File This Under Bizarre Gifts

Sometimes, the students give us little gifts. Usually, they involve little bits of paper folded into hearts or flowers or cranes, or sometimes just little notes. They're very cute.

Just now, one of my students came into my office to give me a gift.

"Ms. Scotty, I made you a potato heart."

I looked a little closer at what she was holding, because this student's English is not the best, and I wasn't sure I understood her correctly. A potato heart?

Sure enough, she had taken a piece of raw potato and carved it into a little heart.

"You will have to put it in water or it will oxidize," she told me.

Well, I dutifully walked down the hall to get a cup to put my heart in. What else could I do? And I now have a tiny bit of potato sitting in a cup of water on my desk.

Type A Personalities

I was at some business lunch a few years ago, and the speaker was talking about finding balance and joy in our busy lives (or some such nonsense). While I don't remember what she was actually selling, I do remember her description of a Type A personalities as people who stand in front of the microwave saying, "Come on, come on!" As if that would somehow make the 60 seconds it takes to heat up a Hot Pocket go faster.

And I admit, I do have some rather type-a moments in my life. You might have heard me refer to my Uptight, East-Coast Personality. Going slowly (unless I'm running) is not my thing. I don't want to spend any more time in the lane at the grocery store, or in the parking lot, or in getting from Point A to Point B than I absolutely have to. I want to spend my time AT wherever I'm going — cooking and eating my meal, using my new purchases, or enjoying Point B.

This leads to some frustrating moments on the sidewalk in China (as I'm pretty sure I mentioned before). On the whole, the Chinese do not rush. They walk a little slower, they walk arm-in-arm, they spend a little more time talking. It's laudable, don't get me wrong, but it's not me. I find myself constantly stuck behind a wall of Chinese people, treading up the backs of the their heels. (Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if weren't so darned hard to pass. I don't care if other people walk slowly; I just want the ability to walk quickly.)

Which makes the Chinese reaction in an elevator all that much more surprising. Every Chinese person I ever recall getting in an elevator with jumps on that "door close" button as soon as possible. A friend told me one that the door close button does absolutely nothing except give you a sense of agency; it doesn't actually close the door any faster. And yet, try to tell that to your Chinese neighbor who looks at you with a bit of surprise and distrust because you pushed a floor button, but not the "door close" button.

I haven't timed it, but it seems like the door might close a fraction of a second earlier if you push the button right after the floor button. I guess they just want to get out of the elevator a fraction of a second faster so they have that much more time on the sidewalk?

Buy Nothing

This morning, my Handler looked over at me and said, with some boyish glee, "Tomorrow is Black Friday."

"Um, yes," I replied, more than a bit surprised. What did he care about Black Friday?

"I'm going to have my friends in the U.S. buy me some things," he continued. "And they will be coming back to China for their Christmas breaks, so they can bring it me. Of course, things aren't that much cheaper than they are here..."

"True," I agreed. "Of course, there is an element among the leftist, anarchist, hippie, counter-culture crowd that celebrates Buy Nothing Day."

He looked at me quizzically.

"Instead of spending all your money and paying into corporate greed, you buy nothing on the day after Thansgiving. Instead, you spend the day with your family, doing things together: talking, hanging out, watching movies — provided you already own them — making Christmas ornaments, baking cookies... You get the idea."

More quizzical looks. "But, uh, how does putting things on sale contribute to corporate greed?" he asked honestly.

"Well, a corporation won't sell things just to lose money, and once you're in the store, they are relying on you spending money on things you didn't want. Beyond that, even if something is on sale, if it's something you don't need, you've still wasted money. Sales are part of the whole consumer culture. Buy Nothing Day encourages people to resist judging themselves and others by what they own. Instead, we should focus on who they are or what they do. It resists consumerism and capitalistic greed and international imperialism." (I threw in a few -isms I knew would resonate, but it's all true, I promise.)

I looked up. My Handler was looking down, and shaking his head a bit. "You're actually making me think," he said. "I don't usually think. We need to talk about something else now."

I'll probably break my vow and buy something tomorrow; my Thanksgiving dinner isn't until Saturday, and I'm sure I've forgotten something. I cut myself some slack since I'm living overseas. But how's this for a deal: I promise to buy nothing on Sunday, instead.

My Favorite Topic

Safety!

That's right. I've got another one for the "Don't you worry about dying?!" file.

While waiting for the water to boil for my coffee this morning, I was looking out the window at the construction across the street. (I am very excited for them to finish this building, because I think it's going to be a mall and my chances for a coffee shop next door will increase exponentially.) After a long year of nothing much visible going on, the structure is finally peeking about the fence and affords a more interesting view.

So this morning I notice the following: they are constructing a third floor, there are some squarish sections of rebar poles sticking up haphazardly in a few areas, the crane is hauling up another huge pile of rebar, a man is walking across the floor. Wait. I can see his head.

I don't mean I can see the bubbly bit on top of his shoulders. No, I mean I can see his actual hair. As in: he is not wearing a hard hat. On a construction site. While walking under a crane carrying a who-knows-how-heavy pile of steel rebar.

(To be fair, when I looked out the window this afternoon, all the workers were wearing brightly-colored hard hats. The dude this morning must have been a supervisor who didn't think he'd be around long enough to wear a helmet, or some such deal.)

And the Band Played On

I went to the school's Germany Day (they love having themed cultural days around here). It was cute, in a mostly incomprehensible sort of way, seeing as I speak neither German nor Chinese. (But I was there representing the Kuehls anyway.) At the end of the assembly, the band got up and walked around the hall playing while all the actors danced around the stage. It was the closest I think I've ever been to life imitating a musical.

As the band made their first go-round the hall, I noticed that one girl's skirt seemed to be slipping off her hips. Hmm. I've seen boys with pants below their butts, but not pre-teen girls, and certainly not while marching around a room full of people. She didn't seem fazed. At all.

On the second pass around the room, her skirt appeared to be slipping even lower, and she wasn't making a move to pull it up. And then, wait... whoops! Her skirt fell to the floor. Just fell. There she was, in her tights. Playing the flute. Surrounded by people.

Um.

Uh.

And there were no jeers. No pointing and shouting. No tears. No running out of the room in embarrassment. She kept playing, and she moved out of sight, so she was still walking. My colleagues at the front of the room didn't notice a flute player without a skirt, so she must have pulled it back up at some point. I noticed her whisper something to her friend at the end of the number, but again, without any of the chagrin I would expect out of girl who had just flashed half the school.

Nope, she just played on.

On Whiteness

A few weeks ago, we went to see a concert given by my friends' choir. (Well, they sing in the choir; the choir does not belong to them.) Anyway, it involved meeting at a restaurant, cabbing to the venue, and then cabbing back for some late-night snacks and drinks.

Somehow, I ended up being one of the people who knew where we were going, so I was the "leader" of my cab (we had to break into two groups). I sat in the front and told the driver where to go. He asked, in halting English, if I was going to the subway. (I had given the name of the subway stop.) I said not really, but he should go there anyway. I could tell him where to turn.

We did a little back and forth. He definitely spoke better English than I speak Chinese — but not by much. He kept on looking over at me. The folks in the back seat were chatting quietly among themselves. And that's when it went sideways.

"You are very white," he said.

Um, OK. I've been called white before, but usually not in a good way. It's usually because it's the beginning of summer, and my legs are so glaringly pale that anyone in the area needs to put on sunglasses before they can look at me. Of course, "white" can also be a euphemism for "racist" or "boring" or "imperialist". None of which I much relish as adjectives to describe my personality.

While all this was going through my head, he was still thinking. "Your skin looks like... um... the word is... porcelain."

Yup. He was totally hitting on me. (And somehow, "porcelain" does sound nicer than "white".) He went on to ask if I was married and inquire about my age. But then I told him to turn onto another street and drop us off at the restaurant.

And yes, I let him drive off into the "foggy" Beijing evening.

I Didn't Say I Could Write

I have a mini-fan club. Or, I'm just as big a sucker as I was at 8 when any member of my family could get a free grilled cheese or BLT just by flattering my cooking skillz. (And I do have mad skillz.) All to say, these girls come to get my help on various standardized tests and essays.

Two days ago, I got a visit from one of the fan club. She's known by the entire staff to have a grocery store in her locker and a convenience store in her pockets. She claims it's not true, but it is. Since she's warmed up to me (it's amazing what saying nice things about an essay will do), I am on the list of teacher swho are regularly offered food. So while snacking on "sushi flavored" potato chips (they're really just wasabi flavored), we got talking about pronunciation.

Then we got talking about my bad Chinese pronunciation (read: horrible). Then somehow, it came up that I could read about 10 characters. She wanted to know which ones. Well, that meant I had to write them down... So I tried to write "lamb", and I think I did a halfway decent job -- but she broke into gales of laughter.

 I mean gales.

I know that there is a right and a wrong way to write Chinese characters. You are supposed to start with a certain stroke, and write each character in the same sequence. I looked at her.

"My elementary school teacher would be so angry with you," she said amidst her giggles.

"What?" I countered. "No one has ever taught me how to write."

She smiled. "I always got yelled at by my teacher, too."

Kids These Days

One of my students came in for her usual SAT tutoring session. (They are obsessed with their SAT scores. Some of them accost me at every spare moment for help with practice tests. To be fair, I do usually get the questions right (by usually, I mean I might have missed one or two of the hundreds of questions I have answered — can you say 800 boys and girls?), so I can't quite blame her for coming to me for help.)

One of today's reading was a paired selection about rock 'n roll. One of the two articles explained that the kids born in the 1940s are today's 50-year-olds (the article is from 1980), and they still love rock 'n roll (my parents excluded, of course). She looked at me for a moment.

I leaned back to my Partner-in-Crime and asked if he likes rock 'n roll (I know the answer is "yes" and I also know he is approaching that big 5-0 birthday). He said yes (what is that old lawyer saying about never asking a question you don't already know the answer to). I said I liked rock 'n roll. And we all know I'm old.

"But, don't you think it's too loud?" she asked?

What? Too loud? A 17-year-old child is asking me if music is TOO LOUD?

I reached for my iTunes (which was open, of course), unplugged my earphones, and turned up the volume. Then I found "Rock 'n Roll" by Led Zeppelin and let it rip.

I calmly went back to work. The next question asked about the meaning of a sentence ... a sentence about revolution, no less.

Well, that just demanded "Revolution" by the Beatles, so I let her have it.

You should have seen the look on her face for the opening guitar riff and yowl. Kids these days; they just don't get it.

Jump, Step, or Float

Earlier this year, I signed up for a yoga course. I've taken yoga classes here and there before. I occasionally joined my fellow climbers for Yoga for Climbers (strangely enough) on a drop-in basis, and I once took a yoga P.E. so I could qualify for student aid (seriously). Although it's not considered very "yoga" to compare your yoga skillz with those of your classmates, I do it anyway. And on the grand scale of "athletic things I'm pretty good at even though I haven't done it all that much", yoga ranks fairly highly. Those skills that helped me succeed (moderately) at gymnastics have carried over into this, my more sedate athletic adulthood.

So when it came time to get more active in Beijing, I went looking for yoga.

Not only is is alluring because of my native abilities (making it so much less frustrating and disheartening than other athletic pursuits), but it also has a strong focus on strength and control: things that my particular joint issues respond well to. And, I was hoping for a little help for my shoulders.

Some of you are aware of my shoulder complaints. After some youthful exuberances turned disastrous (and then promptly ignored), an adult life of typing and a top-heavy body shape have left me with some rather sad excuses for shoulder muscles. I was particularly worried when my former roommate-turned physical therapist explained to me how heating packs will actually melt the collagen in muscles, which then reform in less-than-ideal ways.

My hope was that some focused attention to strength and flexibility might help my shoulders work again. Hope.

And wouldn't you know, two weeks ago I was walking through school and I noticed that I was standing up straight. Not standing, but standing up straight. And it's not that I can't stand up straight, it's just that I usually don't. So to notice that I was doing it unconsciously? That was pretty cool.

The teacher is pretty cool: she skips the "ohms" but still keys into using the practice as a working meditation. We are encouraged to pay attention to how we feel, and work out accordingly. It's a lot like I've lived my life, actually — walking that line between wimping out and risking injury. (Seriously, this knee is a time bomb, but I'm not going to spend all my time sitting on the couch.)

Needless to say, I've signed up for the next round of classes.

Nigel O'Lantern

I sometimes get these crazy ideas. OK. So I often get these crazy ideas. And sometimes, I do something about them.

In case you're wondering, here's how to carve a pumpkin to look like your friend.

1. Get on your VPN and Google "pumpkin carving photo" or some such nonsense.
2. Skip all the sites wanting you to pay for them to do it for you, and read through to page two where someone will tell you how to do it yourself.
3. Curse yourself for not having Photoshop while trying to use Picasa to up the contrast and posterize and do all sorts of crazy shit to your photo.
4. Go to the market to buy ink for your printer.
5. Print the photo on a piece of paper.
6. Wait until the last minute (6 pm on Halloween) to trace the photo onto your pumpkin with whatever is on hand (which happens to be a tracing wheel you got with your new sewing machine).
7. Carve. 
8. Insert candle.
9. Burn thumb trying to light candle.
10. Take photo.
11. Laugh yourself silly.

And yes, it does sorta look like Elvis.

Try It

Yesterday was British Culture Day at school. Forgive me if I skip over the highlight of the day which was two of my colleagues acting in a Harry Potter skit as a 6'7" Harry Potter and a 5'4" Hagrid (yes, the kids chose Harry Potter as the theme). I mainly have to skip it because I was forced by teaching duties to miss it. I can only hope to catch the reruns as they play on the monitors laced throughout the school.

In honor of British Culture Day, we had a visiting contingent from Reading School in none other than Reading, England. The teachers were strong-armed into a meet-and-greet tea-and-biscuits-that-aren't-really-biscuits session. And, it's turning into fall around here, so I was chilly.

I got up to replenish my tea when I saw a glass bottle of something in the staff lounge. I was waiting for the tea to boil, so I picked it up and looked it over. It had a picture of a fruit on it. It looked like it might be a syrup of some kind. Or a wine. Or a liquor. And it was opened and about a third of it was gone. Just then, my Chinese principal walked into the room. 

"What is this?" I asked her?

"Oh, it's a wine or a, um liquor. You should try it."

At 9am on a school day in the staff lounge. She said that to me. Seriously.

No, I did not quaff the bottle, although I did take the tiniest taste just for curiosity's sake. And it was pretty nasty in a sweetish, alcoholicish, assish kind of way.

I set the bottle down and went back to making tea. After I'd rinsed out my mug, of course.

I Would Like to Make a Complaint

For the last few weeks, I've been holding writing labs with my seniors, mainly because so many of them were hounding me during any free period and after school to ask for my help. It also reduces the amount of time spent planning, but mostly it frees up my time to do the rest of my work. And help students, some of whom might not seek me out on their own time.

Slowly, however, the requests have trickled off, so next week we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming. And today, I found myself wrapping up college-planning questions with my three students who wanted it and nothing left to do. I noticed one of my students with a box of flashcards. Oh, I love flashcards. And there's no better way to ingratiate yourself into an independent study moment than a box of flashcards.

(You should know that this is all happening with the one class that I did not teach last year, so I do not know these students well. More importantly, they don't know me very well.)

I walked up to her, pretty much the same way I did above. "Oh, I love flashcards. Can I help you study? It's about American history? Even better!"

She looked at me with more than a little trepidation and a fair amount of skepticism. I mean, they know I'm American and all, but seriously? I teach English. What the hell do I know? But if I'm anything, I'm a relentless bastard (ask my Canadian — he said as much to TC2), and there was no way I was taking no for an answer. And let's face it, she's Chinese and she's from a good family, so she's predisposed to doing school work and doing what she's told without any lip. So, she wasn't likely to say no anyway. Maaaaybe I took a little advantage of the situation, but mainly I wanted to do something and I do so love history.

So I sat down and took up the pile of flashcards that she said she'd already "memorized" (maybe she said "learned", although "studied" would be my choice if we were getting semantic). I flipped to a card in the middle, and asked her about it.

Most of them I knew, a few of them I'd never heard of, but all of them I could help her locate within a larger context. When she couldn't list the likely candidates in the New England Confederation (she was throwing out states like New York and Virginia  — Virginia!), I drew her a (horrible) map of the Northeast and helped her see how tying her knowledge to geography could help her find an answer to such a question.

When class ended, she had a free period and wanted to remain (after wanting so desperately to escape my clutches). I spent the next period with her, talking history. We talked about William Jennings Bryan and his Cross of Gold and how he supported a populist movement (of the farmers against the Eastern bankers) and tied that idea to Shay's Rebellion a century earlier. We compared the Stono Rebellion (which I never learned about) to Nat Turner's Rebellion. We talked about the surge in violence right before the Civil War (Bloody Kansas!). We discussed the tension between fierce independence and the government's responsibility to help its populace. We saw how the Whigs and the Free Soil Party combined to form the Republican Party, why it was such a phenomenon, and why there are still Southern Democrats.

Fast forward five hours. I was on my way back to my desk after a meeting with the counseling (excuse me, counselling) department to do a bit more marking before heading home when I ran into another one of my students. I'm sure I've told you about her before. She's the really keen one; the one with eyes as big as saucers in each and every class, trying to suck in as much information as possible with her limited, but vastly expanded, understanding of English.

She button-holed me, as they do. She was reading a novel, and wanted my help in keeping her focused on it. Aw, shucks. What English teacher worth her salt wouldn't say yes? What was she reading? None other than Oliver Twist. So, after breaking into a chorus or two of "Oliver" (Oliver, what will he do in this terrible stew? He will rue the day somebody named him O-li-ver), I told her Dickens' secret: he was paid by the word. From there, the conversation ranged from the number of words in the common English lexicon over time (Shakespeare had a way bigger working vocabulary than we do because speaking English was a mark of national pride) to Chinese and English idioms (when you go on too long in Chinese, it's as long as the wrappings used in foot binding, but it ain't over until the fat lady sings). We talked about using big words and how it can make people feel bad and you look snooty, but sometimes, those words are the most perfect words and they should be used.

And then I got pulled away by my Chinese principal to find the best photograph of our ill colleague to use to make a mask — a la Evil Steve for any kickballers reading this — so we can take photos of him around town to send to him.

So, the next time I find something to complain about (and I will, because there are things to complain about) kindly point me back to this post. Because when all is said and done (and this in a 6-day work week following an 8-day work week with a 1-day weekend), this job totally rawks.

She's Crafty

I spent two glorious weeks holed up in my sister's basement this summer. Although she felt a bit bad that I was locked away underground, I was exceptionally happy with the arrangement because my sewing machine was in her basement. I have had access to a sewing machine for as long as I can remember. Not only was my mother kind enough to not freak out if I used hers when I was a child, but I also had more than one plastic version of my own. By my third(?) (second?) year at university, I got a proper sewing machine, although I had finally worn out the gearing through overuse about five years ago. That's when I upgraded to the beautiful machine that is at my sister's house.

And then I moved to Beijing. I spent all last year without a sewing machine. Oh sure, you can take pants to be hemmed, but I never did. It just felt too wrong to take the time to go down the street, make yourself understood in a foreign language, and wait for them to be hemmed, when you can easily do it yourself. Well, you could if you had a machine.

I kept a look-out for machines, but sewing machine shops aren't all that prevalent. Machines exist, but most of them are old, beat-up tailor machines. I need a nice, simple household version. Towards the end of the school year, I mentioned finding a machine to my Handler, and he told me that all things can be found online.

And right he was.

Yesterday, I decided enough was enough, and I was going to find a machine. I went to TaoBao (Chinese eBay) and searched for a machine. I found a decent-looking Brother and sent the link to my Handler. I also explained that I needed a rotary cutter, a self-healing mat, and some specialized needles. He took on the challenge and found the items and placed the orders.

I thought maybe I'd see the boxes trickle in towards the end of the week.

He came in the office today, and pointed to a box in the corner of the room. My machine was here! Everything arrived today. (There was too much to carry, so I'll bring home the mat tomorrow.)

I ran a test through the machine, to make sure it works (there is a 10-day guarantee on any product purchased through TaoBao). And it works! Although it is the loudest machine I've ever owned. There's a rather loud electric hum to go with some rather big chunking, but the stitches appear even and straight. And she's just my type.

What's Pho Breakfast?

Some of you might be aware of my deep and abiding love for breakfast foods. You might even call me dogmatic when it comes to early morning eats. Maybe it's all those Sunday brunches after church I had with my family. Maybe it's the years I spend serving breakfast all day at Elmo's. Maybe it's just a deep and abiding love for bacon. But whatever it is, I love eggs and toast and bacon and potatoes. I love sausage gravy and light, fluffy biscuits. I love hot coffee and fresh orange juice.

And if there's one thing that I don't like so much about Asia, it's breakfast. Some things are sacred. For me, breakfast food is one of those things. And Asians just really don't get the whole "breakfast" concept. Oh, they eat food in the morning, but all too often, it's just like any other meal. There is nothing much special about it. And to add insult to injury, it's not very good food. It's cold. Or slimy. Or salty. Hung boo hao.


On our first morning in Cat Ba, we went to the Western restaurant that's located in the same building as the climbing guides. It just made sense. We had to be there anyway and we'd get real breakfast to boot! Sadly, the breakfast was crappy. The eggs were over-hard. The bread was stale. And the "sausage" tasted like fishy hot dogs. The coffee was decent, but a little lukewarm. Boo hao.

So on our second morning in Cat Ba, we had nothing much to do but kill some time and buy bus tickets. The hotel didn't have wireless, however, so we wandered down the street looking for a cafe. Restaurant pickins in Cat Ba Town are a little scarce to begin with, but there are even fewer options in the slow season. I saw one tourist-themed restaurant after another, and then I saw the holy grail of restaurants... a sidewalk full of locals sipping on coffee and tea.

If it's good enough for the Vietnamese, it's good enough for me. Of course, the waitress was petrified of us. She was exceptionally cautious about taking our order, even though the menu was printed in Vietnamese and English and was quite easy to understand.

To go with the (ubiquitous) coffee with sweetened, condensed milk, I broke with tradition and ordered a bowl of pho. I've had plenty of pho in my life, and it's lovely, but I usually have it for lunch or dinner. There is nothing much better than a bowl of hot broth with rice noodles, beef, topped at the last minute with fresh sprouts, basil, ciltantro, red pepper and a squeeze of lime. It is a sublime lunch. And I went renegade, and had it for breakfast.

And man, was it good.

The noodles were some of the most tender noodles I've ever had. The broth was rich and full, with just the right touch of saltiness. There were no bean sprouts, sadly, and the herbs were added for me, but it was still crisp and clean and refreshing. I could really get behind a country that treats their breakfast so lovingly, even if there aren't any eggs involved.

The Wheels on the Bus Go 'Round and 'Round

October is the start of the rainy season in Vietnam. The book said it might be a little damp, and the book wasn't lying. But with the lame holiday schedule we get around here, I didn't have much of a choice.

I got a look at a paper on the airplane, and it was talking huge typhoon in Vietnam, flooding, and a promise of more rain. Joy. That was going to put a huge crimp in my climbing plans. The plan had been to head to the coast early on, and then take it back to Hanoi for the duration. With the rain, there was no telling if that would happen. The coast in the rain isn't really much fun.

With the late arrival and the lack of details about the weather, I'd thought we'd spend Sunday in Hanoi and figure out the plan. After a leisurely breakfast at the hotel with some delicious Vietnamese coffee, we wandered out into the city.

I bought a SIM card and directed us to a cafe. I ordered another coffee (you have to love a country that loves coffee, especially in this half of the world) and decided to call the tour company that runs climbing trips. I had a very lovely conversation with a nice young man there and he was able to fill me in on the weather details. Yes, it had been raining rather hard, although they were in a little lull between storms. Monday was expected to be fairly nice, but the rain would move back in on Monday night as another system came through from the Philippines. So, if I wanted to go climbing, my choices were pretty limited and the clock was ticking.

The nice young man told me how to get a bus to the island and that the last one left at 1:20. If we got there in the evening, I could go climbing on Monday. I hung up the phone and knew we needed to make a decision. It was 11:30, and we'd need to pack, check out of the hotel, grab a taxi to the bus station, and hop on the bus, all by about 1:15. It'd be tight. TC2 was up to the challenge, however, and away we went.

Things went quite well until we hit the depot. I found the nice uniformed men who work for the bus company and they directed me to the ticket window. But that's when things got squirrely. I asked for two tickets to Cat Ba (actually, I just said Cat Ba and held up two fingers). He dialed a number and handed me the phone. A young woman told me that there was no 1:20 to Cat Ba. She told me I could buy a ticket for the next morning. I told her that wasn't good enough. I needed to get to Cat Ba tonight. She reiterated that there was no afternoon bus and I could go tomorrow. I told her I needed to get there tonight, and maybe she could suggest another bus company. Her English was good, but it wasn't that good, so she just repeated herself. 

Frustrated, I walked out of the depot. The nice uniformed man came over to me and asked if everything was all worked out. I told him the man inside said the was no 1:20 to Cat Ba. He was incredulous. The bus driver was incredulous. He pointed out that he WAS the 1:20 to Cat Ba. The uniformed man pointed to the license plate on the bus to let us know that that was the bus we wanted. And he told us to get on the bus, and they'd sell us tickets inside.

A word on how the trip works: You take a big bus to Haiphong. In Haiphong you transfer to a littler bus that takes you to a boat. The boat takes you across the bay to Cat Ba Island where you get another, smaller bus. That bus takes you the remaining way around the southwest side of the island to Cat Ba Town. It takes about 5 hours all told and costs about $9.

So, we got on the the bus. What was the worst that could happen? We'd get stuck in Haiphong.

And wouldn't you know...

The bus agent motioned to us (we were the only white people on the bus) to get off at a small office, and he got off with us. He said something to the woman at the desk and she said something back. He looked a little sheepish, then walked out the door and jumped back on the bus as it took a swing back by the office.

She picked up the phone and motioned me over. (Obviously, this was not the woman I had spoken to earlier.) A man this time told me that there was no bus to Cat Ba. I had sort of figured that. I tried to ask if he could tell me about another bus operator, but there was definitely something lost in the telling. I eventually came to understand that the nice woman in the office would tell me where we could get another bus.

I hung up the phone and she gave me back some money. (Now that's something that doesn't happen every day.) Then, she pointed us across the street. We crossed the street and another nice young lady looked at us expectantly. "Cat Ba," I said. She pulled out a schedule and pointed to 16:35. That seemed simple enough.

We had an hour, so we walked up the street to see what we could see. I saw a little restaurant, so we went I side to have a beer and pass some time. Well, we must have been the most exciting thing to happen in that place all year long.

We walked in, book in hand, and them owner was beside himself with delight. I think he thought he had made it into the book. I looked through the back and ordered us some bia (beer). A woman brought over a can of Heineken and a bottle of Heineken (because they only bring out the best for Westerners). I pointed to the bottle and smiled. The man sent the woman back for another bottle when she tried to open the can for us. Come on, he was saying, these are white people! They don't drink from cans, at least not in my establishment.

The number of people in the place had increased exponentially as well. Suddenly the whole family came down to see what all the fuss was about. I looked through the book to figure out how to say thank you politely, and the man was once again thrilled. We were only there for about 40 minutes, but you could just tell that he was going to be telling this story to every local who walked in the door for the next five years. 

Things got a lot easier after that (although I was secretly afraid we'd get to the island only to be left at the dock, miles from town). We got on a bus that took us to the dock. We got on a boat that took us to another bus. The bus dropped us off in the center of town.

It cost us about 30,000 dong more than we had gotten back from the first bus company — that's about $1.50. And we were in town in time for dinner. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Where No Traveler Wants to Be

Last week, I went on a long-awaited trip to Vietnam. I bought tickets a little late ("expensive and last-minute" being my preferred mode of travel), so there were no early flights. Our flight (with Traveling Companion #2) wasn't scheduled to arrive until 11:45. Add in time for visas and customs and what-not, plus an hour or so from the airport into the city proper, and it was going to be 1:30 am before we found ourselves in our hotel. Of course, the flight was a few minutes late, although everything else was about on schedule, putting us at our hotel at 2:00 am.

Since I had purchased the flights, TC2 said she would make the hotel arrangements. She had borrowed my book, and I thought she had done some reading in it. The book clearly states that it's best to arrange for your hotel to send a taxi, taxi drivers being shady scoundrels the world over. I even thought about chasing her down and seeing if she had talked to the hotel at all, but I didn't. Mistake number one.

Not only were there no arrangements for a taxi, forcing us to take a random airport taxi, but we quickly ran south on the money front, too. Although many establishments (especially hotels) happily take U.S. dollars, it is not so ubiquitous a currency as it is in Cambodia. So, while I had gotten dollars before I left China, I had not gotten any dong. (heh-heh, heh-heh)

I suspect the taxi driver (and his English-speaking buddy) had a share in an ATM, because they hustled us out of the airport before I could think to hit up the ATM there. On the way to town, they stopped by an ATM, and TC2 went to get some money (as she is still working off her debt to me). She hadn't checked the exchange rates, though, so she came back with about $5. Which isn't enough for a 45-minute taco ride in any country.

So, after a good laugh at her expense by the taxi driver's buddy (he said Vietnamese money has a lot of zeroes) we found another (working) ATM, and had enough tom pay for the cab. Now, I don't think Mr. Cabdriver was fleecing us (but it was late and it's all a little fuzzy), but I do think we wore him out. He left us on the street in front of our hotel, bags in hand, and drove away.

The hotel was locked. Straight-up bicycle lock around the door handles locked, and there was no bell, button, or man sleeping inside. Yup. Stuck on the street in a foreign city with no prospects of a place to spend the night. I would have called the place, but our flight was so late that the SIM card place at the airport was closed and I couldn't buy one. I don't think my Chinese phone makes international calls.

If I were a more excitable person, I would have started flipping out right there. But, I maintained my composure, sure that if I freaked out, TC2 would be right behind me and become completely useless. But, like any good tourist spot, another taxi driver was right behind the first and he was more than willing to bring us to a hotel. (I'm sure he got a commission out of the deal, so it's not like it was out of the goodness of his heart or anything.) He rang up his friend, got him out of bed, and found us a room.

It was clean and had a nice view and a private bathroom with the promise of hot water. There was a mini-bar and some bottled water and a fan. At 2:30 am, it was perfect, even if it was up 5 flights of stairs.

At least I wouldn't have to worry about not getting enough exercise.

The Sudden Stop

My darling friend A passed along her bicycle to me when she left the country last summer. (Of course, the passing along also included riding the bike a good 15 km through the city on woefully under-inflated tires. She is a rock star of the highest order.) Now in possession of an official, Chinese-produced, four-times hand-me-down, fixie* cruiser, I can ride my bike to school, the store, or the subway. Sometimes I might add in a trip to the Cool Bar or the Twinkle Bar. (Yeah M, I'm so cool because I commute on my fixie.)

Riding a bike in China takes some special skills, however. The Chinese do not ride their bikes the way we do.

Bicycles are not required to follow rules of the road. (Then again, cars don't always have to, either.) Bicycles are not governed by streetlights or stop signs. Bicycles don't have to ride in the same direction as traffic. Bicycles can ride on the sidewalk or in the bike lane, or in the street if there is no bike lane (but on many roads, not riding in the bike lane is akin to a death wish).  Bicycles are allowed to run down pedestrians, but must make way for cars. Bicyclists do not wear helmets. Bicyclists also pedal at speeds barely fast enough to maintain forward motion.

The Chinese also have a different way of getting on a off their bikes. It took me awhile to figure out what the difference was, but even last year I noticed that something was odd. A Chinese rider does not begin by straddling their bike, sitting on the seat with one foot on the ground, and then pedaling (as I, and anyone I've seen riding in the U.S. does). Nope. They stand next to the bike with one foot on the pedal, then pushing off with the other foot (which is wedged uncomfortably between the foot on the pedal and the bike frame), they straddle and sit in one motion. They stop the bike in much the same way. While I would hit the brakes, lean on one foot, and then swing my leg over the seat, the Chinese keep moving, stand on one pedal and swing their leg over, all the while coasting. Once they've slowed down enough, they jump off and take a few running steps to keep up with the moving bike.

Two days ago, I found myself performing my first Chinese-style dismount.

This country is filled with a million bumps and thresholds and concrete barriers and flood control devices that are impassable on an old, run-down, cruiser with rather thin tires and no suspension. These obstructions require one to hit the brakes, put down a foot, swing a leg over the bike and then drag the bike over said obstacle. Well, pedaling back to my gated community, I was sick of the sudden stop; each barrier is an interruption to the flow of the ride. So I didn't stop. I stood up on the pedals, swung a leg over, and then jumped down, running after my bike.

Just like a real Chinese person.

*A fixie is a fixed-gear bike. Most memorable as the banana seat wonders where you pedaled backwards to brake from childhood, they are all the rage among hard-core cyclists who want to prove how awesomely strong and cool they are by pedaling up and down hills with only one gear.

If You Can Dodge a Wrench...

...You can dodge a ball.

Some of you know that I love to play school-yard games. Imagine my surprise a couple of weeks ago when I came across an ad in the local monthly's weekly email for a new dodgeball league. I practically jumped out of my seat in excitement. I did manage to stay sitting long enough to register, and then I jumped up and ran up and down the halls in glee. Well, maybe I just dashed into the other other offices to share my exciting find.

Monday was the first day of dodgeball. I haven't played in a couple of years, and I was never that good to begin with, but I was ready. I had a skirt on (I only ever exercise in skirts, although I typically wear pants to work — what does that say about my personality?) and was ready to go.

After finding the venue, I located my team and introduced myself. "Is it true that you are a dodgeball queen?" they asked. (I might have bragged about my dodgeball reputation from back in P-town where the registration form asked if I had any experience.) "Well, yes. I was. I helped found a league in Portland." I'm pretty sure that any cred that my statement won me was lost the first time my team saw me throw, but it lasted for a good 10 minutes.

So we played. The gym is pretty small, which usually led to mass bruising, but this league plays with foam balls. They don't hurt too much, but they're also really hard to throw. I have no arm strength and never really learned how to throw anyway (I blame my brother for neglecting that part of my education), so all I could hope for was my patented throw-the-ball-so-it-looks-like-it-will-be-easy-to-catch-but-really-it-will-fall-short-right-when-you-touch-it-so-you're-out-SUCKER throw to work on the newbies. (To be fair, my patented throw worked on some pretty good dodgeball players, even earning a man or two the moniker "my Bitch".) And it did work! But only once.

My team is pretty scrappy though, we took an early lead in some pretty quick games. The other team threw hard, but their aim was wild. They discovered the side-arm, but don't seem to really know how to use it well. The opposition pulled ahead at the end of the first half, but we took the lead again in the second half. At the end of the match, we were tied, so we played a "sudden death" tie-breaker. There was an obligatory CCTV the Ocho! comment, but it wasn't really sudden death. We just played one more game.

We lost.

It hurt. It always does.

And then in the morning, it hurt even more. Riding to school, I wondered why my legs were so sore... oh yeah, it was all the sprinting to the line for the ball. Writing on the chalkboard, I wondered why my arms were so sore... oh yeah, it was trying to whiff the ball at the big dude on the other team.

At least I didn't break any fingers.

This Is Where I Live

As some of you will recall, I returned to China about two and a half weeks ago after seven glorious weeks in the United States. I had a lovely time in the U.S., and I even went so far as to tell some of you that I was excited to get back to China and start work.

And then I woke up at 6am in Salt Lake City and had to fly back to Beijing. I had to wake up at 6am after having a splendiferous weekend at my best friend's wedding. As you might imagine, a wedding does not mean lots of water and an early evening. It means food and wine and a late night talking with old and new friends! So 6am came rather early.

It was so early, I left my (white) sweatshirt on my friend's (white) bedspread. My 8:30am flight to Portland was a little chilly. Things were not going well. My tummy was unhappy with me and I had more than a little trepidation about my upcoming journey. I had flights to catch and baggage to get through customs and a cab to get to take me to my apartment... And I was cutting it close. School started in 4 days — and I lost one of those days in transit.

I made it to Portland with no delays, checked my luggage for my international flight, and even had breakfast with two of my best friends. You'd think I'd be happy and relaxed, but no. I am not a relaxed traveler. Breakfast done, I got a ride back to the airport, where I purchased a bright purple fleece from the Columbia store to replace my forgotten sweatshirt. Although Beijing would be hot when I landed, the airplane air conditioning would kill me, and winter would be coming soon enough.

At the gate, I had 15 minutes until I boarded. I was right next to the Rogue Brewery. Would my stomach handle a beer? Could I pass up the Last Known Good Oregon Beer for the Next Ten Months? In a word: No. I had the Best Bitter. It was good. And then I boarded the plane.

I tell you, it wasn't any easier this year; it might have been worse since I knew exactly what I was leaving behind. I was leaving everything clean, safe, and sane behind me. I was leaving behind driving and riding on the right side of the road and walking on the left. I was leaving behind trash collection and recycling and fines for littering. I was leaving behind my loving family and my wonderful friends and all the strangers I could have actual, understandable conversations with. I was leaving cheese and beer made with hops and chocolate malt and apple-wood smoked, thick-cut bacon and sweet Italian sausage and beer brats and avocados and tacos and tortilla chips and did I mention the cheese? I was leaving behind giant bookstores and unfettered access to the Internet. So there I was, again, on a plane, trying to not think too much or I'd end up in tears. Alone. On a plane. For 10 hours. Over the Pacific. And a little bit of Alaska and Russia.

I think it was 22 hours after I woke up that I landed in Beijing (according to the clock, it was more than a day and a half). I was exhausted. I was starving. I was still two hours from home. There was the long walk and the wait for passport control and baggage. And then there was the taxi. It wasn't tough getting the taxi (because they all queue up and you just jump in a nearby, empty taxi), but we did have some difficulty with my address. Go figure, but he didn't know the Yuquan Lu. Or Fuxing Lu. Or Fuxingmen. I tried to call my Handler, but I *should* have picked up an extra phone card inside the terminal, because I had run out of credit over the summer. I was exhausted. I couldn't communicate. And I just wanted to get myself, my two 50-lb. bags, my little wheelie bag, and my backpack back to my apartment and sleep.

Finally, he figured out my horrible Chinese (without my Handler's help) and we were off. And it was hot. And it was humid. And the windows were rolled down, but there was a haze of "fog" in air. And it smelled. It smelled like garbage and sewage and industrial waste. And I had willingly returned.

But, there was nothing to be done about it, so the next morning I dragged myself out of bed, put on some decent clothes, and walked to work. I had to show my face and figure out what was going on.

And I was welcomed with open arms. I got a hug and a kiss from each of my Western colleagues. I got a good Chinese hug (with three back pats) from my Chinese colleagues. I got smiles and shouts of "Scotty!" when I walked into a room. And although I did go home and go to sleep that night, the next night I met up with my colleagues at the (newly-named) Twinkle Bar. And I sat in the hot, humid Beijing air and breathed in the fumes and laughed and joked and drank crap beer. I looked around the table and realized I was sitting with my good friends and having a great time.

I walked back up the street and curled up in my bed, with my wool mattress topper, and my dodgeball quilt, and the afghan my grandmother knit for me, and my feather pillow, and my teddy bear. As I drifted off to sleep I realized that Beijing might not be home the way that Maine is home, or Portland is home, or Durham is home, but right here, right now — this is where I live.

Letters to Nigel

*********************************WARNING***************************************
If you are of a parental nature, and do not wish to read tales of excessive drinking, read no further. You can chance it and read about halfway, but then turn off the computer. The locals won't take no for an answer when it comes to alcohol, so things have a tendency to get a little sloppy.
*********************************WARNING***************************************

For Mid-Autumn Festival, I went with C and her husband HC up to Zhangbei. It's about a three-hour drive north from Beijing on the Badaling Expressway, then a north turn at Zhangjiakou. The plan was to leave Beijing at 8:30am on Saturday and get there in time for lunch.

As we left town, we got a call from HC's Handler that the Badaling Expressway was backed up, so we would take some back roads. On that note, I went to sleep.

I started waking up about 2 1/2 hours later sure that things were not quite going according to plan. Last time I checked, three-point turns were not standard driving on the Badaling Expressway. I peeked out the window, and saw that we were at the end of some country lane, with a bunch of other cars. I ignored it and closed my eyes again. Half an hour later, as we were stopping and starting down the road, I opened my eyes again just in time to see that we had crossed the border in Hebei Province. Yeeeah.

I started paying more attention. We were on a two-lane road heading through some small Chinese village in a long line of (mostly) lorries. To the left were two lanes of lorries heading in the other direction. (Yep, three lanes on a two-lane road.) And then we stopped. And that's when C and I started to worry. All I could think of was the three-day back-up on the Badaling last year. I was going to end up spending the first day of school stuck in an SUV in a long line of lorries somewhere in Hebei Province. Great.

The driver was less fatalistic than C and I were, however. He (and the other cars stupid enough to be on the road), started weaving in and out of the lorries. The main tactic was to drive along the shoulder (soft, not hard) until there was space to cut into the access road/parking lot that lined the street. Once the parking lot ran out, the cars would either go back on the shoulder until the next break or drive across the entire road (in very rare spaces between the lorries) and drive along the parking lot on the OTHER side. Meanwhile, there were random Chinese dudes setting off giant strings of firecrackers. A couple of meters from where we were driving. Fun!

Somewhere around 12:30, C and I started taking stock of the food we had available. She had a loaf of bread, some cheese, and some butter for HC, as well as some biscuits (including proper shortbread bought in London as a gift), and some emergency chocolate. I had brought a selection of fruit (Teacher's Day!). We ate the chocolate first. Then we had bread and cheese and a pear. The driver had some water in the car. So we were set for food. What I refused to say out loud was that we'd run out of gas before we ran out of food. We passed by a few broken-down service stations, but none of them seemed to have working fuel pumps.

So we wended our way through the village. It took about an hour to make it through. (We finally remembered that C has an iPhone, so we could use Google Maps to at least see where we were. It wouldn't get us out of there, but at least we'd know where we were stranded. I think we were just east of where the G7 runs into the G6, but we weren't on either of those roads.) At one point, it took us some time to drive next to the line of lorries (our SUV being slightly wider than other sedans), so we lost the line of traffic ahead of us. After some shouting, a farmer pointed us off into the corn fields. So, we led a line of cars into the fields, only to turn around 20 minutes later, having decided the fields were a dead end. As we drove back towards town, there was a long line of cars heading into the fields and a farmer standing there laughing.

Somehow or other, we made it out of the village and onto the G6. There did appear to be a line of lorries stopped on the expressway, (on either the G6 or the G7, I'm not sure which road was which), but there was no traffic. I suspect that (because of the holiday?) the lorries were not permitted to drive on the expressway, but could take the back roads. What I'll never know is if we should have stayed on the Badaling the whole way... It was smooth sailing after that.

However, HC and his farmer colleagues had already killed a lamb and roasted it for lunch. C and I were not getting any Mongolian lamb, much to my extreme dismay. They had also managed to get HC ripping drunk. C and I were not impressed.

We arrived around 3:30. HC.'s colleagues took us out for hot pot that night (not quite the roast lamb I was hoping for) and proceeded to (try) to get my drunk. However, they' don't know how we kick it at the Yuquan Lu. We were each given a 6 oz. glass of baijiu filled to the brim, and they started toasting us. (I got to be "mei nu" all night long — beautiful woman.) That shit is nasty, and I was in serious need of a beer chaser, so after the third toast (and almost horking right there at the table), I grabbed a bottle of beer and drank it (they didn't want to let me drink beer instead of baijiu). However, once they saw I was going to two-fist it, I was given a glass for the pijiu, too.

Halfway through the meal, I decided I needed a boot and rally. (Boot=puke, rally=keep drinking) Puking is so much better when you decide to do it instead of having to do it. Did that twice during the meal, and managed to walk out of the restaurant having "drunk" 6oz. of baijiu and lord knows how much pijiu. Didn't even have a hang-over the next morning. 

We left at 10am on Monday morning, hoping we would have enough time to make it back before dark... It took the three hours it was supposed to take. Go figure.

Letters to Nigel

[Last Wednesday] we went to hear some traditional Chinese music. It was actually part of a much larger tour that included the Forbidden City, Temple of Heaven, and Qianmen, but something told me that a tour from 8am until 9pm was much too long. Although, after B. yelled at the tour guide who took us to the Great Wall and the Summer Palace (the school has been arranging some trips given the delayed start to the school year), I guess there was a new tour guide who was much less annoying. (I can tell a story with no point... but this woman made every single one of my drunken tales appear coherent and concise.) 

I asked D. if it was cool to just go to the concert, and she (amazing woman she is) made it happen.

D., Smashing, and I left from school to take the subway over, and Smashing was already haranguing D. about his working conditions and such like. D. looked rather uncomfortable. The un-air-conditioned ride on the subway calmed him down a bit.

We arrived and Smashing immediately started looking for beer. Fortunately, in your absence, I was able to direct him to the concession stand. We ordered 5 glasses of white wine (which in this venue turned out to be a bottle) and chugged them in the 15 minutes we had before the show (he had 3, I had 2), and then I stepped nervously into the theater.

It was NOT a repeat of the 12 Girls. I was confronted by a proper orchestra (smaller than a symphony, but good sized) and a proper conductor. They played actual music. It was really quite lovely. There were a few Western instruments (cello, bass, tympani), but it was mostly Chinese instruments (which I will name by their Western counterparts since I don't their Chinese names). There were the two-stringed violins, the mandolins, the banjos, some vibraphones, flutes, and some clarinet/trumpet looking things (I think they had reeds, making them woodwinds). There were also these crazy-looking horns that looked like portable pipe organs and I think sounded very French horn-like, so I'm calling them soprano, alto, tenor, and bass French horns.

We chugged a couple more glasses of wine during intermission (which was only 15 minutes long which is not long enough) and then had a very short second act. We all took the tour bus back to school. Fini.

I did wear a very nice hat and dress that I purchased over the summer. The girls who had spent all day on the tour (and thus had no ability to change) were rather jealous of my garb. What can I say? One must dress for the NCPA.

Letters to Nigel

Upon returning to school this year, we learned that a colleague had gotten rather sick over the summer and needed to take some time away to get healthy. Not wanting him to miss out on all the fun we have over here, I've been writing him some random updates of our shenanigans. For your reading enjoyment, I am reposting them here as a new series: Letters to Nigel*.

Hello from the Yuquan Lu.

Our Handler found a Groupon for the water park for 58 kuai, so he organized a trip. The only thing is that the tickets had to be used by the 15th. Since next weekend is a holiday (Moon Cake Day), we had to go this weekend.

We met at 9:30. By the time everyone showed up, it was 10, and we headed over to the park.

It was madness. Groupon is big, and we were not the only ones with the coupon.

Two hours later, we had our tickets and headed inside. (Smashing wandered off at one point and came back with 10 cans of beer, so at least we had some refreshment.)

We took a quick dip in the wave pool (along with 200 other Chinese swimmers), and then headed over to the slides. E., K. and L, and I went to the one with the 8 slides. Two hours later, we got to the slide. Along the way, we stopped a travesty. This gaggle of girls cut in ahead of us, claiming that they had left one person in line. We called bullshit (having been standing behind the guy with the plastic bag and the girl with the towel hanging out her butt — to protect her legs from the sun — for the previous hour and 45 minutes). The two ahead of us agreed, and waved us forward. We then waved forward the guys who had been behind us. The next thing we knew, a couple of employees of the park were there yelling at the girls and kicked them out of line! Score 1 for Western queuing. Not that it will do any good in the grand scheme of things...

At the top of the slide, I noticed that two of the slides were blocked off. Two months and already the place is falling apart. The smaller of the the vortex slides (the one Smashing got sent back down because he was by himself) was also closed.

We got some (crappy) food, and checked out the line for the big vortex slide... E. and I agreed we weren't waiting another two hours (plus) no matter how good the slide is.

We took another quick dip in the wave pool (A. and K. were definitely in with the crowd getting knocked over by the wave) and after almost thinking someone had stolen my flippy-floppies, E. and I took off.

I got home at 3:30, having gone down all of one slide.

It was still fun. The sun was shining and the air was relatively clear. It was definitely Chinese wacky. After 7 weeks in the States, there is no easy way to transition back to this madness. I spend a lot of time giggling to myself. 

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty).

I Owe You, Big Time

Ah, Gentle Readers. I'm sure you thought I had forgotten about you. Perhaps you worried that I had turned my back on my blog and would be gallivanting around the world without filling you in on the day-to-day details of all the places I poo. Well, fear not. I have not turned my back on you, I was just enjoying the wonders of the United States during the summer months.

I meant to write to tell you what being home was like, but I didn't. I will rectify that now with a list of What I Learned During My Summer Vacation.

1. American bathrooms are really awesome. Flushing toilet paper is a wonderful idea. Deodorizing air fresheners are better than sliced bread. Bleach and soap are your friends. Hand dryers that actually dry your hands in less than 15 minutes are super cool.

My first night back in town, I went out to a local brew pup, the HUB (go there, it's totally awesome.) I had a few pints and then (not surprisingly) went to the bathroom. Seated on the commode, I looked to the right: no trash can there. I looked to the left: no trash can there, either. Oh, wait! In the U.S., you can flush your paper! I almost did a happy dance right there in the stall.

2. Water, water everywhere, and every drop I drank. Drinking tap water is great! I drank the tap water everywhere, even if filtered water was available. Oh sure, sometimes I'd reach for the Brita, but oftentimes, I didn't. Why? Because I didn't have to. Tap water on demand. Now that is a concept.

3. When you spend 10 months not understanding the language and you suddenly find yourself surrounded by people who speak the same language, you start to hear voices. In China, if I hear someone speaking English, I probably know them. The same is not true in the U.S., although I kept on hearing my friends' and colleagues' voices in places like the airport.

4. You never forget how to drive. It's like riding a bike.

5. American stores have the best toiletries. The travel-size section is particularly alluring. I bought so much sunblock (in travel and non-travel sizes), soap, and lotions it's really not funny. But it was oh, so fun!

6. Clothes that fit are awesome.

7. I love my sewing machine.

8. My family and friends are great, too.

9. Allergies really suck and I really need Flonase to survive summer in the ol' U.S. of A.

10. Mexican food is delicious. It's impossible to have too much Mexican food. Or bacon. Or IPA. Or lobster. Or any food that tastes like what you think it will taste like.

Last Move (I Hope)

Welcome back to Blogger, Loyal Readers.

After my dalliance with other blog sites, I'm back to the old stand-by. Why? You wonder.

Well, I've used Blogger for years, so I'm familiar with it. Also, it lets me link to blogs from any blog site (unlike evil Type Pad), so I can keep tabs on all of you. And, it's part of the emerging Evil Empire that is Google. Since I've also got a Picasaweb account and a Google+ account, why not go for the integrated approach? If it works, yay! If not, we'll be porting this blog somewhere else that does. "Vote with your feet," my dad always said.

NB: I've had to change the Web address. Some of you desperately need to update your links from the old Live Journal account (!) to this. I'm still Traveling Jones, but without any of the vowels. trvlngjns.blogspot.com

It's good to be home.

Knock Knock

I was in the kitchen rolling some holiday nougets in powdered sugar, when I thought I heard a knock at the door. I wasn't expecting anyone, so I didn't immediately rush to the door. But there is was again. And again.

Note: my hands were covered in dough and melted powdered sugar, I was still in my pj's (hey! it's a vacation day), and my apartment looks like a tornado hit it.

My Partner-in-Crime has been having a problem with his downstairs neighbor. She has been complaining about his "tap-dancing" and his "skipping". Mind, she can only hear my Partner-in-Crime, not his girlfriend. Obviously, it's because he's foreign. 

So, I was worried that maybe I've been pissing people off between the TV and the bass.

But not at all. They asked to be invited in. They were carrying a large book. The little girl (the same one I met on the elevator before Christmas) gave me a paper crane with some New Year's sentiments on it. Here it comes, I thought. They are going to ask me about Jesus.

Silly me. No. It was a Chinese-English dictionary. They wanted to talk. The little girl wanted to meet me and practice her English. It is very good, although a little formal and formulaic. Not that I expect much out of and 8-year old. For 8, her English is superb. I wouldn't be surprised if she ended up in my school in five more years. 

I think they will come back to visit.

At least my cleaning lady comes tomorrow so I won't have to be so embarrassed about the mess. 

Dear L. L. Bean,

I know we've had our differences. I know we got into a tiff over the cycling shoes. I took a break from you; got some space and some clarity. And I know I shop at your competitors all the time -- Eastern Mountain Sports and REI and even Columbia. 

But when I need you, I mean really need you, you're there for me. 

Finding quality sporting goods in Beijing isn't easy. There are plenty of faux sporting goods and pseudo sporting goods. There are even sporting goods lite. Finding a good pair of Gortex boots is next to impossible.

And then I found out that you were in town.

Not only do you have one store in Beijing, you have many. You have a store that's only three subway stops away from where I live. I don't even have to go across town to get to you.

And you have proper hiking boots that fit my feet. My toes don't slip and my heals don't ride up. The soles are even Vibram. You also have backpacks. Solid, well-constructed backpacks. 

And I know that you will stand behind these products. If anything happens to them, I can take them back to you and you will fix them. No one in China does that. 

I promise not to leave them outside my tent at night. 

Perhaps more importantly, it's a little piece of Maine that I can keep with me.

Thank you, L.L. Bean.

Just a Little Off the Top

My hair has been getting longer and longer -- as it does -- and I have needed a haircut for quite some time. It's gotten so bad that I've used it for example sentences in class, especially during the "offering advice" lesson. "Ms. Scott should probably get a haircut," or, "If I were you, I'd get my hair cut."

The thing is, my hair is not the easiest to cut. It is super thick and I have finally found a style that I love. It took me years of talking to hair dressers in English before I finally managed to vocalize what I wanted out of a cut. The thought of doing that in Chinese was just too daunting. A couple of months ago, my Canadian even noticed that my hair was getting shaggy. He looked at me and realized his own hair was looking scraggy. He could just got a barber and tell them which size guard to use. Me? Not so much. 

Three weeks ago, I knew I was coming to decision time. It was falling in my face and annoying the crap out of me. And, it was long enough that I could put it into pigtails. Not great pigtails -- the back hair wasn't quite long enough to really stay in the elastics, but it did get the hair out of my face. So, I was either going to wear pigtails until I get back to Portland in July or I was going to have to get a haircut.

So I started doing some research. *The* place to go in Beijing is Tony & Guy. There is even an address for it in my taxi guide. Although another one of the women has (successfully) had two haircuts from normal hair places in this town, she has a simpler cut and easier hair. So. Tony & Guy it is.

Toni & Guy is well suited to a mobile population. When you walk in, you choose a hair dresser based on price. The more expensive the cut, the more experienced the hair dresser. And here's where I made my fatal mistake: I didn't spend enough money.

I was walked over to a chair, and something looked different. The counter was missing. The chair was pushed forward towards a mirror and there were counter "wings" on each side. 

A slim young man in trendy black came over and took my bag and my jacket. Another slim man dressed in trendy black came over along with the desk clerk (a slim woman also dressed in trendy black). I began explaining to the man what I wanted out of my haircut while the woman translated.

And then I made mistake number two: I mentioned the word "bob". Now, it's true that I do wear my hair in an A-line bob, but it's an A-line bob. That means the hair is much shorter in the back and it tapers down to much longer in the front. It didn't matter how many times, with words, hand gestures, and actual pointing to my hair, the man latched onto "bob" and wouldn't let go. 

But I didn't know that yet.

The woman strutted away. The young man came back with a key on a plastic stringy bracelet thingy. Another man came and put a white coat on me and walked me to the hair washing room. And then came what is always the best part of getting a haircut -- the head massage, er, the shampoo. 

We walk back to the chair. The slim man in black brought out a small case of tools (what?!? these are his only cutting utensils?!?! they use tool boxes in Portland) and opened it up. It was definitely awkward for him to find the scissors and combs that he needed at any given time.

It was nothing like anything I'd ever experienced. He went at my hair with tiny, mincing cuts. I hand't had my hair cut in 4 months -- and I told him that. But he didn't just cut my hair. He dabbed at it with the end of his scissors.

This blog is taking me forever to write. The haircut took forever, too. I knew I was in big trouble when he dried my hair halfway through. I thought he thought he was done -- no one ever tries to cut my hair dry. It's too frizzy and curly. When I mentioned I wanted it much shorter, he said he wasn't done. And then spent another 30 minutes cutting my hair dry.

It went really bad when he got the interpreter over again and we went over what I wanted. I want the sides short! I picked up a hunk of hair and told him to cut it. He looked scared and told me he didn't want to. He didn't think it would look good.

What?!?! Excuse me, but I believe this is MY hair. I want it cut.

We suffered through another 20 minutes in the chair. And then I told him it was great and I loved it. I was faking it. I just wanted it to end. I was tired. I was hungry. And I wanted him to stop touching my hair. He didn't quite believe me, but I was very convincing. He eventually let me leave.

With the worst haircut of my life. 

Next time, I'll pay more money. And bring photos.