Let me first state that I am far from an expert on China, having been there only twice, although the last time for a period of six weeks. Most of my time was spent in the province of Shandong, about 200 miles south of Beijing as a university professor.

Living outside of the well-known and/or oft-visited cities of Shenzhen, Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou brings one into contact with what I think is a more typical picture of China – one where foreigners are still something of a novelty, English is not widely understood, and the creature comforts of home can be hard to come by.

Jinan, a city of some 6 million people, is the capital of Shandong and a major nexus of transport for travel between Shanghai and Beijing, yet few tourists stop, despite some pleasant attractions. The city is known for its springs which give rise to an urban lake and boundless parks ripe for strolling and people watching. Like most of China, it is changing fast.

Landmark buildings dot the skyline, KFC and McDonald’s abound, and there’s even a Wal-Mart Supercenter. Big-name hotels cluster around the main square and, in the nicer areas of the city, tree-lined streets are filled with trendy shops and cafes.

Beneath the veneer of modernity, however, is a very traditional, oddly quiet community where neighbors sit outside in the evenings to chat, play checkers, and just while the hours away. Streets can overflow with sidewalk vendors in places, narrowing the traffic to a sliver thronged with bicycles, pedestrians, trucks, busses, and all manner of humanity and transport.

It’s a strange feeling being in China. It’s not quite modern but then again, in fits and starts, it is pioneering new technology that I’d never seen before. My apartment, for example, is a generous flat with a collection of mod-cons like color tv, a/c, and high-speed internet and might have seemed a world away from the reality of Jinan, but its location, cramped among a large cluster of high-rise buildings separated by narrow cement alleys, served as a reminder of the sheer number of people who live in China and the demands they place on limited real estate.

I dry my clothes using a mangle – a device I hadn’t seen in years, but I call the office on a cell phone… MY cell phone that I brought from the US. I can’t believe it gets a signal and is automatically forwarding calls from home. It’s just an old cell phone that I got free two years ago and it isn’t supposed to be compatible with overseas networks. It’s never worked in Europe or Japan.

Like a lot of developing countries, it seems like everyone has a cell phone. They are surprisingly cheap and reliable, but so is the landline system. I think it was about 2 cents a minute to call the US using a calling card.

Around the corner, a new, striking complex of high-rise homes is being built. The billboards at the site show cherubs, fountains, angels, and magical celestial visions – promises of a new China with a strangely medieval European atmosphere.

The rush to recreate China is everywhere. While Jinan may lack the refinement of Beijing’s Sanlitun or the dramatic skyline of the new Shanghai, change has come, and is coming, fast. As a result of Mao’s Cultural Revolution in the 50’s and 60’s, much of the oldest architecture was destroyed. The city is thus studded with Soviet-era architecture – big, cement buildings devoid of color. Now and again a turn of the century building can be spotted among the rest, often Teutonic in design, a reminder of the German concession present at the time. The few that escaped the Cultural Revolution are often in a state of disrepair, repurposed as apartment blocks or similar. Notable exceptions include, oddly, a massive cathedral, and the train station area.

The next iteration of China’s development seems to include tearing down buildings yet again, this time replacing them with American or Hong Kong style multi-storied buildings. Architecture, however, is just the visible manifestation of China’s rapid change. Less visibly, the social fabric of the nation is also changing.

To make way for the modernity, whole neighborhoods are sometimes leveled so that a street can be widened to boulevard girth, displacing not only the residents, but also the eclectic collection of small business that filled the narrow streets, called hutongs. Sometimes the residents are relocated to the new high rises, but their shops are just as often displaced, as the new locations may be short of retail space or financially out of reach.

To many people, the hutongs are the heart and soul of China, the places where neighbors meet and daily business of China takes place. In Beijing, at least, a movement has begun to preserve the hutongs but the implementation of the preservation seems as damaging as the wholesale destruction of the neighborhoods.

Preserved hutongs in Beijing are now tourist traps, with bicycle rickshaw tours plowing the sterilized alleyways past the newly prosperous residents, thanks to the tourists. Little of the old ways remain; most of the old business is gone.

To illustrate how rapidly change can come, in March of 2006, I happily wandered through the vibrant Dashilar hutong complex of streets, admiring the many shops, restaurants, and throngs of people. By August the area was largely in ruin, replaced by mound of rubble that will give rise to another megastructure that will dehumanize and neuter the area.

Back in Jinan, much the same is taking place, but without the tourists, the urgency to preserve history is muted. Local residents have mixed feelings because the lure of improved housing sometimes overshadows what might be lost in the transition, among other things.

Change is probably the most enduring constant in present day China. It is trumpeted everywhere and there is a strident optimism for the future. The tv counts down the days until the 2008 Olympics open in Beijing. Tv commercials show photos of the chronicle of people’s lives, scored with a melancholy tune, captioned with “see people change, see China change.” Cities advertise their attractions with modern bridges, glittering skylines, swank beaches, and so forth with hardly a hint of any historical attractions.

Along with the rush to modernity, I am again struck by the incongruities surrounding me. I’m riding a weakly air-conditioned city bus and I’m just about the only passenger because it costs 2 yuan (25 cents) to ride in an a/c bus versus 1 for the normal busses. A fellow passenger is watching a music video on an impossibly small device. Another is sending a text message, and another is carrying a bundle of empty plastic bottles.

I’m on my way to the “technology mart” – a collection of narrow, traffic-snarled streets fronted by dusty, poorly lit buildings filled with small vendors. Amidst the skeletal remains of discarded computer housings and old fax machines is a startling array of products and innovations at incredible prices. It’s next to impossible to find someone who speaks English there, so I bring a friend.

This day I’m looking for speakers, but wind up spending the entire day perusing the aisles. I am amazed by the cell phones and the many functions they have. A sleek cell phone is a status symbol for many young Chinese, so the selection is wide.

I’ve always wanted an iPod, but not knowing if I’d use it enough to justify the price stopped me from getting one in the US. They’re incredibly cheap in China and have more features, sizes, designs, and formats than I’ve ever scene. I leave that purchase for another day when I can research them on the internet and be more sure of what I’m looking at.

Moving on, I find a rubber keyboard with those famous Chinese mis-translated instructions. You can apparently submerge the keyboard in several centimeters of water and still type on it. You can roll it up and bend it, among other things. $5.25. The instructions advise against “roasting in oven, ” “slicing with knife” and a few other incomprehensible benefits of the product – “if more dirt can wash into the pond,” “Could not sleep at night, take effect on family,” and “If we are not careful Sprinkle with coffee, beverages, water need not worry.” OK, so it’s a neat little item but what I find interesting is that despite the near total absence of comprehensible English, the keyboard is totally standard. It has a standard US-English layout and plugs into a standard USB port. The product wasn’t designed for the US market, but fits right in because the Chinese use that keyboard layout as standard for typing in Chinese using a little piece of free software from Microsoft (and elsewhere) called an IME (Input Method Editor).

I pass all kinds of things you can plug into your USB port, from little fans to reading lights, ladybug-shaped mice to multifunctional webcams. I make a list items to research and come back for on payday.

Back at the apartment, withered by the intense heat, high humidity, dust, and industrial pollution, my friend and I collapse in the living room soaking up the a/c. We decide to watch tv, but the lone English channel is repeating the same programs I saw in the morning. I pull up a US tv schedule on the internet and we download last night’s CSI and the latest episode of American Idol from a Chinese site that seems to have the shows almost the instant they are broadcast in the US. The download speed is so fast that we download the shows in less time than it takes to play them on the computer. Later we download a movie that came out in the US last week. Free from various Chinese sites and excellent quality.

All this is possible and apparently common, yet when I step outside to grab a bite from a street vendor, I see the man who repairs umbrellas sitting on his impossibly low chair waiting for a customer. The lady with the sewing machine right there on the sidewalk puts a button on a blouse. There’s a man with watermelons spread out on a tarp, another man with a few tools and inner tubes to fix your bike, a lady selling roasted corn from her bicycle, and a guy frying whole fish next to the median.

It all seems so quaint and maybe primitive, but on closer inspection the lady selling the corn has an auto-repeating loudspeaker. An electric bicycle goes by. Then a guy with a plastic bag of beer and an iPod.

The blistering heat of the Chinese summer creates a sense of repose that is palpable. People nap at their little stands, in the back of pickup trucks, against their bikes, on cardboard spread across the sidewalk. Some bring a lounge chair to the sidewalk. Just wake the vendor if you need something. It feels like a lazy summer, but the work doesn’t cease. China is open 7 days a week – even the banks are open every day.

When payday arrives, I head back to the technology mart, having researched my iPods and such. What I see is strangely familiar yet not quite. The brands look familiar, right down to the names – almost. Unis and Konkas sit next to Newmans and Lenovos. That little iPod that’s $200 in the US is $30 here and doesn’t just play music… it plays full-length movies on a little color screen, holds about 500 songs, acts as a flash drive and e-book reader, records voice, plays games, holds your photo album, and speaks 8 languages, fortunately one of which is the almost-English that is common around China. And it’s smaller than a credit card.

There is an even more functional model about the size of a disposable camera but much thinner. This one does all the above but also takes pictures and video with 4x zoom and 5 megapixels. It doesn’t speak English as well as the other device, so it may even brew tea for all I know.

Around Shandong province, the complexity of China’s rapid change is startling. As Jinan tears itself down to rebuild as a sparkling, modern metropolis of business and culture, other cities in the province take different routes. Qufu is attempting to capitalize on its UNESCO World Heritage status but seems to be at odds with itself. As home of Confucius, it is studded with temples and monuments to the great thinker, yet all of them are cordoned off behind impenetrable walls, their high entrance fees beyond the means of the local populace. Thus the heritage of the city is reserved for the monied, incongruous with the great thinker’s intentions, perhaps.

Weihei, an overnight ferry ride from Korea, has thoroughly modernized, turning itself into a Cancun-style resort with all its condos and beachfront properties fronting wide, lightly trafficked boulevards.

Rizhou seems unsure of itself. It is a self-proclaimed City of Sports and often shows off its beaches and kite-flying opportunities on tv. Its printed and internet promotional material, however, laments the inadequacy of the port facilities to handle large container ships.

Then there is Qingdao (once spelled Tsingdao and home of the eponymous beer). However it happened, this city’s architecture escaped the Cultural Revolution’s destructive zeal and thus retains a wealth of early 20th century buildings and atmosphere, much of it German. Sea, sand, beer, and history combine to make this city one of China’s most touristed, and one of the few that doesn’t fence off the attractions and charge an entrance fee. The city holds a well-attended international beer festival in August, a regatta in summer, and will host some of the aquatic sports during the Olympics.

Back in Jinan again, I’ve got a class to teach and I think we’re as much interested in each other as in the course content. I am teaching a group of professors a type of hybrid seminar of advanced English as a Second Language and Canadian Studies. They’re all going to Canada for four months after the course and for all but one, this will be the first foray abroad.

After we get to know each other over a period of weeks, it seems we have the same questions for each other. I’m asked what foreigners want to see in China and I’m at a loss. I guess I expected to see temples and all things ancient, but as for what I wanted to see, I just don’t know. I reverse the question and ask what the students want to see in Canada. They don’t know either.

The sense of community is palpable in China. So much so that it is rare to be alone, even if you want to be. Going shopping or even just wandering around the city, you can’t really be alone, or be left alone. It’s comforting in some ways but intrusive in others. One always has a companion or group of companions to go out with, hang around with, and talk with. Even if one starts out alone, it’s hard to stay that way given the curiosity and cohesiveness of the local community.

On the other hand, especially for the independent soul, it is hard to move. At the supermarket there is a fleet of staff ready to show you all the many brands of toothpaste, open them and let you sniff them, even if you don’t want to. In the restaurants, with infinite patience, staff will wait tableside as you peruse the hundreds of dishes and make a decision. Etc.

The soul of China, I think is the family, and as China changes, there is an undercurrent of uncertainty disquieting the people. As the family has been reduced to one child, the elderly seem lonely, despite the throngs of people. Maybe it’s the intergenerational family structure, now weakening, that is responsible. The outward manifestation is a proliferation of pet dogs. I’m told that few people had pets until relatively recently. Now it seems that everyone does.

My final days in China are punctuated with lavish dinners to see off the profs heading to Canada, to thank me for teaching, and so forth. On the night before departure, my boss and her husband and another from the office take me to dinner. It’s a great time sampling interesting dishes and chatting. Afterward they ask if we should go for a foot massage… and that about sums up my impression of the new China… it’s predictable yet unexpected. I get a feeling of being in a small, 1950s town, yet there are 6 million people here.

As a market, it can sometimes feel like the complete opposite of the West. For example, chicken wing tips cost more per pound than breasts. Smoked duck breast or duck tongues? Fish heads or fish filets? At other times, China seems to be more creative and dynamic than the West, particularly in electronics. And yet again, China can still surprise by being so Western that it’s almost not Chinese. The British newscaster engaging in playful newsroom banter with the striking Chinese anchor who speaks flawless, unaccented English. The travelogue show hosted by an African-American twenty-something who tools around China in his SUV, speaking flawless Mandarin to the natives. A special on the new Qinghai-Tibet railroad narrated and hosted by a bubbly young woman who seems to be right off of a US college campus.

China looks different after six weeks living there. I never imagined it to be so hot and I never imagined it to be so many things at once, often contradicting itself in being Chinese but striving to be almost European in the arts and American in metropolitan architecture. It isn’t, as I had wrongly assumed, Chinatown on a grand scale. Instead, it seems more like a San Fernando Valley with Chinese signs… sprawling, almost without a center, ringed by a horizon of gray. Amid the sprawl, though, pockets of strange and familiar, often just a few blocks from each other.

I think, if planning to do business in China, no seminar or workshop can really prepare one for the reality. It’s a place that requires time and patience to understand, much less get a feeling for. China is also big in size, not just population. Harbin, an important provincial capital in the northeast, is six hours flying from Hong Kong in the southeast. East to west is even longer. Six weeks isn’t enough to even begin to comprehend such a vast expanse, so doing business is probably best via a joint venture, but even then, it can take some time to fully understand your business in a Chinese context, your mutual expectations, and your partners themselves.

On my way to Beijing for my flight home, I fly the provincial airline. I feel like I’ve got a bit of a better understanding of the country and the way it speaks to me. After the inflight meal, I unwrap the hygiene wet turban needless wash (moist towelette), clean my hands and pop in the après meal mint to dispel oral cavity peculiar smell and make social family relationship more excellent. It’s an ordinary flight. And an ordinary day in China.

Dr. Altanero’s brief bio: I’ve worked at Austin Community College (ACC) for 8 years, grew up in NJ, went to college at a hippy school in So Cal and came here for grad school and stayed... except for those few months when I was in China!

A modified version of this article first appeared in the February 2007 issue of Multilingual Computing.