The rest of my life so far...

The Sichuan Opera

2013-04-22T15:26:00.000-04:00

This tea was served before and during the performance.

Yes, there is a story that goes with this photo. :P

Traveler’s rules and tools: PressReader App review

2013-04-12T19:16:00.000-04:00

Once you have muscled through the blissful introductory vacation feeling, long term travel begins to have its routines. For a newbie like me, I opted to learn most of my must-haves the hard way. I set out from home with a too-small duffle so haphazardly packed that the following 2 months were spent acquiring what I needed.

Some things I learned along the way:

1) Pack enough undies for at least 2 weeks. Seriously. When you combine general vacation malaise with a tight budget and un-guaranteed laundry facilities, you need at least a two week supply to keep yourself from getting into a situation.

2) Make sure your sleeping pills are not past their expiry date before you board your 20 hour flight.

3) Consider the fastest, most convenient way to access relevant world news while you’re away.

The list of things I didn’t do is quite a bit longer than this, but let’s focus, for a moment, on number 3. I was on the road from the end of September until the end November, which meant the presidential election fell right in the middle of my adventure.

Despite the allure of oolong tea and stinky tofu, I was kicked out of my political apathy by the election, and felt nearly desperate for news from home. Of course, the only thing I had to help me was the Chinese internet.

I haven’t yet spoken of the delights that await the average internet user in China. The service is slower than dial-up, censorship is alive and well. Of course, all the Chinese sites work at lightning speed, but as previously mentioned, I can’t read characters, so that did me no good. I had to download a VPN on my Galaxy to access all the good stuff (read: facebook), and even then I was likely to be booted off the network every 30 seconds, so it wasn’t worth it.

Trying to get news was excruciating.

I promised myself that I would find a way have better access on my next trip. Luckily for me, the nice folks at PressReader have allowed me to sample their app. With PressReader, you can download newspapers directly to your phone or tablet computer. You can select newspapers from several different countries so you can keep up with the shenanigans of Kwame Kilpatrick with the Detroit Free Press, and see what’s up in Parisian politics with Le Monde. Or whatever tickles your fancy.

How it worked for me? I picked out 3 newspapers to follow. Once selected, they downloaded automatically. The papers are easy to scroll through, and the articles are easy to enlarge and read. Its the newspaper at your fingertips. Bonus: smart phone apps are easier (not 100% reliable, but easier) to access that internet browsers in countries that censor internet access.

If you’re the type of person who likes to flip through the paper at breakfast (or skim the titles, like me), this app is worth trying. Especially if you will be on the road - for any period of time.

Buying baked goods is for the fearless

2013-04-08T18:11:00.000-04:00

My experience of Chinese desserts in America was limited to almond cookies and fortune cookies. If you’ve never tasted either, they are basically dried out, slightly sweetened cardboard novelties that are thrown in with your MSG-ed Golden Dragon take-out like a consolation prize. You know, instead of a happy meal toy. Oh, and they come with bits of philosophy, lucky numbers, and/or cryptic glimpses of the future.

Utter. Rubbish.

My experience of Chinese desserts in Korea was non-existent. After a few ill-fated forays into the omnipresent “Paris Baguette” where I sampled delights like garlic bread coated in sugar, hard-boiled hot dogs wrapped in abusively doughy pastry, and chocolate chip cookies so hard they actually caused tears of frustration, I called it quits with all Korean experimental offshoot attempts at “foreign” sweets.

In Chengdu, on the way back from a Buddhist temple in a carefully preserved (read: tourist trap) district, there was a bakery bumping with so much traffic you would think they were giving away the goods for free. Thick wisps of sweetened steam coiled over the counter, tickling my tongue with fresh-baked-delicious smell. There was a glass partition behind which sat heavy silver trays, stuffed with confections covered in eye-catching sugar, nut, and chocolate details. Despite my previous, rather traumatic, introduction to Chinese sweets, I was compelled to stop there by one of my oldest, truest, travel rules:

If there is a crowd at a place, that’s where you want to eat.

The exchange of goods was terrifying. People were hustling up to the counter in no discernible pattern, shouting in rapid Chinese to one baker, taking pounds (seriously, pounds) of sweets by the bagful from another, and paying another. My friend, who accompanied me from my hostel, stood with me staring at these rapid transactions. The agile, suspiciously thin bakers balanced tall stiff white hats and wore pristine white aprons. With wicked precision they snatched the treats from multiple trays and tossed them into clear plastic bags. We watched this dance for about five full minutes before braving up. We turned to each other and said: “Let’s do this.”

We hopped in the line, which was coiling from about 3 different directions, moving respectfully with the flow of traffic.

Ok, that’s a bald faced lie.

Fun fact: Living in Korea has caused me to lose some manors. I push in lines, I hop over short people, I elbow my way through the crowd. This story is not about that, though.

So, we got to the front of the line. I guided my friend ahead of me (she was too polite for pushing), and she stood looking helplessly from one bustling baker to another until one finally paid attention to her.

That’s where the fun began.

With pointing and finger counting, she indicated what she wanted: 1 of this, 3 of that, and 2 of that sugary thing there.

The baker stared.

My friend pointed again.

The baker stared, her face reddened, and she fired off fifty million unintelligible words in an incredulous tone that translated, to my mind, like this:

“What the hell did you just order, you idiot?”

Uh-oh. She hates us.

I watched my friend again indicate what she wanted, trying to search the situation for clues. What was she doing wrong? The pointing was direct. Finger counting was understood by all. Why would the woman not hand the bag to the cashier and move on?

Disgusted, the baker finally shoved the treats into the bag as directed, grunting and rolling her eyes. Then she turned to me.

I was totally brilliant, ordered perfectly, and she was super nice to me.

NOT.

Her eyes bugged and her throat worked an angry, dry heave so rapidly I thought she was going to asphyxiate.

She flippin’ hates us.

As the people around me bought and sold, I realized that they weren’t just buying huge quantities because of their gluttonous desire for delicious baked goods. This was a bulk-only bakery.

Ha! Oops.

Too bad I couldn’t communicate that I understood. The only Chinese I had mastered was “Thank you” and “noodle”. Not useful.

Ok, that’s also a lie. I could never say noodle. I had it written down on a piece of paper that I kept in my pocket.

Still, you get me.

I didn’t then, and don’t now, know the Chinese for “my bad” and “I’ll take a kilo of that”. And to be truthful, given my experiences, I didn’t want a kilo. I just wanted a taste. So gave the baker my what’s-the-problem? eyes and waited her to fill my bag. I even managed to keep from flinching as she glared, withering my soul with the force of my own stupidity.

Turns out, the lady in the line behind us spoke some English. I know this, because Janey-came-lately ran after us after she’d bought her treats and said, “You bought too little.”

Thanks for the bulletin, lady.

Giggling, we shuffled away from there quick, leaving the muttering and resentment behind. I dug into my bag right away, getting sugar and flaky pastry all over my fingers and chin. I ripped through the puffed pastry and then chowed into an egg tart, the only thing on the menu I recognized.

And you know what? Egg tarts are fabulous.

It was totally worth it.

Sichuan spice

2013-03-25T12:04:00.001-04:00

Photo credit: Hua Jiao Blog

Trying to eat vegetarian in China is unnecessarily tricky. It shouldn’t be, truly. The veggie dishes in Chinese cuisine are multiple and delicious. I stuffed myself with so many veggies, fruits, rices, and other non meaty things while I was winding my way up the east coast that it never occurred to me that a vegetarian would suffer trying to find suitable meal choices.

While I was in Chendgu, I met a girl who totally changed my mind. This girl had been on the road for twice as long as me in China, and she told me the most shocking, funny, awful thing ever: When you tell people that you’re vegetarian in China, they serve you rice and lettuce.

Rice. And Lettuce.

I actually laughed when she told me this, then felt sad for her stomach. So sad that I allowed her to drag me to a vegetarian restaurant that night, out of solidarity.

I was down for whatever, food wise. I had sampled a few Sichuan dishes already (including a beer soaked rabbit), and everything was yummy. Plus, most of the American Chinese food is Schezuan (which is just the American spelling of Sichuan) so whatevs. It’s all yums in my tums.

Spoiler: it is NOT all yums.

The Sichuan region of China is famous for having spicy food. Really, really spicy food. The spiciest food in China, to be exact. But whatevs, I’d just spent two years in Korea having my American taste buds blasted to oblivion, so I figured this “spicy” was just code for “whimp-nuggets”.

With my ego inflated, I followed my new friends to the restaurant. We had a slip of paper that said the Chinese character for “vegetarian” (written by the people who worked at our hostel). We pressed this paper against the window, eyebrows pleading. The lady working behind the window nodded.

Loaded up with veggie dishes, we carried our trays into the dining area and started eating. The food was cold, but palatable. I sighed internally and tucked in. It wasn’t the most delicious thing I’d had in China, but it wasn’t half bad.

About five bites in, I noticed a major problem: my tongue was going numb.

I contemplated this, eating more slowly. The numbness spread up to the roof of my mouth, coated my tonsils, and started to travel down my throat. This is when I realized that I must be eating the famous Sichuan flower pepper.

When I said that Sichuan was famous for the most spicy food in China, I should have been more specific. Yes, they are known for eating stupidly spicy stuff. But it’s the combination of numb and spicy that gives Sichuan food its distinct kick. The flower pepper (reportedly) contains the same ingredients as novocaine.

Imagine, putting novocaine in your mouth ON PURPOSE. For the nummy jollies that it brings.

Seriously, try to imagine that.

I was trying to wrap my mind around this thought, when I realized that my mouth was on fire. I mean, I could sense that my lips, tongue, gums, hell, everything felt like they were being eaten away by corrosive acid. The only reason I wasn’t totally panicked was because the sensation was overwhelmed by the medical grade numb-out I had going. This horrifying feeling was coupled with another realization:

What comes in, must go out.

I put my chopsticks down. I mean, I’ve done a lot of ill-advised things for the sake of adventure. But purposefully ingestive numbing, corrosive foodstuff that are guaranteed to numb my bum hole one minute and leave it burning the next - feelings I would have to navigate on a SQUATTY potty - I couldn’t go on. I began chugging water and shoveling rice, attempting to ameliorate the effects.

My friend laughed at me. “Too spicy for you?” She chuckled.

I didn’t wanna share my thoughts with her. She was enjoying the food, and besides, this was the first meal she’d had that didn’t include wilted lettuce. It seemed too cruel to take that away with my own paranoia.

So I just watched her eat.

It was actually kind of funny. I mean, that food was so spicy that despite the fact that it was stone cold, she kept sucking her spit and attempting to cool her mouth. The food, making her tongue more burned and sensitive with each bite, was causing pain. I mean, she was actually saying “ouch”.

This is not a sensation that I list up there with “good food” associations.

I slurped up a chinese medicine drink (a tip I learned from a beijinger - it instantly neutralizes spicy food), and she just kept eating.

When she finally declared herself full, words slipped out. I said,

“You’re braver than me. I’m too afraid of digestive problems to eat that much numb stuff.”

My words fell over her face like a dark cloud as my meaning sunk in. “Oh no!” she said, “why didn’t you say anything earlier?” she said.

“I’m sorry!” I said, “You were enjoying yourself!”

When ran to the 24 hour mart. We bought milk, bread and water. Neutralization was key. Also, I was still starving. I gorged on my snacks, then went to bed, terrified.

Nothing happened.

No burning, numbing digestive issue. A little tummy ache, probably from the entire tube of Chinese rip-off pringles I had bought as my bread item, but nothing more than that.

I know that’s anti-climatic for you, but for me?

Whew, lordy, I was so relieved. I mean, there is no way to escape fire peppers in Sichuan, and if I couldn’t eat them, it was gonna be in for a rough time.

After that, my attempt to avoid flower peppers was purely based on foodie snobbery.

Numb is not delicious, folks. End of story.

Pandas, officially my favorite

2013-03-19T07:00:00.000-04:00

These jack-a-napes were NOT my favorite. But they were there, too, so I included a photo of them.

Red Pandas are jerks

2013-03-18T17:30:00.000-04:00

This is what panda cahoots looks like.

The day I visited the Panda Breeding and Research Center in Chengdu, I fell unequivocally, irrevocably in love with pandas.

Correction: GIANT pandas.

We're talking ooh-and-ahh love. Take-a-picture-when-they-stretch-and-yawn love. Watch-them-eat, watch-them-sleep, watch-a-video-of-them-being-born, run-out-and-a-by-a-backpack-made-in-their-shape kinda love.

You get me?

So I'm walking around with my dopey-love grin. I see the clumsy yearlings eat themselves into a bamboo food coma. I see the toddlers sleeping in the playscape of their "kindergarten". I see the baby pandas, so young that their fur is white and grey instead of white and black. And I am all click-snap-snap with the camera and feeling so much love.

And then we met the Red Pandas.

Did you know there is another type of Panda? The Red Panda looks like the bastard offspring of a raccoon and a panda bear, although how that coupling could have ever taken place, on the animal god knows.

The red pandas are allowed free reign of the nature reserve, which means you could be walking along and one could just pop on the walkway next to you at any point.

True story.

There are these holes in the fences (which led me to believe that the fences are more to keep the humans out than the pandas in) and pandas just sort of swagger around and rub their bums on things, marking territory and scavenging for food.

“Make sure you stay away from them, at least 3 meters” said the guide, said the signs, said everyone, “because they bite”.

You don’t have to tell me twice.

I stayed away from the pandas. Let me repeat, I stayed away from them. It just didn’t occur to me that I would have to account for their actions as well as mine own. I mind my own business, and I expect other creatures to do the same.

Silly me.

So yeah, we’re walking along and I’m all snap-cl-CLICK with my camera when the impossible happens. A red panda hops on our side of the fence, and starts walking by us all like “sup?” Just swaggering along while we all go “oooh” and “ahhh” and click-snappity-click.

I’m all Indiana Jones about my shot, crouching low and trying to capture his little face for National Geographic, when he looks right at me. And he’s got this little buddy, and they both look at each other like they’re in cahoots or something, and then he starts towards me. But I’m not looking at him, I’m looking at the buddy who is styling and profiling for me, and I’m hovering with my finger above the clicker, waiting for him to turn juuuuust a little bit, and not paying attention to his buddy who is swaggering up to me, nice and slow like, and I’m pushing the button and

YIPES!

That little jerk-face bit my ankle! I tumbled over and he bolted - swear to god - CHUCKLING and sh*t, and his buddy bolts too. They both belly slide under the nearest hole in the fence, high five each other, look back at me rubbing my ankle, and laugh.

True story.

And it’s not like I can chase down those little punks and give them the thumping they deserve because they’re all ‘endangered’ and sh*t, and even though they approached me instead of me approaching them, they can just walk away smirking while everyone “ooh”s and “ahhh”s and snaps more pictures of me on the ground and the pandas high fiving.

Cloudy, beautiful Chengdu (part 2)

2013-02-28T09:38:00.000-05:00

On the orient not-so-express

2013-02-26T19:22:00.000-05:00

A big part of the “adventure” of a trip to China is using the toilet. Even a veteran traveler, seasoned in Korea, will be in for a few surprises. Travelling between Yangshuo and Chengdu, I took a hard sleeper train. The ride was 18, possibly 19 hours. It was too long of ride, let’s just say that.

I struggled a bit with picking up my ticket from overcrowded ticket window, then completely failed at understanding what was written on it once I received it. I defaulted to the “dumb foreigner' mode which means that I mutely shoved the ticket towards every conductor on the platform until one grunted and shoved a thumb towards the door, which I took to mean, enter here.

The train car was a galley of small, numbered, open faced berths that had six beds each. The beds were stacked, three to a wall. I figured my ticket must say “bottom bunk” “middle bunk” or “top bunk”, but considering the only Chinese character I can read is one for “noodle”, the ticket didn’t help me much. A nice girl in my berth helped me out, letting me know I had the middle bed. I bowed to her, despite the fact that I really didn’t see much bowing in China, because after two years of inculcation, my me-no-speakie body language is defaulted to Korean mode, where a lot can be conveyed by bowing even when you have no clue what’s going on.

I settled my duffle onto the shelf, removed my shoes and put on my train-issued slippers, then folded into my too-short bunk space and propped my kindle in front of my face so that I could study the people around me surreptitiously.

As soon as the train groaned into motion, people started opening up their travel sacks, breaking out plastic forks, rubbing spoons clean on the corner of their sweaters, opening to-go bowls of ramen, filling them from the hot water tap on the train, unscrewing glass thermoses full of green leaves or spindly looking roots, filling those too, peeling oranges and unwrapping rice cakes. Everyone was talking, introducing themselves, giving treats to goodness-knows-whose children, starting card games, fanning the steam of ramen from their faces.

It was a big train lunch time party! I wanted to buy my first bowl of chinese ramen from the lunch cart and participate, but I had my reasons for resisting.

I was on a food strike.

Why would I do something so foolish as try not to eat on an 18 hour train ride? Well, the answer to that question brings us right back to the Chinese toilet challenge.

I happened to peek into the toilets early on, and notice something that shocked me to the core of my american soul: they were squatty potties. Now, I’m no stranger to squatty potties. But I wasn’t terribly skilled at using them even when they weren’t moving. The idea of trying to test my muscle control by “dropping off the kids at the pool” while squatting in a moving vehicle seemed like a deliriously stupid idea. So I decided to hold it instead.

Holding your bladder for 18 hours requires strategy. Mine was simple: nothing in, nothing out. I clutched my kindle to me, opened up a sci-fi novel, and dug in for the long haul.

The scenery on the train ride was incredible. I attempted to capture it with my phone camera, but of course all I got was blurry green fuzz. I am sorry that I don’t have photos to share with you because it was really something: a visual treat. Every few seconds I would wake from a reverie thinking, “Wow, I’m really here.”

When my throat became painfully sticky, I would allow myself a ration: 3 sips of water. Or 3 slices of orange.

Sleep was out. The bed was only a inch wider than my hips. It was also about 7 inches shorter than my feet, which, because of my position in the middle bunk, constantly smacked people in the head when they walked by unless I pulled them up. Even if I had managed to find restful comfort in a cramped fetal position, the sampling of Chinese pop music that played for five minutes before and after every station was enough to make sure I was up all night.

So there I was, riding in the light, then in the dark. Reading and clenching my sphincters into submission.

I ALMOST made it. I held things together for 17 hours by sheer force of will, and then I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I ran like mad for the squatty potty.

When I tell this bit of the story, people always say to me “I could never!” or “How did you use that thing?”

I’ll tell you what I discovered 17 hours into bladder hell, holding on the handrail for dear life. When you gotta go, you’ll get over it.

It might take reserves of muscle strength you didn’t know you had.

It might take inelegant, fervent prayers like “Dear lord, don’t let me sh*t myself.”

But you’ll get it done.

Having finished, I felt like a hero. Scratch that, a ROCKSTAR. If I could handle this, I could do my business anywhere. “Bring it on, China,” I said to myself. Opening the door, I felt like the people in line should congratulate me over my accomplishment, but all I got was shoved out of the way by the next toilet user, desperate to relieve herself.

So I moved outta the way, washed my hands thoroughly and ran back to my bunk.

I was flippin’ starved!

Cloudy, beautiful Chengdu (part 1)

2013-02-23T13:55:00.000-05:00

This monk asked me to take a picture with him, so I got one as well!

Fresh Chinese Ramen. So simple. SO good!!

Paddling around the People's Park

Pear and Jujubee juice

Creepy dolls with too large heads and eyes. I'm pretty sure I had one of these as a child...*shudder*

Mystery meal! One of many. Just pointed, prayed, then ate. It was fabulous.

I know I have a million pictures of these tortured looking guardian statues, but they always amuse me. I can't get over them!

Holidays with a Difference

2013-02-22T14:31:00.004-05:00

Across the world, there is a sumptuous array of holiday destinations on offer to suit people from all walks of life. From beach breaks to city escapes, voyages of discovery to ski holidays, there are no end of options on offer to suit today’s intrepid holidaymaker.

If you’re whisking the kids away on holiday this year, or if you’re planning something a bit special for the family, vacations in Florida would tick all the right boxes. An eternal family favourite, Florida is where the magic happens. Watch your kids’ faces as they meet Mickey and Minnie in the ‘flesh’, watch a dolphin or a killer whale show at SeaWorld, or screech their way around the hideous heights of a looping roller coaster.

Away from the thrills of the theme park, in Florida you can enjoy plenty of natural wonders too. Take an easy trip around the breathtaking Keys - a knock-out archipelago that’s like paradise found - and look out for the local wildlife. Or for the ultimate walk on the wild side, head to the Everglades. This vast swampy nature reserve is home to all manners of creatures great and small, from leggy wading birds right up to fearsome alligators.

If you’ve got your sights set on something closer to home, there are plenty of destinations on offer to tickle your fancy. Take Tunisia holidays for instance. This North African gem is home to magnificent beach resorts, five-star hotels and a fantastic array of things to see and do. Sprawl out on golden sands, dine on delicious local cuisine, head out for a day trip to experience the local sights, or take a dip beneath the waves and explore rainbow-colouredsealife.

Whatever you fancy, one thing’s for sure - today’s holidaymakers have never had it so good!

*This guest post was contributed by Thomas Cook*

The strange but true(ish) tale of the Dutch couple

2013-02-20T19:28:00.002-05:00

In Yangshuo I stayed, as I mentioned, at a small roadside hostel that was a bit removed from the main part of the city and tucked, innocuously, among the honeycombed houses of the locals. The house, and its tenants, were quiet folk who slipped around the guests with as little interference as possible. They were to be seen mostly when opening the door, and serving dinner.

Despite the somewhat somber air of the house, we few guests managed to find a little mirth and levity at the dinner table. Our numbers, in the beginning were only three. Other than myself, dinner was attended by a companionable couple who hailed from Britain. They were also roaming the wiles of China, piercing the veil of the unknown. We enjoyed swapping travel stories over the round table that was laden, each night as if by magic, with multiple succulent dishes that titillated the palate and delighted the tongue. After the first night’s culinary thrill, we fell into the happy tradition of meeting each night at 6pm, the hour set by our host, and indulging in good food and good conversation.

I was heading back from my day’s jaunt through the local surroundings when I noted a chill in the air, and an untimely lengthening of the shadows. A darkness was cast upon the street. I hurried my steps towards my lodging, and rung the bell. I entered, gratefully thanking the host for so speedily opening the door to welcome me, when I noted a addition to our normal dinner party.

There were two new guests seated at the round table who seemed to have managed, without a word, to have sucked all air of pleasantry from the room. I discarded my shoes at the door and donned my slippers, covertly examining the couple from the side of the room. They were a woman and a man, her the older, him the younger. He was robust of figure and ruddy cheeked, with slightly unruly hair curling around his pleasantly set face. She was the opposite. Her skin was so pale that it seemed without color or warmth. Her hair was a pleasant shade of gold, but it was pressed so flatly to her head that one could not help but note the severe shape of her skull. She kept her eyes downcast, regarding only her food and her fingers, as if our company was an unpleasant intrusion on her mealtime, one that upset her rather delicate appetite. She ate slowly and purposefully, putting only the smallest morsel into her mouth and recalling upon all of us the rules of etiquette we had learned as children.

The table, which had only the night before been alive with the clinking of earnest eating and the crescendos of conversation, was that night as silent as stone. Her manner seemed to exert a restraining influence on all of us, none more so than her travel companion who seemed curtailed from all speech, even up to the introduction of personal details, such as his name.

Attempting to shake off the macabre atmosphere of our dinner party which I initially attributed to shyness on the part our new guests, I blundered through a tale of my daily wanderings, including a humorous recounting of my first try at bartering with my limited language skills. The story, to put it bluntly, fell rather flat among the crowd. My old companions eyed me with sympathy, but otherwise made no sound. The youth, however, looked as to bursting with words which would not come. His eyes lit upon my face with pleasant warmth, and his lips turned into a smile which I felt compelled to return. Just as I thought I would speak, the woman placed a thin hand over his wrist and murmured something in their native tongue. The youth cast his eyes downward, and passed her a new dish to sample.

I tried, one final time, asking where they were from.

“The Netherlands,” It was the only phrase the woman spoke to me directly. She returned her eyes to the youth, who blushed under her gaze but did not attempt further speech. Having finished his repast, he held his hands gently in his lap and sat, back straight, in his chair. He kept his eyes on the table while she slowly chewed and swallowed, making no attempt to hurry and allow him release from this tense position.

Astonished by such a show of subtle power, I turned my attention back to my own dinner, determined to finish as quickly as possible and escape the discomfort of the spectacle. I could not force myself too quickly, though, as it would have done terrible injustice to the quality of the meal.

To my immense relief, the woman finished her meal before the remaining company. With another mutter, she set the youth into action. He straightened up gallantly and aided her from her chair.

“Enjoy your meal,” she said to the silent air, and they departed.

As soon as their steps could no longer be heard, fresh air whisked through the dinning room. My companions looked up and we smiled at each other, as if released from a terrible burden. We began to talk as we had before, and show real enthusiasm for yet another delicious meal.

We began, in hushed voices, to speculate as to the nature of their relationship. We tossed around the idea of familial relations. But this idea stretched the innocence of credibility a little too far, considering how dissimilar in appearance the youth was from the woman. A horrible thought insinuated itself into my imaginings as I recalled the interaction between the two of them.

“What if,” I suggested in a whisper, “She’s a cougar?”

We all shook our heads, trying to push the terrifying notion out of head and away from the table. We could not, however, shake the feeling that there was something...unsavory...in the nature of the relationship between the new lodgers.

For the most part, I pitied the youth. He seemed an amiable enough fellow, if potential misguided by the overwhelming sexual prowess of his mistress. Her though, I feared. There was some specter that haunted her presence, and made me shiver. I resolved to avoid them.

I woke uncharacteristically early the next morning, anxious for the feel of sunlight and warmth on my skin. I enjoyed an abundance of fresh fruit and crisp toast, washed down with delicately flavored green tea. I was just savoring the last bites of a banana slathered with peanut butter when the shadows of the new lodgers crossed the door. I mumbled my good mornings through trembling lips, and quickly cleared my place. I managed to be out the door by the time they settled into their seats. I was heading away when I saw my British companions entering for their own breakfast. I raised a brow towards the occupied table and silently wished them luck, then departed.

I spent a lovely, pleasant day among the rushes near the Li River, until evening and dinnertime. I arrived promptly at 6pm for another uncomfortably silent dinner.

I did not attempt conversation this night, nor engagement of any kind with the odd couple. I ate quickly, and departed the company of the table in favor of the peace and comfort of my small shared room.

A short while later, I was joined by the British lodgers, with whom I shared quarters. No sooner was the door secured than they relayed to me an incredulous tale.

“We sat down for breakfast, after you left. As you know, there is an assortment of fruit on the table for the guests to share.”

I shook my head in agreement, listening eagerly.

“Well,” they continued, “As soon as we sat down, she took all the fruit from the table and put in her own plate!”

Shock rocked me backwards onto my bunk and left my jaw agape. I could just imagine her narrow fingers clawing up all the fruit and leaving none for anyone else.

I pushed my thoughts of them aside and prepared myself for bed. After completing my toilette, I took my small journal into the main house and began to write an account of my daily adventures. This action saw me awake late into the night, as it was my practice to take quite detailed notes. I was forced to conclude around midnight, to give my cramped hand a rest. I decided to attempt to make use of the internet to contact my family, at the computer located three stories up in another public room.

In my slippers I padded softly up the stairs, not wishing to disturb anyone. The lights were left on for the lodgers, but the family usually retired early for the night. I heard nothing as I crept up and up through the house. Softly, I pushed open the public room door, only to be stopped cold by a horrible sight.

The youth and his mistress were lying on the public room floor. I, at first, thought them to be in coitus, as the youth’s clothing was removed. But at the sound of my soft intake of breath, the woman’s head swiveled up from his neck, covered in blood. The youth was still alive, for he breathed shallowly. On his face was an expression twisted between ecstasy and pain. His once ruddy cheek was now pale, in contrast to the blood that pooled slowly, coagulating in two vicious wounds on his chest.

The woman, by contrast, was flushed and glowing. Her face was alive with fury as she held my startled gaze, and her eyes marked me for death, holding me quite still.

I stepped back, just a tiny step, attempting to flee the seen. She pounced, hand at my throat, and we tumbled down the stair together. The strength of the vampire was incredible, her fingers creating a vice around my neck that tightened without mercy until I was seeing spots. Quite unable to breath, unable even to cry for help, I scrabbled feebly against her, trying to push her face away from mine as she lowered her mouth slowly for a fatal kiss. Her grip tightened, and my arms flopped to the side, like fish, my fingers limply gripping for purchase on the cold tile floor, trying to brace for the pain and emptiness. She did not attempt to speak to me. Nor more, I assume, than I would make conversation with my own food. She simply held my gaze with her terrible stare and applied pressure to my neck, enough to keep the blood pumping furiously in my face. I could smell the tint of iron on her breath, the blood of youth, and she approached me slowly, slowly.

And then my fingers found my pencil.

All of my journals are written in a wooden, No. 2 pencil, to prevent loss of notes should my journal become accidentally waterlogged.

With the last of my strength, I gripped the pencil and stabbed once and true, through her monstrous heart. The demon screamed horribly, writhing for a second before bursting into a cloud of unholy dust that disappeared before it hit the tile around me. Breathing heavy, I massaged my neck, regarding my pencil, now cracked in two from her wretched twisting. I thought, briefly, to check on the youth, but considering that he had brought about his own near death as well as mine, I left him to recuperate in the public room. I took a long, hot shower in my quarters and fell into a troubled sleep.

I did not see the youth again. I was told by the owner that he left quite suddenly in the morning, claiming that he and his mistress were late for a train. No one saw her, nor missed her. And I? I did not relate my tale to my companions for fear of being thought insane.

I kept, however, the broken pencil as a piece of evidence that would last after the bruises on my neck began to fade.

The Dragon Back Rice Terraces (photos)

2013-02-15T15:07:00.000-05:00

The Bavarian in the rice terraces

2013-02-13T22:52:00.000-05:00

After an excruciatingly long bus ride, I arrived at the Dragon Back Rice Terraces.

We were given lunch, and then a time limit: be back at the bus in two hours. Not a problem, I thought. Plenty of time, I thought.

I sat with a two fellows. One was nose-hair-curlingly RIPE with traveler's funk, that pungent smell that comes from lots of foot travel on low funds, and restricted access to showers and laundry facilities. The other, also low on funds, opted to drink his lunch.

As lunch progressed, Mr. Sips-a-lot he got chatty. He was from Germany, he told me, Bavaria, actually. Had I heard of it?

I resisted the urge to confess that I did not know that was a real place. When I think of Bavaria, I think of gingerbread lederhosen, and yodel-hikes up hills that are alive with the sound of music. And pretzels.

I ate my fried rice and listened to his life story. He was on exchange, he said. Living with some flatmates in Hangzhou. His program was mostly guys, but one girl, he said. She’s really cool.

I could already guess where this story was going.

He sipped and continued. “We’re all traveling around together, which is fun,” he said.

“You and your flatmates?” I asked.

“No, a couple people from my program,” he said. “and the girl.”

All my life, people be tellin’ me they business, even when I don’t ask ‘em.

“I had a girlfriend back in Germany,” he said.

“Of course you did,” I said to my rice. I did not laugh out loud, but my lips were smirking around my chopsticks.

People always be tellin’ me they business.

“At first, I was good. But it’s hard to be so far away.” he said, flipping his hair out of face, and looking at me through his eyelashes.

“So you broke with your girlfriend?” I asked.

“Yeah, I had to.”

“Does she know you broke up with her?” I strove for an innocent look. I strove not to laugh out loud. I ate my rice.

It was friggin’ good rice.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” he said. “I mean, think so. I told her it was so hard, the distance.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty four,” he said. Actually, he made me guess his age. I nailed it. Not because he looked it, really. More because of the story. Because of the girl left behind, the girl in the program, the fact that neither girl was with him and he was looking at me from under his lashes, watching my eyes and my mouth as I ate.

Twenty four is always the age for that story.

“How old are you?” He asked.

“Older than you.” I said. I thought that would make that silly look in his eyes go away. I was not at all interested in becoming a part of his sordid little story.

“I like you,” he announced.

So much for that.

He decided to join me after lunch as I walked around the rice terraces, taking pictures.

“Really?” I said, “your friends won’t mind?”

“No, of course not.” he said. “let me just get another beer for the road.”

The young Bavarian traipsed after me, swigging and telling me more about home. About hiking. About how he hiked all the time, so this little walk was nothing for him. I took pictures. We wandered through a small path cut into the side of a hill. The sun was shining, the rice was tugging gently at my skirt. We were close to a shining pool of water that I was trying to shoot at just the right angle...when the Bavarian screamed.

A whopping bellow of terror that stopped me mid-click.

Then he screamed again.

I turned to see what the devil was making he cause that kind of racket and saw him standing, petrified, arms flung wide, fingers death gripping the neck of his beer. He was staring at the grass of the hill, screaming and screaming.

I looked, mildly curious, from the hill and back to him.

“What’s going on back there?”

“SNAKE!!” He screamed, “Did you see it? It was a huge f*cking SNAKE!!”

I burst into giggles. “You’re afraid of snakes?” I said, “I thought you hiked all the time at home?”

“Go, go, go!” he said, pushing me down the path.

“It’s probably more afraid you than you are it,” I said, trying to be soothing.

To be honest, folks, I don’t believe snakes are afraid of anything, especially not big mama jama snakes. But I had to say something to keep the Bavarian from trampling me in his attempt to flee.

He stopped pushing, but we kept up a brisk pace. His feet were slapping loudly on the ground.

“Snakes are afraid of loud noises,” he told me. The Bavarian had worn open toed shoes.

I snickered again.

“You didn’t see the snake?” He said, furious to be the only one scared. “You really didn’t see it?”

“Nope,” I said.

He calmed, eventually. We pressed on. His feet stopped slapping and he began to look around.

“What do you think this is?” He said, running his hand through the grass, and heavy with lots of golden hulls.

“It’s rice” I said.

He stopped. He ran his hands through the grass again, reverently. "You think this is rice? Like, real rice?”

“We are in a rice terrace.” I said.

“So this is actually where they grow it?” He asked.

“What did you think was in the Dragon Back Rice Terraces? Wheat?”

He pulled a few hulls off a stalk. “I doesn’t look like rice.” he said.

“You have to open the hull,” I said, “the rice is inside.”

He peeled back the hull with his thumbnail. Slowly, a soft, milky grain was revealed.

“Oh my god!” he said, smiling, grinning big. “It’s f*cking rice!” He shook the little grain at me between his thumb and forefinger. He popped it into his mouth taste it. “IT’S F*CKING RICE!”

He laughed at his discovery. I laughed at him. It was fun to watch someone discover rice.

“Want some?” He asked. He pulled another hull and began to peel it.

“No thanks,” I said, “I don’t eat uncooked rice.”

He peeled and ate a few more hulls, praised the rice for its freshness, then decided to collect it to take and cook for his flatmates.

“how much do you think I’ll need for 6 people?” he asked.

“A lot.” I said.

“Okay,” he said. “Good thing I have so many pockets.” I watched him shoveling rice into his umpteen pockets. Why do guys always have a million pockets?

I took his picture. Then I took other pictures. I was not interested in the freshness of the rice. He collected grains, I collected impressions of the light, warm and golden and looking like something out of an impressionist painting. Or a dream. Or an fairy tale picture book.

All of this wandering took up a lot of time. We noticed that people were starting to come down from the top of the terrace and head back to the bus.

Thirty minutes and counting till the bus leaves.

We ran into our lunch companion, sweating nearly visible funk waves and smiling. “View’s brilliant” he said. “But I don’t think you have time to see it.”

I felt my afternoon crash around my toes.

I had come all the way to China. ALL THE WAY TO CHINA. And I wasn’t going to have time to see one of its most famous sites.

The Bavarian looked at my disappointed face.

“You wanna see the top?” He said.

“Yeah, kinda” I said, digging my toe into the ground.

“Okay, we go.” He launched into a sprint.

I was shocked. For someone who was tipsily maintaining his balance, that boy was movin’.

“Come on, Michigan!” He shouted down to me.

I lumbered behind him.

This was supposed to be an easy day for me. But desire to see the sights pushed me to hike up my stomach and climb quickly. I pushed and grunted, trying to make my short legs match his lanky stride. About halfway, in between bloodied, short breaths, I asked myself, seriously, how many f*cks did I give about actually seeing the top of this mountain.

ZERO F*CKS.

I stopped. The view from halfway was actually pretty nice. And for someone who’s nearsighted like me, actually much more pleasing than seeing the same from further up. I stopped to take a few pictures and catch my breath.

The Bavarian jumped back down the mountain, to my side.

“Come on!” he said, “Don’t stop here!”

“I’m good,” I huffed.

“No, you’re not good.” he said, pulling at me, “You have to see the top! You want this little halfway view? What about the satisfaction about knowing you made it to the top of the mountain.”

Hikers always be trying to feed me that B.S.

“Come on!” The Bavarian pulled me away from the view, and back to the path.

“I’m tired!” I pouted, “I can’t make it!”

“You can!” He insisted.

“I can’t!”

“Do you need me to carry you?” He asked.

“Say what now?”

He grabbed my hand, and pulled me up the side of the mountain.

I kid you not.

One minute my feet were on the ground, the next I was flying through the air, up the mountain, holding hands with the Bavarian. I’m know I must have moved my feet a little in order not to trip. But I can’t be sure.

We flew up for a minute or two, until the girl appeared. You know...THAT girl. That girl from his program. That girl that was making the distance “so hard” for him and his Germany girlfriend. Yes, THAT girl.

Uh oh.

He put me back on the ground and let go of my hand, but she had seen. She looked at me so coldly that I actually shivered through my sweat.

“How far until we reach the top?” The Bavarian asked her, in a completely nonchalant, “hey! great to see you!” kind of voice.

Boys are so silly sometimes.

She looked at him, incredulous. "About 10 minutes" she said.

“Come on, Michigan!” He launched into motion again, sans hand holding.

Fifteen minutes until the bus departs.

We raced again, my lungs feeling like that were going to explode. He cajoled and bullied me, all the way to the top. Once we got there, he insisted on taking my picture.

I was a sweaty, awful mess.

“There,” he said, “aren’t you glad you made it to the top?”

“No!” I told him, pure petulance.

We took a few more photos, than raced back down, joking about what we would do if we missed the bus.

“Maybe it’s a sign,” he said, “That we are supposed to spend some more time together.”

I quickened my pace down the mountain. Boys are so silly sometimes.

We made it! Of course, the bus took off late. In the safety of the parking lot I waited for the bus alone, the Bavarian having been snatched back up by THAT GIRL who backed me out of their little group and announced that they were leaving. So I sweat on the sidewalk and flipped through my pictures, looking at my day. Looking at the rice fields, and me, a sweaty, awful mess at the top of the mountain.

And you know what?

I looked at that picture. The light is reflecting off my sweat, my shirt was stained through and I was so exhausted I had my “I don’t give a damn about my paunch” stance. I look pissed, I look tired, I look too through.

I was also smiling. I was smiling, though I was clearly trying to fight it. With one of the most famous tourist sites in China behind me, I was looking at that crazy, silly boy, who is off-camera somewhere waving an empty beer bottle and shouting, “One more! One more! Smile!” And secretly...

I was glad.

Touring the Long Hair Village (photos)

2013-02-05T16:07:00.000-05:00

At the Long Hair Village, where "Woman is King"

2013-02-04T18:29:00.000-05:00

I took a tour bus from Yangshuo to the Dragon Back Rice Terraces which was the first time I experienced the joys of being too big, too wide, too everything for the bus. My hips caught on the chairs as I tried to walk down the aisle, my knees pressed obnoxiously into the back of the seat in front of me, and the speaker (which blasted my tour guide's hacksaw voice) was right at my feet.

Just one of the things you become accustomed to in China. Another thing to get used to is the "surprise" stop that always occurs when you take a tour anywhere. It is pretty much impossible to get anyone to take directly where you want to go, and then take you back home. They always stop off a bonus site or shop, which you can't really opt out visiting of and where you usually have to pay for the privilege. Just something to consider in your budget if you're planning to travel to China anytime soon.

If you, like me, take a tour to the Dragon Back Rice Terraces, then you will be taken to the Long Hair Village. Your tour guide (who in theory speaks English, but whose accent is so riddled with high pitch, staccatoed abuse of consonants that you may not be able to understand her), will sell you this little side trip as best she able, to get you to fork over your extra 60 yuan without complaint.

You should always have extra cash with you in China.

Your extra cash will save you from the fear of being forcibly ejected from the bus on the side of the road, or denied access to the bathroom. Neither of these things would be good.

The Long Haired Village, your guide will say, is an ancient Chinese village that has been perfectly culturally preserved. Whether or not you believe her is up to you. I personally, don't believe that a village on a major tourist route could have resisted the lure of modernization, unless it was a totally bogus tourist pit. You, of course, must make your own decision.

The Long Haired Village, your guide will say, is a village where "Woman is King". Your ears will perk up a bit, maybe. She will say, Lady Kings do all the hard work, and men stay home and raise the children and do the cooking. You will attempt to ignore the fact that your guide thinks raising children is easy. You will keep listening because she is saying funny things like, the men are eager to get married to have a Lady King take care of them. Ok, that's no so funny, but the thing were she says these Lady Kings have a habit of pinching men they think are cute is pretty amusing. You might wonder where, exactly, they are pinching them. You will be even more amused that the men on the bus are being warned that they themselves will be pinched, especially if they have glasses.

Lady Kings love glasses.

You don't want to wait on the bus like a cheapskate, and hey, you haven't got anything else to do, so you will pay up.

You will see women with hair so long that they can wrap it around their head and knot it. A bump in the front means the woman has given birth, your guide will say. You will push past the Lady Kings trying to sell you traditional bric-a-brac, because you have small suitcase, maybe. You will tour their wooden homes, see where they keep their pigs in their basements, wonder at the fact that they have basements. You will snap pics of the corn hanging from the ceiling because the guide points it out and all the Chinese tourists say "ooooh" and "aaah" like they have never seen corn, ever.

Your guide will point out a pole leaned up against a window, which will not impress you until she tells you that men use these poles to sneak up to their potential Lady King's bedroom for a little late night nookie. Then you'll laugh and take pictures of the nookie pole.

Last stop on your tour - a little performance by the Lady Kings. You will see the women do a traditional dance while you sample so rice tea, which has a slightly soapy consistency, but is not bad tasting. You will see hair - frigging long hair - as the Lady Kings unwrap their crowns to show you how they do their hair each morning. You will see - get ready for this - FAKE HAIR.

"What do these Lady Kings know about weave?" you will wonder.

"Whose hair is that?" you will wonder next.

"If it's not Yaki Straight that you can buy for a dollar a pack at the Beauty Supply (which it probably is, because that stuff is made in China anyways), then what could it be?" you will wonder, "horse hair?"

You will gag a bit at the idea of using dead horse hair on your head. On anyone's head.

Your thoughts will be interrupted by the call for volunteers from the audience. Male volunteers. You will get your camera ready. And good thing, too! These men are given groom's hats and tried up with ribbons, then presented to "brides". They will be shuffled around the stage, giving their "brides" piggy back rides, dancing with them, singing love songs to them, and finally participating in a mass wedding ceremony with them. All the while, these men will have their bums pinched so vigorously their pelvises will pop up like they are being pricked with tacks.

You will be laughing to hard that tears run down your face, even if you are in the second row. Don't worry though - everyone else will be laughing just as hard.

You will walk back to the bus, tip the Lady Kings on your way out, and even buy some of their bric-a-brac. Not because you need it suddenly but because hey, you haven't laughed that hard in about a year. And because getting a peek at a village where it's fine and good to pinch your beloved's bum whenever the urge strikes is a village that's okay with you, even if you never intended to see it.

Biking through Yangshuo, part 2

2013-01-31T11:07:00.000-05:00

The best fried noodles in China

2013-01-30T17:05:00.000-05:00

I planned to go to China and throw culinary inhibitions out of the window. I was going to eat EVERYTHING weird, new, or different. Of course, the first time someone offered me snails (not even a big whoop on the foodie scale, let's be honest), I hesitated. I stared at the gelatinous meat oozing out of the wet black swirling shell. My stomach clenched. It flipped. It tried to escape through my teeth.

"No," I said.

That was the end of that.

Of course, I was a little under prepared for the offering. It was my first night in China. I had arrived from Hong Kong via Guilin, which meant that I took a plane, a bus, and then another bus. I hadn't peed since Hong Kong. I hadn't eaten either. My stomach was growling aggressively from such abuse, so I walked the semi-shadowed streets of Yangshuo, looking for a street vendor.

I didn't get far. The first place I saw was a little kitchen set up in a garage, with tables scattered on the sidewalk in front of me. A small woman rocketed out to me. She had a big "running-my-hustle" smile.

I was hungry and weak. I lifted my arms in a half-hearted manner, intending to fend her off. Instead, she took my arm and led me closer to the kitchen.

I was a goner.

I would like to take a moment to say, I knew right then I was being hustled. I knew I should keep walking, price check, find the best deal, blah blah blah.

I was flippin' starved.

So I let her lead me.

She showed me the noodles, the vegetables, the pepper to sprinkle on top. Yes, yes, and oh yeah, pile it on there. She showed me the snails.

No.

Another day, I thought. Right now, I'm too tired to dig around a snail shell with chopsticks.

I ok-ed the shrimp, said yes to a beer, and was shown a seat. I sat there, staring out at the highlighted mountains, trying not to worry about the cost.

Finally it came. It was perfection. Wide noodles, artfully sauteed in oil, garlic and a little rice wine, along with bean sprouts, green onions, baby bok choy, bamboo, chicken and chili flakes. Too many chili flakes, if you wanna know, but it was worth it. The shrimp I tasted then left, but the noodle dish I tore apart in seconds. I snapped a picture of this feast, which didn't do it justice. These noodles were, without a doubt, the best I had in China. They tasted like the best of everything you ever hoped China would offer, times ten.

They were that good.

I sipped my watery Chinese beer which named (rather appropriately) Liquan, feeling perfectly content. I looked out at the mountains with a stupid greasy grin on my face.

The bill was, as I expected, RIDONCULOUS. This little meal cost me 88 RMB. To give you a price comparison, my hostel was 90 RMB per night, and that included breakfast and dinner. But I forked it over without complaint. The owner practically cackled as she counted out my change.

But those noodles were so flippin' good, I couldn't be mad at her. We both we got what we wanted that night.

Ultimate Hen Weekends: A Guide to Booking a Stress-Free Do

2013-01-29T16:28:00.000-05:00

Your best mate’s getting married and it’s your job to organise her hen do. You want it to be fantastic and a girly weekend that can be safely stored in the memory bank, but the sheer thought of organising a group of girls, some of which you barely know, drives you to despair. Where do you start? There’s no point getting stressed out about it – after all, it’s supposed to be all about the fun!

1. Find out how much money you can save with group bookings and make sure you’re not paying through the nose for your accommodation.

2. Choose a city that suits your friend’s interests. There’s little point booking a party capital if the bride isn’t a huge reveller. Why not choose a UK destination that offers a diverse range of activities, such as London, Bristol or Edinburgh?

3. Decide on your itinerary in advance. Often, particularly with larger numbers, activities, events and restaurants will need to be booked and paid for before the main event, so be sure you organise the weekend as soon as possible.

4. Ask for monies in instalments. This is particularly important if you’re expecting attendees to part with larger amounts of cash. Organising payments in instalments is often more attractive than paying a lump sum – particularly with Christmas just around the corner.

5. Keep everyone in the loop. Ok, so the attendees don’t necessarily need to know exactly what’s going on. The element of surprise helps to build up the anticipation. That doesn’t mean to say you can’t provide them with invites, a Facebook event or general texts and calls, if only to let them know you haven’t forgotten them.

6. Bookmark sites of interest online. It’s so much easier than trawling through previous history to find the website that you saw a few days earlier. Bookmark as you go, ensuring that all your brainstormed ideas and research are all at the click of a button.

7. Don’t do it all alone. If you need help, ask. The bride’s friends will more than likely love to get involved, even if it’s something really small. Whether it’s organising travel, making crafty details or contributing to the research of hen party games, more hands equal less work. Just make sure you stay in the driving seat to avoid confusion.

8. Mix it up. It doesn’t have to be all about drinking and evening shenanigans. There are so many alternative ideas for hen party activities available nowadays – make use of them! From theme park trips to a swing dance class, spa trips to paintballing, there are so many ideas available to book online and via phone.

9. Add finer details. These don’t need to cost a lot, nor take a lot of time to sort, but the little finishing touches can go a long way to making your friend feel truly special.

10. Enjoy! It’s not every day that you get to organise a hen do for a close friend. Enjoy planning it from start to end and making it a weekend she will never forget.

Start planning as soon as you can. Book your accommodation today and plan a hen do to remember!

*This is a guest post contributed by Travel Lodge*

Biking through Yangshuo, part 1

2013-01-22T21:47:00.000-05:00

My first meal in China! By far the most delicious fried noodles I've had in my life.

Never seen a bar where they actually ADVERTISE that you can get Mono there. Ha!

And...that's corn juice. :-/

A tip for bikers in Yangshuo

2013-01-21T15:12:00.000-05:00

It’s been a long time since I've been on a bike. I rode my bike around the city as a child, popped wheelies, and tried the inadvisable trick of hanging on the back of a bike while I was on my roller blades. The skid marks faded from my stomach, my bike days faded into the past.

But seeing how the karst mountains of Yangshuo rose out of the mist, hovering on the horizon like a dream, like the China I have dreamed of since I was old enough to pick up a shovel in a sandbox and start digging for it, the sight totally undid me. It was too much beauty to take in just on foot. So I rented a pink, scrappy, bicycle with a basket on the front, to wheel through the twisting roads.

I should back this story up a bit and let you know that I did have a destination in mind. My hostel, The Yangshuo Culture House, had maps, tours, and advise for travelers who show up and have no idea what's going on around them. Like me.

"You should go here" the young man told me, pointing to a tiny red dot on the tourist map marked, Dragon Bridge.

The map was not to scale. Most of the streets and landmarks were missing. Yangshuo has precious few street signs, and those that do exist are...of course...written in Chinese.

Brilliant.

"It's easy," the young man told me, "You turn right and turn left and turn right."

Because that's how people give directions in China. For reals.

I tapped the kick stand with my heel and pushed off, knowing full well that I had no clue where I was going. It was all good, though. I brought a water bottle (for hydration), pringles (for snacking), and my camera (for picture taking). The sun was shining, and I had no where to be.

It was a beautiful day.

Beautiful, for about two minutes. That's how long it took to get from the house to the main road. Here's a fun fact about street traffic in China: there are no traffic laws.

Ok, that's not fair. I'm sure they exist. But if they do, everyone has willfully, collectively, decided not to follow them.

Imagine me, tooling my little pink bike into the middle of traffic raging with cars, semi-trucks carrying impossibly large pigs, motorcycles carrying entire families, tour buses, vans, bikers, walkers, elderly women riding tricycles loaded with piles of sticks, golfcarts, armored cars. And me.

My sense of direction battled with my survival instinct as I looked for the first right turn, left turn, then the last right. I found the first two easily, managing to weave in and out of the eight lane traffic without any near death experiences. I was starting to breath easier when I saw a right turn.

But....something was strange. Was this the bike path I was looking for? Or was it just a driveway for another hotel?

I squinted at the characters on the signs, willing them to make sense to me.

I'll bet you can guess how well that worked.

I looked down the road, and saw what appeared to be more houses and hotels. "Meh," I thought, "this isn't right."

I kept going.

The road went slightly uphill. My school-softened muscles strained and bucked under the sudden effort I was exerting. I pumped my feet half heartedly, not really feeling motivated to go any faster. Then, I looked up.

Ahead of me was a tunnel.

I looked around. There was no turn off. So I must, I reasoned, be meant to go through this tunnel. I must be, right?

The side shoulder that I had adopted as a bike path got narrower as I approached. I noticed just how fast the cars were whipping past me as they entered it.

I picked up the pace. Peddle, peddle, pump. I entered the tunnel.

Darkness cut out my vision for a second, and sounds cycloned around me, amplified. Cars screamed past, trucks loomed close enough to scrape me along the walls. My heart gurgled in fear, and my adreneline zoomed into overdrive. I started to peddle for my life.

My legs were screaming and I was sweating like a pig. I pumped those bike peddles into a frenzied speed, trying to match the flow around me.

Please, God, don’t let me die here. Please, please, God.

The road was bumpy and full of pebbles. One stone…just one stone, would been enough to blow out my front tire and send me spiraling out into traffic.

Light of God, Light of God.

I can’t even remember the rest of prayer. My mind is full of images of blood on concrete. Another truck closes in on me.

Light of God, Light of God, Light of God.

Almost...there...almost...

Light exploded back over me. It was over. I was out of the tunnel, exploding out of that death tube and back into the country side.

I was so relieved. I was so happy.

Until about ten minutes later, when I realized that the strange little road WAS the right turn I was looking for. I had to turn around.

Of course, to get back to the tunnel, I had to go through the roundabout first. The less said about that, the better. I navigated the roundabout, then forced my still-hyped muscles into overdrive again, prepping for one more ride through the death tube.

I made it through without killing or maiming myself, but I’m not sure that much adrenaline is good one’s heart, so I wouldn't recommend trying it. In fact, I would say this:

If you’re biking for the dragon bridge in Yangshuo, and you see a tunnel, just turn around. You've gone the wrong way.

Two Days in Hong Kong

2013-01-10T19:10:00.000-05:00

Thanks, but I'm not Ethiopian

2013-01-09T19:46:00.000-05:00

Grocery shopping in Israel. When my friend told me we were going to pick up some food, I didn't really think of it as an adventure. Grocery stores, I thought, are all relatively similar. One enters, selects items, pays for them, and leaves.

I did not anticipate having problems with step one. "One enters" is not exactly how the thing went down.

Transitioning from a concrete parking structure into the food multiplex required having our bags checked by a swarthy soldier with don't-f*ck-with-me eyebrows. Soldiers, security, and all things related, generally make me very nervous. I wanted to play it cool. Act like a local. Be smooth. In order to avoid problems, I would act exactly as my friend did. Easy peasy. I'd even throw in a bit of Hebrew to make it all seem legit: Too-dach-rah-bah.

I had heard this word before. My friend said it a lot. To cab drivers, to restaurant servers, to the heavy-lidded, bored-looking teens who poured our coffee at the Coffee Bean. Although possible, I doubted my friend was saying, "Go screw yourself" to everyone with such casual flare. Therefore, the only other phrase it could be was "Thank you".

I practiced while I waited my turn in the line, whispering softly, gently tasting the sounds.

My friend's husband went through the metal detector. The soldier riffled halfheartedly through his canvas shopping bags, checking for homemade bombs. She waved him through. "Too-dach-rah-bah", he said, and kept going.

My friend went through the line. Same deal. "Too-dach-rah-bah", and she kept going.

I went through the line. "Too-dach-rah-bah", and I started to keep going.

"Le-chah, Le-hah?"

Whoa, whoa. Why the chatty-chatty? Suddenly, there was conversation, and I had already used up my one phrase. Well, I could have said, "Shalom", but I'm pretty sure greeting her at this point would have made me look like a crazy person.

"Uh..." I said, "Uh..."

My stalling got my friends attention. She started chatting. The guard chatted back. They looked at each other. They looked at me. Pointing, head shaking, le-chah, le-hah hebrew. Me no speakie. A few minutes later, everyone was totally confused. We walked away.

"I have no idea what happened," my friend said, "She would not believe that you were American, not Ethiopian. Or that you spoke no Hebrew."

"Oh?" I said, "well, maybe she was confused." I paused. "I said something."

"What did you say?" she looked incredulous.

"Too-dach-rah-bah. Just like you guys."

"Ooooh," she said.

Everyone always says, you should try to learn the language of the place you're going. It's respectful, they say. People appreciate that you tried, they say.

I have something to add to what they say. If you speak one word of a language, people think you speak EVERY WORD of that language. And if you happen to say, look like the local population that usually wears a uniform and performs menial, underpaid labor, you could end up in some...interesting...situations.

Like the time that I went out for brunch and the wait staff "Shalom"-ed me, handed me a menu in Hebrew, and handed my friend (who lives there) an English menu.

Like the time I went to the drug store to buy contacts, and let the cashier go on for about 5 minutes, chatty chatty this, chatty chatty that before he figured out I couldn't understand him. Which was funny.

Like the time I was stopped and asked where I was going, because I was the only black person at the Dead Sea not wearing a uniform and working in the laundry room. Which was less funny.

Like the time I was gently chastised by a shop owner for not being able to count in Hebrew.

Like the time that an Ethiopian security guard in Tel Aviv started chatting away to me in Aramiac, and kept at it even when I told him that I was American, like he was trying to catch out my secret ethiopian-ness.

Because no one was more convinced that I was trying to pull a fast one than the Ethiopians.

Not that keeping my mouth shut helped much, either. Whether or not I said anything, I was assumed to be a local. Trying to decide whether or not to use my limited language skills was kind of like playing partybingo.com - no matter what I chose, I was in for rather hilarious surprise.

Driving down to the Dead Sea

2013-01-03T14:32:00.000-05:00

In and around Tel Aviv

2013-01-01T12:14:00.000-05:00

Mount of Olives

2012-12-13T14:19:00.000-05:00