Thanksgiving Made Chineasy

Author’s Note: The following has been delayed due to a lack of processing power. Not in the computer. In me. My erstwhile roommate has set off for greener pastures without a word, leaving me saddled with his workload (which I took of my own volition in the interest of making more money). However, it has been somewhat taxing, to put it lightly. I will do an amusing, obituary-esque capsule for him at the end of the show, because I will likely never see or hear from him again. But without further ado…

At last, after a sleepless night spent in the seedy recesses of downtown Hefei, I came to my destination none the worse for wear.


There it was, at last. Shanghai. As if it had been waiting for me all along.

Surely here, in one of the largest cities of the world, I would be able to find turkey for my belated Thanksgiving feast. Right? Right?! Well, at first glance, Shanghai was much more confusing than Beijing, my last interaction with huge-city China. The current city is much older, having not seen the extensive renovations that Beijing received prior to the Olympics (point, Shanghai, in my opinion). Still, despite streets wound tighter than most people’s familial tensions come holiday season, I resolved that I would NOT be denied.

The train station was much more difficult to navigate than the Beijing version, but it was still fairly simple. I did, however, have some trouble finding the legal taxi line (and folks, you want to take the legal taxis. You might have to wait a little longer, sure, but wow, the taxis on the street will try and swindle you out of your pants. Foreigners = $$, and that’s it. Might as well be wearing a green T-shirt covered with dollar signs. That said, the legal taxis are completely and utterly fair. Ahem. Digression complete.).

I arrived at the hostel around noon, fully expecting to find the one person in China willing to celebrate Thanksgiving with me waiting patiently (since she has already put up with me on numerous occasions, I have come to abuse her tolerance). However, she is nowhere to be found. Of course, the logical conclusion would be that she came to her senses prior to departure and decided to stay in her city, that she might actually have some FUN on her weekend, but I learned that this was not quite the case. As I was checking in, the people at the desk realized they had a message for me. Turned out there was just a delay with the trains. She would be there around 2.

With some time on my hands, I decided to do what I do best: relax. I left my gear (not the valuable stuff, of course) on my bunk and proceeded to the hostel bar, where I sat and watched a bunch of other foreigners from various reaches of the world as I drank my beer. The crowd was just what you might expect to see at a hostel… long, unkempt hair; unshaven faces; ratty clothes…

And you should see the guys!

I joke, I joke. Well, I would like to say I fit right in, but the fact of the matter is I stuck out like, you know, a good old boy in China. Emphasis on old. These kids with their Australian accents, and others with their British, and a few more speaking German (I think)… they made me feel the years creeping up, they did. But not too bad. I nursed my beer and watched on, enjoying my first protracted viewing of white people at play in over a month. It seemed like no time at all had passed when I felt the tapping on my shoulder…

A hug and a story later we were on our way to lunch. I was starving, but I hadn’t even considered what I wanted to eat prior to the heralded Chinese Thanksgiving. Some friends in Anqing had told me about this place they called “Coco Cabana” (it was in fact called Coco Ichibanya), and I thought, you know, Coco Cabana sounds fun. Let’s go there.

It wasn’t quite what I expected, to say the least. It was a quaint, reserved little place, and it served curry. Now, as most of you know, I love Curry, but not that kind. But that kind is all right too. So I sat down, and as the menu popped open my eyes magically gravitated to “Cheeseburger Curry.” Well, I mean, come on. On paper it was like two of my three favorite things put together. I had to try it.

It wasn’t as good at the fantasy. But it was good. And hot enough to make my brain melt, just like the Curry from last year’s NCAA’s. Good thing is, I don’t have enough brain cells left for it to matter much when the old flesh cpu melts down.

So. Yeah. What was I talking about?

…

Hey, what are all these words doing here?

…OK, OK.

After that we experienced the madness of Nanjing Lu, which I can fittingly describe with only three words:


Watch! Bag! DVD!

But I’ll use more anyway, because it’s what I do.

At least every third person in this crowd would charge up to us and spout those very sentiments. Of course, I am likely the worst person this side of planet Earth with whom to play such a game. My neural-net processor isolated the correct response almost instantly. By the third or fourth guy, I simply put on a freakish, “you don’t want to know what I’d do to you” stare, and growled “Watch! Bag! DVD!” before he could say anything. I’m sure it’s been done before, as I’m just an obsolete model after all, but the look on his face was enough to tell me that it was a reaction with which he wasn’t altogether familiar.

Also, see it in the 1930s! A bit different now, huh?


Before long it was time for the oft-discussed Thanksgiving dinner. I had come to the decision several days prior that we would dine at Malone’s, or the “most American place in Shanghai” as it was dubbed by one reviewer named Steve who has requested that he remain anonymous.

It took us a bit to find, because I can be stubborn with directions at times… oh, who am I kidding? I’m stubborn with everything, all the time. But we did find it. And we got the menus…

…to find no turkey dinner. But that was OK. Because they had a bacon bar-be-que cheeseburger with an onion ring on it, and it was almost good enough to make my year (if other things hadn’t done that already). And you know, my Thanksgiving table-mate (Megan’s name has been omitted to protect the innocent) kept the feeling alive by ordering a turkey BLT lathered liberally with guacamole—complete with real leftover Thanksgiving turkey, of course! She insists that it was heaven, and I'm sure it WAS almost that good. But I'm also certain my burger was better. Ha HA!

So we ate hearty, and drank beer, and drank Jack Daniel’s, and gave thanks, and listened as the cover band regaled us with a number of hits from the darker nooks and crannies of musical history (Yes, I’m talking about YOU, 80’s. What?! No, no, I’m just kidding. The 80’s were awesome, man. Hey. Hey! I DO like your Africa song, Toto! I swear! No! Don’t!!!!).

AAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

…


…


…


This is HP Pavilion dv2700 Notebook PC Ser. No. 373-0112b. We’re sorry. John can no longer be with us for this entry. We will do our best to explain the remainder of his Shanghai experience, complete with however many relevant pictures we can find stored on our hard disk.

We are certain he gave thanks on Saturday for a lazy afternoon of walking around and seeing the river (and the gigantic television boats that he believed should have been broadcasting NFL football games).


He also gave thanks Saturday evening for the Shanghai Science and Technology Museum. This was my favorite, but he neglected to take many pictures, as he was preoccupied with other attractions.


He gave thanks for Shanghai at night, and for the fact that he was not as obese as the Mao statue.




He gave a little thanks for no longer feeling at all like a tourist.

He gave thanks for Irish Pubs around the world!


Sunday he gave thanks for boats, and for cruising the river, although it was all too short.


That afternoon he gave thanks for coffee shops.

Later he gave thanks for hot pot dining with lots of crazy meats.

He did NOT give thanks for train stations or departure times.

He did, however, give thanks for chance encounters, airport difficulties, welcome distractions, and the strange forks life continually throws into your path.

And he gave thanks for Who is responsible for all that, and responsible for the incredible friends and family that are supporting him while he's here.

Now, before we go, we will deliver on John’s promise and include a small bit about the roommate, Ray. Also, John is in every way responsible for what we say. That'll teach him to open up so many programs at once.


An older French-Canadian fellow with a thick accent (we often wondered how well the students understood him), Ray was always quick with a joke and quicker with a lewd word about the ladies. And he did like the ladies. Still, despite his idiosyncrasies, he and John seemed to get along fine to our dimly-lit, electronic web-eye, but we were often concerned; Ray always found reasons to complain about his situation in Anqing, and he seemed to find no enjoyment in what he was doing. We often found ourselves wondering, “Why is he here?”

Now he is not. We hope he finds what he is looking for, whatever that may be. Take good care.

That is all we have for you at this time. Please be assured that John will return to form soon, after he recovers from garish wounds sustained while caught between the razor-sharp teeth of Toto’s gnashing maw.



HP Pavilion dv2700's Note: We have since neutralized the problem by deconstructing the little beast particle by particle and emailing it to a secure account in Kansas with no known password.

We’ll also include an obligatory “Go Cats!” for Saturday's victorious effort. John would have wanted it that way.

Thanks to Give, but No One to Give It To (Yet)

As Written November 27, 2008:

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. If you love your family, I can’t imagine how it could not be. It’s one of those sacred times in my memory, a time to see those for whom you care most, and, all too often, those you see least.

This… is a different Thanksgiving for me. I’m in Hefei tonight, waiting for a morning train. In looking for a hotel, I decided to live dangerously. When I got turned away from the Railway Hotel, an older Chinese woman rushed to my side, yammering furiously (albeit unintelligibly, to me) and pointing.

Of course I followed her.

I ended up in an honest-to-goodness Chinese Hotel. Not the kind where a foreigner would stay. There are people living here. The bathrooms, for the most part, seem communal. However—

They provided me with the best room in the house. The best, and they gave it to me for half the listed price (though they do that a lot here, so I don’t feel too special. Well, maybe. No, check that… ah, screw it. All depends on your definition of special).

Apparently, they weren’t really set up for foreigners, so the guy wanted to take my passport to the police station while I waited. That’s a big no-no in my book, even if the guy did seem harmless… but I didn’t just want to be a typical paranoid traveler and run away… RUN AWAYYY!... ahem. Sorry.

I walked to the police station with him. As soon as I entered, a mildly funny scene ensued, featuring an overweight officer trying to hum the Star Spangled Banner. Well, it wasn’t quite humming. More like, dum dah dum dum DAAH DUMMM!, but with a slightly mocking lilt to it, at least to my ear. Not to be outdone (or mocked) I decided to belt the whole thing out, pregame style. I think that confused the hell out of them.

Hey, what? They like singing here, damn it. And they did laugh. With a slightly mocking lilt.

After that I walked back, took these amusing pictures of this room, and here I sit, waiting to go to Shanghai for my belated Chinese Thanksgiving.


Note the stain.


Cozy.

As I reflect, I realize I haven’t posted an entry in a bit, so rather than go into what I’m looking forward to in Shanghai, I’ll look back. To last weekend.

The events of last Saturday were the result of me doing a favor.

I know! I know. What a fool I am. But I helped a High School senior edit his admissions essay, which he is submitting to Purdue and UMN. Ill advised as that might have been, it earned me the thanks of his father, and a pretty crazy day got laid out all over my plate.

First (well, second. I had already watched the Wildcats mercilessly dismember the Winthrop Eagles. Have to love the powers of the internet. Go Cats!). First? Hmm, yes. Wildcat basketball. What? Where was I? Oh, yes.

Around 9:30 I met the student and a couple of his other friends outside my apartment. We rode down to the river (less than a mile away) and booked passage on the ferry. Within about 15 minutes we were on the south bank of the river. And folks…

…welcome to China. No, not the China to which I am growing accustomed, with crazy drivers and bad McDonald's and noodles and strangely dressed pedestrians. No. This was real China. Farmland, stretching as far as the eye can see (Ok, it was a little foggy). A quaint Buddhist temple. Cows. Rangy dogs. Dirt roads. People harvesting, hashing out a hard, honest day of physical labor in their fields, the kind of work we can easily forget about once we’ve spent so long in our cities. And keep these people in mind. Because if something crazy happens to the world, something wild that robs us of our fuels and our electronics and even (gasp!--DARE I say it?)our internets… watch. These will be the people we turn to because we’ve forgotten how to stay alive without everything at our beck and call.




Undoubtedly the dirtiest dog I have ever seen. Well, that's not necessarily true... I've met a lot of bad guys.

Ahem. Yes, well, we spent several hours wandering around and watching these quiet folk, and finally we even bought some vegetables from them. Had to pick them ourselves. All right. I know what you’re thinking. Me, pick vegetables? Me, eat vegetables?

Don’t worry. It was the young Chinese woman with us who wanted them. But I did get roped into carrying them. Bah.

Again, too nice.

Some miles later, around two o’clock, we finally made our way back to the ferry. The plan now? An all vegetarian lunch at the large Buddhist temple (Zhen Fen Temple) in Anqing proper. Now, at first thought this wasn’t my favorite idea I’ve ever heard. But fine, I think, I’ll roll with it.

It was strange. Most of the dishes were made of tofu, and they were seasoned (and shaped) like dead animals. They kind of paled in comparison to the real deal, but you know, they tried. The strangest, by far, was a crazy looking dish that tasted like shrimp but looked like Bill Cosby should have done the ad campaign. I dubbed them Gummy Shrimp. No one understood.

There was one delicious dish—these jiaozi, or dumplings. Those are the stuff. I could eat them until my system experienced overexposure to the vinegar with which I so liberally showered them.

With a belly full of stuff I never would have eaten of my own accord, it was off to KTV. Not a bar, like I’ve been to a few times, but a straight KTV club, with a private room and endless popcorn and tea.

We were there for four hours. I don’t want to talk about it…



Sweet, sweet serenade...

…but I will. It was just ridiculous. All the songs they have in English are these great sappy ballads. Well, not all of them. But most. I’d like to think I gave them their money’s worth, here, as I was rather uninhibited. I thing I sang about 2 dozen songs, among them Brown-Eyed Girl, Hotel California, Hey Jude, Desperado, Hard to Say I’m Sorry (Don’t Ask), Mack the Knife (A damn good rendition if I do say so my damn self), Carry on my Wayward Son, Wild Thing, Don’t go Breakin’ My Heart, Lyin’ Eyes (I think they like the Eagles over here), Toto’s Africa, and… Paradise City.

Yes, THAT Paradise City. And instead of going conventional, I said what the hell and tried to screech it like Axl. That’ll teach ‘em to keep me in that little room for four hours again. But I think I popped the ribbon off my voice box.

Before I could treat them to my emotionally stirring version of Scarborough Fair, our time was up. At this point we had grown into a party of six. The student’s father had arrived at lunch, and another very amusing man named Mr. Xiao had joined us at the KTV. He brought the wine that brings me to the next amusing story…

Dinner. Now, I didn’t gripe about the vegetables or anything, but I think I made an offhand comment about being, essentially, a carnivore. Consequently, the dinner was meat. All meat. ALL. And, consequently, I stuffed myself.

As I have seen several times already from my Chinese hosts, the father (hereafter called Mr. Ye) seemed intent on encouraging me to drink. And he seemed intent on matching me. Out came the wine.

I think we were about 3 glasses deep when he realized he was in over his head. By the end of the fifth glass, we moved to beer. By the middle of the second beer (22 oz.) he was pretty well drunk. I must say, I admire his self-control (or perhaps it was simply his desire not to get sick), because he stopped then and there, and did not drink again until much later. But, as I was in a good mood, and we were having such an enjoyable time poking fun at Mr. Xiao for not finishing his glass of wine (and no, I wasn’t being mean, and no, I wasn’t the one who started calling him Mrs. Xiao—that distinction belongs to one of the women at the table), I couldn’t resist having a few more.

Three beers later, dinner is done, and I’m feeling pretty happy. I ask if they know of a place that is not KTV, a place that is quiet, where you can just sit and talk and have a beer. Mr. Xiao and the student leave, but the others come along and we find a strange place called a “Blues Café” that is, well… no such thing. But it is quiet, and they do have beer.

It’s nearing midnight now, and time to go home. Two more 22 ouncers down, just enough to get a good feeling. As we’re leaving, I have a detour to the restroom, and start cackling hysterically because there is a bouquet of flowers in the urinal to freshen the scent. No, no cake. Honestly. A bouquet of flowers. Even on a day full of them, the best “shake my head” moment is the last.

And yes, before you ask, I do have a picture, and no, you can't see it. For various reasons.

Thus, we leave “Blues Café.” Mr. Ye rides with me in a taxi, even though I could easily have walked. He gives me a solid pat on the shoulder as I get out at my apartment and thanks me for helping his son. I smile and shake his hand. “Thanks for a hell of a day.” He laughs. I don’t think he’s familiar with the expression, but he gets the idea.

I remember thinking it then, and I’m thinking it now, sitting on this rather spartan bed after following a strange woman I couldn’t understand.

That paranoid fear of “getting taken” is gone. Not the healthy caution, understand… but the fear.

I’ve finally begun to trust myself here.

I’m finally getting comfortable. And what can I say? I’m thankful for that. And other things, too. But I’ll save those for another time.

Like when I write about Thanksgiving in Shanghai.