The first recorded instance of a Chinese person seeing a bicycle is in the spring of 1866. Bin Chun, a diplomat on a political trip to Europe following the end of the Second Opium War, spotted one on the streets of Paris and it made quite an impression.
“On avenues, people ride on a vehicle with only two wheels, which is held together by a pipe,” Bin Chun wrote in his travel diary. “They sit above this pipe and push forward with movements of their feet. They dash along like galloping horses.”
The modern bicycle had been invented only a few years prior. Out were the gigantic front wheels of the impractical penny farthing, and in were the low-profile, gear-and-chain powered bikes of today.
‘Chinese Checkers’ sure is a funny name for a board game that comes from Germany and has nothing to do with checkers.
There is a bit of historical uncertainty about the origins of the modern game. Most sources can agree that it first appeared as a game called “Hoppity,” which was popular in Great Britain in the latter part of the 19th century. Like Chinese Checkers, the game allowed for more than two players (in this case, four) each playing from the corner of the board.
Hoppity (which, by the way, is the most 1890’s British name for a board game imaginable) eventually made its way to Germany, where it abandoned its British squareness and adopted a six-pointed star for a board. Dubbed “Stern-Halma” (“Halma” being the German name for Hoppity, and “Stern” being “star”) modern Chinese Checkers was born.
But it wasn’t Chinese yet. It would be until the American toy company Pressman Co., obsessed with the “Oriental mystique” and more than a bit racist, released their version of Stern-Helma under the name “Hop Ching Checkers.”
At first glance, it doesn’t look like much work went into the Chinese flag. Simple red backgrounds with a few yellow stars were all the rage among mid-20th century communist nations, and China was just following suit – right?
In fact, today’s Chinese flag was just one of many – of thousands – in competition to become the nation’s banner. When the flag was being decided upon, it actually would have been a good move to be against the “big yellow star surrounded by four smaller ones” design, as it wasn’t the one preferred by Mao Zedong himself.
It’s summertime in China, and that means a few important things – large men with t-shirts rolled up to their chests, copious amounts of Snow beer and butts. Baby butts. Everywhere. All of the time.
That’s because many Chinese parents choose to deck out their infants and toddlers in “split pants” – trousers that have an al fresco attitude towards bums and genitals.
For those living on China’s super-populated east coast, it’s pretty easy to be at peace with the time. You can wake up to a sunrise around 5am in the summer, and about 7am in the depths of winter. It gets dark towards the end of the day, which makes sense, because that’s what days do – right?
In the country’s more rural, western provinces, however, it’s a different story. If you live in Urumqi, the capital of Xinjiang Province, don’t count on seeing the sun before 10am in late December. In Kashgar, China’s Western-most city, you can enjoy sunsets in July that don’t finish until 11pm or even midnight.
That’s because China only has one timezone: Beijing time
Goldfish are to carp what chihuahuas are to wolves – a weird, malformed but slightly more people-friendly version of an animal, and one that only exists thanks to human-led breeding. And today’s modern goldfish are the direct result of more than a thousand years worth of domestication and breeding by Chinese fish masters.
Before we even get started: this is about goldfish the fish, not goldfish the fish-shaped crackers (the latter, by the way, are a 1958 Swiss creation). We promise this story is at least as interesting, if not quite as delicious.
The story of the goldfish begins in the Jin Dynasty, between the years 265 and 420. “China” consisted of much of today’s eastern regions, but petered out towards the west and north, where barbarians (and, presumably, dragons) ruled.
Enter any FamilyMart in Asia and you’ll be met with the same 12 notes. It’s a pleasing tone, welcoming visitors to a land stocked with plastic bottles of tea, slightly questionable sandwiches and bubbling vats of meaty goodness on sticks.
The jingle, it turns out, is a single man’s invention – and it originally had nothing to do with FamilyMart.
For the first time in my life, I wish I owned a fanny pack. It would have completed the look. I’m standing at a busy intersection in Yu Yuan, watching Western tourists, maps in hands and baseball caps on heads, filtering through the streets. I’ve got a camera over my shoulder – a nice touch. I’m not here to take any pictures, though: I’m here to get scammed.
“Hey, boy!” And so it begins. “Take my photo?” A skinny, smiling 20-something man is thrusting his phone towards me.
He stands with his friend, a shorter man in a floral shirt. I snap a photo of Smiley and Floral in front of a drab building – not exactly a great shot. I give the phone back, and he doesn’t bother to check the photo.