Iconic area of Shanghai.
During the dark days of the pandemic lockdown, Americans got comfortable with doing more things online: working, communicating, shopping, ordering groceries, etc. Chinese people had already been living that life for years.
So much of daily life in China requires a deep integration into the Chinese digital ecosystem, and once youâ€™re part of that biosphere, your life gets convenient in many ways. Once youâ€™re plugged in, your cell phone becomes your most important accessory, more important than your wallet, your ID, your cash. Your cell phone replaces all of those things. Someone told me the other day that he has stopped carrying a wallet, because everything that he needs on a daily basis, he can do with his phone.
Getting plugged into this matrix takes some work, though. It’s a multi-step process that has to occur in the correct sequence: first get a WeChat account. Then get a local cellphone SIM card. Then get a bank account. Then get a digital payment account. Then link all of them together. It takes most of a day to complete all of these steps. It’s a complicated process for a foreign newcomer. The other day someone told me that she did these things in the wrong order, and she’s still trying to straighten it all out.
And simply being able to speak Chinese isn’t quite enough. You have to know the correct words to use. The local bank, for example, didn’t understand us when we said we wanted to open an account. They were confused: why would you want a bank account? We were confused that they were confused. We need to be able to deposit money into the online payment system! Oh, the bank employee said. You need to open a bank CARD. Not a bank ACCOUNT.
Then we had to link the bank card (not account) to the online payment system. That required a phone call, because the account was frozen. We said that we couldn’t register our account. What do you mean, you can’t register? the customer service rep asked, mystified. You have an account already. We were mystified, too. The app says we’re frozen. Oh, was the reply, you mean you can’t LOG IN.
Then we couldn’t link the online payment system to the online shopping platform. Another phone call to customer service. What’s your account number? What do you mean, account number? We just got here, we don’t have an account yet! Yes you do, when you create an account with the online payment system, you automatically get an account in the shopping platform. So what’s your member number? How the hell do I know what my member number is, I didn’t even know that I had an account!!
And so on.
Eventually, we got everything sorted out. I learned some new terminology, and feel a bit more humble about my language skills. The upside is that we can use our cell phones to buy stuff, to take the subway, order food, pay for the food, rent a bicycle, call a cab, etc. China’s cybereconomy system makes the material aspects of city life much easier.
All of this convenience comes at a tremendous cost to personal data privacy, though. China has been a surveillance state for a long time, and technology makes following individuals easier and more invasive. That the government is monitoring our text messages and movement is not a secret. It’s a feature, not a bug. We had to register for a “health code” so that we can get into buildings. The Chinese government has implemented a complex social tracing network to combat the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. We are being actively tracked. The upside is convenience and safety. Petty crime is pretty low, largely due to the ubiquitous security cameras and cellphone tracking. The downside is that the authorities can and do get into individuals’ business at an Orwellian level.
The Matrix has us.
The building that I live in goes up to floor 35, but there arenâ€™t 35 floors in the building. Why? Superstition.
You might have experienced this in hotels or office buildings in the United States: there often is no floor 13. That is because 13 is an unlucky number in western culture. In China, the unlucky number is four, because â€œfourâ€ in Chinese (å››) rhymes with the word for â€œdeathâ€ (æ»).
This is the bank of buttons in the elevators in my building. Whatâ€™s missing?
Not only is there no floor 13, nut there is also no floor 4. Or 14. Or 24. Or 34.
So, even though in theory there are 35 floors in this building, in reality, there are only 30. Thanks, superstition!
It’s been pretty well established that COVID-19 spreads through droplets of moisture suspended in the air. Apparently, a very cautious person wants to be sure that we don’t spread the virus through the sewage system. Or maybe someone’s worried that people will be smelling stuff that normal people would avoid smelling.
When we “checked in” to the quarantine hotel, we were given a bottle of chlorine tablets, and written instructions for how to use them. We are supposed to put a tablet in the toilet before we flush down our business. This makes our poop nice and clean before it hits the sewage system.
The written instructions were to put ten pellets in the toilet, wait 30 minutes, then flush. A friend had shared the written instructions with me in advance, so the Poopoo Pellet thing wasn’t a surprise. What the hotel staff told us was different, though. The hotel staff told me to put in ONE pellet, and to flush it right away. I asked for confirmation that she said one pellet, not ten, and that we didn’t have to wait 30 minutes. She confirmed yes, one pellet, and don’t let it mellow, just flush it down.
Because it was so important to get it right, we were given written and oral instructions. I believe that this is a arbitrary bureaucratic policy informed by pseudo-science, and so the fact that two sets of instructions were contradictory does not bother me in the slightest. I think that waiting 30 minutes for the poopoo pills to do their magic, and flushing the pills down with the poop right away, are equally effective in preventing the spread of COVID-19. That is to say, not at all.
Yes, I’m pretty skeptical that even if I were carrying the COVID-19 virus, that I could spread it via my poop and pee. And if I could spread it that way, I doubt that a chlorine tablet in the toilet would prevent that. In fact, if this is a danger, then we have a bigger problem to worry about. To be honest, the whole thing sounds like something I’d hear from a certain elected official in the U.S. You know who I mean: the guy who talked about stuffing ultraviolet lightbulbs up our body cavities (or something like that). But I try not to be a jerk, and I admit that I’m not an expert on poop-born COVID, so I’m playing along.
I plop a poopoo pill into the pottie before I begin my business. The chlorine smell that wafts up from the toilet bowl invokes happy memories of frolicking in a swimming pool, during the salad days of my youth. The smell cheers me up as I sit on a Chinese toilet, waiting for this silliness to end.
The China Daily claims that Shanghai has over 7,000 coffee shops, compared to New York’s measly 1,591. And since the China Daily printed it, of course it’s true. 100%.
Although there is apparently plenty of coffee for everyone here in Shanghai, it’s unavailable to me while I’m in quarantine. I can’t go out, and they can’t deliver to me.
No coffee is not an option. A co-worker once gave me the nickname “Professor Coffee.”
In addition, bad coffee is a bad option. I’ll drink instant coffee when I’m backpacking in the middle of the wilderness. But I don’t want to live like an animal if I don’t have to.
In a stroke of genius, I set up my own little quarantine coffee shop.
I call my coffee shop “Chock Full of It.” Because I’m getting pretty chock fed up with quarantine.
Chock Full of It serves beans from Dead River Coffee Roasters in Marquette, Michigan. We tried their coffee in July this year. The owner is an interesting character, he loves his craft, and I learned a lot from talking with him about coffee. Just before leaving the U.S., I ordered two pounds of their Brazilian beans to bring to China with me. They do mail order, I highly recommend giving them a try (I receive nothing for this promotion, I really like their product, and want them to succeed).
Beans are hand-ground especially for each cup using the Hario hand grinder. The ceramic burr grinds the beans perfectly, taking about 90 seconds to grind enough for one cup (I have plenty of time on my hands in quarantine, if you haven’t guessed by now). Customers unanimously agree that the flavor of fresh-ground beans is worth the extra time.
Chock Full of It exclusively extracts coffee using the Aeropress coffee maker, one of the best Christmas presents that I ever received. If you haven’t had a cup of coffee made with an Aeropress, you’re missing out (again, not a paid promotion, I just really like the coffee maker).
Presentation is not nothing. Chock Full of It serves its freshly-extracted coffee in souvenir mugs from Isle Royale National Park, which is the happy place of the coffee shop proprietor (me).
My favorite aspects of Chock Full of It are (A) the coffee is made exactly the way that I like it, and (2), I get to keep all the tips.
I’m sure there’s a story behind my late lunch today, but I’m equally sure that I will never, ever, hear that story. Because China.
Quarantine is going OK so far. The hotel room could use a good scrubbing, but it isn’t as disgustingly filthy as some people had complained about. The room is large, bed is comfortable, the view is nice, the Internet is reasonably fast (by China standards).
The food is a different story. I am not a fan.
Three times a day, the doorbell to my room rings, and when I open the door, I’m greeted by the droppings of the hotel’s kitchen.
The food is (mostly) edible, but it isn’t gourmet dining. I’ve had better food on the street. I’ve also had worse food in restaurants. Bottom line: it is neither worth complaining about, nor writing home about.
The boy scout in me was still working before I left the U.S. I came prepared with my own snacks. Having some comfort food helps, a lot.
I was a little confused, and more than slightly amused, when lunch didn’t appear today. My wife sent me a text message from her room that her lunch was delivered. But when I looked outside my room, the stool was empty.
These things seem to happen to me in China. I learned to roll with it, and see the humor. I had a snack from my stash, and wasn’t too hungry. But I was curious. An hour later, I called the front desk. “I’m not complaining, just curious: no lunch today?” I asked.
“It’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming!” the voice from the front desk assured me.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Lunch was served.
I was expecting a piping-hot, fresh-from-the-wok meal. After all, it was an hour late. Maybe they had to make something just for me? So it would be a something special? Silly me. I got a cold box lunch. And it was just as nondescript as all the other meals. So why the delay? Why did it take an hour for the hotel staff to deliver my lunch? I will never know.
Leave it to China to inject some drama in something as simple as lunch.