Shanghai Shenanigans, Arabian Whispers

2011-11-18T04:03:00.002+08:00

Gravity

Earlier, there was quite a scene at one of the compound’s swimming pools, and no it did not involve women swimming in abayas, which is strictly forbidden. If you are in the pool, then you must have on a swimming suit. If you are in an abaya, then you must not be in the pool. And yes, women have attempted to swim in the pool in abayas and they are promptly told to get out or leave. This I have not seen but I would imagine that it looks something like nuns in full habits swimming or swimming goths or a witches’ coven hit by a flashflood.

Not many people were at the pool. For the most part, it was a quiet afternoon. Under the shade of the awning that runs the length of the south side of the pool, a man - who somewhat resembled an overweight ogre in a speedo - skyped and then later he walked around smoking. Danny Devito’s version of the Joker came to mind. A few nondescript sunbathers, all male, were scattered around the rest of the poolside area.

In the water were four older and younger children. My estimate is there was a six-year gap between the oldest of the youngest children and the youngest of the oldest children. Thus, there were two younger children and two older children, the older ones barely being teenaged.

When I arrived, one of the older children, a boy, was taking pictures of the other older boy as he did back flips into the water. The two smaller children - a girl and a boy, the girl being smallest – splashed around the pool. The girl was wearing arm floaters. The boy was not. He was tall enough to stand in the shallow end. The girl was not.

Soon after I arrived, the photographer got bored with the back flip photography game and left. This did not seem to faze the back flipper in the least. He then jumped into the pool with one more back flip and splashed around with the two smaller children who at this point, I assumed were his younger siblings.

The older boy played with the younger two with a mixture of love and unnecessary roughness. At times, he would hold his sister close to his chest and kiss her on the top of the head like she was the most valuable treasure in the world and then five minutes later he would be splashing her mercilessly.

I spied him teaching his younger brother how to hold his breath after one failed attempt of dunking his brother and his brother coming up coughing and gasping for breath. But then, he showed his brother by example how to hold his breath and go under water. The little boy tried and succeeded and did it ten more times to make sure he actually could, in this episode was a brotherly tenderness, a tiny achievement, a snapshot of a metaphysical building block.

But then, a few minutes after this achievement, the older brother started a splashing game against both siblings that escalated to the point where the little brother tried to climb out of the pool just to be tickled and dragged back in by the older brother. At this point, I thought I might intervene but then the older brother let the little brother get out of the pool. But then, lo and behold, the little brother was just getting out to jump back in.

My assumption was if the roughhousing was too rough that the little brother would just go home but he didn’t. He kept coming back for more. So this went on for sometime and I went back to reading my book. Then I heard some screaming. At which time, I looked up from my book.

At that time, one of the sunbathers at the opposite end of the pool, whom I had not really given much notice, an older Arabic gentleman with a mustache, ran yelling down to my end of the pool where the children were splashing. There was a confusion of voices:

“Stop that! Stop that! What are you doing?!”

“But he is my brother.”

"Arabic"

"Arabic," the man saying more heated than before and then adding in English, “Where is the attendant? I want your names and your parents' names.”

The attendant arrived.

“He is trying to drown his brother! Get his name from the registry! Call his parents! He is trying to drown his brother.”

This went on for a few minutes. The attendant, a Filipino, did not seem to know what to do. He just stood there in between the mustached man, who was still near his end of the pool, and the children, who were in the pool mute, the older boy trying to defend himself but finally just going silent.

Should the older boy; should he have dragged his brother around by the legs in the pool? No, probably not. Was the mustached man right in jumping up and intervening? Actually, yes, probably so.

There are signs posted at the pool that there is to be no one at the pool under 12 without a guardian. And a boy, who is not much older than 12, would probably not qualify as a guardian.

After the brouhaha, the scolded boy huddled in the pool with his siblings. What they huddled about, I cannot be certain but I would surmise that it had to do with the aforementioned altercation. Then they just stood there in the shallow end - the little girl with her arm floaters; the little boy with his smallness; the older brother with his weight. Maybe the older boy felt gravity; maybe he felt it for the first time ever. Maybe he realized that his young siblings were not much sturdier than plastic dolls, china cups.

Shortly after, the younger brother conferred with his brother and then got out of the pool and went into the locker area. The older brother hugged his little sister and held her to his chest and asked her something. Both of them then got out of the pool and he carried her, so that she would not burn her feet, across the pool area to the other side where their towels and belongings were. He then dried her off with the tenderness of a father. At this time, the younger brother came out of the locker room and raced over to where they were, the older brother still tenderly drying off his tiny sister.

2011-11-12T02:10:00.001+08:00

The Last Ahmed of Cairo

Leaving Cairo, at the airport, I agreed to do something that I should have never agreed to do. Ahmed, this Ahmed, the last Ahmed of Cairo had been very kind thus far. How could I refuse?

This all happened because of the wrong information on my itinerary. When I showed up at terminal 3, I was brushed along by a few non-English speaking security officers to various places until I found the Egyptian Air customer service window. The man there who had a limited grasp of English told me I needed to go to the Seasonal Terminal. As he was explaining this to me, an Egyptian man came to the window with the same query.

In Arabic, the worker explained to this man where he needed to go and then the worker told me to follow the man. I did. The other terminal was some 500 meters away, which was a bit of a hike in the heat with baggage. The man told me a car would come pick us up and take us there.

Outside at the drop off spot, there were two men and two children – a girl and a boy - and one overloaded cart of luggage. The man introduced himself. This is another Ahmed, a good Ahmed - the last Ahmed of Cairo.

The last Ahmed of Cairo and the men talked and looked off into the distance for the mythical car as the children entertained themselves on the overloaded luggage cart. The boy pushed the girl around the sidewalk on the cart. Often he would push the cart within inches of the curb, which in turn made me wince quite a few times because I was certain the cart would go over the curb and the overweight luggage would crush the little girl.

“Is this the car?” I asked when an Egyptian Air van pulled up to the curb.

“No, soon the car will come.”

“Okay,” with that I looked with the men off into the distance to the East to see if I could spot this car that we were all waiting for as if the car was Godot. I asked the Last Ahmed of Cairo if the children were his children. No they belonged to his brother, who did not seem to realize he had any children while the children wildly wreaked havoc with a luggage cart overloaded with luggage. And I winced occasionally at the sight of this.

“This is car,” the Last Ahmed of Cairo pointed to a belching panting Fiat approaching that soon rattled to a halt. All of us piled in. One man in a thobe sat to my left in the backseat; the Last Ahmed of Cairo sat to my right. In the front seat, the children piled on top of their dad, who once we took off down the road seemed to finally recognize their lineage. The car sputtered and kicked its way like an ailing camel over to the Seasonal Terminal. Honestly, I was not sure the car would make it some 500 meters.

But the car did make it. Once there, the Last Ahmed of Cairo went to make sure we were at the right place. His brother and the two children followed. I was left standing with the men in thobes. I smiled at them awkwardly, oh these Woody Allen moments. After several minutes, the Last Ahmed of Cairo returned. We loaded the luggage on another cart and headed for the terminal. At the door of the terminal, the Last Ahmed of Cairo gave his brother and the children a teary farewell.

Since his flight was an hour earlier than mine, at ticketing he would try to get me on his flight - once we got through the initial security. However once we got to ticketing, I was fairly certain that no special treatment was going to be forthcoming because a few agents were trying to serve a few hundred passengers. This is when the Last Ahmed of Cairo asked me the Locked up Abroad question.

“You do not have much luggage. Could you check one of my bags?”

And before I even thought about it, I said, “Okay.”

I know. I know. Who in their right mind would say yes? Why I said yes, I don’t know. This is what I was thinking. It would have been a very odd coincidence that he showed at the customer service window at the same time as me if he had a bomb. At the time, I assumed if he had anything it would be a bomb. I suppose I was still in revolution mode. I did not even stop to think that he might have had several kilos of hash that he was smuggling into the Kingdom.

Now everything seemed very suspicious – the teary goodbye, the men in thobes, the tank liquids splashing around in the trunk of the Fiat, the weird chemicals in milk crates in the Fiat, the Fiat. The fact that our flights were leaving at two different times was the most suspicious. After I thought about it, I tried to tell him what he wanted me to do was against the law but he did not understand what I was trying to say. Maybe this was a ploy. Maybe he understood English perfectly. Maybe in his spare time he spoke with the flair and intellect of Tony Blair.

In the throng of people, we were not moving. The lines had ground to a halt. Actually, there was nothing as civilized as a line but just a mob of people gathered together. Each person in line at the ticketing counter seemed to have several people and several bags with them. This took a minimum of ten minutes a customer. On top of that, the luggage conveyor did not work. The luggage had to be hauled over to an overworked bag handler by the customer once the customer had checked in.

Another ticketing agent arrived. We hurried to his counter. We were near the front. The Last Ahmed of Cairo kept looking at his watch. It was now an hour until take-off for his flight. He overheard someone say that the line we were in was just for the passengers on his flight. This meant I would have to brave the mob again to wait to check in for my flight.

We got to the counter and the Last Ahmed of Cairo checked in and checked his bag. They told him it was overweight but let it slide. He told me to go wait in line and he would be right there after he had given his overweight bag to the bag handler.

I made my way through the throng of people that had grown exponentially. Making my way through the crowd was maddening. I now had in custody one bag that I had no idea what was contained therein. Was it hash? Was it explosives? Was it a tea set? What could be in it?

Once I got in line, I looked to see if I could spot the Last Ahmed of Cairo. He had disappeared. There was only one exit and I was closely watching to make sure he did not give me the slip. But then if it was in fact a bomb, he could have just headed to a distant part of the airport and he would be safe. At this point, I thought of speaking to an airport security officer about this. But then I thought, their English is, for the most part, non-existent so how would I get my point across without implicating myself in the process?

While I procrastinated and waited for the Last Ahmed of Cairo, I thought about my time in Cairo. If there was in fact a bomb that was about to explode, I had had a great time in Cairo and I had had a pretty nice life for the most part. After being bamboozled twice, on my third try I got to see the pyramids and ride a camel around them.

This is how it went down. I was looking for something to do my last full day in Cairo. I was trying to not be down about not seeing the pyramids but then I thought:

“Why not? I will give it one more shot.”

So I took the metro out to Giza and decided I would take a taxi from there. Right when I walked out of the metro station, a man asked where I was going. I told him the pyramids. He told me he is a taxi and he would take me. I asked him how much. He told me twenty Egyptian pounds. I agreed but then I told him that he better not trick me. I wanted to see the pyramids not his uncle’s perfume shop and not his aunt’s papyrus museum.

“No tricks,” I told him. “I will be angry and I won’t pay you if you trick me.”

He probably did not understand but he gave me a faint sign of agreement. We got in his car, which had the remains of a bumper in the backseat, and we drove. He told me after we went to the pyramids he would like for me to come to his home which was right by the station to have dinner. I did not agree to anything.

After ten minutes or so, the pyramids were in sight. We exited from the highway and took a rode crowded with mule carts and tuk tuks. After a few minutes, we turned left into an alley. He had been on the phone. At this point, I was thinking of how I would get away if he were taking me to some remote place to rob me. I had visions of many accomplices helping with this crime. Many of them, in my mind, looked like Hassan Mohammad who by now had certainly slaughtered his camel for the holiday.

But then there it was a stable of camels and horses by a wall, the pyramids on the other side. The stable owner invited me inside for tea. I told him I just wanted to see the pyramids. How much for a camel and a guide?

He quoted me one priced. I quoted another.

“Oh you know way of Egypt,” he said and quoted another price. Finally we agreed on 200 Egyptian pounds for an hour trek on a camel with a guide around three of the pyramids and the sphinx.

I got on the camel and was still surprised by the bulk of the beast when he rose. The guide led the camel into the walled area and then he had the camel sit again so that he could get on the camel. He got on the camel and we rode along the ruins of the pyramids. There were many discarded shoes, most of them made of canvas, along the way.

When we had ridden for twenty minutes we were at a place with a view of the pyramids. The guide had the camel sit and we dismounted. I took some photos and then the guide took some photos of me using my camera. We started to get back on the camel and ride but then he stopped me because a dirty old desert man appeared on a donkey. Out of the donkey’s saddle bags, the dirty old desert man - wearing a thobe that looked as if in its former life had been a mechanics grease rag – pulled out two bottles, Pepsi and 7-Up. There we stood viewing the pyramids – me completely awestruck - drinking a Pepsi and a 7-Up.

Then a man came by selling cheap keffiyehs. This man was as dirty as the first donkey rider. Really, it was not that hot but I decided I would buy one if it were cheap enough since they did look cheaply made. I bought one for 5 pounds and He fashioned it on my head. We then rode onto the sphinx and surprisingly the sphinx is not as monolithic as I thought it might be. Maybe I caught it on a bad day.

At that point, the guide demanded money. I gave him 100 Egyptian pounds. Although we were not gone for an hour, I did not mind. We returned to the stable. The taxi driver invited me into have tea with the stable owner which at this point I knew was a ploy to fleece me since that is what happens. I told him I would love to but I had to meet a friend.

And right then, my phone rang and it was Scammer Park Ahmed who was the second person who had told me we would go to the pyramids but instead we wound up in a field with the man of the field, crazy man who in retrospect still gives me the creeps. I did not actually answer the phone but I put it on silent as I had been doing since he had been calling me relentlessly to try to pull another scam I am sure.

But I acted like I answered the phone.

“Yeah, I will be right there,” I said into a phone with no one on the other end. “I am leaving the pyramids right now. Yeah, I won’t be long.”

With that, I told the taxi driver, I had to get back to meet my friend. He offered to take me all the way into downtown. I told him the metro was fine. We pulled out of the back alley and back onto the crowded street still competing with the donkey carts and tuk tuks for room.

“Arabic, Arabic, Arabic, metro,” the driver yelled to a family walking along the road. The taxi driver, who I might dare to say his name was Ahmed, stopped the car and got out and pulled the bumper out of the backseat and put it in the trunk and the family piled in.

“I’m sorry. This is my brother and wife of my brother,” he told me when he got back in and put the car into gear.

“Yes, I’m sure it is,” I replied sarcastically.

But this is what happened, I knew he would try to fleece me for more money once we got to the metro. So I had to have a plan. I looked in my wallet to make sure I had the 20 Egyptian pounds –twenty there, twenty back. I did. I am always happy when I have small change because it makes every maneuver much easier. The taxi, unknowingly did me a favor, he let me out before he let out the family because I knew he did not want me to see them give him money.

“This is metro,” he said and pointed to a stairway up to the metro under an overpass that was obviously not where you would usually drop passengers.

This is what I did. I handed him the twenty, yelled thanks as I was opening the door and getting out of the car. As the car door slammed and I was running up the stairs, I could hear him try to fleece me out of more money!

So how was I to get out of my current plight? I had a plan. I would just tell the ticketing agent that the bag is not mine and that my friend wants me to check it for him. But, I had to hope that the agents English was good enough to understand what I was saying. While I was thinking about this, the last Ahmed of Cairo approached.

“I may not see you again,” he said. “I will take the bag.” With this, he took the bag and dashed off to check the bag with the agent we initially encountered.

As he dashed away, I looked at him and he really did not look like a terrorist or a drug smuggler. He looked like a man, an Egyptian, trying to get back to his job in Cairo.

2011-11-08T19:59:00.000+08:00

After the revolution, burnt out cars sun themselves on side streets under billboards advertising escapes and getaways to Paris, Milan, Barcelona, New York. On the entrance to the bridge that crosses the Nile, a woman – Egyptian, perhaps; Sudanese, perhaps; Ethiopian, perhaps – sits with blankets and her children spread out around her. She sells small packets of tissues for one Egyptian pound. Her young daughter, the only daughter old enough to speak, collects the money and says, “Thank you.”

A small boat floats on the Nile filled with teens. Music blasts from the boat. In the middle of the boat, a few teens are dancing. On the other side of the bridge, we have now moved on to Zamalek, a more prestigious zip code. Men sit by the Nile and read the morning paper and smoke cigarettes and drink tea.

As if in retaliation to this prestige, this luxury, this life of leisure; a concrete bridge support, close to where the readers lounge, has been christened a toilet by the less prestigious.

I'm mad...And that's a fact /I found out...Animals don't help / Animal think...They're pretty smart /Shit on the ground...See in the dark.

The celebration is over. The camels have all been slaughtered. Teenage boys hose down the makeshift animal pens around the city. Fragments, pieces - parts of skulls, the ears of a cow, the horns of a bull, the animal scalps - have been swept away. But if you look very hard what you think might be an old mop is the scalp of a sheep, or a ram, or a calf, an old smashed water bottle may in fact be a the partial skull of a goat. Donkeys are safe. They are used to pull the fruit carts. The blood covered streets are only a memory, a faint smell of blood and dung with the continual wafting of the exhaust from the Fiats, Fiats that should have run their course two or three decades ago.

Last night, from the balcony of my hotel room, nine stories up, I listened and at times watched the revelers below on Talaat Harb. Car horns honking; young men yelling; drum beating, clapping and singing and more clapping, intermittent fireworks – all of this went on until the wee hours for the holiday celebration. From my vantage point, in the opposite direction of the boisterousness, I could see cars congested inching their way to the downtown party, honking in frustration and celebration.

“Great party, isn’t it?”

Yesterday, I moved into the Grand Hotel. With its Outlook Hotel hallways and its authentic cage elevator that rattles from floor to floor like the rattling of chains, old glamour haunts this haunt. The place was built in 1939. Above me are rooms of suites only accessible by a circular staircase. In one of them, a specter Norma Desmond continually gets ready for her close-up. She is set to play Cleopatra. Mae West and Marlene Dietrich swap stories about roaring Cairo. Marlene has doubts that Mae West was ever here in those days. “But I am Little Egypt!” West proclaims. The current date is a misnomer to them.

Ghosts from the Chelsea drift over oceans to their new home here at the Grand. Edie Sedgwick and Candy Darling drink champagne and shoot speedballs. But then they come down and slip into the Cairo cool, the swing of the Nile, the bebop of the Funky Tut quartet. That energy, that undercurrent of art, misadventure, and larceny is here; it is all here in Cairo.

The only time the noise dies is in the early morning, when the bakers are baking their bread and the old men sit and drink tea. Shuttle busses rattle past.

Yesterday, I was wandering around, this time I was trying to find Concrete, a clothing store that supposedly sells nice Egyptian cotton dress shirts. Why am I always buying dress shirts? At this point, I think I have given away or left behind a few closets full of shirts in my meandering. That is okay. These days I travel light. Here today, Concrete tomorrow. As I walked along Mother Focus - not Hocus Pocus - by Focus played in my head. Thijs van Leer operatically over taking my mind.

Concrete, I had read a review - Egyptian cotton shirts, fine quality, not overly expensive. I typed the address into a maps application and perhaps found the vicinity but not a concrete (oops!) address. The address that I found I wrote down and asked the concierge at the front desk if he might know where Concrete is located. He suggested I take a taxi. It would be a ten-minute ride. I told him I would rather walk. He told me to walk down July 26^th St. and cross the bridge to Zamalek. Once I got there I could ask specific directions. This was the cranky old man concierge, the one who can never be bothered. He was brusque and short to put it mildly.

Everyone is working an angle. I trust the policemen. They have minimal knowledge of English but that is okay. They can point me in the right direction. However, as soon as I got to Zamalek, I was sidetracked. I saw a billboard for hamburgers. There were two policeman standing talking to each other unoccupied.

Thus, I pointed to the sign and asked the nice policemen, “Where?”

The younger one shook my hand and pointed in the direction and said “Five.” He then continued to talk to me but I did not understand him. I just smiled. He told me his name. I did understand that. I told him my name. He did understand that. He introduced me to his older policemen friend who had one shifty eye. After our conversation of hand signs and hand jive, I headed for a hamburger. Within a few doors, I passed a pizzeria that had an authentic look to it. Maybe I would come back and eat here, I thought, if I did not find the hamburger.

As I walked, I passed the bookstore I had read about. This was all going very well. Not at all like the day before when I had tried to find the book market and wound up in a ghetto where I thought I might be beheaded.

This is what happened; I was off to find this market that had inadvertently become a huge market for books from all over the world. It had been touted as this grand thing, this book market to end all book markets. This was very exciting. I had never really been to something so vast, so exhaustive, so bookish.

Since I get up relatively early these days and had nothing better to do, I started out at 8:30 a.m. thinking that I would take a leisurely stroll and though the book market may not be open I would come back in the late afternoon once I had found it.

The walk was an estimated 30 minutes. This would be good exercise. The weather in the morning is perfect. I was all set to go. The directions were fine. I followed them and each landmark was as it should be until I got about half way there and that is when things started to go awry.

The directions were written in English, which was useless to policemen and others who could only read Arabic. I happened upon an automotive market that was absolutely not it but I thought maybe if I wandered along the road that was supposedly where the market was located I would come to it.

The market was next to a metro stop. I crossed a train bridge thinking the market was there. Maybe the road had a sister road on the other side of the train tracks. Since on my directions, the road was listed as Ahmed Helmy and I was on Ahmed Helmi. I crossed the tracks to find Ahmed Helmy, the sister road that did not exist.

Across the train bridge, I had truly wandered into a third world, a world of dirt roads and dirty children and old leering men, suspicious and grim. This slum wound like a maze. Now I had wandered into a place that was off the grid, hidden from view, a place where a knifing might go unnoticed for days, weeks, years. Trying to keep my composure, I thought at each opening there would be the market; there was not. I crossed back over the train bridge. At this point after an hour or more of tracing and retracing my steps, I had to decide if I should cut my losses and go back to the hotel or edge onward. I edged onward.

The market was by a park. In the distance, I saw an overpass and trees; that must be the park. I walked a kilometer or so. At this point, the sun was high in the sky. I was sweating in my linen blazer. I was thirsty. Books did not sound as wonderful as they had an hour or two before. At this point, I was absolutely less than bookish.

Then I came upon it, the market. I was overjoyed. There was the welcome sight of cheap plastic jewelry and atrocious knock-off leather belts. This made my heart leap. The books were here. They had to be.

Before I tackled the book browsing, I stopped at a little outdoor café. The place looked new and clean. Some of the chairs looked as if they had never been sat upon. There was a gleam to the place that made it shine like a diamond in manure.

A boy in a red uniform came to my table and took my order. I ordered a Pepsi. He brought my Pepsi and then went over to the corner of the building where his young co-worker friends were congregated. All of them peaked their heads out to get a better glimpse of me. This was much like the munchkins getting a glimpse of Dorothy and Toto for the first time.

Their curiosity was endearing. I called the boy over who had taken my order. I took a picture with him and with a man that I assumed was his father but then probably was not. Then I took a photo with the boy and all of his friends. A young man, older than the boy but younger than the father figure, asked me if I would like some tea. I was still drinking my Pepsi so I told him no thank you. He stood and talked to me for a bit. He had a friend in the US. He asked me if I spoke Arabic. He asked if this was the first time I was in Cairo. Realizing he did not sit because I had not asked him, I told him to sit. He did. We chatted and then I was curious about the book market.

“Is the book market here?” I pointed in the direction of closed stalls that dead-ended into Ahmed Helmi.

“Book market?”

“Yeah, book market,” I confirmed, “Books, like this,” I pointed to my Moleskin.

“No,” he told me, “No books. Nothing here.”

“Nothing here?” I asked crestfallen.

“No, nothing.”

“I am looking for the book market,” I told him. “I think it must be around here somewhere but I cannot find it.” I showed him the piece of paper where I had written the directions.

“No, no book market here,” he told me one more time as if I did not believe him the first time.

He then asked some of the other workers. He consulted two of the father figures. This naturally all took place in Arabic. I was not sure what was being said.

“I get taxi,” he said. “Taxi take you.”

We went out to Ahmed Helmi St. He hailed a taxi. I asked how much the taxi should be. He did not answer. I thanked him and got in. The taxi took off and did not turn on the meter. I asked him to turn on the meter. He was on the phone and ignored me. I thought he would turn on the meter once he got directions from the person to whom he was speaking. This was a ploy. Once we got to where the market supposedly was which was back near where I had found the automotive market, he stopped the cab.

I gave him a ten and got out of the taxi. He got out too and said “No, this,” and pointed to a twenty. I told him “No, Ten.” We stood there. I shook my head no. I knew I was being rooked. Although we were probably not standing there longer than a minute, this seemed like twenty minutes. I was not going to budge. He was not going to budge. He showed me a five. I gave him the additional five he demanded and preceded to the market at long last.

But neither was this the book market. This was an extension of the automotive market. On a muddy side street, a boy had a ram by the horns and was pulling the ram with all of his might. The boy was slightly bigger than the ram and the ram did not want to go. The ram planted its hooves and refused to budge. The boy pulled and pulled at the ram’s horns until the ram finally did budge. This happened every few steps. The ram did not want to go where the boy was taking it. This made quite a scene.

The sight of this lifted my spirits. There was plenty of daylight left and the markets really get going in the night anyway. I would go back to the hotel and regroup and reexamine my directions. Maybe I had made a blunder.

At the hotel, I realized that I could take the metro over to the book market. It is criminally cheap, less than 25 cents a ride. I found directions via the metro. The book market was supposedly at the exit of the Attaba stop. Finally I would see the book market. I rode the metro in anticipation thinking about all of the great books I was going to find, all of those strangely beautiful foreign editions of classic lit; a Moroccan edition of Catcher in the Rye or Naked Lunch perhaps, or a Algerian edition of a Gide or a Camus novel. The possibilities were uncountable.

The Attaba metro station is mad. I suddenly had flashbacks of the Shanghai North Railway Station. Oddly, it seemed like 1,000 other people were itching to go to the book market as well. The crowd was so thick at times that I thought I might faint. I calmed down and just let the crowd sweep me along. Everything was fine. I was floating and drifting and meditating and feeling up and over and high and feeling the low tones of the pull of the crowd and nothing mattered and then…

BOOK MARKET!

I had found it. I was absolutely ecstatic and incredibly anxious to start browsing. There was stall upon stall upon stall upon stall. I was in heaven until I visited stall upon stall upon stall upon stall and saw with disappointment where all of the John Grisham and Michael Crichton novels had come to die. On top of that, most of the books looked as if they had been kissed by a fair amount of rain and heat, slut lit of the desert sun. The book market can kiss my ass.

Here I should mention that when I had tried to walk to the book market, my directions were completely wrong and I had not even been anywhere in the vicinity of the book market. Thus everyone I asked either thought I was a lunatic or thought I was a, uh, lunatic. The really nice man at the outdoor café, in the end, was probably just trying to get rid of me since I would not let the idea of the book market being right there where he stood, I would not let that go.

So this time, I was off to find Concrete and a hamburger but I was not absolutely set on the hamburger after I had passed the pizzeria. At the same time, I realized I needed cash so I needed an ATM. ATM, Concrete, hamburger – these were on my list, my must haves.

At a corner, I asked a policeman. I showed him the piece of paper where the concierge had written the directions in Arabic. He pointed straight down the street where I was walking. I kept walking but then I saw a man sitting who looked slightly Bedouin, and a little slow as well after I had already approached him. He pointed up at the sky. Heavy. Then a young hip female crossed the street towards me and I asked her.

She pointed to a side street that I had just passed and said:

“Follow that street. The store is on the right.”

“Thank you. Thank you,” and I am almost certain that I bowed.

Halfway down the street was a store, a store that sold Egyptian cotton shirts but it was not Concrete and since the day was a holiday it was closed. That was okay. I was not disheartened this time. I had quickly become enamored with this pocket of Cairo. At this point, I was just in the mood to wander. Walking down the side street, I came upon two security guards who were clowning around with each other. The bigger one mussed the slighter ones hair. They did not notice me. At another point, I came upon a bunch of men in animal costumes dancing and beating drums. They wanted me to dance with them. They put a rabbit head on my head. We all laughed.

I never did find the hamburger place but that was fine because the pizzeria looked so appetizing. I headed that way. Halfway there, I ran into the shifty eyed cop. He asked me a few things but I was not sure what he was saying. I stood there for a moment wondering how to make my exit without seeming rude. Finally he said:

“Five pounds is enough.”

“You want me to give you five pounds?”

“Yes.”

“No,” and with that I brushed past him and walked on into the pizzeria.

The pizzeria had the appearance of one of those places in the West Village, the ones that have been there since the 1940s ran by the same family, that have served the likes of Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and Chairman of the Board Sinatra.

One table was occupied. The rest of the place was empty. I sat at a three top positioned against a window. The waiter brought me a menu. I quickly chose the Napolitano and a Pepsi. The pizza was spectacular like authentic New York inspired thin crust pizza should be. The anchovies were pleasingly salty. I tasted the memory of New York.

When I finished, I asked the waiter if he knew where Concrete was located. He asked a couple of coworkers and they all agreed that I took two lefts and then from there walked straight down the street. Concrete was at the end of the street.

To be honest, even though they probably would know if anyone knew, I was still hesitant to believe them. I did what I was told and was even more skeptical when I found myself walking down a street that was just a glorified driveway for several huge apartment houses and the Indian Embassy.

Nevertheless, I kept walking. I probably walked half a kilometer and there it was – Concrete. Like Anthem, it stood like a monolith. Actually, no, I am kidding. It actually just looked like an old man store. It was closed. I headed back to the Grand Hotel. Maybe I would spot the ghosts of Dick and Liz playing dress up - Cleopatra and Mark Antony, George and Martha

“It's this habit you've got of chewing on your ice cubes like a cocker spaniel…”

When I came out onto July 26^th Street where the pizzeria was located, I bumped into the younger cop who had had the nonsensical conversation with me when I first got to Zamalek. We talked again. Though I did not understand a word he said, I found him endearing. We continued our conversation of Arabic and nonsense. Then he said:

“Five pounds,”

“Yes?”

“Is enough.”

“You want me to give you five pounds?”

“Yes.”

What was the deal? This mirrored the conversation I had just had a half hour or so before with his buddy before I walked into the pizzeria. Is everyone including the cops on the take? Were these guys even cops dressed in white with their black Cairo Police berets? This was an outrage.

“Okay,” I told him and I pulled out my wallet and gave him the five pounds.

But then that billboard, that billboard behind the after-the-revolution-burnt-out cars, maybe it is not advertising getaways to Paris, Milan, Barcelona, New York. Maybe, in fact, the billboard is an advertisement for a new Cairo, post-revolutionary. The grime of the revolution is upon us and then on us - and we love the liberation of the filth. We are all looking for the pay off, the big score, the payday. Cairo in its change is the same, looking for that payday in the renewal, in the rebirth.

And, we look for some hip song to fill the void, make the blanks less blank, to speak for us. Radiohead’s National Anthem swims into our collective heads, though this song has not been properly celebrated on the streets of Cairo; Mott the Hoople’s All the Way from Memphis gives Memphis a new meaning - less Mississippi, more Nile; lest we forget the Alice Cooper Group’s Elected, beheadings daily on Talaat Harb courtesy of the Coop; or Brian Eno’s Dead Finks Don’t Talk, for the afterglow and the solitude. Yes, all of these would be fine choices for Cairo’s theme song, Cairo’s new beginning. But the most fitting song, the undeniable best choice would have to be:

You always won, everytime you placed a bet

You're still damn good, no one's gotten to you yet

Everytime they were sure they had you caught

You were quicker than they thought

You'd just turn your back and walk…

And you're still the same…

No one standing in your way

Turning on the charm

Long enough to get you by

You're still the same

You still aim high.

That’s right, Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band’s Still the Same blasts from the museums and mosques. Citizens rejoice!

2011-11-06T02:13:00.004+08:00

Here, I found myself having tea in a field with one person that I somewhat knew and four people that I didn’t know, which suddenly was unnerving because I realized I did not know the person that well that I thought I knew. We were out in the middle of nowhere. There were no taxis in the immediate vicinity.

There we were. One man was a local farmer. The others were nondescript except for one man. He had that horror-movie crazy person look, not the guy who does the deed but the simpleton that laughs and has no conscience and might bury the body later or cleans up the blood after the bath has been given or who fries up the arm for a snack. This man, they told me, was the man of the field. This made me think that he slept in the field. Maybe he is of the melon. Maybe he is of the corn. He gave me the creeps. I swear I had seen him in some Tobe Hooper film. Or was it a Wes Craven horror-show?

We had come upon them when I thought we were on our way to lunch. They were in the middle of the field sitting on a blanket in the shade. They were eating grapes and rolling cigarettes. We sat and talked and had pita bread and feta cheese and then later we had tea. They were friends with the newest of the Ahmeds and his friend Ahmed.

If something were to happen to me, know one would know where I had been or whom I was with or anything. Sure there are pictures of the new Ahmed and his friend Ahmed but how could anything be proved. In the last few days, I have found myself in that situation a few times. And really, I don’t think that I need to be scared but it does give me pause. My feeling is that sketchy guys look sketchy. Ahmed and his friend Ahmed have fresh faced university written all over them.

I had just been to Sakkara to see the tombs. Finally, I had ridden a camel. Ahmed, I met in Azhar Park there with his girlfriend. When he was taking her picture, I offered to take a picture of them both. We started talking. At university, he studies languages. Sometimes he answers me in French or Italian. He is not accomplished at any of them but he is trying.

“Oui, oui,” he says occasionally.

After we talked in the park for twenty minutes or so, he told me that he wanted to show me Sakkara. We planned to meet on Saturday. He gave me directions to Sakkara via train, shuttle bus, and tuk tuk. He wrote the directions in Arabic and English.

I took the metro but missed my Giza stop. Since the direction I was going had Giza on the sign I assumed it was the terminal station. It was not. When I looked up, I realized I had missed it. A very kind man named Ramy told me it was the stop before. I told him I would just go back one stop. He told me he would help me. He actually led me out of the station and told me he would take me to where I needed to go. We walked on a muddy animal strewn road back to the next station or rather to the shuttle bus area by the station.

Ramy told me he would help find a shuttle bus. That is what I wanted to do. But then a taxi came. Ramy hailed it but the driver wanted too much. I had asked Ramy how much the taxi should charge. I told him I would like to take a bus instead. I would have to make two shuttle connections to the Sakkara stop. That was okay with me.

Ramy tried a few busses but then he finally grabbed me a cab. He told me I might have trouble speaking to a bus driver and they would not know where I was going so a cab would be better. I agreed.

We found a cabbie that agreed to use the meter. Usually this is a good idea with the exception of the other night when a cabbie charged me three times what the cost should have been after he drove around in circles since the destination was not that far but he assumed I did not know where I was going so he was able to fleece me.

So I hopped in a cab and told Ramy goodbye. I promised to write. I felt as if I was on some mythical adventure full of intrigue, daggers and pita. The cabbie knew no English. I started taking pictures of farm animals in front of apartment buildings. He slowed down to let me do this; sometimes he pointed at farm animals for me to shoot. Everyone is getting ready for Eid al-Adha. For this, to celebrate, animals must be slaughtered. Back in mecca, Hassan Mohammad with the most terrible big slash of a scar on his face, at this moment, I know, is preparing to slaughter a camel.

The cabbie drove me somewhere in the vicinity of 30 minutes out into the farmland of outer Cairo. Along the road was a creek that was used for irrigation. Motor vehicles shared the road with animal powered vehicles, donkey, horse, camel, yak, whatever. At the reigns at times were young boys almost too small to control the animal or old men almost too old. At one point, we picked up a toothless old hag carrying a box. She rode a less than a kilometer and was dropped. The cabbie took no money from her.

Me, he had. If he wanted to demand all of my money, he could. I had no earthly idea where I was. I was lost in the African outskirts. Although, the day was as sunny as days get, there was a slight feeling of doom about all of this but this might just be a lark.

We drove past a sign with Sakkara written on it. I pointed to the sign. I called Ahmed. I gave the phone to the taxi driver. We turned around. At the crossroads where I had seen the sign, Ahmed and his friend Ahmed jumped in. We headed to Sakkara.

At the gate of the Sakkara tombs, the guards questioned us, our origins, our citizenship. This was done in Arabic. Ahmed answered and the two Ahmeds gave their identification cards. The guards did not ask for mine since I am a tourist, a traveling ATM.

Ahmed and Ahmed and I saw the tombs and walked around and yes it is awe-inspiring and like nothing anywhere. And it is in the middle of nowhere with just desert around, or let me rephrase that it is out in the countryside down several paved narrow roads, out in farmland. But once you have gone into this vast burial ground, the necropolis for ancient Memphis, there are miles and miles of sand and tombs. This has to be cinema. This cannot be real. Where are the cameras? Where is Spielberg? Where is the Pink Floyd soundtrack?

Inside Sakkara, Ahmed asked me if I wanted to ride the horse. I was noncommittal. He then asked if I wanted to ride the camel. Yes, of course, I love camels. I have to ride the camel. Yes!

We walked to where the camel men were camped, with the camels beside them. The camels and the men looked as if the desert had exchanged their youth for rotten teeth, weathered faces, and failing limbs. The desert had given the camels bad attitudes. They had the look of disgruntled employees on the verge of mutiny. The herdsmen seemed unaware of this.

Maybe this is because the camels are tied to the ground with ropes. You come upon them and they look as if they are relaxing. Soon you find out this is not the case. They are bound to the ground. If you bend your elbow to your shoulder and then have someone tie it between the elbow and shoulder that is how the camels were bound which seems less than P.E.T.A. friendly.

We picked a camel for me to ride.

The herdsman shushed softly to calm the camel. The camel, with not many teeth left in its head, wanted to let out a ferocious roar to intimidate but instead out came a forlorn Chewbacca howl. The herdsman motioned for me to get into the saddle. There was a stirrup for my left foot. This was what I expected but was not what I expected. The camel, though very old, rose with such force that I worried it might try to buck me. Forever, I have spoken of the magic of camels and I was finally able to experience this. These camels will someday be freed from the spell that has been cast upon them. Maybe they will be the ones to inherit the earth. Imagine a camel future - camels playing indie rock, camels playing golf, camels gossiping at the water cooler, camels working at Starbucks.

This moment, getting on the camel moment, I had been looking forward to this for so long. I was ready to take off into the desert for a several day ride, sleeping with the Bedouins. This was not quite what happened because of the location where the camel riding took place. All around were steep drop-offs. In a place where there is just flat desert for as far as the eye can see the place where the camels were parked was corralled by precipices. This was worrisome.

If I was to go flying, it would be looked upon as nothing more than a freak accident, one of those foreign news blurbs, footnote at best. I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad way to go to be thrown by a camel to my death but that is not particularly how I would like to end my tenure on earth. At least give me a longer camel ride before I am catapulted.

Nevertheless though the camel was of a very moody extraction - if I may indeed speak about his ethnic origin in such a way, I am still very fond of camels even the ones who do not wake up with sunny outlooks. But then really I don’t blame them. If my front haunches were tied together I would not have the sunniest of outlooks either.

At the entrance to the site, after the car has been parked, there are guards who ask for money. Ahmed explained this to me after we walked in the site. I was going to have him pay for everything with the money that I had given him to pay the cab at the end of the adventure. How he wound up with my money I do not recall. He is shifty.

When we got back to the gate, he told me I needed to pay the guards. Since he was holding the money, I told him to. He acted a little strange about this. He tried to give a guard the money and the guard would not take it. To Ahmed, he said something that sounded rude. Ahmed handed me the money and I handed it to the guard. He threw it back at Ahmed. Ahmed then told me that the guard couldn’t take money from an Egyptian.

Ahmed had told me to pay the cab to wait while we saw the site, which I did, though Ahmed would be the one to settle up since I gave him the money. We drove through the village of Sakkara. There were farm animals and carts and beat up cars and beggar women and beggar men everywhere. There was bustle and noise and loud tractors and the hollering of youngsters and their elders. Ahmed had said that we would eat here but now I was wondering about that. I was hoping that we wouldn’t because it looked so dingy and dirty everywhere. Third world eats sometimes are less than delicious.

For the second time, I thought that I was going to see the pyramids but it was not to be. Ahmed told me that there was no time to see them. They are the carrot held in front of you. Instead you are taken to a place for perfume or papyrus.

This Ahmed, come to find out, this Park Ahmed, is a bit of a scammer. He is a student, I think. We were near his home, I think. He had lured me out there to make some cash, I know. But at the same time, I hold no grudge. Perhaps, what puts people off about this sort of thing is that it is sneaky. Yes, you meet someone in the park and they seem to honestly like you and in this instance you think that it is like it is in China where they just want to practice their English, a fair exchange. Then they want to take you into their home because it is so unusual to know a foreigner. No, here they also want a piece of your wallet. But then, who can blame them? I don’t. I just come from a luckier zip code.

On my way out to meet this Ahmed, I started to wander about all of this if he really wanted to show me around or if he just wanted to show my money around. Thus, after our tomb visit when we got out of the cab next to a field a bit outside of the village, I was a bit suspicious, not worried, but my detector for the manure of cow being dished to me was starting to register in the higher register.

At the same time, I was out in a field in Africa seeing the local people do their thing. I was not a tourist but a traveler that happened upon a daily scene of pastoral tranquility. I followed Ahmed down narrow raised paths with irrigation ditches on each side. The taxi had dropped other Ahmed off to get a computer. He would meet us.

Then there I was sitting with these men that were friends of Ahmed. At one point, his older brother came upon us carrying some sort of leafy crop. He sat it down and talked to us. Ahmed had to interpret for everyone.

The ploy I have found when you are being scammed is that the person scamming you tells you to relax, no hurry. This happened on the first night I was here. Today was nice sitting in the field but I did not want to sit in a field all day, not when I was starting to see that Ahmed is among the better scammers. Finally, I was able to convince him to find a bus for me to take me back to the city.

As we were leaving, the crazy horrorshow man who had disappeared came back with a donkey. I was to ride the donkey. I told him I would the next time. He insisted I ride the donkey. I told him I would for sure the next time. Again he insisted. Ahmed then told me that horrorshow man had prepared a feast for me, that he had killed a chicken and prepared a feast for me. This totally turned my stomach.

Please could some Tobe Hooper character or perhaps Dracula’s Renfield make me dinner? This just seemed too much like it could be a new smash hit horror movie with a different take. Have it take place in Egypt. Will the main character survive? But then was I the main character or the dinner to be served to the main character, who was yet undetermined? Maybe this was all on the up and up but it was a little too creepy.

Since I knew the donkey could not go very fast, I appeased horrorshow man and I hopped on the donkey but then horrorshow man started leading the donkey back to the field. At that point, I jumped off and ran. Ahmed and Ahmed followed.

We took a dilapidated shuttle bus back to where the cabbie had picked up Ahmed and Ahmed. Ahmed and Ahmed put me in another shuttle bus that would take me to Giza and from there I could get another one to the Metro. That dilapidated bus kept packing in the passengers and then little by little they got off. Behind me sat three brothers, the oldest being in his late teens or early twenties and the youngest being in the vicinity of ten. The one in the middle was closer to the youngest one’s age.

The oldest brother started talking to me and seemed to think we were carrying on a conversation though it was all in Arabic. I just laughed and repeated what he said though I do know at one point that he was talking about slaughtering animals because he acted as if he were eating after he had cut a mock throat. I hope that he was talking about slaughtering animals that is. A few times he said Giza and a word that sounded like pyramids. A boy who had been silent in the front seat looked back at him and me and said ‘metro’. The older brother then repeated ‘metro’ to me.

“Yes metro!” I agreed. I had to get to the metro.

When we got to crossroads - the pyramids one direction or the metro the other, he motioned for me to get off as he got off with his brothers. We stood at an intersection and he called to passing busses. At one point a taxi stopped but I shook my head. Finally, a city bus came by. The older brother flagged it down. I shook his hand and got on. He did not try to scam me out of anything. Really, most people want to help. He looked poor and like he could have used the money but he did not try to scam me. Now I wish that I had given him money.

As the bus pulled away, I waved at him and his brothers. The boy who had said ‘metro’ got on the bus with me. I followed him to the front of the bus. He asked some people sitting near us something in Arabic. I am not sure what. One shook his head yes and then looked at me and said:

“We tell you when metro.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Soon this boy got off and the man he had asked nodded to me. The man behind him would go to metro stop.

“I will show you metro,” the man behind told me.

“I go to metro,” the Asian sitting behind him said.

I thanked them all and rode the rest of the way. Soon the bus stopped. The Asian was a Chinese man named Wu. I said a few things in Chinese, which made him laugh. We rode the metro together to the Sadat stop where we parted.

He asked me if I saw the pyramids. I told him that I had not seen them yet. Since he was coming from Giza I assumed he had.

“No, the driver could not find the gate. I did not see them,” he told me. And although, he was leaving the next day and had more than likely been scammed by the driver who could not ‘find’ the gate to the pyramids, he did not seem to mind that he had not seen Egypt’s most iconic landmark but then that is the magic of Egypt.

2011-11-03T21:51:00.001+08:00

Another Ahmed

Cairo is scam-a-delic. Please do not think that I do not like Cairo. I love Cairo. I would move here in a second. There are so many wonderful people that live here; the scammers just add a gaming element to the experience.

Thus at some point, though it can be taxing, the endless amount of scams and scamming should be looked at the same way as climbing a mountain or running a marathon. You take it one step at a time, one scam at a time. And you just try to stay on your feet.

This morning, I thought I would find a bakery and have coffee and a croissant. First, I went into a bakery by my hotel but I was not pleased so I kept walking. As usual, someone stopped me in the street. The scam this time - did I want a hotel? No, I told them I was looking for a place for coffee.

“My brother has coffee or tea,” the jovial man said and I proceeded to follow him. He led me a 100 meters or so down the sidewalk and through a shop of papyrus art, which is always a red flag that you are going to be conned or scammed into buying papyrus for way too much. Funny how this is a continual scam that after you have been here for a day or less you know the scam so it does not seem like it would be that affective.

Like last night when I was at the Khan el-Khalili Market, a scammer latched onto my teacher friend and I. He went on about how he just wanted to hear us talk so that he could practice his American accent. He loved Americanisms.

“I am not sketchy people,” he kept repeating to us.

We followed him because we did not want to be rude. He told us he had the best papyrus in Cairo, written about in the guidebooks. His father, who has since passed, was a papyrus master.

Of course, these scammers think that we are pushovers because we are nice. That is never the case with me or hardly ever the case. Although the first day I was here, I was taken for a ride but I actually knew I was being taken and I wanted to see where that ride was going to take me. It almost took me to the pyramids where I had been promised to be taken but it did not take me quite there. It took me to a place of essential oils where I knew once we stepped in the shop I was going to be fleeced.

But with the papyrus scammer what was odd, when this scammer showed us the guidebook entries in Lonely Planet and Frommers, half a sentence had been marked through with a sharpie by him or someone else at the Papyrus gallery because obviously there was some caution to be practiced on behalf of the traveler.

Before this happened earlier in the evening, the other teacher and I sat and had kebabs at a place my teacher friend had been recommended to him. The staff was incredibly attentive. They brought us tea and set it up on the brass tray in front of us. As soon as the tea was laid, we were inundated with hawkers - some of these mere children, which always sends a tinge of guilt through me. These hawkers were selling everything from scarab bracelets to glow sticks like you would see at a rock concert. Occasionally a boy with the most dejected look on his face would walk through with cheap looking mugs that he did not even seem to think he could sell.

A beggar with a shoeshine box offered to shine my shoes. We agreed on 5 pounds, which is a little less than a dollar. I had the coins in my hand, which I showed him. He nodded yes.

He took my shoes off which was a bit worrisome because I had just bought them. I am not sure if I had previously mentioned my shoe amnesia. When I packed for Jeddah, I seemed to have forgotten to pack all of my shoes except for my Kiss Hotter than Hell Vans, a pair of leather Pumas and the random boa skin shoes that I bought in Thailand in the spring. Yes, I left my Jil Sander snake skinned loafers (How do I have two pairs of snake skinned shoes?), my Prada white patent leather, and my Prada grey with green trim, I left them all Stateside. Packing my Prada hiking boots for desert weather would have just been silly but these other shoes I needed. How did I come halfway around the world and forget half of my shoes?

So the first couple of weeks in Jeddah, I made do with the shoes I had brought with me. The boa shoes from Thailand soon started to show stress so I went on a reconnaissance shoe mission. I hit every mall and boutique I could find. For once, I wanted some normal sensible leather shoes of good quality.

At the Stars Mall, I located some Paul Smith shoes that were by no means cheap. They were not on sale. For me to pay full price for anything is rare. Nevertheless, the Paul Smith shoes are comfortable. I can wear them every day to work though the instructions say that you should only wear the same shoes every other day at most. These shoes are nice. They will wear well. I closed my eyes and bought them.

Thus, the beggar with the shoeshine box disappeared into the market depths with my shoes. This was slightly offsetting. I tried not to think about it. The food arrived and I still did not have my shoes but we did have four - sometimes five - cats eyeing us and our food. One of the braver cats even went so far as to put his paws up on the makeshift table that the host had fashioned out of a stand and a big brass tray. At this point, we had the tea tray table of tea and another tea tray table of food. The salad and meat and bread and hummus was all vying for space on a tea table that was meant for just half of what had been set upon it.

Add to this the added bonus of more and more hawkers at our table - some selling the same goods, which brought about sharp words from the hawker who had staked his claim first and planted himself assuming we would eventually give in to him and buy some of his bracelets.

One young boy with a crazy eye and the manner of Chico Marx, who I tried to go back and find later, kept piling bracelets into my hand and making better and better deals. At one point, the host grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him out. This did not faze him. He came back several times during the course of our dinner. The comedic quality of it never wore thin. Most of the hawkers were clean and did not make me lose my appetite, though I did not eat everything because of the sensory overload to the ordeal.

When we were halfway through our meal, the hajib clad beggar ladies came through scanning for leftovers and plastic bottles. One of them took a Dixie water cup from our table.

“I was using that,” my teacher companion told her.

After she had stuck her thumb in the cup, she put it back on the table. My shoes were brought back before the end of the meal. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Yes, all of this could be bothersome but then you can also look at it like a game. This morning, when the man, an Ahmed, most everyone is named Ahmed, tried to coax me into having coffee above the papyrus gallery and I quickly put together that I was in a reception room where full-fledged fleecing takes place, I turned tail and ran.

“Thank you but no thank you!” I called up to him as I turned and ran down the stairs.

He was actually quite fast and followed suit and called after me:

“Tyson! Tyson! One minute!”

“No thank you.” I called back laughing at the absurdity of this situation of wanting coffee and getting papyrus.

Now, in my flight, I was not lost but I was on a side street that I had not planned walking. I passed two separate mule carts loaded with fruits. The fruit sellers manned the carts and guided them down this street as if this was a village not downtown Cairo with a population of 20 million. Within a couple of minutes, I saw a steer or perhaps an African yak in front of a random automotive parts shop. Maybe it was a parts shop. Maybe it was a VCR repair shop.

I finally found a coffee shop and sat and had my croissant and coffee. Inside a café I was on base, I was safe from hawkers.

Although, you never know – a few days I was at McDonalds. Sometimes when I cannot make a decision, even though I would never eat at McDonalds in America, I will head for McDonalds overseas. I was seating eating my McMuffin and I noticed a man sitting a few tables away. When he saw me see him, he came and sat down at my table and introduced himself. I was cautious but nice. He told me his name is Ahmed. He wrote his name down and his phone number. He told me he would like to be my guide around Cairo. I told him I did not want a guide. He told me it would be free. I was leery at best.

We then traded emails. He contacted me through email and asked me to visit him at work. He works for a computer company behind McDonalds he told me. He gave the address as Cassation Court, the company Gateway. I told him that I would come visit him the next day. I was intrigued. This was all very Graham Greene, intrigue at its most Egyptian. I was to meet him at 10 am. At 12 pm, I was meeting my teacher friend at Café Riche, a hangout for intellectuals and artists supposedly. At 9:30 am, since the place was an estimated 20 minutes away, I took off to meet him.

On a small piece of paper, I had written the directions he had given in his email. When I arrived to the area behind McDonalds, I thought that it would be all self-explanatory and easy. I was wrong. My scrap paper written in English and not Arabic was unhelpful when I asked the people in the places I found myself. I started walking up stairs in buildings with no addresses posted. I was looking for 25. On one side of the street was 26 on the other side of the street was 24. This made no sense. Gateway, though I did not think it existed any longer in the West I assumed like many defunct companies (Hardees anyone? Hang Ten?), it had taken up residence in the East or Middle East or Africa rather. Rather.

I wandered through a teahouse where men smoked hookahs. They directed me into an Internet café. I asked the attendant there. He was not helpful. I took an elevator up to what was a rug warehouse, not the flying carpet kind but the hideous Home Depot variety. I thought about giving up and going back to my hotel but I had promised that I would visit this Ahmed who seemed to be a good Ahmed omen.

When he wrote court, he could not have meant that his company is in the big government building that looked like a courthouse. Gateway would not be in an actual courthouse. I decided to go in because I had run out of options. It looked like a scene from Dr. Zhivago. I swear I saw (a young) Omar Sheriffe but he did not hit the journalist (feel free to hum the Bob Marley cum Eric Clapton song here).

In this building were people milling about everywhere. I saw a police officer dressed in white as the police officers dress here topped off with berets giving them the look of French sailors imagined by Gaultier or Tom of Finland. I showed him my scrap of paper, which had been handled by many men at this point. He looked at me questioningly (Okay Ramones song here – Road to Ruin if there ever was one.).

I then looked up and saw a glass booth where there were cashiers of sorts. A sign over the booth read – Court of Cassation. I had found it. I thanked the policemen though he did not know why.

On the paper, I had written down the 3^rd floor. There was no office number on the paper. There were no office numbers on the doors. My assumption that he worked for the company Gateway was not correct. If he had worked for the company Gateway there would not have needed to be an office number because it would have been a big enough office to find without a number was my assumption.

So I wandered from office to office in this huge building looking for him. The key information that would have been helpful, his last name, I had forgotten to write so I was looking for a random Ahmed who worked for a computer company. Man after man led me to office after office but no luck. The 3^rd floor was vast. There were many offices with many people in each one, fifteen people in offices that would comfortably house five.

Everyone that tried to help was incredibly cordial. They all asked my name and where I am from. When they could not help, they led me to a colleague who possibly could or whom they assumed spoke better English to no avail.

I was not going to give up. If I had to open the door of every office I would but then I would not have to because through the crack of a door I thought I spotted my Ahmed. For the benefit of the person that was trying to help me, I pointed into the office as the door shut and I said.

“I think I saw him.”

The door opened back up and I peaked in and it was not him - but then the person behind not him was him. Or I thought it was. He then turned around. There stood Ahmed with a big smile on his face and a welcome in his eyes.

2011-10-27T22:49:00.002+08:00

“Time we pray sir.”

A minute or so before, I had heard the call to prayer over the public address. These public address systems are all over Jeddah with different men calling the prayer at each one. The sounds blend like harmonizing mountain singers, forlorn and spiritual, distant and near, droning, droning, droning.

Besides the two employees, I was the only one in the bookstore. This particular bookstore was a small one. There was only one small area, a few shelves, dedicated to English lit. In my hands was a copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse. Reading stuffy mentally unstable Woolf in Arabia was my inner debate. Stream of consciousness with these dunes and camels and sheiks in thobes, the spells of jinns, and the experimentation with English amongst technical school graduates – I thought of all of this as I listened to the call to prayer and sighed a sigh of relief.

A sigh of relief because this time I had made it to my destination just in time and I had time to browse the bookstore before one of the two employees called to me (alluding to the fact that I had to leave the store):

"Time we pray sir."

I had walked a few kilometers to the store from the compound, a store that I had noticed a few nights ago when the shuttle had passed it. In the shuttle, Mr. Uzair takes us to the Corniche or to the Red Sea Mall. Mr. Uzair is from Pakistan. That is where his family live. He has lived here 30 years. He has a son in college in Pakistan. He sees his family maybe once a year. His life is in Saudi. His family’s life is in Pakistan.

Although, I had started out a bit before 7 p.m. to the bookstore, I was not sure if I would make it before the call to prayer that according to my calculations would be in the vicinity of 7:30. The other night, I arrived at the cleaners a minute or less after the call to prayer and that cleaning bird had flown. It was 5:55 when I arrived at the cleaners.

By my calculations, I had figured at least 20 minutes leeway until the call for prayer, which I thought was 6:20, the prayer being 6:30. I had arrived a good 20 or 25 minutes before this. If they were to be in their places at 6:30, then they should have plenty of time to get to their places if they closed shop at 6:20. At times, the call to prayer does not seem to follow a set schedule. Maybe the prayer callers do not have accurate watches of maybe the first one to call does not have a watch and everyone just follows him. I am still trying to figure out the system. The call to prayer does not seem to coincide with the world clock.

If you are walking along Sultan Road or King Abdullah Azziz Road when the prayer is called, you will see cars pulling over left and right. The first men to get to a makeshift prayer spot lay down the prayer rug. The men that arrive after take a place on the prayer rug unless the rug is full then another rug is laid.

Or if you are at Mall of Arabia when the prayer is called, the store gates come down and people take their places on the rugs wherever they find out of the way spots. Once when I was at Mall of Arabia, I saw a group of women in heaps of hijabs in front of a lingerie shop with prayer rugs laid praying as if they were praying to the lingerie. Oh Holy Hustler Superstore on Sunset Boulevard, this is a whole new way to look at lingerie.

Mushmouth Saud, A Jinn cast a spell on him I am quite sure. When this happened, I do not know. Maybe this happened when he was much younger. Maybe it happened just before he appeared in my life at TVTC, the technical school where I teach. In my head I hear Bowie’s TVC15 which should by all rights be the theme song for the school and probably for me and probably for modern society in general. But that’s not important now. Maybe the spell that has been cast on Saud is somehow family related or maybe past life related. Who knows for sure?

Maybe if I pray every, each night I sit there pleading

"Send back my dream test baby,

She's my main feature"

My T V C one five, he, he just

Stares back unblinking

Saud, as perhaps I have said before, has a perpetual fat lip and his eyes are crossed. When he first arrived a few days after classes began, I sized him up as a troublemaker, even a bully perhaps. This might be due to my shallowness. I could not see past the spell that the Jinn had cast. There was a vacancy in him.

…he, he just

Stares back unblinking…

Saadoon and Saud sit together. They help each other. Saud looks at what Saadoon writes. Saadoon tries to figure out what to write. Saud tries to speak but his fat malformed lips get in the way. As I hinted, he is like an Arabian Mushmouth, Fat Albert’s sidekick. When he tries to speak, I have to go over to him to hear him better. He has to say it a few times. Saadoon helps him.

A few days ago, Michael and I were having fourth week remorse. To cheer ourselves up, we decided to switch classes for what we call fudging Module. (We substitute a few letters in fudging and turn it into an altogether different word by the way.) Michael took over my classroom. I took over his. He teaches higher level students than I do. Although his students had just seen him 20 minutes before, I convinced them that he had left the school with a buxom blonde and packed bags. Camel Eyes was incredulous about this.

“Teacher Michael Leave?!”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “He was angry for some reason and has gone back to America.”

“America?” America as a question echoed across the classroom.

“Yes,” I confirmed once again and then asked, “Did you do something to make him angry? I have no idea why he left. He said you called him fat?”

“Fat?... America?” once again echoed around the classroom.

“Yes, yes. America,” I was honestly starting to feel a bit guilty.

“Teacher, why this?” one of the students, maybe a Mohammad pointed at my long right pinky nail.

“Guitar,” I said as I pantomimed playing a guitar.

“Oh guitar,” to this there were multiple nods of approval as the word ‘guitar’ echoed around the room.

Since I had traded lessons with Michael, I did not want to be the one talking. I wanted the students to talk. I wanted to find out about them. They wanted to find out about me. They asked me my age. I told them to guess. The guesses ranged from 25 to 68. Hosam said 19 but I think he was trying to flatter me.

Since rock and roll is foreign and a bit magical to them, I thought I would mention that I once had a band. I wrote the band name on the board. I tried to pantomime the reason behind the name. I failed miserably. They asked me if I was famous like Westlife and Celine Dion. They wanted to see a video.

This is the slippery slope. Some say pop music is forbidden in the kingdom. I have been told to not play songs in class. Leave the Dylan and Beatles at home. Do not tempt them with the Stones or Led Zep. Most of the students would raise no objections but if one does, then there is trouble. Nevertheless, I got on Youtube and searched for a video. I pulled up “Pop Heiress Dies.” When the video started, there was no sound coming out of the speakers.

Hosam came up to help me figure out the problem. Then another student came up, an Abdullah or Mohammad. Both of them followed the cables to the connections. Everything was in order. The class was waiting to see and hear the video. We were stumped. Finally, Hosam looked at the amplifier and hit the power button. I started the video. Suddenly there was a picture and sound. Near the beginning of the video, I had forgotten about the girl dancing in a bikini, which was another no no in the Kingdom:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8kwPdsZ1Cg

After the video played, a few of the students thought that I was just having a laugh with them. The person singing in the video was not me they told me. They saw no resemblance whatsoever. Thus, I did what I have not done in a long time. I sang. I sang acapello.

I was not sure how this would go over. And I did not know if I could even sing without my voice cracking. In front of this small group of 10 or so students, I was more nervous than I had been singing ever before.

After the boisterous applause, I told them thank you and came clean about Michael. He was in my classroom; we had switched. This sent Camel Eyes, Michael’s student and star of the classroom, into a spasm of misused expletives embedded in threats such as: “I am to asskick going Mr. Michael!” “Oh when I blur blur blur him!” “Oh I am so ass angry!” Last he added: “I am coming with you! I ass is kick!”

Not one to censor or impede students, Camel Eyes came back with me to my classroom. He was ranting and raving the entire time. I was a little afraid for Michael actually. My plan was if it turned into a punch-up maybe I could get one of the students like Hassan Mohammad to intervene and gently restrain Camel Eyes.

Arriving at my classroom, with trepidation I opened the door. There Michael was. The students were quiet. A student was talking. Everyone was listening. Camel Eyes looked at him and his anger left. In a loud enough voice for the students to hear, Michael told me he had each student present himself and each had done a great job. We both gave them a big hand. Michael and Camel Eyes left. Camel Eyes was chattering away to him as they left the classroom.

Later in the teacher’s office, I told Michael that the students had really enjoyed his lesson. He asked me about the student who sat next to the student that was sitting by the beam, the beam that divided the classroom in half.

“Saadoon sits next to the beam and Saud sits next to Saadoon,” I replied. “Why?”

“Well, when it was his turn to present,” Michael started and then stopped.

“Yes?” I questioned. I was thinking that Saud might have made trouble. Michael, however, is very good at nipping trouble, or getting kicked out of a mall in Riyadh, one or the other, so I was not that worried.

“Well, uh, I felt bad for him.”

“You felt bad for him? Why?” This truly perplexed me. Saud had a touch of Kotter’s Sweathogs in him and I was not sure what had happened. Maybe he had made a whoopee cushion sound.

“When it was his turn, he started shaking so bad that he could hardly even speak.”

“What?” This was not the Saud that I had noticed. Sure he was always copying off of Saadoon but I assumed this had to do with him being cross-eyed. Suddenly, I felt empathy for Saud. This brought back memories of being called upon at school and being afraid to answer but I don’t think I ever visibly shook when I answered.

Saud is a big guy, probably six feet tall. If he were American, he would probably be a baseball player. He has an all American look to him. If you squinted that is, he has an all American look to him.

Definitely, Saud is under some evil jinn’s spell. I had not noticed in the three weeks plus since school had begun that Saud had any sort of nervous condition. After Michael told me this, indistinct correct answers started to register in my head that before had just been unidentifiable background noise. Now the background noise I realized was Saud answering the questions in his Mushmouth way.

A few days later, Saadoon coaxed Saud into writing a sentence on the board. The students were expressing their condolences to the King’s family because the King’s brother Prince Sultan had passed away this week. Suddenly, I was hyper aware of Saud’s situation.

“Teacher! Teacher! NO! NO!” Waleed who sits on the other side of Saud yelled while Saud was writing his answer on the board. With this he feigns a heart attack hoping that I would do the same.

“It’s all right Saud. It’s okay. You are doing good,” is all I could say. “Waleed, Saud is doing fine.”

“No! Teacher!” And with that Waleed collapsed in his chair.

At the beginning of the term, we were short teachers due to visa problems so each class had four or five extra students. When the missing teachers got here, the extra students were transferred into the newly arrived teachers’ classrooms. Saleh was one of these students. He was a student of whom I was fond. He and Eesi were buddies.

Last week, he came into my classroom with Eesi. They had something to ask but they were not sure how to ask. Finally, somehow they got it across to me that Saleh wanted to come back into my classroom. He had talked to Samir (who runs the school) about coming back. I volunteered to talk to Samir. So after class that is what I did. Samir told me he would see what he could do. I assumed he was just paying me lip service.

Yesterday, Saleh came back to my classroom. I had been sent an email telling me to expect him so when he was not there at the beginning of class I asked Eesi where he was. Eesi called him. Saleh was sleeping. By the time he got to class, class was almost over. Maybe I had a mistake in going to Samir on his behalf to get him back into my class.

When he did not show, I assume he thought that I had not been alerted that he was going to be coming back into my class. He figured he could sleep in or miss class altogether. When he did arrive, he had a note with him to tell me to let him back into class. Being over an hour late the first day back was not a good start in my book. Nor did it help matters that we had a holiday coming up in a few days. Already, the students were in holiday mode. The students driving from Taif and Mecca everyday were going to be excused the two days before the holiday because of the Hajj traffic. Hajj actually translates from Arabic into pilgrimage to Mecca. Supposedly, millions of pilgrims will be coming in for this.

Since the holiday is coming up, I wrote on the board:

“What will you do over Hajj?”

Granted, I had to explain the word ‘over’. The students, Waleed and Saadoon mostly, kept asking “Game over?”

Once I had clarified the meaning –

“Game over?”

Or thought I had clarified the meaning –

“Game over?”

Or at least tried to clarify the meaning for ‘over,’ the students came up and wrote their answers on the board. Saadoon wrote:

“I will cut my hair over Hajj.”

Rami wrote:

“I will work over Hajj.”

Mosleh wrote:

“I will drive taxi over Hajj.”

Waleed wrote:

“I will travel over Hajj.”

Then Hassan Mohammad came to the board. Hassan Mohammad scares me. I admit it. He looks like a thug owing to the fact that he is brutish and has a scar down the left side of his face that makes him look like some sort of James Bond villain ready to throw his teacher to the sharks or piranhas or cobras – whatever is handy.

The first day of class he just sat and stared at me with that James Bond villain stare – a Dr. No henchman, Mr. Jaws poker pal. He had no pen, no paper, no notebook.

“Where is your pen?” I asked in the most intimidating voice I could muster, which I am sure sounded more like Ichabod Crane than Clint Eastwood.

He just shrugged. Eesi gave him a pen. With that I gave Hassan Mohammad a dirty look as if to say this sort of tomfoolery did not fly in my classroom. He just smiled back. Whether this was an apology or the smile that a cobra gives to his prey, I did not know.

As those first weeks went past, Hassan Mohammad continuously rubbed me the wrong way – at times 30 minutes late to class, at times he was a no show. At that point, I figured he would miss enough classes to be thrown out of the program and I would be shut of him.

But then, something strange happened, something unexplainable. Although he would still occasionally be late or miss class, he actually started to become more engaged. When I would be at the board trying to squeeze out an answer from the students at large I would hear:

“Is.”

I would turn around and I would hear it again:

“Is”

“Mohammad Hassan was that you.”

“Is,” he would repeat.

“Yes, Hassan Mohammad,” I would confirm “My brother is tall. Very good.”

Then when I would have the students come up to the board and write a sentence on their own, Mohammad would come up and usually write close to a flawless sentence and I would be somewhat dumbfounded. How could this young man who looks as if he might tear my head off without much effort, how could he write this flawless English sentence? – Having nothing to do with the fact that he often smells vaguely of camel dung.

In actuality, he has an inner beauty that I had overlooked. The smile that I thought was a cobra smile is actually a warm-hearted smile. When I congratulate him, he shakes my hand. Hassan Mohammad, I was wrong.

So when he wrote:

“I will slaughter camel over Hajj,” I did not flinch as I congratulated him on the proper use of ‘slaughter’.

2011-10-22T03:28:00.001+08:00

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

During the day, everyone stays inside - in cars, in buildings, in houses - in the air conditioning. As the sun goes down and night approaches, Jeddah starts bustling with activity. Boys roar by in their cars; sometimes these boys are the ripe old age of 12.

Watching him dash away / Swinging an old bouquet…

On weekends in the evening, Abrahim and I go to the Corniche, which runs along the Red Sea or an inlet of such where we meet up with his cousins. Or sometimes, I ride with his cousin Abdu who is a bit more fluent in his English. Last night, Abdu wanted me to hear what he says is one of the most beautiful English songs. Westlife sings the song. After splashing around in the Red Sea, I can strangely embrace Westlife. Please don’t tell anyone.

All the seas go coast to coast / Find the place I love the most / Where the fields are green / To see you once again my love.

And then it hits me:

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Outside the window of my apartment in the compound, on the other side of the concrete wall with the barbed wire on top and then on past the second retaining wall that keep trucks from parking and exploding and blowing up my apartment and on past the four-lane road and then there, there in the parking lot that houses Al Baik (the favored Saudi fast food chain that I heard is actually not Saudi, and that same building that houses a few clothing shops including European Shoes that sales, for the most part, shoes made by Caterpillar which is pretty much not European but maybe Kansan or Nebraskan), African immigrants wash cars. Where they get the water, I do not know but there is a gaggle of them with buckets and sponges. There are puddles everywhere. Sometimes I watch them from my window.

A few weeks ago after I had gone to the Corniche, Abraham took me to Al Baik for the first time. We arrived during prayer time. At prayer time, as I have said before, everything stops for 20 minutes at least. Sometimes shop owners are in no hurry to open to the mad throng that is waiting because the crowd gathers like birds in uh, well, Hitchcock’s The Birds. This is what happens; someone who finally gets fed up after a thirty-minute wait starts pounding on the door like the birds that got fed up waiting for Tippi Hedren or the others trapped in the house to come out of the house and the birds pecked their way into the upper floors. Thirty-five minutes later the doors open after five minutes of mad knocking and the crowd flock in like birds or, more like, swarm in like bees.

So in this instance we were waiting in Ibrahim’s battered Honda with nothing to do but wait. One of the Africans approached. Ibrahim rolled down the window and negotiated a car wash. Soon after, bucket upon bucket of water landed upon the car starting with the windshield, thrown on the car by a bedraggled young man who looked to be in his mid-teens.

This is his life. Washing cars in Saudi is his life. Dressed in rags is his life. Living in someplace amongst strangers who do not care for him, do not notice him, is his life, anonymous and marginalized. This ragged Saudi life must be better than what he had in Africa. Do we have to see someone less fortunate who does not question his fortune to know how lucky we are?

That being said, I snapped pix of him while he washed the car because I was struck by something in him, something unexplainable, maybe his acceptance of life with no question. Something stirred me and I don’t know why but it did, maybe it was some sort of Death in Venice wish. My involvement or notice spurred him to clown a bit and throw a fresh bucket of water on the windshield to shield himself from my camera, my life from his - my age, his youth. He smiled as he splashed.

After he washed the car and Ibrahim paid him, I took my picture with him. Ibrahim navigated this because the young man was not sure what I wanted. Why would someone want a picture with him his eyes asked? This seemed like some sort of hallowed moment. Now, here and there I see him in the late afternoon when he arrives to wash cars or at night when he is wet with soap and perspiration and we recognize each other’s existence with a nod of the head. Hallowed be thy name.

Nighttime is when the Saudis truly live. This seems to be the routine for most of them from what I have witnessed. They get up, go to school or work; their first meal is at noon. That is breakfast. They have a big lunch, maybe cupsa, after work or school and then they take a four-hour nap and wake up and go out.

The streets are roaring with cars and activity at night. Sometimes, driving down the highway, I will spot three or four cars pulled over on the side of the road with young men doing nothing but talking and laughing and yelling revving their engines and being nothing more than young men but young men without alcohol since alcohol is illegal in the Kingdom.

Motor sensational…

Sometimes as well, and this always makes me laugh, I see a pre-pubescent at the wheel that can barely reach the pedals. Yes, I know this is a serious business but it cracks me up. Women can’t drive so they have to have their young sons who are not driving age drive to run errands or to pick up older or younger sisters.

Here four cars crowd into three lanes. The lanes seem to be nothing more than white painted lines.

But then what happens at lunch here? For the first few weeks, I went next door to the school for a kibda sandwich but then I decided to change it up. Last week, Michael asked me if I wanted to get falafel at his favorite falafel place that was a bit of a walk. I told him sure. So we started walking. Fahd joined us. He seems to be wherever I am quite often. He has a mountain of things to say to me but all he can ever say since I often saw him at the kibda place is:

“Teacher like kibda?”

The three of us walked a couple 100 meters and then a car nearly overtook us screeching to a halt seconds away from English teacher of the Michael-and-Tyson-variety extinction. We turned around to see a rumbling white 80s model Chevrolet Caprice. Dust was still flying. The car honked. And a large figure blurry in the midday sun emerged. There stood Khaled, one of my students who is big and jolly and should be driving a Caprice. Imagine Peter Sellers coming back from the grave and playing John Candy (grave fabulous) in a movie scripted by Hunter S. Thompson (grave slightly unwashed) and directed by Jim Jarmusch (who is not yet of the grave).

“Teacher! Where you go?” He motioned for us to get in the car. That one phrase was the most English I had heard him speak yet, which made me wonder if some of these guys are just faking it to get out of doing work in class. “Me go you.”

I understood what he was trying to say and got in the front seat and Michael got in the back. As soon as I got into the car, I completely fell back in the seat because Khaled had the passenger seat and the driver seat reclined all the way back. This was his own magic carpet and he cruised the Kingdom on and in it.

“So I see you sleep as you drive,” Michael volunteered. Khaled just let out a blast of laughter.

“Teacher where you go?”

“Falafel,” I said.

“Falafel good,” he confirmed.

Since every driver seems to think he is driving a Ferrari though he is really driving a Crown Victoria, or an Impala, or in this case, a Chevrolet Caprice; Khaled zipped in an out of traffic as if we were racing in Monte Carlo. The affect was that of a ship which through some magic power had suddenly become a rocket. At one point, since I had no seat belts, since seat belts are frowned upon in the Kingdom - or any leverage whatsoever since I was basically being propelled through this cruise ship on wheels or this oversized low-flying magic carpet - I found myself tumbling across the front seat much like Alice tumbling down the rabbit-hole.

“Teacher funny,” Khaled laughed.

We arrived at the falafel place and the falafels are godhead. This is coming from someone who is not a falafel fan but then I had never had one in Saudi. Stuffed in pita bread, there were carrots and tomatoes, French fries and all sorts of other secret magic ingredients. I ate a whole one and then I split one with Michael. While we ate, we crowded six people onto a bench made for four people.

After this gastronomic revelation, the next day, Michael – we share an office – asked me if I wanted to get falafel again since I had been so demonstrative in my love for my first Arabian falafel.

“Yes,” I replied. “Should we try to con a student into taking us?”

“Yes,” Michael confirmed with a giggle. With that, we walked to the school gate where students congregate and asked somewhat loudly who wanted to take us to get falafel. Several students offered.

We accepted a ride with Camel Eyes, Michael’s student. I had met him at the kibda place one day at the start of the term. At that time, I told Michael that I met his student who has beautiful eyes, like a camel. Now we call him Camel Eyes. In the car, Michael who teaches higher-level students told him that we call him Camel Eyes. I added that he has beautiful eyes and that I love camels. He told me that most people think his eyes are not beautiful. I repeated his eyes are beautiful.

Last night, I got a call from a student who was ready to take me to the Red Sea Mall, which we had been discussing for a week or so. He is an Abdullah. We were set to go on Tuesday. To him, Tuesday is Thursday. I tried to explain there was a misunderstanding. Because to me, Thursday is Thursday not Tuesday but he did not understand this. He wanted to go on Tuesday, which is really Thursday because that is when all of the girls are there. And since this society is segregated and single men cannot be around single women, he is often not allowed in the mall on Thursday, which he calls Tuesday, because Thursday, again which he calls Tuesday, is family night.

So he called me when I was with Abdu and Ibrahim and I tried to explain the mix-up, which I could not relay so I finally had Abdu explain it to him. But this made him hang up because he did not understand that I had put Abdu on the phone to explain the situation with him. He thought this to be interference. Naturally, here there are a lot of misunderstandings and miscommunications.

As in what happened on Wednesday afternoon, Fareed invited me to go drink the milk of the camel with him. After that we would go to watch the Ittihad Football Club (the Saudi team) play at the stadium. Abdiramen told me this at the end of the last class of the day. I was perplexed. Why did Abdiramen assume that I knew about this? Then I remembered a few weeks ago when I had marked a date on Fareed’s calendar when I would go somewhere with him.

Fareed is full of energy and is linguistically ambitious at times but at other times when I want him to complete a task he says “Homework,” which always perturbs me because I always know that he is going to say it before he does. He wears me out and I had already had two heart attacks and a meltdown during the day. Not to mention, my head was starting to pound.

The heart attacks were the simple heart attacks that occur when someone says ‘is’ instead of ‘has’ or ‘he’ instead of ‘she’. This is what happens - my eyes roll back in my head and I fall over what happens to be in my way, be it a desk, a chair, another teacher, or a student, whatever. Sometimes a student will come and fan me to revive me.

My inspiration for this comes directly from Edith Hicks, my journalism teacher my sophomore year of high school. In my younger years before I could truly appreciate performance, she was the first teacher who saw the importance of impromptu performance in the classroom. By the time, I had her as a teacher she was near the end of her career but that never stopped her from putting a fruit bowl on her head and singing the Chiquita banana song.

So my mock heart attacks may or may not impose the importance of ‘has’ and ‘is’ or ‘he’ and ‘she’. Or maybe it keeps those metaphysical wolves at the door at bay. Sanity must be my friend. Calgon take me away from meltdowns.

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Before I go on, I should say that later in the day, after my aforementioned meltdown, my mental sun shone. “Metal Guru is it you?” When Mohammad came to tell me that Bandar would not be in my afternoon class because he is pregnant, I seriously had trouble containing myself. Naturally, I asked Bandar if he was expecting and I pantomimed pregnancy with my right hand making a basketball shape in front of my stomach. Bandar always has a look of shock and surprise on his face, which becomes more pronounced the longer he thinks. I was quite proud that Mohammad - the Mohammad who asked if I would accept his offer to live with him and his three cousins in a two room apartment – could concoct that sort of English ribbing.

When I had my meltdown, there was really nothing unusual going on in the classroom. There was the usual group of students who were listening and the usual group that weren’t. Yussef who I thought had been kicked out of the program because of several absences and extreme tardiness was sitting right by my desk. Yussef is the Herman Munster in my life, not scary just annoying with that same sort of Herman Munster clumsiness and oafishness.

We had been talking about car crashes. This was the question and answer:

“Did you crash your car?”

“Yes, I crashed my car.” Or “Yes, I did crash my car.”

Students had written the answers on the board.

Yussef showed me his answer:

“Did you crash your car?”

“Claw wife indecipherable house.”

Granted, I love the Dadaist movement just as much as the next fish is a light bulb but my classroom has not advanced to the stage of dada. Thus, Yussef coming in and generally dada-ing up my my classroom via his Herman Munster persona was an annoyance to say the least. Especially when he had the gall to start chanting:

“Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break…”

When he walked up to my desk, Saadoon did not know he was walking up to a loaded gun pointed at the first person to be stupid enough to pull the trigger. He was pleased with what he had written in his notebook:

“Did you crash your car?”

“Yes, I crashed my.”

“My what?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “My what.”

Of course, deep breaths were in order while Herman Munster Yussef in the background chanted:

“Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break…”

“No,” I continued. “I crashed my what?”

“No, I crashed my what,” Saadoon confirmed.

Also keep in mind that since he was at my desk and Herman Munster Yussef was chanting theBreak Teacher! Break mantra, this gave the rest of the classroom carte blanche to bring their general disruptiveness to a crescendo much like the 20 bar orchestral break in the Sgt Pepper closer ‘A Day in the Life.’

Honestly, I was starting to become envious of the man who ‘blew his mind out in a car. He didn’t notice that the lights had changed.” Did I notice that my lights had changed? At this point, there was a yellow light flashing in my head.

“My what?” I asked again with an increase in urgency. “I crashed my what?”

At this point, Saadoon had that sun-cooked carp look on his face and we were at the point of no return.

He blew his mind out in a car…

“I crashed my what?”

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Saadoon blank carp stare staring.

“My what?”

Saadoon mouth agape.

“I crashed my what? I CRASHED MY WHAT?! MY DOG?! MY FISH?! MY CUPSA?! MY CAMEL?!”

Here the montage becomes clear as the aforementioned 20 bar orchestral break plays “A Day in the Life” – an atom bomb exploding; Frankenstein pulling the head off of his bride; Jack Nicholson hacking his way through the bathroom door; the Nazi’s lover blasting him with a machine gun in Genet’s Funeral Rites; Anthony Perkin’s in a wig; John and Yoko’s Two Virgin’salbum cover; and, last but certainly not least, Shelley Winters as Shelley Winters.

“I CRASHED MY CAR! MY CAR! MY CAR! MY CARRRRRRRRRRRRR! I CRAAAAAAAAASHED MYYYYYYYYY CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!”

With that I collapsed in my chair and in my head the final E chord resounded in ‘A Day in the Life.’

"Who will love Aladdin Sane?"

2011-10-22T03:21:00.005+08:00

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Watching him dash away / Swinging an old bouquet…

All the seas go coast to coast / Find the place I love the most / Where the fields are green / To see you once again my love.

And then it hits me:

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Motor sensational…

Here four cars crowd into three lanes. The lanes seem to be nothing more than white painted lines.

“Teacher like kibda?”

“So I see you sleep as you drive,” Michael volunteered. Khaled just let out a blast of laughter.

“Teacher where you go?”

“Falafel,” I said.

“Falafel good,” he confirmed.

“Teacher funny,” Khaled laughed.

“Yes,” I replied. “Should we try to con a student into taking us?”

“Yes,” Michael confirmed with a giggle. With that, we walked to the school gate where students congregate and asked somewhat loudly who wanted to take us to get falafel. Several students offered.

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

We had been talking about car crashes. This was the question and answer:

“Did you crash your car?”

“Yes, I crashed my car.” Or “Yes, I did crash my car.”

Students had written the answers on the board.

Yussef showed me his answer:

“Did you crash your car?”

“Claw wife indecipherable house.”

“Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break…”

“Did you crash your car?”

“Yes, I crashed my.”

“My what?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “My what.”

Of course, deep breaths were in order while Herman Munster Yussef in the background chanted:

“Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break. Break Teacher! Break…”

“No,” I continued. “I crashed my what?”

“No, I crashed my what,” Saadoon confirmed.

Also keep in mind that since he was at my desk and Herman Munster Yussef was chanting the Break Teacher! Break mantra, this gave the rest of the classroom carte blanche to bring their general disruptiveness to a crescendo much like the 20 bar orchestral break in the Sgt Pepper closer ‘A Day in the Life.’

“My what?” I asked again with an increase in urgency. “I crashed my what?”

At this point, Saadoon had that sun-cooked carp look on his face and we were at the point of no return.

He blew his mind out in a car…

“I crashed my what?”

Who will love Aladdin Sane?

Saadoon blank carp stare staring.

“My what?”

Saadoon mouth agape.

“I crashed my what? I CRASHED MY WHAT?! MY DOG?! MY FISH?! MY CUPSA?! MY CAMEL?!”

Here the montage becomes clear as the aforementioned 20 bar orchestral break plays “A Day in the Life” – an atom bomb exploding; Frankenstein pulling the head off of his bride; Jack Nicholson hacking his way through the bathroom door; the Nazi’s lover blasting him with a machine gun in Genet’s Funeral Rites; Anthony Perkin’s in a wig; John and Yoko’s Two Virgin’s album cover; and, last but certainly not least, Shelley Winters as Shelley Winters.

“I CRASHED MY CAR! MY CAR! MY CAR! MY CARRRRRRRRRRRRR! I CRAAAAAAAAASHED MYYYYYYYYY CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!!!”

With that I collapsed in my chair and in my head the final E chord resounded in ‘A Day in the Life.’

"Who will love Aladdin Sane?"

2011-10-17T22:32:00.000+08:00

Like the Nose on your Face

“He has big nuts and…”

This is what happened. The students were writing paragraphs about friends, cousins, fathers, or uncles. I had them do this on the board. When Fareed came up to write on the board - once being young myself, I assumed he was being plucky – I decided to not censor him since the decision was mine whether to censor him or not. In my role, I feel as if I am a facilitator not a policeman so I let him write:

He has big nuts and a more beautiful...

And, I did not say anything. And, I saw no problem with this since there are no females in the class. And, since it is all guys the class is, to me, at times like a glorified locker room – if we can in fact use glorified in this context. And actually, no one but Fareed probably knew what this was referencing so in that case I was somewhat immune from castigation – if we can in fact use castigation in this context. Really to me this is no big deal. I did end the sentence with a slight grammatical stretch with:

…face.

After the other students had a turn and the paragraph was complete, I had Eesa come up and read aloud what had been written. Naturally, I had to stifle a giggle when he stumbled over the ‘nuts’ part and I had to correct him and have him pronounce it properly. I am a teacher after all. If you are going to say ‘nuts’, ‘nuts’ should be pronounced properly. Like I said, I am a teacher. But, I must say, I was impressed by Fareed’s poker face when Eesa said ‘nuts.’ And if memory serves me correct, he said ‘nuts’ three or four times, maybe five. Fareed is good at playing oblivious like ‘nuts’ was the nose on his face.

Most of the students started copying down the paragraph without really questioning what was written. There were sentences like “He is short. He has brown eyes. He has black hair. He likes swimming. He likes football.” All of this we have discussed. We did several days on adjectives though when I write ‘adjective’ on the board they give me that look like a caught carp that has been lying in the July sun for an hour or so. Then I might write ‘short’, ‘tall’, ‘big’ ‘small’ – and then they know adjective. It rings a bell. Yes, we have discussed that. Thus, most of them did not question ‘nuts’; what they thought ‘nuts’ referenced, I have no clue.

At this point, let me take a detour and tell you about what happened yesterday. I tried to get the students to tell me how I would go about finding an apartment here. I have a morning class for three hours and then an afternoon class for a few hours. They are different students in both classes.

Eesa is one of the students that I love because he provides comic relief but at the same time I know that I provide him and his friends comic relief as well. Yesterday, I wrote on the board:

“How would I find an apartment?”

Keep in mind that these are low-level English students and this whole question was over their collective heads. How I was able to get the point across was use our big classroom (4mx5m we decided as a class) as a pantomime apartment. I wrote measurements in meters on the board. I acted as if I was cooking, showering, sleeping. Finally, Eesa understood.

“Live with me, no problem,” he told me.

“Live with you?”

“Yes,” and then he added “500 riyals you, 500 riyals me.”

“You pay 500 a month and I pay 500 a month?” I questioned to make sure and I wrote figures on the board to illustrate. Now, the actual class-time of this was much slower than what you are reading. Every question took at least 10 minutes if not more to get through what I was trying to say because, as I said, they are low level English. At one point, I drew an apartment on the board. Granted, I would be the same way if I was in an Arabic class and the teacher was trying to explain completely in Arabic what I was trying to say in English, though already I know some fabulous Arabic words that I throw around right and left which greatly pleases the students. Maphia Mooshkala – (No problem) is my favorite, Mynephsic – (All by myself) is another.

Eesa then tried to explain what the apartment is like with bedrooms and such. The rest of the class helped him with this. All of them got very involved. At that point, just to be subversive, I drew a bed on the board with two stick figures in the bed and pointed to Eesa and myself and asked him with a certain sort of finality:

“You and me?”

“Huh?” he asked with the most shocked expression as a few of the quicker students, or at least the students paying attention started to giggle.

“You and me?!” I said with more authority, which at this point had most of the class in an uproar.

“No. No. NO!” And with that he jumped back about two feet as I put my arm around him. This naturally sent the class into even more of a laughing fit.

“You and me,” he told me as the rest of the class listened; with this he drew a line down the middle of the classroom.

So then in my afternoon class, I posed the same question. And, I had the same molasses type of reaction. One of the Mohammads was able to decipher what I was saying and told the rest of the class in Arabic. Faisal wrote on the board his apartment is 1500 SAR a month (divided by 3.75 for American dollars) and it is just steps away from the campus. I told him I wanted to look. He asked me if two tomorrows would be okay. I told him yes.

But then another Mohammad said he had an apartment and from what I could figure my share would be $500 SAR a month (do the same math as above), which seemed like a really good deal. He would show me after school.

So after school, I met up with him, leaving a tiny bit early - since my office hour, which is never used ever by students, is the hour after school. On the way out, I must say I did feel a bit like Janet Leigh not when she was stabbed in the shower but when she is leaving with the money from her company after she had feigned a headache and she waves to her boss as he is crossing the street and then realizes that she was not supposed to be downtown with the company money but at home with a headache. This is because Samir – who runs the school – was locking the side gate, the gate the students most often use, when we were leaving. I told him I was going to help the students.

“Good. Good,” he smiled as we left. A teacher told me later that I actually was fine since I was with students. Samir approves.

So this Mohammad and I got in his cousin Ameir’s beat up Toyota with two other students who in fact are more cousins and we headed to…I don’t even know where. His cousin Mohammad is one of the more advanced students at school in a higher-level class and he talked to me as we zipped in and out of traffic. Ameir weaved in and out of traffic flawlessly.

We arrived at the apartment, which reminded me of a once incredibly grand hotel that has declined into a somewhat bug-ridden flophouse. Advanced English Cousin Mohammad went to the only bedroom and removed some of the clothes and debris that had been scattered about and told me:

“This room yours.”

Naturally, I was taken aback. At this point, I was not quite sure how to react. These four cousins – two sleep in twin beds, two sleep on the floor, all in one room – graciously and selflessly offered their home to me. As in, they were going to give me the only bedroom and they were all going to sleep in the living room that they had hastily converted into a bedroom. What was I to do? I can safely say that this is the first time I was ever in this situation. And I started to rethink my idea of asking students for help when it comes to apartment hunting. Actually, I started to rethink a lot of things at this point.

For the time being, I would just go along with it and not say anything. I was not sure how to not be rude. This was truly a testament to the Arabic hospitality that has been shown to me so far during my brief time in this country. How could I not be moved? But how could I not be rude as well? How could I?

While I am thinking this over, the other cousin who is named Abdur(blur) but goes by Blur carried in a big bag of food and drinks, which included a platter of fruit. Advanced English Cousin Mohammad went about setting plastic saran wrap on the floor with Ameir’s help. Blur set out the food. We then all dug in with our hands, yes eating rice with our hands scooping it from a big platter.

This is the way to eat Cupsa, which is my new favorite dish. I love the Arabian food and you do get to eat with your hands just like you did before you started using utensils. The more adept you are at eating with your hands, the more revered you are. You are not looked upon as some hillbilly named Roy or Bubba.

Over and over, I told them how much I love Saudi and the food and the people. The dinner was full of warmth and good humor. We finished and then it was prayer time. They laid out the prayer rug and Advanced English Cousin Mohammad led the prayer, which I thought truly spiritual. Some of this had to do with the fact that I had no clue what was being said in the prayer. There was a lot of kneeling and bowing and chanting but it was disarmingly beautiful.

After the prayer, Original Mohammad (from my class) after looking up a translation and consulting Advanced English Cousin Mohammad on the proper way to say it said:

“Mr. Tyson,” he then paused for dramatic affect, “will you accept our offer to live in our house?”

Naturally, I was floored. And I was not sure how to answer but by simply saying:

“Mynehpsic.”

Of course, Mohammad was sad but I had actually answered in Arabic. And they now understood that I wanted to live by myself. Mohammad told me he is sad that I am not moving into the place but he understands.

Naturally, the whole thing was a misunderstanding. And, now they want me to come over and see them every day, which is not going to happen since my mornings start at 6:20 a.m. these days and I am completely exhausted when I get home from school in the late afternoon.

But then we were talking about nuts weren’t we and how I decided to not censor Fareed for writing said word on the board. This would have been no big deal but then Ziad asked what nuts are when I sat next to him to look at his paper. I told him to ask Fareed. Fareed pointed to his nose.

“Not nose,” I said to Ziad and told Fareed to explain. Fareed was the one who wrote the word on the board after all so he should be the one to explain what it is. This would serve him right for bringing bathroom humor into my classroom. He just pointed to his nose.

“Not nose,” I said once again. “Fareed?”

He just looked at me perplexed.

“You know what it is,” I said coaxing some sort of response from him.

“Nuts,” and he points to his nose once more.

At this point, I pointed down to the region where they reside and I said “Nuts!”

With this Ziad turned white like he had been shot and Fareed just asked truly perplexed “Nuts?”

“Yeah,” I confirmed. “Nuts.”

2011-10-15T02:44:00.006+08:00

Do we still get paid if we get kidnapped?

Honestly, just a minute or two before I had sensed danger. I was walking back from the high-end shopping street because every thing was closed. Friday is holy day. I was taking a shortcut from the shopping street back to the compound.

“Do we still get paid if we get kidnapped?” I had asked our boss Joe a week or so ago. There has been some sort of skirmish in Yemen so in retaliation there has supposedly been a rash of American kidnappings. I was in a remote area. I had just passed an armed guard. I was taking a shortcut. There was no one on the street because today is Friday.

Here Friday is Sunday. Jim said nothing gets done on Friday. I had asked him earlier in the day if he wanted me to direct him to the hotel. This is the hotel a few blocks from our apartments in the Saudi City Airlines compound. He is navigationally challenged. He wanted to see about getting maid service, which could be done through the compound hotel, but he did not want to be frustrated so he said he would wait.

“Nothing gets done on Friday,” he said with finality.

So I walked to the shopping plaza by myself. The hotel is on the way. Jim did not want to go out in the heat. I do not blame him. By the time I had reached the gate of the complex, my face was dripping with sweat and once again I had forgotten to bring a kerchief.

D&G, Just Cavelli, Burbbery, Gucci – all closed. The two or three malls with food courts were closed as well. I was hungry. In the distance, I saw the Golden Arches. I would like to say that I have not had McDonalds for ages but through no fault of my own I would be lying. A student took me there a few days ago.

The student is not one of my students. We pass in the halls. And he always extends his hand and smiles and asks emphatically asks how are you? I had seen him at the Kibda place the week before and he had given me a ride back to class but then he wanted to take me riding around in his car as young men do and I was too tired. I had work to do in my office so I told him we could ride another day.

A few days ago, I passed him in the administration building hallway when I was taking advantage of the air conditioning on my way to get Kibda – a curried lamb liver (surprisingly good) sandwich.

“Do you want to go to lunch?” I asked as I passed him.

He took a minute to translate what I said from English to Arabic and then he answered - “Yes.”

I walked fast but he walked faster. He kept looking at his watch. We took a shortcut through the classroom building out the backdoor to his car. We got in his car. He turned on the air conditioner and we sat. He called his friend. And we sat. He told me that his friend would come. We sat and waited.

Five minutes later, two friends showed. They got into the car. We drove off.

“Eat what?” he asked me.

“You choose,” I said but I realized he did not understand.

“Anywhere,” I said to clarify but he still did not understand.

“McDonalds” he announced.

“Okay, great” I told him.

We made our way through the lunchtime traffic in his late model Toyota Corolla, which still had the plastic over the seats. The traffic was not bad until we got on the main road and then it came to a sudden halt.

“Cars bad,” He told me. “Lunch prayer soon start.”

Now I knew why he had been rushing and looking at his watch and tapping the steering wheel waiting for his friends. Prayer would start within the next ten minutes and everything would close five - or sometimes ten - minutes before. It was imperative to get to McDonalds soon or I would have to wait until after prayer which could sometimes be a good 30 minutes and that would mean I could be late to my afternoon class.

Prayer takes place five times a day – the first at sunrise or a little before. The next one comes a bit after 12 pm. A third one comes sometime after 3:30 pm. The forth one comes near 6 pm. The last one comes at 7:30 pm.

During this time, non-praying Muslim shopkeepers and non-Muslim shopkeepers take breaks and by no means rush back to work. So a twenty-minute prayer time can easily turn into twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, or even forty minutes. Forty minutes is absolutely not uncommon. So getting to McDonalds for food before prayer time was most important. This often becomes a game of sorts.

Finally, traffic cleared enough for us to hop a curb and brave a shortcut into the McDonalds parking lot just as a worker was locking the door. With this the student jumped out of the car and pointed to me and shouted in the direction of the door:

“American!”

I got out of the car and went to the door. And the student to reinforce what he had just said pointed to me and once again shouted to the worker locking the door:

“This is American.”

From what I have been told, businesses can be fined if they let in Saudis during prayer time but Westerners are given amnesty.

The Filipino worker - many workers at the Arabian McDonalds are Filipino I have been told – opened the door and let us in. He told us there was nothing but various chicken sandwiches left. I took a chicken sandwich. The student had nothing. At this point, I realized the student was just giving me a ride to lunch. He had not planned on eating himself. He had probably just eaten Kibda when I met him. I thanked him and we got back in the car and headed back to school.

One of the friends in the back seat who had been silent spoke up:

“Champagne, you like?”

Alcohol of any sort is forbidden in the Kingdom. These students have heard of people talk of alcohol. Bottles of smuggled whiskey of the Jack Daniels variety and the like can fetch $400 American and up.

“Too much,” I replied. “I like champagne too much.”

The whole car laughed.

“America crazy?” the other backseat passenger asked.

“Oh America so crazy,” I replied in accidental broken English and added, “American girl crazy.” With that I pantomimed the taking off of my top and the shaking of my make believe breasts. All of the boys shrieked with laughter. As you probably know, single guys cannot be around women other than mothers, sisters or grandmothers. Thus every unmarried male whether he is 13 or 40 has the raging hormones of a teenager. Thus, if during my lesson, I happen to draw a female on the board, you can practically here the thump thump thump of the overly attentive member hitting desk around the classroom. You would think that I would be old enough that this would not give me a perverse pleasure but I am not.

Today, I was alone looking for food and McDonalds was the only thing open. Maybe having to do with the fact that it was on the same street as Burberry and Gucci and other high-end designer brands, the inside was very chic as if Ligne Rosset had designed it. This was definitely the swankiest place that I have ever eaten a quarter pounder with cheese. I chatted with the Filipino worker as I ordered. He seemed to enjoy speaking English. Later when I was leaving, he told me to have a nice day and to come back soon. I told him I would but I hoped that I wouldn’t.

“Do we still get paid if we get kidnapped?” the question I had asked Joe when he announced that Americans were getting kidnapped once again ran through my head. He had just laughed as a reply. I took that to mean that we would not get paid.

But to tell you the truth, every single person that I have met in Jeddah - be it on the street, in the souk, in the grocer, at school (which includes my somewhat surly student named Hassan who never brings a pen and has a somewhat nasty scar on the left side of his face) – is nothing but friendly to me. When I tell the people I meet that I am from America, they never fail to say:

“I love America.”

Thus, I think about the media and what agenda the media has. That agenda is, it seems to me, is to sell more advertising.

Nevertheless, I do opt to take a short cut on the way back to the compound. And yes, our compound, as is every compound here, is walled with armed guards manning the gates. So I take a side street off of the main road and I wander down the side street thinking about my students.

My students have names like Saadoon, Fareed, Wafi, Rami, Ibrahim, Bandar (who wore a cap sideways the first day and still always has this look of surprise on his face), and Ziad (who wore the full Arab dress the first day and did not write but motioned that his buddy would be doing the writing which made me wonder if his buddy was his personal assistant. He had the air of a sheik.) Naturally, there are a half a dozen Mohammad’s and just as many Abdullahs.

They really do not speak much English but they did understand my pantomimes. Already, I have fallen in love with Saudi. I love Saudi I told them. I spoke of the magic of camels, the possibilities of magic lamps and genies. Although they do not speak much English, through drawing pictures on the board and just being generally goofy, they understood.

As I am walking, I am thinking and not paying attention really. There was a guard post but no walls so I did not walk down that road. Nevertheless, about 100 meters down the road there was an alleyway that looked to be a nice little shortcut. As soon as I darted down it and spotted the graffiti covered port-a-potties, I thought something strange. There was not really anything other than a feeling but I kept walking and soon emerged onto a paved road that ran by an unseen guardhouse.

An armed guard emerged and I looked at his automatic and was nervous, shaking in my shoes nervous actually.

“Where you go?”

“I am just trying to find my way home.” This I knew he did not understand. He just kept staring at me with his gun ready. He made a gesture with his hand that I assumed meant he wanted some identification. I took out the card with my address at the compound and handed it to him. He looked at it but did not give it back. This annoyed and scared me.

Another guard approached. This guard was unarmed. This guard smiled. This guard spoke a bit more English.

“This belong to King,” he told me.

“The King’s property?”

“Yes, King.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said and I may have bowed or I may have cowered at their feet. I am not sure which. “I am dumb. I am a dumb American.”

The guard smiled and the other guard gave back my identification card.

“Can I go that way?” - with that I pointed to a barricaded road that I assumed was barricading traffic from coming onto the road where I now stood on the King’s property. The smiling guard nodded yes.

I started walking and to be honest I felt a bit like Dorothy on the yellow brick road. About half way to the barricade I turned around and called to the guards:

“I love Saudi.”

“I love America,” the smiling guard called back.

2011-10-10T23:00:00.003+08:00

Riyadh to Jeddah

“Just my luck to get my head chopped off over Badfinger.” That’s what I was thinking at that moment. And, no, I am not talking about the digit on my person. The Badfinger to which I am referring is the British pop band on Apple discovered by George Harrison or Paul McCartney depending on whom you ask. Would I be in this same situation with Elephant’s Memory or Mary Hopkin?

A harmless song like ‘It’s Over’ suddenly sounded blasphemous like Aleister Crowley himself had played the opening riff in this crowded music free market adjacent to the Red Sea packed with weekend shoppers looking at electronic gadgets and hiding behind hajibs. Again, I am getting ahead of myself.

After a few days of conferences and workshops in Riyadh, I was off to Jeddah where I was to spend the next year.

The day started with Michael getting kicked out of the mall. This is what happened. Michael is one of the teachers that I immediately connected with. Another teacher Lee jokingly said that we might have to be separated because he accused me of being evil, and Michael of being an instigator.

What happened is this. Michael had to replace a split duffle bag for the flight to Jeddah. We were told to meet at 1 p.m. in the lobby of the hotel. At 8:30 a.m., we picked up our first two weeks salary from H.R. In between the time that we got our checks and the meeting time Michael planned on going to the mall next door to find a new duffle for his dirty clothes since an unnamed airline probably Turkish Air -who played ‘Splash the Contents of New Prada Cologne All Over the Middle East Mid-Air’ with me - ravished his duffel.

Incidentally when I got my two weeks’ pay, this was the first riyals I had seen. I looked at each bill and the King smiled back at me on each one as if to say “Welcome to my country. Teach my people English. Don’t cry over spilt Prada.” Did I mention that I had just bought a bottle of Prada aftershave a few days before I left America only to find it spilt all over everything in my new Tumi bag? Did I mention that? IN the scheme of things, I was lucky. Some teachers did not even get their luggage.

But I am getting off point. Michael went to the mall next door to find a duffel. Here I should add that Riyadh is somewhat strict or can be strict regarding dress codes especially at the mall and especially on family day and especially if you use the f-word towards a security guard who is familiar with said word.

Michael wore shorts to the mall, not Daisy Dukes but over the knee shorts, which is forbidden depending on who you ask. He asked the guard if he knew where he could get a duffle. The guard gave him a vague answer. Michael turned to whoever was with him, maybe Lee, and said, “He doesn’t know what he is fudging talking about.” And he did not use the word ‘fudging.’

With that Michael tried to brush past the guard and go ask someone else in the mall. The guard did not know English but was familiar with the f-word directed at him and told Michael:

“Family day. No short. You leave.”

“I just want to ask about a duffle.”

“Family day. You leave.”

“Over there,” Michael pointed to a merchant manning a kiosk. “I just want to ask him.”

“You leave. Family day.” With that the guard escorted Michael out of the mall.

So Michael came to my room and got my backpack. He asked if it would be okay to put dirty clothes in it. I told him I had schlepped the pack all over Thailand so nothing he put in it could be any dirtier than what it has already seen and/or held. At that time, he told me that since he has Hispanic lineage, he is sometimes mistaken for an Arab and so he does not get to pretend that he does not know the rules like other westerners. After he told me this, he took the pack and left.

During my stay at Holiday Inn, I somehow had scattered my belongings all over my room; though I had hung my suits, my stuff was scattered everywhere mainly because I was rushing from lunch, to a meeting, or almost sleeping through meetings and rushing to and fro. So I had some packing to do before we met in the lobby. At some point, I would have liked to take a short nap but that was probably not going to happen.

While I was packing, Michael rang.

“I have a big favor to ask,” he started.

“Yes,” I said getting ready for about anything.

“The backpack is not going to work out,” he said.

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah. Would you mind packing my shoes?”

Fortunately, I actually had some extra room in my luggage - that whole we-are-all-in-transition-whether-we-know-it-or-not thing – so I told him no problem.

“You haven’t planted a bomb in them have you?” I asked.

“No,” he laughed.

Since the time was approaching 12:30, I thought that I would grab some lunch in the dining room before we departed for Jeddah. Lee and a few others were in the lobby already. I checked out of my room and then I went over to talk to Lee. I told him I was going to have lunch in the hotel restaurant. He told me that we were not on the lunch list since we were checking out. This was disheartening. Since I had already checked out, I sat down and waited. Ten minutes later, Michael came down. Lee told him the same thing.

Michael sat down as crestfallen as me. We sat and said nothing. Suddenly Michael got up.

“I am going to check and make sure,” he said to me.

“Awesome,” I said. “Wave to me if we can.”

If anyone could make lunch happen, Michael could. I sat anxiously waiting for the high sign. From my vantage point, I could see him talking to the maître d. The maitre d consulted the list. A few seconds later. Michael waved me over.

“You rock!” I told him excited that I would be able to eat before we went to the airport.

The other times that I had eaten in the hotel restaurant, I had travel stomach. Now I was somewhat recovered from my jet lag and my appetite was back. I had the salmon the smoked and the smothered. I had cucumbers and the various Middle Eastern pleasures. Fruit was there; I grabbed it. There were approximately 40 items to choose from and I am sure that I tried 39. With all of it, I topped it off with a few rolls. After so many months in OverEatersAmerica, I decided to forego a dessert though they all looked scrumptious. I am sure my stacked plate made up in calories for any foregone dessert.

Then it happened. After we had eaten the most excellent lunch ever, the manager came over and told us we had to pay for our lunch. We were floored. Michael can be the most charming man when he turns on the charm. He explained that we were on the list. And that the waiter told us we could eat but the waiter should not get in trouble because he was just doing his job because we are on the list. The manager brought over another manager and it became slightly circular and ever so Monty Python at this point.

This went on for several minutes. We told the manager and the other backup manager we were told we could eat. We had not broken any rules. The managers repeated we had to pay. We repeated we were on the list. The managers repeated we had to pay. We repeated we were on the list and added the waiter should not be accountable. He was just doing his job. At this point, scattered around the restaurant, we spied other colleagues sitting down and eating as well. We did not rat anyone out.

But then, we spotted one of the representatives of our company. One of the nicest men I have ever met. We waved him over and explained the situation. He completely understood and took care of the problem immediately, which was an immediate relief.

We thanked him and the staff and proceeded to the lobby since 1:00 p.m. was drawing near. At 1:00 pm we were all ready to go to the airport. Everyone was accounted for. We were excited to be in our new city. The same excitement was with us at 1:30 pm when we were still waiting for the shuttle bus to take us to the airport. At 2:00 pm, the excitement was on the wane and something like panic was starting to set in because the flight was at 4:00 and we had no idea how long it would take to get to and through the airport to our plane. By 2:45, we were resigned to the fact that we would be going on a later flight, we hoped.

As soon as we were resigned, the shuttle showed. We loaded up 15 people and 15 people’s year’s worth of luggage in a shuttle that would comfortably fit 10 people and 10 people’s two weeks worth of luggage. We were not comfortable but we were on our way to the airport. Soon we were away from civilization on a lone stretch of highway that led to the airport.

About 15 minutes into the lone highway stretch, something slightly bizarre happened. The driver pulled off the road onto what looked like a section road, nothing special, no highway merge, nothing. He stopped the shuttle. We all stared at each other quizzically.

Someone in front called back to the ones in back that he had got lost. We were dumbfounded. I mean I have never been to Saudi before but I am pretty sure that if you are looking for an international airport it is not going to be on some random section road.

Then as suddenly as he stopped, he pulled back out on the highway and continued. I had attached myself to Michael at this point because he knows all of the ins-and-outs of traveling Middle Easterly. He told me whatever I did to get ahead of the pilgrims (people wrapped in towels with no passports making their pilgrimage to Mecca) because it took forever for them to be processed. I said I would just follow him.

When we arrived at the airport, we had 25 minutes until our plane took off. Michael was hopeful. He thought we could make it. I thought he was dreaming. We hopped out of the van and grabbed our luggage as fast as a year’s worth of luggage could be grabbed. We quickly nabbed a cart. Threw our luggage on it and we made haste to the ticket counter.

This is when we noticed an unclaimed plastic bag.

“Should we tell someone about this?” I asked.

“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” Michael confirmed. “I’ll go find a guard.”

I held his place in line while he went to find a guard. The guard was incredibly nonchalant. He asked Michael if it was his. Michael looked at me incredulously. Just about that time, a passenger at the ticket counter who was done checking in came by and grabbed the package, which was a lamp, and took it away and looked at us and smiled.

“Yeah, I just wanted to show you my new lamp,” Michael said in the direction of the guard after the guard was long gone.

By the time we got through the line, we only had 10 minutes to go through security and get to our plane. Michael still believed we would make it. At this point, I thought him crazy. After all, we were in an international airport. And it was not an airport in a country where people going from one place to another were particularly moved expediently. But deep down inside somewhere within my being, I had faith.

Thus, we ran to the security check expecting a line, which there was not. We got through security rather quickly. They did not even make me take off my shoes. But then how would we get to the gate before it closed? Fortunately, the gate was right there. We ran to the plane. After us, a football team came in. We wondered if they were famous to be arriving so late. They were very young.

The flight was non-eventful. We arrived in Jeddah. A shuttle and a couple of cars fit us almost comfortably. We were checked into a motel at the compound where are apartments are but the apartments were not yet ready, something about bug infestation. The hotel was old but clean and was actually a small one-bedroom apartment with beautiful crazy ‘70s tile in the bathroom.

The next day we had off and I really did nothing but lie around and try to get adapted to this new world I had entered. I walked around the compound a bit. I went to one of the pools (we have three) and I chatted with Michael. The day was nothing special, nor was the next day. That day we went to school and were assigned our offices and classrooms. Then the next day was orientation for the students. And we met some of the Arabian staff.

The first introduction to the students was the following day for testing, which consisted of students being herded into rooms and given reading, writing and listening tests. Later when I marked the results, I knew my work was cut out for me. In China, I had enough students who understood English to make a go of it. This time, I am in virgin waters. These students know no English. This is going to be tough.

But what about Badfinger? This is what happened. I wanted to buy an i-phone docking station and so I gave the store clerk my i-phone to test the speakers and I did not really think about the whole ban of Western music when I did this. And I did not think about the fact that there was no music being played in the market whatsoever.

This did not register until the opening chords of ‘It’s Over’ blasted through the market like Moses on crack. I was stunned and felt as if I was in a nightmare where you cannot move fast enough to save yourself. I was sure that the media police would come and take me and, yes, there would be a public beheading. It’s over.

But, I was able to turn off Badfinger. When I did shut them down, I shut my eyes like in that moment before a crash and then I slowly opened them and everything was normal. No one had seemed to notice. Badfinger had gone unnoticed. It wasn’t over. I was alive. I love Jeddah!

2011-10-06T14:51:00.000+08:00

The Secret Life of Arabia - After the Arrival

My biggest fear teaching Arabian students is that they would not like me, that they would actually go out of their way to be abusive to me since our governments have tenuous relationships at best. That was my biggest fear but I am getting ahead of myself. In my last communiqué, I had just boarded the plane.

The plane. The plane was hot. The air didn't blow. I couldn't sleep. The boy from the six-hour wait who sat next to me is actually 23. He slept the entire flight. At the end of the flight, I gave him my email address. I told him to write me. I introduced myself. He introduced himself as Fily. We disembarked. He disappeared.

The line through customs did not disappoint in its vagaries. Most of us waited in one line and then we were ushered into a new line and then ushered back into the first line. This did not happen to be in any order. When I did get to the passport check, the inspector looked over my picture a few times and then he called to another inspector, which was more than slightly alarming. What was wrong with my passport?

The other inspector looked at me and then looked at my picture and told me that there was a shadow over my picture. No one had ever noticed this before which was bizarre since I am one of those people who has had to get extra passport pages because of all of the pages of visas and entry exit stamps. Nevertheless, I was one of the first people through the line. Later, I heard from other teachers that they stood in line for over an hour because at times the line was at a complete standstill.

When I got my luggage, there were little men there to help but I quickly realized these little men were trying to make some cash and I had no riyals just greenback so I piled my Tumi bags on top of each other and rolled through the exit gate where I hoped and prayed that a company representative would be.

At the end of the waiting mob, I saw a young stout Arab holding a sign for TVTC employees. I told him my name. He told me my name was not on the list of pickups, which was disheartening to say the least. He told me to have a seat while he waited for the others.

The waiting room was filled with what looked to be transients. In actuality, the waiting room bore a closer resemblance to an inner city bus terminal than an international airport. Occasionally, a young Filipino would flit by with a Justin Bieber towel draped around him like a cape. Once, the Arab came back to check on me. He asked me if I had any riyals. I told him I only had American. He offered to put me in a cab and pay the fare. I told him I could wait. I really did not want to go off in a cab on my own. This seemed slightly reckless.

He disappeared again. The jet mechanic came out of customs and talked to the Arab. His people had not shown up. How he picked out my Arab, I am not sure. I watched from my seat amongst the transients. The jet mechanic did not see me. I was too tired to move and I really didn’t want to get involved. The jet mechanic wandered off.

The Arab came back and told me that we could go. The others were not coming. Or rather he did not want to wait on them. I crammed my arsenal of luggage into his tiny car that looked uncannily like a Yugo. We took off onto the desert highway. The sun was beginning to rise. Within 20 minutes we came to civilization. Ten minutes later we were pulling into the Holiday Inn. The exterior was weathered from the constant sandstorms and extreme heat. However, the inside was well appointed, maybe even four star in quality.

While my consort filled out the paperwork for my room, the busboy took my bags. The clerk gave me my key and told me the room number – Room 325. Finally, I could sleep. The time was somewhere around 8 a.m. local time. I was told to sleep and not worry about the day’s activities.

I dragged myself to my room ready to sleep after 30 plus hours of being awake. Shortly after I got to my room, there was a knock on my door. When I opened the door, the bellboy was there with my luggage. After he arranged my luggage around the room, since I still did not have riyals, I gave him three dollars American.

Sadly at this point, I was so sleepy that I couldn’t sleep and I just lay there. Or I thought I couldn’t sleep but I did fall asleep because the ringing telephone woke me, the ringing phone that I could not locate. I stumbled around the dark room and the ringing seemed to be coming from the bath. Finding the bath, I picked up the receiver and nothing. I lay back down. Again, I must have fallen asleep because a knocking at the door woke me.

A young sprite was there to greet me. I was groggy and undressed. His name – Dominic; he told me to rest. He was just checking to make sure that I had arrived safely. If I wanted, I could come down to the restaurant later and eat. At 2 p.m., there was to be a workshop that I might want to attend if I was up for it. I told him that I thought I would be rested enough to attend. He told me to have a nice rest. I lay back down.

To say that everything after that is a blur is an understatement. We had strange meetings. I met my new colleagues and the teachers at the other colleges around the country. There are somewhere in the vicinity of 40 teachers. I ate some wonderful food over the course of the conferences including some delicious local dishes. Unfortunately as nice as Holiday Inn and the staff at Holiday Inn were, I was never able to get completely rested while I was there, nor did my unsettled stomach settle. This is the first time that I have had such extreme jetlag, which might be because in the past I have never had to jump right into something but this time I immediately had meetings and seminars so my body clock was not able to fully adjust. The hours dreamily drifted by from seminars to camel markets.

And, as dreamlike as it was, the camel market and the wonderful music that followed are what stick out the most from that first few days. Imagine an infinite expanse of camel pens in the middle of the desert and that is the camel market. Camels with their Betty Boop eye lashes and their slow deliberate swagger are like transformed intergalactic beings giving earth a try. I look at them and I see these evolved Saturn spirits resting within. I know that I am completely camel crazy. Thus, I could have stayed with the camels all night but we had to move onto the next attraction.

Back on the bus, we drove once more through the desert winding through the streets and going more and more into the ripped backsides of Jeddah. We joked that we were going to be overtaken by bandits because we stopped at a walled compound that was remote and creepy but then the bus driver once again started the bus and we lumbered along the secluded desert road.

We stopped again at another walled compound that was well lit. We exited the bus and entered through the gate into a beautiful manicured lawn where men were dancing and singing and beating drums and then holding the drums over fire to tighten the drums to beat them harder. The music was beautiful. It was chillingly beautiful and emotionally jarring. Combined with the other worldliness of the camel market, this truly touched my soul. I actually got goose bumps. As he walked past, I grabbed the sprite Dominic in exultation. He nodded knowingly.

Yes, this was the grand finale for our time in Riyadh and it was as spectacular as anything I have ever witnessed. After the singing and dancing we feasted outside on all of the Arabian delicacies, which was nothing short of wonderful. Finally, my appetite had returned. I no longer felt travel-sick. After we got our bellies full, we were corralled back onto the bus and taken back to the hotel. The next day we would be heading off to Jeddah to start teaching.

Again, I wondered how the students would respond to me. Was Jeddah going to be a place I wanted to stay for a year or more? Back in my hotel room as I drifted off to sleep, I remembered what the guide told me “If you go to them, they will come.”

2011-10-01T02:21:00.004+08:00

The Secret Life of Arabia This is a new beginning.

“If you go to them, they will come,” the guide told me when we had stopped at a pen of camels.
He made noises to attract them. His name was possibly Mottieb but I cannot be sure. He was wearing a thawb and headdress. I had just spent thirty-some hours on airplanes and in airports including a six-hour delay in Istanbul.

Everything was dreamlike in this desert outside of Riyadh. On the bus, I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness. A genie, was there a genie on the bus? Were there men riding camels on the shoulders of the highway. Were the ghosts of T. E. Lawrence and Peter O’Toole having tea in a souk? What was happening? How did I get here?

How?

A little over a week ago, I was not even certain that I would be going to Saudi. At that time, I had no air tickets, no work visa, and no confirmation. Now, a little over a week later, I am here in Jeddah starting a new life or a new chapter to an old one.

On the day I left the USA - flying from Tulsa to Riyadh, I got my work visa (or a visa that I will use until I get a work visa). The day before it was confirmed that my visa had come through. That evening my new employer made flight arrangements for the following afternoon. In a rush, I did all of the last minute chores in preparation for another year away. After awhile, all of this gets much easier. Really, no matter how settled we are all of us are in transition. For me, knowing this little tidbit makes life in general easier.

The Tulsa airport was as empty as ever making my flight out a pleasure. Flying out of smaller airports such as Tulsa or Oklahoma City is never as nerve splitting as flying out of an airport such as Dallas or Chicago. Don’t even get me on the nightmare of Chicago O’Hare. Did a halfwit lay it out?

Since I got to the airport in plenty of time, I had quite a wait. Having had no lunch, I grabbed a quick sandwich at Camille’s and took it back to the gate to eat it. Surprisingly, unlike most airport food, the sandwich was reasonably priced and actually made fresh.

On the airplane, I had a row to myself, which was nice. A nice, albeit misleading, introduction to what would be a grueling 30 plus hours of airports and crowded airplanes. In Chicago, the pain of the ordeal began. To get to gate 5, in no-man’s land with no restaurants, I had to go out of the actual airport and go through the security line again. There was no line just a mob. The mob discombobulated me so much that I actually left my shoes on the floor and someone had to hand them to me through the screening area when they were discovered. I thanked the woman who found them and made my way to my gate.

Since O’Hare is a world airport, I thought I would be able to eat at a restaurant near my gate once I had gone through security. This was not the case - once inside the secured area the only choice was a few insanely overpriced sandwiches of the 7/11 variety at a kiosk. Yes, I had two hours to wait for my plane but I decided I would just have the almonds and cran-raisins I had packed in my carry-on to hold me over.

Across from me, a Slav and his young son sat down. The man mussed with his son’s hair, talked to him in a Slavic fatherly way and gave the son money, a twenty dollar bill. The son spoke in English at times. The son disappeared and came back with two of those aforementioned 7/11 clone sandwiches and gave his father a few coins in change. The father scoffed at the price and looked at me and said something but it was not in English.

“Yeah, the sandwiches are really expensive.” I replied realizing after I said it that he had no idea what I said.

Finally, the plane boarded. As usual, I hoped that I had a few seats to myself on the transcontinental part of the flight. I did not. A younger man sat next to me. I casually said hello not knowing how friendly he would be. He smiled and said hello. During the course of the flight, he told me that he is a banker and he used to work for Bank of America. Now he is going to Kenya to help a local bank near his hometown. He asked me if I had let Bank of America - my bank I had told him earlier in our conversation - know that I was going to be living in Saudi. I told him that I think that I had alluded to the fact at some point.

During the flight, I tried to sleep but every time I nodded off something woke me so I did not sleep. By the time, I got to Istanbul I felt as if I was in the minions of walking dead. At the airport, I was not sure where to go. I got in a line but then I heard a self-possessed older woman in line behind me talking about all of the times she had been to Istanbul. I asked her if I needed to be in the line if I was in transit. She told me no I should be able to just follow the in transit people through a doorway. She pointed vaguely behind us. I went that way and found my way through the in-transit doorway.

Since I had a few hours, I browsed the duty free and looked for a copy of International Living on the magazine stand – they did not carry it. I debated eating but I was actually fairly full from the breakfast from my previous flight. After sitting in a lounge area, I got up and made my way to my gate.

To get to my gate, I had to go through another security area. Since I was no longer in the USA, the security gate was much more relaxed. The guards gave everyone a cursory inspection but did not seem to be paying too much attention.

Relieved that I had only a couple of hours to wait for Turkish Airlines to take me to Riyadh where I would be having several days of conferences, I sat down on one of the somewhat uncomfortable metal seats in the small waiting area. A few people came and sat and then got up and left. Another Westerner sat down in the row of seats next to mine. He looked as if he might be another teacher. I thought about asking him but then I decided not to because I was not in the mood for conversation.

About thirty minutes before the plane was to take off, I started getting anxious – perhaps I was at the wrong gate. I finally asked the man sitting next to me if he knew why we were not boarding, why in fact there was not even an airline employee at the counter.

“The plane has been delayed 6 hours,” he told me. Naturally, I thought that I had misheard him though he spoke plainly and with an American accent.

“Six hours?” I repeated.

“Yeah, six hours,” he confirmed.

“That sucks.”

At that point, I was so wiped out that I did not even have an iota of an idea of what to do to pass the time. I would have loved to sleep. I would have loved for a genie to come and bring a magic carpet on which to sleep but that did not happen. So I just sat and sat. And sat. I was too drowsy and dazed to read so I sat and did nothing.

A fidgety young man caught my attention. Since I was in a daze, I do not know exactly when this happened or who was first to speak. I do not remember our first words. Maybe he was thinking that we should be able to get on an earlier flight but I am not positive. At this point, I attached myself to the military man and the young man attached himself to us.

We talked a bit. He had been studying in Michigan but was on his way home to Riyadh or somewhere nearby to see his ailing father. He was the most distraught of all of us about the delay. Most of this had to do with his youth, nothing more. 6 hours is a lifetime. The military man, a jet repairman, and I sat. The youth paced and paced. And paced.

At this point, it had been several hours since I had eaten. Hungry and dazed, I went to the bistro. Nothing looked appealing but I knew that I had to eat because I was starting to get a headache. I chose a muffin and a Pepsi. Back at our post, I offered the jet repairman part of the muffin. He had already eaten. The boy had wondered off. I ate the muffin in silence.

The jet repairman and I sat and watched the departure/arrival screen for no real reason other than that was the only thing either of us could muster up to do. Eventually, the boy wandered back over to us. At this point, an airline representative came and told us we were to have a meal comped which was great news. He led us through security and through the airport up to the Turkish Airlines’ restaurant. Along the way, a passenger needed some assistance. The representative asked the Saudi boy to help. To me, this was bizarre. I am not sure what was said. They were talking in Arabic, or Urdu, or Farsi; they were not talking in English. It was beyond Greek to me.

In the restaurant, the jet repairman and I grabbed seats. We both ordered Pepsis. Thinking that the Saudi boy would find us, I kept watching the door. The entire walk to the restaurant, I had talked to the airline representative. He seemed eager to practice his English. I told him his English is good. I could understand him perfectly. He beamed.

Nevertheless, after the food had come, and we had eaten half of it, I was getting a bit concerned for our young Saudi friend. I was not sure what was taking him so long. I kept looking towards the door. Finally, I could not stand it. I told the jet repairman I had to go to the food court to see if our young Saudi friend was there looking for us. Oh I should mention that I had asked the airline representative about our friend and he did not seem to understand me. Suddenly, I felt as if I was in the middle of some sort of Hitchcockian intrigue, some sort of Middle East cloak and dagger.

At this point, the boy had been gone at least 20 minutes. What could be taking him so long? I suppose I was concerned because he had attached himself to us and now I felt like I was responsible for him though I was in his country. When I asked the airline representative again about him, he finally seemed to understand me. He told me we could take a box of food to him. That is all the information he could give me. The restaurant was about to close. I picked at my food and did not eat much. I nibbled the mysterious lamb sausage.

A waiter brought me a take-away box with the boy’s food. I grabbed it and the jet repairman and I left the restaurant. Miraculously, when we walked down to the food court, the boy was just coming from the opposite direction and saw us. As I handed him the food I told him I had been concerned about him, that maybe he had tried to find us and could not. He told me that he had been helping someone who could not speak the language change a ticket. He thanked me profusely for getting the food for him. I told him I was just happy that we had found him. I had been worried. I suppose I had kicked into parental teacher mode.

The boy took the food and went off to find a place to sit and eat. The jet repairman and I went through security again and planted ourselves by the arrival/departure monitor. Every so often, we would make small talk.

At this point, we had a few hours left. The kid returned and found a row of seats and laid down. I followed suit. Someone woke me to tell me we were boarding. Someone I had not seen. He was wrong we were not boarding. Although I was incredibly fatigued, I got up anyway.
Later we did start boarding. Someone mentioned that we had to get out passport checked. The representative checked my passport and then stamped my ticket and told me I could board but I did not want to leave my two new pals but then I was shuffled on to the plane anyway.

The three of us got separated. I boarded. On the plane, I saw the jet repairman sitting behind me. The boy had not boarded yet. I made eye contact with him as he walked down the aisle. Not giving it a second thought, he sat in the seat beside me and promptly fell asleep.

As we taxied down the runway, for the first time I wondered what my new life was going to really be like. Would I like Saudi? Would I embrace it as I had embraced China, the good and the bad? Would I find another friend like Michael? - who became almost like a brother in Shanghai. One thing was certain; I was off on a new adventure, another chapter. Soon, I would meet my fate.

2011-05-19T23:29:00.005+08:00

For the time being – or forever – I have left Shanghai. Now I am visiting Oklahoma – Norman, Oklahoma to be exact. Midway Grocery and Market is a Norman institution as it were. My personal opinion is that Midway makes the best sandwiches on the planet. Many local celebrities agree so I feel as if I am in good company and I have every right to have that opinion because said celebrities have had as many or more sandwiches in other locales as me.

Say it loud! Say it Proud! Midway makes the planet’s best sandwiches!

Along those lines, I will be writing about the goings on at Midway while I am here since Midway has that old time Hooterville ethic with owner Bob Thompson playing his part as Sam Drucker, his tongue planted firmly in cheek.

How many wheelbarrows does it take to change a light bulb?

At the moment, a new door is being put in that leads out to the side deck. This involves tearing out the three layers of brick on the new addition of the Midway. The new addition, as many of you know, was added in 1926.

When the first two layers were removed, the bones of the building became evident. Yes, the building is three layers thick but it is put together like a Rauschenberg painting. “Bed” is the piece that comes to mind offhand. At the same time though, this new addition of the building has been standing for nearly a hundred years which is a testament to it’s stability.

“Somebody’s name’s going to get taken off,” Jimmy said about the place where the door is to be as the door demolition banging drowns out the music inside the building. Bob, owner and master of ceremonies at Midway, encourages patrons to sign the walls with Sharpie markers but then that is not really important now. Kent walked in covered with the building’s history, history disguised as dust and disintegrating mortar.

“If we don’t change the music,” Kent announced, “I’m going home.”
“What’s your pleasure?” Bob asked in his best sweetly sarcastic voice.
“Something beside Captain and Tennille.”
“B picked this station for you.”
“Huh?” B surprised that she has been inadvertently dragged into the radio station discussion while she had been putting out the freshly baked cookies. (editors note: White Chocolate Cranberry are the yummiest cookies that you will ever have. Trust me.)
“Martini in the morning,” Bob answered as if that was enough.
“Huh?” B responded, still baffled.
“You know that’s what Kent has with his Geritol?”
“What’s Geritol?” B asked.
Bob turned the station to a blues station. B made a face and quickly changed the station. The banging on the wall once again commenced.
“That’s probably going to give me a headache after a couple of hours,’ B said about the constant pounding that was drowning out the mellow strains of AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell.’

“Do you have a wheelbarrow Bob?” Kent asked as he walks back in. Bob gives him an icy stare. “Well, I guess I will have to go buy one.”

A wheelbarrow, an innocuous object, hauls goods, removes the mortar from the immediate vicinity, yes, a wheelbarrow, harmless. A wheelbarrow has decades of usefulness. In an old one, you can plant flowers, create a birdbath, use as a tub to bathe a baby, ice down beer. Yes, many uses for the wheelbarrow. Nevertheless, there is a story, a wheelbarrow story. How many wheelbarrows does it take to change a light bulb?

No, that is not the story. This story involves a skilled craftsman who we will refer to as Kent though his name is absolutely not Kent. His name does start with a ‘K’ and ends with a ‘t’ but his name is absolutely, unequivocally not Kent though there is an ‘e’ and an ‘n’ in there in the name somewhere. Nevertheless his name is absolutely not Kent but we will just refer to him as Kent for the purpose of this story. That will make all of this much easier though his name is really not Kent. Absolutely not! That would be downright mean to use his real name which is not Kent. Kent is not his name.

Previously, Kent, or the skilled craftsman, wood-worksman, gigolo (kidding!...not really) whose name is not really Kent, borrowed the wheelbarrow on a previous job, the wheelbarrow that Bob keeps behind the air compressor on the side of the building where the door is to be. Incidentally, Kent is also Bob’s best friend.

“Like a twelve year old…or more like a fifteen year old, a teenager,” Bob corrected himself, “Kent did not put my wheelbarrow back after he was finished with it. He left it behind the dumpster.”

This of course seemed like a safe place for the wheelbarrow at the time. It was hidden from view. No thieves would have really spotted it. Of course, putting it back where he had found it would have probably been the best thing to do, but then how often do we choose the best thing when the next best thing is easier? – the next best thing being to put the wheelbarrow behind the dumpster.

As luck has it, the next morning was trash day. Fortunately, during the night no thieves absconded off with the wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow was safe, safe as a baby. That is until the trash truck came to empty the dumpster which involved mechanically picking up the dumpster to dump it. Unfortunately when the trash truck set the dumpster back down, the dumpster was sat right smack on the wheelbarrow which of course mangled it.

Thus when the new wheelbarrow reclined teasingly tauntingly in the bed of Kent’s truck, Bob immediately saw his chance with said wheelbarrow. Overcome, Bob could not help himself. Armed and ready, Bob walked to the truck like an outlaw knowing his mission. Do or die! Do or die man! Just desserts were the order of the day! (Editor’s note: Chocolate Cake – You must have the chocolate cake at Midway.)

‘Property of Midway’ wrote Bob on the silky wooden unsoiled arms of the wheelbarrow. The crowd cheered.

2011-05-05T11:12:00.006+08:00

loose ends and goose shins

the movie kept moving as planned

Yes, I am back in the land of heart attacks and hamburgers. I went to the hamburger garage twice within two days. My flight back involved 4 planes over the course of 24 hours. Since I have left China for good or maybe for only the time being, I have loved telling people I'm homeless when they ask where I live. When I told Jackie from HSN and Aging Backwards, she laughed and said 'Me Too!'. Moments later, she boarded the plane with the other first class passengers. I didn't. More on that later maybe. the movie kept moving as planned...

In Thailand, during my month holiday, I met several people who seemed to be professional travelers with no detectable employment. A man who once worked for a global cosmetics company told me that he had just planned to visit Thailand but had stayed. He was a Brit. An American told me an identical story and I asked him what he did for employment. 'This and that,' was his answer. A Frenchman I met on the night train from Chiang Mai had become a professional traveler. Sometimes he scouts out locations for documentaries. A German on a bus told of travels in India where he traveled for two months and felt it was not nearly long enough.

The Shan came into my life in more ways than one during my visit to Thailand. Sadness and brutality have marked them.
http://www.irrawaddy.org/article.php?art_id=21119
The Shan whom I met were sweet people who have been exploited by everyone. They are Burmese natives who have been abused by the militaristic Burmese government. Entire families raped and butchered by the Burmese army. Atrocities continue. No one notices really. What I learned by being around them is that the Shan have beautiful souls. How can we help them? Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi was put under house arrest because of her continued involvement with helping the Shan.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aung_San_Suu_Kyi

The Shan emigrate to Thailand where they are given jobs that no one else will do. The Thais don't like them because 300 years ago the Thai and the Shan warred. Thus the Thai do not embrace them and are less than cordial to them.

This is maybe a general assessment. Obviously every Thai is not prejudice against the Shan. However, the general climate from my perspective seems to be cat and dog.

In my hometown, the place that I have eaten since I was able to eat solid adult food has seemed to decline in quality. The recipe is different or has been altered on the restaurant's most heralded dish. The quality of the meat is no longer top quality. Yes, there is a sadness to this. But, can I really be so shallow as to lament the end of a classic dish at a family restaurant when across the globe and around the globe there is butchering on a wholesale scale? Perspective. Give me my hamburger. Let them eat goose shins.

At the same time, I am not a political writer and I am not really an activist but I did witness something or found out about something disturbing that should have attention drawn to it. Or perhaps the sand is getting crowded because of all of the other heads that are buried in it.

2010-09-21T15:29:00.003+08:00

History is Heavy

School has been in session for roughly three weeks now. Obviously I have a new batch of students to contend with. Most of them are good but there are a few complainers. The complainers are the ones that drive me nuts. I really hate when people belly ache. I really do.

But then at the same time, these complainers are a challenge as well and I try to think of it this way - the complainers are making me a better teacher because I am learning the best way to deal with them and not totally be driven crazy at the same time. Although I have been doing this quite awhile now, everyday is a learning experience and that keeps the job fresh and keeps me from stagnating.

At this point, I should say that I get worn out telling them that what I ask is preparing them for what is in store for them in America. As you may know, I am preparing these students for study in America. I have them for one year and then they go to America to high school for two years. Some of them will go to Valley Forge Military Academy. (J. D. Salinger went to Valley Forge. Pencey Prep from The Catcher in the Rye is based on Valley Forge.)

At the same time, though I do get worn out telling them and telling them that they need to work harder, I know that no matter what I say I can not impress on them how hard they have to work because they are not there yet. They are still here. And until they are there they do not know what is there there. There.

And, of late, I have tried to lessen the burden on the class teacher. Over and over, I tell her not to get so crazy over these kids. I don't know if this helps or not. She still gets crazy over them. Really, I just try to stay mellow and not get crazy myself because they can make me a little crazy. At the end of the day, however, they are good kids and I enjoy being with them and I miss them when I am not with them so what more can I ask for really?

This is the deal. We are about to have our first holiday of the school year. Naturally, the school expects me to assign homework. Really, I am not one who likes to assign a lot of homework so I decided to assign 4 short pages of reading from their history book. After they read, they are expected to identify some key elements in the text. This really is not much to ask.

Before I go any further, I should explain how holidays are observed here. Often we teach on Saturday or Sunday if the holiday falls midweek. For instance, the holiday that is coming up falls on Wednesday so we taught the Sunday before the holiday and we are teaching the Saturday after the holiday so that we can have Thursday and Friday off around the holiday. Understand?

This is confusing to new arrivals. Bird Flu – remember Bird Flu? – once missed Saturday’s lessons because she did not realize she was to teach that day. Forget the fact that Jennifer, the other foreign teacher, and I had told her that she had classes on that day and that the headmaster told her and that the students told her. Forget all of that. She forgot that she had to teach. Bird Flu kills me.

Okay, so back to the complaints. The main complaint is that the history book which is sizable is too heavy to carry to their homes they tell me. I listen to them for a few minutes. Wen Yuan slams the book on the desk to demonstrate the heaviness of the book. This seems to be the game point. The teacher is defeated. All of the students cheer.

My response:

History is Heavy.

I win!

The last few days, we have had visitors from our sister school in Melbourne Australia. Since the students visiting are all female I assume the school is an all girls’ school.

This is the interesting part. Most of the girls, actually all of them are of Chinese descent but talk with Australian accents. I asked a girl named Chloe if she is first generation Australian. She concurred that she is. Her parents both immigrated to Australia before she was born. Thus she was born in Australia.

I then asked her if she celebrates the Chinese holidays in Australia. She doesn’t, nor does her parents. Stacey, her friend that sat in my class with Chloe, told me that her parents do celebrate Chinese holidays in Australia. Her family has Chinese friends with whom they celebrate the holidays.

This to me was interesting in a sociological sense. It is interesting I suppose because I get to see first hand how one culture merges into another or is absorbed by another or is actually eroded to some degree. Yeah, sure, Chloe’s friend Stacey’s family still observes Chinese holidays but then Chloe and her family do not. This is interesting.

Maybe another reason that I see this as interesting is because I teach history to some degree to the students and we study how ethnic groups have merged throughout history, sometimes violently, sometimes peacefully. So here, I am more or less a first hand witness to what is going on and how two cultures are merging to some extent.

Of course at the same time, my student Tian Yu just walked up to me and asked:

“Can I go take a paper and…?” with that he points to his nose where some snot is waiting patiently for him to take a paper and…

History is Heavy, yes.

2009-09-22T23:25:00.001+08:00

Movin' On Up!

Imagine, if you will, a deluxe apartment in the sky, not unlike the one on the Jeffersons, vary similar in many ways – a doorman, a wonderful city view from the balcony and a view of the Pearl Tower from the bedroom’s large jutting picture window, on the 33rd floor, luxury adornments, somewhat magnificent.
For the summer, I went back to America for my annual visit. As usual, to offset costs, I decided to sublet my apartment, the aforementioned deluxe apartment in the sky.
In the past, for the most part, I had always been able to sublet my other apartment with not much difficulty. This time, however, was different. I had moved into a new apartment that suited me better than my last one but was not as attractive as a party pad.
In that, the new apartment – the deluxe apartment in the sky – did not have a yard like my last one. Of course, a yard in downtown Shanghai is rare at the price that I was paying for the apartment so that was a very attractive element to a would-be subletter. And, my new apartment is not in a hip ex-pat area like my old one was. Really, most people - foreigners coming to Shanghai for a month or two - naturally prefer to live in a hip area where there are a lot of bars. With some doubts - three weeks before I left Shanghai to go back to America for the summer - I listed the apartment on craigslist.
Tumbleweeds rolling across main street in Dodge City when the baddest of the outlaws was about to roll into town; that was the initial response to my listing. I crossed my fingers. I said a few prayers. Time passed - one week, two weeks, and no interest, no interest in the deluxe apartment in the sky. Maybe this had to do with the financial crisis.
Okay, sure, there were a few “I need the apartment for a week.” Or “I need the apartment in September.” Or “I need the apartment tomorrow but for only two days.” I got several of these sorts of requests that were encouraging but less than helpful.
Finally, three or four days before I was set to leave, I got an email from a young lady, originally from Shanghai, visiting from Chicago, working in Shanghai for the summer. I sent her my mobile number and some additional pictures of the place. It seemed to suit her purposes.
However, when I told her the location, she balked; the same thing that I did when I was told the location before I gave the place a look. She decided she wanted to look at it anyway. We scheduled a time for her to come look at the place that evening.
Like me, I thought that she would fall in love with the place after she saw it. And then when I pointed out the metro across the street from the complex – two stops to People’s Square, city center – I knew that she would want to take it. Basically, she came to see it and was impressed but not floored. She wanted to think about it over night.
She also wanted to know what I planned to do with my stuff, my clothes and such. The apartment is equipped with two large wardrobes and a large dresser. She would have the dresser and one of the wardrobes. I would box all of my stuff up and put it in the other wardrobe. This was fine with her.
She told me she would let me know the next day if she was going to take the place. I told her this was fine but I also told her the first person to hold the place with a deposit got the place. We agreed to talk the next day. This was Wednesday evening. I was set to leave at the crack of dawn on Saturday.
The next day, I got an email from the young Shaghainese visiting from Chicago. She was ready to give me a deposit to hold the apartment. She told me she would come that evening – after dinner – to put a deposit on the place. This was Thursday. I told her great. At that point, I was not worried.
Evening came. I waited patiently to hear from the young woman. She sent me a text; she was out with friends; she could not make it that evening. Could she bring me the deposit to hold the place during her lunch hour the following day? Really there was nothing I could do at this point so I told her sure. I had not taken the listing off of craigslist, nor did I have any other would-be subletters. There was really nothing I could do but hope that she would keep her word and take the apartment
Friday, at lunchtime, she could not make it. She rescheduled for that evening. I was nice the whole time. At this point, I reached the definite conclusion that the place may or may not be rented while I was away. I was fine with that for the most part though I hate to just waste what would amount to about $1400.
……………
On top of this, there was one other snag this time around. In the past, my pal Michael - who found the last apartment for me; that is how we became friends because he was my realtor – always took care of most of the business transactions with the subletting. This time, Michael was on holiday for a week or so. He had left at the beginning of the week and he would not be back until the next week after I was gone.
Thus, before he left I had to figure out where to leave the extra key to the apartment and door card to the security door by the elevators. If I sublet the place before I left, the subletter might want to move into the place before Michael returned from holiday. And, I knew this would have been perceived as a bit peculiar if I took the money from the subletter for the place and told him or her that Michael would give them the key after I had gone. That seemed like it would sound really fishy.
So this is what I did, I introduced Michael to my favorite doorman, the doorman whom I thought trustworthy. Michael explained the situation to him in Chinese. I nodded in agreement. A deal was struck.
After the deal was struck and we gave the extra key and security card to the doorman to keep, Michael told me maybe this was not a good idea because now the doorman could come and ransack my flat. Needless to say, this made me a bit anxious – new high-end stereo, plasma screen television, camera, macbook. I started to sweat.
“But Michael,” I started halfheartedly, “uh, that is the doorman’s job.”
“Doorman job?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, “he is supposed to keep keys for people. That is one of his many jobs.”
“Oh.” That was Michael’s only response, which alleviated my fears somewhat.
…………………..
Back to the flaky subletter: at this point, after the lunchtime cancellation, I was worried that this young lady was not going to take the place. Probably, she was just hoping that something else would come along and she was waiting until the last minute to commit. There had been a few really good deals on craigslist that were snagged quickly I assume. My deal was a fair deal - fair for me, fair for the subletter. Really, I just wanted to cover my cost; I did not enter the deal to make money but then I did not want to lose on the deal either.
Evening came again. At 5:30, the agreed upon time, she sent me a text and told me she would be by at 6:30. At 7:30 she showed up with a lot of questions.
Everything seemed fine, going well and all, until she did something that I thought was somewhat bizarre. As she was talking to me, she looked into the bathroom mirror and surveyed her face, which was not peculiar in and of itself but then what she did next was, which I am sure made my mouth drop.
She started popping zits. She did not do this tentatively, shyly or slyly. She did it with the gusto of someone who is totally alone in front of his or her bathroom mirror at home dead set on unclogging some pores. This was a bit unorthodox I thought. Really, I suppose she was just making herself right at home. Nonetheless, I thought it a trifle bizarre.
While she was popping, she asked if I had a shower curtain for the tub. I told her I did. I showed her where I had put it. She told me that she would put it back up if that were okay. This was fine I told her. I had taken the shower curtain down because I never take showers and I am not a fan of shower curtains. So, I took it down. The bathroom looks a lot better without it, just a personal preference.
“Shanghai really breaks my face out,” she told me at one point as she kept popping and talking.
At this point, she started telling me that she would probably keep the same maid that had been cleaning the apartment but she would have her do a much better job cleaning the apartment than I was doing. With this, she ran her finger along the top of the entertainment center to show me the collected dust. Naturally, this was a bit insulting because I keep the apartment clean thanks to my maid who comes and mops and sweeps and dusts and such once a week. In Shanghai, there is construction virtually everywhere so the whole city is one big dustbowl.
Nevertheless, I took the insult and assumed upon my return from America that the place would be as clean or cleaner than when I left. Boy was I wrong. I was so wrong. Wow, was I ever wrong.
After my flight, that was more than four hours delayed, the first thing that I wanted to do when I got back to my apartment was take a bath. Sadly, the flight was delayed because someone had a heart attack an hour or so after we departed from Atlanta where I had had an uneventful layover.
A flight attendant asked the usual “Is there a doctor on board?” over the plane’s public address system. Fortunately there was one. He saw to the patient but we still had to make an unplanned landing, which turned out to be Minneapolis.
The medical crew came on board.
“Oh, we don’t need the gurney?” I overheard a medical crewman ask.
“The patient can actually walk,” a cabin crewmember replied.
I then overheard that the patient had had a full-blown heart attack.
A few minutes later I was surprised to see the patient walking down the aisle past me to the exit. I was surprised because the patient in question was a young co-ed who looked as if she had had a panic attack. Maybe she had had a heart attack. But, from my limited experience with heart attacks, I was surprised to see the victim walking, somewhat unsteadily but walking nevertheless, just a short while after the heart attack.
After the patient was escorted off the plane, we sat and sat. The fuel had to be dumped for us to land so we had to refuel which took some time. After that we had to wait and wait and wait to take off because of other flights departing and arriving.
Four hours later, we taxied down the runway and took off. This time we were heading non-stop to Shanghai.
Michael was scheduled to meet me at the airport. I had no way to contact him to let him know that the flight would be late. Maybe he checked before he went to meet me and found out that the flight was delayed by more than 4 hours. This is what I hoped. Or maybe, he would get there and would not want to wait and would just go back home.
Finally, I made it to Shanghai. And, there, outside of baggage claim and immigration, hooting and hollering was Michael. I smile and waved; I was happy to be back in Shanghai.
I asked Michael if he had called ahead and found out the flight status or if he had waited the whole time. He had waited the whole time.
“What did you do?”
“Oh, I walk airport.”
“You walked around the airport for four hours?”
“Oh Man! I get here. Look. No you. Sign say plane late,” he explained.
“Oh gosh, I am so sorry,” and then I added “Someone had a heart attack on the plane.”
“Huh?!”
This is his response when he is not really sure what I am saying or exactly what I mean. He probably didn’t know what I meant. That was okay. I was back in Shanghai. I was home. We walked from Terminal 2 to Terminal 1 to catch the bus.
He, of course, was excited to see me and hear about my summer. I was wiped out from the 24 hours of flying. As we rode on the bus from the airport in Pudong back to Shanghai, I tried to be as lively and talkative as I could but it was difficult.
We dropped the bags off at the apartment and took a ten-minute walk to a trendy little area where we had pho at a Vietnamese restaurant. I was back in the Orient and ready to get back into the Shanghai Groove.
After we ate, I walked with Michael to his bus and I walked on to my apartment ready to take a bath not realizing what was in store for me.
When I dropped the bags before going to the restaurant, I had not surveyed the place at all. I had just dropped the bags and went with Michael to the restaurant.
Finally, I could relax in the tub. However when I looked at the tub, I wanted to puke. My once pristine porcelain tub was disgusting to the point of me being shocked that someone could have actually stood in it and showered. There was a yellow streak down the middle of it that actually took a week of fifteen-minute intervals of scrubbing to remove. The bathroom actually smelt like urine like the tub had been used for a urinal for public use.
When the freaking zit popping weirdo had told me that she would keep the place much cleaner than I had kept it, I did not know by clean she meant that she would use the bathtub instead of the commode for a urinal. I did not realize this is what she meant by cleaner.
Nor did I realize that by cleaner she meant that the kitchen would be caked from floor to ceiling with grease. The bottle of oil that was in the cabinet before I left seemed to be placed all over the cabinet and the walls and the counter on my return. Everything I touched in the kitchen – dishes, utensils, canned goods, everything – was sticky with grease. Even the nice new dish towels had fallen into the river of grease that ran through the kitchen. They were ruined.
Oh, and for some reason, unbeknownst to me, the fridge – the sleek new brushed-aluminum façade apartment fridge – was covered with stickers. Why in the hell would someone put stickers all over a fridge? Especially when the stickered fridge does not even belong to her? I am not sure what this nitwit was thinking. “Oh, I am sure he would love to have stickers all over his sleek brushed aluminum refrigerator! They will really jazz it up!” Is that what she was thinking? What an idiot!
I am still scrubbing the front of the cabinets trying to remove the grease stains. Not even bleach is working.
Speaking of cabinets - and this is just weird - dripped down the front of the bathroom cabinet, I noticed what appeared to be dried blood. Should I be scared? Did she kill chickens in my bathroom? Was my apartment made into some sort of devil den? Maybe the apartment had become some sort of haven to a coven, some sort of dark arts to the sacred dumpling. Mao and Sir Brian Jones playing pan flutes and ukuleles in the other dimension while the chicken killer reenacts the Lisa Bonet chicken blood scene in Angelheart. Maybe this is what was happening while I was laughing it up Stateside.
The last bizarre and questionable detail that the bathroom chicken killer left me was a broken peephole. Yes, a broken peephole! How does someone go about breaking the peephole in the front door? At this time, I will be entertaining queries into the matter.
Nevertheless, after scrubbing the place on and off for the last week or two, I finally returned it to its former luxurious glory.

Of course, there are times now when I just have to pause and wonder and ask myself - What sort of chicken killing urine rituals had taken place in my bathroom anyway?

2009-07-01T06:42:00.000+08:00

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, the last few months that I was in China the blogger site was blocked so I could not access it. Now that I am back in America, I have decided to post what I wrote.

What do you think of this brand?

“No explain. No explain.” Danny repeats over and over.

This is what happened. I came into the classroom a minute before class. The class bell had not yet sounded. Nevertheless, the students always look as if they are caught doing something they shouldn’t be doing when I come into class, no matter how early I arrive. May was thumbing through a Chinese pop magazine. She tells me that it belongs to Danny.

“No explain, May. No explain.” Correct Danny, that's what I should do, but I can't because his inventive use of the language has me spitting and coughing in a giggling fit. All I can do is reprimand May for reading such celebrity trash.

“Danny would never be caught with such a thing,” I say with mock authority.
“No explain. No explain,” Danny continues. “May, no explain.”

Why I am in such a giddy mood, I don’t know. Today is one of those days where the students make me laugh at every turn. Maybe this is because we are getting dangerously close to the end of the term. We are studying pre-American history. They have a list of questions to answer and some words to identify – words like, Inca, Maya, Aztec.

Approximately twenty minutes into the class, Danny comes to my desk bringing his history book with his answers underlined. The first answer to the Olmec question is correct. However, from there, there is a sharp decline in the quality of his answers.

“Although the Olmec civilization was the first in the Americas, more is known about the Maya city-states of Central America,” Danny reads from the book to me in his herky-jerky way, emphasizing the wrong syllables while he does this. This is his complete answer identifying the Maya.

“That is not an answer,” I tell him and then I make a buzzer sound denoting a wrong answer. “I want to know the differences between the Maya and the Aztecs and the Incas. What sets each of them apart? Go back to your desk and come back when you have the correct answers.”

Kevin comes over to my desk 10 minutes after Danny. There is a self congratulatory look about him. I tell him his answers better be better than Danny’s. Again, he answered the Olmec question but when we get to the Maya his answer again is not an answer. To this, I feign exasperation.
“Head broken,” Elliot says from across the room.
“Head super broken!” I add. This sends Danny into one of those crazy Danny laughing fits. I smirk and shake my head.

Later there is suddenly a commotion. I look up.
“He look my book,” May tells me pointing to Danny who is holding a cute girlie journal, the kind with flowers printed all over the outside. Everyone has moved from their own desks. The girls are grouped together. The boys are grouped together. I encourage them to work together because the girls who are at higher levels in their English help Lillian and the boys help each other. Although the boys usually take the easy way, they do usually help each other.

“She, she sit on my..” Danny looks for the word as he tries to come up with a defense.

“So,” I conclude, “since she is sitting in your chair, you can look through her private diary?”

“Yes,” Danny tells me as he emphatically shakes his head up and down.

“No,” I reply shaking my head side to side.

“No,” he replies to my reply shaking his head side to side.
………….

“What’s this word mean?” Elliot asked me when were in the computer room as he was doing his research on white tigers. I went over to look at the word - ‘f-u-r-r’.
“Elliot, you have caught a misspelling,” I told him. “The word is f-u-r.”
“Oh, this,” he said after he translated it with an online translator and rubs his hairless arm.
“Yeah, or this,” I said as I mussed Kevin’s hair.
To this Kevin responded with a shocked “Huh?!” in that patented Kevin via Archie comic book way.
“Oh, sorry,” I replied. “I thought you were a white tiger.”

..................

Okay, Ed one of the Chinese English teachers always wants to know 'what do you think of this brand?' as he shows me whatever shirt or pants - if we are talking pants he points to the label above his butt and this might be my imagination but I swear he wiggles it a bit - he is wearing that he has just bought. I always ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ like they are the most famous which sometimes they are; Levi's, Northface, Polo, Nautica. But this time, he is wearing Paul and the Shark which I had never seen until I moved to China. I just let him take the lead and explain how famous and good Paul and the Shark are to Sharon who has wandered up to the desk at this point.
…………
Terry is in hospital. A few weeks ago, he went for a physical in order to get his visa to go study in the USA. He did not pass the physical. Something is wrong with his heart.

“Not serious,” Sharon told me when I first asked about this.
“A little serious,” Sharon told me the next time I asked.
Now Terry is in hospital. This is more than a little worrisome. Now, after the fact I can see his fragility, his doomed springtime.

…………….

“Ah, swine flu-uh” Danny says after I nearly blow my head off with a sneeze in the computer room.
……….

At the moment, I am trying to keep my cool. This should be no big deal but it could be the straw; it could seriously be the very last one. This is the deal. On Wednesday mornings, I do current events with the students. I give them a stack of newspapers from the last week and I let them pick an article to translate. After the article is translated, they tell me what the article is about. They seem to enjoy doing this and I think that it is a good exercise. As I said, we do it every Wednesday morning.

Okay, now let me give the back-story. At the first of the year, I had a bit of a problem because Chinese English teacher (we will call him ) M always grabbed the papers before I got to them. The papers are paid for by my placement company for my class. I explained this to the teacher and there was no further problem until a few weeks ago when I decided it was a bit greedy of me to hoard these papers for just one class when others could be enjoying them as well.

I spoke to the teacher. I told him that really I only use the papers once a week on Wednesday morning so if he would like to read them and then put them on my desk that would be fine. His English is good so I assumed there was no problem. Silly me!

Last week, I found the papers on his desk after I had searched for them in the mailroom. This week, they are nowhere to be found and neither is the English teacher. Ed says that he has a lesson and he will be back shortly, not to worry. That is easy to say when someone has not stolen your lesson from you.

Nevertheless, in the scheme of things, things could be worse. I could not have a job or I could be working at some job that I really hate so things could be worse, much worse.

Eventually, a few minutes before class is to start, M comes into the teachers’ office with a student. I don’t want to interrupt but I do need to know if he has the papers since they were on his desk last week. Naturally, I assume he took them. He did not take them and he seems to be a bit shocked that I would accuse him. When I asked him, I asked him oh so nicely so he has no excuse to think me rude. I wanted to jump to conclusions but I didn't.

At this point, I am more than a little annoyed but I know it does no good to throw a fit because that is looked upon as foreigner having a tantrum. So, when Sharon comes into the office, I explain the situation and again I am very calm about it.

“Someone has taken the newspapers which I use for my lessons,” I tell her.
“You sure?” she asks which she pronounces ‘U shoe-er?’
“Yes,” I reply. “I use them every Wednesday.”
“Sometimes, maybe May collects them,” she tells me.
This is completely out of left field. May to my knowledge has never ever collected the newspapers from the mail room. May has never ever even been in the mailroom to my knowledge.
“May, the student?” is my only response. This was such an out of the blue answer that I thought that maybe there was some hidden secret May of whom I was not aware.
“Yes, she collects them.”
“You sure?” I ask.
Sharon goes to the classroom with me to ask May about this because I am not sure how to do it. I am armed with one lone newspaper as if newspaper locusts had eaten the rest.

As we are walking to the classroom, Sharon comes up with some other solutions for the current events. She suggests we go to the library and Xerox articles and do it that way. This seems like an awful waste of paper to me. These days I am trying to be somewhat green. Sharon then suggests we go to the computer room which is a good idea I tell her. But, how fond will the computer room gatekeeper be of us barging into the computer room at the last minute. These things are to be scheduled in advance. Nevertheless, if that is what is to be done, that is what is to be done.

Once we are in the classroom, Sharon questions the students about the missing newspapers.
“Someone steal our newspaper!” Kevin exclaims. “So foolish someone is!”
“Yeah!” I tell him feeding the frenzy as I hold up the one newspaper.
“We give them 10 reasons to not steal newspaper!” Danny says passionately as he holds up both fists.
“We give them 100 reasons!” Kevin adds, adding his fists with Danny’s and calling the rest of the class to arms.
“Yeah!” I add to that and then I grab my chest as if it is too much for me to take and I fall down on the floor in a mock heart attack.
“Ambulance call!” Sharon announces in mock panic.
Everyone laughs. Some of them have never seen me have a heart attack. Sharon takes Danny with her to talk to the computer room gatekeeper.
“I will bake you many cakes!” I tell Sharon as she and Danny leave the classroom.
“Oh, no need,” She tells me as she smiles and leaves the room.

I tell the rest of the students I will be right back. I must go to the teachers’ office to collect my grade book and other assorted teacherly things that I need for the class. Quickly, I gather my tools and head back to the class. The bell rings while I am en route.

“We have to stay in the classroom,” Danny tells me as I walk into class.
“Really?” I ask more surprised that he has put together a grammatically correct sentence than the fact that we cannot go to the computer room.
“Student joke,” he tells me which makes me laugh because I really thought that he was telling the truth. His eyes wrinkle up and he laughs. En masse, we head to the computer room. Since I am walking quickly, I get there before the rest of the class.

Sharon is waiting there for us.
“So late,” she tells me jokingly.
……..
We have a day’s holiday. I decide to go see Terry.

The train to see Terry was uneventful, only eight stops from People’s Square. On the train, a family with a young boy, stood. An old lady with her old husband scooted over to make room on the bench for the young boy. From the bench across from them, I watched. Gladly, I would have offered my bench but I did not know how to get their attention.

Nevertheless, this dilemma was solved when a few people got up from my side of the train. The father and the boy sat down next to me. The boy looked up at me and said hello. I said “Hello, how are you?” He laughed and repeated, more as an answer than a question - “How are you!”

The mother stood leaning on a pole. Seeing this, I felt guilty and offered my seat. The mother refused. Again, I offered. Again, she refused. Finally, I got up and made it very clear that I was not going to not let her take the seat. She sat with a fluster of ‘thank you’s’. The old couple looked upon this scene and smiled.

At this point, I was standing by the door on the same side as the old couple. The old lady was sitting closest to me. She tugged on my shirt to let me know that another seat was vacant a little farther down. Someone closer to the seat nabbed it. I thanked the old woman and smiled. She gave me a toothless smile in return.

Eventually, a few stations before my station, the family got up and motioned for me to take the seat. I thanked them and sat down.

Now, I was sitting across from the old couple once again. They noticed the bag I carried with a stuffed bull’s head sticking out. In broken Chinese, I told them that my friend is sick. Not knowing the word for sick, I let out a mock cough.

They then asked if I was going to Xin Hua Hospital. I told them yes and they nodded their heads in approval. At this point, I was at the stop. I told the old couple goodbye and exited the train. Outside exit 2, stood the hospital, big imposing and Chinese.

I followed the throng of people through the street construction – there is always street construction – into the 12 story hospital in search of the 14th floor. This could prove difficult.

The first floor of the newly opened building was dissected in the middle by an escalator. People were going every which way. I looked at my watch and I was on time. I had told Terry that I would come to see him in between 10:30 and 10:45. The time was now 10:28. This pleased me.

I went to the elevator banks assuming that I had judged wrong on the number of floors. I hadn’t; there were only 12 floors in the building. My worst fears were grounded.

Since I had a note with all of the information in Chinese, I figured I could blunder my way through a conversation at the information counter. This sort of scene is always a psyche-out sort of scene for the locals simply because I am always looked upon by the mass population as some sort of elephant man. This time was no different. The women at the information desk looked at me with a certain mystified horror.

To the lady at information, I pointed to the information - the floor and Terry’s Chinese name - that Sharon had written in Chinese. She made a phone call. The prognosis did not seem to be positive. She hung up the phone. She looked at the information written on the sheet, crossed it out and put in her own information which was not exactly what I suspected but was not surprised really. After she marked out Terry’s name with the rest of the information, she shook her head no. This was slightly unnerving.
“Meiyo,” she stated.
“Meiyo?” I asked surprised. A few minutes before, I had received a text from Terry. I knew he was at the hospital and the lady at information desk was telling me he was not.
“Meiyo?” I asked again.
“Meiyo (don’t have, not here),” she confirmed after she had marked through the information on the paper.
Since I had just heard from Terry, I assumed there was another taller building on the hospital grounds, though no one had thought to tell me this when they gave me the directions. Behind the main new building, there was a taller older building. I made my way there which involved going through a side door and following a breezeway to the back entrance of this taller building.
This building seemed abandoned. Inside, hardly anyone stirred. There were a few nurses wandering the hallways. This was a drastic contrast to the building in front. There was something slightly sinister about the building, like a building stuck in another time, a time of polio and syphilis.

Although I was in what seemed to be a grand entryway, I could find no elevator banks. Finally, after wandering around, I did find one elevator which was odd since the building was so tall. I then saw a nurse who had a kind face. I showed her the information. She shook her head ‘No’. I followed her. She went down a long hallway. At the end of the hallway was another elevator. I got in with her. I pushed the button for the 14th floor. Again, she shook her head no. I assumed she was looking at the room number which was 825. I shook my head yes. We rode in the elevator in silence.

We got out of the elevator and both walked in the same direction. We walked past a nurses’ station. I was looking at the room numbers this whole time. They were clearly marked.

I found the room. I walked in.

In the bed where Terry should have been was a man who was clearly not Terry. Yes, he was Chinese but he was not Terry. This man in Terry’s bed was probably in his late 50s. The room full of patients and visitors – there were 4 beds crowded into a two-bed (hospital) room – all stared at me. I apologized and went back to the nurse’s station. At this point, I did not know what to do. I called Terry and gave the phone to the nurse. Why I did this I am not sure because they could not explain to me where to go once Terry got off the phone with them. By this time, it was nearly 11. I walked around the floor thinking that I might find some sort of Chinese clue to Terry’s whereabouts. At this point, I found the main elevator bank. There I waited.

A minute or so later, the elevator opened and a crowd of Chinese visitors were inside though there was still plenty of room for more passengers. A woman stood with a bag that basically blocked anyone from getting in. I basically had to kick the bag out of the way to gain admittance. She did not seem to notice. The elevator stopped at every floor on the way down. More people got in. By the time we reached the 1st floor the elevator was packed.

The elevator opened to what was the grand entrance to the building. This grand entrance spilled out onto a large circle drive. There were other buildings along the circle drive. All of these buildings were squat. None of them were anywhere close to having 14 floors.

At this point, I was frustrated. It was 11:15 and I had still not located Terry. There had to be a building with 14 floors. There had to be.

For lack of any other ideas, I wandered around the hospital grounds with hopes of finding someone who spoke English. I knew he was here somewhere. I just did not know where. This was becoming somewhat Hitchcockian. Maybe he was locked in a chapel or in a basement or in a bell-tower.

I made my way back to the building where I first entered. I saw a young nurse who looked as if she might know English. Actually, there was no way of telling if she knew English or not but I thought I had nothing to lose.

“Duibuqi,” I said as I pointed to my sheet of marked through information pointing to the marked through information. “Jigga.” (Translated as ‘Excuse me, this.”)
“I will show you,” she told me.
“Thank you, xie xie, thank you, xie xie!” I said as a mantra of international thank you.
She took me to a building connected by a breezeway to the side of the first building where I had entered. This building did not look as if it had 14 floors. Nevertheless, when we got to the elevator, I saw that there were indeed 14 floors – the 14th floor being the top floor.

I thanked the nurse as I got into the elevator which I shared with an orderly and a gurney. A few other people got into the elevator with us. The nurse said her goodbyes and went back the way she came.

Back in the States....

My cousin asked me if I remember the woman who lived across the street from her house. I am not sure. The man, I somewhat remember. My cousin talks to the couple in passing or rather talked to them in passing. A family bought the house. A young family with two kids and a couple of dogs and a few work trucks live there now. Before, last summer, the house always looked somewhat vacant. Occasionally someone would drive onto the driveway, a teenage girl, a woman, the man that I somewhat remember.

Last summer, there was this story about the teenage girl. She and a girlfriend decided to try X or some other such drug. My cousin was not sure what the drug was they tried. They found a boy to deal it. The boy was happy to deal it. The parents were out of town. The girls did the drugs. The boy showed up with a few other boys. The boys took turns. Maybe this went on all weekend. In China, the boys would be executed. In America, no one says anything.

The mom is a drunk. She drinks and fights with the man. He is not the girls father. Or maybe she is not the girl's mother and he is the girl's father. I am not sure which. Nevertheless, the woman is a drunk. This is not blatant, only her close friends know. Only those in the know know. When she gets drunk, she fights with the man.

Before the happy family with the two kids and the dogs and the work trucks moved into the house, the woman went on one of her drinking binges; she fought with the man. He stormed out and drove away. She decided to show him. She did it in the garage. Some people think it was an accident that she just wanted to scare him. The chair broke.

2009-05-15T08:30:00.002+08:00

Danny looks out the window

Danny looks out the window. Outside, down on the sports field, the chatter of children has distracted him. My students are taking an examination. This is the 3rd nine week’s examination. The final exam will be the last one. At that time, I will say goodbye to this group of students with whom I have become so close over the last school year.

Kevin gets my attention. He has a question.

On one of the sections of the exam, he is to write some information about the different emperors.

“These I didn’t write,” he tells me as he points to the emperors, excluding Octavian.
“I know,” I tell him. “You must give me information about them.”
“Huh?” is his response. This is one of those ‘huh’s of complete shock like I have asked him to recite the Bill of Rights word for word.
“Think about the presentations that your classmates gave about them,” I tell him to help him. “Just think about it for a bit.”
“Okay,” he concludes.

From the sports field, the occasional coach whistle can be heard; beyond the sports field, there are the honks and the sounds of engines, the sounds of birds, migrating birds.

I am sitting at the back of the class. I look at Kevin who is sitting at a desk two seats in front of me. He is sitting ‘thinker’ style with his hand on his chin. Suddenly, a thought comes to him. He busily writes something. After he finishes, he looks up and then goes back to sitting like the Thinker again.

A few days ago, Sharon – whom I have come to like quite a bit though we have our differences – was teaching me some Chinese phrases. I feigned gratitude. Actually, this was fun. I was enjoying myself. She then mentioned at the first of the year I got mad when she was trying to teach me phrases.

Yes, I did get mad but she does not remember it the way I do. This was during the first few weeks of class. We were both in the classroom during my class period talking to the students about vocabulary.

Sharon blurted out - yes blurted out - that I should learn the same number of Chinese words that the students learn English words. She then said I was lazy in front of the students. Naturally, I was in shock at how inappropriate this was. For awhile after this, for me, the gloves were off.

Of course, after that at the teacher’s office, I gave her an earful. Now, she does not remember it that way. She just remembers that I got mad when she was trying to help me learn some Chinese. I let it go. It is not worth rehashing. At this point, we are friends which has been a bit rocky but I we have made it in some post-Manilow (Barry) sort of way.

Now, I go around the classroom and look over various papers wondering how the students are doing on the exam. Overall, with the exception of Lillian of course, everyone seems to be doing well with the exception of the emperor section. All of the boys are completely stumped. The girls have studied this they know the answers. Maybe I am too much of a softie; I decide to give the students an extra credit question.

Tell me about your visit to the special needs home. Each good sentence is worth one point.

I then explain to them – “Each sentence must have a subject and a verb. If you write ‘We good time there.’ That is not a good sentence. What is wrong with that sentence?”

Odile meekly answers there is no verb. Outside the birds are flying to Beijing, Tianjin, St. Petersburg.

Danny hands me his exam first. After he does this, this opens the flood gate - a river of exams hits my desk. After I have all of the exams, I tell the students to meet me back in the classroom at 10 am. At that time, they will take their math and science exam that Markus prepared.

After they hand me the examinations, I look them over. This is always a somewhat arduous task because I want to give them the benefit of the doubt but I do not want to be too easy. And, I get somewhat frustrated when I know that some of the students put so little effort into their studies when they are set to go to study in America in August or September. In some ways, I feel as if my classroom is more or less a holding cell, a place to mark time, a place to count the days; as if the students do not have to really apply themselves. It seems even the most ambitious students have become lazy.

Granted, I may have not made it clear that they needed to know about the six emperors I listed on the exam but the other questions on Ancient Rome should be easy for all of them. Lillian of course is the exception; she answered ‘BC 509’ to the question ‘What happened in AD 476?’ This did not even faze me. Sharon has even gone so far as to call Lillian stupid.

“Her mother may not let her go,” Sharon started.
“To America?” I asked
“No, not America,” Sharon corrected me. “To Australia.”

But then Danny, my hopes – my high apple pie in the sky hopes – were on Danny; oh Danny, Danny who spells Caligula with an ‘r’ Danny - watching the birds Danny, sports-field-in-his-head Danny – Danny, Danny, Danny disappoints me.

Question – What were the disturbing consequences from the riches that flooded into Rome?
Danny’s answer – Emperor.
And then when I ask about Spartacus, yes, he knew but he could not state it correctly
Question – Who was Spartacus?
Danny’s answer – A brave man who lead no freedom people to defend with rich people.

Nevertheless, I get a lump in my throat when I read the short essays the students wrote about going to the special needs home.

Kevin took the opportunity to write his heart out.

On Monday, the weather was good. We went to the “special needs” home. The people in this place, there was something wrong with their brain.

When they known we would go and see them, they were very happy.
We played, talked and had a walk with them. We also known something about them. There was one small child, about 5 years old, his father and mother died. When we played with him, he seemed very happy.

We learnt a lot of things at the ‘special needs’ home. When we saw them, we were very sad. They were very small with no parents, no family, so they were very poor. They need love from everywhere. They make me know I’m so lucky, because I have parents, family and I’m healthy.

Elliot has worked really hard all year. Although, his essay is still rough, he tried his best to describe his visit to the special needs home.

When I this-a room, a boy call me, and hope my play a kind of card’s game with he. It’s a very difficult game. I never play but I hardly to play with him, I think, I must make he happy.
We play game about 15 minutes. This boy want ask me something things and he ask me he very happy have people meet he of have people meet him, he will rember they all life. I believe him because when he meet me first he ask me where is Feb. meet he two girls, I know. He said it’s other class’s mate. So I’m very surprised because maybe them head it’s not very useful. But they can rember every meet him people. And I write some words on the card give him. He is very happy. I said I will rember him all life, too.
When I leave the special needs I know more things. First, I think the special needs people are just like a baby but now I think they more like adult. We’re lucky. We’re healthy, so we should better to study, to help the need help’s people.

Then Danny sums it all up.

We visited to the “special needs” home on Monday. There were many child live in the home. Some childs were mental. Some childs had anti-body. I thought I am lucky one in the world. The teacher said “Everyone can play with childs together.” I played basketball with two childs. One child had bad apperence. The other one was mental. We played very happy. We took a photograph together. I really like them. Sometimes they made me sad because they haven’t parents. So I must treasure my parents. And make my parents happy.

We had a good time there. And we must treasure our life because we only have one life.

After I look over the exams and finish reading the extra credit essays, I look up and look at the students. All of them are lost in concentration working out equations and story problems. I smile.

“Okay, you got about 5 minutes,” I announce.
No one looks up but I do get a sense of mass panic.
“I’m kidding,” I counter. “You really have about 20 minutes.”
Danny laughs.

…………………………….

Student walks into the teachers’ office looking for his Chinese English teacher; he has question. I tell him perhaps I can answer his question.
"What means “\'Holy Shit'?”
“Well, I don’t suppose it makes much sense really,” I tell him.
“Shit is excretement like from dog.”
“Yes, I suppose it is heavenly crap,” I tell him.
“Oh,” he is somewhat satisfied. He walks out of the office.
……………………………………………

When I go back to the classroom, I discuss the exams with the students. I tell them maybe we will go to the zoo in a few weeks. Danny looks out the window. Outside the birds are flying to Beijing, Tianjin, St. Petersburg.

2009-05-07T16:14:00.002+08:00

I shut him then he died. I know that are cabal and they sale medicine that’s all..

“My dictionary!” the student exclaimed as he grabbed a large dictionary on the extra teachers’ desk in the teachers’ office.
“Had your dictionary gone missing?” I asked
“Yes, gone missing.”
“So, you are reunited?” I then add in my best ‘adult at the end of Lassie Come Home’ voice, “Such a happy moment.”
“Yes, so happy.”
In the West, a boy and his dog comes to mind. In China, the dog is replaced with a dictionary.

As soon as I got to school this morning, Edward had a question about a sentence which was absolutely not the time for me for a question about a sentence. I was running late or rather I was running on time with few minutes to spare but not a lot of time for a question about a sentence.

Thursday is my long day. I teach 6 classes which I usually supplement with a film. Today, I had planned to show the film Gandhi. Edward asked me the question as I came into the teachers’ office. When he asked me the question, I had my mind on other things; one of those things was to locate Gandhi. I knew the film was somewhere on my desk – or in my desk – in one of the many piles which seem to multiply in the night when I am away.

“Tell me which is correct in this sentence –
The reason why the explosion occurred was because the laboratory attendant had been careless.
The reason why the explosion occurred was that the laboratory attendant had been careless.”

Not really stopping to think about it, I told him that I think either was okay.
“No,” he told me firmly “because is wrong. It is a predictive clause.”
“Well, you asked me and in American English we would not really think about it. But if you say it is wrong, then okay it is wrong.” I did not want to really go into it and I didn’t want to be mean about it but I really didn’t want to go into it.

I try to be nice about this but if someone asks for my opinion, especially first thing in the morning - on my 6 period day - I am not absolutely kiss-ass thrilled when that person tells me I am wrong. Furthermore, I am not a walking English rule book by any stretch of the imagination. I suppose there are people who are. I am not. Yes, okay, it is redundant to say ‘why’ and ‘because’ in this sentence but it is it something to make a major case over especially when I am searching for Gandhi in the a.m.? Gandhi where in the fuck are you?! What would Gandhi do?

During this exchange, I located Gandhi. Armed with the film, I headed to class.

……….

The end of the school year is upon us and this is always bittersweet because the time is getting closer when I will be going home for the summer but then, at the same time, the time is getting closer to when I will be saying goodbye forever to the students. The past few years when I left for the summer, I had assumed I would see the students that I was leaving the following school year. This year, I know this will not be the case because these students with whom I have spent so much time will be going to America. And there is a good chance that most of them I will never see again. If I do see them, this will be a strange coincidence. This saddens me.

So now, each day, I try to take in everything and laugh at all of the inconsequential interludes, those fleeting moments of laughing and sunshine in the garden; those times when Elliot is reading from the wrong paper.

Yesterday, I gave them a short article about a Mexican beauty queen who was arrested with her boyfriend and some gunrunners. The homework assignment was to either write about the day in the life of a police officer who deals with gunrunning or drug trafficking; or to ask the beauty queen questions and give her advice to help her get her career back on track. Most of them handed me something grammatically faulty but superbly entertaining

So, without further adieu, I would like to give you a glimpse into the minds of a couple of the students. (I have made some corrections where I feel it necessary but I have tried not so spoil the flow of their brilliance and creativity.)

I start to work at 7 o’clock. I meet my leader when I get to the office. If my leader doesn’t give me a task, I can stay in my office and have a rest. When tasks come, I must prepare for them. We must have a discussion about robbers, etc.

“Who can finish this task? It’s a hard task to catch a murderer,” the leader said.
“I can,” I said. (Neil Diamond! Watch out!)
“Ok, Danny will finish this task. Lucky for you!”

I think it is a chance for me. And I can finish this.

In the afternoon, I have some news about the murderer. He is in his home. I stand out of his door and watch him moving the body which he has killed just now. I break into the room. And shout “Don’t moving!”
I aim the gun at him. “If you don’t listen to me, I will kill you.”
“Do you kill people?”
“Yes,” I admit. ”So I will arrest you.”
The murderer don’t move. I think maybe he be arrested now. Beyond my imagination, he have a knife. It’s dangerous. I shut him then he died. He is died. I am finish the task. My leader encourage me and promote me. I am very happy.

Thank you Danny! I can see that your future writing crime fiction or television docudrama is secured. Elliot’s brilliant mind is a tad harder to crack. He writes in code that multiple English grammarians are still trying to crack. Good luck!

1. What relation ship between you and group?

I don’t have any relation with gang. They only threated me to help them. Yesterday, they break in to my house and put out the gun and threat me. Don’t call help and I do this. They will kill me. I’m afraid, very much.

They make me get in the car. I think they maybe to abduct me and gaved many money for me next. I know that are cabal and they sale medicine that’s all.

2. Why you know the cabal sale the medicine?

Because I usually saw they deal the medicine for example one name’s Kevin usually buy and they encourage me eat but I not listen them.

3. We want know something about your boyfriend.

Okay. My boyfriend is the brother of one of Mexico’s biggest gang bosses. But he is a good man. He about meet his brother twice a month. But I don’t know why they meet.

Sadly, I think the beauty queen may have been expunged before she was able to finish her interview.

2009-04-29T13:15:00.002+08:00

But what about heavy metal…

A few days ago, the students gave their oral presentations on Roman emperors. As I mentioned before, Danny was assigned Caligula. His presentation consisted of oral stops and starts and stutters and appeals to Odile for help with the translating of words. These Chinese words, which he appealed to Odile for their English meanings made Odile red faced. To these words, she emphatically shook her head no.

“His sister, ne-ga ne-ga ne-ga, he, uh marry her..uh in in ne-ga ne-ga ne-ga in in-incest,” Danny stuttered and stammered using the word ‘ne-ga’ as a filler like English speakers use ‘like’. ‘Ne-ga’ means ‘that.’

Yesterday, when I told the students that they were to now do an emperor PowerPoint presentation, Danny told me he wanted a new emperor. He doesn’t want to do Caligula. I told him that was fine but that would mean more work for him because he already has the information on Caligula. He decided to keep Caligula. Later in class, he asked me a question.

“What’s that, Caligula?” I asked him. This of course made the whole class laugh with Odile laughing the loudest.
“No, no, no, I not Caligula,” he said defending himself.

So today, they are working on their presentations. In the computer room, Danny and Kevin sit together; Elliot and Terry, Lillian and May, and then, Odile and Leta. Everyone has a partner, each of them well suited to each other.

Although, I had told them that they could use the information they already had, most of them do searches for some new information for their Powerpoitnts. Really, I don’t want to jump to conclusions but I think that they enjoy this class.

“Danny, why are there sexy girls on your screen?” This I asked after I saw a screen of girls in bikinis.
He points to the search engine in use, Baidu, and says – “uh, Caligula.”

“Oh, okay.” I thought I might have to dock him five points but he was in fact searching images. I sure hope safe search is activated.

“Very nice,” I tell Kevin as I look at the first slide he is in the process of designing; it is a surprisingly clever design.
Octvian?” I ask. “Isn’t there another ‘a’ in there somewhere?”
“Huh?” His ‘huh’ is not an American teenage ‘huh’ of blasé disinterest but a spirited ‘huh’ of actual surprise. His eyes widen as he says it.
“Oc-ta-vi-an,” I enunciate.
“Oh, oh, …yes,” he says as he corrects his mistake which makes Danny laugh. My shtick is of constant amusement to Danny.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask. “You don’t spell it C-A-L-I-G-U-L-A-R! There is no ‘r’ in Caligula!” This of course sends both of the boys into laughing fits that includes hitting each other in the arms.
“You so stupid!” Kevin tells Danny and then adds for my sake as he points to Danny, “Head broken.”

…………………………………….
On Saturday mornings, I have a ritual. My maid comes at 7:30 and I pay her to clean for 2 hours but usually she cleans for about an hour and a half which I really don’t mind except that I realize sometimes after she leaves the floors are not as clean as they could be and the dishes sometimes are still somewhat gunk ridden. However, I am happy to not have to do it myself so I redo what I must and go on with my Saturday morning routine.

After I sit on my balcony, 33 stories up, (I will fill in the details of my new fabulous deluxe apartment in the sky at another time), I have coffee and fruit and yogurt. After breakfast, I take off on a walking excursion which sometimes includes the labyrinth-like plant market - where I buy ceramic pots for 5 rmb. These excursions always include the CD/DVD flea market that is hidden in the pockets and crannies of a construction supply warehouse.

Thus, amongst the sinks and tubs and paneling samples and light fixtures and plumbing fixtures and baby blue mini-fridges, there are booths with piles and piles of CDs and DVDS. These, from what I have ascertained, are liquidated stock sent to China from all over the world with everything ranging from Edith Piaf to Hawkwind. Sometimes, I have even happened upon the Red Headed Stranger but I have never happened upon Lucifer’s Friend or White Witch. Sometimes, I find CDs like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah for 5 rmb or Patti Smith Wave re-mastered or Piper at the Gates of Dawn in mono and in stereo, the deluxe edition.

Some of the CD hawkers know me by now since I have gone there religiously for over a year and they warmly greet me and sometimes even direct me to a secret stash of Gilbert O’Sullivan and Badfinger. A particular couple of ladies at one booth, direct me to their stash of 5 rmb goodies but they do this covertly so that others perusing their wares do not notice.

Other stall proprietors have seen me peruse the CDs and assume that I like anything since I sometimes have a large stack of CDs in my arms. There is one hawker that points to the same Luka Bloom CD every time I stop at his stall.

“Luka Bloom, very nice,” he tells me. The first time this happened I told him no thanks - ‘bu xie’- but after the third Luka Bloom, very nice push, I was more than slightly irritating especially since sometime during the course of these visits to the ‘Luka Bloom, very nice’ stall invariably Bon Jovi ‘Living on a Prayer’ gets put onto the stereo and cranked at a high volume - in my honor, it seems. From what I have heard Jon Bon is a nice person but this assumption that I want to hear ‘Living on a Prayer’ at Bells’ Amusement Park (R,I.P.) Himalaya volume - do you want to go faster? - really makes me want to strangle someone.

Next to this hawker, there is a youngster hawking CDs who has some nice things sometimes. I bought the Yardbirds first album, a Japanese pressing with original cardstock artwork, for 5 rmb. At this stall, there are often Miles Davis or Coltrane reissues. Nevertheless, the last time, I was there this young hawker brought my attention to a CD that made me see red, mean red, blood to the temples red.

There are probably only a few bands that I loathe as much as I loathe this band. I actually stopped liking someone because this someone sang along to this schlock when their schlock came on the stereo on - not the radio but - a mix-CD, yes, a mix-CD meaning the person in question either purposely put this schlock onto the CD or was an associate of someone who put this schlock onto the CD.

I FUCKING HATE ROXETTE! There are few bands that I hate as much as Roxette.

Nevertheless, this hawker, this youngster, is a sweet person and blissfully unaware of the somewhat ridiculous – or at least seemingly ridiculous – standards that I set forth for my music. It is really not something that you can explain to someone else. And, who is to say that Roxette are not the best band ever? Well, I am to say that! They suck! In the case of this sweet hitch-hawker, I mumbled no thanks and went back for one more gander at the ‘Luka Bloom, very nice’ stall.

Oh but first, I went to another another stall, the stall of Bowie and Blondie - where I have found many of their reissues. At this stall, I found a somewhat rare Kevin Ayers CD from ’73. I proudly had it clutched for the entire world to see as I strolled stall hopping hoping this would be a deterrent against getting schlock-pop shoved into my face, a deterrent against the Mariahs and the Celines and the Enigmas and the Deep Forrests.

Thus, I made my way back to the ‘Luka Bloom, very nice’ stall, there seems to be one main guy and then he seems to have a few hawker helpers. When he saw that I proudly clutched a CD, he asked me how much I paid for the CD. I told him 10 rmb. This seemed to be an ‘open says me’ of sorts to penetrate a discount at his stall.

“5 rmb,” he said as he made a sweeping motion over his CDs much like when Jesus turned that water into wine. This got my attention. I fell into a hare hare rama rama perusal CD meditation.

Sometimes, some of the guys or girls that help hawk at this stall are so nice that I cannot be mean no matter what they shove into my face. However, sometimes these people are pushy and shove CDs in my face like new bad Elton or Clapton or Santana (OH GOD!) or something equally fetid and I have no patience for them. Sometimes, I say ‘I hate that from the depths of my soul’ which means nothing to them really or I just laugh maniacally. The maniacal laughter works the best I have found.

So the day in question - we will call this day, The day I found Kevin Ayers at a Shanghai flea market like some treasured forgotten genie in a bottle - one of the stall helpers - a pushy man who seemed to look at me like I was nothing more than chattel – threw a CD into my path not more than 10 minutes after I left the blissfully unaware sweet youngster’s stall.

The CD he threw in my path was not Zep, was not sweet baby ‘floating in the pool’ Jones era Stones, was not the tragic Nacht Music Nico. It was in fact the same, the very same, mean red inducing, fetid dreaded, – someone may just get beheaded - Roxette CD. I mean is there a conspiracy?

.........................

Speaking of music and forgetting about beheadings and conspiracies, Sharon asked if I would talk to the students about the different types of music. In their English text book there is a two page spread on everything from classical music to folk music to dance music (Dance music is composed, played, or both, specifically to accompany social dancing, in case you wanted the text book defition).

My talk was probably much more involved than it needed to be. I started with classical music. Since Tchaikovsky was mentioned in the book, I played a few of his hits and even performed an impromptu Nutcracker which made the students, especially Danny, laugh. I asked them if they knew about Beethoven. Danny had heard Beethoven and gave the class his rendition of a few bars of Beethoven’s 9th.

So, taking the opportunity to play it, I did. Of course, after the opening bars, the loud rock and roll Chuck Berry guitar bursts into the song with the abruptness of Zsa Zsa Gabor bitch slapping a cop.

“Oh, I very like,” Elliot enthusiastically responded to the opening of ELO’s ‘Roll Over Beethoven.’ I then played them the Chuck Berry version. By the time, I played the Beatles’ version; I think everyone was done with rolling over Beethoven. They didn’t really need to even tell Tchaikovsky the news, after all.

To talk about jazz, I played them some Coltrane but a classroom is really not the right setting for this. Really, you should probably be hopped up on black tar or nodding off dreaming of horses and spider bites.

I entertained myself with the James Brown song thatI picked. Nevertheless, these students are probably not that familiar with any sex machines so ‘I feel like being a sex machine’ was somewhat lost on them. Danny did laugh however when I recited the words in my best Olivier, which is less than outstanding but somewhat amusing.

“Yes, I am getting up now. I shall get on up now. Let thee get up now. Shall I get up now? When mightest thou get up now? To get up or to not get up now, that is for my mortal coil to question.”

I played them tons of disco for dance music because in other classes I have already played them Sly and the Family Stone so that party train has already left the station.

After the dance music, I played the Pistols and the Ramones and tried to explain why punk happened socially and politically but really I just got vacant stares. Thus, I ended the class with ‘Teenage Lobotomy’ and ‘God Save the Queen.’

AS I was leaving the classroom, Leta said in a voice straight out of Oliver Twist –
“But what about Heavy Metal?”

2009-04-24T10:55:00.003+08:00

Stupid Bloody Tuesday (which is really Thursday)

Leon’s gone. Venice is gone. Paul is gone. In many ways, this is like the end or climax to some stock horror movie or doomsday epic. The doomed character writes - somewhere in close proximity to the final battle or the last showdown - of those absent near the end, the mystery of their vacancy. He, the main character, is holed up in a shed or a basement or a bunker living on the last of his rations of food – cans of corn, rotting potatoes, disemboweled rabbits, stewed squirrels.

All the girls been losin’ faith in me
Don't seem like Top Cat's great
As he once used to be
I know I'm good
So you just better be better
When you get yourself out on that floor
You better have your steps together
There's gonna be a showdown.

Leon, I knew, would leave at the beginning of the new term which is not that doomsday when it comes right down to it. He is off in Australia. Markus (the other foreign teacher who is a kindred spirit) and I were both puzzled and somewhat amazed that he actually got accepted to a school in Australia since he never understood a word either of us said.

Venice was scheduled to leave sometime during the current term because from what I gather he has to be living in Australia before he turns 18 since his English is nothing short of awful. If he went to Australia after he turned 18, he would have to take an English test. That is what I was told. I do not know if it is true. Paul disappeared with no explanation. I came to school one day and he was gone.

Actually, let me take that back, we did get an explanation about his disappearance from his father. His father told Sharon that Paul told his father that he – Paul - was not learning anything in class which was very interesting to me since he never ever applied himself whatsoever and was basically a bad influence on the other boys. Constantly, I caught him with his PSP and other gadgets. Paul’s English level remained at the same low end from when he got here to when he left. He never made an effort. No wonder he didn't learn anything.

He blamed all of this on the other students which is another interesting part since Paul was the one who was the bad influence. He told his father he could not study in the dormitory because of the noise. After his father paid for the whole year, he pulled Paul out of school on a whim. I told Sharon that his father could have just given the money to us and just shipped Paul off to Siberia. We then started joking about setting up a school and taking the money and sending the spoiled kids off to Siberia. Sharon still often says she is out of fist sandwiches.

Maybe here is where I should discuss the state of things in the upper-crust of Sino (high school) Academia. Private schooling seems to be a new thing for Chinese parents with their expanding pocket books. I say new as in new to this generation. There of course have always been private schools and tutoring but now the parents must take into consideration the global academic possibilities. For some parents, not all of them though, the possibility of foreign study seems the best option for their offspring. For these parents, the words and images of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Stanford flash before their eyes.

The ultimate goal starts to materialize and that is to get their little darlings into a top university so that their little darlings will get a job at a top company and make a lot of money and be able to take good care of their parents when the parents are old and feeble.

As I said, this is the goal, but there are no clear cut paths - other than having the students themselves study hard and place at a good university. Thus, the parents run around from school to school, academic placement company to academic placement company, in search of the best options for their kids.

With all of the schools and placement companies in China in competition, the parents have to decide what is best. Every school and placement company sees dollar signs for students which sometimes creates a weird dynamic where the students are actually looked upon more like clients than students. The teachers must cater to their whims. Often this is because there is no clear goal for the student after he leaves that particular school. Their next step is not known or really considered.

Fortunately, in my current situation, this is not the case. My students are bound for overseas schools. My recommendation will help them. Thus, we have a mutual understanding which has somewhat curbed my meltdowns. That was all just an aside.

The students now are Danny, Lillian, Leta, Kevin, and Elliot and the three new students which I will discuss later.

Elliot is the dark horse. Elliot is the surprise. At the start of the fall term, I thought he was going to be a difficult student but that is not what has transpired. He really has tried to improve his English throughout the year and I think that he has. Recently, he was somewhere with his mother and he read a snippet of English on a sign or menu and she was so happy she cried. Well, she probably didn’t cry but she was happy.

The three new students - Terry, May and Odile – have added a much needed academic kick-start to the program. Of the three, Terry and Odile are the new superstars of the class. Odile actually has her hair done exactly like the Warhol Superstar Edie Sedgewick, during her silver Andy period. It must take forever to get it that way. Terry has hair like Viva. Okay, I am lying about the hairstyles on the new arrivals but I am not lying when I say they both have a really good command of the English language.

From what I have been told, their mom’s are like sisters and so the mom's are very close and competitive which makes Odile and Terry competitive but not necessarily close. Terry, however, is a typical boy. He is easily influenced by the others but at the same time, I think he became the leader of the group within a few days of arriving. Kevin hangs on Terry all of the time. Before, Kevin was the smartest boy. Now, Terry takes that honor which does not seem to bother Kevin in the least.

Shortly after the new students arrived, at the start of the new term, we did an impromptu in-class game show over our favorite demented Scot - Macbeth. Terry answered every question for the boy’s team. The girls clobbered still clobbered the boys but the girls, for once, did have stiff competition.

May, it seems, has buddied up with Lillian which is probably a good thing because Lillian is really probably the worst student ever when it comes to understanding. At times, I actually spy her vaguely trying. She translates the words but it just does not compute. She is like a hard drive that has no memory, a digital with too much delay, a ‘do you feel like we do’ talk-box with no voice.

In class, I think May helps Lillian which I encourage. At one point, Sharon told me that Lillian is in this school to save face. Her mother wants her to go abroad because her cousin went abroad. Thus, Lillian must go abroad. I suppose I have heard of more nonsensical reasons but I cannot think of them offhand. Lillian, though, is actually okay. She doesn’t cause trouble. I do catch her looking at text messages and such but for the most part I think that she tries.

Now that Venice and Paul are gone. The troublesome element left with them. Venice, though he was anything but cool seemed to be the cool kid in the group which was really nothing but sad. He was one of those too cool for school kids that always had the newest gadgets. Really, I don’t mean to be mean. I don’t want to be mean. I liked Venice but he was such a disruptive element in class. Danny started hanging with him when Terry arrived because Kevin became enamored with Terry.

Danny with Venice saddened me because Danny is such a sweet boy but then he will probably be changed by America so I shouldn’t let it bother me. Nevertheless, this did bother me. Fortunately, Venice left before his bad influence affected Danny irreversibly.

So, now, we have a class that is more manageable and actually quite a bit of fun. Yes, I enjoyed them before. I understood Venice and Paul but they could make the class into one big wet Rising Sun blanket.

Now, there is so much more academic energy in the class. Some of this is due in part to my in-class point system. When we do research in the computer room every Tuesday morning for two periods, I tell them that they get 15 points for doing the work but if I catch them on a chat site or any other sites that do not pertain to research, I will deduct 5 points each time I catch them and it is completely possible to go into the negative. Since I sit at a computer in the back of the room, I can easily see what they are doing. Venice was still here when I implemented this and of course I caught him and deducted 5 points. By making an example of him, the other students did not follow him down that slippery slope. Now, they actually rat on each other. This was not a part of my original plan. I hate to think of the research periods to be looked upon as a police state, some sort of computer room Third Reich.

I know the point system seems like a no-brainer. Nevertheless, the daily point system configured with exam grades has made my life so much easier. Now when it is time to figure marks, it is much easier and much more impartial. Really, I do try to be as impartial as possible. Now that Paul and Venice are gone, being impartial is much easier.

This semester, I have started to talk about drama to the students. We have had a few lukewarm drama classes and I have not really been sure what to do to make them better. Slowly, I am learning that I do not have to do all of the work. Sometimes, the students can take the reigns and drive the buggy so to speak, even if that buggy winds up in a ditch or off a cliff.

In these initial classes, we did a few drama exercises and then I told them that I wanted them to come up with a mini-movie, something for YouTube. The girls got busy with their idea. The boys were unproductive. Whether I should blame this on Venice and Paul, I do not know. The girls had the idea to do the movie at Leta’s house and were very specific about what they wanted to do. They told me their plan which involved princesses and time travel but I did not really understand. Maybe it will be Lynchian.

The boys…well, the boys, were less detailed oriented. Their movie seemed to center around someone who farted a lot and told bad jokes. Boys will be boys. Nevertheless, their shtick is endearing.

“What is word when you say not funny joke, joke bad?” Danny asked me.
“Bad Joke,” I replied which for some reason made all the boys laugh maybe because there was not some scientific joke term for this.

Sadly, the wind got knocked out of our drama sails because first Leta was out with the measles for three weeks. Then Odile was out with the measles for two weeks. The measles mini-epidemic struck the class more than 9 weeks ago and we are still feeling the aftershock. People still get the measles?! Terry is out right now with a high fever and high anxiety. He does not have the measles.

High fever Terry and his mother are freaked out because the company that I work for which places me and handles the overseas school placement for the students told Terry and his mother not to worry about the arrangements involved in getting into a school in America. The company would take care of everything. This may be a song and dance. Terry is now without a school and it might be too late to get into a school.

I do not place the blame solely on the company. The powers that be at the company may have made a hasty promise in order to secure Terry’s enrollment at our school but I have to also take into consideration that Terry showed up halfway through the year. It would be different if he was here from the beginning in the fall. This makes me wonder what happened at the school that he attended in the fall. Nevertheless, I do want to help Terry if I can. He is freaking out.

Off and on, I, too, have had these weird deep black-holes of freak out anxiety going through me and I am not sure what they are. I cannot name them. I know that it will be okay. It is just panic. Panic with this metaphysical blackness attached! Terry’s anxiety is that of a teenager with his life ahead. Mine is not but I really have nothing to be anxious about. I am not in some bunker eating stewed squirrel and rotting potatoes.

The ringing telephones haunt me. Haunted by the ringing telephones in other offices that ring and ring and no one answers. Sometimes, I will answer the phone in the teachers’ office but I know not what to say. I stammer in broken Chinese and stuttering English. The person after saying a few things in Chinese always hangs up.
………………………………………………..

So for the last few weeks we have been studying Ancient Rome. So, Tuesday, I gave each student an emperor to research. I gave Caligula to Danny which is probably no big deal but then my friend Steve brought up the distinct possibility of Danny going and grabbing the Caligula DVD - which is readily available here - and watching it which would mean that he basically is watching a porn movie interspersed with extreme violence and debasement. So, I am hoping that he does not go out and get the film. If, by chance, he does; I suppose I will play dumb which is my easiest role.

With the study of Ancient Rome come the requisite literature and film companions. I really wanted to show the students Spartacus but Movie World did not have it nor did Even Better than Movie World and then I thought Brando's Julius Caesar would be cool as well because then I could bring Shakespeare into the bargain.

Alas, all I found was Ben Hur. The prospect of seeing several hours of Charlton Heston started to make me feel a bit, uh, ill. Maybe this is because he makes William Shatner look subtle.

Nevertheless, I am a teacher and sometimes there is unpleasantness involved. Charlton Heston -in anything but Planet of the Apes - is unpleasant viewing. Anyway, I thought I would give it a chance because it won so many academy awards back in 1959.

Really, you always think that these classic movies that won a ton of Academy Awards are irrefutable classics but then you see something like this and you realize the Oscars have always probably been a scam with some good pictures sneaking in here and there.

The one thing that I do like about the Ben Hur mythology is that Gore Vidal (supreme whiner and fussbudget, and un-credited screen writer for Ben Hur) supposedly convinced director William Wyler to direct Stephen Boyd to act as if his and Charlton Heston's characters had been lovers but he kept this from Charlton Heston because obviously Heston would have disapproved. When watching it, it is almost corny how homo the film is and how in most of the scenes it looks as if Stephen Boyd is about to give Heston a good ol' fashioned Hollywood big screen smooch. I suppose for the kitsch value there is value.

(Of course, having nothing to do with anything, Heston was discovered by a gay director who gave him his break in Peer Gynt and Julius Caesar.)

Yesterday morning when I got to school, Sharon told me that I would not have afternoon classes. The students were to visit a home for the mentally disabled in the afternoon so I would not have any afternoon classes. This was a nice surprise. I had planned to go on another search for the elusive Spartacus in between classes but then since I was not to have afternoon classes, I didn't immediately set out on my search. Since I had some time, I decided to hang out in the teachers’ office. Really, I was in no rush.

So after my morning classes and after doing a few tasks in the teachers’ office, I planned to go search for Spartacus again. As I said, I was in no rush. However, at lunchtime, after I had dawdled in the teachers’ office for awhile and was about to head out on my search for Spartacus; Sharon got a call from the special needs home. The afternoon at the home was cancelled which was not Sharon’s fault and I actually didn't even get angry or frustrated but this did mean that I had to rush out and look for the movie and have lunch and prepare my afternoon lessons before I was to teach my afternoon lessons.

Of course, I could have waited until after school but I just wanted to take care of it. And, I would have had plenty of time to go look for it after the morning classes if I had known that I was going to have to teach in the afternoon after all but at this point I have learned to go with the flow. Let the good time roll, let them knock you around. I let the good times roll me to another DVD stall where I looked and looked and did not see the movie. I pointed to the movie on the Kubrick box set. After a bit of translating and bickering, one of the workers found the movie.

Tightly holding Spartacus, I got back to school and had an hour to prepare my (two period) afternoon lesson plan; I found this really great article about the launch of a flying car. However, when I got to my desk, on my desk was a three page form of some sort, the sort of form that a student might leave, a school application form.

A few minutes later, with his high fever in tow, Terry came into the office and wanted me to fill out that form right that second. I told him that I had a lesson to prepare, the lesson plan that I was doing at the last minute because I had previously thought that I would not be teaching any lessons in the afternoon.

I told him - and I was really nice about it, not mockingly or condescendingly teacherly nice but honestly nice - that I had to finish the lesson plan and that I hoped that I could fill out the form before class but I might not have time until after class. Not that there was a lot of pressure but his mom was with him and so there was a little added pressure. It is funny a few years ago or maybe even a year ago, I would have freaked out about everything coming at me at once especially when I was not even supposed to have classes but I was relatively calm. Well, I got the lesson plan and Terry's form filled out before class so everything was fine.

And, the nice thing is that the last few days have been nice; so after I prepared the lesson plan at warp speed; I took the students to the garden for our afternoon class after their trip to the ‘head broken’ home (as they referred to it) was cancelled. Well, we went to the garden and sitting there in the sun giving the lesson and cutting up with all of them I was really happy and I wandered what could ever make me blue.

2009-02-09T19:44:00.002+08:00

I am Yang

Today is the first day of the spring term. Really, I was going a little stir crazy during the break. I had a month off, more or less.

During my time off, I started obsessing about moving into another place, preferably a high rise. I have been at my current apartment for two years now and there are a few things about it that have started to get under my skin, really nothing major; I just think that it is time for a new place. Really, I have loved, have really loved this apartment while I have lived here. However, I feel it is time for a change.

When I started my search, I decided I wanted to be closer to my school. However, the school is right next to People's Square which is a really crowded overpriced area. Imagine Times Square in NYC. After a less than fruitful search, I decided I did not have to live a walk away from school since I was not that fond of any of the areas within that walk away anyway.

Also around this same time, I happened upon a scooter for sale which I went and tested. After hopping on and speeding down the block, I decided that I had to have the scooter. Adding this to the equation, walking distance to school was no longer a priority. Nevertheless, I decided I would like to live somewhere that would be convenient and that would maybe even have some cool little alleyways to ride through when riding to school. My current place is somewhat convenient but I would like a place even more convenient.

Some of this search had to do with I had nothing else to do so I spent it snooping into other people's lives via apartments. I did find a place that I thought I wanted, most everything about it I really liked. It was a duplex in a high rise which actually really wowed me. This was actually the second duplex in a high rise that I happened upon. There was a small kitchen which was fine. However, the one detail that made me pause was the tiny bathroom with a shower. After living with a shower for two years, I have decided that I really want a bathtub again. There are so many times when I just want to soak. Finding a place with a bathtub became a priority though I still longingly thought about the duplex in that 'what if?' sort of way.
Nevertheless, I decided I wanted certain things in the apartment if I moved. I want to live on the high floor of a high rise. I would like for it to be new. I want a bathtub and I want it to be a true one bedroom.

After scouring all of the online adverts and poking my nose into many bleak coldwater flats, I realized that I would not find something better than I have now and I would probably not find anything that would fit my requirements so I then started looking, not to move but really, for just the heck of it.

At one point, I came across a place that did not list the exact location but looked really nice. The advert claimed the apartment to be in a luxury high rise. This intrigued me. I wrote for more pics and an address.

However, I was disappointed because the apartment was not in the place that it claimed to be or actually I read the advert wrong. It said 'near' not 'in'. I wanted to lodge a complaint but instead I decided to look at the apartment though it seemed even more inconvenient than the no-bathtub duplex.

I called the number and arranged a viewing. The guy, a banker, wants out of his lease. He is from Hong Kon and works in Hong Kong most of the time, has an apartment in Shanghai but it is a waste of money. After looking at the apartment and the bareness within, I quickly realized he was probably never there. He had lived in the apartment for 4 months yet the plastic wrap was still around the drawers in the freezer. The apartment though nice and new with two balconies was, at this point, just gathering dust.

After looking at it, I realized it has everything I require and it is nice and new to boot. The bathtub is nice. The bathroom is small but elegant.

Convenient? The apartment is much more convenient than I had originally imagined. In fact, it is across the street from the metro which if I take the metro on rainy days will shorten my commute by probably ten or fifteen minutes. I then walked from the apartment to school and I was pleasantly surprise. The walk, though long, is for the most part along Suzhou Creek which is a large waterway that cuts through Shanghai. Thus, the waterway walk zigged and zagged along the river which will be nice when I am walking but even better in that cinematic way when I am riding my scooter along the winding river road.

Now, that I am pretty sure I will be taking this deluxe apartment in the sky, I am antsy and excited.

Last night, excited about the new term and my new apartment where I will probably move in a week or two, I had trouble drifting off to sleep. I have this musty old copy of Monkey: Journey to the West that I have been casually reading at night which I tried to read but after a few pages I could not keep my mind on the exploits of the wicked and wonderful Monkey King (Great Sage, Equal to Heaven with his cloud hopping shoes) so I put the book down and tried to sleep.

Sleep did not come easy. Sleep was the last thing on my mind. My mind was racing, thinking about everything coming and going and developing at the moment.

Though I had been thinking exclusively about the new apartment, I started thinking about school. There is just so much potential with this school which I am now the project manager. An opportunity has been placed in my lap that I want to make into something really cool and at the same time – dare i say it - successful. For the most part, everyone is standing back and letting me do my thing which is the best way for me to work. I suppose I have never been the type who likes to be micro-managed. That is probably why I love this company for whom I have worked the last three years.

My boss Edgar is a dreamer at heart, a successful dreamer. Of course, not all of his plans, schemes and dreams work out but he tries; he seriously tries which I admire. He has never been a naysayer when it comes to me and what
I want to accomplish at this school and with the students.

With that being said, last semester when I was told I would have 2 additional classes this term, I really did not object. I knew that I would be given the freedom to do what I saw fit and beyond that an opportunity to make that opportunity into something cool and maybe even wonderful.

So, now, after talking to the students this morning, this semester we will embark on a dramatic path. Thespians of the world beware. There is a new sheriff of Shakespeare in town.

Of course, the sheriff has a lot of explaining to do. The assignment this morning was for the students to write what they would like to do in drama class. Keep in mind; I have access to a video camera and the school television studio. Maybe this time, The Magic Red Monkey Show will happen for sure.

Of course, they want a lot of footage of Paul dancing. Venice suggested that Kevin dress like a chicken – or maybe I suggested that. Elliot wanted to read more books and newspapers.

This is where the sheriff had to explain to Elliot that we were actually talking about drama. I then had to explain what drama is. Now Elliot, I love and I must add has made great progress but has a tendency to be unaware of what is happening around him. Sometimes, I have to stop and ask him if he is looking at the right passage when we are reading which never fails to make Danny giggle. So, today, I had to explain drama. With Elliot, the cognition is nearly cognitive.

"Oh, oh, I know," he told me
"Fantastic Elliot," I told him. "Actually, you have a great idea. We can make newspaper stories into dramas and videotape them."
With that he beamed, knowing that he had come up with such a great idea.
Leta suggested we go to the theater, another great idea.
"Yes, we can watch actors perform, notice what they do right?!"

So, I walked around and looked at the various suggestions that the students had written or were writing. Kevin and Danny wrote variations on Paul dancing. Paul could not defend himself because Sharon told me that he has redeye which I assume to be pinkeye but that I cannot be sure about that.

When I got back to the office, I talked to Sharon. At times, our relationship is a labored one but then at other times we are aligned in our way of thinking and teaching. Maybe, we are allingned today because this is the first day of the term, the spring term at that, and both of us are excited and want to start out positively but whatever the case; today, Sharon and I are doing well.

She asked me about the arts class that I am to teach.

"Do you need different classroom?" She asked. "Maybe it will be a little noisy."
"That would be great if I had access to a room to do drama."
"I will talk to the department leader. There is another room with piano and music equipment like piano. Maybe room if you want to teach music."
"That would be great."
"And there is a room for television."
"I could use that as well," I told her. "I had a hard time getting to sleep last night because I was so excited about the new term."
"You sure?" She asked. That is her response for about anything. At first, it seemed very confrontational but now I realize it is just her way.

At the end of last term, she asked me if I had an idea of what I wanted the students to study over the break. To me, studying during a break is a bunch of manure. I never studied over the breaks when I was a student. I would rather the students enjoy themselves. But then, maybe I am sensitive and I just don't want the students cursing me behind my back. Nevertheless, the students should enjoy their breaks not be piled up or down with homework.

To keep from arguing, I told her that they could buy Charles and Mary Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. This introduction to the Shakespeare's stories is perfect for these students, to give them a simplistic overview of this work that will frequently be referenced in years to come when they are at university. She wanted to buy a copy of the book for Jane to reward Jane for her hard work during the term. Incidentally, this term Jane did not come back. She has transferred to a school set up by a Hong Kong company.

Nevertheless, at the end of last term - which in many ways is like a television season finale cliffhanger - when I told Sharon where to buy the book her auto reply was –
"You sure?"
Over and over - like a broken record or like the unbroken vinyl copy of Sgt Pepper's and Piper at the Gates of Dawn – I told her I was sure. This broken record discourse went on for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Admittedly, I did want to strangle her.
"You sure?"

This semester, I decided, I want to start fresh. She is who she is and that is fine. Really, I do like her. She works hard. She cares about the students. She has a good sense of humor. She understands - or at least tolerates - my quirks. She makes the class schedule and she only gives me early classes if there is no one else to teach them and she must teach the public school students. She knows that I do not like to teach the earliest class of the day.

However, when it comes to our personalities or auras, we are truly yin and yang, me being yang or thinking at least that I am yang. Maybe she thinks that she is yang. I am yang dangit. I am yang! I AM YANG!

"Maybe you need to relax more," she told me in response to my sleeplessness.

"Well, when I was drifting off to sleep, last night, just as my eyes shut –
BOOM! BOOM!...BOOM!.........BOOM!.....BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOOOOOOM! BOOOOOOOOOOOOM! BOOM! BOOOM!"
"You sure?"
"Yeah! Then I was wide awake. After the belated New Years Celebration next door at midnight, I could not get to sleep for hours after that!"
"Oh, I have big problem too!" She told me in response.
"What happened?"
"I program phone to wake me this morning."
"And?"
"Phone rings. Outside dark. Maybe rain I think"
"There were clouds this morning," I interjected.
"I wake and I prepare myself for school. I go to car. I turn on car."
"Yeah?"
"I look at clock," she paused. "5:45!" 
"Oh no!"
"Phone I set wrong, hour early."
"Did you go back into your house and sleep."
"No, I thought maybe I have a rest in car."
"In your car?"
"But then I think 'I drive to school.' So I drive to school very slow."
"Very slow?"
"Yeah because the doors might not be open so I drive very slow."

2008-12-16T22:36:00.001+08:00

A Souvenir on his School Uniform Warm Up Jacket

My student Leon, whom maybe I have mentioned and whom I actually like quite a bit and who's English level is quite low in the scheme of things, tries and I think that he likes me so he tries harder. He made a 95% on the test over a few chapters of Catcher in the Rye yesterday. The test was open book and I gave the questions to the students beforehand. Yet, a few of them, Lillian in particular, did poorly. She came out with 26%.

Leon actually got a better mark than some of the other boys who are better in English than he is. I made the comment that he got such a high mark because he studied English all weekend and didn't goof off like the other boys do. This, of course, sent the other boys into a tirade. They proceeded to rail against him about how he just plays computer games and that he is dumb and all of that sort of stuff which was all somewhat priceless. Not to mention that the boys still insist on calling him Ricky which annoys him and makes me laugh and I have to consciously remember to call him Leon, though Ricky sometimes slips out of my mouth.

Honestly, since he made such a high mark, I assumed he cheated somehow. I am not sure how he could have cheated because the test was open book. He answered all 25 short answer questions. The only thing that I would count as cheating is if he copied off of someone else or if he copied from his study sheet which I caught him doing neither. Really, I am more than a little mystified by his achievement.

He could have went through the book and circled the answers beforehand, but that would not have been cheating. That would have just been forethought. Forethought is allowed. So, I do not know how he could have cheated. In as much, like I said, I really do not know how he was able to pull off such a high mark. I suppose that is neither here nor there when it comes right down to it.

At the moment, however, Leon is in somewhat deep crapola with Sharon. For the last few weeks, he has had a real problem coming to morning exercises and morning classes which has sent Sharon into a small fury. Of course, all of this is always slightly humorous to me because I know that she takes the students welfare sometimes a bit more serious than their parents do.

At this point, I have played this education game long enough to know which students have parents who seriously want them to learn and which students have parents that stick them in a private school because they know not what else to do with these children that they have been too busy to attend. Though I have not met Leon's parents, I put them in the category of being a bit lackadaisical about Leon's education.

This morning, Sharon called his phone and it was out of service. This renewed her fury. Not to goad Sharon but to humor her, I told her that Leon was going to be 'out of service' when I got a hold of him which gave her a huge belly laugh.

"Out of service, he will be," she emphatically agreed.
"Have you called his parents?" I asked.
"Yes, his mother says he is sick, maybe. That is why he does not come."
"Oh."
"He is lazy. He is a lazy boy. He signed paper saying he would not miss anymore classes. Now, he is not here. He should not be allowed to attend class. I will call the center."
With a renewed fury, she called our employer. Maybe I have explained this in the past. I feel as if I should explain it again. I teach at a private school housed in a public school. This private school is expensive to attend. Nevertheless, some of the students are quite spoiled, spoiled to the point that their parents do not know quite what to do with them. Leon is not necessarily one of the spoiled boys. He is respectful and when he comes to class, I hardly ever catch him goofing off which means he is either really good at being sneaky about goofing off or he just does not do it. I am not sure which.

Thus Sharon called our employer to say that she was going to bar Leon from classes which I thought was quite ballsy of her. Most of the time, there is no sort of discipline because the students are paying and so they are more like clients than regular students. Nevertheless, I admired Sharon's tenacity in the matter. I told her I would stand behind her in whatever decision she made.

A week ago Sunday night at 2 am, I got back from Hainan. By the time I got back to my apartment and settled into bed, it was 3:00 am. Hainan was fantastic but not in the beach bum sort of way I would have expected but in a whole other way but I will talk about that more later.

A few days after I got back, I finally took the time to unpack the few things that I had packed in a small bag. After I unpacked, I realized that I was missing my journal. Since I was so tired when I slept walk into my apartment from the cab from the airport, I thought perhaps I had taken it out of my bag and not remembered. I did a quick search around my apartment and did not find it. Maybe, I had put it on my desk, by my bed, in the kitchen, in the fridge. I was so sleepy when I came in that I could have done anything with the journal.

Then, of course, it hit me in that sort of foggy mental memory that you have when you are slightly frazzled and sleep deprived. I seem to have remembered putting the journal in the seat pocket of the plane when I realized I was too tired to write anything. This memory was tentative at best but still what I seem to remember happened to the journal. When I did this, I told myself I must not forget the journal. However, I was half asleep when the plane landed and I do not remember grabbing the journal when Michael and I drowsily disembarked from the plane and stumbled to a taxi cab.

When I came to this realization, I called Michael and asked him if he could call the airline and see if anyone had found the journal. Since my journals are important - I write exclusively in Moleskins - these are somewhat expensive as well. So not only did I lose the writing which is important to me; I also lost the journal which is a bit of a double whammy I suppose. I tried to not get too upset. I tried to keep myself calm in the matter. Worse things could have happened.

That night, after checking with the airline, Michael called me back and told me the worker did not find the journal. He gave me the number to call to check myself. The next day, I called from school because I knew that I would be talking with someone who was not fluent in English. If they could not understand me, I could have Edward (the Chinese English teacher of whom I am fond) talk to them and he would be able to clear up any miscommunication.

This turned out to be a very good idea. Before I dialed the airline, I told Edward of the situation. When I dialed the number, I asked the woman who answered if she spoke English.
"A little," she told me.
Not wanting to get into a frustrating situation that could bring on a meltdown, I handed the phone to Edward. He explained the situation to her. They talked for a few minutes. He wrote down another number. When he got off the phone he told me they did not find my journal. He showed me the other number.
At this point, Sharon came into the office. Although, I was trying to find my journal, this was of no importance to her. She had a question for me concerning English. I answered it the best I could but I was somewhat preoccupied. Then, I started to copy the number down that Edward had written down on one of his student's exercises. He had put the exercise away. He did not know why I did not copy the number down when he wrote it down. I did not want to explain that Sharon had interrupted me. Really, I do like her quite a bit but there are sometimes when she can be quite the annoyance. Granted, this is becoming less frequent.

I then dialed the other number. A man answered. I asked him if he spoke English. He said maybe a bit. Once again, I handed the phone to Edward. He talked to the man briefly. He wrote down yet another number.
"That number is for international tickets," he told me. "Here is another number."
I looked at the number and realized it was the same number as the first number.
"I think your diary may be difficult to find," Edward told me.
With that, I gave the journal up for lost. Really, I never lose anything and I suppose in the scheme of things this is not that major but I kept thinking about how I had spent so much time documenting the Hainan getaway. And, I really hated losing the Moleskin. Now, I would have to buy a new Moleskin. The other thing that really chapped my buttocks was that I had told myself to not forget the journal when I put it in the seat pocket but then I had fallen asleep on the plane and I forgot it. That seems to always be the case when something like this happens. You tell yourself not to forget to do this or remember to do this and you inadvertently forget which makes it that much worse.

Nevertheless, I tried to accentuate the positive as the saying goes. As I said earlier, I hardly ever lose anything. I would just mark this down as a loss on my karma calendar and get on with it.

Of course, I did formulate a plan. I could make the pain in the ass trek out to the airport and look for the journal myself if I could locate the lost and found. I knew it had to be somewhere. I was pretty sure that it must be in some big warehouse under someone's vacuum packed boxed - ready to boil - boar's head. I decided to think about this for a day. Maybe, I would go to the airport to inquire about the journal over the weekend. That was a thought. Then I would know for sure and I could once and for all put the missing journal to rest. As I said before, something worse could have befallen me.

Speaking of something worse, when I came into my afternoon class, Danny promptly pointed to his temple. I looked and then I squinted and saw the flesh colored bandage that his hair covered.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Running," he replied.
"Running?"
"Running," he said once more with even more emphasis.
"What?"
At this point, since his English is limited he had to pantomime the rest. He pantomimes running and looking back as he is running.
"Wall!" Kevin interjected.
"Wall? You ran into the wall?"
"Yes!" He said emphatically.
"You were looking back and you ran into the wall."
"Kevin hurt back of him head."
"Kevin?" I asked and somewhat exclaimed at the same time in what must of sounded a bit fatherly. At this, Kevin rubbed the back of his head. What happened.
“Pole,” he replied.
“You ran into a pole?”
“Yes,” he shook his head.
This is where Danny interjected, “I running, turn see Kevin.”
At this, Danny demonstrates more in depth what happened. He turned around and saw that Kevin who it seems had been chasing him ran into a pole which made Danny laugh and not watch where he was going. Not watching ahead, Danny then proceeded to run into a wall which I assume was probably the corner of the wall.
“Much bleed,” Danny tells me and with this he shows me the small droplet of blood - a souvenir on his school uniform warm up jacket.

2008-12-04T13:42:00.002+08:00

"The students want to take Coca Cola," Sharon told me. "I told them – 'No, they cannot bring.'"
"If it were me," I replied, "I would have just brought it in my bag and not said anything."
"I know."
Tomorrow, the students are going to camp for a few days. Some have told me this is military maneuvers but no one seems to have a clear picture of what it is. This is different than when the students go to the farm for a week from what I have gathered from the disparate information I have gathered.

Whatever the case, I have a few days off so Michael and I are going to fly down to Hainan which is commonly known as the Chinese Hawaii. This is the first Chinese adventure that I have been on in awhile. Really, I am quite excited about it. A few people have told me that Hainan is boring. All there is to do is sit on the beach. That is fine with me. I am ready for the beach especially since the weather forecast for Shanghai this weekend is to be below freezing.

The Hainan trip has been incubating for awhile. Michael wanted to go when the air tickets are reasonable, in the off season. Now is the off season because there are no holidays at this time.

A month ago, he asked me if I could get off on a Friday or a Monday. Fridays and Mondays are days when I have quite a few classes. Getting off on these days is next to impossible because I am the only full time teacher in the international department and I am the project manager of said department. Thus, getting off is very difficult.

But then going during the high season is very expensive so we were at an impasse in regards to the logistics of the trip. Both of us agreed that flying down on a Friday evening and coming back Sunday evening is pointless. We decided to put the trip on hold. Maybe we could go during our winter holiday.

But then a week or so ago, Sharon told me about this mandatory camping trip that the students would be taking. Actually, I even volunteered to go. She told me that as a foreigner I could not go. I was not upset. She told me I could have a short holiday instead. That is when I told her that I wanted to go to Hainan. She gave me the go. As soon as she told me yes, I called Michael and he started looking for cheap air tickets.

Michael has a wealthy uncle in Hainan with a house. He is very excited that we are coming. Michael is the golden boy in the family. He may be the only boy in the family. The uncle is putting Michael and me up at a hotel and he is going to let Michael have his car while we are there as well which is quite the elitist thing in China. Not many folks have wheels here, which are of the non-pedal variety.

At approximately the same time that Michael and I started talking of this trip to Hainan, I was enchanted by a luxury apartment in a high rise. This came about by complete accident. Anyone who knows me very well knows that I currently live in a fabulous 1st floor apartment with my own private walled garden, marble floors, and an open floor plan in a really good location.

Nevertheless, a month or so ago, I got a call from Qi Min who is the teacher whom I love so much at XiangMing, my old school. The teacher who replaced me was not working out. He moved out of the teachers' office into the library because he did not get along with any of the other teachers. She called me on a Sunday afternoon and asked me if I could come back. I told her that I would come by the school the next day and talk to her.

That Monday, I stopped by XiangMing during my mid-day break. Really, I have never felt so welcome in my life. There was an impromptu ticker tape parade of sorts for me. When I walked into the teachers' office, it was like out of a Capra film. All of the teachers rushed up to tell me how much they missed me. Needless to say, Qi Min and I had no privacy so we adjourned to the coffee shop.

There we had even less privacy because the woman who runs the coffee shop was ecstatic and she immediately called the women in the print shop and they called others whom came and filled me in with all of the gossip regarding this teacher whom they did not like in the least. Everyone, in Chinese and pantomime, told me how they missed me and how my replacement never smiled and was just all business. I am – I will be the first to admit – no business.

Finally, after everyone got everything off their chest, Qi Min got down to business with me.
"We really want you to come back," she told me.
"I would love to," I said, "I really would but I have started at this other school and I cannot leave. Maybe we can work something out though."
Really, I did want to go back because life at XiangMing is easy. I know the drill. I know what everyone expects. I was tempted.
Nevertheless, I am at this new school and there are bumps in the road but I would have a difficult time saying goodbye to the students at this point. Really, believe it or not, I always look forward to class at Gezhi, my current school. And, I have really grown to love Sharon as well which I would have never predicted at the start of the year. Edward told me the other day that Sharon's English has improved tremendously since the first of the year because of me which made me feel good.

Nevertheless, I felt I owed Qi Min because she did take me and sit with me at the dentist when I had to have a root canal. She was always helpful with my day to day dilemmas as was everyone else at XiangMing.
"Maybe," I started, "uh, I could teach part time. I have a full schedule but I would like to help out until you find someone permanent. Everyone here was so good to me while I taught here."
"Oh, yes, that is very kind," she agreed. "I will talk to the headmaster."
"Great, just let me know."
"Thank you. You are very kind," she replied.
"I would love to go to lunch sometime when you have time," I told her as I parted.

At that point, I left and mulled over the situation. Jennifer would be the perfect teacher for XiangMing – I thought. However, she moved back to America. In my heart, I thought that I could possibly talk her into moving back to Shanghai if she had the perfect job in downtown. With that light bulb lit in my head, I thought the next logical step would be to find her a flat. That is when I got enchanted and in trouble.

There were a few okay places when I searched online but then I found a really modern place for really cheap that happened to be somewhat close to my school. I knew there must be a catch. Would you walk away from a fool and his money?

I contacted the leasing agent and went to see the place the next day. The place was not as close to my school as I had hoped but it was maybe one of the most fabulous places I had ever seen especially for such a good price. At this point, I thought less and less about moving Jennifer and more and more about moving Tyson.

The first place that the leasing agent showed me was small and would be perfect for someone who was not setting down roots in Shanghai. Perhaps, it would be right for Jennifer if she wanted to move back.

However, I asked the agent if there were bigger places because I thought the building very luxurious. She showed me an end unit that was slightly bigger but with obnoxious closets. I was not impressed.

Then, as if the angels sang, she told me there were a few duplex apartments available.

"How much?" I asked.
"Furnished – 4, 500 rmb," she told me which is what I currently pay.
I was game. I wanted to see them.

She opened the door to the first one and it was love at first sight! The front door opened into a chic little kitchen and off of this chic little kitchen was the perfect cosy little bathroom tiled in a wonderful mocha with a wonderfully deep tub. At the moment, I have a shower in my current apartment. Granted, my shower is really nice but still I would love a tub. The bathroom was the perfect little compact bathroom. I loved it. Then we walked on into the apartment which had an ample sized living room with beautiful dark wood floors. Off of the living room was a balcony.

What made me completely gaga was the sleeping loft over the bathroom with a sleek little staircase leading up to it. The place was perhaps smaller than my current apartment but laid out perfectly. I was in love, not to mention that the building is a doorman building. After seeing the place on Jennifer's behalf, I was ready to move.

Of course, there are always negative aspects. The major downer about the place was the neighborhood, which is safe but not the sort of cool neighborhood like where I currently live. At my current location, I actually have a handful of coffee shops where I can go and little restaurants and it is very much a walking neighborhood. This new neighborhood would not be. Either I would have to take taxis, get a bike or get a scooter. No longer could I walk to the import grocery store or the sushi restaurant where everyone now knows me and they serve me my usual without me even asking. This would be a thing of the past. No longer would I walk by the scooter boys and try to have a conversation in my broken Chinese and their broken English. All of this, I had to consider.

As an accidental Taoist, I decided to just think about it, maybe mention it to Michael but really just think about it. Well, I think I had an out of body experience because the Taoist in me went out of my body. When I got home, I decided I wanted to move. I decided I wanted Michael to look at the place with me since he was a real estate agent when I met him. Sometimes, I know that I need a devil's advocate. This was one of those times. I asked Michael if he would look at the place with me and give me his opinion. He agreed to look at the place with me the following evening.

The next evening, Michael met me and he was all business, all business. The agent, English name Sophie, I thought was nice. Michael sized her up as a crook immediately. He asked her all sorts of questions in Chinese. She was more than a little intimidated by him. Although he was putting her through hell, I was glad I had him there. Sometimes, having a hard-ass on your side is not a bad thing. As he grumbled and combatted with Sophie, I took pictures. With Michael's help, I was able to get the rent lowered on the apartment by about 300 rmb a month.

Michael was not impressed by the apartment in the least. He detested the sleeping loft and its low ceiling.
“You cannot stand,” he announced as he stood un-stooped in the loft. I just looked at him and smiled.

That evening as I left, I told Sophie I would think about it. That is what I did; I thought about it. Over the next week or so, now and then I would look longingly at the photos that I took of the apartment. For some reason, I thought of this apartment as the amour that would cure any blues I might develop and it might solve all of my problems in general.

However, since I was still looking at over a year on my current lease - since I did sign a two year lease the last time so that my landlord would not raise the rent again; I did not see how I could move without losing my deposit. Granted if the apartment had been in a more desirable neighborhood, I would have considered losing my deposit and just going for it.

A few weeks went by and I really didn't think much about the apartment. Then, out of nowhere, Michael called me and told me a former colleague had found someone that wanted my apartment. I called Sophie to see if there were still duplexes left in the high rise. She told me yes. All of this was very exciting to me.

The next thing I know, this former colleague of Michael is showing the apartment to a young lady from Hong Kong. The young Hong Kong lady likes the apartment. I am completely honest about the apartment to her. One of the reasons that I have tired of the apartment is that I really would like to live in a high rise. I love my garden but I really never use it for entertaining since I am such a hermit. I would be completely fine with a balcony. The garden is somewhat wasted on me.

She went outside to talk to the agent, Michael's former colleague. The agent came back into the apartment to tell me that the young lady, the young lady from Hong Kong was set to come back tomorrow at 3 pm to sign the lease.

At that point, I called Sophie. Sophie told me some of the apartments were no longer available. Nevertheless, Michael and I went to look at the remaining apartments in the high rise. The first time -when I fell in love - I looked at one on the 8th floor and then one on the 20th floor. The view from the one on the 20th floor was amazing but the 20th floor apartment did not have a balcony. The living room was extended into the square footage that would have been the balcony.

At that time, the 8th floor was the one that I loved wholeheartedly. Though the layouts were the same in most of them, in some of them the landlords had added extras or had finished out the apartments with drapes and such.

On the phone, Sophie told me that the 8th floor apartment had been leased but that there was one on the 12th floor which excited me since I assumed the view would be much better than the 8th. An apartment was available on the 5th floor as well at a reduced rate. The reduced rate, in the end, did not amount to much of a savings.

We looked at the 5th floor apartment and I was underwhelmed to say the least. Friends of the landlord were living in the apartment temporarily and they had the apartment stacked to the ceiling, more of less, with crap. They also had two tiny little dogs. All of this bursted the dream that I had built around the apartment. This dose of reality made me see the space more realistically. Before, I saw beautiful untainted floor space. Now, I saw what the apartments
looked like lived in. This was good for me to see. No longer was I gaga. I now saw my amour the day after the honeymoon.

Nevertheless, I was excited about the apartment on the 12th floor. Good things come to those who wait.

However, the 12th floor apartment was not as breathtaking as I had imagined. The landlord had basically did every decorating no no starting with putting a large fridge in the living room. I have prayed that I never have to live in an apartment that has a fridge in the living room. This immediately set me off.

The next glaring eyesore were the curtains that looked as if they cost about $2 at Dollar General. They were not just cheap, they were ugly - ugly and cheap. And then the final straw was the balcony. The braniac landlord enclosed the balcony which is another pet peeve of mine. Then there were a few smaller things like the towel hooks in the bathroom that were cheap and ugly. The furniture, which was to be moved out of the apartment, was ugly.

The storage that went the width of the loft had not been finished out as it had been in the other apartments. And, since the landlord had already bought the atrocious Sooner Rents style furniture, he wanted the full price for the rent though, as I stated earlier, the furniture would be moved out of the place.

Since I had promised my apartment to the young Hong Kong lady, I decided that there was enough about the high rise that made it worth moving though I was now absolutely not excited to move. There was an 8th floor apartment with an enclosed balcony that I agreed I would take if I was not put off by it when I saw it. The landlord did not give the key to Sophie so I was not able to view it at that time.

I told Sophie if I liked the apartment I would reserve the apartment once the young Hong Kong lady gave me the deposit for mine.

The next day, at the designated time, Michael and his former colleague came to my apartment. We waited for the young Hong Kong lady. I made tea while we waited. The young Hong Kong lady did not show.

2008-11-26T12:06:00.000+08:00

Recitation Jerk

"Can I read?" Danny asked me as he pointed to his paper. "I cannot recite."
"Can you read well?" I asked him.
"Yes."
"Okay, you may read."

Yesterday, the students were to tell me something of various holidays. This, an oral examination, was to be the conclusion of the mid-term examination which they took a few weeks ago now.

Over half of the class was not ready. In their defense, I gave them a vocabulary quiz yesterday as well. Most of them were prepared for the quiz except for Leon. He got fourteen out of the fifteen words wrong. What am I to do with Leon?

Recitation is a cornerstone in the learning of English for native Chinese speakers. This is a practice that all of the Chinese English teachers rely on to gauge where their students stand in their English abilities. This is not something that I am particularly fond of but I feel as if at times I must play by the rules. And, Sometimes, playing by the rules is not even that hard.

The recitations involve students memorizing a page or so of a text and then reciting this page to their English teacher. Most of the time the English teacher is Chinese. The teacher, for the most part, listens for correct pronunciation. With the public school students, these recitations occur in between classes, at lunch time, during the eye exercises, whenever they can fit them in. The subjects are usually predetermined by the text the students study in class such as the Oxford English textbook.

Since I was telling my students about Halloween when I assigned the recitation, I told them to research a holiday and tell me about it. Some of them picked famous Western holidays. Others picked famous Chinese holidays. Still, others picked more obscure holidays such as Lita's choice which was Water Splashing Day. Paul picked Teacher's Day which he described as an important national holiday. Venice informed me that Christmas is Chris's Mass. I told him the last name in question is Christ. Maybe he was referring to Chris Kringle or Chris Kristofferson. Really, at this point, this is anyone's guess.

The other detail I should point out about the recitation is often the students have no understanding of what they are reciting. The words are just words. In as much, many of the teachers have no idea the meaning behind the words because they often involve idioms with murky definitions. Thus, they are just words to recite. The meaning is not important. This is where they lose me in the whole exercise because to me the exercise is pointless if you do not understand the meaning of the recitation. The Chinese English teachers do not see it this way. I do not argue with them in this matter. This is their country. I am a guest.

So naturally I am not as stringent with the oral English as my Chinese colleagues. Sometimes, Edward asks me if I would listen to his students recite and give them a score. 100% is the highest score.

“Of course, I would love to listen,” I tell him.

These students are not familiar with me. They only know me by face when they come into the office to see Edward. A few of these students look visibly shaken when Edward asks me if I would like to listen to them. Nevertheless, the shaken and non-shaken students recite to me. At the end of the recitation, it never fails, the student looks to me with baited breath waiting for his or her score which many see as their assured academic demise.

Sometimes I have teacher fun and give them 105% which always gives Edward a big belly laugh. He is always proud and boasts of his students after I hear them recite.

“You are the expert,” Edward tells me after I have given the score. The student always leaves the teachers' office less intimidated by me which I think is part of my job as a teacher and as a visiting American, a guest in this big home of dumplings and noodles I call China.

The public school students are usually more ambitious than the private school students. Nevertheless, some of my students, the private school students, are very determined. However, over half of them are just floating along on Daddy's money. This I completely understand. Sharon is often infuriated. Me, I am usually bemused.

Nevertheless, sometimes the public school students are not so ambitious either. A few days ago, a gaggle of Edward's students honked into the office. He asked me if I would listen to one of the girls recite. I told him sure. While a student was reciting for Edward, before she began, the girl told me that she was to recite only half of the page which was half of the passage.
“Okay,” I told her not knowing any better. “Are you ready?”

As she read, she seemed nervous. I tried to allay her nervousness. She started and stopped many times during the recitation. Finally, she finished after what seemed an excruciatingly long time, like longer than an Oasis song, that long. My eyes honestly were starting to roll back in my head and I am sure I was starting to foam at the mouth. As I stated earlier, I usually am pretty generous in my oral English marks but really, this student was the worst I had encountered in the public sector. I gave her a 90% which was absolutely more than generous.

Her friend, who had just read to Edward was standing beside her. There was a small heated discourse in Chinese. Edward asked her something, maybe to squash a Chinese cat-fight. I am not sure. Whatever the case, Edward told me that the student was to recite the whole passage to me, not just half. She would have to come back and recite to him later when she knew the whole passage, not just half.

Yesterday, I raffled off the order in which my students would give their recitations. I wrote numbers, from one to nine, on little bits of paper and handed them out. I wrote the number '7' on a small piece of paper and put it in my back pocket. Naturally, each of them thought that number '1' would be first. So, when they got their scraps of paper most of them sighed a huge sigh of relief except for the person who held '1'. This is when I pulled out the scrap of paper from my back pocket and announced - “7!”

Paul groaned. He had '7'. He and I went to the back of the class and he told me about the joys and wonders of Teachers' Day. He did fine. After he finished, I started with '1'. From there, the students read in order. Jane was '1'. She did fine. Kevin was after Jane. He did fine. After Kevin, the recitations became excruciating. At that point, I would have almost have rather heard an Oasis song. Needless to say, I did not make them memorize, though some of them did (Kevin, Jane, and Paul and later Leta), but I did expect some sort of preparedness.

Venice, Elliot, Lillian and Danny were not prepared. Sadly, I gave them all failing grades. I told them if they wanted to change their grade they would have to do a better job tomorrow which was today.

Sometimes, in the teachers' office, Sharon talks about Lillian and Leon. She really does love to talk about the students. Often, Lillian's mother lets Lillian run out of money. Sharon told me she did not have money for her school uniform. She sometimes does not have time on her phone. Sharon also thinks that Lillian might have a learning disabilities. Actually, I think Sharon has gone so far as to call Lillian stupid. Leon she calls lazy and then she decides he is just plain stupid and then she changes her mind and decides he is lazy.

Leon is very sweet. His English is horrible but he is very sweet. I have a special place in my heart for Leon. He is often the butt of the other boys' jokes. He seems to take it in stride. With that being said, I give Leon a little more leeway. And, besides, Leon works hard in my class.

Today, I told the students who did not do well yesterday that it was time to pay the piper as it were. They had to recite. Elliot volunteered to go first. He did well. I was impressed.

Elliot has started to really impress me. At the first of the year, he sat in the back of the class and did not seem to pay attention. At one point, Sharon when she was scolding him asked me what I thought of Elliot. I told her and him that no one ever does well sitting in the back of the class. He would do a lot better if he moved to the one empty desk in front of the class in front of Paul and next to Lita. He moved up to the front of the class that day. Since that day, he has worked hard. His recitation was well prepared this time.

Venice is the lazy bad boy. I love Venice but he truly is lazy. Nevertheless, sometimes, he does apply himself. I suppose all of them have their good days and bad days.

This brings me back to Danny. Danny read. He did not seem that prepared. When he finished, I told him he must do better next time and I went back to the teachers' office.

“Masturbate,” Michael said out loud at his desk in the teachers' office. I surmised he was looking up English words and phrases on the computer. Michael is one of the Chinese English teachers with whom I share an office. His English is on par with Edward. Sharon was not around.
“'Whack off' is another term for it,” I said without hesitation.

“Wuckoff. How do you spell?” Edward asked as he started typing the word out on his computer to find the meaning in Chinese.
“It is two words. Whack. Off. W-H-A-C-K...new word...O-F-F.
“Whack OFF! That is good,” he told me as he gave me the Edward chuckle which to imagine this chuckle and Edward in general think of a Chinese Bruno Kirby and you will have a pretty close approximation.
“And there is 'Jerk off,'” I added.
“Oh, Jerk. Off. Very good,” he confirmed.
“And, choking the chicken.” I was on a roll.
“Chu-king the chu-king? Why chu-king the chu-king?” he asked.
“Choking the chicken,” I stated once more and with that I pantomimed choking a chicken.
“Choking as in 'choke,'” I added to clarify the matter. “This is the chicken,” I pointed to my groin.
“How do you spell 'chuke?'” he asked prepared at his keyboard.
“C-H-O-K-E.”
After he spelled it on his computer he looked at the Chinese meaning.
“You have many different nick NAMES,” he put the emphasis on 'names,' “for this activity.”
“Yes we do,” with that Sharon walked in so I was not able to go into 'beat my meat,' or 'spanking the monkey,' or 'wanking off,' or 'pulling the pud.' But then, of course, I did not want to seem like a pervert so I left them to ponder the significance of 'choking the chicken.'

Really, this is not a bad job.

2008-11-17T20:22:00.001+08:00

Mr. Softy

“I’m a softy.”
“You are softy,” Sharon agreed emphatically. Friday morning, as she was scurrying to class, she told me that this was the last day possible to give the students their mid-term oral examination. This was the deadline. I told her that I would give it to them without fail. I didn’t.

There was a more substantial reason than the fact that I am a softy that I did not give the students their oral examination. Let me explain. Friday is now my big day, 5 class periods with the same group of students, now that Markus is in place and Dolly is gone Dolly gone. Since Friday is in fact my big day, I thought this a perfect excuse to do something major on Friday.

The easy thing would be to put in a DVD and be done with it. That is what I would have done in the past and I did not rule out the fact of putting in a DVD but at the same time, I wanted to do something that would benefit the students instead of something that just gave me a rest. That is when I hit upon the idea of studying Hamlet.

Recently, I happened upon Sir Laurence Olivier’s film version. Sadly, Hamlet is one of Shakespeare’s plays that I knew in passing but I had never seen or read all the way through. When I watched it a few nights ago, I was completely enthralled by the story. Without a doubt, I am aware that I am not discovering some sort of obscure Elizabethan treasure .
Hamlet, though far from obscure, grabbed me and held me which truly surprised me. I appreciate Shakespeare but I am not one of those people that worship at the Shakespeare altar. Now that I am a teacher, I do appreciate him more because I must view films through my students’ eyes and not only that but how what they see and learn may benefit then down the road.

As I watched the film for the first time, I wondered if it would hold the students’ attention like it held mine. Would the black and white film and the lack of elaborate sets keep their attention?

Granted, if I showed the students the film, I would still be sticking in a DVD which could still be viewed as taking the easy way out. Nevertheless, this is a work of literature that might greatly benefit them in the future. Thus, I decided to devote Friday to Hamlet.

In between my first two classes of the morning, I passed Sharon on the stairway. She was rushing off to a meeting and in flight she asked me to give the students their oral examination. As I mentioned previously, she told me that this was the deadline. However, Leon was not at school so he would have to take the test on Monday. Although I had already had the Hamlet plan in place, I agreed that I would give the oral examination to the students. At the time, I thought it would be easier to agree and not do it than to disagree and have an argument.

Of course, you ask, why did I not just put the film on hold? Since I had already started the film, I thought the best thing to do was to see it through. At this point, I know how the students respond. They actually really enjoyed the first 40 minutes of the film. If I had taken a break from the film and let them prepare for the oral examination and then let them take the oral examination, I was afraid by the time we got back to Hamlet they would have lost all interest. Anytime I can get the boys interested in something, I know that I must completely take advantage of the situation.

At this point, I have learned to just go along with Sharon and do things my way. She and Edward argue all of the time in the teachers’ office. I have decided I do not want to be a part of this dynamic. I like to think of myself as a ‘go with the flow’ sort of person.

Needless to say, all of this planning and strategizing could be for naught. At the end of the day (literally), there was no way to be sure if this plan would work. After four class periods of Hamlet, I had no way of knowing if the students would even still be interested. Really, that was a lot to ask especially in this age, this age of instant rice, noodles and gratification.

Surprisingly, at the end of the film, the whole class was completely rapt, the whole class but Venice who was asleep but everyone else was rapt with the exception of Venice. As a teacher, this was an amazing moment in my teaching experience. Never would I have predicted that Hamlet would hold their attention so completely. Maybe in some way, Hamlet is much like the Chinese epics that are so popular among the Chinese masses. There is the king and the turmoil within the family and sword fighting and love into madness, all of the components that make a fascinating story, crossing all cultural barriers.

Thus, at the end of the film, everyone was excited to talk about the film. Usually, I have trouble getting the boys to speak. This time, Kevin wanted to be the first to answer questions. Danny responded without his usual shyness. He told me that he liked Horatio the best because he was a good friend to Hamlet. Elliot who never speaks chimed in that Ophelia was in love with Hamlet. That made her sad so she killed herself.

At the end of the day, when I walked into the teachers office, Sharon told me that the students had informed her that I told them we would have the oral examination on Monday. She was not angry. She was more amused than anything. In her mind, I spoil the students which I suppose is true to some degree. Maybe I am a softy. But, in my defense, the students have a impenetrable love and understanding of Hamlet now.

2008-11-12T18:18:00.001+08:00

Ding Dong the Dildo is gone!

Of late, there has been cause for celebration, celebration at someone else's expense more or less. Ding Dong Dolly the Dildo is gone. She resigned a few weeks ago now, the week before the mid-term examinations which were last week. Of course, I couldn't be happier because I talked my old friend Markus from XiangMing into taking her place.

And, yes, she left with a fluttery flummox of ding dongery and Dolly dildo kissie kisses. Her last day, her grand finale of dildo excess was no less than a bang. She decided to show the students funny videos on her farewell Dildo Miss Kissie day which is a very fine thing to do. I have no problem with that. However, she decided to borrow my computer without asking me to show these videos. She has her own computer. She decided not to bring it that day.

Now, let me back up. At the beginning of the year, she made the biggest deal over the fact that she would always bring her own computer. The school need not furnish her one. I stated the exact opposite. No way was I lugging my computer from home. I love this school but I am not bringing my computer as the sacrificial Apple to the slaughter. Especially after what happened to my last computer when I left the room for a second and the Shanghai 90210 jacked up the sound jack, broke it basically because they were horsing around and knocked the computer off of the desk. With computers and students, I have learned my lesson never shall the twain meet when my computer is concerned. The school needed to furnish me a computer ASAP. They offered to do the same for Dolly, she declined their offer.

Nevertheless, I digress. I somewhat got on everyone's last nerve at the first of the year because I belly ached and belly ached and moaned and groaned about needing a computer which is something that is to be furnished to me according to my contract anyway. It is not like I am asking for caviar and champagne for my daily lunches. A computer is a basic necessity for a foreign teacher with little in the way of text books and other resources.

Finally, I was given a computer at the end of the first week of classes and I have not had to worry about being able to do my lessons and such because I have a fail-safe system. I keep my work laptop at work and my home laptop at home.

This concept went completely right over Little Miss Dildo's head. On her last day, she decided to just take my laptop from my desk without letting me know. She could have sent me a text to ask. She didn't. She is a complete idiot. La la la! Needless to say, I came to school prepared to print off my lesson which I had prepared at home and emailed to myself. I was not rushed for time but, at the same time, I did not have an entire class period to spare. Always, I take into account that there might be little bumps in the metaphorical school road for which I need to adjust. My computer being swiped from my desk was not one of the bumps for which I had adjusted.

Naturally, when I walked into the teachers' office and saw no computer on my desk, I assumed it had been stolen. Michael, one of the Chinese English teachers, informed me that Dildo Broom Hilda Dolly took my computer. Needless to say, I was stunned. I was completely stunned. I did not mind telling him how much I disliked her because of this sort of thing which when I think about it now should not have surprised me. I was stunned, really stunned, but by no means speechless. This sent me on a rant.

What she was thinking I really don't know. I just have no clue how a mind like hers works. I would never take another's computer or actually anything from someone especially when there is a really good chance that person does not like me very much anyway. I mean I know that people do stupid things and all but this was just ridiculous. Did she not know how low of a tolerance I had for her complete and total dildo-synchrocies already?

At that point, when Michael told me that Dolly had my computer, I stormed down to the classroom and told her in the middle of class that I needed my computer. This I did with a smile. Of course, she told me that she thought that I did not teach until the end of the day which was completely wrong. I had the class right after her last class. My class was the last morning class before lunch. Admittedly, there were a few times when I switched classes with Sharon in the afternoon but this was not often. And, the reason that I switched with Sharon was to avoid Dolly doo dah Dildo. In no uncertain terms, I thought I had made if fairly clear for her to stay out of my way. I always completely ignored her in the teachers' office even when she tried to get my attention I told her I was busy and had no time to talk when I had plenty of time to talk to everyone else. What sort of disconnect did she have going on in her dildo brain?

On this computer swiping day, smiling, I told her that I was glad this was her last day. With that, I yanked the computer off of the podium - as she half-heartedly tried to stop me because she was not finished - in front of the class and took it back to the office so I could carry on with what I had originally planned. I was steaming. I did smile and wave at the class as I left but I gave her one of my patented 'go to hell why aren't you dead?' looks.

After her class, Dolly came in all kisses and smiles and I was not smiling. I really did not say much to her other than she really was not very considerate. I think she even tried to hug me which made me just about puke. I'm serious. Get thoust dildo behind me Satan!

What was beautiful about the whole episode is that Sharon came in a few moments later, after Dolly was apologizing and going on and we started discussing Markus while Dolly listened. Markus can only teach on Wednesday and Thursday mornings which I had told him was okay when I had begged him to come teach when I heard that Dolly was giving notice. Of course, I had forgotten to tell Sharon. I told him I could switch my classes around to accommodate him not realizing a few other teachers would have to switch their classes in accommodation as well.

Dolly, of course, overheard this conversation and butted in that the reason she was giving notice was because she wanted to switch to lessons on Wednesdays and Thursdays as well. Naturally, I had the pleasure to ignore her and tell Sharon how excited I was to have Markus as the new teacher.

Dolly's gone. Bye Bye Dolly!

2008-09-26T22:11:00.000+08:00

Sharon's Headache

Sharon just went to the hospital. This is entirely due to the students. For the last few days, she has had a constant headache. These students, more specifically these boys, are making her crazy and have given her a headache that may manifest itself into a brain hemorrhage at the rate that she is going now. I have told her and told her that she takes her job much too serious. She cannot force these boys to study. They must take the challenge upon themselves. This is not her responsibility.

Before she left, she told me that Elliot told her that the other boys cheated when they marked each other’s tests, the test that I gave them yesterday afternoon. Really, I guess I am not entirely surprised by this. Maybe I was a fool to think that Danny only missed 3, Venice only missed 2. Nevertheless, I told her that they are only hurting themselves, famous last words coming from an adult.

Leta had Elliot's to correct. Leta did not cheat so she marked all of the wrong answers on Elliot’s test. Elliot complained to Sharon about this. I told Sharon that’s what happens - the other boys in the end screw over Elliot (which I am not sure if she understood my delicate terminology) because they marked their friends’ papers and cheated while they did so. This made Elliot and Lillian the big losers.

Jane had Kevin's paper and I know that she would not cheat. Lillian did not cheat for Paul who missed 6. Leta told me that maybe some of the boys were giving each other the answers in Chinese. This is why Leon who cannot utter a word in English only missed 6.

Even though it is Friday; today is not a true Friday because I work this weekend because next week is Golden Week, an important weeklong Chinese holiday, which is really only 3 days because we have to work Saturday like it is a Monday and Sunday like it is a Tuesday - confusing, I know.

Nevertheless, Friday afternoon is rather slow. Sharon traded her afternoon class for my morning class. I still have an after school class but I am not sure if the boys will show because there is a sports meeting. That is fine. I am a little annoyed with those cheaters anyway. Actually, I love them and really, I care but it does not devastate me that they cheated. If they are hurting anyone, they are really only hurting themselves. If they cheat, I have no idea what they know and what they don’t know.

While the boys are at the sports meeting, I talk to the girls about the cheating incident. I know they are not the ones that I need to talk to because they did not cheat, though I know that Lillian would cheat if she had the chance. I tell them that I know they, the girls, would never cheat and I am not sure if the boys know what a serious crime cheating is in America.

Leta tells me that it is a serious crime in China. If you are caught cheating in high school, you carry a paper with you that you are a cheater; you carry it to university and then you carry it to your job after you graduate from university. That is serious, I told her.

In America, you could get kicked out of school if you cheat. Really, for me, it does not matter that much that the boys cheated because I know that at these high priced Chinese boarding schools, grades are changed if they do not suit the parents so I am not going to fight it just to lose in the end. Nevertheless, at some point, the cheater will get caught (or become president, one or the other).

At the meeting at my company yesterday, Edgar asked me if I would teach an IELTs course. I said I would but now I am having second thoughts. I would be the second teacher teaching a class that is not the better students but the class that is the lower level students which are usually the students who could give half a crap. I guess it would be easy money but it is not that exciting to me.

In addition to that, a former student from XiangMing has emailed me a few times about teaching his mother spoken English which I think would be fairly easy. This I would do in the evenings one or two nights a week. They live fairly close.

Then, out of nowhere, I got an email from Emily who took me to get my physical last September and who is no longer with the company. She sent me an email to see if I could teach her spoken English. Really, I am so busy at the moment that I really do not have time but I like her and I told her I would. She then replied that the lessons were not for her but at her new company. They would be business English classes.

She sent me the contract with the specifics. And, actually, it is a great part time job, an hour and a half a week for about $50 a session. Of course, there are a few drawbacks. One is that it is almost all the way out to Songjiang on the metro, which really is the boonies.

The other drawback is the lessons have to be during the day and really my schedule is such that the only way that I can make it work is if I go on Tuesday or Wednesday in between my lessons. On Tuesday, my lessons end at 9:50 am. I would need to be there at 10:45 am, which might or might not be cutting it close. Over this holiday this next week, I will have to ride out there and see if it will be problematic or not. I guess it comes down to $50 extra a week, or $200 a month for 15 weeks. I will have to think about it.

In addition, to everything else, I have still not signed the new contract for this term with my company. I have an email agreement concerning the new school but I have not actually sat down and signed the paper contract.

After the sports meeting, the boys came back into the classroom. Sharon, back from the hospital, talked to the class for five or ten minutes and then handed the class over to me. She then left. I am happy to see that her brain, skull and face are all intact. She had no hemorrhage, no bursting blood veins.

I tell the boys that I heard that some of them cheated on their tests; I have to explain ‘cheated’. I them tell them how serious cheating is. Danny has a smile of guilt on his face the whole time. Kevin is innocent as is Paul. The guilty ones are Danny, Venice and Leon. I do not get mad. I just try to explain why they shouldn’t cheat.
I smile and it is over.
After my little talk, we fill in the blanks with music. Today we do ‘Last Nite’ by the Strokes and ‘Daft Punk are Playing at my House’ by LCD Soundsystem. I explain that Daft Punk is the name of a band and that you have to move all the furniture into the garage so that you can have a big party. I explain ‘working the door’ but I do not go into the fact that ‘Sara’s girlfriend’ refers to a lesbian relationship. They can learn all about that stuff when they go to America.

After class, Danny walks up to me. He has his vocabulary work sheet. He tries to tell me something but he cannot find the words. I tell him it is okay and I squeeze his shoulder. He smiles.

In the last month or so, since I have got back from the States, I have somewhat befriended one of the new guards at my apartment complex. At first, I just said ‘Ni Hao’ when I passed and then as the days and weeks passed our conversation has become more involved each time I pass.

If you saw him, you would see him as the quintessential Chinese man. He is a little guy with glasses who looks as if he is about 14 years old but he must be at least 18 and I am sure he is probably in his mid-twenties. His uniform fits like it’s about three sizes too big. He has a belt that he cinches tightly around his waist; this, I’m sure is the only reason his pants are not down around his knees when he is talking to me.

And, the talking, the talking is what is most endearing about him because I look at him while he is on a roll and then if he thinks that I do not understand a word, he will replace that word with about 50 other Chinese words. Sometimes, a stray migrant worker will wander up and listen to what this young guard is telling me. Usually, the migrant worker, who belongs to the building crew building the office building at the entry of my apartment complex, will nod in agreement or look at me to see my response. This Chinese guard is always most adamant in his rapid-fire presentations.

For the most part, I think our conversations have something to do with eating or with watching DVDs but I know no specifics beyond that. Maybe I have even inadvertently invited him over to my apartment sometime in the not too distant future to watch movies. I do not know.

At this point, in our relationship, I do not have the heart to tell him I do not understand a word he is saying.

2008-09-26T10:58:00.000+08:00

International Joke

Sharon sometimes makes me laugh my ass off, I swear! Earlier, the phone rang and she was resting. I motioned that I would answer the phone. I never answer the phone in the teachers’ office but I was feeling feisty. Sharon motioned for me to go ahead so I did. Before that she had told me that the students had worn her out or something to that affect so I thought she should rest. I told her she should not work so hard. We do have a bit of a cat and dog relationship but I do really like Sharon. She is abrasive but she means well, probably.

"Wei?" I said, a ‘hello’ of sorts in the second Chinese tone, which sounds like a question.
The voice at the other end sputtered some tentative Chinese. In the background Sharon tittered as I listened and spoke.
"Ting bu dong," I replied meaning 'I do not understand.'
This put Sharon nearly over the top, she giggled to herself uncontrollably as she got up from resting - in one of the lounge chairs that are placed by her desk because she has many visitors- to take the phone because she saw me looking at her in a panic.

Once she had the phone, she composed herself in a very businesslike manner. She talked for less than a minute to the person on the phone. When she hung up the phone, she laughed. I, however, was a bit nervous.

"You made joke," she told me as she walked back to the chair where she had previously been resting and complaining about the students.
"Who was that, was it someone important?" I was a little concerned. I hope that I had not offended the local communist leader or someone important.
"International joke. You make international joke." She answered.
"International joke?" I asked perplexed.
"Yes, that was foreigner," she said laughing.
"Oh, that was an international joke," I said laughing with her.
"International joke!" she said once more for emphasis.

As I type, Dolly is babbling on about the difference in pronunciation between cunt and can't. I am never sure what she is talking about really. Perhaps she is trying to entertain me. She is as interesting - and entertaining - as a random piece of gravel. She then told me that our company will not pay her until she turns in lesson plans. I shrug. I am not sure what to tell her.

Finally, fed up with the dildo can’t-cunt lady, I get up and go to the school store in the recreational building on the first floor. As I leave the teachers’ office, two women and a teenage boy enter the office and sit down and talk to Sharon.

Since I just had dumplings for lunch, I think it a wise idea to buy not single mint but Double Mint gum; Wrigley's is everywhere. As I walk down the hall outside of the 8th floor teachers' office, I bump into some students enjoying their lunch break. One of the students I ask if he has holiday plans for the 7 day holiday coming up.
"Homework," he tells me.
"That's horrible," I reply.
As I wait for the elevator, I tell two students hello who are playing ping pong without a table. They are running around hitting the balls like maniacs all over the area by the elevator bank. I smile at them as I get into the elevator.

At the school store, which is short walk across the quad, I locate the gum and I am about to tell the lady behind the counter (since everything is behind the counter and the clerk must fetch all of the items) what I want when a big noisy group of students come in pushing and shoving; they jostle me back from the counter. I make my way back to the counter like I am a salmon swimming up stream and in Chinese, I tell the woman ‘this’ and I point to the Wrigley’s Double Mint.

As I leave the store, I pop a piece of the Wrigley’s into my mouth and head back to the teachers’ office. The boys are still playing table-less ping pong when I get off the elevator on the 8th floor.

Dolly is gone when I get back to the office, which means that perhaps I can even do a little work without her buzzing like a fly in my ear. Buzz, Buzz. Can’t Can’t Cunt.

"I think you talk with him," Sharon told me as I walked back into the office after I popped down to the school store to buy gum.
“Hi,” I say to the young man sitting across from Sharon at her desk.

Sharon tells me that this is the person that was on the phone speaking Chinese. He is Korean. I laugh and he laughs. The two women who are with him do not understand why we are suddenly laughing.

I go to class to give the students their first vocabulary test. I tell the class I do not want any cheaters.
“What is cheater?” Kevin asks.
“Someone who looks at others’ papers.”
“No cheater Riki,” he tells Leon whom he refuses to call Leon. All of the boys still call Leon, Riki. They refuse to call him Leon.

I hand them the test. I walk around the room while they work. I want to make sure that they really are not cheating. At the back of the room - where I can watch to make sure they are not cheating; I park myself and work on lesson plans at the laptop that the school gave me. At one point, I look up and Leon and Danny are talking maybe - with Kevin in between concentrating. I clap my hands loudly like you would at bad puppy. Everyone jumps. Danny and Leon look particularly guilty.

“Leon bad boy,” Danny says in his own defense.
I shake my fist at Leon. Really, these are sweet kids. I try to never get angry. Getting angry with Leon, or Danny, or Kevin is really no different than getting angry at a naughty puppy. I cannot get angry with them. That would be really heartless. I tell Leon to finish his test.

Leta and Jane finish first. I take their papers and tell them to work on whatever they would like. Surprisingly, Leon gives me his paper at roughly the same time. Lillian then gives me her paper. After she gives me her paper, Lillian lays her head down on the desk. Jane and Leta both work on homework. Next, Danny gives me his paper. Then Elliot and Paul give me their papers. Venice and Kevin are the last to finish. While they are working, the other boys roam around the room.
“Hey! What are you monkeys doing? Sit down! Class is not over!” I tell them. “Kevin and Venice are not finished.” The boys sit down in less than a rush.

When Venice and Kevin finish, I hand the papers out for the students to grade. Lillian tries to get me to give her paper to Jane; I give it to Venice. I explain the rules. I will read the answers and they mark it if it is wrong.

At the end of this exercise, I am not surprised at the results. Lillian misses thirteen out of the twenty. Elliot misses ten out of the twenty. This does not surprise me because neither of them ever pays attention. When we are to be working on an activity Lillian reads a Chinese novel or lays her head on her desk. Elliot talks in class and bothers Danny when Danny is trying to pay attention.

Leon misses 6 of the words. Paul misses 6 as well, which is okay because I know that their English levels are lower. Danny misses three. Kevin, Venice and Jane each miss two. Leta, of course, misses none. She is the most hardworking (and youngest) student in the class.

Back at the office, I hand the results to Sharon. She has problems with Venice. He makes an effort in my class. I actually really like him. I tell her that he did well.
“Venice?” she asked.
“Yes, he does well in my class.”
She then tells me that the students have trouble with Dolly. I want to tell her that I have trouble with Ding Dong Dolly but I hold my tongue. I am in a rush anyway. I have to go to the office for my bi-weekly meeting.

2008-09-25T10:05:00.001+08:00

Good Good Good Scooter Fever

The last few days, I have gotten it into my head that I really want a scooter, now I am not talking about just any scooter. I want one of those good good good like Bridgette Bardot scooters, one that looks cool, some sort of Italian inspired design, one that you might see tooling through a scene in Fellini’s Roma, perhaps one that is white with a black seat or white with a red seat, or white with a white seat or even black with a hound’s tooth check seat. Maybe this is because I saw a scooter for sale for about $400 that fit my specifications. I imagined myself on the scooter scooting around Shanghai, zipping through alleys, exploring the markets, scaring the pigeons. Yes, it was like some really cool travel commercial and I was the star.

This scooter, this Fellini movie scooter, I could park by a canal, any canal running through town - this is my Venice, my cha cha cha dance city - and I could have some noodles and then hop back on this Fellini’s majesty and maybe ride the countryside. This was a very exciting prospect. The price seemed right so I thought about calling the seller but then since I am a procrastinator, I thought I should do some research on the scooter that I fell in love with online, really, my first online romance, Geely, my amour.

Well, first I surfed around to see if the price was good on the Geely because for something with an Italian design I thought that seemed a good price. I didn’t find anything just like it but I did find some comparable scooters for like $1,000 so a mere $400 seemed like an okay price. I was starting salivate thinking about it. This was the best box of chocolates ever.

For kicks, I decided to see how reliable they are. I see people – lots of people - tooling around on scooters everyday, most of them seem reliable, the scooters anyway; I don’t know how reliable the people on the scooters are. So I thought I would be a Columbo and do a little dick work.

That is when reality came knocking. I learned very quickly that these Geelys are crap, nothing but crap. They break down pretty much immediately. They are just crap. Oh, the hell on wheels humanity!

http://www.russpage.net/geely-auto/

http://thescooterlounge.blogspot.com/2006/04/geely-has-announced-that-they-will.html

I know what all of you are saying: buy a Honda, a Yamaha, a Suzuki. Yeah, that would be the smart thing to do but I really have this vision of riding something that has that Italian pizzazz. That is what I want – pizzazz. And, I just do not feel like Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki have pizzazz. I need pizzazz. I really need pizzazz, that Fellini like pizzazz.

My friend told me about an Indian scooter made by a company Bajaj. They are basically the parts used in Vespa but much cheaper. This is very interesting to me. I may have to explore this option.

At lunch, as I ate the fish that seemed to be either freezer burned or out and out tainted, I thought about my scooter dilemma. All of the sudden I really want a scooter, that same burning desire I had about moving to Mongolia and owning a camel. I am not sure which is more economical. Would the camel eat me out of house and home, yurt and mudhut? This I will have to research more in depth.

Here, I am in the land of scooters. You spit and you hit a scooter. They sell them everywhere. Riders ride them everywhere, even on the sidewalk, actually, especially on the sidewalk. Many a time, I have had to jump out of the way narrowly escaping getting plowed into by fathers with young daughters in tow that seem to think the sidewalk is a scooter interstate. I want to be part of this world, this scooter interstate world that I feel excluded from because I do not have wheels. I need some wheels – in color, and in black and white.

I sent Michael a message telling him I want a scooter. He sent me a message back telling me that he is in a meeting but that the scooter idea is cool. I think that since he has a lot of disposable income, he will get one too. His will be quite a bit nicer than mine because he loves the best. I see him getting a Bentley Scooter if such a thing exists. We will go scooting together. This will be like a movie, the Shanghai Easy Riders.

Last Saturday, Michael took me and one of his college buddies to the Shanghai Grand Prix, a track and field event, at the Shanghai Stadium. As we got out of the taxi to go into the stadium, Michael handed us our tickets. I looked at the ticket price 980 RMB which is well over $100. I asked him if he spent that much. He told me that he got them for 300 RMB each which is over $100 for the three of them. I told him that was so expensive. Here in Shanghai, that is about half the price of a scooter. He told me it was not a problem. He wanted to see the Olympians competing. He loves to spend money.

Once we got inside the stadium, we found our seats which were really good ones. I was one of the only foreigners there. Probably because of this, I was interviewed for the Shanghai Sports Channel. They wanted to know who I was there to see. I had to ask Michael whom I should say I was there to see; I had no clue whom I was there to see. The next evening Michael called me and told me that he saw my interview. Of course, on Monday when I came to school, the other Michael, the teacher, saw me interviewed on the sports channel as well.
………………………………….
On Friday, I had to get my visa renewed. Lisa, from the office and Edgar met me at the government office to have this done. Of course, it took much longer than we had expected. There was a lot of waiting....and more waiting. The visa officials interviewed Edgar about why the visa had lapsed and I think he said something that was probably pretty close to the truth. After we waited and waited, I left to go to school to my class that started at 10:50 that I would have barely made. On my way to the metro, Lisa called. She had forgotten that I needed to take a picture so I had to go back and take a picture which now meant that I would definitely miss my class. I told her to call Sharon and tell her. By this time, I was really hungry because I had not eaten. On the way to school, I thought I might stop by Starbucks and have a snack but instead I had to go back and have my picture taken which I was sure would take another hour.

While I waited to get my picture snapped, I thought of my current situation. At this point, I do really like Sharon but she really does not understand how difficult this job is for me. Once again, I have had to completely come up with a curriculum spur of the moment. She, as do all of the other teachers, have curriculum or books that they have used for years. And, add to this the fact that a few boys in the class have no idea what I am saying, ever. Their English levels are just so low.

While I mulled over my situtation, Lisa called Sharon and everything was okay. After everything was squared away with the Visa, Edgar took me back to school. He wants to start a SAT class at the center. He wants me to teach the class a few nights a week. I told him I would love to, what I did not say is that they will have to rework my schedule, if I am to work some nights then I must have my morning classes rearranged. I can no longer teach these crazy early classes if I am going to be teaching at nights as well.

He then suggested Dolly as the math teacher. Usually, I would never do this but I do not want to have this woman around ever. I told Edgar that I did not think she was doing a very good job. She had just come late to class the day before and Sharon told me that the students cannot understand her thick accent. No, she would not be a good choice. I told him about Markus who is now in grad school. Markus would be a better teacher for this but would he have time I wondered. Fortunately, I only see Ding Dong Dolly twice a week but it is two times more often than I would like to see her. I would be completely happy to never see her, ever.

Couple that with the fact that, at the moment, I spend all day at school. That is another reason that I want this scooter, so that I can take off and go home in the middle of the day and then come back in the afternoon and teach. I think my life would be a lot better with a scooter.

Forever, I thought I would just get a bicycle but then they always get stolen so I might as well just save that money and look at a scooter. I know this is a bad idea because it will probably be breaking down all of the time but I might go ahead and look at that Geely after all because it just looks so cool. And, after all, really, it is still good good good like Bridgette Bardot!

2008-09-18T20:48:00.000+08:00

More Visa
Ever since I got back to China, my company has been working on renewing my work visa, which is always a drawn out process. For the last two and half years, this process has been a mystery to me, a mystery that never worries me. I hand over my passport for the renewal; a few weeks later I have my passport back and my work visa.
For some reason, this time, this process has been a bit more muddled and peculiar than usual. Emily started the process before I left to go to America but then she quit the company. Lanny took over and began handling the details and now Lisa (another office worker) has taken them over from Lanny because Lanny is dealing with Australian exchange students at the moment. There, as I have mentioned previously, have been some problems along the way, which have made me have a few meltdowns.
Now, out of the blue, Lisa calls me and tells me that they want to see me at the Visa office. This sets my mind reeling. Every mistaken identity story - which includes a few Hitchcock films, North by Northwest and The Man who Knew too Much, in particular – plays in my head like some newsreel set on repeat. I cannot get this out of my head. Has my number been called? Is my life hanging in the balance? Am I 46 and savaged? Is my goose cooked? Is my duck Peking’d? This makes me very uneasy.
I try to think about other things. Before, I have mentioned how much I like Edward. He is always jolly and considerate. Lately, several times, he has reminded me that he is looking for the Shanghai Brand Watch for me at the lowest price.

I always enjoy talking to him. I especially enjoy lunch with him because that is when his motor is really revved. At lunch, he is always on a roll and I just sit back and listen and nod occasionally.

Today at lunch, he told me that Dolly was late ‘by 20 minutes this morning.’ This, of course, really upset Sharon. And I was privy to the information that the students cannot understand Dolly's Filipino accent. This I can understand since I can barely understand her as well and I must ask her to repeat everything she says about five times.

Dolly really is just an embarrassment for all of the Dollys of the world. For the most part, I have tried to be nice to her but she just always rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it is because when I first met her she immediately rubbed me the wrong way and she has since not rubbed me right.

After lunch, I was busy preparing for my class at 1pm. Usually, I have everything ready but sometimes, I have to do a few things at the last minute to insure that the lesson is the best that it can be. This seems to be the time when she wants to talk to me, always. And, anything that she says to me I have to have her repeat because I do not understand her.

Today was typical. She said something and I tried to ignore her and just do my work. She said it again louder and I asked her to repeat what she just said, not because I cared, simply because I was making an effort to be polite. She repeated what she had said and it took me a minute to realize she was asking me if I wanted a roommate, which was completely out of nowhere, completely.

Naturally, this completely stunned me, completely, stunned me. I know there are people who love having roommates and probably have to have roommates to stay sane. That’s great! I am not one of those people and Dolly Dildo is not someone I would ever even almost consider as a roommate. Does she not have any clue that it is hard enough for me to deal with her on the days that she teaches, like today when she was talking about her teaching methods as if I cared? Maybe she is a really great teacher but if the students do not understand her it really does not matter how great she is.

Later, after I returned from teaching my class, she asked me if I would switch schedules with her in the morning; take her early classes. Yeah right! No, I told her laughing when she asked. This, I could not believe she would ask me.

"I thought I would ask," she said in response when I laughed. I mean really, yeah, sure, I would love to take your early class Dill Weed Dolly Dill Do. Finally, Dolly Dilly Dill Do left. Do Do Ran Ran!

At the moment, someone is talking with Sharon, a young Chinese guy whom I have never seen before. They are chattering away animatedly in Chinese.

I do like Sharon. She has a strong personality. As I have said, her and Edward do not get along. He smokes in the office to annoy her, which I, of course, find amusing. For the most part, I am trying not to get involved.

Sharon does really work hard. I think that she puts more effort into this than she should. She stays at the dorm with the students on some nights. She is discouraged because the boys seem to be making no progress.
“The girls are hardworking. The boys are lazy.” - She tells me.

Yesterday, I took the students to the Shanghai Biennial, which the girls really loved and the boys didn't. The boys ran around knocking into people and sculptures and generally causing havoc. I acted as if I did not know them.

At one point, Elliot who was once Mark told me that he thought the exhibit boring. Danny who was once Bill agreed.
"Would you rather have lessons?"
"Oh, no, this very exciting." Danny exclaimed after he thought about it for a second.

Later, when we were by the gift shop waiting for the girls, Danny said something about being bored.  "Did you say you don't like me?" I asked in my most mock accusatory fashion.
"No, like like!"
"He very like you" threw in Elliot. "He gay."
This of course, made the other boys burst out in uncontainable laughter. They could not contain themselves for about five minutes. I made a Mr. Bean face and pretended to hit Elliot, which made them laugh even harder.
We waited and waited for the girls. They were about a floor behind us when we separated. After fifteen minutes, I started to wonder about them a bit. I was not worried. They are all high school students but at the same time, they are three schoolgirls which maybe I should have been more worried than I was. I know that they are smart and that they would not go with someone against their will.
There were four floors of the exhibit. The fourth floor was a pretty quick look of a floor. We kept waiting. Finally, the boys decided to send Leon, who was once Riki, to find them. He disappeared. We sat down just inside the entrance to wait. Maybe I should have been more concerned. The boys always concern me much more than the girls.
While we waited, Kevin played a basketball video game on his mobile phone. I watched.
After about fifteen minutes, the girls showed, waving and laughing, with Leon behind frowning somewhat. Somehow, they had gone past us and were at the exit. I told all of them that I was very proud of them for being able to stick together.
On the walk back to school, we decided to get a small snack which the boys thought was the best idea ever. We gave a few places a glance but the boys vetoed each one. All of the places I suggested were not delicious enough.
Finally, the boys decided they wanted to just go back to school and play basketball. That was okay with me.
About that time, Leta told me that Lillian who was once Belial wanted to ask a question. Lillian then told me that Jane who has been Jane the whole time was the one who wanted to know. Jane told me that Leta wanted to know.
Leta has always been Leta, by the way.
“Would you like eat supper with us?” Lillian asked.
“Supper?” I asked
“Outside school,” Jane told me.
It was at this moment that I realized that I never pay that much attention to the girls, part of it is because they seem so autonomous and self sufficient, part of it is because I just did not think that they look at me as more than another adult in the parade of adults with whom they interact. For some reason, I don’t know why, I was truly touched, truly touched.
“Yes, I would love to have dinner,” I replied.
They all squealed as if this was 1970 and they had won a date with David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman or Tommy James. Again, I was touched and feeling a little guilty that I had not paid that much attention to the girls in class.
Leta and Jane are hardworking. So far, they have impressed me with their understanding of Frankenstein. The boys at this point seem to just stare into space or look at me with those looks of bewilderment when we talk about Frankenstein. We have been taking it very slowly.
I know it is very difficult for the boys but at the same time, they do not seem to want to put the effort they need to put into their studies. Yet, they want to go to America in a year and be able to assimilate with the American kids. After teaching international students in NYC, I know how difficult this is and it has to be their decision to put forth the effort, not mine.
While I am at dinner with the girls, I think about the boys. I love the boys but I realize that I must help the girls as much as I can because they are the ones expending the effort to learn. Once the boys realize that they must put more effort into this, I will gladly help them.
The girls chattered in Chinese and English at dinner. We ate at the girls favorite restaurant, a Japanese noodle place in the mall by the school. Lillian and I both got the cold sesame noodles. Jane got the lunch plate. Lillian got hot beef noodles. We all began with miso soup. While I ate, I realized just how precious this time is that I have here. The dark episodes may come and go but really, I have a lot of reasons to be thankful. Unaware, the girls, at dinner, helped me to remember this.
After dinner, we walked around the mall. They bought little candies at a candy shop. Jane swooned at the Hello Kitty store. At the mall, they were typical teenage girls, shopping and chatting and laughing. Eventually, I told them I had to go home. Instead of taking the bus, I took a long walk home. For part of the walk, I walked through one of the long underground malls filled with clothes shops and toy stores. Part of the way, I walked through the park. The rest of the way, I walked down Julu Lu - my street, my neighborhood. Really life is okay.
This evening, when I cannot take it any longer, I call Lisa because I am worried about this upcoming appointment in the morning. Since I have never had to go to the Visa office, this just seems really odd. What do they want? - I want to know. This is Hitchcock-like or Kafkaesque; I really am a bit worried.
“Lisa?”
“Oh, hello Tyson, nice to meet you.” This is how Lisa greets me on the phone, which is a common greeting here.
“Yes, nice to meet you too. Uh, I am worried about this meeting in the morning. Should I be worried? I am really worried?” I tell her in rapid succession.
“Oh, don’t worry!” she assures me. “Edgar (my boss) will answer questions. They want see your face, take picture of you.”
“Oh, okay,” I tell her. This makes me feel much better. I hang up the phone, breathe a sigh of relief and put on Bowie.
And in the death…as the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare…

2008-09-16T13:51:00.000+08:00

Cold Morning Bus

Something kind of hit me today….

Over the weekend, for lack of a better word, I experienced an episode. This is something that rarely happens. The last time it happened was probably 5 five years ago. This feeling is hard to put into words. The best way to describe it is a sense of dread, like wolves baying at the door, or being alone and lost in the woods. There is a sense of panic with the sense of dread and you feel short of breath and you cannot eat.

It hits hard. I have had it last only for a few seconds but sometimes it can happen for an extended amount of time. When it is over, you really do not want to do anything.

Michael and I had plans to eat an early birthday dinner to celebrate my birthday which was the day after. I forced myself to go. A counselor friend told me once that if you can still function you are okay. I forced myself to function and go to dinner with Michael.

The whole time we walked looking for a place to eat, I tried to not think about it, tried to block out the state of my mind. I hoped it would go away. Usually, it goes away.

At dinner, when the first dish arrived, I could only take a few bites and then a strange panic seized me. This panic immediately took my appetite. I tried to force down the other dishes. Michael knew something was wrong. I told him everything was delicious. He knew something was wrong.

“Maybe you don’t like Chinese food,” he guessed.

I kept eating because I never want to hurt Michael. I could not fathom hurting Michael. I forced down the egg and escargot, the gamey duck, the weed-like greens. I forced them all down. Michael is such a sweet person. I cannot hurt him.

I know that there are many people who suffer these episodes worse than I do. My mental health problems are probably slight in comparison to people who are on medication. For years, I just thought that people made it up. They made up their problems. Maybe sometimes they do but I know with my slight mental imbalance that it is not something that is made up. There is something that is off in the brain, that figment of the imagination that is a living breathing nightmare. Holly Golightly called them the mean reds I believe.

Really, all you can do, all you can ever do, is just get through it, just make it through it. I knew that by Monday, the mid-autumn holiday for the moon cake festival, I would feel a bit better. This is like getting over flu.

The next day, I did feel a bit better, a bit despondent but I tried to snap out of it. At dinner, the night before, I had not eaten much so I knew I must eat. This was a problem. I really did not want Chinese food. I just could not stomach noodles or dumplings. I just couldn’t do it. I did not want to eat McDonalds because I had eaten McDonalds on Saturday. (I limit myself to McDs once a week. In the States, of course, I never go. Here it is different. I must have comfort food once a week.) I looked through a little phone book of restaurants and came upon Subway which is new here in China. Again, I try to avoid Subway in the states but here, it was like angels calling to me.

Subway is on Maoming road which is near my movie store - Even Better than Movie World - which is across the street from Movie World. I thought I would go to Subway and then get some DVDs at Even Better than Movie World since of course it is even better then Movie World.

On the way to Subway, I did not know if I would be able to eat or not. Once I got there, not that this is an advert for Subway, I would get the cold cut combo or whatever it is called. Believe it or not – and I never thought I would say this about a Subway sandwich; the sandwich was inspired. Well, maybe not inspired but I did have no problem woofing it down. The fresh vegetable and the bread made me happy. Seriously, I might have to add Subway to my weekly routine.

After the Subway pit stop, I strolled over to Even Better than Movie World and got some movies, nothing that memorable, a futuristic take on the book of Exodus and an Australian school suicide movie.

By this time, since I had started late with my late lunch, I had to get ready for the company dinner my company planned, honoring the mid-autumn festival, sometimes known as the moon cake festival, a time when you eat moon cakes and stare at the moon - though the moon is usually not visible here in Shanghai due to clouds and smog.

Fortunately, the dinner was at a restaurant within walking distance to my apartment. I started the trek there. The weekend at this point had been a rainy one. I brought my umbrella just in case, the umbrella that I bought on the way home from Even Better than Movie World. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I had lost an umbrella the day before. Umbrellas are fleeting like a spring romance (whatever that is).

There were a few drops but not enough for the umbrella so I just swung it along by my side, unopened, as I walked.

As I got close to the restaurant, I bumped into other foreign teachers on their way to the same function. The restaurant was housed in what looked like a former estate with a gated entrance. Inside the gate were some Australian exchange students taking photos with camera phones. Their handler told them to take photos later that their hosts waited.

I followed the sea of diners into the estate. On the second floor, where the party was just starting, I was given a tag and told to fill out a nametag. I did this and stuck it on my shirt. I made my way inside. Lanny greeted me immediately.

We were selected to co-host the party. Needless to say, this was a bit of a shock. This would definitely bring me out of my ‘what it all mean’ panic-depression. Lanny gave me some rapid fire instructions as Fairry found me a suitable place to have my meal. Edgar my boss took my umbrella and hung it on a faux fireplace mantle. The suitable place where I was about to sit did not meet Lanny’s approval because it was sadly away from the action. Lanny found me a table in the middle of the room.
“Mr. Tyson, this is much better; much more suitable.”

Bill, who has changed his name to Danny, sat next to Mark, who has changed his name to Elliot, across the room. Riki, who changed his name to Leon, and Kevin were seated at my table across from me. I sat in between three Australian high school girls clustered together as one and a Chinese university student. Frank, who changed his name to Ziv but was told to change it again because ziv may or may not be Chinese for taking a crap and so he is now Paul, came in late, he immediately made his way to Danny and Elliot.

Everyone was seated. Lanny gave me my orders. I was to co-host with her. She did most of the speaking. I was to introduce the Australian diplomat in attendance. Edgar spoke before I introduced the diplomat. He did not know the diplomats name he fumbled for his card which I held. He tried to nonchalantly slip the card from me. Since he was speaking in Chinese, I was not sure what he was after. He finally just asked the diplomat his first name.

Lanny and I were in charge of games and entertainment as well. Finally, when the dishes were making there way to the tables, I told Lanny I would like to eat. She excused me but she kept on hosting.

The dishes arrived and the Australians next to me were taken aback by most of the dishes. Since I have been in China for so long now, I had forgotten how the most ordinary Chinese food seems exotic to new arrivals. They were not sure what to think of the dish of bamboo.

And, it took them a minute to open their 7UPs (which they called lemonade) because they are the old fashioned pop tops. You know the kind. The kind that were banned in America in like the 70s because people would put them in the can after they opened the cans and swallow them, cutting everything on the way down - and past the stomach - to ribbons. They had never seen anything so primitive.

We ate and then played games and then ate some more. Lanny picked out some students to play some games and then I picked out some of my students to play games. Everyone had to have partners. The game was movie charades.

I picked Kevin and then he got to pick a partner. He picked me. He did the action. I did the guessing. I am horrible at this stuff. First, he pretended to conduct an orchestra which made me think of Fantasia but then he did something that looked a bit obscene in his boy area. This was in a crowd of maybe 100 people or so. I knew no movies, or super hero blockbuster movies that involved masturbation. This was bit of an embarrassing dilemma. Finally, someone coached me.
“Harry Potter!” they yelled.
”Harry Potter!” I guessed in true myna bird fashion.

After that, the girls from my class – Jane, Leta, and Belial who is now Lillian – presented me with the most beautiful cake I have ever seen. It was a big chocolate mouse head, that is, it was big for a mouse head but small for a cake, not enough for 100 people by any means.

Edgar suggested I put a piece on each table and everyone could have a bite which was sensible. The girls helped me do this; meaning - they were the ones who cut and distributed the pieces. After the last game, Lillian presented me with my own piece of cake. I half-heartedly tried to share it with others but really, I was happy to have a piece to myself.

This morning, I really did not want to get up and come to work. I wanted to stay in bed and just sleep the day away. Really, for the most part, I am fine in the aftermath of my episode. I just do not have much energy. Nevertheless, I took the bus, the cold morning bus, to school.

I tried to force down a red bean steamed bun in the canteen. This was not easy. At my desk in the teachers’ office, I prepared for class. Edward chattered as I prepared which was fine. Finally, I made my way to class. As I was leaving the office, Sharon told me that the Secretary of the Communist Party would be sitting in on my class. This rank is as important if not more important than the principal. I told Sharon that was fine.

Once I walked into class, and saw all of their faces smiling and looking at me for encouragement and some sort of guidance, I knew I would be okay.

2008-09-12T19:31:00.000+08:00

Watches and Passports

“When you speak Shanghainese,” Edward said, “it sounds very strange, very funny to hear foreigner speak Shanghainese.”
He told me this when I repeated a phrase that I overheard him say to Sharon.
“When we speak English,” he asked, “it does not sound as strange?”
“No,” I told him though it really does sound strange to me but I did not want to offend him because Edward is such a sweet person.

Sadly, I was in somewhat of a rotten mood, which I try to never take out on anyone. As soon as I got to school Lanny called me. Lanny now works for my company. You may, or may not, remember she was my co-hostess at the speech contest, a few years ago, when I first came to Shanghai. I did not realize until yesterday that this Lanny who has been emailing me about my passport is that same Lanny.

She called me this morning and wanted my passport number and my signature. She is getting my working visa renewed. That is fine except that I went to the office fucking yesterday and got my passport from her after I had a meeting with David – the assistant to the owner - and it seems like it would have made sense to get all of that information then while she had the thing in her possession. So now, she wanted me to find a scanner somewhere and scan my signature. In America, this would be no big deal but here in China, it is hard enough explaining little things and I just did not want to deal with it because I was working on lesson plans and I had no time for her fuck ups, basically. She wanted my passport number as well. I told her my passport was at home. It is not like I am carrying it around with me. I told her I was busy. I would talk to her later.

The reason, I urgently needed my passport back is that I tried to pay my rent (a few weeks ago) and I could not transfer the money to my landlady’s account without my passport. On the phone, I told Lanny that I still have to pay my rent. These little things that should be little things turn into major things and really puts me into a crappy mood.

After I got off the phone, I went back to my office and talked to Edward. I told him about the whole affair.
“It’s just stupid,” I said,
“Yes, it is stupid,” he repeated

The other day, in the Shanghai Daily, I read an article about Shanghai watches. The Shanghai Watch Factory was established in 1955 and at that time was the biggest watchmaker able to turn a profit for a state owned company. Now people are starting to collect the watches that were made in the 50s and in the 60s. Supposedly, the ones made in the 70s are fairly cheap but good.

Okay, granted, you can get a fake Rolex or Omega on every street corner.
“Watch! Bags!” The hawkers call as you make your way to the grocer, Starbucks, wherever.
“Cheaper for you! Best quality!” They invariably add.

Nevertheless, the Shanghai Watch bug has bitten me. I really want one. Chairman Mao wore one, as did many others in the Chinese Communist elite. Communist Chic is very in this year.

So, I have this stack of newspapers on my desk and I went sorting through them because I really wanted to find the article about the watch so that I could ask Edward if he knows where I can find one. Although I could not find the article right off, I knew I kept the paper. I kept digging and digging, looking and looking. I finally found it and then realized after I found the article; there is a big picture of the watch on the front page of the section because the article is the cover story of the section. Oops!

I then showed Edward the article.
“Where can I find one of these?” I asked.
“Oh, a famous brand watch,” he responded.
“You can find that…”and before he had the chance to respond, Sharon was right there to make sure I knew that she knew where I could buy the watch. Of course, this made Edward angry so he went silent.

This is how it is with them most of the time. They bicker and squabble. Sharon has such a strong personality that she always overrides Edward. Edward is so nice that he usually lets her.

Briefly, they argue about pronunciation, the Chinese pronunciation of the shop that carries the Shanghai Brand watches. Something tells me that Edward is right because, well, he usually is.

Edward tells me, while Sharon is squawking in the background, that I can get the watch on West Nanjing Road, maybe. I ask him it he can tell me where on Nanjing Road. Sharon writes something in Chinese on a piece of paper and hands it to me.
“This is watch shop,” she tells me.

Later at lunch, I sit with Edward and then Sharon comes and sits with us. After five minutes or so, a friend of Edward comes by and Edward tells me that his friend wants to have lunch with him. Actually, I know the reason he went to eat with his friend - Sharon would not shut up for a minute. Edward is a really good person and very helpful to me. But, now, I am beginning to like Sharon because I think she is learning the boundaries with me but at the same time, it makes me angry when she just tromps all over Edward.

Edward left and it was just Sharon and me.

“What do you call that?” she points to my bowl.
“Soup.”
“No, not soup.”
“Oh, uh, seaweed.”

Usually, I pass on the soup because it is often egg and tomato or mystery chicken parts but today I got the soup because I am fond of seaweed.

“You don’t like soup.” Sharon tells me.
“I don’t like most soups,” I tell her “ but I do like seaweed soup.”
“Oh, I can’t eat.”
“You can’t eat it?”
“No,” and with that she points to her neck and pantomimes swelling.
“Allergic” I tell her.
“Allergic?”
“Allergic. You are allergic to seaweed.”

I then tell her I once had allergies but I took shots when I was a kid to cure them.

“Not allergic.” She says.
“Not allergic?” I ask. “I don’t know what else it could be.”
“Not allergic!” she says as a confirmation. “I like all soup but seaweed, you like no soup but seaweed.” This sent her into a cackling fit, which made me laugh.

“That kind of soup,” she said, “can’t eat because of my age.”
“Age?” Okay, now this really stumped me. Sometimes, conversations here are like trying to work out some abstract crossword puzzle with half of the clues missing. Oh, okay, I think I see.
“Do you get really hot?”
“Yes, really hot!”
“And you get cold, really cold too?
“Yes.”
“Oh, that is called menopause!”
“Minna-what?”
“Men – uh – paws!”
“Men-uh…paws!” she repeated it slowly and tentatively but said it.
“Yeah, good, menopause.”
“Menopause.”
Sharon has somewhat slithered into my heart because she is totally whacked out of her brain.

After lunch, I thought I might go to Nanjing Road, a few blocks away, and see if I could find one of those watches that I had read about. Edward had disappeared. I called him on the phone to ask if he might go with me. He was outside the school gates so we met at Guangdong and Guangxi, which is the northwest corner of the school. He pointed the way to the shop but could not go with me because he had students waiting for him in the teachers’ office. They were there to give their recitations.

As he started for the school he turned to say one more thing:

“You may have to go to the Shanghai Watchmaker factory shop to find watch.”
“Huh?”
“You may not find the watch on Nanjing Road,” he said. “I talked to friend. I know of another place to look for watch. We can go there when we have time.”
“Okay, thanks.”

I headed off to Nanjing Road. That part of Nanjing Road is a pedestrian mall of sorts. Tons of Chinese are selling all sorts of things that you never want unless you are into hookers and massages. Today, I was not in the mood for the hustle bustle - especially hustle – of the road. A woman approached me; I ignored her.
“Hey you walk too fast,” she told me as I passed. “I no catch you.”
I smiled to myself. The watch, the Shanghai Watch, was not there. This was a place to buy expensive watches. I walked back to the school somewhat dejected.

As soon as I got back to school, Sharon accosted me; Lanny had called. She absolutely had to have my passport now. They had to renew the visa today. I told Sharon the whole story. At this point, I was very angry. They wanted Sharon to take my remaining lesson at the end of the day, which I thought was ridiculous that they would put her in that spot. I told her I was very angry with them after I explained the story again.

“I was there at the office yesterday. Lanny gave me back the passport. She told me she did not need it. ” I told Sharon. “Yesterday!”
My little tantrum made her laugh. I told her that it made me really angry that I would miss my lesson at the end of the day. She had a lesson at that same time in the public school so she could not take it.
“That is okay,” she said, “that is extra lesson. Students don’t need lesson then.”
“Well,” I told her. “I am really angry. I never miss lessons.”
“It is not your fault,” she told me.

Lanny called again. She told me she would come to the school and take me to pay my rent and then take the passport. I asked her when. She told me in a few hours. I told her that I could go home, get my passport and go pay my rent before that.
“Oh, that make you too tired,” she told me.
“That is okay,” I told her, “I will go home. Call me when you are coming to get it.”

As soon as I got off the phone, I had yet another small outburst. Sharon had left the office. Edward was there.
“So stupid,” I told him.
“Yes, stupid,” he repeated.

I left the office, took the bus home, got my passport, went to the bank, stood in line for about 30 minutes to pay my rent because Friday afternoon is an universally busy bank day. Finally, after I was done, I walked back home. By that time, I was really tired.

After I recuperated for about an hour, I called Lanny because I was curious why she had not called.
“Hello Lanny.”
“I am at the gate”
“The gate of my house?”
“The gate of the school.”
“I left the school hours ago. Come to my house.”
“Yes, I will come to your house right now.”