Xian trip Oct 19

I flew to Xian October 19 to celebrate Pei Hua University’s eighty years as a private school, hoping I might reconnect with a few students I remembered. Saturday’s skies were amazingly blue with fluffy clouds, something I seldom saw when there in 2006 as the “only foreign teacher” (two Japanese teachers, then, didn’t count?). A car and driver brought two Foreign Affairs workers to greet me, deposit me at five-star Shaanxi Hotel, and see to my comforts as a “distinguished guest” until I begged off in the afternoon. I found a bus to city center, had a Starbuck’s Americana, revisited the Muslim market for lively bargaining, and met Kansas Citians Ann and Tooey Miller for dinner. It was heaven to speak fluent English without simplifying or watching whether my comments were politically correct. We talked for several hours about our kids, their jobs at NW University, the upcoming US election and economic scene.
      Sunday morning’s ceremony at the new Pei Hua campus open area found 30,000 students sitting on army camp stools below the platform where I was ushered to the third row (of eight) by lovely girls in suits and heels reminiscent of the 60’s stewardess attire. They kept our 150 tea cups full, washcloths handy, along with plying us with fruit while the president, ancient graduates, and party officials gave lengthy speeches. At one point, colored fireworks filled the sky with green/pink/purple clouds; the noise brought black birds from the Education Building eaves, as if on cue against the colorful clouds. After two hours, we were ushered down to chairs and they held umbrellas over us as a fantastic program emerged in the drizzle: bubbles and flames during an avant garde fashion show, a live band, acrobats, costumed dancers, European opera, pop singers, and dramatic reading went on for two more hours. Foreign Affairs Department took us by van to Chaing Kai Chek’s villa for a sumptious lunch, and the current Japanese teacher, English teacher (from Michigan), graduate fellow from Bavaria, and Ed Johnson (friend of the director and everyone else he met) pled “tired” and didn’t return for the afternoon and evening programming–more singing, dancing performances.
     They took me to Metro Shopping Center to buy canned tuna and dark chocolate, Western products I haven’t found in Sanya. William Bai, Xian friend and ex-co-teacher, brought my return air ticket and discussed the world economic scene that evening. He was delighted to get Lenin’s Private War, a book I recently enjoyed. Sunday morning, I met the newly-retired English dean, “Joe,” for mutton noodles at the old campus where I lived for nine months. He brought pomegranates and kiwi, local fruits and insisted I sign my gift: Peter Hessler’s Oracle Bones. He’ll pore over it for months, I think. At 60, he’s working parttime teaching English at a small college and has just passed three of four tests to teach English abroad. He seemed cheerful at having retired. His wife’s mother is in a wheelchair, so he doubts he’ll realize his dream to teach in America. 
     Boss Helen was at the Sanya airport to pick me up, pleased that my insurance card had arrived. A post office remittance for some editing I had done for an AIDS publication in Kunming also arrived, so she took me shopping after I taught this morning. We’re preparing lessons (with all English-speaking teachers giving critiques) for an Open Day with parents invited October 31 for all classes. Our newly-started English Corner seemed a success with first meeting last week; we had nine teachers and one person from the community. Next meeting’s topic is “Suitable Jobs” and I’ve no doubt they will prepare with much written memorization. I’m a “foreign expert” here, seen as friendly. It’s nice to be appreciated by old friends like Pei Hua and new ones like the young teachers at Golden Sun Kindergarten.

Choices and Decisions

Having successfully received and sent back my US voting documents October 26, I’m sipping a fresh kiwi-orange smoothie, celebrating a new blender and my country where each citizen has a say in electing leaders. China’s 1.3 billion population doesn’t have that privilege, according to my 20-something co-teachers, who pored over my ballot and asked dozens of questions. Ella, ‘English teacher’ who’s gradually getting away from speaking Chinese to our nine kindergartners, and Shirley, Chinese teacher who has them reciting at the tops of their voices, meet me weekly to trade English-for-Chinese help. They’re regulars in our new Wednesday night English Corner too, eager to improve their English as long as other Chinese-only speakers don’t laugh at them. We played the game ‘Duck, Duck Goose’ while learning short-u sounds today, and the teachers chased around the circle with as much exubrance as the kids. 
 
I returned from Xian full of gratitude for the red carpet rolled out for us distinguished guests. They couldn’t control the soggy weather that threatened the top notch programming that followed Saturday’s 80th anniversary ceremonies. Battery-operated technology allowed speakers, microphones, and cameras to continue while pretty girls held orange-and-black  umbrellas over our 150 heads. Pei Hua’s 35,000 students toughed it out on army camp stools in drizzle for at least two hours. Not since the Olympics had I seen or heard such talented dancing, singing and playing. To top it off, Foreign Affairs helper gave me China Mobile’s gift umbrella to introduce Halloween colors to Sanya!
 
      Fully moved into my fourth floor apartment, I’m getting on-average one new appliance or piece of furniture daily. Venes came for soup we cooked on the new hotplate, Saturday; handyman Li has all faucets working and we’re hopeful for the washer hook-up tomorrow. I’m using my own laptop, connected to broadband just last night via my new phone (8863.0080 has enough eights to be considered a ‘lucky number’ ); I’ve a rice cooker and a wok for weekends when there are no meals served at Golden Sun Kindergarten. Tonight’s fare was fresh shrimp and bok choi with rice.
 
     Our neighborhood complex of six-story concrete boxes’ inhabitants congregated near the gate with gongs, horns, and drums last evening for a rousing celebration of a 75-year-old man’s death. Folks ate, played cards, and visited throughout the night. My 7:00 a.m. Tai Chi group, reduced to three who didn’t participate in the funeral, moved our practice to a clearing under a banyon a respectful distance from the mourners. Their all-night vigil was rewarded by rosy apples and thick rounds of cheese piled on tables as I walked to Golden Sun’s hot coconut milk and baozi (steamed, filled buns) breakfast. I had finished morning English class when firecrackers marked the end of the funeral gathering. I logged on to Google to discover China’s population clock ticking off 33 million births and 16 million deaths since 2008 came as a New Year’s baby.  I’m living among 1/5 of the 6 million world population, considering myself lucky to be here, gleaning what I can from your e-mails and internet newspapers about the economy and upcoming election.
 
      On this side of the world, we’ve weathered our first crisis. Helen got a call while we were registering my residency with the police. ‘Terrible! A teacher (teaches Chinese to three year olds) hit a kid.’ It was  in the class of 18 where I’m working with the confused English co-teacher on setting up and following a lesson plan. Helen spent the evening with the mother and child who gaily skipped around them, telling me she ’solved the problem; I will refund one month’s payment and take the mother to dinner. She insisted on an x-ray, although the child said it wasn’t necessary.’ Helen’s thinking what she should do beyond the Chinese teacher saying, ‘Sorry’ to the parent (striking children is unlawful here, but parents seem to be exempt from that law). The school takes a strong stand, thank goodness!
 
     It’s off to the beach after I teach ‘over/under/next to’ in English concepts today. Parents attend an all-day Open House tomorrow; for me, it may be business as usual. I often look up to see observers sitting in during my class activities. They’re glued to the repetitive ‘teaching,’ fade away when I start child-centered activities, but the kids are showing their individual smarts and personalities as they cut/paste/dictate/tie and–soon–make a neighborhood out of the sandbox. I’m sick of my name because it’s the greeting/call for attention they say repeatedly at the top of their lungs. Discourse comes later, I hope!

Christmas Note, ‘09

LinAn, Zhejiang, China Under my down quilt until the wall air conditioner boosts my bedroom temperature beyond frigid, I hear a delightful npr piggyback on Nutcracker Suite. A little girl, envious of her Gentile friends’ Christmas magic, learns her rich heritage’s important lessons and magic of its own, thanks to a dancing dredyl. I determine to mention Hanukkah to my university teachers’ English class. I’ll also help my kindergartners make spinning tops, along with wreaths, Birthday Baby, Santas, and candy canes.

At work each evening, Babe English School pours carols onto the street, and smiles light up curious faces of folks outside–the woman stirring sweetened popcorn, the guy who sells fruit, a businessman carrying his lighted cigarette, a grandma smiling at two stickers on her grandson’s forehead, a vender pumping bicycle pedals before a mountain of bamboo chairs, a stilleto-heeled woman dressed to the nines on her way to a facial… Closure thoughts, of late, wander over four past Asian-tinged years. I can’t tell precisely how changed I find myself (What Work In Progress can?), but I make U.S. return plans for end-of-February, knowing friends and family will notice the marks of time and place: Pounds remain at bay–dropped effortlessly while relishing rice with fresh vegetables, slivers of meat, hot pots, bbq kabobs, exquisite dumplings, or noodle meal-in-a-bowls. Biking 3 kilometers twice daily helps too. The smaller pants size trade-off is increased wrinkles. I miss last year’s tropical yoga sessions that firmed upper body and restored calm. Some say I’ve a great deal of patience; I suspect pre-China friends may take my new assertive levels as the oppostite.

Perhaps it’s the last birthday’s thrust that doesn’t suffer fools gladly often anymore. I have to remind myself how I sometimes am the biggest fool of all and dip deeper for forgiveness. I hear weekly, if not daily, how I’m “different from other grandmothers, who stay at home, cook, take care of the one grandchild” and how much Chinese friends “want to be like me” when older. When told they discuss “how energetic” I am, among themselves, I think how the conversations probably aren’t much different from American folks’ gossip, observations, longings, and speculations. I mentally list memorable teachers, students, parents, visitors while in four Chinese settings. What a mind-expanding adventure–not to mention experiencing challenges of weather, philosophy, preconceived ideas, expectations, and communication. I’d enjoy introducing East and West friends one day soon. Our world’s becoming smaller. It could happen!

My gratitude runs over for Ron (catching my mail for 7985 Hwy 200, Plains, MT 59859), sister Gayla (working in OK), Mom (quilting in hometown KS), Janet (posting my blogs in KS between jewelry parties; keeping Brian, Grant, and Ethan on an even keel; teaching highschoolers and training Larry, new dog), Kent (wine making and consulting as far away as Hungarian vineyards, making Owen and Lila’s PB&J while RJ prepares for the loss of her second grandparent in as many months or feeds their menagerie of pets), and the many of you who respond to my updates, pray, send jokes, forward inspirations, and send caring thoughts. I cough once again (allergy to next-door dump or a lingering cold?), glance outside at welcome sunshine, tickle the lone Santa hanging from my door, and find a brilliant tree online. Its light (enough for a few next steps anyway), the stairway (leading upward), variety, colors, and unopened presents all speak to me of what a new year holds. May yours speak kindly to you. Love, and hope of seeing many of you in 2010, Virginia/Grandma Ginny/Ginia

Shaoxing, Shapeshifter – December 2, 2009

Wendy, helpful assistant at Babe School, said “Will you ask for leave for me?” when she offered to go with me to long-awaited Shaoqing, her alma mater city. Bosses told me they “had something else for her, but Nancy could go to interpret.”

I offered Nancy a free three-day vacation. “I wasn’t consulted. I have never been to Shaoqing. I have something else to do!” I quickly told bosses I would go alone. Lisa, a new American teacher “watching me teach” (her words) “for Mama to train” (Zoe’s words), decided on departure morning that she would go too.

Wendy’s college friend, Lena, met us after a three-hour bus ride. We boarded a clearly-marked SHAOXING BUS, and I ended choosing among the spellings in guide books and among Chinese folks and discarded “Xiaoqing/Shaozing/Xiaoxing.” 

The lady had a spelling for her name. I’d read that name meant “a female cartoon character” and “to inherit what ancestors have created to develop something new.” The edge of town showed murky green waterways graced by arched bridges between intervals of cranes and building debris. From Yuezhou, its name 2500 years ago, when it was the capital of the State of Yue during China’s Spring and Autumn Period (What happened in summer?), Ruler Zhao Gou moved there for second time, “pretending to do something big by making a decision for amnesty,” his ancestors stayed. I guess he fled during Summer Period.   Chinese history can be confusing, especially in English-translated accounts. 

We checked into Motel168, with a nice lobby and simple rooms, and caught a bus to The Former Residence of Lu Xun. Past college students, attempting to give me a Chinese name, had often suggested I take Lu Xun’s name. Teacher? Writer? My farm background? They invariably explained, voices reverent, that he was the first to write of life of common people.

I remembered looking at XiAn’s cliff-cave doorways with worn paths down to work tilling gardens or selling street food, hearing teachers tell of Lu Xun’s couragous writing as we commuted to our university jobs. “Lu Xun wrote somewhere near here” directed my gaze out bus windows, imagining Lu Xun bent over a hoe while his head whirled into his next story and how to preserve it for his people, peasants.

The Lu Xun Former Residence monument was huge, with a bronze scholar and teacher outside the entry. I put an arm around each while Lisa took a picture.   Later I learned that Lu Xun “was perhaps the boy,” not the spectacled teacher I’d imagined on my right. Pedicab drivers, beggars, venders, and police harrangued us until we found where to get tickets (free, but conscientiously punched at four intervals by guards as our afternoon progressed). We started down several restored blocks of museums, courtyards, and ubiquitous tourist shops. Lu Xun’s grandfather, Zhou, was anything but a peasant. They had sedan-chairs, ornate beds, a leather couch in the parlor, and two golden osmanthus trees in shady courtyards. Lu Xun’s father, a scholar, had his title revoked when he sympathized with the 1898 Reformation Movement. He “got involved with a his grandfather’s bribery case and lost his title,” was another written explanation. I learned that Lu Xun’s wife, married in one chamber in 1906, couldn’t read or write (nor walk far on bound feet), but he provided her “with daily substances for living” while there were hints of a Beijing lady who shared his literary and other interests. We visited plaster-and-costume re-enactments of worshipping at private shrines (men only, in those days), a wedding where the bride’s red attire included a heavy veil, the wedding bed where the bride (still veiled) awaited the first look by her groom, the cave below the kitchen floor where yellow rice wine was put away at a girl child’s birth to be served at her wedding, and proceeded to Lu Xun’s boyhood school. This teacher, replicating the bronze in my picture, showed us the desk where young Lu Xun carved figures for “Get up earlier!” because he like to sleep in and often arrived late.
I had read of “Garden of Hundred Herbs,” among Lu Xun’s writings. The herbs turned out to be a healthy rows of vegetables that could still feed 10 Zhou households.”The Studio of Triple Tastes” with its couplet had a lingering hold on my imagination: “Extremely happy without making known to others is the filial piety; Soup made more delicious when enjoying it with books and poetry.” suggested Lu Xun believed in understatement and a multi-tasking.
Lena said we’d go to “The Statue” next, although we entered “The Studio of Triple Tastes” and learned that “to read classics is like having rice and cereal…history is like a banquiet…while collections of schools of thought is like a kind of seasoning. Delicious! Then I read that its name had changed from “The Studio of Spare Times.” I asked Lena, “Where is the sculpture?” “We’re in it,” she said, indicating the studio where writing and thinking were done. Sculpting ideas is a nice description for using any studio, we laughed, as she corrected her vocabulary glitch.

The sun was setting by the time we left the several-block compound, still abuzz with works, hawkers, and tourists.We had sampled stinky tofu, hadn’t found any yellow rice wine sold in small quantities, and decided to try a restaurant marked COFFEE. We had passable coffee that should have been sold in golden cups for its price and two plates of pistachios, the 20-yuan-person limit for their service, and talked until dark. It has been a while since I’d been part of three generations’ girl talk, a relaxing time.

Lisa left early for visa business in Hangzhou; I caught street breakfast and lots of stares before boarding a bus to Shen Yuan, a private Song Dynasty garden covering several blocks and exhumed in 1985. Lovely ponds, lakes, pavillions with folks doing Tai Ji (or is it Tai Chi here?) captivated me for a couple of hours. How I longed for my forgotten camera! Warm milk tea with black pearls, my favorite in cold weather, and a banana were midmorning snack before I found Bus 3 to KeYan area, 8 km outside the city.I rode with workers’ picks, buckets, and bundles and alighted with maids at Mirror Lake Resort, a hotel complex in progress. Lunch–bitter squash and garlic, rice garnished with an orchid, hot tea, pumpkin balls filled with bean curd, and a complimentary plate of fruit fashioned into a bird–found me alone in a private room (for 10, with a private bathroom) overlooking a rock sculptured courtyard. 48 yuan ($6.50) for all that splendor!

I  exited to murky green waterways off Mirror Lake, crossed the hump of an ornate cement bridge, and walked away the afternoon. Some natural sculptures, one topped with a tree, in huge pools probably dated to Yue’s day when this was one of “eight scenic attractions known far and wide.” The largest, with 21-meter Maitreya Buddha overlooking green waters, found me walking both ways so as not to miss a single angle’s view. However, my descriptive brochure confused me: It said “hewn 483-492,” in another it described “three generations of monks carving it over 30 years.” I ascended to three graceful temples, smelling incense. Murals and English paragraphs depicted Sakyamuni’s life at Stone City Temple’s apex.I descended to wander paths between wild gardens, sculptures, pavillions, and guys wanting to make a yuan or two. Below the roaring waterfall, you could have your picture taken on a docile horse or ride in a boat propelled by the boatman’s foot.

I walked a few more paths and bade farewell to KeYan Scenic Area to order afternoon tea, dessert, and another fruit plate in the resort lobby. A quiet piano played, and a soft-spoken waitress urged me to return. I told her, with enthusiasm, that I’d like that very much.

China Thanksgiving – Nov 26, 2009

The turkey dinner turned out to be bar-b-que, done by 14 of us at our table–chicken wings, lamb kabobs, beef, pork, eggplant, potatoes, corn on cob plus Sprite, a pizza-like pickled cabbage dish, marinated peanut appetizers, and a cold noodle dish. Lisa, new teacher from IL, pronounced it “a feast although it was her first non-turkey Thanksgiving” on our ride home. We bowed out of kareoke, since she’s moving in and I’ve no voice yet.
 
It seems, my telling them I ate turkey in a Sanya Western bar-restaurant last Thanksgiving got translated to “Bars in America serve turkey.” They decided bars in LinAn were too noisy and chose bar-b-que with us the length of three tables “as a family” and then the KTV sing-along in a noisy bar.
 
My classes continue to “read” a rebus story and sing “Over the River and Through the Woods” to proud parents the last ten minutes of each class (I’m mouthing words). We’ll move into Christmas preparations next week.
Happy holidays!
Virginia

Barely Communicating With Bear Lee and Babe School

November 21,2009
Bear Lee, my student in 2002 in Xian, visited last weekend from a 3-hour bus ride away; he had me edit some work writing–selling solar heating equipment on the web. Pinned down, he said he hadn’t actually sold any beyond some to family members (he’s their “foreign sales” department, since his English is pretty good). We one day, at his instigation, patiently examining questions he posed. “Why does America want to rule the world?… What about interference in Taiwan?…Virginia, why don’t you like to discuss politics?” It was a little like a sometimes heated chat over a KC breakfast table, but much more strange. He had visited my second grade class, told me “The pictures need to be bigger,” and served as judge of a group oral English project in my teachers’ class, laughing about the 18 who attended after 100 had signed up. I already had read his response to my e-mail account of holding the line on enrollment in my teachers’ Oral English class:
“Dear Virginia, It’s a long story about differences between Chinese education and American education.
You are right, there are still a lot of things for us to do with education. And I believe that the situation will be changed in the future.
Small classes have its advantages and big classes is the reasonable way to teach so many people at the same time. It’s not because we don’t want to have small classes, but because we are not developed enough.
Dragon lady sounds interesting. You know, dragon is popular for us. Bear Lee”
Over scrambled eggs, he explained that, since what is ultimately good for China is good for all people, “we do not mind giving up our life; an individual life has little meaning.” He gave examples of guan xi as taking care of your family, friends (thus the motherland, because that’s its system).
I asked, “What you do if you became a leader, appointed your brother-in-law to head of the bank although he had no knowledge of money, and he did his job badly?”
He said, “Two things: Maybe he will see he does the job badly and will quit. Secondly, you tell a third party and hope they will solve the problem. He is family. He must be given the chance.”
He had just told me, for the umpteenth time, that “China must develop, and money is the most important thing.” That explained why living conditions and pollution problems must be put aside until China develops. He cited China’s most corrupt wealthy leaders defecting to Canada as a very large problem; as we talked, I delved further and realized that those leaders had fallen out of favor with the party before fleeing to Canada. I told him I would leave too, if I feared for my life. Bear Lee accepted my comment and held the umbrella as we walked to a campus dumpling lunch. His sixth “A culture clash! The ComMUNist Party…The government says…” triggered my comment before I ran it through my brain: “Bear Lee, what do YOU, not the government, say? You were seen by classmates as the smartest one in my class. You have a good brain. Think with it!”
He smiled quietly. On the walk home, he said, “Virginia, you tell me not to listen to the government?” I explained that “teachers like me hope to see people listen, then use their own intelligence to think about what is a good choice, not sound like a parrot.” I noticed a decline in his accusations about American imperialism, Taiwan support, submarines in China seas, and his insistence that China would soon be forced into a war. To avoid getting angry, I turned thoughts to our history as friends (caps follow).
…BEAR LEE WAS MY STUDENT IN XIAN FOUR YEARS AGO, ONE OF THE TOP OF HIS CLASS, VERY RESERVED, CAUTIOUS, A “STRAIGHT ARROW” CHINESE STYLE. STUDENTS ALL LOOKED UP TO HIM. HE SKIPPED HIS OTHER CLASSES, ATTENDED ALL OF MINE, SITTING IN THE FRONT WHEN HE HAD PAID TUITION, IN THE BACK WHEN HE HADN’T. HE ONCE BROUGHT ME RICE WINE AND LOCAL CANDY FROM HUBEI PROVINCE, AFTER EVERYONE ELSE HAD VACATED THE CLASS.
HE INVITED ME TO HIS VILLAGE; IT WAS A “FARM EXPERIENCE” WHERE HIS WIDER FARMILY MADE UP MOST OF THE VILLAGE NEXT TO A POLLUTED RIVER, MANY FIELDS OF VEGETABLES WORKED WITH ONE OX, AND A LITTLE BIGGER “TOWN” WHERE THE GOVERNMENT HAD BUILT CEMENT HIGH-RISE HOUSING. HIS FAMILY HAD ALREADY RELOCATED ONCE, SO THEY ELECTED TO STAY IN THEIR VILLAGE HOME. HIS MOM COOKED CONSTANTLY, BUSIED HERSELF MATCHMAKING FOR FRIENDS’ ELIGIBLE SINGLE KIDS, AND WORKED ODD MOMENTS BOXING COLORED CHALK THE FAMILY DRIED ON RACKS. CHICKENS AND DOGS RAN IN AND OUT DURING DELICIOUS MEALS. BEAR LEE’S FATHER WORKED DAILY ON CANE FURNITURE MADE BETWEEN THEIR LODGING AND THAT OF THE “WORKER FAMILY,” WHO SEEMED TO BE THE VILLAGE SERVANTS. BEAR LEE WAS THE ONLY ENGLISH SPEAKER (HIS BROTHERS AND SISTERS HEADED OFF TO BIG CITIES TO WORK AS SOON AS THEY GRADUATED), SO MY INFORMATION ALL CAME THROUGH HIM. IT WAS THE COLDEST FOUR DAYS I’VE SPENT IN A LONG WHILE, AND THEY TRIED TO TREAT ME AS HONORED GUEST–STRAW PILLOW IN SISTER’S MANY-BLANKETED BED VACATED BY BEAR LEE WHO SLEPT IN IT THE NIGHT BEFORE, ALWAYS THE FIRST CHOICE OF FOODS, RIDING BEHIND THE TRACTOR-CART ON A BAMBOO CHAIR…

UPON GRADUATION, BEAR LEE WORKED FOR SEVERAL “MEN” THAT DIDN’T PAN OUT. I’M GUESSING THEY WERE “START-UP HOME COMPANIES” THAT DIDN’T MAKE IT. SELLING SOLAR PANELS LOOKED TO ME TO BE ANOTHER. HE FOUND IT ON INTERNET AFTER HE MOVED BACK HOME THIS YEAR. HE “HAS NO EXPERIENCE WITH GIRLS,” IN HIS WORDS, LOVES HIS FAMILY FIERCELY, AND IS TYPICAL OF YOUNG PEOPLE CAUGHT BETWEEN OLD AND NEW WAYS, DESPERATE TO MAKE MONEY AND SHOW FAMILY THEY INVESTED WISELY IN THEIR EDUCATION. I SAW BEAR LEE LAST WHEN HE CAME TO A GATHERING OF FRIENDS WHEN I REVISITED XIAN WITH A MONTANA FRIEND. THEN, HE AGAIN BROUGHT UP COMMUNIST AND WESTERN PHILOSOPHY OR (HIS VERSION OF) AMERICAN TRANSGRESSIONS TO BE DISCUSSED AMONG THE MIX OF WESTERN AND CHINESE FRIENDS I’D INVITED. HE SEEMED SURPRISED THAT ONE OLDER CHINESE FRIEND CRITICIZED SEVERAL CHINESE GOVERNMENTAL POLICIES.
I’VE SEEN BEAR LEE GROW FROM SIMPLY SPOUTING PARTY LINE TO THOUGHTFULLY TRYING TO SORT OUT A FEW THINGS WITH A WIDER VIEW. THROUGH IT ALL, I FEEL HE VALUES MY FRIENDSHIP AND OPINIONS–AND USUALLY CONSIDERS THEM. HE CERTAINLY HAS TAUGHT ME PATIENCE, PERHAPS A LITTLE DIPLOMACY…
Before he left, Bear Lee had suggested I needed to put my plans to leave Babe School after six months “more formally” and translated a statement in Chinese. I thanked him, wondering if that would help bosses Zoe, Bear, Kelly, and Lillian accept what they simply had refused to acknowledge many times in English. The statement went into a drawer; a last-ditch effort, if needed, to exit Babe.

Over table bar-b-que we (4 bosses, their 2-year-old, and me) did ourselves, the bosses and I negotiated down to my doing 10 Feb. Winter School days, teaching 6 hours/day with rest breaks, limiting my classes to 7 children with present students getting the slots and my having final say on whether new ones are OK to add. They “would look” at providing return airfare with me paying difference it takes to come through San Francisco, KS, to Montana. They wanted an answer in two days; I promised it, if I got an international calling card (my mother hadn’t heard from me since Zoe’s Magic Jack broke a month ago).
Within two days, my cellphone had international service, and I chatted with Mom, who said “It seems so long since you’ve called.” She’s going to Nowata for Thanksgiving with my sister.

I met with bosses, telling them of Mom’s being alone (in KS, while my sister moved to OK and I’m half-world away) as the reason I will NOT do next semester. They revere family and this reason didn’t cause them to lose face. They tried once more, “Would you consider our sending you to America for winter and return to work March-May?”
I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t.” Ah, China..where “change always happens” and “good will among friends” comes ahead of the truth or contracts…and I’m barely beginning to understand it. I also understand the Brit couple who worked there saying they “had to make Zoe mad” so they could leave. Maybe I’ll exit gracefully, since I’m “Mama Virginia.” .

In LinAn, I’m reading Tom Clancy’s THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON and trying to stay warm. One of the office staff knitted me a warm scarf, and I wear five layers on top, three on the bottom most icy days. My “air conditioner” puts out heat enough for my bedroom, so I hurry through my other rooms’ chores, much like the farm where I grew up.

I already thinking I may do a phonics emphasis for those ten Winter School classes; it’s something new to China and I’ve quite a bit of materials I brought with me. It could be fun….

ZJFU Teachers’ Oral English Numbers Game

Months ago, Bob, in ZhiJiang Forestry University Foreign Affairs, told me three offices would coordinate my teachers’ Oral English class. A month ago, someone named Charlie called to say my “curriculum would be Oral English. He said they expected “a small class, maybe no more than 10, like last year’s class.”

We chatted pleasantly about how easy it would be to get 10 people to improve their speaking skills. Three weeks ago, Charlie called to say we would meet on Saturday nights for four weeks. Could I begin next week? I couldn’t, since I’d be in HongKong. “No problem. Another foreign teacher will teach the first two classes.”

They would divide the eight weeks between me and him, four each. Too good to be true! On Thursday, I called Charlie. “I’m eager to meet the Oral English class.” Our dialogue went something like this: “Oh, Virginia. It begins Saturday.” “Yes. Where do we meet? Is there a room number?” “Room number? My colleague sent you an e-mail about it. Maybe students will show you.” “I just opened my e-mails, and I haven’t heard from ZJFU.I’m coming to the campus now. Could someone take me to see the room?”

He was suddenly welcoming: “I am in 402 above Bob’s office. If you don’t wish to climb four floors, I will meet you in his office.” I biked, in high spirits, over to ZJFU’s first campus building. Charlie, young and blinking behind wire-rimmed glasses, poured me a cup of hot water from a thermos. “Sit please.” “I am glad to meet you and appreciate the work you’ve done for my teaching at ZJFU. Did the other foreign teacher enjoy the first classes?” “First classes? There has been a change. The other foreign teacher had something else to do, so you will be teaching eight weeks, not four, ending December 26.”

“I can teach eight weeks.” Charlie retreated behind his computer and shuffled papers. “There is a small problem, however.” “A problem?” (Two could play the repetition game.) “The numbers of students have changed.” “How many will be in the class?” “16″ “I can handle sixteen.”

He breathed a sign of relief and resumed shuffling papers. A concern niggled. “Charlie, did you say sixTEEN? Or SIXty?” He wrote 60 on his hand while repeating “16″. “No, I cannot teach 60, not in Oral English.” ” No?” “But you must…” He went back to shuffling papers. “I’m sorry. I will not accept 60.” “How many? I could ask my boss, maybe split the class.” “Is that possible?” “Maybe… What are your free nights?” “I teach evenings at Babe Training Center. How about mornings? My best ones would be Wednesday or Friday, anytime.” (I got up to leave.)

 ”Thank you for offering to split the class.” “Oh, is there a class list?” Charlie shuffled papers furiously. “Yes, but the list is not finished. Uh…There are a few more than 60 on it.” “How many?” “100. But we won’t know how many signed up until the first class meets.” “100? Even if you split it, that means 50 in each class. That’s too many. I simply won’t do it, Charlie.” “I know you have your teaching principals, but just teach them a little something and don’t worry about teaching quality.” “No, Charlie, I cannot do that. 100 people wouldn’t have a chance to speak more than a minute during each evening. I won’t do it.” “I’ll talk to my boss. I’ll call you.”

Student-helper LiChun arrived and took me on the back of his scooter to 1312, in a second Building 1. The stereotypic room had a computer and screen in front of a chalkboard, before fixed seats lined up like church pews. We went out a different door than we entered and found a foreigners’ Chinese class with a half-dozen students; I envied the teacher’s cozy group, reading and speaking far above my yi dian (little bit) Chinese level.

If only I’d been offered this type of class my first year in China!. Non-office hours went by (college offices shut down 11:30-2:30 for a siesta), and I called Charlie at 3:00 before leaving for Babe School. “Hello, Charlie. I must teach soon, so I am calling about what you did about the class numbers.” “Numbers?” (I waited.) “Oh, I talked to my boss. He said you must teach the first class, then maybe make two classes that you must teach. No pay, of course.”

 ”Charlie, did you tell him I refuse to teach Oral English to classes of 50?” We spent 20 minutes on a verbal see-saw, both repeating ourselves. I finally told him, “It appears that nothing has changed since we talked this morning. If I walk into class of 100 on Saturday, and no one is there to split them I will simply walk on out. I’m sorry.”

Charlie said he’d inform his boss, now that he understood “the seriousness of my teaching.” He’d call me; “maybe we’d need classes of 20 every morning.” I arrived at Babe School’s office to hear Mark on the phone, “Sure, no problem, Charlie. I’ll just get an idea of their English level. Saturday 6:30-8:30.Bye bye.” “What? Is Charlie bending your ear about Dragon Lady Virginia, Mark?” “You certainly got his attention.”

“Mark, how would you get an idea of 100 people’s Oral English levels in a first class?” “I’d have them write a paragraph about themselves.” Rather than debate how a written paragraph could indicate a speaking level, I started for my kindergarten class. Mark followed me up the stairs.

“Virginia, will you take my class tomorrow night so I can take yours at the university?” “I don’t see what that will gain me for the following weeks, if I’m saddled by 50 or 60 students. I plan to go to the first class.” “They don’t know how many will show up.” “I’ve heard that over and over. What are the chances that 100 will become a workable class number?” Mark didn’t answer, nor did I expect him to pursue his argument.

Sleeping off Friday’s cold I may have caught from Mark, I gave Charlie until 3:00 p.m.and rang him. “Oh, Virginia…” “I received an e-mail telling me I am teaching Saturday and Thursday evenings. As I had told you, I teach four hours at Babe School on Thursdays.” “Oh, that was a mistake. We cannot call 100 teachers to see if they are free on Thursday morning.” “Remember I said I preferred Wednesday or Saturday mornings?” “Oh yah, yah.” (Silence) “What can I expect on Saturday, Mark?” “You do not need to teach the first class. Another foreign teacher will meet the class.” “Is it Mark?” “Well, yes, it is.” “Mark has his own class to teach Saturday night. Did you know that? I told him I am meeting the class. Will you be there to split it?” “If not me, I’ll send someone.”

I took Saturday as quietly as I could, tutoring two hours in the morning, whispering instructions to my TA who helped wonderfully in my two-hour second grade class. I dressed for success, got lost twice trying to find 1312, and pressed an early-comer into service to erase the board and turn on the microphone. It took him three phone calls, two exits, and the loan of a teacher’s card to turn on the mike. Teachers trickled in–friendly, informally dressed, armed with pen and notebook. LiChun had them sign a list indicating what mornings they were free.

I wrote “laryngitis” on the board, used the mike, and answered questions about myself. LiChun kept computing, so we moved into groups, brainstorming skills they wanted to improve: Pronounciation, Listening, Vocabulary, Speaking, Communication, Organizing for education. Groups debated and prioritized topics they proposed: Travel, Sports, Films, American University Culture, Family-Babies, Foods. LiChun announced triumphantly, “There are 22 in the class, so it will continue to meet Saturdays only. You are a very good teacher!” He left.

After I shared about American education’s choices, fostering of curiosity, cooperative learning, and discussion-oriented teaching in one side of a Venn Diagram, they readily discussed China’s education and filled in the other side. We were identifying similarities when the bell rang. I told them enthusiastically how much I looked forward to next week’s class. I made a mental note to write Charlie a note to thank him for his efforts. Should I sign it Dragon Lady?

Post-Halloween Euphoria – Nov 1, 2009

HuangShan’s National Day mob climb, after three weeks, seems like the surreal dream it was. We returned to Babe English Training School to find two office girls gone, replaced by Candy and Daisy, neither of whom speak much English. Teaching Assistant Heather, my personal favorite, quit to study for exams that might lead one day to being an elementary teacher, then popped in to help in my class “one last time.”

I’ve trained about half a dozen “assistants” over the two months here (to stop interpreting everything in Chinese, to bring the children upstairs in an orderly fashion after they’ve toileted, to take part in activites to encourage shy students, to learn the names of items and supplies we’re using, to assist immature kids with pencils or crayons without doing work for them).

Current helper, Nancy, with the most English and an insistent manner backed up by feelings of inferiority from “being from another province,” busily writes personal descriptions of what I’m teaching and how well children do–at least that’s what I’m told the Chinese notes to parents say–and is slowly coming around to helping me direct attention or respond to runny noses.

Nancy planned to quit weeks ago, but said “Bear wouldn’t agree.” Sue, who comes about half the time, learns quickly and assists my lessons with teaching intuition; then she sweeps up and empties the rubbish bin. We often eat together or share snacks; I’m not too sure we foreigners, immigrant labor, aren’t considered below the office girls, true Chinese citizens.

Visas expired October 24, so Zoe had businesswoman Kelly–a new partner replacing Michael and Shirley–get Mark and me tickets for October 23. One evening, in front of Babe’s locked doors, Zoe told us air was tai gui la (expensive) and a HongKong holiday on Monday necessitated our staying five nights.

Mark quickly agreed that it “was only fair” that we bear the cost of our hotel rooms, but I reminded Zoe that she had promised hotel expenses. Kelly had booked a 500 $HK waterfront hotel, so I estimated that we’d spent half month’s salary on our HongKong visa stay. I was the only one who had taught (three hours) that evening, so my “I am very disappointed and feel I can’t trust your word.” was mild, compared to how I felt.

Next evening, Mark booked us Kowloon hostel rooms (a fraction of hotel prices) and Zoe took me to the most expensive restaurant in LinAn, apologized, and sweetened the deal. Kelly would arrange a weekly gift massage and facial. Zoe would quit giving me new students. Then she talked gossip and plans for “Mama teaching at Babe School for many more years.” She would “arrange that I could go home each year to visit family.”

I tried to say as little as possible and enjoyed the tender steak, salmon, seafood, and vegetables cooked Japanese-style at our table. I was surprised at how quickly my sleepless night receded. My mood shifted toward a vacation in HongKong.

The airport, located on the biggest of 600+ islands–Lantau, sold us MTR passes that included the Express line–45 minutes to HongKong’s Central station. We rode a luxury bus, part of the Express services to the visa office cosmapolitan vicinity. Gleaming skyscrapers, gorgeous hotels, and multi-level shopping areas made us think of Paris or Madrid minus cathedrals.

Driving and walking was on the left, along with cleanliness and order instilled by the British, protectorate for about 100 years prior to China’s resuming dominant power in 1997. Green mountains rose into view everywhere.

My visa application went smoothly, except for security scan detecting four wrapped candies in my fanny pack, which they returned. Mark, suffering a bad cold and misplacing documents, had to fill out forms again because he used red pen. He assured me he could figure out subway maps, so we set off for the underground. Then Mark disappeared far ahead!

He came toward me in the crowd, didn’t respond to my call, and quickly was lost the opposite way. Thank goodness I had an address for Dragon Hostel. An hour and a half later, with kindness from several Chinese English-speakers, I maneuvered luggage through MTR changes and found my seventh-floor cubicle.

Dragon was one of 100 hostels on 15 floors, established when HongKong economy caused most families to move out of busy Argyle Street’s building. Dragon Hostel had TV, fridge, internet, shower in shared toilet, boiled water, and books left from world travelers. Mark arrived a half hour later, apologized for leaving me, and agreed we’d spend as little time there as possible.

I called a number of Zoe’s friend; Steven graciously invited us to dinner at HongKong City University. It was a task to find the college gate via MTR and Festival Walk Shopping Center exits. Steven’s hope is to make “172 on LSAT and go to law school in America.” He fingers a number of political pies and may realize his dream. He also arranged for us to go with “researchers in linguistics, translation, and computers” to a Beach Bar-b-que the next afternoon.

 Twenty bright grad students took us to Coffee Bay to roast beef, pork ribs, sardines, chicken wings, pork balls, fish balls, and white bread over barrels of coals.   We stuck feet in the ocean at sunset, then conversed around the fires, with many of them eating the entire five hours we stayed. Our serving table and benches around fires was one of about 100 such family- and friend-groups doing the same thing. 78 HK$ ticket entitled us to one cold drink. All was surprisingly non-cluttered and quiet, compared to gatherings of that many people anywhere else I’d been. Again, I blessed the British influence!

Early morning we walked Kowloon’s Nathan Street to find Tin Hau Temple (green tile, nice gardens), Jade Market (“authentic from Burma, Missy!”), and Night Market (speaking Cantonese, impolite to me; Mark bought whatever they put in his bag, got better treatment).

At Tsim Sha Tsui, the beginning of Kowloon’s New Territories, land built up over development years, we took MTR to Central and walked the causeway.  Star Ferry let us both ride free because they asked only my golden age. Mark read a newspaper while I found Godiva chocolates and lemon gelato, just like San Francisco. Enjoying sun, I lay back on a ledge until a security guard tapped me, “No sleeping!”

Another deja vu day, we exited Tsim Sha Tsui into Kowloon Park. Graceful fans and tai chi, the same movements I’d seen in 1997’s visit here, slowed time beneath mango and magnolia trees. There was a walk-through exhibit showing Good Food-Bad Foods and listing milk and steak as bad guys, guarded by transformer-like Health Protectors. MSG was conspicuously absent, unless it appeared on the Good Food Flavorings side.

I got a ticket to HK Ballet’s “Romeo and Juliet” with a near-perfect performance by orchestra and dancers. The Cultural Center crowd ranged from faded jeans to evening dresses, students and tourists who left early to folks like me with shining eyes and wonderful memories of Prokofiev’s score mercifully shortened and beautifully danced. Mark met his first “Chinese hippie” at Starbuck’s.

Mark wanted temples, and our tiny-print map showed Golden Buddha near the causeway at the tip of Wan Chai’s spit. We walked, asked, and were met with blank stares until we found ourselves at a monumental golden flower above the picture-taking crowd in front of the waterfront Expo Center. Golden Buddha became Golden Bauhainia, a five-petaled lotus, symbolizing the reunification of China and HongKong beneath two flags–China’s yellow stars on one, HongKong’s white bauhainia on the other red flag.
Still seeking temples, we found our way to Lantau and a bus with seat belts (otherwise, you slid off on curves) to China’s largest seated buddha. Mountain views were spirit-lifting; the new (built 1990s) statue and monastary had the feel of a Buddhist Disneyland. We didn’t linger.

Back down the mountain, you could almost feel the feng shui move through Lantau Square toward the mountains as children frolicked in the fountain and myriads of languages passed between sips of capuccino or Big Mac’s. Mark said, “A good place to retire,” and bought a bagguette.

We watched A Symphony of Light from the Kowloon side–a laser show surpassing any I’d seen anywhere–colored lights blinking, beaming, zipping up and down, zig-zagging, and coloring in HongKong Island’s magnificent architecture on the opposite bank.

Ships and boats passed through the deep natural canal, adding to the music and narration. Wandering the Avenue of Stars and reading Cultural Center schedules, we found we’d missed the Tuba Throat Singers. Next trip, maybe?

Mark wanted to revisit the border. We took blue line to Lo Wu, where he hoped to get a replacement picture for the one a Chinese guard prevented him, as 12-year-old, from taking in 1963. Multi-million dollar high rises dotted tops of mountains where he remembered tar paper shacks. (We avoided returning to The Peak, a tram ride to HongKong’s highest point–been there, done that!) Was Shenzhen the increasing industry beyond low green hills along our railway?

We eagerly alighted and found we could go no further toward China (passports were still with visa office anyway). So much for revisitng old scenes; industry had obviously taken over anyway.

Too soon, it was time to pick up visas and head for LinAn. We tried and failed to find Alliance Francaise, found an upscale tea house and an excellent book store. I’d hoped to eat a truly sumptious dinner, usually enjoyed native-recommended Chinese fare instead. I found special gifts at the upscale Chinese Cultural Arts building, didn’t have time for shopping–reputed to be HongKong’s main attraction. I’d gladly return to HongKong to see if she ages as gracefully in the next ten years as in the last 12.

Zoe and Bear picked us up in Hangzhou and announced we’d “Abdul, Nancy, and Sue teach your classes; we eat together in LinAn and have a meeting about the Halloween party.” We were introduced to Celery, a new partner and Kelly’s friend, over spicy beef, tofu, water chestnuts, seasoned cabbage, and–the house specialty, served first–a half-loaf of bread filled with white bread chunks and ice cream. Life’s short–eat dessert first? Last US administration’s leaders watched over us from a mural.

We met, with much discussion about the in-house, activity-filled Halloween party. I was told I was in charge, but kept saying, “Interpret, please!” amidst the Chinese chatter. “Virginia, Chinese parents are noisy. We need a microphone? Why not rent a hall and have a big meal?” They couldn’t fathom families going room-to-room according to directions on tickets. It was a new concept, not to hold an extravagant show for parents to view children dancing, singing, and eating, although we’d heard repeatedly how last year’s was “a fiasco.” They’d spent a day blowing up balloons, which kids ran riot and broke within the first few minutes then “freaked out.” For days, Zoe micro-managed, calling to remind me of things she’d just called about, and worried as staff prepared family ))for crowd control and decorated. Think high school prom preparation for an approximate picture.

The party was a howling success–200+ people crowded into the center for activities in our classrooms (my two huge tables of ribbons/scraps/colors/paper plates/scissors/etc. in the biggest room were crowded continually with parents as delighted with their mask creations as the kids). We had face painting, picture show of American kids in costumes, Day of the Dead altar to Mary Travis in a scary room, a live “Headless Horseman” play, Trick of Treat, and decorating straw scarecrows.Bear showed himself to be quite an artistic arranger. Music blared, jack-o-lanterns blinked, and we ended with all my kids (ages 2 1/2 to 9) singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” with guitar. Parents actually got quiet enough to listen while standing in/out the glass doors and spilling into the street. We needed the microphone. All took home prizes.

Owners took us (13) workers to a celebration banquet: duck tongue, snails, lily soup, jerked mutton with peppers, and a dozen less-exotic, delicious dishes. I overate.

They’re working hard on me to stay, and it’s tempting while things are going smoothly. Last night’s successful “first” for Babe School felt good, marred a bit by Kelly’s asking me while driving home if we could rethink the numbers in my classes. “There will be many parents who want their children in your classes now.” I told her the quality of teaching would go down and I absolutely didn’t want any added at this point. I guess Chinese have the idea that they, a rung above those they employ, have the right to make decisions about going or staying. They don’t seem to take no for an answer, so I’m waiting it out quietly. My heart’s still headed home to the US.

National Day – Take 2

I e-mailed my kids probable China whereabouts October 6-8: “I’ll probably go to Yellow Mountain with Zoe and Bear–if they return from taking his sick mother to his hometown and they’re still in the mood. It’s not a life for a control freak, that’s for sure!”

Zoe’s text message came as I went to bed: “We will set out early for Yellow Mountain. 8:00 tomorrow.” At 7:45 next morning, my cell phone rang: “We’re at your gate. Mama, let’s go!”

They were amazed that Mark wasn’t going, tried in vain to call him in spite of my telling them he was away at Qingdao. We talked of Teletubbies (their son, Osito’s favorite, was “surely America’s #1 kid’s program?”), 20-year-old Mike’s reluctance to speak English (Zoe’s student, sitting beside me, playing the same pop song repeatedly on his cell phone), and what kind of jobs they might get when their green card comes for a move to Toronto or Vancouver. Zoe thinks she might teach English with her Chinese certificate. Bear said, “Wash dish! Wash dish!” awaited him. Zoe asked if he might be a taxi driver after he learned a couple of years of English.

We sped past slower cars around curves into the path of motorcycles and oncoming traffic. I candidly told her that Bear would have to learn North America’s rules or pay a lot in fines. She interpreted, as an oncoming driver cut in front of two lanes and brought us to a screeching halt. His “F__ you!” was quickly followed by Zoe’s “B___S___!” but neither of them joined me in wearing a seatbelt.

“Tell Bear, if he has a lady in his taxi in Canada, that she will probably be offended if he says that,” I offered.
This led to discussing what one should say to “let their feelings out.” Any phrases I suggested were met by Bear’s gleeful, “Then other driver say ‘F___ you!” Zoe asked if America had many songs with the “F-word” in them. I could only think of rap lyrics. She played “You’re beautiful,” and–sure enough–there it was. I had to listen closely to realize it was a Chinese copy-cat artist sounding like he was American. “It’s very popular in America. Just ask your son, Mama!” (I hope someone responds to this from the USA–it’s a song about what a guy thinks when he sees an appealing girl on a subway.)

We zoomed up a long pass; I could have been in Idaho, except for Chinese cement-and-curved roofs in forested valleys. On the flat in Anhui Province, we pulled into Nanping, and I read of “38-yuan admission for Movie Village, 300 ancient Ming and Qing Dynasty buildings interconnected by 72 narrow alleyways.” Bear got on his cell phone, and we greeted other Western tourists.

“Where are you from?” I asked.
“United States…Shawnee, Kansas.”
“Small world! I taught there several years, raised my kids in Kansas City.”
Zoe interrupted, “Time to go, Mama!”
My would-be KS friends toured the village Ang Lee chose for “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and I followed Bear through its labrynth another route. His friend’s restored Ming Dynasty hotel-home had Nanping’s ubiquitous white walls and grey tiles with camphor wood cornices above windows. Lunch? No, I was directed to an upstairs bedroom with window open to corn drying in courtyards, shaded by swooping tile roofs from which hung hams and slabs of bacon. We later ate tasty soy beans, pork, chicken, potatoes, greens, and fish soup with Bear’s friend. His sweatshirt announced, “I’m the boss around here!” Customarily, his wife joined us, plucking what was left into her rice bowl, when she was certain we were Chu bao li (full). Not much change from the days of patriarchal Cheng and Li clans, I guessed.

Zoe slept. Bear, Mike, and I climbed ladder-stairs to an ancient tower, photographing cobbled walkways below. I wandered down, and Mike stuck like glue. We sketched and snapped pictures of carved doorways, startled chickens, and caught glimpses of the lives of Nanping’s 1,000 inhabitant’s common life. I escaped to nap, then returned to peaceful meanderings alone, half expecting Zhang Yimou’s “Ju Dou” characters to come flying over the roof tops or swooping into battle from Mt. Linli.

Art students sketched ancient corridors, pigs grunted behind ornate doorways, a museum-home’s courtyard beckoned me to Kuan Yin’s altar through a round entry, and a green hill top revealed ponds, gardens, and a stream where a woman washed clothes.

With each hypnotic step back in time, I shed earlier annoynances and smelled farm aromas, heard sounds familiar in childhood. It occurred to me that Dad would have turned 96 in two days, if here–three days on the side of the world where we slopped pigs, shucked corn, gathered eggs and salted hams to hang in the smokehouse.
Eventually, I found myself back at the tower, sketching, until sundown. It appeared that Bear’s friend did, indeed, have the one refurbished hotel in Nanping; and we were the only guests. Zoe speculated on opening another Babe English School there. Like ancestral Huizhou merchants, our Nanping host was sure there was money in the idea.

I declined an invitation to ride into Huangshan City to buy towels, not provided at the hotel. Sated by a simple supper and fulfilling day, I watched a round, golden moon glance off ancient rooftops until I slept.

National Day – Take 1 October 5, 2008

Five days ago, I didn’t know if any plans would work out for the October 1-8 holiday, explained as in years past, “a gift from the government of eight days’ combining Moon Cake Festival and National Day.” Because schools were “giving back the Sunday because the government gave us one day over a week,” kids were in school, not studying at Babe Training School on Sunday. I scratch my head each year when I half understand it.

It gave Mark, weekend teacher, a long break. Mark and I were drinking coffee in Zhejiang University (freshly ground, 10 yuan on a willing student’s card) when Foreign Affairs head, Bob, pressed us into a video as “friends of” a passel of Ukranian students, then told us to “Keep in touch.” We hoped that meant, instead of going to HongKong, the plan a little over a week ago, he was processing visa papers for us to go before our next deadline, October 31. Mark told a group of faculty families he’d camp with them at Qingdao lake.

I felt Helen’s longterm invitation to visit her hometown would surely come through. Instead, her e-mail: “I have a fever. Stay tuned.” October 1 found me researching places to go shortterm. Bear Lee, ex-student and friend, e-mailed that he would watch the National Day parade, then “try to come” to LinAn. Anna, mother of a kindergartner, Rita, called me to watch festivities. “It starts in ten minutes!” Anthony, Anna’s friend’s son and my new college tutoree, picked up Mark and me.

Rita ignored their big screen and batted balloons, peeled golden kiwi from New Zealand, and ate hickory nuts. Anna had wanted “to produce a second child to be a girl” and adopted Rita when she was a few months old. Father works as an official; Mother exports cable; and junior high brother and housekeeper take attentive care of Rita on the 18th floor of lavishly decorated apartments. Anna told me I could ask to move to their tropical landscape, “only 2000 yuan/month” for small two bedrooms. She had inquired. “Babe School pays 500 yuan for your home.” I told her I’d consider it.

We watched the wide screen: float after float in oceans of dancers, representing each Chinese province. What I took for flower designs in Tianamen Square’s backdrop changed symbols, and I realized people were standing stockstill for long stretches of time to form precise golden characters in a red poinsettia field. They did quite a 60th birthday celebration: dignitaries in red ties applauding military precision marches, tanks and other missile muscle in camoflage/pink/powder blue; ethnic dancers–all in perfecft formation and symetry.

Sixty years ago, Mao Zedong stood on Forbidden City’s North Gate balcony, overlooking Tiananmen Square, and established Communist Red China. Mao said, “The Chinese People…stood up… October 1, 1949 marked the end of 150 years of foreign occupation and wars.” I thought of some of China’s upheavals–Taiping Rebellion, Boxer Rebellion, Opium Wars, Sino-Russian War, Japanese occupation, and WWII. The past sixty years’ additional bloodshed–i.e.,the Great Leap Forward, Cultural Revolution, Tiananmen Square Incident, and recent unrest in Tibet and Xinjiang, came to my mind too.

However, October 1, 2009 celebrated six decades of China’s undeniably great strides. Rita’s parents took us to a hot pot lunch, pleased that Mark’s chopsticks fished out beef, mutton, mushrooms, and sprouts boiling in the spicy side of the divided bowl. Cilantro, water chestnuts, and spinach came last, as I ate my share from the non-spicy side. I lifted my orange juice glass, “Happy 60th birthday, China!” Later, I heard that an important building in Washington DC was decorated in red and yellow lights with the same message. Anna drove us in her navy Lexus to Lin’An’s theatre. “The Founding of a Republic” was expensive (30 yuan, US prices), enjoyable (big stars, but I missed Jackie Chan’s reporter role), and exasperatingly short of historic footage (I wished for more black/white documentary pictures).

Soft-spoken Chaing Kai-shek strode about, thoughtfully regal in flowing robes, unlike my mind’s picture of an ex-gangster hunting in the hills around XiAn before fleeing with the Nationalists to Taiwan. Mao was constantly chuckling, playing with children, a likeable worker who allowed himself to be swept to leadership. A soldier who ended the Civil War, he then cultivated old enemies capable of governing the People’s Republic of China. I saw little evidence of the person whose maxims are reread quoted in the little red book on sale everywhere. Characters were distinctively developed, and the surprisingly-short movie focused strictly on 1946-49.

I came home to Helen’s e-mail, “When will you meet me in Hangzhou?” I put 1000 yuan in my backpack and figured that would carry me through a few Hangzhou days with Helen and, maybe, a trip to Ningbo or Xiangshan, past homes. There followed a flurry of text messages: “I’m on the bus to Hangzhou!” in spite of long lines at the station! “What hotel will you stay?” “I have no hotel.” (I had understood I’d stay with her.) “Let me think. There is (Chinese Symbols for Nanshan Hotel) near my apartment. Have taxi take you there.” West Bus Station appeared to leave for LinAn every fifteen minutes, I noted, along with landmarks to be able to return home.

My hotel was very nice on Tianmushan, an east-west thoroughfare, and cost 348 yuan. At that rate, I’d need to go home after two nights! Helen and family took me villa shopping. One development (we would call them condos) was a manicured oasis in the edge of Hangzhou, but the sales office was closed. Helen’s sister and husband, in real estate themselves, picked us up and drove to two huge Xixi Wetlands developments under construction.

After viewing the doll-size layouts and drinking red tea, we went by golf cart, then speedboat, to check out their one finished show villa. We donned shoe covers to climb five tiny stories while 11-year-old May fell in love with big screen TVs, drum set on a lighted stage, rec room bar (no sink for water access), fireplace, jacouzie, and furnishings that would have felt at home in Jackson Hole’s spacious condos. A deer-antler chair sat beneath the head of a hunting trophy in the entry. It brought familiar memories of real estate shopping days in Kansas and Wyoming: the smell of sawdust, the pleasure of colors that blend perfectly, the squeak of pristine tile floors, and the anticipation of sinking into endless pillows with a good book and just-poured hot tea.

My eye turned critical: narrow winding stairs, the prospect of endless dusting as construction continued, a long drive from Hangzhou, no nearby market. Later, I heard my words from Helen’s mouth:”If we buy here, we will be too close to neighbors (probably 1000 or more, just across a nicely hedged walkway).”

They took me to lunch–a delicious assortment of the usual beef, duck, tofu, mushrooms, rice buns, greens–and duck tongue. It was nicely flavored, but definitely an acquired chew. May pronounced it “Very good!” Back at my hotel, I napped through half an English movie, then went for a walk. Red banners with yellow characters fluttered. The colonel smiled from KFCs. McDonald’s employees wore Mao Era caps backwards with a golden arches “M” on them nstead of the Republic’s red star–Mao or McDonald’s? Flags fluttered from vending carts, light posts, and trash carts.

I remembered the movie’s controversy over selecting China’s new national flag. A four-star design had lost to a Yellow River symbol chosen by People’s Congress: then movie-Mao was persuaded by some pretty girls to select the current design. It symbolized the unity of China around the Communist Party, the four small stars represted workers (like the young lovelies), peasants, petty bourgeoisie, and patriotic bourgeoisie (like Soong Ching Ling and Zheng Lan in the movie).

Musing and window shopping for too-small clothes (I’m XL here), I somehow managing to get turned around. A young Chinese couple walked me to my hotel, apologizing for taking so long to find it. My only acceptable repayment was English exchanged with them. Helen’s text came: “I am very tired. We will pick you up at 12:00 tomorrow.”

To my surprise, KC teachers, Alan and Dana answered their home phone. They biked to hotel breakfast buffet with me and a good chat. Their Zhejiang University students sound top-notch; Alan said he’d never worked so hard in his life and Dana said her students actually take notes and come prepared for each lesson, unlike their last two China-teaching experiences. Helen, May, sister Linda, and I crossed Hangzhou by cab to find their hometown, Xiangshan, tickets sold out. “We are going to Ningbo Two-and-a-half hours.” I’d see Ningbo! It was a seaport city where Helen, before marriage, worked for a furniture exporter.

I saw one busy street and their ticket office, where we bought four tickets to Xiangshan. Five hours’ bus rides through mountains had brought us to a small town penninsula and her 80-year-old dad’s cooking! Their home (apartment style) had three Western toilets, one for each bedroom. Friends came to pick up orchids for the winter, while Helen’s parents stay with her in Sanya.  They brought a sack of bean pods and animated conversation. Helen interpreted: “We talk about Nanshan Temple’s general manager. He drove into the ocean from Kuan Yin’s base and died. My husband cried many days. We don’t know why Kuan Yin did not protect him. It was a place he often went to think and be at peace.” Another reason for me to wish I could understand Chinese: Until she interpreted, I had no idea if they discussed the size of the full moon, early childhood pranks, or their wishes for their children.

My moon cake was filled with sweet green herbs. May’s had a boiled egg in it. It felt good, after so much sugar, to brush my teeth and sleep. “I take you for lunch at my friend’s. He’s a famous carver of bamboo.” Six of us were warmly welcomed at Zhang De He’s studio and home, five stories of award-winning wood carvings, paintings, and antique furniture. 

 Some were mammoth, utilizing entire tree trunks; all had distinctive features and personalities. Zhang’s wife and cook brought dish after dish–crab, shell fish, river fish, beans, jelly fish, calamari, sashimi, boiled peanuts, water chestnuts, bamboo shoots…It was hard to leave the toasts (tea, red wine, beer, soda) and laughter as Zhang told stories and gave Helen’s parents a framed picture posed by Sanya’s Kuan Yin harbor statue. On the way to the bus station, Helen told me, “Zhang is #1 wood sculptor in China; many follow him.” It was easy to believe. People everywhere! No ticket to LinAn until late evening. Helen advised going to Ningbo, rather than Hangzhou and having to cross it to change bus stations.

Two hours’ later, I was told “No ticket until tomorrow, 5:00,” too late to join Zoe and Bear for Yellow Mountain. I knew no one in Ningbo, had someone write down the symbols for hotel, and went to McDonald’s for a coffee to chase the multitudinous cups of tea the past few days. I decided Hangzhou would work better, so I bought a ticket and found the right queue. Darkness descended out the bus window.

I easily got an East Station cab to “Xi Zhan”–to find it a dark hulking building with hoards of people pouring through the “Way Out” gate. I tried to enter: “No, no, no!” The guard was proud of his one-word vocabulary. I tried to ask him where to buy a ticket to LinAn. Mr. No-no shook his finger and shouted again. I shouted back in my indignant teacher voice, and he directed me past people bedding down on benches outside the station. So much for “Bus leaves West Station every fifteen minutes for LinAn!”

I called Zoe, learned they were in her hometown and had no idea why the station closed, “Maybe Moon Cake Festival holiday?” Thankfully, Alan and Dana were home. They had an extra bed. Two hours’ later and three calls later, the cabbie had dropped me at Zhejiang University gate–not 22 Xixi Lu gate, where we parked and inquired the whereabouts of Alan’s reported address, “47 Xixi Lu.” I saw Alan’s tall form crossing to meet me. Whew!

Next morning, I browsed and bought tomes in the English section of BooksUUU bookstore, riding on the back of Dana’s bike. What a picture we must have made–two foreigners pedaling among black-headed Chinese. She took off for a futile search for CATS tickets; it seemed that scalpers had bought them all up. Noodles at a Muslim shop fortified me for what I might find at West Station. It was bustling, and I got on a bus within 15 minutes for LinAn. Doing laundry and knocking about in pajamas to write this never felt so good!

Thickening Plot September 25, 2009

In the short space of a few days, I’ve gone from frustrated circumstances through maddening bureaucracy to arrive at some refreshing half-insights. Zoe’s accusatory, “I called you thousands of times!” (twice recorded on Mark’s and my cell phones) cast a shadow on our mutual day-off’s cycling adventure. We had connected a quarter of Lin’An with rivers, two lakes, and a cemetery tiered up a mountain. Climbing among pictures of mostly-old Chinese, Taoist and Buddhist sculptures, and plastic flowers, we tried to make out dates written in elegant Chinese script. We’ve outlived most of these folks, except for one boy on whose grave lay stuffed toys. I imagined hopes for a Little Emperor dashed down the green slope beneath the monstrous electric lines that, like other steep regions, share sacred spaces. 

I was literally “off the hook” with Zoe because my cell phone had earlier sent a Chinese message and given up the ghost. Mark bore the brunt of “Where were you? You must go to the University immediately and sign visa papers!” We hurriedly dressed in non-biking attire. Zoe called back. “We will do it tomorrow.” Determined to be on time for Tuesday’s staff meetings (the office calls a half-hour ahead if you’re not there), I biked, mouth watering, to KFC for my first sausage-egg muffin in Lin’An.

A block away, the blue garage door stayed firmly rolled down over Babe School’s welcoming doors. Nancy called, “You must go to university now!” “No meeting today?” “Bear will pick you up.” “I am outside Babe School, not at home.” “You are at Babe School?” “No, it is locked. I am outside Babe School.” Teachers Mark arrived, then Abdul, a veteran at Babe, who simply cycled away with a smile, “No meeting?” When Nancy, interpretor, and Bear arrived, I was attempting to find out whether my China Mobile cell phone account needed payment. It mysteriously resumed working, 30 yuan still to the good.

We piled into Bear’s car with “It’s OK to make up things you don’t know,” Nancy’s advice for dealing with Bob at Foreign Affairs office. This Bob is younger, more influential, and nothing like British Bob, who now works at a rival English Training School and whose wife trades English books with me. That’s how I discovered that my “no problem” visa conversion to work at Babe had put me on a tourist L-visa. We discovered both Mark’s and mine expire would September 30 and required extensive paperwork, a commitment to work as Zhejiang University teachers, and a trip to HongKong. I didn’t remind Bob I had made e-mail application through a mutual friend last May. He had once responded that “It is a pity. Your credentials are perfect. But you cannot teach here because China only hires teachers before age 60.” (I had written him that I had taught three years in China, always beyond age 60. He wrote back, “Congratulations!”) Age forgotten by him, he seemed baffled that I expressed outrage at seeing my passport for the first time since August 25 (I”ve been working illegally here); Bob explained that his office was “helping Babe School” and said I’d teach teachers English four hours/week once he had documentation for our degrees and work experience; an Indonesian man gave us rich Vietnamese coffee and his computer. “The computer must have something on each blank. Just a phone number or e-mail address. I think it is a good system,” Bob’s tone didn’t placate me. (Educational consulting with families now moved? Chairing literacy KC conferences between educators and business men? Where would I find addresses or contact numbers?)

Next resume–if there ever is one–for China will report bare bones experience, I resolved! They were treating work experience as “references.” I simmered down as I found internet addresses of registrars at three alma maters and most of sixteen work experiences on my resume. My brother could vouch for tutoring in Montana, and friend and once-boss in KC could verify things years’ back; I e-mailed them “If you’re contacted, just write “Yes.” It became a game I could play.

Three hours later, with the prospect of living in HongKong during upcoming National Day week, we were summoned back to Bob’s office. I helped him transfer my “references,” places worked, and e-mail addresses to computer forms while Mark ate ripe dates. We breathed three sighs of relief when every blank was filled. Then Bob’s computer screen went blank. “You DID save it?” I asked. “No, but I can redo it myself now.” “You’ve a clever memory.” I grabbed a date and headed toward the door, almost late for class at Babe School. After teaching three Babe evening classes, I reconnected with Mark next-door, bearing left-over pizza and cake, “Sorry!” peace offerings from Bear.

My waistline was thickening, just like the plot of this “Will the visa nightmare work out?” mystery. Mark had our passports and a question, “What if we leave the day visas expire and one of us gets sick?” Zoe’s solution, “Stay well,” then “I’ll ask Bob.” Mark handed me two last-pages of contracts to sign, saying he already had. On first-name basis with Bob next morning, he dropped his placating manner with this nasty female foreigner. He said he just realized I didn’t know that I was on a tourist visa (“maybe communication problems?”)and requested that I sign page seven so he “could process my contract.” “Bob, I like to know what I am signing. Is the contract with Babe School or the university?”

He then explained that I’d teach teachers English “no more than four hours,” but he had to meet with others to decide when, what salary, what duration, etc. “You are asking me to trust you without showing me the contract.” “It is for forms to send you September 30 to HongKong.” “How long are offices open in HongKong?” We determined that no one worked October 1-4, and maybe it would take an additional week to process our visas. Mark and I could see the $$$ peeling away, not to mention declining three invitations for this long-awaited holiday. I left Bob, papers unsigned, with apparent good will and his promise to “prepare the contract” for me to read before signing.

Over lunch, Mark arrived at the “What if…?” stage in spades. What if he went to CA instead (trip home equals a couple of weeks in HongKong)? What if they didn’t process our papers until after the week-long holiday? A Chinese invitation to go camping deepened his disappointment. The dragon was breathing down our necks! I knew, if I started the spin downward, I’d simply throw in the towel, which meant Babe School would probably have to close (I teach the majority of its 70 students). I cloistered myself for a few hours, contemplated an e-mailed idea from a friend in Laos: “Perfection is the enemy of good.” (My expectation is to do good teaching in China. Writing out forms that satisfy government requirements represent perfection that lies in a drawer somewhere, soon forgotten. Process isn’t imagined. Micro-managing, disregard for human needs or feelings remain the norm.)

That line of thinking fanned the dragon’s fiery breath again, so I turned to a website suggested by a WA friend who signs off with “Love and light.” It felt like I’d a penlight that illuminated just beyond my big toe; how I longed for a mag light to shine on the next five months’ path. From somewhere came “To find the path, you must become the path.” Zen-like thoughts filled the rest of the day with peace. Questions floated about like butterflies I didn’t need to catch while the dragon dozed. I remembered Mark’s request to e-mail Zoe (he couldn’t access internet again) to communicate with Bob, then added some recent questions of my own. She called back. “I will talk with you at school.” Bear caught me between classes, “Mama…..no need go HongKong September 30. Visa OK…” Mark hugged Bear. Nancy interpreted that he’d go to police and extent our visas one month; they’d send us to HongKong after the holiday.. I smiled as the dragon retreated in a cloud of smoke.

After two classes, Assistant Heather and I disinfected tables and mopped, insurance against Swine Flu’s threat. (Mark later said two staff cleaned his room for the first time; maybe they’re following our example?). Bear and Zoe closed their office door behind me. Bear consulted Chinese notes, and Zoe interpreted answers we’d needed for weeks: “The man’s here fixing office computers so we can print English; he’ll come to our home and fix our inability to both be on internet at the same time; they’ll pay half my postage cost to bring extra luggage to Lin’An; I’ll only pay 50 yuan of the 201-yuan electric bill I received (Mark’s for two months was only 10 yuan more); if I end up teaching beyond 16 hours on the two jobs, I’ll be paid extra; I’ll get texts tomorrow; they’ll “tell me tomorrow” when we go to Yellow Mountain (so I can connect with others I hope to see in Hangzhou), and Bear will extend our visas one month.”

I was impressed that, once he knew the list of complaints, Bear dealt with each immediately. I reminded them we’d need to go to HongKong well before November 1, the next deadline. They agreed that they should bear that expense for the trip. Zoe interpreted Bear’s final, impassioned plea, “When Mama is unhappy, everything is dark. I want Mama to be happy. We want Mama to consider us like her son and daughter.” I assured them I wanted to be happy, was pleased that they were fixing some of the problems, and–stifling a small urge to hug them both–gave them a smiling touch on shoulders. If they were “to be my children,” then emotions must be heartfelt, not a paper-perfection that bring back old frustrations when requests are ignored. My wish for Bear’s sick Mom’s coming from the hospital and thanks for their efforts that evening were heartfelt. “We get Bear’s Mama from hospital on Sunday.”

I dashed upstairs, where evening classes were fun, contrasted with suddenly-raised voices in the office below. Bad news? Bear and Zoe were absent “getting Bear’s Mama” the next day (Thursday, not Sunday; so Bear and Zoe, too, may feel they’re puppets controlled by strings held by governmental hospital decisions, just like I’ve felt jerked around). I imagined their trade off–instead of daily hospital trips to wash, bathe, change bandages, and feed a woman awaiting removal of her womb, they would care for her at home, where their toddler rules the roost. I wondered if they would, indeed, drive Mama to Hubei Province family October 1 or sooner.

“It’s really terrible,” I agreed with Zoe, seeing the dragon shift his fiery attention their way. They’d avoided telling us where they live, leaving Mark and me no way to make gestures of food or flowers. The dragon napped during the next few days.   I met an intelligent Chinese woman who gave me tips on what prospective teachers will want from my university class (if it materializes, which I hope it does) and two university students (who named me Jin Kai Lu (Golden Open Road; capturing an image for what I’d like to see myself representing in the world), had a gift massage in a luxurious Lin’An salon (gift of Babe School co-owner’s guanxi with the spa owner), received fresh dates (now in season) and local lu cha (green tea) from an appreciative parent who took me in her Lexus to a delicious dinner, and met her friend’s bright university son who wants private English lessons.

It all had a good feel, as did my “OK!” to Bear’s, “Mama, you OK?” when he came for their Magic Jack loaned me for free calls to the US. Half of two classes still await the right texts, all three kindergarten groups’ seatwork needs xerox copies on a machine that’s quit working, month-old requests for classroom supplies pile up on Zoe’s desk, and I seem the last to learn of schedule changes, but there are plenty of moments when the bucking dragon runs out of steam. Shifting my weight while riding his quick-change back sometimes even sends a thrill up my own spine.

Proud Scars September 26, 2009

Isabel Allende wrote, “Perhaps we are in this world to search for love, find it and lose it, again and again. With each love, we are born anew, and with each love that ends we collect a new wound. I am covered with proud scars”. Am I falling out of love with China? I find my tolerance level stretched to near-breaking limits, my patience thinning, and my balance toppling almost hourly. What lessons are in Lin’An for me, and did I mistake a need for challenge for foolhardiness?

Take last week: I sent my biggest, noisiest class happily home with a mental note to have assistant Nancy teach the most boisterous one to count in English while I stretched the others with “I want three blue Legos…” next meeting. Boss Shirley invited me to sit down, “explained” with Nancy’s interpretation my “problem with my visa because of age” for an hour. “What can I do?” I asked. “Nothing.”

Then Shirley gave me a cake box, too late to cut and share with staff, too big to fit in my bike basket. “Bear will take you home; it will go bad if you leave at school.” Mark and I did our best with late-night coffee, laughing about my “Happy Birthday” gift. He enjoyed it again for breakfast.  Eternal optomist, I headed out next morning. Our utilitarian concrete box-complexes aren’t picture-worthy, but bear hopeful banners like “Charmlinan” and sit atop mostly-empty shops.

Within 1 km, I found breakfast next to a communal garden–hot, sweetened soy milk and braids of fried bread or rounds filled with carrot (mild turnip), egg, and grated vegetables; I eyed the less popular, huge wok of noodles. I cycled past the mountainous repository for plastics, gleaned from smaller dumps like the one out my kitchen window, toward another development.

The roads over the river weren’t finished, but one skirted women washing clothes. A man and baby son pulled up a long fishing line, closed their still-empty styro cooler, and climbed aboard their scooter “Mei you!” he said to me. No fish for lunch today. Excited about the promise of a Hangzhou weekend–acquaintances who used to work at Babe School to show Mark and me around, hostel and West Lake jazz club reservations, the prospect of seeing KC friends who teach in Hangzhou, and a day in pagodas, Starbuck’s, and Silk Street–I packed my bag. E-mail arrived an hour before leaving: “Don’t forget your passport.” I made five phone calls to find out that Zoe had given our passports and receipt for them to the university official whom, we had understood earlier, could not help with our visas.

I swallowed my disappointment, and we walked to a neighborhood restaurant for fresh fish and vegetables. Mark was delighted that they gave us our own pot of tea and indicated we should take our time. (hut home picture here) I told him of the “homes” I had biked past, where the rag-pickers who daily go through our neighborhood dump may live. He said they might be construction workers, also poorly paid in China’s social pecking order. Back home in our comfy apartments, we started a Scrabble game; Mark hadn’t played since France, but it came back to him. “That sounds like a Bear voice,” and it was.

Zoe and Bear brought expensive pastries–filled with mushrooms, pickled vegetables, nothing sweet– from a new bakery and settled on my couch with more of their story, sprinkled liberally with. “Bob F__!” The Brit couple who used to work at Babe evidently linked up with Zoe and Bear’s old partners and a pregnant teaching assistant (“impossible to fire”) and started a rival school, using Babe School’s phone list to offer discounts. Bob “told the university that Mark had cancer and should not get a visa.” Mark told Zoe he had, indeed, had cancer near his eye that was “no longer a problem,.” He had told Bob over a meal soon after he came here. Zoe and Bear were astounded.

I sat and pondered the tense problem of “has” and “had” lost in interpretation. We ate unwanted pastries and reminded them that Mark had just passed his extensive physical in China. Conversation moved to new knowledge for me: Zoe’s offer to immigrate to Australia within five years (they will); my teaching “the majority of Babe’s 70 students; paying the old partner 150,000 yuan one year after he invested 100,000 “because he was a friend” who wanted out; the university official on whose decision hangs our visa approval being new partner, “Shirley’s friend;” Bear’s only making 2200 yuan/month as a university draftsman instructor; the university wanting us both to teach there (vetoed earlier, now with seeming approval by Zoe), and Mark’s needing to go to HongKong to renew his visa sometime. “Mama, you can go with him.” (As “foreign language expert in China’s past, it seems I don’t need to leave China to renew.) Does that mean a subsidized trip to Hong Kong?

Bear got up, wandered the apartment, “Shui?” They inspected my fountain flowing from a crystal ball rolling past changing light. Bear waxed ecstatic about my watercolors, scenes from the campus lake. High praise from one who teaches graphic arts, I figured. On our feet, I was glad they headed out the door, not noticing a granddaddy cockroach who met his demise in the hall.

Mark and I shook our heads, wondered if we’ll have passports by October 1-8 trip to Yellow Mountain, and said good night. Before sleep, I mentally ticked off a few positives: Zoe brought me her freebie iron (she sends her clothing out for cleaning) yesterday, the 3s and 4s class was sweet and fun (in spite of no assistant, one child throwing up, another crying three times when Mom repeatedly popped her head in, and another needed to pee in the middle of a colors lesson), I found myself laughing with all three kindergarten groups, Zoe’s request to “teach another grade 2 class on Saturday; the parents insist on you!” didn’t materialize, I received a gift of massage and facial “because the owner is Bear’s friend,” and to-my-knowledge health among friends and family on both sides of the globe, Kent’s successful pinot noir crush just finished, Janet’s saying her teaching was going well. I snuggled down under my duvet, glad to hear cooling rain fall.

Over next mornings’ left-over pastry and the last of my Hainan coffee for breakfast, Mark vehemently restated he’ll have nothing further to do with Bob. I reminded him we’d only heard Zoe and Bear’s side of the fragmented story. Unready to give up my only source of Lin’An English reading, I called Bob to swap their last three loaners for three more. No love lost or found–just a love of reading! I’m determined to stay above that fray. Midmorning e-mails came from the US. Lives that seemed bland a few months back momentarily connect me with longing for my Montana deck and its view of evergreens on Pat’s Knob.

From Laos came a half-joking note about friends’ cultural clashes, “Perhaps we need to get together for a group hug!” I wandered across to the Zhejiang U campus for a lakeside glass of hot lemon tea and a past pocket of sanity. Perhaps, weighing the tumultous tugs and positive pulls, I’ll have soon discovered elusive joy seeping back into life here.