Open Letter to Claire-

I wish I could read my blog. It really is banned here. I am that dangerous. (Well, I, along with all the other bloggers, including those gentle ones from the midwest.)

Scorpions taste crunchy, like the oil they were fried in, and not much more. Also, I tried to swallow as fast as I could to make sure that I would taste nothing but crunchiness. The fear of eating them dissipated after the first one, but the stingers still scared me a bit. They're too little to taste like anything, especially chicken.

I have also had donkey meat. But in my excitement to talk about scorpions, donkey just seem so... boring. Tasted like beef.

I nod a lot when people talk to me. And smile. The universal sign of "I have no idea what you're saying but I'm pretending that I do." I can understand the kids. And the city adults when they talk to me. The old aunts and uncle, I can catch anywhere from 65-85% of their conversation, depending on who they are, what they're saying, and who they're talking to. The rural cousins I can catch a little less, especially when they're talking to each other. But usually, they're good about treating me like an idiot and talking slowly. A few times though, I've had to just completely guess what's going on. All in all, my Chinese comprehension is top-notch, but the local accent comprehension, I'd say 55%? But then again, I haven't been responsible for understanding what's been said to me yet. That comes when the interviews start and the real test begins.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have old people to report to.

Leave It To Cleaver

Oh wonderful people and wonderful comments. You are wonderful. Almost as wonderful as being able to use the internet two days in a row.

You know who's not wonderful? This man I saw on the news last night. He held a hostage at knife point for a couple of hours. It was your regular ol' kitchen cleaver that he held to a poor man's neck, the man on his knees. I don't even think the hostage was bound. And the man, I don't think he had demands, the news just said that he had failed in love. And there he was, on a big, open sidewalk, holding a kitchen cleaver to a poor man's neck. How was this cunning menace finally apprehended? The clever cops got him from behind and tackled him. How do you not notice five armed cops in full uniform running from behind you in a completely open street? I don't know. I just can't believe the reporters even bothered showing up for this story. And the failed-in-romance hostage taker just made me sad in so many ways and I have a plethora more of questions for him.

Has he not seen any action movies? Why not a gun? Why not some place other than an open sidewalk? How did you even get your hostage? Oh, China.

Do You Smell What the Rock is Cooking?

I ate scorpions the other day.

That's right. Scorpions. I ate them. Not just one or two, but four scorpions fried to the crisp, stingers still attached. Feel free to worship me.

I have met dozens of relatives the past few days. Many of them are very odd. My grandfather's cousin invited us over to her house after lunch. Then made us take naps. Mandatory naps. She also brushed both my mother's hair and mine. I am both fascinated by and scared of her insistent, erratic ways.

Is it wrong that I learned more about China in one visit to a movie studio tourist attraction than I did in all those visits to old museums and palaces and pagodas and stuff? Pagoda, now that's a word I like.

Oh, British children, you are now off the hook as the worst dish washers in the world. Went to the rural, farming areas, and definitely saw dishes wiped 'clean' with dirty rags. Othertimes, I saw them do all their dishes in one basin, without rinsing or changing water, much like, hm... British children. I can't wait to be surrounded by proper dish washers again.

Sweet Scent of Success

I have been in Beijing for the past couple of days and seen some famous sights. Here are my final thoughts before I leave for the boonies later today:

The Palace Museum? Reeks of paint.

The Great Wall? Reeks of urine in many places. And I cannot believe that they didn't have cable cars until a few years ago. Thank God for the cable cars.

The Ming Tombs? Reeks of moldy basement with a slight touch of urine.

Speaking of urine, am thinking of the bathrooms of the northwest with increasing trepidation. Apparently, I should be hoping for holes in the ground because they at least don't smell or look as scary as really dirty and run-down indoor ones. With advice like that, well, what's there to fear?

Oh, they won't let me upload pictures so er, learn to use your imaginations, people.

Vroom Vroom

So we joke a lot about bad driving everywhere. And how people in certain cities, say Taipei, Boston, London, Shanghai, etc., are viscious drivers. And that people use traffic lights as mere reference tools.

Well, I've been in Beijing for a day and honestly, this is the worst driving I've ever seen. We were actually plowing through traffic today with cars, bikes, and people coming toward us horizontally in both directions. I'm pretty convinced that our driver did not actually look at the traffic light as he drove, but just drove with determination, making his way through the sea of people. I just kept thinking, "there's a red light and yet we're moving." Also, I appreciate that phrase now, 'sea of people,' because I have seen Beijing. Hopefully, I'll be able to see through many more days alive. With the way people drive here, I'm really not sure.

Summer Hiatus

Very quickly now: I'm leaving the comforts of Shanghai. Heading for Beijing. Great Wall. Then up to the northwest in Ningxia. Don't know about internet access in the coming days. But distant relatives, here I come!

Violated

Had a two-hour massage session today. My very first. Because in Shanghai, if you have the money, you can. I don't have the money. But thank God for generous friends. After the rigorous session, I feel quite violated, albeit well-rested and relaxed. And it really was too bad that I felt an urge to use the restroom for the last thirty minutes of my session but was too lazy to speak up because the massage kept making me want to pee even more. I've realized that I'm too passive for massages. Instead of asking the masseuse to be gentler or not to rub a certain way, I just internalize all my discomfort and figure I should learn to take it. And whenever she asked if everything was ok, I said yes, it was perfect. I guess I'm just not cut out for this line of luxury. But man, I sure feel good right now.

Access Denied

Apparently, I am blocked from viewing my own blog. Ah, the wonders of living in a free and democratic society. Apparently, it's not an official ban (it used to be), but many carriers block blogspot sites anyway. So pretty much, I have no idea what I'm pumping out. Maybe the servers will be different in the northwest. We'll see.

Whose Words These Are

I have been having trouble viewing this site ever since flying out of the land of apple pies, baseball, and taxation with representation. I don't know why. Anyone else having troubles? I guess if you're reading these words, you're not having those troubles. But thought I'd mention it anyhow.

Sweetest of coincidences, I got to meet up with Professor Riles and kids from the Bo' yesterday. If any of you ever get the chance, take a course with Riles. If you don't have the chance, I suggest that you make some changes in your life so that you would. These include but are not limited to rearranging schedules, changing majors, and moving across the Atlantic. Just some suggestions.

Anyway, this is Freddy Adu.



I did not see Freddy Adu yesterday. But I did see Joe "poet on the run" Adu, who is of no relations to Freddy. I just wanted to mention a soccer ("football") player so I'd seem all hip and in with the World Cup thing. This is Joe:



And he showed me around Shanghai yesterday, which struck all of us as amusing. Oh. I have a tailor now. That's pretty cool. You know what's not as cool? Watching two moms pick out fabrics and bargain prices for fifty eight hours straight.

Le Tired

Have finally arrived in the Motherland. No, not that one. And not Taiwan, either. I'm talking 'bout motherland of motherlands. I am presently in Shanghai. In about 10 days, I'll be in the rural farmlands to the northwest where I don't know if I'll be able to update. For the next few days, however, I'll have internet access. No pictures though, we're still working on that. And yes, that was a use of the royal 'we.'

What have I been up to in the past week? Taiwan, that's what's up. Ate an incredible amount of food there (including one involuntary visit to Pizza Hut- what?) and had my weight commented on by quite a few relatives, including ailing grandmother. Awesome. Also had iced Heineken green tea. It tasted interesting, pretty much like lemon iced tea but because there was Heineken in it, they charged a little more. Got my annual summer haircut by brutal Chinese hair dresser. You know, I think I'm quite afraid of Taiwanese hair dressers. They really break you down before they build you up and convince you that your new haircut makes you look incredibly gorgeous. And well, haven't I always been incredibly gorgeous? Oh yeah, I also got lost at a night market and bought some cheap faux-Chucks. What have you been up to*?

*Don't really care to know, just a formality more than anything else.

Knowing His Sheep

Today, I went to Father's office with him. It's in a big complex with lots of tiny little businesses inside, including one that belongs to Red Sox Hall of Famer Rico Petrocelli. His office is next to the church's. And his signed autograph and ball sits in our display case.

(After entering the building and passing by the high school girls working and hanging out at the front desk...)

Father: Did you greet those kids?
Moi: Yeah, I think I said hi.
Father: They all know me. They always say hi.
Moi: And do you know each of them?
Father: Not a single one.

Behind the Arrival

Yesterday morning, I was once again escorted to my transport by small group members that doubled as luggage carriers. This time, however, in place of Fi and Dave, there were Hannah, Alan, and Elle. (And Heather for a little bit, before she ditched us for academics.)















I had to tell them to look sad when they posed with my stuff, to pretend to be sad about sending me off, and it took them quite a few moments to hide their monstrous grins. And there you have it, all of my possessions for the past five months. Two giant suitcases, a laptop bag stuffed to capacity, and a Puma bag on my back that's not pictured.

When I arrived in Eddie in January, I wore the same winter coat that I had worn in Maine and Massachusetts, and settled into the climate quite well. This time around, though, it was quite a different story. At Newark, where my connecting flight was, the ground temperature was 81 Fahrenheit. I had on a t-shirt, sweatshirt, fleece, and rain coat, all of was were fit for the weather earlier that morning in Eddie Bert. I had to pick up all of my luggage in Newark and clear through customs, a big suitcase in each hand, two backpacks on my back, jackets in hand, along with passport, boarding pass, and custom form. It was quite the challenge and somehow in the process, I bruised my elbow. And ended up quite sweaty. I kept sniffing around to figure out which of the passengers in the lounge had the awful BO, and finally concluded that it was me. The only person that still had a fleece in hand, that even considered wearing a sweatshirt in the entire airport.

But before all this, there was my last night. And my long awaited fried pizza (not battered, just deep fried). It tasted surprisingly pleasant. And my only regret is that I had put it off until my last night to consume one, so that I cannot have another one for a long while. I am sure that that's probably best for my heart, but oh how my mouth craves it now. So crunchy and oily and good.















It was originally an onion pizza, so between the tomatoes and onions, it was practically a salad.















The pizza looked a lot prettier before it was wrapped. It was served with ketchup, or "red sauce," drizzled over it. I turned down the brown sauce.

It's Good to be Back

  This morning, sitting in front of my computer, wearing a t-shirt and short skirt (and not freezing for it), my dad came up to me with a cup.
  "Here, I got this for you."
  "What is it?"  I asked, looking into the cup's unfamiliar contents.
  "Poison."
  "Ok."  And I downed it.  Oh, sweet, fresh fruit smoothie poison.  It's good to be home.

  Too bad that I can't find any light switches in my house.  They are all much lower than the switches I've grown accustomed to for the past five months.  There was much batting of walls and groping through the smoothness last night.  And now I have to look at where I swat my hand just to make my room shine. 
  I don't think I realized how short my stay at home was until last night, when I finally landed and started explaining to Dwighters when I'd fly off again.
  "Wednesday?"  He asked.
  "Yeah."
  "As in today is Sunday?  So you have tomorrow and Tuesday?"
  "Yeah.  Hm.  That's kind of short."

  The homecoming was better than I could have asked for.  Well, that's not entirely true.  When I saw my mom at the luggage claim, she told me that my brother "and them" should have been here already.  "And them?"  But I only have one brother.  (One who pretended that he was going to give me a high five because of the present I got him, then pushed my head away when I moved in.)  "Yeah, he's bringing a couple of people from Boston Project with him."  That was the awesome surprise.  Paul and Keith?  My former directors, not to mention favorite role models of Christian humility and servant leadership coming all the way to see me?  Yeah, no, that was too good to be true.  In their stead, I spotted Sarah, Katie Rice, and Dwighters.  Did they have balloons with them?  Flowers?  Poster boards with my name in blinking lights?  No.  Nothing.  Just a harsh shove from my brother, who was leading the troupe.
  But the food in Chinatown, especially the pink mayonnaise (or, as Katie explained, it was "like tartar sauce without the relish," so yeah, mayonnaise...), made up for the company.  Ok, so it wasn't the best food, but at least it complemented the company well.  And it was so good to eat seafood, meat, vegetables, rice, dumplings, and soup again, all in one meal, co-existing on one lazy Susan.  O, I cannot wait to roam the supermarket stalls again and just stare at American excess. 

Testing

Check this out.  I can update from my email account.
How bloody brilliant is Blogger?

Say Hello

It's my last night in Edinburgh and time to wave goodbye.

So goodbye, to my young person's railcard, war of the words (trousers, crisps, and chips). Photo-ops with Jamilah, pretentious literary talks with Lauren. The Quotation deli. Heather, Fi, Dave, and Andy- the only four names in Scotland. Weather channel lies. Stormy, breezy skies. Frozen peas. P's & G's. Thresher's @ 7:30. Sunrise by 4am. Chinese grad students, Scottish old ladies, and old people pubs. Window displays. Thrift shops. and Digestives. Being VIP. The all encompassing 'tea.' Prayer breakfasts and 'holy curries.' Tuesday nights and Wednesday naps. (Who am I kidding? Every day but Friday naps.) No lab sciences, no class on Fridays; jam-packed computer labs, and books on reserve. Movies on Rab's bed. Sandwiches in Hannah's flat. Breakfast at Alan's. Meanies at Kamco, the nonchalant at 'Fresh Choice' and emptiness of Tesco. Arthur and Nessie, Pronto and Sebastian. Big Word. Little Chef. Mid-Lothian.

And finally, goodbye Vita-L, goodbye Factor IX.

Hello to home, home-some-time-ago, and ancestral-home. Hot, lonely summers, shopping and bargaining, mosquitoes, simplified Chinese, a new digital recorder, standing out, blending in, and squatters- I'm ready for my close up now.

Pimp My President

I don't like the word pimp. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I don't like pimps. You know who I do like? The customers in my thrift shop. The older the funnier. Like the lady today that decided not to buy the faux-fur vest even after she made sure that it wasn't actual fur. Why did she pass if she liked it? Why did she pass if she didn't want fur and it wasn't fur? Because it still looked too fur-like. She was afraid that other people might think that she was wearing animal fur. Even when she wasn't.

Oh, if you're ever self-conscious about donating your personal possessions and wonder whether people judge you for what you give, worry no more. I can put an end to your suspense. We really do make fun of you. Especially bad music. We will talk if your old collection is not cool enough. Andy will say, "How can it take people so long to realize that their music is crap? Why did you keep this for so long?"

Back to old customers. Today, this adorable, genteel, old man in crutches came in and looked at some jewelry in the display case. He bought three tasteful scarf rings, and was very pleasant the entire time. Afterwards, he looked through the store a bit and came back with, I kid you not, a faux-bling. A big, thick, plastic gold chain dangling a gigantic $ sign, just like this:

This frail, soft-spoke sixty-seventy-some-year-old white Scottish man stood in front of me and I couldn't help but chuckle. He said, "Now the ladies will think I'm rich." Oh, "You had me at bling," I wanted to say to him, "You had me at bling." But then, before he left, he added, "I just hope that no one will think I'm related to President Bush."

Huh? Does George W. have a habit of accessorizing with heavy golden chains that I don't know about? Or is he just referring to the fact that George is money? Because a lot of people are more money than W. I don't know, reader. I seem to be asking you a lot of questions lately, but I'm perplexed and I'm looking for answers. Which is too bad, because there's so few of you. (Ok, maybe just one of you. I don't even think Future-Me will read this.)

The Sky is Falling

 













As I was packing, I found this slip of paper in a pair of pants, "trousers," that I don't often wear. Somebody explain this to me, please. I feel that I am standing at the precipice of a funny anecdote, but I have no idea what these words mean. Somebody out there, remember this, and push me over the edge into hilarity. 

Night With A Vengeance

Scene: Joel, Elle, Alan, and I are walking back from the movies. Alan and Joel, being men, are walking together, slightly ahead of us. Alan turns to Joel and points to a dimly lit alley.

Alan: Now there's a dark alley.
Elle: Why are you looking for dark alley ways?
Alan: For doing secret bloke things.

At this point, Joel uncomfortably backs away from Alan ever so slightly. And we cut to Elle's hysterical laughter. End Scene.


Last night, for reasons I can't quite remember, we embarked on a movie marathon. However, tt wasn't your usual geek original-version marathon, or suspenseful TV series in a night, or girls gathering together to cry at sappy movies all night long marathon. We watched the Die Hard 'trilogy.' No, I'm not proud of it, but we did have some marvelous food accompaniments to wash the violence down. There was the chocolate-dipped fruit, the five-spice crisps, the honey roasted cashews, the potato wedges, the Tangfastics, and by God, the most marvelous lemon bars ever. When we were about three quarters of the way through the second movie (Die Harder), Elle got a call that X-Men III was coming out at midnight. I had never seen someone so excited over a movie. And it saddened me greatly that the giggling and squealing in delight were all directed at a movie like X-Men III, but the girl was actually prancing in delirious anticipation. And so we all followed her. Took a break from John McClane to watch mutants jump around and throw things at each other, including Pyro, an alum I'd be a lot prouder of if he would just get more famous. We should have stopped there. (We should have stopped after the first Die Hard.) But we didn't. Our thirst for bloodshed knew no bounds. We went back to Alan's to finish Die Hard III: Die Hard with a Vengeance, because John McClane wasn't a quitter and neither were we. Sure our eyelids were drooping for much of the last time McClane was chained to a bomb and we weren't sure if he'd make it, and couldn't have cared less by the time he was chasing Jeremy Irons in a helicopter, but we presevered, just like him. By the time the whole affair was over, the stars we had seen on our walk from the cinema were gone. So were the dark alley ways. They were replaced by light. And to that faint glow of dawn crap, but it was actually really bright outside. The birds were chirping and after a night of darkness and sounds of explosion, we stepped into the streets. We were like newborn, cocking our head up to see the light and catch the bird songs, and weary, not quite comprehending the scene was before us. Because when you spend your nights watching four B-level action movies in a row, your mind loses a lot of its knowledge and wit, and your senses get dulled to the point of infancy. At that, is why I can't churn out a coherent entry. Not because I can't write or don't have a story, but because of John McClane.

Word Association

I don't know why, but something about this sign
  reminded me of this guy.

  No idea why.

 

All in good fun, man, all in good fun. 

Sign of the Ages

  Yeah, Geneva is a buzy city.