The whole process was faster than my Wi-Fi connection after a power outage. One minute I was debating whether to wear socks with sandals to a Zoom interview, the next I was being told, “Congratulations, you’re hired!” with a cheerful tone that made me wonder if they’d already booked my flight. No background checks, no references, no “wait, can you actually read a syllabus?”—just a handshake in the form of a digital contract, signed while I was still in my pajamas. It was less like landing a job, more like being adopted by a mysterious, enthusiastic corporation with a deep love for English pronunciation and questionable work-life balance.
But here’s the twist—after the euphoria wore off and the visa paperwork started piling up like autumn leaves, reality hit harder than a dumpling in a wok. I arrived in Chengdu, suitcase wobbling under the weight of my dreams and three pairs of shoes I swore I’d wear “just once.” The apartment was smaller than my bathtub back home. The air smelled like steamed buns and existential dread. My first class? Twenty-seven 10-year-olds with zero interest in the present perfect tense and a *very* strong opinion about my socks. I tried to explain passive voice. One kid raised his hand and said, “Miss, can you just tell us how to order a bubble tea?” And honestly? I’d have given him the entire lesson for a free matcha latte.
Let’s be real: the recruiter who got me the job? Total MVP. But they didn’t warn me about the cultural cliffhangers. Like how “relax” means “work harder” when your boss says it with a smile. Or how “we’ll get back to you” actually means “we’ll get back to you… maybe in a week, maybe in three months, maybe never.” I once asked if I could take a day off to visit a temple. My boss nodded and said, “Sure, if you don’t mind staying late tomorrow.” I nodded back, thinking, *I will be late, but I will be grateful*. And I was. I was also tired, confused, and slightly addicted to spicy hotpot.
Still, here’s the thing—China didn’t just give me a job. It gave me a full-blown personality upgrade. I learned to negotiate prices like a pro at a night market, to say “I’m fine” even when I was crying into a bowl of noodles, and to appreciate silence in a way I never thought possible. I stopped trying to “fix” every misunderstanding and started letting laughter bridge the gaps. There’s a certain magic in teaching kids who don’t know English but know how to laugh at your terrible pronunciation. Turns out, they’re better teachers than I ever was.
Oh, and the joke? It’s a classic, but it still gets me every time. A student asked me, “Miss, why do you call China ‘China’ and not ‘Chin-a’?” I froze. Then I said, “Because it’s not a name—it’s a feeling.” He blinked. Then he said, “So… like, is it a feeling of spicy food?” I laughed so hard I dropped my pen. And that, my friends, is how I learned the real curriculum: not grammar, not tenses, but the beautiful, messy, delicious chaos of connection.
Now, if you’re eyeing a teaching gig in China, don’t just go for the salary, the visa, or the promise of “easy money.” Go for the *experience*. Go for the language you’ll learn, the noodles you’ll eat, and the strange, wonderful friendships you’ll build in a place where “hello” sounds like “ni hao,” but your heart says “welcome home.” And yes—still trust the recruiter, but keep one eye open. They’re helpful, yes, but the real magic happens when you step off the script and start writing your own story, one mispronounced word at a time.
In the end, I didn’t just find a job in China. I found a second self, a spicy bowl of dumplings, and a lifetime of stories that started with a recruiter’s email and ended in a classroom full of kids who taught me more than I ever taught them. So if you’re thinking about it—go. Just maybe pack extra socks. And a sense of humor. You’ll need both.
Categories:
Chengdu, English,
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