28 February 2009
Retort to Zeck's comment from original "Day at the Salon"
Why is it I don't find myself compelled to snap some pics? Perhaps it's because some part of me is insistent upon using this blog as a literary device. I'm forcing my readers to use their imagination, encouraged by my literary skill. I also burned myself out with my last blog, SpaceDesignJournal.com, in which I incorporated myriad media forms to seemingly no avail. Nonetheless, I shall eventually buy batteries and start exercising my photographic skills for this blog and other purposes.
26 February 2009
An addendum to "A Day at the Salon"
Today marks RR day. Don't know what it stands for but it's evidently a largely celebrated concept here. Something about the digits in today's date bringing fortune.... Some people dress in traditional Chinese attire and dance around the central district. Others light fireworks throughout the day and into the dark skies at night. Still others manifest their superstitious belief that to get a haircut brings a year of fortune.
My roommate was one of the latter. She went to the same salon that turned my head into an orange. As a Mexican American she has course hair, dark as potting soil and highlighted blonde, just beyond shoulder length. Since the stylist didn't seem to recall the element of symmetry when trimming her locks, she will not be returning.
We have agreed to travel to Beijing or another cosmopolitan city that's entered the 21st century of hair styling and has experience in Western hair styles.
While she did end up having to take scissors to her some strands inadvertently left longer than others, at least she didn't end up looking like an orange. However, he did learn from his lesson in undercharging me; he asked how much it would cost if she had it done in the States. Ooops. Her year of good fortune seems to have a sense of humor.
My roommate was one of the latter. She went to the same salon that turned my head into an orange. As a Mexican American she has course hair, dark as potting soil and highlighted blonde, just beyond shoulder length. Since the stylist didn't seem to recall the element of symmetry when trimming her locks, she will not be returning.
We have agreed to travel to Beijing or another cosmopolitan city that's entered the 21st century of hair styling and has experience in Western hair styles.
While she did end up having to take scissors to her some strands inadvertently left longer than others, at least she didn't end up looking like an orange. However, he did learn from his lesson in undercharging me; he asked how much it would cost if she had it done in the States. Ooops. Her year of good fortune seems to have a sense of humor.
24 February 2009
The Face of Despair
Something in her face struck me like a blow to the stomach. Only one who’s been through an emotional trauma that leaves you speechless and unable to dig your thoughts out of the quagmire can appreciate the depths of that blow. Some things happen and force us to loosen our grips on control. Some things happen that take the reigns clear out of our hands. Some things happen that strike us so deep as if to place us forever at the bottom of a canyon, one from which we cannot fathom ascending, cannot but take the new emotional terrain as but a new course in our lives. We think it’ll never end. Our thoughts become like a car stuck in a snow bank. We are unsure of how to extract ourselves. Fail too much to one side and we fall off teh cliff, gone entirely forever. Fail too much on the reverse side and we face another certain death in teh uncoming traffic.
These snowbanks don’t appear when we’re climbing, riding high on teh ascent. No. They appear only when we’re already traversing teh clope, face down. We begin to travel downward like the proverbial snowball, spirallin gin further and further into the abyss in a series of irregular circles. UNpatterned, irreparably imprecise until we find that rock at the bottom.
With each steppe down teh moutain we think we’ve hit a plateau from which to recover. We can dust ourselves off, take a breath, and contemplate how best to right ourselves. But then the wind blowsagain, bringing with it mroe cursed snow upon whcih we stumble and fall again to steppes further down, down, down. Rock bottom finally succumbs to Dante’s Inferno as you realize that life has decided to take you for a ride. You have no control. You are not divine. You are but a speck of dust flying through the breeze.
It was as the gates of hell opened that I was forced to check my spiritual beliefs. Even if they were but a patchwork from the cognitive dissonances expereinced to then in my life. Even if they were but pieced together from my explorations of systems and gods and forces. To rckon teh emotional turbulence, you resort to practicing logic again. But after skidding further down the spiral, bumping into boulders, sped up by the slime of life’s backside, you are tossed against fossilized trees of hope that stand like skeletons of hope’s ruin. You can make no sense of this. Hope is that light that lead you along the road with the snowbank. It is up there. You are falling down, down, down intot he valley of despair.
Then watery images begin to appear. You see one on your rapid descent, noticing it long enough to smartly distract you from the terror of absolute loss of control. A pair arrive then. They begin to form patterns of hues, of textures. When another and another race past like small towns from the window of a bullet train, you begin to notice they are a face, a woman’s face. A slack jawline, an eye green shaded like a faded meadow, a nose not bulbous nor slight, a forehead with the beginnings of age. But who is it? Another round about the spiral and you’ve pieced it together.
She is you. She is the you not created by ego, a character not defined by profession or intellect, a solitary being who cannot by defined by a mirror’s image. When the face’s puzzled has pieced itself together she looks at you, revealing an older person, a wizened being. There is a loneliness, a sadness expressed in her countenance that only you can read. Such dread, some sadness, such rage and disillusionment appears that you reach out to her.
And upon the simple thrust of your conciliatory hand slows your descent.
You find your throat constricted, dry. But you ask, “Who are you?”
“Hope,” she says, and her wishes for a smile and warmth radiate like echoes in this canyon of despair.
Just then a small, foggy beam of light centers itself when your fingers connect. You both look up at the tunnel you’ve lost yourself in. The descent ceases like a creaky elevator reaching terra firma.
There it is. The light of hope.
It is only now that I have rediscovered the light of hope again that I can recognize that face that once struck such a crippling blow. Hope is the you beyond characterization and preconceived notions, beyond self-fulfilling imagery and societal roles. Hope is the recognition of yourself beyond all your fears.
Hope is the the light needed to guide your way, and only you can keep it alive.
These snowbanks don’t appear when we’re climbing, riding high on teh ascent. No. They appear only when we’re already traversing teh clope, face down. We begin to travel downward like the proverbial snowball, spirallin gin further and further into the abyss in a series of irregular circles. UNpatterned, irreparably imprecise until we find that rock at the bottom.
With each steppe down teh moutain we think we’ve hit a plateau from which to recover. We can dust ourselves off, take a breath, and contemplate how best to right ourselves. But then the wind blowsagain, bringing with it mroe cursed snow upon whcih we stumble and fall again to steppes further down, down, down. Rock bottom finally succumbs to Dante’s Inferno as you realize that life has decided to take you for a ride. You have no control. You are not divine. You are but a speck of dust flying through the breeze.
It was as the gates of hell opened that I was forced to check my spiritual beliefs. Even if they were but a patchwork from the cognitive dissonances expereinced to then in my life. Even if they were but pieced together from my explorations of systems and gods and forces. To rckon teh emotional turbulence, you resort to practicing logic again. But after skidding further down the spiral, bumping into boulders, sped up by the slime of life’s backside, you are tossed against fossilized trees of hope that stand like skeletons of hope’s ruin. You can make no sense of this. Hope is that light that lead you along the road with the snowbank. It is up there. You are falling down, down, down intot he valley of despair.
Then watery images begin to appear. You see one on your rapid descent, noticing it long enough to smartly distract you from the terror of absolute loss of control. A pair arrive then. They begin to form patterns of hues, of textures. When another and another race past like small towns from the window of a bullet train, you begin to notice they are a face, a woman’s face. A slack jawline, an eye green shaded like a faded meadow, a nose not bulbous nor slight, a forehead with the beginnings of age. But who is it? Another round about the spiral and you’ve pieced it together.
She is you. She is the you not created by ego, a character not defined by profession or intellect, a solitary being who cannot by defined by a mirror’s image. When the face’s puzzled has pieced itself together she looks at you, revealing an older person, a wizened being. There is a loneliness, a sadness expressed in her countenance that only you can read. Such dread, some sadness, such rage and disillusionment appears that you reach out to her.
And upon the simple thrust of your conciliatory hand slows your descent.
You find your throat constricted, dry. But you ask, “Who are you?”
“Hope,” she says, and her wishes for a smile and warmth radiate like echoes in this canyon of despair.
Just then a small, foggy beam of light centers itself when your fingers connect. You both look up at the tunnel you’ve lost yourself in. The descent ceases like a creaky elevator reaching terra firma.
There it is. The light of hope.
It is only now that I have rediscovered the light of hope again that I can recognize that face that once struck such a crippling blow. Hope is the you beyond characterization and preconceived notions, beyond self-fulfilling imagery and societal roles. Hope is the recognition of yourself beyond all your fears.
Hope is the the light needed to guide your way, and only you can keep it alive.
23 February 2009
Taste the Unexpected
In another country without your favorite foods, foods your comfortable with, foods you know, you discover a great deal about what constitutes your taste buds, even about food memory.
For instance, upon waking from my jet lag here in China, I awoke with a ravenous stomach. I’d hadn’t had a chance to grocery shop yet, especially seeing that it was somewhere before dawn, and was therefore relegated to borrowing some of my roommate’s food. I’d found a bag of what we in America would assume were cookies. However, memories prevented me from assuming such on this occasion.
A Japanese neighbor had once thought she was treating my parents and me by giving us a package of bite-sized snacks. The colorful, jubilant aluminum-foil-like wrapped gave my mother and me the assumption that we were about to eat something sweet, something like a cookie. We each bit in to one, sourly disappointed. We pinched up our faces in acrid distaste for the bitter, sour taste of crackers. Not a single one of those snacks saw the likes of another mouth in that household.
On several other occasions I have been saddened to discover that I don’t like Italian pastries, or desserts made by Indian, Hispanic, or basically any other culture. I love ethnic food. Sampling them and experimenting in other countries or in food cities like Chicago, New York and San Francisco is one of life’s great pleasures. But the desserts I can let stand. All the better, I suppose, for then at least something doesn’t go to my hips.
That morning I knew better to assume. I sniffed the half-dollar sized spheres to learn they would not be salty. I noticed their sandy hue and somewhat flowery embossing. I ate three or four from what must be a couple hundred in the bag.
What did I find? They were pleasant! Not bitter like that Japanese cracker, not overly sweet like Hispanic candies, not dry and bland like most Italian pastries. The taste was simple, perfectly suitable for morning tea or an afternoon snack. Later, I ate more, somehow finally finding the right word to sum up what my taste buds had brought to the tip of my tongue: they’re graham crackers. They’re graham crackers!
I’ve always been a fan of graham crackers. I’m accustomed to America’s long, rectangular forms, but here they were bite-sized and round.
“Have all you like,” my roommate told me. “I do not like those. I bought that whole bag of them thinking they were something else.”
Sounded familiar.
For instance, upon waking from my jet lag here in China, I awoke with a ravenous stomach. I’d hadn’t had a chance to grocery shop yet, especially seeing that it was somewhere before dawn, and was therefore relegated to borrowing some of my roommate’s food. I’d found a bag of what we in America would assume were cookies. However, memories prevented me from assuming such on this occasion.
A Japanese neighbor had once thought she was treating my parents and me by giving us a package of bite-sized snacks. The colorful, jubilant aluminum-foil-like wrapped gave my mother and me the assumption that we were about to eat something sweet, something like a cookie. We each bit in to one, sourly disappointed. We pinched up our faces in acrid distaste for the bitter, sour taste of crackers. Not a single one of those snacks saw the likes of another mouth in that household.
On several other occasions I have been saddened to discover that I don’t like Italian pastries, or desserts made by Indian, Hispanic, or basically any other culture. I love ethnic food. Sampling them and experimenting in other countries or in food cities like Chicago, New York and San Francisco is one of life’s great pleasures. But the desserts I can let stand. All the better, I suppose, for then at least something doesn’t go to my hips.
That morning I knew better to assume. I sniffed the half-dollar sized spheres to learn they would not be salty. I noticed their sandy hue and somewhat flowery embossing. I ate three or four from what must be a couple hundred in the bag.
What did I find? They were pleasant! Not bitter like that Japanese cracker, not overly sweet like Hispanic candies, not dry and bland like most Italian pastries. The taste was simple, perfectly suitable for morning tea or an afternoon snack. Later, I ate more, somehow finally finding the right word to sum up what my taste buds had brought to the tip of my tongue: they’re graham crackers. They’re graham crackers!
I’ve always been a fan of graham crackers. I’m accustomed to America’s long, rectangular forms, but here they were bite-sized and round.
“Have all you like,” my roommate told me. “I do not like those. I bought that whole bag of them thinking they were something else.”
Sounded familiar.
21 February 2009
We Are What We Eat
How long does it take until you start smelling like the country you’ve moved to?
Nine days.
Really it’s only upon exercising or showering that you start to notice your own natural scent. This morning I repeatedly detected a scent of rice, almond and soy around my immediate milieu. Upon showering I could no longer deny it: that scent was coming from me.
Scents are an interesting notion. When a former lover came from Italy I could smell every Italian product on his body and he smelled like freshly picked vegetables and lemons. When my other lovers and friends have eaten meat I can smell it on them from 10 feet away (because I’m a vegetarian my olfactory senses pick this up faster). It’s the same idea as when someone’s been drinking profusely they reek of alcohol the next day, or when you’re sick you smell...well.. a bit acrid.
Other countries arouse one’s sense of smell easily. Here in Huludao, China, a walk down the old part of town, which might be considered the city center, tickles, itches, bumps and burns the ole’ snout. Some street vendors sell what translates to “stinky tofu.” Yes, it is appropriately named. A friend offered me a sniff from his handful of it, and the immediate image of someone’s rump came to mind. The scent of green tea, however, makes ones eyes glaze over with its earthy, warm, lightly lusciousness, almost to the point where you feel healthy just sniffing it. Large, branch-like chunks of ginger are a combination of sweet spice and can be found anywhere from the fresh fried rice I made last night to the dishwashing detergent I used to wash my dishes afterward. The bountiful ears of corn, also sold by street vendors, touches the sweet side of the olfactory palette as well.
My American roommate arrives tomorrow from Dallas. I wonder if I’ll detect a hint of jalepenos and refried beans on her. I wonder how long it’ll take her to discover she’s starting to smell Chinese.
Nine days.
Really it’s only upon exercising or showering that you start to notice your own natural scent. This morning I repeatedly detected a scent of rice, almond and soy around my immediate milieu. Upon showering I could no longer deny it: that scent was coming from me.
Scents are an interesting notion. When a former lover came from Italy I could smell every Italian product on his body and he smelled like freshly picked vegetables and lemons. When my other lovers and friends have eaten meat I can smell it on them from 10 feet away (because I’m a vegetarian my olfactory senses pick this up faster). It’s the same idea as when someone’s been drinking profusely they reek of alcohol the next day, or when you’re sick you smell...well.. a bit acrid.
Other countries arouse one’s sense of smell easily. Here in Huludao, China, a walk down the old part of town, which might be considered the city center, tickles, itches, bumps and burns the ole’ snout. Some street vendors sell what translates to “stinky tofu.” Yes, it is appropriately named. A friend offered me a sniff from his handful of it, and the immediate image of someone’s rump came to mind. The scent of green tea, however, makes ones eyes glaze over with its earthy, warm, lightly lusciousness, almost to the point where you feel healthy just sniffing it. Large, branch-like chunks of ginger are a combination of sweet spice and can be found anywhere from the fresh fried rice I made last night to the dishwashing detergent I used to wash my dishes afterward. The bountiful ears of corn, also sold by street vendors, touches the sweet side of the olfactory palette as well.
My American roommate arrives tomorrow from Dallas. I wonder if I’ll detect a hint of jalepenos and refried beans on her. I wonder how long it’ll take her to discover she’s starting to smell Chinese.
20 February 2009
A Day at the Salon
There's a reason in America why whites don't see blacks in the seat next to them in the salon. It's not a matter of segregation; it's a matter of hair type. This isn't, however, something we become conscious of until we attempt to get our hair done in another country. More specifically, if I'd had it done in Italy, I'd be fine, slightly concerned at first but likely walking out feeling like I just walked out of Italian Vogue. In China, however, I'm in an Eastern country, one in which every single salon goer has straight black hair. To them, a perm is their way of setting themselves apart from the norm; coloring your hair means you go an amber shade of red.
Me? I'm trying to have it styled and colored-- blonde. Not dirty blonde, not ash blonde, not platinum blonde, but Sheryl Crow blonde. I might as well be Grace Jones seeking the assistance of Kate Winslett's hair stylist. Hmmm... well, I am desperate;
I haven't had my hair cut in six months. My dead ends are as bountiful as walls in a rat maze. And my mousy brown roots are far more than exposed. It's like a bird's nest. When I had my hair down in August in September the stylist misread what I wanted and gave me thin streaks of blonde-- that was a hell of a contrast to my dark chocolate layers. So it's a base of dark chocolate, some twigs of hay in it, and a halo of milk chocolate around it. My hair is a wreck.
I thought I'd never go back to blond. Living in Sarasota I went dark brown, partially to set myself apart from the myriad blondes. Now in China, where everyone has black hair and where they look upon Americans with the relish of spotting celebrities. They stop, stare and more than often ask where you're from. So I decide to play the part. Going back to blond sets me apart again. The weirdest part of it? I will feel better about being a Westerner by having blonde hair.
Now, mind you, there are no blondes around here. None. Not a one. Seeing a blonde Asian would be sillier than watching a blonde Beyonce or Mary J. Blige strut their stuff. It's completely unnatural and slightly alarming like a white elephant.
Well, I have apples. And I must do something with my hair. I'm a novelty here anyway; I might as well have fun with it. I proceed.
Through Belinda, a native who acts as my translator, I tell the salon owner what I want: which style and what hues. He browses intently some photos I've brought to illustrate the point. I and I select shades on a swatch. But then another level of weariness sets in.
My salon sessions typically last three hours. There's a lot of work to be done on a woman with hair almost to her waist. This guy, however, tells me it'll take about an hour. That's not a good sign, I think, unsure if I'm disguising fear or laughter with my nonchalance. What steps will he skip to achieve this in one hour? Is he gonna chop off my hair in one whack and pour peroxide on it?
After a while, an hour in, things are going well. He's coloring the whole head, strand by strand by strand. The acrid scent almost stirs atmospheric waves like a mirage around my head. That's a good sign. He is indeed using those dangerous agents I'm accustomed to and he's being thorough. Until he starts to wrap my head in saran wrap.
"What is this?" I ask, pointing to the three inch stripe along my natural part. How is this stripe gonna look natural? How is he planning to address this?
This man, whose hair is longer than mine, bends down at my left side. He points to his watch as if to indicate that my color will have to stay on for a certain period of time. Um, this I know. I've been coloring my hair for 25 years. That does not directly address the fact I'm afraid of looking like a skunk.
Because I don't speak Mandarin Chinese and he doesn't speak English, we call Belinda, who's eating dinner with my supervisor in their apartment about a block away. I communicate my concerns to her over the cell phone. (I'm reminded of a National Public Radio story I heard recently about an African who'd recently become a doctor and was relegated to give his first baby delivery to a breech baby-- with the assistance of trans-Atlantic cell phone call to America.)
I'm calmed when Belinda speaks to the salon owner, who then returns the phone to me. He's going to add a different coloring agent to that part, but because that's a lighter brown that the rest of your hair, it won't take as long to color. She goes into more detail and, thinking back to the processes I underwent when I was blonde, it starts to make sense. I sit back and relax as the coloring agents wash away my dark chocolate. The salon staff caters to me, putting on CCTV in English. The minutes go by.... He adds another color to my skunk stripe.
Finally I'm whisked away to the sink. Here I'm reminded of the scene in Out of Africa in which, during a safari, Robert Redford's Denys Finch-Hatton washes the hair of Meryl Streep's Karen Dinesen. Oh god I needed this!
Then I see my hair. There is the dark chocolate. There is the skunk stripe. What the hell! I call Belinda again. Through her, the salon owner finally asks, "Do you have your hair colored in the last couple of months?"
"Six months ago. This is something he should not only have seen but should have planned for before he started!" We start to discuss how much I'm paying him, if I should pay him, when I should pay him, and what are the alternatives. We decide to color it again.
Four hours later, I walk out of that salon feeling like an orange. I still have a skunk stripe, but he somehow blended it into the rest of my crown. I still have brown hair, but it's not dark chocolate anymore. However, I have no more split ends and it feels delicious in my hands. At the salon they love it. At Belinda's she loves it. At my apartment, my roommate loves it.
"It's been a long time since you've seen a non-Asian head, eh?" I'm thinking. "I'm an orange! You could eat my hair! I'm a big piece of fruit!"
At least I get to return to the salon for yet another attempt to get it to the proper shade. It will take a while to achieve the hair colors I seek. But this patient and passivist salon owner was good to me. He did try in earnest. He even offered to color it for a third time until I told Belinda, again on the cell phone, I'm not letting him fry my head to achieve what I'm looking for. This I do recall from the time I chopped off my hair and bleached it platinum in my Sharon Stone days. I decide to wait a week or so, let my hair get accustomed to this coloring at first. I'll get there. But first I'll play with my pseudo-celeb stature by playing the orange. If Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez can go blonde, I can go orange.
Me? I'm trying to have it styled and colored-- blonde. Not dirty blonde, not ash blonde, not platinum blonde, but Sheryl Crow blonde. I might as well be Grace Jones seeking the assistance of Kate Winslett's hair stylist. Hmmm... well, I am desperate;
I haven't had my hair cut in six months. My dead ends are as bountiful as walls in a rat maze. And my mousy brown roots are far more than exposed. It's like a bird's nest. When I had my hair down in August in September the stylist misread what I wanted and gave me thin streaks of blonde-- that was a hell of a contrast to my dark chocolate layers. So it's a base of dark chocolate, some twigs of hay in it, and a halo of milk chocolate around it. My hair is a wreck.
I thought I'd never go back to blond. Living in Sarasota I went dark brown, partially to set myself apart from the myriad blondes. Now in China, where everyone has black hair and where they look upon Americans with the relish of spotting celebrities. They stop, stare and more than often ask where you're from. So I decide to play the part. Going back to blond sets me apart again. The weirdest part of it? I will feel better about being a Westerner by having blonde hair.
Now, mind you, there are no blondes around here. None. Not a one. Seeing a blonde Asian would be sillier than watching a blonde Beyonce or Mary J. Blige strut their stuff. It's completely unnatural and slightly alarming like a white elephant.
Well, I have apples. And I must do something with my hair. I'm a novelty here anyway; I might as well have fun with it. I proceed.
Through Belinda, a native who acts as my translator, I tell the salon owner what I want: which style and what hues. He browses intently some photos I've brought to illustrate the point. I and I select shades on a swatch. But then another level of weariness sets in.
My salon sessions typically last three hours. There's a lot of work to be done on a woman with hair almost to her waist. This guy, however, tells me it'll take about an hour. That's not a good sign, I think, unsure if I'm disguising fear or laughter with my nonchalance. What steps will he skip to achieve this in one hour? Is he gonna chop off my hair in one whack and pour peroxide on it?
After a while, an hour in, things are going well. He's coloring the whole head, strand by strand by strand. The acrid scent almost stirs atmospheric waves like a mirage around my head. That's a good sign. He is indeed using those dangerous agents I'm accustomed to and he's being thorough. Until he starts to wrap my head in saran wrap.
"What is this?" I ask, pointing to the three inch stripe along my natural part. How is this stripe gonna look natural? How is he planning to address this?
This man, whose hair is longer than mine, bends down at my left side. He points to his watch as if to indicate that my color will have to stay on for a certain period of time. Um, this I know. I've been coloring my hair for 25 years. That does not directly address the fact I'm afraid of looking like a skunk.
Because I don't speak Mandarin Chinese and he doesn't speak English, we call Belinda, who's eating dinner with my supervisor in their apartment about a block away. I communicate my concerns to her over the cell phone. (I'm reminded of a National Public Radio story I heard recently about an African who'd recently become a doctor and was relegated to give his first baby delivery to a breech baby-- with the assistance of trans-Atlantic cell phone call to America.)
I'm calmed when Belinda speaks to the salon owner, who then returns the phone to me. He's going to add a different coloring agent to that part, but because that's a lighter brown that the rest of your hair, it won't take as long to color. She goes into more detail and, thinking back to the processes I underwent when I was blonde, it starts to make sense. I sit back and relax as the coloring agents wash away my dark chocolate. The salon staff caters to me, putting on CCTV in English. The minutes go by.... He adds another color to my skunk stripe.
Finally I'm whisked away to the sink. Here I'm reminded of the scene in Out of Africa in which, during a safari, Robert Redford's Denys Finch-Hatton washes the hair of Meryl Streep's Karen Dinesen. Oh god I needed this!
Then I see my hair. There is the dark chocolate. There is the skunk stripe. What the hell! I call Belinda again. Through her, the salon owner finally asks, "Do you have your hair colored in the last couple of months?"
"Six months ago. This is something he should not only have seen but should have planned for before he started!" We start to discuss how much I'm paying him, if I should pay him, when I should pay him, and what are the alternatives. We decide to color it again.
Four hours later, I walk out of that salon feeling like an orange. I still have a skunk stripe, but he somehow blended it into the rest of my crown. I still have brown hair, but it's not dark chocolate anymore. However, I have no more split ends and it feels delicious in my hands. At the salon they love it. At Belinda's she loves it. At my apartment, my roommate loves it.
"It's been a long time since you've seen a non-Asian head, eh?" I'm thinking. "I'm an orange! You could eat my hair! I'm a big piece of fruit!"
At least I get to return to the salon for yet another attempt to get it to the proper shade. It will take a while to achieve the hair colors I seek. But this patient and passivist salon owner was good to me. He did try in earnest. He even offered to color it for a third time until I told Belinda, again on the cell phone, I'm not letting him fry my head to achieve what I'm looking for. This I do recall from the time I chopped off my hair and bleached it platinum in my Sharon Stone days. I decide to wait a week or so, let my hair get accustomed to this coloring at first. I'll get there. But first I'll play with my pseudo-celeb stature by playing the orange. If Beyonce and Jennifer Lopez can go blonde, I can go orange.
19 February 2009
Fun with technology
Here's the thing about technology in a developing nation. AT&T wants me to pay $2/minute to use my iPhone in China-- that is receiving and sending phone calls. An unlimited data package costs --get this-- $200!/month. This is not what Friedman means when he says it's a flat world.
Also, bring lots of adapters. You'll need them for your rechargeable batteries, cameras, and any other electrical gadgets from developed nations. Take this example. Having been here for a week I have yet to take a photo. Mostly because my digital cameras rechargeable batteries need some juice. I try to recharge them today. Buzzzt! goes the charger, erroneously plugged into a plug adapter, which I confused for a voltage adapter. Not the same thing. Now I'm out batteries and a battery charger. Therefore no photos, and if I tried to send one from my iPhone it'll cost me an arm and leg. Good times!
And finally the fun one. In lieu of using my iPhone for phone and most of its data capabilities bc the new sim card doesn't work (despite four hours of work on it), I'm trying to use an ages old Nokia cell phone-- that's written in Mandarin. Better still is the fact that when I call someone, the receiver can't hear me. Lovely! The cherry on top is that fact that I don't know the phone number to the sim card, which does (sort of) work in this phone. Yes, folks, life is grand in the 19th century.
I'm a spoiled American. I like Pandora.com, a web site that lets you create your own radio stations and plays them commercial-free. It's fantastic-- but only in the States. I also like Hulu.com, where I would watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I do not, however, have that option OUTSIDE THE US.
On a better note, my podcasts of MSNBC, Brian Williams, Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow, are all functioning properly.
Also, bring lots of adapters. You'll need them for your rechargeable batteries, cameras, and any other electrical gadgets from developed nations. Take this example. Having been here for a week I have yet to take a photo. Mostly because my digital cameras rechargeable batteries need some juice. I try to recharge them today. Buzzzt! goes the charger, erroneously plugged into a plug adapter, which I confused for a voltage adapter. Not the same thing. Now I'm out batteries and a battery charger. Therefore no photos, and if I tried to send one from my iPhone it'll cost me an arm and leg. Good times!
And finally the fun one. In lieu of using my iPhone for phone and most of its data capabilities bc the new sim card doesn't work (despite four hours of work on it), I'm trying to use an ages old Nokia cell phone-- that's written in Mandarin. Better still is the fact that when I call someone, the receiver can't hear me. Lovely! The cherry on top is that fact that I don't know the phone number to the sim card, which does (sort of) work in this phone. Yes, folks, life is grand in the 19th century.
I'm a spoiled American. I like Pandora.com, a web site that lets you create your own radio stations and plays them commercial-free. It's fantastic-- but only in the States. I also like Hulu.com, where I would watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. I do not, however, have that option OUTSIDE THE US.
On a better note, my podcasts of MSNBC, Brian Williams, Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow, are all functioning properly.
18 February 2009
Bedside
The phlebotomist administering the blood test for my medical screening today had about as much bedside manner as Frankenstein-- or an Indian nurse. Oye! He wrapped this tubing around my arm like I was a heroin addict. Surely, I thought, my arm will fall off during a simple blood test. I did enjoy the EKG and cardiogram. They were like stepping back into the 1950s. The clinic was, I must say, quite efficient. American hospital agencies could take a lesson.
17 February 2009
Advice for Visitors
When in China, prepare for the disgusting. As they do in India, people will often urinate or even defecate in the open. Only sometimes will they be polite enough (in Western terms) to seek a tree or some other privacy.
Get used to indescrete bodily functions. That is, don't fret when those around you -- man and woman alike-- hock a lump up from their deepest sinus cavities or chest. Belching is also common.
For you non-smokers HA! You're out of luck as everyone smokes everywhere, much like Italy.
You become a sort of celebrity in China. People everywhere will immediately stop their activities or conversation to watch you. Sometimes they'll even backtrack just to get a look at you. (Again this isn't dissimilar from India or even parts of Italy.) Just think of yourself as having your 15 minutes of fame. I like to play the part by wearing my Ray Ban reflective lens aviators and my Radiohead t-shirt or Indian salwars, a bindi on my forehead or a capooch like a California rock star.
Regardless of the fact you speak their language-- and you speak it well-- they will refuse to understand you. They're a bit stunned first to see a Westerner then they're further shocked because you're speaking to them. Consider it akin to walking through the woods to discover its inhabitants talking to you.
Spit your bones on the plate. Don't discretely hide them in a napkin (there are no napkins). And certainly don't remove them from your mouth with your fingers. Fingers are disgusting. (Unlike India, you can use both hands freely when eating in China.)
Don't talk to the Brinks/Wells Fargo security personnel. Unless you want to be shot on the spot.
If you're not even some shade of white, do not come to China. Racism here is tantamount to 1920s Southern America.
Don't carry around your Frommer's or Lonely Planet travel guides: they "misspeak" Communist values and are therefore a sort of contraband. My Aussie roommate had to hide his on the plane here.
Unlike traveling to Italy, Costa Rica or India, do not expect anyone to know English. Finding a Chinese person who does is rare.
Do not be surprised when the fish arrives at your table intact with its head, tail and flesh.
Do not think chicken feet are a joke. The Chinese boil them into a sort of gooey substance and eat them with meals.
Yes, they really do eat dogs here. But they keep smaller, Zsa Zsa versions as pets. Haven't seen a cat yet, so I can't put word to that animal.
If you don't prefer reused hypodermic needles at the hospital, bring a Chinese-speaking friend during emergency situations.
Get your cheese fix back in the West. It's hard to come by here and not usually good when it is available. On the other hand, there is an abundance of seaweed salad!
Mao Tse-Dong was God here. Finding him on the yuan isn't different from finding Jefferson, Lincoln or Queen Elizabeth.
Yes, there is pizza. But don't expect Chicago-style deep dish, foldover New York style, or brick-oven Italian style.
For all you Britney Spears and Tom Cruise fans, sorry. The Chinese have better things to occupy their minds.
That's about it for now. Gimme some time (I've only been here four days) and I'll continue to rattle off some more travel tips.
Get used to indescrete bodily functions. That is, don't fret when those around you -- man and woman alike-- hock a lump up from their deepest sinus cavities or chest. Belching is also common.
For you non-smokers HA! You're out of luck as everyone smokes everywhere, much like Italy.
You become a sort of celebrity in China. People everywhere will immediately stop their activities or conversation to watch you. Sometimes they'll even backtrack just to get a look at you. (Again this isn't dissimilar from India or even parts of Italy.) Just think of yourself as having your 15 minutes of fame. I like to play the part by wearing my Ray Ban reflective lens aviators and my Radiohead t-shirt or Indian salwars, a bindi on my forehead or a capooch like a California rock star.
Regardless of the fact you speak their language-- and you speak it well-- they will refuse to understand you. They're a bit stunned first to see a Westerner then they're further shocked because you're speaking to them. Consider it akin to walking through the woods to discover its inhabitants talking to you.
Spit your bones on the plate. Don't discretely hide them in a napkin (there are no napkins). And certainly don't remove them from your mouth with your fingers. Fingers are disgusting. (Unlike India, you can use both hands freely when eating in China.)
Don't talk to the Brinks/Wells Fargo security personnel. Unless you want to be shot on the spot.
If you're not even some shade of white, do not come to China. Racism here is tantamount to 1920s Southern America.
Don't carry around your Frommer's or Lonely Planet travel guides: they "misspeak" Communist values and are therefore a sort of contraband. My Aussie roommate had to hide his on the plane here.
Unlike traveling to Italy, Costa Rica or India, do not expect anyone to know English. Finding a Chinese person who does is rare.
Do not be surprised when the fish arrives at your table intact with its head, tail and flesh.
Do not think chicken feet are a joke. The Chinese boil them into a sort of gooey substance and eat them with meals.
Yes, they really do eat dogs here. But they keep smaller, Zsa Zsa versions as pets. Haven't seen a cat yet, so I can't put word to that animal.
If you don't prefer reused hypodermic needles at the hospital, bring a Chinese-speaking friend during emergency situations.
Get your cheese fix back in the West. It's hard to come by here and not usually good when it is available. On the other hand, there is an abundance of seaweed salad!
Mao Tse-Dong was God here. Finding him on the yuan isn't different from finding Jefferson, Lincoln or Queen Elizabeth.
Yes, there is pizza. But don't expect Chicago-style deep dish, foldover New York style, or brick-oven Italian style.
For all you Britney Spears and Tom Cruise fans, sorry. The Chinese have better things to occupy their minds.
That's about it for now. Gimme some time (I've only been here four days) and I'll continue to rattle off some more travel tips.
16 February 2009
Gender Conundrum: Who Wears the Dress?
if i weren’t surrounded by westerners i would be blissfully unaware of the fact that Chinese women castrate their male lovers.
It started a few hours after my supervisor picked me up from the airport. One phone call at the airport. Another once we were on the four-hour drive from Beijing to Huludao. Then another about an hour later. Another to say it’s snowing in Huludao and therefore she was concerned. Another to see how his drive was. Another to tell her we were stuck on the highway for unknown reasons. Another half an hour later or so to tell her he’d see her tomorrow, for then at midnight we were looking at an overnight stay in the car, surrounded by overloaded semi trucks on a pitch black highway. After about three or four calls I had still been able to hold back my contempt for what seemed ridiculous clinging but my supervisor sensed I was not that type, and therefore he proceeded to explain that Chinese women are not the same as Western women. Um hmmm, I’m thinking, and I’ve heard that about Italian women and French women and eastern European women. Something men say to explain why they dominate or submit to their female companions.
Three or four more phone calls more ensued over the course of the next day’s 90-minute drive into Huludao.
Another dose of masculine spinelessness and female cunning cold cocked me 15 minutes after my entrance into my new abode.
“Seriously, if my girlfriend calls, you’re not here,” says my Australian roommate, a 23-year-old male with what appeared to me like accidental blonde highlights. “She’ll kick my ass.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if you can’t handle your woman,” I retorted. (Though he seemed unphased, I did apologize the next day.)
Now, mind you, I’m going through a sort of cognitive dissonance over this gender relation scenario. I flip back through memory folders going back to my upbringing. I think about how appalled I was when my mother suggested i just keep writing as a hobby and get married so he can pay the bills in case I fail. I contemplate the countless Italians and Italian Americans I’ve dated. Those who hold their hands around their southern promises and talk about their “sauseeges” or the “ole’ bragiole” when they feel their masculinity has been threatened. I think about a man I knew (and drove nuts because I would never fathom sleeping with, let alone befriending), a quintessential Italian machismo with the gold chains and Ferrari, the accent and the womanizing right before his wife’s eyes. His son was my lover and had unfortunately learned a few too many of his father’s bad habits, eventually becoming more and more possessive to the point of trying to dictate my social life from 200 miles away, and eventually becoming so jealous of any male around me that he proved it by imitating his learnings in front of me. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree and I wasn’t going to be a second-generation scandalized wife.
I don’t know why it’s gender that first arrests my interest during my first week in China. Perhaps its the fact that the guys who actually interest me are those who challenge me outright and at once. One was a Jewish American, one Italian American and the other Serbian. I’ll let them have me, so long as they give me a very long leash. Otherwise I find American men to be confused. The Feminist Movement of the 1970s really did them in. Now they can’t figure out if they or their wife wears the apron and their words and actions are constantly in conflict. Overall I find too many of them want another mother, or at least need a woman to tell them where the keys are, how to stay hygienic and what to do with their careers and lives. How dull.
The term pussy-whipped has never appealed to me, for its simple banality and vulgarity, but it has recurrently appeared in my head– and likely on my face– when I watch my roommate turn from young man to cream puff simply by the sound of her calling. These Chinese women have men trained like god damned Pavlovian dogs.
“What the hell, man? I mean, does she have platinum down there?” I ask the Aussie. He’s boring on with how much trouble he’s going to be in; he should be in his bedroom with the door closed, talking to her on the phone or on Skype so that she can see he’s alone. “Just tell her I’m a lesbian.”
“They don’t believe in that here. You don’t understand. I’m dead if she finds out I’m here with you. She knows a lot of people who work in makeup,” he says. We’re shopping for some household goods and stumble across the cosmetics department around 130 PM. Now keep in mind that in China anyone assumes that any male and female together anywhere for any reason are romantic partners. Despite the fact that we’re Westerners, they still hold that opinion; it’s their culture. To me it matters nothing. I figure if a person wants to assume something like that based on preconceived notions, with no potential for latitudinal possibilities, they’ve dug their own trap.
It finally boiled down to my looking at my roommate’s nether regions and loudly asking him “Where are your balls?” in the middle of a grocery. It mattered not that I was what most Americans would call loud; it’s customary to see men and women engage in shouting matches that lead to knock-down/drag-outs. But at this point I’m wanting to give the 19-year-old Chinese girl a lesson in trust and independence and the Aussie a lesson in how to stand up to a woman.
It’d be for naught, though. Half an hour later he’s talked two times on the phone with her. At lunch he texted her. When we get in the cab he calls her again. “I bet if I tell her I bought her something for Valentine’s Day it’ll help me out,” he says and, on the phone, goes into a falsetto that even American romantic comedies wouldn’t touch.
Sure enough, when he commences his get-me-out-of-the-doghouse suck-up on the phone I glance in the rearview mirror at the cab driver. There are things you can read in another human being’s eyes, regardless of race or age. I read confused entertainment. “What’s this foreigner doing talking to a girlfriend when his girlfriend’s sitting right next to him?” I barely refrain from laughing at both of them.
Not 10 minutes later, once we climb the six stories to our apartment, he’s back on the phone with her, wearing his falsetto like a dog collar and I’m starting this blog post to you.
It started a few hours after my supervisor picked me up from the airport. One phone call at the airport. Another once we were on the four-hour drive from Beijing to Huludao. Then another about an hour later. Another to say it’s snowing in Huludao and therefore she was concerned. Another to see how his drive was. Another to tell her we were stuck on the highway for unknown reasons. Another half an hour later or so to tell her he’d see her tomorrow, for then at midnight we were looking at an overnight stay in the car, surrounded by overloaded semi trucks on a pitch black highway. After about three or four calls I had still been able to hold back my contempt for what seemed ridiculous clinging but my supervisor sensed I was not that type, and therefore he proceeded to explain that Chinese women are not the same as Western women. Um hmmm, I’m thinking, and I’ve heard that about Italian women and French women and eastern European women. Something men say to explain why they dominate or submit to their female companions.
Three or four more phone calls more ensued over the course of the next day’s 90-minute drive into Huludao.
Another dose of masculine spinelessness and female cunning cold cocked me 15 minutes after my entrance into my new abode.
“Seriously, if my girlfriend calls, you’re not here,” says my Australian roommate, a 23-year-old male with what appeared to me like accidental blonde highlights. “She’ll kick my ass.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if you can’t handle your woman,” I retorted. (Though he seemed unphased, I did apologize the next day.)
Now, mind you, I’m going through a sort of cognitive dissonance over this gender relation scenario. I flip back through memory folders going back to my upbringing. I think about how appalled I was when my mother suggested i just keep writing as a hobby and get married so he can pay the bills in case I fail. I contemplate the countless Italians and Italian Americans I’ve dated. Those who hold their hands around their southern promises and talk about their “sauseeges” or the “ole’ bragiole” when they feel their masculinity has been threatened. I think about a man I knew (and drove nuts because I would never fathom sleeping with, let alone befriending), a quintessential Italian machismo with the gold chains and Ferrari, the accent and the womanizing right before his wife’s eyes. His son was my lover and had unfortunately learned a few too many of his father’s bad habits, eventually becoming more and more possessive to the point of trying to dictate my social life from 200 miles away, and eventually becoming so jealous of any male around me that he proved it by imitating his learnings in front of me. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree and I wasn’t going to be a second-generation scandalized wife.
I don’t know why it’s gender that first arrests my interest during my first week in China. Perhaps its the fact that the guys who actually interest me are those who challenge me outright and at once. One was a Jewish American, one Italian American and the other Serbian. I’ll let them have me, so long as they give me a very long leash. Otherwise I find American men to be confused. The Feminist Movement of the 1970s really did them in. Now they can’t figure out if they or their wife wears the apron and their words and actions are constantly in conflict. Overall I find too many of them want another mother, or at least need a woman to tell them where the keys are, how to stay hygienic and what to do with their careers and lives. How dull.
The term pussy-whipped has never appealed to me, for its simple banality and vulgarity, but it has recurrently appeared in my head– and likely on my face– when I watch my roommate turn from young man to cream puff simply by the sound of her calling. These Chinese women have men trained like god damned Pavlovian dogs.
“What the hell, man? I mean, does she have platinum down there?” I ask the Aussie. He’s boring on with how much trouble he’s going to be in; he should be in his bedroom with the door closed, talking to her on the phone or on Skype so that she can see he’s alone. “Just tell her I’m a lesbian.”
“They don’t believe in that here. You don’t understand. I’m dead if she finds out I’m here with you. She knows a lot of people who work in makeup,” he says. We’re shopping for some household goods and stumble across the cosmetics department around 130 PM. Now keep in mind that in China anyone assumes that any male and female together anywhere for any reason are romantic partners. Despite the fact that we’re Westerners, they still hold that opinion; it’s their culture. To me it matters nothing. I figure if a person wants to assume something like that based on preconceived notions, with no potential for latitudinal possibilities, they’ve dug their own trap.
It finally boiled down to my looking at my roommate’s nether regions and loudly asking him “Where are your balls?” in the middle of a grocery. It mattered not that I was what most Americans would call loud; it’s customary to see men and women engage in shouting matches that lead to knock-down/drag-outs. But at this point I’m wanting to give the 19-year-old Chinese girl a lesson in trust and independence and the Aussie a lesson in how to stand up to a woman.
It’d be for naught, though. Half an hour later he’s talked two times on the phone with her. At lunch he texted her. When we get in the cab he calls her again. “I bet if I tell her I bought her something for Valentine’s Day it’ll help me out,” he says and, on the phone, goes into a falsetto that even American romantic comedies wouldn’t touch.
Sure enough, when he commences his get-me-out-of-the-doghouse suck-up on the phone I glance in the rearview mirror at the cab driver. There are things you can read in another human being’s eyes, regardless of race or age. I read confused entertainment. “What’s this foreigner doing talking to a girlfriend when his girlfriend’s sitting right next to him?” I barely refrain from laughing at both of them.
Not 10 minutes later, once we climb the six stories to our apartment, he’s back on the phone with her, wearing his falsetto like a dog collar and I’m starting this blog post to you.
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