looked pretty good, and said, “Wŏ xiăng liăng gè.” I would like two. In the rapid fire Chinese that immediately followed – way too much Chinese, considering the transaction – I didn’t know what was being said so I pointed again at the middle one and said “Zhè ge.” This one. A blur. “Liăng gè.” Holding two fingers up as I said it. Another blur, followed by “Two?” All three workers had stopped everything. “What the hell is so difficult about this? Liăng gè kăocháng.” Two hot dogs. Hurried, low murmurs amongst themselves. “Shí sān kuài qián.” Thirteen kuai. I handed it over and stood back, leaning on a support beam and watching, hoping that the gist of what I thought I’d heard had been wrong. When I saw one bun come out and two hot dogs go into it, I knew that I hadn’t been. “Shì wŏ de?” This mine? “Duì.” Right. “Bú duì.” Wrong. “Wŏ yào liăng gè.” A confused look. “Nĭ kěyĭ kàn zhè ge ma? Duì?” You can see this? Right? I was pointing at the bun and the two hot dogs one by one. “Wŏ yào yī gè hé yī gè. Wŏ hái yào yī gè hé yī gè.” I want one (hot dog) with one (bun) and I also want one (hot dog) with one (bun). “Liăng gè.” The Gang of Three had huddled again, listening and watching. More hushed, hurried words. “Shí bā kuài qián.” Eighteen kuai. I handed over five more and got my hot dogs one at a time – they’d very kindly waited for me to finish my first before handing over the second. With this hot dog now in hand, I moved on, finding some open wall space that looked across towards a tunnel entrance flashing neon and blasting music and people out. Had this experience been a microcosm of China? Buying a hot dog here should have been idiotically simple. Point at wax hot dog. Hold up fingers. Pay money. Eat. Yet somehow, things had become unbelievably complicated. Had they ever served two hot dogs in one bun before? Probably not – they had to make up a new price for this because it wasn’t on the menu. Yet they had immediately changed the rules in order to accommodate me with as little fuss as possible…and because of this were well on their way to screwing everything, and everyone, up in the process. And afterwards, I’m sure they were complaining about the dumb foreigner who had made them screw up. So maybe, yes, this whole thing had, in fact, been a microcosm of larger aspects of life here. However, I will say this: those hot dogs were worth the aggravation.

Note: This essay appeared in the June 4, 2009 Beijing Review.

“…And finally, I think that you should all learn some Chinese.” Ms. Yao was finishing her introductory remarks. Most of the foreign teachers were there in the administration building’s conference room, listening or appearing to listen on this Sunday morning. In truth, there usually wasn’t too much variation to these meetings: meandering introductory pleasantries from somebody somewhere higher than ground level on the English Department totem pole, followed by a stop-and-go outline of what was needed to be done given by somebody, not on the totem pole, who had been cornered into acting as liaison between the English Department and the foreign teaching staff. However, some things were slightly different this time. I’d gotten one of the eight Jiangsu Friendship awards given out to the foreign staff each year, something I will not deny I had coveted (you only need to be stiffed once to fully appreciate the honor). Beyond this, it appeared that the rumor I’d heard – that Chinese classes were going to be offered at the university – might, in fact, be true. When one of the assistant deans had made this general announcement, people perked up a little bit, including myself. I had asked him when they’d be. “Sometime in March.” Pressing on, I’d asked if he had any idea exactly when – say, days and times. “Later. Later. Send me an e-mail.” Conversation over. I’ll send an e-mail.

“And remember, be sure to make TWO copies of your grading sheets before filling them out. James! Is James here?!?” James was, in fact, sitting opposite me at the conference table. Earlier we’d been chuckling about the last time we’d seen each other, at a party for a mutual acquaintance at a KTV joint – I had left in a huff after somebody had cut the juice as I was just about to croak out Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. He tentatively raised his hand. “Last semester, James handed in his grades and they were all WRONG! He hadn’t made copies and when he asked for some new sheets, I told him that he couldn’t have any because Teaching Affairs wouldn’t print any more. So, please remember, make TWO copies of your grading sheets before filling them out!” Ms. Yao is the most direct Chinese person I’ve ever met. I find this refreshing. “Is Matthew here?!? Matthew MacDonald?!?” Usually. As I now timidly raised my own hand, I knew that the expression on my face must have looked similar to James’ when he had heard his own name called. “Matthew filled out his grade sheets perfectly. I’ve made a copy and am handing them around for all of you to look at.” For completely different reasons, James and I now feel much the same way. I hear a muttered, half-joking “Teacher’s pet.”

The meeting ended abruptly; whoever had scheduled it to end at 11:30 had forgotten that, on weekends, the school shuttle back to the city leaves at 11:20. Nobody really said anything, it was just as if some sort of disturbance in nature, like the feeling of an oncoming summer rainstorm, made everybody begin to fidget in their seats, then pack their bags, then WHOOSH!!! One of my personal goals since I’ve come to China has been to participate in a fire drill. I’ve realized since my arrival that this is probably never going to happen because, to date, I’ve never seen any fire alarms. This lack of safety precaution may be due to carelessness or cheapness. More likely, however, it is because fire alarms are considered redundant. The Chinese instinct for self-preservation is a powerful one – having a bell ring to tell everybody that it’s time to run for their lives probably just seems silly. The foreign teaching staff is picking up on this nicely.

Note: All names in this essay, except for mine, have been changed.