The Blithe Traveler

Food Part 2: Food and the Expat

Disclaimer time! We’ve been here for a little over two weeks now, so while I am two weeks wiser, I am sure there are a few tidbits that have escaped my attention. And, particularly starting this topic, it’s hard not to make generalizations – just remember that my experiences are limited and represent exactly two weeks here.

Going Grocery Shopping                                 The term “expat” (expatriates) refers to people living outside of their country of origin. I have hesitated to refer to our merry band as “expats” mostly because our trip is supposed to last only three months. However, here’s the earworm of the day: the theme from Gilligan’s Island. Repeat after me, “...five passengers set sail that day for a three hour tour, a three hour tour…” I am beginning to suspect that I may have entered a time warp where “three months” somehow actually equals something more like “one year.” So, maybe we are expats. Or we're expats-to-be. Whatever, it’s a fun term to sling around at cocktail parties. And I am all about cocktail parties.

Back to the expats. The majority of westerners we have met so far (actually, 100% of them, but who’s counting?) live in compounds outside of the city center of Nanjing. The compounds I have visited are quite beautiful and the apartments and villas are tastefully furnished, spacious and designed to be a home away from home for people who will be spending two or three years settled in Nanjing.

As our situation is quite different – we are (were? … sit right back and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip … ) only going to be here for three months – we took a slightly different approach. We specifically chose to live in an apartment close to Jeff’s office. For people who live in the compounds, a half hour to hour commute to work is not unusual. And work days around here are long. Right now, Jeff leaves by 8am and generally isn’t home until 7:30 or 8 o’clock. And his commute is a five minute walk.

There are huge upsides of compound life – the big one is that you are generally in close proximity to other families who speak your language – be that English, Korean, or German. Interestingly enough, while I have met two Brazilian families, more Australians than I can count, a handful of Canadian’s and a few English families, I haven’t met any Americans yet.

The downside of compound living is that you absolutely have to drive everywhere you go. Or be driven, for those of you who like precision. Because driving in China is generally not considered an activity conducive to a long and happy life – if you live in a compound, odds are you have a car and driver. And if this sounds odd, well, it’s just the way it is. But it does make for life being perhaps different than it is back at home, wherever it is you call home.

Grocery shopping, for example. The people I have met (1) have the majority of their everyday kind of shelf stable stuff, cheeses, their favorite nationality specialty foods, plus frozen meat delivered from Shanghai. Shanghai is a good two hour drive from here – it’s a little like living in Albany and having your food delivered from Manhattan. There is a service that does this weekly and they deliver to your door. No kidding. You call, fax or email your order in and from a city two hours away, your food is delivered. The huge benefit, I believe, is that the selection generally includes tasty tidbits designed to catch the attention of a palate that is lonely for home.  And I have to say that if I were going to be spending two or three years here, I’d be all over this stuff, too.

Additionally, there are two western delis in the city, and at least one German bakery that specialize in keeping the expat community humming in the baked yummie department. Interestingly enough, these destinations do seem to play an important role in keeping people happy and in touch with their country of origin. We made it to one of the delis today, and it was like a mini pilgrimage. We scored half a kilo of Emmenthaler – Hope’s favorite cheese – and a lovely loaf of whole wheat bread. Woot!

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We live in an apartment right in the heart of the city. It is an all Chinese area. In two weeks I have not seen another western face anywhere in our neighborhood, and truthfully, I will be surprised if I ever do. The benefit of this to us (2), beyond the basic one that the children and I occasionally see Jeff, is that we have easy access on foot and via the subway to the city. And there are two terrific grocery stores, plus a small, but pretty comprehensive shopping center right in easy walking distance in our neighborhood.

My favorite grocery is what appears to be an unobtrusive little building a mere block away. You walk in the door and the building opens up to a Wal-Mart size floor space, up and downstairs. Similar to a large grocery store in the US, there are shelf after shelf of all manner of processed foods as well as sections of fresh baked goods, produce, meat and, well, other stuff.
Happy Helpers                                                               The bakery has an interesting array of western style breads mixed with eastern dumplings and meat/sandwich type things, fresh noodles cooked on the spot, and all sorts of things I cannot identify, but assume have gluten involved somewhere. The bread is not spectacular by western standards and there isn't a good whole wheat option. Up until I scored the whole wheat loaf mentioned above, my children were eating a vaguely coconut tasting white bread, and it was just killing me. Not to mention the individually wrappped slices of American cheese – something that had never crossed their little palates back in the US.

The produce section, while perhaps smallish relative to US standards has an admirable range of quality products that more than suit our simple needs. Bananas, apples, pears, grapes and potatoes, carrots, and interesting Chinese vegetables that we can’t identify but do cook and eat. There is apparently a huge produce market in the city that has a better selection, but we haven’t ventured out to find that yet.

And then there’s the extensive aquatic section. Let’s start with the live aquariums that in the US would require a hefty admission charge. I will admit that the extra large probably quite juicy live frogs give me vertigo, but they are foodstuff here. I think it’s great to expose Tom and Hope to cultural differences in diet -- Tom has taken to chanting as we walk along the street, "Pets or meat? Pets or meat?" With Miss Gourmand, I live in eternal fear that she will request that I cook her up some yummy bullfrog drumsticks for dinner. But there is a diverse selection of mostly live fish, crabs, and assorted other sea and freshwater creatures lined up for purchase.

Eggs. Interesting topic for me as a former chicken farmer. Fresh eggs come in bulk direct from the chicken – a hundred eggs in a milk crate. And a woman sits on a crate with a razor blade scraping off the chicken poo. You buy as many as you want and she puts them in a plastic bag. This totally freaks me out. It should not, as I have lived and breathed chickens for longer than I care to remember, and yet, it does. And then there’s the topic of the “other” kind of egg. The non-fresh egg? The shelf stable egg? The odd color what-on-earth-IS-that kind of egg?  I’m actually a little afraid of these, so no more information at the moment. 

Meat is a delicate and difficult subject. From our understanding, most Chinese use meat more as a garnish than as the main dish on the table. And we have been warned away from eating any kind of “local meat” for sanitation reasons (primarily because meat refrigeration and handling techniques are not the science here that they are in the US). Having watched meat being delivered to my local grocery story, I believe this is a wise move – the meat arrived in a little white mini van (no refrigeration). When the doors popped open, the meat was piled high on bins (no wrapping or even cursory sanitation efforts were visible). The bins were dumped on the ground and left there for a bit until someone came round to fetch them. I have mentioned yet the propensity of people to pee in the streets? Yeah, well, I said meat was a touchy subject.

For the expats we’ve met, what seems to work is ordering meat that is similar to what they have in their home country from Shanghai. We will be following suit – the deli we found today has a price list and ships meat in based on pre-orders. I order meat on Wedneday, it arrives frozen on Thursday and I go pick it up, along with fresh bread and cheese. A little bit cumbersome, but at the end of the day, probably the best all round solution.

I was right, by the way, that this is going to be a long topic. I haven’t even begun to touch on the local local stuff. The big supermarket and our new best friends at the deli are only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to food around here. But more tomorrow.
__________________________________________________________________
(1)    At the end of the day, the sheer numbers aren't really all that impressive - probably a dozen families? 
(2)    And I clarify that we perceive this as a benefit, because I can easily see how it could be perceived as a downside.

Food Part 1: Two Weeks and Two Jars of Peanut Butter

Several people have asked me about the food around here, so I’ve decided it’s time to cut the fluff (-ernutter?) and start talking turkey. Or pigeon. Or whatever those tiny birds that I would describe as “fleshless” that keep showing up on our dinner plate are.

We’re going to start today with our family background, then I’ll venture forth and describe our locale, shopping and eating in, eating out, eating really out and sneak in some of the shopping/eating strategies that are employed by the non-Chinese we’ve met. I suspect that once I start, I might not stop, so figure we could be on this topic for the next week.

Let me begin by opening our deepest darkest closet and airing it all out. As a family, we have Culinary Issues. And these issues make traveling – anywhere – more of a challenge than for the average Joe.  I’ll start with a quiz. There are four of us, two in the 3 to 5 age group and two parental units. Between the four of us, we represent three culinary archetypes:

1. The Gourmand: this individual eats anything and everything put in front  of them. They are open to new experiences and often find delight in  the most esoteric flavors and exotic dishes.
2. The Gluten Intolerant: this individual unfortunately has a severe allergy to any and all wheat products. Did you know that soy sauce has a wheat base? Yeah, tragic.
3. The Wee Child Palates: there are two of these in the house. They are    terrified of all things that Have Taste and shun most foods that are not rice, pasta or vanilla yogurt.

Care to guess who’s who? In a shocking turn of events, Hope, the 3 year old is the Gourmand, Jeff would be the Gluten Intolerant and Tom and I are behind Door #3. I have to say, it warms my heart to watch my little girl down squid with a relish that would make the inhabitants of Sea World blush. But it does also make me a little woozy.

Breakfast                                                                 A quick Hope story: the first night we were here, we went to a neighborhood restaurant with a few local Chinese friends. Typically, meals are ordered for the group, with the food placed on a spinning Lazy Susan in the middle of the table and diners pick and chose from the selections. There were a dozen dishes to choose from, and while Tom was hiding under the table, weeping quietly, Hope was in her glory. She likes to graze, and insists on food that has ‘taste.’ She was happily sampling this and that and that and this, when she spied something that stopped her in her tracks. It was a wee bird head on a plate – two of them actually. She picked one up with her little fingers and displayed it for the rest of us and said, “I would like to try this!”

She was gently discouraged by our Chinese host, who explained that while some people like to crunch the little bird heads, most people don’t. Her disappointment was palatable, and she still mentions that bird head, wondering why we didn’t let her eat it.

As for the rest of us losers, my mom likes to describe Tom and I as  Super Tasters. These people ostensibly have incredibly sensitive taste buds that make them seek out blander foods. Jeff just calls me a food enabler.  But either, way, as an adult I have more control over my ability to eat foods that are inherently not my style – Tom just gags.

And poor Jeff. Hope springs from his side of the gene pool. He would be in his culinary glory were it not for his wheat allergy. No dumplings, no sauces, no spring rolls, no noodles, no soy sauce, no fun.

Lunch

The basic strategy of the moms I have met around here is that they do the best they can to replicate their home menus for their children. We’ll discuss how that works later in the week, but the inherent problem for the likes of us is that our “home menu” would be pretty hard to replicate. We lived on a farm and did the best we could to “grow our own” stuff. We made our own maple syrup, raised our own chickens and pigs, Jeff shot deer, we bought beef from our neighbors and had a big old garden every summer – and I canned what I could for winter consumption.

Now don’t get me wrong, Tom’s favorite meal was chicken nuggets and onion rings and Hope’s was macaroni and cheese, so it’s not like we were living some kind of twenty first century Little House On the Septic Field, but we didn’t exactly have the everyday kind of Hamburger Helper lifestyle either. So, replicating what we had? While it’s possible around here – they do sell live chickens on my corner – it’s probably not the best idea – from a food safety and sanitation standpoint.
Joy. Bliss. Yum.

So for our intrepid band eating anywhere can be a challenge – living in Nanjing ratchets the challenge up a notch. I think the only food that all four of us can – and will – eat are rice cakes and peanut butter. I will say that the rice cakes around here are particularly tasty and we periodically raid the local grocery store just to make sure that our jars of horded Skippy don’t run too low. One jar a week so far, and counting.

End Part 1

Finding a School

So, we are looking into schools for Tom and Hope. Now, half you are saying, “Great! So, you’re going to find a nice barn and start riding?” And the other half are picking your jaws up off the floor, “Whhaaaaaa? School? You are going to send your children to school??”
Random cute photo - Jeff and children in courtyard on a sunny day
I have a well deserved reputation as being somewhat less than excited by the idea of actually handing my children over to someone else to educate. Not that I am looking to home school them, mind you, as I do believe the socialization and the bits of knowledge that will drop on them randomly in public school are a good thing. It’s just that I think they should wait until they are ready. Really ready. Probably like, 12. Hey, I like my kids and generally enjoy having them around – sue me.

But, reality check, things are different here. For one, I haven’t found any children for Tom and Hope to play with during the week. Because they are all in school. All the three and five year olds are in school. Which leaves me with two options: educate and entertain them myself, or put them in school.

Now, if this were Pennsylvania, Ellen’s Educate & Entertain ‘Em would be in full swing. There are lots of programs, places to go, people to meet, things to see all within easy driving distance – and I can only imagine that those of you who were frequent victims of my over-enthusiasm are probably breathing a huge sigh of relief that now the Chinese have to deal with me.

However, there is one wee difference between here and life back in Pennsylvania - the language. While this might be a small bump in the road to those more intrepid than I, we are finding that it does make life a bit more, um, interesting. As we are seeking out activities and heading to sites of interest we often find ourselves not exactly sure what we’re looking at. And the sort activities that we used to do back in the US – like the Easton Canal Museum, the New Hope Steam Train, story hour at the library – or just going to the library to read and chose books – weekly gymnastic classes, swimming or music classes are just not available here. Or at least not in a language that makes the activity engaging for the children and me.

And so we have been investigating schools. There are a range of options, including Chinese, America, British, Montessori and something resembling a kind of laissez-faire Waldorf (which struck me as being about as structured an educational experience as setting your children free in the streets for the day). Interestingly enough, my search turned also up the following tidbit:

        Suspect Held for Kindergarten Poison Attack in S. China
A 30-year-old man has confessed to police he was responsible for poisoning 70 children and two teachers at a kindergarten in Wuchuan, south China's Guangdong Province. On November 25, the kindergarten children and teachers fell ill after lunch and were sent to hospital for emergency treatment. They were found to have been poisoned with "Dushuqiang," a banned rat killer that was also used in a mass poisoning in Nanjing in September.

On the evening of November 24, Huang broke into the kitchen of the rival kindergarten and put the rat poison in the salt, he told the police. Nobody has died in the accident so far, and all the victims are in stable conditions, according to official sources.

The guy got hung for it. Whew. But it does add an incremental challenge to usual the School Interview: “So, who exactly are your competition and exactly how mentally stable do you think they are?”

Barry and Larry Return To The Land Of Their Birth

I’d like to take a moment to introduce two of our traveling companions who have heretofore gone un-discussed. Please add to our list of intrepid travelers Barry and Larry. Interestingly enough, this trip represents for Barry and Larry a homecoming of sorts, having both been made in China. Their advent to the US led them to us, where they were embraced by our children as soul mates and have henceforth traveled with us wherever we have gone.
Meet Barry and Larry
At the end of the day, it’s not really so very many places, but between them, Barry and Larry probably could have more frequent flier miles than many US citizens. Australia, Tortola, Grenada, at least a dozen different US states including Alaska, they rank as global travelers, those two.
Barry is the bear. He is a little ratty around the edges, having joined our family just before Tom was born and becoming Tom’s compatriot shortly thereafter. Almost five years of being dragged hither and yon wrecks havoc on  bear pelt. The Bear, as he is affectionately known, now sports a black rhinestone collar to which we clip an address card (in both English and Chinese) just in case he were to get separated from our party.

Larry, also known as Lambie, is Hope’s companion. Hope can be fickle, and has been known to allow other stuffed friends to vie for her affection for short periods of time. But at the end of the day, Larry the Lamb is her BFF, and he was chosen to sport the purple rhinestone collar and join us on our Middle Kingdom adventures.
In addition to sporting the ID collars, Barry and Larry have gotten supporting medical attention to insure good health on their journey. Lining them all up on the floor, the children – drawing on some combination of their own reality and vivid imaginations – carefully gave them their shots: Appetitus A, a shot to keep them from getting colds and a warm shot, too, so they wouldn’t get overheated while they were here. There have been no adverse reactions to their inoculations to date, and no complaints from them about being too cold or too warm, so maybe there’s something in that.

Overall, I’d have to say Barry and Larry have adapted quite well, demonstrating absolutely no jet lag or culture shock and exuding only their usual comforting auras. In fact, if you ask Tom, Barry is feeling right at home. The children were playing “farm” the other day – a favorite game here on the 16th floor – and they were detailing for me the diets of their farm animal family. As it turns out, Tom explained, while Barry’s been here, he has developed a taste for bamboo.

Purple Mountain, Majesty?

There are not a lot of detailed tourist guides about the city of Nanjing. Lonely Planet has one coming out in November, but I suspect by then we’ll be in good shape to offer ourselves up as contributing editors. But, we are slowly getting out to the local sites.  It took us a week to locate a map that we could readily use, but now that we have that in hand and use of some portion of the internet, we are spreading our wings a bit and plan to see more than our local neighborhood. 

                                                                       Sleeping Beauty:

            

Our first touring effort was made quite easy by the addition of a local Chinese family to guide us. One of the men who works with Jeff offered to take us with his family on a hike up Purple Mountain. The Purple Mountain area is a fairly extensive wooded area with a number of noted sites, including the Purple Mountain Observatory, a cable car ride to the top, and Dr. Sun-Yat Sen’s mausoleum. Our aim for the day was to climb to the Observatory, have lunch at the top and then hike back down.

The hiking path up the mountain was paved with stone, so Tom was able to manage to climb all the way to the top – a hike of a little more than an hour and fairly steep. Hope was reluctant to walk and quite a bit more vocal and ultimately insisted she be pushed all the way up in a stroller. It is unfortunate, but possibly the biggest mistake we made so far was in not bringing appropriate child conveyances from the US with us. As most of you who spend time with me in PA know, I am double stroller happy. There is nothing I like more than plunking the two children in a double and  heading off – I find it reduces whining, significantly increases land speed and the end result is a happier experience for everyone. Jeff puts this in the category of  enabling behavior, but I dare him to spend one week with the children alone trying to accomplish anything, and then come back and talk to me about it.

But, we’re going to China, right? Everything is made in China, right? So why would you bring a double stroller to China when you can buy one right in the country of origin? Right? Wrong. 

China has a one child policy. One. And they are really serious about it. So, how many people have a need for a double stoller? Right. Basically no one. So, no, they are not exactly a hot commodity here. (1)

So the only stroller we brought with us is our ratty travel-through-airports-stroller. We paid nine bucks for it and bought it for the purpose of wheeling Hope through the Sydney airport when we went to Australia. The fact that it is still around and in use is a testament not to the high manufacturing quality, but to our inherent cheapness. But the stroller, while a horror to use with its tiny wheels, too short handles and random turning radius, is better than trying to carry Hope, who while cute, is heavy. 

So with the crappy stroller sliding on the slightly rain slicked paving stones, Jeff pushed it to the top, while Tom and I walked.  It was a lovely walk, crowded at the bottom, but less and less so as we approached the top. The biggest downside was the taxis that intermittently raced past. The roadway was narrow and the taxis were not taking any prisoners. Jeff’s position was that in a game of chicken, he and Hope would win – meaning the taxis would not run them over. My position was that using your child sleeping in a stroller in that kind of social experiment constitutes bad parenting. However, he was pushing her up the hill, so I had to temper my complaints or risk being handed the stroller. Which raises the question: who’s really the bad parent?

But Tom and I got to discuss bamboo growing along the road side and the fact that Panda bears do live in the wild but not around here and saw some great views of the city. There is a restaurant at  the top and we were able to secure a private room for our party and have very nice lunch. The concept of private room dining is new to me, but I really like it. We went to our favorite (only?) local restaurant for dinner the prior night and also received a private room for just ourselves and the children. The nicest thing about a private room is that the children get to roam a bit and not make a fuss with other diners.

After lunch, we headed to the tippy top where the Observatory is. The views were a little reduced because the weather was gray, but at the top we did get to see most of the city. We are slowly starting to put the pieces together as to where things are in the city.

AT&T Calling

I have three phones in my apartment. One is linked to a local Pennsylvania number. Which means that if you call this particular PA phone number, the phone will ring in my apartment here in Nanjing. A local US call for you. Ditto if I call you in the US. Your caller id will identify me as a Pennsylvania caller. No kidding. Technology is just amazing, isn’t it? I also use this phone to dial Jeff in his office by just punching in his extension.

I also have a mobile. I would have called this a cell phone back in the US, but we are here now and I am picking up the local lingo. It’s a mobile. I do use it, although with a fair amount of trepidation.  Half the time when it rings, it is a wrong number, to which I am supposed to say “ni da cuo le.” (You have the wrong number.) Which I try to say, but one can only imagine what I am actually saying: “Please turn down the music!” or “I love your hair, shorter really suits you!” The point is, whatever it is I am saying, the person on the other end quickly realizes I am not going to help them out in any way and hangs up.       Random cute kid photo - our apartment playground

Then there is the fine art of making phone calls. Let’s say for example, you are living in a country where your native (and only) language is not the native language. Let’s say, you’re living in China, for example, and you only speak, say English. You really can’t expect people to speak English, right? But you want information. And you’re in a country where if you send an email without an introduction, you will get ignored (it is a cultural thing). So, you call.

Problem: You are calling schools looking to do some tours to possibly enroll the children for a semester. Here’s the phone number:

025-86640351

Step 1: Dial number.
Get recording in both Chinese and English (!!!) that the number you have dialed does not exist.
Step 2: Lop off first three digits and try again.
Get recording in both Chinese and English (!!!) that the number you have dialed does not exist.
Step 3: Lop off random additional digits and keep trying until a person answers the phone.
Person answers the phone in Chinese (duh, this is China).
Me: “Ni hui, shuo ying yu ma?” Which I think roughly translates to “Hello, do you speak English?”
Person: “Sorry, I do not understand you.”

Now what? Does this mean they did not understand my meager Chinese and are hoping I speak English, the other language they speak? Or is the only sentence in English that they speak, much like the only sentence in Chinese I speak is the above? And, the real question, does the person who has answered the phone even work at the place that I am hoping to contact? And how on earth do I ask??

Nervous twitch, and accidentally hang up the phone. Dang!

Start over at Step 3.
Person answers the phone in Chinese.
Me: “Ni hui, shuo ying yu ma?” 
Person: Does not speak any English, and begins discourse in Chinese.
Me: “Um, English?
Person: Does not speak any English, and continues discourse in Chinese, probably offering me options, possibly other phone numbers to call, suggestions that maybe I should get a translator before I call next time, etc, none of which I can understand or react to.
Me: “Nanjing Kindergarten No. 1?” (In hopes of at least discovering if this is the correct phone number)
Person: At this point is probably suggesting that I was at the very bottom of my Chinese class, which is true.
Me: “Xie xie.” (thank you) and hang up the phone.

I got to tell you, it ain’t easy.

The third phone, remember the third phone? It’s the one that came with my apartment. It rings occasionally, too. When that happens, we just watch it until it stops. I mean, really, what would you do?

Country Mouse, City Mouse

Not surprisingly, quite a few people ask me if we are suffering from culture shock. The correct answer, I believe, is “not yet.” We haven’t really been here long enough to be shocked by cultural differences. Some culture dislocation is fairly natural at this stage of the game, of course, but, shock? Just wait, I’m sure it’s coming soon to a blog near you.

                                                                    Tom adopts the local custom of using an umbrella to shield the sun
However, we do seem to be suffering from what I refer to as Country Mouse Syndrome. By which I mean, we are Country Mice in the US, by choice. And no matter how you slice it, this is a pretty citified environment. Our children have spent the vast majority of their – albeit short – lives on a 130-acre farm. They are used to peaceful quiet, complete privacy, clean water and air, farm animals and a rare ability to drop trous and pee outside anytime with no fear of reprisal. Wait, strike that. Technically, they can still do that around here.

The differences between here and there are night and day. Or maybe Mars and Venus. Or maybe spinach and cotton candy. I don’t know, but it’s a struggle to find words to fully express the difference between Where We Were and Where We Are. Here are a few examples:

Traffic. This is probably the number one topic of discussion for anyone coming from the US to China. While the traffic in Nanjing is apparently quite tame compared to Beijing or Shanghai, it’s still worlds away from small town living in Pennsylvania where there are actual traffic laws and repercussions for breaking them. Navigating our relatively gentle neighborhood on foot requires a combination of tact, ferocity, speed and brass cojones.

Crowds. There are six million people living in this city. It feels as though I have rubbed elbows with about five million of them. But I’m exaggerating. Can’t be more than three million, on any given day.
                                                                  
Noise. All day, every day. It is inescapable. From the banging of drums at six o’clock in the morning, random fireworks, dogs barking, screeching of bus brakes, car horns, scooter horns, taxi horns, horns to the left of me, horns to the right of me, the occasional odd wafting sound of Bruce Springsteen at full volume, the background noise is constant. While we used to complain about the bullfrogs in the pond during hot summer nights, they couldn’t hold a roman candle to the street sounds of Nanjing at 3am.

Lights. Ditto above. Flashing neon, street lights, headlights. We are in a city. And people move about all night long. And use artificial light to achieve this goal. To our sleep detriment.

Waiting for elevators. Weird. Just so alien. Leaving our house in Doylestown required nothing more than a wish to step outside, a click of ruby slippers and, *poof*, you were outside! Not here. 16 floors of waiting for an elevator awaits anyone who wishes to set foot on terra firma.

But really, this is city living, ne c’est pas? We would have the same issues living on the 16th floor in NYC or Boston or Chicago. Excepting maybe the fireworks.
But while life in Nanjing may not always be a bowl of kiwi   fruit, we are adjusting to city life fairly well. Just the other day, the children and I were setting off on the short walk to our local shopping center. It’s about ten minutes, and a fairly pleasant walk through our comfortable neighborhood. As we were heading down in the elevator, Tom sighed a big sigh. I asked him what was wrong.
                                                                   

“Mom,” he sighed again, “it is SUCH a long walk to go shopping. Can’t we just hail a cab?”
                                                                                            Working on his cab hailing technique.
Ah, Country Mouse, welcome to the city. 
 




                                                              

So, Mom, How Do You Make (fill in the blank)?

For those of you who have young children, the question of “Mom, how you make (fill in the blank)?”  occurs with the kind of frequency and regularity that reminds one of breathing. Our days are filled questions about where things come from and how they are made. Jeff and I do what we can to encourage and respond to this type of questioning, as I am afraid curiosity has become an undervalued asset in our society.

So, when the opportunity came up for us to visit a manufacturing plant here in China, we jumped at it. Which is to say, we signed ourselves and the children up for it. Now, even as we were doing this, we recognized the downsides. This particular plant produces cast iron products. The plant is comprehensive – raw materials are shipped via train, iron is heated to extreme temperatures in the blast furnace (1500C) and then reheated in the smelter, then molded. The final steps involve coating and painting the manufactured items before stacking and storing for shipment around the world.  So, the odds of this plant tour being at all similar to the plants I used to work in during my Nabisco days, well, even I’m not that blithe.

But we sold the tour to the children as a chance to see “how stuff was made!!” And, double bonus round, we were going to ride a bus to the plant!! Well, it was all we could do to keep them from heading right off.

The tour started early on a Saturday morning, with a bus ride out of town to an area where iron ore is plentiful and there are a number of iron smelters, large and small. But rather than have me explain it, why don’t I turn it over to Tom and let him give you his impressions (the follow is inscribed – the voice in your head as you read this should switch from mine to that of a wee five year old boy with a piping falsetto):

Me: “So, Tom, what was your favorite part of the tour?”

“Well, ma. I had FOUR favorite parts. My FIRST favorite part was when they heated the metal really hot and then it poured out [the blast furnace]. It was so hot you could see the metal on fire! And then my SECOND favorite part was when they used those train things and they poured the hot metal in them [technically, they were casting and the molds were moving along on little carts – translated in five year old boy speak to “trains”], and my THIRD favorite part was when we were watching the pipes be made. That was amazing. They were all on fire. And then my FOURTH favorite part was watching them stack the pipes and move them around on the forklifts.”

Me: “Sounds like you had a good time.”

Tom, nodding quite emphatically: “Yeah, it was really, really interesting.”

Me: “So the tour next month is a car factory. Would you like to go?”

Tom was quiet for a minute, with his eyes wide open. Then, in what can only be described as an awe-filled tone, he said: “A CAR factory? I can see how they make cars. Wow. Yeah, ma, that would be great!”

So, big win for Tom. Hope, maybe not so much.

Me: "Hope, what was your favorite part of the factory tour?"

Hope: "Going home."
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Note on yesterdays blog: To those who gently pointed out that I should not consider quitting my day job to take up illustrating, I would like to remind you, I don’t actually have a day job.

Heart Failure on the 16th Floor

The air conditioning units in our bedrooms are leaking and there is water damage evident along the walls. We’re pretty lucky, in that we have someone we call who speaks English who calls the maintenance people as small issues crop up. Both repair person and English speaking person pop in at some appointed hour and the repair is made.

The water damage became quite a bit more evident during Tropical Storm Wipha. That would have been the Tropical Storm Wipha that I referred to in a prior post as “Typhoon Wipha,” that I should rightfully go back and edit to “Tropical Storm Wipha,” but since I just love the words “Typhoon Wipha” and the danger they connote, I won’t. Apparently the damage is related to the water condensation pipe that leads out. The hole in the wall that the pipe goes out through is not sealed properly and water leaks in both when it rains and when the condensing water leaves the building.

At the appointed hour this morning maintenance man and English speaking person arrived to work on the leaking air condition. It is a pretty enough day out here, that I had popped the windows open anyway. I know, I know, I’m living in one of the most polluted countries on the planet in a big industrial city. But, look, it seemed like a beautiful day out and we like fresh air, so I opened the windows.  Don’t pee in my Wheaties, okay?

The children and I were watching the work, sitting on my bed. There is something really nice about hanging out on your bed on a bright sunny day, a gentle breeze blowing across the room, hugging your children discussing with them the process of the air conditioning being fixed. We just like that kind of stuff.

That is, until the very moment that Mr. Maintenance man stepped up on the window sill and walked outside. I am still shaking as I type this. I swear I felt my cardiac muscles seize. I just froze, clutching the children. I mean, we are pretty dang careful with the children and open windows up here on the 16th floor. But to see this young man just walk up on the sill, and go outside froze my blood.

I quietly sent the children off for a snack while I tried to regain my sensibilities and restart my heart. He was out there for quite some time. He was actually picking off the old plaster around the pipe and patching it with new. All the while standing on the edge of a window up on 16th floor totally unsupported or unsecured, clinging with his curled up toes and one hand to the edge of the sill.

I happened to have my laptop sitting on the bed and dashed off a quick email to Jeff, letting him know that if I were a cold lifeless corpse upon his return from work today, there was a very good reason. He’s a pretty cool, calm collected kind of a guy, which is a nice counterbalance for me. His response was, “I wondered how they put the external air conditioning units on the side of the building.”

Ah, well, as we have become wont to say: “Welcome to China!”  

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The above representation is close, but not quite as dramatic as the actual event. The air conditioning unit is on the extreme right and up high. So the maintenance man was actually much farther over to the right and really clinging to the edge. My stick man drawing skills were maxed out, though, and I figured this was close enough.

 

Cultural Troglodyte(1) Checking In-Part 1

This is the first in what I imagine will be a continuing serious of touristy type posts. We, of the Wide-Eyed Blond Troglydyte Tribe, occasionally do see stuff that makes us take those photos that you are just the teensiest bit ashamed to be taking. You know what I mean. The ones where you are documenting an every day kind of occurrence for someone in their native county, but it’s so interesting and cool and different to you that you just want to snap a photo to show to Aunt Pat back home?  (Hi, Aunt Pat!) Kind of like if some Pacific Islander tourist came to the US and stood around taking photos of the tattooed adipose-ians who congregate in most East Coast Wal-Marts. But I digress.   

The first night we were here, we heard the rhythmic beating of drums and cymbals from the street below. Peering out of Tom’s bedroom window to the parking lot across the street, were greeted to the sight of a group of twenty teeny tiny people (we’re on the 16th floor) dancing (marching?) in rhythm, beating what appeared to be small drums and cymbals and waving red flags. While we had absolutely no idea what was going on, the children and I thought it was the cat’s meow, and we perched on the window sill watching fascinated.

The next few nights it rained, but last night, we heard the sounds of the drum beats again. Tom looked at me, I looked at Tom, and in a flash, we jammed on our shoes, stuffed a protesting Hope in the stroller and made the dash to street level. In doing so, we left behind all of the items on the Leaving the Apartment Checklist – except the keys. This is not a good sign, but it does – I hope – add to the heightened excitement of the moment – we were so keen to go, we left without our toilet paper!

We sat down on a stone wall not far from the dancers and watched, just enthralled. The tiny people turned out to be a group of Ladies of a Certain Age. Very grandmotherly in appearance and dress, their synchronized movements of swinging the red flags and beating the drums all in sync was really just marvelous to watch. I have seen the Ladies of A Certain Age Swim Aerobics Class at my YMCA, and, frankly, there was just no comparison.

We weren’t the only spectators – there was a small crowd on the opposite side of the lot, watching with evident enjoyment and taking the occasional cell phone snap as the ladies raised their flags and pounded their drums. It was after dark, although the streetlights lit up the area quite well, and the drums and the cymbals and the flags swinging were really quite a picture! But, it was too dark for photos. I was kind of desperate to document the moment, but, really there wasn’t any way. And besides, I was feeling really touristy and out of place holding my camera. I mean, I live in this neighborhood.

But, fate intervened in my favor. As it so happens in our neck of the woods, while the three of us were quietly watching, enthralled, we started to draw our own crowd. First it was a man with the probable grandson of one of the marching, drum pounding, flag waving ladies. The child was about two and he and Hope were chatting a bit, when the apparent grandmother of the young man spied him chatting with her. It started slowly. First she trotted over, then she waved over one of her friends, and, suddenly, all heck broke loose. The ladies broke ranks, and stampeded – red drums and red flags and cymbals flying –  in our general direction. 

There’s something about a Little Red Haired Girl that seems to attract a good bit of attention around here. The fact that she has cute chubby checks and curls seems to also cause a lot of discussion. I say “seems” because of course I have no idea what people are saying when they talk to her, but they say a lot. The ladies were just thrilled with her. Tom, too, although he has taken to hiding behind me when we’re overrun. Hope put on quite a good face about it, but we did eventually have to untangle ourselves, beg off and head for home. The ladies went back to their rehearsal? Exercise class? Training session? And we finished watching from the window of our apartment.

I still don’t know exactly what they were doing, but I suspect it will be high entertainment for us for a while longer. On the way home, Tom said, “Mom, do you think they practice every night? ‘Cause we still have three more months to watch 'em!” Jeff also tells me there is a group of Ladies of a Certain Age who do the same sort of thing on the corner in the mornings. Only, they do it with swords! I am sensing a terrific photo op in the very near future.

(1)    Technically, a cave dweller. More currently in use to describe one who is perhaps unacquainted with the world.