Baozi again for breakfast. Also, a liter of orange juice. Orange juice is my ambrosia; it always makes me feel better. I am more than an aficionado, more than a connoisseur, more than a person dropping big words, of orange juice. China has the best orange juice I've ever had. Short of importing it, I think I'll have to start hitting farmers' markets and making my own. In a discussion of this riveting topic the night before, the hypothesis was forwarded that fruit in the US is usually picked before it is ripe, maturing as it ships. However, ripening on the vine is completely different. Ripening in a truck, the fruit has no nutrients but itself.
I catch the Metro to the Lama Temple, the largest and oldest Buddhist temple in Beijing. I wanted some Buddhist accouterments. After sticking my head in a few gift shops, I find one with a large assortment of what I want. And the haggling drama begins. Well it would have, had I not thought the initial offer reasonable and so did not immediately counter offer. Again, I probably overpaid by a factor of 3-5. I tried some haggling at the end and got a couple extra gift boxes and some terse yelling in Chinese. The only way to haggle is to be able to walk away, which I didn't want to do since I had to catch a flight. I paid for the convenience. The haggling was successful, I realize. There is no optimal, just what works for both parties. This is an incredibly deep realization for me: there is no optimal in life. In math, sure, but math is only ever an approximation. Huh, there is no optimal. So what have I been killing myself over all this time, thinking I should have made that choice or that other one would have been better, no, no that one. If it works, let it go.
Walking back to the Metro station, I decide to buy some incense. An old lady runs the next stall. In Mandarin: [Pointing at incense] How much? 30 yuan. [Out of pure spite from my previous experience, I say] 20 yuan. [She] 30. [Me] 20. We do this a few more times. She concedes. Great, I just got uppity about $1.50 from an old lady. Well, I haggled a little at any rate.
I next catch the Metro to Wanfujing Street, a major pedestrian way with shopping galore. Having figured out the metro stops have maps of how the their exits fit into surface streets, I take the northeast exit, which places me right on the corner of Wanfujing. Well, it actually places me in the depths of a shopping mall, which is very disorienting. Figuring the street is to the west, I head west (thank you again compass). Success. Once outside, there is no sign for the metro. Some routes can only be discovered traveling in one direction, but I'm in the know now.
I hit a few chopsticks stores, a few tea places. I've realized the only way to get a feel for what the actual price should be is to build up a database of correlations. I've also realized that when prices are clearly posted, haggling is not expected. I try on a nice set of chopsticks and get an apologetic, "I'm sorry, but there are no discounts." At similar stores in Yangshuo, one had a sign that said the same and another just took 20% off everything (the person working the store hit 0.8 * price for another customer on her calculator, and then did the same for me)...presumably, after having marked them up 20%. Better social engineering.
Now I'm late. I notice on my hostel address card that I can catch a shuttle to the airport. I spend 10 minutes trying to find the actual shuttle stop. Then the shuttle is late (not every 15 minutes). And I'm thinking, there's a reason the shuttle was cheaper than the metro...by $1.50. Should've just taken the known option...yadda yadda yadda for 10 or 15 minutes before I realize the die is cast (another 5 minutes and I was hopping in a cab) and I'm just doing the usele
ss "beat-myself-up"-routine (...perhaps seeking non-existent optimality). The shuttle gets me to the airport two hours before my flight. There is no line at the Asiana check-in. She speaks English. She gets me a SAH-weet seat from Seoul to Los Angeles.
For my last hour in China, I get a latte (I was curious. Result: stick with tea in China) at a nice sit-down place, looking out at one of the control towers, and journal, trying to sum up or at least put down everything racing through my head. Eventually, I head to the gate and board. The pre-flight announcements are made in Korean, Chinese, and English. We taxi, the
throttles go to full, and I've left China.
Now I'm in the reverse position: I'm headed home, into the known - although, it's beginning to feel unknown - while many around me are heading into their personal unknowns. I see a Chinese business man taking pictures as well. It's the big business trip to Korea, presentations to be given, deals to be worked. Projecting again.
I've been in China three weeks. In Seoul's Incheon Airport, at the transfer security screening, I reflexively say "Xie xie" to the guard. Whoops. "I am not Chinese; I am Korean!" This was a pretty bad faux pas on my part. I am suitably apologetic. She seems to understand...and to be used to it. Doh! Also, I stop to look at some of the historical art pieces on display. The English translations are as bad as if they were from Chinese. So maybe it's not unique to Chinglish? Something is going on here at a deeper level of language. Have to get a linguistics book when I get home. Damn interesting stuff.
Then it goes very wrong. I board for home. I am sitting on a Boeing 777 airliner about to cross the world's largest ocean in 11 hours at 35,000 feet and over 700 mph through air temperatures of -40 degrees Farenheit with 300 fellow souls in such comfort the emperors of China could not have dreamed of. I am sitting in arguably one of the pinnacles of human achievement, with indirect lighting and the soft strains of Pachelbel's Canon suffusing the cabin. All the worse then, as the paper tells of a woman in Kenya who, as a rival ethnicity boarded up her church and burned it down with everyone inside, tripped, her child rolling into the flames as she, the mother, was trampled, listening to her child scream, "Don't leave me! I don't want to die!" as she was burned alive. What. the. fuck. How do you deal with this as immaculately-dressed women bring you drinks and Pachelbel's plays?
I try to sleep, and by the middle of the flight I have forgotten about it. I don't know which is worse.
The US immigration officer, after asking a few questions, says "Welcome home." I'd like to say I felt elation or relief or sadness. Mostly, I was just numb. This could be from four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six. I get home and go to get groceries around 5:30 pm. I run into some folks from work, shopping after their days are done. It's weird talking to people from another life, as if this is what I do. It's not clear to me anymore. In ultimate irony, I get home, realize I keep the house at 65 and that feels fine after being in China, and that my "comfortably-appointed" retreat is just four walls, a roof and a floor, and some stuff inside. The same thing that was causing me trouble in China. Huh. It's all projection.
This got depressing. But it's enlightening to watch me put on identities to talk with this person, or do this chore, or interact with the bank teller. It's so different from what I've been doing the last three weeks (God, it feels like years), that I can see it as a choice, like putting on a heavy set of clothes for this situation and a different set for that one. I guess I'm feeling lost because all these identities are clearly not me, just roles. And I just seem to switch between roles. What's behind all this? I don't want to just settle back into "my" life. Traveling in China changed my patterns enough - I had only two pairs of clothes and would wash one set every night - that I see them as patterns now. Patterns can be helpful, if used conciously, but I hadn't been doing that. Every day in China, I wasn't sure how it would turn out. I'm realizing that's true at home too.
And that feels kind of good. I'm still traveling.
Dan
I catch the Metro to the Lama Temple, the largest and oldest Buddhist temple in Beijing. I wanted some Buddhist accouterments. After sticking my head in a few gift shops, I find one with a large assortment of what I want. And the haggling drama begins. Well it would have, had I not thought the initial offer reasonable and so did not immediately counter offer. Again, I probably overpaid by a factor of 3-5. I tried some haggling at the end and got a couple extra gift boxes and some terse yelling in Chinese. The only way to haggle is to be able to walk away, which I didn't want to do since I had to catch a flight. I paid for the convenience. The haggling was successful, I realize. There is no optimal, just what works for both parties. This is an incredibly deep realization for me: there is no optimal in life. In math, sure, but math is only ever an approximation. Huh, there is no optimal. So what have I been killing myself over all this time, thinking I should have made that choice or that other one would have been better, no, no that one. If it works, let it go.
Walking back to the Metro station, I decide to buy some incense. An old lady runs the next stall. In Mandarin: [Pointing at incense] How much? 30 yuan. [Out of pure spite from my previous experience, I say] 20 yuan. [She] 30. [Me] 20. We do this a few more times. She concedes. Great, I just got uppity about $1.50 from an old lady. Well, I haggled a little at any rate.
I next catch the Metro to Wanfujing Street, a major pedestrian way with shopping galore. Having figured out the metro stops have maps of how the their exits fit into surface streets, I take the northeast exit, which places me right on the corner of Wanfujing. Well, it actually places me in the depths of a shopping mall, which is very disorienting. Figuring the street is to the west, I head west (thank you again compass). Success. Once outside, there is no sign for the metro. Some routes can only be discovered traveling in one direction, but I'm in the know now.
I hit a few chopsticks stores, a few tea places. I've realized the only way to get a feel for what the actual price should be is to build up a database of correlations. I've also realized that when prices are clearly posted, haggling is not expected. I try on a nice set of chopsticks and get an apologetic, "I'm sorry, but there are no discounts." At similar stores in Yangshuo, one had a sign that said the same and another just took 20% off everything (the person working the store hit 0.8 * price for another customer on her calculator, and then did the same for me)...presumably, after having marked them up 20%. Better social engineering.
Now I'm late. I notice on my hostel address card that I can catch a shuttle to the airport. I spend 10 minutes trying to find the actual shuttle stop. Then the shuttle is late (not every 15 minutes). And I'm thinking, there's a reason the shuttle was cheaper than the metro...by $1.50. Should've just taken the known option...yadda yadda yadda for 10 or 15 minutes before I realize the die is cast (another 5 minutes and I was hopping in a cab) and I'm just doing the usele
ss "beat-myself-up"-routine (...perhaps seeking non-existent optimality). The shuttle gets me to the airport two hours before my flight. There is no line at the Asiana check-in. She speaks English. She gets me a SAH-weet seat from Seoul to Los Angeles.For my last hour in China, I get a latte (I was curious. Result: stick with tea in China) at a nice sit-down place, looking out at one of the control towers, and journal, trying to sum up or at least put down everything racing through my head. Eventually, I head to the gate and board. The pre-flight announcements are made in Korean, Chinese, and English. We taxi, the
throttles go to full, and I've left China.Now I'm in the reverse position: I'm headed home, into the known - although, it's beginning to feel unknown - while many around me are heading into their personal unknowns. I see a Chinese business man taking pictures as well. It's the big business trip to Korea, presentations to be given, deals to be worked. Projecting again.
I've been in China three weeks. In Seoul's Incheon Airport, at the transfer security screening, I reflexively say "Xie xie" to the guard. Whoops. "I am not Chinese; I am Korean!" This was a pretty bad faux pas on my part. I am suitably apologetic. She seems to understand...and to be used to it. Doh! Also, I stop to look at some of the historical art pieces on display. The English translations are as bad as if they were from Chinese. So maybe it's not unique to Chinglish? Something is going on here at a deeper level of language. Have to get a linguistics book when I get home. Damn interesting stuff.
Then it goes very wrong. I board for home. I am sitting on a Boeing 777 airliner about to cross the world's largest ocean in 11 hours at 35,000 feet and over 700 mph through air temperatures of -40 degrees Farenheit with 300 fellow souls in such comfort the emperors of China could not have dreamed of. I am sitting in arguably one of the pinnacles of human achievement, with indirect lighting and the soft strains of Pachelbel's Canon suffusing the cabin. All the worse then, as the paper tells of a woman in Kenya who, as a rival ethnicity boarded up her church and burned it down with everyone inside, tripped, her child rolling into the flames as she, the mother, was trampled, listening to her child scream, "Don't leave me! I don't want to die!" as she was burned alive. What. the. fuck. How do you deal with this as immaculately-dressed women bring you drinks and Pachelbel's plays?
I try to sleep, and by the middle of the flight I have forgotten about it. I don't know which is worse.
The US immigration officer, after asking a few questions, says "Welcome home." I'd like to say I felt elation or relief or sadness. Mostly, I was just numb. This could be from four hours of sleep in the last thirty-six. I get home and go to get groceries around 5:30 pm. I run into some folks from work, shopping after their days are done. It's weird talking to people from another life, as if this is what I do. It's not clear to me anymore. In ultimate irony, I get home, realize I keep the house at 65 and that feels fine after being in China, and that my "comfortably-appointed" retreat is just four walls, a roof and a floor, and some stuff inside. The same thing that was causing me trouble in China. Huh. It's all projection.
This got depressing. But it's enlightening to watch me put on identities to talk with this person, or do this chore, or interact with the bank teller. It's so different from what I've been doing the last three weeks (God, it feels like years), that I can see it as a choice, like putting on a heavy set of clothes for this situation and a different set for that one. I guess I'm feeling lost because all these identities are clearly not me, just roles. And I just seem to switch between roles. What's behind all this? I don't want to just settle back into "my" life. Traveling in China changed my patterns enough - I had only two pairs of clothes and would wash one set every night - that I see them as patterns now. Patterns can be helpful, if used conciously, but I hadn't been doing that. Every day in China, I wasn't sure how it would turn out. I'm realizing that's true at home too.
And that feels kind of good. I'm still traveling.
Dan
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