YOUR TAX TURKEY WAS DELICIOUS

My Thanksgiving dinner, courtesy of the U.S. embassy, was devoured last night in the company of about a dozen other Beijing Nerdbrighters.

Thanks taxpayers (and Turkey)!

抱怨与心事，或这个iphone是个危险的东西 (complaints & preoccupations, OR the iphone is a dangerous thing)

If you’ve been keeping up with my posts over the last month or so you might imagine that I spend my days and nights in Beijing handing balloons to children and flowers to old ladies, skipping through subterranean transit tunnels taking in great gulps of stale, dirty air, and occasionally tossing my hat into the air gleefully. Honestly, that’s half true. I’m very happy to be back here and I feel I’m on a very exciting, if challenging, adventure. But there are dark days, gripes, and preoccupations of various degrees, I just don't much like to write about them. All the more reason to vent now, and return later to my usual swooning over cultural difference.

The small matters are mostly mere frustrations: the fact that I can’t take a proper shower at home for instance. My first day here Auntie Zhang explained that hot water was limited and sporadic, and demonstrated her system: a pair of shallow buckets to fill with warm water and then splash oneself with after turning off the shower spigot. I joined the gym the next day. But some days I just don’t have time to go and there’s no choice but to curse and shiver my way clean.

Another source of irritation has been the construction work on a neighboring building. Every single day for more than a month there have been construction workers less than 15 feet from my window

building this:

Apparently it will keep the building’s residents cooler in the summer. I’m so happy for them.

The noise isn’t usually too bad, but being forced to choose between light and privacy is. I’ll be working at my desk with the curtains open and then look out to find that a ruddy-skinned country boy (all of the construction workers in big Chinese cities are from the countryside, officially termed the “floating population”) is staring at me dumbly. Do you know how frustrating it is when you don’t even have the one-finger salute in your communication repertoire? It isn’t nearly as satisfying to scowl and close the curtains with a dramatic flourish, but what else can I do? I really need to learn some offensive Chinese hand gestures.*

Many of you have heard already about my research troubles and I won’t elaborate here, aside from saying that it is exhausting and disheartening to be denied at every turn. I’m learning a little through my own channels but I can’t get official access and I’ve gone down so many roads that have turned out to be dead ends. I don't like being without a meaningful task and I feel like I'm disappointing my committee and wasting my time.

Y'all know I'm not exactly thick-skinned, and so the worst part of living here is also the best: I find everything so curious and compelling and that leaves me wide open to letting things affect me, both positively and negatively. I think that’s an important quality for an anthropologist and I don’t want to lose it, but it can also be draining. Although urban life suits me nicely and I feel far more at home here than I ever did in Bloomington, this is also a dense, dirty city with more than twice the population of New York. Sometimes, on what I like to call “bad China days” my favorite quote from The Wasteland comes to mind:

Unreal city,

Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,

A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,

I had not thought death had undone so many.

I do enjoy getting caught up in all the chaos, losing myself in the powerful currents of urban life, but it takes a certain degree of engagement that I don’t always have the energy for. When I first got here I could stand on the subway entertained by watching and listening to people for the entirety of my 40 minute commute to campus but more and more I’ve been relying on electronic devices to help me pass the time while being jostled and squished and trying not to think about communicable illnesses. Ever since I got my iphone unlocked and started carrying it with me everywhere again, I have frequently fallen prey to the dangers of shuffle. I am just not strong enough to deal with the disjointing combinations that result: listening to Starship Trooper (the "Awesome" version, of course) while perusing vegetables at the market, enjoying the mashy goodness of The Grey Album as my bus staggers past Tiananmen... it's just too much for my tiny brain to handle. Time and distance collapse and contract and I'm everywhere and nowhere all at once. I'm sure you've all had similar experiences.

I once spent a long melancholy day at the Peking University library after spending my commute listening to the entirety of an album on constant rotation on my last few days in Seattle and which made shimmering water and steep hills appear before me like mirages. Oh dry flat dirty populous city, you cannot compare, you cannot compare.

*Since I first wrote this, I have not only learned a uniquely Chinese offensive hand gesture, but also verified that flipping the bird is in fact comprehensible to the majority of the population. Sadly, the construction next door is almost finished.

YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TOO, YEAH

Friday the 13^th of November 2009, the 32^nd anniversary of my birth, began like so many before it: with the ritualistic playing of “Birthday” from the White Album immediately after I woke up. There were presents to be opened as well, mostly those contained within the magnificent care package that had arrived the week before from Montana and John (Auntie Zhang had also given me a few trinkets the night before – no better landlord in the world I tell you).

I tend not to have high expectations where birthdays are concerned, especially when I happen to be celebrating them in places far away from my friends. There is also the precedent set by my 2004 birthday, a day on which, among other things, I was photographed for Bon Appetit, given a gratis bottle of champagne to share with friends from my favorite neighborhood restaurant, and was a +8 on the guest list for a concert downtown. Tough to beat.

This year, to stave off disappointment, I had originally planned to let the day pass without telling anyone but then I let it slip at a Fulbright event the week before and was consequently ordered to invite everyone to come out and celebrate with me. I tried to hide it on facebook but stealthy birthday hunters found me out and rained their love down on me. The indefatigable Siano went all-out, successfully getting all Up in My Inbox.

The day itself was fairly low-key. I went to the gym in the late morning and ran into my buddy Li Chao, one of the trainers there. He insisted on taking me out to lunch so we went to a tasty hole-in-the-wall muslim restaurant.

I ran some errands in the afternoon, watched a movie, ate a specially-prepared dinner with Uncle & Auntie, dressed myself up in a seasonally-appropriate party dress,

(apologies. I went several rounds with photobooth but was unable to capture anything but pure dork)

and went down to the Treehouse an hour or so before my comrades were due to arrive. I’ve always wanted to buy a round for the whole bar but fiscal circumstances have never before made it feasible. Not only are beers super cheap here, but I welcomed another opportunity to give the Treehouse my money and show my appreciation to the staff for making me feel so at home.

I’d never been there so late on a weekend night though and I was glad to see that business was booming. I spent about 200RMB ($30) on 20 beers and felt successful. Most of my favorite regulars were there, and by some lucky (celestial?) stroke none of my erstwhile suitors were among them. I mentioned how strange I found it that so many Chinese men have expressed their romantic interests towards me on this visit and not on the last (though I should point out that I am still terrifying enough in aspect to make children in Shanxi cry). Uri, studying China-Middle East relations at Peking U., helpfully theorized the origins of the interest: an assumption that Western girls were good bets for a 一夜请 (one-night stand). Veronica, carrying out a photographic study of Chinese farmers, shared a story from the first week she was here, stretching out after jogging, when one of the security guards on the campus of her language program attempted to engage her in conversation using a program on his cell phone which gave painfully awkward English translations and prompted him to ask questions such as “do you often eat food?” and “do you like to harden the body?”, causing poor Veronica to fear she was being asked out by a 14-year old.

It was good times. There’s nothing like boozing it up in an alley to bring you closer to people you hardly know. The next day was another Fulbrighter birthday and many of us met up with Ariane, studying the consumption of internet news, at a Hot Pot restaurant with noodle swinging acrobatics (a slender man all in white swung a 2-meter long noodle over our heads and then dropped it into the pot to boil and be consumed) where we were given not only bibs and chair covers (to protect coats) but also tiny plastic bags to keep our cell phones in. Brilliant! Afterwards we went to Q Bar for cocktails both scrumptious (Ginger Martini!) and so-so (Green Tea Long Island), ending the evening at a silly, overpriced neo-Gothic subterranean nightclub called Punk. I accidentally lost a hand-knitted scarf in the pile of winter wear built when we all went out on the dance floor, but chalked it up as a sacrifice that afforded me yet another happy birthday.

And today, I'd like to wish a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my dear SARAHSAURUS!

白毛女 (THE WHITE-HAIRED GIRL)

Last night I was treated to a viewing of the revolutionary opera “The White-Haired Girl” performed at the Great Hall of the People, which, if you were paying attention, is where our telegenic presidente Ao-Ba-Ma was just the day before.

The theater is in the Great Hall of the People, built in the 50s in the Soviet style, so there ain’t no luxury boxes, but because it is in the Great Hall of the People, there’s plenty of flash-photography, loud arguments over seats, sleeping, and people answering their phones (a guy 3 seats down from me thoughtfully put his head under his little desk to take a call that lasted a WHOLE scene). My companion helpfully explained to me that these were people of "low quality" (素质低), a disconcertingly common remark among middle-class Beijingers.

白毛女 was one of the 8 model plays, the most famous of the few operas and ballets permitted during the 10 years of the Cultural Revolution by Chairman Mao's unpopular 4th wife, Jiang Qing. It tells the story of a young country girl who, after losing her father and her maidenhood to an evil landlord, flees into the woods, turning feral and white-haired.

The stylistic inspiration for her transformation appeared to be the hit musical "Mamma Mia".

After a few years of living in the wild, terrifying the nearby villagers who think her a ghost, her true identity is discovered by the 8^th Route Army (the early CCP), and, after years of therapy, she once again becomes a human being. Don’t worry, she gets to keep the pretty hair.

At the climax of the tearful reunion scene, the red sun, which represents Mao Zedong in high-socialist era imagery, entered from stage right. There was applause, but it seemed cursory. I suspect the effect was dimmed a bit by the fact that due to a technical mishap the sun made its first appearance during the father's suicide scene in the first act, prompting a ripple of laughter across the theater.

In the final scene, the white-haired girl and her whole village are led in a struggle session against the landlord and his crony. It was satisfying, even if it did hit a little close to home. [I know you're not like that mom].

白毛女 from Le Kougre on Vimeo.

At curtain call, the main actors tossed their bouquets into the audience, causing small scrambles not unlike those seen at wedding receptions. Later, waiting for the subway, I found myself standing next to a middle-aged woman who was posing for a picture, proudly cradling one of the bouquets as the train rushed into the station behind her.

翻身！翻身！

IMPORTANT THINGS *YOU* NEED TO KNOW

Hardly a day goes by without someone asking me the same old question: “American Kougar friend”, they say, “why do you always talk politics and significant world events on your blog? Why do you not use your web-based mouthpiece to share with us, your readers, the tedious minutiae of your expatriate lifestyle?” I hear you my friends, and in answer to those burning questions of yours: what did I eat for breakfast today? What movie did I watch last night? What was my favorite birthday present? How much can I bench press? I give you the following:

The secret to winter-time leg warmth.

mute orphan + poacher ready for a change of heart + endless gratuitous shots of frolicking baby pandas = smokin hot eco-porn

Oh yes she did. Trucker hat with feline patch courtesy of air Montana.

Approximately 6 Shiba Inu puppies.

p.s. Guess who's in town?

BETTER SLED THAN RED

Monday evening brought the second big snow of the year, a snow perhaps not of nature made but crafted instead by the mad scientists in the weather ministry bent on cleaning up the air a bit. Thick “fog” hung in the streets for the week preceding, and while the official measurements listed on the Chinese EPA website showed pollution readings only in the 100s, the more sensitive monitor at the U.S. Embassy was literally off the scale, reading at least 500. The snow then, was very welcome.

On Tuesday afternoon I had the pleasure of showing the friend of a friend around Beijing, and while my tour was far from comprehensive, it had the merit, at least for me, of providing an excuse to walk around some pretty places and eat dumplings in good company.

Yonghegong lama temple looked especially seasonal bearing a thin layer of snow, although it made a strange topping for all the trees and bushes that haven't yet lost their leaves.

A sight which pleased me even more was this young boy and his father hailing a taxi. The 7-year old inside me was moved to great envy by the boy’s puffy jacket, which appeared to have built in (and perhaps even retractable!) alien ears. A close up may be necessary.

In this inset, we can better see that his jacket reads “SEEK THE BABY”, or possibly “SEEK THE BADY”, both of which make perfect sense to me.

Wednesday was pleasantly cold but I assumed, based on my first winter in Beijing, that the snow wouldn’t stick around for long. I was wrong. When I woke this morning there was a fresh layer of powder outside and it was still falling steadily. Thinking I might wait it out, I tucked back into bed with tea and Middlemarch, daydreaming of the high-tech winter gear back in storage in Seattle, whose promises of “wind-stopping”, “moisture wicking”, and “thermal insulation” might act as incantations against the snowfall, if nothing else.

After lunch I went shopping with Auntie Zhang so I could carry home the groceries for Uncle Mu to start dinner preparations with after she went back to the office. It was the realization that it was really very pleasant outside (and perhaps also a little fear at what kind of dinner Uncle Mu could cook up with duck skins and lotus roots) that decided me on venturing out for the rest of the afternoon. It was a good decision. Campus, already an inspiring place, is lovely today.

Even the concrete maw of the library and the fierce lion-dogs that stand sentry in front of it look a little softer: edges blunted, light refracted, just sparkly enough to still be taken seriously.

好像全中国担心我的腿似的 (It seems all of China is worried about my legs)

It's that time of year again, the time when the leaves turn and flutter to the ground, when the Siberian winds start to blow, when the entire nation's attention is concentrated on my shocking, perplexing, pneumonia-courting refusal to wear pants. To teachers, friends, people at the bus stop I am consistently called upon to defend my stockings-clad gams. No, I'm not cold, NOT COLD NOT COLD NOT COLD. Stop staring at my calves! This afternoon while I was getting dressed at the gym two women next to me began chatting about the foolishness of wearing a skirt in this weather (it was 45 degrees for pete's sake - NOT THAT COLD). I felt like a 10 year old in the presence of two old aunts and wanted to shout: I'm RIGHT HERE guys. I can HEAR you. GAWD!

I mean, do we really want to start this people? Are you really the ones to challenge me on the appropriateness of my apparel? Ma'am, didn't I see you at the Fragrant Hills last week, climbing hundreds of uneven stone steps in golden 2-inch heels? Sir, are you aware that both your jeans and shirt are encrusted in rhinestones and that you are carrying a purse? Miss, are you, or are you not wearing a t-shirt that reads: "Whip to me, can I come? Hold back. I'm gonna come" (I did not actually see this t-shirt but it comes from a very reliable source).

So can you maybe cut me some slack?

I don't know what to call it; cross-cultural conceptions of bodily warmth preservation seems a little unwieldy, but how else to explain the chasm between how most Chinese people believe one should clothe one's body in cold weather and the far more flexible ideals prevalent in other places I've lived? True, a few people in English-speaking countries have inquired after my warmth and sanity when I wear skirts on cold days, but they have also accepted my answer and moved on. On American college campuses, after all, it is not uncommon to see young meatheads wearing shorts and t-shirts when there is snow on the ground, but most of us who see them assume either their physiology permits such liberties or they haven't gone home to do laundry in a few weeks.

In China, many people seem to think it is their duty to inform me that my insufficient leg coverage will inevitably lead to illness. These ideas, as far as I understand, derive from Chinese conceptions of physical wellness rooted in Chinese medicine and philosophy, particularly as represented in ideas of balance. Mid-way through fall, long underwear sets of every conceivable color, style, and price show up in the markets and on the streets. Every single Chinese person I know personally wears these under their clothes all winter and during much of the fall and if the changing room at the gym is any indication that goes for most of the population. It seems to be seen as necessary to evenly cover all exposed parts of the body -- if not, everything is thrown out of whack. If I dressed like this I think I would pass out after only a few minutes of standing compacted on the hot, stuffy subway.

The other night I finally explained to Auntie Zhang that in America we have no such beliefs. I told her that according to medical science, the most important thing is to keep your head warm and that if it isn't warm it will "steal" heat from other parts of your body. I assured her that so long as my head, neck, and hands are kept nice and toasty my comparatively exposed calves are going to be just fine.

I also caved slightly, buying a cheap pair of black sheepskin-like boots on the street to still the clucking tongues when it really does get cold. They are ugly, and I do feel like a stormtrooper wearing them where I would prefer to feel like an elegant lady, but they will surely get dragged out a few times this winter. After all, my legs do get a little cold sometimes, I just won't give anyone the satisfaction of admitting it.

CITY OF CATS, PART THREE: Xiao Bao and the Treehouse//Study and interaction

Many of you will be disturbed and upset by the revelation that I willingly had my home internet service disconnected a few weeks back. It was the mornings that did it. It was just too easy to roll out of bed, make my tea, and plug in, emerging hours later still wearing my robe and having accomplished very little. When you make your own schedule I think you have to structure things wisely if you want to get anything done at all. Besides, I'm content to spend hours or days alone but that won't improve my 口语 (oral language), no matter how many Chinese newspapers I browse online. I had to force myself to get out and meet people, and even before the internet was disconnected I started trying out each and every one of the coffee shops near the picturesque Andingmen/Gulou area not far from my home. One day I wandered down this little hutong branching off the increasingly popular Nanluoguxiang, 小菊儿胡同 (little chrysanthemum alley).

I think I was first attracted by the squawking of this bird, who belongs to a nearby resident and often hangs outside in the daytime, nicely complementing the rock show posters usually plastered on the building.

Then I peeked in the window and saw this, a full grown tree growing up through the floorboards and out through the ceiling.

Here it emerges leafily from the rooftop (where you can sit on nice days after climbing a treacherous little ladder).

And it just got better. The music was lovely but something I'd never heard before, the menu had a long list of teas and a short list of seemingly house-devised cocktails, and there was a cat, 小宝 (Xiao Bao, or "Little Treasure"), and after I unpacked my work and settled on a sofa he jumped up to fall asleep beside me, later sidling into my lap.

Here he is in a grainier photo, hunting for food on my table (I've started bringing him wet cat food once or twice a week) but finding only beer.

The Treehouse has become a large part of why I've been so happy in Beijing this first month and a half. I don't have a regular research schedule by any means and spend most of my time reviewing my Chinese alone or with my tutor, going for long walks, and doing internet research or working on establishing contacts. Most of the latter now takes place at The Treehouse, where I go at least every other day to drink tea or help myself to bottles of Harbin beer from the fridge, sometimes staying late and ordering in dinner with the employees and other regulars. I've become friends with the Chinese owner, Sophie, and some of her "co-owners" (the business has been struggling and so she says she is "experimenting with communism" and inviting others to share in the profits and the risk). One of them, I've recently found it, is studying for a masters' degree in Anthropology at a university here, and we've been very happy to find each other and learn more about the different national traditions of our field.

There are a few other regulars as well, many of them schoolmates of the owner or bilingual expats. The place attracts interesting people, in part because of the pleasant atmosphere and in part because of Sophie, a principled, opinionated young lady who works a day job translating for a German journalist. It's a swell place -- I only wish I could import some of my domino-playing friends from across the Pacific to hang out there with me.

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Another favorite activity is hanging out with my former teachers from IUP. Almost once a week we get together to go out for dinner, visit markets, or go sightseeing. The pictures below are from a hike in the Fragrant Hills (香山) with my dear Zhao Jie (pictured below) and a handful of other teachers and students. The Fragrant Hills are the place to go in the fall when the leaves turn but we went a little to early to see much. The smog was about average and that impaired visibility considerably but it was still a very pleasant hike spent enjoying something that almost, kind of, approximated nature.

And thus concludes "City of Cats". Due to constraints on time and attention spans, I was unable to include all of the city's cats in this series. Honorable mentions go out to the calico kitten at my Pingyao hotel, the Stewart-like cat at the eyeglasses store on Andingmen Nei Dajie, and the bar "Hot Cat" (热猫), where I spent an amusing night last weekend drinking Black Label and playing Jenga with giggling, heavily-accessorized Chinese girls.

All is well here. I hope the same is true of you and yours, wherever you are in the world.