From China, with love

I took the wedding dress I had made in Beijing to a US tailor this week. This is the last time I trust sweat shop labor! I kid, I kid. My wedding dress looks suspiciously similar to this Vera Wang from spring 2008 collection (minus the silver dohicky and the fan thing in the front). Wait! I just realized my wedding is in the fall of 08. OMG it’s out of style!

Obvs kidding. Anyway, my mom and I rushed  the dress to our local tailor, a sassy Bolivian-American named Tancy. This followed an all out ma- freak out when I tried it on at home. I had known it wasn’t perfect. I admit, my love for the dress and my struggle and triumphs over the process of commissioning it in Beijing had blinded me to its faults. I was wearing lover’s goggles. Tancy, however, was not. She squinted at the seams of the lining. “Oh yeah, I’ve dealt with Chinese-made dresses before.” The seams were sloppy near the top, but it was a relatively easy fix, she said. Also, the Chinese tailor had sewn the v-neck shut at the bottom, and the seams on the boddice in the front were sloppily pleated. It was looking all kinds of matronly when I tried it on. I stood on a pedestool in front of her big mirror triad and held out my arms. Tancy undid the offending stitching, pushed the material here, stuck a pin there and we all breathed a sigh of relief. It was fixable. Two days later, after perusing bridal mags, which are full right now of various neoclassical, empire waist A-line styles, my ma and I rushed back to Tancy with a new idea. The dress was missing a certain…oomph. We told her we wanted to add We a band of some sort under the bodice. Tancy ran to the back of the store and came out with a thick, long satin ribbon. She pinned it under the bodice, made a knot at the back, and let the remaining fabric run down the back of the dress. I’ll post a pic when it is complete next month. My goggles are off…but I still love this dress.

My class still hasn’t heard from American sportswriter Dan Wetzel. For those unfamiliar, which is everyone, I had my class of Chinese sophomores respond to a Yahoo.com column called “Fanning the flame of controversy” that called the decision to hold the Olympics in China the “single dumbest decision in sports history.” The writer weighed in on everything from Tibet to the squat toilet, and his words almost made my class cry, they were so offended. So they wrote letters and I wrote a blog. He commented on my blog, providing his address and promising a response. I sent the letters from China to him about three weeks ago. They’re still waiting.

Meanwhile, below are two more of their letters and a window into the mindsets of 20-year-old Chinese college students. And, if you’re wondering why the letters are signed with sometimes goofy English names, it’s because the English majors all chose English names for class. I’ve taught, for example, Windows, Bunny (a guy), Kaka, Solar, etc. Lastly, you might notice that I cut out the beginning, because they pretty much all start with, “I am a student at… I recently read your column and…” Other than that they are unedited…except for spelling errors, which I really can’t stop myself from fixing.

1. Mr. Wetzel,

…I write to you because I don’t agree with many of your points, especially the points about Tibet. You said that Tibetan people have battled with China for its independence since the Yuan dynasty. But please look into Chinese history. Actually, in the Tang dynasty, Tibetan government and Tang government agreed that Tibetan people and Chinese people are in one family. Since Yuan dynasty, Tibet has become one province of Yuan dynasty. From then on, Tibet was always a part of China until the Chinese Civil War. Some people with the desire of making Tibet independent did some bad things to the union. But, Tibet has been part of China since 1959. Tibet is a poor district, but the Chinese government never ignored it. Tibetan people live in a better life than before. And under the help of Chinese government, all their social aspects have improved a lot. In your article you said there are not freedom in Tibet, and that they seek freedom for more than 50 years. How can you say so? You must know that the top leader of Tibet is always the Tibetan people. For instance, Zang students can get extra marks in the college entrance exams. In your article you said, “Now here comes the best and perhaps last chance for Tibet to make noise and regain (or gain, depending on your political perspective) independence.” You are calling the Tibetan people independent. You are doing something on purpose to harm our country. I don’t know what your aim is. But I advise you if you are a newsman, you had better write something objective. -Sunny

2. Mr. Dan Wetzel:

…I am writing this letter to show my opinions on your points which you wrote on the internet about “Chinese empty promises and “frightening totalitarianism.”

I do not agree with you on these points. First, I do not think China has given empty promises of progress. I think you can see although China is a developing country, it is improving and developing day by day at a fast velocity. For preparing for the Olympics, we have done something about the traffic, environment and safety of the athletes. Our government has issued many new politics to improve these aspects. For instance, about the traffic, we allow cars to drive by car number. So it is important that we choose the bus as our transport for the first choice. And we also have done something to improve our country’s environment. When you are in China, take a deep breath of the fresh air. Look at the flowers, grass and birds flying. You would know everything we have done, every promise we have achieved. And another point you mentioned was regarding “frightening totalitarianism.” You may think there is a frightening totalitarianism social system in China. It means that the social orders is controlled entirely by the political powers or reach by the state power, but the private space is compressed to be reduced to a minimum. It is not in line with China’s national conditions. Every Chinese has the right to participate in policy decision making with the government, especially on the livelihood aspect. And National People’s Congress for more people who come from various regions of the nation has the right to participate in the polictical decision making is the important manifestation. We also have the right to protect our privacy. And our country respects for the will of the people. So we live a happy and stable life.

For 2008, we are full of anticipation. We strongly believe that our country has the ability to hold a high-level Olympic Games, we welcome all people from the world to come to China to share the joy of the Olympic brings to us.

Sincerely,

Lemon

I finally had Peking duck on our last night in Beijing. The duck was prepared five different ways: as a soup, melt-in-your-mouth fried skin, fatty pieces, savory slices and as a kind of duck stuffing, with onion and celery. To eat it, I wrapped the meat of choice in thin, pliable bread, added cucumber and green onion, wrapped it like an itty bitty burrito and then dipped it in either a salty brown sauce or sugar. The soup featured vegetables, a rich, flavorful broth and pieces of duck on the bone. Outside of the food I ate in Qingdao, this was the best culinary experience I’ve had in China. The restaurant was big and bright and busy-a local place known for reasonable prices but excellent food. We had Eric and two of his former students with us. It makes such a difference when you know someone who 1. speaks Chinese 2. knows the area. Back at the hostel, we played cards and drank beer with Eric, whom we’d be traveling to Chicago togther the next day. Ah, cards and beer. Pretty much a major, recurring theme in my life here.

My 13-hour flight from Beijing to Chicago arced over the North Pole. Despite our ridiculous pile of luggage, the trip from the hostel to the airport was a breeze. The students from the night before met us again to help us get all of our crap on an airport shuttle. He was leaving after three years-and he had one small-ish duffle and a small carry-on. Mark and I had been there for only 10 months, and we each had two at-capacity bags and two stuffed carry-ons a piece. Lesson 1 learned from China: travel light.

The refurbished Beijing International Airport is spacious, clean and modern. We checked in, grabbed a yummy bowl of noodles and veggies and breezed through security with almost no waiting at all. The Chinese United worker didn’t care that Mark’s bag was 4 pounds overweight. Luckily, we just missed United Airline’s new policy on checked luggage. We weren’t charged ($15 for the first bag, $25 for the second) for checked bags because the school bought our tickets June 7th; United will start charging passengers for checking bags for all tickets bought after June 14th. Mark’s carry-on was dissected and search, and we both got a thorough wanding down. Even so, the security personnel were pleasant.

We got a rude awakening when we boarded the plane when we discovered the stewardesses had all eaten bizzznotch sandwiches for lunch. These ladies were jaded. When I took a half a second to decide between beef and chicken for dinner, the woman repeated her question in this terse, barking tone that was none too pleasant. “Chicken or beef, miss?” an emphasis on “miss.” Their service industry burn out didn’t dampen our moods. We had switched seats so Eric could sit in our row. We-surprise, surprise!- played cards and watched some of the worst movies ever made. These included “Jumper,” and “Fool’s Gold.” And somehow, we discovered that you could drink free-yes, free-Tsingdao beer on the plane ride.

The only little snag came at the end. Our parents had been following our route online. Suddenly, the flight registered as “canceled.” And they wondered, “Why would a flight from Beijing just disappear out of the sky as a cancellation?” Naturally, both Mark’s parents and my parents came to the conclusion that we had plummeted to the earth. Not so. O’Hare had some storms, so we flew in a clover leaf pattern between Chicago and Rockford for about an hour. We were set to land and refuel in Rockford when we got clearance from air traffic control. Meanwhile, my ultra sensitive motion sickness had kicked in. I gripped the barf bag on our jiggly, nauseating ride and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

We got through customs and headed to the carosel. I doubt that I’ll have any kind of “reverse” culture shock, but I could tell my eyes are much sharper to the habits of my countymen. I noticed something that I wouldn’t have before. And it was funny to me whereas it wouldn’t have been before I left for China. An announcement that our bags would be late due to lightning strikes on the runway was met with a chorus of groans and a corresponding dance of arms thrown into the air. Places of travel in China also have random, unexpected delays. And workers aren’t exactly upfront about the cause of the delay, let alone the length. I was on a bus with Chinese teachers that met a five-hour traffic jam once, and no reason was ever given. What did people do? They played cards and looked happy. Their carefree reaction shocked me. It was my first lesson about Chinese patience and endurance. A delay is a delay. And people wait. Placidly. With acceptance. Without throwing fits. They bust out the sunflower seeds and cards and settle in for yet another long wait. My biggest fit was at the Nanjing airport during the huge blizzard, the biggest in 50 years. We couldn’t seem to get on a plane, even though we had legitimate tickets. The snow storm had stopped, but I generated a storm of curse words in the two-hour, check-in line. People were pushing their luggage carts into our calves, cutting and breathing down our necks. We finally got to the front, where we argued with a worker, who spoke English but didn’t want to deal with us. Why? I still don’t know. He refused to print out our tickets; we had been transferred to this flight by another airline following the storm. I burst into tears. We had been stuck in Nanjing for three extra days, and I’d had it. One look into the stony face of a Chinese granny turned off my waterworks. I realized how futile these emotional fits were right then. I can’t imagine how funny I looked to the local people. In this nightmare travel situation, I was totally alone in my fit-throwing. But luckily, a worker from our original airline actually saw my dramatic tantrum, ran to us, jumped behind the counter, yelled at someone, and one minute later we had our tickets. We boarded the plan with just 10 minutes to spare.

The American fits yesterday at O’Hare recalled our many unexpected encounters and delays traveling in China. I guess, it was just kind of comical to see a mini-revolt launched over something so small, when I’ve been stuck many times in a sea of placid, emotionless, weary, travelers for almost a year. Lesson 2: Patience. I hope it sticks.

Mark and I were happy to get back, but it’s bittersweet. I didn’t cry about leaving China until we left Eric, who was checking his bags to get on a flight to Oklahoma City. We were leaving our last tie to the country. Our last tie to the intense experience of living in close conditions with a small group of expatriates who have seen and experienced the same things as you. So, it felt final, even though Mark and I would love to take a road trip to Oklahoma some time. And we want to go back to China at some point. Anyhow, he’s been a great neighbor and companion, luckily on who shares appreciation for the absurd and ridiculous, which, we found, is really important when it comes to our friends.

When we met Mark’s parents, I was all teary and emotional about leaving. And then, I was all teary and emotional about being back. I wanted to see his family. I wanted to see my family, which I would, later in the week. But I already missed China. On top of that I was still half motion sick and totally out of it from lack of sleep. Beijing left me with one final bad stomach case and a few complimentary hostel bug bites. In the near future I have a job to find, a wedding to plan and a marriage to look forward to. It is completely surreal to be back.

Mark and I woke up at 4 a.m. today to watch the sunrise. Well, it was cloudy, and already light out by the time we got to the Yellow Sea. But, no matter. It was still peaceful, and quiet, and I like the sound of the waves. We’ll probably go back to the beach tonight, following a banquet and then a bonfire, which we delayed until today. Today is my last day in Qinhuangdao. We’re shutting off our internet this afternoon.

China is going to be on my mind for a long time. We’ve had such good times here. Bad ones, too, but overwhelmingly good. And I’ve learned a lot, most of which I kept to myself. I’m not so hot at blogging about feelings, so I kept the focus on experiences. I can’t say that this was a totally honest representation of my experience at all. It’s a piece of it, though. I wonder, can non-anonymous bloggers really be honest? And can you trust an anonymous blogger?

Anyway, we’ve had a lot of fun and met lots of interesting people. Students here are something else. Really special. And I don’t throw the word “special” around, because it’s not a word I really like. So, I mean it. Last night, we played some street badminton with two of my favorite girls. We all started crying when we said our goodbyes. Ga. I hate goodbyes.

As sad as I am to leave, I’m also really ready to get home! I never thought I’d say this-but I really really miss working every day. Having places to go, people to see. Our work schedule was so easy here- Too easy! And, of course, I miss friends and family, I want to plan my wedding and accomplish about a million other goals.

One of my short term goals is to publish, on this blog, all of my students letters to an American sportswriter who ripped on the Olympics being held in Beijing. I’m doing this not to pick on him, but to highlight opinions from today’s Chinese vs. the attitudes in the Western media. I’ve got 35 more letters to go.

The last experience I want to have here in China is to eat Peking duck in Peking, in my new red silk dress. We’re heading to Beijing tomorrow for two days, and then I’m off to Chicago Saturday, June 28th.

xoxoxoxoxo from China,

Juliana

Last night, I finally learned how to cook Chinese food. Wang Wei and his pal came over to show us how it’s done. After Mark and the boys wandered around the back alleys collecting various veggies and meat from vendors, it was time to get started. We-and by we I mean they, as I just watched and chopped- made these awesome and very thinly sliced potatoes cooked in oil and white vinegar, a Sichuan stew, spicy mussels-so fresh they were alive when we put them in the pot- and dry fried green beans with pork and pepper. I despised green beans my entire life-until I came to China. I don’t know what happened. And I never thought I’d like mussels. But I do. A lot.

We spent hours cooking and probably two hours at the table talking away about the state of the world, drinking wine and beer and eating all of our yummy food. It made me remember how much I miss cooking and having people over for dinner. We go out to eat as much as twice a day, usually. Because, basically, our electric burner only works with aluminum alloy pans. And those pans are crap. So, they ruin the food. Wang Wei and his friend had to add a ton of oil and water in order not to burn the food. Somehow, it was still delicious. When I get home I’m going to attempt to recreate these dishes, and I’ll post the recipes then.

My life these days is pretty ridiculous. It revolves around meals. I had another hours-long meal this afternoon, with Korean ladies I’ve been teaching English to on the sly for the last few months. And after we indulged on five or six different kinds of dishes at a student’s house, we went to the spa for a facial. I’ve never actually had a facial. These are, first of all, out of my price range in the USA. Secondly, people touching my face is just…weird. But, I really wanted to try out a Chinese spa before I left. We changed into little cotton bath gowns and lay (laid? lied? layed? Why can’t I remember this rule. Ga!) down on comfy spa beds. A woman rubbed scented creams all over my face and pressed my pressure points. But, I couldn’t really turn off my mind and just relax. I kept thinking about the crop of zits on my forehead, and how heavy cream probably won’t do them any good. And then I kept thinking things like “What’s the deal with my break outs? It’s because they’re moving so much dirt around, and there’s dirt everywhere. Gross. Mmm this cream smells like lilacs. I love lilacs. My backyard at home has lilacs. ” After many minutes of rubbing, pressing and heavy face creams, she put a clay mask on me. She was also giggling periodically, in a stifled way, and whispering, and so were the other girls. I got all annoyed and super paranoid, thinking things like, “Why are you laughing at the white girl, beeotch?” But, who knows, because I can’t understand Chinese. She must have read my mind. The giggling suddenly stopped and she started to play with my hair. “Ah, this is nice,” I thought. And then she tugged it so hard I was sure my scalp was going to detatch. I just kept my mouth shut. I finally relaxed when she gave me a really nice shoulder rub. The best part of the experience was definitely the shock I got on the way out. A woman was lying on her back, naked from the waist up, with a glass dome over each breast. The domes were attached to tubes, and the tubes to some kind of a vaccum. Her breasts were vertical.

There is a bag of papers and random items, like socks (yes, socks) that we are going to burn tonight. The location of the big burn is the dirt pile behind our school. Well, it was just a dirt pile, but it’s being shoved around and turned into an Olympic parking lot by a camp of migrant workers living near the dirt pile. A few weeks ago, Mark helped a few teachers, who’ve since left, do a first big burn, a soul cleansing of sorts, as some of them have been here for a few years. Nothing says “conclusion” like a bonfire. I didn’t attend, which I’m happy about, because, as the boys lit up the night fire, ripped off their shirts and yelled like a bunch of banchees, the flames illuminated the fact that they were standing in a pile of shit. Yes, shit, belonging to the aformentioned migrant workers. Tonight, we’ll be a bit more careful about our bonfire location.

Yesterday, I mock-packed my stuff in order to weigh it. I was certain I’d have less than the 50 pounds per bag*2 bag limit. Hahahahahahha. Right. Even though I donated two big bags of stuff to an earthquake relief, I’ve also acquired a crap load. The problem? China is a shopper’s paradise. And I’m a big shopper. I love picking out thoughtful little gifts for people. Good chemicals pump into my brain when I get a deal, and I’ve gotten pretty good at deal-gettin’. From the passive, disinterested way I look at items I’m dying to have, to the cold shoulder I give the sales girls when they refuse to give me my price, to the way I diss the perfectly fine merchandise. It’s so much fun. In Chinese, I can do my smooth talkin’ like this: “How much is this? Too expensive! Forget it! (First walk off). I’ll buy it for ____. (They offer second price) You’re kidding! ____ ?! I’m not a tourist! I’m a teacher in Qinhuangdao. Can you lower the price? I’m sorry, my Chinese is very poor. You’re English is very good! How much friend? (Another price) Too much. Sorry. Forget it. Don’t want. (Second walk off)…etc. etc.” That’s all the shopping Chinese I’ve got. So I just use that in diffo combos and walk off a bunch of times until I get something close to what I feel the item is worth to me, a fair price, a Zhong guo ren price (Chinese person’s price) and not a mei guo ren price (American person’s price). Really, I just don’t want to pay the whitey’s price. Eric-the only other teacher left here- told me a story today that made me sad. An older woman visiting China paid 600 RMB-almost $100 USD!!!!-for a pair of fake Rayban sunglasses at one of these markets in Beijing. She probably could have paid between 10 and 25 RMB-about 4 USD. Tragic!

I’ve been to Beijing about a dozen times, most of those for fittings on three awesome silk dresses I commissioned. (Yeah, a bit much, though one is my wedding dress). And, whilst there, I made it to antique markets, mega markets, and all kinds of little places in between. I have a carry-on packed with gifts and crafts, the dresses, and a lot of cute little Beijing clothes. I especially have an addiction to accessories. Hopefully I’ll be able to cram it all in. I can kiss this buying power goodbye when I’m back in the states.

Anyhow, I’m off to shower, and then Wang Wei, a friend, will be teaching me how to cook a few Hebei dishes. We’re leaving Qinhuangdao on Thursday morning and staying in Beijing until Saturday. We leave China at 4:10 p.m. June 28 and arrive at 4:21 June 28th. I miss everyone so much. Can’t wait to be back.

All of the American foreign teachers were out at dinner with the English Club, a group of Chinese students. Through the pleasant chit chat, I caught my colleagues shooting side glances at each other. Hmmm. Secret eye conversations. I sensed something was going on. And, I decided that Mark and I weren’t wanted there. We were interrupting something. This dinner was defo members only, and we forgot our members only jackets. Secrets! Lies!

I was right. Something was going on. I returned to my apartment, seething, feeling like an outsider. Feeling like I’d been rejected at the cool kids’ table in 7^th grade, which I so was, then. I pouted. And then the three other female teachers busted down my door. With a pink feather boa, and a t-shirt that said “Juliana, Bride to Be” on the back, and “Bride” in Chinese pinyin and characters on the front. “We’re going to Club Coco!” they yelled.

Wow, did I feel like an idiot. A real jerk. Gaaaaaaa! The fact is, I hate secrets. When I sense them around me, my mind goes haywire, firing the most bizarre theories in million different directions. And the worst thing is, I believe them all.

As usual I was wrong! We were off to Club Coco for a big fat Chinese bachelorette party. Coco is possibly Qinhuangdao’s only (non brothel?) club, just around the corner from the university. The club is a big glass-and-neon box, and I’d always wondered what it was like, on the inside. Unsurprisingly, it looked like the inside of a glass-and-neon box. I looked around for Don Johnson. A DJ blasted Chinese, Russian and English techno-pop. Dancing gay Chinese men! Table tops illuminated different colors of the rainbow. Shiny black and red and silver surfaces, tinged with glitter. Behind us, eight Chinese men and their prostitute in a VIP lounge. A blue-illuminated fiber-glass catwalk, dance floor, dance cubes. Two stripper poles. A PG-13 stripper, clothed in hot shorts, stripper boots and an itty bitty top, maneuvering. Stick-thin Go-go dancers, in cargo pants and sports bras. We sat down at a booth and ordered. Twelve Budweisers, a pitcher of booze, a plate of fruit and two plates of sunflowers seeds. Before long, we were drinking with our new, somewhat possessive boyfriends in their VIP area. Shot after shot of whiskey and tea. I screamed and they laughed. Sparks flew as a fireworks display popped; it had scared the bejesus out of me. Fireworks? At a bar? They ordered and lit three more fountains. Our only communication was “Ganbei!” which is like saying cheers, but an intense cheers, because you have to drain your cup. My favorite display of the night: a huge vase full of ice, with fireworks in the middle, and multi-colored champagne mixed drinks sticking out of the ice for us to drink, following the fireworks display, of course. I also met some Italians, Franco and Francesca, whom I forced to dance with me. Franco and I yell-talked over the outlandish decibels blasting from the speakers: “YOU’RE A WRITER” “YEAH, SORT OF!” “I’M A WRITER, TOO” “YEAH?” “SORT OF” “WHY ARE YOU HERE?” “NO JOBS IN ITALY.” “OH.”

I love dancing. And I loved dancing with our Chinese boyfriends, because, they were so harmless in their dance moves. Their main move included back and forward stepping, almost like a march. They swung their arms like a jogger might. No grinding or groping or otherwise creepy ogling. But yelling. Lots of yelling “Eh eh eh eh!” and pumping fists in the air. I was the Queen of Club Coco, on her blue illuminated cube throne, directing the marching chorus of “Eh eh eh eh!” from above the crowd. It was a good night.

I’m set to leave China in a week, and I thought lot today about my time here, namely because I have nothing to do but think, now that classes are over. “Am I different?” I asked myself. I decided, whilst sunning myself on the roof of our apartment building, that indeed I was. The Chinese seem to have three attributes that I could really use more of, just to, you know, even me out: patience, reticence and frugality. Of course I absorbed these (!), I concluded. I am a better person!

Ha!

That theory pretty much flew out the window just a few moments ago. I went for a run on the track outside of our apartment building. But first, I bought a nice, cold bottle of water, which I placed as a marker for my starting point. Usually, I start on the other side of the track, which has less granny, student and kid traffic. But today I thought I’d try something different. That was my first mistake. On my second lap, a groundskeeper picked up my water bottle just as I ran up to him, yelling the probably idiotic sounding: “Bu shi. Ta shi Wo de!” (“No! It’s mine!”) Eh, no biggie. I mean, granted it was full, but to him it looked like trash, and I got to it in time, anyway. I took a gigantic sip before running another two laps, at a fast pace, because I’m trying to interval train, since I’m typically a lazy runner. And I need a hot bod for my Mexico wedding. That’s when I saw a nice little granny picking up my water bottle. “Laojia! Laojia! Ta shi wo de!” (Excuse me! Excuse me! It’s mine!) I yelled to her. I was huffing and puffing and sweaty, and the distance between closed in a sort of comedic slow motion, though I was running faster, and she cast that cold wonderful liquid onto the dirt track just as I reached her. “Oh, um, never mind,” I said, waving it off and flashing a fake smile. Yeah. That’s right. Granny had poured OUT my cold, ¾ full water bottle. Just when I needed it most. I was a few meters away when I kind of growled or grunted, through my teeth, so loudly that I surprised myself; it was an uncensored expression of complete WTF annoyance. I mean, didn’t she see I was the lone runner? Didn’t she make the connection that the lone water bottle could possibly belong to the lone runner? And I’m thirsty, damn it! Rrraaaar! (through my teeth). I was all pissy for another lap, especially when I stepped over the offending water splotch on the track for the first time. But then I looked up and saw the granny, watching me from the willows, and I felt so bad! Because she was looking at me, and I know she felt bad, and I had growled at her, which is not exactly culturally normal here, and probably really scary coming from a white person with a face as red as tomato. So for the next few laps, I thought about my growl. And I remembered where I was. And it occurred to me: Hello! Had I ever, in the last school year, seen anyone’s water bottle but mine by the side of the track? No. No one does that. Because here in China, there are people wandering around everywhere picking up water bottles, for the refund. Sometimes, people even wander in from the neighborhoods around campus (which are really really poor) and tell you to hurry up and drink the last drop so they can take your bottle. So, no, you don’t just leave that precious commodity lying around if you intend on drinking what’s in it. Duh! I am not in America, land of the leave- your- water- bottle- where- you- please- while- you-run. I am in a country where you don’t leave your water bottle lying around. So, no, I shouldn’t have growled at granny, and I now feel bad for it. But at least I’m thinking. In fact, I was thinking so hard, that my run went by in an instant-and I didn’t use my water as an excuse to take a break every lap, which I usually do, because I’m lazy. The offending water splotch evaporated, and so too did the false conclusion from earlier in the day: that I could ever be as outwardly patient and reserved as a Chinese, especially not the grandmothers.

Conspiracy theorists’ word on the street here seems to be that the Fuwa, the Beijing 2008 Olympic mascots, are linked to the crappy year for China, as far as human tragedy goes. Ironically, Fuwa means “Good luck dolls.” This week, the last, seemingly cute and harmless little portent fulfilled its ominous destiny. Meet the Fuwa:

On the left is Beibei, a Chinese Sturgeon. Last week massive flooding killed about 171 people in the fertile region Beibei represents. That being said, floods in 2005 killed around 500 and in 1998 over 4000 people died.

Jingjing is a cute little panda, hailing from the Sichuan region. On 5-12, the biggest earthquake in over 30 years devastated the area, killing thousands upon thousands.

Little red Huanhuan is an Olympic torch. Protests over human rights and Tibet have blighted the around-the-world relay billed as harmonious.

Yingying is a Tibetan antelope. In March, violent protestors clashed with authorities in the Tibetan capital of Lllasa, on the anniversary of a 1959 uprising against Chinese rule.

Last is green Nini, a swallow. This one’s a bit of a stretch. But, Weifang, “swallow’s city,” is located in Shandong province. A sleeper train from the province crashed in late April. Seventy people died and 420 were injured, the worst crash in a decade.

I first heard the Fuwa tragedy theory from our friend and fellow teacher, Eric. A student had told him. At dinner a few days later, he tried to discuss the superstitious theory with a few other students. This immediately induced a sad, awkward silence and he felt like a jerk. These tragedies really aren’t a joke or a tantalizing conspiracy to the people here. But, you have to admit, it’s a little strange.

I organized a little expedition last week, one last hurrah for all the teachers before we all go our separate ways. Its theme: Beverly Hills 90210 does Zu Shan. That’s Zu Mountain, just outside of Qinhuangdao. Mark was Steve Sanders, and I tried to be the conniving, sexy tart Valerie Malone, but the others wouldn’t let me, relegating me instead to the nerdy unattractive Andrea Zuckerman role. I was all, “Ugh, whatever! Just because I USED to be a reporter and I am older than all of you doesn’t mean I am Andrea.” But it did. I was.

OK, so the trip started off with the whole BH-9er crew arguing about how to get up the mountain. Should we take the bus to a base starting point or just hike all the way? But the underlying tension was definitely rooted in Dylan and Brandon’s love triangle with Kelly. While they fought (really over her) she was subsequently date raped, tricked into joining a cult, and became hooked on cocaine. Steve Sanders meanwhile wondered off to buy some ridiculous cabbage-patch-esque hat. That crack up. We all took a bus and frolicked in some mountain streams. Donna jumped into a freezing pond to shake her virginal image. She and David married under a waterfall before returning to Qinhuangdao to open up Peach Pit After Dark. Meanwhile, Brenda disappeared. We think she went off to drama school in London. Dylan was busy brooding when he suddenly fell off the mountain! Brandon saved him, despite their love triangle. Andrea wrote all about it in the school paper. The end.