The Endless Staircase

A few weeks ago, our student group went to the Great Wall for sightseeing. Not only was it the most breathtaking thing I have seen so far but it made me wonder why, in the year 2008, in the (self-proclaimed) most powerful nation in the world, Interstate 70 is perpetually under construction, the Bellaire Bridge is still waiting to be torn down, Route 7 is falling into the Ohio River and the sidewalk in front of my house looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it just for fun. Of course, these are only a few examples that just happen to be in close proximity to my house.

There are two things the Chinese have down when it comes to efficiency: construction and traffic. Boston readers, take note. This part is for you in particular. Beijing takes the gold for laying down mile-long stretches of sidewalk within an hour, and reducing their traffic congestion by half within a day. Of course, they have an endless stream of migrant workers who come in everyday and sleep right next to their worksite, using their shovels for pillows but nevertheless.....

At any rate, seeing the way Chinese people work causes me to see the capacity to build a wall that once was meant to keep an entire nation of people from entering China. Once on the wall, and feeling the effects of an altitude quite foreign to my lungs, I attempted to climb.....and climb......and climb...... no one bothered to tell me the wall was more like an endless staircase up the side of a shear mountain.

It just so happened we chose the coldest, rainiest day to climb the Endless Staircase (I've renamed it). So as I'm sliding and slipping on steps that have been smoothed to an ice rink like quality from all the foot traffic, I notice I'm not feeling like any oxygen is actually reaching my blood. I stop to look around at the beautiful ancient relic almost completely hidden by fog and mist and think, "Is this how this moment was supposed to play out?" Somehow, I anticipated a much more spiritual experience, but then I remembered I was close to passing out and thought perhaps I should come out of this cloud and return to earth.

I forgot to mention we also chose to go on a Saturday, which apparently was also national go see the Endless Staircase Day. China has about 1.3 billion people and a rough estimate puts the head count on the Staircase around 300 million......and each head seemed to be accompanied by an umbrella. The Chinese loooooove their umbrellas. They love them so much they even use them when its not raining. They say it's "to block out the sun" but their not fooling anybody. Sunscreen was invented like decades ago. I think they just like to show off their umbrellas to each other. It's like a fashion statement to have the coolest or most unique one in town.

Anyway, as I'm sliding down the Staircase and trying to have my moment with one the world's great wonders, I'm getting whacked in the side of the head by every umbrella on the way down. You would think that people who use their umbrella every single day would know how to drive it but the Chinese seem to have no depth perception when it comes to their favorite accessory. It is damn near a weapon and I have the scars in my hair line to prove it.

Just when I'm about to give up on my spiritual experience, I find myself being asked for photos. Me? I'm not even really Arian-looking, but okay, I'll go with it. First, a small child looked at me, pointed up at me and turned to look at her mother with this yearning look in her eyes. Her mother, holding the camera nodded for her to go ahead. She just looked back at me and stood next to me. So, realizing she wants a photo, I kneel next to her and smile. As if she just had her picture taken with Santa Claus, she smiled widely at her mom and then shyly looked back at me and waved as she ran off. Her mother, thanked me about four times and backed away.

After the first encounter, came three more. Small children, young men, families, all wanting their pictures taken with the white American lady. Now I understand how Britney feels. Exhausted from my photo shoot, I look around for my entourage and remembered that I'm not actually a celebrity, I'm just very pale. So I skidded like an elephant on roller skates the rest of the way down and waited for the rest of the group to return to the bus. My moment on the Endless Staircase was not how I imagined it would be, but then again, I also never imagined I'd experience fame.

Mountain Pose

After searching for 30 years to find a quiet place in my life, I have found my sanctuary. It lies in the mountains outside of Beijing and it is where I do yoga with a Buddhist yogi and others from around the world. Here, there is no divorce, no alcoholism, no abandonment or broken promises. Here there is no depression or rage, no death or loss. At my sanctuary, there is no such thing as a broken heart or a sad little girl wishing her mommy was a little more stable, that her daddy was a little stronger, that her stepfather had kept his promise. There is no young woman wishing the men she once loved had been a little less cavalier, that the women who betrayed her friendship had been a little less selfish.
I love my sanctuary because here, on a beautiful mountainside overlooking the entire cityscape which is far off in the distance, I can breathe. I can sleep without dreams and nightmares chasing me. Here, I can relax and feel safe and I can trust myself and love myself and forgive......myself. There is no fighting, no hateful words, no manipulation, no betrayal. There is no judgement or criticism, no disappointment. Up until now, the only place I knew of that could provide such peace was death. But here I feel very much alive. In fact, I feel more alive than I ever do when I'm back in.....my life. One thing I have always known is that no one will ever truly know how much I have yearned for this place.
My sanctuary in the beautiful mountains of China, far, far, far away from home, from the past, is a place where the only piece of time that exists is the present. I just simply am. Nothing more, nothing less. I am the best version of myself, without the contamination of outside forces. I am pure, I am happy, I am calm, I am...........me.
Here I am surrounded by kindness and love, friendship without conditions, smiles, warmth, gentle affection and the peaceful sound of my own soft breath. My heart slows down to a drowsy pace, my body bends with flexible ease, the pollution of circumstance flows out through my pores and I exhale away all the pain.
I heard once that the past is always present if you carry it with you so I have buried it on a mountain in China, with no grave marker and I have turned and walked away. There it will stay. And my sancutary is taking its place. It is coming home with me, in my heart. I am forever changed, impervious to the usual suspects, strong now with peace in my heart and a centered sense of self that stands as strong as that mountain. I will not be torn down again.

Chicken Blood and Bug Juice

Since the flight that had me in a marathon sitting competition with about 400 other people circling the earth for a day, I have had this ache in my neck and shoulder blades. So far, efforts to relieve this pain include an almost-erotic massage by a skantily-clad Asian girl in spike heels, and consumption of enough pain reliever to choke a horse.

The fact that I sleep on a slab of granite every night has only intensified the feeling of hot metal rods going up my spinal column. In a moment of sheer desperation, I finally called Tao Laoshi (my teacher) and asked her for advice. She called back with information that the Beijing Language and Culture University hospital had a doctor who specialized in acupuncture and massage and offered to take me there.

Could it be true? I was elated to find out that not only would I be getting relief but I was also getting the fortunate opportunity to have Chinese medicine practiced on me in China. Thinking I was truly the most cosmopolitan person I knew, I jumped at the chance and agreed to go straight away.

Now the hospital has been under construction, as most things in Beijing, getting a flashy new makeover for the upcoming Olympic Games. Therefore, the hospital offices were moved to an apartment building across the street until renovations were complete. We walked in to find a long hallway that teased the nose with the faintest sent of urine. On one side, a row of windows to the outside. On the other side there were doors to little rooms, each specializing in a different ailment. The problem was, this hallway had been abandoned by its temporary inhabitants with no notice of relocation.

Tao headed back out and asked a security guard who directed us to the hospital building. Surprised that renovations were complete so promptly, we walked over to see the new building. When we walked in, we found a very white, very clean, polished building. But I've learned the hard way that first impressions here are deceiving. We walked down the hall to find little rooms with signs specifying particular ailments and doctors sitting in each of them at little wooden desks.

Out in the hall there seemed to be a general confusion and disorganization as people just seemed to be hanging out or meandering from door to door. Tao walked into a room and spoke to a doctor who sat wearing a sweaty white coat, half unbuttoned, over a sweaty tank top. He told her the doctor who handled my request was not in and I could not be seen.

Many employees seemed to be sitting at desks sleeping or doing nothing and I found it odd that so many people needed care yet no one was able to give it. Another doctor told Tao that the doctor I needed had been taken away to go work for the Olympics and would not be back until September. So we went back to the first doctor to plead our case. He sat in his room, very busy swatting flies and watching people pass by his office door.

This time he told me to come in and sit down. He massaged my neck and asked me where the pain was. I told him and he deduced from this that my tendons were inflamed and I could use a topical spray to alleviate the pain. This was an herbal Chinese medication and although I had no experience with it, I was desperate. However, we needed to go back to the front desk and pay the registration fee first. Then we needed to pay for the medicine. Then we needed to go to the pharmacy window and pick up the medication.

Upon receiving the medicine, I learned from Tao that the doctor had no intention of applying it to my back so she was going to have to help me. We went to a restroom and I lifted my shirt so my teacher could massage the most vile smelling liquid into my back. This was only marginally awkward, of course.

The liquid smelled like wine that had turned, plum vinegar and iodine. The box was in Chinese so she translated it for me. Apparently my relief was going to come from a red flower from Tibet, some type of seed, the shell of a cicada and a wine the Chinese call "chicken blood." No eye of newt? Thinking this was the most ludicrous concoction I'd ever heard of, I was resigned to accept another day of painful misery.

Other than the wretched odor, there was no indication this stuff was on my skin but in less than five minutes most of my pain was gone. I couldn't believe it. I could turn my head in every direction and move without wincing. We left the hospital and I walked back to my dorm feeling better than I had in days. The whole experience cost me the equivalent of about three American dollars and although it was supremely inefficient it seemed oddly simple in the end.

I decided to stock up on my "chicken blood and bug" juice to bring home. The smell may frighten small children and attract alley cats but at this point I don't care. I can only imagine that when the ancient Indian caste system was developed, they created the level of pariah for those who wore "chicken blood and bug" juice on their bodies.

The Good Earth

My father has many great talents, least of all his power of persuasion and his endowment for bullshit. My father could sell condoms to a monk and a ketchup popsicle to a woman in a white dress. However, perhaps his greatest gift is one that has been passed down through generations of Italians in my family. My father has a thumb so green he could grow a tomato in the Sahara. His garden should win awards for its natural beauty and miraculous, spontaneous generation. His garden is so prosperous that the plants themselves feel inspired to grow new and unusual fruits. "I know I'm a peach tree, but today, I'm feeling so good to be a resident in Mike's Garden of Eden that today I think I'll grow a plum."

And while my father has the lushest, most prosperous garden in three states, he would be surprised to find out that the fruit I have seen since I've come to China stands unrivaled by most of the Western world. The other day, I ate a peach so large, I could have used it to play a game of pick up softball. This peach was about a pound in weight and filled me up until lunch time. Not only was it the most massive piece of fruit to come from a tree, it was the sweetest and juiciest peach I have ever tasted.

This is because here in China, the peasant farmers work day and night wrapping little bags around each piece of fruit on the trees in their orchard to keep away bugs and birds. This allows the fruit to grow to mutant proportions.

After the peach, you would think I'd be ready to pass through the pearly gates as though nothing could top this spiritual act of consumption. But then I discovered nectarines with Chinese characters ingrained in the pigment of the fruit. What is with these magical Chinese people that they can convince their fruit to bear their language like tattoos? It is an ancient Chinese secret, I deduce, and without the audacity of too much inquiry, I bite into the nectarine that is telling me to have good fortune in my life. With fruit like this I feel I have already been blessed with the greatest fortune of the earth.

Then I think of my father and his amazing garden and I wonder, what is the true secret behind mortal men creating such miracles on earth? Did he perhaps go on a pilgramage to the Far East to learn the ways of fruit and vegetable witchery? Or is it just a simple and pure affirmation of love for the earth and all its riches, a daily appreciation for the beauty of the gifts of this life? My father grows a beautiful garden the way the Chinese do because they have something in common. They are thankful for the blessings of the earth and they tend to it and nurture it with the same love a parent gives to a child. There is nothing more beautiful than something born from the soil and nursed by the sun and the rain. The Chinese know this and so does my daddy.

Would you like four legs or eight?

As an American child, your parents always told you that you should eat everything on your plate because "there are starving children in China." Well, since I've been here I've started to contemplate reasons why that might be. I mentioned earlier that the food here is holy and for the most part, it is. But I've come to witness lately a strange obsession with the Chinese people to put food, and things that really should not be food, on sticks. In certain parts of the city, they spear everything on long balsa wood skewers and serve it up as local fare.
Now, I've seen fruit like strawberries, melon, kiwi and crab apples candied on long sticks and this looks perfectly acceptable to me. However, I have also had the great misfortune of seeing the following: scorpions, small and large, sea horses, whole eels with the heads, dog meat, locusts, large insect larvae, testicles (I don't know who they belonged to), squid, octopus and many, many other truly wretched creatures that I don't want to see alive and well, let alone dead with a wooden stick going through their heads.
There's a famous night market in an ancient market district of the city called Wang Fu Jing and about 100 food vendors line the street with piles of these "treats" to offer. While I was amazed to see many local Chinese people standing around feasting on their bug lollipops, I couldn't help but think to myself, "If I were a child in China, I'd be starving too."
But the bug lollipop craze isn't the only thing that has turned my stomach. The other day, Serena scurried me off to this place near her dorm where she swore had the best chicken she's ever tasted. She wanted me to try it. So, I agreed and went shuffling off behind her. When we arrived at this location, which was down an alley, then another, then another (I tend to find adventures when I go down too many alleys), I looked around to see rusty bikes tossed aside everywhere, piles of rancid trash, large piles of coal on the street for the restaurants, and potholes filled with stagnant, nasty water.
Many local restauranteurs were preparing food on the ground in front of their stores with nothing more than a dirty tablecloth between the food and the disease infested street. This food was to be served for lunch, apparently. The air was filled with the smell of rotting trash and sewage and the heat and humidity only enhanced the flavor. She pulled me over to this little storefront with roasted chickens and ducks, blossoming salmonella in the window. I politely told her I was still full from our lunch together and perhaps maybe we could have this very special treat another day. She insisted I try it.
She went into the store while I waited outside gawking at these birds that were about to kill me and thinking, "Well, maybe the Chinese hospital won't be too bad." She rambled in Chinese to the woman who grabbed a roasted bird out of the window by the leg, and threw it down on a wooden surface that was still dirty from the previous kill. Then she took a butcher knife and started hacking away at the pathetic carcass. She whacked it in half, and then in half once more. Those two pieces she then chopped, bones and all, into thick slices, then picked it all up with her bare hands and threw it in a small plastic bag.
Serena paid 10 kuai for this bag of brutalized remains and with the giddiness of a schoolgirl handed it to me and anxiously begged me to try it. I promised her I would, so when we got back over to the bus stop she asked me again. I reluctantly peered into the bag to find a piece that had the least amount of bones pieces in it and pulled out a small piece of flesh. Praying for the gods of food poisoning to go easy on me, I put it in my mouth and swallowed.
It really wasn't bad but it had a very distinct flavor I'd never had before and I was just hoping that it wasn't how botulism tasted. I then handed her the bag and offered for her to share it with me, which she gladly did. We jumped on the bus and by the time we made it back to my dorm my stomach was boiling acid with such vigor that I barely made it to the bathroom. Whether it was the food or psychologically induced bowel trauma, I was praying death would be quick and painless.
Serena did not seem to notice my emergency detour to the restroom, so when I came out finally, I went along as if everything was fine, so not to upset her. When she left, though, I tossed the bag of chicken in the trash, feeling a little guilty but also like I had just rid the world of my nemisis.
Feeling relatively lucky that so far I have, for the most part, managed to avoid local food that does not agree with my overly pampered American stomach, I began making a list of things that might prematurely take my life starting with the following:
1. things with more than four legs, more than two eyes and/or an exoskeleton
2. things that are typically called "pets" in America
3. things that are poisonous
4. things that reside in trash cans or can be caught in poisonous traps under the sink
5. things that look like snot before they've been cooked and feel like rubber bands after they've been cooked
6. things that serve to reproduce more of the same things
7. things that are born out of pods
8. things that grow microscopic organisms in storefront windows

It's a growing list, but so far I think I have a lot of "things" covered. If I follow it carefully, I may get through my China adventure without getting first hand experience of the Chinese health care system.

Zao Gao!

The 4th of July, you would think, is not a holiday celebrated in China but if you did think that you would be.......wrong. Our group from OU found plenty of people here who were more than happy to toast the day of independence with us. In fact, it was almost more patriotic than many 4th's I'd spent in the states. However, many strange and unusual events mapped the course of the evening leading up to our praise of the land of the free.
We kicked off the day by heading over to an American-owned bar after classes. The place is in Wu Dao Kou and the only thing American about it is the owner. Upon entering the bar, I noticed a sign on the wall that said, "Hot dogs, hamburgers and Budweisers only 10 kuai (kwhy) all day....... Freedom is free with every purchase." Ordering a hot dog in China takes some nerve but of course one member of our group took the challenge. It came with sweet and sour sauce on it instead of ketchup. So much for that.
But we were not to be dismayed. We kept right on drinking. Feeling a little adventurous, I chose to order a mixed drink from the bar. This was like having a 14 year old whose parents had left for the night get behind daddy's bar and attempt to mix it up for his friends. It took about ten minutes with at least five people behind the bar and only about twice that many people at the tables. The guy mixing my Utah Sucker Punch was clearly not from Utah and clearly not a mixologist. When he finally decided to make my drink he opened a book of recipes and added each part as if he were doing a high school lab experiment. Alas, I got my drink not long before the group was ready to head to the next locale.
I must tell you that your first time on the subway in Beijing should not be attempted when under the influence of alcohol. It is clearly better to try and navigate one of the worlds' largest and most crowded labyrinths of underground tunnels when you have a sober mind. Nevertheless, we stumbled onto the train and were whisked off into madness. Riding the first train for only a short while, we then transferred to another train that took us downtown, getting more and more jammed with people with every stop. We literally had to shove and crawl our way out when our stop came up. Let me amend what I said earlier. Perhaps being intoxicated would be better, as it takes a drunk person to have a sense of humor about being trapped in a sardine can traveling at the speed of light.
At any rate, blindly following one member of our group who had this "I know of this bar..."-type insistence, we set off on a journey to find this secret and mythological oasis. We walked at least a mile on a main road before turning down a street packed with perfectly nice bars. We passed all of them.
We took another turn down a street that was more like an alley. Then another turn.....this time definitely an alley. Further and further he led us into the folds of Beijing's San Li tun neighborhood. Feeling like we'd never find this place and getting grumpy because our buzz was wearing off, several of us started to whisper revolution and considered heading back to the bar street we started from. But we had no idea where we were or how we had gotten there so we forged on.
Finally in the backest back alley of the entire city we found this amazing place tucked behind palm trees and iron gates. The Hidden Tree, it's called. Aptly named.
The place had a brick oven for firing up some of the best pizza I've ever had in my life.... thank you Marco Polo......and a menu of fabulous international brews. It wasn't long though before the group got antsy and wanted to check out a few other bars in the near vicinity. We back tracked around the corner and went into a slightly lesser attractive place.
A few drinks in, one of the most bizarre things that has ever happened in my life took place. It began to pour down rain outside. And by pour down, I mean rainy season in the Congo, monsoon in Thailand kind of rain. And it didn't stop. As the sunlight disappeared, the streets began to fill up with water. It covered the first step of the bar's doorway.... then the second...... then it came up to the third step. Water seeped in through the walls and ceilings. On a very narrow alleyway, deep in the heart of Beijing, the entire group of OU students was trapped inside a bar in a city with very loose drinking laws. All we could say was "Zao Gao!!!" (zow gow, What a mess!)
All of us looked around and asked each other who has had their vaccines because it seemd very likely we were going to have to wade through about two feet of water to get back to the main street. With nothing else to do but have another drink, we just decided to let the Great Beijing Flood of 2008, as we named it, occur as it may.
Then something really amazing happened. Chinese people came out of their businesses all the way down the street bringing little boats they had made of paper and put them in the water. They lit candles and put them in the boats and watched them float around in the street that was now like a river. The rain slowed and the street got very quiet. We all just sat there on the stoop and watched the boat lanterns float around.
We communicated with these people in silence by pushing the boats back and forth across the road to each other. It was magical. When the moment passed, as beautiful, perfect moments always do, many who hadn't eaten decided to head back to the Hidden Tree for pizza. Some took the plunge and just decided to wade through the mucky water. I, on the other hand, took a more creative route. A taxi had just shown up to drop someone off nearby. He slowly made his way down to us, causing big waves of water as he crept forward. We flagged him down. A guy in our bar who just happened to be from Seattle asked me if I wanted to jump in with him and have the driver take us around the corner. So, for 5 kuai we got him to drive us less than 500 feet back to the Tree.
When we walked in, the place had filled up with Americans who were all drinking and having a great time. We showed up just in time to hear them break out into a resounding rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. I got chills and felt very patriotic, raised my beer that Seattle guy had just brought me from the bar and toasted with everyone. For the first time in my life, I may have missed out on fireworks in the sky, but I got to see candlelight on water.

Holy Butter

The language barrier, as I have previously implied, can be a hilarious yet humbling experience. The other day in class we were discussing in Chinese films, books, art and other interests. Our teacher asked us if we had seen the movie "Holy Butter." Of course we had never even heard of such a movie so we all did what people do when they're faced with a question they can't answer in a foreign country..... we all stared at her. She kept insisting that this was a very famous American film and she seemed almost annoyed that we had never seen or heard of it. So she did what people do when they don't think foreigners understand what they are saying..... she kept repeating it over and over, "Holy Butter.... Holy Butter.... Holy Butter."
Now it is absolutely unacceptable to laugh or mock your teacher in China, so while all of us bit our lips and looked at our shoes, she became disappointed that her attempt to bond with us over a piece of knowledge that to her was so clearly American, deflated before her eyes.
Eventually, someone decided to lift her spirits by asking questions in an attempt to demystify this "Holy Butter" question.
"Do you mean Harry Potter?" they asked finally.
"Dui! Dui! Dui! (Yes! Yes! Yes!) Holy Butter!" she exclaimed with glee. "You know this film?"
Of course we do. Who in America has not heard of Holy Butter?

Now, as I said, the language barrier can be a funny, light hearted comedy, or it can quickly become a suspense thriller. In my case, the other day it almost became a campy, B grade porno.
Now, prior to taking this trip to China, I heard a constant string of rumors about how cheap massages are here in Beijing. So, I decided I would take advantage of this and go in search of one myself. I found a place in Wu Dao Kou, ten minutes from campus on the main street in a plaza next to a French bakery and a Korean restaurant. I walked in to find a very posh looking lobby with expensive furniture and very clean surfaces. So far so good.
The girls at the desk did not speak a lick of English but they handed me a list of massages and prices in my native tongue. I tried to aske the girl in Chinese what the difference was between a Chinese massage, a Thai massage and a Hong Kong massage. In response I received a string of quickly spoken Chinese phrases, that sounded like gibberish, and a lot of hand movements.
From the pantomiming I deduced that the Chinese was probably the most standard massage so I picked that one. She immediately set about removing my shoes and handing me some hot pink rubber sandals and then I was shuffled off by two other Chinese girls into the locker room area. The space was very nice and very clean and looked much like others I had been in in the states. They had a dry sauna, soaking tubs, showers and lockers. Another girl received me and promptly handed me a key and directed me to my locker. She then, in Chinese ordered me to take all my clothes off. Now, in other instances, I had always been offered a robe and/or a towel. However, this time I was not so fortunate. Again, she ordered me to take off my clothes and then continued to stand right next to me and wait.
I found this situation to be incredibly awkard so I asked her for a towel. The problem was I did not know the Chinese word for towel so she instead just told me, once more, to take all of my clothes off and put them in my locker. Realizing that charades proved a successful option for the girl at the front desk, I decided to motion in my best short hand sign language that I needed a towel. This very small woman was adamant.
To my great relief a guest who spoke a little English came to my rescue and managed to get me my towel. The woman finally left me alone and I got undressed.
However, she quickly came back and told me I needed to shower before my massage and pointed to shower stalls that were open to the whole locker room. So much for modesty. I gave up the battle, along with the towel and dove in for a very humbling shower. When I was finished, I was allowed to have my towel back and then I was given a set of pajama-like garments to put on.
I took one look at these and thought that perhaps I might get one leg in. Humiliated, I had to ask for a larger pair, and received a men's set of pajamas instead. I squeezed into them and then was shuffled off once again through another door. This is where I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into.
Walking through this door was like walking through to an alternate universe in the twilight zone. On the other side of the door lie a very dimly lit, smoky bar lounge with plush chaise lounge chairs and old carpet. At this point I was received by a young Chinese man who guided me passed the bar, circa 1970, and down a dark hall with many doors. He took me to my room where I was presented with a double bed, two plush chaise lounges, a television, and a nightstand with an ashtray on it and a sign that said "Please register for overnights."
He left me and I sat on the edge of one of the chairs, practically in a fetal position, my heart racing. Is this what I ordered??? After a moment of speculation about the fine mess I'd found myself in, I ran back to the locker room and nervously tried to ask the woman what kind of massage I was to be getting. Of course she didn't know what I was saying. Thankfully, the lady who spoke English once again saved me and assured me that I was only getting a massage, nothing extra, and that a woman, not a man would come to my room. She laughed at me and sent me back to my room.
When I got there, a young Chinese girl stood in my room wearing a tennis skirt, a sailor shirt and spike heels. I was not convinced this was above bar but I decided to take it minute by minute.
She told me to lie on the bed, which I did, more tense than I was when I walked in. She began to give me a very normal massage so I closed my eyes and told myself the minute she touches one of my fun parts, I'll just get up and go.
This story has a happy ending..... no pun intended. Aside from the fact that she kept jumping around on the bed to get better angles and that she stood up and held on to bars above the bed so she could walk on my back, this ended up being a very normal, and very good massage. No funny business, but I couldn't help but feel the whole time I was there that had I asked for more, I would have gotten it.
In the end, I went back to my locker, got dressed and paid. I walked back to campus thinking about this recent turn of events and thought to myself so much for Holy Butter...... more like Holy Shit.

Surfer Dreams is Wet

It never fails, every time I leave the campus I see these hilarious and ridiculous English translations. On signs, on T-shirts, everywhere you look, you see the Chinese slaughtering the English language. I have a few favorites. The first is a restaurant in Wu Dao Kou that has a Chinese sign with an English translation underneath that reads, "Welcome to Here. Happy to Eat."
Another one was a T-shirt I saw a guy wearing on the street one day. It read in bold black letters, "Surfer Dreams Is Wet."
But my all time favorite is the set of instructions on the dryer in our dorm building. Now pay close attention and make sure you get this down. There will be a test afterwards:

1. Weight of drying clothes shall not exceed the rated capacity of the drying machine. Otherwise, clothes will be undried or dried unevenly.

(Not too bad so far, you say? Okay, here's the next one).

2. Downy and woolen clothes shall not be dried with the machine. (Floss will be destroyed and woolen shrinking when drying).

3. When clothes are fully dehydrated, please neaten and make them unwound before drying with the machine. (Please avoid tweaking clothes on hand because lots of water may remain to cause the prolonging of drying and creepage for water leakage).

4. It may be hard for outsize clothes (e.g. overcoat) to overturn in the tumbling box and this may cause clothes to be dried unevenly. When necessary, please overturn them with manual work to help drying evenly.

5. During the drying process, please avoid adding clothes to the machine which may cause clothes overdried or undried.

You got all that? Well, in case you haven't and you need more time, please study it dilligently because according to my language partner Serena laziness is a bad habitat.

Assless Baby Chaps

I've been here for about two weeks now and in that time, I have noticed many strange and unusual things I've never seen before. I feel that I am truly unlocking the secrets of the orient. One of these mystical secrets I've come to affectionately call "assless baby chaps." Everywhere I go, I see these gorgeous, plump little babies that sit in their mother's or grandmother's arms like a pile of dough.
They are so cute and their moms and grandmas seem so happy to be lugging them around. Then, they turn around and I get a first class, bird's eye view of two round little buns sticking out of the back of their pants. Babies in China do not wear diapers. Instead they don cute little outfits with no butts in the back. This way, their heinies stick out so when they have to go number one or number two, their mom or grandma can just hold them over the ground where they stand and let them go. In the street, on the sidewalk, over a sewer grate, it doesn't seem to matter. Babies in China apparently have a special license to go wherever they feel like it and for their convenience they are provided assless baby chaps.
But if you think this is totally nonsensical, don't get ahead of yourself. I'm about to relay to you a conversation I had with Serena the other day that was a little humbling for me......again.
The other day she asked me about American food favorites. The conversation went a little like this:

Serena: What are hot dogs made of?
Me: Uh, beef, pork and sometimes chicken.
Serena: Beef, pork and chicken?
Me: Yeah.
Serena: So no dog?
Me: Oh, no. No dog.
Serena: And hamburgers are made of....?
Me: Beef.
Serena: Beef. Only beef? Not ham?
Me: No, not ham. Just beef.
Serena: Okay, so hotdogs are made of beef, pork or chicken, not dog, and hamburgers are made of beef not ham?
Me: Yep, you got it.
Serena: Okay.....

The White Devil

Last Friday, our first weekend here, we went to an ancient city called Xi'An. We had to take the train overnight, about a 12 hour ride, to get there but first we had to get through the train station. The train station is packed, hot and very loud and makes you feel like you are being herded off to market. Everything is in Chinese so without the help of our trusty tour guide, we may have ended up on a train to Inner Mongolia.

At any rate, part way through, we noticed a friend in our group, a particularly tall, blonde, blue-eyed and fair skinned lad, was being stared at and stopped quite a bit. At one point we turned to look back and saw him surrounded by a group of widely smiling Chinese people having their picture taken. This began the theme for our trip.

The train was substantially more comfortable than I had anticipated. All week, I had had anxiety about this train ride, with visions of chickens running up and down the aisles and old ladies tethered to goats and packed in like sardines. However, I was pleasantly surprised to find that our teacher booked us a soft bed car. Four people to a room, but the beds were very comfortable. In fact, they had actual mattresses on them, which is more than I can say for my dorm bed.

There are vendors on the platform who try to sell you drinks, including beer, and there's a drink cart on the train. The Chinese beers are a welcomed change from the U.S. They often come in a bottle twice the size of a standard beer bottle and have twice as much alcohol content. They're also half as expensive. Needless to say, it was a good ride.

When we arrived at Xi'An and stepped off the train, it was like a circus train had come to town featuring exotic animals. Chinese people stopped in the street and stared at us like they'd just seen a Yeti. It was so much worse than the train station in Beijing. We learned quickly, that the oldest city in China is very sheltered and there's a good chance that most of its inhabitants have never seen a white person live and close up.

From the train station, we took a bus to our hotel where we dropped our bags and had breakfast before setting out on our first trek. Upon getting off the bus though, we were promptly approached by beggars who follow you closely, holding out their hands and saying "xiexie, xiexie, xiexie," ( shyeah, shyeah, meaning thank you). We walked through a dirt market and down an alley to get to our hotel where I thought at any moment I'd be approached by an old Chinese medicine man trying to sell me a Maguai (Gremlins).

Once we got back on the bus we moved recklessly through the city, dodging bike riders, pedestrians and other buses. We passed the city wall, over 630 years old, and other fascinating sights. Our first stop on the trip was to visit the Bingmayong, the eighth wonder of the world. It is a tomb for one of the emperors that was unearthed in the 70's and is over 2,200 years old. It holds over 7,ooo terra cotta statues of soldiers, each with a different face. All the soldiers were created in the likeness of actual soldiers in the emperor's army. It is an amazing site and quite ominous. Again though, vendors yell at you to buy their wares the whole way from the bus parking lot up to the tomb. They try to drag you by the arm to their stand, ring really annoying bells at you to get your attention and shout broken English phrases like, "Hello, cheaper! Hey lady! Hello! Hello cheaper! You like shirt? I give you cheaper!"

It wasn't long though before we started noticing once again, this strange fascination with our group. We kept hearing people say to each other things like "Bai ren! Bai ren!" and pointing at us (bye ren, meaning white people). Children would point and look at their mothers and start to cry at the shear shock of seeing such monsters invading their world. At one point we kept hearing a particular phrase repeated by people everywhere we went but we did not know how it translated. Eventually, we asked our teacher and she said it meant, "the white devil." This mythology of the white devil comes from way back when people believed the devil would re-appear to them with pale skin, light hair and with blue or green eyes. Apparently, many people in Xi'An were under the impression that this was their day of reckoning.

When we got back to the hotel, we waded through beggars from the bus to the hotel entrance once again. One of the girls in our group was being particularly harassed by a young boy with no shirt, no shoes and covered in dirt. When she told him in Chinese that she didn't have any money, he spit on her. This boy later was scolded by our Chinese tour guide, getting yelled at fiercely in Chinese and beaten and then shoved away from the bus.

The next day, we went on another outing to a Buddhist pagoda, a museum and then to a Muslim mosque. Both the pagoda and the mosque were amazingly peaceful and beautiful. When we got to the mosque we roamed the gardens and took pictures of its serenity. While I snapped shots of the ancient architecture, I turned to see several small children playing in the garden. I went over and began taking their pictures. Every time, they'd grab for my camera and say "wo kan kan, wo kan kan!" This means "let me see!" We had a long conversation in Chinese and a really fun visit together and when I finally walked away, which was so hard for me to do as in my mind I was already strategically planning how I could get them into my luggage and bring them home, I felt spiritually lifted for the rest of the day.

We spent the rest of the day that day roaming the open air market and tasting interesting food. By the end of the trip and on our way back to the train station, I was sad to leave Xi'An and promised myself that one day soon, the white devil will return to the ancient city.

Chopsticks and Apple Pie

As I mentioned in my last post, Serena has a zeal for American trivia that is almost unmatched even by the messiah himself, Alex Trebek. Much like a four year old contemplating the meaning of life with one simple word repeated ad nauseum, "why? why? why?".... Serena takes this golden opportunity to pick my brain. She has her own bona fide personal American and she takes full advantage of her chance to consume vital information from me.

The other day at lunch, she sat down and whipped out this book written in Chinese and filled with "facts" about the U.S. and its people. As I sat there hungrily and desperately slurping at noodles that kept slipping off my chopsticks and plunging back into my bowl, Serena sat staring earnestly at this book. Then, out of nowhere came the most bizarre line of questioning I've ever heard in my life. As they came at me, one after another, I myself began to question why we do what we do. The conversation went something like this:

Serena: Do you like apple pie?

Me: Yes, very much.

Serena: Do you make it?

Me: No, I don't know how, but my grandma makes really good apple pie.

Serena: Do you like pumpkin pie?

Me: Yes I like that too.

Serena: Which do you like better?

Me: I guess I like them both the same.

Serena: What holiday do you use pumpkins for?

Me: Halloween.

Serena: What do you do with them?

Me: We carve faces in them, hollow out the inside and then light a candle and put it inside.

Serena: Why do you do that?

Me: Uh, actually, I don't really know.

Serena: What holiday do you eat turkey?

Me: Thanksgiving.

Serena: Are you allowed to eat turkey on any other day?

Me: Oh yes, anytime.

Serena: Why do you celebrate Christmas?

Me: Uh, well for some its about the birth of Jesus.

Serena: Jeh-zoos?

Me: Yeah. And for others its just about family.

Serena. And you put a tree in your house?

Me: Yeah, and we decorate it.

Serena: Why do you do that? Is it big?

Me: Uh, I don't really know. Yeah, some are big, some are small. Any size, I guess.

Serena: Do you know the Boston Tea Party?

Me: Yes, its part of our history.

Serena: How many people were there?

Me: Uh, I honestly don't know.

By the end of this conversation, I looked down at the bowl of noodles, still just as full as when I started, my stomach grumbling and my hand cramped and thought, "Well I guess relatively speaking, chopsticks really aren't all that weird."

Will Work For Food

Since my last post, I have met with my language partner, a diminutive Chinese girl who studies English here at the Beijing Language and Culture University (BLCU). Serena, she calls herself, picking an American name the same way American girls enjoy selecting Chinese characters to imprint on their bums and bellies. Serena is very sweet and very cute and extremely interested in the United States "culture." (I put culture in quotations because any American who has bothered to leave behind the McDonald's buffet or turned their backs on the night light that is the 24 hour Wal-Mart sign, would know that true culture does not begin to come to light until you hop a border fence or swim to the nearest continent.)

Anyway, Serena has become my confidante, my partner in language limbo. Her English is marginally better than my Chinese so a conversation between us sounds like a Laurel and Hardy routine. Last Thursday, we went on a journey to the grocery store in an area of the city called Wu Dao Kou (woo dow ko, meaning the area of five roads). Wu Dao Kou is a college student hub, as it is the commercial center for about 8 different colleges all here in the same neighborhood of Beijing.

The grocery store is like nothing ever witnessed in America. Look out Wal Mart, you may finally have some competition. This place is the OZ city of Asian food. And like everything else in China, it is big, very, very big. So, Serena and I decide to navigate through the hundreds of aisles of Asian food stuffs, American products with Chinese labels, and hot deli food. The deli is like a scene out of a Star Wars movie for me because I was seeing animals being sold for food that I was not convinced were suitable for human consumption, animal parts I could not identify with even a good anatomy textbook and of course, many, many heads still attached. They lay their staring at you through the hotbox window.

One thing I've noticed about the Chinese is that they will go to agonizingly burdensome lengths to help a friend or a guest and they have this inherent cultural norm to do things together. Serena worked her brain to the nub trying to understand me and explain what things were as I passed through the store like a kid picking out his birthday gift pointing at every new thing and saying, "Zhe shi shenme? (jeh sheh shenmeh, meaning, what is this?)"

We carried only a small basket around with us as I was so overwhelmed I didn't know what to buy (I mostly stuck with fruit since it is one of the few things I could identify) but Serena insisted on helping me carry it. This means, as in Chinese custom, each person holds one side of the basket at the same time and walk down the aisle together. The intention here is to be as helpful to your friend as possible so they do not have to bear the whole load. However, it is not the most efficient way to get around a crowded grocery store. Still, when in Beijing.... so I respectfully held my side of the basket, often getting dragged around rambunctious children, exasperated mothers and grumpy old ladies and bumping into all of them along the way.

Once we paid, we did the same with the plastic grocery bag, unsteadily walking the ten minutes back to the university as it swung awkwardly between us. We struggled with this bag, that I honestly could have carried easily by myself..... oh hell let's be honest, I could have carried Serena and the bag by myself.... as we dodged oncoming traffic from six lanes going in both directions. Serena seemed very calm through this whole journey but often times I actually held onto that bag for dear life.

By the time we made it back to the dorm, I was exhausted. A ten minute walk to a grocery store to buy an apple, a nectarine and two bottles of water made me feel like I had wandered the desert and then parted the Red Sea. Still, we had a good time and we both got to practice our language skills. And what's more, I learned the Chinese word for toilet paper.