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.




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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.




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Location:Indonesia

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.

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Location:Bali, Indonesia

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.


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Location:Rendezvous Restaurant, Candi Dasa, Bali, Indonesia

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:

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.


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Location:Line 10, Beijing, China

Strange Things Done

Last night, I decided to attend my first Burns' Supper. For those of you who don't know, a Burns' Supper is a celebration of the Scottish poet Rabbie (not Robbie, I have been informed) Burns and all things otherwise Scottish on the anniversary of Burns' birthday. Because, of course, as we all know, if it's not Scottish, it's crap.

While I know you can find such suppers in the U.S., it was never something that came across my radar until I moved to Beijing. And while I have indeed been in Beijing for three of Burns' birthdays, his birthday just happens to fall during what is typically my Spring Festival break. And while a night of drunken, literary revelry with a bunch of Scots actually sounds like a good time, it's not been enough of a draw to delay a trip to say, Thailand or Vietnam in the middle of a cold, polluted Beijing winter. But this year, my break doesn't start for another week, so I found myself in the city for the famed evening of poetry and haggis.

My grades and comments were complete, my lessons for next week are (largely) planned, and I discovered that a Scottish friend of mine wasn't leaving town until Monday. I enlisted her help as translator, and away we went. You should know, while she is proper Scottish like, she is vegetarian, hates neeps (turnips), and doesn't care much for whisky. Yup, it was going to be an interesting evening.

Still, we donned our posh frocks, and I started practicing my best Britishisms. (See aforementioned posh frocks.)

The evening began as one might expect. We were in a small room of the local English-language bookstore/cafe/lending library. My Translator immediately proved her worth by noticing the piper, noticing the kitchen door, and selecting seats that were likely to place us far away from the path of said piper (thus saving our eardrums from some undue trauma). We sipped on our whisky (she's not totally averse to the stuff, she just prefers rum), ordered some microbrew, and prepared for the impending mayhem.

A local expat of the artistic variety (who I've met briefly at some film screenings she organizes) was the MC for the event. She also happens to be Scottish. She explained the sequence of events: Some poetry, some haggis (a vegetarian version was an option, much to my Translator's relief), some piping, some speeches, maybe some more poetry, the Toasts to the Laddies and Lassies (war of the sexes, Scottish style), and then a little open-mike for more poetry or what-have-you.

I got a gleam in my eye. My Translator looked at me and said, "No, you are not allowed." Which of course just meant that I would have to.

The MC also mentioned that she was playing the role of an adult, had not taken out "the girls" for the evening, and was wearing a high-necked dress. Fortunately, though, I had given my girls a little breathing room. (I guess it's true what they say: There can be only one.)

Bringing the Translator was definitely a wise move on my part. Not only is she my friend and good for an evening out, she provided some rather interesting and fairly key bits of information. That one poem? That was two woman comparing types of male genitalia. That thing he keeps saying? Women are the devil. She also shared some experiences she had at Burns' Nights back in Scotland when she was in the... I don't know, whatever the Scottish equivalent of the National Guard is called. I guess they cut the haggis with a proper sword. And it was far more... debauched than the event we were at. (Looking around the room, there average age of the attendees was obviously on the higher end of the scale. Mid-40s probably.)

Incidentally, my first experience with haggis was just fine. It tasted a lot like deconstructed shepherd's pie or a looser sort of meatloaf. And this was Beijing, so there's a good chance there were lungs mixed in with the oatmeal. (Ed. note: Still not puking more than 24 hours later. I'd say it was a success.)

Towards the end of the planned program, a Welsh bloke got up to sing a Welsh song (peoples colonized by the English tend to stick together). I started calling for Delilah (as you do). You might recall that I worked with a number of Welsh blokes for the last two years and was inducted into what I will call "The Cult of Delilah and All Things Tom Jones." He laughed it off, sang a rather pretty number in Welsh, and sat back down.

Some more beer and whisky later, the planned portion of the evening came to an end. It was time for submissions from the audience. The Welsh Bloke got back up and... he sang Delilah! I joined in, loudly, from the back of the room. I got some mild encouragement to join him up front, but I demurred (well, as much as one can while belting out the lyrics to a song that glorifies philandering and domestic violence).

My Translator knew what was coming next, and she still was skeptical, but I convinced her I could do it. Would do it. And it was her own fault, anyway, for telling me I couldn't.

So when the Welsh Bloke sat back down, I immediately got up and strode to the front. (I already had support from my end of room.) I gave them a brief introduction:

1. I had nothing up my sleeves and no notes,
2. I had been forbidden to do what I was about to do, so I hoped they would support me (of course a room of tipsy Brits shouted their approval),
3. What I was about to do was sometimes criticized as being a bit long, so I would give them a (slightly) abridged version,
4. And if they did find themselves getting bored, since I had brought "the girls" out with me, perhaps they would still find something worthwhile about my performance.

And without any further ado, and nothing but my teacher-voice and a deep and abiding love for being on stage, I began...

There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold

The audience began to quiet. They sensed they were in for something special.

The poem (Robert Service's "The Cremation of Sam McGee", if you haven't figured it out yet) begins with a description of Sam, a man "from Plum Tree down in Tennessee" who "was always cold" although "the land of gold"... "holds him like a spell" even though "he'd sooner live in Hell". There is a description of the cold in Alaska ("if our eyes we'd close, the lashes froze, 'til sometimes we couldn't see") and then Sam asks his friend for "a last request." Namely, when he dies (which he is predicting will be soon), he wants to be cremated so as not to spend eternity in an "icy grave".

And at this point, I realized I had them. The silence in the room was deep and total. I had their eyes. I had their hearts. I had their minds. I had them in the palm of my hand. They were listening to the story and I was building suspense (with the help of Robert Service, of course).

It is every wanna-be storyteller's dream come true.

I. Had. Them.

My Translator stood up with her camera to get video of it. (She has since expressed sadness that she didn't start from the beginning.) They laughed at the funny bits. They followed the suspenseful bits. They wanted more (and I don't think it had anything to do with the girls).

I skipped the two stanzas in the middle that I usually get all mixed up anyway (in the interest of time and as a nod to my Translator's wishes — but I really didn't need to. They would have followed me to Alaska itself. And I did miss one rhyme (maybe two) towards the end. ("I was I was sick with dread, but I bravely said...") I didn't try to fish for it (I was a few whiskys and beers in by this point of the evening, remember), but gave them a "something something that rhymes" and kept going with "I guess he's cooked and it's time I looked".

When I reached the end, when Sam exclaims that Cap needs to "close the door" because "he'll let in the cold and storm" and "since he left Plum Tree down in Tennessee, it's the first time [he's] been warm", they didn't jump all over ending praying for it to be finally over. They didn't want it to end. They waited with bated breath. And I finished the way it should, with a quiet repetition of the opening stanza.

And then. Yes, Gentle Reader. Oh yes. They applauded. Not just applauded. They cheered. They STOOD! I got a standing ovation!!!

I have delivered this poem before. It is my "party piece". And a long one indeed, usually leading to a fair amount of consternation from my listeners (hence my Translator's injunction against recitation — she had witnessed a previous, even more drunken, version while camping with my A Level compadres). They are always impressed with my ability to memorize, but they can't quite wait for it to end. They really aren't listening to the story.

But what I realized was that those tellings were just the necessary steps to be prepared for this night. I needed that, so that when I did find myself in a room with 40 slightly pished Brits gathered together to appreciate poetry, I would be ready.

It was grand. Ace, really. Just ace.

Afterwards, I got more than a few compliments, and the same question: How is it that you know the poem?

And I know I usually give long-winded responses to most questions. Typically, I have complicated reasons for the things I do. But not this time. There is a very simple reason why I have this poem memorized, and no, it has nothing to do with being crazy, a language arts teacher, or even a crazy language arts teacher.

Nope.

It's my Dad's favorite poem. So knowing it isn't strange at all.


*Once the Internet decides to work enough to email said video file, I will upload it for you to enjoy. You really can hear the silence, the appropriate laughter, and, of course, the cheering at the end.

Crazy Bad

As you might be aware, Beijing is sometimes beset by "fog." You know, the kind that arrives without any humidity in the air and has more to do with the good fung shui of the city (surrounded by mountains as it is) and industry than it does with the dew point.

You might be further aware that the U.S. embassy tracks the pollution index in the city through a Twitter feed (@BeijingAir). (In response to Chinese protests, the U.S. government has encouraged China to track and publish the pollution index in American cities.) Most ex-pats follow the Twitter feed, especially on days when the air develops a color and flavor.

Two and a half years ago, when I first started following the feed, something weird happened. Usually, the index ratings are very... academic: "healthy," "unsafe for sensitive groups," "unhealthy," "hazardous." But this day, when I checked the feed, and the number was above 500, the description was "crazy bad."

Within a day, the feed was back to its regular, academic self where anything over 500 was just "beyond index" — the scale stops at 500, you see, because those nutty scientists at the EPA never figured anyone would be living in such a nuclear winter atmosphere as all this. And I don't have any friends at the embassy, so I have no idea what happened for those few short days. I like to think an intern had a little bit of fun reprogramming the messages before heading back to the States that September, but it could have been anything: a hacker, a bored IT guy... OK, those are probably the only two other options.

So today, as the sky grew darker at noon and the air took on a definite industrial flavor, I started checking the Twitter feed. The index was over 700. (Incidentally, I have never seen it that high. So far, the highest today was 755 at 8:00 pm, right about when I was getting in a cab to head back to my apartment from a dinner of delicious hot pot with my friends.)

Now, I don't just follow the BeijingAir feed onTwitter. I also follow the Economist, and the AP, and, of course, NPR. Well, and my favorite NPR personalities, like everyone's favorite China correspondent, Louisa Lim. And there were her Tweets, pointing out just how "crazy bad" the air was.

Yes. Crazy bad.

Obviously, she was here two and a half years ago, as well. Just a little in-joke between all us Beijingren.

Bu shi meiguoren. Wo shi Beijingren.


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

Location:Beijing, China