Silence: 玉龙雪山

Unfortunately, many Chinese tourists do not get to explore much beyond the beginnings of a nature path. The tour guides take them from one “pretty" zone to another (the number of times, as a traveler in China, that you hear “哇，太漂亮了!" or "太美了!" or my favorite "美死了!" from others will quickly exceed the sum of your toes and fingers) like dogs on leashes.

Fortunately, that leaves me much freedom on the path at the Jade Snow Mountain to do as I please - so I walk off the path. A couple miles of trekking later, I realize that I only had a dozen dumplings for breakfast and am hungry. I rummage around my backpack for leftover crackers that I bought in Beijing. After chewing for a little bit, I stop. I'm the only human being making a sound. In the distance, the white Tibetan-style temple is the size of a penny. Horses and cows make dots on neighboring hills. I hold my breath - it's too loud, even though I was only breathing in shallow gulps. My brain is talking with thoughts suddenly surfacing to fill the silence. I wonder if this is what walking in outer space is like...no sound, the only sensation anchoring you to life your heart beat, memories reminding you that you existed, exist and will exist. 

A faint cowbell rings, the mountain exhales, ushering clouds over its head onto mine. 

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Firecrackers, Dying Chicken Sounds and Dramatic Opera : 春节, a photoblog

I was fortunate to celebrate the Spring Festival with one of the teachers at my Chinese language program, Sun Laoshi. As a foreign student, I am an explorer of culture. In textbooks, we read about customs and traditions. If the textbook is good, it may provide illustrations or pictures, but more often our Chinese textbooks are black and white and forces our imaginations to fill in the blanks. In Lijiang, I compared the images that I conjured with the actual Chunjie preparations and activities of the Sun family.

The day starts early - after a simple breakfast of tea, cheese and ant mushrooms, Auntie Sun is peeling and cutting vegetables (left). Sun and Ding Laoshi head out to the local supermarket to buy chunlian, red couplets hung on door frames (right). Everyone has something red on - Auntie has her sweater, Uncle has his shirt and socks, Sun Laoshi with her dress, Ding Laoshi with his underwear (he said).
While Sun and Ding Laoshi clean the house, Uncle Sun and I go to the backyard to prepare the chicken. "In the south, the chicken is traditionally prepared by each family on their own," explains Uncle as he sharpens the butcher knife. "The feet are especially important - we eat the feet to grab more fortune in the future. 新年抓财." He grabs the chicken's wings and feet and slits its throat, draining the blood into a bowl of water below its head. Suddenly, the chicken jolts erratically, surprising Uncle Sun to loosen his grip on its feet, which kick the blood bowl and splash its contents all over me and him. "Damn it," he says, "That was one of the best parts of the chicken!" Auntie Sun has me change into some of Uncle Sun's old military clothes to wash the blood drops off my pants. Uncle and I strip the chicken of its feathers, using hot water to make the "defeathering" easier. I nearly rip into its insides to take out particularly annoying little needle of a feather, but realize that I was slightly blinded by the blood crusted on my glasses. Uncle takes the chicken by its legs into the kitchen and tosses it around on top of the stove. The chicken's skin crackles and gets taut from the fire. Inside, Auntie is preparing the fish while Sun Laoshi is preparing a few side dishes. "Next year, I'm retiring from all of this - Sun Laoshi is going to do everything. She has to start learning now..." Sun Laoshi silently makes an expression at her mother while she lines a bowl with orange peels to make 八宝饭, or eight-treasure rice pudding. “Fish is also important - 年年有鱼，吉庆有余 - every year have fish, fortune will be abundant."
The dinner before Chunjie itself is a very important meal - to reflect and to celebrate the accomplishments of the year and to exchange wishes among family members for the new year. "Every family celebrates this meal by themselves - for the fifteen days following the new year, we will go to our relatives' houses to share meals and wishes with them," says Uncle Sun.
"And money," I add.
"Ah yes, hongbao. Fortunately, a lot of the younger ones in my family have already started to make money, so I don't have to give them red envelopes anymore."
"So Sun Laoshi has to start giving hongbao now?" I ask.
"Yes," says Sun Laoshi from the kitchen.
"On New Year's Day, we will all go to our ancestor's graves to saomu (扫墓, dust the graves) and wish for blessings from the ancestors." Uncle Sam's cell phone beeps. "Ah... the new year text messages are starting to come in, one by one..." A few minutes later, my cell phone also rings with incoming messages full of blessings and "Happy 牛 Year" lines which soon become hackneyed.
At last, dinner is prepared and set on the backyard table. Uncle Sun breaks out red wine and Auntie ladles soup to everyone. Everybody at the table warns me to eat slowly and pace myself. Every few minutes, everyone also raises their glasses to me for a toast and wish - blessings for good health and good grades, wishes for greater fortune and happiness are shared and downed with a clink and ganbei.
We get up from the table slowly - I am the last to get up after having to finish all the bits of food that Auntie put into my bowl. After clearing the table, Uncle Sun pours little cups of puer tea for everyone as Ding Laoshi shuffles cards. "Do you usually stay up until midnight like my textbook says?" I ask.
"We're all too old for that," Ding Laoshi says, "After a few hours of the New Year show on television, we'll all start to go to sleep."
At eight in the evening, we all make ourselves comfortable in the living room in front of the television. Nuts, fruit and drinks are piled on the center table to refresh ourselves over the course of the variety show. We watch, laughing and chuckling during comedy segments, taking bathroom breaks while performers sing. It seems that digesting the dinner meal is taking its toll on everybody's energy level. Auntie and Uncle Sun go off to bed two hours into the show. I try to make it to the end, but after the fifth singer trying to reach high notes ungracefully, I express thanks to my teacher and leave.
Outside on the streets, I grab a taxi back to my hotel room. At every few light poles, locals are hanging and tossing lit firecrackers, which pop and crack in a mess of white balls. Fireworks burst over my head from building roofs, the sparks and colors comparable to fourth of July fireworks. In the western world, we split celebrations by time zones, but in China everywhere is Beijing time. The view of China from outer space must be dazzling, to see the entire country blinking with white light. Scraps of red firework covers litter the streets and alleyways and the front of stores. I sure after fifteen days of fireworks, fish and chicken, the Nian monster will be scared enough and allow humans to live a peaceful year. For now, I just want a peaceful sleep without fireworks.

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Tang Dynasty Pipa: Lijiang, or 心旷神怡

5AM plane to Lijiang. I couldn't sleep at the hostel again, thanks to another round of drunk people, this time Chinese drunks, outside my window. How do you yell crazily for hours without needing to throw up or sleep? Even on the bus from Lijiang Airport to downtown Lijiang, I couldn't sleep. Acre after acre of elevated farmland in sunrise with the Jade Snow Mountain in the background passed by. A couple toddlers were sitting behind me, glued to the window as well. The bus windows fogged up because of the car heater. I used the window curtain to wipe off the moisture. The kids followed suit. I couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation:

Kid 1: Is that the Jade Snow Mountain?
Kid 2: Duh, it's the tallest mountain around here, didn't you hear uncle say that?
1: Yeah, but why isn't there much snow on it? Isn't the Jade Snow Mountain supposed to have snow on it?
2: Uh...maybe it's because of that, um.... "global..."
1: Uncle, is that Jade Snow Mountain?
Uncle (in the row behind them, talking on his cellphone): Huh? Yes, yes, we'll get there soon...
1: No way, that can't be!
2: Is too!
1: I'll bet with you.
2: What do you want to bet?
1: If I'm right, you have to call me 三大哥(Big brother, a term of high rank in gangs).
2: Fine. If I'm right, you have to call me that too.
1: I'm not going to call you that! You're already younger than me.
2: Then why are you sitting on me like you sit on your mom?
1: Because I want to see the view.
2: Ugh... uncle, are we there yet?
(Uncle continues to talk on the cellphone. The kids continue to squabble.)


I finally meet Sun Laoshi (Teacher Sun). She picks up one of bags.
"Oh, you don't have to help me, I'm fine on my own." I say.
She hands my bag to an older tanned man behind her. He smiles at me.
"My dad," Sun Laoshi says.
They have the same nose, eyes and chin, but their skin tones make a huge contrast.
"Haha..."I try to laugh my doubts off. "Nice to meet you Uncle Sun." (In China, you are part of one big family, whether you are foreign or Chinese. Anyone old enough to be your parents is either an uncle or an aunt.)
Inside, Aunt Sun and Sun Laoshi's boyfriend, Ding Laoshi, greet me. We have a slow breakfast of local Lijiang pastry, cheese, pickled ant mushrooms (mushrooms that grow only around ants) and salty buttered tea. "Don't be so formal," Aunt Sun says, ladling more buttered tea into my cup. "We Lijiangers don't have many formalities - all you need to do is make yourself at home." I nod with a mouthful of ant mushrooms.

The Old Town is a cobweb of streets, with more hotels and self-proclaimed inns than souvenir shops and restaurants. It seems that as long as you're a resident inside the Old Town, you can just make a sign saying "客栈" (Inn) and make money. Sun and Ding Laoshi are taking a million pictures of themselves together. Feeling like a third wheel, I wander on my own through the streets. Further south, I slosh into a huge open air market, busy with locals frantically buying supplies for their Spring Festival dinners - odors of live chicken, cabbage, fish and scents of spices and roasted nuts mix, spiked by yells by sellers and buyers debating prices. The locals carry large weaved baskets on their backs - environment-friendly grocery bags with culture, methinks.
Weaving backwards through smaller streets, I hear a djembe somewhere. I follow the beats to a street laced with stone and wood bridges. The man sitting across from a small instrument outlet bangs irregular beats. I sit down next to him. He just hands me the djembe and tells me to beat something out. (Sound like The Visitor anyone?) Hearkening back to my marching band days, I just hit the drum as rhythmically as possible. I was never a percussionist - my hands wear down as quickly as my inconsistent beats. Tourists walking by stop to take pictures of me. Some toss a few mao, which the drum seller swiftly picks up. After a while, Sun Laoshi calls - time to go.



Words from Uncle Sun:
Sun: I've been a high school teacher, and if there's anything I've learned from my two decades of teaching, it's that young people need time, much more time beyond their time in school. You don't learn anything in structured things like school - you need time out there. School doesn't give you a road with a direction - it just give you a paved road complete with asphalt. You can do anything, no matter what your passion is, no matter what you study. It's all for perspective, a gate you pass through to get true perspective. Only then do you have a direction, something to actually strive for. Everything else is background, something to form your conscience.

(Note: the rather ominous looking wooden gate above is used to dry corn.)

postscript from my notebook: majiang, wow why is sun laoshi so good, forgot to take pictures because 1 i was so mesmerized by rate at which my teacher was making money off her relatives 2 because i got so bored by it that i couldn't bear being in the same room

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Stone percussion: 石林

The Stone Forest is about an hour and half northeast of Kunming. Apparently, it's as big as a tourist attraction as the Over-the-Bridge Noodles. At the bus ticket station, I wait for an hour, watching commuters, tourists and travelers rush on and off buses to their destinations. On the bus, we're still missing one person, namely the person supposed to sit next to me. People in the back yell, "Just leave, that person's already paid but isn't showing up." In a few moments, a girl gets on the bus, and a few passengers grunt and shuffle. The girl takes her seat, and the bus takes off.
Azuneshi is also a student studying abroad from Japan in Hangzhou. She surprised I'm not Chinese. During the bus ride up to Shilin, we talk about our reasons for being in China. She likes Chinese tea - I guess Japanese tea ceremonies were boring to her. She's in Yunnan to observe and survey the local tea factories and fields, hoping to get some inspiration for her master's degree thesis. She mentions that she's traveling with a group of Korean students, all staying at a hostel run by a Korean man who only lets Koreans stay at his hostel. "I'm lucky," she says.
The Stone Forest is much bigger than I thought, and it's nice to have someone to converse with while walking around the park. Some areas of the park have a Jurassic Park atmosphere,

creating imaginary fears that a pack of velociraptors may be hiding behind boulders and behind bushes, watching me. While walking around, we come across a tourist group from Guangdong, asking us to take pictures of them. Ten digital cameras and way too many victory signs later, they all guess our nationalities. They get mine right, but when they try to guess Azuneshi's, they stumble. "Korean," Azuneshi says. They all smile, saying, "I knew it" as they walk to the next photo op. She looks at me and says, "I'm kind of hesitant to say I'm Japanese, especially since I've been to Nanjing." I decide not to press the conversation further and just enjoy the scenery.

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Rushing Scooters: Kunming

Observation: I'm tall. As I wait for a taxi to get to my hostel, I suddenly realize I'm looking over the entire line over everybody's heads to see Kunming. The person next to me in line (nobody really stands behind you in a line in China) is also from the Beijing area. The same sense of belonging encourages us to share a taxi downtown. In the car, we go through a routine of basic introductions, and start making basic observations about Kunming, starting with the traffic. There seems to be only one two-lane street connecting the airport to downtown. Both sides of the street are half-finished lanes, highways and construction debris. The Beijing person in my car says, "This is like Beijing in the 90s." I don't think I've stepped in a time-machine by going west, especially after passing by a huge Walmart and a couple McDonald's.

At the hostel, I ask the front desk for a dinner recommendation. They just point downstairs to the noodle restaurant. To travel in Yunnan without having eaten Over-the-Bridge Noodles (过桥米线) is to not have traveled in this province at all, they say. The plate - I should say plates - are interesting. The cooking is done yourself, at the table. The ingredients are all on small separate plates, ranging from pork slices to cilantro to red peppers to a small quail egg. All these are in thrown into a huge bowl of steaming broth, whose high temperature is maintained by a layer of oil and fat on the surface.

After a night of wandering through streets and alleyways, I wind up back at the hostel. In my dorm, a short buff guy from Hubei is lying on his bed. Another guy from Shanghai is getting dressed, preparing to go to the mini club-bar alleyway for "another night of mayhem." By the time I get ready to sleep, he is gone and a woman is arranging her bed. The Hubei guy, the woman and I chat a bit. The Hubei guy is in town partly for business, mainly to accompany a traveling friend. The woman is using Kunming as her gateway to Laos. At one point, the conversation turns dead, and she suddenly says, "You're a Virgo, right?"

"Yes..." I reply.

"But you're like a Libra." she says.

"I'm born on a cusp."

"Ah. I knew it!"

"How did you know that?" the Hubei guy asks.

"Just from the way you talk and what you say." she says matter-of-factly.

"It seems like you're pretty versed in astrology." I say.

"You're such a perfect Virgo-Libra." she says excitedly.

"How so?" Now I'm curious how this person I've talked to for the last twenty minutes can tell my personality from a brief conversation.

"You live optimistically but think pessimistically." she replied.

I laugh. I laugh a bit more, and then think for a bit. She sees that I'm thinking. "You're focused and get what you want out of life, but you're always thinking in extremes, thinking mainly for the worst," she explains.

I'm not sure where I can buy that. I think I laughed mainly because her first reply was so catchy and rhythmic.

"You won't be satisfied with your life unless you're sacrificing yourself." she goes on.

Now I'm silent. What sort of life is a sacrificed life?

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Song Without Words: The Beijing Exodus

I can't find my cellphone. Not that I really need it right now, but it beeps every now and then, notifying me that I have a new message - probably the daily news digest. It's somewhere in the pile of magazines, newspapers and books next to my bed. Nobody's calling now, unless they're in Beijing. But with the Spring Festival coming up soon, everyone's preparing their luggage and tickets to get on the next train or plane out of the capital.

I realized how dramatic this annual event was when I tried to place my usual delivery order for some lunch. The usual tired attendant's voice didn't pick up the phone after I called three times in a row. I went outside to get a to-go order of some street meat and vegetable shish-kababs. Not a single stand was in sight. For the first evening since I've been in this neighborhood, the little curving streets around my apartment were empty, quiet...and clean. Even the local restaurants were all closed. The delivery people, the waitresses, the cooks, everyone has gone home.

I made some convenient noodles.

A few people still linger around, walking in and out of the area pulling their luggage around. The happy ones go, with airplane tickets reserved online or with train tickets bought months in advance. The sad ones return, resting another night in their apartments before waking up again at three or four in the morning to rush to the train ticket booths, hoping to buy a ticket to get them out of this place. A walk by the Wudaokou ticket booth at eight in the evening told me the ones sleeping had no chance - some people are camping outside, armed with noodle bowls, blankets and mp3s to fight for the last few hard seats.

A few early birds are popping firecrackers somewhere.

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Drumbeats and Guqin Plucks: Three Quarters Later

My bike has changed. Dark grit-covered bike chains with frozen grease, slanting basket, tire frames with occasional dents and bents - the wear and tear are obvious. My pant legs get dirty every time I bike from my apartment to school. Though the bicycle only has one gear, every time I bike it feels as if I'm cycling up a hill, sixty-degree incline. To be honest, I didn't notice the increasing resistance. I prefer to walk now - I don't feel the anxiety of racing against crazy taxi drivers and dodging other cyclists when I just watch others get into accidents.

I used to be able to recall where I learned every character, sentence structure or chengyu, but now all the hanzi just swim in my head, randomly making an appearance at the tip of my tongue rather than on call. Before, I struggled to find the right word, but now I struggle to find the best word. Limited vocabulary is a damper on expression, but a rich vocabulary itself is a bottleneck as well when you are trying to find the best synonym among a group of words that have the same meaning. However, I realized the only reason I couldn't find the best word was because I was in a hurry to express my thoughts, resulting in sentences that when crafted look like magnets held together and split apart by string. My progress reports at IUP reflected high test marks, but one comment united all the teachers - I am rushing this language. My classical Chinese teacher is skilled in calligraphy, but the other day I realized he was also skilled in graphology - "Your characters are hurried and impatient, just like you." According to my Chinese astrology forecast, the Ox year will be a year that challenges the patience and perseverance of those born in the year of the dragon. It seems that the zodiac is harmonized with my Chinese education. This past semester at IUP, I was blessed to be studying with some of the program's most experienced teachers. I hope that during my last two semesters I continue to study with the program's best teachers and build my love for the language and culture. Along the way, it wouldn't hurt to find this Patience thing that everyone says I don't have.

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Deck the Lanterns: Christmas and New Year's

Christmas trees are everywhere. Every website, every shopping center, every restaurant - seeing a green plastic pine tree laced with blinking lights next to small golden Daoist statues was interesting - even IUP had a decent sized Christmas tree to greet everyone who climbed up to the fifth floor. Not many students nor teachers at Tsinghua or IUP seemed to get into the holiday spirit - "it isn't my holiday," they say. I wonder if advertisers really know their consumers' thoughts when they decide to buy huge trees to park in front of shops.

At IUP, we get one day off for Christmas day. On the night of Christmas Eve, Jill (my roommate) and I met with friends for dinner, and what Christmas dinner is complete without Korean barbeque? I somehow became the designated cook. No matter - listening to my older colleagues' high school stories of sniffing coke and clashes with the police while slicing up the meat to fry in the center charcoal pit is more interesting than bringing up cheesy holiday stories and jokes about chestnuts roasting in an open fire. Afterwards, classmates and some of the younger teachers got together for spiced cider and treats at a student's apartment.

Life doesn't stop on Christmas in Beijing - the streets are still crowded with glove-sellers, corn-sellers and jianbing-sellers. After Wudaokou's streets were renovated during the Olympics, the number of illegal vendors on the streets have increased, led noticeably by jewelry sellers from Qinghai and Tibet. It's hard to walk up the stairs to the subway station without stepping onto the yellow rug and torquoise trinkets of these westerners. During the evening, vendors begin to sell sparking sticks and puppies barely a month old. Elderly men shake porridge tins as I walk by, mumbling coarsely, "Shengdan kuaile, shengdan kuaile" (Merry Christmas).

Five days later, IUP let its students and teachers rest another day to celebrate the new year. A former IUP student hosted a party on the east side of Beijing, The party reminded me of frat parties - dim lights, living room floor slightly sticky because of spilt beer, unfamiliar faces - a small American microcosm in the middle of China. I left half an hour before midnight,

taking a taxi to the center of the Chinese universe - the Forbidden Palace. The taxi stopped a good 300 meters away from the entrance because of police blockade. In front Mao's huge portrait, foreigners and Chinese gathered, moving around while taking photos to prove to the world that they stood in front of the palace on New Year's Day (like I did). I forgot my watch, but conveniently a circle of expats started yelling the countdown for everyone to join in. Ten minutes after the cheers and hugs and moos, cars and buses started whizzing across the palace as usual, the police and guard cautiously looking about for potential bombers or terrorists.

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Formula Pop with Predictable Melody: Koreans in Wudaokou, Sketches

Taxi driver:
Are you Korean?...Oh, Korean-American! Interesting. No, no, I just noticed it from the small accent you have. Not like most Koreans, but interesting. I pull around a lot of Korean kids in this neighborhood. I know, they're rather loud, aren't they?... Oh, I didn't realize Koreans took the bus around here. Do you like taking the bus in Beijing? Hey, I hope you don't mind me saying this, saying you're America and all, but I think the Korean students here - you know why they aren't welcomed by the Chinese here? --- their suzhi (素质) is just so low. All they do is skip class during the day, drink during the night, fool around with boy or girlfriends, throw up in my car... actually, I can't really tell Koreans apart from Chinese people, but I know when I have a Korean in my car -- they're just so damn loud, all drunk, you know what I'm saying? Suzhi is just so low in those kids - they come to China and go back to Korea without having studied our language well at all, all they do is hun rizi, loaf through their days. Their taking Wudaokou down into a drain. Oh, here's your stop. 18 kuai. I hope you didn't mind listening.

IUP classmate, while eating lunch:
I live in Huaqing Jiayuan. Lots of Koreans there. It's kind of hard to study when there are drunk Koreans throwing and falling outside my apartment door. I know Koreans are the Irish of Asia, but it's awfully annoying to hear Korean swear words (they yell the same words, and I don't have to study Korean to know that some dude is calling his ex-girlfriend a bitch) while trying to memorize characters. That was my initial impression - really drunk ethnicity. Then, my Chinese friend told me that most of the Koreans in China, in Wudaokou at least, are the students who couldn't get into college or succeed according to their parents' standards in South Korea, but too poor to study abroad in the States. The average joe student who drowns his parents' ambitions in beer and soju - I look at the drunk kid at my doorsteps, and he seems to fits the demographic.

Musicology student at the Beijing Conservatory of Music, over a beer:
I'll try to be as detached about this. No, I don't really have a clear opinion about Koreans - you don't even count to me as Korean because you're too American. I'm just saying you don't think like the typical Korean boy that I've met in China. I'll just talk about Koreans from a cultural perspective - I believe that most Chinese people are angry at Koreans for stealing bits of its culture. For example, the Duanwu festival is part of Chinese culture, but Koreans are now celebrating like it originated from the Korean peninsula. Every country is trying to protect its traditions and customs, but I think South Korea went too far by celebrating Duanwu (Festival). That's not to say I complete hate Koreans - it's like how I hate the Japanese government for its actions half a century ago, but not its people. I think that generally, Koreans seem to fit mold of beauty that appeals to more people around the world. I mean, think about it - why do you think Korean dramas are seen around the world more than Chinese and Japanese dramas? As much as you argue about how the acting quality is among the countries, I think it still comes down to looks.

Korean-Chinese (Chaoxian, 朝鲜族) hairstylist:
Most of my friends are Chaoxian - I don't hang without the actual Koreans. Our cultural backgrounds are just too different for any meaningful conversation. They do come in for haircuts every other week - it's much cheaper to get your hair cut in China than in Korea. Your hair is perfect for perming. 300 yuan. Come on, just try it. The latest Korean styles have to involve perming.

Note: The opinions in this blog do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the author. The author did not get a perm.

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Charlie Brown Theme Song: Post Thanksgiving

It is cold in Beijing.
Well, it's been cold for the past couple of weeks. As soon as I got off the train from Shanghai, I saw everyone trekking in large overcoats and fleeces. I bought a new jacket and some new clothes to replace some of the shirts and pants that I brought from home. China's laundry machines, though good at cleaning, are horrible at preserving clothes.
This module at IUP, I am studying classical Chinese. I'm glad that I went to Hangzhou and Suzhou - classical poets refer to specific objects and scenes that can only be found in southern China. My teacher is having me memorize every lesson character for character. I feel like I'm back in Elementary Chinese when I prepare my classical Chinese lessons, but without the agony of encoding grammar patterns or the pressure of preparing for different classes. I am also studying from a book designed by IUP called Academic Topics. It is basically a collection of speeches by professors from various professional fields. We are learning to speak more like the writers themselves. In a nutshell, we have to prepare the lessons as if we are experts on the topic at hand.

I really enjoy the course so far - the topics are much more engaging than those of previous books, and the vocabulary is much more useful.
Yesterday, IUP hosted a student-alumni mixer event at the Element Fresh restaurant bar in Sanlitun. Unfortunately, I felt sick and nauseous throughout the mixer and didn't really get to speak to many of the alumni. Director Laughlin didn't feel great as well - in fact, a lot of people were feeling aches and cramps. I need to go to the hospital and get that flu vaccine.

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Autumn Leaves sung at Presto: The last nine weeks

November 8th ~ 16th
After the final exams of the first module, I headed south to Suzhou, Hangzhou and Shanghai. I do not dare to recap all my experiences, I think the reader will read to death about temples and gardens.
Hangzhou's West Lake was a nice change of scenery from the gloomy block buildings of Beijing. I rented an orange tourist bike and biked all around the stone bridges and gardens surrounding the water. It reminded me of home - the blue skies, fair wind, open roads reminiscent of Main Street. North of West Lake, I visited the Yue Fei Mausoleum, erected for one of China's greatest patriots. His grave is a huge mound like those of deceased Ming dynasty emperors. Across from his grave were the statues of Qin Hui and his wife stripped naked, kneeling as if begging for forgiveness. Yue Fei was a general for the Southern Song dynasty that could have potentially united China a very long time ago, but because of Qin Hui's desire for wealth and power, he was executed with no reason given (莫须有). History punishes and condemns anyone like Qin Hui, "traitors" to the country, or 卖国贼. Yue Fei was such an important patriot that the Chinese government requires that students must read at least one book about Yue Fei and study his poem Man Jiang Hong (满江红).

Suzhou, in a nutshell, is a canal town filled with gardens. Frankly, I only enjoyed the city museum designed by the architect I. M. Pei, whose wealthy family once owned the Lion Stone Forest here. Besides that, I found the city to be rather cramped and dirty. Perhaps the weather or the large number of tourists was too much of a contrast after visiting Hangzhou. The gardens make Suzhou famous. Mirrors are hung at specific locations around the garden to give the illusion that the garden spills out into other chambers. In ancient times, poets sat on benches among shrubbery and pagodas, musing nature and society.
Shanghai is a mixed bag. Skyscrapers and three story cement remnants from the sixties and seventies stand side by side, expats roam the streets like locals while Chinese tourists take pictures madly like foreigners, one-legged or extraordinarily crippled beggars open taxi doors while shaking coin cups in the faces of passengers donning the latest fashion from Louis Vuitton and Dior. I stayed in a cozy little hostel behind the Tomorrow Square, a skyscraper that mixes the design of tesla coils and buildings from the Jetsons. Shanghai is an easier city to walk and explore than Beijing. From my hostel, I walked all over the French Concession, Nanjing Donglu, the Bund, the Old Town and Pudong. During the day I experienced street food in the coiling alleyways of Old Town, while during the evening I sampled homemade cocktails in Lounge 18 on the Bund. Though I love Shanghai as a city, it feels anti-foreign. Sure, expats work in the companies in the special economic zone and live in corporate apartments that look over the city, but the locals keep to themselves, yelling in blurs of Shanghainese. I know that the city government is working furiously to prepare for the World Expo in 2010 - in the central People's Square subway terminal, they even have a huge green digital clock reminiscent of those posted all over Beijing counting down to the Expo day. Government officials hope that by 2010, the city population will be "5% foreign." Only then is Shanghai "a true international city." I wonder if the Shanghainese want that.

October 31st
Speech day. At IUP, we have to prepare speeches on the sixth week. The following is a speech about globalization (全球化), discussing how to globalize oneself in a globalizing world.
虽然我们经常用全球化这个词，但它给社会带来的莫大的影响并非人人都清楚。全球化的发展意味着人类社会将被重新构建。有句歌词说得好：“这世界变得越来越小。”随着传媒技术的高速发展，互联网以惊人的速度遍布整个世界，经济全球化日益现实。网络不声不响地进入了每个城市，想在如果没有它人们似乎无法生活下去。在时下的世界里，可口可乐和麦当劳的广告铺天盖地。在每个城市的大街小巷都可以听到英文。虽然大家似乎对全球化所带来的物质享受感到欣喜，但还有一些为传统文化的未来感到忧愁，尖锐地批评它所带来的不良的影响。所以，各个国家也在尽量保护其传统文化遗产。为了消除传统和现代建筑的冲突，建筑师在千方百计地设计一些融合这两种建筑的特色的高楼大厦。为了让这一代的年轻人了解过去的习惯，各市政协会举办特殊节庆活动来让大家亲身体验不同的文化。有的城市甚至为了所谓的“保护”抵制外国文化融入人民的生活，生怕全球化使我们丧失个性。 “全球化我不怕，可怕的是找不回自己。”我们似乎把这句口头禅作为了一种生活方式。但何必如此呢？我想，越来越多的人在国际商店购物或者喝星巴克咖啡反映出了大家都迎接全球化的态势。为何我们只能在所谓的“文化”中找回自己，而甘于在全球化的生活中迷失呢？在我们的现代汉语词典里，文化的意思是“人类在社会历史发展过程中所创造的物质财富和精神财富的总合。”换句话说，文化是一种形式，可以是多种多样的，不只是我们想保留下来的遗产。文化本无国界之分，只能在缺乏创造力的人们的脑海中受到了限制。全球化也并不是一种新的现象。虽然这个词直到1962年才出现，但事实上，原始人类的迁徙和繁衍过程完全可以被视为早期的全球化。大约五万年前，我们的原始祖先最先出现在非洲东部，他们慢慢分散到包括南北美在内的世界各个角落。那时候，由于人类交通技术有限的缘故，全球化发展得比较慢，但现在已经可以用先进的技术以迅雷不及掩耳之势改造世界了。我们“找不回自己”的恐惧的根源也便在这儿：我们没有时间习惯千变万化的社会。所以，一个星巴克牌子出现在故宫，我们不由得感到突兀。 我认为文化中的精神财富比人类更易于全球化。我们在美国的华尔街上可以用中国的红砖绿瓦建成高楼大厦。许多生意人可能会吃惊，但我却不然。只要我们有足够的资源，我们可以把任何东西从一个地方输送到另一个地方，可是人的思想却难以改变。当我们跟不同文化背景的人聊天的时候，我们会不会乐意接受并使用对方的思维方式？我承认我不会——我看，老师和同学们也都深有同感。我想问：我能否把自己全球化？很多社会学家已经预测，在全球化的影响下，各个国家的文化势必会融合成一种文化。我们所保留的历史遗产无非是一种日记而已，让我们回忆或者学习人类的精神和奇妙之处。 王国维在他写的《人间词话》说每个学者得“必经过三种之境界。”旨在让每个人系统地全球化，我想出了一些境界。其一，“对他客观，对他宽容。”“他”是指不同的文化。在我们从小形成的对世界的成见的阴影下，我们不可能理智地对待某一现象。只有我们以客观的态度来面对世界才能变得宽容。其二，“追他而迷，为他而创”我们不能只当一个旁观者，我们也得亲身经历文化才能理解。当我们理解的时候，我们也可以创新，为文化做出些贡献。其三，“纵观颜色千百度，蓦然回首，原色犹在，独形异矣。”在我看来，文化不是为一个群体所拥有的，而是人类共享的。即使文化是人的精神的表现，但也得承认不同的群体会因生活环境不同而使用不同的方法来创造文化。如果我们将来在故宫或者在其他的名胜古迹和古典园林里看到洋快餐或者现代购物中心，我们不用觉得突兀，其实我们是少见多怪。当我们看惯了必胜客挨着一家传统茶馆的时候，我们看到的是文化的现代形式，一种文化，一种颜色。 文化和全球化不是不容互相的，是息息相关的。当我们觉得两种文化存在时，两种文化就存在。但我们习惯了文化的融合，那就是一种文化。我们的任务就是达到只看到“原色”的境界。如果你会看原色，我会向你多多指教。

October 29th
Outside the main gate of my apartment, an old man sits, passing time by looking at passersby and taking care of his two white dogs that get dirty in the grass easily. One of the dogs likes to smell my pants and lick my index finger - the other bitch just nips and barks at the former dog to get away from me. The old man is in his 80s, wearing a simple V-neck with worn black dress pants and vest, throwing on a light blazer for the wind - I just call him "老爷," or grandfather. I occasionally talk with him, trying to discuss some of the colloquial phrases I've learned. The man can't write characters, but he knows so much about Confucius and Chinese history from a working man's perspective. He doesn't like to play Chinese chess or poker with the men around the apartment corner - he just smokes the day away, steadily going through a pack of cigarettes as he watches the willow trees. The weather is getting cold these days, and he spents more time couped in his room, like the pigeons and sparrows that he shelters outside his window.

October 25th

I feel like I've hit a critical point in learning Chinese. Synonyms are bumping into each other, sentences are getting more complex and the line between formal and colloquial Chinese is getting blurred. I find myself thinking unconsciously about the fine differences between two words with the same meaning but different characters. My ideas and arguments are understood by my teachers and friends with more ease and less hiccups, but I'm getting unnecessarily wordy. By taking a class on colloquial Chinese this semester, I've been able to talk more like a regular Chinese person among my friends here. But, I find it harder to talk with taxi drivers, my first intermittent conversation partners in China. Yes, they understand what I'm saying, but when they ask me to repeat a very formal academic word (书面, as the Chinese say), I find myself watering down the beauty of a sentence that I took time to construct into simple sentences. I don't think the fact that I have a bigger vocabulary makes me better or more Chinese than them - I think that studying professional Chinese desensitizes you from something my colloquial Chinese teacher calls "language environment" - that is to say, I should know not to say among my friends that a girl may a protuberant butt when I can just say her ass is big, or that talking about Confucianism or Chinese medicine isn't something that everyone prepares for. To develop this sensitivity to the surroundings is still a work in progress, but by thinking about the words that I learn beyond their fixed definitions, I find myself more sensitive, or “敏感."

October 12th
Music never seems to escape me in this city. A couple research students that I met at the Beijing Language and Culture University invited me to attend a rock concert called the Midi Festival on the outskirts of the fourth ring. Aside from getting lost and asking a million people how to get to the concert, we comfortably arrived at the concert arena, a small music college geared for churning out China's rock artists. Clusters of students in surplus military gear stood outside makeshift tents, an outer ring of cigarette butts growing thick around them. On stage, a French alternative rock group keeps its listeners' heads nodding and hands waving. A couple of kids waved large red flags saying "Independence for Rock Music! Rock Revolution in China!" while running into people all over the place - perfectly raucous.
On the either side of the arena, a smaller stage was set for Chinese rappers freestyling to the beat and melody of Kanye West's "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger." I'm not exactly sure what they were rapping about, but it had something to do with making money, buying bling, getting girls and beating any other crew that would dare challenge them. The sight of them with fake gold necklaces, oversized sweaters and fake Nike Air Force Ones was enough excuse to leave.

September 22nd
A couple days earlier, I helped plan my roommate's dinner birthday party. In her search of traditional fried duck in a local hutong, I found a lovely restaurant south of Tiananmen Square that has somehow maintained its hutong integrity and duck taste compared to the Quanjude crap.
As for me, I needed any food resembling homemade food - namely, Korean food. I haven't celebrated my birthday with my family for a few years now - during high school it was because of band competitions, during college it was because of the distance. I found a restaurant that served close to authentic Mee-Yok-Gook (미역국, seaweed soup). Traditionally, Koreans eat this soup to remind themselves of the pain that their mothers endured during pregnancy and to thank them for giving them a life.
I've never felt more homesick.

September 16th

I got a call from a friend if I wanted to see Avril Lavigne in Beijing. I thought she was joking, but in a serious voice she offered a VIP ticket to watch the Canadian rock star in a private booth. I ended up at the Wukesong Basketball Stadium a few hours later.
Nobody actually buys the VIP tickets individually in China - they are all bought up by corporations and companies seeking to give their employees bonuses that extend beyond a lump of cash. So, my fellow Lavigne fans were composed of Chinese men in their fifties and expats from Texas and Kentucky working for major oil companies. I think they just came for the champagne.
About fifteen minutes into the concert, the floor in front of the stage was crowded with the real fans - the college and high school students and pop rock enthusiasts dressed in proper gear and laced with glow sticks. Suddenly, the security turned on the lights, the stage manager came on stage and commanded everyone to return to their seats before the concert got canceled. "This is for the safety of the performer and for everyone else's safety."
Since when was Avril afraid of having her fans a few feet away from her? And what does the stage manager have to fear? She is no Cui Jian - revolutions are not start by songs about skater boys and muddled infatuation.

September 14th

Zhongqiu Jie, or the Mid-Autumn Festival - the day for family and friends to get together, to find a place to see the full moon when it is closest to the horizon and to enjoy mooncakes. Nobody wanted to go with me to Houhai to actually see the moon, so I went by myself. Unfortunately, I had to share paths with other couples walking slowly, nibbling mooncake crusts, talking about sweet nothings. A girl looked at me with pitiful eyes as I asked her boyfriend to take a picture for me. Fortunately, the scenery was beautiful. Though the photo that I've uploaded was taken later at night, the moon was red only minutes before, truly 朦胧.

September 12th

As a reward for her hard work as an intern of the 2008 Olympic Games, Danni got a couple tickets to go see the Paralympics from her boss. Not really interested in the Paralympics and already caught up with academics, she offered me the tickets to see the powerlifting finals. I sat among a sea of Chinese flags and red plastic clappers. When the Chinese competitor came out, everyone just rose to their feet, the stands shaking with their cheers. On the television, I heard the familiar cheer "Zhongguo Jia You" (Go China!), but instead I heard a chorus of children led by an enthusiastic teacher yelling "Yundongyuan Jia You" (Go athletes!). Very fitting - to see the blind and the wheelchair-ridden athletes pump more than 300 pounds into the air is not something to cheer based on nationalities, but based on the human spirit.

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