A Sunflower Finish

As the weeks go by here in Andalucia, the relevance of the following anecdote fades faster and faster. Be that as it may, I still want to share it with you all, as a way to sew up my Castilla y Leon experience and make way for more Andalucian thoughts and hijinks.

We return to the scene of the crime, as it were, in late July. After finishing a seemingly-cursed-but-ultimately-beautiful trip across the north coast, I spent a week at Vaughan Town, a volunteer English immersion camp where they did not pay me the 500 euros I would have earned at the camp-to-be of the summer but did supply room and board. It was a lovely five days filled with new friends, deep in the ruggedly empty mountains of Soria.

Before arriving in Soria, I spent quite a bit of time on public transport-- first a train from Bilbao to Palencia to collect my things, then a bus from Palencia to Madrid, and then another from Madrid to Soria. I've always enjoyed the looking-out-the-window aspect of overland travel (especially trains, which offer such interesting slice-of-life glimpses of small-town life), and there was a particularly rich, specific satisfaction to the view during these trips.

When I first arrived in Spain in September 2011, the endless fields of Castilla y Leon were dull and dead, almost burnt looking, after the brutal heat of August. I remember watching expanses of past-peak sunflower fields race by on my first bus ride up to Palencia and during my trip back down to Madrid for orientation at the beginning of October. The stalks in those fields were bent and broken, browned to a crisp, and they made me wish for the fresh green beauty I was sure had preceded the present circumstances. I think I even mentioned it here in my first entries.

In any case, as my year wound to a close, I got that wish. July was the height of sunflower season in north-central Spain, and it seemed like nearly every field was covered completely in a carpet of velvety green plants and accompanying plate-sized flowers, startling in their sunny hue. The image was especially affecting with the speed of train travel. Mile after mile, we raced past flowers by the acre, faces all turned at the same angle toward the sun (in Spanish sunflower is "girasol," which literally means "spinning with the sun.") The fields blurred into green green and gold streaks as we passed, the colors so much more intense, so much richer, than the wheat and corn that was already blanching gold in the long, dry summer.

The greater metaphor was not lost on me: here I was, at once speeding toward my departure and managing to enjoy, albeit fleetingly, the very real flowering of a year's labor and adventures.

A few days later, I was back in the US.
**

A photo I did not take (not easy to get good images from aboard a train) that almost manages to capture the beauty and technicolor of Spanish sunflower fields

Berlin and Shiva; The End and the Beginning

The idea to visit Berlin and the means to make it so came separately. I loved Berlin the first time I visited in 2009; then my beloved friend, Toni, moved there for a year. I wanted very much to experience the life he had built there and to meet this newly independent, confident person who was flourishing in a foreign city, but I didn't see how it might be possible before Toni moved back to his native Barcelona. Then luck stepped in: a dirt-cheap sale to Berlin on the semi-respectable IcelandExpress just about the time I needed to be in Europe, anyway! So, a few hours after my encounter with Jose in the Reykjavik airport, I found myself in the land of currywurst, lager, and the ever-present singsong "Tchuss!" (which, if said with the proper high intonation, is a friendly way to say "see you!" in German.) It was a four-day pit stop on the way to an entirely new life. I left the United States filled with anxiety, trepidation, and grief for my old routines, friends, and habits. I wasn't ready to be finished, but even so it was time to start. I was glad that tehre was a friendly face waiting on the other side of the ocean.

I spent my days in Berlin at a small, friendly hostel in super-hip Kreuzberg, by the river-- next to but not inside Toni's apartment, because of roommate visitor restrictions. Toni works as a tour guide for tourists from Spain and other Spanish-speaking countries, leading them around museums and sites in the city and its surroundings, so one day I borrowed his pass for the amazing Egypt museum on so-called "Museum Island" in central Berlin and surreptitiously watched him lead a tour. Another day, we went with his mother (who was also visiting) to Potsdam, a small town on the outskirts of Berlin. Potsdam is famous for San Souci, a very French palace built by a very German king that famously boasted a No Girls Allowed rule.

The first night I walked out to see the sunset

Wandering in these places with a trained tour guide was ideal. I learned a huge amount about Egyptian art, even taking into account my longtime fascination with the Egyptian mummies at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. And Toni was a great guide throughout Potsdam (which, apart from the beautiful palace, is both a charming small German town and the place where the remaining powers met after WWII to discuss the fate of Germany.)

In the evenings we cooked dinner, took walks, and found various atmospheric bars to catch up in over beers. One particularly memorable evening, we went dancing at a basement gay club with 1970s commercials projected on the chipped brick walls and a fun mix of "gay classics" (Cher, Rocky Horror) and locale-appropriate dance tunes (ABBA, 99 Luftballoons) on tap. I was able, for a period, to focus on just being there, instead of thinking of what I was heading toward or what I had left behind. It was a wonderful gift that Berlin and Toni gave me-- but ideas of departure and arrival were still stewing.

Toni walks the stairs at San Souci

Hieroglyphics at the Egyptian Museum

Despite our efforts at togetherness, Toni has an unbelievably frenetic schedule, so I spent a lot of the visit on my own. I wandered the city trying to regain my traveler's balance and rediscover what it was about the place I had loved so dearly when I came the first time. And I found it, at least in part. The city is blanketed by a gritty but creative un-"dressed up" atmosphere, which permeates everything. Many neighborhoods are still emerging from the dark ages of Communist rule, and the leftover blocky architecture and general used-to-be-decrepit feel speaks to that. But what is really magical about Berlin is what's done with that grittiness. A lesser city would just be content to be dirty, unsafe, and uninspiring, but Berliners have made it a mecca for creativity, art, and community. There are art galleries and concerts everywhere, and that's just on the officially established side. Street art decorates many buildings, concerts spring from nowhere, sculpture sprouts from the sidewalk.

On Sunday I went with a couchsurfer to the Mauer Park fleamarket, which I so adored my first time in Berlin. The park is in a former No Man's Land from the days of the Wall ("mauer" means "wall" in German), and on Sundays it is filled with rows upon rows of homemade or used clothing, furniture, funky crafts, jewelry, and food. We spent four hours in the drizzle trying on stuffed animal hats, exclaiming over zipper earrings, and wishing for enough money or luggage space to buy everything in sight. In the end, I binged on 7 pairs of amazingly funky 3 euro earrings. I was so glad to see something I remembered so lovingly live up to my memories.

Street art in Kreuzberg

It was a relief in particular because of another Berlin institution that I had heard was in danger: Tacheles, a 19th-century shopping mall left to rot in East Berlin under Communist rule, then saved by an artist collective and turned into studios, a sculpture park, a cafe, and more. I wrote about it here in 2009--then, as well, I was incredibly struck by the way these artists had turned something so ugly into so much beauty. I even bought a ring there that I wore every day as a reminder of my traveling accomplishments and personal growth--at least, until it disappeared last year. Now, rumors were flying: I had heard that Tacheles had been reclaimed by the bank when its current owner went into bankruptcy, that the whole thing had been knocked down, that the artists had left, or that it was being turned into condos. So I went back with trepidation, especially after having such a positive experience at Mauer Park.

But I felt I had to go: I had drawn so much inspiration and strength from the memory of Tacheles in the years after my trip, and I was much in need of some of that just now. Berlin wasn't just a quick pit stop for me, psychologically. It was a buffer period between my Old Life and the Life to Come. These days were easing me in to a very big change. I was marinating in transition and still very much not ready to let go of the happinesses of 2010 and early 2011.

Luckily, I arrived at Tacheles and breathed relief. Yes, the bank (or somebody) had kicked a lot of the artists out of the building itself, dismantled the old cafe, and attempted to bar entry by building a wall on which someone had spray painted "diese mauer ist eine schande fur berlin" or "This wall is a shame for Berlin." But, I discovered something magic in the back lot behind Tacheles: the same sculpture park thrived, and an improvised cafe housed people drinking beer on packing crates. The spirit of Tacheles was alive and well.

Part of the sculpture garden

I was buying a copper ring to replace my old one from an Italian jeweler when a painter beckoned to me from the opposite corner. In the course of our conversation he described an uncertain future--rumors abound that the bank will auction off the building in the spring. The painter guided me into a small trailer filled with his work and tried to convince me to buy a piece, but I had neither the money nor the suitcase space. Full of guilt and a love of the place, I gave him a couple of Euros.

His face split into a grin. "Thank you, thank you. Every little bit helps. So, would you like to ask for something from my statue?" he said. Doubtful, I followed him outside, where he pointed at a sculpture wielding a sword and a torch--a woman, powerful and intent.

"That's Shiva," he told me. "She's the destroyer and the creator, with her sword and torch. She is the ending and the beginning at once. They're the same, you see."

Then I was glad I had given him the Euro; the next day I was on my way to Spain.

Shiva

The Finish Line

Well, it's official: I did it. As of this morning at 1 PM I have a fancy certificate to tell the world that I Am A Teacher. Of course, for me the mental change happened awhile back (see blog entry from two weeks ago), but the world tends to need a piece of paper as proof-- and now I have it.

I leave Guadalajara tomorrow morning at 9 AM, for a long-weekend jaunt to Puerto Vallarta, on the coast, where I plan on a healthy dose of sun, sea, sand, and hopefully snorkeling. On Monday evening I will take a night bus to Guanajuato, a traditional central-Mexican town and UNESCO world heritage site. In Guanajuato and its neighbor, San Miguel Allende, I am excited to explore winding cobbled streets and experience semana santa (holy week) in a state famous for its beautiful Easter ceremonies.

I'll be back to the city for a day or so before my flight home April 7, but the truth is that my real time in Guadalajara is finished. The comforting routine of walking up Calle La Noche to catch the 629 bus is finished after tomorrow morning: no more barking dogs or old women sweeping dead leaves and fallen flowers off the street. No more ducking next door for a mollete (toasted bread with frijoles and cheese) or a Coke Zero during 11 am break. No more discovering new bars on Juarez or watching the old timers dance salsa in Expiatorio Explanada or explaining grammar points to 10 bored teenagers. Guadalajara has put its claws in me without my permission. I have to imagine I'll be back.

This city has given me so much, after all. After my trip this year I was hungry to make a start in a new place and experience the opposite of the nomadic existenced I lived in 2009. Guadalajara has given me a taste of this, enough to confirm the suspicions I harbored that I could easily fall in love with everyday routines thousands of miles from home. And as I've written here before, this city has made me a teacher. The woman who writes her name in neat letters on a white board and then launches into a spiel on the present unreal will always be a part of me, wherever I go.

It's given me something else as well. Just as quickly as I Became A Teacher, I suddenly find myself a functional trilingual. Not that my Spanish is perfect, or even close to complete in any way, shape, or form. I still can't speak well in the past tense; I still only understand between 65 and 90% of what is said to me. But for the past 10 years of my life I have been someone who speaks two languages, and this week I found myself ably ordering tickets, discussing world events with my host family, and chatting with strangers a bus stops. I can't pretend to be bilingual anymore. The shift to thinking of myself as trilingual means foward growth and change, something not always easy to come by when you're an unemployed 20-something. And I have Guadalajara to thank.

Reflections, part 1

As I start to gear up for the Trip Home, I am looking back at a year ago today to find that I was thinking ahead and my predictions were spot on.

"A lot of things in life people don't do because of the "what-ifs." You know, what if this happens, what if that happens, what if we run out of petrol? And it stops us doing things you know? And after the fact, you find that the what ifs and the might-bes are what makes it so exciting. Because every time we got in trouble and every time we broke down, we met people who helped. And it's a really optimistic view of the world that I have now, that all the people we've met all around the world have been incredibly generous, just nice people."-- Ewan MacGregor, at the end of "Long Way Around"

Amen, Mr. MacGregor. Amen.

An ending and a beginning

At long last I've finished recording my five months of incredible adventure in China. As a way to close off that era of this blog, I thought I would experiment with a new feature on blogspot (well, since I began recording my Chinese adventures almost two years ago): video. Below are a few videos of the Xiong family--they give a far more vivid picture of what it was like to live in a Pumi village for three days than I ever could.


The circle dance


Limei's older brother sings a traditional Pumi song in the half-light of their house at night



Limei's mother plays the Pumi version of the Jew's harp
(I have a wonderful video of her singing, but unfortunately it's too large for blogspot)


So now, with this behind us, we shall take "Wide Eyes Wider World" into the future. There's an entire 11-day road trip down the east coast of the United States to blog about (March 2008). And by the time that's done, dear reader, we will have a year-long trip around the world to embark upon.

But that's another story...

For now, this is the chance to say 再见 (good bye) to China one last time,

The Ruralest Ruralist (A Final Three-Day Yunnan Adventure)

Xiong Limei, the young woman who had been my translator but, more importantly, my friend during my Independent Study Project in May, had invited me to visit her family in rural Lanping county for the last few days before my trip back to the U.S., so after saying goodbye to my friends in Fugong, I climbed on a bus and braved an 8-hour trip through roads ravaged by the summer rain. I planned to meet my friends Jackson and Linda and to spend the afternoon with them before meeting Xiong Limei for the bus ride out into the countryside.

It was Sunday, and the city was alive with peasants coming in from the countryside to buy their groceries. I was particularly struck by the many Yi women in their bright clothing. It seemed to me they were everywhere-- in noodle shops, leaning against the open doorways of cell phone stores, dragging their purchases down the street. My previous encounters with Yi outside of Dali during my homestay had taught me that they can be very elusive and tend to stick high in the mountains. As fascinated as ever by this life that must be so different than mine, I watched with excitement as they went about their market routines. There was even an Yi nainai watching her grandchild play in Lanping's city center park.

Yi women out for market day in downtown Lanping


An Yi woman looks on as children play in Lanping park. This was the only decent picture I ever got of an Yi woman in married headdress-- you can really see how big it is


Lama people were also in abundance that Sunday. Here a Lama woman plays with a child (I'm guessing her granddaughter) in the city park, Lanping. I love her headpiece in particular.


Sitting on the street by Lanping park talking in the evening


I was lucky enough to be able to leave my giant suitcase with Jackson for a few days, meaning that I only had a small day-pack to carry as Xiong Limei and I caught the small, beat up transport van thirty minutes outside of Liuku on cobbled roads. She motioned to the driver to stop on a small, roughly hewn wooden bridge over a burbling river. There were no houses near-- we would have to walk to her village, 20 minutes off the road. As we disembarked, a Pumi man in a dirty baseball hat looked at me with a mixture of blank curiosity and shock. He regained himself and climbed in to continue his journey, but later in the week Xiong Limei's sister, who is a doctor in Lanping, told me he had talked to everyone he met about he had seen "one of those people with white skin, like on TV" for the first time in his life.

The hike to the Xiong house wasn't easy. The rainy season had turned the path into thick sludge, and my foot was not yet healed (and would not be for months.) Nevertheless, we slowly made our way up the flanks of a long, large hill (the foothills of the mountains which are foothills to the Himalayas.) When I arrived at the house I was warmly greeted by Limei's father, a spry man with gleaming black eyes, a stubbly chin, and an impish grin, and mother, a beautiful woman with a kind face, her black-grey hair caught up in the turban traditional to Pumi people. Both of them spoke the local Mandarin dialect with thick accents I often could not understand, but they had learned to comprehend Mandarin by watching Chinese TV so we were able to communicate in a lopsided sort of way, with one-way translation required much of the time.

Limei's mother was especially happy to have me visit-- she has suffered from debilitating rheumatoid arthritis since she gave birth to Limei in her early twenties. If she lived in the US she would be wheel-chair bound, but in the remote Chinese countryside she gets around using a pair of low wooden stools. Her basic mode of transportation is to sit on one stool, place the other in the direction she wishes to travel, scoot herself onto the second stool, and start again. She doesn't move around much for this reason, and so in her 50-year life I was the first white person she had ever met, and she was thrilled to welcome me into her home. I was lucky enough to be visiting when she had the one arthritis treatment the family can afford per month, which helps to keep the swelling down. Even a few days later, she showed me the goose eggs developing by her knees and elbows. It was hard to watch and know that I couldn't change the situation for her or her family-- but as soon as I returned home I sent her a grasping tool of the sort given to the elderly in nursing homes here to pick things up from far away when I returned home.

The Xiong house was different from any I had ever been in. It consisted of two long, wodden buildings with a yard in between-- one building for the animals (pigs, goats, a horse) and one for the family. The family house had two levels, with the upper reserved for storage and the lower divided into a bedroom for Limei's parents, a bedroom for Limei and her siblings (if they were home), and an all-purpose kitchen/dining room/living room where the family spent most of their time chatting, preparing dinner using the san jiao (meaning "three legs," a cooking rack) over the open fire, and eating. There were no bathrooms-- while I stayed with the Xiongs such business was conducted in the potato fields or behind the house (depending on what sort of bathroom excursion you were headed on). There was also no running water (the Xiongs get their water from a stream a few minutes down the hill) and minimal electricity, only a few light bulbs to use at night.

Images of the Xiong house





I slept surprisingly well in Limei's extra bed, sheets and blankets wrapped around a wooden board. Limei's father brought us in a couple of bricks heated from the fire to keep us warm in our beds, and we barricaded to door from the inside with a large concrete block to stave off any intruders.

The weather was quite rainy and wet for the time I spent with Limei and her family--it was late July and the wet season had its claws in deep all over Yunnan. This meant that Limei didn't need to spend all of her time herding the family's goats and pigs, as she would have during clearer weather. Instead, after a breakfast of fried potatoes and pork Xiong's mother, father, and older brother (home from medical school just to see the foreign visitor) took turns doing Pumi dances for me and singing traditional songs, sometimes accompanying themselves on a roughly-hewn wooden instrument something like a cross between a guitar and a banjo or pounding the beat on a tightly-rolled up sheep skin that stood in for a drum. The songs and dances ranged from made up on the spot (Limei translated a sad song her mother sang about losing her own mother at age 13) to the thoroughly traditional, to be performed at rituals and on holidays.

For dinner, they killed one of their chickens for me to eat. This was a big deal-- for people living a subsistence lifestyle, a live chicken is a sustainable resource who will provide eggs (for eating and for producing more chickens) throughout its life. A dead chicken is one night's dinner. Thus, killing a chicken for a guest is an enormous honor. So even though I was fairly disgusted by having to watch as they chased the chicken (clearly cognizant of its fate) around the yard, slit its throat, drained the blood, etc, I tried to honor their way of honoring me by not cringing. And in some detached way, it was interesting to watch the process of creating a chicken dinner from start to finish.

The beginning of the process of cooking a chicken over an open fire


Xiong Li Mei and her mother outside their house


Getting water from the giant water vat


After dinner, the songs and dancing commenced again, lasting long into the night and lit only by the fire under the san jiao and the single bare lightbulb.

Xiong Li Mei's mother performs for me

In the morning, Limei was determined to find me some Lisu people to speak to about stories-- my thesis research was focusing on Lisu stories and their relationship with Christianity, and I hadn't had a chance to talk to any Lisu from the Lanping area. We walked an hour and a half down the road. As the rain intensified and I grew tired, Limei insisted that there was no need to take a bus--the village we were walking to was only a few minutes away. My foot was getting sorer and sorer and I was getting wetter and wetter, but I didn't crack until she pointed across the road and said "Okay, now we only need to climb over there." Miserable, I started up a small mountain, my foot throbbing with every step up the steep, muddy incline. As we reached the top I could barely walk, and the rain was coming down in buckets. I was exhausted and overwhelmed and began to cry. Limei was flummoxed, unsure what to do. "Li se," she said to me, "don't cry here. There may be gui around. They will like you too much if you cry." She was referring to a legendary figure in the Pumi and Lisu pantheon, a malevolent, flesh eating spirit that loves to torment humans. Later that night, when I complained of an upset stomach (probably from an overstimulating day and our dinner of roasted pig's head) she wondered aloud if the cause might not be a gui from earlier on the mountain. Regardless, I was finally able to pul myself together when I looked around and found that the worst was over and we had emerged on a level, sandy cow path (with a few cows munching wet hay to prove it.)

The outing unfortunately proved to be mostly fruitless-- we found only a few Lisu home during the summer planting season and were able to convince them to tell me a couple stories, but my black mood prevailed and they didn't have much to offer. Luckily, one of the people at the last house we visited was taking a large load of hay into the nearest village to sell, and he offered us a ride in his huge purple wood hauler. I sat in the cramped passenger seat, with Limei on my lap and the farmer's dog on her lap. Luckily, it was only a 15 minute drive, with the transmission vibrating mightily underneath us all the way, belching diesel.

I was scheduled to leave for Lanping, and then Kunming, early the next morning, but Limei's uncle arrived at the house that night to try and convince me to come to his house nearby for lunch. As politely as I could, I told him that I would be leaving to go back to America before lunchtime but that I really appreciated his generosity. "But," he protested, "I already killed two chickens for you!"

I felt terrible, knowing what a sacrifice those chickens were and what message they sent about his feelings for his would-be lunch guest. But my bus would not wait, and even if I had had the time I doubted I could climb up the enormous hill to his house with my bum foot. The situation was tense-- the family couldn't understand why I wouldn't just postpone the bus trip to honor Uncle, and I desperately wanted not to be perceived as ungrateful or rude. I dodged a bullet by arranging for Uncle Xiong to come for breakfast before I left. He and his two daughters joined with Limei, her brother, and father in showing me a traditional circle dance done at the Pumi New Year. Limei's mother sat on her low stool in the middle of the circle, clapping and singing along, seemingly fine with her inability to dance. Somehow it wasn't as sad as it might have been.

Before I left, we took pictures together and Limei's parents issued a formal invitation for me to return any time with my parents. I was their American daughter, they said. We took our final photographs, then Limei and I left for the first leg of a long trip back to America.

All of the Xiong family, gathered to say goodbye as I leave for Kunming and then the US

Home again, Home again, Jiggity Jig

Well, I've been home now almost a week and things are starting to fall into place again.

It wasn't a fun journey home-- due to a snafu in Los Angeles, I was in transit a full 42 hours. I did manage an aisle seat for the 14 hour jaunt from Hong Kong to LA, which was lovely (well, lovelier than the middle seat would have been), but once I got to LA I was informed by my father, who was, extremely luckily, in town on business, that our plane had been cancelled, and we had been rebooked on a flight 12 hours later. He still had his hotel and rental car though, so the trip ended up fairly painless. After collapsing in the hotel room for 4 hours, we went to nearby Hermosa Beach, a little beach town right outside LA proper. (Or is it still LA proper? I've never understood) and had excellent Mexican food, people watched, and walked out onto the pier to watch the sunset. Then we got on a red eye, but not to Boston, no that would have been too simple-- to Washington DC.

Funny story, though, and by "funny" I mean "wahhhh." We sat for 45 minutes on the runway until the pilot came on, all "Sorry folks, we're having a weight distribution problem, we'll get that resolved and be on our way soon." Apparently what "get that resolved" means is "take some people's bags off the plane, including Alissa's." Needless to say, we had to run to catch our connection to Boston because we came in so late (luckily our flight was just one concourse over, if it had been in another terminal we never would have caught it) and when we finally got to Logan around 10 AM, my bag was nowhere to be found. The United people promised it would be at our house by 4 PM. Then they promised it would be there by 6 PM. Midnight. 8 AM.

My bag finally arrived at our house at noon. The next day. Argh.

After which we drove ourselves up to Maine, and the rest of the week was devoted to relaxing, rereading Harry Potter (I'm almost finished with the third book), catching up with friends, and starting to try and wrap my head around the fact that I'm Back. So far, things seem to be alright. I'm settling in, getting used to the soft beds, the constant barrage of English, revelling in amazing summer fruit and incredible cleanliness of public bathrooms. I think it helps how starkly different my lives are in China and here. It just feels like a different person did all those things in a different world, a different universe. Hopefully sometime soon I'll start coming out of the clouds and understanding that this is more than just a dream of home.

Take Me Home, Country Roads

Well, it's official. I'm leaving on a jet plane, and yeah, I don't know when I'll be back again. But I know it'll be sometime, I love Yunnan too much not to come back. And so, in lieu of my continued adventures in China, I present to you: Things I'm Going to Miss and Things I'm Really Not Going To Miss about China/America. (Note: I will continue recounting my various antics when I reach the other side of the Pacific. Continue checking back for continuation of our Xinjiang trip, my two weeks in Kunming, my Nujiang research, and my three days as a Pumi peasant.)

Things I'm Going to Miss About China

-Outdoor markets
-Bargaining for anything and everything
-How incredibly cheap everything is. Seriously. Even when it's expensive-- it's cheap.
-Being able to look forward to have a new experience every day-- whether it be as small as a new word learned or as big as a new place travelled
-Seeing people wearing traditional, non-Western clothing
-Being able to meet people whose way of life is so different from mine
-Feeling badass for speaking Chinese so well
-Salvadore's American breakfast and amazing ice cream (I'm eating some as I type)
-Chopsticks
-The general laidback atmosphere of Kunming
-Feeling like a celebrity, like something worth getting excited over, just because of where I'm from and how I look
-The incredibly generous, giving, warm people who let me into their lives and their homes in the last 5 months
-Chinglish
-Text messaging in Chinese
-Old people doing exercises in the park
-Old people playing majiang and smoking pipes
-Old people crinkling up their eyes and smiling toothlessly at me because I'm a foreigner
-Chinese children ages 0-8 and their ridiculous adorableness.
-Chinese babies with their butts hanging out
-People who use abaci in shops
-DVDs at Y5 a pop
-Saying "Wei?" when I answer my cell phone

Things I'm Really Not Going To Miss

-The beds, which feel like sleeping on a board (sometimes, you actually are)
-Fearing for my life every time I cross a street
-Fearing for my life every time I get in a car
-Having to worry about where I might be sick next
-Feeling like a curiousity/freak because of the color of my skin and the shape of my eyes
-Squat toilets
-Having to carry my own toilet paper with me everywhere and sometimes forgetting
-Bathrooms where you get fined if you poop
-Censored internet
-The rainy season
-Accidentally eating hot peppers in supposedly un-spicy food
-Malaria
-People commenting on my weight (cultural norm or not)
-The way important things (like banks and hospitals) are only open during the week, as if people don't need things on the weekends
-Wearing the same shirt 8 times and the same pants 12 times before laundry day
-Having to handwash my socks and underwear
-Freezing cold showers in the morning
-Bus drivers who don't stop for bathroom breaks until everyone is jumping up and down and crossing their legs
-Eight hour bus rides over moon landscapes masquerading as roads
-The pollution-- air, water, and so very much trash
-Horrid Chinese sugar pop music
-Exhausting myself speaking Chinese every day

Things I'm Looking Forward To About the US

-Sandwiches! (I was watching an episode of "Scrubs" the other day on my computer, and they were eating sandwiches. And I thought, "Wow! I totally forgot about sandwiches! Awesome!")
-Hot water! Whenever I want it!
-Fresh fruit without having to worry or take a million years to peel it!
-Drinking tap water! From the tap!
-Driving
-Listening to English-language radio
-Summertime crap TV (everything I missed in the spring)
-Reuniting with friends, of course
-Spaghetti
-Forks and knives
-Rereading the entire Harry Potter series, and then Harry Potter 7
-Well-paved roads
-Cars equipped with actual shock absorbers
-Being able to read all my friends' blogs again

*Note that these lists are subject to change and will likely be added to once I get home and can see more clearly the things I am enjoying and those that I am missing. Then I will re-post this entry.

Wan le!（Finished!)

Ms. Alissa, currently of Yunnan Normal University, Kunming, China is proud to announce that, after an almost week-long labor, she gave birth to a 36-page, healthy baby at approximately 10:15 AM on May 30. The baby, whose gender is undisclosed at this time, has been christened "'Once Upon a Time' In the Valley: Storytelling in Nujiang Prefecture.'" Alissa is resting comfortably, having turned her baby in for inspection to the proper authorities.


(And tomorrow she's going to Xi'an and Beijing with her program-mates to see historical sites and PAR-TAY before a week-long trip with her parents and a return to Yunnan for 5.5 further weeks of research. And maybe a trip to actual Tibet, or somewhere interesting in any case.)