That one time when nobody came

I don't usually plan large events, but recently, on an ambitious day, I decided: Hey, let's have a big party for all the Sophomore students!  This Saturday the Sophomore English majors all took a big, important standardized test, the TEM-4. They spent a lot of time studying and preparing, and most of them were pretty nervous about it.  So I thought, we could have a big party for them after the test is over!  A chance for them to have fun and let go of the weeks of cumulative stress.
Our teammate currently teaches all the Sophomores, and Kevin has taught them all in the past, so we invited all 5 classes, about 130 students total.  When our teammates invited the students in class, they all seemed very excited.  "I think we should expect a big turnout," he said.  "I'd think around 100."  That's what I was thinking too, as I planned games and activities.  I tried to come up with things that would work well for a really large group of students.

I planned relay games and gathered necessary items.  I put together a photo scavenger hunt to do on campus.  I bought candy prizes.  I baked at least 120 oatmeal cookies and around 100 cookie bars. Our teammate baked some brownies and bought a few snacks as well.

Today the weather was warm and sunny, perfect for an outdoor party.  We headed outside at 2:30pm to set up.  We were ready.  Juliana was excited.  3pm rolled around, and nobody was there.

It started to rain.  And by rain, I mean it was partly cloudy with a few sprinkles here and there, not worth an umbrella.  The air turned colder.  And by colder, I mean 65*F.  Surely this wouldn't keep the students from coming?

By 3:15pm, two students had shown up. Two. There was no way we could do our party with two students! We waited a few more minutes, just in case, but it was pretty clear no one was coming. I packed up all the supplies while Juliana cried, "Why can't we have the party? Why did nobody come? I wanted to have a party!"  Adalyn was crying after being dragged all over for nothing.  I was feeling frustrated, disappointed, and just ticked off.

We invited the two students to our house, and they invited two others as well. If these were the only students who bothered to show up, we could at least make it worth their while.  I put aside my frustration and focused on rewarding these few thoughtful students.  Juliana cheered up a little bit; she loves playing with students.

We brought out the cookies and encouraged them to eat to their hearts' content.  We played Uno and Dr. Seuss Memory.  I made up a quick game of "hide the candy," which they really got into.  They were interested in the games and happy to be around the kids.  At dinnertime we all went to the cafeteria together.  The students thanked us for having them over and assured us they really enjoyed it.

So the afternoon was not a total waste, but I won't pretend that it wasn't disappointing.  I still feel pretty ticked off.  How do 100 people just not show up?  And no, they didn't have a conflict, the other students said, "I think they are just busy...it is a little cold out..."

What about the people we know and communicate with regularly? The ones who indicated they would come?  Could they really not have told us, "Actually we're not going to come and neither is anyone else from our class."

No, they couldn't tell us that, because we would lose face, and then they would lose face, and then the world would end.  It's better to just not show up and pretend like it never happened. It's not the first time this has happened, but never on quite such a large scale.

Maybe we will reschedule the party. I do have 200+ snacks filling up my freezer space, plus the games I went to the trouble of planning.  And I did want to do something nice for the Sophomores, although not quite so much just right now.  Our teammate will probably mention that nobody came to the party, and they will all feel ashamed, and then everyone will come the next time.  Nothing like a guilt-induced party, right?

The best laid plans and all (America).  Plans cannot keep up with change (China).  Apparently it's a universal principle.  There are some lessons you never stop learning.  Oatmeal cookie, anyone?

Chinese phone conversations

By Kevin

I have a confession to make. I hate making phone calls, particularly to strangers.

It was one of my least favorite parts about being a journalist. I hated being the interruption to somebody's day. I hated the impersonal nature of it. But it was a necessary evil. If I wanted the story, I had to make dozens of calls a day. So I sucked it up and did it. For an introvert like me, it was always a task. It wasn't something I did on the spur of the moment. It took deliberation. It was a means to an end. I even got to the point where I didn't mind it so much because I can type much more quickly (and legibly) than I can take notes by hand.

If I hated making phone calls in America, imagine my hesitation in China. For my first year in China, I didn't even have a cell phone. I enjoyed the freedom of being able to go for a hike in the hills behind campus and not have to worry about it ringing with some pressing need. My students and superiors all had my home number. That was good enough.

I only broke down and bought one because Ruth and I were dating and I wanted another way to talk to her on the days when our Internet in Tonghua cut off at 11 p.m., making Skype useless. I also decided I'd need something I case I needed help getting out of inevitable travel difficulties on my first solo domestic China trip to see her in Yangzhou. But I only spoke English. Only to friends. In fact, the only people I gave my number to were friends -- and if they were my friend, at that time, they could speak English. If someone on an unrecognized number spoke Chinese to me, I apologized, told them I was a foreigner and my Chinese was bad, and hung up. If it was important, they'd find an English speaker to help them call again.

Year three, when we moved to Weinan, I was forced to pick up the phone and call my first Chinese stranger: the water delivery company. In China, you can't drink the tap water, so you must purify your own water with a boiler or filter or buy bottles of purified water (a bit like those 5-gallon Sparkletts bottles you can sign up for in the States). The first words out of my mouth (in Chinese) were: "I am a foreigner." Then, reading from a script, I informed them that we needed them to deliver a bottle of purified water to my door. I crossed my fingers and hoped that they'd understood. Thankfully, the water company had gotten the routine down from the previous foreigners who lived there, so as soon as they saw our telephone number on their caller ID, they knew the drill. Before long, I just had to tell them I was the foreigner on the third floor. An hour later, water would magically appear. Success. I could speak Chinese. As long as it was written out in script form. If they varied from the script, I was utterly lost. I usually just went back to the top and repeated myself. In Tonghua, this wasn't an issue mainly because I had a water purifier in my apartment, so I never had to order water delivery. This continued for years three through five. My Chinese improved incrementally in that span of time, but not enough to branch out beyond the now memorize script, plus a few variations.

Year six in Yinchuan was the start of language school. Day one, we repeated the water ordering routine we'd established in Weinan, first informing them I was a foreigner, then explaining our need for water and where we lived.

A month later, one of our homework assignments was to call information and ask for a particular phone number. I was so spooked when the operator asked me to repeat my request (the name of a park) that I had to call back a second time to get the number right. I continued to avoid phone calls.

Halfway through the year, I signed up for a Taobao account (kinda like an Amazon.com of China, though China also has Amazon.com). I figured it would be easy, I'd use Google translate to sort out any problems I had with ordering, then the items would arrive. The delivery guy would either call or send a message upon arrival (most domestic deliveries in China don't arrive via the standard postal service), but it wouldn't be too difficult, even with beginner Chinese. Then one of the orders was bad. Apparently sometimes Taobao merchants continue to list items that are out of stock. So one day, after ordering something, the merchant called to explain to me that they didn't have the item. It took me awhile to figure out that she was asking if I wanted another similar item or if they should return the money. Eventually I figured out to just ask for a refund. It didn't make me enjoy talking on the phone any more.

An aversion to talking on the phone isn't exactly a great trait to have as a language student. Some students might relish the challenge of a phone conversation. They might be excited to see how well they can communicate. They may be excited to see if the other speaker is able to guess that they aren't Chinese. Generally that isn't me. I just want utility. Usually talking on the phone is nothing more than a necessary evil.

The one highlight to my phone experience in China was when one day, I had to order more propane. Our apartment has a small 10 gallon propane tank underneath the counter to run our stove burner. It needs a refil every 8 months or so. Anyway, when the delivery guy arrived, he was shocked that I was a foreigner. It was the ultimate compliment: I hadn't made enough pronunciation or grammar mistakes in my short phone conversation to reveal myself as a non-native speaker. I was ecstatic.

I should probably put today's phone calls in the "language win" column. After all, in the end I was successful at completing my task. I think. But after a rash of miscommunication, it feels like it belongs in the "loss column."

Let me explain. We will be moving next week. Ruth is 6 months pregnant and I fell down while jogging two weeks ago. Nothing was broken, but I scraped the knuckles of my left pinke badly enough that I still can't bend it and sprained my wrist badly enough that twisting bottles and lifting heavy boxes is out of the question. Not ideal timing for us to move. Since we live on the sixth floor and will be moving to the third, we need to hire movers to do the heavy lifting. Thankfully hiring movers plus a van here costs less than renting a moving van in the States.

So I called up some movers recommended by my Korean classmate (who ironically taught at the same college in Tonghua as I did the year after I left -- but that's a different story). My classmate said they charged them 200 RMB for the move, which is half of what some American friends paid for their move. The caveat -- their new building has an elevator. So the operator answered and cut quickly to the chase: where were we moving from and to, how much stuff and what floors. She didn't recognize the new apartment complex, so I explained that it's just across the street from our campus gate. I explained that we have very little furniture, just a wardrobe and a crib and 40 or so boxes of various sizes. Then the floor - sixth to third. It took her a few seconds and she gave me a quote: 350 RMB. Reasonable, but I figured I'd try another mover.

Yesterday, my classmate Kevin -- whose apartment we will be moving into -- had arranged to move some other furniture and boxes belonging to our friend Kaylene into his apartment at Cai Xiao (the name of the complex). Kaylene had to leave early last year for medical reasons and plans to return to a different city in China after she recovers. So we packed up her stuff, bought some of her furniture (since our new apartment is mostly unfurnished) and decided to store it all in our apartment while we are in the States awaiting the birth of baby #2.

Kevin had also bought some of her stuff, so he called the movers and got a quote that he could move the stuff -- from floor 2 to floor 3 of Cai Xiao -- for 260 RMB per truckload. Plus, the movers would charge a little extra for big stuff like refrigerators and giant wardrobes. He set it up for Tuesday morning. Kevin said the guy's Chinese was a bit hard to understand, but he'd worked things out fine. Granted, of everyone in our class, Kevin's Chinese is the best. Every semester he gets the award for being the best student in class.

So, since I also needed movers, today, I sent the same mover a text message with the details of our move and asking for a quote, hoping to avoid a phone conversation that would immediately reveal me as a foreigner. But when he hadn't replied after an hour, I decided to give him a call.

I asked if he'd received my text message and told him I wanted to move from Ning Da to Cai Xiao (our new complex). Immediately, he seemed confused. "You called earlier about moving on Tuesday, right?" he asked. I feigned ignorance."No. That must be someone else." I didn't want to admit that I was a foreigner. Often the price quoted to a foreigner is significantly higher than that offered to a Chinese. I didn't want to be a target for being cheated. I just told him that I wanted to move on Friday. I didn't mention that my friend had spoken with him yesterday. He said that he'd already said that it would be 260 because He charges by the truckload.

A couple hours later, he called me back. "I just saw your text message," he said. "If it's not the second floor to the third floor, but the sixth to the third, it is more agonizing (Sometimes Chinese is a bit melodramatic -- word used to explain difficulty -- 痛苦 -- literally means pain and bitterness). "The price will be 350 RMB." So, a bit more than 20 RMB extra per extra floor.

Then he asked, "Aren't you the international friend I spoke with yesterday?" I told him I wasn't. I'd been foiled. So had Kevin. How he figured it out I'll never know. Was it my limited vocabulary or my repeated requests for him to repeat himself. Who was I kidding? I'd mostly hoped he would think I was someone from a different province, whose Mandarin was poor. "But you are moving to Cai Xiao also, right?" "Yes." I gave in. "Yes, my friend spoke with you before. He is moving from another apartment to Cai Xiao on Tuesday. I am moving from Ning Da to Cai Xiao on Friday."

We'd thoroughly confused the poor guy. I was afraid that might happen. Now I'm hoping he still shows up on Tuesday. Maybe I'll wait till then to decide if it goes in the "language win" or "language loss" column.

Loss of face (and our Ayi)

By Kevin

As I pulled on my jacket and prepared to head out for our weekly team meeting, Juliana clung to my leg and cried, using babgyhua to plead for me to stay with her. Ayi's face crinkled and she joined the chorus, replacing babyspeak with rapid-fire Chinese, which – with the right combination of unfamiliar vocabulary – often manages to carry nearly the same meaning from my ears to my brain. What I could understand was that she too wanted me to stay behind. "As long as you are here, AnAn is OK," I understood. "When you leave, she just cries.”

I encouraged her to bring Juliana outside and Ayi responded with more rapid-fire Chinese. This time I understood even less, so Ayi began to pantomime what we already knew had happened the day before: she took Juliana outside, and even though she was constantly hovering right behind our little adventurer, Juliana managed to trip over a crack in the sidewalk and cut her bottom lip. This, on the same day that the other little girl Ayi watches also sustained a minor injury.

I tried to reassure Ayi that it is OK, we thought she was doing a good job taking care of Juliana. But she insisted that she wouldn't be able to take her this day unless I stayed in the apartment too, which wasn't going to happen, because our meeting was about to start. I suggested bringing Juliana outside, since our daughter loves running around outside. In fact, everyday, she'll walk over to the door and say, “side” – meaning “take me outside.” But Ayi was hesitant. I dressed Juliana and brought her downstairs, thinking that perhaps she would be ok with letting me go now that she was outside.

Juliana was OK with the idea, but Ayi was too afraid Juliana would fall and hurt herself again, so I walked over to the “bike shed,” where we and a couple hundred other residents park their bikes. As I put Juliana into the bike seat, Ayi asked if she should go home. I tried to find a polite way to say it, but my words spilled out quickly: “I guess so. If you can't watch her, then you can go home.”

The blood drained from her face. I'd just insulted her. She was losing face. Even worse, there was a man from the neighborhood looking on. It was a public shaming. I needed to show my displeasure with her reluctance to do her job, but I'd botched it. Trying to regain a little bit of composure, I said I'd see her tomorrow. She agreed and I biked off to our meeting, worried that we may have just lost our babysitter less than three weeks into our “trial period.”

My suspicions grew when she called our teammate, and then me, the next morning and said that she had some sort of family matter so she'd miss the next two days of work, but she'd be back on Monday.

We probably should have began our search for a replacement then, but we were optimistic that some important family matter had just come up and the loss of face wasn't irreparable. Unfortunately, our Chinese isn't good enough to catch the spoken subtleties or the nonverbal cues that she was trying to express her dissatisfaction with the job. So we hoped and prayed for the best.

The next Monday, she came as usual. She watched Juliana and seemed to do fine with her. Then, Tuesday came along. She began telling me how tired and worried she is and how much Juliana cries when she watches her. I assured her that we thought Juliana liked her. “I can hear from the office, when you play with her, she is happy.” She insisted that Juliana wasn't as comfortable with her as with the past Ayi. I told her that we thought that it was just a matter of time. It also took her a couple weeks before she excitedly jumped into the old Ayi's arms everytime she walked through the door. “Maybe you can bring (your old) Ayi back,” she suggested. “She has a new job now,” I reminded her in garbled Chinese. “Juliana has just reached the point where she doesn't cry anymore when I leave. Things will get better.”

Then she dropped the bomb, something along the lines of: “I don't think I can watch Anan anymore.” Ruth was meeting with her tutor, so I opened our office room and asked if her tutor could help us translate because I wanted to make sure understood. “I'm pretty sure that she's quitting,” I said. I was on the right track. We repeated the same lines and Ruth's tutor managed to convince Ayi to stick around. For a moment, we thought crisis had been averted.

The next day she came, watched Juliana and did great with her. Our hopes continued to rise. When I left to go study, Juliana didn't cry or cling to me. She laughed and played and had a great time. When I came to pick her up afterward, Ayi said, with a bit of surprise, “She didn't cry. She was happy.” The same thing happened again the next day. We figured things were looking up. In fact, the teammate whose kids she watches each morning and I were discussing how we should pay her, since tomorrow would be her fourth week working for us, and we were splitting her services. Perhaps we should give her a raise?

Then Thursday came. With it came our teammate's news: “Ayi quit today. We managed to convince her to work one more day.” A couple hours later, she came to our house one last time to clean.

Our previous Ayi, who attends a fellowship with the one quitting happened to stop by in the middle of her last day. The old Ayi loves Juliana and, if she had more time, would probably love to continue watching her. In fact, she stops by every few weeks just to say hi and play with Juliana. She too spent some time trying to convince her to stick around because it'll get better, but it was to no avail. Eventually, she officially broke the news to us that we had heard earlier in the day. 

Unfortunately, when your house-helper quits in China (at least here), you can't just thumb through the yellow pages or hop online and find a handy service that will bring in another (not that we know how you'd find someone in the States either--we'd never be able to afford someone there). It's all about who you know. Thankfully we know a lot of foreigners in this city who have kids, so we immediately began throwing out feelers. Our first candidate was interested, but she lives outside of the city and didn't want to work at times that would work for us. A second candidate just didn't seem very interested in the job when our teammate met with her. The third was promising, so he brought her by with Ruth and I were out shopping. Ruth liked her, so tomorrow Ayi number three starts. We're hoping she'll be able to keep up with our little runner.

The Miracle of Flight (part 2)

(If you haven't already read part 1, you may want to start here: http://ruvin2007.blogspot.com/2011/02/miracle-of-flight-part-1.html 

China Eastern plane waiting to be boarded in Kunming, China.

 By Kevin

It was only the beginning. Fast forward three weeks to Feb. 16. With an 8:45 p.m. flight scheduled, we got to the airport around 6:30 just in case there might be any problems. When we bought Juliana's ticket in Kunming, they said that it would also cover the Chiang Mai-Kunming flight back, but we figured we should play it safe and get there early since, in the last-minute confusion, they didn't give us a receipt for either flight. For a tiny airport like this, more than two hours would be plenty, we figured, since they don't allow passengers to check in before that.

Five minutes later and we probably would have missed the flight.

Here's what happened this time around: we got to the front of the check-in line and the woman checking us in – wearing a purple Thai Airways uniform, I might add – told us that our flight wasn't at 8:45 as listed on our itinerary. It was now at 8 p.m. Good thing we came early. This was the third time the time had changed on the flight (originally it was at 1 p.m.). She then asked for the credit card we'd booked the flight with (which unfortunately we'd left in China, but hadn't needed it for any of the other flights). “I don't have the credit card with me. Isn't our passport enough proof that it is us who bought the ticket?”

“We can't confirm the ticket without the credit card number.”

Then she asked to see Juliana's ticket.

“We don't have her ticket. We paid for it when we bought the Kunming to Bangkok flight, but it was a strange situation and they didn't give us a receipt.”

“Why didn't they give it to you?”

“I don't know. They had some problems issuing the ticket and we barely made it onto the flight.”

“If you don't have a receipt, then you can't fly.”

Grr. Immediately, I went to God in prayer, pleading for softened hearts and open doors.

I looked at the passenger list in front of her. Our names were both listed, as was Juliana's. “Our daughter's name is listed on the itinerary,” I said, pointing. “Doesn't that mean we have purchased a ticket?”

“But there is no ticket number listed.”

Grrr. “What can we do?” I asked.

“Do you know the name of the ticket agent at the Kunming airport? Maybe you can try to contact the agent?”

“No, unfortunately, I don't.”

“Well, if she doesn't have a ticket, then she cannot fly.”

“I understand.” After a few minutes of wrangling with her, with the realization that it was now after 7 p.m., so time was starting to run short, I made a suggestion: “OK, how about if we purchase another ticket for her now? Is that possible?”

She confirmed that this should work and pointed us in the direction of a ticket agency in the airport. As we left, several other teachers from our organization, who had been at the company's annual conference with us for the last several days asked what was wrong. “We have to go buy another ticket for Juliana,” I explained as I hurried away. “I don't know if we're going to catch this flight.”

The ticket agency was closed. I ran back to the airport information desk. “Where can I buy a China Eastern ticket?”

I learned that there was no China Eastern ticket window in the Chiang Mai airport (and in fact, there are no China Eastern employees there – they only have one flight each day). They suggested we buy the ticket at the same travel agency.

“It's closed,” I told them.

“Perhaps you can wait until tomorrow...” they suggested.

“Our flight leaves in an hour.”

“In that case, perhaps you can buy it at the Thai Airways ticket counter. They are partners.”

Confused, since I knew that Thai Airways is mileage partners with United and Air China and the Star Alliance, and we were accruing miles for our China Eastern flights on Delta (part of the SkyTeam), I rushed to the Thai ticket window and explained our situation.

They asked the same questions and began making some calls. As the clock ticked, they suggested calling our travel agent – Expedia. Thankfully we still had some money on our Thai SIM cards, which offer inexpensive international calls, so Ruth called Expedia while I talked to her mother to ask for the credit card number (we'd left it with her to pay hospital bills a few months ago). Expedia told Ruth to call China Eastern directly, but the only phone number they offered was in Pasadena (I recognized the 626 area code from my days at the Star-News). That office was closed since it was the middle of the night in California. Not very helpful.

After making numerous calls, they sent me back to the check-in counter. Since there were no more passengers checking in, the woman at the counter scrambled to find a way to get us onto the flight.

“So you don't have a receipt?” She asked. “How about a boarding pass from the earlier flight?”

I dug through our papers and found the boarding pass for our flight from Kunming. Unfortunately, it didn't contain the information she needed.

“Here is the phone number for China Eastern's Kunming office, maybe you can call that,” she suggested.

Again, I explained our situation and asked if I could buy an infant ticket over the phone. “Can you call back tomorrow, during regular business hours?”

“Our flight leaves in less than an hour.”

“I'm sorry, it is not possible for us to sell you an infant ticket at this time.”

“How about a regular ticket?”

“That is also impossible.”

“So you're telling me that there is no way for us to buy a ticket to carry our baby onto the plane. That is absurd.”

“Yes.”

The check-in agent asked if she could talk with the China Eastern representative on the phone, but she got the same answer.

She hung up and scurried over to talk with a supervisor several times. 7:30....7:35. I noticed that she'd printed out boarding passes for the three of us.

“You have printed out boarding passes,” I said. “Can we please just use them and get onto the plane?”

“I'm sorry, unless she has a ticket, that is impossible,” she said, picking up the boarding passes.

The clock kept ticking. 7:40...Around 7:45, she confided to us: “If something doesn't happen in the next few minutes, you will have to take another flight.”

The prospect of spending a night in an airport with a screaming tired baby was beginning to look inevitable. But we hung onto a thread of hope and asked for God to intercede.

Then suddenly, at 7:50, she hurried over to us and handed me a boarding pass for Juliana. She said that if we hurry to the Thai Airways ticketing counter, they would sell us a ticket. I sprinted a couple hundred yards to the ticket counter. A half-dozen people were in line. My stomach sank. I anxiously tried to make eye contact with the ticket agent I'd talked with earlier, praying that God would clear a path. She waved for me to come to the front and I handed her the boarding pass.

“We can sell you a ticket. It will cost 1,150 baht (about $40)”

I frantically scanned my wallet. I counted the baht – 874. Not enough. The rest was with Ruth in the backpack. “Can I pay with a credit card?”

“We need cash.”

Then I remembered a separate stash of money I'd put with our passports. Two crisp 1000 baht bills. “Ok, I have it. Here.”

She asked for Juliana's passport and wrote out some information. Then she made a phone call. 7:55. “Ok, we have issued a ticket for the baby. Now go back to the check-in counter.”

I sprinted.

By the time I got there, Ruth already had our boarding passes in hand and was approaching the stairway, hands filled with the baby, backpack, daiper bag and styrofoam ice chest (for Juliana's vaccinations).

We hurried up the escalator and made a b-line for the security check. An airport official, apparently aware of our predicament, offered to take the styrofoam ice chest through security for us. “It's medicine,” I explained, when she asked about the strange container, hoping that the vaccinations wouldn't cause any problems. Thankfully, there was nobody in line. Nobody asked any questions. A clear path.

Then we had to go through the Thai border inspection. Again no line, a clear path.

We were through. 8 p.m. Flight time. We frantically looked for our gate. “Where is it? I don't see it.”

Then we saw several hands raised. “Kevin and Ruth,” someone shouted. “Over here.” Several colleagues from our organization, who were on the same flight, were waiting near a gate. “We haven't boarded yet.”

“That's awesome.”

Inexplicably, they'd held the plane for us.

Briefly, we tried to explain what had happened to our colleagues, thanking them for their prayers. “I don't know how we got a ticket for her. They said it was impossible. It was a total God thing. I think He just worked a miracle for us.”

It probably helped that the airport is tiny and the plane only seated 50 – half of whom were returning home from the same conference as us, but it was a complete answer to prayer.

A few minutes after 8, they began the boarding process for the plane, insisting that those with children board first. They looked at us and held the line. We were the first to board. We sat down, smiled, and took a deep breath. “We made it.”

My heart was racing from adrenaline and excitement. God had made a way for us.

Lesson learned. In the future, we won't even attempt to buy an infant plane ticket for international travel at the airport. Probably the best bet is for us not to buy our plane tickets unless we are allowed to buy one for our daughter at the same time. In the meantime, we praise the one to whom all praise is due.

Some will scoff at my suggestion that God cared enough for our situation to answer our prayers. “It's just circumstantial,” some might say. “You would have made it anyway. What about those other times you prayed and God didn't seem answer?” Perhaps He did, but I wasn't willing to hear Him say “no, you need to go through this trial.” Perhaps I didn't paint the picture clearly enough – we had no business getting onto either of these planes. God showed up and made a way. It is only because of His mercy and grace that the hearts of the airport officials were moved upon our behalf.

As I wrote this today, I noticed a quote in a free kindle book, which I've working through a few pages at a time, called “Answers to Prayer From George Müller's Narratives.” I echo the sentiments of Müller , who wrote about God's last-minute provision for orphanages in 19^th century England when circumstances looked dour: “it was from the beginning in the heart of God to help us; but because He delights in the prayers of His children, He had allowed us to pray so long; also to try our faith, and to make the answer so much the sweeter. It is indeed a precious deliverance.”

The Miracle of Flight (part 1)

By Kevin

Rule Number One for flying with China Eastern: everybody on the plane must have a ticket. Including infants.

We knew the rule. In fact, when we bought our tickets, we asked both Expedia and the airline – China Eastern – whether or not we could purchase Juliana's ticket in advance. They both said that we could simply wait and buy the ticket at the airport when we arrived. This made sense, because we'd already done it several times in Juliana's young life. Typically, we plop down a fee amounting to 10% of the typical airfare and we're good to go, she gets to fly on our laps. Not today.

Rule Number Two for flying with China Eastern: At the Kunming airport, you can only buy domestic tickets. You cannot buy an infant ticket for an international flight at the Kunming Airport.

This was news to us. Every other airline we've been on with Juliana allowed us to purchase her tickets at the airport (at this point she'd been on five planes – LA to Guangzhou to Xi'an, Xi'an to Beijing, Xi'an to Kunming). So when we got to the Kunming airport just before it opened at 6 a.m. – about two hours before our flight, we didn't anticipate any trouble. But soon, we entered a maze of regulations and pleas for rule-bending in a desperate attempt to board our flight.

When we arrived at the airport on Jan. 27, we noticed that China Eastern only had a domestic ticketing counter, so we casually walked up to the check-in counter for our flight to ask where we should buy her a ticket. We figured we'd simply be directed to some place we'd overlooked and we'd be on our way. We got an unanticipated response. “No, you must go to the China Eastern ticket office in downtown Kunming to buy any international ticket.”

“What? Even to carry a baby on our lap?”

“Yes. For any international ticket. It is impossible to buy the ticket at the airport.”

This posed a problem. At this point there were about 90 minutes left until check-in for our flight would end and two hours until takeoff.

While bemoaning the absurdity that an airline offering an international flight doesn't sell international tickets at the airport, I briefly considered jumping into a cab and going to the downtown office. A round-trip journey into downtown Kumning and back would probably take most, if, not all that time with morning traffic, but . Not to mention that the office probably doesn't open at 6 or 7 a.m.

A foreigner behind us in line, who spoke better Chinese, tried to explain our situation to the ticket agents. This time, the agent said, “Wait a minute, we will see what we can do.” She made a phone call, then returned to her task of checking the other passengers into the flight. We waited several minutes, but since the clock was ticking, we decided to try our luck at China Eastern's domestic ticket counter. We hurried back through the customs gate and found the counter.

We explained our situation – that we needed to buy a ticket so we could carry the baby onto our flight to Bangkok.

Again, no luck. “I am sorry. We can only sell domestic tickets here. To buy an infant ticket, you must go to our office downtown.”

“We only have 90 minutes until our flight leaves,” I replied. “That is not enough time.”

“Why didn't you buy the baby ticket at the same time as the other tickets?”

“Actually, we tried to, but both Expedia and China Eastern told us that we could buy the baby ticket at the airport.”

“We cannot sell international tickets here at the airport,” he repeated. “Only at our office in downtown Kunming.”

“I understand,” I replied. “Surely there is a way for us to buy a baby ticket at the airport. I'm sure we're not the first people to try.”

“Perhaps you could try the international check-in counter,” the man offered. “Maybe they can help you.”

“We were just there. They said the same thing you said.” I tried to gain some composure.

“Surely people fly all the time with babies, so you have a way we can buy an infant ticket,” I repeated. “We can't be the first people to have a problem like this.”

The agent talked to a colleague. As they talked I watched as another ticket agent unplugged a telephone from the cord. Then, he moved the phone a few feet to the left and plugged the phone into a different phone line and began to dial. It was now 7:05 a.m. “Just a moment.”

Finally, they reached an agreement on how to proceed. Perhaps, I could call the China Eastern ticket sales office hotline. They unplugged the phone and moved it back in front of me. Fighting the loud echoes that filled the cavernous, glass-and-steel covered airport, I reached an agent and hastily explained our situation.

After a few minutes, she gave a slightly new response: “I am sorry, but there are no economy tickets left for your flight. However, you can buy a business class ticket.”

Flustered, I tried to explain the absurdity of this proposal. “But we don't need a seat. We will carry the baby with us in our arms. She is very small. She is only four months old. She weighs less than most carry-ons. Surely there is a way for us to buy an infant lap ticket. She won't fill up any seats. Can we just carry her onto the plane with no ticket?”

Briefly, my mind flashed to an image of security guards peering at an x-ray of a backpack, asking one another in Chinese, “Did you see that. I think it moved.”

“You are right. What is it, a little cat?”

“Was that a meow?”

“No I think it just giggled. Is it a baby?”

Then my mind snapped back to reality. “We can't sell you an infant ticket. There are no economy seats left.” She just wasn't understanding my argument. Unfortunately, she said there was no way to buy a baby ticket at the airport or over the phone. “Surely there has to be a way.”

But there was still a glimmer of hope: she asked if she could talk with the airport ticket agent, so I passed him the phone. It was now 7:15 a.m. Time was running short. After a few more minutes, he asked for our ticket number. About this time, they rolled a swivel chair out from behind the counter so Ruth and Juliana could sit down, right behind the ticket lines, in the middle of the airport. Ok, so maybe they're trying to imply that this might take awhile.

It was at this time that I began to pray in earnest that God would give us favor. Ashamed at my lack of faith, I asked forgiveness for attempting to do this all in my own and for not leaning upon the One who can do the impossible. I then pleaded that he would connect the airport officials with the right people and that He would make a way for the impossible to be done. This was the turning point. “Give them a desire to help us for the baby's sake, Lord.”

After a few minutes, they asked for Juliana's passport. Progress.

Again, they unplugged the phone, plugged it in again, and dialed another number. Apparently, there are several phone lines at the China Eastern ticketing window, but only two phones. Minutes passed. My heart went heavenward: “Please God, soften their hearts.”

They asked for my passport. Soon, the original agent who helped me, pulled out his cellphone and dialed, putting the phone up to his left ear. “Connect them with the right people, Lord.” Then, another agent held the land-line up to his right ear as he wrote numbers onto a paper. Then, after the calls, they unplugged and replugged the land-line yet again at another spot on the counter.

7:30 a.m. - 10 minutes before check-in for our flight would close, an agent sheepishly asked, “Do you have renmenbi (Chinese money)?”

“Does this mean they're going to sell us a ticket?” I asked God as the woman scurried back across the ticket booth. I flipped through my wallet to find out how much money I had. Thankfully, I had 700 left. Surely her ticket would cost less than $100, I thought. Xi'an to Kunming was only 110 RMB ($16).

Again, we waited. Then she came back at 7:33 – “It will cost 590 RMB ($90). We will issue a paper ticket for Kunming to Bangkok and for Chiang Mai to Kunming.”

I pulled out the bills and put them into her hand, grinning. “Is there still time for us to catch the flight?”

“Yes, but hurry.”

I thanked them profusely and we scurried off.

We shuffled back to the check-in desk. Since we'd already begun the process earlier, our boarding passes were already printed and our bags were already weighed. “Who told you to leave here and go to the ticket counter earlier?” The agent asked, sternly.

“Nobody. We just thought it might help to try the ticket window.”

She shook her head and handed us the boarding passes. “Ok, but next time, you should wait.”

“OK, we will.”

“You need to hurry.”

We rushed through security: 7:37. Then the Chinese border police: 7:42. Quickly we ran to the gate: 7:45.

We showed our boarding passes and entered the glass-covered ramp to the pane. We were last to board, but we still had several minutes before takeoff. We paused and took a deep breath, gasping at the brilliant sunrise that greeted us. I took out the camera and snapped a quick photo. 

We found our seats, surprised to notice several other empty seats on the flight. “So much for no seats being left on the flight.”

We were extremely grateful to catch the flight, yet perplexed about the spiderweb of misinformation that led to our near-miss . We were bathed in the presence of God's provision for us, yet unsure what our next couple flights might entail. I wish I could say that was the end of the story – and we flew happily ever after. But we were only halfway into our trip.

When central heat becomes central leak

Nov. 17, 2010

by Kevin

Generally “heat day” is a highly-anticipated day in China. At least for those of us living north of the “heat line” an imaginary line (following the Huai River and the Qinling Mountains) that divides Northern China from Southern China and thus divides the country into “buildings with central heat” and “buildings where people freeze for several months unless they can afford to buy some other form of heating.” Some Southerners have even begun to clamor for central heat.

Thankfully, we live just north of the heat line. Ruth spent two years south of the heat line when she was in Yangzhou. I think she was colder than me most of the winter even though the ice was always frozen in Tonghua by early November at the latest and didn't thaw till March at the latest. Why? I had central heating. She just had a small AC/heat unit, space heaters and blankets. They were so inefficient that doctors in Yangzhou sometimes told people to just keep their windows open all winter. Nevermind the frostbite.

Anyway, as November 15 approached, our apartments were getting chilly. The baby's been bundled up in extra layers basically since her arrival in late October. The flipping of the switch that would send heat through the pipes in our floors (a wonderful innovation in a country that rarely uses insulation in it's concrete-walled buildings) eagerly anticipated.

But by the time we went to sleep that night, we hadn't heard the tell-tale trickles of water that indicated the onset of heat.

Then, the next day, again no heat. We began to worry – after all, the heat has ALWAYS been turned on Nov. 15, no matter how hot or cold it is outside. Thankfully, our fears were assuaged when I awoke to warm floors and set off for 8 a.m. class on the morning of the 17^th.

Throughout class, we heard the slithering sounds of water filling pipes, as well as loud clanking. Undoubtedly workers had to fix something, I figured. The shivering students, bundled up in their coats, smiled.

When I went to office hours at 10, my smile quickly faded. The side-effect of water trickling through the pipes was a leak from the radiator in the foreign teacher office/library. At this point, a growing puddle had formed near the desks and computer at one end of the room. So I got on the phone to the foreign affairs officials. They told me that there was some flooding on the second floor, but a worker would be coming soon. Office time came and went with no help. About four hours later, when Ruth was in the office, the workers arrived and proceeded to inspect the radiator and remove it from the wall.

Naturally, they didn't drain the water out first, so filthy, rusty, grimy coffee-grind looking water splattered onto the wall and poured across the entire floor. Thankfully China doesn't do carpet. They tried to shut off the incoming water, but a steady leak continued to drip onto the floor. They put a small basin underneath it, but it was full within a few minutes, so they opened the window and began bailing it out. Just before Ruth's office time ended, the workers left. The drip continued. They made no indication of whether or not they would return, so I wrapped up the baby and headed for the office so I could pass her off to Ruth and wait for them to return.

Again, I told the school about the situation. They assured me that the workers would return. I got to work cleaning the floor. Some of you may remember a post earlier this summer about the flooding of the basement in Georgia this summer. If I was superstitious, I'd think it had followed me. But in the process, I'd become quite adept at getting water off the floor. The mop didn't help much because it didn't absorb enough water. Instead, I grabbed brooms and began sweeping into the hallway. The workers returned, grabbed the radiator and carried it off. Again, with no indication of whether or not they would return. “The entire floor is wet. Do you know if the workers will return?”

The response: “They left to repair the radiator. After it is repaired they will return again.”

“When will that be?” I wondered.

“They will call me,” she replied.

Why did I even bother asking?

Soon, a trio of concerned students arrived and offered to help. Before I could turn them down, they had mops and brooms in hand and went to work. Unfortunately, by this time, my 4 p.m. class was about to start. Kelly had just finished teaching her third class of the day and was exhausted, but she hurriedly went back to her apartment, changed her clothes and returned to bail water for a couple hours. Again, I told the school officials. Naturally, the worker responsible for unlocking the door to a computer classroom didn't show up until 20 minutes late. It was just one of those days.

Since our school was going to be hosting a banquet at 6, again, I pestered the school officials. “Will they be back to fix it in time for the banquet? I have to go to teach, but now Kelly and some students are trying to clear the water so it doesn't damage the furniture or the books.”

“I am coming,” she replied. Finally.

I had to go teach my class. Naturally, since nothing was going right, the worker who is responsible for unlocking the door to my multimedia classroom didn't show up, so we waited in the hallway for 20 minutes. Meanwhile, Kelly and some students bailed water and cleared the floor.

After class, I went to check on the progress. The workers had just arrived. Our banquet was supposed to begin now (Sherri, our PA was in town and the school always throws us a banquet when she comes), but we waited while the workers attempted to install the repaired radiator. The drips continued until the workers realized that they might need to install a washer onto the pipe. I can't help but wonder if this would have solved the problem in the first place, but I tried to keep my mouth shut.

Flustered, we headed off to our banquet.

On the plus side: now we have so much heat that we can see Juliana's hands and have to crack the windows to keep from sweating.

Noticing the details

Aug. 30, 2009

By Kevin

She'd been standing in the middle of our living room for several minutes gazing at the photograph.

"It's wonderful," she repeatedly said with wonder. "So beautiful."

Lily, our Chinese tutor, marveled at the trees surrounding Ruth's parent's home in Georgia. She stroked the grass with her finger. Everything about it was so different from her experience. The home is on several acres of land, surrounded by lush green grass and trees.

"Is it made of wood?" she asked, noticing the texture of the walls in the background of a family photo. Many of her questions are things we simply take for granted.

She explained how most Chinese homes are made of brick or cement. Most Chinese people live in multi-story apartment buildings unless they live in the countryside. I thought about how I've seen Chinese builders frequently pull the rebar out as concrete hardens so they can reuse it to erect the next level of an apartment building. I wonder whether or not they left the rebar in our walls.

She was amazed that Ruth's parent's home was somewhat typical in America.

"Kevin, what about your family's home?" I'd forgotten to print out a photograph, but I explained that it too was made of wood, noting that the prevalence of earthquakes in California means more wooden homes because they handle the shaking better. My mind flashes to pictures of the damage done in the Sichuan earthquake two years ago and compare it to the comparatively light damage I've seen when the ground shakes in California.

"Is that your car?" Lily asked Ruth, pointing to the foreground.

"My mother's."

"Does everyone in America have a car?"

"Not everyone, but probably most people."

Her friend Cherry was amazed to discover that our families don't all live in the same city and that many Americans, particularly in more rural areas don't know their neighbors well because they hop into cars and travel from place to place rather than walking or taking the bus. "In my hometown there are 300 who all know each other," Cherry said.

Just before this, as they were paging through our America photographs, they gasped when they saw the skyscrapers of Chicago. "Did you take this?" She asked. We couldn't remember if it was one I snapped or if Ruth took it. "The sky is so blue," Lily said. "So beautiful."

She was shocked. "I had heard that most developed countries do not have clean air," she said. but the sky here is very clean."

It's interesting how they noticed all the little details in photos that we never think of.

They spotted the castle-like administration building in the background of Wheaton graduation photos, wondered why a skyscraper would be labeled "Westin," and giggled at photos of Abby and Hannah playing with a magnifying glass, remembering how they too played dress-up as young girls. Seeing photographs of family, they were shocked to discover that both of our grandmothers still wear makeup. "In China, most women stop wearing makeup when they are 60," Lily explained. They were also amazed that our grandparents are still independent that they don't want to live with their children, even though they are in their 80s. In a photos of family, their eyes were drawn to the fireplaces in the background. "Do people burn wood in America?" Cherry asked. "In China we usually burn coal."

After convincing Lily to set the photos down, we played a game of Uno. I was amazed because these were the first two Chinese students we've played with who actually pronounced the word correctly "Oooh-no" not "You-no."

Then, as we chatted, Cherry sat down and began to play with Ruth's stuffed giraffes Geoffrey and Gloria, teaching us the animal's Chinese name: cháng jǐng lù - which means "long-necked deer."

Finally, though, the temptation to return to their studies set in and we parted ways. These girls are seniors hoping to study Chinese as post-graduate students in Beijing next year, so they spend most of their waking hours studying for January's post-graduate exam. It's good to be back getting into the flow of China life.

A big-time apology

By Kevin

Friday afternoon, an unknown number popped up on the cell phone.

"This is the monitor from class 1," she began. "I want to apologize because several of us cheated on your examination yesterday, we want to ask you to forgive us."

"I am willing to forgive you, but I am still deciding what I will do." I said.

She passed the telephone to a classmate, who dove into a long run-on sentence that combined an apology with excuses about how the class is too difficult, but that they were wrong to do what they did. "Several of us cheated on your exam. Will you please forgive us? We have washed the desks in the class and would like to meet with you so we can talk about it together. Would you be willing to give us another examination?"

Unfortunately, our Chinese lesson was about to begin. "Unfortunately, I will be busy this afternoon, but we can meet another time. I am willing to forgive you, but I am still deciding what I will do."

I met with six representatives from the class a couple hours later. I wondered: did the man in the office who I asked about changing the classroom say something or did they come to this conclusion on their own? Maybe they heard from the class that took the exam right after they did. Maybe they just saw that I'd scratched out their answers on the desks.

When they came over, the students spent more than an hour apologizing and then giving me advice for how I can make their class better. Just what every teacher wants: a lecture from his students.

The class monitor explained that she called a meeting of her classmates that morning and every student except for one had signed a letter of apology admitting that they had cheated. The one student who didn't sign insisted that she did not cheat. Now, I don't think that this many actually cheated (not every desk had answers written upon it), but since China is a very collective culture, undoubtedly, some students decided to stand alongside their classmates, in hopes that I'd give everyone another chance.

Here is their apology:

"A Letter of Apology"

Our dear teacher Kevin:

We are your students in 07ET1. We are sorry for our performance in your examing class. we admitted that we had done wrong, and we bave already realized our stupid behaves. We were cheating not only our teacher but also ourselves. We have had twice exams for this lesson during the semester. What we want to say to you is that it's too difficult for us to learn this course well, in your class we fixed our mind to listen to you but still can catch a little information. The vocabulary in our lessons is too large. So it's difficult for us to understand and learn them by heart. We were anxious about the coming of the exam and even didn't take a rest at noon before the exam. In order to pass the exam, the majority of us cheated in it and the rest of us kept honest. So please forgive us this time and give us a chance to correct our fault by taking another exam. We promise we won't do the same stupid thing again, please pardon us!

We sincerely hope that you and your beautiful wife Ruth live a happy live in China and may your jobs fares well.

Thank you for reading our letter.

Department of foreign English,

07ET1

(each student signed their names)

I expressed my disappointment with them and told them they they need to learn from this experience. I told them that when they cheat, they are robbing themselves, cheapening their education and lying to their future employers, among others. What if their doctor had cheated on his exams? Maybe he wouldn't know how to diagnose them properly. People would die.

I also thanked the students for apologizing to me early rather than waiting until I brought the matter up. I told them that I appreciated their courage to ask for forgiveness, even if I doubted that they would have done so if they hadn't been caught. I told them that I would forgive them because I have been forgiven for much. I told them that they will be taking another, more difficult exam. Probably an essay-based exam. Their maximum possible score on the exam will also be reduced.

I'm still deciding exactly how I will lecture the rest of the class on the seriousness of their offense in a way that may help them to realize their need for a grace bigger than that I can give.

This is not how I wanted to mark Ruth's birthday.

Thankfully, in the evening, the team gathered to celebrate Ruth's day. We made pizzas and cake, played Settlers (Ruth won), and watched Ruth's favorite movie: "Benny & Joon."

The plot thickens

Thursday night, May 7
by Kevin

I just had the realization that my Tuesday class was in the same classroom where mass cheating going on. My joy that several of them seemed to do better on this exam has morphed into suspicion. This has also made my reaction to the class I caught more complicated: some of the desks may have had answers written upon them before Tuesday's exam, so some of Thursday's culprits may not be guilty. Grr.

Once a cheater, always a cheater?

by Kevin

Today my frustrations with my culture classes boiled over into full-on anger. Anger mixed with sorrow about my student's souls.

Today I caught almost an entire class -- 34 of 44 -- cheating on an exam.

But before I get into that, let me back up a day. During the exam I gave yesterday, I spotted one girl who was mysteriously looking back and forth between her paper and her desk.

"What could she be looking at?" I wondered as I walked towards her. She slyly shifted her paper to the side, covering the area her eyes had been examining. I made a mental note of her name and where she was sitting, so I could get a closer look at her desk after almost everyone had left the room. After all, maybe something else was going on.

Sure enough, maps of Australia and New Zealand, which is one part of what they were being tested on, had been faitlfully drawn onto the desk. Now, most of the time these sort of things go unnoticed, because Chinese students are notorious for writing all over their desks. There isn't a single desk in the class that doesn't have writing scrawled all over it.

"What are you looking at?" asked the one student who was left in class, after handing me her exam. "She wrote the answers on her desk," I said, shaking my head.

She pulled out the blasphemous phrase every Chinese student seems to know to use when something shocking has happened:

"Oh my God," she exclaimed in mock horror. "How terrible. What will you do?"

"I am still deciding."

"I think when someone cheats, they must be punished, yes?"

"Yes."

I continued looking at other desks and soon discovered that others had used the same tactics. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure who had been sitting in those desks, since many change seats each week.

Fast forward one day. Now, my cheat-dar is on high alert as I give the an exam to another class. I spot a handful of eyes that are following the same track as the girl did yesterday, dancing back and forth between papers and their desks. Briefly, I consider nailing them now, but suddenly I had a thought: "I'll make note of where everyone is seated and then come check their desks after the exam. I begin writing out a seating chart, noting each student's name as I walk by."

After they leave, I began making the rounds.

By now I'm fuming. I pull out a blue permanent marker and begin drawing lines through their answers on the desks, to shame them.

By the time I finished, only a handful of desks were left without blue marks.

And there was another class about to come into the same room to take the same exam. I hurried up to the department office and found another a room we could move to for the exam. "Is there a department policy on cheating?" I asked Mr. Wang, explaining what had happened. "No, there isn't."

As I waited in the original classroom, counting down the minutes to when the next exam would begin, I watched the students cramming for their exam, curious if they would realize that the teacher was onto them. Several hurried students came into class, sat in their seat and noticed that answers had been scratched out. As they pointed it out to their neighbors, I gave them a knowing nod. But not everyone caught on. One girl, oblivious, frantically scribbled out a few answers onto her desk.

"I discovered that most of the students in the last class had written answers for the test on their desks," I announced. "If it was you who did it, you should be ashamed because you may have just made another student fail." Several students ashamedly looked down, avoiding eye contact. A few nervously giggled. I continued: "So the first thing we are going to do today is move to another classroom. Please stand and follow me."

I followed the same tactic in the new room. But now most students were rightfully fearful of being caught. I drew a seating chart with each student's name and watched them like a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse leaving its hole. Again, after they left I checked their desks. This time I only found two cheaters: apparently, in the minute or so that I wrote instructions on the board, these brazen cheaters managed to scribble down a quick map. Unbelievable.

As Wes put it, "They don't see cheating as wrong, unless they get caught."

Again, I left the room angry. I saw a couple girls in the hallway. They smiled, nervously.

But now I have a dilemma: first of all, what should I do? Should I give them all the zero they've been promised for cheating on an exam or should I give them another chance? A big part of me says fail them. Unfortunately, it's not clear-cut exactly WHO cheated. Was it the first student sitting at the desk or had the student who would be in the room to take the exam second come in early and scribbled down the answers? There were a couple of desks with TWO maps of Australia drawn on them.

The justice-seeker says, "Just give them a zero." The merciful part says, "Make them take a new exam." Yet another part says, "Maybe they can just go to another classroom and fill out this small part of the exam again?" Wes had an interesting idea, considering that China is a shame-based culture: "Call each student who cheated to the front of the room and give them a choice: I draw a line on your forehead or I give you a zero." That sounds extreme, but I'm at a loss right now.

I know many of you who read this are teachers. What would you do if you potentially cheating?

I ache for their souls. Integrity and honesty have such a small part in their studies. If they're willing to cheat on something as small as this (really, in the grand scheme of things, my class matters very little to them), how can they be trusted in bigger things? I wonder how many of them already cheated on college entrance exams? How many will do it again with their TEM-4? How many will bribe someone to find a job? When they become teachers, will they go on to enable their students to simply follow in their footsteps?

So, yes, all that to say, right now I'm at a loss. Bad China day? Yes.