Thrilla in Brazilla

Brazil - Who said international travel can't be exciting before you even go?  This trip was a real nailbiter.  It all started on the way out of a meeting. Scott said there was a waste management meeting in Sao Paulo- could I make it to make connections needed to start the program? "Sure" I said blithely, and went about canceling social engagements, calling about boarding my dog, calling the travel clinic, getting my flight booked... So organized! I am a Professional World Traveler (PWT)!

Until Thursday (one business day before my flight), when I realized.."huh, wonder if I need a visa?" Got online...yup. How long does our expediter take - 5 days at the fastest.  Whoops.  So much for PWT status.  Fortunately and surprisingly, there is a Brazilian consulate in Atlanta. But they don't accept walkins and won't respond to my email. So I rent a Zip Car (yes, I'm still car-free) and assemble the necessary info and plan to walk in anyway and throw myself on their mercy. I get the ugly passport photos (I just can't seem to get a good one), a money order from Publix, the form, a business letter, a conference confirmation, and cruise to the consulate (near Lenox). I show up at 1:15pm. They are open to the public 9 to 1 pm. Crud. Shouldn't have had lunch (a stand up bowl of cereal when I stopped by my house to get my passport). So I resolved to show up first thing Friday and beg.  I do a really good dumb blonde impression.

I get back to the consulate at 930 Friday morning (taking the bus to MARTA train took longer than I thought), and the receptionist offers to schedule me an appointment - next week. I tell her I am a humanitarian (obviously the PWT line won't work in this situation) and I want to attend a conference in their wonderful country and I am an idiot because I didn't realize I needed a visa (although actually inside I blame my travel agent- shouldn't they have warned me?) and I am so sorry but I'm wondering if it is all possible to get a visa today. Livia looks at me calmly and doesn't disagree with the idiot part, especially when she flips through my visa pages and sees that I've traveled a bit, says 'You could get it Monday' and I almost fall on the floor with gratitude.  I am a Professional Visa Beggar (PVB)!

Until she says, not unkindly, "We only take USPS money orders now." Mine is from Publix. Argh. She says I can go to a post office near the DSW shoe store, did I drive? It is close enough to walk but there is no sidewalk. I survive walking through the dangerous 400 & Lenox intersection, get the money order from the post office - who knew they had those? And take it back to the consulate.

Short story is after a few sleepless nights, and another bus /train / walking expedition to the consulate, I did get the visa Monday morning, had no problem changing my flight to the next night (a 9 hour red-eye flight), and made it to Sao Paulo.

The next adventure was trying to stay awake in the conference. Not only did I miss a night of sleep, and we dinner Tuesday night ended at midnight (at amazing Figueira restaurant) but also the talks are in Portuguese with simultaneous translation - to Spanish. I could have sworn the website was also in English. This makes your brain tired.  Only 2.5 more days of befuddlement. My Spanglish is coming in handy though since some words are similar- por favor, hola.

A note: The people here are just as varied looking as you'd find in the US (well the coastal US at least). However I have not spotted anyone wearing a thong bikini with a huge feather headdress. Wonder if they sell those in the airport store?

The Backwards Blog - Bali Part One

Day One – Arrive Denpasar Airport, Bali.  Forgot to bring American money so I can't buy a visa on arrival.  All I have is Chinese renminbi.  They don't take that.  Whoops.  Anywhere else I'd be screwed.  But here I wander over to the information desk and ask where to find an ATM.  The guy there says it's outside of immigration and customs.  Double whoops.  But then, to my shock, he offers to take me there.  I leave my passport with immigration, have to scan my bags through customs, but then I get to go to the ATM.  He waits for me.  

I have no idea what the exchange rate is [turns out it's about 9000 rp to $1].  Obviously I have done NO research or preparation for this trip.  I pick the highest number (500,000 rupiah) - and I get it!  My balance is something like 20 million - holy crap, I am a multmillionaire!  I do a little jig in my head. No wonder they are giving me the special treatment. My special assistant brings me backward through customs and immigration (can you IMAGINE anyone in the US doing this for an Indonesian?) and then I wait in line with all the other millionaires.

It is a 30 minute taxi ride to Legian Beach.  I'd made a reservation at the All Seasons Hotel based on Tripadvisor.com – it is modern and minimalist but has attractive rooms.  I got “upgraded” to a family room (it only had one bed - I guess the couch also served as a bed) with a balcony overlooking the pool.  This was a narrow pool shaded by trees – very nice.  The pool bar service was almost nil, but I didn’t really want to have a bunch of sugary drinks leading into an optional detox.  I read and napped by the pool, did a tiny bit of work.  Remembered stuff I’d left in my apartment.  Wondered who I could ask to pick it up.

Had a decent massage in hotel spa.  They had a nice touch - when you lie face down on the massage table you are looking down into a bowl of flowers.  After practicing and preaching water conservation for a year, I got a little stressed out by the sound of water running – typical spa soundtrack.  Then got stressed out by actual water running.  Probably the last half hour of the massage, the therapist was filling what sounded like an enormous tub for my milk bath.  I resolved to enjoy it thoroughly – it was lovely – lots of bubbles and little pink flowers spread across the top.  Afterwards I had the lousy pasta buffet in the hotel restaurant – too relaxed/tired to venture out – and watched TV until I passed out at 9 pm.

Day Two – forced myself to sleep past 6:30 am despite the sunlight coming through the balcony window.  Decided to take a stroll to the beach – only about 10 minute walk.  Walked by tiny shops selling sunglasses, raunchy bumper stickers, made to order crafts (your name in wood while you wait - just like in Helen, GA), storefront sized restaurants, and bars with silly names like “Posers.”  Walked by a couple of nice looking hotel entrances.  Many people on the street beckoning me to buy their product or service.  One guy made it easy: “What can I do for you?”  "Well, I forgot a few things in my apartment in Beijing...." 

The taxi driver from the airport had mentioned that this is a big religious weekend.  It happens every six months.  I tried to get more details - harvest celebration? A god's birthday? Nope: just because.  They do that a lot here, which is kind of nice.  I noticed a few shrines – the statues’ lower halves wrapped in skirts that look like black & white picnic tablecloth (wonder what they are covering) – and baskets woven from straw filled with flowers, fruits, cakes.  There were many offerings along the beach – I wondered if they’d originally been sent out to sea. 

I’d never seen so many surfers before.  The waves didn’t look particularly bigger than other beaches, but I guess they might be longer?  Watched a guy giving lessons to a girl on the beach – he laid on the board on the sand, paddling furiously against imaginary waves, then popped up to his feet.  Easy.  Now you try.  She got the part about laying on the board right. 

Not too many touts on the beach.  I realized that since people keep asking where I’m from that I might not be immediately obvious as an American.  I imagined that I could pretend I’m Swedish, or Dutch, or German, and ignore them when they shout “hello, excuse me miss.”  Or maybe I am just perpetuating the rude American stereotype.  Not sure the best way to handle these things.  Saying “no thanks” usually invites further discussion/ sales pitches.  

Easily arranged for taxi transport via hotel shuttle (cost more than twice as much as getting there, but they let me put it on the room bill) back to the airport where I was being picked up by the drivers for Yoga Traveller retreat.  When I got there, they had already found Helen, a fellow yogi, who’d just arrived from London via Kuala Lumpur.  She was exhausted and had been sitting for 16 hours, only to get in a car for another 3-plus hour drive on windy roads to Amed.  It made me glad that I’d gotten in the day before.

I had taken allergy pills and so was desperately sleepy.  I tried to nap but we were winding through many mountains at top speed.  I got a good butt workout from trying to hold on to the seat.

Amed is on the east tip of the island, and our resort was even farther easter. Golden Rock is a tiny but beautiful resort with only four villas, an open-air yoga platform and dining hall, and a "treatment center" (for the optional detox part).  We were right on the rocky beach, and the waves were quite loud.  [Way better than the construction noises I endured at night in Beijing.]  There were many tiny one- or two-person fishing boats along the beach.  They go out about 5:30am and come back in by 8 or 9am.  The women help pull the boats up on the shore.  The main catch is impossibly shiny and plump silver mackerel.   The women carry these away in baskets on their heads. I wonder how they only catch one kind of fish.  Especially after we go snorkeling and diving and see the incredible variety underwater. 

The yoga life

Amed, Bali - So a typical day on the yoga retreat is yoga from 8 – 9:30 am, breakfast and chatting til about 10:30 am, resting/ reading/ sitting by the pool til lunch and chatting from 1:00 – 2:00 pm.  Then more resting / reading / sitting by the pool til yoga at 5:00 – 6:30 pm.  Then dinner and chatting til about 8:00 pm.

Dave the yoga guy eats breakfast and dinner with us but does lunch on his own (what does he do during the days in quiet little downtown Amed?)  Most nights we take a steam after dinner, then hop in the pool to look at the billions and billions of stars (you can really see the Milky Way here).  Then we each retreat to our own villas to watch one of the many DVDs they have in the library here, and to sleep (at least for me) by 11 pm.  Although on Tuesday and Friday we check out the Tuesday and Friday night bands (one each) and get to have beer! 

Lunch & dinner are all variations of tofu & tempeh (curried, sautéed, satay, in a banana leaf) with a mound of steamed brown rice, accompanied usually by a small salad and a big bowl of vegetable soup. Breakfast is sliced fresh fruit (hooray!) – watermelon, guava (or papaya, I can never remember the difference), pineapple, and local apples that taste a bit like pears. There is fresh plain yogurt and muesli every day.  All good for the digestive system.  No cheese, no meat, no alcohol.  Ali says this is the longest she's gone without cheese in her adult life.

Some mornings we get a Balinese pancake – more like a crepe with bananas in it – very tasty when topped with honey. Other days it is toast with strawberry or pineapple jam.  One morning we got banana fritters, and today we asked for lassis (kind of like a shake but made with yogurt and fruit) – they made them with not very sweet bananas.  With honey they were quite tasty.   All meals are accompanied by your choice of purified water, juice, milk, soy milk, or tea.  

I like it all very much and find it filling - this is how I would aspire to eat. The Brits are having a hard time with no pudding (aka desserts), and have made a few runs already to the tiny shop down the road to buy slightly melted chocolate biscuits (aka cookies).  Helen keeps asking for ice cream, which doesn’t seem to exist here.    Gary doesn’t like salad (aka fresh vegetables), so sometimes I get his.  Dave doesn’t like pineapple so sometimes I get his.  I eat everything.  

We all get the same portions despite our different sizes (Helen is only 40 kg, Gary must be close to twice that) – and there are no seconds. It is a great way to diet. Last night we got a small dish of mee goreng (Indonesian style noodles).  We have asked for fish (we stare at people fishing all day, so I imagine there must be some fresh fish to be found), but this has so far proved too difficult or expensive. Only Helen and I want fish anyway, as Ali is a vegetarian and Gary is a meat & potatoes guy.   [The next night we got it - Remis caught them with his bare hands (?) snorkeling.]  Gary must be so hungry since he doesn’t like much of what is served.  I just made myself hungry writing this.

Do you like chocolate?

Believe it or not I did more on my vacation than avoid clumsy come-ons. But this is the most entertaining stuff, I imagine, to read. 

Amed, Bali (Day Three) - After lunch I thought I’d do a few laps in the tiny pool. After lap one, Remis (one of the young local men - 23 - who works at the resort) comes over to chat. He asks if I want to snorkel. "Maybe." Then he says his English is bad. He asks if I have a boyfriend. My standard answer to this when traveling alone, whether true or not, is yes. Remis asks "Why isn’t he here?" "He doesn’t have enough vacation," I say. Then Remis asks if I like chocolate. Huh?
He points to his skin. Wonder who has been teaching him English. More on this later (or earlier, if you read my first Bali blog).

Remis is eager for us (by us I mean only two of us - the single gals) to join him snorkeling. He asks every time he sees us. I am nervous to go alone so I urge Helen to go. We go on one of the very narrow fishing boats (200,000 rp plus 40,000 rp to rent snorkel gear). Remis brings along a little boy to keep the boat going. 

Remis tries to hold my hand while we are snorkeling. I think. It could have been an accident. 

When it's time to get back in the boat, I realize that it is impossible. Should have thought of that before. Remis says he will help. He leans over and expertly manipulates me into a baby carry, then lifts me into the boat. Wow. Even if it was just an excuse to touch my butt, it's pretty impressive, since I bet I weigh at least 20 pounds more than him.  He does the same with Helen, but she's tiny. 

He does have nice abs. Too bad he's 23 [okay, those of you who know me know that's not really an impediment] and has a bit of orange on his hair. I'll stick with real chocolate thank you.

Just a gigolo

Bali - Dave the yoga guy tells me that all the young Balinese guys in Amed (we haven’t seen any older than mid-20s) think that he has a new girlfriend (or two) every week (when a fresh crop of yogi wannabes comes in).  We are riding his scooter the 15 minutes from the Golden Rock resort to “downtown” Amed so I can check my email at an internet café (15000 rp for about 30 minutes).   It is not as scary as I thought to ride the scooter along this intensely curvy and sometimes gravelly road.  We come near enough trucks coming the other way (on the wrong side of the road – I guess the Brits had some influence here, too, dammit) for my knees to almost touch.  But I’m pretty relaxed with all this yoga. I lightly hold on to Dave’s muscled ribs, his gray dreadlocks barely tickle my face.  Nobody believes him that girls would just want to ride into town on the back of his scooter to use the internet. 

Dave tells the story of when he was getting the dreadlocks (just last week it turns out, though he looks like he’s had them for a while).  Four foreign girls came in to watch, considering acquiring the “rasta” do.  Later he saw them at the Wawawewe Café – which has a band (the same band) on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and they sat with him.  The Balinese guys would call him over to their tables and say “give us one” (yes all you independent ladies, they meant give us one of the girls). They were too shy (or too immature) to come talk to the girls themselves.  According to Dave, for the young guys he is forced to hang out with here (this is a small town), it is the pinnacle to land a foreign woman – not so much for their (our) looks but for their money (and I always did want to be appreciated for more than my looks :) .  The hope is that the young Balinese guy might be taken care of – maybe even taken to another country. I guess you can’t blame them; there might not be many career options in this little fishing village. 

On Tuesday our little group visited the infamous Wawawewe Café to see the band.  We had a table with a good view of the dance floor, and as the evening progressed we noticed several youngish local guys (late teens or early 20s) dancing with the “older” (40s, 50s) foreign ladies.  Dave says all the guys talk about is sex, and they are all married, usually to more than one woman.  Remis is equally working on us two single girls.  He has, in fairness, touched both of our bums, since he took me and Helen snorkeling earlier in the week, and had to literally pick us up out of the water to get in the narrow fishing boat.  (Ally is safe with Gary.) 


Because I appear to enjoy the music, he urges me to dance every time a new song starts (the music is always recognizable but the lyrics are garbled – who’d have thought I’d hear the Hooked on Phonics version of “Sweet Home Alabama” in Amed?).  He offers us Arak cocktails:  bamboo liquor, Coke, and lemon juice.  Since I’m still on the mild detox, I decline and continue to drink my nice cold Bintang beer.  Of course I love to dance but I’m wondering if dancing with a guy in Amed means the same thing guys in the US want it to mean..  You know.  In the car on the way back to the resort, Helen says he asked her to come home with him. She thinks he meant ride his scooter back to the resort, but it still sounds like a line.  I have to admit I'm a teeny bit jealous.

Bad news / good news

Beijing - So the bad news is that my beautiful pink bike was stolen on Tuesday.  It was my own fault - the lock had been broken for a couple days (possibly from an earlier attempted theft), and I parked it all by itself.  The good news is I was sitting by a musical fountain at a new beautiful outdoor mall called Solana when it happened, eating ice cream from the Cold Stone Creamery.   


The other good news is that my friend Terry felt so bad that it happened 'on his watch' that he arranged that same night for his friend and driver David to loan me his cousin Mr. Wang's bike.  (You might have seen Mr. Wang before, he's my buddy who wants all my friends from out of town to have dinner at his other cousin's house.)   David brought the bike over bright and early the very next morning.  It's yellow, not pink, and there's no basket, but I'm thrilled to borrow it for the next few days.  I felt really taken care of. 

Another example of being taken care of - I was out at the Olympic Green and decided to take the new subway home with Rachel.  Various people said that the Olympic Green station was open or not open, or you could get into the Green but not out (typical of many recent conversations), so my friend Keri's driver Liu Wei walked us all the way to the one entrance that was open (with the cool big drum display you might have seen in my photos).  We walked through a dancing Fuwa parade on the way.  Liu Wei arranged, unbeknownst to us, for two of the cute Coca-Cola interns to make sure we got to our stop.  We didn't know it until they followed us out of our stop.  It was not at all on their way.  It was very sweet.  I wish I'd had those interns around when I got here last summer!

And my last bit of good news is that I found out this week that I get one of the coveted tickets to the Opening Ceremonies!  I'm really excited to check out the Birds Nest from the inside.  Look for me on TV.

Virtual Vomit

Ningxia -  [also based on a true story]  So Jessica and I are sitting in the tour bus, after visiting a piece of the Great Wall in Ningxia, waiting for the rest of the group to return, and because it is evidently against all cultural norms to allow any quiet time on tour buses, the driver has put on a video on the screen in front of the bus. 

It is a weird video, so it captures our attention.  It’s of a lion [not a real one, but a lion dance lion.  You’ve probably seen them before (if not, see attached photo).   A lion dance lion is activated by two people. ]  So back to the story – this cute little lion is dancing around doing cute little lion-like movements- scratching an ear with a rear paw, rearing up, rolling over and so forth, and then he does something I haven’t seen before in a lion dance – he tips up an entire bottle of wine into his lion mouth.   Then he staggers around, looking quite tipsy.  Sad music is playing so you get the feeling that maybe this lion is down on his luck.  Not so cute any more.

So now we are intrigued.   Is this based on some ancient Chinese poem or legend?  Is it symbolic?  Well, it turns out that it is an age-old story.  The lion appears to heave, and then – seriously – he throws up.  Real liquid comes out of the lion mouth.   And then, the lion passes out. 

Jessica and I look at each other in shock – did you see what I saw?  Surreal, but true.  So next time you see a lion dance, stand back.  

What went wrong in Hong Kong?

Hong Kong - Okay, I don't really have that much to say about Hong Kong.  I wish I did.    I really only have myself to blame because I booked my own travel (arriving about 9pm to meet Kitsy and Jessica at the hotel on Friday and leaving early Sunday morning) - well, myself and Typhoon Neoguri - the first of the season and expected to be the strongest in history.  Whee.  It hit a little farther away - Hainan - but the wind and rain still affected Hong Kong - mostly on Saturday, the one full day I had for sightseeing.

Friday night it wasn't raining yet, so we zipped out to the Temple Street night market - the stuff for sale was disappointing, mostly fake watches and sunglasses, doodads. It would have been fun to try the food at open air restaurants.

So what do you do in the rain?  Eat, get massages, and drink.  We borrowed oversized umbrellas (aka sails) from the hotel and ventured out into the muck.  Fortunately we found a great Indian buffet within swimming distance - Gaylord's Indian buffet.   My shoes were ruined, and I felt bad when we got foot massages for my icky feet.  When we went to the massage place (one of several next to the restaurant) there was only one customer there and one woman working.  She jumped up when we came in, sat us down, and got on the phone.  We laughed a bit when three women suddenly showed up.  What were they in the middle of on a Saturday afternoon?  Were they even trained foot masseurs? 

I stopped laughing when the woman with construction worker hands got ahold of my trotters.  She dug her thumbs into the arch of my foot so hard that my brain hurt.  She rubbed my shins so thoroughly that I had bruises later that day.  I refused to let her see me cry.  I kept thinking it would be good for me - especially when you see the chart of how the places on your feet connect to your organs and stuff.  So because it was good for me, or maybe just because it was raining and we couldn't go to Victoria's Peak, I went back for a shoulder massage - with one of the other women - it was done entirely with her elbow across my whole back.   I think they were getting their revenge for having to leave their apartments during a typhoon to rub some foreigners' big feet.  [It wasn't all painful - 1 hour total was about 30 USD, the only good deal in town.] I want to go back... but don't tell the foot massage ladies.

Shaking it up in Sakura

Tokyo - In the beginning of April I had the accidental pleasure of visiting Tokyo during Sakura - the Cherry Blossom Festival.  Well, accidental in that I didn't know it was Cherry Blossom Festival time. Tokyo is only a 4 hour flight from Beijing (plus 1.5 hr on train to my cheap hotel in the suburb).  So it seemed ok to go just for the weekend. 

They had scanners for both index fingerprints and a photo at immigration. That gave me a taste of what it would be like coming into the US as a foreigner. Only they were nice and efficient.

This was one of the first trips to another country I've made on my own where I wasn't prepared.  I didn't have a guidebook, had no clue about the language or etiquette (I had some vague ideas about bowing - glad I didn't try that).  But things worked out fine.  I guess that city is used to having a few tourists.  I got a free map & directions on how to take the train to my hotel from an information booth in the airport.  There were a few ATMs in the airport that had English, but I hadn't looked up the conversion rate.  On the flight (Northwest) they said a beer/cocktail was $5 or 500 Yen.  From that, and using my amazing math skills I figured roughly 100Y to $1.  I still had to make two transactions, not knowing how much anything cost except that taxis were exorbitant. 

Using my map from the info desk, I pointed my to and froms out to the ticket agent and bought a one-way ticket for 1160 yen ($11.60).  [I was told it was really expensive in Tokyo, so I am recording the prices so you can decide for yourself.] Although a friend had warned me that seats on the train were reserved, I watched other people and realized there must be different kinds of trains.  I sat down and nobody gave me a hard time.  The scenery was bland except for the windmill and tulips.  Seriously.  I guess it's a Holland-theme park?

I was able to follow the signs (fortunately in English as well as Japanese) in the enormous train station to change to the JR train to Ikebukuro. After the hustle and crowds of Beijing, I was shocked at people waiting in line on the train platform. I was traveling in non-rush hour, so I didn't get to experience being shoved in by attendants like I've seen in movies. 

I had a little trouble finding my hotel, but there were a few tourist maps posted along the streets with English.  Purely in the interest of cultural research, I stopped at at McDonalds for a teriyaki burger. It was like the McDonalds in China (I only went once to see what the Happy Meals looked like and that was for work purposes), they had a laminated photo menu with English.   It was 260 yen (580 for combo meal) (a little help with the math: $2.60 or $5.80).   This was a fancy McDonalds - there were internet connections at the seats.  The bad news is there was a smoking section on one side.

For those from Atlanta, Ikebukuro is like the Buckhead of Tokyo, but located closer to Dunwoody.  It's a big shopping mall (as in 5-10 story malls) district.  After looking at my map I realized I had seen a hotel that was nearby mine.  I went in the Sunroute Hotel and asked for directions.  They gave me a (free) map of the Ikebukuro area.  My hotel was just around the corner through alleys with tons of little shops and restaurants and massage parlors and game rooms and lots of SIGNS! There were vending machines everywhere.   You can buy water, beer, cigarettes, sodas, juice, milk - pretty cool.  I bought a tasty grapefruit soda for 150 yen ($1.50).

I checked into the hotel and took a little nap (I'd gotten up pretty early that morning).  My room was pretty small - just enough room for a single bed, desk, and TV, but that's all I needed.  Once I got used to the sound of the trains (the hotel was right by the train tracks) I experienced my first earthquake.  I thought maybe the grapefruit soda was actually alcoholic, because no alarms went off.  I didn't hear people screaming in the hallways.  But it was a 5 on the Richter scale:  http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/T331659.htm  It was very disorienting. I wonder if I should start to worry - the first tornado in Atlanta happened the last night I was in town.....[and the Sichuan earthquake happened the day I got back to China.]

That evening I managed to order sushi and miso soup and an Asahi beer without speaking Japanese at what felt like a very local restaurant.  I ducked through some curtains and then it seemed like all the staff yelled at me. I think it was nice stuff like "thank you for coming our specials tonight are fatty tuna and abalone!" But who knows?  They could be saying "FOREIGNER ALERT!  I BET SHE SMELLS LIKE MILK AND WILL MIS-PRONOUNCE ALL THE SUSHI NAMES!"   I sat at the counter and they brought me the picture menu for dummies. But the chef and waiters spoke some English (and I spoke some food Japanese).  I had tuna and bonito and miso soup with big chunks of crabmeat - it was delicious.

After dinner I walked around the Ikebukuro area a bit.  The weather was pleasant and there were lots of people about.  Very few foreigners. I saw street singers with good sound systems. Many of the girls seemed to be dressed like anime characters:  extremely short shorts with over the knee boots; short skirts with black tights and white patent leather heels;  leggings and high strappy heels. Others, even the fashionable gals wore surgical masks.  I wonder if this is a post-SARS habit or whether it was popular beforehand. 

Surprised to see a Cafe Du Monde [Turns out there are tons of them in Japan.], I stopped in for beignets and milk. They had the dummies' menu (with pictures) and the added benefit that one of the counter staff spoke English.

The hotel was pretty loud even thought I am used to living on top of a construction site. I wished that I'd brought my earplugs. I could hear people in the hall, doors closing, and the plumbing from upstairs. My room faced the train tracks but that noise didn't seem to bother me as much as the children running up and down the hall and shrieking.

I was lucky.  I happened to plan this trip because I had a Friday off, but I picked the perfect time.  It was spring - sunny and about 60 and a true pleasure to see cherry blossoms in their "natural" habitat (before I'd only seen them around the Tidal Basin).

They drive on the wrong side of the street in Tokyo, which surprised me. Another surprise is that while the spoken language sounds quite different from Mandarin Chinese, the written language looks similar. Not that I know much, but the character on the ice machine looked almost exactly like "shui" (water). And there are others I recognize.  (Turns out the Japanese borrowed the Chinese characters a thousand or so years ago.)

I snoozed the alarm a few times on Saturday - I wish I could say it was the post-adrenaline rush of surviving an earthquake, but it was really that the Jodi Picoult book I was reading was a page turner and kept me up 'til midnight last night. And the more I read, the more nervous I got that I wouldn't have anything to read for the train and plane trip back!

I tried to stop by the ATM at the hotel convenience store but was intimidated by what looked like a fingerprint reader. Had a banana and Pocari Sweat - yep that's the name. - for breakfast.  It's kind of like Gatorade. Only clear.

On the Mt Fuji tour (which I'd arranged in advance through Expedia) we had lots of time on the bus with one of those guides who feels obligated to speak the whole time.  So in between naps, I learned a few things like cherry blossoms only last 10 days; people vy for the best spots under the cherry trees with tarps to picnic (where they eat, drink, and sing karaoke).  I love karaoke and feel bad that I didn't get a chance to experience it its natural habitat. 

In the Mt Fuji visitors' center I bought two postcards (220 Y; $2.20) in the ubiquitous gift shop and had a chance to do a real Asian squat in the toilet. I couldn't get into the thinker pose in the diagram (see photo, which looks like a stick figure peeing on a big slipper).  In another visitors center there was a hot food vending machine where you could buy French Fries; right next to it you could buy various kinds of milk.

For some reason I was thinking we'd get to do a bit of hiking on Mt Fuji, but it turns out that's only allowed during July and August when the snow is gone.  So we drove to the 4th or 5th station, which is 2006 meters above sea level.   It's still quite beautiful to see in real life.

After the tour I found my way home on the trains with no problems. I was almost out of cash but didn't see an ATM anywhere. I wanted dinner but was too tired to deal with finding a place that would take a credit card.  So I got an Asahi (Japanese beer) and can of peanuts from the hotel vending machine. Sad but pretty cool. 

I'd finished my book, dangit!  I couldn't afford the pay per view (you had to use cash to buy a card that you stuck in the TV) and couldn't understand the TV shows, so I bored myself to sleep.

Another beautiful day Sunday. Tried another ATM. It fed all three cards back to me. Very nicely. Starbucks was my last resort because they take credit cards. I didn't need much cash - just enough to get a train ticket to the park, lunch, and train to airport.  I found a Crowne Plaza and the concierge directed me to a 7-11. They have international ATMs. Who knew?  The minimum withdrawal was 10000 yen ($100) plus about 2 dollar charge.

At the train station, I couldn't find a ticket office, so was forced to figure out how to use the machine. Like the metro in DC, they charged by distance, and you need to have the ticket to get in and leave. 160 Y to Ueno Park, which was a very nice station like Grand Central.  There were flowers, chocolate, and a bookstore with English books!  I bought one on Japan FAQs and another trashy novel for the plane. The books were pretty expensive -about 24 dollars.

Ueno Park was right next to the station and full of people picnicking. It was a festival atmosphere with performers and a guy dressed in green.  I wandered through the zoo, an art gallery, the national museum, the garden behind the museum. The zoo had a ticket machine (600 Y; $6) and at the museum I saved 3 dollars (600 vs 900 yen) by using the ticket machine.  In the zoo I used the hot & cold vending machine to get a grapefruit soda with ice - I could have gotten a cappucino from the same machine.  I had lunch at the museum restaurant which is only interesting because there was a waiting list and they really called me "Davis-san").

I wish I'd been able to stay longer. 

Update to rumble in the jungle

I was looking through some old photos and realized that I have had run-ins with wildlife before the elephant and tiger experiences in Thailand.  During a swamp tour in Louisiana I held a baby crocodile, which chomped on my thumb (fortunately it didn't break the skin and was probably the only time a crocodile is chomping on you that you would saw "awww, how cute."  I hope that little croc didn't develop a taste for human blood.

In Lamu, Kenya, on the way to see sea turtles hatch, we walked through the farm of the goat herd who guarded the sea turtle eggs for extra money.  Baby goats had also just hatched, and we got to hold them.  I picked up one of them and he peed on me.  I guess I'm not that good with kids.  At least the sea turtles just ran away from me. 

In Nairobi, Kenya, I wanted to get "kissed" by a giraffe.  It seemed easy enough - they had it all set up, and I watched a few other tourists try it.  You walk up to a raised platform and held a piece of giraffe kibble in your mouth.  Then the giraffe would come over and gently grab the kibble from your mouth, and it would look like you were being kissed by a wild animal.  Just like in National Geographic.  

So I handed my camera to my friend and popped the kibble in my mouth.  The tallest giraffe came right over and gently grabbed it.  Cool!  But my friend hadn't taken the picture; she was too interested in watching.  So I popped another piece of kibble - smooch - oops no flash.  Kissed again - just missed the shot.  Kissed again - those giraffes are swift smoochers!  So as I was explaining to my friend that she should start pressing the button as the giraffe swooped in, still in kissing range, the momma giraffe came over and bonked me on top of my head with the bottom of hers.  I wasn't feeding her fast enough.  Now picture a giraffe and think of all the leverage and gravity that could come into play slinging that big anvil head around.  It really hurt.  Tears came to my eyes.  The last thing I wanted to do was kiss that bitch.  But I really wanted the photo.  

Greetings & Salutations

Beijing - I have always been awkward about greetings. When meeting new people, I often forget to introduce myself. When I lived in the south (the south of the United States, that is), we hugged friends in greeting. Then I moved to DC where we hugged good friends in greeting, but not coworkers. Unless they were coworkers and friends. Or if we hadn't seen each other in while. Then I moved to New York, where we did the single air smooch with friends and sometimes total strangers. But it felt cool. Back in Atlanta and working for a touchy feely humanitarian organization, we all hug everyone. Even the donors. Especially the donors :) But I still feel a little awkward hugging at work.

Here in Beijing with the broad range of countries, cultures, and contexts I'm exposed to, I feel even more awkward.  It's embarrassing to disengage when someone is mid-way through the complicated ritual, and I'm afraid I'll break some noses otherwise with a wrong start.   Here are some examples. 

Frederique is French and Australian and does the two-cheek kiss or a light hug. 

Fred from Atlanta (a friend of a friend who I've only seen twice) greets me with one kiss on the cheek and a hug.

Amanda, originally from Indiana, has lived in UK, but in China for past 2 years, gives a strong hug.

David the American raised in China shakes hands every time he sees me. 

Jun from the Philippines does the one-cheek kiss.

Keri, a Brit who lived much of her life in China, prefers not to be touched. 

Elizabeth's parents are Dutch; she grew up in Atlanta but has lived in Europe for many years. After our first meeting, she gave me a hug, but her husband, who is Dutch, did the 3 cheek kiss, or tried, because expecting two, I pulled away prematurely.    I did this the last time I saw him too.  How do you make up for it?  Do you go back in for the last one, or do you start all over?  Or do you just walk away with your tail between your legs?

  

When I meet Chinese at most types of events, after you shake hands, there is a formal business card exchange.  Normally, the card is proferred with both hands, with the words (in the correct language-many people I've met have English on one side and Chinese on the other) facing the person accepting the card, and should be accepted with both hands.  This is also done with credit cards, hotel room keys, restaurant bills, and receipts.  This is hard to do when you are fumbling (as I often am) in your over-stuffed purse through two cell phones, gloves, maps, phrase book for your business card.  

My strategy lately is to stay loose, light on the feet, arms slightly akimbo, face forward, and try to let the other person make the first move. 

Rumble in the Jungle

"Francine was right," I say through gritted teeth as the elephant gives another rumbling, horrifying growl under our precarious seat. Here I am doing something I've wanted to do ever since seeing an elephant giving rides on the beach in Hoi An, Vietnam, and I'm wondering if it was such a good idea.  Our tiny mahout perched on the elephant's neck calls back to a buddy at the elephant stalls, who comes over with a stack of broad leaves to thwack the elephant  (who I have nicknamed Cranky) with. Cranky no likey the thwacky, and tries to turn around to kill the offender.   The mahout uses his hook on the back of the elephant's ear, where I notice a roundish purple bruise and a bit of fresh blood and manages to keep us going the same direction as the rest of the elephants, who are whistling and skipping happily ahead with their passengers.  


K reaches down to pat Cranky's back.  'Don't do anything different!' I shriek sotto voce hoping our transportation won't notice. We are 'trekking' around the wall of an ersatz zoo - which sports some monkeys, tropical birds, baby tigers, and lots of crocodiles. This elephant has done the trek one too many times and is now protesting with trumpeting and a heart rattling growl. K is finding my fear amusing. Francine said it would be uncomfortable but she didn't say it could be deadly.


As Cranky shifts back and forth on the trail, K's leg comes uncomfortably close to the rusty barbed wire topping the zoo wall, and on my side palm trees loom bowel-wateringly-close. I remember something Francine said about the elephants trying to scrape you off using a tree.  I calculate rapidly: best case K falls inside the wall and only has to fend off baboons with his ripped up legs.  But I won't let that happen. I hold on tightly to his wrist with my right hand (the left has a vise grip on the chair contraption we are perched in). It's not that I'm being nice. I just want to make sure if I fall off he's coming with me to keep me from being stomped.


Maybe this elephant has a weight limit? I knew I shouldn't have had that extra waffle this morning. [K paid 200 baht (about $6.33) for the souvenir photo and if you can get past how startling white my legs are, you can see I was smiling - this was before Cranky started protesting the exploitation of animals.] 

Later, after Cranky stopped threatening to go down the ravine and we caught up with the other elephants (at least it was away from the barbed wire) the mahout dismounted Cranky and offered to take a photo with our cameras. I was nervous to be without a driver, so in this one you can see the fear- and adrenaline-inspired grin.  'I feel so alive!'  K even took the mahout's offer and climbed up on the beast's head. I was happy to finish off the trek alive and didn't move from my seat until we got back to the platform.

But for some reason I was tempted to wrangle with more wildlife.  But how could I resist?  Feeding a baby tiger? So darn cute!  And lots of other people did it.  We paid the 200 baht to take a photo with our own camera (300 baht with their camera).  I went into the little pen and the assistant dumped a baby tiger with a blue collar in my lap - he cuddled up sweetly sucking on the bottle of (tiger?) milk for about two seconds.  Then in a heartbeat (or should I say heartstop) the claws came out and he snarled viciously.  Assistant scooped him up quickly and dumped the one with a pink collar in my lap.  The girl was a little more docile, but again it made it hard to smile for the camera and say through my teeth 'take the picture, hurry!' 

The elephant, monkey, and crocodile shows went by afterwards without incident.  But for some reason I still felt a little bit tempted when they offered the chance to get a photo with the crocodiles....

Bargaining for dummies

Beijing - Although I want to convince myself that I enjoy shopping in local markets, I have yet to master the art of haggling. It feels too confrontational, and even after what feels like vigorous negotiations, I usually still feel ripped off. It doesn't help that I can't do currency conversions in my head and so am fooled by the initial 'for you my friend, only half price.' Of course the original price was 10 times a reasonable one. But if I can't imagine it in dollars I have a hard time getting past the 'play money' feeling.   

There's also the language challenge (which many savvy sellers now get around by using those oversized desk calculators to show the numbers), but I find some expressions to be universal. For example, the best sellers convey with a single lifted eyebrow: 'You have insulted my extended family and my ancestors with that offer' or 'So you want me to starve my children just so you can display this beautiful handmade matchstick elephant on your capitalist mantle.' But I can counter with the double raised eyebrows: 'Is this [carved bowl, basket, tea set] made of GOLD? That's a crazy price.'
 
Some vendors are more extravagant with their gestures. Before the holidays I went to the 'dirt/antique/saturday market' (a.k.a. Panjiahuan) and haggled over a 'traditonal' water basket. At my first offer (i went straight to the 1/10th price) the woman slapped herself in the face. At my next counteroffer she grabbed a pair of antique scissors and pantomimed drawing them across her throat. I felt like I got a great deal. Of course I will not be surprised when I find the same thing 50 percent off at the Pier1 in Ansley Mall. 
By the way, here's a trick I have used successfully although I often forget to prepare. Make sure you get some change to small bills before going to the market. Then put small amounts of money in different pockets (finally - the cargo pants make sense). This allows you the final trump of 'I guess I can't afford your lamp/carpet/authentic replica Chairman Mao socks - this is all the money I have.'

Cultural Anti-revolution

Beijing - Evening walk home: Young man and woman shouting and shoving each other in the street just in front of a large, busy, brightly-lit, window-fronted restaurant.  They seemed to know each other. People inside watched, and a couple of passersby on the sidewalk stopped to gawk.  I thought of dialing 911 but even if it was the right number to get the police I wouldn’t have been able to explain “domestic squabble” in Chinese. 

Public urination:   broad daylight, busy street (frontage road to 3^rd ring).  Man urinating on the wall.  His bicycle cart loaded with beer was parked on the side of the street.  I wondered if he’d been sampling his own wares.  Evening walk home along Chaoyangmenwai (very busy street): nicely dressed man urinating on the wall of the temple.   

Music in the underpasses:  The acoustics must be pleasing in the pedestrian underpasses.  Most mornings there is a middle-aged man playing the flute.  He seems to make good money – there are always bills on the little blanket in front of him.  Many evenings there is a passionate young man playing guitar and singing his heart out. He’s going to make it big, and I can say I knew him when.

Cultural anti-revolution:  There are revolving doors at all the entrances to the office building where I work and at entrances to most big buildings here.  I have noticed that Beijingers do not want to push the revolving door.  I’ve mentioned this to a couple of laowai and they have also noticed this phenomenon.  You would probably think it odd too if you were a suspicious city girl like me.  It happened a couple of times:  I noticed people loitering at the door, waiting, it seemed, for me to get there, then they would dive in the wedge of revolving door after me.  I would clutch my purse, but nothing happened.  Then I observed this happening to others.  It seems most just want to avoid pushing the door. Germophobes? (reasonable – there’s no soap or towels in the ladies bathroom on our floor)  Is it bad luck to push a door? Who knows? Perhaps it is for this reason that there are automatic revolving doors in several buildings.