What Remains

In less than a week, it’ll be almost two years since we returned to the States.  A lot has happened in that time:  lost teeth, piano lessons, graduations from preschool and fifth grade, karate, piano recitals, some pretty major home renovations.  At times it’s easy to forget that there ever was a Hong Kong year, we’re so buried in the heres-and-nows of Virginia.   Which means at times it’s easy to think that none of it mattered, that we shouldn’t even have bothered. 

But still . . .

Here’s a short list of what, two years on, remains from that year:

1) There are, of course, the objects:  the Hong Kong flags hanging in the kids’ rooms, the tin wind-up toys Jamie got for his birthday when we were in Vietnam.  There’s the red salad bowl made of finely-grained wood, the fancy brushed steel flashdrive I received as a party favor at one of the conferences I attended.  I still have my nice suit from the tailor down in Central, and Ellen has two or three skirts and a few shirts from Hoi An.  Over our mantel is a fancy porcelain carving of gold fish swimming around a lotus plant, and opposite it hang a pair of paintings from Hanoi and Xi’an, respectively.  We also have a neatly embroidered baby carrier over one bookshelf, not too far from a trio of fantastical paintings from Bali showing brightly colored dancing beasts and magical women. 

I’m pleased to note that my beautiful, six-million dollar hand sewn rug from Beijing is still beautiful, and worth every damn penny, thank you very much.  This bears mention, because just after I bought it I was one of the guys on the trip—a Canadian whose family had just joined for the day—was teasing me about spending so much money.

“What you should do,” he said, “is buy a stop watch.  Then when you get home you can time yourself whenever you stop and look at the rug.  That way you’ll know how much all of this cost you per minute.”

Jerk.

For what it’s worth, not a day goes by—okay, not a week goes by . . . okay, not a month goes by where I don’t pause, look at that rug, and say, “Dang.  That’s purty.”

As all of this probably makes clear, we bought a lot of souvenirs when we were in Asia.  Enough to decorate the entire house, actually, so that, stepping into our living room before actually meeting us, you’d assume “Hanstedt” was some sort of weird name from an obscure ethnic group in China. 

Seriously, we’ve pretty much decided we can never live abroad again simply because we don’t have any rooms left to decorate.  That, or we’ll just have to buy a second house next time we return to the States. 

That said, the objects we actually notice—the ones that make us pause for just a millisecond, our hearts suddenly warmer than they were before—aren’t necessarily the expensive ones, or even the big ones:  there’s the silk embroidery of a lotus flower on the wall by the front door, for instance, almost an afterthought when we were in a small shop in Vietnam, but now something that I’ll pause and . . . just look at for maybe half a minute every other day or so.  Or the small wooden plates next to the cookbooks, thrown in with the aforementioned salad bowl and a half-dozen other things we got in a shop near our hotel.   They’re beautiful—one green, one red, one natural wood color, the grain showing in all of them—and they catch my eye almost every day when I walk into the kitchen. 

Or when Lucy comes down in the morning for breakfast, and she’s wearing her blue and white sport uniform from the international school.  Mornings where that happens, both Ellen and I will pause, watching her make her way to the table.  Sometimes we’ll look at each other and grin, sometimes we won’t, just watching her, both of us smiling, the little red Norwegian flag flashing on her shorts—and we’ll know it was all real. 

2)  Then there are the memories. 

Some of them are prompted:  the first Christmas we were home, for instance, we made photo albums for each of the kids.  For Will and Lucy, this meant culling their nearly 5,000 pictures (each) down to 400 or so that we put in separate albums, customizing each one to reflect the experiences of the child, what they valued, what they’d want to remember.  For Jamie this meant picking at random from Ellen’s thousands of pics, trying to choose images that would somehow capture key moments for a little guy who was barely half-way through his third year when we returned.

We gave the albums to them on Christmas eve, halfway through the present opening.  For twenty minutes everything stopped.  All three heads were bowed, all three pairs of hands were flipping the pages, flipping, flipping, scanning from side to side, taking it all in. 

“Look!  Will!  Remember?” and then Lucy would point to picture of the bird market and tell a story.

“Hey, look!  Remember?” and then Will would hold the book up so we could all see a picture of the kitten we found in a park in Shanghai. 

“Look!  Remember?” Jamie would then holler, and hold up a picture of a—what was that?  A cat turd?  A dead bird?  Hard to tell.  Not really even sure that he knows . . .

But a lot of the memories are unprompted.  We’ll be sitting at the table eating dinner, and out of the blue Lucy will say, “Remember the time Jamie shook his fist at a monk?”  And we’ll burst out laughing.  Then Will will say, “Remember when he ate his dinner so fast that he threw up?”  And we’ll laugh again.  Then Ellen or I will say, “Remember how Eldon use to love playing with Jamie, how he would come over and shake his fists at him and Jamie would shake his back and the two of them would keep doing it until they burst out laughing?”  And we’ll laugh again, even louder.  And it will go on like that for ten minutes maybe twenty, sometimes half an hour:  “Remember?’  “Remember?”  “Remember?” 

3)   And then there’s something else, something that’s harder to explain: 

I see it when Will and Lucy come home from school, and I find them in Will’s bedroom, their heads together, lost in some game they’ve made up, involving marbles, beads, or three kinds of glue and miniature Leggos.   

And I see it sometimes on Saturday mornings, when Jamie is fussing about some thing or another and later I’ll notice that he’s turned quiet, and discover him in his room, being read to by his older brother.

And I see it on nights when Ellen is gone or out with her friends, and instead of cuddling with all of the kids separately, I’ll stretch out on the big bed in our room and the four of us will lay there, telling stories about the day, about school, about burping and farting, and our friend Lilianna who talks in funny voices.   

And I’ll see it sometimes when we go on a trip, a short trip to Charlottesville, maybe, and I’ll give them a heads-up when it’s five minutes until departure, then we’ll all climb in the car, no fussing, no complaining, just a sense of, “This is who we are.  This is what we do.”

I’m not sure how to describe it, really.  But it’s very real.  It’s like a river that’s cleared, all the dirt and debris settling to the bottom, firming down into sediment that will be solid for years to come, leaving everything above clean and pure.  It’s as though we’re utterly content with ourselves, with who we are as a family.  And with our place in the world. 

That’s what it’s like.  That’s what remains. 

  

On Korea, Fear, and Harry Chapin

It’s easy to forget that traveling is kind of scary.  When we’re sitting at home, booking those tickets, we’re thinking about the dazzling quality of the sun in those foreign places, the exotic foods, the colorful markets, the peculiar interactions with locals that we’ll collect and bring home to narrate over the dinner table at parties so we can make our friends jealous. 

What’s absent from these visions is what it’s like to finally get through immigration, to gather your bags, and to step out into the airport concourse of a country we’ve never been to before, where we barely know the language, where the customs may be nearly impossible to comprehend, and where even the very air has not just a different smell but a different quality to it—to get through all of this, experience all of this, and then think “Now what?”

Part of the reason I like traveling with Ellen is that she’s very good at those first moments, very good at relishing the strangeness and moving us forward.  When I’m on my own though, particularly after I’ve had a long flight—and let’s face it:  from the States, everything is a long flight—I generally feel mildly nauseous and slightly feverish, with a weird granular taste in my mouth. 

Case in point:  I flew into Korea the other day (and boy are my arms—oh, never mind), never having been there before.  This sounds stupid, I know, but I was surprised by how different it was.  I anticipated a Hong Kong kind of place—basically clean, basically modern, only with more open spaces and more fermented cabbage.  After all, Korea is Asia’s “success story,” the little country that could, with a solid economy, an educated work force, and all the modern amenities.  And all my friends had told me what a great place it was:  “It’s like Toledo,” one of the other Fulbrighters said, “only with more Asians.  And, you know:  fermented cabbage.”

What I saw, though, on the bus-ride in from the airport looked more like Vietnam than post-industrial Hong Kong:  a dusty gray sky, semi-dilapidated houses, stooped-over women working in rice paddies.  

It was late when I arrived, so that first evening I ventured only a stone’s throw from hotel, strolling down a brightly lit alley to one of those little restaurants where you grill your meat at the table under an industrial-strength ventilator hose, then wrap it in a lettuce leaf with some coleslaw type stuff and fermented cabbage, eating it sideways like a sloppy but tasty Korean taco.  Which sounds great.  And it was, except for the fact that this was clearly meant to be a social activity.  Not only was my table round and large enough to seat a small baseball team, it was surrounded by other tables, all of them filled with laughing families and gangs of friends.  Needless to say, I was tired and dirty and a little depressed and feeling sorry for myself, so I compensated by eating my way through half of a cabbage-stuffed cow and the hind quarters of a barbequed pig.

I had the next day free.  Instead of racing out the door though, a la Ellen, I slept in late, ate breakfast, and found myself lingering in my hotel room.  I checked my e-mail, tried to negotiate some end-of-year financial complications with the Roanoke Review, posted something meaningless on Face Book, browsed the pages of a few friends.  I looked up a couple key phrases in Korean—hello, thank you, how much?, and please get your fermented cabbage out of my air space—then checked my e-mail again, just in case someone had written me something from the United States in the middle of the night in the last three minutes.  Nothing.  I packed my backpack, counted my cash, checked my e-mail.  Sighed.  Looked around the room, trying to find something else that needed to be done.  When nothing presented itself, I checked my e-mail, went to the bathroom, checked my e-mail and dragged myself out the door, heading toward the nearest subway line.

It didn’t help that the train smelled vaguely farty (this happens, I’m sure, in a country that prides itself on fermented cabbage).  I sighed, pushed some kid out of a seat, and settled in the next few stops.   Emerging into the station, I was confronted with twelve different options for possible exits.  I glanced at my map.  I wanted the Namara--something  market.  That’s not the actual name of the market, of course.  It has more letters and no dashes at the end, but the fact of the matter is every time I looked down at the map, then glanced up at the directions board, I promptly forgot the second two-thirds of the word.  Korean is weird, I decided, more like German or Russian, with all those letters and vowels:  I mean, Kamsamnida?  What kind of language requires half a sentence just to say thank you?  I longed for Hong Kong and Cantonese, and those two character-, two-syllable phrases:  Cho san!  Ngoi Sai!

I gave up.   Even with all the letters, I couldn’t find Namara—something market anywhere.  Sighing, I trudged up to street level and spent fifteen minutes poking attractive women with my finger, trying to get them to take pity on me and point me in the direction of the market, or at the very least to take me home and feed me fermented cabbage. 

When that didn’t work, I stopped a grubby old man selling what looked like frozen turkeys out of the trunk of his car, who immediately pointed me in the right direction.  “Walk that way,” he said, nodding toward a tall building with a seven-story portrait of Marilyn Monroe on the side.  “Behind that.” 

I walked.  It was hot, and it was noisy, and it was dusty.  And I wasn’t even sure why I was going to the market.  I’d been to Asian markets before, of course, plenty of them, and it wasn’t like this one was going to be any different.   Shouldn’t I be doing something more meaningful, like going to a museum, or visiting a Unesco site, or eating fermented cabbage?  Certainly, that’s what Ellen would have done, especially if she only had one day in a foreign country.  Of course, Ellen also would have researched the country before she flew there, buying a book or two and a map, and spending at least an evening on the internet trying to get a feel for things.  Me?  I’d spent every evening the week before stuffing my face at various Hong Kong restaurants and drinking beers with Joe.  Now that’s what I call traveling.

Once in the market, I felt a little better.  It was Asia in all its glorious chaos:  stalls filled with soccer jerseys and nonsensical t-shirts—Korea Legend Start Here! 2010—tables covered with brass trinkets and nylon socks.  At one point I saw a woman in a long dress trying on underwear—pulling them up under her skirt, then peeling them back down again before trying on another pair.  There was a vendor frying something doughy looking in a vat of sputtering oil—fermented cabbage donuts?—and a quiet looking lady selling long braids of bread dusted with sugar.  Those were good, and I would know, because I had six. 

When sugared bread lady finally shooed me off, I went in search of gifts for the kids.  Noah, the son of a friend, had been adopted from Korea several years ago and his mother had asked me to get him some souvenirs.  I picked up a little baby opium pipe and a set of nail-spiked numchucks, plus a couple of T-shirts:  “Number One Hot Korea Bad-Ass”; “You My Lady; Me Your Pimple,” that sort of thing.  Eventually I wandered down into a lower level and discovered an entire bazaar of sorts, booth after booth of homemade jewelry, K-pop CDs, foam padded bras, glasses, camping equipment, freeze-dried noodle pots.  I picked up a few more trinkets, wandered a bit more, then made my way back up to street level.

Drifting a long, I found a small diner, maybe seven feet wide and twenty feet deep, glass fronted.  On the door was small advertisement:  Noodle Mussels!  Spicy or Mild!  The place looked clean enough and the owner was a nice looking guy in glasses, so I stepped in and was escorted to a table at the back. 

“You look?” he said, gesturing toward some pictures on the wall.

“Just mussels.”

“Enh?”

I pointed at the table beside mine, where two girls were piling shells on a plate.  “Mussels.”

He nodded and went off.  I sat down, took a deep breath.  An older woman with curly hair brought me a pitcher of water and a cup, then returned with a fork.  I waved it away, drawing metal chopsticks from the container on the table.  She nodded, smiled, pretending to be impressed.  I drank, and a few minutes later she returned with a small plate of kim chi—fermented cabbage.  It was good.  I drank some more and ate some more, and started to feel more at ease. 

Well, almost.  Suddenly, I felt a prickle of unease:  the sign outside had said mussels with noodles either spicy or mild.  I definitely wanted spicy.  I stood up and looked at the bowls of the young women at the next table.  Their broth was clear.  Could that mean . . . ?  I glanced at the pictures on the wall:  on the left were mussels spicy.  The liquid was red.  Further along, on the right, were mussels mild.  Clear. 

Damn. 

I glanced at the pictures again, then sat down.  I rubbed my face once, took a drink of water, shook my head.  It didn’t matter.  Mussels were mussels.  Besides, who knew how hot the spicy ones were?  No one wants to get sick on their first trip to Korea. 

I took another sip of water, then looked around.  It was a small place, just six table.  The walls were tiled and the tables laminated, the kind of restaurant you could hose down at the end of the day and then let drip dry overnight.  Even the pictures on the wall were covered in plastic. 

I caught the eye of a heavyset woman sitting at a table at the bottom of the stairs.  She was looking at me, frowning.  Then she looked at the pictures on the wall, looked at me again, and twisted in her chair, saying something in Korean.  The waitress, the one with the curly hair, glanced my way, then came over to the table. 

“Yes?”

“Nothing,” I said.  “It’s okay.”

She smiled again, indulgently, then padded back to the kitchen or whatever it was by the door.  I blushed, then glanced at the woman who’d called her over. She met my gaze.  I smiled a little, and nodded.  She also smiled, just a little, and nodded back.

After that, the day was gravy.  The mussels were good, I picked out another spot I wanted to visit—a neighborhood with old, interesting architecture and a palace with a hidden garden—paid my bill and went out the door.  I found the subway right away, got on the right train, and got out at the right stop.  Ten minutes later I was wandering down glaze cobbled lanes so narrow I could spread my arms and touch the walls on each side.  I got lost a little, but it was a pleasant kind of lost, and when I came out on the other side I could see the palace just up the street. 

Admission cost $8 US, and I spent much of the afternoon just wandering from building to building, taking pictures of the intricate artwork on the ceilings and trim and trying to avoid the heat.  I’d paid to get into the hidden garden, and was a little annoyed when I arrived at the gate and learned that you were only allowed admission as part of a tour.  I like to wander.  I’m good at getting lost, and good at finding food, and good at finding quiet little gardens in cool shady places—like, say, for instance, gardens, particularly hidden gardens—in which to take naps.  This is how I experience countries. 

That said, the tour wasn’t that bad, and would have probably been even better had it been in English.  I left the garden and palace, wandering east, thinking I’d just explore some neighborhoods, see what Seoul was really like, maybe do a little home shopping for when Ellen and I moved here (because Korea was quickly becoming one of my favorite places in the world).  At one point I ducked down into a subway to get under a busy street and discovered a German bakery and coffee shop.  Two lattes and an onion-cheese bread later, I emerged into the late afternoon sun, dazed and happy and in need of larger pants.  I found a pedestrian mall populated by art shops and soap makers and jewelry and picked up seven or eight more souvenirs.  Then I headed back to the hotel and took a shower. 

Dinner that night was at the same restaurant, only this time the other US speaker from the conference was there and we spent the evening talking about family and travels and careers and how mediocre Korean beer was but how we’d have another bottle nonetheless, thank you very much.  I collapsed into bed that night feeling stuffed and content.

The next day the anxiety was back.  It was conference time, and suddenly I was aware of the fact that:  a) I had to give a serious 40-minute talk for which I’d been paid a nice bit of money plus expenses; b) I didn’t know my hosts; c)  I didn’t know anything much about Korean general education; d) I didn’t know anything much about Korea (other than the fermented cabbage thing); and e) I was an idiot. 

Here again, it’s one of those imagination versus reality things.  When you get the e-mail inviting you to speak, all that you can think is, “Cool:  Korea!”  If you give it any more thought than that, it’s probably something vague on the lines of, “Well, I’ve been to Asia before; how hard can it be?”  This ignores the fact, of course, that, though both are in Asia, Hong Kong and Korea are radically different places with radically different cultures.  Not to mention languages.  For while I can more or less get by in Hong Kong with a little bit of Cantonese and a whole lot of English, these only work with people who:  a)  speak Cantonese; or b) speak English.  Which, go figure, doesn’t cover Korea. 

Actually, that’s not entirely true.  Plenty of people speak English in Korea.  Just not as many as in Hong Kong and not quite as well.  And because the only words I knew in Korean were, “Hello,” “How much does this cost?” and “Does it always smell like that?” my ability to grease the social wheels was limited.

Which means that, in reality, I found myself feeling awkward and nervous and amateurish when we met our hosts and drove to the campus where the conference was being held.  Every one was being perfectly nice, of course, but when there’s limited opportunity for small talk and you’re kind of tired and nervous, the awkward seconds feel like awkward minutes and the mild blank glances of strangers feels like glare of disapproval. 

But then the conference began and the talks began, and it became clear that my hosts had a wonderfully organic understanding of the complexities of general education and a real intellectual and emotional investment in its success.  In the afternoon, I gave my talk and nobody booed except for this one little old granny who said I sucked and should be sent back to Yugoslavia, me and my band of baby ducks.  Not surprisingly, the moment I was done I felt a lot better.  Then my new friend from America spoke and the two of us started fielding questions.  Within a matter of minutes the whole room was caught up in an intense conversation about the differences between integration and interdisciplinarity (don’t get me started—I can talk on this for days), about the necessity—or not—for a year of foundational content prior to synthesis and application, about all sorts of things that would really try the patience of those of you who have made it this far in what is already a really long blog post, even on this blog, which is known for really long blog posts. 

It was a great conversation.  It was complex, it was thoughtful, and it was funny.  I loved being teased by the audience, loved it when they pointed out contradictions between what Natalie had said and I had said.  I loved it when there were follow-up questions and debates between audience members.  It was fun.  It was great.  It was extraordinary. 

The conference was followed by a small banquet for the organizers, speakers, and various VIPs.  Again, a little moment of anxiety as I was led to a table and seated as the sole white guy amongst a group of Asians.  But beer was poured and toasts were given and the food was good.  Someone told a story about how the government had offered dignitaries a choice of tickets to various concerts, and everyone had chosen K-Pop—fluffy Korean boy-and-girl band music. We all laughed, and drank more beer and ate more food.  There was more talk about general education and more beer and one lady who’d been slightly critical at the conference sat next to me and made sure the waitress took care of me. 

When that was over, I waddled back up to my room, packed my bags, scheduled a wake up call, and dropped instantly into sleep.   I awoke at dawn the next morning, took a shower, grabbed my bags, and headed down to the lobby where they flagged a cab.  Climbing in and buckling up, I thought about Harry Chapin.  He was killed in a car accident while riding in a cab, after all, and for some reason every time I take a taxi to the airport, I think about him.  Which makes absolutely no sense, of course—he was on his way to a concert, not to the airport—but I always wanted to be a rock star when I was little (e.g., 43), and I suppose I like to think of myself that way whenever I can. 

So I climbed into the cab, and buckled up, and sipped my water and munched on my meal bar, and thought about what would happen if I died right then.  Which is morbid, I know, but I hadn’t had much sleep and I’m kind of a melancholy dude, so this is what happens sometimes.  And what I thought was that if I died, Ellen would be probably kind of sad for a while but would then maybe hook up with that carpenter guy she has the hots for and be pretty much a lot happier for the rest of her life.  And then I thought that if I died on the way to the airport, having just flown to this new country, having spoken at this conference, having been part of this important conversation, having met these people, having eaten all of this amazing food, Ellen would probably tell people that I’d died happy, that I’d died doing the things I most loved doing.

And she would be right. 

This is just to say . . .

that excerpts from our "White Boy" adventures in Hong Kong will be appearing in book form soon. HONG KONGED will be published in July 2012 by Adams' Media. Stay tuned for more details. And thanks, all, for your support. I'll be back soon with more tales of life in Virginia. I know you're all just dying to hear details about our trips to CVS and Kroger . . .

Confessions of a White-Knuckle Flier

Ten years ago, the first time I went to China, the return flight took something like twenty-four hours.  Aside from one slightly-overdone hamburger at the Detroit airport, my journey was more or less worry free:  no excessive turbulence, no lost baggage, no half-digested meatloaf deposited in my lap by one of my seatmates. 

And then, just as the small prop-plane I was one rose over the last ridge of mountains surrounding the Roanoke Valley--

—it suddenly dropped.  

Like thirty feet.  Or forty feet.  Or a hundred feet.  Or whatever.  Because to tell you the truth, I couldn’t tell you how far it was, though I can say it was enough that it made the flight attendant scream and grab the arms of her little collapsible seat.  And I can tell you that it was far enough that, after we landed, the pilot got on the PA and said, “Well.”  Long pause.  “THAT doesn’t happen very often.”

I hate flying. 

I haven’t always been this way.  I was twenty the first time I got on a plane and flew 33 (count ‘em:  thirty-three) hours to Tanzania, East Africa.  I loved every minute of it.  Between then and 1999, I probably took upward of 100 flights, and was pretty much okay with them.  Then, that year, coming back into Virginia, that plane flew into the Roanoke Valley, dropped . . . and, well:  left most of my guts somewhere at around 3,200 feet.

My wife’s cousin, who’s an aeronautical engineer (like that qualifies him to say anything) just shrugged when I told him my tale of nearly dying in sight of my own threshold after coming halfway around the world.  “The wings on those planes can bend thirty feet,” he said, “no problem.  It’d take more than that to crash a plane.”

To which I have exactly two responses: 

1)  Great.  I’ll be sure to tell that to my bladder the next time it cuts loose on a plane full of screaming people;

And 2) Bite me. 

I’m mean, seriously:  there’s what we “know” on an intellectual level—mathematical equations about tension and friction and bolt strength and joint flexibility and air currents and that sort of crap.

And there’s what we KNOW in a gut-level, testicles-climbing-back into the body-cavity, kind of way.  You can talk to me all day long about wing warp and how they’ve developed special radar for detecting wing sheer.  And I’ll nod and say, “Well, that’s nice to know,” and “Gosh, I hadn’t thought of that.”  And then we’ll be flying together, somewhere over, say, northern Missouri, and the plane will start to buck and rattle and there’ll be that little ping! as the Please Fasten Seatbelts sign comes on, and immediately my head will be filled with visions of the front half of the plane being torn off before my very eyes, and of me plummeting toward the earth, along with 237 other people I barely know but who, I’m sure, very much like not dying after seven full minutes of free falling.   And my heart will start to race and my palms will become clammy and I’ll not unoccasionally find myself crawling into the lap of the seventy-two-year old retired window salesman in the next seat. 

A number of so-called friends have tried to alleviate my dislike of flying in general and turbulence in particular by pointing out that it’s all part of the adventure:  “It’s like being on a roller coaster,” someone I know recently told me.  “And for no additional fee!  WHEEEEE!”

To which I have exactly two responses:

1)  I love it when a roller coaster turns me upside down.  A plane?  Not so much.

And 2)  Bite me. 

It doesn’t help that I’m a writer and a reader, that I pretty much make my living by allowing my brain to create the most vivid images possible.  What this means when I’m on a plane is that I find myself thinking things like, “I wonder if, after the plane goes down, the local paper will refer to me as ‘a beloved professor,’ or if they’ll actually do some research, read the comments on my ratemyprofessor.com page, and skip mentioning me altogether?”  And:  “I wonder if the female weightlifter next to me will hold my hand as we plummet toward the earth?”  And:  “This high up, will I pass out when the plane rattles into a thousand pieces, or will I be awake the whole way down?” 

It also doesn’t help that the Roanoke Valley, where the nearest airport is located, is a notoriously difficult place to fly.  For years I’d heard rumors that Air Force One pilots were taken there to practice taking off and landing in trying circumstances.  It’s a valley after all:  there are mountains on one side, then a runway, then more mountains. Not much room for error.  Or, as I like to think of it:  there are mountains on one side, then a runway, then WHAM!

As if that weren’t bad enough, this particular valley in this particular branch of the Blue Ridge Mountains is known for peculiar wind currents—which perhaps explains my post-Beijing drop.  Just this morning there was a piece in the Roanoke Times (America’s last, best, independent newspaper) discussing a proposal for wind turbines on one of the mountains on the south side of the Valley.  The FAA has yet to approve the plan, and may not, the paper reports, stating that Roanoke’s airport “has long been a nerve-racking place for pilots, who must maneuver the surrounding mountains and tricky weather they can produce.” 

At issue is that pilots must fly 1,000 feet above the highest obstacle, which means that putting a 443-foot turbine on top of an already high mountain might expose planes to greater turbulence.  “It’s already complicated enough to fly into Roanoke,” Matt Broughton, president of the IFR Pilots Club is quoted as saying.  “We don’t want to make it more of a challenge.”   

To be honest, I kind of liked it better when I just suspected flying in Roanoke sucked.  I didn’t really need to hear that the very people responsible for making sure I don’t end up a mangled and bloody pile of pulp and bone fragments are scared to do it as well.  

Now anyone who’s read this blog for more than, say, eleven seconds, knows that if I were any more of a left-wing Chablis sipping liberal I’d be serving caviar in Pyongyang.    Gay marriage?  All for it.  A woman’s right to choose?  Damn straight.  Tax the rich into oblivion?  Now we’re talking!  Green technology and renewable resources? 

Umm . . . well . . . let’s not be hasty or anything . . .

My father, who also hates flying (thanks, Dad; as if inheriting your hairline wasn’t bad enough) says that sometimes when he gets on a plane, he’ll count babies.  The more babies, he figures, the better, because of course God wouldn’t kill a plane-full of innocent little children.   

Last night, though, as I climbed onto the little fifteen row, four seats across puddle jumper that makes an almost hourly run from Charlotte, North Carolina to Roanoke, I did a quick count of cherubic beings under the age of twenty-four months, and came up with a nice round number:  exactly 0.

Feeling desperate and slightly light headed, I did another scan, looking for priests maybe, or nuns, or Tibetan monks, or anyone with a direct line to whatever higher power controls the fate of three-ton cans of metal roaring through the sky at twenty-seven thousand feet.  But I didn’t see a single clerical collar, no orange robes, and nary a wimple in sight.  Damn. 

Taking my seat, I noticed the elderly, grandmotherly-looking woman sitting across the aisle from me.  For a second I considered craning my neck for another glance around the plane, searching out others like her.  After all, God wouldn’t kill a sweet little grandmother, would he? 

But then it occurred to me that of course he would, that octogenarians and septaugenarians are fair game, that those who’ve lived long and fulfilling lives are probably at the top of the list of folks God is perfectly fine with whacking, second only perhaps to violent dictators and the current governors of Wisconsin and Ohio (and yes, I know those are redundant terms).  And thinking of this and my own relatively rich and pleasurable life, I suddenly regretted all the things that I’d been able to do in my forty-five years, a list that is easily long enough to make keeping me around another decade or two sort of negotiable.   

It was right about then that I considered climbing out of my seat, strolling down the aisle, reclaiming my suitcase and hopping in a rental car for a four hour drive back to Virginia.  But just as I’m about to unbuckle myself, I glance at the seat in front of me and noticed an elderly Indian man with strands of snow-white hair across a brown forehead and a sheaf of papers clutched in one hand.  Leaning forward a bit, I can hear him chatting with his seatmate, catching just enough to understand that he’s an environmental engineer and that what he’s holding is a scholarly study of a new method of removing copper from air pollutants. 

I lean back in my seat.  I take a deep breath and consider.  Yes, I eventually conclude.  Yes, this may just work.  For if God has no qualms about smiting the elderly or Jimmy Hoffa or those with relatively short bucket lists, I’m nevertheless fairly confident that he’s probably got a vested interest in keeping alive as many as possible of those scientists who are seeking to sustain the earth’s fragile eco-system. 

Which is good.  Seriously good.  Because if old baldy save-the-tree-hugging-eagles up there is going to survive, then more than likely so am I, sitting a mere thirty-six inches from his goody-two shoes, copper-straining hide. 

Falling back into my seat again, I close my eyes and breath easy. 

Only then a thought strikes me.  I sit up, think for a minute, then reach between the seats and tap the man on his boney shoulder. 

He turns, startled, looks at me with deep brown eyes. 

“Do you believe in God?” I ask him. 

He stares at me for a long moment, trying to decide if I’m crazy or not.  He must figure I am, because he gives a crooked smile and tries a joke:  “I’m an engineer,” he says.  “I believe in science.”

I consider for a second, then say, “So this plane will stay up?  I mean, science dictates that it will, right?”

He pulls a face, his lower lip climbing toward his nose.  “You’re asking the wrong man, I’m afraid,” he says.  “I hate flying.  Every time I get on a plane, I imagine it hurtling into the side of a mountain and bursting into flames.”

I stare at him for a long moment.  He returns my gaze, half-smiling, half-apologetic.  Finally, I shrug, nod a thank you, and lean back into my seat, feeling oddly satisfied. 

At least I won't die alone. 

Blog Widow

It’s April and we’re at Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, just outside Li Jiang in southwestern China. Jade Dragon is at the very eastern tip of the Himalayans, and it looks like it: stark, black rock dusted with snow, alternately hidden by clouds and glaring in bright sunlight. Even from a distance, it’s forboding.

But we’re not looking at it from a distance. No. We’re up on the mountain, all five of us, in the clouds, shivering in our fleece as we walk through a pine woods to a clearing where we should—if the clouds lift—be able to get a close up look at the rocky peaks. It’s snowing, which is something of a shock after a year in Hong Kong—but it’s also gloriously refreshing: the air on Jade Dragon Snow Mountain is pure as water, the smell of pine just strong enough to clear your head, the snowflakes just heavy enough that you can hear them pat-pat as they hit the ground. Ellen and I are loving it.

The kids, on the other hand . . .

The annoying thing is that we did this—chose this activity, coming up this mountain—from a list of possible ways to spend the day specifically because we thought the kids would enjoy it. Two months earlier, we’d visited Ping’an in the Giongxi province, and as we’d hiked through the terraced rice paddies stretching up the karst mountains, Will had turned to me and said, “You know what, Dad? This is the best thing we’ve done this whole year.”

Well okay then: if it worked in February, why not it in April? “Take a cable car to a mountain meadow to see locals performing regional dances,” is what the brochure said. What could be better than that?

Well, a lot. Or so it appeared. Almost from the moment we’d started walking, Will had complained about the cold. Jamie had wanted to be held. And Lucy had just been—well, not her usual chipper self (turned out she would spend most of the night puking—as would I—but we didn’t know that, then).

“Come on, you guys!” Ellen or I call every eleven seconds or so, like speed-smoking cheerleaders. “Isn’t this great? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Ehh,” Will says.

“Carry me!” Jamie demands.

“Urp,” Lucy, um, urps.

“Little turds,” I say to Ellen.

“Maybe it’s the altitude.”

“More like the attitude.”

But she’s probably right: LiJiang itself is well over a 1,000 feet, and we’ve climbed at least twice that first in the bus and then in the cable car.

But never mind. We trudge on. Eventually we see a clearing through the trees and feel a fresh breeze blowing across our foreheads. To the right are a number of small buildings—a food kiosk, bathrooms, and a long wooden walkway made of pine beams stripped of their bark. Hanging from every square centimeter of this last structure are woven prayer tokens—bell-shaped baskets with wooden tags dangling below, inscribed with the wishes of the person who’d bought it and hung it there. Dongba, the script of the Na’xi people, is one of the last hieroglyphic languages still in use, and many of the tokens are inscribed with simple characters: water, sun, children.

“Is this a natural meadow?” I say to our guide.

He’s a young man, a Pumi, with a nose like a dorsal fin, and he gives a small blush when I ask this question.

“No,” he says, “it used to be a lake. But they drained it.”

“Really? Why?”

A bit of a smile, a bit of a shrug. “It used to be for suicide. Couples would come here, you know—when they were forbidden to marry? And they would throw themselves in.”

Oh.

I glance at Ellen. Neither of us says anything for a minute as we walk on, dragging the three kids along. Then I see her shoulders begin to shake, just a little bit. And then mine are too, just tremors at first, but in a matter of seconds I’m trying so hard not to laugh that I actually hiccup.

We make a lap around the meadow. There’s a couple there in traditional western wedding attire, having their pictures taken in middle of the field. The boy is heavy, mildly spoiled looking in that one-child policy way you often see in male youths. The girl is gorgeous: tall, with black-blue hair and a regal air that intimidates me, even a moment later when, as she lifts her skirts to trek back to the muddy trail, I catch a glimpse of Nike trainers.

The kids race ahead, anxious to complete the circuit, get back to the cable cars, get the heck out of here.

Ellen and I, though, we linger: above us, a broad face of the mountain, deep and black as water, keeps flashing its sharp face our way, taunting us, promising to show us something really spectacular if only we’ll stick around long enough to see these clouds lift.

So we drag our feet. Enjoying the crisp cold, the wet air that seems to promise more snow, the sense of being someplace we’ll never be again, someplace that most westerners never get to—or at least, most westerners hailing from semi-rural Virginia. At one point we stop, lean our shoulders together, hold a camera at arm’s length, snap a photo of the two of us laughing. I can smell Ellen’s hair in the cool air, the sharp scent of her shampoo, the slight smell of incense from a museum we’d visited earlier that day. It’s nice, and I squeeze her a bit closer, feeling her presence through our two layers of fleece.

This is not like us. In no way is this like us: we don’t usually take those kinds of cuddly pictures—hell, we don’t usually cuddle, period. And we don’t usually laugh and linger and get all smoochy-faced when our kids are tired and grumpy, racing on ahead and threatening to disappear into the woods where we might never see them again.

I can’t emphasize this enough: we don’t do this. We have never, that I can think of in the ten years that we’ve had children, placed our own pleasures as a couple ahead of their desires.

Never.

Back when I was a kid, my parents used to drag me along to confirmation retreats for ninth-grade students. This is a concept, I know, that may be unfamiliar to some of you, so allow me to explain: twice each year—once in October and once in March—my Lutheran minister dad and several of his church staff drove a busload of 15-year-olds to a Bible camp in northern Wisconsin where there was a huge retreat center. We’d spend the whole weekend there, my brother and I and the other staff brats, basically screwing around, playing ping-pong in the cinderblock basement, stealing Cokes when our mom's weren't looking, and hiking down to the lake to skip stones.

The ninth-graders, though, they would have discussions and mini-bible studies and sing camp songs and pop popcorn and play Frisbee and sled down the hill and go on treasure hunts and listen to records and munch Cheetohs and watch whatever crappy movie the staff had rented for the weekend (I remember, and I’m not making this up, at least one showing of The Corpse Grinders, detailing the exploits of a cat-food company that took corpses and . . . well, I’m sure you can fill in the rest).

For some of you, I know, this sounds like pure hell, and fair enough—there are plenty of churches and plenty of religions that could turn a warm, fun, community-building weekend in an amazing rural setting into a nightmare. My sense, though, from my ten years as a tag-a-long and my two stints when I was myself a ninth grader—was that these were pretty amazing weekends. Up north and in the woods, everyone got away from the usual middle-school cliques, the posturing, the constant low-grade Columbinesque bullying that goes on most of the time when folks are in that not-quite-kids but not-quite-adults stage. I remember very clearly coming away from those weekends feeling both better about myself and my place in the world, and about my classmates, even the ones who usually drove me nuts.

The problem, of course, was that it only took a few hours wandering the halls of Woodrow Wilson Junior High to make this feeling go away. My father referred to this phenomenon as “Coming down from the mountain.” He was referring, I’ve no doubt, to some biblical thing—Moses or the Easter Bunny or some such business—but even if I didn’t fully get the allusion, I understood what he meant. It's like in the movie Breakfast Club (my generation's The Graduate) where the geeky guy played by Anthony Michael Hall gets all snotty-faced ad teary-eyed, asking his new-found friends what’ll happen on Monday—will they acknowledge him at all, or just walk on by? (Hmmm . . . that sounds vaguely like a song . . . )

Molly Ringwald’s character is blunt in her reply, directed mainly at Emilio Estevez: “If Ryan came walking up to you in the hall on Monday, what would you do? I mean, picture this, you’re there with all the sports . . . you know exactly what you’d do. You’d say hi to him, and when he left you’d cut him up so that you’re friends didn’t think that you really liked him.”

In other words, it’s one thing to be on the mountain, up there with God or Buddha or Ally Sheedy before she got kind of freaky: on the mountain, everything is holy, everything is pure, and we’re at our best, our most divine.

Coming down from the mountain, on the other hand . . .

There are some things you should know. Actually, you shouldn't know them, because they're none of you're damn business, but they help this story make sense, so I'm going to tell them to you anyway, just as long as you promise never to mention to Ellen that I told you, okay?

Okay then:

We've had some bad years.

A little background: Ellen and I met in 1989, on the first day of TA training in the English MA program at Iowa State. We spent two years in glorious Ames, Iowa, struggling daily not to kiss ourselves for sheer boredom, then moved together to Columbus, Ohio—another dazzling Midwestern city—where I started a Ph.D. program.

That last bit is important: where I started a Ph.D. program. Ellen liked grad school well enough. She wasn't crazy about the teaching part, but thrived on the ideas part. But five to seven years more of grad school, followed by a career in academia? It just wasn't part of her long-term plan.

So she followed me. This is key. Because five years later, newly-minted Ph.D. in hand, I was offered a job in sexy Salem, Virginia, home of, well . . .nothing really, other than a minor-league baseball team, a handful of mediocre pizza joints, and the college that hired me.

And a funny thing happened: given the choice between following me yet again to an amazingly peculiarly non-descript place that definitely wasn't Paris, and . . . well, not following me to not-Paris, Ellen chose the latter, deciding to go to New York and work for a large university press there. Part of her decision was purely practical: she's a university press editor, and there weren't any university presses in Roanoke so why move somewhere with me that she couldn't work?

Part of her decision was romantic, in the non-lovey-dovey meaning of the word: I mean, who wouldn't want to live in New York City, given the chance?

And part of it was principle: she'd already followed me once to a city where she knew no one; she hadn't been raised by adventurous parents, she hadn't gone to an extremely progressive college, she hadn't studied feminist theory and literature and drama, she hadn't done any of these things so that she could become the sort of person who just followed someone else from place to place for absolutely no reason.

Which is fair enough.

I know that.

Know. Meaning, "to be cognizant or aware of a fact or a specific piece of information."

Which, of course, if different from understand, meaning "to comprehend the nature and significance of." Not to mention different from feel, which means "undergo an emotional sensation or be in a particular state of mind."

So this is the part I'm going to gloss over, because: a) it wasn't really the best part of our relationship; b) it really wasn't the best part of my life; and c) like I said, it's not really any of your business.

Suffice to say it sucked. Oh sure, it was cool in some ways: we got to roam the streets of New York together every sixth week or so, alternating with visits to the Blue Ridge Mountains. But basically? Seriously? It sucked.

For me, at least.

I can't remember if it's something I read somewhere or something someone told me or just something I've always intuited, but pretty much from the day I was born I've known that, frankly and despite all the Hollywood stereotypes to the contrary, women are very often happier—and arguably better off—not being stuck in some house with some man.

Men, on the other hand, at least in my experience and again contrary to societal impressions—are really pretty dependent upon other people. Simply put, we just don't like being alone. We're too stupid, too shallow, and too scared of our own thoughts to be comfortable with an empty house and nothing to distract us.

Ellen and I were married by a man named Lowell Erdahl, who, years before, had confirmed Ellen and was one of the few clergy she trusted, which is kind of funny given that both her father and mine are ordained ministers. Lowell wanted to spend some time with us before the wedding, so one rainy day in the fall of 1992 we traipsed to his office in St. Paul and sat down for a conversation. One of the things I remember from that meeting was Lowell’s theory that there isn’t a single honeymoon—that, to the contrary, marriages wax and wane, that there are lots of okay times, yeah, and lots of bad times, but there are also times in a marriage—even, say, 18 years into it—when a couple will almost be back in that giddy, happy, just fresh off the hay-wagon kind of love.

Why do I mention this?

Not because Hong Kong was one long honeymoon, that’s for sure. It wasn’t. It was great, yes, and adventurous, yes, and scintillating on an hourly basis, yes. But it was also hard. Besides the basic logistical things—getting the kids to school, getting the groceries, wading chin deep through a language that’s way too complicated—there were emotional things: short-tempered moments, intense negotiations about who gets to exercise when, or who gets to go out and wander while the other stays home with Jamie, or who should do the dishes.

And I’ll be honest with you: I wasn’t the best partner a lot of the time. Partially this was work related: Hong Kong faculty are government employees. What this means, in practical terms, is that they keep very careful track of their hours: on the left side of my institutional home page was a small meter that kept track of exactly how many personal days I had accumulated thus far during the year. Halfway through the year, my institution asked me to take on additional, non-consultative responsibilities, essentially becoming an employee of the university. Once I did that, I felt obliged to act like a real employee, being more careful about my hours—going earlier, staying longer, taking fewer days off.

Additionally, though, I wasn’t the best partner because I also spent a lot of time writing. A LOT of time: every night after the kids went to bed—and this includes many Fridays and Saturdays—I would pour myself a glass of wine, grab a handful of chocolates, and go and sit on the couch with my laptop. And write. And write. And write—sometimes as many as nine or ten pages in a single evening. Writing was my way of coping with everything that was going on around me, with all of the new experiences, with the challenges at work, with the fact that every time I walked out the door—EVERY SINGLE TIME—I saw something or did something or ate something that was completely new and unexpected. Writing helped me make sense of all of this, helped me keep my head on more or less straight.

Ellen, meanwhile, would slog away at the family blog, posting the hundreds of pictures that she’d taken to let our families know what we were up to. And she’d do the laundry (something, in my defense, that she refuses to let me help with), and she’d do the dishes. This last was the worst: we only had six bowls, six plates, six forks and six knives. So if we wanted to eat breakfast the next day, one or the other of us would have to wash and dry dishes every night. I intended to help with this, really I did. But sometimes I offered, then got caught in a particularly difficult passage and wouldn’t get around to it soon enough so Ellen would just do it. And other times I’d get the dishes done, then get distracted with some idea, rushing into the living room to get it down before I forgot—and Ellen would go in and dry the damn things.

We have a “Birthday Club” in Virginia, a group of four couples that celebrates each of our birthdays, going out for dinner and giving each other gifts. One of our number is a genius at finding or having made message shirts that capture perfectly our personalities (one of mine says “Just shut the hell up!”). When we got back, we all gathered for a belated celebration of Ellen’s and my birthdays. Ellen’s gift from Ross? A black T-shirt with the white logo “Blog Widow.”

But, of course, there were amazing times as well. And one of the amazing times was up on that mountain, the cold wet flakes brushing our faces, that black wet face of rock towering over us, that feeling of being somewhere special, of seeing something amazing, of just—I dunno—being alive.

And there was this:

Early in June, a Fulbright colleague at another university mentioned to me that a German university outside of Hamburg was looking for an experienced general education coordinator.

“Really?” I said.

He nodded. "And it looks good. They seem to know what they're talking about."

That next morning, back at the flat, I logged into the Chronicle of Higher Education and punched in “Germany” and “General Education.”

And there it was: XYZ university in northern Europe had received a grant from the European Union to experiment with an alternative to Germany’s fairly strict, career-oriented educational system. And yes, they were hiring. In fact, not only did they need someone to oversee the GE program—something I’d been doing for years—they also needed someone to work with writing and general education—bringing my area of specialty into play.

Now I don’t want you to think this was a slam dunk decision for me, one of those easy “But of course!” moments. Just applying for a job like this would mean a ton of work at the very time we were trying to relish our last days in Hong Kong. And if I got an offer (and in the end, I didn’t, not even close) then moving to Germany would mean giving up a lot of security, tenure and a good job and good friends in one of the nicest small towns in America.

But even so . . . Germany!

“Ellen?” I called, my voice cracking. “Can you come here for a second?”

I heard her coming down the hall, talking to Lucy as she passed the kids' bedroom. Outside the office, she paused for a second, peering in at me. The last time I’d called her to my computer, my voice wavering, it was to announce that her father had died.

“Yes?” she said.

“Look at this.”

She came to the desk, glanced over my shoulder.

“Holy crap,” she said after a second, substituting an old, much-beloved Anglo-Saxon word for “crap.”

I looked at her. She leaned in closer, peering at the screen. Then she bent over, fingers clicking over the keyboard. Opening a new tab, she Googled the town, then hit image. Pictures of an old-style German city cluttered the screen: narrow cobblestone streets with brick houses pressed against the walkway; an open square surrounded by brick-arched building and narrow turrets with flags flapping overhead; a strange kind of castle-looking thing with two fat towers, one on each side.

“Wow,” she said.

“I know.” I was actually shaking. “What do you think?”

She read the ad again. “It fits you perfectly.”

“Yes.”

Straightening, she gave me a look. “It would devastate the kids.”

I nodded. It was true: they were more than ready to get back to Virginia, more than ready to be back in their own rooms, play with their own friends.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Then I said again, “What do you think?”

“We have to try.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. A chance like this—you can’t let it go by.”

I looked back at the computer, considered, nodded my head.

“Right?” she said.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay then!" She gave me a quick pat on the shoulder, then a little squeeze, a ripple of electricity passing through my shirt. "Hop to it, buddy! You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

I grunted, swung my chair back to the computer, reached for a pen. She gave me that little squeeze again, then left the room, calling to Jamie as she went back down the hall.

God I love her.

My Three Tailors, prt. 3

Fortunately, there’s Rosie. 

I first heard about Rosie from our friends Chris and Valerie who lived upstairs from us and who had a strange habit of saying, in the middle of, for example, an Indian dinner, “Oh, you really must go and see Rosie.” 

For the longest time I assumed Rosie was just another one of their imaginary friends (don’t ask), but eventually I clued in that Rosie was a real person who actually existed—and what’s more, that she was a tailor.

You would have thought that by May, the first time I met Rosie, I would have given up on this whole tailor thing.  Sure, I’d come to love the suit and trousers I’d bought from the Chinese tailor in central, but even so, all of it was such a hassle, so stressful, the measuring, the money, just getting from our remote corner of the New Territories to wherever the tailor was.  Easier just to go back to the States, wait for the first of our 17 weekly editions of Eddie Bauer, and pick out some boring piece of crap sown in some factory in India.

But no, I had one more thing I was questing for, and I was hoping Rosie was just the person to help out.  I have this shirt, you see, a black, short-sleeved cotton-linen number that I’d picked up at a mall years ago.  It was an amazing shirt:  light, comfortable, loose on my frame and slow to wrinkle.  Short of a Packer logo and someplace to store a Cosmopolitan, what more could I ask for? 

Well, how’s about four more like it for starters?

My plan, then, was to take this shirt up to Shenzhen, just across the border into China, and show it to Rosie, asking her if she could make more just like it for me.  And that’s just what I did.  One Sunday morning late in May, Chris and I got up early and took a taxi up to Tai Wo, the MTR station just north of where we lived.  In a matter of minutes we were at the Chinese border and through customs.  We spent a couple hours getting body, foot, and head massages, then had a good stiff lunch of turnip cakes in XO sauce (which tastes much better than it sounds—not that that would take much) before going in search of Rosie. 

I’m at a loss as to how to describe the Shenzhen mall.  Think about your local shopping center:  a Starbucks on every floor; an Ambercrombie and Fitch with its pedophilic pornography in the entryway; Bed, Bath, and Body Works leaking the scent of sarsaparilla-grapefruit toe scrub into the Insta-Sushi shop next door.   Mothers and daughters, teenage couples, and old men with walkers and fire-engine red Chuck Taylors stroll along wide well-lit walkways between shops.  Babies gurgle.  Doves coo.

Now take that picture and scribble over it with a black magic marker dipped in dog crap.  Add a dash or two of insane dystopia (think, Blade Runner on acid), throw in pickpockets, hookers, hustlers who’d sell you the shirt off their grandma’s back, mix well, and you’re about halfway to what the Lo Wu mall looks like. 

For one thing, it’s maybe six stories high, low-railed balconies circling a narrow open space.  Shenzhen has been in the Hong Kong news a lot lately, because of a spate of suicides at a Taiwanese plant that makes iPods and iPads.  Conditions there are so bad that employees—some as young as 18 or 19—have been hurling themselves out of windows, preferring death to 14-hour work days.  Standing there, at the foot of the Shenzhen mall, all I can think is . . . well, let’s just say I wished I had a hardhat.

For another thing, everywhere you go in this mall folks are trying to hustle you, calling out to you, asking if you want sun glasses, shirts, shoes, a girl, some food, “What you want?’  What you want?”  The only way to get through it without getting suckered into buying, say, a 6-trillion dollar rug, is to put your head down and plow on, avoiding eye contact, shrugging off offered hands, shoving old ladies cuddling infants out of your way. 

We go first to the third floor, where Rosie has her shop, a three-walled, white shelved space maybe 8 foot by 10.  She’s busy with another customer, so Chris leads me one floor higher, to the material center. 

Like the mall as a whole, it’s hard to describe this room.  It’s maybe 100 yards by 100 yards and packed, floor to ceiling, with bolts of every kind of material imaginable: tweeds, linens, cottons, silks, wools, stripes, checks, plaids, seersucker, mesh, 60’s psychedelia.  All of it is packed into individually-owned booths stacked 10 feet high with the stuff.  Pause for ten seconds to run your fingers over this or that fabric, and some pretty young thing will pluck your sleeve and lead you down alleyways nine inches wide, insisting you must see this linen or that wool, that it’s the best they have, that they’ll give you a good price. 

That most of the salespeople are women—and noticeably attractive at that—is more than a coincidence, I think, not unlike the conference book dealers in the US who hire mostly skinny women in their twenties to walk the floor. 

Here you find the usual wheeling and dealing you’d expect in China:  they start high (super high, if you’re a gweilo), you start low, they act offended, you refuse to budge, they cut their price in half, you come up maybe 5%, they lower their price some, you add another 5%, they refuse to go down anymore, saying, “No money, no money,” meaning, “At these prices my children will starve!”  You shrug, start to walk away, they knock another 50% off the price, and the two of you shake hands, grinning at each other, both satisfied. 

On this particular day, I find a man who sells linens almost exclusively and pick up a few that I like: one dark blue, one olive green, and one salmon-pink-orange-sherbet color that makes my eyes water just looking at it.  Chris gets a khaki and a dark blue for trousers, then finds a nice linen color he wants for a long-sleeved shirt.  I like it too, so buy a couple yards for my own shirt, which I know sounds a little creepy, I know, but the fact is I’m a foot taller than Chris and he’s got this decidedly un-midwestern Italian-Irish-Czech-Portuguese type thing going, so there’s very little chance anyone will mistake us for twins.

Then we go back downstairs to Rosie.  

It is impossible not to love Rosie.  This is not because, as you may be thinking, Rosie is a buxom larger-than-life bleach-blonde, cheery, smiley, loving woman like you’d see tending bar in some World War II-era film.  No, in many ways—indeed, in almost every way—Rosie defies her name:  she is not immensely, overwhelmingly cheerful.  She’s not particularly buxom or particularly pretty or particularly—I don’t know—rosie in anyway, shape or form.  And she’s definitely not blonde.

What she is, though, is calm.  I’ve seen snotty white women in Rosie’s shop rage away because they actually had to wait a whole seven minutes while Rosie took care of another customer, and Rosie has just nodded and looked straight at them, as if to say, “And what would you have me do?”  And I’ve seen those same women back down almost immediately.

And what Rosie is, is honest.  The first time we were there, I ordered four shirts and a sports coat.  She took my measurements, listened patiently as I explained my irrational fear of overly snug armpit seams, then set everything aside on a shelf over a sewing machine. 

I reached for my wallet.  “How much deposit?”

She waved her hand.  “No deposit.”

“Are you sure?”

She laughed.  “It’s your fabric.  You already paid for it.”

And what Rosie is, is a good tailor.  When Chris and I came back two weeks later (spending the morning, again, getting our admittedly ample bodies rubbed down tip to toe), Rosie handed me my weird salmon/pink/orange shirt to try on, smiling a little as its glow blinded three old men passing in the hall. 

I was wearing a t-shirt, so didn’t bother with the changing room, just slipping the linen over my head.

And here again I find myself at a loss for words.  Have you ever walked out of doors and felt as though the air and your body were exactly the same temperature, as though the air could pass right through your skin and into your bones, and you’d be perfectly fine?  Or have you ever risen from bed in the morning and gone downstairs to find a pot of hour-old coffee waiting for you, and taken a sip and just felt—I don’t know:  as though this cup of this coffee with this cream in it, was meant for you? 

That’s exactly how this shirt felt, slipping over my shoulders:  my arms passed through the sleeves as though they’d been there a thousand times before, my chest and pits felt nice and roomy, it hung comfortably around my waist, hugging my belly a little but not too much.

It was, in short, the perfect shirt. 

And it remains that way.  Even now, two months after our return to the States, I let out a near-silent moan of satisfaction every time I slip on this shirt—or one of its three brethren.  They are not just my favorite shirts right now, but arguably my favorite shirts ever, surpassing, even, the black shirt that they were meant to copy. 

And if this sounds over-the-top, well then, so be it.  The fact of the matter is that I love Rosie, love her deeply and truly and in a way that I’ve loved very few women in my life. 

And if that, in turn, sounds disloyal to Ellen, well then you need to know that after I returned to Tai Po with my first—note that word—completed order of custom-tailored Rosie originals, babbling incoherently about Cinderella rainbows and pink unicorns licking my earlobes, Ellen grabbed a skirt or two that she really liked and headed north for her own visit to the incomparable Rosie—and returned as smitten as me. 

Ah,  love . . . . ain't life grand?

Especially in this shirt.