Come On, Baby, Light My Fire

I’ve been meaning to start talking about my home away from home away from home for some time, but there’s so much to say, I was intimidated. And I don’t get intimidated easily. But something happened today in my park that forces me to at least begin. For a brief moment I was truly frightened, and it’s even more difficult to frighten me than it is to intimidate me.

I call it “my park” but my offer to purchase it was declined. Across the street from RDFZ is Renmin University, a well-known and well-respected institution of higher learning. For over a year I have been riding a half-mile to the University’s west gate, then a couple blocks to this small park, which is one of the few places (perhaps the only place) on campus with benches that have backs.

I’ve spent hundreds of hours in this park, and, as I have remarked, it’s a microcosm of a good portion of Chinese society. I have been collecting stories, pictures, and movies, intending to start writing about life in this park in an organized, intelligent manner. Forget it. Stuff just keeps coming at me faster than I can assimilate it, and so I’m afraid that, at least at this stage, the stories from this park will be haphazard. But unless I start now, even in this unorganized manner, you’ll just never get to hear about what has become one of the major aspects of my life here in China.

Though “fascination” is too strong a word, I have indeed become interested in watching the people and noting similarities and differences in appearance and behavior between this country and those I’ve observed in America and other foreign countries. The anecdotes I present will mostly be naked of profound comparative comments; I will leave it to you to draw your own conclusions, and we can debate them at a future time.

Most of the benches are backless, but about 9 or 10 of them have backs, which I much prefer. In the middle of the park are several islands of shrubs; some are barberry plants and others are some evergreen I don’t recognize.

There also is a larger island of peonies. Starting in the early spring and going into autumn, there’s a group of men in their 50s-70s that meets at about 5:00 p.m., and for about an hour they walk around these islands, talking non-stop. Occasionally, one or two will turn around and walk backwards to give a workout to different muscles.

For the most part, this park is a peaceful place, and many people of all ages enjoy coming here. But the park is not completely danger-free. In April a spraying crew comes through to attack (presumably) weeds, disregarding any people passing by or sitting on the benches. This is a 3-man team: one to drive the little tanker, one to spray, and the third to carry the hose.

In October a big truck drives over the bricks and through the park, spraying for tree pests. This time the crew chief clears the park of people as they go along spraying.

Anyway, my favorite pastime is to sit in the park, smoke a cigar, read a book, and enjoy the sun. In summer I am scantily clad,…

…and as the weather starts to turn, I don my autumn smoking attire.

(In case you are not aware, the Oxford English Dictionary people named “selfie” as the word of the year or 2013.)

I am very fond of this red and black hoodie. It has many tears, front and back, from working in my yard in Virginia. I brought it to China so I could use it as a smoking jacket that I would discard here when I left.

Incidentally, the picture above was taken in front of a new gate constructed at Renmin University. A few months ago they knocked a hole in the wall and installed a new gate on the north side of the campus very close to the south gate of RDFZ. This means, of course, that I no longer have to ride all the around to the west gate of the University but can go directly to my park through this gate. The one drawback is that (1) they keep the major portion of the gate closed, opening only the two small, one-person doors, and (2) they did not install any ramp. So, all day long you see students carrying their bikes through the gate, as you see me doing below.

No one I’ve talked to knows why they keep the main gate closed or why they omitted the usual side ramp. I think it’s to prevent people with scooters from going in and out of this gate. So why don’t they open the gate and simply put a sign there that says “No Scooters.” The answer, of course, is that all those scooter-riding hoodlums would disregard the sign, despite there always being a guard at the gate. And the guard would not say anything to the scooter-riders. This is China.

Apparent non-sequitur: When organisms metabolize (break down) proteins, disposing of the oxygens, carbons, and hydrogens is simple and straightforward. Getting rid of the nitrogen is another matter. Single-celled organisms simply produce ammonia and quickly expel it through their cell membranes to the surrounding environment. Larger, multi-celled organisms (you and I, for instance) don’t have that luxury. So we convert most of the unwanted nitrogen to urea, which is water-soluble and, assuming we drink enough water, is easily excreted through the appropriate organ.

Birds can’t do this. If they were to drink enough water to eliminate their nitrogen via the urea pathway, they would be too heavy to fly. So they convert most of their nitrogenous waste to uric acid, which is relatively water-insoluble – hence the dry, usually white globules falling from the sky. As with people, birds are what they eat, and their globules can be of different colors, depending on what they’ve had for breakfast.

Anyway, back to the park’s hazards. There are many trees in the park, and every bench is umbrella-ed by branches. (I’m an admirer of Ogden Nash, who profusely coined his own words to suit us rhymes.) Every week or two, I am the undeserving recipient of one of these globules. Sometimes they land on my shirt, other times on my jeans. I am fortunate that during summer, when I’m wearing shorts, a globule has not found my bare leg. A short time ago, however, one did find my Thomas Jefferson book, and the next reader of that tome will have a surprise awaiting on page 284.

In Virginia, I have a wonderful, 3-flame butane lighter. I brought it with me to China to light my cigars (which I also bring America). But I cannot find the pressurized cans of butane here, nor can I find any lighter similar to what I’d like. (I know, so high-maintenance.) The reason, of course, is that almost no one in China smokes cigars or pipes, and those little Bic-type cigarette lighters are what everyone uses. So I buy those now for 1 RMB each (about 17 cents). While they don’t give the thorough light a cigar hungers for, they have sufficed thus far. Until this week.

I arrived at the park, put down my little pad that I sit on to protect my delicate gluteus maximus, took off my helmet, took out my book, and lit up my cigar. Ah, heaven should be like this. But the lighter did not go out on its own because the little button on top that you push to ignite it did not pop back up. So I did it manually and the flame went out. I made a mental note to buy a new light.

A couple hours passed, during which I relit my cigar several times, always manually pushing up the button to extinguish the flame. Until the last time. I must have been thinking about something else because I didn’t check to make sure the flame was out before I put it in its usual place, my right breast pocket. I continue to read, thinking how nice and toasty the sun felt, when I noticed a small fire on my right shoulder.

I quickly deduced what had happened, and patted the flame vigorously with my left hand. I could see no more fire, so I assumed it was out, and I looked at my left hand, which had some ashes on it. My index finger was slightly burned.

Then the fire flared up again, and I quickly – one might be tempted to say “frantically” – unzipped my shirt, threw it off, and stomped out the flames.

That was when I saw, and felt, that my sweatshirt was also on fire. This fire was harder to put out because the material was synthetic and burned like plastic. It was a hotter fire, too.

Here’s a picture of that shirt with some paper behind the burned part so you can see the holes.

And the label (not made in China):

Here’s the culprit:

You can see the purple button that got a little melted.

With everything finally under control, I examined the outer shirt, piled at my feet, more closely and saw that the hood itself, which had been over my head at the time, was singed.

I thought how lucky I was that I had just got my hair cut.

I balled up the red and black shirt and headed for the trash can, but an old guy on a nearby bench said something and beckoned me over. I think he wanted the shirt, seeing as how I was going to throw it away, but I showed him how badly burned it was, and he smiled and shook his head.

When I got home I had to work a little at getting off the blue sweatshirt because it was stuck to my blue long johns underneath. Those, too, turned out to have been burned a little, with two small holes.

I washed them and sewed up the holes. Good as new.

I apologize for not having pictures of the flames.

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The Last Kingdom

During junior high and high school times, my mother always gave me books to read during the summers. Her advice was to read at least 50 pages of a book before deciding whether to continue to the end. Of the books she gave me, I don’t believe I ever failed to finish any of them, and thus in those days I read a lot of Taylor Caldwell, Irwin Shaw, and ALL of Herman Wouk’s novels – all three great storytellers.

When I look at myself objectively (which happens at least once each decade), I conclude that one of my best characteristics is perseverance. Even one of my students made a remark along these lines several years ago when, against all commonsense, I hiked the Inca Trail for 4 days with a bunch of energized teenagers. This perseverance persists into the realm of reading, and I rarely give up on a book. Until recently.

As we get older, most of us have an increasing awareness of the passing of time, and thus while we may slog through mediocre books when we’re young, we are less open to such masochism in our twilight. A few years ago I read half of “The Life of Pi” and then quit because I thought it was so boring. Many people agreed with me, pointing out, however, that the last 25% (which I think formed almost the complete foundation for the movie) was really good.

The Booker Prize has generally served me well as a guide to good novels. “The English Patient” and “Remains of the Day” come immediately to mind. But “The Life of Pi” caused me to have some doubts, and now I must admit that I started but did not get very far in Penelope Lively’s “Moon Tiger.”

Either my taste has changed or that of Booker’s decision-makers has.

I also quit “Moment in Peking” after about 125 pages. It’s just too sappy and flowery for me, though it does paint a very vivid picture of life in China in the early 1900s. This history lesson also gives the reader a hint of why the Chinese people are the way they today.

On the bright side, I did finish, with relish, Meacham’s biography of Thomas Jefferson, coincidentally on the same day that I saw him interviewed on MSNBC in relation to The Shutdown. I recommend this book very highly if you are even vaguely interested in the foundation of America. One of the main things you come away with is the realization that great historical turning points are created by individuals, not some nebulous group. This in turn makes you understand that there’s nothing automatic about our destiny, and we have to continue to work at it.

This brings me, albeit tangentially, to something I’m now convinced is vital: that we make some serious adjustments to our country’s Constitution. Three things I’m absolutely certain must be addressed are the Second Amendment (guns), term limits, and gerrymandering. Strict constructionists continuously refer to the Constitution as something so perfect that it almost rises to the level of religious doctrine. If we can’t get away from that, then let’s revise the Constitution, as Thomas Jefferson recommended in 1816 we do periodically:

Some men look at Constitutions with sanctimonious reverence, and deem them, like the ark of the covenant, too sacred to be touched. They ascribe to the men of the preceding a wisdom more than human, and suppose what they did to be beyond amendment. I knew that age well: I belonged to it, and labored with it. It deserved well of its country. It was very like the present, but without the experience of the present: and 40 years of experience in government is like a century of book-reading: and this they would say themselves, were they to rise from the dead. I am certainly not an advocate for frequent and untried changes in laws and constitutions…but I know also that laws and institutions must go hand in hand with the progress of the human mind…. We might as well require a man to wear still the coat which fitted him when a boy, as civilized society to remain ever under the regimen of their barbarous ancestors.

(The punctuation is his.)

Oh, well, enough grandstanding.

I’m still plodding through Russell’s “The History of Western Philosophy,” which, though not a quick read, is very informative. Something that is clear from this: Plato’s Utopia is NOT someplace any of us would want to live, despite how we’ve usurped the name.

In response to my appeal for light reading, my brother leant me all 6 volumes of Bernard Cornwell’s Saxon Chronicles. I just started the 5th.

Cornwell is best known for his 24-volume historical novel series about the Napoleonic wars. The Saxon Chronicles (which begins with “The Last Kingdom”), is about the 9th century battles between the Danish Vikings and the Saxons. They are fun to read as well as being very informative about life in those times. What seems clear is that it’s only by a very slim margin that we are enjoying good English stiltons instead of the inferior Danish bleu cheese. Americans could all be speaking Danish instead of English, which would have been problematic for me because I don’t know any Danish. Phew, that was close!

Also thanks to my brother, I’m reading the short but delightful “Letters to a Young Scientist,” E.O. Wilson’s latest book.

Finally, for my Neuro students, I’m about 100 pages into “Musicophilia” by Oliver Sacks, a book I’ve owned and wanted to read since it was published 5 years ago. I think it’s one of his better collection of anecdotes, this one about the uniqueness of music and how it interacts with the brain (and vice versa). Any of my former students would enjoy it.

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Slip Slidin’ Away

Before you rush to judgment on my new slippers, let me tell you how I came about them. I’m helping one of the Chinese language teachers here (ZL) to improve her English, and last weekend she wanted to walk through Carrefour where she could point to things and I could tell her what they are in English.

We came upon a huge bin (5 feet x 15 feet x 4 feet) full of loose slippers for men of every color and design you could imagine. I realized winter was nigh and thus I could use something warm for my feet during my forthcoming time of cabin fever. Most of the slippers were of weird colors and designs, and a few had Mickey Mouse ears or bunny tails. This was the most conservative design I could find (not that I’m prone to sudden attacks of conservatism), but I liked it better in blue. Most of the slippers were too small, but I found one left slipper of this design but in blue in the largest available size.

Where there was a left we cleverly deduced there must be a right. I think we looked through that bin for a full 15 minutes, diving clear to the bottom. We also went through the slippers that others had left on the floor after knocking them out of the bin. (You’ve been to Wal-Mart, right? Well, except BF, of course.) No right blue in my size. So I settled for the brown.

The rub is this: After wearing these for a week they’ve stretched, and it’s now clear that I could have bought the blue ones in the next size down and be fine. I’d go back and buy them now except that I don’t want to waste another 10.90 RMB ($1.82). If any of my Chinese friends saw both pairs of slippers, they’d think, rightfully so, that I’m just another one of those spoiled Americans.

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Suicide is Painless

It all started with a foot massage I had a couple weeks ago.

The foot massage is one of China’s greatest innovations. When I go to my neighborhood foot place, they start with a 10-minute shoulder massage. During my latest visit, my guy (known to me only as #36) found more knots than usual in my shoulder muscles. He spent most of that time jabbing his knuckles into the knots, and I was relieved when the 10 minutes expired and he began working on my feet.

I mentioned this to one of my fellow teachers (CL) and she said she would be happy to take me to a very good blind masseuse. I told her that I knew of several blind masseuses near the school but just haven’t gotten around to going, but she replied that this particular person (Zhang something) was very highly rated and she goes to him herself. CL made the appointment for me. She said it was a 40-minute bus ride but I suggested we ride our bikes, and she agreed.

We consulted my map and her cell phone (for the address), and it was clearly a simple ride, east down one street for a few miles, then north a couple more miles and we’re there. I estimated it to be a 30-minute ride, but to be safe we left 1 hour before my appointment. I led us to the right neighborhood in plenty of time, but CL, who had been there many times, couldn’t find the right building. So she called them for specific directions. Then we got lost again. She called them again. We got lost again. She called them again. Finally found it. We were 10 minutes late. CL, like all women (only a slight exaggeration), has really bad spatial skills.

This place was located in an apartment building on the campus of one of Beijing’s many universities. The guy’s “office” consisted of one really tiny waiting room with 2 chairs and another room, almost as small, with two massage tables. His wife and he are both legally blind, though they can see a little. There are many blind massage places in Beijing because blind people are given a government subsidy to help them make a living at this. Thus they can charge less and thereby entice more people to come.

Zhang asked me to take off my belt and my shoes, and for most of the time I was face down on this slightly padded table that had a hole for my face. That was when I rediscovered that I still had my cold. My nose was running like crazy, but my arms couldn’t reach it under the table, even if I had a tissue. Once or twice I lifted my head a little to stem the flow, but Zhang wondered what I was doing, so I finally gave up and just let it drip off the tip of my nose, creating a small puddle on the floor.

Zhang spent 50 minutes finding knots in my back muscles and then digging his knuckles into them. It was very painful and though I winced and cried, he seemed oblivious to my misery. While lying there, I suddenly recalled an American statistic from many years ago showing that dentists had the highest suicide rate. The authors surmised this was because dentists felt really bad about inflicting pain on other people. I wonder if they included therapeutic masseuses in that study.

He wanted to work on my neck a little with me seated, so just before the hour was up he asked me to move from the table to a tiny stool. By then I was a little drowsy and I stood up slowly, rubbing my eyes. That’s when Zhang said “Uh, Paul…” and I opened my eyes to find Zhang, his wife, and CL all staring at me because my jeans had fallen to my ankles. It’s one of the few times I’ve been grateful for cold weather for indeed I was wearing long, flannel underwear. Phew!

Anyway, the hour ended and I felt pretty good – all things considered. Cost: 40 RMB (about $6.70).

I’ve been back twice more. The second time I had another female friend with me, but as I was leading the way, it took only 40 minutes (though I had to wait for her several times because she is not the seasoned cyclist I am and her bike, like almost all bikes in China, is old, rusty, and cruddy with underinflated tires). Yesterday I went by myself and got there in 25 minutes.

Because I got there a little early I was able to investigate a little mystery that had been bugging me. On my first visit, while lying on the table, I noticed a periodic beep that I thought must be the sound of a door alarm indicating when someone entered or exited the waiting room. During my second visit I wondered if the sound was a special cell phone ring that he was ignoring. Now, waiting in the outer room, I followed the sound to a smoke alarm that must be out of battery juice. I considered pointing this out to Zhang but decided against it. Certainly he knows what’s up, and I didn’t want to come across as a know-it-all American (which, of course, I am), so I’ll just be careful not to smoke during my massages.

The muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back are now more relaxed and I am sleeping better because of it. I plan on visiting Zhang 3 days/week for a while. If nothing else, the biking has helped me lose a pound or two.

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A River Runs Through It

2:00 a.m. 23 hours since my last report, most of which has been spent on my back, either in bed or on cushions on the floor of my office.

It’s a nagging cold that has shown only slight improvement. It’s also an excellent opportunity to study fluid dynamics. For the first half of the last 23 hours, my left nostril was plugged with…well, you know. For variety, my right nostril was just the opposite: a non-stop source of free-flowing liquid.

To address the right nostril’s situation, I tried to remain on my back as much as possible, allowing the fluid to flow backwards down my throat. This was OK if I were reading, but when I nap I like to sleep on my side – either side.

When I fell asleep on my left side (thus with my right nostril down), everything remained the same, and my nostril status was unchanged when I awoke. When I switched to lying on my right side, my nostril status switched: my right nostril became plugged and the left one became runny.

Finally, over the last 10 hours or so, the plugged nostril became unplugged, thanks to manual assistance with a tissue. Presumably a sign of improvement in my health, the change to having both nostrils extremely runny had some downsides. I was forced, now, to constantly lie on my back, which kept me from napping on my side – which kept me from napping.

Occasionally (no more often than usual) I had to visit the toilet or get some tea. Any position other than prone on my back required physical blockage of both nostrils, and thus whenever I got up, I had to stuff each nostril with a tissue. I almost titled this note “I Am the Walrus” by the Beatles.

I think I’ve come down with more colds here than back home. I think this is due to a combination of three major factors: (1) most people here do not cover their mouths or noses when they cough or sneeze; (2) I am probably more sensitive to these foreign varieties of germs than the ones I’ve been exposed to at home (i.e., less immunity buildup); and (3) the bad air exacerbates any respiratory problem.

* * * * *

It’s now been a few weeks since the onset of this cold. Though it wasn’t the most severe I’ve had, it was annoying enough that for a little over a week I didn’t have the energy to do much of anything, including blogging. When I finally recouped enough energy to work, I had a backlog of work that kept me occupied during my waking moments. Then, after finally getting caught up, I succumbed to a (hopefully temporary) bout of laziness.

Anyway, I’m back.

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