Am I Ever Going to Tell You About Where We Went and What We Did?

Well, of course I am! We went to a lot of places and enjoyed a lot of things. That’s it, end of blog entry.

I see those lessons I’ve taken on writing short blog entries are paying off. TeeHee! OF COURSE this is not the entry in its entirety! I have to tell you about the giant crater. It was the most exciting part of the trip. Well, as far as sights we saw goes, anyway.

Nature made, with man’s involvement restricted to carving the mother of all staircases into it, this cavity drills nearly 2 km into the ground. At the bottom lies a culmination of several waterfalls, spectacular when viewed from the depth. The river, product of the four waterfalls, channels through a cave opening to form a natural pool. Once at the bottom, the hardy explorer experiences not only the drop in temperature but the damp from all of that water cascading down.

We started out a little past 1PM, primed for adventure. Taunted by aromatic smells of deep fried potato cakes and roasted corn from the vendor stands Gary, Mask and I clomped down the gentle slope to the rim. Once there I asked if we could leave our bags at the security checkpoint. Whereas the guys had mildly loaded backpacks, I was carrying my side-slung black bag, and it was getting a cumbersome. Especially because Gary thought it would be a good idea to buy some fruit along the way, and we were each carrying our share.

Permission granted to leave our bags at the check station, we started down the first of the stairs. I drew a lot of looks because I was the only foreigner there. Luckily, no one disrupted my downward momentum to ask for a picture, although some did snap a photo of me and them in the frame on what they thought was the sly. Gary and Mask, still not used to that phenomenon, commented on it. I have had a year to get used to it so it didn’t bother me.

Climbing down presented no problem. There were stairs, lots of them but they were mild and interspersed with a lot of downward sloping, flagstoned lengths. “Not too bad!” I thought to myself as we paused for a picture by a cavern. The guys expressed their concern for me. None needed, Guys! I can do this all day long.

And I did. We did. It took nearly two hours to make it all the way to the bottom. At the midway point there is a small refreshment stand, and many choose to end their journey there. They take a tea or maybe have a bowl of noodles and then resurface with their knees barely worked out. They enjoy the fools walking past to further depths. Some such fools rent bamboo canes and continue down.

We neither stopped nor rented. Blithely pounding pavement, we kept going. Beyond the midway point the hand railing changed from simulated gnarled wood woven together but actually made of concrete to something that actually resembled an intentional handrail, made of concrete and painted in a blond wood pattern. We weren’t using the hand rail anyway, but I did find the difference between the handrails pre-and post snack stand remarkable. It was almost as though the grips were saying “OK now. You’re getting into some deep stuff here. Do you want to reconsider?”

Oh, no. not at all. The guys skipped along and I marveled at my joints not even creaking as I prevailed, step after step. I wasn’t even breathing hard! This was GREAT!!! The guys were worried about me though. They kept saying I should hang on to the handrail, or maybe, if I wanted a break… I took no breaks on the way down.

On the way up is a different story, but we’re not there yet.

I think, by the time I got down to 1,700m down I was starting to feel weakness in my legs. It might have been that the air was closer, or cleaner or more moist. It might have just been the exertion of going down stairs for over an hour. With only about 300m to go to the bottom, I wasn’t about to stop. Mask, frisky as he is, made it to the bottom first and recorded Gary and my descent for posterity. I couldn’t see Gary having to wait for me, so I shooed him on down. By the time I got there, he and Mask were taking turns posing for pictures first against this backdrop and then the next. Once I got there we broke out into a chorus of “We are the Champions!” people looked at us like we were fools. We were just giddy with our success.

It was short-lived, as it turns out. Going down approximately 4,000 stairs is vastly different than climbing them. My knees weren’t overexerted but I got winded very quickly. After making it past the first set of switchbacks – this staircase is set up like a steeply banked road up a mountain, my heart was pounding. Trying for deep breaths I found I had to stop every so often to get my ticker back into the normal range and force my lungs to function properly.

I am no athlete. I’ve been done in by improper breathing during any athletic venture I’ve ever taken part in, from basketball to simple aerobic routines. I’ve never been able to master the ‘breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth’ technique required by most strenuous activities. My endurance is pitiful.

Now the guys are really worried. They are seeing my red face and my trying to breathe and they are wondering if they are going to have to carry me out. Or, if they are going to have to hire someone to carry me out.

That’s right, there are porters with litters fashioned of bamboo to carry those out who cannot meet the challenge. Genuinely concerned for me, Gary inquired on the price of such a service. It was over 400Yuan… and that would probably be for a normal, Chinese sized person. I weigh twice what someone 4’10” with barely any meat on her bones weighs. They would probably charge double for me, or go charging back up the stairs in terror at the prospect of having to carry me. Besides, I don’t need porters. I just need to get my wind back.

I told the guys they could go ahead; assuring them I would be fine. They weren’t comfortable with that. I think, if the situations were reversed, I probably wouldn’t have been comfortable with it either. I appreciate their solicitousness, but really, it wasn’t necessary. I was going to make it out of that hole in the ground on my own power, even if I had to pause a little more often than they did. Much credit goes to them for trusting my judgment; they did leave me to my pace and pick up theirs, but they kept me in their sights from above.

Left to my own tempo and with no escort, I found other climbers very encouraging. ‘Jia You’ they kept saying, which means “Keep going!” We were all adventurers in the crater, didn’t matter if I was foreign, big, worn out, gasping for breath or massaging my knees – the one thing I did NOT do the whole climb. The Chinese had to stop and massage knees. In our various stops we encouraged each other. That is the important part. Many asked where I was from and the usual questions I get, like about my age and my family. Rather hard to make entertaining conversation when you are trying to catch your breath, but I managed.

Every so often, Gary and Mask made sure I was OK by shouting a greeting or encouragement to me. I waved at them and tackled another set of stairs. At some point I did think that this adventure might have been a mistake on my part, but that was only once, toward the end of the concrete handrails painted to look like wood.

One interminable switchback after another. I rounded the current one and there was Mask, waiting for me. Groan! Did they resume their former worries about my passing out? Is that why he’s waiting for me?

No, he just wanted to formally escort me to the snack stand at the halfway point, where Gary sat waiting for us with cans of Red Bull and a glass of hot tea. HOT DOG!!! I made it to the halfway point! I am invincible! Nothing can stop me now!

Let me try to describe how I felt at that moment. I was conscious of every cell in my body expanding, filling with joy and the power of being alive. I could barely contain myself, having to observe decorum for the sake of all those others who were resting. I wanted to shout and sing, I wanted to dance and embrace my friends. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. I felt feather light, as though, were I to spread my arms I would fly away. Greens have never been greener and have never more beautifully contrasted with the browns of the rock they grew from. The sky, turning to dusk now, appeared silver rather than dull grey. The feel of hot tea going down my throat, the thrum of my muscles… for that magical moment I KNEW how it felt to maximize my potential as a human being.

And that was just the halfway point.

Finishing the climb with Gary who, by now, was feeling some pain we rewarded ourselves with a hot, stuffed potato snack. Mask had gone on ahead to retrieve our bags before they got locked in that office overnight. Gary expressed concern over how we would get back to town. We were back on level with the Earth; mundane concerns again intruded.

So what was the coolest part of this adventure: being the only foreigner there, descending and then ascending on my own power, that tasty potato cake, the company I keep, seeing that woman walk her pig down the road?

NOPE! The coolest part was the 10 minute motorcycle ride back up the hill to the main road! The guys on one scoot and I on another, the bikes piloted by expert riders sped us the rest of the way up the hill, our laughter tossed to the winds.

Three Cities, One Boat Ride

As I said in the last post, our first stop was in Yi Chang. We stayed in a business hotel not far from the bus station. The room was serviceable but not over the top remarkable. One thing that did stand out was the concessions available in each room. There were travel towels, bowls of noodles, bottles of water and tea, some cakes and yes, even condoms.

I believe I told you before about the process of checking into and out of hotels. Upon check in you pay a deposit, usually 100Yuan. Upon checkout, the desk clerk radios up to the maid assigned to that floor, requesting a room inspection. Once the maid informs the desk clerk the condition of the room is acceptable, you receive your cash deposit back. In the case where concessions are provided, the maid will radio what has been consumed and the appropriate amount will be deducted from your deposit. No need to worry about being cheated: the price for each concession is listed on a chart on the wall of your room. You know up front what you will pay and, to be perfectly fair, these concessions are cheap. The only possible dispute is that the maid might claim you ate a bowl of noodles when if fact you didn’t, and then you get to argue about whether there was a bowl of noodles consumed. But remember: this society still operates largely on the honor system. The maid wouldn’t lie.

So, this room in this business hotel did have concessions that we had no need for. We were packed for everything and besides, we were going out for barbeque. That yummy Yi Chang barbeque that I wrote about in ‘Big Girl Boots’ last February. Yes, it was just as good as the last time I had it. Why can’t they make barbeque like this in Wuhan?

We didn’t dally in Yi Chang. Our goal was to ride a ferry up the river for about 4 hours to get to Feng Jie. We did have to spend the night and we did take time to have a nice bowl of Re Gan Mian, my favorite breakfast noodle. Bearing in mind that each portion is cooked and served separately, Gary insisted I take the first bowl because he was worried about my ability to eat fast enough with chopsticks. His fears proved groundless as he was the last one done. We teased him all day about that.

We also dared each other to fall asleep. The first one to fall asleep had his/her picture taken, usually while their head flopped unflatteringly on someone’s shoulder and a string of drool dangled. As no one wanted their sleeping face posted on the Internet – both guys have I-phones with Internet access and accounts with the Chinese equivalent to Twitter. Gary was the first victim. He was photographed deeply asleep, snoring even. I shouldn’t have laughed at him so hard. He caught me asleep and posted a very funny but unflattering picture of me on his microblog. After that, no matter how sleepy I got I did not go to sleep while we were on any of the buses we took.

Feng Jie was delightful! A beautiful town set in rolling foothills by the river, with tree lined boulevards and friendly locals. Being as I was the only foreigner there, we got extra portions of noodles and dumplings at the first restaurant we stopped at and, in fact, I was quite the object of curiosity seeing as not many foreigners even venture to that town. The restaurant owner helped us get a cab after telling us of a good hotel to stay at. He even told the taxi driver which hotel to take us to.

This hotel was nicer than the hotel in Yi Chang. The rooms, although small, had a certain charm to them and the bathroom came equipped with a Western toilet – a rarity in such a remote town. We enjoyed hot pot for dinner that night.

Hot Pot is a style of meal originally from Mongolia but now popular in the Southern regions of China. It is a pot of broth set upon the burner built into the table. The pot itself is divided, one side for spicy broth and the other side for ‘normal’ broth. As the broth bubbles and simmers the patrons order ingredients and cook them in the soup, and then scoop them out one at a time. It is easy to get full eating hot pot. It looks like the meal will be paltry but in fact, for the plateful of this and plateful of that – and I’m not talking an American sized plate; more like a salad sized plate that everyone shares, you get full very quickly. We ate hot pot several times on this trip and each time pulled away from the table, groaning and holding our stomachs.

The next day we went to the giant crater. I would like to write a separate entry about that excursion. So let’s skip over it for now and we’ll go on to the next town.

I wish I could remember the name of it! Unfortunately, with the guys making all of the arrangements and I having forgotten to bring a notebook will have to leave you clueless as to the name of it.

Very strange hotel we stayed at. First, I have to tell you I learned something about hotels in China. Only some hotels are permitted to admit foreigners as guests. If an unlicensed hotel welcomes a foreigner they have to pay a fine of 10,000Yuan. It is not a matter of whether anyone will turn them in, because every person must show their identification upon registering for their room, just like in the States. So, when there is a copy of a foreigner passport at a non licensed hotel, they’re busted and they have to pay. And this is something else I learned from Gary.

Business owners must pay a gratuity to local officials every six months or so. It is called a tax but what it really is is a bribe to keep the official from unfairly or untruthfully reporting your business for some misdeed. So, officials do come by regularly and inspect such documents as passports, tariff agreements and the like so that they can levy the proper ‘tax’. Gary, being a business owner, has firsthand knowledge of such doings. He is the one that told me only some hotels are allowed to have foreigner guests. How interesting!

This hotel did not have card keys. In fact, we did not get keys to our rooms at all. When we went out for dinner we locked our rooms but then had to ask the front desk to unlock them for us again upon our return. Haven’t seen that type of hotel in a long time. Have you? Nevertheless it was a place to lay our heads. I wouldn’t recommend walking barefoot because the floor was so dirty, and previous guests had put their cigarettes out on the wall instead of in the ashtray. The bathroom had the likeness of a naked woman on the wall, artfully posed, and a Western style toilet. Unfortunately they turned the hot water off at 9PM, so I didn’t get a hot shower that day.

Funny how we were able to go from no-star hotels to a 4-star hotel in Chong Qing. My heart and body did not cry or complain about it at all. After all the backwoods-ing, it was nice to luxuriate in a full sized tub. Besides, Mask is a government employee and got a hefty discount on the room price. On EVERY room price, as I found out later. Unfortunately the tub stopper in this super fancy hotel got stuck and I had to call Gary for help. Instead of translating the note I intended to leave room service to tell them about the problem, he plunged his arm into my dirty bath water and got the stopper out himself.

Nothing solidifies friendship like plunging your arm into your friend’s dirty bath water.

By the time we were in Chong Qing we were to the point of hugging and kissing each other goodnight, on the cheek of course.

Traveling Companions

While still living in the Concrete Bunker, back in the dim, dark days when I had an Internet connection but no direct sunshine, Gary invited me via email to go on a trip to Chong Qing with him and his friend Mask. Bearing in mind that traveling and seeing and doing is what I’m all about these days, I immediately said yes… provided the travel days fit within my teaching obligations.

And then I lost my Internet connection, so I have no idea if Gary sent me a response or not. But we do live in the same city and the same country, so sending a text message, or even making a phone call is not out of the question. Or is it?

The Chinese are rather strange that way. They do not confirm and reconfirm and plan ad nauseum, like I need for them to. I actually get unsettled if I don’t have things planned out in advance, especially with regard to my job. Conversely, the Chinese are happy to fly by the seat of their pants. In fact, traveling in general exemplifies that that attitude: you cannot buy a train ticket more than 5 days in advance in China, and a plane ticket cannot be purchased for more than one month out. Long distance bus tickets are bought just hours before the actual departure.

So much for reviewing, revising and contemplating travel documents till they’re worn, like I always do. Would you say I’m a bit compulsive that way?

So, when I didn’t hear from Gary for about ten days, I wondered if the casually extended invitation was going to shape up into an event that will come to pass. I finally heard from him on September 28th, when he sent me a text message asking if I was still up to the trip and if my schedule would accommodate a 7-day sojourn. Being as Sam had confirmed that I would in fact have 9 days off, I replied that I was available and more than ready to go. Gary then tapped out that he would make all of the arrangements. He said he would contact me on September 30th.

He called me on the 29th, asking if I was free to leave on Saturday and if it would be OK to stay in hostels and less than stellar hotels. Of course, I replied. In for a penny and in for a pound with this adventure stuff. That’s what vagabonding is all about, right? At least, my version of it.

I waited all day on the 30th for Gary to call. Toward sundown I wondered if I was supposed to have met him at the bus stop today and he left me behind, or if he had simply gotten busy and not had a chance to call. Or maybe he meant yesterday’s phone call to be today’s phone call? It is so hard to tell with these Chinese!

Finally the phone rang at 8PM. ‘Can you be at the bus station by 7AM tomorrow morning?’ he asked. Well, it is short notice, but I’ve been packed all day and waiting on this phone call, so it is no big stretch to leave my bunker and get to the bus depot downtown somewhere close to that time. I agreed to get to the bus station as soon as possible, considering normal traffic woes and that Saturday was THE prime traveling date for those vacationing over National Holiday.

I got up at 5AM, showered, grabbed my trusty black bag already laden with what I would need for the next 7 days while traveling, and off I go. I thought I would be ahead of the game getting to the bus stop a little after 6AM, but didn’t realize the tenacity of the Chinese traveler. Mainly because I avoid going out on peak travel days.

The bus stop outside of campus was so crowded lines of people 5 and 6 deep stood by the side of the road, scanning the horizon for the next bus. Newcomers walked further up the road, extending that line even further. City buses were already so packed that they weren’t stopping. After watching several buses filled to beyond capacity pass our stop without so much as hitting the brakes let alone opening their doors, I realized I needed another plan. I enlisted some students who were also hoping to get somewhere today to go in with me on hiring a van. We would split the cost and, for 10Yuan apiece, could get to the train/bus station much faster than standing there, waiting for a bus to stop.

The van we hired dropped us off 6 blocks from the depot. Traffic was so snarled there was no hope of getting anywhere near it; walking would get us there faster. No problem. Off we all went, walking while the van driver turned around to help more travelers out (and make a hefty profit for himself).

Meeting up with Gary and Mask did wonders to ease my frazzles. These guys are so good natured and patient and kind. There they were, standing in the rain, waiting at the station for me and not getting angry at all. They greeted me warmly and apologized for all of the stress I endured, and then we battled the crowds heading for the bus depot.

Couldn’t buy tickets for the bus we wanted because we couldn’t get near the terminal for all the people there. Fortunately Gary knows everyone, so he just made a phone call and presto! His friends’ mom, who works at the ticketing agency agreed to buy our tickets for us. Gary would meet her somewhere around 1PM to pick them up. That put our departure time at a little past 3PM. We spent the morning at Mask’s apartment watching movies and sipping tea, even partaking of a delicious lunch, delivered to his door. And then we all got sleepy, but we had to get our shoes on and catch a bus.

Our first stop was Yi Chang, where we spent the night. After about 4 hours on the bus we stumbled into that terminal, already familiar to me from the one trip I had previously made there. Having left myself completely in their hands, I didn’t know that we didn’t have a hotel room for the night until they started talking about where to sleep.

And the whole trip went like that! We had reservations for no place! And, we had no reservations. It was as though the three of us have been friends and traveling companions forever, talking earnestly, laughing, teasing one another, chattering away about just any old thing. Such great traveling buddies are they!

This is the kind of travel I envisioned myself having when I dreamt up this vagabond life. I, a foreigner, am treated distinctly differently than the average Chinese. Traveling with Gary and Mask opened doors that I could only wish to open. Asking directions, securing accommodations, arranging transportation… all of these things Gary and Mask took care of in ‘spur of the moment’ fashion while I stood innocently by. I got into cars after they bargained a fare, I slept in hotel rooms they rented, I walked to destinations they planned and took part in activities where there were no other foreigners.

It is not like I was not consulted on anything. These guys are solicitous of me. What did I want to eat? Is this room OK? Here, take that bus seat: it will be more comfortable for you. Are you tired? Do you like this food? There was a hint of deference in their manner that I’ll touch on a bit later, but mostly it seemed that they were being kind and concerned about my comfort, welfare and safely.

I am pretty agreeable. The only thing I really needed was my probiotic yogurt which we didn’t find until Chong Qing. It wasn’t for lack of trying though. From the beginning of the trip, when I made that stipulation the guys went into nearly every store we walked past and asked if there was yogurt to be had. Bless their hearts! They really are so great.

Now that the groundwork as been laid, I want to spend some time telling you about the adventures we had. Remarkable adventures, considering that, on the outset of this trip I had only just met Gary a handful of times and had only just been introduced to Mask.

Looking Back…

This past month or so has been an unsettling but exciting time for me. Moving into the new apartment and figuring out what my routine should be, getting into the rhythm of teaching, coaching Tony for the English speech competition, and now Evan as well. Making small shopping excursions to add personal touches to my little house. Planning holidays – a little early for that, I know. But if I want to get my gifts stateside on time, I have to get them in the mail soon. Enjoying the occasional lunches with my colleagues – and the joy of knowing I actually have colleagues, not a group of teachers who are out of reach to me like they were last year.

All in all, exciting, but unsettling, too. Workmen parading through the house. That bad water leak that is consuming my dining room wall that no one has paid attention to. Still only having an electronic hotplate and my little grill to cook with. No heat, and now the weather is turning colder. This year’s crop of students is restless and inattentive, not interested in the curriculum that so fascinated the groups I taught last year. Still no internet connection.

It is that last one that is the most disturbing. Mostly because I feel out of touch with the world, but also because entire days go by where I do not touch a keyboard. And I call myself a writer!

In the concrete bunker I would wake up, turn on the computer, make tea and spend the better part of the days I don’t teach at the keyboard. Responding to emails, reading the news and writing about events to keep my blog current. Without the internet giving me incentive to turn on a computer first thing in the morning, there are stretches of time where I do not face a computer at all.

And now I’m frustrated. I’ve gotten so far behind on my blog that I am at a loss on how to get caught up. Looking back over the things I have written I find huge, gaping holes in my narrative. It is time to start plugging them up.

I forgot to tell you about my last night in the States, and that was a significant night, spent in the company of my good friend Debbie. She and I pulled an all-nighter.

This entry is dedicated to Debbie and the time we enjoyed together.

Debbie and I met on my first trip to China, back in 2008. Of all the people on that trip I feel she was the most impacted by our tour. Indeed, of those with whom I’ve stayed in touch of that group brought together by the International Scholar Laureate Program, Debbie has gone the farthest and has been the only one who has not returned to the same ole same ole life that she led before tasting the Orient.

Debbie is from Puerto Rico, where most of her family still resides. Shortly after our trip to China her father passed away and, rather than returning home she toughed it out in New York, making her bid for law school (she did get in). As her family squabbled over estate matters she cruised through her classes, earning high marks with astounding speed. While most students take a standard course load, Debbie piled the classes on, studying late into the night and always getting up for class the next day. She has interned in Washington DC, Italy and Germany. She has more stamps in her passport than the post office has philatelic plates. And through all of this she has time to stay in touch and even read this blog. Hats off to Debbie!

As you can surely see, my esteem for her is not groundless. It is not her accomplishments alone that move me though. It is the type of person she is: secure in herself, ready to face the world alone if need be, armed with the strength of her convictions. She wishes to go into immigration law, probably the touchiest field a lawyer can enter. She knows she can make a difference in that field. I know she will make a difference no matter what she does or where she goes.

She went to New York City. I had an overnight layover there and it would be the only chance we would be able to see each other until… who knows when? We hadn’t seen each other face to face since that initial meeting, three years ago. With Debbie as with me, once a friend always a friend, and one should do everything possible to sustain that friendship. She decided her morning classes were not that important. Visiting with me was. She put herself on the train and came to the Big Apple, two hours away from her campus.

She met me at the airport and that was a good thing. I didn’t have a clue where to go or what to do with myself. If not for Debbie I would have spent the night in the airport, napping in uncomfortable chairs and groaning over my discomfort. Debbie knows her way around the city, the first clue to that being that she marched me straight to the desk in the airport that secures hotels for weary travelers. I didn’t even know that type of service existed!

The clerk booked us a room at the International JFK Airport Hotel, which provides a shuttle to its facility. With nothing more to do than wait for our bus, Debbie and I gossiped like a gaggle of geese, although I don’t think only two geese make a gaggle.

First we talked about appearances. Debbie is stunning in her looks – quite beautiful in fact. She has the most remarkable brown eyes and a smile to launch ships by. She is nearly as tall as I am and her head is crowned by a glorious mane of dark, naturally curly hair. Her complexion reflects her healthy outlook on life: smooth, glowing, fresh and full of possibility. She carries herself with an assuredness that eludes even people who are secure in this world. And she wears this look as casually as a businessman wears a suit.

She is equally complimentary of my appearance although I’m sure she resorted a bit to hyperbole. No look of world experience can compare to the freshness of youth or the eagerness of possibility or the verve of life that Debbie embodies. With traditional female niceties disposed of we got into the meat of things.

The meat, the tofu and the vegetable of things as it turns out. We talked about everything. Painful things, like her family’s squabble over her father’s estate and the epiphany I had this February past, when bus grilles looked tempting. Happy things like adventures overseas: mine in China and hers in Europe. Mundane things: would either of us settle for a traditional life when we know the entire world beckons? Probably not. And we laughed. Oh, my word how we laughed! Sneaking downstairs at three in the morning, with that exaggerated tiptoe used by cartoon characters as we walked past rooms with ‘do not disturb’ signs on the door handles. Or when, on one of our downstairs excursions we saw a woman so overly done up in layers of makeup and sporting a feathered boa, cursing like a sailor while feathers kept fanning her mouth. She swept them away only when she paused long enough in her tirade to puff on her cigarette.

As with all great times, no single thing made it great. Just the joy at good friends well met, who might not ever occupy the same space again but know that each is important to the other. One thing that did make me quite happy outside the pleasure of her company: ordering a pizza. In my whole Stateside Adventure I had wanted to order a pizza and have it delivered to me. Not that food delivery is unheard of in China, I’ve just never done it here. I wanted to experience it stateside while I knew what I was ordering and how the delivery system works. So we ordered a pizza and a two liter bottle of diet coke.

Obviously I reveled in that one night spent in Debbie’s company. There is however one more subject to comment on: the hotel.

While the clerk at the airport did exactly what his job entails – finding accommodations for travelers weary or un-, his computer did not update in time to reflect that, by the time we arrived at the hotel all the rooms were taken. Nevertheless the night manager, Moshin Ali did not turn us away. Instead he gave us a suite for the price of a room. Thus Debbie and I got to spend our night together in the comfort of an entire living space, graciously appointed. My compliments to both the hotel, and to this resourceful manager. If you ever have to spend the night, or even sojourn into New York I highly recommend this establishment. Look them up at www.hijfkairport.com. When you get there, please say “HI” for me to either Mr. Ali or Mr. Lewiston Murray, the overnight desk manager who continued to marry travelers to beds throughout the night.

She Looks Good for her Age

“Barry Manilow, the 68 year old entertainer, donated $300,000 worth of music instruments to the Joplin Missouri High School.”

This was the opening gambit to a news story I read recently. As I am a lifelong fan of Barry’s, any news tidbit involving him interests me. I found his gift to the Joplin school very generous: there were a few pianos involved, as well as some brass instruments and some strings. He wants to encourage young students to keep music and the arts in their life.

All too often we read about school budget cuts, and what usually gets cut is The Arts. Who needs music when you can play football or basketball, right? After the Joplin area was devastated by the tornado, it might have taken the school forever to replace the instruments lost in the storm. Because of Barry’s gift the students will not be deprived of their chance at music.

So what does his age have to do with his giving Joplin High a $300,000 gift?

Lately the issue of age has been everywhere, it seems. Or does it only seem so to me? It occurred to me while traveling across our great Nation this summer that American society is ageist in the extreme. In this economic recession, when it is so hard to find a job and even harder to hang on to one, older workers are getting laid off or even railroaded into retirement, and then being replaced by young candidates.

In spite of the ongoing news stories of how age, experience and talent are being scrapped from the workplace in favor of employees who no doubt earn less than their more seasoned counterparts, there is a certain deference given to the aged in America. It does not begin to approach the level of respect given older people in China, though.

Last night I enjoyed a dinner with Hellen and Evan, the latest speech candidate recruited for the competition. When the food was brought to the table, Hellen spun the table’s Lazy Susan so that the rice bucket stopped directly in front of me. I suggested she serve herself first, but she explained that allowing me to serve myself first showed respect for the fact that I am doing the school a favor by grooming the students for competition. “It is also a nod to your age” she said, and added that she hoped I would not be offended.

Again, with the age thing? Just the day before I made myself up and capered all over campus like a child, scaring young and old alike and getting told to go wash my face. What does my age have anything to do with when I get to serve myself rice?

Back to America now. One day, while my son and I were out we saw a woman jogging along the beach. “She looks good for her age” he contended. I bristled. The woman looked good: firm thighs rippling under bronze skin, tight glutes pumping, hair skeined back so that it would not mingle with the sweat her physical exertion produced, flat stomach and nothing bouncing, flabbing or sinking anywhere on her body. The only indication of age on this woman was a few wrinkles on her face, and her hands. Why was it necessary for him to add the qualifier ‘for her age’?

Sam, my good friend and official liaison contends that, unless people know I was born in 1962 I could easily knock 10 years off my age when people ask me how old I am, and I could get away with it. All of my students are shocked to find out that I am right on the threshold of the half-century mark. And, once they find out how old I am, I get treated no differently than if I were in my 30’s. They still like to hang out with me, play tricks on me, go places with me and generally enjoy my company.

This contrasts dramatically to Robert, my son’s neighbor. One morning I was enjoying the California sunshine on the balcony – the same one I thought Zeva should take a flying leap off of, if you remember that terrible flub, and this Robert character jovially addressed me. “Good Morning” he shouted from across the way. “What’s going on? Where’s Darrell?” We bantered back and forth for a time and then he asked me where I’ve been, because he hadn’t seen me in a while.

“China” I responded, much to his confoundment. I asked him if he knew who I was, to which he promptly replied:

“Sure! You’re Darrell’s sister, right?”

“No, I’m his mother. I’ve been in China for the last year; that is why you haven’t seen me in a while.”

Immediately his countenance and demeanor changed. He averted his eyes and peppered his speech with ‘Ma’am’s. The first thing that tumbled from his mouth was “I’m so sorry; I thought you were his sister!”

Now: if I look good enough to be mistaken for my 30 year old daughter and we carry on playful banter, why, when he finds out I’m of an older set, do I suddenly merit no eye contact and a lot of “ma’am”?

Truth is, I’ve had to wrestle with the age thing. I’m not ready to be ‘old’, but I’ve accepted that I too will be a victim of age. Sooner or later the hint of wrinkles currently on my face will become actual lines, the grey hair I cover so assiduously will take over my entire head instead of just a few strands and my joints will start feeling the exertion of climbing all of those stairs and all of the walking I do. I’m not exactly ready for them, but I suppose, as these indicators manifest themselves, I will be. I will have to be, won’t I?

I think I can handle being old in China, but not in America. In China, age is a marker of experience and wisdom. Inclusion of the elderly is desired, not run away from. I would not be judged by my age but will be deferred to because of it. Here I do not get the feeling that soon, I will be carted away to the nearest pasture and carefully monitored for signs of ailing and failing. Although I’m still not wild about being first to serve myself rice, regardless of the reason – be it that I am a foreigner or that I’m old, I accept that this culture mandates such respect. Here I will not have to endure that demeaning qualifer ‘for her age’. Here, I just look good.

I don’t think I could handle American-bred solicitousness born of my possible brittle bones or diminished mental capacity. And I definitely would not be able to deal with witnessing my usefulness or purpose in society being relegated right off the table and out the door.

Let’s get back to Barry. Did you know he released his first album of original music in over 20 years? He was quite the smash in his day, you know: hit after hit, sold out show in city after city all over the world. Of course, either you were a fan or you weren’t; the camps were firmly divided. Some could not stand him and others adored him. And it is still that way, even with a new generation of listeners.

What has he been doing with himself for the past 20 years then? Touring the world and playing to sold out crowds. Solid bookings in Vegas, playing his well reviewed show to housefuls of admirers. He’s been grooming and sponsoring up and coming artists. He’s been quietly donating hordes of money to institutions around the world through his Manilow Music Project. He did a lot of cover albums in between all that, which I didn’t think was such a great career move for him. But he doesn’t care what I think. He doesn’t even know I exist. One of the songs on his new CD talks about that.

Another news item, this one about the album – or should I say ‘disc’ he released earlier this year:

“Barry Manilow has released his first studio album in over 20 years. The 68 year old entertainer, with his eerily wrinkle free skin…”

Is wrinkle free skin a prerequisite to releasing an album nowadays? One would think so, considering that Justin Bieber is still a teenager and Taylor Swift is barely out of her teens. Of course, no one reads a blurb about them that says: “Justin Bieber, that teen sensation…” or “Taylor Swift, that 21 year old siren…” No, it appears acceptable to be in the music industry as long as there are no wrinkles involved.

Sadly, the larger part of that article about Barry involved whether he had had any cosmetic surgery done.

“No,” he quipped, “my family just has naturally good genes.”

And then the writer went on to describe Barry’s now legendary music feats, such as being selected by The Chairman of the Board, ole Blue Eyes himself to be the next Senior Heartthrob. Or how about his being the only musician in recorded music history to have earned all 5 possible top awards in show business? And, reputedly, Bob Dylan once threw his arms around Barry at a party and told him to keep doing what he’s doing because he is an inspiration to us all.

If Barry is doing things right, what does his age or his wrinkle free skin matter?

If I’m doing things right, who cares whether I get to serve myself rice before everyone else?

Nothing but a Mask to Show for It

Halloween! It is Halloween! Happy Halloween, Everyone!

Halloween in China is not celebrated. As you know from last year’s Halloween post, the Chinese are afraid of ghouls, ghosts and goblins. Well, not afraid exactly. More like terrified, and even that is not an appropriate word.

In the movie ‘Because of Winn Dixie’, the father describes a pathological fear as a fear that goes beyond all reasonable fears. That would seem to suit the climate in China come Halloween time. Here, people will walk down dark alleys with no protection, work from heights with no fall arrest system, eat questionable food and drink water from stagnant pools (after it has been boiled, of course). They have no fear of this abysmal traffic or of the afterlife and only a minimal fear of their government nowadays.

But let them encounter a single foreigner made up as a ghoul and they will shriek, cringe and turn away. Their hearts will pit-a-pat in their chest and they will throw up their hands and gnash their teeth. Some, who are more traditional, will clap their hands to ward off the evil.

That was the effect I had on campus last night, after having made myself up to look ancient.

Originally the gig was to comprise of Gary, who I would dress up as my grandmother and I, who would parade my ‘relative’ around. Unfortunately he had urgent business to attend to, so I had to fly solo.

One small note: Halloween fell on Monday, and Mondays are my long days. I start teaching at 8AM, go till lunchtime, take a short break and then teach for another two periods. After resting for two hours I host an Oral English group, exclusively for those who wish to improve their spoken English. In this informal group I get to spend time one on one with students who are serious about their lessons, as opposed to entire classrooms of students, some of who don’t care a fig about learning English or anything else. All in all, on Mondays, I am over 12 hours in the business of teaching. It is exhausting.

And now, trick or treating?

Why not? It is good to have a little fun! I just shuffled my Oral English group to Tuesday. Monday evening is now mine to do with what I choose, and I choose to make people scream and turn away.

If you think about it, that is a refreshing change from all of those people who stare and point, and all of those students who chase me down and literally cling to me.

After Gary texted me his regrets I figured the gig was up. No second person to make up as my grandmother and there goes half the joke. But I had told all of my students to look for me around campus. I figured I had to become the entire joke. I enlisted the help of my good friends Zhanny and Dash. They would walk the ‘old woman’ around campus. And then I set to making myself up.

Costume materials are scarce in China. The Chinese do indeed have occasions where they wear costumes, just not Halloween costumes. So, I had to go through my closet and figure out what to wear. The biggest challenge was trying to figure out how to make myself up to look creepy. I only have a limited palette of makeup, and I wear that every day without looking creepy at all – at least, I HOPE I don’t.

Using eye liner to define wrinkles that haven’t yet settled into my ordinary face, and a dark eye shadow to smudge them, and then a little bit of powder under my eyes to make them look draggy. The rest of my face done up in pearl colored eye shadow to make it look pale, and finally a glistening lip gloss, to make it appear as though I was salivating. Now for the crowning touch: the blond wig.

When Dash knocked on the door a few minutes later she squealed with fright and turned away. We both laughed but I think she was really serious when she said I frightened her because she sat on the couch and would not look at me. This fear of ghouls is really ingrained, don’t’cha know. Fortunately she did get over it. It would not do to have my escort so afraid that she refused to escort me.

I had the same reaction all over campus. People looked at me strangely and some even turned away. Most accepted candy only after Zhanny or Dash explained it was a traditional Western custom to scare away the spirits who might come after their harvest. And poor Zhanny! We met her midway through campus and when I turned around and shone the light on my face, holding the flashlight under my chin she shrieked and hunkered down with her hands over her head. She had to know it was me because… really: how many tall women own that particular green dress on campus?

No, her reaction was instinctive and culturally ingrained. To her, in that instant, there was no doubt that some evil spirit had infiltrated her favorite foreigner and had taken possession of her body. Only when I gave up the menacing mien and laughed did she come out of her crouch and confess “You scared me!” I know she was just being polite. What she really meant to say was: “Jeepers! You frightened me out of a year’s growth and don’t you ever EVER do that to me again!!!” or some other emphatic statement involving profanity, none of which would be appropriate for this blog.

By far the strangest reaction I got came toward the end of the night, after all of the candy had been distributed. My little group was standing beneath a streetlight and some kids were marveling that I looked so ugly when a man came up to me, peering intently at my face. I returned his gaze boldly and intoned the by now familiar greeting “zhang dian jie kuai le” which is the Chinese equivalent of ‘Happy Halloween’. The whole time Dash was explaining that this was a traditional American festival this man is getting closer and closer. At nearly kissing distance, our eyes still locked on to each other, he stated I should go home and wash my face, and then walked away. The students and I howled with laughter!

The Chinese have a particular habit of responding to a gift with a greater gift. Thus, when my group was lingering by the girls’ dorm while I handed out candy, two girls, earlier recipients of treats, came back. One of them gave me a chocolate bar and the other a mask – the red one you see in the picture. Upon my return home I put her mask in the bookcase dedicated to gifts.

The coolest part of the night came when, on the way home we ran across a group of kids. A rather large boy was holding a ghoul’s costume in his hand. Apparently he had been wearing it until recently because he was sweating profusely. When our groups met, we both stopped dead in our tracks: what? TWO Halloween revelers on campus? As they say in Chinese: Bu Huai Ba! Impossible! Needless to say, I had to get a picture. Equally needless to say I did not have my camera with me, so I relied on Grace, who took this picture with her SmartPhone.

It is now Tuesday morning; Halloween is over. The makeup is washed off and the green dress is back on its hanger. The blond wig is stashed, ready for its next incursion into terror. As I walk around the house opening my drapes and formulating this entry my eyes light upon the bookcase containing gifts. There rests the mask, testimony to the fun that now only exists in my memory and in this blog.

I sit down at my desk to write.

Short, Funny Quips

These are piling up, and well worth sharing. So I’m going to share.

Misunderstandings make for the best laughs, don’t they? Simple misunderstandings, not the kind that change careers or make people mad at you. I’m talking about those that make you howl nonsensically, such as when I said I wanted to throw my son’s dog off the balcony when I meant I wanted to throw the dog’s ball off the balcony. They should have known I would never throw their dog off the balcony.

But I’ve already told you that story. Now I’m going to tell you different ones. Like when I was teaching Gabriel how to count in Chinese. Yi, yi he repeats after me. Er, er he intones. San, san he drones. We make is all the way to ‘ten’. We run through it a few times. The boy’s inflection is just about perfect. I decide it is time to acquaint him with the song that the Chinese have for little ones to remember the numbers. Clapping my hands, I chant “Yi, er, san!” and encourage Gabe to sing after me.

The poor child looks half-bewildered and totally mystified. I repeat the first three numbers: “Yi, er, san” while clapping my hands on ‘yi’ and ‘san’. Again he looks as though I’ve suddenly taken leave of my senses. When I ask him what is wrong, he replies, a slightly disbelieving smile on his face: “Mema, are you saying ‘Eat our son’?” I burst into laughter, for that is exactly what it sounds like I’m saying.

So now you know: if you wish to count to three in Chinese, simply say, or chant ‘eat our son’ while clapping your hands for emphasis. Every Chinese person will understand that you are counting and that you are not a cannibal.

And then there was the time that Sam came over for a visit. It just so happened that Grace, one of my students from Fujian province had just brought me some tea from her home and I was getting ready to brew a pot. Sam would have the joy of trying this tea with me.

Boil the water while cleaning the teapot. Then, pour some hot water into the teapot to heat it up. Discard that water once the vessel is warm, put a few tea leaves in and douse them in hot water. I can make tea in my sleep. So, Sam and I chat while I go through the tea-making ritual. While the tea is steeping we settle in on the world’s ugliest couch for a long conversation. He picks up his teacup and sips.

“Wow! This tea is quite erotic!”

As I was about to take a sip of tea myself, I had to return my cup to the table. I did not want to drink erotic tea in the company of a married man. Maybe I would not like to drink erotic tea at all. So I asked him if he meant ‘exotic’ instead of ‘erotic’.

Yep. We convulsed with laughter.

And then, there were fingernails. As some of you know from “The Waiting Game” post of July and others have seen for yourselves when I visited with you, my fingernails have grown quite long. Very strange that I could not grow a fingernail to save my life in America, but here, it is not a problem.

Not that I believe the status of my nails is in any way important to you, but I have to inform you: all but three of them broke off. I’m blaming the mad cleaning extravaganza, and possibly not drinking any tea while I was stateside. The tea seems to have something to do with being able to grow nails. You need to know the status of my nails so that you can understand how the next quip came about.

Two of my friends, Zhanny and Dash were over for a visit and admiring my long, funky-painted nails. Dash’s nails are also quite long, so she wanted me to paint hers with red and white polka dots, like mine. I dug through my suitcase for the polish my daughter gave me, and then through my packed apartment stuff for the sparkling white polish that would go superbly with the deep red of Jennifer’s polish. As I was doing Dash’s nails, she and Zhanny reverted to their native tongue for their running commentary.

These girls are both very understanding of my Chinese language limitations and tend to either speak slowly enough for me to understand, or they will speak English, so as to include me. This time they were rattling off their musical language at warp speed, oblivious to me, the manicurist whose ear is barely trained to pick up the smattering of their language I’m familiar with.

Among the things they were saying, I kept hearing ‘jiao zi jia’. You will remember that ‘jiao zi’ (pronounced Gee-ow dzuh) is a boiled dumpling, traditionally made for celebrations and always consumed on Chinese New Year. ‘Jia’ (pronounced Gee-ah), means house. They said ‘jiao zi jia’ several times. I wondered: were we going to a dumpling restaurant to eat after I finish painting Dash’s nails?

I had to ask them. They had to laugh at me. As it turns out, ‘jiao zi jia’ sounds very similar to ‘zhao zhi jia’, which means fingernail. I didn’t catch on to that for several minutes because, through their giggles, they could not get the words out. Once they did, I too joined in the laughter. Not even I am immune to misunderstandings.

So now, if you enjoy a good manicure you can go into town and have your dumpling houses treated to a nice polish. You will look resplendent.

By the way: Dash’s nails turned out beautifully, but she took the polish off the very next day. She too broke a nail and didn’t want her ‘dumpling houses’ to look all broken and ridiculous.

There was another hilarious quip that Sam made and, even though I could swear I wrote it down, I can’t find my notes on it anywhere. I must have thrown them off the balcony with the dog. LOL!