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.