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.