textures | tones

Maybe Sean is rubbing off on me. Today I feel like treating this forum like a diary. I wrote an entry, but then I deleted it for being overly confessional; I guess this replacement is kind of personal too, though, so maybe that’s just the way of it, today. :)

Either way. I am pleased with Sean’s memory-recording entries; in fact, I think both he and I benefit greatly from his blogging in general. I feel a little guilty taking from him in this way, without giving much back.

I skipped my run yesterday and today; it is raining, and the air is smoggy. Sean and I did a bit of walking (and have been doing so regularly as he’s been available more lately), and when I got home I wanted to do some project organization–and screwing around on the net–and I wanted to drink tea and be warm and dry. We have had a couple of excellent outings lately, seeing Alice in Wonderland at Wangfujing and having our first Chinese sushi experience in the mall there, and I thoroughly enjoyed today’s sushi venture at Sushi Express (we’ll be going back, for sure). I should note that Sean doesn’t eat sushi, and he finds things to eat at these places so I can be happy. Such giving does not run rampant in the general male population, I fear.

Home is still where I get stuff done in China, though. I’m planning a study blog, intended to supplant my diary as a record for my response to things I read, especially about business and about China. I’m also making some effort to organize my study of Chinese and of characters, and to organize information I have about businesses in which I am, however indirectly, involved. I’m also thinking about (and, mostly haphazardly, researching) degrees, schools, and jobs. I’m still throwing around a lot of ideas, and trying not to be too influenced by the opinions of others. In addition, right now I have a lot more information about Tsinghua than BiMBA, and I cannot weigh the programs against each other without correcting the imbalance.

Still, I feel like a lot of effort is reaching its conclusion, and I’m satisfied to be planning for the next segment. Hopefully I’ll hear back from business schools in the next couple of weeks. In an ideal world, I’ll hear something about scholarships, too, but I don’t really expect to until summer (and even then, I need to be really lucky!). These days I need to plan my summer studies, and any business/law projects for the summer as well. I need to buy plane tickets. In April, I’ll go back to the States for a bit. I’m looking forward to executing the next round of plans upon my return to China.

I’m excited about a few different things I’m working on, and I have fantasies about how everything might turn out. I suggested to Sean that we record what we think life might be like a year from today, even in a few different versions. Still, sometimes I feel discouraged. So much is still uncertain, and sometimes I feel like I have little to show for the six months I’ve been in China. I also worry about Sean being happy here. He hasn’t yet secured employment that he likes. I’ve been surprised that not having a steady job hasn’t bothered me lately; I thought it would (admittedly, it did a few months ago, though I really haven’t regretted leaving the firm). Maybe I’ve matured past that point, maybe I worked enough at the firm to make up for a few months of relative idleness, or maybe all this stuff I’ve been messing around with has been an adequate substitute. Possibly the fact that I have a long-term plan has trumped most of my discomfort with lack of a short-term one. I can come up with a dozen more reasons, too, but regardless, my happiness has been much more affected by my worry about Sean.

The other side of town

I don’t think I’m going to mess around with the publish dates anymore. It was fun while it lasted but I think my annal retentiveness when it comes to actually publishing one a day is over. I’d still like to publish one a day, if possible, and plan to, starting now that is. It’s been a what, week long hiatus? I hope to make up for it with some more consistency. I think I may be missing some structure in my life; this may be a good way to provide at least a minimal bit. I just have to psychologically view it as such a structure for it to actually be effective and for me to actual commit to it. The memories to follow are going to also be a lot lengthier because they’re far more formulated as actual memories. They’re also probably going to be a little messier as far as the chronology goes because we’re talking everything from the age of six until now. I’ll do my best, but it may not better. I have grand hopes of all of these little posts somehow adding up to “me” so to speak anyways so it may not matter what order they’re presented in so long as the ultimate effect is the same. And one long introduction and or preface finished, let’s start with my very first memory after I arrived in the States, which actually happens to be very short but is good at illustrating the particular contexts which are relevant at the time and which actually happens to be a dream.

I’m standing next to a large, well kept field of grass on the campus of Caltech, something like the main quad. I’m standing on a pure white sidewalk that runs the entire perimeter of the field. At the head of the field is a large, white ornate building that looks like any main university administration building, and at the foot is a large, shallow pond that’s filled with lily pads and flowers, thick underwater growth, and crayfish. There’s also a single fountain spout at the center of the pond sending up a constant stream of water. I’m standing there completely still and silent until I realize there’s a large, green praying mantis at the edge of the grass in front of me. I stoop down to get a closer look at it, then put out my right palm for it to climb onto. I stand up with the praying mantis in the palm of my hand, its size dwarfing my palm. It turns around a couple of times as I stand up, examining my hand, then with one quick stroke it cuts a huge gash with into my palm, and I wake up. I look at my hand and wouldn’t you know it, there’s a scar right where the mantis had cut me in my dream. (Oooooh, spooky!)

Now for the context. I arrive in the US shortly after Easter 1990. I am six years old at the time and living with my father and mother in a small one bedroom apartment in Pasadena. My father had finished attending Caltech at the time, hence why I’ve been to the campus a few times and know the layout and can conjure it in my dreams. There actually is a quad there, a nice well kept piece of grass, multiple fountains actually but they’re round and without vegetation, and two shallow rectangular ponds with lilies and undergrowth and crayfish. I actually remember fishing for crayfish when I was young with twigs. I’d poke at them with the twig until they’re angry enough to clamp a the stick with their claws, then I’d pull them out of the water. It’s a running joke that my mother would eat anything; she’s been known to go crabbing at the local beaches for those tiny little crabs that run around the breakwaters; I don’t think she’d actually eat them, or has, but I think my catching the crayfish may have had something to do with that joke. Not that they were ever eaten I don’t think. So I knew the area well and had wandered around it. Now this obviously also can’t be my actual first memory of the States because I would’ve had to have been to Caltech at some point first, but I don’t remember that. As far as the scar on the palm of my hand goes, it’s actually the natural lines everybody has on the palms of their hands; I was just too young at the time to realize that everybody had them and so was rightly scared out of my mind when I looked at my hand after waking from my dream to find multiple scar like lines right where the mantis had cut me. I’ve also been rather afraid of mantises since then, and bugs and insects and the likes in general; this may also have something to do with my earlier memories of smashing then marveling at the beauty of earth worms. Though they’re still really gross. I remember once, having horrible indigestion while climbing up a mountain in China no less being forced to use the most disgusting squat toilet I’ve ever seen in my life, shoes inch deep in I can only imagine, starring in horror at this earth worm stretch then shorten as it moved its way through this rather unholy muck next to my shoes. I also don’t know why this particular dream has stuck with my all these years. I’m sure of the details, I’m sure that it was a dream, and I’m sure of when it happened. I have no such assurance for any other dreams I’ve ever had, though I do have the benefit of having written some of them down in the past, not that I know where they are now. Hmmmm…I wonder if I can find them.

As of March 25th, Maria and I would have been in China for six months.

As of February 15th, Maria and I would have been in a relationship for two years, and we just celebrated today, rather belatedly, on March 27th.

I’m surprised at how quickly the time went by. It doesn’t feel like six months have passed, and it certainly doesn’t feel like two years. I am grateful, surprised, and happy at both milestones. I sometimes I feel like maybe I don’t make a good enough show of just how much I care for Maria. As long as ten years ago I was first told that I may just not know how to show people that I care about them, that I love them. I started to work on it then. I would hope that in a decade I’d have progressed. I guess the jury may still be out on that one. Two years is a long time, but these past six months I guess have felt longer. It’s funny that over a quarter of our relationship has occurred outside of the country. I feel so well traveled and worldly. Six months in China have almost flown by. It might be the cycle of having to leave the country every two months; it makes things seem to go by quicker because in the grand scheme of things, two months really isn’t that long of a time. I at the same time feel like we’ve accomplished a lot, and nothing. I do believe that Maria’s accomplished a lot. For her to have come to this country, not knowing the culture or the language or having any real support base waiting for her took a lot of courage, and to be able to do as much as she is right now, though simple things like go out for groceries, eat out, buy supplies, even take care of our electricity and gas bill needs, go running, have a gym membership, take taxis, are all great accomplishments. In fact, it makes me wish I had documented those under our list of milestones at the bottom of the page; the first time she went for a run in China; the first time she bought fruit. She’s even involved in such promising business ventures, and her Chinese is progressing, in my opinion, nicely. As far as my progress though, I hold a slightly more negative view. It did not take courage for me to come here; I know the language, some of it at least, some of the culture, and have a large support base already in place. China had always been my BACKUP plan, should all else fail, and though it is still a great adventure, greatly helped along by Maria’s presence as one, my personal presence, were it on my own, would not be any great accomplishment by any means. I owe so much to her. But I do feel rather worthless some of the time though. I’ve not blogged in a few days mostly because of no pressing desire to. I do so now out of guilt, out of some feeling of obligation to explain myself. China is such a great place on the one hand, especially since Maria is here, but on the other, it really makes me feel pathetic. I was working as manager of a restaurant, pulling 91 hour weeks, seven days a week, for the equivalent of a measly 700 dollars a month. Even in RMB, which is 5000, the amount just covers my current rent leaving no money left over whatsoever for any other expenses. I know I shouldn’t judge myself based on how much money I can make or how well I can provide for some one in a tangible way, but as I said before, I’m no good at showing people how I love them; I need to not be a failure. So I used the past tense because I’m no longer manager of the restaurant, at least not full time. I’ve stepped back into a part time position, given up most of my day to day responsibilities to two of my staff whom I’ve promoted into supervisors of sort, and now only show up every other day or so for a few hours at most. I also tend to some other work at home. The good part of this is that I no longer work obscene hours for meager pittance. The bad part of this is that I still do some work and now for no pay whatsoever. I need a job. I’ve had a couple of interviews, and have a couple more in the works. Hopefully something good will come from these. I’m not sure really anymore what the point of this post was. I think I wanted to take stock, now that two milestones were occurring at relatively the same time. I wanted to know that what I’m doing is right, and I really hope so. I want to believe it is right so much. If not, I’m not sure what I’ll do with myself. Everything seems so just over the horizon over here. Maybe that’s a side effect of having too much to do with my father, but everything has the taint of tangible benefits, nothing actual. It’s all just a little farther away, no matter how far you travel. I never thought my fortunes or my future would be tied together with his, maybe I should have less to do with him. Maybe I don’t have the psychological fortitude to live on the cusp for so long, and it’s not even been that long, I mean, what, six months? But I think the future is bright. But the future is always bright here in China ;) I just hope that Maria will be able to put up with this particular failure for another year, or even more, until one day where he will not only be a success in all the things that don’t matter in life, money, responsibility, providence, support, but also a success in that which actually may matter, the ability to show someone that he truly cares and loves them.

So it’s been a couple of days since my last entry into this series. It’s not that I don’t want to continue, I really do. I actually sort of feel like I’m at a milestone point, having reached the point in my memories where I’ve gotten to the States. Plus, it’s been a hectic couple of days so I’ve not had much time. I’d like to take a moment and reflect, or at least, that’s what I’m going to tell myself to justify my lack of proper, daily entries.

I think it’s going well, the project that is. It’s gotten me writing, at least more, and though I’ve not uncovered any new memories, it’s good to affirm the ones that I do already have. It lets me take stock of my life in a way. It’s been suggested that I tie these together more with who I am now, offer a reflection on each memory, but I’m not entirely sure I want to do that because I’m afraid it will sound, whiny. I mean, they’re my memories, no reason to fret over them in any great detail. No particular reason to analyze or dissect them too much. I actually like the stark approach, the simple presentation. This may actually reflect a writing failing on my part. It’s also been said that when I write, I’m afraid of giving or putting in too much, that I leave too much for the reader to figure out. That instead of expanding upon a work, I prefer to shorten and tighten. I think my earlier writing professors would be proud as it was like pulling teeth in the past to get me to be the least bit concise. Now, I fear, my concision may be affecting my clarity. Nevertheless, I don’t think I want to change my approach to this project. Simple it shall be.

I know some people are reading this, and for that I’m grateful. It helps to allay my fear that I will die unremembered.

I’d also like to take this time to update some things in general. Maria had her interview with BiMBA yesterday, and though it went well, she found it sort of odd. She said it didn’t seem “fun.” She is going into business with my father, don’t tell anybody, and she and I are going to go into business for ourselves as well doing…wait for it…SEEDS! We bought lots and lots and lots of vegetable seeds, things that you can’t normally get in China. Our hope is to be able to grow and harvest them at the farm that’s available to us, where we’re also going to make CHEESE. We will become the number one purveyor of fine salad greens and cheese in all of Beijing.

This is my last memory from before I moved to the United States, and my first one in the States. This is somewhat of a milestone as I’ve finished sorting through all the memories I have from before I was six, few though they may be. I think there are no more than 18 distinct memories. I asked Maria if she thought this was a small number, but she responded that normal people may not be able to delineate what memories they had from before a certain age. Unlike me, they don’t have a convenient sign post that indicates a specific before, as in before six and the States, and after. So while it’s a none answer because I’m still not sure if most people have more than 18 memories from before the age of six, it did make me a little less insecure nevertheless because at least I could tell what memories I have are from that specific period of my life. Either way, this is a milestone, and I’m glad I’ve been able to write this much. Here’s to another 21 years of my life!

I had just spoken to my parents for “the first time” a few hours before on the phone. I was very excited, so much so that I couldn’t sleep. I spent some time lying in bed, waiting, then went out into the living room to sit on the couch. I turned on all the lights and sat there watching the clock, listening to the rhythmic sound of the seconds ticking by. Lights in China back then were all yellow, and the living room was a bright shade of orange, tinted by the moonlight shining in through the windows.

My grandparents had called for a taxi to take me to the airport. I had very little baggage, none at all actually the more I think about it. The only thing I did have was a sign, written in English and Chinese, that said who I was, what flight I was getting on, and where I was going, which was hung from my neck with string. That morning, I gave my grandmother a hug goodbye, and got in the cab, and as it drove off towards the airport I waved to my grandparents through the rear window of the car, crying.

When I got to the airport, I did a little bit of random wandering before someone caught sight of the sign around my neck. I was directed towards an airline attendant of some sort who helped me get through the necessary channels and paperwork. I don’t remember any of this, but there would have been check-in, immigration, customs, and then the gate. I do remember being amazed at how many people there were though in the airport; I’d never seen that many all in the same place before. I was led by the attendant to where I needed to be, and boarded the plane.

747s were all the rage back then, before the prominence of Airbus airplanes. The particular one I flew in that first time from China to the States had one of those domes in the front for the really fancy people to fly in. When I got on the plane, a stewardess saw my sign, took my ticket, and directed me to my seat. Now, both my grandparents are quite noteworthy within the Chinese government and the Communist party. Granted, at one point my entire family was arrested by those same people, but afterwards they were given a very heartfelt apology and eternal subsistence basically. As I mentioned before, my grandparents lived in government housing. From what I hear, my grandfather in particular is of note. I’ve been told that he helped sort out China’s first space program, helping to launch their first rockets and satellites in the remote deserts to the Northwest. He was also apparently invited by Castro to go visit Cuba, where he was given a box of Cuban cigars (later confiscated during the Cultural Revolution) as thanks for his help in reverse engineering a crashed US cruise missile. He did his studies at Caltech, earning a Masters and a PhD; apparently he was recalled to China before his program finished so he wrote the remainder of his dissertation while on the plane back to China and mailed it in to complete his coursework. The point though, is that someone else, equally prominent within the Chinese government and Communist Party, somehow got wind that my grandfather’s only grandson was traveling, alone of all things, in coach since my parents and family are not wealthy, for the first time to the States. He took pity on me, and invited me to join him in first class. And not just first class, but in the dome.

What I remember of it is not at all like what it must actually be, having never actually been upstairs before on a 747. But I remember a vast space, though most spaces must seem vast to a six year old Chinese boy, and at one end was a huge buffet table, full of exotic foods I’d never seen before and lobster. I specifically remember the lobster. I did not recognize the elderly gentleman who had invited me up.

At some point during the flight, I must have fallen asleep because I remember being woken by the sunrise. Now, when flying from China to the States, you’re chasing the sun, so at some point it will be night, then sunrise, then perpetual day until you land. This particular sunrise though was very noteworthy. We were flying above a thick layer of clouds, completely white and looking very fluffy, very thick and dense. All of a sudden, a circular patch literally burst into flames and melted away, downwards, like molten metal, and from this ring of fire rose the sun, unlike I’ve ever seen it before or ever after. It looked like a literal fireball, nothing like the bright circle of light one would normally see. I could see the licks of flame flying off in all directions, see the curvature of its spherical shape, see it spin, suspended in the air, feel the fire upon my face as I gazed at it. It rose through the burning clouds, sending off small flares of flames, catching other patches of clouds on fire which melted away as well. Before long, all I could see was a sea of flames.

Obviously, this could not have truly happened. Although it would be really cool if it did.

The next thing I know, presumably twelve hours later, I had landed at LAX, the international airport in Los Angeles. I was greeted by a very nice looking American airline attendant who directed me through the necessary channels, immigration, customs, etc. Seeing as I had no baggage, she pointed me in the direction of the exit to where all the visitors were eagerly waiting to pick up their loved ones. I remember walking through a glass hallway with tropical trees and plants all around. I remember the sun shining through this canopy. Little by little though the plant life began to be replaced by people, more and more, until instead of a rain forest around me, there was nothing but people pressing their faces and their hands and handwritten signs against the glass hallway. I could hear them shouting. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be looking for, didn’t know how I would recognize them, so I just kept walking. And then in front of me stood a woman with medium length blond hair and a box of chocolates in her hand. She smiled at me, as if she recognized me, and I thought that this was it, my mother. This would turn out to actually not her but a good friend of hers; the woman I wanted was next to her, where stood my mother, an even bigger smile on her face, with long black hair. She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

We walked out to the parking lot where my father was waiting for us in a light blue Subaru station wagon. We got in and headed out. Apparently I was underweight to use the child seats that one is supposed to for kids my age. I think we fudged it and just had me sit in the back, using the lap belt one would normally use to hold down a child seat. As we drove on the freeway, I remember seeing billboards for the first time in my life. I remember asking my parents what these massive, brightly lit and colorful signs along the side of the road were, literally wide-eyed at all the new sight around me.

My parents were living in Pasadena at the time, in a small apartment. There wasn’t a bed for me yet, no place for me to sleep, so that first night I spent on the couch in the living room. I didn’t realize this, but I was horribly jet lagged. Usually, when traveling from China and the States, one gets completely turned around for a while due to the time difference. But I didn’t know about this, and no one had told me, so that first night was terrifying for me. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t fall asleep. I laid there, on the couch, in a brand new apartment with brand new parents, looking out an unfamiliar window at unfamiliar trees lit by streetlights, and I was terrified. I thought something was horribly wrong with me because any normal person would be able to sleep in the middle of the night. I remember pulling the blankets up over my face and telling myself, “It’s alright, don’t worry. You’ll be dead in the morning and everything will be alright.”

I remember the first time I ever talked to my parents. That would also happen to be the first time I remember hearing their voice, though I later found this to be not true. Apparently, my mother had been sending me tapes she had recorded of herself, telling me how things were going for her in the States, reading me bedtime stories, singing me songs. I have no memory of these tapes, sadly, nor do I remember ever listening to them, from my youth. The first time I heard them was well after college when digging through some old stuff in my room at my mother’s house we happened upon them and I asked what they were. We listened to them. My mother sounded very young. But that’s a digression. The point is, even though I don’t remember it, I had heard at least my mother’s voice before my actual memory of hearing it for the first time. And what’s interesting about this memory of the first time is that I don’t actually remember what we talked about, what we said, nor the sound of her voice. I’m sure I would’ve remembered a voice like I heard in the tapes; she sounded very nice.

The let’s call it the first time then was over the phone. I was going to meet them for what I considered to be the very first time, very soon. Again, supposedly I had met my parents seeing as my mother didn’t leave for the US until I was around 4. I again, unfortunately, have no memories of her from before the age of six. So the let’s call it the first time I heard her voice was just before the let’s call it the first time I’d get to meet them. It was very late at night, for reasons I didn’t understand at the time but have no come to understand as due to the time difference. It was at least very late for a child of that age to still be up. I was told that the phone call I was about to make would be very expensive, and that I shouldn’t talk for too long, even though I would want to. I was very excited to be talking to these people who are my parents, so it was no difficulty for me to stay up that late. I watched the clock tick by, counting the minutes until some late hour in the evening. I’m not sure why we were waiting for on the hour but we were. When the time came, my grandparents dialed the phone for me, and I eagerly picked up the receiver.

As I said earlier, I have no recollection of what we talked about, what they sounded like, or my reaction to the conversation. All I do remember is that as we talked, my eyes were fixed on the clock on the wall. I was determined to keep the conversation to only one minute in length. I’m not sure why or how I decided on that interval, because I’m pretty sure I did not know that phone charges were by the minute. Perhaps it was just arbitrarily short. I deduce from this though that mostly what I did during the conversation was listen since I was counting down the seconds. When one minute had passed exactly, I hung up.

My grandparents must have called them back later because I remember hearing them laughing on the phone at how silly I was trying to keep the conversation to just one minute long.

I believe though that that was the last night I’d be in China. It makes sense in my mind that the night before my flight to the States would be the time for me to call my parents, in my mind for the first time. China flights to the States also happen mostly in the mornings because of how weird the time difference is; when you fly from China to the States you arrive on the same day, a couple of hours earlier, so it’s convenient to leave at like 11 in the morning because you’d arrive around 9 in the morning that day. I also make this assertion because I remember being tired on the flight because I hadn’t slept all night due to how excited I was. I had never flown before, and I was going to meet my parents in a whole new country. It makes sense then that I was up late first to call my parents, then up all night before my flight.

Edit:

I realize I’m skipping Day 10. As I was writing this I realized I have one more memory that happened before, but I was already mostly done with this one, and it’s late and I don’t want to write the other one, and I’m already messing around with the actual dates these things get written anyways so I figured what the heck, I’ll just write this one first. Speaking of which, I am messing around with what WordPress says is the date I wrote these; I like things to be neat so I’m putting them all in the appropriate order as if I had written one every day. It’s close enough :P

I remember the student riots at Tiananmen Square in 1989. All the schools in the city were ordered closed, including mine, and every student had to be evacuated home for their safety. As I had mentioned before, the only reason I was attending a boarding school was because there was nobody to take care of a five year old child full time at home. If I couldn’t go home normally, there was definitely no way for me to go home due to some external circumstance that happened to close all the schools. My 90 plus year old grandparents, living in government housing, were certainly ordered not to go outside as well. And it wasn’t just the students. All the teachers and staff and administration at the school were to go home as well. By the time afternoon came, I was the only one left in the entire place, except for one teacher, who’s name I’ll refer to as Li, or Ms. Pear. In my mind it’s quite a cinematic scene actually. There’s me, a five year old Chinese boy, sitting on the brick stairs leading up to the main building of the school, in tattered clothes of course. And standing behind me, in the door way, looking down on me with care and worry, a young and beautiful teacher; behind the both of us, the vast courtyard of the school; in front, the long drive way lined with willow trees, covered in afternoon haze, leading up to the school. And far off in the distance, you can see a solitary figure come into focus. Closer and closer until it can be discerned to be a middle aged Chinese man riding a bicycle, his features still blurred by the haze. Still moments, later, and he comes fully into view, and a big smile comes on the boy and teacher’s face as the boy runs to this man, gets on the bicycle with him, and is carried off. He looks back at Ms. Pear, still standing in the doorway as he too disappears into the haze. Cue montage scenes of gun fire, tanks, bullet strewn streets, and the boy and the man riding down those streets.

So maybe not the world’s realistic memory, but that’s how I remember it. I did sit on those stairs, and there was a Ms. Pear still waiting with me. We were the last ones. We were waiting for someone from my family to come and pick me up, though we didn’t know who it was going to be. The person who ended up coming was my uncle, the middle aged man riding the bicycle. Apparently there had been a big argument back at my home over who and how they were to come and pick me up from the school. Nobody drove, the streets weren’t safe, and the public transportation systems were also closed. It was finally decided that my uncle would come on his bicycle, in place of my father, he being my father’s older brother actually, but then his bike wasn’t meant to have anybody else riding on it. You see, in China, most bicycles have that rack attached to the seat that hangs over the back wheels. You know, the racks that say are not meant for carrying people. It’s quite common for that to be exactly what they’re used for and it’s common even today to see three or more people somehow all attached to one bicycle heading down the street. Either way, so they were arguing over how my uncle was supposed to put me on the bike, and it was taking a very long time apparently, so long in fact that my uncle just up and left them all in the middle of their conversation. I’m not entirely sure how I rode on the bike then, since the concern wasn’t resolved, but ride on it I did.

There was gunfire, and tanks, and bullet strewn streets though, and we did ride down them on our way home. I actually knew nothing about what was going on at the time, and I didn’t for the longest time. I’ve always had this memory and it’s always confused me about what’s going on. And running the risk of getting my blog blocked, but I think the Chinese version of events are different from the rest of the worlds, not to say that I believe in or endorse either, so please don’t block my blog. But it was only after internet research, and the advent of doing research on the internet, that I finally found out what had happened that day. I remember once in middle school, on a field trip to Alvera Street in Los Angeles, when the rest of the boys were all very impressed at seeing the spent bullet shells they sell there on necklaces, that I couldn’t understand what they were so fascinated with. It was just bullet shells.

I’ve been doing a decently good job of keeping up to date on my little writing project, though I’m a couple of days behind at the moment. I do intend to catch up though. I did think it appropriate though to now touch on some other random things that have been going on in my life in the present.

Maria has been invited to interview with both BiMBA and Tsinghua! I take this as a very good sign. She’s also basically finished with her Chinese Government scholarship application; those will go out to the States tomorrow. Since she started working on them there have been additions apparently for which she is also qualified so she may compile the necessary documents for those as well. Given our liking of Hong Kong, more on that later, I think she’s also going to apply to CEIBS, an international MBA program based out of Shanghai; much more expensive than the others, much more heavily focused on the finance side of things, much more recognizable to foreigners though less prestigious to the Chinese, but it couldn’t hurt to apply. She is also thinking of going into business with my father, though I think the “thinking of” is a little outdated since my father’s already added her to his business’ website and printed her new business cards for the new company. She is a “General Partner/Legal Associate” for a new portfolio company my father is starting to hold the myriad of other businesses he’s involved with. More details later, or not, if I’m not at liberty to say. All in all though, things sound very exciting for Maria. She’s also going back to the States around the end of April to see her parents, her sister, her nephews, and run her face marathon in Cincinnati, which, sadly, I will miss. But I will be cheering her on from over here, and eagerly awaiting her next marathon in October, the Beijing Marathon.

As far as myself goes, not much has happened. I’ve fully stepped back as full time manager of the restaurant, which is a good thing. When we left for Hong Kong, everything at the restaurant functioned smoothly as far as I’m aware so I’ll take this as a good sign that they don’t need me there every day so I can instead manage from afar and direct through my two supervisors I’ve promoted. Basically, I took one cook and one waitstaff and gave them more responsibility and money so that they can implement my policies and oversee the other employees. I will then direct the overall direction and come up with strategy and have them put them into action. I think this is the best way to handle it. Though I must say the whole process of having David and Yang Zhi exit the business and finding new partners is a total pain in the ass! Remind me never to do business with family. Oh, right, I still am, and am still planning to. Huh. But that brings up the complete and utter mess that is Chinese business bureaucracy. So I have checks that I can write on behalf of the company, and it pulls money out of the company’s bank account. These checks are individually numbered, have a stub, are in triplicate, and when I write one, I need to fill out a special check writing receipt, also in triplicate, fill out a special check writing ledger, and fill out a general money paid out receipt indicating it was by check, also in triplicate, and this receipt I have to fill out whenever I pay money out regardless also. I also have three “stamps” or “seals” or “chops,” each one for a different thing, one of which is used whenever I write a check by the way. The others are used whenever I issue a receipt to a customer, and the last one is whenever the company engages in business with another business through a contract. We’re talking old school, stamp it on a red ink pad first kind of seals, like in the yea olden days. I also have another ledger that I’m supposed to use to indicate money paid in and money paid out every day. I have another ledger that’s for keeping track of money in my bank account, which, by the way, I’ve never had to keep such records by hand ever since I’ve had a bank account, that’s what computers are for right? I will also soon have a specially designed printer that’s meant to only print receipts, and this will cost thousands of RMB and come equipped with a USB dongle that I need to give to the local tax bureau at the end of the month for proper accounting. That’s just a small sliver I’m afraid of the paperwork that now surrounds me.

Also regarding paperwork, our work visas may finally come trough. This last trip to Hong Kong was to get us on our third entry into the country, and this may be the last time we need to do such a thing. The only things missing from the work visa application were some work verification documents I needed and have thus obtained. The entire packet should get submitted relatively soon and with any luck, come this next time when Maria goes home to run and I go home and we go attend Miguel’s wedding, we’ll be coming back on our work visas and won’t have to leave for a year at a time, though of course we can leave if we like for vacations and such.

Hong Kong was great. We wanted to take some more time and actually make this visa trip into a vacation, so we were there for four days and three nights. We found a nice hotel in a nice part of town, though it wasn’t as nice as we thought it would be. First, the beds were hard. It’s my theory that all Asian beds are hard because the Seoul beds were hard, all Chinese beds are hard, and now Hong Kong beds are hard; I think a pattern is emerging. Second, there was no free internet, which is quite inexcusable considering we could get free internet in the subway stations. Third, the power adapter they provided us sucked! I had to jiggle it this way and that before it’ll work and when it did, it needed to be propped so that it wouldn’t wiggle back to a resting position and NOT work anymore. I ended up putting it on top of our suitcase and holding in place with a pair of pants.

Hong Kong was also humid, in March. Wow. I can’t imagine what it must be like over the summer. But it was warm, which was a nice change, but it reinforced my dislike for humidity. I think I just don’t like sweating. The food was very good though, and we took this opportunity to indulge in some good old fashioned Western food which isn’t available in Beijing. First, we gorged on Mexican food. We ordered a bucket (red six) of beers, nachos, chicken wings, a chimichanga, and two enchiladas and were stuffed! Next we gorged on Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Yes. From the movie. This was on top of the Peak by the way, the highest point in the city with an utterly breathtaking view of the harbor and skyline. Apparently, if we paid 25 HKD more we could have gotten the unobstructed view, but I found it difficult to justify paying money for a view. The ride up to the peak was quite eventful as well: it was a funicular, and at times the grade was over 45 degrees steep.

Hong Kong itself is a city built in levels, with the world’s longest escalator connecting two of them. Lots of fun by the way. It’s very dense, and very tall. It reminded me of LA, San Francisco, and New York, all the cities I love. San Francisco for its hilliness, LA for it’s views of buildings when you’re in the midst of them, and NYC for the sheer verticality and density of it all, plus the mixture of the old and the new living side by side. If you add all these together, you would technically have the perfect place for me to live. It’s even cheaper than those three cities. But it’s humid! And there’s a monsoon season! NYC is also humid, but only for certain, specific, and short times in the year. For instance, NYC is not currently humid. Hong Kong is! All that aside, it was a beautiful place, and we got to hang out with some random Americans I met in my restaurant and struck up an acquaintance with. Very nice people, but very young; I just realized that I’m turning 27 this year, and the guy we went to visit, his younger sister was in town and she is a whole decade younger than I. We also hung out with his girlfriend and their friend from Australia. Good times.

I’ve kind of forgotten what else I wanted to say. I’m hoping to also churn out two more blog entries tonight as part of my writing project. I’m also a little unable to sleep.

This is actually taking some unexpected discipline: I really want to skip forward. I think it’s probably how my memories surface, obviously not chronologically, some more so than others dependent on external stimuli, so when I have something, I want to write it. But I’m not sure that would be appropriate. If I lose the chronology of it all, I fear that this would just be a jumbled mess and completely incomprehensible to anyone reading it, even myself. So I must stay disciplined, unexpected as noted, and plunge forward in an orderly fashion. What’s also surprising is that I am fast running out of pre-US memories. I think I only have three entries worth left before I find myself landing at LAX.

My great grandmother lived to be 96 years old. My grandfather is already that old, with my grandmother, 93, soon along the way. If there’s one thing that can be said about my family it’s that we are indeed long lived. As I mentioned, when I was growing up there were at one point four generations all living under the same roof, a fact that my grandmother took a lot of pride and joy in. Though I don’t actually live with her at the moment, she can still claim such moments of joy when I come over to visit with my father, though short one generation obviously since my great grandmother is not still alive. My grandmother does hope to one day have four generations under the same roof again, though I think she may have given up that particular hope.

Being 96 meant that my great grandmother was basically in-firmed and stuck in bed. She was a very short woman, not quite five feet if I remember correctly. She’s also lived a fascinating life, one that I only know bits and pieces of. My grandmother is attempting to finish up a biography of her mother before she dies. Of what I know, part of it is that she served in a hard labor camp during the cultural revolution, moving large pieces of stone from one place to another. She also had her feet bound, a tradition I’m sure some of you may know. She was also a beautiful woman in her youth, and very refined in her old age.

One night it was just she and I in the apartment. I’m not sure where my grandparents were, and it must have been the maid’s day off. My great grandmother had been recovering from some illness recently and was even more bedridden than normal. My grandmother had told me specifically that while they were out, my great grandmother was not to get out of bed under any circumstances. I’ll leave out any snarky comments about the intelligence of leaving a five or six year old in charge of a 94 or so year old woman for now, but I think, obvious enough, and quite expectedly, my great grandmother wanted to get out of bed. I don’t remember what it was she wanted or needed, but I knew I couldn’t help. All I could do was watch as she got out of her bed, which was in the back where my grandparents now sleep, put on her sandals, and shuffle across the tiled floor. I managed to see her through the hallway and into the living room where she promptly slipped and fell. I was panicked. I was five years old, unable to lift her up, and completely ignorant of what to do. She laid there on the floor until my grandparents got back. They were so angry at me. They scolded me for letting my great grandmother get out of bed. They scolded me for not doing anything and leaving her on the floor. They had to call a doctor to come and examine her, and he found that she had scraped up her lower back on a piece of furniture as she fell and was bleeding. As she laid on her side, the doctor cleaning up and examining the wound, I looked in from the doorway to the bedroom. My grandmother told me that it was my fault that she had gotten hurt, and years later, though completely irrational and not even close to being able to be related, when my great grandmother finally died the first thing I thought was “I shouldn’t have let her get up that night.”

Short, unrelated memories:

One of the most popular drinks in China is ??, “suan nai,” “sour milk,” yogurt. It’s a little unlike US yogurt because it’s much thinner, meant to be consumed with a straw. And there’s no such thing as “plain” yogurt, something quite popular in the States right now; there least flavor you can get is “sweet.” And when I say consumed with a straw, I meant it; you know how in the States some times yogurts come with little plastic spoons so it’s convenient for you to eat? Well I have a fridge full of tiny little straws that can attest to just how much yogurt I’ve bought but used a spoon instead of the “recommend” utensil to eat. When I was young, the only kind I ate was from off the street. I remember that there would be huge pickup trucks with a bed full of crates, all full of yogurt. They came in these round, ceramic jugs, sealed at the top with a piece of paper and a rubber band. These crates would get delivered to all the local convenience stores and shops full in the mornings, and picked up at night full of empty jugs. The particular time I remember was in the summer, behind the pick up truck, with men standing on the bed of the truck, handing out jugs in exchange for money. I’d give him the bills, very inexpensive by the way, and he’d hand me a yogurt and a straw, I’d puncture the sealing paper with the straw and I’d just stand there and contentedly drink. Incidentally, I’ve discovered that the ceramic jugs themselves are also quite cheap to purchase as I bought some for the restaurant to put fake flowers in. They work quite well as individual flower vases. For those arty folks out there, I highly suggest obtaining some. It is quite unlike any other yogurt I’ve ever had before, and I remember that in the States, whenever I’d come close to this long ago flavor, I’d always think back on it fondly. It’s actually sort of like Chinese vanilla ice cream, which again, tastes nothing like US vanilla ice cream. I remember once at San Dimas Dam, a park in Southern California, that an ice cream man pushing around a little cart had a popsicle that tasted an awful lot like the ones I had in China when young. I remember going there to bike with my father, and getting this popsicle every time.

Winters in China are traditionally cold, in Beijing that is. There’d be snow, rain, sleet, hail, and all the lakes and rivers would freeze over. It’s actually warmed up a bit these last few years, and this past time when moving over, I’d specifically asked if it still snows in China, with many of the answers being “no.” Probably just for me then, this has been one of the coldest and worst winters in China in recent history. It snowed on us this past Sunday actually, trying to get to Hong Kong and delayed our flight about an hour. Despite the cold and the inconvenience, I still love it. But the memory is of ice skating at YuYuanTan, a local park within walking distance from my grand parent’s house. Maria’s actually taken quite a few runs there and I’ve uploaded some of them to this blog. Despite the “No Ice Skating” sign posted prominently all over the place, I remember as a child heading out onto the ice with the maid. I didn’t know how to ice skate at the time, so all I could do was sit on this foldable stool that had been converted into a sled and get pushed around by those who knew how. It was actually a service you could buy, much like renting ice skates. These people had taken old skates off of old shoes and tied them to the bottom of this stool. You’d pay them some money and they’d push you around for fifteen minutes while you sit. I remember being able to hear the man pushing me breathing hard, the sound of his skate scratching as he pushed off step by step, and the wind from across the frozen lake top blowing in my face. I still don’t know how to ice skate by the way, and unfortunately such services don’t exist, as far as I know, in the States. Though people still operate this way in China, and it’s my regret that this past winter I was far too busy to do any ice “skating” out on the frozen over lakes. Ah well, there’s always next winter.

There’s this special kind of Chinese sausage that I’ve always enjoyed. It’s been salted and dried so it will last longer, is most likely made of pork, but has a very nice sweetness to it as well when you eat it. It’s a bit fatty, like most Chinese meats, so a bit oily when cooked. It’s traditionally sliced thin and served as is since it’s already fully cooked, but sometimes it’s pan fried or served in soup. I also loved this sausage when I was a child, and being a preserved dish, it was something we could afford to have on hand. The maid would always pan fry it for me, something that thankfully doesn’t need cooking oil since the meat is so fatty anyways. I remember she’d always cut one in half, fry it up, and give it to me on a small plate with a piece of Chinese steamed bread. I really liked them cooked this way because of the small bits of crispiness along the edges. The maid, though live in, also has her days off, once a week. One time, when she wasn’t there, I really wanted this sausage, so my cousin took it upon herself to make it for me. This would be my female cousin, Michelle, one of my father’s older brother’s two daughters. She did her best to make it for me, but unfortunately burned the sausages as they cooked, trying to attain that crispiness that I liked. She was also young at the time, a teenager, and she cried on the bedroom table when she burned my sausages. I ate them anyways, and promised her that they tasted very good nonetheless, and that it wasn’t her fault, and that I was thankful she cooked them for me.

Edit: I wonder what I’d have to do to make WordPress render Chinese…I could swear this isn’t the first time I’ve tried, with success the last few times. I wonder if something’s changed or my memory’s just faulty. Hmm…..