The farewell tour grows complicated

As the clock winds down — I’m to be picked up Friday morning — it’s getting increasingly difficult to extricate myself. Without further ado …

Small gifts, please. Small. As in not large.

I can’t make them stop. I’ve tried, believe me. My Jianghai College predecessor, Brian Cross, warned me about the parting gifts a month before I left for China. While here, I’ve bought a few things for myself, mostly clothes, and done plenty of shopping for folks back home. I’m bringing back a tad more than I left with.

Then the steady progression began: a decorative lacquer scene of Slender West Lake in Yangzhou, a 10-piece coffee-pot-and-mug-set, a smaller teapot and cup, a larger teacup, an even larger piggy bank in the shape of a rabbit. (Guess that would make it a bunny bank, right? It is, after all, the Year of the Rabbit.)

It finally got to the point that, worried about how to get all this stuff home, I told one of my students before a little class party Monday: Please, no gifts. “OK, sir.” That evening, he pulled out a big, wrapped box containing, well, a big, metal trophy in the form of an eagle, with wings spread. Naturally.

Oscar, an amiable student from another class, visited yesterday following several aborted attempts. Truth be told, I was dreading it. He arrived carrying what looked like a violin case.

“What’s in the case?” I asked suspiciously.

A violin. For me. Of course.

I know, I know. There’s an obvious solution: Send it all to the States. Which brings me to …

R. van der Horst v. China Post

One day recently, I dragged a bulky, wheeled suitcase, laden with all of my gifts for people, to the post office. Step 1: Buy a box at the package counter. As soon as I started unloading stuff, an imaginary neon light began blinking above the clerk’s head: Bùfangbiàn! Bùfangbiàn! (Inconvenient! Inconvenient!)

The first thing I placed on the countertop: a lovely box containing a reproduction of an old, wooden Chinese calculator, purchased from a gift shop I was hoping had not imported it from Toledo. Immediately, the clerk began shaking her head and chattering in Mandarin. Exactly what, I did not know. Just that it wasn’t good. I got the gist: You can’t send that.

Out of frustration, I finally called a friend, handed the phone to the clerk, and waited. A few minutes later, she handed it back. The China Post employee had informed my friend that I couldn’t just send an ancient Chinese artifact out of the country. Seriously.

Then the clerk went about ignoring me and assisting a line of Chinese customers who had since arrived.

Those of you who know me well can guess I was able to handle this setback calmly and reasonably.

Let’s just say I drew a crowd.

Adding to the absurdity of the situation, I demanded to speak to her superior, flashing my demand on my little Chinese-English translator. She got him on her cell phone and handed it to me, upon which we exchanged exactly two words because, well, he speaks Chinese and I don’t. (Actually, the language barrier can be liberating. Just think of all the things you can say to someone’s face without them understanding a word of it.)

Somehow I finally got through to her that the artifact was, in fact, mine, and once all of the other customers were out of the way, she pulled out a box and helped me load it. I had two choices: Send it via Express Mail Service for about, gasp, 3,000 yuan, or more than $450 U.S., or send it via China Post, overland, then by boat, for about 980 yuan, or $150. Sigh. OK, door number 2.

After that, I slept for two days. But with all of these new gifts, I have to go back there today. Oh, goody.*

*The plan: Pack some of those teacups and mugs with a bunch of t-shirts and other clothes so they’d be well-cushioned. (I wouldn’t be heartbroken if they broke — they weren’t worth more than 50 RMB.) China Post wouldn’t allow the cups to be shipped at all. Wouldn’t accept the responsibility. Advice to all foreigners: Avoid the post office.

A sumptuous luncheon

You might wonder: What’s the biggest cultural gap between us and them? It’s hard to say, but this has to be in the running. We insist on making plans. They throw things together, the assumption being that you’ll be ready when they are.

Mr. Fang, the head of the foreign languages department, had generously offered to have lunch with me one last time, and we agreed on noon Tuesday at the school’s own restaurant on campus.

I’d just gotten out of the shower at 11:20 when my cell phone buzzed. It was Fan Chunxia, a fellow teacher. She asked whether I was ready for lunch. Huh? Sorry, but I’m having lunch with Mr. Fang. No, there are five of us here, including Mr. Fang, waiting for you. Uh, I’m running a little behind …

The first dishes were on the table when I got there. First things first, though. Another teacher poured me a glass of 587-proof báijiŭ to the brim. Before the meal was finished, I’d been given a refill amid numerous toasts, followed by numerous, gracious expressions of concern about my drinking.

Regardless of the effects of my báijiŭ-induced haze, I must say that I will miss real Chinese cuisine dearly. I apologize for the blog’s woeful paucity of dish descriptions. To this untrained palate, it just seems as if Chinese cooks have a talent for really bringing out the natural flavors, for making chicken taste more like chicken, fish taste more like fish, and so on. Every taste and texture has its purpose. Each dish complements the others, and is good for you.

I’m even eating tofu and fish now. Who’da thunk it. By the way, we say “tofu” like “toe-foo,” with two syllables. In Chinese, it sounds more like “toaf,” with the “t” even sounding a bit like a “d”.