The China Day

In the phenomenon of life abroad, some days become just too much. The language doesn’t make sense; the culture doesn’t make sense; someone hocks a loogie that hits the pavement, bounces high and lands on your sandaled feet. 

  say what?

In the expat community here in Shanghai, days like this are named. In laowai speak, you’re ‘Having a China Day.’ At first glimpse, a China Day might seem non-assuming.  Small details are lost in translation but it’s to be expected—you live far, far away from home. Perhaps a taxi refuses to pick you up; perhaps a taxi picks you up but refuses to take you over the river via the cheaper, quicker tunnel option; perhaps the man behind you sort of queuing to top up his metro card stands three inches too closely for comfort. 

Most days, you suck it up and deal. But some days, these small details compound on small details compound on small details. And in this way the China Day sneaks up on you. It attacks.  Suddenly, you find yourself all alone in your one bedroom box thousands of miles from affordable ice cream or a clear Internet connection wanting to shove a chopstick through someone, anyone’s, brain.

In these cases, there are a few options: 1. Phone a friend; 2. Drink, heavily. 3. Cry, cry, cry.

I haven’t had a China Day for quite a while so when the last one snuck up on me, I ended my day wailing into the phone crying ‘But…but…but I miss Londooooooooon!’ Gulping, honking, decadent tears.

In this event, an estate agent was more than misogynist and racist towards me. He went behind my back to get more money because I’m a female and a laowai. So I went behind his back to work with a different agent. As it turns out, he neglected to tell me he was the agent-cum-property manager and it all blew up in my face. We exchanged a series of no less than 47 Wechat messages (the Whatsapp of China), spanning at least three hours, with most of his messages pronouncing the word ridiculous as ‘redickerlous’, which sent me into a spasm of nervous giggles.

Because I wanted the property, I continued to engage with this redickerlous banter. I apologized, profusely. He provided me more business baloney, facts, statistics and then outright threats: ‘if you don’t take this deal, then I lose my job.’ We settled, even though I will still out of pocket 20% of a fake you’re-a-Westerner fee.

Between all of this, I laughed. I went out for dinner with my friends and to an awards ceremony at school. And then when I got home, saw my couch and my boyfriend, I fell apart. Only Paul was on a work call so I saved the heaving, choking sobs for my mother. Her advice: ‘Jennifer, if they have a name for this, it means you’re not alone!’ Wisdom.

In the end, we got the last laugh. The next day, Paul engaged with round two of Wechat warfare and we turned the place down to the agent’s groveling and protestations. He dropped the price, he dropped the commission, and we dropped him.

As it turns out, estate agents are wankers in every country. And, as every expat in China will at some point find out, China Days happen.