The hardest adjustment for me, other than sleep, has been food. I’ve had stomach problems for a decade, which is a significant portion of my life. I’ve been through all different types of pills/meds and one slightly scary procedure. By this point in my life, I’d resolved to live in some amount of pain.
Asia was my cure.
I’m not really sure how or why this worked, but the food in Asia just agreed with me. I think it has to do with the crazy amount of veggies, but I’m no foodie, nor stomach-doc, so I really don’t know.
What I do know, is that for the first time in my adult life I was eating pineapples, drinking orange juice, and loading on the chili sauce like it was my job. Maybe I’m allergic to cheese?? Nah, can’t be.
There were times in Beijing when Kel and I would get tired of cooking, and seek out some western food. I felt really guilty when I’d eat what seemed like a long string of western food. Now that I think about it, I always ate Chinese food for lunch, so I never went more than two days eating entirely western food.
Being home, looking at my stretch of endless meals of hot dogs, lasagna, and meatball subs (all which I find incredibly delicious) my stomach turns in knots. In a typical Chinese meal it is common to have dishes that aren’t all food. Dishes are served with peppercorns, dried chilies, basil leaves, not to mention shells and bones. The meal takes long because you have to pick through it, in addition to balance it in your chopsticks, making smaller bites the norm.
Yesterday I walked down to the “slip” a friendly little shack down on the Mattapoisett Wharf. I got the cheese dog that I’d been craving for eleven and a half months. Two seconds later, bewildered, I was sitting on the rocks by the water with just an empty cardboard sleeve. I was hungry, and now I’m already full? That was a meal? It didn’t seem possible, but my stomach was so full of cheese, bread, and meat that I knew I couldn’t extend this “meal” if I tried.
Biggest Chinese Food Craving: Sichuan Green Beans, which are little spicy treasures buried under peppercorns, chilies, garlic gloves, ginger, and I’m sure many other treasures I was never able to identify.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Strangest Things about America as a New Returnee
1. Everyone speaks English
2. There is English EVERYWHERE
3. Strangers are friendly and polite (especially in small town MA)
4. The food feels like bricks in your stomach
5. You can add cheese to almost any food
6. You don’t have to wait through Chinese for an English version of announcements
7. So few Asians!/So many blondes!
8. You can look up anything you want on the internet
9. You can find the names and addresses of new restaurants easily
10. Google maps in ENGLISH
11. People you know and love are all around or a phone call away
12. Facebook and Youtube…ANYTIME!
13. More coffee than tea
14. Tea = little bags served in giant mugs instead of pots with little cups
15. Clothes and Shoes in American sizes (I’m no longer a giant with clown feet)
16. If you’re lost you can ask directions to anyone
17. Using phrases like, “I was wondering if you know…” instead of pointing to something and raising/furrowing your eyebrows with bent elbows and palms faced up
18. Western toilets with toilet paper everywhere
19. Bathrooms in every restaurant
20. Hardly any spicy food
2. There is English EVERYWHERE
3. Strangers are friendly and polite (especially in small town MA)
4. The food feels like bricks in your stomach
5. You can add cheese to almost any food
6. You don’t have to wait through Chinese for an English version of announcements
7. So few Asians!/So many blondes!
8. You can look up anything you want on the internet
9. You can find the names and addresses of new restaurants easily
10. Google maps in ENGLISH
11. People you know and love are all around or a phone call away
12. Facebook and Youtube…ANYTIME!
13. More coffee than tea
14. Tea = little bags served in giant mugs instead of pots with little cups
15. Clothes and Shoes in American sizes (I’m no longer a giant with clown feet)
16. If you’re lost you can ask directions to anyone
17. Using phrases like, “I was wondering if you know…” instead of pointing to something and raising/furrowing your eyebrows with bent elbows and palms faced up
18. Western toilets with toilet paper everywhere
19. Bathrooms in every restaurant
20. Hardly any spicy food
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Back in America
I left Beijing at 6 pm on Friday, July 22, and I arrived back in Toronto at 6:40 pm the same day. Time differences can really shake you up.
As soon as I got off the plane people have been asking me how it is being home, like I have an answer. Maybe I’m supposed to, but it was all so confusing. The jetlag didn’t help. There’s nothing like being the exact opposite, 12-hours of night/day for a year to mess up your sleep schedule. I’ve been home for almost a week now, and I’m still getting up at 6 am. I haven’t slept for more than 5 hours at a time.
Coming home, especially to my parents’ house in Mattapoisett, is an especially strange way to re-enter the country. In “the house that time forgot”, everything was at firs eerily the same, as if I’d never left. My face wash and toothbrush sat waiting for me on the sink, as if I’d used them this morning instead of last August.
It felt comforting to hug my parents and let them drive me home after a year of trying to figure out taxi pictures armed with pre-printed maps and addresses in Chinese. At the same time, I know that I am different, and out of practice responding politely to their smothering care.
In our driveway, my father gave me point-by-point instructions as I lifted one of my suitcases from the back seat. Sure, I’d packed and lugged three giant suitcases from the hostel in Beijing to the airport, and through customs in Canada, but I do need help getting just one out of a car.
Of course under and above it all I am lucky to have them, and happy to be back. I find myself missing China, though. My last month there, traveling and spending time in Beijing without work, was so relaxing and fulfilling. I finally found out enough places to get around to, and people I genuinely enjoyed going there with. I had a solid rock climbing, Brazillian dancing, swimming, and biking regimen that made it actually fun to do things sober. It’s like my life just figured out how to get good there, and then it was over.
I hope to go abroad again, and when I do, to stay for two years. One just isn’t enough to make a life somewhere else. Or in my case, not enough time to live it.
As soon as I got off the plane people have been asking me how it is being home, like I have an answer. Maybe I’m supposed to, but it was all so confusing. The jetlag didn’t help. There’s nothing like being the exact opposite, 12-hours of night/day for a year to mess up your sleep schedule. I’ve been home for almost a week now, and I’m still getting up at 6 am. I haven’t slept for more than 5 hours at a time.
Coming home, especially to my parents’ house in Mattapoisett, is an especially strange way to re-enter the country. In “the house that time forgot”, everything was at firs eerily the same, as if I’d never left. My face wash and toothbrush sat waiting for me on the sink, as if I’d used them this morning instead of last August.
It felt comforting to hug my parents and let them drive me home after a year of trying to figure out taxi pictures armed with pre-printed maps and addresses in Chinese. At the same time, I know that I am different, and out of practice responding politely to their smothering care.
In our driveway, my father gave me point-by-point instructions as I lifted one of my suitcases from the back seat. Sure, I’d packed and lugged three giant suitcases from the hostel in Beijing to the airport, and through customs in Canada, but I do need help getting just one out of a car.
Of course under and above it all I am lucky to have them, and happy to be back. I find myself missing China, though. My last month there, traveling and spending time in Beijing without work, was so relaxing and fulfilling. I finally found out enough places to get around to, and people I genuinely enjoyed going there with. I had a solid rock climbing, Brazillian dancing, swimming, and biking regimen that made it actually fun to do things sober. It’s like my life just figured out how to get good there, and then it was over.
I hope to go abroad again, and when I do, to stay for two years. One just isn’t enough to make a life somewhere else. Or in my case, not enough time to live it.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Right Question Wrong Time
I was having lunch at a mini-hot pot place, where the customers sit at the counter in front of their own individual pot. You can order any meat or vegetable that you’d like to put in, but unlike dinner Hot Pot, you have your own pot and cook it at your own pace.
L suggested that we get one of the set meals, which come with one type of meat, and a giant plate of veggies, tofu, and other sides. I chose the lamb and L chose the shrimp, which was the cheapest of the meats. (Shrimp, like crawfish, are served with the heads and legs still intact.)
I mixed the seed-paste that I mistakenly referred to as peanut sauce (for its remarkable similarity) to the amusement of L, with the cilantro in the bowl. Then I put a few ladels of the sweet and sour hot pot broth to make a soup. Then I selected spinach, cabbage, carrots, etc. and lamb at different times, waiting and then adding them to my bowl.
The tofu came in light and dark. I boiled some white tofu, ate it, and then boiled some dark. I ate half of the dark tofu, and then asked, “What is this?”
With my chopsticks hovering on the way to my mouth, L told me, “Pig’s blood.”
L suggested that we get one of the set meals, which come with one type of meat, and a giant plate of veggies, tofu, and other sides. I chose the lamb and L chose the shrimp, which was the cheapest of the meats. (Shrimp, like crawfish, are served with the heads and legs still intact.)
I mixed the seed-paste that I mistakenly referred to as peanut sauce (for its remarkable similarity) to the amusement of L, with the cilantro in the bowl. Then I put a few ladels of the sweet and sour hot pot broth to make a soup. Then I selected spinach, cabbage, carrots, etc. and lamb at different times, waiting and then adding them to my bowl.
The tofu came in light and dark. I boiled some white tofu, ate it, and then boiled some dark. I ate half of the dark tofu, and then asked, “What is this?”
With my chopsticks hovering on the way to my mouth, L told me, “Pig’s blood.”
Muffin Movie
Of course, the movie had Chinese subtitles instead of English. Luckily, I was able to follow most of what went on from L’s helpful history over tea, and her whisperings in the theater. Also, by now I’m more than used to getting by on 90% facial expression and guessing what would make sense.
Even for me, it was hard not to idolize Muffin on the big screen. They choose a strong, handsome, famous actor who portrayed Muffin as a gallant young man with strong ideas and the convictions to make his dreams happen. When Muffin spoke, the people around him either chanted his words or burst into song.
The movie went into detail about his first marriage, romanticizing the love and connection with long pauses, watching fireworks, and soft background music. (In real life, this wife was killed for her connection to Muffin, and he went on to marry three more times.)
L told me that every major part in the movie was played by a very famous actor, all of whom worked for free to show their devotion to the C party. I can’t imagine a way in which American Nationalism could cause an all-star cast to work for free.
Looking around, I also had a hard time imagining getting crowds and crowds of Americans to see a movie made about our founding of Democracy, even with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie staring as whoever’s responsible and his wife.
As L studied English, she was forced to memorize a tremendous amount of American History. She knows more about the Mayflower and Boston Tea party than I do, and I’m from Cape Cod. She told me, “Ugg, why did my teacher make me learn all these things! They are useless! No one, not even Americans, want to talk about these things.” I told her, not only do we not want to talk about it, most of us don’t even know it anymore if we ever did.
How different might Nationalism be in our country if history made it onto the big screen and was part of people’s Saturday plans?
Even for me, it was hard not to idolize Muffin on the big screen. They choose a strong, handsome, famous actor who portrayed Muffin as a gallant young man with strong ideas and the convictions to make his dreams happen. When Muffin spoke, the people around him either chanted his words or burst into song.
The movie went into detail about his first marriage, romanticizing the love and connection with long pauses, watching fireworks, and soft background music. (In real life, this wife was killed for her connection to Muffin, and he went on to marry three more times.)
L told me that every major part in the movie was played by a very famous actor, all of whom worked for free to show their devotion to the C party. I can’t imagine a way in which American Nationalism could cause an all-star cast to work for free.
Looking around, I also had a hard time imagining getting crowds and crowds of Americans to see a movie made about our founding of Democracy, even with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie staring as whoever’s responsible and his wife.
As L studied English, she was forced to memorize a tremendous amount of American History. She knows more about the Mayflower and Boston Tea party than I do, and I’m from Cape Cod. She told me, “Ugg, why did my teacher make me learn all these things! They are useless! No one, not even Americans, want to talk about these things.” I told her, not only do we not want to talk about it, most of us don’t even know it anymore if we ever did.
How different might Nationalism be in our country if history made it onto the big screen and was part of people’s Saturday plans?
Saturday, July 2, 2011
The Rise of the C P
So as not to incriminate myself further than need be to the authorities, I will refer to the ruler ending in “ao” instead with the word Muffin.
I have been having lunch with my now former assistant, L, which has really helped me to see (and eat) more like the non-expats do in Beijing. She suggested that we go for a movie, and when we looked at the list I noticed that many of the theaters were playing, “The Rise of the Communist Party.”
This, she told me, was the number one movie in China, specially released on July 1st, the 90th anniversary of the communist party. L’s husband is a party member, as is her best and only friend in Beijing, but she is not because she “doesn’t like to write reports.” Apparently being a member involves many meetings and report writing of how you are and what you’re thinking/doing. Her husband and friend, who work with the government, have no choice but to be party members.
As the only movie in English playing was “Kung Fu Panda II”, I readily agreed/insisted that we see The Rise of the C.P. L made sure there were English subtitles, and we bought our tickets.
Before going in, we got some tea and I asked her what I should know before seeing the movie. She explained to be how in the beginning of the 20th century, China was “like a cake” and everyone wanted a piece, to divide it up for their own country. She explained that this movie was about the people deciding to stop following the last emperor, who was a small child at the time, but without knowing which country’s method of government to follow. The movie, she told me, follows Muffin from just a teenage nobody to his founding of the C party.
Sometime later in this same conversation, Hitler came up, and I dared to point out how the German people had taken down all of his statues, etc., but Muffin can be seen everywhere from the Forbidden City to every bill of their money to the #1 movie in China. She looked right at me and said, “Why would you compare these two? There is nothing the same about them.” I didn’t want to press, but ended saying something like, “Well, Muffin did many not nice things.” She answered that you must do not nice things while in war, in order to win.
I didn’t want to prod her, least of all about the not nice things having been done to her own people by Muffin. I found it most interesting, however, that she said every year on holidays the only thing on TV is historical documentaries replaying the terror that the Japanese caused, and the Chinese lives that they wasted, “So we don’t forget.”
I have been having lunch with my now former assistant, L, which has really helped me to see (and eat) more like the non-expats do in Beijing. She suggested that we go for a movie, and when we looked at the list I noticed that many of the theaters were playing, “The Rise of the Communist Party.”
This, she told me, was the number one movie in China, specially released on July 1st, the 90th anniversary of the communist party. L’s husband is a party member, as is her best and only friend in Beijing, but she is not because she “doesn’t like to write reports.” Apparently being a member involves many meetings and report writing of how you are and what you’re thinking/doing. Her husband and friend, who work with the government, have no choice but to be party members.
As the only movie in English playing was “Kung Fu Panda II”, I readily agreed/insisted that we see The Rise of the C.P. L made sure there were English subtitles, and we bought our tickets.
Before going in, we got some tea and I asked her what I should know before seeing the movie. She explained to be how in the beginning of the 20th century, China was “like a cake” and everyone wanted a piece, to divide it up for their own country. She explained that this movie was about the people deciding to stop following the last emperor, who was a small child at the time, but without knowing which country’s method of government to follow. The movie, she told me, follows Muffin from just a teenage nobody to his founding of the C party.
Sometime later in this same conversation, Hitler came up, and I dared to point out how the German people had taken down all of his statues, etc., but Muffin can be seen everywhere from the Forbidden City to every bill of their money to the #1 movie in China. She looked right at me and said, “Why would you compare these two? There is nothing the same about them.” I didn’t want to press, but ended saying something like, “Well, Muffin did many not nice things.” She answered that you must do not nice things while in war, in order to win.
I didn’t want to prod her, least of all about the not nice things having been done to her own people by Muffin. I found it most interesting, however, that she said every year on holidays the only thing on TV is historical documentaries replaying the terror that the Japanese caused, and the Chinese lives that they wasted, “So we don’t forget.”
Friday, June 24, 2011
Haircut II
It was time. Well, it was past time, considering the last time I ventured a haircut was back in February when I was last in an English-speaking country.
This time, I ventured back to the place where I had brought a translating friend in the fall armed only with a pencil sketch of the profiled view of the shape I was looking for. (Thanks, Kelly!)
Even in Wudaokou, home to many English-speaking ex-pats and English-friendly restaurants, everyone at this place acted like I was the first laowei (foreigner) to cross the threshold. It is possible I’m the first English-only expat who tried to get her hair cut there.
They asked me lots of questions, to which my only response was to hold up the picture and try to show the angle with my hand on my hair showing short in the back, long in the front. Some asked me something, which to me sounded like, “Yada yada 30-something, 50-something, 100-something?”
I know my numbers, but sometimes they speak so quickly I can’t make it out. My best guess was that they were telling me my expenses, which ended up around ¥100/$15, which is ridiculously overpriced. (The average haircut, even at nice places is ¥20-30.) Nevertheless, I didn’t have much ability to argue, and was willing to pay the extra price just for shorter hair in this deadly hot Beijing summer.
“Dui, ok,” I answered. The guy just looked at me and repeated. “Dui, ok” I answered. He left.
By the time another person came by, also saying the same thing in Chinese, I realized I was being given a choice. What that choice meant, hover, I had no idea. I went with the middle option, around ¥50, just to be safe.
I had to wonder, though, what is the difference between different prices when you’re talking about a haircut?? Do they care about you more? Cut it more even?
The ex-pat, English-only world may never know.
This time, I ventured back to the place where I had brought a translating friend in the fall armed only with a pencil sketch of the profiled view of the shape I was looking for. (Thanks, Kelly!)
Even in Wudaokou, home to many English-speaking ex-pats and English-friendly restaurants, everyone at this place acted like I was the first laowei (foreigner) to cross the threshold. It is possible I’m the first English-only expat who tried to get her hair cut there.
They asked me lots of questions, to which my only response was to hold up the picture and try to show the angle with my hand on my hair showing short in the back, long in the front. Some asked me something, which to me sounded like, “Yada yada 30-something, 50-something, 100-something?”
I know my numbers, but sometimes they speak so quickly I can’t make it out. My best guess was that they were telling me my expenses, which ended up around ¥100/$15, which is ridiculously overpriced. (The average haircut, even at nice places is ¥20-30.) Nevertheless, I didn’t have much ability to argue, and was willing to pay the extra price just for shorter hair in this deadly hot Beijing summer.
“Dui, ok,” I answered. The guy just looked at me and repeated. “Dui, ok” I answered. He left.
By the time another person came by, also saying the same thing in Chinese, I realized I was being given a choice. What that choice meant, hover, I had no idea. I went with the middle option, around ¥50, just to be safe.
I had to wonder, though, what is the difference between different prices when you’re talking about a haircut?? Do they care about you more? Cut it more even?
The ex-pat, English-only world may never know.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The East Is Red
I’m not even sure I should be uploading this (or the next few articles) while still in the red zone, but hey, I’m close enough to my plane ticket back that hopefully I’ll still make it out alive.
My friend Annie, a professional puppet maker traveling around China on a Fulbright scholarship, decided to have her birthday party at The East is Red, a venue for communist dinner theater.
All of the waiters and waitresses are in communist gear/uniforms. The dining room was large, with about 100 round tables filled with Chinese people. Our own table, set off to the side, was the only with foreigners. While we ate the workers took turns singing and dancing, sometimes with guns or flags thrown into the choreography.
I was hesitant to have any reaction at first. The last thing I wanted was to be the laughing foreigner while an enormous crowd of communists cheered on, glasses raised. The reaction of the crowd, however, did fluctuate between laughter, cheering, and nostalgic nodding.
Everything from the songs to the announcers to the menu was in Mandarin, so, as always, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. I know that I saw people raising their fists in the air with a bent elbow, a sign of the communist party which stands for, “My head follows my heart.” (Incidentally, this has been brought into Chinese weddings, where the happy couple makes this “We Can Do It” fist as they say their vows.)
Every one of us was given a red flag, and during certain especially celebratory songs, it was amazing to see all of the flags waving together, our own included. Before we were given flags, one of our friends, as especially enthusiastic boy, stood on his chair and raised the red chair covering to the beat of the music. He was welcomed by a neighboring table of what looked like business men to a shot of bi jiu (the strong, horrible, Chinese liquor), which he regrettably took. Before leaving, he was even given a Communist Kaleidoscope. This is all to say that, as a lonely American in a communist crowd, one needn’t worry of projecting sarcasm.
My friend Annie, a professional puppet maker traveling around China on a Fulbright scholarship, decided to have her birthday party at The East is Red, a venue for communist dinner theater.
All of the waiters and waitresses are in communist gear/uniforms. The dining room was large, with about 100 round tables filled with Chinese people. Our own table, set off to the side, was the only with foreigners. While we ate the workers took turns singing and dancing, sometimes with guns or flags thrown into the choreography.
I was hesitant to have any reaction at first. The last thing I wanted was to be the laughing foreigner while an enormous crowd of communists cheered on, glasses raised. The reaction of the crowd, however, did fluctuate between laughter, cheering, and nostalgic nodding.
Everything from the songs to the announcers to the menu was in Mandarin, so, as always, I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. I know that I saw people raising their fists in the air with a bent elbow, a sign of the communist party which stands for, “My head follows my heart.” (Incidentally, this has been brought into Chinese weddings, where the happy couple makes this “We Can Do It” fist as they say their vows.)
Every one of us was given a red flag, and during certain especially celebratory songs, it was amazing to see all of the flags waving together, our own included. Before we were given flags, one of our friends, as especially enthusiastic boy, stood on his chair and raised the red chair covering to the beat of the music. He was welcomed by a neighboring table of what looked like business men to a shot of bi jiu (the strong, horrible, Chinese liquor), which he regrettably took. Before leaving, he was even given a Communist Kaleidoscope. This is all to say that, as a lonely American in a communist crowd, one needn’t worry of projecting sarcasm.
Friday, June 10, 2011
A Night at the (Chinese/HipHop) Ballet
When my friend Roxanne told me about a dance performance she was going to that mixed Ballet, Hiphop, and traditional Chinese dance, I was sold. Seeing a dance performance was one of the few stragglers on my Beijing Bucket List, and this one sounded even more interesting than I had imagined. The choreographer was from France, but had worked in Africa and China as well as Europe.
Roxanne had been to a Q and A with him, where she learned that dance was only his second career. He was drawn to hip hop as an adult when he realized there was not much choreography for women. Now, he specializes in chorogrpahing for women, although there are still men in his performances.
Propelled by this new information, I once again set my naïve feminist self up for disappointment. At this point I’m not sure if it’s an American lense that made me think he would have a feminist perspective, or just my own natural tendencies. Regardless, I never would have expected for the majority and finale of the one-hour performance to involve the men using numchucks to beat, strangle, and kill the female dancers.
I’ll admit that it was visually interesting, and it did make me think. One of the creepiest parts was that many of their moves were the same or very similar to partnered ballet, with the addition of weapons and violent exaggerations.
At the last second of the performance, the men do fall down and the women take the numchucks and throw them to the ground. For me though, after more than 30 minutes of being tossed around, r the girls should have at least gotten a few punches themselves.
Favorite Performance: The first dance, where the five men wore long skirts and long feathers attached to their elbows as extensions of their arms. The movement was gorgeous and I could really see the mixture of Chinese and modern ballet, if not necessarily hip hop.
Roxanne had been to a Q and A with him, where she learned that dance was only his second career. He was drawn to hip hop as an adult when he realized there was not much choreography for women. Now, he specializes in chorogrpahing for women, although there are still men in his performances.
Propelled by this new information, I once again set my naïve feminist self up for disappointment. At this point I’m not sure if it’s an American lense that made me think he would have a feminist perspective, or just my own natural tendencies. Regardless, I never would have expected for the majority and finale of the one-hour performance to involve the men using numchucks to beat, strangle, and kill the female dancers.
I’ll admit that it was visually interesting, and it did make me think. One of the creepiest parts was that many of their moves were the same or very similar to partnered ballet, with the addition of weapons and violent exaggerations.
At the last second of the performance, the men do fall down and the women take the numchucks and throw them to the ground. For me though, after more than 30 minutes of being tossed around, r the girls should have at least gotten a few punches themselves.
Favorite Performance: The first dance, where the five men wore long skirts and long feathers attached to their elbows as extensions of their arms. The movement was gorgeous and I could really see the mixture of Chinese and modern ballet, if not necessarily hip hop.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Duck Dinner and Dancing
The place was new for me, off of the Beixinqiao stop, which is apparently a stretch of duck restaurants as far as the eye can see, all begging for customers from the street. I was happy to have a reservation. Whenever we go out with Sarah, it’s a wonder for me, as I get to watch how someone might live in this city if they could communicate with the people around them. Simple things like checking up on a reservation, or making requests about the menu other than pointing and saying “zhiga” or “this” is usually a lost cause.
The restaurant was decorated in traditional Chinese style, as a large hutong. Sarah had us face the window to the next room so that we could see “the show.” I didn’t know what to expect, but what I saw was a mix between a Chinese Opera and a low budget circus.
The first few acts were juggling, using giant beer bottles, plates, and knives. It made me nervous in the way that only watching something in real life instead of TV can, because at any moment something could go horribly wrong.
The next act was a plate spinner, who put the plates on 4-foot long metal poles and then spun them. He balanced 16 of these over two tables, rushing to this one and that one which was wobbling and about to fall.
The final act was a more traditional Chinese performance, where a man in ornate robes and long feathers on his elbows dances with sharp motions. He wears many layers of masks, and throughout the dance he removes them so quickly that it seems his face has changed color.
I’m always happy to eat Peking Duck, but I’ll admit that this night it was a little hard to focus on making those pancakes!
The restaurant was decorated in traditional Chinese style, as a large hutong. Sarah had us face the window to the next room so that we could see “the show.” I didn’t know what to expect, but what I saw was a mix between a Chinese Opera and a low budget circus.
The first few acts were juggling, using giant beer bottles, plates, and knives. It made me nervous in the way that only watching something in real life instead of TV can, because at any moment something could go horribly wrong.
The next act was a plate spinner, who put the plates on 4-foot long metal poles and then spun them. He balanced 16 of these over two tables, rushing to this one and that one which was wobbling and about to fall.
The final act was a more traditional Chinese performance, where a man in ornate robes and long feathers on his elbows dances with sharp motions. He wears many layers of masks, and throughout the dance he removes them so quickly that it seems his face has changed color.
I’m always happy to eat Peking Duck, but I’ll admit that this night it was a little hard to focus on making those pancakes!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
KTV
In all the guidebooks for China they mention KTV. It’s China’s version of Karaoke. Set in private rooms with drinks and often food, I could see the greater appeal. Perhaps if I wasn’t made to wait in a long line for a chance to sing drunkenly in front of strangers, I’d be more of a Karaoke person myself.
I decided to test this theory (and cross another event off of my Beijing Bucket List) by joining some friends for KTV. One pitfall for my evening was that I planned it on the Friday after a 9 day week of school, when I was so exhausted I could easily have gone to bed at 7 pm.
Claire and Dianna happen to be another lesbian couple that live in our building. The changes of this are astoundingly small. Even more rare is the fact that they are awesome. When they invited Kelly and I to pregame at their place at 9, I was happy to go. When we were still there at 1 am and they ordered a delivery of 16 beers, I was ready to go home and forget KTV.
They managed to rally everyone out of the door by 1:30, and we headed over. The KTV place was a 5 minute walk from our apartment, and they let you BYOB. We were led through corridor after corridor of closed off rooms, the Chinese music still blaring into the hall. Our room was pretty big, with one wall lined with couches, two tables in the middle, and two flat screen TVs. There are two microphones, and a machine in the corner for picking songs and adding laugh tracks, hoots, and hollers. That may have been my favorite part of the night, adding extra applause and whistling while people sang.
The other gem of the evening was that when China doesn’t have the real video for a song, they have one made, which always has Chinese people singing to each other in a random harbor, walking along the docks.
Finding songs that worked for everyone was also an interesting game. It was the most international group of expats I’ve spent time with all year. Claire is from Ireland, as were a few others. Dianna is from Bulgaria. Some people were from London or other provinces in China. One blond girl that I had begged as rude because she would only speak Chinese around me turned out to be Russian, and super friendly with the little broken English she pulled out by the end of the night. Whoops! Everyone but Kelly and I spoke Chinese, and not everyone spoke English. This made the prolonged pregame a bit of a challenge, but once we were in KTV land, it was all good. I enjoyed listening to the songs in Chinese, and no one seemed to mind the parade of English songs.
A lot of the time we just all sang together from the couches, although some people stood when a song they had chosen came on. The selection of English songs that made it to China are hilarious enough alone. I forgot how sweet the Cranberries are.
Kelly and I left around 3, but the girls held it down until 7 am! That’s a serious night of KTV!
I decided to test this theory (and cross another event off of my Beijing Bucket List) by joining some friends for KTV. One pitfall for my evening was that I planned it on the Friday after a 9 day week of school, when I was so exhausted I could easily have gone to bed at 7 pm.
Claire and Dianna happen to be another lesbian couple that live in our building. The changes of this are astoundingly small. Even more rare is the fact that they are awesome. When they invited Kelly and I to pregame at their place at 9, I was happy to go. When we were still there at 1 am and they ordered a delivery of 16 beers, I was ready to go home and forget KTV.
They managed to rally everyone out of the door by 1:30, and we headed over. The KTV place was a 5 minute walk from our apartment, and they let you BYOB. We were led through corridor after corridor of closed off rooms, the Chinese music still blaring into the hall. Our room was pretty big, with one wall lined with couches, two tables in the middle, and two flat screen TVs. There are two microphones, and a machine in the corner for picking songs and adding laugh tracks, hoots, and hollers. That may have been my favorite part of the night, adding extra applause and whistling while people sang.
The other gem of the evening was that when China doesn’t have the real video for a song, they have one made, which always has Chinese people singing to each other in a random harbor, walking along the docks.
Finding songs that worked for everyone was also an interesting game. It was the most international group of expats I’ve spent time with all year. Claire is from Ireland, as were a few others. Dianna is from Bulgaria. Some people were from London or other provinces in China. One blond girl that I had begged as rude because she would only speak Chinese around me turned out to be Russian, and super friendly with the little broken English she pulled out by the end of the night. Whoops! Everyone but Kelly and I spoke Chinese, and not everyone spoke English. This made the prolonged pregame a bit of a challenge, but once we were in KTV land, it was all good. I enjoyed listening to the songs in Chinese, and no one seemed to mind the parade of English songs.
A lot of the time we just all sang together from the couches, although some people stood when a song they had chosen came on. The selection of English songs that made it to China are hilarious enough alone. I forgot how sweet the Cranberries are.
Kelly and I left around 3, but the girls held it down until 7 am! That’s a serious night of KTV!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Western –Chinese Style
Even Western-Chinese weddings start at 8’s. L’s began at 11:08, but if they hadn’t been ready, they would have started at 11;18, or 11:28. I was told, (with a look that said, of course this is common sense) this is because 8 is a lucky number that means “more”.
(Incidentally, 4 is such a bad number for its semblance with the character for “death” that there is no 4th floor in most of the buildings in China, and no sports player who will agree to that jersey.)
Instead of the traditional procession, the wedding began with the groom singing to his bride, walking down the aisle and handing her the bouquet. It was so sweet and adorable, watching him walk her down the aisle to the stage. We were again at round tables with bi jiu and snacks.
I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the tone was very different than other weddings. Instead of a minister or priest, L had her own MC. He spoke with great personality, and often got the crowd busting with laughter and applause.
The ceremony had all the little bits of western ceremonies packed into one event. Guests came up to give speeches. They said their vows, facing us on the stage. They exchanged rings, cut the cake and fed it to each other. Then they lit candles and poured champagne to make a fountain. They called me up to take the bouquet, I said my “speech”, which no one could understand, and then the groom carried her “across the threshold” of the arch at the bottom of the aisle.
After a 10 minute intermission, the bride came out in her reception dress, which was similar in style to western dresses, but, of course, red. The couple still came around “Chinese-style” to each of the tables with bi jiu. Even though the bottle had been filled with water, the lingering flavor from the liquor caused L to spit up by the last table.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Order of Operations
My own assistant, L, threw herself a “western” wedding. Chinese people, in my opinion, do marriage right. First they get married, legally. Then, months or a year later, they have wedding photos taken. These are incredibly elaborate, often taking an entire day, many wardrobe changes, and indoor and outdoor locations. (L said that hers lasted until midnight and was exhausting).
Lastly, after years of actually being married, the couple has a wedding. In my opinion, this order of events would help Americans escape the Bride-as-Princess phenomenon that in my opinion has led to so many early marriages (and early divorces) in our generation.
The other brilliant move on L’s part was having two weddings. The Traditional Chinese one was in her hometown and completely controlled by her parents. All she had to do was show up.
The wedding in Beijing that I attended had no family at all. It was just friends and classmates of the bride and groom, and L could do it all her way.
Even so, she seemed to be more exhausted by the process than excited. When we showed up on the day, she was plopped down in a chair, fanning herself. L, who never complains no matter what is happening at school and what she’s asked to do, looked up at me and moaned, “I cannot stand. How will I walk down the aisle?” When she said that she’d be glad when it was all over, I knew she meant it. It was strange to see a bride just before her wedding, in the perfect white sparkly dress , who wasn’t beaming as if it was the best day of her life. At the end she said, “I’m super exhausted. I don’t want to get married again.” Unfortunately for her, this was just her first wedding of two.
I’m not suggesting that we take away the dream of anyone who wants to have their wedding their day, and make it as special as it should be for them. This, just like everything else over here, was just a totally different experience.
Lastly, after years of actually being married, the couple has a wedding. In my opinion, this order of events would help Americans escape the Bride-as-Princess phenomenon that in my opinion has led to so many early marriages (and early divorces) in our generation.
The other brilliant move on L’s part was having two weddings. The Traditional Chinese one was in her hometown and completely controlled by her parents. All she had to do was show up.
The wedding in Beijing that I attended had no family at all. It was just friends and classmates of the bride and groom, and L could do it all her way.
Even so, she seemed to be more exhausted by the process than excited. When we showed up on the day, she was plopped down in a chair, fanning herself. L, who never complains no matter what is happening at school and what she’s asked to do, looked up at me and moaned, “I cannot stand. How will I walk down the aisle?” When she said that she’d be glad when it was all over, I knew she meant it. It was strange to see a bride just before her wedding, in the perfect white sparkly dress , who wasn’t beaming as if it was the best day of her life. At the end she said, “I’m super exhausted. I don’t want to get married again.” Unfortunately for her, this was just her first wedding of two.
I’m not suggesting that we take away the dream of anyone who wants to have their wedding their day, and make it as special as it should be for them. This, just like everything else over here, was just a totally different experience.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Some Weddings have Arrows
Some things I’d heard about China are true; none more so than the Chinese devotion to the color red. During Chinese New Year, everything that can be is adorned in red. This is also the case for Chinese Weddings. Everything from the table cloths to the chairs to the favors to the backdrop of the stage to the Bride and Groom’s outfits was entirely red with gold details.
We, the guests sat at round tables on either side of the red carpet aisle. On our tables were bottles of bi jiu (a painfully strong Chinese liquor), cigarettes, and snacks. When the Bride (who was one of the Teacher’s Assistants at my school, named Vanilla), arrived in the doorway, I couldn’t recognize her. Her hair was woven into a headdress eight inches tall and falling past her shoulders. The groom appeared to have an ornamental beach ball tied in back of him. The ornamental gowns they wore, which trailed past them on the ground, made the traditional outfits I’d seen in museums seem bland.
During the ceremony, which had many parts, they honor the sets of parents by serving them tea and calling them “mom” and “dad” for the first time. At the end, the groom is blindfolded and made to shoot an arrow “to the heavens” or up to the ceiling, and straight across for the earth. I was lucky to have my own assistant, L, as a translator or I wouldn’t have had any idea what was going on the entire time. There was a lot of bowing from the couple, and most of the talking came from the “professional speaker”, who seemed like the MC of the wedding. There were some traditions that seemed strange to me, like cutting a piece of hair from each, and tying it together and keeping it in a box.
Some traditions were familiar with a twist of new. Towards the end the couple interlocked arms to drink wine…out of a little wooden shoe. At the end they kiss, which is hard through all of the outfits, veils, headdresses and hats. The guests all clap and shout for them to kiss longer. At times they leaned in for 10 -15 seconds, with no movement of the lips whatsoever.
At the end, the couple makes the western rounds to greet each table, but they do it with a tray of cigarettes and a shot of bi jiu at each.
Most Surprising Event: When the great-grandfather of the groom had to lie down in the middle of the floor. The bride dismissed our worries, saying, “He just drank too much always.”
Note: This wedding happened in October of last year, and it took me until now to write it up. Whoops!
We, the guests sat at round tables on either side of the red carpet aisle. On our tables were bottles of bi jiu (a painfully strong Chinese liquor), cigarettes, and snacks. When the Bride (who was one of the Teacher’s Assistants at my school, named Vanilla), arrived in the doorway, I couldn’t recognize her. Her hair was woven into a headdress eight inches tall and falling past her shoulders. The groom appeared to have an ornamental beach ball tied in back of him. The ornamental gowns they wore, which trailed past them on the ground, made the traditional outfits I’d seen in museums seem bland.
During the ceremony, which had many parts, they honor the sets of parents by serving them tea and calling them “mom” and “dad” for the first time. At the end, the groom is blindfolded and made to shoot an arrow “to the heavens” or up to the ceiling, and straight across for the earth. I was lucky to have my own assistant, L, as a translator or I wouldn’t have had any idea what was going on the entire time. There was a lot of bowing from the couple, and most of the talking came from the “professional speaker”, who seemed like the MC of the wedding. There were some traditions that seemed strange to me, like cutting a piece of hair from each, and tying it together and keeping it in a box.
Some traditions were familiar with a twist of new. Towards the end the couple interlocked arms to drink wine…out of a little wooden shoe. At the end they kiss, which is hard through all of the outfits, veils, headdresses and hats. The guests all clap and shout for them to kiss longer. At times they leaned in for 10 -15 seconds, with no movement of the lips whatsoever.
At the end, the couple makes the western rounds to greet each table, but they do it with a tray of cigarettes and a shot of bi jiu at each.
Most Surprising Event: When the great-grandfather of the groom had to lie down in the middle of the floor. The bride dismissed our worries, saying, “He just drank too much always.”
Note: This wedding happened in October of last year, and it took me until now to write it up. Whoops!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Coming Soon
I realize it's mid-June and I have one post.
It's been a really crazy month!
Here's a snippet of what's to come when I finish this school year and have time to write again:
- Chinese Wedding
- Chinese Versions of a Western Wedding
- Communist Dinner Theater
- LGBT Interview
Stay Tuned!!
It's been a really crazy month!
Here's a snippet of what's to come when I finish this school year and have time to write again:
- Chinese Wedding
- Chinese Versions of a Western Wedding
- Communist Dinner Theater
- LGBT Interview
Stay Tuned!!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Hot Stones, Anyone?
My life in China has been significantly better since the discovery of Dragon Fly’s “Teacher Day Special.” Thanks to this lovely massage parlor down town, I’ve enjoyed many a Monday-night massage. On this day only for teachers, they offer the second hour of massage for free. The first massage is anywhere from ¥150 to ¥550 and up ($22 to $80), depending on the type.
I’ve been getting the regular “Chinese Massage” after my usual hour of foot massage. The Chinese Massage is a typical massage, but they do it over a towel. I have no idea why.
Maybe I was partly motivated to try this because my once intensely sporadic and unpredictable life in Beijing has started to be a little more familiar and comfortable. Part of me definitely didn’t want to leave China without having tried it. Either way, one day, I decided it was time to spring for the Hot Stone Massage.
The description in English for the massage was considerably short and unhelpful, so I really went in knowing nothing except that they’d be using hot stones …to massage me.
Even if you know that you are probably safe, it’s a little hard to relax when heated stones are touching your bare skin. The first time they rubbed the stones on my wrists and left them in my palms I thought, “Am I burning? Is this searing my skin??” It was really hot. Or at least it felt really hot, unnaturally hot. Luckily, it did not actually leave any marks.
After a while, when I was used to the sensation, I really started to enjoy it. It’s similar to getting your first massage, where it feels strange for people who aren’t you or a close friend to be squeezing tight on your muscles, so everything feels to hard. After a few more massages, however, all of a sudden you’re telling them, “Don’t worry. Press as hard as you can!”
(Yes, I had to rework that a few times to get it to not sound dirty.)
Basically the way the hot stone massage works is that they work on each side of both of your limbs and even your back and stomach. They choose one area, cover it in oil, and then rub two stones in concentric circles from the bottom of the area to the top. This felt really good, but for some reason tickled the hell out of my thighs. I guess I’m just not used to concentric circles of hot stone rubbing there. It was everything I could do not to jump up laughing.
Then they did my stomach, which was one of the weirder sensations I’ve ever had. It was also awesomely embarrassing, as my stomach doesn’t need any excuse to make crazy loud sounds, so of course it went crazy while being pushed and pulled with stones.
Overall, the sensation and way that it worked my muscles was amazing, and Hot Stone Massage II is definitely on my Beijing Bucket List!
I’ve been getting the regular “Chinese Massage” after my usual hour of foot massage. The Chinese Massage is a typical massage, but they do it over a towel. I have no idea why.
Maybe I was partly motivated to try this because my once intensely sporadic and unpredictable life in Beijing has started to be a little more familiar and comfortable. Part of me definitely didn’t want to leave China without having tried it. Either way, one day, I decided it was time to spring for the Hot Stone Massage.
The description in English for the massage was considerably short and unhelpful, so I really went in knowing nothing except that they’d be using hot stones …to massage me.
Even if you know that you are probably safe, it’s a little hard to relax when heated stones are touching your bare skin. The first time they rubbed the stones on my wrists and left them in my palms I thought, “Am I burning? Is this searing my skin??” It was really hot. Or at least it felt really hot, unnaturally hot. Luckily, it did not actually leave any marks.
After a while, when I was used to the sensation, I really started to enjoy it. It’s similar to getting your first massage, where it feels strange for people who aren’t you or a close friend to be squeezing tight on your muscles, so everything feels to hard. After a few more massages, however, all of a sudden you’re telling them, “Don’t worry. Press as hard as you can!”
(Yes, I had to rework that a few times to get it to not sound dirty.)
Basically the way the hot stone massage works is that they work on each side of both of your limbs and even your back and stomach. They choose one area, cover it in oil, and then rub two stones in concentric circles from the bottom of the area to the top. This felt really good, but for some reason tickled the hell out of my thighs. I guess I’m just not used to concentric circles of hot stone rubbing there. It was everything I could do not to jump up laughing.
Then they did my stomach, which was one of the weirder sensations I’ve ever had. It was also awesomely embarrassing, as my stomach doesn’t need any excuse to make crazy loud sounds, so of course it went crazy while being pushed and pulled with stones.
Overall, the sensation and way that it worked my muscles was amazing, and Hot Stone Massage II is definitely on my Beijing Bucket List!
Monday, May 30, 2011
Wo Shi Mei Guo Ren.
I’ve been in China for almost 10 months now, but I started taking Mandarin lessons about one month ago. By that I mean, I’ve been to four one and a half hour-sessions, where I’m mostly learning to read pinyin. By now, my big accomplishments are seeing “xi” and saying, “see”, and “zh” and saying, “j.”
We’ve also started to learn a few of the basics, like ordering in restaurants. This is when I learned that the few phrases I thought I knew (and have been using since August of last year), were in fact wrong.
Some mistakes are small enough. I’ve been ordering two “units” of rice, (liang ge mi fan), instead of two bowls (liang wan mi fan). I did the same with beer, ordering “units” or ge, instead of bottles, which is ping.
I also found out that when I thought I was ordering two bottles of beer (pi jiu), I was actually asking, “Do you have or not have two units of beer?” (You may you liang ge pi jiu?).
After that I started saying, “I want two bottles of beer” (Wo yao liang ping pi jiu), which turns out to be pretty rude. It took me weeks to learn the actual ordering phrase, which turns out to be, “Please, bring two bottles of beer.” (Qing wen, lai liang ping pi jiu.)
As you can see, the topic of beer comes up a lot in class. I also learned to say, “I like to drink beer,” (Wo xi huan he pi jiu) and “Do you like to drink beer?” which is “You like to drink beer, question?” (Ni xi huan he pi jiu, ma) or “You like or don’t like to drink beer?” (Ni xi huan bu xi huan he pi jiu). I’m starting to think the Chinese teachers know me too well…
The phrase I may be most excited to learn, even though it’s so late in my stay, is “Where is the bathroom?” They use the bathroom symbol here, or man and woman in Chinese, which I can recognize, but following signs is not so easy. I never thought of arrows as being cultural, but I’ve been more lost in Asia following signs than ever before.
An arrow pointing down means, more often than not, that the item is behind the sign. An arrow pointing up often means it’s behind you. I’ve been in the strangest allies in China and Malaysia, thinking I’m on the right path until I’m left stranded without a sign in sight. (The other strange thing is that bathrooms are often hidden in the smallest, dirtiest hallways and corners, through parking lots and streets, not necessarily connect or anywhere near the restaurant or shop. )
The worst part, though, is having to go up to a waiter or maître de at a fancy restaurant and ask, loudly and clearly, “Toilet?!?” This is the word they use for bathroom, and the only way I’ve found that communicates your need, as much as I start with the usual, “Excuse me, is there a restroom or bathroom?”
Not anymore! The phrase literally translates to “Please, bathroom where?” “Qing wen, wei sheng jian zai nar?” Yess!!
With any luck, I’ll get these simple requests…when it’s time to go back to America!
We’ve also started to learn a few of the basics, like ordering in restaurants. This is when I learned that the few phrases I thought I knew (and have been using since August of last year), were in fact wrong.
Some mistakes are small enough. I’ve been ordering two “units” of rice, (liang ge mi fan), instead of two bowls (liang wan mi fan). I did the same with beer, ordering “units” or ge, instead of bottles, which is ping.
I also found out that when I thought I was ordering two bottles of beer (pi jiu), I was actually asking, “Do you have or not have two units of beer?” (You may you liang ge pi jiu?).
After that I started saying, “I want two bottles of beer” (Wo yao liang ping pi jiu), which turns out to be pretty rude. It took me weeks to learn the actual ordering phrase, which turns out to be, “Please, bring two bottles of beer.” (Qing wen, lai liang ping pi jiu.)
As you can see, the topic of beer comes up a lot in class. I also learned to say, “I like to drink beer,” (Wo xi huan he pi jiu) and “Do you like to drink beer?” which is “You like to drink beer, question?” (Ni xi huan he pi jiu, ma) or “You like or don’t like to drink beer?” (Ni xi huan bu xi huan he pi jiu). I’m starting to think the Chinese teachers know me too well…
The phrase I may be most excited to learn, even though it’s so late in my stay, is “Where is the bathroom?” They use the bathroom symbol here, or man and woman in Chinese, which I can recognize, but following signs is not so easy. I never thought of arrows as being cultural, but I’ve been more lost in Asia following signs than ever before.
An arrow pointing down means, more often than not, that the item is behind the sign. An arrow pointing up often means it’s behind you. I’ve been in the strangest allies in China and Malaysia, thinking I’m on the right path until I’m left stranded without a sign in sight. (The other strange thing is that bathrooms are often hidden in the smallest, dirtiest hallways and corners, through parking lots and streets, not necessarily connect or anywhere near the restaurant or shop. )
The worst part, though, is having to go up to a waiter or maître de at a fancy restaurant and ask, loudly and clearly, “Toilet?!?” This is the word they use for bathroom, and the only way I’ve found that communicates your need, as much as I start with the usual, “Excuse me, is there a restroom or bathroom?”
Not anymore! The phrase literally translates to “Please, bathroom where?” “Qing wen, wei sheng jian zai nar?” Yess!!
With any luck, I’ll get these simple requests…when it’s time to go back to America!
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Who, Me?
It’s not difficult to see that my life in Beijing is far different than the life I was leading in New York. Being here, I’ve made a few minor life-revelations. The first is simply that being Malaysian is actually important to my cultural heritage. I guess it seems silly, but I think I need to be in China to figure that out.
The second revelation is that…I like doing things. In New York, my most..ok one of my only forms of recreation was going out on a Saturday night. (Ok ok, Tuesday or Wednesday, but it’s not my fault that’s when the girl parties are…) That is not to say that I’m not going out over here and that I don’t intend to keep that up. What I’ve also realized, though, is that I like doing other active things.
If you know me, you know that of all the things I’ve been classified as, “sporty” has never been one of them. I can’t play any organized sports, I don’t play frizbe at the park, and when Kel convinced me to try tossing a ball with her at the beach it was much closer to playing fetch than catch.
That being said, I’ve always thought of myself as fairly active. Back in the days of my youth, I was involved in all sorts of female-gendered, individual-best sports. So when I asked if I could join dragon boating and was told with no hint of sarcasm, “Well….it’s athletic”…I realized in the last 6 years, I had let myself go.
That may be what prompted the rocking climbing, but it’s definitely not what’s kept me going back every week. I love figuring out routes, and the game of which to hold. I like trying to balance and just falling on mats whenever I need to. It’s nice to feel like ballet wasn’t a waste of time that I’ve all but forgotten.
This spring I’ve been rock climbing every weekend, and during the week if I can swing it. I’m also swimming once a week and biking to and from school. It’s not much, but it’s a nice addition to dancing in the clubs!
Rock Climbing Note: I definitely like Bouldering better than the belay wall. I’ve never been afraid of heights before, but there’s something about hanging 40 feet in the air by your fingertips and tip toes that stirs up some sizeable fear.
The second revelation is that…I like doing things. In New York, my most..ok one of my only forms of recreation was going out on a Saturday night. (Ok ok, Tuesday or Wednesday, but it’s not my fault that’s when the girl parties are…) That is not to say that I’m not going out over here and that I don’t intend to keep that up. What I’ve also realized, though, is that I like doing other active things.
If you know me, you know that of all the things I’ve been classified as, “sporty” has never been one of them. I can’t play any organized sports, I don’t play frizbe at the park, and when Kel convinced me to try tossing a ball with her at the beach it was much closer to playing fetch than catch.
That being said, I’ve always thought of myself as fairly active. Back in the days of my youth, I was involved in all sorts of female-gendered, individual-best sports. So when I asked if I could join dragon boating and was told with no hint of sarcasm, “Well….it’s athletic”…I realized in the last 6 years, I had let myself go.
That may be what prompted the rocking climbing, but it’s definitely not what’s kept me going back every week. I love figuring out routes, and the game of which to hold. I like trying to balance and just falling on mats whenever I need to. It’s nice to feel like ballet wasn’t a waste of time that I’ve all but forgotten.
This spring I’ve been rock climbing every weekend, and during the week if I can swing it. I’m also swimming once a week and biking to and from school. It’s not much, but it’s a nice addition to dancing in the clubs!
Rock Climbing Note: I definitely like Bouldering better than the belay wall. I’ve never been afraid of heights before, but there’s something about hanging 40 feet in the air by your fingertips and tip toes that stirs up some sizeable fear.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Rain Rain Go Away
It started out like any other work day. Kelly and I were biking to work at 7:00 in the morning. Ok, I noticed that it was a little darker out than usual, but I didn’t think much of it. (This may be since Kelly has become “The Girl Who Cried ‘Rain.’” She’s always calling “rain”, even when we live in a desert and it didn’t rain for
five months. More often than not, it’s just another day of thick pollution smog.)
You can probably see where this is going. It started as a light drizzle when we were already on campus, just five minutes away. Within 30 seconds it was a thick downpour. It’s amazing how wet you can get in just a few minutes of heavy rain.
I don’t own an umbrella yet, but I do have an over-the-bike rain poncho, courtesy of my awesome assistant. I’ve had it since September and never used it. How was I to know this was the one day to NOT keep it at home?
Luckily I was wearing a dark dress that day, but it did make for a rather uncomfortable beginning of school.
Because of the unpredictability of the weather, (or my bad luck in the universe), it was sunny all day until the minute I was ready to leave. I actually took my kids out to the playground during the day without a problem, (other than some large puddles), and walked through campus to the cafeteria in bright sunshine.
I had swimming, so I still had to ride my bike. They were giving out super thin garbage bag-esque ponchos, so I grabbed one. Even though it didn’t cover below my waist, it did keep my backpack dry. When I got out of swimming, it was not only pouring, but with the added finesse of thunder and lightning.
It was kind of exhilarating, pedaling through the streets of Wudaokou in a crazy storm wearing just a dress and a yellow garbage bag. I thought at least I’d have the run of the streets, but I should have known better. All the usual traffic was still out, just more properly attired than myself. There were just as many carts and bikes, and the cars drive just as damn fast, with the added oomph of spewing water from their wheels. There were massive flooded parts of the street, with no way to go around them. By the time I got to my complex in Liudaokou, I was as soaked as when I was in the pool, and thoroughly laughing. I got some of the weirdest looks and double-takes since I’ve been in China, and that’s saying a lot.
Lesson Learned: I should really start checking the weather.
five months. More often than not, it’s just another day of thick pollution smog.)
You can probably see where this is going. It started as a light drizzle when we were already on campus, just five minutes away. Within 30 seconds it was a thick downpour. It’s amazing how wet you can get in just a few minutes of heavy rain.
I don’t own an umbrella yet, but I do have an over-the-bike rain poncho, courtesy of my awesome assistant. I’ve had it since September and never used it. How was I to know this was the one day to NOT keep it at home?
Luckily I was wearing a dark dress that day, but it did make for a rather uncomfortable beginning of school.
Because of the unpredictability of the weather, (or my bad luck in the universe), it was sunny all day until the minute I was ready to leave. I actually took my kids out to the playground during the day without a problem, (other than some large puddles), and walked through campus to the cafeteria in bright sunshine.
I had swimming, so I still had to ride my bike. They were giving out super thin garbage bag-esque ponchos, so I grabbed one. Even though it didn’t cover below my waist, it did keep my backpack dry. When I got out of swimming, it was not only pouring, but with the added finesse of thunder and lightning.
It was kind of exhilarating, pedaling through the streets of Wudaokou in a crazy storm wearing just a dress and a yellow garbage bag. I thought at least I’d have the run of the streets, but I should have known better. All the usual traffic was still out, just more properly attired than myself. There were just as many carts and bikes, and the cars drive just as damn fast, with the added oomph of spewing water from their wheels. There were massive flooded parts of the street, with no way to go around them. By the time I got to my complex in Liudaokou, I was as soaked as when I was in the pool, and thoroughly laughing. I got some of the weirdest looks and double-takes since I’ve been in China, and that’s saying a lot.
Lesson Learned: I should really start checking the weather.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Thanks, Coach!
Kelly and I have a swim coach. He’s technically our school’s swim coach, but he spends at least a much time (if not more) giving us instructions as he does with the few students who randomly show up to “practice.” (Ok, he’s also so attentive because we’re closer to his age, and he’s asked us more than once, in broken English, if we have boyfriends.)
Other than that, he’s a great coach and a really nice guy. Apparently he was an Olympic swim coach before coming to THIS. He doesn’t know much English, but it gives him a chance to practice, the kids a chance to interpret, and me a chance practice my Chinese “Phrase of the Week”, even if it’s “Bring me a pot of tea.” It’s also another place that we get to use our Chinese names while we still can.
One of the strange things about my school is the allotment of resources. In some areas, we don’t have the things we need. I’ve been trying to get black construction paper for months now, glue sticks that really sick, and a pencil sharpener that isn’t shaped like a puppy or fish, never mind books in English. On the other hand, we have an Olympic swim coach for a scraggly pseudo-team, and we have practice in a gorgeous, Olympic-sized pool.
The pool is giant, and divided into two sides. On the other side there is daily diving practice. Six and seven-year olds do the most finely executed dives, summersaults, and backflips off of the highest boards I’ve ever seen. These are the diligent Chinese children I had half-expected to find in my classroom.
Even though we just started going in the spring, we’ve somehow become THE teachers of the swim team. There are pictures of us, decked out in suits, swim caps with goggles on our heads, which are apparently being used in the yearbook and for the schools’ advertisement!
Other than that, he’s a great coach and a really nice guy. Apparently he was an Olympic swim coach before coming to THIS. He doesn’t know much English, but it gives him a chance to practice, the kids a chance to interpret, and me a chance practice my Chinese “Phrase of the Week”, even if it’s “Bring me a pot of tea.” It’s also another place that we get to use our Chinese names while we still can.
One of the strange things about my school is the allotment of resources. In some areas, we don’t have the things we need. I’ve been trying to get black construction paper for months now, glue sticks that really sick, and a pencil sharpener that isn’t shaped like a puppy or fish, never mind books in English. On the other hand, we have an Olympic swim coach for a scraggly pseudo-team, and we have practice in a gorgeous, Olympic-sized pool.
The pool is giant, and divided into two sides. On the other side there is daily diving practice. Six and seven-year olds do the most finely executed dives, summersaults, and backflips off of the highest boards I’ve ever seen. These are the diligent Chinese children I had half-expected to find in my classroom.
Even though we just started going in the spring, we’ve somehow become THE teachers of the swim team. There are pictures of us, decked out in suits, swim caps with goggles on our heads, which are apparently being used in the yearbook and for the schools’ advertisement!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Latte
In terms of Beijing night life, the most common area to head for dancing is Sanlitun. There are a lot of different types of bars, restaurants, brand-name shops like Esprit, Roxy, and a giant Apple store. At this point I’m used to going out there and partying with the foreigners. Last night was different.
I was with a new group of people that I’ve met through friends, and one of them, a recent transplant into Beijing from London, insisted that we bypass the usual clubs and check out Latte. He promised that if the music wasn’t better, it was still worth it “for the experience.” I didn’t realize until we got there that what he meant was the experience of seeing how Chinese people do Saturday night.
We took the elevator up to “Latte”, a giant one-room club. The walls were all laden with golden machines, I suppose to simulate the mechanics of a Latte-maker, but with an excess of pipes, pumps, and fans. The ceeling was coverd with giant bronze chandilers and a disco ball in the center. There were TV screens intersperced on the walls and hanging in the middle of the room which showed images like neon dancing robots to blue skies, dependeing on the song.
When we walked in the self-proclaimed “Chinese-Lady Gaga” was performing. There she was on stage in a eopard-print uni-tard, stripper pumps and aviators, fiercely punching the air to accentuate the words of some song in English I’ve never heard before. Her backup dancers included two women in silver uni-tards with bedazzled ski goggles, two men with gemstone bling designs on their face. It was hilariously amazing.
When that ended the DJ’s music resumed. People rushed the tiny stage to get a spot. Beyond the stage, the “dance floor” consisted of a three feet border between the stage and the first set of tables. In fact, most of the room was lined with tall tables, with groups of people leaning around them. As the only foreigners in the place, we stuck out even without having a table to lean on. There were waitresses buzzing around bringing bottle service, peanuts, and giant fruit platters to each table. The poor cleaning ladies worked their way through the strip of dance floor with a dustpan and broom.
We danced in the tiny space allowed, creating a new move called the “Latte”, where you basically move as little as possible, so as not to bump the table or the stage. The music ranged from “G-6” to techno with random words in English like, “I want to fight you” repeated over and over again. The lights went from rave/gay club neon to bright white as if we were in a coffee shop.
Best-Dressed: One guy was wearing a tiny-T that said, “Will you sleep with me?” I couldn’t help wonder if he knew what it said, or if it’s the same phenomenon where Americans will wear Chinese characters without giving too much thought to what it means.
I was with a new group of people that I’ve met through friends, and one of them, a recent transplant into Beijing from London, insisted that we bypass the usual clubs and check out Latte. He promised that if the music wasn’t better, it was still worth it “for the experience.” I didn’t realize until we got there that what he meant was the experience of seeing how Chinese people do Saturday night.
We took the elevator up to “Latte”, a giant one-room club. The walls were all laden with golden machines, I suppose to simulate the mechanics of a Latte-maker, but with an excess of pipes, pumps, and fans. The ceeling was coverd with giant bronze chandilers and a disco ball in the center. There were TV screens intersperced on the walls and hanging in the middle of the room which showed images like neon dancing robots to blue skies, dependeing on the song.
When we walked in the self-proclaimed “Chinese-Lady Gaga” was performing. There she was on stage in a eopard-print uni-tard, stripper pumps and aviators, fiercely punching the air to accentuate the words of some song in English I’ve never heard before. Her backup dancers included two women in silver uni-tards with bedazzled ski goggles, two men with gemstone bling designs on their face. It was hilariously amazing.
When that ended the DJ’s music resumed. People rushed the tiny stage to get a spot. Beyond the stage, the “dance floor” consisted of a three feet border between the stage and the first set of tables. In fact, most of the room was lined with tall tables, with groups of people leaning around them. As the only foreigners in the place, we stuck out even without having a table to lean on. There were waitresses buzzing around bringing bottle service, peanuts, and giant fruit platters to each table. The poor cleaning ladies worked their way through the strip of dance floor with a dustpan and broom.
We danced in the tiny space allowed, creating a new move called the “Latte”, where you basically move as little as possible, so as not to bump the table or the stage. The music ranged from “G-6” to techno with random words in English like, “I want to fight you” repeated over and over again. The lights went from rave/gay club neon to bright white as if we were in a coffee shop.
Best-Dressed: One guy was wearing a tiny-T that said, “Will you sleep with me?” I couldn’t help wonder if he knew what it said, or if it’s the same phenomenon where Americans will wear Chinese characters without giving too much thought to what it means.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Back to Beijing
It could have been difficult to readjust to Beijing. Many times during the weekend, while eating cheese and bread from the grocery store or finding buyable dresses, I thought, “Why do I live in Beijing?”
There were three reasons, luckily, that answered my question.
The first thing that stood out was the money. Shanghai is crazy expensive at every turn. Ok, it’s still not as expensive as New York, but in New York, I’d be in NEW YORK. Why would I pay next to NYC prices to live in China? At the rooftop “beer garden” at my hotel (the quotes are there because they only offered Tsingtao and Heineken), they charged ¥30 for a small Tsingtao! I can get a double-sized Tsingtao from my deli for ¥5. Even with a gorgeous view of The Bund and the rooftop all to ourselves, it was a little painful to fork that over.
The second off-putting element for me was the pretention. I love a fancy city, but I’m not really a fancy girl. Kelly and I went out for a fancy dinner one night. The steak was absolutely amazing, melting like butter in my mouth. You can imagine my joy, as I haven’t had American-style steak in almost a year.
The problem was, we weren’t allowed to share a pot of tea.
I can guess that you’re not exactly dropping your jaws and flailing your eyes in shock and horror. That’s fine, but this was a moment for me where I realized how good Beijing has been for me. The idea of having to order two pots of tea for two people goes beyond the price (which, of course, was ridiculous.) The point was, we’re in CHINA, Land of Tea-Sharing. China is built on family-style food for every meal, from dim sum to dinner, never mind the drinks. When you order a beer in Beijing, it comes out the size of a 40 and they bring small glass cups for your whole party, whether you’ve asked for it or not. That is the China I know and love.
The third reason came to me later, once I was back in my own city. I went to the Temple of Heaven, one of Beijing’s most well-known attractions. Set in the middle of a large park where, unlike the windy paths of others, everything was made in controlled squares. Unlike the youngsters hanging out on the grass in People’s square, crowds of Chinese locals gathered to dance, sing, and play games. As I stared at the intricate three-tiered cylinder, rising circular out to represent heaven out of the squares of Earth, I was as glad as ever to be living in Beijing. I didn’t move to China to eat delicious cheese and overpriced beer, or to pretend I’m in New York. Shaghai may have that Western feel down, but Beijing has history.
There were three reasons, luckily, that answered my question.
The first thing that stood out was the money. Shanghai is crazy expensive at every turn. Ok, it’s still not as expensive as New York, but in New York, I’d be in NEW YORK. Why would I pay next to NYC prices to live in China? At the rooftop “beer garden” at my hotel (the quotes are there because they only offered Tsingtao and Heineken), they charged ¥30 for a small Tsingtao! I can get a double-sized Tsingtao from my deli for ¥5. Even with a gorgeous view of The Bund and the rooftop all to ourselves, it was a little painful to fork that over.
The second off-putting element for me was the pretention. I love a fancy city, but I’m not really a fancy girl. Kelly and I went out for a fancy dinner one night. The steak was absolutely amazing, melting like butter in my mouth. You can imagine my joy, as I haven’t had American-style steak in almost a year.
The problem was, we weren’t allowed to share a pot of tea.
I can guess that you’re not exactly dropping your jaws and flailing your eyes in shock and horror. That’s fine, but this was a moment for me where I realized how good Beijing has been for me. The idea of having to order two pots of tea for two people goes beyond the price (which, of course, was ridiculous.) The point was, we’re in CHINA, Land of Tea-Sharing. China is built on family-style food for every meal, from dim sum to dinner, never mind the drinks. When you order a beer in Beijing, it comes out the size of a 40 and they bring small glass cups for your whole party, whether you’ve asked for it or not. That is the China I know and love.
The third reason came to me later, once I was back in my own city. I went to the Temple of Heaven, one of Beijing’s most well-known attractions. Set in the middle of a large park where, unlike the windy paths of others, everything was made in controlled squares. Unlike the youngsters hanging out on the grass in People’s square, crowds of Chinese locals gathered to dance, sing, and play games. As I stared at the intricate three-tiered cylinder, rising circular out to represent heaven out of the squares of Earth, I was as glad as ever to be living in Beijing. I didn’t move to China to eat delicious cheese and overpriced beer, or to pretend I’m in New York. Shaghai may have that Western feel down, but Beijing has history.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
PROPAGANDA MUSEUM
We heard about the museum from our colleague in the tennis tournament. It’s a small collection in the basement of an apartment complex, but it was incredibly worth seeing. The museum was arranged chronologically, with descriptions in English about China’s influences starting in 1949, through Mao’s rule, and to the present day. It was crazy to see the way that countries changed and influenced the minds of the masses before Fox news and the mass media.
These are the posters that really stuck out for me:
1. Advertisements for The Great Leap Forward, -----
The poster showed a giant dragon boat with the caption, “Strive all efforts to advance the Big Leap Forward for the East and make the West worried.”
2. 1957-1962: One poster showed giant pink and tan fists with a background of smaller black fists all about the crash down on an old Chinese sailor with the caption, “Oppose US imperialism to invade and interfere the socialist camp.”
3. Then, later in 1963-1965, they took a different approach. “Support US black people’s justice struggle. Oppose racial discrimination.”
It wasn’t until 1976, with Nixon’s visit, that China stopped the anti-US propaganda. The other aspect that really blew my mind was the way Mao was portrayed in more recent times. Even though it was politically recognized that he was the Chinese equivalent of Hitler, decades after his death and the execution of the gang of 4, the modern posters showed, “Chairman Mao with Children.”
These are the posters that really stuck out for me:
1. Advertisements for The Great Leap Forward, -----
The poster showed a giant dragon boat with the caption, “Strive all efforts to advance the Big Leap Forward for the East and make the West worried.”
2. 1957-1962: One poster showed giant pink and tan fists with a background of smaller black fists all about the crash down on an old Chinese sailor with the caption, “Oppose US imperialism to invade and interfere the socialist camp.”
3. Then, later in 1963-1965, they took a different approach. “Support US black people’s justice struggle. Oppose racial discrimination.”
It wasn’t until 1976, with Nixon’s visit, that China stopped the anti-US propaganda. The other aspect that really blew my mind was the way Mao was portrayed in more recent times. Even though it was politically recognized that he was the Chinese equivalent of Hitler, decades after his death and the execution of the gang of 4, the modern posters showed, “Chairman Mao with Children.”
Yu Garden
If you’re in Shanghai, the Yu Garden is a must-see.
(How do you like my practicing for travel-writing?) Honestly, though, it was not only beautiful and tranquil, with moon-doorframes and giant fish-ponds, but it was the kind of China that you come to China to see. The garden was a winding maze of different stone paths leading to open hutongs and corners just perfect for contemplation.
The main path of the garden was considerably crowded for 9 am. Kelly and I were sitting on some stones, watching the unbelievably-large goldfish, when we were approached by a 13 yr-old girl. She said, “You are beautiful. I want to take picture with you.”
I’m not used to being such an American-oddity in Beijing, but I was happy to give the girl a picture. She climbed onto the rocks and sat in the middle of us. The woman with the camera chanted, “yi, ar, san” and clicked. Almost instantaneously the girl got up and the two middle-aged men who were with them sat down on either side of us for another “yi, ar, san.”
As they got up to leave one of the men turned and said, “Sank…you.” Everyone in his family laughed heartily.
After Yu or “fish” garden, we walked to the flower and bird market, which is just as it sounds, plus more animals. There was loud chirping from every corner, both from the birds and, surprisingly, crickets. I saw the largest crickets of my life all in tiny cages, boxes, or woven balls.
Why is it when someone says, “Don’t look!”, we immediately look? I recommend NOT looking, or you could end up face to face with a giant tray of silk worms, and another of their cocoons…still moving. Then, heaven forbid, you could remember the drunken night you thought it was a good idea to EAT a silkworm cocoon from a street vendor.
(How do you like my practicing for travel-writing?) Honestly, though, it was not only beautiful and tranquil, with moon-doorframes and giant fish-ponds, but it was the kind of China that you come to China to see. The garden was a winding maze of different stone paths leading to open hutongs and corners just perfect for contemplation.
The main path of the garden was considerably crowded for 9 am. Kelly and I were sitting on some stones, watching the unbelievably-large goldfish, when we were approached by a 13 yr-old girl. She said, “You are beautiful. I want to take picture with you.”
I’m not used to being such an American-oddity in Beijing, but I was happy to give the girl a picture. She climbed onto the rocks and sat in the middle of us. The woman with the camera chanted, “yi, ar, san” and clicked. Almost instantaneously the girl got up and the two middle-aged men who were with them sat down on either side of us for another “yi, ar, san.”
As they got up to leave one of the men turned and said, “Sank…you.” Everyone in his family laughed heartily.
After Yu or “fish” garden, we walked to the flower and bird market, which is just as it sounds, plus more animals. There was loud chirping from every corner, both from the birds and, surprisingly, crickets. I saw the largest crickets of my life all in tiny cages, boxes, or woven balls.
Why is it when someone says, “Don’t look!”, we immediately look? I recommend NOT looking, or you could end up face to face with a giant tray of silk worms, and another of their cocoons…still moving. Then, heaven forbid, you could remember the drunken night you thought it was a good idea to EAT a silkworm cocoon from a street vendor.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
I love... Shanghai
My friend Emily noted how casually I mentioned that I was traveling to Shanghai for the weekend. To explain this, Kelly and I spent the whole trip there trying to think of the appropriate US comparison. True, it’s a plane ride, so it can’t be like Boston to NYC. Chicago seemed too far, so we finally decided that NYC to D.C. felt right. It’s definitely a trip, and a new city to explore, but it’s not a big leap. One of our co-workers goes to Shanghai so regularly that he couldn’t meet up with us while we were there because his tennis lesson turned into a tournament that lasted into the night.
Nevertheless, being there did feel like a trip…back to America. I’d expected it to have a more western feel because in the 30’s it was built up by foreign businessmen. (In addition to the fact that Beijing, being the conservative, Mao-centered capital, has long held out from western influence.) Regardless, I was shocked at how much more cosmopolitan and orderly it felt on the streets of Shanghai. There were no giant piles of brick and dirt on the broken sidewalks. I was asked to wait on the sidewalk instead of in the street. I even saw a traffic cop stop a bicyclist who had “too many” cardboard boxes, (when in Beijing terms he had barely begun to stack.)
I was never more convinced of the different feel of Shanghai than in People’s Square. Walking around the pathways in the park, looking at groups of people hanging out on the grass, I remembered Central Park for the first time in a long time.
Outside the Museum of Modern Art, which is in the square, we were stopped by some young Chinese tourists who asked us to take their picture. They asked us where we were from, and we said New York (for lack of a long conversation.) Their reaction was, “Ahh! Welcome to China’s New York!”
After the square we walked to The Bund, which is the downtown area of the city that faces the river. I’ve compared this view to the sculpture park in Astoria, as it faces the Pudong area of Shanghai.
Comment from Inside the Museum: I’m not one to comment on art, but one exhibit that struck me was an instillation of five shelves with broken eggshells. Inside the artist had written “random words from the English Language Book.” Each word was repeated many times in its shell in blue pen. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how Chines people feel when we use their characters without regard to their meaning.
Nevertheless, being there did feel like a trip…back to America. I’d expected it to have a more western feel because in the 30’s it was built up by foreign businessmen. (In addition to the fact that Beijing, being the conservative, Mao-centered capital, has long held out from western influence.) Regardless, I was shocked at how much more cosmopolitan and orderly it felt on the streets of Shanghai. There were no giant piles of brick and dirt on the broken sidewalks. I was asked to wait on the sidewalk instead of in the street. I even saw a traffic cop stop a bicyclist who had “too many” cardboard boxes, (when in Beijing terms he had barely begun to stack.)
I was never more convinced of the different feel of Shanghai than in People’s Square. Walking around the pathways in the park, looking at groups of people hanging out on the grass, I remembered Central Park for the first time in a long time.
Outside the Museum of Modern Art, which is in the square, we were stopped by some young Chinese tourists who asked us to take their picture. They asked us where we were from, and we said New York (for lack of a long conversation.) Their reaction was, “Ahh! Welcome to China’s New York!”
After the square we walked to The Bund, which is the downtown area of the city that faces the river. I’ve compared this view to the sculpture park in Astoria, as it faces the Pudong area of Shanghai.
Comment from Inside the Museum: I’m not one to comment on art, but one exhibit that struck me was an instillation of five shelves with broken eggshells. Inside the artist had written “random words from the English Language Book.” Each word was repeated many times in its shell in blue pen. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how Chines people feel when we use their characters without regard to their meaning.
Monday, May 2, 2011
French Concession
Kelly and I carried our serious tourism mode to Shanghai, hitting the ground running from the moment we landed. We stayed in an area of Shanghai called the French Concession. It’s a really cute, downtown area of the city, with lot of shopping boutiques, parks, coffee shops and restaurants. We checked in around 11 am and went walking around our area. Although there are tons of restaurants in the area, we kept turning the wrong corners and didn’t find a place to eat until 1 pm (when I was moments away from caving and getting McDonalds.)
Traveler’s Note: Look up at least one restaurant/street name with restaurants in the area BEFORE arriving at lunchtime.
We managed the subway, which is easy enough to navigate once you can figure out how to get tickets. They use ¥1 coins a lot in Shanghai, which is shunned in Beijing. I kicked myself, thinking of the giant jar of coins in my apartment as I walked away from machine after machine with masking tape over the bill-insert slot.
At one point I broke down and went to a window asking for a ¥3 card. The woman told me I had to wait in a different line down the hall because she only had ¥4 cards. When I told her I didn’t mind and would take 2 she looked at me like I was crazy. I hate being an American stereotype/money waster, but I’ll take it over trying to find random windows and waiting in two lines just to save 35 cents.
Traveler’s Note: Look up at least one restaurant/street name with restaurants in the area BEFORE arriving at lunchtime.
We managed the subway, which is easy enough to navigate once you can figure out how to get tickets. They use ¥1 coins a lot in Shanghai, which is shunned in Beijing. I kicked myself, thinking of the giant jar of coins in my apartment as I walked away from machine after machine with masking tape over the bill-insert slot.
At one point I broke down and went to a window asking for a ¥3 card. The woman told me I had to wait in a different line down the hall because she only had ¥4 cards. When I told her I didn’t mind and would take 2 she looked at me like I was crazy. I hate being an American stereotype/money waster, but I’ll take it over trying to find random windows and waiting in two lines just to save 35 cents.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Cash Only!
We had a three day weekend for May Day. Not only did we get May Day off, (who knows why) but it’s also apparently such an important holiday that we didn’t even have to make it up! This is unprecedented in our breaks, as China loves giving “days off” and then scheduling 8-day weeks, (which, by the way, work really well with small children. Note the sarcasm.)
Deciding to go to Shanghai was easy. It’s the other major city in in this part of China. I’d wanted to go since my sister gave me a joint Bejing/Shanghai guidebook last February. Actually getting there, unfortunately, was another story. It took 2 Chinese people to assist me, 5 hours after school, 20 calls to Customer Service, and one 2 hour trip to the bank to open up an online account, spread over two weeks.
It’s crazy how, in China, they make it so difficult to spend your own money. In America, it is nearly encouraged and (or at least incredibly easy) to get a piece of plastic and chalk up any expenses that you may or may not be able to pay back in the immediate future. In China, it’s the opposite. They’re incredibly skeptical of online payments. Paying rent for multiple months makes us all feel like drug dealers, as we hand over to our land-lords stacks of bills six-inches thick. Even when booking flights online, the preferred methods of payment are arranging for someone from the website to pick up the cash payment from your apartment, or making a cash transfer into a random bank account.
As charming as I find those options, I couldn’t even utilize them, as I don’t speak Chinese. Even using a translator wouldn’t help much, as I don’t have an address to direct a messenger to. I decided that getting an online account would be the best option. That’s where the 2-hour trip to the bank came in, where they repeatedly told me (through L, my assistant/life translator), that there were serious limits, which, of course, were less than the price of even one ticket to Shanghai.
Eventually, I was given a Bank-USB, which I have to put into my computer if I want to access my own money and pay for the things I want online. Even with the extra hour it took to set up the online account (which has no English option), booking the flight took me and the woman who was helping me at least 30 tries and until 6 pm at night to figure out the myriad of passwords and extra steps needed to buy the tickets.
After all that, I got on the plane and realized Kelly and I were both sitting in middle seats next to women with babies on their laps in the aisle seats between us.
I’ll say it though. Shanghai was definitely worth it.
Deciding to go to Shanghai was easy. It’s the other major city in in this part of China. I’d wanted to go since my sister gave me a joint Bejing/Shanghai guidebook last February. Actually getting there, unfortunately, was another story. It took 2 Chinese people to assist me, 5 hours after school, 20 calls to Customer Service, and one 2 hour trip to the bank to open up an online account, spread over two weeks.
It’s crazy how, in China, they make it so difficult to spend your own money. In America, it is nearly encouraged and (or at least incredibly easy) to get a piece of plastic and chalk up any expenses that you may or may not be able to pay back in the immediate future. In China, it’s the opposite. They’re incredibly skeptical of online payments. Paying rent for multiple months makes us all feel like drug dealers, as we hand over to our land-lords stacks of bills six-inches thick. Even when booking flights online, the preferred methods of payment are arranging for someone from the website to pick up the cash payment from your apartment, or making a cash transfer into a random bank account.
As charming as I find those options, I couldn’t even utilize them, as I don’t speak Chinese. Even using a translator wouldn’t help much, as I don’t have an address to direct a messenger to. I decided that getting an online account would be the best option. That’s where the 2-hour trip to the bank came in, where they repeatedly told me (through L, my assistant/life translator), that there were serious limits, which, of course, were less than the price of even one ticket to Shanghai.
Eventually, I was given a Bank-USB, which I have to put into my computer if I want to access my own money and pay for the things I want online. Even with the extra hour it took to set up the online account (which has no English option), booking the flight took me and the woman who was helping me at least 30 tries and until 6 pm at night to figure out the myriad of passwords and extra steps needed to buy the tickets.
After all that, I got on the plane and realized Kelly and I were both sitting in middle seats next to women with babies on their laps in the aisle seats between us.
I’ll say it though. Shanghai was definitely worth it.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Springtime!
It is officially spring. We’ll, it’s been spring since April hit. For a solid week all of the trees that I saw were in bloom. The beautiful part was that they bloomed not just from flowers dotting the green leaves, but on every inch of each individual branch. My bike to work suddenly became a joy instead of a torture. (The warmer weather certainly helped.)
The streets that often smell like garbage or sweage, actually had a flowery scent instead.
The abundance of blooming flowers didn’t last long. After two weeks, many of the flowers turned to green leaves. Still, others turn ripe every day.
There’s actually some rain now. We went a good five months without seeing a single sprinkle. Granted, even when it rains now, it’s usually because of the “Weather Manipulation Bureau” (I’m not making this up). The way you can tell if it’s actually raining (and not just because the government made it so), is by the time of day. Rain during the day, when most people are at work or in school, is the “thoughtful” work of the W.M.B. Today I was caught in unplanned rain during rush hour. I’ve explained the craziness of biking in Beijing, but there’s nothing compared to crossing slippery train tracks during rush hour with fifty other motorcyclists and cars. One guy in front of me slipped today on the tracks, and I nearly crushed us both, not to mention disturbing the ever-important flow of traffic, which is the only real law in Beijing.
The warm weather is worth it all, though. It reminds me of how it felt when I first arrived. I caught myself thinking today, “Remember when it used to be cold?” as if it wasn’t my state of being for so many winter months. I bet that’s how I’ll feel back in America. “Remember living in Beijing?”
It’s crazy to be nearing the end of my time here. I’m in full see-all-I-can-while-I-still-can mode. I went through all of the many guidebooks I came with and made a list of the must-sees while I still can. My goal is two items from the list at least each weekend. Last weekend Kelly and I managed the hike in the mountains, and then still went to the Forbidden City the next day. This weekend’s goal is the Natrual History Museum, because it has dinosaurs and, reportedly, an exhibit in the basement on evolution featuring actual cadavers. I just can’t miss that!
What Does NOT Suck at All About Beijing: no open container law
Realizing today I’m not taking enough advantage of this little leniency, I decided to grab a beer at the “deli” near my apartment. Is there anything greater than openly drinking a beer on the way home after a long day at work?
The streets that often smell like garbage or sweage, actually had a flowery scent instead.
The abundance of blooming flowers didn’t last long. After two weeks, many of the flowers turned to green leaves. Still, others turn ripe every day.
There’s actually some rain now. We went a good five months without seeing a single sprinkle. Granted, even when it rains now, it’s usually because of the “Weather Manipulation Bureau” (I’m not making this up). The way you can tell if it’s actually raining (and not just because the government made it so), is by the time of day. Rain during the day, when most people are at work or in school, is the “thoughtful” work of the W.M.B. Today I was caught in unplanned rain during rush hour. I’ve explained the craziness of biking in Beijing, but there’s nothing compared to crossing slippery train tracks during rush hour with fifty other motorcyclists and cars. One guy in front of me slipped today on the tracks, and I nearly crushed us both, not to mention disturbing the ever-important flow of traffic, which is the only real law in Beijing.
The warm weather is worth it all, though. It reminds me of how it felt when I first arrived. I caught myself thinking today, “Remember when it used to be cold?” as if it wasn’t my state of being for so many winter months. I bet that’s how I’ll feel back in America. “Remember living in Beijing?”
It’s crazy to be nearing the end of my time here. I’m in full see-all-I-can-while-I-still-can mode. I went through all of the many guidebooks I came with and made a list of the must-sees while I still can. My goal is two items from the list at least each weekend. Last weekend Kelly and I managed the hike in the mountains, and then still went to the Forbidden City the next day. This weekend’s goal is the Natrual History Museum, because it has dinosaurs and, reportedly, an exhibit in the basement on evolution featuring actual cadavers. I just can’t miss that!
What Does NOT Suck at All About Beijing: no open container law
Realizing today I’m not taking enough advantage of this little leniency, I decided to grab a beer at the “deli” near my apartment. Is there anything greater than openly drinking a beer on the way home after a long day at work?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
More Shilinxia
We all ended up hiking at different paces and splitting off. By the end it was just me and Michael, with some far ahead and already downing beers, and other far behind and trying to make it through the mountain. We figured we had just enough time to hit the waterslide.
Yeah, the mountain we were at was a mix between the most beautiful natural sights I’ve ever seen…and a theme park. Even the trail we walked on was man-made stairs, sometimes out of rock and other times just metal. According to Beijing hikers, though, this was hiking. I was dying to skip off the path and scurry up the mountain, but there were actually signs everywhere in English, tell me not to. (This is especially important to note, because pretty much everywhere in China, you’re on your own. Free from lawsuit-plagued American thinking, I’ve had a year of making my own poor choices, law-free. The fact that whoever was in charge there took the time to not only make rules, but also translate them into English kept me straight on the path.)
After the mountain but before the parking lot there was a waterslide and a raft ride. We debated for a while, but eventually decided on the water slide, because of the sheer awesomeness of the vertical drop. Unfortunately, we waited for a while before realizing everyone else in line had a ticket. We actually considered pretending to be foreigners who don’t speak Chinese in an attempt to keep our place in line, but eventually decided against it.
To keep us as dry as possible, they gave us basically plastic bag-ponchos with hoods. (Plastic bags in China, by the way, are unlike the plastic bags in America. They’re more like the plastic bags you might find at a grocery store just to put a few cherries in than what you’d get to take your groceries home.) The “ponchos” were so thin that people weren’t taking them off at the end of the ride, they were standing up, dripping wet, and just ripping the whips of plastic like the incredible hulk.
I haven’t been on a roller coaster since…I can’t even remember. It felt great to have that rush again, as the log lifted me and Michael up towards the mountains before crashing us down with a giant splash into the filthiest water imaginable.
Yeah, I hadn’t thought about that until it in the air and crashing down on my hair. “Don’t lick your lips or touch your eyes!” I warned.
After that we went to the “Peach Orchard”, which actually has no peaches, but was as gorgeous as promised.
Unforgettable Moment: The Chinese VP busting out opera-style in the middle of the peach blossom orchard.
Yeah, the mountain we were at was a mix between the most beautiful natural sights I’ve ever seen…and a theme park. Even the trail we walked on was man-made stairs, sometimes out of rock and other times just metal. According to Beijing hikers, though, this was hiking. I was dying to skip off the path and scurry up the mountain, but there were actually signs everywhere in English, tell me not to. (This is especially important to note, because pretty much everywhere in China, you’re on your own. Free from lawsuit-plagued American thinking, I’ve had a year of making my own poor choices, law-free. The fact that whoever was in charge there took the time to not only make rules, but also translate them into English kept me straight on the path.)
After the mountain but before the parking lot there was a waterslide and a raft ride. We debated for a while, but eventually decided on the water slide, because of the sheer awesomeness of the vertical drop. Unfortunately, we waited for a while before realizing everyone else in line had a ticket. We actually considered pretending to be foreigners who don’t speak Chinese in an attempt to keep our place in line, but eventually decided against it.
To keep us as dry as possible, they gave us basically plastic bag-ponchos with hoods. (Plastic bags in China, by the way, are unlike the plastic bags in America. They’re more like the plastic bags you might find at a grocery store just to put a few cherries in than what you’d get to take your groceries home.) The “ponchos” were so thin that people weren’t taking them off at the end of the ride, they were standing up, dripping wet, and just ripping the whips of plastic like the incredible hulk.
I haven’t been on a roller coaster since…I can’t even remember. It felt great to have that rush again, as the log lifted me and Michael up towards the mountains before crashing us down with a giant splash into the filthiest water imaginable.
Yeah, I hadn’t thought about that until it in the air and crashing down on my hair. “Don’t lick your lips or touch your eyes!” I warned.
After that we went to the “Peach Orchard”, which actually has no peaches, but was as gorgeous as promised.
Unforgettable Moment: The Chinese VP busting out opera-style in the middle of the peach blossom orchard.
Staff “Picnic”
When I read the email that my school was arranging something like a field trip for just staff, I was totally down. My mode lately is cant-belive-I’m-leaving-so-soon-with-so-much-left-to-do. I actually made a poster calendar of the weeks I have left, and then I went through the guidebooks listing all the cafes, museums, parks, and other Beijing-spots I just need to see before I leave.
I’ve talked about how difficult it is to get around here, so being told all I need to do is show up at school and I’ll be delivered to an awesome new area I’ve never been with orchards and mountains is like a dream come true. I assumed other staff would feel the same. You can imagine my surprise when I got on the bus and saw 20 rows of Chinese staff, a few empty rows, and then three other foreign teachers.
I’m really glad that I went. The Chinese Vice-Principal was there, Chinese teachers, and other Chinese administrative staff. None of the foreign directors or Vice-principal made it. The administrators clearly went to a lot trouble to make it a special day, bringing loads of extra water, fruit, and steak/chicken subway sandwiches. They even celebrated April birthdays on the bus, who were represented by just myself and Michael Cheng. They sang, gave us cards, and even had cake. It was adorable.
We were told that they were arranging a bus to take us out to Shilinxia Scenic Area (the Gorge of Stone Forest) 到达石林峡 for a picnic, and then a peach blossom orchard. We were advised to bring extra food and blankets. We arrived at Shilinxia, a “suburb” of Beijing at 10:30, and were hand were told that if we got split up inside, we’d all meet under a sign in the parking lot. We all set out with our books, notebooks, extra food, blankets, etc. But it wasn’t a picnic.
As it turned out, we were on a four hour hike through the mountains.
One of my friends had it the worst, having gone out the night before until 4 am, she was banking on just sitting on a blanket under a peach tree.
I’ve talked about how difficult it is to get around here, so being told all I need to do is show up at school and I’ll be delivered to an awesome new area I’ve never been with orchards and mountains is like a dream come true. I assumed other staff would feel the same. You can imagine my surprise when I got on the bus and saw 20 rows of Chinese staff, a few empty rows, and then three other foreign teachers.
I’m really glad that I went. The Chinese Vice-Principal was there, Chinese teachers, and other Chinese administrative staff. None of the foreign directors or Vice-principal made it. The administrators clearly went to a lot trouble to make it a special day, bringing loads of extra water, fruit, and steak/chicken subway sandwiches. They even celebrated April birthdays on the bus, who were represented by just myself and Michael Cheng. They sang, gave us cards, and even had cake. It was adorable.
We were told that they were arranging a bus to take us out to Shilinxia Scenic Area (the Gorge of Stone Forest) 到达石林峡 for a picnic, and then a peach blossom orchard. We were advised to bring extra food and blankets. We arrived at Shilinxia, a “suburb” of Beijing at 10:30, and were hand were told that if we got split up inside, we’d all meet under a sign in the parking lot. We all set out with our books, notebooks, extra food, blankets, etc. But it wasn’t a picnic.
As it turned out, we were on a four hour hike through the mountains.
One of my friends had it the worst, having gone out the night before until 4 am, she was banking on just sitting on a blanket under a peach tree.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Eggplant Splinter
It’s exactly as it sounds. I got a splinter from an eggplant. What??
It was one of the many varieties of eggplant over here, which all basically taste the same but come in funny little shapes. Some are long tubes, and others round little balls. The cursed little guy that I had chosen was a rather large but almost perfectly spherical eggplant. I was holding it, trying to get a good grip so that I could slice it and not my hand. (I’m always really careful cutting here, because no one I know has the slightest idea what to do or where to go in an emergency.)
Anyway, so there I am in the kitchen trying literally to get a grip, and the thing stabs me. It struck me right in my fleshy thumb. It hurt worse because I hadn’t been expecting it. I screamed out, “The eggplant stabbed me!” which isn’t exactly untrue, and let both it and the knife drop from my hands.
If you work in elementary school and are a young adult, you may know the wonderful resource that is the school nurse. I owe so much of my health to the school nurses at my last two schools. Of course, my school doesn’t have a school nurse. (Don’t get me started on this…)
Kelly tried using tweezers, but the stubborn thing was buried way to deep. I don’t want to go into any more detail about the pain that is this embarrassment, but there were several more failed attempts throughout the week before we could finally get the buggar out.
Basically, I lived for seven days with an eggplant in my thumb. Thanks, China.
It was one of the many varieties of eggplant over here, which all basically taste the same but come in funny little shapes. Some are long tubes, and others round little balls. The cursed little guy that I had chosen was a rather large but almost perfectly spherical eggplant. I was holding it, trying to get a good grip so that I could slice it and not my hand. (I’m always really careful cutting here, because no one I know has the slightest idea what to do or where to go in an emergency.)
Anyway, so there I am in the kitchen trying literally to get a grip, and the thing stabs me. It struck me right in my fleshy thumb. It hurt worse because I hadn’t been expecting it. I screamed out, “The eggplant stabbed me!” which isn’t exactly untrue, and let both it and the knife drop from my hands.
If you work in elementary school and are a young adult, you may know the wonderful resource that is the school nurse. I owe so much of my health to the school nurses at my last two schools. Of course, my school doesn’t have a school nurse. (Don’t get me started on this…)
Kelly tried using tweezers, but the stubborn thing was buried way to deep. I don’t want to go into any more detail about the pain that is this embarrassment, but there were several more failed attempts throughout the week before we could finally get the buggar out.
Basically, I lived for seven days with an eggplant in my thumb. Thanks, China.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Finding the Center
In my early pursuits I went to Gay.com to search for events, community, anything. My results were a list of hotels (??) and the LGBT center, which had no address and no review. You can imagine my delight when Sarah mentioned causally that she was going to the LGBT center the next day. Needless to say, I’ve quit my day job and am now working full-time at the center.
Ok, that’s a stretch, but I can’t pretend that thought didn’t cross my mind as soon as I walked through the door. The center is essentially an apartment that someone rented out for this awesome purpose. I was happy enough just being surrounded by rainbows and grabbing all of the cards/pamphlets/magazines that were translated into English.
The event was centered around the idea of queer identity. We watched a short documentary filmed at an LGBTQIQ (ugh) camp in France. The film was mostly interviews of people answering, “What is your identity?” and “What does ‘queer’ mean to you?” It was so interesting to see what people use to qualify themselves, or the hesitations/freedoms that keep them from doing so. Afterwards the British woman who made the documentary explained the film and the evolution of the term queer…in Chinese with no translation.
Then we played “How queer are you?” The way it works is, everyone is given a poky, (a sweet-coated breadstick candy), and you are told to take a bite when something applies to you. Questions ranged from “I identify as a lesbian” to “I am a gay man who has slept with straight women.” People who identified with the statement had to take a bite. It was basically the non-drinking version of “Never have I ever” for queers.
Overall, I really loved the community feeling from the small apartment. It was a treat to meet real Chinese lesbians, too. One girl told another girl that I was talking to that she “had a crush on me.” Oh sweet, little, leather-jacket wearing baby-dykes. When I told her I had a girlfriend, she asked, “Is she a t or a p?” I knew what this means, it’s the Chinese version of dyke-femme. I said neither, and she asked, “But, you know, is she masculine or feminist?”
I mustered all the cultural etiquette I have to sidestep that one.
I may be leaving P and T here, but I am TOTALLY bringing the term lala (the term for Lesbians) to the NY girl scene. Get ready for Lala Night, ladies!
Ok, that’s a stretch, but I can’t pretend that thought didn’t cross my mind as soon as I walked through the door. The center is essentially an apartment that someone rented out for this awesome purpose. I was happy enough just being surrounded by rainbows and grabbing all of the cards/pamphlets/magazines that were translated into English.
The event was centered around the idea of queer identity. We watched a short documentary filmed at an LGBTQIQ (ugh) camp in France. The film was mostly interviews of people answering, “What is your identity?” and “What does ‘queer’ mean to you?” It was so interesting to see what people use to qualify themselves, or the hesitations/freedoms that keep them from doing so. Afterwards the British woman who made the documentary explained the film and the evolution of the term queer…in Chinese with no translation.
Then we played “How queer are you?” The way it works is, everyone is given a poky, (a sweet-coated breadstick candy), and you are told to take a bite when something applies to you. Questions ranged from “I identify as a lesbian” to “I am a gay man who has slept with straight women.” People who identified with the statement had to take a bite. It was basically the non-drinking version of “Never have I ever” for queers.
Overall, I really loved the community feeling from the small apartment. It was a treat to meet real Chinese lesbians, too. One girl told another girl that I was talking to that she “had a crush on me.” Oh sweet, little, leather-jacket wearing baby-dykes. When I told her I had a girlfriend, she asked, “Is she a t or a p?” I knew what this means, it’s the Chinese version of dyke-femme. I said neither, and she asked, “But, you know, is she masculine or feminist?”
I mustered all the cultural etiquette I have to sidestep that one.
I may be leaving P and T here, but I am TOTALLY bringing the term lala (the term for Lesbians) to the NY girl scene. Get ready for Lala Night, ladies!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
16 Candles (+ a decade)
I turned 26 in Beijing! It took me a while to write this post, but it is important that I document what is potentially my only birthday in China.
Leading up to the big day, I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. What can top a lesbian pool party in a NYC club with hoards of my closest friends? Nothing, of course. But I realized that that doesn’t mean I couldn’t still have a great time.
Kelly researched and brought me to a super fancy restaurant called, “China Grill”, which is on the 63rd floor of a hotel and featured a 360 degree view of the city. I enjoyed delicious fresh seafood, steak, and appetizers, whenever I could take my eyes off of the windows.
For nighttime, I had rally people to this bar called Hercules in Sanlitun. I figured this was a good spot, since it was right in the heart of where ex-pats go out, and would be an easy bar to lead to dancing. Hercules is one of my favorite bars in Beijing for its tasty spread of martinis for only 50 kuai (RMB). My favorite is the cucumber martini, which is unbelievably fresh. My favorite to listen to other people order is “fok me fok you”, especially when the waiters repeat the order back with heavy accents.
I reserved “the bedroom”, the back part of the bar, which actually has two loftish beds. It was nice to start at a place where the music wasn’t too loud, and the lights not too low to actually have conversations. But by 1 am, I was ready to move the party upstairs.
We went to a rooftop bar in the same building where they were playing hip hop and reggaeton, my favorite kind of dancing beat. One thing I’ve really enjoyed here that I hadn’t expected, is hanging out with a mixed group of people. We’re all kind of thrown together, the ex-pats, and it’s made a different kind of community for me. My crew included straight girls and guys, gay boys, as well as some other ladies like myself.
Like I said, it was no lesbian pool party, but I feel like I did justice to the new year in my life.
Leading up to the big day, I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. What can top a lesbian pool party in a NYC club with hoards of my closest friends? Nothing, of course. But I realized that that doesn’t mean I couldn’t still have a great time.
Kelly researched and brought me to a super fancy restaurant called, “China Grill”, which is on the 63rd floor of a hotel and featured a 360 degree view of the city. I enjoyed delicious fresh seafood, steak, and appetizers, whenever I could take my eyes off of the windows.
For nighttime, I had rally people to this bar called Hercules in Sanlitun. I figured this was a good spot, since it was right in the heart of where ex-pats go out, and would be an easy bar to lead to dancing. Hercules is one of my favorite bars in Beijing for its tasty spread of martinis for only 50 kuai (RMB). My favorite is the cucumber martini, which is unbelievably fresh. My favorite to listen to other people order is “fok me fok you”, especially when the waiters repeat the order back with heavy accents.
I reserved “the bedroom”, the back part of the bar, which actually has two loftish beds. It was nice to start at a place where the music wasn’t too loud, and the lights not too low to actually have conversations. But by 1 am, I was ready to move the party upstairs.
We went to a rooftop bar in the same building where they were playing hip hop and reggaeton, my favorite kind of dancing beat. One thing I’ve really enjoyed here that I hadn’t expected, is hanging out with a mixed group of people. We’re all kind of thrown together, the ex-pats, and it’s made a different kind of community for me. My crew included straight girls and guys, gay boys, as well as some other ladies like myself.
Like I said, it was no lesbian pool party, but I feel like I did justice to the new year in my life.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Open Options
Every problem that you encounter in life has a certain number of solutions available to you at a given time, in a given place. One thing that I’m starting to get used to over here is the shift in available options.
For example, people need to get to work. In New York, I solved that problem by taking a ridiculous amount of back-tracking subways (namely the F to the JMZ to the 4,5 at Brooklyn Bridge.) Taxi, while it exists, was not an option for me almost at any time.
Here, I ride my bike. This 20 minute ride is the best option, even when cabs are affordable. It only costs 16 RMB to get to work, which is a little over $2. That may seem like a viable option, if only there were any cabs to get. In the good times I still had to leave my house at 6:45 instead of 7:10, but the last few times I tried (for Peppito) the lack of cabs left me terrified by the side of the road, even contemplating the black cabs that really should never be an option. Also, it’s strange to write out, (especially to Americans,) but I refuse to pay 16 RMB to get to and from school every day!
So when both Kelly’s fix and her regular bike got flat tires one week, we again looked at our options. We decided the only thing to do would be to ride one bike to school. The model for this, of course, is what we’ve seen in China. I talked about it briefly in my “experience” back in September, when everything was beyond new and strange. My landlord rode my bike while I sat on the back, side-saddle and afraid to hold on tightly for dear life.
Kelly and I had tried it a few times, just for fun mostly, and once when Kelly’s bike had been left near the subway in Wudaokou. Nevertheless, we decided to try and make it all the way to work. I can’t be the bike rider. I fall over hopelessly to one side of another as soon as she gets on. The skill I do bring to the act is a sense of balance, thank you ballet. My job is basically to sit straight without leaning, to hold my legs up so that they don’t rub the bike, and to not freak out and cringe when it looks like my knees are about to get cut off by a pole, bike, or bus. At least with Kelly, I can hold on without fear of offending her.
What we thought of as a one-day solution (until Kelly could bring her bike to the bike doctor on our street)turned out to be a week-long expat parade. I say this because, even though it is a very common way for Chinese people to get around, it is very rare to find it with non-Chinese-looking folk. I assumed this was true, but I didn’t realize how strange a spectacle it was until I started riding. Suddenly people were stopping and staring, pointing and laughing, and elbowing each other to look. By the third day I felt I should have brought candy or goodie bags to start throwing to the crowds like a proper parade.
When I asked my assistant L, about it, I asked if she did it with her husband. “All the time,” she replied.
“Why do you think people are looking at us when we do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know… they’ve never seen this,” she replied.
That’s right, people. I’m breaking ground all over the place on this side of the world!
2011 lao wai 2-person bike race, here we come!
For example, people need to get to work. In New York, I solved that problem by taking a ridiculous amount of back-tracking subways (namely the F to the JMZ to the 4,5 at Brooklyn Bridge.) Taxi, while it exists, was not an option for me almost at any time.
Here, I ride my bike. This 20 minute ride is the best option, even when cabs are affordable. It only costs 16 RMB to get to work, which is a little over $2. That may seem like a viable option, if only there were any cabs to get. In the good times I still had to leave my house at 6:45 instead of 7:10, but the last few times I tried (for Peppito) the lack of cabs left me terrified by the side of the road, even contemplating the black cabs that really should never be an option. Also, it’s strange to write out, (especially to Americans,) but I refuse to pay 16 RMB to get to and from school every day!
So when both Kelly’s fix and her regular bike got flat tires one week, we again looked at our options. We decided the only thing to do would be to ride one bike to school. The model for this, of course, is what we’ve seen in China. I talked about it briefly in my “experience” back in September, when everything was beyond new and strange. My landlord rode my bike while I sat on the back, side-saddle and afraid to hold on tightly for dear life.
Kelly and I had tried it a few times, just for fun mostly, and once when Kelly’s bike had been left near the subway in Wudaokou. Nevertheless, we decided to try and make it all the way to work. I can’t be the bike rider. I fall over hopelessly to one side of another as soon as she gets on. The skill I do bring to the act is a sense of balance, thank you ballet. My job is basically to sit straight without leaning, to hold my legs up so that they don’t rub the bike, and to not freak out and cringe when it looks like my knees are about to get cut off by a pole, bike, or bus. At least with Kelly, I can hold on without fear of offending her.
What we thought of as a one-day solution (until Kelly could bring her bike to the bike doctor on our street)turned out to be a week-long expat parade. I say this because, even though it is a very common way for Chinese people to get around, it is very rare to find it with non-Chinese-looking folk. I assumed this was true, but I didn’t realize how strange a spectacle it was until I started riding. Suddenly people were stopping and staring, pointing and laughing, and elbowing each other to look. By the third day I felt I should have brought candy or goodie bags to start throwing to the crowds like a proper parade.
When I asked my assistant L, about it, I asked if she did it with her husband. “All the time,” she replied.
“Why do you think people are looking at us when we do it?” I asked.
“I don’t know… they’ve never seen this,” she replied.
That’s right, people. I’m breaking ground all over the place on this side of the world!
2011 lao wai 2-person bike race, here we come!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Day 2
The second day of the retreat we had until 2:30 before getting back on the bus to Beijing. I was excited to make the most of my day. The free yoga class was at 7 am, which sincerely helped me get up and out before noon.
Kelly and I had personal yoga instructors, which in this case was kind of like having your own yoga screen, considering we couldn’t communicate again. It was a gorgeous sight, though, with the Great Wall in front of us in the morning light. It was refreshing to know what would happen next, and when I was 20 minutes from the end instead of finished.
We had our complimentary breakfast of a wild Chicken egg, yogurt with granola, bread and fresh fruit. We were also given western utensils, and I’ll admit that it didn’t feel right to eat the egg with a fork and knife, so I used chopsticks.
When we were leaving I decided, on a whim, to ask about the horseback riding. I thought I heard someone talk about it yesterday, and wondered how much it was. Luckily, like the yoga and the at-your-own-risk-Great-Wall-climb, it was free of charge. I said I was interested and was told to wait 10 minutes for the horse.
While I waited, with no expectations, I couldn’t help think about my trip to Inner Mongolia in October, where I had no idea what was happening until I was on a horse for a two hour ride through the grasslands. I am starting to relish the unexpected. I didn’t know if I’d be given a horse, to do with as I may, or, as Kelly suggested, be trotted around in a circle in the parking lot.
The answer, as it turned out, was somewhat in the middle. I wasn’t led in a circle of nothing, but I wasn’t left to my own freedom either. One of the boys who worked there led me, well, the horse and me, through the retreat and out past a gate. We went through streams and towards what looked like a small town. I saw a small waterfall and even more of the mountains past those lined with the Wall. I wanted to explore on my own, but it was clear that wasn’t an option.
When we got back I had intended to keep writing, but felt an incredible amount of energy. I was bouncing around and felt like I would never be able to sit on a bus. So instead I climbed.
I went back to the Wall’s path, and discovered a new way to get to the top. I still had to climb fist over foot, but it was the whole stretch of a mountainside, instead of a very narrow path. I came upon some wild goats, eating the hay, apparently because I’ve slipped into the past over here in China, and my life involves mountain climbing and natural goat-spotting. Regardless, that baby goat was cuuuuute.
I stumbled into a few Chinese families, all who tried incessantly to talk to me in Chinese even after I did my best, head shake, “No Chinese” statement. Even as I felt somewhat annoyed, however, it was nice to be around other people who could potentially get help or provide assistance if I were to slip off the side of a mountain.
Kelly and I had personal yoga instructors, which in this case was kind of like having your own yoga screen, considering we couldn’t communicate again. It was a gorgeous sight, though, with the Great Wall in front of us in the morning light. It was refreshing to know what would happen next, and when I was 20 minutes from the end instead of finished.
We had our complimentary breakfast of a wild Chicken egg, yogurt with granola, bread and fresh fruit. We were also given western utensils, and I’ll admit that it didn’t feel right to eat the egg with a fork and knife, so I used chopsticks.
When we were leaving I decided, on a whim, to ask about the horseback riding. I thought I heard someone talk about it yesterday, and wondered how much it was. Luckily, like the yoga and the at-your-own-risk-Great-Wall-climb, it was free of charge. I said I was interested and was told to wait 10 minutes for the horse.
While I waited, with no expectations, I couldn’t help think about my trip to Inner Mongolia in October, where I had no idea what was happening until I was on a horse for a two hour ride through the grasslands. I am starting to relish the unexpected. I didn’t know if I’d be given a horse, to do with as I may, or, as Kelly suggested, be trotted around in a circle in the parking lot.
The answer, as it turned out, was somewhat in the middle. I wasn’t led in a circle of nothing, but I wasn’t left to my own freedom either. One of the boys who worked there led me, well, the horse and me, through the retreat and out past a gate. We went through streams and towards what looked like a small town. I saw a small waterfall and even more of the mountains past those lined with the Wall. I wanted to explore on my own, but it was clear that wasn’t an option.
When we got back I had intended to keep writing, but felt an incredible amount of energy. I was bouncing around and felt like I would never be able to sit on a bus. So instead I climbed.
I went back to the Wall’s path, and discovered a new way to get to the top. I still had to climb fist over foot, but it was the whole stretch of a mountainside, instead of a very narrow path. I came upon some wild goats, eating the hay, apparently because I’ve slipped into the past over here in China, and my life involves mountain climbing and natural goat-spotting. Regardless, that baby goat was cuuuuute.
I stumbled into a few Chinese families, all who tried incessantly to talk to me in Chinese even after I did my best, head shake, “No Chinese” statement. Even as I felt somewhat annoyed, however, it was nice to be around other people who could potentially get help or provide assistance if I were to slip off the side of a mountain.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Yogaing
We went to up the wall at 1:30, got back by 3:45, and I decided to make it to Yoga at 4. Now, I can’t call myself a yogaer, even if that was a word. I’ve really never done it in a class before, and the only times I’ve attempted is when Kelly shows me this or that move. I decided not to miss this, however, because my friend who had recommended this place to me, kept mentioning the Yoga.
I hurried as not to be late, and then discovered that I was the only one interested. I swung in a hammock after my 2 hour climb, waiting for apparently a one-on-one yoga hour, and wondering when my life became so healthy.
I was pretty nervous at first. Ok, I was nervous the whole time. I’ve never had a real teacher, like I said, so I wasn’t sure what to do. She only spoke Chinese, which was actually kind of a relief. She still explained everything, or maybe said, “pickle pickle armpit squeeze” as she did the moves, but it was comforting to hear her voice.
If China has taught me anything, it’s flexibility. I had no idea what would happen, but I just watched and tried. Some more alarming moments was when she took her foot, held it with her angle near the opposite hip, then reached her fingertips to the ground, before sitting back. I followed her, realizing not only that I was supporting myself only by my fingertips and the top of my left foot, but also that I would have to do this move in reverse, bringing my fingertips to the ground and somehow standing up on one foot, hopefully without falling over.
The other tricky part was not knowing how long it would last. I guessed that the session would be an hour, but I had no idea how to gauge an hour in yoga-time. After what felt like it could have been an hour, we laid on the mat just breathing. I was certain this was my cool down breaths and that I had survived. As I was congratulating myself, the instructor turned over and began a move where we held our ankles and lifted our bodies to make an “o”. By the end I realized that break must have only been 20 minutes in.
Standing there, slightly bent with one leg twisted behind my opposite calf, and my arms in an unprecedented-interlock, I did start to understand why people do yoga. I must say, though that while I was sitting there on the outdoor wooden stage, desperately counting four breaths in and four breaths out, overlooking the Great Wall and a stone-lined stream, I got the biggest craving for pizza and beer.
I hurried as not to be late, and then discovered that I was the only one interested. I swung in a hammock after my 2 hour climb, waiting for apparently a one-on-one yoga hour, and wondering when my life became so healthy.
I was pretty nervous at first. Ok, I was nervous the whole time. I’ve never had a real teacher, like I said, so I wasn’t sure what to do. She only spoke Chinese, which was actually kind of a relief. She still explained everything, or maybe said, “pickle pickle armpit squeeze” as she did the moves, but it was comforting to hear her voice.
If China has taught me anything, it’s flexibility. I had no idea what would happen, but I just watched and tried. Some more alarming moments was when she took her foot, held it with her angle near the opposite hip, then reached her fingertips to the ground, before sitting back. I followed her, realizing not only that I was supporting myself only by my fingertips and the top of my left foot, but also that I would have to do this move in reverse, bringing my fingertips to the ground and somehow standing up on one foot, hopefully without falling over.
The other tricky part was not knowing how long it would last. I guessed that the session would be an hour, but I had no idea how to gauge an hour in yoga-time. After what felt like it could have been an hour, we laid on the mat just breathing. I was certain this was my cool down breaths and that I had survived. As I was congratulating myself, the instructor turned over and began a move where we held our ankles and lifted our bodies to make an “o”. By the end I realized that break must have only been 20 minutes in.
Standing there, slightly bent with one leg twisted behind my opposite calf, and my arms in an unprecedented-interlock, I did start to understand why people do yoga. I must say, though that while I was sitting there on the outdoor wooden stage, desperately counting four breaths in and four breaths out, overlooking the Great Wall and a stone-lined stream, I got the biggest craving for pizza and beer.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Red Capital Ranch
I’d been wanting to go back to the Great Wall since I first went in September. Being one of the only things I heard of before coming to China, I felt a tourist’s obligation to do it right. I mentioned before that Badaling, where I went before, is referred to as the “Disney land” of the Great Wall, for its touristy-make up, and unusually crowded experience. I was lucky to have a great experience there, taking turns that left me and the few others that I came with alone for long stretches of hiking.
Still, I wanted to see a more secluded, more broken-down part of the wall before I left, and this led me here. The Red Capital Ranch is one of the locations of Tibetan-affiliated properties, and the one closest to the Great Wall. Even with email booking in English, you have to be careful in China. I was at the final step when I received an email saying, “Just to confirm, your booking is in Tibet.” After a mild heart attack and a few more clarification emails, I arranged to meet at the Red Capital Residence in Bejing for my free 2 hour van ride to Shambala at the Great Wall (or the Red Capital Ranch.) Waiting at the Red Capital Residence was an interesting experience, seeing pictures of Mao everywhere, and reading brochures about how I was getting the experience as if I was his personal guest for the weekend. It was elegant, extravagant, yet creepy.
The ranch itself is everything I hoped for. It’s incredibly peaceful, with the soft sounds of tweeting birds, rustling trees, and lapping water in the distance. Somehow Kelly and I got the sweetest hutong. The place is so small it uses names instead of numbers for rooms. We stayed in “Mountain”, which, just as it should, is the highest of the hutongs, overlooking the rest with a perfect view of the sunset over the mountains. Every detail of our room is etched in wood, covered with stone, or separated by orange curtains. The bathroom is a stone-walled cave with a raindrop shower head which, unlike home, doesn’t run out of hot water well before you’re ready. This is why people take vacations.
After throwing out stuff down we decided to adventure towards the Great Wall. We had been pointed in the direction towards the path, and that was that. The path apparently led to a winding sandy path up the mountain, which then led to a vertical ascent up a crumbled portion of the Wall. We had followed a small group of British tourist, who looked at the Wall and said, there’s no way that’s the way. It was great to finally feel like I know China better than someone else. I knew without a doubt that I was looking at the path. One great thing about China is the freedom from law suits. Living in China after America is like finally getting away from your parents as a teenager. Suddenly all of the, “Be careful” “It’s not safe.” “Don’t do that” warnings were silent, and you’re left to make your own mistakes and use your own judgment, at your own risk, of course.
So Kelly and I climbed, hand by hand, foot by foot, up the broken stoned staircase to the top. It took us about an hour, but we made it to one of the peaks. It was gorgeous, overlooking the mountains all around and surrounded by trees flowering in tiny white and pink pedals. I sat and read Abraham Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address, where he clearly and repeatedly states that he has no right nor desire to get rid of slavery in America. (This may seem random, but it’s part of a book with Obama’s address and the Gettysburg address, which were my reasoning for the purchase. Also, as I’ve said, books in English are at such a shortage that I find myself reading all sorts of interesting things I never found time for in the states.)
The climb back was the hardest. I’m not going to lie, I felt pretty proud of myself for being prepared in my sneakers and northface. I watched those British girls turn around in their saddle shoes after 20 min., and patted myself on the back as I trudged on. Then, before heading down, we saw a group of other climbers in serious gear. They had the waling sticks, the wind pants, and even ski goggles for the serious sand/wind. Their shoes looked as thick as snowboarding boots, and it was clear they had been designed for just this purpose.
I felt a little shaky as I started my descent, but found a strategy of holding on to the part of the wall that was the steadiest and using that to brace my feet as I avoided wiggly and sand-covered foot holds. Some parts I crawled backwards, holding on to nearby trees. Surprisingly, the hardest part was the beginning, a literal sand-slide of windy pathway with no stone whatsoever to hold on to. Eventually, I managed a half-slide, half-jog down to safety at the bottom.
Still, I wanted to see a more secluded, more broken-down part of the wall before I left, and this led me here. The Red Capital Ranch is one of the locations of Tibetan-affiliated properties, and the one closest to the Great Wall. Even with email booking in English, you have to be careful in China. I was at the final step when I received an email saying, “Just to confirm, your booking is in Tibet.” After a mild heart attack and a few more clarification emails, I arranged to meet at the Red Capital Residence in Bejing for my free 2 hour van ride to Shambala at the Great Wall (or the Red Capital Ranch.) Waiting at the Red Capital Residence was an interesting experience, seeing pictures of Mao everywhere, and reading brochures about how I was getting the experience as if I was his personal guest for the weekend. It was elegant, extravagant, yet creepy.
The ranch itself is everything I hoped for. It’s incredibly peaceful, with the soft sounds of tweeting birds, rustling trees, and lapping water in the distance. Somehow Kelly and I got the sweetest hutong. The place is so small it uses names instead of numbers for rooms. We stayed in “Mountain”, which, just as it should, is the highest of the hutongs, overlooking the rest with a perfect view of the sunset over the mountains. Every detail of our room is etched in wood, covered with stone, or separated by orange curtains. The bathroom is a stone-walled cave with a raindrop shower head which, unlike home, doesn’t run out of hot water well before you’re ready. This is why people take vacations.
After throwing out stuff down we decided to adventure towards the Great Wall. We had been pointed in the direction towards the path, and that was that. The path apparently led to a winding sandy path up the mountain, which then led to a vertical ascent up a crumbled portion of the Wall. We had followed a small group of British tourist, who looked at the Wall and said, there’s no way that’s the way. It was great to finally feel like I know China better than someone else. I knew without a doubt that I was looking at the path. One great thing about China is the freedom from law suits. Living in China after America is like finally getting away from your parents as a teenager. Suddenly all of the, “Be careful” “It’s not safe.” “Don’t do that” warnings were silent, and you’re left to make your own mistakes and use your own judgment, at your own risk, of course.
So Kelly and I climbed, hand by hand, foot by foot, up the broken stoned staircase to the top. It took us about an hour, but we made it to one of the peaks. It was gorgeous, overlooking the mountains all around and surrounded by trees flowering in tiny white and pink pedals. I sat and read Abraham Lincoln’s First Inaugural Address, where he clearly and repeatedly states that he has no right nor desire to get rid of slavery in America. (This may seem random, but it’s part of a book with Obama’s address and the Gettysburg address, which were my reasoning for the purchase. Also, as I’ve said, books in English are at such a shortage that I find myself reading all sorts of interesting things I never found time for in the states.)
The climb back was the hardest. I’m not going to lie, I felt pretty proud of myself for being prepared in my sneakers and northface. I watched those British girls turn around in their saddle shoes after 20 min., and patted myself on the back as I trudged on. Then, before heading down, we saw a group of other climbers in serious gear. They had the waling sticks, the wind pants, and even ski goggles for the serious sand/wind. Their shoes looked as thick as snowboarding boots, and it was clear they had been designed for just this purpose.
I felt a little shaky as I started my descent, but found a strategy of holding on to the part of the wall that was the steadiest and using that to brace my feet as I avoided wiggly and sand-covered foot holds. Some parts I crawled backwards, holding on to nearby trees. Surprisingly, the hardest part was the beginning, a literal sand-slide of windy pathway with no stone whatsoever to hold on to. Eventually, I managed a half-slide, half-jog down to safety at the bottom.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Peppito
If you’ve known me and my pet-history, then you know that I’m irrationally attached to fish. I assume that this stems from my parent’s rule of “only if it lives in water” which kept my childhood pets limited to a stream of fish and one short-lived, underwater frog. As a young adult living in the city, the options for my first non-watered pet were also limited. Anyway, regardless of the reason, I absolutely love Peppito.
Kelly bought Peppito from the Merry Mart (something like a Walmart), towards the beginning of the year. He is our longest surviving, and most fantastic fish. He’s a teal and purple beta fish. We’re meant to be.
There was one scary incident, Peppito’s first trip to school, where we almost lost him. Ok, where I almost killed him. I was riding him in my basket, carefully as imaginably possible, humming, “fish on board” until I realized the leaking water. I did my best to pour it back in, and to continue even more carefully, but just into Tsinghua campus I noticed the leaks again. This time there was only an inch of water left for the poor guy, and he was looking rough on all accounts. I called Kelly frantically to bring more water, asked my assistant, L, to bring the kids to Chinese, and cried my eyes out on the side of the road thinking the shock had done him in. Amazingly, miracle fish that he is, Peppito survived the rest of the trip to school hanging in a bag off of Kelly’s handlebars, and the next two weeks in L’s house for Christmas break. Yeah, this was also the day of the holiday concert, my 14-hour school day.
After that, Peppito always took a taxi to and from school. Luckily this only happens before and after breaks, and for the week that he was a guest-classroom-pet when we studied water. Other than that Peppito is happy to swim and stay at home, which is relatively problem-free.
With all the time and care that I put into Peppito, you can imagine my shock when I was looking at him on Monday night when it dawned on me that Kelly and I were leaving the next day for an overnight retreat. Immediate panic set in as a jumped up and shouted my revelation. It was 11 p.m. and we were leaving at 8 in the morning. Our closest friend in the complex was already in Shanghai for our “long weekend” which started Sunday and ended Tuesday.
I contemplated calling the neighbor I’d been friendly with at the beginning of the year, and even the nice lesbian couple who happened to live at the top of our building. (I know, what are the odds??) I decided against sounding like the crazy, fish-fanatic that I actually am to neighbors/potential friends.
Instead, like all frantic people of my generation, I turned to the internet. Thank the Universe for my VPN, because I didn’t want to leave this up to HK Google. No thanks! As I was typing, I imagined the worst and wondered what I’d be doing if the resort hadn’t been booked for one of the nights I wanted, forcing me to only be away for one night. Then I found the results. As many of you probably already as you’re reading this, betas can apparently go for a LONG time without being fed. One article I read actually recommended not feeding your beta one day a week. Multiple other articles said these miracle fish can go two weeks without food.
Nevertheless, like the rest of my generation, I know that most of what you read on the internet is pure crap. I was less than thrilled to be putting poor Peppito’s life in the credentials of “beatalovers.com”. When we got back I sent in Kelly first, just saying, “You know why…” She knew.
Of course, he was fine: Peppito, Miracle Fish!
ps...This is my 100th post! Thanks for reading!!
Kelly bought Peppito from the Merry Mart (something like a Walmart), towards the beginning of the year. He is our longest surviving, and most fantastic fish. He’s a teal and purple beta fish. We’re meant to be.
There was one scary incident, Peppito’s first trip to school, where we almost lost him. Ok, where I almost killed him. I was riding him in my basket, carefully as imaginably possible, humming, “fish on board” until I realized the leaking water. I did my best to pour it back in, and to continue even more carefully, but just into Tsinghua campus I noticed the leaks again. This time there was only an inch of water left for the poor guy, and he was looking rough on all accounts. I called Kelly frantically to bring more water, asked my assistant, L, to bring the kids to Chinese, and cried my eyes out on the side of the road thinking the shock had done him in. Amazingly, miracle fish that he is, Peppito survived the rest of the trip to school hanging in a bag off of Kelly’s handlebars, and the next two weeks in L’s house for Christmas break. Yeah, this was also the day of the holiday concert, my 14-hour school day.
After that, Peppito always took a taxi to and from school. Luckily this only happens before and after breaks, and for the week that he was a guest-classroom-pet when we studied water. Other than that Peppito is happy to swim and stay at home, which is relatively problem-free.
With all the time and care that I put into Peppito, you can imagine my shock when I was looking at him on Monday night when it dawned on me that Kelly and I were leaving the next day for an overnight retreat. Immediate panic set in as a jumped up and shouted my revelation. It was 11 p.m. and we were leaving at 8 in the morning. Our closest friend in the complex was already in Shanghai for our “long weekend” which started Sunday and ended Tuesday.
I contemplated calling the neighbor I’d been friendly with at the beginning of the year, and even the nice lesbian couple who happened to live at the top of our building. (I know, what are the odds??) I decided against sounding like the crazy, fish-fanatic that I actually am to neighbors/potential friends.
Instead, like all frantic people of my generation, I turned to the internet. Thank the Universe for my VPN, because I didn’t want to leave this up to HK Google. No thanks! As I was typing, I imagined the worst and wondered what I’d be doing if the resort hadn’t been booked for one of the nights I wanted, forcing me to only be away for one night. Then I found the results. As many of you probably already as you’re reading this, betas can apparently go for a LONG time without being fed. One article I read actually recommended not feeding your beta one day a week. Multiple other articles said these miracle fish can go two weeks without food.
Nevertheless, like the rest of my generation, I know that most of what you read on the internet is pure crap. I was less than thrilled to be putting poor Peppito’s life in the credentials of “beatalovers.com”. When we got back I sent in Kelly first, just saying, “You know why…” She knew.
Of course, he was fine: Peppito, Miracle Fish!
ps...This is my 100th post! Thanks for reading!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Rebecca Mui, Key Note Speaker
I was leaving my classroom, planner in hand, on the way to the “staff meeting” that was rumored to be just a staff birthday party. My doorway filled with Chinese adults, men and women in business suits and collared shirts. I waved them in, as I always do, welcoming them (in gesture, of course) to take a look around. Sometimes they shake their hands in front of their bodies, heads shaking down, no, no, before they walk away. This crowd came in as if they had been instructed.
In fact, they had been. Two Chinese interpreters/Admissions staff came in with the crowd. I couldn’t help but staring as more and more people poured into my room, until every chair and morning meeting seat was filled, with standing room only for the last few adults.
“Can you please explain progressive education?” I was asked after being introduced as the second grade teacher.
To anyone who knows education right now, this is like being asked, “So what is America?” or maybe “Can you explain what it means to be Chinese?” There are a lot of answers, and none that can be given on the spot in front of no less than 40 strangers, especially when you have to pause every two or three sentences for translation.
I did my best to talk about what it looks like in my classroom, about community building and collaboration, and about the Farmer’s Market study.
Then the Vice Principal came in and did a Q and A while I waited by my desk, constantly picking up my planner when it looked like he was leaving, and then putting back down when he was asked another question. He mentioned at the beginning of his talk that he had a staff meeting to go to, and I figured it was my best bet to sneak out when he did.
Fifteen minutes later, he made off and I was stopped two feet before the door. “Could you please talk?”
“Sure…about progressive education? Or the second grade curriculum?”
“They want to know how you teach.”
How am I supposed to explain to a crowd of Chinese adults, exactly how I teach? I did my best explanation of the teacher as “facilitator of discovery” rather than an all-knowing fact provider. Then they asked if I could do a lesson, pretending that they were students.
Sure! Let me just whip out the demo lesson I’ve prepared which is to stand for all westerners and all progressive education.
Luckily, I did have a lesson I’d done earlier in the week that I hadn’t taken out of finished work yet. The lesson was the first in a study about shelter. I showed the pseudo-class of adults how I grouped the students and had them each examine a Chinese house and a house from another culture, talking and asking questions before they explained which was the Chinese house and why. The point for them to realize what they already know about houses comes with a framework of being in China, and that if they were somewhere else in the world, they would think about houses in a different way.
A few more questions and answers, and the group was sent out of the room. I tried to leave again and was told, “Please stay for conference notes.” It turns out that “conference notes” was just this woman telling me that someone asked why we don’t teach our kids to respect their parents, which is very important in Chinese schools.
I told her that we teach them to respect others, which they should transfer to their parents if they have truly learned it. She looked at me like I hadn’t finished talking.
It’s been a hell of a year.
In fact, they had been. Two Chinese interpreters/Admissions staff came in with the crowd. I couldn’t help but staring as more and more people poured into my room, until every chair and morning meeting seat was filled, with standing room only for the last few adults.
“Can you please explain progressive education?” I was asked after being introduced as the second grade teacher.
To anyone who knows education right now, this is like being asked, “So what is America?” or maybe “Can you explain what it means to be Chinese?” There are a lot of answers, and none that can be given on the spot in front of no less than 40 strangers, especially when you have to pause every two or three sentences for translation.
I did my best to talk about what it looks like in my classroom, about community building and collaboration, and about the Farmer’s Market study.
Then the Vice Principal came in and did a Q and A while I waited by my desk, constantly picking up my planner when it looked like he was leaving, and then putting back down when he was asked another question. He mentioned at the beginning of his talk that he had a staff meeting to go to, and I figured it was my best bet to sneak out when he did.
Fifteen minutes later, he made off and I was stopped two feet before the door. “Could you please talk?”
“Sure…about progressive education? Or the second grade curriculum?”
“They want to know how you teach.”
How am I supposed to explain to a crowd of Chinese adults, exactly how I teach? I did my best explanation of the teacher as “facilitator of discovery” rather than an all-knowing fact provider. Then they asked if I could do a lesson, pretending that they were students.
Sure! Let me just whip out the demo lesson I’ve prepared which is to stand for all westerners and all progressive education.
Luckily, I did have a lesson I’d done earlier in the week that I hadn’t taken out of finished work yet. The lesson was the first in a study about shelter. I showed the pseudo-class of adults how I grouped the students and had them each examine a Chinese house and a house from another culture, talking and asking questions before they explained which was the Chinese house and why. The point for them to realize what they already know about houses comes with a framework of being in China, and that if they were somewhere else in the world, they would think about houses in a different way.
A few more questions and answers, and the group was sent out of the room. I tried to leave again and was told, “Please stay for conference notes.” It turns out that “conference notes” was just this woman telling me that someone asked why we don’t teach our kids to respect their parents, which is very important in Chinese schools.
I told her that we teach them to respect others, which they should transfer to their parents if they have truly learned it. She looked at me like I hadn’t finished talking.
It’s been a hell of a year.
Friday, March 25, 2011
The Wrong Variety
When I first heard about the International Women’s Day Variety Show, I was naturally thrilled. What doesn’t appeal to me about a variety of acts celebrating women’s day? It’s put on by Beijing Independent Artists, and the proceeds go to female entrepreneurs in rural parts of China. All good.
The show consisted of musical performances, dance numbers, and short plays. I heard about it from a friend, who wrote one of the plays in the second half.
I loved the theater. There was a front room with a bar and some random tables and chairs, whose broken-down look with a classy feel reminded me of New York. I was ready for the show.
The first performance was by what looked like a Chinese high school band, except for the white, middle-aged, male lead-singer. In fact, all the members were male except for the drummer. I definitely appreciated seeing an elusive female Chinese drummer, but she certainly wasn’t featured in their one song. I should have known, with an opening act like this, that I wasn’t about to get what I expect.
The next was a dance called Gypsy. It featured three girls with belly-dancing outfits, hip-thrusting on stage.
After that a Russian singer, in a head wrap and African dress, in front of an African sunset backdrop, singing with a saxophonist. She came out again later in heels and a seriously tight black dress singing as the white saxophonist rapped about women. Sometimes it’s hard to be in Beijing, because anyone who can’t make it where they came from can come here and take themselves way too seriously.
Their self-righteous performance was hilarious, but the clinchers of the evening, and why I had to leave early, were the plays.
The first was set in the imaginary world where women get their own parking spaces, “because we have so many shopping bags and babies that we need to be closer to elevators.” In the skit, a cocky, self-assured boy begins on the phone to his girlfriend, convincing her that she’s crazy for thinking he’s cheating on her just because he didn’t come home last night.
The skit centers around dialogue between him and a business woman who is complaining that he’s parked in a woman’s spot. He spends the skit explaining how much he knows about women, complaining how unfair it is that they get any privileges, and congratulating himself for being a stud. She barks at him for most of the play to give her the parking spot, and then eventually starts flirting with him. At the end, they decide to hook up and she calls her boyfriend, demanding that she’s not cheating on him, and then concludes the skit by phoning another friend to tell her she’s about to hook up with a nothing shoe-salesman saying, “He’s not all that, I am.”
Another skit featured two women cat-fighting after they realized they were dating the same man. He stops the hair pulling only to show them martial-arts and Japanese sword techniques. Only after he has enjoyed their fighting do they turn on him and beat the crap out of him before bonding and buying each other drinks. The play ends when he crawls up from the ground and goes off to meet his other girlfriend.
I’ve mentioned how desperate I am for the English language, so you can imagine how painful it was for me to walk away from this night. Of course, as I’ve explained what I was seeing, you can understand how painful it was for me to watch.
I realized later that the trouble is that I assumed that if it was in celebration of women that it would be feminist. I expected to see strong women on stage, talking about things that matter to us, not performing glittery belly-dancing and pseudo-rap. I did not expect to see women clawing at each other over men, or flirting with them even when they’re acting like pricks.
Happy Women’s Day
The show consisted of musical performances, dance numbers, and short plays. I heard about it from a friend, who wrote one of the plays in the second half.
I loved the theater. There was a front room with a bar and some random tables and chairs, whose broken-down look with a classy feel reminded me of New York. I was ready for the show.
The first performance was by what looked like a Chinese high school band, except for the white, middle-aged, male lead-singer. In fact, all the members were male except for the drummer. I definitely appreciated seeing an elusive female Chinese drummer, but she certainly wasn’t featured in their one song. I should have known, with an opening act like this, that I wasn’t about to get what I expect.
The next was a dance called Gypsy. It featured three girls with belly-dancing outfits, hip-thrusting on stage.
After that a Russian singer, in a head wrap and African dress, in front of an African sunset backdrop, singing with a saxophonist. She came out again later in heels and a seriously tight black dress singing as the white saxophonist rapped about women. Sometimes it’s hard to be in Beijing, because anyone who can’t make it where they came from can come here and take themselves way too seriously.
Their self-righteous performance was hilarious, but the clinchers of the evening, and why I had to leave early, were the plays.
The first was set in the imaginary world where women get their own parking spaces, “because we have so many shopping bags and babies that we need to be closer to elevators.” In the skit, a cocky, self-assured boy begins on the phone to his girlfriend, convincing her that she’s crazy for thinking he’s cheating on her just because he didn’t come home last night.
The skit centers around dialogue between him and a business woman who is complaining that he’s parked in a woman’s spot. He spends the skit explaining how much he knows about women, complaining how unfair it is that they get any privileges, and congratulating himself for being a stud. She barks at him for most of the play to give her the parking spot, and then eventually starts flirting with him. At the end, they decide to hook up and she calls her boyfriend, demanding that she’s not cheating on him, and then concludes the skit by phoning another friend to tell her she’s about to hook up with a nothing shoe-salesman saying, “He’s not all that, I am.”
Another skit featured two women cat-fighting after they realized they were dating the same man. He stops the hair pulling only to show them martial-arts and Japanese sword techniques. Only after he has enjoyed their fighting do they turn on him and beat the crap out of him before bonding and buying each other drinks. The play ends when he crawls up from the ground and goes off to meet his other girlfriend.
I’ve mentioned how desperate I am for the English language, so you can imagine how painful it was for me to walk away from this night. Of course, as I’ve explained what I was seeing, you can understand how painful it was for me to watch.
I realized later that the trouble is that I assumed that if it was in celebration of women that it would be feminist. I expected to see strong women on stage, talking about things that matter to us, not performing glittery belly-dancing and pseudo-rap. I did not expect to see women clawing at each other over men, or flirting with them even when they’re acting like pricks.
Happy Women’s Day
Monday, March 21, 2011
They Do Exist
After trying to find people from weliveinbeijing.com, I joined the “lesbians in Beijing” group. Of 5 members, one was a guy, and the rest were 16-18 yr-old self-identified bi girls. Basically, I’m the only lesbian in Beijing. I put up a profile just saying that I’m here in a relationship and looking for friends and the lesbian night life, if it exists here. The only messages I got were from shady men letting me know they have a girlfriend who’s interested in getting us all together or just stating, (and this is verbatim): “hi sweet dear very nice pic would you like to make friendship with me?” or “i’m not a girl but may i know that are you interested in boys too.”
I’d pretty much given up hope when I met Sarah. She’s a friend of another teacher from my school. He’d be promising me for months that he knew a lesbian, and would connect us. After 4 months and 4 failed attempts at meeting up, I was betting money that she was a lie he constructed to keep some hope alive for me.
Luckily, I was wrong. Sarah’s an ethnically Chinese lesbian from San Fran who’s been living here long enough to speak the language. Aka, she’s a gold mind find. More importantly, she’s a really sweet and awesome human, which is even rarer.
I was more than excited when Sarah invited me and my friend Roxanne to hot pot dinner with her friends. Just sitting at the long table with mostly gay and lesbian crowd was like Christmas for me. I just kept thinking, “Where have you been for the last seven months?” Overhearing phrases from girls like, “My girlfriend is in Shanghai” or “We…” with the implication being another girl, was intensely refreshing for me.
It was because of this crowd and the warm and fuzzies I had from finally finding a community that I agreed to go with them to Destination. Destination is the “premier gay club” in Beijing, the only one even included in guidebooks. The club did not disappoint. I was absolutely shell-shocked by the people inside. The club is two floors, at least five rooms on each floor, and each of which were absolutely packed. I may never see so many gay Chinese men in my life.
It was new to me, because I’m mostly out at Lao wai (ex-pat) clubs dancing with foreigners. It’s not, but in some way in my brain I was thinking, “This is how Chinese people go out.” Regardless of the culture shock, I was amazed at the sheer number. All the lesbians in Beijing could barely fill my living room, but here just out on any regular Saturday night were gay men as far as the eye can see.
Different country, different side of the world, same problem. Come out, come out, wherever you are!
I’d pretty much given up hope when I met Sarah. She’s a friend of another teacher from my school. He’d be promising me for months that he knew a lesbian, and would connect us. After 4 months and 4 failed attempts at meeting up, I was betting money that she was a lie he constructed to keep some hope alive for me.
Luckily, I was wrong. Sarah’s an ethnically Chinese lesbian from San Fran who’s been living here long enough to speak the language. Aka, she’s a gold mind find. More importantly, she’s a really sweet and awesome human, which is even rarer.
I was more than excited when Sarah invited me and my friend Roxanne to hot pot dinner with her friends. Just sitting at the long table with mostly gay and lesbian crowd was like Christmas for me. I just kept thinking, “Where have you been for the last seven months?” Overhearing phrases from girls like, “My girlfriend is in Shanghai” or “We…” with the implication being another girl, was intensely refreshing for me.
It was because of this crowd and the warm and fuzzies I had from finally finding a community that I agreed to go with them to Destination. Destination is the “premier gay club” in Beijing, the only one even included in guidebooks. The club did not disappoint. I was absolutely shell-shocked by the people inside. The club is two floors, at least five rooms on each floor, and each of which were absolutely packed. I may never see so many gay Chinese men in my life.
It was new to me, because I’m mostly out at Lao wai (ex-pat) clubs dancing with foreigners. It’s not, but in some way in my brain I was thinking, “This is how Chinese people go out.” Regardless of the culture shock, I was amazed at the sheer number. All the lesbians in Beijing could barely fill my living room, but here just out on any regular Saturday night were gay men as far as the eye can see.
Different country, different side of the world, same problem. Come out, come out, wherever you are!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
What Keeps Me Going?
People ask me where I’m from, and I always have to pause. My first instinct is to say, “New York”, because that’s where I’ve been for the past seven years. But I’m not really a New Yorker.
My second impulse is to say, “Massachusetts”, because I was born and raised there for 18 years in the same house in a small town off of Cape Cod. But I’m not the same teenager just out of high school I was when I left that place.
Sometimes I say, “America”, which, thanks to Obama, is finally an option again. But I know it’s kind of a cop-out, because I don’t know how else to qualify where I come from over here.
In New York I had routines that kept me going. I had Wednesday-night bars, where I found familiar faces even from the strangers in the crowd. I had a restaurant for tapas, and a spot for Saturday brunch. I had friends I called on to meet me out dancing, and those I knew I could call after a hard day. I had favorite spots in different parks, where I could sit and read without being bothered, or loose myself in a crowd.
In New York I had the subway. I had an hour plus commute that gave me all the time I needed to my own thoughts, dreams, plans.
In MA I had a bathtub. I had a room whose door I could close, and, eventually, a car that could take me away from the home I lived in for 18 consecutive years.
Here I have a meditation room. I have a writing corner with pillows and a green rug that I call “the garden.” I have a 20 minute bike ride to work that forces me to move my body, no matter how lazy I feel in my bones. I have a thousand angry bikers, motorists, and drivers who wake me up at 7 a.m., forcing my senses to sharpen and my adrenaline to pump even without early morning caffeine. I have all the fresh vegetables I want for pocket change.
Each day I have ten “Good morning, Rebecca!”s, surprise hugs from little arms, and a countless number drawings and notes that remind me of why I’m here.
My second impulse is to say, “Massachusetts”, because I was born and raised there for 18 years in the same house in a small town off of Cape Cod. But I’m not the same teenager just out of high school I was when I left that place.
Sometimes I say, “America”, which, thanks to Obama, is finally an option again. But I know it’s kind of a cop-out, because I don’t know how else to qualify where I come from over here.
In New York I had routines that kept me going. I had Wednesday-night bars, where I found familiar faces even from the strangers in the crowd. I had a restaurant for tapas, and a spot for Saturday brunch. I had friends I called on to meet me out dancing, and those I knew I could call after a hard day. I had favorite spots in different parks, where I could sit and read without being bothered, or loose myself in a crowd.
In New York I had the subway. I had an hour plus commute that gave me all the time I needed to my own thoughts, dreams, plans.
In MA I had a bathtub. I had a room whose door I could close, and, eventually, a car that could take me away from the home I lived in for 18 consecutive years.
Here I have a meditation room. I have a writing corner with pillows and a green rug that I call “the garden.” I have a 20 minute bike ride to work that forces me to move my body, no matter how lazy I feel in my bones. I have a thousand angry bikers, motorists, and drivers who wake me up at 7 a.m., forcing my senses to sharpen and my adrenaline to pump even without early morning caffeine. I have all the fresh vegetables I want for pocket change.
Each day I have ten “Good morning, Rebecca!”s, surprise hugs from little arms, and a countless number drawings and notes that remind me of why I’m here.
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