Well, I’m back. San Francisco is exactly like I remembered it. I think I’m the one who’s changed. It’s been a week of reuniting, parties, searching (jobs and living space). A little overwhelming. But, a good change. Though I haven’t been blogging, I have been writing, so here are a few pieces from the past few days. China stories still in progress. What an amazing place. It’s good to be back.

Free!

There’s something wonderful about getting something for free. It’s even better when it’s something you actually want. Today I got three things for free. I’m happy.

The first came when I was purchasing airline tickets online through Travelocity. As I entered my credit card number, and pressed at least half a dozen buttons acknowledging the ticket was not refundable, not changeable, not usable by anyone except me, a pop up window appeared. If I completed a survey, I had the chance of winning $25 and could get $70 worth of gifts for free. I love surveys. I love sweepstakes. I was thrilled.

I completed the painless survey, and my choice of free gifts appeared. Up to three magazines, the first year free, then you had to pay. I didn’t like any of the magazines. I thought of signing my ex-husband up for magazines (he likes to read), but I imagined it escalating into an issue after the first year if he forgot to cancel the subscription. Who pays, then? So, I declined the gifts. It was a nice thought, though.

My next free item was at Walgreens. On my previous visit there I had received two cash register receipts. How wasteful, I thought to myself. But upon closer inspection, one was a Super Cash Register Check Out Counter Customer Appreciation Coupon. Which, technically, makes it sound like they are thanking you for checking out, and not shoplifting. Doesn’t seem like quite the marketing message they should be sending out.

Anyway, the coupon was for a free Nabisco big bag of crackers or snacks, value $0.99. I combed the aisles for Nabisco snack products. All I found were animal crackers ($1.29) and big bags of Oreo Double Stuff (way over $3.00). I asked the check out clerk for assistance. She wandered up and down the aisles, having as much success as I had. She called the manager. I mentally calculated how much it was costing Walgreens, even at minimum wage, to help me locate a product I would have never bought but was seeking because it was offered to me for free. I was ahead. The manager surveyed the same aisles both I and the clerk had, mumbling, “I know they are here somewhere. I know I’ve seen those crackers.” She finally turned to me, handed me back the coupon, and with a wave of her arm said, “Lady, just go grab a bag of chips.” I didn’t particularly like anything offered, but remembered Emily (the best friend in the whole world who has let me crash in her studio with my four big suitcases and not complained) has a passion for Cheetos. She was quite happy when she arrived home from work and found a big grab bag of Cheetos awaiting her consumption.

But the third was the best. After dinner, I had a craving for a milkshake. A good, thick, Ben and Jerry’s cookies and sweet cream milkshake. I hesitated at the door of Ben and Jerry’s; it was late and the chairs were already up on the tables. The guy behind the counter motioned to me, “Come on in, we’re not closed.” My three girlfriends followed me in. I walked up to the counter decisively. I’d like a cookies and sweet cream milkshake, l… “Don’t have it.” I stared at him. I couldn’t quite comprehend what he was telling me. I’ve waited 9 months for a milkshake, and you don’t have my favorite flavor? “Sorry, lady, we only have the flavors on the board.”

I continued to alternatively stare between his face and the board, wondering what could possibly replace cookies and sweet cream. “Do you like caramel?” I nodded, a blank look on my face. “How about maple syrup?” I nodded once again, still speechless that they were out of cookies and sweet cream. “Try this one.” He gave me the largest sample scoop of ice cream I’ve ever had. I tasted it. Mmmm. This is good. What is it? “You tell me, and your milkshake is free.”

I glanced up at the board. Triple Caramel Chunk? Maybe, but there were no chunks to speak of. Butter Pecan? Maybe, but Butter Pecan normally doesn’t have maple syrup in it. I don’t think. Hmmm. The Full VerMonty? Vermont=Maple Syrup. Not sure where the caramel comes into play. The Full VerMonty? I asked. He turned around from his milkshake making duties and gave me a playful “bang bang.” “You got it.” I squealed. Guys! I won! I won! My friends, involved in a deep conversation, turned to me. “What? What did you win?” I guessed the flavor! I got it right! The guy behind the counter leaned over and said, “But you know I can’t give you the milkshake for free.” I laughed. That’s okay – I still won! I guessed the flavor right! Thank you! He finished making the milkshake, added extra whipped cream, handed it to me, shook his head and said, “This one’s on me – enjoy…”

And that was the best free of all.

Fresh Lemonade – 75 cents

That was what we saw as we wound down the curvy mountain road. A sandy haired boy, probably 7 or 8, was standing beside the road, waving the sign. I turned to Emily. She smiled and pulled over. I rolled down the window as she slowed down and rolled into the small side road. “We’d like two, please,” I said to the boy, probably the sign holder’s brother, manning the table stocked with pots of lemonade, ladles, and bright red plastic cups. Emily turned the car around then stopped. Through the window, I handed the boy a dollar bill and two quarters. He slid the money into a tattered envelope. “That’s two, right?” “Yes,” I called to him. He walked back to the car and said, “Well, there’s a bonus, just today, you get two free cookies with your lemonades,” and he placed two Oreos into my hand. I handed one to Emily and smiled. “Thank you very much, sir.” He carefully ladled the icy lemonade into the plastic cups, adding a lemon slice to each cup before handing them to us. “You ladies enjoy your day.”

As we pulled away, I pondered the value of this exchange. Fresh lemonade. Good presentation. Excellent customer service. Reasonable price. Bonus cookie. Supporting local business. The epitome of win win.

Weekend

Grilled corn.

Toasted marshmallows.

Bright stars.

Tall redwoods.

Morning run.

Afternoon kayaking.

Cold river.

Hot sun.

Old movies.

Buttered popcorn.

Close friends.

Seaside sunset.

Encompassing hugs.

bliss

Not A Good Sign…

I went to look at an apartment tonight. In Russian Hill, one of the neighborhoods I formerly lived in. As I was walking home, to Emily’s apartment in Pacific Heights, I noticed a large church. No, more of a cathedral. That’s funny, I thought to myself, I don’t remember there being a cathedral on the way to Emily’s. As I got closer, I realized it was Grace Cathedral, on Nob Hill, the exact opposite direction of where I should be heading.

DragonAir

This airline rocks. It’s clean. The flight attendants are the nicest of any I’ve ever encountered. The food is good. We departed on time. We arrived before schedule. They offer complimentary perfume and cologne in the toilets, appropriately named “Nomad.” And, if the plane is going to crash, the pilot yells, “BRACE!” over the intercom, just to prepare you. That’s service.

Leaving Xi’an

Peter, our driver, picked us up at the hotel, expertly loaded our bags into his small trunk, and we were on our way. Morning traffic in Xi’an. No lanes, just activity. Cars, buses, people walking, people biking, people standing, people running. At major intersections there were traffic lights, at times obeyed. At really major intersections were immaculately dressed traffic police, soulless in their mirrored sunglasses, crisply waving their white gloved hands to stop, turn, go on.

We dodged our way through city traffic, the people starting their day, going to work. We only witnessed one wreck, a mini van up against a curb, windshield shattered, glass beads splayed all around, the three occupants squatting on the median, none appearing to be injured. After about half an hour we left the city buildings behind, approaching fields. Just as suddenly as the city had started, it stopped. We were in the country. No billboards, no skyscrapers, only rows and rows of corn, occasionally interrupted by fields of sunflowers. Bright, smiling yellow faces turned upward to greet the sun, the first rays in 3 days. And so many tombs. The giant mounds, small hills, under which important people from hundreds, thousands of years ago, were buried.

Peter explained, in his broken English, about the museum at the airport. I listened carefully. “Very good. Museum. Qian dynasty. First. Han, terra cotta soldiers, second. This first. At airport. So good.” We all expressed surprise. I remembered back to three days ago, walking across the rudimentary tarmac to the functional, yet sterile, baggage claim. I didn’t remember seeing any services, much less a museum, in the airport facilities. I stared out the window, alternating fields of corn and sunflowers flying by.

Peter started to exit. The sign for the airport indicated we should be going straight. At the same moment, both mom and dad spoke up from the back seat. “Peter, we need to go to the airport.” “Airport? No museum? Museum very good.” “I don’t think we have time. International flight.” “No time? Okay.” And he veered back onto the highway.

We arrived at the airport at 9:30, the suggested time for our 11:30 am DragonAir flight to Hong Kong. Flying to Hong Kong from mainland China is considered an international flight, even though in name they are part of the same country. The counters were unoccupied. No one at the Airport Fee counter. No one at security. No one at check-in. We were perplexed. We stood in the middle of the lobby, looking around. Finally, an employee arrived to the security counter. We walked over, showed our passports and tickets, and in sign language he indicated we couldn’t check in until after 10:00. Maybe Peter knew best after all.

Unlike the domestic terminal, this terminal, though antiquated, did have services. A dusty coffee shop in the corner of the lobby, 5 small round tables with 4 ancient, wobbly upholstered chairs surrounding each. We started to sit at one of the tables. The waitress approached us, handed us a placard in Chinese and stood there, bored, waiting for our order. I turned to mom and dad. “Coffee? Tea?” I turned to the waitress, using my fingers and voice, indicated, Two teas. One coffee. Thank you. In a few minutes she returned, absentmindedly placed the beverages on the table, turned to me, “Pay. 40 yuan.” Geez. Even in China airport food is expensive. Comparatively. I handed her a 50 note. She shuffled off, returned with a crumpled 10 note in her hand and lazily pushed it towards me.

We drank our beverages, taking in the lack of ambiance of the terminal. The three coffee shop workers, sitting, staring absently into space. Every few minutes a sharply dressed airline steward arrived, the men in their pressed suits, the women clicking along in their high heels and sleek hair. They breezed through security, disappearing around a corner. Another westerner arrived. He stood in the middle of the lobby, just as we had, only minutes before, confounded by the lack of employees. After a couple of minutes, I stood up, walked over to him. Are you on the 11:30 flight to Hong Kong? “Why, yes, I am…” he replied in a crisp English accent. We are, too, I motioned towards my parents. You won’t be able to check in until after 10:00. “Ahhh. Right you are. I could have stayed at the hotel, then.” I smiled. I know. Us, too. I headed back towards the “coffee shop” and he followed, staking out a table beside ours.

In addition to the coffee shop, there was a small area designated as a gift shop, a place to spend those last few yuan you might have in your pockets. Dad and I entered and explored, hoping to find a treasure we had not already seen in one of the many markets we had experienced in Xi’an. Same things. Chocolate in the form of terra cotta soldiers. Chocolate covered chestnuts. Dried fruits – ginger, apricots, plums. Bottles of ginger concoctions. Silk pajamas. Small, bright orange and red stuffed tigers, to place in a baby’s crib to protect them from nightmares. Tea sets. Calligraphy brushes. One of the employees approached dad. In quick English, she said, “Is this your first visit to China? Where are you from? Who is that?” Dad answered her questions, indicating we were from the United States, it was our first visit to China, we had spent 3 days in Beijing, 3 days in Xi’an, we were going to Hong Kong, I was his daughter, and I taught English in Korea. “Ah. I thought she was a teacher. She looks very educational.” I looked at her and smiled, wondering how a person can look educational.

She approached me. “Do you speak Korean?” Well. Some. Only a little. She pulled out her notebook, asking me different phrases in Korean she could say to the Korean customers. The only useful ones I could think of were “Hello”, numbers, “This is good.” She started asking questions about how to say what something is made of – cotton, wood, silk – words I have no idea for in Korean. I told her to wait a minute. I returned with my Korean/English dictionary. We looked up words, she wrote them phonetically in Chinese. At that moment, I realized the absurdity of the situation. Me, an English speaker, telling her phrases in Korean, using my English and limited Korean, her responding in English, yet writing the words in Chinese characters. She flipped through the dictionary. She asked me to listen to her pronunciation and give her feedback. “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. How are you? Would you like this? This is a very good price.” Her pronunciation was excellent. I proclaimed, Perfect! and she giggled and blushed. How did you learn English? You speak very well. “Xi’an Foreign Language University. Thank you.”

I returned to the coffee shop. We sat, watching groups of travellers arrive, mostly Chinese, some other foreigners. Families, snapping pictures together before one or two lined up for security. The Chinese, looking prim and proper, the women in their pastel suits and small heels, the men in dress shirts and pressed pants. The Westerners, quite slovenly by comparison, in t-shirts and jeans or skimpy tank tops, bra straps peeking out.

At security, the Chinese inspector took particular interest in my passport. I wondered what could be wrong. Then I realized he was just curious. He looked at my passport photo, taken right before I was divorced. It’s not a flattering photo. My hair is extremely short, dark, and I look tired. He stared at me, smiling. I smiled back. He looked at the picture again. “You?” and he pointed at me. I laughed. Yes, it’s me. He looked through all the pages of my passport, at the stamps from the various countries. He looked at the picture again. He stared at me, still smiling. I smiled back. He laughed. I waited. After a few minutes, he gave me another smile and my passport. I tried the only Chinese I know. Xie xie. Thank you. He smiled. I felt his eyes on me as I continued to the check in counter.

A few more security checks, a walk across the tarmac, and we were on our way to Hong Kong.

A Day In Xi’an

Wild Goose Pagoda

Legend has it that the monk said, “Kill the goose! Build a pagoda!” And hence, the Wild Goose Pagoda came into existence. Not sure if that’s actually true, because I can’t imagine a monk ordering something killed, but…

We paid our admission and entered the complex. We walked past many smaller buildings, offices, bookstores, snack stand. Though they were utilized for everyday activities, they still possessed the beauty of thousands of years ago. The incredibly detailed wood carvings. The sloped tiled roofs, gently cascading down, down, down. The immaculately tiled floors, some tiles grey marble, some pink marble, some plain, others with blossoming flowers in the center.

We walked past all of these buildings, heading straight to the back of the complex. In the rear most buildings were dark wooden reliefs, carved intricately, oiled and shining, telling the history of Monk Yijing. Toni (our lovely tour guide with the boy’s name) was surprised (and I think somewhat appalled) that we didn’t know who this monk was. Monk Yijing walked to India (from China…) in 671. Once in India, he obtained and translated Buddhist scriptures. In the wooden reliefs, Monk Yijing is portrayed as almost the same height as the king, indicating his high social position, and much deserved respect.

I stood at the base of the 7 story pagoda and looked up. Each layer, just slightly smaller than the one before it, culminating in a point! at the top. The grey of the bricks such a contrast to the perfectly clear, not a cloud anywhere, cornflower blue sky. We paid an additional admission to walk, no elevators here, to the top of the pagoda. More than once dad and I hit our heads as we walked up the stairs. On each level, the staircase became not only narrower, but shorter as we ascended. We stopped at a couple of levels on the way up, to look out each of the four directions: north, south, east, west. Unfortunately, like Beijing, most of what we could see in the distance was smog. That thick, heavy, lazy blanket coating the city.

At the very top we looked out the small window, overlooking the complex. The bells were tolling. There, as tiny as dolls, a never-ending line of monks, in alternating brown, beige, and marigold robes, walked, single file, towards the main hall.

We walked back down the seven dizzying flights of stairs. Magnetically, we were drawn towards the chanting. As we rounded the corner, pots of incense burned hotly, blazing, the heat distorting the view beyond. The main hall was packed with monks and disciples, listening, learning. Outside, more were lined up, shoes off, on mats, listening, tolerating the tourists interrupting their service. We observed, then quietly walked down the path leading towards the exit.

I asked Dad to take a picture of Mom and me with the pagoda in the background. As we were posing, two beehived Chinese ladies, dressed in purple, with the hottest pink lipstick I’ve ever seen, approached us. They took our hands and held them, positioning themselves beside us. I’m not sure if we were joining their picture, or they were joining ours, but you could hear the “click, click, click” of so many cameras as we stood there. After we had smiled to each direction, they took our hands and squeezed them, as you would do to a long lost friend. We smiled, we bowed, we were off.

Biking On The City Wall

We made our way through intolerable traffic. Sitting. Sitting. Moving inches. Sitting. The heat. The smog. I could feel my back getting damper and damper. I tried to lean forward. It didn’t help.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only 45 minutes, we were across town, at the entrance to the walled portion of the city. Xi’an was once the ancient capital of China. A wall, about 14 kilometers in length, protected it. We climbed the steps, each one a struggle in the intense heat. Finally reaching the top, we were greeted by a wide road of sorts, the top of the wall. Hardly anyone in sight. It was strange, not to see crowds, bustling up against one another, beckoning you into their stores, selling their wares. We enjoyed the solitude for a moment. I looked to our right.

Bicycles!

Not high tech, mountain-road bike combinations. Good, old fashioned, Chinese bicycles. A line of them, all pink! We *have* to ride the bikes. We *must* ride the bikes. Mom uttered a gentle protest, “I haven’t ridden a bicycle, in, Lord knows, 50 years.” Um. Mom. It doesn’t matter. Hence, that saying, it’s just like riding a bike. You never forget.

Maybe that saying isn’t really true.

But we did get on bikes, and we rode, just the four of us, meeting virtually no one in our path. There really wasn’t much of a view from the city wall. A lot of laundry drying. A lot of construction. And a lot of smog. But the feeling of movement. Of flying. Of soaring. On these magical pink bicycles. These wonderful, functional, no gear bicycles.

I pedaled as fast as I could, circling in front of Mom, still unsteady, and Dad, offering limited assistance beside her. Still pedaling, I pulled out my camera and turned it on. Action shot! Smile! I hollered, still pedaling. Dad laughed. Mom reprimanded.

For an hour, we pedaled along the wall, just enjoying. Not seeing any sights in particular. Not learning any history. Just being.

It was one of my favorite moments of our trip.

Laosunjia

It was rather convoluted, how it came to pass. My father and mother went to church with a couple, of whom the husband’s brother had married a Chinese woman, her niece went to school in Xi’an, she wouldn’t be available, but her friend…

Anyway, we had a lovely tour guide, Toni. As explained by the niece, “She is a very easy-going girl and very friendly, but with a boy’s name.” The first evening together we went to Laosunjia, a famous restaurant in Xi’an. We sat down at a large table, warned by the waitress that we would have to share if others came in. Of course we didn’t mind. The waitress handed us, well, something that could best be described as hockey pucks made of yeast and flour. A heavy, glutinous, sort of thing. Mom, dad, and I stared at Toni; we had no idea what to do. She explained we should tear the bread like substance into tiny bits and place it in our bowls. We tore. And tore. And tore. My fingers hurt from ripping the bread apart.

The waitress came by. And sneered. Evidently our efforts just weren’t good enough.

We picked up the tiny pieces and began tearing more. When none of us could tear any more, our bowls filled with mere crumbs of bread, the waitress whisked the bowls away. We then sat and stared at each other, nothing to occupy our hands.

Only minutes later, the waitress returned. She thumped a bowl down in front of each of us. Steaming, too hot to touch, a bowl of broth. A bowl of thick, noodle filled, meat enhanced, piping hot broth. The small bread pieces had plumped into dumplings of a sort.

We each picked up our set of chopsticks and began. It was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. A familiar spice, though I can’t name it, greeted my tongue. Somewhat sweet. And the flavor of the meat. Oh! It melted in my mouth. Literally. The shreds of meat just melted. No chewing required. The noodles, the fine, glass noodles, soaking up the flavor of the meat, so delicious.

We ate in silence.

At one point, three men, heavy set, were sat at our table. This was obviously their first time at the restaurant as well. They tore their bread into large pieces, then called the waitress. She didn’t even give them the courtesy of a scoff. I snickered to myself, glad that they didn’t scoff only at foreigners, but at the locals as well. They continued ripping and tearing, ripping and tearing. A second call. She still wouldn’t accept their bread. They ordered beers and kept tearing.

After our soup, we picked at the extra plates we had ordered. Mushrooms, boiled and flavored. Jujubes, those sweet date-like fruits, drizzled in nectar. Everything, so incredibly good. Could it get any better than this?

Soldiers

Let’s say you were an emperor. An emperor who did many bad, bad things during your reign. So, you wanted to protect yourself. After you were dead, that is. At first you had the idea to bury, still alive, thousands of soldiers, near your tomb, to protect you, from evil spirits. But, some advisor or another talked you out of that somewhat ridiculous idea. The folly. Instead, you decided to create, from clay, replicas of your army.

Not exact replicas, mind you. A little bit larger than life. Just for good measure. So, each soldier posed. Had their clay alter-ego created. For fourteen years this painstaking process took place.

Imagine a football field. No, three football fields.

Now, imagine all three football fields filled with aforementioned clay soldiers.

I gasped. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. The sheer grandeur of it. Perfectly at attention, standing straight and tall, rows, upon rows, upon rows, almost 6000 clay soldiers. Each just a bit different from the one next to him. Each, standing guard, so that Emperor Qin Shihuang would not have unexpected visits from evil spirits.

I stood in amazement, literally unable to move. I zoomed in with my camera, not to take a picture, but to get a better look. Each one bore a human expression. Each one, just a little different. Each one, spear in hand, ready to protect their emperor.

Our guide explained that work on this project had halted. Modern scientists had no way to protect what they were unearthing. When originally discovered, by a farmer digging a well, the terra cotta soldiers were brightly colored – blues, greens, reds – emanating from their existence. After a mere three days, yes, only three days, the colors disappeared. Now, we have only clay. Red, brown, dull clay to view. Spectacular, but nothing compared to the original findings.

I wondered. Who was this Emperor? Who was this man, who for 14 years had slaves work on his tomb? Who ordered the construction of the Great Wall?

Evidently, there are many more treasures yet to be discovered. The original soldiers stand almost 2 miles from the emperor’s tomb. No one will excavate closer, for fear of not being able to preserve what is found. I’ve never seen anything like it….