Tea Party

Given in honor of the bride - my mother Kelly- by her sister Mary,

 Thursday, August 30th, 2009.

I can't say I loved the idea of a tea party.  The thought of doing anything involving floppy hats and floral dresses makes me want to disguise myself with axle grease and take refuge in the closest Harbor Freight, until the Celine Dion and talk of "antiquing" have passed.  However, I can always be persuaded to get involved in a  cooking project, which is how my cousin Chelsea and I came to spend the hottest days in July making blackberry cream puffs, and Italian buttercream and homemade mint Oreos  in a house with no air-conditioning. And while little sandwiches with the crusts cut off might not be my thing, I love any opportunity to see all of my aunties together.  Someone should write a children's book about them.

 

My cousin Chelsea

Kelly, the guest-of-honor, and my cousin Nancy

Aunt Barb and Baby O 

 

Improvised air-conditioning- My mother squirts her sister Jeannie with a water bottle.

Aunt Mary cuts her beloved chocolate cake with Seven-Minute frosting.  

 Baby O again.

Tour de Coop

I'd be the first to admit  organization isn't my strong suit, but I'm trying.  In fact, lately, I've been trying so hard  that it's become a bit of a liability.  

Last week, was Portland's annual Tour de Coops,  which is basically an open house of local chicken coops.  Colleen and I are planning to take over our mom' house after she moves in with her betrothed, and since we're seriously considering joining the rapidly growing local community of urban chicken keepers, I was naturally excited to attend this event. 

 A bit too excited apparently.  Anyone who knows me already knows how incredibly dumb smart people can be, and has probably already predicted the outcome of this story.

So, a week before the event, I buy tickets, and carefully program the date and time into iCal.  During the week, I check back at least twice to be sure I know when to show up.

The day of the big event, Colleen, Johnny and I set off, map and booklet in hand, ready to be inspired.  Since we had entered the raffle to win a coop made by one of two local designers, we decided to see one of those first.

When we arrived, a guy wearing a pair of headphones was power-sawing through a chunk of wood on the path to the coops. That should have been my first clue, but instead, I remember thinking, This is so poorly organized! What kind of yahoo works with power tools during a family event?!  Nevertheless, we proceeded to get his attention, and ask to see the coops.  The man seemed kind of surprised, but was really friendly, and said he'd be happy to show us.  A moment later, he says, Ah, here's the slave-driver himself! and this not-at-all-unattractive* man walks into the yard and shakes my hand. 

 He introduces himself  as John Wright, the designer of, among other things, Airstream-inspired chicken coops made from salvaged wood. 

Now, in my defense, I've been living in China for the last year, where there was a bit of a man-drought, which may explain why, at this point, I stopped wondering Why aren't there any signs out? And why aren't there any other people here? and instead, started thinking, I might actually look cute with chicken feathers and little bits of hay stuck in my hair... 

So, we stay for a few slightly awkward minutes,  and then we  move on  to the next venue, which is... deserted.  

It wasn't until we got to the third venue, where the owner of the house  is mowing the lawn, that I think to ask if we're at the right house for the chicken coop tour.  Sure he says, looking amused, but it's tomorrow.

Suffice it to say, mortal embarrassment ensued. Later, some of my friends would go on to suggest that this day should be remembered as "The First Time Natalie Was Ever On Time For Anything".

 My sister, still smiling sweetly, said something along the lines of, I will never, ever forgive you for this, for as long as we live.  

The lovely family let us view their chicken coop anyway, and incredibly enough, my sister found it in her heart to try again the next day.   We went on to see the lovely (and more practical) coops made by another local designer, John Carr, an urban egg co-op, and some backyard goats, among other things. With actual people there, the Tour de Coop turned out to be both inspiring, and a lot of fun. 

As we were re-hashing events on the way home from the (real) Tour de Coops, my sister remarked, You know, at first, I thought that hot chicken guy was checking you out, but later I realized he was just staring at you because he was trying to figure out what in the hell you were doing at his house a day early.

So much for the afterglow.

*HOLY SHIT

Coming Home

I came home July 5th, after nearly 24 hours of travel.  After boarding our plane, we ended up having to sit on the runway in Beijing for five hours. First there was a mechanical problem, and by the time the pilot resolved it, a thunderstorm had rolled in, shutting down the airport.

As a result, I missed my connecting flight in Vancouver by hours, and got to spend lots of time in the Canadian customs hall, waiting for the very nice Air Canada staff to find my wayward  luggage and book me a new flight. I love that Canada finds it necessary to point out that Maple syrup is not exempt from security regulations.

Expats joke a lot about "re-entry shock."  Almost as soon as we landed, I started noticing things that surprised me.  The first was the line for declarations: An entire queue of people obediently waiting their turn!  It was totally surreal.   I was also a bit alarmed to see a paper-cup dispenser next to the sink in the bathroom.  You've got to be kidding me! I thought, That's so unsafe!

 Then I remembered I was in Canada.

Since I came home late, with no cell phone, my mom didn't know when to come get me. A couple of kind strangers gave me American currency to rent a luggage cart, and lent their phone. It was sweet, and kind of amusing to be reminded again of how genuinely nice most people in Oregon are.

My mom, just after I got in the car.  We laughed, we cried. We hugged. Then we laughed and cried some more. Johnny, my two year old nephew was in the back seat.  He kind of stared at me quizzically for a while, and finally said, It's my Mamoo!  He stared a me some more, then leaned forward, pointing accusingly at me, and said, You have a dirty face!

We went straight to my Aunt Mary's house, where a plate of potato salad , dill pickles, and rare grilled steak was waiting for me, along with a slice of Rhubarb pie. Perfect.

Photos of Daily Life in China

Xi'an - I'm almost positive I was pick-pocketed in this plaza, probably while taking photos.  

The path between Huijia and The Village

I made friends with this gentleman one day when I asked him in Chinese if he wanted my bag of empty bottles for recycling. He cracked up, and started repeating my question over and over again, and even told one of neighbors what I'd said.  When he saw me coming with my camera, he actually gestured that I should come down his alley and photograph them, but he didn't want to see the pictures!

Most neighborhoods in China have a public park with exercise equipment. People of all ages come out in the evening to socialize and work out.  I wish we had something like this in the U.S.

Taking pictures of cute kids is the photographic equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel, but I did it anyway.

I always wished I spoke enough Chinese to sit down and chat with people. By the end of the year, I could competently answer most basic questions, but couldn't really reciprocate.

Mad Cows

 These are the Huijia cows, who live on the huge quad in the middle of campus.  Nobody quite knows why they're there. The school's mascot is actually a dinosaur. I've never seen it, but I'm told it bears more than a passing resemblance to Barney. Apparently, the owner's son (a mythical creature in his own right) likes to travel in a hot-air balloon which is emblazoned with this mysterious dinosaur.

As you can see, from a distance, they're innocent and totally adorable. They're painted with all kinds of cute, Chinglishy stuff that the students put on them, like inspiring mottos and mathematical equations.

However, my favorite thing about these cows is that up close, they appear to be fucking pissed .

And I mean pissed off. They would probably kill you in your sleep with a brick, given half a chance.  Maybe it's because one time in the fall, The Boys got drunk and used a hammock to hoist the gold one up on the roof of the Foreigner's Building and photographed themselves doing all sorts of unsavory things to it. And it to them.  The Boys appeared to enjoy it much more than the cow did.

Also, apparently, one time the year before, a different group of foreign teachers got drunk and went "cow-tipping." Are you noticing a theme here? This may also be part of why the school just fundamentally does not trust foreign staff.

This cow is just waiting for you to fall asleep. If you value your life, DON'T.

The building in the distance is supposedly where our mysterious, Golem-Like shadowy overlords, I mean, school leaders live.  When I look at this photo, I like to imagine that the cows have finally tired of the indignity of having middle-schoolers sit on them and gardeners re-arrange them all the time, and have deciding to stage an uprising. 

 Quietly, slowly, they are converging on the Big Man's house, where they will do something really terrible, like moo extra-sinisterly, or perhaps fart massive quantities of methane through the windows, bringing about what would surely be the world's first pre-meditated Bovine Murder.

Wow. This caffeine is Killin' me. I've gotta lay off the Americanos.

Day of Forgettance

Hey there... 

It's been a while, hasn't it? Here's my excuse:

  In the period leading up to, and following "The June Fourth Incident",  also known in  America as 'The time China bulldozed and shot some of it's brightest and bravest young citizens", using the internets got increasingly complicated. My blog, among other things, was blocked, and I didn't figure out how to access it again until a few days before I left.  

That day was sort of like the exact opposite of a holiday; a somber day of carefully chosen words and tip-toeing around the elephant in the middle of the nation.  There's really not any equivalent day in the American calendar-  Pearl Harbor day ought to be, but it's too long gone to be genuinely meaningful to Americans who aren't old enough to have membership at a Moose Lodge or Rotary club., and the way we grieve September 11th doesn't compare, because unlike the Chinese, we're allowed to acknowledge what happened. 

 Soon after, Beijing began gearing up for the 60th anniversary of the PRC, and from that point on, a subtle, underlying tension seemed to have taken root in the capital.  What appeared to be curfew posters went up in my favorite hutong, and little outbreaks of PLA soldiers started cropping up in all kinds of places.   

Not long after that, a raging pandemic of Swine-Flu hysteria set in, and my school began taking fairly ridiculous measures- quarantining a colleague, checking our temperatures all the time, restricting visitors, etc. 

My own state of mind certainly affected the way I perceived these events- the American school year ends 6 weeks before the Chinese one, and my head had already checked out.  But for me, the increase in "security" highlighted the distance between the foreigners and the Chinese- Their deep (and sometimes justified) suspicion of us, the superficiality of our interactions, the massive disparities of class and liberty. 

There were still more days than not when I loved China.  But in the short term, I was tired of pushing and shoving, tired of arguing, tired of byzantine rules and implacable bureaucracy. I was just ready to go home.

One of the best things about my last few weeks in China was my new camera.  Looking through a viewfinder made me experience and appreciate China in new ways again, and a lot of my happiest moments were spent wandering around familiar neighborhoods, photographing things minutely and obsessively.  It was good to be reminded why I had come, and much more enjoyable to experience the Chinese culture without the filter of the expat community. 

Up close, the PRC is  incredible, exhilarating; a gorgeous, limitless cornucopia of color and flavor and sound.  The more I wandered, the more I knew that I could stay there years and never run out things to discover. What I have to show for the time I spent there is so, so insignificant.  No single person could ever accurately document the wonderful, terrible enormity  of such a crazy, beautiful place.

Snow White and the 20 Dwarves

And as you sweep the room 

Imagine that the broom

is someone that you love 

And soon you'll find you're dancing to the tune

-"Whistle While You Work", from Snow White 

On the first hot afternoon of the year, I stood in front of my class, surveying the room, trying to figure out what made it so unpleasant to be in there.  

It was the universal smell of adolescence-sweat, anxiety, fruit-scented hand lotion, junk food- but with some uniquely Chinese notes thrown in.  Namely, the nauseating smell of the   packaged meat my students love to snack on.

Guys,seriously,  it smells like chicken feet in here.

My students giggled nervously, and made a half-assed attempt to hide their snacks inside their desks.  

The real problem with the chicken feet was that they served as a sort of gateway-annoyance. Once the cloying odor of preserved meat had caught my attention, I  couldn't stop noticing all of the other things that disgusted me about the room.  It was truly nasty.  

Garbage was crammed into corners, piled on shelves, under desks, and spilling out of two huge trash cans by the door. The yellow linoleum floors bore leopard-spot patches of old, blackened gum. The desks were covered in crib notes, sketches of doe-eyed anime girls, and professions of love for Jay Chou . The wild spatters and drips  of old soda that covered the walls had attracted years' worth of the ubiquitous Beijing grime (Equal parts Gobi-dust and coal), creating an over-sized Rorschach test of pure filth.

I had tried several times before to get them to clean, first asking nicely, then by using that old teacher standby- the vague, ominous threat.  These attempts were always met with polite nods, vacant smiles, and zero action. So, I repeated the process with their head teacher, a really nice guy who does nothing, and got the same result.

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore.  

Alright, that's it guys! If I have to give up an English class to make you clean your nasty room, I'm grading you on it!

They shrugged, not really believing it would happen, and told me to go ahead and schedule a class-cleaning session.

And so it was this afternoon that twenty of China's shining young elite set about deep-cleaning for what may have been the first time in their lives.  

 At first, the kids acted like I had asked them to move the contents of a landfill with little plastic beach  shovels. People tried to escape. I busted four girls hiding in the stairwell. 

I quickly realized that even the kids who wanted to help were pretty clueless. After watching a couple of kids dragging the mop behind them as they dutifully trudged back and forth down the length of the classroom, I realized that they literally didn't know how to mop, and had to give a demonstration. 

At first, it was a total lightbulb joke, with groups of five or six children standing around timidly dabbing a single grimy windowpane  with balled up paper towels, and others retching and gagging theatrically as they swept dust-bunnies out from behind the radiator.  

At first, I had to run around  like some horrible little Napoleonic  Martha Stewart, shouting orders and doing some of the ugliest jobs myself.  Pretty quickly though, their sense of honor and respect proved a stronger force than their snobbery.  Embarrassed by the sight of their teacher cleaning, they took over.

Give me that Teacher, a student said, and took the scrub brush out of my hand.  After that, a sort of amazing thing happened.  The kids got really, really into it. Someone found the ayi and procured a scrub brush and scraper.  They cleaned with the clumsy flamboyance of preschoolers choosing their own outfits, consuming two packs of paper towels, and three bottles of cleaning products, and God only knows how much water in the process. Total chaos ensued as they moved desks, scrubbed the floorboards, shelves, and walls, wiped down the chalkboards, and chipped about eight pounds of chewing gum off of the floor.  The best part of this for me was seeing the ayi standing out in the hall watching the kids clean, with a look of total surprise and confusion on her face. 

At the end of class, when all of the desks had finally been put back into place, I stood at the front of the room again, surveying our work.  It had taken twenty kids almost ninety minutes to clean the room, and truthfully, it didn't look that much better when they were done, but by God, they were pleased with themselves! The nauseating smell of preserved chicken feet had been replaced by the nauseating smell of Pine Forests and Meadow Breezes.  My head was already beginning to throb from the chemicals and noise, but my students were sitting at their desks looking more excited than I'd seen them in months,  happily engaged in the act of cutting out colored-paper characters for the new bulletin board they'd decided to create, and I kid you not, they were literally singing as they worked.  

Am I the only teacher who's ever made you clean before?  I asked Ann, a particular kind and hard-working girl in the front row.

She laughed, and looked down at her shoes.

Yes. It's very strange...