1.) Public urination.
2.) Encouraging your little toddler to drop trou and piss all over the floor of the subway car.
3.) Clapping and cheering as the pee puddle flows triumphantly down the train with the forward momentum.
I tell you, some things in China still shock me. Yeah yeah, "been there, done that" you say. But seriously, in four years I don't remember seeing the mom and grandma applaud the Little Emperor's urinary skillz. Luckily I witnessed this from a distance; the look of disbelief on the dude sitting next to them was priceless. If a local Shanghainese is taken aback by such behavior, I suppose it's a good sign that things are changing slowly around here. Kids pissing on the metro is a lot better than a bum taking a crap on a train in Manhattan...
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
The Big Move (In Three Parts)
It has only been a little over a month since I packed up and moved to a newer, bigger place. After four years in one flat, it was half stressful, half liberating. I suppose I could say it was putting a close on one chapter and starting a new one. In the weeks that followed the move, I didn't have time to post this. So here it is, a little later than expected.
Moving On Down - A Tribute to 31-710
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 1)
I am a sentimental pack rat. This makes moving quite difficult for me, as a shift in accommodation is perceived as a violent uprooting of my soul. Not to mention the daunting task of reining in all the accumulated detritus that four years of blind collecting can accomplish. Luckily for me, there hasn't been much actual space to fill with those useless attachments.
For the past four years, I have lived in an apartment roughly the size of a prison cell. But with comfy accoutrements like cushioned furniture, a toilet that isn't out in the open and the luxury of showering without fear of shivving by a sharp instrument (either of the stainless steel or fleshy knob variety). For those who have never had the pleasure of visiting, trust me when I say it is a really tiny place that would inspire most regular human beings to aspire for early release on good behavior or, failing that, willingly sign up for death row. Not me. Since 2004, it has been my own little haven. So as I make my imminent move to a larger apartment, I'm experiencing some separation anxiety. It may seem counter intuitive, since an upgrade should be a no-brainer. I mean, from the cramped bedroom to the cluttered living room, the impostor kitchen and the bathroom more suited for a dwarf, it is almost miniature. Yet, due to my superhuman organization and aesthetic prowess, I managed to make it very comfortable. And I loved it, in some ways.
In all honesty, I've actually attempted to switch abodes a few times already. However, a deadly combination of laziness, indecision and uncontrollable external factors put a damper on it all.
My first attempt was in the summer of 2005, when I was wooed by a wicked witch who was willing to give me access to her unused 2-bedroom apartment for a nominal monthly fee. I decided to give it a 30-day test trial before returning the keys. It felt huge, cavernous, wasteful. What business did a single guy have with two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen and two tenth-floor patios? I convinced myself that I didn't need it (which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me...I could have been living the life for the past 3 years if it weren't for my pesky frugal habits).
The second attempt to escape from the shackles of monastic life came two years later in the fall of 2007. Some poisonous thoughts were inserted into my head by two tricky jokers (see: my parents) convincing me that I ought to buy an apartment in downtown Shanghai. We looked at one amazing flat in the northwest sector of the city (Putuo District) that neighbored one of Liu Xiang's properties, but the deal fell through because we shot too low. Eventually, I found a charming split-level apartment right near the center of town (off Nanjing Road) that completely won my heart. The price was reasonable and everything seemed to be proceeding swimmingly.
At the time, I figured it'd be a great way to settle, a good motivator to find new employment, and, finally, a chance to bring my childhood dreams of recreating Tom Hanks' badass loft from Big (but without that lame bunk-bed in the middle of the room) into fruition. On the practical side, real estate is a smart investment and I eventually need to learn how to make money work for me. To my parents' credit, it was and still is a decent idea. But the ensuing drama that snowballed into a mountain of misery is something I do not want to relive.
In a lawless and dog-eat-dog market such as Shanghai's, making a big purchase like a 2.5 million RMB apartment is no small feat for an inexperienced chump like me. Especially when all the legalese is in Chinese and my choice of knowledgeable interpreters are slim. Without the bank's guarantee of a loan, the reliability of a decent agent (they simply don't exist in China), or the actual capital for the down payment (international wiring is a bitch), it turned into a big mess of poor planning on our part, deceptive practices from the seller, and hilarious incompetence from agents from two rival agencies competing for my commission. The negotiations fell through and, after receiving threatening text messages from one agent who sounded more like a jilted lover than a professional broker ("this is not over!"), Neil's First Foray Into Homeowning was put to rest. Critical naggers will shake their head at my pitiful lack of fiber and annoying optimists will remind me that "hey, at least you learned something," but I've left it in the past. In the end, I lost twenty-thousand RMB and a month of my life.
Now, on my third attempt, I've found success. Ironically, the apartment I moved into is the same model that I originally applied for before arriving in Shanghai in 2004. At that time, I didn't know that you had to argue and fight for everything in China, since I had been raised to believe that if a useless HR representative tells you "there are no apartments with kitchens available", then by Jesus' left hand, there really are no apartments with kitchens available. Lazy snatch.
In any case, it's a modest upgrade from 38 sq.m to 60 sq.m. One of the more hard-to-get models, it is an ideal size for a single renter. Not too big, not too small. I finally have a kitchen, a bathroom with a sink (the sink in my old place was in the non-kitchen, which was just a nook with cabinets), an open living room, a full wardrobe closet for my mountains of clothes, an accessible patio (the door to my old patio was blocked by the aforementioned mountains of clothing), and enough windows to actually allow for potted plant action. I'm getting hard just thinking of all the interior designing possibilities.
Over four years living in my teeny flat, I have grown very attached to it. Seeing as I've been pretty nomadic ever since leaving home for college in 1999, this chunk has been the longest stretch of my life that has been grounded in the same location [if we're counting total amount of days here, I've actually spent more of my life in Shanghai than Westford]. I turned the proverbial lemons to lemonade, transforming an apartment the size of a walk-in closet into a comfortable and quirky haunt, complete with the patented Neil-character that left no visitor unimpressed by its charm and warmth (generated either by the comfy, cushy feel of the place OR the busted air-con that made it feel like a sauna in the dead of summer). It was my nest, my sanctuary, my escape from all the scary and overwhelming monsters lurking outside my door.
As I began the hurried process of packing up my valuables, bagging my clothing, and lugging my heavy machinery a few flights down the stairs into the adjacent building, I plastered a bittersweet smile on my face. I know life in a bigger apartment is exponentially more comfortable and I can finally have the pleasure of living in a place that is more private residence than impoverished dormitory. But my overly sentimental nature tugged at my heart strings, not quite ready to part ways with my first real home-away-from-home.
Of Moving, Mold and Mushrooms
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 2)
Moving sucked. I don't know how that simple bit of reality could have eluded me for so long, but it really blew. In addition to the migraines brought on by packing and cleaning four years of life sediment, the entire process of switching residences is so much more complicated than I remember. And I only had to move mere meters away.
In the happy land of China, it's no secret that efficiency, quality work and common sense have long ago gone the way of the Yangtze River Dolphin. For those in the audience who don't recycle or drive SUVs, that means extinct. It's a fact of life we must deal with, like PMS, inevitably succumbing to cancer and Republicans. So the actual move didn't happen as soon as I was told or in a manner befitting of a moderately developed city such as this.
Before signing the housing contract, I had to take a look at the place first. Nowhere in the world is this of the utmost importance than China. For all you know, you are being sold a home that is minutes away from collapse, which you won't find out until after you are legally bound and the agent has fled back to the countryside to share the booty with his village. So it shouldn't surprise you to know that the place was a hot mess when I inspected. I'm not sure who lived in this place before me, but they might have either been blind, without a sense of smell, or just disgusting, filthy pigs who got a kick out of wallowing in squalor.
The wood on the bottom of each doorway - the segment roughly one foot from the floor - was decaying. Actually, it had already decayed, turned completely black, and was starting to slough off bits of filth in neat little piles on the floor. The host of ants and silverfish partying in these mounds seemed to be enjoying themselves. The shadow of decay had wrapped around the lintel and traveled into the bedroom, creating a nasty, moldy mess one of of the in-wall dressers. A little disgusted, but not completely in shock ("it's China!"), I implored the housing people to replace the wood before I could even consider signing anything. For the next few days, as I patiently waited for the repairs to be finished, I was still partially confused as to what self-respecting individual could have lived in such a dirty state. How could you pass hunks of rotting wood everyday and not think to fix it?
The days of waiting turned into a week. The weekend I had set aside for the moving was thus wasted and the only update I got was "wait a few more days." Apparently the repairmen were backed up and there was just nothing left to do but be patient. So I continued to wait.
When word finally came through that everything was ready, I bolted to the apartment to take a look at the wondrous improvements that I knew were waiting for me. I opened the door and was immediately punched in the face with a big stinky wallop. I was momentarily transported to those happy Chinese roadside rest stops that house open pits of human waste and lots of friendly flies. Such happy memories. To confirm my suspicions, I reluctantly crept into the bathroom and found the culprit of that stank. An unflushed poo. Yeah.
Now, I know that the water was shut off, as is customary when there is no one living in an apartment, but those repair dudes should have known better. God knows when that dump was deposited, but it had already created a kind of soup in the puddle of remaining water that had accumulated in the toilet basin. He could have just shat on my floor (which I wouldn't put past any Chinese worker...you seriously can't imagine), but was it that urgent? After quickly turning the water on and flushing the offending turd, I remembered that I had come to inspect the repairs, not figure out how to dispose of an anonymous migrant worker's shit surprise.
Standing in the foyer, I scanned the area with a puzzled look on my face. It was obvious that the wood had been replaced in the doorways: the musty black had been hacked away and new shiny boards were unevenly forced into the open space like a faulty puzzle. You take what you can get here. But just how did this whole affair proceed? It looked like there had been a turf war between rival tree gangs in my apartment. The crime scene on the floor was covered with, literally, about an inch of sawdust, chippings, shavings and unidentified toxic gloop that I still can't seem to wash away. On top of that, cigarette butts, bits of metal that may have been nails, even some powder from the scarred floor tiles that had been blatantly sawed directly onto as the workers cut their boards to fit the doorway. I've seen some outrageous instances of Chinese worker worthlessness, but this was pretty bad. By comparison, those mysterious footprints that I found on the wall facing my toilet in the first apartment seem natural. At least that dude flushed.
So now, in addition to moving my stuff, I had some serious cleaning to do. In four years in China, I have never once employed the services of an ayi (see: maid). Something about paying someone to invade my private space and clean my shit just doesn't sit right with me. But this, good people, was not my shit. Thus, after spending 2 hours cleaning away the mess that the workers left (yes indeed, 2 straight hours), the apartment was returned to the same condition it was upon my very first inspection. Which is to say, a filthy mess.
The next morning, my friend's ayi stopped by and went to town on the kitchen, bathroom, and, God bless her, even went over all the floors that I had spent the previous night sweating over.
The tinge of guilt I felt at the thought of her on hands and knees disinfecting that hellacious bathroom was quelled later that day when I discovered, to my horror, that she really hadn't done that good of a job. Some spots of the bathroom were still a little bit funky. Basically, there was some kind of microcosmic ecosystem growing in there. Not only were the ants and silverfish still happy residents, but they seemed to frequent a specific area under the bottom of my sink basin's cabinet. From my towering giant vista above, it looked like puffy orange protrusions which I assumed were dried blobs of that insect killing foam. Not quite. They were some kind of fuzzy fungus. And from the mystery growth sprouted a long and snake-like mushroom. I thought this was just a sick urban legend that was only whispered in the darkest corners of our living quarters, but oh-ho-ho, I have fucking mushrooms growing in my bathroom. I tell you, there's nothing quite like taking a dump on a shiny porcelain toilet that is a foot away from a patch of stuff that I usually only see stir-fried with beef and green peppers. Like camping, only more comfortable.
Once I got everything moved into the new digs, I had to say goodbye to my old place. As I took the last photo from the collage I had been crafting on the back of my front door for the past 4 years, I had to fight a small urge to get emotional. What can I say, I get attached to things. As I stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind me, I made my way down a few flights and to my new home. Although it had been cleaned (mushroom friends notwithstanding) and every box, bag and clothing rack successfully transported, it was still an unsightly heap of disarray, clutter and numerous headaches just waiting to happen. With half of the move complete, I was just getting started.
Door Collage (2004-2008)
Is This The Fun Part?
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 3)
Lying in bed on the first night in the new apartment, I had to acclimate myself to the lovely sensation of a functioning air conditioning and all the new sounds that would provide me with the nightly symphony that accompanies sleepy time. Living closer to the ground, the cricket chirps were noticeably louder, though far better than the duck and goose mating squawks I had to endure for the better part of this year. Also, with the addition of a neighbor living above me (previous 7th floor apartment was on the top floor), I'd have to get used to the foot shuffling, coin dropping, and abusive shouting (I'll get to that later). Although I was surrounded by unopened boxes, piles of wrinkled clothes, and a landscape of infuriating clutter outside my bedroom door, I was too tired to care. I slept like a baby.
Bright and early the next morning, a full half hour before my usual wake-up time (bastard!), the fellow living above me unleashed what would be the first of many (so far) temper fits. To be honest, it scared the crap out of me. "Yelling" reminds me too much of what women do, "screaming" is a little more on the frightened side, and "bellowing" is something for scary giants or trolls. What this guy was doing involved a little bit of everything, but with an added dash of annoying irrationality that could be potentially dangerous. His volume was so extreme that it sounded like his throat would pop in a bloody mess, yet was also so low and bellowy that he could have self-induced vomiting simply from the friction on his esophagus. And it didn't stop. For about 15 minutes he railed on, like an escapee from a mental ward, the sound of his screaming interspersed with some shattering porcelain (I can only assume, since the sound was heavier than broken glass). It ended with a slam of the door and the muted muffle of someone sweeping up the shards of whatever he just hurled at the wall. In a week, he's done this about three times and I'm getting pretty fed up with it, especially the fits past midnight. It's putting a damper on dream time and I'm sure whoever he's directing all that anger towards isn't sleeping so easy either. Hopefully this is the last you'll hear of it, since I will be filing a complaint soon. I'm not a huge fan of domestic violence.
Verbally abusive nitwits aside, the first few days were hectic in their own right. After getting the satellite dish reinstalled, I inadvertently wasted valuable unpacking time with my new distraction. Like Rip Van Winkle, it seems that time proceeded to carry on as I was sucked into the glory that is the Discovery Travel and Living, National Geographic, Animal Planet, and my old friend, MTV Philippines. I tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than good television programming.
When I wasn't disposing of precious time in front of the tube, I did succeed in spending four hours at Ikea accumulating even more junk for the bigger space. I love that fucking place for so many reasons. For the price of a clearance item from Bernie & Phyl's, I got a sofa addition that has transformed my existing 2-seater into a charming L-shaped corner monster. I also got curtains, which weren't that vital before, but given my habit of walking around naked, are somewhat more necessary now that I have real windows and a balcony for people to unwittingly spy upon my little guy. I even stocked up the new kitchen with the basics...now all I need is some food.
Among the beautiful delights that Ikea offers, there is none quite like the satisfaction that you get by "making" your own furniture. Not only does it keep the cost of the product down, but it's also a lot of fun. If you do it properly. I don't know how many times I've fucked up with a stubborn Ikea item, reducing me to tears of rage and reaching for the drill to make my own goddamned holes if these ones don't want to cooperate with the prefitted screw. Agggh! But when you do it right, man does it feel good. Like you're a kid again, putting together a really big and relatively more expensive Lego monstrosity that could topple over and kill you without the proper wall mount. I managed to piece together all of my shelves and racks without too much blood loss and in a relatively short amount of time. Yes, I'm simply that good.
With all the pieces ready, I only needed to get everything organized and in place before it could truly be deemed home. Although I didn't have much time to get it all finished before other, more pressing engagements arose, I successfully pulled it off. Nevermind the unopened boxes of random useless shit that still lie hidden in my bedroom. I'll get to those later. For now, the apartment looks great. Homey, comfortable, colorful, charming. All the bits I tend to bring to whatever environment I find myself thrust into.
Moving On Down - A Tribute to 31-710
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 1)
I am a sentimental pack rat. This makes moving quite difficult for me, as a shift in accommodation is perceived as a violent uprooting of my soul. Not to mention the daunting task of reining in all the accumulated detritus that four years of blind collecting can accomplish. Luckily for me, there hasn't been much actual space to fill with those useless attachments.
For the past four years, I have lived in an apartment roughly the size of a prison cell. But with comfy accoutrements like cushioned furniture, a toilet that isn't out in the open and the luxury of showering without fear of shivving by a sharp instrument (either of the stainless steel or fleshy knob variety). For those who have never had the pleasure of visiting, trust me when I say it is a really tiny place that would inspire most regular human beings to aspire for early release on good behavior or, failing that, willingly sign up for death row. Not me. Since 2004, it has been my own little haven. So as I make my imminent move to a larger apartment, I'm experiencing some separation anxiety. It may seem counter intuitive, since an upgrade should be a no-brainer. I mean, from the cramped bedroom to the cluttered living room, the impostor kitchen and the bathroom more suited for a dwarf, it is almost miniature. Yet, due to my superhuman organization and aesthetic prowess, I managed to make it very comfortable. And I loved it, in some ways.
In all honesty, I've actually attempted to switch abodes a few times already. However, a deadly combination of laziness, indecision and uncontrollable external factors put a damper on it all.
My first attempt was in the summer of 2005, when I was wooed by a wicked witch who was willing to give me access to her unused 2-bedroom apartment for a nominal monthly fee. I decided to give it a 30-day test trial before returning the keys. It felt huge, cavernous, wasteful. What business did a single guy have with two bedrooms, a living room, dining room, kitchen and two tenth-floor patios? I convinced myself that I didn't need it (which, in retrospect, was pretty stupid of me...I could have been living the life for the past 3 years if it weren't for my pesky frugal habits).
The second attempt to escape from the shackles of monastic life came two years later in the fall of 2007. Some poisonous thoughts were inserted into my head by two tricky jokers (see: my parents) convincing me that I ought to buy an apartment in downtown Shanghai. We looked at one amazing flat in the northwest sector of the city (Putuo District) that neighbored one of Liu Xiang's properties, but the deal fell through because we shot too low. Eventually, I found a charming split-level apartment right near the center of town (off Nanjing Road) that completely won my heart. The price was reasonable and everything seemed to be proceeding swimmingly.
At the time, I figured it'd be a great way to settle, a good motivator to find new employment, and, finally, a chance to bring my childhood dreams of recreating Tom Hanks' badass loft from Big (but without that lame bunk-bed in the middle of the room) into fruition. On the practical side, real estate is a smart investment and I eventually need to learn how to make money work for me. To my parents' credit, it was and still is a decent idea. But the ensuing drama that snowballed into a mountain of misery is something I do not want to relive.
In a lawless and dog-eat-dog market such as Shanghai's, making a big purchase like a 2.5 million RMB apartment is no small feat for an inexperienced chump like me. Especially when all the legalese is in Chinese and my choice of knowledgeable interpreters are slim. Without the bank's guarantee of a loan, the reliability of a decent agent (they simply don't exist in China), or the actual capital for the down payment (international wiring is a bitch), it turned into a big mess of poor planning on our part, deceptive practices from the seller, and hilarious incompetence from agents from two rival agencies competing for my commission. The negotiations fell through and, after receiving threatening text messages from one agent who sounded more like a jilted lover than a professional broker ("this is not over!"), Neil's First Foray Into Homeowning was put to rest. Critical naggers will shake their head at my pitiful lack of fiber and annoying optimists will remind me that "hey, at least you learned something," but I've left it in the past. In the end, I lost twenty-thousand RMB and a month of my life.
Now, on my third attempt, I've found success. Ironically, the apartment I moved into is the same model that I originally applied for before arriving in Shanghai in 2004. At that time, I didn't know that you had to argue and fight for everything in China, since I had been raised to believe that if a useless HR representative tells you "there are no apartments with kitchens available", then by Jesus' left hand, there really are no apartments with kitchens available. Lazy snatch.
In any case, it's a modest upgrade from 38 sq.m to 60 sq.m. One of the more hard-to-get models, it is an ideal size for a single renter. Not too big, not too small. I finally have a kitchen, a bathroom with a sink (the sink in my old place was in the non-kitchen, which was just a nook with cabinets), an open living room, a full wardrobe closet for my mountains of clothes, an accessible patio (the door to my old patio was blocked by the aforementioned mountains of clothing), and enough windows to actually allow for potted plant action. I'm getting hard just thinking of all the interior designing possibilities.
Over four years living in my teeny flat, I have grown very attached to it. Seeing as I've been pretty nomadic ever since leaving home for college in 1999, this chunk has been the longest stretch of my life that has been grounded in the same location [if we're counting total amount of days here, I've actually spent more of my life in Shanghai than Westford]. I turned the proverbial lemons to lemonade, transforming an apartment the size of a walk-in closet into a comfortable and quirky haunt, complete with the patented Neil-character that left no visitor unimpressed by its charm and warmth (generated either by the comfy, cushy feel of the place OR the busted air-con that made it feel like a sauna in the dead of summer). It was my nest, my sanctuary, my escape from all the scary and overwhelming monsters lurking outside my door.
As I began the hurried process of packing up my valuables, bagging my clothing, and lugging my heavy machinery a few flights down the stairs into the adjacent building, I plastered a bittersweet smile on my face. I know life in a bigger apartment is exponentially more comfortable and I can finally have the pleasure of living in a place that is more private residence than impoverished dormitory. But my overly sentimental nature tugged at my heart strings, not quite ready to part ways with my first real home-away-from-home.
Of Moving, Mold and Mushrooms
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 2)
Moving sucked. I don't know how that simple bit of reality could have eluded me for so long, but it really blew. In addition to the migraines brought on by packing and cleaning four years of life sediment, the entire process of switching residences is so much more complicated than I remember. And I only had to move mere meters away.
In the happy land of China, it's no secret that efficiency, quality work and common sense have long ago gone the way of the Yangtze River Dolphin. For those in the audience who don't recycle or drive SUVs, that means extinct. It's a fact of life we must deal with, like PMS, inevitably succumbing to cancer and Republicans. So the actual move didn't happen as soon as I was told or in a manner befitting of a moderately developed city such as this.
Before signing the housing contract, I had to take a look at the place first. Nowhere in the world is this of the utmost importance than China. For all you know, you are being sold a home that is minutes away from collapse, which you won't find out until after you are legally bound and the agent has fled back to the countryside to share the booty with his village. So it shouldn't surprise you to know that the place was a hot mess when I inspected. I'm not sure who lived in this place before me, but they might have either been blind, without a sense of smell, or just disgusting, filthy pigs who got a kick out of wallowing in squalor.
The wood on the bottom of each doorway - the segment roughly one foot from the floor - was decaying. Actually, it had already decayed, turned completely black, and was starting to slough off bits of filth in neat little piles on the floor. The host of ants and silverfish partying in these mounds seemed to be enjoying themselves. The shadow of decay had wrapped around the lintel and traveled into the bedroom, creating a nasty, moldy mess one of of the in-wall dressers. A little disgusted, but not completely in shock ("it's China!"), I implored the housing people to replace the wood before I could even consider signing anything. For the next few days, as I patiently waited for the repairs to be finished, I was still partially confused as to what self-respecting individual could have lived in such a dirty state. How could you pass hunks of rotting wood everyday and not think to fix it?
The days of waiting turned into a week. The weekend I had set aside for the moving was thus wasted and the only update I got was "wait a few more days." Apparently the repairmen were backed up and there was just nothing left to do but be patient. So I continued to wait.
When word finally came through that everything was ready, I bolted to the apartment to take a look at the wondrous improvements that I knew were waiting for me. I opened the door and was immediately punched in the face with a big stinky wallop. I was momentarily transported to those happy Chinese roadside rest stops that house open pits of human waste and lots of friendly flies. Such happy memories. To confirm my suspicions, I reluctantly crept into the bathroom and found the culprit of that stank. An unflushed poo. Yeah.
Now, I know that the water was shut off, as is customary when there is no one living in an apartment, but those repair dudes should have known better. God knows when that dump was deposited, but it had already created a kind of soup in the puddle of remaining water that had accumulated in the toilet basin. He could have just shat on my floor (which I wouldn't put past any Chinese worker...you seriously can't imagine), but was it that urgent? After quickly turning the water on and flushing the offending turd, I remembered that I had come to inspect the repairs, not figure out how to dispose of an anonymous migrant worker's shit surprise.
Standing in the foyer, I scanned the area with a puzzled look on my face. It was obvious that the wood had been replaced in the doorways: the musty black had been hacked away and new shiny boards were unevenly forced into the open space like a faulty puzzle. You take what you can get here. But just how did this whole affair proceed? It looked like there had been a turf war between rival tree gangs in my apartment. The crime scene on the floor was covered with, literally, about an inch of sawdust, chippings, shavings and unidentified toxic gloop that I still can't seem to wash away. On top of that, cigarette butts, bits of metal that may have been nails, even some powder from the scarred floor tiles that had been blatantly sawed directly onto as the workers cut their boards to fit the doorway. I've seen some outrageous instances of Chinese worker worthlessness, but this was pretty bad. By comparison, those mysterious footprints that I found on the wall facing my toilet in the first apartment seem natural. At least that dude flushed.
So now, in addition to moving my stuff, I had some serious cleaning to do. In four years in China, I have never once employed the services of an ayi (see: maid). Something about paying someone to invade my private space and clean my shit just doesn't sit right with me. But this, good people, was not my shit. Thus, after spending 2 hours cleaning away the mess that the workers left (yes indeed, 2 straight hours), the apartment was returned to the same condition it was upon my very first inspection. Which is to say, a filthy mess.
The next morning, my friend's ayi stopped by and went to town on the kitchen, bathroom, and, God bless her, even went over all the floors that I had spent the previous night sweating over.
The tinge of guilt I felt at the thought of her on hands and knees disinfecting that hellacious bathroom was quelled later that day when I discovered, to my horror, that she really hadn't done that good of a job. Some spots of the bathroom were still a little bit funky. Basically, there was some kind of microcosmic ecosystem growing in there. Not only were the ants and silverfish still happy residents, but they seemed to frequent a specific area under the bottom of my sink basin's cabinet. From my towering giant vista above, it looked like puffy orange protrusions which I assumed were dried blobs of that insect killing foam. Not quite. They were some kind of fuzzy fungus. And from the mystery growth sprouted a long and snake-like mushroom. I thought this was just a sick urban legend that was only whispered in the darkest corners of our living quarters, but oh-ho-ho, I have fucking mushrooms growing in my bathroom. I tell you, there's nothing quite like taking a dump on a shiny porcelain toilet that is a foot away from a patch of stuff that I usually only see stir-fried with beef and green peppers. Like camping, only more comfortable.
Once I got everything moved into the new digs, I had to say goodbye to my old place. As I took the last photo from the collage I had been crafting on the back of my front door for the past 4 years, I had to fight a small urge to get emotional. What can I say, I get attached to things. As I stepped out of the apartment and shut the door behind me, I made my way down a few flights and to my new home. Although it had been cleaned (mushroom friends notwithstanding) and every box, bag and clothing rack successfully transported, it was still an unsightly heap of disarray, clutter and numerous headaches just waiting to happen. With half of the move complete, I was just getting started.
Door Collage (2004-2008)Is This The Fun Part?
(Or, Finally Packing Up After Four Years, Part 3)
Lying in bed on the first night in the new apartment, I had to acclimate myself to the lovely sensation of a functioning air conditioning and all the new sounds that would provide me with the nightly symphony that accompanies sleepy time. Living closer to the ground, the cricket chirps were noticeably louder, though far better than the duck and goose mating squawks I had to endure for the better part of this year. Also, with the addition of a neighbor living above me (previous 7th floor apartment was on the top floor), I'd have to get used to the foot shuffling, coin dropping, and abusive shouting (I'll get to that later). Although I was surrounded by unopened boxes, piles of wrinkled clothes, and a landscape of infuriating clutter outside my bedroom door, I was too tired to care. I slept like a baby.
Bright and early the next morning, a full half hour before my usual wake-up time (bastard!), the fellow living above me unleashed what would be the first of many (so far) temper fits. To be honest, it scared the crap out of me. "Yelling" reminds me too much of what women do, "screaming" is a little more on the frightened side, and "bellowing" is something for scary giants or trolls. What this guy was doing involved a little bit of everything, but with an added dash of annoying irrationality that could be potentially dangerous. His volume was so extreme that it sounded like his throat would pop in a bloody mess, yet was also so low and bellowy that he could have self-induced vomiting simply from the friction on his esophagus. And it didn't stop. For about 15 minutes he railed on, like an escapee from a mental ward, the sound of his screaming interspersed with some shattering porcelain (I can only assume, since the sound was heavier than broken glass). It ended with a slam of the door and the muted muffle of someone sweeping up the shards of whatever he just hurled at the wall. In a week, he's done this about three times and I'm getting pretty fed up with it, especially the fits past midnight. It's putting a damper on dream time and I'm sure whoever he's directing all that anger towards isn't sleeping so easy either. Hopefully this is the last you'll hear of it, since I will be filing a complaint soon. I'm not a huge fan of domestic violence.
Verbally abusive nitwits aside, the first few days were hectic in their own right. After getting the satellite dish reinstalled, I inadvertently wasted valuable unpacking time with my new distraction. Like Rip Van Winkle, it seems that time proceeded to carry on as I was sucked into the glory that is the Discovery Travel and Living, National Geographic, Animal Planet, and my old friend, MTV Philippines. I tell you, there is nothing more dangerous in the world than good television programming.
When I wasn't disposing of precious time in front of the tube, I did succeed in spending four hours at Ikea accumulating even more junk for the bigger space. I love that fucking place for so many reasons. For the price of a clearance item from Bernie & Phyl's, I got a sofa addition that has transformed my existing 2-seater into a charming L-shaped corner monster. I also got curtains, which weren't that vital before, but given my habit of walking around naked, are somewhat more necessary now that I have real windows and a balcony for people to unwittingly spy upon my little guy. I even stocked up the new kitchen with the basics...now all I need is some food.
Among the beautiful delights that Ikea offers, there is none quite like the satisfaction that you get by "making" your own furniture. Not only does it keep the cost of the product down, but it's also a lot of fun. If you do it properly. I don't know how many times I've fucked up with a stubborn Ikea item, reducing me to tears of rage and reaching for the drill to make my own goddamned holes if these ones don't want to cooperate with the prefitted screw. Agggh! But when you do it right, man does it feel good. Like you're a kid again, putting together a really big and relatively more expensive Lego monstrosity that could topple over and kill you without the proper wall mount. I managed to piece together all of my shelves and racks without too much blood loss and in a relatively short amount of time. Yes, I'm simply that good.
With all the pieces ready, I only needed to get everything organized and in place before it could truly be deemed home. Although I didn't have much time to get it all finished before other, more pressing engagements arose, I successfully pulled it off. Nevermind the unopened boxes of random useless shit that still lie hidden in my bedroom. I'll get to those later. For now, the apartment looks great. Homey, comfortable, colorful, charming. All the bits I tend to bring to whatever environment I find myself thrust into.
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