note: February 28 is my fourth anniversary of teaching English in China. At 8:25 am GMT +8, Feb. 28, 2005, I first walked into a Chinese classroom…

I didn’t sleep very well. I was still jet-lagged. Add to that I was in a new bed, in a new apartment, in a country I knew very little about. I went through my morning routine trying to come to grips with the strange shower configuration and attempting to shave in a nine-inch-square mirror. With bad instant coffee in my belly I waited for the knock on my door. It was February 28, 2005.

This was to be my first day of work as an oral ESL teacher at private school in Shenzhen (China). There was no training or school tour, I arrived a week later than the other new teachers. I was about to be launched, successfully or otherwise, on unsuspecting Chinese students.

Primary school students in China.

I sat at my desk with a growing sense of dread. I thought about vomiting but in the end managed to hold that bodily function in check. Forty students to teach for 40 minutes? I must have been mad. I decided that introducing myself would be the best course of action. I made some quick notes in a little notebook that became my best friend over the coming months.

I was late as I searched for grade 6, class 12 on the third and fourth floors of the north wing of building two. A teacher in the hall waved me in. After introductions she asked, “Would you like me to stay in the class?”

“Oh, no,” I replied like a seasoned pro, “I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. It must have been the nervous perspiration on my brow that gave my otherwise faux-confident persona away.

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath and walked into the class. There was a podium on a raised platform and a blackboard. I set down my bag and looked at the class. Forty young, smiling Asian faces stared at me. They were silent.

“Good morning.?!” I ventured.

“Good morning, teacher,” said the class in unison.

Shiny young faces with bodies clad in identical blue and white track suits. I was in over my head. Pressing ahead, I found a piece of chalk and with a shaky hand scrawled my name on the clean blackboard.

“My name is Steve,” I told them.

“Steve!” they called back at me.

“I am from Canada,” I said.

“Canada,” they replied en masse.

I learned next that sending the Chinese-English teacher out of the room had been a bad idea. Not only could she add some semblance of order to the proceedings, she could also translate if I ran into problems. After some explanation I had the students stand one by one and say, “My name is…, I am ____ years old.”

“How old am I?” I asked them.

I received a course of replies, most eight to 10 years younger than my actual age. I felt very young for a moment. A couple of jokers added their thoughts: My age was guessed by one student at 100 and by another at 1000.

Next was the phrase, “I like…”

“What do I like?” I asked the students. They were silent and stared at me. I looked around the room. No one moved a muscle, although every eye was fixated on me.

“I like,” I said, “Basketball.” I did my best charades impression of basketball and wrote it on the board.

“What else do I like?” I tried. A hesitant hand went up.

“Computer?” hesitantly asked a female student.

“Yes,” I said enthusiastically. “Computers.” I stressed the S.

“What else do I like?”

I took a couple of minutes to get the ball rolling, but in the end I had a din of voices shouting out all the sundry activities they new in English.

“Do you know what I like?” I asked again, “I like food.”

One boy in the front row said in a loud voice, “That is because you are fat.”

I tried not to laugh. He was right, of course. Again, they called out a list of foods that they thought I liked.

To wrap things up I had them each stand again and say, “I like…,” followed by a food, activity, etc.

Then the bell, which was not a bell at all, but a little musical ditty, sounded. It was over, I had survived 40 minutes relatively unscathed.

That class became my favourite. Of the 25 homerooms I visited each week, that class was the best and most receptive. The other varied from lukewarm to downright nasty. I didn’t have many rules. I drew the line when my worst class started playing volleyball with a rolled-up raincoat.

And so began a new life and career, in a nation that has only been really opened to outsiders for 25 year. There is a learning curve, but I think I have managed to make it over the first hurdle.

Eros, or, the Angel of Christian Charity in Piccadilly Circus, London.

The Angel of Christian Charity? No, incorrect.  Eros, Greek God of love? Also incorrect. A dollar for anyone who can tell me the name of the statue atop the Shaftesbury Monument Memorial Fountain in Piccadilly Circus, London.

This is an HDR experiment gone coolly awry. All the HDR tutorials say to use a tripod. I will shout from the highest mountaintops: I hate tripods.

This is a composite of three images. If you look really close you can see they don’t completely align. That can be blamed on a) no tripod; b) the pints the night before and my shaking hands; c) the biting cold.

All that said, still cool.

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Badminton is queen to King Ping Pong in China.  Morning, noon, and night, the young and not-so-young grab their rackets and smash the shuttlecock for fun and exercise. Nets are optional.

There is a story, an urban legend perhaps, of an English teacher going to a Chinese police station to report a break and enter.

“Do you know me?” he asked the officer, after sitting down with him.

“Yes,” said the policeman, “You play badminton outside your building every morning at 7 am.”

The Stevo was knocked out in first round of the 2nd Annual Badminton Classic  last weekend. He took solace in the fact he could whoop all comers if they held a sporting event related to elliptical trainers.

This was processed using Alien Skin’s new Bokeh plug-in for Adobe Photoshop.

Portrait of a Chinese garbage man.

Garbage is big business in China. Recycling glass, plastic and cardboard is almost a national past time. People rooting through trash bins is not an unusual sight. Old women, some the mothers of affluent business people, can be seen hauling bags of plastic bottles to the local recycling depot. Old habits die hard. The cleaner in my building is quick to abscond with my empty bottles. They are going to a better place: A place I don’t have to carry them to.

A former colleague once posed a theoretical question: A recycling maven is standing an equal distance away (on her right) from a giant, empty refrigerator box, and (on her left) a burning Chinese flag. Which does she run to? I wouldn’t place odds on the outcome. Either would Vegas bookies, if they were smart.

He was going for a lighter, not a gun. For a moment I wasn’t sure. Given the intimidating size of my Canon 70-200 f/2.8L zoom lens, I wouldn’t blame the man for  producing a firearm.

This was run through the Alien Skin Exposure 2 Photoshop plug-in.

Ya, Valentine’s Day is over. I consider this post a very early effort for Chinese Valentine’s Day (Qi Xi, August 26, 2009). Mrs. Stevo is still in England. Lonely and morose, I was flipping through wedding photos. Not the expensive studio shots that cost a month’s salary, the images captured at the reception.

Strong rice alcohol/spirit make some men think they are Godzilla. This photo is a testament to Mrs. Stevo’s good nature. I should very well be single now. Yes, there are more images like this, I am ashamed to admit. I was told that I offered to buy lunch for everyone in the hotel dining room. I guess I was a generous Godzilla.

red Ravine had a great Valentine’s post, as did Baron Von Rochester, although the opposite end of the spectrum. They (and everyone else) are far more on the ball than I.

A post about Irish Whiskey, the next about a drunken groom. No, I don’t have a problem. Mornings are hard enough without having to deal with a hangover. I’m not the young lad I once was. There are no 12 step programs in my future, Ron.

For you my absent valentine. Wo ai ni. 5201314.

Bushmills Irish Whiskey: Favorite tipple of The Stevo

Bushmills Irish Whiskey is a rare commodity in China. Rare, like the Giant Panda. So rare, I have seen none of the precious liquid from the Emerald Isle in four years. Not even the Irish Pub has it. Conspiracy? I think so.

I decided to buy a bottle while on my winter sojourn, and enjoy a taste of Ireland back in Chateau Stevo – in The Middle Kingdom. If you’re ever traveling from London to Hong Kong, via Doha, you will find my “How To” quite helpful. Others may laugh at the constant misfortune I seem to encounter.

1. Save enough of your British Pounds (provided by your wife) to purchase Bushmills at one of Heathrow Airport’s fine duty-free purveyors.
2. Find a great deal – two bottles for ten pounds. Take the bottles to the cashier.
3. Be understanding when you are told you cannot buy the delightful amber liquid as your flight has a stop-over. You will need to purchase the liquor at the stop-over airport.
4. At Doha (Qatar) Airport charge from the plane, through security, and to the duty-free store with complete disregard for your personal safety. Jump the queue whenever possible. Use your elbows and carry-on baggage as improvised weapons.
5. Find the Bushmill Irish Whisky priced at 10 pounds per bottle, and weep at the deal you lost out on in London. Wait in a long line and receive American dollars, Qatari Rials, and British Pounds as change.
6. Board your flight. Nestle into your seat, the Bushmills held to your chest. Be vigilant. Protect it. Don’t sleep. There is no Bushmills where you’re headed.
7. On the ground at Hong Kong Airport, buy a ferry ticket from a surly clerk . Queue at the security checkpoint. Take off your belt and hold up your pants while being searched. Empty, then refill your pockets of the considerable travel-related crap you’re carrying before being told you need the Ferry Clerk to accompany you through security, because of the Bushmills.
8. Return to the Ferry Desk. Try to smile at the surly clerk. Ask her to accompany you to the checkpoint. Ignore the sour face she makes.
9. Prepare, again to empty your pockets. Thank the cosmos when the kindly guard who searched you only three minutes before, turns off the security wand and ushers you through.
10. Wait 90 minutes for your ferry. On the mainland, drink a few draft beers. Hide the Bushmills from yourself. Save it for a special occasion: Any Saturday.