It's The Only Place I Want To Be

Another walk in the woods. And again, don't look too closely or you just might spot a rotting body.

Headed off for the Chinese Consulate General again yesterday to obtain my traveling permit. Previously, I had been to the Italian and German consulate generals in Eddie Bert, and while the reception I got at the two places were drastically different, their setups were pretty similar. The German one, especially, felt like a cozy sitting room, with a table, some chairs, and even a fake fire place. The Chinese one was a drastic difference. No sign of wood or carpet, but sterile white walls, tiling, and faux marble counters to stand against to fill out forms. The lights were bright and unforgiving. And instead of everyone waiting and sitting around, taking turns to go up to the window, folks just queued up behind the window. All very institutionalized, very what you'd exactly expect from the Chinese Consulate General.


Neither of these roads lead to the Chinese Consulate General.

Everything went swimmingly until the Visa Office Man handed me an application. It was in simplified Chinese. (For the uncultured, there are two types of written Chinese: simplified and traditional, simplified is a simpler version of traditional characters, used mainly in China. The more complex, traditional characters are used in Taiwan.) Now, I don't read Chinese well. But I especially don't read simplified well, what with never having learned it and all. (Thank you 4th-Year-Chinese-Professor who used a simplified-only textbook and instead of teaching me, just insisted that simplified was easy to pick up, "It's the simpler way, after all.")


This picture does not fit into the context of the story at all.

I started on my form, albeit a bit startled, and kept thinking, "So he just assumes that I can read this? He just thinks I'm Chinese or something?" Then I considered the evidence before him. I looked Chinese. We were at the Chinese Consulate. I understood the Chinese he spoke. And I replied in Chinese. Maybe it was right for him to assume that I'd read it as well. And quite shameful that I don't read better. I guess they don't ask, "Do you happen to be illiterate in your native language?" to everyone who comes along. But after a few minutes of orienting myself (I hadn't see Chinese characters in months, except for those two trips to Chinatown in London), I was able to complete the form in Chinglish. When I turned the application in, I had to sheepishly explain that I wasn't sure if I filled it in correctly. The admission was humiliating, yes, but it did soften up the Visa Office Man and he took out a pen, made some marks as if correcting my application, and became very nice to me. I think he pitied me for possessing such poor language skills. But I was just confused by the application. They asked the weirdest questions. Instead of "How long do you plan on visiting?" They asked for my parents' names and addresses. Instead of "Proof of means of support," they asked for the province I was born in. How will these things help you?! And I didn't know if I counted as someone with a foreign passport and nationality- it's a different color, yes, and says different words on it, but China doesn't see the difference, so... no? All I know is, Visa Office Man accepted my papers and told me to pick up on Tuesday (despite telling everyone else to pick up their stuff on Friday).


Neither does this picture fit into the story.

After all the traveling permit hassle, I walked through the sketchy Water of Leith pathway again and made my way to the Dean Gallery and Museum of Modern Art, getting my sophisticated culture fix for the day. So what if I spent most of the time in the cafe and gift shop, they were cafes and gift shops that only one with an appreciation for fine arts, like myself, could appreciate. It also takes one with such a palate for art to appreciate the free bus service that brought me back to city centre. It was on this walk, on such a lovely day, and then again at lunch, with perfect al fresco weather, that I realized once again how much I like Eddie Bert. (Yeah, my brain is just going to choose to forget the crappy weather that we- that's mind and body- have endured up until last week, and all the messes I've gone through, and pretend that life has been nothing but peaches and roses since arrival.)


Who can resist a face like this?

In other news, fire alarms have become part of the daily routine now, averaging 1.5* per day the past week.

*Average not based on actual data, but just what I think the mean should be.