Let me tell you about my day…
I was supposed to observe one of my Chinese colleagues at eight this
morning. I awoke at 7:15 to a severe la duzi (拉 肚子) fit—so I cancelled that. Regardless, I wanted to make the day
worthwhile. I worked through the morning: washed a load of laundry, ironed my
trousers, graded midterms, organised and tidied up my flat and even found a
website to watch the last episode of The Walking Dead.
Other than cancelling to spend too much time on the porcelain throne, I
would have to say all in all, a great morning. Then I left for a lunch date I had made with
a couple of PCVs and another foreign teacher at my university. I successfully
ordered some zi ran tudou pian (孜然土豆片) over
rice, and it was delicious.
At this point, China turned on me. It was no longer a good day...
After lunch, I returned to my flat about an hour before my 4:30 class,
only to discover that I did not have my keys. I left them in my flat when I
left earlier that day.
After calling my lunchmates to make sure I did not leave it anywhere, I
called the Waiban (the persons responsible for taking care of the foreign
teachers) and asked if they have an extra copy. She told me she did not know if
there was an extra key, but I could meet her at five to look for one.
Well, that’s not going to work…
I explained the situation with my afternoon class—now about 30 minutes
away—and she said I could come to her office right away, then. I ran down my
seven flights of stairs and across campus to her office. As I got in the lobby
and keyed the elevator, she called me back. Some other person would meet me at
the storage room in twenty minutes.
Good thing I’m not in a hurry…
After getting directions to this mystery storage room, I walked across campus,
stressing. I waited. I called the class monitor and explain the situation.
I did not want to cancel class just yet; they were only taking the midterm,
which took the previous class only an hour of the two-hour class.
The class monitor informed the class, and they were going to wait. I
paced in front of this storage building for what felt like an eternity. As the
clock struck 4:30, an old woman teetered up and laughed at me with a thick
Gansu-accent. We entered the storage room, where a multitude of keys were hung.
None of these keys were marked with my room number.
Good news…
The woman asked me for my room number again as she looked through a key
ring for the fifth time. It had other keys for my building, but none belonged
to my room. She decided to take the entire ring, plus a couple random unmarked
keys. Now, we were walking back to my flat.
We were walking back to my flat at an elderly-China pace…
I do not usually mind people who amble along at a promenadingly slow
pace, but at this point in my life, I was stressed about the predicament I put
myself in, and was in a bit of a hurry. She was the most plodding of amblers. We made it up my
seven flights of stairs—after she took a break from being winded—to discover my
hypothesis was correct: none of those keys are for my door.
Calling the Waiban back, she decided that she could succeed where this
other woman has failed, so it was back to the storage room. (Here, I like to
imagine this happened with one of those old Batman sound effects; then I can pretend another
half hour had not passed.)
I wish…
My Waiban arrived to discover the same thing I explained to her over the
phone—there was no key. She called another man who works in the Waiban office.
No answer. She sent him a text. At this point, another foreign teacher walked
past, who apparently had a package in the Waiban office.
He wanted to go retrieve it immediately; he said it was from his father,
and he was excited to receive it. We get a text message saying there should be another key to my flat in a
box—a box located in the Waiban office.
So we are returning to where this all began…
This walk, I openly discussed my situation with the other foreign
teacher, expressing copious amounts of stress at the time crunch I had found
myself in. These oh-so-subtle hints went unnoticed; again we amble.
Taking the achingly slow lift to the seventh floor office, we found the
box. We located a ring marked with my room number. I pulled the key off. I
thanked her graciously and tore out of the building faster than the little coat
on Chris Farley.
The next question: is there enough time…
As I sprinted across campus, I noticed it was 5:20. I could get back to
class with the tests with just an hour for my students to complete them. This
was not an ideal situation, but still better than trying to reschedule a
class—probably the most recent labour of Hercules.
Also, as I sprinted up seven flights of stairs, I sent a text my class
monitor—not easy to do while climbing stairs in a fury—informing him of the situation. I asked him to arrange the students in
testing seating, with space between each student. I threw open my door.
Luckily, when I was straightening up earlier in the day, I put all of the
things I needed for class in my bag.
Maybe my luck has turned, and this will work out…
I flew back down the stairs. I sprinted back across campus. I made it to
class at 5:35. I hurriedly apologise and open my bag. My heart sank. Apparently my luck had
not changed. The answer sheets for the test were missing-in-action. My students
gasped at the look of anguished frustration on my face.
Still wanting to avoid rescheduling as time ticks by, I improvised. I
decided I would just give them the test papers and tell them they can write on
them. Sure, it will be more difficult to grade, but then I can save some face
and they can still finish the test.
I passed out the tests, only to discover I did not have enough. The day
before, I threw some of the tests out because students wrote on them after I
told them not to. I was short ten tests.
Clearly, my luck would not turn…
My class monitor, without missing a beat, jumped up to go make the
copies. He came back with them in a short enough amount of time, but given the
already tumultuously delaying event, some of my students would only have
twenty-six minutes to complete the test.
I stayed about twenty minutes after class was supposed to end while a few students
finished. It was the least I could do after creating such a stressful test day…
Hours later, as I sit and write this, I’m still upset. I can’t believe
the series of unfortunate events that caused such a day. I skipped dinner,
irritated.
***
That was 1 November 2011. Notice, I didn't write anything from the first day of the semester, 5 September, until this monstrosity of a day (a couple published updates aside). I wasn't kidding when I said writing is hard.
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