THE REUNION SPECIAL

I have survived the return journey back to the beautiful Western land that birthed Marilyn Monroe and John Steinbeck. On the 14 some hour flight, I had a window on my left and an empty seat and an empty aisle on my right. I felt blessed like royalty.

Upon landing safely home with my packable treasures and packable memories, my Dad greeted me outside and my smiles were wild and free. Uncontainable. As I stepped out of the airport and took in breath after breath of sweet Indiana air ... I pictured the now tangible inevitable ... the soon to be realized ... me running across yards and yards of naked grass, sucking in barrels of uncrowded air ... my dog bouncing at my side with his tongue bouncing out of his mouth ... me gorging on a giant bowel of shimmering macaroni and cheese ... THE LABYRINTH and other comfort food playing on my television set on repeat ... me playing SUPER MARIO GALAXY 2 ... my dog laying under my legs with a bone under his paw ...

It's time to recalibrate and ground myself back to my reality, float down from my Eastern high.

Above you welcomed voyeurs can see a candid photograph of a vulnerable man reuniting with his beloved animal companion. At last.

If I had stayed in Beijing for another two months or so, homesickness would have hit me like an Adam West smack. I would've desperately clawed my way back to familiarity. As I feel now, it wasn't always warm and fuzzy, but I attempted to soak up Chinese culture undeterred by thoughts of home. It was memorable adventure after memorable adventure with the always predictable existential anxiety eating at my edges from the inside. Memories were born that I'll carry across time and space.

I will miss Beijing. Mostly though, I'll miss the brother burrowed deep into that city's heartbeat. I love the guy. It'd been a long time since we were standing in apartment 511 at 2069 Argyle Avenue, me preparing to jump on the 101 headed towards Graduate school. It was great living with him all over again in a completely different setting, albeit brief.

I thank my brother and his girlfriend for keeping me from drowning, for showing me a sketch of Beijing. I thank you all for reading my ramblings, ramblings that I'm sure, at times, were easily perceivable as pretentious gobbledygook. I hope you were entertained on some level. Baudrillard and Virillio tell me it's time to focus on my thesis research now like green sticks to grass. Leave your goodbyes in the comment section and let's get together soon, yea.

CLIMBING AND JUMPING AND RUNNING: THE GREAT WALL

THE GREAT WALL, was, of course, unavoidably epic. Epic is China. Much like all the many historic structures I've visited in Beijing, at THE GREAT WALL you feel faintly connected to an unidentifiable history.

In a parallel reality, once upon a time in the East, I was a sun sore warrior perched on THE GREAT WALL ... drinking sparkling rice wine ... straddling my canon ... watching out for Mongolians ... hunting wild animals out of sloppy boredom ... making costumes out of dead wolf ... trading my popular wolf wear for rice wine refills ... living the dream ...

Above I can be seen harnessing the power of THE GREAT WALL ... stealing a quick charge from it's endless glory. Aileen had the camera, so you are unfortunately blessed with a handful of photographs featuring me playing supermodel in a collared shirt I'm beginning to notice I wear all too often. If you remember, faithful reader, I packed limited options. I promise it's washed.

If you take a moment to pause, to become an open vessel, to breathe in the vast structure unfiltered, you are overwhelmed. Your muscles tighten as your toe tips tingle and question after question slides up and down the juicy center of your brain.

To distract myself from being crushed by the experience, I focused on an opportunity to sweat like Ric Flair under a spotlight. All the visitors that I walked by, by all appearances, also seem to silently make this same decision.

I challenged myself to climb to the highest point, to march across the stretching endless, to the point where tourists cannot cross. In the photograph above I can be seen over halfway to my objective, my lasers targeting my finish line. Tower 23.

After we thoroughly dominated THE GREAT WALL, Aileen and I literally hopped over the side of the wall and walked down some half tamed trail towards escape. Aileen may have injured her foot in the jump. It will heal. I was unharmed, but damp from heat.

THE ^KAPOW^ THEY SHOULD'VE RAMBLED ABOUT

Today, I present a collection of visual moments lost in the mix. Random moments of intrigue. Consider this the infamous clip show thrown on air near the end of the season. Give it a fancy, enticing name: THE ^KAPOW^ THEY SHOULD'VE RAMBLED ABOUT.

Transporting money. I've never been so close to a live, ready-to-dominate-flesh shotgun. As I walked by this loaded weapon, warm chills pinched the back of my ears. I contemplated making a grab for the shotgun ... to feel its promising power.


The subway serenade. Nothing like a man carrying a guitar and a miniature amp to help soothe escalating claustrophobia. He had a backpack full of donated RMB and a bad haircut. I like to occasionally reward beggars that put in an honest effort. His song made me smile. I contributed 1RMB to the backpack.

The ironic honey collectors. The uninhibited one breathing on the faces of a bee army had no protection. The observer purposelessly walking safe distance circles around the man hugging the bees had a special net mask. I had no net mask when I sprinted by the skin hungry swarm of buzz.


The 3D television experience. At a Sony store in Xidan they had a 3D television showcase. COMMENTARY: I don't know if the mainstream is ready to greedily snatch up this product, they are still quietly transitioning from Standard to BluRay and High Definition and Digital Cable... or have just freshly transitioned and are getting comfortable with the NEW. It seems too quick to roll out another MUST HAVE! GAME CHANGER! Time will tell. The 3D visuals were fun, lots of potential to enhance the videogame experience. Aldous Huxley predicted and dissected this inevitable movement in entertainment back in 1931.


Kid in tree. Guard picks ass.

THE BLUE MONSTER

One major observable contrast between my perception of Beijing and my perception of the States is 'VISIBLE CONGREGATION' versus 'APPARENT ISOLATION'. The difference might not be as extreme as the impact of these two opposing word combinations, but the difference is extreme. I will briefly attempt to elaborate on my possibly pretentious labels.

In the States, outside of the University zone, if people are gathering for genuine face-to-face communication and socializing, you would need binoculars and X-ray goggles to notice. It may or may not be happening. In Beijing, the people brashly congregate on the streets like Bees congregate on bunches of nectar plump flowers. The people will sit and stand on the sides of every open space in union for hours and hours and hours and hours ... playing cards ... drinking Tsingtao ... eating snails ... debating ... observing ... pulling on poles ... ((Every morning I walk by an old woman hopelessly tugging on what looks like a concrete pole at least 30 inches in diameter and ten feet high.))



Everywhere you go in Beijing, you collide with groups collected to entertain one another through shared, exposed, 'classical' interaction. As seen in the photograph above of me surrounded at the TEMPLE OF THE EARTH a week or two ago, if you are interested and can communicate somewhat coherently, any and all of these groups appear open to welcome you into their warmth without blinking. Even acting as a temporary member of this culture, day and night, I find myself thrown into more face-to-face interactions with people in public spaces. I'm not burrowed into this or that comfortable hibernation hole. This is good and bad for the extrovert and introvert in conflict for my soul.


At the park a week or two ago, in the exercise quadrant, I was surrounded by intrigued Chinese men. A retired engineer knew basic English. He practiced his English on me with question after question, always grinning and grinning. Aileen also acted as translator for some others eager to spill wisdom into my dry palette.

The man pictured above tells me to avoid drinking GINSING tea. I tell him it is a favorite. He tells me it's powers are targeted at people his age. The retired engineer asks me if I like Opera in soft English. The man above interrupts my answer to begin telling me the history of the park. Aileen translates. A retired circus performer, pictured below, begins smiling at me, pointing at his eyes and then pointing at my eyes. Aileen translates. The retired engineer asks me if I like baseball in soft English. Grinning. The man pictured above tells me I need to talk to older people; they have much to teach. A modest plug for his generation. Aileen translates. I promise to stay connected to the generations above me on a regular basis. I tell him I try my best.

The retired circus performer begins performing. I applaud him over and over, encouraging all around to applaud with me. A close few humor me and join in smacking hands together.


They called me THE BLUE MONSTER. I'll take the name. Something to do with my eyes. The color. The intensity.

ONE NIGHT IN BEIJING

The Internet at my brother's place flatlined for the last several days and I haven't been able to post any random adventures for your random gorging. I apologize to my loyal subscribers. I hope I haven't lost your eyes. I have random stories stockpiled and will now happily resume posting regularly with a renewed fury. (Alliterations are addictive.)

I wish I had a Super 8 camera with me to capture motion portraits of this city. Raw close ups. Grainy dutch angles. Friday night I saw a four foot tall Asian bouncer with a sick mohawk. He was litterally mock practicing karate in the streets in a tight tailored suit. No exaggeration. Too surreal to be unreal. He was guarding a superpowered Russian night club called CHOCOLATE.


It was 2AM when we went inside CHOCOLATE ... down an escalator ... into neon blasted sin. Beijing nightlife appears to ramp up late and push forward until you find the sun. Above you can see the only photograph I was able to aimlessly snap before sinking neck deep into the glamorous cheese of this dance club.

CHOCOLATE force feeds you a sleuth of random hedonist treats.

Faces of all shapes and sizes blow Hookah fueled smoke rings on repeat. Every other table has prostitutes dancing in slow motion, sniffing out 2,000 RMB for a night of capricious abandonment. Purple velvet sofas stare at your backside. Stripper poles beg for attention on the checker colored dance floor. Strippers stay all too close to naked, while never being naked, dancing on sporadically placed pedestals. At the core, a live Asian male pop band continuously spikes the room to techno flavored peak after peak.

The atmosphere was overwhelming compared to the typical low key dives I generally gravitate towards.

Every table vibrated with a different language. But it doesn't matter what language you speak when you're speaking through dance. So I danced like Cyndi Lauper live in Japan. Look it up. The band was singing in Chinese, but my body was singing something universally accessible ... and universally laughable ... and universally declinable. I welcomed getting lost in the noise and the motion.



The above is a photograph of me the morning after exploring Beijing dance clubs. The above is a photograph for those of you that miss the bottom half of my face.

TRANSCENDING THE LANGUAGE GAPS: PART FIVE

I never used to sing Karaoke ... until an exotic night in the Fall of 2007. I remember the night well. THE PRIMETIME BAR infected me with the 'Karaoke Fever', another guilty pleasure on the uncontainable list that comforts and embarrasses me across time and space.

Fortunately for those lost in translation, sharing in some ear banging cackling can transcend the language gaps. Understanding the meaning of the lyrics can be happily sacrificed to enjoying the ridiculous joy of amateur howling.

Karaoke gets serious respect in Beijing. Tall hotel structures are devoted solely to congregating for Karaoke. The lobby of the ever indulgent Beijing Karaoke hotspot, MELODY, can be seen in the picture above. The immediate aesthetic shamelessly shoves electric cool into your face.

There are several corridors and stairways that lead to many, many comfortable rooms. You walk down hallway after hallway. Left and right, every room appears devoted to sharing intimate Karaoke sessions with a circle of judiciously selected friends and colleagues.

Here, you are not an exhibitionist in a strange bar full of volatile strangers, but are a group of acquaintances jammed into a glowing room with glowing screens and thy thumping speakers.

The room kept getting smaller, but the brother and I couldn't be stopped. Like a tornado in the middle of a movie theater, we destroyed Prince and Bono and Billy Joel. The night ended with a bottle of Glenfiddich and three kids riding a cab home across the sunrise.

THE LAST WEEKEND OF MAY

It all started with an apple soaked mojito and Ennino Morricone playing on the speakers at an inspired lounge spot called WAITING FOR GODOT. Too ironic and too predictable that I would gravitate to a place named after a favorite Samuel Becket play. The Absurd follows me everywhere.

The above photograph is me waiting for Godot. The above photograph marks the beginning of the beginning of the whirlwind.

I could write a stream-of-consciousness, self-indulgent novel based on the last weekend, inspired by the joy and the chaos, my version of a Bret Easton Ellis novel.

For now, however, some adventures are best lived and best untold.

BIOLOGICAL BREAKDOWN

Warning: the following post is of a sensitive and melodramatic nature, but serves as a live portrait of a minor crisis. Something went wrong Thursday. A biological error. A strike from the inside. Our will is ultimately controlled by the status of our physical body. Our body can be unpredictable. Our body can muddle our will.

My throat is in real pain. My tongue is tight. Movement is restricted. Swallowing hurts. When I swallow, I force food and liquid over an invisible mountain in the back of my throat. I want to grab a spoon and start digging. Extract the poison. My jaw feels dull and exhausted. I am forced to chew in slow motion. Chewing makes me squint with discomfort. My mouth fills with saliva that no longer drains naturally. My forehead may or may not be hot. I rarely get sick, so I don't know what it feels like to be sick.

My throat and tongue were sensitive one week ago. I cut water out of my diet. Four days dripped by with no throat problems. Now, for the last several days, my throat and tongue burn with an escalated fury. On the cusp of a promising weekend, my mouth is breaking down. No legible medicine in sight.

Insert spinning paranoia. I'm allergic to cats. My brother has two kittens. That could be a problem. They're cute. We play. I never take medicine, but here I'm on Benadryl daily. I ate at a noodle place twice early last week and then went back yesterday afternoon. That could be the problem. I'm never going back. What are they feeding me? The meat looked strange floating in my noodle bowel.

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief. "There's too much confusion. I can't get no relief."

COMMUNICATION UNIVERSITY OF CHINA

Aileen, a China native, a regular character in this saga, attends the Communication University of China. She wants to be a reporter here, and, ironically, also wants to do a Masters in the States. I gave a convincing commercial selling the Ball State experience. Education redefined. She wanted to know Ball State’s ranking. I blinked. Twice. I looked her dead in the eyes. I paused. I gave her a ranking. NUMBER ONE.

I mentioned interest in visiting her college campus. She invited me to sit in on one of her classes. A guest professor from Syracuse University was visiting to give an all English lecture on media regulations in the States. Perfect. He wore a red tie. Subtle touch.


I was excited to get a glimpse at a Chinese perspective on communication studies. The glimpse was too brief and briefly insightful. (I will report on the few significant classroom observations this Fall when I give my presentation. Maybe. Be there.) I was particularly interested in how the class, not the American professor, would approach a discussion on regulation. China regulation in the media, across platforms, is quite evident and extensive.

As a recent, random example, I went to a Beijing theater to check out IRON MAN 2, a needed escape, and some choice dialogue sections were censored throughout. The audio would be distorted, sounding like a natural ‘glitch’ at first, but the ’glitch’ reoccurred in distinct scenes throughout, making this ’glitch’ more than accidental.


To get to the university, I decided to ditch the bicycle and tackle the subway system. It was time to taste the underground. As has become necessary, I put on my protective shell before leaving my brother’s place. My protective shell consists of an MP3 player, some headphones, and album after album of candy flavored, comfort music. Inside this shell, I can conquer the shifty unknown with some serious bravado in my step. Today’s highlights were Our Lady Peace’s “Clumsy”, Hot Hot Heat’s “Elevator”, and David Bowie’s “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust”. A dated, albeit solid mix.


Riding in the subway, my claustrophobia beeped and beeped. I wanted to swing my arms like a mental Orangutan gone totally berserk, clear some space. The subway swelled with busy people close enough to give me a kiss on the cheek. One particular girl almost did. I could see it in her eyes. My nostrils were invaded by the occasional fleet of rotten sweat. But, the hour long trip cost less than a dollar and I sat in air conditioning for the first time since arriving in Beijing. Artificial cold air hugged my face and I cherished its embrace.

GOING BEYOND THE FOURTH RING

I am not an expert, but I think this city is organized into rings encasing smaller rings. The higher the number, the larger the ring. I am somewhere buried inside the second ring. My 50 RMB map covers the entire second ring, the southern half of the third ring, and the southern half of the fourth ring. This week, I decided to take the bike beyond the fourth ring, beyond the map, into the uncharted lands of the northern rings. I ate some tomato and fried egg, picked a hot location, and drew an award winning map.


My homemade map of the land beyond the fourth ring can be seen in all it’s screaming glory above. The goal was to find the Bird’s Nest, the location of the 2008 Olympics. When I reached Tiananmen Square, I realized I’d been peddling south for thirty minutes. I turned up the Depeche Mode in my headphones and pulled off a practiced move, the U-Turn.

After crossing bridges and rivers … after battling heavy winds and madman traffic … after crashing into an old man … after peddling through Depeche Mode’s ‘Music for the Masses‘, Phil Collin’s ‘Face Value‘, and Al Green‘s ‘Greatest Hits’ … I finally found the Bird’s Nest.


China only creates sites on a man crumbling scale. Similar to the Forbidden City, the scale of this site seems to shrink man to a legless insect crawling on the back of the moon. There are several exciting pieces of architecture at the site of the flamboyant 2008 Olympics. Each piece wrestles for your attention, pulling off one another. The Bird’s Nest seems to garner the most attention. I try to buy tea at a booth here using my best Chinese and the women laugh at me. I revert back to speechless pointing and receive my bottled tea. A monkey could do what I do.


And for those of you that are questioning if my elementary map really got me to the Bird‘s Nest from Dongsishisitiao, the picture below is for your refrigerator.

A SELF-ANALYSIS OF DISCOMFORT

I’m sorry Beijing, but, perhaps in my own ignorance, I never thought I’d find a city dirtier than West Hollywood … until I met you. You don’t stink like waste because the homeless urinate all over your face, but because you have overused public restrooms every thirty yards. I’m not flattered. Dust attacks my lungs with every step. I cough every day on sporadic repeat. People shovel piles of trash into carts every day on sporadic repeat.

You can’t drink out of the facet. Boil. Boil. Boil. Your body itches faintly after a shower. Last week, my tongue was swollen and it hurt to swallow. I cut Beijing water out of my diet, and now I’m cured. Even the bottled jugs of water bought down the street are dangerous. My system is spoiled by manufactured, super-processed water. I restrict my diet. I drink bottled juice, bottled milk, bottled tea, and bottled beer. When my system needs sterilized, I drink ‘rice wine‘. I miss water.


I eat anything. I eat everything. I never know what it is unless it’s fruit. A banana is a banana. Everything drowns in some glistening atypical sauce. On the best occasion, the flavors are dynamic and rich, but are they nutritional? There are no readable nutritional facts. If I daringly pick up some random colorful package at the grocery, because I’m exhausted with buying every meal at a restaurant and want to cook, I don’t know how to cook it or if I should eat it cold. I eat it cold. All I do in the States is cook my own meals. I’ve been to more restaurants in the last two weeks than the last year in the States.

Chopsticks.


I miss my dog. I miss you all.

ABSOLUTES

Alcohol fills the streets and stores and restaurants of Beijing. Street drinking appears to be a favorite hobby in my neighborhood. Walking home in the middle of the morning or the thick of night or the slip of dawn, you can spot clusters of shirtless faces sucking on rice wine grinning from ear to nose. Every thirty steps, promising liquids promise all too familiar promises from behind distorting glass.

Chopsticks, chopsticks, chopsticks. Bent, contorted fingers. I needed to know if I could still use a fork. You never seem to appreciate the abundant. Over the weekend, this funny talking European recommended a place devoted to steak in my brother‘s area. He sketched a map in my notepad and wrote a name: Café le Post.

I needed to taste a bloody slab of medium rare steak. Maybe I was craving a familiar taste to counter the ongoing blast of unfamiliar to my palette.

I needed to build a small army of fellow degenerates. The brother was working late on some design work, so it was up to me to organize a team to tackle Café le Post. I pulled Aileen into the fold as well as two new characters to this blog, SOITH and GUS, two architects crashing fresh into Beijing from New York. Soith was an undergrad with my brother. Gus is allergic to alcohol.

The steak was not amazing, but the restaurant owner was eager to win my heart. As we were paying for our check, the awkward moving fellow hops over to our table with a translucent bottle glowing at the core. He cheerfully slams the bottle in front of our collective gazes. Some fruit swelling and sliding inside the bottle winks at my soul. The owner tells us: ‘drink up’. The owner tells us: ‘not to worry“. The owner tells us: ‘open late‘.


There was no discernible label on this ominous bottle, but Gus began to pour. The owner looked like someone I could trust. He had a sexy cover of “The Killing Moon” playing in his bar mix. The gesture felt like a challenge, the owner bounced with expectations, we had to empty the fire from this bottle.

After three of us cruised through half the bottle, we noticed a notable performance across the restaurant. One of the waiters was playing with an all too similar looking liquid to summon fireballs. I smiled and poured another three servings.

A SELF-ANALYSIS OF COMFORT

It rains in Beijing. Take a look out my brother’s apartment window.



In the States, I have bonded with the characters breathing in the works of Camus, Dostoevsky, Ellison, and Sartre. Across the years, we all became intimate, long term friends, sharing perceptions of our respective realities. But, now, spending many hours alone, fully immersed in a culture where I'm unable to speak to communicate or listen to comprehend, adrift at a permanent distance from concrete familiarity, restricted to primal exchanges, I connect to the characters of Camus et al. on a new level from a new angle.

For well over one week now, I’ve been bouncing around Beijing, brushing against the exposed underbelly of the eclectic culture. The streets eats holes into the soles of my shoes. When alone, I find comfort at a distance, exploring the city on my brother’s bicycle, buried under the endless movement, united with the endless movement. I find minimal comfort in brief, successful interactions that produce shared smiles. Most of my social interactions are limited to the trading of paper money for quick sustenance. 3 RMB for four boiled eggs. 4 RMB for yogurt and tea. 9 RMB for a collection of bananas. 11 RMB for some spicy noodles and beef. 14 RMB for twenty-four pork dumplings. All these exchanges are surface level exchanges with no depth. Generic connections.


When he’s not working, and can act as my intermediary, I find comfort in socializing with my brother and his wide network. He points to new doors he’s explored or wants to explore and we explore them together. He acts as a useful crutch and compass. When available, I find comfort in my brother’s lady friend, AILEEN, a local that speaks fluent Chinese and English. She graciously acts as a guiding voice, illuminating the beautiful unknown, making the inaccessible accessible. Translating. Storytelling. Touring.

Also, lately, I’ve found great comfort in the Temple of the Earth, a 500 year old park celebrating nature. I’ve visited several times. The park has become MY FORTRESS OF SOLACE. The word beautiful is polluted by uninspired overuse. The Temple of the Earth, however, is a genuine expression of natural, tangible beauty. It exists, literally and symbolically, in a bubble, a lush contrast to the city, a reprieve from the claustrophobic and dust flooded hub of endless movement. The Temple of the Earth is an escape for me, and, by all appearances, an escape for the locals. Across the park, people can be seen playing chess, observing chess matches, playing cards, observing card games, practicing instruments, flying kites, working out, socializing, reading, sleeping, and even playing some seriously intense croquet.


I go to the park to breathe untainted air and to relish the quiet. The above photograph was taken by Aileen on my first visit to the park. The park is a fifteen minute bike ride from my brother’s apartment, approximately.

HIRED GUNS

The above photo is from yesterday’s dinner with my brother’s work associates and friends from all across the planet. Belgium. Canada. Shanghai. Sir Lanka. San Francisco. Portland. Decatur. After eating some sort of orange flavored, boiled catfish stew and playing game after game of "gom bui" with some “Chinese wine” made from black rice, we transformed to a dance club of sorts. The bar was an imitation-Western-styled-electronica-thumping dance club in a part of Beijing devoted to luring in internationals.


The dance club was seething with cloaked prostitutes. Prostitutes surfing the scene for a payday, marketing sexual favors to any welcoming, lonely drunk. Prostitutes are a new phenomenon for me to see in the flesh. I had heard whispers of their existence and myths of their exploits. The profession that never dies.

One lucky lady grabbed my arm with her money hungry hand. Please, no touching. I pried her soft fingers off and made a threatened dash to the dance floor to do my best impression of Mick Jagger from the music video for “Dancing in the Street”.

LIVING IN HUTONG

The picture above is a look outside my apartment door. Please take note of the abandoned homemade Western style toilet. For this entry, I will attempt to paint a modest portrait of where I am currently living. It is called a ‘HUTONG'.


The picture above is a walkway inside a walkway inside a walkway inside an alley. Please take note of my brother’s lady friend’s bicycle propped against the wall. This particular walkway inside a walkway inside a walkway inside an alley leads to my brother’s apartment, where I sleep, shower, and sweat. As I have been told by a savvy local, the Hutong was once a beautiful set of minimal apartments surrounding and facing a scenic, spacious courtyard. When communism dropped, mass amounts of people flooded these open courtyards and began, essentially, building apartments inside of these apartments. The maze-like slums were born and authentic courtyards have become rare and expensive. A commodity. A luxury.


The picture above is an aerial shot looking down into my brother’s ‘neighborhood’. Everything crams together in conflict for territory. No splash of grass. No hint of a backyard with sprawling deck and porch. No space to soak inside and breathe. I grew up happily spoiled with a heroic backyard plump with greens surrounded by unspoiled nature. I miss romping with the serene, naked earth.

The interior of my brother’s apartment harshly contrasts the beaten, clustered exterior. If I remember, in a future post, I will give you a look inside.

In random news, last night, a Chinese man approached our group of obvious foreigners and began reading our palms. When he snatched my hands, he spoke rapidly in Chinese with glowing, saucer sized eyes. I have no idea what he said. He told my brother that he would sleep with three important women.

BEIJING SIGHTSEEING: A HAIKU

The public toilet:
Men squat on postmodern holes
Kids squat on sidewalks

TOUCHING A SPECTACLE

My navigation skills are infamous. I excel at being lost. Living in Los Angeles increased my sense of direction to a moderate flicker, but kicking around in a foreign playpen, these dim skills fade exponentially.

I took my bike to the dilapidated streets of Beijing with map jammed in jean pocket. For this particular adventure, the first on the bicycle, my objective was the Forbidden City. The map proved useless for the first hour. I peddled and peddled in search of clues, but struggled to put my blue dot on my map. The names on the signs were not matching the names on my map. Eventually, through magical intervention, names started syncing up. It may have taken me an hour longer than planned, but, with a splash of tenacity and street dust, I made it to the FORBIDDEN CITY.


That’s a picture for those of you that missed the top half of my face. You can spot a small chunk of the epic Forbidden City in the background. The Forbidden City is vast. I spent hours shuffling from space to space. There were moments, drinking in a courtyard or the Imperial Garden or the Hall of Supreme Harmony, where chills trickled down my neck and into my fingertips. The motive of these chills is hard to identify. Soaking in these sights through multiple senses, images flicker in the imagination. You feel faintly connected to ambiguous moments in a rich, stretching history.

BICYCLE BICYCLE BICYCLE I WANT TO RIDE

Taxi drivers are omnipresent in Beijing, malnourished and cruising for bleeding meat. Some don’t like foreigners. Some love deceptively milking the ignorant foreigner teat. Most of them are efficient. All of them honk like rabbits jump. None understand me. The language barrier balloons, refusing to dissipate. So, by welcomed default, I explore Beijing via a bicycle my brother purchased at a pawn shop (seen below) and a city map I purchased at an all English bookstore (seen above). The bike cost around fifteen American dollars. At this all English bookstore, I noticed an Ayn Rand collection, The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, for 300 RMB. It is beautiful to see these two books buried in Beijing, waiting for a home. By exhaustive design, both books are passionately anti-communist. I want to buy the set and send it to Mao as a gift for his hospitality.

I enjoy riding this raw bicycle around Beijing. I’m sucking in the Eastern air. I feel less passive. I feel like an active wheel spinning inside Beijing’s relentless forward motion. I feel like a participant.

Riding a bicycle here presents high risk for collision. The streets are very crowded and every open space is a commodity to be seized, a free for all. The pace is disciplined madness. You must be tuned into your surroundings. Cars will smash you. You must cling to the sides of the roads. People will crash you. You must ring your warning bell. Ting. Ting.