A Gap Year in China

Two recent high school grads from Scarsdale are taking a gap year between high school and college and living and working in China. Rick Altieri and Greg Kristof are taking Mandarin classes in Beijing at Tsinghua University, volunteering at a local school, teaching English, and working at a newspaper. They are also keeping a lively blog of their experiences that you can find here.

Here are excerpts from their blog:

The Trip - Posted on September 3, 2010 by Rick Altieri: I suppose any blogger owes readers an explanation.

I’m writing because I have a worthwhile story. Though I’m eighteen, I will not attend college this fall. I’ve deferred my enrollment at Amherst College for a gap year in China. In high school I studied Chinese, and I spent six weeks in Beijing on a homestay program during the summer of 2009. The memories lie on my shelf: snapshots with the local shopkeepers, a thermos dressed in calligraphy, a snapshot with the shopkeeper who conned me into buying that thermos, a lighter that sings the national anthem, and yellowed boosterism from Mao’s rule. Other memories, like Fidel’s favorite cigar, were confiscated at the gate.

This time, along with my friend Greg Kristof, I’ll study Mandarin at Tsinghua University, work for a newspaper, and volunteer at a local school. To defray some of the cost we’ll also teach English. On this blog, I’ll record some of my experiences, from poorly translated signs (“public notice board” once became “pubic notice board”) to observations on an ancient city leaping into a fast-wired world.

I leave tomorrow on a direct thirteen and a half hour flight from Newark. Last time, in the height of the swine flu epidemic, government officials in surgical masks boarded the plane and checked our temperature. Chinese law stipulated that anyone with a high temperature—and all passengers within two rows—would be quarantined for two weeks.

Sure enough, when an official checked the woman in front of me, the machine flashed red and began beeping. Passengers craned their necks while the masks descended upon the new patient. She pleaded over the rumble of the plane. ”I was wearing a hat the whole flight!” she said. “Look, that’s why I’m sweating! Please, try it again!”

After talking it over, the officials waited five anxious minutes before testing a second time. One by one, they waved their devices over the passenger’s forehead. One by one—with relieved sighs between—the machines passed in silence. Scattered applause and whistles broke out as the pilot turned off the fasten-seatbelt sign. We filed off the plane, preparing for the world ahead.

We’ll see what this year’s day one brings.

Duck Blood Anyone? Posted on September 30, 2010 by Greg Kristof

It is served as a semi-solid glassy blubber that jiggles this way and that, like jello. I spooned it around in my bowl, thrusting it against lettuce and cow stomach. Then I closed my eyes, prodded my soul for courage, and lifted the stew to my lips. Grrackk! I wish I could say that I savored this crunchy rampage of jumbled body parts, this casserole of Chinese tradition that fractured but would not go down. Wish I could.

A Chinese investment banker, Mr. Shi, and his son had treated us to lunch, and we were all hunched over a pot of boiling water. It’s called Beijing Hot Pot. Waiters heap the table with raw food, and the customers dip that food into the bubbles, thereby cooking it.

The process allows us to be our own chef, which sounds marvelous—if you’re a harebrained teenager. I had spent the last 20 minutes stockpiling my plate with slithery entrails from multiple beasts, submerging them in the cauldron until I could practically hear their souls bleating for mercy. To further convey enthusiasm for the meal, I tore apart a loaf of meat, released a mini battle whoooop!, lowered teeth to platter, and razed everything within scent-range like Godzilla after a bad breakup. Not everyone did that.

“Wow guys, it’s so…so delectable.” I said after coming up for air.

“I knew you’d like it,” Mr. Shi said.

But I wasn’t done. “Hey Ricky, aren’t you going to try some?” A silence, as Ricky pondered how he could best preserve his manliness.

“Well, of course,” he replied. “I’m not one to duck a challenge.” (Badaboom!)

He dipped into his duck blood while warding off applause for his bulls-eye wit. Nice, Ricky. But luckily I had been saving my own buckshot for deployment at the right time. “I just love the fowl taste.”

“You say it tastes foul?” Mr. Shi’s face hardened.

“No! I mean, err…” Rats. A silence, as I pondered how I could best preserve my dignity. I didn’t have to ponder long. “Oh, he’s just dabbling in the lowest form of wit,” Ricky said, coming to my rescue. “And drowning.”

Times like this have made me long for real Chinese food. You know, the kind they have in America.

But times like this have also shown me China’s rich, soft underbelly: the gracious friend of a friend who treats you to an unforgettable meal, displays the true meaning of hospitality, and who then can’t go home with a smile until you’ve tried some of his duck blood.

My suggestion is this: next time you visit a foreign country in the hope of discovering a New World, eat local food and learn the local language—no matter how rubbery the meat, or how grueling the grammar. Your life will leap open. Next time you’re strolling by the Western Wall and feel the stomach growl, don’t go for the ubiquitous pretzel stand. Instead, waffle down some Falafel. Next time you’re being chased by bandits in Colombia, turn around and, en espanol, offer them your wallet in return for some home-cooked potato sopa. If you lose an arm along the way, well, at least you’ve still got another. And it’ll make an awesome story for the grandkids.

Ahh, but my mind wanders. Duck blood will do that to you. For now, at least, I’m back in the dough-colored room. Ricky and I are smiling professionally at our host.

“I’m so glad you like it,” Mr. Shi said as he reached for our plates. “Here, have some more.”

Read more here