For English teachers abroad, the “family tree” lesson plan almost teaches itself. First, you draw a generic tree on the blackboard. Next, there is the question and answer section to define how many family titles a particular person might have in a family tree. And then the grand finale—having the students draw their own family tree. If a teacher does it right, he can stretch the lesson out over two class periods—and spend hardly any time prepping.

I did the family tree lesson last week in my kindergarten class and it was over before it began thanks to China’s one-child policy. Because the policy has been in place since 1978, China is into the second generation of only-children. Turns out that contemporary Chinese family trees look pretty much like a stick with a couple of leaves at the top.

Most of my students have no uncles, aunts or cousins and an average of 7 people in a their three-generation family tree. I did my best to explain what uncles, aunts and cousins are but if you don’t have any, a five year old has a hard time with the concept.

Also due to the one-child policy is a high degree of franticness demonstrated by parents. They are obsessed with doing everything right for their only-children, which means they do everything for them. This anxiety is heightened due to the fact that EVERYONE they talk to about parenting also has just one child and is doing exactly the same thing.

Not only are the parents frantic about raising the one perfect child, the grandparents are also heavily invested in that one grandchild becoming a good student, a good person and good provider. He/she is their meal ticket when they get old, and of course Mom and Dad’s meal ticket as well.

The only non-anxious member of the family unit appears to be the kids themselves. With four grandparents and two parents around to do everything for them, they barely need to lift a finger. Perhaps it is best to keep them in the dark as long as possible before exposing them to the bright harshness of being the single root.

As our four kids approached high school, my biggest concern was not their grades, friends or sports but death. Well, death and college, but death I could do something about, or at least feel I was doing something about.

It is a well-known fact that for American teenagers the most likely cause of death is by car accident. Given that I was an American teenage boy, it is easy to imagine why I took that statistic firmly to heart. I certainly did not want my daughters riding in cars driven by boys like me.

Due to the unavoidable and intertwined nature of cars and teens in US suburban culture, we sent our three oldest kids away to foreign countries where the driving ages are over 18 and access to cars for teenagers is limited. When our youngest daughter ventured into the cross-hairs of teenagedom we moved the entire family abroad. Safely overseas, we concluded that taxi fares were a small price to pay for the peace of mind that comes with knowing that our kids would not be in cars with other kids.

Now that our children are out of the teenage years and living independently, my obsession with death avoidance has turned inward to my wife and myself.

Statistically speaking, one is most likely to die at home or within 5 miles of their homes. So I have taken the necessary precaution of not referring to anyplace I might actually be as “home”.

Though we have lived in different locations over the past few years, all have been outside of my country of citizenship and no place has looked like any “home” I could have imagined prior to moving into it. And since we move with only a couple of backpacks our abodes never acquire that doom-beckoning homey feeling.

Our tax and postal address is a mailing service in the US so I can rationalize that legally, the mailing address is my home. In addition to the safety of never being there, there is no chance of accidental death after toppling from a ladder or repairing a heart-stopping electrical outlet.

My smugness only grows greater when I watch American TV shows. Some of my family members live in Hawaii, which appears to be under constant siege by drug dealers and Asian mobsters. New York, where two of my daughters live, is full of homicidal maniacs and bomb-carrying terrorists. And even my hometown of Portland, Oregon now seems to be infested with a multitude of Grimm creatures with big teeth and a thirst for blood.

For the time being, I take solace in knowing that when the Grimm Reaper knocks, I won’t be home.

Dear Server, if you see me lurking outside your restaurant window it is not because I am stalking a customer, it is because I am trying to see if your menu has pictures. However embarrassing this is for me, it is less embarrassing than walking out of your restaurant after you give me a menu with no pictures.

Dear Server, I know it is custom for you to stand right behind me after you give me the menu to wait for my order. But, the menu is 30 pages long and it takes me time to take it all in. Especially when dishes have been translated into English gems like “J& J large intestine pot”, “big bowl gold mushroom cowboy meat”, “fragrant bone in garlic in strange flavor” and “benumbed hot huang fries belly silk.”

Dear Server, I don’t like it when you ask if I want my beer lukewarm or cold. I particularly don’t like it if I answer incorrectly.

Dear Server, while shrink-wrapping all my dishes and eating utensils together attests to their cleanliness, it reminds me of the paper wrap on toilets in hotel rooms. And if the shrink-wrap is so tight that the dishes go flying onto the floor when I tear it open, it defeats the purpose of keeping them clean in the first place.

Dear Server, I don’t like having to ask for water and really I don’t like having it served warm in a small teacup. Maybe just suggest it is weak tea, I will believe you or at least nod my head.

Dear Server, please point out to me that tea comes in a variety of prices and know that if I order tea I don’t want the one that costs more than my meal.

Dear Server, c’mon, no free bread? Sunflower seeds don’t count no matter how much fun it is to spit the husks onto the floor in a restaurant—let me know if I am not supposed to do this.

Dear Server, do not be alarmed by the perplexed look on my face when you bring out the entrée before the appetizers. I simply do not understand there is no dish order and that everything is brought out as it is ready which, by the way, makes complete sense.

Dear Server, any chance you could bring me the check when we are finished without being asked? You know I am not going to order any dessert or coffee since they are not on the menu.

Dear Server, could you possibly wear a distinct uniform or name tag to make you stand apart from the other Chinese in the restaurant? It would save your customers from the embarrassment of me asking them for my check.

One of my favorite travel books is Paul Theroux’s The Old Patagonian Express.  In it, Theroux details his trip from Boston across North America, down through Central and South America until he ends up in Patagonia—and he does it mostly by train.

The greatest point of the book is that Theroux goes to the same place he goes everyday to catch his train to work just carrying a small bag—and the next thing you know (well, after 404 pages) he is at the southern tip of Argentina .  He did tell his wife and kids in advance, which kind of takes the coolness factor out of his departure but still, it is an incredible adventure.

But no one ever reads this book after my recommendation, which makes me wonder if I am selling it wrong.  It is kind of long and Theroux is kind of grumpy, and you don’t learn much about the countries he travels through because most of the book is written while looking out a moving window.  And because he is married (and his wife probably reads his books) there is no sex or anything like that.  Plus, it was written over 30 years ago so a lot of the book is pretty dated.  So, maybe I should probably not be specific about those aspects of the book.

I guess you have to read it at a certain time of your life–when you are burdened with responsibilities–to really click with the idea of spontaneously getting on a bus or train and disappearing for awhile.  The book is not about just some short rail breaks for a long weekend.  It took him months to get to his destination.

Of course, now when I truly examine what it would be like to ride in decaying public transportation for months on end it is hard to get too excited about this sort of trip.  Especially when I find myself asking, “Are we there yet?” even before the first beverage is served.

And why Patagonia?  If I spent a great deal of time putting my body through thousands of hours of bone butting, brain sloshing and belly tossing, my destination would be someplace other than a sub-zero wasteland far, far away from any drinks with paper umbrellas in them.

Maybe the unexamined long train trip is left better unexamined, or at least not recommended.

Yesterday in my kindergarten class here in China, we were discussing the weather.  We came to the conclusion that it was both sunny AND cold, but with space for only one weather card, we had to choose which one to post on the calendar.  So I took a vote—1 kid voted for sunny, the other three voted for cold.

The student (we will call him Lin) who lost the vote asked me why the other three should get their way.  I told him it was a situation of “majority rules”.  “But what if I’m right?” he persisted.  I told him that the majority always wins in my class.

Lin was not convinced and I could see his point.

I don’t know if pulling the “majority rules” argument is a common classroom management strategy in China—but I’m guessing it’s not.  Just because we learn something as a core tenet of our social value structure in the West does not make it applicable everywhere.

But then again, this country is communist which implies that the people’s will is the way of the government—but I’m pretty sure that’s not really true, no more than the US Congress represents the majority of the people in the US.

So really, both governments are run by people who are not representative of the general populace but who achieved positions of power because they are in some way better at some things than the general populace.  We might even conclude they are smarter than the general populace.

Though Lin was not happy with the majority rule decision, he finally caved after I threatened to take away his recess.

My class, my rules.

Over the past twelve months I visited 12 countries on two continents and stayed in hotels, hostels and apartments for durations ranging from a single night to several months. Conditions have run from rat-infested to five-star as well as rat-infested-five-star.

While I certainly appreciate a good night’s sleep on a comfortable bed, it bothers me that the vast majority of the space for which I am paying is wasted while I am unconscious. If I spend $25 a night for a room and only use 10% of the space, I have just flushed $22.50 down the toilet (provided the toilet is working).

While my recent travels took me to some of the cheaper countries of the world (big surprise) I fear that I will never have the chance to see more expensive destinations unless I get creative in my accommodation search or less anal in my expense allocation. Creative it is!

While couch-surfing appears popular, it seems extravagant to require such a large piece of furniture for something as innocuous as sleeping. Could I learn to sleep sitting up (sleet/sleeting)? I will take up less space and certainly increase the number of potential hosts. Plus the obligation to be a good guest would be halved.

I wonder what would happen if I ran an ad on Craigslist with the subject heading: Wanted: Chair hire in the London area, 2 nights. What kind of people would respond? How much would I have to offer for the use of a chair per night? Would the quality of the chair affect my offer? Certainly a star system could be applied ranging from 1 star for a wooden chair to 5 stars for a leather chair with attached ottoman (en suite).

Is there a business for people with small spaces to put up rows of folding chairs to rent to out-of-town guests? It paints an amusing picture especially if a bedpan is included under each chair–though this sounds similar to the last plane I was on.

I am not traveling for 30 days so must get cracking on learning the fine art of sleeting. Now what if I did not even need a chair, and could sleet on the floor? That would take things to an entirely new level (lower).

Wanted: 2’x2’ space in the London area. 2 nights.

But where would the bedpan go?

It has gotten cold here in Beijing and I was in need of a warm winter coat.

Like any big city, there are many shopping options that range in price from dirt cheap to ridiculously expensive and all of the major brand names are available.

Though I am no expert on shopping here, I do see branded clothing sold in a host of venues from the posh expat zones to the alleyway stalls. It is often difficult to tell which items are real and which are fake since so many of the real products are made in China.

I went to my local outdoor market that offers fresh vegetables, aromatic stews and sides of dog when I spotted a stall with a nice selection of winter coats. I rifled through the various coats that included brands like Nike, Adidas and Arc’teryx and found an appropriately subdued dark blue jacket that had the Columbia brand over the upper left pocket.

Normally I eschew labels but since the price was right (about $27) I paused a moment to consider it a contender for being my new best friend this winter.

At this point my wife had had enough of my early morning meandering (it was 21 degrees) so she pressed me to buy the jacket. I paused another moment. Knowing my distaste for logos she said, “Well, at least it is your home brand.”. True enough, Columbia is based in the state where I was born (Oregon) and the Columbia River is near and dear to every Oregonian’s heart.

I bought the jacket even though I felt a twinge of wrongdoing since the jacket was a knock-off and no money will be going back to Oregon.

And then the justifications for my misbehavior began:

As an obvious foreigner, having me advertise for Columbia is good for them in this rich and brand-conscious city that looks abroad for status goods.

If I chose not to buy the Columbia jacket and instead bought a non-branded jacket then there would be no chance that Columbia would benefit whatsoever from my wrongdoing.

Though Columbia puts money into marketing their brand in China, if someone sees me wearing a knock-off it is unlikely that their brand will suffer.

Since there was no chance of me purchasing a Columbia jacket at their official store, buying a knock-off is at least showing partial allegiance to the quality of their brand.

What if my attraction to the Columbia brand really is just my allegiance to the river? If so, how does the river benefit from my purchase of a counterfeit jacket with its name on it?

And finally I got home and was able to take the damn thing off.

Born and raised as an honest hard-working American, I eschewed the idea that naps were necessary past the age of five.  Naps were only for the slovenly and lazy which I certainly was not.  No one in my family took naps–they might have put their feet up on the couch and closed their eyes for a few moments but they did not change clothes or even take off their shoes.

And then I had children.

My daughters would drag mountains of sleeping paraphernalia out to the sofa and cuddle (how I hate that word) together in the afternoon for their nap in a veritable pile of parental failure.  My wife assured me this was natural and that the children would be far more pleasant if they had naps than if they did not.  I considered moving the sofa into the unheated garage to discourage this deviant behavior but was told in no uncertain terms I was being unreasonable.  Me?  Unreasonable?  As a side note, I did manage to move the one computer we had at home into the unheated garage and still consider that my most successful contribution to raising our children and though it has not happened yet, I am sure my children at some point will thank me.

One Sunday afternoon I found myself alone in the house walking purposely through the living room.  I noticed that the sun was shining on the couch (if you are from Oregon you understand what sort of revelation this is) and thought how nice it would be to sit on the couch in the sun for just a moment or two.  Well, things quickly slid out of control and half an hour later I was awakened by the front door slamming and the wife and kids staring at Mr. Slovenly.  I tried to explain I was not really napping (my shoes were still on)  but no one believed me–the contented look on my face gave me away.  I was mortified and determined not to let it happen again.

But I could not get the experience out of my head and the very next Sunday my sofa drew me to it again.  I was repelled as much as I was attracted.  I did not want to be a napper.  I had stuff to build, lawns to mow and heavy objects to lift.  But the sofa beckoned and I was powerless to refuse.  I gave in, and gave in the next week and the next week and the next until my afternoon nap became a Sunday ritual.

For the past six years, we lived in Latin America and I was forced by law (sort of) to nap everyday.  It helps when it  is institutionalized in a culture so there is no shame in taking an hour or two off in the afternoon to rest and relax and make the most of the second part of the day.  While I honestly did not see any perceptible benefit in efficiency in me or anyone else, an afternoon nap should be somewhere between liberty and the pursuit of happiness in any country’s Constitution.  Freedom to nap gives one great happiness and it is not really that hard to pursue.

Alas, some good things can never last and we found ourselves in China where people work long and hard and I had every expectation that my afternoon nap was a thing of the past.  But much to my great joy, the kindergarten at which we teach has a very strict afternoon nap policy–for everyone.  And even better, it is included in a holy triumvirate of pleasure: lunch, recess then nap.

Life is very, very sweet indeed.

The day after I graduated from college I got married.  7 days later I was supposed to be on a flight to Japan to work…provided I received my visa on time.  The days in between my wedding and departure date were spent itching and scratching due to a nasty case of hives brought on by paranoia that my visa was not going to be issued.  Nice way to spend a honeymoon.

Twenty six years later my wife and I are hours away from having visas that will allow us to stay in China for an entire year.  This many not seem like much of an accomplishment but for an independent expat it is a feat that requires patience, faith and a sense of humor.

In three months we have been issued three visas, two extensions, signed an official confession of regret for overstaying and paid a fine for not registering with the local police department.  We have been to the immigration department four times as well as two separate police departments three times each.  We have submitted ourselves to 8 different medical examinations that involved gel, blood and needles but thankfully no truly invasive prodding.

We have been carefully directed on a timely basis by both our employerś visa specialist and two independent visa agents that our employer retains to assist in getting employees the proper visa.  No expense has been spared and everything is on the up and up as far as we can tell.

So, we have taken all the correct steps but there is still a lot of hoop jumping.

One might think that I should be gnashing my teeth and alternately chugging Maalox and Jack Daniels but I have resigned myself to the process of becoming a legal working immigrant and learned that raging against the visa man gets you nowhere.

Sometimes growing up works to oneś advantage.  I certainly have not gotten any rashes from this visa episode and am thinking I owe my wife another honeymoon.