It's time for an update. Where have I been? What exactly am I doing with my life? Where am I going? What do I want?

I mouth these words to my reflection in the mirror every morning while emotional music plays in my head.

No. Not really. That would be way too well-thought out for me to actually do. And a little over the top. Even for me.

Anyway. Scott went away for the weekend to go be a camp counselor for kids who can't read good and want to learn to do other things good to. . . or some such nonsense. Whatever. He's getting paid. So I'm home alone for the entire weekend.

Well, I'm not really alone. Mavis the Cat is faithfully standing guard at all hours. Last night she checked on me every three hours to make sure I was still alive; rousing me out of my sleep by doing really annoying things like breathing cat breath in my face, scratching at the door or meowing like she'd just been shot in the leg and I must come to her immediate aid.

I like to think of myself as an independent person, but even the stupid cat knows it isn't true. I'm not sure what tipped the cat off, but I imagine the events of the day probably didn't help my case for self-reliance and emotional independence.

At first, I was kind of stoked to have the whole weekend to myself and myself alone. I've got an imposing biology textbook, piles of ungraded papers, a bunch of junk food, and the whole television set to myself with a Forensic Files marathon on TruTV. I was actually going to spend a whole Saturday without hearing, seeing or smelling (yes, smelling) anything that had to do with Football.

I know. It really does sound like heaven.  

I didn't even know where to start when I got up. I first decided to tuck into my bio homework and take some mad notes on amino acids and proteins. As words like polypeptides, polar covalent bonds and dehydration reactions danced on my page and in my head, I began to think this weekend to myself was the best thing ever. (BTW - I'm not sure I totally understand what any of the said phrases above actually MEAN, but the linguist in me loves saying them and spelling them)

As I went about my morning, making up songs about my new words and joking with the cat, I couldn't help but think it was a shame that nobody was around to share in the experience with me. Scott would have loved my puns on hydrogen bonds. I'm a really funny person, dammit. Nerdy. . . yes. . . anyway you would have had to be there. . .

As I turned on the TV, I couldn't help feeling lonely. And I was only halfway thru the first day of the weekend! Finally, afer seeing a FreeCreditReport.com commercial immediately follwed by a Red Lobster Endless Shrimp Special commercial, I knew it was a sign. I had to call Scott. I love both of those commericals, and he knows I love them. He would appreciate the fact that I saw two commercials I liked in a row. He would also appreciate my plan to eat brinner tonight. That's breakfast for dinner, people. And it's fabulous.

(as an aside, I totally want to meet that freecreditreport.com guy. I've already googled him. . . he really should be on the IMDB database. Dude is brilliant. I think I've got some decent song ideas for him. If he had a dinosaur-themed commercial, I might just fall in love)

Anyway. . . long story short. The "Weekend to Myself" is now becoming the "Weekend Where I Count The Hours Till Scott Returns." I'm so freakin' bored, I'm actually considering putting on real clothes and going somewhere.

Nah. Mavis might worry about me.

So Saturday my life took an unexpected turn of events when I took an unexpected turn in my brand new Chevy HHR.

Scott and I were on our way to Cabela's (Because deep inside I'm still an Idaho hick). We weren't really sure how to get there,  but we were doing pretty well. We were going slowly and watching road signs, etc. . .

When a man came literally out of nowhere and ended up on my windshield and then on the ground. I slammed on my breaks as fast as I could, but the path of contact couldn't be stopped.

Glass was all over the inside of the car, but Scott and I were unhurt. Scott jumped out of the car and went over to the guy and started talking to him trying to get him to respond. Everyone around (including me) called 911. While talking to the operator I realized I had no idea where I was (as far as South, North, etc. . .) The operator was asking me questions about the man. I didn't know anything. Finally I heard the ambulance coming. There was blood all over the road. Looking at the scene was the absolute worst feeling I've ever felt in my life.

A nice Korean lady that owns a barbershop right by the road hurried me inside, hugging me and giving me water and kleenexes. I couldn't stop crying. She was really nice, even though she didn't speak a ton of English, she was still trying to comfort me. A lady in the car in the other lane hugged me and said there was no way he would have seen our car (jaywalking across a four lane road) and no way I could have seen him. It was nice, but it didn't make me feel better. As the EMTs loaded the guy in the amublance and later airlifted him out, the police came to talk to me. After performing several sobriety tests, it was deemed that I should also give a voluntary blood sample to prove my sobriety in case this goes to civil court. After riding in the back of a police car to the hospital and getting poked 3 times by the poor lab tech who had to draw blood from a shaking and crying me, it was deemed that the accident wasn't my fault and no charges would be filed. It was a relief, but at the same time, I still feel awful.

It is the strangest feeling knowing that the fragility of human life was manifested on your windshield. Even though the man was listening to his ipod while jaywalking a busy road, I still feel responsible. At the same time - possibly the scariest moment of my life - so many good people put themselves on the line for us. The police were nothing but professional, sensitive and considerate. A chaplain came down to talk to Scott and I. Nearby people stopped by to call 911, help direct traffic, give a blanket to the injured man and help in any way they could.

Still, it is hard for Scott and I to shake the images of Saturday from our heads. Especially with all the statements we have to give for insurance, questions that family asks, etc...

We took today and tomorrow off work, but I feel like we are going thru the motions of life. Almost floating in a fuzzy parallell universe. One minute everything seems normal and I'm just sitting in my living room like any other day of the week - the next minute everything comes crashing back and I become a sobbing mess (or in Scott's case - a stoic, sulking, pacing mess).

The insurance is trying to tell me things about coverage, lawsuit deductables, out-of-state transfers, receipts, etc. . . and all I can think about is the man's blood all over the road. And my stomach starts churning and my throat tightens up.

In one second life is changed forever. That man will never be the same. Even if he survives his injuries. I don't think I'll ever be the same either. I grieve for the man I don't know and the girl I was before this happened. Prayers, hugs and good thoughts will be accepted any time - for the man on the street firstly and for Scott, me and sanity.

I think it's time to consider a career change.

I can comfortably say I'm not really happy teaching high school. There are days I like, students I like, subject matter I like - and even co-workers I like. But the whole package isn't coming together for me. I know I've only been doing it for 6 or 7 months, and some people would tell me to stick it out longer before deciding, but the more I think about it, the more I think it isn't for me.

I've had several co-workers and students tell me that I'm a good teacher. That is really nice. I value their opinions (well, at least my co-worker's). My principal even told our union rep that she thinks I'm a good teacher. It's good for the ego, but it doesn't make up for all the things about teaching that are seriously bringing me down. The compliments usually come around when I gently suggest that teaching may not be my cup of tea. "But you're a good teacher!"

Just because you're hung like a bull, doesn't mean you've got to do porn.

If I were left doing things I'm good at and not things I love, I'd probably be a professional kitchen cleaner or clothes mender. I can make a kitchen sparkle and fix just about any garment rip that comes my way, but I don't enjoy it.

I don't know what I want to do, but when I think about dedicating my career to teaching high school, my stomach does flip-flops and I feel a dark cloud decend over my head.  The idea of being this busy and this exhausted all the time for the next 30 years scares the bejeebus out of me. I take my job home with me almost every day. Even weekends are spent planning and grading. I probably put in 60 hours a week when I add everything up. That is a lot of dedication for a job I'm already getting sick of.

I'm so sick of all the non-teaching aspects of the teaching world. I hate the endless, thankless meetings. The only way I can get through another district-mandated "it's your fault our kids are failing" lecture is with a white-out bottle under my nose and a secret flask of vodka in my purse.

I'm really tired of the general apathy in parents and students toward learning, succeeding, and studying. The parents of this generation seem to have passed on to their kids a lack of respect for teachers, schools, and education in general. The students that possess a genuine love for learning are few and far between. I worry about the future of America. Parents want me to parent their kids, get them into college and give them straight A's. Kids want every little thing handed to them. Parents don't care when their kids cuss me out bully other kids in class. I actually had an incident where a girl came up to me after class and said another student was calling her names and being really hurtful. I didn't see anyting, but I told her I'd help her out. I e-mailed the parents of the bully kid, and their response to me is that I must be bad a classroom managment because I didn't see the bullying take place. WTF?? What about the fact that your kid was doing something wrong?? I've got 35 kids in my classroom. I can't be everywhere at once!

These same a-hole parents are the ones that tell me "I" am doing something wrong when their kid pulls a D-. It isn't because the kid didn't do his homework, it is because I assign too much and the tests are too hard. I don't teach to their precious kid's learning style. First of all - your kid has no learning style if he is pulling a D. And second of all - I know I'm doing a good job teaching. I work my ass off. And even my principal notices. But you are making me wonder why I bother trying.

Unfortunately, these kinds of parents aren't few and far between - but more like an ominous, ubiquitous giant lamprey eel, sucking out my will to live and reminding me that they (as taxpayers) sign my paycheck.

On top of that - the endless time, money, testing and paperwork required to stay "certified" aren't really enough to make teaching worth it to me. If I were to make a rough estimate, I'd guess that I would have to spend about $500 each year of my own money to keep my certificate.

I will probably stick this out another year, but really. . . if I wanted to do a completely thankless job for a pittance I'd still be waitressing for drunk college students who don't tip while my bipolar restaurant manager hits on them.

I thought that 3.5 months would be enough.

You know, to get over it.

How wrong I was.

Last night as I was tucked away on the very top of the triple-decker bunks in a only minimally smoky train car, I had the strangest sudden craving for a glorious ham and cheese omelet. Knowing my turbulent past with ham (gracias, Espana) I thought this was strange, but took it as a good sign that my life was moving on and that assorted pork products were now back on the menu.

This morning as I disembarked from the train, hopped on the bus with about 90 of my closest peasant friends and their various poultry-related animals, I thought about the omelet once again. Maybe it was looking at the chicken lady and her eggs, I dunno.

Even as I walked the 1/2 mile home because I got off at the wrong bus stop because the bus was so crowded I couldn't see it wasn't my stop until I was already off the bus I wasn't thinking about walking, I was thinking about the omelet.

I momentarily forgot about it when I got home and got sidetracked by coffee and a decent run in the rain, but as soon as I came in. . . I totally got my omelet on. I made the most glorious high-protein brunch I've witnessed since college days when we would take our bad selves and our hangovers over to the Old European for the best munchables on the Palouse. (hell yes) I scarfed that thing down like Lindsay Lohan does to her coke, vodka, speed . . . well, what DOESN'T Lindsay Lohan scarf? Well, not food, apparently . . .

But really, Lindsay Lohan is neither here nor there.

What a mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

Two hours and a massive nausea attack later, I'm debating playing sorority girl and making myself yak it all up. Even as I type this, my hands smell faintly of ham and I'm having flashbacks to that fateful bus ride to Gibraltar and the evil ham sandwich that ruined my day. I can't even go into the kitchen. I tried to wash the ham pan, but instead ran out gagging crying as if it were not actually ham, but tear gas.

Hmm. . .. tear gas in the ham. . . That sounds like a terror alert only Jack Bauer can fix. *sigh* He'd save us all. You know he would.

Ahem. Anyway. yeah. ham. sick. gross. no ham for Emily.

So I'm going to go now and not google pictures of Jack Bauer for my screensaver. Yeah. I'll be feeding orphans and rescuing kittens, but don't check my computer, OK?

Today was mid-term presentation day in my class. One girl, wearing a glitter and chinglish encrusted t-shirt and a lacy denim miniskirt - complete with side ponytail and 45 barrettes- held up a picture of a traditionally dressed Chinese woman holding a fan and a lute. She then went on to say that the "traditional woman" was "lovely, virtuous, kind and elegant - definitely the best kind of woman." The entire class heartily agreed with her.

I almost fell out of my chair laughing at the irony of it all.

Sometimes I wonder why they just don't get it, but the more I think of it, maybe its a conscious decision. Perhaps it's just easier to aspire to Britney than the Dowager Empress.

T Minus 95 Days and Counting . . .

Although it is painfully obvious that I'm ready to head home and get my ass out of this concrete jungle and into a more familiar, cleaner one, there are things I think I will miss about my 2 years in China. This blog is meant to be a continuing list where I can write things I actually like about this place.

real handmade jiaozi
being able to afford whatever groceries I want
cheap and plentiful DVDs
watching boys do aerobics in pink sweaters
the asexual unisex mullet
The joy of finding precious butter and cheese
babies that can sleep over crosstown bus motors
Pete's Tex-Mex
hanging with the sistaz at the catholic church
having enough time to cook from scratch
having enough time to read a book a week
having enough time, period!
not having to drive
not having to wear makeup
peaches in the summertime
crazy cab drivers that drive like hell
mongolian hot pot
the taste of your first margarita in a year
learning to read Chinese
pedi-cab rides (and races)
MSG sold by the bag
going out to eat every single meal of every single day if I want to
my dry-cleaning ladies
prayers in English and Chinese
bargaining for souvenirs I don't even really want
running alone in the rain on the track
anticipating going to Chengdu
splatter-painted, bedazzled, glittery 80's clothes
manicures
weekly blind-people massages
cheap tailor-made clothes
old ladies perched like birds on benches
watching people knit
babies on boards
corn-flavored ice cream
freak thunderstorms
bang-bang men that can cary refrigerators up 10 flights of stairs
the noodles with the pickled vegetables in them
taking care of Scott when he gets food poisoning (again)
playing "stupid foreigner" to get away with whatever I want
watching an entire season of LOST in a weekend
the Chinese kids that always steal Sam's flea collars (they're cute)
finding beauty in a harsh environment
fastest roadwork completions on the face of the earth
Chinglish signs and writings
sharing horror stories with other PCVs and expats
side ponytails and legwarmers
being the only person at the school that can french braid

Just for fun, and because I'm "culturally assimilating" by taking things I didn't write and posting them as my own, I wanted to share a quick way for y'all to brush up on your Chinese. . .


The English phrase is at the top and the Chinese translation is below.

That's not right
Sum Ting Wong

Are you harboring a fugitive?
Hu Yu Hai Ding

See me ASAP
Kum Hia Nao

Stupid Man
Dum Fuk

Small Horse
Tai Ni Po Ni

Did you go to the beach?
Wai Yu So Tan

I bumped into a coffee table
Ai Bang Mai Fu Kin Ni

I think you need a face lift
Chin Tu Fat

It's very dark in here
Wai So Dim

I thought you were on a diet
Wai Yu Mun Ching

This is a tow away zone
No Pah King

Our meeting is scheduled for next week
Wai Yu Kum Nao

Staying out of sight
Lei Ying Lo

He's cleaning his automobile
Wa Shing Ka

Your body odor is offensive
Yu Stin Ki Pu

Great
Fa Kin Su Pa

The visit to Morocco happened by chance. It was the over-achiever part of me that spurred this adventure. I always like to go the extra mile (or three) when I'm doing something. Even if in the end it stresses me out, causes exhaustion, and gives me an intestinal parasite. Scott can attest to this.

But really, when you are already at the Rock of Gibraltar, and you look across the strait and see the coast of Africa looming in the mist, it's pretty hard not to go, especially when we'd come this far already.

Morocco wasn't on the agenda. My dad has a "thing" about third-world countries; it was hard enough for him to manage China. I still can't talk him into Mexico, and it was his insistence (and pocketbook dent) that I studied abroad in expensive Spain instead of cheaper South America when I was in college. So I talked him into Ceuta, Spanish Morocco. It's technically on Africa, but still has all the comforts of being European. (On a side note, Ceuta is probably one of the most difficult cities to pronounce since Coeur d'Alene, or Pend Orielle - especially since people can say the name differently in English, French, Spanish and Arabic. It's a combination of vowels to baffle the mind and numb the senses)



A photo of beautiful Ceuta from our hotel room.

Once safely across the strait and in Ceuta, we innocently (read: devilishly) suggested going to the Moroccan border to at least get our passport stamped and SAY we honestly went to REAL Africa. My dad relented and we took a short cab ride to the border. It was amazing. Within 100 yards of razor wire, immigration officials, and con-men, we went from classy, clean Europe to what I felt was like a slightly more cultural China (minus the spitting; even the Moroccan con-men don't spit like the Chinese). My dad clutched his wallet as we walked past all the men yelling at us in French and Arabic to get in their taxis. Although I could tell that the rents were a bit un-nerved, I didn't mind it at all. Then again, I didn't have any money. We walked past the litter-filled gravel parking lot, and past the cement fence with the broken glass at the top, and down to the beach. The sun was setting, the tide was out, and there were seashells and skipping rocks all over the shore. In just 50 yards, we went from scary and dirty, to pristine and peaceful. We took several pictures, being as this could be our first and only visit to "real" Africa.





We re-crossed the border on foot and walked back into "Europe" and laughed about our "international" experience. We made plans to explore Ceuta the next day, but all of us silently wished to go to Morocco again. Instead of simply wishing, the next day I marched us all to the Office of Tourism and got the info. Because my dad is the "Mr. Safety" poster child (and possibly a tad bit xenophobic) he really wanted to do an organized tour. If the rest of Morocco was like the border, he wanted nothing of it.

I didn't want to do this, especially after my experiences with guided "tours" in China, where they take you from place ripping you off every step along the way. However, my father insisted that if I ever wanted to see Morocco again, we were going by tour and not wandering around by ourselves in a city where we don't speak the language or know the local customs.

In the end, he was probably right. English, Spanish and Chinese don't get you too far in French and Arabic speaking Morocco, and it was nice to have a guide to tell us history and help us order food.

Thankfully, though, our Moroccan tour was really nothing like the border experience. Yes, the country is poor, but there are shady people anywhere you go (copious numbers of meth houses within a 5 mile radius of my childhood home come to mind). We mostly saw the north country and visited the cities of Tetouan and Tangiers. Coming from one developing country to another, I was really surprised at how friendly and clean it was here compared to China - heck, even some places in the US. As we wandered down the bustling marketplace streets, some people would offer us samples of olives, goat cheese, mint and fruit. Once two small children ran out of a shop and waved and shyly said "Hola" to us as we went by.

Ahmed, our tour guide, was a quad lingual refrigerator of a man with a cool hat and "connections." It was especially nice, because it wasn't tourist season, we were his only foreigners to look after. And although we were dragged to the typical souvenir crap-shacks, and expected to tip everyone and their camel, it was an amazing experience. He was pretty real with us, and talked politics, religion, economy, history and agriculture with us. For those of you that are nerds (like me) you can go here to study up on Morocco: https://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/mo.html



In the city of Tetoan, a remarkably clean and pretty place.

I named this camel Humpy. He was nice, but he smelled pretty awful.



dressed in a Berber woman's traditional clothes. The cool thing about this, is it isn't like China where you can wear "traditional clothes" that no real Chinese would ever be caught dead in. Countryside people in Morocco still walked around the marketplace wearing them.



The local bread baker, stoking his oven.



City view from the top of a building.



Displaying traditional rug work



Holding the rug my parents bought for an undisclosed sum of money. The good news is, I like it too, and someday it'll be mine.

delicious couscus, chicken and veggies for lunch. Note the Arabic Coca-Cola bottle. How cool is that?

Mom and I walking down Mohammad VI boulevard in Tangiers.

Good Bye, Morocco. . . . someday we'll meet again!

Please to put a penny in the old man's hat!

Ah, yes. . . Christmas in China. It may not have many trees or presents, and there isn't a wise man or virgin to be found, but it is Christmas nonetheless.

At least in MY apartment, that is.

Last year I got so freakin' depressed at Christmas time, it was really pathetic. I didn't realize how much the "ambiance" can affect my feelings for joy to the world and goodwill toward all men. In the states we are accustomed to a whole month and a bit of Christmas programming, stories, decorations, activities, etc. etc. Although they may be commericalized and are evidentely getting "PC-ized" so as not to offend the Jews and the like 11 people that celebrate Kawanza, it is Christmas-y nonetheless.

Here however, Christmas is just another day. Everyone goes about all their normal activities and then maybe at some point in the day says, "hey isn't 1/3 of the world celebrating something today?" I still have to teach class and uphold any other responsibilites that are placed on me. The more "global and cultured" Chinese celebrate Christmas by bonking people on the heads with inflatible plastic hammers and going shopping. Where this tradition came from, I have no idea. . . and it certainly isn't my idea of "the holiday spirit."

At any rate, knowing what to expect from this year's "holiday season" (or lack thereof) I have effectively preempted my depression with a thorough and swift Christmas-ification of my apartment (which I have dubbed "little America," by the way).

As of December 1st, the plan was in motion at full speed. I had a crew of 11 over-eager English department freshmen, an ulimited supply of tinsel, a pile of red and green paper, various "ornaments," a artifical tree, and some other odds and ends. The command was given to Christmas-ify my home. And Christmas-ify they did. I now have a beautiful army of paper snowflakes taped to my windows, doors and walls. I also have a Christmas tree that was lovingly decorated and re-decorated about 5 times within the space of an hour. From the ceiling hangs swaths of red, gold and silver tinsel. I have paper santa clauses dancing on the top of my bookshelf, two stockings on the wall and a cardboard nativity scene.

The nativity scene was a bit hard for them to understand (seeing as *certain parts* of cultural information aren't as accesible to them thanks to their government who does their best to protect them from the "dangerous" foreign influences) but I think they got the main idea.

I have since busied myself with plan two of the Christmas-ification. This entails music, music and music. In class, we are going to learn Christams songs and go caroling. This will be followed by baking and card-making extravaganzas.

The whole month will be topped off with Scott's family coming (so we have REAL family for Christmas) and a Christmas Eve Mass to be with the few people here that celebrate the REAL meaning of Christmas.

YAY!

Last night I returned from my whirlwind Thanksgiving fiesta in Chongqing. Because the bus ride that previously took 2 hours, 45 minutes took closer to 4 and a half hours (why? I have no idea), I had some unexpected bus observation time on my hands.

One thing I noticed was everyone's annoying habits. By far, the most annoying person on the bus was me. I can't just sit still. It's a compulsion to look at my watch, count the people on the bus, pick at my nails, touch my hair, tap on the window . . . sheesh. . . . I kept telling myself to sit still, but nothing became of it. It didn't help that my seat was so freakin' uncomfortable! Scott dozed peacefully for a full hour and a half while I endured the Mexican jumping beans that had made their home in my pants.

The second most annoying person on the bus was the mob of Chinese people. I refer to them in one single unit for simplicity's sake and because of their collectivist, mob mentality. One thing I noticed was that every time someone's cell phone rings, the owner takes a good 20-35 seconds to answer the phone. At first I thought this was because it was in a bag or pocket and had to be fished out and then answered. NOT SO!

This is what they do. They let it ring with their own "personalized" ring tone (usually some vile chinese-ified Britney Spears pop song) until they come to the end of the chorus or stanza of the song or whatever, and THEN answer it. This way, the entire bus can listen until we have come to a natural stopping point in the audial assault that Chinese people call music.

This is your cell phone. NOT your personal radio. I don't want to hear your awful ring tone any longer than humanly possible. Especially because I know that as soon as the ring tone goes off, your annoying-ass voice is going to come on and talk SUPER LOUDLY for the next 35 minutes like you are the only person on the bus. You will inevitably shout "wei, wei" at least 50 times in the conversation (why, I have no idea) and I will eventually notice that the way you say it sounds like a duck quacking. I will also imagine that the person you called must be either mentally disabled of hearing impaired because you shout every question into the phone at least twice. Now the whole bus is wondering if the person on the other line is indeed waiting for you at the bus station, and if they had dinner or not.

This really is nothing new though. Chinese people have awful cell-phone etiquette. I know it annoys their fellow countrymen too. I can tell by the looks on people's faces that nobody appreciates Mr. Loud Voice's cell phone call. But in true Chinese fashion, instead of telling him to shut up, everyone else joins in. Now we have 8 or 10 Mr. Loud Voices on the bus, each trying to compete with the other to be the loudest. The chorus of "wei! wei!" begins to sound like a whole flock of ducks. The pop song ring tones intermingle with each other into a frightening medley of Backstreet Boys, Celine Dion and their cheap, Chinese copycats.

Things can't get any worse. Between the in-drive Japanimation movie, the heat on the bus on the fritz, the cell phone chatter and the ring tones . . . I'm about ready to go crazy.

But it gets worse.

Some jerk decides that since the bus only has one "no-smoking" sign prominently displayed on the front of the bus, that means smoking is OK. So he lights up. I hear the kid a few rows ahead of me complain about the smoke to her mother. I'm already nauseated by the noise, and the smoke won't help. I know that the Chinese women especially dislike cigarette smoke. However, instead of someone telling the person that they are incredibly rude to ruin 50 people's breathing air, and to stop, everyone sits in surrendering silence and quietly gags, because nobody wants to make him "lose face."

And in true "Chinese mob mentality" the other men start lighting up too. One by one. Scott and I tried to reverse the quickly emerging wall of smoke by yelling at a man near us when he lit up. We pointed to the sign and said "don't smoke" in Chinese and waved our hands around our faces like we were being attacked by mosquitoes. The man, obviously surprised by the verbal attack the waiguoren were giving him, almost put out his cancer stick, but at the last minute, shamefully ducked his head between his legs and smoked it anyway.

Finally, exhausted from 4 hours of squirming, almost deaf from the music/movie/chatter and smelling of nasty smoke I stumbled into my apartment where the clean and glorious quiet greeted me. Someday, when I look back at China, I have a feeling that much of it will merely be a loud, queasy, smoke-filled dream.