Part of my job is to prepare people for toilets in China.
Don’t be jealous.
Many a Western style traveler now have a killer party story to tell because they were caught off guard in an Eastern style bathroom.
The odors alone are generally enough but that is never the end of the tale (no pun intended). There is also the issue of the missing toilet paper in most public restrooms. My absolute favorite bumbling foreigner stories of all time involve grown men who went into a stall wearing socks and came out wearing none.
(pause here until that last sentence makes sense)
The most crucial bit of forewarning, though, is that sometime . . . somewhere . . . you’ll be out and have no choice . . .
You’re gonna’ have to use a squatty.
I’ve even worked up a helpful training tool to help newbies remember the key steps.
1. Pause — don’t rush into this. Do you have tissue?
2. Observe — Scan the stall. Is there cleanup that should happen before this begins? Is there a hook to hang your jacket on?
3. Only Halfway — Which (without intending to be crude) has to do with your trousers and the distance between your waist and your shoes. Simply put, don’t drop em’ to the floor. It never ends well (no pun intended).
Pause — Observe — Only Halfway. It’s a bit of an acronym for easy remembering.
You’re welcome for that.
A foreigner’s first time using a squatty is a rite of passage — it’s a magical moment when you prove that you didn’t just come here for the stuff they put in the brochure. No, no — you are a mover and a shaker (no pun intended).
HOWEVER — The standard Western reaction to the experience of the Eastern toilet is typically handled tongue in cheek (pun intended a little bit). We’ll squat if we must but in the back of our minds it’s ridiculous and frankly uncivilized. There is smirking and joking and (at the very least) light hearted mocking because THESE PEOPLE haven’t yet figured out the right way . . . the proper way . . . the Queen’s way of doing their business.
It’s little more than a glorified, porcelainized version of pooping in the woods.
Primitive.
Confession time — I still snort laugh a little every time I go into a Chinese Starbucks bathroom and see the sign that says
“For your safety, please refrain from squatting on the toilet seat.”
That’s just funny.
Mostly because Starbucks is the poster child for all things Western and yet someone in the top office had to concede that they needed to take quick action, presumably because some poor soul had slipped and broken his collarbone complaining that there was no sign warning of the dangers of squatting on a Western toilet.
It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.
Here’s the thing. We joke. We laugh. We even question the sophistication and development of cultures who do things differently from us . . .
Until we realize that they are right.
One of the hottest new products in the Western world right now is the “squatty potty.” Not the ground level Asian sort but the pooping unicorn, as seen on Shark Tank sort that brings your knees up and converts your Westie to a squatty instantly.
(if you’re one of the eight Westerners who haven’t seen this video yet, give it a click)
Someone from our side of the globe has finally argued both convincingly and hilariously that squatting is best practice.
Who knew?
I mean except for the rest of world.
It’s a complex cultural phenomenon isn’t it? When THEY (whoever they are) say it, it sounds ridiculous but when WE say it, it’s genius.
It would be one thing if it was only one thing. But it’s not.
Few outsiders who come to China are not, at some point, overwhelmed by the the sheer number of toddler tushies that they see out and about in the public square. “Split pants” are just what they sound like — quick easy access because when babies gotta’ go, babies gotta’ go.
Consequently, parents and grandparents are often seen on the sidewalk, squatting their little ones while they make a mess worth stepping around.
It’s ridiculous. Messy. Disgusting.
But Elimination Communication (which is exactly the same thing) — Now that’s just genius. That’s the phrase that was coined when a Westerner spent time in India and Africa and came back with a “brand new” potty training method that focused on parent-child bonding, zero diaper rash, months faster results and an end to landfills once and for all.
The concept has taken off in the West and been the springboard for numerous more trendy (and pricy) lines of the exact same thing that has been common practice throughout much of the world for centuries.
Who knew?
photo credit: bbc.com
Maybe, the most prominent recent example of “it was stupid until we thought of it” has been brought to us by 23 time gold medalist Michael Phelps (and numerous other Olympians who jumped on the cupping train). He taught us in Rio that gigantic hickeys aren’t always a bad thing.
Confession time — I’m a lot like Michael in that (and only in that) I too have had my back covered in these enormous, suction induced bruises. I even wrote about it several years ago in:
My stance was, “stay away children . . . stay away” — but I’m not too big to admit when I’m wrong. In fairness however, I wrote from my own experience back when it was THEIR idea . . . way before it was OURS . . .
and now The Culture Blend — which is known for flip flopping on the issues.
But come on . . . who knew?
It makes for an interesting conversation about cultural skepticism and credibility and trust and the depths of interpersonal interaction across a plethora of dividing lines.
It’s also funny . . . to talk about toilets and pooping unicorns.
How about you?
Have you noticed anything that was a horrible idea until someone from your side of the world convinced you otherwise?
Like the time I got 28 enormous hickeys on my back or the day I discovered I might be Amish.
You can’t make this stuff up.
Life as a bumbling foreigner makes me laugh — some days simply because the alternative involves some combination of thumb sucking, a fetal position, and dents in my wall that match my forehead.
If you can relate — even a little — then you should read this new book:
“THE DAY GRANDMA GOT US KICKED OUT OF MEXICO (and other fun stories about life as a bumbling American foreigner)“
It’s a short compilation of my favorite and funnest stories, interactions and reflections over the past several years and it’s free.
This book is simply about stepping back and enjoying the expat ride . . . bumps and all. There is no moral to the story. No great self-help wisdom. Just a few light-hearted thoughts from the perspective of an American living in China. Incidentally, it might even make a good read for a German living in Brazil . . . or a Kenyan living in Russia.
Probably not a Canadian living in Greece though. That’s pushing it.
Here’s how you get the book. Just sign in below and click on the big red button. Check your email to prove that you are a human (easier for some) and enjoy.
Thanks for reading . . . and for laughing at my Grandma. I hope to return the favor someday.
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Hey expat. You too repat. When was the last time you laughed?
Like really laughed. Belly laughed until your ears hurt and you actually had to force yourself to think of something sad for fear that you might pull a muscle in your gut. Laughed so hard that you had to fight to catch your breath even after you stopped laughing . . . and then you snorted and started laughing all over again.
I’m not talking “lol” here. I mean “BWAAHAHA!”
How long has it been? How often does it happen?
Too long? Not often enough?
Why is that?
Let me guess. Life happened. Transition got real. Culture shock or re-entry stress hit you like a ton of bricks and you can’t even remember what gut laughing feels like.
In the economy of major life transition, laughter sometimes feels like a luxury that you can’t afford.
I’m right with you . . . but we’re both wrong.
It’s hard to find a better value proposition than laughter. Your investmentment is virtually nothing and the returns are astronomical. Try to get that deal from stress . . . or worry . . . or anger . . . or complaining . . . or overthinking . . . or even venting.
Bottom line? You need to laugh.
Here’s why.
Laughing is healthier and tastes better than Kale
The only thing that disqualifies laughter from being classified as a superfood is that . . . well, technically it’s not a food (if you want to be all picky). However, the studies are in (lots of them) and all of the data points to the same conclusion. Laughing is actually crazy healthy. Physically, emotionally, mentally and socially.
Here are some of the benefits (not making this up).
LAUGHTER CAN:
Lower blood pressure
Increase short-term memory
Lower stress hormones
Protect against heart disease
Defend against respiratory infections
Improve alertness and creativity
Increase oxygen levels in your blood
Increase pain tolerance
Improve metabolism
Make you blow milk out of your nose which makes other people laugh which resets the whole healthy cycle
Seriously. Kale isn’t even funny. At all.
Laughter is the opposite of everything that stresses you out
Important to note here. Laughter doesn’t SOLVE all of your transition challenges. It’s not going to magically infuse your brain with a foreign language or explain to your family why you’re crying in the cereal aisle. Laughter is not the answer to all of your pain but it might be the break that you need to STOP being consumed by the hard stuff. Even for a little bit.
A good laugh can be a great reset.
There are no Laughter Rehabs
People with issues (like you and me) want to detach. It’s what we do. Unfortunately the unhealthy options that offer a break from hard realities are as unlimited as the devastation that comes as a result of engaging with them. Laughter is all natural with zero negative side effects. So is kale but we’ve covered that.
A good laugh can give you a break without disconnecting or doing damage.
Laughter crosses cultural boundaries
Some of my most enjoyable laughs have been shared with people who speak about five words in my language (which is three more than I speak in theirs). To be clear . . . HUMOR does NOT often cross cultural lines.
Like, hardly ever.
Your jokes are probably not funny to the rest of the world. Sorry, but it’s better you find out here . . . from the guy who has learned the hard way.
HOWEVER — humor is not the only thing worth laughing at. If and when you find that point of connection with someone who is on the other side of a cultural line, it is golden. A good laugh not only crosses cultural barriers — it crushes them and builds a rapport that is hard to find elsewhere.
A note for repats — You’re crossing cultures too.
A good laugh can be a surprisingly great connector.
Laughing at yourself means you’re doing transition right
If you can’t laugh at yourself in the context of being a bumbling foreigner or returning “home” (and feeling like a bumbling foreigner) you are likely to do one of two things: Explode or Implode. Neither of those is good (just in case you were wondering).
There is only one reason you should laugh at yourself. Ready?
Because you’re funny.
Not so much in the brilliant, well thought out comedic genius kind of way. No no, you’re funny in the cat who falls off a ceiling fan kind of way. You’re making mistakes and falling down even though you look and feel like you shouldn’t be.
Frustrating . . . but funny.
Bumbling and falling can be a shot to your pride for sure — but laughing at yourself can be an indicator that your pride isn’t controlling you. I’m not talking about a self-loathing, self abusive, “I’m too stupid to do anything” laughter — but a healthy acknowledgement that you are not, in fact, the first person to do transition without falling down is a good sign.
A good laugh at yourself is a great gauge for transitional health.
Laughter is a good sign of things to come
Transition is a thief. It temporarily robs you of the comfort and confidence that you enjoyed back when you were settled. Remember those days? You had it all figured out. Now it’s just awkward. You don’t laugh when things are awkward.
Ok you might “lol” . . . but you don’t “BWAAHAHA!!”
So finding a way to genuinely laugh, even before you’re resettled, gives you a glimpse of something good that is coming.
A good laugh can be a great reminder that it’s going to get better.
One important disclaimer that could change everything:
It matters what you laugh at
All of this is out the window if it takes ripping someone else (or yourself for that matter) to shreds for you to laugh. You might still get the sugar rush but it’s not worth the damage you’ll leave behind (and carry with you).
So take some time and get intentional. Try this — Write down five times you can remember laughing til it hurt. Now start making connections. What do they have in common? Where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with? What can you recreate now? What can you not?
Even if transition has made it impossible to reproduce your most laughable moments, don’t give up on finding some new ones.
Why not start with a chuckle? — scroll up to the blue box at the top, right of this page and download my new ebook, “The Day Grandma Got us Kicked Out of Mexico.” It’s full of some of my most frustrating and enjoyable laughs as a bumbling foreigner.
My family’s not normal but let’s be honest . . . neither is yours.
I swear this happened one time — in America to boot.
I was at my hometown mall watching my daughter (a toddler at the time) trip around the foam rubber, indoor playground just outside of the Panda Express. I hadn’t been a father long but I knew from watching TV that playground chit chat was a thing. I was ready — or so I thought.
A woman, whom I believe was Chinese, kicked off a conversation.
“Is that your kid?”
“Good opening question” I thought. “I can do this.”
“Yeah.” I said with a chuckle that simultaneously meant, “isn’t she cute” and “chit chat is easy.”
Her turn.
“She doesn’t look like you.”
I felt like maybe she was unnecessarily stating the obvious but I was not deterred.
Chuckling again I said, “Yeah. She’s adopted.”
Now this is the moment where a normal person has expectations right? You expect any number of responses like — “Aww, that is so sweet” or “Wow, that’s really great” or “Oh cool, my cousin is adopted.”
But nope. I got . . .
“Hmm . . . cause you can’t make one?”
I’m just going to pause my blog for a moment to let the awkwardness fully sink in. Continue when you are able.
I have pondered this moment for more than ten years now and I still don’t know what the right response would have . . . no wait . . . could have been.
“Well, we’ve . . . uh . . . you know . . . we’ve um, tried . . . but uh . . . I’m sorry have we met because I don’t remember catching your name before you know . . . you started asking me about the working order of my reproductive system . . . . . . . . . My name is Jerry?”
Honestly I get it. On two different levels I get it.
Having lived in China since shortly after that moment I’ve learned a lot about (and even come to appreciate) the “unencumbered” nature of Chinese enquiry. If it’s weird, ask about it. Why wouldn’t you?
I also realize that she was just culturally unencumbered enough to enquire about the the same thought that goes through everyone’s head when they see us.
We’re not normal. I get it.
We’re not like the other delightful little mall families whose kids are shrunken versions of themselves (no offense if you are one of those — you’re very cute). We are two white parents with a Chinese daughter and a black son and fair enough, the first thought that you think when you see us may start with “awww” or “hmm” but it ends you “cause you can’t make one.”
It’s ok if you had that thought . . . and thank you for not saying it out loud.
The first thoughts never define a relationship unless the relationship ends there. What you’ll discover, no matter how you choose to get to know us, though, is that we blend.
Beautifully.
In fact we blend so much that now, when I see pictures like the one up there with our faces all squished together, I do a double take . . . and I remember that we really don’t look much like our kids . . . but man we go together.
Seriously.
Look at us.
That’s blended.
I forget though . . . virtually always . . . what is so blatantly obvious to everyone who sees us for the first time. Hang out with us for a day and you’ll forget too.
My family’s not normal but let’s be honest . . . neither is yours. I love it that way.
That’s all.
Do you blend? Your blendedness may look a lot like ours or nothing at all. Either way, take a minute a brag on your family below.
We are easing back into the American life one baby step at a time.
While eating our frozen yogurt in Costco last evening we had one of those horrifying parent moments. As a gentleman of the . . . ahem . . . portly persuasion walked past our table, our son’s eyes widened, his pupils dilated, his jaw dropped and we could see it coming. Unfortunately not soon enough to prevent it from happening. He stated loudly and with great surprise in his voice,
“HE’S SO FAT!!”
There are actually multiple, simultaneous biological functions that occur when events like this conspire. As your entire digestive system shrivels up like a styrofoam cup on a bonfire your heart accelerates to 18 times its normal pace which expands the capillaries beginning in your face and rushing throughout your body knocking the plug off of your pituitary gland which unleashes a fire hydrant surge of the endorphins that cause embarrassment and shame. This causes an involuntary avoidance of eye contact and a quick prayer for God to administer momentary, retroactive deafness to everyone in the Costco food court.
I will now state my case for why we are not the worst parents on the planet
1. Our son is 4
Four year olds have an innocent fascination with anything that appears outside of their frame of reference. I believe he intended no malice.
2. Our son has grown up in China where:
a. There is a considerably lower percentage of portly people
b. We rarely panicked when he would say embarrassing things because the surrounding crowd, most likely, didn’t speak English well enough to understand a three year old. This was especially beneficial when he was 9 months and accidentally screamed obscenities every time he saw a rock.
c. Calling someone fat is more of an observation than an insult. “Hey Jerry. Long time no see. You look fat. How is your family?” A conversation that I am unfortunately familiar with.
3. He learned it at home
After six months of binging in America on red meat and processed carbohydrates that have been deep fried in lard, soaked in syrup and coated in sugar we are beginning to feel a bit portly ourselves. I believe the word we use at home is the word in question. Fat. I also believe that the tone in which we use the “F” word (albeit first person and not third) is the exact same tone that our son chose to use at Costco. Surprise and volume.
“I AM SO FAT!!”
4. Surely our kid is not the only one
Am I right? Surely I’m right. Please tell me I’m right?
I wish I could say that this story ends well.
As our bodies returned to their natural state we had the talk with our son. It was the standard talk, trying to explain to a four year old why people don’t like to be called fat, especially when it is screamed loudly in the middle of a crowded Costco. He assured us that he understood.
Moments later (as if on cue) a woman (of an even portlier persuasion) was heading our direction. Our innards pre-shriveled. Our pituitary glands braced themselves for impact. We both looked at him and said . . . “DON’T SAY IT.”
He assured us that all was ok so we breathed a misguided sigh of relief just as she walked by — and he said with no surprise, but still great volume . . .
Reposted from October 2011:This is one of my favorite Culture Blend memories of faking Chinese in China.
I got blasted with a dose of my own indignance this week.
Chinese is tonal. If you haven’t tried to learn it then that means nothing to you. It’s pointless trivia, like “celery has negative calories” or “bats always turn left when they exit a cave”. All true (verified via the internet) but knowing it adds zero value to your life (maybe negative . . . like celery . . . and calories). If you have tried to learn Chinese however, then the overwhelming significance of these three words just made you vomit a little bit in your mouth.
A Quick Chinese Lesson for the Vomitless:
If you say “ma” it means “mother” (stink – Chinese is easy! what are you whining about?). However, if you say “ma” it means “horse” and if you say “ma” it means “anesthesia” and if you say “ma” it means “hemp” and if you say “ma” it means “tingly and numb” and if you say “ma” it means “sesame” and if you say “Ma” you may be speaking to a guy named Mr. Ma . . . or you may be trying to speak to Mr. Ma but you’re actually calling him “Mr. Sesame” and if you’re introducing him to your mother you may actually be saying “Hey Mr. Sesame this is my horse” or “this is my anesthesia” or “this is my hemp” for which you could be arrested and possibly executed (see here for more on that) all because you used the wrong tone.
It’s the most felt challenge of living as a foreigner in China. Not so much the threat of execution but the daily, blood boiling, teeth grinding irritation of knowing that you are saying the right word and getting nothing but a blank stare. I have seen some of the sweetest, tenderest, most loving souls I know transformed into screaming, blubbering freaks because the taxi driver just can’t understand their well rehearsed Chinese.
“SESAME STREET! YOU MORON! SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! SESAME STREET! CAN YOU PLEASE TELL ME HOW TO GET TO SESAME STREET?!!”
And the driver stares blankly because all he hears is, “Mother Street! Horse Street! Anesthesia Street! Can you please tell me how to get to Tingly and Numb Street?!”
Hence the vomit.
The result is a heavy dependence on context. Maybe my tones are off but if I can get the surrounding words to make sense then generally the Chinese listener will graciously figure it out. “OOHH – This is not really his horse, in fact she is not a horse at all . . . he probably means his mother.” However the Ma of all frustrations is when the context is crystal clear, the phonetics are spot on, the tones are just slightly off and there is still a total failure to communicate. “I SO know that I am SO close so why can’t you understand me?!”
Checking into a hotel in Beijing last week I got the tables turned on me. I was holding up the line as the front desk girl and I flipped through my family’s passport books searching for the right visas and stamps. Her English was rough but I was catching most of it. My Chinese was rougher but she was gracious. Finally we got the visa issues settled and she looked me straight in the eye and said . . .
“How about birds?”
You know that moment when you have no clue what is going on but your mind races to make something up? I got stuck there. I was certain I misheard her so I questioned, “I’m sorry?”
“Birds”
In about three seconds this was my thought process, *are there birds in the room? I don’t think I want birds in my room. I’ve seen birds for sale on the street, do they sell birds here? Is there some type of giveaway that I don’t know about? This is a holiday weekend, maybe they give birds to customers for Chinese National Day. That would be really strange considering this is an airport hotel and most of the customers will be flying home soon. Do they expect us to take birds home on the airplane with us? You can’t do that. I know China’s basic view on animal rights is different than where I come from but really? Birds? In my suitcase? They are so going to stop me at security. I wonder what color they are.*
“I’m sorry . . . what?”
She repeated, “Birds.”
Blank stare.
“Do you want one or two birds in your room.”
I was so thoroughly confused. *My two year old son will never go to sleep if we have any birds in our room. Why would you put birds in my room?!*
I could sense her frustration but still smiling she said, “Chuang.”
“OOHH Beds!”
Dear China: I’m sorry for snapping at your taxi drivers and thinking bad thoughts about you because you don’t understand my tones. You win.
Part of my job is to prepare people for toilets in China. 
Confession time — I still snort laugh a little every time I go into a Chinese Starbucks bathroom and see the sign that says
It would be one thing if it was only one thing. But it’s not.
