There is something beautiful about feeling displaced. The senses of fear and exhilaration, of being free to be whoever you want and just wanting to be whoever it is that people will like, they war within me, pushing and pulling me, stretching me taut, and in the discomfort I find a place of null value, a place of stillness.
I am in the living room of the largest house I have ever been in, owned by a man I have just met in order to interview with him for a job that I don’t know whether or not I got. All around me are question marks, shaped like couches and lamps and end tables and one in the shape of a decorative vase the size of a particularly tall midget, but question marks nevertheless. I am waiting for the others to come downstairs, and in the stillness I am still. As I purge my being of being active, there is a momentary void, and the space invites some long lost friends.
As my muscles relax and my mind clears, I shake hands with Random Observation, give a hug to Musing, maybe a peck on the cheek for Introspection. These are my oldest of friends, and I have missed them. Their quiet voices and gentle demeanor clash with my new crowd, the loud and assertive likes of Entertainment, Productivity, and the particularly pushy What Comes Next. I thought I would be a better person with my new friends, thought that they would spur me towards a happier and more meaningful existence. They haven’t.
So I sit here in my high backed chair like King David before Samuel, wishing I could take a few things back. I missed my old friends, but typical of true friends, the only condemnation came from myself. Eventually I got over myself and started thinking, about the size of the house, about how much I already respected its owner, about how my interview went and about how I would move the piano four inches to the left in order to center it in the arc of light from the recessed light. I thought about how I wish I could play piano like House, all sad and profound like, and I thought about Jamie, not because she is sad or profound, but because I’m always thinking about her. It’s embarrassing. Thankfully Sappiness fits in better with the old crowd than the new one.
I listened to the silence, filled myself with the emptiness, and tried as hard as I could to become a part of the stillness. I thought about a Winnie the Pooh quote that I couldn’t remember, but that seemed fitting, so it was all good. I missed this. I would never be able to do this in Beibei, I was too comfortable. There is always so much nothingness to do, but the bad kind, the kind of nothingness that makes you think it is somethingness. I was like this all the time in high school, but back then I carried the displacement with me, all angsty and misunderstood and all, and I don’t think that’s good either. But this, this is good. I listened to the silence, filled myself with the emptiness, and tried as hard as I could to become a part of the stillness.
Then they came downstairs, and I left my silence in order to eat Moroccan food, drink beer, and to lose at pool. But it’s OK. Stillness is transitory. The only time that it isn’t is when you’re dead. I wonder if there will be stillness in heaven? I hope so.
--------
Later on I went to find that Winnie the Pooh quote. “Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering.” I like Winnie the Pooh. There is something humbly profound about him, and I admire that. He is deep, but not like the Grand Canyon, because that is scary. He’s more deep like a mother’s love, or James Earl Jones’ voice. I want to be deep like that. But I don’t want my name to be Winnie.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Somewhere I Should Never Be
I am baffled. I am in deep baffle. Women’s fashion has always reminded me a bit of pharmacology: I am very glad it exists and personally benefit greatly from it, but couldn’t begin to explain how they pack all the good feelings into those tiny pills. Fashion is wonderful, mysterious, but ultimately, other. And in this pantheon (1), shoes remain the most mysterious and distant.
Which is why it is ludicrous that I am now sitting in my Auntie Caroline’s apartment, surrounded by women’s shoes, trying to decide which ones my girlfriend would like, trying not to get bogged down in how utterly confused I am.
My first reaction to the boots with all the zippers was to try to unzip them. They didn’t work. I have now exhausted my investigative possibilities. I have established that the only defining features of these shoes do not, in fact, function. But were non-functional zippers a good or bad thing?
Then there are the flats. You know, the kind that people are wearing these days that look like princess shoes. But these have large buckles on them. That don’t buckle anything. How about buckles? Were they good? The Puritans thought so…
And so it goes. I’m learning a lot about non-functionality, zippers that don’t zip, buckles that don’t buckle, tie straps that stay tied… I wonder how far away we are from shoes that don’t get worn. Actually, after I saw some of the heels, we might be a lot closer to that eventuality than I had previously thought.
The greatest irony is that in my most recent English lesson (body image), I played devil’s advocate and defended the similarities between high heels and foot binding. So, with that image fresh in my mind, I am now contemplating some 3 inch spikes that my Auntie Caroline described as “sexy dancing shoes.” It is a strange thing when one realizes that they are more of a feminist than their girlfriend. Hmm. So that’s a ‘no’ to the sexy dancing shoes then.
I feel much the same way that an electrician’s 5 year old child would feel, whose father sent him to the store to buy wiring. And so I will do what I think my fictitious counterpart might have: I chose the shiny ones (my budding feminist be damned). I figure that if people want to wear princess shoes, these were the most princess-y. Actually, in my defense, I have no delusions that she would actually wear them, but I do have absolute confidence in my ability mock her with them later.
(1) Along with:
- Armani, the Prophet god of clothing, whose power can reveal great mysteries or shroud all in obscurity
- L ‘Orial, the Trickster god of makeup, who oversees the realms of persona, theatre, and oddly enough, transvestitism.
- Prada, the Warrior god of shoes, whose vindictive nature exacts suffering from his followers in measure to their devotion.
- Denaros, the Allfather, who brought all lesser gods into existence
Which is why it is ludicrous that I am now sitting in my Auntie Caroline’s apartment, surrounded by women’s shoes, trying to decide which ones my girlfriend would like, trying not to get bogged down in how utterly confused I am.
My first reaction to the boots with all the zippers was to try to unzip them. They didn’t work. I have now exhausted my investigative possibilities. I have established that the only defining features of these shoes do not, in fact, function. But were non-functional zippers a good or bad thing?
Then there are the flats. You know, the kind that people are wearing these days that look like princess shoes. But these have large buckles on them. That don’t buckle anything. How about buckles? Were they good? The Puritans thought so…
And so it goes. I’m learning a lot about non-functionality, zippers that don’t zip, buckles that don’t buckle, tie straps that stay tied… I wonder how far away we are from shoes that don’t get worn. Actually, after I saw some of the heels, we might be a lot closer to that eventuality than I had previously thought.
The greatest irony is that in my most recent English lesson (body image), I played devil’s advocate and defended the similarities between high heels and foot binding. So, with that image fresh in my mind, I am now contemplating some 3 inch spikes that my Auntie Caroline described as “sexy dancing shoes.” It is a strange thing when one realizes that they are more of a feminist than their girlfriend. Hmm. So that’s a ‘no’ to the sexy dancing shoes then.
I feel much the same way that an electrician’s 5 year old child would feel, whose father sent him to the store to buy wiring. And so I will do what I think my fictitious counterpart might have: I chose the shiny ones (my budding feminist be damned). I figure that if people want to wear princess shoes, these were the most princess-y. Actually, in my defense, I have no delusions that she would actually wear them, but I do have absolute confidence in my ability mock her with them later.
(1) Along with:
- Armani, the Prophet god of clothing, whose power can reveal great mysteries or shroud all in obscurity
- L ‘Orial, the Trickster god of makeup, who oversees the realms of persona, theatre, and oddly enough, transvestitism.
- Prada, the Warrior god of shoes, whose vindictive nature exacts suffering from his followers in measure to their devotion.
- Denaros, the Allfather, who brought all lesser gods into existence
Flashback: Fire in the Hole
It was one of those times, the ones you fear but know are inevitable. No warning, no lead-up, just the immediate need for a restroom, RIGHT NOW. The worst thing? I was a long, long way from the nearest sitter. Some day, I am going to have to accept that squatters are as unavoidable as they are unfortunate, and embracing China means embracing the squatter (1).
The Chinese have a very pragmatic approach to bodily waste management, an approach founded on a negative answer to the most basic of hygiene questions, ‘Should a bathroom experience be a pleasant experience?’ (2) They tend to be cramped, poorly lit, infrequently cleaned, and most pertinent to this story, BYOTP (3). Unfortunately, while the first three characteristics are immediately and immanently clear upon entry, the final fact is something you all too often don’t find out until it is too late. As was the case with me.
And so it was that I found myself in a bit of a predicament, as it were. I have always been amazed at the clarity with which and the speed at which one’s mind can operate when in times of crises. Unfortunately, no amount of clear, fast thinking would conjure up any toilet paper. There was, however, a hose.
I’m doing my best to keep this PG, so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks. Suffice to say that there are all kinds of crazy angles and vectors to consider. In some ways it was like a strange game of air hockey, with very serious consequences. Never before in my life had I been forced to ponder the refractory angle of a buttcheek. My sincere hope is that never again would I need to repeat my calculations.
My personal trauma behind (4) me, life went on, as it so often does. Though time may have dulled the memory, one thing will always remain with me: My toilet paper.
(1) Disturbing imagery, I know. But it’s a disturbing thought. The plan was to compensate by having a virtual map of Beibei in my head, with little mental markers of every single sitter in Beibei. The reality was that my mental markers consisted of the international student dorms at the north end of campus, and the teacher apartments at the south end.
(2) I have heard that our society ladies powder their noses in luxury, surrounded by frills and couches and fragrant perfumes. Taking inspiration from the Chinese ideas about cosmic balance, one might say that the Chinese bathrooms are the yin to the aforementioned yang.
(3) Bring Your Own Toilet Paper. Really? You can’t figure that one out?
(4) Te he he.
The Chinese have a very pragmatic approach to bodily waste management, an approach founded on a negative answer to the most basic of hygiene questions, ‘Should a bathroom experience be a pleasant experience?’ (2) They tend to be cramped, poorly lit, infrequently cleaned, and most pertinent to this story, BYOTP (3). Unfortunately, while the first three characteristics are immediately and immanently clear upon entry, the final fact is something you all too often don’t find out until it is too late. As was the case with me.
And so it was that I found myself in a bit of a predicament, as it were. I have always been amazed at the clarity with which and the speed at which one’s mind can operate when in times of crises. Unfortunately, no amount of clear, fast thinking would conjure up any toilet paper. There was, however, a hose.
I’m doing my best to keep this PG, so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks. Suffice to say that there are all kinds of crazy angles and vectors to consider. In some ways it was like a strange game of air hockey, with very serious consequences. Never before in my life had I been forced to ponder the refractory angle of a buttcheek. My sincere hope is that never again would I need to repeat my calculations.
My personal trauma behind (4) me, life went on, as it so often does. Though time may have dulled the memory, one thing will always remain with me: My toilet paper.
(1) Disturbing imagery, I know. But it’s a disturbing thought. The plan was to compensate by having a virtual map of Beibei in my head, with little mental markers of every single sitter in Beibei. The reality was that my mental markers consisted of the international student dorms at the north end of campus, and the teacher apartments at the south end.
(2) I have heard that our society ladies powder their noses in luxury, surrounded by frills and couches and fragrant perfumes. Taking inspiration from the Chinese ideas about cosmic balance, one might say that the Chinese bathrooms are the yin to the aforementioned yang.
(3) Bring Your Own Toilet Paper. Really? You can’t figure that one out?
(4) Te he he.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Statues in a Classroom
Rifling through my phonebook, this somehow seems wrong. SPU has been gone for months, yet their names and numbers still clutter up my SIM card like statues in a classroom, bringing back memories … … … but ultimately wasting space. Still though, when you destroy a statue aren’t you, in some way, destroying the memory? I think I was standing behind the door when God was handing out sentimentality, and so I don’t feel remorse as much as I feel that I should feel remorse. It’s the eery disquiet that you hear when someone’s very carefully not making noise. Nicole Myr … delete… silence. Brice Budke … delete … silence. David Steinke … delete … silence. Tabitha Trosen… delete … silence. Lacey Keiser … delete …
and then all there was was silence.
and then all there was was silence.
Monday, March 16, 2009
iChina
I know I’m not the first person who has ever thrown an ‘i’ in front of something in order to make it feel more techy. I may be a bandwagoning stooge, but at least I’m a self-aware bandwagoning stooge.
I realized today my amazing capacity to remove myself from my environment. My experience of China is so far removed from anything Chinese that I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry. The China that I experience is as dramatic as a love story, as quixotic as an indie film, but only as real as a music video. Every street would run with the rhythm of the Arcade Fire (1), every stone wall be cut with the precision of Ghostland Observatory, every building ascend to the crescendo of Sigur Ros. This is the Beibei of my fashioning, a town that that I, and only I, inhabit. My music gives new meaning to the farmers whose contented routines are transformed to angst-filled toil by Metallica, to the daily commuters whose sleepy bus rides are subsumed by the frenzy of my “Irish Punk Drinking Songs Mix (2).” It is in this way that my iPod scores the very people of Beibei, robbing them of their own meaning and replacing it with my own.
In all honesty, some of the sounds of Beibei could do with replacing. I don’t miss the horn honks and traffic sounds that are muted by my white earbuds. I fear, though, that in my effort to sequester myself away from the cacophony of unmuffler-ed urban living, I might have also thrown out the more peaceful tones of the rural living that I claim to value. I can’t remember how long it has been since I have heard the sound of a hoe turning the soil, even though I see the sight almost daily. Now that I think of it, I kindof miss the hustle of hundreds of people moving and bartering in the same closed space, admittedly not your traditionally pleasant sound, but very typical of the China that I thought I enjoyed but now seem to be ardently avoiding.
The beauty of China comes from its unpredictability, the ever-present potential for something random to happen that transcends any rational expectation. Unfortunately I find myself sacrificing that chaotic potential for a China that is filtered through imitation Ray-bans and scored by an iPod. The ever-present battle between comfort and possibility has taken on a new form. The more self-reliant my gadgetry makes me, the less connected I become with my environment; as the local colors become muted, locations will begin to look the same, sound the same, feel the same, until they might as well be a green-screened photobooth backdrop for all the effect they have on me.
I want to change. I fear I cannot. I can leave my iPod behind, but am I willing to forgo my Skype conversations? No. Am I willing to drop the lines of connection that I am constantly cultivating with those back in the States? No. Am I even strong enough to contemplate building a life that is locally sustainable? I don’t do it with my food, there isn’t a chance that I’ll do it with my friends.
As I’ve traveled around, I’ve built up a network of support that, by necessity, transcends location, that exists and functions irrespective of wherever it is that I happen to be. As such, I move easily, but the list is pretty set, and those that can’t keep up get left behind. I don’t like any of this. Thinking about it makes me feel weak, powerless, and like a bit of a jackass. And yet I am surviving. I’m just not sure at what cost, and to whom.
(1) Stuff White People Like - Indie Music
(2) Great Big Sea, Flogging Molly, Dropkick Murphys
I realized today my amazing capacity to remove myself from my environment. My experience of China is so far removed from anything Chinese that I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry. The China that I experience is as dramatic as a love story, as quixotic as an indie film, but only as real as a music video. Every street would run with the rhythm of the Arcade Fire (1), every stone wall be cut with the precision of Ghostland Observatory, every building ascend to the crescendo of Sigur Ros. This is the Beibei of my fashioning, a town that that I, and only I, inhabit. My music gives new meaning to the farmers whose contented routines are transformed to angst-filled toil by Metallica, to the daily commuters whose sleepy bus rides are subsumed by the frenzy of my “Irish Punk Drinking Songs Mix (2).” It is in this way that my iPod scores the very people of Beibei, robbing them of their own meaning and replacing it with my own.
In all honesty, some of the sounds of Beibei could do with replacing. I don’t miss the horn honks and traffic sounds that are muted by my white earbuds. I fear, though, that in my effort to sequester myself away from the cacophony of unmuffler-ed urban living, I might have also thrown out the more peaceful tones of the rural living that I claim to value. I can’t remember how long it has been since I have heard the sound of a hoe turning the soil, even though I see the sight almost daily. Now that I think of it, I kindof miss the hustle of hundreds of people moving and bartering in the same closed space, admittedly not your traditionally pleasant sound, but very typical of the China that I thought I enjoyed but now seem to be ardently avoiding.
The beauty of China comes from its unpredictability, the ever-present potential for something random to happen that transcends any rational expectation. Unfortunately I find myself sacrificing that chaotic potential for a China that is filtered through imitation Ray-bans and scored by an iPod. The ever-present battle between comfort and possibility has taken on a new form. The more self-reliant my gadgetry makes me, the less connected I become with my environment; as the local colors become muted, locations will begin to look the same, sound the same, feel the same, until they might as well be a green-screened photobooth backdrop for all the effect they have on me.
I want to change. I fear I cannot. I can leave my iPod behind, but am I willing to forgo my Skype conversations? No. Am I willing to drop the lines of connection that I am constantly cultivating with those back in the States? No. Am I even strong enough to contemplate building a life that is locally sustainable? I don’t do it with my food, there isn’t a chance that I’ll do it with my friends.
As I’ve traveled around, I’ve built up a network of support that, by necessity, transcends location, that exists and functions irrespective of wherever it is that I happen to be. As such, I move easily, but the list is pretty set, and those that can’t keep up get left behind. I don’t like any of this. Thinking about it makes me feel weak, powerless, and like a bit of a jackass. And yet I am surviving. I’m just not sure at what cost, and to whom.
(1) Stuff White People Like - Indie Music
(2) Great Big Sea, Flogging Molly, Dropkick Murphys
Friday, March 13, 2009
FLASHBACK - Travel Sagas
Somehow I never posted this...
I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be on top of the ball, all of the time. To be at home, calmly sitting next to my matching luggage, peacefully whiling away the last 30 minutes before I need to leave the house. To arrive at the airport two, maybe two-and-a-half hours early, a rock of serenity in the swirling eddies of airport traffic, content to placidly inch your way up even the most listless line. That is not my life.
This has not been the most sterling of travel weeks for me. I missed a flight out of Taiwan on Thursday, and then on Friday I missed my bus because I couldn’t figure out how to open the front door. I kid you not. Bear with me.
The flight story is depressingly anticlimactic. I have a tendency to fill my plate too full, to exchange too little cash, to cut things too close. Suffice it to say that I’m not “down” with margins of error. Stephanie, I think, enjoys life more than I do. She is one of life’s amblers, an appreciator of beauty and a smeller of flowers. Unfortunately, our two personalities combined to catastrophic effect.
I sat in the back seat, watching the cars, inexplicable in their abundance, and cursed… everything. As if some sort of malicious hive beast, the traffic devoured the few seconds of buffer time that I had allotted, and I just sat there, helpless to catch my 10:00 flight.
9:10
9:20
My dark silence was broken by Stephanie talking to Jeff in the front seat:
“Man, Robb must just be praying SO hard right now.”
I was not praying. I was late.
“Mm Hmm”
Then I prayed.
9:30
“Don’t worry Robb, we’ll make it!”
“Mm Hmm”
9:35
9:40
9:45
“See? We made it! Pleeenty of time!”
“Mm Hmm”
Apparently 15 minutes is not sufficient time to get checked in, go through security, and board the plane for my international flight. Who knew?
It ended fine, I was booked on a later flight without incident or charge, and the world was a better place. Still, more excitement than I would like.
Fast forward one day. I was in Hong Kong, on my way down the elevator to catch a bus right outside the building. I pushed the right door. Nothing. I pulled the right door. Nothing. Pushed the left door. Pulled the left door. I calmly looked around for some sort of a latch or lever. Push. Pause. Pull. Pause. Push. Pause. Pull. Pause. As I stood there, a grown man playing silly buggers with a glass door, I saw my bus drive by. Pushpullpushpullpushpushpushpush. Damn.
Only then did I notice the (only) small black button, hidden on the door at eye level. Sneaky Hongkanese devils.
And now, this morning. After a leisurely morning of packing and chatting with my hosts, I made the first leg of my four-part journey to Chongqing. I would bus to the MTR (subway) station, catch the MTR, then catch a bus from mainland Hong Kong to the Shenzhen airport (just on the other side of the Chinese border), and finally catch a flight to Chongqing. Unfortunately I had about 150 lbs of luggage packed into duffel bags, and had no idea how I would get them to the elevator, much less navigate the MTR with them. Yet another instance of brilliant planning. But I figured out how to transform one bag into a backpack, and it was fine. The bus and the MTR went without incident, as did getting on the bus to Shenzhen. Keep in mind here that at this point I was more a moving mountain of luggage than a man, and was shooting from the hip. Had things not worked out as planned, I had no plan B. So the stress level was fairly high.
45 minutes into the 90-minute bus trip, we pulled over and everyone got off the bus. Not seeing any other option, I followed the crowd, which led me to once again pick up my luggage (dangit) and blindly walk into the building directly ahead of us. It turns out that it was immigration, and it all went relatively smoothly, but when traveling as heavily as I do, all surprises are unwelcome surprises.
Skipping forward to the airport. As a warning, if this sounds tedious, that’s because it was. Domestic Asian flights only allow about 45 lbs of luggage, and so I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of avoiding paying for the extra poundage. What I didn’t expect was for both of my pieces of luggage (both of which went Portland-LA-Taipei-HK without any problems) to set off the scanners. One had a lighter in it which I neither knew was there nor cared about keeping, and the other had a largish military knife that I very much cared about keeping. After the fifth time the guard unsheathed the knife, I figured that he just enjoyed playing with knives, but did not think it prudent to tell the airport security guard to stop messing around and get on with it. So I stood there, as the time counted down to my flight. Which I was NOT going to miss. Finally he cleared my luggage, then I had to run to the overweight luggage counter, calculate my fee, then get that amount changed into Chinese Yuan, then go back and get my receipt, then finally go back to the ticket counter and get my boarding pass. Phew. Then came the security checkpoint, where my carry-on was “too dense” for the scanners, which I took as something of a complement to my packing prowess. It made me feel good until I realized that I had to completely unpack my very meticulously packed carry-on, then try and put it all back together again. I stopped laughing pretty quickly.
In the end, I got from Seattle to Chongqing on time, and I even arrived at each destination on the day that I was scheduled to, if not on the flight. Ultimately, though, I’ve pretty much lost interest in this story, and only finished it for the sake of my beloved mother, who likes to know these kinds of things. But now I’m done.
I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be on top of the ball, all of the time. To be at home, calmly sitting next to my matching luggage, peacefully whiling away the last 30 minutes before I need to leave the house. To arrive at the airport two, maybe two-and-a-half hours early, a rock of serenity in the swirling eddies of airport traffic, content to placidly inch your way up even the most listless line. That is not my life.
This has not been the most sterling of travel weeks for me. I missed a flight out of Taiwan on Thursday, and then on Friday I missed my bus because I couldn’t figure out how to open the front door. I kid you not. Bear with me.
The flight story is depressingly anticlimactic. I have a tendency to fill my plate too full, to exchange too little cash, to cut things too close. Suffice it to say that I’m not “down” with margins of error. Stephanie, I think, enjoys life more than I do. She is one of life’s amblers, an appreciator of beauty and a smeller of flowers. Unfortunately, our two personalities combined to catastrophic effect.
I sat in the back seat, watching the cars, inexplicable in their abundance, and cursed… everything. As if some sort of malicious hive beast, the traffic devoured the few seconds of buffer time that I had allotted, and I just sat there, helpless to catch my 10:00 flight.
9:10
9:20
My dark silence was broken by Stephanie talking to Jeff in the front seat:
“Man, Robb must just be praying SO hard right now.”
I was not praying. I was late.
“Mm Hmm”
Then I prayed.
9:30
“Don’t worry Robb, we’ll make it!”
“Mm Hmm”
9:35
9:40
9:45
“See? We made it! Pleeenty of time!”
“Mm Hmm”
Apparently 15 minutes is not sufficient time to get checked in, go through security, and board the plane for my international flight. Who knew?
It ended fine, I was booked on a later flight without incident or charge, and the world was a better place. Still, more excitement than I would like.
Fast forward one day. I was in Hong Kong, on my way down the elevator to catch a bus right outside the building. I pushed the right door. Nothing. I pulled the right door. Nothing. Pushed the left door. Pulled the left door. I calmly looked around for some sort of a latch or lever. Push. Pause. Pull. Pause. Push. Pause. Pull. Pause. As I stood there, a grown man playing silly buggers with a glass door, I saw my bus drive by. Pushpullpushpullpushpushpushpush. Damn.
Only then did I notice the (only) small black button, hidden on the door at eye level. Sneaky Hongkanese devils.
And now, this morning. After a leisurely morning of packing and chatting with my hosts, I made the first leg of my four-part journey to Chongqing. I would bus to the MTR (subway) station, catch the MTR, then catch a bus from mainland Hong Kong to the Shenzhen airport (just on the other side of the Chinese border), and finally catch a flight to Chongqing. Unfortunately I had about 150 lbs of luggage packed into duffel bags, and had no idea how I would get them to the elevator, much less navigate the MTR with them. Yet another instance of brilliant planning. But I figured out how to transform one bag into a backpack, and it was fine. The bus and the MTR went without incident, as did getting on the bus to Shenzhen. Keep in mind here that at this point I was more a moving mountain of luggage than a man, and was shooting from the hip. Had things not worked out as planned, I had no plan B. So the stress level was fairly high.
45 minutes into the 90-minute bus trip, we pulled over and everyone got off the bus. Not seeing any other option, I followed the crowd, which led me to once again pick up my luggage (dangit) and blindly walk into the building directly ahead of us. It turns out that it was immigration, and it all went relatively smoothly, but when traveling as heavily as I do, all surprises are unwelcome surprises.
Skipping forward to the airport. As a warning, if this sounds tedious, that’s because it was. Domestic Asian flights only allow about 45 lbs of luggage, and so I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of avoiding paying for the extra poundage. What I didn’t expect was for both of my pieces of luggage (both of which went Portland-LA-Taipei-HK without any problems) to set off the scanners. One had a lighter in it which I neither knew was there nor cared about keeping, and the other had a largish military knife that I very much cared about keeping. After the fifth time the guard unsheathed the knife, I figured that he just enjoyed playing with knives, but did not think it prudent to tell the airport security guard to stop messing around and get on with it. So I stood there, as the time counted down to my flight. Which I was NOT going to miss. Finally he cleared my luggage, then I had to run to the overweight luggage counter, calculate my fee, then get that amount changed into Chinese Yuan, then go back and get my receipt, then finally go back to the ticket counter and get my boarding pass. Phew. Then came the security checkpoint, where my carry-on was “too dense” for the scanners, which I took as something of a complement to my packing prowess. It made me feel good until I realized that I had to completely unpack my very meticulously packed carry-on, then try and put it all back together again. I stopped laughing pretty quickly.
In the end, I got from Seattle to Chongqing on time, and I even arrived at each destination on the day that I was scheduled to, if not on the flight. Ultimately, though, I’ve pretty much lost interest in this story, and only finished it for the sake of my beloved mother, who likes to know these kinds of things. But now I’m done.
FLASHBACK - The Biggest Ant
I was in the shower and I saw a big ant chasing the little ant across the wall. It made me laugh, because I wondered if the little ant always knew that he was a little ant, or whether he thought he was a big ant, right up until the bigger ant came along. And I bet the big ant felt pretty big, chasing down the little one. Top of the food chain, master of the universe, all that. He probably felt pretty important, because he was the biggest thing around. I never saw what happened, because I lost interest and started shampooing my hair. They were only ants, after all. Much too small to be important at all.
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