data collection, take 2

Data collection again. After dinner, we walked into the village. We’re only 45 minutes from Shanghai, and yet we could be in a different world. Out the hospital window I can see farm fields, and a man cycling by. I am struck by the absence of human sound. Here, the void of noise—the incessant honking, hacking, ringing, and chatter of Shanghai—almost takes on a life of its own. It is 4:30 and the streets are filled with small children, green kerchiefs tied around their necks, and awash with a soft, buttery light. We visit a fruit vendor: a group of three chatty ladies who delight in feeding us raw sugar cane and winter melon. I am such a novelty here, and I get extra fruit for being meiguoren (American).  

my coworker/roomie  munching on some sugar cane

An old man, who thinks I am German because of my yellow hair, invites me to try his erhu, a traditional two-stringed instrument that looks like a combination of violin and banjo. With a simple sweep of his bow, my new friend produces a delicate, almost weeping melody. Of course, when I try, it sounds like a creaky door swinging shut. He’s a recent retiree, it turns out, and he is learning how to play the instrument while a puppy plays at his feet. The store shops are all open air, and their wares spill on to the street: fruit, tools, appliances, clothes. Half of the vendors are taking a siesta, and the other half are chatting to each other. Above the shops, clotheslines wave gently in the breeze, and through some open windows I can see women beginning to prepare the evening meal.

my new pal and his lil' pal

Even here, sugary beverages abound: every third shop is part-convenience store, stocked with an array of packaged drinks from plum juice to sugared coffee to Coke. Processed snacks are everywhere: bags of dried chicken feet, tofu strips, candied fruit and chocolates; instant noodles galore, seaweed-flavored pringles, what appear to be hot dogs glistening under a heat lamp.

sugary bevs galore

I have trouble understanding why people would want to eat the processed, packaged stuff when there is an abundance of fresh, hot snacks and meals prepared on the streets: steamed buns, meat skewers, grilled sweet potatoes, and fruit galore. Fresh food seems so much more accessible than in the US, where “fast” usually means a trip through a drive through, vending machine, or heating up a frozen meal. Maybe it’s because everything is new and therefore novel to me, but China’s food culture goes to show that food that is fast doesn’t need to be “fast food.” I would hate to see that disappear in favor of green-tea flavored Oreos and KFC.

In any case, we stroll back to the hospital, carrying between us a basket of strawberries, and sharing hot xiaobing (a slightly sweet flat bread made on the street). I tear off a steaming piece with my hands and savor it, grateful at least for now that, some snacks are package-free.

gratuitous dog shot

and we're off!

Today, data collection began. We were rushed into a van at 12:30, after our standard cafeteria lunch: a Styrofoam takeout container of oily veggies, steamed rice, egg soup, and fried seafood or meat chunks. We drove out of Shanghai, past the high rises, past the half-completed roller coaster, past the Ikea, and past a pickup trucking carrying a half-dozen snoozing construction workers and into a countryside blooming yellow with canola.

We’re recruiting the participants at a local community health clinic, and again I am in awe of the dichotomy of this country. Here, drinking tap water is out of the question, as it is polluted (or contaminated with the remnants of thousands of dead pigs, as the case may be). Internet access is unreliable at best.  Yet, everyone—even in the countryside—has a smartphone souped up with all the apps imaginable. There are LCD TVs adorning most rooms of this small community clinic, broadcasting cartoons, the news, and ads every waking minute. [Incidentally, today they kept showing images of North Korea and a giant nuclear warhead. Pretty frightening imagery to see, especially when I can’t understand the accompanying audio).

Collecting data is controlled chaos. The participants start arriving, and there are children and interviewers and participants all talking and yelling over top one another. It’s odd yet exciting, after having planned and poured over every last detail for months, to relinquish this study to the interviewers and participants, most of whom I can’t even speak to. To let go, both literally and metaphorically.  

food models for the interviewer training...
my favorite are the unfortunate-loooking dumplings on the right

controlled chaos during participant registration.
looks like this guy is giving me the ol' NU   "Go Cats!" wave!

I’m excited to see what we get back. I’m also quite grateful, for numerous reasons. The first is that the CDC staff is both capable and experienced, so I can be confident things are going the way they’re supposed to without knowing each detail.  The second is that this district is where the current outbreak of the avian flu is happening, and for a tense moment we weren’t sure we would have enough interviewers for the study. Luckily, we seem to be all set.  I’m also grateful this study is on beverages not food, as the cessation of poultry products would cause significant bias in a dietary assessment study. In any case, I’m more grateful than ever to be a vegetarian! 

sign in the community hospital: don't touch dead birds!
public health campaigning at its finest...

at least we knew the hospital cafeteria was good to go

 

seeing shanghai

*post from 3/27/2013. had to switch to tumblr due to issues w/old blogspot address…

So far as I can tell, Shanghai is a city of gray. Gray streets, gray  buildings, gray skies. Not even a glimpse of green to be found anywhere. Granted, all I’ve seen so far is about a block, as our flat is across (a busy highway) from the CDC.

Yesterday’s main task of securing the apartment proved to be highly entertaining. We showed up to the place and met three real estate agents, who, with their black leather, constant pecking at smartphones and strident tones seemed like something out of the Chinese version of “The Wire.” Getting the apartment required two hours of negotiations, lots of yelling (from what I could tell), angered phone calls to the landlord and insults. We were told that we were stingy, when we tried to bring the price down, and lazy, when we said the apartment was dirty.

As laowai (outsider) and especially as one who doesn’t speak or understand the language, I am more or less exempt from these wheeling and dealing. Most of the time, I just look on bemusedly as I can’t even tell from their wild gestures and laughter whether they are pissed or making pleasantries.

In some ways, I relish being an outsider. My silence opens up a whole world, often unnoticed during conversations, when I am so concerned with what someone else is saying, or what I might say next. I notice the mottled grey-green of the Platane trees lining the streets, the smell of chou dofu (stinky tofu) from the wizened old street vendor, the dumpling-cheeked child. I revel in the luxury of these details, and wish I could carry this awareness with me when I am back in the land of English.

As for the apartment, we’ve settled in quite nicely. After hiring an ayi (housekeeper) at the going rate of 20RMB/hour ($3.50), the place has been cleaned up, we have fresh sheets on the beds, and enough cooking gear to make soup, stir-fry and coffee. What more could a girl ask for? 

don't worry, be jewish!

is a slogan I saw on a t-shirt at the beach today- my second favorite next to a slight twist on the epic rock tee, "Guns & Moses." Tel Aviv so far has been kind to me: a bleached city full of sun and sand and friends. As always, I am endlessly amused by the tiny details of a foreign land:  babies naked on the beach, strange signs warning "danger of death!" whose Hebrew explanations I cannot understand, and impassioned elderly women arguing loudly on the sidewalk. On the promenade, I take a deep breathe and inhale the at-once familiar and exotic smell of sunscreen, sweat, and the blooms of the purple Sigalon trees. I'm a little in love with the novelty of it all. And tonight promises to be wonderful: meeting up with an old friend from China, hopefully to have some hummus and falafel (although I have been warned not to eat it, given that the American version will be forever ruined).

So, after two years of perpetual anxiety, so begins a month in which my only goal is to stop worrying...and be Jewish. I think am up for the challenge.

a new and splendid life, take 5

And so begins my new and splendid life, parts 4 and 5. Moved down to North Carolina this past week and, in typical haphazard fashion, am now in the airport awaiting my flight to Israel. Although I'm really bummed to leave all my friends in New Haven, honestly, I couldn't be happier about being in North Carolina. The last two years have been too cold for me, in every sense of the word. I need a little light in my life...which I got yesterday in the form of fireflies. Fireflies! I was so happy to see them. Those tiny little bugs always signaled the beginning of summer when I was a kid, but I haven't seen them since leaving Ohio. I couldn't help myself; I just started giggling spontaneously. I guess that's the good part about living alone; no one knows when you're acting like a weird. (Except Victor. Always watching, always judging).

Now, after 12 hours in the Atlanta airport, I'm about to catch a standby flight to Tel Aviv. My wise and ever-resourceful friend Max helped hook me up with a sweet standby gig, but it means that I arrived in Atlanta at 7am this morning. So far I've taken 2 naps, visited McDonald's twice (gotta keep a nutritional epidemiologist in business, y'all), and talked to a couple of army guys who are deploying to Afghanistan today. I feel gross and homeless, but talking to a couple of men my age who are about to leave for a year puts things in perspective awfully quickly. A timely reminder, given it's Memorial Day.

Quick note to anyone stuck in an airport for long periods of time: search out the chairs without armrests. They make nearly perfect beds! In the ATL airport: Gate E12. Glorious. And on that note...

Bon Voyage!

happy easter

It's Easter weekend, and while I'm only sporadically spiritual-and even less religious- I find myself mulling over this simple line:

"If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough."

It strikes me that I spend far too much time thinking about myself. Too much time wallowing in self-pity and doubt.  Far too many hours thinking about how I have failed or worse--how others have failed me. And not nearly enough time being grateful for all the incredible gifts, large and small, that appear in my life daily.

Today is also Earth Day. When I was little, my dad and I used to wade through the river behind our house on Earth Day and collect trash. I thought he was the coolest guy in the world, and I was gung-ho about environmental stuff for years after. Meanwhile, my friend's dad was one of the activists responsible for getting Earth Day started. How cool is that? I'm grateful for people whose passion makes the world a better place. And hoping someday I become one of them.

a new direction

I'm not entirely sure anyone reads this anymore, given that I did a terrible job continuing posting as I traveled around China. In my defense, Internet was very limited and somehow it just didn't seem as exciting to post months later about the funky tofu I got from that street vendor or the ancient Tibetan cowboy who tried first to grope me and then feed me yogurt....

In any case, this blog is taking yet another new direction as I finish up my master's and make the transition to a doctoral program, wherever it is that I end up. One of the things I spent a great deal thinking about in China is the concept of amor fati, which is a Nietzchen concept meaning "love of fate." The essential idea is to find the beauty and truth in everything--the good, the bad, the ugly. To find a little joy even in the mundane. I realized: I don't need to travel around the world to find something beautiful meaningful. All I need to do is open my eyes now and then and see what is around me. So often we all run around from activity to activity without pausing to appreciate the the icicles on the awnings, the steaming mug of tea, the new stash of Post-Its in the office cupboard. So from here on out, I'm going to post a little something that makes me happy, if for no other reason than to...well, make me happy. 

To begin, the poem that inspired it all:

Amor Fati

by Katha Pollitt

Everywhere I look I see my fate.
In the subway. In a stone.
On the curb where people wait for the bus in the rain.
In a cloud. In a glass of wine.

When I go for a walk in the park it's a sycamore leaf.
At the office, a dull pencil.
In the window of Woolworth's my fate looks back at me
through the shrewd eyes of a dusty parakeet.

Scrap of newspaper, dime in a handful of change,
down what busy street do you hurry this morning,
an overcoat among overcoats,

with a train to catch, a datebook full of appointments?
If I called you by my name would you turn around
or vanish round the corner,
leaving a faint odor of orange-flower water,
tobacco, twilight, snow? 

I love Katha Pollit: her poetry is so simple, yet elegant and poignant. I wish I could write with such clarity! I love the possibility of this poem: the idea of finding joy in the grayness of a subway stop, of the humanity of people pressed together in the cold on their morning commute, of a solitary glass of wine, of a mysterious stranger passing by. 

laos part three: the quarter-century mark

I want to write about the most perfect day while it is still fresh in my mind. This morning, Ana and I grabbed a quick Lao coffee-to-go and hopped in a van through the rolling countryside to elephant camp. We cut through the fog blanketing the river in a motorized canoe before and suddenly, there they were. A small herd of elephants, just chomping away. After lots of photo-taking, I scrambled up one of them and took her to the river to bathe. Submerged in the water with Hambi, my elephant, with trunks flying and water spraying everywhere, I felt such  unadulterated joy. Neither Ana nor I could stop laughing--we were like two little girls, chortling with delight. It's been a long time since I've been that happy.

The elephants are both mighty and strangely delicate. You can step and climb on them as you would a ladder or a (very large) stool; their hides are thick and each toenail the size of my foot. Their hair is course like wire and their trunks strong and curious. And yet their eyes are so soulful--expressive and fringed with long lashes--and their ears are soft and exquisite. Riding an bathing elephant with your legs enveloped by its ears is like having your entire lower body embraced by the softest, warmest blanket. 

After the bath, we went to elephant camp, where the animals hungrily tossed back literal tons of grass and bamboo before heading out on a trek through the Lao jungle. We took turns riding in the "chair" atop the elephant and on its neck, with our friendly mahout explaining to us how to tell Hamong to hao (stop), bai bai (go), and san de lai (very good elephant!). 

After our sojourn, we took another van ride to a series of waterfalls, which also strangely turned out to be home to a black bear rehabilitation center. After wolfing down a lunch of fried rice and veggies, we spent the remainder of th eafternoon swimming in a pool of crystalline water. There was a waterfall which I climbed halfway down and just sat in for a solid hour, shivering with pure joy. After about an hour of contemplation, I decided to jump off the falls...and by decided, I should say that two small Lao children tricked me into it because I was too frightened to go alone! Finally, as the sun sunk into its pre-twilight glow, we grabbed a hasty snack of fried coconut before heading off to a local Hmong village. Honestly, I wish we hadn't gone--I felt so touristy and awful traipsing through and snapping photos of napping babies, straw huts, and the public television set in the center of the village. It was so different than the Chinese villages we'd stayed where, although waigouren, we were able to converse and contribute in the local community--or at least to the income of the families we lived with, however briefly. 

Otherwise, it was the perfect start to what hopefully will turn out to be a great year. Here's to a quarter-century!

Ana & I & our Mahout

One of many gorgeous waterfalls

These kids look cute but they were tricky!

Black Bear Stare!

Most adorable Hmong baby

Hmong Village

Finishing off the day with some Lao BBQ!

laos part two

The countryside, from the admittedly limited yet spectacular window of the sleeper bus, is considerably poorer than China. Many houses sit on stilts, with roofs of straw, and in the dusty courtyards you can see very young mothers nursing babies or groups of older women, clad in black sarongs, clustered around a pump for bathing. Luang Prabang is very beautiful, but very touristy--in a "my parents would like this place" sort of way, which I haven't experienced much since arriving in China. It's disorienting to see so many waigouren  (foreigners) in one place; to not be yelled at, "hello! hello!" by young and old men, like little parrots, all the time. The Lao people, from what I can tell, are friendly and soft-spoken; none of the strident tones, spitting, or near-shouting which pepper the language in Kunming.

This morning we strolled into a wat, or Buddhist monastery, where a group of young monks and a European couple invited us to sit and practice English with them. We swapped words for trading cards for awhile, learning that several of the monks had come to the monastery at a very young age--fifteen for some. Although sending one child to the monastery is customary for Lao families, I was astonished at the journey these monks--kids, really--had taken. Several were from villages a few hours' bus ride away, which in the Western world is nothing more than a slightly lengthy trip to the local Ikea. But for these young men, life in Luang Prabang is a world away from these tiny mountain villages, from which most of their families will never leave and to where they return but a handful of times. Talking with them, it dawns on me how utterly relative distance is when traveling. I'm reminded of a line from a favorite poem, "The distance is deeper in my heart than miles can show" and just how far away even a blocks can be when something separates you from the people you love. 

Of course, technology can shrink distance...a lesson the monks apparently have learned as well, given they asked me for my name and email so they could "Facebook me." Guess I'd better be a bit more careful about which pictures to post... 

laos part one: a banner year, a splendid day

        Here I am in Luang Prabang, about the celebrate the quarter-century mark with Ana, a Costa Rican girl I’ve only known a few weeks. I think it’s telling, the difference between my 24^th and 25^th birthdays. Last year, I was sitting around a make-shift bonfire at Lake Erie with my two best friends and our long-term boyfriends. We drank wine and played the kind of games you can only play when you’ve known each other for years; when you love each other like family. This year, I’m alone in Southeast Asia, gallivanting around places I’ve never heard of, riding elephants and drinking laolao, the local whiskey, with near strangers.

                I may not be writing with glee at the moment, and quite frankly, knowing my perpetually (and hopelessly) romantic soul, may not until I make the inevitable mistake of falling in love again. But for the first time in a very long time, I am content. Perhaps my newfound sense of calm has a little—or a lot—to do with the fact that I am in Laos, a country of pristine mountains, gentle people, and Theravada Buddhism. This particular brand of Buddhism stresses three principle aspects of existence: dukkha (suffering, unsastifactoriness, disease), annica (impermanence, transience of all things), and annatta (non-substantiality or non-essentiality of reality; the idea that there is no permanent soul). Understanding annica reveals that no experience, no state of mind, no physical object lasts. Both joy and pain dissipate, and it is trying to hold onto these things—experiences, objects, people—that are constantly changing that creates dukkha. Anatta is the understanding that there is no apart of this ever-changing world that we can point to and declare, “This is me” or “This is God,” or “This is the soul.” The point of all of this is simple yet glorious: nibbana, or the extinction of all causes of pain and suffering.

                It seems to me that the majority of my suffering has been a result of my inability to embrace annica. The transient nature of my life has left me lost and reeling in confusion. It dawns on me that although I feel so far from everyone here, even when I am “at home” I am still apart from those whom I love most. The realization hits me like a sack of bricks: I have grown to love New Haven, my life, my friends there—and yet, a year from now I may be across the country, never to see most of these people or places I treasure again. “I’ve lost two cities, lovely ones,” Bishop once wrote—and it’s hard not to sink into a self-pitying cocoon once you start thinking that way, missing people, missing things. Loving and embracing each experience and person in that very moment—appreciating its beauty in the present, and then letting it go; this practice is my goal for my 25^th year. As one Buddhist monk pointed out profoundly, “Patience is a practice. The only way to cultivate it is to remind yourself constantly that the only place your life is occurring is every moment.”

                Even though I feel slightly treacherous for saying so, Luang Prabang is a refreshing change from China. While more expensive, the city’s calm nature, cleanliness, French-style architecture and Western-syle toilets are all a welcome change from the restless, vibrant, filthy Kunming. The people are friendly and sweet: brightly colored tuk tuk drivers line the streets, inquiring, “Where are you going, miss?” (The answer to which, of course, I do not know on so many levels.) Sandwich stands and pancake makers beckon from the sidewalks with their tantalizing smells and smiling faces. Monks, clad in simple orange robes, pace the dusty streets at dawn, moving silently and peacefully along each of the two rivers that ensconce the city. I think I’m going to like it here.

back in action

After wandering through Southeast Asia without internet access (or, in China, access to non-censored internet, including this blog), I'm back in the US. I'm still a bit woozy from the nearly 30 hours of travel; a sense of disorientation that will not wear off anytime soon considering I'm flying out to Seattle tomorrow to visit my newly engaged sis. Strange, to be traveling in the States (toilet paper? air conditioning? no smoking?) and with my parents nonetheless, although I'm looking forward to it. My trip's not all pleasure though--meeting with some professors at U of Washington to discuss PhD options, so I'm actually quite nervous. It's hard to believe that after all that work and anxiety just two years ago, that I'm about to plunge right back in again. That I have no idea where I'll be living or doing this time next year, although I have my dreams. I've caught a bit of a travel bug, that's for sure--both literally and figuratively. Literally, as I'm still sick, after nearly 3 months of chronic GI infections (I never knew there were so many ways to be ill. Forget nutrition as a public health concern in China... I think perhaps they should get soap and sinks outside toilets and consider washing hands before meal preparation before getting to the contents of those meals!) Figuratively as in I've fallen in love with the itinerant lifestyle, and am already daydreaming about my next venture (Argentina next summer, con suerte). In any case, I'm going to backdate all my travel writing and photos on this blog before school starts again, so here goes...

feliz dia del padre

I originally wrote this essay with the intention of submitting it Fremont News Messenger for publication today. Unfortunately, I’m an airhead (blame it on the blonde) and missed the deadline while I was gallivanting around the rice paddies. The good news is, I’m no longer limited to 250 words. Especially now, given the recent passing of my dad’s father, I just want him to know how much I love him and miss him. I’m not sure they know this, but there are a lot of times—even here, so far away—when I just can’t believe how I got so damn lucky to have the parents I do. I don’t know where I’d be without them. So here goes:

Lying under the summer sky, my sister and I shrieked with laughter, shattering the silence of the bay. “No way, Dad!” We’d yelp as we secretly clung to each other under our sleeping bags.

From the boat’s cuddy our father grinned, satisfied with his ghastly tale about the Headless Horseman haunting the Portage River drawbridge. His stories always included a rich history of the area: battles on the lake, noble Native Americans, valiant settlers. We didn’t realize it then, but our dad has always shared life’s lessons in a magical way.

As children, he taught us through his love for Lake Erie, as he revealed the beauty of the waves, the triumph of a fat perch on the line, and the importance of respecting nature and people alike. When we got older, his lessons moved to our driveway basketball court, where the sky darkened and dinner cooled as I practiced endless free throws. He taught me patience, persistence, and unconditional love as he waited out my poor shooting skills and surly teenage attitude. In college, he’d write letters. Homesick or heartbroken, I’d find a note in my mailbox, reminding me that, “this too shall pass.” Now, as I navigate the nebulous world of adulthood, he reminds me of one simple rule by which to live: help people. Be kind. Focus on family.

Today, half a world away on Father’s day, I smile and remember those summer days long-ago, knowing how just lucky I am to have such a wonderful father—and friend.

the hills are alive....

After finishing data collection last week, a bunch of us decided to get out of the city for a few days and head
to Jian Shui, a small city in southern Yunnan, followed by theYuanyang rice terraces.

Now, I’m no stranger to traveling on a budget. I’m a grad student, I’m poor—I’ve learned not to expect much from my accommodations. Or so I thought. On Sunday night, my roommate and I took a bumpy busride to Jian Shui to meet the rest of our friends. We showed up at the hotel, which compensated for its namelessness with holographic wallpaper and disco music. The first room we went to was filthy: skid-mark wall stains, cigarette-burned comforters, and more mosquitoes than I’ve ever seen in a natural environment. We decided to check out a second room. Room#2 was slightly cleaner, but the clouds of smoke hovering above the beds were less than appetizing. We entered Room #3 to find it was already occupied—by a cockroach. Shit. Choosing between which insect with whom I would sleep is not a dilemma I thought I’d ever face. But, it was late and we were tired, so we rationalized: a roach in one, a roach in all. So we climbed into bed, praying for no bedbugs, and turned off the lights. Two seconds later, Hila turned the lights back on. Bad move: roaches scattered across the floor like shy kids on the dance floor.

After a relatively sleepless night, we woke up and explored the town. Jian Shui’s a neat little city, composed mostly of alleyways, shops, and tiny restaurants. Most of these places have only a table or two; eating in one is like sitting in someone’s kitchen while they prepare the food a few feet away. The food is always fresh, usually from the market just a few hours prior, and usually quite tasty: rice with stir-fried eggs, tomatoes, or vegetables with plenty of la jiao, a searing spice I dump on everything. The specialty in Jian Shui is cho dofu, or literally, “stinky tofu.” The place reeks of the stuff; I never knew beans could smell so bad. ‘Course, most dishes apparently arrive with a side of bacteria, which now have taken up residence inside my GI tract. I’m pretty sure a small Chinese dragon has been chilling in my gut for a few weeks now. Everyone here’s some stage of sick though, so you learn to get over it and keep on movin’.

One bus, one van, and one taxi ride later, we made it to the rice terraces in Yuanyang. Truly, these mountains and villages and people are indescribable. The terraces are over 2000 years old, and in many ways it seems as though not much has changed. The villages that pepper the mountainside are home to several of Yunnan’s ethnic minorities. The women wear these brightly colored headdresses and carry woven baskets full of fruits and vegetables as they trek over the mountains to the market. Food is so central to life here: harvesting it, finding it, eating it. Pigs, cows, and roosters roam everywhere; they are slaughtered and cooked right on the cobblestone streets. The couple whose home we stayed in cooked for us each day—vegetarian, per request. Never have simple greens and rice tasted so delicious.

We encountered one couple on the top of the mountain on their way home to celebrate the Dragon Boat Festival. The man was carrying a live hen upside down in one hand; the woman had a giant basket full of leechy fruit and other goods strapped to her back. The irony of this situation is that we were all dressed to hike: backpacks, boots, snacks. The woman? She was carrying an oversized bedazzled handbag and was wearing heels. High heels on a mountain! Never again will I complain about uncomfortable footwear, that’s for sure. Later, we were treated to an impromptu concert on a cliff when a group of men, also returning home, stopped to play their recorders for us. There’s truly nothing like the sound of music with villagers and cows and roosters on a cliff overlooking ancient farmland.

We had great weather during the day, but the nights were chilly and rainy. Even so, I hiked alone to the overlook one evening to watch the fog reach its cold grey fingers down the mountains. Never have I seen something so haunting and beautiful. The next morning, we got up before the sun to watch it rise over the paddies. With the wind rippling through the rice and the clouds swirling around us, we watched in silence as the sun rose and crested over the peaks. Breathtaking.

So yes, I slept on dirty cots with Mickey Mouse comforters and cigarette burns. I shared a room with a small army of cockroaches. I got violently ill while standing inside a cloud. I took more than one shower literally standing on top of the toilet. But it was worth it. Incredibly worth it.

Kind of pretty, I suppose...

Might have had a lil' Sound of Music moment at the top....

The world's cutest kid....until you notice HE'S GOT A GUN! 

runnin' down the road, tryin' to loosen my load

I’ve started running again. Well, by running, I mean a pathetic combination of running and walking, or as I used to call it when I’d go with my dad- slogging (slow jogging) (sorry Dad!). I think it’d be fair to say that most Chinese grandmothers could outrun me at this point. That is, if Chinese people ran. So far I haven’t seen anyone exercising outside-and usually, the hordes that are walking are moving at a snail’s pace…which means I look even more out of place with my blonde ponytail and glasses as I bound through the streets.

Running in Kunming is like an obstacle course. I don’t use an iPod for fear of certain death from motorbike, bicycle-and-cart, stray dog, stray child, or one of a million other moving targets flooding the sidewalks. The worst would be running into one of the human toilets: parents forming a makeshift potty with their arms as their toddler pees on the street (made all the easier by the well-placed hole in the baby’s bottoms).

I try to be attentive, especially in the circles-of-death, or the enormous tunnel-like crossings where motorcycles and bicycles and pedestrians stray through the shadows and chances of survival  hover around 50 percent. Still, I find myself daydreaming, mostly about other routes I used to run. When I need energy, I think of New Haven: nothing motivates like the omnipresent threat of muggers. When I need calm, I remember my Arizona path. Running through the empty streets at twilight, I’d come into view of another sun-lit mountain range every time I turned a corner. Bliss.

Mostly, though, I daydream of Chicago. I can’t believe it’s been almost a year since I left. Perhaps it’s being in a city again—a real one, with people and sidewalk shops and movement—that makes me miss it.  Perhaps I’ll always be a bit homesick for the city I loved for so long. In any case, I like to imagine myself running a familiar path. Down the tree-lined sidewalks of North Orchard. Left at Fullerton—sprint through the Clark intersection before the stoplight timer ticks out. Jog through the park. Cruise down Lakeshore, occasionally racing the next runner ahead of me, more often cranking up the Sufjan Stephens and zoning out. Hit my stride as the blue of Lake Michigan stretches endlessly to my left and the skyline teases from the right. Spit out a few gnats. Pause for a stretch on North Avenue beach. Ogle the volleyball players. Turn around. Cool down through Boystown, dodging waitresses serving summer brews at Wilde’s and stray Cubs fans fresh from Wrigley Field. Sprint the homestretch back on Orchard. Take a breather on the bench in the garden in front of my apartment. Watch a butterfly or two. Go home.

Home. Where is that now? Where the heart is? Or, more likely, where my internet connection is? In any case, I'm off to explore some rice paddies for a few days, and then maybe on to do some hiking in Dali and Lijiang. Vamos a ver!

it's the end of the rrrrrrrrrrrroad

I did something sorta bad. Well, before I explain, answer me this: is it wrong to go out with someone for purely anthropological reasons? I asked this myself, and then started to worry about the guys who may or may not have gone out with me for similar reasons—then I said naw, no way—I’m far too comfortable in my blonde, Midwestern genericity  (yes, I just made that word up. Whatevs). I’m sure any guy going out with me for less than honorable reasons was in it for other reasons. Probably, my car. Who wouldn’t want a free ride in a beat-up ’99 Cavalier with a hood that’s attached with a string and only a 90% chance of starting?

Anyway, so I went out with this guy I  met a few weeks ago, only because he is Chinese and I thought it would make for an interesting story. And yes, as I was sitting in his car last night, I thought to myself: “Wow, you really are an asshole.” I admit, going out with someone only so I could tell people about it later made me feel guilty. But, like any good former Catholic school girl, I did it anyway.

So he picks me up and takes me to this restaurant by Dianchi Lake for dinner. Because my Chinese is limited to food-and-drink words (the important stuff, obviously), and his English is rusty, our conversation hovered around a pre-school level. Like, less than 5 syllables per sentence. No problem, since I spent my days with Chinese 5 year olds (one of whom today looked at me and started singing “Ra ra oh Ga-Ga! I wanna a bad romance”….did he actually think, perhaps, that I am Lady Gaga? Shit, I thought, I really  need to start brushing my hair before work!). So our conversation went something like this:

“Do you have a pet?” (My Suitor)
“Yes, I have a pet. I have a cat. His name is Victor. He is very mean.” (me)

“Do you know they eat cats sometimes in  Guangzhou (southern Chinese city)?” [Insert 10 minute conversation about “special” animals some people eat: mice, snake, cat, dog (only certain breeds, lest you worry), monkey, etc]

“Wow. That is gross! …But maybe it is very tasty depending on how you cook it?”(me, first being judgmental than attempting to appear culturally enlightened)

The convo continues:

“Do you have a sister or brother?” (Suitor)
“Yes, I have a sister. She is in law school. She lives very far away from me…. Do you have any siblings?”

Then I cringe.

WHY DO I ALWAYS ASK THIS?! Per the one-child policy, most people my age (or a decade older as my delightful suitor turned out to be), very few people have siblings unless their parents  1) paid a fine, which sounds cheap by American standards but would probably bankrupt most Chinese 2) are farmers or 3) belong to a minority group (2 and 3 are both permitted to have additional children). Still, it understandably saddens many people and they (like My Suitor), launch into a sad story about how lonely they are, how bad they feel for their parents who are now old and alone and need taken care of, and how they long for a big happy family, Steve-Martin-is-my-dad-in-Cheaper-By-The-Dozen-Style   style (ok I just made that last part up…maybe only my own personal fantasy? whoops).

So after we hashed through this scenario, we finally made it to the restaurant. My Suitor (it sounds so gallant when in caps, right?) was generous enough to order vegetarian to me—for which I was exceedingly grateful , considering that the dishes du jour included larvae and half-hatched eggs. We shared some really excellent mushroom dishes- Yunnan is famous for them, and a lot of silence. This will come to a shock to anyone who knows me, because normally I will babble on about just about anything to fill a void in conversation, but I’ve gotten really comfortable with silence here. I feel no need to talk. I just eat or daydream in peace. It’s quite nice, actually, not hearing myself chatter all the time.  Makes me wonder—how many people feel the same way?!  Don’t answer that.

After dinner, My Suitor and I took a pleasant evening stroll around Dianchi Lake, a body of water nestled up against an impressive mountain range (which, as I learned, is named “Sleeping Beauty.” You know you haven’t lived until you’ve watched a pollution-laced sunset with a dude who’s pointing out the “breasts” on a mountain in broken English).  Honestly, Dianchi Lake is far the most disgusting, vile water I’ve ever seen. It’s tragic, really: it would be so beautiful but it’s literally coated with a layer of green slime. I kept waiting for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles—or frogs or snakes  or fish- to crawl out of the oily liquid and kill us all.  I don’t know why everyone was so impressed by this Jesus character—if you’ve ever visited Dianchi you know that just about anyone could walk on the water. If you want instant cancer, that is.

 Anyway, we continued our stroll, and My Suitor tried to convince me to move to China permanently (because near-engagement is normal  after 2/3 of a date). To sweeten the deal, he serenaded me. First with a little Chinese love song about “Sweaty Mice.” I’m think he actually meant “sweet mice,” but I’m not really sure how that’s better.

But then came the clincher. My Suitor told me that he also likes English music.

“Like what?” I asked,   painfully unaware of the performance about to ensue.

“You know. Boys II Men.” He replied.

….and then proceeded to launch into a full-blown version of “So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday.” We’re talking top-of-the lungs falsetto. I was stunned

.

“You know, you’re right. It really is hard to say goodbye to yesterday,” I told him, clapping enthusiastically.

But, sadly, not hard to say good-bye to him. I mean, if I’m gonna go out with a Chinese guy I might as well hold out for one who can sing me N’Sync…right?  

dontcha know that i'm toxic?

Last weekend was an interesting experience: my first time participating in the time-honored tradition of KTV…or as it’s known in the States, karaoke. Although both KTV and karaoke begin with k and often involve copious amounts of cheap booze, the similarity ends there. Invited by my roommate’s teacher, we taxied through several deserted neighborhoods until suddenly we were confronted by this garish, neon-lit building. Once inside, the guards promptly shuffled us off to a lounge area to wait. Of course, being the oblivious tourist that I am, I was fiddling with my camera until my roommates implored me to put it away—fast. I turned around in time to see about half a dozen women in barely-there bedazzled dresses and pancake makeup parading through the halls. Prostitutes? This was definitely going to be a good night.

A few minutes later, Sally’s teacher led us to a private room. KTV, as it turns out, is actually a fancy event here- far from the tequila-fueled shit-show that is Gypscy (or any other student bar in America) on Friday nights. The room was lined with plush couches with people reclining lazily, sipping wine and eating fruit.  A huge flatscreen on the wall played Chinese music videos; a jukebox in the corner offered a variety of selections ranging from cheesy love songs to children’s dance videos. One by one, people would grab the microphone and loudly belt out whatever tune they’d picked. Usually the songs were slow and melodramatic—my favorites were the duets sung by couples who would gaze into each others’ eyes as the others waltzed around the room. It really killed me: these people, so earnest, singing their hearts out, and not a single one of them seemed to give a damn that they were heinously off key.

Towards the end of the night, my other roommate’s boyfriend, Ricardo, decided it would be a good idea for us to pay homage to that goddess of American pop culture, Brittney Spears. Typically, I don’t even broach the idea of karaoke unless I’m well under the influence. As I’ve learned, however, Chinese red wine --the only beverage of choice in this fine establishment—tastes like a rancid Capri Sun and is the fastest way to end up in the fetal position.

 So, completely sober, we got up there and belted out a rendition of “Toxic” that was…less than intoxicating. Actually, it sounded eerily similar to Alvin and the Chipmunks--if said chipmunks had their little paws rammed into an electric socket. 

laowai got back

It's been a rainy few days in Kunming. The sky and the city are grey, with only the bright turquoise of the taxis and the rainbow-colored plastic ponchos of the bikers disrupting the monotony. My favorite are thepanchos, usually in a neon pink or yellow, with two holes cut out for the heads dual-riders. Hilarious, cute, and functional- who can go wrong with that?

Today was also my first day teaching English in the kindergarten. The first class, one of the youngest levels (3-year olds), was nothing short of adorable. Amazing how quickly these kids absorb English! I taught them the words for “sick” and “cold,” which they picked up in mere minutes. This was ironic on several levels: one, because each child undergoes a brief (less than 15 second) medical exam before entering the school. I’m not sure how effective this can be, although apparently enough children became ill in one of my classes that I had to drop the whole class from my study, destroying any attempt at randomization.  So much for the scientific method! Second, I had to chuckle as an entire classroom full of three year olds stared at me and chanted “cold! cold! cold!”…let’s put it this way: it wouldn’t be the first (or last) time I’ve been told I’ve been cold. Perhaps I should have taught them the more suitable term, “ice queen,” instead? Or maybe just “Catholic” would be more fitting…so many synonyms, so little time.

The second classroom, consisting of 4-5 year olds, was a bit more…interesting. As the other teacher prepared for the class, one boisterous little boy started hitting me. I have no idea why, but to stop the onslaught I gave him my hand as a high-five. He started hitting that too, and then a mob of screaming boys and girls descended on me. I was a little confused in the blur of arms and legs, but I’m pretty sure one of the little boys was audacious enough to feel me up! I swatted him away only to have my ass grabbed by an even more daring little boy about two seconds later. This little daredevil just looked me in the eyes and laughed as Igently but firmly removed his hands from my rump. Who are these children?! All I can figure is they were getting some kind of major kick out of having a lao shi (teacher) with junk in the trunk. In any case, I had no idea a year ago, when I was quitting my tidy little career in hospital administration that I was heading for what seems to be a lifetime of weighing people’s leftover food…and apparently, getting groped by Chinese pre-schoolers!