"I drift by company displays and find myself at the table for Yoli, a business that offers a sort of speed dating for English learners: 15-minute on-demand tutoring sessions with native speakers through WeChat. Two sheets of paper taped to the table each bear a pixelated QR code: Scan one to become a teacher, scan the other to become a student.
The Chinese term for this ritual, sao yi sao, quickly becomes familiar. Everyone and almost everything on WeChat has a QR code, and sao yi sao-ing with your phone is both constant and strangely satisfying. James, a tanned American with unruly blond hair who mans the Yoli table, is here to host a workshop called “How We Built a WeChat App & Recovered Our Development Costs Within 24hrs.” He scans my code, which gives him my WeChat profile and also generates the equivalent of a friend request; I accept, and we agree to meet during the week, skipping right over the old-fashioned niceties of last names and business cards.
The presentations are about to start, and jet lag is kicking in. I hurry to the coffee counter for an iced Americano. There’s a QR code in a plastic photo frame. The woman ahead of me is scanning it. I try it, and … WeChat fail. I’ve entered a credit card into WeChat, but it won’t work, and my WeChat wallet is empty. I feel distinctly self-conscious fumbling around for yuan. I’ve been in WeChat-era China one day, and already cash money feels embarrassing."
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