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Published: February 13th 2010
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Chinese toilets. So many things come to mind when those words are uttered. So. Many. Things. After the epic apartment search, the last thing I expected and, indeed, wanted, was to do battle with the toilet in my apartment.
After signing my lease on a Sunday afternoon, I planned to move in the following day, Monday. After work, I made a beeline for the bus stop, determined to buy some home essentials before the stores closed. My bus came along soon after I arrived at the bus stop...and moved approximately seven meters before becoming entangled in the notoriously horrible Beijing traffic. Although my apartment is not far my office and the subway stop a two-minute walk from my building, the ringed subway design forces me to ride far out of my way instead of straight across the grid. Unfortunately, the traffic in Beijing is so bad (even with enforced odd/even license plate regulations that regulate when drivers are permitted on the roads), that the bus takes nearly as long as the subway ride with two transfers. I am currently biding my time until I can purchase an electric bicycle.
At any rate, the tortuous ride eventually came to an
end, depositing me onto Tuanjiehu Road, the main shopping and restaurant drag in my neighborhood. I trudged into the local Jinkelong (a chain similar to Target, but on a much smaller scale) to buy bedding, pillows, cleaning supplies, dishes, silverware, and other necessities. What I failed to factor into the equation, however, was that I had to use my brute strength to drag my bounty home with me and up twelve flights of stairs. By the time I had exited the store, night had fallen and I became disoriented in my new surroundings. I have a notoriously poor sense of direction, as my family can attest to, and I found myself wandering the narrow alleys of my hutong neighborhood in search of the familiar. I finally deigned to ask someone for directions and just barely managed to squeeze through the door while laden with bags.
I fairly fell through the door of my apartment, so tired and in need of the bathroom was I. Before I used the facilities, though, I had somewhat of a premonition and decided to give the toilet a flush. Bad news. Though water spilled into the bowl, nothing was swept away. The toilet was
completely, utterly, 100% unusable and it was nearing eight o'clock at night. I made the executive decision to return to my friend's apartment for the night and worry about the porcelain issue the next day.
Fast forward approximately twenty hours. After realizing I had likely exhausted my friend's hospitality, I officially moved into my apartment. The apartment with an out-of-order toilet. On the sixth floor of a sixth-story walkup.
Awesome.
I certainly didn't want to make the situation any worse than it was (but could I, really?) so I elected to not use the toilet at all. Instead, each time nature called, I took myself on a walk down the alley to the local Kentucky Fried Chicken, where, with head held high, I paraded past the swarms of hungry schoolchildren and marched into the women's restroom. Each time I entered that greasy, fried bird establishment, a little part of me died inside. I think the KFC workers had a similar reaction, as evidenced by their crestfallen expressions when they saw me walk in yet again. Too polite to forbid me from using the lavatory, they reluctantly accepted the fact that I was not, in fact, going to
partake in their systematic slaughter of China's fowl. With beseeching eyes, they begged me to try a salad.
Nay, said I, resolute in my refusal to support the American chain.
But you're an American! cried their sad eyes. Yes, indeed, but apparently not American enough.
Finally, mercifully, my landlord called to tell me that a repairman would be coming to my apartment at 9:30 the next morning to fix the toilet and that he, too, would come along to ensure it was done properly. With a joyful heart, I informed my colleagues that I would be working from home the next morning and headed home with a skip in my step.
Little did I know of the destruction to come.
The repairman arrived promptly at 9:30 the following morning. My landlord...not so much. At 10 to 10, he finally pounded on the door, panting from his sprint up to the sixth floor. Hailing a cab in Beijing used to be easy; now, with the rise of the middle class, it is next to impossible at many hours of the day and night. He ceremoniously removed his shoes before stepping foot into my apartment, a gesture
I wholly appreciated - until the repairman ripped my bathroom apart. In a bid to find the answer to my problems, the repairman gallantly motioned me aside, rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath, and began systematically whacking the daylights out of the toilet.
Ai ya! the landlord and I yelled in unison. What was he doing? Apparently listening for the echo of something that may be clogged inside the basin. Who was I to argue with an expert? I stood aside and let the man do his job.
An hour later, soaked with sweat, the repairman appeared in the doorway to tell me the issue had been resolved. I gingerly stepped my way through the dust in the foyer and peered inside the bathroom. The toilet had been completely uprooted from the floor. Shavings of God-knows-what and shards of porcelain were scattered across the floor. The odor was overwhelming. Eyes watering, I asked the landlord what he thought.
I think it's fixed! he said jovially in Chinese, as he forked over a couple of hundred-dollar notes to the repairman.
Fixed, eh? We'll see. Stay tuned.
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Yushi
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Your apartment pictures look so cute, ignoring the "minor' bathroom problem you had. I'm so proud of you for dealing with all the hilariously ridiculous situations that have occurred in your short months of stay in Beijing! I don't know if I could have visited KFC that many times, lol. Good luck and keep posting :)