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Meeting people is insanely easy here.

If you’re a foreigner, people are drawn to you. They’re curious. Especially girls. I have gotten more stares and more questions from women than I have from anyone else.

Frequent waves, frequent hellos, and all around good hospitality, it’s a far cry from the reception many receive in the States. Rather than go through illustration after illustration, I’ll stop at the first one:

The well-known bars here in Wuhan play host to a lot of foreigners. Places like Blue Sky Café and The Vox have a large number of laowai, along with the native Chinese and are purported to play host to a number of Christians looking to set their ideas afloat in a sea where they usually sink.

KTV Bars differ. KTV Bars are Karoake Bars. Indeed, KTV = Karaoke Television. “Box Party”, a bar owned by a Chinese guy named nicknamed Bear, is one such place. One of the British teachers, Gerald, is friends with him, and as such, we get discounts on drinks and access to his many friends.

To meet local Chinese people, go to a KTV Bar and avoid the laowai hangouts. Avoid the laowai hangouts anyways. They’re far too western. You’re here to experience China, aren’t you?

I spent last Friday night at Box Party. Me, Rob, Gerald, and a Canadian named Paul. When we get there, Paul overhears that it’s 28 RMB all you can drink.

“Don’t tell me that,” he says, and proceeds to prove why. Bottle after bottle falls empty while I slowly sip on my first one and observe.

I observe some Chinese girls playing pool and some Asian guys sitting on the couches while a couple makes out near a drum stand missing its drummer and the local DJ plays a bewildering variety of music. I swear, we must’ve heard everything from boy bands to hardcore rap to a rousing techno piece whose chorus went “If you’re feeling [], put my dick in your head”.

A pretty deep commitment, if I do say so myself.

One of the Asian guys comes over and stares. Fine. As an awkward white guy in a land of Asians, I’m used to it. The long stares, the short stares, the smiles and random ‘hellos’, I have no issue with it.

So I sip on my drink until he greets me, a soft ‘hello’. I greet him back and he sways a bit. A little too much to drink? In English broken by bad teaching and filtered through an alcohol soaked net, he informs me that he’s Mongolian. I make a few comments, he nods and smiles, and I wander over to play darts.

He follows. We play darts for awhile and I return to the bar, where Rob and Gerald are talking to a artsy Chinese girl. Art student black overalls, white shirt, a beret, and huge earrings, I smile at her and turn and lift my bottle.

Through it, I see my Mongolian friend. He sways again and leans in to share a little secret.

“I have too much drunk.”

I nod and smile. Then he shares another secret.

“I hate Chinese.”

He gives the finger to a small statue.

“Fuck them.”

Flipping off a statue. Indeed, he has too much drunk.

Mongolian China-Hater wanders off and Gerald introduces me to the artsy girl. A little conversation and a lot of smiling ensues where she confirms my initial suspicions: she is an art teacher.

We talk some more, she asks for my number. I have no phone, so I offer my email instead, and I say something that she doesn’t quite understand. Is it time to break out that beginner’s Chinese?

No. She pulls out her phone and searches the word, gets the Chinese translation. A nod and another smile follow, the cute, interested smile. Pretty eyes, a cute sense of fashion, she spends the rest of the night beside me talking. The communication is sparse, but she asks me what my schedule is and we set up a lunch meeting for the beginning of the week.

I knew some Chinese girls liked to talk to Western guys, but I expected nothing like this. She was completely into me, and we barely talked. We barely could talk.

Tomorrow I’m meeting her at noon for lunch. I’ll let you know how it goes.

>I’m starting up a new section where I answer a question that is important yet may not be covered in any entries due to space limitations.

What’s it like being a foreigner in China? Have you encountered any prejudice?

I cannot speak for other cities, but over here in Wuhan, the people have been very nice and very hospitable.

Every one I have met so far has been very friendly. My students love to talk to me, and are always willing to hang out outside of class. Perfect example: Thursday afternoon as I was eating in the canteen (cafeteria), one of my students sat down and introduced himself. He then offered to show me the campus, and we ended up seeing this campus, another campus, and meeting six friends of his, all of whom asked me tons of questions and seemed to relish the opportunity to speak to a foreigner.

We talked more, and he offered to take me to tourist spots in Wuhan. Fast forward to yesterday (Saturday, September 13), where he and two girls accompanied me to Yellow Crane Tower. He bought me a water, and brought a Moon Cake for me to eat, as well as buying me a cup of “Chinese Jello”, a gellutine substance with little bits and pieces inside.

He paid for the bus ride there and back, and all three of them were very polite and friendly. At the sight, a total stranger shook my hand and said ‘hello’, while another woman told Ivon (one of the Chinese girls) in Chinese that she thought I was ‘handsome’.

I could go on for pages on how nice everyone has been, but I hope you get the idea from this short blurb. Check out entries, both

>Monday I began teaching in Concentration Camp.

Not my first naming choice. Not my last either, “English Concentration Camp” is the name for the four-week intensive course for postgraduates, or as most prefer to call it, “Concentration Camp”.

Kind of makes you wonder how intense it is.

Concentration Camp. At dinner last week, our program head, Tyler, described the intensive program to me and seven Chinese English teachers. His opening line? “The way I run concentration camp is…”

I looked around the room. No one batted an eye. He just said he runs concentration camp. Okay. What’s for dinner?

I began to wonder if these adorable Chinese girls know what a concentration camp is. Listening to them say it unsettles me a bit. Is this some kind of twisted joke on them? Or does he really believe “English Concentration Camp” is the best name? Most people prefer simply “Concentration Camp”. They see “English” as superfluous.

How? How can he not know the negative connotation? How can anyone? It takes what, a minimum education level of high school to get it? Did it go like this: “It’s a camp where they will concentrate on learning English. Eureka!!”

Each day lasts eight-hours with a few ten-minute breaks and one lunch break. I assisted Christie on Monday, and how did I assist? I answered questions. I endured long stares.

And I corrected all their English. They don’t call me a Foreign Expert for nothing.

The girls are good teachers and hard-workers. They put a lot of effort into crafting well-done PowerPoint slides full of movie clips, pictures, and stunning examples of useful English. Plus, they’re extremely friendly and helpful. I cannot compliment them enough.

They go by English names, as do all the students. I don’t know why. I guess we all suck at pronouncing Chinese. Or maybe it’s part of the westernization of the Middle Kingdom. Regardless, the students choose their names from two lists, one marked Common Boy’s Names, the other marked Common Girl’s names.

Among these names? Trapper. Chili. For the students who want to stand out. Dare to be different.

Christie took roll and announced some class rules. Aside from the standard “pay attention”, she added an addendum to “be on time”: any late student will have to explain their tardiness to the whole class. Whether it’s enforced or not, I don’t know. No one is late.

Which brings me to my next point: the students are very well-behaved. Yes, they sometimes talk a lot. Yes, some of them text, some an obscene amount, but there is no backtalk. No major disruptions. No one really misbehaves.

What I have done so far involved standing there, explaining certain concepts, and explaining my origins to a less than captive audience. It might be that they did not understand my English, but Neyland Stadium’s 106,000 seating capacity did not thrill them. I’m willing to bet it’s Neyland’s fault, not mine.

Today differed a little bit. Rebecca, a teacher and an interpreter, came down with that condition that hits a lot of women: pregnancy. Knocked-up and out of commission for an indefinite period of time, we reshuffled the schedule to put me and another American in control of a class this morning.

The topic was directions. I prepared a small PowerPoint, and as I did, I began to appreciate all the work the local teachers put in. Note that they do not get paid as much as I do, and yet here they are, doing more work, paying rent and other living expenses I don’t have to bother with.

Monday, Christie used a good game to help teach them the days of the week. I can best describe it like this: seven students stand in front of the room, each representing a day of the week. One student says the name of his day and the word “down” at each. He repeats, and at each repetition, he kneels down and springs up. At end, he says another day, and if that student does not move on time or says the wrong day, he’s out.

Don’t let me description mislead you. It was lots of fun.

The long hours and the style of teaching demands a lot of energy. I have been getting little sleep and consuming large amounts of instant coffee and cola to help compensate. This is in addition to working on these columns and other projects.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t even blame the style of teaching. Teaching well requires a lot, more than most people give them credit for. I am completely exhausted, so I will put it plainly and simply: I respect anyone who cares to do it well, for I now have a small taste of what they go through.

Next week: more on teaching, maybe some on social life among the expats

>I got to the airport, little sleep in my 23 hour journey. I stalked about to my luggage, a hungover coma patient birthed from a drowsy womb, and through dreary lenses I see my name on a small slip of paper, the other American and two Chinese girls to pick me up.

They led us to a van whose driver helped us with ours bags. We all jumped in.

Humid heat everywhere. Either there was no AC or it simply doesn’t exist. No cold air in the car, just the wind when we moved, and as the van pulled from the parking lot and approached the exit, I noticed three cars moving toward it as well, and pedestrians jerking about in aimless motions, and it was here that I first met Chinese Driving.

He did not stop. He did not slow. He slammed on his horn and blew past them.

I wish I could document the number of people we almost hit. Pedestrian right-of-way does not exist. Here the very real threat of being run over cures all jaywalking attempts.

I wish I could document the number of near accidents, but I can tell you about that stretch where the road lacked lanes and cars bobbed in between each other but never touched, like some choreographed vehicular dance.

I wish I could document the number of horn honks I heard. It’s a language consisting of a single-phrase, the translation depending on the context. Usually it means ‘get the hell out of my way’. Perhaps ‘move please’ if they wish to be polite, but nothing about that high-pitched thunderclap seems polite to me.

Foreign students arriving at UT hail a cab and pay the fare to campus, a ‘How’s My Driving?’ sticker providing safe passage to a dorm that they share with two or three other students. We got our hellish ride to the apartment for free, a rent-free place full of luxuries.

Such as a toilet seat.

Chinese toilets demand the squat method. While not quite the hole in the ground that you might expect, it is far from comfortable to use, and as for toilet paper on the premise, forget about it. Bring your own or improvise.

My apartment contains a Western toilet, that is, the toilet we find in North America complete with a seat. A luxury, a reward for the foreign teacher coming here to share his innate expertise.

That’s not all my apartment has. I get this rent-free, freshly renovated place full of new items. New bed, new television, new phone, new furniture, new toilet, new refrigerator, two new air conditioners, and a new computer, complete with Office 2003. Seems they hate Office 2007 too, and for good reason: it sucks. Sometimes you don’t need a real argument. A simple “it sucks” will suffice.

I live on what my foreign affairs officer called the “old” campus. Looking at the other doors, I see what she means, but nothing in my apartment meets the criteria for old. The local supermarket, appropriately named ‘Supermarket’, sells electric water machines, of the type you find at summer camp. A typical machine runs a lot of RMB. Me? I arrived to find one in the corner of the foyer, filled to the brim, near the brand-new LG Washing Machine.

After taking in my apartment, my foreign affairs officer and two other Chinese paid for a cab to take us down the street to a nice restaurant where we held out welcome dinner. They paid for our dinner as well.

I cannot guarantee similar treatment if you decide to do this, but you must understand that as a foreign teacher, your skills are valuable. Specifically, you are a Foreign Expert here in China. You are giving your expertise to the local students. Welcome aboard.

How much expertise? Today they gave the other American books and a vague schedule. He’s teaching tomorrow. Welcome aboard and godspeed.

A warm welcome softens the culture shock. Thus far, they have done just that, but it is not completey gone. Not now. Not in the future either. I have comforts both expected and unexpected. My salary is more than that of the local teachers’, and some of these things I am used to, some I am not, some I take for granted, and some I do not.

While here, it is important not to let the comforts of home make you behave as if you were at home. See anything different? See an opportunity? Then take it. Be thankful and happy, but make the most of your time abroad.

After all, it’s all you really have to work with.

Next week: teaching English and touring Wuhan.