i'd like an easy button

There are three main dialects of Chinese: Cantonese, Mandarin, and Taxi Driver. Yesterday, I found myself immersed in the last one—well, kind of.

Anyone who ever scales over Purple Mountain Majesties, wades to the ends of the Amber Waves of Grain, and flies beyond Spacious Skies into the black unknown that is the Rest Of The World will soon make a startling discovery: we have it easy in the Great States. I mean, sure, having to renew your driver’s license every thirty years or so is kind of annoying. But try that same task anywhere else…After three hours maneuvering the public transportation system you reach the DMV with your passport, student ID card, shot records, electricity bill, and dental x-rays in tow only to find that the DMV has moved. New location unknown. After asking a friend to translate his brother-in-law’s neighbor’s gardener’s directions to the new place, you reach your destination and are met by a welcoming sign:

Gone for tea. Be back in a few hours.

While such experiences might leave some travelers singing “Proud to be an American” as they wave Old Glory and tick off the days on their Lady Liberty calendars until their return flights, others of us just wish for an easy button. Like in the Staples commercials. (Surely those really exist, even if a Staples is nowhere to be found.)

So many moments in my family’s life in China have left us looking for our easy buttons. Many scenarios--like last week when we couldn’t find the right bus, and no taxi would pick us up, and the hotel guards mocked our Mandarin pronunciation—leave us feeling like we have lost and China has won. (For, of course, any major defeats in our Chinese adventures are not the fault of say, a broken down bicycle, or a bank attendant having a bad day, but instead, the entire People’s Republic). So many days I think “China: 400 points, Schleiffs: 0.”

So, back to the taxi. Yesterday, I set off two hours early for an afternoon meeting. After a ride on a shuttle and the subway, I finally reached my destination with time to spare. I brushed off my shoulders. I gave myself a high five. I thought, “Ha ha ha! Finally, China, I have beaten you at your own game!” After the meeting, I headed back to the subway, feeling confident, ready to take on Beijing travel once again. Except, this time, I opted for the cheaper route: the bus.

Many of our fellow foreigners avoid the buses. They find them dirty, crowded, and confusing. Instead, they use taxis or drivers. Obviously, these fellow travelers have failed to grasp the value of the yuan. With my bus usage I was saving upwards of 38 yuan. That is like 5 whole dollars and at least 6 stamps on my milk tea stand card. I mean, hello! Not only that, who wants to ride in a musty car that reeks of cigarette smoke when instead, you can enjoy the Mushu-acclaimed “corn-chip” aroma of a hundred bodies sandwiched together in a giant hug of international friendship. Plus, you can revel in the natural a/c of the smoggy breeze drifting through open windows as you are cooled by the delicate spray of your neighbor’s sweat upon your face. (Did I mention it was cheap?)

After disembarking the subway and boarding the 915 bus, I indulged in a wave of pride as I swiped my bus card and headed for a seat. My jubilee, however, was soon replaced by unease. I paused. “Open seats? Why are there open seats?” I thought. Not only open seats, but open cushy seats. This could not be good. The 915 I knew and loved never had seat vacancies, and it certainly never offered its passengers’ bottoms some additional cushion. This was not my bus. My fears were confirmed as we boarded the freeway and arrived 30 minutes later at Not-My-Home and Not-a-Place-I-Had-Ever-Seen-Before. I got off, fearing that remaining aboard any longer might leave me camping out for a night at the Great Wall.

I resigned myself to a taxi, and after a few failed attempts, waved a driver down who was willing to take me to my area of town. I soon realized however, that though very nice, the man did not really know where I lived. And unfortunately, neither did I. Not only that, but I understood little of what the man was saying. I pride myself at my attempts at the Beijing accent, but the Taxi Driver dialect is an art. I personally have not mastered replacing all vowels with the letter “R.” However, despite my incompetency and by the grace of our dear Lord, the driver and I eventually stumbled upon some of my old biking paths (thank goodness for summer boredom combined with the good-ole zi xing che!) Soon after, we pulled into the gate that I have come to know and love as both home and a comforting sign that I will not be spending the night in Tower Number 6.

Sure, this was not an uncommon scene for the international traveler. Heck, it was not even an uncommon scene for a Schleiff. Yet, I believe it begs the creation of a real-life easy button. I implore you, Staples, to put the thing on the market soon. And please, if you will, have it manufactured in China.