Suffering Succotash

Of all the Thanksgiving traditions I bring to my Brits in China, succotash is the one I don't really have a personal connection with. My mom never made it. I don't recall any Thanksgiving I've attended where it has made an appearance, but for some reason...

Maybe it's the name. It just sounds like the Native American names from home. Maybe it's that the Brits don't know it, so it's that much more fun to explain it to me. Maybe it's just that it's so American, and I do miss America. Maybe it's that I miss the South, too. Yes, the first Thanksgiving was in New England, but I've only ever eaten succotash at Elmo's Diner. God bless Elmo's.

The thing is, it's practically impossible to get lima beans in Beijing. I think I used cranberry beans the first year. Last year, I found lima-Bean-esque beans, but (like all vegetables in China) they were grown to obscene proportions. I don't want to eat a bean as big as my nose. It ruins the whole bean to cream ratio.

This year, I swore no succotash unless I found limas. And there were no limas to be had.

And then I saw them: canned butter beans. I had a momentary flashback to Harris Teeter in Chapel Hill. I was with my roommate and her family, and her mother was looking for (fresh) butter beans. I had some idea they were like green beans. Obviously, I had no idea what a butter bean was. No, I was told, they were more like lima beans.

So I bought them.

I Googled it tonight, just to make sure. Turns out, when you Google "butter beans" you get told they are "lima beans" (well, with only mild, minor differences). Yes, I cackled like a kitchen witch when I read that. My neighbors must think I'm dancing on the burned bones of a dead baby in my blood-spattered pentagram (which, I'll have you know I had to rely on auto-correct to spell correctly, just in case you think I really have a five-pointed star on my living room floor). But that's just how evil my laugh was.

I mean, come on. I just found lima beans in Beijing. I really am that awesome.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

Popsicle Toes

As you might know, since I harp on it every year, the heat is not turned on according to the weather, it's turned on according to the calendar. The date the heat comes on is November 15 and it goes off on March 15, regardless of actual outside conditions. Of course, I'm lucky enough to live north of the whatever river because of you live south of it, you don't get any heat at all. Also, since this is state-sponsored heat, it is landlord paid — by law.

But it's cold. I've been cold for a good two and a half weeks. I've been wearing wool socks for twenty-four hours a day (that's right Celess, I put the socks on in the morning and only take them off when I wake back up and hop in the shower). I get home and, in Mr. Rogers fashion, change out of my work clothes and into, not a zip-up cardigan, but a down puffy.

It's the awful dread of the icy grave that pains...

Well, this morning I woke up to my cold apartment, got dressed, ate, and headed out to school — only to discover that it was raining. Ugh.

I took a moment to deal with my frustration and considered my options. A taxi is possible, but would involve waiting outside for a taxi in the rain. A bus involves the same thing, and while the bus is cheap, it takes two buses to get to school and there's always the possibility of running into a train. A taxi has the same problem, of course. So biking is really the only way to go, even in the rain. It's just so much quicker, and I really had to go to school.

Fortunately, I remembered that I had (fortunately) brought my rain pants (rain trousers?) with me. So. I switched out my fur hat for a ball cap, unzipped. Y hood, and donned my rain trousers and headed out.

Fast forward to my return journey. It was later. Darker. Colder. And raining harder. I'm not scared of the rain having once spent ten days of the bicycle in the rain, but it's nicer when the apartment is warm in the other end. Still, I have a stellar hot water heater and plenty of dry clothes (and a supply of wool socks and a down puffy).

I walked in the door, stripped off my wet clothes, and headed to the shower — only to realize I forgot to bring my slippers with me. Standing on the cold, tile floor with bare feet is not fun. So, even though I had already removed my socks, I figured it would be better to get my slippers before getting warm in the shower.

I stepped out of the bathroom. Wait, this tile didn't feel so cold. Wait, my laminate floor didn't seem so cold, either. Hold on. Hold. On.

Is the heat on?

I scurried back to the bathroom (which has an old school radiator) to check said radiator. It was warm!

Yes. I have heat. I suspect I have the 18th National People's Congress to thank for keeping us all warm and sedated here in the capital.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

The British Are Coming!

So, all this "thankfulness" talk on Facebook has inspired me to write a "month" of posts about what I'm thankful for. (Or, to let me expound on my Facebook thankful posts because I like hearing myself think, one.)

So, for today's easy "I was going to write this anyway but really didn't have a good reason, and it's short, too" post, I give you:

The Top Five Things the British Are Good At (or: Why I'm Secretly Thankful I Spent Two Years Working with a Bunch of British Blokes)

5. Taking over the world
4. Cheese
3. Pop rock (as in rock 'n roll, not the candy)
2. Use of the word "piss"
1. Mystery novels


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

Chicken Wars

On Thursday, I was minding my own business in my classroom, marking papers before lunch. I heard a knock at my door, and I looked up to see the school counselor in my window. He's a nice man, and sometimes even has important information, so I quickly motioned him in.

I noticed he was carrying a plastic shopping bag. He carried it towards me as he said, "See what my wife found in her office." (His wife is the primary art teacher, so her office is also in the school.

As the bag came closer, I got more nervous. Something didn't seem right. It was. "Ah! Ew!" I jumped backed from peering in the bag in alarm.

"It's a.. a..."

"Yup," he countered. "It's a mummified chicken."

I was shocked. Flabbergasted. And more than a little disturbed by the sight I had seen. This was a proper Chinese chicken, so the head was still attached. It looked like a little chicken baby, all wrapped up (poorly) in bandages. It was at once so recognizable as something real, and yet it was so obviously dead. And if it had been in her office, it had been there since last year.

We chatted for a few more minutes, and then he said the chicken demanded some practical joking. Perhaps leaving the chicken in an unsuspecting colleague's office. That colleague would then have to pass the chicken along to another unsuspecting colleague. Having gotten used to (sort of) the presence of the chicken, I agreed that it was a wholesome plan.

Later that afternoon, I learned that he had indeed left the chicken with a colleague. Someone whom we both thought would be all about the joke, but we were mistaken. Not only did he not shriek like a little girl (having been at the school the previous year when the chickens were ceremoniously mummified and having been alerted to the presence of the remaining chicken earlier in the day by said school counselor), he didn't even pass the chicken along. Well, he passed it along to the trash can (or rubbish bin, if you prefer) instead of another teacher.

As I was leaving school, I saw him in the hallway with his head in the door of the administrator's office. "I can't believe you threw away the chicken," I whispered.

"What did you expect me to do?" he replied.

"Not throw it away. I am shocked and saddened you would do such a thing," I continued to whisper. I didn't want to interrupt (too much) his conversation with the Powers that Be.

"Who is that whispering in the hallway?" I heard from inside the office.

And that's when it all came out. That a mummified chicken had been found. That it had been given to him (without his knowing).

"What? The last chicken!" my administrator laughed. "I thought they had all be found. Well, where is it?" she was clearly getting a kick out of the chicken, as much as I had earlier in the day. "We should leave it in a new teacher's room since they won't know what it is." She reminisced for a moment about the disgust and stink that the chicken project creates. (It turns out that what I had slowly pieced together during the day was correct: the chicken was the remnant of a 7th grade social studies projects on Egyptian mummies.)

But, the chicken was gone. The trash was taken out. I coerced my Less Than Fun Colleague into asking the cleaning ladies if they had seen it. (He tried to get me to do it, but I can barely buy something in a shop, let alone ask a cleaning lady where a mummified chicken has gotten to.) We eventually worked out that the chicken had left the building. In a trash bag.

I went to get my bike and head home. Excitement notwithstanding, it was time. My path takes me by the trash heap, however. (It'd be a dumpster anywhere else, but here it's just a pile of trash bags on the ground.) My Less Than Fun Colleague came running after me. He knew where the chicken was! It was in the pile of trash bags! That were being loaded into the trash compactor truck. (Cue sad trombone.) My Less Than Fun Colleague stepped up to help me peer into a couple of trash bags, and even asked the men if they knew of it. Either they totally didn't understand him, didn't care, or had already been freaked out by the chicken themselves because they told us that it was already in the compactor.

And thus ends the life and death of the Last Mummified Chicken. (Until this year's class makes them?)

From Random Beijing

To be continued...

Xinjiang Photo Highlights

So, I have about five posts still on my iPad from Xinjiang, another couple I've been planning to write about other stuff, and some photos to share. To let you see the photos without having to wait for me to catch up (I also have a stack of marking a mile high to get through), I'm just going to let you flip through these on your own.

If you would like an explanation about anything that you see here, feel free to leave a comment and I'll narrate as best I can.

Xinjiang Highlights

Still Don't Have One of Those There

For those of you not playing along on Facebook who want to see how nasty the infection on my leg was.

That first picture is a year old, but it's not gross, so if you don't want to see the icky, don't go any further than looking at how cute my hair used to be and how awesome that necklace I got at the pearl market is.t

Pus

More History

We arrived in Kucha late last night, after an extended, but fairly pleasant ride on the train from Kashgar. Today, we get down to the real business of seeing the sights. First up is the "Grand Canyon", followed by the Cave of a Thousand Buddhas.

It is an hour and a half to the canyon, so along the way, we get the story of the area. It's happening as I type, and I am interested to see how it shapes up. Kucha is so small a town (only 500,000 people) that there is no English-speaking guide. As a result, our guide from Beijing will translate the Mandarin for us.

I have found many guides in China have marginal English, at best. As a result, their stories are rather unintelligible. Pronouns get mixed up, time loses all meaning, and antecedents become as lost as the original text of the tale itself. The communicative competence (as my ELL training says) of the guides is nil. I wonder, given the excellent, fluent English that our Beijing guide speaks, if the information will be more meaningful.

Kucha means "intersection" in Uyghur. My first impression is of a one stoplight town, and in many ways, it is. But while in America at means small and backwater, in this part of the globe it is a big deal. When everything is small and backwater, and has been since the beginning of recorded history (and probably longer than that), a stoplight is a big deal. This town was not just an oasis along the road, it was a place where two different roads crossed. That is a big deal and means big, important city.

It was also the seat of (the Chinese) government, so anyone passing along the Silk Road was required to stop and show their passport-like papers and get approval (or something). OK, some ideas are still lost in translation.

There are two big construction projects in China (and the way he rattled them off, it sounds like this is a well-known governmental policy): "Moving the water from the south to the north" and "moving the gas from the west to the east." Kucha is along the gas pipeline, so gas is its main energy supply.

Kucha is also (at some point in its long and storied history) the place of a City of Women. A traveler came to the area and found it inhabited entirely by women! Holy crap! Well, he was a bit mistaken, but it was definitely a matriarchal society where all the guarding and fighting and ruling were done by the woman while the men were kept quiet in the homes. What we are not told is any sort of context: who these people were, when they were, or what happened to their kingdom.

We are driving (slowly) along a wooded road. On either side are well-tended fields and orchards. Unique sheep, with black heads and white bodies, Dottie landscape. Monoculture has not seemed to have hit the region yet. Because Xinjiang has the longest season of sunlight, it is a huge agricultural area. Although rain water is scarce and it borders the second largest desert in the world, glacier-fed rivers bring life to many oases in the area. It is known for cotton (although the fabric you find in the markets is horrible polyester nastiness with skanky prints and largely overpriced — but I digress), melons, and apricots.

On one side are some large cooling towers. Some of the tour members ask our guide if it's a nuclear plant. No, he replied, it's an electricity plant. Uh... That didn't really answer the question. We let it lie.

Then suddenly, the agriculture gives way to industry. Out one window are factories belching out smoke, and out the other are huge piles of red against a grim, beige backdrop of sand. We can see that the red are divided into smaller piles, some even lain in neat, geometric lines reminiscent of those designs in Peru you can only see from space. Our guide tells us they are chilis, but they are not hot and wonders if we can guess what they are used for. (They are just lying out on the bare ground, so I hope it involves cleaning, whatever it is.) He quickly tells us we will never guess, because he himself was surprised: they are dried and ground and the pigment is used to make lipstick.

Another five minutes down the road, and the industry gives way to nothing. We are driving across what was once (thousands to millions of years ago) the bottom of the ocean. I can see the layers of sediment along with places where there has been uplift. The horizontal bands are no longer horizontal.

We then slow down to a stop. I see a police station on our left and a toll booth ahead. Our guide tells us to not take any pictures of the police and says, without emotion, that it's a security check. Having had one run-in with the authorities already, I put away both my camera and my iPad. But it comes to nothing. The policeman talks to the guide and we go on our way. I never even see the man's face.

The landscape has changed again. The land has grown more mountainous and has taken on a more bulbous look. The locals call it a ghost town because when the wind blows you can hear moaning coming from all the holes in the rocks. (I think our guide's translation of the local guide's Chinese is far better than a mediocre English-speaker's spiel.)

After a few more minutes, we pulled off the highway "to take pictures of the beautiful landscape". There has been many lovely places to stop along the way, but we stopped in front of a tunnel, a random sign, and a concrete-lined hole in the ground. We all agreed it was the ugliest place to stop, so we hammed it up with some Chinese poses.

Our guided wanted to make sure we knew that we were still an hour away from our destination. Poor thing. He was worried we thought this was it. Sarcasm in all its forms (including taking a billion goofy photos of the ugliest scenic point on the route) is so often lost on the Chinese.

Then TC3 and I took a detour to go to the bathroom. We figured we could find some sheltered spot behind a rise of land to pop a squat. Sure enough, I found a spot — the same spot many before me had found judging from the piles of tissue and smooshed poo. As I was choosing my particular location, I noticed TC3 was still standing roadside as a Chinese woman and her teenaged daughter were walking towards me.

Have I mentioned the Chinese have no sense of personal space? I knew they would keep coming and impinge upon my private moment, which they did. Mom grinned at me (as I squatted there with my ass hanging out), and I had little choice but to smile back while railing against her in my mind. I was here first, and I was going to pee and no Chinese woman would out me off. Nor would her daughter, standing there snapping photos of the landscape (which I can only pray do not end up on Weibo with the caption of how lily-white my big Western bum is).

TC3 finally decided enough was enough, and she too came over the rise. We joked about our two new friends as she continued a bit further up the trail in hopes of finding a bit more privacy.

We continue along our journey and are now driving across flat scrub desert. We pass an occasional dry riverbed. We are in the dry season now, so the rivers have all run dry, but during the rainy season from April to June, the rivers do flood. We are driving north/northeast and along the eastern edge is a mountain range with peaks of maybe 1000-1500 meters. But I'm guessing here. I'm not sure what the range is. If I could only get a wireless Internet connection, I could look it up on a map.

And then, it is more of the same.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Kucha, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China

Breakfast of Champions

There are a few things that are a perpetual drag on any Westerner visiting China: one is the toilets, the other is breakfast. (Yes, we have first world problems.)

Asian breakfast is nothing like Western breakfast, and I have met far more Westerners who are exasperated by it than love it. Coffee is often nonexistent. Bacon is hard to come by at the best of times; edible sausage is even harder. Eggs are not always to be found. Typically, breakfast looks a lot like lunch, with stir-fry, noodle dishes, and frosting-laden cake for desert. There is usually a thin porridge dish, but the toppings are bizarre, salted vegetable, fish, or meat pickles.

Years ago, however, I was schooled in the ways of eating well on a tight budget. It was during the Time of the Squirrel, and as state employees, neither of us had any money to spare, but we had a deep and abiding love of good food. Add to the mix the Squirrel's vegetarianism, and I learned how to adapt and adjust the offerings at various hotel buffets and fast-food locations.

There are a few simple tricks, the first (obviously) is to be prepared. Arm yourself with knowledge. Know what you are likely to find and then figure out how to fill in the gaps. Taking mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, or hot sauce packets can help transform a bland hotel sandwich into something edible (no sandwich is worth eating without mayo). A plastic baggie of chai-flavored tea bags and some sachets of sugar and creamer can make a delicious hot beverage at any campsite or at any convenience store: just add hit water!

Rule number two: Yes, you will need to become something of a packrat. Knowing that mayo and mustard would spice up your sandwich is no good I'd you have no packets of condiments on hand. Fast food joints are your friends in this regard.

Rule number 3: Don't be afraid to break the food down into its constituent parts. Feel free to combine items in ways that the "chef" did not intend. Put bananas on top of that waffle at the Days Inn breakfast. Why not slice and throw on some apples, too?

You might remember that a couple of years ago, for my birthday, I went to Qingdao with my friends. While it was nice and the brewery was cool, there were some issues, mainly about food. We stayed in a Chinese hotel that was far away from the Western part of town, so coffee was nonexistent. Breakfast was bizarre and the Starbucks and McDonald's were not within walking distance. Some us were very miserable, I was disappointed with our combined lack of preparation, and TC3 said she would never travel in China again.

Here is what I learned:
Starbucks Via is a godsend. Nescafé tastes like shit, but Via actually tastes like coffee. Say what you will about the Starbucks empire destroying locally-owned coffee shops, they make a good product and take care of their employees.
Salt and pepper are critical. It is nearly impossible to get them in a Chinese restaurant, even when you know how to say it in Chinese. Wo yao... I don't actually know how to say salt or pepper, but my friend A did.
Corn congee (porridge or "mush") tastes a lot like grits. Grits is a perfectly acceptable hot breakfast cereal, especially when salt and pepper are added. (You could go the sugar route, too, but milk will be harder to find.)

So, for this trip, I brought with me both Starbucks Via and my travel salt and pepper shaker.

Yesterday, at breakfast, there were a lot of grumpy faces. The breakfast offering at our "4 star" hotel was sadly lacking. There were no beverages, not even hot water. It was mostly nasty stir-fry and weird pickled things. Te tour members were trying, though, to put on a brave face and eat something.

I, however, was perfectly content in a "I can make do with this" sort of way. I had heated up hot water in the kettle in my room and made a cup of coffee which I brought down with me. There were a couple of boiled eggs left by the time I got there, so I snagged one of them. There were a couple of yo tiao (tough, savory doughnut-like sticks) pieces left and some sugar to sprinkle on top. And, there was a fresh chafing dish of corn mush.

Here's what you do: Boiled egg sprinkled with salt and pepper, "doughnut" with sugar, and corn mush also with salt and pepper. Coffee. Done.

This morning, breakfast was eschewed by everyone except TC3 and I (who I convinced to come along with me). We got there earlier (so the eggs were still warm and plentiful), as were the yo tiao (although they were cold). (Sadly, there was no cornmeal congee today, so I had one that was probably some sort of wheat. It's at once thinner than cream of wheat and with chunkier wheat bits. Still. It was warm cereal). We rounded it out with a couple of oranges that that TC3 had bought on our train ride into town.

Done. I don't have to whine, bitch, or complain. I just eat what I want treat, the way I want to eat it.

A first world solution to a first world problem.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Kucha, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China

We're Not in Kansas Anymore

Our flight from Beijing to Urumqi was largely without incident. We left on time and had a smooth flight across the country, most of which I slept through.

We landed to cloudy skies and drizzle, surprising considering Urumqi's claim to fame as the driest city in the world. It is farther from the ocean than any other city. And yet here it was, raining.

Because we are at the ends of the earth, we did not have a connecting flight from Beijing all the way to Kashgar (Kashi in Mandarin). Instead, we flew one airline to Urumqi and then had to collect our baggage and take another airline to Kashgar. This also involved a terminal transfer.

Switching terminals at an airport is not unheard of: usually there is some sort of train or tram or shuttle. But the Urumqi airport is not that big, so we walked out of terminal two and turned right, and then walked a few thousand feet up the sidewalk to terminal three.

As we neared the terminal our way was suddenly blocked by some cones. I looked up, and there was a long line of policemen dressed in S.W.A.T gear maintaining a lane perimeter in front of the terminal. And, lined up in two lines heading into the airport, were about fifty Muslim men dressed in blue and white robes and caps.

In the wake of September 11th, the Chinese government has declared and Muslim separatists, activists, or otherwise uncooperative-ists "terrorists" (of the international kind, of course).

And today is National Day, remember, in an "election" year. Tensions always run high around state holidays in this country.

We just kept walking. I pretended not to notice or care what was happening around me.

And across the far lane of traffic was a solitary Muslim woman in her head scarf, watching, silently.

(Later, we were told they were on a pilgrimage to Mecca. Going is a big deal, involving tens of thousands of kuai in deposits and long waits and all sorts of red tape to ensure no one is trying to emigrate — pr really just to dissuade any allegiance to the religion.)

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Urumqi, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China

Send Lawyers, Guns, and Money

It was a sunny morning in a small village outside of Kashgar. We were there to witness the animal market which is in a different location on different days.

The market was still setting up, so on TC3's suggestion, three of us walked across the street to see what else was there (and perhaps find a decent bathroom). About ready to head back towards the market, we started walking across an open driveway of sorts, taking a shortcut back to the main road (which we could see about a hundred feet in front of us). Suddenly, a policeman was at our side. He began to speak to us in Chinese (which I couldn't understand), but TC3 and the other woman were trying valiantly to understand. I did figure out, however, that we could not cross the courtyard.

OK. We'll go back around.

Oh no. We need to come with him. Into the police station courtyard. Oh, OK.

In China, there is a fine line between feigning ignorance and going about your business... And being uncooperative. You do not want to be uncooperative.

It was beginning to dawn on me that we were not in Beijing anymore. We were in Xinjiang where there is an uneasy truce between the Uighur nationalists, Muslim leaders, and the Party. And it was National Day break — when everyone's tensions run high (although ironically is the one time people have a holiday so things should be more relaxed and more understandable, but they are not).

At first, because he was waving a piece of paper, I thought maybe we just had to sign in.

But they were asking our nationalities (Canadian, American, and English). They took our passports and were rifling through them — looking for what, I'm not quite sure; I assure you all my documentation is in order.

More and more bored police were gathering around. We were in an immediate group of maybe 10 black-clad policemen with another 20 or or so hanging about the fringes.

People were being called on various cell phones. Questions were being asked and marginally answered (due to our fundamental inability to understand the questions). We tossed out whatever we knew how to say: I am a teacher; I live in Beijing. And they only have two out of our three passports. A few of the policemen speak rudimentary English, but no one seems to be bothered about really trying to get information from us.

Then they gave us our passports back. Cool. That must mean we were done, so we headed for the gate. (See the previous comment about the fine line.) But no, they followed us — but without a lot of emotion, hence our confusion about whether we could stay or go.

Besides the 30 men milling around, we were feeling unthreatened. It had the air of a grand misunderstanding (although I know things can change on a dime around here). We were (and had been) standing in a large open courtyard. There was a police building tucked along the western edge, a few trees scattered around, and an entrance gate along the east wall. We remained untouched and in the open air. No one raised their voice. But we were not allowed to leave.

At one point, TC3 heard someone say there were three Americans which besides being decidedly untrue (having been verified by our passports) is also decidedly more ominous (although I can't quite explain why). And poor Canadian TC3 does not like being called American.

So, we all milled about, waiting. One of them got a friend who spoke English on the phone and he told TC3 that it was illegal for foreigners to be in this particular village. We should go back to Kashgar, where we were allowed to be. (Of course, we would have been more than happy to do so, but that required allowing us to leave.) We would have to have our passports copied and would not be allowed back in the county. (To be fair, there is a rather slim chance I will ever return to that county.)

We had tried to phone our tour leader, but my British compatriot couldn't get the number to work (we later figured out she was just out of credit). I discovered that I had forgotten my phone in my hotel room. Things were not looking better. I would hesitate to say I was panicking, but I was getting less and less comfortable.

We had bought some of the delicious flat bread along our wander, and I was still slowly eating the piece I had in my hand. As we were herded back into the compound towards the police building, I stuffed the last of my bread into my mouth.

I have never found it so difficult to swallow. What had moments before been delicious, warm, and fragrant was suddenly harsh and dry. It stuck in my throat as I tried to summon up enough saliva to swallow it without choking. I have never wanted to call my Handler so much as then, but I didn't have my phone. I wanted him to call my former student's mother, who is high up in the Beijing police force, and have her call these yahoos and straighten this whole mess out. Not that I knew the name of the village I was in...

Then, a small woman showed up. She was dressed nicely, if not smartly, in black trousers and a jacket. She spoke rather good English, but she had a worried air about her, making the full story difficult to comprehend (TC3 sensed she was close to tears a few times). Whatever it was, our passports were being photocopied. She confirmed with us that we were with a tour and had transportation back to Kashgar.

It was then that I noticed that one of the black-clad men was taking our picture. It was not, however, a turn-to-the-right! sort of picture. He just appeared to be taking snapshots of us with his nice feminine, pink camera for his family Spring Festival sideshow, as they do in China. Still, I refused to give him the satisfaction of looking at him and smiling.

It was only later that My British friend said, with an air of resignation at our lost chance, that we should have taken out our cameras and posed with them. Alas. Perhaps it was for the best.

Once our passports had been duly photocopied, the small woman walked us out of the police courtyard. We told her we were more than happy to walk around, but she insisted that we walk across the square we had attempted to cut through.

As she escorted us, she made some small talk, apologizing for her poor English, as they do. I told her that her English was far better than my Chinese, as I do. She made sure to tell me that she was Uighur. Well then, she must speak at least three languages, which puts me to even further shame.

As we neared the street-side gate of our shortcut, we noticed a coterie of eight to ten men wearing camouflage flanking the gate. Well, had we seen that on the other side, we would have never attempted the shortcut.

It wasn't the police that were the problem, no. Oh no. We had inadvertently stumbled onto the grounds of the Party headquarters. She was likely a Party official, although I am resigned to the idea that I will never quite know.

As we neared the gate, she inquired where our bus was, and we indicated it was just down the street (and it was). She told us she thought we should leave this place, and sooner would be better.

I was certainly more than happy to comply with her request, but not before we took a turn though the animal market, gawked at some camels, cattle, and sheep, tried some freshly-squeezed pomegranate juice, and bought a (real) fleece hat.

We did tell our guide what had happened, and he brushed it aside. He said it was no big thing. Later, when our local guide was spotted and asked to register at the police station, he said it had nothing to do with our detention.

I'm not sure I believe him.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Shule County, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China

Chowderheads

As our bus neared the entrance to the "Diversifolious Poplar Forest, I noticed a disturbing trend along the highway: scores of Chinese tourists parked along the side of the road, posing for pictures. There were discrete piles of garbage, as well, indicating the location of previous picnickers.

The Chinese Gong Show had begun.

We pulled into the parking lot where we were told that we would walk for about an hour and the bus would meet us at the other side. We started off across the parking lot, where more tourists were posing with a big tree. (I love you this much! seemed to be the theme of the poses.) So after throwing down my own pose, we headed off into the woods.

TC3 was raring to go. Although our local guide made no indication that she was moving on and our Beijing guide was not in sight, she had walking on the mind.

You know my friend, the Pied Piper. The one who leads me down random roads in small towns and lands us in police custody. That one.

We took off after her, I with some trepidation. The way was difficult. Walking up the ash-covered slope of Mt. St. Helens is easier. This is not sand, neither is is dirt. It is dust. Dust like would cover my apartment if I left the window open all year. It seems to me it should be more trail-like, but the Pied Piper is undeterred.

Fortunately, a voice behind us calls out that we are going the wrong way. Well, I knew that, but it's good to have back-up. We head off in the direction the guide is going and it turns out we are just walking up the road. Ooh, fun.

Well, when life hands you a road, start walking. So there we were, a gaggle of Westerners walking down the road that all the Chinese were (wisely) driving down. We were having a great time, laughing and taking pictures. And there it was, we might not have been a gong show, but we were certainly the chowderheads.

After about ten minutes, I caught up to our group. It seems that we were going to wait for the bus to pick us up. There was no trail, there was just a road. And a somewhat boring road at that.

We walking back into the woods for a hundred yards and then heard that the bus was on its way, so we stood at the side of the road in a big group.

Soon, a car of tourists came by. Well, if we were all standing there, there must be something to see, so the car slowed to a stop. One of the snarkier tour members said we should all look in the same direction, and he pointed to one tree.

Of course, we all looked. I pointed too. He mentioned it looked like an ice cream cone; I said I saw a unicorn; a third said it was broccoli. The Chinese were hooked: the stood in front of the tree and posed for some photos.

Meanwhile, a few more cars ahead pulled over ahead of us and were checking out the surroundings.

Oh yes, we really are that bad.

Just then, our bus pulled up and we hopped on.

I have no idea if they knew they had just been punk'd by a group of Western chowderheads.


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Location:Diversifolious Poplar Forest, Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China

It's Bad

We had a saying in the Mazamas. Well not so much a saying as a micro-anecdote. Or an aphorism.

They tell you to stay hydrated, then rope you up together...

Going to the bathroom on the side of a mountain is always an exciting proposition. Sometimes, it's just that the view is breathtaking. Sometimes, it's the privilege of packing out whatever it is you usually leave behind. Sometimes, it's being on a rope team. Sometimes, it's the frustration of getting your trousers down (and back up) while not removing your harness. So, peeing the woods, and two years in China, has made me relatively immune to bad bathrooms.

And then there was the worst bathroom I've ever seen. Ever. In my life.

We visited some canyon in the morning. It was a rather bland walk along a state-park-esque trail with a gaggle of Chinese tourists. You were supposed to be able to see all sorts of pictures in the various rock faces: think the Old Man in the Mountain, but at every turn (seriously limiting the amazement factor). Regardless, we had a pretty good time being snarky. We got back on our bus and traveled back the way we came, probably for an hour and a half or so, and then we stopped for lunch. (We were on our way to see some Buddhist painted caves.)

We stopped at a roadside joint. Where's the bathroom? Over there. A hand vaguely waved across the street and down an alley.

A rather large contingent of us wandered in that general direction. We were heading into a large courtyard or even parking lot. On one side was a large group of Uighurs (probably) hanging out and dancing. It was pretty cool, but we were on a mission.

They spoke little English, but they waved us vaguely towards a shed at the far end of the enclosure. We went.

We found the bathroom, alright, but we sort of wished we hadn't. It was a cement bunker built over an incline. Underneath were piles of, well, waste. As I walked in, my "somebody else's problem" force field went into overdrive. I swear, I could have traveled across the universe on the energy I was putting into not paying attention to my surroundings.

But even I, skilled as a I am at ignoring things, couldn't help but notice some things.

One was the stench. There is no way to mask the smell of that much human feces. At all. Even the most accomplished mouth-breather was likely to inhale the sharp odor of shit from time to time.

Another was the complete filth. I know I've told you before about some of my problems with squat toilets. One of the biggest is my fundamental worry that I'm just not doing it right. That somehow, the reason why I suffer from overspray is that I'm not in the right position. I need to squat leaning more forward, or backward, or towards the front of the commode, or the back, or something else I just don't know because I didn't grow up using a squatter. Like language. My inability to hear the difference between a "q" and a "x", or reproduce them correctly while speaking.

Well, let's just say that aiming properly is not only my problem.

There was poo everywhere. I tried not to look. I kept my eyes ahead and focused on a point on the wall. I erased from my mind what that spot might be made of. But there was no hiding the piles and trickles of poo that hadn't quite made it through the three openings in the cement floor.

Yes, Gentle Reader, it was just a cement floor covered with shit and piss and a few holes. It did have waist-high walls between the holes.

I left the room, another woman in my group who was waiting outside asked, "How is it?" there was only one response, "It's bad." What else could I say?

As we headed back to the restaurant, unsure if using the bathroom was better than having to go pee all afternoon, we stopped to admire the dancing. The couple in our group joined in the dancing (and won mad props from the locals). They invited us to join them at the wedding.

Oh Gentle Reader, it was a wedding. I can't imagine having to use that bathroom on my wedding day.








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Location:Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, China

One-Eyed Doctor

For the past week, I've been going to see my good friend the surgeon every three or four days.

I begin our encounter with what I really feel, "It's not that I don't want to see you, but..."

He agreed it would be far nicer to meet me somewhere outside the hospital. I'll choose to ignore the implication that I am a difficult patient. But I agree it would be nicer to run into him on the street.

On Monday, he removed the bandage. Things has been getting ally itchy, so pulling the giant Band-Aid off the skin (with hair I haven't been able to groom since a) it's covered by a bandage and b) I haven't been allowed to shower) and the attendant pain actually felt almost good. At least it didn't make cry.

And then he started poking around, as he does. Does this hurt? No. This? No. This? No. (Are you seeing a patten here?) He even told me what he was doing. "Now, I'm going to wipe out the wound with some gauze. Tell me if it hurts."

"Have I ever not told you if it hurts?"

"OK? Tell me of it hurts?"

I think his English is great, but he didn't understand my negative sentence construction. I guess he doesn't get so much snark, even from his Western patients.

"Of course I will. I'll scream if it hurts. You know that."

"I like that you are so straight-forward. I don't have to worry about you."

Or something. I forget exactly what he said. (So I should take out the quotes.) But that was the upshot — I don't hide my feelings so he doesn't have to wonder about the pain. When your job includes making decisions based on the physical reactions of your patients, getting an accurate read on those reactions is rather important. (I could say this is the reason why I'm so free with my screams in the ER, but I don't think it is. I don't know, a doctor's office just seems like the one space I can express pain without embarrassment, so I take advantage of the situation. And more than one doctor has told me its OK to scream. And really, if you're going to make me hurt, I'll let you know. So maybe that is the reason. And, I've sad that vocal expressions actually help us deal with pain better.)

So he wraps his scissors in a gauze pad and wipes inside the abscess. I lie there, clutching the pillow I have moved from the other end of the table (because the wound is on my right leg and I have to lie on the table the wrong way so he has access to said abscess), waiting. I even had my face screwed up in a very Calvin (of Calvin and Hobbes) expression (at least it was in my mind) just waiting for the pain.

And it didn't hurt.

I'll repeat that: It didn't hurt!

So I go back again in a few days to have the dressing changed. He actually took a picture with his own phone to show me just how clean the edges of the wound were. You can see little dots of light and dark indicating that the abscess is knitting itself back together. And it's "clean". I give him him the English: there is no pus. Yes, there is no pus.

We agree to meet on Saturday. And on Saturday, I show up, but he is unavailable. I am disappointed, true. He said he'd text me if surgery came up, but these things happen with doctors. It's OK.

So I wait for the fill-in doctor, who is also Chinese. Sigh.

He walked in and I immediately realized that my impressions about Dr. Li had been entirely correct. This doctor, also a surgeon as far as I know, had that nervous, quiet energy that makes me uncomfortable. He didn't even have to say, "I think you might want to..." for me to not trust him. He pretty much didn't say anything. He didn't ask me any questions. He didn't tell me what he was doing. He flipped through my chart and then started to, well, hurt me.

He was so nervous, he did everything by tweezers, including peeling the tape off of my leg. (I swear Dr. Li pulls off every layer in one fell swoop — this "dude" took off the outer layer, then used alcohol to release the tape, then again, and again.) So when I gave a yelp of pain (because he's pinched my skin with said tweezers) he assumes it's because he's pulled hair (because it's been under a bandage for three weeks) and promises to go slow. Nooooo! Even when I tell him to just pull it off, he doesn't. The nurse even interprets for him, but he never learned how to pull off a Band-Aid: anchor the skin with one hand and pull quickly and firmly with the other.

How I miss my doctor.

It's amazing what three weeks of baring your thigh and bum to a man while screaming and crying in pain will do.

On my way home, I texted Dr. Li. I am going away from Monday to Saturday, but I could check in with him on either of those Sundays (when the surgery clinic is not open at all, so the nice nurses can't schedule an appointment for me). He wrote back that he waited for me at 8:30 as we agreed, but I didn't show.

And then he said his son had thrown a book at him so his eye was all red and tearing. (Yes B, as I said, he is married.) So he could not see me on Sunday, but I needed to see someone.

I would like to say that his story didn't make me laugh, but it did. How many text messages does one receive that end with "Typed with one eye," and are in mediocre English to begin with. And he's my doctor! Who's been making me cry for weeks! It was funny. I wasn't proud walking down the street laughing, but I did laugh. It was the "Typed with one eye" that got me.

Anyway. I replied back that I like sleep far too much to have agreed to an 8:30 appointment on the first day of a holiday; we had said 11:00. However, I had seen another nice man who changed my dressing (I almost told him that he wasn't as nice, but I wasn't sure he would get the joke in text), so we could meet in a week. (The nice nurse is far less able to arrange schedules around my schedule than Dr. Li is, so I would rather arrange with him directly. Not to mention these were the nurses that made me go to the ER to in the first place because they said no one was available until Tuesday — but the ER gave me Dr. Li.) He said it was his fault and apologized.

He returned the text that he would see me on Sunday, but we could arrange a time later in the week.

I agreed, and told him to take care of his eye.


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Location:Beijing, China

Sweet Dreams

Last night, I had a dream. In this dream, I was in China, but I was just moving in (or something — this past is a little hazy). Whatever it was, I was testing out new mattresses. I had friends with me, helping me test out my options. They had actually provided samples of what they slept on.

So much like Goldie Locks, I went down the row trying out the mattresses. One guy (I have no idea who) had a unique set-up. He had pillows for his head, but otherwise slept on the floor. I tried it out.

Ouch, was it uncomfortable. I have a distinct memory of his sleeping arrangement being completely uncomfortable. I told him how horrible it was. He denied and said it was great. I tried to move on to the next mattress, and maybe I did, but it was shortly after that that I woke up.

Oh.

That was my mattress I was sleeping on.


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Location:Beijing, China

Nearing the End

Today, having been given a whole day off from visiting my surgeon, I once again trekked across town (at the tail end of rush hour no less). I arrived late, but at least I was kind enough to let him know. Since he was in the ER, though, I think other people managed to keep him busy.

First off, he complimented my dress. Now, this evening was Parents' Night at school, so I was wearing one of my tailored dresses. And seeing as my surgeon is just the sort of highly-educated, Western-leaning, English-speaking professional Chinese parent that we target, getting a compliment was a particularly good thing. (On the flip side, it could just mean that I usually look like crap.)

Then, the bandage removal. Ooh, look how little pus is on the gauze. Granted, this was the outer gauze, not the inner gauze, but it was looking good. He also showed me the inner gauze, which did have more pus on it, but it was also a day and a half old.

Then, he looked in the wound and pronounced it clean. Surprisingly clean. (I must have a pretty good immune system, once it decides to start working.) So, we were moving on from the stent! But! He was going to have to wipe it out with Betadine. And that's when I saw wiping technique:

He takes forceps or a pair of scissors or some other pointy, metal object, wraps the end in gauze, and then dips that in the Betadine. Then, he runs this little tool along the inside of my abscess (yes, Gentle Reader, inside the hole in my leg). No wonder this part always hurts.

But then we were done! Three ladder strips to keep the edges together, some gauze, and then... Then! A waterproof Tegaderm sticky covering thing. Yes! I can shower again! (But it's not super waterproof, so I need to dry it immediately after showering and I am not allowed to take baths. I told him that I lived in China, of course I didn't have a bathtub. That got a laugh from him AND the nurse, and those ladies are nice but really don't have the language skills to keep up with my jokes.)

And then, he told me I didn't have to come back until Monday! Whoopee! Of course, I forget until after I left that I run out of antibiotics on Saturday and I don't know if he wants me to take more.

But from the way this thing has been itching all night, it's well on its way to healing. From intense pain to aggravating itch. Joy.

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Location:Beijing, China

Scrub-A-Dub-Dub

The major problem with not being able to take a shower (besides not being able to take a shower) is the "hair-washing problem".

In the States, if I couldn't take a shower, I could still stick my head under the tap in the tub. The tub was deep enough and while it might be uncomfortable, it could be done. Of course, I could also stick my head under the kitchen tap. There's a sprayer, so I could use that to get sour f the back of my head.

But here? No. No tub, and while I do have a kitchen sink, it's not that deep and it definitely does not have a sprayer.

On Sunday, while roaming around my apartment complex, I noticed there was a hair-dresser's. Around here, there is pretty much a small, neighborhood shop (or 12) for just about every service imaginable. I don't even have to go out on the main drag.

It took me a day to put two-and-two together, but I finally realized that my local hairdresser would probably be more than happy to wash my hair for me. Crap, women have probably been paying other people to wash their hair for centuries, especially when it was a lot harder to wash it yourself on a daily basis.

Yesterday, I went over after work. There was some slight confusion about whether I wanted a wash and a cut, or just a wash, but we worked it out. And then she washed my hair. Of course, being a good hairdresser, she followed the instructions on the bottle:

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

And, I got a nice head massage out of the deal. Although she did get a little forceful at the end... I probably could have done with a little less nail on the second washing.

I even got a blow dry out of the deal.

All for ¥15, or about $2.25. I might have to do that more often, just for the head massage.


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Location:Beijing, China

Walking Wounded

On Sunday, I headed back to the hospital for my dressing change. I sauntered into the ER (well, as well as you can saunter with a limp), and asked to see my good friend Dr. Li.

He came over and in we went along with one of the many kind nurses to a curtained room where I dropped my trousers so he could change the dressing.

But first, there was the poking. Does this hurt? No? How about this? No? This? Yes! This? Yes!! Which is worse, here or here? Ahhh! They both hurt, a lot! Then, he washed the area. Then he told me he was going to rinse it with an "antibiotic" and it might sting a little. A little? Ow! Ow! Ow!

He is sorry, but he has to. I know. And he has to remove the stent, too.
What?! He said "dressing", not "stent". Great, he's going to be pulling things out of my leg and putting them back in, and something tells me this is not going to be one of those Novocain visits.

Oh no, it is not. After "rinsing out" my abscess, he pulled out the stent. Oh, it's only five seconds. True, the sharp pain lasts five seconds, but the aftershocks remain. (I don't think he understood that analogy; his English is good, but he probably doesn't get much call for the geology vocabulary.) Remember, my wound is inflamed and very tender. It doesn't stop hurting just because you've stopped touching it.

After the removal, there is the reinsertion. Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen. It pinches, in a, "I'm once again tense and screaming into the pillow" sort of way. And then it's over.

He shows me the pus that's leaked into my gauze pads. Cool, huh? I get new gauze and more tape (still no showers for this injured girl) and sent on my way with the directive to return the next day.

However, when I mention that one of my colleagues really wanted to see what it looked like, he was more than willing to take a picture. I should have just told him! He'd be happy to photograph my misery in pus. Who wouldn't?
Monday was much the same, although I must admit that there was less pain. When he poked around the edge of the wound, I did not scream in agony, I just groaned a little. He also skipped the "antibiotic" wash. He did, however, trim some "dead" skin along the edge (or something). I say "dead" because it hurt like a mother and I wondered why he hated me so much. Yes, I said that. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Why do you hate me so much?!?"

He did make me admit that it was less painful than the prior day, but I reminded him that he didn't use the... Stuff there. Ah yes. I could see him struggling for the name of the stinging liquid. "Hydrogen peroxide," I said.

"What? How did I know what that was?"

"Uh, it's standard in every good first-aid kit."

"Oh no. This is a very strong liquid."

Really? Then what do Chinese mother pour over the scrapes of little Chinese children when they trip and and fall and skin their knees?

But it does make me wonder why I call hydrogen peroxide an antiseptic and not an antibiotic. I think I'm going to have to look that up.

But, having impressed him (yet again), I forced him to agree that my wound was the highlight of his day. He was about ready to deny it because he's spent the entire time telling me that my abscess is tiny, boring, and nowhere near traumatic enough to make a surgeon happy. He did realize I was being sarcastic just at the right minute and he had the wherewithal to agree with me.

Smart man.

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Location:Beijing, China

Lancing, Part Deux

Towards the end of last week, things were starting to get better. By Thursday night, I was pretty sure the redness was going down, and by Friday night, I was positive. But, there was still a nasty wound leaking pus down my leg and it still hurt (just less).

I was still taking my antibiotics, and while I had long since eschewed the iodine that was being thrust upon me (iodine is actually pretty damaging to tissue and I didn't want to overdo it, no matter how much the Chinese doctors loved it). However, I was on my last tablet and was quickly burning through my bandages (I had even moved on to scratchy Chinese plasters).
So, on Saturday, I went in search of a surgeon.

While I went out to get some more cash for my impending taxi ride, I decided to be smart. Instead of heading off willy-nilly for the hospital, I would call and make an appointment with a general practitioner. I probably should have done that on Tuesday, but when I called the hospital, they sent me to dermatology. She should have had enough sense to refer me to a surgeon. Sure, I'm a bit more informed than your average joe, and I'm not afraid to use my brain, but I do readily admit that I have not attended medical school and I haven't been working in the field for years. I do rely on my doctors to tell me when I'm in the wrong place.

So, off I went. My GP was a nice, American man of Middle Eastern extraction. He was a very quiet, unflappable man. He did not rise to any of my quips or jokes — even when I told him that he wasn't rising to my jokes.

However, he was with it. He agreed that I needed a surgeon. He also ordered an ultrasound. And he didn't blink when I told him I was worried about a yeast infection. He was even seconds from writing me a prescription for Diflucan before he did the responsible thing and checked the drug interactions and saw that it can interact with the Levofloxacin and cause electrical problems in the heart.

Because he had removed my nasty, pus-filled bandage to get a look at the wound, he asked the nurses to clean it off and put on a new dressing. And, just as quickly as they reached for the iodine, he told them to skip the iodine and just use saline and some clean gauze — exactly what I would have done if only I had the resources and ability to turn completely around to reach said wound.

So, I checked in with the GP nurses to call on finding a surgeon. Oh, no. There are no surgeons in the hospital at 3:30 on a Saturday. They can see me on... Tuesday.

Yeah, that's not going to work. I told the surgery nurse as much and she was adamant that there was no one. In a hospital (not a doctor's office, not a clinic, a fully-functioning hospital with an ER and everything). Well, here's how I could tell I was really feeling better. I thanked her, hung up, told the GP nurses they couldn't see me until Tuesday, so I would go to the ER after I had the ultrasound. They agreed.

So, I went over to ultrasound. A nice young nurse took me I to the room, and then a rather heavy-handed older nurse thrust the paddle onto my still-aching wound to take the pictures. She, for one, was not concerned with my yelps of pain or tears.

And then, I took myself to the ER after some nice young nurses button-holed me in the hallway to make sure I knew where I was going. It was the United Family hospitality I had heard so much about.

But I had also heard they were all about ordering more and more tests to make you spend more money. They'd keep you overnight if they could.
So, imagine my surprise when I head down to the ER and a very nice ER nurse tells me hat not only do they have a junior surgeon on staff and in the building, but she'll call over to Family Medicine and get them to call him so I won't get double-charged for seeing and ER doc. Finally. Someone really out to help me, not only with my health but also with my pocketbook.

Of course, things are spread out between three buildings, so I walk back to the surgery unit in Building 2 and sit in another waiting room. Finally, after six days, I am staring at a surgeon.

Of course, he's Chinese, and I've already been through the "different cultures" spiel, but from the start he just looks like a good man. His face is open and expressive. He listens to my whole story. He even had the good sense to note just how "straight-forward" I am when I told him I made the dermatologist lance the infection AND do a culture. I think he might have even been a little impressed that I had not only demanded a culture, but that I knew the danger of MRSA (thanks B!). He even laughed at my jokes and cracked a couple of his own.

Then the "surgery" begins. It starts with the Novocain. Painful as shit shots of Novocain. There are tears and some screams (although not as bad as on Tuesday). Just when I think things are going to be OK, he tells me that now they have to numb the other side. What the!? I could have sworn he'd been the whole way around, but no. And the needle is going deep because I have a massive hole in my leg. Well, I think it's massive at 1cm x 2cm x 2cm, but the surgeon seems to think it's child's play.

First is the sound of squishing. In my mind, he is sucking out the pus with a plastic syringe, but I can't see, so I'm not positive. And then there's some washing and some rinsing with what I suspect is hydrogen peroxide from the sting and the sound of effervescence. And it hurts. He trims some dead skin from around the edge, which doesn't hurt at all thanks to the Novocain. Then there's a scraper. Yes, a long metal something that he's using to maybe break down the hard wall that's between the abscess and the rest of the healthy tissue. And that hurts, a lot. More screams and tears, so he finally relents. Finally, he inserts a stent so the wound can drain and stay open. We don't want the skin to heal over the start and start the whole damn process over agin, now do we?

Finally, he covered it all with gauze and some plastic sticky stuff and then he taped over that. I got the distinct impression that he didn't want the dressing to come off. He also told me that I can't get it wet, so no showers. And, I get to come back to see him everyday so he can change the dressing. I am not allowed to do it myself.

Then, we make a plan to meet at the ER on Sunday around 2 for a dressing change, and he sends me on my way with a handshake and a smile.
I hobble back to my humble abode, where I take one of my Percocet, prop up my leg on a pillow (to take the pressure off the abscess), and watch some much-deserved television.

The Wire. HBO — my one true love — never lets me down.

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Location:Beijing, China

I've Never Seen One of Those There Before

I walked away from the dermatologist with ointments and creams and medicine: I refuse the IV antibiotics crap. I keep with my nice, easy, once-a-day Levofloxacin tablets. I use the weird, brown "soften the tissue" cream once, but it's too difficult to make sure I'm only getting around the wound and impossible to do at school. I change the dressing often — three or four times a day. The wound is, of course, weeping pus. Which is totally gross, especially when it leaks through the bandage and starts running down my leg in the middle of class, but it's far better than keeping it in my body. This is one of those rare moments when pus is a good thing.

Many years ago, I was a waitress in a wonderful establishment, Elmo's Diner. It's a small, locally-owned chain (of two) diners that specialize in all-day breakfast and square meals with an emphasis on a regular clientele. As a server, I was encouraged to make a personal connection with my tables (within reason); the personal touch is part of what makes Elmo's great. I contend it's where I really learned how to flirt. Not nasty, dirty flirting, but building a positive connection with a stranger based on light jokes and a charming smile. (You have to tell me if I was a good student.)

It's been years (7? 8? 10?) since I've worked there, but it's still the first restaurant I visit whenever I'm in Durham (when I was there two summer ago, I ate at Elmo's at least once every day). And there are still some customers that I remember: Pet Fashion Woman and Her Husband, the Man Who Ordered the Big Salad, the Mother Who Said Her Asshole Son Respected Me. And then there was the Man with the Injured Knee.

As I walked up to his table, I heard, "Go on. Ask her."

"No way. I can't."

"Ask me what?"

It turns out, he had injured his knee and there was all this pus. He was emailing his friend to tell her about it. Her reply was, "I've never seen one of those there before." So, how do you spell that adjective that describes something covered with pus?

I thought it needed a dash. Pus-ie. Or maybe even pus-y. But definitely not pusie or pusy, and certainly not pussy. Nope. Not at all.

I have since decided it just can't be written. They all look funny and none of them sound like you'd say it. So, while I have been disgusting my colleagues with tales of pus in the adjective form, I won't tell you about it in that way.

No, for you, Gentle Reader, I will talk about the pus weeping from my wound, or leaking out of the cyst, or dripping down my leg. But I guarantee, for all the drama caused by my infection, I don't have one of those there.



P.S. One of my colleagues is totally enamored with my Tales of Pus. He's a middle school teacher (big surprise there), and a dude (another surprise) of the sporting kind (and again, surprise). He told me guys used to get infections all the time during football because they wouldn't wash their pads for weeks on end. He has been begging me to take pictures of the thing, and really wants video footage of the lancing. His wife is far less interested, but it's nice to have someone to listen attentively to my grossness. (That I love telling the tales is probably an indication of why I get along with guys so well.)

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Location:Beijing, China

The Lancing

By Tuesday morning, I realized that my stoicism was getting me nowhere.

I was in in absolute agony. Even talking about the lump on my leg was enough to bring tears to my eyes — and yet I had to talk about it. Like the pus in my leg itself, I needed to get it out of me or it would just fester. I disgusted some more of my colleagues before classes started and then stumbled my way through a homeroom, an 80-minute class, and a 50-minute assembly. Halfway through the assembly, I realized that even though I wasn't sitting down and putting pressure on the lump, the mere act of standing was causing me pain. I was distracted and found it impossible to focus, constantly shifting my feet and clenching my jaw.

Enough was the proverbial enough.

I sent an email to my administrator telling her what was up. I had developed a nasty infection, for two days I had been in excruciating pain (I believe I described myself as "a hair's breadth from tears"), and I needed to see a doctor. I had one afternoon class, and I would happily leave a sub plan, but I needed to go.

So go I did. I made an appointment with a dermatologist at what is the "best" hospital in Beijing. (By "best", I mean "most expensive". It is true that it is a bastion of Western medicine and English-speaking doctors, but it's not the only one in town. But it happens to have direct billing with my insurance company, so I was sold.)

Of course, the dermatologist was Chinese. As I explained my issue, I started crying. What can I say? I was at an 8 on the pain scale. (I think my 10 is after the bone graft in my chin. It hurt. A lot.) She freaked out. Oh no! There was a whitewoman crying in her office! She told me to stop crying. It didn't help. This was not "Don't cry over a silly boy" or "You can get a new pet goldfish." These were response-to-stimulus tears.

I told her I needed the thing lanced and I wanted it cultured to see if it was MRSA. Oh, but it takes 5-7 days for a culture! So... all the more reason I needed it done NOW. And, but, maybe only the central part is soft enough for a lancing. Maybe she can't get it all.

Lady. Do you see these tears? I don't give a flying rat's ass how much of the pus you can get out as long as you get some of it out and relieve the goddamned pressure!

OK, OK. She can do that. But she thinks that maybe my antibiotic pills aren't enough and I need IV antibiotics. What. Ever. Lance the bitch on my leg.

Obviously, part of the problem is cultural. Chinese medicine of the Western sort is madly in love with IVs. Why take five days of pills when you can take three days of an IV? Well, that might be true if you really don't have to be at your job in order to get paid. Maybe it's true if you want to relieve the monotony of your life by spending 1-2 hours in the clinic for each drip (at twice a day, that 2-4 hours of my life a day). And maybe it's true if it doesn't take at least two tries to get a line in. But it's not true if there are other things you'd rather do: teach, grocery shop, eat, sleep, maybe spend a few minutes on Facebook. It's further not true of you don't relish looking like a junkie. But I think the other part of the problem is just in the language. When Chinese speakers learn English, they end up doing a lot of direct translation. The problems is, politeness is Chinese comes across as indecision in English. They do not say, "Please do this." They say, "I think you should maybe do this." Which makes me say, "No, I think not."

Anyway, she does say that yes, she will give me a lancing, she just felt the need to harangue me about the IV medicine first (no she didn't actually say that second part, I figured it out). So we went into the treatment room (each room has a separate purpose instead of each patient getting their own multi-purpose room).

As I was removing my trousers and climbing onto the table, she felt the need to tell me that I should avoid fatty and spicy foods. Really, woman? You're pulling out TCM (traditional Chinese medicine) now? Not helpful. We are long past the time when TCM will help. So shut up and get out your scalpel.

Then, she gets what I can only imagine is a needle of Novocain (I imagine because I am lying on my stomach with my face buried in a pillow). She says she'll go slowly, but holy crap, it hurts like nothing else and I burst out into tears. Full-on, body-wracking sobs. So I get another round of "don't cries" which are just as useless (and thus, annoying). No one thinks to hand me a tissue, so I take a small amount of pleasure in wiping my snotty nose on their linens. Yes, they're covered with the waffle-weave throw-away sheets, but I know some of it has leaked through and they're going to have to send it all to the laundry.

And then she removes the needles and pokes me in a slightly different spot — with just as much pain. She seems surprised by my reaction, like it shouldn't hurt anymore. I know the Chinese think all Westerners are delicate flowers, but I think she seriously underestimated the level of my pain.

Finally, it seemed to not hurt quite as much anymore, although the tissue around the lump was so inflamed and angry, no amount of Novocain was going to dull the entire area. I assume she made some sort of cut, and then she started squeezing.

I had been half-joking when I likened it to squeezing a really big zit, but it turns out that's exactly what it's like. Exactly.

Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze. "Oh, but I am only getting clear fluid." I had no idea what that meant, and I was still wracked with sobs, so I said nothing. Then she said it again. I asked what that meant. Well, it meant that she wasn't getting the pus out since the cyst was too deep.

You know, she didn't want to cut too deeply so she wouldn't leave a scar. I told her I didn't care about a scar; she could cut as deeply as she needed to. Oh, well, actually, now that I mentioned it, she really wasn't equipped (or skilled enough?) to cut as deeply as she needed to.

Oh.

The next time, she thinks maybe I could go to a surgeon.

This is a testament to just how badly I was feeling, because while the thought, "Then why didn't you just send me to a surgeon? We're in a stinking hospital!" flitted through the back of my mind, I said nothing. I just kept crying I still have no idea if it was pride or idiocy that kept her from sending me to a surgeon in the first place. (But I think it would have saved me a few days of healing if she would have just 'fessed up at the beginning and sent me to a surgeon. It still rankles.)

But, back to the pus-letting. If the pus doesn't come out, then there won't be any relief for my pain. And I cannot continue the way I've been. So she keeps squeezing, and I guess something happens. She hits a vein, so to speak. The pus starts to come out. Maybe there is an additional incision or the pus sorta found its way out on its own (as sometimes happens with zits, too). But now we're in it to win it, so there's more squeezing going on.

And it goes on, and on, and on.

Remember, the area all around the actual infection is red and inflamed and sore. And that part didn't get any Novocain. So, there's still a whole lotta pain. The tears are subsiding, but I am still rather tense. It's becoming more manageable, however; either she is actually relieving some of the pressure in there or I'm just becoming numb. I do want her to stop, though, and she's not stopping. I think she needs to get all the pus out because you really don't want it hanging out in the body to become more infected, but this is ridiculous. Now I'm really annoyed that she didn't just send me to a surgeon in the first place.

Finally, she stops. They put on a Band-Aid (I think it might actually be brand name). She gives me a baggie full of these little iodine cotton swabs that will release the iodine into the tip when cut as well as some Tegaderm dressings. (I highly doubt they will be free.) she also gives me a prescription for some bacitracin ointment (I could get it locally for a lot cheaper, but that would involve finding a place that sells it and language barriers and and and — CVS and Walgreens or anything similar don't exist.) I also get some ointment that is supposed to soften up the hard tissue around the cyst so it can get lanced. But! I should put that around the wound, not on it. And change the dressing three times a day, swabbing it with iodine each time.

And away I go. I go up one floor to pay, where I see there is a surgery unit. Seriously? One floor up and she couldn't send me upstairs? God. Mother. Fucking. Damn. But I pay my 20% co-pay (¥500 or $75) and grab a cab home.

As we turn the corner, I see one of the Western grocery stores. Well... Crap. I could've bought some cheese. Oh well. Next time.

I head home and get in around 3:15. I take one of my Percocet. (Dermatologist woman didn't even offer pain meds; I knew there would be severe pain after the procedure, I'm not sure why she didn't figure that out.) I send an email to my administrator and department chair that I'm feeling a little better and plan on being at work the next day, and crash.

I sleep until about 7:00. Then I fumble around making some food (mashed potatoes, the ultimate of comfort food) and am back in bed, turning out the light at 9. I sleep all night long.

Being infected takes a lot out of girl.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

Oh, Dear Lord, Not a Chinese Hospital

WARNING: This post discusses some icky medical procedures (but nothing to do with lady bits). Proceed with caution if you are a squeamer (one who tends towards being squeamish).

A few days ago I noticed some redness and swelling on my leg. Like a bug bite gone haywire. Or a zit, but one you can't pop. Oh, well. It will go away. Right?

No. It won't. In fact, it will get bigger and redder and be on the back of my leg where a) I can't really see just how bad it's gotten and b) it gets in the way of, oh, sitting.

After a few days of hemming and hawing (no one wants to travel an hour and spend a thousand+ kuai to see a doctor — but it's the weekend and I don't speak Chinese, knocking a lot of local Chinese hospitals out of the running), I decide it's time to suck it up and go to the ex-pat clinic.

Had I only done it three days sooner...

So, I now have a full-fledged skin infection. Whee! And there's this big, nasty, warm lump that hurts because it's all swollen and stuff. My thighs might be a bit on the thunder side, but the skin isn't supposed to stretch that far.

The nice British doctor gives me a prescription for antibiotics and tells me of the swelling doesn't go down in a couple of days, then I should go to the ER and have the thing lanced. (Like popping a REALLY big zit.)

The MD told me I could take paracetamol (acetaminophen) for the pain. I've found Brits tend to use paracetamol loosely — ibuprofen, paracetamol, tomato, tomahto. I have ibuprofen. We're good.

Off I go. I take my antibiotics and go to work this morning. And it hurts. Dear sweet baby Jesus, does it ever hurt. And I've read the drug facts: talk to your doctor before combining with an SAID (i.e., ibuprofen). Me and Google discover that the SAIDs have been known to react with the same class of drugs as the antibiotic I'm on and cause seizures (although not ibuprofen with this antibiotic specifically, and certainly not in all patients, but still). So no pain meds for this stalwart woman. I have a meeting a lunch so I don't even try to find paracetamol at lunch. (I am beginning to see all my mistakes... Are you?) By the end of a day of teaching, it's all I can do to not burst into tears.

I talk to a colleague, print put my forms, and decide I can't take it anymore. I'm taking myself to an ER to get this mother-f%*%#¥£%# lanced.

I go home. Drop off my bike. Pick up my insurance card. Do, in fact, burst into tears when the first two phone numbers I find don't work; one does not head off into the greater Beijing unknown with pre-planning. Head across town to the "International" (but still Chinese) hospital. And then...

I will say, the nurses and the doctor have pretty good English. Certainly far better than my Chinese (but that's not hard considering the state of my Chinese). Doctor says, "Oh yeah, that's bad, but I can't lance it yet." she says this while I have burst into tears from a day of pent-up pain. I guess because it's still a hard mass, all the icky won't come out, so you have to wait until it gets all soft and gooshy.

But maybe I have diabetes! Go have blood drawn and we'll check your blood sugar. Since I haven't eaten since lunch, it's pretty much fasting blood sugar which is what you want. Yay for me. And we'll count your "red" blood cells (Chinese have a hard time distinguishing between the words "red" and "white" as anyone who has tried to order a glass of red wine in a Chinese restaurant (in China) knows.

Well, my blood sugar is all nice and low where we want it (yay for me) and after half an hour we learn that I have an elevated white blood cell count. Well, duh. We know I have an infection, right? You've seen the massive lump on my leg! Right?

So, the doctor swabs me down with some iodine (and actually gives me the rest of the almost-empty bottle — try to get that in a U.S. hospital) and tells me it will soak into my skin as it dries. OK, cool beans.

But, the antibiotics I'm on aren't enough! You need IV antibiotics! Throw out those others and come back twice a day for three days!

Um. Exsqueeze me?

That is NOT going to happen. It took me about an hour/hour and a half to get here. And I have one of those J-O-Bs, you know?

Oh, we'll, she can give me a "certificate" (prescription) to take to my local hospital. But (sorry, girly bits being discussed) she can't give me a prescription for Diflucan in case I end up with a yeast infection after she doses me with all these antibiotics. Any normal person (OK, I added the normal, but it was implied) will not get a yeast infection from six measly doses of IV antibiotics. Lady, I don't know how they do in your country, but where I come from, the IV antibiotics are the big guns. They're the "You have a heart murmur and we're petrified you'll sue for malpractice if you end up with a heart infection after we slice your mouth open so we're going to kill every bit of bacteria in your body once and for all (even the good bacteria)." That was the first time I got a yeast infection, and I've gotten one with IV antibiotics ever since. So maybe my flora aren't as strong as they should be... they've been killed before. She was adamant, and I told her I hoped I didn't have to come back in three days and tell her, "I told you so." Yes, I actually said that.

Did I mention I hadn't had dinner yet? We're at about 8pm at this point.

At this point, there doesn't seem to be much I can do. Can you tell the doctor, "Bu yao"? If you can, you should probably be a lot healthier, more well-fed, and in less pain than I am. Do I tell her I don't want her stinking antibiotics. Does she know something my other doctor doesn't? Can I eat now?!?

So I go back down the hall to give a piece of paper to the nurse who sends me back to the cashier's window (where I've been two or three times before, although the only money I forked over was ¥5 for my ID card (with RFID chip)).

And this is when the next reality sinks in. They mean IV antibiotics, not just a shot in the arm. Not only does this take time, but I have horrible veins. Not as bad as some, but bad enough that I doubt I could ever be an IV drug user (if I were so inclined). Typically, the nurses need to get the doctor to start an IV after they've left track marks ups and down my arms. Even then, the doctors sometimes need two tries in my hands (of all painful places). And she wants me to do this six times?!?

But, I go to the pharmacy (limping all the way) where I am handed six baggies of IV drip (even though I'm only having one dose in this hospital). I go back to the nurses' station where I am led into a room (that at least has curtains and is currently empty). She wanders off to get the IV cart and I am left to peruse my medicine. I have my (free?) bottle of iodine, the aforementioned IV saline bags plus 10 bottles of something else that go in the IV bag (but are not the medicine as far as I can tell), some antibiotic ointment (to rub on said cyst after I let the iodine dry — four times a day, and some pain reliever.

Hmm. What's in the pain reliever? All the writing is in Chinese. I can find someone to translate it tomorrow, but why not see if the blister pack tells me something... No. Sometimes the paper insert has English. Ah, yes, here it is. Acetaminophen (good... no seizures) and oxycodone.

Wait. Back up.

She won't write me a prescription for Diflucan (flucanazole) because it's dangerous and I guess the ONE TABLET dosage is too much to trust me with. However, she will calmly (and without encouragement on my part) hand over TEN tablets of a schedule ii controlled substance that is addictive and a morphine derivative. I would have been happy with plain old paracetamol that I didn't have to go anywhere else to buy.

Granted, I was in tears in her office because my leg hurt so much. Do not underestimate the power of a white woman in (obviously legitimate) tears.

Then the nurse came in. I told her she probably wanted my right hand (I don't think anyone has been successful getting an IV in my left hand and rarely (if ever) in my arms). So she takes my left hand and sticks me fairly painlessly. She rooches around with the needle for a second and then turns on the tap, whereupon a bubble starts to form under the skin because she really wasn't in my vein. There goes the "Best IV Insertion" award for her.

Now she heads for my right hand, slaps me around a little, and tries again. This time it hurts more, but she finds the vein. (I decided to skip the "I told you so" with her because she seemed genuinely sorry that she messed up the first time.) Drip, drip, drip, and I am left to sit for 30 minutes.

I return to this very blog post you are now reading (or maybe gave up on half an hour ago). While typing, this is what I figured out.

I went to the emergency room because pain was so bad I couldn't wait the 2-3 days my first doctor told me to wait. Upon seeing the amount of pain I was in, the second doctor informed me that it was still too soon to lance my cyst and embarked on a whole slew of new tests (all of which involved me hobbling back and forth from room to room and sitting on chairs and increasing my pain level). After discovering I did still have the infection I only began treatment for yesterday, she changed my treatment to one that would be far, far more intrusive to my life. Then she gave me serious pain medicine. All of which took me two and a half hours (or so) in the hospital plus the hour and a half to arrive at said hospital. And without dinner.

She could have (go with me here) told me it was too soon to lance, given me the pain meds, and told me to continue the treatment I already had (which is not so radically different from hers — antibiotics or antibiotics), and come back in 2-3 days if it has gotten worse or squishy enough to lance. That would have been maybe an hour (even with the blood test to see if I developed this cyst because of diabetes).

I mean, I'm not a doctor, but...

When they finally told me I could go, they told me I didn't have to pay. (Wha-what?) Maybe they have direct-billing with my insurance company? (And I will say it was only about ¥450 compared to ¥1600 at the ex-pat place... which is a bargain unless you value your time.) My form wasn't even completely filled out because I don't know my bank's sort code and I have no idea what name they used because the school set it up for me. I could be Scott C or C Scott or Socff Crlinoline for all I know. But, actually, I owe them my 20% co-pay, not the other way around, so if then never find me...

And then, at 9:15 (after limping around the block because the south gate was closed), I found my way to the Restaurant Formerly Known as Outback (Seriously, Outback closed and someone bought the whole thing; the Bloomin' Onion is now a "Burst Onion" and the side salad is no longer part of an entrée, but it is otherwise exactly the same.) It was (fortunately for everyone involved, but mostly me) still serving food.

After dinner, I only had to wait about 10 minutes for a cabbie who wasn't a thieving asshole (but that's another post for another day), and at about 10:30, I was returned to my humble abode. I still have a bubble of liquid under the skin in my left hand, and my leg does still hurt, but I've taken one of my Percocet, and I no longer care quite so much.

And tomorrow is another day.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

<3

I've been emailing some of my students from last year who have various questions and concerns about school, mostly about applying to college. I got this in response to one I sent to a girl asking for feedback on her personal statement:

Dear Scotty,
Yes, Mr. **** is really nice, but, I'm sure yuo are better.^_^
MUA,
...

Some days, this job sucks ass. And then some days, it totally rocks. Here's to the moments that rock.

- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

I Went to China...

... because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

That, of course, is what Henry David Thoreau famously said in Walden, except he went to the woods while I'm the one who went to China.

This summer, during my glorious three and a half weeks in America, I realized that none of you believed me when I said I was going to live abroad for ten (or more) years. And yet, here I am, back in Beijing. And I have no intention of working in the U.S. anytime soon.

I also realized that I'd never done a very good job of explaining my reasons to you... I tried three years ago, and obviously failed. And I actually started writing this post right after I returned three weeks ago, but still couldn't quite explain it.

And then today, while prepping for a lesson, I stumbled across Thoreau's quote. I've seen it before of course; we all have. I've even been known to quote it to myself or others on occasion. (Although I must admit I've never made it through the whole book, and I've tried more than once, both as a teen and an adult. He's just. So. Wordy. And dry.) But there are moments when the man can make his pen sing. This quote is one of those moments.

Thoreau continues is much the same vein, and this much-quoted passage ends with this:

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

I'm not sure there is any better description for life in China, although I must admit that my Western, whitewoman, privileged, prima donna ways keep me from really living as most Chinese do. Somethings I choose, somethings are thrust upon me by my well-meaning, kind hosts, but I have a much more robust understanding of what is truly essential in life now than I did three years ago.

I must think about my moves and decisions. I must learn to communicate, and learn what is essential for communication. I am learning patience and understanding and graciousness. My life is full of tiny frustrations that turn into monumental nightmares and tiny victories that turn into life-affirming epic poems.

And sometimes, life in China is mean and I (quite literally) publish that to the world. But often, life in China is truly sublime, and I hope you see that reflected in this blog also.

So now, the next time someone asks me why I moved to China, I can simply tell them that I wished to live deliberately. And I have. And I am.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Beijing, China

First Impressions

Well, I've been at my new school for a couple of weeks now (a week ago &madash; I'm writing kinda slowly) so it's high time I tell you my thoughts. I won't belabor the "China You Win!" aspect of the school, but suffice to say I've been here for two weeks, and everyone has been back for a week, and I still don't have a classroom (or a desk), a schedule, class lists, or all my teaching materials.

Let us move on to the things I'm digging about my school.

At my first new teacher meeting, we went around the table and introduced ourselves and our subject areas. Among the usual English and math teachers, there was a music teacher, and an art teacher, and a PE teacher, and a librarian. But there is not just one of each of those, oh no, there are entire departments.

And this might be the best thing about this school: in this age of high-stakes testing and drastically reduced budgets, this school has a fully-functioning art department and music program.

Fast forward to the start of last week. The whole school was back for three days of professional development. As we all know, any time two or more teachers start talking, whinging is soon to ensue. And yet, after three days of working on backward design, no one was bitching. The staff remained active and engaged in the activities. This is both a testament to the positivity of the staff and the pedagogy of those leading the sessions.

This might be the single best thing about this school: they are not a bunch of whinging slackers.

In one meeting, our vice principal mentioned that our kids don't have to make AYP. That's right, no high-stakes testing. Our parents still have crazy-high expectations, but it doesn't all come down to an assessment instrument that the kids find worthless and incredibly stressful.

That might just be the single best thing about this school.

Towards the end of the three days, she gave us a homework assignment: we are to design all our units using this backward design process. She encouraged us to do our best, but, and she stressed this, we should try even if we don't completely get the process.

Wait, let me repeat: it's ok for the teachers' to not be absolutely perfect as long as we continue to develop. That might be the single best thing about this school.

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Location:Beijing, China