Would you like Yak with that?

The good thing about starting off a vacation with a trip to the hospital is that things can only get better. Since I spent Saturday resting and not eating good food, I was ready for Sunday to start. In the morning we went to the grocery store and stocked up on more candy and bought sunglasses. I'm not a sunglasses person, but the sun here is so bright, it seems like Lhasa is constantly overexposed by about 2 stops. For lunch we went to the Potala Restaurant, where we ordered us our first authentic Tibetan meal.

Tibetan cuisine is not, as the Chinese would say, "fengfu duocai," or 'rich and varied.' Their diet consists of meat (mostly Yak), potatoes, and bread, any of which can be served alone or combined, and all of which are frequently fried. Now, given the location and climate of Tibet, the utter lack of vegetables, fruits and pretty much anything else should not come as a surprise. It tastes nothing like Chinese food, and actualy, it's really good.

First we ordered these curried potatoes.



They were cooked just right; not mushy and overcooked, not firm and undercooked, and seeped with spices and oil.

Next was what I like to call, Hunk of Yak.



Because that's what it is. A huge fatty hunk of tender, subtly spiced Yak served with a heaping side of small, red baked potatoes.



And then, the piece de resistance, we had what we fondly call, "Xizang xinzang bing rolls." 'Xizang' is Chinese for Tibet, and 'xinzang bing' is heart disease. Therefore, we called these, "Tibetan Heart Disease Rolls."

Because that's what they are. Bread pockets stuffed with Yak meat and then deep fried and served with a side of spicy red pepper sauce. I can still feel them clogging my arteries. And I ate three of them. Yes, I am disgusting.

We also sampled the Tibetan specialty of Yak Butter Tea. Pretty much tastes how it sounds. Buttery tea, sometimes sweetened, sometimes not, and therefore, salty.

Then we went out shopping. Yes! The stores here are stocked with my kinds of stuff- tons of cool jewelry and bags and clothes. I bought some pretty earrings. The thing is, I'm a little bit of a quality snob. I would rather pay a little more for things that aren't total crap. The streets are filled with vendors stalls selling "antique" Tibetan goods. Yeah, I'd say they're about as antique as a newly minted quarter, which is about what they're worth.



The streets of Tibet are not like those of any other Chinese (Tibet is, good or bad, *technically* a part of China) city that I have been to. Here, there's a lot less spitting in the streets. Note that I did not say "no" spitting in the streets; it still exists, sadly. Here, people whistle at each other to get another's attention. In general, the streets are just quieter. There's a lot less shouting, and since there are fewer people, a lot less shoving.

Another sad thing is that there are beggars everywhere. A lot of them are monks and even more of them are children. When we walk by, parents instruct their children to beg from us. And then the kids come up to us, grab on to us, follow us pleadingly with their hands out asking, in English, for money. They follow us and they don't leave us alone; it gets to the point that we have to shoo them away like flies. It's heartbreaking. It's not the kid's fault that their parents don't have money and rely on their children to turn pity into profit, but what are we supposed to do? Annetta refuses to give them money because the kids will give it to their parents, and she doesn't like that. So instead we came up with another solution. We put a bunch of the candy that we bought and don't really like into a bag. Annetta carries the bag around in her purse and gives the kids a piece of candy instead of money. It still doesn't make the kids stop pestering us for money, but at least it's nicer than shooing a person away.

Monday we decided to see Lhasa. We had a cab take us to the Potala Palace. Here I am in front of it:



Then we started walking with no particular plan. That's my favorite part of being in a new place, just walking around, seeing what the place is like, and forming my own mental map. It's like a game; I love trying to get us back to where we started.

We came across these lovely Yak statues. Notice how the sense of Tibetan authenticity is heightened by the advertisement.



A little later we came to an intersection. When faced with the choices of "left, right, or straight," Jason said, "Look at all those people coming from the left. Let's see what's down there."



Good call Jason. What we ended up finding was a back alley, a place for locals. There were some small shops, carts selling produce, and not a single waiguo ren to be seen. How come my travel book didn't mention this place? It's a damn good thing it doesn't though, otherwise the place would be crawling with waiguo ren.

Tucked away in this back street was a store that sells traditional Tibetan dresses. There are stores near our hotel that sell the same thing, and Annetta and I had agreed that we both wanted to buy one. We figured that this was the best place to buy them; not only would they likely be cheaper, but also, it's where the locals get their dresses and, in my opinion, it makes for a better story behind the dress.

So we three waiguo ren walked into the dress shop and started looking. The shopkeeper didn't speak a word of English-- a good sign! She found someone who spoke Mandarin and from then on, it was chaos.



Annetta and I created quite the spectacle. We were just trying on the dresses, but tons of locals stopped by to look and laugh at us, and in a few cases, some women stopped in to offer their opinions as to which colors we should be matching and how we should wear the clothes. The shopkeeper informed us that we were the second waiguo ren ever to set foot in her store. A proud day for non-waiguo-ren waiguo ren everywhere! While it was awkward to be so blatantly gawked at, it was also a blast, and we got our tops, dresses, and skirt fronts for 230 Yuan. At the stores by our hotels, they go for 400-500 Yuan.

New dresses in hand, we walked down the street and found an outdoor temple, where dozens of people were praying. People pray there so ofthen that the stone ground where they lay down is worn smooth and shiny.





Part of the temple area was a path along the side of a mountain. Walking that path was the first time I felt that I was truly in Tibet. Hundreds if not thousands of lines of Tibetan prayer flags were strung up the mountain and along the path.







I love that, while the natural climate of Tibet is sparse and brown and bare, their culture and their religion utilize so many bright colors.





After that we ended up in the Chinese section of Lhasa, which basically looks, feels, and probably tastes like every other standard Chinese city in China. There were only Chinese restaurants. We walked through but made a point of not eating there. We went in search of authentic Tibetan food and ended up at a restaurant that my book recommended. Unfortunately, it wasn't that good (maybe because they don't use MSG) and left us very unsatisfied. They even served us a Yak curry on one of the same trays that we have in our cafeteria.

After a brief rest, we ventured to the Muslim quarter of Lhasa. It was great-- another virtually-waiguo-ren-free district! The streets were narrow and quiet but bustling with residents. There were tons of small stores, open pool halls, and really small bakeries (once again, it's your choice between meat, potatoes, or bread fried to varying degrees). Since we're all eating buddies and list eating among our top two passions, we caved and bought some bread from a bakery.



It was alright but not spectacular. We kept walking throught the streets, which reminded me a little of the movie "The Battle of Algiers." Though this movie does not, surprisingly, take place in Lhasa, I felt a little like I was in the streets of Algiers from the film. The buildings were similarly constructed and close together. So sue me, I got some Algiers in Tibet.

We also found a street vendor selling these yellow-bready-cakey things that we saw another vendor selling on our first day here. When we saw them that first day, we said, "We definitely have to buy some of those." And look at that, we stumbled upon a vendor whipping up a fresh batch.



So we stood by for about 15 minutes just so we could take one of the fresh ones.



We decided that they're the equivalent of corn bread, except not really. They're basically some honey, flour, and milk battered together and poured into pans heavily, heavily lined in oil. Their firm-ish on the outside and soft and chewy and mushy on the inside. They taste a little sweet, a little sour, and have a fruity aftertaste, though I can't pin the fruit. Maybe Lychee. I think it's from the honey.

Then, though we had just eaten two types of bread, we set off with the distinct purpose of eating Muslim food. You would think that, in the Muslim quarter, a Muslim restaurant would be relatively easy to find. Not really. Most of them are tea houses that don't serve food. We walked into a couple and got some very strange looks. Finally, we found this restaurant:



Once again, no waiguo ren! It was great. We asked the waiter for special Muslim food, and he recommended this chicken.



Fantastic. It was chicken, potatoes, and peppers stewed up in a slightly sweet slightly salty sauce. The potatoes were the highlight of the dish, since they soaked up lots of flavor and oil. The chicken was served with handmade flat noodles. I don't usually do noodles but I ate these.

We also got a lovely eggplant dish:



And this. It's fantastic. It's potato, meat, and spices cooked once or twice in lots and lots of oil.



Spectacular. Truly heavenly.

As with all our other meals, we ate way, way, way too much. every day, I've probably eaten the caloric equivalent of at least five meals. I feel guilty, but I feel fantastic. Nothing like eating my way around Lhasa. But what's more, there's nothing like eating my way around Lhasa with two people who love eating as much as I do. Every night, after stuffing ourselves full of edible Tibetan wonders, we come back to the room, eat tons of candy, and play cards. Every day is an adventure.

Today was an even bigger one, but I've already been updating for an hour and a half. I'll save today for tomorrow.

I am an awful waiguo ren. Tonight, I had dinner at a Western restaurant, and I'm in Tibet. And I ordered chicken broth. The only people in the place were white. I am so ashamed. But there's a little more to that story, and I promise, it's good.

Yesterday we left school at 6 AM to catch our flight at the airport. The end of it is, we got here safely. The view from the plane as we descended into Lhasa was amazing. Here is one photo, but I took many more.



So we got in, got luggage, and then had the task of finding a cab into Lhasa, and hour's drive away. Jason asked an airport official, who informed us that a cab ride should go for about 30 kuai a head. We couldn't actually find a metered taxi, though, so we had the task of bargaining with the Tibetan guys who just drive their cars around. Actually, I shouldn't say "we" bargained, because really, it was all Annetta, and she was awesome. Here are three of the guys fighting about the price with us. There were a few more on the other side.



They started out asking 200 kuai; Anetta got us down to 35. They weren't happy, so clearly she did a good job. But then the guy ended up driving us for 5 minutes and switching us into a metered taxi. Apparently the airport charges taxis to wait there, so what these guys do is just go in their cars, pick up visitors, then hand them off to taxi drivers for a cut of the charge. Pretty smart, actually.



Our cab driver thought that I was Jason's 'laopo,' which those Chinese speakers out there may find amusing, if only for the fact that 'laopo' means wife, but it's also not the politest way to put it. I guess in English the equivalent would be one's 'old lady.'



So then we got to the hotel, which is quite nice. I started drinking lots of water, as Lhasa's altitude is about 12000 feet, which is rather high. I was very paranoid about getting AMS, or acute mountain sickness. The three of us made the mistake of carrying our suitcases up two flights of stairs. We were exhausted; just walking up without stuff leaves us winded. This must be what it's like to be an old lady. Even getting up to go to the bathroom makes my heart pound.

It didn't take long for me to get a splitting headache. I drank tons of water, but I still felt lightheaded and awful. The three of us had some quality Nepalese food at the restaurant on top of the hotel last night. Here's the view:





Yep. Life is hard. The sun here doesn't set until like 8:30 and doesn't rise until maybe 8ish. The sun is SO strong. I can feel the cancer cells growing. Surprisingly, it;s not very cold here. It was cool in the morning but warm in the afternoon. Don't let the snow on the mountains fool you; the weather us gorgeous. Unfortunately, I haven't had much of a chance to really enjoy it.

Last night we fell asleep at like 9. None of us slept well, but I kept waking up every three hours with a headache. My body hurt, too, but I think that's the uncomfortable bed. Then I woke up at 8 o'clock. The second I gained consciousness, I knew I was going to vomit.

I then spent the next 40 minutes in the bathroom as last night's dinner made it's way out of both ends of my body. I knew this was not a good sign; vomiting never is. Annetta went to the front desk to ask about what to do; they said get thee to the hospital. When Annetta told me that, I was not happy, only because I didn't know how I would get down the stairs, let alone survive a cab ride. I felt so ill I could barely tie my shoes.

Through my stomach pains and throbbing headache, the thoughts did cross my mind that perhaps a Chinese hospital, let alone a Tibetan hospital, might not be a fun experience. I pictured reused needles, herds of coughing people corralled in a small, crumbling, fluorescently-lit room with IVs dangling at whim.

Thankfully I was wrong. Somewhat. The hospital was clean(-ish) and cold. Jason registered me and then we found the altitude sickness/ heart disease room. The way it works here is that everyone gets in line in the room that pertains to their illness. Everyone sits on the bench in the room as the person who is up gets checked out. So we listened to quite a few people get diagnosed with "xinzang bing," or heart disease (one of our vocab words!). Basically, there's no privacy. Everyone watches as everyone gets examined. Fun.

When it was my turn, the doctor took one look at my eyes and made a face that, though she was wearing a face mask, conveyed concern. Not good. I described my symptoms, she pressed my stomach, listened to me breath, took my blood pressure etc. Then she sent me to the eye doctor. I have no idea why, as the eye doctor didn't tell me anything, but after that I went back to the first doctor and she gave me three different medications.

In the end, I paid 78 kuai, or just under 10 USD. What an experience. The whole time I was there, I could only think about what a great story this would make. And also the fact that my family would not be so happy to find out that I was in a Tibetan hospital and sick.

I am feeling much, much better now, so if you're concerned, don't be. I still have a headache, but after a day of watching a movie, taking a nap, and eating lots of bread, I feel back up to about 80% (versus maybe 30-40% this morning). Jason and Annetta have been wonderful. I know that they weren't feeling too hot today either (though Annetta is pretty much fine), but they took great care of me.

Tomorrow we plan to take it pretty easy again, though I think we're going to venture out and walk around and do some shopping. I'm pretty much planning on getting a new wardrobe and lots of jewelry. Let the games begin!

To get to the other side?

I know it's been a long time, and for that I apologize. Part of it is that I seem to have less and less time, but really it's the fact that my computer got fixed. And then it broke again for good. Now it's just a shiny, rather expensive paper weight. I'm just posting as many random pictures as I can. Have fun.

And now I find myself with so much to write that I have nothing to say.





Almost two weeks ago I celebrated my 21st birthday in Anyang. It was wonderful. I celebrated by eating with my friends for four days. Actually, the only thing that made the dinners any different was the fact that we said it was my birthday and used that as an excuse to eat more. Some people celebrate turning 21 by drinking themselves sick; I celebrated by eating myself sick.

I'll spare you the details, but the culinary highlights inclyded pigeon with the head still attached, donkey, and a Thai-style dessert that Annetta made for me.




A lot of you must think I have problems, given my preoccupation for all things edible. The other day, I called my parents on the phone for the first time since I arrived in Beijing. I told them that I love China because people sell pineapple on every street corner.

"ellis, now that you're 21, there's something I need to tell you," my dad said. Perchance we own a pineapple farm in Costa Rica. Or maybe I'm adopted, or he's a mob boss or a CIA agent. That would be cool.

"Not everything in life revolves around food."

Wait--what? Why not? Without food, life would be like a pie crust without the filling-- dry and lacking a definite flavor (or ready to crumble at any moment). What's wrong with falling in love with a country via its cuisine? The only bad meal I've had in China has been "Greek" food. Maybe the MSG works like a date rape drug, I don't know, but with every meal I'm growing more attached to China. I have a fruit lady, a pineapple guy, and a growing list of restaurants that I've gone to repeatedly. If theres a better way to understand a country than through it's food, I don't know what it is.

Maybe life in America doesn't revolve around food, at least, not for most people, but in China it does. One of the things I love about walking down the street here is the way it sounds and smells. It's an intense mix of pineapple, sausages, yams, meat skewers, smells tofu, socks, shirts, and bags. Some people complain about the smell of China. Overall, America doesn't really smell. But China does-- like feet, like food, like bathroom. It smells lived in, and it smells like people take pleasure in what they eat. That's my kind of culture.

Tomorrow early morning, I am going to Tibet. I'm not done packing, it's late, and we're getting up early, and I think I'm getting a cold. But excited does not describe how I'm feeling. I can only describe it in adjectives that don't usually describe feelings. The way I feel is the way I imagine Lhasa to be; I can't wait to see if I'm right.

Sunday I was sitting in the park writing my miderm essay. The weather was too good to spend inside; I haven't felt sun like that for awhile. A guy sat on the bench next to me. We passed a few minutes in silence as I continued to write about equality between men and women.



"Ni hao. Is this your Chinese name, Fu WenLi?" He pointed to my name at the top of my essay.



And then we started talking about Chinese language, culture, sexual equality, and housing in Beijing (he's a realtor). He corrected my essay, wrote out a paragraph for me (which Tianqi said was a little strange) and we exchanged cell phone numbers, as he promised to take us out for dinner and introduce us to some Chinese friends.





I don't know why he started talking to me. Most people prefer to stare, so it's nice to know that there are people out there who are willing to interact with the strange waiguo ren sitting on the bench.



I should have something more concrete to say after Tibet. Maybe I'll find some internet there and let you know what it's like.





I think it will be blue.



I've been trying to think of a punch line for this joke:
Why did the waiguo ren cross the road?

Any thoughts?

So Who's the Queen Mum?

I still have no computer, as it is perhaps more dead than I originally thought, so, alas, still no pictures. My deepest apologies. This today I am off to Anyang (Tibet is in two more weeks), so if you were planning on telephoning my for my birthday, I will not be here. If you weren't planning to phone me or didn't know that my birthday is this weekend, well, you're off the hook. As I am reduced to writing posts by hand then putting it directly into Blogger, the post, typos and all, is below:

Thoguh I've been in China almost 6 weeks now, I do not, surprisingly, miss Western food. When I spent a month in Shanghai, it only took two weeks until I started using class time to remember what bread tasted like. I drifted off to sleep thinking about creamy peanut butter and oozing jelly dripping from between two inch-thick pieces of spongy wheat bread. I paced the same grocery aisle looking for cereal but finding only rice. My stomach ached so badly for Ethiopian food that I thought it would collapse around itself.

This time, I have had one craving. I was walking out the door on the way to morning class when I was suddenly struck with an intense desire for macaroni and cheese. Two minutes later the craving was gone, but I found this to be a rather strange craving, as a box of Easy Mac has been sitting on the pantry floor at home for well over a year. Please do not send me pity macaroni.

The other night was Annetta's birthday, so ten of us went to the jiaozi fan guanr. In addition to about 7 other dishes, we ordered 150 dumplings.A few of us kept track of how many dumplings we could eat. I got to 16 (though to be fair, by the time I got there there were none left for me to eat), Annetta and Jason each pulled 17, and Gabriel, calorically impervious male that he is, ate 22 dumplings, followed by cheesecake, birthday cake, a kiwi smoothy, and a plate of food from the karaoke buffet. I'm a little jealous.

Sunday night we went out for "Greek" food. Annetta is half Greek, so we were all excited to have her order us an authentic Greek meal. What we forgot to think of was that it's hard to find an authentic Greek restaurant in America; trying to find authentic non-Asian in China is like hiring a Michael Jackson impersonator who has red hair and can't do the moonwalk to come perform at a Vegas casino. Not quite the same thing.

I guess the reason I'm not craving Western food is because, excluding the aforementioned Greek tragedy, I'm eating too well here. Or maybe it's because I don't miss much about America. I don't miss the clean (seemingly) Western-style toilets, the clean tap water, or forks.

Here, the Diet Coke tastes better. Pineapple and various other fruits are sold on every corner for very cheap. Public transportation is crowded but convenient, and hot water and tea are available everywhere. Even though men and women hoc lougies on the sidewalk, I can almost ignore that now.

The other day I went out for a walk and, for a few minutes, entirely forgot that I was a waiguo ren. For a short while, I didn't notice that people were staring. I forgot that this isn't technically my home because for a moment, it was. It was that feeling of comfort and familiarity that you recognize only when you don't feel it anymore. There are few places in the world where I have that feeling, and Wellesley has not been one of them, though maybe it will be when I return.

This walk occured before the events I described in my last post, but I don't hold that against China. I've been saying for awhile that my relationship with Wellesley is like a marriage. We're separated, currently in counseling, with an iminent but amicable divorce coming in June 2008. If this is true, the China is my mistress (or, mister, rather). China is to me what Camilla Parker Bowles is to Prince Charles. Perhaps when Wellesley and I divorce, China and I will be together again when we're old and grey. Except I won't wear all those silly hats.

The Scarlet Waiguo Ren

Sadly, no pictures in this update. Read on to find out why. Please excuse typos, as well. No efficient spell checker.

On Monday or Tuesday night, I had another update all set to go. Due to some unforeen circumstances, you can see that that update never made it. And circumstances have since gotten worse. Rest assured that I remain intact, however my computer is another matter. It's a rather long, complicated, hair-pulling-inducing story, so for the sake of my blood pressure and yours, I spare the details and tell you that my computer has been rendered completely unusable. The hard drive needs reformatting or something like that. This has induced, as we say here, hen da de mafan, or, crudely translated into English, a huge pain in the ass.

As Jason played something of a role in the agonizing demise of my shiny Apple, Friday he took me to guomao, an hour's schlep from school, to bring my computer to an Apple-certified service center. Actually it's more like a few counters hidden on the sixth floor of another tall building where people take their iPods to be repaired. Even when I'm speaking English I don't understand thing about computers, so trying to keep abreast of exactly what the Chinese computer nerd was saying to Jason was essentially fruitless. Long story short, I need a new hard drive. Here's another math problem for you--it's easy but the answer is infuriating: if there are 8 Yuan to 1 USD and my new hard drive costs 3646 Yuan, how many USD am I spending? It costs almost as much as my plane ticket to Tibet.

Jason has also suggested that we go to a huge electronic retail center, buy a new hard drive and then let him install it himself, as I'm being charged three times too much. I'm not so sure. Electronics from that place are part of what started the problem; sometimes I just want to let the professionals handle it (though I don't even know if these guys at the Apple center are professional anyway).

So first they removed my old hard drive, which only took two hours, so Jason and I decided to kill some time in Guomao. Mistake. What happened in those two hours brought me to my lowest point in a long time.

I joke a lot about being a waiguo ren. I like to think that my (very limited, it seems) knowledge of Chinese puts me above the whole 'stupid waiguo ren' stereotype. But I keep forgetting that my face betrays me, and that I am still a waiguo ren to be had.

I don't want to go into detail about what happened. It's not something overly scandalous or overly shameful, and I incurred no physical harm. I got taken, I walked right into it, and I should have known better. In the grand scheme of things, it's not that bad-- the equivalent of less than 30 USD. There was once a CET student who got stuck had a Chinese thug stick him with a 1000USD karaoke bill, so I'm lucky. But the awful feeling that stuch with me the rest of the day is hard to put into adjectives. Shame, stupidity, naivete, frustration, anger, hurt, and embarrassment probably work the best. But there's also this issue of my pride.

I have eaten well in China. In fact, I feel like I have never eaten better. I've also eaten some sketchy things, though my stomach has remained essentially intact. But the worst thing I've swallowed has been my pride. I lost face big time in front of the people for whom I had to literally empty my wallet, in front of Jason, and in front of myself. Much as I wish I could escape the stigma of being a waiguo ren, I just can't.

And what hurts the most is the fact that it's my own stupid fault. I tried (through a few tears) to explain this to Jason, though I'm pretty sure he didn't understand. The fact of the matter is, if I spoke better Chinese, I could have avoided being had so badly. If I hadn't just nodded and smiled, if I could just understand what was being said to me, if I could just speak this language and just UNDERSTAND, I could have avoided this. I don't like that they found my vulnerability and took advantage of it. I've said before that I hate feeling stupid; I hate it even more when that stupidity is used against me.

The rest of the day, I felt like my face had been stamped with a big red "WAIGUO REN." And to fane my ire, that computer place doesn't take my Visa card, so I have to take out 3646 yuan in cash (and at the few ATMs that take my card there's a 2000 yuan limit) and schlep back on monday so that they one-week repair on my computer can commence.


The thing about China is that when there's an awful day, there's always a good one coming soon. Saturday, Jason, Victoria, Annetta, Xiaotong, and I went to the Forbidden City. The first time I went it was rainy and unpleasant, but Saturday was blessedly the nicest day I've seen not just in Beijing, but in China.

The sky was blue, and since it was unshrouded by the usual lid of grey smog and pollution, I could actually see the sun and feel it's rays. And it was warm. I didn't even need my jacket. It was perfect.

It also helps that I was with my friends. I feel so lucky that I found people whom I like and continue to connect with. And did you know that there's a Starbucks inside the Forbidden City? There is. Disgusting. Victoria and Annetta bought coffee.


Maybe the reason Jason didn't understand how I felt on Friday is because I don't really understand it either. I felt like an idiot, crying on the street over something I should have just dealt with. But I can barely use my mother tongue to describe my feelings, and that hurts even more. It hurts to know that while not everyone in China will cheat me, I won't know who those people are until it's too late. This will happen again when I let my guard down and don't understand what's going on. Though I love China, it will only continue to hurt me

And Your Little Dog, Too

I’d say I’ve never been one to follow trends, Tomaguchi’s and 6th grade yoyos excluded. I would also say that I’m even less of a trendsetter. I just wear what I like and try to put it into something presentable and personal. When I started having to deal with East Coast winters, I discovered how useful scarves are. And then I discovered that they’re very pretty and come in an assortment of different colors. I brought two scarves to China, and have since bought four more. The thing is, everyone likes them. I wear them every day, and I get compliments on them all the time. And now, many people are wearing them. My friends have all bought some for themselves, and then they bought them for their roommates.



Earlier this week, my friends and I decided we would like to eat dog meat. Dog. As in, woof woof. The restaurant we tried first wasn’t serving it that night, so we ended up going to a Korean restaurant instead. The only previous Korean experience I’ve had is an awful (Yvonne will back me up here) Korean Barbeque in Shanghai. So I was a little apprehensive at first, but this place was amazing. (All photos, sadly enough for my photography ability, are by Jason Foong. He’s like the CET paparazzo.)




In the middle of eat table is a small grill. You order lots of raw meat, they bring it to you, and you roast it yourself. You smell of grill for the rest of the night, but it’s so worth it. We ordered dog meat, but it was a cold dish. Sounds gross, I know, but it was good. A little spicy, a lot oily, and stringy, not unlike pork. Here I am putting it on my plate:



Up closer and personal:



We also had these nifty rice cake cube things. They are soft and chewy and come dusted in sugar. I ate a lot of them, as you can see since there were only three left when Jason took this photo.




But our appetites for dog meat were not sated by this small appetizer. So Friday, Victoria, Jason, Annetta, Victoria’s roommate Xiaotong, and I went to a small restaurant and ordered us some dog soup.




And it was good. It was very good. The broth was spicy, the meat was tender, like a soft, well-cooked beef, and it was served on the bone. I want to eat it again.

And no, the idea of eating dog does not disgust me. I do not think it is cruel to eat dog, because I do not think it is inherently cruel to eat beef or chicken (though the way they raise and slaughter the animals is a different matter). I have a dog at home, Sparky, whom I love and adore, but I didn’t feel bad when I ate dog soup. I didn’t think of my cute fuzzy Sparky, because I wasn’t eating him. I wouldn’t eat him, and I wouldn’t knowingly eat your dog, either, at least not without your consent. But now all the Chinese roommates are telling me it’s time to eat snake. Hm. I don’t know why that sounds so creepy, but it does. My friends also want to try scorpion, so that may also make it into my digestive tract.

Friday night was my classmate’s birthday, so 26 of us CETers went out for roast-it-yourself meat. Method-wise, it was not unlike the Korean restaurant, however here you fetch the meat yourself from refrigerators, then bring it back to the table and roast it, cooking the raw meat with the same chopsticks you use to eat. Probably not so sanitary.




The restaurant also had a little help-yourself buffet on a card table that featured non-meat dishes. They also had some buttery, wonderful cookies. For some reason, that night I needed cookies. Now I ask you: how many cookies do you think one person can physically eat, after a large meal, in one sitting? Now quadruple that number and that’s how many I ate. I couldn’t keep track, actually. But I ate enough that even the guys around me were impressed. I think I may have scared them a little. I don’t know, it’s just been so long since I’ve had starchy, non-oily, sugary vittles that something in my brain just said, “Eat, and don’t stop.” I feel guilty.

So while I was getting drunk on buttery, sugary goodness and probably doubling my risk for diabetes and an assortment of bacterial diseases, a good number of the guys were getting drunk on beer. Keep in mind that Chinese bottles of beer are much larger than those in America (I believe I heard someone mention that they were 40 oz bottles. I believe I am correct, but if anyone from CET is reading this and thinks I’m wrong, please correct me). So, I have an approximate math problem for you: 26 students go out for dinner. Let’s say that half of them are male. The table goes through 35 bottles of beer. The females collectively drink 8 bottles. If half the males drink a third of the remaining beers, how many beers do the other half of the males drink? I don’t know if the stats are right, but there was a lot of beer to be had. It was an incredibly fun night. I ate too much in good company—if I had died last night, I would have died happy.

On the subway ride home, I had a conversation with two girls, one of whom has decided that she wants to live the rest of her life in China, because she just feels at home here. She looks like a waiguo ren—blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. I find it admirable that she has not only found the place she wants to call home, but that it is so different from her original home and that she is brave enough to live here. No matter how long she lives in China, she will always be considered a waiguo ren. No matter how perfect her Chinese gets, or if she becomes a Permanent Resident, or if she never sets foot in America ever again, she will never, ever be considered Chinese in any way. I suppose it’s much the same for foreigners who move to America, but I feel like in America, someone who is Chinese/Chinese American (or anything, really) can still pass for American, at least superficially. Here, that is not the case. Even if my parents had moved to China and given birth to me here, pretty much nobody would consider me Chinese. This must be the sort of identity crisis that immigrants and their offspring go through. It’s tough, and I’m only beginning to understand it.

This conversation also got me thinking about where, if money were no object, I would consider home. I guess I haven’t seen enough of the world to know where I belong, but knowing how I get, I would need to be changing scenery with some frequency. I always want to have a home to come back to, a place to which I feel attached, but I also suffer from what my dad calls “itchy feet.” I get stuck in geographical ruts. I want the world to be my home.

Friday afternoon before the big roast-athon, I went with Jason to the coolest part of Beijing (in my opinion). In the Chaoyang district way out on the Fifth Ring road is a place with a bunch of buildings that used to be factories but that are now small art galleries. Jason was going there to do an article on a company that produces high-quality stereos and amplifiers and such, and he let me come along since I didn’t want to stay at school (geographical rut).

We also walked around tons of little art galleries all afternoon. I kept thinking of my dad, because he’s a sculptor, and I think he would have fit right in and loved looking at all the Chinese contemporary art. Actually, I found two paintings that I really, really wanted to buy. Here they are:




I don’t know how much they are. I’ll have to email the gallery and ask so I can find out how much money I should wish I had.

One of the galleries we went to was actually an artist’s studio. He was there painting and took to me right away because he though I was pretty. He also thought I was 17 or 18 years old.



I felt like a total idiot because I could hardly understand a word he said to me, but Jason had been to his studio last year and said that the guy had barely talked to him then, so I guess my waiguo ren-ness opened him up despite my shortcomings in communication.

This gallery/restaurant was a factory, and there’s still original paint on the walls from the Mao era that say (in Chinese) “long live Chairman Mao” and something about building a great country.





My internet’s not working so well (actually it’s not working at all), so sorry that these updates are rather far between. They also take a long time to write, prepare the pictures, and find internet that works for periods of 10 minutes or more. I’m also a little busy going out and having fun.


It’s nighttime as I write this, so zhu nimen hao meng.