Yoda

Luckily, I had a parent who loved me when I was a child. Pushed me to be my best, taught me to get up when I fell down, and, thankfully, never threw me in the pool and said swim or sink.

I have now come to learn that real life doesn’t give two splits about cushy parenting styles and life is totally the jerk kid at the pool who likes to shove people into the water when they are fully clothed.

Every moment since I’ve set foot in China has been a sink-or-swim-go-now-don’t-think experience. Getting into the taxi, eating breakfast, figuring out where to eat this afternoon, all of it comes down like a wave. Wave, after wave, after terrifying wave. I like to believe handling the onslaught well, but I can’t express to you, dear reader, how uncertain my existence is because I don’t know Chinese.

Case in point, today we were treated to (maybe assaulted by) a tour of Qingdao. We gathered in front of the International Student building and waited for anyone familiar, program coordinator, TA to show up and tell us the plan for the day. Weren’t we in for a surprise…

Around 9:45 a bus shows up with two Asian girls. I’d call them tour guides, but they were more like program sanctioned handlers because they didn’t speak any English and I’m almost convinced couldn’t speak at all because they barely said a word in Chinese, too. At 9:55, they started making noises and gestures at us that seemed to imply we were supposed to get on the bus with no explanation of where we’d be going or what we’d be doing. Forgetting all our American indoctrinated “Don’t go anywhere with strangers” talks, we all herded onto the bus and were whisked away into the snarls of traffic.

After about a twenty minute bus ride, we got off at a beach and sculpture garden and began looking around, wandering aimlessly, and asking each other what was going on. This initial stop set the precedent for how every other stop would ensue. We’d get off the bus, follow the Asians until they stopped, turn around and follow the Asians the other way; all the while receiving no explanation as to what we were looking at or why we had decided to stopped where we were. I managed to snap some neat photos, but I could have just as easily took pictures of the ground and have had better explanations for why the photos were important.

For about an hour we trekked through scenic walkways, up mountain sized hills, and just generally around. By the time lunch rolled around, most of us were suffering from some form of lingering jet lag and thought lunch would be an opportunity to sit and rest. Unfortunately, my hopes dissolved when we pulled off the side of the road and followed the Asians into an alley (Not a good sign. Ever).

Teeming with life and noise, the alley was lined with restaurants. Small Asian men and women stood outside doorways screaming at us from stalls filled with strange ingredients. Starfish, jellyfish, sea urchin, squid featured prominently at each location and each store seemed to have its own city-sized aquarium. The massive displays were reminiscent of the pet fish aisle in Wal-mart, but instead of guppies and tiger barbs, these tanks were filled with catfish, clams, snails, conch, and a whole manner of other aquatic animals that I had never seen, but assume people eat...

It wasn’t until the small Asian men and women started coming up to us and touched our shoulders with one hand as the other motioned towards tables and menus that we finally understood that they wanted us to eat in their restaurants. Either way, our group stayed huddled together from fear of getting lost and followed the Asians deeper and deeper into the network of alleys and people, chasing the dream that maybe we were headed to a restaurant laid out for thirty with menus and quiet time.

Nope.

After dodging and squeezing for about ten minutes, we finally stopped in front of the one food stand that I’ve seen in every movie, travel show, and slide show that centered on Westerners going to foreign places: a bugs-for-food stand. Pods that shook, truncated worms that squiggled, and others that just lay there, accepting their foodie fate were presented in a terrifying tableau of bowls. Basically, everything I have been taught since birth is the stuff of nightmares was ready to be skewered and slapped over some coals. The most jarring sight was the live scorpions (a bowl of yellow camping-sized ones and a bowl of giant black, Egyptian tomb guardians) clicking and pinching at gloved chef hands as they were scooped from a slithery mass of at least 100 and turned into someone’s lunch break…

Luckily, we weren’t eating at the nightmare stand, but we were treated to an even worse announcement: “Alright, time for lunch, you’re on your own.” By the time I had asked someone for a translation, the Asians had disappeared, leaving me and my companions huddled in the street.

Almost immediately, two girls latched onto my arms telling me they were coming with me and, others assuming that this meant I had a plan, soon crowded around me asking where we should go. In America, I’d have no problem with this. I’m usually able to ferret out some delicious whole in the wall that causes envy at my gastronomic prowess, but, not having a deep and abiding knowledge of food terminology in China, I was caught in the classic situation of the blind following the mute. Eventually it just came down to eeny-meeny-miney-moe and a kind waiter who pulled us off the streets and up into a private room.

Finally we were seated and faced with the new challenge of having to order food. Probably the best part is that every restaurant has pictures in their menus, so we were able just point and finally eat without thinking. With one minor snafu over some vegetables, we gorged ourselves and were eventually found by the Asians. In a burst of Chinese, we were told that we were late and had to hurry and return to the bus. Whether or not this was true or not, I don’t know, and I feel I can only blame my not knowing on the fact that my Chinese mental telepathy just wasn’t up to snuff to catch it, so yeah...

Sorry I am, Yoda, failed you I did,

Mr. Mockler