Despite a couple of international moves, I've managed to have Christmas with my family every year. I didn't want 2008 to be the exception so Mickey and I made grand plans to meet my mom and brother at the Sydney-LA halfway point of our choosing, Maui. Our plans became even grander and more absurd when we decided that we should also visit Mickey's family in Seattle before Christmas and our dear friends Andrew and Alyssa in Japan for New Year. Our itinerary was ambitious, but we did it in the name of tradition, or, tradition and eating delicious sushi.
Packing was tricky because we had to be prepared for three climates, one bi cultural wedding and Christmas. Hat and gloves? Check. Bathing suit? Check. Traditional Indian evening clothes? Also check. Believe it or not, I did this with three pairs of shoes (sandals, boots and non-sexy European walking shoes).
We had an eight hour layover in Honolulu en route to Seattle. Waikiki is perhaps the nicest place I've ever spent a layover, but it made for a long day without a shower. Mickey and I celebrated our arrival back in the US by brunching in a very American fashion: buffet-style. Livin' la vida glutard limits my options at a buffet, but I got my fill of bacon and delicious Hawaiian pineapple. I lingered in the water watching tourists learn to surf in the gentle waves. They made it look easy. Mickey and I always joke about when you can claim that you've been somewhere. I usually argue that layovers don't count and that you have to spend the night to have really "been" there. In this case, we didn't spend the night, but left the airport, swam in the ocean and bought a towel that says 'Hawaii.' That has to count for something.
As our plane descended toward SeaTac airport, I noticed something strange about the ground. "Mickey, the ground looks... funny," I said worriedly. "I think it's the s-word." I'm not one of those Californians who gets excited by snow. It requires temperatures below 32F and not even adorable snowmen and sledding can make freezing weather worthwhile to me.
Sure enough, there was a significant amount of snow on the ground and it kept coming down for the duration of our visit. This wouldn't have been a problem in Minneapolis or Cleveland or any other snowy place, but according to locals, Seattle "doesn't usually get a lot of snow" and was thus completely unprepared. The roads weren't plowed, businesses closed and our rental car was equipped with a flimsy plastic ice scraper that would have suited Barbie's dream car better than our Mazda.
We were in town for Mickey's cousin Tanvir's wedding to the lovely Aimee, a Washington native. Sadly for the couple, the snow caused a lot of guests to cancel. On the bright side, though, the wedding was one of the most thoughtful I had ever attended. Tanvir and Aimee integrated Indian cultural rites and symbols with Western traditions to create a ceremony that was inclusive and meaningful to both families. He wore a tux with tails while she wore a beautiful green and blue Indian dress. They made an effort to involve their guests by encouraging them to string garlands of carnations, cranberries and popcorn and then attach them to a homemade arbor.
Our remaining days in Tacoma were quiet and fraught with worry about flying out on time. Hundreds of flights were canceled and thousands of people were stranded at the SeaTac airport. Desperate to get home, some fellow wedding guests drove from Seattle all the way to LA.
Thankfully, our flight to Maui left as scheduled. Mickey and I were thrilled to exchange our hats and gloves for sandals and shorts again. At least that's what we were wearing under our umbrellas. They don't tell the tourists that Maui is so green, lush and beautiful because it gets a ton of rain, but perhaps we should have put two and two together. It didn't help that we stayed on Maui's north shore, a rainier part of the island.
Still, it was a joy to be off the beaten path, away from the charming but touristy western side of the island. And boy howdy were we off the path; reaching our accommodations at the Huelo Point Flower Farm (HPFF) requires a slow 1.5 mi drive down a bumpy dirt road off the Hana Highway. We wanted to surprise my mom and brother with a unique vacation experience by picking this beautiful, secluded spot to spend Christmas.
HPFF's website promises ocean views, a hot tub for every unit and the opportunity to pick fresh fruit from the orchard. It sounded like paradise and we chose to rent HPFF's main house instead of a more conventional, more reasonably priced vacation home. Of course, our expectations were sky high and we were a bit disappointed by the house. It wasn't in perfect condition (mold, squeaky doors, dryer needed repair, ran out of hot water, sand in the hot tub) and it lacked some basics (shampoo, the privacy that comes with bathroom doors). Mickey and I actually ended up switching rooms after our tolerance for squeaky doors and geckos on the ceiling (are they going to fall in my mouth when I'm sleeping?) ran out.
My mom and my brother were very gracious, however, and were thrilled with all that HPFF did deliver. My mom enjoyed cooking our Christmas dinner in the fully equipped kitchen and fell in love with apple bananas, a smaller variety of banana that grows on the property. Nic was happy to spend Christmas day watching a Laker game via satellite TV and was intrigued by one of HPFF's cash crops: medicinal marijuana. (That explained so much after we learned this mid-trip).
Lonely Planet's guide to Maui (and any other guidebook, I'm sure) describes watching the sunrise over the Haleakala crater as the Maui experience. So, not wanting to miss anything, we set our alarms for 4am (yes, there is a 4am) for three consecutive days to rise and see if it was clear enough to drive up the volcano. Each day, the weather was questionable, but it was Mickey's health that ultimately caused us to turn the alarm off and go back to sleep. He had a sinus infection that caused him pain when we changed altitude. Thus, driving from sea level to 10,000 feet was one of the last things he wanted to do at 4am. On one of our last days in Maui we decided to drive up the volcano regardless of poor weather and the fact that we wouldn't catch sunrise or sunset. The visibility wasn't more than 100 yards so this was kind of a bust. Next time, Haleakala.
Exploring other Maui treasures closer to sea level was far more rewarding. Mick, Nic and I hiked on a short but treacherous path (littered with slippery rocks) through a bamboo forest to a waterfall. As if the waterfall wasn't reward enough, we rewarded ourselves with fresh pineapple smoothies from a roadside stand. Operated by young hippies, the stand also sold homemade coconut candies and delicious baked favorites like banana bread infused with the tropical bites of mango and macadamia.
Another sensory highlight was our day of farm visits, first to the Ali'i Kula Lavender Farm and then the Surfing Goat Dairy. Ali'i's lavender grows on a steep hillside and we enjoyed spectacular views of the island while wandering through the garden. The Surfing Goat Dairy isn't just a clever name; they let the goats play on old surfboards. And if the quality of their chev is any indication of the goats' happiness, they must be fully content. The creamy goat cheese was excellent. We tasted a seasonal treat consisting of quark, cranberries and cinnamon that made me regret not buying a whole jar to slather on bread for a delicious upgrade to your standard leftover turkey sandwich.
And though we aren't beach people, we thoroughly enjoyed two of Maui's beaches. Baldwin Beach, on the north shore close to HPFF, has a lovely stretch of coast that is buffered from big waves by a strip of rocks and tide pools. This lagoon-like area is appropriately called 'Baby Beach' because it's so gentle. My other favorite beach was far more crowded because it's directly in front of the Sheraton resort, but the water was just as calm. Lonely Planet called it one of the best places for snorkeling because colorful fish (unafraid of people and looking for a handout) swim near the coral in waist-deep water. Snorkeling there on Christmas day was one of the highlights of my year. It's amazing that a $50 mask, snorkel and fins kit serves as the key to an entirely different world under the surface of the ocean.
It wasn't long before I bid my mom a tearful goodbye and departed for the final leg of our journey: Japan. We always said that if we were going to visit Japan, we'd have to tag along with our friend Andrew, one of our favorite travel buddies who just happens to be fluent in Japanese. He and Alyssa spent their entire holiday break in Japan and we tagged along with them for one week in Kyoto and Tokyo. Upon arriving, we had to swap our shorts and sunglasses for heavy wool coats again. It wasn't as cold as Tacoma, but it felt colder because we spent so many hours outdoors sightseeing. I had planned outfits around dresses paired with leggings and boots, but eventually alternated between two dingy pairs of pants because I was desperate to stay warm.
The two big negatives I had heard about Japan, that it was unbearably crowded and expensive, didn't diminish my experience there at all. Visiting Japan during a week of national holidays meant that some tourist destinations (such as Tsukiji, the famous fish market) were closed, but it also meant that central Tokyo was less busy. Many Japanese had gone home to the suburbs and countryside to visit relatives. Thus there was never a need to stand upright on trains, with one's hands straight in the front, for optimum subway car space efficiency as the helpful diagrams indicated.
Likewise, we did find Japan expensive in that our roughly $150/night for accommodations bought us small rooms in average hotels with miniscule bathrooms. Finding good food at a reasonable prices, on the other hand, wasn't a problem at all. I remember wandering through the maze that is Kyoto Station in search of a recommended sushi restaurant. I was curious why Andrew and Alyssa were so desperate to find a place that Lonely Planet described as only "good" sushi as opposed to "amazing" or "delectable." When we finally found it and sat down for a long lunch of endless hot tea (they had taps around the counter for hot water on-demand) and conveyor belt sushi, I understood what all the fuss was about. "Good" sushi by Japanese standards is great sushi anywhere else. It was a treat to find fish beyond your standard salmon and tuna on the rotation. We enjoyed some unagi (eel) which for once wasn't overwhelmed by sweet, barbecue sauce and some horse meat by accident. Whoops.
Having traveled in Japan two weeks longer than we had, Andrew and Alyssa had learned that Japanese people like to rank things in top threes. We're familiar with top universities, restaurants and top cities to live in because these things are regularly ranked according to certain criteria, but we don't rank our national parks, war memorials or covered bridges. However, in Japan, they do. And it's not just travel guides that will tell you what the top three gorges, temples and gardens are in Japan, this kind of thing is common knowledge. Alyssa and Andrew visited a castle which someone said was probably Japan's number four or five castle, but not in the infamous top three.
So, in the spirit of Japanese top threes, I'll reveal my top three favorite Japanese foods that I had never tried prior to my visit.
3. yakiniku - It's fun to say and even more fun to do. I'm told this is similar to Korean barbecue; there's a grill in the center of your table, you order the meat of your choice and you grill it to your satisfaction. I loved this because it helped me slow down and savor my food more because it took a while to cook. It's social in that the food and the grill are communal.
2. shabu shabu - It's even more fun to say than yakiniku and it means 'swish swish.' My friends were familiar with shabu shabu, but it was new to me. It's the same idea as above in that you order the meat of your choice and cook it in the center of your table. This time it cooked in a hot broth instead of a grill, though. The 'swish swish' refers to the motion of swishing your thinly sliced meat quickly through the hot broth to cook it. We had all you can eat shabu shabu on New Year's Eve and the Japanese wait staff made sure that you truly got all you could eat.
1. mochi - Mochi is a dessert made from sweetened rice pounded into a gelatinous ball of goodness. Mochi is fun to say when you create new words with it such as 'mochilicious' and 'mochtastic.' We tried different varieties of mochi, some with red bean paste, another with green tea flavors, and the unanimous favorite among our group, mochi with a creamy yellow custard in the middle.
This top three is a great way to organize my thoughts about Japan, so here are my top three uniquely Japanese experiences.
3. visiting the onsen - Onsen is a ridiculously hot thermal/spring bath. You may remember them from those nature videos with those snow monkeys. Visiting the onsen is a quintessential part of the Japanese ski holiday experience and/or the ryokan (Japanese B&B) experience. The ritual requires taking a shower beforehand so you're completely clean and nude when you enter the sex-segregated tubs. We stayed in urban hotels, but went out of our way to find a decent onsen in Tokyo. We located one in our guidebook, several maps, rode the subway and walked to the appointed address only to find it closed. Our courage to bathe naked with Japanese strangers in the name of cultural experience remains untested, but it's still in my top three.
2. buying something unusual from a vending machine - We've all heard the stories about anything and everything being available in a Japanese vending machine: toys, milkshakes, underwear, etc. This is officially a myth. The most unusual thing I saw on a vending machine was Tommy Lee Jones' face (his is the face of Boss Coffee). Still, I did see plenty of vending machines with beer, coffee, soda and to my delight on those chilly winter days, hot drinks. When we returned from our failed outing to the onsen, I cheered myself up by buying a hot lemonade from a vending machine.
1. renting a private karaoke booth and singing your heart out - This was the highlight of my trip to Japan by far. Alyssa and I knew we wanted the Lost in Translation experience: singing karaoke with Bill Murray and a pink wig minus the Bill Murray. Okay, we weren't fussed about the pink wig in the end either, but we knew we had to do karaoke before we left, but where? We were complaining about this when Andrew pointed to a 15 story building and said, 'you see that sign? It says, kah rah o kay.' To our surprise, the whole building was karaoke! We rented a room for two hours and sang until we were hoarse. This place had tambourines for everyone, an option to order food and drinks directly to your room, decent quality microphones and a phone book sized book full of English songs. The experience was pure joy.
Top three stereotypes about Japan that were true to my experience:
3. the importance of fashion - The standard of dress in Japan was very high. The young people followed the trends and older people took great care with their clothes and accessories. We spent an afternoon in Harajuku in search of the wildly dressed women who make the neighborhood famous. Despite the holiday rush to a nearby temple, we found and photographed a few. Believe it or not, a Little Bo Peep motif was popular with quite a few young women.
2. cleanliness and efficiency - I have never seen a cleaner city of a comparable size than Tokyo. When I realized how few rubbish bins there are, I was even more impressed. Andrew jokingly said that the Japanese people anticipate when they're going to need to throw something away and plan accordingly. I'm not sure if he was kidding though, because I would believe that.
1. politeness - It seemed that everyone we came across in Japan took pride in his/her work no matter if they worked in a hotel or cleaned the subway stations. Clearly, there's a sense of professionalism that's missing from many western industries. We were treated with the greatest respect wherever we went.
Okay, enough of the top threes. We had a fabulous trip, but I hope to never attempt another so ambitious again. We were exhausted, Mickey got sick with a sinus infection and I feel like I'm only now (weeks later) catching up with life as usual. These are the complaints of a very lucky person and I know that in my future I'd be only too glad to return to days when my biggest problems are jet lag and unpacking from adventures.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A Reason to Hope
Day to day, my life is organized around what happens here in Australia; my job, activities and some friends are here. Yet, living in Sydney, thousands of miles from the campaign trails, made me feel that the US presidential election had never been so important.
When you live in the US under an administration as incompetent as Bush's, you can complain about it with your friends and neighbors (especially in the bay area) communally. You're all in the same boat, but that boat is sinking. When you live as an American abroad, however, you have to take the heat from angry non-Americans who, in ways large and small, have also suffered over the last eight years. Their boat is sinking, but it's because of something that our boat did.
I felt embarrassed and ashamed every time 'Dubya' opened his mouth. I didn't vote for him and he doesn't represent me, but George W Bush and the negativity that surrounds him springs to mind when people from outside the US think of America and Americans.
I barely slept the night of November 4 after having stayed up late to watch early election coverage from the US. As we were going to bed, the polls were just opening and when we woke up and walked excitedly to work, the polls were closing and results were filtering in.
My Australian colleagues were just as interested in the US election as I was and our boss (American) generously allowed us to project MSNBC coverage on the wall all morning and afternoon as the results came in. MSNBC called states for either McCain or Obama with only tiny percentages of the precincts reporting, while the New York Times, whose website I refreshed every five minutes, was much more conservative.
Regardless of what you were watching though, Obama had a lead that only grew as the day wore on. The notion that a person of color would become president of the United States slowly dawned on America and the rest of the world. In a way, America had put its money where its mouth was; maybe anyone, regardless of skin color, gender, religion (or even ability in Sarah Palin's case) could in fact become president.
When it became clear beyond a doubt that Obama had won, MSNBC showed clips of the excited crowds at Rockefeller Center, or Election Center as NBC temporarily called it, young black college students crying with joy at Spellman College, the somber atmosphere at the Biltmore in Pheonix and the sea of people waiting to receive Obama himself in Chicago.
I actually felt a bit sorry for John McCain because his concession speech was so gracious. My sympathy for his camp waned, however, when his Arizona supporters booed mentions of Obama's win. I smiled when McCain thanked Todd and Sarah Palin, hopeful that she would be remembered as the butt of jokes on SNL and not as a serious political candidate.
The anticipation built as the cameras switched back to Grant Park in Chicago. At least one coworker and I got a little choked up when Obama took the stage with his family. I wonder if Sasha and Malia had any sense of how their father's career was shaping history and how their own lives would be effected in years to come.
I wanted him to dance down the walkway and celebrate his hard-fought victory. It had been two years of campaigning and traveling to Pennsylvania an indecent number of times and I felt that there was room for a moment of levity. Instead, Obama approached the podium with solemnity, probably relieved that he had won the respect of so many Americans, but humbled by the task ahead. The economy is in the tanks, we're still in Iraq and the pace of climate change isn't slowing. Perhaps a victory dance in the end zone wouldn't have been appropriate.
A week or so after the election I watched a short New York Times video describing the world's reaction to the US presidential election. Unsurprisingly, if you were to zoom out from a map of blue and red states, the rest of the world would be blue. Indeed, people interviewed for this video from Germany to China to Iran were excited that Obama had won and hopeful that their country's relations with the US would improve as a result.
I was most struck by the words of a young man from Kenya, where a national holiday was declared in honor of Obama's win. "I don't care that he is the first black president of the US," he said. "It matters that the white people [of America] were civilized enough to vote for this man." It fascinated me that the election could have such different significance for different people.
Australians are no exception in that they also are pleased with Obama's success and fortunately, their goodwill trickles down to expat Americans like me who call Australia (temporarily) home. My Aussie friend Kate confided, "I have good feelings for you Americans now."
My days of being embarrassed by George W Bush are numbered and I'm looking forward to being proud of my president. We Americans won't have to settle for a 'c' student at Yale who only found himself there because of his father's connections or even a veteran who graduated at the bottom of his class. We've chosen a candidate with brains, strength and character and can hold our heads a little higher now when introducing ourselves as Americans.
A week after the election I heard someone pessimistically saying that Americans' day to day lives wouldn't change immediately after Obama's inauguration. They'd still be concerned about losing their homes, filling their cars up with gas and putting food on the table. I disagreed with him, though, claiming that Americans' lives have already changed as a result of the election. We have a reason to hope.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Glutarded
Four years ago, when I joined Teach for America and began teaching first grade I started to experience unpleasant gastrointestinal symptoms. Naturally, I thought that the stress of teaching twenty little people to read was the root cause of my troubles. But if that were true, then my symptoms should have disappeared when I gave away my best pocket charts, locked the classroom door for the last time and said goodbye to my identity as Miss Rennie.
Of course they didn't. They followed me across three continents and at least as many jobs and doctors. Clearly, I couldn't blame it all on the first graders. A particularly astute gastro specialist in California indicated that a blood test pointed toward Celiac's Disease, an allergy to gluten (a protein in wheat, barley, rye and oats). Because I had just shared a year's worth of meals with a Celiac's sufferer, my kiwi friend Hannah, I knew exactly what such a diagnosis entailed.
And I wanted no part of it. Hannah had gotten used to her diet, but it seemed incredibly inconvenient and miserable to me. How could I consider giving up bread and my other wheaty essentials? I'd always considered cake and pie to be more like hobbies or even old friends than favorite foods. I decided that as long as pain wasn't one of my symptoms, I would ignore this condemnation of a diagnosis.
I was symptom-free in Australia until mid June when I got another flare-up of gastrointestinal malaise. However, it wasn't until I read that Celiac's sufferers are at increased risk of bowel cancer and infertility if not adhering to a gluten free diet that I decided that I had to face the music and find out if I truly was glutarded.
A blood test confirmed with 99% accuracy that I did have a gluten allergy and an endoscopy (an outpatient tubey down throat procedure) complete with creepy internal pictures left no doubts. I have Celiac's Disease and the cure is staying away from wheat forever. Period.
For once, I didn't cry. I said farewell to gluten with a stylish high tea instead of a mournful funeral. Mickey and six friends met me at the Victoria Room in Darlinghurst for an afternoon of treats which don't have an appealing gluten free alternative: tea sandwiches, scones, biscuits and cakes.
My first week on the gluten free diet was difficult. I was traveling in Queensland for work and attended catered lunch meetings that offered only sandwiches. I came prepared with nuts and dried fruit, but I almost cried thinking that I wouldn't have the willpower to keep saying no to sandwiches. The second week was even harder because I met with a dietitian and learned about other items that were off limits: preservatives that you'll find in barbecue sauce, candy, soy sauce, chicken stock, mayonnaise, medications, etc.
Indeed, it seemed like wheat was in everything and that eating out at restaurants and friends' homes was always going to be difficult. I also feel terribly guilty when I think about how this diagnosis will effect Mickey's diet. He's loyal to me and has been avoiding some of his favorite foods because he'd have to eat them alone. Even if solidarity with me got old, it would still be inconvenient for us to prepare two of everything.
However, I cheer myself up by thinking about the things I can still enjoy: chocolate, sushi, ice cream, Mickey's gluten free pancakes and more. Even more encouraging is the fact that my symptoms are already improving and that I will begin to absorb nutrients better. I had wondered why I've made such little progress with weight training and building muscle. Now, the world had better watch out. I'm getting strong and healthy.
Friday, October 10, 2008
China: My First Stop Outside the First World
Feeling loose and relaxed as we left the Shanghai massage parlor two weeks ago, Mickey and my friends and I compared notes about how we communicated 'too much pressure!' to our Mandarin-speaking masseuses. We laughed at my cowardly approach: praying that squirming, gasping and scratching the linen with my fingernails meant 'please go easy on me' in international body language. Though my young Chinese masseuse didn't speak English, he probably would have understood if I had said plainly, 'that's too hard.' But I didn't because I was afraid; I was afraid to admit to my friends and even to myself that I was too sensitive for China.
We planned this trip months ago when we knew that our friends Andrew and Alyssa would be teaching at an international school in Shanghai. They had a week off and generously offered to spend it showing us around their new hometown. The summer Olympics had inspired us to fly to Beijing and spend a couple of days there in the middle of our trip. Realistically, it should have been easy. Shanghai, a modern, westernized city of 20 million and Beijing, a city that had prepared for years for an influx of visitors like myself could be called 'China-lite.' The language and culture are Chinese, but these metropolises also offer the comforts of the west: cornflakes, Zara, high-speed trains, etc.
And yet, even when I was getting a massage, an experience that is meant to be relaxing, I felt beaten down by China, overwhelmed by the pressure. I felt like there was danger and trouble at every turn; if you weren't alert, you would get pushed, ripped off, run over and/or mocked. And in a nation of 1.3 billion, no one would notice or care.
The lack of rules and anything goes mentality was terrifying to me. I actually started crying on the way through security in the Shanghai airport because I was so stressed about not being able to reach the check in counter. The Chinese are notorious for not queuing and I was worried that we'd get pushed so far that we'd never make it on the plane. Though we made it just fine to Beijing, it was the return back to Shanghai that deserved more worry. Our reservation was mysteriously canceled and we had to purchase new tickets on a later flight.
The pushing and reluctance to form a proper line were aggravating, but the anything goes approach to driving was outright dangerous. Most taxis didn't offer seat belts, most drivers treated traffic lights as mere suggestions and most bikers didn't wear helmets. It's a wonder that the roads weren't caked with blood.
During the first half of my trip, like the massage, even the positive aspects of traveling in China made me feel like a fool. One of these is the low, low prices for goods and services: $15 for a two hour massage, $6 for a season of your favorite TV show on pirated DVDs, $.50 for breakfast on the street, nothing to complain about, right? Well, I'm the kind of woman who doesn't often refuse a bargain so I felt like a fool for not taking full advantage of China's scarily cheap stuff. (I don't really need a Folex, but it's only $5!) Then, when I did actually decide to purchase something and attempted to bargain for it, I'd feel like an even bigger idiot for settling for the 'stupid foreigner' price. Anyway, I didn't feel a lot of satisfaction from my first couple of purchases.
Containing special economic zones, Shanghai has been open to the west for decades. Thus, the Shanghainese don't find it strange to cross paths with someone like me. In Beijing, on the other hand, my blondish hair and round, blue-green eyes made me somewhat of a novelty. At first, it was flattering, some people asked if I'd pose for photos with their kids while others surreptitiously snapped pictures while I was fighting the crowds. Is this a fraction of what celebrities feel? I imagine they must feel admired, but I just felt like the joke was on me.
At the midpoint of our trip, my mood had fallen and it couldn't get up. I had arrived in China looking forward most to our day in the Forbidden City, but when I got there, I was devastated by the crowds. The Gate of Supreme Harmony might as well have been the Gate to Tourist Hell (it didn't help that we went on a national holiday). It was hot, crowded, polluted even by LA standards and I was desperate for a western toilet (I hadn't yet consigned myself to using a squatty potty). I didn't care what gate I had to go through: Supreme Exhaustion, Heavenly Crowd Surfing, I just wanted to get out of there.
After exiting through the north entrance to the Forbidden City, we'll call it the Gate of Extreme Holding It, there were no western toilets to be found. After several cabs passed us by and right before Mickey unsuccessfully attempted to bargain with the rickshaw drivers, is when I started to sob on his shoulder. He realized this was no Chinese fire drill, this was a genuine spoiled wife emergency. So, he rushed me to the nearest fancy hotel, as any good husband would, where they had clean toilets and wretched, over-priced hot chocolate. Still, I sipped it gratefully while drying my tears and discussing the philosophy of travel with Mickey.
Is it worth thousands of dollars to literally travel outside of my comfort zone in order to learn about a new culture and expand my horizons? Might our money have been better spent on another trip to New Zealand where I could enjoy natural beauty and a warm Kiwi welcome? I have a BA in Anthropology for christsakes, the answers should unequivocally be YES and NO respectively. Still, I was trying to be really honest with myself and with Mickey. At 26, should I look inside and be realistic and unashamed about my travel limits, or, should I push myself to grow and change?
Well, my mood had hit a Great Wall and there was nothing to do but turn it around. (Note: when I wasn't complaining, I was cracking jokes far worse than this at the Forbidden City. 'Can we go in here or is it... forbidden?' I asked more than once). Alyssa helped me see the funny side of the anything goes mentality as it applies to fashion. It is totally acceptable for men and women to wear pajamas, the type where the shirt and pants are the same fabric and print, out on the town. It is also fashionable among young couples to dress alike. We'd give each other people-watching points if we spotted a couple in the exact same shirt and extra if their trousers and/or shoes matched and a bonus if the man was carrying the woman's purse (also okay in China). The winning pair of the whole trip was a couple whose orange T-shirts read: his - "our love will," hers - "go on forever." Their kid was also wearing orange. Elsewhere such a fashion statement would be ridiculously corny, but in China, it worked.
However, while these couples could express their commitment with their apparel, public displays of affection are taboo. In this case, I could not adopt a 'when in Rome' attitude despite my reluctance to attract even more attention or offend. Mickey is too irresistible not to be hugged and kissed.
Another diverting people watching game is trying to find the cart or scooter carrying the most unusual or precariously balanced load. Once we saw a motorscooterist with a houseplant and a desk chair (and another passenger) strapped to his bike. Later, we saw a man with a humble cart carrying more Styrofoam boxes than could an F150.
China had shoved me around, but I was learning to push back. I became a bolder and yet more cautious pedestrian. Twice I threw my 'STOP' hand up like a New York City traffic cop and to everyone's surprise, the driver waited for us. Maybe that's the protocol when a strange white woman jumps in front of your car.
And though I've complained about roller-coaster taxi rides and feeling swindled, we were always safe and treated fairly in China. When travelling in Spain or Italy, a woman has to worry about her handbag (and a man his wallet) and ignore catcalls and stares from local young men: "rubia! bella!" Sure, in China some wanted my photo, but no one disrespected me and we never felt that we had to hang on to our wallets with a death-grip. In China, there's a stricter penalty for stealing from a foreigner than committing the same crime against a local.
Of course the highlights of the trip were trying new foods and spending time with our brave, gracious hosts, Andrew and Alyssa. They took us to a range of local restaurants and encouraged us to sample everything from scallion pancakes and caramelized hawthorn berries on the street to the freshest Taiwanese noodles I've ever had to spicy Cantonese and Sichuan favorites. Then, when we tired of sauce-heavy Chinese food (even my fruit salad had a sauce), they treated us to the best of the west. I devoured the tastiest burger I've had all year in Xintiandi, a western-style shoppertainment center, slurped multiple glasses of fresh watermelon juice and stuffed myself at brunch at Azul in Shanghai's French Concession. We couldn't get over the quality of the blueberry pancakes and fluffy banana muffins. I also had a second course of huevos rancheros plus a fresh juice and a tea for a grand total of $18.
Yes, China offers eastern and western food and fun at every price range. As Andrew and Alyssa's colleagues have proudly confided to them, 'I've lived here for seven years without a word of Mandarin and I can get by just fine.' However, Andrew and Alyssa don't want to surround themselves with only western words and comforts and I'm so proud of them for that. Could I ever do the same? Having spent ten days in China, Mickey wound up with a tummy bug while I suffered a 120 volt culture shock. It's good to alter your routine, open your eyes to something new and learn how other people live. The Chinese may wear pajamas while not holding their boyfriends' hands on the street and actually prefer a squatty potty, but inside, I bet they're the same as me.
We planned this trip months ago when we knew that our friends Andrew and Alyssa would be teaching at an international school in Shanghai. They had a week off and generously offered to spend it showing us around their new hometown. The summer Olympics had inspired us to fly to Beijing and spend a couple of days there in the middle of our trip. Realistically, it should have been easy. Shanghai, a modern, westernized city of 20 million and Beijing, a city that had prepared for years for an influx of visitors like myself could be called 'China-lite.' The language and culture are Chinese, but these metropolises also offer the comforts of the west: cornflakes, Zara, high-speed trains, etc.
And yet, even when I was getting a massage, an experience that is meant to be relaxing, I felt beaten down by China, overwhelmed by the pressure. I felt like there was danger and trouble at every turn; if you weren't alert, you would get pushed, ripped off, run over and/or mocked. And in a nation of 1.3 billion, no one would notice or care.
The lack of rules and anything goes mentality was terrifying to me. I actually started crying on the way through security in the Shanghai airport because I was so stressed about not being able to reach the check in counter. The Chinese are notorious for not queuing and I was worried that we'd get pushed so far that we'd never make it on the plane. Though we made it just fine to Beijing, it was the return back to Shanghai that deserved more worry. Our reservation was mysteriously canceled and we had to purchase new tickets on a later flight.
The pushing and reluctance to form a proper line were aggravating, but the anything goes approach to driving was outright dangerous. Most taxis didn't offer seat belts, most drivers treated traffic lights as mere suggestions and most bikers didn't wear helmets. It's a wonder that the roads weren't caked with blood.
During the first half of my trip, like the massage, even the positive aspects of traveling in China made me feel like a fool. One of these is the low, low prices for goods and services: $15 for a two hour massage, $6 for a season of your favorite TV show on pirated DVDs, $.50 for breakfast on the street, nothing to complain about, right? Well, I'm the kind of woman who doesn't often refuse a bargain so I felt like a fool for not taking full advantage of China's scarily cheap stuff. (I don't really need a Folex, but it's only $5!) Then, when I did actually decide to purchase something and attempted to bargain for it, I'd feel like an even bigger idiot for settling for the 'stupid foreigner' price. Anyway, I didn't feel a lot of satisfaction from my first couple of purchases.
Containing special economic zones, Shanghai has been open to the west for decades. Thus, the Shanghainese don't find it strange to cross paths with someone like me. In Beijing, on the other hand, my blondish hair and round, blue-green eyes made me somewhat of a novelty. At first, it was flattering, some people asked if I'd pose for photos with their kids while others surreptitiously snapped pictures while I was fighting the crowds. Is this a fraction of what celebrities feel? I imagine they must feel admired, but I just felt like the joke was on me.
At the midpoint of our trip, my mood had fallen and it couldn't get up. I had arrived in China looking forward most to our day in the Forbidden City, but when I got there, I was devastated by the crowds. The Gate of Supreme Harmony might as well have been the Gate to Tourist Hell (it didn't help that we went on a national holiday). It was hot, crowded, polluted even by LA standards and I was desperate for a western toilet (I hadn't yet consigned myself to using a squatty potty). I didn't care what gate I had to go through: Supreme Exhaustion, Heavenly Crowd Surfing, I just wanted to get out of there.
After exiting through the north entrance to the Forbidden City, we'll call it the Gate of Extreme Holding It, there were no western toilets to be found. After several cabs passed us by and right before Mickey unsuccessfully attempted to bargain with the rickshaw drivers, is when I started to sob on his shoulder. He realized this was no Chinese fire drill, this was a genuine spoiled wife emergency. So, he rushed me to the nearest fancy hotel, as any good husband would, where they had clean toilets and wretched, over-priced hot chocolate. Still, I sipped it gratefully while drying my tears and discussing the philosophy of travel with Mickey.
Is it worth thousands of dollars to literally travel outside of my comfort zone in order to learn about a new culture and expand my horizons? Might our money have been better spent on another trip to New Zealand where I could enjoy natural beauty and a warm Kiwi welcome? I have a BA in Anthropology for christsakes, the answers should unequivocally be YES and NO respectively. Still, I was trying to be really honest with myself and with Mickey. At 26, should I look inside and be realistic and unashamed about my travel limits, or, should I push myself to grow and change?
Well, my mood had hit a Great Wall and there was nothing to do but turn it around. (Note: when I wasn't complaining, I was cracking jokes far worse than this at the Forbidden City. 'Can we go in here or is it... forbidden?' I asked more than once). Alyssa helped me see the funny side of the anything goes mentality as it applies to fashion. It is totally acceptable for men and women to wear pajamas, the type where the shirt and pants are the same fabric and print, out on the town. It is also fashionable among young couples to dress alike. We'd give each other people-watching points if we spotted a couple in the exact same shirt and extra if their trousers and/or shoes matched and a bonus if the man was carrying the woman's purse (also okay in China). The winning pair of the whole trip was a couple whose orange T-shirts read: his - "our love will," hers - "go on forever." Their kid was also wearing orange. Elsewhere such a fashion statement would be ridiculously corny, but in China, it worked.
However, while these couples could express their commitment with their apparel, public displays of affection are taboo. In this case, I could not adopt a 'when in Rome' attitude despite my reluctance to attract even more attention or offend. Mickey is too irresistible not to be hugged and kissed.
Another diverting people watching game is trying to find the cart or scooter carrying the most unusual or precariously balanced load. Once we saw a motorscooterist with a houseplant and a desk chair (and another passenger) strapped to his bike. Later, we saw a man with a humble cart carrying more Styrofoam boxes than could an F150.
China had shoved me around, but I was learning to push back. I became a bolder and yet more cautious pedestrian. Twice I threw my 'STOP' hand up like a New York City traffic cop and to everyone's surprise, the driver waited for us. Maybe that's the protocol when a strange white woman jumps in front of your car.
And though I've complained about roller-coaster taxi rides and feeling swindled, we were always safe and treated fairly in China. When travelling in Spain or Italy, a woman has to worry about her handbag (and a man his wallet) and ignore catcalls and stares from local young men: "rubia! bella!" Sure, in China some wanted my photo, but no one disrespected me and we never felt that we had to hang on to our wallets with a death-grip. In China, there's a stricter penalty for stealing from a foreigner than committing the same crime against a local.
Of course the highlights of the trip were trying new foods and spending time with our brave, gracious hosts, Andrew and Alyssa. They took us to a range of local restaurants and encouraged us to sample everything from scallion pancakes and caramelized hawthorn berries on the street to the freshest Taiwanese noodles I've ever had to spicy Cantonese and Sichuan favorites. Then, when we tired of sauce-heavy Chinese food (even my fruit salad had a sauce), they treated us to the best of the west. I devoured the tastiest burger I've had all year in Xintiandi, a western-style shoppertainment center, slurped multiple glasses of fresh watermelon juice and stuffed myself at brunch at Azul in Shanghai's French Concession. We couldn't get over the quality of the blueberry pancakes and fluffy banana muffins. I also had a second course of huevos rancheros plus a fresh juice and a tea for a grand total of $18.
Yes, China offers eastern and western food and fun at every price range. As Andrew and Alyssa's colleagues have proudly confided to them, 'I've lived here for seven years without a word of Mandarin and I can get by just fine.' However, Andrew and Alyssa don't want to surround themselves with only western words and comforts and I'm so proud of them for that. Could I ever do the same? Having spent ten days in China, Mickey wound up with a tummy bug while I suffered a 120 volt culture shock. It's good to alter your routine, open your eyes to something new and learn how other people live. The Chinese may wear pajamas while not holding their boyfriends' hands on the street and actually prefer a squatty potty, but inside, I bet they're the same as me.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Instant Karma
Even though we are borrowing Chris and Jess's car, I decided that the train was the best way for my cousin James to get to the airport. Maybe this was my first mistake. Read on and see if you can pinpoint the moment that I went wrong.
Central Station is just far enough away that you need to get a ride if you're hoofin' it with a just-under-the-20-kg-limit suitcase, a carry-on and maybe a jacket or purse. James's luggage was modest in size and weight, but I opted for a cab anyway and phoned the concierge to call us one. Just five minutes later, the taxi driver buzzes to say he's downstairs. We meet him there about 90 seconds later, but somehow the meter reads $5.70. "What?!" I exclaim. "That's really rough." The driver assures me that it isn't and encourages me to read the square-shaped sticker on pricing. I skimmed it, but argued with him anyway, claiming that there's no way he had been waiting long enough to start the meter at $5.70.
The station couldn't be more than a mile and a half from our place, but it feels like it takes ages to get there. The meter races up to $13.80 by the time he stops the cab and he asks for an additional $2 on top of that. I refuse. I borrow James's money because I don't want to give this guy my fifty dollar bill. I hand him $13.80, the amount still shown on the meter. He starts yelling at me and refuses to open the trunk where James's suitcase is. Poor innocent James is listening to this guy rage about how he knows where I live and will charge me for fare evasion. I'm flustered, embarrassed, anxious.
As I attempt to get out of the cab and pull my bag along with me, my thumb gets stuck in the patent leather strap. My nail bends backward and immediately it starts to bleed and sting. Instant karma. I'm angry and in pain and James is still listening to this guy from inside the cab. We can't win. I give him the rest of the money and bang on the rear window, demanding that he unlock the trunk.
I bought James's train ticket, embarrassed that he had paid for an expensive ride made more so by my behavior, and washed my hands in the ladies room. I emerged with clean hands, but a messy conscience. I hugged James goodbye and hoped that memories of his trip to Sydney wouldn't be tarnished by the last 20 minutes of our time together.
This drama unfolded this morning and I haven't yet gotten over it. Some of us believe in a westernized notion of karma; what goes around, comes back around. When we have been unjustly treated, it is comforting to think that, some way, somehow the perpetrator will get his/her comeuppance. However, when it happened to me, I was shocked that what went around came back around fast enough to bite me in the... er, thumb, instantaneously.
I don't always believe in karma. Our friend was attacked here in Sydney two weeks ago by two young men who he had never met. They didn't want his laptop, nor did they want his money or credit cards; they just wanted to beat him up. This was terrifying to Mickey and me and all of our friends. Our friend hadn't provoked these guys, not with words nor with flashy clothes hinting at wealth. It happened in an ordinary neighborhood, in the middle of the day, near a train station. If it happened to him, our gentle yet strong friend, then it could happen to any of us.
It is indeed scary and terribly unfair that our universe doesn't operate according to karmic law. Those two guys physically hurt our friend, violated his sense of safety and ran away. Thankfully, justice stepped in for karma (or was it karma in the guise of justice?) and the police arrested one of the assailants the day after the attack. Our friend's blood was still on his shoes when they picked him up. Our friend identified this punk at the police station and the detectives were fairly confident that he'll be put away for a while.
Our friend's bruises have healed and he somehow manages to see the bright side of this dark day. "At least I still have my teeth," he said with a smile. Soon, the bruise under my thumb nail will fade too, but I hope I will have learned a lesson before it does. You can't explain certain acts of violence or tragedy; life is unfair. However, when you have the opportunity to be compassionate, generous and patient, you'll be better off if you take it.
Central Station is just far enough away that you need to get a ride if you're hoofin' it with a just-under-the-20-kg-limit suitcase, a carry-on and maybe a jacket or purse. James's luggage was modest in size and weight, but I opted for a cab anyway and phoned the concierge to call us one. Just five minutes later, the taxi driver buzzes to say he's downstairs. We meet him there about 90 seconds later, but somehow the meter reads $5.70. "What?!" I exclaim. "That's really rough." The driver assures me that it isn't and encourages me to read the square-shaped sticker on pricing. I skimmed it, but argued with him anyway, claiming that there's no way he had been waiting long enough to start the meter at $5.70.
The station couldn't be more than a mile and a half from our place, but it feels like it takes ages to get there. The meter races up to $13.80 by the time he stops the cab and he asks for an additional $2 on top of that. I refuse. I borrow James's money because I don't want to give this guy my fifty dollar bill. I hand him $13.80, the amount still shown on the meter. He starts yelling at me and refuses to open the trunk where James's suitcase is. Poor innocent James is listening to this guy rage about how he knows where I live and will charge me for fare evasion. I'm flustered, embarrassed, anxious.
As I attempt to get out of the cab and pull my bag along with me, my thumb gets stuck in the patent leather strap. My nail bends backward and immediately it starts to bleed and sting. Instant karma. I'm angry and in pain and James is still listening to this guy from inside the cab. We can't win. I give him the rest of the money and bang on the rear window, demanding that he unlock the trunk.
I bought James's train ticket, embarrassed that he had paid for an expensive ride made more so by my behavior, and washed my hands in the ladies room. I emerged with clean hands, but a messy conscience. I hugged James goodbye and hoped that memories of his trip to Sydney wouldn't be tarnished by the last 20 minutes of our time together.
This drama unfolded this morning and I haven't yet gotten over it. Some of us believe in a westernized notion of karma; what goes around, comes back around. When we have been unjustly treated, it is comforting to think that, some way, somehow the perpetrator will get his/her comeuppance. However, when it happened to me, I was shocked that what went around came back around fast enough to bite me in the... er, thumb, instantaneously.
I don't always believe in karma. Our friend was attacked here in Sydney two weeks ago by two young men who he had never met. They didn't want his laptop, nor did they want his money or credit cards; they just wanted to beat him up. This was terrifying to Mickey and me and all of our friends. Our friend hadn't provoked these guys, not with words nor with flashy clothes hinting at wealth. It happened in an ordinary neighborhood, in the middle of the day, near a train station. If it happened to him, our gentle yet strong friend, then it could happen to any of us.
It is indeed scary and terribly unfair that our universe doesn't operate according to karmic law. Those two guys physically hurt our friend, violated his sense of safety and ran away. Thankfully, justice stepped in for karma (or was it karma in the guise of justice?) and the police arrested one of the assailants the day after the attack. Our friend's blood was still on his shoes when they picked him up. Our friend identified this punk at the police station and the detectives were fairly confident that he'll be put away for a while.
Our friend's bruises have healed and he somehow manages to see the bright side of this dark day. "At least I still have my teeth," he said with a smile. Soon, the bruise under my thumb nail will fade too, but I hope I will have learned a lesson before it does. You can't explain certain acts of violence or tragedy; life is unfair. However, when you have the opportunity to be compassionate, generous and patient, you'll be better off if you take it.
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