All I Want For Christmas is an AK-47

My Christmas vacation would not have been complete without a trip to Florida to visit my brother and his family. I hadn’t seen them in two years, and as nephews tend to grow more quickly than I would like, I was a little worried that if I didn’t show up, they may only have a vague recollection of their crazy aunt that lives in China. Not wanting that to happen, I hopped on a plane to the great state of Florida.

I grew up in Ocala, Florida, which is really nowhere near a convenient airport. I chose to fly into Jacksonville as it was 1) less expensive than flying into Orlando or Tampa and 2) convenient to a side trip to Gainesville. I arrived at the airport having rented some sort of intermediate sized sedan. When the rental agent suggested that I would look really great in a sporty car, I hopped on it. For only an extra $10 per day, I found myself behind the wheel of a Mustang GT. Sweet! And did I look great in that car? No doubt.

I hopped on the road very conscious that state highway 301 between Jacksonville and Ocala is a collection of speed traps. It was a challenge to keep the needle below the posted limit, but I succeeded in overcoming my inclination to see how fast I could get that car to go. I managed to make it Gainesville without a moving violation and made my was to the best burrito joint on the planet, Burrito Brothers. There are nights that I dream about burritos from Burrito Brothers. I think I probably ate there three times a week when I was a student at the University of Florida. I was a little shocked that the prices had increased in a dramatic way (not taking into account that it has been twenty years since I was a freshman in college and prices do tend to creep up over a couple of decades…) but, the black bean burrito with sour cream and guacamole was just as I remembered -- delicious. And the tattooed guy behind the counter was impressed that I came all the way from China for a burrito.

Well fed and satisfied, I arrived at my brother’s house in Ocala. Let me just say, there is little more impressive to 13 and 8 year old nephews than the power of the Mustang GT 5.0. They both came out to the driveway and drooled on the car’s shiny paint job. When my brother arrived a few minutes later, he added his own drool to the collection. We lifted the hood and gazed in awe at the engine. Even though I am a girl, I have to admit it was quite pretty. We then proceeded to engage in a 48-hour fun marathon which included two dinners and one breakfast, two movies (Sherlock Holmes, which was great and Alvin and the Chipmunks, which shows my dedication as an aunt as I think I would have rather jammed spikes into my eyes than to ever see that movie. I purposely feel asleep, which my nephews found hilarious. Don’t see it. My IQ is ten points lower due to that film…) a couple of trips to Wal-Mart and a few excursions in the Mustang, and a jewelry shopping trip with my sister-in-law for a really cool birthday gift – a watch with alligators. Awesome!

For my nephews and my brother, the highlight of my visit was the trip to the shooting range. I’m not sure exactly when my brother became a gun enthusiast. The gun safe and the collection of taxidermied dear heads on the living room wall were an indication, but I had no idea exactly how much my brother loves to shoot things. Some might think it borders on obsession. So, to the shooting range we went. And then the guns came out. Literally. My nephews were excited for me to take my turn at target practice. After I put on my protective ear coverings, I had my turn with the AK-47. I managed not to kill anyone and I hit the hill I was aiming at most of the time. I then got to shoot the .44 caliber pistol made famous by the Dirty Harry films. That thing had a kick-back that left a bruise on my hand. I only fired it once, and my brother took great glee in laughing at me as I refused to fire it again. Once was enough. I was much more comfortable with the .22. It’s a dainty weapon compared to everything else in the arsenal, and I enjoyed using the scope to aim at a spot on the hill at the back of the shooting range. When the .50 caliber Winchester came out, I have to admit I was hesitant to fire it, and made excuses while everyone else in the family took a turn. I can’t say that I am going to become a member of the NRA anytime soon, but it was nice to bond with my family in a very southern way. Although if pressed, I will admit that I liked my IHOP pancakes better than shooting guns. To each his own. And it was great to share the Spirit of Christmas with my brother and his family…even if my brother probably would bag Rudolph with his Winchester if he caught him on the roof. Rudolph be warned.

Fun With Flying

How long does it take to get from Guangzhou to Nashville? Let me tell you. About 30 hours. Considering that it used to take months to travel a thousand miles, one should hardly grumble about getting from one side of the world to the other in less than one and a half days. However, while 30 hours doesn’t sound too bad when you buy your plane ticket, getting from Point A to Point B is a lot more work than you realize it is going to be.

My day of travel started with a taxi ride. I was picked up from The Penthouse at 7:00 a.m. I spent 45 minutes in the car with my driver. We spoke little as my Mandarin currently allows me to ask where the bathroom is located or to order a double cheeseburger without mustard at McDonald’s. I did manage to tell him I was flying to Beijing and arrived at the correct terminal. I checked in for my flight to discover that I could only check in for my flight to Beijing. I would have to check in for my flight to DC in Beijing. Not exactly cool.

Not daunted, I caught up with a friend who was on my flight to Beijing. We hit the ladies room (this one had potties you sit on and toilet paper as opposed to the kind you squat over that usually don’t have toilet paper) and headed for security. Once through security, we headed into the expansive domestic terminal of the Baiyun International Airport. It has about 14 gates and 4 shops once you get past security. Oh, and a Starbucks, but those are everywhere in China. I’m sure they will be building one on the Great Wall before too long. We shopped for trinkets and got on our flight. My friend upgraded to first class, so I slunk back to the cheap seats. At least I had a window. And a pillow. Three hours, one nap and a beef with rice entrée later, I emerged from the plane in Beijing.

As I was not checked in for my next flight, I had to collect my bags. I waited, waited some more and then got in a bit more waiting. When there were 6 of us left, my bags finally decided to appear. I was better off than my friend. She checked her bags, but was not giving boarding passes. We sent a frenzy of texts back and forth trying to discover the secrets of checking in at the Beijing airport. I checked with a travel agent and found that I needed to go to the 4^th floor to check in. So I did. And found out that the baggage allowance to the US had changed. However, as I didn’t really believe the nice lady behind the counter, I stood there and tried to look it up on my phone to prove her wrong. After about 5 minutes she gave in and checked my second bag for free. Score. I realize I won’t be as lucky going back, as now that I have looked up the rule I’m not quite so indignant.

I headed upstairs to find my travel buddy and to have a snack. On a scale of one to ten, Thai food at the Beijing airport is probably a five. It fills a hole, but it’s nothing you would get really excited about flying back for. But, it killed a couple of hours before part deux of the flying odyssey. Once clearing customs to get out of China, there were still more hours to kill. I visited almost every shop in the Beijing International Airport. That took about an hour. By this time, my friend was ready to get on her flight, so I hugged her goodbye and went in search of liquid refreshment. Able to find water and Diet Coke, I headed for my gate. I found a lot of my countrymen, something which is not all that common in Guangzhou. I had forgotten how loud American college students are. And for a moment, I missed the language barrier as the conversation was a bit banal. But, the flight was called for boarding and I headed down the ramp. To have my bag searched. And my beverages confiscated. Since when did people start taking drinks away once you have gone through security? Was I going to make a diet coke bomb? Grrrr…whatever.

I found my seat and settled in for my flight. This one was 12 ½ hours or so. I sat next to a lovely woman living in Shanghai. We both took alternating naps for the first 10 hours of the flight, but had a great chat as we approached DC. By the time the plane landed, I had been travelling for close to 24 hours. Mary and I parted ways at flight transfer and I headed to immigration. When the agent asked me where I had been, I told him “Guangzhou.” “Where?” he said. It amazes me that no one has heard of one of the largest cities in the world double the size of New York City (and much cooler, I may add). Once I educated him on Chinese geography, I grabbed my bags, rechecked them and headed out into the terminal. The only redeeming feature of Dulles International Airport is the California Burrito Company. Burrito? Queso and chips? Yes please. I practically drooled on the guy that handed me my food. He didn’t think I was quite so psycho when I explained that I had been in China for five months.

As I headed for my gate and waited for my next flight, I was glad to know that I would soon be home. I boarded and realized that I booked the refrigerated seat, which was next to the galley door. It was a 40 seat commuter, and a little squashy, but only a 90 minute flight. Unless you have to de-ice the plan. And wait in line to get the plane de-iced. Sigh. After about an hour on the ground, we were in the air. The guy behind me grumbled a bit. I decided not to tell him that he had nothing on me as I had been traveling for 30 hours. I kept it to myself. And kissed the ground when the plane finally landed in Nashville. OK, I didn’t kiss the ground, but I did drink out of the water fountain, which is kind of like kissing the ground. It was good to be back in the USA.

Sankta Lucia

Many, many years ago I spent a bit of time as a missionary in Sweden. It’s mostly a frostbitten memory now (I haven’t had feeling in my toes for 16 years), but there are a couple of things I remember with fondness. One of them is the annual celebration of Sankta Lucia. Lucia was an early Christian saint that had a reputation for charity, good works and purity in ancient Rome. She was martyred, of course, and is now venerated in Scandinavia for bringing light at the darkest time of the year. All over Sweden young women dress up in white dresses, put candles on their heads (real or electric) and process into a crowd of singing onlookers. It’s a pretty cool holiday, especially if you have ever experienced a Scandinavian winter. By December, you are definitely ready for a bit of light. Bring it on, Lucia, bring it on.

A friend of mine from work who lived in Moscow for many years and worked with a lot of Swedes, also loves a good Lucia celebration. We decided to get a few people together to keep the tradition alive. I baked for days. I went to IKEA more times that I would like to admit to procure the appropriate Lucia supplies. There were pepparkakor (Swedish ginger cookies that appear at every Swedish holiday celebration) there was glogg, a special Swedish holiday brew into which you place rasins and almonds. I went with the alcohol free version, but most Swedes prefer the adult kind. I also embarked on a festival of Swedish meatballs. I have been chasing the perfect Swedish meatball recipe for years, and I have had my friend Amy mail me the same recipe at least three times. I have finally placed a copy into my e-mail, so that I can easily access, as I have a habit of losing it. Making Swedish meatballs is a lot of work, especially in a land that doesn’t really have a palate for ground beef. I went to three stores looking for it, but I finally found it. I multiplied the meatball recipe by 5 and I was literally up to my elbows in meatball goo. Undaunted, I crafted 120 or so of the finest meatballs ever eaten. Ever had an IKEA meatball? Sawdust compared to mine. Not to brag. It just happens to be true.

I crowded 12 or so friends into my apartment in order to celebrate. I collected a group who either knew what Lucia was, had been to Sweden, had the potential to sing well in Swedish or any combination thereof. I had a friend’s daughter serve as our Lucia. She was on her second party of the day by the time Lucia rolled around, and it looked a little sketchy for a while as to whether or not she would don the costume and let us sing. She was finally coaxed into coming out and we hustled to break out the music and the lyrics. There was light, there were boys dressed as gingerbread men, there was Swedish singing, there was hot chocolate made out of Nutella; all in all, people ate too much and had a great night. My friend and I are already planning for next year…next time I’ll get help making the meatballs.

A few pictures

A few images from around town. I finally got them off my phone.

You may notice a visual representation of Gator Football this this year. Sadness.

And some chickens at the mall food court. Delicious.

Slacker Blogger

Yes, I am a blogging slacker. I got busy. It happens. Suddenly four weeks of my life have disappeared and I have no record of what has happened. So, for those of you still reading, here’s the highlights:

1. Cross-stitch is alive and well: I went shopping recently at a GZ institution, Haizhu Square. It is a warren of little shops and stands. I went in search of cheap Christmas decorations and I was not disappointed. Apparently 90% of the world’s fake Christmas trees are manufactured in Guangdong. Who knew? I found green trees, flocked trees, trees that looked like toilet brushes, purple trees, Santa, Rudolph and Frosty. Any kind of Christmas decoration you may ever have imagined is available at Haizhu Square. I came home with three mini-trees and 30 disco ball ornaments. Who couldn’t use a few tiny, glittery disco balls on their tree? Exactly. As I wandered back into the bowels of Haizhu, I was surprised to discover no less than 30 stores dedicated to cross-stitch kits. It was mind blowing. And, in the middle of all of this, I saw the face of Chairman Mao staring back at me from some 14 count cross-stitch cloth. It was pretty amazing. I didn’t buy it, sad to say, but I have a feeling I’ll go back for that one. Everyone needs a Chairman Mao cross-stitch.

2. Turkey in Chinese: Did you know that the literal translation of Turkey in Mandarin is “fire chicken?” how awesome is that? Additionally, to buy a turkey in Guangzhou, you can expect to pay $7 per pound. It’s not a cheap bird. We all know turkeys can’t fly by themselves, so they have to come in on planes from North America, and thus the high price tag. But, Thanksgiving was celebrated and turkey was consumed. I also made a caramel apple cheesecake pie, which was divine. I’ll be sure to have Thanksgiving again despite the sticker shock on the turkey.

3. Crochet class – each teacher at my school has to offer an exploratory class. I chose to teach 11-14 year olds how to crochet. I was a little nervous at first. There was a lot of yarn and frustrated looks. Plus, I crochet backwards, as if I were left-handed. However, thanks to the internet (crochet how-to videos) and a few determined souls, I now have 12 avid crochet practitioners. My heart swells with a little pride every time they whip out their crochet hooks. I was worried we would just have tangled balls of yarn and tears. Not so!

Ummm…that’s all I can think of at the moment. I know a lot of other stuff happened in the last 4 weeks, but it’s all kind of a blur. Funny how that happens…

A Little Birthday Yak

I had a birthday this week. I was very glad when I awoke to a cat-free apartment. I am certain that at some point, with my advancing spinsterhood, cats are going to spontaneously materialize in my house. I won’t invite them in; they will just arrive, meowing incessantly, reminding me that they are my destiny. But not this year. I was relieved.
When I arrived at work I found a sign above my door that stated, “Come hug the birthday girl.” Brilliant. I’m leaving that up all year. I also found gifts stashed around the office and in my box in the teacher lounge. Much Coke Zero was involved. Apparently I have a reputation for drinking the stuff (OK, maybe I did send out an angry e-mail at the beginning of the year when someone took one out of the refrigerator that I have yet to live down, but that no reason to label me an addict…) I digress. Middle school is definitely the place to celebrate a birthday, as birthday wishes followed me around the whole day.
I decided, in case the cats had appeared while I was at work, that it would be best to go out for dinner with friends. I made a reservation at a local Yunnan place. Yunnan is a region of China close to Tibet, famed for its food and (awkward, when forced to participate in a theme restaurant) regional dancing. I visited this restaurant early in the year when the new staff arrived and I remembered warm feelings of camaraderie and lots of delicious food. Or perhaps the warm memories stem from the lack of air conditioning at the time. In any case, there were warm, fond memories that induced a desire to return. And, I must admit, I was very excited about the prospect of yak on the menu.
I had never eaten yak before. I was uncertain as to what Yak meat would taste like. Chicken? I thought not. There were numerous yak options on the menu. Braised yak, boiled yak, stir-fried yak with cashews. It was a yak-a-pallooza. I settled on ordering the dried yak with chili peppers, kind of a spicy yak-jerky. I must admit I was a little leery about consuming yak, but when it arrived on the table and I picked it up with my hesitant chop sticks, I discovered that yak is delicious. And as the yak was passed around the table, it quickly disappeared. Everyone liked the yak. Success! Three more plates of yak were consumed and gobbled up as festivities lingered into the evening.
It was a successful birthday. No new gray hairs appeared. The cats stayed away. Yak was served. Friends were present. A good time was had by all, especially the birthday girl

Into The Woods With 6th Graders

Yes, it’s a spooky, scary time of year, and what could be scarier than being marooned on an island with 85ish 11 and 12 year olds? Not much that I can think of, having just done it. Here are a few things I learned on my trip:

1. I’m really good with middle school kids when they go home at 3 p.m.

2. I’m really not good with middle school kids at 10 p.m. on day two of a trip when camping. I foolishly believed that they would listen to their group leader and stop talking at 9:30 p.m., official lights out time. I know I did when I was twelve. I was always the first kid asleep at a sleep-over even if it meant getting my bra frozen (they traditional punishment doled out on the first girl asleep). Fortunately I smuggled in my iPod and blocked out the chatter. I know it was really exciting for the first-time campers. But me, all I wanted to do was sleep.

3. 6^th grade students are really impressed when you kill an insect or an arachnid. We had an outdoor activity and a huge wasp was buzzing around. So, I did what anyone would do when 20 people were swatting at a bug with a venomous stinger. I stepped on it. A hush fell over the students. I think someone said “she’s our health teacher and she killed a wasp. Oooh. Aaah. “ Another group of students (you can guess the gender) had a spider in the shower. This was day three of the camping trip and I was a little crispy. And grouchy. Really, really grouchy. When I was approached with the spider situation, I told them to kill it themselves. Ten minutes later, I was feeling slightly more sympathetic (and knew I was a little too grouchy) and checked to see if the spider was still in the shower. It was. I pounded it with a shoe. More stares of awe and wonder. Kill a few bugs, you’re a hero.

4. Chinese food can be great. Chinese food, when trapped in a lodge in the woods with no other options, can also be not so great. Especially when kids don’t eat all of the salad and it becomes a soup for lunch the next day. Waste not, want not.

5. I am not as young as I used to be. I like to think I am still as flexible and stretchy as I was 20 years ago. This is not the case. Another teacher and I climbed the “Giant Ladder” which is what it sounds like. Imagine a 40 foot high ladder made out of ropes and logs with a 5 ½ foot gap between each rung. I climbed it. I have a bruise the size of a t-bone on my leg to prove it. But I got up the ladder. Sure I look like I was beaten, but that’s not important.

6. It’s good to get out of my comfort zone. Was I really, really, really excited about 3 nights with pre-adolescents. No. Did I have a great time? Well, no. But the kids did. And I am so glad that they did as it was amazing for them to get out, challenge themselves and do things they don’t normally get to do like climb giant rope ladders and cook their own meals. And that was more important than how I felt. I am glad I was able to go with them. And if I was even more glad to sleep in my own bed again, well, they never have to know.

Men Dancing Beautifully on a Rainy Night

I noticed recently in a magazine for expats that Guangzhou was having a performing arts festival. I immediately jumped on this knowledge and decided to book tickets for two events. The first was called “Men in Tutus.” The ballet company Les Ballets Trocadero de Monte Carlo, consists of men, dancing, in tutus. This was, as you may well imagine, impossible to pass up.
I decided to attend the event , held at the Guangzhou Opera House, with some friends from work. We also determined that we would meet for dinner before the event as it began at 8:00 p.m. We planned to meet at 6:00 p.m. at a restaurant near the venue. I had a general idea of the location of the restaurant, so I decided to take a taxi and just show the address to the driver. Between the time I arrived home at 3:30 p.m. and leaving two hours later, a deluge of Biblical proportions began. My better judgment told me that I should probably take the metro, as the stop is located right under my building. But, owing to the fact that I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, I decided to rely on the street smarts of my cabbie. Wrong, wrong, wrong. My first mistake was assuming it would be wise to catch a taxi in the rain. The minute the drops start to fall, taxis disappear. I had 20 taxis pass that were full. I waited for 15 mintues and finally flagged down a cab. However, two women materialized on my corner as the taxi pulled over and jumped in. I was incensed. How dare they poach my taxi. I managed to keep the stream of profanity in my head rather than pounding on the window and letting them have it.
Another five minutes passed and I finally managed to get a taxi. My umbrella was leaking at this point and I was soggy and angry. As I showed the driver the taxi card, he gave me a look that told me he had no idea where I wanted him to take me. At that moment, I prayed for Chinese language abilities to materialize. This did not happen. Instead I showed him a taxi card for the Ritz-Carleton, which I knew was fairly close to where I was going. He seemed frustrated with me, but I as I had flatly refused to surrender my ride, he had no choice but to take me. He did, however drop me on the opposite side of the road, which was divided by a very large and impassable median. I think he even sneered and laughed a little when he took my fare, but I can’t be sure. I walked, in three inches of rainwater, to the nearest crosswalk and started out in the general direction of the restaurant. I called my friend who was already there to see if she could give me directions. She asked several people that worked there if they could explain to me (in English as I was still not fluent in Mandarin) where the restaurant was located. No one could give me directions.
By this point I was soaked to my knees. My umbrella was still leaking and I was worried that I would destroy my phone by trying to get directions. There may have been tears. It was hard to tell with all of the rain leaking through my umbrella. I continued in the general direction of the restaurant and realized that I was starting to recognize things. I knew where I was! I knew there would soon be a dry place, a burger and a Coke Zero. My mood improved from hysterical to teetering on the edge. Things got even better when the food arrived. Ironically enough all four of us that were attending the ballet had similar stories of rain woe. Two of my co-workers never made it to the restaurant and took Shelter at the Ritz where they drank $10 coffee and weathered the storm.
Just as I began to get dry, it was time to go back out into the maelstrom. However, this time I knew where I was. And the rain had lessened a bit. We made it to the opera house and took our seats. While the place was super-air-conditioned, it was not wet.
The performance was well worth the epic struggle required to arrive. The ballet was both masterful and grotesquely comical. What else would you expect with an all-male ballet company. Dying swan from “Swan Lake” was the highlight of the night. Natalie Portman has nothing on dying swan guy.
After two hours, the performance ended. I had almost forgotten about the rain. Until I stepped outside. Cats and dogs. I dashed, once again in several inches of water to the metro station. I arrived on the platform ready to be home. I decided to fish my keys and my key-card out of my bag before I had to go back out into the rain. As I searched my purse, I realized, to my horror, that my key card was missing. I looked again. And again. No key-card. Somewhere, out in the rain, my key-card was floating toward a drain. Could my rain karma possibly get any worse? Fortunately, it was a short ride on the metro and some kind soul in my building forgot to shut an outer door. I was able to gain access to the building and my warm, dry apartment. Was it worth it? Yes. Would I take a better umbrella next time? And galoshes? And an inflatable dinghy? Yes. But Men in Tutus, sodden or dry was a cultural event not to be missed. I hope they come back soon. I’ll be waiting with my rain-gear.

Business Class

I shouldn’t have done it. I knew it would be good; I just had no idea how good. When I booked my flight to Bali (using frequent flier miles) I cashed in a few extra and booked the last half of my flight in business class. Mistake. Huge, huge mistake. I fly economy a lot, and I have a feeling that I will now resent it. A lot.
It started with check in in Denpasar. I was able to skip the really, really long line and go to the special Thai Airways Royal Silk line. Nice. My bag was underweight, as you get 32 kilograms in business class rather than 20 in economy. I was also handed a pass for the “Prada Lounge” where I could wait for my flight. Of course I went to the lounge. There was plenty of free food, free internet and a reflexology station. And showers. I passed on the showers, and instead ate the noodles.
As I headed for the gate, I found myself feeling, well, a little entitled. Being called to the front of the line didn’t help. Nor did the orange juice I was served when I arrived at my seat. The OJ was followed by a hot towel and magazines, and then a menu for my four course in-flight meal. As the plane ascended to cruising altitude, I reclined my chair to a semi-recumbent position and put on the complimentary noise-cancelling headphones. By this time I was ready for my second hot towel of the flight and my snack that came before the pre-meal warm snack. I decided to put on my comfort socks and kicked back and watched a movie on the really big screen in the seat in front of me. Lunch arrived – shrimp and scallops, salad, chicken in soy sauce, and hot rolls served twice by the flight attendants. After lunch, they broke out the cheese tray with fresh fruit before serving a coconut tart for dessert. As we circled the airport before landing, I wasn’t even slightly disappointed that we had to circle for an extra few minutes. I welcomed it.
This phenomena repeated itself as I flew from Bangkok to Guangzhou. I got off the plane knowing that it would probably be a while before I flew business class again. Although, now that I have lived it, I feel more willing to pay for it. Or pray for an upgrade. Please, let me be upgraded. I can’t go back to coach.

More Pics from Bali

As you can see, vacationing in Bali is a real hardship. There hasn't been much to do, really, other than
sitting by the pool, snorkeling, eating lots of Balinese food and hanging out with monkeys. To break the monotony of sitting by the pool, I headed to Ubud yesterday. There was much shopping, eating, visiting of monkey forests and watching Balinese dancers. Balinese dance is somewhat hard to describe. There were a lot of men chanting and waving their hands (I was tempted more than once to scream out "JAZZ HANDS!" but it seemed inappropriate), and a singing style that was somewhat reminiscent of beat-boxing, but in a Hindi temple with lots of candles.




Today I went to the spa for massaging, scrubbing and soaking at a fraction of the cost of home. I also took a sunset sail on an outrigger canoe with an outboard motor. It was a

beautiful last evening in Bali. I topped it off with my 5th serving of mango crumble of the week. I have been trying desperately to get the chef at the hotel to give me the recipe, but he keeps pretending like he hasn't heard my request and walking off. Jerk. Gastronomic genius jerk...Sadly my week of vacation is coming to a close. I will get back on a plane tomorrow and head home to Guangzhou via Bangkok. It's been a beautiful few days here in Bali. I'll miss the mango crumble the most.

Photographic Proof of my Bad Day in Bali

Yeah, Bali is a tough place to vacation. Not much to see, little to do, it's pretty awful. I wouldn't recommend it. I think I'll take an early flight home. Or maybe just go sit in a dark room for the next few days. I don't think I can endure much more of this...

My Horrible Day in Bali

It's been a rough day here in Amed, Bali. I didn't have my alarm clock to wake me up at my normal 6:15 rising time, so I had to sleep until I woke up on my own. Distressing. I then had to open the curtains and gaze out over the infinity pool overlooking the Bali Sea. The sun was so bright, it hurt my eyes. I had to squint. That put me in a really foul mood. There was nothing to do but walk past the pool to the restaurant to eat my breakfast. It took me 45 seconds to get there. That was terrible. I then had to wait for someone to make me an omelette. That took another three minutes, and I only had freshly blended pineapple juice to drink while I was waiting. Awful. I really was grumpy by then, and didn't feel like doing much, so I sulked by the pool all day. The only view was the blue, blue ocean, some palm trees and the occasional sailing boat. Boring. I dragged myself back to the restaurant for lunch. There were only a few choices for dessert. I had to settle for the mango crumble with melting ice cream. Melting, can you imagine? I was feeling a little tired and depressed after such a disappointing lunch, so I walked the 30 feet back to my poolside lounger and took a little cat nap. Then I got back in the pool and looked at the ocean hoping that would lift my spirits. It made little difference. I decided that maybe what I needed was a little walk to change things up. So I wandered down the road from the hotel to the beach. There were pigs and chickens and cows and fishermen and outrigger canoes, things one wouldn't want to look at unless they had to. I could only take so much of it and decided that maybe what I really needed was dinner. So, I walked back up the hill to the hotel where there was Balinese cuisine waiting for me. Too much coconut milk, to many spices. You would never want to eat such a dinner unless you didn't have any other options. Oh well. It was a colossal waste of a day. I hope tomorrow is a little better. I'm not sure I can handle another one of these.

Furniture Revisited

At long last, pictures of the furniture. The apartment is still a work in progress as my boxes are still in box jail. Long story, I'll tell it when I'm not exhausted after a long day at work and a Mandarin lesson. I'm going to go stare at my furniture and dream about my trip to Bali in three days. Aah...Bali.

New Phone, New Bugs

I got a new phone, which is awesome. What is not awesome is learning how to use a whole new system of apps and stuff. I know devoted android fans love their phones, but we are still having some growing pains. The saddest part of this story is the awesome picture I took on Saturday. I was on my way to dinner with some friends and we passed a restaurant called, I am not making this up, "Village of Gruel." I have a picture. I will post it as soon as it is not trapped on my phone. I am sure Dickens would have loved to dine there...

Chinese With Kevin

I started taking Mandarin lessons last week, as one of my goals in moving to China was to take a crack at learning the language. I discovered quickly that a working vocabulary of useful Mandarin phrases such as “where is the bathroom?” and “Coke Zero” would be essential to survival here in GZ. Thus grew the need for Kevin, the fabulous Mandarin tutor.
Kevin isn’t really called Kevin in his native language. I’m not sure if he refused to give me his name or if he just changed the subject. An interesting fact: most Chinese students of English pick out their own names. Years ago, they had to choose from an official list that came from, I am fairly certain, 1950s sitcoms. There are lots of Judys, Sallys and Peggys running around. Kevin chose his name from a popular clothing chain. He liked the way it sounded. Not a bad way to pick a name, I suppose. On a side note, while I lived in Dubai, there was a McDonald’s near my house. A woman from China worked there. The name she chose? Oven. How awesome is that?
As I began the process of lessons with two of my co-workers, I decided it only fair that I give myself a Chinese name. I opted for Xiongmao, which means Panda. Kevin thought it was a little odd, but I won him over. My co-workers followed my lead and also gave themselves the Chinese names of French Fry and Dumpling. Trust me, it sounds better in Mandarin. The good news: after three Mandarin lessons, I know about 400% more than I did last week. The bad news: I knew three phrases last week. I have to remind myself that languages take me a while. After a three semesters of Swedish in college, I knew how to say the following things 1) Can I have a cheese sandwich? 2) Do you have any cigarettes? and 3) I am watching TV. So, I will give myself a break that the Chinese that has gone into my brain has yet to come out in any usable form.
I do feel extremely fortunate in one respect. I have always had an uncanny knack to hear any sort of singing that is off key. I have literally winced in church when people in the choir have hit a wrong note. I couldn’t help it; it was a reflex, not a criticism. And bad karaoke has also been a painful experience. But, this ability is really useful when it comes to Mandarin. The language has four tones, and depending on the intonation of any given phrase, the meaning changes. So far, I really don’t have a problem hearing tones. Yea! Saying them, that is a completely different story, but at least I know I am saying it wrong. Hopefully my relationship with Kevin, French Fry and Dumpling will be long, prosperous and filled with useful Chinese phrases designed to make life that much easier.

I Remember

As I sit on the couch tonight in Kuala Lumpur watching CNN, it is hard not to remember exactly where I was ten years ago. I know that the world changed for everyone on that day a decade ago, but for those in New York and DC, it was different.
Ten years ago, I was an elementary school counselor working at Thaddeus Stevens Elementary School in Washington D.C. The school was located on 21st street between K and L streets and was the neighborhood school of the White House. Amy Carter attended school there while her father Jimmy Carter served as president. I arrived early for work that day, 7 a.m., and by 8:46 when the first plane hit the World Trade Center, I had already begun my normal daily routine. We had a new social worker who started that day. As we heard about New York and watched on the news that morning in the principal's office, she turned white. I think she had a cousin working in one of the towers. She left the building and never came back. At the time I didn't think much of it, but I wonder what happened to her. As we continued to watch the news on in the office we were horrified when the second tower was hit. And then the unthinkable happened. At 9:37 a.m. a plane hit The Pentagon. It was personal.
The phone started ringing. Parents panicked. The city shut down. The phone didn't stop ringing for the next three hours. Every call brought a rumor. There were stories that the International Monetary Fund, two blocks away, was on fire, that the World Bank, two blocks in the other direction, had been bombed. DC Public schools refused to make a statement or a decision about how to respond. I was the only person in the building with any real crisis training and took lists to the teachers so that they could cross off which students had gone home and with whom. There was so much fear that day. We knew more death would fall from the skies, and when news of Flight 93 broke, we all knew that was the bullet we had dodged.
Around noon my friend Mary returned to the building. She had been to the DC Public Schools office near the Capitol Building. She walked 2 miles in a city gripped with panic. The Metro closed, soldiers were deployed on the streets. DCPS finally made the decision to shut down schools; there were perhaps three or four students left in the building. I remember my drive out of the city. I lived in Silver Spring, Maryland, at the time, about 10 miles from downtown DC, right up 16th street, the same street as the White House. Everyone fled the city. The line of cars stretched the entire 10 miles. I remember feeling hyper-aware of everything around me, thinking about what I would do if another attack occurred while I drove home. I stopped to buy lunch, as I hadn't eaten since morning and everyone in the restaurant looked equally numb and equally frightened. People didn't talk. People were extremely polite. No one knew what to say; there was nothing that could be said.
As the days after 9/11 passed, DC reeled. My school was within the White House's zone of protection. Motorcades of police cars sped past on regular basis, sirens wailing. From the front steps of the school, I could see a military vehicle with a surface to air missile across the street, perhaps 50 meters from the school playground. It sat there for weeks. There seemed to be a universal feeling amongst all Washingtonians that we had gotten lucky and that surely those that had attacked us with such wrath and purpose could not be satisfied that their plans had gone awry. I lived in DC for another three years and never quite felt that the other shoe wouldn't drop at some time, that another plane would fall from the sky, that a bomb would go off, that something terrible and bloody was yet to come.
Ten years later I have to admit that the events of that September morning still haunt me. I didn't lose a loved one, I have no personal links to victims that died that day. But it was my town, my home, that was attacked that day, a place I lived in and loved and it was personal. A few months ago, while I was still in Denver, I took some students on a field trip. As we got off the bus some of the boys started singing a song about Al Qaeda. I snapped. I never yell at kids, but I let these guys have it. I told them I was in DC that day and that they weren't allowed to glorify the acts of people who forever changed the world I live in and a city that was my home. They didn't quite know what to say. If I had it to do over again, I would tell those boys it's still close to the surface. It probably always will be. I remember. I will always remember.

Meeting Peter Hoe

I am spending the weekend in Kuala Lumpur, one of my favorite cities in the world. And, in this favorite city, exists my favorite place in all the world to shop, Peter Hoe Beyond. Imagine all of the things you love about IKEA or Pier One or World Market, but imagine them much, much cooler. This place has textiles, funky lampshades, pounded metal napkin holders, purses covered in tiny elephants (think Christmas present for my niece), soft cotton bathrobes, and unique jewellery made in-house. And there are only two stores in all of the world, so you know what you are getting won't be in your neighbor's house either. It's a sheer shopping dream. Plus, there is a most delicious cafe as you enter the store; Peter Hoe has crafted the most amazing salad dressing you have every tasted. It may be a pineapple vinagrette, it may be something else, but whatever magic it is, I could drink it by the bottle.
I arrived at the store thinking about two things: 1) What I was going to find to pack into my suitcase to take back to GZ and 2) What I was going to eat for lunch. I entered the store and all of the cells in my body started blissfully humming with house-decorating possibilities. I took a left and headed for the cafe. I opted for the pan-seared salmon with salsa verde and, of course, the salad. I sat down on a comfy bench and gazed lovingly into the store while I waited for my lunch to arrive. I thought about setting up camp permanently, ditching my apartment and life in China to live clandestinely in the midst of the showroom. There was food, after all, and it was delicious. Lunch arrived and I tucked in. It was the best meal I had eaten in months and dessert was yet to come. I eyed the dessert case from my couch and decided to ask for a recommendation. I approached the counter and I was pretty sure that that guy selling me my dessert was Peter Hoe himself. I could hardly believe it. He recommended the mango cheesecake (made fresh today, no preservatives) as I gushed about how the salad alone made the price of a plane ticket from GZ worth it. He asked how I heard about the store and I told him a friend lived in town and that I have visited the store on every trip to KL. I also told him I planned to move in to the store, but he discouraged it, as he felt it would be an uncomfortable place to live. I sat down, not completely sure if I had actually just met the man and feeling just a little starstruck. My cheesecake arrived and Peter Hoe reappeard and chided me for digging right in. He said I should let it warm a bit, as it would improve the flavor. When Peter Hoe tells you how to eat your cheesecake, believe me, you listen. He was right.
Lunch eaten I headed out to buy things for my house. I picked up a table cloth, napkins covered in little monkeys, silverware holders, a floppy beach hat (for my trip to Bali in three weeks) a robe, a picture frame, a few more napkins, a necklace, some earrings and a few other things. About half way through the store, I noticed that something was wrong. The elastic bungee cord on my Keens had broken. I bent down to try to fix it and who appeared? Why Peter Hoe of course. I explained my predicament and he told me it was fine to sit on his floor and fix it. He grabbed the items I was holding out of my hand and took them over to the counter. He also told me that the napkin boxes I had negelcted to pick up for my Malaysian inspired napkins were essential items, added them to my pile and whisked them over to the counter. As I finshed up and checked out, I chatted a bit more with the man and the legend as he folded up my robe and found wrapping paper for the elephant purse (because if you are giving a gift from Peter Hoe, it needs the right wrapping paper). I think he was happy as my items were totaled up, 26 in all. I certainly spent a good bit of money in the store. As I left, not sure if I really had spent the afternoon hanging with P.H. or if it had just been some wonderful flight of Malaysian design fancy, I was content in the knowledge that my house will be just that much funkier and more comfortable due to the efforts of my afternoon and one Kuala Lumpur design legend. When I got back to my friend's house, I checked the internet just to be sure it really had happened. There he was, smiling up from the pages of the New York Times, Peter Hoe, my new friend and design guru. Thank you, Peter Hoe, it was a wonderful afternoon. I'll be back soon for another afternoon of salad and shopping.

To read more about Peter Hoe check out: http://travel.nytimes.com/2007/09/02/travel/02foraging.html

The Furniture Man Cometh (at 12:30 a.m.)

About three weeks ago I purchased some antique reproduction furniture. I waited patiently for its arrival, expecting every day when I came home that it would have been delivered and Lin (my efficient and amazing aiyi) would have unpacked it for me. In this thought, I was sadly delusional. Eventually, I resorted to e-mailing Mandy, the furniture lady who seemed not to notice that she had not delivered the furniture to me and 6 or 7 others. She committed to deliver it on Wednesday.
On Tuesday afternoon I got an e-mail from Mandy stating that the furniture would be delivered on Tuesday night at 9:30 p.m. I was slightly concerned, as that was rather close to bedtime, and I really, really love my sleep. But, it was coming, and I was glad about that. I popped in a Mr. Xu special into the computer and stretched out on the couch anticipating the delivery. 9:30 and no furniture. I checked my e-mail and noticed a note from Mandy stating that the furniture would be delivered to Ersha Island at 10:00. I knew mine would be coming after that. By 10:30 there was still no sign of the furniture. I did what any tired person that has to arise near dawn would do and went to bed. At 11:50 the intercom buzzed. Aha! Furniture. Nope. Someone had randomly buzzed my unit trying to get into the building. Unfortunatley, I got a call at the same time saying that the furninture had arrived. So, I thought that the buzz at my door was my stuff. I waited for 10 minutes. Nothing happened. I got into the elevator and went downstairs. No one was there. I called back and was told that the furniture was there. Mandy promised it was in my elevator. I assured the English speaking intermediary that there was no furniture in the elevator. I sat on the leather couch in the lobby sweaty and pissed off. Minutes passed. I went back upstairs. I got a call from another co-worker who was equally angry. Profanity happened, I must admit. At 12:37 a.m. my doorbell rang. Finally, the furniture. I think it's pretty safe to say Mandy the furniture lady has lost my business as furniture delivery and 12:37 a.m. are two things that just don't belong together.

My First Chinese Cold, a Trip to Hong Kong and the Four Pound Bag of Chocolate Chips

I have a confession. I am a miserable sick person. I do not like being sick. I am grouchy, pathetic and unpleasant. I want people to do things for me when I am sick, but I don’t want to ask for help, as that generally goes against my disposition not to ask for help unless trapped under a very heavy object of some sort that I am unable to move. I’ve embraced this independent woman thing and I’m good with it. Unless, that is, I am sick. It started last Sunday with a little tickle in my throat that turned into more of a scratching and then a burning. I knew what was coming.
I tried to fight it Monday by telling myself that I was only imagining it. Strangely enough, that didn’t work. By Tuesday I was feverish, my head was swimming and I was whining to my co-workers. The middle school secretary felt bad for me (as she was sick the week before and thought she may have infected me) and hooked me up with an herbal Chinese cold-cure. I’m not sure if it helped or added to the head-swimming. It was warm, if nothing else. Another co-worker took pity on me and offered Western cold medicine, for which I was grateful. I realized on Tuesday that I had packed medicine for half a cold, thinking that I would get to Hong Kong to stock up on medical supplies before I had a chance to get sick. Wrong. Wednesday I was still feeling like something stuck to the bottom of a shoe, but went in to work anyway. Thursday I stayed home and spent the day strung out on cold medicine and take-out. Bless food delivery services. Friday, I was still worse for the wear, but coming out of it. Plus, I had to be ready to go, as I had a date with a banker in Hong Kong.
I hadn’t really imagined that my first trip to Hong Kong would involve Kleenex and lots of nose blowing. Even though Hong Kong is only 100 miles from GZ, it is an international trip, as HK is its own special administrative region. So, I had to go through quarantine to get on the train. I have noticed in recent years that my resting body temperature is somewhere closer to 96 than it is to 98.6, which is handy when you have to walk past fever detecting cameras. I boarded the train, still doped up on cold pills, and started feeling very sensitive to every single sound. I tried to sleep, but my hearing was amplified. Everything was loud. The colors on the chairs were too bright, I wanted to curl into a ball on the floor of the train, but I was afraid I would have caught something worse down there. I plugged in the iPod, gritted my teeth and waited for the train to roll into Hong Kong.
I will state right now, that I do not have single picture of my trip. It was raining and it was hazy. Not the best picture taking conditions. Plus I had a fist full of Kleenex the whole weekend, and I certainly didn’t want to get any viscous bodily fluid in my camera. It took about three and a half hours to get from the train station in GZ to the hotel in HK. There were about 15 of us that went, as we all needed to open up bank accounts in HK, and we decided to go out for Mexican for dinner. It was a long walk and I was hungry. And tired. And grouchy. And when the Mexican place was full, I led the charge next door to the 24-hour breakfast joint and I was happy. It’s amazing how much you don’t miss something like a breakfast burrito until you see one listed on a menu. It got the works…salsa, sour cream and avocado. Plus a pancake on the side; blissful breakfast delight at 10 p.m. Saturday I opened a bank account, and went to a big shiny mall where I purchased a shirt, a pair of shoes and a copy of the best travel book ever written, McCarthy’s Bar. My best purchase of the day was made at another grocery store heavy with American imports: 4 pounds of chocolate chips!! Chocolate chips are somewhat hard to come by in GZ. I wasn’t about to let that one go, even if I had previously bought two smaller bags of chocolate chips at the big shiny mall. Have you ever met a chocolate chip you didn’t like? Yeah, me either. While I can’t say I saw much of Hong Kong on this trip, I can say I look forward to going back. Without a box of Kleenex. And with photographic evidence of my trip. And, let’s face it, with another four pound bag of chocolate chips in my suitcase.

Brunch of Gluttony

When I lived in Dubai, going out to brunch was a blood-sport. People started early in the morning at a designated place of brunching. Five hours later they emerged filled to brim with delicious brunch goodies. Somehow, inexcusably, I never went out to brunch in Dubai. I’m not sure how it happened, but it’s one of my biggest regrets in life. Right up there with being too young and unaware to be at Red Rocks for U2’s concert there in 1983. Huge regret.

So, I’ve determined to make up for missing so many great brunch opportunities in Dubai by never passing up an opportunity for a quality brunch ever, ever again. I began my brunch quest last year by going out for a fabulous birthday brunch in at the Fairmont Hotel in Singapore (thanks again, Amy…it was remarkable). When I was invited out for brunch at the Ritz, my resolve kicked in and I was determined to go.

If you’ve never been to brunch at a 5 star hotel, it goes something like this: As I walked in, I passed the Oyster bar. I really wish I liked Oysters. I find them slimy and phlegm like. They go against one of my cardinal rules of eating which is to never eat something that has or looks like it has been previously digested. So, they oysters were out, but I assure you they were fresh and smelled of the sea. We were seated and for the next three hours, I enjoyed the following treats: crusty bread, tomato soup, French toast drizzled with chocolate sauce, Munster cheese (it had a picture of a cow on it, but it tasted a little goaty, which I did not enjoy, but I did avoid spitting it back onto my plate, a victory of sorts), roasted pork, chili sauce, dumplings (Chinese style, Grandma; yours are better!), fried rice noodles, tomatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese and some other good stuff. The highlight, of course, was dessert. What’s not to love about a chocolate fountain? And pineapple? Chocolate covered pineapple? Yes please! I limited myself to one trip to the chocolate fountain, as the chocolate was of such high quality, that I was afraid if I went back I would have stuck my face right into it, which is not Ritz appropriate behavior. I also had a tiny piece of chocolate mousse cake with passion fruit filling as one of the guests at brunch was celebrating a birthday. It was a brunch to remember. I love my dedication to the ideal of never saying no to brunch. Best resolution ever. I’m also really glad I bought an elliptical machine yesterday. It goes well with my resolution to never be removed from my house with the assistance of a forklift or a crane.

Middle School...Just Like You Remember It

Middle School…Just Like You Remember It

On Friday I attended our middle school social. If you were curious the following things have not changed since you were in middle school:

1. Sixth grade girls and boys would rather poke sharp sticks in their eyes than be forced to interact with each other. Mingling is almost always under duress and met with groans and looks of derision.

2. Middle school students will consume large amounts of food of any kind at any time. I watched students slurp dozens of packages of instant noodle soup being sold at the concession stand. If you sell it, they will buy it and eat it.

3. Middle school students have questionable taste in music. I’m sure I did when I was that age. My excuse is going to middle school in 1986, the heyday of Billy Ocean and Rick Astley. At least I have a good excuse

4. There will always be students playing an unsafe game of tag and adults trying to break it up before someone impales themself on a chair. I am usually that adult.

5. Middle school kids are fantastic. Sure, they are little bags of volatile hormones waiting to explode at any time, but they are fun to watch and even more fun to work with. There is never a dull moment in my day and I love seeing it all unfold. Best job ever.

It's a Long Long Way to the 29th Floor and Sidewalk Driving

My apartment, as mentioned, is on the 29th floor of my building. I love, love, love the view, however, if you have met me and spent any amount of time with me, you know that I need a potty break approximately every 34 seconds. It takes 55 seconds to ride from the ground floor to the 29th floor. I have timed it. The bus ride from school is approximately 35 minutes. I am now cutting off my liquid supply (and dangerously risking dehydration) about an hour before the bus is scheduled to leave. I also visit the loo immediately before departure. But, inevitably, the elevator ride is an excruciating test on the limits of my bladder. And the best part is that there are security cameras in the elevator. I am sure somewhere in my building someone is getting a real kick out of the daily pee-dance performed by yours truly. What can you do? Adult Diapers? Also probably inevitable.

Another observation...no one really seems to care if you drive on the sidewalk here in GZ. I needed to go to the store to buy some Clorox yesterday and took my normal on-the-sidewalk route. About half way there, I encountered a BMW that was driving, almost directly at me, over the curb and onto said sidewalk. I glared at the driver and kept walking. Slowly. I could hear the car behind me. Had I leaned back far enough I could have touched the hood. I found myself totally annoyed that the car was 1) On the sidewalk 2) About to mow me down and 3) The crowd of police officers I walked past didn't seem to notice or care. So I kept walking as slowly as possible hoping that the guy in the car was equally annoyed that the traffic on the sidewalk wasn't moving as quickly as he hoped. When I got to the hair salon with the disembodied hairstyle heads on sticks at the corner, the car aggressively whipped past me and kept going. The driver didn't seem to like me very much either.

Furniture Fun and a Very Bieber Birthday Bash

My apartment is still a little sparse in the furnishing arena. Imagine expansive white walls that make the living room furniture look smaller than it actually is. The space could house two bowling lanes; it’s expansive. So, a trip to the furniture market was in order.

I got on a bus with 17 of my co-workers and we sped off for a factory near Foshan. We met Mandy, the furniture lady and were given 15 minutes to use the bathroom (which involved squatting and a bucket and lots of hand sanitizer) and to look at the showroom. When the 15 minutes was up, we hopped back on the bus and headed for the factory that makes Mandy’s furniture. This was just as thrilling as the trip to the kitchen market. I wandered three floors of chairs, benches, bed frames, cabinets, curios, desks, dressers and chests. About $700 later, I settled on two Tibetan style reproduction antique pieces that have found a very good home with me. Much furniture love here in The Penthouse. I arranged with the factory to deliver the furniture and I think she will be calling Lin to get things moved in tomorrow. There will be pictures. This stuff could change my Mom’s mind about Asian furniture. I’m just saying.

After I dropped a wad of cash on cabinets and dressers, I then proceeded to spend a little more on some ceramics. I followed the trip organizer to a dusty antique store and dug through piles of dishes and other gems. As I climbed over old furniture and 19^th century knick-knacks, I spotted a vase in a case. It had the look of being expensive. It had two orange Foo Dogs (the dogs often seen guarding Buddhist temples) and as my eyes locked with theirs, I knew that I would be paying to take them home. The vase turned out to be an antique with an official looking seal on the bottom, which my shopping companions assured me was a good thing. It also had writing on it, and it turns out the vase was commissioned as a personal gift inscribed with a message for the recipient. Nice! Yes, I bought it. I am now a collector of antique Chinese Foo Dog Vases. Probably better than collecting stamps or cats.

As if shopping for home furnishings wasn’t enough to make my weekend a thrilling event, I was invited to a co-worker’s birthday party. He described the venue as “interesting.” Good word choice. It was held at a club called the 69 Bar (I am not making that up). I arrived with another co-worker and we were immediately ushered upstairs to the 2^nd floor party area. I could not have imagined this place. It was phenomenal. At the top of the stairs, there was a go-go dancing cage, complete with a see-through floor (Mom, Grandma, don’t worry, I stayed out of the cage.) There were several pleather couches and strings of sparkly crystals hung from the ceiling. The light fixtures were a highlight. In addition to traditional chandeliers, there were also feather boa chandeliers. What, you may ask, is a feather boa chandelier? I will tell you. It was a cube shaped plastic lampshade completely covered in dusty pink feathers. I was immediately seized with the urge to make one for myself. Why did I leave my glue-gun in the States? There was also a fog machine. Unfortunately, it was not plugged in; a bitter disappointment to say the least.

I sat down on the couch and immediately gained an Italian boyfriend. He was even more persistent than last weekend’s Welshman. Within five minutes he declared “you are not married, that is a problem. I will help you solve it.” (I have a witness to that statement; I’m not making that up either) Too bad he already has a wife and seven kids.

As the night progressed, the Birthday Boy announced that he would be singing in five minutes, as he used to be a regular act at the 69 club. I have not been so entertained in a very long while. He took the stage and the crowd went crazy. The set included some C-Lo Green, a song in Cantonese and commenced with the classic “Baby” by a certain formerly floppy-haired Canadian teen music sensation. Chinese girls love the Bieber just as much as American Girls, to this I can attest. And, it was good singing. Given a different set of circumstances in the universe, Birthday Boy could have been Marky-Mark with his very own Funky Bunch. The evening ended with some dancing as my new Italian boyfriend admired me from afar. A good time was had by all.

A Justin Bieber side note: At Christmas time my Dad and I went to see the film True Grit. As we munched on popcorn waiting for the main attraction, a preview for the now classic Justin Bieber Never Say Never flickered onto the screen. I leaned over to my Dad and said “Guess what you’re getting for Father’s Day?” He laughed. 6 months later a package arrived for my Dad containing the just released movie. I gleefully anticipated this moment for months, as practical jokes often make the best presents. Unfortunately, Dad had forgotten our conversation and couldn’t understand why I thought he had Bieber Fever. I reminded him of our exchange and he got a good chuckle, but I’m pretty sure he now doubts my gift-giving abilities.

My Culturally Insensitive Lunch

Today I had to test some of the new students during lunch time. One of them is Muslim and, due to Ramadan, is fasting. I also had to give this student a test earlier in the week and felt bad that the other kids were eating, but they assured me that it was OK. Today I had to test them again and I remembered as I sat down with my lunch that it is still Ramadan. They chose a seat at the table right next to where I was sitting. I also realized that for lunch my aiyi (bless her) had prepared a delicious pork chop with potatoes and carrots. And then I felt a little awkward as 1) It is Ramadan 2) I was chowing down next to a person that was fasting 3) I was chowing down on Islam's most offensive meat; so offensive that stores in Dubai that sold pork had a special for non-Muslims only section where they cordoned off said meat so that the Muslim shoppers didn't have to be defiled by its presence. Fortunately, the student didn't seem to notice. And, if they had asked, I would have told them it was beef.

Hello, Dumpling

So, I have learned my third Chinese word...dumpling. I'd give you the character for it, but I wouldn't want to embarrass anyone with my great skill in the Mandarin tongue. It is a very useful word to know, especially when you are hungry. And, let's face it, dumplings are delicious. These little beauties cost me 5 rmb, which works out to about 87 cents. For a DOZEN dumplings!! And do you see that brown sauce the dumplings are swimming in? Soy, you say to yourself. No way! It's peanut sauce!!! I cannot possibly communicate the beauty of the humble dumpling with peanut sauce, but now that I know how to place an order, they will probably become a go-to staple of my diet. Plus the shop is a five minute walk from my apartment. Plus they are delicious. Do you think the dumpling store people would notice if I were there three days in a row? They might, but I'm not sure I care.

A few pics from a night out

Just a few pics from my night out. Gentlemen, in case you forget how to take care of you personal business, this sign is very helpful. It is also good to know the rules of the park. I had planned to dredge for shrimps in the pool and to earn a living by singing in the park. Thankfully this informative sign spared me some serious rule-breaking behavior.

School, running with The Killers, a taxi adventure, the kitchen market and a trip to Shamian Island

School is in session. This is a good thing, as schools without kids are only shells of what they should be when they are not around. Educators are a great bunch of people, but they are much better with students. I’m enjoying the fun of a new year and getting to know the kids. You never know what is going to happen on any given day in middle school. It’s always a surprise. That is an adventure.
In my non-working hours, I’m beginning to settle into a routine. Once I discovered that I could be outside at night, I developed an overwhelming desire to go running. So Friday night, I loaded myself down with a liter and a half of water, set my iPod to The Killers and hit the pavement. I’m not sure why, but nothing puts me in a running groove as much as the dulcet tones of Brandon Flowers crooning out Mr. Brightside. It just works. It was great. I should be trained up for my next race (hopefully the Macau half marathon in December ) in no time. Thank you, Killers.
As my apartment is still in need of basic supplies, I joined the school trip to the Kitchen Market. As I had to be to the bus by 9 a.m. and didn’t want to walk, I decided to take a taxi. As most taxi drivers in GZ don’t speak a lot of English (why should they really?) I have a stack of taxi cards designed to facilitate arriving at the appropriate destination with minimal trouble. As I got in the taxi, I handed the driver the card with the school address. He looked at it, nodded his head and we were off. In the wrong direction. I questioned him about it and he insisted that he was going the right way. I thought perhaps he knew a short cut I was unaware of. A few minutes later, I was still sure we were going the wrong way and asked him again. He once again insisted we were headed the right direction. Finally I pulled the card out and realized that the elementary campus and the secondary campus were on the same card and he was, in fact, taking me to the wrong place. Once we cleared things up, he headed in the right direction at break-neck speed, weaving in and out of traffic to deliver me to the correct destination. Fortunately taxi fare is cheap. And I made it to the bus with two minutes to spare.
Bus missing crisis averted, I headed to one of the most wonderful places on earth. The Kitchen Market. It is a warren of shops devoted to the cooking and serving arts. Everything and anything you may need for your kitchen can be found at the kitchen market at a fraction of prices in the US. Now, my mother and sister will tell you that the prospect of hitting the mall to shop for clothing and shoes is not an activity I meet with glee. Just not something I get hot and bothered about. However, shopping for kitchen supplies left me feeling like a kid on Christmas morning. I got muffin tins, a pastry cutter, cookie cutters, squeezy bottles, kitchen scissors, can openers, cooking chopsticks, bowls, and 18 plates of assorted shape and size. I also gave in to my ultimate kitchen desire. I bought the Chinese version of a Kitchen-Aid. I have wanted a Kitchen-Aid for at least the last 15 years. I have never gotten one as I keep moving to countries with assorted voltages and it just never seemed practical. But, as I walked into the East Kitchen Ware Supply store, I saw the mixer and it was like there was nothing else in the room. I was drawn to its siren call of cookie, cake, brownie, pancake batter and bread dough making pleasure. $250? A small price to pay for such baking bliss. That, and I am never moving again. I now have too many kitchen wares to make that a practical decision.
A morning of kitchen shopping was tiring, and I retired to my apartment for a little R&R. As I was lounging, I got a message from some colleagues stating that they would be spending the evening on Shamian Island. Shamian was the original home of Europeans living in GZ. They weren’t allowed to leave the island, as the locals wanted to keep an eye on them. Rightly so. Today the island is the home to several European style buildings, some funky sculpture, a wedding photo shop, hotels, restaurants and teenage girls with guitars singing Taylor Swift songs. Who knew Taylor Swift would be the one to break down all of the cultural walls? I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that teenagers in GZ also have Bieber fever. Ah, globalization. We finished up the night by heading to the Paddy Field. As I am in Southeast Asia, I thought this would be a Vietnamese establishment. No, not quite. Irish Bar. Everyone loves an Irish Bar. It was loud, crowded and there was nowhere to sit. As I’m not a drinker (unless you count diet soda) and it was way past my bedtime, I said hello to my co-workers and attempted to head out the door… until I was grabbed by Tony, the Welshman. He clasped my hand, insisted that I sit down and also insisted on buying me a drink (and couldn’t understand why I only wanted a club soda). It took me a few minutes to clue in to the fact that he was hitting on me. Maybe it was that he was quite intoxicated, 20 years older than me, or kept calling me old girl (which you should never say to a woman regardless of her age) but I felt obliged to turn down his multiple invitations for swimming and lunch. He does own a shoe factory. If only I were a shoe lover, things could have been different. I’m pretty sure I’m distant, fuzzy (stunningly gorgeous) memory to Tony today, and I’m OK with that.

Aerobics anyone?

I went out for Taiwanese food (yes, there is such a thing and, yes, it is delicious) and decided that I needed to walk off my dinner. It’s been a little warm and humid which is not surprising considering that I live below the Tropic of Cancer, so I have avoided being outside when air conditioning has been available. Not tonight. I live very near the Pearl River which has an excellent path beside it. I was a little leery about walking alone at night, as being from the USA we just learn to worry about such things. Unnecessary worry. In a city the size of Guangzhou, you are never alone.
I headed out from my apartment with my Camelback and passport as you need that at all times. It would be nice if I could just tattoo on the number and the residency visa. I passed my nail salon, the wet market, a few wine shops and a place that sells expensive bedding. As I approached the river, I noticed that I was hearing music. Loud music. And there were people out. Hundreds of them. Doing aerobics. In a public square. It was a little surreal. There was also some waltzing going on, biking, walking, skateboarding, rollerblading, picnicking and a guy doing some karaoke. I think he may have had some sort of agenda as he had a sign and just about the time I walked past 3 police officers on Vespas had pulled up to put an end to the singing (while it may have been bad, it was hardly a crime)...In addition to the people there were vast displays of neon and twinkly lights. It was a beautiful evening. I’ll be taking that walk again soon.

Finding Mr. Xu

Seven years ago when I moved to Venezuela, I had much more of a moral compass when it came to DVDs of questionable origin. It was at least a year before I purchased one, and I was sure it would just be one. One became many, many dozen and when I got to Dubai, the sellers of the DVDs of questionable origin went from door to door wearing backpacks. Peter was the guy that found my door more than once.
I’m sad to say my moral compass is still pointing in the wrong direction when it comes to the above mentioned wares. So much so that I sought out Mr. Xu, the man with the shop full of video items of questionable origin. There is a place here that sells computers. If you find the right stairwell and go to the second floor and mention that you might be looking for such products, Mr. Xu appears and guides you to his store that is really more like a closet. You sit down on a plastic stool and comb through everything on offer from the latest hits to really bad Korean porn (no mom, didn’t pick up any of that). As I haven’t yet gotten my cable installed, let’s just say I made good friends with Mr. Xu. He’ll be eager to see me again, and I am not likely to forget his secret stairwell of video wonder.