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.