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….

That’s Some Sightseeing!

Our first stop of the day was the Banpo museum, an archeological dig of an old matriarchal village. The dig itself was pretty cool. In an abstract sort of way. Because it really was just dirt. Just dirt, with a few holes in the ground, with cardboard signs surmising what might have been. But to imagine back thousands of years ago, how people, real people, just like you and me (but in China, and in a society run by women) lived, that was the cool part.

Then there was the reconstructed village, an outdoor museum of sorts – the sign read “Welcome back 6000 years – Come Visitor, Come!” As I was entering, I noticed two mounds to my right and thought, Gee, those look like breasts turned sideways. I stepped back, and sure enough, it was a large, headless woman, maybe an 18 foot waist, lying on her side, the doorway right at her vagina. Didn’t expect to be walking into a vagina on this trip…

Bird

The restaurant next to our hotel offered “Engles menu” and outdoor seating. What a bargain. We sat down at a wobbly, white plastic table and dad pushed the menu towards me. I quickly glanced at the four pages of entrees, immediately disqualifying any with beef (mom doesn’t eat it anymore), organs, or unidentifiable animal parts. I offered some options: Sweet and Sour Pork, Bird Braised in Paper, Kung Pao Chicken,… Both mom and dad liked the sound of the first two. I called the waitress over. I pointed to our choices as I said them out loud, also ordering water for mom and dad, a TsingTao beer for me. Our food arrived surprisingly quickly. We began to pick at the dishes placed in front of us, both very tasty. We watched as tour groups walked past us, eyeing the dishes on our table. “This chicken is really good,” Dad said. Mom nodded in agreement.

Earlier, while studying the menu, I had noticed young men on bicycles pulling to a stop just to the right of our table, maybe 10 feet away. On the back of their bicycles were wire cages, filled with birds, perhaps pigeons. Or other nondescript grey birds. The young men usually chatted with an older gentleman for a few minutes, who then took the cages, disappeared for a few minutes, then returned with empty cages. This strange phenomenon continued as we ate our dinner. I was puzzled. I looked behind me. Where was the old man taking the cages? What were so many birds needed for? Birds. Birds. I looked down at the dish in front of us. We had all assumed it was chicken. I saw the menu listing in my mind’s eye. “Bird Braised in Paper.” I looked behind me. It seemed the old man was entering the same building that housed our restaurant, possibly a service entrance.

The connection was clear. It was just a little too fresh for me. I watched mom and dad enjoying the Braised Bird, decided not to say anything, and popped another piece of pork (I think) into my mouth.

To Market, To Market

My dad, as wonderful as he is, has absolutely no interest in shopping. Normally, I don’t either. But put me in a traditional market and I’m in heaven. The pungent odors, the narrow alleys, the chattering, growing louder and louder, the bantering and bargaining – I’m mesmerized, absolutely hypnotized.

While in Beijing, mom and I wanted to visit both the pearl and silk markets. Mr. Li, our helpful driver who had taken us to The Great Wall and the Summer Palace, volunteered to take us to the markets (at a price, of course). Thinking strategically, we decided to go to the Pearl Market first, since pearls were obviously smaller and lighter to carry, as we had a full day of shopping ahead of us. We arrived at 8:45 am, only to learn the Pearl Market didn’t open its doors until 9:30. Mr. Li told us not to worry, he would take us to the Silk Market, we could shop there, then return to the Pearl Market after it opened. On the map, the Silk Market appeared to be within walking distance. When I suggested to Mr. Li we walk, he scoffed, then drove us 45 minutes across town. He parked the car, led mom and me to the entrance of the market, then let us loose, telling us to take our time, he’d be in the car (must be a male thing). Mom and I wandered down the first alley, greeted by overzealous merchants grabbing our arms, pulling us to their booths. Booths of cashmere sweaters, pashminas, souvenirs, shoes, clothes, handbags, but no silk. I turned to mom, Maybe the silk is farther down, down another alley. Let’s keep going. We oohed and aahed over rugs, sequined handbags, delicate glass bottles painted from the inside, but no silk.

“Hey, lady, you want shoes-sa? I got your shoes-sa. Big shoes-sa, right here.” I was startled. I looked over to this tiny woman with the booming voice, and that was all the confirmation she needed. She pulled me over. “Which you like-a? Which-a?” I smiled. No, I really don’t think you have my size. “Yes-sa. I see you feet. You big feet. I have you size-sa.” I looked at mom. She shrugged. Was I really about to put myself through another humiliating retail experience? Yes, I was.

I pointed to a pair of delicate black mules. Those. Size 9 1/2. She disappeared behind a cloth, crouched down, rustle, rustle, rustle, and appeared with a box. I hesitantly accepted it. Could this really be true? Could I really find a pair of shoes in Asia? After 8 months of being ridiculed for my size, could I really be on the brink of purchasing something? Feeling like Cinderella, I slipped my foot into the right shoe. Oh. Too small. Thanks anyway. “No, lady. Wait-ta. Don’t go.” She once again crouched, parted the curtain, and disappeared. And came back with another box. Sure enough. They fit. Oh, glorious day. A new pair of shoes. Feminine shoes. Beautiful, black, dainty heeled, going out shoes. How much? “500 yuan.” I laughed out loud. No way. Thanks, though. “Hey, lady. Look-a. Gucci. Real. Real.” I looked at her. These are not real Gucci. They’re beautiful shoes, but they’re not Gucci. And they are *not* worth 500 yuan. “Okay, how much?” 50 yuan. “What? Lady, big shoes. Worth-a more than that.” 50. “400. Good price, just for you. Good morning price.” 50. “If afternoon, I charge you more. Now, good price. 300.” 50. “Look. Rainy day price. 200. Good price. You buy.” She tried to put the shoes in my hand. 50. “Let’s make deal. I give, you give. 100. Okay? Good price, lady.” I thought for a moment. 100 really wasn’t a bad price, just a little over $10, for a pair of shoes that made me feel elegant once again. That made me feel like I was an accepted part of the retail community, not an amazon for whom nothing fit. I was trying to think of the Chinese word for yes, thank you, when I heard. “Last price. 80. For you. Only you. Don’t you tell.” I smiled. I handed her the crumbled bills with a Xie Xie and I was off.

When mom and I returned to the car, we asked Mr. Li where the silk was. He laughed. “Only named silk market. Old days. Big market. Now, silk in big building right beside Pearl Market.” Of course. We should have known.

Beijing Opera

The sign in our hotel lobby touted the glories of the Beijing Opera. Not to be missed! A spectacle beyond belief! Now playing, right here!

I looked up the Beijing Opera in Dad’s Lonely Planet. Sure enough, it was a highly recommended attraction. There were three places to see the Opera in Beijing, two locales were traditional Opera houses, the theatre at our hotel was listed as a “sterile option.” I tried to find the other opera houses on the map. They weren’t there. I checked another map. Still couldn’t find them. I reported my research to my parents; we decided to take the “sterile” option, since we most definitely could find our way there and back.

It was indeed sterile. A theater that lacked charm, lacked any sense of design that was so evident everywhere else in China. Three platforms of “tea service” seating, tables with hard back chairs and a pot of tea in the center of the table. Behind the “tea service” section were rows upon rows of theater seating, reminiscent of a high school auditorium. We settled into our hard back chairs as comfortably as possible and the house lights dimmed. From a parting in the heavier than life blood red velvet curtains came a tall Chinese gentleman, as stiff as the chairs we were sitting in. In the most unusually accented English, he welcomed us to the Beijing Opera. He explained how in this form of opera movements were minimized, simplicity ruled. Therefore, an actor holding a horse whip was riding a horse, even though the horse wasn’t there. This seemed fairly obvious, but an explanation is always appreciated. If an actor walked around the stage, this symbolized traveling a great distance, across town, across a country, across the world. The erect Chinese gentleman bid us a good time, and with that, the first story began.

The first actor came out, garbed in the most fantastic, most elaborate costume. Yards and yards of silk surrounded him of the richest, deepest black. Swaths of white belted him, cradled his sword. Embroidery, mostly in gold, mostly of unreal animals, covered his tunic. We watched him dance, twirl, flip, retreat, and sing a little. By the end of the performance, two other actors had joined him, faces covered in white powder, eyes rimmed in black kohl, then surrounded by a deep red which seemed to personify evil. As far as I could tell, this was the story:

A general in the Chinese army was exiled (don’t know why). One of his subordinates wanted to take the rap for him. His subordinate dresses up as the general, then sets out to find the general. He stops at an inn, where the real general is staying, but dressed as someone else. The Innkeeper is really the real general’s bodyguard. During the night, the Innkeeper/bodyguard sneaks into the general/subordinate’s room, to execute him (because he’s obviously an imposter). They fight in the darkness for a very long time. The real general enters with a candle, recognizes both men, conducts introductions, and everyone laughs. Hahahahahahaha.

The second story was even more confusing. A nymph meets a scholar. She is smitten. She sends a message to him, via one of her nymphs in waiting, that they are congenial and will be married. With this message she sends a pearl as a symbol of her everlasting love. All the people in heaven got angry, because evidently a union between a nymph and a mortal is against the rules. Someone from heaven sent an army to stop this union, and possibly kill the nymph. Or at least teach her a lesson. Little did they know. This nymph kicked ass. She single handedly defended herself from a huge army of spear holding, flag waving heavenly soldiers. She gracefully deflected spears aimed at her, kicking some with her dainty, bound toes, twirling, deflecting others with her own spear, knock, knock, pirouetting, laughing the entire time. Bottom line – she defeated heaven’s army, she married the scholar, she got what she wanted.

And that was the end. I was sad. I wanted to see more of the out of this world color combinations. I wanted to see more of the jumping over each other, acrobating over tables, leaping over flying flags. I wanted to be scared by the intricate, overly done make up, reminding me of spirits only present before in my nightmares. Alas, the house lights shone, the people exited. The night was done.

The Summer Palace

After our trip to the Great Wall, Mr. Li escorted us to The Summer Palace, a “must see” for anyone visiting Beijing, according to him. It was beautiful. And expansive. Building upon building upon building, all built around a marvelous lake. We began walking around the lake, but quickly realized we wouldn’t be able to circumvent the entire body of water in the four hours we had allotted for the palace. We crossed the 17 Arch Bridge, so named because of the 17 arches that gracefully led us from the mainland to a small island in the center of the lake.

The Summer Palace was ordered built by Empress Dowager Cixi, who, from all descriptions, seemed like a woman who did whatever the hell she wanted. The funds for the Summer Palace were originally earmarked for the Chinese navy. She felt a palace for herself was more important. As a concession, however, she did build a stone boat, never navigable, and placed it as a monument to the navy at her grand palace. Also at the palace was a residence built especially for the Emperor, a nice gesture, I suppose, except that she banished him there under house arrest for long periods at a time. When Mom and I visited the Forbidden City/Imperial Palace, we learned that our gal Cixi also drowned the concubine of the Emperor who preceded her. To look at her photos, she didn’t seem evil, but I sure wouldn’t want to cross her.

As we walked through the grounds of The Summer Palace, beauty surrounded us. The majestic lake, the weeping willows lining the shore, boughs gracefully swaying in the light breeze; the buildings themselves, the faded blues, greens, and deep reds of the structures; the granite dragons, perched on larger than life pearls, ready to defend their territory from any of the evil spirits lurking. Even though it was incredibly crowded on this Sunday afternoon, there wasn’t the animosity that often permeates large crowds trying to see the same thing at the same time. Families strolled through the complex, stooped grandmothers, ambling slowly along, young mothers holding babies with bottomless pants, couples, posing for self timed photos along the lakeside. Everyone smiling, enjoying the cool breezes the lake provided on this sweltering day.