Today I stand before you as a man

I know I already had my Bar Mitzvah, but today has been another kind of turning point. Today, I really am a grownup. Ok, well, not quite -- I'm closer though. I've been away (more on that later) but recently found myself in the position of needing to deal with my visa. I mean really needing to deal with it, in that today was my last legal day in the country. I have a 30-day visa, I came back from Hong Kong on the 28th, July has 31 days -- thus, today was the day I needed to figure this stuff out. Could I have been a more adult adult and done it before my last day? Only kind of -- I was traveling, and the city I planned to fix things in, turned out to be the worst city in the world. Literally. More, as they say, later. Anyway -- I woke up at 8:00 and got to the visa office by 9:00. Not a bad start. I've been there before, and it's always been referred to as the Ministry of Doom (MOD) but it was never that bad, not back then. Almost no lines and right up to the counter I went. Things were going to work out just fine. I didn't have the right paperwork. Not only did I not have the right paper work, I'd done what I did have in a nice blue pen. This was not allowed. It had to be dark blue, or black. I explained that I was but a simple tourist (albeit one with a Beijing accent) and that I didn't have a household registration card, or a Chinese bank account. Well you'd better get some, was the rejoinder.

I called my friend Alex, and begged the loan of his registration. I figured staying with a friend (as I'd told them I was) was pretty reasonable. I started to see about banks. The first bank I went to knew exactly what I needed to do (they were the closest to the ministry of doom after all) but they said they were too small to take money off my bank card. Ok, I said, where can I do that? Our larger branch just two streets away was the swift reply, and off I went in search of the bigger branch. There I filled out paperwork (thrice, the first two tries failing somewhere near the second line of boxes) and sat down in the comfy VIP chair to open my brand new Chinese bank account. This wasn't so hard. The man swiped my card. He swiped it again. Nothing happened. I begged him to type the number in. He did. Still nothing. I was out of luck.

Meanwhile, Knightly Alex had arisen and gone to register with the police (his registration was overdue too). We met, photocopied his registration and parted ways with promises to meet soon to sup and quaff. After the morning's failure with swiping, I found a pay phone and called my bank. They explained why I couldn't see my balance (I'd tried) on ATM machines (makes you wonder about the whole check balance thing, but anyway) and said that I should have no trouble using my card at a bank, as long as I had my passport.

I tired the Bank of China. On the second try we got the paperwork filled out correctly. The moment of truth. I gave them my card, they took it to the back and twittered over it, pulled out a manual card crunching machine, and went for the telephone. I'd asked for 25,000 RMB, a bit over 3,000 dollars now, because, and this was the whole point of the exercise, as a tourist, I need $100 dollars a day in my bank account. Because China is REALLY expensive these days. Inflation is high, but even traveling I was only spending $20. No matter, the dollar sucks anyway, and it would be good to stop using my American Check Card. The call went though, but they came back sad. It didn't work. What didn't work, I said. The card, they replied. Well, right, but what specifically? If I'm going to go call my bank I need something to tell them. He didn't say, they said. Who? The man we called. Well call him back, and ask what the matter is. Please. They called back, and ascertained that the account number was unreachable through the call center. Aha, I thought, something concrete. I went across the street, found a pay phone, and called the Bank. I'm in China, said I, I need to open an account because they'll kick me out of the country if I don't. It's not working, why not? They asked me lots of personal questions and then said that my daily bank withdrawal limit was $2,499 -- that's why it wasn't going through. Aha, again. Back across the street. I'm back I said to the cheery greeters, and they tittered. Back to the window. Please take out $2,400 I said. There was much calculation, tapping and bashing and such. A number in RMB was given that sounded about right. Go for it I said. It didn't work. Back across the street. More personal questions. What's the deal, I asked. The last try was for $2,600 came the answer. The bank teller is terrible at math.

Back to the bank, for the last time this time. Your math has issues, I told the teller. Let's try 2,200 this time. He tried, and it worked! Hallelujah. Now the paperwork came out. Slips were printed. They were torn. I signed their stubs. Pin-codes entered, reentered, and entered once more for good measure. They love their pin codes, banks. I got a passbook (where they print things for real) a card, and a little dongle type thing that I don't know how to use. One thing at a time I suppose. This took, forever. You'd think it would be quick, a signature, a stamp, and wham--a new bank account. Not so much. I waited. I tapped my fingers. I looked at my watch. Two and a half hours to go before the MOD closed. I need a piece of paper that says how much money I have, I said. First try he found the sheet I'd been showed at the MOD. Aha. We were all set, but what's this? Why is my money still in dollars? What would I need a Chinese bank account full of US dollars for? Much muttering behind the glass. A conference ensued. They could change it. Somehow that cost a lot of money, but that's not what I'm thinking about right now. At 2:43 I hop a cab back to the MOD. Less that two hours to go.

The lines of the morning have lengthened and I pick a number. I wait, restlessly. I finish my book. My stomach starts to hurt. I am, as they say stressed out. I try to think about the last time I was stressed out enough that my stomach hurt. Maybe it was last January, I don't really remember. I think about my stomach some more and realize that maybe the problem is that it is approaching 4:00, and my food for the day has consisted of one egg sandwich at 8:00. Next time I try to get a visa, I'll bring a sandwich. The clock ticks digitally on top of the TV screen showing and re-showing Olympic highlights. 3:30 comes -- one hour to go, more than 20 people ahead of me in line. But, at long last, I make it, I stand before the desk and present the woman (the same one I'd talked to at 9:00) with my passport, my form filled out in black, my Chinese account statement, and Alex's household registration. She shuffles her papers and I think every little thing's going to be all right, just like in the song. I point out that the registration form doesn't have my name on it, because I'm staying with a friend. This is a PROBLEM. It's 4:08 by my watch, and she tells me it needs to have my name on it. Run she says, and I'll be here as long as you get back before 4:30.

I run. I ask a group of old ladies if I'm going the right way, they motion me onwards, and yell that I have to turn left. I turn and start running to the end of a dead end. Not that one, one yells, she's on her bike and has started following me. I'll take you she says. Ok, I pant (I haven't run since I've been here, and even with the recent games the air is a little chewy) you bike, I'll run. So I run. I clutch my messenger bag under my arm and pound down the street. My guardian angel rides behind. I steal a look back, keep going, she calls out, why are you looking at me. A big intersection is coming up. Keep going she yells, across the street. Wang qian zou. She points forward with a free hand. I keep running, as close to flat out as I can after months of inactivity and under-eating. My Crocs slosh around my feet. Kaui pao, she yells gleefully, go faster. Finally the left comes, I pant a heartfelt thank you and pound into the empty public security bureau. I need...a...household....registration, I pant, giving them Alex's. For this address. What's the rush, they ask? The office closes at 4:30 I say. I'm sweating and my hair keeps falling in my eyes. Well don't rush me, says the woman behind the desk, if I rush I'll mess up and then nothing will work. Ok, Ok, I'm not rushing you, but hurry it up alright? She finishes the paperwork. So did you just move in? She asks. I'm staying with my friend, I say. Wait, you don't live there? Danger, flashes in neon across my clouded vision. No, no, I just moved in, I live there with my friend, I lie. Ok then, there you go, she says, and I'm out the door shouting thank you at the same time. A mad dash back to the MOD. I get back and stand panting outside the barrier, looking at the woman who's been "helping" me. She looks up from the person she's dealing with. That was quick, she says, wow you really made good time. I nod. That's about all I can do. The old lady's cries of forward, forward, faster, are still ringing in my ears. She looks through the (now a bit rumpled) paperwork. You can stay an extra....she calculates on her cell phone...22 days. Then you need to leave and get a new visa. My multi-entry visa is supposed to be good for a year? They changed the rules as of September. Ok, well thank you, thank you. See you in five business days.

I stumble out of the ministry still short of breath, and see that my new, 22 day visa is going to cost a whopping $130. Not a cheap day, by any means, but I have a new Visa and I have a new bank account, and I did it myself. Check back soon for stories of Tibetan monks, Kazaks, and Lanzhou, the worst city in the world.

Racking up points for cultural experiences

I’ve written a bit about the cultural experience of McDonalds abroad before, but these past couple days have all been about seeing different sides of Beijing. I’ve been to a DJ dance party, a hardcore punk show, and a sports bar. This is not the kind of stuff I do in the States. At home, I listen to bluegrass mostly. Maybe a little bit of ska. The hardest stuff I listen to is Catch 22 or maybe Flogging Molly. I don’t go to dance parties, and I don’t thing I’ve ever been in a sports bar, but when in Rome, right?

I won’t bore you with details of the DJ thing. It was loud, there were lots of lights, smoke machines, drunk people. We stayed out late. We danced a lot. I talked to the bathroom attendant a good amount, mostly because it seemed like a pretty thankless job. I ran into Colby kids, go figure.

Prior to this exercise in excess, Kyle and I watched the opening ceremonies on an enormous plasma screen set up for that very purpose in a park. Everybody was smiling. The show was great (I mean, did you see it??) but the crowd was pretty fantastic too. They were just so psyched. It was a good place to be. We got a little bit of dinner in a Cantonese restaurant near the park while the country procession was still going on. In the center of the room, under a tv screen, a group of young Chinese environmental activists were drinking, saluting, and spontaneously breaking into song. They sang the national anthem, and old communist songs from their grammar school days. The fact that their work involves criticizing the government for environmental inadequacies meant nothing at all. The Olympics were opening in China, like never before.

The punk show was a totally different story. The club is one I’ve been to before, quite a few times, but I’d never seen groups like this. The second band (the first isn’t really worth mentioning) was lead by a guy wearing pajamas, bright socks, and big white glasses. He had an incredible amount of energy (not to mention style) and seemed to be pretty talented. We found out later he’s just graduated from high school, and Mike, the club owner swears up and down he’s the next big thing.

Then there was the main attraction, a hardcore street punk band called demerit. The lead singer had a roaring-threeheaded-tigerbeast tattooed on his stomach. He stood up, and all the drunk guys moshing in front of the state would run up and hold their hands out to him, begging for more. That’s what I call stage presence. The music itself, was pretty good. It’s easy to think of Punk and just so much noise, but once you start listening there’s actually a lot of melody, and a lot of the music (connected to how political it is as a musical movement) borders on anthemnic. Add simple lyrics and a willingness to let the biggest fan sing into the mic, and it was a pretty dynamic show. Not something I’m going to listen to in my room, but incredibly fun to watch.




The sports bar, an enormous two floor compound on the edge of town, was a different story. There the dynamic performance was the US roundly trouncing China in the first basketball game of the Games. It was pretty easy to follow what was going on. When the huge American contingent let out a guttural roar, that meant we’d just put one past Yao Ming. When the smaller Chinese group started cheering “Zhong Guo Jia You” (literally, step on the gas, china) that meant we’d dropped the ball. It’s worth mentioning that I ran into a friend named Charles at this pub (The Goose n’ Duck). Charles goes to Bowdoin. He’s been in Harbin for the last seven months, and got to Beijing yesterday morning. I had no idea he was around, but that’s the kind of place Beijing is.

I run into people I know, people I used to work with, and people I just recognize for some reason on an almost daily basis. Don’t ask me why.

Looking towards the future, the cultural experiences look like they’re going to continue. Kyle and I are watching beach volleyball on Wednesday, and on Thursday we head out west to Xinjiang, where you might have heard there’s a bit of an insurrection going on. It should be pretty interesting.