methinks

Baseball

During the two years I was in Little League, I was often hit in the head by the ball, usually from the rear. I'm not sure what the misunderstanding was, but I didn't seem to grasp the concept of forcing an out. A ball thrown from the outfield to either second or third - where I played before being exiled to right field - would arrive unexpectedly.

Certainly my coach or father or exasperated teammates explained this basic rule to me, though I have no recollection of it; perhaps it was an oversight, a rule so basic that it was assumed everyone knew it. Truthfully, I probably attempted to catch the ball more times than I was pegged by it (more out of fear than genuine understanding), but the times I did get beamed left an impression.

After that, baseball's never been my thing, so when my grandpa invited me and the whole extended family to watch the local minor league team, I reluctantly accepted. I envisioned sitting in the sweltering summer heat, watching stocking clad men swing away at a tiny leather ball. Sometimes they'd hit it, most times they'd miss it. And this would go on for hours. The only exciting parts would be homeruns, violent slides into home plate and the occasional hit batter. Sure, there would be hotdogs and beer, but I don't eat hotdogs and had to drive home. How could this be enjoyable?

As it turned out, the events I anticipated came true. It was hot until sunset, and men in stockings were obsessed with a small leather ball for over three hours. The players of the Louisville Bats missed far more than they hit, and only managed to get a man around the bases four times. The visitors, the Durham Bulls (no sign of Kevin Costner), almost tripled the home team's score. Added to that were lethal foul balls that blasted into the brand new yet still minor-league sized stands, punishing delinquent fans who'd not watched the pitch.

What I didn't anticipate is how enjoyable all of that would be. The misperception I had - and I think is commonly held by non-baseball fans - is that the appeal should lie solely in the game play. When you think about it, nearly half of the three hours it took to complete nine innings was not spent actually playing ball. It was warming up between innings, switching pitchers, the catcher talking to the pitcher. It was the "bat dog" fetching bats and taking the umpires bottles of water in a wicker basket. It was the tricycle race around the bases. My point is that half the evening was spent watching a game - which admittedly was more exciting than I remember from my Little League days, though the incoming foul balls did trigger a few painful flashbacks - and half the time was just a relaxing summer evening out-of-doors with good company. I can understand now how people could stay for a double-header of baseball.

After the game, a thoroughly enjoyable evening, a mantra of sorts I learned in the Peace Corps came to mind. "Never say no," was the advice of a long-time Peace Corps trainer. "You didn't come half way around the world to stay at home and watch TV, you came for an adventure. So no matter how tired you feel, how overextended you imagine yourself to be, how uninteresting the proposition sounds, when someone invites you to do something, Never say no. Just go. At the very least you'll have another story to tell."

Good advice then and now.

Looking Back

The mini-van was stopped across the middle of the intersection before me. Tired profanities littered the night.

"F*** you, you asshole," she shouted out the driver's window as he, shoeless and in shorts, rounded the back of the van from the passenger's side, finished crossing the intersection and headed for the sidewalk on his left. He replied with mumbles.

"You hit me first," she continued to shout, while parked on the bit of pavement I had intended to use.

"Oh, I hit you first," he incredulously retorted. In his version, she had undoubtedly hit him first.

Once he was on the sidewalk, she let off the brake and slowly idled forward.

"Pack your things when you get home and get out," was the last thing she said before pulling up to next light a short block away.

"God damn straight," he shouted over his shoulder as she drove away.

I turned and pulled up behind her at the next light. At that instant, the whole scene seemed so clichéd, so routine that I had trouble empathizing with either of them. Other than speaking loudly, neither of them seemed to be emotional. She didn't speed away or run the next light. He wasn't a stranger to walking home at night. Then there was the fact that they would be, after the left turn she intended to make, headed in the exact same direction but just one block apart. Clearly the car would get home first, and - were this cliché to continue - clearly this fight would be repeated once he got home.

As she began her left hand turn I could see her face in her side mirror. Her right upper lip was slightly broken, as if he'd backhanded her from the passenger seat. Physically it wasn't severe, and emotionally she didn't seem disturbed. She wasn't sobbing or, from what I could see, even crying. She was angry but in control and driving home. Then in an instant, one flash of the eyes, everything changed. Looking back, she saw me in her mirror and knew that I saw her. And she became ashamed. She dropped her head and let her shoulders fall with a quick heavy sigh. She didn't look in her mirror again.

Driving the rest of the way home, I began to wonder what - if any - effect our brief encounter would have on the inevitable conflict she faced when he arrived. Her shame signified that she did not want to be the woman who gets hit and shouts curses in the middle of the street. That shame was a link to a memory of a time without that shame. I wondered if her shame would stir her pride and overcome her hurtful routine. I'll never know.

NYC - The Crusade

I am not a follower of Billy Graham, neither physically nor spiritually. Before Sunday I'd never been to one of his Crusades, the term used for his multi-day (often multi-week) mission efforts, and didn't know what variety of salvation he preached.

I didn't go for the message, I went for the event. I went because Mr. Graham is one of the most respected leaders of our time, and has a reputation for equally respecting his contemporaries regardless of creed. I went because many predicted this Crusade will be his last. I went because his rise to "stardom" came in New York nearly 50 years ago when he extended his Crusade for sixteen weeks, six nights a week. I went for the history and experience of it all.

I dwell on why I went and why I didn't because I need to set my observations of the Crusade in a larger context. You see, I have almost nothing to say about Mr. Graham, a loss of words not shared by the media. All I can say is that he spoke with the skill of fifty years experience and the repose of a man comfortable with his impending death (he's very ill). He obviously had great charisma and was the reason the 90,000 people sat in the sun for three hours that balmy afternoon. But he was also just one man out of those 90,000 and spoke for twenty minutes of the three hour program. If there is a story to be told, it is not the story of him standing on stage, but of the pedestrians on the lawn.

The Crusade was in the park surrounding Shea Stadium, home of the Mets, and deep into Queens. Had this been twenty years ago, there would have been an ironic connection between the then sinful Times Square and the pious Crusade, as they are on opposite ends of the number 7 train. No such irony today.

I arrived via the 7 at about five minutes until the official start time of 3:00 p.m. I'd heard the metaphor "sea of people" before, but didn't understand how accurate it was until I saw, from the elevated train platform, the waves of people walking towards the park. Steps and obstacles would create gaps in the crowd, which would then fill in. The waves flowed forwards until they got beyond the confining walkways designed to coral people from the train to the stadium and park, then it dissipated as everyone went their own way to look for a chair or a shady piece of grass.

There were, from what I saw, four large sections of seating. The largest was the "real" one, where you could actually see the photos reflected from the real people on stage, instead of the massive teletron TVs; it was completely full and blocked off by fences and police by the time I arrived. One unlucky soul had to stand at the fork in the road that lead to the "real" area and tell people - over and over and over - that the section was full and that they needed to keep walking to the overflow area. "But, my family's in there. I'm just going to take a peek," or the smile and nod followed by total disregard for instructions...this is what this man with the mega-phone had to contend with for 3 hours straight. I was walking in circles around the park, so I saw him several times throughout the day. His demeanor went from polite to short to, frankly, bitchy. The last I heard he was throwing a temper tantrum into the megaphone saying, "Keep moving. Keep moving. This is not a standing area. You can't stand here. Go to the left. That's this way." The next time I saw him he was silent, megaphone by his side, and flanked by three police officers on motorcycles.

Wandering around the event - every where but the off-limits area - I was struck by how few white people there were. I'd estimate that less than 20% of the people in the overflow area were white, and the bulk of those were student church groups. There were probably an equal to slightly less number of black families, with the overwhelming majority being Asian and Hispanic. I've since learned that Flushing, the district in Queens where this took place, is home to the largest Chinese community in NYC and one of the largest Korean communities. Queens in general is also very diverse, and thus could've contributed to the demographics at the event. I'd accept location as the only explanation, except for two things. First, I was one of eight white people on a very full subway car that went all the way from Times Square to Shea's Stadium, and lost only a handful of people along the way. What I'm saying is that even starting in the heart of Manhattan, Mr. Graham's audience was not very white. Second, before the Crusade was over - but after Mr. Graham had concluded his sermon - people started to leave, started to speed walk towards the subway. Those people where mostly white. At the subway platform (yes, I was one of the most speedy), the entire platform was filled with white people. I'm not sure what to make of that. What does that say about the cultural differences among races in New York City? Are the whites busier? Less religious? Or did they just live farther away?

Before Billy Graham gave his sermon, there were many lesser figures on stage, though I didn't have the interest to really "watch" them all. I strolled and ate ice cream and took photos - as did many other people; it was a park after all - and then would glance up at a teletron from time to time to see what was playing. The first of those times I found the President of the Police Officers for Christ giving an insulting speech about 9/11. He certainly didn't intend it that way. The man lost many friends that day. He sought to honor them, but in so doing he cheapened them. Following his speech was a similar speech from the President of the Fire Fighters for Christ.

What I struggle to understand is how nearly four years after the fact, 9/11 is the only noteworthy act of heroism or patriotism. That string has been plucked so many times, by so many fingers, that its sound is dull and flat. The names of those lost are invoked for everything from anti-flag burning amendments to the entire war in Iraq. In fact, President Bush made that connection last night. If you want to play that game, ask this question. Do you think the victims of 9/11 would like their deaths to be used as a rhetorical device? I think the victims of 9/11 died a tragic death. All of them, civilians and civil servants should be remembered and honored, but their tragedy and heroism should not be a tool for furthering agendas nor should it eclipse the tragedy and heroism of today.

What I fail to understand is how the heroism of civil servants finds a home in a religious service at all. When you have an audience of 90,000 people from all walks of life, who've all come to hear a man speak of a Call to Christ, how does honoring a specific group of heroes fit with that theme? It can only be a tacit acknowledgement - perhaps even a subconscious acknowledgement - that we are fighting not a war against Terror, not a war against Iraq, but a Holy War against Muslims.

Not all the speakers were so serious. Most in fact were musical groups, playing rockish Christian songs. My particular favorite song was Dance With Jesus, not because of the song itself - though it was a catchy tune - but because a woman near where I was resting took the lyrics quiet literally.

She was forty-ish and plump wearing leather Keds, white socks folded over once, shorts and a t-shirt. She permmed her own hair. The up-tempo song said to dance, so she did, but not like one would expect. It was as if she were a young ballerina, who'd learned the most fundamental of foot moves, and decided to leave hand placement up to the wind. First she was a swan, flapping her wings in take off. Then she was a tree swaying in the breeze. I think once she was cloud floating through the sky, but it could've been an impression of earth's elliptical orbit around the sun. All this she did standing in place. Her feet moved, but only to point her toes, to move through first, second, third positions and then return. If she put her left foot directly in front of her right, her arms would do the sweeping swan and then she would spin around 180 degrees. At any other time, any other place, you would think she was nuts, or at the very least an awful dancer. But here, at this Crusade, she showed us all what it means to internalize Jesus' teachings and be "like a child", because that what she was. From the expression on her face to the uncoordinated limbs, she was a five-year-old dancing in her front yard, oblivious to the eyes of the world.

I was tired of wandering, tired of standing in the sun, so with less than an hour remaining I found a nice patch of grassy shade behind a row of senior citizens in their own chairs along the paved footpath's edge. We could see and hear the teletron from our vantage point, but were not actually in the designated seating area; there was no shade in those areas.

The leader of the senior citizens was a kind of reverend. At first glace I would say Catholic - he wore a stiff white collar on a black shirt - but the woman to his right (he sat on the far left end of the row) interacted with him as if she were his wife, so perhaps Episcopalian. Regardless, he played the part of tour guide for this line of thirteen people, likely members of his congregation. When a speaker would take the podium, the Reverend would explain the man's connection to Billy Graham - if any - and other such banter. When George Shea (an original member of the Billy Graham Crusade and author of the hymn How Great Thou Art, which he was there to sing) appeared on the teletron, the Reverend said, "I remember seeing him in '55," in a tone that emphasized the "I" far more than the "him". His congregation gave him nods of admiration down the row. Then came the scandal.

A man with a heavy beard and long hair in a ponytail walked in front of the row from left to right - from Reverend to the other end - with a pamphlet extended in his hand. This man and many others like him had been there all day passing out literature on their beliefs and on Billy Graham. I'll tell you who they are and what they believe, but first we'll finish the scene.

The bearded man extended the pamphlet and the entire line of chairs stiffened and fell mute. The bearded man smiled and offered it at a walking pace to everyone in the row, until finally the last women in the line extended her hand to take it. Obviously she was not aware that her companions had turned to ice cubes at the bearded man's approach, nor did she hear the Reverend shouting - yes, shouting - "Sharon! Sharon! Sharon!" which I took to be her name. She clasped the pamphlet in her fingers, completed the transaction, and the bearded man kept on walking.

The Reverend bellowed down the row to Sharon, disgust across his face, "That's CULT stuff!"

Sharon must've not understood how serious that was. She didn't throw it down or set it on fire or pass out or anything. She just held on to it, looked at it, and even started to open the first page. The Reverend gave a double-chin shaking nod to his wife/companion, who jumped up and ran down the line of people to snatch the pamphlet from Sharon's hands. She returned just as quickly, but this time held the pamphlet out to her side like a dirty diaper. She threw it into a plastic bag the Reverend had ready, a bag which contained many more of those pamphlets, some of them torn into shreds.

Again, Sharon was slow to comprehend the gravity of the situation. She didn't call for the Holy Water Hand Wipes, nor did she even have the tact to thank Reverend's Helper for snatching the cult pamphlet from her hand. She just sat there and looked perplexed. Reverend had to call her down for a chat.

"Sharon, that was cult material. They pervert the gospel. They make it look like they have something to do with Billy Graham, but it's just a cult." She nodded and went back to her seat.

So who is this nefarious cult spreading evil at Billy Graham's Crusade? They call themselves the The Twelve Tribes, though it's not a claim to be THE twelve tribes of Israel, but rather a reference to the fact that they have communities in twelve geographic regions (and of course, it is also a reference to the twelve tribes of Israel, no matter what their website says). I'd seen many of them on the way in, and even stopped to talk to one about his beard. He seemed like a nice guy, and told me that they - his church - believes God created man with a beard, so man should not shave it off just to suit social norms. What else do they believe?

They live in communes and sell crafts and produce. They make their own clothes. They believe that faith alone is not enough, works are also needed (The faith v. faith/work debate is as old as Christianity; some say faith in Christ is enough to be saved, others say faith and works, i.e. doing what the Bible says you should do, are both necessary; hardly a cultish belief.) They don't own TVs, and they do home school their children. They think Billy Graham is great, but would like to see more sincere, long term conversions than the mass Calls to Christ, which get tabulated on the Graham Score Card. Perhaps their most "cultish" belief is that they believe Heathen's - people who never had a chance to hear the Gospel - don't go to hell by default, but that is hardly an unique belief either. Overall, they seem a lot like modern day Amish, but with the use of electricity. Are the Amish a dangerous cult? They were certainly seen as such when they started, so I guess there is not much difference in that regard either.

On my way out of the park, I saw members of the Twelve Tribes dancing and old fashioned circle dance. I'm sure it has a name, but I don't know what it would be. It seemed wholesome, and certainly no goats and alters in the middle. Those not dancing were pleasantly chatting with interested passersbys. Their children played tag in the open field.

It seemed to me then ironic, almost comic, that the community that most embodied Christ's teachings, that lived the closest to the Bible, was branded a cult by those who presented themselves as devout followers of the main event, Billy Graham, a man who undoubtedly would've welcomed them all to worship as brothers.

NYC - Days 8 -12

It doesn't take long for the novel feeling of being a visitor to be replaced by the mundane feeling of being a resident. One can only spend so many nights in a bed and bathe so many times in a shower before each becomes as familiar as his own. I'm at that point. That's neither a bad thing nor a good thing - one is not preferable to the other - but it has impacted how I've spent the past four days.

A visitor spends his hours visiting points of interest. A resident spends his free hours socializing with friends and watching movies. A visitor experiences the world as a string of destinations. A resident as a string of experiences. During these past four days I've seen almost no landmarks and have done very little, where doing something is measured in terms of ticket stubs and photos taken. But I’ve nonetheless managed to have more intense experiences than any others I've had on this trip. Three experiences in particular - spaced no more than one a day - are The Banquet, The Dakota and The Crusade.

The Banquet

I was walking south on 9th avenue, returning from an excursion to the diplomatic residences on the East Side, when I passed The Grand Sichuan restaurant. Of the scores of "Chinese" restaurants in this section of Manhattan - at least one a block - this was the first one to strike me as something more than Canto-American Barffet. First off, there was the name - Da Sichuan. Then there was the wooden facade, large round tables inside. The menu seemed authentic enough, and there were reviews pasted to the windows confirming my hunch. This was a real Sichuan restaurant.

I made a reservation for 8:30 the next day, and went back to the apartment to invite my hosts to a Chinese banquet. They, of course, accepted.

The next morning I went back to order the evening's meal (as one does when hosting a banquet). I'll spare you the menu details, but I'll say that we had a full spread. Six dishes, soup, dessert and a delicious bottle of Wuliang Ye. The food was 98% authentic, and was well received by all. The Baijou was 100% authentic, and was...well, we had the customary san bei and called it an evening. Truthfully, the shot glasses were huge by baijiu standards, so we probably really had liu bei, but in three drinks. I thought it was classy stuff, but Tom and Arian's shoulder convulsions after each swallow said otherwise. I guess it's an acquired taste.

It was great to have a real Sichuan meal again, but even more rewarding was watching the logistics of the meal - dishes served at a reasonable pace, chopsticks to prevent speedy eating, baijiu to lubricate the conversation - transform what elsewhere might've been a hurried ingestion of sustenance into an evening of good company.

The Dakota

Yesterday I watched two movies, Rosemary's Baby and Imagine, a movie about John Lennon. Two movies in one day might seem excessive, but Tom and Arian were stricken with the after-effects of baijiu and Sichuan food, and thus were in no hurry to leave the house. Moreover, it was muggy and stale outdoors, which deterred us all from hitting the streets.

Rosemary's Baby is set in the Dakota building on 72nd and Central Park West, though they call it by something else in the movie. If you've never seen the movie, suffice it to say that the beautiful Mia Farrow gives birth to Satan's spawn, and, in the last scene, is left to decide whether she'll raise him as her own or disown him, her husband and his devil worshiping friends. It's a dark, psychological horror film that makes the Dakota out to be the HQ for Satan's witches. As if the story wasn't spooky enough, the pregnant wife of the film's director was killed by Charles Manson the year after the movie was released.

John Lennon lived in the Dakota and was killed on its sidewalk while returning home late one evening. Both events are understandably large parts of the second movie we saw that day.

That is to say, in one day we inadvertently saw two movies which feature the Dakota as a place of grave misfortune. We had to see this place for ourselves.

Tom and I set out for the Dakota at 4:30 pm, but through a very random, incidental set of circumstances, didn't actually arrive there until 1:20am. A full yellow moon, no one on the streets, this massive, mysterious building with gargoyles and iron gates flanked by gas candelabras. I was glad to leave.

The Crusade

Today was the last day of Billy Graham's last crusade. I was there. I have a lot to say about this, but I'm going to save it for later. I'm tired of writing.

NYC - Days 2 - 7

Manhattan is a walker's paradise. By walker I don't mean one who walks briskly in spandex shorts and headbands in hopes of buring away surplus calories - though there are places here for that crowd as well; I speak of one who takes pleasure in transporting himself through his own powers, one who likes to live in the world and not just drive though it, one whose stride and pace reflect his mood.

Manhattan is an obese man's hell, or at least the cause of his financial ruin. There are buses and subways and taxis, very true, but they none can match the benefits of a fast gait. The buses are slow and stop frequently; the subway is fast, but stops are too few to be of use for a short commute; taxis, of course, are expensive. Walking is cost free and stop free and goes exactly where you want.

That's not to say that walkers don't use the public transportation, but it's only useful when traveling distances of at least twenty blocks, and even then - depending on where you are - it might be better to walk.

The result, if only by neccessity, is that almost everyone who lives in Manhattan is a walker. The sidewalks are always bustling with understandably fit adults who deftly weave around each other. I've yet to see an obese man (probably in the taxis). Street-side storefronts thrive on these passerbys and indoor mega-malls are seemingly non-existant. Cell phones and iPods mark the many walkers who are tired of their thoughts. And the "walk" and "don't walk" signs seem rather to indicate "no need to look" and "might glance before crossing".

Personally, I've walked more miles in these past five days than I've walked in the nine months I've been in Indiana since leaving China. In addition to purposeful walks - walks with a destination in mind - I also have taken some mammoth "strolls", for example last evening I walked from 46th to Battery Park and back, which is well over one-hundred blocks roundtrip, and loved every step.

In between walks, I've done a lot. I haven't done much in the way of sight-seeing (though I've walked through many of the more recognizeable parks and squares); most of my time has been spent either working with Waterwell - setting up the stage, selling tickets, running errands, brianstorming ideas for the big move to the new theatre - or socializing with the people in the troupe. I guess you could say I'm spending my time more like I live here and less like I'm visiting, a long-term idea that is growning on me.

NYC - Day 1

For years I've been meaning to visit New York. I've finally made it happen, converted intent into action, and am now writing this post from Hell's Kitchen, where some old roomates of mine live and where I'll be staying this fortnight.

One day down and thirteen to go, I feel the traveller in my bones start to re-awaken. NYC is trully the greatest city on earth. Greatest in the sense that the advantages people attibute to cities - entertainment, diversity, public transportation, etc - have all been distilled to the point that Manhattan is more like micro-world than a city.

Yesterday, the offical day one, I charmed the staff of a Thai restraunt with my spicy eating skills. I even went so far to respond to their concerns about the food being to spicy, by saying "I don't think its spicy at all," which coupled with my dexterous chopstick usage and dashing good looks prompted a secretive conversation between the husband/wife owners about how I might be the perfect husband for their daughter.

After that I headed uptown to the Museum of Natual History. Truthfully, I overshot by about 40 blocks because the train I took - one of three that run right by the Museum - didn't actually stop at the museum. I got off in Harlem and headed back Downtown on the right train.

The Musuem of Natual History has significance for me beyond its contents, significance that I might not be able to communicate, because it was there that a young Joseph Campbell - a teacher, scholar and author on the common threads of world mythology - was inspired to begin his life's work. I won't say that the Museum similarly inspired me, but I did spend quite a bit of time examining the development of written languages. Overall I found the museum depressing; it was case after case of dieing cultures, animals and habitats.

After the Museum I came back to my friends' apartment and started to catch up on old times. They're doing well, so well in fact that they're trying to move their current show (they have a theater company) to a larger, more well known venue in hopes of snaring a NY Times reivew. The catch is they need twenty thousand dollars to make it happen; twelve thousand in a week. Any one want to donate?

www.waterwell.org

Well, I'm off for another day of adventure.

Precious Privacy

The Problem

Postcards provide no privacy -- their content is accessible to any literate who comes across them -- and knowing that, we tailor our message to the medium. We write about how "nice" the vacation is going, and some of us might even spill our guts about a secret tryst (thinking anonymity is as good as privacy), but few would pen a personal, involved letter on an opened-faced post card. Even fewer would send business correspondence on a placard. Personal data like credit card numbers, pins, SSN? Never! For private material we use envelopes and even security envelopes. And of course we sign everything for authentication. On top of that, we've enacted very strict laws against opening others' mail. Clearly, we value our privacy and are concerned that it could be violated.

Likewise, emails provide no privacy -- their content is accessible and alterable to any literate who comes across them -- but unaware of that, we feel free to write whatever we want. Understand, email is the electronic equivalent of a postcard. The address and the message are written side-by-side in plain, legible text, and anyone along the way -- that's from the time it leaves your computer until it gets to my computer -- can grab that email and read it like a postcard.

I suspect some readers just rolled their eyes at me and thought, "Oh geez, Andy. Why do you have to be so paranoid? No one is going to read your email." I don't think anyone uninvited is reading my email (not while I live in this country, at least), because the owners of the easiest entry-points -- ISPs, corporate networks, email hosts, etc. -- operate on good faith. It's bad business for them to violate our privacy. (It's worth noting that many corporations do already scan their employees' email for "inappropriate" material.) However, I know that someone could read my email. And when I say "someone could", I don't mean some nefarious techno-wizard who's spent years perfecting his hackz on the FBI before attempting to snare our precious email -- I mean anyone who can use Google to research a few rudimentary techniques. The only thing protecting us at the moment is our anonymity.

I also suspect some readers are thinking, "I don't have anything to hide." For 99% of the emails I send, the fact that someone could read them (and alter them) isn't a concern. It was probably just some stupid BS to one of you guys anyway; a third-party alteration might liven it up. But there is that one email out of a hundred that I would like to be certain was read by only the addressee. Maybe it's personal, maybe it's financial, or maybe it's a courtesy to a customer or friend. Whatever the reason, situations exists where a postcard is unacceptable. A signed, dated, security envelope is needed.

Partial Solution

It might seem ironic to some, but Gmail protects your privacy better than its competitors by offering an https version of their site. Https is like http (as in http://this.website.com), but the s means secure. Techno babble aside, it's the same technology that is used to secure online shopping and encrypted passwords. If you use Gmail and login at https://gmail.google.com, the communication between you and Gmail will be encrypted, and consequently far, far less vulnerable to being waylaid along the cyber-road. The actual message, however, is only encrypted while in transit to Gmail; once it's there, it comes to live as a normal, postcard-esque email, which could be read by a disgruntle Gmail employee.

In addition to the disgruntle employee problem, this solution doesn't add much security unless both the sender and the recipient use the secure version of Gmail. Otherwise, it's like putting a postcard in an envelope that the post office removes before they send it on.

If you were certain that your messages were being intercepted between Gmail and your home computer (like if you lived in a prying, communist country), this method would be useful, but it's not a total privacy solution. It's a partial solution at best.

Total Solution

To ensure the privacy of that one-in-a-hundred email, you have to encrypt it before it ever leaves your computer. Yes, this involves installing new software, no it's not (too) hard. Most likely all you'll need is a plug-in for your existing email client.

Maybe you've heard of PGP (pretty good privacy) or GnuPG (an open-source alternative to PGP). They use "keys" to encrypt/decrypt a file (an email file, for example). Every user has two keys, a public key which he gives to his friends and a private key which he keeps secret forever and ever. If I want to send you a message, I encrypt it with your public key and you then decrypt it with your private key. Vice versa if you want to send me something. Also included in the software is a means to authenticate (it's really me) and validate (it's unaltered) the message.

As I'm sure you just deduced -- unlike the physical world -- both parties have to participate to make the system work. I can't send you an encrypted message and then phone you a password later. It doesn't work like that. So what do you need to do to begin protecting your privacy?

First, go here: http://www.gnupg.org/(en)/index.html This is the website for GnuPG, and the software we're going to use (because it's free). Download the program and then find your email client from this list and download the plug-in needed to make GnuPG work with your email client (Outlook, Outlook Express, Mozilla, etc).

Note: You can use GnuPG to crypt any type of file you chose. You could encrypt your secret treasure map with your own public key, burn it to disc, and sleep soundly knowing that you are the only person who can recall the map.

Once you've installed the software (you can find directions for your particular email client) and created your public key, you'll have the option to encrypt new emails with other people's public keys. If it's just an everyday email, you won't even have to think about GnuPG or any other weird acronyms. If you want an added measure of privacy, you can encrypt it.

If you've read this far, you probably recognize the need for occasional email encryption, you're not averse to giving the software a try, but you're stuck on one final problem: You don't know anyone with PGP/GnuPG, so even if you wanted to, you wouldn't have the occasion to use it. That's exactly why you need to get this software! It's gotta start with you and me sending secret-decoder ring messages back and forth, and then maybe one day the technology will be widespread enough, standardized enough, that we have the same kind of privacy in the digital world that we have in the physical world.

Meeting the Meat

Most of us enjoy meat. We buy it by the pound, cook it by the grill-full, and eat it by the slab. As a culture, we've established meat as the cornerstone of a square meal; a supper without meat is a plate full of "sides". True, scientists have urged us to temper our carnivorous lust - saturated fat, cholesterol, all that bad stuff - so we ostensibly eschew beef and bacon and sausage and eat skinless chicken and fish, but secretly wish we lived in the culinary bliss of 1950. Imagine eating your favorite cardiac disasters - juicy steak, greasy bacon, piping hot huiguorou - guilt free. Fatty, moist, savory meat sates in a way produce never will.

Most of us know that the animals which provide us with the meat we enjoy live lives less than happy. Cows muck around in cramped excrement quagmires euphemistically called "feedlots" (nice to focus on the "in" instead of the "out"...shitlot doesn't roll off the tongue). Each species of animal has its own special brand of horror, but that's old news. It's a pity, but we need our meat.

Yes, there are alternatives; animals that grow up in the beautiful out-of-doors, that eat a healthy balanced diet, that aren't injected with hormones and antibiotics, that get their brains bashed in and heads cut off in a friendly, wholesome manner. Certainly the latter is more healthy for the end consumer, but a friendly headbashing is probably just as lethal as an impersonal one. Happy or sad, the animal is slated for death.

And we - in a distant, capitalist sense - are its executioners. Every time we buy a pack of chicken from the store, a live chicken must be killed to fill the void.

This is not meant as an accusation. No fingers are being pointed, no clothes being shed for the next PETA naked protest. I don't weep at the butchers nor do I expect you to. My point is that you and I and everyone else who has ever purchased meat have contributed to the death of an animal. There once was a cow living on a farm, and today that cow is dead because of you, because of me. In a way, we killed it.

What if that distant, impersonal, industrial "way" was replaced by a very first person slaughter? What if every time you wanted chicken, you had to physically slaughter a chicken? What if when you wanted beef, you had to slaughter a cow? Would you do it?

This is a hypothetical scenario, so let me fill in the details. At your local grocer, instead of packages of butchered meat, they have cages of live animals. You point to a chicken , which the butcher pulls out by legs and wings and fits its head into a groove exposing its neck. All you have to do is slit its throat and move on to the cereal aisle. Would you do it? All you have to do is plunge the pneumatic killing-rod into the skull of a cow then walk away. The butcher will do the rest. (And of course, in this scenario there is no other way to get meat. You can't go to the next store and buy prepackaged meat.)

If you had to meet that animal - see it move, breathe, live - would you kill it for its flesh?

Let me highlight a fact for the male readers who just answered in an offhand, macho tone "I'd kill any animal for my survival." In 13th century Serbia, animal flesh was most likely necessary for one's survival. In 21st century America, that is not the case. Untold thousands in this country eat a healthy, delicious, flesh free diet. You would not be killing for your survival, you'd be killing for your palate, for BBQ chicken wings.

I predict that the answers to this hypothetical will fall into three camps: 1) Those who certainly would not. They are either already vegetarians or comfortable with their hypocrisy. 2) Those who certainly would. They've either already killed animals or truly know they wouldn't hesitate. 3) Those who say they would, who think they would, but are secretly thankful it is impractical to test their honesty.

A week ago I was a Type 3, who's since become a Type 1 (vegetarian, not hypocrite) but with aspirations of being a Type 2.

If you laid a knife on the table before me and said, "The only way you'll ever eat meat again is by using this knife to slit the throat of an animal," I would be a vegetarian (again, with the assumption that I have access to modern American supermarkets; I'd kill any animal for my survival). If you gave me a gun, there is a distant, faint glimmer of a chance that I would use it, and I'm thinking hunting more than barnyard execution. At least that is sporting.

What about you? What type are you?

Firefox Burns Ads

This is an easy-to-follow guide on how to make your Internet experience, safer, faster, more private and pleasing.

I rarely post about software or computer stuff (there was the post about Skype), not because I don't have anything to say on the issue, but because I know you ten readers have little (to no) interest; you have your software, your routines, and there is no need for Andy's tool-of-the-day to go dorking up your computer. But this one is worth it...I'm serious.

1. Use Firefox

Firefox is an internet browser. It's better than Internet Explorer on many fronts, both technically and practically. It's safer. It's faster. It's easier have several pages open at once. It prevents most all spyware. (What is spyware?)

For a full account on why you should use Firefox instead of Internet Explorer, read this.

Follow this link to download Firefox. Once there, Look in the top right hand corner.

Once you've installed Firefox, you might find this guide helpful to make the switch. I don't think you'll need it, but just in case.

2. Hate Ads

I hate internet ads and you should too. Those flashing, blinky, garish ad banners are an eyesore at the top and side of almost every major site on the net today, an inconvienence to be scrolled beyond every time you load a new page. More importantly they are stealing valuable bandwidth. Here is an example:

I chose a page at random from nytimes.com. When I loaded it the ads were 40 kilobytes of a 194 kilobyte page total -- 20 percent of the page.. If you use a high-speed connection the extra wait is probably imperceptible - at least for the moment. If you use dial-up, those ads just cost you an extra one or two seconds.

So how do you get rid of ads? Well, if you insist on using Internet Explorer, the method for preventing ads is more complicated than someone who insists on using Internet Explorer would be willing to do...so for the sake of simplicity, we'll just say you can't do it. Sorry, you'll just have to live with them. If you're using Firefox, it's shamefully simple.

2. Block Ads

Once you've installed Firefox, you'll need to go here and download Adblock. You must go to this link using Firefox.

Adblock lets you prevent your browser from visiting certain sites. Since web sites are pulling their ads from the same sources over and over, if you block the sources once, you've blocked ads from that site forever. You don't spend time downloading things you don't want to see.

After you've installed Adblock (remember: you'll need to close Firefox and re-open to finish the install), load a site with lots of ads. You'll see these little grey tabs that say "Block this ad" (or something like that) around all the advertisements. If you don't see the tab, just right-click the add and you'll see the same option in the menu bar.

Click the button and you'll see a very long, very complete address come up in a display window. I suggest reducing that to any obvious smaller element. For example, if the address is http://ads.doubletree.com/blah/blha/blah/3423098fsdf-1.jpg -- you should just chop it off to http://ads.doubletree.com then you'll block all the ads from that address instead of just that one particular one.

I know, I know...it could get really tiring blocking address for every page you visit. There is a faster way. You can import a pre-made list of criteria to block ads.

The brilliant minds at The Adblock Project Forum have complied a text file that balances effectiveness and speed. Will it block every ad forever? No, not likely. But it will block the vast majority. And for the occasional few it misses, you can add those manually.

Save this text file to your computer.

Open Firefox (after you've installed Adblock) and hit ctrl+shift+p. Then click Adblock Options, then Import Filters, then of course chose the text file you just saved to your computer. And that's it.

You'll have a faster, safer, more private internet experience uncluttered by blinking, binding billboards.

China Waking

I've previously posted several links to articles that outline China's growing economic foundation and America's resultant dependancy on it.

This op/ed piece puts those figures in the larger context, namely that China is playing to win. That their growing power isn't an economic fluke founded soley on a surplus of cheap labor, but a concerted effort on all fronts to become a superpower. Think about that while doing your Christmas shopping.

Click here to read the Op/Ed

The Third Friday of April

Along the far wall of the Riverton Middle School cafetorium, several feet beyond the lunch-line register and directly under the painted horseman mascot, the school's Environmental Club was selling saplings for Arbor Day. Derek approached the end of the line, picked up a skim milk, and heard a delicate yet heartfelt "Help save the world," followed by a forced mid-pubescent bass, "Buy a tree!" in a tone which implicitly added a derogatory, "bitch." Either convinced or coerced, most students with a dollar bought one.

One dollar seemed a decent sum to Derek's sixth grade mind, but a chance to save the world came cheaply at that price. With feigned disinterest he mumbled a, "Sure." He handed over the dollar and she handed back his own jack pine sapling, short needles on a flimsy trunk, moist roots stuffed in a tiny plastic sack. "You need to plant it soon," she called as he walked away. "Uh huh," as he dangled the bag from a free finger under a lunch tray laden with tater-tots and soggy rectangular pizza.

He left the tree in his locker until school was out. When that time came, he hastily dropped it inside his book bag and zipped it shut. He rode the bus home without incident.

At home he gently pulled the tree out to tend to it. He gave it water, even though it wasn't dry. He propped it up on the counter near the window to give it light and air. As he stared at it, its potential, his mind was racing with one question, "Where should I plant it?" There were so many factors to consider. The obvious factors of adequate light and water were complicated with aesthetics and permission - after all it wasn't his yard. The whole issue was doubly complicated for his young mind because, while he knew that these things were factors, he didn't have enough experience to know what was important for each. Just how much sunlight does a jack pine need? He took a nap to find some answers.

His mom returned home from work while he slept. When he came out of his bedroom she asked, "Is that your tree?" "Yeah, I got it at school. It cost a dollar. It was for Arbor Day today, for the Environmental Club's fundraiser," he replied, answering all potential questions in one breath. "Where are you going to plant it?" his mother asked. "I'm not sure. I haven't decided," was his distant answer. "Well, you need to plant it soon." He looked at the floor. He took the tree and went to his room to ponder.

He could only imagine the worst in each location. Scorching in the southern sun, freezing in the northern winter, being stifled near the house, getting mowed down in the open. He had no experience and would ask for no advice; he chose to reason with his musings.

Hidden in his room, he debated all Saturday and brooded all Sunday and still he broke no ground. The lustrous, supple needles waned to dull, brittle stalks. The pine scent faded to nothing. Sunday night he went to sleep praying for answers. Monday morning he had one. The tree was dead.

Its death gave birth to blameful, subjunctive fantasies. What he would have done, if he'd not been given such a weak tree. If only his yard had been more suitable. Its death gave relief but not release. His problem had been solved but not resolved. He threw away the dead tree, washed his hands, and got on the bus to school as normal.

Time passed and the third Friday of April came again. Derek approached the end of the line, picked up a skim milk, and heard a mature and heartfelt "Help save the world," followed by a bassy, "Buy a tree!" He hesitated. One dollar seemed a decent sum to Derek's mind. He swelled with the coward's bitter courage, "Why? So it can die? I'd rather not waste my money." He stood there, hoping she'd ask him again, that'd she try to persuade him to reconsider. She didn't. She was too busy selling trees. He stood there still, lost. The bass broke the silence, "Get lost, bitch."

Feed n' Seed

He fell through the door and limped across the empty waiting room to the reception window. He pointed his revolver at the one nurse behind the counter.

"I need a doctor. Don't touch the telephone. I'll shoot your pretty face."

She took her hand off the ear piece and started to cry. He reached over the counter and yanked the thick black phone cable from the wall.

"Is the doctor here?" he crescendoed from whimper to shout.

"The doctor is eating lunch."

"Well, if it wouldn't inconvenience you, do you think you could tell him there is a man here who's been shot. Go!"

The nurse swiveled in her chair and ran like she was wearing a skirt, even though she wasn't, to the first of two examine rooms. She knocked before entering.

As he came out the nurse pointed towards the wounded man and flapped her hand up and down at her assailant.

The doctor beckoned, "Would you mind coming around back here? Into the examining room to get a better look at you."

The wounded man limped back across the waiting room, streaking the blood that he'd dripped when he first came in, then locked the main door.

"Both of you in that room," he barked. "You think I'm an idiot." The gun was brandished some more.

The doctor put his arm on the nurse's shoulder and guided her into the exam room. The limping man slumped his way around the reception and back to the exam table. The exam rooms had no locks, so he swore loudly and pumped his fists to convince them that he really would shoot them if they tried to leave.

He sat on the edge of the table supporting his weight with his right leg. He lifted the left leg up with the doctor's help then threw his body back to get the other leg up. The table was smeared in bright blood. His face was equally red.

"What do we have here?" the doctor asked, even though a shotgun wound to the back of the left thigh was clearly visible.

"I got shot by a shot gun," he dutifully answered. Being on the table, for an instant he felt like a patient. "Is it bad?"

"You'll be fine. Don't worry." he lied. His leg would certainly need amputated; the shot had shattered the bone. It was incredible he could even limp.

"Who did this to you?"

"What does it matter who did this to me? Fix it."

"Well, I can't just fix it. It's a big wound. You're losing a lot of blood. I would call the ambulance, but you took care of the phone."

"No calls. I'm not going to no hospital. You'll fix me here."

"Listen, I can't just patch you up."

"I'll make you a deal, you fix me up and get me back on my feet and I won't shoot this pretty nurse in her pretty face. How's that sound, doc?" He pointed the gun at her and imitated a coy, girlish smile.

"Sure, I think I can fix you up. Nurse, would you get me the morphine." She drew a syringe full.

"What's the morphine for? I don't need no morphine? You think I'm an idiot? You trying to drug me?"

"It will help with your pain."

"Who's feeling pain. I don't feel no pain."

"You'll need to roll over then, on your stomach."

"Get over here on the floor and lay down," the wounded man ordered the nurse. She did and he rolled over on the table. His gun extended downwards towards the floor and her face.

"First I'm going to clean out the shot from the area. This might hurt."

"I don't feel no hurt. Get a move on it."

The doctor began to remove the lead pellets from the man's muscle with forceps. The wounded man grimaced in pain.

"Who did this to you?" the doctor asked again.

"Damn it, what does it matter? Some thug at that Feed n' Seed."

The doctor stopped cleaning. The nurse stopped crying.

"Is he okay," the nurse asked lying on the floor.

"I had the cash and was leaving when the bastard shot me in the leg. I planted one right in his chest."

He would have half-chuckled except the doctor injected the morphine deep into his thigh. The man craned his neck to protest as the nurse slid out from under the barrel and grabbed the man's wrist with both her hands. The doctor added his muscle to the struggle, but the wounded man's resolve quickly faded into happier thoughts.

The doctor grabbed his emergency bag and followed the sprinting nurse to his car.

"He'll be fine, Susan, don't worry," he said as they sped towards her husband at Feed n' Seed.

The Gang

When I was in fourth grade, I was in a gang. This was back in the 80s and in rural Illinois, so you shouldn't think that we had guns or knives or anything more than fourth grader fists. I hesitate to say we even had those. The only thing we really had to set us apart from the civilians was a loose dress code -- BK shoes and OP clothes whenever possible. It wasn't a rule, but Jade set the tone and we followed suit. Jade was the leader.

No one ever said, "Hey Jade, you're the leader." But one doesn't need to say those things. He was simply a superior rebel. He was the first to have the double-tailed skateboard and the first to wear the Tony Hawk hair cut. Not that we were skaters; He was the only one who could stay on his board for more than ten feet. But it was that ten feet that set him above us. He'd cuss, and we'd cuss. He'd draw obscene pictures and we'd wonder What is that?, then try to draw obscene pictures too. It was clear that Jade was as cool, as tough, as confident as a fourth grader could be, and we, like so many children and men, thought imitation would mold us in his form.

We weren't a large gang, no more than 5 or 6 people at any time depending on which marginal characters Jade let hang around that day, but our combined talents made us formidable. Jade was the unflinching Iceman. Tom and Mike were brutes whom Jade rescued from being common bullies. And I was the counselor, schemer, some might say instigator for the group. Take, for instance, the Suspension Bridge incident.

The playground equipment was divided into two sections connected by one single wooden suspension bridge, the kind with thick planks and chains that make heavy clinky noises when you run across. Not only was it a coveted piece of equipment in its own right, it was also a critical component of every decent playground circuit. I suggested that by selectively allowing some to pass and denying others, we could create a schoolyard aristocracy, over which Jade would rule.

The first day Tom had to shove someone off the bridge to illustrate our sincerity. I smoothed that over with the teachers. Afterwards, those permitted to pass - those who didn't have to be demeaned by jumping off into the mulch and climbing back up the other side of the playground - were elevated in the eyes of their peers. We gave the existing Nobles the freedom to cross with guests of their choosing, further entrenching them in our status granting system. Within a few days, the object of recess was not to play but to try to earn the right to cross the bridge.

Bribes, favors, threats, all forms of coercion were used trying to cross that bridge. Every other day a wet-eyed 3rd grader would threaten to tell the teacher, which of course got him a visit from a Noble who held his privileges dear. No one ever tattled.

That is until Mario transferred into our school. Mario's arrival spawned a competing Kingdom under the basketball goal, which eventually led to a brutal playground war that ultimately led to my leaving Jade's gang. But that's another story for another time.

A Photographer

This Sunday morning was like the rest.

He left his small rental house before dawn on foot wearing a pocketed vest that held one unopened roll of Kodachrome film, a 72mm polarizing filter and a gray card. From his right shoulder hung an empty second-hand Nikon 6006 fitted with a 35-70 zoom lens. Under the vest he wore an outfit that approximated something he saw a National Geographic photographer in India wearing, except his was clean and pressed and purchased at Wal-Mart. He wore Velcro shoes. Left hand in vest pocket, right hand resting on suspended camera, he walked the three blocks to the river, hoping to capture a magical fog-bridge-sunrise.

He believed a camera could capture truth unseen with a living eye, that an instant isolated from its event, frozen in silvery cellulose to be mulled and measured, would reveal a character of life hidden behind daily distractions, that in fully empathizing with the entirety of an instant, then perhaps one day he could, if only for an instant, empathize with all of entirety. Or at least he read something like that in a book once. He'd read quite a lot about photography in preparation for the day he'd find something to photograph.

Weekly he'd walk the streets of his Midwestern town, his rambling internal dialogue humming so trite and if only I had good Northern light and her face is so bland. He'd stroll the circuit every weekend never taking a picture. Saturday morning sunrises were so done and Sunday evening church crowds were contrived. Sunday morning bridges were blasé, or in his mind bla-say. It was either too cloudy or too sunny or the water wasn't still enough. When shafts of sunrise would penetrate the fog in that heavenly motif we've all seen, he'd refrain from wasting film on something so well documented. He was looking for a real moment, not a postcard.

At the bridge he began to talk:

There is some potential here if only the hues would intensify. That barge doesn't frame well with the diagonals in the bridge. It's a mismatch, always a mismatch. Vertical lines, horizontal lines. I'm looking for composure, symmetry, something like sincere harmony.

His ramblings brought a reply:

You gonna scare off the fish, complained a scrawny grandpa sitting on a bucket, blue jeans dark blue and too long, rolled a full turn at the bottom, white t-shirt white no more and stretched to fit his former frame.

I'm a photographer, he snorted and walked towards town to find the church crowds.

Adversarial Ethics in Political Ads

One of the benefits of having smart friends is that one constantly learns new things. For example, this weekend from a lawyer friend I learned about the concept of adversarial ethics, a legal principle that says the attorneys for the plaintiff and defendant are ethically bound to do everything within the law to win the case for their side. Not only that, they are not personally accountable for their professional ethical actions. That is to say, telling half-truths, deliberately omitting facts, bashing the character of witnesses - all the things that give lawyers a bad reputation - are not only permitted but professionally required (should those things be of use in the trial) regardless of what the attorney's personal beliefs might be.

As shady as that might seem, the theory is that with both sides doing this, the independent third party -- a judge and/or jury - will better be able to see the truth. The ends justify the means, and the truth will come out in the wash.

Now map this mode of thought onto our recent deluge of slanted political ads. Each candidate plays both plaintiff and defendant, savagely attacking their opponent while nobly defending themselves. And we the voters are the independent third party who must decide between the two.

The problem is that we the voters do not live in a court room. We expect people in our daily lives to be more or less honest. We expect consumer TV ads to be factual. In fact there are laws to ensure they are. Is there any reason to expect political ads to be exempted from that standard? We know they are, but why?

Whether we've heard of "adversarial ethics" or not, we know politicians are perverting the facts. We know they want to win more than be fair. We assume they are toeing the line of legality. And for all those reasons we - at least on a conscious level - don't pay any attention to the ads. At least I hope no one pays attention to them. So why waste the money?

It's time for some accountability in political ads. Drug companies can't twist the truth by leaving out side effects. Why can politicians? Could it be because they write the laws? Or is it just because politicians - most being lawyers - have internalized the adversarial ethic so thoroughly they can't see opposition any other way.

Post Votum Syndrome

Today was my first time to vote at the polls. What a let down.

I didn't get to punch any holes or pull any levers. I only got to complete arrows with a "ballot pen." My "booth" was essentialy just a fold up counter. No doors or curtains. There were no lawyers at my poll, no one challenging my identity. All I had to do was say my name. There weren't even other voters except for one old lady.

Then there was the ballot itself. Half way through the ticket it became clear why people vote along party lines. Who do I want to be school superintendent? County coroner? City councilman-at-large? I have no idea. I've never even heard of these people before. I voted for one guy because he had a cool name. I voted for another because I recognized his name. I split my three choices for councilmen-at-large between the democrats, republicans and libertarians. Diversity is good, right? Should Judge So-and-so be retained? Sounds good to me. Should we pass a referendum to lower certain property taxes? Heck yeah, get rid of them taxes. Half my "votes" were really just fickle fancies of the moment. Am I bad citizen?

What's really scary is that I think I might've chosen a few high-level people (like governor) because of what the TV ads said. I looked at their names and the tag lines from attack ads popped into my head. I've been brainwashed.

Now that it's all over I want to go back down there and have another try. Now that I know what to expect, maybe I'll vote more responsibly.

Without a Paddle

The Beginning

Without the language life is hard. I stumbled through two years of Chinese forms and bills and formalities blabbering baby talk at kind workers. Not to sell myself short; I was good at small talk. But the nuts and bolts of civilization come with a massive amount of protocol and jargon that take determined effort and years of experience to master - neither of which I had - which meant that now and again when my life crossed the path of a bureaucrat, I'd be as helpless as a newborn in winter. Today I saw that newborn in America. And American winters are much, much colder.

"Ni hui shuo zhongwen?" I said.
"Hui a."
"You chuan cai mei you?"
"Sichuan?"
"Shi a."
"Youde."

So began my chat with the server at a local Chinese restaurant. She was from Fujian and seven months pregnant. She'd lived in America for two years but still only spoke a little English, her husband even less.

"Ni shi na guojiade?"
"Meiguode."
"Bu kenneng. Meigouren shuo zhongwen meiyou neme hao."
I smiled.

I ordered a dish off the menu (the buffet was looking scanky) and asked them to spice it up. I guess they don't eat spice in Fujian, because milk in Sichuan is spicier than this was. But hai keyi. I finished the dish and she came back to chat.

"Wo nengbuneng wen ni yige wenti?" she said. You always know there is a difficult question coming after that. She knew I was an English teacher in China, so I anticipated the question to come. Yes, she would like some help with English, maternity English in particular.

"You know, I'm going to have my baby soon. And I can't understand the doctor. And...I'd just like to have some idea of what to say at the hospital. I've been having headaches, and I don't know how to ask if it is a problem. I don't know about my baby's health." (All of which she said in Chinese, but that's starting to stretch my abilities to accurately reproduce, so I'll stick to English for now.) Would I give her some help with doctor office English? Of course, I would.

She went on to tell me about how people at the bank won't help her. How social services won't talk to her because, in her own English words, she has "No proof." Her husband has a driver's license, but who knows what they have beyond that.

I suggested she enroll in the local ESL program; it's free to county residents. She said she'd look into it, but was wondering if they'd require "proof."

After about an hour of chatting - 1/2 Chinese, 1/4 English and 1/4 where we just pretended to understand the other - I said I'd come back Thursday afternoon with a sheet of doctor's office vocab. She thanked me. I paid my bill and went on my way.

The Creek

Today was Thursday. I don't even know how to begin telling the latent tragedies in this tale.

We sat down at one of the many empty tables.

"I'm not sure exactly what to teach you because there are so many things to choose from. Maybe you could start with something you'd like to know."

"Okay," she offered, "Yesterday I went to the doctor and the nurse said I had..." and then she wrote out w...a...r...t...s .

I stifled my surprise and pulled my hands under the table.

She continued, "I asked if that was like "water" but she said no." They sounded the same in her Chinese accent. She punched the letters into her electronic dictionary, but the resulting Character didn't make any sense to her. (Those dictionaries are awful.) I looked it up in my trusty red pocket dictionary, showed it to her and she discretely dropped the subject.

I'd brought my PC lesson book and had opened it to Chapter 32 "Wo Bingle", which is mainly about getting diarrhea from lajio. Not to helpful for pregnancy. I'd also prepared a sheet of possible questions the doctor might ask and answers she might give. They were pretty basic and she already knew most of them. We talked about forms at the hospital; we sorted out once and for all should the xin come first or the geide mingzi. (I also learned she has no insurance.) Overall, things were looking good. I had the feeling that I was helping her navigate the maze called America. Then she whipped out the mail.

"I can't understand all these papers. Too many words. I don't know if they are important or not."

At first it was easy. Paid bills? Yes, keep the receipts for a while. Previous tenants mail? Not your problem...oh, you've been opening it? Don't do that anymore. Just mark it return to sender and forget about it. What's this, Indiana State Revenue Department? Oh..whooosh...just a silly form about industry codes changing and how you need to pick your new code and send it back. Wait a second, I asked, "Why do you have industry codes?"

It turns out she wasn't just a worker at this restaurant; she and her husband had bought it a month ago. I started to get nervous, for her or me, I wasn't sure.

The next letter, also from the Revenue Department, "Effective mm/dd/yy [date omitted for privacy] you are no longer authorized to conduct business at this location."

"Is this one important?" she asked.

I got my dictionary to look up a few key terms. I replied, "I am not an account. I am not a lawyer. This is not my job, so I can't be sure about any of this." Everyone knows bad news follows a C.Y.A. like that. I tried my best to explain what it said, to give reasons for why it might not be bad. "Maybe you have a new retail ID? This one is for the old owner." Right.
She looked sullen.

Then we got to "Your application for credit card processing has been denied." Clear enough to explain. But she countered, "I can process credit cards." I looked to the cryptic last paragraph. Something about "A processing of credit cards is not an agreement of terms but a matter of convenience.'" I couldn't make sense of it in English, let alone explain it in Chinese. Then came "Indiana Workforce Development" and workers comp.

"This is important if you pay workers money," I said, knowing that - despite the 4 other workers in the room - she would find that a relief and she cheered up a bit. I have a feeling meimei doesn't get paid cash.

Seven months pregnant, no health insurance, owner of a business of questionable legal status, herself of questionable legal status...what am I supposed to do? What should I do? There were phone numbers on those papers I could've called. But I'd known this woman for about 3 hours total. But then I thought of the ways people helped me in China. But then I think about what kind of legal situation do I put myself into. What kind of legal situation would I put them into, "Yes...I'm calling from the Chinese restaurant you closed down, we'll the new owner is just wondering why...uh huh...no, I don't think she has any kind of "proof". What? You're transferring me to INS?" More fundamental, what could I do if I even wanted to do something? I'm not Frances. I translated "no longer authorized to conduct business at this location" to "ni zeli buneng mai dongxi". That kind of translation does more damage than good.

We chatted a bit more. I asked about Chinese support groups in Louisville. She wasn't too sure where that was. It's the city of 300,000 people 10 minutes across the river. And then it came time for me to leave. The bearer of bad news should bow out sooner than later. As the door was closing I heard meimei say, "Kenneng ta deng yihuar gen women chi fan." At least one of them still likes me.

After I got home, I made a few calls. I got the number for the ESL program in town. I called the Crane House, an Asian cultural center which technically offers no immigrant services but - after some silver tongue wagging on my part - was willing to at least field a phone call (in Chinese) from the woman. I called her at the restaurant and gave her the two numbers. She said thanks, I hung up and have been writing this ever sense.

Zenme ban?

The Moral Majority

As a nation, how do we choose a president?

Do we thoughtfully weigh the issues?

1)What are the long-term implications of creating a national health care plan? Of not creating one?

2)What are the long-term consequences of our current war in Iraq?

3)What are the long-term effects of our 5 trillion dollar deficit?

4)How feasible is it now to assemble a coalition of nations to continue the war in Iraq?

5)What are the short-term effects on your life from a tax cut? A tax increase?

What percent of the voting population could (regardless of their conclusion) thoughtfully answer more than one of those questions? We could all nail the last one, but what about the others?

What if President Bush got up and said, "I stand by everything I've standed by before, for the good of the American people, but I just thought it would be fair to let y'all know I'm gonna leave you with a deficit larger than Texas is wide." Would he win? Or what if Kerry said, "In the spirit of fairness, I'd like to amend my previous statements on domestic issues, particularly those regarding taxes, with the admission that my administration intends to "roll-back" the tax cuts from the previous three administrations." Would he have a chance? The answer to both is "no". So it must be cost. We vote for whoever is cheaper, right?

But both candidates claim to be equal in that regard. They usually do. No new taxes. Balance the budget. Blah blah blah. In fact, that's claimed so frequently that we've become accustomed to being deceived in that sphere, which means that even though we understand the tax issue and the concept of a balanced budget, we can't totally trust that either candidate is being honest with his financial plan.

So...from an analytical standpoint, I don't really understand most of the issues, and the one that I do, I can't really trust...how am I going to decide? Well... I still have my feelings and my morals. And the politicians, they know it's a complex world, so they boil the issues down into moral absolutes to help me out.

1)There are 40 million people - families with children - who do not have health insurance. When they are sick, they can't afford a doctor. Is that fair?

2)Saddam Hussein killed thousands of innocent people. They could've given terrorists WMD to kill your children. Do you want that?

3)We are shouldering all the costs, all the deaths. We should share this with the world, right?

4)We have to do everything we can to get those terrorists, don't you agree?

The candidates thoughtfully put their moral compasses out there so I can pick the one that most closely points in the direction of my own. I mean, it just seems right. He's a moral man, a man of the people, a man with values who can lead us through a tough time and make the tough decisions in a way I find morally agreeable. That's comforting.

Beast Wars: The Saga Continues

(Originally sent on 10.8.2002)

I had finished rearranging my living room furniture and settled into a relaxing evening of TV Tetris. (As if in tacit acknowledgement of the low quality programming, TVs in China are often equipped with a variety of built in, remote control operated games.) I was nearing a new world record when suddenly, and rather fiercely, a winged incarnation of the devil himself hurled his fanged, furry form at my jugular. With instincts born in the jungle, I rolled to the floor. My attacker rose and circled, diving at intervals in an attempt to weaken my morale. With each pass, a drop of his rabid saliva would bespeckle my body. I stood fast.

"Demon, be gone! Get out!" I howled from the floor. The assault continued. It soon became clear to us both that my attempted exorcism would not succeed. He trilled a most vicious victory cry, or perhaps it was a more accurate sonar reading of my carotid artery. Nonetheless, it caused me to press my belly against the cold tile floor and rapidly undulate towards the exit. As if to mock my attempt at escape, the beast took a respite upon my curtains.

"I'll finish you at my leisure," he seemed to lisp.

It was during this oath that I released the clasp on the door and found sanctuary in the hall. I felt it necessary to summon my neighbor and friend.

Not that I could not vanquish this vampiric foe alone. Quite the contrary. But I thought that should such an event ever occur in his abode, he would be well served to study my soon-to-be skillful and swift removal of the afore mentioned sacrilege.

We did not tarry in our return. I jumped over the threshold ready to finish a battle I did not start. But where was my foe? Had he left the arena? I suspected he had taken up a position of ambush in the dark sleeping chamber. Armed with a straw-tipped lance I forged ahead. Silence. No attack and no attacker. Could it be that he had fled? Sadly, no.

I say sadly because upon my floor - rather than the blood thirsty spawn of Satan I had expected - lay a shivering little bat. He had injured himself at some point during my absence and could only crawl. A crawling bat is a sad sight indeed. His injuries needed tending, but I had neither the skill nor the courage to assist this nocturnal wanderer. I gently coaxed my fragile friend onto a stretcher of sorts and carried him into the night air. Perhaps the call of his own would be enough to rejuvenate his dazed spirits.

At last he did take flight but weakly and in pain. Watching his attempt to overcome adversity but knowing full well that he would die was a true measure of this tiny traveler's nobility. We would do well to learn from such a teacher.

Make bold choices, for this is the only freedom you have.

A Nightmare of Unthinkable Dimensions

(originally sent 9.18.2002)

While on cleaning duty I discovered that my sink drain consists of nothing more than a tube stuck loosely in the floor. Thinking that this would be a haven for dirt and other undesirable elements I removed the tube to inspect the situation. As I suspected, it was rather foul. A single cockroach did dare emerge from the bowls of my decrepit building, only to be blasted with a fatal breath from the red cylinder of death. As a preventative measure, I thought it best to give the orifice itself a generous portion of poison. It was then that the unthinkable happened.
A variable army of those foul beast laid siege to my kitchen. I nearly broke the plastic nozzle in my desperate attempt to contain and kill the parasitic invaders. I was eventually the victor, but I am afraid I lost more brain cells than I care to admit.
The story only gets worse. I know how these vile creatures operate. The conclave I vanquished was but an outpost of the main den of evil. I knew that re-enforcement would be forthcoming.

The following day I spotted an infant roach. Perhaps he was the sole survivor of the massacre. I have no mercy, regardless of age, and gave him his share of canned death. To my utter shock, this beast was immune to the poison. He turned and faced me as if to swear some primitive oath of revenge and then scurried away in to a particularly nefarious looking crevice where I am sure - through some perverted act of arthropodic androgyny - he will populate my house with chemically resistant vermin.

I will be ready.

A Nightmare of Unthinkable Dimensions

(originally sent 9.18.2002)

While on cleaning duty I discovered that my sink drain consists of nothing more than a tube stuck loosely in the floor. Thinking that this would be a haven for dirt and other undesirable elements I removed the tube to inspect the situation. As I suspected, it was rather foul. A single cockroach did dare emerge from the bowls of my decrepit building, only to be blasted with a fatal breath from the red cylinder of death. As a preventative measure, I thought it best to give the orifice itself a generous portion of poison. It was then that the unthinkable happened.
A variable army of those foul beast laid siege to my kitchen. I nearly broke the plastic nozzle in my desperate attempt to contain and kill the parasitic invaders. I was eventually the victor, but I am afraid I lost more brain cells than I care to admit.
The story only gets worse. I know how these vile creatures operate. The conclave I vanquished was but an outpost of the main den of evil. I knew that re-enforcement would be forthcoming.

The following day I spotted an infant roach. Perhaps he was the sole survivor of the massacre. I have no mercy, regardless of age, and gave him his share of canned death. To my utter shock, this beast was immune to the poison. He turned and faced me as if to swear some primitive oath of revenge and then scurried away in to a particularly nefarious looking crevice where I am sure - through some perverted act of arthropodic androgyny - he will populate my house with chemically resistant vermin.

I will be ready.

Diffusion

Sometimes our heads fill with fumes. Maybe a doubt putters around all day, or a chore is left to idle. The perfumes of lust mingle with the formaldehydes of sloth with the volatile hydrogen of pride. Even joy makes a noble gas. And so it is that we find ourselves choking in our own toxic mire, on our own personal nerve gas.

Some of us are more gaseous than others, some more sensitive to these emotional vapors, but we all make them and must all vent. We exercise to flush them out, play music to coax them out, maybe drink to drown them out. Myself, I prefer to walk them out, to let the fumes diffuse into the fresh air.

I should rephrase that. I would like to let the fumes diffuse into the fresh air, but China is running rather low on freshness lately. There was a two week period at the very start of spring - after the coal stoves of winter had been snuffed and before the coming heat of summer beckoned forth what I like to call The Great Rot - that made me think flowered breezes were here to stay. I was wrong. What I get when I go out now, instead of simple one way diffusion, is more of an exchange program. The emotional vapors of life go out, and the pungent odors of China come in, which is actually more stabilizing than you might think. It's kind of like when Indiana Jones swaps the gold head out with that bag of sand. Wait a second…that didn't work, did it. Anyway.

There is a certain path I take along the river when I need to vent. It crosses several bridges: a stepping stone path, an access bridge in front of the spillway (certain death if one fell (I'm just teasing my family now)), a suspension bridge that leads to a river island hosting western China's largest roller rink (yes, we're very proud). The route was first charted by Alfred and me back when I was a PCV, so it not only provides an intimate look at the urban river front but is also a direct link to the "good old days."

A faithful companion in contemplation during the winter months, the summer heat has turned the river fiendishly vile. It's become a foul, pungent, putrid, barfaceous (okay, that's not a real word) fecal quagmire of trash, oil, chemicals and miscellaneous rot. At night it smells like a toilet (probably because the sewer runs under the sidewalk alongside it). During the day it smells like a toilet filled with dead fish. The oil slick is so thick that plastic cups and bags float completely above water. Luckily the river is now so murky that you can't see the bottom. The smaller tributaries of the river that run through town are shallow enough that one can see that the bottom is totally carpeted in plastic rubbish.

But it seems a warmer river has brought advantages as well. The fishermen congregate around the sewer discharge and the health conscious swim and bathe in the deeper areas. Oh, didn't you know? It's good for the health to bathe in the river. Young men strip down to their skivvies and lather up with a bottle of cheap shampoo (a few hundred more gallons and they might come out clean). Children shoot jets of water between their teeth. Every now and then the crack between their front teeth gets plugged with partially ground turd…that's so gross. To be fair, I should add that most people think the river is as toxic as I do. Seriously though, the only thing I'd call a real plus is the eerie, surreal sheen the river has on a windless night. It's like a slow wave of liquid onyx reflecting the city lights. It's magical but best viewed from a distance.

So now that my therapeutic river-walk has become a noxious sewer-run, I've had some excess pressure build up in the ol' mental tanks. I've hiked up the mountain near my house a few times, but I get so hot on the ascent that even if some gases escape, the overall mental pressure remains constant....PV = nRT, right? I guess writing all this has been my release for the day. Huff. Sigh. Exhale. Whoosh. I feel a lot better now.

Life in China

This is a story of clich�s - a story so stereotypically China, one might suspect it's an exaggerated contrivance of an old China-hand spinning yarns for a green laowai. (If you don't know what that means, you are one.) But what I tell you is the truth. The plain, level truth.

Be Careful What You Wish For

It was a typical Duyun winter -- frigid drizzle instead of fluffy snow, dreary skies instead of blue horizons, small fires instead of central heat.

You see, there is a policy in resource starved China that forbids the southern half of the country from even having central heat, and since Old Jack Frost is not a good Party member and delivers us weeks on end of near freezing weather despite this heating ban, we locals are obliged to wear countless layers of clothes and huddle around indoor bonfires. Never mind the soot that begrimes or that smoky campout smell. True, the soft coal burning in our living rooms will cause acid rain for the next few months, but to worry about that now is a little too farsighted for us in rural China.

If you have enough money, you can avoid the coal and sticks approach to surviving the winter by using electric space heaters. If you want to do anything more than warm your feet, however, you'll also need wiring that can supply sufficient current to your hungry heater. Windows that completely shut would be helpful, too, as would something more insulating than paint between yourself and the brick walls. In my case, money I had -- the other three I did not. My apartment was intended for someone who didn't mind having a coal furnace in their living room, so efficiency wasn't a top design priority.

Thus it was I spent the bulk of this endless winter sealed in my bedroom behind be-taped and be-draped windows, huddled over an electric heater running at one third of it's potential (I had a small electrical explosion last year when I tried to run it at two-thirds power), often times wearing not only my coat but my comforter, wishing that cabin fever would at least make me warm.

It was a dim existence, literally and figuratively. The overhead light didn't work (yet another previous explosion), and as I've already mentioned, for reasons of heat retention the drapes had to remain shut. During the coldest spells, I would only leave my cave to eat, teach and watch DVDs with David, of which the last required hats and extra blankets to prevent mid-movie hypothermia. It was not the happiest time of my life.

To those dreary conditions add a water heater that couldn't heat beyond tepid, outlets that required repeated wiggling to deliver current, a sink that belched foul toilet odors, an unidentified screeching rodent outside my window that forced its feces into my house through a tiny crack (I taped the crack, but he soon took enough of that off to drop his payload, that rat bastard), a cryptic, wall-sized mural painted by the previous foreign tenant that illustrated the feelings of isolation and alienation we foreigners often feel in China (as if I needed a constant reminder), and a major construction site less than ten feet from my window. All very true elements of my life.

Now mix in the knowledge that David (next door) and I were the only foreigners we knew who lived in such dismal conditions. Compared to other American's in China, our houses were hovels and our salaries were pocket change. We had known all this beforehand and chosen to come nonetheless, but that fact is one of the first to succumb to the cold.

It was while living with all these frustrations that I told the school if I were to stay for another term, I would need more suitable housing. More lucrative, more comfortable options were knocking my door down, but for a sense of pseudo-closure to my multiple Peace Corps evacuations, I dearly wanted to finish my would-have-been term here in Duyun. True, I didn't join the Peace Corps for comfort and money, but I was tired of living in a freezing, motley colored crap-hole. More importantly, I wasn't in the Peace Corps anymore; this was a business arrangement and should be treated as such.

It was December, and my contract was soon to expire. David had decided he would move on to greener pastures, which would leave the school a teacher short and me in a good spot to make a deal. Now, I'm a decent person and a realist, so I understood that even if I wanted to stick it to the school and take them for everything they had (which I didn't), I wouldn't get very much. And I feared that the cost of whatever I did get would eventually be passed on to the students. So like I said, I kept my conditions short and sweet. I needed a nicer place.

In all honesty, I expected this to be an impossible request. I mean, the school does have apartments sitting empty, but they are all worse than what I had. I expected them to squirm for a week in fear of losing yet another teacher then come to me with heads hung and say, "We can make any improvements you need to your current apartment, but we can't afford a new place." I would feign a disappointed acceptance, hand over the list of necessary improvements I had prepared the week before, take a long vacation in Yunnan and come back to a freshly painted apartment with new (hopefully safer) switches and outlets. And, in fact, that's exactly how it played out. That's where we stood in late December.

In mid-January the unthinkable happened. The President of the college himself informed me (in passing, not like he came to my house) that they had a new place for me. It would be ready in ten days. My heart leapt as my head swirled. I asked for something and would not only get it -- I would get it in a timely manner?? This was not the China I had come to know. The little boy in me was skipping circles, while my inner-cynic stood with folded arms and watchful eyes.

Ten days passed, then two more, then about another two weeks of "It'll be ready in two days." Then the Semester Break came, which is a mammoth of a holiday (over a month) during which nothing remotely productive is permitted to happen, so obviously no moving then. Then school started again and the Cynic, Little Boy and I were still living in the same nasty apartment. Another two or three weeks of "Ready in a few days." Then apparently someone filled the place with toxic fumes that needed to be aired out. That would take ten more days.

The Cynic was lashing out with "told you so's" at the Little Boy, who retorted in classic form with a round of "I'm like rubber, you're like glue?" You know how it goes. And me, I was trying to remind the cynic of our Peace Corps cross-cultural training. It's not that they're deceitful, duplicitous liars who told us what we wanted to hear just so we would stay; it's just a different culture. Things work at a different speed.

In mid-March, the school finally made good on their early-January promise, and gave me the keys to a luxurious (though last generation) apartment. But by that time, I wasn't so sure I even wanted to move. Winter was almost over, so the cold factor soon wouldn't be a factor. More importantly though, I wasn't thrilled about packing up and moving across town so I could live in a nice place for three and a half months. Seven months? Of course. Three months? I don't know.

Once the seed of doubt was planted I started to get all nostalgic about my old place, the motley colored crap-hole. The Old Man elbowed the Cynic and Little Boy out of the spotlight and started to reminisce about all the "good old days" in that apartment and how it would be such a shame to abandon it so near the end. It was my first real place to myself. Not a dorm room, no roommates. It was my apartment and as such I - however reluctantly - had grown attached to it and all its quirks. I sat on the issue for a week. It was clear that on both practical and sentimental grounds I didn't want to move, but it was going to be one heck of a trick explaining that to the school without making myself sound like a spoiled brat and without causing whoever was responsible for the two month delay to lose some serious face.

In the end, I tried to use classic Party dogma to save us all. I explained that the apartment was too nice for me. "It has too many rooms for one person, and I could never be so selfish in a nation with so many people. For the good of Our China, I will stay where I am, and you give this apartment to someone needier. I want to act in the interest of the People." None of which was untrue. I just hung more weight from that particular thread of truth than it was intended to hold. I thought I was being clever and saving everyone face, but evidently I was wrong. The following week I was "relocated".


Better Late Than Never

Justin, the English speaking (yet still Chinese) assistant at the college's Foreign Affairs office, called me to tell me he wanted to come over and discuss something. Hoping a surplus of enthusiasm on my part would make him forget what ever ill news was brooding in his mind, I chuckled out an overly chipper, "Sure, come on over, man." I guess it didn't work because as soon as he entered, he politely (almost nervously) informed me that not moving was not an option. He said that the school had promised my apartment to someone else, and that I need to move so the school could do some remodeling.

There is a custom in China that someone receiving a gift should refuse at least once (often twice) to be polite. To be certain that we weren't playing this game -- he firmly re-offering in reply to my humble refusal a few days prior - I tried to look dour and disappointed about the ordeal, which wasn't too hard to do. He didn't budge. I would have to move. It would be foolish and wrong to argue that point (I did ask to move in the first place), so I conceded on that front. My thoughts turned to plan B.

"Justin, what if I just move across the hall into David's old apartment? I mean, I could do all that by myself in an easy day. I wouldn't even have to pack."

It was then his eyes betrayed him. It was an expression I'd met many times in the market on the faces of guilty sellers hoping to take advantage of me undetected. The eyes look to the side, and then the neck realizes how obviously avoidant that gesture appears, so it nonchalantly turns the head to catch up with the eyes, as if to say "Oh, I just noticed a particularly fascinating object in the distance over there. That's what I'm looking at." With head still to the side, the chin drops and returns to center and then quickly up to meet your gaze lest you suspect they have something to conceal. This is the gesture Justin made. I'm not calling him a liar - it could very well be true that someone else will move into that apartment - but it was obvious he was not telling me the whole truth.

He started to ramble. "We want to have all the foreigners live in that complex [where my new place would be]. We need to remodel this place. Like you said the conditions are not so good, the windows. We should install some new windows for the new people. Should I call Rao Hui [the head of the Foreign Affairs office] to ask about David's old apartment?" I said 'yes' so he could pass the responsibility to others' shoulders (I like Justin and didn't want to see him squirm), even though I already new what the answer would be.

"Hmm, Rao Hui says we need to re-do all the windows at the same time, so you can't move there."

At that moment, I was 99% positive that what he said was not true. No one was going to touch those windows. It was just an unfortunately chosen excuse; unfortunate because that miniscule one percent of doubt - the fact that the school might really install new windows for the next tenants - made me snap. My tone was civil, but my words were harsh. It's the only thing in this story I regret. I should have held my tongue.

"Justin, I feel cheated. The entire time I have lived here, with the Peace Corps and without, I have pleaded with the school to improve these windows. Alfred and I begged and badgered for three months just to get someone over here to make these windows close [generous use of a hand plane was his solution]. A bird lives on this end and throws bits of its nest into my house. A rodent lives on that end and drops it crap onto my floor. No matter how much I clean it, my back porch smells like a dirty pet shop; I can't even hang my clothes out there to dry anymore. And now you're telling me I am being relocated because the very thing I've always asked for is coming true. Ironic, isn't it?"

A testament to his professional character, he apologized for the past oversights of the Foreign Affairs Office, noting that he wasn't there at the time, and sincerely explained his commitment to preventing such misunderstandings from happening in the future. A testament to his personal character, he's so far made good on that pledge. He is the most helpful FAO member I've met.

So that was that. Whether being pushed out of the old apartment or mysteriously pulled into the new one, I would be moving. I decided --after letting all my stress out in the window rant -- that I'd optimistically jump into the move. A new look at my old city, however brief, would be too good to pass up. We parted with smiles and a handshake, and I got to work sorting my things, packing the good and pitching the bad.

Five days later, six strong-backed freshmen came and carried my life down four flights, loaded it into a truck, then carried it back up six flights. I wouldn't call them professionals (for example, the components of my computer lay in a jumbled heap at the bottom of the case when it arrived at the new place?but that's an entirely different story), but they got the job done before lunch. I treated them to beef hot pot (6 kuai hot pot, Alf...but it's now 7 kuai hot pot), after which they went back to their dorms and I went to make a new home.

Better Safe Than Sorry

About this same time another clich� was unfolding, a clich� not of China but of parental worry.

I'd been telling people I was moving since the school told me in January, but I think my three months of reporting turned me into the Boy Who Cried New Apartment. Moreover, when moving day actually came, I didn't really formally tell anyone; I thought I'd be set up and back in touch in a day or two and no one would even notice I was gone. Well, if you haven't guessed, it took far longer than two days to get my phone service switched over. An excerpt from one of my many conversations with the phone company:

"The only contact number I have is that one. The one I want to move to my new house," I pointed at the paper.

"Well, we can't use that. You won't be there. That's the old house."

"Right."

"Well, you have to have some contact number so you know when the service man wants to come to your house."

"I don't have one."

"Well, you should get a cell phone."

"I am not going to get a cell phone so I can get a normal phone."

"What are we going to do? Maybe you can borrow one." She looked at her computer and sighed, "Oh dear...you haven't gotten your DSL yet. We can't move your phone number until this job is finished."

"I don't want the DSL at that house. I want it at the new house."

"But you signed up for it at the old house??"

Right then I wished she would understand the depth of, "What is your major malfunction?" But I new she wouldn't, so I just left.

I went back a few days later and was lucky enough to speak with the one phone lady who seems to want to help me. She spent about fifteen minutes on the phone sorting things out, gave me two numbers (one for the phone man, one for the DSL man) and told me I should call them and tell them when I have free time. She's so clever. I was connected in two days.

Of course my family didn't know that I was having fun with the phone people. Their best guess was that I was "collapsed in [my] apartment and no one thought to check why [I] didn't show up for work." Eventually, my dad became worried enough to start emailing my friends, one of whom happened to be a former teacher in this city and was thus able to give my dad some phone numbers. My dad calls the cell phone of an English teacher here. He calls the office. The secretary - who likes to practice her English but has of yet mastered only the most direct, forceful expressions - comes into my class and says, "You must call you father." My heart hit my stomach.

One half of my brain was at work churning out the most gruesome death scenarios for members of my family; not that I wanted to, but I have an unbridled imagination. The other half of my brain was working on logistics: airfare, rescheduling classes, should I just ship things home with me now never to return? I knew I was going to have to call from a public phone, so I thought it prudent to go to an internet caf� and hopefully get some hint of the tragedy beforehand lest I erupt with sobs of grief alongside the street.

Scanning my Inbox I saw phrases like "where are you?" and "we're worried" and "give us a call." I never thought that someone else being worried would make me less so, but it did. I saw no hints of emergencies or of deaths tragic or otherwise. I steadied my breathing and tried to get my heart rate back below a hundred. I would call ten minutes later just to be safe. Other than that I woke them up, I learned there were no problems at home. They learned there were no problems here. Everyone was relieved.

All's Well That Ends Well

Along the far eastern edge of town, nestled in the foothills of mist-covered gumdrop mountains, my new home stands along an antique alley too narrow for cars. Instead of the seemingly ubiquitous Chinese cacophony of horns and construction, one hears the countryside melodies of chickens and dogs (and the occasional pig slaughter). In front of old buildings with courtyards and tile roofs sit even older people bathing in what little warmth the Guizhou sun can offer.

I've been living here for over a week now, and in contrast to the surroundings, the inside is very posh. I have faux marble floors in the common rooms, parquet floors in the bedrooms and blue tinted sliding windows everywhere. Red lights in the living and bed rooms add a touch of Chinese class. The kitchen is outfitted with a dual-burner gas range and high power exhaust fan. And one better than that, the kitchen sink has hot water! The DSL is up and running as is the DVD entertainment system. After three months living large like this, moving back to America is going to be like joining the Peace Corps all over again.

I got to meet my first neighbor today. Unfortunately, he came by to tell me that I was dripping water through his ceiling. It seems that when Justin gave me the grate for the sink drain and said, "This is so food doesn't go down the sink," his meaning was, "You must use this so food doesn't go down the sink," and not, "If for some reason you don't want food to go down the sink, here's a clever little cover." The actual drain (a hole in a tile basin in the floor under the sink) had clogged and created a mire of water and food waste in the cupboard below the sink that was slowly percolating into his apartment. Oops.

No one has touched my old apartment. Actually, I still have the keys for both David's and my place. I take naps over there sometimes. (Although, after the school's spies read this blog entry, I'm sure they'll need the keys back ASAP.) And I've learned that the owner of this apartment has the same family name as the man who decides where the foreigners live, which might possibly explain why I was pulled into this place. But you know, I don't really care about that. The school did a good thing for me. I prefer to think of them as wise parents who pressured their childish son into making the right decision. Whatever hassles it's caused for us all, it's been for the best. That's the truth. That's life in China.

Snacks

When I was a younger I would try to make something I called "survival biscuits". The idea was to design a highly nutritious, highly dense, highly durable foodstuff that I could take with me on my many potential wilderness adventures. I tried countless concoctions of flour and sugar and oil and eggs (which I now know severely limit the shelf life of a biscuit). I tried baking them and even microwaving them. But alas, I never ended up with an edible product, which - I hate to say - is the main reason I had to cancel my many potential wilderness adventures. Leaving without proper provisions would have been suicide. But today, in the Chinese supermarket, I found what I myself could not create. I found the ultimate survival biscuit.

They are called Omnipotence Compressed Biscuits, a name that doesn't begin to capture their wonders. The label goes on...

"This product is made from selected high quality materials. It has the feature of small volume, high nutrition and convenience to carry. Especially for those outdoor workers, tourists and travelers."

"Ingredients: Flour, Palm Oil, Milk Powder, Glucose, Onion and Special Condiment.
Guaranteed for 2 years."

Perfection. This is the greatness that I fell short of. (To my credit though, had I had access to Milk Powder and Special Condiment as a child, I think I would have been more successful.) I bought a pack of Omnipotence Compressed Biscuits along with my first sleeve of Black Wind Cookies (Don't ask. They taste worse than they sound) and hurried home to try them.

You definitely need molars to eat them. They are not for nibbling. In fact, I found that the 2" squares are best consumed in one bite. Once the crystalline structure has been disturbed they tend to crumble, so it's better to just start with everything in your mouth, which of course is how one would eat them in a survival situation anyway. Like I said, this is a perfect product. The taste? They taste kind of like a sweet, oniony brick of oily flour with just hint of Special Condiment. Not good enough for The Palm, but good enough for me to f