(Written 9/1)

IT’S NOT THE FALL THAT WILL KILL YOU
IT’S THE LANDING

At last I found a kindhearted soul to take me shopping for groceries. She was one of the Chinese teachers (teaches the language of Chinese; I’m not that redundant, thank you) and like everyone else here, she insisted upon paying for everything. I hate that. I mean, I appreciate the gesture of warmth and welcoming but for crying out loud, I’ve been here a week tomorrow morning and have yet to spend a single red cent (as it were)… yuan… whatever.

Nevertheless, she was kind enough to show me the grocery store and the fruit peddlers. While I can manage the grocery store, the fruit peddlers are a different matter entirely. I hope the next time I see them that sign language will work. At least I’m starting to be seen around the area and people know me.

Today was the first day of classes for me (September 1, 2006) and I got off to a great start. I was called at 10am with by my headmaster with the question of, “Where have you been? Why did you not go to your classes this morning?” I explained I had no idea I had classes and was informed I needed to get to his office, double time. Keep in mind, I have been hanging around my apartment most hours of the day and night for the past few days, waiting for that phone call. And it finally came, one class into my “she should have had this already” schedule.
I hauled ass across the compound and poured myself into his office. He apologized for not telling me that I had classes and sent me off to see one of the grade school teachers. I was brought quickly to the grade school, given my schedule and told I needed to start teaching in ten minutes. Fortunately, I had neither prepared nor had any idea what the language capacity of my class was going to be. I was under the impression I was going to be teaching a variety of older students but instead, I was teaching 8 year olds. I played games for 45 minutes and sweated my ass off, I was so nervous. I then had lunch, had to hang around for another two hours, wing it for another 45 minutes, break for a half hour and then another 45 minutes.

On the verge of a nervous breakdown, I decided to briefly stop off at my headmaster’s office to drop off the loaner umbrella before I went home to cry myself to sleep. Frankly, the only thing that blows more than the first day of school is messing up in every way possible the first day of school. Upon dropping the umbrella off, I was informed I had another 45 minute class to teach to middle school students immediately. I have never felt so unprepared in my life. This will probably come as a surprise but I am a control freak and often criticized as a “perfectionist.” I live by the notion that if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it rightly, honorably and intelligently or I’m not going to do it at all. And my first impression here is not only that I do not bother to show up to the classes I am to teach but that I don’t even prepare for them.

I wanted to curl up and die. Or drink myself into a stupor. Whichever would let me cry first.

It was the culmination of a very trying week and all I wanted to do was cry myself to sleep. I’ve been in my apartment with no internet access and family who has no idea how to reach me here in China. Nothing heightens culture shock worse than being completely severed from home and without a single person like me around.
However, my beloved colleague (of dim-sum fondue fame) hooked me up with internet access, dinner at one of my student’s parents’ home and I was showered with a fan fare of noodle-love to the point of bursting. It was one less meal I had to have at the cafeteria, so my affection for this man runs very deep.

And here I am. Alone at last in my apartment, trying to pull my shit together. I just want to go home. I hate it here. I want to go home, marry a man who will love me forever, have kids and be a housewife. I learned very young that there is no knight on a white horse prepared to save me but I really want him here, now. I never want to do anything remotely adventurous again. I’ve learned my lesson. I want to go to PTA meetings. I want to live in a shelter of money and a haze of comfort and never have to struggle again. I don’t want to deal with other people’s screaming kids. I don’t want to have to be the foreign toy that has “Nice to meet you” screamed at her repeatedly from across the street as she turns to wave and be friendly by saying, “Nice to meet you! Hello.” I cannot go anywhere without being the local attraction. I am the only Westerner around for several miles. Yes, Westerners come to this city but nowhere near where I am.

I miss my mom. I miss my puppy Emma. Everyone here has a Pekinese and all I want is my little cuddle bug of a Shi Tzu. I miss my mom’s puppy Billy. I miss my friends. I miss my life. I miss my anonymity. I miss my brothers. I miss my language.

I just want to go home. I want to go home.

I have made a mistake. I want to go home.

(Written 8/31)
DE-JUICED

My kingdom for some juice. And some fruit. They have some gorgeous looking globe grapes here. The pears are fantastic and the apples are divine. And some of that juice they make out of boysenberries. Fuck. That was good. I want juice and fruit. And fresh baked starch (bread or whatever). Someone gave me some of this really good flat bread with anise seeds baked into it. It’s like really thick, slightly more flour-y, drier, denser and harder pita. (They really like their anise seed here, by the way. Someone gave me a “wedding candy” called “Milkcandy” that is supposed to bring me good fortune and marriage. It’s pumpkin seeds coated in a salty anise seed shell mixed with sunflower seeds and peanuts still in their shells as well as various fruit flavored candies and, my particular favorite [in concept; the flavor is too precise to be very good] “corn candy” that is shaped like a one inch long husk of corn complete with kernel markings.) And yogurt. A fellow teacher gave me this really great yogurt drink with freshly pureed strawberries that comes in a pouch. I would kill for some of that. I really, really, really want to go grocery shopping and I think if I can’t find someone to take me tomorrow, I’m going it alone. I think I scoped out a few markets today and I’m going tomorrow if I can’t get anyone to take me.

I’ve been warned not to go shopping alone so I don’t get ripped off (apparently, they’ll think I’m, and I quote, “foreign” and thus give me jacked-up prices; I argued that I am “foreign” but my hosts seem to think I am something other than that) and I’ve been trying to be good but I’m from the States and, frankly, I need what I need when I need it. I don’t want to have to use an (extremely lovely) escort. Fuck “the States” I’m from New York Fucking City. We get what we want when we want it, even if it’s crack, a tire iron, milk and panty hose all from the same corner bodega at 2 am.

Oh no. I just had an evil thought. Iced Chai. Fuck. I want a venti iced chai from Starbucks. Actually, I want forty of them. Or a venti mocha frap. With malt. Say what you want about Starbucks, they’re consistent, reliable and they make some mean adult drinks. I’m actually choked up at the moment thinking about my pilgrimage to the original Starbucks in Pike’s Market when I was going to school in Oregon. I wanted to see two things in Seattle: the Sound Garden from which Soundgarden got its name and the original Starbucks. (That’s right, I’m a grunge girl at heart; more Pearl Jam than Nirvana. Got a problem with that?) Starbucks, I love you. I miss you. Starbucks, will you marry me? It’s no wonder you were named after a siren.

Homeric rapture aside, I’m really intimidated to walk alone into a store here. I just kinda have to pray that the things I’m purchasing are what I want. Alone, I’m completely reliant upon pictures and the occasional shoddy English phrase (ie one of the stores in my complex is named “Show Facing.” What the hell does that mean and exactly how am I not fucked if that’s the level I’ve got to go on?). The thought of having to negotiate that while managing someone speaking Chinese to me is enough to have deterred me thus far. I can handle one or the other, not both at the same time. In New York, people leave you the fuck alone and you can blow people off if they don’t, but I can’t do that here, especially when I’m as visible as I am. I’ve put so much effort in towards making a good name for myself and the school by saying hello to everyone who stares at me, that it would suck to blow it now by being bitchy.

But fuck, I feel bitchy.

And fuck, I need some apple juice. Cold, clear apple juice. Mmm, I think I could drink three cartons of that right now. My fridge is bare and I’m having hallucinations of juice. I want it so bad I could weep. And as you may have guessed by now, I’m not really a weeper. Is it bad when your longing for apple juice makes you relate to the angst of the Smiths? “I am human and I need to drink juice… just like everybody else does. I am the son and the heir of a dearth of juice that is criminally vulgar. I am son and heir of no juice in particular... There’s a club if you want to go. They could serve juice that really loves you… See I’ve already waited too long and all my hope is gone.”

I’ve been eating a meal or two at the cafeteria for the past few days and dude, the food is good (especially by cafeteria standards) but it’s salty and savory and there are no drinks offered short of a tepid water based soup with chopped tomatoes and tofu in it. And, for the record, I’m never drinking Coke again. Everyone here thinks Americans drink Coke like water and I’m tired of being offered a drink I had little interest in in the first place. I find it a generous gesture that people try to make me feel at home but the marketing people at Coke should have a plague, on both their houses. They’ve brainwashed the rest of the world into thinking Americans imbibe little other than fizzy candy. Down with Coke! Coke embargo!

All this crapness has converged, resulting in me doing little but drinking water and making tea from my water cooler. And I’m running out of water too, but I’ve got at least another day or two of water.

Can’t wait until I’ve got to find tampons. That should be a hoot.

(Written 8/30)
MOMENTS THAT TRANCEND WITTY TITLES

Last night, (8/29/06) I was treated to one of the most amazing dinners of my life. I was taken to dinner by one of my colleagues, three of his friends and four of their children. It was the first time I made it off the area peripheral to the compound since arriving and, as we traveled by sunroof-ed Peugeot, I was greeted with the sites of traditional Xi’An. Yet again, it is more of Xi’An as the people traditionally experience it, not as the tourist see on their tours. The wide thoroughfares of Xi’An’s larger and more modern highways (think three to four lane California Highway with soaring on/off ramps spotted with flanking half-completed high rises) gave way to the narrower streets (side streets with two lanes and main avenues with four lanes of traffic in the center, flanked by an island for pedestrians, then more local road and then finally the sidewalk) with primarily four and five story buildings and the occasional spotting of a twenty to thirty story hotel.

The “children of” attending were primarily all about middle/high school age and I rode with three of them in the car. One was the wonderfully precocious, bright and charming 8 year old daughter of my colleague, one was a shy, beautiful and very doting young woman about 14 or 15 and the third was a handsome, shy, tall (about six feet) young man about 15 or 16. We parked the car and as they all piled out of the back (I am always given the front seat in cars, complete with door opening and closing service; I kind of feel like I’m on a chronic date) I got my first authentic experience of Xi’An. Frankly, it rocked. People were bustling everywhere, again, the whole world was staring but I’m getting used to that (not to mention, giving up the blonde for dark hair has helped me be pegged less often; my skin color is within the range of the Chinese and there are Chinese people who are this tall, it is not until people see my face that they realize what they are looking at) and as we were strolling to the restaurant, the shy young man came up to me and began a conversation with, “You’re very tall.” He could not have been sweeter. Had it been America, where nothing is thought of touching between the sexes, I would have put my hand on his arm as we talked and hugged him at the end of the evening.

When we reached the restaurant, there were four women traditionally dressed in long, red Chinese gowns waiting at the top of half a flight of black marble stairs. They greeted us warmly and upon seeing me went into overdrive. The shy young man escorting me with his lovely conversation immediately stopped to allow me to go first through the sliding glass doors. (I truly appreciate the manners of allowing me to go first with everything but I’m just more comfortable taking the lead once I’ve been given an example of what’s going down. I definitely have a tendency to, when given a “right” and a “wrong” way to do things, stumble into the “wrong” answer. Most people label me a “free thinker” because of that but I know that I’m little more than a “jackass.”) As we ascended another flight and a half of black marble stairs, our party was met with a flurry of attention. The restaurant was very large (perhaps seating thirty to forty table of twos and fours) on the half that we entered and there was another half that we did not see, as the entrance was in the middle of the resturant and we went left. The access aisle ran along the right side of the seating area (the opposite side of the seating area was a window-wall overlooking the street) and on the right side of the access aisle was a series of doors.

We were ushered through the door (me first, again) to a round table to seat ten comfortably. In the far corner of the room was a tall, freestanding air-conditioner that was promptly turned on, and rather high considering this area is very comfortable with 110% humidity and a steady 75-80 degrees Fahrenheit. The table was covered in a canary yellow tablecloth and a massive glass lazy Susan. I figured, “This is Xi’An, [land where they invented dumplings and noodles] there’s a lazy Susan, we’re all about the dim sum tonight!” Each seat had the customary teacup, glass, small plate and chopsticks except there was also a mini fondue looking- set up, minus the fondue pot. Now, I’ve had a lot of food from a lot of different places before in my life but I’ve NEVER even heard of dim sum fondue. But, I decided to take the leap of faith that the people who live here and have been eating several times a day for most of their lives might know just a bit more about their own customs than I do, so I kept my mouth shut and waited for all to reveal itself in good time (which it usually does).

I was not disappointed. We were greeted with a wonderful plate of a fresh selection of melons (watermelon, honeydew and cantaloupe) and cherry tomatoes. I tried some of all the melons as we waited for the other three to arrive. By the way, a tip I have quickly learned with the generosity of the Chinese; try a little of everything. There are so many courses and so much provided that to fill up on any one thing is stupid. The sheer breadth of offering is filling enough.

The mother of the shy boy and her girl friend showed up first, followed quickly by the friend’s daughter. All the children were instructed to sit near me and work on their English. The shy young man, who had curled away from me in embarrassment was good-naturedly scolded by his father for not taking the opportunity to speak with me and then was instructed that, for the night, he would be doing his father’s translations.

My colleague then asked me what kind of spice level I like. I was given the option of hot, a little hot and no hot as I was shown pictures of pots with red liquid and one with pot with what looked like milky water. I figure, I can handle large chunks of wasabi and hardcore Indian spices, so it’s easy to believe I’d be comfortable with the slightly hot. (I’ve come to realize that when spice is an option in food, it is only the children and tourists who take no spice and the most authentic, adult experience involves at least a little spice. Consequently, I always sign up for a little spice when going in blindly.) Fortunately, I was right on this one, despite the fact that I had no idea what food I was signing up for to go with that spice.
A waitress, dressed in a powder blue mandarin-collard shirt with black frogs and a black skirt lit my fondue-looking frame and then placed a small pot atop it. We were handed small bowls with a heaping spoonful of dark reddish brown paste, a dark brown liquid and chopped chives. I was told to mix it all together, which I did, and the resulting solid-y liquid (or liquid-y solid) had nutty undertones almost like a satay far but more savory.

And the feasting began.

Waitress after waitress clad in the powder blue ushered in tray after tray of thinly-sliced, bright-red meats, various green leafy veggies (the only one I recognized was spinach), tubular veggies and a variety of noodles, from broad, whole wheat noodles to thin, translucent vermicelli. Off came the pot tops, our boiling broths revealed and thus began the dunking. As wild as the cache of having had fondue dim sum would have been, this Chinese sashimi was far better tasting.

At some point, though I could not tell you when, the manager came in and gave us his card. I remember the importance of fully reading the business card you are handed and not just nodding and shoving it in your pocket. Though I recognize a little under 100 characters and no compound characters, I studied the card to show that I was indeed interested in the man’s position.

Over dinner, they spoke lots of Chinese and occasionally translated some for me. My colleague and I spoke about how good his English is and he says he listens to BBC radio and Radio Free American to help him. He explained many of the customs and that Northerners and Southerners have a hard time understanding each other’s accents. I explained it is very much the same in the US. He asked how I was getting on with chopsticks and I said I have been using chopsticks since I was a small child so I am just as bad with chopsticks as I am with a fork. We talked about the American diet verses the Chinese diet. He was curious to understand the obesity issue in the States. (Though, to be clear, he never outright stated that. He simply said something about the fact that he thought there might be too much fat in the American diet.) I explained how Americans view food, not as a communal, pleasurable experience but as medicine and a fix. I explained how most of our food is overly processed and filled with too many chemicals. I explained that in the US, we have too much of a love/hate relationship with food. He explained that in China, food is just food, they like a lot of fruit and a good meal. We spoke of traveling and the cost of living in New York City. The shy boy would like to be a businessman in NYC and I must remember to pass along some more tips to my colleague.

Later in the meal, we paused for my colleague to explain to the children that it is very important that they study and not become lazy in their work. As he was explaining the importance of hard work, more food came in; shrimps and a small wooden boat with raw meat to be dipped in a wasabi based pink sauce. It was damned good but it blew the lid of my sinuses. The air-conditioning got kicked up to high and you could finally see the steam rising off all of our pots.

My colleague read the characters on the flag on the boat and explained that it was a praising of good wind. I commented that with the ac going full blast, we had good wind. He translated my joke (as he had been doing throughout the evening) and everyone laughed (as they had been doing throughout the evening). I must say, I have never met a people more ready to laugh than the Chinese. There is no pretense or arrogance and their sense of silly is truly heartening.

The raw, whole shrimps that had been dunked into our pots were ready quickly and everyone helped me get mine out as they felt it most important that mine, over everyone else’s, not overcook. Frankly, I’ve never had better shrimp.

And then there was dessert, as if the feast had not been enough. There was a platter of warm, small, flat cookie-sized very soft fritter like things with a faint coconut taste, covered in sesame seeds and filled with a fine nut and berry paste. Though the inside had the consistency of starchy fudge, it had the finest skin that gave the hint of having been fried. To die for, it was so good. And then there were small nuggets of bread. Actually, it was more like dumpling batter baked like bread to be dipped in local very thick honey cut with milk. The sauce maintained the consistency of honey but it had the flavor and coloration of a hint of milk.
Once the feasting was over, two of the people at the party almost came to fisticuffs over who would pay for dinner. It was rather funny to watch this friend of the wife beat up the boisterous father of the shy boy to pay the check. It was like something my friends and I would do back home.

The woman finally won the battle and the bill was paid. We then hung around and chatted. My colleague‘s wonderful daughter draped herself all over her father while he spoke and he absentmindedly stroked her hand or complied to her pushing. I was reminded of my mother telling me that the Chinese carry their children at their chest in lieu of slinging them onto the distant back, indicating what a warm home they are being raised in. Here, children are truly valued as children and not some obligation or guilt trip.

I feel like China and I keep having very good dates. Perhaps soon we’ll be going steady.

(Written 8/31)

SHOW ME HOW YOU DO THAT TRICK
AND I PROMISE THAT I’LL RUN AWAY WITH YOU

So, between the jetlag and the culture shock, my head is drifting through some pretty weird spaces. Granted, that’s entirely to be expected and I’m going with it, as that’s all I can do. I find that resisting the space I’m in only adds to the exhaustion. Resistance or not however, I’ve been having fevered dreams because I have fevered sleep when my body is not in sync with the general time zone. I’ve been having surreal dreams that, in actuality, are “realistic” dreams. My dreams are normally a full-on head-trip akin to a Terry Gilliam film where no one looks like the real-life person they’re playing and actions are anything but literal. They are what one would imagine Bjork’s dreams to be like, though I would wager to guess that her dreams are actually about PTA meetings, flossing and business meetings.

The strangest waking-dream that keeps plaguing me is not really “plaguing” me. It’s more like comforting me. I keep dreaming that I’m asleep in bed with a former paramour who is my husband. My former paramour, who is worlds away and in love with someone else, keeps appearing next to me. I remember everything about him; the way he smelled the way he held me and the way he grew as still as death as he began to wake. I loved that stillness more than life itself. It means a sigh is coming. He would sigh deeply to pull himself into full consciousness, pause for a moment and then hug me or smile at me, depending on whether or not we were facing each other. It was the least complicated moment I have ever known recreated by my subconscious in an attempt to level things out.

It’s so real that I wake looking for him. My body remembers exactly what he felt like around me, smelled like near me and even exactly how warm he felt and my mind reproduces him against me to alarming precision. And, it’s not so much that we’re “married” but that we are permanent. It is the sensation of being unflappably his.

There is no one I want here more than my former paramour. I want to give up my home office so he can do his work from this desk I’m writing on now. I’ve never been one for desks anyway and this mahogany one is perfect for him. We’ll install an airport and I’ll work on the window bench in the living room. I’ll drag him shopping for home furnishings and plants and we’ll give this barren apartment life. He’ll explore while I’m at work and return home with lots of interesting finds and places we simply must go. As a man, he can wander about foreign countries with fewer threats than I. Between his gender and his temperament, his exploration of new countries is far more joyful than mine and while I love new places, my temperamental, bratty self needs someone to buoy me from time to time. We’ll sort out how to go grocery shopping together instead of me having to ask a colleague to go with me. I make these grand plans and then become overwhelmed by the minutia of living in the grand plan. He does not. I throw caution to the wind and then become paralyzed by the reality of my reckless abandon but he knows exactly all the reasonable things to do once we’re there. I think we can be summed up in the notion that I know how to instigate and he knows how to follow through.

I need a partner in crime. I want his steady, reasonable self around to calm me when I’m freaking out, laugh at me when I’m being silly and his broad shoulders to cut a silhouette in the darkness of the hallway between the office/bedroom area and the living room. There’s just something about the way he looks padding down a hallway, engrossed in the papers in his hand and then his moment of transitioning from deep, reasonable thought to recognition that soothes every frayed nerve I’ve got.

And, I write about the image of my paramour in my hallway and struggle with the dearth of it in my real life as my iPod’s random play puts on U2’s A Man and A Woman. Bono is quietly stating, “But you’re gone and so is god.”

But I’m in China, where you can expect the unexpected in all the best ways and the street outside my apartment has exploded with beautiful fireworks, drowning out my melancholy.

(Written 8/29/06)
BEING ANGELINA JOLIE

So, I’m finally settled in to Xi’An and lord has culture shock hit me hard. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s culture shock or jet lag, but, either way, it’s hit hard. And it’s none of the hard that I like. The little voice inside my head that usually speaks up to doubt things has been doing nothing but weeping since I first got left alone in my apartment the first night. I joked with my friends before leaving that the first thing I was going to do when I was finally alone in my apartment was look up at the sky and think, “Dear god, what have I done” and then realize that it would take everyone I love at least another 12 hours to be under the same sky that I just cried out to. Well I’m here and it’s all hitting me at once, even physically.

Usually when I move to a new country, my body allows me a two week vacation/grace period in which I do not have the gastrointestinal overhaul, however, I have been here two days and already it has started. The air quality is very poor; you literally cannot see the sky for all the pollution. The world is plunged into a mystical white haze and on particularly bad days, your throat burns for all the pollution. You see, they burn coal here for power. Considering that the world looks like Brigadoon, it’s no wonder the Victorians were such tortured romantics. Between needing to boil the water and the burning air, I realize exactly why it is that tea remains so popular here. The air has the faint scent of sulfur and the tap water reeks of it. The only consumable water is bottled. There is really no such thing as washers and dryers, so one washes their clothing in a bowl at home. I kid you not, in my swankiest of swanky apartments, there is a washboard. Sadly, it is not the one attached to the stomach of Takeshi Kaneshiro as I think finding that in my bathroom would certainly cheer me up. Speaking of bathrooms, there is no difference between the shower and the toilet area with only a brief shower curtain to separate the two, so the floor is sloped marble with drains on the far side from the door. Oh, and toilet paper or tissue of any kind is difficult to come by, so one must always have a supply handy, even when going out.

On the upside, the people I’m working for could not be nicer, the food could not be better and my fear of a roach infested apartment is completely unfounded as I have found a total of two crickets in my bathroom because the trap was left off the shower drain. The people are incredibly warm and gracious. They have spared no expense to celebrate my arrival and have put me up in a very large, very expensive apartment. My home office is the size of the other teachers’ apartments (and then theirs are shared between three people or a parent and child if the parent comes with a child) and I have a massive kitchen, two bathrooms, a massive bedroom and a gigantic living room, all completely and newly furnished with only top of the line stuff; even my own flat screen tv. I am the first American to ever work at their school and so, I am told, only the best students who test the highest will be allowed to attend my class. Granted, there is a little bit of the “bird in a gilded cage” sensation as I have been told to be home every night by 9pm because I am a young Western woman and they want to make sure nothing bad happens to me but like I said before, when it comes to options of “suck it up” or “give it up” I’m going to do my best to suck it up. How can I complain that in a communist country, the only imposition on my person will be the occasional group tour of my home to observe the Westerner in her natural habitat and that I need to be home by curfew for my own safety?

Xi’An sees a lot of Westerners in the old city but not a lot of them out here in the more residential area. I am living and working in a very expensive, very new international style community compound missing only a Starbucks. Many of the people here are from the surrounding countries, most especially Korea but I believe I am the only Westerner running about. I have a fifth floor apartment with a grand balcony overlooking much of Xi’An (or at least what is visible through the mist) and the new compound. The space the compound takes up is about the same as four midtown Manhattan blocks. I believe I am on the Southeast corner of the compound, which means my school is on the Southwest corner but without the sun perpetually behind smog cover, I am without real bearing. 24 hour security and lush gardens are everywhere. Just below my bedroom window, I have a view of one of the many playgrounds. In the mornings, children climb on the jungle gym as their parents and grandparents do their morning calisthenics. It is a wonderful communal feel and, short of me not speaking the language, just like a very nice enclave back home.
It’s strange though, that everywhere I go, I am declared to be a great beauty. Now, like I said before, I’m nothing to shake a stick at, but I’m certainly no great beauty. I am the child that would result if Velma from Scooby Doo and Zena, warrior princess hooked up. Nevertheless, the men pointedly look at the women who are my escorts and briefly glance at me. A moment later, they do a double take and stare at me, often stopping what they are doing to, hypnotized, watch me walk by. One teenager ran in front of me today to walk backwards so he could study my face as I walked and another almost got hit by a car as he stopped dead in the middle of the street to stare, jaw to the floor at me. I have made it a point to politely say “hello” in Chinese to break the ice. Unlike Western men, the machismo of Eastern men is brought down several notches with contact. The less I am a priceless, inaccessible gem kept under wraps, the more shy the men become. On more than one occasion, the men I will be working with have raised a toast to my great beauty and whenever I meet male teachers for the first time, the first words out of their mouth are “Great Beauty.” Somehow, with a single day’s worth of flight, I have been transformed into a woman of such exotic beauty that even the most beautiful men are too giddy and shy to look me in the eye for extensive conversations.

I never realized exactly how profound it is to have to import your “exoticism.” I come from a country where “exotic” is the norm and so the thought that “exotic” would be profoundly appreciated and respected seems strange to me. In America, the attitude seems to be “Oh Christ, here we go again” when someone with a new culture comes along. Nonetheless, I am greeted with the same awe inspired stares that my more tabloid-worthy friends have received. It’s the look of, “I know exactly which pantheon you are from but I never thought I’d encounter you in my real life.” Many men have come chasing after me just to say “Hello,” as if my validation that their ability to greet in English makes their day. When I smile and say “Hello” back, they say “Hi,” wave and trip over themselves walking away.

It is truly a strange predicament as I am accustom to the American definition of “great beauty” as being gym hardened abs on a petite frame and a tan so dark you must both tan and fake tan to achieve it. I posses none of these traits because, frankly, to meet the American standards of beauty would, for me, end up being a full-time job. I mourned the loss of never being Cindy Crawford and moved on with my life. I have reached a place where I see both the assets and the drawbacks of being beautiful and made my peace with my place in the middle of that bell curve.
Now the safety blanket of neutrality I had grown accustom to is gone. In America, any man professing my great beauty had already been drawn in by my personality and was enraptured by my mind or was trying to butter me up for something, usually the phone number of one of my hot girl friends or one of the fabulous perks of one of my pretty cool jobs. I understand that in America, I am not stop-dead-in-the-middle-of-the-street-and-almost-get-hit-by-the-oncoming-car beautiful but I am here. In America, I’m not even buy-the-woman-at-the-end-of-the-bar-a-drink hot. Having suffered from eating disorders as a teen, I find this return to the active presence of my aesthetic more than a little unnerving. Not being lithe was sin I could not come to terms with and certainly nothing I could forgive myself for and so, as an adult, I simply walked away from it. I couldn’t get over it, I couldn’t get past it and I couldn’t get through it. So I just walked away. It was one of those things that would ultimately consume me if I let it, so I just had to leave it be. Now I have the victory I so desperately sought as a teen and, like my victory over my other fixations, I am neither happy nor sad about it. I am merely melancholy at the stupidity of my youth.

This unexpected challenge is an ongoing one. It will not cease until I leave the area, which won’t happen for a while, and so I was quite scared for my mental health until one of the men offhandedly explained my great beauty. Apparently, Western eyes are considered a thing of great beauty and that is where this talk comes from. And, as eyes go, my Irish eyes are a fairly aesthetically pleasing set, even by Western standards, so that I guess I get that. Even my friends who have agreed to my face that I am entirely too big have always consented that my eyes are really pretty. One friend who shared my disappointment with my body once told a makeup artist who was fixing me up and waxing poetic about my eyes that, “It really is all about the eyes with her.”

(Written 8/27/06)

SO MUCH, SO HAPPY

I was picked up at the airport by three folks; my boss, a fellow teacher and a helpful man with a car whose name I did not catch. My boss is a very intelligent man whose passions include sailing in the Mediterranean and speaking as many languages as possible (as one needs to import “foreign” here, and considering the pretty penny they’ve spent on me, they can only afford an English teacher at the moment). My fellow teacher is a beautiful sprite of a woman who is so outgoing and warm that she claimed she couldn’t sleep the night before she came to get me because she was so excited to meet me. She could be the mayor of Jinyuan town for all the people she knows and she’s a fellow English teacher. Frankly, I love her silliness and look forward to working with such purely warm people.

They brought me back to my massive apartment where I met (the gorgeous) tech support guy, I took a brief shower (where I became familiar with the sulfur-scented water) while everyone waited in my living room and then we went out to dinner.

My boss made claims his English is minimal, however he seemed to be keeping up pretty well and I made no small secret of the fact that no matter how bad his English, it is far better than my Chinese. In fact, I explained that he could understand me when I spoke slowly but I could only understand him if I drank a lot of beer. He caught that and we all had a good laugh.

So much food was brought out that I thought I would pop. I sampled some of everything. My boss kept insisting that I eat more until finally all I could say was, “There’s so much! Everything is so much!”

Apparently this was the right thing to say as a great, proud grin spread across his face and his announced, “That makes me so happy!”

And this has become our code language. My fellow teacher, my boss and I all now have our own call and answer. When I am truly happy with something, I say “So much!” and they respond, “So happy!”

Dawn's Rosey Fingers

24 hours on a plane from New York to Xi'An, provided nothing was delayed and I didn't miss any of my less-than-2-hours connections. Yo. I knew I was in over my head as my flight from JFK to LAX could best be described as my "warm up." In Los Angeles, I had an hour and forty minutes from touchdown of my domestic flight to taxiing of my international flight to Beijing. Fortunately, we were a little over an hour late leaving JFK because "It [was] rush hour" and I had to change from terminal 7 to terminal 2 in Los Angeles. (For those of you not familiar with LAX, it's and airport of 7 terminals laid out in the form a rectangle lying long. The entrance is on the right, short side and terminal 7 is the last terminal on the bottom right corner of the rectangle. Terminal 2 is at the top left corner. I have consistently been assured it is faster to wait for the shuttle bus that runs every twenty minutes than it is to try and hoof it.)

So, as I'm sitting there in the tin can not doing anything because "it's rush hour" and therefore no one is rushing to get anywhere, it dawns on me, "Why is rush hour such a surprise?" I can understand if this is your first time flying you and you have never heard of rush hour that it might be a little confusing to be caught up in the mad dash of not moving. However, we are talking about United Airlines. I would think that if anyone does not have the excuse of "oops, I over scheduled because I am naive to the ways of airline rush hour" United Airlines is it.

Nonetheless, we eventually took off and, through the magic of air-travel-math, made it to Los Angeles only forty minutes late. Which left me swearing up a blue streak on the phone with my mother, the Jude, about having to hurry up and wait at 1 am West Coast time (4 am East Coast time aka, where my head and body are) for a shuttle bus that isn't showing and my plane that's about to leave. As I'm yelling at my poor mother about needing someone to hold accountable for the vast suckitude of my current predicament, the shuttle-that-would-not-come, showed.

Lugging my carryon bags and sporting my polar fleece because apparently air conditioning is not ever to be had in reasonable quantities, I start sweating like there was soon to be an embargo on sweating. Of course my gate would be the last one at the end of the terminal that is up two flights of stairs but, well, there is nothing to be done about that. When you're options are "suck it up and do it" or "give it up and go home," I tend to go with "suck it up." After all, you don't get any funny stories to whine and bitch about if you don't ever suck it up.

At last, I make it to my gate in the middle of boarding and discover that I needed to re-check in because of visa issues. Apparently, the airline needs to make double sure that you and your visa are getting on the plane that will be landing on the Mainland. Granted, it's only fair considering one needs a visa simply to land on Mainland soil and domestic flights have no need to check your visa. It sucked but as there was nothing to be done short of re-check in so I re-checked in and returned to the back of the line because I'm not going to be the girl who throws a hissy fit about losing my space in line through no fault of my own before I get on a plane with hundreds of witnesses for thirteen hours. Besides, the seats are assigned, they're not going to leave without me and there's always somewhere to put your bags, even if the flight attendants get stuck winging it.

And, I know I didn't mention this earlier but, for whatever reason, the dude who checked me in and assigned me seats was under the impression that I wanted window seats all the way through. At six foot one and a half, aisle seats are the only option I have at getting any leg room but alas, anyone under the five ten mark doesn't fully grasp how utterly painful it is to be pressed hard enough against the seat in front of them to lose circulation in their legs for hours at a stretch. Consequently, my ass was stuck at the extremities of the airplanes and smooshed against the wall. From JFK to LAX was not a big deal as, originally, the dude in the center seat was a Hassid and, as I am an "unclean" female, he forfeit his seat next to me for fear of the cooties, leaving the very cool guy on the aisle and myself extra room. Actually, the Hassid told the flight attendant to ask me if I would accept a window seat further back so that he may be surrounded by sausage. Considering the bravery he showed at not even looking me in the eye when someone else asked for him, I said "No." So, thanks to his sexism and coincidentally keen insight, I had plenty of legroom to spare. From LAX to Beijing, it was less-than-pleasant as, short of being planted on the tail wing, I was in the furthest seat from the entrance possible and the woman in the seat next to me was not concerned by my "unclean" status. The two hour flight from Beijing to Xi'An was the least comfortable as the seating situation was like that of the 70's and early 80's before the U.S. air carriers pulled some rows of seating to give each row a little more room. I literally did not put my butt down for two hours so I could cantilever my legs beneath the seat in front of me.

Legroom bitching aside, the flights were all extremely pleasant. Though there were babies on the planes, there were no screaming babies. Though there were children on the plane, all of them were well behaved and very quiet. The service was excellent even though I was flying in economy the whole way. I truly cannot complain about the things that could have been fixed during my flights.

As I simply hate plane travel, I dealt with it the same way I deal with all things I loathe but cannot change; I mentally checked out. I've learned as an adult, one has surprisingly little control over one's own body but no one ever has ownership of your mind. And as you may, or may not, have noticed, I have a fertile imagination. Once on the flight to Beijing, I went straight to sleep and slept for six hours. I would have slept more but I was hit with the scent of hot Camembert so strong it pulled me from my slumber. Normally, I love cheese but I was trying to sleep so I turned to scold whomever it was for putting hot, stinky cheese in my face like that.

Which is when I saw that everyone else was asleep, no one was offering cheese and the woman next to me had started to mouth breath in her sleep. I wanted to grant her the benefit of the doubt but when she licked her lips and closed her mouth, the Camembert scent vanished.
"Good timing. Just a coincidence." I thought, in denial. Her mouth fell open again and she was, once again, breathing through her mouth and I was, once again, overwhelmed with hot Camembert and the new sensation of my eyebrows on fire. Later, in deference to my fellow man, I offered her some gum upon descent, you know, "For your ears to pop" but she looked at me like I had offered her dog crap. "Therein lies your problem, sweetheart," I thought.
Nevertheless, I was awake, revolted and trapped. With nowhere to run and not even being half way through the trip, I decided to just retreat into the back of my mind. I wondered what was going on outside the plane, so I lifted the shade. I was greeted with one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen: sunrise over Siberia.

I was instantly back in Mrs. Adabbo's English class in freshman year high school. I think we were reading the novelization of the Odyssey and one chapter began with "As dawn's rosy fingers crept along the hills" The profound stillness of land fringed with the utter color explosion of sunrise overcame me. Even now, I tear up at the thought of it. It is raw, savage beauty we, with all our "sophistication" would patronize as the "simple beauty of nature." It is the kind of image that fits nicely in the generic desktop photos that come with computers. We gloss over the overwhelming power of infinite, hostile land immolating out of darkness and quaintly capture it as generic "nature scenes." Ultimately though, all our patronizing won't save us from ourselves.

Siberia had been, by design or coincident, our greatest protection against ourselves. Though a desert of ice and often perceived as vast, cold nothingness, Siberia in fact houses vast marshes covered over by ice. With our myopic view of pollution and global warming, we have warmed the Earth just enough to melt the permafrost, releasing more methane gas than we could possibly counteract. Watching that sunrise, I was reminded that no matter what we do, sunrise over Siberia is as close to eternal as I will ever know. We can melt the permafrost. We can melt the polar icecaps. Frankly, we can utterly destroy the environment that sustains us and the planet will simply, as George Carlin says, "Shake us off like a bad case of the flu." It is not the "planet" that we save with our "Think Green" campaigns. It is our own selves.