Wednesday, July 30

Photos!

Poor Kodak. My 400 or so snapshots would have required 11 rolls of film and made work for a lab. Instead, they made money for Canon, Adobe, and Sandisk.

Anyway, I put some of the best of my shots in a gallery, which you can see here: quazynet.org/ChinaGallery/index.html

It's in chronological sequence. If I figure out how to put captions with the photos (without it being mega-tedious), I will. Otherwise, have one of the travelers narrate.

I was actually a slacker compared to other camera-toters. I hope to see some of their work, too.

Saturday, July 26

Jiggety-jig

Back on Terra America. I should fill you in about our trip to Zhujiajiao.

It was charming. People live in cramped homes fronting the canal or the narrow hutong-like streets, and don’t seem to mind the touring hordes peering into their dim domiciles as they pass by. Of course there are shops, with vendors hawking the same wares we saw just about everywhere else: packs of chopsticks, hats, fans, “jade” bracelets, Mandarin blouses, embroidered shoes. But here, also, were shops selling food—dim sum, spices, teas, vats of live crayfish.

Our guide (“Tony”) told us that people pay about $4/month for electricity, but then they don’t have an enormous array of electrical appliances. At least none visible to the casual pedestrian. Some homemade fans twirling over the food for sale to keep the insects at bay; a TV, perhaps a refrigerator.

On one of the bridges Tony told us about the Buddhist tradition of throwing a live fish into the river for good luck, and sure enough there was an old woman selling just this opportunity for five yuan, offering the fish in plastic bags. I didn’t indulge and I feel bad about that; what’s five yuan, anyway—about 75 cents?—for the good karma the act might bring. Who cares if there are netters underneath the bridge re-capturing the fish to sell again?

L-L-Lunch.

I think I speak for the majority when I say that I was really looking forward to non-Chinese food upon our return home. Sorry, China (and all sophisticates used to the culinary deprivations of foreign travel)! I wasn’t eager for a Big Mac (something I don’t eat at home), but I’ve been looking forward to my neighborhood pizza pie for about four days now, and today I was rewarded. Thanks, Mr. Shoes! (Micky furiously calculates the capital needed to start a Mr. Shoes franchise in Beijing)

More updates later. The trip’s narrative has grown beyond its temporal duration.

Thursday, July 24

Snapshots . . .


. . .. . . of stuff I forgot to put in previous posts.

Walking through a local farmer’s market and park at 6:30 a.m. in Beijing. Even at that early hour, the place is packed with produce shoppers, people playing ping-pong and badminton, or moving through tai chi poses in unison. I’m impressed that so many people rouse themselves at this early hour to exercise. Health care in China, Grace told us, is very bad. People take care of themselves.

Listening to harmonica players in a pavilion at the Summer Palace perform traditional Chinese tunes, then strike up Frere Jacques and Jingle Bells.

Feeling like the original ditzy American. Twice now I’ve given clerks the wrong amount of money for purchases, and stood there like a moron as they pointed to the money and waited for me to figure it out. “Can’t Americans count, for heaven’s sake?” they seemed to ask with their lifted brows. This morning I called down to the front desk to see when my laundry from yesterday might be returned, only to have two ladies from housekeeping show up at the door and point out that my laundry was already hanging in the closet. Duibuqi! (Oh geez, I’m sorry!) I simper with exaggerated expressions of surprise at my own stupidity, hands on cheeks, eyes rolling. I wonder if any of this translates into recognizable self-deprecation, or if they think I’m just simple-minded. I feel like I’ve let America down.

Singing for Mr. Wu. After he had given us his spiel about living in the hutong, he asked for a song. The chorus obliged with their rendition of Auld Lang Syne. The other tour group present (Chinese), and the TV crew listened quietly, and burst into applause when the group had finished. It was a very special moment.

Taking it to the street

(I was up until four writing that last post, so missed the sightseeing trip today. Instead, I hung out in our blissfully quiet and cool room and wrote the following.)

A few statistics might help to illustrate the challenge of describing the two metropolises we’ve inhabited. Beijing, pop. 15 million, a sprawling miasma of the very old overlaid with the hyper-new. Shanghai, the same thing, but with more people pressed into a smaller area. Both are growing steadily, both in numbers and in height, as old-style neighborhoods fall to high-rises as the cities strain to provide decent shelter and accommodate the upwardly mobile young.


Micky wrote about the Beijing hutong we visited. This is the traditional urban housing pattern of low, tightly packed dwellings, four of which surround small courtyards and house either extended families or are shared by non-relations as the case might be. They’re accessed through mazes of narrow pathways which somehow serve as streets. The rickshaws were perfectly at home there, yet around every turn there was a parked car or two.

Down the old walls run electric, telephone, and cable lines. TVs are ubiquitous and Internet-connected computers are common. What these old communities seem to lack the most is what our developers call amenities. Communal bathrooms are the rule, and apparently are the most objectionable aspect to younger people. The hutongs have become defacto retirement communities, as the older generation has been left behind by the kids who move skyward into the apartment buildings.

Yet, despite the changes and losses and pressure for land, tradition apparently retains some value beyond symbolism and tourist attraction. We were told the hutong district we visited is now protected and will be preserved. It still houses around one million people. How much interest tradition holds for younger folks is hard to gauge. I suspect it’s a misty concept for people who’ve passed through rolling revolutions political, cultural, technological, and economic. It might be the rural Chinese who retain a better notion of what the past means to the present.

Tradition is certainly not the first thing that comes to mind when you set foot in the big city. Except for the Mandarin signs (many of them also in English), you could be in any American metroplex. LA and Atlanta have nothing on the traffic here, except for style. Rules of the road are clearly regarded as guidelines, as drivers and cyclists and pedestrians interact in a split-second, self-organized, spontaneous dance that reminded me of the magnified flow of corpuscles. Moderate speeds help to give a small margin for error. As I’ve grown to hate the control freak nature of American traffic engineering, I find this display of intuition and improvisation reassuring in a way. People can think for themselves. Of course, I might feel differently if I had been hit by that bus.

While I’m on this subject, here’s a factoid from Shanghai that might illustrate how others improve on our practices. Some intersections have traffic lights in which the yellow light is replaced by a numerical count down to green. Very cool. And the walk signals change before the traffic lights do, to give pedestrians a head start.

One thing had me buggin’: the absence of bugs. Where were the roaches? Even at night, I didn’t see one in Beijing. Nor were we hassled by mosquitoes. In a hot, wet, populous city, there should be pests, but not where we were. Weird. Not that I’m complaining. I arrived with a nice tattoo of bites and will return with hardly any.

In fact, Beijing was almost eerily clean and tidy. Thanks to the Olympics, we were told, it’s been on a beautification binge for several years. This at the same time as a building boom and renovation riot. (All right, enough alliteration already.) Gray concrete apartment buildings have been spruced up in pinks and pastels. Roadside plantings of flowers and trees have proliferated, and many freshly sown, young trunks are supported by bamboo trusses. Some of this greenery is of annual varieties, but much will remain past the season. Our guide said that Beijingers are very happy for the improvements the Games have inspired (and no doubt for the jobs they’ve brought, too), but Micky and I do wonder how enduring these benefits will be. Look what happened to poor Sarajevo, though smoldering rubble shouldn’t be an immediate concern for this town.

Our first encounter with China was at the brand-new and gi-normous airport terminal. Woof! Scaled for the influx of 400,000 next month, will it echo with a radio comedy slow water drip sound effect of virtual abandonment afterward? That’s what I thought walking through it, but I hadn’t yet seen that such enormity is the style here. We split town via the railroad station, which was also humongous. Appropriately, as the place was packed on a Monday afternoon. Get this: it was one of three rail stations in the city. An older building, it was still well kept and reasonably clean, reflecting its importance in keeping the society moving. It made me embarrassed to think of our pitiful rail system and our helplessness should the gas go away.

Twelve hours later, the rose-tinted glasses were slapped from my face by the station in Shanghai. Suddenly, we were in a Third World toilet. Or 1980s Manhattan. In fact, that’s what this town reminds me of. The gritty streets, the clutter and garbage, the chaos of continual building, utter poverty bumping against enormous wealth. Is this the universal face of barely-restrained capitalism? Or does this town have no time or need to hide its contradictions? Capitols are required to style themselves to reinforce the ideologies they promote. Commercial centers flaunt their mindsets without thinking about it; perhaps with greater honesty.

Foreigners are not an exceptional sight here, and we don’t get the smiles and waves we received up north. Our dinner companions the first night agreed: this seems much more like NYC, while Beijing felt more like DC. Micky commented that maybe Beijingers have been encouraged to be friendly and hospitable, while the people here haven’t been so motivated. I bet that’s true, if not the whole truth. The average quality of life might just be better there. It certainly is a more pleasant place to be.

That brings me to what I was most curious to find out about here. How do Chinese stand in terms of freedom of thought and freedom of expression? Since I haven’t paid any real attention to the country, I still had images of a grey/green Nixon in China atmosphere, with masses milling about in Mao jackets and PJs. No way, Ling Ling. While most people do dress modestly, kids in punk fashions, boys with elaborate hairdos, and girls with strenuously cute tee shirts are everywhere in the fashionable neighborhoods. Business suits, dresses, and casual wear is more common than traditional dress. It’s fun to see a well-dressed lady riding a bike with another woman in a long white skirt and matching hat riding side-saddle on the bar. People go about their business. There is grumpiness, there is laughter.

My mom was apprehensive when we sprang the news of our trip on her, not just because we were going a long way away, but because we were coming here. “They’re Communist, aren’t they?” she asked. Totally reasonable apprehension, as she remembers the cold war fears of Red China. My father probably fought the Red Army in Korea. Our dear friend Mike suggested we be a little careful talking politics, even in private. Might there be mics hidden in the mantelpiece? Who knows?

Our time and interactions have been way too limited to gauge the state of propaganda or repression here. Several folks have remarked on a certain guardedness, but I don’t know about what. It would be great to read any “fellow travelers” impressions about this. Please use the comments function of the blog.

Most of my impressions of daily life and culture so far come from our tour guide in Beijing, who is a very thoughtful young woman. Though she said the guides are rigorously tested on their knowledge of Chinese history and facts and figures of the cities and the nation, as well as licensed by a state authority, I didn’t get the impression she had a script to follow. Even when a few challenging subjects were raised (one that starts with a ‘T’), her responses were much more nuanced and balanced than a packaged official line.

I thought about how I might respond to queries about comparable matters in the US if I was interpreting our culture to a stranger. How would I defend the decency of common Americans when asked about slavery or segregation or genocide of native peoples or Iraq or health care or stolen elections or attempted world domination? Freedom isn’t free of contradictions or corruption anywhere.

I do have one thing to relate to those who repeated to me the old brainwashing that life just isn’t as important to “those people” as it is to us. The government has sent surgical teams to the earthquake areas to reverse tubal ligations for women who have lost their children - for free. And there has been an out-pouring of individual charity to the victims, with many people traveling to the region to work. I wonder how much the Chinese know about New Orleans and the Gulf Coast disasters, and how the People’s Republic has responded to their Katrina.

On such matters, I’m left with more questions than answers, but the wonder of an experience like this is the questions I never would have thought to ask. To my cynical mind the Olympic slogan, One World One Dream, sounds as creepy as any catch phrase from Stalin’s politburo or the White House press office. But, never mind. If people can embrace that spirit truly and run with it, we’ll all be a little more secure. I feel better knowing at least a little about these people and their nation.

Band on the run




We’ve been writing a lot about the vicissitudes of traveling and the people and places we’ve seen, but have only mentioned the concerts in passing, so let me try to catch up on that. They are, after all, the point of this exercise!

There’ve been ups and downs. Besides adjusting to the time change, dealing with the fatigue of strenuous sightseeing, and weathering the many challenges of a strange land, the singers have had to encounter, and sometimes overcome, five different venues and collaborative schemes.

Major Challenge #1: Risers. They’ve run the gamut from comfortable to hazardous to downright dangerous. Narrow steps, steep climbs, no railings. It’s fortunate somebody didn’t land on their noggin with some of the crazy stagings they’ve encountered. Does the Great Wall cast that strong a shadow?

Major Challenge #2: Pianos. Some have been downright decrepit. Hard for singers and embarrassing for the pianists. No, those weren’t their wrong notes.

Major Challenge #3: Audiences. People have been friendly and cordial and appreciative, but these are the noisiest crowds I’ve ever had to put up with. Did they come to listen to music or talk? Apparently to talk, loudly. During the music.

At first I thought it was disrespect, but then they did the same thing during performances by their own countrymen. It wasn’t just the possibly less sophisticated folks who attended the variety concerts, either. The nattering was just as obnoxious at the Forbidden City and tonight at the Shanghai Conservatory, where you’d expect the patrons to be more sophisticated. I hope it wasn’t as disturbing for the singers as it was for me.

Between these factors and other intangibles, a few of the appearances didn’t quite meet the goal. The festival opening was a long show at which ROS appeared last. After a wide variety of more or less folk-based music and non-western vocal sounds, our friends resembled one of those middle-school exam questions about sets: which one doesn’t belong? The venue was bad, the sound on stage poor, and the audience was addressed though a typically inadequate PA system. Still, a few groups excelled, including a spellbinding ensemble from Belarus.

Here’s the good part. After our three tunes, ROS was surrounded by adults in exotic costumes and kids of all ages, accompanied by a large concert band, to sing Auld Lang Syne! Beautiful but surreal, with confetti cannons providing an absurd but wholly appropriate finale. (See the photo on Brenda’s blog.)

Another wacky stop was the Military Concert Hall, where ROS participated in a choral competition – itself a wacky concept. Piano: useless. Acoustics: indifferent. Risers: vertiginous. Results: 3rd place!

ROS made only a brief appearance at the Festival closing ceremonies, with one number to open the show. I think they went on at 9:30 and were out by 10:00, with a nice glass trophy in Eric’s hands.

The two concerts that ROS headlined were presented in excellent concert halls. The 1400 seat Forbidden City room is a modern fan-shaped space of great clarity and balance. Note to Rochester: this is what a concert hall is. I’d love to witness an orchestra in it. ROS sounded great, in part I think because they could hear and be heard better than perhaps they ever have before. Maybe it was my romantic impression, but I think the folks recognized their potential in a way they hadn’t before and maybe came to terms with the whole we’re-in-another-country-singing thing.

That potential was realized more fully tonight in another fine hall, at the Shanghai Conservatory. The music was locked-in and took on a freedom of expression that has been lurking within for months. Promise of Living finally lived, radiantly. (Well, I’m a fool for Copland.) There were many brilliant touches that Eric asked for and received. Music, in short, was made.

ROS shared the show with the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra Accessorial Chorus (according to the program, that’s their name), led by the 95-year-old Ma Geshun, who acted not a day over 85. They did a lovely Ave verum corpus, a song called “How can I do not miss him” (pace the program), and an athletic reading of Komm, holder Lenz from Haydn’s The Seasons. Except for the indistinguishable German, they sounded good. They joined ROS at the end for two selections: Os justi – gorgeous in the big, round sound of a big, relaxed, attentive chorus – and “Flying Petals,” which featured Monica in her second solo turn of the evening. A crowd-charmer for sure.

Then came the ceremonial stuff. Little speeches from the stage by Eric and his distinguished host; acknowledgements to the folks who made it happen; photos with the banners of our city and state; admiration and good will all around; a great way to end this difficult, frustrating, chaotic, challenging, exhausting, exhilarating, and rewarding experience.

And more than a few thoughts were expressed to the folks who couldn’t make the journey and be here with their colleagues to share this moment. Grab on to this energy, folks, because there’s a new season ahead and new goals to strive for.

Micky and I have more to share. We’ll get home in a couple days and start processing the experience. We’ll write some more and I have bunch of photos to show you. But, now time is closing in. Tomorrow they’ve planned a busy day of sightseeing in very hot/humid weather. The next morning, we become property of the airlines again and will be incommunicado for several days. Thanks to all who have read and commented on our postings, and to Brenda for her encouragement. All errors are because I’m daft - please send corrections. And check back for our reflections, which we’ll catch up on as we recover normality back in Roch-cha-cha.

Love, Carl

Wednesday, July 23

Wednesday

Y’all are going to be disappointed in us, but, apart from the concert (which was fabu, but I’ll let Carl do the honors), we didn’t do squat today.

There were no tour activities scheduled in the morning, for reasons unclear to me. Not that I’m complaining—we were in need of some serious quiet time. Everything—and everyone—is so loud here. And given the crowds, everywhere you go, the noise level gets to be stressful after a while. In the afternoon, the chorus was due to rehearse and the non-singers had the option of visiting another temple. After thinking it over for perhaps ten seconds, I decided to hang out in the cool of the Riverside until it was time to leave for the concert. 

The gang is up on the 20th floor celebrating their successful Shanghai debut with cocktails, and I’m sitting here having some Great Wall wine in my green froggy glass, ready for bed.  

Tomorrow, there is a heat advisory, but we’re going full speed ahead anyway: Zhujiajiao, which is Shanghai’s “Venice,”, lunch at a farmhouse, the Shanghai Museum (yay!), and dinner and then some shopping in the evening for the truly insane die-hards.

P.S.: We did get moved to a quieter floor this morning. Our AFAI peeps talked to management about the noise, and the groupies remaining on the floor of horror got fresh fruit delivered to them this afternoon and a promise that the renovation work would cease until after we leave. Hooray!

Surly in Shanghai

The overnight train trip from Beijing to Shanghai was interesting and fun. We shoehorned ourselves into our compartments, 4 berths per, luggage and all. This is the type of travel where you really, really don’t want to get stuck with a) gassy strangers, or b) bores. You’ll be up close and personal for a good twelve hours. Luckily we bunked with George and Rita of IFAI, old hands at this traveling game, and of course the party atmosphere on the train made the evening enjoyable. People wandered from compartment to compartment sharing snacks, booze, and Beijing tales.

Personally, I conked out at nine, scandalizing the tour guides who were hanging out on the bottom berths. What can I say—this trip has put a serious dent in my partying abilities. I can’t seem to drink here without immediately falling into a stupor.

We arrived in Shanghai at 7 and trundled off to our new tour buses. Apparently the Shanghai tour company is on a budget and has had to put off getting the suspension for their vehicles repaired, so we were treated to a Disney ride on the way to the hotel. Never mind: we always appreciate getting to our destinations in one piece. What’s a loose filling or two?

The Riverside Hotel is our new hangout for the next few days. We ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant and then checked in. They stuck quite a few of us in a wing currently undergoing renovation (“Sorry for the inconvenience”) which meant deafening drilling and pounding (and, I swear, a jackhammer) in the very next room. For the next two hours, Carl and I couldn’t hear ourselves over the din. It put us both in Very Bad Moods.

At noon, we were off to the Chenghuang Miao Temple (complete, now, with Starbucks and DQ) and the Yuyuan Garden, a beautiful formal garden originally created by a lad for his dad during the Ming Dynasty. The name Yuyuan means “Pleasing to your parents,” according to our guide. It’s extensive, with a rockery made of a special stone called huangshi, many bonsai trees, ponds filled with koi, and buildings topped with undulating dragons. 

A trip to the Shanghai Museum was scheduled for after lunch, but as we were running behind and the day was unbearably hot (over 100, I heard) that plan was scrapped in favor of proceeding to the next item on the itinerary, an observation deck of the Oriental Pearl TV Tower. We were screened and our bags and cameras x-rayed before being allowed to enter.

For some reason—probably security--we only went to the 263rd-floor observation area, although there are others at higher levels. Still, even from this height, it’s impossible to adequately describe the view. Shanghai is one of the largest cities in the world. From 863 feet up, you can get a good idea of its size and it is literally staggering. 

After this amazing sight, we headed over to the Huangpu River for an evening cruise. The river was grey and crowded with coal-hauling barges riding low with their cargo, but once the sun set it became bright with vividly lit excursion boats and the Pudong skyline.

Dinner was at the Rome Hotel, or the Golden Rome Restaurant—the guides haven’t made up their minds which name is the right one. Translation’s a bitch here.

I’m not too impressed with the Shanghai tour operation thus far. The young lady assigned to our bus was half a day late due to an overlap with another tour, so a friend of the owner gamely stepped in for her and apologized repeatedly for not being “professional,” although we thought she was fine. It’s our regular guide who’s—well, well-meaning, certainly, and knowledgeable enough. But she seems to be training for a career teaching kindergarteners, and after a long day in oppressive heat, I really don’t want to play “Can anybody tell me how to sex the Emperor’s lions?” Just tell us, lady, okay? 

They also neglected to supply the buses with bottled water at first, and nearly had a riot on their hands. They learn quickly, though; I’ll give them that!

But I don’t want to sound like a grouchy American. Wait, I am a grouchy American.  

When we returned to the hotel from dinner, Carl and I attempted to get our room changed. The smiling front desk clerk assured us that this could be done. Great, we said, can we do it tonight or tomorrow morning? Tomorrow morning, she nodded. At noon.

Wait, we said. The renovation festivities start at 9 a.m., we said; there are no tour outings until the afternoon, we said, we’d like to relax in our room until then. We said. She smiled and replied: Sorry. Noon. The hotel is full.

Then George, our AFAI rep got into the act, and trust me, you don’t screw around with that guy. Still, even with George, Yana, and Jane arguing with her, we couldn’t crack the clerk’s immovable smile of refusal. Finally, Yana volunteered to switch rooms with us, as she and Jane were on the 7th floor, well away from the racket. She sweetly (or maybe acidly) pointed out that, as she and Jane were “much younger” than us, the noise wouldn’t bother them as much. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or indignant.

George left the clerk with a warning to have a new room available to us by 9:30 the following morning (to which she gave a derisive smile), and we went up to bed.

Tuesday, July 22

Where are the posts?

We're in Shanghai, where the internet isn't free and our time has been taken up pretty thoroughly. Maybe we'll get to catch up a bit latter this morning, as we have some down time today before the rehearsal and big concert tonight with the Shanghai Philharmonic group. Meanwhile, check out Brenda's blog, linked below.

Sunday, July 20

Ahhh . . .

Hey, I meant to tell you about my session at Lotus Foot Massage a couple of days ago.

From the hotel’s informational literature:

Located on the 3rd floor of the apartment building, this foot massage center offers a clean, soothing atmosphere; and well-trained massage specialists are to provide you with foot soaking in herbal soup, foot massage (Hong Kong or European style), cold & hot water alternating foot soaking services.

I came to Beijing with the intention of enjoying at least one massage and possibly several. Massage centers can be found on just about every corner here and I had heard that they are inexpensive. Music to this fanatic’s ears. How lucky to have one right in the hotel!

I walked in without an appointment and was accommodated right away. A young man pointed to a large menu on the wall describing the various treatments and their prices. The two-hour option for 128 RMB was tempting, but I didn’t have that much time, so I chose the 80-minute treatment for 88 RMB (about $13).

The young man showed me to a pleasant room with two reclining chairs covered in soft white terry cloth and motioned me toward one. Next, a young woman entered with a glass of green tea and a bowl of something, and set these on the table beside me. She turned on the TV and left. A few minutes later, back came my therapist with a plastic bucket holding a plastic bag of tea-infused warm water, which he dumped into a wooden tub. Following his gestures, I took off my sandals and slipped my feet into the “herbal soup” wanting to lie back and sleep at the first touch of water.

As my feet soaked, the therapist began working on my shoulders and arms. Then he added more hot water and indicated that I was to switch around to the ottoman in front of my chair so he could work on my back and neck. That done, I changed positions again and the serious foot massaging began. He spent about 20-25 minutes on each foot, utilizing familiar effleurage and percussive techniques, followed by some serious friction with both hands.

Makes you melt a little just reading that, doesn’t it?

We watched a soap opera and he encouraged me to eat what was in the bowl on the table, which seemed to be a type of fruit in lightly-sweetened syrup, and little balls of cereal. Refreshments were included in the price.

Afterward he dried my feet and dressed them in nylon footies to keep them warm and comfy, and sent me on my way. I’d hoped to go back for the two-hour session, which includes a full body massage, but we’ve run out of time.

When I get some more time, I’ll tell you about our walk through a nearby park and farmer’s market. For now, we’re getting ready to leave for Shanghai.

Yesterday

Yesterday morning our tour began with the Summer Palace; vast, crowded, impressive. My favorite sight in the park was the Marble Boat , a beautiful pavilion on the shore of Kunming Lake.

What a gorgeous morning! We envied the sightseers cruising the lake in tour and paddle boats. At the end of the Long Corridor, Grace gave us the option of climbing Longevity Hill or staying put in the shade. Despite the earlier damage done to my quads from climbing the Wall, the Drum Tower, and Jingshan Hill, Carl and I decided to go up at least partway. The paths up the hill are pleasantly shaded and beautifully bordered by stretches of lush grass.

(One of our company commented that we haven’t seen anyone lying in the grass in any of the parks we’ve visited. Taboo? Too many bugs? Fear of toddler poo?*)

Alas, our time at the Palace was short, and it was off to lunch. Afterward, the Silk Market, where, if you want to shop, you are forced to run the gauntlet between rows of aggressive vendors ready to hack off your arm for the chance to sell you a tee shirt.

To steel ourselves for this experience, Carl and I first went to the grocery in the basement (where the clerks didn’t give a damn whether we bought anything or not) to get some supplies for the train trip to Shanghai. Then we dutifully traipsed through several floors of merchandise—there are 1700 vendors in this modern indoor market—and endured endless cries of “Hello lady, don’t you want to buy a jacket? Hello sir, don’t you want a watch today?” It was mayhem. Gratefully, we escaped to the 6th floor and had wine and coffee at the Western-style Patio Pizza, while waiting to return to the bus.

The acrobatic show was stupendous, the highlight of the day for sure. (Note: the YouTube clip is not the show we saw but one done in 2007.)

*Chinese toddlers are encouraged to evacuate bladder and bowel on public sidewalks and park lawns. It’s so much a part of Chinese potty-training practices that toddler clothing comes both crotchless and buttless. It’s a pretty disquieting sight for the hyper-hygienic among us.

Saturday, July 19

Translation:

I wonder if there's any money to be made hiring myself out to rewrite Chinglish notices and signs. Found in our room: a little card with a warning:

"Respect guest:

In order to you are entering hotel period person and property safety, Please do not have to play cards with the stranger in the room."

I believe that means: Anyone not strictly a paying guest in the hotel is not allowed in guests' rooms.

Of course, the Chinglish is part of China's charm.

Buddhahood

You know, I’m just not a shopper.

This morning’s excursion was to the largest antiques market in China. Not a tourist trap, like the jade, pearl, and silk factories, but an honest-to-goodness street market patronized by locals and tourists alike. Acres of goods, from garden statuary to furniture, old books to antique radios. Ceramics, art, dolls, metalwork. Side shops selling jadeite and pearls.

Eh.

Mobbed, as everything is mobbed in Beijing. The air was horrible, filled with the smoke of fragrant incense and stinking Chinese cigarettes. My eyes burned. And the heat was unbearable today. After an hour I had to leave, so we went back to the bus, found a shady spot to wait in until the others returned. We didn’t buy anything, though others in our group found treasures to take back home.

Lunch.

In the afternoon, the Yong He Gong, a magnificent Tibetan Buddhist temple. I’d provide a link for you (as I’m too tired to write about it tonight), but for some reason the sites I’ve found seem to be blocked here.


I don’t write much about our meals because they are all the same: a variety of meat and vegetable dishes served family style. Don’t get me wrong--the food is quite good: well-prepared and fresh. But, it’s a little like eating at one of our Rochester Chinese buffets for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every. Day.

Tonight I’m skipping the “clash of the choruses” and hanging out in the room, washing out underwear and socks and drinking a kind of Chinese sherry that tastes like a cross between sweetened soy sauce and gasoline. I’ll get back to my regular boring diet of cheap Chilean wine and popcorn soon enough, so I’m enjoying the new flavors. I’ve discovered jasmine tea and pineapple sandwich cookies; Asahi super “dry” beer and steamed buns from the deli.

Maybe it’s time to try some of the more exotic local specialties. Crickets, pig’s feet. But--what if I fall in love with scorpion-on-a-stick? That’s a craving I can’t satisfy in Rochester (as far as I know).

Finally, some Chinese culture that doesn't involve shopping

Yesterday was an utterly lovely day.

It began with rain, lots of it, as the bus took us to the hutong area. Wasn’t looking promising for a rickshaw ride. When we got near to our destination, we idled by the curb waiting for another bus to catch up and the rain to stop. Grace pointed out a nearby Starbucks and grinned wickedly when the coffee drinkers moaned.

Coffee! The restaurants we dine at don’t serve it. It doesn’t appear to be available in the supermarket down the street, unless instant Nescafe counts. (And it’s getting pretty close to counting.) A few of us considered making a break for it, but we behaved and waited like good children for our fellow tour groupies to show up.

As soon as they did, the rain let up, and we paraded past workers waiting for buses into a long alley lined with several dozen bicycle rickshaws. Friendly drivers invited us to board, two to a vehicle. They practiced their hellos, we practiced our ni haos and xie-xies. Then one by one, the rickshaw operators hauled their rigs out of the lineup and we began our leisurely tour.

The hutong alleys are very narrow and uniformly gray, with touches of color from potted flowers, the odd climbing vine, and banks of weeds growing out of the roofs. Trees rising from unseen courtyards provide shade. There is only room for the rickshaws to travel single-file. It’s a comforting, rather than a claustrophobic closeness. Your neighbor’s doorstep is only a few feet from your own. But before this description veers too far toward the lyrical, let me assert that, while the place surely has charm, it is also ramshackle and in some places downright squalid. Most of these neighborhoods have been bulldozed to make room for modern apartment buildings. But enough still remain to house one million people, mostly older folk, forming a kind of retirement community.

We were due at the Wu residence, a hutong household in the traditional style of rooms laid out in a square around a courtyard. Mr. Wu, a retiree who makes money opening his home to tourists and film companies, spoke to our group through a translator about his family and his home, while his daughter (or granddaughter) served us tea. He explained the layout of the rooms as they were traditionally used: the North room was for parents and grandparents, as it was warm in the winter and cool in the summer. The East room was for the boys of the family, the West for the girls. The South room was smaller than the rest, and therefore for the household servants. The translator asked us if we could guess why boys had the East room and girls the West, and then explained that in “old China” boys were the prized sex for whom the (family) sun rose.

After saying our thanks and goodbyes to Mr. Wu, we boarded our rickshaws again and left the neighborhood. On the way out. we passed a small shop that made us smile: Hutong Pizza.

Afterward, we climbed 69 steps to the top of the Drum Tower. After the previous day’s climb, the 69 steps were a piece of cake.

At lunch, our friend Brenda asked us if we’d like to skip the scheduled visit to LuiliChang Street in favor of accompanying her to meet a friend of a friend at Jingshan Park. The man we were to meet is an English teacher at Beijing University. I’ll leave it to Brenda to write more about him, but I will say he is a charming, 40ish Beijinger who showed up with his delightful son, and we had a fine chat about our visit to Beijing, and his stay in New Haven on a Fulbright scholarship.

Getting to the park by taxi turned out to be very easy. Brenda had had one of the tour guides write the destination in Mandarin, which she showed to the driver, and it was only a few minutes from the restaurant, so the fare was quite cheap. Getting around by taxi seems pretty inexpensive in general in Beijing, and now that that ice has been broken, I hope we do it again. It’s a relief to get away from the tour bus for a few hours.

The climb to the top of the hill of Jingshan Park was arduous in the heat, and given our sore muscles, a bit of a trial. But once there we were rewarded with a stunning view of the Forbidden City. We stayed awhile, chatting with our new Beijing friend and his son and marveling at the view.

Then back to the hotel for a rest before the solo concert.









A few shots from last night's concert rehearsal.

The next emperors


Time out from the travelogue for a little cultural reflection on a matter close to my heart: children.

My friends will recognize that was a joke. I don’t have kids, don’t want them, and only care to be around them in limited, controlled circumstances. Don’t even know how to talk to them, let alone manage their needs. But, I’m reading a book about a strange American phenomenon - retirement communities - and the many negative consequences age-segregation can have on the social fabric. I’m also at a stage, positioned at the tail-end of the baby boom, where the question of who’s going to look after me as I dotter becomes more than an academic curiosity. In some way some kid will be involved, so I’d better make peace with Gen-X. And Y and Z.

One of the major social concerns for Chinese city-dwellers is the one-child policy. Instituted a decade ago as an attempt to get control of the alarming rise in population, two interesting consequences have been related to us. With two parents and four grandparents focusing all their nurturing on one kid, the tykes grow up the center of their own little universe, often over-indulged. Known as the “Little Emperor” syndrome, it will combine with the astonishing changes of modernization, technology, political changes, and urbanization, to create an enormous generation gap that is already straining the old patterns of family life.

There is another side to that coin. Imperial majesty can come with strings attached. That single child, if at all precocious, can become the focus of all the hopes of six doting adults, the repository of their aspirations, the fulfillment of their dreams, and the ticket to the family’s security as the world swirls around them. Coupled with the extremely competitive system of exams kids have to pass in order to move toward university, the little sovereigns carry a heavy burden.

Understand: as vexing (and misguided) as standardized tests are for American kids, for the Chinese the qualifying exams can mean the difference between a profession and a lifetime of menial toil. In the US, slackers like me can go to community college and get loans for university, or dropout and fake their way into decent incomes. Not so easy here. Being still a poor country, and supporting an enormous population, there just aren’t enough colleges for all the talented people who deserve that opportunity.

Will it always be this way in China? I still know so very little about this society that all I can do is idlely muse about it. There is no limit to human potential. Everywhere, from the Bronx to Beijing, there are brilliant people, undiscovered, unrealized. If China learns to share its new wealth equitably and to create institutions on the necessary scale, it may tap that potential. Will it then, a couple generations later, devolve into apathy, as many Americans have, and become a victim of its own success? Probably. We are, after all, only human.

You must remember this

There is another blog about this trip. Our friend Brenda is doing not just words and photos, but sounds, too. That is only nat'rel since she's a radio reporter and documentarian. You can dial her in at interactive.wxxi.org/brenda

There is another person chronicling, too, but I don't know them. Stay tuned for details. Film at eleven.

I hope Brenda writes about the charming man and his son whom we met yesterday. Our talk helped inspire the next post.

Thursday, July 17

The Friday sked

Today we visit the Bell and Drum towers, and have a rickshaw tour through a neighboring hutong. I'm looking forward to seeing our group of one hundred flying down the alley in rickshaws.

Then an afternoon at Liulichang Street, looking through the book, music, and antique shops. See you later!

Hitting the Wall



What a great day for a Great Wall climb! Temp: 90. Humidity: 150%. Okay, not really, but it was--warm.

But first, a stop at the Jade Factory. This announcement by our guide Grace was met with a chorus of murmured groans. We’ve come to expect these factory visits to be little more than a cattle-herding exercise through a cursory, if entertaining, lecture on the artisan process of the day. Generally they’re very well-scripted and efficiently managed, given the size and number of tour groups passing through. But you’re only allowed a mere taste of information about the process. A quick explanation of the steps from raw material to finished product, some jokes from the factory guide, and then it’s time to shop. Or else.

The jade factory was no different, although the masterpieces on display in the visitor/lecture gallery were stunning, exquisite. I would have been quite happy to spend more time there, just examining those. Unfortunately, the flow of traffic is greatest in this area, with enormous groups and their shouting herders passing through, so it’s impossible to linger over any one display.

Our guide did warn everyone not to “waste other people’s time” by ordering a jade stamp with name and astrological sign carved in it; that those who wanted such a thing could put their orders on a list that she would fax to the factory for later delivery to the hotel. Go, Grace! It made for a quick turn-around in spite of the crowds and the miles of stuff for sale, and we were out within the hour. Time to visit the Wall.

I’ve never been particularly drawn to China, neither to its history or its wonders, in the abstract. The Wall impressed me, it didn’t call to me. But I couldn’t help feeling a thrill at my first glimpse of it, as the bus moved into the mountains.

God, it was hot. I was apprehensive just climbing the stairs to the entrance area. The little umbrellas we bought the other day are treated with a coating that filters out some of the sun’s radiation, so we opened them. The sun just laughed.

How was I going to manage this? I’m relatively fit for my age; I work out regularly, if not passionately, and I dance. What are a few thousand stairs?

Yeah, but these aren’t stairs so much as individual monuments to climb. You wouldn’t think a rather short people like the Chinese would build such tall risers—many, it seemed to me, well over a foot.

We climbed. We climbed some more. We rested, then we climbed. We rested, and rested some more. Made it to the first tower, after a long stretch with no landings on which to catch our breath, collapsed. After a rest of five minutes or so, we headed up to the next landing. I didn’t think my heart was capable of such pounding. After another long rest, I proposed going on to the next stop—the second tower. Carl declined. I went up. Made the tower, gasping. And decided: All righty, then.

It was perversely gratifying to see that even little kids were struggling for air.

And then of course I had to get the cheesy “certificate” attesting to my heroic accomplishment, complete with photo, name, and date. The legend “The Hero Card” written at the top. I wonder what the real heroes get, the ones who make it all the way to the eighth tower? A medal? A trophy? Free ice cream?

Afterward, we dragged ourselves back on the bus, more than ready for lunch. The plan at the time was to visit the Cloisonné Factory (groan) and have lunch, then head back to the hotel.

Lunch and the factory were, surprisingly, at an old Friendship Store, one of those state-owned stores where foreigners could once get the Western goods—like peanut-butter—that they missed from home. Because only foreign exchange certificates were accepted, Chinese people weren’t allowed to shop there. But those days are gone, and now the store stocks Chinese wares, including a section of official Olympics tchotchkes. Plus, the goods from the attached cloisonné factory.

That over, we loaded ourselves onto the bus once more and prepared to head back to the hotel. Yay!

Except, a few folks complained about not going to see Olympic Village, and so the schedule was changed to accommodate them. I won’t talk about that now, though. [Edited to perform snarkectomy.]

Wednesday, July 16

Great Wall

We're off to the Great Wall today.

This evening we should have a couple of free hours to post about: my foot massage, the opening concert of the festival last night, and today's sightseeing extravaganza. See you then!

Day off

We're taking a day off from the tour today. On the agenda was a morning visit to the Beijing Zoo to see the pandas (our friend Brenda warned us in dire tones that we would live to regret not seeing them), and then, for the non-singers, a trip to the Guanyuan Commodities market after lunch.

But, it's hot, humid, and we're still exhausted, so we decided to stay close to the hotel until Carl leaves with the singers this afternoon for rehearsal, and I leave at 6:30 with the other non-singers for tonight's opening concert.

This morning we walked up the street to a supermarket/department store for a few things. The supermarket is laid out in a familiar pattern, and, while it takes a while to orient yourself and find the things you need, it's pretty similar to a grocery run back home.

The department store is a bit different than what we're used to--you get a ticket for the item you want to buy, take the ticket to the cashier and pay, and return to the clerk holding your item to show your receipt and pick up your purchase. We bought a couple of umbrellas and a better bag for me. It was difficult trying to explain to the clerk that I was looking for something with a longer strap than what I'm currently using. The language barrier is tough, and my few words of Chinese are almost no help. Still, everyone seems interested in helping us spend money, so we made a successful transaction.

Had another kid experience too. I don't know why they tickle me so much but they do. A little boy stared at us for a while as we were looking over umbrellas, and finally blurted out "Hello!" When I replied "Ni hao!" he and his mom and aunt burst into giggles. Smiles all around again, so nice.

We came back to the hotel and hung out in the "bar", with glasses of green tea. This was loose tea in a tall glass; apparently you wait for it to settle and then you drink it. It tasted like spinach to me, actually, but I liked it.

We debated what to do about lunch. We could eat at the Quanjude again, but I wasn't sure I wanted to spend the money. We could stroll a few blocks around the hotel and hope we stumbled on a decent place, but that wasn't too appealing a prospect, given the heat. Finally we decided to go back out to the supermarket and see if we could find something prepared to bring back to the room. On our way out we met some others of the group who had also ditched the zoo expedition, and they were up for trying the hotel restaurant that serves our breakfast. Carl and I tagged along with them, but, after looking through the menu, I nixed the idea of eating there. (Maybe it was the stewed donkey meat.)

We bought some items from the supermarket deli--vegetable rolls and steamed buns with pork. Delicious, easy, and cheap--about three bucks for what turned out to be more than enough food.

Off to shower, then try out the foot massage place on the 3rd floor.

Tuesday, July 15

If it's Tuesday, this must be . . .


Tuesday, our first full day in Beijing, was jam-packed with sightseeing and shopping. We began the day at seven with a buffet breakfast at the hotel, then it was off to Tiananmen Square. The day was unexpectedly sunny (the forecast was for rain) but fortunately, breezy and moderate. The square teemed with visitors, mostly Chinese. We were allowed to wander off for a few minutes to gawk at the Mao Memorial (no, we didn’t go in to check out the Chairman’s remains). Then back to the group for a group picture, which would be put in a souvenir book and sold for 100 yuan (about $15). Then another bit of free time to wander and shoot. Carl and I went to a concession stand for some cool tea (I say “cool” because we haven’t really had cold drinks other than at the restaurants) and a meander past yet another terrace-with-greenery project for the Olympics.

It’s true that Westerners still attract attention here. At TS, a boy of about 5 turned around and spotted us, and a startled grin shone out from his face. He said something to his grandmother, and she too stared, delighted with us for some reason. A toddler came up behind me and hugged my leg, laughing and staring up at me in wonder. At one point, a Chinese man took a picture of our group, and several of the women with him ran over to get their pictures taken with us. We, in turn, aimed our cameras at him. A group of school kids following us back to our bus shouted "Laowai! (Foreigner!) Hello!"

It was all very jolly and friendly.

Leaving TS, we walked over a bridge into the Forbidden City. I’m not going to say much about that (try Wikipedia for some excellent info) except that it was beyond grand, utterly imposing, and ultimately, rather a bore. We marched more or less in a straight line from the south gate to the north. There are many things to see and linger over if you’re not in a group on a tight schedule. We came out into one of the lovely imperial gardens but were not permitted to explore it, because we were due for lunch at Wa Ha Ha. Such is the traveling life.

Lunch was nice. Another “family style” bonanza of dish after dish, beer, and tea. Carl and I took pictures of the enormous golden Buddha just inside the entrance.

After lunch, a trip to the Silk Factory, where we learned about the process of creating silk and were then pestered to buy it. Then the Temple of Heaven park, a lovely place full of local people singing, exercising, playing cards and a game involving stones on a paper grid. And then a trip to the Pearl Factory—another demonstration-cum-shopping-obligation. Then dinner at the restaurant in the factory. And back to the hotel at 9 or so.

Long day, many sights, sunburn, wonder, aching feet.

Monday, July 14

The Duck

Didn't have the energy last night to relate the duck dinner experience. Our first meal in Beijing was in the hotel at a branch of the Quanjude restaurant chain, famous here for its Peking duck. The ROS group sat at large tables and ate "family style"--that is, with multiple dishes of vegetables, fish, rice, soup, chicken set on a large glass lazy susan. The first rule of thumb for serving yourself from a lazy susan is: take a quick glance around the table to see who else is helping themselves to a dish before you spin the device to bring over the delicacy you want.

We were welcomed by a representative of the agency that's responsible for the Chorus Festival, who presented the ROS conductor, Eric Townell, with a mammoth bouquet of flowers. Then the duck was presented, and two chefs in tall white hats and face masks got to work carving up the birds. I've read that it's the crispy skin that is the most prized part of the duck, and care is taken to ensure that every sliver of meat is dressed with a least of smidgen of skin. Plates of the meat, steamers of thin pancakes, and small bowls of plum sauce and sliced scallions were brought to our tables. One of our waitresses asked if we'd like a demonstration of the proper technique, and as we were all making a mess of it up until then we almost shouted "Please!"

So she deftly took a pancake off the stack with her chopsticks, dipped four pieces of duck in the sauce and placed them on the pancake, took a few scallions, dipped and placed those as well, and using only chopsticks and a spoon, folded the pancake around its contents into a fluted shape, and with a flourish, dropped in on someone's plate. We cheered.

While not as agile with our chopsticks as our waitress, we at least now had a clue. The wrapped concoction is as delicious as advertised. And I didn't notice a "lasting aftertaste" at all.

PTSD

I do believe that describes my condition at the moment. Post-travel Stress Disorder. Stir-fried, freeze-dried, zombiefied, my brain has died. My ears have not stopped ringing, neither with echoes of jet engines, or the testy tones of some of my conversations today. It was so *quiet* in the hotel elevator that the porter's shoe creaking startled me.

I fell asleep on the hotel bed while Carl took a shower--I couldn't have been out more than a few minutes but it was a total blackout. When I came to, I told Carl I couldn't feel my body.

The hotel is really pretty--Carl will post pics soon. And our room is nice: heavy, rather formal furniture, very hard beds (neither of them doubles), decent lighting, and a stopper in the bathroom sink we couldn't figure out how to operate. After a fruitless call to Housekeeping (I'm embarrassed to say that my attempts to communicate with Chinese folks have been pretty, well, embarrassing), I finally went down to the front desk to ask. Fortunately both our tour guides were still there and Roberta explained that you need to push down on the stopper to get it popped up. Good thing I asked; I was on the verge of breaking a nail file prying the sucker up.

Yes, we promise to stop bitching just as soon as we get some rest.

Sweet Home Beijing



It's five in the morning on Monday EDT, and five in the evening here on Monday. But the computer thinks it's still in New York, so I can clearly see (we'd lost all track) that our journey took thirty nine hours from when Ethan dropped us off at the Monroe County "International" Airport. But, now we're safely ensconced in the Hotel Ruicheng in the district of Haidian, in the capital of the People's Republic of China.

Pinch me. When we touched down this morning twelve hours after leaving Vancouver, and they said, "Welcome to Hong Kong," Micky and I giggled. But, as she mentioned, much of the journey wasn't all that funny. Sitting in one of the last rows of a Jumbo Jet trapped like spam in a can was the modern equivalent of sailing to NY in steerage. Something to endure rather than savor. And the last 2.5 hours to Beijing, while a perfectly acceptable flight, in our condition was low-grade torture. Neither of us had a good nights sleep in the days before leaving, especially Saturday, and nothing like real sleep was possible during the trip.

So we're running on fumes and fuming at every little thing. It will be good to get actual sleep tonight, even a few hours. Tomorrow, we see the Square, the City, and the Temple, go shopping, and lunch at the Wa Ha Ha (can't wait for that!). In a few hours from now, we get with the rest of the people, who should all have arrived by now, for the Famous Duck. No, not Daffy. Hope not, anyway.

Stay tuned - we'll stop complaining and share some impressions of this surprising city. (Post times are now in local time.)

Sunday, July 13

My observation....

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........

How-do from Hong Kong!

We only have a short time at the airport here--our Cathay flight was late to JFK which in turn delayed each leg of the trip. And what legs! Our latest--a twelve-hour stint from Vancouver. Don't believe the hype about "new, improved" economy class accommodations, is all I'm gonna say at this point.

More when we arrive in Beijing, about 4 hours from now. If I don't fall down from fatigue first.

Thursday, July 10

See you in Beijing

Tonight was the send-off concert at ROS's home base, the Hochstein School Performance Hall. It was the chorus that is traveling, which is a bout half the size of the 160 (or so) -strong membership. Some items rang out, others have yet to coalesce, but confidence was in the sound. Excitement and expectation was palpable. This is one psyched bunch of people! Visiting politicos declared July 9th ROS Day in the County of Monroe.

So, now we all wait for departure. Time to worry about the final domestic arrangements, the wardrobe, the packing. Our kitchen table is half covered with toiletries, palliatives, and sundries. We've measured the baggage. Micky has her project manager hat on, and it is stunning.

It's a curious role I play with ROS, and with my other clients. I'm not there to witness all the grinding effort of rehearsals, but I'm close enough to understand some of that aspect. I am both participant and observer. I feel invested in their efforts. Sometimes I wish to be sitting in the audience with no strings attached. Often I wish I was up there singing, immersed in that creation, that shared experience. Yet I should admit how very privileged I feel for the supporting role I'm given. What a lucky guy I am! Thank you, ROS.

Tuesday, July 8

Helpful information from Cathay Pacific Airlines

The human body contains fairly large amounts of gas (including mostly air as well as gases formed in the stomach and intestines during digestion). Expansion of stomach or intestinal gas can lead to discomfort, hence it is better to avoid consuming "gas-generating" food such as beans, cabbage, carbonated drinks and beer before your flight.

--http://www.cathaypacific.com/cpa/en_HK/helpingyoutravel/insidethecabin

Hear, hear. Better for your popularity in the cabin, too.

Monday, July 7

The Fifth of July


Totally gorgeous weekend at camp (the family cottage on Sandy Pond). Warm, sunny, not too humid.

We spent Independence Day washing windows. Carl enjoys that, and I play along if I’m in the mood. It’s a nice thing, getting rid of ancient cobwebs and dessicated insects. Washer Man defied death by climbing an old wooden ladder, balancing on one foot, and taking apart the kitchen windows to clean them. His faithful sidekick stood on the bottom rung and prayed.

Friday night, the unofficial Sandy Pond neighborhood association brought out boxes and boxes of fireworks. We oohed, we aahed, we drank.

Saturday was our cookout with the Drama Fags, our old friends from high school. Moon’s up from Florida and brought along her charming and handsome son Anthony. Mona came down from Watertown with a lovely potato salad (with capers!). Mike, Mary Margaret, Dave, John and Vik. Thanks y’all, it was fun and a blessing, as usual.

A last bit of revelry BC.

P.S.: Terry and Jeff: you were missed.

Thursday, July 3

It's all good

A little update, as the hour is late.

We had a big pre-trip meeting tonight to talk through everybody's questions and anxieties. How are the flights working, how will we get around, where can we drink the water? Whatdawewearwhere? How do I keep from having my larynx bisected, liver removed, and camera stolen while strolling the streets? (That's my bete noir.)

Fortunately, we have a few experienced travelers in the crowd who'll keep we newbies from losing our composure. The appeals to group cohesion were both practical and comforting, though I did picture us going around in a jerky clump, like a South Park animation. Guess who's Cartman...

Oh, the money. It's okay - enough came through since Monday to cover the tab.

So the morning will find me out buying my first new suit in thirteen years. Lucky I don't have to schlep a tux about, as the singer guys have to do. That's our version of native costume. Anachronism meets incongruousness. As Yakov Smirnoff might say, "What a world!"

P.S. I was mistaken - the Forbidden City show is on. We'll have five concerts. Or more. We'll see!