Travel is Fatal

When a Righteous Man Goes to Israel

When Israel came out of Egypt,
   Jacob from a people of foreign tongue, 
Judah became God’s sanctuary,
   Israel his dominion. (Psalm 114:1-2)

God: What are you doing now?
King Arthur: Averting our eyes, oh Lord. 
God: Well, don't. It's just like those miserable psalms, always so depressing. Now knock it off! (Monty Python)

It's been a few days since I've updated, and I extend my sincerest apologies to my devoted reader.^*As soon as we got back from Galilee, we started a morning class/afternoon excursion pattern which left little time for wrestling with wireless LANs in the computer lab. (This may or may not have been further exacerbated by the rather athletic challenge posed by the multitude of reserved books hidden in a library which hadn't been properly catalogued in years, with only an ill-loved card catalogue as our guide.)

We've spent most of the past few days exploring the older parts of Jerusalem. In two days, we hit up the holy sites of 4 major religions- Judaism, Islam, Christianity- Catholicism, and Christianity- Evangelism. The last two were especially exciting.

On Saturday morning, we went to the Garden Tomb, which is one of two sites thought to possibly be the site of Jesus' crucifixion, death, and resurrection. Apparently the land was purchased by an evangelical group who was looking for the residence of Joseph of Aramatheia, but discovered a 1st-century Jewish tomb on the property during the course of excavations and decided that since there was a kind of a skull-shaped rock nearby that the tomb was probably that of Jesus.

 
(Skull-shaped outcropping near the Garden Tomb)

 Now, I'm not saying that it's a spurious and fanciful claim that disregards the historical landscape and architecture of first century Jerusalem or anything, but one must maintain one's academically-appropriate skepticism. Still, the garden was very pretty, the tomb was cool and had clearly been used for some sort of Christian gathering early in Church history, and the endless rounds of "Our God is an Awesome God" was very uplifting and not at all annoying. Even after the 300,000^th repetition.

 
(Cross inscribed on the inside of the tomb.)

 

The next day, we headed over to the other proposed momentary-resting place of Jesus: the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. We were lucky enough to celebrate Mass in the Crusader's Chapel, which was an unforgettable experience. (I'll put up pictures as soon as I steal them from someone.) After Mass, we wandered around the church, taking in the bizarrely beautiful mix of Constantinian, Byzantine, and Crusader architecture, which was further complicated by the presence of six different Christian groups, all vying for worship/interior decorating space. It was like walking around in Gradma's Sanctified Attic of WONDER.

 
(Entrance to the tomb shows decided Greek Orthodox influence)

Oddly, although the Roman Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Syrians, Copts, Ethiopians, and Armenians all have use of the Church, it's a Muslim family in Jerusalem that holds the keys to the Church's doors. Huh.

From the Church, we walked up (and down and up and down) to the Western Wall of the Temple Mount. There, I could finally, finally see what I had waited so many years to see- the subject of Mighty Moe Roger's epic song "Blues is My Wailing Wall." (Hear the song here.) Actually, I only actually saw half of the wall, since access to it is still segregated by sex. The part I saw was incredibly impressive, though, to be honest. And the number of people who came just to touch the wall was impressive. A lovely experience, even if I couldn't quite shake the feeling that the men's side was probably cooler.

 
(Approaching the women's side)

Finally, to top off the day (kinda literally),our group headed up to the Temple Mount. Originally the site of the massive Herodian Temple, it was all destroyed by the Romans in 70CE. 600-odd years later, the Muslims under the Umayyad caliphs built the Dome of the Rock, and that's all she wrote. Although the Israelis technically control the Temple Mount, the Dome remains under Muslim administration... as evidenced by the Skank Police who refuse admittance to anyone showing knees, upper arms, or collarbones.

 
(Dome of the Rock)

  
(All of us at the Dome of the Rock. Note the girl wearing a man's shirt on the far right? One of the guys literally gave her the shirt of his back because she was dressed like a skank... er, had a slightly too-sheer sweater over her dress.) 

Well. There is much more to tell, but little time to tell it in. Tomorrow we have our final exam, this weekend we write our final papers, and then it's back to the United States on Monday. I'll try to get in one more update before we leave- maybe talk about some of the other archaeological sites at the Herodian and Caesarea Maratima (lots of rocks).

Much love from God's (really hot and very brown) sanctuary in Judah.

 

*Not a typo

**Many thanks to my comrades in studies for contributing their beautifully high-resolution pictures 

Welcome to... SURVIVOR: GALILEE

"On a large enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." -Chuck Palahniuk

During certain endeavors, this survival rate may fall more quickly than at other times. One such hazardous endeavor (apparently) is sightseeing in Galilee. For the past three days there have been no blog updates, emails, or episodes of the Colbert Report. Rather, with my comrades at my side, I have traveled to the Frynges of Civilizatione! Together we have braved landmines and border patrols, giganticgriffon vultures and malevolent microbes, vertigo-inducing cliff hikes and baking archaeological digs. (And, you know, rolling green hills, banana plantations, and the pseudo-tropical Sea of Galilee. But the dangerous, melodramatic stuff was there, too...)

This is not to say that previous expeditions have been without their perils- we almost lost Lisa to the ravenous, litter-bug tourists of the Dead Sea. The very next day, Joseph was struck down by a pernicious bacterial attack, before he could even set foot on the Temple Mount.

Thus, it was with great trepidation that we set out on our (air-conditioned bus ride) trek to the north, past where rocky Judean desert melted into rolling grasslands and on to the tropical plantations and fertile valleys of Galilee. Our first destination was the ancient city of Beth-Shean, known by the Romans as Scythopolis.

 
Overview of Scythopolis from unpleasantly elevated archaeological tell/hill in the city.

At first, it appeared that all was well. We wandered around ancient bathhouses, took in ancient street promenades, treated milennia-old archaeological treasures like jungle gyms for our picture-taking amusement (cough cough Alex cough)... but we had allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security! Without warning (okay, with plenty of warning), two of our number were struck down with a (not-at-all) lethal malaise! We bravely trucked on, trying to get in the most important sites, like the theatre, the ancient public restrooms (marble seats- no joke), and the tree from Jesus Christ, Superstar.  But as more and more of our number fell victim to heat, dehydration, and disease, we were forced to return to the bus and retreat to a place of safety, where we could gather together and convelsce in peace. Yea, a place of asylum and restoration! A place like... the Golan Heights?

 
The heights of Golan. I was trying to capture one of the "Warning! Landmines!" signs, but we were driving too quickly along the hairpin turns.

After having veered perilously close to the valley of the shadow of messy and explosive death (several times) we turned into a tiny drive, lined with flowering trees, that said "Banias National Park." After having driven the rocky hills around Jerusalem, having tested the truly painful salinity of the Dead Sea, and having nearly expired of heat stroke in the scorching desert at Qumran- finally! a place that made me start to understand why God may have chosen to be born in Israel.

  

Spring and waterfall at Bannias National Park. The actual theological significance was more in the temples carved into the rockface, but my camera couldn't capture those. Just enjoy the pretty pictures.

Unfortunately, we didn't have time to hike over to Nimrod Fortress (no joke- King Nimrod is in the Bible), but it's probably just as well since Lorraine almost died before we even left the park.

Five down. How many of us actually came back from Galilee? Is this actually even Jacqui writing? I have to give up this computer since there are seven people waiting for one of the two working computers at Tantur, but stay tuned next time for the exciting conclusion of...

SURVIVOR: GALILEE!

 

A Very Different Memorial Day

"Since we, long ago, my generous friends, resolved never to be servants to the Romans, nor to any other than to God himself... the time is now come that obliges us to make that resolution true in practice..." -(small excerpt from Eleazar Ben-Yahir's Speech at Masada, as reported by Josephus Flavius in The Jewish Wars, Book VII)

Usually my Memorial Days are pretty chill affairs- get up late, drive to my dad's, grab the dogs, walk over to the parade, listen to the marching bands, chase the terrified dogs around the city, eat parade candy, go home. I spend my time waiting for the cool rocket car while my dad preemptively fills out his voting ballot based on which politicians show up in the parade. There are usually hot dogs and hamburgers somewhere in the mix, but that's pretty much it.

This year, my Memorial Day was spent in the ruins of Masada and Qumran (with a detour to the Dead Sea along the way). There were no parades or hamburgers or cool rocket cars, but in a way it was a more genuine time of remembrance than any Memorial Day I've had before.

It all started with the beautiful sound of the adhān, as the local muezzin sounded the Muslim call to prayer.

At 4am.

 
(Heeeey early morning Bethlehem)

After the muezzin riled up the 279-odd birds that live in the tree right outside my window, I resigned myself to the inevitable and slouched down to the breakfast room to consume as much coffee as my system could absorb in the hour and forty-five minutes til we left for Masada. Having achieved my goal of temporarily replacing my entire circulatory system with Turkish coffee, I brandished my futzy little fake camera and boarded the bus for the east.

 
(I took somewhere in the range of 30 to 40 pictures of the same desert scene on our morning drive. The Judean desert is gorgeous, but to a .5 megapixel camera, a rock is a rock.)

The bus ride to Masada was breath-taking, and there's no way my camera (heretoforth known as Futzy) can possibly do justice to the desert east of Jerusalem, or to the canyons that ridge the Dead Sea, or to the unbelievable turquoise of the Dead Sea itself. Maybe someday I'll steal someone else's pictures and post them here. For now, take me at my word when I say that the area between Qumran and Masada is awesomely, starkly beautiful.

 
(Canyons surrounding Masada, including a camel in the bottom-right corner.)

Without going into exhaustive detail about archaeology and history, Masada is the name of a desert fortress dating to 100-75ish BCE. While it was inhabited at various times by the Jewish Harodians, the Romans, the Jewish rebels, and the Romans again, it's mostly lauded as a symbol of Jewish resistance to Roman rule during the Great Revolt of the Jews in 66CE. Masada was the last bastion of the Jewish fighters against the Romans, with some hundreds of Jewish refugees and rebels (under the leadership of Eleazar Ben-Yair) holding out against 8000 Romans until 73 or 74CE. The historian Josephus reports (and it's widely agreed to be true-ish) that when the rebels realized that the Romans would soon capture the fortress, they followed Eleazar's command to take their own lives and the lives of their families rather than become Roman slaves.

And wow is that simplification. But that's the gist of why Masada is so incredibly important to the modern Israeli mindset- overwhelming odds, besieged on all sides, give me freedom or give me death... Anyway, it was an incredible archaelogical sight with one of Israel's oldest synagogues, two Roman palaces with baths and mosaics, guard towers, plastered warehouses, and an insanely advanced system of aqueducts and cisterns. Very cool.

 
(It was also very high.)

 
(Very very high.)

After about a billion hours wandering around the scorching desert mountain plateau, scratching ourselves on rocks and getting insanely sunburnt, we decided to celebrate our successful learning experience by taking a dip in the Dead Sea.

 
(Beautiful place, but a bit ouch on all the cuts and burns.)

 
(Possibly due to the 40% salinity- so salty that the minerals crust on the rocks in thick, slippery layers.)

At this point I'm getting update-lag, so I'm going to wrap this up with some pictures from Qumran, the cave complex that housed the Dead Sea Scrolls. We didn't spend a whole lot of time there, since many of us were nursing stinging cuts and sunburns, and coffee-detox had long since set in. So we pretty much came in, saw the Qumran complex, and jetted back to Tantur for dinner, blog updates, and bed. Well- dinner, coffee, blog updates, a bajillion pages of reading, a three hour shower, and bed. Interrupted, of course, at various times by the trumpeting call to prayer and subsequent burst of enthusastic bird nattering. All in all, it's been a Memorial Day unlike any that's gone before.

Tomorrow we have class in the morning, followed by a trip to Jerusalem's Old City in the afternoon.

 
(The caves the early biblical scholars were looking in while ignoring the Bedoin guides who wound up finding all the good stuff.)

Freeze-dried Music

Architecture in general is frozen music ~Friedrich von Shelling

Huzzah, Israel! There's really not much to report at this time- since I've experienced little of Israel beyond customs, taxis, and guard towers- but I thought I would update with what few photos I've managed to take on my odd little disposable digital

 I actually arrived in Tel Aviv yesterday morning, and I celebrated Shabbat by exploring the area around Tantur with Lisa and then falling asleep for approximately 12 hours. Tantur is lovely- nice garden, noisy birds, cool archways, and amazing views that would nonetheless be much more impressive if the surrounding area didn't look like a giant barracks. The entire country thus far has been a study in shades of dun; every once in a while someone sneaks greyish stone or a bit of reddish roof past the National Zoning Board, but that's about it. In aesthetics versus strategic value, looks like strategy wins pretty much every time.*

The security coming into the country was actually not as bad as I'd feared. Things were looking dicey back in Newark when they cordoned off the entire area around our gate and made us go through a second round of bag searches and metal wand-waving before we could board the plane. I was having serious concerns over the metal fillings in my teeth creating some sort of national incident. My fears were hardly alleviated when, with 45 minutes left til our landing at Ben Gurion Airport, we were told by the flight crew that Israel security policies required all passangers to remain in their seats for the last 45 minutes of the flight. During the resulting stampede toward the restrooms, I couldn't help but feel that the outlook for my teeth was growing gloomy indeed 

But the airport security wasn't bad at all. Intimidation technique? I don't know, but I've had far worse trying to get into the United States 

Things did get a little dicey at passport control, when the cutsoms official asked me what I'd be doing and where I'd be staying. I explained about the class I'd be taking at Tantur, that I'd be staying for two weeks, and that I'd be residing mainly on the campus. Then I gave her my bright, boy-I'm-so-excited-to-be-in-your-country grin that worked every time in China. She just gave me a flat, disapproving glare and said in a monotone Voice of Doom 

"That is not an Israeli university"

Then, before I could give in to my sudden bizarre urge to apologize, she stamped my passport, tossed it in my general direction and barked  

Next! ...in a monotone, non-barky sort of way 

Welcome to Israel 

So that was pretty much all of the excitement. Lisa and I trundled along to Tantur in our neshwar (shared airport cab). Shabbat meant we were one of only a dozen or so cars on the road, and the one checkpoint we passed through was fast and easy- lots of very young men with very big guns waved us through with barely a glance. Unattractive, airport-tower-like structures rose out of the barbed wire every other mile or so, keeping watch over emptry highways and tiered, rocky hills. The number of guardposts decreased as we left Jerusalem for Tantur, and there's only a few of the barbed wire-enclosed areas around the University

So, to sum up- scary customs officials, intact teeth, terrible architecture and nice scenery. Further explorations await, since tomorrow we head to Mazada and the Dead Sea! Yaaay

 
 
    
Lisa posing outside Tantur. Note the rocky hill in the background which is actually a city masquerading as a sand dune

 

 

 
Yay color! Flowers in the garden at Tantur

 

 
One of the two towers which rise on either side of the gateway into Tantur

 

**

I have been informed that this barracks-style architecture is actually an architectural style known as Bauhaus. Whatever. All I'm saying is that it's okay to have more than one architectural style per country. Freeze-fried post-WWII chic is not the only way you can go with earth tones. Though Victorian houses in tan and dun? Probably not incredibly attractive

PS: Sorry about any formatting weirdness. This thing keeps trying to type right-to-left and it's driving me absolutely insane

PPS: Apologies for picture quality. It's a dispoable digital, and it's a little weird

Need to Foretell

"A politician needs the ability to foretell what is going to happen tomorrow, next week, next month, and next year. And to have the ability afterwards to explain why it didn't happen." -Winston Churchill

Dear Mr. President, while I fully support your position on the Palestinian/Israeli peace talks, and agree that again-Prime Minister Netanyahu is becoming satire-worthy in his opposition to negotiation^**... are you sure this all couldn't have waited one more teensy weensy month? I mean, I get the whole "political upheavel in the Middle East, wouldn't it look good for us to renew talks with the Palestinians" thing, but really. I'm sure the upheavel will still be around, doncha think?

So tomorrow morning I fly out for Israel, and just once I would like to enter a foreign country while it's still on good relations with the United States: France 2003- right after the invasion of Iraq; China 2006- George W; China 2008- still George W; China 2009- yaaaay Oba... oh, wait... what do you mean the yuan is deliberately undervalued? Grrr....; China 2010- shut up about Xinjiang. And now Israel 2011- pre-1967 borders are for the WEAK.

Le sigh. Clearly someone should be using my travel plans to forecast cooling attitudes toward the US. I wonder if I could put that somewhere on my resume.

 

^**See below for Capitol Steps' “Hava Nodeala” on their 1998 disk Unzippin' my Doodah (lots of Bill Clinton songs on that one, but this one with Netanyahu has always been one of my favorites):

10 Hava No Deala

 

Great Art

"Art is never finished, only abandoned." -Leonardo DaVinci

When I hear this quote from one of the world's most famous artists, I can't help but think of this sculpture...

...which was (understandably) abandoned outside the Catholic Church in Jilin City. 

"What on earth is it?" you may ask in horror. "One of Dante's lower rings? A psychopath's cartoon featuring the demented spawn of Gumby and Smurfette?" No, my friends. It is something more tragic, yet. It is the official mascot of the 2010 Shanghai World Business Expo.

Its name is Haibao (海宝), or "Treasure of the Sea," and it's popping up in cities all over the world. I assume it's meant to refer to the city of Shanghai, and bring in a bit of nautical history and mercantilism into the mix. Maybe it's a stylized wave? A walking, talking, creepily staring, stylized wave. Yeah. I don't care what it is, I wouldn't want to see it in a dark alley late at night. I'll do more research on this issue, and maybe write a bit more later.

In other news, my apartment just celebrated its first legitimate social gathering. (All of those firefighters and carpenters and electricians don't count.) Today April got back from her week in Hong Kong, and we had hot pot to celebrate.

(From the left: Sister Theresa, April, Sister Theresa's brother, and Lisa)

All in all, it was much more successful than our first official dinner, which consisted of ramen noodles and boiled water. I even made spiced pecans for dessert. (Luckily, Lisa was present to tell me that the "tinfoil" I was about to put in the oven was actually decorative paper made to look like metal. I think God's getting sick of watching me burn things.)

And, yes, our table is a cardboard box with the shattered remains of our counter layered on top. Just call it art.

Convalescence

“I enjoy convalescence. It is the part that makes the illness worth while.” -George Bernard Shaw

Fall is on its way out here in Jilin. It's getting colder outside, and the leaves (those that haven't been rendered unresponsive by pollution) have changed to reds and golds and oranges. It's quite beautiful, but it does make me miss the endless valleys of autumn leaves of the Cuyahoga Valley. I never appreciated the novelty of free access to nature until I came to China. I opted out of the 100 rmb visit to Red Leaf Valley this year, in spite of its beautiful scenery. Instead,I chose to visit the campus of Jilin Medical College, where my dear friends Father Brian and Wang Wei (and their free coffee) reside. (Disclaimer: Wang Wei does not actually reside at the Medical College, but with the amount of time she spends there, she really might as well.)

(Jilin Medical College- a small selection of the 2008 trees planted to commemorate the 2008 Olympic games)

Although you wouldn't know it from the colors of the leaves, we've already had our first snow in Jilin- a couple of days ago, in fact. It didn't stick, but the chill lingers in the cold breeze and the clammy interiors of apartments whose heating units won't be turned on for another two weeks. I think my apartment building is planning to freeze the swine flu out. It likes warm climes, right? Really, it's quite a logical approach. I'm sure that the fireworks that are still going off outside my window everyday are an equally logical attempt to scare the swine spirits away.

Maybe Beihua should give the old frozen firework approach a try- it seems like most of the people on campus are sick with something: the American guys all got either stomach viruses, bad colds, or the flu; a bunch of Pakistanis came down with laryngitis; and the Koreans have had a monopoly on digestive issues. The Russians claimed to have some sort of something, but I suspect they were just hungover. I, myself- being the global citizen that I am- have tried my best to catch all of the above, but have managed to escape with minor stomach weirdness and four days without a voice. I'm hoping that the latter is the result of a cold, rather than early-onset throat cancer from my exposure to Chinese air. The voice seems to be coming back more or less normally, though, so I think I'll be okay. Maybe I'll write an inspirational book about it someday... Where Miracles Happen: The Shocking True Story of How 1.6 Billion People Breathe Chinese Air Every Day... And Live to Tell the Tale!

Okay, so it's a working title.

In spite of all the illness and coldness, the Beihua students were adamant about getting English Corner up and running. Dedicated kids, my former students. That's why yesterday, despite sounding like an 80 year old smoker with an artificial larynx, I found myself on the 32 bus headed to Beihua. 

Now there are some very nice bus lines in Jilin. There are bus lines with big, spacious aisles and modern steering apparatuses. There are bus lines with new brakes and working doors. There are even bus lines that may be accidentally fuel efficient. The number 32 bus line, however, is not associated with any of the aforementioned characteristics.

The bus I was on seemed to have only two gears- go and neutral. For the most part this was fine, and I didn't even notice anything amiss until halfway through the journey... that was when we tried to stop on a hill. The driver gunned past the bus stop, then put the bus in neutral and opened the doors. Fascinated, I watched as the passengers lept off the bus, which was slowly sliding back toward the stop. When we reached the bus stop, the waiting crowd casually hooked arms around the sagging door and pulled themselves up the stairs. I was most impressed by an elderly woman who came just as the bus driver started to rev the engine- she took a running leap and managed to simultaneously squeeze past three people waiting in line and avoid being crushed by the closing bus door. I wonder sometimes if public transportation in China is merely one giant training scenario for future Chinese gymnasts; it would certainly explain why gymnastics is the Olympic flag sport of China.

I exited the bus and walked toward the building where English Corner was being held. The road outside Beihua looked like a scene from The Great Escape- kids climbing over fences and slipping between holes in the fence, skulking in the shadows outside the lights as they waited for the guards' attention to wane. Campus quarantine is kind of a joke. Some of the Chinese students just walk right past the guards, jabbering in a made-up language; they say the guards think they're Korean, and let them walk right out.

 

Scenes from Beihua: (left) the field students sneak across to get to the fence, (right) the street outside campus

English Corner itself was short and crowded. I passed the time by surreptitiously beckoning George's students over to my group, while he tried to retaliate by mocking my taste in clothing. I think we should do an English Corner focusing on trash talk, so the students will be able to keep up next time.

(George attempting to lure students to his side by virtue of his abnormal height)

After English Corner was finished, I opted to take a taxi home, rather than risk dismemberment on the 32. I climbed up the stairs to my apartment, let myself in, and thought about how much more enjoyable convalescing would be if only I had heat.

Even This

"Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit."
"One day it will please us to remember even this."-Virgil

I woke up yesterday thinking that the world was exploding around me.

...Okay, if not the world, then at least my apartment building. Yeah yeah, I know- dramatic much? Initially I thought the noise was part of my dream, and the most frightening thing was waking up and realizing that the explosions from said dream had followed me into the waking world. After the initial panicked jolt, it didn't take me too long to figure out that the explosions were actually fireworks (rather than my initial guess- a bad day at the chemical factory down the street). The realization didn't really do much for my blood pressure, though. An explosion's an explosion- and it was so LOUD. I could feel the vibrations shaking the walls of my room and thrumming through my bed. In a Chinese-constructed apartment building, there's no such thing as good vibrations.

I hauled myself out of bed and went to my window, thinking that the revelers must have set up in the courtyard outside my window. No such luck. Nosiree- these fireworks were set up right below my window. They were so close I had to heft myself up and practically crawl out onto the ledge in order to look down at them. I vaguely suspected that the building manager might have lodged the fireworks in the walls themselves- used the opportunity to scare the rats away. 一举两得.  I wanted to lean out and scream "fire code" in Chinese, but I'm not sure the concept translates. Probably would've just gotten shot in the face with a rocket, anyway.

Afterward, in the comparative quiet of the afternoon, I couldn't help but reflect on the difference between this year's Mid-Autumn Festival and last year's... or at least the difference in my experience of the two. Last year, I was holed up in the Animosity Hotel, or doing that radio thing, or traveling to Harbin. (Feel free to check out the previous blog for a comparison.) This year the entire weekend was spent listening to the rumble of firecrackers, choking down rose-flavored moon cakes, and trying to figure out how to cook cucumbers and red peppers without using a stove (more on that later).

I guess the whole experience taught me just how little I know about China, and how far all my previous experiences have been from any sort of cultural immersion. "Old China hand," indeed. I feel like there must be some Chinese version of Kokopelli, out to shred the overinflated college grad ego.

-----------------------------------------------

I had a different sort of cultural experience about a week and half ago. This experience centered around my struggle with the contemporary Chinese method of cooking- a gas stove.

See, I've kind of been living off of protein bars since I arrived in Jilin. I always carry some with me- traveling, emergencies, general laziness- you never know when they'll come in handy. But I was getting sick of protein bars and wanted to try my hand at this stir-fried garlic broccoli that Kevin used to make. Plus, my room mate was out of town and I thought it'd be nice to surprise her the following day with a homecooked dish, you know? So I cut the broccoli, chopped the garlic, poured a little oil in the wok and set it on the stove. The I turned on the gas tank under the sink and clicked the stove on. Cake.

I noticed, as I pushed the broccoli around, that there was a light glowing under the stove as well as on top of it, and, panicked, I quickly turned the dial off. The light under the stove flickered off as well. "Okay," I thought. "You're being paranoid. Maybe it's supposed to do that." So I turned it back on.

The glow still made me nervous, though. I've always been a bit paranoid about gas. I even sent my friend Wang Wei a text message before I started cooking, something along the lines of how I'd probably blow up the kitchen if I started to cook. Well. 

When I saw smoke coming out from under the countertop, it was probably the biggest holy hell moment of my life. Or at least in the top five. I turned off the dial, but this time the glow didn't go out, and the smoke just kept coming. That probably bumped the experience up to at least Holy Hell Moment #3.

What happened next was rather mortifying. I bolted out of the apartment and knocked on every door I could see, screaming about a fire, but only one person answered the door. Have I mentioned that the doors here are two layers think- metal and wood- and virtually sound-proof? I reiterate- "fire code."

A call to Father Brian and Wang Wei was immediately followed by a call to 119 (and wouldn't it just figure that it's the opposite of the number in the States). While we were waiting for the firemen, one of the girls who lives down the hall yelled that we had to shut off the electricity in the room, so I ran back into the smokey apartment to unplug all the appliances and grab my electrical stuff. Not my brightest moment. Especially since what she actually meant was "switch off the easy-to-reach master electrical box that is conveniently located just inside the front door." I have got to improve my Chinese.

As I stood outside with my neighbors and a few thousand of their closest friends, wondering dazedly if the gas tank was going to explode and should I get under cover, I overheard snippets of conversations: "What building?" "Owned or rented?" "It's the foreigner's rental..." "Where is..." "She is so white..." "Gas or electric..."  Even at the time, freaking out though I was, I was amused by the inevitable skin color comments that are apparently germane to any sort of conversation or inquiry.

To make an already long story a bit less lengthy, Father Brian and Wang Wei showed up around the same time as the firefighters. They helped me soak and scoop up the water from the fire hoses as random people stood in my living room and stared. They helped me talk to the police (who wanted to know why I wasn't registered as living there) and to the apartment's owner (who wanted a new set of cabinets and a marble countertop, to start) and generally helped me survive an extremely disoriented evening.

I remember thinking as I went to bed that evening, that someday this would all be terribly amusing. "Remember that time I set the kitchen on fire? Yeah, my first apartment. First time cooking anything beyond instant noodles, too. Yep, it was in China. Me- the unregistered foreigner studying on a tourist visa and wrecking mayhem wherever I go."

Hey, God- I can take a sign. Last year I melted plastic all over an oven... a year or two before that I tried to cook a pizza while it was still attached to some cardboard... Maybe it's time for me to just lay down the ladle, before I accidentally concoct some horrible biological pathogen while trying to make grilled cheese.

Yeah, someday it'll make a great story. One day it will please me to remember even this.

They Take You In

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." -Robert Frost

...and then you have to do all the housework. I've been home for about a week, and so far I've cleaned the dining room (which was stacked with Christmas presents and sewing tools a mile high), cleaned out the pantry (which my mom saves specifically for my sister every time she comes home), cleaned out the upstairs bathroom (much easier after my sister took her 85 lbs of beauty products pack to Dallas), and cleaned out my room (where the busily procreating dust bunnies were nearly the end of me). Living in a refrigerator box suddenly sounds so much more attractive.

It's been a good time to catch up with friends from home. One of my friends, especially, has had some interesting experiences while I've been away. Let me tell you her story, and then you can guess where she's gone:

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It's late night in November, and she's driving slowly, searching the dark ahead for any signs of human life. The dirt road she's on winds through forests and fields, but she can't make out any lights ahead. For a moment she's worried that she made a wrong turn, and she thinks about turning back, going home. But she's driven hours and hours to get here, and she doesn't think she can face the long road back home.

All of a sudden, she turns a corner and brakes in front of a group of darkened buildings. They're squat and oddly-shaped. There is no movement, no sign of light, no indication that anyone has ever lived there. The driveway has ended, so she assumes she's in the right place- but the area appears completely deserted.

Hesitantly, she turns off her car and climbs out, still looking around. Forest on one side, open fields on the other, and nothing but the sounds of cicadas and crickets in the air. Grabbing her duffel bag from the back seat, she slowly walks toward the nearest building.

"Hello?" she whispers, afraid that if she speaks too loudly, the sound will shatter the air around her.She searches the shadows around the buildings, but they remain still. She shifts her bag to her other shoulder and wonders what the heck she should do now.

"Heeeey!"

She whirls around, heart racing, and sees a dark form moving through the forest. She backs away toward her car. This was a bad idea. She shouldn't have come here. She's in the wrong place. She's walked into a horror film, and now some over-peppy serial killer is going to mutilate her and dump her body in the woods. Why hadn't she stayed home? Why did she ever quit missionary nun training? She closes her eyes briefly and sends up a brief prayer that she can make it out of this alive.

She opens her eyes... and stares. In front of her... it can't be. It can't, but... in front of her is... is... Jesus.

Wow, she thinks in hazy amazement. That was quick.

Jesus smiles benevolently. His hair is long and loose around his shoulders, his beard is shaggy and full, and his robes gleam in the faint light of the moon. The shine of white against dark makes him seem like a spirit drifting through the shadows.

He raises one of his hands toward her and she moves forward, entranced. He is holding something out to her, and her exhaustion-fogged brain gibbers in excitement. Receiving a gift from Jesus' hand! Can she get canonized for this? Beatified, at the very least, she assures herself woozily.

Her hand rises of its own accord to accept the tiny roll of parchment from his hand. She gazes down at it blearily, wondering what reservoirs of wisdom are contained within. The Gospel of Me! her brain giggles.

Then Jesus lifts his hands again- cups them around his mouth. Is he going to speak? she wonders excitedly. But no- a tiny flame flickers to life around his hands (magic!), illuminating features that are craggy with knowledge beyond mortal ken, and then... his mouth opens... he's going to speak...!

Jesus exhales a cloud of fragrant smoke. "Wanna light, sister?" he grins sloppily.

She looks down at the roll of parchment. Oh, crap, she thinks. Jesus is a stoner.

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And that was her introduction to a place we will call Birch Valley Commune. (I don't know about liability issues with blogs, so I'll just keep names out of it.) She had some fantastic stories from the place- conversations with students of free love, member/visitor tensions, re-naming ceremonies, orgy codes of conduct... I may be posting more about this in the future, if nothing else exciting happens. It seems a teensy bit more interesting than my ongoing war against the house gutters.

And that's all for today. Thanks for tuning in, folks.

Love Thy Enemy

"Alcohol may be man´s worst enemy, but the Bible says to love your enemy." -Frank Sinatra

I´ve been in Spain for five days, but it seems like much longer. Part of that may be because I´ve been so busy- museums, parks, historical sites, trains, sangria- but part of it is just culture shock. There are all these people here who look like waiguoren, but they don´t speak any language I understand! Add to that the fact that my Spanish is more like Spinglish, and I spend most of my time wandering about looking confused. Luckily my sister is a better linguist than me, and she keeps me from wandering down too many dark alleys.

We´re in Cordoba right now, in the heart of Andalucia, the southernmost province in Spain. It is disgustingly hot, but Hong Kong prepared me well and I´m able to get by with minimal misery. You would think that the buildings here would be built for heat, and they probably were originally. However, a lot of the Moorish architecture I´ve seen has been based on the open wall design, and modern day Spaniards tend to place higher priority on keeping their stuff intact than having a nice cross-breeze. Such a loss.

For example, today Darcy and I went to the Mezquita (the Great Mosque) of Cordoba. It was unspeakably beautiful- the first piece of architecture since the Great Wall to really take my breath away. In this case, it wasn´t the scale of the place as much as the smooth transition between the Muslim arches and the medieval cupolas, the Arabic script and the Catholic frescos. I know that the transition was not a peaceful one, and that the construction of the cathedral meant the destruction of dozens of beautiful columns, but the overall effect is still visually stunning.

Tomorrow I´m heading out to the archaeological dig of Rahman III´s tomb (or something- I´ll have to check the details), while my sister goes to some Moorish baths for a medieval-type massage. We´ll meet up for sangria before hitting up the old cathedral and the synagogue. Then it´s off to Granada for the next few days. I´ll post pictures when I get the chance.

 

Here are the long-awaited pictures from the Medina Azahara, Rahman III's palace complex north of Cordoba. I only got off a few shots before my camera broke, but the distance views give you some scope of just how amazing this place will be once they've finished the excavations... and they think they've only uncovered about 10% of the city so far!