A New Leaf - Possibly Bamboo

Ok, China. Truce. For real this time. Today, I shall reform.

Tonight, as I lay in bed, trying very hard to go to sleep and not having very much luck, I concluded that my attitude and behavior needed to change. Now.

For the past 8 months, I have done nothing but blame China for all my troubles. I cannot do this any more. True, this country has its fair share of frustrations and tribulations that would make any westerner feel steamrollered and snookered. The censorship, the pollution, the roundabout way of getting nowhere, the spitting, the noise, the construction, the food, and the sheer, staggering what-the-hell of it all. It is indeed overwhelming. But the blame should not rest solely on Red’s shoulders.

I admit I’ve been living in the past, wishing things could be like they were before I came here. This year has certainly not been an easy one. Leaving Wyoming was something I did not want to do. I had established a life and a home there. It was, by far, the best two years of my life; and, to be yanked out of it, I felt no less than devastated.

However, I have had to plow through transition depression before and made it through. This time should be no different. And it is time I pulled myself up from shadow again, recognized my surroundings, and looked forward.

So, as of tomorrow morning, when I wake up, there is a new sheriff in town. I’ve decided to take more advantage of the culture around me, especially since I have been thrust into a temporary – albeit seemingly indefinite – state of unemployment and boredom.

How have I been in this country for this long and not taken time out to discover some of its ancient poetry? Shame on me. In China, the most exulted position you can claim is to be a poet. How marvelous!

It was just yesterday that my cousin’s girlfriend brought out some old Chinese poetry and read it aloud for us. I noticed the unusual cadence that seems to take precedence over content. These poems are not at all concerned with cliché or sentimentality, but rather with the tones that pair off like one singing lark to another. They, like Shakespeare’s plays, were meant to be heard, not read.

My current goal is to immerse myself in some of these poets, such as Li Bai 李白 (the poet that J. read yesterday), and see if I can distill some of the qualities that the Chinese regard their poets to possess.

Literary Identities

Yesterday at the Bookworm, one of the waiters, as he was on break, was looking at a magazine at the bar. I was sitting at the counter on my computer when I noticed he looked back and forth from me to the magazine and back again. He turned the page over so that I could see it, showed me the photo of a woman in an article, and asked if I were she. I smiled and said no, but he seemed to think I was not telling the truth.

For the rest of the day, he showed the photo to his fellow co-workers and each of them in turn looked up at me, as if to check his face-recognition accuracy. I got several more giggles throughout the afternoon.

Today I'm back. I haven't been approached as a celebrity look-alike, but have been diligently trying to conjure up a new poem, vis-a-vie my new fascination with the Southwest.

During one of my strategically-timed lulls of procrastination (because I refuse to call it writer's block), I looked for writing jobs online and found this:

I'm a freelance features writer looking for real life stories, particularly womens' interest. Do you have an inspiring tale to tell - something shocking, unusual, inspiring or funny? It could be about anything: health, love, phobias, relationships...You will be treated fairly and your story will be written accurately. And, of course, you will be paid - from around £200 up to £2000!

I thought, now that's something I could do for a little extra pocket money. But then again, how many of us want our dirty laundry aired in public, particularly when your name is given such a prominent byline?

Of course, there is an element of fiction in everything we write, even if we are writing an autobiographical account or memoir. The act of writing always makes things more theatrical and thus it cannot ever be 100% true, right?

So, what about poetry? Granted, this particular call is for stories, but when thinking about the general question of fiction vs. fact, how many of us read a poem and automatically assume it is autobiographical? So many poems are written in first person; yet the poet's inspiration could have been so loosely based in reality.

In essence, comparably, if I send off a few "real-life stories" to this advertisement, how are they to judge what is real and what isn't? After all, I could have very easily told that waiter the woman in the magazine was me.

If I were a fruit...

This in response to a recent post by lapetitefleur:

Many people may read this as the kind of question Barbara Walters would ask in an interview in her later years on 20/20. However, for a food lover and a poet, I’m inclined to answer thoughtfully.

If I were a fruit, I would be a blueberry.

Reasons being the following:

That I love berries of all kinds, but blueberries happen to be my favorite, with raspberries close behind.

And if I were a blueberry, I would grow wild on oceanside bushes, breathing the sea air as it rolls in off the coast.

Because the taste for blueberries can be satisfied in so many ways: They are the perfect way to start your day: breakfast. They are delicious in oatmeal, blueberry muffins, blueberry coffeecake, blueberry pancakes with blueberry syrup. They are beautiful as a garnish, perfect as a snack by themselves, or an addition to a more substantial dish. You can even make blueberry wine, as my aunt Denise does from her garden in New Brunswick, Canada. And then there is my grandmother’s blueberry pie.

They can be sweet or sour, bitter or perfumed, an ambrosial fragrance on your palate.

Because they stain your mouth with the deepest blue, as if the berries were rich and filled with secrets that could only be released on your tongue, as though those secrets needed to borrow your mouth for a voice.

Blueberries are petite and feminine. They are plump and round and smooth. I like the feeling of holding a bundle of loose blue beads in my hands as they tumble around between my palms, like black pearls off their string.

Because they are good for your heart, like so many of the good things in life that give us pleasure, like wine, dark chocolate, tea or coffee, a good night's sleep, yoga, spring cleaning, poetry, an afternoon in the park, or falling in love.

I think I need to start a food blog.

Things That Nourish

Still no word on when I'll start my new teaching gig. So, while I wait, I've been experimenting with a few 'comfort food' recipes. You know, the old staples that we turn to on days when we don't feel like being fashionable with our food. We can, however, get slightly creative with these old hats.

This weekend, I found a recipe online for roasted chick peas. The flavors of chili pepper, lime juice, and cilantro sounded exactly what I was in the mood for, but when I read what the final product would be like, I changed my mind. It was designed to be a crunchy, crispy finger-food snack for the afternoon. Instead of roasting them for forty-five to fifty minutes, I only warmed them in the oven for about ten minutes, to let the flavors gently waft together for a bit. Then, I popped it all in a blender and poured a massive amount of olive oil in the mix, with a little bit of sugar, and voila. Delicious hummus. Always a favorite fallback dish.

Last night, as I wandered around the corner grocery store and wondered what I felt like eating, I saw a dense, grainy bread, covered in pine nuts and remembered that I still had half a block of Irish Gouda in my fridge. Light bulb: open-faced grilled cheese and tomato soup. Dessert was inevitable a few spoonfuls of the all-powerful Nutella. Thank goodness for imported food.

So, between stuffing my face and waiting for my job to commence, I'm trying to write a little poetry and submit to journals. My new obsession is the desert and its barren beauty. Beijing sometimes reaps the effects of the Gobi Desert (sandstorms and whatnot), and so I think part of me will want to write about this soon. Now, however, I'm more focused and fascinated with the American Southwest, a place I've never actually seen firsthand. I also have begun to write about Wyoming, something I was not able to do when I lived there. Absence is the perfect fount of inspiration.

Thanks, by the way, to all the literary magazines that have electronic submission options. Otherwise, I'd be up to my eyeballs in overseas postage fees.

Back to Beijing

It was a thirty-hour train ride back to Beijing. I left Shenzhen at 10:55 a.m. on Tuesday morning, and arrived in the cold north capital on Wednesday afternoon at 4:20 p.m. The length of this particular excursion would have been grueling had I bought the same type of ticket as my trip down there. However, sometimes you've got to spend a little extra money for the comfort and convenience that keeps you from throwing yourself under the rail.

My luck blossomed and I found that not only did I have the seat-sleeper that I wanted, but I had the entire berth to myself. Folks, this never happens, especially not in a country of 1.3 billion people. I smiled the whole way.

As the past few weeks have gone by and since my recent move from Hangzhou to Beijing, I've considered retitling this blog. After all, I no longer live anywhere near the Yangtze River. Nonetheless, after careful thought, I've decided to keep it as a reminder of what I originally set out to do. My strength has been tested and it has wavered over the past eight months, but something keeps my head aimed straight ahead, determined to drive forward and see this through to the end. And you know what? It's been worth it. Things continue to get better.

The night before I left Hong Kong I received an email. A job offer. The perfect job offer: teaching high school students English literature at an international school just outside the city. I sort out the details on Monday and, hopefully, by this time next week, will have a contract.

However, if there is one thing I have learned from dealings in China, it is that I mustn't get my hopes up too high. Typically, they promise you the moon, sweep you off your feet, and reel you in; then, just at the very last minute, they disappoint you and all promises are forgotten. I keep hoping each time will be different, but so far I have yet to be right. Maybe this time...

Hong Kong Island

After a lovely breakfast of coffee and croissants, I crossed the border from Shenzhen into Hong Kong and through customs to get the stamp on my passport. Visa taken care of. One check on my list taken care of.

The night point of order was to take an hour-long subway ride into downtown Hong Kong on the Kowloon side, in order to don my tourist cap and find a city bus tour. Luckily, it didn’t take long to track down a worthy vessel.

Our tour guide was Roger – Londoner of Hong Kong parents and one who says of his tourists: “You are all the same to me.” The British accent made for comforting narration. But the first thing I noticed when I hopped on the bus was a “no spitting” sign just above the driver. It’s the first I’ve seen in Asia and thank goodness for it. One whole day without hawking loogies. Bliss.

Roger’s motto of equality didn’t last very long when he was burdened by an Indian family who thought it perfectly acceptable to run an average of ten to fifteen minutes late each time we disembarked on a port/point of interest. After three rounds of this, Roger got fed up and passed a petition around for the rest of us to sign. “I hearby give leave for us to depart at the agreed times, with or without all group parties.” Or something very like. When the head of the family was shown the petition, there was no more tardiness and the day went on rather smoothly. Roger means business. After all, he has been a tour guide for 31 years. Well done, Roger.

The other passengers seemed quite docile and content to follow the leader. In front of me was an adorable Spanish-speaking couple from Colombia. Having never taken Spanish in school, save for half a semester in grade seven, I was surprised at how many words I knew and how much of their conversation I could follow. Granted, I couldn’t identify entire sentences or even long phrases, but quite a lot of words. Most of this, of course, is from its close relation to (and my foundation in) Français. The Romance/Latin-based languages would be easier for me to learn than Chinese, for sure.

This led me on a brief tangential daydream. I have pushed Spanish away for so long, thinking I always liked French better, that it was the superior language. Now, though, I find Spanish more and more beautiful, and French more and more pretentious. This, coupled with the reality of living in the United States, is one of the many reasons I really think I should learn Spanish. Its functionality, for starters. It would be useful, especially in the Southwest.

Enough of that. Back to Hong Kong. We took the harbor tunnel to the island, where our first stop along the way was Man Mo Temple, dedicated to the gods of literature (Man) and martial arts (Mo). In this particular temple, there is a large red pole. Atop that pole is a brass hand, holding a brass pen. Legend has it that if you rub this pen, you will be rewarded with literary inspiration and receive good scholarly marks. I took two turns.

Second highlight was an incredibly steep (the world’s steepest, so I’m told) tram ride up to Victoria’s Peak. Unfortunately, as our tram climbed the mountainside, so did the fog. When we arrived at the top, I felt as if Irish weather had blown all the way over from the Emerald Isle. Luckily, it didn’t completely impede the photo ops.

At the peak, I was told I would find the highest Starbucks in the world. He could not have mean story-wise, because it is on the ground floor of the building and Shanghai’s is number one on that front (or it could be Seoul, South Korea – not 100% on that one). Did he mean elevation? I’m sorry, Roger, but Vicky’s only goes up to a little over 1,800 feet. There are definitely plenty of cafés at higher elevations. Laramie, Wyoming, for instance, is over 7,200 feet, and they’ve got two. But I Googled it, just for kicks, and the highest store elevation is at 9,600 feet in Breckenridge, Colorado. I should audition for Mythbusters.

Moving on. Point of interest number three and my favorite part of the tour: Aberdeen fishing village. Took a little ride on a sampan (Chinese flat-bottom boat) and toured the harbor. It felt great to even be near water again, let alone on a boat. I turned into a shutterbug and here snapped the most photos. I do have a thing for water and boats. This was definitely worth it. By the way, the water here is surprisingly more turquoise than I thought it would be. Still wouldn’t swim in it, though.

Next stop: the jewelers. We toured a factory and I realized that I do not need a $1.2 million dollar diamond. Only one around $2,000. I’m a simple girl.

We then drove up and down around the mountainside and looked out of the bus windows to the bay that led into the South China Sea. By this time, the fog had lifted and we had only one more destination to go: the Stanley Market. For me, this was a bit of a drag, since I’ve come to know (all so well) the markets in China. This one was nothing special and, as far as I’m concerned, highly priced, even after bartering. However, I did indulge my scarf addiction and purchased a long, tan and dark brown pashmina with paisley design. I’ve got quite the collection going. I’ll have one from each city: Hangzhou, Shanghai, Beijing, Hong Kong…

Alas, one stop we omitted from the designated itinerary was “Deep Water Bay Lookout” at Repulse Bay. We drove by it and stopped along side the road to try and snap a few photos, but the sun had gone down and the light was gone. The beaches looked lovely, though.

So, at the end of the day, all was well. I headed back to the Chinese border, got another stamp on my passport, and made my way back to the hotel in Shenzhen. Tomorrow morning: back to Beijing. Another twenty-five hours on a train. Seat choice: I got smart again – soft sleeper.

An interesting fact I learned from Roger today: According to the Chinese, evil spirits cannot turn left or right. “Chinese people are superstitious, not religious.”

Two Days in Hong Kong

Like everything else in China, the visa system requires a round about way of giving you permission to be here. For the next two days, I am in Hong Kong. Shenzhen, actually. I made the twenty-five-hour train ride from Beijing and nearly didn’t live to tell the tale.

I said that my travels from Hangzhou to Beijing were amongst the most comfortable I’ve ever experienced. This was the exact opposite. However, I only have myself to blame. This time, instead of choosing the same, cozy soft sleeper that I had before, I decided to economize and deal with the hard sleeper. Definitely not the right pick.

Instead of a nearly-crowded four to a berth, the hard sleeper squeezes six – and with no doors. You are on display as hundreds of people walk past your narrow bunks, inconsiderately kicking your shoes aside and under the bottom bunk where you are sure to find them covered in grit and dust bunnies.

I had the very top bed and I am amazed that the other gentlemen who shared the space with me could fit between their platforms and the ceiling. I now have a rather tender bruise forming on my head and my neck feels as though it has forgotten what it’s like to be straight.

The most annoying bit was the noise. It must be obvious to readers by now how much I value peace and quiet. But none was to be found on this train. Announcements were a constant companion over the loud speakers. Between said announcements, they insisted on playing, without pause, Chinese opera music. For those of you lucky enough to never have heard such soundings, it is comparable to a midnight duel between two dying cats.

In addition to the background noise provided by our hosts, were the numerous passengers with cell phones. I must confess to being one of them. Halfway through the trip, my mother phoned from Michigan and I was ever so glad to hear her voice. Unfortunately, she could barely hear mine over all the racket that surrounded me.

I’ve decided to be smart and, on the return trip (planned for Tuesday), I will purchase the soft sleeper. There are just some things that are well worth the money spent. That is one of them.

"Beijing Snowstorms and Housebound Productivity"

Earlier this week, Beijing was hit with a rather rare snowstorm. As a result, we were all motivated to trek down to Hou Hai for a family outing. My uncle and cousins decided to rent ice skates and go out on the lake for a couple of hours, while my aunt and I thawed our fingers around a hot cup of coffee. After the thaw and being reminded that my fingers do not easily - or painlessly - thaw, I haven't spent too much time outside since that excursion.

But before I excused myself from the frostbitten fun, I spent a few minutes slipping and sliding around in my boots and took a few choice photos of the gang, gearing up for their time on the ice, as well as the strange skating-bicycles that seem to be the popular thing for young Chinese children on the ice. The lake hadn’t been entirely cleared yet, but uniformed officers pushed the snow into piles on the ice and made paths for all the skaters.

Productive days can only be called such because of my renewed devotion to poetry. And my belief is that the most recent troubadour fever is a result of not wanting to go out in the bitter cold and trudge through the dirty snow, left over from the blizzard because there is no such thing as a snowplow in Beijing. So, now, after a few days of being pent up in the apartment, a new poem has been added to the mix and I believe, after deleting lines, adding stanzas, finding the right words, reacquainting myself with the thesaurus, and doing a tiny bit of research on the Southwest (a new fascination), it is finally ready to be submitted to a few places.

In other news, the job hunt is at a current stand-still. I was offered a position at an international school just outside Beijing. It’s a lovely campus and I’d have a great schedule, a good salary, and would be living there during the working week, spending weekends in the city with my aunt, uncle, and cousin. Perfect. However, as often happens when dealing with Chinese employment, the terms have been altered last-minute, and I don’t know where I stand at this point. We’ll see. There are also possible editing jobs in the wings. Still, I am not a patient person and I hate not having a job in the meantime.

I should also mention that last weekend I went to see Avatar in 3-D. I must say, it exceeded my expectations. It still annoys me that Chinese audiences talk through movies and don’t bother to switch off their phones, but at least the theatres in Beijing are cleaner and warmer than the ones in Hangzhou.

Between times when I’m writing or spending time with my family, I’ve been reading as much as I can get my hands on. Yesterday I read a short novel by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, called Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Toward the beginning of the book, I had to stop and write this quote down:

“I have never done anything except write, but I don’t possess the vocation for talents of a narrator, I have no knowledge at all of the laws of dramatic composition, and if I have embarked upon this enterprise it is because I trust in the light shed by how much I have read in my life. In plain language, I am the end of a line, without merit or brilliance, who would have nothing to leave his descendants if not for the events I am prepared to recount, to the best of my ability, in these memories of my great love.”

Tapas and Other Good Munchies

A few days ago, I discovered an amazing tapas restaurant at the Village (section of the foreign district devoted to western shopping and restaurants). The tapas place serves incredible goat cheese bruschetta with fruit and nuts, which makes for a rich and decadent way to start or end your meal. I also tried the Spanish tortilla (egg and potato). It was delicious, but there was some small element lacking to give it a final oomph factor. But it is great with a Perrier lime.

I had to return for a second tasting. This last time I had a wonderful wild mushroom risotto, which is so filling and hearty, it stands as practically a meal all by itself. However, since I love to have variety, I also ordered a small dish of Spanish ciabatta, consisting of a small square of ciabatta bread with super garlicy tomato spread. It isn’t the cheapest restaurant, but still affordable. Each dish averages around 35 yuan, but my risotto was 52. Pricey, but worth it.

The decor of this tapas restaurant is what really impresses me, especially in China. It is very clean, but has a style of decorating that is both comfortable and inviting. You have the option of sitting in lengthy, dark purple couches with colorful cushions before earthy-looking tiled mosaic tables with IKEA brand dishware (yes, I looked at the labels under the plates). The large artwork on the walls are attention-grabbing. I love large canvas pieces. These are all done by the same artist, most of them with a dark red background, some of them with only a large pair of dark eyes peering through the red, or a single large leaf, like an etching in blood. Very cool.

On the other side of the Village is a Mexican restaurant, where I plan to sample a few dishes some time soon. There is also a Turkish place just around the corner that I’m interested in trying. I can’t say that I have ever had Turkish food, but as long as they have several vegetarian options, I should be good with it.