A Dog's Life

You see a lot of unexpected things on the streets of Beijing. You see little kids peeing and pooping, grown men whizzing against any old wall, old ladies spitting, or a middle-aged man cleaning his ear with a pen knife.

But today, I saw something that really boggles the mind.

It was a poodle, a toy poodle (the Chinese love them some small dogs). The poor thing was shaved in classical poodle style — you know, with a pom-pom on its head and each leg.

But wait, there's more!

Each pom-pon was died pink. The anklets were a cotton-candy while the head was more of a Cindy Lauper hot pink.

And the dog? Was male.


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Location:Beijing, China

I Miss the East German Judge

– or –

I Guess the Cold War Really Is Over

I'll just admit right now that I haven't been keeping up with the Olympics. The whole "return to China-unpack a new apartment" thing has been keeping me distracted. And while I guess I could look for coverage in Chinese or online, I just haven't. I've never been a giant Olympics freak — at least not since I moved on from my girlish obsession with gymnastics.

But I remember those early Olympics before the Wall came down. I remember when Nadia defected to the U.S. And I remember the East German judges.

Back in the day, each event was evaluated from one to ten (one to eight for diving for some bizarre reason), and a judge from six? eight? countries each gave a score. The highest and lowest were dropped and the rest averaged. I have no idea how the judges were picked, but there always seemed to be a U.S. judge and a Russian one, a West German one and an East German one. I think France and Great Britain alternated and the other Eastern block nations must have taken a turn. I don't remember any other continents represented.

It really upped the excitement level. Because we all knew that the Eastern bloc was going to mark down the Western athletes — but we didn't know by how much... And it was obvious who your friends really were.

Skip ahead to a few weeks ago when I was staying with my sister and her family. My brother-in-law has always been something of an Olympics freak, so it goes without saying that the TV was generally tuned to the Olympics. And, if diving or gymnastics was on, well, I'd take a break from sewing to watch.

And there it was on the screen: One score. That's it. They post one score having already conferenced and marked and deducted and judged. The IOC got rid of the East German judge! (OK, so the fall of the Berlin Wall did that, too, but you get my drift.) How are you supposed to tell your allies apart from your enemies?!

And, when I'm in class and I do something particularly mean and I blame it on the East German judge, the kids just stare at me like I'm crazy... Which I am, but still.

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Scrub-a-Dub-Dub

I have spent the last few days doing something that many of you will find surprising: I have been scrubbing my kitchen. And I don't mean a little wipe-down of the cabinets, oh no. I mean full-on floor-to-ceiling scrub.

There are a few reasons why my kitchen is in such a sad state. First off, my apartment is a few years old (maybe 8-10?). While in the U.S., that would be relatively new, it is exacerbated by the other factors. First on that list is that I am now in the university district, and college students are not known for their cleanliness. Of course, a landlord should be able to clean up after someone leaves, and I can tell that there has been some wiping down of the walls, but it hasn't been done very well.

Why? Because in my experience, the Chinese aren't really all that big on cleaning. They don't mind wiping so much (although even that sometimes is a struggle), but they do have a thing against soap. All of this could add up to some grime in a Western kitchen, but then there is the fact of Chinese cooking.

The Chinese stir-fry (as I'm sure you all know), and when you stir-fry, tiny droplets of oil become airborne. Those droplets then stick to anything and everything: the walls, the ceilings, the cabinets. And when that builds up after 10 years of lackadaisical wiping with limited surfactants...

Well, even I feel the need to don the rubber gloves and fill a basin with hot-soapy water and use some elbow grease.

I am not even doing the best job. I have not moved the fridge to clean behind it — I'm frankly scared by what I'd find. And although I've considered getting a toothbrush out, I also haven't gotten that far. Maybe once I finish the first pass, because until I get it done, I am too skeezed out to put my dishes or food away.

And I still have a cabinet and a wall left.

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Location:Beijing, China

Welcome Home

Two years ago, when I flew to Beijing, I was scared. I was heading off into the Great Unknown, Alone, and it was intimidating, to say the least. Getting on the plane was an act of courage.

Last year, when I flew to Beijing, I was depressed. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, and more importantly, what I was leaving behind. Getting on the plane was once again an act of courage.

This year, getting on the plane wasn't no big thing. My summer break was short, true. Too short to really see and do everything I wanted, but it was nice. I had a wonderful time with my friends; they reminded me again and again why we are friends in the first place. I had a wonderful time with my family; they made me feel welcomed and loved and indulged my idiosyncrasies.

But I found that I was not returning to Being with the same sense of dread and fear in the pit of my stomach. I knew it would be hot, yes. I knew it would probably be smoggy, as well. I knew some of the sewer grates would smell and there would be garbage in the streets. But, it doesn't really bother me anymore. It just ... is.

Yesterday afternoon, I hopped in a taxi and went back to my old neighborhood to visit my Handler. (And buy some stuff. But more on that later.) I told the man "Yuquan Lu." He repeated it back and started driving. I sank back into the seat and started to read a magazine. He then said something else to me (which I didn't understand), and something in me was different.

I just looked up and said, "Yuquan Lu ditie." (That's Yuquan Rd. subway station for those of you who don't speak Chinese.) And he started driving.

Even three weeks ago, I would have tried to figure it out, repeated Yuquan Lu and tossed in a Wukesong or two. Then I would have reverted to English to tell him I at least knew where we were going. Finally, I would have rounded out my song and dance with a "ti bu dong" (I don't understand) or two.

But yesterday, I just leaned back again and let him drive me across town.

I had (half-jokingly) told my Handler that I might need him to talk to the cab driver when I landed, depending on my inebriation/sleep status. It turns out that I didn't need him, so I texted him that I had made it to my apartment.

He replied, "Welcome home."

Yes, I guess I am.

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Location:Beijing, China

The Difference Between Travel in China...

... And Travel in the USA

I hope you'll forgive me, Faithful Reader, but I have been awash in a whirlwind of all that is good and proper in the universe, with a healthy dose of jet lag and some alcohol sprinkled on top. But, I am now sitting in the waning Montana evening (it's turning into dusk now that it's 9:20 pm) at my old kitchen table in my old kitchen chair drinking some red wine (from a newly-opened box) in one of my crystal glasses. Of course, the kitchen table and chairs are now on B's front porch (with a piece of plastic to stop the birds from pecking out the tiles), and she will have the same opportunity to break my crystal that I enjoyed for years, but it's still very comfortable.

So let me tell you about my return trip to the US.

This year, I got smart. Along my friend who has access to some serious reward points thanks to her friend who travels a LOT, I rented a hotel room at the Sheraton in Beijing. Now, the Sheraton in the US might be just another mid-range hotel, but internationally, it qualifies as a swank hotel (the same is true with many hotels). At 5pm I finally wrapped up all my moving-related tasks, and hot and sweaty from the nasty Beijing summer, I taxied over to the hotel.

The moment I arrived, my holiday had begun. A nice young man or two came running from the lobby to open my door. And take my luggage out of the trunk. And wheel my suitcases inside. And up to my room. And set them whoever I wanted in my swank suite (did I mention the reward points?). It was actual customer service. He spoke English — at least well enough to make small talk. The air was conditioned. It was lush.

Due to the unique construction of most Chinese bathrooms, I hadn't had a bath since my Spring Festival trip, so that was first on the agenda. But, it was also free food and drinks time up in the executive lounge. What to do... what to do.

Ah yes, quick bath first (with the bath salts I dug out of their secret hidey-hole next to the sewing kit). Then food. And wine. That another nice young man kept pouring for me, while I watched movies on my iPad and occasionally gazed down on the beautiful Angdingmen roundabout.

When I finished my movie (and had a nice buzz on: a nice, slow, relaxing, no one's going to push "one more" pint of crap beer on me buzz), I meandered back downstairs to my hotel room where I called up for some more bath salts... and took another, longer bath.

Courting danger, I brought my iPad with me to continue my movie watching. Fortunately for everyone involved, no iPads were harmed in the taking of the bath.

It wasn't long after that that my Well-Connected Friend arrived. She is also moving, but she is moving to a whole new city — a new province even. It was taking her longer. (Although her torment made me feel better about my accomplishments, slight though they were.)

In the morning, we shared a cab to the airport at 0-dark-hundred, except that it's not at all dark in Beijing at 5am, and then I was on my own.

The flight was largely uneventful, except that I couldn't wipe a shit-eating grin off of my face. I told anyone who would listen just how excited I was to be going home after eleven months. Most travelers are on business and are in town for a few days or maybe a few weeks. Maybe they have one bai jiou dinner. Maybe they go from hotel to work and back and never need to step foot in a public toilet. Maybe they have a driver and never cross the street. But me? Well, that grin is hard-earned and well-deserved.

And then we flew. And flew. And flew, flew, flew, flew. I had some wine. I took some Benadryl. Yadda yadda yadda, we landed in Seattle ahead of schedule.

I went through passport control — as giddy as a schoolgirl. I declared some tea at customs. I made it to my connector gate, and all was well. In my First Known Good Toilet Since Japan, I remembered that I had brought about eight cans of Pringles back with me, and those might count as food, but I hadn't declared them. I can't explain it, but I honestly forgot I had them or maybe that they were food. So, with a slight niggling apprehension that I might be chased down and accosted for forgetting the Pringles (How could you?! I don't know, I just did. Pringles aren't really food and they aren't really from China, I guess.), I went to the Alaska Brewery for my First Known Good IPA and Sausage. Hey! it was 9 pm for me.

And then I wandered back to my gate, and that's where it all went south.

My first hint was the announcement that the flight to Spokane was delayed because the plane couldn't land. What the? Oh, the fog had rolled in the course of an hour. The plane was circling the airport... And then it was diverted to someplace like Yakima. Ouch. All this while my flight is supposed to be boarding, which it isn't.

Of course, of all the half-hour commuter flights to Portland, mine was the plane that was not there and can't land. The flight was straight-up cancelled, and we have to see the ticket agent for a new flight.

I went from ecstatic to shattered in about a tenth of a second. I had been up since 4:30am my time, stayed awake for the four hours to get to my flight, dozed on my 12-hour flight, and hung around in the airport for another hour and a half. All this on top of a major move and some pretty tearful good-byes. I didn't know if I was coming or going, how long I had been alive (had I lost time in there? gained time?), or even what time it was.

The upshot is that I ended up being near the end of the re-booking line. Then, when the nice lady came over to relieve the line I was in, we all turned around and crossed the aisle, and instead of being four from the end, I was just at the end.

The guy ahead of me got on the 8:30 flight with a chance to goo stand-by on the one departing immediately. The lady ahead of me got a seat on the 8. Me? The person who really just needs to go to sleep? I got a seat on the 8:30. No stand-by. No 8:00.

I wanted to cry, but I was too tired.

But then I realized something. Sure, I was standing far away from the gate when the announcement was made, but I still got in line. Once in line, no one tried to shove past me. No elbows were thrown. No voices were raised. We stood in the queue. We were helped. I still made it Portland and was only an hour late.

Best of all, I knew exactly what was going on and I didn't have to call anyone for help.


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Location:Seattle, WA

Last Night in Yuquan Lu

When I moved to China, I had no idea what I was doing. I had rarely left the States, and a couple of trips to Canada and a honeymoon to a Four Seasons Resort hardly count. I did little-to-no research. I didn't even buy a guide book for Beijing. I can't describe to you just how naive I was.

There is one thing I paid close attention to: in-flight reading. I did know the flying hours I was up against, and I went to Powell's in search of the perfect book. I wanted something that was dense and meaningful, but it couldn't be too academic or obtuse. I needed it to last, and hold my attention, and distract me from the inevitable dark moments. Oh, and I waaay prefer fiction to nonfiction.

This is not an easy book to find.

But I persevered. And there, in the fiction room, I saw it: Last Night in Twisted River, by John Irving. It was (is?) is newest.

A friend of mine turned me on to John years ago when I asked for summer beach reading recommendations. I think that's when I read A Prayer for Owen Meany. And it went from there. Irving remains one of my favorite authors for just the kind of reading I was looking for: dense but pleasurable, with strong characters, intricate plots, and a hefty page count. When you add in a setting that usually includes New England, you have a winning combination.

Having read enough Irving, I know that he has some favorite tropes: prep schools, wrestling, the aforementioned New England towns, tattoos, and bears. I love him just for the bears alone. (Although it's good not to read too many in a row for fear of accusing him of repetition, and I would hate to do that.)

Book in hand, along with a pile of luggage and a growing sense of dread at the unknown I was heading for, I boarded the plane.

Irving did not disappoint. LNiTR opens in a New Hampshire logging camp not all that far, or really that much different, from my hometown in Maine. The rivers featured in the book run through Maine. The characters spend some time in Maine. And there was a bear in chapter one. Scared, alone, nervous, and flying into the unknown, I had Irving to ground me.

I landed in Beijing and quickly fell in with the best lot of mates a girl could ever hope for, and certainly better than she'd ask for. You've been reading the blogs (I assume), so by now you know just how important the Boys and my Handler have been to me for the last two years. You know how difficult life in my very Chinese neighborhood sometimes was and how they have gotten me through every one of those moments.

They have shared successes and failures, Thanksgivings (even though only my Canadian really understands the holiday) and Christmases, in-jokes and bad jokes (you don't want to hear about two nuns in a bath), cheese and chocolate, and pint after pint of shitty Chinese beer. They have forever changed my idiolect (as I'm sure you've noticed in my writing — or maybe only noticed me bitching about it). They've introduced me to "Delilah", rugby, and more uses for the word piss than I ever imagined existed. They can describe me to a T (when pushed) and know my preferred McDonald's breakfast order (as I know theirs). What I'm getting at is that they've had my back from day 1. If I ever needed something: a beer, a couch to crash on, someone to listen, a laugh, or even a pair of glasses, they were always there. Always.

Now I am moving on to a new posting. Although I am staying in Beijing, I am moving schools and neighborhoods. So while it's not a compete good-bye, it will be a change and I've been feeling a little nostalgic.

So on Tuesday evening, we went out for our last night in Yuquan Lu. A number of the Boys are also moving — some willingly and some not so much. It rained. Sweet Baby Jesus, did it ever rain. The heavens opened up and it poured buckets. I still had a ton of stuff to do (I was wearing my Handler's old glasses since I'd demolished my own, just for a hint of the madness level). And, well, what was it going to do? Rain on me? I still had the key to my apartment, spare clothes, electricity, hot water, and a towel (a froody dude always knows where her towel is). So I got wet. I slogged through ankle-deep shitty water (and I mean that literally although I'm trying not to think about it).

We all did.

We sat outside and drank pint after pint. We swore each one was just "one more". We laughed. We joked. Sometimes, we yelled. We sang "Delilah" to Mr. Smashing — it was a little premature but we had to get it done before he left for the airport. We took silly photos. We toasted. (We skipped the baijou, thankfully.) We went pee in an absolutely filthy toilet with limited running water and no bins. It was the Yuquan Lu.

The YQL was tough, no doubt about it. It's not always pretty. It's not always nice. But, it was where I lived. I'm going to miss it.

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Location:Yuquan Lu, Shijingshan District, Beijing, PRC

Welcome to Adulthood

Traditionally in China, everyone has the same birthday. I hear that they are also all considered a year old when they are born, but I don't have definitive evidence of that (I know that is true in Korea, even today — well, they recognize a Korean and a Western age even today). Your, and everyone else's birthday, happens at the new year (or Spring Festival as those of us in the know call it). You only get to celebrate your own birthday when you're older than everyone else, but by then, everyone who was around when you were born is already dead, so I'm not sure how you figure out what your birthday is... But that's incidental to this post.

As a result, the school hosts an "adult ceremony" for all of the seniors right before Spring Festival (in January or February — yes, this post is very old) because that is when they all "turn" 18. Before you jump to conclusions, remember that two of my very good friends were actual, real-live debutantes in their respective Southern towns. Anyone who's spent even a passing amount of time on MTV has seen My Super Sweet Sixteen. And, just about all of my female students in Salinas had a Quinceanera. (Of course, those of us who grew up in boring New England had no such rites of passage, but I'm not bitter.)

Anyone who taught the seniors was "cordially invited" to attend the ceremony. About half an hour in, I remembered that I brought my iPad and started to take notes. Without further ado, we join the BNDS A Level Centre's Adult Ceremony, already in progress.

All of A2A is on the stage. They sing three songs with a running slide show behind them. There are not enough microphones and an obvious karaoke track under most of the songs. Then, they all came on stage holding candles. They weren't playing "This Little Light of Mine", although it might have been, but some suitably slow Chinese song. At the end, they all said something to their parents, I think, and then blew out their candles. Maybe blowing out the candle on their youth? How fitting that the youngest, a full year younger having skipped a grade, couldn't seem to blow out her candle. It took her three tries.

Then A2X took over.
The lights went all epileptic and the girls came out in matching white faire isle sweaters with black tights and trainers. They were dancing to "It's My Life", but without the attitude that makes American cheerleaders sell their modern dance moves. Bless. They just don't have the sexual innuendo of a Western teen.

Tracy came out and sang in Chinese a capella. But his back-up ruined the effect by wearing track suit bottoms with a suit coat. Go Tom. They read a bunch of... something (all in Chinese, of course), but there was still only one mic, and they clumsily passed it from hand to hand. The school has robo-lights, but it can't invest in another wireless mic or two?

Then a group of four came out for karaoke. Let's ignore the snake skin stripper heels for a moment, and focus on the audio. I can hear the audio track, but I can't hear the students. But about those shoes, the one foot in front of the other hip swing walk really doesn't help dispel the stripper look the 4 1/2" heels created.

And then the tears started. The whole class came on stage in three distinct lines, and the girls started talking. And crying. And then the groups switched. And on it went. Tank felt the need to answer his phone. On stage.

They then broke up to get some flowers to give to their parents. I was really worried because the program mentioned "reading letters from parents and interviewing the students". I thought it would be a one-by-one kind of thing. Fortunately not. The students talked to their parents individually, and there were some more tears.

But then it was the Clapping Ceremony. I am not joking. Principal Li put on his white gloves. The students lined up in the back of the room, and then their parents took each one by the hand and walked them over a "bridge" made of risers of different heights and then through the Adult Gate (made of cardboard in the best Prom style). Don't forget our girls are in stripper heels — but they do not having a stripper's skillz to walk in said heels. Of course, there were cameras everywhere. Some more hugs and tears with the parents, and then the students walked up on the stage where the principal clapped them on the shoulder three times, straight down. Clap. Clap. Clap. And this wasn't a tap. Poor Holly, a thin, little slip of a girl, was almost knocked over in the process.

The students walked off the stage and shook all the teachers' hands in one giant receiving line. With photographers. And hugs. And tears. My poor Canadian got all flustered and ended up thanking the kids instead of congratulating them.

After the Clapping, we sat back down. I forget now why the flag ceremony came in at this time (quite likely there was no reason), but the kids folded up the flag. I didn't know you folded a flag like a blanket. Or that you put it on a chair to fold it the last couple of times. I somehow doubt that the Chinese, patriotic as they are, don't have more formal rules for handling a flag, and having seen the weekly flag ceremony at school, I doubt they there are not people at school aware of said rules. But there it was.

And then, teachers' wishes. There's nothing like seeing yourself on the big screen. The students had come around to all the teachers and taped us giving them our wishes for the future. I hauled out my parents' tried and true advice: Use your intelligence guided by experience, and watch out for the drunks and fools.

One final thought: That bunny rabbit on the screen has a safety pin in its ear. I didn't know the Chinese had punk rock rabbits.

A few hours after it began, it was over. And in a classic move, those of us in attendance went for a beer... What was that about drunks and fools?

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Location:Beijing, China