I’m starting a new series.

I know what you’re thinking.

And I’m not really sure what you did to deserve this either.

In addition to my semi-regular installments of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China, I will also be writing about challengey [...]]]>

Hold on to your pants, everyone.

I’m starting a new series.

I know what you’re thinking.

And I’m not really sure what you did to deserve this either.

In addition to my semi-regular installments of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China, I will also be writing about challengey stuff that I make myself do every week (or so… because you can’t really expect me to challenge myself every week. That would just be crazy-talk).

As I mentioned before, I’ve decided 2012 is totally the year I’m going to challenge myself. Unfortunately, I tend to be the type of person who only challenges herself when there is some kind of incentive – like cash prizes or cake or the promise of public humiliation on my blog.

(Yes, I do consider humiliating myself on the Internet a suitable motivational technique. In the years that I’ve been blogging, I’ve done tons of things I totally didn’t want to do because I was pretty sure it was going to make me look like a a total idiot and, hence, make for a really good blog post. It’s a good thing I can’t afford therapy as I’m sure this is a sign of my crazy.)

I’m calling this new series Weeklyish Challengey Thingie. Because I am not really into using words that exist.

This week’s challengey thingie: leaving the house.

Trust me, it’s trickier than it sounds.

At one point in my life I used to be the type of girl who went out on the weekends. Like on a regular basis. To places where other people gathered. And I’m not just talking about going to the grocery store.

I would wear fancy going out clothes and fancy going out shoes. I’d even carry a fancy going out purse – you know, the kind of purse that’s too small to make sense during the daylight hours.

Me. Only fahhhncy.

I don’t know what happened to that girl. She went missing right about the time I moved to China with a collection of sensible black shoes and a purse large enough to carry stuff.

I suspect she slipped through the cracks of my couch cushions.

She's probably under the middle cushion... hanging out with the spare change and potato chip crumbs.

Sometimes, I miss that girl.

Especially her shoes.

One of the many challenges I set out for myself this year is to get out of my apartment more. And, again, I’m not just talking about going to the grocery store.

So when my Italian colleague announced she wanted to go dancing for her birthday this past weekend, I went along.

Not that I had much choice in the matter, really.

I mean, it was her birthday. Who am I to refuse someone’s birthday wish?

Besides, I really, really, really like dancing — especially in Asia as this is pretty much the only continent in the world where I am considered a good dancer.

You see, I lack the basic qualities needed to be a good dancer, like grace and coordination and rhythm and, say, any ability to stay upright while drinking.

Once while I was in a dance club in Canada, a beautiful, willowy, blonde woman marched up to me and informed me that I danced “like a drunken bunny.”

At the time, I figured she was jealous because I happened to be dancing with the guy that she liked.

Or she meant it as a compliment. Because, seriously, I can’t think of anything cuter than a drunken, dancing bunny, can you?

But, since this incident, it’s been brought to my attention that I do, in fact, dance like a drunken bunny.

Breaking it down.... drunken bunny style.

It has also been brought to my attention that in most parts of the world dancing like a drunken bunny is, in fact, not a good thing.

At all.

Not even a tiny bit.

(I know. I don’t even know how that makes sense either.)

Luckily in Asia, especially Japan and China where I have spent most of the last five years of my life, people tend to be a bit shy about dancing. And, well, it’s pretty easy to be the best dancer in the room, when you happen to be the only dancer in the room.

One of the only times I’ve gone dancing in Wuxi, my friends and I ended up in a smoky nightclub where our fellow club-goers stood around drinking and playing dice games. Every once in a while someone would sway a bit to the music, but this didn’t happen often.

Meanwhile, I was raising the roof, as the kids say these days.

Mind you, this wasn’t entirely easy to do when the selection of music included a techno version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme song.

But, hey, I was determined to dance, and dance I did. Even if that meant bogeying it to Disney.

Luckily, when I went out dancing with my friend for her birthday this past weekend, the music selection was much better. In fact, we ended up in a club with a live band from the States.

And, much to my surprise, there was a big huge group of Chinese people dancing.

Including this guy, who hopped up on stage and started shimmying with the band.

He was so entirely adorable and awesome that I tried to dance with him later but he would have nothing to do with me.

His loss, really.

And then there was this guy whose entire dance repertoire involved waving his hands around in front of his body like a slow motion hulu dancer. Which must have been really exhausting because by midnight he was passed out.

After I’d shown off all my dance moves (including the one where I move my hands and the one where I move my feet and then the one where I move my hands and feet at the same time and try not to fall over), I was ready to pass out myself.

But then, one of the musicians came up to me and told me that I was a really good dancer. We chatted for a little bit, and he informed me that he was from Boston.

I think this was maybe the first time in my life that a fellow American called me a good dancer.

I took that as a sign that I should keep on dancing. Because, obviously, I’m getting better with practice.

It’s probably also a sign that I should really, probably move to Boston already. You know, because, apparently, those Beantown boys are into drunken bunnies.

And, seriously, who could blame them?

I mean, can you think of anything cuter than a drunken, dancing bunny. Can you? I didn’t think so?

You have to admit, the likeness is uncanny.

Are you a good dancer or a bad dancer or a drunken bunny dancer?

As a teacher, I can’t think of anything better than the first day of class, really.

Well, besides, the last day of class.

And, you know, all those days I don’t have class.

But the first [...]]]>

This week was the first week of classes for the spring semester at the university where I teach.

As a teacher, I can’t think of anything better than the first day of class, really.

Well, besides, the last day of class.

And, you know, all those days I don’t have class.

But the first day of class is pretty up there in my book.

And this week’s first batch of classes certainly didn’t disappoint.

All my students sat dutifully in the seats I assigned them. (Seats at the front of the class because I am the type of teacher who doesn’t let anybody sit in the back. Yep, I’m mean like that.)

They all laughed along at my jokes and didn’t complain when I made them get into pairs again.

They pretended to care when I explained to them the qualities of a good topic sentence. Some of them even took notes. Or doodled on a piece of paper in a way that made me believe they were taking notes.

And when I kept them in class right up until the last possible minute, hardly anyone acted like I was doing it to purposely torture them.

As I was leaving class on Tuesday, one of my students gave me this miniature apple.

Or, at least, I thought it was an apple but it turned out to be some kind of preserved fruit thingie that tasted exactly like a sweet pickle. Maybe that’s just what students give teachers in China? Preserved fruit thingies that taste exactly like pickles.

Even the cool dude guys who smoke cigarettes in the hall and give themselves English names like Gin and Eleven were on their best behavior during the first day of class.

They showed up on time.

They didn’t fall asleep.

They only checked their cell phones when they thought I wasn’t looking.

And when I asked them why they didn’t bring their books with them to class or, say, any kind of writing utensil as it is, in fact, a writing class, they acted sincerely apologetic… and a little bit surprised. Like, “Huh? What? I could have sworn I brought the book with me. And what’s this pen thing you speak of? Hmm… now that you mention it, that does sound vaguely familiar.”

Aww, so well-behaved & willing to do my bidding. This won't last long.

As much as I love all the good behavior, I love the hopefulness that the first day of a new class brings even more.

Starting a new class is like starting a new relationship. Both my students and I are full of hopes for each other. Except, unlike with a new boyfriend, I really hope my students don’t call me up in the middle of the day to tell me they’re thinking about me. Because that would just make things awkward.

On the first day of class I handed out a questionnaire to my students. It asked them what they learned last semester and what they expected to learn this semester. It also asked them about their personal learning goals and if they had any suggestions for me.

Judging from their responses, my students are a hopeful bunch.

They are also something of a delusional bunch.

They all want to do well in class, but they’d like that to happen without having to do much work.

And they think we should play lots of games.

I don’t really know what kind of games they think they’re going to play in an academic writing class. There are really only so many games about essays you can play. And “Pin the Thesis Statement on the Introductory Paragraph” gets pretty old after the first few times you play it.

Of course, my students aren’t the only ones filled with lots of hope.

I have plenty of hopes for this semester myself.

I’m just hoping my hopes are not quite as delusional as theirs are.

I hope to manage my time a lot better and procrastinate a lot less. Like, if I could avoid having a panic-attack-induced crying fit because I waited until the last possible minute to grade the final assignments that would be great. It’s hard enough explaining all the red wine and chocolate stains on my students’ papers. I don’t want to explain why their papers are covered with my tears and notes to myself in the margins that go something like this, “Why do I do this to myself every time? EVERYFREAKINGTIME? Whyyyyyy?”

I’m hoping to keep work at work as much as possible and not talk about classes and students and all that other work stuff when I’m not at work. This isn’t so easy when you happen to live with everyone you work with. This also isn’t that easy when you happen to live in Wuxi, where there isn’t a whole heck of a lot to talk about.

I hope to stay positive and focus on the good things that happen in the class – rather than the little frustrating things.

Because as high as my students’ and my hopes are, I know frustrating stuff will happen. Like, soon.

The new class smell wears off pretty quickly, you know.

In fact, by Wednesday, I was already confiscating cell phones and marking students absent. Including, of course, Gin and Eleven… who I’m sure were just so busy looking for appropriate writing utensils that they forgot to come to class.

What’s your favorite time of year at work? You know, besides the time you don’t have to work. 

P.S. In keeping with the school theme of today’s post, I’m giving you homework! Your homework: head over to the Bloggies website and vote for my blog for the Best Asian Weblog if you haven’t done so already. (You can find instructions here.) Voting closes this Sunday, February 19th.

Of course, I won’t fail you if you don’t vote for me.

But, uh, I may call your parents.

Well, I decided the best way to rekindle my romance with the Middle Kingdom was to take a little [...]]]>

Hey, so remember last week when I said I wasn’t exactly feeling the love for China at the moment because I was too cold to feel love… or sensation in my toes… or really anything?

Well, I decided the best way to rekindle my romance with the Middle Kingdom was to take a little trip somewhere – maybe some place a little warmer than Wuxi. You know, where I wouldn’t have to wear two pairs of long underwear and ten pairs of socks every time I wanted to battle the elements by going outside… or, say, into my unheated kitchen.

I contemplated a trip to Kunming, which is known as the City of Eternal Spring because of its consistently temperate weather.

I thought about taking a little river boat cruise down the Li River in Guilin.

I even considered going to Chengdu, where it is a bit chilly at the moment, but they have baby pandas there. Who needs heat when you have that kind of cuteness going on? Really.

And then I booked a ticket to Harbin. Which is about as close to Siberia as you can get without actually being in Siberia.

Because really what better way to recharge my relationship with China than to run the risk of foot amputation due to frostbite?

(Yes, I know, it’s like I should be a marriage counselor or something. Because, obviously, I know the secret to bringing the spark back to any dying relationship.)

The main reason I wanted to go to Harbin was because of the city’s Ice and Snow Festival, which is one of the largest ice and snow festivals in the world.

Harbin Ice & Snow Festival

I should probably mention here that I am not really a big fan of ice or snow.

I blame this on growing up in Buffalo, where it snows about seven months out of the year so ice and snow are not exactly considered novelty items. Sure, I’m used to ice and snow, but I have never felt the need to throw it a party every year like they do in Harbin.

This is where I grew up. Well, not IN the barn. But that could explain a few things.

I should probably also mention that I’m not really a big fan of festivals either.

Festivals involve large crowds of people, and large crowds of people make me claustrophobic.

They also ensure that I’m going to have to wait a really long time before I can use the bathroom or buy some meat-on-a-stick. And I get cranky when I have to wait for the bathroom or meat-on-a-stick.

And, admittedly, the last time I took a trip in China, I went to Hangzhou which did not exactly increase my love for China. If anything, it just made me appreciate my couch even more.

Not that Hangzhou wasn’t lovely. There were blue skies and a number of pretty parks and pagodas all clustered around the stunning West Lake.

And there were these fried dumplings. Which were amazing. (But then again they are dumplings and they are fried, so I think the amazing part kind of goes without saying.)

But I tend to be something of an idiot when I travel (okay, and maybe I’m an idiot all the time, but I’m especially idiotic when I travel), so I made a lot of stupid mistakes.

I booked a hotel which was about a million miles away from the city center because the website made it look really charming. (Note to self: places tend to lose their charm real quick when you have to walk five miles to get there.)

And, while the hotel’s cafe and other rooms were quite charming, my room turned out to be a dingy, windowless affair that reeked of mildew and broken dreams. And it was decorated with evil bunny wallpaper.

They're waiting until you fall asleep so they can kill you.

I got lost a lot and ended up walking around the lake a few too many times.

The West Lake: not nearly as stunning after about the twelfth time you walk around it.

I hiked up a muddy mountain in a-million-degree heat because everybody else was doing it and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

If a couple dozen Chinese people go up this hill, do not follow them!

I finally managed to do something right and found a food street where I bought some meat-on-a-stick and beer. And then the meat seller asked me to go have sex with him. Because, apparently, only sluts eat meat-on-a-stick and drink beer.

Meat-on-a-stick and beer: the meal of champions... and hussies.

So, yeah, given all these factors, I probably shouldn’t have had such high hopes for my trip to Harbin.

But it turns out my trip was even better than I expected it would be.

In fact, I had such a good time in Harbin, it’s entirely possible that I slipped into some alternative universe. You know, one where I’m not such an idiot all the time.

Or possibly it was all just a dream. Just in case, I’ll be careful not to pinch myself for fear that I may wake up cold and crying and lying in a gutter somewhere.

The first indication that I was entering some magical kingdom was when I stepped out of the airport to discover a sparkly ice castle greeting all the new arrivals.

It was there as if to say, “Welcome to Harbin! We made this ice castle for you. What did all those other cities in China make for you? Sure, the Great Wall is pretty impressive, but is it MADE OUT OF ICE? DOES IT SPARKLE? Yeah, didn’t think so.”

Look at what we made for you!

Before I could gawk too much at the ice castle, I was ushered onto a shuttle bus to the city. I’m usually pretty wary of taking buses in new cities because I have a tendency to get on the wrong bus. Or get off at the wrong stop. Or, you know, just never get off the bus and just sit there for two hours.

But, this time I was not only told exactly what bus to get on, but also the bus driver made a point of telling me exactly when I should get off the bus and, then, showed me in which direction I should go for my hotel.

And he didn’t once ask me to go have sex with him. Probably because I was wearing five layers of clothing and looking particularly lumpy.

Or because he was a really good guy.

Either way, it was a pleasant experience.

When I arrived at my hotel, I was informed that the twin room I had booked was a smoking room. And before I could even pout and stamp my feet and claim that I’m allergic to cigarette smoke (which is what I usually do when I forget to book a non-smoking room which happens a lot because I always forget to book a non-smoking room), I was upgraded to a non-smoking queen room that smelled of lilacs and happy thoughts.

The free toiletries in the bathroom claimed that they cared for me. And I totally believed them.

And the posters in the hallway enticed me to eat more breakfast. And, seeing as I usually like to eat breakfast at least twice a day while I travel, I totally took them up on that offer.

After checking in, I ventured out on to the chilly streets in search of food, where I stumbled across St. Sophia’s Cathedral, which shone magically in the moonlight… and the spotlights… but also the moonlight.

And then I stumbled upon a noodle shop where I was greeted by a smiling staff and a picture menu boasting beef noodles and fried dumplings.

These were amazing, by the way. But I don't think I have to tell you that.

When I ordered tea, I was informed they were all out of tea that day. But they had plenty of Harbin beer.

This happened quite a lot while I was in Harbin. I would be at a restaurant and try to order tea because, you know, it was noon or I was trying to be healthy or some other ridiculous reason. And then I’d be informed that they didn’t have tea, but they had plenty of beer. Which, frankly, seems like yet another indication that I was in a magical alternative universe where I’m not even allowed to pretend to be healthy.

The next day, I discovered that my friend, Fiona, and her family also happened to be in Harbin for the festival.

And, well, if you’re going to be in any city as freezing cold as Harbin, you should really be there with Fiona and her family, as they are lovely, warm, generous people. Plus, Fiona happens to be a doctor so, you know, just in case you get frostbite and need to have any toes amputated, she’s the lady to do it.

Besides, it was really nice being able to spend a few days enjoying the city with other people. I’m not usually very good about meeting people when I travel. I tend to feel really awkward about throwing myself at strangers even if I’m so desperate to talk to someone that I’ve started talking to my food.

My usual tactic for making friends while I’m traveling involves grinning maniacally at people in hopes that they’ll talk to me. And, in case you’re wondering, this tactic very rarely works. In fact, it usually just results in people looking really alarmed and clutching their wallets.

Luckily, though, I have no qualms at all about throwing myself at friends and their unsuspecting family members. So I spent the next two days inviting myself along to lunch with Fiona and her family and then monopolizing their conversations.

I also tagged along with them to the Harbin Snow and Ice World, which was definitely one of those things you want to do with a group of people rather than on your own. You know, so you can have someone  to ooo and ahh with you at all the fantastic ice sculptures.

Like this one... of beer, of course.

And take your picture while you’re coming down the ice slide.

Traffic jam on the ice slide. (Photo by Fiona Reilly.)

And then help you stand up after you fall down… like five times because that ice stuff is slippery, man.

When I wasn’t tagging along with Fiona and her family and subjecting them to my never ceasing banter, I was walking around the city in a charmed haze.

It’s hard not to be charmed by a city full of ice sculptures:

This was my favorite ice sculpture. It's a love seat. Get it? (Of course, I'm sure it surprises no one that my favorite sculpture was a couch.)

And snow sculptures:

And, you know, sculptures made out of soda cans:

It's a Fanta dragon... or Fanta-gon, if you will.

And there are street vendors everywhere selling meat-on-a-stick and candied-fruit-on-a-stick and really anything else you might want on a stick.

And you can do everything from ice skate to sled to ride a horse carriage across the frozen Songhua River.

It kind of felt like Disneyland, but a really, really cold version of Disneyland, where you need to wear five layers of clothing just to survive.

I wasn’t alone in my charmed haze.

The city was chock full of other excited festival-goers eating candied apples and striking cheesy poses in front of the ice and snow sculptures.

Or cheesy poses in front of the regular sculptures.

And, while I usually get stressed out when surrounded by so many people, it’s hard to get stressed out when everyone seems so happy despite the fact that they probably can’t feel their toes.

As I walked around the city smiling maniacally to myself (partly because I was really happy and partly because my face had kind of froze that way), people didn’t look at me with their usual level of alarm

Instead, they smiled back at me.

On my last night in town, I exited my hotel to find the city covered in a thin dusting of snow that sparkled in the streetlights like fairy dust.

I headed over to Zhongyang Dajie, a pedestrian shopping street near my hotel, where a crowd had gathered to watch fireworks and eat stuff on a stick.

I happened upon a small town square where a group of men and women were dancing. An older man glided up to me and asked me where I was from and if I wanted to dance. I fumbled along trying to take his lead, but, after a few steps, he stopped and laughed and shook his head at me and then glided away.

He's the one there in the back in black trying to show me how dancing is done.

And then right about the time I couldn’t feel my fingers any longer, I stopped in a restaurant for noodles, fried dumplings and, of course, beer.

These were also amazing, by the way. But, again, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.

As I shuffled back to my hotel through the snow, I couldn’t help feeling all warm and fuzzy inside despite the freezing temperatures.

Maybe it was my love for China rekindling itself and keeping me warm… or maybe it was all that beer I’d been drinking… or maybe it was the five pairs of pants I happened to be wearing.

Either way, it was a pleasant experience.

Have you ever taken a trip that turned out much better than expected?

Really.

Have you lost weight?

And I love what you’re doing with your hair. What’s that you say? You don’t have any hair? Well, I hardly even noticed.

And, that shirt/scarf/bathrobe/plastic tarp you’re wearing really looks lovely with your eyes/skin tone/dimples/goiters.

You probably just think I’m saying all [...]]]>

My, aren’t you looking stunning today!

Really.

Have you lost weight?

And I love what you’re doing with your hair. What’s that you say? You don’t have any hair? Well, I hardly even noticed.

And, that shirt/scarf/bathrobe/plastic tarp you’re wearing really looks lovely with your eyes/skin tone/dimples/goiters.

You probably just think I’m saying all this to butter you up so I can ask you for a favor.

I’m not.

Really.

Besides, someone as clever as you would be able to see through such a simple ruse. I wouldn’t even try to pull something like that on you.

But, since we’re talking about favors you can do me… (We were talking about favors you can do me, right?).

I was wondering if you could help me out a bit.

You see, I’ve been nominated for a Bloggie Award for Best Asian Weblog. And I’m really going to need your help if I want any chance of winning this thing as I have some pretty stiff competition in my category.

I’m already feeling like a total winner for being nominated by so many of you lovely folks out there. I mean, I already knew you all were gorgeous and rocket scientist smart. But, now, I know you’re also super generous and kind and prone to nominating me for awards I really probably don’t deserve.

Plus, just seeing my little blog’s name on the same page as the names of some major big name blogs out there, like The Huffington Post, The Bloggess, The Pioneer Woman and The Oatmeal, is pretty amazing.

But you know what would make me feel even more like a winner?

Winning!

But before I can win the award, I need to actually earn it by getting the most votes. So, if you could, please hop on over to the Bloggie website page and vote for me, I’d really appreciate it.

Voting is easy but it does require a few steps.  So to help you out, I’ve come up with this handy step-by-step guide.

(Not that I think you need my help. I mean, come on, a genius person like you? I bet you could do this in your sleep with your eyes closed while underwater. And I’d bet you’d look totally awesome while you did it!)

Your Handy Dandy Guide to Voting For Me For a Bloggie

1. Go to the Bloggie website.

2. Scroll down to the Best Asian Weblog section. It will look like this.

Yes, this is a photo I took of my computer screen because I don’t know how to do a screen shot. It’s a good thing this award isn’t for tech savviness as I’d be doomed.

3. Find the little box for my blog and click on the little circle in the bottom right-hand corner. Don’t even bother looking at the other blogs in my category. Sure, those other blogs are really good. But did those blogs tell you that you look gorgeous today? I didn’t think so. And those blogs totally never notice when you do something new with your hair.

4. Vote for other blogs in the other categories if you’d like. (May I suggest voting for Jodi of Legal Nomads for the Best Travel Weblog and Dan from Canvas of Light for Best Photography of a Weblog? And then just go ahead and vote for The Bloggess for all the other categories. Even a few categories she wasn’t nominated for. That’s what I did.)

5. After making all your selections, enter the secret code to ensure that you’re not a robot. Unless you are a robot. Then you’re probably going to need a human friend to help you out.

6. Enter your email address. Only one vote is allowed per email address.

7. Click on the yellow button that says “Submit Your Nominations!”

8. Go check your email. You should have received an email asking you to click on the link to verify your vote. I think this is also to prevent voting by robots. (Wow, some people are really paranoid about robots.)

Editor’s note: According to the lovely Jan, who left a comment below (and who does look particularly fetching in her new dress), the email they send you to verify your vote may end up in your spam folder. So if you don’t get the email right away, be sure to check your spam folder.

9. Sit back. Relax. And be happy that you’ve done your good deed for the day. (Not that someone as generous as you limits yourself to one good deed per day. Oh no! I bet you’ll be saving kittens from trees and fighting house fires in twenty minutes time!)

Voting will take place until February 19^th. But you should just go over there and vote for me right now before you get too busy and forget. Not that I’m saying you’re the forgetful type. I’m just saying that someone as good-looking and intelligent as you probably has lots of stuff going on this month – like lots of hot dates with supermodels and cures for cancer to sort out and such.

Thanks to all of you who nominated me. And a HUGE thanks to every one of you who reads my blog and puts up with my blathering on about my couch without ever making a point and then still leaves nice comments to me.

I love you, guys.

But, seriously, who wouldn’t love you guys?

I mean, a bunch of super nice, gorgeous Einsteins like you?

What’s not to love?

You’re probably wondering where my latest installment of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China is, huh? You know the series I started to [...]]]>

Ladies and gentlemen, I am back in China!

Okay, so, this is not exactly news. I returned to China over a week and a half ago.

You’re probably wondering where my latest installment of Stuff I Really Kind of Like About My Life in China is, huh? You know the series I started to remind myself of all the stuff I really kind of like about my life in China… besides the dumplings, that is.

You are wondering that, aren’t you?

Well, the truth is I’ve been having trouble feeling the love for China since my return from my trip to Japan.

Mostly because it’s hard to feel the love when you’re freezing cold.

When I returned to my apartment, I discovered the heater was on the fritz and the place had this weird chemically smell to it. It took me a few days of wandering around my apartment sniffing at stuff until I realized what that weird smell was.

It was the smell of cold.

Yep, cold has a smell. And it smells like it will probably kill you in your sleep.

Luckily, the smell is gone now thanks to this lovely candle I bought at the 10 RMB store.

(Yes, I bought it for its name. I felt “After the Winter” sounded like a promise. Like if I lit the candle, it would make all the winter go away. So far this has yet to happen. Stupid 10 RMB candle and its stupid promises!)

Unfortunately, my heater is still not working. And since everybody’s off for the holidays, I can’t get any workmen in my place until mid-February. Until then I’m forced to wear five layers of clothing and carry around a little portable heater everywhere I go — kind of like those girls in Beverly Hills do with their Chihuahuas.

I’m considering buying it a cute little outfit and naming it Heaty McWarmenheiser III. What do you think?

So, yeah, China is not exactly warming the cockles of my heart at the moment. Not that I know where the cockles of my heart are, but I’m sure they’re really cold right now. Especially because I can’t put five layers of socks on them like I can with my feet.

And, well, I think it’s possible I left my heart back in Japan. Or at least a part of my heart – you know, the cockley part.

So rather than waxing on about the wonders of China, I’m going to wax on a bit about the wonders of Japan. At least until I start to feel the love for China again… which I suspect will happen about the same time I’m able to feel sensation in my toes again.

The language

I lived in Japan for a total of four years.

You’d think I’d be pretty good at Japanese, wouldn’t you?

Wow, it’s like you really don’t know me at all.

It’s not that I didn’t try.

Okay, maybe it is that I didn’t try. At least not very hard.

You see, I’m pretty lazy, and I also have really  low expectations for myself. My main language learning goals were to be able to order pizza delivery and to be able to sing a Japanese song at karaoke. Once I achieved that, I pretty much gave up on studying ever again.

Language learning the karaoke way. (Pink pleather cop uniform optional but highly recommended.)

I know I should have learned more Japanese.

But Japanese is hard, people.

I mean, Japanese has three written systems. Three! That always seemed like two too many for me.

And then I moved to China.

Where they have four tones.

Four?

Wow, China, way to show up Japan.

I’ve learned embarrassingly little Chinese since moving here a year ago. While I’ve found it’s not that hard to get by in China as the village idiot, it was a pleasure to be back in a country where I kind of almost knew what was going on.

I could ask for directions.

Right, only Japanese at the tourist information center. That's... helpful.

I could read menus instead of using my trusted “Point and grunt and hope that’s not duck neck” method of ordering food that I usually use in China.

Mmm... grilled somethings.

I could even sing along at my friend Reiko’s wedding.

(Insert sound of my lovely singing voice here.)

This was almost as fun as singing at karaoke — except, sadly, no pink pleather cop uniform was provided. I can’t really understand why not. I mean, nothing says “dream wedding” like letting your guests dress up in pleather. Am I right or am I right?

The rules

In my imagination, I am a rule-breaking bad ass.

Of course, in reality, I am nothing of the sort. Mostly because breaking rules requires a backbone, and I don’t really have one of those.

Japan is pretty much the only country in the world where a wimp like me can be a real live, rule-breaking threat to humanity.

There are rules about pretty much everything in Japan. There are even rules about things you wouldn’t think there would be rules about.

There are rules about where to stand on the sidewalk.

And how to act on the train.

And what slippers to wear in the bathroom.

Since my Japanese ability only really covers topics like lunch and the Domino’s delivery menu, I can’t read all the signs telling me what not to do.

So usually I ended up doing whatever it is I’m not supposed to do.

Or not doing whatever it is I was supposed to be doing.

Plus, I tend to be a bit slow on the uptake. Like, it took me two full years to figure out that everyone stands together at the same place on the train platform because that’s where you’re supposed to stand. And not just because everyone just really, really likes each other.

You are supposed to stand here. Unless you are me & you're standing about 2 feet away... because you're a bad ass. And totally clueless.

The cute guys

Let me tell you, there are a lot of attractive men in Japan, and I made it my personal mission to stare at them all. It’s really any wonder I got anywhere in that country as I was so busy gaping at all the hotties and running into poles and forgetting to get off my train and stuff.

I love all the cute hipster boys and the clean-cut guys in their fancy business suits. But I have something of a soft spot in my heart for all the macho, bad boy construction workers.

I imagine this has something to do with my imaginary bad ass alter ego.

I imagine this also has something to do with the big puffy pants the construction workers wear in Japan. I realize puffy pants don’t sound really macho and bad ass, but for some reason these guys totally pull it off.

Japanese construction workers. Too sexy for their pants.

Every time I walked past a construction site, I was the one ogling the workers, not the other way around. I’m sure they were totally flattered by this. In a creeped out kind of way.

Men at work. Is that a jackhammer I hear? Or the sound of my beating heart?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m surrounded by plenty of attractive guys in China, but seeing as I live and work on a college campus, most of these guys are not exactly age appropriate for me.

At least in Japan, I saw plenty of guys who looked about my age.

Or I saw a lot of guys I could at least pretend were about my age in the little fantasy in my head — you know, the one where I’m walking past the construction site and one of the workers stops me to ask me where I’m from and it turns out he speaks perfect English and has always wanted to date a loud-mouthed American lady with a very flawed grasp of the Japanese language and a penchant for pink pleather. (Listen, it hasn’t happened yet, but a girl can dream, can’t she?)

The bathrooms

The toilets of Japan are most definitely a feat of modern engineering. They  come equipped with everything from warm-up seats to bidets to music that starts up as soon as you sit down (to cover up the, ahem, indecent sounds you might be making).

I’ve even heard tell of toilet seats that scan for prostrate cancer.

The doctor will see you now...

After a year of dealing with Chinese toilets, even the garden variety toilets in Japan had me charmed. You see, the toilets in China are not exactly known for their ability to multi-task. Heck, they’re not even known for their ability to complete simple tasks like flushing toilet paper. But, in Japan, not only can you flush toilet paper down the toilets, they insist that you do!

No you MUST flush your toilet paper. We INSIST!

But it wasn’t just the toilets of Japan that had me cooing in wonder; the bathrooms themselves are pretty downright amazing.

They’re usually sparkling clean.

This public restroom had cedar walls and smelled like a sauna. Fahncy.

There’s almost always soap. Sometimes there are even other items available like Q-tips or lotion.

What? No facial scrub?

Compared to visiting a bathroom in China, going to a bathroom in Japan is like going to the spa. Except all that New Agey music is coming from the toilet.

Press the second button from the right for Enya's greatest hits.

The vending machines

Right before my trip to Japan, I bought a new purse that is just a little bit smaller than my old purse. It isn’t quite big enough to hold a bottle of water along with all my other stuff.

If I am going somewhere for the day and suspect that I might at some point get thirsty, I have to lug around my backpack to hold my water bottle.

Or I have to carry around the water bottle in my hand and run the risk of losing it somewhere as I lose pretty much anything that isn’t surgically attached to me.

I know.

My life is just so hard sometimes. How I even cope without the help of hard drugs is really beyond me.

In Japan, I didn’t have to worry about this issue. There are vending machines everywhere in that country, which meant I never had to be my own personal Sherpa.

I could just buy a bottle of water from one of Japan’s millions of vending machines whenever I got thirsty no matter where I might be.

I could be walking on the street:

Or at the temple:

Or, heck, even if I happened to be in the middle of a deserted field:

And, not only do the vending machines sell your typical refreshing cold beverages, they also sell hot beverages.

And alcoholic beverages.

And floral arrangements.

Because, you just never know when you might need a refreshing teddy bear topiary.

And that topiary was totally not going to fit into my purse.

The food

Did you really think I’d get through an entire post without mentioning the food?

Wow. Seriously? Have you met me?

While Japan may be synonymous with sushi, there is so much good food that doesn’t have anything to do with raw fish in that country. In fact, I only had sushi once while I was in Japan because I was too busy stuffing my face full of other stuff.

Like this:

Shrimp tempura & soba noodles in Tokyo

And all of this:

Yuba (tofu skin) & tempura lunch set in Nikko

And that:

Okonomiyaki in Osaka

And maybe a little bit of this:

Green tea cheesecake in Kyoto. Hey, it's made out of green tea. It's authentic!

Okay, so maybe in addition to leaving my heart in Japan, I also left any hope of ever being able to fit back into my pants. But it was totally worth it.

Besides, all that extra weight I gained in Japan, will just help keep me warm in China while I wait for the workmen to show up and fix my heater. I hope they’re cute and wearing puffy pants! (Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?)

Which country warms your heart and why? And, can anyone tell me where the cockles of the heart are? Because I’m pretty sure mine are freezing right now…

I’d like to say I brought in the New Year this week with a big bang, but that would have required my leaving the couch.

And, well, I think we all know where I’m going with this.

I did get to listen to a whole bunch of other people [...]]]>

Happy Chinese New Year, y’all.

I’d like to say I brought in the New Year this week with a big bang, but that would have required my leaving the couch.

And, well, I think we all know where I’m going with this.

I did get to listen to a whole bunch of other people bringing in the New Year on Sunday night with a bang – lots of bangs, really. Like, so many bangs it’s possible I went a bit deaf in my left ear.

Pretty much everybody, except me, was letting off fireworks in my neighborhood.

Not that this is anything special.

You see, you don’t really need a good reason to let off fireworks in China – any reason will do.

It’s the opening of a new store?

Let’s celebrate with some fireworks!

It’s your birthday?

What better way to say “happy birthday” than with fireworks?

It’s Tuesday at five o’clock in the morning?

Time for fireworks!

But for the New Year, there were even more fireworks than on, say, your average Sunday night. From my vantage point on my couch, I could watch the fireworks through both my bathroom window in the front of my apartment and my balcony window in the back of my apartment. And I would have totally taken a picture of those fireworks to show you on this here blog but, again, that would have required my leaving the couch.

And, again, I think we all know where I’m going with this.

I did manage to make it off the couch on Tuesday, as I was on a quest to find some noodles. Tuesday was my thirty-sixth birthday, and a Chinese friend had told me that it’s a Chinese tradition to eat noodles on your birthday as noodles represent longevity.

And, really, who am I to buck tradition?

Or resist a perfectly good opportunity to shovel carbs into my face?

Unfortunately, all the fine dining establishments in my neighborhood were closed as everyone was still celebrating the New Year.

My local eateries shuttered (or, err, blue plastic tarped) for the holidays.

Either that, or everyone was off planning a very elaborate surprise birthday party for me… so elaborate that they kind of forgot to invite me to it.

I ended up at the only restaurant in my area which happened to be open – the Pizza Hut at a local shopping center. Instead of a bowl of birthday noodles, I ate a birthday pizza with extra cheese.

Because, apparently, China doesn’t want me to live a long life.

It just wants me to live a life full of extra cheese.

I’m cool with that.

So, yeah, other than the fireworks, it’s been a pretty quiet start to both the Chinese New Year and my thirty-sixth year this week.

But that’s okay.

Because I have a feeling things are really going to pick up. You see, I have a good feeling about this year. Like, it’s totally going to be my year.

I should probably mention here that I have this feeling pretty much every single year. I’d like to consider this as a sign that I’m a perpetually optimistic person. And not, say, a sign that I’m a really narcissistic person.

I do realize that not every year can be my year.

And, admittedly, I have been wrong on this before. I thought last year was totally going to be my year, too. But it really wasn’t. Not that it was a bad year. But I suffered a way too many bouts of the Black Lung to make it my year.

This year, I’m telling you, is different. This year is my year.

Even Japan and China agree with me on this – and they generally don’t agree on much of anything.

They certainly don’t agree with me most of the time. For example, Japan and China have been insisting for years that I am a size XL or XXL or LL or some other size that I am truly not. I do not agree with them on this, but, yet, they refuse to see things my way.

We have agreed to disagree.

And I have agreed to cut all the tags out of my clothes.

But this time, Japan and China are totally on my side.

You see, when I was in Japan the other week, I bought two omikuji or paper fortunes while visiting shrines, and they both told me I was going to have an awesome year.

(You know, as long as I stay away from illicit love. But, seeing as I’m in my mid-thirties and I still haven’t figured out how to talk to boys, I don’t think there’s much chance of that. So I’m good.)

And, lest you think those fortunes always tell you good things about yourself or your future, once I received a fortune that was so bad my Japanese friend didn’t even want to translate it for me. When she finally did, she informed me that it said I had a cold, unfeeling heart and would perish in a fire.

So, yeah, those paper fortunes aren’t always full of flowers and illicit love affairs. Sometimes they are full of your fiery death.

Also while in Japan, I read this book about Japanese beliefs that told me that anyone turning an age that is a multiple of 12 is destined to have a year of really good fortune.

(Or really bad fortune. But I chose to ignore that part. But, uh, just in case, I’ll make sure to stay away from fire.)

Oh, and one of the temples I visited while in Nikko had this random Wheel of Dessert thing that you were supposed to spin to find out your fortune. I didn’t really understand what it was all about, but I spun it and it landed on cake.

Cake!

Excuse me, if that’s not a good sign, I don’t know what is.

(Well, technically, according to the little sign above the Wheel of Dessert, cake is not a good thing. A friend translated it for me, and she told me that landing on the cake predicts bad things to come. But I think we can all agree that’s just crazy. Of course, landing on cake is a good thing. This is just one more thing Japan and I can agree to disagree on — just like what size pants I should be wearing.)

And, as you probably already know, it’s the Chinese year of the dragon. So China totally thinks it’s going to be my year, too, because the year of the dragon is totally my year, people!

Or at least it should be my year.

You see, I was born in 1976, which is a dragon year. But, I was born right before the Chinese New Year, which means, technically, I’m a rabbit.

Let’s just say I was not too happy when I found that tidbit of information out.

Don’t get me wrong. Rabbits are cute and all, but they don’t breathe fire.

And, really, I was supposed to be born a dragon.

You see, I was supposed to be born three months later – in March.

But I arrived a bit early.

I also arrived with an entourage. I’m the second of triplets.

Nobody knew my mother was having triplets – not even my mom.

She thought she was having twin boys. When I arrived after my brother, Sam, my mother informed the doctor that he had made some kind of mistake. She was not supposed to have a girl; she was supposed to have two boys, she informed him. When my brother, Tom, showed up after me, her response was something along the lines of, “I told you so.”

(This story should have been proof to me from an early age that my mom is right about everything. So, yeah, why I even bother arguing with the lady, I don’t know.)

I'm the cute one in the middle in the girly-colored plaid.

I can honestly say that my early arrival into the world was the last time I did anything ahead of schedule.

It appears I got that stuff out of my system early.

(It also appears I got the whole business of living in close quarters with other people out of my system early, too. I always claim that the reason why I like living on my own so much nowadays is because I didn’t get my nine months of “me time” in the womb. My brothers, who are both married and have kids now, don’t seem to have this problem – you know the problem where you want to growl at someone if they so much as make eye contact with you before noon? Yeah, that problem.)

These days, I do everything at the last minute – or later.

I spent my four years of undergrad and two years of grad school banging out papers ten minutes before they were due and kicking myself the entire time for not starting them earlier. (And, inwardly, thanking my mother for forcing me to take typing classes in high school against my will. Seriously, why I ever argued with that woman, I’ll never know.)

Unless I’m getting a paycheck to show up on time, I always arrive late. Even when I leave the house on time and I manage to catch the right train, I still end up being late.

I even learn things really late.

I was shocked in kindergarten to find out that everyone in the class already knew the alphabet. I remember thinking, “Did we cover this in preschool? Where was I?”  (Luckily, I was pretty good at faking it, so I managed to mumble my way from H to X for the better part of a year without anybody noticing.)

I had training wheels on my bike until I was, like, fourteen.

I couldn’t swim in deep water until I had outgrown every single pair of water-wings available on the market.

I guess I am what you might call a late bloomer.

(Except I’m not entirely sure I’ve bloomed yet. I mean, if I’ve bloomed, shouldn’t I know what I’m doing with my life already? Or at least, know how to talk to boys?)

To be honest, I get frustrated with this part of myself a lot.

I wish I could start projects at least a couple days before they are due and not a couple hours before. I wish it didn’t take me forever to learn simple stuff like how to count in a foreign language or how to flirt without turning the color of stewed beets. I wish I were one of those people who had her life mapped out for her at twenty-six, and not the type of person who at thirty-six and still hasn’t figured out what she wants to be when she grows up.

I wish I were born a dragon — fearless and confident and full of fire.

But I guess we can’t all be dragons.

Some of us have to be rabbits. Which I guess is okay because according to my online Chinese horoscope, I’m going to have a lucky year full of cake.

Cake!

Seriously, guys, how is that not a good sign?

Besides, it’s probably for the best that I can’t breathe fire.

What about you? Are you an early arriver or a late bloomer?

I know myself too well.

As soon as I say to myself, “You have to do this before you die,” I will instantly start screaming, “And who do you think you are? You’re not the boss of me!” And I will no longer want to do it. Just [...]]]>

I don’t have a bucket list.

I know myself too well.

As soon as I say to myself, “You have to do this before you die,” I will instantly start screaming, “And who do you think you are? You’re not the boss of me!” And I will no longer want to do it. Just like when I tell myself, “You have to go to the gym” or “You have to eat less cake.”

Plus, I hate the word “bucket.”

But, one thing that I’ve really wanted to do ever since I heard about it from some friends in Japan was to take the two-day ferry from Osaka to Shanghai.

You know, so I could say I’d taken the slow boat to China.

I’d do pretty much anything if it involves living out an idiom. I’ve already gotten too big for my britches thanks to my eating every single dumpling that has crossed my path since moving to China a year ago. Besides taking a slow boat, there isn’t much else I could do. All the other idioms, like killing birds with stones or counting chickens, require hand-eye coordination or math skills — neither of which I have much of.

The other reason I wanted to take the ferry was because I was pretty sure it was going to be torture.

After all, I was going to be stuck on a boat for two days. With people I didn’t know. While having to share a room. And a bathroom. Which meant I’d probably have to say good morning to people when it was actually morning-time.

Like I said, torture.

And if there’s anything that my last few years of blogging have taught me, it’s that torture makes for one fine blog post.

In fact, it kind of reminded me of that time I wanted to take a sixteen-hour train ride from Xi’an to Shanghai – the one where we could only get tickets for a hard seat. Remember that? And remember how I was like, “Let’s do this thing. You know, for the blog”? But then my friend talked the crazy out of me, and we took the plane instead.

Well, this time I didn’t have anyone to talk me out of it.

Except for myself.

And, as I mentioned before, I don’t do a very good job of listening to myself.

To ensure that the ride would be especially torturous and, therefore, even more blog-worthy, I booked the cheapest fare possible – a space in Second Class B.

Notice I did not say I booked a bed in Second Class B. That’s because there are no beds in Second Class B. There are only spaces. On the floor.

Mind you, I would not be alone on that floor.

Oh no.

I’d have to share the floor with fifteen other women. Kind of like a slumber party. Or a refugee camp, really.

Of course, there were plenty of accommodation options on the ferry that included a bed and not having to shiv someone for a little extra personal space.

But, as you may recall, 2012 is the year I’m totally going to challenge myself. Where was the challenge in sleeping in a bed?

Besides, who wants to read a blog post about me sleeping in a bed? That would be like reading a blog post about me sitting on my couch.

Wait.

Nevermind.

It would totally not be like that at all. After all, everyone loves a good blog post about me sitting on my couch.

Right, guys? Right?

Be honest. This is the real reason you read my blog, right? To hear more about my couch, right?

Prior to leaving on my voyage, I felt it was best to come prepared for the worst case scenario — like a shipwreck or pirate attack or lack of an onboard Starbucks.

So during my last day in Japan, I ran around Kyoto snapping up items for my self-made survival kit, including:

Motion sickness pills. (I’d never gotten seasick before, but I’d also never been on a two-day boat ride before either. Plus, the packaging made motion sickness look like such good clean family fun!)

A flashlight from the 100 yen store. (I can’t read all the Japanese on the packaging but I’m pretty sure it says “100% shipwreck-proof. And converts to light saber in case of pirate attack.”)

Vitamin C. (For the scurvy.)

A travel mug and a collection of tea and other caffeinated beverages. (So I could at least try to be a civil human being before noon.)

And a whole bunch of food. (Because, apparently, I didn’t think they’d be serving food on board. Plus, I reasoned, I might be able to barter some Pretz for an extra pillow or something.)

By the time I had arrived at the Osaka International Port on Friday morning, I had had a change of heart.

Sure, sleeping on a floor with fifteen other women for two nights would be a big challenge for me.

And, yes, 2012 has been deemed The Year to Totally Challenge Myself.

But 2012 has also been deemed The Year to Totally Stay Out of Prison. I was pretty sure if I had to sleep on the floor for two nights with more than a dozen strangers, I would kill someone. And I would most likely get caught. You see, I don’t have a lot of upper body strength, so it would be really hard for me to throw the dead body overboard.

When I asked the man at the check-in desk if I could upgrade my reservation, he looked at me and said, “Oh, you want to sleep on a bed?”

When he phrased it like that, it seemed like a ridiculous question to ask someone. Like asking someone, “Oh, you want to breathe air?” or “Oh, you want alcohol in that margarita?”

Umm, yes, please. (Duh.)

With my new ticket for Second Class A and the promise of a mattress to call my own for the next two days, I headed to the waiting lounge to size up my fellow passengers.

They were a hodge-podge bunch, really.

There were a couple families, including a Japanese family with three small children. There was a twenty-something guy who never looked up from his laptop the entire time we were on board. There were a handful of other foreign travelers. There were about a half dozen older Chinese men and women. There was a young couple holding hands; the woman wore a red, hooded sweatshirt that said, “I love pray” on it in sequined letters. (I made a mental note to take her side if there was a mutiny on board. You know, just in case my flashlight didn’t convert into a light saber, it would probably help to have God on my side.)

No one really looked like the hardy, seafaring type. There were no eye patches or peg legs. I didn’t hear anyone using words like, “Arggh” or “Matey.” Nobody was wearing one of those hats like Cap’n Crunch wears. And I didn’t see a single parrot.

They didn’t really look like the type who was ready to weather two days of onboard hardship.

And what hardship would that be?

Sporadic gift shop hours.

But I need to buy that pink teddy bear NOW.

A choice of only two brands of beer in the vending machine.

What? No artisan microbrews? That's the last time I'm taking this boat!

Elevator music which was piped through the PA system at seven thirty in the morning to gently rouse us from our sleep and usher us to the café for our free breakfast.

Gah! I asked for the carb-free, Paleo Diet meal. And where's my Spirulina smoothie, anyway?

And a machine that dispensed drinking water and tea… but absolutely no fancy expresso beverages.

I don't see a button for mochaccino. What gives?

So, yeah, my trip was not exactly the forty-eight hours of constant suffering that I had imagined.

In fact, it was rather pleasant.

My room in Second Class A ended up being pretty darn nice. And I only had to share it with two other women – both of whom were Americans teaching English in China.

I had a good time chatting and hanging out with the other English speakers on board. It turns out that I can be quite pleasant with people when stuck in a confined space with them for two days. This was pretty much news to me. (And will be news to anyone who has ever gone on a road trip with me.)

I ate some tasty sweet and sour pork in the restaurant.

I spent a lot of time reading and writing and taking of pictures of all the English signs.

Like this one.

And this one.

And, of course, this one.

And I napped. A lot.

After a rather busy two weeks in Japan, it was really nice to get two full days of downtime.

It almost felt like a cruise.

Except a really cheap one where you have to give yourself a facial.

I am aware that this picture will most likely give you nightmares tonight. I apologize.

Don’t get me wrong.

I was pretty darn happy when Shanghai loomed on the horizon on Sunday morning, and we were all able to get off the boat.

If only so I could be reunited with some expresso beverages.

Wahoo! Shanghai! Now where's the Starbucks?

But I was also pretty happy that this big huge scary thing hadn’t turned out to be that scary for me in the end.

Maybe I’ll manage to survive the upcoming year of challenges, after all.

Or, at least, I’m pretty confident I won’t end up in prison.

(I hope.)

Have you ever done a big, huge challengey thing that you thought was totally going to kill you or land you in jail but then it didn’t turn out to be so much of a challenge after all? Tell me about it.

The town is, supposedly, quite famous for its fresh seafood. Or, at least, that’s what everyone told me as soon as I arrived. Conversations would go something like this: [...]]]>

When I first moved to Japan fifteen years ago, I was living in this tiny little fishing village off the coast of the Japan Sea.

The town is, supposedly, quite famous for its fresh seafood. Or, at least, that’s what everyone told me as soon as I arrived. Conversations would go something like this: “Welcome to our town! It’s famous for seafood! Please don’t leave!”

The town’s other main attractions included these talking fish statues that lined the main street and a bridge which every hour would play music while these plastic cartoon characters would pop out and dance around. And before you all start making that loopy gesture with your finger around your ear as a sign that I’m crazy, I assure you I have photographic evidence.

Me & one of the talking fish statues. He obviously has good taste in eyewear.

The bridge. See? I told you it exists.

The town was quite charming in a rural Japan kind of way. My job was rather easy, and I had a fair number of friends. I had my own house which was located conveniently behind a fish paste factory, should I ever, you know, really need some fish paste. And the people were all ridiculously nice to me despite the fact that my knowledge of Japanese was limited to approximately three phrases, including, “Good Morning,” “Excuse Me,” and “I’m a triplet.” (You’d actually be surprised at how much ground this covers. Just saying.)

Despite all that, I left after one year.

I had always fancied myself something of a big city girl meant for much more exciting environs than a fish paste factory and a handful of talking fish statues. (Mind you, I still thought the bridge was pretty fantastic. In fact, a few years ago I convinced some of my friends to go there while we were on a road trip. My main enticement to get them there was so that they could see the bridge for themselves. When we arrived and were told the bridge was closed for the winter, I almost cried. Okay, so maybe I did cry.)

When I moved back to Japan a few years ago, I was happy to be living in the decidedly more cosmopolitan area of Kobe, where there was a lot more going on than statues of fish… like, umm, statues of naked people in awkward formations.

Most awkward family gathering. EVER.

Every once in a while, though, I would feel this twinge of nostalgia or what the Japanese call natsukashii for small town Japan, where life was simpler, people were a tad bit nicer and statues were not the things of creepy nightmares. (Okay, so maybe talking fish statues are totally the things of nightmares — but you have to admit they are a lot less nightmarish than that naked family statue.)

The great thing about Japan is that it’s such a small country that should you ever need your small town fix, you can easily head off into the hills for the weekend. And then be back in the big city by work on Monday.

Last week, I was feeling a little bit of that old small town Japan nostalgia.

After soaking up the city for five days in Tokyo, I decided to head north to Nikko to soak up a little small town life. Located two hours away from Tokyo by train, Nikko is famous for its shrines, mountains and hot springs.

It’s also super famous for being freezing cold in the winter, as I would soon find out once I told all my friends that I was planning to go there for a few days.

“I hope you’re prepared to freeze your butt off,” one of my friends said on Facebook.

I was not.

Admittedly, I wasn’t prepared for much.

You see, when I arrived in Japan the only thing I had on my itinerary was to get to Tokyo and go to my friend’s wedding. After I’d crossed those things off my list, I didn’t really know what to do. So I spent five days hanging out in Tokyo, gawking at all the cute hipster boys and eating deep-fried food balls. Because that’s just how I roll.

This was a deep-fried pork ball.

And, this was a deep-fried cake ball. Yes, you heard me correctly.

I should also mention that I had packed my bags at 5 AM the day I was leaving China. So the contents of my bags are the contents of the bags of a crazy person. Needless to say, I did not have any clothes appropriate for battling below freezing temperatures or hiking up mountains.

I did have five t-shirts – because, you know, you can never have enough t-shirts in the middle of winter.

I also had a pair of spandex running pants even though I haven’t gone for a run in, like, five months.

And there was my pair of high-heeled pleather boots that I can’t wear for longer than two hours or my feet will start to convulse.

Luckily, being in Tokyo, I was able to pick up a few things before my trip. Like this pair of long underwear:

Japan technology, don't fail me now!

(Yes, those are men’s long underwear. The women’s long underwear looked rather, err, flimsy. And, let’s just say, after all those deep fried food balls, I felt I might need something a bit, ahem, sturdier.)

After arriving in Nikko, checking into my hostel and strapping on my new long underwear, I took a trek through town to see what was going on.

What was going on?

Well, not much really.

But in a charming rural Japan kind of way.

There was this bridge.

Pretty, yes. But, sadly, with no dancing cartoon characters.

And there was a park with lots of Buddha statues.

Also pretty. But none of them talk. I guess I should just be happy that they're all wearing clothes, huh?

And there was this charming little restaurant where the walls were covered in notes from previous customers.

And there were lots of really nice people. Every time I would pass someone on the street, they would nod and say good evening. A few of them even stopped to make comments about the weather. People were so nice to me, in fact, that I started to suspect there was something in the water.

The following day, I tromped through temples and hiked up mountains and was treated with so much kindness it made me feel like I might be some kind of minor deity.

Twice, I stepped out into the street and cars stopped. Like, actually stopped so as not to kill me or anything. (Note to self: Do not get used to this. You have to return to China next week. Where cars aren’t really into the business of stopping for pedestrians.)

The owner of a café I went to made me origami cranes and gave me a small packet of origami paper before I left.

The waitress of another cafe came running after me when I left my hat on the table.

Now, I’m used to Japanese people being, for the most part, pretty ridiculously nice — especially considering they have to deal with me and my limited Japanese and my tendency to scream out things like, “I’m a triplet” whenever I get lost for words. (Which is often. Considering I don’t really have that many words to begin with.)

But this behavior was not natural. I mean, people can’t just be like that all the time, can they? Wouldn’t that be exhausting? And hard on the fingers –  you know, with all that folding of paper cranes?

And then I learned that there really, truly is something in the water in Nikko, so that could explain it.

This could also totally explain why I tend to be a snarky jerk. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have this kind of water in Buffalo, where I grew up. So it’s not my fault I gossip about people and forget my family members’ birthdays — it’s the Buffalo drinking water’s fault.

On my last day in town, I took a bus from Nikko and headed up into the mountains to visit the blustery lakeside town of Chuzenji, where it was so cold I had to wrap my scarf around my face for fear that it might fall off.

My scarf is the only thing holding my chin on.

After scurrying around in the howling wind, I grabbed another bus to the snow-covered town of Yumoto Onsen to sit in the hot spring baths. Where, again, I discovered the water of Nikko to be pretty special… and, in this case, tinged with sulfur. Which sounds kind of gross, but was actually quite heavenly.

And, I swear, after an hour of soaking in it, I felt like a much nicer person. Or at least like I might be able to remember my mom’s birthday this year.

After three days in Nikko, I’d gotten my fill of the small town Japan (and, coincidentally, a few more fried food balls — hey, it’s my thing), so I hopped a few more trains and ended up in bustling downtown Osaka.

Where the statues are awkwardly posed and naked.

Really. How is this even a good idea?

And, instead of drinking Delicious Nikko Crystal Water, we drink margaritas.

Or at least I drink margaritas. While snarkily gossiping with my friends. Proving once and for all that you can bring a girl to Nikko water, but you really can’t make her nice.

Or make her remember her mom’s birthday. (It’s in November, right, mom?)

What about you? Are you a small town person or a big city type?

But, over the past couple years, I’ve changed.

Maybe being so far away from home for so long has made me more sentimental.

Or maybe I’ve just gotten soft-hearted with my old age. (This is the point in the blog post when [...]]]>

I never used to think of myself as the big crybaby type.

But, over the past couple years, I’ve changed.

Maybe being so far away from home for so long has made me more sentimental.

Or maybe I’ve just gotten soft-hearted with my old age. (This is the point in the blog post when you say, “Old age? What old age? You don’t look a day over thirty-eight!” And then I say, “But I’m thirty-five.” And you say, “Oh, right.”)

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m losing my marbles.

Lately, it seems like I’m always sniveling over something. It doesn’t take much to set me off, really — a thoughtful email from a friend, a thank you note from one of my students, a touching blog post, or my parents telling me that they love me on the phone. Heck, I’ve been known to blubber over Youtube videos.

I knew that returning to Japan this past week would most likely reduce me to tears. Mostly because it seems like almost anything reduces me to tears these days. (I’ve mentioned the Youtube video thing, right? I should probably also mention that reality TV makes me cry a lot, too. Seriously.)

Plus, one of the reasons I was returning to Japan was to attend my good friend Reiko’s wedding this Saturday. And, while, I can’t remember being the type to cry at weddings, I also don’t remember being the type to cry over Youtube videos. So I knew there was a huge chance I was going to lose it.

Besides, it doesn’t help that I’ve been feeling really homesick lately. And while I can’t go home-home at the moment, Japan is like a second home to me. I have a lot of great friends here and I have a lot of fond memories of this place. Plus, much like home-home, I know exactly where in Japan to go to eat the best nachos and cake. (Not at the same time, mind you. Not that there is anything wrong with that.) I knew seeing my friends and reliving the memories and eating lots of cake would make me all kinds of weepy.

Cake!

To make matters worse, I was already kind of an emotional wreck to begin with before I had even left China.

Despite having known about my trip for weeks, I was, as usual, completely unprepared. Which meant I had to spend the two days prior to my departure running around like a mad woman trying to wrap up my grading for the semester, buy the stuff I needed for my trip and get packed.

(Oh, and write a blog post. Because, that’s really important. Who cares if you have any underwear in your suitcase? Nevermind if you don’t even have a return ticket for China! Or a place to stay when you get to Tokyo! What you really need to do is write a blog post! And stay up until two o’clock at night doing it! Because sleep-deprivation is just the thing you need right before you take a big trip.)

So, yeah, I knew returning to Japanese soil would most likely render me a complete and utter basketcase. But I thought I’d be able to make it through the Tokyo airport without suffering a mental breakdown.

Boy, was I wrong.

After handing over my passport to the immigration officer, he flipped through it, looked up at me and smiled. “Two years ago, you lived in Japan,” he said.

This was not exactly a welcome back parade. But Japanese immigration officers are not exactly the welcome back parade type of people. And while there were no balloons or ticker tape or airplanes skywriting my name in the sky, this smile was just enough to send my sleep-deprived, stressed-out self skittering quickly into total breakdown mode.

A lump formed in my throat.

My lower lip started to twitch.

My eyes began to tear up.

And the thought passed through my head that I was totally going to lose it in front of this nice government official man.

“Yes, yes I did,” I gulped. And I tried to pretend those tears in my eyes were just the result of a change in atmospheric pressure. Or an allergic reaction to the drug-sniffing dogs. Or something. (But not a SARS-related something as I had no desire to be quarantined.)

I should probably mention that crying in public isn’t really something that is done in Japan.

I know this because I’ve done it before.

Like, a lot.

The first time I left Japan fourteen years ago, I cried for the entire eight-hour overnight bus ride to the Tokyo airport.

Prior to my getting on the bus, a huge group of teachers and students from the high school where I had taught for a year had shown up at the bus station to give me a surprise send-off. They carried signs with my name on it and pressed good luck charms into my hands.

And, instead of bowing to everyone as I really probably should have, I decided to hug them all. Even though hugging people or even, say, touching people is not exactly one of those things that you do in Japan either, I just figured I’d do it anyway. You know, because it’s a really good idea to show your gratitude to people by making them feel really awkward and uncomfortable.

After hugging everyone inappropriately, I got on the bus and started to cry uncontrollably. And I wasn’t just crying quietly to myself. I was crying these big huge choking sobs – the kind of sobs that make it hard to breath or maintain any dignity. They were also the kind of sobs that produce a lot of snot.

The woman next to me on the bus took one look at my puffy, swollen, snot-covered face and promptly pretended to fall asleep. The rest of the bus followed suit, leaving me to choke and sob and smear snot all over my face in peace.

Of course, that wasn’t the only time I’ve acted totally inappropriately in public in Japan.

When I moved back to Japan five years ago to teach English at a university in Kobe, I can’t tell you how many times I made Japanese people feel incredibly uncomfortable by forcing them to hug me… or dance with me… or go on a date with me.

And there were more than a few times that I was reduced to a blubbering mess in public – usually while at work. Because there’s really no better way to gain your colleagues’ respect like having a good ugly cry in front of them. Granted, it was usually totally my students’ fault that I was crying. They were always doing sappy stuff like graduating or thanking me for teaching them or something like that.

One time one of my favorite students came up to me during a party and told me, “I am everything because of you.”

Seriously, Japan?

How’s a girl supposed to keep her shit together if people come up to her saying stuff like that?

Honestly, now.

Of course, I completely lost it in front of the student. I would have totally hugged him inappropriately if I could have, but I’m pretty sure I had lost control over my limbs at that point because I was crying too hard.

I don’t remember crying and hugging people the last time I left Japan two years ago, but I’m sure I did.

If not, I totally made up for it on Saturday when I went to my friend Reiko’s wedding. Well, I cried a lot. I don’t think I hugged many people. Not that I wasn’t tempted, mind you.

Of course, most of my crying was totally Reiko’s fault.

I mean, she looked positively radiant. Plus, it didn’t help that her husband is so obviously, deliriously in love with her. I mean, I don’t know how a girl’s supposed to keep her composure when faced with this much radiance and adoration.

Seriously, people. If you don't cry while watching something like this, you are made of stone. STONE, I say!

It also didn’t help that everyone at the wedding party was so amazingly warm and welcoming to me.

Even though I was dressed totally inappropriately in a cheap Uniqlo turtleneck because I don’t own nice things.

Plus, I was lugging this huge gift with me that I had wrapped that morning using gaudy, pink, Valentine’s Day paper I had found at the 100 yen store and my Swiss Army knife. I didn’t know that people don’t bring gifts to Japanese weddings – instead you’re supposed to give a special ornamental envelope with money.

But nobody seemed to care that I was dressed like a hobo and bearing inappropriate gifts. Or that I couldn’t carry on a conversation in Japanese. Or that I was constantly sniveling into my tissue. They all just seemed genuinely happy to have me around.

I really don’t know how I was supposed to keep it together with all that human kindness up in there.

For the reception, I was seated at a table with all women – classmates of Reiko’s from junior high school. They introduced themselves to me and happily translated speeches and explained everything so I could understand what was going on.

Not that I really needed the translation. I was so sure everyone was saying touching and heartfelt things that I made a point of crying along.

By the end of the reception when the lights dimmed and Reiko got up to give a thank you speech to her family, I was a total and absolute blubbering basketcase. It didn’t matter that the only words I could understand were “mother” and “older brother.”

But this time I wasn’t the only one having a breakdown.

When the lights came up, there wasn’t a dry eye at my table. We were all one big sobby, inconsolable mess.  The woman next to me apologized and blew her nose into a tissue. I would have hugged her inappropriately right then and there.

But I was kind of covered in snot.

Do you cry in public? Or hug people inappropriately even though you know you really shouldn’t? Come on now, I can’t be the only basketcase, can I?

But I have a pretty good feeling about it.

From what I’ve seen so far, Chinese New Year involves lots of shiny stuff.

And dragons. (2012 being the Year of the Dragon, [...]]]>

Before we get this thing started, I should probably mention that I’ve never actually experienced the Chinese New Year in China.

But I have a pretty good feeling about it.

From what I’ve seen so far, Chinese New Year involves lots of shiny stuff.

And dragons. (2012 being the Year of the Dragon, dontcha know.)

Really, any holiday that has shiny stuff and mythological creatures is all right in my book. (Although, I’d be even more psyched if they replaced all those dragons with unicorns. I mean, come on, now. Unicorns totally deserve their own year. Heck, unicorns deserve their own century. Is there someone I can talk to about this?)

For the past couple weeks now, all the stores in my area have been gearing up for the big event by putting out all their special Chinese New Year’s goodies.

There are lots of festive clothes.

And lots of fish-shaped stuff as the fish is a symbol of wealth in Chinese culture.

(Little known fact: fish are very wealthy in China. They always drive the fanciest cars and date hot supermodels. That’s why, if you eat fish in China, you should be careful to check its pockets for spare change before you start eating. Okay, that is totally not true. Everyone knows fish don’t carry spare change. Instead, they hire humans to do that for them. Duh.)

There’s even special lucky, red underwear to wear on the big day.

With all the sparkly stuff and special holiday goodies, it feels a lot like Christmas. (Except I don’t remember wearing special underwear for Christmas. Or did I just miss that day at Catholic school?)

And, while all that stuff is pretty cool, the best part about Chinese New Year, in my opinion, is that it’s on January 23rd this year.

This just so happens to be the day before my birthday, which means I get to totally pretend all those fireworks are for me.

Plus, this means I have another two and a half weeks before I have to kick off my New Year’s resolutions. I figure since I’m living in China I should really do like the locals do and observe January 23rd as the official start to my new year. Because I’m all about living like a local…  except when it comes to speaking the local language… or eating chicken feet like the locals.

As I mentioned in my last post, I’m gearing up for some big changes this year. I have decided that 2012 is totally going to be the year I do super challengey stuff – like all the stuff I told myself that I was totally going to do last year.

But this time I really mean it.

This time I even typed up an Excel spreadsheet of all my super challengey resolutions. Because nothing says, “I’m going to make 2012 my bitch” like an Excel spreadsheet.

One of my major goals for the year is to get back in shape.

I know I joke a lot about not being able to fit into my pants. But I’m not joking any more, guys. I’ve gained a lot of weight since I left Japan two years ago.

I had to buy a whole bunch of new pants when I went home last year in January after eating my way through Southeast Asia. And now even those pants are starting to get a bit tight since I started eating my way through China.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed my time eating my way through China. Or, at least, just eating my way through lots of pork products. Because, seriously, what’s more fun than eating lots of pork?

Mmm... pork.

Unfortunately, I have one of those bodies that doesn’t take too kindly to the reckless shoveling of pork into my face.

My body is the sentimental type – the kind that’s prone to hold on to every little extra calorie.

I suspect it’s saving these calories up for a rainy day — you know, on the off-chance that the rain might deter me from going outside to get more pork. (This has never happened, I’ll have you know. I am just not so easily deterred. My body should know that by now.)

Or it’s possible my body is keeping all those calories on hand for the apocalypse — so as to save me from having to eat cockroaches… or chicken feet. In which case, I really hope those ancient Mayans were on to something. As my hips and thighs are totally prepared for the end of the world.

I’ve done a little bit of running and working out since moving to China last year, but I haven’t done nearly enough rigorous exercise to combat all the rigorous dumpling eating I’ve been doing.

I’ve also been trying to eat more healthily since I have my own kitchen now and can make my own meals, but all the salad I’ve been eating hasn’t really made up for all the non-salad items I’ve been eating.

Mind you, I have no lofty ambitions to fit into smaller Chinese-sized pants. That would require major surgery and the possible removal of a few limbs. And I really kind of need my legs, thankyouverymuch.

I just really want to get back into shape. And maybe start running races again. And, hopefully, not be forced to wear my bathrobe to work as all the waistbands on my pants have exploded.

I am very gung-ho to get my big challengey year underway. (I mentioned the Excel spreadsheet, right? I mean, come on, how much more gung-ho can you get than an Excel spreadsheet? I could have done a Word document, but that seemed a bit non-committal to me.)

But my little resolution to get back in shape is going to have wait for a couple weeks.

Because I have some serious eating to do.

Tomorrow, I’m catching a flight to Japan, where I plan to eat nonstop for the next week and a half.

I’m going to need to have some of this:

Yes, that is a big hunk of butter in my ramen. Why do you ask?

And some of that:

Kushi-katsu. (Rough translation: deep-fried stuff on a stick.)

And, yep, these:

Okonomiyaki. (Rough translation: YUM!)

And, alright, a few of these:

Chinese dumplings. Done the Japanese way. (Fried. Again, YUM.)

And, of course, lots of this:

Sushi!

And when I’m not eating, I’ll probably be drinking some of this:

Biru.

And maybe some of this:

Yuzu & shochu

And, possibly, a little bit of this:

Sake

Mind you, I do plan to get a little exercise. Because dancing at karaoke totally counts as exercise, right?

Pink pleather cop outfit worn for optimal fat burning.

Then I should be back in China before the Chinese New Year and ready to ring in 2012 with a nice brisk jog around the block and some broccoli.

Okay, and maybe one or two teensy little dumplings. Just in case those Mayans were right about 2012, I would hate for my thighs to be totally unprepared for the end of the world.

What are your big, challengey resolutions for the New Year?