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.