Meanwhile in Houston

Meanwhile in Houston.

On A Flight to New York

On A Flight to New York.

Mongolian Poison Finger: A Retrospective

Ni howdy folks. I realize, as I compose this sentence, that it’s been a while. It surely has. But I have to write to y’all to wrap it up. To tell you how it’s been. To share some lessons. To reminisce. Did I spell that right?

Do y’all remember when I went to Inner Mongolia? When I stayed in the Anda Hostel. When I collected cow pies for the fire. We drank 80 something cent beers and sang our national anthems by a fire. Under the moon. At moon festival? I wrote about it in a post called So How Was Mongolia? Well, I had a little smart, a sting, if you will this weekend that reminded me we needed to catch up. If you remember, there was no running water in the Grasslands. That we used ‘natural toilet.’ During that time my ring finger on my right hand got infected. I know not how and I know not when on that trip. But it was a doozy. And a painful one at that. I will spare you any detail as propriety alone prohibits. But if any of you have a nurse friend ask them what paronychia will do untreated. They will tell you. Well, over a year later my finger still hurts on occasion. It hurt this weekend. It reminded me to tell you. (Who needs a string tied around their finger when the finger, itself, can do the reminding)?

So, since we last spoke I have done a little bit of thinking. I have trusted people who are untrustworthy. I have been stuck in many states during snow storms. I have flown flights on planes I never wanted to fly. I have also done a bit of thinking. I have trusted people who are lovely and trustworthy. I have seen a tremendous winter in gorgeous states. I have flown to beautiful places in the USA I wanted to see. I have also done a bit of thinking.

I decided to give up a career that has been wholly dissatisfying since the very day I began and go to graduate school and work toward my M.A.T. in TESOL. (All that nonsense means a Master’s of arts in teaching English to speakers of other languages). I jumped through a fair number of hoops and wrote more essays than I thought one should need to write. (This is owing to the sad fact that I am a rather lazy intellectual and always have been. My GPA is precisely 0.1 point lower than the acceptance grade and therefore had to “prove” my “academic maturation” by writing. Whatevs). I got accepted into a rather rigorous program with a “top tier” school. Read “expensive.” Lovely. Felt great.

Then I turned it down. Gonna do something else. What am I doing? I’m going to hold that little tid bit to myself. Why? First of all the option to change my mind is always possible. Secondly, wait for it, I’m transitioning to a new blog. The new blog will be less of a direct explanation of my daily life. I’m leaving the structure open to my whim. But I am sure I will talk about my direction and process there. I will most assuredly also mention a cat or two. Possibly post some photographs. There will undoubtedly be some creative meanderings. Won’t you join me? Welcome to Whit, USA.

So, perhaps this has turned into less of a retrospective and more of an invitation. Come on over. There’s already a whit waiting for you.

Namaste. And copious kisses.

x Angela

Clouds on a Stick

Clouds on a Stick. Denver, CO. 7.2013

Hello, I’ve missed you! Wait, you didn’t think I’d forgotten you, did you? Heavens no. I’m far too steeped in la pièce bien faite, the well-made play, to just drop off. To just literarily die. Fie!

No. I’d be wholly remiss if I didn’t flesh out the rest of the adventure as Joseph Campbell would have laid it out for us.  I do believe I last left off at Apotheosis. Now, those of you with a more than critical eye may notice there are a few bits of the monomyth that got glossed over but, again, license. Privacy for heaven’s sake. Subtract points. I’m okay with it.

The Ultimate Boon:  the hero achieves the goal of the quest

I do believe time and time, again, that the journey to China gave me far more reward than I even knew I sought. Score. Yeah. I learned something. A lotta somethings. I think we all know how these things go in life…not much different.

Refusal of the Return

There was about a 5 minute moment when shopping at the Silk Market, Xiushui, that I had a curious thought cross my mind. It was something like, “wow, I’m going to miss this place….nah.”  I think that could possibly be as close to the magical moment of bliss and enlightenment which could want me to stay. Sorry JC.

The Magic Flight, Rescue From Without, and The Crossing of the Return Threshold

Yes, all three in one! My repatriation has been one helluva whirlwind. I was in contact with many of my former colleagues while in China and well, before you know it, bam! I have a shiny new job. You could call that my rescue from without–you see, if you’re the businessy entrepreneurial sort, such as myself, there are plenty of opportunities in China. MANY. But there’s also that noxious air. And call me fussy but I’m rather fond of my windbags and the ability to move around in such a way that I like to call exercise (though admittedly others have called it gentle strolling. Tomato tomato). And let’s not get me started on Beijing Mystery Sweat. It never went away. And that’s all I’ll say. So, having a solid reason to repatriate is decidedly my Rescue from Without.

You hear a lot about culture shock–but what you don’t hear much about is reverse culture shock. My fellow expats and I discussed it a touch. I did experience a bit of it back when I returned to the United States after a few years in England, but I attributed that to the move from a very large multi-cultural city as London to a very small town such as Nashville, TN. I wondered, in China, would I experience it this time? I feel it’s unnecessary to say but I spent most of my time in China pretty darned homesick. (And Beijing Mystery Sweat sick. But, I can’t even mention that). I felt so confident that the reverse culture shock wouldn’t really apply. The Crossing of the Return Threshold would be easy as apple pie. And it was. At first. My lovely apartment. My roommate. My squidgy awesome kitties. The food. The hygiene! Visiting my parents’ beautiful home on the beautiful lake. The air that smells like sugar. No such thing as the reverse shock for me! … Until. Yes, you got it, until I started my new job. The very rescuer I mentioned above is also the source of the mental exhaustion of the shock. You see, I work inside an airport. A very very busy airport. Thousands of people around me all day long every day. And speaking English. Copious amounts of all varying sorts of mostly American accent English. No problem, right? It’s my first language! But somewhat unexpectedly, and beyond my control, my ears feel the need to tune in to every single possible conversation being had. That nifty tune-out switch is suddenly broken! It will pass. We know this. But for now I have hundreds of families’ vacation itineraries, along with repeating airport announcements about security threats, lodged in my thinker. Falling into bed the very minute I get home from work, every day, has been my activity of late. Exhaustion!

Oh, I forgot to mention the Magic Flight! I have cultivated a pretty darned special skill these past few years. A very few short minutes after I buckle into an airplane seat I fall asleep. Not exaggerating. It happens every time. Without fail. I try hard to stay awake for takeoff but usually I’m in a half stupor with my head bobbling around. It’s very glamorous. Especially when I wake up a little to a suspiciously dry mouth. Yeah. One of my last flights I woke up with that very suspiciously dry mouth and the guy next to me was staring at me. I became suddenly self-conscious and worried if he had considered tossing things in? If any of you are on a flight with me and think about tossing things into my gaping mouth I’ll tell you that I do have a preference. First I’d like diamonds. I won’t be fussy about the cut, clarity, or color. But, yes, diamonds are my first choice of objects. Second choice, and possibly easier to procure on a flight, would be M&Ms. I like the peanut ones.

Master of the Two Worlds

Could I feel confident in saying I am now master of the two worlds? Hardly. China is mind blowing. I can’t even confidently say I scratched the surface. But I will say that I ordered Thai to be delivered to my hotel room, here in Denver, Colorado, yesterday. When the delivery guy handed me my food he said, “Si shi quai.” And without thinking I handed him $14.

The Post Script

My tales of China have come to an end. At least the mostly true part of the story telling. But I have outlines and plans. Nothing for the bloggosphere, however. I learned a lesson here, too though it has been fun. Thanks to all of you who took the time to read and who ‘liked’ and ‘commented’ below. Like I’ve said, monkeys love peanuts!

The photo at the top of the page is one I took out of my shuttle from the hotel to the airport in Denver, Colorado. No one has been able to answer my question about what they are. I think it’s art. Whatever it is, it has captured my imagination.

Farewell and with love! xx

Women at the 798

Today we went to 798 Art District. Here are some photos we took. Hope you enjoy.

Until next time,

xAng

Apotheosis

Moving Beyond the Pairs of Opposites

The China experience is always an experience. An adventure. It’s not exactly opposite of what you expect, because that’s a value which can be predicted. Nevertheless, if adventure is what you crave or what you need I can whole heartedly recommend a stint in this vast and curious land. You really don’t need to over think the thing. You don’t need a packed itinerary with day trips or overnight trips. Just get here. Go to the grocery store. Pay your electricity bill. Temple visits? Sure. Go right on ahead. What do you need–distraction? You got it. Do you need down time? Head space? Yes. Yes, it’s here. But be assured, getting what you came here for will be an experience. You will, will, die to the self and experience a transformation. I might be using the Greek term in a most liberal way but that’s the license of being the author, you see. This is my apotheosis. 

Being a Runner

If you know me in the non-blog world you know that I spend my time trying to do this thing called running. It’s the most brutalizing, demoralizing, painful, body wrecking, ego destroying, heart wrenching, TERRIBLE activity. I’m completely useless at this sport. I love it.  Coming to Beijing took this activity away from me. The pollution provided yet another Great Wall. I joined a Chinese gym but, again, more walls that I just could not overcome. So one of my goals while being in China, The Great Wall of China Marathon, was not to be realized.

Being a Clown

Sometimes, just sometimes, I like to take things less seriously than perhaps is needed. Just sometimes. Let’s take this Great Wall of China Marathon, for instance. As stated above, once I realized that I would not be running in China I decided that the Big Race was off the books. It was a bummer, for sure. But I got used to the idea and carried on about my daily business. After all, my running cronies are thousands of miles away and I don’t hear from most of them these days. My bestie and I have kept in close contact. We’ve iMessaged and emailed through her marathon trainings, etc. Some pangs of self-pity reared their ugly heads but nothing too terribly awful. That is until she arrived in Beijing. Aly, my roommate, and Jan, said bestie, began talking about their race. The envy hit like a brick Wall. I got sad. Real sad. Then, while reading the race organizers’ website, Jan noticed that I had been listed as a runner instead of a spectator. A runner, you say? A runner. Apparently that was all that was needed to inspire the clown within to go right on ahead and pick up a race bib. And that I did. Why not? I’ve run 13.1 miles without training before. It hurts. Sure. Yes, it hurts. But that’s no good reason not to do it. And yet it’s also plenty good reason not to do it. But can it be done? Yes, of course it can.

And that’s the frame which surrounded my mind as Aly, Jan, and I set off to pick up our race packets. It’s such a fun time, the packet pick up. I love a pep rally. And if there’s a pep rally where I’m one of those getting cheered on–all the better! Packet pick ups are just that. It’s an all encompassing pep rally.  The athletes, the admirers, and the ones who know better (oftentimes those three in one person) all together.

The Great Wall of Mandarin and the Course Description

This packet pick up was a bit different. I expected as much. After all, I’ve been the larger portion of a year in this place. I know how things are rarely as you expect. After seeing my name listed as a runner on the website, not seeing Aly’s name listed at all, and Jan listed appropriately in the correct category we were a little surprised to find I was listed nowhere–not as spectator nor runner; to find Jan’s name missing completely, as well; and to find Aly’s name listed twice. In the same category. (Literature teaches us these things. This is called foreshadowing). “It’s the language barrier,” I explained, “Y’all don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the 14th floor and listen to the course description.” 

Fawlty Towers

We hand wrote our names on the various forms. We ticked “no showers,” (when I explained to my co-runners that they don’t want to look a Chinese hostel bathroom in the eye). We got our bibs. Our safety pins. Our tee shirts. Our ChampionChip timing chips. We ironed it all out and headed, alongside a pack of French runners, across the restaurant into the next tower to the elevators. To the 14th floor. Into “the room five,” as instructed by one of the organizers. In the elevator the discussion began. “Which floor is the lecture?” Feeling as though, for once, I knew the answer I piped in, “The 14th.” The buttons stopped at 9. While we begin our friendly debate on what was said versus what the elevator buttons are telling us, the doors close and the car begins to move upward. We stop on floor 6, pick up a passenger, notice that the elevator across the hall has a light on the 9th floor and collectively decide that the lecture must be on the 9th floor. Being that the elevator across the hall was pausing on the 9th floor it seemed rather rational. The 9th it is. We pushed the 9th floor button. Our new passenger, however, was less confused and had already pressed floor 1 and the car descended. We all laughed in the quiet-in-a-confined-space-polite-laugh kinda way and rode the elevator down to the first floor. We kindly allowed the new passenger to exit. We then pressed the 9th floor. Confident, of course, the lecture would be there. While ascending I said, “I’m sure the announcer said the numbers 14 and 5. Maybe I transposed them? Maybe it’s on the 5th floor in room 14?” Good thinking the others agreed. We pressed 5. At the 5th floor we made that collective baby step march that a large group of folks do when walking in the same direction. We baby-step-marched out of the elevator and peeked down the hall–no groups of runners heading anywhere. “Look, the other elevator is on 9, again!” a French accent noted. Definitely. That lecture is on the 9th floor. We baby-step-marched back onto the elevator and pressed 9. On the 9th floor we got off, baby-step-crowd-march style, and looked down the hall. Again. No runners. Babystepmarching back to the elevator to push the button–another French accent said, “Maybe this elevator only goes to 9 and the other elevators go further up.” Babystepcrowdmarch turned around, en masse, and took the 3 steps to the elevator–the offending elevator continually lighting up “9”–and pressed the up button. Voila! It was already there (hmmmmm).  We crowdbabystepmarched back into an elevator car and whaddyaknow. The elevator has buttons which go further up than 9. I quickly pressed 14.

This is Where the Confusion Begins

We found the room 5. We found seats. Planted ourselves there. This lecture began. I have to say that any thinking person who is not addicted to all that a race provides may have stood up at this point and walked out. However, runners are all addicted to what racing provides. There’s no other explanation for what we do. Also, a fair portion of these runners have spent thousands of dollars to get into these seats. We are not giving up. But this race organizer/ lecturer is starting to give us doubts. His description of the course is sounding suspiciously more like a description of a map. There’s a difference. A big difference. I chalk it up to the language barrier. “Y’all don’t worry about it,” I explained, “it’s the language barrier.” He makes several references to towers. I’ve hiked the Great Wall before and I know what a tower means. It means an elevation. A big. ass. elevation. He keeps saying 7. But being ever the clever one I warn my gang that although he keeps saying 7 towers, to keep in mind we’re doing loops. There’s at least 14.

DNF

My friends can attest to the fact that I’m a slow runner. Some even call what I do napping. That’s just fine, though. Not being good at something is no good reason not to do it. Besides, I like to laugh. My performance in races is laughable if nothing else. That’s a certainty! And I like to be inspired. Every single race you will discover a hero. There are heroes of all descriptions with all varieties of stories to tell. This race was no different. I met a wonderful lady named Ino. She shared her story with us and she’s now gained a special place in my heart as another hero I’ve met. Ino is a bad. ass. She’s an Israeli living in Paris. She glossed over my question of how many languages she speaks. She’s humble. She’s small. She’s mighty. She’s a lawyer for an insurance firm. She’s an athlete. Ino signed on for the 10K. She’s smarter than us. (She was one of the elevator crew, however, so there is that). Ino finished her race. I have included a picture of Ino, below.

In all my races I’ve yet to attempt a full marathon. I’ve not gone further, in a race, than 25K. Why? Am I scared of not being able to run 26.2 miles? No. I feel that with proper training and the right shoes, I can get my legs to move me that far. What has held me back is my speed. But I’m not looking to make good time. I’m looking to finish. For some reason I have held back from races for the fear of not finishing. Right now, at this very moment as I type that, I am laughing. Why on earth would that stop me? I do not know. But it has. Until now. I am running in the Houston Chevron Marathon on JANUARY 19, 2014. That is in 262 days | 6 hrs | 41 mins at the time of typing this post. I had already made the decision to run this race but now I don’t fear the DNF. Why? Because I now have crossed that mental barrier.

I have my first DNF. I found that place between enjoying the absurd and understanding a real physical limit and left the race, yesterday. There were moments that the decision was not easy. But let me explain that this was not a runner’s event. There was almost no running involved in this race. After leaving the course and joining the spectators and organizers at the finish line, I learned a lot of interesting things:

1. The Chinese Ministry of Foiling All Foreigners’ Plans had, 2 weeks prior, decided that the race would not be allowed on the previously approved course. So the route had been quickly re-mapped. Most of the new route was on the Wall, where the previous route was only a short distance on the Wall. When you read the website’s grand proclamation that there are 20,000 steps in the race–that was the PREVIOUS course. The one we ran had not been counted…

2. Almost all full and half marathon runners got a DNF. While watching the tired and weary runners descend to the start/finish line, I only witnessed 2 actual finishers. (I don’t feel confident that the website will reflect the accurate finishers. It was less than above board the way the sudden change in course had been handled).

3. The medical staff included one EMT rumored to be somewhere nearby. I never saw him. There was also a first aid kit with band aids.

4. I was not the only runner to suffer multiple falls. There were many cuts, bruises, and abrasions.

5. Apparently, the organizers had never themselves even walked this route. I believe that a hiker’s map with estimated mileage had been put together and shown. There were no official kilometer markers along the way.

6. The race ran out of water in the furthest outreaches. But there were plentiful bags of warm milk and chicken burgers in a box at the finish line.

7. Even after hours upon hours of running there are still reserves within runners for anger and shouting.

8. Racing flats have no place on the Great Wall of China.

14 Towers, You Say?

Make no mistake, I had a blast. My cronies did, too. Neither Aly, Jan, nor I finished our races. We’ve all had the best time sharing our war stories, nonetheless.  Will we do this race, again? Absolutely not. But my goodness do I have one hell of an adventure to tell my grand kids. Wait, I mean my cats.

Oh, and as for my stats. My garmin mysteriously lost satellite connection off and on while out there (?) but my race lasted about 3 hours and 40 something minutes and I ran 46 towers.

Pictures of The Great Wall of China Marathon and Half 2013

(Left to right). Me, Aly, Jan. GWCM 2013

Jan and I photograph each other before the bus leaves. GWCM 2013.

Al and me. GWCM 2013.

Race Nerves on the bus. GWCM 2013.

Start / Finish Line

Jan in front of The Wall

Jan’s warm up stretch. GWCM 2013.

Aly is annoyed with being photobombed. GWCM 2013.

One of the elevations/ towers. GWCM 2013.

A tower on the GWCM 2013.

Inside a tower. GWCM 2013.

Technical terrain. GWCM 2013.

One of the more technical terrain elevations. A Tower. GWCM 2013.

Technical terrain. GWCM 2013.

GWCM 2013.

A modest elevation. One of the only places to run. GWCM 2013.

It was an accidental photo. But there’s my bib. My dumb ass minimal shoes. And a “stair step.” GWCM 2013.

Jan, Ino, me. GWCM 2013.

Aly and her participation medal. GWCM 2013.

Jan and her participation medal. GWCM 2013.

Ajuma is My Home Girl

Found Objects near the Chinese Gym. Wangjing 2013.

“Lowai!”

Living and working in Wangjing, aka Korea Town, has its benefits. Wait, let me tap the brakes, it has a benefit. Korean food. I think you know me well enough by now to know that I’m a bit of a foodie and that one benefit is enough for me. Oh, I also did this little teaching abroad gig before. 28,000 years ago one of my teaching adventures was in South Korea. I fell madly in love with the food and that love affair, unlike all others, has never died. So, it’s often that after work I will snag a colleague and get them over for piles of delicious Korean meat. Bulgogi. (I just flipped over to Wikisomewhere to check my spelling of Bulgogi and according Wiki-know-it-all a CNN article places this dish at number 23 out of 50 for world’s most delicious meats. Interesting. I have never met numbers 1 through 22. I’m open. But dubious).

“Hey Lowai!”

On this particular night I had somehow convinced Aly to join me for platters of meat. Aly is my roommate and the kid sister I never had.  She shares my love of the culinary world and also of the kitchen. I’m super lucky in that. More often, I enjoy our favorite Korean restaurant with my pal Jaryt. Jaryt is a Texan. Hells. Yes. Jaryt, too, likes to eat. And he lived and taught in Korea! He and I bonded pretty instantly. So you will often find us two fine black men on a Saturday night sitting on the floor over flaming plates of meat and crazy Asian beer. We have a good time throwing around our Texas charm and using our 15 words of Hangul. It makes Ajuma smile. We love her, she’s our home girl. She first speaks Chinese to us and then we reply with our crazy sounding gamsahabnidas and our annyeonghi gaseyos. We both instinctually hand our money with the ceremonial and polite left hand sweep under the right; we both bow. Korea feels more like home to both of us than China. These gestures are the behaviors of the very polite, in Korea. As an expat, I, myself, very much miss the behaviors of my own culture’s good manners. If you ask any expat what annoys them about their current temporary home you will often hear them tell you stories of behaviors which would be considered rude or “gross” in their own home. It’s such a small thing for me to bow. It makes Ajuma so happy to see deference to her home. When someone of this culture shows me the tiniest amount of respect or kindness by my culture’s standards, it warms my heart like nothing else. It’s a tiny investment but the reward is large.

“LOWAI!”

Abrasive behavior is not the sole domain of the foreign-to-me people, at all. Walking to the taxis with Aly, I guess it was close to midnight, after another delicious evening at the Korean restaurant I say to her, “Do you hear someone yelling ‘Lowai’?  But that’s an American voice?” Lowai, if you don’t know, is the Chinese word for “foreigner.” Whether or not it’s polite or rude is an ongoing debate. Personally, I could not care less if it’s rude. Unfortunately, all too many times we expats earn every inch of our less-than-respectful moniker. Hang tight. I’m making this point, right now. “Yeah, who’s yelling at us?” Aly had, indeed heard it.

“HEY CRAZY LOWAI’S!” Aly and I look over where the American voice was  screaming at us in Chinese several times. A young dread locked pierced American smoking a cigaret standing at a security guard’s post, no less, yells at us and asks us to call the police for her.  She was clearly in no danger, as she puffed on her smoke and swerved around a little. I asked her, “What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?” Then she smiles at us. Yep, straight and bright white shiny teeth, perfect complexion, attractive and typical 20 – 30 something American expat out drinking and misbehaving. A very very common sight anywhere abroad that I have been. “I need your phone. This security guard won’t call the police. Hey where are you from?” She looks at us and is distracted in her current crisis and wants to know a little about us, it appears. “Texas,” I reply.  “DC,” says Aly. “DC! DC!” drunk foreign girl says, oddly enough, in a fake Southern drawl. She wants to both befriend us and mock us and yet confuses which of us is Southern and, oh, ok she’s just drunk.

She then launches into her story, “Do you know Mahjong? Do you know Mahjong? I wanted a spa, look at that spa.” She points to an LED sign in a window a couple of floors up in the building near us. It’s a common sight these signs. “I wanted a spa they took my money.” I’m terribly confused at what this girl is trying to tell us. She’s talking about a gambling game and a spa?  It’s midnight on a Saturday night…? “It says spa and I wanted a massage and these old ladies were playing some game and I gave them 150 Kuai and they won’t give me a massage and they won’t give me my money back call the police hey where do y’all live you seem cool want to hang is there a party where are you going?” Of course the other shoe drops and it takes all I can muster not to laugh out loud at the girl.

Oh god the desperate acts of desperate people. She really doesn’t feel even slightly embarrassed that she just told two strangers that she is out looking for a massage. At midnight. On a Saturday night. Drunk. I imagined her mother. I bet her mother is a lovely woman proud of her daughter. She probably goes to church and brags to her friends, “My daughter is a teacher. She’s in China teaching children English!” Ma’am, your daughter is in China propositioning old ladies minding their own business trying to win some money gambling. (And personally, I say ‘high five’ to the old ladies who kept her money. Damn right).

I put on my kind but authoritative voice. I can do that. I say, “Friend. The security officer, there, has done you a favor not calling the police. Chalk this up as a ‘China experience.’ It’s 25 bucks. Not a big loss. If the police come it’s not likely this will end well for you.” Aly and I walk toward the black taxi with his door open waiting for us. I end saying to her, “Go home. Go to bed.” Offended that we are clearly making our exit she yells after us (is she following us?) “Oh! You’re trying to blow me off! I do live around here. You know I’ll run into to you. I will see you!” Aly and I quicken our steps and dive into cab. We’re laughing by this point and yelling at the cab driver, “Go! Go! And can you lock the doors?!”

My my my. My adventurous year in China. My temporary exit from ‘real life’ in America. I couldn’t make these tidbits up. In this existence, we are all racing toward that very same end. I’m enjoying these little entertaining moments in the interim. I do hope you enjoy them, too.

Oh, let me serve you up a very poetic slice of American pie before I sign off.  I did run into our friend, once more. Any wagers on where? No other place but Wal Mart.

That, is a true story.

To Live is So Startling

“To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else.”   Emily Dickinson

I live in Beijing, China. Wangjing, to be exact. It’s a subdistrict of the Chaoyang district inside the 4th Ring Road on the North East side. Home to 70,000 South Korean expats, Wangjing has been dubbed “Koreatown.” Wangjing means a “view of Beijing.” The photo at the top of this is my particular view of the city. I’m aware of the typo and when/if I get that corrected I’ll upload that copy dated in the correct millennium.

It’s been a month and I’m remiss. Forgive. It is the winter. And as you see, there’s pollution. Copious amounts of pollution.

About 2 weeks after arriving in Beijing we moved into our apartment here in Wangjing. We live in a rather nice hi-rise apartment with close to Western amenities complete with a Western toilet. And a separate bath/shower unit. That is a score. Our kitchen does not have an oven. As it happens, both Aly and I are home cooks. The lack of an oven has stifled our culinary desires but such is life. This is an adventure, after all. And you’d be surprised at what a $30 toaster oven can accomplish.

One fine afternoon (a Monday to be certain) shortly after moving in, I was reading in our lovely modern living room on our what was once white sofa (remember pollution) with our windows open enjoying the somewhat fresh (polluted) autumnal air. I was reading Into Thin Air by John Krakauer. That memory is rather distinct as the book sparked both the happy excitement of planning a tour of Mt. Everest base camp, I’m just a short flight away from Tibet after all, and the vexatious feelings that my own particular obstacles may not permit. (It is my daily work to not be cross at my own physical self. Who am I to be discontented? These are the lungs I was given and these are the blood cells I was allotted. Judgement of my abilities is other people’s business. I must leave them to it).

Anyway, I digress as I’m oft to do. Back to Wangjing, our apartment, the dirty sofa, a brilliant read, and the windows. Open windows on the 17th floor. Well, really the 14th floor but labelled the 17th due to the cultural importance concerning auspicious numbers and other superstitions. Open windows on a lovely fall afternoon, almost twilight, and I heard a noise. A man moaned. Or did he scream? And then shortly after two large bangs. Gun shots. No, that’s the Měiguó rén thinking. A Houstonian, even.  There are no guns in the hands of the people, here. It must have been construction noise. Or some such other explosion. Something else. Something in the distance. There are so many mysteries in China and the book was heating up in my  hands. Eight climbers died in 1996 during a fluke storm on Everest. Krakauer’s account is riveting and highly criticized. I absolutely recommend his book. The difficulty in acquiring books written in the English language has presented another Great Wall for me, but at the first available opportunity I will be reading Anatoli Boukreev’s account of the same ascent, The Climb.

An hour or so later, Aly arrived home from work. Looking slightly, but not overly, disturbed she reported a dead man lying near the pavement. “I didn’t see any blood or anything. I don’t know maybe he’s not dead. But there’s policemen all around and he’s really still. His body is in a weird position. He’s in the grass kind of near the sidewalk.”

Where did he go–is he hanging in that murky layer in the Beijing skies?  A lacy ether that rose out of his pores or some crack from the fall? I walk out of my building, each and every day, past ayi digging in the recycling bin for loot, past the children, past the dogs, past the little family of cats, past the cages of birds out for “fresh air,” and past the imaginary indentation on the ground where a strange man jumped to his death and pressed the earth deep. And permanent. And I think about him.

New Year’s Eve

Here we are, now, at the 11th hour of the 12th month.  Today, I’ve been to the gym, done a bit of grocery shopping, sent some virtual notes around to say “happy” and whatnot, done some other bits of house keeping, decided what my last meal of the year will be, and sat down to review.  I do it every year–I like to review my year.  The highs.  The lows.  The things I would change if I could.  I’m sure you do it, too.  Or maybe not.  Maybe you just get yourself a nice dress and head out for a good time.  Or maybe you’re in charge of making the reservations…Oh yeah, and I made a resolution. Last year my resolution was a damned hard one.  And I failed.  Like many people’s, mine didn’t last past April.  This year I decided that since just the everydayness of my life is a blasted difficult challenge and will be for 3/4 of 2013 that my New Year’s Resolution will be much easier than last year, much more fun to achieve, yet still an accomplishment.  (I really should think this way more often).  I hereby resolve that in 2013 the year of our Lord I will achieve–at least once but hopefully the ability to repeat at will–one unassisted handstand.  There, I typed that out loud for all 387 of you followers to read.  Accountability being de rigueur and so forth.

Well, as I am so often found to do, I digress.  I sat down to think about and to share how I got here.  Of course I realize that the early days of this blog I made that announcement.  That grand proclamation that I, in fact, had made the decision to take a one year sabbatical against almost every-living-soul-I-know’s advice.   But it appears that I haven’t told you about the day I left.  Let’s go back to the beginning.

The Night

August 28th, 2012.  I have no idea if I slept the night before I left.  Actually, I’m pretty sure I didn’t.  Either memory or my creative reconstruction has me in bed in that half-asleep half-awake state throughout night.  That specific alpha wave that while you are dreaming you are also aware that even your two cats aren’t making the noises of sleep. That heavy hypnotic breathing which belongs only to the world of those asleep.  I could be making this up, but I’m thinking not.  Dot and Lou knew I was leaving.  We’ll just stick with that, if you will.  (Stay with me).  Five minutes before my alarm was set to ring, I woke up and turned it off.  I had coffee, showered, and got ready to leave.  I know this not from memory but from the fact that the morning is a ritual from which I rarely deviate.

The Drive

I remember nothing of the drive to the airport other than I did not drive.  There was no unforeseen traffic incidents.  It was wholly uneventful.  And I was numb.  I don’t like goodbyes.  I hate airport scenes.  So, I instructed my best friend in the universe to drop me off at the departures curb and leave me there.  She complied.

The Incident

This is where the story makes a left turn.  It’s taken me 4 months to figure out the why of it all.  And who’s to say that I have.  But I’m definitely able to tell you this without it weirding me out.  I got up to the bag check station and heaved my luggage onto the scales.  Bad news. I’m 50 lbs. over the weight limit. “Fine,” I told the airlines employee, “I’ll pay the over limit fee.”  I was thinking back to my last business trip to NYC and how our employer not only bored us to tears in a miserably cramped up room for 4 days but also loaded us down with a huge binder that threw my bag over the weight limit.  The fee, then, was $50 (which I did not pay. I immediately opened my luggage and threw away the whole meeting binder–lock, stock, and barrel).   “$600,” said the mouth on the airline employee.  I just knew her mouth had gone rogue.  There was NO WAY the airline employee’s brain and her rubbery-hole-talker were coordinated. “Pardon?  Pardon me, how much?”  “$600,” she replied and then she went on talking about forms of payment, I think, but I had already started my own internal conversation with myself about money.  About the income difference between my ‘old life’ and my ‘new life for the next year’ and how I’d been so frugal to justify this whole crazy thing.  And how I even tortured myself over ‘boots or camera?’ And…and…and…and.  “I’m moving to another country,” my stupid and feeble talker said.  It was half-hearted but I heard it.  Then the talking thing on her face said more noises and then she pointed.  I looked in the direction of her point and there was a big scale.  “50 lbs.,” she said.  “Off load 50 lbs.”

I don’t know how many paces were between the talking thing and the scales.  But halfway there I had already begun to recover.  “It’s ok! I’m going to China!” I told myself.  “This is where folks return covered in a bespoke wardrobe!”  Easy.  Dump some clothes and Bob’s your uncle.  Well, well, well.  This is where we can say ‘ya learn something new every day.’ I have bad news for all you dieters that feel like you have to weigh naked and without shoes.  Etcetera.  Forget it.  Weigh with your clothes on.  Shoes.  All of it.  Clothes don’t weigh shit.  Pardon the vernacular but I really want you to understand my emphasis.  There was just no headway made as I put all the clothes, and I mean all, that I could live without onto the scales. And that’s when the unthinkable began to be thunk. I saw them.  The little crystal bottles with gold lids.  The compacts–each one housing their own glass mirrors.  Oils.  Things that smell nice.  Powders that sparkle. Glitter.  Paint. Things that weigh a lot.  Things that cost a lot.  The things I am attached to.  Things that define me.  You see, I was born female but I evolved into a second gender.  The type of girl who feels naked without the accoutrements des Haut Femmes.  Don’t ask me why this was the moment the floor dropped out from under my feet.  When I realized I was catapulting myself into a year of unknown…

And in Houston is where I left everything.

Bare. I left the airport aboard a big ass plane and flew to Beijing.  When I landed no one was there.  Nobody from Disney.  Nobody holding a sign with my name on it.  My phone didn’t work and I couldn’t figure out how to use a public phone (or if there even were any).  Tired, confused, and jet lagged, I found the taxi stand and began the never ending process of trying to communicate around the Great Wall of Mandarin.

Now

And here I sit thinking about all of this and all of you.  Thinking about how scary, insane, and utterly wonderful this has been, so far.  The cold, right now, is bitter.  For this reason my big adventures will probably wane for a while.  But there will be some.  And then there will be many when the sun thaws Beijing.

Big giant love from China and Happy New Year!

xxAngela

Dot and Lou

I Heart My Brain

I really do.  In fact, I really miss her when she’s m.i.a. for a day or two.  Fortunately, she dropped in this morning.  It went something like this:

“Angela.  Angela.  Ang.  Ang.  Ang…hey.  Hey.  Hey…wake up.  Dude wake up.  Dude.  Dude…oh, you’re awake. Good.  No, no, no, no.  It’s not time to get up.  Yeah yeah yeah, it actually is still dark out.  It’s not like Beijing smog or something.  Yep yep yep, still in China.  Yeah.  So, anyway, I am like SO sorry.  I know it’s like 3:45 am and everything but I have TOTES got to tell you something.  I mean, I meant to tell you earlier and all when you were getting home but I don’t know.  You were all WARM and hungry and your baked sweet potato started smellin good and then it got all busy in here with those Great Wall race plannin and that treadmill cheat sheet and, dude, I just spaced it.  Ha ha ha!  Right?  Who *me* SPACE something? Ha ha ha. Awesome.  Awesome.  Anywho, yeah, so anyway um, you left your phone in that cab tonight.  Whoah, right!?  I mean, a black cab and everything.  We can’t even, like, CALL them without the ‘ol fapiao.  Nope.  No fapiao in a black cab. Sucks.  Oh wait, we couldn’t call them anyway cuz you got no phone!  Ha!  I crack myself up.  So, dude, do NOT sweat all those Chinese instructions-directions-addresses and blah blah blah blah in there.  You’ll figure it out. Oh but it does to-ta-lly suck about that professor chick you met on the train with that esl job contact at her uni for after your contract.  Yeah.  TOTES sucks. Hey, note to self, TO YOU (haha), gotta ask Zack about those opera tickets.  It’s getting BORED up in here, damn.  Yeah, so go back to sleep.  I’m just gonna chill and think about every minute of the end of term performances Saturday.  Dude those Chinese kids are like CRAY.  God KNOWS what they will say in this parental show.  Whoah.   Oh, YEAH YEAH I almost forgot (see?) man I am REALLY sorry about those boiled eggs and the fire and all that exploded glass and stuff.  What. A. Mess.  But you have got to laugh about when that gas guy came over cuz the neighbors smelled all that smoke from your kitchen.  HAHAHA.  China, right?  All in one day.  Ha. Ha. Ha.  Yeah.  Hey, it’s like 4:00 am.  And we are awake.  Yeah, you know what *I’m* thinkin about….. wonder if Aly’s got any cookies left?”