Years ago, a lifetime it seems sometimes, I worked for a public television station. As anyone who works in public broadcasting knows, this means involvement in pledge drives. One day, as a not-my-station pledge drive came on the air, I turned up the volume and listened intently, shouting out directions any time anyone made a pledge drive faux pas.
Later on, I groaned to my Saintly Sister about how my life was ruined. I was now addicted to pledge drives! No, she countered. You are getting some measure of pleasure from something the rest of us find odious. How wonderful.
Wonderful, indeed. I now happily turn up the volume on any pledge drive, and happily yell out directions to no one who can hear me. (Incidentally, radio drives are better than TV these days. Too many TV stations rely on pre-taped breaks. They are no where near as much fun.)
So last year, I stood in the Western grocery store in Beijing, (having spent an hour on the busiest subway followed by a fifteen minute walk) and found myself staring in awe and amazement at the cans of vegetables and beans and pickles. And I don't eat a lot of canned vegetables. But to see them arrayed there in all their colorful simplicity, with easily read labels, well, I was in heaven. And once again, one of those pesky tasks that cause anger, consternation, and impatience fell away. I could feel the weight of grocery shopping lifting off my shoulders (even though I would actually be carrying home all my groceries on my shoulders that afternoon). But for the rest of my life, I will be grateful for the ease of buying Western food in a Western shop. It was just so ... easy.
The same is not true for Chinese grocery stores. One of the things about the Chinese language is that is always sounds like people are yelling at me. I know it's all those fourth-tone karate-chops, but it just sounds angry to my untrained ear. Of course, sometimes they are yelling at me.
I haven't figured it out yet (not that I've bothered asking), but either each fruit, vegetable, and meat clerk works on commission or they are just deeply attached to their jobs. Each section of the store is like a mini-fiefdom, and each lord and lady is constantly barraging shoppers with extortions to buy his or her apples, celery, or beef. Buy my pork! No, buy mine! Mine is better, fresher, cheaper. Look, look, lamb. Do you want lamb? Maybe chicken. This is chicken!
It gets old. Forget for a moment that I'm a foodie, and I can recognize lamb, beef, pork, chicken, and duck on sight and do not need them to tell me what they are. It's just exhausting. Three greens for five kuai! Sometimes, they even have microphones. As if the fourth tones weren't loud enough.
And then, of course, you have to have your items weighed before you get to the check-out counter. There are various fruit and vegetable fiefdoms, and woe be unto you if you bring the wrong vegetable to the wrong scale. Of course, they hoard the plastic bags there, too, so first you need to fight for a bag, then elbow a little old lady out of the way to have your bag weighed, all the while avoiding standing directly in front of the loud speaker. It gets exhausting.
Last night I went to the store to get the ingredients for chili. (I had the spices and the tomatoes, but pretty much everything else can be sourced locally. Actually, some tomato products can be, as well.) Anyway, I needed garlic. And I don't buy garlic in the 12-head packs it comes sole in, so it meant bulk garlic.
I took my two heads, expecting a sigh and an incredulous look that I would purchase such a tiny amount (this ain't my first time buying garlic, mind you). I handed over my garlic to the man. He weighed, wrapped, and stickered it. And as he handed it back, he raised his head and looked me in the eye. And there was no impatience or incredulity. Just a simple look: Here you go.
It was calm. Dignified, even.
And it renewed my faith in the grocery store. Maybe I can even make it the point where I want to go to the Chinese grocery store? Well... I guess pigs might fly.
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Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Friday, February 22, 2013
Flying Solo
Three years ago, I embarked on this grand adventure. Bla bla bla, you've heard it all before. Also, three years ago, for my Spring Festival break, I decided I was going to Thailand. I don't know why: because it sounded good? I had no one to go with, but I was unstoppable. This was not the first time I had done something because I didn't like what the alternative would say about me.
While I had made good friends in Beijing, I hadn't really made the the type of friends you go on a four-week holiday with. Drinking is one thing. A weekend camping is another. But girlfriends sometimes tend to look askance when a four week beach holiday is mentioned — often because they think they (rightly) deserve that holiday time.
But I refused to just go home for four weeks. Where was the adventure in that? That is not what I had signed up for. Chutzpah is not generally something I am accused of lacking.
That is when my Traveling Companion stepped up. He admitted to being in awe of my determination to do something exciting, and perhaps a bit ashamed that his first inclination was to go back home for lack of anything better to do. And perhaps (like all the good Boys in my life), wanting to help make sure I didn't come to harm along the way. So he invited himself along.
And while I recall being relieved at the time that I wasn't actually going to have to figure the whole thing out by myself, I'm not sure I was quite as grateful as I should have been.
Why was I not ready? Why did I think I was? I didn't know what to pack. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know the hotel reservation websites. Idiot know how to best used a guidebook. I didn't know how to bargain — well, I did in theory, but I wasn't any good at it. I didn't know about booking tours. About train tickets and bus tickets. I barely knew how to make it through Border Control. Visas? Holy crap! I didn't know who to ask for information. I didn't know how to keep myself amused for that long.
Don't misunderstand me. I traveled in the United States, and most of it alone. I can make a mix-cd and sing along with the radio and find the best road-side diners in all of the US to eat at. I can chat-up a bartender and ask a waiter for advice. I can find a bathroom that's clean and navigate a route (although my iPhone made that even easier). But all of that was in English. In my own country. I knew how to read the road signs (does the sign facing you mean the street parallel to it, or perpendicular?). It was easy.
But traveling alone in a foreign country is not always easy. There is no one to bounce ideas with or share transportation costs. It's harder to keep up a front against various touts and agents trying to to scam you into something. It's better to know Asia, at least a little bit, before you head off into the wilds of it alone.
Well, I've known some people who have done it, but they are braver than I.
Two years ago, when I went home for the summer (going home in the summer is OK; there is kickball in the summer), my brother-in-law asked me if I felt any different. It was a question I had asked myself, and the honest answer was no, I didn't feel any different.
But I'm not so sure that is the case anymore. I do feel different. I do feel braver, bolder somehow. I feel more assured maybe, is the word. I feel comfortable enough to bargain with a merchant, to laugh off a scam, to take a motorbike taxi, to cross the street.
Now, if only I could learn how to say "I'm not American, I'm Asian."
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
While I had made good friends in Beijing, I hadn't really made the the type of friends you go on a four-week holiday with. Drinking is one thing. A weekend camping is another. But girlfriends sometimes tend to look askance when a four week beach holiday is mentioned — often because they think they (rightly) deserve that holiday time.
But I refused to just go home for four weeks. Where was the adventure in that? That is not what I had signed up for. Chutzpah is not generally something I am accused of lacking.
That is when my Traveling Companion stepped up. He admitted to being in awe of my determination to do something exciting, and perhaps a bit ashamed that his first inclination was to go back home for lack of anything better to do. And perhaps (like all the good Boys in my life), wanting to help make sure I didn't come to harm along the way. So he invited himself along.
And while I recall being relieved at the time that I wasn't actually going to have to figure the whole thing out by myself, I'm not sure I was quite as grateful as I should have been.
Why was I not ready? Why did I think I was? I didn't know what to pack. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know the hotel reservation websites. Idiot know how to best used a guidebook. I didn't know how to bargain — well, I did in theory, but I wasn't any good at it. I didn't know about booking tours. About train tickets and bus tickets. I barely knew how to make it through Border Control. Visas? Holy crap! I didn't know who to ask for information. I didn't know how to keep myself amused for that long.
Don't misunderstand me. I traveled in the United States, and most of it alone. I can make a mix-cd and sing along with the radio and find the best road-side diners in all of the US to eat at. I can chat-up a bartender and ask a waiter for advice. I can find a bathroom that's clean and navigate a route (although my iPhone made that even easier). But all of that was in English. In my own country. I knew how to read the road signs (does the sign facing you mean the street parallel to it, or perpendicular?). It was easy.
But traveling alone in a foreign country is not always easy. There is no one to bounce ideas with or share transportation costs. It's harder to keep up a front against various touts and agents trying to to scam you into something. It's better to know Asia, at least a little bit, before you head off into the wilds of it alone.
Well, I've known some people who have done it, but they are braver than I.
Two years ago, when I went home for the summer (going home in the summer is OK; there is kickball in the summer), my brother-in-law asked me if I felt any different. It was a question I had asked myself, and the honest answer was no, I didn't feel any different.
But I'm not so sure that is the case anymore. I do feel different. I do feel braver, bolder somehow. I feel more assured maybe, is the word. I feel comfortable enough to bargain with a merchant, to laugh off a scam, to take a motorbike taxi, to cross the street.
Now, if only I could learn how to say "I'm not American, I'm Asian."
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Indonesia
Prosody
All languages have a sound. A cadence and a rhythm. That thing that tells you what the language is, even if you don't understand what's being said. They thing that lets you say, "Fu, fu. Quack, quack," and know it is the French Canadians being referenced. It is more than just vocabulary. It is the tone, and more importantly, intonation. (Don't listen to anyone who says English isn't a tonal language; it is. Tone carries a lot of weight and meaning in English. But unlike Chinese where tone conveys denotation — the dictionary definition of the word, in English, tone conveys connotation — or how the speaker feels about the word.) It is the meter of a language. English is iambic, which is partly why we find Shakespeare to be the epitome of English verse: he stressed (ha ha) how English sounds.
There is, on YouTube, a video that attempts to describe what non-speakers of English hear when they hear English. (I'd look it up for you, but I continue to find myself without easy access to the Internet. Maybe I'll fix it later.) But, if you are reading this, you can go look it up. Don't worry, I'll wait for you to get back. Just ignore the somewhat ridiculous 80s fashion and enjoy the sound.
The word for all this (English has nothing if not a lot of vocabulary) is prosody.
When I arrived in Indonesia, I listened to the prosody of the language. I also searched through my Books for the name of the language — surely there must be something beyond just Indonesian. And with so many islands, maybe there is more than one language?
Well, some searching and reading later, I learned that there is a name: Bahasa. It is similar to Malay. Also, while Bahasa is the official language, and all Indonesians speak it, there are also local languages. So, a good traveler might learn how to say thank you in not just Bahasa, but also Balinese. As is English, Spanish, German, and Mandarin weren't enough. (Incidentally, in China, my default second language is Spanish which I know more of than Mandarin. But here, where I know almost no Bahasa, I default to Mandarin, sprinkling my phrases with xie xie and hao de.
But, back to the subject at hand, or mouth, as it were.
Bahasa is a lively language. It is not a tonal language, and in its written form, it is rather regular, making it relatively easy to learn (so I am told). As I've mentioned before, the r's are all rolled, giving it a lilting, breezy feel, but there are plenty of p's and b's and ch's, along with some sounds swallowed at the end of a word, making it sound like popping corn.
And that is what I hear the most, besides the lovely way my name rolls off a rolling r tongue. Popcorn. Pop pop pop pop.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
There is, on YouTube, a video that attempts to describe what non-speakers of English hear when they hear English. (I'd look it up for you, but I continue to find myself without easy access to the Internet. Maybe I'll fix it later.) But, if you are reading this, you can go look it up. Don't worry, I'll wait for you to get back. Just ignore the somewhat ridiculous 80s fashion and enjoy the sound.
The word for all this (English has nothing if not a lot of vocabulary) is prosody.
When I arrived in Indonesia, I listened to the prosody of the language. I also searched through my Books for the name of the language — surely there must be something beyond just Indonesian. And with so many islands, maybe there is more than one language?
Well, some searching and reading later, I learned that there is a name: Bahasa. It is similar to Malay. Also, while Bahasa is the official language, and all Indonesians speak it, there are also local languages. So, a good traveler might learn how to say thank you in not just Bahasa, but also Balinese. As is English, Spanish, German, and Mandarin weren't enough. (Incidentally, in China, my default second language is Spanish which I know more of than Mandarin. But here, where I know almost no Bahasa, I default to Mandarin, sprinkling my phrases with xie xie and hao de.
But, back to the subject at hand, or mouth, as it were.
Bahasa is a lively language. It is not a tonal language, and in its written form, it is rather regular, making it relatively easy to learn (so I am told). As I've mentioned before, the r's are all rolled, giving it a lilting, breezy feel, but there are plenty of p's and b's and ch's, along with some sounds swallowed at the end of a word, making it sound like popping corn.
And that is what I hear the most, besides the lovely way my name rolls off a rolling r tongue. Popcorn. Pop pop pop pop.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Gili Meno, Indonesia
Free Range Chicken
Like any good island, Gili Meno has a lot of chickens roaming around. (So does Bali. Key West, too, in case you think chickens are limited to Asian islands). They strut and fret about the yard, hunting and pecking for bits of edible... well, whatever chickens find edible: grubs, worms, insects, grass, grain. They tend to be a little scrawny, but these are not pampered, American chickens. No, they are hard-scrabble chickens pecking out their fortunes. (It's amazing how many of these stock phrases seem to work so well for the lowly fowl.)
I haven't quite figured out how you tell one person's chicken from another because they all roam free. And, in case you didn't know, the rooster does not only crow at dawn. Oh, he crows then. And at breakfast. And second breakfast. And elevenses. And lunch. And, well, you get the point. He crows all day long.
And the chicks? They cheep-cheep-cheep like the River City's best old biddies. Even when to my untrained eyes they look big enough to be called proper hens, they are still cheeping after their mothers.
All of this is to say that they provide hours of amusement for a lounging tourist. The roosters are brightly colored and they all sometimes strike some pretty funny poses. I'm beginning to see what Gonzo found attractive in Camilla.
As I sit here, avoiding the rain in the main shack at my hotel, there is one chicken who will not give up. She is determined to get behind the counter. I have no idea what she sees back there, but she wants it, bad. The Help keep on "Shh, shh" ing her away, and she keeps on coming back.
When she is found out, and shushed off, she clucks away indignantly. "How could they think such a thing?" she clucks. "Accusing me of such indignities. Well, I never." Cluck, cluck. Be-gawk! If the rooster happens to be around, he sets off a crow or two, in solidarity. And if the other hens are around, they join in the chorus, "Hmph. The nerve of those men. To accuse any one of us."
And away she clucks. Until she sneaks back in. And the story repeats itself.
If she is caught behind the counter, she flutters up and over in the sad display of wing-flapping that a chicken calls flying. She lands on a table. Hops, wings a-fluster, to the ground, and back out. Clucking, of course, all the way.
Then, with her black feathers blending in with the tile floor, she sneaks back in again. And again.
I've been calling her Chicken Little, what with the fluttering and clucking, you can see where the sky is falling story comes from. But, I keep on warning her, if she doesn't shape up, we're all going to be calling her Dinner.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Author's note: I did have fried chicken for dinner last night, and this morning, there was no imperious, sneaking chicken to be found. Coincidence?
I haven't quite figured out how you tell one person's chicken from another because they all roam free. And, in case you didn't know, the rooster does not only crow at dawn. Oh, he crows then. And at breakfast. And second breakfast. And elevenses. And lunch. And, well, you get the point. He crows all day long.
And the chicks? They cheep-cheep-cheep like the River City's best old biddies. Even when to my untrained eyes they look big enough to be called proper hens, they are still cheeping after their mothers.
All of this is to say that they provide hours of amusement for a lounging tourist. The roosters are brightly colored and they all sometimes strike some pretty funny poses. I'm beginning to see what Gonzo found attractive in Camilla.
As I sit here, avoiding the rain in the main shack at my hotel, there is one chicken who will not give up. She is determined to get behind the counter. I have no idea what she sees back there, but she wants it, bad. The Help keep on "Shh, shh" ing her away, and she keeps on coming back.
When she is found out, and shushed off, she clucks away indignantly. "How could they think such a thing?" she clucks. "Accusing me of such indignities. Well, I never." Cluck, cluck. Be-gawk! If the rooster happens to be around, he sets off a crow or two, in solidarity. And if the other hens are around, they join in the chorus, "Hmph. The nerve of those men. To accuse any one of us."
And away she clucks. Until she sneaks back in. And the story repeats itself.
If she is caught behind the counter, she flutters up and over in the sad display of wing-flapping that a chicken calls flying. She lands on a table. Hops, wings a-fluster, to the ground, and back out. Clucking, of course, all the way.
Then, with her black feathers blending in with the tile floor, she sneaks back in again. And again.
I've been calling her Chicken Little, what with the fluttering and clucking, you can see where the sky is falling story comes from. But, I keep on warning her, if she doesn't shape up, we're all going to be calling her Dinner.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Author's note: I did have fried chicken for dinner last night, and this morning, there was no imperious, sneaking chicken to be found. Coincidence?
Location:Gili Meno, Indonesia
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
I Want to Ride My Bicycle
My first morning in Indonesia, I rented a bike. I liked the freedom that your own transport gives, but i wasn't prepared to drive a motorbike in Asian city traffic. I realized after about 30 minutes (of being horrifically lost with absolutely no way of finding my hotel and no way to call them without a sim card I didn't have yet) that the book my Dear Friend lent me was a good 8 years old. You know my friend, Mephistopheles.
I left my hotel and turned towards (what I thought) was the way out. A few twists and turns later, I pedaled out into traffic. Indonesia, like Thailand, is one of those places where they drive on the wrong side of the road. Fortunately, two and a half years in China had prepared me for just this moment because in China, they bike on the wrong side of the road, too. Only in Indonesia, I noticed, while they drive on the wrong side, they almost never drive on the right-hand side. They also wear helmets, by and large, and they also obey traffic signals, but I'm still not sure how they see them, because they do ride all up on them to the point of being, well, just beyond them.
The problem wasn't the pedaling, either. Yogya is a little hillier than Beijing, but I've been cycling a pretty constant 5k a day since August. And my bike was a 10-speed. No, it wasn't the left-hand thing or the hills, it was the motorbikes.
So, eight years ago might have been a great time to pedal around the city, but no longer. Now it was just another two-stroke engine fueled city.
After an hour, I figured out where I was (but not how I had gotten so lost, that would take two more days to decipher). I found town, but I neglected to stop at the electronics mall — even though as an Asian, I knew it was the electronics mall and would have what I needed. I have no excuse except that I was still mostly unsure of where I was. I was also looking for these supposed bicycle parking lots. (Turns out, they don't really exist any more. They are all motorbike parking lots, and they might let you leave a bike.)
So, I mostly road around all day. By the end of the day, my knees ached and I was done with the motorbike fumes. The next morning, I had the desk clerk call me a taksi.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
I left my hotel and turned towards (what I thought) was the way out. A few twists and turns later, I pedaled out into traffic. Indonesia, like Thailand, is one of those places where they drive on the wrong side of the road. Fortunately, two and a half years in China had prepared me for just this moment because in China, they bike on the wrong side of the road, too. Only in Indonesia, I noticed, while they drive on the wrong side, they almost never drive on the right-hand side. They also wear helmets, by and large, and they also obey traffic signals, but I'm still not sure how they see them, because they do ride all up on them to the point of being, well, just beyond them.
The problem wasn't the pedaling, either. Yogya is a little hillier than Beijing, but I've been cycling a pretty constant 5k a day since August. And my bike was a 10-speed. No, it wasn't the left-hand thing or the hills, it was the motorbikes.
So, eight years ago might have been a great time to pedal around the city, but no longer. Now it was just another two-stroke engine fueled city.
After an hour, I figured out where I was (but not how I had gotten so lost, that would take two more days to decipher). I found town, but I neglected to stop at the electronics mall — even though as an Asian, I knew it was the electronics mall and would have what I needed. I have no excuse except that I was still mostly unsure of where I was. I was also looking for these supposed bicycle parking lots. (Turns out, they don't really exist any more. They are all motorbike parking lots, and they might let you leave a bike.)
So, I mostly road around all day. By the end of the day, my knees ached and I was done with the motorbike fumes. The next morning, I had the desk clerk call me a taksi.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Yogyakarta, Indonesia
Breathe Deeply
Today, for the first time ever in my life, I went snorkeling.
What? I hear you cry. But you have been all over the world! You have been to there and back again, on holiday, even!
I know, Gentle Reader. I know. I am a bit surprised myself, but there it is. Not even on that fabled honeymoon so many years ago did I go snorkeling. Maybe it's that we had already spent above our means, but I think it had more to do with the nasty lump on my foot from where I got pushed into the pool. What, I haven't told you this story? I got pushed in jest, but I'm about as fond of falling into water as I am of steep cliff sides and bridges while in a car. So, irrational fear might be a good word to describe it. (Just last year, I willingly jumped off a boat into the water while in Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. It took me a good 10 minutes to screw up my courage, and even then I was told the look on my face while I fell was one of abject terror. I believe it.) Well, I freaked and tried desperately to not go under and swallow a lungful of water, and in the process I landed sideways on my foot and got a nasty lump. Of course, it turns out the pool was only 4 feet deep, and even I'm not that short.
All of which means no snorkeling trip.
And really, I haven't been on that many trips where snorkeling was the thing. Diving, maybe, but not snorkeling. And here's the thing with diving: I'm also mildly claustrophobic. So while I might allow myself to be pulled along by a significant other, it's not something I'm particularly keen to do myself. I'll always find something else I want to do more.
Fast forward to last year: a friend at work was seriously getting into diving and she found a place to dive with sharks in Beijing. I promised to go along. It turned into a major production, and she ended up getting reservations on a weekend when I was unavoidably elsewhere (camping or Harbin or something). Still, we joked that she would become my heterosexual life partner and be the one to take me diving.
This year at Burns' Night (for she is, indeed, the brave soul who acted as my interpreter for the evening of poetry and whiskey), we discussed our Spring Festival plans. We realized, belatedly, that we totally could have gone on holiday together. But, she was already booked for Fiji and I was already booked for Indonesia. The talk, though, is the Philippines next year, and I'll let her take me diving. I promised this year to go snorkeling, to prepare.
Well, it's taken me two weeks to screw up my courage. I don't really know what I'm doing and the Book keeps on warning of strong currents here and there.
But this morning, when the Bar Back/General Factotum asked if I had anything planned and maybe snorkeling... Well, I knew I had to. (Both Books concur that my current location is good for snorkeling.)
So, I applied a extra layer of 50 sunblock to my back (after my early morning application and my mid-morning layer of spray-on sunblock) and picked up a mask. He made sure the fins fit, washed out the mask, and told me to head south along the coast to find a turtle.
I headed into the water. I put on the fins. I put on the mask. I bit the mouth piece. I put my face in the water. I took maybe two breaths and I could hear the water gurgling in the tube and... up I burst from the water, spluttering.
This went on and on.
Add to that, I couldn't see a thing. I took off the mask. I spit in it. I put it back on. I kept a keen eye on the shore every time I came up, to make sure the evil currents hadn't suddenly carried me off to Gili Trawangan. And, well, I was coming up for a look every two breaths. This was not going as planned (and confirming my worst fears that I am hopeless at all things water).
And then, at one point in my two-breath/sputter pattern, I looked. There, underneath me, close enough I could reach out to them, were fish! Whoa. I was suddenly brought back to Herodotus and Mercator, the first of many tropical fish my sister had. (I helped out with them when she went to college, and was probably responsible for more than one death — especially the time I didn't realize the heat was plugged into the outlet that was controlled by the light switch and I turned off the light before we visited my grandparents for Thanksgiving for four days. Leaving them without heat. Yeah. Not my most shining moment.) I saw the myriad of angel fish we had, just bigger. I saw electric blue fishes. And I swam through a school of minnows — which was freaky enough to send me to the surface if my inability to take more than two breaths in a row hadn't. I had a "fish pedicure" in Thailand, and I was not prepared for little fishies taking bites of my roughened skin in the open water. (Not that they did, but see above for my various slightly panicked reactions to not-dangerous circumstances.)
Still, with my two-breath maximum, I tried to get smart. I started looking for bits of rock or coral that might attract my scaly friends. I noticed where some boats were anchored — maybe these guides knew something I didn't.
Then a man swam up. I'd heard him a few minutes earlier, but hadn't really paid attention. "I came from Gili Trawangan," he said in a Germanic accent. He was clearly not "from" Gili Trawangan, just like I'm not "from" China, but clearly he'd swum from there which is no mean feat. I mean, it's not quite the English Channel, but it's more than nothing. He wanted to know where I was from. We exchanged details: I am from America but live in Beijing, he is from Hungary but lives in Shanghai. Small world, and he sort of invited me inland to talk further. Maybe I should have. I have my own Hungarian friend I could use as currency to get to know him better, but... I still haven't mastered this breathing thing. To go in now would be to admit defeat, so I let him swim away. (Just think of all the stories I could tell from that one line alone.)
And I guess I decided it was now or never. I was either going to get this breathing through a tube thing down or return to my hotel in shame, tail between my legs, so to speak. And that would be it for my underwater career.
So, I cleaned my goggles. I bit down firmly on the mouthpiece. I put my face the water. I focused on biting, really biting, fuck the 11 years with the orthodontist that tweaked my jaw (but made it so I can eat — I'm not complaining!). And I looked. And I kept breathing.
And when I finally did come up sputtering, I knew something had changed. I don't know what. I don't know if it was the time getting used to the set-up, my focus on clamping my jaws, or sheer determination, but it changed.
Suddenly, I was swimming with the fishes (but without the inconvenience of cement shoes). I'd hesitate to say it was magical, it wasn't that really. It was cool, though. I could chase down the electric blue fish. I could look for a school of minnows to swim with. But mostly, I floated with the current.
And the I went even further back than my sister's fish, I went all the way back to when I used to taking swimming lessons when I was 6 or 7. Sorry Ma and Pa, but when it comes to me and swimming, you really dropped the ball. The rest of my siblings learned how to swim for real (or at least in my mind they did), I learned just enough to save my life. So the last thing I remember mastering at swimming lessons at Rotary Park was the dead man's float.
And this trip has been nothing if not a lesson that all my various skills might come in handy one day, and today's was floating prone. I kicked a foot. I waved an arm. I felt my fingers get pruny. I enjoyed watching the fishies gnawing at the coral or flitting under a rock. But unlike the dead Man's float, this time I could take deep breaths and keep my face in the water.
And then, when I started to get tired, I started paddling against the current to my hotel. It took some time, but I looked at the fish as I went.
I got back and told the General Factotum I saw no turtles. He seemed surprised. He encouraged me to go on a boat trip. Maybe tomorrow, I could sense the need to get out of the sun.
Oh yes. There it is. A familiar sting along the back of my legs. My calves, where I neglected to apply extra sunblock, are in slightly worse shape than my thighs, maybe. Generally, the entire back of my body is radiating heat like you wouldn't expect from someone who doused herself in super sunblock all day long.
What to do? Take a deep breath, there's nothing to do but wait it out.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
What? I hear you cry. But you have been all over the world! You have been to there and back again, on holiday, even!
I know, Gentle Reader. I know. I am a bit surprised myself, but there it is. Not even on that fabled honeymoon so many years ago did I go snorkeling. Maybe it's that we had already spent above our means, but I think it had more to do with the nasty lump on my foot from where I got pushed into the pool. What, I haven't told you this story? I got pushed in jest, but I'm about as fond of falling into water as I am of steep cliff sides and bridges while in a car. So, irrational fear might be a good word to describe it. (Just last year, I willingly jumped off a boat into the water while in Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. It took me a good 10 minutes to screw up my courage, and even then I was told the look on my face while I fell was one of abject terror. I believe it.) Well, I freaked and tried desperately to not go under and swallow a lungful of water, and in the process I landed sideways on my foot and got a nasty lump. Of course, it turns out the pool was only 4 feet deep, and even I'm not that short.
All of which means no snorkeling trip.
And really, I haven't been on that many trips where snorkeling was the thing. Diving, maybe, but not snorkeling. And here's the thing with diving: I'm also mildly claustrophobic. So while I might allow myself to be pulled along by a significant other, it's not something I'm particularly keen to do myself. I'll always find something else I want to do more.
Fast forward to last year: a friend at work was seriously getting into diving and she found a place to dive with sharks in Beijing. I promised to go along. It turned into a major production, and she ended up getting reservations on a weekend when I was unavoidably elsewhere (camping or Harbin or something). Still, we joked that she would become my heterosexual life partner and be the one to take me diving.
This year at Burns' Night (for she is, indeed, the brave soul who acted as my interpreter for the evening of poetry and whiskey), we discussed our Spring Festival plans. We realized, belatedly, that we totally could have gone on holiday together. But, she was already booked for Fiji and I was already booked for Indonesia. The talk, though, is the Philippines next year, and I'll let her take me diving. I promised this year to go snorkeling, to prepare.
Well, it's taken me two weeks to screw up my courage. I don't really know what I'm doing and the Book keeps on warning of strong currents here and there.
But this morning, when the Bar Back/General Factotum asked if I had anything planned and maybe snorkeling... Well, I knew I had to. (Both Books concur that my current location is good for snorkeling.)
So, I applied a extra layer of 50 sunblock to my back (after my early morning application and my mid-morning layer of spray-on sunblock) and picked up a mask. He made sure the fins fit, washed out the mask, and told me to head south along the coast to find a turtle.
I headed into the water. I put on the fins. I put on the mask. I bit the mouth piece. I put my face in the water. I took maybe two breaths and I could hear the water gurgling in the tube and... up I burst from the water, spluttering.
This went on and on.
Add to that, I couldn't see a thing. I took off the mask. I spit in it. I put it back on. I kept a keen eye on the shore every time I came up, to make sure the evil currents hadn't suddenly carried me off to Gili Trawangan. And, well, I was coming up for a look every two breaths. This was not going as planned (and confirming my worst fears that I am hopeless at all things water).
And then, at one point in my two-breath/sputter pattern, I looked. There, underneath me, close enough I could reach out to them, were fish! Whoa. I was suddenly brought back to Herodotus and Mercator, the first of many tropical fish my sister had. (I helped out with them when she went to college, and was probably responsible for more than one death — especially the time I didn't realize the heat was plugged into the outlet that was controlled by the light switch and I turned off the light before we visited my grandparents for Thanksgiving for four days. Leaving them without heat. Yeah. Not my most shining moment.) I saw the myriad of angel fish we had, just bigger. I saw electric blue fishes. And I swam through a school of minnows — which was freaky enough to send me to the surface if my inability to take more than two breaths in a row hadn't. I had a "fish pedicure" in Thailand, and I was not prepared for little fishies taking bites of my roughened skin in the open water. (Not that they did, but see above for my various slightly panicked reactions to not-dangerous circumstances.)
Still, with my two-breath maximum, I tried to get smart. I started looking for bits of rock or coral that might attract my scaly friends. I noticed where some boats were anchored — maybe these guides knew something I didn't.
Then a man swam up. I'd heard him a few minutes earlier, but hadn't really paid attention. "I came from Gili Trawangan," he said in a Germanic accent. He was clearly not "from" Gili Trawangan, just like I'm not "from" China, but clearly he'd swum from there which is no mean feat. I mean, it's not quite the English Channel, but it's more than nothing. He wanted to know where I was from. We exchanged details: I am from America but live in Beijing, he is from Hungary but lives in Shanghai. Small world, and he sort of invited me inland to talk further. Maybe I should have. I have my own Hungarian friend I could use as currency to get to know him better, but... I still haven't mastered this breathing thing. To go in now would be to admit defeat, so I let him swim away. (Just think of all the stories I could tell from that one line alone.)
And I guess I decided it was now or never. I was either going to get this breathing through a tube thing down or return to my hotel in shame, tail between my legs, so to speak. And that would be it for my underwater career.
So, I cleaned my goggles. I bit down firmly on the mouthpiece. I put my face the water. I focused on biting, really biting, fuck the 11 years with the orthodontist that tweaked my jaw (but made it so I can eat — I'm not complaining!). And I looked. And I kept breathing.
And when I finally did come up sputtering, I knew something had changed. I don't know what. I don't know if it was the time getting used to the set-up, my focus on clamping my jaws, or sheer determination, but it changed.
Suddenly, I was swimming with the fishes (but without the inconvenience of cement shoes). I'd hesitate to say it was magical, it wasn't that really. It was cool, though. I could chase down the electric blue fish. I could look for a school of minnows to swim with. But mostly, I floated with the current.
And the I went even further back than my sister's fish, I went all the way back to when I used to taking swimming lessons when I was 6 or 7. Sorry Ma and Pa, but when it comes to me and swimming, you really dropped the ball. The rest of my siblings learned how to swim for real (or at least in my mind they did), I learned just enough to save my life. So the last thing I remember mastering at swimming lessons at Rotary Park was the dead man's float.
And this trip has been nothing if not a lesson that all my various skills might come in handy one day, and today's was floating prone. I kicked a foot. I waved an arm. I felt my fingers get pruny. I enjoyed watching the fishies gnawing at the coral or flitting under a rock. But unlike the dead Man's float, this time I could take deep breaths and keep my face in the water.
And then, when I started to get tired, I started paddling against the current to my hotel. It took some time, but I looked at the fish as I went.
I got back and told the General Factotum I saw no turtles. He seemed surprised. He encouraged me to go on a boat trip. Maybe tomorrow, I could sense the need to get out of the sun.
Oh yes. There it is. A familiar sting along the back of my legs. My calves, where I neglected to apply extra sunblock, are in slightly worse shape than my thighs, maybe. Generally, the entire back of my body is radiating heat like you wouldn't expect from someone who doused herself in super sunblock all day long.
What to do? Take a deep breath, there's nothing to do but wait it out.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Gili Meno, Indonesia
Say My Name
The rumors you hear about Bali are true: the people are very nosy — at least by Western standards. It's true of most of the Indonesians I met, actually, not just the Balinese. (Indonesia is one of those countries that somehow got smushed together by colonialism and the rise of nationalism in the 20th century. It's really many, many small kingdoms with a long history of changing allegiances, cultures, and religions united to a greater or lesser extent depending on which regions you are discussing. For one brief point, it was officially named The United States of Indonesia, a name that I think is a better description of the place than the Republic of Indonesia, but no one asked me. Nor should they; I merely mention it for historical reference.)
So, they ask a lot of personal questions. It can be a bit uncomfortable for a Westerner, especially since you're pretty sure at some point the conversation will transition to a hard sell for whatever tourist job this person has. How are you? Are you married? Would you like to buy a sarong? Painting? Carving? Painted egg? Just looking OK. (But just looking is never OK. Once you look, it takes a will of steel not to buy.)
But, it's incredibly rude to not engage. You have to make eye contact. You have to respond. And, you make more friends if you ask questions in return. They want to tell you about their children. About where they are from. Really, it's just good manners.
So, I have prepared myself for the questions. I am asked about my name. Oh, I've done this before. A lot. And it's usually not very pretty.
I have an unfortunate name for someone living in China. It has not only an "r", but also an "l", and arranged in syllables that are practically unpronounceable for a Mandarin speaker. Mandarin does have an "r" sound, especially in Beijing, but it's a different "r". Your tongue floats around freely up near the roof of your mouth, I can almost say it, sometimes. But bunched all up with the other syllables? Well, I think it was the difficulty of my name as much as there being two of us that caused the Chinese at my last school to latch onto my last name instead of my first. Not that "sc" is all that common, either.
So, when this Indonesian taksi driver asked my name, as he he gouged me on a short trip between terminals 2 and 3 in Jakarta, I said it very slowly and clearly, expecting him to trip over it.
Car - o - line.
He cocked his head for a moment, listening. Ah, Caroline, he repeated. No hesitation. No stumbling. In fact, he said it even nicer than it is in English, because Bahasa (Indonesian) uses a rolled "r", so the middle syllables took on this lovely, musical lilt.
I tried it with the next Indonesian I met. Same thing: lovely rolled "r", and no hesitation. And again. I think "What is your name?" is becoming my favorite question.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
So, they ask a lot of personal questions. It can be a bit uncomfortable for a Westerner, especially since you're pretty sure at some point the conversation will transition to a hard sell for whatever tourist job this person has. How are you? Are you married? Would you like to buy a sarong? Painting? Carving? Painted egg? Just looking OK. (But just looking is never OK. Once you look, it takes a will of steel not to buy.)
But, it's incredibly rude to not engage. You have to make eye contact. You have to respond. And, you make more friends if you ask questions in return. They want to tell you about their children. About where they are from. Really, it's just good manners.
So, I have prepared myself for the questions. I am asked about my name. Oh, I've done this before. A lot. And it's usually not very pretty.
I have an unfortunate name for someone living in China. It has not only an "r", but also an "l", and arranged in syllables that are practically unpronounceable for a Mandarin speaker. Mandarin does have an "r" sound, especially in Beijing, but it's a different "r". Your tongue floats around freely up near the roof of your mouth, I can almost say it, sometimes. But bunched all up with the other syllables? Well, I think it was the difficulty of my name as much as there being two of us that caused the Chinese at my last school to latch onto my last name instead of my first. Not that "sc" is all that common, either.
So, when this Indonesian taksi driver asked my name, as he he gouged me on a short trip between terminals 2 and 3 in Jakarta, I said it very slowly and clearly, expecting him to trip over it.
Car - o - line.
He cocked his head for a moment, listening. Ah, Caroline, he repeated. No hesitation. No stumbling. In fact, he said it even nicer than it is in English, because Bahasa (Indonesian) uses a rolled "r", so the middle syllables took on this lovely, musical lilt.
I tried it with the next Indonesian I met. Same thing: lovely rolled "r", and no hesitation. And again. I think "What is your name?" is becoming my favorite question.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Indonesia
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Welcome to Paradise
NB: This post is a bit rambling. I'm not sure it even really has a point. However, these ideas have been floating around my head, and it's time to publish them and be done with them, at least for now. Just don't say I didn't warn you.
As my plane from Yogyakarta began its final descent into Denpasar, the captain came on the loudspeaker and, after saying some mostly unintelligible things, probably about the weather, said clearly, "Welcome to paradise." As I exited the terminal and made my way to the taxi stand, I could tell he was right. The sky was blue, the air was clear, and I was surrounded by palm and banana trees. Bali is a lush, tropical paradise if there ever was one.
As my taxi and I sped down the road (and as with most Asian taxi drivers, when I say "sped", I mean it quite literally) towards the coastal town of Candi Dasa where I had decided to spend my first few days on the island, I couldn't help but return to that word: paradise.
To the Western among us, paradise evokes images of the landscape as well as lazy days lounging with friends and family. It is short on conveniences, but long on necessities like clean air, cool water, fresh food, and laughter and love. The good life, you know. We might not have a lot, but we have this. (Of course, it's even better when on holiday we get all that plus aircon, cheap rates, and friendly service to boot.)
So, we bemoan what I call the scourge of Asian cities: the motorbike. Because there is nothing quite so nasty as the sound and smell of a few thousand two-stroke engines buzzing in and out of the increasing traffic of a crowded, serpentine old alleyway in a crowded, dirty around the edges city.
And there's that, too. The garbage littering the pavement and the roadway. Plastic bags blown hither and yon on the breeze, caught up in the weeds choking the edges of various vacant lots and stream banks. Candy wrappers, empty chip bags, bottle caps, and cigarette butts, too.
Don't they realize they're ruining it for the rest of us? What about trash bags and unleaded gasoline and hybrid engines. Why destroy the beauty of the landscape with petroleum-derived synthetics? They are so 1950.
And that's just it, really. We come to paradise from our nicely insulated homes (and that my apartment in Beijing is NOT well insulated is a never-ending source of consternation for me), complete with hot and cold running water, electricity, cable, and high-speed Internet. We come from our high-paying jobs (at least if we are traveling to paradise, you can bet we or our parents make at least more than a living wage), with our well-maintained cars, central heating, and flat-screen TVs. Sure, we never seem to have enough time to enjoy them, but what the hell. We have enough to come here.
On their semester final, I had my students read a passage about the culture of Guinea. In it, the Peace Corps Volunteer talked about the importance of people in his adopted home (always asking at least five questions, always saying hello, always shaking hands, valuing friendship above work responsibilities). My students were immediately taken with the idea. They wanted to live there until I pointed out that cultures like that usually come with endlessly mind-numbing jobs, poverty, and a plentiful dearth of gadgets and accessories. Then they decided they'd stick with the high-achieving, high-powered path their parents have envisioned for them.
Earlier this year, when I was in Xinjiang, my friends and I talked around this issue, too. There we were in a place without McDonald's or Starbucks, where even the government acknowledges that there is a lack of economic opportunity. And yet, especially in the Muslim areas, people seemed pretty happy. They liked living in their ancient homes (to the extent that they still lived there, even though the Party wants them out and the places are literally crumbling back into mud) with their families. And really, who were we to say that our lives were so much better, just because I (used to) have a Cuisinart and a Kitchen-Aid?
But by the same token, who am I to insist that just because someone doesn't have access to a Kitchen-Aid (or the steady electricity to run it), that they shouldn't want one, or have one. And why shouldn't they buy motorbikes to get from point A to point B in a timely manner? And like in China, why shouldn't they want to transition from bicycles and mopeds to cars?
Really, I didn't row a boat from Beijing to Bali. I hopped on an airplane. They just want their paradise with a dashboard light.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
As my plane from Yogyakarta began its final descent into Denpasar, the captain came on the loudspeaker and, after saying some mostly unintelligible things, probably about the weather, said clearly, "Welcome to paradise." As I exited the terminal and made my way to the taxi stand, I could tell he was right. The sky was blue, the air was clear, and I was surrounded by palm and banana trees. Bali is a lush, tropical paradise if there ever was one.
As my taxi and I sped down the road (and as with most Asian taxi drivers, when I say "sped", I mean it quite literally) towards the coastal town of Candi Dasa where I had decided to spend my first few days on the island, I couldn't help but return to that word: paradise.
To the Western among us, paradise evokes images of the landscape as well as lazy days lounging with friends and family. It is short on conveniences, but long on necessities like clean air, cool water, fresh food, and laughter and love. The good life, you know. We might not have a lot, but we have this. (Of course, it's even better when on holiday we get all that plus aircon, cheap rates, and friendly service to boot.)
So, we bemoan what I call the scourge of Asian cities: the motorbike. Because there is nothing quite so nasty as the sound and smell of a few thousand two-stroke engines buzzing in and out of the increasing traffic of a crowded, serpentine old alleyway in a crowded, dirty around the edges city.
And there's that, too. The garbage littering the pavement and the roadway. Plastic bags blown hither and yon on the breeze, caught up in the weeds choking the edges of various vacant lots and stream banks. Candy wrappers, empty chip bags, bottle caps, and cigarette butts, too.
Don't they realize they're ruining it for the rest of us? What about trash bags and unleaded gasoline and hybrid engines. Why destroy the beauty of the landscape with petroleum-derived synthetics? They are so 1950.
And that's just it, really. We come to paradise from our nicely insulated homes (and that my apartment in Beijing is NOT well insulated is a never-ending source of consternation for me), complete with hot and cold running water, electricity, cable, and high-speed Internet. We come from our high-paying jobs (at least if we are traveling to paradise, you can bet we or our parents make at least more than a living wage), with our well-maintained cars, central heating, and flat-screen TVs. Sure, we never seem to have enough time to enjoy them, but what the hell. We have enough to come here.
On their semester final, I had my students read a passage about the culture of Guinea. In it, the Peace Corps Volunteer talked about the importance of people in his adopted home (always asking at least five questions, always saying hello, always shaking hands, valuing friendship above work responsibilities). My students were immediately taken with the idea. They wanted to live there until I pointed out that cultures like that usually come with endlessly mind-numbing jobs, poverty, and a plentiful dearth of gadgets and accessories. Then they decided they'd stick with the high-achieving, high-powered path their parents have envisioned for them.
Earlier this year, when I was in Xinjiang, my friends and I talked around this issue, too. There we were in a place without McDonald's or Starbucks, where even the government acknowledges that there is a lack of economic opportunity. And yet, especially in the Muslim areas, people seemed pretty happy. They liked living in their ancient homes (to the extent that they still lived there, even though the Party wants them out and the places are literally crumbling back into mud) with their families. And really, who were we to say that our lives were so much better, just because I (used to) have a Cuisinart and a Kitchen-Aid?
But by the same token, who am I to insist that just because someone doesn't have access to a Kitchen-Aid (or the steady electricity to run it), that they shouldn't want one, or have one. And why shouldn't they buy motorbikes to get from point A to point B in a timely manner? And like in China, why shouldn't they want to transition from bicycles and mopeds to cars?
Really, I didn't row a boat from Beijing to Bali. I hopped on an airplane. They just want their paradise with a dashboard light.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Bali, Indonesia
Monday, February 11, 2013
Keeping a Rendezvous
I decided to take myself out for a nice dinner. Here is the review.
The restaurant wants to be fancy. It wants it desperately. I am shown to my table for "only one" as the man repeated on the phone twice (at Elmo's, I was taught it is the height of rudeness to say "only one", I would think it would be more so in a culture that so stresses marriage). A small man, a teen most likely, quickly snatches the cloth napkin from my placemat and fuddles with it, trying to get it open. Sadly, he is a bit inept and needs to partake of some deodorant. But, he finally gets it open and spreads it across my lap with a flourish. Then, thankfully, he leaves. Moments later, a woman comes by with the menus. (Why they weren't already on the table seeing as I called ahead...)
If there's anything annoying about Bali it's this: everyone wants to have a conversation. So I am forced to make small talk with the backwait who delivers my silverware. I am forced to chat with the waitress. It's not bad enough that I'm sitting off in the corner, facing the water and not the restaurant because I have the bad taste to show up alone. No, I have to tell everyone where I'm from, how long I've been here, where I'm going next, and how long I will stay. Just to get a drink.
Up first: a welcome drink (as in "Welcome!" not as in "what a welcome surprise"). A shot (non-alcoholic) of ginger, honey, and lemongrass. With an emphasis on the ginger. Spicy! Then, my ordered drink arrives, a dolled-up version of a gin and tonic. It's nice, but I don't know if it's $6 nice (considering the relatively low price of drinks around here).
(I've been charting beer prices. It's 30,000 rupiah (about $3, give or take — I'm too lazy to do math that isn't base 10 while on holiday) for a large Bintang at my last hotel and my current hotel, plus a 10% government tax. At the mini-mart, the same Bintang is about 25,000 rupiah, so they're not wildly marking up the drinks at the hotel. The 10% tax has been standard at any service establishment. I suspect the local warung around the corner is selling Bintang for a little less than 25,000, but it's all about the same. This joint, however, was charging 45,000 rupiah for the large beer plus (get this) an 11% tax. Where does that extra percent go, eh?)
With the silverware comes a "welcome salad": corn and grated... something white. At first I thought maybe coconut, but it doesn't taste that strong. Not even as strong as daikon radish, although it is something of that texture. The corn is fresh and cut from the con. There is a pleasantly salty grittiness to it. It's probably salt, but maybe not. Maybe a mild one — I'm not up on all the fancy salts in the world. Everyone once in awhile, I get a taste of smoke. It's nice. I wish that hint were a bit brighter. And by the end, the salt is taking over. It is lovingly presented in a folded banan leaf bowl, though. (And yet, the fortune teller from the Iron Chef has just dropped the dreaded "too salty" early in the meal. We all know what that means for this challenger.)
The restaurant, I should mention, is empty but for me. It's a Sunday night at 7:15, and the place is E-M-P-T-Y and it ain't got no alibi. I was told there was dancing form 7:30 to 8:30, but if it's happening, it's not happening here.
Another table arrives. Three women of a Western persuasion, so at least I'm not alone. And it's not 8 yet, so if I'm missing the dancing, they must be, too.
Next: tomato and basil salad, with cheese. Already I am worried, this looks like the best knock-off Kraft Singles money can buy at the local Asian grocery. Milkana, maybe? Oh, yes. Shame on the restaurant that claims it uses no preservatives and makes everything fresh. Cheese ain't that hard to make. Add to that, the tomatoes are anemic. This is paradise: they can't get a farmer to keep them in heirloom, vine-ripened tomatoes throughout the sunny, tropical, with regular rainstorms climate? And the dressing is overly peppered. If they can't do it well, they shouldn't do it at all. Pretty sure those are canned olives with it too. Sigh, I should know better than to get my hopes up.
At 8, I hear a scuttling behind me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a rather elaborate costume. Maybe I hadn't missed the dance after all. Then, she walked with a certain amount of embarrassment towards the stage, in a rather I-can't-believe-I-actually-let-my-friends-talk-me-into-this kind of way. There is a crackle of music. She smiles nervously at the waiter (her boyfriend?). Then the music starts for reals and she dances with that tiny-stepped, backwards-hand-bent style I saw in Cambodia. She also does a lot of side-to-side head bobbling and eye-rolling in a slightly disconcerting bobble-head way (although I'm not sure that's exactly what the ancient Hindus were going for). There is a man creepily sitting next to the stage smiling at her. Ok, maybe I misidentified him earlier as a woman, and maybe he was just off for a smoke where he wouldn't offend the ladies at his table, but it still gives the joint a hint of strip club ickiness.
Then my steak arrives, sizzling on an iron skillet. That ain't the pumpkin the menu said came with. And I thought I went with the brandy sauce, not the cream. Sigh. And by this point, it's not even worth asking. I should have been really worried when the waitress checked to see that medium-rare meant red... I didn't even bother ordering my usual rare-to-medium-rare. I shouldn't go for the Western option, I know! But they advertise local, grass-fed beef! Grass-fed, Gentle Reader! The only thing better than grass-fed beef is dry-aged grass-fed beef. I can't help it. I am a slave to food grown the way nature intended.
Granted, my steak was tasty. Grass-fed beef will do that, I guess. It was medium-rare, although perhaps more on the medium-rare-to-medium side than I would prefer. The cream sauce wasn't too heavy, fortunately, and the mushrooms that came with were fairly tasty. The sizzling skillet was a tad disconcerting, what with trying to type my notes on the iPad while maneuvering around a flaming-hot plate, but I guess I could just focus on eating. (Then where would the fun be for you, Gentle Reader? The things I do for my adoring public.)
But as I sat there with the flavor of mustard from the sauce still rolling about my tongue, and as my knife cut a little too sharply through a not-quite-soft-enough potato, I couldn't help but think: You could be a blot of mustard or a bit of underdone potato.
I wonder what sort of dreams I'll have tonight.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
The restaurant wants to be fancy. It wants it desperately. I am shown to my table for "only one" as the man repeated on the phone twice (at Elmo's, I was taught it is the height of rudeness to say "only one", I would think it would be more so in a culture that so stresses marriage). A small man, a teen most likely, quickly snatches the cloth napkin from my placemat and fuddles with it, trying to get it open. Sadly, he is a bit inept and needs to partake of some deodorant. But, he finally gets it open and spreads it across my lap with a flourish. Then, thankfully, he leaves. Moments later, a woman comes by with the menus. (Why they weren't already on the table seeing as I called ahead...)
If there's anything annoying about Bali it's this: everyone wants to have a conversation. So I am forced to make small talk with the backwait who delivers my silverware. I am forced to chat with the waitress. It's not bad enough that I'm sitting off in the corner, facing the water and not the restaurant because I have the bad taste to show up alone. No, I have to tell everyone where I'm from, how long I've been here, where I'm going next, and how long I will stay. Just to get a drink.
Up first: a welcome drink (as in "Welcome!" not as in "what a welcome surprise"). A shot (non-alcoholic) of ginger, honey, and lemongrass. With an emphasis on the ginger. Spicy! Then, my ordered drink arrives, a dolled-up version of a gin and tonic. It's nice, but I don't know if it's $6 nice (considering the relatively low price of drinks around here).
(I've been charting beer prices. It's 30,000 rupiah (about $3, give or take — I'm too lazy to do math that isn't base 10 while on holiday) for a large Bintang at my last hotel and my current hotel, plus a 10% government tax. At the mini-mart, the same Bintang is about 25,000 rupiah, so they're not wildly marking up the drinks at the hotel. The 10% tax has been standard at any service establishment. I suspect the local warung around the corner is selling Bintang for a little less than 25,000, but it's all about the same. This joint, however, was charging 45,000 rupiah for the large beer plus (get this) an 11% tax. Where does that extra percent go, eh?)
With the silverware comes a "welcome salad": corn and grated... something white. At first I thought maybe coconut, but it doesn't taste that strong. Not even as strong as daikon radish, although it is something of that texture. The corn is fresh and cut from the con. There is a pleasantly salty grittiness to it. It's probably salt, but maybe not. Maybe a mild one — I'm not up on all the fancy salts in the world. Everyone once in awhile, I get a taste of smoke. It's nice. I wish that hint were a bit brighter. And by the end, the salt is taking over. It is lovingly presented in a folded banan leaf bowl, though. (And yet, the fortune teller from the Iron Chef has just dropped the dreaded "too salty" early in the meal. We all know what that means for this challenger.)
The restaurant, I should mention, is empty but for me. It's a Sunday night at 7:15, and the place is E-M-P-T-Y and it ain't got no alibi. I was told there was dancing form 7:30 to 8:30, but if it's happening, it's not happening here.
Another table arrives. Three women of a Western persuasion, so at least I'm not alone. And it's not 8 yet, so if I'm missing the dancing, they must be, too.
Next: tomato and basil salad, with cheese. Already I am worried, this looks like the best knock-off Kraft Singles money can buy at the local Asian grocery. Milkana, maybe? Oh, yes. Shame on the restaurant that claims it uses no preservatives and makes everything fresh. Cheese ain't that hard to make. Add to that, the tomatoes are anemic. This is paradise: they can't get a farmer to keep them in heirloom, vine-ripened tomatoes throughout the sunny, tropical, with regular rainstorms climate? And the dressing is overly peppered. If they can't do it well, they shouldn't do it at all. Pretty sure those are canned olives with it too. Sigh, I should know better than to get my hopes up.
At 8, I hear a scuttling behind me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a rather elaborate costume. Maybe I hadn't missed the dance after all. Then, she walked with a certain amount of embarrassment towards the stage, in a rather I-can't-believe-I-actually-let-my-friends-talk-me-into-this kind of way. There is a crackle of music. She smiles nervously at the waiter (her boyfriend?). Then the music starts for reals and she dances with that tiny-stepped, backwards-hand-bent style I saw in Cambodia. She also does a lot of side-to-side head bobbling and eye-rolling in a slightly disconcerting bobble-head way (although I'm not sure that's exactly what the ancient Hindus were going for). There is a man creepily sitting next to the stage smiling at her. Ok, maybe I misidentified him earlier as a woman, and maybe he was just off for a smoke where he wouldn't offend the ladies at his table, but it still gives the joint a hint of strip club ickiness.
Then my steak arrives, sizzling on an iron skillet. That ain't the pumpkin the menu said came with. And I thought I went with the brandy sauce, not the cream. Sigh. And by this point, it's not even worth asking. I should have been really worried when the waitress checked to see that medium-rare meant red... I didn't even bother ordering my usual rare-to-medium-rare. I shouldn't go for the Western option, I know! But they advertise local, grass-fed beef! Grass-fed, Gentle Reader! The only thing better than grass-fed beef is dry-aged grass-fed beef. I can't help it. I am a slave to food grown the way nature intended.
Granted, my steak was tasty. Grass-fed beef will do that, I guess. It was medium-rare, although perhaps more on the medium-rare-to-medium side than I would prefer. The cream sauce wasn't too heavy, fortunately, and the mushrooms that came with were fairly tasty. The sizzling skillet was a tad disconcerting, what with trying to type my notes on the iPad while maneuvering around a flaming-hot plate, but I guess I could just focus on eating. (Then where would the fun be for you, Gentle Reader? The things I do for my adoring public.)
But as I sat there with the flavor of mustard from the sauce still rolling about my tongue, and as my knife cut a little too sharply through a not-quite-soft-enough potato, I couldn't help but think: You could be a blot of mustard or a bit of underdone potato.
I wonder what sort of dreams I'll have tonight.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Saturday, February 2, 2013
The Subway
Last spring, when the "Sh*t [insert name of esoteric subculture here] Say" meme went around the Internet, I thought of making "Sh*t Beijingers Say". Having just been speed-dating, I discovered that Western expats have a fairly limited range of interests.
My video would go something like this:
And so on. (If you need help understanding the meme, go Google "Sh*t Portlanders Say", I'll be here when you get back.)
Imagine my joy when I moved away from Line 1 and closer to Line 10. Line 10 is a no-change trip to Sanlitun or Liangmaqiao (home of the Fat Burger and Home Plate BBQ). Line 10 goes to the Airport Express, also without a transfer. And besides the aforementioned Guomao (which is the absolute worst station in the entire Beijing subway system), Line 10 is a relative sea of calm and tranquility (and breathing room) in the horrifying mass of the great unwashed and untoothbrushed that is Beijing public transportation.
All until Line 6.
You see, Line 1 had been an absolute nightmare of crowds because it was the only line that ran east-west through the middle of the city. There was never a time that Line 1 was not packed. First train? Last train? Extra packed. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner train. Weekend train. All of them: packed, packed, packed. I've been pushed onto the train and pulled off. I've gotten stuck on the train while the doors closed in my face. I've seen passengers pressed against the glass like Han Solo encased in carbonite, staring passively and forlornly at the (relative) personal space available on the platform.
But, Beijing is on a massive subway-building kick. While the subways are crowded, at least they move. Something that cannot be said about traffic on any of the ring roads. More public transportation might mean less traffic. (And a reduction in air pollution? One can only hope. Although even I am not that optimistic.)
Plans include a new line traveling east-west, basically parallel to Line 1, completion of the Line 10 loop, and an extension of a couple of other lines, finally bringing Houhai Lake and Beijing West Railway Station into the subway family.
And it seems the disembodied voice was right: If you build it, they will come.
After a pre-Christmas cold and Christmas visit to the States and a post-Christmas recuperation, I was ready to go back out. I made arrangements to meet up with a friend who also lives on Line 10 and head over to Sow Boat Brewery for some pre-Spring Festival drinks.
I got a text on my way. Line 10 was crowded. Packed. What?
I got to the terminal and saw... something that looked a lot like Line 1: there were people queued up even as the train was pulling out of the station. I called E to confirm her exact location. She was shoe-horned into the very carriage in the train that was arriving. I pushed my way to the end of the train. I pushed onto the train: I could see her bright red jacket! She was there! And we then had a conversation with a good five Chinese commuters between us giving us the "Ugh, laowai" stare the entire time.
Good times.
And yet, Line 10 still goes good places. It still goes to Liangmaqiao and Sanlitun. And, it now even hooks up with Line 1 at Wanshoulou, greatly reducing the amount of time it takes to get from my new place to my old place. But damn.
Now it's nothing but Line 1 with a 0.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
My video would go something like this:
I was on Line 1 the other day... Ugh, Guomao... I hate Guomao... I get off at Dongsishitiao and walk... I hate Line 1... You have to take Line 1? I'm sorry... I'm on Line 10... Oh, I love Line 10... I can't wait until they open Line 6... It's at Guomao? Then I'm not going... Never cross Tienanmen at 5, ever... I hate Line 1.
And so on. (If you need help understanding the meme, go Google "Sh*t Portlanders Say", I'll be here when you get back.)
Imagine my joy when I moved away from Line 1 and closer to Line 10. Line 10 is a no-change trip to Sanlitun or Liangmaqiao (home of the Fat Burger and Home Plate BBQ). Line 10 goes to the Airport Express, also without a transfer. And besides the aforementioned Guomao (which is the absolute worst station in the entire Beijing subway system), Line 10 is a relative sea of calm and tranquility (and breathing room) in the horrifying mass of the great unwashed and untoothbrushed that is Beijing public transportation.
All until Line 6.
You see, Line 1 had been an absolute nightmare of crowds because it was the only line that ran east-west through the middle of the city. There was never a time that Line 1 was not packed. First train? Last train? Extra packed. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner train. Weekend train. All of them: packed, packed, packed. I've been pushed onto the train and pulled off. I've gotten stuck on the train while the doors closed in my face. I've seen passengers pressed against the glass like Han Solo encased in carbonite, staring passively and forlornly at the (relative) personal space available on the platform.
But, Beijing is on a massive subway-building kick. While the subways are crowded, at least they move. Something that cannot be said about traffic on any of the ring roads. More public transportation might mean less traffic. (And a reduction in air pollution? One can only hope. Although even I am not that optimistic.)
Plans include a new line traveling east-west, basically parallel to Line 1, completion of the Line 10 loop, and an extension of a couple of other lines, finally bringing Houhai Lake and Beijing West Railway Station into the subway family.
And it seems the disembodied voice was right: If you build it, they will come.
After a pre-Christmas cold and Christmas visit to the States and a post-Christmas recuperation, I was ready to go back out. I made arrangements to meet up with a friend who also lives on Line 10 and head over to Sow Boat Brewery for some pre-Spring Festival drinks.
I got a text on my way. Line 10 was crowded. Packed. What?
I got to the terminal and saw... something that looked a lot like Line 1: there were people queued up even as the train was pulling out of the station. I called E to confirm her exact location. She was shoe-horned into the very carriage in the train that was arriving. I pushed my way to the end of the train. I pushed onto the train: I could see her bright red jacket! She was there! And we then had a conversation with a good five Chinese commuters between us giving us the "Ugh, laowai" stare the entire time.
Good times.
And yet, Line 10 still goes good places. It still goes to Liangmaqiao and Sanlitun. And, it now even hooks up with Line 1 at Wanshoulou, greatly reducing the amount of time it takes to get from my new place to my old place. But damn.
Now it's nothing but Line 1 with a 0.
- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?
Location:Line 10, Beijing, China
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