Occasionally my husband is a genius. Today is one such occasion and I am celebrating by being able to type whatever I want, whenever I like, to whomever I like (sorry, other Beijingers who can't access the wonderful world of blogspot, facebook, hulu). I am afraid to say the dirty little word, so I won't, but it's thanks to alternate means of access, and Z's patient persistence, that I can ramble on for however long I choose. At least today, that is.
Today then, I choose to ramble on about domestic bliss. I think that's what the kids are calling it these days.
Three days ago, as you may already know, we moved into our shiny, new apartment (that reminds me, have you seen this?). We discovered in the first morning that the shower drain was clogged. It's a walk-in shower, surrounded by glass walls, with a bottom lip about a half-inch in height. Are you picturing it? A four-minute shower was long enough to start flooding the bathroom floor, and the process to fix it involved a broken piece of something or other that Z couldn't decipher from the management office's assessment. The drain now seems to be fixed without needing to replace the broken piece. We can shower again without having to scoop the water out of the shallow space and into the sink dozens of time with a plastic garbage bin. This is how we operate around here now.
The central air was just that two days ago -- centralized in one part of the apartment because we couldn't get it to work in the bedroom at all. We came home last night from our third shopping trip to big-box stores to find the A/C on in the bedroom. Why it works now, we have no idea. Why it came on without us needing to press a button also remains a puzzling event. Again, don't ask questions.
There is a sub-category of domestic bliss when living in a foreign country. It falls into the heading: "Things we wouldn't do in our normal day-to-day routine, but are otherwise entertained by and grateful for... ." I have three examples to share.
(1) Last night was our first attempt at cooking for ourselves in our teeny tiny adorable kitchen. We are lucky to have a stove stop, and for clarification, Beijing apartments do not come equipped with ovens. It's a good thing that I am not the baker in the family. We are, however, fully outfitted in IKEA wares, and so I happily un-shrink-wrapped our Swedish designed wok, gave it a quick cleaning, and then filled it with bottled water to boil for spaghetti (the noodles have to be broken in half in order to fit into the wok by the way). The wok may be spectacular at other forms of cooking, but it seemed to take an unnecessary amount of time to reach the point of boiling water. Maybe it was because it was nearly 11 PM, and we were starved. Nevertheless, I threw my broken spaghetti into the wok and watched it simmer away. Hmmm. That's an odd smell I thought after a minute or two. But maybe it's just all the new scents in this apartment. The bathroom sink always smells a little funky. No bother. I continued the course, overseeing the progress of my spaghetti for 10 more minutes. Then as I lifted the wok off of our one electric glass-top burner, I discovered the source of the mysterious odor. I had forgotten to peel the label from the bottom of the wok. Last night's specialty was under-cooked spaghetti with a side of eau de burnt sticky label and cold Ragu. Cold Ragu, because I couldn't get the gooey sticker off the hot hot hot burner right away or off the bottom of the hot wok. We don't have a microwave, and so I had no source of power with which to heat the sauce. It was delicious nonetheless.
(2) I, no, we, have never been so excited to do laundry. For the first nine days we were in Beijing searching for a place to live, I wore the same pants. The swooshy, comfortable, turn-into-shorts on a hot day which I did frequently, pants. Every day. If they weren't so damned comfortable I would almost never want to see them again. What was the point in wearing something new each day, when we didn't know when we would find a laundry mat or have time to wash our clothes? Well now we need not worry any longer about our lack of cleanliness because we have a teeny tiny washing machine that fits inside of our teeny tiny adorable kitchen. Each time Z does something at the kitchen sink, he accidentally hits the "on" button of the washing machine with his left hip. When the button is pressed, it makes a little musical note sound, which is why I know he's done it again. It took us about 20 minutes to understand the various settings of the washing machine. Realistically, still we do not understand how to operate the machine, but our clothes smell a little Tide-like fresher with each washing. Our first attempt at laundering involved way too much soap. We sat on the couch across from the kitchen, and watched the front-loading washing machine progress from one cycle to the next. This went on for the full 21 minutes it takes to wash a load of laundry on the settings we selected. We have watched at least three loads of laundry. That was not a typo. We have watched three loads of laundry being washed.
(3) Maybe you are wondering how it is that I so casually mentioned IKEA earlier or "Big Box" stores in general. I thought perhaps that purchasing a hair dryer from WalMart the other day would be the end of my visits there. I try not to frequent that establishment, and even wrote a major paper on the evils of WalMart when I was in grad school. We all crumble sometime. I have crumbled several times since last Tuesday. I like to shop, but In less than 72 hours, we have visited Carrefore (the French version of WM), IKEA and WalMart. We have spent countless hours selecting pillows, bedding, kitchen utensils and cookware, bathmats, detergent, bottled water, tissues, hangers, hooks, trash bins, nail polish remover, garbage bags, cups, bowls, plates, cutlery, extension cords, snacks, air fresheners, cutting boards, knives*, and what we think are cleaning supplies for the toilets, and much much more all to make this apartment our home sweet home. It is not the choosing that takes to long, it is the asking for and treasure hunt process that keeps us trapped indoors for three-plus hours at a time. The procedure also entails a possible subway ride to the destination and a definite cab ride home to lug the bags upon bags of stuff. Also, we can't seem to get it together enough to shop outside of the 4 pm - 7 pm heavily trafficked rush hour(s). But it's coming together nicely.
*Interesting side bar -- At IKEA, Z had to provide his passport number and contact information in order for us to purchase a set of four dull kitchen knives. Safety first, folks. Safety first.
I could write an entire posting on the WalMart in Beijing, and how it compares to its cousin store at home. The food hall section alone is massive and has more hanging roasted duck and uncooked animal parts than I thought possible. Then again, I am not certain I have actually thought about that before seeing it.
So this is my day-to-day thus far. There are no dryers in Beijing apartments, so we still need to find a drying rack to dry our freshly washed clothing. Right now there are unmentionables, t-shirts and pants strewn about the apartment wherever we can find a spot. I know, you are thinking, "Stop talking about your underwear! Where are the stories about the Great Wall? The Temple of Heaven? The Forbidden City?"
It will all have to wait. Now it's time for me to organize my closet.
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