Reading Lolita in Chengde

I'm surprised to find that several people commented on my last post, which leads me to believe I'm not the only nerd in my circle of facebook friends who is in love with books. And now the heat is on to actually follow through with this task. I haven't felt this kind of pressure in awhile, the kind of pressure I often felt in college. It's been awhile since I've had "homework." I've already noticed it's doing me some good. I've been paying more attention as I read, as I'm often guilty of dazing off during difficult or boring books. Sometimes I'll read an entire page without having processed a word of it. When I read for pleasure I don't do much analysis, which is actually part of the fun of reading (although it's a lot of work and it definitely helps to have other people in the discussion). I'm finding that in "Lolita," there is a lot to analyze.

I started the novel knowing a little bit about Nabokov's "Lolita." I had read Azar Nafisi's "Reading Lolita in Tehran," which, as you can guess from the title, discusses the book (among others). To be honest, I find it shocking that young Iranian girls could get through it. "Lolita" couldn't even get a U.S. publisher when it was finished in 1953, forcing Nabokov to publish it in Paris. Nearly 60 years later, this novel still manages to cover some rather unorthodox territory. My friend Whitney once commented that novels tend to win awards and praise based on their shock value. I find this is one such book that could fit into such a category. Not that it's poorly written, the author has a clever style filled with puns, innuendos, and word coinages (such as referring to young girls as "nymphets"). My issue with this book is more with the protagonist and narrator, Humbert Humbert (HH), who is an outright pedophile. He adores prepubescent girls and isn't afraid to talk about it. I try to be open-minded, I do. I realize that pedophilia is a psychiatric disorder, but no mater how you slice it nobody much cares for a pedophile.

I feel like I should be enraged at the author for his assumption that it's okay to give his an audience a peek into this strange and demented world where a man fantasizes about 11-year-olds and visits 14-year-old prostitutes. I should be angry that he would even write about such a topic and horrified that he is able to write about it so deftly. Yet, after 90 pages, I can't helped but get sucked in. While I don't trust much of what HH says, he is funny. He is also pathetic. Though he is struggling to keep his perverseness under wraps, I find myself with little sympathy for him, probably because I know where this is all going. HH has yet to defile his beloved step-daughter Lolita, but his innocence won't last long.

In all fairness, there is much more to this book than what's on the surface--this is not merely about a step-father sleeping with his tween step-daughter. First, Lolita is proving to be a tiny vixen herself, but since she is only 12, can we really assign her any of the blame? When is someone truly a victim and when are they partly responsible for their own victimization? Where is the line between decency and indecency? Do thoughts make you guilty of a crime or only actions? One author, Martin Amis, asserts that "Lolita" is actually a story about tyranny and totalitarianism. Clearly, there is a lot to think about here. I'll let you know if I come to any conclusions once I've finished.

The Big Read

I've decided to give this reading thing a go--perhaps it's not the most intriguing topic to blog about, but I will try to keep things interesting. With that in mind, I've decided to start with Nabokov's "Lolita." I'm only 70 pages in but I have much to say on the selection, but that will have to wait for tomorrow. I also would like to note that I've altered my reading list, which can be found below. I've taken mostly from the BBC's Big Read that, though somewhat revised, circled on facebook last year. As an American, choosing a Brit-centric batch of books is, perhaps, a seemingly odd choice. I've decided to focus primarily on this list, rather than others, to overcome my fear of British Literature, particularly the dreaded Jane Austen and Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Furthermore, I think it will be much easier to get my hands on most of these books here in China. I have set a rather modest goal of reading one book a week since I will also be reading Chinese stories and novels on the side (I've already read "The House on Mango Street" and "The Little Prince" in Chinese. Next up is "Charlotte's Web."). I have included 50 novels on my list and noted the ones that are not on the BBC's Big Read.

Numbers 1-13 are currently collecting dust on my bookshelf while 14-35 should be fairly easy for me to find in Beijing. I may have some trouble getting 36-50, but I'll keep you posted. Here's the revised list:

1. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov*This novel has made the top ten of many reading lists.

2. On the Road by Jack Kerouac

3. Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

4. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

5. Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie

6. Franny and Zoey by JD Salinger *I've already read "Catcher in the Rye" so I thought I'd mix it up and try this book which I picked up for 75 cents at Half Price Books about 10 years ago.

7. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas

8. A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry *This novel has made other top 100 lists and was nominated for the Booker Prize.

9. All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy *McCarthy is mentioned on most lists and this novel won the 1992 National Book Award.

10. Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian *Gao won the 2000 Nobel Prize for Literature.

11. The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai *This novel made another top 100 list and it won the 2006 Booker Prize.

12. Mansfield Park by Jane Austen *This didn't make the list, but I own it, so I might as well torture myself by reading it.

13. The Witches of Eastwick by John Updike *Though it won no notable accolades, I've never read Updike and I think it's time I ought to.

14. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

15. Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien

16. Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers by JRR Tolkien

17. Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King by JRR Tolkien

18. The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

19. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

20. Bleak House by Charles Dickens

21. Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

22. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller

23. Tess of D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy

24. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

25. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

26. Persuasion by Jane Austen

27. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

28. The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

29. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

30. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

31. Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer

32. Emma by Jane Austen

33. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

34. Crime and Punishment by Fydor Dostoyevsky

35. Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison *Replacing Ulysses, which was originally on my list, with this easier and easier to find novel.

36. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

37. Bird Song by Sebastian Faulks *May read Charlotte Gray, another part of the trilogy, which I have sitting on my bookshelf.

38. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

39. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

40. The BFG by Roald Dahl

41. Middlemarch by George Elliot

42. The Stand by Stephen King

43. Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres

44. A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving

45. Goodnight Mister Tom Michelle by Michelle Magorian

46. The Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M Avel

47. The Thornbirds by Colleen McCollough

48. The Magic Faraway Tree by Enid Blyton

49. Far from Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy

50. anything by Terry Pratchett, who made the list several times

An Early Retirement

Some people ask why I've stayed in China as long as I have. While being married to a Chinese man is the obvious answer, there is certainly more to it than that. After all, Ming, Ping, and I could pick up and move to America. So why don't we?

First and probably most importantly, the life of a foreigner in China is generally much easier and more glamorous than that of a foreigner in America. In the States, Ming would most likely face unemployment and years in school trying to get a firm handle on English. He'd also have to learn how to deal with driving, credit cards, income tax returns, junk mail, health insurance, cell phone bills, and dentist appointments--all things, for better or worse, we don't really have to think about here in China.

My second reason, which closely relates to my first, is simply and selfishly this: my free time. Life in China often proves to be a life of leisure for foreigners. For some, this can lead to late night bar fights, womanizing, and a downward spiral into alcoholism and chain smoking. I, however, have taken up the innocuous activities of cooking and baking. While experimenting in the kitchen has proved satisfying and often quite time consuming (you try making tortillas and bagels from scratch), I feel it is time to take up a new hobby or project. Furthermore, I am hoping for a project that can be blogged about. Since Julie Powell has already done cooking, that is clearly out.

Of the many things I've considered, one at the top of my list is training for a half marathon. The Great Wall Marathon sounds like an idyllic and worthy goal, but it's a little out of my price range at $1100. Furthermore, I'm a bit put-off by the idea of running outside in China. Normally I enjoy exercising outdoors, but unless I wake up at dawn (in these parts, 4am) I will have to cope with crowded sidewalks and countless gawking locals. Besides, the thought of writing about running makes me want to take a snooze.

My next idea is to go through AFI's list of the 100 Greatest American Movies. Though I think this may be enjoyable for me, it may bore my ten or so blog readers. There is also that little issue of me knowing next to nothing about film or film critique. Which leads me to a more literary endeavor--reading Time's list of top modern novels. While I am rather clueless about film, I do have some knowledge of literature. But since I've only read 14% of the list in my life thus far, I still have a lot to learn. The question is, how do I get my hands on all these books in China? I currently only have six of them in my possession. Would this pursuit even be interesting? I am pretty bookish but can I really make it through The Sound and the Fury and The Sun Also Rises??

I'm not sure what hobby might be both fun to do and write about--I am open to any and almost all suggestions. Although many people may covet my (lack of) schedule, I am desperately in need of filling the hours with something other than youtube and facebook, thanks.

From The Darkness to light

I recently read Aravind Adiga's novel, The White Tiger, a fascinating story that exposes the corruption, violence, and struggle in 'The World's Largest Democracy" (India). Throughout the book, the protagonist refers to a place called "The Darkness," often contrasting it to his life in Delhi. But what is The Darkness? Is it a specific place? A place full of poverty? I interpreted it as a reference to the main character's home state of Bihar, one of India's poorest regions that is severely impeded by corruption.


I had the chance to visit Bihar though notably to one of its cheerier, more peaceful parts, a town called Bodhgaya. While this name may have little meaning to you, to Buddhists it's a sort of Mecca. Bodhgaya is the place, nearly 2500 years ago, where Siddhārtha Gautama (Buddha) reached his enlightenment under a bodhi tree next to a temple. A descendent of that tree still exists today and though rebuilt a few times over, so does the temple. Although not a Buddhist myself, living and having traveled through many predominately Buddhist countries, I felt intrigued by Bodhgaya and was determined to make a stop there on my way from Varanasi to Kolkata. My new traveling companion, Katalin, was interested in it too.

After two days of suffering from a variety of ailments that could not be categorized into one or really even two specific illnesses, the time had come to move on from Varanasi. Securing tickets from Varanasi to Gaya, the nearest station to Bodhgaya, had proved tricky. Katalin and I were left with two Sleeper Class tickets, bottom of the barrel as far as Indian railway tickets are concerned. Furthermore, we no longer had Amy and her height along as an intimidation factor, but I was confident we'd be fine. I had, afterall, requested for us to be seating in the 'Ladies Carriage.'

As we boarded the train, we realized our seats were nowhere in the vacinity of the Ladies Carriage, if, in fact, there even was one. The passengers in our carriage were overwhelmingly male, most of them with that familiar gleam of curiosity and horniness in their eyes. I had bigger issues than our fellow passengers to worry about, however, as a sensation of nausea rolled over me. I wiped off a dirty, dusty upper bunk and settled in for a nap while Katalin sat on a lower bunk, chatting away to an elderly Austrian woman who had somehow been seated by us.

I had just overcome my urge to vomit and, in turn, drift off into a much needed sleep, when I awoke to a burst of angry shouting. I begrudgingly turned my body towards the source of this noise and looked down to see a large, middle-aged man screaming in Katalin's face. Simultaneously, I felt the need to puke. I crawled down from my bunk and rushed to the toilet. When I returned a pair of brown uniformed, beret wearing, rifle toting policemen had come to interrogate the irrationally irate man. He was clearly not cooperating with them and appeared to be intoxicated. The police led him towards the end of our carriage, which happened to be the last car of the train. He was not seen by us again; he very well could have gotten chucked off.


Night had fallen and the policemen returned to sit by us. They, in addition to the surrounding men, looked at us in an overtly sexual manner. I was yet to be unnerved by the situation; Katalin was another matter. She had her theories, which I won't delve into here, regarding what these men had in store for us. This drunken incident, the impish looks, the police--it had her shoken up. I refused to be shaken; that was until the train came to a stop at the next station.


It was a small, single platform station that was nearly pitch dark. People were strewn around, gathered by fires of burning garbage. Stray dogs paced among the people. There was hardly a building or man made structure in sight. The Darkness, this was it. I was scared. What was Gaya going to be like? How small, dark, and unwelcoming could it be? And who might follow us there?


I tried to calm myself--my head was spinning in more ways than one. I was sick and frightened; this had turned into the longest train ride of my life and it was merely five hours. Every minute became a bit of a struggle as I tried to avert my eyes from the stares baring down on us while also trying to ignore the churning in my stomach. The policemen left, which alleviated some of the paranoia. Katalin and I tried to distracted ourselves by watching a movie on my iPod. The train was running late. . . by half an hour. . . by an hour. . . finally, at 10:40pm, nearly an hour and a half after our scheduled arrival time, we stopped in Gaya.

To my immense relief, it was a bona fide city. The station consisted of several platforms and was a flurry of activity. When we made it outside of the station, we were happy to see lit streets full of the usual throngs of people, animals, and vehicles--just like any other place we had visited in India. We made our way, neither harassed or followed, to a nearby hotel to check-in. Sometimes the imagination can be a dangerous thing.

Varanasi

This morning we woke up on the train, already several hours into our journey from Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. Though I won't go into great detail about it, as words and even images cannot do it justice, the Taj Mahal was awe-inspiring. Other than the birth of a child, I don't imagine I will ever again witness something that beautiful. It is every cliche in the book--brought a tear to my eye; felt like I was in heaven. If you are willing to brave India, don't miss it.

But this post is to describe our next destination, Varanasi. Varanasi is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on Earth, believed to date back more than 3000 years. But what gives the city it's significance is not its age, but its spot on the holy Ganges River. Hindus rom all over India come here to bathe themselves or cremate their family members. All of this is in clear view to the public, which is what makes Varanasi such a unique and surprising place.

When we disembarked our train, we were greeted by the usual harassment from taxi and auto-rickshaw drivers. We made a B-line to the prepaid auto-rickshaw stand, which provides a set and fair price to any destination in the city. We were taken to a location where we were to met the owner, Monu, of our guesthouse. Monu had informed me that our accommodation was located down a narrow alleyway, which auto-rickshaws cannot enter.

We were dropped off at the designated spot and Monu soon approached. He seemed like a kind, but no nonsense Indian man who spoke clear and quite natural English. We followed him across a busy road, where I was nearly run down by a cycle rickshaw. We then wove through alleys filled with the usual cows (and the stinking piles of manure that come with them) and stray dogs, as well as plenty of human traffic--barefoot women dressed in brillian saris, brown uniformed police, men on bicycles, children chasing each other, and leering young men. Small shops nearly overflowed onto the tiny streets, selling snacks and drinks, saris, bangles, sweets, and scarves. The heat was suffocating, so it was with great relief I entered the guest house.

I passed out in the room while Katalin and Amy took to the streets. When they returned, I heard all about their excursion, walking along the river's ghats (steps or landing on a river). They wandered upon Manikarnika Ghat, one of the main cremation ghats in Varanasi. Here they saw bodies wrapped in golden fabric being carried out from the alleyways. The body is taken down to the water, where it is briefly submerged, and then brought back up on the ghat, where it is placed on a pile of wood.

Wood is seen in 10-ffot piles all around the cremation ghat. There are several kinds of wood to choose from, the most expensive being sandlewood. Once the body is situated properly a top of the wood, the fire is lit. It can take up to five days for the body to be fully cremated, at which point the ashes are put into the Ganges. The bodies burn and the work goes on day and night, every day .

After hearing about Katalin and Amy's experience, I was eager to see the river and its ghats myself. I overcame my heat-induced lethargy and made it out of the guest house. Once at the river we were met by numerous children selling small paper bowls filled with merigolds and a simple wax candle. Katalin purchased one for each of us. We lit them and followed the example of others who had set them adrift in the Ganges. The significance of this nightly affair, I do not know.

We continued on to Dasaswamedh Ghat in time to catch the beginning of a performance. The sun had just set, but the atmosphere was lively as ever. Hunger had set in though, so we drifted away from the river and sat down to a lovely Indian meal. I ordered a thali, a personal buffet of sorts. For 120 rupees ($2.50), I was given cheese curry, spinach curry, rice, flat bread, yogurt, lentils, chutney, and a dessert.

After finishing our dinner, we left the restaurant and stumbled upon a parade. Women carried chandeliers on their heads, men played instruments and danced around, flaring their arms while spinning in circles. Next came a series of decorated trucks, their displays powered by the disel fume spewing generators that followed them. The procession was slow, too slow to captivate the attention of any ordianary American audience. But the three of us were enthralled, swept up by the energy and excitement of it all. The celebration was linked to one of Indian's many castes, but the full meaning of it all I don't understand. Regardless, we felt lucky to witness whatever it was we were witnessing.

Paying for your own suffering

I have experienced few things in life that are worse than a really bad restaurant meal--not only is the food awful, but I am also left with a bill at the end. I am, in turn, paying for my own suffering.

In my last blog I praised Indian food and I hope what I am about to say does not take away from that. I still firmly believe the cuisine here is fabulous. It is the first Asian country I've traveled through in which I didn't crave Western food. With all the deliciousness, there is the occasional disaster. Unfortunately, I have been hit with two, back-to-back.

Last night we had to catch an 11pm train for the small desert fort city of Jaisalmer. Before our departure we decided to have dinner together at a restaurant, Kalinga, near the station. We flagged down an auto rickshaws which putted us through the busy, dusty streets of Jodhpur past shops, cows, stray dogs, and the obligatory McDonald's. Once deposited outside the highly recommended restaurant, we realized it was a little out of our price range. Instead we settled on a hole in the wall joint dishing up vegetarian thali (all you can eat, set meal) for 30 rupees (65 cents). Big mistake. My naan (Indian flat bread) was slightly charred, with an actual piece of charcoal stuck to the back of one piece. The curries were luke warm and the rice was cold. Considering the low price and my lack of appetite, I was able to push aside my disappointment.

That was not the case with the questionable breakfast I had to endure this morning. I ordered black coffee and a chocolate pancake. As the coffee pot was placed on my table, I was told my black tea had arrived. "Black tea?" I asked, "I wanted coffee." The waiter yelled, in Hindi, back to the kitchen and a response was promptly given. It was, in fact, black coffee, I was reassured. I gave it a taste and sure enough, it did actual taste like a weak cup of black coffee--which is not always the case here in India. Sometimes coffee tastes like tea, probably due to all the milk, sugar, and spices they like to dump in it.

Next course was my chocolate pancake. While the dish was coming toward me, the waitor knocked my cup thus dumping half my coffee on the table. I got a reluctant apology, but shook the incident off due to the pangs of hunger hitting me. The appearance of the pancake was satisfactory, but the taste--not good. The chocolate sauce had chunks in it, of what, I'm not sure. The pancake itself was slightly scortched and had a faint flavor of garlic to it. I opted to just settle on the coffee and push the chocolately, garlicy pancake mess aside. I should probably go now, as it's 3pm and I haven't had a decent meal in the last 24 hours. I think I'm due for one now.

Please feel free to report any horrendous restaurants meals you've suffered through. I'd love to hear all the gory details.

The Accidental Vegetarian

Some say that India is the best place in the world for vegetarians. The dietary restrictions on so many Indians make a veggie friendly society inevitable--Jains and Buddhists often adhere to a strict vegetarian diet, Hindus don't eat meat, and Muslims don't eat pork. Evidently, there's not much to be had at an Indian McDonald's (oh yes, Ronald can be found here), just a Crispy Chicken or Fillet-o-Fish. Looking back over the past week, I realize that the only "meat" I've consumed was a couple pieces of fish I ordered while indulging at The American Diner in Delhi. This is a stark contrast to the very carnivorous diet I practice in China.

Being a vegetarian is certainly a personal and conscientious decision and a life choice I do not think I am willing to commit to. However, I do believe that if someone wanted to transition into vegetarianism, Indian would be the best place to do it. I'm nearly becoming one myself without trying, much to the credit of delicious Indian food. With meat (namely chicken, mutton, or fish) or without, the food here is simply amazing. I probably should add that a willingness to try new flavors and spices is imperative in appreciating the cuisine. As stated in a previous blog, I, for one, am fairly adventurous when it comes to food and beverage. Whatever your tastes, I definitely think you should give Indian food a try.

In an effort to expand my knowledge of Indian food and improve my kitchen prowess, I signed up for an Indian cooking course. In Udaipur, the small city in Rajasthan where we are currently staying, there is no shortage of establishments offering such courses. Everywhere I turn is a sign advertising "Cooking Lessons;" our guesthouse even provides classes. I decided to go with the highly recommended Shashi (http://www.shashicookingclasses.blogspot.com/). For 500 rupees (about US$11), I would be educated in the art of making masala chai, chutneys, pakora (a batter fried snack of veggies or cheese), curry, rice pilaf, naan (unleaved, white flat bread), tomato sauce, and even paneer (cheese).

My class included three other students, all of us foreigners eager to learn Shashi's secrets. She took us to her small kitchen and over the course of five hours taught us the basics needed to create an Indian feast. Afterwards, we dined--the results were delcious beyond my expectations. Though I was bound to secrecy, I will reveal one recipe here for anyone interested in cooking up an authentic Indian curry:

Eggplant Potato Curry (serving size: 2 people)
Ingredients:
1 small eggplant, cut into chunks
1 large potato, halved lengthwise and then cut into 1/4 inch slices
2 tomatoes, cut into chunks
1 onion, diced
4 cloves of garlic, cut into pieces
1 small piece (half the size of a thumb) piece of ginger, cut into pieces
1 tsp coriander powder
1/2 tsp red chili powder
1/2 tsp salt
1 pinch cumin
1 pinch turmeric
water
oil (any kind)
fresh coriander (if desired)
Directions:
1. Put eggplant chunks in a bowl of salt water. Set aside.
2. Put garlic, ginger, 1/2 the diced onion, and salt into a mortar and grind with pestle into a paste.
3. Put 2 tbsps of oil and heat over medium high.
4. Add cumin and remaining onion to heated oil.
5. Add the garlic/ginger/onion paste to the pan. Cook.
6. Once the onion has browned, add coriander, chili, and turmeric.
7. Add 1/2 cup water and simmer, uncovered, until water evaporates.
8. Drain eggplant. Once water has evaporated, add the eggplant. Cook, covered, for 2 minutes.
9. Add potatoes. Cover and cook for 3 minutes, stirring occasionally.
10. Add tomatoes. Cover and cook for 3 additionally minutes, stirring occasionally.
11. Check to see if potatoes are tender. If tender, curry is ready.
12. Sprinkle with fresh coriander if desired. Serve with rice or flat bread.

Beauty amid chaos

Yesterday we arrived in Amritsar, a city of about 1 million, located in the state of Punjab, near the Pakistani border. Exiting the bus, we were greeted by the usual mob of taxi, auto-rickshaw, and cycle rickshaw drivers. Unwilling to brave the crowded, dusted streets, we hired an auto-rickshaw to take us to a local guest house. After a quick negotiation over the fare, we were off to Tourist Guest House.

Our guidebook describes the budget hotel situation in Amritsar as "underwhelming," which certainly seems like an accurate word for our digs. The price was cheap (350 rupees, about US$8) for a room, but I was afraid to touch anything in it. We tried to make the best of our situation by pulling out into the courtyard the lawn chairs and table that furnished our room. Gary, a fellow guest at our accommodation befriended us, and eventually we decided to head out into the city with him as our bodyguard.

While our guest house is underwhelming, walking down the streets of Amritsar is certainly overwhelming. The dusty, dirt roads are filled with honking taxis, buses, and auto-rickshaws. Cows, people, and cycle rickshaws loiter the roadside; there are no sidewalks. Garbage and piles of shit can be found everywhere--watching your step while avoiding getting run down by traffic is an essential survival skill. The bazaars are a lively, colorful mix of fruit, saris, flowers, and sundry items. Everyone turns their head to stare; whispers are shared among locals as we walk by.

Weaving through the labyrinth of streets, we eventually made our way to the Golden Temple. This temple is the reason people come to Amritsar. For Sikh's (pronounced 'seek'), this shrine is like Mecca--the holiest site and one all followers of the religion aspire to visit. The temple itself is rather small, a two story marble building covered in a roof of pure gold. Surrounding it is a holy pool of water, which many pilgrims take the opportunity to bathe in. Around the pool is a walkway of marble. People of all sorts can be found circling the walkway, Sikh gentlemen in their bright colored turbans, Hindu ladies in lavish saris, boisterous children asking to shake our hands.

Just outside is a dining hall, which serves free meals to pilgrims and tourists visiting the site. Anyone at anytime can eat there--the hall serves nearly 80,000 people a day. The place is a buzz of people and plates; we lined up and upon entry were were given a silver tray and bowl. We were then guided upstairs where we sat in a long line, on a thin floor mat, in a huge hall filled with other diners. We were served a delicious bean curry and chapati (flat bread), boiled water was poured into our bowls. Men came around to serve us seconds and thirds (which we kindly refused). As we were finishing up, a Sikh man plopped his young toddler in Amy's lap to take a photo. Next the baby was passed to me. After the obligatory smiles, hello's, and photos, we exited the hall.

A young Sikh approached us. "Excuse me," he said, "but can you tell me the meaning of a word, "retarded?"'

Amy and I looked at each other awkwardly. "Hmmm, it's a bad word. It means to have mental problems." Amy said, pointed at her head.

"Yes. It can mean stupid. It's not really a good thing to say. Where did you hear this?" I asked.

"A rap song," he replied proudly.

We chatted with him, a volunteer at the temple's dining hall. He invited us to see the kitchen's chapati machine. How could we pass up such an offer? Following him from room to room, we witnessed what it takes to prepare meals for some 80,000 people. Cauldrons boiled curries, machines kneaded dough and pumped out flat bread; an assembly line of dish washers efficiently cleaned thousands of plates, bowls, and spoons; groups of people peeled and cut vegetables and garlic--almost all the workers are volunteers.

After our tour we returned to the temple to see what it looked like in the full moon light. The golden temple was shimmering, casting its color into the surrounding water. People continued to circle, bathe, and pray. It was a beautiful look into India in the middle of a dirty, bustling city.

People Watching

Sometimes I know I should do things, but against my better judgment I don't. I think it comes down to a lack of foresight, which is surprising considering what a responsible and thorough planner I usually am.

Today I attended a talk given by the Dalai Lama, which was naturally given in his native tongue, Tibetan. Everything I read about attending event suggested I bring a radio and earphones since an English translation of the talk was transmitted via radio. I failed to pick one up, thinking there would be some available at the temple where the talk was held. I was mistaken.

My first year in China involved countless dinners and events that required listening without the slightest comprehension of what was going on around me or even directed at me. I was the champ of smiling politely and looking like an idiot. Can anything be gained by this? What is the point of listening without understanding the words being spoken?

I think it teaches me a lot about the people around me. Much can be missed when focusing primarily on spoken language. Body language, behavior, personal hygiene, and fashion sense are aspects of an individual I may overlook when fully engaged in a conversation or speech. There is certainly something to be learned by watching people.

The audience at the talk was mostly monks, with a mix of ordinary Tibetans, Indians, and a sprinkling of foreigners. The monks sitting in front of me were a mix--to the left, a group of young boys not more than 11-years-old. To the right was what appeared to be a group of nuns--it's hard to tell with their layered robes and shaved heads. The boys were chatting amongst each other, even giggling, and occasionally popping crackers into their mouthes. The nuns listened attentively, their eyes on His Holiness, who was seated at the front high upon a stack of cushions.

A laugh rippled through the crowd. Few things in life are more awkward than being the only one in the room who doesn't get a joke--it's just as uncomfortable when that joke is coming from the Dalai Lama. Despite my discomfort, my inability to understand even one word of Tibetan, I kept my ears and (mostly) my eyes open. It was great to be a part of something, to witness something that is so culturally and spiritually significant to Tibetans. To watch them and be with them was intriguing and I hope to get to know them and their struggle at least a little better.

India

Somehow it is already my forth day in India. Our first day was spent in Delhi, India's bustling capital, which was somehow tamer than I expected. Don't be mislead, it is still very chaotic, noisy, and crowded, but I was pleasantly surprised at the ease and comfort I felt there. We stayed at a lovely hostel (Nirvana) in a residential area in south Delhi. We were able to roam the streets unharassed by touts or beggars, but instead got to catch a glimpse into ordinarly Indian life in all of its cow loving, horn honking glory.

Currently, Amy and I are staying northern India in a small village called Naddi, which is a few miles northwest of McLeod Ganj, the seat of the Dalai Lama's government in exile. Today we waited on the road side leading into town to greet His Holiness; the Dalai Lama was returning "home" from the airport. As the anticipation of his arrival built, Tibetan children dressed in school uniform aligned themselves down the road with arms outstretched. Laying over their arms where long, white prayer scarves. They waited patiently while Amy and I tried to kill time laughing at nearby men trying to fix an auto rickshaw which was precariously perched on an angle off the side of a cliff.

At last the motorcade arrived and I looked curiously inside the passing vehicles. There he was, seated in the backseat of the second vehicle, waving to us as he passed by. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss it kind of moment (which Amy unfortunately did), but I couldn't help but feel overcome by happiness just to have seen his kind, elderly face.

After he passed, we followed the vehicles up the road and made our way to McLeod Ganj. Next we visited the town's temple, which echoed with the sound of mysterious Tibetan chants. Hundreds of maroon-robed monks and nuns were seated inside, surrounding a small group that was chanting into a microphone on stage. The atmosphere was powerful, but eery though it was nothing compared to the haunting Tibetan museum found on the temple grounds. The pictures and stories portrayed there were chilling, to say the least. The two hour documentary we watched on Tibet and the Chinese occupation of it was heart wrenching.

But these are all thoughts and experiences I will mostly keep to myself when I return to China. I must leave them behind, along with the 'Free Tibet' tote bags and t-shirts, Dalai Lama postcards, and Tibetan flags. I guess this is the issue I'm struggling most with today--that in addition to the injustices committed against these and other people is the added injustice of silence.

My Five Year Anniversary with the PRC

As I approach my fifth year, I thought I'd post some journal entries from my first week.

From Thursday, February 24, 2005

I am here! I can hardly believe it. It's rather surreal. Everything went very well, despite the fact that no one seems to know English. Once I got to the hotel, my roommate, Krissy, was here. She's from L.A. and she arrived yesterday. It's just the two of us right now, as we both arrive early. We went out to explore a little tonight. I almost got ran over by either a bike or a car every time I attempted to cross a street. It's very surprising to find how few Westerners are here. We saw one foreigner the whole night. We went to a restaurant and the whole process took about 2 hours (and only cost $3.50 each). We had tea, beer, sweet and sour pork, beef with peppers, and rice. It was actually fairly similar to the Chinese food in America, only the rice came after the meal.

Friday, February 25, 2005 (Day Two in Shanghai)

It's amazing how well things are going. I have yet to feel stressed out or uncomfortable. This morning Krissy and I went to Huai Hai Road. First we indulged in a little comfort and had Starbucks. In there, it hardly felt like being away from home.

Afterwards we walked down to the park and were bombarded with aggressive Chinese with fliers that showed their various designer watches, shoes, and purses. I have never said 'no' so many times in my life! And they think we must like it when they say, "Hello! Hello!" but to me it just sounds condescending. The park we walked through was small but beautiful--I'm sure it's even better in the summer. There were people doing Tai Chi, which was neat. No one in the States would have the patience or the courage to do that in public. After that we strolled through the market. That was rather intense. We haggled for Burberry gloves and scarves. I bought two scarves for about $15 each--not too bad. But who knows if they're real??

Lunch was interesting--we ordered salty duck and bamboo soup and spicy beef. The beef was good, but it came in a pot of spicy oil. I hope I don't gain more weight here. I thought the food would be healthier and the portion size much smaller.

Monday, February 28, 2005

Orientation began today and it's weird not having the freedom we had last week. We started the morning with breakfast, which was a bit horrific. Beverages included: the worst milk I've ever tasted, hot Tang orange drink, tea that tasted like piss, and curiously colored coffee. I am beginning to miss American food and beverage.

After breakfast we had a quick Chinese lesson and then on then on to hear two speakers. We just got back from our day trip to Old Shanghai. That was terrific--I wish we could have spent more time there. It was filled with pagodas and lanterns (for the Chinese New Year). We went to a temple, City Hall of Shanghai. Inside were various statues. I found one for my birth year 1982 (一九八二), year of the dog (狗). It was interesting to see how serious the Chinese take these statues, praying and bowing before them. We also went to Yuyuan Garden, which was like a dream--exactly what I picture when I think of China or Japan--pagodas with lanterns surrounded by water filled with large goldfish, beautiful trees and shrubbery. . . walkways over the water. There was a 400-year-old Ginko Biloba tree. . . ornate carvings and creative doorways. But I must be on my way to dinner, more meat--Peking duck. . . great!



Footnote: I totally overpaid for those fake Burberry scarves!

Teaching Tigers to Monkeys

Wednesday morning, 8:30am, I found myself in front of a group of enthusiastic kindergarteners. I, somewhat apprehensively, had agreed to be the 'Special Guest' speaker for my sister's (aka Mrs. Malsom) K5 class. I was there to teach the children about an upcoming holiday. No, not Valentine's Day, nor Mardi Gras, or even President's Day. I was there to talk about Chinese New Year. This year February 14th will mark the New Year, the Year of the Tiger. But how does one describe this foreign event to 6-year-olds? I started by asking them what they knew about China.

"They have Chinese food. It's good!"

"I have a movie about pandas!"

Pandas and Chinese food, this was probably about all I knew myself when I first set foot in China nearly five years ago at the tender age of 22. I'm now armed with plenty of knowledge, but I had to break it down in a way understandable to their young and anxious minds. To ease the process, we started with a pop-up book that described the Chinese New Year.

The book illustrated what everyday Chinese do in preparation for and during the Chinese New Year. First, they clean their homes, as it symbolizing the sweeping away of bad luck from the previous year. Next, they will decorate their homes and even dress in the color red. Red is an auspicious color, believed to scare away evil spirits. On New Year's Eve, a feast is prepared and it includes fish and (in northern China) dumplings. Dumplings (i.e. potstickers) are shaped like money and therefore symbolize wealth.

On New Year's Day children are given small red envolopes that contain money. According to tradition, an even amount of money is considered best. In Mandarin, eight is pronunced 'ba' which is a homophone for wealth. Similarly, six is pronounced 'liu,' a homophone for 'smooth.' For this reason amounts containing the numbers 8 or 6 are sometimes common. Fireworks and fire crackers are also popular, both on New Year's Eve and during the first two weeks of the New Year. As with the color red, fireworks and crackers are thought to scare away evil spirits.

The students all seemed fairly mesmerized by these Chinese traditions. In one picture, a family sat around a table, ready to begin their holiday meal. In the middle of the table lay a (whole) fish, cooked and ready to be ate. I explained that fish is eaten whole in China--head, skin, eyes, and all, everything but the bones. There were plenty of groans and "ewwwwwwwwwww's." The perfect opportunity for a lesson on tolerance.

"Different people eat different things. We may think it's strange, but they may also think our food is strange too. And that's okay, but we need to be willing to try and understand new things," taught Mrs. Malsom.

After finishing the story, I held out a globe for the class to see. I started with a warmer-up question, "What is this called?"

"A globe!"

"The Earth!"

"Very good," I praised, "This is a globe and it is the earth." I then pointed to the U.S. "Do you know what country this is?"

"China!" three students exclaimed in unison. "Good guess," I encouraged and then asked, "What country do you live in?"

"Milwaukee!!" one student yelled. "Wisconsin!!" another one cried.

"No, Milwaukee is the city. Wisconsin is the state. Can anybody tell me what country we live in?" I asked again nervously. One of them had to know and I wasn't going to give up on them too easily. There was five seconds of rather uncomfortable silence.

"America!" a boy in the back finally proclaimed.

"Yes," I said with relief. I keep my finger pointed to the U.S., rested the globe on my lap, and used my other hand to point at China. "This is China. How do you think I got from China to our country, America?"

"An airplane!" several children cried. They got it! These were no dummies.

Now for the conclusion of their lesson. "What year were you born?"

"In December," one boy answered with enthusiasm. "September 9th," another exclaimed.

Ok, I was going to have to try this another way. "How old are you?" I asked.

"Five-and-a-half!!" "I'm six." "My birthday's next week!"

"Okay, so many of you are monkeys," I tried to explain, leading into my discussion of the Chinese zodiac and Year of the Tiger. This could be tricky. "Every year in China has a different animal. Your year is the monkey. This year is the tiger so today we are going to make tigers."

The children looked on in excitement. Mrs. Malsom taught them how to assemble their orange construction paper tigers with pipe cleaner tails. Everything had fallen together with such ease. It's amazing how much simpler instruction is when students speak the same language as their teacher, even if they don't know what country they live in or what year they were born.

Happy New Year!

Finding the Best of Milwaukee

My personal experiment has wound down. Truthfully, I haven't been that diligent with it recently, as I discovered I am naturally inclined to being somewhat adventurous. This is probably pretty obvious to people who know me. I like to explore new places and I'm willing to order anything off the menu. I am, however, trying to be me consciencious when it comes to compulsively accomplish tasks that don't need to be done (i.e. visiting the post office twice a day).

I am also trying to do things I often consider doing, but never quite get around to. I think many people, myself included, like the idea of something and imagine ourselves one day doing it, yet we never quite get around to it. I also think we so often take for granted the sites and quirks of the cities in which we live and I would like to take full advantage of what Milwaukee has to offer--which includes more than one may realize. Therefore, still on my 'to do' list, with less than a week left in Wisconsin, is to visit the Tripoli Shrine (http://www.tripolishrine.com). It's a building I've often heard mentioned, but only recently discovered to be a mini replica of the Taj Mahal. Perhaps a trip to the Harley Davidson Museum (http://harley-davidson.com) or Sprecher Brewer Tour (http://www.sprecherbrewery.com) is in store. Provided the weather clears up, as it hindered my visit today, a trip to the Milwaukee Public Museum's Dead Sea Scrolls (http://mpm.edu) exhibit is in order.

I have already managed to experience a few of Milwaukee's tourist gems. I took a tour of the city's very own distillery (http://greatlakesdistillery.com), which is tiny enough that you can sit at the distillery's bar slamming vodka cranberries while overhearing the tour guide (free tour, samples $4). I can't remember much, but I did learn that juniper is what gives gin its destinctively pine taste. Slightly educational, very smooth vodka--I recommend it.

I have also been lucky enough to be introduced to time travel. Please visit Milwaukee's At Random specialty cocktail lounge (2501 S Deleware Street, Bayview) and you will have the pleasure of being transported back in time or perhaps even to another dimension. Though it's hard to see in such dim lighting, the walls are wooden panelled and strung with Christmas lights; creepy owls knick knacks lurk in the corner. The booths are duct-taped and jazz music fills the air. The waitress/owner is pushing 90, using lingo so outmoded communication becomes a struggle. Every seat is taken and the clientele is varied, from older couples to young Latino gangsters. The specialty drinks are pricey ($6-18) but filling and delicious. A great place to venture for a drink after dinner, but be warned, this place fills up fast, hours are scanty, and service is slooooow.

An Answer to That Question: Part Two

I actually documented Ming and my first date. I want to put this on blogger, as it's hard to know where my journals may end up since they'll be left in my Grandma's basement for the time being. You are welcome to read this, embarassing as it may be.

From Wednesday, June 1, 2005

If mininshed yesterday morning's lesson and guess who was standing outside the door? Tao Ming. He managed to get in the school. I'm not sure how because usually the gate keeper only lets teachers and students in the building. He took me to lunch in a little restaurant by the old outdoor market. He asked me what I wanted, "Chick?" I said chicken was fine. Rice and chicken, afterall, sounds safe enough, but in China you never know what you're going to get.

It ended up being every part of the chicken, cut up and cooked in a sauce. I tried picking through it to find the meaty parts (I have a slight aversion to skin and fat, veins and feet. Such things don't seem to bother the Chinese). He scolded me for using my hands--a big no-no here. So he picked through the chicken with his chopsticks, finding the meat for me. He told me he would not be at the gym that night because he had to work (he is a train conductor). I went off to school for my afternoon lessons, disappointed I wouldn't be seeing him again in the evening.

Shortly after I returned home for the night, there was a knock at the door. . . he took off work to spend the evening with me. He took me to KFC for more chicken. This may sound like a pitiful first date, but KFC is fairly high class dining in Chengde. Then we went to a movie; unfortunately it was in Chinese. Ming went to talk to the manager and the movie was changed. It was also Chinese, "God of Gamblers," but it had English subtitles. I found it to be a typical Chinese film, somewhat crappy, but funny at parts and violent at others. The theater was much different from an American theater. We had our own little cubicle to sit in, very personal! After the movie we walked home and he came up for a little bit.

Today he stopped by after lunch and brought me a bag of apples. He walked Nancy and I to the bus. I'm not used to all this attention! Now I am in Beijing. Nancy went off to Qingdao tonight and I am leaving for Guilin tomorrow.

Footnote: I know longer mind eating fat, skin, and veins, but I draw the line at feet (and brains).

Ming was never a train conductor. That was one of many initial misunderstandings.

An Answer to That Question

How did you meet?

It's all documented here. . . .

Tuesday, May 24, 2005
On Sunday night that guy at the gym (who always attempts to talk to me in English) asked me to wait for him. Of course I didn't because I had to go home and take a shower. Plus, what would we do if we couldn't talk to each other? But again tonight he pursued. It is actually quite sweet because he gives English his best shot! He told me that I am 'a woman good' and that he likes me. Maybe I'll take him out for a beer with the other foreign teachers sometime. We'll see.

Wednesday, June 1, 2005
The last couple days have been amazing. On Monday night my 'friend' was at the gym and friendly as ever. When I finished working out I hung around talking to him and the sweet girl who works there (not sure of her name, but she can speak some English!). My friend went downstairs to shower and I waited around for Nancy to finish. Coincidentally, we all ended up leaving the gym at the same time. He--Tao Ming (I now know his name!) offered to give me a ride home on his bike. No, not bike as in moped or motorcycle, but bike as in bicycle. Oh shit, I thought. . . I'm going to hang off the back of this thing like all the Chinese girls do.

But, luckily, we just walked. He stopped and bought me a yogurt drink (very popular in China). When we got to my apartment I ran upstairs and grapped my Lonely Planet phrasebook to help along our conversating. We talked for over an hour. He can read English and is picking it up rather quickly. He asked me about my family and told me about his family and told me he was happy because he was with me. Aww! Oh, and on the walk home we saw some foreigners--which I called "Laowai" (which means 'foreigner' but maybe is a little derogatory) and he laughed like crazy. He corrected me, evidently "Waiguoren" is a more politically correct term.

Anyways, as we were standing outside, about to say good-bye, it began to rain. So we stood under the doorway of my apartment and he gave me a kiss.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

Footnote: That friend, who later became my husband, is (as you probably know) Zhao Ming and not Tao Ming as earlier referred to.

Revisiting Guanxi

From Saturday, December 17, 2005

The different levels of corruption in this country keep becoming clearer and clearer. I know these forces must be at work in my own country, but I don't think they are as widespread or obvious. Here, it impacts every corner and level of society.

Take my friend Apple, for example. She has been banking on the chance of going to Beijing International Language University. She has to take an exam to go there and if she does well on it she'll be accepted and not have to take the National Examination in June. Last week she found out that there are only 8 seats for the exam at students from No. 1 Middle School and only one of them is for a girl. She was so afraid that her classmates may use their parents' position to influence the decision. Luckily, Apple found out yesterday that she was picked. She is certainly deserving of it, as she is the best at English in her grade.

It's upsetting that she would even have to worry about such a thing. The truth is, students use their parents' influence all the time to get things they don't deserve. I have guanxi (Chinese term for 'having good connections' though it literally translates as 'relationship') and I hate it even more after today.

Guanxi puts people in the position to always be asking for and granting favors. Being the independent girl that I am, I'm not too big on asking others for favors. But what I hate even more is asking favors on behalf of someone else. This is also very common in China, and there are few things that make me more uncomfortable (other than, perhaps, eating mysterious Chinese food).

The current situation is this: Zhao Ming's cousin (his aunt's daughter) must pass an exam in order to get hired for a job. His cousin desperately needs this job because her parents both have cancer (yes, both of them) and only her uncle is working; he may not be able to work for long. According to Ming, his cousin isn't exceptionally bright and will not be able to pass this test. I should add that the test is probably something similar to the ACTs--testing general math, language, etc.

Zhao Ming had this wonderful idea that we ask Angelina (my friend and student that I teach in Class 2) to take the test. This involves getting her picture taken and making a fake ID. She must take the exam tomorrow--her only day free from school. I know I had to suck it up and help him get the favor. This is for the well-being of his family. Well, Angelina has agreed to do it, but we shall see what happens tomorrow.

I think it's rather strange that this is all happening. A fake ID? Sitting in on someone's exam? That's a pretty sly move in the U.S. but according to Zhao Ming it's all quite normal here. I don't know what to believe anymore.

footnote: Apple did not get admitted to Beijing Language University but eventually went on to go to another university in Beijing. Ming's uncle died of lung cancer in 2007. Angelina reassured me that sitting in on someone's test is quite normal, however the scheme failed when someone at the exam center recognized her--Ming's cousin, therefore, did not get the job.

My Blast from the Past--Part One

I've had this blog going for nearly four years now. Prior to that I'd been journaling and it's a shame I didn't have that online for the world to see. Then again, maybe not. I'm not sure how entertaining others would find it, but I'm certaining amused as I read through the opinions and experiences I documented five years ago. I've decided to post a few of them on my blog over the next few weeks just to mix things up. Read them if you'd like.

Saturday, October 8, 2005 (month 8 living in China)

I met up with Helen this morning and we hit the 'Eight Outer Temples;' Chengde's finest! First we went to Putuo Zongcheng Zhi Miao. It's the largest tmeple in Chengde and modeled after Lhasa's architectural marvel The Potala Palace. Evidently it looks just like it, but smaller. I found it better than to be expected. Inside there were cement elephants in addition to the usual lions. There were large pillars carved with Tibetan, Mongolian, and Chinese script. The architecture was fantastic and at the top was a sweeping view of Chengde. I found it amazing, but one Italian tourist begged to differ. She chatted with Helen and I for a bit. Helen asked her what she thought of China and her reply, "It's really not that beautiful. . . . "

What?! Hold the phone. Ok, I applaud this woman for being honest, but she loses points for coming off as pompous and (for lack of a better term) stupid. I realize Italy is the home of some of the finest art and architecture in the world, but how can this woman not appreciate China for what it is? It is not Italy. And yes, it's dirty and rough around the edges. BUT, it is so different from the Western world. The people, the buildings, everyday life is so foreign--how can one not find beauty in it? Even in the ugly things--like a dirty, bustling market--there is beauty. One must appreciate it for what it is and not compare it to one's own standard of beauty.

I tried to tune this woman out, but it was not easy. She went on to say how no one works very hard in China. How they all seem to be standing around doing nothing. I guess I can understand this point a little, but I still think this woman is walking around and looking but not really thinking. If you go to a store or a restaurant in China, there is an abundence of staff--probably four times the number needed. But guess what? There's over 1.3 billion people in China! The country needs to create some kind of work for the population, therefore there are superfluous staff standing around a restaurant. They are there 60 hours a week and making $60/month; where's the incentive to work hard? And what would the difference be if they did? On the flip side, there's people like Zhao Ming who work their asses off at dangerous jobs for relatively little pay. I didn't go into this in much depth with the woman, but I did say something.

Anyways, after that temple we walked up the road to Xumi Fushou Zhi Miao. It was not as impressive, but still nice. On its roof were eight copper dragons and behind it was a 7-story ceramic tiled pagoda. By that time we were pretty hungry so we ate at a restaurant near the gym. A cold beer never tasted as good as it did today! The food was great too.

We parted ways and then I went home to Zhao Ming. He had to go to his home at dinnertime to cook for his mama. Usually her boyfriend cooks for her, but evidently they are on the outs. He proposed to her, but she's not ready. She told him that and now he's angry. I don't know how he can justify his anger. Her husband died one year ago and I think that would be rather quick for most people to remarry. Well, Zhao Ming doesn't seem too thrilled about the situation. My predition, however, is that they will get married. We'll see. . .

When Zhao Ming was finished cooking for his mama, he came back to my place so I could cook for him. I made salad (they have Thousand Island dressing here, which is a god send), Fettucini Alfredo, and fried chicken. He really enjoyed the chicken; hopefully American food will continue growing on him.

footnote: Ming's mom eventually broke up with her boyfriend. I now think Thousand Island sucks and have discovered the wonders of olive oil and vinegar. Finally, I am happy to report that Ming does enjoy western food.

Failures (Week Two)

Nearly Two Weeks of Somewhat New Things


Thursday (1/21)-Walking downtown and indulging in a Middle Eastern Buffet.
As long as I've lived in Milwaukee, I've never taken a stroll downtown during daylight hours. After a late night on Wednesday, I crashed at a friend's place who lives downtown, which naturally resulted in the ritual morning walk-of-shame to my car. It remains embarassing to walk around at 8am with unbrushed hair and teeth, perhaps even more-so now that I'm married, nearly thirty, and should probably hold my drink better. It was a frigid morning, but the church bells clanged at and the streets were nearly empty making it an overall pleasant experience, one that I'd never had before.


For lunch I met up with Karen at http://www.casablancaonbrady.com/ . Delicious food, compounded by the fact that it was ridiculously cheap (thanks to a well utilized coupon), made it a fabulous meal and a great introduction to Middle Eastern food.


Friday (1/22)-Coconut shrimp
Another day of new culinary delights. . . I helped make and helped eat coconut shrimp.

Saturday (1/23)-A not-so-daring haircut
After two years of too long locks, I decided to go for a chop. My parents' neighbor, Sue, gives haircuts in her basement for $7. A little steep considering I can get one for $1 in China, however, I was feeling confident that the results would be considerably better. Going for a cut in China, I usually end up with a shag or a mullet despite clearly having told the barber to give me a trim.

I was willing to part with nearly all of my hair--doing the deed that most American women inevitably do sometime before middle age fully sets in. I was determined to throw caution to the wind and walk out of that basement a pixie. I told Sue my idea but also let her know that I'd be traveling for awhile and that I'm a low maintenance kinda girl. As a result, I was talked into a compromise, a shoulder length cut that could still be thrown up into a pony tail.

Overall, I'm not sure the constitutes as 'something new.' I have had my hair cut this short, if not shorter, before. However, I've never so much as entertained the idea of getting it all chopped off, which really ought to count for something.

Sunday (1/24)-Sippin' a brandy old fashion sweetWhile watching Brett Favre throw a game losing interception (SWEET JUSTICE) I was sipping on a Minch family favorite--the Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet. This is a drink my mother and grandparents adored while I was growning up, but I consistently stuck my nose up to it. Turns out, it's not too bad. I'll still be drinking vodka cranberries if you catch me at the bar though.

Monday (1/25)-An attempt not to go to the post office
In middle school, I was the type of student that did her homework on the bus or during class--everything was left until the last minute. I still managed to pull off good grades, but in the process I was completely stressed out. High school came and my work ethic took a one-eighty. Since then I avoid procrastination at almost all costs. It's gotten to the point of being a time-waster. For example, I will prepare lessons for my students weeks in advance only to not use them later.

These days I've been selling on eBay, which leads to superfluous post office visits. As soon as a customer pays for an item I feel the itch to get her item out in the mail immediately. I've pledged to myself time and again to only make one stop at the post office a day. Who wants to be standing in line and dealing with those cranky government workers (it's more than a stereotype) more than once daily? But yet I just can't keep away. I tried to stay away, really I did. I was determined that my New Thing for the Day would be getting over mypostal neurosis. I failed.

Tuesday (1/26)-Utilizing those handy rearview mirrors
I spent some quality time with my dad and he taught me how to use the rearview mirrors to back into a spot rather than looking over my shoulder all the time. Pretty boring to go into detail about, but a skill I should really have acquired by now given my 12 years of driving experience.

Wednesday (1/27)-Getting pulled over by the police
As I so carelessly bragged about in an earlier post, I have never been pulled over by the police while driving. My good luck ended tragically on Wednesday, January 27, 2010 when a young officer pulled me over for going the wrong way down a one-way in downtown Milwaukee. It's an easy thing to do, is it not?

I got a verbal warning.

From poopy diapers to Haiti Relief

I have been keeping up with my New Things. In addition to the aforementioned fish, here is what I've accomplished up to today:

Saturday-changing a poopy diaper. I'm not sure if this is something I've ever done before; if it is, I certainly can't remember it. Not that it's the sort of thing one wants to remember. I won't get into the dirty details, but I will say this--I am happy that most Chinese babies are potty trained early.

Sunday-cheering for the Cowboys. It was a tough call, the Minnesota Vikings versus the Dallas Cowboys, but I just could bring myself to cheer for the team our once beloved Brett Favre defected to.

Monday-taking a mouse out of a mouse trap. Since my husband's greatest fear is of small rodents, it is essential that I am at least somewhat willing to deal with them. Handling a dead mouse was disgusting, but doable. I'm not sure if I could cope with exterminating a rat though.

Tuesday-driving the speed limit. I am told by my family that I drive like a grandma. In my defense, I would like it to be known that I usually go 7mph over the limit on the freeway, which I don't think is particularly slow especially in the state of Wisconsin (Illionois is another matter). I think it should also be noted that I have never been pulled over by the police or the cause of an accident. But since I am guilty of speeding, as most of us are, I thought I would try going the speed limit (or below) and truly driving like a senior citizen.

Coincidentally, I drove from my Grandmother's home to my parent's home. The distance: 51 miles. The speed limit on the highway: 65mph. Sixty-five miles per hour is pretty fast, if you think about it, but it still doesn't feel fast enough. I think we are trained to always want to go faster and get places quicker, no matter how high the speed limit is set or how much time we actually have. Going the speed limit does not feel natural to me and I really had to pay close attention to keep the speedometer under 65. I was passed by my fair share of traffic, but I didn't have to deal with switching lanes or looking out for clocking cops. Overall, it was an enjoyable ride, but I still think I'm going to stick to going 7mph over the limit. I don't want to be called a grandma anymore than I already am.

Wednesday-donating to the Red Cross (Haiti Relief and Development). Having traveled in several under-developed countries and living in a developing country myself, I have had to face poverty in ways many Americans do not. On one extreme, I have seen severely disabled and disfigured burn victims begging for money in Cambodia. On the other, I have seen young Laotian children skipping school to sell homemade bracelets to backpackers on the streets of Luang Prabang. In both instances, it can be hard to know what the right thing to do is.

While I do believe it's a personal choice, I feel uncomfortable giving money to beggars or supporting child labor. In the end, I think it often does more damage than good. But there is always a part of me that wants to do something, so I make a vow to support a charity that provides support for people in developing countries. I make this promise to myself, yet I never follow through because I'm overwhelmed by the number of such organizations. With all that has happened in Haiti during the last week, I decided to stop the procrastination and excuses. I donated to the Red Cross today. If this sounds like something you'd like to do, I'd recommend going to their website http://www.redcross.org and chosing a relief fund.

To Fillet a Fish

I am in a family of fishermen. My grandpa had half a basement full of ties, reels, ice augers, and magazines devoted to the sport. My dad, no different. I, on the other hand, have always been a little phobic of fishing. I remember my mom and step-dad forcing me to accompany them on their many fishing excursions. This involved a little boat on a small lake somewhere in rural Wisconsin; I was seven or eight at the time, deemed too young to stay home alone. At first I found it all a bit boring, but then I was told a tale that horrified me to the core. My step-dad related to me a tale about his days as a young fisherman. He had had some trouble taking his catch off the hook and some of the scales lodged into his skin--a nasty fish scale sliver resulted. My adult self has some doubts both about the story and my ability to recall it accurately; nevertheless, I've been afraid to touch a fish ever since.

What better way to start off my Month of New Things than by filleting a fish and thus conquering this long held irrational fear?

My step-brother, Dan, and my Dad spent all day Friday ice fishing. They brought home over a dozen small fish, mostly walleyes and perch. I looked at their little frozen bodies; nothing to be afraid of, I realized. Then my Dad cut into one and my squimishness took over. Not only am I phobic of fish, I also have issues with blood.

I once accompanied my father to the hospital and watched him get stitches, in hopes of overcoming my fear, but ended up fainting--falling with a thud onto the cold hospital floor. I have to turn away during the operating scenes of Grey's Anatomy. Being a doctor or nurse has never been in the cards for me, but maybe gutting a fish I could do.

I tried paying attention to Eddie Davis, master fish filleter's, technique. I won't go into details here for I'm sure most of you aren't interested into a play-by-play of killing Nemo. I will tell you that in the end simply listening and focusing on the task allowed me to forget about the blood and guts. After several attempts I was able to fillet a small perch, leaving two beautiful pieces of boneless, skinless meat. This is something I can truly appreciate after five years in China where the fish is served to you whole. I don't like anything I'm about to eat to be looking at me, nor do I enjoy tiny bones getting stuck in my throat. So with my first New Thing I have learned a new skill and conquered my fish phobia. . . not a bad start.

Adventure without travel

I was never the adventurous sorts, particularly when I was younger. Growing up in a small Wisconsin town, it was easy to get lost in the world right outside my patio door. When I was very small I did entertain the occasional world travel fantasy. I would sit cross-legged on my living room floor, holding a bowl of buttered rice, eating it daintily with a small fork. In my mind, however, I was in a wooden, stilted house in rural Japan sitting on a thin mat using chopsticks with the greatest of ease.

Outside of my imagination, I never seriously planned on going anywhere. I considered that one day I might find myself in a small African village or on a safari in the Amazon. These were just passing thoughts--like getting married or graduating college--possibilities the future held, but nothing I could truly wrap my young mind around. My whole life lay in front of me, perfectly planned. I would go to middle school, high school, and eventually college. Anything beyond that, I couldn't see.

Senior year of college, my perfectly planned life was rapidly approaching my unforeseen future. My friend Amy was studying overseas in Ireland, which fascinated me, though I didn't have the courage to picture myself in her position--that is, until I went to visit her myself.

The lead up to the trip was filled with anticipation and anxiety. Amy said the girls in Ireland dressed fashionably, would I fit in? Would the locals notice my American accent? How would we find the way from the airport to Amy's apartment? A million questions swirled through my head, as I'm sure they do in most first time travelers. Going to another country can seem overwhelming and threatening, though I found almost all my fears unwarranted. The trip, though not without its difficulties, was amazing and eye-opening. I realized that trying something new doesn't have to be scary and horrible; it can actually be interesting and fun.

Of course, trying something new does not equate traveling to strange and exotic places like Ireland (although it often does for me). Traveling, especially to foreign countries, is not for everyone. It can be stressful, uncomfortable, and strange. It also requires a certain amount of time and money. But just because one doesn't have the desire or means to travel, doesn't mean she can't try other unfamiliar things.

Therefore, I'm going to take this opportunity to try new things that don't involve travel. Here I am, back in my cushy U.S. life, with relatively little to write about and not too much pushing me out of my comfort zone. In the next month, I will attempt one new thing a day and report back about it. First on the agenda, which I successfully completed yesterday, filleting a fish.

The Pat Down

As you probably have heard, those traveling to the U.S. will have to deal with heightened security measures in response to the attempted terrorist attack on Christmas Day. After flying yesterday, I can give you a little preview of what to expect if you are flying to a U.S. destination anytime soon.

Ticketing went pretty much as normal and was perhaps even more efficient than in the past as airlines are really pushing online check-in, which eliminates most of the long lines at the check-in counter. One recent change is the restriction on carry-on items. Only one carry-on is now allowed if you are flying to a U.S. destination. You can take a small piece of luggage OR a purse/laptop, but you are not permitted to take both. Be prepared to check the rest of your bags. If you are flyig internationally, you'll probably be allowed to checked bags, free of charge. Domestic flights, on the other hand, are an entirely different story. Be prepared to pay $15-25 per bag. Some discounts may be available if you pay online for this prior to your flight.

Security to enter the gate area at London Heathrow--it was a dream, a marvel of efficiency. I didn't have to wait in line, a first for me, but I did have to take off my jacket and shoes. After passing through the metal detectors I received a fairly thorough pat down. None of this was too out of the ordinary and the security process moved along suspiciously fast, which made me wonder why the 'one carry-on item' restriction was in place.

Into the gates and past the duty free shops I went, business as normal. Bailey's, two for 22 pounds; select perfumes, two for one; and enormous Toblerone bars all tempted me. I had over 4 pounds in spare change, which I put to rather practical use by purchasing an overpriced ham sandwich and vinegar flavored crisps, err, chips.

Approahing my gate, still nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Then they began boarding the plane AN HOUR AND A HALF BEFORE TAKE-OFF. Women queued to the right and men to the left. My line was curiously short--I never realized that the male to female ration of airplane passengers was so disproportionate. Despite my short line, we moved at a snail's pace. Between the passengers and the walkway to the plane were several tables--three for the men and three for the women. On my side, all three tables were manned by a female security employee. One-by-one were were called up to a table. I watched others being searched, patted, and prodded from my comfortable position in line. Inevitably my turn came and I approached the table nervously; being treated suspect creates a false sense of guilt in me that I've always struggled with.

Each pocked of my purse was carefully inspected, my book was picked up and fanned through quickly, my jacket was searched, and my wallet was opened. After ever crevice of my personal items had been examined, I was given another thorough pat down. Now it was the people in line looking on at me. At last I passed all the tests, no stip search or further questioning needed. My ticket was checked and I proceeded down the ramp to the plane.

The whole process took about 2 minutes, but was performed on all of the 500 odd flight passengers; therefore, a boarding that would normally take 20 minutes took 2 hours. How do I feel about this? I'm still forming an opinion, I suppose. While standing in the queue, there was a small part of me that found it ridiculous and a part of me that felt somewhat violated. Not violated by these acts themselves--the bag search, the pat down, and the ocassional questioning, but by what they imply: Guilty until proven Innocent. I'm also concerned about what this all leads to. How far will we go in our quest to deter the terrorists? How far will the terrorists go to overcome the ever increasing security measures? I fear that one will continue to outwit the other, but not for long. . . on and on down the spiral we shall go.

Yes, I can admit I feel a little angry. But with whom or what am I angry? The rules or the people who enforce them? The terrorists or the ideologies that motivate them? On this I haven't decided, but I can tell you with much certainty that I am not looking forward to my next flight. If I can give you any advice on flying it would be this: please be patient and don't pack a lot in your carry-on bag.

The weather outside is frightful

I can't seem to escape the snow. My last day in Beijing, Sunday, the skies opened up and dumped on us unlike I've ever experienced in China before. Life went on pretty much as normal--cars rushed down the streets at alarming speeds, pedestrians packed the sidewalks, and shops continued to run as normal. Businesses had their glove-less and hatless employees out with straw brooms, sweeping the snow into pathetic little piles. Eventually they emerged with dirt shovels, chipping away at the ice on the pavement. Fashionable young women took to the streets to go shopping, sporting capris that stopped just below the ankle paired with knee-high boots and an umbrella open over head. This bizarre style resurfaces each winter, one which I will never understand. Desperately needed but very much absent were plows and salt trucks, an investment in safety and sanity that Beijing City perhaps isn't ready to make. Despite the madness, I made it to the airport without incident on Monday and my flight was only delayed by an hour. All things considered, I left the city somewhat impressed in Beijingers' ability to carry on as usual in these unusual weather conditions.

I cannot, however, speak of the English in the same light. Half an inch of snow or an overnight freeze brings British civilization to a sudden and screeching halt. The light snow that dusted London overnight on Tuesday resulted in widespread closings and delays. While I normally would find this frustrating, it provided me with a great excuse to stay at the flat and nurse my jet-lagged body and catch up with a best friend I haven't seen face to face in over a year. I was less amused yesterday when some minor morning flurries left me stranded at the bus station in Canterbury for nearly two hours. I was admittedly lucky, as many bus routes were no longer running. I was assured that my bus to London would come and was given numerous updates as I sat patiently and waited. It was nearly on time, it was running behind, it was broken, it was on its way. The truth, the bus seemed to up and vanish. I wasn't expecting this type of inefficiency in England, but I suppose I will do as the British do and blame it on the weather.

In just a few more days I will be landing in Chicago and I will have five weeks of subzero wind chills and blizzards to contend with. I think I am ready for it, yet I can't help but wonder why I don't ever come home in the summer. From what I remember, Wisconsin is lovely in the summer.

The Art of Saying Good-bye

I've never been much for good-byes, though most people probably aren't. Over time, leaving becomes easier, especially when approached with the right attitude.


First, I try not to think too much of those who I am leaving, but rather the people that await me at my destination. With this approach, I'm more apt to feel excited rather than the hysterical, sniffling ball of a mess I have the potential to be.

I have also learned that most people and places don't change too much, too fast. I often find things are as I left them and can pick up where I last left off.

And finally, I try to embrace my escape. Sometimes it's nice to have a change, a break, a different perspective--particularly in the case of leaving China. Although I could provide many examples, I will name just a few in an attempt to avoid 'China bashing.' Here they are:

1. Not so plus-sized. A point I've touched on before, but feel it is worthy of being brought up again--my size. I've never been thin, outside a stint of obsessive calorie counting during the Summer/Fall of 02 which brought me (somewhat) close. My BMI generally hovers that imaginary line between healthy and overweight. Most days, I am fine with this. My self-esteem can't help but be crushed, however, when a Chinese saleswoman exclaims, "That girls got meat!" as I walk by. Or when I have to ask for a shop's largest size only to find it's too tight. I am happy to be in places where no one's going to comment on how much meat I have. I am glad to leave a country where a double XL fits snugly on my frame.

2. Cooking. . . I have discovered my ability to do it over the past year. I am particularly proud that I can make western food. Afterall, I have a husband who can cook delicious Chinese food, so it seems like a bit of a waste to focus my energy on learning how to do that. Not to mention that would be too easy. I enjoy the challenge of trying to cook beef bourguignon in an oven the size of a shoe box and roll tortillas out from scratch. I enjoy it, but not that much. I look forward to being able to find sour cream at the local grocery store and buy a can of chicken broth if I should need it. I will finally be able to cut corners while cooking or even not cook at all. Qdoba, I hear you calling me. . .

A Resolution

Someone recently asked me if I keep a journal of my time spent in China; I do not.

When I first arrived here, nearly five years ago, I almost daily wrote of my adventures. I filled four or five notebooks describing my fascination with the traffic, the line-jumpers, the spitting, the haggling, and numerable other thoughts or incidents. As time has passed, however, the strange and unusual has become mundane. For the past year, other than a few trips here and there, my life has settled into a comfortable routine. I have very little to write about that hasn't been said before. Some people assume I'm living a life full of excitement and intrigue, while others claim I am living one endless vacation, the truth of the matter is that my life is generally just as boring as the next guy's and though at times unconventional does include work and other responsibilities.

All that is going to change soon though, as I'm gearing up for the biggest trip of my life and a long visit to the States. The tickets have been booked since August and tonight will mark the start of my journey. I am sad. I am excited. I am nervous. I am slightly guilt-ridden. I'm leaving behind my Chinese family for three and half months in a somewhat selfish attempt to visit American friends and family for weeks on end topped off with an indulgent seven week trip through India and Burma.

I haven't made a New Year's Resolution since I was in grade school, but this year I'm going to make one and make one that's realistic (not to deter any of you who have vowed to exercise more or quit smoking). Here is my New Year's Resolution: To document this trip, which may be my last epic adventure for awhile, at least twice a week. This may be a challenge as the States doesn't provide me with the same caliber of blogging material I can usually uncover in China. Expect a blog describing my love affair with Qdoba Mexican Grill or my amazement at being able to put toilet paper in the toilet again.

I once read a comment somewhere that a good blogger can find a way to make the ordinary interesting--let the next several weeks be a test of my writing ability.

Oh, and one more thing, Happy New Year!

Beijing Time

Beijing Time

October 18, 2009

I awoke this morning to darkness and it was nearly 8am—Am I in Siberia? Hardly, in fact Urumqi is probably on par with Milwaukee as far as latitude goes. In other words, 8am equates to daylight hours. The problem lies in Beijing’s insistence that the entire PRC be in the same time zone, known as Beijing Time. For a country as wide as China, this simply isn’t practical. Confusion arises in places such as Urumqi, which should be two hours behind Beijing. Since it’s not, people must adjust accordingly. Banks are open from 10am-8pm and people don’t eat lunch until three in the afternoon. . . . usually. Some people choose to speak in terms of what the local time should be, so to be safe one must always confirm a time with the question, “Is that Beijing Time?”

Later. . .

I’m on the road again, off to Turpan, this time by bus. We occasionally pass wild camels strolling by the highway, which absolutely thrills me. Suddenly, the driver slams on the breaks, going from 60mph to nil in a blink of an eye. I’m just glad he does us the courtesy of pulling over to the shoulder in the process. He exits the bus and I watch him with interest. Slipping on a pair of gloves, he walks toward the rear. Did something break? Do we have a flat tire? I certainly didn’t feel or hear anything to warrant this conclusion. What does the driver know that I don’t? I watch him as he crotches over a black object, picking it up and tossing it into the hold with the passenger luggage. This mysterious object, I realize, is a huge chunk of coal that must have fallen off the bed of a passing truck. Why let it go to waste? Nevermind the safety of his 60 helpless passengers, this guy wants his freebee.

Let it be noted, that this is not the first time a driver has stopped for road kill. Once, when I hired a driver in rural Shanxi Province, I was similarly startled by the sudden swerving of the car. We stopped, as did the car ahead of us. Turns out, that car had hit a wild pheasant (dinner!). When it comes to road kill, evidently there isn’t a lot of etiquette. My driver, with the reflexes of a cat, was first to the prize, snatching it up and throwing it into the trunk in world record breaking time. And so it happened on the way to Turpan. . . twice. The second time I was unable to get a glimpse of the treasure. I just waited patiently on the bus while the male passengers scurried off the bus, seizing the opportunity to have a quick cigarette break.

Turpan. . .

The military appear to be absent in this small city. There is a distinctive Arab atmosphere here and I feel as if I’ve been transported to the Middle East, as the people and architecture suggest. I like it—in a country this big you can feel like you’ve left the country without actually going anywhere. China is a lot like America in that sense.

Upon arrival in Turpan, I am greeted with numerous offers from drivers who want to take me to the attractions outside the city. While I would like to join a tour or hire a driver, finding a hotel is my first matter of business. Of course the hotel so highly recommended by the guidebook is now a pile of rubble, as is the only bank that exchanges currency and the travel agency I was hoping to arrange a tour with. In China, you must always have a back-up plan, so I headed to mine—Turpan Hotel.

At Turpan Hotel, I score a decent economy room for a mere 50RMB (US$8) and am again harassed by a potential driver, but now that I’m settled into my accommodation I am willing to hear him out. He has already found two Israeli men who want to hire him as their driver, under the condition that they can find another person to share the cost. I agree to join them in their tour, but first we must find these Israelis so we can settle on our plan.

Halik, the driver, says they were planning to visit the Bazaar and invites me on his quest to find them. Having nothing better to do, I agree. We hop in his car and driver over to the market, scanning the sidewalk for tall, white boys. We walk through the Bazaar twice, without a foreigner to be seen. No worries, I make a pit stop for some traditional Uighur food, a few meaty, fatty lamb kebobs. Halik and I take another lap but to no avail, so I’m driven back to the hotel and Halik will continue on his search. He solemnly swears that he will find the two tall Israelis by nightfall. I’m skeptical, but impressed by his persistence. I now also realize how utterly desperate this guy is to be our driver. After the July rioting there have been virtually no tourists visiting Xinjiang. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Halik and wonder if this is his only means to make a living. I decide that I will hire him to be my driver, Israelis or not.

Eventually everything does work out for all of us. The Israeli guys, Yonathan and Eran, find a third wheel (me), I join their tour, and Halik gets to drive us around for a day. We all agree on a price (300RMB for the car for the day) and the time, 9am (Beijng Time).