On With the Show

One of the greatest perks of being a teacher of some renown is that I get invited to attend for free all manner of shows the students put on and have to pay to see. Of course all of the teachers get to attend shows for free but usually I am one of only a handful of teachers in attendance.

Last night was an exception. Everyone from the school’s owner to the Dean of the English department was on hand for the choir competition. I was but one face at the forward placed table meant for dignitaries.

The joy of attending these shows has not paled. Nor has my awe at how talented these kids are. The last show I attended, about a month ago was not a reflection of that talent necessarily – I don’t think I even wrote you about it, so dismal were it. Last night’s show, full of pomp and with all the performers in costume was not dismal at all.

From the first parting of the curtain till the final bow the concert was a feast for the eyes and a treat for the ears. The first choir, traditionally arranged on risers, with the girls clad in shimmering purple gowns that contrasted the boys’ black tuxedos drew an excited gasp. Their vocal performance was no less stunning. Unfortunately they only had the stage for two songs. But then, each group only performed a maximum of two numbers. This was a competition after all, not a concert.

Students from each of the school’s departments – electronics, industrial mechanics, Finance and Accounting, Engineering, Language, ect., took their turn onstage. One group, a traditionally male dominated field (I think it might have been Electronics) had a male only choir clad in white with a golden dragon on the breast. They sang with a female soloist in a shimmering gown of gold whose vocal prowess knocked my socks off. She was more than a match for a choir of men, no matter how soaring their melodies.

The curtain closed after each group’s rendition. While the outgoing group descended stage-right the next department’s choir took the risers from stage-left. That gave me a few minutes to look around, taking in the sights.

The entire stage front was festooned with golden and white balloons, woven into shimmering silver garland that was itself wound around flashing Christmas lights. Where the footlights would be on a professional stage were potted plants, effectively concealing the feet of the first row of choir members.

During these intervals hostesses, clad in traditionally Chinese dress of red silk with white fur stoles refilled the guests’ tea. Granted the cups were of the paper, disposable variety. That didn’t stop the gesture from being regal. The young ladies filled and refilled the cups with proper decorum during each break.

Cigarette smoke wafted over from the middle of the dignitaries’ table. The BigWigs were smoking light freight trains all during the show. I hope the camera, on a platform directly behind those VIPs did not pick up the smoke curls. That would make for an eerie video, wouldn’t it?

To my right, beyond Victor’s unoccupied seat, a tibble of toddlers assaulted the plates of snacks positioned at intervals for the muckety-mucks’ snacking pleasure. They almost stole the show. I mean that literally. After divesting the closest snack plates of their fruits and candies, leaving only the sunflower seeds they developed an interest in the golden balloons adorning the stage. The least shy ones, coincidentally older, raced to snag shimmering balloons before being hauled back to their minders. We thought they were adorable!

Wonder why Victor never comes to these shows? I know he gets invited too.

The English department’s choir was all female. I have to admit I’m not really surprised, considering how few males I have in any of my classes. They wore crimson gowns trimmed in silver and a lot of makeup. I recognized several of my students among the group and surreptitiously waved to them. I know they saw me by their attempt to not smile as they sang. After their performance was a different story… they smiled and waved back. Unfortunately neither their selections nor their performance was remarkable.

It was during this group handoff, while the curtain was closed and the little ones were subdued that the question came to me. What would be worse: to be blind or deaf? Sometimes we take such gifts for granted. Most of us are born with the ability to see and hear, but do we ever consider what our life would be like without sight? Without sound?

While still appreciative of the rest of the show but not necessarily focused on it – my department sang, who cares about the rest of the competitors? – I rationalized.

Here I am, at a show that is both visually and audibly satisfying. If I could not see I surely would have missed how the adorable babies toddled away after snagging their bounty from the VIP bowls. The shimmer of gowns, the uniform enunciations of the singers, even the smoke’s ethereal dance would have been lost to me.

Going further: if I were blind I would not be able to read the traditional way… but audio books and Braille books are available. I can already type without looking at my fingers, so writing would not be that big a deal. Ditto with navigating my house; I do that with the lights off all the time. Getting around town might prove a challenge save for the sidewalks that all have a textured lane specifically to help guide the blind. I could always ask someone at the bus stop which bus just pulled up.

As I understand it there are countless accommodations and conveniences for people who are blind. There are millions of people who are blind that competently manage their life, mostly with a minimum of help.

And there are workarounds for people who are deaf, too. Sign language, alarm clocks that strobe rather than bleat (some do both), closed captions and subtitles, just to name a few.

But if I had to live, never hearing music again. I’m not sure I could do that. What compares to a soaring melody, to the passion of an aria, the joy of a chorale, the effusiveness of a catchy tune? How could I pass on the first tentative gurglings of my grandchildren, or the first time they call for me by name?

The curtain opened again for the final number. This group was dressed in Chinese military uniform that I am familiar with, having witnessed Freshman Military graduation 3 years in a row. They brought the house down by singing not one but two patriotic numbers. After the last note rang out the house lights came up and people made to leave. Hardly anyone was on hand to see the groups be awarded their prize according to rank.

Our department dean, Tracy and I exchanged final remarks. She lives a distance away from the school and had to be back here at 7:30 tomorrow morning. And here it is, after 9PM! She said she was going to take a taxi home. I wished her a safe travel.

And then I was promptly mobbed by some of my students who ‘worked’ the show: the gofers, the cleanup crews, the performer escorts and even some that had purchased a ticket and were in the audience. It took about 45 minutes for me to disengage and head home myself. On the way home I again pondered my choice of sound over sight. For all the sensory riches, both experienced tonight and in the world in general I’m fairly certain that, if I had to lose one, I’d rather it be vision. What about you?

I do know one thing for certain: Victor is an idiot for missing all these shows.

               

Voices of Christmas Past

The year is 1981. December 1981, to be precise. The place: Berlin, Germany. I was but a young lass of 19 then. Thin, leggy and pregnant to bursting. At that time I did not work. I was a proud wife of a military man. Berlin was a divided city, with an ugly grey wall marking the boundary between freedom and tyranny.

As I was fluent in German I took it upon myself to volunteer with ACS, nascent do-gooder, I. The American Community Services agency welcomed newly arrived soldiers and their families to this unique city and saw to their social and psychological needs, among other things. My responsibilities included showing the wives around, helping them shop ‘on the economy’ – meaning in local stores, teaching them bus routes and just generally getting them acclimated to being so far away from their home and families.

Besides being away from everything and everyone one loves, being deprived of tradition and celebration rituals is one of the most demoralizing things an expat can be subjected to. Therefore we at ACS did everything we could to make sure Christmas was done right in the Berlin Brigade family: gifts for unaccompanied soldiers and men who have not already found girlfriends, shopping trips for the wives and community parties, complete with food, drink and, of course, Santa for the kids.

Santa had a spot of honor in the PX lobby. For those unfamiliar with military terminology, PX means Post Exchange – the shopping center that caters to the military. You want to see a mob scene? Go to the PX in the weeks prior to Christmas. Unbelievable! And the line of tots wanting to sit on Santa’s lap? Well, I’ll tell you: that Santa player had to be one patient and enduring individual. I know of this because Santa was an ACS volunteer. He was a friend of mine, even though I disremember his name after all this time.

I do remember Bernie’s name, though. It was Bernie – a colonel, or was he a major? Another detail that escapes me now. It was Bernie, the ACS director that clomped down into our office, located on a sub-floor of the Berlin Brigade compound. Bernie flung open the door, let in some cold air and a few snow flurries, while exclaiming that we were surely in a pickle now!

Santa had passed out. The ambulance took him to the military hospital. Later, we got word that heat, dehydration and stress had done him in. But that was later. The pickle was now. Where were we going to find another Santa?     

For those of you who have never filled that suit, playing Santa can be a very demanding role. The suit is hot, the beard itchy. Little, squirmy children climb all over you. Some pull your beard and others poke your belly – presumably to see if it really would shake like a bowlful of jelly. Nervous tots tend to wet and more nervous ones tend to cry and slide right off Santa’s lap. Most were too shy to say anything. Those that were not shy were sly.

Mostly, Santa benefits the parents. Little children really don’t care where they are at as long as their family unit is stable and they can make friends with other kids their age. Santa’s being in Berlin meant a lot to the parents, able to take that snapshot of Little Billy, Susie, Bobby or Sally to send back home. Remember, this is 1981: no personal computers and no instant upload. Video chat dwelled in the realm of science fiction. These cameras that captured Santa and Tot were called Instamatic, or Polaroid. They took real film that had to be wound between shots and required flash cubes. Santa’s patience had to be near inexhaustible while restless bottoms squirmed on his lap, so that Mom or Dad could capture that perfect holiday picture.

How do I know all about what Santa had to endure?

When Bernie came clomping down those step, flinging the door open with one hand and pulling his hair out with the other, I was in the office. As he dramatized around, wondering where an 11^th hour Santa could be found, I was wracking my brain. As the minutes leaked by, an idea came to me.

“Bernie,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

“You’re a girl.” He practically decapitated me with the incredulity in his voice.

“Well, I know that. But I am built for the part right now, and with the beard and being seated most of the time, who is going to know?”

“Give me a ‘Ho, Ho, Ho!’”

Me, possessed of a rather deep voice anyway, tucked my chin into my breast and dutifully intoned.

“Well, you’ll do, I guess. You’ll have to; there is nobody else.”

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, is how I celebrated my first Christmas with my daughter, now 31.

When I tell you the children like to poke Santa’s belly, I was not kidding. By no means was it a joy to have countless sharp elbows driven into my expectant belly. It is even less fun when the baby that belly is incubating gets irate and starts moving around. More than one child yelped in surprise and leapt off my lap as my daughter rolled around inside me. I guess kids don’t expect Santa’s belly to fight back.

One of the more sly children hung back, presumably disbelieving in this purported Santa. As I had to do with so many others, I reached forward to coax him onto my lap. Pull him onto my lap, if it came down to it. Per Bernie, my instructions were to be a good and welcoming Santa. Perhaps Bernie had an idea I would turn out to be a curmudgeon later in life? I was truly doing my best to be a welcoming, friendly Santa but that one tyke… he tested the very limits of my patience.

Leaning forward when hugely pregnant is not an activity I recommend. This devious little… child deliberately hung back, forcing me to reach out to him. Just as I grasped his wrist, he stepped backward. ‘What are you going to do now?’ his look communicated. Well, there wasn’t much I could do with a 10-pound baby sitting on my bladder that felt ready to let go about 45 minutes ago.

Precious, darling child. I remember him well.

But the one I remember best is the little boy who inadvertently jogged his elbow into my side, causing an involuntary groan of pain. Immediately contrite, he started crying. OH, NO!! What kind of Santa am I to make children cry? I did my best to console him. Unfortunately I totally forgot that I was wearing a red suit, a beard and that I was supposed to be a man. My voice slipped into its normal upper register as I cooed soothingly, hoping to calm him down.

Well, I got him to shut up but only because suddenly, Santa sounded suspiciously female. He had been potty trained – something I was grateful for, but he had not been trained to assimilate a Santa gender confusion. He looked at me in disbelief, slowly slid off my lap and crabbed sideways toward his mother, his eyes never leaving my face. Fortunately this lovely woman had already gotten the shot she wanted, so she was more than happy to take her tot in tow. As they were leaving the Official Santa Enclosure – the mock up ‘North Pole With Armchair’ that is the bane of every fake Santa the world over, I heard him tell his mother, voice filled with awe: “Mommy! Santa is a LADY!”

That was it. End-of-pregnancy heat flashes and having my baby play football with my bladder apparently wasn’t torture enough in repayment of my kindly and selfless Santa act. This kid had to make me want to laugh hysterically, to boot! I told a nearby ‘elf’, also an ACS volunteer that I needed a break. She hung out the shingle that said Santa would be back in 30 minutes. I took myself to the nearest bathroom, making sure I unbuttoned my costume so that people could see I was a woman going into the ladies’ room, not some twisted Santa pervert.

Of course, in those days we didn’t have to worry about Santa being a pervert. Or anyone else, either. It seems those were gentler times, when kindness was a matter of course and community meant people gathering together.

Nowadays, community seems to imply some sort of social media. Many other things have changed since my stint as Santa. Digital photography and smartphones pretty much guarantee that family everywhere will get to see pictures the minute a tot hops onto Santa’s lap. Most likely, some elderly relative would be on the other end of that phone, with Mom or Dad encouraging Terrified Tot to ‘Say Hello To…”

The Berlin Wall fell in November 1989, just in time for jubilant citizens of Germany, so long divided, to reunite for their fist Christmas together since 1961. That may well be the best, and greatest change of my little Santa story.

Well, maybe the best after my daughter’s arrival, a few weeks after my turn as the Man (Woman) in Red. Jennifer was born a few days before Christmas. I had never before, and have never since received such a beautiful, meaningful, life altering Christmas gift.

And I have never shared this story with her. So this year, my Christmas gift to her and to you, Dear Readers, is this story. One that, for some reason I’ve never seen fit to make a part of our family Christmas lore.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all! And especially to you, my Bug.            

      

A Fallow Period.

My friends, this has been a fallow period, at least as far as writing you is concerned. Those with whom I email with regularly will testify that I’ve even slowed down in that department. Don’t doubt for a minute, Dear Reader, that you are most certainly on my mind as I strive to find topics of interest.

Truth is, my life has become pretty mundane. I’ve not traveled since Qing Dao. I’ve not done or experienced anything remarkable of late. I have been keeping my nose to the grindstone. In fact I am teaching more this year than in the past 2 years combined.

Not only do I have my usual allotment of University students but I am also teaching a Lil’Uns class twice a week, and an extracurricular class for Speech Competition Preparation two evenings a week at the University. My first session with that group will be tomorrow evening. Stay tuned for more about it in a later entry.  

The challenge in my particular position as ESL teacher has been creating a curriculum from scratch. At first dismayed but now elated about it, this school has given me full latitude to conduct my classes as I see fit. Thus they’ve not given me any books to teach from. I’ve had plenty of practice coming up with material for the University groups. Matter of fact, I am just recycling previous lessons from semester to semester because I have different students each semester, except for one group that I’ve had for 3 semesters so far. I want to tell you something remarkable about them, after I expound a little on my Lil’Uns.

I believe I told you before that I am teaching them ‘complete immersion’ style: no Chinese at all. And, I am not using any type of prepared materials. Each week I am creating from scratch what we will use in the classroom. Talk about a challenge! First because I’ve never taught little ones. Second, because I have to make it age specific, while still addressing the needs of students who are more advanced and engage those students who are not as prepared for learning English. Third challenge is to maintain continuity in subject matter while introducing new vocabulary, concepts and aspects of what would be relevant and interesting to 7year olds.

Some, like Kate and Autumn are doing exceedingly well. Others, like Christina and Amy have to be coaxed into participating. Sandy and Angel are proving to be much more imposing. Christina is the oldest of the group and I fear she knows much more English than she’s letting on. Sandy is a very angry little girl who knows virtually no English whatsoever.

The reason Sandy is so angry is because her life consists of learning. Her mother feels that she should embrace a life of music. Thus, Sandy spends hours at the piano each day. She does not get much time to study anything, including regular school subjects like Math and Chinese, and even less time to just be a little girl. Another byproduct of her continual piano banging is that she is not very well socialized. She picks fights with the other girls and exhibits very aggressive behavior. Because my teaching style incorporates a lot of playing and what would be considered an informal class structure, she tends to disrupt the class more than take part and, come time for her to participate or perform, I have to devote more time coaching her than the other students.

There you have the nuts and bolts of the Lil’Uns class. In future entries I’ll write more about them. For now I want to get to other aspects of my teaching experiences. Let’s move on to that university group that I’ve had for now 3 semesters.

Once I learned how to do it University teaching became a snap. Since those fumbling, awkward, terrifying days when I first declared myself a teacher, it seems I’ve hit on a successful formula: games, activities and engaging topics. My delivery of material is more polished because I feel so much more comfortable leading a class. And, because Victor and I used to change students every semester I only had to come up with 13 weeks of material to teach. Recently, (the unpleasant, two L’ed) Hellen has taken over student group allocation. She has not rotated the students from Victor to me, as had Sam in the past.

I’ve had the group in question for their entire freshman year, and now lead them in their sophomore year. Obviously, recycling curriculum is not going to work with them. We’ve already covered my entire repertoire of lessons, games and activities. I have to come up all new stuff for them. I admit I’m not doing too badly, although it is rather stressful. In a way it is a welcome relief. Recycling material makes for a bored teacher, in my opinion. Some of my colleagues who have been teaching the same material for far longer than I’ve been a teacher report feelings of burnout. So, I’m grateful to have to engage my brain.

Here is the interesting thing about this particular group. They are far more vocal and eager to participate, much more fluent and free in their use of English than the group I inherited from Victor, who barely want to say a peep. I’m not bragging. Other teachers have observed the same thing.

I put it down to how I engage the students, as opposed to Victor, whose main teaching method is lecture, meaning he does the talking and they do the listening. I contend I don’t need to speak English. I already know how. It is my students who need to get comfortable with the language. So, many of the activities we do deal with them doing the talking.  

This entry is supposed to be about a fallow period I’m having, and here I’ve just spewed about 800 words about teaching.

That is what makes this period fallow. I’m not doing much else besides teaching. Actually, teaching is the easy part. Coming up with things to teach is challenging. Preparing for lessons eats up most of my free time.

In my opinion, teachers are public speakers. Like every public speaking gig, teaching is essentially performing. Teachers have to engage their students, keep them interested and impart knowledge. It is much more demanding than being a traditional performer, such as a singer or dancer. Audiences of such performers are there because they enjoy those types of performances. Students might not like school or, in the case of a lot of university students might just be burnt out on learning.

Nevertheless, like every competent performer, I have to be completely familiar with my material and rehearse it till I can deliver it for maximum effectiveness. So, with having many more creative challenges this year than in years past, and having so many more demands on my time calls for me to be almost constantly in the business of teaching: either preparing, mentally readying myself for, or actually teaching.

So, I’m not doing much else these days. But that’s OK. I’m enjoying this plateau of keeping my head down and my nose to the grindstone. It feels good to be immersed in something so rewarding and productive. It has been a long time since I’ve felt so vital and creative. It is so gratifying to light my students up, give them food for thought, and then watch them leave class with a smile on their face and brimming with excitement. The Big’Uns, the Lil’Uns, the ones I’ve had for 2 years. All the same. If I needed testament to my worth as a teacher I only need to watch my kids leave class. What a feeling!  

Besides, my nose is too big. It needs to be ground down.    

For all that I feel I’m reaching when writing these rather mundane entries, I am happy to hear from my conspirators who maintain our blog that you still enjoy these anecdotes. Thank you, thank you and thank you ever and again. Of course, I always welcome your feedback, questions and comments.

Before I leave you, I’d like to address the comment made on the “Cussing Like a Sailor” entry from a couple of weeks back, about the word “A-ya”.

I too thought that A-ya was just a mild expression of exasperation. According to the textbook I’m learning Chinese from, that is exactly what it is. Recently, Sam endorsed my belief. Perhaps the dismayed mother who chastised me made more of it than it really should have been. As in the West, Chinese sensibilities range widely. There is a good chance that this particular mother did not want her child to pick up on expressions of frustration, being as it is more traditional for people who are Chinese to swallow and endure whatever comes their way. Or, she might have felt that teachers should never express frustration in front of her charges. Again, I’m not really sure where she was coming from with regard to my saying it in class. 

Thank you for your comment. Any time you have a question, would like for our blog to address a certain aspect of Chinese culture or a current event, please feel free to let me know. Either by leaving a comment or addressing me directly at: teamkrejados@gmail.com. I will be delighted to research and expound. Especially during fallow periods like these.              

Half My Arsenal

A lot of times when emailing my word document entries to my conspirators I wonder if, when I write a title that could be perceived as threatening, or that contains a word meant to trigger the National Security Administration computer’s alarm to a potential threat, if someone in Washington intercepts my entry and reads it. Today’s entry, containing the word ‘arsenal’ certainly would qualify.

If so: Welcome, dear Shadow Reader. I hope you enjoy my musings.

Of course, all of you regular readers know that I mean no one any harm, least of all anyone in America or America herself. I do enjoy the possibility of being read in Washington though, and by a top agency such as the NSA, at that! Don’t worry: I don’t try to trip their very often.

To satisfy curiosity: this entry has to do with winter garb, not weaponry.

It has started getting cold around here. Although I do have to say that so far, the temps have been mild compared to winters past, when I was bundling up to my eyeteeth and still freezing. This year I’m barely into my longjohns. And here it is, literally one hour before December 1^st!

That is the arsenal of which I speak. After 2 winters here I am now used to the idea that there will be no ambient heat for the next 4 months or so, even though, while enjoying the warmer temps of the other seasons the cold of winter became a matter of conjecture. I harbor no real memory of how bad it really was. Isn’t that the way the mind is designed to work?

So here I sit, toasty warm and snug as a bug in a rug, writing you. Beside my desk, in its storage packaging is my space heater, as yet unused this season. I don’t anticipate having to use it, either. What is so different this year from years past?

First guess is that I finally feel wholly myself. Since having arrived here 2 years ago I’ve been feeling ‘punky’, because of stomach woes and because of allergies, both afflictions that endured. It seems the stomach problem is gone and now the allergies are under control. Score 2 points for me.

Next guess is that I’ve redefined how to tackle the issue of keeping warm. Whereas in the states we are used to heating our spaces, in China one heats one’s self. I wasn’t very good at that… till now. Now that I’ve gotten over the idea that I should heat up whole rooms at a time – and not being really successful at it, I’ve formulated a scheme of heating only my nesting sites: my desk chair, the couch I lounge on while watching TV and my bed.

Here is what gets me. The first year I was here I learned of bed heaters. They resemble an electric blanket but are placed as a mattress pad would be. After Sam educated me to them I immediately bought one for my bed and, for that first winter in the Concrete Bunker my bed was the warmest place in the house. Why I didn’t think to buy similar heaters for my chair and couch till now is a mystery. I’m putting it down to being not quite myself.

But now I am myself, and thus have mattress pad-like heaters in all places I park my derriere. Even though the ambient temperature in my apartment is right about 55 degrees Fahrenheit I am comfortable. Even my hands and feet are warm.

I’m not having to dress in layers now. The last 2 years I felt like the Michelin Woman, bundled as I was. My shoes barely fit for all the socks I was wearing and, for that matter I could barely get my shoes on because I was too padded to reach my feet. And still I was miserably cold.  

Not a problem this year. I am wearing a pair of longjohns under my regular clothes but I’m not so bundled that I could be auditioning for the role of the younger brother in A Christmas Story.

Like General Patton surveying his troops I inspect my winter wardrobe, standing at the ready. I still have socks with wicking action, woolen socks, fleece lined undergarments and oversized outer garments in my defense against the chill. Beyond that I have my parka and my Gor-Tex lined sports jacket, my thermo-insulated gloves, leg warmers and a variety of scarves. None of which I’ve yet called into service.

I am wearing a hat already but then, I’ve been wearing a hat since I saw fit to dash myself into a metal pole, splitting my head open. I have to hide the fact that I barely have any hair on top of my head, dont’cha know. Now the hat serves a double purpose: keeping my head warm while concealing my stubble.   

And then there is the space heater, my gel-pack hand warmer and my electric foot warmer. All of these things in my winter arsenal are as yet unused. For now I am happy and toasty with just my heating pads, strategically located.

For the worst of winter’s dreaded icy blast, in January/February, I will be stateside. Not that it doesn’t get cold in the states but I will be in the southern states where winters are traditionally milder. And, in the states people heat their spaces instead of themselves. I’m looking forward to sleeping in a bed that does not require warming and dining in restaurants with windows fogged by steam and warmth from within.

Yes, I gloat. C’mon, Old Man Winter. I’m ready for you. You may already be here but so far, I’m only using half my arsenal. When you start with your antics I’ll be completely decked out. You’re not going to get the better of me this year!            

Cream Puff Junkie

I’m fortunate to say that, throughout my life there is very little I’ve addicted myself to. I’ve picked up and put cigarettes down about 4 or 5 times. While living stateside I got hooked on Chipotle’s burrito bowls. For a while, when things were really stressful I enjoyed a mixed drink – only one per day, but I looked forward to it with wanton glee, parsing out the minutes until mixing and enjoying it. That was quite a few years back.  

Fortunately for the addict in me there were several Chipotle restaurants on my way to work, so I could go to one on this day and to another the next. Or, I could have a burrito bowl for lunch one day and dinner the next, thereby avoiding the people who worked the lunch shift. With the mixed drink ‘addiction’ I would usually buy a large bottle of whiskey that would last me about 2 months. Liquor stores being plentiful I could go to different stores each time my supply of hooch got low and thus didn’t need to worry about people thinking I was a teetotaler.

See how I have the addiction mentality going on? I don’t want anyone to espy my satisfying a craving.

And now, there are cream puffs. They have always been my favorite treat but, in consideration of my waistline I would not buy them very often. Until now.

I blame Jackson, a former student of mine. I had no idea he would turn out to be my pusher. One day I met him on The Street. He had just been to a bakery and had a bagful of puffs, from which he offered me one. From then on I was hooked, conclusively and irrevocably. I made him show me which of the 3 bakeries on The Street had those wonderful treats. After he complied I dismissed him, sauntered casually into the store and bought a half ‘Jin’ – about 500 grams worth.

I say ‘casually’. Back then I don’t think anyone intuited I was a junkie. I think they thought I was just a nice customer. A nice, frequent customer. A nice, frequent OBVIOUS customer. Being the only foreigner for miles around makes me stand out a little bit. No masquerading for me; I’d never get away with pretending I was someone else. And there is only one bakery around here that makes and sells cream puffs.   

In China they make cream puffs with real whipped cream, injected into phyllo dough and baked to perfection. Not too sweet and plenty creamy. If eaten properly cream ends up everywhere but, OH!! The heaven of them!!

When I lived in the Concrete Bunker, close to The Street I would make the excursion about once a month. I really felt too bad to enjoy any type of food addiction when I lived there. Since I’ve moved to the back of campus I feel much better but I seldom walk The Street anymore. A few weeks ago I was there again, first time in a long time. I was meeting Zhanni and Dash for a dinner. Dash works in a cellphone store right next to Cream Puff Bakery.

What did she do to deserve such luck?

Instantly I was reminded of how much I love those cream puffs. Because they are filled with real cream they are very perishable, so oftentimes before, when I had occasion to walk The Street they were sold out. Now that the weather is colder and the puffs keep better, they are available into the evening hours. OH, Joy! OH, Rapture!

My stomach is behaving and I’m feeling like my old, healthy, happy self. Oh, Trouble!!

Now that I’m out 4 evenings a week I can satisfy my cream puff craving. It all started so innocently. The taxi driver overshot the street that I normally walk to get through the Over the Wall community, my usual way home. I had him drop me off at the head of The Street. Meandering along, enjoying the sights and…

There you have me, Ladies and Gentlemen: I am ‘casually’ walking into that bakery for the first time in months, after those cream puffs. Of course the clerk remembered me; I am somewhat of a memorable character around here, if you’ll recall. The clerk and I chatted for a little bit. She commented on how much my Chinese has improved since the last time I was in her shop. I made disparaging comments about my language ability, as per custom over here. All the while I was calculating how many cream puffs were in a half-‘Jin’ (8) and how I would divide them out to maximize the pleasure of having them. Trying to keep my eyes from rolling in their sockets or otherwise appearing too eager, I paid my 6Yuan, snagged my ‘fix’ and – hopefully – casually sauntered back out.

It was all I could do to wait till I got home before sticking my hand in the bag, snagging a puff and sucking the cream out of it.

Now, I’m ashamed to say I am well and truly hooked. I must have cream puffs every day. I look at my stash and contrive excuses to go buy more when I start running low. There being only one bakery that sells them I have to keep coming up with excuses to justify my purchase so that nobody will perceive I’m a junkie. Even worse: I’m buying them more frequently because now, only one cream puff at a time no longer satisfies. Two per allowed occasion: for dessert after breakfast and again after dinner.

The last time I bought some was last Wednesday. It is now Friday night. I am down to 4 puffs. Is tomorrow evening too soon to put in another appearance at the store?

I sidle up to the façade and try to appear nonchalant when looking in. Fortunately for me the cream puffs are in the very first display case, so I can spot them easily from the sidewalk. The baker’s assistant is making waffle cookies right there, in front of the store. He gives me a reason to stop. I chat with him a few minutes before appearing to notice the puffs. I then hail the store’s matron, who comes over, beaming. And what would the big foreigner like today?

“She wants a half-Jin of cream puffs” the assistant announces, in none to low a voice. Cheerfully the baker grabs a plastic bag, paws my puffs into it and then heads to the scale to weigh them. Adding insult to injury the assistant shouts: “Just a half-Jin! Should come out to 6Yuan!”

It’s no use trying to hide my need. They’re on to me.    

Mortified, I pay up, swallow my drool, duck my head down and go home, all the while thinking: “Where am I going to get my fix now?”  

       

Thanksgiving

Turkey Season is now upon us. My friends, I cannot believe how time flies! Sam recalled to me just the other day my first Thanksgiving here. I lived in the old dorm, what I had dubbed the Concrete Bunker. At that time Sam was my only friend in this school. He partook of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and corn, emphasis on mashed potatoes.

The Chinese have a love affair going with the potato, which makes it all the harder for me to understand why they serve it half cooked and soaked in oil. Every time I’ve made mashed potatoes or baked potatoes for one of my friends they have renounced their old, oily love and embraced the creamy smooth texture and flavor only a baked or mashed potato can offer.

So now here is the interesting question: when sweet potatoes come into season you can buy a roasted sweet potato from any street vendor that has a coal fired barrel to roast or bake them in. How come the Chinese have not figured out you can also bake or roast regular potatoes?

But I digress.

That first Thanksgiving, after Sam had agreed to enjoy a meal with me I made a mad dash to Metro. Only there could I buy canned corn, along with other traditional favorites. If I remember correctly I spent about 600Yuan on that little shopping foray that I didn’t need to spend. The canned corn proved a pivotal moment in my learning to live here.

After shelling out 38Yuan for just 2 cans of corn I lugged everything home, additionally plagued by buyer’s remorse. At that time I wasn’t as financially settled as I am now and 38Yuan was a lot to pay for 2 cans of corn, especially seeing as corn on the cob was in season and I could buy about 38 ears of corn for what I had spent on those 2 cans. I wasn’t really thankful for my rashness or my need, brought on by habit, to open a can of corn on Thanksgiving.

My goodness but I’ve come a long ways!

This year marks my third Thanksgiving in China. The first year I was here I built an entire lesson plan around Thanksgiving and delivered that lesson to Sophomores and Freshmen alike. This year I did not even mention Thanksgiving in class. The past 2 years I rushed to pay my 100Yuan deposit for the privilege of dining with fellow expats at Aloha’s Diner (the other 100Yuan had to be paid at the time of the dinner). Thought crossed my mind to go there again this year but… really: 200Yuan for a single meal and the privilege of mingling with expats?

No, thanks. I think I’ll save my money. And I’ll save myself the aggravation of mingling with people so clannish they won’t let their babies explore the wonderful world of socializing, even with people of their own race. I’d just be an outcast there anyway. I’ve not made any friends in the expat community. The one tie I had to it, Carrie Ann has, for some reason dissolved our budding friendship.

Besides, for 200Yuan I can buy food for a whole month.

What will I do this Thanksgiving? Good question. I’ve come down with laryngitis that I originally attributed to my allergies. My biologically induced muteness has since mutated into a wicked sore throat, and I’m starting to feel the twitchy muscles that imply I’m incubating a virus. So there is a good chance that I’ll probably be slurping hot beverages with honey, and soups.

It’s all good! I’ll be thinking of my family in the States with their loved ones, gathered ‘round the groaning table laden with bounty. I’ll be holding the babies and passing the cranberries in my heart. I’m sure they’ll know I’m with them.

You know who won’t be with them? My conspirators. They are taking off for a bit of a road trip themselves.

So now we post these few entries for you reading pleasure. In about a week they’ll be back and I’ll send them what I write up while they’re gone, and we’ll all catch up to one another on the flipside.

Till then, I hope the list of things you are thankful for is so long that it can circle the globe, at least several times. We can mingle your list and mine, blanketing the world with joy and gratitude.

Happy Thanksgiving!           

And Now, I See!

 

Yes, you guessed it: this title is derived from what could arguably be called the Grandmother of All Gospel Songs, the great and poignant Amazing Grace.

This has been a medically informative year for me. First I had to have my front tooth replaced. Fortunately it needed to be positioned into my denture, not into my face. I imagine I would not be so eager to recall or recount what must be a very painful procedure had I needed the implant directly into my gums.

And then came the bash on the noggin a few months back that resulted in intimate acquaintance with emergency medical procedure and the Chinese love affair with ‘injections’. After spending 7 (non-consecutive) hours in the Transfusion room of the local hospital I can assure you that the rumor of ‘injection love’ is actually true.

What astounded me about both of those forays into health/medical care was the cost. The facilities may not be top of the line and the amenities may be outdated by western standards but the systems are efficient and, most of all affordable.

Of course, I say ‘affordable’. The Chinese feel their healthcare costs are spiraling out of control. I suppose it is all relative. I’ve lived elsewhere in the world, where people are charged $10 for a bar of soap while in confinement and thousands of dollars for simple surgeries. Also, compared to many Chinese I earn much more money, especially for the paltry amount of work required of me. I see the Chinese healthcare system as more than affordable. I believe my actual phrase was ‘dirt cheap’.

And now I’ve had to explore the world of vision testing and corrective lens fabrication.

I’ve worn corrective lenses since I was eleven years old. Over time my eyes have gotten progressively worse. When Lasik surgery went mainstream I was seriously considering it because, as a former contact lens wearer who had to revert to glasses because of increasing astigmatism I was not enjoying sporting eyewear, no matter how fashionable or flattering. Ultimately I decided against Lasik because, as one honest doctor informed me, my eyes would continue their degenerative progression. Laser surgery would only detain for a while what was going to happen naturally.

I’ve had my current glasses for about 4 years. The optometrist that prescribed them for me was one surprised doctor, let me tell you. Prior to my visit with her I had been wearing trifocals. The reason I consulted with this eye doctor just a year after getting the trifocals was because I could not see out of any of the three ranges of my glasses.

The trifocals were too strong by far according to my eye exam, as compared to the lens test the doctor subjected my glasses to. Believing her scanning equipment to be faulty she sent her assistant next door with my trifocals, requesting that another doctor determine the prescription. Meanwhile she tested my eyes again.

Amazingly my vision had improved rather than deteriorated further! I went from a -3.75 (right eye)/-3.0 (left eye) to a milder myopia: -2.0/-2.5. I went from needing trifocals to single focus lenses in one year.

Ok, that’s interesting. Wonder how that happened?

And now it is 4 years later. Here I am, again unable to see through my glasses. More specifically: I see better without them than with them. I’ve gotten in the habit of taking them off when I get home, and I hardly ever wear them in the classroom. Time again for a visit to the eye doctor.

Visiting such a doctor here has its challenges. Well, not many of them, only 2. Language barrier and cost. How am I going to read the eye chart? How am I going to answer the doc when he/she asks me “Is this better or worse”? “Can you see better with this one or (flip of a lens) with this one?”

How am I going to know what she/he is even asking me?

I had to have someone along. Zhanny and Dash fit the bill admirably. We were out together anyway and, as an added bonus, Dash also wears glasses. As it turns out, I did not need them to interpret for me.

Reading a Chinese eye chart is ridiculously easy. It consists of progressively smaller capital E’s, turned different ways. All I had to do was point which direction the E was facing: up, down, left or right. After reading the eye chart, and taking the standard glaucoma test and retina scan I was prescribed glasses half the strength of those I’d been wearing.

I am now down into the -1 range on both eyes. Again in defiance of the predicted doom of my eyes getting worse.

Really: How is this happening? I’ve not worn such a weak prescription since I was a teenager. I think I’m getting younger instead of older. At least my eyes are.

Now for the next hurdle: cost. In America vision insurance is hard to come by. Comprehensive vision insurance is even harder to come by, so I’ve gotten used to shelling out anywhere between $300 and $500 for an eye exam complete with dilation, a prescription and a full pair of glasses – new frames, lenses… the works.

Sticker shock in reverse: total cost for eye exam and full pair of glasses: 300Yuan… about $50. Not El Cheapo, bargain bin frames but fashionable, half rimmed frames with UV protectant, polycarbonate coated lenses, made overnight. The whole thing comes with a year’s guarantee included in the price.

I’m whipping out my wallet, hoping I can pay that low price before the doctor realizes he’s made a mistake and doubles or triples the originally quoted amount. My friends, on the other hand, are arguing about how expensive the whole thing was. Oh, won’t they ever shut up! I don’t want Doc’s attention to focus on the price!

Their haggling won me another small reduction. Still with wallet in hand and doing my best to conceal my astonishment I pay 100Yuan, all that is required to get the process of making new glasses started. The doc then said I can pick my new glasses up around 11AM tomorrow.

After classes the next day I went back to the optical shop. There was that same grinning doctor, pleased that he had rendered a service to the foreigner. He let me try on my new glasses. They did not even need to be adjusted to fit. The frames seemed tailor-made for my face and the lenses… the lenses were…

I am stupefied. I can now see clearly what I was only able to view distorted before. Well, distorted if I wore my glasses and fuzzy if I didn’t. While I gazed out the shop’s window in wonder and awe the doc picked out an attractive hardshell case, packed it with a microfiber cleaning cloth and carefully set my old specs in. A few minutes later and 200Yuan lighter I left his establishment, muttering ‘I can’t believe it, I simply can’t believe it!’

Part of my surprise certainly comes from my eyesight regenerating instead of degenerating. But the bigger part is that, once again I got away with quality, affordable healthcare at a much lower than anticipated price.

Teeth, eyes and hair. Sounds like I treated myself to a Beauty Series Triumvirate but in fact I received needed medical services. While the thought of setting a tooth in a denture, getting my head stitched up and buying new glasses put me in a cringe of cost worry, the actual price tag was much lower than I though it would be. I can now say that I am no longer afraid of needing medical services while in China from a financial standpoint.

Just keep me out of that Transfusion Room. Please!