How to Break a Blog

 

Bloggers are weird.  I feel like I can say that objectively because I’m not a very good one.  I’m not yet one of the full-fledged, card carrying, hard core weirdos (like the ones with the successful blogs) who live to blog and never run out of material.  Instead I sit wide-eyed (tongue hanging out) on the edge of the blogosphere peeking in and wondering how to do this the right way.   I have yet to figure it out but I have to admit  . . . it’s kind of fun.

I’m the guy who reads all of the blogs from the good bloggers about what it takes to be a good blogger and write good blogs . . . and then never does it.  Scratch that.  I do do it.  I just don’t keep doing it.  I only do it right after I read the good blogger’s blogs but then I get busy with something else and forget to keep doing it.  Turns out this is a major hiccup because the one thing that all of the good blogger’s agree on is that consistency is the number one characteristic of a good blog.  Evidently being consistently inconsistent doesn’t count.

I know.  I said “do do”.  Grow up.

Late one night (about three weeks ago) I was particularly inspired by some good blogger’s blog about good blogging and decided it was time to step it up.  I’ve dabbled long enough, let’s start running with the big dogs.  Or at least the medium sized dogs.  Maybe even the larger end of the small dog spectrum would work . . . like a Scotty dog or a weiner dog.  Regardless, it was time to stop running with the Chihuahua’s and it was definitely time to get off the the porch.

So I Googled some other good blog’s about how easy it is to make your bad blog better.  Five minutes they said.  You can upgrade.  Give your blog a makeover.  Run with the Weiner dogs.

I did what they said . . . and I broke my blog.  Like seriously broke it, right in two.  That night I stayed up until three o’clock in the morning trying to track down passwords that I hadn’t used for two years and speaking with tech support cronies from seven different countries who had never heard of a blog . . . or a weiner dog.  Incidentally, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Jeremy from Bluehost.  I know it was not you who cancelled my account immediately after I opened it nor was it your policy requiring me to fax a photocopy of my visa card, send in a blood sample and provide the name of the road that my oldest niece’s, childhood pet grew up on.  I shouldn’t have snapped at you.  Thank you for pretending to speak with your supervisor and fixing my problem.

Painfully long story short . . .  what was going to be the five minute, seamless transition into a beautiful new blog, worthy of the weiner dog name turned into the loss of three weeks of my life and more than half of my remaining hair.  It also, as far as I can tell, turned into the loss of everyone who was following my blog.  Unlike the good bloggers who just say “click here” and 10,000 people follow them, I had worked hard for more than two years for every last soul on that list.  All 69 of them.  I would take this opportunity to apologize to them as well but I don’t think they’ll ever see this . . . unlike Jeremy from Bluehost whom I’m pretty sure has been stalking me for three weeks.

At least I’m back on the porch.  Happy, for now, to be hanging with the Chihuahua’s and thrilled with my new and improved (albeit momentarily less functional) blog.  Please feel free to click around and check things out.  Give me some feedback or make some suggestions and together we’ll jump ahead to the weiner dogs.

Click here to check out the homepage.  Then click on the right to like me or be the second one to subscribe via email (I am the first . . . shut up).

How to Get Your Driver’s License in China Step 2: Hoop Jumping Made Easy

Theoretically speaking, getting a driver’s license in China is simple.  Like falling off a log, taking candy from a baby or shooting fish in a barrel.  It’s a hypothetically stress-free, three step process:

1.  Get your paperwork in order
2.  Pass the physical
3.  Pass the written test

Piece of cake.

However, like simplicity and the metaphors we use to describe it, sometimes things go wrong.  Taking candy from a baby, for example, is not intrinsically complicated but what you are left with is a screaming baby and a scorned mother.  Falling off a log requires very little effort but fall into some poison ivy or a den of rabid wombats and it gets messy.  Shooting fish in a barrel, frankly just seems unnecessary and loaded with potential consequences that get more and more severe the easier you make it.  For instance, shooting fish in a barrel with a sling shot and marshmallows is still a bit challenging but carries a pretty low risk of injury.  Shooting fish in a barrel with a bazooka, on the other hand . . . so easy but such a bad idea.

Simplicity is relative.  It’s all about the variables.

The Paperwork
Completing the paperwork for your Chinese license is genuinely simple . . . like jumping off a cliff or kissing a piranha.  In most Chinese cities the paperwork is the same.  Copies of your passport, visa, and so on plus six head shots of yourself in mid blink with lettuce in your teeth.  I find that some of your darker greens, like a spinach or a nice arugula (slightly wilted) work best.  Then you’ll need to have both the front and back of your valid driver’s license from your home country translated into Chinese by a certified translator who may or may not speak English but possesses an official certified translator stamp and is therefore more qualified than other Chinese people who are much more qualified.  It also costs money.

Pretty cut and dried.

The Physical Exam
Literally nothing could be easier than completing the physical exam.  It’s as easy as turning your head . . . or coughing.  That’s just a joke.  Nothing like that.  In fact, I’m convinced that the sole intention of the nurses at each station is to work together to beat their collective best time which I think is about 48 seconds.  Time starts when the nurse at station one stamps your form, hands it to you and points at station two.  The rest of the exam goes something like this . . .

Station Two Nurse: (speaking quickly and snatching my paper) Press your forehead here and look into the goggle thingy.  Do you see something?
Me: Uh . . . yes.
Station Two Nurse: (stamps the form and passes it to station three) Ok.  Next.
Station Three Nurse: Put these headphones on.  Do you hear something?
Me: Uh . . . yes.
Station Three:  (Stamp.  Pass to Station Four)  Ok. Next.
Station Four: What are you about 185 centimeters tall?
Me: 187
Station Four:  (Stamp) Ok.  Next.
Station Five: How much do you weigh?
Me: Uh . . .
Station Five:  (Stamp) Ok.  Next.
Station Six: Put your arms out in front of you and squat (Stamp).  Next.
Station Seven:  (Showing me the color blind thing where the orange dots make a number in the blue dots) (Stamp) Can you see this?
Me: Yes
Station Seven: Next.
Station Eight:  Sign here.
Me:  (signing)
Station Eight: (Stamp) TIME!!
Station One:  Forty eight point six.
All Stations:  (disappointed) Awwww!

No needles.  No cups.  No rubber gloves.  Easy as pie.

The Written Exam
The written test is not easy.  Scratch that.  Anything is easy if you know the answers.  Knowing the answers to the written test is not easy.  I suppose metaphorically speaking it is easy like Quantum phyiscs or speaking Klingon.

When I took the test there were a possible 800 questions to study from.  Now there are 1500  (it’s projected that by next year there will be over one zillion).  When you take the test a computer randomly selects 100 questions of which you must answer 90% correctly.  No pressure.  The questions are broken into four major sections (all examples are actual test questions):

1.  Common Sense Questions:  These are the questions that everyone should know before they are allowed to even ride in a car.  Unfortunately, only about 10% (or 150) of the possible questions are in this category.

Example:  When driving at night, the driver’s observation ability is visibly poorer and his visibility range becomes shorter than driving in the daytime. (Translation: It’s harder to see when it’s dark than when there is light)

Right Wrong

2.  Flash Card Questions:  These are questions that are impossible to know apart from rote memorization.  70% (1050 questions)

Example: If a motorized vehicle driver violates the provisions on the parking and temporary stopping of motorized vehicles of the law and regulations on road traffic safety, the driver is subject to a fine of __________ if he is not present at the scene and his vehicle obstructs the flow of other vehicles and pedestrians

a) 10 yuan ~ 20 yuan
b) 20 yuan
c) 20 yuan ~ 200 yuan
d) More than 200 yuan

3.  Road Signs.  9%

Examples: 

4.  Lost in Translation Questions:  The English translation is much better than it has been in years past but any time you move from one language to another there are issues.  Don’t fight it, you can’t go back and argue later.  Even if it’s wrong and they say it’s right, they win.  It sounds better in Chinese.  11%.

Example:  When a motorized vehicle crosses an overflowing road or bridge, the driver should stop and look at the situation, and passes through slowly before he makes sure that it is safe to do so.

Right Wrong

So the basic formula is memorize every single word of the 1500 questions whether you think they are correct or not.  Then take a wild guess when you forget things like how many meters you should stay behind a truck hauling live chickens if it’s raining, or if it’s snowing, or sleeting, or hailing, or you’ve been drinking, or you’ve been sucked up into a tornado or . . .

Easy like Sunday morning.

In all seriousness it is extremely gracious of China to allow foreigners to drive on their roads especially when we say such horrible things about their drivers when they drive on ours.  They are certainly under no obligation to make the test easy and they have gone out of their way to make it accessible.  I, for one, am both thankful and thrilled.

And if you’re considering getting your license in China you should go for it.  It’s not easy but it is completely doable and if I can do it then you should breeze right through it.  Just be prepared to pull your hair out along the way.  In the city that I lived in it took about an hour to an hour and a half (depending on traffic) to get to the license facility.  It also took me six trips.

  • Trip one:  Turn in my paperwork and register for the test.  They told me there was a problem with the certified translation of my American driver’s license and I would need to redo it.
  • Trip two: Same as trip one
  • Trip three: Take the test — Passed.
  • Trip four: Go to pick up my driver’s license.  They told me I needed to take the driving test because my American license allowed me to drive a 15 passenger van so my Chinese license had to be the similar (21 passenger mini-bus).  Registered to take the driving test.
  • Trip five: Waited to take the driving test but found out at closing time they forgot to turn in the registration from trip four.
  • Trip six:  Driving Test.

But that’s another blog.

Here are some actual helpful links for those of you preparing to take the test.  Hope this makes it easier.  Like poking yourself in the eye with a fork.

1. Study, take a practice test and more
2. Another practice test with nearly all of the questions
3.  Basic Info about getting your license
4.  Great PDF with helpful info especially if you live in Beijing

How to Get Your Driver’s License in China — Step 1: Insanity

There are two ways to get a driver’s license if you’re a foreigner living in China.  One involves a back alley and the understanding that you will pretend to be a 53 year old, overweight Chinese woman should you ever get pulled over.  The other involves three easy to follow steps, each involving 14 to 26 complicated to follow steps, each involving up to 7 and a half impossible to follow steps which will ultimately leave you curled up on the floor of the Chinese Department of Motor Vehicles, sucking your thumb, wishing you had opted for the back alley alternative.

Being the upstanding, law abiding foreigner of noble character that I am, and frankly less than confident in my 53 year old Chinese woman impersonation . . . I chose the latter.

This is my story.  Buckle up.

It begins by addressing the simple question obvious to anyone who has ever encountered China traffic. 

“Are you insane?” 

Fair enough.  Admittedly traffic in China is only slightly less chaotic than what one might envision for such events as the Running of the Bulls, or Armageddon, or parenting.  However, being the cheery optimist that I am I have chosen the higher road (pun intended).  Instead of focusing on what (from an outsiders perspective) appear to be radically overcrowded streets cram-packed with newly licensed drivers who feel socially obligated to speak on their cell phone while driving and have virtually zero regard for personal space, blind spots or lanes, I choose the adventure perspective.  It’s like a video game.  You can cut through traffic like you own the road and lots of people honk but no one shoots you with real bullets (there may be another post coming about the confusing lack of road rage in China).

Someone in your way?  Honk your horn and pass.  No lane for that?  Oncoming traffic has a lane, honk your horn and use that one.  Lane full?   Take the sidewalk (and honk your horn).  Sidewalk blocked?  Honk and drive through the lobby of the bank.  Door locked?  Just honk your horn.  Then talk on your cell phone.

The standard miscalculation that Westerners make when they observe Chinese traffic is to think that there are no rules.  That is simply not true.  On the contrary, there are heaps of rules and the system stays in motion because everyone disobeys all of them at the exact same level.  Sorry — that’s not entirely true.  Taxi drivers are 83% more dismissive of all existing rules than common drivers but it STILL works because all of the common drivers are aware of the gap and adjust accordingly.  Consequently, if a taxi driver were to, for example, slow down for a pedestrian in a crosswalk, it would disrupt the flow and instantaneously trigger a chain of cataclysmic reactions that would ultimately require red cross involvement all because no one could have ever seen that coming.

However, being the seasoned expat and culturally astute outsider that I am, I was ready to give it a go.  Insane or not, for me it was about one thing.

Driving. 

I love driving.  It’s my go to stress relief in America.  If driving was a drug I would so be an addict which would be ironically challenging because it’s illegal to use drugs and drive at the same time (in China too).  I’m not sure how I would get around that but the point is I love driving.  When we were back home for one year I drove so much that I could have driven from America to China and back . . . 5 times (I know, I know . . . except for the water — don’t be difficult).  Even though I had no plans to purchase a car in China I made up my mind that it was worth it to get my license on the off chance that someone else would let me drive theirs.  Even once.

So I suppose that firms up any reasonable doubt surrounding the question of my sanity.  It was no longer a question of “am I insane?”  Now the question remaining was, “am I insane enough?”  They don’t tell you that when you Google it but just in case you’re considering driving in China, you should know.  Wanting a Chinese driver’s license is one thing but getting it will take you to a whole new level of crazy.

But that’s another post . . .

Up next:
Step 2:  Hoop Jumping Made Easy
Step 3:  The Driving Test

Step 4 – Part 1:  How to Get Your License Back When You Lose it

Step 4- Part 2: Taking the Test . . . Again

I Miss You America (Revisited)

So I’m back in America for a week and I’m itching to write about it but alas . . . jetlag.  So I’ll write later but here’s a repost from the same one week trip last year.  Makes me feel better to pretend like I have written something.  I’ll think about writing a follow up while I sleep.  Good night.

Dear America,

It was great to see you again and even though we didn’t have much time to catch up I realized how much I have missed you.  They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder and frankly . . . I think that’s bunk. I am convinced though, now more than ever, that being away for so long has opened my eyes to a whole load of qualities that I never knew I loved about you.  I love your baseball and apple pies but who doesn’t?  I miss your purple mountains majesty and your fruited plains but China has those too.  Ok, I’m not sure they have purple mountains but to be honest I haven’t seen yours either I was just saying that.  Where are they exactly?  I bet they’re cool.  Point is, I’ll always miss your big stuff but it’s your cute little quirks that really got to me this time.

I miss your gas stations.  I really miss driving a car but it’s more than that.  I feel at home in your filling stations.  We have a bond.  I know that whether I am traveling your highways or trolling your cities I am not far from a giant, well lit sign with removable numbers that inexplicably add an extra decimal point to your currency.  Three dollars and forty three point nine cents for a gallon of gas?  You don’t see that in other countries.  I also know that I will be warmly welcomed by at least eight different flavors of coffee, a shining wall of refrigerated carbonation and multiple thousands of bags and boxes of sicky sweet,  uber-hydrogenated, ultra-processed, slickly marketed variations of corn, wheat, meat and chocolate surrounded by t-shirts and fake license plates that offer brilliant wisdom with proverbs like “There’s too much blood in my alcohol system” and “Did you eat a bowl of stupid for breakfast?”.  I miss you America.

I miss your waiters and waitresses.  I miss that little speech at the beginning of a meal that goes something like, “Hi, my name is Alan and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”  You know why I miss that so much?  Because I really believe that Alan will indeed take care of me.  He frequently asks me if “WE”RE doing okay over here” even though I am the only one at the table.  Why so plural Alan?  You know why?  Because Alan is in this thing with me.  We’re connected he and I and he is genuinely and deeply concerned about how I am doing over here.  And if I am not doing okay then WE are not doing okay.  I miss that.  Some people say it’s about the tip.  Cynics.  They don’t know Alan like I do.  He told me as he gave me the bill (and I quote),  “if there is ANYTHING else I need” just let him know.  That’s a true friend.  Out of respect for Alan I refused to cheapen our relationship by leaving a tip . . . or should I say a bribe?  Alan would never take money to be my friend . . . I know because as I walked away he waved and though I could not read his lips he gestured, “you’re number one!”  No sir my friend.  You are.  I’ll miss you Alan and I miss you America.


I miss your loud mouths.  I have a confession to make America.  On previous trips I have been overwhelmed and even annoyed by your news anchors, your “investigative reporters” and your radio talk show hosts.  Your obsession with presenting the conflicting argument no matter what the original argument is has, at times, seemed to be spinning out of control.  Maybe it was the brevity of my trip but this time I found myself chuckling and even entertained.  In China the news is accepted with little public outcry but not in you America.  You accept nothing.  You expose it and crush it and beat the living daylights out of it and when there is no daylight left in it you hoist it on a stick and march it through the city streets.  Sure someone fed homeless people but how much did that free soup really cost the taxpayers?  Sure someone’s pet goldfish dialed 911 and saved an elderly man who was having a heart attack but should the price of fish food be covered by medicare?  I miss you America.


It was good to hang out again America.  It was good to be reminded that a nation is not the sum of its stereotypes.  It was nice to remember that you are so much more than the face I see on the news and the conversation I have with Chinese taxi drivers.

Hang in there.  You are missed.

Why Expats Hate June

Life as an expatriate is tainted by a single word.

“Goodbye.”

By nature, the move TO a foreign country is launched with a massive, painful farewell that is partially numbed by anticipation, excitement, adrenaline and sheer exhaustion.  It’s an all out frenzy, as the days are counted down, to spend an appropriate amount of quality time validating every significant relationship (and some that aren’t so significant) wrapped in the chaos of arranging visas, making travel arrangements, finding a home for the hamster, cramming suitcases to just over the allowed weight limit, selling your old Tupperware, your bowling ball, your car and your house.

Honestly . . . and I mean this in the best possible way . . . the initial goodbyes aren’t so bad.  Not because we won’t miss those people horribly.  We will.  But four things make it easier.

1. In the chaos there is no time to breathe, let alone process reality.
2. We knew this was a part of the deal when we decided to move.
3. It’s always easier to leave than to be left.
4. We’ll probably see those people again.

Come on fellow expats – don’t leave me hanging . . . “Did you see what Jerry wrote?! He said leaving his family and friends was easy . . . and wonderful.”  Not what I said.  But if you’ve been through it you know I’m right.  Horrible as it is, the worst of the pain gets overshadowed by the madness.

But that’s only one set of goodbyes.

What you don’t expect when you move to a foreign country is that every June will feel like you’re taking a metaphorical golf club to the metaphorical teeth.  Metaphorically speaking of course.

What is really cool about our particular expat experience is the people we meet.  The other expats around here are amazing and we’re all in the same expat boat. Actually maybe it’s a submarine because we tend to go a little deeper really quickly.  We come from all over the world but we are all sharing the joy and pain of China together.  All of our kids are getting stared at and photographed every time we go out.  We’re all faking Chinese every time we get in a taxi. None of us knows where to buy good bacon or milk or DVD’s or get our hair cut, or permed or straightened, or dyed (at least without dire consequences).  We all know nothing together, but when one of us discovers something there is excessive jubilation.  Like warriors returning from a great victory we come together in the expat village square to celebrate and divide the plunder.  The children laugh and play games while the men and women riverdance and parade around with hand sewn banners reading, “WE . . . HAVE FOUND BACON!!”

Ok . . . still speaking metaphorically but the points are genuine.  We like these people.  We connect on a level that is deeper than the surface.  We help each other.  We laugh with each other.  When something horrible happens to one of us we all understand the pain of going through it away from home so we all try to fill in the gaps.  Our celebration may take place through email or text messages but when we find something new, we pass it on . . . and we all feel a little bit better.

And in June . . . we say goodbye.

Expats aren’t lifers.  There are very few deep roots here.  Our kids don’t graduate with the same kids they went to Kindergarten with.  Most people stick around two to five years and just a handful stay longer.  There are constantly newcomers and constantly outgoers but June is the worst month of all.

Click here to read about The Transition That Never Ends

Literally, in the course of two weeks we have said goodbye to more than 35 of our friends and that’s a typical June.  Ranging from acquaintance to neighbors to close friends it’s a bit surreal to walk through our community and realize, “Oh, the Blabla’s are gone . . . and they’re not coming back”

We’re expert farewellers but with every goodbye there is an ignored reality that we don’t dare mention out loud.  We cover it up with overly optimistic and misguided statements like, “We’ll come visit you” and “We’ll skype every week.”  Those well wishes help us feel a little better but they don’t come true.  The sad truth is that when we say goodbye (with a few beautiful exceptions) we will never see these people again.

Click here to read Hello Again: The Unanticipated Bright Side of Perpetual Goodbyes

So to all of you dirty jokers who have moved on in the past few weeks . . . Thanks for ruining June for the rest of us.

Seriously . . . the kids are out of school, the weather is gorgeous and the smell of barbecue is in the air.  It’s supposed to be a happy time.  But no.  You had to leave and you took your kids with you.

You will be missed.  Thanks for being expats with us.

 

 

Let’s Talk About the Dolphin in the Room

“I’m thinking about buying an elephant.”  

That’s what I said to Flight (our Chinese assistant) just because I knew it would be a fun conversation.

“Hmm.  Why do you want to buy an elephant?”

sidenote – That response was a landmark moment in our relationship.  Her typical response to me is the now famous, “Whaaaaat?”  which is her knee jerk, “I’m not quite sure I understand how you foreigners think” reaction (read, “That Stink is Awesome” for more about “Whaaaat”).  Honestly (just between you and me) that’s what I was going for.  But the “Whaaaat’s” are harder to come by these days.  She has reached the point of unshockability and complete immunity to goofy overstatement and bad Foreigner jokes.  New level.  


So that’s all I got.

No “Whaaat? Where will you put an elephant? How will you feed an elephant? Can you really afford an elephant?”

Just “Hmm. Why do you want to buy an elephant?”

I confessed that I didn’t want to buy a real elephant and I could see by her face that she was thinking the sarcastic Chinese equivalent of,  “Really?  Cause I thought you might be serious?”

I explained, “We have a saying in English, ‘Let’s talk about the elephant in the room'”

She was at least curious, “What’s this mean?”

I continued, “We use it when there is a problem that everyone knows about but no one wants to talk about.”

I told her I wanted to buy a giant, inflatable elephant for a prop when I’m speaking to companies about ignoring the cross-cultural problems that they have.  She didn’t know the word inflatable so I had to pretend like I was blowing up an elephant but that’s pretty typical (acting out words, not pretending to blow up elephants . . . first time for that).

“Ohhh yeah.  They sell those here.”  She pointed back at the Supermarket that we had just walked out of.

Totally got me.  I said, “Whaaat?”

“Yeah, they sell those here.  Upstairs.”

I was so confused and so certain she wasn’t understanding me.  “The blow up kind?! (again acting it out)”

“Yes, with the toys. . . only they are dolphins . . . will that work?”

Laughing, “No, you can’t say ‘I want to talk about the dolphin in the room.’  It has to be an elephant.”

sidenote:  I flashed back to the last time I had her buy two rubber ducks so I could illustrate “paradox.”  Get it?  Pair of ducks . . . Pair-a-ducks . . . Par-a-dox . . . it’s better when you have rubber ducks in your hand.  She found the ducks but she called me on the phone, extremely excited because she had also found rubber chickens for half the price of the ducks . . . “will that work?”


“Parachickens” . . . not the same.  

“Why can’t you say you want to talk about the dolphin in the room?”

“Because, that’s the whole point of the saying.  It’s like there is big elephant in the room. Everyone sees it but no one is talking about it.  It’s impossible to not know it’s there but still we choose to ignore it.”

“If there’s a dolphin in the room you should talk about it.”

She had a fair point.  “That’s true but the saying means there is a BIG problem . . . huge . . . enormous . . . like an elephant.”

Lights coming on.  “Ohhh.  So it could be a whale?”

“NO! It must be an elephant because that is the saying.  Let’s talk about the ELEPHANT in the room.  Not the whale.  Not the dolphin.  Not the chicken.  The ELEPHANT!”

She was laughing hard enough for me to realize that not only had she (after two years of working for foreigners) become completely impervious to my attempts to set her up for confusingly hilarious conversations by using ridiculous, culturally unclear statements . . . she had disarmed me . . . and slapped me with my own weapon.

Touche Flight.  You make me proud.

And you’re fired.