I’m back in China at my apartment. School is deserted.
I flew back with my Phil S., with whom I’ve been friends since 4th grade. To save money, we chose not to fly non-stop but instead had a layover in San Francisco. We had the choice of a 2-, 6-, or 20-hour layover. We chose the last one, and my brother Barry picked us up and took us to his house in Berkeley.
Barry, as usual, was the perfect host. Before we left Washington he asked me if we wanted to eat out or at home. Automatically I said his house because he is a great cook. Upon arriving at 3:30 p.m., however, I said I felt guilty that he had to cook and we could easily go to Lily’s, a wonderful hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant in Berkeley which has this great war won ton soup (which is like the yee won ton soup I used to get in San Francisco in college days. It’s loaded with stuff, and every time I pass through the Bay Area I try to eat either there or Sam Wo’s, another TRUE hole in the wall in Chinatown, SF.
Barry said dinner was already made at his place, so there we went. The table was beautifully set with wine glasses and everything. First we went on his back patio to smoke cigars, then he made the delicious Kay Cammer Salad. That was followed by a terrific lasagna made primarily with ingredients from his garden. (He probably grew the wheat and made the noodles by hand.) All was accompanied by a delicious Ruffino Chianti Classico.
He dropped us off at SFO at 10:00 a.m. for our noon plane – which turned out to be 2.5 hours late taking off.
Mi Qi was going to have dinner with us when we arrived, but because we were late, he ate at home but still took the subway in to RDFZ to make sure I arrived OK and so he could help me with my luggage. Truly a prince of a guy! He met us at the subway station and we walked to our favorite noodle place, which turned out to be closed. Though the official Chinese New Year’s Day was February 10, the celebration goes on for many days, and a lot of establishments close for at least a week. It’s like Paris in August.
Maybe that should be Paris in August 1940 because the incredible sound of all the fireworks going off made it sound like a war zone. There seems to be no restriction on fireworks in China. They are everywhere, being set off by everyone. Some are the puny little sparklers allowed in America, but most are enormous, loud explosives akin to 10 cherry bombs (remember those?) going off at once. When we were walking back from the closed restaurant to the school, we had to occasionally stop, but down our luggage, and cover our ears to avoid going permanently deaf. As I write this at 9:30 p.m. Thursday, you can hear them going off on the nearby streets. Fortunately, people cannot set them off after midnight. I asked Mi Qi last night if he sets off fireworks and he said no because of the air pollution it causes. So this morning I looked on the air quality site from the U.S. Embassy, and, sure enough, there was a large spike of bad air in Beijing last night.
Today was a recuperating day. Phil and I walked to Carrefour then to the food court for lunch. (Exciting, eh?) Tomorrow at 4:45 a.m. we leave the school for the airport, thence to Yunnan Province.
I gotta tell you a little about Phil. He is the most laid-back, easy going guy I know. Everyone gets along with him and he gets along with everyone else. Otherwise, how could he put up with me, right? I admit it. I yam what I yam.
For a non-musician he knows an awful lot of songs. Early this morning NPR had a short blurb about Mormonism, and to start it off they had a chorus singing “Gimme That Old Time Religion.” As I am often compelled to do when a song gets stuck in my head, I ended up starting that song as we were walking back from lunch. Phil chimed in, and to my surprise, he proceeded to sing 2 more verses. I mean, come on, how many people do YOU know who know at least 3 verses of that musically undistinguished spiritual?
Phil and I used to fly to Glacier National Park every July for Glacier Mountaineering Society week, hike the mountains, eat enormous pancake breakfasts at the Many Glacier Café. We’d usually fly to Great Falls, rent a car, then drive to Many Glacier campground and set up a tent. We did this for years, and every single year, on the drive, we’d sing “Don’t Fence Me In.” Phil is the only person I know who knows every word of “Don’t Fence Me In.” As we drove the 150 miles or so through Big Sky Country, sometimes in powerful thunderstorms, clearly this was the most appropriate song to sing. There were times when I envisioned myself living a reclusive existence in a cabin in the wilds of Montana, sort of like Thoreau without all the sappy writing.
I will be incommunicado for 9 days, but when I return I’ll show you some pictures.
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