Letters from the Yangtze Delta

Epilogue

2010-09-22T03:37:00.002+08:00

I thought it was about bloody well time I posted this. It’s been six months since I left China. Five of them were spent at my parents’ place, regrouping back in Ann Arbor. This last month, however, has been another, rather significant readjustment.

Two days after my twenty-seventh birthday, I packed up my Honda Element with practically everything I owned and moved to Alexandria, Virginia. Since then, I’ve been acquainting myself with the Washington, DC area, loving the museums, the architecture, and of course, moving in with dear friends from Wyoming.

Now that I’ve had an acceptable grace period after leaving China, I can look back and honestly say I am glad I spent a year abroad, going far outside of my comfort zones. There are still times (more often than I would have expected), even after six months of being away from what I’d become used to in China, when I notice differences between the Chinese and American cultures, and I find myself still making the occasional comparison.

Surprisingly, there are elements of China that I find I miss, or that, looking back, I really admired about the country. The public transportation system, particularly in Beijing, was miraculous, now that I am experiencing our own American version. When I lived in Beijing, I was immediately astounded by not only the availability and ease of the system, but also the expense. You could go practically anywhere for less than the equivalent of a dollar a day. Here, the average commute on public transport can be around ten dollars a day. This is a cheap alternative to a car?

There are also odd times when I’ll overhear a Chinese conversation and think, hey! I actually understood a few words of that! Yet, I find it difficult to believe myself when I tell people that I’ve spent a year in China. They ask me questions and I have a hard time answering with what I’m sure they want as a quick and easy answer. The trouble is, there isn’t one. It’s a complicated answer. And when I do find the words, it doesn’t really feel as though I’m telling the truth, as though the inquisitors are expecting more than what it was. However, when I think of some of the things that I put up with, some of the cultural differences I learned about, and all the hurdles I trampled on and tripped over, I’m convinced that I had one of the more unique abroad experiences.

But, when all is said and done, I am very glad to be back in a country that does not make being a vegetarian practically impossible. And now that I have plans that will hopefully take me through future adventures, I’m encouraged and curious about what the next step will bring. Living in DC will be an exciting adventure in itself. Already, I’ve been dazzled by the architecture and the surrounding buzz of what it is to live in the Capitol environ.

I’m determined to continue writing and have decided to begin a whole new blog, not simply just for DC, but one that will encapsulate all locales. This blog will actually be split in two: One, the Traveller’s Edition of Peregrinus Poeta, will just be a diarrhea of prose, I’m sure – one that may explore where I am, both geographically and intellectually, even if that changes. The other, the Writer’s Edition of Peregrinus Poeta, aspires to be simply a self-indulgent whining of the struggle of writing. You know, something all writers tend to do.

Saved the Best for Last

2010-03-02T22:32:00.001+08:00

Today, the Great Wall of China - Changcheng. My aunt Marty and I hired a driver to take us to the Mutianyu section (about an hour outside the city) and back again. This is the section of the Wall that I’ve heard the most about. Not a lot of tourists – I could count on two hands the number of people there today. A good exercise, with steep gradient and large stretch open to the public between hazardous areas. And cool ways to get up and down: we opted for the cable car on the way up, and louge/toboggan on the way down. I felt like I had my own Cool Runnings taste of the winter Olympics.

It was the perfect day for the long haul. Sunny, warm, hardly any wind, and serenely silent. Most of the snow had melted, so slippery wasn’t much of a factor, even if vertigo was. The last leg we traversed was an incredibly steep incline, but well worth the climb. It took several breaks on the way to the top, but once up there, the view took away any breath we had left.

We spent two and a half hours trudging up and down the steps, scaling the slopes, and snapping as many shots as my shutter allowed. But I have to say, the louge ride down was pretty exciting, having never sped down a mountain side as such speeds before.

So, on my last full day in China, I ended my time here with a big bang. All I have done in the past three days has been extraordinary; and if for nothing else besides the Great Wall, I would tell people to come to Beijing.

Expat-Turned-Tourist

2010-03-01T21:15:00.007+08:00

Yesterday being the last day of Chinese Spring Festival – the day of the Lantern Festival – it meant that it was also the last day anyone was allowed to set off fireworks within the city. That being the case, this morning the streets and alleys were littered with the detritus of these noisemakers. There were moments last night when I thought I was in the middle of an air raid.

But today, I crammed in a marathon of sight seeing in only about six hours. This, of course, after being wakened at 4:00 am to watch the Canadian/USA Olympic hockey face-off. Being American-born, I was routing for team USA. However, my entire family is Canadian (and I have dual citizenship); so it only felt right not to be too sore of a loser. Besides, it is fitting that they won, hockey being their national sport and all. That, and they would have probably drowned me in the toilet, otherwise.

This morning, I went back to the Forbidden City and this time was able to go in. After several major temples that all seemed to have similar names (Hall of Heavenly Peace and Tranquility, Hall of Harmony and Longevity, etc.), and entering and exiting through so many courtyards, the Imperial Gardens and surrounding “city” is incredible. It is a maze, a labyrinth of inner temples, small shrines, tiny courtyards, and ceremonial rooms dedicated to so many ancient arts. It is so easy to get lost in there – and I nearly did.

In the afternoon, I made my way over to the Summer Palace (in winter snow) and befriended a small group of lovely British travelers. One was living and working here in Beijing, and the other two were visiting as tourists. We decided to link up and walk around the gardens together. I'm so grateful we did, because, looking back on it now, the grounds within the walls of the Summer Palace are vast and twisted. Just like the Forbidden City, it would be easy to spend days in there and not get to it all.

The beauty of this place is practically indescribable, especially with a new powdering of snow. It is hard to believe you are in the middle of an enormous city. Once inside the grounds, particularly once you have climbed up and over the “mountain,” sound is so muffled that it could almost be called silence. To me, this was one of the best features – a getaway from the noise of the city. I felt like stopping on the path and writing a poem in the snow. But I was too damn cold.

Squeezing It All In

2010-02-28T20:57:00.006+08:00

In the spirit of send-off, since I've booked a flight back to the States for this coming Wednesday, I thought I would spend the last few days I had left in Beijing doing the typical touristy things one normally does when in a foreign country. Even after living in Beijing for three months, I still had not seen the Great Wall, Tian'anmen Square, the Forbidden City, or the Summer Palace. So, I figured that would take up the majority of my time over the next three days.

Today, after having lunch at an Indian restaurant with my friend Tara, we took the subway to Tian'anmen and snapped a few pictures in the snapping cold. Unfortunately, I was forbidden entrance into the Forbidden City, since its gates close at an early 3:30 in the afternoon. However, we did climb the peak of JingShan Park ("Hill of Scenic Beauty") to take an aerial photo of the Forbidden City rooftops - something that looked entirely different than what I had expected.

After a day of shmoozing Mao, I believe tomorrow the Summer Palace is in order. If I finish early enough, I may make it to the Forbidden City on the way back from Summer Palace just in time before it closes for the day. However, I'm going to have to conquer tomorrow's challenge of sleep-deprivation, as the entire household has set our alarm clocks for 4:00 am. When you live with Canadians, watching the final Olympic hockey game (Canadians vs. team USA) is mandatory. Of course, I'll be the only outcast, routing for the Red White and Blue. Stars and Stripes, baby!

Tuesday's agenda: the Great Wall.

You win, Red

2010-02-26T23:17:00.002+08:00

I was watching a bit of the Olympic speed skating yesterday morning while waiting for the next train to SanYuanQiao for another job interview. As I watched, I felt a lot like one of those skaters – never the one in the lead, but always a few paces behind… the minute they catch momentum, they must turn another corner and every pathway suddenly becomes congested; they are blocked once again from gaining a promotion on the ice.

Yes, I feel a lot like that. My second job interview this week was another disappointment. I showed up, but they didn't. I'm tired of being jerked around. On top of that, the latest development: my aunt and uncle are moving back to North America come the first week of May. So, as of Cinqo de Mayo, I will no longer have a place to live in Beijing.

Walking to the subway station in the morning, a familiar song got stuck in my head. Daughtry’s “Going Home.” Not the greatest song, but one of whose lyrics I’m currently jealous. Then, I realized that, for the past few weeks, maybe longer, I have been given scores of "Yankee Go Home" signs. It's time I threw in the towel. It isn’t giving up at this point, is it? I’ve tried to make a go of it. Even so, I guess I must admit defeat. China beat me down. I got submitted.

If I go, I resign myself to shacking up at my parents' home in Michigan for six months, just until I move to the PhD location - wherever that may be. Better to struggle through the job hunt in your own language, though, right?

Just when you think you're safe...

2010-02-24T23:08:00.004+08:00

A gloomy day today. I woke up this morning to a rejection email from one of the eleven PhD programs I applied to. I was not accepted. Total bummer. Ten more replies left. I’m waiting in agony.

Then, I had to travel an hour and a half outside of the city for a job interview that I thought would be the perfect solution to my joblessness. They want to hire me, but now I'm not so sure I want to accept.

So, because I am a tad anal retentive, I’ve made a list of pros and cons for two job prospects: the pros and cons list for the school outside the city, and the pros and cons list for taking on private tutoring once again.

The School - pros:
*Meet cool international folks
*A more interesting curriculum to follow
*4,000 RMB airfare reimbursement
*Nice living quarters at the school during the week

The School - cons:
*Hell of a commute
*Food, especially vegetarian, will be an issue (they serve only Chinese... with lots of meat)
*Less salary than expected without the ability to add more hours
*Must cover all expenses for working visa, including another trip to Hong Kong that I cannot afford
*Boring location, surrounded by nothing... even the trees look like stiff soldiers that aren't allowed to grow wild

Private Tutoring - pros:
*Probably make more money, if I keep a good schedule
*Control my own hours
*Food will not be an issue
*Live with family and do not have to commute back and forth on weekends

Private Tutoring - cons:
*No airfare reimbursement (but I'll probably be able to make it through working more hours)
*Probably a more boring curriculum

Hmmm... Easy decision. I think I'll be more comfortable staying in the city and taking the tutoring jobs when I can get them. If I manage my time wisely, I could make up towards 20,000 RMB each month - double what I expected to make at the school.

I wish so much that I could stick my pride in my back pocket and just fly on home. But I don't want to be a coward. I really don't. I am just so tired of struggling to keep my head above water. I just keep thinking that I only have to put up with this for five months. Then, I'll look back and be proud that I didn't crumble and come running home with my tail between my legs (however tempting that sounds). But what would I be coming back to? I'd just have to do the same frustrating job hunt at home. Only, I would be doing it in my own language.

When I got back this afternoon, I had a cup of tea to calm down. It helped me to regroup. So, tomorrow morning I have another interview and I begin the whole rigamarole all over again. This time with a tutoring agency. Next week I have another interview, in case tomorrow's doesn't work out. And there's another one on hold as back up.

Tomorrow should be better.

Blood Ties

2010-02-23T20:25:00.000+08:00

So, it's true. You sign your name in blood to get a good job here in China. Today, the school that is hiring me sent me to have a medical examination, a thorough physical. ECG, ENT, chest x-ray, and a partridge in a pear tree. You name it; they did it. I even had to spill out three vials of blood. There you go, China. Now you own even my DNA. Remember the days when couples used to have to get blood tests before they were allowed to be married? I'll find out on Friday afternoon whether China and I are compatible. Something tells me I may end up with a false positive. But as long as it gets me a paycheck for the next five months, I'll endure the temporary custody of matrimonial obedience. Then, come mid-July, I'm getting a divorce. And I'll be damned if I have to pay alimony. First marriages are just test drives anyway, right? You should always marry for money at least once in your life. I've got mine over and done with. Next time, I'm getting hitched the old fashioned way.

Back to Beijing… again

2010-02-21T11:52:00.016+08:00

It’s hard to believe, sitting here, back in the apartment in Beijing, in minus four-degree temperatures (celcius), that two days ago I was in Sydney, Australia, riding in a stretch limo, drinking champaign, and attending a Chinese movie premiere.

That’s right, after two weeks in paradise, the pièce de résistance was an evening at a red carpet event, complete with pre-dinner fashion show, opera singer and Chinese lion dancing entertainment, and live auction fundraiser. The cognac and wine were free-flowing; so combined with the champaign I’d had in the limo, I was a pretty happy camper. Granted, I was a little exasperated, having to sample more Chinese culture when I was on a much-needed hiatus from China, but what the hell.

Between the fresh air, the sun, the scenery…

... getting in some pool time with the aunties and getting my salt water fix (a cure-all for everything)...

…and having a few moments to catch up with my mother…

… I feel sated. So now, after being pampered with gourmet dishes, some of my favorite foods…

…(and sometimes slipping slightly out of vegetarianism to partake in delectable seafood. Yes, that's lobster scampi on the counter there, folks – sorry, crustaceans)…

and top notch champaign, I’m back in China to finish the final stretch of my year abroad. Back to tomato and cheddar on toast. Oh, but they won't be fresh tomatoes from my aunt's garden. No, no. And the toast will not be soy and linseed - just average, pale, wheat toast that's been sitting on the shelf a tad too long and cut in the most bizarrely perfect squares.

And did I mention that I got to ride in my uncle's candy-apple red Ferrari... three times??? Yeah. Vroom, baby. All that, and I got a tan to boot - not an easy accomplishment with my alabaster skin. It is easy to see why so many people decide to make their homes in Sydney. It is truly spectacular and I believe, if I could afford it, it would definitely be the perfect place to live.

How do you leave this place without wanting more?

Buzzing Down Under

2010-02-19T10:39:00.006+08:00

This past week has been chock-a-block full of wonders and surprises.

Two days ago, the beauty of Stanwell Park and Illawarra reared its head and gave us a spectacular hike on the Wodi Wodi track. We climbed halfway up the mountain, until the path became too steep for those of us not in shape. The scenery here is like nowhere else on Earth.

After our hike, the aunties and I drove into Sydney for a day in town. I got a second go in my uncle David's Ferrari, which of course revved my engine way up.

In the city, after a family fashion show at the house on Darling Point, we were dropped off at the infamous Opera House, and walked the Writer's Walk around the harbor, stopping only for a nice cappuccino and banana bread, before heading out to the most adorable little Italian restaurant. I swear, I've gained two kilos since I've been in Australia.

The next day, back at the beach house in Stanwell Park, the aunties and I decided to check out the hottie hang-gliders up at the top of the cliff. Little did I know that, two hours later, I would be jumping off the cliff myself. Hang-gliding is something I have always wanted to try. For years and years, since I was little, I've had dreams of flying. You know those dreams? Where you suddenly lift into the air and feel like you could do anything? Well, hang-gliding is pretty much like that.

Was I nervous? Maybe for about a second, before I started putting on all the gear. But my tandem guide, Curt, was an excellent instructor; and, according to Curt, I was a good student pilot. Incredibly, when we were up in the air, far above any birds, he let go of the controls and let me steer myself around the clouds. As I looked below, I searched for sharks or dolphins in the water, but saw only blue-green waves and whitecaps.

The contraption is easy to handle, surprisingly. It obeys your little shifts in weight and immediately feels apart of you when you're dangling up there like nobody's business. It was peaceful, and the wind was perfect. Landing even feels like you've been doing it for years. Imagine doing this every day of your life and making a living out of it. Curt agreed, he could think of nothing else he'd rather do. What a lucky dude.

Seriously, one of the best experiences in my life. Do it. You'll never regret it.

But as if that weren't enough excitement... when I returned to the beach house, my inbox had a new message: another poem accepted for publication. Look out for the 2010 Spring Issue of The New Plains Review, folks. I'm in the Special Selection for poetry. Pinch me! No, wait. Don't. I don't want to wake up from this.

The Merry Old Land of Oz

2010-02-10T15:09:00.005+08:00

There is a simple and reasonable explanation for my recent blogger silence: I didn't want to blow my cover.

For the past ten days, I have been trying to keep a secret from my mother. Since she sometimes reads this blog, I decided any and all blog posts should be put on hold until the reveal. Believe me, when a mother knows her daughter as well as my mother knows me, you understand why I cannot risk even the slightest slip of the tongue - or type.

My mother's 69th birthday is this Friday. Her sister in Australia invited her to the beach house to celebrate for two weeks. The big present? Me.

My mother's four sisters, spread all over the globe, joined in efforts to arrange this outstanding surprise. I was a little worried at first, thinking we might need smelling salts and the paramedics on speed-dial, just in case. Still, I couldn't wait to see the look on her face after being parted from each other for nearly ten months - the longest we've ever been without a visit.

However, in my efforts to book a flight out of the Red Tape Zone, I was thwarted time and time again. Oh, China. I thought we were at a cease-fire?

At first, there were no flights available that we could find, simply because we are smack in the middle of the Chinese Spring Festival. Basically, the entire country checks out from mid-January until the end of February.

Then, when we found a ticket, my name was too long to fit on the ticket and the reservation was canceled. The consequences of being raised Catholic.

Also, a useful fact: China isn't exactly simpático with many foreign credit cards.

But many endeavors later, I finally got my happy ending. And I was right. The stunned look was priceless and a camera was ready to capture the expression. For the occasion, one of my aunties produced a giant gold ribbon that I tied in a bow around my head. I was, in effect, a present, personified. Perfect.

So, here I sit, sunburnt on the beach, soaking in all the non-polluted goodness of Aussie-Land, and loving every hedonistic moment. Besides being reunited with my mother, the best part of it all is the view. Sure, the ocean is stunning, the champaign is bubbly, and the beaches are out of this world. But ladies, there is nothing like a hot Aussie surfer/jackaroo to get your blood pumping!

Heaven may seem disappointing after this place.

Tea City

2010-02-01T00:52:00.007+08:00

After being here for just over a month, I decided it was time to follow my cousin and his girlfriend to their bi-weekly trip to the tea market. I had a feeling it would be quite an experience, but I had no idea how much I would learn.

The particular tea shop that the couple frequent is just at the end of a long corridor on the ground floor of a large building out of many that line a district entirely devoted to tea. The woman who owns the shop (Luo Ping) has known Jocelyn for many years and calls her by name (Xiao Hui) as she greets her.

We sat round the only table in the tiny shop, which was littered with wet tea leaves and covered with an enormous tea tray, containing clay pots, glass pitchers, and small tea cups. A little girl’s tea party dream come true.

It didn’t take any time before we were already sampling our first flavor. It was a flowery green tea, which tasted like a light perfume.

But the main reason we were here was so that Jocelyn could sample different levels of Rock Tea. This was the second kind of tea we sampled. Unbelievably, there are 820 types of this particular kind of tea. It gets its name from the leaves that grow on rocks in the mountains. Each mountain has a different flavor, and each rock adds its own particular taste; each one is unique.

With traditional Chinese tea, each pour is called “Pao,” which actually connects both the steeping and the pouring of the tea together as one act. There is a name for every Pao – some more poetic than others. The first Pao is a wash and isn’t to be drunk, despite the fact that it is poured into each cup as though we would. Instead, it is turned over and the tea drains from the tray, emptying our cups for the second Pao and first tasting.

Before the first Pao, however, Luo Ping will wash the pot with hot water, dump it out, and place new, dried leaves inside. She covers the pot and shakes the leaves inside. This is called “Waking Up the Tea” (something I believe would make a great title for a poem).

After the tea is awakened and in between each Pao, Luo Ping reaches across the table and gets us to inhale the levels of aroma of each Pao. On the third, fourth, and fifth Pao, that’s when the flavor really starts to come out. The difference between one pour and the next can be considerable or marginal. I found it to be considerable, more often than not, with each type of tea I tasted today.

The second Pao is named for the man who made the small cups we drink out of, whose name escapes me now. The third Pao is to signify “Mother Feeding Child. But apparently the fourth doesn’t have a name (or at least not one that Luo Ping or Jocelyn knew of).

Occasionally Lu Ping would pour boiling water over the surface of the clay pots. This was called “Breath Over the Face.” Everything in the tea ritual sounds like poetry to me. The clay pot is porous and with each Pao, the flavor of the tea is absorbed into the pot. This is why traditionally you use one pot for each type of tea, changing pots as you change teas. This way, over time, the tea takes on more flavor as the pot absorbs more of the leaves’ aroma.

Our third type of tea was a Wu Long tea (Oolong for us western folks). Its name: “Black Dragon Entering the Palace.” Technically, however, “Wu” is not black, but a shade lighter. A deep charcoal, if you will.

After our third type of tea, an apprentice tried her hand at the fourth type. She was not as steady or confident and I noticed she had a hard time with her hands as she poured the tea or held the pots.

The fourth tea was a white tea – my favorite of the afternoon. The dried leaves smelled like hay and made me think of a barn. It was, at first, off-putting. However, the taste ended up completely different than the smell: slightly sweet and pure and nicknamed the “Silver Bud,” because it is taken from the best leaves of the plant (the top of the stem). It is said that this particular tea is said to be the healthiest of them all. When I drank this tea, I felt as though I was doing something good for my body. It has a cleansing feeling and soothes the stomach (definitely a bonus for me).

The fifth tea was a red tea called “King of the Red Tea.” The awakened dried leaves smelled a lot like jasmine – or so Jocelyn and I thought. However, the wash makes the leaves smell a little less flowery, a little less sweet. The second Pao was less strong, but brought out more of a spicy flavor. This particular tea was weaker with each Pao, but tastes like the tea I grew up with. On the final Pao, it tasted more like molasses. It is from the southern mountains of China.

The sixth tea was Ripe Pu’er (pronounced Poo-Ahr). The difference in grade between old and ripe Pu’er is in the way they make the leaves. Old Pu’er is dried and deeply burned, whereas ripe Pu’er is compressed and not as fried. It isn’t just age that separates the two branches of Pu’er, but the method of preparation. The second Pao tasted a bit like the dentist’s office, so I wasn’t a big fan. It is from Yunan province.

The final tea was another Wu Long, very like the previous Wu Long, but much stronger and a better grade. It has been more deeply burned and dried. This tea has to be made with super hot water (unlike the white tea, which you can make with warm water, if you are ok with waiting longer for it to steep). With green tea, you can burn the leaves with hot boiling water if you don’t let the water sit before the Pao. For this Wu Long, I found the taste was better after each Pao and the more you drink the more you like it.

With the seventh tea, Luo Ping brought out some Dove chocolate (the kind with hazelnuts and raisins – yum!), which was supposed to compliment the Wu Long. She was right. It changed the flavor of the tea and brought out the sweetness in the chocolate.

Luo Ping’s husband then walked in with their three-year-old son, an absolute doll who knew quite a number of English words. We shared the chocolate with him and he recited a young child’s poem for us with three words to each line that teaches morals. It was a cute cadence. All Chinese children are made to memorize it.

Altogether, we sampled seven different varieties of tea. Each variety gave us at least four Pao, which meant I made repeated visits to the squatting toilet in the back of the shop. It was a lot of tea. That being said, there is a saying that you can get drunk from all that tea. You can be physically drunk, just as we get when we drink alcohol; but you can also be drunk in your heart. I think by the time we were finished, I was a little of both.

When I was drunk of heart, I asked if Luo Ping’s position as tea pourer had a name. As we call our wine stewards Sommeliers, the Chinese call their tea pourers Cha Yi Shai (Tea Artists). Fitting, I think.

A New Leaf - Possibly Bamboo

2010-01-27T02:27:00.004+08:00

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

2010-01-25T16:40:00.006+08:00

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...

2010-01-21T17:31:00.006+08:00

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

2010-01-18T14:33:00.004+08:00

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

2010-01-14T23:21:00.000+08:00

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

2010-01-13T07:46:00.003+08:00

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

2010-01-12T14:11:00.003+08:00

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"

2010-01-09T01:44:00.004+08:00

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

2010-01-08T17:58:00.000+08:00

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.

A Return to Poetry

2009-12-27T15:03:00.001+08:00

After my holiday hiatus from writing, I am finally ready to come back to the blog and back to poetry. It was the feeling of being too overwhelmed with Christmas bustle and so many events within the past week.

The first three days were designated Christmas shopping days. We stopped at silk and clothing markets and I eventually made the rounds in my new neighborhood in Beijing.

A new discovery: the Bookworm café. It will undoubtedly be my new hangout for the next six months. It is a combination café/bookstore/library. Membership is cheap, the atmosphere is cozy, and the coffee is strong. The first book I checked out was Marquez’s Memories of My Melancholy Whores.

Christmas Eve consisted of baking cookies and pie. Afterward, we all went to the Kro’s Nest for pizza and beer. I had a pint too many and the next morning, halfway through opening presents, I slipped into the bathroom for an hour-long spell of sickness. After a half-hour lie down, my episode was over. The rest of the day I was in the kitchen with my aunt, preparing a holiday feast for ten people.

My favorite Christmas presents included two woolen pleated skirts and a grey woolen poncho. Perfect for the cold Beijing weather. The winds have picked up, coming down from the Gobi Desert, and I feel like I’m back in Wyoming.

Boxing Day was as lazy as I could get. I never changed out of my pajamas and never bothered to shower. I sat on the couch with Little Women and leftover apple pie. Today was more of the same.

Tomorrow, however, it is back to work, so to speak. The job hunt continues. Down the road, within walking distance, is a middle/high school that might be looking for new teachers. A friend of mine teaches science at the school and said he would set up a meeting for me. Prospects are promising.

If that works out, I’ll devote the rest of the day to poetry. I’m looking forward to working the words again. I still have a few more errands to run over the next few weeks – getting gym membership and buying a two-day train ticket out of the country to renew my visa – but in the meantime it all feels like a vacation.

The Train and Beijing

2009-12-21T01:00:00.000+08:00

Soft sleepers really are the best way to travel.

After I hauled my two over-sized suitcases up the platform, then dragged them on to the train, I found my berth on the second car. There were four beds: two bottoms, two tops. I had the lower left and an older, middle-aged woman had the bottom right. The two tops were to get on at the next stop. Both men. Obvious jokes came to mind.

I read for the first hour while the woman across from me watched me with a strange interest. At one point, she actually reached over, grabbed one side of my book, and twisted it towards her to see what it was. I knew she couldn’t read English, but she could immediately recognize by the form of the writing that it was a book of poems.

“Poetry,” I said. She nodded as if she understood, then went back to staring while I continued to read on. It didn’t occur to me until after I finished the book and set it down in front of me that her interest might have had something to do with the cover of the collection, which prominently features an ink-brush drawing of a nude woman embracing a larger-than-life-sized penis. I was reading “Harlot,” by Jill Alexander Essbaum.

After the hour with the penis-book (which is what I’m sure the woman was secretly calling it to herself), the two men arrived and our berth was full. It didn’t take long for my three train companions to fall asleep, so I switched off the light and sat in darkness, watching China float by in the night.

What I saw passing by were rail-side homes, shops closed and locked up for the night, concrete highway bridges, so many factories and their adjoining barracks, street lamps in their amber sentry, night-rider taxis, and enormous high-rises that looked like monsters after midnight.

There is something incredibly soothing about trains. The hum, the roll of the tracks, the slight rocking, and the steady pace of the railway as it pacifies your voyeuristic desires, all easily lull you to a trance. I’ve never been so comfortable when traveling as I was last night. And the most surprising thing of all may just be that the toilets were western and not squatters.

When my train finally arrived in Beijing, the sun was shining in the early morning traffic. I have not seen sunshine in over two months; Hangzhou has been consistent in its rainy season. Now that I am in the north, I can enjoy colder and drier temperatures along with more of the natural vitamin D. The feeling was incredible and made the twenty-minute taxi ride all the more likable. I sat in the cab, amazed at the sheer size and volume of this city. Beijing goes on and on.

Arriving at my new accommodations (my aunt and uncle’s apartment), I plopped my bags in the street and stared up at a Pepto-Bismol Pink building: home for the next six months. I have my own room at the end of the hall, adjacent to the master bedroom. Two twin beds and a mattress softer than any mattress I’ve felt in the south of China. Down the hall, on the other side of the living room – now decorated in Chinese red ornaments and white snowflakes on a six-and-a-half foot tree for Christmas – and next to the biggest kitchen I’ve seen in China, is my cousin’s room that he shares with his girlfriend. This apartment is a great size and feels like home already.

The neighborhood is its own foreign city central. Just around the corner is a delightful little market called April Gourmet, where I promptly snatched up the best food I have seen since my two-week visa stint to Wyoming in September. Across the street from this was a little Italian restaurant where we all had lunch. I’ve basked in the goodness of a palate cleansing and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. Already, I love this city.

My aunt M and my cousin’s girlfriend, J, took me shopping in the silk markets this afternoon. Our goal was a specific Christmas-shopping list. I had a few things in mind. The main events: a sweater for my cousin Z, and his brother, JET, who will arrive from Canada on Christmas Eve. I bargained with every stall in the first, second, and third floors of the market. Today was not a successful bartering day. I did manage, however, to buy a nice Hilfiger knock-off for my uncle E. One present down. Four to go. Tomorrow I’m going to work on the others.

As I suspected, life in Beijing is far better than it has been in Hangzhou. Compared to this capital city of twelve million people, Hangzhou may as well have been the countryside. It’s a whole new ball game.

At The Grandma's

2009-12-15T16:07:00.002+08:00

Sunday evening, the girls took me to a famous Zhejiang province chain restaurant to celebrate the end of the semester. In a few more days, I will be moving to Beijing, Reena will go back to Korea, and Tina and Lucy will finish out the rest of the school year here in Hangzhou.

The name of the restaurant is called “The Grandma’s.” Not “Grandma’s” but “The Grandma’s.” The Chinese characters refer to going to mother’s mother’s house and eating food more delicious that what you can receive in your parent’s house. The food was delicious and there were a surprising number of vegetarian dishes on the menu. I stuffed myself with cauliflower, eggplant, spring rolls, and fried tofu (not of the stinky variety, thank goodness) with nuts, honey, and cucumber.

The girls had Szechuan beef and raw salmon, while Lucy and I shared a large bottle of Xi Hu (West Lake) beer and toasted past, present, and future.

Doing My Part for the Chinese Economy

2009-12-12T18:47:00.001+08:00

It was another gloomy, rainy day. My remedy? Shopping. I needed to spend some money. Lucy told me about a street not too far from where we live called “Garbage Street.” I walked. I was on a mission to find dark brown boots. There were dozens of shoe shops. A girl’s paradise.

I couldn’t believe my luck. The first pair of fake Uggs I found was only 145 yuan (about $20). They are a deep chocolate brown and come halfway to my knees. They’ll go with everything and they’re extremely comfortable. Bonus. I know guys aren’t particularly fond of these boots, but we girls are all over them. The beauty and convenience of these babies knows no limits. I’ve had several pair over the past couple of years, but made the mistake of buying the tan-colored ones, which get dirty very quickly. Now, with the rich chestnut, I’ll be able to hide their age when I’ve had them for a while. The scruff won’t show as much.

I also found a slightly overpriced pair of tall fake leather-ish brown boots that are perfect with my jeans and, because the fake Uggs were so cheap, I decided to splurge on these second pair of boots. You cannot understand the sheer joy of finding these. I didn’t care that I was paying too much because I have always had problems with finding stylish boots to fit my calves. I have big calf muscles and it isn’t easy to get snug high boots to come around them.

The beauty of these boots is that they have snaps along the side, which means I can pull them up over the thicker part of my calf and snap them snug when they are all the way on. Voila! They also have versatility. I can leave them unsnapped and roll the tops down to show the not-too-leopardy print on the inside. For the most part, though, I think I’ll keep ‘em snapped and snappy.

After my good fortune on Garbage Street, I decided to head into Hangzhou to Wu Shong Guang Shong (the Night Market) and buy parting/Christmas gifts for Lucy, Reena, and Tina. I found each of them a different color beautiful scarf and hunted down handcrafted/hand-painted wooden bracelets that were a similar shade to each scarf. I coordinated.

I also found a cute black hat for myself at a street vendor. Across the alley from the vendor was an expensive scarf shop that I probably shouldn’t have entered. But I did anyway. The material was, by far, superior to anything else at the market and I couldn’t resist an oversized woolen scarf that I could use as a wrap on the cold winter days. It was too much, but I bought it, nonetheless. (But because of the price, I got free gloves to go with it. At least that’s some consolation for spending too much money.) Its base is black, with a houndstooth plaid in brown, tan, and charcoal gray, with a touch of deep blue between the plaid-ish pattern. It will look amazing over the grey coat I bought at Carrefour.

After dawdling through the Night Market, I headed to the Carrefour center on Yan’an Lu and found a charcoal grey winter coat for only 149 yuan. Who can say no to that? In addition to the coat, I bought some deep wine-colored nail polish.

The best buy of my day, however – the one that makes me feel triumphant over all China – is that I finally found a pair of black Chinese jeans to fit my big western ass. Even in the States, I have what you’d call a ghetto booty. But here in China, it might as well just be called colossal. Victory is mine!

The Ground Beneath Our Feet

2009-12-09T23:12:00.003+08:00

Today I ran into a woman I frequently see at Starbucks. She’s a cute and petite Malaysian woman who is living in China with her husband. We sometimes chat about what’s new in our lives because we both happen to speak English.

We both love hiking and being outdoors and this afternoon our conversation shifted from trail-blazing talk to the difference between city-dwellers and country folk. We were encompassing all such people of every nation.

I told her about living in Wyoming and she gave me a general idea of what it was like growing up in the Malaysian countryside. We’ve both spent a great deal of time in big cities, and in countries foreign to our own. However, we agreed that knowledge of both urban and rural living is naturally a good thing to experience.

She said something to me that stuck out as an interesting observation, not to mention an interesting turn of phrase. She said, “People who live in cities do not know what the ground feels like.”

I haven’t yet figured out how I am going to use it in a poem yet, but I know it will find its way into one, somehow. She referred to the joys of being outdoors, of having harmonious connections with nature and the slower temperament of the environment beyond a concrete metropolis.

Ain’t no sidewalks in the Snowies. No pavement in Medicine Bow. No asphalt at Vedauwoo. I have felt the ground under my feet and I miss it.

Temporarily Defective 临时地不适

2009-12-08T18:26:00.002+08:00

My first experience with Chinese cold medicine. A drink that Lucy bought for me in the Chinese medicine store because she feels guilty that I caught her cold.

The name is 感冒灵颗粒 or gan mao ling ke li. Roughly translated: “Cold Excellent Powder.”

I wouldn’t call it excellent, at least not for taste. Naturally, it is like the underneath of a rotting tree: bitter, earthy, and a soil brown. The next time you’re in the forest and it starts to rain, bend down and lick the base of a dying tree. You might get an idea of what I mean.

The powder itself was like cracked ginger crystals, darker than raw brown sugar and less transparent. The little grains were pellets in my cup before I poured the boiling water.

I’ve been warned of a drowsing effect. That suits me just fine. I’d rather sleep through a cold anyway. For two days now I’ve tried to ignore the sore and swollen glands, the stuffy nose, the sneezing, the coughing, the headaches, the foggy dizziness; but now I think I’ll admit that I’m sick. 不适. Bring on the bark-rot liquid.

Where are the Basics?

2009-12-07T20:01:00.000+08:00

Yes, professor. What do they teach them at these schools? Tomorrow Tina must hand in her final research paper for her senior project. Her topic: why Christians should be more tolerant of New Age music.

She’s had this project since the beginning of the semester and, up until today, has not let me help her with her paper. Why? I have no idea. I taught 5 consecutive semesters of freshman college composition and yet she didn’t want my input until this evening. Unfortunately, it is now too late.

I read her paper this afternoon and noticed some egregious citation problems, as well as lack of credible sources in general. I eventually looked up from the paper to ask her, “Have they taught you how to research at your school?” I got the deer-in-headlights stare. Of course they haven’t taught her how to research. How silly of me to think that, before assigning them a research paper, they would instruct them on the fundamentals of research methods.

I began at the beginning – a very good place to start, says Julie Andrews. Keywords. I am astonished that this was a new concept to Tina. A simple Google search of key phrases and words produced over a million sites related to her topic.

Next came the issue of source credibility and substance. Oh my, how the young ones love Wikipedia and the dictionary. Her reluctance of revising her essay was based on the fear that new information would change her claims. That, I told her, was all part of the research process. If you find evidence to suggest your claims to be wrong, maybe you need to rewrite your claims. This was met with whines and groans.

This brought us back to the matter of showing me her essay so late in the game. With only tonight to make these major discoveries, there is no way she will get her paper to the level of where it needs to be. I’ve written comments in the margins, given her helpful research tools, steered her in the right direction, pointed out organization flaws, confusing and contradictory statements, even corrected all of her grammar. Now the crunch begins.

When, oh when, will they learn? But an even better question: Why aren’t the schools teaching them what they need to know in order to do the lessons that the school assigns in the first place? Where is the logic of the curriculum?

Mmm's the Word

2009-12-04T16:10:00.002+08:00

I have recently discovered a liking for sliced pumpkin. It has that nice gord-y taste and with a bit of salt it is nearly like combining the taste of squash with the texture of mango. And, I admit, there are some Korean foods that I have dared to try and ended up liking – Korean pancakes, for starters (safe enough). Rice cakes. These are not the rice cakes you and I are familiar with – the Quaker Oats, I’m-on-a-diet-and-I-need-a-snack-that-tastes-like-cardboard rice cakes. No. Korean rice cakes are long tubes of compressed rice. They look like mozzarella cheese sticks. In the frying pan, with a little bit of honey, they’re not bad. Korean curry is something else I don’t mind having every few weeks. It is rather fruity and not very heavy. However, I still prefer an Indian curry to any other.

I try to be open about food, but I have a certain distaste for things that make me squirm. Packaged dried squid. Vacuum-sealed dried fish that you can rip apart with your teeth like jerky. The brains of any animal. Chicken feet. Stinky tofu. Fruit that looks like a Nerf ball. There are some things regarding food that I will never understand.

And somebody please tell me what is so great about Sushi. It has become this craze, this trend, this popular dish that everyone raves about. They hunt through cities to find the best sushi restaurant. They go out of their way to spend outrageous money on such a simple meal. They consider it a treat. Seriously, people. It is raw fish and rice with seaweed.

Unless it is traditional fish ‘n chips a-la-U.K., I’d rather not eat fish at all, much less raw fish. That said, I’m going to go ahead and be a hypocrite and say I love raw oysters on the half-shell. Really cold, just a squeeze of lemon. But honestly. Sushi? Someone explain that to me.

I’m sure that now that I’ve made this speech about sushi, in a year or so I’ll develop a taste for it and become on of those sushi-loving snobs. But for now, it’s not for me. So, I am a bit of a picky eater. Not too picky, I don’t think. Not enough to annoy people completely. But picky enough to be called “a bit of a picky eater.” Quintessentially, I’ve learned to accept that my taste buds are not inclined to many Asian foods, but favor rather more Mediterranean or Middle Eastern cuisine. And, of course, I am desperately fond of Mexican food, too. Really, anything starting with an “M.”

The Midnight Disease

2009-12-04T03:38:00.000+08:00

Michael Chabon’s well-named alias for insomnia. And I’ve got it. For about a month now I haven’t been able to fall asleep before dawn. I’ve watched the sun rise nearly every morning now - or at least I have watched the haze over Hangzhou get lighter by the hours.

Part of the problem, I’m sure, is that I’ve resumed my old addiction of lattes and cappuccinos. One thing I would never recommend is taking up the habit again after four years of java abstinence. Sometimes I slip and forget to order decaf. It’s like coming back to heroin.

The coffee isn’t all to blame, though. I have no discipline when it comes to switching off my brain. I construct emails, I draft poems, and I make lists, all in the dark while my head twitches on the pillow. I do this for a routine hour or two every night before I realize sleep just isn’t going to happen. I give up, turn on the light again and read (or come back to writing).

It is fear that I will miss out on some profound line of poetry coming to me, that I will be laying in my bed with my eyes closed and a poem will slip into my head and, if I don’t get up and write it down immediately, it will slip out again.

In Wyoming, I got into the habit of falling asleep with a pen in my hand and a pad of paper just underneath. If a line or a thought came to mind, I’d simply scribble it down in the dark, sometimes without ever even opening my eyes. In the morning I’d have to transcribe my own downward-slanting chicken scratch onto the computer. This seemed a good method and I might return to it.

Another problem, not surprisingly, is the constant noise and interruptions of the apartment and those girls with whom I live. They leave their cell phones and their organizers and their messenger thingys all out in the living room to beep beep beep all night long.

For four nights in a row this week, I have jumped up to an alarm going off just outside my door. Today I asked them, “Did you hear it?” They answered yes. Why, then, was I the only one to emerge from my room to silence the darn thing? They are not my belongings. I don’t know how to work a Korean internet phone, nor an electronic Korean dictionary/organizer.

I thumbed the small machines in the dark, trying to find off switches. At one point, I considered simply chucking them out of the window, but thought better of it. It is currently 3:30 in the morning and I have already switched off one machine. I wonder how many sounds and bells and whistles I’ll wish to break in the next few hours to come.

Then, invariably, there is always the girls’ morning routine. They rise at 6:00 am and the unremitting noise only ends when they are out the door at 7:45. I hear singing, yelling, screeching, shrieking, and cries of Korean morning clangings.

Peace finally comes at 8:00 am and I am able to sleep until around 11:00. At this point, the housekeeper bangs the laundry poles against my window, hanging up the morning’s washings. So, I rise. I check the weather. Then I walk a mile down the road to Starbucks and have the latte that will keep me awake again.

Coming Through the Rye

2009-12-02T20:28:00.001+08:00

Tina and I finished reading The Catcher in the Rye today – a book I haven’t read in about ten years. I’m happy to revisit it. Unfortunately I think the cynical and trite voice of Holden Caulfield may be sticking in my head. For one, I’ve felt like swearing a hell of a lot more than usual.

I think reading this book has been a good turning point for trying to teach Tina to start thinking more critically about literature and how it applies to us all outside the world of novels. She has led a very sheltered existence and there have been many fits and starts during our readings and analyses where I’ve had to bite my tongue and remind myself that she has not been subjected to many of the nuances or idioms or ironies of life. In short, she just doesn’t “get it.” Everything must to be explained.

The hardest, for me, was getting her to make certain connections for herself, instead of pointing them out for her. There are things I consider obvious, and had done even when I had read Catcher at Tina’s age. I also wonder if there is something to be said for the reader’s own sexuality when reading this book. Not preference, mind you, but sexual maturity, in general. I see Tina as still being a very, very young girl, despite her actual age. This book, I believe, lies a bit beyond her own years, even though she happens to be the same age as the main character. Some of us grow at different rates.

I pitied Holden Caulfield in high school and I pity him now. It is unfortunate that I can also see something of a female counterpart in Tina. It is also unfortunate that I would say Holden was less pitiable than Tina, since we all assume he eventually gained some sort of self-awareness through it all. Regrettably, I believe Tina may still be a long way off from this.

On the other hand, Reena is only 14; but I enjoy teaching her because she has a quick mind and interesting ideas. I can talk to her about how one views the world and what sort of questions to ask to become a critical thinker. We read a few books together this semester. One of them called BreadWinner, about a young girl, struggling to survive in Afghanistan under scrutiny of the Taliban and forced to disguise herself as a boy in order to provide for her family. Reena made wonderful discoveries while she read the book. She has the gift of insight.

We also read a book called Speak. It was a good thing for her to read, I think, because she is soon to come upon the same things the young girl encountered in the book - although I hope to hell her high school life won't be as tough. But we discussed teenage emotions, rape, boyfriends, high school social life, and the social-political hierarchy of popularity, etc. These are the times when I really like teaching.

My time with these girls is almost up and I worry what will happen to them in the future. However, I must admit that I am far less concerned with Reena than I am with Tina. Reena is independent, self-starting, motivated, intuitive, and curious. She’s strong and has no problem figuring things out on her own. Conversely, Tina is the one who will be a college student next fall. I wonder if she’ll be ready for it all, or if it will suddenly overwhelm and confuse her. I can only hope there exists some safety net, wherever she ends up – that maybe someone will act as sentinel, that she finds her own catcher in the rye.

Christmas Kick-Off

2009-12-01T20:40:00.000+08:00

My younger student, Reena, had a choir performance this evening in Hangzhou for the Tree Lighting Ceremony at the Hyatt Regency on West Lake. The tree was beautiful and filled its branches from floor to vaulted ceiling in the lobby. The kids all wore Santa hats and sang carols. Tone-deaf middle and high schoolers belted out a not-so-Silent-Night while the parents (yes, Lucy and I included) shut our ears with free mulled wine, passed around by cute little Chinese waitresses in Mrs. Claus costumes. This, of course, was the best part for me, since mulled wine is my favorite. I kept the cinnamon stick.

Shakespeare Comes to China

2009-11-28T23:21:00.003+08:00

About ten months ago, in February, my dear friend,
John Kenny, told me about his theatre company, TNT, and their touring production of Romeo & Juliet. When he said they would be touring China, I never dreamed I would be here to see it. However, when I had made my decision to come to China, one of the first things I looked forward to was that I might actually have that chance.

So, here I am, having already spent seven months in China, and I have had this on my calendar ever since I arrived. I’d circled and highlighted this date so that I wouldn’t miss it. Originally, when I was still teaching at RQA, I thought I might be able to organize a school field trip and take all of my students. Unfortunately, that hope has long since been dashed. Instead, I came by myself. There is something to be said, though, about sitting alone in a theatre, in the dark.

I got to the venue (the Theatre in Zhejiang Museum of Art 浙江省群艺馆小剧场) an hour early to purchase my tickets. Don’t be fooled by its title. Being the third theatre I’ve been to here in Hangzhou, I have to say I am rather disappointed in these ‘temples of the arts.’ It doesn’t seem at all like China takes pride in their theatres. Then again, I could be a bit of a snob.

Apart from their being no heat, it felt cold in design. It was just as dirty as most building, and the proscenium arch was as unadorned as the front door to my apartment. The stage itself looked like nothing more than pressed wood paneling – the sort you expect to find on the walls in your parents’ basement if it had last been decorated in the 1970s. The walls were boring white plaster and the seats reminded me of those in an old public high school auditorium – or a baseball stadium.

What baffles me perhaps the most about Chinese entertainment venues is that, when you go to a movie theatre here, you pay the same price for any seat, even though it is assigned seating. However, for the theatrical or musical performances I have attended, there has been no assigned seating. It is first-come-first-served. And yet, the prices for tickets range from 60 yuan (which is always sold out) to anywhere upwards of 300 yuan. What is the point in different prices, if you’re not paying for a seat worth the price? I paid 100 yuan for my ticket tonight and, because I got to the theatre early, I picked a great seat. But what about the poor bastard who pays 300 and gets there five minutes before curtain rises and has to sit in the last row, with all those heads in front of him? The logic just doesn’t quite work out for me.

What surprised me this evening was the small amount of foreigners in attendance. I expected more. But since there were Chinese subtitles displayed on a screen, stage right and left, I’m glad people took advantage of it. It’s great to see Shakespeare reaching as far east as it has. Dude knew how to go global. Consequently, I also wonder about the translation. What must it sound like to the Chinese? After all, even for native English speakers, there can sometimes be a language barrier between late 16th century iambic pentameter and 21st century colloquial speech. Is the Chinese translation in poetry? Do they use tradition or simplified characters? I could not really tell the difference, but I can’t imagine using traditional Han, simply because it is my belief that most Chinese are more literate in the simplified.

To speak to the performance itself, I must smile. The actors kept up a great deal of energy (special regards to the bloke who played both Capulet and Benvolio), despite having to deal with a difficult audience. Incidentally, what the hell are people thinking when they bring a baby to staged Shakespeare? The infant could not have been six months old yet. Are the parents banking on osmosis? The kid will magically grow up able to speak in rhymed verse? And seriously, folks. Have some damn courtesy for the actors and switch your frigging cell phones off! I was embarrassed and wished I could apologize to the cast. This is when courtesy and etiquette take its cultural toll on my nerves. It’s just plain rude.

Nevertheless, I’m extremely glad I went and I say hats off to the TNT theatre company. Some extremely promising talent and choice bits of directing. Blocking was some of the best I’ve seen and the minimal materials, sets and props, were well used. Well done, all.

No Bird, But Many Thanks (and Potatoes)

2009-11-27T01:03:00.003+08:00

Since the Chinese don’t believe in ovens, this was my first Thanksgiving without turkey. Instead, I cooked couscous with veggies (and mashed taters on the side). Yes, I'm full, but it isn't that Thanksgiving I-can't-eat-another-bite-nor-will-I-ever-eat-again kind of full. That's a good full. And, no pie. I did find Nutella at Carrefour, though. I had a Nutella-dipped banana for desert and I sneaked a bottle of chardonnay into the apartment. A couple of hours ago the girls went to bed and I retired to my room to watch Home for the Holidays and toast myself silly. What I’ll really miss is the leftovers and those amazing, creative, and protuberant sandwiches that only come from Thanksgiving scraps.

My mother called me this morning to wish me happy Thanksgiving. She started a tradition in my family years ago. It's a tradition many families observe on this holiday. As we sat down to dine on the last Thursday of each November, before we picked up our forks and shoveled cranberry sauce and green bean casserole into our faces, before we drowned out the noise of company with a few glasses of wine and the glazed (mythological?) sleepiness that turkey’s tryptophan can induce, we went around the table, each of us proclaiming, like some solemn or reverent whatever, what we were grateful for that year.

Every year, when it comes my turn around the table, my mouth cannot keep up with my brain. It isn’t fast enough to list all the things I am grateful for. Afterward, when the torch is passed to the person sitting next to me and we continue with our thanks-giving, I remember long lists of items forgotten, events and people I’d missed out on mentioning.

This year only one thing came to mind. It was the most relevant and in-the-moment tribute apropos to my current situation. It may be that, being so far from home, living in a foreign country on the other side of the world, and having no reminders of the traditions to which I have been accustomed over the years, I was feeling homesick and (dare I say it?) perhaps even a little patriotic. Yes, it may be a piece of cheesecake. Yes, I may have to answer to jeers and jokes after I say this; but I’m going to say it anyway. I am grateful for my country. I’m grateful for the United States of America.

Who's Your Mommy?

2009-11-25T10:58:00.000+08:00

Yesterday evening I got an email from another of my older student’s teachers, saying she was still falling asleep in class. This is a problem we’ve been having since the beginning. Very often, I will have to shake her awake in class. She can be reading and, mid-sentence, she’ll nod off. Now I hear that she’s even dozing when she is taking a quiz.

She spends 97% of her day studying and doing schoolwork. She stays up until all hours of the night, even after she has finished her work, to continue studying. Her dedication is admirable, but there comes a point where, if your head and eyes are drooping, you aren’t taking in much studying at all. I’ve explained this to her countless times. Still, she constantly dawdles her way around her bedtime routine.

I confronted my student about the problem immediately. I suggested that we rearrange the after-school schedule a bit, so that she has a choice of either having time to take a nap, or starting her classes with me earlier so that she can finish earlier and go to bed earlier. Unfortunately, she isn’t exactly what you would call a decisive girl. When you give her options, she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. This is also something I’ve been working on with her.

It occurs to me that these are the issues a parent (not a live-in tutor) should be discussing with their child. However, as her parents are in Korea, the responsibility falls on Lucy and I as her temporary guardians. Yet, it astounds me that her parents can be so controlling from so far away about everything else under the sun – so much so, that the poor girl has never learned to make decisions for herself.

I remember the same problem when she was trying to decide to which colleges to apply. I gave her a long, comprehensive list. Yet, when it came time to narrowing down her final choices, she was stumped. Too many options. I talked her through every single program, showed her how to make a list of pros and cons. Still, her choices seemed half-hearted and ambivalent.

Last week she completed five out of seven of her college applications and I, in turn, wrote her a letter of recommendation. I have written letters for people before (namely to recommend a professor for tenure), but have found it easy to boast and rave about them. This time, however, the words came, but with some reluctance. I’ve often wondered how some professors must struggle to rhapsodize over a student about whom they weren’t 100% confident. Now I have some understanding.

I want my student to succeed. I want her to go to college and I want her dreams to come true. I am of two minds. My letter is not necessarily a lie; I do believe she is capable of the things I’ve suggested. Nonetheless, also think her potential may be slightly delayed more than others. I worry about how much catch-up she’ll have to do once she gets there.

Rejection

2009-11-24T15:46:00.001+08:00

The literary magazine called Rattle is going to do an issue some time next year that will be devoted to Canadian poets. Well done, California. Way to wave to the people up north. I plan on submitting some of my work from my MFA thesis.

I recently submitted poems to this magazine in October. I got the rejection letter today, but I turned right around and sent them another five poems. I’m optimistic that maybe one of them might find its place in their archives.

You know, it's strange, but rejections just don't bother me all that much. This is just one more reason why it’s great to have a theatre background. We are used to rejections. You audition for a part, you're just not right for the role, so they don't cast you. It's the same with poetry. You send your work, it just doesn't fit their style, so they don't accept it. You move on and submit more poems to more journals and eventually you find one that fits.

I’ve been lucky this year and I’m extremely grateful. So far, I’ve had four good-news replies. It is only natural that it should be balanced with at least an equal number of rejections. It is all subjective. Some people take it too personally.

Is There a Chinese Love Guru in the House?

2009-11-22T20:29:00.001+08:00

I recently had an email conversation with a dear friend who is going through some man-trouble (aren’t we all?). The following question came up, which I found to be an interesting one: “Are any of us, truly, perfectly whole?” It’s a question to bear in mind, no matter whether you are man or woman, or at what stage of your life you are in.

My answer to her was this: I can't tell you what my answer would be, mainly because it would not do you any good to know it. I could say yes, that it is possible, but how would that help you? Or I could tell you that no one could ever be whole, and how would that help you either? The truth is, I don't know. I think that's part of the journey - what we are supposed to find out for ourselves along the way. I will say this: that I believe that the possibility of being whole is there for everyone, and whether we reach it or not is completely up to the individual. As always, it depends on the person and the choices they make, who they are and what they take away from their experiences. It also helps if they know what they truly want.

Is this possibly-mythological state of being a prerequisite for entering into a relationship? So many have said, “he completes me,” or “he’s my other half.” But is this healthy? Or is it just that we reach another level of “wholeness” when we exist as significant others? I’ve begun to consider that, as long as you do not become solely dependent on being in a relationship to keep you in that status, I say what’s the harm in being overly romantic, so long as you’re not fooling yourself? It is, after all, just a turn of phrase. But then again, I’m a poet and I take words seriously. What are our interpretations of whole? Isn’t that what we first need to take into consideration? And, even after the interpretation, is there ever a viable answer to our question?

What Will You Take With You?

2009-11-21T20:03:00.001+08:00

I just spent the twilight hours of this Saturday at the movies. The audience wasn’t nearly as noisy as the last time, but perhaps that is because I picked a film that is, itself, noisy: 2012. I’m glad I made it to the theatre before they got the chance to dub it all in Chinese and I would have to wait until it came out on DVD to see it. That wouldn’t be a terrible thing, necessarily, but I like seeing big blockbuster catastrophic films on the big screen. It’s great to get the huge effect.

The only part of the Chinese cinematic experience that bothered me this time (apart from there being no heat in the building – thank you, REI, for parka vests!) was the fact that the projectionist shut down the film before the credits rolled. People sure were in a hurry to get out of there. Personally, I am one of those people that like to stay until all of the credits have scrolled. I like looking at the names, who was involved in production, how big the crew, the music score information, and where it was filmed.

The end of the world is a frightening thought – for me, at least. A dear friend of mine always says that people like to think of themselves as living in an apocalyptic age. People enjoy feeling important, like they’re living in historic times. Perhaps that is true of many people, but not me. No, I would be perfectly happy and content with a boring life’s end. Give me a good old fashion she-died-in-her-sleep-at-the-age-of-94 death and I’ll be just fine with that.

But here’s a question for you: if we in fact are living in the eleventh hour of the End of Days, and if you had a chance to save yourself, what would you take with you? Apart from the obvious “loved ones” answer, what material possessions would be important to you? I’ve spent the past hour trying to think of my own response to that question…

First, I would have to take my baby teddy bear with me. His name is Lancelot. He’s a small, khaki brown GUND® bear with softer and lighter material on his four paws. He has a sad face and always looks like he’s crying. I’ve never washed him, so when I smell him, I can smell my childhood. For a 26-year-old stuffed animal, he’s in pretty great shape. You’d never guess his age by looking at him. I always assume most people’s teddies and monkeys and whatnot are always tattered from so many years, but my bear has held up. Lancelot has been with me all my life, and he has accompanied me on every one of my adventures so far – Australia, Spain, France, College, Ireland, England, China, Wyoming. He’s better than a passport. I wouldn’t let him miss out on the big trip.

Second, a must: literature. I’d also include literature of spiritual philosophy of world religions. Would want a copy of the Bible, the Qur’an, the Bhagavad Gita, etc. I would take a copy of the complete works of Shakespeare. This is a no-brainer, and I assume needs no explanation. He has been one of the most important writers in our history and he shouldn’t be left behind. I’d want him with me. I’d also want to take some key poetry with me, as well as certain prose, novels and such. Jack Ridl’s poetry would surely be first on my list. He was my dear father poet and I carry him, like Lancelot, wherever I go. I’d also take Craig Arnold, Kate Northrop and a few other mentors’ poetry. And for goodness sake, Elizabeth Bishop comes, too. Yeats, of course, and Keats. Some Brits, some Scots, and some Irish. Sappho’s in the bag, along with Dante, Chaucer, and Poe. In short, I could just say I’d bring a few volumes of the Norton with me. And just because the world needs an asshole, let’s bring Robert Frost.

Third: paper and pen.

Will writers be a necessity on a new world? Certainly. We are important. All of us. After all, “All the world needs is farmers and poets: one to feed our stomachs, the other to feed our minds.”

Here's Looking at You

2009-11-20T19:05:00.003+08:00

While the girls have been on their five-day field trip, I keep thinking about all the wonderful class trips I took when I was in grade school. I count myself lucky.

At Catholic school, we made annual trips to Greenfield Village in Dearborn, with the Henry Ford Museum nearby. As we got our yearly slice of early Americana, I always remember the feel of having a small piece of colonial New England right there in southeast Michigan. We held class in the one-room schoolhouse and each got our turn being swatted on the backs of our hands with a switch. The corporal punishment experience.

In eighth grade, we took our social studies trip to Washington D.C. and I busted my knee walking one block from the White House. They used a needle nearly a foot long to draw the fluid out of my joint.

Then, in high school, I went to France and Spain for two weeks when I was 15 years old. I cruised the streets of Barcelona with my friend, Larry, who nearly got all of his money stolen from his rucksack. A young boy reached his hand up to unzip the pack and I got him. He and his brother fled the scene before Larry even realized what had happened.

In Versailles, I had my first taste of Nutella (I was done for) in my very first crepe. In Paris, I learned how to read a street map and learned how to navigate the underground metro on my own.

At 16 and 17 years old, I spent spring break in New York City with a small group of theatre students. We attended somewhere around 10 Broadway and 5 off-Broadway shows. My first Broadway show was Eugene O'Neill's "A Moon for the Misbegotten." It was also my first experience waiting backstage to meet the cast - something we did after nearly every show, after that. Gabriel Byrne and Cherry Jones. I still have the picture of me and G.B. I was in love with him after that. I still remember what he smelled like.

The girls return tonight from their little trip up to the northwest of China. I wonder if they’ll have some of the same sort of memories I have from my own school trips. Somehow, I doubt it.

In the meantime, I have been tempted to have a cigarette. It doesn't help that I've been watching old black 'n white movies, where every Bogie and his Bergman or Bacall was lighting up. For the past couple of days, after dealing with the first cravings I’ve had in a very long time, I folded and bought a pack. If they only sold single cigarettes. I quit smoking over four years ago and today I had the first smoke since then.

I considered just going out and buying some champagne, but I didn’t. You know a writer should be able to drink, but I’ve never really been able to. Maybe I’ll have to work myself up to that, too. Whiskey – that’s a writer’s drink. I used to drink it in college, but couldn’t handle much more than a couple of shots. Perhaps I’m no fireside writer.

It was both a relief and awful at the same time. One cigarette certainly enough to remind me that I am glad I’ve given up the awful habit. I quit because it eventually made me nauseated. So now I have a pack of cigarettes stashed away in my bedside table and no reason to smoke them. Maybe I’ll hang on to them as a reminder of my weak will.

Just Another Wonderful Day in China

2009-11-17T22:34:00.001+08:00

The whole idea of this week was that I was supposed to have five days of peace and relaxation. So far, success has been thwarted two days in a row. I think China is still holding a grudge against me. She’s really putting a crimp in my style, boy.

Yesterday I went to the phone company to top up my minutes. Dealing with the guy at the counter was murder. Or, rather, I nearly committed murder. I gave him 100 Yuan. He said it was loaded, so I walked away, thinking that – like many times before – my phone would be working again within twenty minutes.

An hour later, still nothing. I went back to the store, thinking I could get him to fix the problem, whatever that may be. I spent the next hour arguing with the guy. He knew just enough English to piss me off, and I knew just enough Chinese to get seriously frustrated. Between the two of us, it was quite the back and forth. I informed him that if he could not fix the problem, I wanted my money back. His answer? “No.” That’s all. “No.” My response? “Yes.” Simple. Direct. “Yes.” I will have my money back. There is no logic in paying for a service when you don’t receive that service. I explained this to him. He shook his head. I made my I’m-not-leaving-until-I-get-what-I-want face.

He turned to the computer in front of him and tried to translate several things to me from Chinese to English. It didn’t help. Translators are not very accurate and half the time they end up creating sentences that make no sense whatsoever. In fact, I’m fairly sure his translator made up some new words I had never seen before.

In the end, I got what I wanted. My phone worked. He had called headquarters, gone online, took apart my phone, checked the sim-card, and I might have even seen him do a little dance that looked like the chicken. Whatever he did, it worked. When I called Lucy to tell her what happened, she informed me that this dude is famous for ripping people off. He’s a cheat and a crook. Not on my watch, pal.

That experience, however, was trumped by today’s little blunder. I ran out of bread, like you do. This is inconvenient when you plan on spending the entire day in bed, or walking around your apartment naked after soaking in a bath. But that wasn’t the calamity. The source of today’s chagrin would be that my electric scooter was stolen. Yes, the Malibu Barbie bike has vanished, never to return. It would seem that even a bike lock, key/ignition lock, and wheel lock is not enough to stop a determined scooter thief.

At this point, I can hardly be bothered to care. If anything, it simply means I will have a very long walk to and from the grocery store. I griped for about two and a half minutes, then threw away my little face-guard helmet-like thingy, and started to walk toward Starbucks. When in doubt, have a latte. The resurfacing of my old addiction has perfect timing.

Sweet Morning Dew of Java

2009-11-16T14:33:00.001+08:00

Coming down from blood-boil mode, getting caught up with LoLcats, getting snarky in some emails to old friends, and just being generally in the mood to spend some quality time with the computer. Now that the big C has left the country and the girls are off on their school field trip, I can try to get back to my Happy Place. The next five days are MINE.

I have been retraining myself to drink coffee again. It has been four years since I had my last espresso and now it is pure joy to splurge once more. My problem is that I am the coffee equivalent of an alcoholic. Once I’ve started, I don’t want to stop. Four years ago, I was up to four triple lattes per day (that’s 12 shots of espresso, folks). Not only did I give myself an ulcer, but also the caffeine was giving me the shakes and jitters, not to mention the fact that my heart felt like it was going to bounce out of my rib cage. Now I fear I may have set myself up for another relapse and then the inevitable detox. Coffee rehab, anyone?

Also on the better-news front, I have found a website proxy that allows me to post to my blog. It only works some of the time, and when it does, I have to be quick about it, for China’s internet spies are everywhere and they block me again within a few minutes. Nonetheless, the taste of those few minutes is sweet and the rush of a time-lock is thrilling. Who’da ever thunk that writing could be such an adrenaline-pumping race.

And then comes the approaching denouement of my sentence in Hangzhou. Parole in 33 days. Along with anticipation of a new city, new job, new whatever, comes also anticipation of new people. I hear there are some hot expats in Beijing. Maybe I can wrangle me up a Swedish dude. Or maybe German. I’ve always wanted to speak Deutsche.

Holiday Time - Or Close Enough

2009-11-15T22:01:00.000+08:00

Last night I dreamt I was a polar bear. I rolled in the snow like a puppy with fluffy white fur and the other polar bears thought I was crazy. Even in my dreams – and as a polar bear – I am an outcast. Whatever. It was fun and it didn’t feel cold. Or rather, it did, but I liked the feeling. I figured this was just another way of letting me know I’m ready for the winter, ready for Christmas, and ready to be finished with Hangzhou and the rain. I want snow.

Dreams are such strange things. One minute you’re yourself, walking down a mountain with your family, overlooking a beautiful valley in Australia while a murdering thug tries to chase you down and turn you into a manikin (normal dream, right); the next minute, you’re a polar bear, like something out of Golden Compass, and bounding through the Arctic.

Then I woke up with “I’m the King of New York” stuck in my head from Newsies. An odd day, so far.

Starbucks has gone Christmas crazy and I’m ok with that. Usually I refuse to start getting geeked up for the holidays until after Turkey Day, but since it is such a comforting feeling while I’m so far away from home, I’m all over that business. Toffee nut lattes galore. They have Christmas music playing on a loop and each time I hear the Bing Crosby/David Bowie version of “The Little Drummer Boy” I get goosebumps and start to cry. I’m not sure what it is about that piece, but it gets me every year.

Countdown to Temporary Peace

2009-11-13T00:52:00.000+08:00

You know those days when you try to avoid your boss at all costs? You slink behind desks, duck behind doorways, avoid the office coffee machine altogether… I’m having one of those days. Unfortunately for me, I cannot get away. This is the trouble with living where you work.

It is impossible to go two weeks without a visit from some female Korean relative. Mother, aunt, grandmother, whatever. I’m a bit of a loner when it comes to living quarters, so – to put it mildly – I have found it difficult to be bombarded with company and roommates 24/7.

Reena’s mother, Carol, has come to visit from Korea for the next few days. Yes, another mother from Korea. Here we go. I have many opinions about this woman, but none of them appropriate to post to such a public forum. Suffice it to say I gave her a not-so-affectionate nickname at the beginning of my four-month sentence.

On Monday, Carol will go back to Korea, both my students are leaving for a five-day field trip to the Northwest of China, and Lucy will be with her boyfriend in Shanghai. I will have a working week of peace and quiet with no smelly smells from the kitchen. In all honesty, I’m mostly looking forward to just being able to walk around the apartment naked.

Subbing

2009-11-10T00:38:00.001+08:00

I’ve taken a second job as a substitute teacher at my students’ international school, across the street. Having only six more weeks left in Hangzhou, I figured it would be a good use of my time and a nice form of supplementary income, especially considering it may help make up for some of the expenses of my PhD applications.

Today was my first run. One of the high school English teachers was sick and I took over her 5 classes – two Language Arts, one modern literature, one journalism, and one AP English course. All right up my alley. All a joy. All a piece of cake and each one a relief. Finally, to be in a real classroom again.

The downside is that (along with bad canteen food) I had forgotten at what an ungodly hour school begins. 8:00 am, which means I now have 16-hour workdays when subbing. School lets out at 3:00 and I walk back across the street with my student-roommates, where I continue to teach until 10:30 pm. I’m exhausted.

However, during lunch I was grateful for English conversation with other adults and faculty members. At the end of the day, though, the school got a little surprise when the weather decided to drench us with monsoon rains and winds. The sky went practically pitch. I’ve never seen lighting like that in my life, even during Michigan’s tornado season.

Tomorrow’s expectations are these: I have been asked to sub for the second grade teacher. This will be my first experience with elementary students. I’ve done nearly two years of preschool and kindergarten, two years of university-level, and now six months of middle and high school-age students. After tomorrow, I’ll have run the gamut.

Halal Birthday

2009-11-09T10:16:00.002+08:00

Yesterday was Lucy’s 32nd birthday. Her boyfriend, Louis, came to visit from Shanghai and we all went out (including Tina and Reena) for Indian cuisine, my favorite. There are three Indian restaurants in Hangzhou and the five of us trekked to all three to get service. The last, of course, was finally a success. The first two seemed to be practically empty and devoid of hosts or waiters. The third was a place I had been to before and was familiar with their food, so the wait was well worth it, in my opinion (free West Lake beer with the buffet!). The only thing missing this time was the belly dancer.

I stuffed my face with all the vegetarian dishes and even went up for seconds. The makings of my rare feast included heaps of plain nan, lemon rice, vegetable curry, mushroom chili, spicy red potatoes, veggie pakora, and an appetizer dish of cold chickpeas and cucumber with cardamom.

It had been a while since my last beer (my September trip to Laramie, in fact), so the amount of food helped keep me sober. I usually have absolutely zero tolerance for alcohol, considering my stomach/intestinal problems, but the West Lake brew is quite light and goes well with the Indian fare.

Tradition in Korea states that whomever drinks the last drop of beer will acquire great wealth. So, naturally, we were a long time wrestling the bottles from each other for the last dewy drop.

And of course, afterward, there was cake. There has to be cake. But Chinese cakes are not like what we are used to. They have practically no flavor and consist of mostly an airy whipped cream on top of the flavorless sponge. All the same, cake is cake and I ate some, then washed it down with another pint of beer.

By the end of the night, I was feeling pretty sated. A meal of your favorite foods and a few pints can help cure even the most wretched PMS.

Stand-Down Mode from Korean Estrogen Invasion

2009-11-02T02:47:00.001+08:00

Tina’s mother and grandmother flew in from Korea on Wednesday and finally left town again yesterday (a day earlier than planned). This week apartment was crowded with Korean estrogen. Since I am the only non-family member, I kept my distance and remained aloof.

During their stay, they decided it would be best to send the housekeeper away. Now that they are gone, Ayi (“nanny” in Chinese) is back. If you recall, I wasn’t too keen on our old Ayi. I thought she was lazy, inefficient, and a thief. It seems she stole 1,000 RMB from Lucy’s bedside dresser. However, the new girl has bumped up the standards.

I’m totally digging the new Ayi. She is a much better cleaner and is pleasant, quiet and always keeping up with us. My laundry no longer feels like an S.O.S. pad and she never tries to do things for me when I obviously feel like doing them myself – although, I admit I enjoy that she occasionally takes the initiative to get the tea stains out of my coffee mugs, since I always do such a poor job of it myself.

Kudos (do people still say that?) to the new Ayi.

Tricks and Treats

2009-11-01T05:16:00.001+08:00

Today was Halloween and I decided to treat my students with a day-trip to West Lake. Incredibly, neither of them had been on a bus in China, even having lived here for well over a year now. We chilled out in a Starbucks for a while. They really needed to get out of the apartment. They are normally not allowed outside, apart from going back and forth to school, which is only just across the street. Even then they must be accompanied either by their guardian, by Ayi, or by me.

But Tina's mother and grandmother left this morning after a five-day visit to go back to Korea and their guardian doesn't come back until tomorrow. So, I've sneaked them out for a little fun. Harmless, I should think. These poor girls. Imagine having to keep something so innocent a secret from their parents. They aren't allowed to do anything except study, but they work so hard and, as far as I’m concerned, they really need a break. "All fun and no play makes Jack a very dull boy." I'm just trying to avoid a Stephen-King outcome. I don't want them to get cabin fever and come through my door with an axe.

Reena, my younger student, being on a slightly looser leash than Tina, took me over to her school last night for a little Halloween party. We were both bored by the childish activities, but it was nice to spend time with her. She is an incredibly smart girl and very mature for only 14. I am proud of her.

We felt bad for Tina. Her mother wouldn’t let her go to such a simple affair across the street to eat candy and have her face painted. Instead, Tina’s mother went out to dinner in Hangzhou with Tina's grandmother while Reena and I were gone, leaving Tina in the apartment all alone and feeling left out. It wasn’t much, but Reena and I decided to stop at the store on the way back home and buy some candy for Tina.

Slowly, I am introducing them to the idea of what it is like to balance their rigorous studying with some good clean fun. I’m sure their parents, if they knew what I was doing, would consider me a terribly bad influence and fire me immediately. But it is well worth the risk to give these girls a taste of fun, instead of eventually sending them off to college, knowing that a consequence of ‘study until you pass out’ (not an exaggeration) could result in their going wild once they get there, and perhaps doing something stupid and even dangerous. I don’t believe I am overstepping the line too far. But, are good intentions justification enough? After all, even though I believe I am acting in their best interests, I am not their mother.

Post, Posts, and the Posted

2009-10-31T08:40:00.002+08:00

I admit I have been lax in writing for the past week or so. My time staring at the keyboard has been usurped by completing the application process for PhD programs. Finally, on Monday, after many drafts and revisions, I finished writing the last of my essays and writing samples.

On Tuesday, I went into Hangzhou to the International Postal Service and finally mailed off all my application materials. It feels good to be done, even though it has left me utterly broke. Mailing a few simple documents from China to the U.S. costs a ridiculous amount of money. In all, I spent well over $300. However, if the results are positive, it will all be worth it.

The list of programs was long – eleven schools, to be exact. I was a few months in narrowing down the list, but think I would be happy at any of the ones to which I have chosen to apply. Suffice it to say, I’m extremely eager and excited about the prospects of going back to school. The university environment is where I feel most comfortable and content.

With my task now completed, I have more free time on my hands. I hope to use a good deal of that time to get more exercise (which means more walks in Hangzhou) and to write more.

Chinese Fugitive

2009-10-21T01:23:00.003+08:00

This was my last weekend squatting at a friend’s apartment in Xiaoshan. This morning, before I left to make the drive back to BinJiang, I had to turn in the key and electricity card to the property manager. I went down to the lobby with my trusty electronic translator and asked the woman at the front desk where to go. She escorted me around the building to a customer service center.

They wouldn’t let me turn in the key until they shut off the water. So one of the guys at the water company followed me back up to the apartment to shut the water off, but was flummoxed when the toilet kept running. It does that sometimes. You just have to take the backing off and push the lever down manually. No biggy. Of course, I couldn’t tell that to him. He was too impatient and kept trying to flush the damn thing repeatedly before the water even had a chance to rise.

While he kept fiddling with the toilet, I looked at the time and realized I needed to get back to BinJiang if I was going to have time to shower and lunch before teaching. I told him I needed to leave, that he should hurry. “Kuai yi dian.” But he was adamant about getting the toilet to stop running.

I figured I would be waiting half the day if I stayed; so, while his back was turned, I left the key in the door and gave him the slip. I didn’t take the elevator, since that’s where he would probably come looking for me when he realized I wasn’t there. Instead, I hid in the stairwell for a moment and snuck out via the fire escape on the side of the building. This way, if he called his buddies downstairs, they wouldn’t see me come down through the lobby. I ducked behind cars in the parking lot until I found my bike and then scooted the hell out of there.

They have no contact information for my friend, or me; however, they now have the keys and the security deposit. I figure we’re square. I had to laugh to myself as I drove away, because I felt like a fugitive. I half expected to see someone in my mirrors, running after me.

But that wasn’t the end of my morning. No, sir. I probably shouldn’t write about this, since I know my mother occasionally reads my blog and if she knows what happened today she might have a heart attack. You know how mothers can be.

Halfway to BinJiang I was hit by a car – again. I had a green light and some idiot ran the red. He was turning the corner and I was going straight. He didn't look. I can only go 40 kph on my bike, so it was more irritating than harmful. I thought for a second my bike was broken because it skidded halfway under his van. Luckily, I actually saw that it was going to happen, so I veered the bike sideways so that it wouldn't be a head-on crash.

My day felt like a regular Harrison Ford movie. At least he apologized, since he knew it was his fault. I picked up my bags that had sprawled across the road, brushed myself off, and kept driving. What else do you do?

Exposed

2009-10-19T01:21:00.001+08:00

This evening, while waiting for the bus from West Lake back to Xiaoshan, I watched a haggard man bathe himself in a small fountain out on the street. He seemed to have no qualms about performing such an act in public and took ample time in it. He used a long, narrow strip of worn-out material for his washcloth. It looked more like a sash or a scarf than a washcloth. Nevertheless, he took each end in either hand and swished the wet material back and forth against his shoulders and lower back. The ritual looked like a dance, a jig – like the twist. He did it for a long time and with such vigor and enthusiasm I thought for sure he’d rub the skin right off his body. From afar it looked as though his hygiene was very thorough, and it would have been, had it not been for the lack of one essential cleaning element: soap. Water can do only so much, fella.

As I boarded the bus, I wondered if maybe my standards were set just a little too high and maybe I should cut China some slack on the cleanliness front. Then, I took my seat next to a tired-looking man who proceeded to try to drown two medium-sized cockroaches with massive gobs of phlegm-filled spit. I think I’ll keep my standards as they are, thanks.

More Saturday Social Studies

2009-10-18T17:16:00.001+08:00

Have you ever lied about yourself to a total stranger? I have. I do it all the time. I tell people I’m from different countries all over the globe. Today happened to give me that opportunity again.

Another Saturday spent scouting West Lake. This is a terrific place for people watching. To me, people watching is the act of observing and does not include interacting. However, today a woman came up to me as I had my nose in a book and asked if I was from France. Taking my cue, I answered, “Oui.” Do I look French? Awesome.

What kills me, though, is that when she discovered I was French, she tried to carry on a conversation with me in English. Temporarily more interested in the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe and not really being in the mood for conversation, I knew just enough French to keep her confused for a few minutes before she finally realized I was beyond the bounds of her communication skills and left. Some people make no sense to me.

Do I feel guilty? Not really. When the mood strikes me, I can talk a person’s ear off. Earlier this morning, for instance, I shared a taxi with a man from the Philippines. We carried on for well over an hour and I was grateful for some English conversation. Subjects of travel inevitably ensued, as well as jobs, future plans, the difficulties of China, and finally the state of economy. So, I bear no guilt for brushing off the woman at the Lake.

After I’d had my fill of observations and macabre short stories, I decided to take in another movie. There was one English-speaking film and I didn’t care what it was. Fortunately, it just so happened to be something I was in the mood for: mindless and cheap horror tricks. It is October, after all, and Halloween is two weeks away.

“Rogue” was the English feature in Hangzhou. Killer Australian crocodile movie, very reminiscent of “Lake Placid,” but without the comic relief of Betty White. I’ll admit, there were a few moments I jumped in my seat. Yet, even though it isn’t the sort of movie you really need to pay that much attention to, I was finding it hard not to be distracted by all the commotion around me.

You know those annoying ads at the beginning of movies that tell you to please turn off your cell phone and no talking during the movie, etc.? Well, they don’t have that here in China. In China, you can chat at normal volumes with your buddy sitting next to you; you can light up a cigarette; and you can keep your cell phone switched on with full ringer volume. Hell, you can even strike up a phone conversation in the middle of the movie (no kidding).

I’ve sat during movies with a room full of 20 sugar-wired pre-schoolers on pajama day and it was quieter than the audience tonight. No matter how many times you spit out “Shhh!” they just don’t want to miss out on the opportunity to make noise. My two Chinese cinema experiences so far have left me with a major headache. That said, I’ve always loved going to the movies and I don’t think even these irksome quirks will stop me.

I Smell Fear

2009-10-17T02:24:00.001+08:00

There are rumors of stricter internet blocking in China. Evidence is already materializing. Google and Yahoo already lose connection on a regular basis throughout the day, and I hear tell that there will soon be a ban on gmail. The reason is allegedly the government’s growing concern of pornography. I call shenanigans.

If it were only pornography they sought to purge, sites such as Facebook, Blogger and Twitter or Foreign religious sites would not be banned. Now there are even embargoes on certain Wikipedia sites, most especially (but not limited to) ones with any negative indications toward China. In fact, many sites, if holding information that may not paint China in a particularly gleaming light, are prohibited. It is a closing grip.

It is amazing enough that I even hear word at all about the Han and the riots in the northwest. But how do I hear about them? Not through Chinese media, but through the BBC (bless them). Fortunately, China has relinquished some control over major foreign news corporations, but only under pressure of looking like a tyrannical prison ward of the information highway. This was not the case a few months ago, when there was a block on sites such as MSN International, Google International and Live Search (among others). Even now, if you type in keywords that include “China,” you will most likely be censored? Why? Because China doesn’t want to look bad. The paranoia stretches far.

Note to China: The problem with trying to control 1.5 billion people: YOU CAN’T.

An Exit 退出

2009-10-15T14:40:00.001+08:00

This morning I woke to quiet, something I am not accustomed to in China. The apartment was empty for the first time since I’ve lived here. Taking advantage of every moment of sublime solitude and scrumptious silence, I toted my MacBook out into the living room and sat up shop on the sofa. This was the first time I’d been able to sit out in a common area and work. Normally, the two girls and their circus-like tomfoolery bombard me, or I’m interrupting either the housekeeper’s nap or the live-in guardian’s yoga routines. Today I had the space to myself and, as a result, got a lot of work done.

As pleasant as these sacred, cloistered hours were, I was still curious as to the reason behind my sudden privacy. When Lucy returned with the girls at 3:15, she informed me that the housekeeper had quit. It is no secret that I did not think she was a great maid, but I was puzzled as to her unexpected departure. It seemed like a breeze of a job, to me. Do a little dusting, make everyone’s laundry stand up by itself, cook smelly Korean food, take long naps on the sofa, and get paid. I shrugged. However, this was not apparently as simple as all that.

I’ve said before that I’m glad I am not the one paying this woman, but now I firmly stand by this statement even more than I did before. Unfortunately, Lucy had given her an advance on her next payment only a few days ago and is now out a considerable amount of money with nothing to show for it. The worst of it: Lucy’s bias against the Chinese has just been – in her mind – further justified. Would I call it racism? Maybe not. Let us just say that, in my experience, the general Korean attitude towards the Chinese is less than affable.

Chinese Cinema

2009-10-12T02:48:00.002+08:00

Saturday held my interest, starting with an unusually long walk around West Lake. For no other reason than to get a little more exercise, I spent several hours wandering the surrounding streets of the area. Near the end of my walk I discovered a cinema that I had not been to before and decided to take part in the Chinese movie experience. There was only one film with English subtitles, called “The Message.”

In the theatre I sat next to an older couple that felt it necessary to both talk and smoke through the entire film. Movie theatres in China are assigned seating – I was trapped. The smoking only made the WWII-era film seem a little more authentic as it hovered over us in the glow of the silver screen, but the talking was definitely unnecessary. To top it off, some young punks behind me thought it would be amusing not only to kick my seat through several scenes, but also to leave their cell phones switched on. As I watched violent interrogation and Asian espionage on the screen, intermittent tones of Chinese pop music kept chiming in.

Despite these unpleasant atmospheric nuances, the film held my attention. If it makes it to the States, I’d suggest a viewing. But by all means, feel free to rent the DVD and enjoy it on your sofa, sans public interruption and white noise of the cinema.

Revisions

2009-10-08T22:28:00.001+08:00

On Tuesday I started a poem, the first I’ve written in several months. Yesterday I looked at it again. Besides giving it a title, I actually took more time to work on rewriting it. The revision process is strange and sporadic for me. Usually it is a focused process, a few hours at a time throughout a week. However, there are those rare and glorious times when a poem comes all at once and there is no need for revision. All in one sitting the poem is created – sometimes as if not by me. This has only happened a few times, but it is profound when it does. The last time this happened, I received second place in the Wyoming Writers Contest. The poem, like only a small, select number before it, arrived all in one bundle. I can only be grateful and astounded when those moments hit. But this is not one of those times.

Pedestrian

In Xiaoshan
he toes the section of sidewalk
designed for keeping blind men on track.
It is uneven beneath his feet,
like a barcode in cement;
his instep has gotten used to the rough
and has worn a callous.
He stops at a street food vendor,
pays three Yuan for grilled lotus root,
spits out the grains of dirt.
A young boy clips his elbow
and his feet veer just inches off the track.
The tattered scarf around his neck
gestures a summons, the frayed ends
curling upward in a humid breeze;
but he needs no help. After all these years
he still thinks he can see.
He knows when he leaves the north street,
when he crosses the bridge,
when the traffic is heavy.
The scents of piss and stale gardens,
feeling the city walk past him,
and the night market booming low bids,
he doesn’t need to be told it is Thursday.

A Lost Cause

2009-10-06T23:39:00.001+08:00

While in the San Francisco airport last weekend, I succumbed to the annoying tickle of pop culture and bought a copy of Dan Brown’s latest blunder. I am ashamed. As suspected, the one-dimensional book included a plot line that was predictable and writing that was less than remarkable. For the entire five-hundred-and-nine-page dramatic spasm, I cringed my way through, nearly gagging at every phrase in Italics (the thoughts of the characters). They were reminders to me that I was reading below standards.

Perhaps it is just a personal literary pet-peeve, but I’ve always found it absurd and insulting to use characters’ thoughts as a way to volley information back to the reader, thrusting facts down the reader’s throat, especially in such a way as to make the characters sound as though they’ve uncovered a major revelation when you’ve just made the same discovery three chapters prior.

Simply put, Dan Brown is an annoying author. True, he can keep you mildly entertained on a surface level, but ultimately you wind up always nine steps ahead of what I’m sure he thought was intended to be anticipation. Instead, it was more a sense of “Are these characters really that dumb?”

It was five years ago that I read both The DaVinci Code and Angels and Demons, so my memory may be slightly skewed. However, I seem to recall the main character of these novels as somewhat intelligent – at least, not unintelligent. Now, though, our friend Bobby Boy has taken a dramatic drop in I.Q. points.

This downshift in intelligence, coupled with Brown’s irritating lecture-like quality of writing, left me a little less than thrilled. That said, I still claim he has an interesting way of bringing together connections, myths, legends, etc. That is clever, yes; but how many times can you use the same predictable plot formula in order to develop a novel with the same character? Hello, Dan! People can see through this! Thus, The Lost Symbol is a lost cause, and I’m sure Mr. Brown is laughing all the way to the bank.

The only reason I would be interested in watching the film adaptation would be the incredible cinematography I anticipate to be filmed on location in Washington D.C. For this reason alone, I would advocate going to see the movie. Plus, Tom Hanks is just awesome. That is all.

Reflections on Writing

2009-10-05T11:33:00.002+08:00

I admit, in China, as a poet, I have been a failure thus far. How many poems have I written since May? Two. A whopping two poems. That’s all, folks. However, I feel the need to justify myself. Sometimes you need a break from one medium. It seems as though my writing has morphed into a catalogue of various subgenres. I am now no longer just “poet,” but “writer.” It has been ages since I’ve written prose that didn’t immediately trigger my gag reflex. While I don’t consider this blog of particularly publishable quality, I will say that it has been worthwhile to write and I’ve felt productive.

Am I just making excuses? Maybe I am. For some reason, I haven’t felt particularly inspired to write poetry lately. In the past, I’ve gone through phases, which I’m sure each poet does. It went something like this: In high school I began with trite love poems; in college I moved toward the dark and mysterious; in between my undergraduate and graduate experiences, I sporadically dipped into a bit of pastoral and transcendental work; then in my MFA I actually began to develop an aesthetic taste.

During my two years in the MFA, I learned an important lesson: poetry doesn’t always have to be pretty. The ugly can be beautiful, too. After all, can’t the gross make us laugh? So, today when I was trying to work out why I hadn’t felt like writing poetry in the past few months, I immediately copped out. But now I see the error of my ways. I am guilty, by reason of temporary insanity.

Yes, I should be writing more poetry. I should be grinding pen into paper every vile smell, odorous armpit, mangled fingernail, and hacking loogie. I should be writing that poem titled “Asian Holes,” or asking why so many Chinese walk backwards on the sidewalks. I should catalogue bargains and barters, or keep count of how many locals ask to take my photograph.

Even through inadequacy and feeling unimpressive, I still have the desire to create poems. It’s there. I feel the urge every day. Then I disappoint myself and the cycle of unrest continues. Today, however, I am breaking that cycle:

He toes the section of sidewalk
designed for keeping blind men on track.
It is uneven beneath his feet;
his instep has gotten used to the rough
and worn a callous.
The scarf around his neck
gestures a summons, the frayed ends
curling upward in a humid breeze;
but he needs no help. After all these years
he still thinks he can see.
The scents of piss and stale gardens,
feeling the city walk past him,
he doesn’t need to be told it is Thursday.

October

2009-10-04T06:50:00.004+08:00

I made the 45-minute commute on my bike this morning from Bin Jiang to Xiaoshan in order to spend the weekend in solitude. My older student, Tina, has company for the next three days. Her mother is visiting from Seoul, Korea and I really don’t feel like making polite small talk when I know I have a mountain of writing and research to do for PhD applications. So, I’m devoting the next 48 hours to reading, writing, and maybe some pizza and a movie.

I started my morning with a 7:00 am trip to Starbucks, grabbing a hot drink for the road. During my leisurely drive across the city, I noticed it is the beginning of leaf-burning season in Hangzhou. A local farmer was out early in the morning in order to send off more carbon dioxide into and already-polluted atmosphere. As the smell of the smoke hit me, I thought of all those fall days back home when little fires burnt on the side of the street in my childhood neighborhood in Michigan. Fall is my favorite time of the year and now that southern China has finally begun to calm itself out of a suffocating summer, I can finally start to look forward to sweaters, scarves, colorful foliage, and soy caramel macchiatos.

Because W.S. Merwin got it right: “Echoing Light”

Happy Birthday, Red

2009-10-02T03:42:00.002+08:00

It occurs to me that every U.S. citizen needs to spend a substantial amount of time in China (or an equivalent third-world or developing country with a government more restrictive than our own). Exactly how much do we take for granted as the almighty Star-Spangled Kingdom? It is immeasurable. Americans are in desperate need of some perspective.

Today was the sixtieth anniversary of communism in China. Now, this may not be something that you and I would celebrate, but the Chinese went to extraordinary lengths to make it a memorable event. In Beijing, some big doings with uber-military marches and whatnot, including an all-female regiment with white go-go boots. Quite the spectacle. Rumor has it the Chinese government wouldn’t allow anyone to march if they weren’t a specific height. If you can bring up a video, you’ll notice all members who marched were the same height.

My plans for this evening were to make my way over to West Lake to watch the celebratory fireworks and other goings on. I imagine there would be plenty. However, residual jetlag caught the better of me and I found it too tedious to make the trek to the other side of the river in the rain. After all, I can just as easily watch the fireworks outside my window as they burst my eardrums.

As I saw sections of this ordeal on Chinese news channels, I thought to myself, how is it that they are so proud of communism? Then it hit me. I have never experienced the ordeals of growing up through a revolution. Compared to the strife that older generations had to endure, I’m sure the introduction of the Communist party in 1949 was a welcoming site. Just imagine being so hard pressed that you think communism is a step up. We have a lot to be grateful for.

Back in the Belly of the Beast

2009-09-30T15:24:00.003+08:00

Dear China,

Leaving you was a sudden and temporary solution to our relationship problems. Hopefully the time apart has made us more able to cope with each others’ differences. If you can try a little harder to stop being a pain in my ass all the time, I will try to stop being such a whiney brat. I’ll try.

Last night I arrived back in Hangzhou and, therefore, back into the realm of Chinese censorship. Once again I’m forced to send these posts as black market email so others may keep my blog for me. I’m reminded once again that, in China, there is no direct route to your destination. For once, I wouldn’t mind a non-stop flight.

At 4:00 am, Linus and I left Laramie for Denver. He gave me the choice of Interstate 80 to I-25 or to wind through 287. Naturally, I asked if we could drive 287. Because it was still dark, as we reached the foothills of the pass, I asked him to pull over so that I could simply stare upwards. The sky was pocked with stars and I knew I wasn’t going to see them again for almost a year. The complete darkness made them seem almost closer.

At the Denver airport, the woman at the check-in counter for United Airlines nearly gave me a heart attack when she told me I’d missed my chance to enter China. Fortunately for me, she was only a poor reader. My valid enter-before-this-date was Sept 16. She didn’t happen to notice that it was of 2010, not 2009. My panic subsided.

The great thing about having a 4 hour layover in San Francisco is the fresh seafood. For a late breakfast: Dungeness crab eggs Benedict. Yes, the traditional eggs Benedict, but with enormous chunks of crabmeat. Delicious. Just the thing to prepare you for a twelve-hour flight across the Pacific.

Notable in-flight movies: 1) “Easy Virtue.” Someone please give Stephen Elliott my thanks for capturing Noel Coward’s genius on film. 2) “The Soloist.” I’ll watch anything with Robert Downey, Jr., and this was as good as expected. It also helps if you, like me, adore the cello.

Incredibly, when landing in Shanghai, I was not quarantined this time around. In fact, I believe the Porky and Babe Virus scare has started to dwindle, since there were no biohazard ogres boarding the plane to take our temperature before we were allowed off the jet.

Two taxis and a two-hour train ride later, I finally arrived at the apartment in Hangzhou. I immediately jumped into the shower to wash away the grit of travel. As I did so, I couldn’t help thinking that I was reluctantly washing away Wyoming along with it.

Predicted four-day forecast: Jetlag.

Aspen Alley and the Quiet West

2009-09-29T10:50:00.004+08:00

Last weekend I had the opportunity to take a two-hour drive with some dear friends up over the Snowy Mountains and into the Sierra Madres of Carbon County. We came to Aspen Alley. Wyoming’s fall may not be as colorful as New England’s, but it is still stunning. The aspen tree leaves turn to a bright pollen color, as if they’ve soaked in the color of the sun, making everything look like it has been coated in amber or dusted in gold.

Carbon County’s beauty just proves my devotion to the autumn season. It remains the perfect time of year, and my favorite. It is an artist’s paradise.

We picked a clearing in the grove to set out several folding chairs while we picnicked on sandwiches and grapes. For the first time in over four months I was cold and it felt great. I borrowed Kaijsa’s Washington sweatshirt and snapped a few dozen photos of our group as we relished the serene surroundings.

On our return, we stopped in the tiny town of Woods Landing for pie and coffee. What better way to top off the American trails than with the all-American dessert? We turned out our pockets for change and invited the jukebox to play Elvis, MeatLoaf and some Bob Dylan.

Coming back into town, I reflected on our day. It is times like these that tell me why I love the quiet west. There are rare occasions and infrequent places that allow us to commune so closely with the natural world. Like Thoreau, I too wish to transcend from the hustle-bustle of urbanity. When I do, my mood shifts upwards and I see what contentment looks like. Here I can breathe.

Here she goes again

2009-09-24T02:56:00.003+08:00

Ok, China. I've got a new visa. My flight leaves from Denver on Saturday morning and this time I am ready for you. No games this time. No tricks. I'm coming back on the condition that you and I have an open and honest relationship. I realize that I may be better at this than you, so I will try to be patient.

I've felt a little guilty the past ten days, because whenever someone asks me "How is China?" I’ve been telling them how difficult it is, that I am less than thrilled. While that's not untrue, it is not the whole truth. I like experiencing the different culture and language and I like knowing that there are struggles I can handle. Part of me was afraid that I was a bit of a princess and couldn't deal with the hard stuff, but now I know I can - I just don't want to. Then again, who does? It’s good to know what your limitations are and how much you can actually put up with. I know I get homesick easily, but can tough it out if need be.

While I've been home, many people have been asking me, "Why are you going back? If you don't like it there, why don't you just come home, start a life, and enjoy yourself?" I must be honest; it's a tempting idea. I've considered applying for a job at the Laramie Community College. I know they're looking for lecturers for the spring semester; but there is a major part of me that doesn't want to chicken out on China, that I would feel like somewhat of a failure and a coward for coming back so soon and not sticking it out. The whole point of me going to China was to have the full experience of living for a year in a third-world developing country and having more to write about. This is the problem with growing up Catholic: you stay in relationships you know aren’t working because you are taught to follow through on your commitments.

So I'm pressing on. I'll return to China on Saturday, finish my current job in Hangzhou for the next three months, and then move to Beijing. Now that I know what is in store for me in the months to come, I think I'm up for it. I may not like things the way they are now, but I am convinced that everything will change in December. I keep repeating that, but it may be because I'm trying to convince myself that it's true. It's my new mantra. "Everything will be all right in December. Everything will be all right in December. Everything will be all right in December..."

You haven't called

2009-09-22T13:09:00.004+08:00

That isn't to say I have been waiting by the phone, hoping you'll ring me; but it would be nice to know you cared, China. If I'm going to come back in a few days, you have to show me that you'll change - buy me flowers, offer me real dark chocolate, give me a few more massages.

Do I miss China? No. But I am ready to return. I was unprepared for the culture shock and the devastation of leaving things unsettled back here; but now things are a little clearer. I've had time to stew and regroup. Now I am fit for battle. In spite of a gaggle of mixed metaphors, I'm now more aware of what this year abroad will bring me, especially after looking back at the past four months. They were a warm up.

Yes, the honeymoon is over and the real work begins. This is the part of the relationship with which many people struggle - the middle. Beginnings are new and exciting. You don't know what to expect and you are both so interested in learning. The end is either a bittersweet or just plain bitter, but an end is in sight and the relief is imminent. However, it is in the middle that we can get a little lost. Sometimes, in order to find our way back, we need a little respite, some slight reprieve or temporary amnesty to bring you together again.

China and I may have just saved our relationship. These past days have been an opportunity to gain some keen new perspective. It is often in absence that we appreciate our significant others. I see what she's done here. She's pushed me away just long enough to let me know that I have to be the one to call her. I've been playing a game of chicken without knowing it. Fine. Tomorrow I'll phone China and make plans for a reconciliation. All this for a year-long fling. Let's hope she's worth the trouble.

Not Quite 10 Things I Hate About You

2009-09-16T12:56:00.006+08:00

Dear China,

This isn't a love letter and I don't want you back. I have been home in Wyoming for three days now and I don't miss you at all. Since I've made this visit, I've developed a list of reasons why our relationship isn't working. Please take it personally and consider changing before I return next week.

1) You are communist. I am democratic. We come from different backgrounds and that is hard to cope with in a relationship.

2) You repress your people and I want them to rise up and say, "Revolution! Revolt of the proletariat!" But you have not taught the Chinese people to be free thinkers.

3) I don't like your cooking. Your food is hard on me. I think I've said enough about this in the past.

4) Living with you is like living with a messy roommate. I never feel clean and it is always my turn to take out the garbage - never yours. And you smell. Please import deodorant and stop cooking stinky tofu.

5) You keep me from everyone I love. You make me choose between you and my friends and that isn't love. When I left you for Wyoming I realized just how many people I left behind. There are so many people I love here, not to mention friendships that had only just barely begun.

6) You like the heat. I hate living in the heat. I hate the heat. I hate it. I absolutely hate it. That is all.

7) You don't close your mouth when you chew, and that is just gross.

8) You make everything more difficult than it has to be. Everything I try to accomplish in China is either thwarted or sidetracked. It's like my Dad's jolly-rigging job with the kitchen stove. You have to turn on the living room lights to cook an egg. It makes no sense.

9) I'm usually not one to complain about size, but you are too big.

China, you are GREAT for two or three weeks; but after that, the honeymoon is over and I want to get the hell outta Dodge.

Always,
M

Reprieve

2009-09-13T15:00:00.001+08:00

China kicked me out. She threw my clothes out on the front lawn of the apartment complex. My laundry fell from eight floors up before it hit the ground. She knows I never wanted the relationship in the first place, but now my poor students are stuck in the middle of a messy split. So, instead of calling it quits for good, it is just a brief separation.

This has been the longest Saturday of my life. On Friday, I registered residency – again – this time with the Bin Jiang District police station, then took a twenty-minute taxi ride back to Xiaoshan’s immigration office to see if I could renew my tourist visa one more time. When I arrived, they told me I had to have a Chinese bank account. I asked the duty officer why. His response was, “I don’t know. It is just policy.” Way to be a robot, dude.

Not only did I need a Chinese bank account (for a tourist???), but I also needed to apply for the renewal in my own district. So, back to Bin Jiang, only to discover that the immigration office closed at 5:00 pm and not 5:30. We arrived at 5:09 to find the office lobby dark and the doors locked up. I bet they didn’t even wait until 5:01 to close. China, man. She’s got a schedule.

So, with my visa expiration approaching within twenty-four hours, I had no choice but to leave the country. Originally, the plan was to fly to Korea, where I would stay with my boss and she would arrange for a business visa. However, you cannot make plans in China. There is no future – only a now. I was later informed that it would not be possible to get a visa in Korea, or any other country besides the U.S. It has something to do with third countries and being an American and Communist bull that I don’t understand. Blah blah blah.

The next morning, I made quick arrangements for a flight from Shanghai to Denver via Chicago. In order to get to Shanghai in time for my flight, the train was out of the question, since it wasn’t guaranteed that there would be seats available. Instead, I hired an illegal taxi to take me straight to Pudong airport.

It took three and a half hours to drive to Shanghai. It consisted of mostly silence, save for two short conversations in broken Chinese about bus exhaust and bridge construction. My flight to Chicago lasted fourteen hours, with a two-hour layover that just barely gave me time to get through customs. The customs officer was surprisingly pleasant – and cute. Finally, I boarded my flight to Denver and passed out in a fetal position the second I found my seat: the last seat of the last row on the plane. It was a two-and-a-half hour flight to Denver, and a two hour drive to Laramie, where I am now safely and comfortable going to fall asleep for the next day or two.

Monday I will send in my application for a new visa. Hopefully it will take a very long time. I’m enjoying English conversation and clean mountain air.

China’s and My Relationship Status

2009-09-10T14:32:00.000+08:00

The bad news: China rejected me and wants to break up. The Chinese government denied my request for a business visa because I’ve been in the country too long. Idiocy. My tourist visa expires on Saturday and my boss decided to leave all this until the last minute. Very smart.

My options are these: Tomorrow I will go back to Xiaoshan to the embassy and ask to renew my tourist visa one more time. Likely I will not be able to, since I believe you can only renew once and I have already done so. You can only cheat on China once. She holds grudges and doesn’t forgive easily. The second option: This weekend I will fly to Korea. By leaving the country, I can apply again for a four-month business visa. Maybe China just wants some space. Time apart will make her realize she wants me back.

The timing is terrible. I have family visiting this weekend from Canada and I fear I won’t be able to see them. I’m trying to be optimistic, but China won’t let me. It’s hard to be optimistic in this country when at every turn you find several roadblocks. She’s a jealous and controlling bitch.

The good news: I am now the squatting toilet master. If you can use a squatting toilet on a moving train that’s swaying side to side, you can pee anywhere.

A Day in Shanghai

2009-09-09T23:39:00.003+08:00

I live in the Bin Jiang District of Hangzhou. But don’t tell China. According to China, I am now officially a resident of Shanghai.

In order to apply for an F type visa (a business visa), you must register as having residency in the same city as the business that employs you. Technically, I am not employed by the business, but by the head of the corporation himself in order to teach his daughter and niece. But no matter; this is a minor detail.

I took the 11:00 am train to Shanghai this morning. It takes about an hour and a half to get there from Hangzhou. Lucy and I thought we’d leave the apartment at 8:00 am, in case we could get an earlier train, but it was sold out. So, we waited at the Hangzhou train station for two hours. Luckily, I had brought a book with me. Several chapters later, it was time to board.

We were fortunate enough to grab a soft seat. On my previous Shanghai-Hangzhou train experience, I was forced to stand for the duration of the ride. This time, I sat back and continued to read my book. The only distraction was a four-foot middle-aged woman sitting diagonally across from me who proceeded to suck back some fried rice. I read the same sentence several times, trying to mentally drown out the sound of the food traveling from one side of her jaw to the other.

When we arrived in Shanghai, I was amazed to see the sunshine. I had only been to Shanghai once, upon arriving in China. That day was extraordinarily smoggy, just as I had been warned. No one had ever reported sunshine from Shanghai. It was beautiful and it immediately put me in a better mood.

A taxi drove us to a hair salon in a Korean neighborhood where we met Lucy’s friend and boyfriend, who told us where we could go to register as a resident of Shanghai. One form from this building, another from that building, two signatures here, five copies of your passport there, and I was finally registered. Now to apply for the business visa.

The headquarters for the company at which I was supposedly employed were on the third floor of a building not too far from the train station. A worker took my passport and all my documents and paperwork when I entered. I frightened a few fish in the hallway aquarium and watched a 50-year-old Korean managing director chain smoke while talking about his two children. We made idle conversation for a few hours while I waited for who-knows-what.

Whenever I meet the duty officer – and who knows when that will be? – I am instructed to tell him that I am an English translator for a dental company in Shanghai. According to China, I was hired to train engineers how to write professional business documents in English.

After getting our story straight and making sure I knew what the deal was, Lucy and I left Shanghai to return to Hangzhou and our students waiting for us back in Bin Jiang at the apartment. It was a long day, but I shot a few good photographs and got out of town for a few hours.

So, my passport is in Shanghai, on its way to apply for a business visa that will hopefully last me 90 days. We will find out on Friday if it was successful.

I’ve said it before: nothing in China is simple.

Finishing Touches

2009-09-08T01:47:00.001+08:00

My day, as I predicted, didn't end in Hangzhou without a few more memorable moments. The first of which was when I tried to use a public toilet. Not realizing it was unisex, I walked in to an unlocked stall, hitting a man in the back with the door. Mid stream, he turned around to scold me. Apparently it was my fault he didn't lock his door.

Sometimes the buses in Hangzhou can take longer than you expect, but are worth the wait. I stood in line for nearly half an hour to board a bus headed back to Xiaoshan. When the next driver decided to finally show up for his shift, we were allowed on the rig. My guess is that the passenger load can carry up to sixty people. Maybe more, considering the standing room. It takes only seconds to fill up one of these city buses. And yet, we sat there for another lengthy span as a pushy pregnant woman shoved sticks of melon in our faces, selling them for a few yuan a piece. I noticed plenty of chewed off sticks that had been dropped on the floor of the bus. She have done quite a bit of business that evening.

Construction in China is never ending. To avoid frustration, it helps to make jabs. "The national bird of China has become the crane," or my favorite, "When is China going to be finished?" Because of the constant changes, the bus ride took a little longer than usual, as we were rerouted to another avenue. When my stop finally approached, I rose and made my way to the back door of the bus. When it lurched to a stop, I was unprepared and my hand leapt to a railing. I stopped myself from falling face first onto the melon-stick-covered floor, but my arm swung in such a way that I pummeled a poor girl in the seat next to the door. My leg went into the side of her chair and I now have a dark bruise that looks like I was assaulted by a baseball bat, Nancy Kerrigan style.

I hobbled off the bus and was limping down ShiXin Bei Lu when a polite young man on a bike offered me a ride. Sometimes you can get lucky and stumble upon these dudes on their bikes who just want to pick up a few extra yuan. It was a relief, but I was too tired and too sore to remember to ask him how much before I hopped on the back of his blue bike. He took me for thirty RMB. A total rip off. I could have hailed a legal taxi cab and payed only seven. That'll teach me to accept rides from strange young Chinese boys on electric bikes. Anyone else ever have that problem?

Weekend Adventures

2009-09-06T18:06:00.002+08:00

I have the great fortune to be able to apartment-sit for someone in Xiaoshan until the end of October. So, while the girls do their usual weekend studying back in Bin Jiang, I get to have a few days on my own each week. At first I wondered how I would travel back and forth between districts, but yesterday morning I learned that it is possible to ride my Barbie bike from Bin Jiang to Xiaoshan and still have ¾ battery remaining. Brilliant. Because of limited parking and the inability to access electric outlets, however, I have to drag the bike onto the elevator with me and keep it in the apartment. The hassle is worth it.

Two hours after settling in the apartment, the power went out. I was warned about this and given a pay-as-you-go electricity card that works rather like a debit card. I walked down the hall to the electrical room in order to purchase two months worth of electricity, only to discover the card read as an error. For an hour I was ushered back and forth from security guard to local resident, anyone who would help me figure out this blasted contraption.

Eventually I was told I had to go to the source, like Neo in the Matrix. A security guard gave me the address in Chinese and told me to take my card with me. Outside, a guy on a motorcycle offered to give me a ride. The electric company’s headquarters was less than five minutes away. So, I hopped on and he waited for me to buy electricity, then returned me safely home. This is way better than your average taxi.

Today was yet another adventure. I took a rickshaw to the bus stop where the “gypsy cabs” wait to take you to into Hangzhou. These are illegal mini vans who transport people back and forth from Xiaoshan and Hangzhou. When I got there, I was the only one, so I waited for other passengers to arrive. The cabs won’t drive unless they fill the van. The vehicles look like they’re on their last leg, but can seat seven sweaty passengers. While waiting, I sat down on the curb and watched several cab drivers eat their lunch, the food gloriously hanging out of their mouths.

I looked down at my legs and realized how pasty white they were. In China, this is considered the height of beauty. But to me, it looked sick. To get a little color, I picked a spot on the curb that was completely in the sun. I hiked up my pants above my knees and rolled the sleeves of my shirt above my shoulders so that I could get as much sun on my skin as possible. The cab drivers pointed to a spot next to them in the shade and asked me if I wanted to get out of the sun. I told them I was fine and didn’t want to move. I liked the sun. It didn’t matter how many times I told them, though, they kept asking me to move. They couldn’t comprehend why I wanted to let the sun beat down on me. One driver in particular got up from his spot, squatted beside me - mouth stuffed with food - and tried to persuade me to move. All I could do was stare at the food between his teeth and behind his cheeks. He smiled wide and some of the food fell onto the sidewalk.

When there were finally enough passengers, we left for Hangzhou and I got stuck with the folding seat in the middle row of the van. Every time we turned the corner I was tilted away from the window and practically dropped in the lap of a young Chinese girl sitting next to me. I apologized all the way to Hangzhou.

In Hangzhou, I got out of the cab a little before the bus station, where most of the cabs will drop you off. I decided to walk a little ways until I decided where I wanted to go. Three city blocks later I was overheated and needed a breeze for some relief. I flagged down another rickshaw and asked him to take me to the foreign bookstore. I knew it wasn’t too far, so I asked him how much he would charge. 20 yuan (about 3 US dollars). I thought this was a little expensive for what rickshaws normally charge for the distance I wanted to go; but I decided to bite the bullet.

After twenty minutes or so of weaving in and out of side streets and dilapidated alleys I realized that he was trying to take short cuts without really knowing what he was doing. I politely reminded him where I was going and he seemed to change direction. I love how no one here knows where they’re going. It makes for an interesting ride.
After all that, when I finally got the bookstore, I was bored by the selection and didn’t stay longer than ten minutes. Instead, I walked around West Lake for a little while until it got too hot again and I took refuge in my favorite American embassy: Starbucks.

Here, I wanted to order a plain iced tea. I asked for an iced English Breakfast tea. Not difficult, right? Wrong. They cannot make English Breakfast iced tea. I said to make the tea hot and then pour it over ice. This was too complicated a process for them, so it took a few minutes of persuasion and demonstration to tell them that it is possible to make iced tea from hot tea. So, now I sit with my iced tea melting in the heat while I write on the second story balcony and watch the sun set over West Lake.

The day isn’t over yet. I’m curious what the journey back the apartment will be like.

Some advice on China

2009-09-03T23:38:00.005+08:00

A friend from home wrote me an email, asking about China. He is thinking of coming here to teach and wanted my advice on various aspects of such an undertaking. Here was my reply:

Obtaining a job and visa: I would recommend getting a tourist visa to start with. It's easier to obtain and will let you come to China without much hassle. I suggest getting a 90 day visa, just so you're covered for a while. Once you get to Beijing or Shanghai, there are plenty of jobs available. The cities will usually have a magazine for foreigners (in English) that will tell you a little bit about what's going on in the city, including classifieds. Once you get here and secure a job, you can negotiate in your contract that you want the school to sponsor your work visa. This shouldn't be a problem. You will probably have to make a trip outside the country to get this (a weekend in Hong Kong - which is like a vacation in itself).

Salary: Pay all depends on which school, how much they need you, and what position you'll have. Generally, the average salary for a teacher in an international school is pretty good. About 16,000 Chinese Yuan (RMB) per month. That's about $2,300 US dollars. Plus, you get a 6,000 RMB living stipend on top of that. About $800. This covers apartment costs. All in all, a pretty great deal, I think. However, most international schools will not allow you to take extra jobs or tutoring positions outside the school, so what you make is what you make. Private tutoring jobs are ok, but I really recommend trying to go the international school route. I had a position at an international academy, which pays a little less, and now I am a private tutor. I make 10,000 RMB per month with no living stipend because I live with my students. That said, I'm only doing this until December and then I'm moving to Beijing to an international school. I need the money... and Beijing is just way better than Hangzhou.

Transferring money is an issue, too. The banks will not let you wire money to an American account. Your international school (if that's where you get a job) might set you up with a bank account. That's if you're lucky. No worries, then. However, most places will pay you in cash. Banking is relatively new in China. All those things you hear about Chinese technology being better than ours? It's a load of crap. Most businesses don't even know what a credit card looks like, much less accept them as payment. So, if you do get paid in cash, you will have to do what I do. I take my cash to the Bank of China (it's the only bank that will let you do this) and buy American dollars. However, you can only buy $500 at a time (about 3,500 RMB). So of course, multiple trips are necessary. Nothing is simple in China.

Food is also another issue. Real Chinese food is NOTHING like American Chinese food. You will be sick of rice within a week. I promise. I'm not sure how you feel about Asian cuisine, or whether you have dietary needs, but I find it extremely difficult. However, that's probably because I have limiting constraints to my diet: I am a vegetarian AND I have digestion problems. I can't eat fried food and EVERYTHING (and I do mean everything) is fried. They fry salad, for goodness sake. The supermarkets usually have a small international food aisle, so I do alright.

DON'T DRINK THE WATER. You will probably have to buy a water cooler with a hot and cold tap (they're cheap), or if you're lucky, one will be provided for you. I wash all my fruits and vegetables with the hot water. If you buy one of these, just know that when it says "cold" water, they mean room-temperature. The Chinese are just now starting to be ok with cold water. Most of them think it's bad for you. They associate cold water with the water from the taps (which no one drinks because of pollution).

Travel in China: Make sure you take your passport with you EVERYWHERE. You are required to have it in order to check into a hotel or hostel and you are required to have it at the bank. Basically, I suggest just carrying it with you wherever you go. I will say this for China: it's fairly easy to get a train, bus or plane to anywhere in the country. Depending on pure luck, you can often get a good seat deal.

The train is a complete entity unto itself. There are four levels of travel on a train: hard seat, soft seat, hard sleeper, and soft sleeper. Because trains fill up SUPER fast, you will most likely never get a soft seat or a hard sleeper (these are comfortable and the most affordable). So, your options are hard seat (the most uncomfortable, dirty and noisy way to travel, but dirt cheap), or the soft sleeper. Incredibly comfortable and fantastic, but expensive. However, you can get a bus to practically anywhere and it is reasonably priced.

It helps if you can count to ten. There are also hand gestures for each number, which helps when you are bargaining in a market.

Get used to bugs. I saw my first cockroach two months ago.

Be careful of drivers. Anyone with a motorized vehicle (small or large) is absolutely insane. I've been hit twice - once by a car and once by a scooter. They don't care about rules. When I get home I am grateful just to have lived through the traffic. There is a hierarchical order to the road: Buses, trucks, cars, scooters, bicycles, then pedestrians.

No one chews with their mouth closed.

It probably sounds like I'm getting down on China, and, well... I am. It's not the easiest place to live and to be quite frank, I never want to come back here again. That being said, though, I'm glad I came. I'm glad I've experienced it and I think my experience has been FAR better than some other people I know. I hope if you come you'll like it here. It's really cool to experience something SO different.

Please Come Again

2009-09-02T22:56:00.008+08:00

On this day in the little town of Laramie in southeastern Wyoming, there is a remembrance for a lovely poet. If only I had ample petty cash – to be able to hop on a plane at a moment’s notice and fly to the other side of the world, simply to celebrate a friendship and a brilliant mind.

Craig Arnold has frequently been on my mind. Only last night I had a dream of him, standing amongst a crowd of admirers, within a great auditorium built to house artists such as he.

He always gave great advice. Sometimes I simply took it without knowing that it was the right choice, but doing so because I figured he knew best. He always turned out to be right. I could trust that.

In this dream, Craig, having fumbled through the mass, stood before me and gave me his advice once again. I listened carefully. I knew it would be important, that I should hold on to this advice because it would affect many future decisions.

When I woke, the advice had left me. I remember his face - nearly a foot above me - his bald head shining with the gleam of the auditorium lights. I could tell you what he was wearing, the tone of his voice, or how much sweat had accumulated on his nose; but I can’t remember the simple words he gave to me that were of such importance. Perhaps they will come back to me when I need them again. For now, I’m just grateful for the visit. I keep thinking I never got around to telling him that he reminded me of a bald Hugh Grant.

At RQA I spent a week teaching W.H. Auden’s “Stop All the Clocks” in my creative writing classes. The voice in the poem stayed in my head for days. I eventually had to mimic its rhythm and tone and there was only one person I knew I could write it for. This is for Craig:

So soon after, and yet so long
To ask in earnest what went wrong.
Open the church doors, call out the mass.
Prop up his coffin, let the people pass.
Arrange the pictures, line them along the mantle.
Let his face sing without preamble.
Lift him high above the rock.
Today we’ll call in the flock.
He carried a song, a light, my heart.
Expect these now to turn to dark.
Close the windows, keep the rain from off the sill.
Leave the wind chimes to their trill.
Over all the echoes, the organ, the slews,
Carve his name in the wood of the pews.
Kiss the orchids tied ‘round your neck.
So prettily they fall, as he did in death.

The apple may never even fall...

2009-09-01T22:45:00.006+08:00

I feel myself becoming more like my mother every day. Not only am I eating more mangoes (my mother's favorite fruit), but I'm beginning to sound like her.

Tonight was parent-teacher conferences at the girls' school. Since their parents aren't here, I went instead. I went around to their classrooms and met their teachers. I remembered what it was like for my mother and how I was always terrified about what she would bring home to tell me. I hadn't done anything wrong (usually), but for some reason was horrified my mother would find out I was a different person at school.

The girls were just as anxious to know what I talked about with their teachers. I heard myself saying things like, "All of your teachers had the same comment: you need to speak up and ask more questions in class."

I gave a big lecture, just like my mother used to do, about how it was important to be vocal in class and how, even if they didn't have a question, it was important to voice an opinion or put out some ideas to get a discussion started. I couldn't believe what kept pouring out of my mouth. I was having flashbacks. It made me miss her, but it is also comforting to know that I am turning into her. I could think of a better person after whom to model myself.

A Good Day

2009-08-30T23:58:00.000+08:00

Sometimes it takes a foggy day to see things clearly. The weather was miserable today and I finally felt comfortable in China. It rained and brought the temperature down to a perfect 66 degrees. The dreary gray drizzled all over me as I drove back from the coffee shop on my bike. I curled up with a blanket as the dampness came through my window. I sat there with a book, a cup of tea and some porridge and felt like I was back in Ireland, or in Jack Ridl’s poem “Rain on the Burren.” I relished it.

I fell asleep reading a book about hiking. When I woke up I was ready for a hike of my own; so I put on my shoes and walked halfway to Xiaoshan. Two hours later my feet hurt - the good kind of hurt, the kind you get from doing something you know you should have done sooner. I've been neglecting my walks because of my aversion to the heat and humidity. Hopefully this is a sign that summer is close to an end.

The capstone of my evening was a long overdue three and a half hour conversation with my mother. I had finished writing my statement of purpose for PhD applications this morning and sent it to her via email. Her response made me believe she had more to tell me, but was waiting for verbal communication. It has been weeks since I've heard her voice and it was just one more comfort of the day to remind me of home. My mother and I often have the kind of conversations you need to build up to, like having to work up an appetite before Thanksgiving so that you can stuff as much as you can into one meal. For us, phoning is nothing less than a verbal marathon. I enjoy these conversations and often have a chance to figure out a little part of who I am when I speak to her. Sometimes it is this tiny clarity that can bring the bigger picture into focus. She calls it her enlightenment.

Ain't no Mary Poppins

2009-08-28T22:16:00.011+08:00

Most people welcome a little extra help around the house. Being as lucky as I am, there is a housekeeper who comes Monday - Friday and does the laundry, the cooking, and the cleaning. These are all things I have never really minded doing myself. Now that I have someone to do them for me, I'm simply frustrated.

I continue to confuse her. She was hired to cook for all four of us; but, having severe reactions (both intestinal and mental) to most Chinese and Korean cuisine, I have bought my own small refrigerator and kept my own little stash of food in my room. She stares at me in wonder when I make tea and toast. She looks amazed that I can do this by myself.

The other day I was chopping an apple to put into my porridge. When she saw this, she tried to take the knife and apple from me and do it herself. I may be too easily irritated, but I enjoy doing things myself. There is a major satisfaction I get from it. After that, I kept my cutting board in my room. I'm slowly forming a galley in this small space as I bring in more and more kitchenware.

This woman annoys me; and yet, I pity her. The average housekeeper in China makes such a meager amount. Then again, when I see what she does with most of her time, it could be justified. She sleeps on the sofa mid-afternoon. I interrupt her naps nearly every day, mid R.E.M., when I return to the apartment. Her dusting skills are limited to only visible surfaces that have no clutter.

She throws all clothing into the tiny washer all at once, packed so tightly that the soap is guaranteed to stay in one place inside the machine. Never mind the colors running. Thankfully, she has weekends off, so I save my laundry for Saturdays. If I let her take over, my clothes come out feeling like cardboard. And she keeps moving my pumice stone from out of the shower onto the counter; each day I have to put it back. She hasn't got the memo yet.

To be fair, she is kind and tries to be unobtrusive. She always has a smile and I do believe she is a sweet lady. Unfortunately, I'm cranky and just want to be left alone.

I've never had a housekeeper before, nor will I ever want one in the future. When you have lived all your life without someone to do these things for you, you develop certain habits, certain preferences. You get used to having things the way you want them. Your standards differ from others.

This is what you get when your mother raises you to be an independent, self-reliant woman.

A small piece of travel advice

2009-08-28T12:01:00.002+08:00

A friend emailed me this morning with the following request:

If I could teach a part of your experiences in my senior seminar, what would you like the students to know? I am teaching a senior sem on travel and writing, making it travel writing or making sense of experiences abroad. So tell me.

Here was my response:

Travel - Don't sweat the small stuff. Seriously. Shit is GOING to happen when you're traveling. It's important to be able to laugh it off. Also, try LOCAL things. Don't stick to the all-touristy stuff. See how the locals live, not how the tourists see the locals. This includes trying local cuisine. Sure, it may look and smell gross. Sure, you may throw up simply being within 50 feet of it, but it's good to say, "Yeah, I've tried that." I know for a fact now that I wouldn't touch stinky tofu with a 30 foot pole; nor would I care to eat a boiled chicken with head and feet still attached. Barbequed rat on a stick? No, thanks.

Travel Writing - Try to write a little bit every day, even if it is only jotting down a few notes. If you miss a day here and there, don't beat yourself up, but get on track again as quickly as possible. There are days when I could kick myself for not writing something down immediately. Now I bring a small notebook (a travel diary) with me wherever I go. I even bring it into the restrooms with me in case I get an idea while I'm sitting on the toilet. And don't just talk about the things you did that day; talk about personal observations you made about the culture, the mentality of the people, the way everyone stares at you when you're walking down the street, how people are accommodating and strict at the same time, that they feel the need to repeat something twenty times, or the fact that none of the taxi drivers ever know where they're going. These are the little things that make a place unique.

Sometimes I really need to follow my own advice. Do what I say, not what I do!

Fishy fishy fishy

2009-08-27T23:53:00.004+08:00

In Korean, Meggie means "fish." Highly appropriate, I think. However, when I see the type of fish that gets served up as dinner, I'm not quite so sure I like the idea. This is what was staring me in the face while I tried to swallow my toasted tomato and cheese sandwich.

Sometimes I forget which country I came to, China or Korea. I'm learning more Chinese, but with Korean accents and Korean customs. What is rude in Korea is not so rude in China. But what is rude in western culture is second nature in Korean and Chinese.

For example: I have been permanently driven away from the dining table - not by the foods or the smells, but by the noise. My mother has taken over my body and I now know exactly why she taught me from an extremely early age to chew with my mouth closed. It puts me off my appetite and all I can do is stare. Therefore, I now take my meals in my bedroom. Unfortunately, that doesn't always help. The sound of smacking can travel through walls.

Flashing

2009-08-26T21:59:00.002+08:00

The heat lightning looked like fireworks, so at first I didn't pay any attention. Fireworks are a common occurrence in China - nearly a nightly event. The tradition of fireworks stems from the belief in warding off evil spirits with loud bands. Some habits die hard.

But this evening, when I had a brief fifteen-minute break between classes, I stepped out onto the balcony off the kitchen and watched the sky flicker in front of me. It was concentrated only in one small section of the sky. The flashes of light looked like electric sparks trying to trace patterns in the east. The pollution haze was so thick that at time there was no visible bolt, only the linings of particular clouds becoming clear against the night. I still have yet to see a star in China.

One Day at a Time

2009-08-25T23:00:00.004+08:00

There are four of us living in this apartment: me, my two Korean students, Tina and Reena, and their Korean guardian, Lucy. Lucy and I often have difficulties in communication. Her English is not great, but she speaks Chinese. My Chinese is dreadful and my Korean is non-existent.

Today I met Lucy's boyfriend, whose English name is Louis. Louis doesn't speak English, but from what I could gather, without actually having a conversation with him, he seemed genuinely sweet. Our five minute interaction was all translated and filtered through Lucy. This evening, when Lucy and I were on a break from teaching the girls, I asked her about him. "Do you love him?" I asked. Her answer confused me at first; but when she explained it, it made a great deal of sense.

Me: "Do you love him?"

Lucy: "Little bit."

Her explanation? That every day her "measurement" of love is changed. "Maybe yesterday I love him a lot. Maybe today not as much." What a perfect way to describe the flakiness that can sometimes be love. After her explanation, she came back with, "He is not so good-looking, but he is my soulmate." I love the honesty. Maybe she'll love him more tomorrow.

A Sudden Upheaval

2009-08-18T22:31:00.003+08:00

A week ago today – my twenty-sixth birthday – I wasn’t exactly expecting the rug to be snatched out from under me. There I was, going about my business, teaching my classes as usual. Then, in the middle of the afternoon I was told that my school would no longer exist after the next days’ classes. The academy went bankrupt and we were all suddenly out of a job.

There are two speeds in China: “never” and “right now.”

It only took a few days before they shut off power in the building and expelled everyone from the premises. In the meantime, we were scrambling for new positions. A few teachers decided to return to their respective countries, banished from China to whence they came, rather a bit wet from the abrupt flushing of whatever income they had. The rest of us, however, though a little bruised, pulled our tails out from between our legs and decided to stick it out in this capricious country.

As fortune would have it, I was offered a job immediately after the ball dropped. One of my Korean students couldn’t seem to part with me, so her parents hired me as a private live-in teacher from August to December. For four months I’ll be making more money and comfortably teaching to my strengths. This young girl wishes to apply to my undergraduate alma mater; it is now my goal to get her there.

So, I remain in Hangzhou. This leg of the journey brings me to the Bing Jiang district. Ciao, Xiaoshan. It’s been real, but I’m digging the new digs. The neighborhood is cleaner, the apartment is lovely, and now I have a hip pink electric scooter to scoot me around to the nearest Xing Ba Ke (Starbucks).

If China has taught me anything so far, it is to roll with it all. Next stop on the journey: Beijing in December… tentatively…

The Foods that Save Us

2009-07-26T20:11:00.002+08:00

It never appealed to me to have to write about bodily functions before. However, since coming in China, it has become daily conversation and now I find it necessary to address said issue. One thing to note: I have IBS (irritable bowel syndrome). It is not a friendly condition to live with, but I’ve managed to regulate my diet to a point of satisfaction. In Wyoming it was easy to find foods that were digestible and easy on my stomach.

Here in China, it is a far different story. For two months now, I’ve picked through the food, set aside certain items, completely avoided many dishes altogether, but have still had to deal with minor upsets and sudden trips to the washroom. This past week has been no exception. In fact, I’ve had such problems that I’ve not had in well over three years. On Friday it hit its peak and I had made a record-setting number of bouts in one day.

For those of you who have never experienced the lovely excruciation of IBS, let me tell you that when it’s bad, it is nearly unbearable. The feeling is such that you believe your intestines are literally digesting liquid fire. It burns through your entire digestive tract and every inch is like razor blades. I imagine the feeling to be comparable to kidney stones. A cold sweat breaks out and the only thing that gets me through it is the relief of the porcelain bowl… when one is available.

My solution for the weekend? Yesterday I took a trip to a large supermarket in Hangzhou and raided the international section. I spent 300 yuan on foods like chick peas, three loaves of French bread, one baguette, Granny Smith apples, brie, olive oil, muesli and Nature Valley granola bars. Today I sat with my cousin in front of the computer while we watched Gone with the Wind and shared a picnic of western delights. The searing pain has ceased and I’m convinced a few days sans Chinese food will bring me back to regularity. The question is, what then? Ten more months of brie and baguette? I could live with that.

Two Dawns in China

2009-07-22T07:39:00.004+08:00

The excitement today was the total solar eclipse. This morning, instead of heading to their usual morning classes, our students and teachers gathered on the roof of the school to watch today’s second dawn.

We each grabbed our sunglasses and some of the kids had made a makeshift camera-obscura out of cereal boxes and tinfoil. The shadow of the moon made a tiny crescent of the sun’s light on the bottom of the boxes, so they could watch without blinding themselves.

We piled on to the roof around 9:00 in the morning and waited patiently for thirty minutes before the eclipse was visible. For the duration of the event, China was locked in darkness for a full six minutes. Then, the sun came out for the second time this morning. The solar system is an incredible thing. For the rest of the day I had “Total Eclipse of the Heart” stuck in my head.

Dancing (and Peeing) in the Streets

2009-07-16T08:08:00.007+08:00

The weather has held steady around or above the 100 degree mark, my stomach can stand increasingly less and less food, and China continues to block major internet sites. I am now banned from using Twitter or Facebook and therefore cut off from communicating with many friends and half of my family. But I’m sure China has good intentions, right?

With nearly two months under my belt, I can truly say China has been an interesting rollercoaster jungle. The language is not an easy one to learn, but it is relatively easy to get by on a minimal number of phrases. The first one I picked up (and very invaluable): “Bu yao” – don’t want. Another one I cling to: “Ting bu dong” – don’t understand. Some phrases get worn out pretty easily. “Ni hao” is said often enough, and I often wish there were another way to say thank you besides “xie xie.”

But the faces are kind and the people make it their day’s ambition to have a good time. They love to eat and dance. Many evenings after supper, while walking down around People’s Square in Xiaoshan, a large congregation of women gather together outdoors to do Chinese line-dancing. Men are not allowed on the dance floor with these groove shakers, but many husbands will watch along the sidelines, their toddlers in tow. The music is a mixture of American pop and traditional Chinese with a modern twist. The dancing is a little more difficult than the familiar American hustle, but with a few nights’ practice I started to get the hang of it. The trick is to squeeze yourself into the middle of the crowd, so that when you turn, you're always following someone else's lead.

Not only do the Chinese feel free to dance in the streets like Richard Simmons on a holiday, but they also feel free enough to pee in the streets, as well. Grown men and women will suddenly cop a squat in the middle of the sidewalk. As you step around them and wonder how they can perform such a private act in public, they will look up at you when you walk by and meet your stare to say, “Ni hao.”

Of course, we can’t leave all the fun to the adults. Customary infant and toddler garb consists of light-weight pants with absolutely no bottom. The parents split the crotch of the pants so that their children’s bums hang free in the breeze. Or, if they’re exceptionally proud of the fruit of their loins: no pants at all. This, I’ve noticed, only holds true for the male variety. One man at West Lake held his stark-naked son out in front of him like a ring bearer’s pillow, holding each leg behind the knees as the child leaned his back against the proud papa, feet stuck straight up in the air and the family jewels pointing the way. I guess if you got it, flaunt it.

I pride myself on having, so far, altogether avoided public restrooms. Why? Because they are nothing more than glorified holes in the ground. Some of them are ringed with porcelain. Why bother? If you’re going to have a porcelain toilet, why not install one you can actually sit on? These squatters are the only option in practically all of China. Each time I venture out, I pray I can make it through the afternoon without having to stop. Luckily, even though I keep well hydrated with bottle after bottle of water, the heat and humidity suck all liquids out of me and I can hold it until I get back to my western haven. My goal: to live in China an entire year without once having squatted.

The Demotion of Poetry

2009-07-02T06:56:00.003+08:00

It was my understanding that I had several jobs here in China. One, to act as the ESL coordinator of the school. Check. Two, to teach a summer acting camp. Right – I’ve made a curriculum and now I’m just waiting for the enrollment list. My other job was to teach creative writing and Shakespeare. Ok. That’s simple: two things I love most in the academic world.

For the past month I’ve been getting my students to write poetry and identify more words of expression. They read Pablo Neruda and wrote one of their own Odes. They read W.H. Auden and wrote rhyming quatrains. I was getting lines like “All I have is a desperate heart,” or “All things stay still like ice.” So, I decided it was time for them to move on to bigger things. They could handle it.

In the past couple of weeks I have been teaching them scansion through Shakespeare’s sonnets. They were doing tough lessons, even for a native English speaker, and they were actually keeping up with it all. I was so proud of them. And yet, today, I was told I am no longer allowed to teach them poetry in my creative writing classes. Their parents want to see them write. So, folks, it is official: poetry is no longer considered creative writing. I have a master’s degree in something that doesn’t exist anymore – if it ever did.

My plan was to originally get my students to the point where they were really comfortable with the sonnet form, then assign them to write a sonnet of their own – maybe even rewrite one of Shakespeare’s in their own way. They would be writing sonnets! They’d have a deeper understanding of iambic pentameter. Most people their age (hell, most people in general) couldn’t tell you what iambic pentameter was, let alone write in it. I was so excited.

We were only two days of scansion practice away until I would give them the writing assignment. (You’ve got to know how to read it first before you can write it). And then, today at lunch, sitting at the table with my usual bowl of rice and watermelon, leaving the other, more-strange items on the plate, untouched, I was told to drop the poetry and focus on “writing.”

“But poetry IS writing,” I said.

“Not to Korean parents,” came the reply.

They want volume. They want quantity, not quality. I could only assume they wanted prose, and lots of it, that poetry meant nothing to them.

So, this afternoon, when my students turned in their scansion homework from yesterday, I didn’t spend much time with it. I shortly put it aside and then gave them a photograph to look at. I asked them to tell a story about the photo, to ask questions, look at what they saw, ask how it made them feel. And then I quietly sat at my desk at the front of the classroom while they wrote in silence. This isn’t teaching, I thought. Anyone can sit behind a teacher’s desk and give a kid a prompt. What new information am I giving them? I felt like a failure, like we had just taken a major step backwards. It felt insulting, not just to me, but to them. They were beyond this. I could see the disappointed look on their faces. Then again, I could have imagined it.

It is difficult to not get snarky when someone tells you your area of concentration and interest is worthless. If this were happening to me in the United States, I would immediately retaliate, put up a fight and channel my inner Robin Williams to “Bring Poetry Back!” I’ve got such a hankering to rock the boat. But, there was a reason that the Dead Poets Society was supposed to be kept a secret… Somebody needs to tell me why.

The Big Qs.

2009-06-30T11:43:00.001+08:00

Self-censorship is not an easy feat. Korea is now going through some major changes and scaring the hell out of people all over the world. A majority of the students here at RQA are Korean. Granted, the major threat is North Korea and my students are from the South, but I want to ask them how they feel, how it’s affecting them, if they see the problems or see the changes that need to happen. Do they wonder about what will happen when China doesn’t have their back any longer? Or is there any point? Are they so wrapped up in their own primary and secondary educational lives that they can’t see past the school? Do they think about the impact it will have on the world? On THEM? Did I when I was their age? So, I keep myself from asking the can-of-worm questions. I have to ask myself every day, how many waves do I want to make? And how big?

I would urge my students to have these discussions, and yet I can’t even get them to ask questions about the poems I’m assigning. “What is the author trying to tell us?” “He’s sad.” (Sigh). I guess that’s a start. But how do I get them thinking about the big picture without invoking the wrath of the Politically Correct Police? Better yet, how do I get them to CARE when it doesn’t directly affect them?

These kids are bright, but sometimes unmotivated. They often come in without having done any of their homework. I pantomime asphyxiation, but that’s not getting anywhere. I’ve threatened to call their parents. That perked their ears. The next day they did HALF the assignment. Ok, we’re making progress. What else can I threaten them with? Today the faculty had a meeting to brainstorm that very question. Our solution? Take away weekend outings to the fancy hotels and swimming pools.

When I pictured myself teaching abroad, I never considered the fact that I might be teaching privileged rich kids who were born with a silver spoon in their mouths and no natural predators to take away their play station (or whatever gadget is hot these days). Private school is a marvel: the best educational circumstances for kids who don’t always act like they deserve it.

This isn’t to say I don’t believe these kids deserve a great education. I’d never say that. EVERYONE deserves a great education. But, my golly, could you show a little interest in your brain function? And it isn’t all about being academically alert, either. I’m talking about developing a real connection with curiosity and asking the more philosophical or esoteric questions. Not everything has to be arcane, but once in a while it wouldn’t hurt to wonder. That’s all I’m saying. My fear is that we are far from seeing them as free thinking individuals.

Clean Marbles

2009-06-20T14:17:00.003+08:00

It’s been three weeks since I started teaching in China. My typical day consists of about five classes, each made up of no more than two students. It’s refreshing and somewhat challenging to go from teaching 23 college students in one English composition class to teaching a small number of grade-schoolers from Korea. We work on grammar, speech, writing, diction, and language arts.

Two of my students just finished reading “A Wind in the Door” for our grade eight Language Arts class (the second book in the series that began with “A Wrinkle in Time”). We began the book on our first day together. Less than three weeks later we finished. It was amazing to see how much they enjoyed it. As we got closer to finishing the book, I noticed how much they picked up their reading pace. They wanted to hurry, to get to the end and find out what happened. What a change from walking into a classroom with drooping 18-year-olds who just rolled out of bed and don’t want to be there.

The freedom of lesson planning is exhilarating. I finally get to choose which authors, what books, what poems, and what writing assignments. One younger student, I found, had been assigned to memorize one poem a week in her regular school days. In learning this, I came up with an in-class assignment for her: to write about the most memorable poem. While she sat there writing about a lyrical verse that had moved her that year, my own poem memorization experiences came back to me; so, I decided to take up my own pen and join her in the assignment. Here’s what I wrote:

“The first poem I ever had to memorize was “O Captain, My Captain” by Walt Whitman. I was in second grade and didn’t understand why the assignment was given. I remember working on it for an entire week, trying to memorize it out of a very large, orange textbook. I noticed for the first time how the lines of a poem on the page don’t look at all like the lines we’d read before in books. They didn’t swim from one side of the page to the other, balancing across the white, but rather stopped at odd times to change places with emptiness. The first time I read it, I stumbled. I didn’t understand the turn of the rhyme or who was speaking. I didn’t understand why a strange sadness had come over me. Why did I care about this captain who had died? But I realized the more I read it, the more I understood what the words were trying to tell me and I recognized the rhythm I was creating by saying it out loud.”

I decided to introduce meter to another student – an eighth grader – who had never heard of scansion before. Classes I’d had as a student in high school, college, and grad school came flooding out onto the whiteboard. I tried not to cram it all into one lesson. I’d felt invigorated and excited. I wanted him to know everything I knew, then to go on and learn more. As his first introduction to iambic pentameter, I gave him a copy of Robert Browning’s “My Last Duchess” – a typical run-of-the-mill poet/poem when I was in grade nine. I thought I’d bring him in ahead of the game.

For our writing portion, a ninth grader worked on writing a poem of his own. It wasn’t great. It wasn’t even that good. But I kept pushing and he kept trying, even with much reluctance. I could tell he saw no point in the assignment, nor had any desire to do his best. He simply wanted the end result: a decent grade. We revised for several days. He balked many of my ideas and rolled his eyes when I’d ask him questions about character or motivation. Who was speaking? What did he want to tell his reader? These were simple questions which I had learned to ask long ago and had become second nature to me since. I’d forgotten what it was like to be at the fundamental level of poetry, to not understand the simplistic economic value of a line that doesn’t repeat, and of trying to convey emotion that, at such a young age, hasn’t been developed to anything more complex than “happy,” “sad,” or “angry.”

When he completed the poem, he wasn’t as elated as the other students who had done the same assignment. The same pride wasn’t there. His completed project didn’t come from wanting to do his best or to create something original. I’m not sure whether he truly listened when I talked about what it meant to write poetry, but something might have sunk in along the way…

Sometimes you don’t get very far. But sometimes you get brilliant lines like these:
“Look at her eyes. They are clean marbles.”

World Traveller Anonymous

2009-06-09T01:43:00.002+08:00

The fun thing about China is that you never know when something will work. If there is a chance something will go wrong, it probably will. See previous post for case in point. While we may be frustrated by certain things like censorship, China remains unapologetic.

I complain about not being able to view YouTube or read many of my favorite websites, including not even being able to gain access to my own blog. These posts are actually guerrilla blogging in action. I’ve typed my blogs in Word and sent them on their merry way to the good ol’ U.S. of A. so that a friend might post them for me. Many thanks to him.

Does this remind us of anything? Say, perhaps, the German Nazi regime burning books in the squares? Banning classical literature and brilliant writings because they made us think impure democratic thoughts. So why does China not want me to see videos posted on YouTube? After all, there is no copyright law in China, so that can’t be it. And what’s wrong with reading a friend’s blog about cultural cooking? It’s just a bit too progressive for the Chinese government. What ever happened to enlightenment?

But in all sincerity, I’ve got it good in comparison.

June 4 was the 20-year anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre and China is virtually mum. All news on this end has been from outside sources. No word from the Chinese government. I kept up with stories online via the BBC and NPR, some from journalists who’ve been banned from the country. One story involved a Chinese woman in her seventies wanting answers to her son’s death two decades ago. Response from the Chinese government? We’re stilling waiting on that one…

Quarantine

2009-06-05T08:17:00.005+08:00

I awoke this morning to the sound of soldiers marching past my building. I imagine them, four stories down, perfectly in line with each other, their green uniforms of China so neatly fitted, with red and gold bands wrapped around their hats and arms. I didn’t look. I stayed in bed and listened to the sound of their feet pounding against the pavement, the leader sounding off with the rest echoing him. Or they may have only been security guards, lining up for their morning morale boost. As yet I was only half awake and thinking about all that has happened since I’ve come to this country.

The past week has been a whirlwind. My first day in China consisted of several officials in biohazard suits keeping five or six rows of the airplane detained on the flight after we landed in Shanghai. The eleven-month-old baby sitting next to me was teething and therefore had a temperature one degree higher than normal, which is apparently unacceptable to the Chinese government. Plus, I would imagine that the giants in white space suits scared the living Christ of out her. Poor thing.

Because these men were all Chinese, I had a very hard time understanding what was happening. I assumed we were being taken into quarantine, but for how long? And where would they take us? Could I make a phone call? Thanks to a generous friend, I had an electronic translator with me and it turned out we were to be taken to a hotel while awaiting hospital results about the baby.

After waiting two hours on the plane for a decision on whether or not to take us, they filed us into a bus, where we waited another hour for who knows what reason. The bus didn’t drop us off at an airport hotel. Instead, it shifted from highway to highway before each of us slowly realized we were lost. We stopped in the middle of the highway to let our escort pee on the side of the road in plain site of all who were interested in watching.

For two hours we drove through parts of Shanghai that made it clear to me I was definitely in a developing third world country. It amazes me that the ancient world of pagodas and emperors can still exist in the modern world of skyscrapers and smartcars. You still see old women carrying crops on their backs and old men with no teeth standing next to a school girl with a bedazzled cell phone. It’s truly bizarre.

We finally arrived at the hotel. It was dilapidated and obviously had been abandoned. The government must have seized the opportunity to take it over specifically for quarantine. This was to be our home for the next 24 hours. They fed us breakfast, lunch and supper, none of which I could eat, save for a little rice. Good thing I’d packed a few Cliff bars for the road.

Ch-ch-ch-Changes

2009-05-24T13:00:00.008+08:00

"M - apple of my heart - you are the seaweed between my teeth." -Craig Arnold

It occurs to me that the simple hand gesture, the wave, is the perfect gesture. Is it goodbye, or hello? Much like the Hawaiian phrase “Aloha,” the act of sticking our hand up in the air to greet or send off a friend is one that relinquishes interpretation in certain situations. Occasionally it is appropriate for both.

Tomorrow I leave for China. The past month has been saturated with goodbyes and the next month will bring in many hellos. Transitions are an odd time in a person’s life. Here I have just spent the past two years in Wyoming, completing a master’s degree and meeting some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever encountered. Now I must move on to another adventure.

A friend recently asked me to think about the differences I’ve noticed between when I was 20 and the person I am now, when I’ll soon be 26. A lot can happen in five years. You learn, you grow, you fall in love, your heart breaks, you start feeling the tug of your biological clock. I’ve learned to ignore the impulse to self-protect. I’ve embraced the good and the bad in the past two years and wound up loving all of it.

I’ve often said that I don’t want to miss out on anything. China was an opportunity for me to drag myself out of my comfort zone. It is uncomfortable already, leaving the small town I’ve grown so attached to over the past two years. But, especially, to leave behind the people I have so easily come to love.

Staying in Wyoming (apart from finding a job) would have been easy. Safe. I carved out a small niche and it started to feel like home. I had a life all my own and was satisfied with many aspects of that existence. I took from certain people a vision of what I might hope to become later on in my future. I thank them for that.

Pushing me in the direction of the bigger picture were two men in particular. One, a dear friend and a great writer whom I expect to always be in love with. The other, a talented poet and mentor, now lost to us. Craig Arnold was extremely instrumental in guiding me toward not only poetic maturity, but in life’s great lessons as well. It was Craig’s hope that I would travel and experience things outside academia before returning to it again. Under the inspiration of these two men, I now prepare for great changes.

So, you ask me what this blog will entail. For the next year I will be teaching Shakespeare and English in Hangzhou, China. I reserved this little space for recording whatever comes my way in that time. I hope to put forth something that would live up to Craig’s expectations, something he would have liked.