Look, Ma! No Hands!

Any normal person might look at this picture and say, "Hey, cool, a bike," or "Must be fun!" It might even invoke the sentimental trip-down-memory lane kind of response, "Maybe I should take my bike out of the shed and start riding again."

I am not sentimental about riding bicycles. In fact, I am a little afraid and embarrassed. The closest I have come to bicycles in more than 20 years is this bicycle print, blue and white, shirt-dress currently hanging in my closet, and my 2.5 second attempt to ride a co-worker's bike in the driveway of our office three summers ago. During that same summer, in my failing attempt to try

something new, a good friend purchased a bike from her co-worker for $5 on my behalf. My dear friend suggested we could ride our bikes together. That $5 bike sat in my friend's shed for three years until it was time for her to move; she gave away the bike, I never rode the bike, and she never got the $5, plus interest and storage fees I owed her. Sorry, friend, you know who you are.

There isn't any traumatic event from my childhood that has prompted this great hesitation. It's just good old-fashioned fear of the unknown mixed with a dose of insecurity about sports-like activities. The masses of other bikes, crazy traffic and hundreds of pedestrians on the street doesn't do much to calm me, though. But now it seems the whole city of Beijing is chanting in my ear, "ride the bike, ride the bike, ride the bike..." in Mandarin of course. Although the language barrier has helped me to ignore their pleads for this long, it's time for me to ride among the masses, however self-conscious I may feel.

So, here we are, with the first bike I have owned since I was seven years old. I suppose it really is just like riding a bike, except that my childhood bike had foot pedal breaks and streamers. My new bike has a basket and a bell, which come in handy for letting cars and others know that I can't stop or else I'll topple over and spill the contents of my basket or worse.

I look forward to the day I can look back with sentiment and ask, "Remember when we used to ride our bikes through the streets of Beijing?" For now though, it's remembering to use my hands to break instead of my feet, while keeping my physical self balanced with my emotional self.

Just. Keep. Breathing. I mean, peddling.

Eat with Zest and Abandon!

Z and I have calculated that we have dined out for at least 50 meals since we arrived in Beijing. We are not big fans of breakfast, which is why we have not calculated exactly three meals per day in our estimate. That's a lot of meals out and about town, but usually for not a lot of mula. The most expensive meal we have had thus far cost around $15 for both of us. And we're not just eating rice and noodles, friends. Do city people in the U.S. do this every day? It must cost a fortune, I can't imagine! When I remember to, I snap a picture here and there of our meals, and I scribble down notes in my little black notebook about the meal I am about to consume.

What is nice about being a Westerner in Beijing, is that no matter what, I will never really "fit in." So I go ahead, pull out my whopper of a camera whenever I like, and snap away without feeling the self consciousness of a tourist. Even Z plays along, map and guidebook in hand, navigating our way through whichever hutong into which we happen to wonder or into this noodle house or that dumpling spot. There are so many places from which to choose, that in our neighborhood alone, we've only been to two or three restaurants more than twice.

No big surprise, but Chinese cuisine in Beijing does not taste like its American take-out cousin. There are similarities across family lines, yes, but the flavors here are more vivid.

What I have found most surprising is that there are endless combinations of dishes and flavors among the regional cuisines of China, which makes for endless possibilities for food lovers. From the sharp, fresh crunch of bok choy floating among pork dumplings in clear broth to the piquant, numbing sensation of the Sichuan peppercorn to the dozen or so variety of woody, earthy, chewy mushrooms you can find on any menu, to the sticky, sweet, gooey pile of hot fried bananas for dessert, it takes a while to get tired of Chinese food here.

It is exciting to watch the results of thousands of years of gastronomic history come together every day in the food we order at each meal. I watched a man hand pull noodles out of a flat round disk of dough and then drop them into boiling broth for a dish that Z ordered for dinner the other night. It took the chef mere seconds to accomplish this task, and it was a simple dish of beef and vegetables and wide flat noodles in broth, but it tasted so fresh and delicious. It's so extraordinarily normal here, and so not artisanal. There are plenty of fusion restaurants in our neighborhood, and just the kinds of talked-about places I love to frequent in the States, but here I am happy with the thoughtfulness of everyday Beijing food.

Sure, I miss french fries and we've caved and

ordered pizza (not bad, by the way). We also had the worst Mexican food, ever, ever!

We should have gone with the guidebook's recommendation, instead we went with what was closest to the apartment. Who makes chicken enchiladas with no cheese and only the hottest peppers known to man!? It was no Sol Azteca, I assure you. Sometimes, by the way, a day without cheese, is a day without sunshine. But despite all my drama, I can live with these kinds of culinary mistakes when I get to have Beijing Duck any other night of the week. Oh, that sweet, salty, crunchy, crispy combination.

Now the grocery store and its contents is a whole other subject; one which I will have to save for another day. But here is a list of some of my favorite restaurant dishes, thus far:

* Lotus Root - who knew this crunchy, mildly sweet vegetable and I would become such good friends so quickly?

* Peanuts soaked in vinegar - crunchy, salty, acidic, addictive goodness. If you love salt and vinegar potato chips, you will love this dish!

* Beijing Duck - there is nothing like this dish straight from the region in which it was made famous. It's fun to eat, and satisfies all your taste buds in one rolled up bite.

* Glutinous rice cakes with beans and crab - (pictured above the duck photo) This is from a restaurant we have frequented (meaning, more than once). The second time we went back to order this dish, we accidentally ordered an equally delicious meal with a different sauce, also served with crab. Glutinous rice just means sticky rice - these are rice balls formed into discs, with a smooth, chewy consistency -- safe for gluten free friends. The crab sauce was reminiscent of "Old Bay" seasoning.

* Xiao long bao - translates to little dragon bun. They are steamed, juicy pork dumplings that I could eat every day. I'll share a picture soon, but it must be that I gobble them up before I can snap a picture.

* Uyghur or Xinjiang food -- can you smell the roast mutton, naan style breads, healthy dose of spices and shrimp kebabs coming to the table? mmmm.

Do I go there? OK...

Bon Appetite!

No children were harmed in the making of this blog post

I think I have aptly proven that I cannot be held responsible for the care of fish as pets.

I tried really hard to be a good caretaker. I changed the fish's water in the less-than-24-hours that she was a member of this household. I fed her. I spoke to her in what little Mandarin I know. I've felt like a failure since the incident, and took a little hiatus from reporting live from Beijing.

To pay homage to our little fishy friend, Z and I went to the Beijing Zoo & Aquarium over the weekend. While I thoroughly enjoyed the day, I would not choose this location as a "top 10 things to do and see in Beijing." I'm not even certain that we have seen 10 sites yet, but, sorry, friends and family planning any future visits, this will not be one of your stops on the AtoZ tour of Beijing.

For one thing, the Zoo was a bit sad. The grounds were beautiful, though; they were lush with shade providing trees, dotted with well crafted animal sculptures and beds of flowers, and chock full of happy families. But, does everyone have the same internal struggle and feelings of guilt when they visit zoos? I'm sad for the animals locked behind bars in dirty cages, pacing back and forth. I'm also thrilled (thrilled!) to see the rare-almost-extinct-vividly colored-wild animal-native to some far off land I'll never visit-right before my very eyes.

Aside from these mixed emotions, my experience at the Beijing Zoo was unlike one I have ever had at any zoo in the United States- and I've been to my fair share (obviously, I don't feel guilty enough to stop frequenting zoos): National Zoo, Kansas City, Baltimore, Bronx, Philadelphia, Boston... . Anyway, what I noticed is that most Beijing Zoo patrons have little regard for zoo rules and regulations. There are plenty of signs declaring, "DO NOT FEED ANIMALS," "DO NOT TOUCH ANIMALS," "DO NOT CROSS." More than at any petting zoo I've ever attended where you are actually allowed to interact with the animals, I saw adults and children,"FEEDING ANIMALS," "TOUCHING ANIMALS," and especially "CROSSING" over boundaries and bars to get to the Zoo's inhabitants. Plenty of areas were strewn with plastic bottles and trash thrown by humans attempting to entice the animals. One kid repeatedly jumped over the guard rail to get closer to the elephant missing his tusks, and an elderly couple brought their own carrots to feed the Australian birds a few pens over. Not one person was reprimanded or scolded or given the stink eye by any Zoo official as they were breaking the rules.

I'm not a rule breaker. When I was in the sixth grade I got caught cheating on a vocabulary test by the school's deaf and blind 87-year-old English teacher. Jacob (whose last name I will not mention, but still distinctly remember to this day), who sat in the back of class each day and cheated on everything, sticking needles under his finger nails and flipping back his eyelids while making farting noises, never got caught once. OK. So, I'm not good at being a rule breaker. Which is why I was getting anxious for all these folks at the Beijing Zoo, breaking all these rules, taking their lives, or at least their finger tips, into their own hands, so to speak. My anxiety for the animals' diet and well being even superseded my anxiety for the masses of school children on their Saturday field trip crowding out my view. So, what did I do to combat all of this injustice...Nothing. I don't speak Chinese; also, I don't think I will change the attitude of millions of zoo-goers during one afternoon trip. I did, however, document these incidences for your viewing pleasure.

So after we ooohed and awwwed over the sleeping pandas (they are cute, aren't they?), and had our fill of the zebras, giraffes, monkeys, tigers and lions, we moved on to the Aquarium which is attached to the Zoo. The entrance fee to the Aquarium is the greater cost of the combined admission ticket and it is not difficult to see why. The home of fishes, dolphins, beluga whales, sea turtles and sharks is stunning. I won't list the number of aquariums I have frequented - as an adult, mind you -- but I will tell you that the Beijing Aquarium is one of the more impressive I have visited, even if Mom and Dad allow their son to grab starfish out of the tank at random. Take a look:

even Buddha couldn't save her

rest in peace, Mrs Panda Hernan Fromage. rest in peace.

Meet the newest members of our family

Mrs Panda Hernan Fromage

and Buddha watches over her

Trouble in Paradise

Have to remember,

Don't flush the toilet paper

Down its drain, or else.

Isn't it romantic?

I'm not really allowed to have caffeine. My insides tumble around and I feel as if there are miniature acrobats performing tricks through my bloodstream; my heart rate races to catch upwith my speedy thoughts about nothing and everything all at once. Lots of people like this feeling early in the morning, which I suppose is why there are so many Starbucks even in Beijing. I am wired enough without caffeine and don't normally need any extra help. Preventing myself from consuming what others may see as average quantities of caffeinated beverages is a self-imposed rule, and not dictated by Z or anyone else. However, when I do get alittlecaffeinein me, for example, when I consume two large cups of freshly brewed lychee tea, newlypurchased yesterday, Z likes to point out that I am talking a little faster than normal, or that I seem to speak in one long run-on sentence....eh, hem. I should have paid more attention when the woman selling me the tea told me to drink a little if I am feeling tired. I am not feeling tired any more this morning. I am brewing a batch for iced-tea.

I made my ever-growing list yesterday, but did not formally study any Mandarin. However, I had good reason not to because yesterday we celebrated the Mid-Autumn Festival (also known as the Moon Festival) with the rest of Beijing on a perfectly sunshiny and breezy day. Mid-Autumn Festival is a harvest festival day spent with family and friends, enjoying each other's company while eating mooncakes and gazing up at the night's bright moon.

We celebrated by spending the day strolling around Houhai, which may be one of my new favorite places to visit here. And it wasn't even on my list of things to see and do yet! It is amazing the variety of places to explore in this city. Houhai has a park-like atmosphere, surrounded by little shops, restaurants and bars. In the center of Houhai are two spectacular lakes Qianhai and Houhai, in which Beijingers and tourists alike can wistfully float along in little rented boats. It was a romantic setting, showcased by red lanterns, fireworks, weeping willows and playfulness. We walked along unexpectedly for hours and hours, stopping along the way for a drink or to window shop or to purchase a batch of tea and our first Buddha.

Although we opted out from several invitations for a ride, because, "feet are slow, I give you a good price," rickshaws are for hire, flanking the lakes and crowding the streets. Many families and children were out and about, enjoying the day as we did. I even tried my first sort-of street food. Candied fruit and cherry tomatoes on a stick -- a fruit kebab of sorts. I was so enamored by the taste, and most likely the sugar high that followed, that I had two throughout the day!

As the sun was setting we found a place for dinner up at the tippity top of a restaurant's roof. The only light was from the moon and the dozens of red lanterns hanging table side. The air was chilly, but the restaurant provided blankets for its patrons to snuggle under. We saw fireworks and floating red lanterns let loose into the night breeze. So there we were, gazing up at the moon, enjoying our noodles, feeling so romantic and in love, until we heard from the next table, "huuuuck, patooy. huck, huck, huck, bbbbbpppptt." This went on for the duration of our meal. All two hours of our meal because the service was sllllloooooowwwww. But that is besides the point. The Beijing spitter need not excuse himself from the table to hock his loogies. He need not even pardon himself with each flemmy, throaty cough. His friends don't mind, so, why should you? You might as well join in!

Last night's dinner was the most comical and romantical (I know, it's not a word, Ma), we have had, yet...ever. Our reward for enduring the cacophony of sounds from our neighbor while

waiting for our spring rolls, came to us in the form of a grand gesture of friendship. The spitter's table of friends shared with us their mooncakes!

This is big time for me. Last night was the first time since we have moved here that I think it might be possible that I may actually make some friends in Beijing, spitting aside.

It's Electrifying

How to purchase utilities in Beijing. Today's lesson is Electricity:

a) First, wait two days after your landlord has instructed you to purchase electricity. You live on the edge these days, anyhow.

b) Then, purchase large quantities of AA batteries, flashlights, candles and matches/or a lighter. Place the working flashlights in various corners of your home or apartment where you can easily access them without having to search for them in the dark. Trust me. Also, always put the lighter or matches in a safe spot. The kitchen drawer works best.

c) Take a copy of your lease, your written address and your personalized code for purchasing electricity to the nearest ICBC. Do not take these documents to the Bank of China thinking you can purchase electricity at that location. ONLY ICBC. No, wait. Forget to bring your copy of your lease with you. That won't matter anyhow, right?

d) Walk 45 minutes to one hour in the wrong direction only after you attempt to purchase electricity at a Bank of China.

e) Stop for lunch at 3:00 PM because you are cranky and hungry.

f) Finally, convince your husband to ask the woman at the magazine-stand if there is an ICBC anywhere in close proximity.

g) Score! There is, says magazine-stand lady.

h) Keep walking.

i) Find the Mecca that is ICBC.

j) Stand in line for another 30 minutes, hoping that the line you are in is in fact, the line that leads to the man behind the window in order to pay for electricity in your apartment.

k) Fill the gap in line; just because you are the only Western person in line on a Thursday afternoon, does not mean that you are in the wrong line and that you will let anyone over the age of 65 cut in front of you. Even if she looks like a nice grandma with only good intentions.

l) Yes! You have made it to the front of the line. You've given the man at the window your passcode and address. You have successfully purchased electricity. You should feel proud and happy. You have accomplished something (great) today!

m) Go home. Turn on all the lights in your apartment just because you can. Now turn them off.

n) Wait for the electricity to go out. This could take a week, three weeks, a month. Who knows? Use your candles and flashlights until you can start the purchasing process all over again.

Routine, already?! OR Routine, alright, already.

After one week we have officially settled into the new apartment, and it's time for me to figure out what it is I am going to be doing here. Z is currently working, and his work officially began yesterday when he received his student ID card. Ihaven't officially done anything, yet, that doesn't entail trips to IKEA or the supermarket. I have not even left the apartment without Z, except to meet him at the corner of the street for lunch yesterday (which, by the way was a fine French meal!).

This is all because I can't speak Chinese. Whining about the fact that I can't speak the language isn't going to miraculously cure my inabilities, I know this. But I can't believe that I am so intimated by the language. On the other hand, I think I will expire from sheer boredom if I don't come up with my own routine and get out to explore the city. Plus, anyone reading this blog will most likely not continue to read it, if all I write about is how I watched another load of laundry today. We still have not figured that out, by the way. Too many suds, not enough suds...

OK. So this means that I have to learn Mandarin. This isn't a surprise. It's just that now it's becoming a reality. I have decided that I will create a schedule for myself that includes a few hours of studying Chinese each day, researching what I want to do in China, writing, learning how to use our new Canon DSLR camera, and of course eating more Beijing cuisine. I will create a schedule of events, because that is what I am good at on a day-to-day basis. Then I will have something to look forward to each week. Yesterday was long enough for me to have a little pity party, and I am not a very attractive person to be around when I am feeling sorry for myself.

Also, I realize that teaching myself to read and write and speak Mandarin will not be an easy task on my own. I plan to research schools and tutors today. Anyone out there need a language partner? If you're not into the East Coast North Jersey accent I also do impressions of Southern, Mid-western, Valley Girl, New York, New England, Swedish...you name it.

More than ever, I need to find more patience in myself. I need to not wish away the days just because I haven't figured out how to use the washer, or how to hook up my laptop to the flat screen TV that goes unused because we only get one English-speaking channel, or how to tell the the doorman "I like your tie today, sir."

Looks like now I am running out of writing and I have to start my routine...

Domestic Bliss

This is happening in real time. Real. Time.

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.

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try, try, try…again.

September 11, 2010

I am emotionally and physically exhausted. We have looked at more than 20 apartments in five days; a few, more than once by accident with different real estate agents. Here is generally how the process has gone:

We walk into a real estate office. It is early morning. We have full tummies from breakfast, good walking shoes and are ready to find our Beijing home. The day is full of possibilities.

A pleasant and soft-spoken real estate agent greets us. The agent is generally impressed with Z’s ability to speak Mandarin (and so am I), as Z describes the type of accommodations in which we are interested.

Now this is where the “choose your own adventure” twist comes in to play. We are told either

1) 1) I have a place or two for you to look at right away.

2) 2) After much more discussion, exchange of phone numbers, xie xie’s (look that one up, Ma) and more pleasantries, we are told “tomorrow, tomorrow” we can see a place. I quickly learn to recognize the word for tomorrow: ming tian. I come to hate this word.

Then we see one apartment after another. My walking shoes loose their bounce. I dehydrate because I don’t drink enough water. The day turns to doubts.

I loose track of days and hours and neighborhoods. We get to these places by foot, taxi, motorbike or by subway. We speak with at least seven different agents across the city. We wait for a phone call or a text or another phone call from agents. We see two-bedroom places, one-bedroom places, and we accidentally see a studio apartment with no furniture. We increase our limit on the rent because we are shocked into seeing what the low end of our budget will get us. It involves a not so well kept squatting toilet (see, I told you this would come up again).

I try to keep track of everything in English, and I try to read body language and facial expressions. Z negotiates in Mandarin with agents and then interprets to me in English. At one point he finishes speaking with an agent and then turns to me, continues in Mandarin, not realizing in that moment that I can’t understand anything he is saying, except for the word “we.” The days run 12 or 14 hours just looking at apartments, eating and sleeping. I am not exaggerating. The only break we take is to register Z with his university, and that takes more than five hours. It becomes noon, then 3 PM, then 7 PM, then 9 PM and we are still standing in another section of another neighborhood where we might envision our lives in the next year. I think we’ve skipped lunch, or maybe that was breakfast. I’m too tired to chew, so dinner is out of the question.

The idea of browsing may be a foreign concept to many Chinese. But I am the ultimate browser. I stalk the Anthropologie website for weeks. I watch for sales like it’s a part time job. I “Google” everything and every one (creepy, maybe, but I am more informed for it; and don’t pretend you don’t do the same). I like to know my options inside and out. I looked at so many apartments online before we left for Beijing, and it did not prepare me for the real thing. The pictures advertised on listings hardly ever show the actual space. While I am not new to the apartment hunting process altogether, choosing an apartment in Beijing has been a unique and arduous experience. Everything is compounded by the fact that this will be our first new place together as newlyweds. One of the agents taught us how to say newlyweds in Mandarin, but now I forget.

All but one of the agents has been very patient with us. We wonder what they think of us, and why we didn’t choose the first or second or even third place each has shown us. Picky, picky Americans.

But now, after many hours and many searches, we have found a place to call home. It is wonderful. I cried when we signed the lease out of pure fatigue and the joy of having the process come to an end, almost. On Tuesday we can move into our one bedroom apartment, on the 17^th floor overlooking the Chaoyang area. On a particularly clear day, in the far distance, we can see the hills around Beijing. There is a grocery store about a 15 minute walk from door to door. The building is in an area with more expats than Z would have liked, or is used to, but overall we are happy with the location. For a special treat, there is even a French bistro around the corner that serves specialty plates of cheese for lunch! Fromage! I knew I’d find it soon enough. There is also a swanky bowling alley across the street, with overpriced drinks and a hipster-like atmosphere. The area is probably too cool for me, but I’ll find my way.

Now we are off to enjoy our first full Sunday in Beijing, and we will worry about how to pay for our electricity and hot water and all that domestic stuff later. The sun is shining today, and I won’t be wearing my walking shoes!

I am not a husband, but my boyfriend’s name is April

September 8, 2010

Things I Did Today (err, Yesterday) (err, September 7)

1) Ate my first Chinese breakfast of dumplings in a broth with baby bock Choy. I skipped the noodles. All went well.

2) Bargained for umbrellas. I should provide some clarification here. Z bargained for umbrellas. I can do little other than stand near Z while he is negotiating, smile or nod, or sometimes a combination of both for emphasis. I say “hello” and “thank you” in Mandarin a lot, also.

3) Looked at more apartments. We haven’t found the right place yet – more on that later.

4) Stood in line to register Z with his host University for two…no, three…no, four hours. This was just the first step in the day’s registration process.

5) Walked into a men’s bathroom.

6) Walked out of a men’s bathroom.

7) Found the women’s bathroom.

8) Used a squatting toilet for the first time in China. Hmmm. Do I elaborate on this? Not sure if I will get used to this.

9) Learned how to say, “I am not a student,” and “This is my husband.”

10) Told one of the staff registering Z that, “I am not a husband.”

11) Sat in a room full of strangers, at a large conference table, while Z explained his dissertation topic to his host University adviser. This was an unexpected turn of events. I couldn’t get a good sense of whether Z was horrified by the experience, or whether he knew what he was talking about. Maybe somewhere in between.

12. Had my first xiao long bao. Juicy pork dumplings. Mmmmmmm.

13) Looked at more apartments.

14) Came across an expat grocery store named “April Gourmet.” (April!!! Good sign!)

15) Thought I remembered some Mandarin from a county class I took in NJ. Motioned to the agent showing us around the neighborhood that I wanted to stop to take a picture, and then said “My boyfriend’s name is April!”

16) Was given a strange look by the agent, and then was quickly corrected by Z, that “My friend’s name is April.” Right. I’ll remember that one for next time.

17) Looked at more apartments

18) Afraid to admit it, but went to a Beijing Wal-Mart to buy a hairdryer.

19) Experienced the anesthetizing yet tasty sensation of the Sichuan peppercorn. So good, yet so deadly. I’m in trouble here.

Noodle rhymes with schnoodle (whom I miss)

September 7, 2010

When I was seven, my family and I lived in Massachusetts. One morning before preschool and after having built a tent inside the living room, my father called me out of my tunnel constructed of blankets and chairs and pillows for breakfast. He asked me what I wanted. This was the first mistake to give me the option of choosing my own breakfast. Instead of sugary cereals, or eggs or even pancakes, I insisted on ramen noodles. My father insisted right back that my choice was not on the menu. The lady doth protest too much, and won the battle of noodles versus “you should have listened to your father” right then and there. What I recall next is that as soon as my dad placed the steaming bowl of salty noodles in front of me, my stomach flipped. I instantly felt nauseous and regretful. I also couldn’t bring myself to telling my dear old dad that I didn’t want to the noodles that he knew was a bad idea to begin with, but so kindly cooked for me instead. So, I ate them up. Every last one. Just thinking about it today makes me a little queasy.

What happens next is not pretty.

The second we pull up to my preschool, I vomit all over the front seat of my father’s car. It happens instantaneously. I can still see the brown plastic cup holder placed on the hump between the two front seats. It is covered in my speckled, greasy, undigested white squiggly noodles that only seconds before were floating somewhere between my stomach and my burning throat. My dad, ever so calmly, lifts the cup holder out of the car, instructs me to “stay put, kiddo,” and disappears for a second to dispose of the evidence. He runs inside to deliver the message in person that I will not be attending school that day.

I couldn’t even look at ramen noodles for years after this incident. Forget about the smell or the taste. Only in my adult life, with a full time job, and desperate for a quick lunch, have I been able to stomach eating ramen noodles again.

So why am I telling you this story? Because noodles are on the menu for breakfast in Beijing.

I may or may not let you know how this goes.

Do not give a SPEECH; put on a show!

September 5, 2010

Side bar already: *If there are any typos, see my sister for more details. This blog post comes to you by way of my gracious and helpful sister. The Great Firewall of China is preventing Z and me from accessing our blogs. We thought we solved that problem even before we got here, but our method of connecting via VPN does not seem to be working. Until further notice, my words to you, emailed to and then typed up by my new publisher.

I’m in that weird in between state of sleep and awake and jetlag and what day is it? You know, 13 hours and 40 minutes on a plane in luxurious economy seats really feels more like 12 hours. Easy-peasy-pie. Though as may happen when you cram more than 250 passengers on one flight, disagreements are bound to arise. I almost got into a genuine fight (cue chanting Fight! Fight! Fight!). In great tri-state area fashion, one of the passengers was less than pleasant to me (read: a**hole) as I was trying to make my way back to my seat from the bathroom. He (he being a grown, adult, man) told me where I was walking was not an aisle, and he and his plane buddy had their feet stretched out to block my passage between their first-row seats and the wall in front of them. I mustered up my great NJ pride and might and told him to move out of my way. Please. Pa-lease. Other than that, the plane ride was fine. At hour nine I was going a little stir crazy, but it wasn’t anything another two more Dramamine couldn’t fix.

After we de-boarded the plane and got our luggage without any hitches, we exchanged money and waited in the cue for a taxi to our hotel. Turns out the Jersey girl in me also had a little to do with packing two large oversized suitcases for a year’s worth of living far, far away. No, my bags aren’t full of hairspray; I’m not that Jersey. But with Z’s two bags, our backpacks (thank you CES for mine!) and other carry on bags, one taxi wasn’t going to cut it. Ahh, our first Chinese altercation! Z was cool as could be. From what I gathered, taxi driver number one was instructing (read: yelling at) Z that the bags would not fit as Z calmly loaded our belongings one after the other into the trunk and backseat of the vehicle. After the sixth bag, and more words exchanged, it was clear that mister taxi driving was not willing to take both of us, and all of our precious cargo to our next destination. In comes taxi driver number two. Bags are moved around, Z exchanges more words and what I think are directions, I jump in one cab and Z in the other. Wait, what? How’d I get into this cab by myself? This is freshmen year of college all over again, when my roommate and I got separated into two cars going to our first party off campus. OK, this time isn’t nearly as dramatic. I didn’t panic; I trusted my husband, the taxi driver and my instinct. Forty-five swerving and stop-and-go minutes later we arrived at our hotel for the week.

So now we are in Beijing, in the Chaoyang District. I have already had my first authentic Chinese meal of assorted wild mushrooms in sesame dressing, and noodles with sauteed eggplant. Don’t be fooled my vegetarian friends, the noodle dish was cooked with cubes of pork fat. I learned this the hard way when I bit into what I thought was a piece of eggplant. While my father would have eaten every last cube of fatty goodness, I chose to delicately eat around it for the rest of the meal. This is, I imagine, a tame introduction to more mealtime surprises. Not complaining, just observing and learning to take a closer watch of what moves from hand to mouth next time.

The restaurant was a small, well-patronized establishment. There were several wait staff, and one in particular who caught my eye. There she was, wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed in large, fluorescent print: “Do not give a SPEECH; put on a show.” Well alright then! (By the way, I am taking every last little detail I see as a sign.) Here is this woman, telling me in so many ways, to get out there! Show ‘em what I got. Don’t just sit around each day. Don’t just tell people what I am about, show them, dazzle them, entertain them. OK. OK. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m a long way from actually being able to hold a basic conversation in Mandarin. But I accept the challenge. I’m going to take it one day at a time, but I’ll get out there, take it all in, really be here and absorb everything. I may just discover that I also have something interesting to share with others I meet along the way. Now if only I could find a custom t-shirt shop for my future slogan -- pitches welcome.

shameless promotion

Look what I found!

It's OK. You can go ahead and click it. It's not a nudy pic or a link to a website with dirty jokes or a YouTube video about cute kittens playing the piano. It's also too early in the year for me to have elfed myself with that funny Office Max JibJab foolishness.

I'll go ahead and ruin the surprise for you. We are now a blogging couple. We also have matching hiking gear and swishy pants that convert into shorts with one zip or upward roll of the leg. Apparently I'm really into multi-functional clothing these days and I have suckered my husband into the trend, too. We are that couple. So cute it almost makes you want to throw up a little in your mouth.

ultimate mix tape

There are three main items to discuss today: 1. my job, 2. my friends 3. my collection of Cd's.

Recently, I left the coolest job I may ever have. I won't go into too many details of my event planning job, but suffice it to say that I have been spoiled. It wasn't a job that was glitzy or that gave me free giveaways. Not that kind of spoiled. I didn't take home sample products or get to expense lavish trips to tropical places. But, yes, I met some famous and important people along the way; I worked in locations that have more history than glamour; and most importantly I learned what it feels like to truly enjoy what I do for a living no matter how long the work day. That is a pretty damn good lesson to learn fresh out of graduate school. Work with people whose company you enjoy (it's easy when your co-workers are fabulous, smart, funny people), learn to listen better, and have a sense of humor each day. I don't play the lottery or gamble, so the chances of me becoming instantly independently wealthy are nil. But if I follow my instincts, then maybe my next job will be just as cool. Maybe.

Recently, I said too many goodbyes to too many good friends whom I won't see for a while. These are the fabulous, smart, funny category of people, too. The kind of friends you work really hard to make and to keep, AND who love you for you even when you are rambling and the story is taking longer than expected and the meter is running on their parking spot and you haven't gotten to the point just yet....you know what I mean. I still measure my years in semesters anyhow, so in order to cope with the time and distance apart, I am pretending that I am going off to college again. Except this time I am going to a vastly larger place than when I was 18, my mother will not be making my bed before she departs from dropping me off, and I will not know exactly how to participate in class (that's a particularly tough one for a communication studies major who talks a lot). But there will be skype and gchat, friends. These things did not exist when I was in college. At least I know who my roommate will be.

To top it all off, recently, I have been copying my collection of Cd's onto my laptop (one of those I'll do it later kind of things when later is actually now; and please don't judge me that I still have not fully transitioned my music to the all-digital all-the-time world). I'm a sentimental lady to begin with, but leaving my (I love my!) job and my (I love my!) friends and family and listening to anything by David Gray, the more mature enlightened Eddie Vedder and a lot of old Sarah McLachlan albums is making me one weepy, sentimental lady. The last few days is playing out in my mind like the final episode of the Real World- Season 1 (props!), with my own musical accompaniment.OK. Just my carry-on to pack now...

goodbye family of colleagues,

see you later best friends,

call you when we get there mom and dad and sis.

My heart is on my sleeve. How do I get it all on to one mix tape?