God of Students, Thy Name is Kongzi

Well, all right. To be perfectly truthful, Confucius (aka Kongzi) is not a god, per se. Nonetheless, people worship him, memorize his teachings, and build temples in his honor. Students are still known to stop by Confucian temples before major exams. The pedestal he's standing on is on the lofty side.
This week in class, we took a quick look at Confucius, his history, and some of the highlights from "The Analects of Confucius." Then yesterday, we took a field trip to a well-known Confucian temple. It's a cinch to get there; just hop on the 909 to the Yonghegong station -- that's a famous Lama Buddhist temple, also a great field trip. From there, it's not even a quarter mile walk over relatively quiet streets. On an interesting side note, if you take the 909 north instead of south, you end up at Walmart.
Sadly, I left my brain behind that day and didn't bring my camera, but the temple grounds are beautiful. (Yes, that picture above is a random photo from a nearby park. What kind of a post doesn't have a picture?) Educational plaques explain that the temple was built during the Yuan dynasty (that would be the Mongols) in about 1306. Of course, it has been renovated, expanded, redone, improved, repaired, et cetera several times since then, so I'm not sure if anything still survives from the original. The architecture is classic Chinese -- a square courtyard surrounded by long, low buildings, painted red with brilliant, brightly-painted roofs. In the courtyard, there are several very old trees. At first, we thought that the trees were responsible for the fragrant, luxurious lavender and white blossoms covering them like a pastel firework. On closer inspection, it is revealed that the trees themselves are dead and serving as frameworks for massive, woody vines, which are the real source of the flowers. They look a bit like giant, upside-down lupines.
While visiting some well-known sites in Beijing can make you truly appreciate the idiomatic expression "ren shan ren hai" (people from the mountains to the sea), the temple was relatively quiet. Inside the major chamber, where you can, in fact, still kneel and pay tribute to old Confucius, there is a wide variety of traditional vessels for sacrifices, musical instruments for sacrificial rites, and a number of name stones. These are what you'd place on the family altar after a person died, in order to show your continued filial piety and as a place to contribute to their needs in the afterlife. The afterlife, by the bye, is rather disconcertingly like the mortal world -- one still needs food, shelter, and money, which is provided by your still-living family members. Ghosts are angry spirits, often because no one gives them offerings of food or money, so they are hungry and bitter. Of course, if you're being haunted by an angry ghost, it could be because of something you did to the dearly departed. Cruel mother-in-laws, for example, were often haunted by the souls of their dead daughters-in-law.
Getting back to Confucius, for a long while the temple was also the site of the highest level imperial civil service test. To give you an idea of how hard this test was, in all of the Ming and Qing dynasties (that's just shy of 550 years), only about 50,000 people passed it. If you passed, you were eligible for high-level service in the imperial court, and it was the highest achievement your family could accomplish -- we're talking generations of bragging rights. To this end, when you passed, you got your name and the date carved into large stone steles. Your great-great-great grandkids could pop over to the temple, point out your name to their friends, and say "Yeah, my great-great-great grandpa rocked the exam." You can still see these steles today, so theoretically, if you knew the names of your ancestors from the fifteenth century, you could see if they passed the test. Sadly, it seems none of mine did. It's probably because they weren't Chinese.
Ironically, I recall from history class last semester that one of the major problems with the civil service exam by the late Qing was that it was too dependant on memorization of the Confucian classics, and didn't test well for ability to govern, or think independently, at all. I imagine dear Kongzi was none too pleased.
The temple also has some museum-type displays. These were interesting, but a little repetitive, as they described the influence Confucianism has had on greater Asia and the world in general -- I amused myself with reading the sample page of the French civil service exam from the 1790s. Apparently, they got the idea from the Chinese. With the Voltaire and company-led China fanclub in 18th Cent. France, it doesn't surprise me. On the other hand, the general message of the entire exhibit is "Confucianism is the best/China did it first." Now, I realize that this is the general message behind any exhibit anywhere -- in the US it would be "the Founding Fathers were the best/If we didn't do it first, we did it better." Still, it seemed a little forced.
Case in point: one of the Confucian Analects is the Golden Rule (not to be confused with the Golden Ratio, and 'do unto others as you would have done unto you,' for those of you who have forgotten). Now, that's great. It's neat that different societies have similar core values. But the world beyond China doesn't have the golden rule because of Confucius, and even if Confucius is the first person recorded to have said it, China doesn't get to be smug about it. China has plenty of other ancient inventions that no-one else also thought up-- paper and the repeating crossbow jump to mind.
Additionally, it seems several prominent scientists/political figures have declared Confucianism to be the philosophy of the future. I do hope they didn't mean the part where wives are obedient to their husbands and sons. As for Confucian ideals being the ideal educational theory -- well, some of his teachings were good. Hard work and lots of studying are good. Always being open to learning from others, and treating knowledge as limitless, also good. I'm not too sold on obedience to one's teachers or the teaching philosophy "I will not teach until the student has tried to learn and failed." Well of course the student failed -- you didn't teach them.
Was Confucius a cool dude? Yes. Do his teachings still have relevance in the modern world? Definitely. Was J K Rowling thinking of his beard when she dreamed up Albus Dumbledore? I'm going to go with, almost certainly.

In completely other news, we were on our own getting back to campus after the field trip. On the walk back to the bus stop, we got stopped by a fellow laowai (foreigner) who asked if we knew where the entrance of the Lama temple was. We asked a passing Chinese woman for her, and chatted a moment about being students in the city, which she thought was admirable. Then, my classmate complemented me on my mad public transportation skills -- apparently she hasn't yet figured out the Beijing bus system. I'm actually going to miss the ability to get from point A to point B by hopping on the bus. It's dreadfully convenient, and if you use your transit card, it's only 40 mao (40 Chinese cents ... about half a US penny) per ride (normally 1 kuai). It works on the subway, too, at 1.60 kuai per use (2 kuai without). I love the buses so much, in fact, that I'm down to 2 kuai on my transit card -- I've got to go add money to it. That will be a true test of my mad skills. Well, actually, I'm pretty sure I know where to do it. So it will really be a test of my practical Chinese skills. How does one say "add money"? Oh, well, if that fails, we could always talk about Confucius.

The Boluo Man Cometh and Other Tales

In flourishing-

spring when Beijing is dust-

crazy the little

spry boluo man

cries, yi kuair yi kuai

and tingting and zhou come

strolling from textbooks and

essays and it's

spring

when the city is feichang fetching

the cart

wheeling boluo man cries

yi kuai yi kuair

and bingbing and su come peddling

from taichi and b-ball and

it's spring

and the street-wandering

boluo man cries

yi kuair

yi kuai.

Now, my profound apologies to ee cummings, whose "balloonman" is an excellent poem not done justice by my theft to create "boluo man." Boluo is the Chinese word for pineapple. It is one of my favorite parts of living in Beijing, that I can wander out into the street and have my pick of fresh fruit. Right now, I can get pineapple, strawberries, or miniature mangos within a minute of my front door.

The boluo man carves the pineapples into a lovely spiral, taking off the inedible parts. Then you can buy the whole pineapple, or some half- or quarter- pineapple slices on kebab sticks. It's a lovely afternoon snack. Strawberries (and other fruit, like apples or watermelons) are sold by weight. You pick out how much you want and the dealer weighs in in a little scale. I bit into a strawberry the other day at lunch, and it was an instant shock of homesickness. I could practically feel the dirt on my fingers as I picked berries in Dresden; I could hear the light tap of the paring knife as Mom sliced berries for cereal or muffins. I could smell the sweet stickiness of strawberry shortcake filling mellowing in a mixing bowl. Ah, summer in Maine. The best part, you see, is that I can enjoy strawberries and lilacs here now, and I will enjoy them all over again when I am home again in June.

Miniature mangoes appeared on the street about a week ago. I had no idea what the orangey, miniature-computer mouse sized fruit were. Then, last Wednesday, they had some in the cafeteria, so I picked one up. Then I surreptitiously waited and watched for someone else to eat one first -- I had no idea how to eat it. Apparently, one peels back the skin like a banana peel (although not as easily and a lot messier -- they're quite juicy) and then eats around the tough fibrous center, then flips it around, holding it by the core, takes off the rest of the skin and eats the bottom. It's sweeter than a large mango, and I quite enjoyed it. It left my fingertips yellow for half a day, though.

Fruit is all well and good, but I'm afraid I have a dietary confession to make. Today, I went to McDonald's. Yes, a terrible sin. I can't even remember the last time I ate McDonald's food, but I had this awful craving for a hamburger. Not really a fast food burger, but what other option do I have here? Well, I got the dollar menu cheeseburger (which is really the 6 kuai menu). As I ate it, sitting in some sun, perched on a raised wall beside the sidewalk, I realized that the yellow, tasteless American plastic cheese slice on the burger was the first piece of cheese I have eaten in 10 weeks. Ah, what I would give for some chevre. Or some fresh mozzarella. Perhaps a nice chuck of extra-sharp cheddar. Then I had a small vanilla soft-serve cone. It was delicious, but it doesn't quite taste like it does in the US. You know what else doesn't taste the same as in the Western world? Diet Coke. Diet Coke here tastes more like C2, or whatever they called that version of Coke which tasted like regular coke but had no calories. Which, to someone who actually likes the taste of Diet Coke, is a bit disappointing.

So, upon my return home, there is a long list of food I desperately want. It starts with baked beans and brown bread, moves on to whole-wheat bread and chocolate cake, a whoopie pie, a thanksgiving-dinner turkey sandwich, and eventually ends with corned beef hash. That's just because I always want corned beef hash. It's salty and delicious.

That said, there is a growing list of Chinese food that I really love and already know I'll miss. Dumplings. Suanlatudou. Chaobing. Corn flavored ice cream and blueberry potato chips. Well, you're right. That last one is disgusting, and I won't miss it at all.

Lions and Tigers and Bears, Taking a Siesta.

So it seems that China can join the long list of civilized countries which believe in the after-lunch nap. I think afternoon naps are lovely. Why, exactly, do we English-speaking people feel that working hard between noon and 2pm makes us more productive and hard-working than others?

Regardless, I was at the Beijing zoo one fine afternoon during vacation. It was in the 80s, sunny and summerlike. I'll admit, I was wearing much too many layers. You can take the Mainer out of Maine, but you can't convince her that she doesn't need a sweatshirt in April. It's enough that I'm not wearing a jacket.

The Beijing Zoo is a short, one-bus trip from my home base. The bus was not crowded at all, and I actually managed to get a seat, which is quite a treat, let me tell you. The zoo wasn't crowded, either, and I bought my ticket and wandered in without any difficulty. To see the animals and the pandas during the busy season is 20 kuai. Let me take another moment to marvel at the idea of a tourist season that begins in April and lasts until November. Really. To think, I thought Memorial Day to Columbus Day was stretching the summer season. But who am I kidding? It feels like summer, so let's call it summer.

The animals were feeling the heat. Or perhaps they were doing as the Romans do and doing a little afternoon xiuxi-ing.
As promised, here is a lion, settling down for a cat nap:
And here is a tiger, looking a lot like Bastet in the backyard sandbox, except moving even less:

Here, my dear sister and father, is your mascot, the black bear, snoozing away:

Amusingly, in the next bear enclosure, I think home to the Tibetan Brown Bear, there is a large note painted on the stone in Chinese. I'm pretty sure it says something along the lines of "Of course we would love your children, but when we eat too much our stomachs hurt, so please don't feed us again." I can't decide if it means don't let your children throw food to us, or don't let your children climb into our pen. I like the second meaning better.

Of course, no one goes to the zoo in Beijing without going to see the pandas. Panda, in Chinese, is da xiongmao, which literally is 'large bear-cat.' Apparently, they were supposed to be called 'maoxiong,' or 'cat-bears,' but the name was popularized during the transition from reading characters right-to-left to left-to-right, and the backwards reading became most common. More informative plaques told me that pandas can be considered bears, but some scientists put them in their own category. So, cat-like bears or bear-like cats, pandas are just too cute.

Alas, on the day of my visit, they were repairing/replanting the outdoor enclosures, so I saw the pandas in their inside spaces, behind glass. My camera does not get along with glass, so I have no pictures. I suppose I could stick in some from my 2006 trip to the zoo with none the wiser, but I shan't. Instead, watch this little video of a panda eating some bamboo that I took:

There was a German couple and their Chinese friend beside me as I watch this panda, and they were wondering whether pandas eat just the stalks of bamboo and not the leaves, as this panda was stripping the leaves and outer bark off entirely and throwing it aside. But if that was true, we couldn't use the wonderful grammar joke about pandas. You remember, that the panda "eats, shoots and leaves?"

Speaking of jokes, I learned another Chinese one today. It depends, as all the Chinese jokes I know, on a foreigner whose Chinese is a bit "chabuduo," as our head teacher would say (meaning, not quite right), and a word with two meanings in Chinese. Come to think of it, I'm a little worried that all the jokes I know are about math or grammar.

Now for something completely different: I am officially 78.5% finished knitting the essential parts of the Periodic Table. Sadly, I've run out of yarn, but on the plus side, recent measurements lead me to wildly hope the finished product might actually fit on a bed. Wouldn't that be nice?

Your French Catholic Canadian Aunt is Knitting a Sweater

Hello, ni hao!

This how cheerful, brave strangers between the ages of 5-100 greet me in the street or at the park. For those under the age of five, it more often goes like this:

Grandmother (in Chinese, other than 'hello') to child: Say hello, ayi! Nihao, hello, ayi!

Little child, too cute for words: *Stares at strange-looking person.

Grandmother: Nihao, hello, ayi!

Little child, in tiny murmur: hello, ayi.

Me: Ni hao, hello! *Grins at cute child and also from embarrassment.

Of course, if I'm generally stationary, say, sitting on a bench in the local park, knitting, this is a Language Practicing Opportunity Not to Be Missed. Just yesterday, as I relaxed in the warm early evening air, a perhaps-5 year old was coached by grandma through telling me about his nose, and his two eyes, but clammed up about his mouth. I half-felt like teaching him "Head and shoulders, knees and toes" but I blanked on the words. I would be more concerned, but a few days ago I called an airport a "plane station" so I know I've got bigger English language issues at the moment. Looking back at my posts, I see this is an ongoing problem. I called a power drill an "electric screwdriver." This is descriptive, but not exactly common phrasing. Perhaps it was the low-cost version of a sonic screwdriver?

Slightly more annoying are the college-aged/twenty-something adults who decide you are a perfect opportunity to practice English. First of all, it's a breach of my language pledge, but more importantly, hello, stranger. The best way to avoid this is to reply, in Chinese, "oh, I'm sorry. I don't speak English, I'm from France." This may be ridiculous -- how many internationally-traveling French people do you imagine have never studied English? But, your newest Chinese friend might not know this. This way, you also avoid being asked about Obama, Iraq, or general American politics. If by some chance, your speaking buddy also studies French and is suddenly thrilled to practice that language, you can probably remember enough French to comment about Sarko's handling of the economic crisis. Of course, if you're fine with a conversation, or you can manage to switch it into Chinese, but still don't want to discuss Sino-American relations, you can always claim to be Canadian. Be sure to be polite, though. We can't go and give Canadians a bad name.

So there I was, sitting and knitting, listening to headphones -- aren't they a universal "don't bug me" sign? apparently not -- when a 27 year old man decides to take a break from his evening run to chat. Thinking back, he told me his age, his relationship status, and his current feelings about the state of Chinese government, but not his name . . . anyway. My silly mouth managed to give away that I spoke English before my brain could catch up. So I told him I was Canadian when he asked. Then we preceded to have a conversation about Beijing rent rates (they're through the roof -- he's 27, has a good job, and still can't afford to get married. Girls just won't date a man with no money. Is that true in Canada? ...Um, I think that's true everywhere.) and how he's lost heart in the Chinese government. There's so many problems, you see -- rent, education, health issues, pollution, elder care, population, every other topic our textbook has mentioned. How is one supposed to respond to Chinese dissing their government? Where's the unity? Are you secret police, and if I agree with you, will I wake up tomorrow in a detention facility? So I settled with 'all countries have their issues.' Then we discussed my Chinese language learning. I hate the question "what can you say?" I can say a lot of things, but it generally works best if you ask a question that I can answer, first. For instance, we could probably have had this whole conversation in Chinese with relatively little difficulty. Off the top of my head, on the other hand, I can respond "what do you want me to say?" Witty, self. Very witty.

All that explains, dearest eldest sister, why Oxygen is accidentally two rows short. I got distracted.

Knitting in the park is its own hazard. Chinese grandmothers will come to talk about it (much like if you knit in public in the US, actually). Since you're knitting something with a two color pattern in stockinette stitch, everyone asks, "Oh, are you knitting a sweater?" Well, no. I'm knitting Group 16 of the periodic table of elements, as part of a blanket. Let's see... I don't know the Chinese for PTE, translating Group 16 directly would probably make no sense, as would 'I'm knitting air,' so I said "It's a blanket." This got some seriously surprised reactions. I know what's in my hands right now is only about four square inches, but come on. A knitting project of a thousand rows begins with a single stitch, you know. I think I need that on a button, or something. Today, knitting in the park, I gave up. When someone asked me if I was knitting children's clothes, I just said yes. So look for it for Fall Fashion 2009: The sweater with oxygen on the front, sulphur on the back, and sleeves of selenium and tellurium.

To explain the rest of this post's title, I should remind you all that 'ayi' means 'aunt.' It's a respectful term of address, and I'll get used to it, even if it makes me feel old. As for being French Catholic, well, when I was at St. Joseph's on Wangfujing, a passerby asked me if I was French Catholic. I would have understood being asked if I was Catholic, as I was a Westerner visiting a cathedral, but why French Catholic? Who knows.

Well, it's time for some more knitting and perhaps some questionably legal television online. My dear sister graduates in less than a month, and there's still quite a few elements to go. More pressingly, I think I'm going to run out of red for the gases, and I haven't seen anything like a yarn shop hereabout. Is that a legitimate excuse for not meeting my deadline?

Spring Sur Pied: Wangfujing

Ah, Spring Break. We are done with midterms, and now we have a whole glorious week to relax and lazily explore. I am spending the week here in Beijing -- there's so much to do and see here, I couldn't imagine going somewhere else. So today I set off on Adventure #1: Wangfujing.

Wangfujing is a shopping street just east of the Forbidden City, meaning it is southeast of my neighborhood. To get there efficiently involves a bus and two lines of the subway. Me being me, which is to say, about as acclimated to city life as a fish is to the desert, I couldn't actually find my bus station. But, I knew the direction I wanted to go, and it wasn't too far, maybe a kilometer, so I walked.

The weather today was in the high seventies, sunny and clear. It's April 6th, and I'm a Mainer: I left my room with a sweatshirt and no sunglasses. I took the sweatshirt off within five minutes, and only the six flights of stairs between me and my sunglasses kept me from going back for them. Anyway, it was quite a pleasant walk, and I made it to the subway station without any faults. The subway in Beijing is very easy to use -- the map is clear, and most of the trains have clearly enunciated English announcing the stops. I had to make one transfer, but it was easy (and free). On the other hand, taking the Beijing subway is to truly understand the life of a canned sardine. Line 1 at 1pm is beyond crowded. You get so close to the other passengers it's not even a matter of personal space violation anymore. It's something you have to go to Confession for.

Wangfujing is a physical metaphor for Chinese development, in my humble opinion. Approaching from the south, the first thing you see is the Oriental Plaza mall. It is smooth and sleek, all gleaming lines and shiny glass. Inside the shops are all very high end -- Rolex, Cartier, clothing stores with fancy Italian names.

Continuing down the street you see the Chinese bookstore -- celebrating 60 years of being no better place to feel ridiculously illiterate -- and the foreign languages bookstore, where Agatha Christie is in the Best Sellers section, Bill Bryson's A Short History of Everything is in the social sciences section, and Isaac Asimov and The Tales of Beedle the Bard are shelved side by side. It's the little things in life which are most hilarious. Adidas, Nike, North Face -- if it is a famous Western brand, it's on Wangfujing.

About halfway up the street is the old pre-Reform and Opening Up Beijing Department Store. It is a study in blocky, Soviet-inspired architecture. Nowadays, it's full of more high-end shops.

Continuing a little further, you encounter St. Joseph's Cathedral.Now, I could tell you the history of St. Joseph's, or you could just go read the 5 page paper I wrote about it last year. Suffice it to say, having written a paper on it, I felt like seeing in person. It's ... smaller than I expected. Of course, building high-rises on either side of a three storey cathedral will do that. Inside it is quite ornate, and smells just like a church. Some things are wonderfully constant.

Around this point, I was feeling hungry, so I ducked into a side street of food vendors. It all looked delicious, but I was too darn hot for hot food, so I settled on a bottle of juice and a spicy chicken and cucumber sandwich thingie. I didn't take a picture, sorry, but I did get a shot of Samantha Brown's favorite:

The day was getting long, so I meandered my way back towards home. I attempted the catch the bus this time, but it turns out the 345express goes north by a different route it goes south. I figured this out, and managed to get off at, ironically, my roommate's university. I knew from her that it was about a 15 minute walk, and from past map-gazing that it was a little west and a little south of homebase.

I bought an ice cream from the friendly hole-in-the-wall shop on our street and ate it on the bench in front of our dorm, watching a father and son bat a badminton shuttlecock back and forth in front of the elementary school. It reminded me of summer evenings in the yard playing baseball.

And as the perfect finish to a lovely day, I saw something I haven't seen clearly in far too long.

Home Is Where the Boot Is

I had an adventure this weekend. I gathered my trusty map, my less-trustworthy Chinese reading skills, and my extremely trustworthy sense of direction and set out to find a little piece of home in this massive and foreign place. All I can say is this: I flew 6,000 miles away from Maine and found Maine 6 miles away. LL Bean, home sweet home.

LL Bean, Beijing, is located in a swanky "lifestyle mall" in the nicer end of town. This open-concept mall, with a lovely fountain timed to classical music in the central courtyard, is full of high-end Western brands, ranging from Espirit to dear Beans. There is a Starbucks and a Coldstone Creamery, where you can pay in excess of 50 kuai for an ice cream (comparison: I can buy a Drumstick-like ice cream on the street for 2 kuai). The atmosphere was pleasant, but I felt more out of place here than I did on the bus (where I noted, absently, that I was the only non-Chinese out of 50 or so. This is not unusual.). I felt like I'd wandered into 5th Avenue, or at the very least, the designer shops in the Old Port. So I beelined for Beans.

What to say, what to say. It is an LL Bean, in all its glory. It has canoe-paddle door handles. It has little decorative shelves of fake evergreen and snowshoes. It sells the ice-cream making kick ball. The only un-Bean-ish thing about it is that it's tiny. It's very much like the average-sized store in the Maine Mall. But, I imagine I'm spoiled by frequenting the flagship store.

What's that? What did things cost? Well, if you think things would be slightly cheaper, considering the lack of international shipping expenses and the location, think again. Perhaps you'd like their sunwashed cotton messenger bags? That's 420 kuai. Some women's rain pants? 750 kuai. Now that's just ridiculous. To answer my sister's question, no, the sizes don't appear to be smaller, but there is a predominance of smaller sizes -- my casual perusal only found one size large.

So I didn't buy anything. That wasn't the point of going, however. Just being there, surrounded by familiar decor, made me feel a little less out of place. It really is a little piece of home away from home.

One last note: there didn't seem to be any taxidermed animals about. It makes me wonder what a Beijing Cabella's would look like. Naked, I daresay.

PS. I saw the following billboard on my way to Beans. It's oddly comforting to know that China's "join up now" ads looks just like ours.

On Illiteracy and Being Mostly Successful

There are a few things to which you become accustomed during your first few weeks in China (please excuse my broad generalizations based on my extremely objective personal experiences). Number one: if the buildings two blocks away do not look fuzzy, then it is a relatively good day. If the building across the street is hazy, that's a bad day. Secondly: walking down the street is like playing chicken. Not just with traffic, mind you, but others pedestrians. No one sticks any particular side, people dart about, and sidewalks are de facto parking lots. Third: you will not see the stars again until you leave (I'll admit I'm not used to that yet -- I may never be). But on to today's first topic: if you aren't fluent in Chinese, you must get used to being basically illiterate. There is a little thrill at finding a sign you can mostly or completely read. Most signs, advertisements, and bus route signs might as well be in Korean, for all I can decipher them. This bugged me at first -- we come from a very literate society. I'm not sure I could get around home without reading signs. I never realized how helpful the pictures on food packaging are. After all, how would I have any idea what 'Welsh Pepper Taste' crackers were without little pictures of red hot chili peppers? (Actually, I don't know what they taste like... but with that graphic, I'm not going to try.) Now, I blithely travel about my neighborhood, unable to read anything, but mostly getting done what I need to do.

Speaking of routine errands, it's amazing what you can get done with limited language skills. On the other hand, getting things done and getting things done the way you expected are totally different things. Today, for example, I went to the bank to exchange some more money, and bought some dumplings for dinner.

I had changed money on my second day in China, when I had no functional language skills for that action. It took several hours (two of the people I went with had traveler's checks of a type the bank had never seen). None of the bank employees spoke English, and the same form would be passed back and forth repeatedly as more blanks would have to be filled it -- which is what they probably told us, but none of us understood the first time. Today, I actually managed to get my proper bank ticket (it's a little kiosk -- you have to punch in what you want to do, and it gives you a number like at the supermarket deli) and could say my intention (wo yao duihuan waibi). In a fun twist, the bank teller I got today could speak a little English (passport, hundred) even though I could have (probably) managed English-free. Ah, well. It went quickly and trouble-tree today, and I count that as a total success.

Then I bought some dumplings. There is a little vendor after the check-out at the supermarket, and they sell several varieties. I could read that they were pork dumplings, all with different secondary ingredients, but I couldn't read most of those. So, I asked, as I know the sound of more foodstuffs than the characters. Still not much help, but I eliminated several varieties based on their names containing the words "sour" "tofu" or "spicy." I chose at random from the rest, and got a "large" plate (apparently the default, and she'd already starting filling the tray before I could formulate a response, so I ended up with 27 dumplings). Then, and here's where my success becomes a qualified success, apparently you can have them cooked or buy them raw. I apparently missed being asked if I wanted them cooked, so I got them raw. Ah, well, no harm no foul; there's a hot plate and a pot in the dorm kitchen, I can do the boiling myself. All together, my 27 dumplings cost 11 kuai, and shall feed me tonight, tomorrow night, and possibly for breakfast, too. Oh, and in case you're curious, they are pork-and-onion flavor, which is delicious. (And now, to outrage my favorite almost-veterinarian: yeah, I'm pretty sure this pork hadn't seen refrigerator in six hours, if ever. But I was impressed with the food-prep safety -- the lady used tongs to handle the grubby money and never her hands, and the whole stall was very clean-looking. Then I boiled the life out of the dumplings (literally: I misread the hotplate at first and cranked it up to 270*C. I have never seen water boil so fast.) So if I get food poisoning or whatnot, it is purely chance and not because I'm a crazy risk-taker.)

On that note, I am going to go look at the stars on Google Earth. How I miss them.

Hello Warm Lemonade and Foreigners

There is a down side to all this lovely warm weather, you know. I'm sitting here without a sweater with all my windows open. The sun is streaming in cheerfully, a gentle breeze occasionally caressed my cheek, and if I don't try to look too far into the distance, I hardly notice the pollution. But alas, the loss of cool weather means I can no longer use my porch as a refrigerator. Now if I want cold juice, I'll have to store in the in the first floor kitchen -- and is cold juice really worth the trip up and down six flights of stairs? Probably not.

Speaking of juice, let me tell you about the kind I'm trying today. It's by a company I recognized, having found them online last year. They have a most memorable name -- Wa ha ha. It's just as funny in Chinese as in English. Anyway, I felt like some lemon, and saw this "lemon juice drink." Now, I have to admit, I can't read most of the ingredients. Actually, I was proud that I could find the list of ingredients. I see that it contains 12% juice, which I felt was pretty standard for lemonade, but lacking nutritional information, I had no idea whether this "lemon juice drink" contained sugar. While I think you'd be hard pressed to find lemon water that lemony without sugar in the US, this is China. I ate a green pea popsicle two days ago -- I can't take anything for granted. But considering my personal life philosophy is "if life gives you lemons, eat them or get scurvy" I felt I could deal with whatever flavor my new juice threw at me (side note: its name is Hello-C, in English writing. It comes in lemon and grapefruit flavors. Apparently, it's healthy. So there was a point against containing sugar). Besides, it was 3 kuai, so if I couldn't drink it, I'd only wasted fifty cents.

So, you ask. What does Hello-C lemon taste like? Well, if my taste buds aren't lying to me, it tastes exactly like Countrytime lemonade. You know, like we have at events in the summer -- warm, sickly sweet, totally-fake-tasting lemonade. It would probably be much better cold. Alas, warm weather.

Speaking again of the RIDICULOUSLY nice weather (really, I can't get over it), it has a wonderful effect on my mood. As you may know, I have an awful tendency toward melancholy, home-sickness, and general non-enthusiasm. This was much the case at the end of classes today, as I left the school building, but one blast of the outside air and there was a spring in my step and a smile on my face. Then I rounded the corner and squeezed past the gatehouse just as a little girl, maybe 4 years old, and her mother turned in from the street. The little girl was eating a rapidly melting creamsicle-like thing in that adorable way of little kids -- which is to say it was dripping all over her hand and she didn't care. I was slightly in front of them (one of the upcoming posts shall be on the subject of the relative walking speeds of Chinese, Mainers, and the rest of the world) and the little girl quite clearly and loudly says to her mother, "Look! A foreigner." Hmmm. I'm the only foreigner on the street right now. . . I barely made it inside the dormitory before I cracked up. Oh, little kids, I love them so. Tact is just not saying true stuff, after all.

On that note, I am in much too good a mood to finish my homework right now. Today's topic is terminal liver cancer and human euthanasia -- how can I possibly read about that when the birds are chirping cheerfully outside my window (OK, fine. It's an electric screwdriver. Close enough)? I shall post new photos to facebook instead.

Five Senses

I think, in writing about my experiences, I have an unfortunate tendency to focus on sights and events. I would be remiss, however, if I did not extrapolate a little more. After all, we have five senses with which to experience the world, and you can hardly recreate my wild tales without proper descriptions. So today, I shall further introduce you to my home away from home. Close your eyes (unless you're using them to read, in which case perhaps you'd better leave them a little open) and follow me.

If you were standing outside my front door today, you would be shivering a bit from the cold. Google tells me it is a balmy 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is a great cold wind blowing in from the west (which is to say, from the dry, dry Gobi desert). The wind whistles around the edges of the building and thunders down the cavernous channels made by streets running between sky scrapers. I can see more tall buildings from my window than exist in my dear state of Maine, I'm sure. The wind gusts rather constantly, and it makes the doors and windows rattle like discontented ghosts are trying the latches. Sometimes, the wind twists into some strange nook, and makes surprising sounds. Just yesterday, I was sure I heard the horns played by the Abydonians in Stargate when Ra's ship is descending. This afternoon, on the way to lunch, I looked up to see if the Nasgul were attacking.

When the wind isn't blowing quite so hard, my corner of the city is amazingly quite. Or, well, much quieter than I expected so large a city would be. Yes, the constant chorus of car horns is a little jarring (I believe all Chinese drivers follow the Massachusetts Driver model), but little other traffic noise finds its way down my little street. I often hear Chinese conversations shouted cheerfully, but more often than not, I haven't the foggiest what is said.

Every morning, Monday through Friday, I am treated to the Chinese National Anthem at 8am sharp. Across the street from me is an elementary school -- as I wash my face and brush my teeth in the morning, I watch hordes of little kids arrive at school, and a select few solemnly raise the flag in the courtyard. Now that is is warming up, and the kids aren't so bundled against the cold, I can see that their uniforms are bright blue track suit-like affairs. They have bright yellow knit caps with brims. All in all, very adorable. It's also very comforting, although it is disconcerting to realize how much of my education has been in close proximity to elementary schoolers -- first high school in the same building, then my college dorm across the street from one, and now, on the other side of the world, the same situation. Anyway, it's fun to see parents arriving with their children in the morning; at once reminding me of my childhood and at the same time so different. The Chinese school is a building, surrounded by ball courts and courtyard, and surrounded on all sides by two story, narrow buildings that form a wall. They enter through the front gate, which is where they are dropped off. There's nothing like a school bus here -- the kids arrive on foot, perched on the baggage racks or back seats of their parent's bicycles, or in a startling variety of cars (My favorite of these looks like the offspring of a Dodge Caravan and a VW Beetle, which got its looks from the van and its size from the bug -- I shall have to take a picture). Many of the children arrive alone or with peers, no adults. I distinctly remember not being allowed, by the school, to walk to or from primary school for fear of traffic and strangers with nondescript vans and candy. Apparently that is not a fear here, which just goes to show that six year olds are better at navigating Beijing traffic than I am -- but more on that later.

Back to the street, there is a long white metal fence, taller than me, in front of our buildings. It can be gated off at night, although the gate man is always on duty, so I think it does not close. Whatever it may say about my social life, I haven't been out past curfew to see. The walkway is paved with square grey concrete stones, perhaps 6 inches a side. They aren't very even, and it's a blessing my ankles are so willing to bend, otherwise I'd surely have broken them twice over by now. I have an alarming tendency not to look where I'm stepping. In the afternoon, around the time school lets out, the street occasionally gains a street vendor selling roasted sweet potatoes or pineapples artfully carved into a spiral pattern which takes off all the rough outer skin. You can get a hot, sweet, tender potato bigger than your fist for about 3 kuai, a medium sized pineapple is about 5 kuai -- so less than a US dollar each.

Let's step into the dorm, now. The front door is dark green, if you care to know. Inside, you weave through the collection of bicycles that people park inside, glance at the announcement board to your left, and sigh at the six storeys you have to climb to get to my room. Alas. Then you try not to breathe through your nose, because for some reason, the hallway smells like a poorly-tended outhouse today.

There's no way to put it gently, I don't think. Sometimes, my home away from home smells like shit. It's not a reflection on actually cleanliness, though. The dear ayis (ayi is Chinese for aunt; it's a respectful term of address for the two housekeeping ladies) climb up and down every day, cleaning the hall, cleaning our bathrooms, and washing our sheets. I'm sure it has something to do with the plumbing, or something. It's not too bad, really. Sometimes you just need to shut up and breathe through your mouth. Oh, and a pineapple in your room can soak up chemical smells -- but don't eat it afterwards.

I've taken you through sight, sound, taste, and smell now, the only sense left is touch. Much here is the same -- desks still feel like desks, concrete pavement still feels like concrete pavement. Perhaps the biggest difference is the bed. I've complained about this before, and I'll complain again, because my poor back just won't acclimate. Chinese beds are stiff as board. They take "firm" to a whole new level. It's like in the memory foam ad, where a scantily clad woman jumps up and down on one side of the bed while a glass of wine fails to spill on the other. Except in this case, the glass doesn't spill because solid rock doesn't transfer motion well. Aw, well, perhaps I'm exaggerating, but compared to the inner springs and three inches of memory foam I was luxuriating in for the two months before my arrival here, it's like sleeping on the floor. Thank goodness I'm young and can take it.

Although the bed aside, I think my desk chair was designed by the Spanish Inquisition. I can't feel my gluteus maximus at the moment, which makes me think this post is a wee bit long. I shall stop here and search out dinner. Tomorrow we go to the Summer Palace, and I'll lots to tell you then.

Little Dogs and Alley Cats

As of today, I have been in Beijing for one month. I have finally found a new way to blog, as my much-loved livejournal is inaccessible from behind the Great Firewall of China. Thus, I have put a lot of time and thought into deciding about what my first blog post should be. Traffic? Pollution? International relations? Food? Amusing stories about the daily trials of living in a country where you barely speak the language? Ah, but no. Today's post is about cats and dogs.
First, dogs. I will admit that the past few weeks were particularly cold, but it still seems that the number of dogs in sweaters was disproportionately high. I even saw one dog wearing what appeared to be a shirt and overalls. I'm sure it was in fact a cleverly designed onesie, along the lines of the one piece shirt-under-sweater concept, but the question remains: was such cleverness really warranted on doggie clothes? Is there canine haute couture? Furthermore, every dog I've seen is tiny. Not even just small, but true little run-while-you-walk, ankle height dogs. Perhaps it is because this is a city, and people do not have the space for larger dogs, but I rather miss seeing big dogs. And this from a girl who was terrified of big dogs for the first decade or so of her life.
Cats, on the other hand, are much safer. Their biggest threat is cat scratch fever, which never seemed particularly intimidating. Oh, I'm sure my sister the vet could give us a litany of terrible diseases one can get from a cat, but most cats seem benign. I've never wished a cat ill, until the past week here.
I live on the sixth floor of a dormitory on a quiet side street in the Xicheng district of Beijing. In front of the dorm is an elementary school; behind the dorm is a college. Between the college and the back of my building is a little alley, and this is where the Alley Cat lives.
The Alley Cat seems to be alone for the most part, and I don't think I've ever heard a more miserable-sounding creature. S/he's mostly quiet during the day, but come evening and the pitiful cries begin. For the first few nights, I wasn't sure if it was a cat or an unhappy baby. On the way back from dinner last week, I caught a glimpse of the Alley Cat climbing across the low roof of the next-door building. Judging from the ragged appearance, I'd guess Alley Cat was a stray, but I suppose s/he could be someone's pet. Alley Cat is a yellow tiger in coloring and rather reminds me of our cat Tiger from way back when. I thought the Alley Cat was undisputed Master of All, until the wee hours of Monday morning. At about 3 am, I was awoken by a sound I know all too well from the confrontations between my cats at home -- Cat War. Hissing, yowling, growling, and generally the sense that a fight is about to go down that makes the Spartans in 300 look like sissies. I put my earplugs in and went back to sleep, only a little worried for Alley Cat. As it turns out, I didn't even need to worry at all -- Alley Cat was slinking about the scraggly bushes the next morning as I walked to class.