Hungry An Hour Later

They say you're always hungry an hour later when you eat Chinese food.  I found this to be true growing up.  I lived with my grandparents who lived across the street from my boyfriend Peter's house.  He was Chinese, first generation, and his dad was a professional chef for a very famous Chinese restaurant in Los Angeles called "Madame Wu's."

Peter's family ate an hour before we did.  So almost every night I'd eat at his house, and then an hour later, eat at mine.  Peter's dad was an excellent chef.  Because of him I am a bonafide Chinese food snob.   I've had homemade Chinese food, cooked by a bonafide Chinese chef, and now I'm ruined for life.  Until now.

Living in China, I am anxious to try everything.  I was hoping Beijing would be like Tokyo: a mecca of unbelievably good food.  And so far it is.  But not like Tokyo.  In Tokyo you can get any kind of food:  French, Italian, Japanese and it's outstanding.  The best croissant I've ever had was in Tokyo, which is blasphemous, considering Paris is my favorite city in the world.  In Beijing you can only get one kind of food:  Chinese.  Well, other than McDonalds and KFC.  China: welcome to obesity - it's just a matter of time.

But there are all kinds of Chinese food.  There are?  That's what I said.  I mean, I'm semi-familar with Cantonese, Szechuan, Mandarin.  But yet there's apparently way more.  There are 23 provinces in China.  Each province specializes in a different type of Chinese food.  That means there are 23 kinds of Chinese food?  From the meat laden Turkish influenced rice dishes in Tibet, to the steamy, savory goodness of dim sum in Hong Kong, to the sweet and crispy Peking Duck in Beijing.  Hello, Mongolian BBQ.  

What?  That's like saying there are 50 types of American food, which obviously there are not.  In fact, name one actual American dish.  Pizza?  No, that was invented in Italy.  Hot dogs?  Hamburgers?  These were invented in Germany.  I can't think of anything.  Wait.  I got one thing. Turducken.  Ah yes, so American.

The great thing about eating out in China is, everything is amazingly cheap.  No I mean it, really cheap.  We keep going out to the most expensive restaurants and have problems breaking $100.00.  No joke.  Geez, we break $100 at Chili's on a Monday night.  Hey, buffalo wings and margaritas are expensive.  Don't judge.

So far, by far, my favorite Chinese food are dumplings and Peking Duck.  These are not served in the same restaurants.  There are running arguments on where the best of each of these Chinese delicacies are served.  I only have 30 days but I am on a mission to resolve this heated dispute.

The Peking Duck is amazing.  My favorite restaurant thus far is called "Made In China."  How ironic considering I have a dubious opinion of anything actually made in China.  This restaurant is in the Grand Hyatt Hotel and therefore the most expensive place in town.  Truth be told, we did break $100 here.

But the duck is so devine.  The skin is so crispy it melts in your mouth, literally.  In Beijing you dip the skin in either salt or sugar, place it lovingly on your tongue, and let it slowly dissolve into a bouquet of flavors in your mouth.  They carve the duck for you table side, slowly, carefully, laying out the choice pieces decoratively while your mouth waters and your stomach growls.  

The only downside is, ducks don't have very much meat.  The first few times we had duck, Russell thought we were getting cheated, because it always appeared they only cut half the duck and swept the rest of it away.  We soon learned there isn't much more meat.

Another good duck joint is 1949 in the Hidden City at Sanlitun.  Not quite the grandness of Made in China but less tourists too.  The restaurant is in a beautiful courtyard and the duck is great.

Über hip courtyard.

Then there's the dim sum.  Ah the dim sum.  I steam up just thinking about it.  So many fillings.  Our favorite so far is a little neighborhood joint in the Embassy district called Baoyuan Jiaozi Wu Dumpling House.   There's always a line.  They serve over 25 types of multi-colored dumplings.  They're exquisite.  And the side vegetable dishes are outstanding too.  

Not just pretty - delicious!

Like Cartman I do love side dishes.

The other night I tried something new, something truly original, something wonderful.  I tried hand pulled noodles at the Noodle Bar in 1949 Hidden City, Sanlitun.  There were only two soup choices on the menu.  You can either have oxbow or another meat I've never heard of - tendon meat.  We tried the Oxbow and it was good, very good. The broth was dense and rich, the way you wish stew really was.  The noodles were firm and meaty.  This dish warms the soul.

The place is tiny.  You sit at a u-shaped counter in a covey the size of Volkswagon Bus.  Behind the counter are four guys.  Two to ladle the two kinds of soup out.  And two to hand-pull the noodles.  They start with great lumps of dough, the size of a side of beef.  From these they literally pull and twist the dough into smaller and smaller size strands, until finally they have soup noodles.  These they boil in broth until they're a'dente and saturated with flavor.  Oh my God.  Heaven.

Speaking of Heaven.  The other night we went to an amazing new restaurant called "Lost Heaven" in the Forbidden City premier restaurant area.  This restaurant features Chinese dishes from several provinces of China.  We got lost in the expansive menu.  It was indeed heaven, starting with their signature cocktails in the richly appointed wood bar.  It felt like we were back in Bali for a minute, there was so much wood and so many colors. 

Each dish was outstanding.  It was like watching the Matrix for the first time, each scene even more spectacular and surprising than the last.  We loved it.  We loved it so much we didn't take enough pictures.  Damn.  I guess we have to go back again.

Swirls of goodness.

I can't remember which provence this dish was from.

It was the first and we were so smitten we forgot to take pictures of the other five dishes.

Happy Eater.

 Happy to be hungry again in an hour so I can have more!

But if none of this appeals to you, there's always the "Hello Kitty Cafe." Yes, they have a "Hello Kitty Cafe."  It's located in the mall adjacent to our apartment building in Sanlitun.    I couldn't believe it when I walked by it.  I didn't venture in because it reminded me of a Hooters but for pedafiles.  But from the outside it appeared to be a frothy confection of pink clad baby doll dresses worn by winsome Chinese girls, serving dreams in a sundae cup, complete with a cherry on top.

It's just a matter of time before we knock this off and bring it to America.

Really?

Made In China

It's official.  Starbucks is poisoning me.  I've been here for two weeks now and every afternoon I'm bent over in pain from the crunchy curlies.  You know, abdominal pain that makes you start praying.

At first I thought maybe it was the food.  But I realized that can't be because I cooked it.  And more importantly I bought the ingredients from the expat market.  Yeah, originally I thought I could shop at the locals market, like I did in Tokyo.  But one trip to the local market and I realized that was not just a very bad idea but potentially life threatening.  The thing is - it was actually a wet market.

Have you ever been to a wet market?  I hadn't either, until now.  It started out promising enough: aisles of rice, noodles and canned goods, all in writing I can't understand.  But I could recognize the pictures - kind of.

When I got to the produce section I started to get a little wary.  There were a lot of things I had never seen before.  Usually this would excite me, inspire me to try something new.  But something didn't seem right.  Perhaps it was the temperature.  It was unusually warm in there.  There were no plastic bags or scales or sprays to temper the fruit and vegetable, just bins of tepid, droopy, foreign vegetables.

And then there was the meat department. Although "department" was clearly not the right word for it.  Slaughter house would be the appropriate term here I believe.  I have abstained from showing any pictures because a) they wouldn't let me take pictures (I can understand why) and b) they would make you sick.

In America we don't ever want to know our food was actually alive and breathing.  We don't call it cow or pig.  We have different names for the byproduct of quaint farm animals like beef and pork, or bacon.  We just don't discuss it. Everything is cleaned up (no blood or veins) and packaged into nifty little unrecognizable pieces that pretty much looks like it was made in a factory.  We don't leave the hoofs on, or the heads.  Not so in China.

The first thing I noticed was the redolence of fresh blood, that thick, heady, unmistakable fetor.  My stomach rolled.  Then I saw the butcher block, in the middle of the room,  still bloody.  In fact, a red runny matter was dripping onto the floor, like heavy syrup down the side of a pancake.  Except this was a bloody pancake.  I took a double take.  That's not, no, it can't be. Is it?  It is.  My stomach lurched.

Then there were what I like to call the "bloody bins."  Yes, bloody bins.  There were no signs on the bins, not even in Chinese.  I guess you don't need a sign to tell you this bin contains dead baby ducklings.  Yes, dead baby ducklings.   Not only that, but you had your choice of flesh colored or black.  Black?!  What the?!!!

The ducklings were just one of the atrocities I discovered in the bloody bins.  The other bins were filled with many heinous acts of barbarity: chickens (again black or flesh tones), head still on, or bins filled with just the clawed chicken feet.  There were bins of pig feet and various mystery meats I didn't dare guess at.

Oh my God.  It was like a Wes Craven film. I half-expected Freddy Krueger to jump out from behind the dirty plastic curtains with a hack saw.  My exodus was fast and efficient.

You know I'd heard of wet markets.  But in my mind they played differently.  The markets in my head were filled with bags of spices, colorful tents filled with baskets of alluring strange fruit.  The vendors grinned happy toothless smiles and handed out samples.   Sure there were live chickens and ducklings.  But I could still convince myself these would soon be pets, not dripping off a butcher block.  Ugh.

So yeah no local market shopping for me.  I found April Gourmet where the meat is actually pre-cleaned, under glass, and refridgerated, with signs that not only tell you what it is but where it came from.  And I don't mind paying five to ten times more than the local market.  I want to live. Sigh of relief.

This is why I knew the stomach aches were not coming from the food.  I realized they were coming from my local Starbucks when I stopped drinking coffee for a few days and the mysterious illness went away.  When I started drinking it again, the illness came back, just like pigeons when you throw them bread crumbs.

Yeah well, I followed the bread crumbs and they lead me to the horrible realization that my local Starbucks, the one I depended upon every morning, was in fact, counterfeit.  I'm not kidding.  I had read that most of the Starbucks in China were counterfeit.  Of course I didn't believe them.  Until now.  The realization made me pale.

And not only this, other things started to make themselves known.  The lobby of my apartment building, the one I so charmingly compared to a W hotel.  Well the other day I was walking through it on my way out and I noticed an alarmingly large piece of  marble on the floor.  Apparently it had fallen off the wall of the elevator bank.  Nobody had seemed to notice it.  Nobody noticed it for several days.

Then a couple days later, buckets appeared in the lobby to catch the dribble of a mysterious fluid dripping from the ceiling three stories up.  A couple of days later, after I repeatedly asked when the leak was going to be fixed, a giant hole appeared where the leak was, or rather, still is, and more buckets have appeared to catch the offensive liquid.

Then I discovered that most of those beautiful buildings erected for the Beijing Olympics, were falling apart.  Falling apart even though they had been built less than ten years ago.  It seems the Chinese build beautiful structures that don't last.  At least the new structures that is.  I mean the Forbidden City is still standing.

Suddenly "Made In China" has a brand new meaning for me.

But more importantly, what am I going to do about my coffee?

Great Wall of China - Bring Water and Toilet Paper

The first time someone mentioned the Great Wall of China to me, in China, it wasn't in reference to a place I had to see.  They were talking about a great place to exercise.  Exercise?  Huh?  "Oh yeah, they said enthusiastically, "we go hiking on the Great Wall all the time! It's outstanding hiking."  

Even though they said that I was not prepared for what they really meant.  I read the guide books.  They corroborated their story, at least the fact there are trails you can hike up to the wall.  They mentioned taking a gondola to the wall.  I thought that just meant the wall was up on a hill.  

I didn't realize it meant the wall itself was a hiking trail.  Oh my, were we in for a shock. Great doesn't really capture it.  

First of all the wall is not contiguous and you can't see it from space.  Wait a minute - what?

The wall was built 400 to 200 years before Christ by rival kingdoms to thwart advances by enemies. There are sections of the wall all through Northern China.  The sections don't all connect.  The Chinese call it "Wanli Changcheng" which means, "Very Long Wall."  Thanks, I would never have guessed that.

Second it takes an hour, due to traffic, to get to the closest part of the wall from Beijing and Beijing is the closest major city to the wall.  It reminds me of New Orleans.  I used to think plantations with oak lined driveways were in New Orleans.  It wasn't until I actually stayed in one did I learn the closest plantation to New Orleans is an hour outside the city.

After reading the guide books I decided we were going to hike up to the Great Wall of China, tool around for a while on the wall, and hike back down.  The best laid plans....

Most tourists visit the Ba Da Ling section of the wall.  China is already populated and mad as it is, I didn't want to have to fight even more crowds so I chose the Mutianyu section of the wall which, allegedly, is less crowded.

Our driver, otherwise known as Joe Pesci given his one-word English vocabulary "OK", picked us up in his customary driving uniform - shorts and a polo shirt.  It didn't take very long to get out of Beijing and into the countryside which was surprisingly flat and green.  It was a one of those days.  The one day out of ten in Beijing when it is actually Sunny. The horizon is not cloaked in brown and you can almost breathe. Almost.

Since being there for two weeks I'd noticed a pattern.  Basically you get about one clear, sunny day in ten.  The first day starts out beautiful. The sun is shining. Plants are green.  The sky is blue.  Then each day the pollution builds, piles on another layer of brown, until the sky is so dark and heavy with grime you can take a putty knife and scrape it off your face.  Then around day ten, when the sky is bulging and pregnant from pollution, the skies erupt and bleed out the grime in the form of a refreshing acid rain. Rinse and repeat.

Even the government encourages their citizens to take cover when it first starts raining.  Course they don't tell you it's because you might literally get burned by acid rain. You wouldn't want to get wet would you? Bring a lead umbrella.

So on this one glorious day in ten we arrive at a huge parking lot stuffed with more fuming tour buses than Disneyland in June.  So much for less crowded.  You can't really see the wall from the parking lot, or the gauntlet of vendors along the path to the entry gate.  However, there is an old Chinese woman selling puppies of dubious breed out of a box.  They are adorable but way too young to be weaned and I shudder to think where they'll end up.  The Chinese do not eat dog anymore, at least not in Beijing I've been told.

Russell takes one look at the situation, the situation being the wall is not in plain sight and the gondola seems to go up a long, long way into oblivion, and refuses to hike up.  "I'm not hiking up to the wall.  I'll take the gondola up and hike down but I'm not hiking up," he states emphatically.  Since it was only about 95 degrees at ten in the morning he did have a point.  And from the look of his stance it was obvious there was no use arguing.

Taking the gondola was the smartest thing we did all day.  It was a pleasant ride, even without any apparent safety devices.  As we ascended the wall came into view and GREAT does NOT describe it.

AMAZING would be a much more accurate description.

I guess I thought it would be like walls in the U.S.  You know, where we level the Earth, and everything in its path, including entire communities, and build an even, flat wall.  Oh no.  This wall was built before tractors and Tonka trucks.  This wall was built by hand.  Basically they built the wall directly on top of whatever was in its path.  Because of that the wall capitulates over gullies and crags, precipices and valleys.  It is truly incredible and more challenging than a step machine on the highest resistance setting. 

Ohhhhh, now I get it.  "I told you, " Russell announces triumphantly as we step off the Gondola and on to the platform.  There's a shaded patio with an astounding view of the wall in both directions.  A vendor sells much needed refreshment. Hoards of people of all nationalities pant heavily, their faces red and puffy, their souvenir t-shirts sweat stained.

"Shall we?" I suggest hopefully, trying to get Russell away from the enervated crowd before he realizes this will soon be him.

We begin hiking.  We spend a couple of hours traversing, scaling, climbing, (no literally), and panting, on the wall.  Some places are so steep you have to use your hands. No joke.  We pass frighteningly obese tourists hyperventilating, threatening to pop like over-ripe tomatoes in the sun.  They're far from the shade and I wonder, will they be able to make it back?  Will we?  Where's the airlift evac pad?

My goal was to hike to the end of this section of the wall where I read you can view some of the parts that have not been rehabilitated.  Most of the wall is crumbling from time and erosion.  Only a few parts have been refurbished for the tourist trade.

Incredible not merely "Great"

You want me to climb what?

Where's the elevator?

Do not adjust your screen - this is the actual grade.

Um, yeah.

Hands and feet, hands and feet. Just 2,000 uneven steps more.

About every 100 yards there's a turret which offers much needed shade from the merciless heat and pitch of the wall.  Russell's like, "can we go now?"

What goes up must go down, a lot.

Just to the top of that hill honey. I promise.

Actually we didn't hike that way.  We did hike to the end of the stretch of the wall I chose and found the path that lead to the ruins.  The path was apparently used as a latrine since there aren't any bathrooms along the wall.  At least not officially.  In one of the turrets I almost stepped on a pile of human feces.  Oh my God!  I thought I was back in Beijing for a minute.  Really!!!? Heinous!!!!

The path to the ruins was green and leafy and reeked of urine.

Almost more amazing than the wall itself, I was able to convince Russell to hike down instead of taking the gondola.  The trail, just like Tokyo, was paved, with helpful signs along the way.  Like the one below.

What about clothed flames?

Most of the trail was shaded, which was nice.  But I couldn't help thinking how fun a slide would be.

When we got to the bottom we thought our exertions were finally over but they had only just begun.  

Getting through the gauntlet of vendors is a gargantuan challenge, requiring tremendous strength, tenacity, resourcefulness and bravery.

Every vendor had a story to tell, mostly guilt ridden and designed specifically to evoke sympathy and generosity out of gullible tourists. Apparently the more guilt induced, the higher the price they can get for their goods.

Oh my God, Thailand has nothing on the sellers along the Great Wall.   They should call it the "Great Scam."   These vendors are amazing actors - Academy Award caliber story tellers.  Steven Spielberg could learn a few things.  

I tried to grab Russell and rush him through but he wouldn't hear of it.  He likes to haggle.  He thought he could handle the heat.  He actually thought he could get a good deal.  He spent almost as much time on the vendors path as he did on the wall.  Now I was the one moaning, "Can we go now?"

At the end we made it out with a "hand-made" parasol, "authentic Chinese military hat" and "real military pins."  Uh huh, pull this leg and it plays Jingle Bells.

I"ll buy that for a dollar.

Everyone Knows Americans Carry Diseases

So Russell informs me I am required to have a National Health Screening in order to be issued a resident Visa.

The health screening consists of eight different stations or testing areas.  The testing facility is an hour out of Beijing near the Summer Palace.

I ask him if anyone in is office has been through this, assuming naturally they all have as most of them are in fact not Chinese.  I am specifically interested in knowing if a woman in his office has been through the screening.  I want to know what to expect. Like, for example, does one of these tests include an, um, "female examination?"  I am not relishing this idea at all.

He says he'll ask around.  Of course when he had his test, it didn't include stirrups and lubricant.

He asks around and discovers that, apparently, not everybody has to have a National Health Screening. What do you mean? I say wonderingly.  There are Germans, English, South African and Australians in his office.  None of them had a screening.  In fact it appears only Americans have to be screened. What the?  Oh, that's right, us Americans are notorious for carrying diseases, especially STDs.

Nice.  They want to make sure we don't have an STD or Aids or Stupidity?  Foreigners are not allowed to work in China unless they have a minimum of a bachelors degree and two years work experience.  Or maybe that's just Americans.  I didn't ask specifically.

On the morning of the test my driver, Hiro, who looks like an Asian Baby Huey in an orange and brown striped Charlie Brown polo shirt and shorts, waits for me anxiously.  The only English word he knows is "Ok".  He smiles enthusiastically when he sees me. He rushes around the car to open my door for me, all the while, saying "Ok.  Ok, Ok, Ok."  I feel like I'm being driven around by Joe Pesci.

We drive the hour in heavy traffic in silence.  For some reason he doesn't like to have the radio on when he's driving, although I know he listens to it really loud while he's waiting. Perhaps it has to do with concentrating. The first time the driver picked me up from the airport Russell implored me NOT to watch him drive.  He was right.  Driving, that is being driven in China, is harrowing.

The Chinese drive their cars like they drive their bicycles: e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e.  Lanes and traffic signals are merely a suggestion.  Extra points are awarded for hitting people.  There is no safety proximity bubble; cars travel within an Angstrom of each other. 1,500 new drivers are added to Beijing roads everyday.  90% of the drivers are newbies.  It's like being on the 405 with newly minted teenage drivers high on Mountain Dew and violent video games.  HELP.  I've learned not to watch.  If you do, you have nightmares, high blood pressure and persistent white knuckles.  Instead, I daydream about Triscuits and Sees Candies.

When we arrive my driver consorts with the parking attendant.  Somehow he arranges to park the car in a no-parking area close to the front entrance. It's about 100 degrees out here.  Some road workers on break under a scanty tree comment enthusiastically when I get out of the car.  There's that universal gesture for "Big American Breasts," I've begun to recognize where ever I go.

Hiro rushes me to the check-in desk where the attendant takes my information without any human emotion, in spite of my dimpled smile and cleavage, and brusquely points in the direction of the stairs to the first testing area.  Hiro grabs my purse and my paperwork and rushes me upstairs.  When he gets upstairs he barks out to an attendant.  It always sounds like they're arguing.  He rushes me towards a curtain.

Behind the curtain they make me step on a scale and record the retched number into the computer.  Thankfully it's in Chinese so I can't read it.  Same with my height.  A man in a white coat listens to my chest.  Apparently my heart is beating so I am passed on to the next station.

Next I am asked to lay on a table in a dimly lit room.  The woman gestures for me to pull up my shirt and then freezes me, while she does an ultrasound on my abdomen.  She informs me, in a loose translation of English, that she is checking my kidney and gall bladder.  She seems genuinely surprised when she grunts out "good" at the conclusion.   What was she expecting - aliens?

Next I am escorted into another room where an attendant who looks like he's 15 hangs a heavy lead poncho over me, points at the machine and runs into the other room. He's laughing with another guy behind the glass.  I look around confusedly.  I guess I'm supposed to stand here?  A buzzer sounds.  He's impatient with me.  Apparently that was the cue to take off the lead.  He practically pushes me out the door.

The next room I am asked to read an eye chart.  It's the kind where you have to point to the direction the letters are facing.  The man behind the chair looks kind until I don't understand his next question.  My driver erupts at my side and gestures wildly at some piece of paper taped to the desk.  After a minute of blond confusion I realize I'm supposed to read the piece of paper that has two squares with an odd design.  One design is red; one is green.  Oh, I get it - it's a depth perception/color blind test.  I blush, blurt out my answers and I guess I pass because we run down the stairs to the last test stations.

My driver, still carrying around my purse and my paperwork, thrusts me into the next room, almost interrupting the previous test in progress.  His urgency to protect me and get me through the exam is endearing, if not comical.  He takes his duties very seriously.

So far no stirrups.  Good.

A young woman gestures for me to lay back and pull up my shirt and soundlessly and efficiently attaches electrodes to my chest and other vital areas for an EKG.   Thirty seconds later she hands me a paper towel and gestures towards the door.

The next attendant takes my temperature, pulse and blood pressure.

The last room takes my blood. Another vial gone.  I wonder what it will reveal.  It looks the same color as the others collected from patients before me.

I am relieved.

We rush to the check out counter.  Why are we running I wonder?  She intimates we are finished and asks if we want to come back in four hours for the results or pay to have them delivered.  Pay for delivery; I'm not coming back here. She grunts out something to my driver who takes my arm and pulls me to a stand in the middle of the room where a good looking twenty something year old man stands smiling pleasantly.

He speaks good English and takes my address and money for the delivery.  And we're done.

The whole process took 30 minutes, literally.  Two hours of driving time for 30 minutes of exams that would have taken a minimum five appointments at different doctor's offices and hours of insurance forms in the U.S.

Well, at least they're efficient I muse as Hiro hands me my purse, opens my door, and says "Ok?"

Holy Crap!

What is the deal?!!

Every day when I walk to the Starbucks to retrieve my daily ration of lucidity I see someone spitting, peeing or shitting.  I am not kidding.  I am not exaggerating.  I thought the ogling was distracting; this is disgusting!!!

I keep reminding myself China was a third world country as frequently as 40 years ago.  "Third World" meaning lack of Starbucks, shiny automobiles and shopping malls.  Well... all the neon shopping malls and shiny Toyotas in China do not make up for the lack of manners.

The official sound of Beijing is literally somebody expectorating as loudly and violently as possible. If there was an audio description in the dictionary of the average Chinese man on the street, this would be it.  It is sooooo gross.

I mean the children do not wear diapers! They wear split crotch outfits.  Yes, I said split-crotch.  They have no underwear on under their split crotch Baby Gap knock offs.  They are encouraged to stoop down and pee anytime they feel the urge.  Clearly this carries into adult hood as it seems like anytime I turn a corner in Beijing, some grown man is peeing against the wall, albeit standing up.

Invariably every other morning I come around the corner of my apartment building and there's someone being held over the flower bed or trash can pooping.  It's like they're walking their dog but it's an adorable toddler.  What the hell?  At least you carry a doggie doodoo bag when you pick up after your dog.  Well, except not here.

Walking is a very dangerous proposition in Beijing.  If you're not being bounced off the sidewalk by a newly licensed Chinese driver, (sidewalks are merely another travel lane), you're hopscotching over multi-colored phlegm, urine or worse.

Wear close toed shoes!

Seriously?

Coming out of the ether that is chronic jet log, coffee was the first thing on my mind.  Where is the nearest java distributor I mumbled incoherently? There has to be a Starbucks somewhere nearby.

To my delight, there was one adjacent to our apartment building.  Just eight short floors down the elevator and a 25 yard jaunt to the corner of my building and the connected shopping center, my need could be quenched and caffeine could be mainlined into my system.  Interestingly it was slightly more expensive than the U.S., albeit significantly cheaper than Tokyo.  The attendants were friendly but not fluent.  I had to use the point and pay technique.

Fully functioning, the next need was internet access.  I tried unsuccessfully to link to Starbucks free wi-fi.  But you have to have a Chinese phone number in order to receive your access code mobily. New word.

So I hauled by caffeinated butt and my laptop to the nearest Apple store in Sanlitun, expat capital of Beijing and state of the art shopping mecca a 10 minute walk away, in order to pirate their wi-fi.  It worked!  Ahhh. I'm connected with the world once again.

Except for I can't access my blog, or Facebook or Youtube.  What the?!!!  At least I could get my email and Skype on so I could let my sister know I had arrived safely.

As I happily emailed I noticed a small crowd of men forming in front of me, not more than a foot and a half away.  What is it with the Chinese and their spatial lackability?  They were having an animated conversation, discussing something with much enthusiasm.  They seemed to be staring at something in my direction.  What are they looking at?! And why are they standing so close to me, I thought irritably, turning around to see what was behind me.  Nothing.

Then I noticed their gesticulations.  If I'm not mistaken that is the universal hand signal for breasts.  And  it dawned on me, pun intended, they were discussing mine.  What the hell! They were staring at and discussing my chest.  It was about 85 degrees at 9am so I was wearing a sundress.  It didn't even show much cleavage but I guess the fact is I actually have cleavage, a rarity in China.  You would think they'd never seen a blond woman with breasts before.

Geez!  In Tokyo nobody ever noticed me. Yet here in Beijing I had drawn a crowd.  Yikes!
I was extremely self-conscious.  They had no qualms whatsoever about ogling me.  That would never happen in Japan; it would be considered impolite.  But China is decidedly different.

That evening when I walked back to Sanlitun, dressed for dinner in a casual dress with no exposed cleavage, a young Chinese man literally ran ahead of me and walked backwards, in front of me, so he could check me out.  Does he know I can see him?

A few days later I was running on the treadmill in the fitness room of our apartment building.  It's on the ground floor and the floor to ceiling windows afford a view of the drivers waiting to pick up their clients as you work out.  And apparently it affords a nice view for people walking by.

A Chinese man stopped to watch me run on the treadmill for 15 minutes!!! The reason I know this is because I was watching the clock desperately, willing the clock to count down faster.  I pretend that counting the minutes makes the time actually go by faster and the run hurt less.  It doesn't, but watching the clock allowed me to measure exactly how many minutes this clown actually stood there, staring at me with a foolish grin on his face.  Seriously?!!!  He literally stood there for 15 minutes watching me bounce up and down, up and down, sweating profusely, trying to avoid his lecherous eyes.

You have got to be kidding!!!

Conversely the Chinese women seem to be completely self-possessed.  Every time they walk by any reflective surface, and I mean anything: a window, a shiny street sign, a puddle,  they pause to admire themselves. The few times I have walked through the adjacent shopping mall, the sale girls are invariably standing in front of the fitting room mirrors examining their reflections.  Even the apartment representative, this cute twenty something woman, cannot walk past the lobby windows without staring at herself the entire time.  It's really hard to have a conversation with someone when they're admiring themselves in the window the entire time.  What is the deal?!!!  Don't they own a mirror at home?

Once, while waiting for Russell to get some cash for lunch at the bank, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored curio cabinet in the waiting room.  Of course I immediately glanced away, but not before noticing the petite, attractive Chinese woman posing behind me.  First she turned to the right and eyed herself admiringly, then she flipped her long black hair provocatively and gazed over her left shoulder into the mirror smolderingly, completely immune to anyone else in the crowded bank.

Seriously?!

These Pillows?

I arrived in Beijing at 11:30pm Sunday evening.  My flight on American Airlines had been more tolerable than expected, which means the food was decent and I actually managed to sleep a little.  Basically I got two hours of sleep, in ten-minute increments.  I don’t usually sleep on airplanes, except on the tarmac.  For some reason the comforting hum of a 747's engines on pavement always lull me directly to sleep.  Of course I'm wide awake the minute the wheels leave the ground.

It was hot and humid and mosquitos sampled the new arrivals on the train to the terminal, as if wine tasting.  "California, anyone?"  I slapped them away sluggishly, still in a stupor from the long plane ride.

We weren’t the only plane arriving so late, so it was a mad rush to see who could get to immigration first. Well rush may be an overstatement given our dubious speed. In fact it was kind of comical - a mass cluster of travel zombies hebetudinously lumbering to get to the immigration line first, our eyes clouded and vacant, our thirst for sleep rampant.

Twenty minutes later I was through the visitors line and collected my bags from the carousel.  This was the part I had been dreading.  I had three bottles of wine in my suitcases, not to mention various sundries (got to have my Triscuits) and I was concerned about going through customs.  I shouldn’t have been.  There was no one there.  I could have brought three cases of wine and some vegetables, maybe even a blowtorch, and it wouldn’t have mattered.  Hmmm, note to self, always arrive around midnight.

Russell and our driver were waiting for me.  It was good to see them, especially Russell.  I had to stifle tears, like a sneeze in a quiet room.  It’s amazing how much I pretend I don’t need him when he’s not around, childhood habit I guess, but then how easily my resolve dissolves when I see him.  I noted the driver wasn’t wearing a uniform, or a cap.  Hmmmm.

The trip into the city center took 45 minutes, even though it was the middle of the night.  Our apartment building was located in the city center, in the most fashionable part of town called Sanlitun.  Our building was across the street from aptly named, "Workers Stadium."

The lobby looked like a W Hotel.

Nice lobby.
Where are the apples?

This the elevator bank.
Note how the floor matches the ceiling.

Russell took me on a grand tour of the one bedroom service apartment, proud of his selection.  It was brand spanking new.  You could still see the red grease pencil marks of the tile-layer on the walls of the bathroom.  The bathroom was nice, glass shower, marble bath, lots of chrome, no cabinets.  No cabinets?

Nice Sink.
Where's the linen closet?

At least there's a bath tub.

He showed me the ridiculously small washing machine which holds about a shoe box size load, the well hidden refrigerator which looks like a pantry closet and the complete lack of storage space.  He showed me the balcony with our two industrial size air conditioners.  “Two?  But it’s only a one-bedroom apartment?  Actually it’s barely one bedroom, separated only by a sliding pocket door and entertainment center.” 

“Yes, two”, he said.

No oven.  One pot.

Is that a Betty Crocker Ready washing machine?

And the dryer is?....

But the place had nice furniture, all dark wood tables, purple velvet couches, shiny chrome desk, and bamboo floors.  And he had bought some roses that had no smell but brightened the room.

At least there's wine glasses - the necessities.

Purple everywhere.
Thank you Prince.

TV in marble.

A room with a view.
Not bad.

He explained how he had to buy everything in the apartment except the furniture.  I thought maybe my sleep deprived mind had heard him wrong.  “What do you mean you had to buy everything, what do you mean everything?”  I thought this was a “service” apartment.  We already own all this stuff twice over now – in LA and sitting on a dock in Tokyo.

“Everything, “ he replied proudly. 

“Show me,” I said yawning, beginning to fade.

He showed me the two wine glasses (priorities), two plates and two sets of flatware, the humidifier, (humidifier?) the bath towels, the one pot, (what can I make with only one pot?) and the fluffy down comforter, bottom sheet and two pillows.  He'd made the bed and was as puffed up as the pillows.

“These pillows?” I said inquiringly, slowly sinking down onto the comforter.

“No, don’t do it,” he warned compassionately.

“This comforter?, this one here, with no bottom sheet?,” sinking still lower, crawling towards the pillows.

Tour over.