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.

22 Jan 2014

I've finally surpassed the six-month mark in my contract, and I can safely say that I am no longer experiencing culture shock! 

I am, however, experiencing what Peace Corps Volunteers and other seasoned ex-pats know as cultural fatigue.

People still push on to the subway or the elevator as people try to get off.  I know this won't change.  I'm used to it, but it still bothers me.  The logic of waiting a few seconds for people to get out so that it's actually easier to get in seems to be beyond anyone here. 

People still ride their scooters like they have a death wish.  They go against traffic, overloaded with passengers, water jugs, or sharp objects, texting on their cell phones (sans helmet, of course); they ride up on the sidewalk, beeping and swerving--or worse, not beeping at all.  On my best days, I actually find this somewhat exhilarating--what a physical challenge!  All senses on alert!  It's like reflex training camp!  But when you've got the flu, are tired, homesick, or just plain not in the mood, it's like a needle in your spine.  The most I've ever seen cops or traffic directors do is yell at them half-heartedly.  There is no enforcement; and yet, everyone seems terrified of the police because they are part of the Communist government.

The guards that operate the metal detectors at the subway entrance gates only make me scan my backpack half the time.  Still, it's irritating when a man or woman overloaded with shopping bags on a trolley doesn't have to lift their stuff onto the belt.  They don't even get wanded or patted down.  What, I ask you, could be in my backpack that couldn't be in their bags?  Sometimes I'm sure it's because I'm foreign; and it's hard to be angry about this, knowing that racial profiling happens in my own country--land of the free, supposedly.  Sometimes I pick up my backpack at the other end of the scanner, and notice that the second guard--who's supposed to be watching the monitor--is picking his or her nose, watching an ad on the big screen TV ten feet away, checking his or her text messages, or speaking with someone.  Why bother having me put my bag on the belt if you're not even going to watch the scan? 

After six months, I'm used to all of this.  But it still bothers me.  That's culture fatigue.  The shock has worn off, you've gotten used to it--but the culture you're living in doesn't change.  Every "problem" you noticed during week one is still there, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Living in Qinghai in the late 80s, and being a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, I'm well aware that my situation here could be much, much worse, and, contrary to what you might think, I'm not even really complaining.  I'm just tired of it.

Part of it is big city life.  With 20 million people, you must push.  You must hurry.  You must fight a little harder for a place in line, a seat on the subway, a good spot in a crowd.  After three years in New York City, I kind of get it, and then some.

I'm not saying Shanghai is a hell hole, although sometimes, when I can't see the buildings a block away due to the pollution (PM 2.5 over 500, anyone?), or when I can smell the garbage truck 20 floors up, it certainly feels like one.

Okay, then, you ask, are there any good things about Shanghai?  Yes!  I've made more friends here in six months than I did in six years in Spokane.  I have a job here.  I'm even dating a great guy!

I just wanted to say, before I got into the whole Chinese New Year holiday thing, that I'm enjoying my time here as well as getting sick of the place--and that's normal.  That's life.  I feel almost the same way about Spokane--the air was clean, but I had no job.  The traffic was orderly, but there were no decent men to date.  I had my family, but no buddies.  I love Spokane.  But I was sick of it.  And that's why I came here.

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January 14th was the annual party for all the teachers and staff at the adult centers.  It was kind of like a company Christmas party, except we were really celebrating the Year of the Horse.  It was held in Le Royal Meridien, one of the fancier hotels in Shanghai, and everyone was dressed up--"red carpet wear", the invite had said.  The food was "just so-so", as my students would've said.  They'd attempted to make the Chinese food more to the western palette, and the western food more to the Chinese palette, and as a result, everything tasted a little off.  The coffee and the salad were okay, and the desserts, and far be it from me to complain too much about a free lunch!  I cleaned my full plate!

Each center had prepared a performance of some kind--a song, a play, a dance, a traditional something-or-other.  Some of them were downright horrible--people forgetting lyrics, not being able to hit notes, or dressed in way too little and dancing way too scandalously (bordering on strip club, I'm not kidding).  But some of the performances were great!  Two different girls tackled popular Adele songs, and did quite well hitting the notes.  One center had taken "The Twelve Days of Christmas" and turned it into "The Twelve Days of EF", and I was nearly in tears of hilarity by the end--they pretty much said exactly what I'd been feeling, especially when they shouted "NO CHRIST-MAS BREAK!" at the "five golden rings" part on the final verse.

However, another center had decided to retell the story of the birth of Christ, using both foreign and Chinese actors.  One of the actors, a Brit playing a bare-chested Joseph, kept interrupting his own lines to tell us, "It's not blasphemous!" when it clearly was.  I mean, Mary in a pink skirt that barely covered her ass and in three-inch heels?  The Angel of the Lord worse than Tinkerbell, yelling at the characters and bopping them on the head with her magic wand?  Mary pregnant before the Angel's visit?  And, finally, Mary giving birth to Santa Claus?  A Catholic buddy and I met up after, shaking our heads.  The baby Santa thing had been pretty bad.  Some people in the audience had actually walked out of the performance; an American co-worker of mine had laughed until he was in tears.  To top it all, the entire performance looked as though they'd written it the night before and hadn't rehearsed--they repeated lines, missed cues, missed whole scenes, and then interrupted other scenes to explain what they'd missed.

I wondered if the performances would've been better or worse if alcohol had been served.

Speaking of, rather than doing a lucky draw, as was tradition, the higher-ups had decided to purchase a bottle of "Celebration Wine", a red from Down Under, for each one of us.  With its screw-off top, I was sure it was going to be horrible, but the Aussies didn't disappoint.  It wasn't the best wine I'd ever had, but it certainly wasn't the worst.

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The mall where my center is located has seen increased activity since about two weeks ago.  You could equate it to the last-minute Christmas rush at home.

I sometimes feel as though pieces of my culture are being pilfered here:  fake pine boughs dripping with red and gold ornaments, clearly Christmas decor, being used for Chinese New Year; "Oh my darlin' Clementine" becoming the melody for "Happy New Year, Happy New Year, Happy New Year, everyone!"; Handel's "Hallelujah" being used in commercials (I know it is at home, too, tongue in cheek; but here, where no one believes in Christ by government decree, it makes me mad).  There are Nordic patterns on sweaters, and Christmas lights decorating the chilly tropical plants in front of my apartment building.

I then have to remind myself of the bodhisattva incense burner I have at home, my Tibetan singing bowl, the times I've studied yoga or hung Tibetan prayer flags over my door.  The chopsticks and soy sauce in the kitchen.  The red and silver Asian-looking earrings I sometimes wear.  I don't think of myself as stealing anything then; I think of myself as exploring, appreciating.  Is that what China is doing with Christmas--adding it into their Chinese New Year celebration--appreciating?  I'm not sure, but I have to be careful how harshly I judge because I don't have enough information to really know.  And it's not like every Christian in America takes Christmas as seriously as they should.

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I feel bad for my students.  Some of them live far away and are planning to travel over the new year break--but then they admit they don't have their tickets yet.  Tickets are notoriously difficult to come by this time of year.  Some may wait days at the train station without being able to get on a train--my sister and I watched a documentary about it on PBS.  There is a sense of deep obligation to return home for the new year; and an equal sense of guilt, I'd imagine, if the person isn't able to make it.  Some of my students, I can tell, aren't especially looking forward to the holiday; some see it the way Americans might see Thanksgiving or Christmas--a time of forced imprisonment with dysfunctional relatives with the obligatory smile pasted across your face because this is supposed to be a happy time, after all.  Hurried preparations, exhausting shopping trips, and shoving crowds out of your way more than usual. 

A lot of my students are working overtime right now so that they can earn an extra day off.  Working overtime and then spending Saturdays in their three or four--or five--English classes.  Their dedication still amazes me.  It is humbling, inspiring, exhausting, and sad to watch.  When I see a class of twenty having entire conversations in English, it feels like a miracle, and sometimes I just watch with a smile on my face instead of scribbling down notes to use later for feedback.  I can tell you right now, if I worked overtime during the week, I would not be spending my Saturdays learning another language!  At least not for five hours.  Maybe one hour.  For fun.

That's the difference between my students and I.  They are willing to sacrifice their free time because of the benefits knowing English will give them--promotions, a higher salary, a more important title.  My free time, I have to admit, is quite valuable to me.  Even knowing I could make more money makes me reluctant to let it go.  Maybe if I had a family to support, I'd feel differently?  Who knows?

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?

Yuyuan Gardens 25 July 2013

Misters?  Really?  We need MORE humidity in the air?!

I was at Yu Gardens (a.k.a. Yuyuan Gardens), and I had just approached the algae-green pond.  It was absolutely gorgeous:  The lotus leaves were bigger than dinner plates.  The pond was full of carp--deep orange, silver, white, orange and white.  There were even turtles.  Just seeing all the greenery--a couple of kinds of magnolia trees, quince (reminding me of home), and of course bamboo--made me feel refreshed.  I swear the air was cleaner here.

However, I'd just walked two miles in 100-degree-heat.  I'd thought, ridiculously, that the middle of the day was a great time for a trek like this.  It's easy to think things like that when your A/C unit is pumping away at 25 degrees Celsius!  I was sweating so much that sweat was stinging my eyes.  I'd learned to carry an umbrella, though--many Shanghai girls and even some men do this, and it's the smartest thing ever, as a small bottle of sunscreen costs $10!

Under the zig-zagging bridge across the pond to the teahouse was a series of misters, spraying away, adding an air of mystery to the place.  I wanted to laugh or shake my head, but I didn't.  Instead, I proceeded over the bridge, pausing among groups of Korean, Chinese, French, American, and Brazilian tourists to take pictures and wait for others doing the same.

When I got to the Huxinting ("Mid-lake Pavilion") Teahouse, I saw a glass case with a three blue and white porcelain jars of tea inside.  A cash register rested on top.  There were a few tables here, but I didn't see anyone drinking tea.  Then an employee made eye contact with me.  "Tea upstairs," she said.  She was not smiling.

I'd caught onto this.  Americans smile too much.  At least, I do.  I'd found myself smiling like a monkey on more than one occasion--it wasn't necessary.  I nodded and made my way up the red lacquer stairs--there were quite a few of them, narrow and high, so I proceeded with caution and held the handrail. 

The owner shouted at his son (texting madly) to get a menu (probably) and show me to my seat.  The menu was the cleanest, most beautiful menu I'd held since arriving in Shanghai, with names of tea in a light blue script (in both Chinese and English).  I momentarily felt bad for all the non-English speaking tourists down below. 

I asked him what kind of tea he liked.

"Dragonwell." 

I ordered that. 

There were ashtrays on each table in the tea house (yes, smoking inside public spaces was still permitted in China); thankfully, no one was smoking here.

There were two older Chinese women sitting at a table to my right, and a Chinese lady at the table behind me.  There was another foreigner I'd seen prattling on her cell phone about her students--she was about 50 and didn't notice me.  There were no men up here, other than the owner and the waiter.  One of the Chinese women on the right kept taking photos; the woman behind me kept coughing and mumbling--I didn't want to turn around, and I assumed she was on her cell phone.

Tea was over $10, but it arrived with a big thermos of kai shui (boiled water) to add as I wished to the already steaming cup full of leaves; three small eggs (quail?) hard boiled in soy sauce; three pieces of plain, warm tofu (the firm kind), and two pre-packaged sweets--one like a Japanese mochi, and a tart, candied fruit no bigger than my thumb with a rather large seed inside.  It was an interesting snack.  Along with the treats was a sealed packet containing a fresh-smelling moist towelette, with which I gratefully scrubbed my hands and sweaty face.

At one point I'd noticed that the woman behind me wasn't on her cell phone--she was mumbling to herself.  It was as if she were having a conversation with someone I couldn't see; once in a while she'd look at a tourist down below, giggle, comment, and then cough and hawk and nearly spit. 

I pushed the tea leaves out of the way with the tea cup's lid the way the waiter had shown me--I'd seen people strain their tea this way in Golmud, too, back in 1988--and sipped.  Really hot, but a great green tea flavor.  Not sweet, not bitter or grassy.

You may have thought me insane to be drinking hot tea on a day like this, but according to NPR, it actually makes some scientific sense.  Here's a link to the article:  http://www.npr.org/blogs/thesalt/2012/07/11/156378713/cool-down-with-a-hot-drink-its-not-as-crazy-as-you-think.  I'd actually had my share of hot tea in the Peace Corps, and I have to admit, it did cool me down somewhat. 

The tea was making me sweat, but in a way that felt purifying.  As I took in the corners of the tiled rooftops swooping up like bird wings, I could imagine the essence of a dragon being released from the leaves by the hot water.  I felt it move into my body like Gatorade--dragonwell.  I honestly felt healed.

The Bridge of Nine Turnings must've worked--it supposedly deflected evil spirits--because it felt very peaceful in the middle of the pond.  The air wasn't arctic, but there must've been A/C somewhere, because I was no longer sweating profusely, and the windows were closed.

Mumble, mumble.  Cough, hack!  Giggle.  The lady behind me flapped her towel for the umpteenth time at an invisible fly or spirit or whatever.

I made my decision.  My tea was finished, and the gardens closed at 5 pm.  I couldn't take The Mumbler any longer.  There are crazies no matter where you go.

Feeling recharged after my tea, I wandered through the maze-like gardens.  After picking up a packet of post cards, I paid the entrance fee (30 yuan, or about 5 bucks).  After fighting through masses of tourists and gift shops with overpriced knick-knacks (wood carvings, fans, chopsticks, "silk" clothing, jade jewelry), I was finally seeing roped-off rooms where people had done calligraphy or performed on stage, There were high-end shops with fabulous paintings by local artists.  And of course, there were the trees.

Everywhere were ecstatically healthy-looking trees:  a towering gingko, Korean boxwood, Siberian elm, lacebark pine, Japanese camellia, and Kaido crabapple.  (No, I am not a botanist:  the Latin names had been on display, and I'd had to Google them). 

After seeing so much "green gold" (trees providing shade), I was more than a little saddened to see a few scrawny banana trees clinging to life with their yellow leaves, looking like a Micronesian version of Charlie Brown's Christmas tree.  It may have felt like Micronesia today, in terms of weather, but these banana trees weren't half as lush as the ones I'd seen as a Peace Corps Volunteer on the isle of Pohnpei.

The patterns on the ground were intricate puzzles, bricks and stones shoved up by tree roots and buckling with humidity.  Some of the larger, older stones that made stairs were worn shiny and smooth by millions of touristy feet, reminding me of the Great Wall--it would not be safe to walk here after a rainstorm.

The carp in the various ponds and streams were quite fat and used to being fed.  You'd think that fact and the heat would've made them lazy, but it didn't.  Some young adult tourists were sprinkling what looked like gray-green fish flakes onto the water's surface, and a hundred carp were suddenly sitting/floating on top of one another--begging.  They begged like baby birds, open carp mouths gulping air and water and sometimes food.  There was a lot of thrashing about, and the feeders--probably college students, the girls in skirts and holding umbrellas--laughed along with me.

One of my concerns about living in a big city was noise.  For the last six years, I'd been living in quiet old Spokane, Washington; before that, I'd spent three years in New York City, and no place was ever totally quiet there.  Would there be anywhere in Shanghai I could escape to, even for a few minutes, to hear twittering birds, falling water, and God's breath sighing in the trees? 

The answer was yes, as long as I added babbling tourists to the list!  Here at Yu Gardens there was peace, even amid the racket and chaos that is Shanghai.

 

Check out more of my photos on my Facebook page!

I have an ISBN!!!!!

Yes, you read that right--I have an ISBN!  Keep your eyes peeled on Amazon for "I Was a Peace Corps Volunteer" by yours truly.  The number?  978-1477572290.

The surreal environment of Reno, NV is the setting for my reunion with my host mother after 8 years.  There is so much to hear from her--so many marriages, deaths, successes, and secrets.  I can't wait to learn more, get the distance to write, and add it all into the ending of my memoir.  Keep your eyes peeled for the announcement!

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!

Doggy Bag

One of the first stories we heard when we arrived in China was about a rich foreign couple who went out to eat in China, poodle in tow.  As their food was being prepared, they asked the wait staff if there were some scraps or other things Poodles could much on while she waited for her humans to finish dinner.  Much gesturing followed, with words flying in English and Chinese.  Finally, the maitre d’ seemed to understand.  “You want dog food?”  “Yes!”  the couple exclaimed in relief.  The wait staff happily took Poodles to the kitchen, and 30 minutes later, presented the couple with a platter of steaming meat.  “Has our dog eaten?”  the owners asked.  The wait staff exchanged glances as the couple dug in.  “You eat,” they said.  “Did you give our dog food?”  “Yes, this your dog—dog is food for you!” 

What the beach REALLY smells like

Here's something else I started today:

First, you’ve got the broken-down coral.  It’s not really sand.  It’s been finely grained, rubbed and broken and rubbed some more—over other coral, over rocks, rolled and rolled like laundry on the surface of land.  This is the strong stuff.  Ground into a powder, it’s pwet—white—otherwise known as lime.  You sprinkle it onto a beetelnut before you chew.  That’s the stuff that cuts into your mouth.  No matter how far you ground it down, it’s still sharp.  Sharp to the smell, to the taste, and it allows the drug of the beetelnut to find immediate access to your bloodstream.

It's been too long since I've blogged--9 months now.

I'm hoping to publish some of my writing, maybe even a book about my Peace Corps adventures.  Any advice would be much appreciated.

Here's an excerpt from something I've been working on about sakau (this passage is about the singing on one particular night):

Imagine a black Baptist choir doing a rousing rendition of “Go Tell It on the Mountain” on a beautiful Sunday morning.  Then change it.  Remove all of the congregation, all of the women, and most of the choir.  Make all of the men over 40, shirtless, and only partially employed.  Imagine they’d imbibed a bottle of whiskey and were in that mellow, quiet, bluesy stage of drunkenness.  Make it dark outside, with starlight, moonlight, and a single fluorescent bulb the only illuminations.  The men are sitting at a table under a guava tree.  The linoleum-covered wooden table has been chewed by termites and mold.  It is crawling with tiny sugar ants.  The men’s 88-cent flip-flops are all that’s between the dirt and their gnarled toes.  One of the men is strumming a guitar with long dirty fingernails.  A couple are chewing beetelnut; one is smoking a cigarette.  All have plastic cups of sakau in front of them.  The beauty of the notes, the soulfulness of a Baptist choir is still there… but quieter, subdued. 

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.