I've been reporting in China for just about a month now. One of the first things I've noticed is that I stand out like a sore thumb.

In Iraq, especially during the early days when travel was easier, I had some success blending in by buying local clothes. In Afghanistan, when I grow my beard long and wear a salwar kameez, I can sort of pass as an Afghan. In Russia, folks sometimes thought I was Russian or from the Caucasus.

That ability to blend in has come in handy, allowing me to hang out and gather more material because no one is paying much attention to me.

But here in China, everyone knows immediately that I am a waiguoren, a foreigner. While doing my daily routine in Beijing, where there is a sea of foreigners, it's not a big deal. It now and then means understanding just enough Mandarin to know that a joke is being told or, a few weeks ago, hearing a Chinese couple complaining to the waiter that the foreigner (me) and his friend were seated after them but seemed to get their salads first.

 In the provinces, though, there are real implications. When I was recently working in the province of Henan, local officials had no trouble spotting me first in one town -- where they stopped my car and suggested that I take a rest from reporting -- and then a second town, where they sternly invited me to leave (http://tinyurl.com/2fwukdk).

Last week, I was reporting in another province and asking people about a murder there (more on that later). I am certain that I was hindered by the fact that each person I approached knew that everyone watching saw they were with a foreigner. This led to some very short conversations.

I was thinking over that issue on the way home from work last night when the taxi stopped at my neighborhood. A man on the sidewalk, who I suspect had consumed a beer or two, peered into the cab, looked me over and then turned to his friends to pronounce: Waiguoren.