Tag: Hangzhou

Stories about life, love and marriage in Hangzhou, China. From one Western woman with a Chinese husband from Hangzhou.

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Chapter 39: On the Border, at the Public Security Bureau

PRC Police Station
I was on the legal border when I went to the Public Security Bureau, after my visa had expired for two days. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia, user Gzdavidwong)

Leaving Mr. CEO’s office, after he told me — indirectly — that I no longer had a job (and, by extension, no visa or apartment), was like a march to an exile to China’s far West, just as the country used to do for its rogue criminals. I used to be a part of Mr. CEO’s inner circle. But, now, I could have been in a border town, for all he cared.

I might need to run for the border, in fact. The morning of January 23 — one day after that confrontation with Mr. CEO — I finally retrieved my passport from the secretary, only to find it expired January 21, two days ago. I was now illegal.

When you’re illegal, you do desperate things — like leaving the workplace entirely, without informing anyone (except for my closest friend, Caroline). John, who I had called the day before, returned from his hometown the morning of January 23 just to help me. Once I received his call, I quietly dashed out of the office, down the stairs, to meet him and make the march together — to the Public Security Bureau (PSB). Continue reading “Chapter 39: On the Border, at the Public Security Bureau”

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Chapter 38: No Job, No Visa

Getting the axe from your job
My job and visa in China got slaughtered during one brutal afternoon conversation.

Jing Ke, sent by the Yan State to assassinate Qin Shihuang (the despotic future emperor of the first united China, under the Qin Dynasty), knew he was heading to his own slaughter. He wrote, in his poem titled “On Yi River Ferry” (渡易水歌):

Winds moan, Yi water chilly,
风萧萧兮易水寒，
Warrior once gone, never again return.
壮士一去兮不复还.

He knew the warrior — himself — would never come back. He knew what would happen.

I should have known my job at the Chinese Internet company would be slaughtered.

By early January, my contract had already expired. Yet, Mr. CEO refused to discuss my contract, shooing me away. “Sorry, I have other matters to attend to now.” He said something like this every time I breached the subject with him.

The secretary, who had processed my visa before, let my paperwork sit idle on her desk. By January 22, 2003, she had still done nothing — while I began to wonder if my visa was even valid.

But the most piercing evidence came from the company website. I opened it up on January 22, to find new English content written by someone else, instead of me.

Just as Jing Ke faced Qin Shihuang, so I faced Mr. CEO, the afternoon of January 22 — a standoff that felt more like a slow execution. Continue reading “Chapter 38: No Job, No Visa”

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Chapter 35: The Wrong, Painful Step

Shoe stepping into the water
Sometimes, you lose your way in China, and one small step can change your life.

When you live in a foreign country like China, it’s easy to get lost, to stumble, to make a wrong turn. But the wrong turn — or step — can cost you your time, your health or even, your trip to Hong Kong.

On the evening of December 28, 2002, I took the wrong step outside of a shopping center in downtown Hangzhou. It was the kind of place I shouldn’t have even been — a dark alley right beside the center, littered with the sort of unpatched, gaping potholes that just didn’t match the gleaming glass facade of the new building. I’d already lost my sense of place on the way there, when I missed the closest bus stop and had to walk 15 minutes to backtrack to the shopping center. The dark and disorientation merged together, right there in that alley. And then it happened — one step sent me tumbling face down to the concrete, sending a sharp pain through my left ankle. I was so stunned that, for a few moments, I couldn’t even stand. But I finally did get up, because no one was there to rescue me.

No one was there to shield me, either, from the perils of being alone on an evening in China. Continue reading “Chapter 35: The Wrong, Painful Step”

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Chapter 34: Love in the Time of Stomach Inflammation

IV drip
Sometimes you hope for romance in China -- and instead, you end up with an IV drip, and your Chinese boyfriend caring for you.

When you’re in love, and only see each other every two weeks, on the weekends, you romanticize every meeting. You want it to be as perfect as a Tang-dynasty couplet, and script out the possibilities even before your lover arrives. You practice a new phrase, such as wàngchuānqiūshuǐ (望穿秋水 – awaiting you with great anxiety), to say when he comes, and might just even stand on the streets with roses to greet him — just as I had before.

After my painful meeting with Mr. Fang, I romanticized the arrival of John, my Chinese boyfriend, on the weekend of December 13, 2002, even agreeing to meet John at the Hangzhou railway station, as if I was starring in some dramatic reunion scene in a movie.

Except, real life often departs from your own script. Sometimes, you hope for romance — and what you get, instead, is stomach inflammation.

I should have felt it coming, the way I inexplicably collapsed into his arms during the taxi ride home. It wasn’t like me to feel so drained. I expected it was simply the lingering stress of Mr. Fang’s confrontation, weighing on my exhausted frame. A good night’s sleep, with John, my Chinese boyfriend, by my side, would surely restore me.

Or not. Continue reading “Chapter 34: Love in the Time of Stomach Inflammation”

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Chapter 33: My Chinese Boyfriend’s Dormitory Despair

Door in a Chinese university
John, my Chinese boyfriend, was left in the dark at university when he faced a semester of dormitory despair.

While I faced a spamming dilemma in my company in Hangzhou, my Chinese boyfriend, John, faced a dormitory dilemma at his university in Shanghai.

John lived in a men’s graduate dormitory on campus, an older brick building with four floors that stood next to the school cafeteria. John’s initial dorm room, on the second floor, had a window perched just above some large fan or boiler unit for the cafeteria that looked like a large white mushroom made of metal.

John didn’t mind sharing a room with three others, or the smell of the drab, institutional bathrooms, or even the usual 11pm lights-out, power-off policy typical of a Chinese university. But he did mind the noise of the cafeteria — from that strange unit outside the window — which disrupted his sleep every morning, around 4:30am. Continue reading “Chapter 33: My Chinese Boyfriend’s Dormitory Despair”

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Chapter 32: To Spam or Not To Spam

Computer screen in China
To spam or not to spam? That was my dilemma, after the company asked me to do some "international marketing."

By December 2002, I had seen a lot of things at the Chinese Internet company in Hangzhou, where I worked. But spamming wasn’t one of them — until, in mid-December, when my supervisor, Mr. Fang, had a talk with me.

I was already worried when Mr. Fang asked me to follow him to the conference room. And, after I nervously slid into one the black chairs surrounding the solid black conference table, Mr. Fang did nothing to quell my fears.

“So, I was wondering if you could tell me about what activities you’ve been doing at work these days. Ideally, if you could tell me, down to the hour, that would be great.”

It was the kind of thing that “consultants” usually asked, before recommending an employee’s dismissal — except I was the employee, and Fang was no consultant, but my supervisor. “Is there a problem?”

Fang smiled — a meaningless workplace kind of smile that is either there to comfort others, or simply mask the unfathomable emotions within. Either way, I didn’t know where this was going, until Fang spoke the words. “Well, actually, we have a new task for you. International marketing.”

International marketing? Continue reading “Chapter 32: To Spam or Not To Spam”

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Chapter 31: An Unintended Splash at the Hangzhou Pool

As a foreigner in China, sometimes you touch people in ways you never realized. Something you say or do in a moment — a small, forgettable thing to you — becomes a lasting impression to someone else.

I didn’t think much about swimming at the Chenjinglun pool in Hangzhou. I’d been going there since September. By early December, 2002, it was just a part of my routine — a way to get some exercise, while my usual gym was closed for renovation.

Chenjinglun was a typical indoor pool in China. It had lanes roped off for lap swimming. Yet, with the evening demand, you often shared a lane with as many as two or three people. I didn’t mind the sharing. But more people together means more collisions — such as getting clipped by a scissor kick, or clobbered by a front crawl.

That’s why my swimming routine also included flexing my language muscles. Because, if anyone got too close to me, or bumped me, I’d let them know with a firm, but polite, “Xiaoxin!” (Be careful) It was simply communication, acting as my lifeguard.

But, in fact, it’s not so simple when you’re a foreigner, speaking Chinese in China. Continue reading “Chapter 31: An Unintended Splash at the Hangzhou Pool”

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Chapter 30: One Lonely, Post-Thanksgiving Saturday in China

I wanted it to be just another Saturday — as it was to my Chinese coworkers. I rode the number 44 bus to the office, as always. I took the elevator up to floor 12. And when I came to my desk, there was my ex-Chinese boyfriend, Frank, still sitting next to me, as usual.

In a strange way, even Frank’s presence was more comfortable than the truth — that I was lonely, because two days had passed since Thanksgiving, with no sign of a holiday.

This wasn’t the first time I hadn’t celebrated Thanksgiving in China. Last year, in 2001, when I still worked for the NGO, I didn’t celebrate, either. Of course not — I was so entangled in the painful imbroglios that eventually drove me to quit by mid-December, that I had to put aside the pleasures of ordinary life. Including holidays.

But, things had changed. Continue reading “Chapter 30: One Lonely, Post-Thanksgiving Saturday in China”

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Chapter 29: An Indecent English Teaching Proposal

When you’re a foreigner in China, the most common phrase you might hear is: “Can you teach me English?” Your foreign face is like a walking advertisement that new friends or friends of friends can’t help but answer — because they live in a world where English could determine their future, or change their destiny.

Chinese must study English to pass the college entrance exam. In college, Chinese must pass the band-four English exam to get a four-year diploma. With good English, a Chinese could study abroad — leading to a new life in a new country, or a prestigious job upon returning to China — or build their career in a multinational company. To the Chinese — especially Chinese parents — learning English can change lives and fortunes.

And sometimes, you, as a foreigner, have the fortune — good or bad — to meet someone who wants you…to teach English.

My next-door neighbor, Zhang, asked me to teach her English the first day we met — and she discovered she had a foreigner living across the hall. Continue reading “Chapter 29: An Indecent English Teaching Proposal”

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Chapter 28: Of Chinese Medicine and Balance

In Chinese traditional medicine, there is a saying: anger hurts your liver, melancholy hurts your lungs, thinking hurts your spleen, happiness hurts your heart. The thing is, we are all angry, melancholy, happy, or just thinking at different times in life. What hurts is when we do it too much, without balance.

John, my Chinese boyfriend, thinks my life has lost balance, ever since our time together during National Day — and my health hasn’t been the same.

My back and neck felt unusually sore after an evening swim Friday, October 11. The pain lingered uncomfortably for over a week, even after I received Chinese medical massage. So when John came in the weekend of October 18, he took me to the hospital for an X-ray.

“Your neck has straightened out,” the doctor said to me, looking at the black-and-white photo illuminated in his office. All of those days in the office, sitting at an office chair before a desk, had hurt my neck.

But once John and I left the doctor’s office, it was as if the doctor was still in — the doctor of Chinese traditional medicine and wisdom. Continue reading “Chapter 28: Of Chinese Medicine and Balance”

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