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.