I’m not much of an environmentalist. I don’t hug trees, I rarely think about energy efficient light bulbs, and I’ve never used the words “carbon footprint” in a conversation. Yet, in my travels this year, the issue of paper and plastic usage keeps coming to my attention. As my friends and family know well, much of what I do when I travel is eat. Naturally, it is at dining tables that I felt most keenly the big differences in how people around the world consume paper and plastic.
When I left New York for Singapore two years ago, I had grown used to the luxurious (some would say wasteful) usage of disposables in America. Arriving in Singapore, I was at first dismayed to find that most casual eateries (of which there are plenty) in this foodie nation do not provide napkins to diners. This “napkin stinginess” bugged me initially but after living there a while I got used to toting around my own tissue packets. If I happen to forget my pocket tissues, too bad for me, I would have to forego the luxury of wiping my hands clean and would have to wash instead.
Other aspects of Singapore’s paper and plastic conscientiousness grew on me. I started to like seeing foods packaged in strange vessels – drinks poured into small plastic sacs tied at the end; chicken rice and char kway teo wrapped in waxed paper; soup is about the only thing that entitles you to the extravagance of a plastic take-out bowl. The inconveniences of dining without free-flowing napkins and disposable containers melted away into a kind of rustic Asian charm.
Going from Singapore to my “summer home” (more like budget rental) in Paris was an easy switch. Although American tourists complained about the lack of proper take-out equipment, I was happy to carry my baguette out of the bakery with only a small square of pastry paper covering its middle. At the markets, free plastic bags are so small and flimsy that I preferred bringing my own foldable shopping bag. If I had stayed longer I probably would’ve splurged on a panier on wheels, like the ones old ladies use to haul their groceries home. At restaurants, I felt more civilized dabbing my lips with cloth serviettes instead of paper napkins. And I came to appreciate why many restaurants don’t do take-out – why bother stocking up on expensive plastic wares? And what insane diners would prefer eating in the solitude of their cramped apartment instead of in an ambient café? The French paper and plastic stinginess struck me as an accidentally green kind of sophistication.
When I left Europe for a visit back to the US I felt a real culture shock. After learning to live with fewer paper napkins and plastic sporks (and liking it), the sight of a delivery boy on my doorstep holding four lunch tacos in TWO separate paper bags, each double wrapped in a heavy duty plastic bag, weirded me out. What’s with the reinforcement? Do the restaurants think a paper bag by itself would’ve torn under the weight of two tacos carried over five blocks?
Open a take-out bag and you’ll find more confounding excess – three full sets of plastic cutlery (fork, spoon, and knife) for a two-person order, a hefty serving of folded tree (in case the food is delivered to a household devoid of its own towels and tissues).
Elsewhere, juice joints stuff stacks of plush napkins into your hand when you buy a single cup of OJ, perhaps expecting a spill every time. Ziploc bags are bought and discarded without a thought. Durable take-out food containers rarely get a rinse and a reuse. God bless America, a land of abundance, especially when it comes to napkins and sporks.
It was another big switch, the biggest one in fact, to land in Beijing after being in the US. I didn’t read the January 2008 memo that banned shops from handing out free plastic bags to customers. So I was the only sucker paying up big bucks for plastic receptacles for my groceries when everyone else whipped out their reusable cloth shopping bags. When it comes to paper, China is and has always been stingy. If restaurants provide paper napkins they’re usually modest, flimsy squares dispensed one piece (and one ply) at a time. Take-out boxes here aren’t so much boxes as paper envelopes fortified with a little plastic.
The dining and shopping experience in China has quickly evolved into a system of BYOPB (plastic bag), BYOC (container – I’ve seen people bring their kitchen pots to the neighborhood restaurant for take-out), and BYOTP (toilet paper). These inconveniences bother me a little, especially when I’ve forgotten to BMO (bring my own). Yet, on a bigger scale, paper and plastic stinginess actually makes me feel better about the shopping and eating that I do everyday. My purchases may make a hole in my wallet but at least they’re not doing the same to the ozone layer, adding to a landfill, or felling a forest.
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Life In the Bike Lane
Two weeks ago I accepted a part time teaching job at an international school near home. If my old life at an investment bank was life in the fast lane and my four-month honeymoon was life on the beach, this gig is most certainly life in the bike lane, literally and metaphorically.
With this job my days are becoming more structured (seven hours at school, three of which I can spend writing or reading Dr. Seuss as class prep). At the end of a week I get paid some pocket money. Not enough to add much to the bank account but just enough to put a grin on my face and prompt me into buying posh cocktails at “Xiu” on the weekend. This life in the bike lane is, so far, a happy balance.
Becoming a teacher has also put me quite literally ON the bike lane. Before going to the school to meet the principal for the first time (also the first time being in the principal’s office has meant a good thing) I Google mapped the location. The school was only three kilometers northeast of my apartment and, according to Google, a six-minute car ride away.
Not so. It seems our friends at Google haven’t figured out how to factor Beijing’s gridlock traffic into its driving time estimates. I spent twenty-five minutes each way in a taxi and paid enough in fares to set me back one Mojito. There had to be a better way to commute.
The next day I strapped a pack onto my back, thanked mom for the lunch box she prepared, and stepped onto my blue bicycle. It’s a trusty vehicle with a “girl” frame (low crossbar to accommodate dresses and skirts) and a shiny aluminum basket (already misshapen into a trapezoid when the bike fell against a wall). At $30, it’s also a cheap enough vehicle for to ride and park carelessly around Beijing, where bike theft is rampant. I silently thanked the government for paving bike lanes as wide as car lanes all around the city and was ready to go.
Out on the road I quickly discovered that I was, by far, the slowest biker. Senior citizens with gaunt frames and silver hair were whizzing by on their way to taichi practice (or to the “granny meat market perhaps).
I was also the only one who seemed to bother with traffic rules. As soon as my front wheel rolled out of the gates of the peaceful apartment complex, vehicles came at me from six directions. Bikes rolled directly towards me, making me do a double take, wondering if I’m in Singapore and should be on the left side of the road. Cars crossed intersections straight into me while I was on the pedestrian crosswalk on a green light. Motorcycles swerved at diagonal angles into me, without any regard for what color the turning light was.
I soon learned that if I was to survive and reach school I would have to work my way into the middle of a pack of bikers, huddle close, and go where everyone else steers their bikes. Forget about the lights!
Like me, my brand new vehicle was also out of place among the other contraptions on the bike lane. There’s the unremarkable two-wheelers: bikes, mopeds, and those annoying electro-bikes with pedals that whirl uselessly when the motor is on and the rider’s feet are comfortably resting on the floorboard. But even among the bike-like vehicles, a large number are in seriously patchy condition. I saw a man happily pedaling in front of me on a bike that had the main frame of an ancient Flying Pigeon, incongruously shiny aluminum mudguards over the wheels (looking rather home-made), a very sporty blue plastic backseat (ripped off a fancier mountain bike), and a handy basket on the front that looked like it would be happier in the crook of an Italian girl’s arm.
There’s also plenty of mini three-wheelers, basically “pick up trucks” in bike form, on the road. The backs of these three-wheel bikes are usually piled high with recycled bottles, metal scraps, but I also frequently see children sitting in place of goods or a curled up adult having a nap in the back.
I made it to school that day in twenty minutes. Over the last two weeks I’ve been able to do the trip in as little as fifteen minutes when the traffic is good.
The more I use the bike lane the more I realize that it’s just the place for me. I love the freedom of coming and going when I please, without having to hail a taxi or haggle with the “black cab” drivers who hover outside nice apartment buildings waiting to con newly arrived expat. As the weather cools into autumn (Beijing’s most glorious season) I sometimes get to throw a scarf around my neck and feel it trailing in the wind behind me. I don’t even mind jostling for a place in the bike hoard at intersections (making sure to always place myself in the middle among layers of “protection” should a car accidentally plow through) or shouting “Kan che!” (“Watch out, oncoming vehicle”) to anyone veering into my lane.
Some days, when the air is crisp and the sky is blue (Beijing’s smog does clear up occasionally), pedaling on my bike reminds me of school, those happy days at Stanford when my biggest worry was finishing a policy paper on time. But most days, even if it’s muggy and crowded, I feel an exhilarating happiness from being able to conduct myself from place to place independently. Knowing that my journeys to and fro have hardly cost a thing or brought more waste into the world only makes me pedal faster. And so, I’ll keep on biking and see where this latest adventure takes me.
With this job my days are becoming more structured (seven hours at school, three of which I can spend writing or reading Dr. Seuss as class prep). At the end of a week I get paid some pocket money. Not enough to add much to the bank account but just enough to put a grin on my face and prompt me into buying posh cocktails at “Xiu” on the weekend. This life in the bike lane is, so far, a happy balance.
Becoming a teacher has also put me quite literally ON the bike lane. Before going to the school to meet the principal for the first time (also the first time being in the principal’s office has meant a good thing) I Google mapped the location. The school was only three kilometers northeast of my apartment and, according to Google, a six-minute car ride away.
Not so. It seems our friends at Google haven’t figured out how to factor Beijing’s gridlock traffic into its driving time estimates. I spent twenty-five minutes each way in a taxi and paid enough in fares to set me back one Mojito. There had to be a better way to commute.
The next day I strapped a pack onto my back, thanked mom for the lunch box she prepared, and stepped onto my blue bicycle. It’s a trusty vehicle with a “girl” frame (low crossbar to accommodate dresses and skirts) and a shiny aluminum basket (already misshapen into a trapezoid when the bike fell against a wall). At $30, it’s also a cheap enough vehicle for to ride and park carelessly around Beijing, where bike theft is rampant. I silently thanked the government for paving bike lanes as wide as car lanes all around the city and was ready to go.
Out on the road I quickly discovered that I was, by far, the slowest biker. Senior citizens with gaunt frames and silver hair were whizzing by on their way to taichi practice (or to the “granny meat market perhaps).
I was also the only one who seemed to bother with traffic rules. As soon as my front wheel rolled out of the gates of the peaceful apartment complex, vehicles came at me from six directions. Bikes rolled directly towards me, making me do a double take, wondering if I’m in Singapore and should be on the left side of the road. Cars crossed intersections straight into me while I was on the pedestrian crosswalk on a green light. Motorcycles swerved at diagonal angles into me, without any regard for what color the turning light was.
I soon learned that if I was to survive and reach school I would have to work my way into the middle of a pack of bikers, huddle close, and go where everyone else steers their bikes. Forget about the lights!
Like me, my brand new vehicle was also out of place among the other contraptions on the bike lane. There’s the unremarkable two-wheelers: bikes, mopeds, and those annoying electro-bikes with pedals that whirl uselessly when the motor is on and the rider’s feet are comfortably resting on the floorboard. But even among the bike-like vehicles, a large number are in seriously patchy condition. I saw a man happily pedaling in front of me on a bike that had the main frame of an ancient Flying Pigeon, incongruously shiny aluminum mudguards over the wheels (looking rather home-made), a very sporty blue plastic backseat (ripped off a fancier mountain bike), and a handy basket on the front that looked like it would be happier in the crook of an Italian girl’s arm.
There’s also plenty of mini three-wheelers, basically “pick up trucks” in bike form, on the road. The backs of these three-wheel bikes are usually piled high with recycled bottles, metal scraps, but I also frequently see children sitting in place of goods or a curled up adult having a nap in the back.
I made it to school that day in twenty minutes. Over the last two weeks I’ve been able to do the trip in as little as fifteen minutes when the traffic is good.
The more I use the bike lane the more I realize that it’s just the place for me. I love the freedom of coming and going when I please, without having to hail a taxi or haggle with the “black cab” drivers who hover outside nice apartment buildings waiting to con newly arrived expat. As the weather cools into autumn (Beijing’s most glorious season) I sometimes get to throw a scarf around my neck and feel it trailing in the wind behind me. I don’t even mind jostling for a place in the bike hoard at intersections (making sure to always place myself in the middle among layers of “protection” should a car accidentally plow through) or shouting “Kan che!” (“Watch out, oncoming vehicle”) to anyone veering into my lane.
Some days, when the air is crisp and the sky is blue (Beijing’s smog does clear up occasionally), pedaling on my bike reminds me of school, those happy days at Stanford when my biggest worry was finishing a policy paper on time. But most days, even if it’s muggy and crowded, I feel an exhilarating happiness from being able to conduct myself from place to place independently. Knowing that my journeys to and fro have hardly cost a thing or brought more waste into the world only makes me pedal faster. And so, I’ll keep on biking and see where this latest adventure takes me.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Meet the Family
[Excerpt from travel log, an account of my summer of meeting the in-law's from Lyon to Buffalo]
We took the TGV from Paris to Lyon. For two hours I looked out the window at rolling fields of golden wheat and barley, at green patches of corn leaves, and at the intensely white and fluffy clouds floating against an azure sky.
...
When Uncle Paul finally emerged from the crowd at the train station, he wasn’t quite “a dude who looked like Sue” (my mother-in-law), as Geoff had foretold. There was some Prozeller family resemblance in the face and he shared Sue's coloring, but mostly I was just surprised to see a man who had chosen to make his life in France dressed exactly like a summering American tourist. Tevas, a t-shirt with some kind of cowboy logo, jean shorts, and a hat advertising his favorite sports team. I had expected him to be more assimilated to France’s style of dress, as he had married a French woman and settled down in a small rural town.
In the car, Paul and Geoff talked like a pair of business associates about jobs, property prices, and tax regimes. I shared the backseat with the smiling and lanky Matt, Paul’s middle child. Matt was at first shy, hiding behind his dad’s broad frame at the train station. But in the car he soon opened up. He offered me sour candies and we chatted in French about subjects that I hoped were of interest to eleven-year-olds. When I was at a loss for French teenage words I would throw in some English, which he mostly understood but couldn’t speak as well.
It was a half hour drive, past Lyon and into an area of interconnected villages. We drove through a village called Frontonas in a matter of minutes and I remarked at its small size. Matt informed me that Veysillieu, where they lived, was even more cozy. And true enough, it was.
Once in Veyssillieu, we first stopped at the town square where Paul ran an errand. There, I took photos of the mayor’s office (a two-storey house), the town’s WWII memorial (honoring its ten or so sons who had gone off to the war), and the modest schoolhouse (where Matt sits in a 24-student class that covers all the primary school levels). In front of the church I snapped a photo of Geoff with his little cousin. Neither of the boys took to each other immediately and in the viewfinder of the camera I saw two people behaving like strangers awkwardly shoved together. When I pressed the button, Matt was still standing shyly off to the side and Geoff was making little effort to bring him closer with a hug or gesture.
The mile of road from “downtown” to the Prozeller home was lined with quite a few sunflower fields. The family lives in a typical old French stone house. Paul had lovingly restored and expanded their home over the years. Now, it sports spring green shutters, a sprawling yard filled with boys’ toys and gadgets, a swing fashioned to hang from a tree branch, and a work shed where Paul once brewed his own beer. The house faces a neighbor’s large sunflower field in the front and the back yard opens up to a sloping hilltop. It was a beautiful home, made more beautiful by the bright Provencal sun and the fields of yellow all around.
Once we stepped out of the car and into the home, a frenzy of domestic activity burst forth. Paul was in and out, driving off again with a carload of things he had to drop off somewhere. Matt, in a flash, had shimmied into his swimming trunks and invited me to the blow-up pool. While we were splashing around, Brian, the eldest boy, arrived home and immediately started stomping around the yard doing maintenance work like a real man of the house. Though only two years older than Matt, Brian was a full-fledged teenager, looking and acting like a grown-up. Around the house he adopted a serious, occupied manner and ordered his little brothers around to their chores rather authoritatively. (Here he called Matt out of the pool to hose off some floating toys that had rolled out onto the grass). Soon, Paul’s wife Nadia also arrived home with their youngest boy, Maury. Nadia had been out all day painting their new apartment, which was to be rented the following week. As she walked into the yard she still had a spot of white paint on her nose. Maury wore only his usual sweet smile on his small face.
After a bit, I got used to the household bustle and began to notice the subtle gestures and warm sentiments being exchanged around me. What struck me most was how very in love Paul and Nadia looked, even as they cooked, cleaned, and scolded their three children. As soon as Nadia had come home bearing an armload of apartment paperwork Paul set down his beer and rose up to relieve her of this small burden. He pulled up a chair in the yard for her and asked if he could make her a drink. Later, during dinner, Nadia congratulated me on my marriage and in very simple English toasted, “I hope you will be as happy as me.” Over the course of the long dinner I saw more and more of Nadia and Paul’s care for each other: a Valentine’s Day t-shirt with “I love you” written in fifteen different languages with colorful pens, which Paul proudly wears; the pet names they use on each other (“chou chou”); and how they each claim the other was responsible for the good genes that gave the boys their handsome looks.
Much later, as we got into a heavy discussion about the long Prozeller family history, Nadia tells me that at one point she and Paul were on the verge of breaking up because of Paul’s reluctance to have children. I couldn’t believe that from those days they had moved on to build this incredible familial atmosphere.
We had a jovial dinner. Paul had marinated Jamaican jerk chicken the night before and while he prepared drinks, Geoff and I tried to barbeque. We were such city slickers and when the chicken began to burn we had to ask for help from Brian. He wielded the pitchfork expertly and with somber attention. Everyone pitched in to set the table, cut the bread, lay out the excessively generous spread of desserts and cheese. Even little Maury, with childish concentration on his face, contributed by bringing out the plates.
After much eating and drinking, Paul began to tell me the Prozeller family history. Like Sue and Grandpa Paul, whom I’ll meet later in the summer, Paul junior is fond of storytelling. The story began in 1949...
...
Paul was a detailed narrator and by the time he arrived at the 1970’s the sleepy bug had hit me. Even the après-repas tea couldn’t make me stay up any longer. We called it a night and promised to take up the family story again the next time we meet.
Early the next day, Geoff and I left to catch the train for Avignon where our friends would soon arrive from Singapore. With the hurried goodbyes I felt a real sense of regret, as if I were leaving my own family. In the short time we had spent together, I had grown attached to the happy clan. I loved the children for their easy manners and for behaving like little French gentlemen. I adored Nadia for making her home so warm, often without the help her traveling husband, and for doing it uncomplainingly. And I admired Paul, this man who looks and acts so much like my husband, for overcoming the confusion of his early childhood years and growing up to build a beautiful family of his own.
After we left Veyssilieu, we would eventually make our way to Grand Island in West New York where I would meet Uncle Dave and his wife Anne. We would stay in their stylish home, enjoy their tremendous hospitality, and have similarly long and elucidating conversations about the Prozeller history...Even later, I would meet the family patriarch, Grandpa Paul, and sit in his old living room going over ancient family portraits...
...
I felt an incredible sense of comfort meeting each of the Prozeller men this summer...I took delight in identifying the family traits, which were as evident in the 1900’s sepia-toned photographs in Grandpa Paul’s sitting room as on the aging faces of Sue and Paul, and in the still youthful face of Geoff. The slightly protruding nose, mouth, and chin area that gives Geoff the look of an affectionate small animal comes from this line of German blood. I was glad to know that Geoff’s tendency to scratch his head and start looking for displaced items just as he is headed out the door is also a source of amused annoyance for Nadia. I had a chuckle at learning that the men also shared a stubborn preference for sleeping with the shutters open, forcing their wives to wear eye shades...
It was a wonderful summer as we trailed from Europe to the US and back to Asia. Along the way we got to know ourselves and we also got to know our now shared family much, much better.
We took the TGV from Paris to Lyon. For two hours I looked out the window at rolling fields of golden wheat and barley, at green patches of corn leaves, and at the intensely white and fluffy clouds floating against an azure sky.
...
When Uncle Paul finally emerged from the crowd at the train station, he wasn’t quite “a dude who looked like Sue” (my mother-in-law), as Geoff had foretold. There was some Prozeller family resemblance in the face and he shared Sue's coloring, but mostly I was just surprised to see a man who had chosen to make his life in France dressed exactly like a summering American tourist. Tevas, a t-shirt with some kind of cowboy logo, jean shorts, and a hat advertising his favorite sports team. I had expected him to be more assimilated to France’s style of dress, as he had married a French woman and settled down in a small rural town.
In the car, Paul and Geoff talked like a pair of business associates about jobs, property prices, and tax regimes. I shared the backseat with the smiling and lanky Matt, Paul’s middle child. Matt was at first shy, hiding behind his dad’s broad frame at the train station. But in the car he soon opened up. He offered me sour candies and we chatted in French about subjects that I hoped were of interest to eleven-year-olds. When I was at a loss for French teenage words I would throw in some English, which he mostly understood but couldn’t speak as well.
It was a half hour drive, past Lyon and into an area of interconnected villages. We drove through a village called Frontonas in a matter of minutes and I remarked at its small size. Matt informed me that Veysillieu, where they lived, was even more cozy. And true enough, it was.
Once in Veyssillieu, we first stopped at the town square where Paul ran an errand. There, I took photos of the mayor’s office (a two-storey house), the town’s WWII memorial (honoring its ten or so sons who had gone off to the war), and the modest schoolhouse (where Matt sits in a 24-student class that covers all the primary school levels). In front of the church I snapped a photo of Geoff with his little cousin. Neither of the boys took to each other immediately and in the viewfinder of the camera I saw two people behaving like strangers awkwardly shoved together. When I pressed the button, Matt was still standing shyly off to the side and Geoff was making little effort to bring him closer with a hug or gesture.
The mile of road from “downtown” to the Prozeller home was lined with quite a few sunflower fields. The family lives in a typical old French stone house. Paul had lovingly restored and expanded their home over the years. Now, it sports spring green shutters, a sprawling yard filled with boys’ toys and gadgets, a swing fashioned to hang from a tree branch, and a work shed where Paul once brewed his own beer. The house faces a neighbor’s large sunflower field in the front and the back yard opens up to a sloping hilltop. It was a beautiful home, made more beautiful by the bright Provencal sun and the fields of yellow all around.
Once we stepped out of the car and into the home, a frenzy of domestic activity burst forth. Paul was in and out, driving off again with a carload of things he had to drop off somewhere. Matt, in a flash, had shimmied into his swimming trunks and invited me to the blow-up pool. While we were splashing around, Brian, the eldest boy, arrived home and immediately started stomping around the yard doing maintenance work like a real man of the house. Though only two years older than Matt, Brian was a full-fledged teenager, looking and acting like a grown-up. Around the house he adopted a serious, occupied manner and ordered his little brothers around to their chores rather authoritatively. (Here he called Matt out of the pool to hose off some floating toys that had rolled out onto the grass). Soon, Paul’s wife Nadia also arrived home with their youngest boy, Maury. Nadia had been out all day painting their new apartment, which was to be rented the following week. As she walked into the yard she still had a spot of white paint on her nose. Maury wore only his usual sweet smile on his small face.
After a bit, I got used to the household bustle and began to notice the subtle gestures and warm sentiments being exchanged around me. What struck me most was how very in love Paul and Nadia looked, even as they cooked, cleaned, and scolded their three children. As soon as Nadia had come home bearing an armload of apartment paperwork Paul set down his beer and rose up to relieve her of this small burden. He pulled up a chair in the yard for her and asked if he could make her a drink. Later, during dinner, Nadia congratulated me on my marriage and in very simple English toasted, “I hope you will be as happy as me.” Over the course of the long dinner I saw more and more of Nadia and Paul’s care for each other: a Valentine’s Day t-shirt with “I love you” written in fifteen different languages with colorful pens, which Paul proudly wears; the pet names they use on each other (“chou chou”); and how they each claim the other was responsible for the good genes that gave the boys their handsome looks.
Much later, as we got into a heavy discussion about the long Prozeller family history, Nadia tells me that at one point she and Paul were on the verge of breaking up because of Paul’s reluctance to have children. I couldn’t believe that from those days they had moved on to build this incredible familial atmosphere.
We had a jovial dinner. Paul had marinated Jamaican jerk chicken the night before and while he prepared drinks, Geoff and I tried to barbeque. We were such city slickers and when the chicken began to burn we had to ask for help from Brian. He wielded the pitchfork expertly and with somber attention. Everyone pitched in to set the table, cut the bread, lay out the excessively generous spread of desserts and cheese. Even little Maury, with childish concentration on his face, contributed by bringing out the plates.
After much eating and drinking, Paul began to tell me the Prozeller family history. Like Sue and Grandpa Paul, whom I’ll meet later in the summer, Paul junior is fond of storytelling. The story began in 1949...
...
Paul was a detailed narrator and by the time he arrived at the 1970’s the sleepy bug had hit me. Even the après-repas tea couldn’t make me stay up any longer. We called it a night and promised to take up the family story again the next time we meet.
Early the next day, Geoff and I left to catch the train for Avignon where our friends would soon arrive from Singapore. With the hurried goodbyes I felt a real sense of regret, as if I were leaving my own family. In the short time we had spent together, I had grown attached to the happy clan. I loved the children for their easy manners and for behaving like little French gentlemen. I adored Nadia for making her home so warm, often without the help her traveling husband, and for doing it uncomplainingly. And I admired Paul, this man who looks and acts so much like my husband, for overcoming the confusion of his early childhood years and growing up to build a beautiful family of his own.
After we left Veyssilieu, we would eventually make our way to Grand Island in West New York where I would meet Uncle Dave and his wife Anne. We would stay in their stylish home, enjoy their tremendous hospitality, and have similarly long and elucidating conversations about the Prozeller history...Even later, I would meet the family patriarch, Grandpa Paul, and sit in his old living room going over ancient family portraits...
...
I felt an incredible sense of comfort meeting each of the Prozeller men this summer...I took delight in identifying the family traits, which were as evident in the 1900’s sepia-toned photographs in Grandpa Paul’s sitting room as on the aging faces of Sue and Paul, and in the still youthful face of Geoff. The slightly protruding nose, mouth, and chin area that gives Geoff the look of an affectionate small animal comes from this line of German blood. I was glad to know that Geoff’s tendency to scratch his head and start looking for displaced items just as he is headed out the door is also a source of amused annoyance for Nadia. I had a chuckle at learning that the men also shared a stubborn preference for sleeping with the shutters open, forcing their wives to wear eye shades...
It was a wonderful summer as we trailed from Europe to the US and back to Asia. Along the way we got to know ourselves and we also got to know our now shared family much, much better.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Beijing, As I Like It
Sunday to Sunday, it’s been a week since I arrived. It’s been a happy time, a busy time, and a reflective time.
Every time I come to Beijing after being away it takes me a while to get my bearings. Fresh off the plane, I never know where to eat, how to meet up with friends, or navigate my way to the best quality fake DVDs. Life in China happens at a 100-meter dash pace. It's a big change from my recent life in Paris where, twelve years after my first visit, my pocket maps are still current and my favorite restaurants haven’t even changed the upholstery on their chairs.
At the start of this week, I had no idea where to go to eat mao xue wang (a frightening but irresistible spicy stew of tripe, blood, and other animal parts), how to buy a new SIM card for my phone, or what price to pay for a good foot rub. With a bit of help from friends, old and new, I’ve now worked out my basic needs. I’ve managed to overcome internet censorship (thanks to Witopia), settle into a comfy couch to read and drink smoothies (Bookworm), and get my daily dose of yoga (Yoga Yard).
Basics aside, on the whole I find Beijing a much more pleasant (and more foreign-husband-friendly) city this time around. The infrastructure that was built up to welcome millions of Olympics tourists in 2008 still functions and now serves the needs of Beijingers well. Instead of rickety and sweltering hot 1980’s era buses I can hop onto a still-shiny vehicle, swipe my city transportation card, and sit in relatively cool comfort to wait for my stop.
Even more significant than the physical infrastructure is the “cultural infrastructure.” Leading up to the Olympics I saw the impressive public campaign to make Beijingers tourist-ready – at every bus station government workers wearing the ubiquitous and authoritative red armbands waved small flags to herd commuters into queues. Everywhere I turned, some celebrity was smiling from a TV screen or colored poster and reminding people not to spit in public or push in a crowd. A year after the Olympics, people are still lining up, of their own accord and without the aid of armbanded enforcers. It’s easier than ever to love Beijing.
In my week here I’ve also been reminded of the vibrancy of the city. China is really its own universe. From London to New York, everywhere I went this summer my acquaintances were talking in dull tones about the recession, losing their jobs, or cutting back on shopping. Here, locals and expats alike are optimistic about the opportunities out there.
It’s not that they’ve all drunk the government Cool-Aid and believe in the mighty Chinese foreign reserves. It’s just that people who have chosen to make their life here seem to be bigger risk-takers, more creative, and somewhat relaxed about what shape their “success” can take. Instead of the usual two-year stint at an investment bank or consultancy, followed by business school, then followed by I-don’t-know-what (eternal happiness?), the people I meet here mostly got here by packing a bag and getting on a plane. Many arrived without significant Chinese language skills nor a job lined up. But over time they’ve found interesting gigs, started small companies, and developed amazing fluency in Mandarin.
I’m a believer in “do what makes you happy” and can’t judge anyone’s life choices beyond my own (HBS friends should take no offence at my above observation). All I want to say is that being here has made me extremely happy and wonderfully inspired. For now, it’s the perfect place to reconnect with my past and think about my choices for the future.
Every time I come to Beijing after being away it takes me a while to get my bearings. Fresh off the plane, I never know where to eat, how to meet up with friends, or navigate my way to the best quality fake DVDs. Life in China happens at a 100-meter dash pace. It's a big change from my recent life in Paris where, twelve years after my first visit, my pocket maps are still current and my favorite restaurants haven’t even changed the upholstery on their chairs.
At the start of this week, I had no idea where to go to eat mao xue wang (a frightening but irresistible spicy stew of tripe, blood, and other animal parts), how to buy a new SIM card for my phone, or what price to pay for a good foot rub. With a bit of help from friends, old and new, I’ve now worked out my basic needs. I’ve managed to overcome internet censorship (thanks to Witopia), settle into a comfy couch to read and drink smoothies (Bookworm), and get my daily dose of yoga (Yoga Yard).
Basics aside, on the whole I find Beijing a much more pleasant (and more foreign-husband-friendly) city this time around. The infrastructure that was built up to welcome millions of Olympics tourists in 2008 still functions and now serves the needs of Beijingers well. Instead of rickety and sweltering hot 1980’s era buses I can hop onto a still-shiny vehicle, swipe my city transportation card, and sit in relatively cool comfort to wait for my stop.
Even more significant than the physical infrastructure is the “cultural infrastructure.” Leading up to the Olympics I saw the impressive public campaign to make Beijingers tourist-ready – at every bus station government workers wearing the ubiquitous and authoritative red armbands waved small flags to herd commuters into queues. Everywhere I turned, some celebrity was smiling from a TV screen or colored poster and reminding people not to spit in public or push in a crowd. A year after the Olympics, people are still lining up, of their own accord and without the aid of armbanded enforcers. It’s easier than ever to love Beijing.
In my week here I’ve also been reminded of the vibrancy of the city. China is really its own universe. From London to New York, everywhere I went this summer my acquaintances were talking in dull tones about the recession, losing their jobs, or cutting back on shopping. Here, locals and expats alike are optimistic about the opportunities out there.
It’s not that they’ve all drunk the government Cool-Aid and believe in the mighty Chinese foreign reserves. It’s just that people who have chosen to make their life here seem to be bigger risk-takers, more creative, and somewhat relaxed about what shape their “success” can take. Instead of the usual two-year stint at an investment bank or consultancy, followed by business school, then followed by I-don’t-know-what (eternal happiness?), the people I meet here mostly got here by packing a bag and getting on a plane. Many arrived without significant Chinese language skills nor a job lined up. But over time they’ve found interesting gigs, started small companies, and developed amazing fluency in Mandarin.
I’m a believer in “do what makes you happy” and can’t judge anyone’s life choices beyond my own (HBS friends should take no offence at my above observation). All I want to say is that being here has made me extremely happy and wonderfully inspired. For now, it’s the perfect place to reconnect with my past and think about my choices for the future.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A True Family Story
I'd like to share a piece of writing that's not mine. I had been looking for a copy of a short story my mom wrote about her younger brother more than ten years ago during an English writing course. Here in Beijing, in boxes upon boxes of old things (my notebooks from 1st grade, my high school graduation speech, my parents' wedding photo), I found a hard copy this morning. I've typed it up to share here, keeping mom's original grammatical errors but omitting a small paragraph about the political environment in the 1950's.
This story always made me tear up, even more so reading it today because my uncle passed away in the summer of 2007.
My Younger Brother
By Li Gui Rong
I was six years old by the Chinese way. When we Chinese count ages, we always include the year when we were in our mothers’ womb. I remember, it was an early summer morning. My brothers and I woke up and found a mid-wife in my mother’s room. My father was not home on that day. In those days, he always attended those useless and endless political meetings somewhere outside our town. But my father, a fervent communist, always thought the meetings were very important. The mid-wife told us to prepare some hot water. We knew a younger brother or sister would come to the world soon.
That year was the year my country just experienced “Da Yue Jin”, a big, senseless political movement started by Mao Ze Dong. Western society translated the term “Da Yue Jin” into “A Great Leap Forward!” Before people could take a breath from this, the natural disaster followed right away. Some places had drought and some places were flooded all over China...[xxx]...
My hometown is located in Northeast China; across the border is Russia. People even saw trains and trains loaded with pig's tails going to the other side, too. But inside our country there was a big shortage of everything. The famine already started and soon spread across our country. Many of my countrymen sacrificed their lives because of “Da Yue Jin.” ...[xxx]...My younger brother decided to come to the world and join us now.
My mother called me to her room. She was pale, weak and sweating all over. She was struggling with the pain about to give birth. Mom told me to go to Uncle Li’s place to get some rice (food distribution at the time was controlled by the street committee). Uncle Li was the person who was in charge of all the food distribution. I left my house with a little cotton bag in my hand. It was still very dark outside because the sky was covered by clouds. The thunder and flash of lightning was on and off. I was so scared. All the ghost stories came to my mind. I wished I could go home. I did not want to go to Uncle Li’s place any more. But mom’s pale face also came to my mind. My family was waiting for whatever I could get back for breakfast and my mother needed to eat something so she could give the new baby some milk. I had no choice but to go.
I knocked on the door hard. It took very long before Uncle Li answered the door. He came, opened the door without scything anything. I tried so hard to collect all the sweet words to please Uncle Li. Uncle Li, the whole time he even did not look at me, he slowly walked to the yellow rice counter, picked up a container, gathered some rice and put it on the scale. Still no words. I opened my bag and he poured the rice into it and said in a hardly heard voice, “Be careful, not to spill it.”
I carried the rice on my back. I moved it to my front; I put it on my shoulder. I kept changing my posture for carrying it. The rice was so heavy for me. I also stopped a couple of times to take a deep breath. Finally I got home. I was so delighted and ran to my mom’s room. “Mom! I got a lot of rice back!” My mom closed her eyes and answered nothing. I did not figure out until years later, when I was bigger, why my mom did not say anything to praise me. It was not because she did not appreciate what I had accomplished. Mom didn’t say anything because she knew the rice I brought home would not last for very long. How could a six-year-old child know that?
My little brother, the new baby, was born already. He was on the side of the “kang.” “Kang” is a unique thing in northern China, centuries old. It is normally built of bricks with holes under the surface. The holes were connected to the stove. You burned the wood inside the stove. The fire in the stove traveled around the holes. The bricks on the surface become hot. The brick also preserved the heat for quite a few hours, so you could sleep on a warm place.
I did not think so much about my mother’s reaction toward my trip back with the rice. My focus turned to my younger brother right away. Wow! The baby, he was so thin, I could see the bones, the veins. Because he was still adjusting to the temperature, he was cold. His body was a deep, dark purple color, as if his blood was freezing. “He is cold mom,” I said. “Never mind,” Mom answered. Mom was so tired and depressed by the hardship we had. It was very difficult already for Mom and Dad to raise five of us. Now, another one.
“Even if he is going to survive today, how about tomorrow?,” Mom continued to murmur to herself. I quickly gathered some clothes around the room and put them on his body. He was so quiet, he didn’t even cry, as if he knew he came to us at the wrong time. Days went on so slow. We all tried our best to manage some special food for my little brother. We were always looking forward to the next day, hoping we could get more and better food.
My little brother was growing. He was quiet, humble, sensitive, and seldom asked for anything, even if he was hungry. Everybody in my family tried our best to protect him. The way he reacted to our help made us feel we never did enough for him. One picture about him when he was two and a half years old has been in my mind ever since. My eldest brother went to a school, which was fifty kilometers away; he came home only on Sundays. One Sunday he came back with some sausages as a gift for my little brother. My little brother got a piece of sausage in his hand, but he didn’t eat. He walked slowly to everybody in the family, insisting on each of us having a bite. At first we all pretended to bite the sausage, but we could not fool him. He was still very quiet, but stubborn. He wouldn’t move until we really took a little bite of the sausage. This was my little brother. More than thirty years have gone by. He has married, has two children, and he remains the same as when he was first born. He is quiet, humble, sensitive, and cares about others. He will never asks for anything.
He is the brother I miss a lot no matter where I go. He is the brother I am happy and anxious to meet no matter how many thousands of miles I have to fly. He is the brother, one day I will tell him, that he didn’t need to be so humble, so sensitive. He didn’t do anything wrong. I am so happy to be his sister in this life. I am willing to be his sister in our next life. I promise I’ll be a better sister; I will do a better job to protect him.
This story always made me tear up, even more so reading it today because my uncle passed away in the summer of 2007.
My Younger Brother
By Li Gui Rong
I was six years old by the Chinese way. When we Chinese count ages, we always include the year when we were in our mothers’ womb. I remember, it was an early summer morning. My brothers and I woke up and found a mid-wife in my mother’s room. My father was not home on that day. In those days, he always attended those useless and endless political meetings somewhere outside our town. But my father, a fervent communist, always thought the meetings were very important. The mid-wife told us to prepare some hot water. We knew a younger brother or sister would come to the world soon.
That year was the year my country just experienced “Da Yue Jin”, a big, senseless political movement started by Mao Ze Dong. Western society translated the term “Da Yue Jin” into “A Great Leap Forward!” Before people could take a breath from this, the natural disaster followed right away. Some places had drought and some places were flooded all over China...[xxx]...
My hometown is located in Northeast China; across the border is Russia. People even saw trains and trains loaded with pig's tails going to the other side, too. But inside our country there was a big shortage of everything. The famine already started and soon spread across our country. Many of my countrymen sacrificed their lives because of “Da Yue Jin.” ...[xxx]...My younger brother decided to come to the world and join us now.
My mother called me to her room. She was pale, weak and sweating all over. She was struggling with the pain about to give birth. Mom told me to go to Uncle Li’s place to get some rice (food distribution at the time was controlled by the street committee). Uncle Li was the person who was in charge of all the food distribution. I left my house with a little cotton bag in my hand. It was still very dark outside because the sky was covered by clouds. The thunder and flash of lightning was on and off. I was so scared. All the ghost stories came to my mind. I wished I could go home. I did not want to go to Uncle Li’s place any more. But mom’s pale face also came to my mind. My family was waiting for whatever I could get back for breakfast and my mother needed to eat something so she could give the new baby some milk. I had no choice but to go.
I knocked on the door hard. It took very long before Uncle Li answered the door. He came, opened the door without scything anything. I tried so hard to collect all the sweet words to please Uncle Li. Uncle Li, the whole time he even did not look at me, he slowly walked to the yellow rice counter, picked up a container, gathered some rice and put it on the scale. Still no words. I opened my bag and he poured the rice into it and said in a hardly heard voice, “Be careful, not to spill it.”
I carried the rice on my back. I moved it to my front; I put it on my shoulder. I kept changing my posture for carrying it. The rice was so heavy for me. I also stopped a couple of times to take a deep breath. Finally I got home. I was so delighted and ran to my mom’s room. “Mom! I got a lot of rice back!” My mom closed her eyes and answered nothing. I did not figure out until years later, when I was bigger, why my mom did not say anything to praise me. It was not because she did not appreciate what I had accomplished. Mom didn’t say anything because she knew the rice I brought home would not last for very long. How could a six-year-old child know that?
My little brother, the new baby, was born already. He was on the side of the “kang.” “Kang” is a unique thing in northern China, centuries old. It is normally built of bricks with holes under the surface. The holes were connected to the stove. You burned the wood inside the stove. The fire in the stove traveled around the holes. The bricks on the surface become hot. The brick also preserved the heat for quite a few hours, so you could sleep on a warm place.
I did not think so much about my mother’s reaction toward my trip back with the rice. My focus turned to my younger brother right away. Wow! The baby, he was so thin, I could see the bones, the veins. Because he was still adjusting to the temperature, he was cold. His body was a deep, dark purple color, as if his blood was freezing. “He is cold mom,” I said. “Never mind,” Mom answered. Mom was so tired and depressed by the hardship we had. It was very difficult already for Mom and Dad to raise five of us. Now, another one.
“Even if he is going to survive today, how about tomorrow?,” Mom continued to murmur to herself. I quickly gathered some clothes around the room and put them on his body. He was so quiet, he didn’t even cry, as if he knew he came to us at the wrong time. Days went on so slow. We all tried our best to manage some special food for my little brother. We were always looking forward to the next day, hoping we could get more and better food.
My little brother was growing. He was quiet, humble, sensitive, and seldom asked for anything, even if he was hungry. Everybody in my family tried our best to protect him. The way he reacted to our help made us feel we never did enough for him. One picture about him when he was two and a half years old has been in my mind ever since. My eldest brother went to a school, which was fifty kilometers away; he came home only on Sundays. One Sunday he came back with some sausages as a gift for my little brother. My little brother got a piece of sausage in his hand, but he didn’t eat. He walked slowly to everybody in the family, insisting on each of us having a bite. At first we all pretended to bite the sausage, but we could not fool him. He was still very quiet, but stubborn. He wouldn’t move until we really took a little bite of the sausage. This was my little brother. More than thirty years have gone by. He has married, has two children, and he remains the same as when he was first born. He is quiet, humble, sensitive, and cares about others. He will never asks for anything.
He is the brother I miss a lot no matter where I go. He is the brother I am happy and anxious to meet no matter how many thousands of miles I have to fly. He is the brother, one day I will tell him, that he didn’t need to be so humble, so sensitive. He didn’t do anything wrong. I am so happy to be his sister in this life. I am willing to be his sister in our next life. I promise I’ll be a better sister; I will do a better job to protect him.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Beijing Homecoming
I remember the day I left. It was February time in 1990 and the schoolyard was still covered in whitish patches where the snow hadn't thawed.
That morning I went to school and emptied out my cubby desk. I don't know what the teacher, my favorite Teacher Wu, told my classmates about me. I myself didn't exactly know what was happening, having only vague notions of this "overseas" place where dad had gone off to work and where mom and I were now heading to join him.
In my third-grade universe, the outside world was so remote that I never even wondered about it. Apart from my father, I didn't know anyone who had left China. In fact, very few people had left in those days (the borders weren't open for average citizens), save for the refugee exodus following the democracy debacle in the summer of 1989.
After I collected my things I walked out of the low building and stared into the bright eastern sun shining over the small yard. It was strange standing there alone under such bright sunlight. I had never left school to go home so early in the day and I had never been outside of the classroom while all of my friends were still in it. A voice called out behind me,
"Zhai Qi, where are you going?"
It was a girl from my class. She had run after me into the yard.
"I'm going overseas," I answered, pretending to know what this meant.
She looked puzzled for a minute and then asked, "But why? Why leave now when you're class monitor? Next year you'll be grade monitor." At the time it seemed like a good question.
"I'm going to go live with my dad."
She was satisfied with this answer and turned around to go back to the classroom. We didn't say goodbye -- no one in our small world had ever left for anywhere so we simply didn't know we should’ve bid farewell.
I walked towards the school gates and turned around to take another look at the school. It was here that I had read my lessons from paperback texts, books which my father meticulously wrapped in old glossy calendar paper (to prevent damage to the covers) at the start of every school term. Here, I had admired the neat type-print handwriting of my classmate Yan and practiced to write like her. Here, too, I had had a small crush on a boy named Jing who played soccer at recess. Twice a day, everyday, my friends and I had walked into the gates in the morning, adjusting our "class monitor" badges if we were privileged to have them, and left at noon to race home for lunch. Along the way we often stopped to pluck little red flowers out of a neighbor's garden to suck on the candy-like syrup inside. This tiny piece of Beijing was my entire world.
After leaving Beijing that year I often went back. All the way through university I went back at least once, most times twice, a year to see the city I grew up in. But as I got older and responsibilities piled up, especially after starting work, vacations were harder to plan and I began to see less of Beijing. The city began to feel less and less like home.
Meeting my boyfriend (now husband) in the US made Beijing even more foreign to me. I started seeing the city through Geoff's American eyes. Little inconveniences that never bothered me became pronounced -- whenever we visited I had to translate all the menus for him; we could only eat in proper restaurants (no roadside stalls for the unaccustomed foreign stomach); the lack of Western toilets irked me; I lost my patience for pushy people who refuse to queue up. Little by little, Beijing became a place I "visited" instead of "went back" to.
But now I’m about to go on my Beijing homecoming. I’m going with Geoff, as a continuation of our long honeymoon, our recession travels, our "finding ourselves" journey, or whatever you want to call it. We are both gainfully unemployed and staying with my mom in a rent-free apartment seemed like a good way to pass time and figure out the future.
This time we have time on our hands. I hope that without the rush to “get things done” I’ll get to know the city and fall in love with it again. I hope to find that feeling of coming home to Beijing once more. And I hope for Geoff this strange, foreign place, which holds so many happy memories for me, will start to feel like home.
That morning I went to school and emptied out my cubby desk. I don't know what the teacher, my favorite Teacher Wu, told my classmates about me. I myself didn't exactly know what was happening, having only vague notions of this "overseas" place where dad had gone off to work and where mom and I were now heading to join him.
In my third-grade universe, the outside world was so remote that I never even wondered about it. Apart from my father, I didn't know anyone who had left China. In fact, very few people had left in those days (the borders weren't open for average citizens), save for the refugee exodus following the democracy debacle in the summer of 1989.
After I collected my things I walked out of the low building and stared into the bright eastern sun shining over the small yard. It was strange standing there alone under such bright sunlight. I had never left school to go home so early in the day and I had never been outside of the classroom while all of my friends were still in it. A voice called out behind me,
"Zhai Qi, where are you going?"
It was a girl from my class. She had run after me into the yard.
"I'm going overseas," I answered, pretending to know what this meant.
She looked puzzled for a minute and then asked, "But why? Why leave now when you're class monitor? Next year you'll be grade monitor." At the time it seemed like a good question.
"I'm going to go live with my dad."
She was satisfied with this answer and turned around to go back to the classroom. We didn't say goodbye -- no one in our small world had ever left for anywhere so we simply didn't know we should’ve bid farewell.
I walked towards the school gates and turned around to take another look at the school. It was here that I had read my lessons from paperback texts, books which my father meticulously wrapped in old glossy calendar paper (to prevent damage to the covers) at the start of every school term. Here, I had admired the neat type-print handwriting of my classmate Yan and practiced to write like her. Here, too, I had had a small crush on a boy named Jing who played soccer at recess. Twice a day, everyday, my friends and I had walked into the gates in the morning, adjusting our "class monitor" badges if we were privileged to have them, and left at noon to race home for lunch. Along the way we often stopped to pluck little red flowers out of a neighbor's garden to suck on the candy-like syrup inside. This tiny piece of Beijing was my entire world.
After leaving Beijing that year I often went back. All the way through university I went back at least once, most times twice, a year to see the city I grew up in. But as I got older and responsibilities piled up, especially after starting work, vacations were harder to plan and I began to see less of Beijing. The city began to feel less and less like home.
Meeting my boyfriend (now husband) in the US made Beijing even more foreign to me. I started seeing the city through Geoff's American eyes. Little inconveniences that never bothered me became pronounced -- whenever we visited I had to translate all the menus for him; we could only eat in proper restaurants (no roadside stalls for the unaccustomed foreign stomach); the lack of Western toilets irked me; I lost my patience for pushy people who refuse to queue up. Little by little, Beijing became a place I "visited" instead of "went back" to.
But now I’m about to go on my Beijing homecoming. I’m going with Geoff, as a continuation of our long honeymoon, our recession travels, our "finding ourselves" journey, or whatever you want to call it. We are both gainfully unemployed and staying with my mom in a rent-free apartment seemed like a good way to pass time and figure out the future.
This time we have time on our hands. I hope that without the rush to “get things done” I’ll get to know the city and fall in love with it again. I hope to find that feeling of coming home to Beijing once more. And I hope for Geoff this strange, foreign place, which holds so many happy memories for me, will start to feel like home.
Monday, August 3, 2009
I'll Have the Wolf, Medium Rare
Our week-long double date road trip in Provence with D&G went smashingly. Though we saw the most adventure on our first day, my favorite moments from the trip took place at a dining table (as always).
On Day 1, my G and I arrived first at the Avignon train station. We found a grassy patch outside, spread out my sarong (now in daily use as a picnic blanket), sank our teeth into hot sandwiches, and happily waited for D&G to get in. When they did, they looked fresh as daisies and bore no signs of the long flight they had just taken from Singapore to Paris, followed by a delayed train ride. The quartet complete, the men were dispatched to pick up the rental car while the women continued to soak up the brilliant Provencal sun.
When D pulled up and honked I was pleased to find the car was an Opel, a roomier vehicle than the Fiat Panda, Europe’s cheapest rental car. The Opel was still compact, but at least there was trunk space for the collective luggage. We set up the Tom Tom GPS device and were off to see the ancient Roman aqueducts, the Pont du Gard.
The drive was easy, enabled by the soothing voice of the GPS lady. The highways of Provence reminded me more of Florida than of France – sprawling depot stores (Ikea, Carrefour), abundant McDo’s, and “Formule1” motels. But interspersed with these drab, geographically indistinct roadside features were patches of deep violet (lavender fields) and profound green (grape vines and olive plants). These colorful splashes on the landscape and their aromatic emanations made it clear that we were in fact in Provence.
At any moment we expected to see our final destination rise out of the horizon, perhaps a pile of yellowing stones, a piece of old Italy in modern France. But the GPS announced in elegant British English, “You have arrived at your destination,” in front of a large medical complex. The Polyclinique du Grand Sud looked like an abode for the elderly, with not a Roman waterway in sight. We realized we must’ve made a mistake when plugging in the coordinates for the aqueducts and couldn’t blame the innocent Tom Tom for dutifully bringing us here.
Some fiddling with the GPS device, a quick change of drivers, and we were on our way, determined to find the Pont du Gard. We arrived twenty minutes later and bounded out of the car, our excitement compounded by the earlier disappointment. The parking lot of the aqueduct, set in the middle of a large forested park, was no place for modesty. Each of us deftly changed into swimming gear behind the doors of the Opel. We grabbed the bottle of wine G and I had brought from Paris and set off for the main attraction.
The Pont (“bridge”) stood majestically high and wide in the middle of a deep valley. It was a singular flat pane of ancient stones and archways – imagine if you unwound the circular Coliseum and laid it across a rapid river. Delighted, we ran towards the shallow banks of the river where canopied four-poster tanning beds lay waiting. A quick swig of red wine and we were down by the water in no time.
The water was divine, the best swim I’ve ever had. When we dipped our toes we found it chilled and crisp, too cold to swim in. But as we waded deeper and saw the other visitors completely submerged in almost-frigid waters, we decided to brave it. The ensuing submersions were hilarious. We each stuck to our preferred method: my G liked to dunk without hesitation, the girls favored a long exposition of nervous giggles and an anxious countdown, and D had to be dragged in. Despite the cold, once we were in the water it was heavenly and refreshing. I wouldn’t have gotten out till nightfall if not for the grey clouds that suddenly drifted our way. Raindrops turned to heavy rainfall, which then developed into an immense hailstorm.
We made it to the car before the hail hit but the drive to our hotel was hair-raising. The windshield wipers worked overtime but, still, we could hardly see. Most of the cars on the road pulled over to wait out the storm, but we forged on, eager to settle into cozy rooms and dry clothes. The final mile was especially stressful as we were in the historical center of Avignon. These medieval alleys were not built to accommodate cars and at every turn we wondered if we would have to get out and heave the vehicle onto our shoulders to be carried out. If we took a wrong turn, we would’ve had to choose between calling a forklift to the rescue or to mercilessly scraping the paint off the sides of the car.
But we managed to get there, and cleaned ourselves up, and set out on foot to find dinner. We passed by some restaurants advertising exotic fare like lapin (rabbit) and loup (which we decided was wolf and not fox, remembering the French title of the movie “Dances with the Wolves”). After a day of incessant snacking we were in the mood for a light dinner, so we agreed to save the loup for another day.
The opportunity to eat loup presented itself after we left Avignon and arrived in Arles. We had endured another frightening drive through even narrower alleys and our appetites were sufficiently worked up by the time we sat down at Le Galoubet, a restaurant G had researched before hand.
The vine-canopied terrace was fully booked so we sat down in the air-conditioned interior. Our corner table was flanked by one wall decorated with a large painting of a wolf striding along and another wall covered with bronze sculptures of heads of bull. This seemed to hint that gamey meats were part of the menu here and, sure enough, midway down the page we saw oven-roasted “loup” seasoned with some kind of special salt none of us recognized.
D, in an especially adventurous food mood, ordered the loup. I noticed the waitress didn’t ask “Quelle cuisson?" (“how would you like it cooked?”). Maybe loup was such an exotic meat that the average diner can’t be trusted to decide on its rareness?
All through the appetizers we discussed the loup. How it might be presented, what kind of seasoning and preparation, and whether it would taste like boar or beef. We rubbed our palms in anticipation when the main courses were brought out. Here was a roast vegetable salad, a pappardelle mixed with shreds of duck meat, a roasted chicken leg, and in front of D, the waitress set down the most awaited platter.
But the bright white ceramic vessel held at its center a slab of fish. It was a beautiful slab of fish, perfectly deboned down the center and the two halves artfully arranged upon a bedding of crisply roasted skin, yet this was no wolf!
Gingerly, I asked the waitress, “Ca, c’est le loup”?
“Oui, c’est le loup.” Affirmative, this is the “loup.”
“Mais, c’est une poisson.” I protested that this was fish, not mammal.
“Oui, le loup est c’est du poisson.”
What? Of all the non-sensical double entendres in foreign languages I had never before encountered one word that described two animals as distinct as fish and wolf.
Not wanting to accept the reality of this dish, I pointed to the painting on the wall and asked, “Mais le loup, c’est comme ca.”
Here she laughed and understood the confusion. “Ah, oui, c’est aussi le loup mais on ne mange jamais le loup comme ca.”
And there we had it, a real culinary coup de quirk. In the land where snails are salted and doused in pesto, where ducks are forced fed so their over-nourished livers can be fried, and where the smellier and moldier the better the cheese, our waitress was laughing at our ludicrous notion that a restaurant would ever serve wolf!
On Day 1, my G and I arrived first at the Avignon train station. We found a grassy patch outside, spread out my sarong (now in daily use as a picnic blanket), sank our teeth into hot sandwiches, and happily waited for D&G to get in. When they did, they looked fresh as daisies and bore no signs of the long flight they had just taken from Singapore to Paris, followed by a delayed train ride. The quartet complete, the men were dispatched to pick up the rental car while the women continued to soak up the brilliant Provencal sun.
When D pulled up and honked I was pleased to find the car was an Opel, a roomier vehicle than the Fiat Panda, Europe’s cheapest rental car. The Opel was still compact, but at least there was trunk space for the collective luggage. We set up the Tom Tom GPS device and were off to see the ancient Roman aqueducts, the Pont du Gard.
The drive was easy, enabled by the soothing voice of the GPS lady. The highways of Provence reminded me more of Florida than of France – sprawling depot stores (Ikea, Carrefour), abundant McDo’s, and “Formule1” motels. But interspersed with these drab, geographically indistinct roadside features were patches of deep violet (lavender fields) and profound green (grape vines and olive plants). These colorful splashes on the landscape and their aromatic emanations made it clear that we were in fact in Provence.
At any moment we expected to see our final destination rise out of the horizon, perhaps a pile of yellowing stones, a piece of old Italy in modern France. But the GPS announced in elegant British English, “You have arrived at your destination,” in front of a large medical complex. The Polyclinique du Grand Sud looked like an abode for the elderly, with not a Roman waterway in sight. We realized we must’ve made a mistake when plugging in the coordinates for the aqueducts and couldn’t blame the innocent Tom Tom for dutifully bringing us here.
Some fiddling with the GPS device, a quick change of drivers, and we were on our way, determined to find the Pont du Gard. We arrived twenty minutes later and bounded out of the car, our excitement compounded by the earlier disappointment. The parking lot of the aqueduct, set in the middle of a large forested park, was no place for modesty. Each of us deftly changed into swimming gear behind the doors of the Opel. We grabbed the bottle of wine G and I had brought from Paris and set off for the main attraction.
The Pont (“bridge”) stood majestically high and wide in the middle of a deep valley. It was a singular flat pane of ancient stones and archways – imagine if you unwound the circular Coliseum and laid it across a rapid river. Delighted, we ran towards the shallow banks of the river where canopied four-poster tanning beds lay waiting. A quick swig of red wine and we were down by the water in no time.
The water was divine, the best swim I’ve ever had. When we dipped our toes we found it chilled and crisp, too cold to swim in. But as we waded deeper and saw the other visitors completely submerged in almost-frigid waters, we decided to brave it. The ensuing submersions were hilarious. We each stuck to our preferred method: my G liked to dunk without hesitation, the girls favored a long exposition of nervous giggles and an anxious countdown, and D had to be dragged in. Despite the cold, once we were in the water it was heavenly and refreshing. I wouldn’t have gotten out till nightfall if not for the grey clouds that suddenly drifted our way. Raindrops turned to heavy rainfall, which then developed into an immense hailstorm.
We made it to the car before the hail hit but the drive to our hotel was hair-raising. The windshield wipers worked overtime but, still, we could hardly see. Most of the cars on the road pulled over to wait out the storm, but we forged on, eager to settle into cozy rooms and dry clothes. The final mile was especially stressful as we were in the historical center of Avignon. These medieval alleys were not built to accommodate cars and at every turn we wondered if we would have to get out and heave the vehicle onto our shoulders to be carried out. If we took a wrong turn, we would’ve had to choose between calling a forklift to the rescue or to mercilessly scraping the paint off the sides of the car.
But we managed to get there, and cleaned ourselves up, and set out on foot to find dinner. We passed by some restaurants advertising exotic fare like lapin (rabbit) and loup (which we decided was wolf and not fox, remembering the French title of the movie “Dances with the Wolves”). After a day of incessant snacking we were in the mood for a light dinner, so we agreed to save the loup for another day.
The opportunity to eat loup presented itself after we left Avignon and arrived in Arles. We had endured another frightening drive through even narrower alleys and our appetites were sufficiently worked up by the time we sat down at Le Galoubet, a restaurant G had researched before hand.
The vine-canopied terrace was fully booked so we sat down in the air-conditioned interior. Our corner table was flanked by one wall decorated with a large painting of a wolf striding along and another wall covered with bronze sculptures of heads of bull. This seemed to hint that gamey meats were part of the menu here and, sure enough, midway down the page we saw oven-roasted “loup” seasoned with some kind of special salt none of us recognized.
D, in an especially adventurous food mood, ordered the loup. I noticed the waitress didn’t ask “Quelle cuisson?" (“how would you like it cooked?”). Maybe loup was such an exotic meat that the average diner can’t be trusted to decide on its rareness?
All through the appetizers we discussed the loup. How it might be presented, what kind of seasoning and preparation, and whether it would taste like boar or beef. We rubbed our palms in anticipation when the main courses were brought out. Here was a roast vegetable salad, a pappardelle mixed with shreds of duck meat, a roasted chicken leg, and in front of D, the waitress set down the most awaited platter.
But the bright white ceramic vessel held at its center a slab of fish. It was a beautiful slab of fish, perfectly deboned down the center and the two halves artfully arranged upon a bedding of crisply roasted skin, yet this was no wolf!
Gingerly, I asked the waitress, “Ca, c’est le loup”?
“Oui, c’est le loup.” Affirmative, this is the “loup.”
“Mais, c’est une poisson.” I protested that this was fish, not mammal.
“Oui, le loup est c’est du poisson.”
What? Of all the non-sensical double entendres in foreign languages I had never before encountered one word that described two animals as distinct as fish and wolf.
Not wanting to accept the reality of this dish, I pointed to the painting on the wall and asked, “Mais le loup, c’est comme ca.”
Here she laughed and understood the confusion. “Ah, oui, c’est aussi le loup mais on ne mange jamais le loup comme ca.”
And there we had it, a real culinary coup de quirk. In the land where snails are salted and doused in pesto, where ducks are forced fed so their over-nourished livers can be fried, and where the smellier and moldier the better the cheese, our waitress was laughing at our ludicrous notion that a restaurant would ever serve wolf!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Small Delights: Luxembourg
Excerpt from travel log...
When it comes to Europe our thoughts jump firstly to the grand adventures it has to offer. The great romance of Paris. The blazing Tuscan sun. The imperious castles of Germany. But there are good reasons to make a holiday of a daintier place, such as that bite-sized delight called Luxembourg. You can take your time and savor the local flavors (gastronomic and otherwise) without rushing around worrying about missing out on the Sistine Chapel or the Louvre. You can see (and taste) it all in one amazing weekend.
...
The crowning glory of my trip to Luxembourg was the last dinner at Il Fragolino, a restaurant at the foot of the Petrusse Valley. I had just learned that the largest immigrant populations in the Grand Duchy are Italians and Portuguese and had had good reason to drool over the prospect of an authentic Italian dinner with my Italian family and friends. This bit of imagination-induced salivation was nothing compared to what came after the waiter brought out the “degustazione pasta”, a pasta sampler.
The four of us at one end of the table who ordered this behemoth platter of carbs had to move our plates and glasses into a position of delicate balance (between the edge of the table and our laps) to make way for the long silver vessel. The “plate”, quotation marks necessary here for it was more like a little boat set afloat on the table, was filled to the brim with generously-sized and colorful pastas. From my vantage point I looked down th table at one delectable row of penne arrabiata, ricotta ravioli (each one almost the size of cha siu bao), prosciutto ravioli, spinach ravioli, and mushroom fusili. From this point on I lost coherence and cognition and could only engage in a primal feeding frenzy. But I do remember that it was here, at this sumptuous table, that I raised my glass and drank to the health of my companions, to the best Italian food I’ve ever tasted, and to a small gem tourists often neglect on their grand forays intoEurope – to Luxembourg!
When it comes to Europe our thoughts jump firstly to the grand adventures it has to offer. The great romance of Paris. The blazing Tuscan sun. The imperious castles of Germany. But there are good reasons to make a holiday of a daintier place, such as that bite-sized delight called Luxembourg. You can take your time and savor the local flavors (gastronomic and otherwise) without rushing around worrying about missing out on the Sistine Chapel or the Louvre. You can see (and taste) it all in one amazing weekend.
...
The crowning glory of my trip to Luxembourg was the last dinner at Il Fragolino, a restaurant at the foot of the Petrusse Valley. I had just learned that the largest immigrant populations in the Grand Duchy are Italians and Portuguese and had had good reason to drool over the prospect of an authentic Italian dinner with my Italian family and friends. This bit of imagination-induced salivation was nothing compared to what came after the waiter brought out the “degustazione pasta”, a pasta sampler.
The four of us at one end of the table who ordered this behemoth platter of carbs had to move our plates and glasses into a position of delicate balance (between the edge of the table and our laps) to make way for the long silver vessel. The “plate”, quotation marks necessary here for it was more like a little boat set afloat on the table, was filled to the brim with generously-sized and colorful pastas. From my vantage point I looked down th table at one delectable row of penne arrabiata, ricotta ravioli (each one almost the size of cha siu bao), prosciutto ravioli, spinach ravioli, and mushroom fusili. From this point on I lost coherence and cognition and could only engage in a primal feeding frenzy. But I do remember that it was here, at this sumptuous table, that I raised my glass and drank to the health of my companions, to the best Italian food I’ve ever tasted, and to a small gem tourists often neglect on their grand forays intoEurope – to Luxembourg!
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Au marche!
Excerpt from travel log...
The mention of a Sunday market excited me. I expected to find some food stalls selling sandwiches and Orangina, maybe some trinket vendors, like the ones around Centre Pompidou and other popular hangouts. What I found at the far end of Blvd Richard Lenoir, close to the Bastille, wasn’t just a “market.” It was…heaven. Beginning as abruptly as the neighborhood park where a few homeless men loitered ended, the magnificent marche began and extended out for at least a mile.
And what a mile it was! Row upon row of green awnings barely concealing the surfeit of fresh produce and cooked delicacies spilling over underneath. I entered the market at a seafood stall and my eyes widened to take in the sheer quantity and variety of oceanic fare. There were generously sliced filets of salmon, haddock, mackerel, and many more kinds of fish I couldn’t even name heaped on ice-topped crates. After walking around the fish crates with my jaw hanging down to my chest I moved stations into the merchant’s crustacean section. Atlantic crayfish, crab, and lobsters, which looked like they had swallowed ten of their smaller Pacific cousins before being poached by the fisherman lay about slowly moving their claws. Monstrously large scallops and shells, the size of saucers, strewn about half open and revealing sumptuous tender flesh inside. This was just the first stall!
I peeled my person and jaw away from the seafood. Enticing as it all was it wouldn’t give my belly immediate gratification. I walked a few more stalls and came upon a cheese counter, which put the fromagerie section at Cold Storage Gourmet to mortal shame. Cheese wheels the size of my head! Really stinky Brie! Bluey moldy Roquefort!
Here I began my consumption, not just ogling, of foods. I was excited but also timid, not knowing which variety to buy and budgeting in my head how much I could justify splurging on my first meal during this summer of unemployment. I asked the girl behind the counter if I could try some and she obligingly sliced me pieces of the Tomme de Savoie (a hard cheese), which I deemed not hard or salty enough. She then handed me another one and proceeded to explain the nuances in the four different families of blue cheeses, where my eyes had already roamed. After the tutorial I asked for three chunks of cheeses I had sampled, simultaneously salivating and fretting over how much this breakfast extravaganza would cost.
The girl wrapped up my purchases in wax paper (old school! No plastic wrappers!) and reported, “Trois euros et quarante-cinq centimes.”
Did I hear correctly? Had my French eroded beyond hope in the years of non-usage? Three euros and forty-five cents!? I verified the amount on the printed receipt. I couldn’t have bought one sixth of this much wonderful dairy moldiness for so little money back in Singapore!
I was floored, and done for. This delightful surprise at the cheese counter unleashed the food monster within and I threw caution and budget to the wind. I left the cheese angel at her station of duty and bounded down the street, trying to find other foods to go with my purchases while biting into a hunk of blue...
The mention of a Sunday market excited me. I expected to find some food stalls selling sandwiches and Orangina, maybe some trinket vendors, like the ones around Centre Pompidou and other popular hangouts. What I found at the far end of Blvd Richard Lenoir, close to the Bastille, wasn’t just a “market.” It was…heaven. Beginning as abruptly as the neighborhood park where a few homeless men loitered ended, the magnificent marche began and extended out for at least a mile.
And what a mile it was! Row upon row of green awnings barely concealing the surfeit of fresh produce and cooked delicacies spilling over underneath. I entered the market at a seafood stall and my eyes widened to take in the sheer quantity and variety of oceanic fare. There were generously sliced filets of salmon, haddock, mackerel, and many more kinds of fish I couldn’t even name heaped on ice-topped crates. After walking around the fish crates with my jaw hanging down to my chest I moved stations into the merchant’s crustacean section. Atlantic crayfish, crab, and lobsters, which looked like they had swallowed ten of their smaller Pacific cousins before being poached by the fisherman lay about slowly moving their claws. Monstrously large scallops and shells, the size of saucers, strewn about half open and revealing sumptuous tender flesh inside. This was just the first stall!
I peeled my person and jaw away from the seafood. Enticing as it all was it wouldn’t give my belly immediate gratification. I walked a few more stalls and came upon a cheese counter, which put the fromagerie section at Cold Storage Gourmet to mortal shame. Cheese wheels the size of my head! Really stinky Brie! Bluey moldy Roquefort!
Here I began my consumption, not just ogling, of foods. I was excited but also timid, not knowing which variety to buy and budgeting in my head how much I could justify splurging on my first meal during this summer of unemployment. I asked the girl behind the counter if I could try some and she obligingly sliced me pieces of the Tomme de Savoie (a hard cheese), which I deemed not hard or salty enough. She then handed me another one and proceeded to explain the nuances in the four different families of blue cheeses, where my eyes had already roamed. After the tutorial I asked for three chunks of cheeses I had sampled, simultaneously salivating and fretting over how much this breakfast extravaganza would cost.
The girl wrapped up my purchases in wax paper (old school! No plastic wrappers!) and reported, “Trois euros et quarante-cinq centimes.”
Did I hear correctly? Had my French eroded beyond hope in the years of non-usage? Three euros and forty-five cents!? I verified the amount on the printed receipt. I couldn’t have bought one sixth of this much wonderful dairy moldiness for so little money back in Singapore!
I was floored, and done for. This delightful surprise at the cheese counter unleashed the food monster within and I threw caution and budget to the wind. I left the cheese angel at her station of duty and bounded down the street, trying to find other foods to go with my purchases while biting into a hunk of blue...
Bienvenue a Paris
Excerpt from my travel log...
Today Paris welcomed me with open arms and a kiss on each cheek. At 5.30am, thirty minutes ahead of schedule, we touched down at Charles de Gaulle just as the sun began its glowing ascent from the eastern sky. There was no time left for hesitation or panic. I was already here.
A month earlier I had resigned from an admittedly good job (which looked relatively better and better as the recession got deeper and deeper) in Singapore to now come to Paris to “find myself.” Cold feet didn’t plague me at my spring-time wedding but here I was getting cold feet on the plane ride to my summer adventure! What was I thinking leaving a well-paying job in the middle of a recession when everyone in their sane mind was hanging onto their jobs for dear life? What could I possibly accomplish living for five weeks in an expensive European capital except deplete my savings further? Had I made a monumental mistake running away from reality to an idealized memory of Paris that I’ve been building since my first visit in the summer of sixteen? And what happens if I don’t discover anything new here – hang my head low and pray to heavens my old firm would have me back?
This chain of self-interrogation came to an abrupt end as the travelers of Air France 257 jumped up to jostle for their bags. The flux of impatient voyagers eager to leave their seats for the last thirteen hours overpowered me, propelling me towards the exit...
Today Paris welcomed me with open arms and a kiss on each cheek. At 5.30am, thirty minutes ahead of schedule, we touched down at Charles de Gaulle just as the sun began its glowing ascent from the eastern sky. There was no time left for hesitation or panic. I was already here.
A month earlier I had resigned from an admittedly good job (which looked relatively better and better as the recession got deeper and deeper) in Singapore to now come to Paris to “find myself.” Cold feet didn’t plague me at my spring-time wedding but here I was getting cold feet on the plane ride to my summer adventure! What was I thinking leaving a well-paying job in the middle of a recession when everyone in their sane mind was hanging onto their jobs for dear life? What could I possibly accomplish living for five weeks in an expensive European capital except deplete my savings further? Had I made a monumental mistake running away from reality to an idealized memory of Paris that I’ve been building since my first visit in the summer of sixteen? And what happens if I don’t discover anything new here – hang my head low and pray to heavens my old firm would have me back?
This chain of self-interrogation came to an abrupt end as the travelers of Air France 257 jumped up to jostle for their bags. The flux of impatient voyagers eager to leave their seats for the last thirteen hours overpowered me, propelling me towards the exit...
The First Post
Well, what do you know, after years of eyeing blogs with curiosity and mild disdain (who are these people with idle time and a willingness to overshare?), I've set up a blog.
Maybe the first post calls for a well-thought introduction and some kind of enticement for you to keep reading over the long life of this blog. But, I don't have anything big to declare today and my stomach has been grumbling its discontent in the twenty minutes it took me to find a blog name that wasn't already taken. I don't think well on an empty stomach, so, hurry I must.
Dear readers, you are my friends and my family, you know who I am (former corporate slave, current nascent "writer"), you know what I usually get up to (eat, drink, shop, get over-excited or over-angry, rant and rave, douse everything in sarcasm), and you'll probably keep coming back to this blog because you're bound by kinship or social obligation to supply me with an audience and feedback.
My five-week escape to Paris is coming to an end soon so you can expect to see a flurry of postings on how to enjoy this city on a budget!
Up next on this recession holiday / honeymoon / "finding myself" odyssey is a night in Lyon with some Prozellers, four days in Avignon and Arles with D and GW, two days in Marseille with my faithful pet G, a wedding to attend in Florence, and an overdue revisit to the USA (this time as spouse of a citizen, take that immigration-checkpoint-officer!).
Thanks for reading and check back soon!
Maybe the first post calls for a well-thought introduction and some kind of enticement for you to keep reading over the long life of this blog. But, I don't have anything big to declare today and my stomach has been grumbling its discontent in the twenty minutes it took me to find a blog name that wasn't already taken. I don't think well on an empty stomach, so, hurry I must.
Dear readers, you are my friends and my family, you know who I am (former corporate slave, current nascent "writer"), you know what I usually get up to (eat, drink, shop, get over-excited or over-angry, rant and rave, douse everything in sarcasm), and you'll probably keep coming back to this blog because you're bound by kinship or social obligation to supply me with an audience and feedback.
My five-week escape to Paris is coming to an end soon so you can expect to see a flurry of postings on how to enjoy this city on a budget!
Up next on this recession holiday / honeymoon / "finding myself" odyssey is a night in Lyon with some Prozellers, four days in Avignon and Arles with D and GW, two days in Marseille with my faithful pet G, a wedding to attend in Florence, and an overdue revisit to the USA (this time as spouse of a citizen, take that immigration-checkpoint-officer!).
Thanks for reading and check back soon!
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