An American Girl

With a name like Gipsy Danger, she seemed destined for international travel from the very beginning.

My Shanghainese street cat has now logged more cage time than an MMA fighter, I'm fond of saying.

We've arrived in America.

But it wasn't easy.

********

Her story began about two years ago, when she wandered past the lobby of the apartment building I lived in.  My neighbors, Balvinder and Cissy, were with me on the couches, drinking 3 RMB (50 cent) 750 ml bottles of Qingdao beer.  Bal had Macklemore's "Thrift Shop" on repeat and was smoking cigars.

 

"A kitty!"  I exclaimed.  I'd had a couple of Qingdaos by this point, so my enthusiasm wasn't unexpected.  Cissy followed my pointing finger and drew a quick inhale.  "She's lovely," she breathed.

And she was.  The kitten was five months old, we found out later, and had the most incredible markings--gray and black tiger stripes and orange marmalade whirled over a white belly and four white paws.  At the corner of each eye was a downward cheetah tear stripe that could've made her look pathetic--but her eyes were bright and her body language was confident and curious.

As Cissy and I cooed over the kitten and tried to coax her into the lobby.  "That cat is from the street.  Probably has fleas and God knows what," Bal said.

Cissy and I zipped to the nearby convenience store and bought a can of mackerel to feed the cat, and a few more beers.  The cat sniffed curiously at the fish we'd placed outside the building, but didn't eat it.

"Well, there goes my 7 kuai," I grumbled, but I was smiling.

"I'm talking to myself right now," Bal griped from the couches.  The cat followed Cissy and I back inside.  She made figure eights around Bal's ankles and meowed, purring.

"This is a helicopter cat!"  Bal said.  He seemed delighted now that he was receiving the cat's attention.

I picked her up and checked under her fur.  "No fleas.  Or flea eggs," I reported.  My orange tabby back home, Sitka, had had quite a few of both when I'd gotten him five years ago.  It'd been an easy fix, but in China?  Probably can't pick up a flea collar at the supermarket, I thought.

"Boy or girl?"  Cissy asked.

"Hold her upside down and check!"  Bal laughed. 

We all giggled.  "I can't tell, I'm not a vet," I said, "but most calico cats are female.  My guess is girl."

We all commented on the silky smoothness of her fur, and how she didn't appear to be starving.  Cissy and Bal both asked several people, including the lobby security guard, about the cat.  The answer was always the same:  "Homeless."

A couple of hours later we'd grown attached, and Cissy asked me if I'd take her home.  "I can't take her, I already have a cat at home!"  I protested, holding up my hands.  "I can't cheat on Sitka!"  I'd only been in Shanghai for a couple of months, and I was only planning on staying for a year.  But Cissy was Chinese, and her and Bal were committed to staying in Shanghai for the next year or two.

 

I told Bal about how my sister had captured kittens in her hoodie, and so he did the same--we rode the elevator up to their floor.

The next morning I showed up at their door with cat litter, a plastic basin for a litter box, and some kitten food I'd purchased at Jiadeli, the local supermarket.  Cissy was in the pajamas that Bal's mom had made for her, and she looked delightfully Asian in the bright red and pink colors.

"Oh, this cat," she started worriedly.  "She's too wild, Bal says.  She kept running over us all night, meowing and meowing.  Bal says we might put her back on the street."

I remembered how Sitka had been at that age.  "She'll outgrow it," I said, as we set up Gipsy's things.

Gipsy wouldn't have survived the winter at her young age, a Chinese vet later revealed.  A subtropical city, Shanghai is nowhere near as cold as Spokane, but we did have a couple of freezing cold mornings.

But Gipsy had other challenges ahead of her, most notably, an unstable living situation.  Frustrated with China and especially EF, Bal had resigned his position in April and returned to England.  At that point, he and Cissy had been married only a couple of months, and she'd decided to return to her hometown of Guangzhou in the south to take care of her ailing mother.  Taking Gipsy was not an option--Cissy already had a dog at home, and she'd be busy with her visa application and studying for her IELTS (English language test). 

I encouraged Cissy to call the two Shanghai animal shelters we could find, but one never returned her call and the other was full.

Cissy missed Bal terribly.  Though we watched Jason Statham movies and went to a pub quiz once a week, I was often working, so Cissy was quite lonely.  She also told me she'd started feeding Gipsy people food. 

"She likes it.  She'll eat anything, even the spicy dishes...But then she vomits."  Cissy looked at me, her eyes watery.  "I'm trying to get her ready to return to the street."

"What are you talking about?"  I demanded.  "You know I'm taking that cat."

"What?"  she asked, startled. 

"Sure, I'll take her," I committed, "and I'll try my best to find her a good home."

When Cissy left at the end of May, she hugged me tightly--something she didn't usually do--with tears in her eyes.  "Thank you so much for everything," she said.

I asked around:  coworkers, my chiropractor.  I posted a cute sign with Gipsy's picture at Avocado Lady, a small local shop patronized by many wealthy ex-pats.  I went home to Spokane for three weeks and had a coworker take care of Gipsy.  By the time I got back to Shanghai, I was growing quite attached to her.

I started looking into taking her home with me.  Oh, the regulations!  Oh, the horrors of quarantine!  Oh, the horrors of shipping animals in China!  I heard about epic quarantines--beloved family pets incarcerated in cages for six months; the pets were never the same afterward.  I heard about pets suffocating or freezing to death due to Chinese airline staff failing to pressurize the cargo hold.

I learned that certain airlines would allow in-cabin pets (thank you, United).  I learned that Chinese bureaucracy, while a slow nightmare of paperwork and money, can be handled, even if it means waiting in the vet's office for two hours with your cat for that official pet health certificate that cost 1150 RMB (about $200 US).  I discovered that China has strange demands--the rabies shot Gipsy had gotten the year before wasn't "official", so she was revaccinated, and micro chipped, on the same day--in spite of my reservations that the microchip wouldn't work in the US. 

When Gipsy and I arrived at Pudong International Airport an hour before our check-in time on July 8th, she'd already been in the carrier for an hour. 

Going through security, I had to take her out of her carrier (with about 25 curious Chinese passengers behind me, and doors opening up to the rest of the airport on either end) so that they could scan it.  What if she runs away?  I was sweating and tense by the time we got to our gate, and the sweat really popped when an cute female employee approached me, saying my carrier was too big to fit under the seat.

"Well, what am I supposed to do now?"  I said angrily.  Why tell me now, after security and everything?  It seemed that everything I did in China had some kind of problem, and after two years, I was more than ready to leave.

My rude response should've earned me a smack in the face, but the employee and her coworker called the purser of the plane to come out and speak to me. 

"My name is Laura," she said, shaking my hand, "and I have nine cats myself."  She smiled at me and eyed the carrier with a sharpness.  "Well, the flight isn't fully booked.  Let's go for it."  (Again, thank you, United.)

And the employees were right.  The carrier was about a centimeter too tall to go under the seat, but I shoved and tried.  About five minutes after we got settled, a couple of older Chinese ladies wanted to sit together and asked the attendant in Chinese to ask me to move.  I rolled my eyes and grumbled, but we ended up sitting in an aisle seat, rather than a window, a blessing on an 11-hour flight, and had an empty seat between us and a quiet Chinese man.

We landed in San Francisco.  The Customs guy calmly and carefully looked over her Chinese certificate and took her Ziploc baggie of cat food.  "You and I both know what this is," he said kindly, "but Uncle Sam has rules."

"That's okay," I sighed.  "She's not eating, anyway."

And she wasn't.  No eating, no drinking, no bathroom accidents.  I was starting to wonder if Gipsy's body had completely shut down.  I was starting to worry, but I couldn't do anything about it.  I sweated some more.  I'd only slept a couple of hours the night before we left, and maybe dozed an hour on the flight from Shanghai to San Fran.  I have no idea if Gipsy slept at all.

Again, we had to take her out so that security could scan her cage.  This time we were allowed to wait in a private room with ridiculously high walls.  I kept telling Gipsy how much I loved her, what a good cat she was being, and how proud I was of her.  My mom had sent a hormone collar from the US with supposedly calming effects, and although Gipsy still seemed nervous, it appeared to be working.  When the TSA guy returned, he commented, "By now, most cats are climbing those walls.  You've got a nice, mellow cat."  I beamed with pride and put her back in her carrier, and she was pretty good about it.

We landed in Denver.  And there we waited.  And waited.

A computer glitch had grounded some United flights earlier that day, I learned.  We'd already planned for a 7 or 8 hour layover, but it got later and later.  I'd eaten, but, as the airport's restaurants closed down, I felt hungry again.  I peered into Gipsy's cage.  She seemed fine, and she hadn't eaten.  I drew strength from that.  As we waited some more, I curled up around her carrier, draped between two chairs, freezing cold.  I'd forgotten my new jacket in San Francisco--my only worry then had been getting us through Customs.  The sweat seemed to have frozen on my body.  I was tempted to take Gipsy's blanket and use it for myself, but I kept it draped over her carrier--partly to keep her warm and partly to block off any sights that may have frightened her.

Finally we got on the flight.  It was full.  Gipsy's carrier wouldn't go under the seat.  I had to prop my feet on top of it, and my backpack on top of my knees.  It's only for a couple of hours.  Strangely, I never got reminded or reprimanded about her carrier or my backpack.  Lucky.  No one bugged us.

We finally, finally landed in Spokane.  It was about 1 am.  And I could hear jack hammering coming from near the luggage carousel.  My sister Laura met us and I could tell she was worried about us and the jack hammering. 

"I think Gipsy's kind of in shock, anyway," I said, laughing, loopy from lack of sleep.  It hadn't quite sunken in that we'd made it--that we were in America.  I unnecessarily reminded my sister that we'd lived next to a construction site for two years.  I joked, "It's probably a 'welcome home' sound for her."

********

It's been over a week now, and Gipsy has met Sitka and Nellie, my sister's cat.  She's explored both levels of the house.  So much space compared to our tiny 40 square meter studio in Shanghai!  Yesterday, she even went outside with the other two cats.  She has fallen for Sitka, following him around like a starry eyed teeny bopper.  There's been some hissing, and some batting of paws, but no biting or scratching.

My Shanghainese girl is now an American girl--out in the open spaces of the West, enjoying the fresh air and grass under her paws, exploring this New World--just like I'd promised.

 

16 Oct. 2013

Come morning, Shanghai roars to life.  The horns from the busses, taxis, and cars merging at the intersection of Haining Lu and Henan Bei Lu make one constant hooooonnnnkkk!  Pollution begins to rise from the horizon up into the atmosphere.  Construction--the whine of the concrete saws, the zaps of welding, the teeth rattling sound of jack hammering, and the rumbling of big Japanese pavers--resumes.  As I head to work, crossing Qipu Lu, people intent on shopping push me aside, shouting to their friends or into their smart phones, stopping at the fruit stands for fresh-pressed pomegranate juice or cantaloupe on a stick.  Every other person drags a trolley laden with black plastic garbage bags, each one stuffed with cheap clothing and cheap shoes.  People eat as they walk and then toss their trash unceremoniously onto the street, scarcely caring if the vinegar from their dumplings ends up on your clothes.

When you live in a city that's, like, 90 times the size of your own, it's easy to think you'll never have a moment's peace again.  One thing that's great about my neighborhood in Shanghai is that after about 9 pm, the whole place shuts down.  Most of the stores on Qipu Lu are closed, the rumble of trolleys and the call of vendors silenced.  The streets are littered with the day's trash--skewers from street barbeque, half-full Styrofoam bowls of ramen noodles, watermelon rinds--but it's quiet.  Quieter than New York City, less quiet than Spokane.  There have been a few times when I walk home from the subway, from work, and I can actually hear crickets, softly chirping in the bushes.  It's past ten, and the sky is black, the surrounding buildings brightly lit, like stars.

My morning walks to the Bund have been like a renewal for me:  a reminder that yes, peace does exist in spite of Shanghai's chaos, that the water in the river still flows and that the lotus still blooms, even from the muck.

As if pulled by the same idea, I see couples taking their wedding photos there all the time.  Just two days ago, I saw nine different couples!  Other than the Catholic Church in Xujiahui , Waitan (the Mandarin word for the Bund), is the most popular spot in Shanghai for wedding pictures.  New beginnings.

I always see something interesting on my walks.  One morning I saw a man flying a kite, a black fish about five feet long, high up in the air.  Kite-flying is popular on the Bund, but this huge kite was the most amazing I've ever seen.

This morning, the interesting sights continued:  I saw four different groups of uniformed practitioners of martial arts.  The first group was in light pink, dancing slowly with their swords near the Monument to the Peoples’ Heroes.  It was all so beautiful that I paused on their stairs:  A breeze rippled the loose pink clothing, swirled the tassels on the hilts of each sword.  Seabirds glided over the Huangpu River; tourists walked by, some taking photos.  Each pose, each movement of the practitioners seemed Zen, unhurried, knowing that a consistent gentle push might be more persuasive than a hard shove.

Not wanting to disturb them, I did an about-face and descended the stairs.

Below the Bund is a small garden, twisting and turning paths woven into the trees.  There is even a small wooden bridge near a waterfall, with lotus and lilies blooming up from the ponds.  Latticework arcs overhead, woven with trailing vines and filtering the sunlight.  Classical Chinese zither music wafts from small portable radios.  Retired people are there every morning.  Some just sit, almost as if meditating or just allowing themselves to wake up.  Some do taijiquan or other light calisthenics.  Some stand and talk with one another, the men with wrists clasped behind their backs like old scholars, looking like they're trying to balance themselves between Confucius and Chairman Mao.

As I made my way through this garden, I could hear more music, flute this time, and spied two long lines of people practicing another form.  Tai chi?  Wushu?  Kung-fu?  I knew a lot of the names, but not enough about the forms to identify them quickly.  Their uniforms were white satin rather than pink, but they were just as graceful.  Carefully I edged around them, thankful they were without swords.

It's hard to believe that modern Chinese people still practice these ancient arts--thousands and thousands of years old--but it's still a part of them.  It makes me feel good to know that the Cultural Revolution wasn't able to take everything away. 

China seems to me to be a nation of survivors.  The battles between warlords in seemingly every dynasty; 60 years of invasions by the Mongols; World War II…I can understand why bamboo graces so much of Chinese art.  So strong it's used as scaffolding, Chinese bamboo can hold the weight of many men, but it can also bend in the slightest wind.  The Chinese talk about being descended from dragons, but sometimes I wonder if they didn't spring up out of the bamboo, ready to bend or to be strong, whatever the situation required. 

Unlike the first Americans, who took that bold step into the unknown--and escaped--the Chinese made a stand.  Perhaps, if they'd been living in Europe, surrounded by ocean in many cases, taking a boat far away would've made more sense.  Or perhaps they chose to stay.  I don't know enough about China or Chinese history to make a real guess.  I think both histories, in spite of their differences, should be revered, though.  It takes just as much bravery to start over as it does to stay; to try something new as it does to keep going through the daily grind.

I thought about how China had survived so much.  I thought about how America, in its own short history, had survived what it has so far.  Maybe both countries are made of survivors.  Perhaps stubbornly, perhaps foolishly, human beings just keep on going.

8 July 2014

They're baa-aaack!

Yup, those maraca-shaking insects--Shanghai crickets--are back with a vengeance.  After nearly two straight weeks of rain, the sky is (mostly) blue and semi-cloudy, and the crickets seem to say tianqi hen hao--the weather is good.

After trying for over an hour to locate a European cafe I'd often passed on my walks to and from the Bund (but never noting the exact address), I settled for something closer to home.  I was sitting at the only outdoor table at LePause Cafe on Haining Lu, sipping a reasonably-priced vanilla latte (bing de, of course, given the heat) and a cold 11-oz. bottle of Hawaiian water--ridiculously priced at about $3.

This hot and semi-frustrating search had revealed something a bit sad to me--my neighborhood in Shanghai is not especially known for its outdoor seating.  Oh, sure, there are 5-star hotels with outdoor patios on their 8th floors--and the 5-star prices to match.  After living here for a year now, hanging at a hotel with a bunch of tourists who are unknowingly (but willingly) overpaying for their refreshments doesn't exactly tickle my fancy.

What had was my jaunt up and down Wulumuqi Lu yesterday.  I'd been trying to find the Avocado Lady, the famed hole-in-the-wall spot that catered to foreign tastes.  I'd heard about the place months ago but had always had other duties or distractions whisper "Maybe next weekend."  But when my chiropractor suggested posting my sign there, I had to go check it out.

The sign was for Gipsy Danger--the calico I'd inherited from my friends.  The man had been in my intake group but had returned to London about five weeks ago.  His now-wife had just returned to Guangzhou.  She planned to join her hubby when her visa cleared in September, but for now she was visiting her mom, who's not well--and who already has a dog.

The north end of Wulumuqi was someplace I'd never wandered.  Like a lot of Shanghai, there was the ebb and flow of run-down areas, with people tossing their garbage onto the sidewalk without a glance at the pedestrians who might be hit with this trash, followed by mansion-like apartment buildings catering to the rich.  I saw a local guy and his friend hop into a racy-looking Audi that was the outrageous color of a shiny blue beetle's wing.  Ten minutes later, I was dodging dog poop, garbage, and lugees again. 

Just like the neighborhoods, there's a wave-like motion to the traffic that I've come to recognize.  While still maddening to my American sensibilities, the seemingly chaotic scramble of busses, taxis, bicycles, scooters, and pedestrians does have a certain rhythm.  Oh, yes, people still walk five-wide on the sidewalk, forcing me to step into the street.  Near-silent electric scooters still sneak up behind me and beep their horns, making me jump like a paranoid squirrel.  I could honestly go on forever, but I am one person amidst 20-plus million, and my frustration won't change their habits one iota.

There are times when I can be zen about it (thank you, Peace Corps!).  If I'm not ravenously hungry, I can usually force a laugh or shake my head, or even find something entertaining about it all.  Sometimes, I even enjoy it!

It's not always easy, I'll admit.  But it wasn't always easy to love New York City or Spokane, either.  I'm finding more and more that the things that irritate me about some place or some person are sometimes the very things I miss later:  the habits of loved ones, for example.  Or the way people say hello to you so much when you're a foreigner.  Today I actually told a guy No hablo Ingles because I'm tired of people approaching me and making assumptions.  Next time I'll try speaking Pohnpeian, watch their face, and laugh.

But it's that very stuff that I inexplicably miss when I'm back in the States.  Overseas, I always get lots of attention--some of it negative or unwanted, but at least I feel noticed.  In the U.S., especially out West, I might as well be invisible.  I look and talk just like everyone else.  No one knows about me (or even tries) and no one cares.

I'm not trying to be Debbie Downer here, but there is a feeling of celebrity that comes with being an American in China, even in a place like Shanghai (supposedly accustomed--ha!--to the presence of foreigners).

People--men and women, young and old--still turn around to stare, or sometimes smile, at me.  Some even do double-takes.  Two days ago, in the elevator leaving work, a cute little girl shrieked "Laowai!" (foreigner) when she saw me and two of my American co-workers.  The girl's little brother promptly hid behind his auntie's legs.  There's an old man I see on my daily walks to the subway.  He always wears a suit, although he's most certainly retired, and smokes cigarettes.  The first few times we made eye contact, he stared so hard at me I felt insulted.  It wasn't a leer--it was more like an analysis.  Finally I got sick of this and pulled that old Peace Corps trick--smile and nod.  Brightly, I said, "Ni hao!" and waved.  Man, you should've seen his face.  It lit up like a Chinese lantern, pushing wrinkles back into his hairline as he grinned and waved back.  Now we smile and nod at each other every time like old friends.

Why it's hard to leave Shanghai

Understand this:  my social life had been sadly lacking in Spokane for the better part of six years.  I'm very grateful for the time I spent with my family, especially my sister.  I'm grateful for my cat, for blue sky and fresh air.  I miss all of that.  I miss the smell of pine and cottonwood trees.

Nevertheless, there are reasons to stay in Shanghai, and I'm planning on signing up for a second year here. 

KTV

I never thought I'd say this, but Haoledi (Holiday, or as I like to call it, "a howl a day") was really fun!  I can't believe it's taken my nine months to experience this, a hugely popular activity in Shanghai.  Some of the people in my intake group go once a week!

Located next to my center, team-building locations don't get any more convenient than Haoledi.  An American and a Chinese teacher were about to leave us for good, and a new American teacher was being welcomed.  About a dozen of us squeezed into a 25 square meter private room, complete with tiny corner stage, two large flat screen TVs, and a disco ball.  A case of bottled beer was brought in, along with bottle openers, bottles of green tea, ash trays, glasses, tambourines, and three microphones.  We ordered food.

There were songs in Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and English.  My new boss from South Africa spent several years in Japan, so he sang quite a few songs in Japanese.  A co-worker with a Chinese wife sang along with the Chinese songs.  Another co-worker has a Korean grandmother, so the Korean songs were hers. 

Unlike karaoke singers in the U.S., most of my co-workers drank very little, if at all, and seemed to take the singing quite seriously.  They had fun, but the emotion behind the (often sad) songs seemed very real.

I sang Green Day's "When September Ends" with a Chinese co-worker--I'd had no idea the video was so depressing.  Two American guys and I conquered Nirvana's "All Apologies".  I'm not a huge Kurt Cobain fan, but I know the song well and felt I owed it to the guy since I was the only Washingtonian in the room.  We sang "Hey Jude" by the Beatles and danced to Psy's "Gangnam Style". 

American Night

Started by an American, this night at the pub occurs every five weeks or so invites every Canuck, Aussie, Kiwi, Yank, Springbok, and Zhonguoren who's interested.  It's interesting and entertaining to hear English through the filter of half a dozen different accents.  Everyone's usually in a good mood...it's common to have a few drinks, and you can meet people from all over (even Greece!) while getting your American fix.  The American guy who started it waits until everyone's had a few, and then he yells, "Candadians, where you at?"  and they all shout back.  "Aussies, where you at?"  They scream.  And so on.  It's great.

Pub Quiz at the Camel

My only experience with pub quizzes before coming to Shanghai was seeing the fancy one in the second "Bridget Jones" movie.  It looked fun, but I didn't know enough people to form a team, and it's not like Spokane had regular pub quizzes (at least ones that I was aware of).

Pub quiz nights coincided with "Tight Arse Tuesdays", meaning you could get two-for-one fish-n-chips and happy hour pints from 4 to 8 pm. 

Team names:  everything from the silly (Monkey Kings and Hampster Whoopie Cushion--our team) to the obscene (I won't mention details, but body parts and dirty words were involved).

The winnings:  500 RMB and a bottle of booze for first place; a bottle of booze for second; and a round of shots for third.

The quiz always involves the week in news, Shanghai trivia, a large music and movies section (hold me back!) and usually some kind of technical, historical, or sport section with a mysterious connection.

I've been twice now, and have had a team of four each time--me, two Brits, and a Chinese woman.  I would say we're all pretty well-rounded, and we did well, considering other teams had six or more players.  We were in the bottom half of about 20 teams.

Our homework assignments were to "revise" (Brit-speak for study) general knowledge and news for the next quiz--I chose baseball and celebrity gossip (twist my arm).

WeChat

This last sounds a bit trite, but yes, I've been sucked in to the social-media-on-your-smart phone-in-Shanghai set.  I never had a smart phone until I came here, but I am now addicted and wondering how I ever did without.

As long as there's wifi, I can connect with my Shanghai friends and acquaintances in a Facebook-like environment on my little Samsung smart phone.  Lately I'm actually spending more time on WeChat than Facebook.  WeChat doesn't require a VPN.  It doesn't try to kick me offline every other click.  When our free wifi was shut down at work, I went out and got a wireless router and set up my own wifi at home--all by myself!  I'm pretty proud of that.  Part of the manual was even in Chinese!!

Grandma's Home

Yu tou tang.  Ma pu doufu.  Yum. 

Yep, fish head soup and spicy tofu are not exactly things I was expecting to like, but they are actually really good at Grandma's.  That's the name of a restaurant that prepares Hangzhou cuisine.  Hangzhou is about an hour outside of Shanghai by high-speed train and is famous for some of its food.

This restaurant is extremely popular, with long queues (for those of us unfamiliar with British English, that means lines) outside 30 minutes before opening.  Part of it is the food.  Along with the aforementioned dishes, Grandma's makes some great stir-fried green beans and peanut smoothies.  Of course there are the usual things foreigners never order (pickled pig trotters, for example, or cartilage of chicken leg).  You can get a large meal for six people under $50.  It's my favorite Chinese restaurant!  If you come to visit me, I promise we'll go!!

Xin nian kuai le!

New York City.  Los Angeles.  Chicago.  Houston.  Philadelphia.  Phoenix.  Spokane.  Imagine these cities combined forces and had a party.  If they pooled their budgets for 4th of July and New Years fireworks, doubled it, and lit everything off...They still wouldn't match Shanghai on Chinese New Year.

Besides a short lull from about 1 am to 3 am and 1 pm to 3 pm, it's been Fireworks Central around here--in spite of the government's so-called limitations (http://www.latimes.com/world/worldnow/la-fg-wn-china-fireworks-20140129,0,2905534.story#axzz2rxQzElFV).

I kinda like it.

Last night around 8 or 9 the neighborhoods a few blocks north of me starting blowing up the good stuff--pyrotechnics that, in the U.S., would be surrounded by a ring of fire trucks, just in case.  I could see flashes of it from my west-facing window, so I ran out to the hallway and looked out that north-facing window instead.  Mostly, everything was sparkling rockets of gold stretching up until gravity forced them to pop like popcorn in the sky--shimmering explosions of gold, and of course, the auspicious red, with a bit of random blue or purple thrown in for spice. 

To her credit, Gipsy Danger didn't seem as nutso as I'd been expecting.  She actually crouched in my window, fascinated by the flashes of light reflected in the windows of the tall buildings all around.  Of course, she's also the most talkative cat in the East, meowing and, at times, even yowling as if I've stepped on her tail. 

I'm watching Gipsy because her human parents, my friends, are in Guangzhou visiting family.  Right now Ms. Danger (named after the Jaeger in the movie "Pacific Rim") is curled up on her blanket in my rocking chair, content during the temporary truce (in firework parlance) to close her eyes and actually nap.

The air outside displays shockingly little damage from last night.  The pollution level is 167--unhealthy--which is fairly normal for this place.  The highest level in the Los Angeles area I can find right now is 80.

The gunshot bangs and the colors that light up the night remind me of some good times with cousins back in the States when we were younger, watching 4th of July fireworks and lighting off some of our own.  When your male cousins are pyromaniacs and are still blowing up stuff at our age (mid-30s), you just end up getting excited about all of it!

As the Year of the Horse gallops in, and the word mashang ("immediately"--as if on horseback) is being overused, let me enlighten you with a few predictions for 2014:  people will fight the good fight based on their ideals, especially towards the end of the year, but meaningless violence is also expected.  Patience and self-control are advised.  Supposedly, this is a good year for single people to meet that special someone.  I might sit that one out.  We'll see.  Businesses involving wood or fire will do well, since this year's horse is a wood horse.  Volcanoes are also predicted to erupt.  If you were born in the Year of the Snake (like me), it might be time to "reboot" your career, which I've been considering doing anyway.

Happiness, prosperity, and longevity to all my readers, and if you speak Cantonese:  Gung hay fat choi!

 

My sources for predictions:

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/chinese-new-year-2014-what-the-year-of-the-horse-means-for-you-9096775.html

http://fengshui.about.com/od/fengshuigoodluckcures/ss/Feng-Shui-Tips-Horse-Chinese-Zodiac-Sign.htm

http://ca.shine.yahoo.com/blogs/shine-on/2014-lunar-horoscope-predictions-130052631.html

Mr. Perfect 23 August 2013

The irony of my (lack of) love life was almost laughable as I looked at the title of the week's activity:  "Romantics:  Creating your Mr./Mrs. Perfect".  Oh, if only it were as easy as "creating" him!  Abracadabra!  Ha, ha.  It was even more hysterical that a good third of the students in the class were married or dating--and that the teacher teaching it (me) was single.

Since arriving in Shanghai, I've met four gay men.  They have all been wonderful people; however, at times meeting men like this was only a reminder of how few available men remain for someone my age. 

As a Peace Corps Volunteer at 25, I remember the villagers on Pohnpei being shocked that I was still single; they didn't believe that I didn't at least have an illegitimate child in the States.  "Twenty-five!"  they'd say, eyes wide, sometimes shaking their heads at each other--as if I wasn't there.

Well, kids, now I'm 36, and the situation hasn't changed.  What do you think about that?

Reluctant to trash my career over an office romance, I still have yet to meet many men outside of work.  The good thing is that, compared to Spokane, there are plenty of attractive men my age in Shanghai that I've seen.

After three cycles of the Chinese zodiac, I'll admit it'd be difficult to change my ways.  I've had about seven or eight years (off and on) of living without roommates, but that doesn't mean it would be impossible for me to learn new behaviors--to marry and live with someone.  That being said, after a year of eHarmony, six months on Plenty of Fish, and trying OKCupid and Match.com a few months each, the fact is that I've had exactly one boyfriend within the last eight years and perhaps four or five dinner dates. 

While I'm admitting things, I'll also admit that being able to up and leave the States for a year in Shanghai is something most of my married friends would be unable to do.  I'll admit that making my way through millions of people every day turns me off the "be fruitful and multiply" idea.  There are people all around me, and yet loneliness is cast like a veil over everything.  I can speak to almost no one, so I may as well be alone.  I struggle sometimes with why I came here.  Wasn't part of the point to find some friends, and to find The One?  ARGH. 

One of my good friends once shared a quote that went something like, "Each of us, no matter what we say, is exactly where we want to be."  If I am exactly where I want to be, why do I think about men and marriage so much, and why can't I let go of my loneliness?  Why can't I just accept that this is my life--single and adventurous?  Why do I keep longing for someone to share those adventures with me?

Only three of 20 students in the afore-mentioned "Romantics" class believed there was such a thing as the perfect relationship.  Is the fact that I keep hoping for one the reason why I'm still single?

St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church 7 July 2013

St. Ignatius (Jesuit) / Xujiahui Catholic Church                                                      7 July 2013

It was further than I'd thought.   It had looked like the church was one or one and a half miles from Rayfont Hotel where I was staying in Shanghai.  But after scaling the Yan'an Road overpass and following the elevated highway for about a mile, I came to another large overpass. 

These overpasses are like crosswalks making an "air square" about two flights of stairs above the hustling traffic of the street.  9:45 am on a Sunday in Spokane is sleepy and slow, but Shanghai looked like a regular Monday morning rush hour.  Bicycles, scooters, cars, buses--all zoomed by, weaving in and out of traffic and pedestrians.  I was all too aware, even after only a few days, that fearless scooter pilots often rode on the sidewalk right behind people on foot, scarcely avoiding contact (and possible hospital visits).

At this second overpass, I went to a map of the main roads of the city.  This map was about three feet by three feet.  Of course, the city was massive, and the map was mostly in Mandarin, but they did have pinyin for the main roads (north-south and east-west) that broke the map into quadrants.  Ditching my trek toward the east, I turned south toward Xujiahui.  It shouldn't be long now, I reckoned.  However, walking another 10 minutes or so didn't put me in a better mood.

It was only about 10:15 am but it was in the mid-80s, sunny, and the air was stickier and more polluted than New York City in August.  Imagine being misted with warm, slightly oily water in 90 degree heat while walking.  The skin on my arms and hands was as smooth as an infant's.  Sweat/condensation was rolling from my hair, my back, and my armpits all the way to the waistband of my shorts, soaking the material.  I was alone, and in spite of constant horns and bicycle bells all around, I could hear the blood rushing in my head.  I broke out my first water bottle and finished it, my head quieting a bit.

I slogged a little farther, and then, miraculously, I spotted a sign for a metro station.  The 1 line went straight to Xujiahui, two stops from where I was.

I'd already experienced the metro the day before.  The fact that the cars were all air conditioned, with stops announced in both Mandarin and English, sealed the deal:  I put my backpack went through the metal detector.  Then, I swiped my transportation card (good for buses and cabs, too).  One swiped again on the way out--two to four stops deducted three yuan (about 50 cents).

Exiting from the Xujiahui station, I walked less than a block before noticing two tall buildings with crosses--I'd found it!

The crickets in the trees were protesting the heat as loudly as I was feeling it, waves of sound flowing as heavily as jackhammers, ebbing into brief silences.  They were giving cicadas a run for their money in terms of volume.  The day before, a group of us (EF teachers new in Shanghai) had passed a man selling pet crickets in small individual cages--balls of woven reeds.  The crickets had seemed to call to us.  These were no quiet American country crickets.

Along the concrete block pathway was a flower garden and lawn, where two or three Chinese couples were having wedding photos taken.  One girl was in a heavy gown, not a drop of sweat on her face.  Her makeup and hair were impeccably pristine.  I couldn't believe it--I was a hot mess.

I found a Costa Coffee and ducked inside for a medium iced latte.  The cafe's A/C was supersonic, and I got feverish chills for about five minutes while my body adjusted.  I ended up having to leave the cafe about ten minutes later.

I was violating the church dress code on two counts:  my knees and shoulders were bare.  At least I was wearing sneakers (flip-flops were another no-no).  They still let me in, though, after I sucked down the rest of my (now no longer iced) drink.  I don't think super-touristy places can survive without letting some people break the rules.

The church had a vaulted ceiling, and ceiling fans dangled down like spiders on web thread, beating uselessly at the soggy air.  A few of the stained glass windows had bamboo motifs.  There were a few TV screens hanging purposelessly from columns, and oscillating fans doing their best to make the air bearable.  Under each wooden plaque signifying a Station of the Cross was a tiny room, each with a kneeler, a small altar, and a statue or painting--14 in all.  There were one or two people in nearly every cubbyhole, and I had been touched to see some older Chinese women praying reverently at a statue of the Virgin Mary just outside the church.  It seemed hard to believe that such loyal devotion to this foreign religion existed in the same country where, 25 years ago, we hadn't even been able to attend any kind of Christian service.  Xujiahui had been here a long time, however.

The lightweight, dark wood pews were scuffed and lacquered within an inch of their lives, but they were filled.  The congregation looked to be mostly Chinese and Filipino, with a few Americans, Europeans, and Africans tossed in for spice.  It was easy to spot the European men, as most carried shoulder bags.

The Chinese priest sprinkled holy water on us and burned incense throughout.  A strong, citronella-like odor filled the air.  I had thought that water-sprinkling and incense-burning were suspended during Ordinary Time, but perhaps I was wrong.

The choir was about 15 people; all looked to be under 50.  They were accompanied only by a piano, and even sang a few familiar songs:  "City of God" and "Here I Am, Lord", along with "Take and Receive", a pretty song with Mandarin characters printed on the other side of the hymnal page.

The offertory was led by a dozen toddlers of all races, each led by a parent.  In their little fingers were three roses apiece.  This seemed par for the course, and I thought this little procession should be added to every mass everywhere.  For communion, one woman sang a gorgeous version of "Amazing Grace" that raised the hair on my arms.

I did not envy the priest in his heavy robes as he spoke:  "The harvest is abundant but the laborers are few."  I was sitting down, unmoving in my shorts and ruffled tank top, and sweat was still rolling down my back.  I thought it was appropriate that a Chinese priest would talk about laborers in a Communist country, and I thought about the millions of people in this country--the "harvest" abundant, indeed--and how many of them were Christian--"few".  The priest emphasized we needed to follow Jesus, not in the ways of the world:  "We are the lamb of God."

Spokane Public Radio

Hello, all!

I am now blogging about my experiences as a marketing/P.R./production intern at Spokane Public Radio at http://kpbxmakingnoise.blogspot.com/2012_04_01_archive.html.  Please check it out, and support the station during their upcoming pledge drive!

Hailing all Micro 68s, 69s, and 70s!

I applied to be a Peace Corps Volunteer back in March of 2001, I think.  A fat stack of paper work and several medical exams later, September 11^th happened.  I had been nominated for a position in Africa, but my recruiter and everyone else was freaking out.  PCVs were pulled out of countries deemed unstable, including Africa, and shuffled around.  It was Christmas Eve when I got the letter.  Micro-what, now?  I had to bust out the world map.  Oh, the former Caroline Islands.  I remember looking at them on the globe in like second grade, thinking, they’re so small, people really live there?  I remember standing on the bridge on Dartford Drive with Mom, the letter in my hand.  It was snowy.  A local artist had recently welded beautiful salmon-shaped pieces of metal to the bars on the bridge, and they seemed to be leaping and twisting in the sunlight.  The Little Spokane was running under our feet.  The evergreens were bent under the weight of the snow, some branches sighing and casting off the white stuff into the river.  I could hear the wind through the pine needles, and I’ve never felt as strongly as I did then that there were, indeed, voices on the wind and spirits in the trees (kind of anti-Catholic, I know, but it’s true).  Go.  Go.  Go.  They were all telling me what I already knew in my heart.  I would go.