5 Recent Google Searches

1) Chinese Medicine Cupping- After this was suggested as a course of treatment during my recent visit to the spa, I decided further investigation was required. Turns out it leaves giant blood blisters on your back but has been used in traditional folk medicine from Turkey to Korea. (Its is intended to relieve fire in the stomach, whatever that means.)
2) Hong Kong Post Office-Hopefully this last batch of letters will reach my friends and family soon.
3) Mo Willems-See my previous post about this wonderful fellow.
4) Baking Soda Substitute-They've got baking powder but no baking soda round here...a little lemon juice and baking powder will do in a pinch.
5) Deluth Bed and Breakfast-We've got big plans for our one year anniversary...that's right...DELUTH! Romance capital of the Midwest! The leaves will be gorgeous, I'm sure.

God Bless the folks at Google. I wonder what we ever did before?

The World According to Mo Willems

I picked up a wonderful little tome the other day called “You can Never Find a Rickshaw When it Monsoons” by children’s book author Mo Willems. I first discovered him while nannying last summer. Gabriel and Samara loved loved loved his book “Knufflebunny” and I loved the kooky illustrations and the adult punch lines.

Anyway, before embarking on his children’s book career, he spent a year backpacking around the world. Every day he drew a comic to sum up one memorable scene or event from the day. They are simple, bold, witty and wonderful. He has also written a delightful commentary which adds a whole new layer to the book, sort of like his current self talking to his younger self. All in all, quite enjoyable and recommendable.

Even the Grocery Store is an Adventure

Yesterday, our new friend Jeff took us on a bus to Shekou to check out Charlie’s American grocery store. It was full of things we’ve been hard pressed to find here in China, like baking powder, marshmallows, tortillas and chocolate chips. It’s the little things that you miss when you are away from home, I’m afraid.

Shekou is an interesting part of town. It has the highest ex-pat population in Shenzhen and so the proportion of “mzungus” is definitely much higher. It boasts a great many Irish pubs, a Papa John’s pizza buffet and the inevitable Starbucks and McDonalds. (Uganda and Kenya are the only places in this whole wide world I’ve been that haven’t had either Starbucks or McDonalds!)

The ferry port to Hong Kong and Macau is in Shekou as well, so there is a nice breeze from the bay. Getting a taxi in that neck of the woods is close to impossible. We took a bus to get there, which was an adventure all its own. The buses here get quite crowded and there is a lady who comes through the crowd to sell you a ticket. She is quite adept at remaining upright on the lurching, jerking bus while keeping both hands free to collect money and distribute tickets and change. The tactic she adopted was a wide stance, feet spread far apart. I was impressed with her detailed knowledge of the route and her instant ability to do the fare calculations in her head.

This is one of the things that surprised me in Africa as well. In the U.S, so many jobs are automated. In Africa, the technology just wasn’t available and the labor was so darn cheap, you could employ someone just to open a gate, and they’d be happy (and lucky) to have the job. Here in China, I know it isn’t a matter of technology. My guess is that is the sheer volume of the crowds here make it more efficient for everyone to just pile onto the bus and have the ticket lady wind her way through the crowd. Otherwise, no one would get anywhere. And of course, there is the issue of incredibly cheap labor here as well.

Little moments like these are part of why I love living abroad. The most mundane things become adventures and reminders of how many perspectives there are on this planet besides the American one I am used to.

My Chinese Haircut

I’ve noticed that Chinese people have beautiful dark, straight, lustrously shiny hair. I’ve also noticed those who waive off this genetic gift in favor of merciless bleaching which leaves dark hair a strange reddish orange color. Perms are quite popular as well. Actually, nothing is left out in the quest to alter their hair’s natural color, texture and volume. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side.

Anyway, when you do as much people watching as I do, you can’t help but notice the extreme hair people are sporting here. Shaggy is big, lots of jagged layers, long spiky cuts for the men, with elaborate sideburns. Depending on how young and punky you are, you might rock a bizarre sort of clown inspired mullet. I saw a young woman on the subway who had short permed, orange bleached hair framing her face and then a fine layer of long hair to her shoulder blades in the back. I might not have chosen that particular look, but she was owning it, and it did look pretty cool with her skinny jeans and baggy asymmetrical top.

I’ve been needing a haircut myself, and I’ve been dutifully admiring the well coiffed Chinese all around me. I decided to go for one of these crazy Chinese haircuts with the bangs that start well back at the crown of the head. I knew it would be cooler and would relieve me of a great deal of hair, but I planned to keep the long layers in the back. I imagine a refined and feminine mullet. I practiced the mandarin phrase for haircut, long and short and ventured in to a salon near our apartment.

I made myself understood and chose two pictures out of a haircutting book filled with elaborate creations. I was then whisked away to the wash basins where you recline on a bed with a sink attached. I was treated to the most luxurious hair washing/massage I have ever received. Never has my scalp been so clean or so pampered. I think I’ll have to go back again just for a wash and blow dry.

Thirty minutes later I was ushered to the chair where I politely but firmly declined offers of a preliminary bleach and perm, and he began to cut. Immediately, I realized that my wishes for long layers in back had gone unheeded. Ah well, its only hair, and it always grows back.

I couldn’t help but think of that scene in “Roman Holiday” where Audrey Hepburn has her haircut by that fidgety Italian barber and is transformed from a schoolgirl into a beautiful and mysterious ingénue. My Chinese haircut may not have turned me into a drop dead gorgeous Chinese woman, but it did make me feel a little more at home in this crazy city. The resulting cut is very easy to manage, and it still touches my shoulders, and can be pulled into a ponytail, so it can’t be that short.

We buy and expensive copy of Vanity Fair and are relieved of our camera in Hong Kong

We finally visited Hong Kong yesterday. Getting there was a snap. They’ve recently opened a new border crossing station which we found clean, organized and self explanatory. Also, it was relatively un-crowded and the whole procedure was over in approximately 15 minutes. Unfortunately, sometime during that quick and easy border crossing, someone quickly and easily took our camera from our bag, so I have no pictures to share. It was a hot and rainy day, and Eric and I both have some sort of chest cold, so we had some curry and hot lemon honey tea, wandered around a fancy shopping center, bought a copy of Vanity Fair and called it a day. We’ll try again later this month and be sure to give a thorough account.

In the meantime, I thought I’d regale you with some of the letters to the editor that Vanity Fair did publish. Graydon Carter would have you believe that reactions to the Africa issue fell into two categories: Those delightful young public health grads who were filled with joy and determination by the Africa issue, or alternatively, Those crazed anti-African isolationist racist creeps who have decided not to renew their subscriptions and who VF is better off without anyway. No room in the letters to the editor section for thoughtful criticism about the glaring lack of Malaria coverage in their Africa issue…Not that I’m bitter or anything. (Ahem!) Here are some favorites, see if you can guess which category they fall into:

“As a recent college graduate…and humanitarian junkie…I applaud Vanity Fair for helping raise awareness and for promoting peace and prosperity in our world.”

“We are citizens of the United States of America, and the vast majority of Americans couldn’t care less about Africa…What do Vanity Fair and our government concern themselves with? Africa. Get real. The continent will never improve and V.F’s issue just adds fuel to the fire…”

“If a magazine is going to take a risk like this and devote an entire issue to the topics that need to be on our minds, add me to your subscriber list. I can’t wait to see what the other issues bring.”

I rest my case.

How to properly commemorate an unconventional year in an unconventional marriage?

Eric and I are fast arriving upon our one year anniversary. We've never really done the anniversary celebration thing before. As a practical matter, we could never agree on when to start counting because of all the various, shall we say, interruptions, in our courtship. In retrospect our various breakups seem quite modest considering we first began dating in high school (that was over seven years ago!) and spent a year 3,000 miles apart.

Secondly, I'm terrible with dates. I can only remember birthdays if they are logged in my date book. Some people celebrate the date they met, their first date, first kiss, and so on and so forth, but this would never work for Eric and I. He has a memory like an elephant, but I could never manage it!

So this is our first, official, indisputable celebration of us as a couple and it is going to set precedents for the rest of our married life to come. We'll be flying back to Minnesota on the actual day (which I think quite fitting after this whirlwind year), but I"m still racking my brain trying to think of cool traditions to begin.

I mean, champagne is obvious, and of course the cake, and maybe a night in a fancy pants hotel, but what else? I was thinking it would be sweet to read our vows to each other again, maybe adding some addendums like "I promise to put my pants away instead of balling them up in the corner." or "In my continuing efforts to be a better wife, I will cook something besides spaghetti".

As far as presents go, paper is the traditional gift for the first wedding anniversary. I'm all about picking and choosing traditions, but there is something so quaint about this one. Aluminum is the traditional gift for ten years. I had to laugh at that. Imagine the delightfully strange story behind the origins of this list. Its not like aluminum really says "10 Years honey!" to us in 2007.

Anyway, I doubt I'll follow those antiquated suggestions through all our years together, but a paper gift, I can do. I found this beautiful poster by Masha Dayans and I'd love to get it from him, but don't know if I will get it for him. It doesn't seem like something he would desperately want, does it? (Imagine his face as he unwrapped it! It would be too funny.) He's always been tough to buy gifts for.

Instead, I'm working on a wonderful surprise something that I think he'll really love, something we can look at together in twenty years and smile at. Its no small task keeping it under wraps since he's always around. He definitely knows something is up, but hasn't figured it out quite yet.Think I can keep a secret from him for a whole month? I'm not very confident...

Cheap Umbrella VS Monsoon=a very wet Blogger

Turns out, Shenzhen has an intense rainy season. Initially, it felt like a relief, you can feel the temperature drop maybe five degrees once the rains begin...but, if they come in the morning, watch out once the sun comes out!By noon the whole city has turned to a steamy greenhouse and one can barely see the tops of the skyscrapers through the sticky haze.

These tropical seasons feel so different from the seasons I knew growing up in Minnesota. The seasons seemed to ease into one another gradually, but here, one morning we woke up to a green sky and pounding rain and the sun didn't come out for a week. I also feel a new admiration for these tropical plants which endure so much hot sun and then a torrent of rain. They are quite hardy creatures.

The locals were all quite prepared of course. As I've mentioned, they use umbrellas to keep the sun off, but the onset of the Monsoon season called for a larger, sturdier umbrella. I quickly realized I was unprepared when my tiny nylon folding umbrella was sucked up in a gust of wind, violently whipped around and ferociously pounded into a gutter. It was a shadow of its former self and, of course, so was I. Now completely drenched in a matter of minutes, I had to run to the corner drugstore for a new cheap-0 pocket umbrella and then back to our apartment to change clothes.

All of this led to an online umbrella search which revealed this lovely "brolly" which is quite expensive but looks like it could stand up to this extreme weather and still be pretty enough to keep the sun off in the summer. I love the green one with the pink handle. Now I just have to convince Eric that a $100 umbrella is a good birthday present. Still haven't found any of those pretty paper parasols though. More to come...

We go be tourist Part III; An unexpected raft voyage

It was now nearly 2:30.We had enjoyed a late lunch, seen a temple and a gas station. We sat on the bus wondering when on earth we were going to arrive at the blasted hot springs and start relaxing. Our tour guide appeared with a brochure.

It showed a group of people wearing yellow helmets and orange vests packed by two’s into small inflatable rafts. There was a picture of a waterfall crashing over what looked like a fifty foot precipice. Eric looked at me skeptically. “Where do you think this ranks between totally lame and wildly unsafe?” he asked. We were about to find out.

We filed off the bus and began to hike. Our guide said something to the effect that we could hike or take a tram. It wasn’t far he said. Next to the trail every so often you saw some rusty carnival equipment. It all lent a dismal air. There was a bedraggled looking roller coaster, with four empty cars whirling around. We saw a target practice game with three stuffed panda prizes in yellowed cellophane bags that looked to have been there since China opened to the West. Forty five minutes later we arrived huffing and puffing at the mouth of a giant dam. We were drenched in sweat from the effects of the hike and the ruthless sun as we surveyed the scene around us.

It seemed that everyone in China had also decided to “go be tourist” this weekend. They swarmed around a series of lockers like wasps on a puddle of spilled coke. Everyone was trying to accomplish the same set of tasks simultaneously and it was a noisy operation.

First there was the business of changing into swimsuits, though it wasn’t really clear to me where this was supposed to take place. There was a concrete bunker with a green towel hung over the window, but no markings on the door to indicate which gender might be in various states of undress on the other side. I boldly entered amid a flurry of angry Chinese and thanked my lucky stars that I had indeed chosen the ladies room. They glared at me and I turned to face the wall and peel my sweaty clothes off my body. This was no longer about having fun. It was a test of endurance. I grimly wriggled myself into my suddenly impossibly small swimsuit and marched out the door again amidst what I can only assume were the protestations of my bunker mates.

The next task was to stow my horrifyingly damp and stinky clothes in a locker. I managed to elbow my way through the crowd to the woman dolling out keys, and at just the right moment our tour guide appeared at my side and to shout some friendly but incomprehensible instructions. Now I had to find my locker. I turned to face a sea of orange life jackets, whirling arms, neon floral printed spandex, and black heads.

The lockers appeared to be portable. Apparently they would bring them to the bottom of the river so that we didn’t have to trek back up the hill. But no attention had been given to organizing the things numerically. I entered the fray and emerged triumphantly with my hair a muss a few claustrophobic moments later. I looked around for Eric. In moments like this, one is glad to be such a freak of nature in China. We can always find each other immediately, if not because of our height, because of the circle of onlookers watching our every move. He looked as bedraggled as I did. We both wanted the whole ordeal to be over and we hadn’t even been outfitted with gear yet.

Twenty minutes later after a bewildering sequence of lines and one enormous pile of soggy yellowed fabric “elbow pads” that I opted out of with broken Mandarin and some well timed hand wringing, we found ourselves sitting in a raft in a brackish green pool, surrounded by Chinese people having the time of their lives. They were splashing each other with their paddles, ingeniously using their helmets to dump water onto one another, generally full of laughter and merriment. Eric and I sat facing each other, joylessly gripping our paddles, the one silent, still raft in a pond rippling with fun loving Chinese tourists.

“Is this what you thought we’d be doing today when we got on the bus this morning?” Eric inquired dryly. I laughed. People were still being loaded into boats, though it didn’t appear there was a cubic inch of space available in the pond. Tanned, muscular, old men in straw hats heaved rafts down into the green water from giant stacks at the shore. Behind us, the dam rose steeply and we saw the waterfall crashing down. We couldn’t leave until 3:00, our guide had stressed. Now the reason became apparent. They were raising the level of the creek with the dam water.

On the long trek up, we had seen the channel we would be rafting down. It was clearly man made and entire sections of it were lined with concrete. It had all looked pretty tame on the way up. Now as the crowd edged towards the mouth of the creek, it suddenly looked less innocuous. It wasn’t going to be like our rafting trip on the Nile, but it wasn’t looking like a day at Six Flags either. The drop off was quite steep and one person would be facing backwards for the length of the trip.

While others jockeyed for position around us, we sat patiently, knowing that eventually we would be sent hurtling down the canal, ready or not. I prayed I wouldn’t be the one to go backwards and for a fleeting moment it seemed I would get my wish. But the old man guiding people into the canal had other plans. He took his giant bamboo pole and turned us around so that Eric could steer. Off we went, holding to the sides for dear life and bitterly regretting leaving those mildewed elbow pads behind.

It wasn’t as though the raft was going to tip over, it was just that the creek bed was littered with jagged rocks and the only thing protecting our rear ends was a thin piece of rubber. But I wasn’t complaining. Ever since traveling in Africa, Eric and I have often talked about the refreshing lack of safety measures in the developing world. It’s a world untouched by the ravages of liability lawsuits. So, if you are dumb enough to pay someone to go hurdling down a rocky crick in nothing but a swimsuit and a flimsy life jacket, and you get banged up along the way, you have no one to blame but yourself. So, when I banged my tail bone on a particularly big boulder, and spent the rest of the weekend wincing every time I sat down, I knew I could only blame myself for agreeing to “go be tourist” in the first place. (And for the record, we never did make it to the fabled "hot springs...")

The China we haven't seen in Shenzhen...

Also, Eric found this very interesting article on the China we aren't seeing. It was a fascinating read. Thoughts?

Even More Adventures in English: Take the seat tourist coach need to know

Initially, I thought perhaps it would be better if I just took the highlights for you, but as I was transcribing these from my pictures, I felt that they were much better in their entirety. I find it amazing that the quantity of misspelled words is so low, and yet the meanings are so perfectly obscured. I’d like to point out that my computer grammar checker finds very little wrong with these sentences. Not sure if that means the grammar checker is unreliable or if the grammar here isn’t as terrible as it would appear… Either way, I know you’ll get a kick out of these. I do appreciate the effort on these. It really is quite thoughtful of them, as I know very few American signs have Chinese printed on them unless you are at an Airport or in Chinatown.

Sign in the elevator of our office building

Lifts directions

1)Top and bottom elevator touch button
2) Elevator inside, no smoking.
3) Occurrence fire alarm, absolutely no embark.
4) The child embarks, the person take.
5) Run into the accident, and please press to report to the police the bell.
6) Dangerous good, please not to take into.
7) Overload the bell, juniors to withdraw.
8) Supervise and control the facilities and please not to cover up.
9) Keep clean, not to vomit, not to rhrow.

Sign at national park entrance

Take the seat tourist coach need to know

Everybody visitor, you are good! Welcome and thank you to come tour sightseeing on Guang Xi Province hill

1 a needs muliplys visitor of browsing car following the work personnel place first and receiving the name of a shop, and a name of a shop corps is got in according to the sequence in order to avoid everybody hard to form a line.
(2) take advantage of seat + yuan of RMB browsing everyone one way of car.
(3)Browsing car arrival destination is reservoir bridges of six and visitor can select after getting off the bus and “forest path” or the “circuit of a hundred chards” goes to it is 10 minutes simple to sit in the car to.
(4) Browsing 3 kilometers of the strike in the car, and line LuYue is 45 minutes. Paying attention to the child having a good prospect of safety by the car, high and low takes care to meet by the car, the good intimate thing of belt Being.

Thanked cooperates

5 Things Inspiring me Lately

I'm into these five point lists lately, they are so simple to post and give a feel for what we're up to. In no particular order;

1) As I head down into the subway tunnel on my way to work, I am greeted by the fruit vendors who have biked at ungodly hours in the early morning from the countryside with baskets brimming with fruit strapped to their rusty bikes. I love how they line the baskets with leaves to make a pretty display. Just look at those peaches!


2) Listening to "Graceland" by Paul Simon. I'm still not tired of it, I wonder if I ever will be.



3) Checking "The Sartorialist" religiously every morning. My mom sent me the link and I love it. A little pretentious sometimes, but let's be honest, so am I. I just love the man on the street aspect of his photographs. They are refreshingly un-staged and show how real people are dressing up (and down) right now. It will change how you look at folks on the street, that much is certain!

4) Lisianthus. I had a dream about these little blossoms coming to life and dancing all around the floor in their lovely ballroom skirts, so, of course, I had to go and buy some. This giant arm full only set me back about $3 U.S dollars. There is a flower market two blocks from our apartment, so I get out my trusty umbrella and treck over in the blistering heat about once a week.



5) The make your own Jelly Belly mix machine at the fancy grocery store at Mix C. I chose buttered popcorn (to Eric's disgust), juicy pear, juicy peach, toasted marsh mellow and jalepeno. I like to sit in my office writing mandarin labels for odd things in our apartment and suck on 'em one at a time.

What's inspiring you guys lately?

An Open Letter to Grayden Carter and Bono himself

Well, it appears that Vanity Fair, in its infinite wisdom, has decided not to publish my letter to the editor. But, the wonderful thing about blogs is that you can publish yourself instantaneously in the face of rejection letters (or in this case, in the face of deafening silence regarding my online submission. I mean, I didn't even get an auto reply! Come on!) At any rate, here is the rant I promised you when I first bought the Africa issue in June. I'd love to hear your thoughts, and I promise to acknowledge all comments in the spirit of encouraging dialog.

Dearest Grayden Carter and Bono,

I picked up your Africa issue with great enthusiasm because I have just returned from Uganda. My team and I were filming a documentary about the controversy surrounding the proposed use of DDT for Malaria control.

My initial enthusiasm was quickly replaced with disappointment; your Africa issue contained only passing mention of the disease that kills 3 million Africans every year. That disease is Malaria. Malaria is completely preventable and curable, yet in Uganda alone, 320 people die every day. The most vulnerable groups are pregnant women and children under the age of five. They are dying because they don’t have access to basic prevention or health care. The Artemisinin Combination Therapies that could save their lives cost less than $5.

The HIV/Aids epidemic is enormous and the publicity and funding being channeled to it are necessary and valuable. However, in many places, the death toll of Malaria rivals that of AIDS. The Global Fund certainly recognized this by including Malaria in their campaign against the major killers in the developing world. I wish Vanity Fair had given Malaria and the efforts being made to combat it the same kind of attention. If we gave Malaria the same attention we give AIDS, we could save 3 million people.

Because AIDS touches our lives in the developing world, we find it easy to give our money and time to fighting the problem. When it comes to Malaria, which has been eradicated from wealthy nations for more than sixty years, we are less compassionate.

As James Shikwati of the Inter Region Economic Network said during our interview “If AIDS is taking away the adults, and malaria is taking away the children, you are looking at an empty continent.” We cannot afford to ignore the burden of Malaria in Africa. Three million preventable deaths a year is an outrageous and avoidable tragedy.

Sincerely,

Becky Larson

www.wanderfulworld.com

Five Things I'm lusting after...

1) This gorgeous vintage looking camera by Leica is actually a digital SLR...I am imagining it looking great hanging round my neck when we go to see the Great Wall, not to mention all the beautiful shots I"ll get.

2) I found these patent leather ballet flats at one of my favorite shops here in Coco park. They are a little spendy for China at $350 yaun (about $50 U.S dollars) so I"m waiting for a sale. They do fit like a glove though...
3)This charming journal from Inspire Company is one of a kind. It is filled with pages of vintage ephemera, old sheet music, poems, love letters. Its the kind of thing you'd love to fill with poems, pressed flowers and maybe a lock of hair with a ribbon round it. A little treasure trove.


4) A nice bottle of champagne. It is my absolute favorite and we haven't seen a decent (reasonably priced) bottle since we've been here. Don't you love this lady though? I love how the foam of her champagne turns into the sumptuous ruffles of her dress. I think my craving began this weekend when I watched Marie Antoinette again. That girl knew about decadence, that much is certain.


5) I thought it would be easy to find pretty paper parasols once I arrived, but they have proven illusive. All I've seen are ugly neon colored nylon ones. This one would be much more to my liking for keeping the sun off my head.

We go be tourist Part II; The Ninth Son of the Dragon Turtle

We were still on the bus, with no sign of our destination in sight. I thought HuYi had said it was only an hour’s drive from Shenzhen to the hot springs, but two hours had come and gone, and we had just stopped at a gas station to refuel and take a bathroom break. All of this seemed to indicate we would be pressing on for a while longer. Our fellow passengers had bought snacks, but none of the selections had really caught our fancy, (dehydrated chicken feet anyone?) and now we were feeling a little hungry. We settled in for the ride and gave ourselves a pat on the back for remembering to charge our i-pods.

Forty five minutes later, we pulled off the highway and down a dusty dirt lane. We piled out of the bus and gathered under a tree in a vain attempt to escape the blistering sun. We were at the gates of a terracotta roofed temple situated right on a river. (It is very good feng shui to have a view of water we were told). Our tour guide was speaking into a megaphone, giving what I only imagine was fascinating and useful information about the place we were admiring and our itinerary, but “China…water…Chinese persons…bus” were about the only things I understood.

I stood admiring the prayer ribbons tied to the trees by the river, the branches fluttering with red streamers that represented wishes, concerns, and questions. I also noted a sort of altar filled with sand where pilgrims were kowtowing with foot long smoking incense sticks.

At last we climbed the steps to the temple. There was a group of six statues at the back and a table filled with offerings for them. I don’t claim to know much about religion in China, but I do know that ancestor worship is widely practiced. The statues wore brightly colored pink and red costumes embroidered with gold trim and elaborate hairstyles. Before them on the altar were baskets of plastic fruit, silk flowers, glasses of liquor, and piles of gold coins, jade and incense. Everything you’d need to really enjoy the afterlife, I suppose.

Since I couldn’t understand what our guide was saying, I occupied myself with staring hard at my surroundings. I have to admit, the place looked a bit dingy. The floor was littered with ashes from the incense and there was a significant amount of what appeared to be bird poop spattered on the walls and tabletops. A lone fan stood in the corner in a noble but pathetic effort to cool the visitors. Or perhaps it was to please the ancestors, a symbol of a fan, akin to the plastic fruit that only symbolized sustenance.

A well wishing youngster decided to try to translate for us. “He said that old lady in picture comes today, is very good luck we see her.” He gestured to the tray of jade on the altar. “You choose one now, but take with left hand.” People in the group circled around choosing the little oblong jade charms and Eric and I each took one also. The tour guide lead us into the next room.

It had a humble dirt floor and bamboo screens for walls. Four men looked at us from behind official looking desks. They wore black and white turbans on their heads, long pointed beards and black robes. The guide talked for awhile longer and people sorted themselves into two lines. Our translator appeared at my side and said “He says fortune for you to know, but not to tell it to anyone else.” I laughed to myself. Since I was unlikely to understand what he said, it was unlikely that I would be able to repeat it, even if I'd wanted to. People filed up one by one and sat before the fortune teller. He took their piece of jade and pulled out a pink slip of graph paper with a list of characters. They talked earnestly together and some people took bundles of the foot long incense sticks as they rose to leave.

My turn soon arrived. The secrecy of my fortune was going to be seriously compromised by my translator who had taken it upon himself to accompany me to the desk.

“Do you speak Chinese?” the fortune teller asked me in Mandarin.
“No.”
He looked doubtfully at my companion and took my piece of jade. He pulled out a piece of pink paper, halfheartedly circled a few things and talked to my translator.
“He says, you choose the highest number, you are very lucky. If you want even more luck, you can buy some of this incense.”
“I see.” I said. “How much is it?”
“Thirty yuen.” It seemed a little strange to not want extra luck, so I took one packet.

Eric's time had now come. He was accompanied by the translator and a curious crowd of onlookers. He looked supremely uncomfortable. I hung back despite the crowd, because the idea was that this fortune was private. It didn't look good. The fortune teller was gesticulating and the translator was leaning over Eric trying to explain. He had picked a low number, his luck was very bad.

"Do you have a desk at home?" the translator asked
"Yes." he answered.
"Bad things coming through your desk. You must turn your desk to face east. The ninth son of the dragon turtle can protect you. Do you have one?"
"Umm, sorry the what?" Eric was looking bewildered and uncomfortable in the midst of the gathering throng of black heads.

"Ninth son of the Dragon Turtle is very wise, very lucky. You have one?"
"No, I don't." Eric said
"You need this incense, two packets." said the translator

He took the packets and rose to leave, the entourage followed, enchanted by the site of this American with the horrible luck, whose misfortunes they were able to hear so clearly without the aid of a translator. Eric shot me a look of dismay as they whisked him to the next room, where a row of cashiers handled the payment for the incense packets. The fortune teller had accompanied us and now guided Eric and I to a separate room filled with jade carvings. He spoke loudly to our translator and the crowd behind us grew.

"He says here is the 9th Son of the Dragon Turtle. The bigger one brings more luck, the middle one middle luck, smallest one least lucky. You choose now."

We examined the price tags. I don't mind telling you that these statues were exactly what they sounded like, the wierd mutant offspring of a dragon and a turtle. They weren't exactly aesthetically pleasing and they were running for about $350 yuen (about $50). It didn't seem appropriate to bargain at the temple, so we did what any good Midwesterner would do. We stalled.

"Umm, I don't know" I piped up. (I didn't want this statue to end up in my house through the brute force of mob intimidation. It was truly ugly.) "We have to think about it. Let's go honey"

Our translator looked around nervously. "I think, there is no later, you must choose now."

"Okay," I say, I"m trying to be culturally considerate, and not force our translator into loosing face. He was kindly translating for us, and now we were embarrasing him. I glanced at Eric and realized I needn't have worried. Eric smiled smoothly and said "Sorry, we don't have enough money." \

It wasn't totally untrue. We had $400 yuen in our wallet, but it was in case of an emergency. We hadn't really budgeted for The Ninth Son of the Dragon Turtle.

I sensed that we had disappointed every one and the crowd dissipated as Eric and I made our way to burn our incense at the altar in a half hearted attempt to ward off bad luck. Where would this crazy weekend lead us next?

A tragedy in our own (very far off) backyard.

We've just heard about the bridge collapse in Minneapolis and are so grateful that all of our friends and family are safe. Our prayers and thoughts are with those missing and their families.

Best Banana Bread Ever

Eric and I found ourselves needing a little taste of home this week, so I e-mailed my mom for my Great Gram's banana bread recipe. It's best to use overripe bananas, and luckily Eric and I always think we'll eat more bananas then we really do. So I throw em in the freezer once they get past edibility and once I have enough of 'em I whip up a batch . It turned out great, especially considering I can't find any baking soda in China. (We used a little extra baking powder and lemon juice as a substitute.)

Banana Bread
makes two 9x5 loaves
3/4 c butter
2 1/4 c sugar
3 eggs, 4 if smallish
1 1/2 t vanilla
1 1/2 c very ripe mashed bananas(about)
3 c flour
3/4 t salt
1 t baking powder
1 t baking soda
1/3 c sour milk or buttermilk
1 1/2 c chopped walnuts

Cream butter and sugar, add eggs,vanilla and bananas
Sift together(or not) flour salt baking powder baking soda
Add to creamed mixture alternating with sour milk. Fold in nuts.
Bake in greased and floured pans at 350 for 30-40
minutes or until tester comes out clean!

A wild weekend.

Last week, HuYi asked a pressing question.

“You want go be tourist this weekend?”
“Well,” I hesitated “Where do we go?”
“Tourist” she repeated.
“Hmmmm, okay, what would we do?”
“You go… what word, I don’t know, waiting a moment…” Out comes the pocket translator, and a few moment later, she holds it up for me triumphantly.
It reads “Thermal springs”.
“Oh,” I say “In the U.S we say ‘hot springs’”.
She nods at me. I look over at Eric, deeply absorbed in his computer.
“What do you think babe?”
“Sure,” he said absent mindedly.
“Okay,” I said, “we’ll go.”

Fast forward to Saturday morning at 7:20 am. We are standing by the bus stop with a backpack. It isn’t unbearably hot yet, but it will be soon. A man in a blue dress shirt and khaki pants stops a few feet away from us to vomit. “Someone stayed too late at KTV last night…” I think. Poor guy is clearly hung over, but shows a remarkable determination to get to work for the requisite half day most Chinese people put in on Saturday.

We have given $900 RMB (about $115 U.S dollars) to our friend to give to her friend who is a travel agent. Hu Yi has told us that we are not, under any circumstances, to pay any more money. The $900 should cover our meals, bus fare and hotel room. “You like baby.” She’d said the night before, and I had to agree with her.

I feel like a kindergartner with a note from my mother pinned to my shirt. I’m looking at the text message she sent with the bus license plate number and instructions to bring our swimsuits. We have no idea where we are going. Eric thinks she said something about the forest. I think she was just saying “tourist”, but either way, we are quite unprepared for the adventure about to befall us.

My phone rings. It’s a man speaking in Chinese. I’m not sure if it’s the bus driver or tour guide or travel agent. We are in the designated spot HuYi carefully showed us on two separate occasions. He is speaking rapidly and the only word I get is “you”. “I don’t understand.” I say in Mandarin. (This is one phrase I have completely mastered) He keeps talking. “I don’t understand you,” I repeat. He hangs up. I look at Eric. “Well, that seems about right” He says, and leans against a signpost.

I try to call HuYi, but her phone is off, she is probably still asleep. I don’t want to call anyone else, it is really too early still. We buy some bottles of water at the news stand and wait. I check the license plate number again. B27745 is nowhere to be found.

Suddenly, a white bus comes hurtling our way and comes screeching to a halt at the curb. A tiny man in a red shirt and cap jumps onto the sidewalk and starts talking to us in Mandarin. I check the license plate. B456432. The man is gesturing to a paper in his hands.

“I think that’s our cell phone number.” Eric says, and pulls out his phone to double check. Sure enough it is our phone number.

We exchange glances and hesitate. We don’t know where this bus is going or when we’ll be back to ShenZhen. We don’t have our passports or any sort of tickets. The license plates don’t match, and we can’t get a hold of HuYi to double check. If anything goes wrong, we can’t really communicate because I forgot to pack our Chinese English Dictionary. We are boarding this bus on the strength of a crumpled piece of paper with our phone number scrawled on it.

“Well, you ready?” Eric asks.
“Let’s go.” I say and just like that we’re off on another adventure...

Five things I use every day...

Richard is a Gas Can; More Adventures in English

David Sedaris talks about carrying a little notebook around with him wherever he goes, presumably, to jot down funny ideas. He’s been on my brain since I’ve just finished “Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim”, and I’ve been pondering the similarities between us unabashedly. He, like me, is an American living abroad, he’s hopelessly devoted to his partner and is also quite short. He has written of his attempts to learn, understand and speak a second language as an adult. That may be where the similarities end, but I was thinking that in the interest of weird and funny material, I should really be making copious notes during the English lessons I’m giving.

Three of my students are engineers. Now, both of my grandfathers were engineers, so in my family, the “engineer mentality” is well known. On one hand, they are meticulous, organized, math/science whizzes, with endless patience for trouble shooting. On the other hand, language and intra personal communication skills are not always their strong suit.

In China, your surname comes first. Two of the engineers are called “Chen”. For reasons unknown to me, these gentlemen are distinguished from one another by the type of engineering they practice. “E.E Engineer” is the electrical engineer while “M. Engineer” is the mechanical engineer. This is slyly alternated with “L.L Chen” or “D.R Chen”. I can only assume this is all in an attempt to maximize confusion since L’s and R’s are commonly inverted when Chinese people are just beginning to speak English.

These two men could not be more different from one another. LL is eager to show off his English skills, however small, while DR is quite shy about speaking. D.R is missing an index finger on his right hand. LL is not. DR uses a pocket English dictionary while LL is enamored with an online Chinese/English translator. I have tried on many occasions to stress the faultiness of a program that lists the word “sensation” as a synonym for “close” to no avail. When I mention a word he doesn’t know, his hand shoots up and he demands a definition. In the midst of my explanation, he slides away on his rolling chair to his computer and types away, no doubt missing everything I am saying.

On Thursday, this situation came to a head. We are working from a set of text books and DVD’s called “Family Album, U.S.A”. As many language programs are, this one is undeniably hokey, and looks to have been filmed around the same year I was born. Leg warmers, stonewashed jeans and poufy bangs are in abundant supply in this version of America.

In the episode we were working through, Marilyn and her husband Richard have made a bet about whether or not he can make it through one hour in her new advanced aerobics class. She thinks it is really “tough”, while he says “it’ll be a piece of cake”. (Fun with idioms!) If he can survive the class without getting tired, she will cook dinner for the entire family. If he can’t make it, then he will have to cook for everyone.

After watching the video, I encourage discussion so my students can practice speaking. I ask them to describe what they have seen.

“Marilyn very good wife to Richard” volunteers DR shyly.

“Great!” I say, “And what about Richard? What kind of person is he?”

“He think exercise very easy, but Marilyn think very hard.” Offers Anna.

“Right,” I nod, “ but is the class as easy as he thought it would be?”

“No, very tough.” Anna replies “He sorry he say easy.”

“Okay, Mr. LL, what do you think?”

He looks up from his keyboard, smiles at me brightly and says

“Richard is gas can.”

The other students look at me, beaming expectantly. I stare at him blankly. I rack my brain, considering and rejecting possibilities, idioms gone horribly wrong. Perhaps he means “wind bag”? Or maybe that Richard is full of “hot air”?

“Umm, let me see what your dictionary says there LL.” He points his finger at the screen defensively. “Here, Gas can.”

I look at the screen. Sure enough, it reads “Gascon”. I scroll down to examine the definition. It is far from enlightening. “Gascon: a person from Gascony.”

“Well, LL, it seems what we have here is another example of why you should not rely on this dictionary. Use the Oxford English book I gave you instead. Perhaps you are trying to say that Richard likes to brag.”

I write “brag” on the board and begin to explain its meaning, along with some related idioms like “full of hot air” and “big talker”. Now he is defensive, having been embarrassed in front of his classmates.

“Richard is mouther.”

“Mouther?” I am getting exasperated. “LL, I have been speaking English for 23 years and I have never ever heard the word ‘Gascon’ or ‘mouther’. Your dictionary is unreliable.” I write “unreliable” on the board and underline it for good measure.

He looks at the computer screen and strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Richard is tinhorn”.

I spin on my heel and march back to his desk. Sure enough the word “tinhorn” is listed as a synonym for “Gascon”.

“LL,” I say, with a voice that I hope veils my anguish “You shouldn't look up synonyms for a word that doesn't make sense to begin with. If I don’t understand these words, then I promise you, neither will anyone else. I think the word you are looking for is “brag”, or maybe, “big talker”.

He considers me from behind his bifocals. Obviously it isn’t his beloved computer that is leading him astray. It is this surly twenty-something American girl with her white board marker and her blasted Oxford English Dictionary. She is determined to keep him from using impressive English words, hellbent on humiliating him in front of the other engineers.

“Gascon?”he says quizzically

I shake my head.

“Gascon?” he pleads, desperately.

Still, I shake my head no.

“Gascon!,” he says indignantly.

I sink into my chair weakly, looking at the other students. They smile encouragingly, but I can’t help but wonder how anyone in their right mind ventures into the realm of someone else’s language. It’s a jungle of bizarre phrases, intonations, meanings, spelling rules and inexplicable grammar. It’s a miracle anyone can do it.

I googled “Gascon” when I got home, and it reported that Gascon is a region in France. So, at best, its some sort of obscure racial slur. Where is David Sedaris when I need him?

Seven Eleven (also known as Chi Shiree)

Like many people, I remember visiting the neighborhood Seven Eleven on my bike as a kid. It was right around the corner, and when I had an extra fifty cents to blow, I’d head there for a box of Nerds or a Caramello bar. Once we moved away from San Diego, I didn’t really patronize Seven Elevens very often, and I never would have guessed that fifteen years later, this convenience store would re-enter my weekly routine.

Our giant apartment complex has a little shopping courtyard adjacent with a few restaurants, some expensive clothing boutiques, a salon, a KTV, a big fountain, cobbled streets and art nouveau style street lamps. In the evenings, after it cools down a bit, the courtyard fills up with people letting off steam, strolling babies around in buggies and sometimes batting around a badminton birdie. The courtyard also sports not one, but two “Chee Shuree” (or Qi Shi Yi for all you Pinyin experts). That’s right, Seven Eleven rhymes in Mandarin too.

Eric and I have become very frequent customers since there isn’t really a grocery store within walking distance. We are there buying diet coke, beer and water at least every other day. (What can I say? We have a fondness for beverages.)

It’s the little things you miss when you are away from home. And food is inevitably one of the big differences from one culture to the next. We don’t all like to eat the same things. For example, there is very little decent bread here. The “bread” they do offer has a lot in common with a tempurpedic mattress; it immediately resumes its predetermined shape despite any amount of squishing. Not really very appetizing. But that’s fine; we’ve been forgoing bread anyway. And to make up for it, there are thousands and thousands of types of rice to choose from. Cheese however is another matter. One guidebook warned that “dairy products haven’t really caught on in China”.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the cheese department. It is woefully under stocked and far more expensive than any of the various chicken/animal parts for sale in every aisle (in every imaginable state of dismemberment). Freeze-dried and cut into little strips meant to be eaten like potato chips? You’ve come to the right place! Nothing but the little claws, meant to be boiled, inserted into the mouth, picked clean of skin and tissue, bones unceremoniously spit back onto the table? Certainly. The necks, strung from little strings like dainty sausages? Without a doubt! But cheese? Not quite so many choices. The various cheeses are cut into pieces the width and thickness of your average chocolate chip cookie. The choices are helpfully labeled in English: “white” and “hard”. Okay, fine, cheese hasn’t exactly caught on here. I can understand that.

Then I stumbled into the freezer aisles. Row upon gleaming row of chrome and glass cases filled to overflowing with every imaginable type of ice cream. There are classic American favorites; chocolate, vanilla, rocky road, cookies and cream, Then, the more exotic fare; ginger, green tea, red bean paste…It is so blasted hot here that ice cream is a real no-brainer. But, I digress. Back to the Seven Eleven.

As I said, we frequent the Seven Eleven to avoid the hassle of the grocery store. And I find myself buying things I would normally never ever buy. Like Oreos. I like Oreos, sure, but not enough to actually purchase them. They are certainly not a staple in our cupboard the way, say, Ferraro Rochers are. But in the Seven Eleven, under the hum of the florescent lights and orange wallpaper, surrounded by weird alien bread, dehydrated fish snacks and drinkable jell-o, I get a little crazy.

I was feeling frustrated today after our first mandarin lesson (it served as a rather painful reminder of my inadequacies as both an English teacher and a second language learner), and no amount of money seemed too great for a little taste of home. That little quarter of a gallon of Dryers buried in the bottom of the Seven Eleven freezer seemed like a good solution, and once I crushed in a few Oreos, it was totally worth the exorbitant $7 I paid for it...