Name:

Class Year : Senior

Major: BS Communication, International Relations Minor

Hometown: Port Orange, Florida

Career Goals: To be a diplomat or travel journalist

August

From the Southwest to the Northeast

I have had a splendid summer of vacations. I have walked the Great Wall in four different regions of China. I have eaten cow tripe, scorpions and one unlucky starfish. I have hiked the Grand Canyon in the rain and watched shooting stars in the Arizona desert. But, the trip up North…I just didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to show pictures. I didn’t want to relive it. I didn’t ever want to go on another family vacation.

To say we fought during the trip would be an understatement. We started battling from the moment we got on the airplane until the moment we left Dad in Prince Edward Island. We squabbled about everything from who was driving or navigating to whether we should avoid overheating the tires by pumping the breaks or riding them down Mount Washington.

These battles are not unusual, just unusual in intensity. Since I can remember, our family trips have always revolved around my historian father’s penchant for battlefields, battleships and family vacation battle-readiness. Early in the trip, we all armed ourselves, ready for combat with each other. It was gloves off with individuals versus individuals, pairs against pairs or my favorite, three against one. My father disarmed his hearing aides so he didn’t have to hear the one-sided backseat skirmishes with my 187 lb. brother versus my 114 lb. frame. My mother had a romance novel, a healthy dose of sleeping pills, and a good pair of ear plugs to ignore my father’s driving inabilities that left those of us in the back gripping onto our seatbelts. My brother took captive of our recently-acquired Garmin, the only mechanism capable of giving my father a stress aneurism. In an early battle for directional supremacy, he tactically drove us in literal circles until we were too dizzy to steady our own internal compasses. I just put a pillow between Jordan and myself and cranked up my Ipod.

In addition to four strong-willed personalities clashing, it also seemed I was the only one not excited about the trip. Perhaps it was the perpetual jet-lag from this summer or that I hadn’t had any alone time since I left for China. Perhaps I was just in a bad mood. Two weeks with my family in Canada just didn’t seem as exciting next to my individual trips to China and California. But, my family was relishing the opportunity to get out of Daytona and see the Northern lights and sights. For them, it was less about the vacation and more about experiencing something historical. Mom couldn’t wait to drive up Mount Washington and visit Prince Edward Island. For her, it was returning to her family history. Dad couldn’t wait to see Boston’s USS Constitution or walk me through the sight of the Boston Massacre. For him, it was re-introducing his family to history. Even my sarcastic, teenage mutant brother was excited about our Canadian adventures. He couldn’t wait to have his first legal drink in Canada. For him, it was about living history.

While still in Prescott, I couldn’t wait for the free vacation, though I was starting to miss my own bed. Along with my other travel ailments this summer, I had caught the travel bug. It could only be cured with another passport stamp before I had to go back to school and a real-world job. A small jaunt to visit Anne of Green Gables, my favorite childhood book, also was added to my “can’t miss/can’t wait” list. However, once en route to Boston, I just wanted the trip to be history.

But, eventually I did talk about the trip. I did show family friends the pictures and I just bought tickets for our next family vacation this upcoming summer to Africa. So, why the big turn around? Hindsight.

If hindsight is 50/50 than I had fun 50% of the time and the other half was spent defending my backseat territory. I can’t say the trip wasn’t miserable, but I can’t say I didn’t have fun. I can say that now looking back, this trip wasn’t as bad as our family felt it was. I can say it was a learning experience. We had to relearn about each other. I had been gone for two months. My brother loves to lock himself in his room and both my parents work. We had become less of a family and more like strangers. Though we had a battle during the day or evening, we called truces every so often. It was during those truces when the true fun happened.

After living in smog-filled China and dry-heat Arizona, waking up on Day Two to a fog covered lake just melted away my reservations about a family trip. I woke up at 6 a.m. to watch the sunrise (of course I didn’t mean to, but I was still jet-lagged), which was complemented by the bacon and egg smell of a traditional American breakfast that I had craved so much while in China. Later during the day, I became the only one to lock herself in her room accidentally when I broke the door handle. After breaking open the nailed shut windows that would make a fire-code cry, I sat on the peaked roof just long enough to readjust to a non-hectic life. And of course, get help down.

After my readjustment, the days just flowed from there. We drove up Mount Washington on Day Three, fulfilling one of Mom’s must-dos. The road was narrow, the car’s breaks overheated, and the air was frigid and thin, but I touched a cloud. Although we could only see to our outstretched hands, I watched my mother smile and join me over a cup of hot chocolate. In the summertime, remember? Her smile faded on the way home as Jordan snatched the Garmin again. He typed in shortest distance home because he was growing antsy and cruising for a bruising from me. Not too far from home, the Garmin suddenly sent us down Rabbit Road, a thickly mud-caked path past civilization and into backwoods territory. With encouragement from the boys in back, Dad revved the rented Grand Marquis’ engine and drove the car through the sludge. Mud flew into the opened windows as the squeals of joy erupted. With each pit growing larger and multiplying and our anxiety about pushing the beast out of the mud growing, my father turned the car around 200 ft. from the exit. Amidst groans of disappointment from the boys and my mother’s sigh of relief, we traveled back down Rabbit Road with the only visible locals shaking their heads. We got back onto the main road, mud dripping from our axle, and followed Garmin’s new directions. Along the new road, we passed the Rabbit Road exit. It may have been seemingly shorter, but heck we were driving a beast and none of us wanted to push up the unforeseen hill.

Next, on Day Five, came ghost hunting with long lost cousins at a hidden burial site across from our family’s lake house in Maine. We took our canoes and man-powered across in the pouring rain. After an hour we hadn’t spotted any spooks, but we sure collected rain water in our boats and rain gear. Already wet, we jumped into the warm lake water and lounged on the floating dock until well after dark. It continued to rain even after we had dried off and started to drink our homemade hot chocolate. Again hot chocolate in the summertime!

On Day Seven, we visited Boston and climbed aboard the USS Constitution, saw where the colonists dumped tea off a boat and shunned Fenway Park, where the Boston Red Sucks Sox play their version of baseball. But it was my walk with my father along the Freedom Trail that made my day. Dad and I had always bonded over history, but none more than my seventh grade history project on the Boston Massacre. After all these years, I still remember the victims’ names, order of their deaths, what happened and why they died. Although slightly morbid, it was a chance for me to talk with my father and test his historic knowledge. Picking up where we left off, he and I walked through rows of tombstones, looking at where John Hancock, Samuel Adams and Ben Franklin were buried. We took pictures of the joint burial plot of the Massacre victims. We even took a picture together on the spot where they were killed. Standing in Boston outside of the Old State House, it was my chance to again bond with my father.

Mom cried on Day Ten when we visited Campobello Island. In the early 1940s, my maternal grandparents escaped from war-torn England to this tiny island off of New Brunswick, Canada. My grandfather became the pastor of a little Baptist church on the island and my pregnant grandmother gave birth to the first of three Canadian born children, my mother not included. Mima and Papa died a few years back and my mother, the baby of the family, still misses them and craves the opportunity to walk in their footsteps whenever possible. Armed with a photograph and a basic location, we scouted out the church and parsonage where her family lived and worked. Along with the help of some locals, we found the church and even ran into a woman who was married by my grandfather. I don’t think this coincidence was on my mother’s “can’t miss” list, but walking with her through her parent’s footsteps sure made mine.

As the days continued and reached an end, I started to notice my family was on to something. Or at least on something. I took my brother to a local eatery for some Canadian cuisine and his first legal drink. I watched the Anne of Green Gables play with my mother and walked the cemeteries of Boston with my historian father. All of them had their own “can’t wait to see” items, and I couldn’t wait to be involved. Sure, we had plenty of fights, most of which were caused by the Garmin. But they became battles I was happy to lose. Or at least destined to lose because I was always outnumbered.

Whether it was looking for ghost in the woods with my cousins or walking slate-colored beaches in Maine listening to the waves crashing along with my brother’s commentary. Or walking downtown Prince Edward Island with Mom or morbidly scouting out historically-relevant spots with Dad. Throw in a few political epicenters and of course the ever-present Starbucks and it was an experience. Not an always enjoyable one, but nonetheless an experience. And just like history, it will never be forgotten.

Conclusion to my Blog

This was a summer to never been forgotten. I have written seven journal entries over ten weeks of travel: five weeks in ancient China, three weeks in arid Arizona and two weeks on the beautiful Northeast Coast. That is three countries and eight states with two new passport stamps. I lived in fifteen different beds of all sizes and comfort, but only spent four days in my own bed. I had seven different cases of medical ailments and a $705 phone bill from China. But, I have had experiences and memories that are priceless.

July

Arid Arizona and Combusting California

The dashboard temperature gauge said 110 degrees. I took a picture. Ten minutes later it said 114 degrees. I took another picture and sent it to my family. Three minutes later it said 118. I prayed the car wouldn’t overheat. I didn’t want to push.

Thus began my extremely hot trip to Arizona and weekend getaway to California. I have never lived in the land of overheating cars, cactus and coyotes. I have only twice visited the land of plastic surgery, Disneyland and the Governator. But, here I was unpacking for a three-week study trip to Prescott, Arizona, the redheaded stepchild of Embry-Riddle (according to my Daytona classmates).

My friends from Daytona laughed. They all asked, “Why would you transfer to Prescott?” It has all the sand, but no beach. It has all the heat, but no way of cooling off. Simple. After six years in Daytona, four at ERAU, I wanted out. Away from my comfort zone. Away from being deemed a “local.” Away from the beach and into the desert. I wanted my hair not to flatten when I left the house. I wanted to visit the Grand Canyon. I wanted to see a cactus outside of the Wal-Mart Lawn and Garden section.

There was so much I wanted out of my trip, but mostly I just wanted to keep China alive. I missed China from the moment I dragged my jetlagged behind off the airplane back into muggy Orlando. I had a feeling I would be homesick once I left my newly adopted country, so while still in China, I made arrangements to continue my Chinese courses at the Language Institute at Prescott.

My new roommates, Kui and Brett, both from the China trip, greeted me at Phoenix. Kui met me at the baggage claim while Brett drove the car around the circle, to prevent the ever present overheating. Brett, staying true to his strongly musically influenced California-self, pulled up, bumping some outrageous rap music.  “Oh gosh,” I thought. “I hope this is not going to be the soundtrack of this trip.” Then I got to thinking. What was the soundtrack going to be?

China had such a wide variety of music from Aladdin to Backstreet Boys to Micheal Buble. So in honor of Brett and his beloved state’s music scene, I have dedicated songs to our highs and lows of the three weeks out West. So, sync your Ipods and join me on my whirlwind Western withdrawal. 

As I said, I wasn’t ready to come back to Daytona when I arrived in mid-June. I felt something missing. My visa was expired and I couldn’t afford another bout of vaccinations or a plane ticket. Next best thing: Prescott, Arizona.

I recuperated for four days in Daytona and hopped an airplane back West. In those four days, I had just enough time to have my clothes washed, print out my boarding pass and have my records transferred to Prescott. I boarded that airplane with no intention of looking back, at least for three weeks.

After Brett finally turned down the music, I settled into the backseat of the Mustang. It felt good to be with my friends again. People who understood how China had changed me. People who could appreciate my inside jokes and incessant talk about Beijing. People who were also recuperating from our still present jet-lag. I was getting just what I needed.

Then there it was. As the Mustang sped down the Arizona highway doing 75mph (the speed limit), I saw my first live cactus. I was finally getting what I wanted.

I could see the stars. I mean I could actually see the stars. They twinkled in little fireballs above Brett and me as we laid on the campus track. We watched as a few stars glittered across the black abyss, only to disappear forever. I couldn’t even see a blue sky while in China and now I was watching stars streak across a sky.

But, it was the soundtrack, seemingly purring in unison, which really added something special.  Cicadas sang their lullabies to the hunting desert lizards. Wind whistled to the passing tumble weeds. But it was the howl in the distance that sent me running from the track. The guttural cries of coyotes echoed against Thumb Butte Mountain down into the Valley, sending shivers and concern down my spine. Just in the first day I found reason number one to leave Daytona. And of course the immediate track vicinity.

It is no surprise that I have only been to a few handfuls of rodeos in my life. I always wanted a horse, but was never one for mucking stalls. Nor was I ever one for sequined riding vests or manure-caked riding boots. I wanted Ralph Lauren and boat shoes.

However, I found myself lacing up my boat shoes and spending a school night amongst the cowboys and cowgirls of Prescott . Located about 10 minutes from school, this is the world’s oldest rodeo and home to Prescott’s Frontier Days. Since 1888, this corral has seen its share of cowboys, bull riders and the ever present rodeo royalty. After studying Chinese all day, I wasn’t really in the mood to investigate the rodeo’s claim to fame. Thankfully, I didn’t have to. Upon entering the corral, a man dressed in 1880’s-period clothing struck up a conversation with me. The self-proclaimed “gentleman” with his gimp (thanks to a recent fall during the last rodeo), grabbed my elbow and proceeded to lead me to his “high school sweetheart’s” concession stand. He offered me a beer, but if my mother taught me anything, it was never take a drink from a stranger. Especially at 5,368 feet above sea level.

And if living above my typical sea level taught me anything, I had learned altitude decreases your tolerance. Tolerance for the sun. Tolerance for alcohol. Tolerance for lung capacity. I became a burnt, one-beer, fish out of water. Even walking to class I felt like I had been smoking a pack a day since kindergarten. Sure, my hair stayed styled and my makeup stayed painted, but I had consumed so many bottles of water and Curel lotion by the end of the day, my pours were recycling what I had put in. The heat simply suffocated.

Declining the drink, I obliged his historical, but not all together histrionic, ramblings. He talked about the evening’s festivities and how the rodeo had seen a lot. After his talk and later viewing of the festivities from the safety of our VIP seating, I had seen my share of bull riding, bucking broncs and barrel racing that evening. It was a night of worldly proportions and we had a worldly amount of Chinese homework. After all, I figured only we spoke Chinese in the whole arena.

Speaking of Chinese, I did actually attend class. Although I was thrown into Chinese in China and forced to learn the language or not eat, this institute was ten times the intensity level. To help us relax during class, Zhan Lao Shi, the professor from my China trip, picked this lovesick song as our class song for the summer. She said it was very common in China and a choice song for karaoke. Think of it as China’s version of “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey.

After the end of week one, seven Starbuck’s coffees down, three textbooks scribbled in and a few tears later, I was rethinking my love for the Chinese language. I know I already speak the most difficult language, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to learn the second hardest. Sure, about 2 billion people speak the language. Sure, it is widely spoken in Asian business transactions. Sure, I had already put seven weeks in it. And by goodness, I was surely going to complete it. Just not all at once.

When I came home from China, I knew probably five characters. When I left Arizona, I knew about 100. Out of nearly 5000 Chinese characters, I feel like I accomplished a little bit when I came home in July. I just can’t stop believing eventually speaking Chinese is obtainable.

If you have ever met a Californian, you know they are proud of their state. If you are from California, you know you got it good. My lone male roommate, Brett, is our lone Californian. After living five weeks with us in China and two in Prescott with three girls, he needed some testosterone. After living for seven weeks with him, the girls needed a break. The Fourth of July weekend granted our wish.

It was hard to pick just one song for our ride to California. As one of the only states to have millions of songs written about it, I chose the song I had most recently heard at a concert and that guaranteed not to blow out our ears. The night before, while responsibly checking our Facebook and setting our status to “California here we come,” we all sent each other Bumper Stickers proclaiming our impending trip to the Golden State. Brett and I snuck out of language lab early, forced the girls to pack hastily and packed into Kui’s 1997 silver Blazer. Leaving our reversed Riddle Ratio in Arizona, we started our four hour road trip.

Road trips. They always start off excitedly for the first few minutes, blaring music to the tune of summer anticipation. But, once you start driving, everyone settles in for the long haul. We had all settled in with Kui at the wheel, Ashley navigating and Brett and I studying in the back. We had everything necessary for the weekend. Bathing suits for the California sun. Water for the radiator should it over heat. Goldfish and crackers for munchies. We were pretty well set.

However, we forgot our rain gear. While driving switchback mountain terrain on the outskirts of Prescott, we had a storm. Driving those roads is bad enough typically, but with the sideways rain and my penchant for car sickness, the excitement was intensified. Even at 30 mph, coming around blind corners into headlights and not being able to see in front made me wish I was riding shotgun. Seeing the drop offs made my heart only drop farther than those on our left side. But, the interesting part was watching the temperature in the desert plummet from 116 to 86 in about 10 minutes. After the storm, the temperature returned to its peak just as quickly.

Once we were out of treacherous terrain and back on straight roads, it was just that. Straight. Desert. Roads. We would pass through towns begging you not to blink as you passed through. We would be the only motorists, as well as only people, we saw for multiple miles. I hoped this would not be the time our car would overheat. There was just no where to walk to for help. We finally drove into California directly into the hottest place I have ever been, Blythe. When we stopped, it was 105 degrees at 1:30 p.m. When we left the store, it was 108 degrees at 1:38 p.m. Continuing up the valley, we saw the California wind turbines. I completely support and applaud alternative energy users, especially those who use renewable energy sources. My only question:  Why pay for turbines when the state could just pop a few of Hollywood’s finest?  There would sure be plenty of air rushing out to power one of these mechanisms. Just consider any of the celebutantes’ heads as untapped resources. It sure hasn’t been tapped by them.

The whirlwind days in California were like a rollercoaster. So, it only seemed logical to start the weekend off with a little rollercoaster action.  Although it was Six Flags and Fourth of July, because of the fires throughout Southern California, all firework shows had been banned. That didn’t stop us from spending the whole day sweating in the California sun and throwing our bodies around on steel looptie loops.

I’ve been to Six Flags on every coast, but I have never ridden a roller coaster that actually intimidated me.  Enter X. With fire cannons, 70’s rock music and an unusual seating construction, we literally faced the ground as we plummeted down off the first drop, only to be flipped back over to take another drop inverted. During the final turn, I felt the California heat intensify, but because we were backwards I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. A moment later, I watched the fire cannon blow incendiaries over passengers in the seats in front of me. I teased my redheaded riding mate that she had caught some fire in her hair. At least we got some form of fireworks on the ride.

We continued our fireworks quest into the next day directly to LA’s Chinatown. Kui, Brett and I saw familiar sights and heard a familiar language. We bought our favored Hi-Chew candy at the local convenience store. I picked up the paper lanterns I had forgotten in China. We had even re-practiced our Chinese and looked forward to ordering our lunch in Chinese. Unfortunately, we found the only Korean-run restaurant in the district. Nice try.

Next we tried to go to Huntington Beach, but the parking lots were full. Everyone in California was soaking up the rays so we grabbed some Taco Bell and retired back to Brett’s house. The rays are just the same in a private backyard pool as they are on a crowded, public beach.

The weekend was over. Brett had his renewed testosterone. We girls had new tans and new friends. So, back into the car we piled. A quick stop at Starbucks quickly put me asleep. I was happily dreaming in Chinese characters, when I heard English expletives from the front seat shortly before my head was slammed into the window I had been using for a pillow. The car twisted, threatening to flip over. The tires screeched as they slid on unforgiving pavement. I fussed with my seat belt, hoping to click it before we bit it. A few panicky seconds later, Brett regained control. Still half dreaming and a bit dazed, I saw a state trooper speed up the road in front of us. He had formerly been seated on the side of the road, but clocked the van in front of us speeding. In his infinite wisdom, he decided to drive out directly into on coming traffic, aka our Blazer, which by the way has the highest flip over rate. Great.

Suddenly, the trooper slowed down and pulled along side of us. He motioned to us something about “up ahead,” but we accepted this as an apology and quickly conversed about our near-collision experience. We watched the trooper flip on his lights and pull the van over up ahead. Suddenly, he jumped out of his car and into direct traffic again, aka our Blazer. Was this guy looking to die? He motioned again, this time to pull over. Thinking he is going to apologize, we waited as he wrote the family in front a ticket and they headed off on their merry way. He then walked up to the passenger window, asked for license and registration and told us we are getting a ticket for speeding. For speeding? You almost killed us. He looked at us stoically as we said “yes sir, no sir” and thanked him for the ticket and apologized for speeding. But, there was no apology from him. Just a quick signing of $300 dollars away and a set court date in a city two hours away from school. How convenient. Glad we could conveniently move out of your way so you could be Wonder Trooper, and pull over two cars at once. You want a gold star sticker?

Back in Prescott, I placed a major decision, not on a gold star sticker, but on a shooting star. After two days in Prescott, I had my pen ready to sign the transfer paperwork. The first section was completed and I had placed the paperwork in my backpack throughout my three weeks. I was getting what I wanted from Prescott. I just needed an answer.

Since China, I had become a spontaneous opportunist. So much had been placed before me as legitimate decisions and I had jumped on all. I had never lived away from my parents or gone away to college.  Now, I had gone to China as a spur in the moment. I planned to move to Arizona on a whim while in China. I nearly transferred during my second day in Prescott. If they offered the classes I needed for this fall (as well as my obscure Communications degree) I would be writing this blog to you from one of Prescott’s three Starbucks. But, I am not.

Port Orange is my home and ERAU Daytona Beach is my college. I have so many ties to Greek life, athletics, the Communications department, my family and friends. These are the people who showed me there is always a time for change. However, this was not the time for this type of change.

During my last weekend in Prescott, I sat on a friend’s back porch and watched my first shooting star. I wished for the wisdom on what to do. My cell phone lit up. HOME was calling. I didn’t answer the phone, but I answered another type of call back home.  Though I came here to get what I thought I wanted, I was just leaving what I really needed.  I miss my times spent in Prescott and the people I spent it with, but that is just one more superb memory. One day I might call Prescott home, but for now, I am going home to NASCAR, bikers, rednecks and the World’s Most Famous Beach.

P.S. I want to thank the Prescott faculty and staff for being so helpful in my initial arrival and for being understanding and patient in my indecision to transfer. It was just not the right time, but they really pulled for my transfer. I appreciate that.

July 28

Made it in China

As a new current student at Prescott enrolled in the Chinese Language Institute and living with two of my China travel mates (both write the blogs for Prescott), I can say my travel to China not only touched me physically, but mentally and emotionally.

I didn’t contract any of the weird diseases I had hyped myself up for. I didn’t end up in prison. I didn’t see any public executions or religious persecution while amongst the commoners. Nobody quoted old Mao sayings or wore grey and black Mao suits. Instead, my perceptions were severely altered. I contracted food poisoning from tasting the unique foods with no regrets. I nearly ended up in prison while enjoying a Wonder of the World. I heard deathly loud noises and smelled heavenly aromas. And the only people quoting Mao were those of us on the trip.

In the month since I left China, I have realized the magnitude of senses I encountered. But, with this China blog coming to an end, I wanted to wait until I was out of the country and had some time to grasp my last sense. From the close physical proximity of the Chinese people on my airplane going to China to the closeness I felt to the Chinese people as I returned to the States, touch is one of my most cherished senses.

A Throwback to Romance

On the last week in Qinhuangdao, our group was asked to speak to a group of British students about American culture and our university. Some students spoke about airplanes. Others spoke about religion. Nikki and I spoke about dating. Though we know enough about American dating, we felt like we were comparing a 1950s sock hop to the 1970s Woodstock when we researched dating with our Chinese language partners. When we brought up dating at the dinner table, the girls giggled and the guys blushed. They talked about how they planned on marrying the first boyfriend or girlfriend they dated. They would only hold hands and maybe kiss if they had been “going steady” for more than a year. Uh, what?

But, just because they do not show public displays of affection does not mean they do not closely interact with others. Asian cultures generally have a smaller “personal bubble.” I attribute it to being tightly packed in small places. Upon introduction, my language partners would stand toe-to-toe with me and speak nearly nose-to-nose. Others would stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the subway and during walk and talks. But, the most stunning aspect didn’t revolve around dating. Although the Chinese women are cautious to hold hands with the opposite gender, they will hold hands with the same gender. Nikki and I had noticed this at our first campus in Beijing, but it wasn’t until Xi An when I had female language partners that I really understood. My partners, right after meeting me, grabbed my arm and proceeded to lead me, by either arm or hand, across the campus for the remainder of the day. Nikki and I only grabbed each other’s hand on the trip if the other was going to get run over by a taxi. My personal bubble slowly became popped throughout the trip and I am glad. It was time to let some air out.

Tug-o-War

Chinese are impatient. I don’t mean they tap their foot if you take too long in the line. They will literally shove you out of the way to get into line quicker. The cars do not yield for pedestrians and lines are only for foreigners. With 2.6 billion inhabitants, physical space is a lucrative and expensive commodity. On a particularly cheery afternoon on the four-hour train ride from Qinhuangdao to Beijing in the lower class seating, I came down with my final freaky illness. I had a black tongue, severely upset stomach, a high fever, and had recently broken into head-to-toe hives. Subsequently, I spent much of the afternoon in the ill-kept train bathrooms. During stops in towns, about every twenty minutes, the train attendants would lock the bathroom doors. Because the train had no facilities to hold the waste underneath the car, unlike an airplane, the waste simply dropped while we were riding. To prevent it from piling up at the train stops (though it didn’t stop the smell), the attendants would lock the doors until we had pulled away from the station. However, after numerous trips to the bathroom, the attendants knew to open the bathrooms as soon as the car pulled away because I would be back, bent over and careful not to lose my footing. However, on one occasion of visiting the restroom, I was abruptly charged in on. I had been in the bathroom for less than a minute but planned on staying there for another twenty when a young man from the class car above mine began banging on the door to the bathroom. In his increasing fury, he actually dislodged the door and told me to get out. I am sure this is not common practice, but I was so alarmed I decided to take Pepto-Bismol (the reason my tongue had turned black) and hope for the best. After all, I had outstayed my welcome in the train car bathroom and we were coming up on another stop.

Tenacious V.

I love shopping, especially at discount prices. I play the retail game. After working in popular clothing stores, I know everything is marked up a 100% and then slowly lowered so the consumer feels they are getting a great deal. But, in China, you set your own price. As my Chinese improved, so did my perceived discounts. Our ability to bargain actually became a bragging topic on long bus rides.

I never had much to brag about. I am terrible at bargaining, especially when I feel like I am insulting the person by continuously offering a ridiculously low price. But, bargain, bargain, bargain. The vendors may look sad and desperate, but they are sly. They know the value of the dollar to yuan and will even translate the price. They speak multiple languages so trying to argue with them in another one will only leave you flabbergasted. Our group of seven spoke eleven different languages ranging from Icelandic to Hawaiian. For those of us who spoke European languages, attempting to mislead the vendors about our nationality only made it worse for us. The Euro is even stronger than the dollar and the vendors’ French and German were better than mine.

They also will stop at nothing to make a sale. While walking the Great Wall, I heard different languages and numerous dialects, none of which resembled our American. Then, out of nowhere came “Lookie, Lookie, Lookie, very cheap price, American lookie”. And thus started my vendor experiences. This section of the wall was steep, but the vendors had adapted. Their tables were makeshift and the vendors could paint, assemble and tinker at 45 degree angles. Impressive, yes. Expensive, well no, if we hadn’t bought everything we saw that day.

After taking a few days to recoup our financial losses, we ventured to Wangfujing, one of the most famous streets in Beijing. On this day, I ate starfish, scorpion and cow tripe. My luck with food had been bittersweet, so I tried my hand at shopping. Thanks to recent class work on shopping, I had slowly become decent at bargaining in Chinese. Prices just seemed to melt away, but so did my money. I still had presents to buy, so I decided to be frugal. I spotted a black camera that would be a perfect gift for my photographer uncle. The camera was a film loader and had to be rewound by a hand crank. The vendor spotted my interest and the battle began. “duo shao qian, (how much does it cost)?” I asked. “Wu kuài, (500 yuan)”, she said. “Oh, tai gui le, (too much),” I said. “Very old,” she said in English, “Too low, very old.” I shook my head and started to walk away when she reached for me. Well, it wasn’t just a touch. I was accosted. She grabbed my arm, after refusing my offer of 100 yuan and continued to explain that is was very old and a collectible. I looked around, seeing multitudes of broken, “old” cameras and wanted to try my new-found talent elsewhere. But, she wouldn’t let go. As she pulled harder, my smile quickly faded and I started to resort back to English. I told her that I could get a working one for cheaper, but she tugged harder. April, one of my travel partners, and Chinese herself, stepped in to help out my Chinese vocabulary. But, the woman would not relent. A few choice American words escaped my mouth as I was yanked by the vendor and April, now gripping my right arm. Our boys also stepped in as the woman’s partner helped her hold onto my left arm. My right side, with the help of two boys and April pulled harder, releasing me from the vendors’ grips. I never did buy a camera. I may have wanted a camera that day, but I wished instead someone had been snapping a camera.

“Plastic Money”

Following our adventures with vendors at the Great Wall, we headed to the Ming Tombs. It had been 90 degrees and 110% humidity during our climb and nothing had changed. Our excitement that morning had led to sore muscles, blistered feet and some amazing purchases, experiences and photos. Although utterly exhausted and needing to beat the afternoon showers, we craved more. The bus was cramped and smelled like dirty socks. My stomach was curdling from the under-cooked chicken feet I consumed in between stops, but we were all in high spirits and singing Disney songs.

As we pulled up to the entrance, I noticed a man dressed in tattered military uniform, Mao hat and smiling enthusiastically at the approaching bus. He tottered over as we pulled up, banging on the windows and saying something in Chinese. He helped the ladies off the bus, offering his hand and a crooked smile. As I got off he grabbed my hand and pointed to my shirt. A little uncomfortable and still unsure of Chinese culture, I accepted his hand and walked towards the entrance. He followed me, professing something, but I was still confused. However, through the language barrier, I realized he wasn’t admiring my shirt. He wanted my nearly empty bottle of water. I assumed he wanted something to drink, so I handed it to him. He gestured for me to finish it and I complied. When I was done, I handed him the bottle. Americans are used to the term “plastic money” referring to credit cards. However, in China, Visa is still accepted but there are other and more widely recognized and discarded types: plastic bottles.

China has a built-in recycling program. These discarded bottles are returned for a meager profit, earning the collector a “free” income. For many professional trash collectors, this is their only source of income. Shanghai recently introduced a machine to recycle bottles and spit out 0.10 yuan pieces approximately 3 cents. This project intends to reduce waste collectors and improve environmental awareness, but it is producing an unofficial workforce in a country with a large class divide.

Because we were told not to drink the water, we bought large cases of bottled water to keep in our rooms. This meant we went through a lot of bottles during the day. I would save them and pass them out when we would go to main tourist sites, earning me the mocking nickname “Humanitarian Heather” by my group. I had collected nearly 30 bottles one morning during our morning class and transported them with me on our field trip to Tiananmen Square. I spotted a woman who seemed to be digging in the trash and as I handed them to her, I felt myself being tugged from another direction. I looked up to see a man run from another trash bin and start stealing the bottles from my hand. I grabbed a few out, much to his dismay, and handed them to the old woman before he took off with the bag. I shook it off, but realized this may have been his only way of eating for the day.

I continued to people-watch, partially for fear of being accosted again. I saw people reduced to pick pocketing. Children begging next to their grandparents. Elderly pulling half-eaten popsicles out of the garbage to savor the lost flavor of childhood. I realized my bottles could help reduce waste in the environment, but they could also help reduce pain in a person’s environment.

Massage night

The dollar goes far in China and it took us directly to the local massage parlor in Beijing following our trek on the Great Wall. The first back massages Nikki, Brett and I had had been pretty successful, relieving the tension of living with sixteen very different individuals and adjusting to a new culture. The following week before we left Beijing, we decided to go again. The sketchy, two-story parlor, located hidden behind a guard and an elevator ride, beckoned our bemoaned bodies to be rubbed. Because we didn’t want to be separated, we picked a foot massage, which traditionally stays below the belt.

After greeting the door guard, he motioned for us to get on the elevator destined for the second floor. As the doors opened, we were warmly greeted seemingly by the whole staff. “Well, this is a nice start,” I said, fondly remembering our back massages. The owner spoke English and led us to a room. She handed us pajama like outfits and told us to change and lay down on the beds. She turned on the Chinese television and brought us water. Our attendants entered next, bringing in wooden bowls of hot water. They placed our feet in the bowls and started massaging our feet. Then they started up our legs. Then to our waists. Suddenly, the massage left tradition.

The three of us started flashing concerned glances and uncomfortable grunts. Nikki’s attendant was seated behind her and had Nikki’s arms twisted around her own back. A 6’3 Brett was pulled backwards over his 5 foot massage therapist’s knees and having his back cracked. My 5’4 Chinese attendant with crooked teeth giggled, pulling my toes and fingers out of socket, like he knew our howls of pain were enjoyable. All the while they spoke Chinese and we cried in English.

For an hour and a half, our attendants twisted and prodded our bodies in ways unnatural to the Western world. Now, Nikki and I have been cheerleaders for a decade, but the contortions slowly became more painful and awkward. As I was laying there having my body manipulated into the Olympic rings, I was quickly searching for “rape” in my phrasebook. The phrasebook, considered our Bible during the trip, failed to produce the correct phrases for moments such as this. Universally understood pain howls seemed to only urge on our attendants and the intensity quickly escaladed with the finale. Our attendants left, bringing back warmed towels and two plastic mats. Nikki and my attendants laid out the mats on our backs and placed the warm towels on top of the mats. They were hot, and I was thankful for the mat. However, Brett didn’t have a mat. His attendant reared back, slapping the hot towel upon his pale, bare back. He let out a shrill schoolgirl scream much to the amusement of our attendants. Then, it was done. We thanked the attendants, paid and hobbled to the elevator. We walked the three blocks back to the hotel crooked and leaning on each other. Crawling into plywood-hard beds was our happy ending.

Great Wall Barricade

I had to wait to write about my most amazing touch experience until I was well out of the country. I fully plan on visiting again and didn’t want my future visa revoked for my antics.

The Great Wall was built to keep out outsiders and did a decent job of keeping out most. But, it was no match for determined American college students. During one of our last days in China, we went to a slowly decaying section of the Great Wall outside of Qinhuangdao. Thus far we had remained on the other side of a Chinese prison fence, so we figured this was our last chance to jump one. There was no sign posted, but the lack of accessibility insinuated our restriction. Slowly we snaked our way around the barricade, gripping onto thousand-year-old, crumbing rock over a 40 foot drop. Once we climbed around the walled off area, we ran. I mean we hauled it up a sheer face of moldering and unstable rock for about 100 yards. We all quickly grabbed the photo opportunity to be the only one photographed on the wall and then, rather loudly, kept ascending. Then, panting and trying to catch our footing, the ten of us future jailbirds caught a glimpse from the top. Overlooking the valley, we saw a sight most people, unless tempting the law, would never see. A brown and green patchwork quilted the countryside. Dirt roads dotted the landscape, separating farmland and pastures from rural housing. A setting sun brightened portions and shadowed others. Our uninhibited view lasted just long enough to snap a photo.

On the way down I noticed I had something wedged in my shoe. A few pieces of the wall, probably dislodged from my sneaker’s insole, had gotten caught in my shoe. At least that is what would have been my alibi at customs when they asked why I had pieces of rock.

Advice Acquired:

Although I ignored the “advice” not to trespass on the Great Wall, I acquired my own advice during the trip. All of these, though self-explanatory and seemingly common sense, failed me when I most needed them. Hopefully, your common sense will guide you better than mine.

• Eat at the vendors with the most people in line.
• Don’t drink the water or eat the fresh fruit no matter how appetizing they look after a long trek up a mountain.
• If a Chinese restaurant doesn’t have Chinese characters, it means no Chinese people go there and you shouldn’t either.
• When you cross the street, don’t look both ways. It will only scare you.
• When driving in a taxi, be sure to enunciate your location. Then close your eyes and hold on tight.
• Don’t leave home without a phrasebook. You never know when you will need to say “Easy Tiger” (mai dian lai, in case you needed to know).
• Bring toilet paper and baby wipes. Then pack extra.
• Don’t wear flip flops in outhouses.
• White wine in China is “lighter fluid” in the United States.
• Argue with EVERYONE about the price. But, argue in Chinese for better results.
• Remember the old adage “If everyone was jumping off a bridge, would you do it?” Shake your head yes and jump.
• Learn enough Chinese to read the signs. Forget enough Chinese when you get caught climbing the Great Wall. After all, you only live once.

Reality Check

Nikki and I arrived back to the United States via San Francisco on June 16. I was so happy to hear English again; I almost hugged the customs guard. He, seemingly not amused by my relief to hear English, asked me what I was carrying. “Well”, I thought “I have those new strands of pearls in my new fake Gucci bag, a high fever, two Chinese paintings, a stomach virus, Hi-Chews, and hives from taking too many anti-biotics.” But, I really brought home more than that: memories.

The hardest memory was all of us sitting in Nikki and my room the night before former strangers turned new friends started filing out of Beijing back to the reality we left. Some back to graduate, one from high school. Some to start college. Some to finish college. Others to find jobs. Most scattered to the far reaches of the world. We have all these amazing future trips planned to Iceland, Vietnam and Egypt, some which will happen and others which will not.

But, the trip that did happen was to China. One that none of us will ever forget and I did it all.

I came. I tasted. I saw. I heard. I smelled. But most of all, I was touched.

June

June 25

If China was a scratch and sniff sticker, it would smell like rotten fish, sour perspiration and brief whiffs of roses and fresh bread. There is no other way to explain in more complex adjectives the smell of China. Basically, it smelled. It didn’t always smell badly, but it always packed a powerful scent. And unlike taste, sight and sound, smell is not an easy sense to disband.

My roommate, a fellow China study abroad participant, told me I was being too negative about my Chinese experience in my past blogs. I meant to be sarcastic, but I guess that didn’t get emphasized. So, as a disclaimer, by no means am I putting down the country. The people were always welcoming and the scenery was beautiful, but there are some smells in the country that are foreign to Americans. It is just my goal to prepare future visitors for an unbiased smell of the country.

So, this is going to be a pretty blunt entry. I figured I would give the worst cases first and end with the best. To provide a neutral description of the country’s odor, I created a ranking system to rank worst to best smells of China. Shall we call it the “rank ranking” system? 10 represents the most offensive smells, 5 represents a neither appealing nor appalling scent and 1 represents the most pleasing aroma. After all, there is no reason to Febreeze the entire country.

Rank Ranking #10

The only bad thing about climbing a 6900 foot mountain and ingesting two liters of lukewarm water along the way: finding a bathroom. Not just any bathroom. A Western bathroom. Sure, there were plenty of “natural” places along the way, some occupied and overly well-lit. But, after watching numerous other adventurers’ adventure off into the commonly known, I opted to hold it until we reached base camp. After six hours of this bladder control, we finally reached the bottom and I was directed to a freestanding 20 x 10 concrete building, with little holes for windows. The local “squat pot” appeared to have been around since the mountain was a hill. With urgency in my steps, I shoved toilet paper in my bag and up my nose. However, I forgot that smell can also be tasted. {A little side note to future China travelers: Toilet paper is a luxury and should be bought in bulk before embarking. Wet naps work the best, but camping rolls also played a large role towards the end of the trip. See Rank Ranking #6.} Upon entering the room, I was hit with reasons against resting in this room. There is no need to get explicit with the smell description, but it had not been cleaned since the Cultural Revolution and the Xi An heat and humidity had crept in among the door-less stalls. Get my drift?

Having been in China for three weeks at this point, I had perfected the squat pot technique. Basically, set your footing, squat, wish you were a guy and hope you don’t topple over. But, as I looked around and wondered how certain smears had made it to the ceiling, my body ached for me to leave. I had gotten my britches to my knees when I started to topple. I stepped backwards to catch my balance and immediately realized my mistake. The hole may not have been deep, but its 45 degree trough-like slope opening to the outside swallowed my foot. As I tried to grab my senses from either vomiting or crying, I cursed having changed into flip flops after the mountain climb. I hastily ran outside, amidst screams of terror from the men’s side. My current roommate was simply experiencing the male equivalent of what I was hobbling away from. Now downwind of the building, I removed my shoes in one swift kick and in the same motion smeared my remaining Purell on my little piggies. I feared a good douse of Febreeze and some bleach would not resuscitate my flip flops, so I left them. Now barefoot and staggering to the bus, I figured I had held it for six hours. What would another two hours hurt?

Rank Ranking # 9

When I was packing, I kept worrying that I had left something. Shirts. Check. Disposable Flip Flops. Check. My Pharmacy. Check. It wasn’t until I quadruple checked my luggage hours before my flight that I realized I had forgotten to pack jeans. However, upon arrival, I learned that if I was about two decades younger, my forgotten pants wouldn’t matter: Children in China do not wear pants. Well, they do wear a type of pants, just crotch-less and for everyone to notice. But, NO ONE else noticed. I felt terrible thinking I was staring at these half naked little children. I grabbed my professor, hoping that this wasn’t the latest toddler trend.

“Why no pants,” I asked, gesturing to the bouncing two-year-old. I could see I had perplexed my professor. “But, they are wearing pants,” she replied, cocking her head so slightly to give me the “are you okay” non-verbal cue. She then caught my drift as I caught a whiff of something not so pleasant. The same child I had been watching had squatted in the middle of the sidewalk and was relieving himself of his midmorning bottle. My eyes grew large as my professor giggled. The child’s parents turned towards me and I blushed hoping I wasn’t creating another international incident. According to professor, diapers have only recently been introduced to China, starting in the 1980s. As with any new Western inventions, diapers are expensive, so parents continue the old fashion way of potty training. The only difference: no potty. Our Chinese textbook explained that parents whistle like trickling water, which encourages children as young as 4 months to start going potty. It is not a bad idea for saving money, but just be careful of the little puddle outside your doorstep. It didn’t rain last night.

Rank Ranking # 8

I am blessed to be 5’2, a traditionally average height for Chinese people. However, with the introduction of McDonald’s and other Western foods, not only the Chinese waistline grew, but also their height. On my first day on a Beijing subway, my short stature blessed me directly into the unshaven armpit of the woman next to me. She was my language partner, but I learned more than her name and where she was from that day. I learned Chinese, especially the older generation, do not typically wear deodorant, nor do they shave their armpits or legs. I smiled, not wanting to show my utter shock or utter my condolences. I wiggled my nose like Samantha on Bewitched and looked down at the floor. This was a hairy situation where no comment was safe.

Rank Ranking # 7

Smoking is widely popular in China and allowed in hotel rooms and restaurants. Besides being terrible for people’s health, it also creates a terrible residual smell. Our first hotel in Beijing, though recently built, allowed all hotel patrons to smoke in their rooms. Because of air conditioning restrictions, these patrons would leave their hotel room doors open, ventilating the hallway with their cancer stick smoke. Restaurants and bars, like Propaganda, would also smoke out patrons like a beekeeper to his hive. But, surprisingly, public transportation restricted lighting up. They had signs in English and Chinese saying “No Smoking.” Perhaps the cabbies should have allowed smoking in their cabs. It was the one and only time I felt the utter urge for one.

Rank Ranking # 6

Fish. It is a staple of Chinese culinary tradition. And it is not just any fish, but fresh fish. Nearly every restaurant boasts fish tanks, complete with live catches of all varieties. Once we reached Qinhuangdao, the stench of fish had dulled to our noses. However, the floor to ceiling fish tank in our hotel revitalized the smell. This same hotel also ran out of toilet paper for four days, quickly diminishing our provisions saved for other squat pot occasions. The second floor restaurant brought in so many options that they even had Styrofoam boxes filled with frozen or sometimes live crustacean catches. One morning while gathering for class in the lobby and wiping away my sleep, I noticed something red scampering across the floor. Was Ariel’s little friend Sebastian attempting to escape? I nudged Nikki who giggled. Our giggling attracted Sebastian’s captors, who picked him up by his tail and tossed him back, closing the lid to prevent further escape. I kind of felt guilty eating little lobsters the following night, knowing that I may be eating Sebastian. He may not have smelled great, but he sure tasted fabulous.

Rank Ranking # 5

Vendor food was bittersweet for me, but the smell was also bitter and sweet. Because of the lower sanitary conditions and lack of adequate trash removal, food and rubbish usually cook next to each other. As the cooks cooked the meats, it smelled like a backyard BBQ for Fourth of July. However, with the sun beaming on the proteins, it cooked the rotten trash situated next to the grill. Smoke rising from simmering steak cuts added a smoky flavor to the meats, but the taste of the day old fish in the trash can also infused. I guess there was no need for artificial flavoring.

Rank Ranking # 4

One of my favorite sites in Beijing was the Summer Palace. Situated on 2.9 square kilometers of land and water, it was recognized by UNESCO as an “outstanding expression of the creative art of Chinese landscape garden design, incorporating the works of humankind and nature in a harmonious whole.” The main focal point and the best view of the entire Palace is from the Tower of the Buddhist Incense. Rested on the peak overlooking Kunming Lake, the Tower of the Buddhist Incense houses an image of Amita Buddha. Imposing at 41 meters high, the shrine provided a place for the royal family to worship and burn incense. Unlike the smoke in the hotel, incense releases a flavored smoke used in many religious ceremonies and for medicinal purposes. The burning incense trend later reappeared along the hike up Hua-Shan when we ran into little shrines. The smell of cinnamon, jasmine and sandalwood would waft down the hill, announcing the temple before we even reached it. I never have been a big fan of Bath and Body Works, but this country knows how to work manufactured aromas.

Rank Ranking # 3

According to a popular song by Outkast “roses really smell like poo.” Well, if this is true, then Qinhuangdao has some smelly roses. During a stroll through the Dong Bei Da Xue campus, I took time out of my Chinese classes to stop and smell the roses. While cliché and often ignored, it really relaxed me. Brilliant colors of reds, whites and yellows like the Chinese flag dominated the garden landscape. Bees buzzed around and pollinated to keep the roses flourishing. The smell wafted in and out of our classroom building, allowing me a longer rose appreciation moment. I am sure grateful the gardens did not smell like the Xi An outhouse.

Rank Ranking # 2

In Qinhuangdao, the hotel offered an American-style breakfast. Looking forward to being rid of chow mien, fried rice and hot Tang, I actually got up before class and ventured to the café. But, an American style breakfast I did not find. Placed before us were fried eggs, instant coffee and SPAM. Instead of returning to World War II era rationing, we found a local bakery aptly located next to the Happy Café, a true American-style restaurant. Aromas of freshly baked breads and cookies mixed with ice creams of foreign flavors like green tea, pea, green bean and corn, and filled the crowded, uneven sidewalks of Qinhuangdao. In rows of Plexiglas display cases were sourdough, cakes and sweet pastries. From that point, the bakery became a staple of our breakfast. It was something we recognized and even if we did not, we could assume it was good. In addition to a breakfast haven, we used the bakery for our birthday shopping. When one of the guys on our trip turned twenty-two, we bought a birthday cake. It was so hardened by chocolate and excessively sweet, it could only be eaten in petite pieces. But, after blowing out candles and starting to eat, it reminded us of the home we would soon see. Just a little piece of chocolaty home.

Rank Ranking # 1

I was beginning to grow homesick by the end of the trip, so it is no surprise Qinhuangdao was my favorite stop. A beachside village with sweet people and salty air. Being from Florida for the last six years, it felt a bit like home. After being landlocked for three weeks, I just wanted to see the beach. I ran across the tan, gritty sand and tip-toed into the Pacific Ocean. The beach smelt crisply of salt and fish. The air carried whiffs of tanning lotions on the visiting Russians. Their skin was near transparent or tomato red and they were the only people wearing bathing suits on the beach. Though atypical everywhere else, most Chinese will go to the beach fully dressed and wade in the water up to their knees. A fair complexion is prized so tanning is shunned. But I soaked in the sun. And the smell. Nothing is better than the smell of home.

The smells were as diverse as the people who produced the smells. From the squat pot fiasco to the intoxicating smell of the Pacific Ocean, I tremendously looked forward to my “normal” aromas from the East Coast. Now back in the United States, I actually miss the smells. But, it sure was nice to get a new pair of flip flops.

June 2008

Ever had one of those falling dreams where you suddenly jolt and realize you are just in bed. You look around and everything is silent. The experience leaves you quite a bit shaken. Well, this is how I would describe our third and final stop, Qinhuangdao. After traveling through bustling Beijing and antsy Xi An, Qinhuangdao was a sudden jolt of silence and solitude. Though not without its share of familiar noises like excessive car horn usage, yelling vendors and the delicate dips and tones of the Chinese language, it had the luxury of being more rural and located by the ocean. Located a four-hour train ride north of Beijing, this historical seaside port and resort is known for its pearls, seafood and summer residents, such as the late Premier Mao Zedong. The city’s location also supplied sounds of seagulls, beaching waves and giggling residents. Although it may not make sense to discuss the sense of sound in Qinhuangdao, sometimes the absence of sound in one city makes us realize the sounds we heard and might have missed in others.

Beijing Beeping

Upon arrival to Beijing, our group was inundated with noise. Whether it was from the upset passengers on our flight, the busy lost luggage counter clerk, the two money exchange ladies or the fast paced taxi drivers, our ringing ears were overwhelmed. Even our arrival was welcomed by a million car chorus of car horns extraordinaire. Well, actually, our driver just wanted to get to our hotel quickly and since he was the biggest, we honked the loudest. And so we were introduced to the game of car versus pedestrian, a seemingly daily Chinese tradition. To play, you must either be casually walking across the street or be madly gripping the steering wheel of a speeding car. Check. Now, if you are the pedestrian, be sure to ignore all crosswalk signs and don’t look both ways when you cross the road. After all, the pedestrian has the right of way. Right? If you are a taxi driver, be sure to swerve in and out of traffic belligerently, honking your horn at anything and everything within a city-wide radius. Pull up closely to cyclists and blare your horn as you cut them off. Aim directly for the elderly couple or the woman with the toddler. But, be sure to act nonchalant and ignore the pleas from your passengers to slow down. After all, once you drop them off they will become pedestrians and potential targets.

After a while, amongst this near insanity of drivers and braveness of pedestrians, you begin to relax. As a pedestrian, you learn to run. I mean haul your behind so fast you would think you were qualifying last minute for the Olympics. I became so good at jay-walking I even walked in front of the Chinese. Walking is not the time to be timid in China. As a passenger, there were a few times I thought either I or the pedestrian would be killed. Once, the driver didn’t even honk until he had bumped the pedestrian. Unscathed and unphased, the pedestrian looked sourly at the driver and continued walking into traffic. And even if traffic is at a standstill and there is no chance of moving for awhile, the taxi drivers will continue to blow those horns like they have a quota to fill. This chorus continues well into the night, even after taxi service had stopped. I guess patience is no longer a virtue. While sitting in the back, since I nearly refused to ride in the front, I thought, “Whatever happened to turning up the radio in traffic and settling in to figure out what the license plate of the driver in front really means?”

Beijing Building

In addition to the sporadic meeting of car horn quota, the incessant noise of jackhammers, reversing sirens and cranes filled the day and nighttime air. It is no secret, at least not a quiet secret that the country is in the midst of preparation for the Summer Olympics, and no city more so than Beijing. Local Chinese joke that the Chinese national bird has become the construction crane. All over the city, these national birds are constructing buildings including their own “Bird’s Nest,” a steal woven stadium where the Olympic opening and closing events will take place. The National Stadium, the building's actual name, will also host the track and field events and the soccer finals in its 2.8 million-square-foot, 91,000-seat stadium. In addition to Olympic site construction, China is scrambling to create a cleaner ambiance and smoother infrastructure in downtown Beijing. During our first two weeks in Beijing, construction cluttered our pathways. We watched as new sidewalks were put in, parking lots were constructed and hutongs were torn down. Destruction of these traditionally single-story neighborhoods of homes from China’s dynastic period made way to the construction of high rises, leaving rubble of oven-baked bricks to resemble a war zone. Hutongs, though increasingly disappearing, now house small boutiques and night-life scenes.

Once the dust had settled and we returned two weeks later, we had to learn an entirely new Beijing. In anticipation of heavy public transportation use, the subway grid had changed and we now had to herd like cattle through numerous turnstiles and barricades. The Olympic weightlifting compound located across the street from our Beihang hotel now had newly-bricked sidewalks and white plastic tents covering all the entrances. But what fun would it be if we actually knew what we were doing in China?

Dance Dance REVOLUTION

It was in one of the hutongs that our group stumbled upon Propaganda, a three-story nightclub aimed at foreign tourists. Our group was really just looking for a way to unwind from two weeks worth of classes and immersion and we picked the right place. The top floors housed a restaurant/bar, but most of the patrons crammed into the bottom-level dance floor. The dance floor, which more resembled a basement, had exposed concrete walls covered in the club’s namesake Chinese propaganda and a DJ spinning American tunes from two years ago. Though it was a dance floor, it became more of a mosh pit, with the few Chinese patrons jumping up and down to their favorite songs. When a more recent song came on that actually had choreography, we taught the locals the “Soulja Boy.” But, the locals were few and far between amongst the patrons. Though the staff and DJ were Chinese, it took us just a moment to notice that we were mostly in the company of our fellow countrymen. It was a relief to hear English from people other than those in our group. After a few hours, we had almost forgotten we were in China until we stepped outside into the street filled with Chinese revelers catching 2 a.m. snacks from street vendors and sounds of honking taxis and demolition crews.

Loogie Launches

Not all the sounds of the city were welcomed or humorous. Before I had left, I had been told to wear close-toed shoes because the streets were disgusting. I assumed that meant there would be garbage strewn streets and other discarded rubbish. But early in the trip I cursed being a Floridian and staying true to my flip-flop roots. Before my U.S. departure, I bought a pair of new Rainbows for my trip because I knew they would be comfortable walking shoes and would go with every outfit I packed (Yeah, I know. I am a girl.) But, when the first random Beijing cabbie spit on my freshly manicured toes, I hoped my numerous antibiotics would protect me and that he had good dental insurance for his soon-to-be lost teeth. However, lack of manners can be overlooked in a country filled with people choking down dust and pollution-infused air. No wonder they are congested. Even after only a few days, we also found ourselves following the Chinese custom of spitting and clearing throats. The little mucus deposits multiplied on the busy streets and sidewalks like gum stuck under a high school desk. I can’t begin to tell you how nasty it is to listen to someone clear their throat and only hope he or she hits the targeted ground and not the foot covering the ground.

Street Vendor Surprise

I have had a very love/hate relationship with the Chinese street vendors throughout my trip. Sure their food was cheap and readily available, but despite being grateful for some lost weight, they didn’t quite pass my health inspection or animal rights code to be my main source of nourishment. But, nonetheless, the rest of the group would drag me along to their meals, leaving me to just listen in on the excitement. I have discussed the taste, but there is also a distinct sound of a street vendor. First, you have the preparation sounds. There is of course the chopping of the vegetables, popping of the cooking oil and the occasional talk of what type of meat is available tonight. But, there is also the swift, umm, dispatch of formerly fresh and swimming meat as was the case when I accidentally had a craving for fish. The vendor, seeing my curiosity and video camera, grabbed the fish out of a water-filled cart, smacked it over the head twice with a wooden 2 x 4 and started prepping the meat. Through shocked eyes and a slack jaw, I looked down past the fish only to notice how handy that Tide-to-Go my mother had packed would become when I could finally clean the new red spots off my white polo. Through my grimace, he began removing the fish scales with a tool that looked much like a foot scrapper used for a pedicure. Following the spitting incident I had considered getting a pedicure, but suddenly I didn’t feel it was necessary. As I gathered myself and my lost appetite, I also thought being a vegetarian wasn’t such a ghastly idea.

The next common vendor sound is the bubbling of the oil and sizzle of the meat on the grill. It is always a good sound of cooking meat because all too often I found myself curled up because of this forgotten step. Finally, the last sound is that of crying. I am talking hunched over, sobbing, with snot running out your nose, crying. When I told my friends I was going to China, they all said, “Careful of the meat. They will serve you dog.” Already through most of the trip I had learned that many of my preconceived notions of China, as well as some wild stereotypes of Americans, had been debunked. My favorite Chinese concept of the Americans was we were “all a little crazy and probably should be medicated.” During a conversation with one of my language partners, he blurted out he thought “Americans are dangerous” because “they own guns and shoot the guns every morning.” I sure don’t fit that characteristic, nor does anyone that I know, but then again I thought all Chinese were short (I must have overlooked Shanghai basketball star, Yao Ming). And I thought that eating dog, widely considered a delicacy in China, was also a misconception. That was until I saw a cooked one smiling at me and I cried. I am talking hunched over, sobbing, with snot running out your nose, crying. As the vendor laughed and tried to move Lassie closer to me, I buried my face into my hands and hoped for better. I suddenly craved fish, but we all now how well that craving turned out. Again, I cried. Now, where was that medication?

Flash. Bang.

The day after we climbed Mount Hua in Xi An, the group had settled in for a bit of relaxation. Some of us were doing homework. Some were napping. Some were even sneaking into the Chinese wedding reception five floors below us. I was of the middle group, recovering from yet another bout of food poisoning. Suddenly, the bed shook and there were loud popping noises coming from outside the window. In a daze and struggling to get out my ear plugs, take off my sleep mask and dive to the floor, I thought, “My mother was right. I am going to die in an aftershock.” My mother, though smart enough to pack me Tide-to-Go, couldn’t prepare me for the wedding’s celebratory firecrackers. And, in all respect to my language partner and his “dangerous impression” of Americans, if I shot guns off every morning, I would not be taking cover under my plywood-hard bed on the 7th floor every time someone sets off a Chinese firecracker. Instead, I would be laughing at my fellow classmates who had snuck into the wedding and found themselves ducking for cover behind the wedding party.

Backstreet in the Backstreet

Travels between our three different destinations were long, including fourteen and twenty hour train rides. Because time was long and boredom was strong, the group had a penchant for sporadic singing contests, especially to Disney songs like Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.” I used to sing in the choir back when I was in middle school and my mom was the choir director. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t in the choir for my musical talent or love for sequined vests. And I wasn’t the only one on the trip either who had sung in choir or just liked the sound of our voice in the shower. For that matter, one of our fellow student’s Chinese name even translated to “sings in shower.” So, when we arrived in Qinhuangdao to find the main form of entertainment, karaoke, located next to our hotel, we were excited to have an actual stage. In China, the karaoke rooms are rented out by the hour and can hold up to twenty people, just enough to terribly embarrass the mike-holder. Including the professor, her husband, and ten of the students, our professor also invited her sister-in-law and brother to join us. After a few of us had broken the ice with “A Whole New World” and “Hotel California,” the sister-in-law casually walked up to the mike. She looked slightly shy as she picked a popular Chinese song. Her shyness faded as she busted out in a perfect mezzo-soprano. The remaining group looked at each other and thought we had missed amateur night.

Not only did we like the punishment the first time, but we went back for more with our Chinese language partners. For the final meeting with our language partners, we invited them to karaoke. That night, we had Chinese and American students having a sing off in two languages, both off-key and to off-color songs, but nonetheless, interesting and funny. But, it was the quiet group members who readily grabbed the mike and shocked the rest of us. One such member expressed himself vocally to an Asian-accented Linkin Park’s “Bleed It Out” and another sang a pre-breakdown Britney Spears’ “Lucky.”

However, it was our last sing-off that cemented our pop star status and a real reason for all those paparazzi photos throughout the trip. While sharing our last lunch at a local dumpling place, the restaurant’s speakers suddenly blasted a surprising rendition of “I Want It That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. Although sung in Chinese by a Chinese pop star, we filled in the English and the dance moves from our middle school dance days. A small group of local children and restaurant patrons watched in a bit of embarrassment and interest, but clapped when the seven of us were done. After all, we were in our own “whole new world” simply filling in with a bit of home.

Final Falling Dream

“What is your name?” the voice said in broken Chinglish. All I could think was “Am I alive? That was some fall.” At 200 feet, it was some fall and I had jumped it. The last day as a group, the professor took us to a local ecological center. Although the organic lunch, beautiful orchards and cute farm animals were captivating, it was the site’s amusement park that piqued the group’s excitement. And when I saw that bungee jumping platform, I grabbed four other group members and took the leap.

That first step off into the fast moving space between the slow-flowing river and my flailing body was intensely gratifying. I heard my classmate cheering me on and I hoped I would stop spinning in tiny circles. With the blood still rushing to my head and my eyes blacking out momentarily, I grabbed for the hook-like contraption and clutched on to a Chinese man no bigger than my 5’1 frame. He smiled and repeated his question, “What is your name?” “Ou Wen Hai,” I replied as I smiled towards the shore. My Chinese name may mean “sea of words,” but I was speechless on that river.

June 2008

In my last entry, I wrote about China through the sense of taste. However, to fully understand the country, the next obvious sense is that of sight. As the home of the Great Wall, Tiananmen Square, Mount Everest, the Terra Cotta Warriors, journaling every single abundant site makes my job complicated. However, most of the sights you can Google and envision them in their splendor and what it might feel like in person. So, I thought it would be better to show you the sights of Beijing and Xi An not included in our travel guides.

At 12,000 feet above sea level, Xi An's altitude and increased industrial pollution restrict the lungs, dry the skin and chap the lips. The humidity and our inability to pack shorts, made hiking to the Terra Cotta Warriors, the Hot Springs and Mount Hua-Shan strenuous. As the toxic sun beamed onto our foreign skin, the women of Xi An carried parasols, reminiscent of the Antebellum South. Perhaps they had gotten the memo that fair skin is in and skin cancer is out. Mighty rivers that once fed the nation now streamed polluted sludge through Xi An, where the runoff is still used for drinking water, bathing and bathroom. Welcome to our second stop.

As you can tell, Xi An has not been my favorite stop. I had waited for many years of my childhood to see the Terra Cotta Warriors, and don't get me wrong, they were splendid. The hike to the top of Mount Hua-Shan produced more than just amazing pictures and sore muscles; its clean air and challenges were revitalizing. But, the transition from a crowded, smoggy Beijing, to a fairly crowded and increasingly more smoggy and humid Xi An has provided its own challenges. But, enough about Xi An. Let's get to the odd sites.

Lost in Translations

As I said in the last entry, it has been very difficult to order food because everything is in Chinese and I speak very little Chinese. Trying to order food at a KFC that uses only Chinese characters is like trying to decipher Hammurabi's Code without the Rosetta Stone; it is just impossible. However, even when the menus or signs are in English, the translations are just as hard to decipher.

Food and Drinks

After a long day of trekking through Beijing, our group got lost in a back alleyway. Now, when the whole country seems to be a back alley, we were not worried. However, we were growing hungry, and started looking for food. We came across this sign outside of a literal hole-in-the-wall restaurant. We guessed their Internet translation missed the whole translation all together.

But, sometimes it is better just not to have a translation. This bottle of liquid, possibly recycled water, is called "toilet water." If that is just a flavor, I pity the poor worker in charge of quality control and testing.

The worker in charge of quality control at this restaurant should ask for hazard pay. The restaurant, known for its greasy calzones and American style pizza, promises to put you in a coma. In a country whose pollution threatens early lung cancer and taxi drivers threaten paralysis, a food-induced coma is probably not on high the list of "must-dos".

Bathroom Etiquette

The traditionally natural process of "going potty" usually needs little instruction, but the bathrooms in China apparently come with a set of instructions. In our first hotel in Beijing, a couple of the rooms had the following sign over their toilets, "Beware of Landslides". Before you wonder how the hotel knew we would get the Beijing Belly (thanks to my culinary misadventures), it refers to the water that leaks out from the showers. Not only do the showers not work occasionally, but the plumbing is sometimes sub-par. In one restaurant, the owners had posted a sign, in English, explicitly telling the user to not do Number 2 in the restroom.

Helpful Instructions and Warnings

All in all, the Chinese know that there are many English speakers in their country and they are trying to be helpful by including warnings and instructions. But, sometimes those helpful hints are also lost in translation. While visiting the Ming Tombs, I came across a sign that read "Thunder Storm Weather. Do Not Use Mobile Phone". I could only imagine how they realized that this was necessary to warn foreigners about potential cellular electrocution in the middle of the forest. Another sign said, "The non-staff member pleases not an operation! Thanks." Pooling together, our study abroad group thinks it refers to someone who is not an employee changing the television or something, but the jury is still out. But, it was the next sign that needed a photo to fully understand its intricacies. Hung above a construction site, we think it asks for patience and cooperation in the construction process, but again, its translation is lost.

In recent years and especially in anticipation of the Olympics, China has attempted to qualm a few "bad habits" of its populace, including smoking. While visiting Lao Long Tou, or Large Dragon Head, every corner and possible blank wall held signs proclaiming, "You are actually polluting yourself when you are polluting," "Be a spreader of civility; be a protector of morality" and "Abandon bad habits and embrace civilization." I am not a smoker, nor do I condone smoking for its nasty effects on the body, but I would see these signs causing a stir in the United States. And what an ironic place to position these signs but at a site named after a fire-breathing creature. The final sign we found at the Jiaoshun section of the Great Wall in Qinhuangdao. The city is known for its greenery and roses, a nice transition from Xi An and Beijing. In protection of this status, there were signs placed in front of large grass areas and flowers saying, "Flowers are smiling and grass is sleeping, don't disturb them." The translation is understandable and just like the other signs, it simply made us smile.

The Great Wal(l)-Mart

All of us on the trip have been a bit homesick here and there during our travels. However, despite the language barriers and some cultural differences, Beijing looks like a bit like home. Every corner houses a KFC, Starbuck's, McDonald's, and Pizza Hut (called Big Pizza in China). I had Starbuck's at the Great Wall, KFC after class one day (not the same as the United States) and McDonald's twice when I really felt homesick and underfed. But my favorite has been Wal-Mart. At four stories high, the Beijing Wal-Mart located next to the subway station is truly a wonder across the world. With name-brand knock-offs, and floors devoted to beauty supplies, baby gear, electronics and unrecognizable food, the non-air conditioned Wal-Mart made a stark contrast to the outside vendors and peddlers. Although it was quite a walk for our group from Beihang University, it felt a little like home when we passed it on our way to the subway station.

Famous in this Country

I can't say I have ever wondered what it is like to be David Hasselhoff in Germany, but I have thought of what it might be like if I was famous. Everyone wants to take your picture as you walk down the red carpet at a movie premier or rock out at a concert, followed by groupies. Well, change the red carpet to the Great Wall and substitute the concert for a Chinese karaoke bar. Welcome to our three-week fiasco everywhere we have traveled. Although Beijing is the capital and therefore attracts many foreign tourists, Xi An and especially Qinhuangdao do not normally have any foreigners, much less a group of sixteen very diverse college students.

Our group, comprised of three tall blondes, two Hispanics and a couple brunettes, have been chased after and endured multiple spontaneous photo sessions with ancient relics in the background and new friends in the foreground. It takes us hours to get through a room or to get down a mountain, stopping every few moments for photo sessions with people we don't know, but who want to get to know us candidly. Old and young all want to ask personal questions, like "Where are you from?" and "How old are you?" I have gotten very good at saying "Wo shì mei guó rèn" and "Wo shì èr si yi", but by the time I spit out those phrases, it is back to saying "Qíe zi" for the camera.

As a big group, we understand the hassles of taking photos. However, the crowds that gather do not understand this delicate dance. The groups - scratch that, swarms of followers all want to take individual photos with you even though their group contains thirty people. Then, like homesick college students to a McDonald's, another group of thirty flocks just in time to take photos with the foreigner who has just become a smiling cardboard cutout. Then again, how could I document my trip better than through a 1,000 pictures worth a thousand-words. The first time the impromptu flashbulbs blinded us, I was at the Summer Palace in Beijing with our lone Icelander, Gutti, who stands 6'3 with bright blonde hair and blue eyes. The 4'11 Chinese women flocked to him, shoving in true Chinese form to better their position in line. With beaming smiles and peace signs, they hugged onto his legs and bumped their heads on his hips.

However, the most stunning backdrops and sporadic photo sessions occurred on our hike up Mount Hua-Shan, one of China's most dangerous mountain ranges. Making due with my bad knees, empty stomach and sea-level lungs, I trudged up the mountain, sweat rolling down my brow as I attempted to make it past the first 100 feet. As I stopped to rest and video my first entry, I noticed a giggle gaggle of middle-aged women. Somehow their makeup was still pristine and through broken Chinese and translation help from a random gentleman, we started our daily photo session. Along the way, Nikki and I picked up a groupie following of seven Chinese businessmen, climbing the mountain on casual Friday in their Sunday best. During our four hour trek to the top, I continuously stopped to catch my breath that I had left at the bottom of the 7087 foot tall mountain. Viewing their opportunity for yet another photo, the businessmen propped up my drooping head and sat down for photos. They grabbed Nikki and another student, Brett, to add flavor to the Chinese-American dish. Reaching the third highest peak on our way to the top, Nikki and I rested, took in the view and munched on indecipherable Chinese snacks. Out of nowhere, the businessmen plopped down next to us and offered baked goods. Nikki joked that it was payment for all the photos we had taken. Ignoring our mother's warning against taking food from strangers, we enjoyed the snack and thought about the interesting and entertaining trek up the mountain.

Next Stop: Qinhuangdao

While walking with my language partner, I tripped on the uneven cobblestone. He laughed at me while I tried to explain that the sidewalks in the United States are usually evenly paved. Again he laughed and told me that "Americans are spoiled." Living in hotels sub par to even Motel 6, eating food that is sitting next to week old garbage, breathing air that Olympians don't want to breathe and dodging traffic that uses stoplights as decoration has made us shiver a few times. But, if we bring nothing back from China (not possible with my spending habits or vaccinations), we have had taken in so many sights that would never been found in a travel guide. Well, except for this one.

May

May 19, 2008

Ni Hao! What Now?

College graduation is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, no matter what level degree is being accomplished. It is what every senior pines for at the end of four (or five) years and in May, I had the graduation green light. My name was printed in the graduation program. The cap and gown had been purchased and my friends and family were in the crowd. But, I was also sitting in the crowd watching my fellow Class of 2008 classmates walk across the stage and receive their diplomas. However, sitting in the crowd didn’t make me bitter because I had delayed my graduation for another once in a lifetime experience.

When my best friend, Nikki, asked me what I was doing summer of 2008, I replied, “Enjoying the beach and relishing in my graduatory status.” However, she had a different idea. Instead, she suggested studying abroad. The program had so many countries to pick from so I told her just to pick a unique place. Both of us are regulars of Europe, so she suggested Japan or China as alternatives. Without hesitation, I picked the host of the 2008 Summer Olympics, Beijing China.

China. This communist state is populated with 1,330,044,605 people who speak a dozen plus languages with a land mass of 9,596,960 sq. km. and so many stereotypes. Known for many years as “Red China,” the country is also known for their intricate architecture, the Great Wall, panda bears, cheap exports and, most recently the Olympics and the Sichuan earthquake.  The history and sites are intensely overwhelming, so a professor of mine advised me to “be prepared to be unprepared.” I realized what an understatement that was when I arrived with eight of my classmates at Beijing International Airport after 18 hours of travel. Through my seatmate’s 2 x 1 airplane window, I got snapshots of Beijing through heavy clouds of smog. It looked like every other sprawling Midwest city, complete with fields and industrial architecture. That was until we landed.

Beijing, a sprawling metropolis, resembles any U.S. Chinatown. The people speak Chinese. The signs are in Chinese. The taxi drivers only speak Chinese. But, this isn’t America and I only knew how to say “Hi” and “What is your name.” After a week, I have mastered a few more phrases, learned to use the public transportation, seen one of the Wonders of the World, and visited many other famous sites. However, the most challenging part thus far has been eating. I nearly have a panic attack when someone suggests getting dinner. In fact, I would rather listen to my stomach rumble than have to explain to the waitress that I do not want anything spicy or still moving. I have had many culinary disasters, misunderstandings and eaten some unconventional food. So for my first entry, I decided to introduce the reader to China through the sense of taste.

I set out for China wanting to try the bizarre foods and brag that I could keep them down unlike contestants on Fear Factor. But, things are always easier from the Laz-Y-Boy.

Fork Fiasco                        

After a disastrous introduction to Chinese food our first night, which left me on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., Nikki and I decided to venture off to another Chinese restaurant that looked more sanitary. The first restaurant only had the menu in Chinese characters so we looked for a sit down restaurant with a picture menu. Ironically, we found a restaurant located next to the previous culinary disaster spot. We were seated by the hostess who proceeded to hover over our table, eyeing our food decisions. Nikki chose a dish which resembled chicken and vegetables. Somehow, through sign language and pointing to words in our handy travel guide, the waitress told us we had a side dish option. I picked rice. She pointed to four listings under the rice, all with different prices and different Chinese characters. I picked the cheapest, but she kept muttering something in Chinese. Finally, frustrated and hungry, I pointed to the dumplings which had nothing written underneath them. That was sufficient   and they brought out the meal. Neither Nikki nor I had really used chopsticks in America sans a few times at a sushi bar. Eating the very spicy mystery meat and toxically spicy vegetables proved difficult. While Nikki and I laughed it off, our very patient waitress brought over two forks. We all giggled and exchanged laughter, only to be joined by the remainder of the 10 + occupied restaurant. Ever get that feeling that everyone is talking about you. Yeah, welcome to China!

These Feet are Only Meant for Walking

Our next culinary escapade occurred after a class field trip to the Ming Tombs and the Great Wall. Our group stopped at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant after the tour and my culinary ambitions kicked in.  I hadn’t really fulfilled my desire to eat a “weird” food, so I asked the professor to help me pick out a selection. The menu, luckily in English, had a wide array of chicken’s feet, cow tripe, tongue and various other traditional offal, or animal byproducts. I settled on the chicken feet based on my professor’s suggestion. The feet arrived intact with nails, claws and bones still attached. Unsure where to begin, the waitress told me to chew on the feet. “Chew on the feet,” I said, starting to regret my decision. One bite and I knew this poor bird had died in vain. The foot, cooked in a hot pepper sauce, was clammy and off-white. It was slick and difficult to pry off the bone. You had to use your molars to pry off the little bit of meat, so it continuously threatened to claw its way back from my throat to my mouth. After seeing my reaction, my classmates also tried, but they had similar strange facial contortions. I hoped karma would forgive me for my transgressions against the bird, for it was not going to be eaten.

Corner Cuisine

Before I left, a friend gave me advice about eating at a street vendor. “Eat at the one with the most people in line,” she said. But, what do you do if you and your classmates make the entire line? Every night since our arrival, the guys have been frequenting a local vendor located right outside of the Beihang University gates. After a long day touring the Summer Palace, Nikki and I followed the guys to the corner. Every night, the vendor, with a large smile and dimpled grin, displays his eats on a makeshift bicycle/trailer/display case. He wasn’t quite set up yet when we arrived at 8 p.m., so we grabbed a few drinks at the local newspaper stand and settled in next to his hibachi grill. Soon after we sat, five or six people began taking the meats from the display case and placing them on the grill. Most of the meats were unrecognizable and the smell of stale fish filled the smoggy Chinese air. The boys had their favorites ranging from the recognizable lamb and chicken patties to the seemingly inedible chicken heart and squid tentacles. Under peer pressure, I ate chicken heart, squid tentacles, egg patties and sweet buns. The chicken heart was slightly squishy, but well cooked. The squid tasted like fresher calamari from the States. The egg patties were a mix of egg, minced onions and chives and a bread crumb outer shell. They were very spicy, but closely related to hash browns and scrambled eggs. As I tried each concoction, I made sure to keep a straight face even if I didn’t like selected pieces. After all, this vendor spent time and plenty of effort to catch and prepare the meats and he was proud of his final product. I didn’t want to cause him concern or upset by rejecting his meal. However, after paying 1-3 yuan (roughly 50 cents) for each of my six kebabs, I wondered what profit he actually made. In China you can’t tip, but the group all wished we could show how appreciative we  were of his work.

Mao’s Munchies

The following day, the same group went to visit Tiananmen Square, site of the infamous 1989 massacre. Among the sites visited were Monument to the People’s Heroes, the Forbidden City and Premier Mao Zedong’s body. Mao, the creator of the People’s Republic of China, has been lying in state since 1976. Vendors crowded the 100 acre square hocking Mao paraphernalia. Cheap watches, Chinese flags and Mao’s famous Little Red Book lined the plaza that had seen two massacres, numerous famous speeches and now a major tourist attraction. After enticing my appetite with talk of massacres, propaganda, and the Great Helmsman, we headed into downtown Beijing for street vendor food.

After walking past McDonald’s and a Westernized shopping mall, we stumbled upon an alleyway crammed with street vendors. Most were selling caramelized fruits, lamb and pork skewers and Coca-Cola. But, one vendor caught my eye. Originally, I had walked past, eyeing a vendor selling donut-like pastries. But, upon doing a double take, I noticed this aforementioned vendor’s food was still moving. There in the storefront were live scorpions, grasshoppers, cicadas and starfish pushed onto wooden sticks. The line was long so I decided to jump in for my turn. I chose the scorpions that were not moving based on the broken English advice of a local bystander. I watched the moving scorpions as they were dipped into the frying pan and handed quickly to me. Still steaming, I took a breath and crunched down. Much to my surprise, the scorpions tasted good. Ironically, it tasted like over-fried chicken.

However, my next two dishes were not so fortunate. I am an avid viewer of No Reservations: Anthony Bourdain and I used clips from the China show to plan my culinary adventures. Anthony had tried cow’s stomach while in China and raved about the texture and taste, even praising the chef for his attention to cooking by keeping it basic and lightly seasoned. So, while in Beijing, I did as Anthony did and ordered a heaping plate of white and black-grey cow’s tummy. My stomach and the unlucky cow’s stomach were both quickly in my mouth, attempting another jail break. I held it in, but not without the disgust of my fellow classmates sitting directly in the line of fire. I guess I just can’t stomach stomach.

I thought my misadventures were over until another classmate decided to purchase the starfish. Being from Florida, I have never had the desire to eat such a cute specimen. After much peer pressure again, I bit down on the tough skin. Much to my dismay, it tasted like I was eating a piece of fried sand. I figured my digestive tract needed a break, so I settled for a caramelized crab apple and went shopping.

Memorial Meal

After a half a bottle of Tums and a few nights of digestive distress, my other sorority sister, Emily, along with Nikki and I, decided to find the local Beihang Café that served American-style food. We all craved different things like pancakes, lettuce, mayonnaise and pizza and the café served them all, though not together obviously. While eating, a Chinese man approached us. He was out of breath and we just thought maybe he worked at the café. He said, “I have important information for you…At a 14:28 we are going have a memorial for earthquake victims.” He rushed us from our meal, as everyone in the three story café crowded around the big screen television. Although we couldn’t understand the announcer, the images of people being pulled out of buildings, of workers hauling material and of people crying spoke our language. The screen went black and displayed white Chinese characters. Everyone got quiet as the air sirens began to wail. After a minute, car horns joined in and a minute following that, boat horns completed the ceremony. The only sounds sans those from the television were sniffles and the occasional sigh. The three minute ceremony concluded and those crying quickly hid their faces and bolted for the door. The gentleman thanked us for our cooperation and disappeared with the rest of the patrons. We paid our bill and left in near silence.

On the walk home, we realized what had just occurred and we were thankful that we were a part of this country’s mourning. Though the gentleman thanked us, we are human beings and feel their pain. Although our recent country disasters differed, one intentional and one natural, we still can understand the pain of losing fellow countrymen.

With 50,000 dead and expected to climb, we leave Beijing next week for Xi An, a city located close to the Chinese Ground Zero.  The distance between the two is like the distance between San Francisco and Los Angeles. A Chinese student studying English was paired up with me to practice conversational Chinese and English. He is from Sichuan, the province affected most, and said he has yet to hear if anyone he knows has perished. As we walked by the television, he just shook his head and said, “You are lucky you don’t have that in America”. Although that is not completely accurate, we are lucky. China is great, but it is hard to visit a country and know what you leave behind. So, enjoy those hamburgers and fries I am missing so much and I will fill you in when we get to Xi An.

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