Tag Archives: Idaho

Guide to Chengdu Metro Etiquette

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Rural Idaho was the perfect place to grow up. Acres of fields surrounded our house, beckoning curious, chore-avoiding children to wander through them all summer long (and get in trouble when we decided to do a little science experiment and figure out how syphon tubes worked.) Canals with rickety bridges were the perfect place to hold races of leaves and sticks, dropping them in on one side and then scurrying across to see which came out the far end first. Those same canals had banks covered in milkweed, home to monarch butterfly chrysalises, and stalk after stalk of puffy pussy willows. But, with all these grand adventures just out our backdoor, one thing my Idaho upbringing did not equip me for was public transportation. Idaho, with its population of less than two million, does not do public transportation well at all. (To be perfectly honest, it hardly does it at all.)

During college, my roommate Cori, and I got quite adept at using the public bus system to schlep our weekly groceries home from Food4Less (yes, that is really the name of the store we shopped at!) and even made one freezing cold, wet December journey into Salt Lake City to spend the day at the aviary amongst angry owls and much too raptor-like emus. But, really, until my early 30s, public transportation was not really an option for daily travel.

Then, we moved to Washington DC. Within the first day of being there, our good friends John and Erin enlightening me about subway etiquette- more precisely escalator etiquette. Walk on the left, stand on the right. Pretty simple, but coming from an escalator-free town (does Caldwell even have one escalator in it?), it never crossed my mind. I was quickly grateful for the tip, as it didn’t take long to discover that our nation’s capital takes their escalator etiquette quite serious. For a year, the DC Metro was my primary source of transportation. I took it the get to training classes, to see the sites and to visit friends. While there was a lot of grumbling by DC natives about the constant track work and line shutdowns, I loved the fairly frequent trains that were clean and while often crowded, rarely over-filled.

Skip ahead a few months to our arrival in Chengdu. When we were here with Peace Corps, there was no metro system, but when we touched down a year ago, we were happily surprised to find a single line running north/south through the city center. Four months later, the second line in the city opened, connecting our apartment complex to a larger portion of the city. But, Metro riding in Chengdu bears little resemblance to that of the DC area.

This chasm is easy illustrated by the free newspaper being handed out all along both lines on Friday of last week. Since I am nearly illiterate in Chinese, I don’t have exact translations for the various guidelines, but the drawings provide a pretty clear picture.  The paper provides ten rules for all subway passengers to follow:

1) No pooping on the train. (Thad and I both agree this would have been more appropriate as #2, but the drawing that includes a wavy stink line and a fly is a nice touch, so credit goes out to the artist for his/her detail work. I haven’t seen anyone take care of business on the subway here in Chengdu, but there were reports last winter of a child doing just that in Guangzhou, which may have been the impetus for this inclusion.)

2)No spitting on the train. (People here spit. A lot. It’s always good to prohibit spitting.)

3) Let others off the train before you get on. (This is my biggest Metro pet-peeve in Chengdu. NO ONE lets the offloading people through before rushing onto the just arrived cars. It creates a horrible traffic jam and is frustrating on a daily basis.)

4) No jumping the turnstiles. (Again, I have never seen this in Chengdu, but I suppose it is a good rule to have.)

5) No smoking or eating on the trains. (Do I see people smoking on the trains? No. Do I see people eating chicken feet out of plastic bags? Yes. But, to be fair, the DC Metro also has a rule about not eating on trains, but that didn’t stop people from snacking in their seats.)

6) No sleeping on the train. (I think this is more about hogging multiple seats by sprawling across them than it is about sleeping. I see people catching little catnaps on the train all the time, which, whatever!)

7) No panhandling. (This one confused me at first. I initially thought it was prohibiting the disabled from using the trains, but then I realized the little orange man had a money tray out. I should have instantly known the picture wasn’t showing a discrimination against the disabled, as the system itself does a pretty good job of keeping them out, since most stations are only accessible via staircase at the entrance. There is almost always an “up” escalator, but rarely a “down” or an elevator.)

8) Only use the emergency button for emergencies. (Again, good rule. Not sure that is has been an issue, yet…)

9) Let the elderly/pregnant/disabled (if they can actually make it to the train) have the seats. (This is probably my favorite of the drawings. I love the seated guy’s eyes. An old man is standing directly in front of him and he pretends to not see him. Nice!)

10) Use the escalators properly. (DC Metro would be proud of this one.)

After hundreds (thousands?) of these free newspapers were handed out last Friday, I would like to say I hold out hope that a few changes will come about on the Metro system (again, mainly #3), but I may be being a bit naïve. My thought is this: the Metro system is new to Chengdu, so new to nearly everyone who rides it. Just like I had to learn a bit about subway etiquette from the fabulous Townsends, maybe the folks here just need a bit of direction. With even more new lines set to open in the coming years, I’m choosing to look at teacup as half full and have faith that Chengdu’s public transportation will only get better with age!

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R & R and a Few More R’s

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R & R.

Rest and relaxation. (It serves as a much-appreciated break from work and the daily stresses of living abroad.)

Recovery and rejuvenation. (It serves as a much-needed break for our lungs. For a few weeks while we were in Idaho, I didn’t taste the air once!)

Running errands and retail therapy. (I definitely did my share of shopping while I was home. Neon colored running shoes, a brightly colored purse, a rainbow of tops and a raspberry-colored skirt all squished in to my suitcase next to the new tri-barrel curling iron and hot curlers, to make the trip back to the Middle Kingdom.)

But, getting home from being Stateside for a few weeks requires a bit of readjustment.

Of course, there is the unavoidable jet lag. Our original journey was to be twenty-eight hours from wheels-up in Boise to touch-down in Chengdu. After a problem with the plane at LAX and a transfer to a different aircraft, we left Los Angeles over two hours late, which caused a chain of events that pushed our twenty-eight hour trip to closer to thirty-three hours. Wheels finally met tarmac in Chengdu at 2:30AM, meaning we finally fell into bed at 3:30. The good thing about that terrible arrival time was that for the first night, there was no need to fight the sleep. We dropped our suitcases at the door and were asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows. Too few hours later, my eyes popped open and I was wide-awake. Granted, 8AM is a normal time to roll out of bed on a weekend, but not when it was pushing 4AM before sleep and I were reunited.

I had great plans to battle the tiredness, trying to avoid the lingering effects of cross-hemisphere travel. Needless to say, by noon, I had given up all attempts at starting my week off on a normal schedule. I considered putting more effort into the fight, but then decided one of the great thing about being a grown-up (other than getting to eat frosting straight from the tub without getting in trouble) is I make my own bedtime. If that means the blackout curtains get drawn at noon for a four hour nap, then so be it. A comatose nap I will take! Throughout the rest of that week, I slowly pushed bedtime (and as a consequence, waking time) back later and later. A week of Chengdu under my belt and I was back to a normal sleep pattern!

It wasn’t the jet lag that was the biggest adjustment coming back though. That one is expected. It was the milk. Yes, you read that right- the milk.

While I was home, I enjoyed a lovely bowl of Marshmallow Ladies each morning. (These are the generic Lucky Charms, officially branded as Marshmallow Maties, but my four-year old niece is convinced they are Ladies, so that is what we go with.) Each morning, after filling my bowl with cereal, I turned to the fridge which always housed several gallons of fresh, 1% milk. This was milk that required refrigeration. This was milk that went bad if left on the cupboard for months (or days, or hours.) This was milk that was a perfect companion to freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

This was not China-milk.

Over our first eight months in Chengdu, I had gotten used to the taste of boxed-milk. I have a case of it delivered to my house occasionally, which sits on my cupboard. I transfer small boxes of milk to my fridge as needed. This milk is sufficient for topping a bowl of cereal, especially if I drain the excess off the side of the spoon using the edge of the bowl as a guide.  It is not a respectable substitute to accompany freshly baked brownies. Needless to say, my taste buds had quickly reverted to their love of American milk upon arrival in the US and the conversion back to boxed milk has been a little rough.

Now, with my sleep schedule back to normal (normal is relative, as I am usually curled up in bed under a pile of blankets by 9PM, giving me a good hour or two of reading time before it’s lamps-out time)  and my taste buds realigning to the flavor of never-go-bad milk, I’ve hit the ground running on a variety of projects at work.

Settling in may be done, but it isn’t slated to be long-lasting. The suitcases may be recently stowed in the closet, but they won’t be collecting much more than a light coating of dust. In just two weeks, Thad and I are flying to the Maldives for some highly-anticipated sunshine and blue skies. I’m already planning THAT readjustment period to include soothing a sunburn and cleaning sand from the nooks and crannies of our baggage.  And if that’s “readjustment,” I’ll adjust, readjust and then adjust again!

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Resting and Relaxing

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In Search of the End of the Sidewalk has been on a bit of a hiatus this last week and a half, and for the most part, will continue to be sporadic for another couple of weeks, as the sidewalk has taken me to Idaho for a bit of welcome R&R.

Rest and Relaxation time officially started last Sunday (China-time), and yet it didn’t really kick in until we touched down on the runway at BOI, sixteen hours later than we had planned. Again, it appears that United Airlines and I will forever be frenemies. (If you follow this blog much, you’ll remember that I’ve had my gripes with United several times over the last few years, but due to the Fly America regulations, I will be a regular customer of theirs, just a very frustrated, slightly unwilling, one.)

This last week has been filled with an array of activity. I’ve been to the Boise Towne Square mall twice in seven days; I don’t think I had been to that mall twice in the previous seven years. But, when every store has something in your size, it is hard to resist the call of consumerism. (My total purchases at said mall amount to less than $50, but I know there is at least one more trip to it scheduled for this next week, so I may still be able to do more of my part to help boost the Idaho economy while I am home.) I’ve been to a hockey game, camped out in the third row for an action filled match against the worst-ranked team in the league; seven goals for the Steelheads was an admirable showing and allowed for multiple rounds of “Hey goalie, you suck!” chants while I clutched my hot chocolate and people-watched to my heart’s content. I’ve been to my favorite blogger dentist (http://erraticprojectjunkie.blogspot.com/) to make sure all is on-track with my Chinese Invisalign and get my teeth squeaky clean; I’ll see her one more time on this trip, as it appears a small filling is in my future. I’d like to say I am surprised. I cannot.

When I haven’t been out running around, sucking in massive amounts of fresh air and marveling and the continuously blue sky, I’ve used my time wisely. Sometimes you can find me curled up under a blanket on top of a central heat air vent, book in-hand. (Oh, how I miss floor vents!) Other times you’ll find me curled up next to the fireplace, book in-hand. It’s possible, although less probable, that I may also be found spread out on the couch, book in-hand. (I’m a sucker for direct heat sources- heat vents, fireplaces, electric blankets…)

Rest? Relaxation? Working on it! So, please excuse my sporadic posts for the next couple of weeks. I’m spending the start of the new year re-exploring the well-worn sidewalks of home.

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I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had by Tony Danza

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I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had by Tony Danza

Schools and teachers are a hot topic in Idaho right now, as the November ballot includes Propositions 1, 2, and 3, which deal with a variety of education related issues. As a registered Idaho voter, former teacher (although hopefully I’ll be back in the game at Thad’s next posting) and concerned constituent, I’ve been watching the battle between the sides rage this entire fall. (You would think being in China would put me out of that loop a bit, but at least the Pro-Props 1,2 and 3 side seem to have found me. In the last three weeks, I’ve gotten nine of the exact same flyer from their group. Nine! The same flyer! My goodness. Whether I agree with the position or not, sending me nine of the exact same piece of literature is going to do little to change my mind folks.)  With schools being on the forefront in many states this season,  I thought it would only be appropriate that I jump back on the book review bandwagon with an education-related review. (It has been a while since I’ve added to my Book Musings category, not because I haven’t been reading, but it has just fallen to the wayside between the move to the other side of the world, a new job, and finding my place in a new community. But, I hereby declare that book reviews, shell-rated and all, are back!)

Tony Danza is not someone I would expect to turn to for insightful thoughts on education reform and the realities of classroom life for teachers, and yet, like with so many things in life, I was pleasantly surprised. In his new book, I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had, he takes on the role of a teacher in a tough, urban school in downtown Philadelphia. After being fired from his latest Hollywood role, that of a daytime talk show host, he was looking for a way to give back to his community and seriously considered the Teach for America program. But, I think the limelight is just bred in to some, and he found a way to mesh his California-career with his Philadelphia upbringing, in the form of a documentary that is filmed over the course of a year teaching high school English.

Skeptical yet? I was at this point! I imagined him going in for a few weeks, doing bit parts and then moving on to the production and selling of his latest film-creation. But, while I do take issue with parts of the gig, after reading the book, I can see how genuinely dedicated he was to his role as a teacher and how touched he was by his students. (He taught a single English class, granted, it was a double period, for a year. He also did some other duties around the school, but the strain that shows from his single class of students needs to be multiplied, as teachers don’t get to plan for, teach and review work for a single class a day.)

Danza faces the realities of many teachers in America today. He must find a way to get his students to embrace great literature when they prefer the crass rhymes of less-than-stellar role models they hear on the radio. He must teach his high school students to communicate effectively, through written and spoken word, when they constantly revert to the LOLs and OMGs of modern-text-talk. On top of this, he learns that teaching a subject area is only half of the battle educators face each day. He soon sees that his kids are lacking in positive role models at home, that they are coming to school hungry and tired and that they don’t dare dream, as they’ve seen too many dreams crash to the ground and die.

I am probably partial to Danza’s newest work because he spends his year in an English classroom, something I am missing right now. But, his book is full of touching moments, but also very real, tough moments. I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had should be on the top of Christmas lists for all the teachers in your life (they will understand and appreciate his perspective),  as well as all of those folks who think a few laptops and online classes are the solution to crowded classrooms and not hiring enough trained, certified and experienced teachers.  I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had  by Tony Danza earns a solid:

Forty-Nine Shades of Gray (and Two Green Turtles)

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It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s…a clear Chengdu sky?

If I can see the birds, and especially the planes, something is just not right in the capital of Sichuan. Most days consist of a gray-tinged sky, where a bit of sunlight pokes through, though never enough to make those ethereal shafts of light that make one think the Heavens are spotlighting their favorite terra-firma creations. It just doesn’t happen here.

So, when I woke up Sunday morning I thought I must still be dreaming. I usually don’t bother to pull the heavy curtains on our floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows since the sunrise isn’t a painful shock each morning, as the sky just takes on a lighter shade of gray as morning progresses. (It isn’t on my “too-read” list, as I really have no interest, but now I am starting to wonder if the chart-topping Fifty Shades of Gray isn’t written about Chengdu. It would be the perfect name for a novel set in our lovely, if rather polluted, city. After Sunday though, I’d have to re-title it Forty-Nine Shades of Gray.)

As I rolled out of bed (in a truly graceful manner, my normal morning bed-dismount usually entails a barrel roll and a bit of grumbling) I realized that I could see the sun- the actual yellow glowing globe in the sky. It wasn’t just a haze covered, distant light, but a heat-emitting, bright and soul-warming sun. This unprecedented event called for a change to my normal weekend morning routine. Rather than sitting on my living room floor, at the coffee table, with an ever-coveted bowl of cereal covered in no more than a necessary amount of shelf milk and the world at my fingertips via WordPress and Facebook, I left the laptop closed and pulled a chair on to the balcony. (I’d love to say my porch chairs were out there, to sit in on a regular basis, but after fifteen weeks at post, we have yet to receive our HHE, which is State Department-ese for “all our junk.” I’ve been told this shipment is somewhere between Shanghai and Chengdu, but that is a heck of a lot of potential area in which the crates may be on the move. Maybe next week?)

Not wanting to let such an unprecedented day go to waste, Thad and I decided to visit the People’s Park in town. Most Chinese towns of a decent size have a People’s Park, and parks here have a whole different flavor than in the US. Chinese parks are not giant expanses of soft grass where college kids meet to play Frisbee golf on the weekends or soon-to-be-married couples go to get engagement pictures taken or where young families spend an inexpensive afternoon with a cooler filled with sandwiches and soda and where their kids learn the finer points of mid-air swing dismounts. Rather, Chinese parks are places to stroll on paths, rest and drink tea at the ubiquitous tea houses, munch on snacks peddled by vendors and take kids for a spin or two on carnival rides.

It may not have been the Katherine Albertson Park in Boise or Caldwell Memorial Park, but Chengdu’s People’s Park made for an entertaining afternoon adventure.

We started by wandering around the man-made lake that is the center of the public space. There were both rowboats and motorized boats available for rent (Why would one choose to row?), but Thad gently steered us away from those lines. (I actually went and looked at prices and eyed the not-so-long lines, which I know he was aware of, and yet there was no question about cost or wait time. It was as if he didn’t care because there was no way he was getting in a boat, even if it were free and immediate. Maybe next time…)

While the main part of the park was pretty packed with people also enjoying the clear skies and break from the heat of summer, there were several off-shoot areas that were less crowded. One was filled with orchid plants (not in bloom, but still a relaxing area) and another had large terrarium-type pots.

These areas were nice to walk through and a good break from the crowds of the city, but the real fun started when I spotted a sign that said “Children’s Paradise.”  Who could pass up a shot at Paradise? (It may not be the legendary land that John Milton imagined in the 17th century, but I am sure that just like his winding tale of Man’s fall from grace, “epic” would be an apt descriptor.) As we made our way back around the lake and through the gauntlet of competing karaoke machines (no less than a dozen within fifty yards of each other, each turned up to full volume with singers belting out their favorite dissonant Chinese folksongs), I knew we were on the right path now.

Children’s Paradise might be more appropriately named Rusty’s Paradise, as the array of carnival rides had more iron oxide than paint on them, but who lets a little thing like lockjaw hold them back from an afternoon of spinning and whirling? Not this Foreign Service family with recently updated tetanus shots!

Because two tall blondes don’t stand out enough in the middle of the Middle Kingdom, we decided to take a spin on this strange ride that followed a track about eight feet off the ground. Each cart had a steering wheel that let the riders turn the cart 360 degrees, it had a power switch that let the riders come to a complete stop at any time, and my favorite amenity, a button to change the “radio station.” (From the ground, this didn’t look too high, but as someone with an ever-growing fear of heights, I would like to mention that eight feet is a lot higher when you are eight feet off the ground than it is when you are looking up at it. Thad, ever the helpful one, reassured me that if we fell, we would only break some bones, not die. Thank you for that.)

This little cart excursion was followed by one of my all-time favorite amusement park rides- the Tilt-o-Whirl! I may be terrified of heights and embarrass myself my crab-crawling across the glass floor of the Macau Tower, 1,000 feet in the air,  but I can spin in circles all day long. Dizzy rides are the best rides! People’s Park’s Tilt-o-Whirl, like everything else, was rusty, and the seatbelts didn’t work, but we figured centrifugal force would keep us from flying onto some sharp, rusty chunk of metal. With no worries, we paid our ten yuan each and boarded the ride, as the only riders, tilting and whirling to our hearts’ content.

Feeling pleased with our Children’s Paradise stint, we wandered through the rest of the park, watching several different dance groups and strolling through the aisles of toys and souvenirs for sale. At one such kiosk, movement caught my attention and I turned, only to see a metal stand on which hung a bunch of tiny plastic bottles, each one containing a single baby turtle. What?!?  Those are living creatures put in itty-bitty jars with just a bit of water and no food.

Michelle to the rescue!

I took it upon myself to “save” two of these tiny creatures. After examining my choices and picking the two that still looked the most robust, Thad paid for my purchases and some turtle food and we decided it was time to head home. My new buddies, Gong Bao and Ji Ding (their names are Chinese for kung pao chicken, literally meaning Palace Style and Chicken Cutlet) needed a new tub filled with fresh water and a roadside brick on which to bask. I’m going to give these miniscule reptilian family members a palatial home that lives up to ol’ Gong Bao’s moniker. (Now, if only these little guys last longer than my goldfish did. I had to convince my niece, who met my goldfish via Facetime, that she couldn’t see them again because they are out playing with their fish friends.)

While I miss the acres upon acres of grass, just waiting for me to throw a blanket on it and lounge away an afternoon with a book, my Idaho park excursions never entailed a discussion of our chances of getting tetanus or how to care for tiny turtles. Chalk this one up for the Chinese.

(No people or animals were harmed in the adventures of this entry.)

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You’ve Got Mail

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It all started with the Pony Express…

Okay, my ex-history-teacher of a husband (to clarify: “ex” being a modifier of history teacher and not husband) might take issue with that statement, as I am sure there was some type of postal delivery system long before North America was overrun with newbies, but the Pony Express is just so much more fun than whatever marathon-running postmen had to schlep mail across the hinterlands, rain or snow, sunshine or storm.

Regardless of where it started, we’ve got mail.

USPS has played varying roles in my life. I don’t remember getting much in the mail as a kid, other than maybe a yearly birthday card with a $10 bill stashed inside, from my grandma in Utah. I know I tried the pen pal thing a couple of times, but I don’t think we ever got passed the “What is your favorite color” and “Do you have any pets?” stage of correspondence before one or the other, or maybe both, gave up and moved on to chatting with friends we could see and whose names we could actually pronounce.

Mail was pretty much a non-entity in my life until I moved to college. Then, for the first time, it took on a vital role in my daily life. I lived in an on-campus apartment with five other girls (that’s right- six girls in one apartment. Who ever thought that was a good idea must have been smoking something that was definitely not allowed within the terms of the Honor Code!) and one mail key, which hung on a nail by the backdoor, awaiting its daily trek to the metal box outside the building’s entrance. Each day, the box was checked religiously by whichever roommate was home when the afternoon mail drop happened. (Okay, any roommate except for Emily, who was terrorized by a Nordic witch figurine that sat atop our stove, which she swore looked like something out of a horror movie she had seen. With this knowledge in hand, that little doll ended up anywhere Emily might look, including, but not limited to, the mailbox, her section of the medicine cabinet, her drawer of the fridge or her nightstand. (Remember, this was an apartment with six girls. *Everything* was divided up, from kitchen cabinets to shower shelf space to phone availability.) I remember getting a couple of care packages while a freshman, the first one including brownies, wrapped in tin foil, from my little brother who was a freshman in high school at the time. Who knew the kid could bake?

Then I moved to the Dominican Republic to do a semester abroad. (Tough gig, eh? We had classes four days a week and then a three-day weekend to hit the beach…I mean, study. Needless to say, this pasty-white girl from Idaho came home with the closest thing she’d ever had to a tan. Maybe I need to get Thad to bid on a Caribbean post for our next tour. It would take four months to get a working start on some color, but after two years, I might actually have a decent melatonin level!) There, mail was a different beast. Not only did it take weeks to come, but when it did come, the school often held it for a week or two before letting us know we had a letter. Care packages were expensive to send and it was probable that, if they did arrive, would arrive a little lighter than when they were shipped. Let’s just say Dominican customs inspectors always had the best housewarming and birthday gifts for any event to which they were invited.  But, while packages may have been hard to come by, I did get loads and loads of letters, all of which are still stashed away in shoe boxes, sitting in a long-term storage in Fredericksburg, Virginia, until further notice. (I hate to date myself here, but my Dominican days corresponded with the budding days of the internet. I had an email address, through Juno, but rarely used it and connections, even at the university, were nearly impossible to find. Hand-written letters were still the status quo.)

After coming home from the DR and getting married, mail suddenly took on the role of being the bearer of bills and ads. In the years pre and post- Peace Corps, I was doing well if I checked my mailbox a couple of times a week. I was just in no hurry for that college tuition statement, water bill or JC Penny’s flyer.

But then, the mail once again became key when we moved to China with the Peace Corps. Yes, we had a decent internet connection and I was in touch with family and friends via email on a regular basis, but the actual mail meant not only gifts at birthday and Christmas, but it created our on-campus English language library. With Middle Kingdom resources being scarce, nearly all 1000 of our English books and magazines came from the States, shipped by our friends and family and those of our colleagues. The Book Nook, a mini-institution in the backwaters of Gansu, would not have been possible without the USPS.

(Don’t get me started on the Chinese end of these transactions. It is an understatement to say the mail women in Chengxian hated me. Every time I got the tissue-like slip of paper saying I had a box at the local post office, I would skitter down there as soon as I had a break in my class schedule, excited for a new box of books to add to our growing collection. And every time, once I was there, I would have to go the rounds to get my box. Sometimes the women couldn’t find the package, even though I had the slip in hand. Sometimes they were taking their afternoon rest, so I was told to come back, even though technically the post office was open. Sometimes I had to get an official red stamp from some random person at the school to verify it was for me. Sometimes I had to show my Chinese ID card. And sometimes, the woman just didn’t feel like helping me and would shoo me away to come back and try another time. The only great thing about our local post office was they had glasses on a string. That’s right! Banks in America have pens on strings, but in China, our post office had these awesome, giant glasses on a string, I guess so if you needed reading lenses, you would have them available to properly complete your paperwork.)

Now that we are back in China for round two of the Zhongguo lifestyle, mail again plays a central role in our lives. Mail days are Tuesdays and Fridays, which are the afternoons when I eagerly await the email from our mail room saying “There is a little mail today.” With this pronouncement, there is a bit of a mass exodus out to the mail room for officers and families alike to collect their goods. Boxes are piled on the floor, magazines and letters are stashed in surname labeled bins and the mail room worker knows us all by name.

This last week as a particularly successful mail week for the Ross household. We received our bargained for package from the Hello Kitty queen. (Click here to read about the tough fought negotiations with a four-year old that ended up with me sending two rather large boxes of goods to her in exchange for some random items fished out of her toy box. I think I need to work on my business acumen.) This large padded envelope included the owed Hello Kitty-riding-a-dolphin picture, the Hello Kitty pencil left over from Valentine’s Day, and the McDonald’s Happy Meal giraffe. Plus, it had bonus items such as piñata  candy that may or may not have been stashed in my nephew’s shorts (whatever, I’m eating those Smarties!), a couple of friendship bracelets and a beaded necklace. Not too bad of a haul from Idaho.

And then today I got a long-coveted package- one that I’ve been talking about ordering since draft day. (Click here for my day-after-draft post.)  My Shea McClellin Chicago Bears (#99) jersey arrived in the Friday mail pile! Granted, the “small” jersey is nearly big enough for me to belt and wear as a dress, but I’ll be rocking that thing all over China in the next few months. (Stay tuned for those pictures!) While I am normally a Ravens fan, as they are the only American professional sports team to be named after a literary work, I’ve had to shift some loyalty to the Bears to support Shea, one of my former 8th grade English students from Marsing, Idaho. I will be proudly sporting that massive navy blue jersey this season, putting in a good word for him all around our Land of Pandas and doing more than a fair bit of bragging about a small-town kid working his tail off to achieve his NFL dreams. (Of course, I can’t take any credit for his football skills, but I would like to hope that he always uses “their/there/they’re” and “your/you’re” correctly!)

The internet may have created a quicker and simpler way than horse-back delivery to keep in touch with friends and family, but nothing will replace the kid-on-Christmas-morning feeling of cutting in to a box that has come half-way around the world. Whether said package is filled with Hostess chocolate pudding pies (Dad??) or a gift that always ends up back where it came from (Matt??), little is better than seeing a box on the floor of the mail room with ROSS written in big letters along its side.

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Negotiating the Fate of Hello Kitty

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The Foreign Service lifestyle offers an array of benefits: my housing is paid for (and if I could just sell that lovely Victorian home that sits on a water fountain bearing cul-de-sac in south Nampa, I’d be debt-free), I get to travel to Bangkok in October for training (and I thought it was awesome when Marsing sent me to Baltimore for teacher training), and I can afford a housekeeper to come in twice  a week to make quick work of the floors, bathrooms and kitchen (personally, it is not having to do dishes that makes me the most happy; for Thad, I think it is not having to clean toilets.)

These fabulous perks all do come at a cost though- the separation from friends and family. A trip from the home we own in Nampa, Idaho (again, it is lovely and for sale!) to Chengdu would look something like this:

*30 minute- drive to Boise Airport

* 4 hours- Boise Airport to San Francisco Airport (as direct flights are nearly impossible, plan to be routed through Seattle or Salt Lake or Denver)

*14 hours- San Francisco Airport to Beijing Airport

*3 hours- Beijing Airport to Chengdu Airport

So, not factoring in layovers, to get from our home in America to our home in China, we are looking at a minimum of 21 ½ hours.

Luckily, the wonderful World Wide Web has made the globe just a tad smaller. In mere seconds, I can connect via Skype with my parents and friends, through Facetime with my brother and on Facebook with my sister and former students. This easy (and fairly reliable) connection to home makes communication much more comfortable, as we can talk whenever we feel like it or can match up schedules, giving it an ease that the rare long-distance call of not-so-long ago didn’t have. (I remember when my brother was serving his mission in Argentina and we got to talk to him on the phone twice a year- Christmas and Mother’s Day. Because the occasions were so rare and the time so limited, it was almost as if there was a checklist of what we wanted to tell him about from home and questions we had about his home. The calls were imbued with a certain amount of pressure to “get it all in,” because once the receiver was back on the cradle, there wouldn’t be another conversation for months to come. That stress has disappeared, knowing that I can talk to my mom for twenty minutes today, but when she forgets to tell me the story about the squirrel scrapping his road kill buddy squirrel off the road outside Idaho City, she can call back tomorrow and give me the gory, and yet hilarious, play-by-play of that lovely sight.)

One great part of this easy access to family and friends is the ability we have to keep in touch with our ever-growing number of nieces and nephews. With eleven in total (but with no guarantees it is a final number), there is always someone with a birthday or a dance recital or a new school year staring. It has been nice to be able to be a vicarious part of those events through laptops and iPads.

There is one niece in particular with whom I have been having an on-going discussion. Keira is the youngest of my older sister’s three kids. She turned four this last spring and has what is bordering on a clinical obsession with Hello Kitty. (The fascination goes to the point of there being a bit of a blurred line between her own existence and that of the furry white cat. I think she may, at times, think she actually *is* a bow-wearing, mouth-less cartoon creation.)

Now, keep in mind, I live in the land of Hello Kitty. (Okay, Japan probably out-kitties us, but we are a close #2, with Hello Kitty adorning everything from entirely pink and white cars to cakes in the bakery and clothes on grown women.) Because we live in the Shangri-la of a four-year old with a personality more dramatic than that of a Hollywood soap opera star,  Thad and I have decided to use this opportunity to create a little ruckus on the other side of the world.

This all started with a box of Hello Kitty cookies that Thad found at the little grocery store outside our back gate. We came home and took pictures of us noshing on these lovely little strawberry icing filled treats and emailed them to Keira’s mother in hopes of stirring the pot a bit.

Boy, did we stir!

Apparently, the photographs were greeted with great exasperation, some full-body couch collapsing and a bit of anger that we would dare eat Hello Kitty.

Of course, I couldn’t let such a budding star wither, so a few days later, I found a rather large Hello Kitty shaped marshmallow, stuck on a stick, much like a lollipop would be. This small purchase again came home for photographs of its demise to be taken and sent through cyberspace to Keira.  Again, these pictures met with extreme levels of consternation and anger.

But, at this point, with her little four-year old brain reeling, Keira came up with a plan. She may not be able to physically stop the torture of her favorite fictional character, but she could undertake negotiations for the cruelty to come to an end.

Knowing that I lived in a Hello Kitty laden world, dictating to her mother, we embarked upon a serious business negotiation as to how she could get some of the pink and white swag swiftly out of China and safely into her home. Facebook’s chat box facilitated this every-so-serious deal as we went through what she was offering and what she could get in return.

While the haggling had to be paused several times as she scurried off to her room to dig through her toy chest in search of possible offerings, in the end we had a deal. I am currently awaiting a package from Idaho that must include a Keira-colored picture of Hello Kitty riding a dolphin (this was a sticking point, as she was initially unsure of her blue crayon status), a Madagascar movie giraffe toy from her McDonald’s Happy Meal, and a half-used Hello Kitty pencil she got as a Valentine’s Day gift. In return, I would put together a Hello Kitty care package of treats from my end of the world.

These negotiations took place about two weeks ago, but between work and visitors, today was the first chance I had to actually go out and do the shopping to uphold my end of the bargain. (You may be asking yourself, how today, a Wednesday, did I have time to go wander the streets, looking for the fluff-filled shops that would be necessary to meet my obligations? The answer is: fire. The consulate here in Chengdu had a small fire in the basement last night. There were no injuries, but we were all given the day off as smoke was cleared out of the building and clean-up was completed. It was like having a snow-day in August!)

I have been told that Keira’s side of the deal was posted late last week and is en route, so it is time to get mine on the way as well.

Not working today ended up costing me a lot of money, as I found a variety of cool things I wanted to send home to the young, dramatic one. (Of course, it would be the horror of horrors if I sent a package to her without including goodies for her two older siblings, so the shopping had to branch beyond Hello Kitty and in to things that her brother and sister would also like.) For the most part, I got the Kitty swag at a local department store, but my downfall came when we went to a book store. I was having a hard time coming up with gift ideas for Kelsey, a newly minted middle schooler. Everything I found just seemed to “cutesy” for someone wanting to be a little older and tougher. Thad suggested Chinese school supplies, which is perfect! What 6th grader wouldn’t want to sport a notebook covered in Chinglish verse? Awesome!

Today’s big lesson: I have no self-control in bookstores, regardless of whether or not I am literate in the language of their goods. I went in to the store planning to get a couple of notebooks and maybe a pencil case. I came out with a bag filled with ten books, a whole pile of notebooks and a few pencil cases to boot. And that haul is what I ended up with after forcing myself to walk away from the piles of beautiful picture books, translated American classics and brightly colored board books for babies. I could easily have spent twice as much money, but at one point Thad gently pointed out that it was hot on the second floor and maybe it was time to make an exit and get some fresh air. (This was a subtle hint to step away from the books!)

After checking out with what had to be the world’s angriest cashier, (seriously, she dumped my basket upside down and then proceeded to scan and chuck each item in Thad’s general direction!) I schlepped my Harris Teeter canvas bag, filled with Hello Kitty paraphernalia and Middle Kingdom school supplies, back, block after block, to our apartment. Thad offered to carry it for me several times, but the straps digging in to my shoulder served as penance for the damage I did to our bank account. (It couldn’t be helped! There were awesome books in that store that *needed* to have new homes with our family in the States.)

So, to make a long story short, because Thad and I decided to harass a four-year old over her current cartoon fascination, I now have a box of Chinese goodies ready to mail to Idaho tomorrow and I can’t wait for my shrewdly negotiated care package to arrive in its place.

She might be fruffy and fluffy and dress like a ballerina that got mugged by a clown, but Keira has a bright future ahead of herself in the business world. It’s kitty-eat-kitty out there, but she can hold her own!

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Row, Row, Rowing Along in Chengdu

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We’ve chosen an unconventional lifestyle. As a part of the Foreign Service, we will move roughly every two years for the rest of Thad’s career. This tour happens to be in the middle of China, but the next one might be Brazil or Sweden or Cambodia. We just never know where we will land next. This means there will be no white picket fence or BBQs with the same neighbors each summer for years on end. (Okay, there currently is a white picket fence in Nampa, Idaho, which I am trying to sell in a terrible market. If you know anyone interested in a beautiful Victorian-style house with a wrap-around porch and gazebo at a super price, let me know!)

I’m okay with unconventional.

Yet another marker of ways we tend to color outside the lines was visible last week on our anniversary. While many people would celebrate with gifts of jewelry and flowers (which we have done in the past, and I will always be happy with bright, shiny things that come in small velvet boxes), this year the commemoration went in a slightly different direction.

For dinner, we have a few options in town. There are some Italian restaurants (I’m sure it is Italian with a Chinese twist), a steak-house or two and some very fancy Chinese places. We could have gone to any one of those establishment and enjoyed a lovely meal to mark the passage of time together, but instead, we thought we’d shake things up a bit, break out of the prescribed “anniversary” box.

We went to Hooters.

Yup, Hooters.

The fact that Chengdu has a Hooters is one that I still can’t really wrap my head around. I have no idea why they came here or how great business is for them, but this fine restaurant is just a couple of blocks from the consulate and we pass it on a daily basis, so we figured it was time to give the place a shot.

Hooters is not good.

I’ve not been to this feathery-friend themed restaurant in the US, so I can only speak for its appeal abroad, but I don’t need an owl’s wisdom to come to the conclusion we will not be going back. My dislike of the place has nothing to do with what I can only imagine are a typical wife’s list of complaints, like the boobs and butts and wings. I’m fine with all of that.

I wasn’t looking for class or refinement when the idea of Hooters for dinner was tossed around. I was looking for some decent Western food in a place that had an American-feel to it. I got neither. The chicken carbonara seemed like a good choice off the menu that evening, so I went that route, while Thad had the enchilada. With our orders in, we waited and chatted while listening to N*Sync, the Backstreet Boys, Katy Perry, Britany Spears and Christina Aguilera. (Okay, I was totally on board with the music part. Seriously. I am a sucker for pop music, so while we waited, I tapped my foot, bobbed my head and sang along quietly. I’ve got terrible taste in music, but I’ve come to terms with it, so you’ll have to as well.)

After waiting an inordinate amount of time for dinner to arrive, my chicken pasta was eventually presented. (I would crack a joke about having to go kill the chicken, but this is China and I may be circling closer to the truth than I want to admit on that one!) It came with two plates and forks, as even at Hooters, everything is served “family-style.” I waited a few minutes for Thad’s meal to arrive, but when it was still MIA as mine was quickly cooling, I dug in. It was…meh. It was…okay. It was…nothing to write home about. (Apparently, it was something to write a blog about though.) I believe there were all of two pieces of chicken and the pasta was definitely not western-style pasta and I was thrown by the inclusion of carrots in the dish, but overall, it was edible. It was not the great dish of creamy pasta I had been hoping for, but it was tolerable.

Eventually, after I had finished probably half of my meal, Thad’s enchilada arrived, cut into pieces, to be served to a group, rather than one person. It was as if his mom had cut his dinner into bite-sized bits for him. I think his enchilada was more disappointing than my pasta, as the meat was sweet and most of the ingredients off just a bit. The high point of the enchilada was probably the sour cream. When sour cream becomes the high point of any meal, it is time to stop and reevaluate the menu.

So, the food wasn’t great, but the quirkiness of the evening didn’t end there. While we were *enjoying* our meal, one of the customers at a nearby table was apparently celebrating his birthday that evening. In a rush of orange hot-pants, tight t-shirts and a whole lot of clapping, an entire parliament of waitresses arrived to sing for him. The traditional “Happy Birthday” was out, as it is in many restaurants due to royalty issues, but most places come up with their own little ditty to replace the song whose singing officially means you are a year older. Not the Hooters’ waitresses though. They busted (yes, I went with “busted” as my verb of choice) out into a lively rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

That’s right! I was lucky to be sitting with my back to the birthday boy, so I didn’t have to exert nearly the same self-control as Thad did, who was looking right at the nursery rhyme debacle. I giggled to my heart’s content while he watched in fascination as a song generally reserved for being sung in rounds on long car trips to the general annoyance of all adults present became the go-to song for an international restaurant business specializing in all things owl. (It is all about the owl there, right?)

Dinner was done and the bill so paid, so when the bejeweled top hats came out and the waitresses began a country line dance to a 50’s jazz song, we figured it was time to call it a night.

Conventional wasn’t what we were looking for as we celebrated our anniversary in Chengdu and conventional is definitely not what we got. As I look down the road to the various holidays and birthdays that we will be celebrating here in the land of pandas over the next two years, I think I can safely say none of them will include a rousing rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”

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Go Forth and Celebrated the Fourth!

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What is a better way to celebrate the birth of a new nation than by going out in to the woods in central Idaho, freezing a wild porcupine with bright light, loading him up and hauling him back to town where he will compete in what may be the world’s only annual porcupine race? I can’t imagine there is one!

The tradition of porcupine races in Council, Idaho is decades old, and has been a part of my family’s annual celebration since I was the same height as the spiky competitors themselves. Before each contender is hauled out to the racing ground though, he is put in a cage, strapped to the back of a four-wheeler and driven through town as part of Council’s 4th of July parade. Once all have had a gander at the challengers, each animal is auctioned off, with the winning “owner” getting a cut of that day’s prize purse. Run Mr. Porcupine, run!

Of course, each year there is a jailbreak during the race, where at least one, if not many, of the pokey little guys scurries under the plastic sheeting meant to be the course perimeter. It is at this point that small children are quickly hoisted on to the backs of their fathers, mothers let out squeals of terror and the entire crowd takes off as if a grenade landed in the vicinity of their viewing area.  It just wouldn’t be a porcupine race without a few quills dangling painfully from the calf of an unprepared spectator sporting shorts rather than the necessary long-pants required of such a potentially painful event.

On top of the trek to Council to see the races, my childhood Independence Days were rounded out with evenings spent  lounging on a blanket spread across a patch of lawn in front of the College of Idaho’s library, munching on Idaho Spuds (a wonderful concoction of puffed marshmallow swathed in a thin layer of chocolate covered in coconut flakes) and where we had a perfect view of the small-town fireworks provided by the city of Caldwell.

This  year, there were no porcupine races on my agenda, no Idaho Spuds making a mess of coconut down my shirt, and no red, white and blue fireworks to commemorate the birth of a new nation.

That isn’t to say the day wasn’t celebrated though.

I attended not one, not two, but three separate 4th of July events over the course of the previous week. The US Consulate in Chengdu hosted two events- one last week in Chongqing and one this week here in the city. Both were official parties, thrown to celebrate with our host-country dignitaries and contacts. Official event really means “working event.” The evenings are definitely networking opportunities, where both the Chinese and Americans come with their stacks of name cards, making connections with new people, passing out contact information and building relationships. This is all great, expect for the fact than I neither have name cards, nor, as CLO, am I a contact that people are looking to make. What this means is that as soon as someone I was chatting with realized I had no real power/information, our conversations quickly came to a halt and they moved on to bigger fish, leaving me to swim alone like an awkward little minnow.

The third, and final, Independence Day event was the community one, planned and hosted by this brand new CLO.  As my first official party as the planner, I decided to go informal and low-key. By this point in the list of parties, people were not looking for anything too rehearsed or regimented. I heard that sidewalk chalk (or at least colored chalk) was available at the local IKEA, so I made a trip out there last week, which could be a whole blog post of its own, as I saw not only several people sleeping on the beds and one guy actually preparing a small lunch in one of the sample kitchens, but also a photo shoot in one of the living room display areas! I ordered seventeen pizzas from Mike’s and put a whole lot of soda in the fridge.  With several spouses offering to provide desserts, we were ready to enjoy an afternoon of hazy skies at the pool. (Haze is constant here. Sunshine is a rarity. Chengdu has to be a solar panel’s worst nightmare!)

The day before the party, I checked The Weather Channel’s website, just to make sure I was set for the party. When the site listed Wednesday as having 100% chance of rain, I knew a change of venue was imperative. 100% leaves no wiggle room. It will rain. It will be muddy. There will be no swimming.  I sent out a quick email moving the party indoors and made sure I had a giant roll of butcher paper to take the place of sidewalk for the kids.

After going in early to put beer and soda on ice and bedeck the reception room in glorious red, white and blue, I was set for a rainy day party. But what did I get?

Sunshine!

(Now is not the time to get me started on my feelings about weather forecasters. Yet again, I’ve been misled and mistreated by these “professionals” who peer into their crystal balls of meteorology and divine the future of local cloud cover and precipitation. I put no more faith in them than I do the woman at the county fair whose tent is bedazzled with fake gems and who will read your palm for the low, low price of just $5.)

That’s right. In a city that hasn’t seen actual rays of sun in well over two weeks, my 100% chance of rain day turned into the nicest day we’ve seen in a fortnight. The sun was out, a slightly blue sky was visible and the sidewalks were begging for amateur artwork. Needless to say, the party quickly moved outdoors where pavement was splattered with pink flowers and blue clouds and green trees and the pool was filled with everyone from toddlers to Marines.

So, my 4th of July might have been missing mid-sized spikey mammals competing to waddle across the finish line on a high school football field, but it was filled with new friends, passable pizza and most importantly, some rare buy glorious sunshine! (Rumor has it those delightful little treats known as Idaho Spuds are in a care package somewhere between Idaho and Sichuan as I type.  It’s never too late for marshmallow-y goodness.)

Making a Small Town Proud

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As I sat on my couch last night, tuned in to my first (and probably last) NFL draft, I couldn’t help but wax nostalgic about my years in Marsing. I started teaching there in 2000, just out of college, twenty-one years old and greener than Al Gore. I will forever be grateful to that interview committee that thought giving me a shot at a classroom of my own was a risk worth taking. I’m not sure I would look at someone barely legal to drink and think, “Heck yes, let’s put her in charge of thirty fourteen year olds at a time, several times a day!” But, they did, and I had a great run in that small town middle school. (And I’m forever grateful that those 8th graders didn’t realize just how easy total anarchy would have been!)

I have a rather indifferent relationship with football. I play Fantasy Football with friends from Idaho, but usually am bored with the whole thing, managing my guys as loosely as possible, by halfway through the season. My initial picks center around players with awesome names and those that play for teams with the best uniforms- meaning there has never been, nor will there ever be, a Brown on my team, Playing in Stilettos.  (Although, earlier this week, I did call eternal dibs on the defense of whichever team picked Shea up during the draft. If it had been the Browns, we’d now be facing the crisis of the century.) Watching Shea get drafted #19 on Thursday was awesome! There were high fives and cheers throughout the mo-partment.  (Having been his English teacher, I would have preferred he went to the Ravens, as then I could claim a bit of Poe-influence in his football career, but I doubt he was pondering the brilliancy of “The Raven” or “The Cask of Amontillado” as he sat, waiting for that fateful call.) Shea is a great kid, humble and loyal and a hard-worker. He deserves the attention he is getting and the rewards that are coming for his years of dedication as a student and an athlete. I will proudly wear my McClellin jersey (as soon as it comes out and can be delivered to China!) in Chengdu on game days and root him on for the length of his career.

But, with Shea’s success and the sudden spotlight that has focused on our rural Idaho town, I can’t help but think of all the other great students who came out of Marsing High School over the decade that I worked in the district. There are so many students that I am proud of, whose accomplishments aren’t being splashed on the front page of newspapers or on primetime ESPN, but that are fabulous and achieving great things on their own. These awesome kids aren’t making headlines in Chicago, but they are making their families and teachers proud.

There is Jose, a young man I had in my English class for three years straight. (I had one class that I taught the year I muddled my way, painfully, through sixth graders, and then I moved with them to both seventh and eighth grade. I was their sole middle school English teacher- for better or for worse!) Jose went from a middle schooler who relied solely on his charismatic personality to get ahead in life to a fabulous young man who has worked hard to reach his dreams. (Although, I am sure he still plasters on that charming smile when he needs to get his way!) He is headed to St. Francis College in New York this fall to play basketball and finish his college degree.

Or how about Tyson, who was accepted into medical school last year? He worked his way through NNU’s undergraduate program with the support of his wonderful wife (also a former student) and two beautiful daughters and is now focused on this next phase of his education. He will be a fabulous and caring doctor- an asset to whichever community is lucky enough to have him.

And don’t forget Nicole, the artist-extraordinaire who is chasing her dreams near Seattle, Washington. Her creativity and design abilities always blew me out of the water and now she is putting those skills into action as she explores a variety of genres in the world of art and design, including a great blog about photography. (Check it out here.)

The thing is, this list could go on and on as I tell you about how proud I am of Mayra and Ethan and Taryn and Jessica and Sean and Dixie and Peyton and Rose and Brian and Kacie and Miguel and Jacob and…the list goes on!  (And don’t even get me started on the ones that are still in school. It has been a rough year, to say the least, in Marsing, but watching the kids come together and support and love each other through the tragedies of the past few months has made me as proud of them for their hearts and their compassion as I am of their brains and their academic achievements.)

Marsing has been the foundation for so many wonderful kids who are now adults (as old as that makes me feel!), out in the world following their passions, making their small sections of this planet a better place.

So, congratulations to the newest Chicago Bear- Shea McClellin. You have earned your place in the spotlight and all of Marsing is proud of you! But also, a job well done to all of the other students coming out of Marsing who are succeeding in their chosen fields, who are shooting for the stars and who are also making our little community proud as can be!

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