tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8638092709882336192024-03-14T01:32:42.202-07:00In Search of Silk and BambooThe chronicles of my Watson year abroad in Asia and Europe and my attempts to understand Chinese music in its various manifestations outside the Mainland.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.comBlogger36125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-49296233255076682562012-03-31T12:35:00.006-07:002012-03-31T13:09:29.006-07:00That's All FolksThanks for reading! I will no longer be using this blog to post about my adventures with Chinese instruments and the musicians who play them. But, I'll leave this website up, so no need to blow all your printer ink on printing out all of the posts (cough. . . Mom!. . . cough). <div><br /></div><div>So, if you'd like to start from the very beginning, click <a href="http://chinesetroubadour.blogspot.co.uk/2010/03/and-so-it-begins.html">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you'd like to start from the beginning of my research on Buddhist chant in Kyoto, Seoul, and Beijing, click <a href="http://chinesetroubadour.blogspot.co.uk/2010/07/even-trees-look-japanese-shao-min.html">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you'd like to start from the beginning of my Watson Fellowship, researching Chinese musicians outside the Mainland, click <a href="http://chinesetroubadour.blogspot.co.uk/2010/08/watson-begins.html">here</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for reading everyone! Your support over the last TWO YEARS has not gone unappreciated. It was so comforting when crazy things were happening to me to know that at least it would make a good story! </div>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-47660314277273154912012-03-19T05:53:00.038-07:002012-03-22T08:22:17.744-07:00The Watson Conference: The End of a Journey<span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsA-CUf-WwuFq5BpnDp0TozAF7wUBV4DiyJWvhM_pBtLK45ZBxX6-wfQ-kdBchFWjsOsH8DgLVODc32xJPnqZmSXyRKmPvNy4wyhl_FbHjinPdajlYrBBvlkjnC7jkS27SrJMN56gFuM7M/s1600/Final+Report.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD99GE0HuxLtvvvhuTyX-RXaR_qFWGgtsU4lBF-Jut0IeDH3uKXuCJuyb5Y3fgst-9-E89IBWBj12dK-0JX7YOHB0t9nX6Jh9HFeC627EWP7b7jxWgvV5Slqf7lMQU0dH7uCgFnirP3j7V/s1600/297244_2109419973319_1180170005_32009371_6805148_n.jpeg" style="font-style: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; "><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD99GE0HuxLtvvvhuTyX-RXaR_qFWGgtsU4lBF-Jut0IeDH3uKXuCJuyb5Y3fgst-9-E89IBWBj12dK-0JX7YOHB0t9nX6Jh9HFeC627EWP7b7jxWgvV5Slqf7lMQU0dH7uCgFnirP3j7V/s320/297244_2109419973319_1180170005_32009371_6805148_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721666795625245410" /></a><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><br /></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span><b>Fly Away Home</b></span></div><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span><b><br /></b></span></div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; "><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzqemzTVzfVnFO_pINCAEMB4Xcxi5BUgJSSt7cKLxpN0XxhaxwtdMdCDxM3MpTn1hSa33FZ8dVPtT3G7SoPjUcJErZWdCdIJMGHBXh11hcD5Vu0wXhWhW3GC6ceoR4Q-yA1174tYPNxh1/s1600/30522_531209465002_19103325_31333502_3039299_n.jpeg"></a></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; ">I flew via </span><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; ">Iceland back to Minneapolis and returned to Carleton College for the Watson conference which, in spite of the one in forty chance, was held at my home institution! Yay! First though I participated in a very random scavenger hunt across Minneapolis. Here we are dressed up as Malt-o-Meal taking a photo with a "family." Ahh, American culture, I didn't even know I missed you.</span></span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; ">At the Watson conference, we stayed in Watson Hall. It's named after a different Watson who actually has a statue at a hospital in Fenyang, Shanxi Province, China, where I did my senior thesis field work. Picture below: </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal; "><span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzqemzTVzfVnFO_pINCAEMB4Xcxi5BUgJSSt7cKLxpN0XxhaxwtdMdCDxM3MpTn1hSa33FZ8dVPtT3G7SoPjUcJErZWdCdIJMGHBXh11hcD5Vu0wXhWhW3GC6ceoR4Q-yA1174tYPNxh1/s320/30522_531209465002_19103325_31333502_3039299_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721618569331004290" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline; float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></span><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><u><span><br /></span></u></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Just to make things even weirdly more full-circle-y, Watson hall was also my freshman year dorm AND I stayed just one room away from my original room. But I didn't think about it too much as I was really nervous to meet the other Watson Fellows! </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>When I walked in to Watson Hall (once again, no relation to Watson Fellowship), I was greeted with a, "If and only if you bring the Mandocello, may you come to rehearsal!" shouted simultaneously by three adults sitting at a table. I was baffled. <i>What? Who the hell even knows what a mandocello is???</i> It turns out that that quote, taken from one of my quarterly reports, and referring back to my first email correspondence with the Taipei Mandolin Ensemble, was printed on the back of my Watson Card, a laminated baseball card-esque thingy that gave us the scoop on each other's projects. And those guys sitting at the desk at the entryway were the people belonging to the familiar names that I'd been corresponding with. I was like, <i>Oh you reviewed my quarterly report!</i> And, <i>Oh, you told me to get the hell out of Japan! Good call!</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>The first thing on the agenda was a welcome dinner. It began, like so much else that weekend, with an open bar. Scarred from my Christmas market carding in Vienna, I tentatively approached, passport at the ready, but much like all the other apprehension I felt toward this conference, it was unnecessary. Within minutes all the fellows were chatting like old friends. The calibre of people there was so intimidating. Everyone was so knowledgeable, engaging, inquisitive, insightful, accepting, and of course unusually well-traveled. I met up with Professor Grow, the Watson liaison who literally spent hours reading and re-reading drafts of my proposal, and Dean Ciner who likewise had been so encouraging and gave them a run-through of my <i>Watson journey</i>. Talking with them was such a relief. Somehow in my mind, since I'd had such a good time on the Watson, I felt like they were going to ask for the money back. . . But no! It was all just a celebration that night and for the rest of the conference! This was a major weight lifted off of me, one I realized I'd carried all the way around the world.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>The next day we had small discussion groups which were amazing. Everyone had such incredible stories to tell and insights into strangely specific, niche areas of study to share. But the general experiences of being on our own in this strange situation of being sponsored but not part of any institution gave us tons of common ground. The whole time I just kept thinking <i>YES! that's exactly how I felt! Ahh! Why do you get me so well?!</i> The conversations didn't end at discussion either. They kept going straight through all meals and walks from activity to activity. There was none of that awkward bubbling/group clickiness that usually happens. Everyone was so interesting and wanting to hear everyone else's stories that the convos just wouldn't stop. Sleeping did not happen for the rest of the conference. We just talked from dinner to breakfast, shifting from booze to coffee somewhere around 4:30.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-weight: normal; ">The next day the presentations began! First we watched this video, which you can watch it by copy/pasting the address below into another screen (this blog is old people friendly).<br /><br />tinyurl.com/tjw10-11</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-weight: normal; "><br />It's made of our photos we sent in and quotes from our quarterly reports. It was so breathtaking to see all these people I'd just met and realize that we had been having these adventures all simultaneously. At the end it shows those Watson cards I alluded to earlier.<br /><br /><b>Five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred Minutes</b><br /><br />To summarize our one year of travel all over the world, we had an excruciatingly brief 10 minutes. Hearing everyone's summaries, I felt like I'd aged 40 years because I was now carrying around 40 slices of these powerful, formative years of adventure and exploration. I heard about spoken word workshops, children's games, electronic art, climate change, parkour, boofing, cocoa production, video game culture, emergency rescue and so much more! There were too many amazing stories: people fleeing Egypt during the Arab Spring, people being required by law to be topless on the island of Yap, two Watsons running in to each other in a hostel and slowly realizing that they were on the same fellowship!<br /><br /></span></p><span><span style="height: 158px; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigD5Hc8vZLB16wvhyMGjAmqyDqUxG0VAt7d3Sa8Xb4ig47_OWW-Yl6adiO7IS4sSwiP6zHWxi7qgwY-_0GDIWpVolFASsI7PaM4pGFahHiBtV6HGsPZuUpYXjocXakpBoHCPv92au9JQpK/s320/Burleigh+Morton+group+photo.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721591619860225714" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); text-decoration: underline; float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 158px; " /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-style: normal; "><u><b><br /></b></u></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span style="font-size: 100%; ">But I was especially worried about representing my year since Dean Ciner and Professor Grow, who had trusted me to represent Carleton, would be watching my presentation. How do I get across my year in just 10 minutes? Thinking back over the experiences, the different people I met, the different foods I ate, the different books I read, the random conversations I heard next to me in cafes, the music I played and composed, the concerts I attended, it just became a big swirling mass. Sure I could go by the numbers:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>92 books<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>21 flights<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>14 airport crying sessions<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>11 concerts<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>9 ensembles<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>7 stitches<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>5 1/2 countries (Does Japan count?)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>4 elementary schools<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>3 car accidents<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>2 destroyed Kindles (thanks Amazon for free replacements)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>1 time falling in love<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span> But that doesn't really express it. Insert obvious Rent reference here: </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/x8iTeDl_Wug" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>(Also, in case you're curious, these are the books I read on the Watson. They were picked partly out of what I wanted to read and partly out of what I found in hostels and the minute English sections of book stores in rando countries:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Magicians </span><span> </span><span>Lev Grossman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Huck Finn </span><span> </span><span>Mark Twain<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A Briefer History of Time </span><span> </span><span>Stephen Hawking<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A Clockwork Orange </span><span> </span><span>Anthony Burgess<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Confessions of a Shopaholic </span><span> </span><span>Sophie Kinsella<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Eat, Pray, Love </span><span> </span><span>Elizabeth Gilbert<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Ender’s Game </span><span> </span><span>Orson Scott Card<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Ender’s Shadow </span><span> </span><span>Orson Scott Card<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Shadow of the Hegemon</span><span> </span><span>Orson Scott Card<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Shadow Puppets </span><span> </span><span>Orson Scott Card<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Great Gatsby </span><span> </span><span>F. Scott Fitzgerald<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A Home At the End of the World </span><span> </span><span>Michael Cunningham<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>How I Paid for College</span><span> </span><span>Marc Acito<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Attack of the Theater People </span><span> </span><span>Marc Acito<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>How the Irish Saved Civilization </span><span> </span><span>Thomas Cahill<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Precious </span><span> </span><span>Sapphire<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Oxford Murders </span><span> </span><span>Guillermo Martinez<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>1Q84 </span><span> </span><span>Haruki Murakami<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Sound and the Fury </span><span> </span><span>William Faulkner<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Sophie’s World </span><span> </span><span>Jostein Gaarder<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Castle in the Pyrenees </span><span> </span><span>Jostein Gaarder<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Solitaire Mystery </span><span> </span><span>Jostein Gaarder<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Orange Girl</span><span> </span><span>Jostein Gaarder<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Help</span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span>Kathryn Stockett<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Boy Meets Boy </span><span> </span><span>David Levithan<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>World War Z </span><span> </span><span>Max Brooks<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Geography of Bliss </span><span> </span><span>Eric Weiner<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Geography Club </span><span> </span><span>Brent Hentenburg<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Order of the Poison Oak </span><span> </span><span>Brent Hentenburg<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Golden Compass </span><span> </span><span>Philip Pullman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Subtle Knife </span><span> </span><span>Philip Pullman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Amber Spyglass </span><span> </span><span>Philip Pullman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Brideshead Revisited </span><span> </span><span>Evelyn Waugh<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Unbroken </span><span> </span><span>Laura Hillenbrand<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A Visit from the Goon Squad </span><span> </span><span>Jennifer Egan<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Next 100 Years </span><span> </span><span>George Friedman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>New Rules </span><span> </span><span>Bill Maher<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Outliers </span><span> </span><span>Malcolm Gladwell<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Committed </span><span> </span><span>Elizabeth Gilbert<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Hunger Games</span><span> </span><span>Suzanne Collins<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Catching Fire</span><span> </span><span>Suzanne Collins<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Mockingjay</span><span> </span><span>Suzanne Collins<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Possessed</span><span> </span><span>Elif Batuman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Room </span><span> </span><span>Emma Donoghue<br /></span><span><br />The Piano Teacher</span><span> </span><span>Elfriede Jelinek</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Skippy Dies </span><span> </span><span>Paul Murray<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A Wrinkle in Time</span><span> </span><span>Madeleine L’Engle<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Many Waters </span><span> </span><span>Madeleine L’Engle<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Curious Incident of Dog Night-Time </span><span> </span><span>Mark Haddon<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>What the Dog Saw </span><span> </span><span>Malcolm Gladwell<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Never Let Me Go </span><span> </span><span>Kazuo Ishiguro<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell </span><span> </span><span>Tucker Max<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Lost on Planet China </span><span> </span><span>J. Maarten Troost<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Sex Lives of Cannibals </span><span> </span><span>J. Maarten Troost<br /><br />Life of Pi Yann Martel<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Genesis </span><span> </span><span>Bernard Beckett<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Pride and Prejudice </span><span> </span><span>Jane Austen<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman! </span><span> </span><span>Richard P. Feynman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo </span><span> </span><span>Stieg Larsson<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Girl Who Played with Fire </span><span> </span><span>Stieg Larsson<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest </span><span> </span><span>Stieg Larson<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Passage </span><span> </span><span>Justin Cronin<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Siddhartha </span><span> </span><span>Hermann Hesse<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>David Copperfield </span><span> </span><span>Charles Dickens<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Road </span><span> </span><span>Cormac McCarthy<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Ancient China Simplified </span><span> </span><span>Edward Harper Parker<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>A History of China </span><span> </span><span>Wolfram Eberhard<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Giver </span><span> </span><span>Lois Lowry<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Brothers </span><span> </span><span>Yu Hua<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span lang="ZH-TW">哈利波特与魔法石</span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); ">J.K.</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 34, 34); ">罗琳</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Strain </span><span> </span><span>Guillermo del Torro<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Imperfectionists </span><span> </span><span>Tom Rachman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me Chelsea </span><span> </span><span>Chelsea Handler<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Lies that Chelsea Handler Told Me </span><span> </span><span>Chelsea Handler et. Al.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>My Horizontal Life </span><span> </span><span>Chelsea Handler<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>i know i am, but what are you? </span><span> </span><span>Samantha Bee<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Official Book Club Selection </span><span> </span><span>Kathy Griffin<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>American On Purpose</span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span>Craig Ferguson<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span lang="ZH-TW">流浪的終站</span><span> </span><span> </span><span lang="ZH-TW">三毛</span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>The Bedwetter </span><span> </span><span>Sarah Silverman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Bossypants </span><span> </span><span>Tina Fey<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Earth </span><span> </span><span>Jon Stewart<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Dress Your Family in Corduroy </span><span> </span><span>David Sedaris<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Me Talk Pretty One Day </span><span> </span><span>David Sedaris<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Naked </span><span> </span><span>David Sedaris<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>When You Are Engulfed in Flames </span><span> </span><span>David Sedaris<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Dry </span><span> </span><span>Augusten Burroughs<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Magical Thinking </span><span> </span><span>Augusten Burroughs<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Running with Scissors </span><span> </span><span>Augusten Burroughs<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.25in; "><span><span>Stories I Only Tell My Friends </span><span> </span><span>Rob Lowe<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 38pt; text-indent: -20pt; "><span><span>Freedom </span><span> </span><span>Jonathan Franzen)</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I decided that I would just explain my daily routines of morning cafe/reflection/reading, afternoon practice sessions/rehearsals with groups I'd met, dinners with crazy cool interesting people, random accidents that I had, usually involving traffic but also sometimes lightbulbs and contrasted with my usual bizarre knack for meeting exactly the right people at exactly the right time in exactly the right mood, and finish with apologetic (due to my still recovering hand) samples of new Chinese folk on my zhong ruan and the campus folk of Taiwan by accompanying myself singing on the mandocello. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span><span>First I played <i>Good Flower, Round Moon</i>(花好月圆) and explained its often lied about history. The campus folk example was The Olive Tree</span><span style="font-style: normal; ">(</span><span style="font-style: normal; ">橄欖樹</span><span style="font-style: normal; ">)</span><span style="font-style: normal; ">, which I first heard Shao Min singing on a bus during senior week before the Watson started. I continued to hear it throughout the Watson. The lyrics were written by San Mao (</span><span style="font-style: normal; ">三毛)</span><span style="font-style: normal; "><span>who had a crazy interesting life. She wrote diaries from diaspora that became wildly popular amongst Chinese populations. She was born in the mainland but moved to Taiwan when she was young. She fell in love in Taiwan and had her heart broken which is when she decided to go as far away from Taiwan as she could. So Sanmao lived in Europe, North Africa, and Central America, falling in love with a couple of Europeans along the way and writing over 20 books about life abroad. Eventually she returned to Taiwan though it didn’t feel like home to her. After teaching for awhile, she hanged herself with silk stockings from 7/11 (though some claim she was murdered). Although I hoped I would cope better with return to my homeland, I really found myself relating to the lyrics in my year of exile. (Not that I'm at all trying to compare with the older generation of Taiwanese who waited their whole lives in vain to return to their hometowns in the mainland.) Here’s a really breathy cover:</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><span><span><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/QQAkIOt-4Pw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></span></span><br /><br /><br /><span><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Don’t ask me where I came from.<br />My hometown is a distant place.</b><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Why must wanderers wander so far?<br />Wander so far?</b><br /><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">For the little bird soaring across the empty sky,<br />For the little stream lost in the mountains,</b><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">And for the boundless grasslands,<br />the wanderers wander far, far, far away.</b><br /><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">And still there is the olive tree of my dreams,<br />that olive tree.<br /></b><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Do not ask me where I came from.</b><br /><b style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">My hometown is far away.</b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span> </span><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>I learned the song the night before I performed it, but it went better than I’d ever practiced it which was a nice surprise. I think I somehow managed to ride the conference’s emotional waves of nostalgia and squeezed out some tears from the audience too. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>After the final presentation, we watched that slideshow again, and wow did it have different meanings. Now it wasn't just oh yeah, there are two Mayas, that's confusing. Now there's Topless Maya (because of her photo on Yap) and Conflict Maya (because of her work informing the Israeli/Palestinian conflict with South Africa and Ireland). And that's not the "girl who did the <i>Voices Behind the Veil</i> project." It's Roxy! The amazing poet who performed so powerfully for us, who gave women around the world a stage and a method to express themselves, and who is an astonishingly talented hugger. (BTWz, Roxy and I shared some sort of strange past-life type bond from the second I met her and she even inspired me to write a song using her poetry as lyrics.) </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Something was different on that second viewing. After rewatching the slideshow, I think we were all secreting ocularly. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span>The final night wrapped up with a last supper and then a ridiculous dance party (again with an open bar socially lubricating the entire event). Somehow everyone ended up topless and I did some sort of very strange capoeira drunk dance that left me sore for days. When the DJ packed up we moved the party over to the Watson Hall-adjacent cottage and talked until sunrise. We all just couldn’t shut up. I don’t have a way to do the night justice, but it was an evening I’ll remember forever. Bittersweet, but also only possible, because of the weekend’s brevity.<br /><br />In the morning I bid farewell to my 39 new best friends. </span><span>Having the conference at Carleton (staying on my freshman floor!) in Watson Hall was bizarre. Much like my conclusions about my year, the symbolism makes sense in my head but when I try to explain it. . .</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span>But I’ve never been around a group of people who were simultaneously so impressive and accepting, fascinating storytellers and engaged listeners. We bonded over our stories of intestinal distress, imagining Cleveland, the Watson president, as an obese black man when he is in fact a skinny white dude, and the general shock we felt upon return to find out the world had continued on without us, The conference was one of the top highlights of my whole year and I just was not expecting that at all. What a collection of people. I feel so incredibly privileged to have gathered with them.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><span>When the conference was over I felt exhausted physically from dancing and not sleeping for three days but mainly I was emotionally exhausted. I felt like I’d taken 40 years of travel in one weekend. I was full of questions I wanted to keep asking all the fellows. I also wanted to ask </span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">Jennifer if the dances usually got so naked. Here's the only other photo I have of the conference as we get in to the elevator to Watson Hall to pack up to go home.</span></span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsA-CUf-WwuFq5BpnDp0TozAF7wUBV4DiyJWvhM_pBtLK45ZBxX6-wfQ-kdBchFWjsOsH8DgLVODc32xJPnqZmSXyRKmPvNy4wyhl_FbHjinPdajlYrBBvlkjnC7jkS27SrJMN56gFuM7M/s320/Final+Report.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721743201519696514" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 241px; " /></span></div><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>So I was full of so many raw feelings. Relief in having passed the Watson test. Joy in having met so many amazing people. Excitement for continuing life in this same passionate manner that the Watson had taught me. Fear that when the Watson bubble burst, that I’d grow cynical again. Loss: it was rough losing this community of people shortly after finding out that they even existed. And though we had such different years, we shared something in common, both in preexisting traits that the Watson people were looking for and in the lessons we’d learned on our <i style="font-style: normal; ">Watson journeys. Hopefully, I'll see my fellow Watsons fellows again on some Ides of March reunion. The only other Watson Fellow from my hometown chatted with me and said that more than 20 years later, she still goes to the traditional Ides of March Watson reunions.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span style=" ;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><b><span>Ashes to Ashes,<br />Watson to Watson</span></b></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXf2-gu56fEci9W7prOrZM6OTbLWmjQfUCnYyhhoRbOUndah6dMjH4k13Tn29QAr0faNEaoFuViaJep6HASd7Z57oPnN2ZY-MsCt2kF-7hRxk3kZ5FC0XYUU7YmH_39gu3NzkiaHMSJtH/s1600/263308_2304015445014_1388090180_32644551_5706998_n.jpeg" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXf2-gu56fEci9W7prOrZM6OTbLWmjQfUCnYyhhoRbOUndah6dMjH4k13Tn29QAr0faNEaoFuViaJep6HASd7Z57oPnN2ZY-MsCt2kF-7hRxk3kZ5FC0XYUU7YmH_39gu3NzkiaHMSJtH/s320/263308_2304015445014_1388090180_32644551_5706998_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721616289086720594" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>After the conference, I stayed awhile with Miss Hannah Trees who was still in Northfield on a political philosophy study grant. Walking around the place I'd called home for the four years previous to the Watson was eerie. Carleton didn't have the emotional impact I thought it would. But a large part of that was that I never was particularly attached to the buildings or that specific combo of latitude and longitude. It was all about the people there and with the exception of the Poetess Hannah Trees, they were all diasporated. So we had fun walking the ghostly campus, drinking boxed wine (tip it!) and making midnight runs to Dacie Moses a.k.a. Cookie House. It was good closure. I think it's kind of like seeing a dead body at a funeral. You need to know that the person isn't really there anymore. Likewise, Carleton as I knew it is gone. Times change blablabla<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>It's also hard to think about all the friends I made and probably won't see again. Places aren't just colored regions on a map anymore. For me, Taiwan, France, Austria, Singapore, Japan, and Hong Kong are full of faces and memories now. Ok, I'm officially the most corny person ever, but it's how I feel so shut up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TkNOVR5Y5gj85ZXdVl1aMikxEbx4kClB9pz5anY9Gk0RqE5fQsp8UiUGUeA_iIRw6rVNw25oklegvFpu-NNjGvBeMTZRCrF7ZSiFCTkThGyrexRiW2sIBQS2xmLHloozFOou3XJnOQo4/s320/317534_556220243297_28601990_31503947_1057900427_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721616310762719442" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></p><div style="font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><span><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>Anywho, now I’m sitting in a café in Oxford, two-thirds done with my master’s degree in musicology (photo of matriculation with my housemates on the right). I didn’t want to finish this post because I had this idea that it would be the final nail in the coffin of my Watson year. But as Jennifer, Watson email respondent extraordinaire pointed out to me, the way I lived my Watson life can be the way I live the rest of my life. You get back what you put into it. So finally, I’m ready to move on with my life, taking with me the incredible life lessons learned on the Watson. But will I ever be able to escape a Watson in my life? Now Emma Watson is at Oxford. Who will next year's Watson be?<o:p></o:p></span></p><span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieiVqcCgMejvpPb8cIC-DH5u_dLQzNDkoAMvwgyJmuGcsM9BSLLeXPBkfanGRSn7vKSvo4xuRolGvDTMoKL3bsqWakTNGWOP6K43aed8qD_Xxmk0V-MV6Nb9ujrgupk4FlJz-LT5vy_mK8/s320/297108_570179533672_19103325_31749927_148214572_n.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721616293788568050" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 237px; height: 320px; " /></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><o:p><span> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-top: 0.1pt; margin-right: 0in; margin-bottom: 0.1pt; margin-left: 0in; "><span>I’m taking a gap year between my master’s and PhD, teaching English in an elementary school in Shanghai. Somehow I just can’t seem to stay pinned down to one place for very long. Maybe I’ll always be a chronic drifter. No place really does feel like home anymore, which is a strange feeling, but I’ll keep searching for that olive tree, bearing in mind that the search may be the best part.<o:p></o:p></span></p><span><br /><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXf2-gu56fEci9W7prOrZM6OTbLWmjQfUCnYyhhoRbOUndah6dMjH4k13Tn29QAr0faNEaoFuViaJep6HASd7Z57oPnN2ZY-MsCt2kF-7hRxk3kZ5FC0XYUU7YmH_39gu3NzkiaHMSJtH/s1600/263308_2304015445014_1388090180_32644551_5706998_n.jpeg"></a></span></span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; "><br /></div></div></div>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-42432922063802125172011-10-12T13:17:00.000-07:002011-10-16T10:31:53.903-07:00The End is Nigh!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXUoCrz7OfrATqEFF1oNPXmzM_AOCrtGnAp7H8K1Lcc_yTa2GxoarjROljocAejFhQzWLHLbO00qqF9yjXp5GTvCS31bMtz5BoRjTTBZNW1BeR0NqxXaNQTgq6w67uud4f5A7C4reBNOo/s1600/IMG_1391.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMksbuMRtTryisTXVoR7v29LnzlozIzJ1nHG0GtxmjFm_S-4kJfB36mLIF3yoidEj9ylDv2av3LX8bwmx4GQUGPBRQHRTfY1nmndkK-8FU3ZwpnBs9UTBjIwfph8mDuV-9F2NzuK-k5WB/s1600/IMG_1414.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgex2vptqdh0y140kSPynnSx0oJeRXIO4bB8p2I362W3UfVA36i6uajuKpRD9VJkRrSfUzN01jyEou93n74SD9CLFVV8UalJWv7QECM-3KmB01SqDO3H2TNncEwcojRbJc3sFPitDTzZw9C/s1600/IMG_1386.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWCS1liFzSaKDHfHAduCqF4FCXLtmVDIkgnmzEdRCLojF2YERNcBo0uuHIqMEtTqQbcKHnbskgU2Dmm4_RPjM25n3q8eJQIOxdvaTnaQ0jEeMS4U6B6UBSAOJFv-qUmfKtKIra6id1e6x/s1600/IMG_1377.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></span></span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSv9pmsmZ_xe5sVI4qiEGkgXT1q5XOjK-NXyW0ovFpgAf3CJ3WfjTzyXOQd3C8P_IWzfKvDgy1pOLw9k0QtoaZuMUpsJpdHN78zchBoZJaR5iC3RvdoLZHvKJ17LF0a_B57Y7wql467h_F/s320/IMG_1370.JPG" style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662727327845408034" /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b>If You Just Look to Your Left. . . </b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >As soon as I'd gotten into the swing of things, I had to become a tour guide for my pals Emily and Wade. I led them around my favorite sights, back to Lamma Island, and around the Avenue of Stars leaving plenty of time to rest from the oppressive heat in various cafes. At night we watched the stupid, stupid light show where these buildings flash to EPCOT Center-esque music.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWCS1liFzSaKDHfHAduCqF4FCXLtmVDIkgnmzEdRCLojF2YERNcBo0uuHIqMEtTqQbcKHnbskgU2Dmm4_RPjM25n3q8eJQIOxdvaTnaQ0jEeMS4U6B6UBSAOJFv-qUmfKtKIra6id1e6x/s1600/IMG_1377.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWCS1liFzSaKDHfHAduCqF4FCXLtmVDIkgnmzEdRCLojF2YERNcBo0uuHIqMEtTqQbcKHnbskgU2Dmm4_RPjM25n3q8eJQIOxdvaTnaQ0jEeMS4U6B6UBSAOJFv-qUmfKtKIra6id1e6x/s320/IMG_1377.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662727340765167938" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEcX6wuQtK1kFhKCfD0oLBgjnoHGjv_6OBlFawyqMC34y3VmcYMfFyZ-Ijt1Rs4ahjau1Pg0DUKcWrh1A8wEQwuXzCu6UFwDaSMQ7ZJTZgRY4aXh_PlPKGNFTButtMkc-ZYmEqMDvVLuLj/s320/IMG_1373.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662727330859614578" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; ">We went up the Point in a cool little trolley (the gears to w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; ">hich looked straight off the set up Wicked) and ate Bubba Gump's shrimp while enjoying the panoramic views of Victoria Harbour. We did not however enjoy good photography from me as evidenced by the shadowy figures in this photo's foreground.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >Emily and Wade had planned to go to Tibet, but totally unfortunately for them and me it was closed to foreigners due to feared protests. So instead they headed on to Japan leaving me with a list of 11 possible places to go after my apartment contract ran out. Here you can see a less shadowy picture of Emily and Wade getting fancy drinks at Hong Kong's most expensive hotel.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " ><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgex2vptqdh0y140kSPynnSx0oJeRXIO4bB8p2I362W3UfVA36i6uajuKpRD9VJkRrSfUzN01jyEou93n74SD9CLFVV8UalJWv7QECM-3KmB01SqDO3H2TNncEwcojRbJc3sFPitDTzZw9C/s320/IMG_1386.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662729875599138754" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b>Strange Randos</b></span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw-kgMnqsrY8yaFZvlI1Id49b7bldBxn9kZY-PwLGBk6l650TJL5D7md0ZF-cSeNYzGLfol0yk2ly4_GhPXGdHDDVmpXCnYAzy_EmU2c_wHksPDgpA82k74pdX55uCz_8LmtAZnTQXxwvu/s320/IMG_1381.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662727352900930578" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >I've collected strange friends while in Hong Kong. I met all of them by chance either by wandering into their restaurants or tea stands or by literally running into individual people. I actually don't think I've literally run into any buildings . . . yet, I should say. I'm knocking on wood.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >Besides Jia Jia and Ying Ying (the pandas to the right who insisted I pay them a visit) I have met an Italian Sommelier who for some reason is working in Hong Kong and an Argentinian cantor who works in a Jewish Temple in Hong Kong and knows tons about music theory. Then there are the locals who always give me updates on their extended families as I wait for my order to be ready. When I get my bubble tea, I usually find out about one woman's son Henry who gets into fights in school. Henry is 22. </span></span></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXUoCrz7OfrATqEFF1oNPXmzM_AOCrtGnAp7H8K1Lcc_yTa2GxoarjROljocAejFhQzWLHLbO00qqF9yjXp5GTvCS31bMtz5BoRjTTBZNW1BeR0NqxXaNQTgq6w67uud4f5A7C4reBNOo/s320/IMG_1391.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662732917953025570" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " > I haven't asked for further explanation. When I wait for my noodles, I usually find out about the latest weather in Houston because the man who works there has a nephew studying political economy in the States. And I continued to hang out with Jafi and his friends. Here he can be seen getting way too excited at the arcade. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >I can't explain how nice it is that Hong Kong no longer feels like a city full of strangers. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b>The Butterfly Lovers</b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >The crowning moment of my time in Hong Kong was seeing the violin concerto <i>Butterfly Lovers</i> (based on what is often called the Chinese <i>Romeo + Juliet</i>) be performed by Lu Si-qing himself!!! His version is one of, if not the highest, selling traditional Chinese recordings of all time.<span> </span>There are also hilarious dialogues that exist where people who play Western music congratulate him on bringing Chinese flavor to the violin and then people from the Chinese tradition vehemently argue that he is bringing Western flavor to Chinese music.<span> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " >I arrived late to the concert and was totally disheveled and frustrated with being so lost, but the performance was beyond any I'd yet seen. It was just so damn good, and after this whole year of concert going I can honestly say it was my favorite musical performance I’ve ever seen. <span> </span>Here’s a link to a version where he’s backed by a western orchestra which just doesn’t do it justice at all.<span> </span>There’s also something very compelling about seeing Lu Si-qing live that doesn't translate to video.<span> I think his presence doesn't come across but maybe it's something else.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); line-height: 20px; " ><u>http://youtu.be/5Egmjy8BbME</u></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; ">We gave him four standing ovations before he finally gave in and played an encore.</span><span style="line-height: 20px; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; ">After the performance I cued up to speak with Lu Si-qing and managed to actually talk with him.</span><span style="line-height: 20px; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; ">His interest was peaked because I knew the other concerto artist as she was Gao Hong's classmate at the Beijing Central Conservatoire. She owned the disturbingly expensive restaurant that our group dined at in Beijing. She asked, "Hey, what are you doing here? You are Gao Hong's student, right? You play Chinese instruments, right?" Then Lu Si-qing looked at me and asked in very nice English, "Wow, do you really play Chinese instruments?" I explained my dealio briefly and he told me I should talk to an ethnomusicologist in Heidelberg because she was working on the same issues I've been looking at. After I said a quick good bye I skipped out of there. I can't remember even going home but I do remember the feeling of being ridiculously, face-numbingly happy.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhJ4F_geVbr8jUiauAohCP6b25awk0GDJOQmQn7QlQFfrj4APe8N11wutESdDLfm-dORcH-sL-2tgRS2CVd40dg5o_sC_P5oYv207RMq-pi5CYm_VOhtr2DjbX5JUdMORVfTSzCUufL4L/s1600/IMG_1395.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"> <img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPhJ4F_geVbr8jUiauAohCP6b25awk0GDJOQmQn7QlQFfrj4APe8N11wutESdDLfm-dORcH-sL-2tgRS2CVd40dg5o_sC_P5oYv207RMq-pi5CYm_VOhtr2DjbX5JUdMORVfTSzCUufL4L/s320/IMG_1395.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662729890177510914" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; ">Hong Kong was an interesting experience.<span> </span>People were very friendly and the environment was reminiscent of Singapore, but there are a lot more arts events.<span> </span>I also didn’t play in any ensembles the entire time, mainly due to my hand injury.<span> </span>I think this was actually beneficial.<span> </span>I hung around a lot more talented or "professional" musicians and listened more.<span> </span>I also began composing a lot!<span> </span>Somehow after hearing all of this music this year, stuff is starting to come out, and I really like it. Though it sounds totally Western to me, everyone keeps telling me it sounds Chinese. . . hmm. . . . </p> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "><b><span><o:p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "><b><span><o:p><br /></o:p></span></b></span></div>Return to Wienerland</o:p></span></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; " ><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " ><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi81evvJgTH25TUi5jhj0iAaxqtq4VksJE5KOdhnitUrMLR3JGvL5nFeo_EQSMBnsQEjz0klTKKfmr53rkZJZbqd4KsTO61lI6VyIvAuQ5PDAKuKEAzqv6lUNZUtrQt6q3t5JAlnNOFkYqU/s320/IMG_1409.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662729896802039874" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><span><span> </span>On my way home, I went the other way around the world and decided to revisit my friends in Vienna.<span> </span>The entire Taiwanese community was gathering to celebrate the 100<sup>th</sup> anniversary of the Republic of China.<span> There was a special guest: Taiwanese born criminologist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Lee_(forensic_scientist)">Henry Lee</a>. I'd never heard of him, but he worked on such infamous cases as OJ Simpson and JonBenet Ramsey. We bonded over living in America, but I didn't mention to him that he seemed to work on cases where things didn't seem to work out very well.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">I sang in the choir in Taiwanese and German.<span> </span>The shock at feeling comfortable doing these things now caused me to become all reflective.<span> </span>I’ve really changed so much.<span> </span>I used to dread meeting new people and speaking in foreign languages.<span> But t</span>hat old fear of embarrassment has been conditioned out of me.<span> </span>I feel more confident and less apologetic for being an incompetent idiot.<span> </span>I guess being abroad for a year has made me more American.<span> </span>When I talk to people I feel interesting, and, actually, <span>I think I kind of</span> am interesting now.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span">When I was writing my Watson proposal I wrote it in the mindset of, alright, this is what I would want to do if I were </span><span class="Apple-style-span">good</span><span class="Apple-style-span"> enough, or smart enough, or talented enough.</span><span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span">But you know what? I don’t need to pretend to be someone else anymore, and that is so liberating. But now the Watson conference is looming and I'll have to figure out how I stack up next to the other fellows. And I'm actually quite nervous about heading home. It'll be so strange to go back when everything just went on without me. </span></span></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJD7lUr48_MXhSesjgJomZmEJnQdKZeOkrSMjDjtLMCpvbRQPUROaj1eYWe0wt6doJsfxbIkeMttaKfmZz7yfvLAf7jhDA7tWzsC5KC3wb1sMnRTMm3wjG64WboXB_3ann_iURygM4o2V/s320/IMG_1388.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662729877046812898" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Right before leaving Hong Kong, I saw this ominous warning that seemed more like a fortune cookie for my emo soul than a warning of physical danger.<br /><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px; "><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; ">Before leaving Austria, I saw these guys enjoying sheesha/hookah midstream. The meaning for this is less clear to me, but definitely optimistic.</p></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; background-color: rgb(247, 144, 41); " ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; background-color: rgb(247, 144, 41); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " ><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMksbuMRtTryisTXVoR7v29LnzlozIzJ1nHG0GtxmjFm_S-4kJfB36mLIF3yoidEj9ylDv2av3LX8bwmx4GQUGPBRQHRTfY1nmndkK-8FU3ZwpnBs9UTBjIwfph8mDuV-9F2NzuK-k5WB/s320/IMG_1414.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662729907611810514" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; background-color: rgb(247, 144, 41); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: normal; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></span></div>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-78891892209182382342011-06-16T02:15:00.000-07:002011-07-10T15:01:26.068-07:00When It Rains, It Pours<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb3OFSU_fBoYdN-rgcE9bOHVENz48KFG8StmRyHbfdXq8C8qvhh6xknR5HOsETqFjDm0Si1Y8uiPM3xIcw5WINIEeZ4uyWslyoOE0x5s5eImm7uh0mjS1tDDfvsqBwM3i3qsC5UVs_0ix/s1600/IMG_1352.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfb3OFSU_fBoYdN-rgcE9bOHVENz48KFG8StmRyHbfdXq8C8qvhh6xknR5HOsETqFjDm0Si1Y8uiPM3xIcw5WINIEeZ4uyWslyoOE0x5s5eImm7uh0mjS1tDDfvsqBwM3i3qsC5UVs_0ix/s320/IMG_1352.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627840062960580898" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lamma Island</span><br /><br />A lot of Watson Fellowships take Americans deep into the wildernesses of third world countries, far from the luxuries of modern living, challenging urban dwellers to cope without indoor plumbing or electricity. Whereas my project has had the opposite effect on me. While I usually do have to squat unless I can find a Western style toilet, in Hong Kong my greatest challenges are hunting elusive open seats in airconditioned free wifi cafes. I'm a little bit confused as to whether I love living abroad or just in cities. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv4HgMWcT4YiDVFz57-DXBKAKHzDTw7TM-nwf53bCSkmTdtQ9vb6Wl2LWmjNsXBKfXwukqbRNa_d0i_3o-wxEfEu48CswMkbbkpLHOR77MyjbflTGEuToHKEC8Nt6fcLF7Gb3PrmL-Cdi/s1600/IMG_1367.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv4HgMWcT4YiDVFz57-DXBKAKHzDTw7TM-nwf53bCSkmTdtQ9vb6Wl2LWmjNsXBKfXwukqbRNa_d0i_3o-wxEfEu48CswMkbbkpLHOR77MyjbflTGEuToHKEC8Nt6fcLF7Gb3PrmL-Cdi/s320/IMG_1367.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627841733910234674" border="0" /></a> I mean, I guess I could also enjoy public transportation and Starbucks in America; I've just never had the chance before. To the right is a shocking example of the local standards of hygiene.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIucC1Wb9kRmy3CeV_2nKO0be46wXgBQziQ8bWzvGOivk-khlKWa75POeTx0QwZBFSLhsXXbTDpEKTim8sdoTyXTaf9HUeZDdaNfr2z5lSJO6M5e_RPY6njhF55A1jzpFRrxD38MFzVxU/s1600/IMG_1337.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIucC1Wb9kRmy3CeV_2nKO0be46wXgBQziQ8bWzvGOivk-khlKWa75POeTx0QwZBFSLhsXXbTDpEKTim8sdoTyXTaf9HUeZDdaNfr2z5lSJO6M5e_RPY6njhF55A1jzpFRrxD38MFzVxU/s320/IMG_1337.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627837835388651218" border="0" /></a><br />But recently I grew weary of city life and took a 20 minute ferry ride to Lamma Island. It's a sleepy little island that takes only a strenuous 2 hour hike to traverse. It has lots of really cool restaurants and shops that sell handicrafts and freshly caught seafood, irrespectively. Many expats live on the island because it is cheaper than living in the city and also much quieter. And unlike local Hong Kongers they are unconcerned with the prestige of living in a good location. The brightly painted buildings and chill vibe also come off as oddly Caribbean. (Bonus: I just noticed that in this photo upove there is a dog peaking out of a backpack!)<br /><br />I passed through the one road that leads through the northern village, through some hills which featured lovey-dovey graffiti commemorating honeymoons. Pictured below is the meanest public defacement I could find. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfaDpI9shaKdeS_x8XcVFTd3aYRZMhSP1nvJx106t_GeLiDkRHPd7vYsTAipinoWgOP3B3sXMAMRfPO7q38PrJzD1sBdWGtB1QrooAzA8EKzVrLh0KIuvEyRKayFkpSkBjG-6NBPmb2uY/s1600/IMG_1342.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTfaDpI9shaKdeS_x8XcVFTd3aYRZMhSP1nvJx106t_GeLiDkRHPd7vYsTAipinoWgOP3B3sXMAMRfPO7q38PrJzD1sBdWGtB1QrooAzA8EKzVrLh0KIuvEyRKayFkpSkBjG-6NBPmb2uY/s320/IMG_1342.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627837848389590850" border="0" /></a>After a 15 minute hike I got to the first beach, plopped down on a bench and began reading when a girl my age asked me if she could sit next to me. She then scoffed at the other people on the beach. I looked up from my read and noticed a pattern. There were roughly two dozen couples and they ALL consisted of a youthful Asian girl who looked good in her two-piece and an obese white dude with more hair on his back than on top of his head. I made a face and told my benchmate, "Yeah, that's pretty gross."<br /><br />"The worst part is that those guys don't realize that most of the girls are Vietnamese immigrants looking for a green card. Ugh. Don't look now, they're snogging." I didn't want to look but like Lot's wife or the Four Tops, I couldn't help myself. I paid the price for my curiosity, my eyes burned like lasik gone bad.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLx82lP82Ynd8KZoKnK2OJxuk1_jJLnY5ItSbzpZhklDk7HPhQgPZ5hijyeb0cnlVfDo23PYdCJndVtvxXLq9zCJy79-XpKQWrFkKUCgPuj1uvlz-k3lvPaLwV8iBb1g8NnZPWqiYuiczZ/s1600/IMG_1339.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLx82lP82Ynd8KZoKnK2OJxuk1_jJLnY5ItSbzpZhklDk7HPhQgPZ5hijyeb0cnlVfDo23PYdCJndVtvxXLq9zCJy79-XpKQWrFkKUCgPuj1uvlz-k3lvPaLwV8iBb1g8NnZPWqiYuiczZ/s320/IMG_1339.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627837840740943698" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"I'm Ling. I'm also hungry. Do you want to go get some organic vegan food?" How could I say no? I had eaten more than my fair share of chicken feet in the previous week so I was keen to escape meat and the gross couples. We passed by the water (which is supposed to be safe because of the shark net but the fact that one is needed kind of freaks me out) to get our feet wet but decided against it since the water was filled with plastic bags and bottles. This plastic manufacturing plant is the main source of the pollution.<br /><br />While eating beans on vegan toast at the Bookworm Cafe, Ling told me that she was from Suzhou (about an hour from Shanghai) and was traveling to Hong Kong for holiday. She is an English major and after finding out I was American, switched her vocabulary and accent accordingly. I was thoroughly impressed since I still can't do a British accent and English is my native language. But I'm inspired by Ling and Amy Walker to keep trying.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/3UgpfSp2t6k" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IE2mkTiAA5DVHKlK4aJ_r25NH4nojgh_zLDUXbqmFbKIEd71MBLg-X8jScPFoOwH3ay2xhmZkdmqsyU7sEZX6teFydeo97Es3F5pIyhk6aa-sA2pRhbP-6yzJR7mM_QPj8G0WGcb2mvD/s1600/-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IE2mkTiAA5DVHKlK4aJ_r25NH4nojgh_zLDUXbqmFbKIEd71MBLg-X8jScPFoOwH3ay2xhmZkdmqsyU7sEZX6teFydeo97Es3F5pIyhk6aa-sA2pRhbP-6yzJR7mM_QPj8G0WGcb2mvD/s320/-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627843176878746754" border="0" /></a><br />She, Ling not Amy Walker, confessed her fanaticism for comic books so we headed off to the discounted movies to see the new X-Men movie, only mildly concerned that we looked like the couples we had previously mocked.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsMdNLerO8tvP2IZacc4XcaKpS_lKHGSX3B0Pil7QNw945YkXyEybO5q6XtTtabLlss9CElEeUxcHEhf53JBrRFW7UKvY1TFbE4KLoQZV26Q_2gv7kp6PzWTNUeWWI4udB1gASD532kxG/s1600/IMG_1351.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsMdNLerO8tvP2IZacc4XcaKpS_lKHGSX3B0Pil7QNw945YkXyEybO5q6XtTtabLlss9CElEeUxcHEhf53JBrRFW7UKvY1TFbE4KLoQZV26Q_2gv7kp6PzWTNUeWWI4udB1gASD532kxG/s320/IMG_1351.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627840080665785410" border="0" /></a> Here' Ling on the scenic hiking trails on Lamma Island. In the picture of me you can't directly see it, but my shorts are being held together with about a foot and a half of ducttape.<br /><br />After the movie, I told her it was my turn to suggest a geeky event and we went to Zhongying music concert. Zhong means Chinese and Ying means English. It was a concert in a park done by senior citizens. They played traditional Chinese folk tunes on western instruments. Violins for erhus, guitar for plucked instruments and saxophone for bamboo flute and suona. I was impressed with their ability to get extremely authentic Chinese sounds from their extremely not Chinese instruments.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Keeping My Composers<br /><br /></span>The next week I went to an amazing concert where almost all of the pieces were world premieres. They were introduced in either Cantonese or Mandarin by the composers in person! There were 10 pieces which ranged in size from a comical duet between erhu and pipa, depicting an argument two travelers have on the road, to pieces for the entire Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra. Not all of the pieces were knockouts but what some lacked in realization, they made up for in ambition. Every piece involved novel ways of making sounds on instruments. One piece, a trio between flute, sanxian (a three stringed cello-type instrument), and pipa called for the pipa player to pretend to hack up a lung. She was thoroughly convincing.<br /><br />The best part of the concert was that afterward the composers were to linger in the foyer to mingle with the plebes. The two composers from Beijing looked lonely so I went up to them and introduced myself in Chinese which always gives people way too good of an impression on my Chinese abilities since I've thoroughly practiced my spiel of who I am and what I'm doing and it involves lots of obscure vocabulary. But I soon had drawn a crowd around me of mostly gawkers who were pointing at the whitie speaking Mandarin. But since the rest of the composers were carrying on in Cantonese, the three of us Mandophiles kept up our conversation. They both were postgraduates at Beijing Central Conservatory in composition. For one of the composers this was his first time composing for non-Western instruments so we discussed the different challenges of composing for Chinese orchestra.<br /><br />Then they announced that the composers would go out for drinks and I got invited along. Yes! Some of the other composers looked at me and asked in an 80% joking sort of way, "Are you old enough to drink?" Sigh. I have been for 5 years in Hong Kong. At the bar, I discovered that composers are very serious about their music and possibly even more serious when it comes to drinking. But I'd learned my lesson from my previous encounter with Mongolian musicians in the Swiss Alps and nursed my one drink while the others had 6 rounds. Once the slurring of words began to affect my comprehension of my inebriated friends, I got email addresses for the Beijingers and escaped before things got too out of hand.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Another Near-Death Experience (辣肚子)<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyp6h0ZpZXqPPhPUqHopjAJukSBHJ3I4vMgAQgbkvIYGGmRaoK09L5ZY7_Gy7y4JeqEwIrke54AJSQ6ueLT-ylvtRzeYQdspzuCWg6hvFU8I7dlSCmcdixKbQA4vN8rNmkWqakXwmxwth/s1600/IMG_1353.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyp6h0ZpZXqPPhPUqHopjAJukSBHJ3I4vMgAQgbkvIYGGmRaoK09L5ZY7_Gy7y4JeqEwIrke54AJSQ6ueLT-ylvtRzeYQdspzuCWg6hvFU8I7dlSCmcdixKbQA4vN8rNmkWqakXwmxwth/s320/IMG_1353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627840070403548658" border="0" /></a><br />Jafi decided to take me to a place that has a spicy food eating competition. He had had enough of me complaining about food not being spicy enough and was ready to shut me up for good.The noodle shop in question has a contest; if you eat their spiciest noodle bowl in 10 minutes then you get it free. I was starved and ready for the challenge. Jafi ordered me the "Star Challenge Spice Bowl" and ordered himself a bowl of the least spicy noodles. The waitresses teased him in Cantonese so I couldn't understand the words but the drift of it was clearly, "You pussy."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeKhhtJKpA6H8JiraIo2ge4lG8dFGGcMefd_Pc0aZ4OJgmJWj56Ig4tfVKLa-079V1T3q7Oxrv4hqvHPdO_6r0BF1E0zJAtMyzkmqFyDwv0hseZXT97VwduNm61wr5TOtA2s-4s5I-Z_y/s1600/IMG_1356.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeKhhtJKpA6H8JiraIo2ge4lG8dFGGcMefd_Pc0aZ4OJgmJWj56Ig4tfVKLa-079V1T3q7Oxrv4hqvHPdO_6r0BF1E0zJAtMyzkmqFyDwv0hseZXT97VwduNm61wr5TOtA2s-4s5I-Z_y/s320/IMG_1356.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627840074460902562" border="0" /></a>The noodles came and I took a bite and the waitress started the timer. My first thought was, "Huh, it's not that bad." On my tongue the spice was totally tolerable but my face immediately flushed a deep crimson and my stomach gave an audible turn before I'd even swallowed that first bite. My eyes sprung tears like I was watching the <span style="font-style: italic;">Notebook</span> which ran down my face and converged with a steady stream of snot that was shooting down my upper lip. I tried to breath in cooling air, but my lungs seemed to have seized. I just panted for a minute. I couldn't breath and wasn't convinced I had control over any of my orifices so I did the only sensible thing; I took another bite. My symptoms doubled instantly and I began hiccoughing obscenely. My body was rejecting this food and telling me it was poison, but my psyche said, "Don't lose face!" which was pathetically unrealistic since most of my face was melting in a gathering puddle of sweat, snot and saliva on the tabletop. I rushed to the bathroom setting some sort of digestive landspeed record. This is definitely TMI but how could it already be spicy coming out?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoT7XhOaHUquNo0Ou-KUWytTFWfNxEvJ-9ixJOBlarKrnA3Nht-5m6Nahf1H6fOxycAVqGWYp7tJvwAu84sBwqKZ2TpGR075GeA6EgMhtBL3iVSvUhiLKbAuPv2kW9ZjHoR58eWPh56BvU/s1600/IMG_1365.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoT7XhOaHUquNo0Ou-KUWytTFWfNxEvJ-9ixJOBlarKrnA3Nht-5m6Nahf1H6fOxycAVqGWYp7tJvwAu84sBwqKZ2TpGR075GeA6EgMhtBL3iVSvUhiLKbAuPv2kW9ZjHoR58eWPh56BvU/s320/IMG_1365.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627840083980251474" border="0" /></a><br /><br />With the poison emitted from my body, I returned to the table covered in sweat and 10 pounds lighter than when I left. Jafi was also covered in sweat but his perspiration was guffaw induced. The waitstaff would have none of this though. They scolded him and asked him how he could treat a guest like this and how he could really be from Hong Kong and enjoy such bland noodles. Just then the buzzer went off and I waved my white flag and paid for my noodles defeated more completely than I would have thought possible.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySDuYJj-JOl3eyoVRcjBCSjoFf40eekeOd0gOqrler2euPhoTva1Pj-onwmwawwROI3Pd7ILMCP9YumXibi7DKqv1YSF3CJ4_DV7Y41YR6pEJS7L7GEZ2F6H647VGBnbQALqEQr2Zj2SP/s1600/-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySDuYJj-JOl3eyoVRcjBCSjoFf40eekeOd0gOqrler2euPhoTva1Pj-onwmwawwROI3Pd7ILMCP9YumXibi7DKqv1YSF3CJ4_DV7Y41YR6pEJS7L7GEZ2F6H647VGBnbQALqEQr2Zj2SP/s320/-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627843188165699970" border="0" /></a><br />Pictured right is my favorite mode of transportation in Hong Kong. On Hong Kong Island you can take this double decker trolley. The wind blowing on your face is a great way to recover from a near fatal dose of peppercorn.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Death of Hobbies<br /><br /></span>After weeks of playing email tag, I finally had meetings with all of my musician and ethnomusicologist contacts all in the same week and everyone had very similar things to say. It's interesting how Hong Kong manages to be simultaneously similar to Singapore, Taiwan, and the Mainland in different facets.<br /><br />It's similar to Singapore in that it has a strange mix of British and local culture. It's also similar in that it's sort of one big city with lots of people that are very work oriented. This stinks for the music scene because, as almost every random person I meet in Hong Kong tells me, they used to play piano, violin, or even Chinese instruments, but then had to give it up when they started high school because the academics were so rigorous. As an American, where high school seems set up to accommodate extra-curriculars, this seems totally bizarre. Also, as one ethnomusicologist preached to me with intense eye contact that contained unsettingly few blinks, "People work so hard that they just collapse when they get home. They definitely aren't going to spend that money, let alone the time on a hobby like a musical instrument."<br /><br />Hong Kong is similar to Taiwan in that it is sort of part of China and sort of not. It's not disputed like Taiwan. Hong Kong is a <span style="font-style: italic;">special administrative region</span> which means it enjoys such privileges as free speech, but the Chinese government still has its ways of controlling its denizens. One local told me about the exodus in the 90s that occurred when Hong Kongers realized that they were going to be under the control of the same government that was responsible for the student massacre at Tian An Men. One quarter of the population left, heading to the USA, Australia, and especially Canada.<br /><br />Finally Hong Kong is actually part of the People's Republic of China and you can now take a train straight to Beijing. There are tons of Mainlanders working in Hong Kong trying to save up money to make a triumphant return back home. One ethnomusicologist told me his idea for why traditional music is in decline which I can't quite wrap my head around. He said the problem with traditional music in Hong Kong is everyone is too impressed by it. And it's true. When people heard I played zhongruan, they would say, "Wow! You are so clever. I couldn't appreciate that kind of music." So apparently there's too much reverence for it, so it's dying out. Does that make sense to other people?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Marketing Misnomer</span><br /><br />I bought a CD of the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra which was called Music for Tranquility. This struck me as bizarre because it was full of lively pieces like Golden Snake Dance and Dragon Boat Race. It also heavily featured gongs, guanzi, and suona, an instrument that rivals bagpipe for its ability to imitate nails on a chalkboard. But I suppose it's hard to advertise Chinese music as music to get you pumped! with all the techno and heavy metal floating around out there.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Korner Karma</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVmFGcBZJpl_RLiu0gRSXOLGGzK98yQZ7LWQOolvIaQ84fqckQ_641ft4bVwWO7dtzgzvxPbxhyS67vaNQsKeyccom07N_gx07W4FBaVCdutyFj3NU7sWv4dTgBTwsfJ3ZfIsnyXkcdd6/s1600/IMG_1368.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVmFGcBZJpl_RLiu0gRSXOLGGzK98yQZ7LWQOolvIaQ84fqckQ_641ft4bVwWO7dtzgzvxPbxhyS67vaNQsKeyccom07N_gx07W4FBaVCdutyFj3NU7sWv4dTgBTwsfJ3ZfIsnyXkcdd6/s320/IMG_1368.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627841734482434546" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>The other day I was carefully moving about the apartment disaligning right angles when I realised that I was suffering from the very same compulsions I had previously been mocking. I had developed an obsession with sliding chairs, napkins, towels, toothbrushes slightly askew. At first, it was just to marvel at the thoroughness of my roommate's inspections. Even if I turned the salt shaker in the cabinet it would inevitably be corrected upon my next inspection, but I wasn't so sure of my true motivation anymore. After 20 days in the apartment, I had to seriously question my sanity. I explained my predicament to my landlady who immediately instructed me to practice Taichi. I figured it couldn't hurt and joined the elderly in the park near me for the rest of my time in Hong Kong.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Up Next!<br /><br /></span>A visit from Emily and Wade forces me into the tourguide business.<br /><br />I see the best concert of my entire life.<br /><br />I meet strange expats including an Italian sommelier and an Argentinian cantor<br /><br />and I discuss my continued struggles to reclaim my sanity.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-2421625726616456702011-05-30T22:31:00.000-07:002011-06-10T23:35:35.043-07:00A Week in the Life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4rAdSKv-oOUx_nKY4ENJ9xgU3IvnNdGJvx_rM3K6MpAwJdf-GgxQ3C19MnXA7NATcRQvMZYgs99zIA9LdrIGK2j9ycKAhqbN9Os3mpnXhJBA8WI_7HZNQoVBMFMH2khjUQso81OwohWX/s1600/IMG_1334.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4rAdSKv-oOUx_nKY4ENJ9xgU3IvnNdGJvx_rM3K6MpAwJdf-GgxQ3C19MnXA7NATcRQvMZYgs99zIA9LdrIGK2j9ycKAhqbN9Os3mpnXhJBA8WI_7HZNQoVBMFMH2khjUQso81OwohWX/s320/IMG_1334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613520126355044690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Getting My Act Together</span><br /><br />Wow, there's so little to tell after just a week. A lot of my time has been spent prepping the last of my Watson plans. I'm incredulous at the idea that there are only two months left and then I'll be back in the US after 13 months of exile.<br /><br />Unfortunately I waited minutes too long to buy my ticket back to America. The prices suddenly doubled as you can see from the screen capture below. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenu6kWdp7bpzCPBxlPSYzw5E93xZ3s5PbYgkzbrq7YXrjppw6B8K7x8c805R5dvBJqKIN8lWjPUaGkOGwqalE0dCfGjJ4V4mf2r4qjwIFPJ7k6z-tOg5PCDGCZrmErEvG9hPbC9GQrq-B/s1600/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhyphenhyphenu6kWdp7bpzCPBxlPSYzw5E93xZ3s5PbYgkzbrq7YXrjppw6B8K7x8c805R5dvBJqKIN8lWjPUaGkOGwqalE0dCfGjJ4V4mf2r4qjwIFPJ7k6z-tOg5PCDGCZrmErEvG9hPbC9GQrq-B/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613205340145084626" border="0" /></a>But most fortunately, it looks like I will coast out of the Watson having spent exactly the amount I was allotted. That's good because it would be too painful to be underbudget and have to give the money back.<br /><br />I'm also working on the back and forth of attempting to go to Tibet. I originally thought I might return to Kyoto. Then the possibility of seeing a new place and the ever-alluring promise of altitude sickness tempted me to move inland. But just today I've discovered that Tibet is closed. There are expected protests in late June/early July and the Chinese government doesn't want foreigners witnessing unrest, so I may end up going back to Japan after all. It's all up in the air. But I'm all for the suspense and random changes in plans. It usually leads to exciting adventures.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Previous Engagement</span><br /><br />Last Saturday I went to two concerts. The first was in the afternoon and featured solos by the "young musicians" of the Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra. They were all amazing virtuosos on their instruments and I managed to speak with three of them after the show. Two replied that they did this because they were good at it. It was a job, not who they were. The third, who was the only one who spoke Chinese with me, was very different. The best way I can describe her is "eagerly alive." When she talked about why she played music, an aura of passion radiated from her. I know it sounds all mimsy pimsy to say things like radiating an aura of passion, but even just reminiscing about being in her presence forces me into using such language. It was obvious that she did this because she loves the music, the culture, the history, and her role within it. We were getting along very well and she invited me to go to dinner with her afterward. I winced and she felt badly like she had totally overestimated the level to which we were getting along. I tried to explain, "No, it's just I have a. . a. . a. . a previous engagement." I didn't want to tell her that I was going to see a Maroon 5 concert since she had just bashed popular and rock music, but this covering of the truth came off as just generally deceptive. She thought I was lying to get out of eating with her. I tried to convince her otherwise, but she looked seriously bummed. I took down her email address, promised to arrange a meeting with her later, and headed off to see Maroon 5 with Tree's sister's ex-boyfriend, Jafi.<br /><br />Jafi studied in England so his English is excellent. He's a classic fool for the ladies. He waited a year between high school and college for a girl. Then they broke up. After graduating university, he waited another year in England for Tree's sister, Mandy. He put his economics degree to good use, making his living performing diablo and Chinese juggling sticks for primary schools. Then he and Mandy too broke up. I asked him what he wanted to do next, and he said go to Japan. Why Japan? Japanese girls. . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wyrGHhuKAoI9jMIRCgWGYkJwYG_NNkssYKiBGCJTHFGfQZZEx7lsVYuuIJTqSqNM2NwqW3P4kkUBYmCBK2nKo7FO7KJKJPGuyyxmtuhuQkeodDbrpSUsD79unt8LmKpU88wjqgn3UYtv/s1600/IMG_1279.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wyrGHhuKAoI9jMIRCgWGYkJwYG_NNkssYKiBGCJTHFGfQZZEx7lsVYuuIJTqSqNM2NwqW3P4kkUBYmCBK2nKo7FO7KJKJPGuyyxmtuhuQkeodDbrpSUsD79unt8LmKpU88wjqgn3UYtv/s320/IMG_1279.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613523480268536674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We met his friends (all female, of course) at the concert, the ticket for which cost more than all of my other concert tickets in Asia combined. I justified this by claiming that contrasting Westerner pop concerts in Asia with traditional concerts was necessary to get the full picture. Despite the pain in my wallet we had a blast mocking the crazy antics of the other concert goers juxtaposed with somber-faced security guards wearing red berets. Maybe it was just my sobriety amidst the boozed up fans, but it seemed like everyone else was dancing especially idiotically. I joined in, mocking them at first, but at some point my "<span>dancing"</span> became sincere.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Marooned</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">5</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Walking After Midnight<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span>After the concert Jafi, his three friends and I went to eat at an area by his house and I tried a few local dishes which were supposedly spicy, but nothing in Hong Kong so far has seemed spicy after Singapore, though I've been told I might be getting the white man treatment. Damn you traveling Minnesotans ruining white-spice-tolerance reputations abroad!<br /><br />After eating and chatting I tried to head home but the MTR, the subway, was already closed. I talked with an attendant for awhile and tried to figure out how to walk home. Hong Kong is totally walkable. It's a small place, but I keep accidentally taking really circuitous routes everywhere. This doesn't bother me because I have plenty of time and every time I walk from my apartment to the station I encounter new food stands and sights. But when it's after midnight and you are tired and afraid of being attacked by the Triad, it's kind of an issue. I kept walking past groups of Indian men who would silence their talk as I approached, eye me menacingly, and then burst out laughing after I passed. This happened at least 6 times. It was all thoroughly creepy as I thought about how long it would be before anyone realized I had been captured, tortured, and murdered. After 2 hours I finally found my way home and I now finally know the area. I'm saving so much time now! If only I had somewhere to rush off to. . . <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Linguistic Barriers</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTj6-7ldssz8OtoRjRohHjtx2LxvsqbfGahibIAxEhxnGyx0ti57-7Pghlry-hyfgTY1X4ypltNJdabkj2wkNqNkiyrepmvC5IG_cYCTWgl-mQIGfsUyM3gfmYW6OgZnwilDxI2N0sNJK/s1600/IMG_1317.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCTj6-7ldssz8OtoRjRohHjtx2LxvsqbfGahibIAxEhxnGyx0ti57-7Pghlry-hyfgTY1X4ypltNJdabkj2wkNqNkiyrepmvC5IG_cYCTWgl-mQIGfsUyM3gfmYW6OgZnwilDxI2N0sNJK/s320/IMG_1317.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613518109666054690" border="0" /></a><br />This sign, especially with the picture, makes me think that cars should be afraid of pedestrians with superpowers and not the other way around. But I'm new here. Maybe that's the way they do in HK.<br /><br />When I get food it's super awkward to guess which language to speak. People usually understand Mandarin, but depending on their age they may have been well educated in English. People educated before the British handover know English well. Then Mandarin became more important in education. Young people typically know English, but the ones who work in restaurants typically aren't very studious. I haven't copped out and gone to McDonalds (although for the first time I'm tempted because a value meal there is <span style="font-style: italic;">sometimes</span> cheaper than food at more authentic places) but if a restaurant is called Tastes of Taiwan, Shanghai, or Beijing then I eat there knowing that they'll speak Mandarin. But this means I'm missing out on Cantonese cuisine!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFbOEnMD4DK6JsnM-U4_BiSpvBDG2hnBz6OO73Q8PyuYA5vpm-r3ox-wzxLF9z4PB4RhDY7tKxZrc6doH_L3eYUpWvHGVZzmSp2iscf9lmX0xOOKckcEaVE5vAvkdd7Tu3f4OJj1vSNcN/s1600/IMG_1327.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQFbOEnMD4DK6JsnM-U4_BiSpvBDG2hnBz6OO73Q8PyuYA5vpm-r3ox-wzxLF9z4PB4RhDY7tKxZrc6doH_L3eYUpWvHGVZzmSp2iscf9lmX0xOOKckcEaVE5vAvkdd7Tu3f4OJj1vSNcN/s320/IMG_1327.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613520132835307810" border="0" /></a><br />Hong Kongers are the fattest Asians I've seen. I suppose it's possible they were subject to British rule for too long, But I prefer to think that Cantonese food must be awesome. Delicious things I've tried have included pan-fried noodles, rice noodles (河粉), seafood soups, deep fried fish balls, and congee (rice porridge) with a century egg for protein. All of the flavours [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>] of sauces are all vaguely familiar too, because Cantonese stuff it is usually the authentic variation of the food in American Chinese restaurants. It's like I'm tasting the real food instead of the shadow cast on the cave walls. Pictured above is another odd combo of a traditional <span style="font-style: italic;">junk</span> for tourist in front of very modern skyscrapers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Hong Kong Chinese Orchestra</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Blown out of Proportion</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNUZ6gPOvzi8f-XBBgNwXj_kv7RHNZ9bUivB1lCRYjr3_HQafUX7KTRgS0aHTjLfgZ1tC7PRRsL-vfofLNnO8-cs2MQJ_9CKiNcIR3F5c0xwEVRsX3z-ZacWwlZZqasjikxMP-4q4HfRm/s1600/IMG_1306.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNUZ6gPOvzi8f-XBBgNwXj_kv7RHNZ9bUivB1lCRYjr3_HQafUX7KTRgS0aHTjLfgZ1tC7PRRsL-vfofLNnO8-cs2MQJ_9CKiNcIR3F5c0xwEVRsX3z-ZacWwlZZqasjikxMP-4q4HfRm/s320/IMG_1306.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613518097650785458" border="0" /></a>After getting a taste for the HKCO at the last Chinese concert (figuratively, not literally, I'm not a zombie!), I finally saw the full ensemble. I snapped this bad photo right of the empty stage right before being yelled at. Enjoy. On the floor of the stage, to the left of the blurry person, you can see the gehus. The HKCO instrumentation is very different than the orchestras of Singapore or Taiwan. Each of the three sections is made up of different variations of the same instrument family. This seems to be in an effort to create a theoretically elegant ensemble, but it loses something in the nitty gritty of reality.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IL-e_DLGKqbbXTN7gahKrr6PlhpzI1ZjoJy87CoYDiXz9pbpYTactzeEO9xGb0fKPOQNjll3W5Y7n6VR13DK9tJvuAsHhjUes6KkDikqQ2fNHm17bHzsYYVcJvOEJ610PWZFQyc2DsgO/s1600/P201005120285_photo_1015644.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8IL-e_DLGKqbbXTN7gahKrr6PlhpzI1ZjoJy87CoYDiXz9pbpYTactzeEO9xGb0fKPOQNjll3W5Y7n6VR13DK9tJvuAsHhjUes6KkDikqQ2fNHm17bHzsYYVcJvOEJ610PWZFQyc2DsgO/s320/P201005120285_photo_1015644.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616846125900679890" border="0" /></a>For the bowed instruments, they have tried to emulate the string section of a Western orchestra. They use the entire huqin family for this. So for first violin they use gaohu, the screechy, higher-pitched cousin of the erhu which fits better as an occasional solo by the lead erhu player (like a picolo to a flute player) than as an entire section for the strings. The second violins are the erhu. The violas are the zhonghu and the cellos are gehus (an instrument with which I have previously expressed my beef). Finally they use the bigger version of the gehu, the diyingehu(低音革胡) as a double bass.<br /><br />One interesting thing to note is that the HKCO has gone ecofriendly and no longer allows any of their instuments to be made of snake skin. They say they have found a synthetic substance that is just as good. I think it's great that they no longer have to kill a couple dozen pythons to make gehus, but I did notice that a few of their drums used by the percussionists looked like they were still made of snake skin. And after hearing the result, I think they have let their ideals lead them away from something that creates a better sound.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesy2hl1VqgHRqOdkbz3DP2hwQjaRvvuqFTdtsk8s7L38T4K8EyQ0dfIBniuTqClPmIJrQidkWsqDB77uteErWeEHg1YRweGno5TeHk-eiNuPOycCgUFWbCbuanhoxxm29vhCv-NMXH1yf/s1600/ruan287b63183d66c2ed38e3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesy2hl1VqgHRqOdkbz3DP2hwQjaRvvuqFTdtsk8s7L38T4K8EyQ0dfIBniuTqClPmIJrQidkWsqDB77uteErWeEHg1YRweGno5TeHk-eiNuPOycCgUFWbCbuanhoxxm29vhCv-NMXH1yf/s320/ruan287b63183d66c2ed38e3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616846840100360162" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The plucked section had the entire ruan family. Of course there was the typical zhong ruan and da ruan but they also opted for the seldom used xiao (little) ruan instead of the much superior liuqin. There were also pipas, two guzheng (zithers) and two yangqin (hammered dulcimers), and one of the gaohu players jumped up from her seat for one piece to play a miked guqin.<br /><br />Their wind section was truly bizarre. There were soprano, alto, tenor, and bass versions of both suona (Chinese oboe/trumpet) and guanzi (a double reed instrument with a short tube body). I'd never seen these variations before.<br /><br />There were also three different types of flutes: bangdi (which I think should only used in operas because they‘re so shrill), qudi, and the xindi. Sometimes the xindi had problems blending when it played with the other flutes which I guess had something to do with its being the only flute without a bamboo membrane.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcojMF2-K_6gDUI-FkBRJKbkmCcMW0rt6bxpEgnRtdgaro15Je4NTW8WCfgf-9O3-R3kN1XFskUlNI4z7OlsvqHBJRS9pnyOCRQSoTFfHoC6ZL7y_JnEDoDe4n8jqH5T_v2F1rECW5FA3/s1600/56475_sheng_lg.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcojMF2-K_6gDUI-FkBRJKbkmCcMW0rt6bxpEgnRtdgaro15Je4NTW8WCfgf-9O3-R3kN1XFskUlNI4z7OlsvqHBJRS9pnyOCRQSoTFfHoC6ZL7y_JnEDoDe4n8jqH5T_v2F1rECW5FA3/s320/56475_sheng_lg.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613514739464335074" border="0" /></a><br />Finally there were the typical variations of sheng, which are the uber cool free reed mouth organs, pictured below.<br /><br />Overall the concert was fine. There were old favorites and new compositions. It was the first time I'd seen gender neutral uniforms for any orchestra. The audience were small and old and nervously tried to help translate things the conductor said before I assured them that I could understand the guy's slow, deliberate speech. But to be honest, the HKCO was not up to the standard I expected. I know they are all excellent musicians, and there were terrific solos on the concertos: erhu, oboe, and violin, but the instrumentation of the orchestra is not as successful as I've seen elsewhere. I think a large amount of this had to do with the synthetic snakeskin instruments. They sounded too smooth, a little Western even, and this upset the balance of the compositions. And when the full, overly bloated wind section played, it totally blocks out the string section.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Walking on Waterfront </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEwVxE7VVU5kcgthYHIYW5GQTA95qp4hPvKDMooec_jf5VO-CAkOh-0C2wgoDATetzO1apEOFfkBOIbTK-ljrzBR1_n5MSYn5NqlXZnuvqCfcBkJwFe0NBfo76yMOyiEc608lo2CFAlG4/s1600/IMG_1325.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirEwVxE7VVU5kcgthYHIYW5GQTA95qp4hPvKDMooec_jf5VO-CAkOh-0C2wgoDATetzO1apEOFfkBOIbTK-ljrzBR1_n5MSYn5NqlXZnuvqCfcBkJwFe0NBfo76yMOyiEc608lo2CFAlG4/s320/IMG_1325.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613520135187070434" border="0" /></a>Later, while walking along the harbor front and enjoying a fish cake that I hoped wasn't made from a fish caught in the polluted Victoria Harbour whose vistas I was enjoying, I happened upon a middle school wind ensemble playing outdoors. They played stuff I played in high school. They were realllllly good. Way better than the cuddlefish cake.<br /><br />My daily life in Hong Kong is maybe the best it's been anywhere. With the exception of how expensive everything is, stuff is also convenient. There are beautiful beaches, parks named after dead white people, delicious moderately spicy food, and plenty of concerts to see. I'm even going to suffer through some Chinese operas to see if I can acquire a taste for them. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGUzaVBGH3FQtQStd-TSaAFUA2LRDQxCSc6u7HUD36linwAS8-k-1zIIS4WUU5kKiBPikg-b7vngVyGsBwsLGOiwTPKN9qx9rb4XU1IxolaKQCY0Y0prufYKfMGghVmkwoPMd8-xOgoUE/s1600/IMG_1315.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGUzaVBGH3FQtQStd-TSaAFUA2LRDQxCSc6u7HUD36linwAS8-k-1zIIS4WUU5kKiBPikg-b7vngVyGsBwsLGOiwTPKN9qx9rb4XU1IxolaKQCY0Y0prufYKfMGghVmkwoPMd8-xOgoUE/s320/IMG_1315.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613518100033751170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It turns out that the Avenue of Stars is actually named after the celebrity hand prints in the sidewalk further down the avenue than I originally traveled. Don't tell my granny since it's bad luck, but I copied all of the other tourists and spent a happy hour comparing my hand size to famous celebrities like Jackie Chan, Bruce Lee, and Chow Yun Fat. Is this what people do in Hollywood outside of Grauman's Chinese Theater?<br /><br />Hmm. . . I claimed to have little to report but this blog post has grown so long. Maybe I'm only capable of posting long blog posts and this more frequent method of blogging only waters down the content. Any strong feeling either way, faithful blog readers?Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-72271489475546421702011-05-18T01:01:00.000-07:002011-05-25T09:54:32.723-07:00Fragrant Harbour or Stinky Port?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0sd0kkFEnwtKqPGfgD4uTlMDmu_iouLcsMuhZf-QMGhvuiz0DZv27yFglrdj4QF3JfMdP2_VWGrv23NmO25fPYAWrVFsTYCHyZL_jptC6gR-JmtdI_6-ugyxqWfVXfFxMoD7jpuYJ0pL/s1600/IMG_1286.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia0sd0kkFEnwtKqPGfgD4uTlMDmu_iouLcsMuhZf-QMGhvuiz0DZv27yFglrdj4QF3JfMdP2_VWGrv23NmO25fPYAWrVFsTYCHyZL_jptC6gR-JmtdI_6-ugyxqWfVXfFxMoD7jpuYJ0pL/s320/IMG_1286.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610588563514567842" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Three Quarter Assessment</span><br /><br />This is the first in an experimental weekly blog. Shorter and easier to digest than my former once a month monsters, comment on whether you prefer to consume your blog posts like a mammal or a reptile.<br /><br />I sent in the final of my three required quarterly reports to Watson last week. It's so weird that the Watson "journey" (as it is always dramatically referred to on the website) is mostly over. But looking back through my photos, journal, and blog entries, so much has happened. It seems to have gone by quite quickly, but at the same time it seems like being in America was a lifetime ago.<br /><br />The fourth and final report is a 10 minute presentation at the Watson conference which, luckily for me, is at Carleton this year. This makes for all sorts of nice symbolism about beginnings and endings that I can't quite articulate, but I know exists. We even stay at Watson dorm (named after a different Watson) where I stayed as a freshman at Carleton. So many weird symmetries.<br /><br />Packing up my life again was very interesting (at least to me). I took an inventory of my clothes and after discarding anything with multiple holes, embarrassing food stains on the crotch (from slurping ramen), or that had rust, would spark, and had caused me to bleed (i.e. my electric shaver) I had the following items:<br /><br />tech: a laptop, an iPhone that only works in America, 3 pairs of headphones all of which have only one functioning earbud, a flip video recorder, a Kindle, and a Buddhist chant playing machine<br /><br />music: a zhongruan, a mandocello, a bamboo flute, an irish whistle, lots of scores<br /><br />clothes: 5 shirts, 3 pairs of shorts, 1 pair of jeans, 1 belt, 3 socks (no matching pairs), 4 pairs of underwear, 1 pair of running shoes, 3 baseball caps, and 1 mismatched pair of tennis shoes<br /><br />misc: 2 pens, 1 notebook, 1 ceramic cup, 1 keyring, 1 wallet, 1 passport, half roll of duct tape<br /><br />But before I get too proud of myself for traveling light, I must remember that technology makes this notion of traveling light really deceptive. In my computer I have thousands of music and video files and in my Kindle I have another hundred books. Really my possessions are just slowly moving over to the digital world. (Because I said Digital World, this is now stuck in my head.)<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OlOg3IkhAoU" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />My original backpack had burst two packings ago (Singapore to Japan) when I had more cold weather clothes, and was still carrying my kaput clothing. I decided that instead of duct taping my backpack together for a second time I would just buy a smaller everyday pack that I wouldn't feel ridiculous lugging to a rehearsal or a cafe. I hope my new little backpack will last long enough for me to use in real life (the Watson is not real life). Also, I guess before I go to Oxford I'll have to buy some more clothes so I look like a real person, but it's fun to just wear down the clothes I originally brought to rags. Ah, the pretend life of a vagabond who also can afford plane tickets.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Walzing for Sangria</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1i4H26NOtebLtAu4Tu_p_OeOQCpHuszxcSUIKhkKoetL-tZ28E4lD7ReFLz7nVedqeTfMfrwPgPtyVSQUS9XwAvuYAxx0Drsvhz1GzJKNbifqnoWuLw-n9zJLA_nHSE6CSrRWGu4h4O5/s1600/226853_555335121992_19103325_31606083_538414_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq1i4H26NOtebLtAu4Tu_p_OeOQCpHuszxcSUIKhkKoetL-tZ28E4lD7ReFLz7nVedqeTfMfrwPgPtyVSQUS9XwAvuYAxx0Drsvhz1GzJKNbifqnoWuLw-n9zJLA_nHSE6CSrRWGu4h4O5/s320/226853_555335121992_19103325_31606083_538414_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610589605476223762" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Anywho, after I packed up my shrinking inventory of earthly belongings, I made my way over to Little Europe to perform at a pizzeria. Emily Walz, the former Carl I mentioned in the last post, joined me and we sang outside of the place to an audience of her foreign friends. We did stuff from <span style="font-style: italic;">Fire and Rain </span>to a bluegrass version of TLC's <span style="font-style: italic;">Waterfalls.</span> We only played for a little over half an hour and made the equivalent of 30 US dollars. Sure, it was paid in pizza and sangria, but I decided to calculate this as I made 30 bucks an hour (double for one hour, then divide by two to split with Emily). Suck it, minimum wage! Also the owner liked it and invited us back anytime. Too bad I had a plane to catch in twelve hours.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">From Fire and Rain to Hydro and Pyro</span><br /><br />After saying a final good bye to Emily and co., I rushed home, mando in tow, to make it back by 10 because Tree's mom said I HAD TO be back by 10. She was dressed in a nice qipao, so I suspected trouble. I was sweaty from carrying my mandocello across town, but before I caught my breath she exclaimed, "Get in the car, we're late!" But then remembered herself and we each chugged two glasses of water before heading to the garage, my stomach audibly sloshing. We parked in a dark alley and entered a wheat packing plant. We went up a rickety ladder into what looked like an empty living room with a soap opera playing on the TV. We went up another ladder and arrived in a (secret?) Daoist temple. It turns out that I was to be baptized into Daoism, specifically a branch that encourages mystical hydrology. They took down important facts like my Chinese name, my birth date and my cell phone number. These digits were calculated and a secret message was written on a piece of parchment. I recited a prayer which I didn't understand and then stared at the flame above a Buddha statue as a priest burned the parchment in my hands. Startled, I tossed the flaming paper at an ash tray and the priest and his assistants nodded their approval. What? Then they told me they would test my faith. They prayed and flicked a lit incense stick between my eyes. I smelled some hair singeing but I decided it was probably best to burn off any unibrowage that was growing there anyway. My lack of reaction, mainly due to shock at where I had ended up, convinced them that I was a very devout Daoist.<br /><br />Then they gave me the three treasures. The first was a secret hand position that I can use to protect my heart and soul in times of trouble, though I think Kevlar probably works better. The second treasure was the password to heaven which I am NOT ALLOWED TO REPEAT TO ANYONE!!!! In fact I can only say it in my head, never aloud. But when I die, I can be sure that the Gatekeepers will ask for it. The third treasure was a membership card which is actually quite useful because it can get me free housing at any of their associated Daoist temples (now accepted in over 70 countries!).<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoqZ3GRDeulf4usrRFDITiLftjShv6JDqKIv1dYThLnaujR3bVzyGEQgoK45ojwhuKdvf3YodZ2QxRCuq0J34Q0BHCWMrfEglqsndA5pw70FOA3Y24o7jWmoM_p8Ex822Q4odSZsSsDkE/s1600/Postcards+Home.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxoqZ3GRDeulf4usrRFDITiLftjShv6JDqKIv1dYThLnaujR3bVzyGEQgoK45ojwhuKdvf3YodZ2QxRCuq0J34Q0BHCWMrfEglqsndA5pw70FOA3Y24o7jWmoM_p8Ex822Q4odSZsSsDkE/s320/Postcards+Home.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610590437152594594" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I sighed on the drive home. This forced, unexplained baptism really wasn't the way to go about things. But I complied to make Tree's mom happy who was now sure that I could now travel the world without fear of harm. I talked to Tree later asking if he had ever been baptized by fire into mystical hydrology. He said, "Yeah, of course." But on the ride home he had tossed his membership card out the window.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Am Magic<br /><br /></span>I didn't sleep the night before leaving Taichung so I could cry more easily at the airport to get my zhongruan through. I also purposely bought my ticket last minute from Eva Airlines, despite my previous issues with them, since they have the cheapest tickets to Hong Kong by far. They have flights every 2 hours to Hong Kong and they rarely fill up, so I hoped that I wouldn't encounter their full flight policy issues. I encountered no resistance at the check in desk, but I remained on high alert, all too aware of how one agitated stickler can ruin my airport experience. <br /><br />At the gate, a recording played on repeat, "Do not line up. We are not boarding at this time. Please have patience." Despite the trilingual transmission, people were cued up around the corner. I was sitting down, trying to comply with the man, when an attendant approached me. "That's a large instrument you have there, sir. . . We are worried it won't fit." I felt tears hit my cheeks. Wow, this response is getting ridiculously automatic, but he wasn't done yet. "Would it be alright if you boarded first so you can look for a place for your musical instrument? Sorry for the inconvenience." I dried my eyes and assured him that I would be fine with this inconvenience. I was guided passed the hoard of hissing Hong Kongers. I could only think one thing as I walked onto the empty plane, I. Am. Magic. I stowed my instrument, fell asleep instantly, and awoke in Hong Kong.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRk7TD_O0H3SrJzTidbom4yZXbx6CNqiHPjqaB9kWrvEC3AFeXzH0Oz4EQtgXGkmEVDKY8kASZ-FvXj_ZPbpLn06DACY-yDwS5V8WH9ZhSeSK5HZ-ritMHHaFB712EkQudx_SU5TeVqDQ/s1600/IMG_1272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcRk7TD_O0H3SrJzTidbom4yZXbx6CNqiHPjqaB9kWrvEC3AFeXzH0Oz4EQtgXGkmEVDKY8kASZ-FvXj_ZPbpLn06DACY-yDwS5V8WH9ZhSeSK5HZ-ritMHHaFB712EkQudx_SU5TeVqDQ/s320/IMG_1272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610584987778386610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hit the Ground Running</span><br /><br />I wonder if I've taken some of the joy out of traveling by doing too much Google Maps research before going to a place. I like to make it look like I magically know the route to take. I also feel like this helps me avoid people who want to pickpocket me or try to sell me a fake Rolex or prostitute (I'm opposed to prostitutes in general, be they real or fake). But as with many things, making it look effortless takes a lot of work. I spent the whole night before leaving, researching exactly how to get to my destination. When I landed I bypassed all of the lost new arrivals craning their necks looking for signs and walked to the nearest 7/11, bought a SIM card, called my contact and told him I would be at Hung Hom Station in an hour. I walked to the ticket counter, bought my bus ticket and headed for bus A11 with a bored look on my face as if I did this commute every week. I scoffed at some lost looking Australians as they passed by me. <span style="font-style: italic;">Pshh, tourists</span>, I tutted. I was playing the role of a snob, but at what point does it become real? Eek! Maybe it's better to be a victim of crime than have these condescending thoughts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nzhjrRlCI77SR0f8m2VjLlPlts3MhTWxMtA6GlE5DTORRNW7Zc47N_TXMIs6H75CFsuzSpi3BxZhU-8qf4oKT494oMuJsHl-5RCdW2t2o0cUMW9dI5LoG3iL8ykbNr8Y0cEB_MyQyxzF/s1600/IMG_1290.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9nzhjrRlCI77SR0f8m2VjLlPlts3MhTWxMtA6GlE5DTORRNW7Zc47N_TXMIs6H75CFsuzSpi3BxZhU-8qf4oKT494oMuJsHl-5RCdW2t2o0cUMW9dI5LoG3iL8ykbNr8Y0cEB_MyQyxzF/s320/IMG_1290.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610589453275113890" border="0" /></a>The bus reminded me not to expectorate lest I be fined. Below is a sign which I didn't have to look at in real life since I'd already seen it on Google Maps.<br /><br />So I got to the station and met Rui's cousin who lives in Hong Kong. His coworker has a son who has a friend who needs a flatmate. Once again for those of you keeping score at home, my former classmate's cousin's coworker's son's friend was to be my new flatmate, so I can definitely trust him, right? I think I may actually be one degree closer to Kevin Bacon.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Emma, Not Sue</span><br /><br />Rui's cousin, Jack, led me to the apartment. It would end up costing about half as much as staying in the cheapest hostel, so I wondered how disgusting it might be. It turned out to be by far the best place I've stayed yet. It's on a food street and always smells like dim sum, sushi, or calzones depending on the hour. It has a guard downstairs, an elevator, and upstairs: AC, wi-fi, and a washing machine. I get my own room, but I have a flatmate who is a monolingual speaker of Cantonese. I figured there must some issue with him if he is subletting so cheaply. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fXNWJ_-DyE8F_8evvDXnExTBCwjHXBVavvZ6jG-qSkQhKXTbGahcIkgohWaWe2Bqav85Kvj-mNfJ4w9IlmynJVp5RR8kJPOFwuWpA2PHqg7RVCLKlUog1-rgOeH_9QBJ4BfSUL_kWBzv/s1600/IMG_1291.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fXNWJ_-DyE8F_8evvDXnExTBCwjHXBVavvZ6jG-qSkQhKXTbGahcIkgohWaWe2Bqav85Kvj-mNfJ4w9IlmynJVp5RR8kJPOFwuWpA2PHqg7RVCLKlUog1-rgOeH_9QBJ4BfSUL_kWBzv/s320/IMG_1291.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610589447841072866" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3d_YWrg9NW5obOjY318Pu8XyP5ugCeNxPt-E9IcJ4-aJcCEjg2asTlkaUy0s5E9RqXLROfrkK7CUyukvr2Shre6oOvPRXhorFIZGKLy6Rgvxs0HQuDcTXI1cJQmXqY7LXIkzVT4w641I/s1600/IMG_1292.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie3d_YWrg9NW5obOjY318Pu8XyP5ugCeNxPt-E9IcJ4-aJcCEjg2asTlkaUy0s5E9RqXLROfrkK7CUyukvr2Shre6oOvPRXhorFIZGKLy6Rgvxs0HQuDcTXI1cJQmXqY7LXIkzVT4w641I/s320/IMG_1292.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610589444589482658" border="0" /></a>Using Rui's cousin to translate, he said I would be a fine roommate if I promised to be clean. "Clean is very important!" I know nothing about him except for his compulsive cleanliness. I told him that between 8AM and 10PM I might play instruments. That was fine with him and we shook on it. He washed his hands with a wet nap after the shake.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOY1y-hWJGNogDTnNHcEK6D6lZYpZklGKEfl1Cv1Znf6lyBijpzIllpVDTKpKEwH6ZrwN4hpMjk2qS-GslySjSHp-Qpn65UZkjhGhWOsYCExnDyCywdj1VYiirnY7U_-ui4EtDgflJT2U/s1600/IMG_1295.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAOY1y-hWJGNogDTnNHcEK6D6lZYpZklGKEfl1Cv1Znf6lyBijpzIllpVDTKpKEwH6ZrwN4hpMjk2qS-GslySjSHp-Qpn65UZkjhGhWOsYCExnDyCywdj1VYiirnY7U_-ui4EtDgflJT2U/s320/IMG_1295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610589440636867138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Since I paid him for the 2 months, I have seen him only once. It was 3AM and I went to use the toilet, which he was scrubbing. I gestured and used Mandarin, which he can kind of understand but not speak, to indicate that I could help clean the apartment too. He understood and then his eyes went wide. "Nooo! I must clean!" Then he mustered a polite, "Thanks though," in Mandarin. I realized from his demeanor that he is a nice guy, but just straight up OCD about cleanliness. This works fine for me. Although I have been experimenting with the towel next to the electric kettle. I move it 45 degrees to the right every time I make tea. When I come back the next time, it is always moved back. As you can see from the photo above of my room, I do not suffer from OCD.<br /><br />The food street outside has lots of tasty foods. So far I've had sashimi, pineapple fried rice, calzones, fried dumplings, spicy noodles with eggplant, and hot pot. My plan to lose the weight gained in Taiwan = failed. Right next to the <span style="font-style: italic;">International Hot Dogs Cafe</span> is a pet store full of dogs. It's a little disconcerting. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KyPt3wa6KkZmY2DJgsMYrK0P3JNL5LRSHDMxl_uoqOjVDcRlmdhbV6xKqGpN_A24U4aGqTq-UuYUy1XxUJ-nBiJBEAosOzv41ByHL1RlRmmmf6SESX7psAEG2f7dBwqxTX3XqAObhT06/s1600/IMG_1287.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4KyPt3wa6KkZmY2DJgsMYrK0P3JNL5LRSHDMxl_uoqOjVDcRlmdhbV6xKqGpN_A24U4aGqTq-UuYUy1XxUJ-nBiJBEAosOzv41ByHL1RlRmmmf6SESX7psAEG2f7dBwqxTX3XqAObhT06/s320/IMG_1287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610588568055048146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGumqt_ibz57VroQ194CowU1JZPH-VkX1q_urJJ5c_Ve3en2fvOgRqbyeVptKO5DShwUeLxsvWLeFelUSMnjLbosZPEf3bo5nvG6QcuG2iCnEPLgdQkYYO9Zrqc0RGpsZTRMHkFirpGFF/s1600/IMG_1288.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGumqt_ibz57VroQ194CowU1JZPH-VkX1q_urJJ5c_Ve3en2fvOgRqbyeVptKO5DShwUeLxsvWLeFelUSMnjLbosZPEf3bo5nvG6QcuG2iCnEPLgdQkYYO9Zrqc0RGpsZTRMHkFirpGFF/s320/IMG_1288.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610588573826831154" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dissapouting<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2PfNgdED4JCq-U_Sg7I_RbvIPBgL36ty3t3Yi-7PSKandcZOw8uxb4Hj51FLw6PBS-3K9KTolRhUFlH9hyphenhyphen3gw_ONOElKwjFrswpxWG11aJQxyMMHp1ttGu6o32yqf5YWORpWMCJDL-XA/s1600/IMG_1273.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2PfNgdED4JCq-U_Sg7I_RbvIPBgL36ty3t3Yi-7PSKandcZOw8uxb4Hj51FLw6PBS-3K9KTolRhUFlH9hyphenhyphen3gw_ONOElKwjFrswpxWG11aJQxyMMHp1ttGu6o32yqf5YWORpWMCJDL-XA/s320/IMG_1273.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610584991841684850" border="0" /></a>Hong Kong, Xianggang in Mandarin, means fragrant harbor, but to be honest, the harbor kind of stinks these days due to sewage, pollution, and general sea stank. Nonetheless, the skyline is beautiful at night. There is a show every night at 8PM called the Symphony of Lights along the harbor-side walkway called the Avenue of Stars. The light show is possibly the lamest thing I've seen on my time abroad and that includes Germans trying to rap in English. The light show has a 10 minute preamble for all of its sponsors, then it is 3 minutes of half a dozen buildings flashing green lasers to really corny synthesized Chinese music. I think the light show would have been impressive when the first Tron movie came out, but definitely not now. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bFjUxppMFH9f40TZzzp7GKMkEx9eAxxndHkdIjsBHGKiAIvJ5YcRPm2B-XPPlTqK2Mkbr1hAM_PK1OnpkEpOXQUtbTGhaC0QeLHbecbtRZvMl0_YJaIYLTRMaLAeTKIIwPnoBVxuCtl1/s1600/IMG_1275.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bFjUxppMFH9f40TZzzp7GKMkEx9eAxxndHkdIjsBHGKiAIvJ5YcRPm2B-XPPlTqK2Mkbr1hAM_PK1OnpkEpOXQUtbTGhaC0QeLHbecbtRZvMl0_YJaIYLTRMaLAeTKIIwPnoBVxuCtl1/s320/IMG_1275.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610584994095811026" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeMte3dLxIVy744bGy65VLRAFTllzavhK_SJyzfxVgEOC83RTjEi85N81LyXkWAnAS95w9n-Si7Xy2GBzMZirROxYzUc9NoPboZm-2COnYk-Qdw7mSMTdYJn7A93Jr4XbmCyFr1ZwuBvB/s1600/IMG_1278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeMte3dLxIVy744bGy65VLRAFTllzavhK_SJyzfxVgEOC83RTjEi85N81LyXkWAnAS95w9n-Si7Xy2GBzMZirROxYzUc9NoPboZm-2COnYk-Qdw7mSMTdYJn7A93Jr4XbmCyFr1ZwuBvB/s320/IMG_1278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610584999603034050" border="0" /></a>Everyone who had gathered there walked away seeming disappointed. I don't think anyone ever sees this nonevent twice, so I guess you could accurately say it is a once in a lifetime experience.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Coming Up:<br /><br /></span>I'll report on living in Hong Kong, my first concerts, and the weird influences of English culture here. Earl Grey Milk Tea? Crazy.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-72652576554989287772011-05-11T04:52:00.000-07:002011-05-14T10:23:34.009-07:00I, Expat<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Redaction!</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1p8rIgxFMZdOjiwcsspQWU3Z-dxlyrVOKj2Bi1UZ-AS3NXa8W_GQFO5xQaofsZTYMP9kd0X4p14G4FX0ih1ntNAW2GnIGOXeQpTa7HjZeSnS4URz6p96jGfj-a5LWH-0nJuoMUkaQJ5g1/s1600/IMG_1153.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1p8rIgxFMZdOjiwcsspQWU3Z-dxlyrVOKj2Bi1UZ-AS3NXa8W_GQFO5xQaofsZTYMP9kd0X4p14G4FX0ih1ntNAW2GnIGOXeQpTa7HjZeSnS4URz6p96jGfj-a5LWH-0nJuoMUkaQJ5g1/s320/IMG_1153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606502177937781650" border="0" /></a><br /><span><br />Let me start off this post by apologizing for the last post's incorrect link. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span><br /><a href="http://dl.dropbox.com/u/20656001/coolmonkchant.m4a">http://dl.dropbox.com/u/20656001/coolmonkchant.m4a</a><br /><br />This link will treat your ears to a one minute snippet of an</span><span> extremely beautiful chant. And thanks for all of you who brought this to my attention.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Farthest Flung<br /></span><span><br />It turns out that I'm not the only Carl in Taichung! On </span><span>Facebook I saw that Emily Walz had entered the Carleton Alumni farthest flung competition with Taichung, Taiwan (although she ultimately lost to someone in Singapore). I apologized for my web creepiness, friended her on Facebook, and we met up at the night markets. She was two years ahead of me but we had both played french horn in band together. She's here on a scholarship from the Taiwanese government to study Chinese language. Her boyfriend accompanied her and found a job teaching English.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8rWaDLj0q-aXHgEh5S0JkVsp1QYazQns-prTJmikuEOwWOaOfAPGucOELbA8bvkfCM-fmlroASeyVUn9OB7XjgFh2lky908KX8dJn5wqVBg1mlGwB9V2jUi92i2tnia0PeaP2xrk7q5D/s1600/DSC04694.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO8rWaDLj0q-aXHgEh5S0JkVsp1QYazQns-prTJmikuEOwWOaOfAPGucOELbA8bvkfCM-fmlroASeyVUn9OB7XjgFh2lky908KX8dJn5wqVBg1mlGwB9V2jUi92i2tnia0PeaP2xrk7q5D/s320/DSC04694.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606617750689035218" border="0" /></a><br /><span>I asked Emily what she had been eating, since eating is pretty much the number one (read: only) thing to do in Taichung. She said that she'd mainly been cooking at home since she had a kitchen. Unacceptable! I made it my mission to take her around to my favorite food stands and forced her to eat things like stinky tofu which she attempted to claim to like through a wrinkled nose, teary eyes, and a deliberate gulp. I tried to add more spice to her tofu to cover up the stank, but this only caused her more pain because she is from Minnesota. Pictured here is a more friendly food that stinky toufu, a "French pizza wrap." As the sign boasts on the stand, it is "delicieux."<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8muFZP6mlUzeLOYmlhbTeGrMWwdBrkUhnTqbTVJnOfSQaBnqOzAEBwdkctAV6-m00VfUo3__85Qw9bRPCx99wa2436l5L6s-8NxS4ZDOjtdWLdRk4Wv5xXLYVYGOsLIJ_JX7KThOj3x4v/s1600/DSC04693.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8muFZP6mlUzeLOYmlhbTeGrMWwdBrkUhnTqbTVJnOfSQaBnqOzAEBwdkctAV6-m00VfUo3__85Qw9bRPCx99wa2436l5L6s-8NxS4ZDOjtdWLdRk4Wv5xXLYVYGOsLIJ_JX7KThOj3x4v/s320/DSC04693.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606617746326375746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span>I was more successful at showing her tea stands. Pictured right I am enjoying/choking on a sip of bubble tea. </span><span> And you have to try bubble tea here because Taichung is its birthplace. According to unverified legend, way back in the 1980s a store began adding the pearls or bubbles, which are usually tapioca, to cold milk tea. Add a thick straw and you get a delightful gulp of milk tea with some tapioca beads in your mouth to chew over. The first time I had bubble tea, I thought I was going to choke, but now I can't get enough. My other favorite at the tea stands is grapefruit juice mixed with green tea and drinkable yogurt. The shorthand they use to mark the cup is QQ, meaning roughly "cute." I translate this though as "chick drink." I don't care if the drinkable yoghurt items are generally for little kids or hormonal women, I gulp it greedily and gladly. I claim I need more dairy than regular people because I'm from Wisconsin when actually I’m borderline lactose intolerant and must endure gastrointestinal cramps equivalent to those seen in the <span style="font-style: italic;">Alien</span> movies to enjoy the taste of my yoghourt drink. I may have a problem actually.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2kr_jluw611EaEXBDzpldIgp9IZ5DloYW03W6472s56pRutmWET_i4rXZ_pGIxbZU3QZCbfMvpDrFhz4jFj0U6jx-5s5zpWYS5HRVgV6EUUcycp_bIvIHjcF6tfz0Q7qywTnMVeI0R1v/s1600/Quickly.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2kr_jluw611EaEXBDzpldIgp9IZ5DloYW03W6472s56pRutmWET_i4rXZ_pGIxbZU3QZCbfMvpDrFhz4jFj0U6jx-5s5zpWYS5HRVgV6EUUcycp_bIvIHjcF6tfz0Q7qywTnMVeI0R1v/s320/Quickly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606504185978320050" border="0" /></a><br /><span>I took Emily and her boyfriend, Wade, to Taipei to see the Chinese orchestra concert featuring Mongolian artists that I mentioned in the last post. It was good to be back in (I want to say myhometown but that’s not the right word) Taipei. I felt confident and relaxed back in the familiar MRT, to see the Ximen Ding pedestrian walkway where there’s tasty food and cool stuff being sold everywhere. But it was also refreshing to see how little I knew. I showed them my favorite eats in Ximen, but when stinky tofu, wheat noodle soup, roasted corn, and curried egg cakes weren’t to their taste I was at a loss for what else to eat there. Touring other people around forced me to realize what a creature of habit I am. I must make sure I don't get stuck in too many ruts, though that is preferable to being hit by cars.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Ex-Pat on Your Back<br /></span><span><br />Back in Taichung, Emily introduced me to a whole community of expatriots that I had no idea existed. They were English teachers and Nike factory workers. Both groups generally didn’t know any Chinese and function in Taichung by eating in Xiao Ouzhou, Little Europe, a series of streets, which cater Italian, French, and Greek cuisine. Everyone who works at these places is fluent in English to accommodate the typically monolingual clientele. Hiring skilled English speakers is easy because they can be paid more as the food at these places is ridiculously expensive. Meals often cost 10 or even 12 American dollars! And since these are bored Westerners they typically order at least double that much in alcohol. In short, the restaurants make a killing.<br /><br />I don’t know if you remember this or not loyal readers, but I have a major problem with racism in Asia. When I see other white people I typically become disgusted with them and imagine that they know nothing about the local culture and cannot speak any language but English and their attempts at using chopsticks resembles a myopic nurse's vain search for a vein. This is, of course, frequently untrue. So I was nervous as I entered the Londoner pub to join Emily and Wade for the English language trivia. But when I actually chatted with the other whities I realized, rather reluctantly, that they were people too. Mainly though it has been interesting to see this other way of living abroad. And really it’s the way that many Chinese abroad live in America. They just take their culture to the new country and build their own community to live in. Actually the biggest hypocrasy is that I searched for these Chinese communities in countries like Japan, France, Germany, Austria, and to some extent Singapore, but when I see my own people do it, I felt repulsion.<br /><br />After trivia we went to an Indian restaurant called Bollywood. The prices here were also too damn high.<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/x4o-TeMHys0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />Emily and Wade live in a house with other foreigners: a British couple and a South African. There are many white South Africans in Taichung who claim that their native language is English (although it’s really Afrikaans) in order to get the cushy job of English teacher. Taiwan’s standard of living is higher than South Africa, and Afrikaans is super closely related to English, so it’s a good deal for everyone.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDB235Rxjb4vfuwb9z2akGGdnUZrA5L2K3NpPPy4wqy70H0Q1j2J9aUgWIMEvmE942wue_bcm1eyZg8rl7UmlomvXsaO1yxfZPZhPy9j_G42nxzE3GrKYUWD8YxFfBl3oBDzXi4xJ890j/s1600/IMG_1266.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoDB235Rxjb4vfuwb9z2akGGdnUZrA5L2K3NpPPy4wqy70H0Q1j2J9aUgWIMEvmE942wue_bcm1eyZg8rl7UmlomvXsaO1yxfZPZhPy9j_G42nxzE3GrKYUWD8YxFfBl3oBDzXi4xJ890j/s320/IMG_1266.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606502181216701458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbhHSbJlgrJLe2oBV3BLTCtPyuTB3IGJRLTkCHvkgVyIbbdYXIzEIbgrjxyiM3eglSxVopUuIs0-n1BhciDfqc7F7lyxKKOLO8_svxPEQEVFGqWgi78UzQPpYkVHl0R35p0oB-rIIiBQg/s1600/IMG_1258.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJbhHSbJlgrJLe2oBV3BLTCtPyuTB3IGJRLTkCHvkgVyIbbdYXIzEIbgrjxyiM3eglSxVopUuIs0-n1BhciDfqc7F7lyxKKOLO8_svxPEQEVFGqWgi78UzQPpYkVHl0R35p0oB-rIIiBQg/s320/IMG_1258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606502172378740642" border="0" /></a><br /><span><br />One of Emily’s friends goes running/jogging/walking in the countryside every weekend with a group of people. After the exercise they treat themselves to a scenic kegger. Last week though they, for reasons as equally confuddling to me as the hundreds of Taiwanese who witnessed it, all dressed in red dresses and ran from bar to bar, having a beer at each place before sprinting to the next location. Men and women revealed much skin and many donned neon green and purple wigs. There were also piggy-back rides and chicken fights. (Why is it when we carry each other we reference animals?) I followed the group for a bit, but felt awkward since I didn’t have a red dress on. Emily had offered me a red dress but I, surprised at my own prudishness, politely declined. The whole time I saw rampaging red dressed ruffians, I couldn’t help thinking, <span style="font-style: italic;">Westerners are so effing weird</span>.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF59lBR6ba3ilUrZm6gG-BLe_gUDpUWPIzIM7oO0xRrPJp5I3Vc7saBFjuJTj93vyV-kQjwa14H90TSGtE8llD4PYchBn_TpUXP-9AkbJWNFCoJEGSHAAJ1YoAM_m6dq1ugfG92yKCWPv9/s1600/IMG_1264.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF59lBR6ba3ilUrZm6gG-BLe_gUDpUWPIzIM7oO0xRrPJp5I3Vc7saBFjuJTj93vyV-kQjwa14H90TSGtE8llD4PYchBn_TpUXP-9AkbJWNFCoJEGSHAAJ1YoAM_m6dq1ugfG92yKCWPv9/s320/IMG_1264.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606502187952117170" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />The Real Nike Wives of Taichung<br /></span><span><br />I mentioned earlier that many of the foreigners in Taichung work at the Nike factory. They are designers and engineers mainly. Many of them are men who brought their purposely unemployed wives with them. These ladies spend their days beautifying their luxurious apartments with stainless steel appliances and being driven (they all have drivers!) around to their various appointments. One of these appointments is a book club which Emily belongs to. She reports back about their lavish lifestyles. The women all ask if she followed her boyfriend here, but she, proclaims as proudly as possible that her man followed her.<br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Singing for Slices<br /></span><span><br />Wow, I'm blogging about something recent now! Such a weird feeling. It's easy to recall details. Like right now I'm in a bit of pain from being sunburned. I slept in until 10 this morning and was burned by the sunlight coming in through the window. I. Am. Pathetic.<br /></span><br /><span>Anywho, last Monday Emily and I were dining in Little Europe and enjoying pizza and an enormous jug of sangria when the owner of Salud, a middle-aged Taiwanese woman who speaks English enthusiastically came out to shoot the breeze with us. She had asked us our ages when we ordered the pitcher (did I mention it was enormous?) of sangria and was shocked at the high numbers we responded with. She came back again and asked us where we were from. We said, "America." She said, "America?! But you look so young!" I didn't follow the semantics of that 'but,' but we assured her that despite our nationality we did appear youthful. When I told her I studied music she asked if I would play in the bar. I agreed to play my mando and sing with Emily. The owner agreed to give us pizza. So Emily and I have a paying gig! Sure it is in slices of pizza and pitchers of beer, but the pizza there is really good! Emily wondered if a world tour need to have multiple stops. Hmm. . . I guess first we need to work out our set list.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Back to the Present and the Future<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><span><br />I leave for Hong Kong on Monday. My time in Taiwan has again been amazing. Before my accident I was playing with a traditional nanguan ensemble. When I couldn't play, I supplemented my Taiwanese friends with a trip to a temple, a glimpse into the lives of expats here in Taichung and got to make a new good friend in Emily.<br /><br />Now, my hand has finally healed enough to be able to play again. My injury also delayed my departure from Taiwan because I wasn't strong enough to carry both my instruments through the airport. My hand is still numb along the index and middle fingers due to severed nerves, but it moves almost as good (Should I say "well?" That sounds so weird.) as new, so no complaints. I'm looking forward to my month and a half in Hong Kong. The last month may be spent in Tibet. I'll keep everyone updated!</span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-64805672873899944802011-05-04T04:44:00.000-07:002011-05-11T04:52:38.047-07:00Radioactive Refugee<span style="font-weight: bold;">Up and Atom!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7vaeuUXDKSZKXo59MGkqNX2lK-FHl3sJkrZin30vmJk2pQXJmenxl1ROWUMarx0gHgcneCV4HsqHdaPFontkKMzHuyI57xKCX9UJYViT5BJ7mu9wC1f_TSjjy5nQKqVn86_zsgCByKRM/s1600/IMG_1202.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl7vaeuUXDKSZKXo59MGkqNX2lK-FHl3sJkrZin30vmJk2pQXJmenxl1ROWUMarx0gHgcneCV4HsqHdaPFontkKMzHuyI57xKCX9UJYViT5BJ7mu9wC1f_TSjjy5nQKqVn86_zsgCByKRM/s320/IMG_1202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604218918672737170" border="0" /></a><br />I flew to friendly, familiar Formosa, freshly fled from the ravaged remains of radioactive Japan, jittery, jubilant and jam-packed with alliteration. At the airport I was scanned for radiation. I am clear! Can you prove you're not radioactive? Get tested! There’s just no reason not to.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If You’re Good To Mama. . . </span><br /><br />Being back in Taiwan was fantastic. It’s like if America and Japan had a baby and it speaks Chinese. But that really describes Taipei, the modern capitol. This time I decided to stay in Taichung. Taichung has more speakers of Taiwanese, the accent is thicker, and people are generally just a little more distant from the Western world. Since I already spent my rent for the month in Japan, I crashed at Tree’s family's apartment with his mom and sister.<br /><br />Tree’s mom needs to have a book written about her. My first morning back in Taiwan, I crept out to the bathroom at 6am and was surprised to see that Tree's mom was already awake. She wakes up at 5am everyday to begin drinking water. She is a “Mystical Hydrologist” meaning she believes in the healing and spiritual powers of drinking a shocking amount of water. She’s up to 4 gallons per day now.<br /><br />Do you have bad skin? Drink a gallon. Do you have a foul temper? Drink a gallon. Do you have liver cancer? Better drink two gallons. Are you barren? Drink this and you’ll be menstruating in no time. I tried to drink one gallon with her (for general health, not to encourage menstruation), but it just caused me to lie on my stomach moaning for an hour. I was an amateur in the presence of a master water drinker. I wondered if there were any competitions for drinking water, like the Golden Camels or something.<br /><br />By the way, I just call Tree’s mom "Mama" in my head because she only refers to herself as Mama. She doesn’t use her name or pesky first person pronouns. It’s just, “Mama feels hungry.” or, “Mama’s life is so hard right now.” She also refers to Tree’s older sister exclusively as Jiejie, or older sister. I guess she has taken on Tree’s perspective in the family. She calls Tree by his full name every time she calls him. It’s always, “Huang BuoShu! How much water have you drunk today?! Jiejie told Mama that Huang BuoShu isn’t drinking enough water! Mama says drink more water!”<br /><br />After my hour of moaning on the couch, I had a seven hour lesson from Mama on ancient Buddhist texts. I had to recite two rather long mantras at the end of my lesson and was assigned homework of reciting them 10 times every hour on the hour, but I was happy for the lesson. We had lots of bathroom breaks because our bladders were in overdrive from our water drinking. Listening to Mama talk for so long also helped me understand the local accent better. Every ch, sh, and zh has merged with c, s, and z respectively. Every f has become an h. L’s are so nasalized that they sound just like n’s. R’s are so lateral that they sound just like l’s. And my ears are unable to distinguish between b’s and p’s. It makes things crazy hard to understand.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Visit From the Monk Squad</span><br /><br />After my induction to mystical hyrdrology and the texts of Confucius, I practiced my instruments (and piano since they have one in their house!) and recited my mantras for about a week. Finally it was announced that I would be going to a temple. Mama drove me to Nantou near Sun Moon Lake (which always reminds me of Soleil Moon Frye).<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyQ_qU7fqFTmI8bS8tVj8M7NUYVB91YBrzFx6-lt9H0jeDD7tu2ymC8xmpt4luTrEKtszQTynBu36oP0317Jg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />The location is ridiculously beautiful. Unfortunately I only had my flip video on me. I was sort of abducted by Mama right when I woke up and didn't have time to charge my camera, so here's a panoramic video. It’s a giant temple in the middle of nowhere, just surrounded by mountains and grass and a little village. The monks traipsed around in black robes, looking more like Hogwarts students than the monks I usually imagine. We gathered at noon to eat a silent meal of plants that had never cast a shadow. Then we went into the prayer room and began chanting. We finished at 7, just in time for dinner. That was six and a half hours of chanting! The first hour I didn’t know what I was doing, where I should walk (there were many processionals), how I should hold the prayer book, or the tunes of the chants. But after an hour or so, I figured it out. The chants were sooo beautiful and nothing like the ones I had researched last summer. Many were jaunty and fun, and people sang harmonies. It seemed much more like folk music. It was impossible not to join in.<br /><br />After the first hour I felt I got the hang of it. After the second hour (and a bathroom break since I'm on the mystic hydrology program) I stopped wondering when it was going to end and just enjoyed having this time to reflect, contemplate, and not worry about planning things for the future. The only way I realized that time had passed between the second and sixth hour was when the sun set outside.<br /><br />After dinner I prayed 100 times to a goddess to change a bottle of water into healing holy water. I turned to Mama to see if she was ready to go. She was, but I would be staying here for a week to continue praying. Umm. . . what?! I told her that I had obligations, concerts I’d already bought tickets to, and after a week of silence, some people possibly would think I was dead.<br /><br />But I had already been promised to the monks and nuns. The crowd of monks and nuns in all black robes and shaved heads swelled around me. They ushered me away from Mama’s car. I was so freaked out by this Dementor swarm that the cat got my tongue and what little I could articulate was ignored. But just then a monk rushed forward and spoke very good English with me, although he told me his German was better. He had gotten a PhD in engineering in Germany and now was a monk here. He helped me clear up the misunderstanding. I was a little peeved that Mama promised me without telling me. But I managed to escape by promising that I would return. And I really wanted to despite that display of clinginess!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Good Concerts, Bad Karma</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZbv1vU8Lfd9h2pEXHqJMF-R9CItOV-70NG4oJOgSugGXc83dmBlWgvfX6zLAEi__5Hg0rKOEbs0_BOToPF3u6aA2vU8Bd6-KGw7bay2iObCCS9P1ksIQV1fxUTOd7_ljpfImdjUM4B-Q/s1600/IMG_1237.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpZbv1vU8Lfd9h2pEXHqJMF-R9CItOV-70NG4oJOgSugGXc83dmBlWgvfX6zLAEi__5Hg0rKOEbs0_BOToPF3u6aA2vU8Bd6-KGw7bay2iObCCS9P1ksIQV1fxUTOd7_ljpfImdjUM4B-Q/s320/IMG_1237.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604226580357776482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The only thing better than the food in Taiwan is the music scene. On the right you can see the night market filled with delicious, cheap, and relatively clean food.<br /><br />Taiwan has so many concert opportunities it’s impossible to see everything even if you're like me and that's all you really have to do. I went to see traditional performances with full Chinese orchestras, solo recitals for dizi, erhu, and piano. My favorite concert was played by the Taiwanese Chinese Orchestra, not to be confused with the National Chinese Orchestra. They had an amazing suona soloist and the second half they invited a Mongolian group much like Hanggai to play first by themselves and then with the full orchestra. It was fun to have known three of the six pieces they played because Hanggai plays similar versions of the traditional pieces.<br /><br />At a new compositions concert I was in awe of the world premiere pieces. Usually if you see a new performance for an orchestra in America, it's not really fun to listen to. The composers want to do something inventive and avoid cliche. Unfortunately the audience's ears usually aren't prepared to hear the 25 minutes of random clicking and atonal chords. The audience wants recognizable melody and if there's dissonance we want it to be followed by resolution. But really what an audience wants to hear is something that conveys emotions or a story or some piece of humanity. They generally don't care so much about excessive use of theory that makes the music sound unnatural. And the new composers' pieces gave us what we wanted, they all sounded very much like epic movie music. My favorite piece caused the audience to collectively gasp with sweeping arpeggios played by the full orchestra. Then slowly the players were filtered out until only one yanqin hammered away with one liuqin playing tremelo. The contrast gave me goosebumps.<br /><br />After the concert I discussed my favorites with 繆儀琳, an albino bamboo flute player. I had seen her around but never talked with her before. She made a joke about us both being the only whities at the concert. I decided we would make good friends. You can see her play an intense concerto here. <iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1pU6P_sTSo4" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />I finally made it to a performance of Taiwanese guahee opera and chatted with a bamboo flutist on crutches afterward. He told me about how the pieces are so familiar for the instrumentalists that they generally just improvise new parts to avoid death by boredom. So each performance is the same on stage, with the singers' pitches set in stone and each gesture carefully choreographed, but in the pit, it's more like jazz. I told him I was studying traditional music which I immediately regretted because he made a wild gesture of equal parts surprise and delight. Unfortunately the proportions switched to mainly just surprise as he toppled over backwards off of his crutches. The reason I mention this is that I think it may have caused my bad karma which led to the bad luck in the next section.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Series of Unfortunate Events<br /><br /></span><span>When I first started the Watson I took an unconscious ambulance ride to the hospital after passing out from dehydration. So it seemed fitting that on my return to Taiwan I took another little trip to the hospital.<br /></span><br /><span>A morning like any other. I was in the bathroom and attempted to take off my shirt to take a shower. But I was careless as I attempted this dangerous activity of disrobing and my hand was impaled by the jagged, broken remains of a ceramic cover to an exposed light bulb. While I do like how tall I feel in Asia, I now understand that being too large for rooms can be dangerous. I also understand why left-handed people tend not to live as long in this right-handed world.<br /><br />I withdrew my hand and looked at it. I could see the grey bone of my knuckle. That was surrounded by what looked like raw chicken meat. After staring shocked at my hand for a good 10 seconds, the blood finally seeped in to cover the grossness. But then the blood began spurting in violently powerful spurts. The cool part is that I could see my pulse increase as this freaked me out to a greater and greater extent. I threw my shirt back on, because even in emergencies I'm very modest, and asked Mama if she could give me a ride to the hospital. She was in the kitchen and screamed, "Oh no! It's so deep! Drink water! Drink water!" I calmly told her that I thought that this needed immediate stitching up and then apologized for accidentally squirting her in the face with blood. She made me pour my healing water on the wound but the wound continued to spatter the walls defiantly with my blood. Only then did she agreed to take me to the hospital. As she drove though I noticed we were not heading for the big Western hospital. She was taking me to a Chinese medicine place. Sigh. We went in but they told us to get ourselves to the big hospital because this was too much for herbs and prayers. I was beginning to feel dizzy so I resisted the urge to tell Mama, "Duh!"<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhcwy2rt_EKvC7JO6X3KpBKFf1ceQeepqEQjKzeWPHmMBDiCJSyutf0pukZLsE_VuxcQt_m_n7M3-lldPKHkVKoeABQYwWQBqTDgCFiqlH9TT3uCAn2HBgUSnmO7Xvd4LC3KlWylH4huJ/s1600/IMG_1240.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAhcwy2rt_EKvC7JO6X3KpBKFf1ceQeepqEQjKzeWPHmMBDiCJSyutf0pukZLsE_VuxcQt_m_n7M3-lldPKHkVKoeABQYwWQBqTDgCFiqlH9TT3uCAn2HBgUSnmO7Xvd4LC3KlWylH4huJ/s320/IMG_1240.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604226584959669970" border="0" /></a><br /><span>I ran in to the emergency room and the receptionists looked terrified. "Can you speak Chinese!?" they asked bizarrely flustered. My linguistic capabilities were apparently more of a concern than the pulsating wound under my blood-soaked towel. They ushered me to a bed and asked me to lie down. I looked at the sheet. There was a very large puddle of blood in the middle. "Umm. . . could I get clean sheets please?" They apologized embarrassed. My confidence in them slipped slightly so I decided to sneak these photos as evidence for my impending malpractice case.<br /><br />They then put a bucket under my arm for the blood and rinsed the wound with saline for an hour. I wondered how much blood I had left. I felt really dizzy. Finally they began stabbing my hand and fingers with a syringe of morphine until everything below my wrist was numb. Everything was carefully explained to the intern pictured above. Then they put in six stitches and charged me a whopping 30 dollars for the whole thing! But they apologized for the high price.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">You should see the other guy. . .</span><br /><span><br />Below is a comparison of the two of us after the fight. On top is my hand and on the bottom is the victorious ceramic that won the fight.<br /><br />Mama told me she thought it was really lucky that I had been doing so much Buddhist prayer because otherwise the wound would have been much worse. My mom thought that the wound was caused because Jesus was angry that I was cheating on Him. Who was right?<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3MTx4IuUnyEnfePPPBMASOcks6wSHOdrcSU9PC-153iiQnL9hEyMyT-6O1adXlSq3Y9Jkv83doxKeXmwVMzkkqijtBBtt32ywqh884GuAPI8VBC-Wde-b-cPoD7mcMoNhWG__Hzt2lZk/s1600/IMG_1244.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-3MTx4IuUnyEnfePPPBMASOcks6wSHOdrcSU9PC-153iiQnL9hEyMyT-6O1adXlSq3Y9Jkv83doxKeXmwVMzkkqijtBBtt32ywqh884GuAPI8VBC-Wde-b-cPoD7mcMoNhWG__Hzt2lZk/s320/IMG_1244.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604219525981994130" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeTeMcKFup7wHbEIaVrqJCRbLVV1grB8zHTgvof8xaNDV73tX0DO1A99_3mtZd1XXTabOb4kMjc9vRPN9i5BZjKJP7RQX8tzCe8imd3UJsOhR2Px8oOB6ABkNoHaSefAWjSzwLnQknDdH/s1600/IMG_1269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmeTeMcKFup7wHbEIaVrqJCRbLVV1grB8zHTgvof8xaNDV73tX0DO1A99_3mtZd1XXTabOb4kMjc9vRPN9i5BZjKJP7RQX8tzCe8imd3UJsOhR2Px8oOB6ABkNoHaSefAWjSzwLnQknDdH/s320/IMG_1269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604219518345000914" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So I lost my ability to play piano and fretted instruments. Typing was also difficult at first. I still had enough mobility to learn to play bamboo flute though, which was good because I had been neglecting it and now it was my only option.<br /><br />Today I hae the stitches out and have a very handsome scar that aches all the time. Some nerves were severed and I have no feeling along the insides of my index finger and middle finger. All of this from attempting to take a shower.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39_fneZS22P31_bhYU4UWbErChGQm0Ns21HCfvC-vRtrv0eGaI1ApPBgqAW0tV2jk1Q5F7-rqu7QJT4R1VO80w82umLzS83vbhY3SzG49OgNgAUmL3FZPBJMREXtiuoPXQZ9Nz8fBNzS7/s1600/IMG_1248.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj39_fneZS22P31_bhYU4UWbErChGQm0Ns21HCfvC-vRtrv0eGaI1ApPBgqAW0tV2jk1Q5F7-rqu7QJT4R1VO80w82umLzS83vbhY3SzG49OgNgAUmL3FZPBJMREXtiuoPXQZ9Nz8fBNzS7/s320/IMG_1248.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604219521653030274" border="0" /></a><br />My next accident occurred when I was late for a concert and chasing after a taxi and carelessly ran into traffic. Luckily another taxi hit me. I had just enough warning to jump so that I landed on the windshield. He screeched to a hault after I rode on his windshield for 10 feet or so and then I rolled onto the ground. The driver got out apologizing profusely, but it was totally my fault. I asked him if he could take me to the train station and he agreed to do it for free. I felt like this was a very fortunate incident until I tried to read my Kindle on the train. The screen was cracked.<br /><br />When I told Mama I got hit by a taxi she took me to this healing massage place. Basically you lie on a pile of pillows while they place vibrating foot massagers on the part of your body that is sick. Then they leave you in the dark for 30 minutes while the machines shake out the disease. As I was lying in the dark having my bruised thigh and back shaken into health, I couldn't help laughing. I never imagined this would be part of my Watson year. In the picture above you can see the healer carefully placing the foot massagers on Mama's ailing liver.<br /><br />The third bit of bad luck was when I was hit again by a car as I tried to cross the road. And again my new Kindle broke. Luckily it was under warrantee and Amazon sent me a third one. But this is really getting ridiculous. How many cats can you adopt at the shelter before they start rejecting you?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Light at the End of the Tunnel</span><br /><br />After all of this bad luck, I finally got some good news: I've been accepted to Oxford! So next October I'll be heading over to the oldest educational institution in the English-speaking world to read a masters in musicology. It's a huge relief to have plans solidified for next year and as someone mockingly pointed out to me it's a major step forward toward my not real goal of never spending any time in America again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-49988248885253417512011-04-26T00:51:00.000-07:002011-04-30T18:42:07.353-07:00Leaving So Soon?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6poHGVxzJZVT9xOF5D3sxyEkAdxL8chMAMOZRUPGaWADMztmRa4d7pJLC9yVLapCCLeToyY_dG8dh7-baynoKAodyC74St88smaSCESMq3W2DaUU8juttsEUlu8V9DLzZcc3dKV2GCFm/s1600/IMG_1061.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh6poHGVxzJZVT9xOF5D3sxyEkAdxL8chMAMOZRUPGaWADMztmRa4d7pJLC9yVLapCCLeToyY_dG8dh7-baynoKAodyC74St88smaSCESMq3W2DaUU8juttsEUlu8V9DLzZcc3dKV2GCFm/s320/IMG_1061.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599822521135210402" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shanghai Special</span><br /><br />On my layover in Shanghai, on top of the reminder of what it feels like to be under a communist regime, i.e. censored internet, I encountered this sign which I guess makes sense in Chinese but the English reminds me of the Twilight Zone's <span style="font-style: italic;">To Serve Man </span>episode. Run children! Run back to your parents!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sakura House</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJGF2QXg4c5YTCHljq6Nt7TPnHeWdaQBtaH8mSbbwfPg3OHth90rZJNONrqGSFnpdXWset-jnZRsBatBK0gACIS4PHvL20w1RScS5zQ6xFybeUF147vOUaWVTyN1hguZ6JXZxeT_lJt9l/s1600/IMG_1071.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJGF2QXg4c5YTCHljq6Nt7TPnHeWdaQBtaH8mSbbwfPg3OHth90rZJNONrqGSFnpdXWset-jnZRsBatBK0gACIS4PHvL20w1RScS5zQ6xFybeUF147vOUaWVTyN1hguZ6JXZxeT_lJt9l/s320/IMG_1071.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599814585444868322" border="0" /></a>I arrived in Japan the most prepared I'd ever been when arriving in a new country. This preparation was mainly due to fear. My Japanese is pretty terrible and I didn't trust myself to understand directions in the unlikely event that I managed to be understood when asking them. So as researched on the internets, I bought my ticket for Shinjuku Station and walked the four blocks, which I had memorized on Google Maps earlier, to Sakura House. Sakura House is a company that specializes in renting out rooms to desperate, clueless foreigners like me for one month at a time. I went in and got my keys and marveled at the staffers who not only adjusted their accents from British to English when they saw my passport, but also were speaking French, Korean, and Arabic. I picked up my new keys and headed out for a 30 minute train ride to Kunitachi. I've reenacted my train journey in the video below. Please to enjoy!<br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dziUNT9z8TzeBix-Pk9VYaeJyy-ykPCgRZwJZ4CqbxdGlO1F4bABN9FC0KCm8H5xfVSX83O_XbgqHm8IT_Vpw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Strangers on a Train</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRSe88VF_6ObvLP4wuuoaTFB-4sFJKUgH-dztRZMGL9HH0mmhbf6I5EdGscerKbhbxLOm_bWrdZaH-0CZkXbZAqHAQ8tAaUYBoYI53EtCqvwqxE3pCgMk4ratyCPAN2QZW4MpHTHL6mau/s1600/DenshaOtoko.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRSe88VF_6ObvLP4wuuoaTFB-4sFJKUgH-dztRZMGL9HH0mmhbf6I5EdGscerKbhbxLOm_bWrdZaH-0CZkXbZAqHAQ8tAaUYBoYI53EtCqvwqxE3pCgMk4ratyCPAN2QZW4MpHTHL6mau/s320/DenshaOtoko.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599814579492491602" border="0" /></a><br />On the train it is absolutely quiet and no one makes eye contact with anyone, not even their friends and family. I felt oddly normal despite being the only visible minority. Many people wear surgical masks. When I asked if this was for their own protection against disease and pollution or to protect others from their own sickness, my friends in Japan decided that either explanation was totally possible. I was disappointed that no one stared at me, not evenly discreetly! Books are covered with cloth so you can't tell what people are reading. Telephones are never talked on and if you want to text then you need to sit in a special area of the train. There are even women only cars for those who are afraid of being harassed.<br /><br />Speaking of being assaulted on trains, if you want to see a good movie about train culture and general Japanese shyness try to find <span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja">電車男 Train Man. </span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbXIhGPJ7qnk-kEGgcjwkQc7LgXg4wZoTH_XjAdqA31_vXsTvAiRjOaC7kcQ3GaG776cE_tT7-u_NsLg32rCLsV1XhGs2AzLNB4t09XUKM7x1ekSczhDkDD23i7YtiA3AhI8_H_WQ7vFv/s1600/spe_takayuki.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbbXIhGPJ7qnk-kEGgcjwkQc7LgXg4wZoTH_XjAdqA31_vXsTvAiRjOaC7kcQ3GaG776cE_tT7-u_NsLg32rCLsV1XhGs2AzLNB4t09XUKM7x1ekSczhDkDD23i7YtiA3AhI8_H_WQ7vFv/s320/spe_takayuki.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599829828128408514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja">It's about a nerdy dude who saves an attractive woman from being harassed by a drunkard on a trai</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja">n. They begin dating in typical rom-com fashion. Despite it's predictability, it's really interesting. Watching it, I realized that this movie has been made countless times from a woman's perspective. </span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja"> The woman with major self esteem issues consults her friends about her insecurities and gets tips on how to make herself more attractive (surprisingly whether</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja"> you are a man or a woman the way to become attractive is to switch to co</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja">ntacts, get a fashionable haircut and wear clothes that show off your smokin' hot bod that you happen to have and haven't achieved with the help of a strict diet or a personal trainer). So the twist here is that it's the man who is insecure and his friends are all</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="t_nihongo_kanji" lang="ja"> in a chatroom instead of at the woman's high power job as an editor of a magazine. In the second picture he has gone through his transformation. Not pictured is his new fashion choice to not wear pants with a waist above his collar bone.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Home is Where You Hang Your Surgical Mask</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Mt-S_4HfGTz8JTsVrtreZjseC3Ao1ygzbuwSROhyk7qlMFHcihwr5NbAumUiG9bPAmshmrFULmW863yhSOfAihElSWHomd1FjF3jWPnyqCZww32pA7XrvvO4xC0u5RbLhSubA9bnM_qY/s1600/IMG_1197.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Mt-S_4HfGTz8JTsVrtreZjseC3Ao1ygzbuwSROhyk7qlMFHcihwr5NbAumUiG9bPAmshmrFULmW863yhSOfAihElSWHomd1FjF3jWPnyqCZww32pA7XrvvO4xC0u5RbLhSubA9bnM_qY/s320/IMG_1197.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599822509167326274" border="0" /></a><br />I walked through the quaint suburb of Kunitachi, passing gardens with brick walls and surnames printed in Kanji and Roman letters. It was excellent practice for my Kanji reading skills, but I got some nervous smiles from my new neighbors as I paused in front of their houses slowly and quietly reciting their family names. Eventually I made it up the hill to my apartment and I fell in love with my new home. It cost the same as my Taipei apartment but also featured a kitchen, complete with pots, a wok, kettle, microwave, toaster oven, fridge, and giant, scary butcher knives. The only downside was that I felt like I was too big for the airplane sized bathroom. My legs were too long to close the door while I, umm. . . what's a classy euphemism for dropping a deuce? Also for maximum Japanese efficiency the faucet on the sink had a valve that when activated diverted the water to the shower. Interesting. Why didn't we think of that in America? Many things in Japan feel like they've been redesigned by aliens, aliens who are way smarter than us.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKx8GVxbXgzkkti0JC39o2UbFKhs30XeaPZWrawN19eVPDMHYlEYW6-ozox6cK_HCiox-ZvqktzAD-CcJyTMg76CDZMVv3st71rwvkx8Ifot3SnA8Qw_5Ev0_n7AnZH-WrwkXqapvXmqz/s1600/IMG_1196.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrKx8GVxbXgzkkti0JC39o2UbFKhs30XeaPZWrawN19eVPDMHYlEYW6-ozox6cK_HCiox-ZvqktzAD-CcJyTMg76CDZMVv3st71rwvkx8Ifot3SnA8Qw_5Ev0_n7AnZH-WrwkXqapvXmqz/s320/IMG_1196.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599822504312260930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Call from Cowford</span><br /><br />On my second day in Japan, I met up with Rui who played hulusi in the Chinese ensemble at Carleton when she was an exchange student during our junior year. She's originally from Yunnan China but moved to Japan in middle school. She just graduated from Waseda University in Tokyo and was planning on working in Shanghai doing translation work in the coming months. But in the meantime we went ukulele shopping. I had to use all of my self restraint to not purchase a xaphone or a xaphoon because I swore to myself that mandocello would be my last new instrument. See the video below if you somehow don't know what a xaphoon is or if you enjoy laughing at ridiculous European men in fishing hats. Finally you should just youtube xaphoon if you want to see very unique people expressing themselves.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/HGHa790spts" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />Later Rui and I found a cafe with a never ending (nonalcoholic) beverage bar with lots of neon green drinks. We enjoyed our beverages as we caught up on each other's lives. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglc_5yrcJlYME7IViqhLkaBEaaVRK7AqUdIf3rKO0ojQkSvO3lWrO8WfACvqKunUYwZ9imznGgyb8gZ7IFCKq9P_puoSxWd7CcWO_BWfmcRk-ymSj4wpWNq13q-xhlofGuAxh9mwnFtfR-/s1600/IMG_1074.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglc_5yrcJlYME7IViqhLkaBEaaVRK7AqUdIf3rKO0ojQkSvO3lWrO8WfACvqKunUYwZ9imznGgyb8gZ7IFCKq9P_puoSxWd7CcWO_BWfmcRk-ymSj4wpWNq13q-xhlofGuAxh9mwnFtfR-/s320/IMG_1074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599839120215795362" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Rui was showing me other highlights of Tokyo when I got an URGENT! email from Oxford. They wanted to interview me on Skype at 11PM Japanese time. So I abandoned Rui and rushed back to my apartment. I sprinted home and arrived just in time for my interview, wheezing and sweating profusely. I tried to come off charming but the open mouth gasping made me seem absurdly creepy and maladjusted. I told them some basics about me and I hope I got my name right but who can say. They asked me about what my research plans would be in the UK and I mumbled off some convoluted description of plans to study Taiwanese and Mainland Chinese musicians in London. I tried desperately not to roll my eyes at my own stupidity as I mumbled through this totally unprepared thesis plan. The only saving grace was that one of the two interviewers was from Wisconsin and knew what a cheesehead was. Thank God, someone who speaks American.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Udon, You Didn't!</span><br /><br />I still had a week before I was to begin working with the international school in Yokohama. There I was going to volunteer with the music program which teaches Japanese music in English. My plan was to share some information on Chinese music and learn as much as possible about Japanese traditions. So I took the chance to meet Rui frequently and make plans to visit Jen, my former Japanese tutor and linguistics classmate. She was living in Kyoto working for the Japanese government because her Japanese is so awesome!<br /><br />The next day Rui, who had also applied to Oxford for next year, and I commiserated over our low chances for entry over delicious hot bowls of udon noodles in tasty curry broths. We laughed at our realization that the Chinese translation of Oxford, 牛津, could just as easily be translated as Cowford. Since we were speaking spitefully of the dreaming spires this feminization of the place seemed very appropriate. Hyped up on MSG and malice we went to karaoke and practiced our singing skills. The best song Rui taught me was about a woman dutifully cleaning toilets to become like a beautiful goddess.<br /><br />Rui also revealed that after only 2 days with her ukulele she could already play and sing a bunch of pieces. We agreed to meet and play the next day when I would drag my giant mandocello to a park. This never happened because. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shinjuku, Rattle, and Roll</span><br /><br />As I'm sure you read about endlessly in the news, there was a huge earthquake in Japan last month! I was in my apartment and it was absolutely terrifying. The ground shook as it normally does during the mini earthquakes that I'd felt in Taiwan, but I had never experienced the rolling feeling of going up and down hills in a roller coaster. It was obvious that this was really intense, and I wanted to head for the door but I honestly wasn't coordinated enough to stand up. The quake went on for 3 minutes which is a really really long time when you are convinced you're going to die the whole time. But after it was over and the only damage was that a mirror fell off my wall and cracked, I figured it couldn't have really been that bad. I wondered if this was sort of a weekly occurance. I couldn't go out to Shinjuku to a Chinese instrument store as I had previously planned because the trains weren't running. People were stranded all day until buses finally began shuttling everyone home. But around Kunitachi it was business as usual except for the aftershocks which occurred about every two hours.<br /><br />As I meandered around the shopping district of Kunitachi Station, Rui called me and I found out about the tsunami. Right after the earthquake she and her parents had run to their emergency centers which was a large middle school gym. They tried to stay there but they were kicked out because the officials thought their house was safer. There was no danger of tsunami in Tokyo just fear that your house would collapse on you. However, Japan is probably the most prepared country in the world for natural disasters. The buildings are built to withstand earthquakes, even this the most powerful earthquake to hit Japan since we began recording earthquake strength, and the people are drilled on what to do in case of emergency starting in elementary school. Rui urged me to buy supplies for several days at 7/11 and figure out where my emergency zone was. I complied, but thought she must be overreacting.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSd-JxZGlh_r5S_7GO2rA7OJ-T2VyZuj8sL9QbgaxoiDUFQ2UX6UYYBad3wgb_Xde6A6GeX97TPiCvI7gZd0tgw-XMLigy_SU33N3jygePFAZ-xH5VJhbo1metjrn-pSkehab7i_ExQIpq/s1600/IMG_1174.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSd-JxZGlh_r5S_7GO2rA7OJ-T2VyZuj8sL9QbgaxoiDUFQ2UX6UYYBad3wgb_Xde6A6GeX97TPiCvI7gZd0tgw-XMLigy_SU33N3jygePFAZ-xH5VJhbo1metjrn-pSkehab7i_ExQIpq/s320/IMG_1174.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599858479074243650" border="0" /></a> In the picture you can see honey and jelly but just empty shelves where the fresh bread would be. Milk was also sold out. What were we supposed to put on our Doraemon cereal?!<br /><br />By that night, news of how devastating the tsunami had been began to spread. Men came to my apartment and deemed the building still structurally sound. But soon after, we received news that there would be scheduled blackouts since all of the nuclear reactors that supplied Tokyo with electric power were shut down. The first week these blackouts didn't come because people saved enough power to avoid them. Wow, I thought. I doubt that kind of conscientious conservation would have happened in America.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0_nFSGMwXVtrMqh_jVEWtrZBgOSoCh26BhvxRpsjP3aS9ty1OILKTGGpcirlCy83MAz96JI1QQv_IB75wsEWoYkx182n3MBj9rnndQL6YjWdZ84Yo8f-Vn6Q4uhQaovMRyII_nZ3b3uP/s1600/IMG_1178.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf0_nFSGMwXVtrMqh_jVEWtrZBgOSoCh26BhvxRpsjP3aS9ty1OILKTGGpcirlCy83MAz96JI1QQv_IB75wsEWoYkx182n3MBj9rnndQL6YjWdZ84Yo8f-Vn6Q4uhQaovMRyII_nZ3b3uP/s320/IMG_1178.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599858469383017698" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The picture here states, <span style="font-style: italic;">The batteries are sold out. Sorry for the inconvenience</span>. The irony was not lost on me as this was a convenience store.<br /><br />Then even worse news hit. There were nuclear power plants that were out of control and leaking radiation. Obviously any radiation is bad, but debates on whether people should go outside or not raged across the interwebs. 7/11s were already sold out of bread and dairy and egg products because they weren't getting daily shipments, but now anything with seaweed joined the list of bottled water, batteries and ramen as unobtainables. Why? Because seaweed contains high levels of iodine which is needed to prevent the uptake of the radioactive iodine isotopes you're possibly breathing in through your surgical mask at this very moment! I think it was reasonable to be afraid of the radiation if you were living in Tokyo, but I think it's really ridiculous that iodine tablets sold out in Chicago because people were worried about the radiation flying all around the world. Sunblock in the summer would probably be a better way to avoid radiation. But I admit I remain uneducated about radiation in general.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDKh7Oup3vY4YZ1ndBJdElKfg1-CTDIr2K1aPFh0QUzzo8jySX9DI-0SYVoe2w-WHhGNexUxTw-gtDmb3BBwmZDutZ0sL80SinP0cxmKlkKhyphenhyphenjLsQRhxxow-_aDsWNjhocfQjF9VpxIUL/s1600/IMG_1176.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwDKh7Oup3vY4YZ1ndBJdElKfg1-CTDIr2K1aPFh0QUzzo8jySX9DI-0SYVoe2w-WHhGNexUxTw-gtDmb3BBwmZDutZ0sL80SinP0cxmKlkKhyphenhyphenjLsQRhxxow-_aDsWNjhocfQjF9VpxIUL/s320/IMG_1176.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599858473179998098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The picture here, according to Jen, says, <span style="font-style: italic;">Due to the earthquake, supplies of some products are low. We are responding as rapidly as possible. We apologize for the inconvenience. -Seven Eleven</span>. Thanks for the translation Kurafuto-san!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Exodus at Narita</span><br /><br />The situation looked bad. I spent most of my time reading the news online, looking for some clue as to whether it was safe or not to go outside. Should I not turn on the heater? Will that bring in radioactive isotopes? Should I shower after coming in from outside? I had no idea.<br /><br />My parents told me to get the hell out of there. The Japanese power company was not being totally forthcoming. But I think a lot of Western media were exaggerating the dangers as they approached within 50 miles, sensed a change in the wind like Mary Poppins, and then fled to another location. Then my school contacted me and said they were <span style="font-style: italic;">tentative</span> about me joining them now and also that many spring festivals were being canceled. Finally, the State Department put Japan on its no travel list so I joined the ranks of the Watson Fellows who fled Egypt as a refugee and bought my ticket out of Japan.<br /><br />I still had things I wanted to do in Taiwan, a valid multi-entry visa, and a place to stay for free so, to the relief of my parents who didn't want me growing extra eyeballs, I booked a ticket out of Japan. I didn't get to say hello to Jen in Kyoto or goodbye to Rui, because her family suddenly returned to China to avoid growing their own mutant body parts, so I left my wonderful apartment halfway through my rented month without collecting the deposit and headed to the airport wondering whether or not my exposure to radiation had been sufficient to give me super powers.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPJXwKU_ShY4S0mkrHm89hN58DzagILrfmH7MUjeLk3Ju9VceyqLW1bHRhSAC6mNMYqqujRaUz5dRgoHEnAUq_z0DNxP6t5rVBOYK_NGIL-bDRO8fnb7EvLVB44dH-F4z9_196Zl8ABiy/s1600/IMG_1202.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTPJXwKU_ShY4S0mkrHm89hN58DzagILrfmH7MUjeLk3Ju9VceyqLW1bHRhSAC6mNMYqqujRaUz5dRgoHEnAUq_z0DNxP6t5rVBOYK_NGIL-bDRO8fnb7EvLVB44dH-F4z9_196Zl8ABiy/s320/IMG_1202.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599858462925265842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Alas, my hopes of obtaining super powers were dashed (and not the faster than a speeding bullet kind of dashed, but the much less fun throw your dreams into a toilet kind) when I was tested at the Taipei airport for radiation and came out clean. I was happy to be back in a place I understood, both contextually and linguistically, but also disappointed. Much like the castaways from LOST I had mixed feelings about leaving the <span style="font-style: italic;">Island</span>. I was sadistically looking forward to the confusions and embarrassments because they inevitably lead to learning something new. Also I came to the terrifying realization that my study of Japanese, the resulting lowering of my GPA and waking up 5 days a week at 7AM my whole senior year was basically all for nought. Oh well, Japan. I shall return!<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UWjBDPKGJPk" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-38421141885821350572011-04-13T09:53:00.000-07:002011-04-24T04:17:41.045-07:00Last Days in Singapore: Weather Hot, Music Not<span style="font-weight: bold;">Creativity: A Byproduct of Boredom</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvepwHTJJVeDuFQjdhx4YOhGVq_yj1jmtZ_XmgDIfG8d9ENcKal2VXk-p3d0ia9OdZ8TrefaosFcB8unIUOzQ37JVOyLOsgNBFiZSxiKUoGI_FTbLaw44j0Ra-5UDuscr4iwgjeiXMXICm/s1600/IMG_1018.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvepwHTJJVeDuFQjdhx4YOhGVq_yj1jmtZ_XmgDIfG8d9ENcKal2VXk-p3d0ia9OdZ8TrefaosFcB8unIUOzQ37JVOyLOsgNBFiZSxiKUoGI_FTbLaw44j0Ra-5UDuscr4iwgjeiXMXICm/s320/IMG_1018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597192221968554034" border="0" /></a><br />With a serious lack of musical adventures to be had in Singapore, I put my efforts into practicing, which I had just as seriously been neglecting ever since leaving Taiwan the first time. I finally mastered Night of the Torch Festival and the third movement of Reminiscences of Yunnan. I also was being exposed to a lot of American pop music from sitting in the lobby of the Fernloft, my hostel. The constant bombardment of Cee Lo, Lady Gaga, Adele (ok, yeah she's British, get off my case hipster!), and Bruno Mars made me curious as to whether I could adapt the synthesized tracks into the style of bluegrass traditionals. So I increased my abilities on mandocello as I folded Telephone, Forget You, Set Fire to the Rain, and Grenade into my ever expanding repertoire.<br /><br />Besides adapting tunes I also began writing songs for the first time. Miss Hannah Trees, f horn player, singer, and poet blogger, (treespoetry.wordpress.com check it out!) began sending me her poems which I promptly began writing music for. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo6kEtpEgv51QxvR__5HmNOOA8dUaDqNlsoWdDcRUYTEQxAvjfdEmEN8UuhzFO3wr2LKyXX4_o1ZdHaTNfN0tFcMqmGLoMoadVk738cY5sOjN6wYGMGxz9g4txUub7_NgC22RDvjXRA12/s1600/180519_10150106457734020_503859019_6129748_6677284_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo6kEtpEgv51QxvR__5HmNOOA8dUaDqNlsoWdDcRUYTEQxAvjfdEmEN8UuhzFO3wr2LKyXX4_o1ZdHaTNfN0tFcMqmGLoMoadVk738cY5sOjN6wYGMGxz9g4txUub7_NgC22RDvjXRA12/s320/180519_10150106457734020_503859019_6129748_6677284_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598560764764372786" border="0" /></a> She then took my butchered version and turned it into a recording of her lovely singing voice. This led to us planning to write, record, and release a folk album if I ever return to America. I was happy to finally be writing music, which had been one of my 4 secret ambitions of the Watson. (I can’t admit the other three because they are secret.) Finally, I was spending a lot of time writing pieces on Sibelius, music composition software. The picture below shows me fallen asleep in public after composing all night in a 24 hour cafe. A local is judgmentally pointing to me. Since I couldn’t get Miss Hannah Trees’ permission to post her recording of the song we wrote because, “Oh my Gawd, Andrew. It is not ready!” I’ll just post a Sibelius rendering and the poem that acts as the lyrics.<br /><br />http://tinyurl.com/tacitsib<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The muted wonder in your eyes tells me</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">that silence is a happy way to live</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">when all the world, in sunlight, is set free</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and all the noises charge the stage to give</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the concert of their lives. The quiet smile</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">upon your lips tells me to listen well</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">because the rests are lost in sound, and while</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">the notes are good, the rests have things to tell.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I know that you will never stop to talk</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and tell me of the silences you’ve heard</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">but I have watched the way you move and walk</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">and see that you don’t miss the spoken word.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For syllables are simply sounds, at best,</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">but you, in silence, shine above the rest.</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You're What the French Call </span><span style="font-weight: bold;" id="result_box" class="short_text" lang="fr"><span title="Click for alternate translations" class="hps">Incompétent</span></span>!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>One thing that surprised me a lot in Singapore was the incompetence of people who worked in stores in the malls and chain restaurants. In local stores further away from commercial districts I never ran into this problem. But if I were, say, at a Starbucks and I asked a barista to turn on the electrical socket that wasn't working, I would be informed that I would have to wait an hour for the manager to fix it because they had no idea how to do it. I went to a gym and caused a huge back up in the line because I wasn't handing over my membership card. I explained that this was my first time and asked how please sir could I join. The guy behind the counter begrudgingly doffed his headphones and explained that I would need to wait for the manager to arrive in 3 hours' time. So I can't just pay to enter once and try it out? I can't buy a monthly membership from you? You can't tell me ballpark how much a monthly membership would cost? The answer to all three questions was a resounding No. He could take down my phone number though. That was all he could do. And all I could do was truthfully tell him that I didn't have a phone number.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwihXmCGgOH2GB1DopcA8ScmgYYjDSTyJSk9k5im3ouwJRHXcrli189HAOHURyAULBbMbGmHuGxqMiIRk-GS215mcwC7Mpoiz_pZmTLJLFFey8_CkhNP-yPZwRK48A4KxldtqoED5givTJ/s1600/IMG_0868.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwihXmCGgOH2GB1DopcA8ScmgYYjDSTyJSk9k5im3ouwJRHXcrli189HAOHURyAULBbMbGmHuGxqMiIRk-GS215mcwC7Mpoiz_pZmTLJLFFey8_CkhNP-yPZwRK48A4KxldtqoED5givTJ/s320/IMG_0868.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597201375777149506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My favorite story of disservice though comes from the beach. I was quenched after radiating myself with carcinogens and tried to buy a Coke from a stand connected to a hotel nearby. Today's special was 2 Cokes for the price of 1. Great deal, but I just wanted the one Coke and didn't want to carry the second one around on the beach and back to my hostel and then drink it hot a week later. To the waiter this was unacceptable. I paid for the Coke, took one, and was followed by the waiter toting a second Coke. He shouted at me for as the crashing waves partially drown out his passionate pleas. "If you don't take it I will have no choice but to throw it away!" I looked back thinking he must have a really cool sense of humor, but he had already thrown the Coke into a nearby trashcan. For me it had been a joke, but for him it was his career.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hooligans Behind the Desk</span><br /><br />The staff at the Fernloft were a crack team/ridiculous assortment of characters. Unfortunately I arrived just when controversy struck. Shenna, my favorite staffer who often brought her young son and husband to work with her to watch American Idol on Singaporean TV (it airs the next day in Singapore!?), quit for ethical reasons over the way reservations were sometimes being lost. She found a better job at a café with fewer moral dilemmas and was much happier, but this process played out over a week in a series of malicious texts between the manager and Shenna that made for the manager create some really entertaining facial expressions of rage.<br /><br />So for most of the time I was there, the remainder of the staff had to work longer hours than they wanted. The morning shift guy, a Filipino of a mysterious age which I shall describe as old enough that it weirded me out that he used Facebook, was named Rolito. Everyday he saw me he would ask hopefully, ‘Checking out today?’ in a voice that started high and creakily rose higher. In the afternoons Grace came in. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjH4oUVzYu98Qs3kjVCbcqPph6g_PYgLMsD4kU5-zh-HdHboHk6JV7MVHPvEMBmpPO6RPK4eYWo-j-AQW2sHbfKwmNitZzFkUEoLiPN8Ew7CEYFbtV8mpcXuUHn4lv9eeLynb0DNiabKkM/s1600/167135_539242726282_19103325_31536494_4141896_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjH4oUVzYu98Qs3kjVCbcqPph6g_PYgLMsD4kU5-zh-HdHboHk6JV7MVHPvEMBmpPO6RPK4eYWo-j-AQW2sHbfKwmNitZzFkUEoLiPN8Ew7CEYFbtV8mpcXuUHn4lv9eeLynb0DNiabKkM/s320/167135_539242726282_19103325_31536494_4141896_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598560770977194514" border="0" /></a> She spoke Mandarin and would mock my bizarre accent. I always felt like I was on her bad side, but she may have just been weird. She would take 15 minute bathroom breaks at least twice an hour. The awkward thing about that was that the bathroom door was both in plain view and slightly translucent. This wasn’t a problem if you were near the toilet but she stood next to the door with her arms out like she was being crucified. Then after about 10 or 15 minutes she would let out a disturbingly loud burst of flatulence that would cut through the pop music playing on the radio. She washed her hands after this happened. I assume this was because she was aware we could hear the sink running and would know if she had washed her hands after going to the bathroom. But why then did she think we couldn’t hear her farting? In the evenings there was Jason whom I quickly learned to order laundry vouchers and Sprite from. He was too lazy to ring it up so he just gave them to me for free. He also didn't care if I took photos like this one of me pretending to electrocute myself by sticking a fork in the toaster.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">With Special Guests. . .</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> Americans</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkF7M8bucAFzXuDq8llusvX2liR4BcMSOx2YzFXdCYcnyKb4CKgjKUPOhC_6Xfw36XhLSZ6MP33xTuOCnKDSwkzi8ISC7k-038C9GfHBDrs1Oup_TQ73LPiA9COcaJHxehu44k13DJGzQ/s1600/180994_1526249648078_1589762411_31008128_4788358_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkF7M8bucAFzXuDq8llusvX2liR4BcMSOx2YzFXdCYcnyKb4CKgjKUPOhC_6Xfw36XhLSZ6MP33xTuOCnKDSwkzi8ISC7k-038C9GfHBDrs1Oup_TQ73LPiA9COcaJHxehu44k13DJGzQ/s320/180994_1526249648078_1589762411_31008128_4788358_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598560766377952482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Meanwhile, at the Fernloft I was no longer a guest star but a series regular! I took my duties quite seriously. For example, when no one was at the desk and a guest came to check in I would solemnly shout at the top of my lungs for Jeff or Jason to get their asses in there. If no one came then I would just go behind the desk and check them in myself, sell the guest some beer, or extend their stay on the dry-erase board. I started giving the backpackers helpful tips about places to eat and things to see. In short(s) I felt comfortable.<br /><br />The guests typically were half a big group of Indian tourists and half European couples backpacking through Asia and Australia. These people weren’t very interesting; they all sort of had the same story. The interesting people were the ones who made their way to the Fernloft but weren’t part of these groups. There was a British pub singer who was traveling to Indonesia to meet her boyfriend. She had stopped in Singapore though because of a dream she’d had where she wrote a successful pop single in Singapore. She was waiting for a few days for inspiration. She explained that in pubs she usually played with a guitar player and sang original sungs. I whipped out my mandocello and we jammed but whether or not she found her big break, I never found out because she had already left in the morning when I woke up. At the Fernloft there were lots of Hellos but rarely were there Good byes. No one got up that early unless they had to catch a plane.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HkJ8Mwv7jDB6asxpro3awZNimH3yPMEEbsoVuvmc4PPbyXtFoCupUjvF5LD7SxqwYFRhatA4NWS22HCDoMfp4XUCwIM75rPQD4p0GArICEAQybT5Hzj8x-kSF-IyeBYkelHgPb4Rqnor/s1600/IMG_0893.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-HkJ8Mwv7jDB6asxpro3awZNimH3yPMEEbsoVuvmc4PPbyXtFoCupUjvF5LD7SxqwYFRhatA4NWS22HCDoMfp4XUCwIM75rPQD4p0GArICEAQybT5Hzj8x-kSF-IyeBYkelHgPb4Rqnor/s320/IMG_0893.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597201380193494962" border="0" /></a>I met two American college students, Bernise and Thomas who were on vacation from studying abroad in Taipei. I met them by eavesdropping on their efforts to name all of the Pixar films in chronological order. I went in for the assist. They were both ABC and tried to use Chinese as a secret language to talk about whether they should invite me to go on a book hunt. I answered in Chinese that I’d love to go hunt books and then we immediately began sharing anecdotes about living in Taipei.<br /><br />Above, you can see Bernise in the daily see of breakfasting Indians. They aren’t afraid to bump up against your head when you’re sitting and trying to have a really serious conversation about the environmental implications of the cinematic masterpiece Wall-E.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2teOtIndqCHTf9hAUHr60r-wTbsYOxFDvz8K6R1vX0D1dWTYcEM8JQmU0jl0LS0XRXgCwk59nB2QPFkqIVe9nKtlbdWmINKHlUt33rDx3fypQiVj6bdf_1wtQk2oxLYzzFRznixxnxK41/s1600/IMG_0899.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2teOtIndqCHTf9hAUHr60r-wTbsYOxFDvz8K6R1vX0D1dWTYcEM8JQmU0jl0LS0XRXgCwk59nB2QPFkqIVe9nKtlbdWmINKHlUt33rDx3fypQiVj6bdf_1wtQk2oxLYzzFRznixxnxK41/s320/IMG_0899.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597201387678010226" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To the right you can also see the picture of Bernise and the left third of Thomas' face that I took when we found the secret bookshelf advertised on bookcrossing.com. This was in a café called ToastBox and it had dozens of books that you could take as long as you promised to ‘release’ the book back into the wild when you were done reading it. I left my copy of <span style="font-style: italic;">Sophie’s World</span> there and Bernise picked up a novel after carefully examining all of the options on the shelf.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Dutch</span><br /><br />There was an oddly high percentage of Dutch people passing through. I swear I met a giant proportion of their population. There are only 16 million of them (which is 16 million too many people who think Santa's helpers are 6 to 8 black men: http://tinyurl.com/5rjfmn) and it feels like I met at least half of the nation's entire population. But the reason for the rush to travel in the region is the historic link between Indonesia and the Netherlands. Even today over 2% of the population of the Netherlands is ethnically Indonesian. Below you can see pictured the three most interesting Dutch people I have met. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iyXSpteXZxpwsfR6AE_uqAumBe-egzdLxZNx4DcCnhQAB7JlNaoZ-BtRHQ7LqFJBgGsC5D0f1_IlsLYNQRCfmgXnYX8M6m1LRh7omRZJmho_B1-DmBwQmT0m2cI-Oas8IVC43V6JktQA/s1600/IMG_1040.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iyXSpteXZxpwsfR6AE_uqAumBe-egzdLxZNx4DcCnhQAB7JlNaoZ-BtRHQ7LqFJBgGsC5D0f1_IlsLYNQRCfmgXnYX8M6m1LRh7omRZJmho_B1-DmBwQmT0m2cI-Oas8IVC43V6JktQA/s320/IMG_1040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597192228076203250" border="0" /></a>I had an all night conversation with them and heard ridiculously fascinating tales of their lives.<br /><br />On the left is Bas who was traveling by himself and was attacked in Singapore by strangers who in English accused him HANDSOME MAN!!!! He developed a facial fungus on his face from a dirty towel in Thailand and the dollop of cream on his face that covered the fungus grew steadily larger during his stay at Fernloft. Hope that cleared up! But at least it protected him from accusations of attractiveness on his right side.<br /><br />The two ladies are traveling together. The girl in the middle is a current school teacher and former topless model who has appeared in FHM. She's on the computer showing us proof of her infamous in Holland, girl-next-door photo shoot. That's also why Bas looks soooo happy in this picture. The girl on the right is named Asia, which only seems fitting that she traveled to this corner of the world. Also besides her name she has a less important connection in that she is part Indonesian and exploring her roots and a proclivity towards relationships with Javanese men.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Designated Hair Holder</span><br /><br />Typically our weekend nights would include Jeff exclaiming, "Let's drink tonight!!!" Normally this was shortly followed by Jeff falling asleep on the couch. Occasionally heavily sin-taxed vodka would be bought and heavily consumed, especially if some naive guests volunteered to play a drinking game. Usually language and cultural barriers were sufficient to make no one understand the rules, well at least in the same way, but oddly the end result always seemed to be the same: black-out drunkenness. After playing the role of naive guest once, I decided it was much more fun to watch the others imbibe.<br /><br />The best part about staying sober around a much of boozers was that in a heavily repressed society like Singapore, one drop of alcohol made the secrets pour out. Once a Korean woman in her 30s sat me down and told me her life story for over 4 hours. She fervently asked me to secretly keep secret her most secretest secret: She was d*v*rc*d! It was hard on her, she said as she kissed her cross pendant, because she was such a devout Christian who was very wise about her decision making. But as one more vodka shot hit her lips shortly after the crucifix, she spewed details of sexual dissatisfaction with her ex-husband, one night stands in Australia, and an extremely convoluted story about how a Vietnamese couple tricked<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuLxtgij9Z8KXYFMv5fapVFIZK8QX1mKujWUh0EPi6EY06tgpDDlTDtiUArZXjv4zIgQ-Ui3K5z9FiGa1ruo_VdgNFBcMpDSg8h_FSMqu8CZ3e42IsEsZ_pNQgwKcpa0nA22jRb5GuZqS/s1600/IMG_0905.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRuLxtgij9Z8KXYFMv5fapVFIZK8QX1mKujWUh0EPi6EY06tgpDDlTDtiUArZXjv4zIgQ-Ui3K5z9FiGa1ruo_VdgNFBcMpDSg8h_FSMqu8CZ3e42IsEsZ_pNQgwKcpa0nA22jRb5GuZqS/s320/IMG_0905.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597192237146029858" border="0" /></a> her into giving them her life savings at a casino.<br /><br />At 3AM the Fernloft locks up for 3 hours until Rolito comes at 6AM to set up the bread and tea for breakfast. 3AM is therefore when Jeff and Jason get off work. Here we are, the regulars and the staff, at the 24 hours food court eating food so spicy that it burns when it comes out. We know this wasn't a drinking night because they were able to walk the three blocks to the food court.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Looming Future</span>: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Singapore's Last Gleaming</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYN4NFScTBQsqUz6HodDT2-bE4OfKyD-d4n5kmpvDQg9FmJBE1Fj2u3xCh4aN865zUC-d7nx9_0y-qVIZs0wNRgHUEosTNRVKXc7QwnUWIAy5NF64TlFae4bQCBeL2rXAQU2TtKWA2R1r/s1600/IMG_0990.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIYN4NFScTBQsqUz6HodDT2-bE4OfKyD-d4n5kmpvDQg9FmJBE1Fj2u3xCh4aN865zUC-d7nx9_0y-qVIZs0wNRgHUEosTNRVKXc7QwnUWIAy5NF64TlFae4bQCBeL2rXAQU2TtKWA2R1r/s320/IMG_0990.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598540297557006530" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of my most stressful nights in Singapore came from trying to arrange a Skype interview. I chose 5 in the afternoon Boston time/5 AM Singtime so that it would late enough that the drunken bros would be asleep but early enough that hippie backpackers hadn't yet stirred to unfurl their yoga mats, style their dreadlocks or check off another successful day of being a fourth level vegan on their I'm Better Than You Calendar. For all my freaking out about organizing this and dressing up my upper body which would be viewable on the cam, it ended up being a really chillaxed and awesome conversation. He offered me a place after 10 minutes of talking with me and I glowed and couldn't sleep for like 2 days because I was so relieved at having somewhere to go next year.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0D2DZl_7BURwrRyNcDb6_FJhdPMmLVavtmhPegZ5aAMFt_n1Oo8ip7HT9D8waLnUxGXcJcmHwS8swhPsEcFGuPeOnMwOAtH9IClvAGtIFOEDbJ3tHZAnvWrJbv3AG_bAFehNh2K4qp3QC/s1600/184335_1667025953223_1164535704_31525578_2274311_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0D2DZl_7BURwrRyNcDb6_FJhdPMmLVavtmhPegZ5aAMFt_n1Oo8ip7HT9D8waLnUxGXcJcmHwS8swhPsEcFGuPeOnMwOAtH9IClvAGtIFOEDbJ3tHZAnvWrJbv3AG_bAFehNh2K4qp3QC/s320/184335_1667025953223_1164535704_31525578_2274311_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598560758952845522" border="0" /></a></div><br />The next day I sleepily attended Chingay (thanks to Anke for the ticket!), a Singaporean festival with ancient roots dating back nearly 100 years. Originally it was to praise some Chinese deities but that's really really not important anymore. Today it is just a really gaudy parade that you have to buy tickets for. But it does hold the distinction of being one of the few multiracial celebrations in Singapore, so I suppose it serves the purpose of bringing together Malays, Chinese, Indians, and all the other dozens of ethnicities that live in Singapore.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The floats are intense! Many of them had singers, contortionists, fire-breathers, and gymnasts. There were representatives for hula hooping clubs, Taiwanese cheerleaders, francophones, and stormtroopers. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhy2pOu6AIzhydnbdK4xJnyBiwyAfECawpXat65gI4OqpZRwQfdZ2TGexRVxmk_PPkqCMR8OlvTybIbiLO4JWPUiUGeUZOCexOZlqwTNN7Ly-HvBHq0v9HN5k_H3jzbllNAzSbNZAN5m-/s1600/IMG_0927.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYhy2pOu6AIzhydnbdK4xJnyBiwyAfECawpXat65gI4OqpZRwQfdZ2TGexRVxmk_PPkqCMR8OlvTybIbiLO4JWPUiUGeUZOCexOZlqwTNN7Ly-HvBHq0v9HN5k_H3jzbllNAzSbNZAN5m-/s320/IMG_0927.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598540295737862450" border="0" /></a> About 1 in every 100 people living in Singapore was in it. The glowing orb represents the moon. One singer sang a Chinese pop song that had I played at Middlebury about remembering old friends looking at the moon and drinking. It seemed very appropriate to my own life at the moment as I was soon leaving Singapore. All of the Chinese music at Chingay were standards from the middle of the 20th Century. There wasn't a traditional instrument in sight.<br /><br /></div>Towards the end, fireworks started, paper lanterns were released into the air and confetti was sprayed via cannons everywhere. How this didn't result in a terrifying fire is still a mystery and a disappointment to me, but we all knew it was the grand finale because so many things had been shot into the air that we were temporarily blinded. When the smoldering confetti cleared, we headed out shaking our heads. We had really experienced something. But what the hell was it?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The day finally came. I packed up all of my things into my backpack, picked up my two instruments and walked out the door at 6AM just as Rolito was prepping breakfast. Anke had already returned to her life. It felt like a VH1 behind the music special: The band was breaking up. It used to be about the music, man, what happened. Now all you care about is booze and hot pants. Well maybe not so extreme. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqj4q3UXM_3K2xK2NC_iBUp7FV363QJF0Ym_lHDReKHeXSCDYR92AAeplwhdE0AP0gDqVGtSsjrjNeFF-i4SX4BNuWxv4x3Yn2bePmQ00KM5bquC71zCND45W1vkpDIHe6uVRb53DtzVm3/s1600/IMG_1030.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqj4q3UXM_3K2xK2NC_iBUp7FV363QJF0Ym_lHDReKHeXSCDYR92AAeplwhdE0AP0gDqVGtSsjrjNeFF-i4SX4BNuWxv4x3Yn2bePmQ00KM5bquC71zCND45W1vkpDIHe6uVRb53DtzVm3/s320/IMG_1030.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598542354537204322" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />It was definitely time to move on from Singapore. I was looking forward to playing in ensembles again. In Japan everything looked so promising. The cherry trees were starting to bloom and the spring festivals with their ancient traditions were just around the corner. At Changi Airport I boarded my plane filled with hope and dramatic irony.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-9397578904487876732011-04-10T09:07:00.000-07:002011-04-17T13:31:54.510-07:00Getting into the Sing' of Things<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Wanderer</span><br /><br />I had overstayed my maximum allowance of seven days at my first hostel so I moved on to stay in a total of 6 other hostels before settling on one I was happy with. I couldn’t rent a place because there was always a 3 month minimum and I was only staying two months in Singapore. My standards for a hostel were not high but all of the 6 US dollars per night hostels managed to disappoint them. The first hostel had a visible amount of bed bugs crawling on it and the blanket of writhing parasites was visible across the room.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuHA6CigdJP1-0q9qrMxHXTV-3GLV3bhzvc5zXgrrmvlc0EMPjC0hwr6FAfFQ7B_TtQAnSlz4-hRQZOna58OqAvGUYeWENDGNKDF2w-AgGsnazlhxJw4vNxEQxdz8_MF0RXMwxwA4vbA8/s1600/IMG_1047.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGuHA6CigdJP1-0q9qrMxHXTV-3GLV3bhzvc5zXgrrmvlc0EMPjC0hwr6FAfFQ7B_TtQAnSlz4-hRQZOna58OqAvGUYeWENDGNKDF2w-AgGsnazlhxJw4vNxEQxdz8_MF0RXMwxwA4vbA8/s320/IMG_1047.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596528450115602322" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The second hostel had a nauseating b.o. type stench that was so rank it made me woozy. The staff supplied me with a lemon aerosol can which I think just got me high instead of relieving the assault on my olfactory glands. However, I did stop complaining since I passed out. I think that method of dealing with the customer is similar to nurses turning up the morphine drips whenever patients hit the call button too often.<br /><br />The third place felt incredibly unsafe which is really quite a feat for nearly crime-free Singapore. I ended up taking my backpack and instruments with me whenever I left the room. The rest of the hostels have blended together in my mind but they all suffered from similar symptoms of inadequacy. One night I just took all of my stuff to McDonalds and worked out at a gym in the morning to have a shower. The staff at the gym thought it was a little odd that I arrived carrying two giant instruments and wearing my winter coat (since it wouldn't fit into my already overstuffed backpack and it was 98 degrees that day).<br /><br />I was homeless as I played Russian roulette with hostelworld.com. But, after 2 weeks of searching and moving all my worldly possessions to new locations nearly every day in the equatorial heat, I finally found Fernloft: Little India. Much like Moses, I was delivered to the Promised Land after suffering and wandering in the heat. Well okay, Moses died before he made it to the land of milk and honey, but, Magellan totally gets credit for circumnavigating the globe even though he died in the Phillipines. Um. . . what was my point again? Um, yeah. So there.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Meet the Cast</span><br /><br />I conceded to paying 10 US dollars per night and the quality that those extra $4 per night afforded was sooooo worth it. I could relax. It was clean and the atmosphere was hospitable. The best part of the Fernloft was the staff and the group of other longtime guests. Since I treat my whole life as one big project to collect interesting characters, this was ideal. And also it was just great to have people to talk to that didn't just stare at you like they wanted to wear your skin.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPh3sQHTD_f_F5mmEkxAOKOQ08EPql4xcMqtNbfGW4zrK825ldQmcjsJelUqx9CXZDFVs6Jh1kaimKiFDMwAsI7KDyHcytBcN4Wjwg2xo4O3zeo1VRYks1Kb2bU2Y2cfF3g_BrApWoYCD/s1600/33790_487607824474_780864474_6136187_6163423_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMPh3sQHTD_f_F5mmEkxAOKOQ08EPql4xcMqtNbfGW4zrK825ldQmcjsJelUqx9CXZDFVs6Jh1kaimKiFDMwAsI7KDyHcytBcN4Wjwg2xo4O3zeo1VRYks1Kb2bU2Y2cfF3g_BrApWoYCD/s320/33790_487607824474_780864474_6136187_6163423_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596529923862692274" border="0" /></a>There was Kit, the freelance computer programmer Swede, who can work from anywhere so he does. He was in Singapore chilling and hanging out with his lawyer girlfriend. When he needed cash he could be seen programming for 48 hours on end and then crashing for 24 hours.<br />(He has told me that he's currently looking for more work so if you want to hire him for your tech-related needs that I don't understand at all, contact him here http://scribblepadofdoom.tumblr.com. He looks reliable, right?)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrhL_SfdNVSdLHGS38C_MmWZ8Ys_Q9hbaY3D4EhCaLDG4CN-ys4W0OVrs-s6UDpX3rXpQWD_ffg9IO8ZnLCHFGJAixQ-nqW7Zs6pohGVR5jP_iI8SBkuSrvgWcLTo3Ypo5T0Q9AaiRsjw/s1600/7418_1146522540963_1164535704_30423589_1820855_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrhL_SfdNVSdLHGS38C_MmWZ8Ys_Q9hbaY3D4EhCaLDG4CN-ys4W0OVrs-s6UDpX3rXpQWD_ffg9IO8ZnLCHFGJAixQ-nqW7Zs6pohGVR5jP_iI8SBkuSrvgWcLTo3Ypo5T0Q9AaiRsjw/s320/7418_1146522540963_1164535704_30423589_1820855_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596529925441628642" border="0" /></a><br />Then there was Anke, the German fangirl, who spent her days watching youtube videos of male Asian popstars and getting tattoos in Japanese and Chinese of the lyrics she found particularly moving. Her nights were spent going to the popstars' concerts. In her real life she runs a bookstore and writes vampire novels, but as anyone will tell you, Singapore is not real life.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DdZdcffQloVmEgLPMkiy2aWpJO2c3TqiPm4B_AIsJ0ahP61EgufkAKh_z_hXOER5gz9ZF-u4Ylwhj5zbCBXcHBTac9QlPYlMVwtrckpRqa_hCys8dXNWx64IOERThdFyCODgkPlnhm41/s1600/IMG_1033.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 267px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5DdZdcffQloVmEgLPMkiy2aWpJO2c3TqiPm4B_AIsJ0ahP61EgufkAKh_z_hXOER5gz9ZF-u4Ylwhj5zbCBXcHBTac9QlPYlMVwtrckpRqa_hCys8dXNWx64IOERThdFyCODgkPlnhm41/s320/IMG_1033.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596528461439274946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There was also enigmatic Syarief, who was addicted to playing games on his iPhone and adhering stuffed animals to his face. His profile on Facebook revealed only pictures of food that he had taken all over the city-state. Over the course of 6 weeks I finally learned that he was from Bali and supposedly looking for a job as a chef but the only time he could be seen leaving the hostel was to go to dinner or a movie with his girlfriend. He had been at Fernloft since before Christmas. What was he really up to?<br /><br />Together we decided that the four of us and the staff needed to have a show based on our lives at Fernloft like the Love Boat where fancy guest stars would come in and out while a core cast mocked the newbies behind their backs and produced musical numbers. I haven't actually seen the Love Boat because I'm under 35 but that's what I imagine our new NBC sitcom, cleverly titled <span style="font-style: italic;">Hostel</span>, would be like. Though I guess our sitcom would need to have more of a Seinfeldian feel since we cruelly ridicule others and never learned any lessons. More on that in the next post!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Lost in Translation</span><br /><br />Instead of figuring out Singapore for myself, I watched movies about Singapore in Singapore, completely defeating the purpose of going there. When Kit's lawyer girlfriend, exhausted from her heavy schedule of wearing fancy clothes and riding up and down skyscraper elevators (my understanding of what fancy business people do ends once they enter their fancy buildings), baled on Syarief and Kit's double date, I got to take the pre-bought ticket. The movie was 笑着回家,Going Home. It was a Love Actually style movie about the New Year in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur and introduced different aspects of Singapore quite well, especially their corny sense of humo[u]r. Another movie that melodramatically gives you a slice of life in Singapore is 小孩不笨, I Not Stupid, about the high pressure of middle school education in Singapore. Subtitles are always necessary for these movies as mastery of 2 or even 3 languages isn't sufficient to cover everything everyone says.<br /><br />I actually had a big problem understanding people in Singapore. People communicate in different meshes of English, Tamil, Malay, and various Chinese dialects, generally using racial profiling to guess your language of choice. I think it wasn't until after my first month in Singapore that I could confidently go into a restaurant, even a Burger King or Starbucks and order my food. The embarrassing thing about that is that everyone was speaking to me in English. But the common questions like, "Up-size for you?" took me weeks to figure out. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8lmS3y92tqGZC1831JAHLdxQUjd-NJk-jK-TiOuDTfPMNZlkkuahpbvuFyL7DblbYNW72_y9hceHqA-bdzMg0coXz5blanWNHc0pJAkT17_JJz_X-s-bdoahbpJatjQLe8Rl5VDipCll/s1600/IMG_1044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp8lmS3y92tqGZC1831JAHLdxQUjd-NJk-jK-TiOuDTfPMNZlkkuahpbvuFyL7DblbYNW72_y9hceHqA-bdzMg0coXz5blanWNHc0pJAkT17_JJz_X-s-bdoahbpJatjQLe8Rl5VDipCll/s320/IMG_1044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596528453446385890" border="0" /></a> At McDonalds I once ordered an orange juice and got a Super-sized Big Mac meal instead. My American accent was difficult for people to deal with and people more often than not couldn't understand me unless I did an impression of Nigel Thornberry. But by the end of it, I managed to just ennunciate clearly which was much less embarrassing for everyone.<br /><br />I would like to point out in my defense the bizarre implications of the English in this sign. If I'm "Today's Special" then aren't they going to eat me???<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Don't Have a Cow: The Beef with Indians<br /><br /></span>At the Fernloft, it was quite common to hear statements, especially from the staff, that began, "I'm not a racist, BUT all Indians are. . ." Instead of being horrified by this I was generally just amused by the failed attempt at being politically correct. It was totally true that returning to the hostel on Sunday nights was always distinctly creepy because for reasons I didn't understand that was the night when literally 1000s of Indian men would be standing around the park between the MRT and the hostel. You would have to walk by group after group of them and the groups would without fail stop talking and stare unabashedly at passersby.<br /><br />But here's where I think the real beef with Indians comes from. Because the Fernloft is located in Little India and called Little India on hostelworld, tons of people from India that travel to Singapore stay there. And because the prices are so much more expensive than they would be in India, the Indian guests expect way more bang for their rupee. They expect it to be like a hotel. But that added <span style="font-style: italic;">s</span> added into the word means breakfast is tea and toast, not porridge and eggs, and shared bathrooms and limited security are to be expected. About half of the time, a giant group of traveling Indians would come in, all complain loudly (at a decibel level totally appropriate to their home country, but not to quiet Singapore) and totally overwhelm the staff with complaints about things that were not the staffs' fault. Much like not understanding the Sunday night park etiquette, this was simply a result of cultural differences in expectations and it caused both sides to become bitter.<br /><br />One time Anke complained loudly because a group of Indian men were being really loud outside her window at 2:30AM. One of the men attempted for an hour to engage her in a conversation to mollify the situation. He realized he'd caused her to have a negative impression toward his countrymen and he made a winning speech which, as any speech would be treated at 3:30AM by an exhausted she-German, was dismissed with a rant that included words like <span style="font-style: italic;">Du arschgefickter Hurenson</span> and<span style="font-style: italic;"> Kackbratze</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >. </span>Nevertheless, it was endearing to see things from this man's perspective, no matter how futile his efforts may have been. I was also happy that this bad example wasn't being set by overly loud and rambunctious Americans, as it inevitably would have been if any Americans ever traveled to Singapore.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Weather's Hot and the Music is. . . NOT!<br /><br /></span>I hung out at the Singapore Chinese Orchestra's headquarters striking up conversations with random musicians and getting as much information as I could from them. I managed to score some invitations to watch some rehearsals but I was strictly warned against recording. Lame. All efforts to ask orchestra members about their passion of music got me referenced to the official SCO mission statement or reiterations thereof. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqDB9Hll0Csx06bzI6e1t1irTamhz49dwvd-1g_wxIAQWhrCcydyIphu_FJzwSC7dHXL7tvsHcuBAZk4jF5vHIREpgQWu7_lGDL6_x1SP8XlO2w-Psgw8SlWotyvCH21G6dU5pGIGliei/s1600/IMG_0847.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJqDB9Hll0Csx06bzI6e1t1irTamhz49dwvd-1g_wxIAQWhrCcydyIphu_FJzwSC7dHXL7tvsHcuBAZk4jF5vHIREpgQWu7_lGDL6_x1SP8XlO2w-Psgw8SlWotyvCH21G6dU5pGIGliei/s320/IMG_0847.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596602418078509618" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I went to a Mandarin church service and when I was asked to explain myself, I ended up meeting a liuqin player who promptly invited me to her silk and bamboo ensemble rehearsal later that afternoon. I saw some familiar faces from the orchestra. It turns out that most of the orchestra members also keep busy with teaching lessons and playing in their own less formal/traditional groups. Inquiring about people that might play nonprofessionally sounded grim. Many schools have orchestras but interest is getting lower and many student players stop once they get to high school to focus on their intense studies. According to Huang Laoshi, serious music students tend to become professionals.<br /><br />A trip to visit a Singaporean ethnomusicologist led to similarly depressing results about the local music scene. There were people who played solos and played in school orchestras, but besides that, the music scene was downright pitiful compared to Taiwan or China.<br /><br />Looking at Singaporeans this doesn't come as much of a surprise. My general impression is that people are no-nonsense and goal-oriented. Most young people's parents or grandparents immigrated to Singapore to get a better life and therefore the younger generation faces much pressure to make good for their elders' sacrifices. They haven't yet reached the snowboarding generations of America. Kit and I agreed that sometimes walking around Singapore had a little bit of an Orwellian feel, and I think it's more because we are foreigners but it's sometimes hard to get to underneath average people's guard. Definitely not as immediately welcoming as Taiwan, but I think the former British colony has had more than their fair share of <span style="font-style: italic;">Ang Mao</span>, Westerners, (literally red-haired/furred).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Molting</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQLvUTaEbxo_62MZ_chWEvqvlwPeYhqg0LSAKbEkjja6tCQjZF7ixQ_rlMrOIjSSqTVacIklWiYPSIXJuZdab1iFEXvMm3EUtmp_zqF1nMMmgwYpl7mKxFj5nMh_6icGewyQeiO4v91AZ/s1600/IMG_0876.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQLvUTaEbxo_62MZ_chWEvqvlwPeYhqg0LSAKbEkjja6tCQjZF7ixQ_rlMrOIjSSqTVacIklWiYPSIXJuZdab1iFEXvMm3EUtmp_zqF1nMMmgwYpl7mKxFj5nMh_6icGewyQeiO4v91AZ/s320/IMG_0876.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596602429536970722" border="0" /></a>On the right you can see the festive beachware of the restroom sign people.<br /><br />With a relatively light load of concerts and groups to see practice (and none offering me a chance to play with them) I decided to take some time to read at the beach. I'm only human after all. Of course only tourists really went to the beach, but I didn't care. Singaporeans want white skin and I realized that even the hand soap at the hostel had skin whitener in it after my hands became noticeably lighter up to my wrists. While it was a great way to track if I was really cleaning the entire surface of my hand, it looked rather Michael Jacksonish.<br /><br />But being in direct sunlight came with its price since I have a ginger father (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EY39fkmqKBM). After applying only SPF 35 and being outside for 2 hours, all of my skin came off. It was an incredibly painful process that got consistently worse seven days in a row. When the skin came off it itched and it made sleeping absolutely impossible. I would beat my arms and chest with the back of my hand because the dying, drying skin was so itchy and painful. This gesture was accompanied by involuntarily release zombie-esque moans while doing this. It was, needless to say, extremely attractive. But after the initial burning and shedding of skin (so much so that you could tell where I had been sitting in the hostel) I finally mastered being in sunlight and my usual routine became getting up early to go to the beach to jog, followed by a swim in the ocean, a lie in the sun reading a book, and a delicious lunch before heading back to the hostel in time for the 2:30PM rain. This morning ritual which I kept up for about a month became the most relaxing time of my life. Nothing like doses of vitamin D and radiation to cure the winter blues.<br />Below you can see examples of the masterpieces you can create after taking sandcastle classes at the beach.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiJcEPn9jLP1l8f0b3sR1gBler6Qq3kl9YdS-sJZFFbh8wV6t2xpBjCAug8l6aXSwBJo7X7PIZQB46fRqjZuPKlCmLFyRKFO5NvC7eXUomOSa6KhyphenhyphenfwVbRQb8JQks3NyLjG3-i8ixpQEU/s1600/IMG_0877.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyiJcEPn9jLP1l8f0b3sR1gBler6Qq3kl9YdS-sJZFFbh8wV6t2xpBjCAug8l6aXSwBJo7X7PIZQB46fRqjZuPKlCmLFyRKFO5NvC7eXUomOSa6KhyphenhyphenfwVbRQb8JQks3NyLjG3-i8ixpQEU/s320/IMG_0877.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596602421560787442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Life was wonderfully free until. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Up next</span>, the final part of Singapore and moving on to pre-earthquake/tsunami Japan!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-35061818448976529052011-04-10T03:13:00.000-07:002011-04-12T23:35:40.908-07:00Singapore: Big Brother Hates Durian<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscSoqkNP3qGjuFIfaFNdZy3KO94LhxScsxXO636UkfGbaqknxCAvGNu5AEoW9e563x8qw3HGEqxwLqCImoTg8fGeINhnAziyuu-Wc1NtYuuozMrlto15rPdV3LIjEFWtCgrnbxX-LPsfo/s1600/eva-air-logo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiscSoqkNP3qGjuFIfaFNdZy3KO94LhxScsxXO636UkfGbaqknxCAvGNu5AEoW9e563x8qw3HGEqxwLqCImoTg8fGeINhnAziyuu-Wc1NtYuuozMrlto15rPdV3LIjEFWtCgrnbxX-LPsfo/s320/eva-air-logo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593940884907646306" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tears and Turbulance </span><br /><br />As per tradition, entering a new country meant trying to smuggle my over-sized zhongruan aboard an airline. I wish they had a the-costumer-is-always-right attitude towards these types of things as opposed to the if-you-disagree-you-will-be-cavity-searched attitude which I more frequently encounter. This time I ran into my favorite (read: most frustrating) response to my protests of, “But I read online that my zhongruan is within the specified parameters; that’s why I bought a ticket from your airline!” The reaction was, “That’s simply not true.”<br /><br />But this time, I was ready. I then Erin Brockoviched (why is spell check questioning my use of this verb?) the incriminating regulations onto the counter which I had printed out from their website. After a quick study and questioning of the authenticity of my documents, they responded with “Well, of course that’s usually true, but the flight is at capacity so we can’t be expected to deal with these extreme cases.” Oh. My. God. I paid my money, read the specifications, but failed to track the flight capacity. So I pulled out the tears. I’m getting really good at this, btw, which I’m sure is what the Watson people had in mind for my development as a global citizen, crying in airports to get my way. Philanthropy!<br /><br />After the tears, I was sort of late so I ran to my gate and asked the lady behind the counter (in Chinese) if we were boarding yet. Then this really Dwight Schrute type character manifested in front of me replying in English, “I am the person who speaks English!” Ok, way to be racist. If I didn’t have to show him my passport then I totally would have pretended to be a non-English speaker again. He told me I would have to buy another ticket for my zhongruan. I wished I’d hydrated better because my tear ducts were kind of dry but before I had time for my own ocular maneuver, I noticed the eye roll from the lady whom Mr. Schrute had interrupted. I asked Pam Beasley-Halpert in Chinese, “Is this really too big? It will fit. This is a 737, isn’t it?” Her expression told me I’d read the situation correctly. She told me to wait while she got the manager who I hoped was as flippant towards rules and regulations as Michael Scott. The manager looked at me, then the instrument, then scolded Dwight and told him to let the <span style="font-style: italic;">xiao pengyou</span> (elementary school-aged sympathetic friend) take his instrument aboard. I was the first one on the plane. Even before the first class and flight attendants and pilots. No one greeted me. It was weird. I thought I was late but now I realized how damn caustic and privileged I must have appeared, as I demanded to take on my over-sized instrument and board before everyone else. Whoops. But I was aboard with my instrument so I took my victory.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nomenclature </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnfP868mhZ7CZcXVsosy2D0rLvrtwPeAGxrWZyFrHM1I5yWH0T4fP_prXFPFpLA3GAb399r_CSj8BrnWq5IHxxNGiXdJ_UE5miGq2MDJKcSiBlJ_h2gVfbosHnvgz7D4yFocpUe_iSzHj/s1600/271-singapore-chinatown-food-street-19-jun-08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnfP868mhZ7CZcXVsosy2D0rLvrtwPeAGxrWZyFrHM1I5yWH0T4fP_prXFPFpLA3GAb399r_CSj8BrnWq5IHxxNGiXdJ_UE5miGq2MDJKcSiBlJ_h2gVfbosHnvgz7D4yFocpUe_iSzHj/s320/271-singapore-chinatown-food-street-19-jun-08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593940670690797714" border="0" /></a><br />So I landed in Changi Airport and took the MRT to Chinatown or as it is mysteriously called in Chinese 牛车水, which literally translates to Cow Car Water. Why? I noticed that other stops were translated by meaning like Little India, which is called 小印度. And sometimes the stops are translated to sound like the English name, like <span style="font-style: italic;">LaoMingDa</span>(劳明达)for Lavender. But <span style="font-style: italic;">NiuCheShui </span>(Cow Car Water) doesn’t sound like Chinatown. Any readers have an answer for this?<br /><br />I froze in the strong air conditioning provided by the MRT as the history of the small nation revealed itself at stops like Buangkok, Serangoon, Woodleigh, Potong Pasir, Ferrer Park, Little India, Dhoby Ghaut, Clarke Quay, and finally my new home Bovine Buggy Hydration, as Google translated for me when I tried to see if the character combination was some compound word I just hadn’t come across before.<br /><br />I wandered lost for a bit around my new home. After leaving the subterranean 60 degrees of the mall/MRT stop expanse, the 90 degree weather melted me. While lost though, I found the Singapore Chinese Orchestra headquarters. Awesome! Serendipity!<br /><br />I made my way past a food court of tongue-numbingly spicy curries and sizzling Indonesian satays and found my hostel. It only had a 9 person room and one of the beds was permanently occupied by <span style="font-style: italic;">Auntie</span> who runs the place. She accosted me for arriving late and for not being the older man that she had envisioned. She had spent a very long time waiting for a man not this boy before her! I apologized for both my tardiness and my baby face though I only felt sorry for the latter.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZUWUoCgJRUTT29HonBta_NppKUY14peM5UHT5bSnqkBVSpQ0oWfPBDOvQo5NYcF9m8sF8oKBqylWupeygXjVTDyClmSn78Y0XBhealc5WzWzJEnxwElOU5Ew7XWKPTH5Vswh1YyIL-D-/s1600/IMG_0864.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZUWUoCgJRUTT29HonBta_NppKUY14peM5UHT5bSnqkBVSpQ0oWfPBDOvQo5NYcF9m8sF8oKBqylWupeygXjVTDyClmSn78Y0XBhealc5WzWzJEnxwElOU5Ew7XWKPTH5Vswh1YyIL-D-/s320/IMG_0864.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593933255089004466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The hostel was amazing. I enjoyed pb and j toast and coffee on a balcony overlooking Chinatown while I had fantastic conversations with the stream of internationals that checked in. One German woman was a former journalist who was now just traveling throughout southeast Asia for fun. Well I suggested fun, but she corrected me with her deep, drawling, transatlantic Kim Catrall voice that she was seeking, <span style="font-style: italic;">Pleasure</span>. Other countless characters were from Holland, Scotland, New Zealand, Australia, Indonesia, and India. Americans seem not to travel to Singapore or southeast Asia in general. Such a stark contrast from Taiwan where white = American. I took the picture above near Chinatown but interpreted the meaning of the sign in the pic incorrectly.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gaga for New Year's</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_0LdbKy5DEe3ZlDEr_oWaDe_1D19o9nCkn46DVushEtf9-bSSbyM_7p6TCjk3mo8NwoHQ-Pa5PRS0akJBDeMUOxmjf8tNbUGrvJfJF5BgWI5QFc5c6e0Yu4B1olWwXsLRf3lTyBiSCG_/s1600/IMG_0844.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_0LdbKy5DEe3ZlDEr_oWaDe_1D19o9nCkn46DVushEtf9-bSSbyM_7p6TCjk3mo8NwoHQ-Pa5PRS0akJBDeMUOxmjf8tNbUGrvJfJF5BgWI5QFc5c6e0Yu4B1olWwXsLRf3lTyBiSCG_/s320/IMG_0844.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593931883281093570" border="0" /></a><br />The day after I arrived the Singapore Chinese Orchestra was giving a concert to celebrate the Chinese New Year early. Their concert hall was only 10 minutes walk from my hostel. I always get so lucky with that type of thing. The conductor had actually conducted one of the concerts I saw in Taiwan. He is really a character. Sometimes if he wants applause for a soloist and he doesn’t get it then he will turn to the audience over his still conducting arms and make a face at us that reads, “Come on! This is fantastic! Are you guys even listening? Clap!”<br /><br />The concert opened with traditional pieces, but the second number was interrupted as the radio DJs who were the MCs (masters of ceremonies, not menstrual cycle as the initials have come to mean in Taiwan) of the evening. They had a gimmick where one of them was late for the concert and it was corny but everyone laughed. It was a family audience, heavy on grandparents and grandchildren.<br /><br />The soloist of the evening was a suona player from the Mainland. Usually the trumpet/oboe hybrid is not an instrument I enjoy hearing but his performance was incredible. And, without any prompting from the conductor, we begged for an encore.<br /><br />Right before intermission, there was a special guest chef who chopped vegetables rhythmically to a piece that the orchestra played. Umm. . . I really didn’t understand that. During intermission many concerned concert goers approached me and asked if I could understand the concert which was in Chinese. “I understood all the words, but why did that guy chop up those vegetables? Is there a cultural context I'm missing?” Everyone agreed that that was weird and thought he was just there to promote his new cooking show.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_4J8h4XOVE2mEJsa3dt6pcXE9AnLjrNHYYS6C3ISLRn0wWiL2E1xB2TKObqKSXINUuziWkQNf6VXHJyK4b_G7zS7IXR3OLHvRUoKjveBJuf3xisrKzvzLeZjGyg4T2R8JXE2Gt4BF5jR/s1600/IMG_0866.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_4J8h4XOVE2mEJsa3dt6pcXE9AnLjrNHYYS6C3ISLRn0wWiL2E1xB2TKObqKSXINUuziWkQNf6VXHJyK4b_G7zS7IXR3OLHvRUoKjveBJuf3xisrKzvzLeZjGyg4T2R8JXE2Gt4BF5jR/s320/IMG_0866.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593933262004278242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The second half featured some really emotional new compositions. The orchestra played together soooo well. Their intonation, expression, and blend completely eclipsed the Taiwanese orchestras I had seen (one of which was under the same conductor). Their versatility is also impressive. Their last number suddenly switched to <span style="font-style: italic;">Bad Romance</span> and a Lady Gaga impersonator emerged from backstage and sang until the piece morphed into the New Year traditional <span style="font-style: italic;">Gongxi Gongxi</span>. I couldn’t believe how well this one concert exemplified the fusion of East and West that I’d heard about and hoped to find. Unfortunately the only picture I managed to take in the concert hall did not feature the Lady Gaga impersonator or any musicians for that matter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Carls Unite: Three Midwesterners in Southeast Asia<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEHFP1KgL7HeBI14sRT-sSoyRgbsZE0PToOX7pS1veAofPx70BpRrF_DXWZtggtTWEwb81QjP0hknqBD6_i_66n7vma59e2uerdxtNeGBrHTKEZJ6dNDIFg_TPGClMapuLByOXYcIDmh1/s1600/166369_539185825312_19103368_31535281_4240801_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEHFP1KgL7HeBI14sRT-sSoyRgbsZE0PToOX7pS1veAofPx70BpRrF_DXWZtggtTWEwb81QjP0hknqBD6_i_66n7vma59e2uerdxtNeGBrHTKEZJ6dNDIFg_TPGClMapuLByOXYcIDmh1/s320/166369_539185825312_19103368_31535281_4240801_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593930184125621106" border="0" /></a>To the right you can see our group photo of us pretending to be various zoo animals. In our minds this was quite clear. In the photo we just look certifiably insane.<br /><br />In my second week in Singapore, Blythe and Liv, my classmates from Carleton, passed through town and I got to be their tour guide. I showed them through Chinatown and pointed out my favorite stall that sells ObaMao paraphernalia. Basically they take the patriotic Mao poses from the Mainland and put Obama’s face over Mao’s. What the exact political implications are vary on whom you ask. I enjoy it abstractly as a pun. I then introduced them to the wonder that is the Singaporean food court. It’s cheap, reasonably clean, and delicious! Over black carrot and oyster omelets, green and red curries, pineapple fried rice, and sugar cane juices we caught up on what we’d been doing since graduation.<br /><br />Liv is teaching English in China and Blythe is working as a 'paid volunteer' (you can ask her about that oxymoron because I never figured it out) on a farm in Australia, so they decided to meet in the middle in Singapore before heading out to explore Malaysia. I introduced them to what I had learned about Singapore in the week I had already been there:<br /><ul><li>Chewing gum is illegal.</li><li>Durians are the national fruit but verboten on the MRT.</li><li>Cigarettes have disturbing pictures of rotting gums, tar-ridden lungs, and crumbling feet</li><li>It rains every day at 2:30 for 30 minutes.</li><li>Punishments for possessing drugs range from canings to death by hanging.</li><li>The media are controlled by the government and advertisements run on the MRT warning you to beware of terrorists with bombs. Adverts also run warning that if your children are unattended even for a moment they<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span> will fall down escalators</span>. There are even ads which warn that Singapore isn’t as crime free as you might think while simultaneously outlining the futility of a life of crime in Singapore.</li><li>Everything is controlled by the government, but no one cares because it is for the <span style="font-style: italic;">best</span>.</li><li>If China used its powers for good instead of evil, it would be like the 'Pore.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq-g-uFcJvK-v6PSBVMWpO7tzJjZTq2Q3LpwJ5O8kdFtF4HIzfYOJBqznZM5GVQv1JUOvbe-Vz8WYhSbWXRRzIFPx75zNv8SWYPm1Uu635t9QPSf3FiYkyoGE4wYQCL2V4pUiZbfrCUmZ/s1600/IMG_0883.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfq-g-uFcJvK-v6PSBVMWpO7tzJjZTq2Q3LpwJ5O8kdFtF4HIzfYOJBqznZM5GVQv1JUOvbe-Vz8WYhSbWXRRzIFPx75zNv8SWYPm1Uu635t9QPSf3FiYkyoGE4wYQCL2V4pUiZbfrCUmZ/s320/IMG_0883.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593933249966557586" border="0" /></a></li></ul>I enjoyed the sign in the MRT (pictured right) but wondered what the deterrent for having durians was. That empty slot is so mysterious. I think the reason they're banned is because they smell like a bucket of fish heads left in the hot, equatorial sun.<br /><br />After pausing for the daily mid-afternoon cloudburst, we headed to the Singapore equivalent of the London Eye, realized it was crazy expensive, took a picture and spent our money on chili crab, a local delicacy, instead.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Night Safari and Other Slithery Surprises</span><br /><br />We watched the sun set over the skyscrapers, and then headed to the Night Zoo. There was a mildly impressive show where different animals were paraded out to perform tricks, but the most memorable/nightmare-inducing event began when the staff pretended to have lost Jerry. Where’s Jerry they all wondered. Then they made a group of the audience get up, including me. They opened a locker underneath our wooden seats and pulled out a seven-foot boa constrictor. Fun. I left the show, but not before releasing a thirty-second scream at a pitch previously reached only by dolphins and Mariah Carey. I couldn’t handle that the snake was under me without knowing it.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTxEsy8bi34gMHx7LChNdDUfTHM2cbYgS6NxqPZnRLdzqBf3mdhScaN61ka44miSMmm5W7RULiBtYdZvuBmwQII6swvcQhcf51gJuK36fEJWtlBN3KCXBCtVwUngIEpciLsJ9fAmdyUBh/s1600/168759_539185790382_19103368_31535278_6226786_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTxEsy8bi34gMHx7LChNdDUfTHM2cbYgS6NxqPZnRLdzqBf3mdhScaN61ka44miSMmm5W7RULiBtYdZvuBmwQII6swvcQhcf51gJuK36fEJWtlBN3KCXBCtVwUngIEpciLsJ9fAmdyUBh/s320/168759_539185790382_19103368_31535278_6226786_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593930186864827842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />After I wussed out, I was forced into this photo. The reverse side of the board has the same image so I had to press up against the image of a snake. This caused me some psychological discomfort. Thus the raw emotion on my face.<br /><br />The best part of the zoo is the Safari where you hitch a ride on a Commvee and then can get out and walk up to elephants and various deer-like animals. There’s also a really cool bat cage that you can enter. The bats are the size of raccoons and swoop down at you and make women scream, “It’s in my hair!” in various languages.<br /><br />After perusing the zoo’s denizens, Blythe and I split a Singapore Sling. We split it because it was ridiculously expensive due to the sin tax (not syntax as I was disappointed to find out after first hearing of it (how can grammar affect the economy?!)) imposed on things like alcohol and cigarettes. Because of its high price we also felt that a cheesy photo was necessary to commemorate the spending of so much money.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9cwaWiclaKmPCrHEO22SngS_p0Haw0-jpJXpyrdIenoc7LQujl5BPPuvjldQLkgytpyZcihe-AwvbdTmTX_0Ddt_7gnFOzVPBrYxpvJDFzqGS8yyruqmhFrlbhzUu6qga8Qdu17kt5SG/s1600/164391_539185805352_19103368_31535279_1622690_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ9cwaWiclaKmPCrHEO22SngS_p0Haw0-jpJXpyrdIenoc7LQujl5BPPuvjldQLkgytpyZcihe-AwvbdTmTX_0Ddt_7gnFOzVPBrYxpvJDFzqGS8yyruqmhFrlbhzUu6qga8Qdu17kt5SG/s320/164391_539185805352_19103368_31535279_1622690_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593930181776026434" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I bid farewell to my fellow Carls who were heading out to Kuala Lumpur the next day as I began a search for a hostel where I could spend more than 10 days.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEHFP1KgL7HeBI14sRT-sSoyRgbsZE0PToOX7pS1veAofPx70BpRrF_DXWZtggtTWEwb81QjP0hknqBD6_i_66n7vma59e2uerdxtNeGBrHTKEZJ6dNDIFg_TPGClMapuLByOXYcIDmh1/s1600/166369_539185825312_19103368_31535281_4240801_n.jpg"><br /></a>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-72980772188811881252011-03-11T09:04:00.000-08:002011-03-11T09:19:07.390-08:00Shaken But Not Stirred, well at least not at first. . . . .Just an update from Japan. I'm safe and in Kunitachi, a suburb of Tokyo. I definitely felt the earthquake during an afternoon nap. Naturally I incorporated it into my dream until a mirror fell off my wall, shattering and waking me up. I slept through the first minute of the earthquake, but the next two minutes were pretty frightening. Most everything I owned fell to the ground, but otherwise my apartment was undamaged. The aftershocks have continued all day, but I'm safe for now and my neighborhood doesn't seem to have any damage. Men came by and inspected the building tonight. We got an A grade which I felt unduly proud of. All of the trains are stopped so I lost my main method of travel for today and tomorrow.<br /><br />Ah, yet another reason I should catch up on my blog! No more afternoon naps until that's done!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-63686838352465428322011-02-25T00:45:00.000-08:002011-03-09T13:49:57.469-08:00Home for the Holidays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWE9VlNXOoB6zqGzogVIAv7eg1eMeTPJ_U4tO_rIp7BK69nHqmgGNDdzaeQopQNzUp2MbhkjpAtjnc9JS84ZPAhZKPrZCQGuCDnnfVT0-DsZPvT00suBO6Y-eB9Fzv4e1NGqhKxzeygt6/s1600/P1000271.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWWE9VlNXOoB6zqGzogVIAv7eg1eMeTPJ_U4tO_rIp7BK69nHqmgGNDdzaeQopQNzUp2MbhkjpAtjnc9JS84ZPAhZKPrZCQGuCDnnfVT0-DsZPvT00suBO6Y-eB9Fzv4e1NGqhKxzeygt6/s320/P1000271.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582159077775028114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Back to Taiwan: Treehaus</span><br /><br />I took a week-long layover in Taiwan so I could be with friends over Christmas and New Year's instead of the depressing alternative. My former apartment was otherwise occupied so I sought lodging from my trusty friends: the church crew that got me free digs in Kuala Lumpur when I posed as a Methodist minister and at Tree's haus, who let me crash at his Freiburg frat.<br /><br />Taiwan was sort of gussied up for the holidays. The government buildings in Taichung (Taizhong for Mainlanders) had put Christmas lights on the palm trees.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijiPp9BZ7Q6SIxyRaJpWDTSIshOP5jIQ4VJd5cRADnf_JZk8yNFzU57iMTfrhF5pcFmt6umv-zM5btb6tcWP0boVtGs08lAx6d1NxFqGKYwaoyQXLAKT77UPjcL1zLpFAHDyhA5CKZapEF/s1600/P1000272.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijiPp9BZ7Q6SIxyRaJpWDTSIshOP5jIQ4VJd5cRADnf_JZk8yNFzU57iMTfrhF5pcFmt6umv-zM5btb6tcWP0boVtGs08lAx6d1NxFqGKYwaoyQXLAKT77UPjcL1zLpFAHDyhA5CKZapEF/s320/P1000272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582159089171987250" border="0" /></a><br />My week involved lots of music but mainly in the form of karaoke. On Christmas I was feeling nostalgic for holidays gone by so I made the traditional Terwilliger chili. I was cooking a veggie version since Tree's mom is a strict Buddhist vegetarian (and almost exclusively eats things that are considered medicinal vegetables). I thought no meat or dairy was good enough but I was scolded for bringing onion and garlic into the house! Every strict Buddhist knows that these vegetables increase labido and are therefore contraband. I thought that garlic and onion really had the opposite effect considering their role as lead causes of halitosis, but obviously I had to respect the rules of the Haus. I ate my pitiful no meat, no garlic, no onion, no fun chili and watched Christmas Vacation to gain perspective about what a truly failed Christmas looks like.<br /><br />But really I was so happy to be back in Taiwan. The people are so wonderfully friendly, I speak the language, the weather is awesome, food is delicious, cheap, and plentiful, and everything is extremely convenient and open 24 hours. Such a contrast from Europe.<br /><br />At night I took the post walk dinner with Tree's mom and sister. Christmas in Taiwan is mainly a couple's holiday, which is a little odd. I thought that the 2011th anniversary of an unwed teen mother's giving birth would not be conducive to romantic promenading and again I was wrong.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On Wisconsin</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0DdIKDlidjQ53FUYB54TQJe4J_-E_c74eDpJVKNyJQD2bg9Qj_CqbKCg4-rIKXfPfi-4M3kJ1rlW_ec3_wgekE-Zf4FjZ1LWVnUfcC5pxcCxuyzw-LvFIHvYo0Nbm6Ve6Zh0YtWh8Non/s1600/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0DdIKDlidjQ53FUYB54TQJe4J_-E_c74eDpJVKNyJQD2bg9Qj_CqbKCg4-rIKXfPfi-4M3kJ1rlW_ec3_wgekE-Zf4FjZ1LWVnUfcC5pxcCxuyzw-LvFIHvYo0Nbm6Ve6Zh0YtWh8Non/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577549163912228066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I met the family on Skype after my Christmas was over. There's was just beginning!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9x9coUrl6YfrhN8N0bzPIEnBAbhjm5_0InfhmElXMB9G3tUFk5BaEu-jVOndx8LYJBByasKBXwdEGo8gWxQ4D9DJzxTz71M5yicWD5UYQ-QCQKLhwS23Ax6q0t2AFleO6GycbMbM60S1/s1600/Picture+3.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9x9coUrl6YfrhN8N0bzPIEnBAbhjm5_0InfhmElXMB9G3tUFk5BaEu-jVOndx8LYJBByasKBXwdEGo8gWxQ4D9DJzxTz71M5yicWD5UYQ-QCQKLhwS23Ax6q0t2AFleO6GycbMbM60S1/s320/Picture+3.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577549154366569986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />My sister wanted to show me Jack, her dog. But it just looked really inappropriate.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAg5DGfcvqq92cHq6Ukw-XUmkIkpbH_1r4UdJXv31z8tfZHx-yfF5GzTMlp5CKV7uQycE5zT0iDVmyWZdAPjcBb2f72N3PXLMhMXJXFA02PISd2MXmV0X_zVUsJcWT1O-5q-nvJG9SPI5/s1600/Picture+6.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAg5DGfcvqq92cHq6Ukw-XUmkIkpbH_1r4UdJXv31z8tfZHx-yfF5GzTMlp5CKV7uQycE5zT0iDVmyWZdAPjcBb2f72N3PXLMhMXJXFA02PISd2MXmV0X_zVUsJcWT1O-5q-nvJG9SPI5/s320/Picture+6.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577549190843759298" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />My dad flashed us his tickets. . . not sure where he was trying to get in.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f_AEklJU2gVpJl7lcNyPc_semgPtNggz1NVmxMrrvDMDi4fo8L0R4zjmHnuL4i9fqfeZLMYzf1-ZJ5S5i35D2Rghp_8r8biO3QIxFDoFs7JP_ZyRW86P4UbqENswMdjNQ9q_1wUZxpAv/s1600/Picture+5.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3f_AEklJU2gVpJl7lcNyPc_semgPtNggz1NVmxMrrvDMDi4fo8L0R4zjmHnuL4i9fqfeZLMYzf1-ZJ5S5i35D2Rghp_8r8biO3QIxFDoFs7JP_ZyRW86P4UbqENswMdjNQ9q_1wUZxpAv/s320/Picture+5.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577549184683703010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Then my sister licked my mom. It was nice to have this familiar piece of home on Christmas.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Big C</span><br /><br />At New Year's I went to Taipei to karaoke with friends, eat, and see cool concerts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl462g5zfjdQo5aF3zMvBUOFe45GeZSQDjHxXeNpSHpbfrb0XM3eyQw81AoAdDv36wRnIsBzgvjXStdy68dW72zSFUnsPyrfiI2qWk_pXJVACM9azFMGkveD5cVU_e70Zcz-23lLJt-4S/s1600/P1000294.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl462g5zfjdQo5aF3zMvBUOFe45GeZSQDjHxXeNpSHpbfrb0XM3eyQw81AoAdDv36wRnIsBzgvjXStdy68dW72zSFUnsPyrfiI2qWk_pXJVACM9azFMGkveD5cVU_e70Zcz-23lLJt-4S/s320/P1000294.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582159096945062146" border="0" /></a>There was an outdoor concert that cycled through 5 different traditional groups, all of whom I'd seen before but my favorite was Caifeng Yuetuan, pictured here. They are playing a punk version of 傻瓜與野丫頭 (The Dumbie and the Wild Girl) which is usually a silly duet sung between middle aged couples at karaoke but became a dueling punk/jazz fest in their capable hands.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>The girl playing the largest instrument, the da ruan is my hero. (Da means big. I play the middle sized ruan, zhong ruan.) I think she may only have become famous because of her punk hair cut, but her attitude while playing is simultaneously enthralling and frightening. After some bass licks she has the habit of pacing the edge of the stage, daring the audience to try something on her watch. And I definitely daresn't try anything. Also don't let the duds on these cold Taiwanese citizens fool you. Their subtropical island only got down to the lower 60s at night on New Year's Eve. But I suppose everyone has the desire to wear woolly hats and scarves sometimes so you might as well let them indulge without too much judgement.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVDgE5ych55CKFSCtal3FNoX_L7bh3dSSJznDCEceg_y5we2naLcVrFfTsO5ABViSH79mNHuNAaAJUn-q3u2MeeqzcIAfkPd5nUXHAKEV-0RfXXSx8Q0dYVWHt_aL6m-twaJrfG7pR6TJ/s1600/P1000312.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoVDgE5ych55CKFSCtal3FNoX_L7bh3dSSJznDCEceg_y5we2naLcVrFfTsO5ABViSH79mNHuNAaAJUn-q3u2MeeqzcIAfkPd5nUXHAKEV-0RfXXSx8Q0dYVWHt_aL6m-twaJrfG7pR6TJ/s320/P1000312.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582165489019875250" border="0" /></a><br /><br />After the concert I headed out to see the New Year's fireworks. It was a big year for Taiwan because the Republic of China (not to be confused with the government of communist China which is called The People's Republic of China) turned 100 years old. The government was founded in 1911 with its capital in Nanjing in the Mainland. In 1949, after the Chinese civil war, the communist government pushed the Nanjing government out, the Republic of China became exiled in Taiwan. Somehow over the years the R.O.C. has lost its ambition to retake the Mainland, but they still keep track of the years according to when Sun Yat-sen founded their government.<br /><br />I embedded a video of the fireworks celebration below. They shoot the fireworks from Taipei 101, the tallest building in Taiwan and tallest building in the world outside of Dubai. The display was impressive but totally frightening to an American in a post 9/11 era.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/18356847" frameborder="0" height="225" width="400"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/18356847">2011 Taipei 100 Years R.O.C Fireworks</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user3894586">anIRICgus</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br />The next day I headed from subtropics to the equator to enjoy the relentless heat of Singapore!<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span>Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-65918597865052072152011-02-19T05:51:00.000-08:002011-02-22T21:02:34.951-08:00Wiener Town, AUS: Chinese Musicians, Various Pretzels and Snarling Donkeys<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Zj9q9J8cmsZZxYMPCd2XQWrrjD2f7pfbZohJ8-fBZTFhNUH9s-x5R_Jy2zudA1Xy1wFOyzCqg4qT-g8UFDr9iPMvTdVkJLhki_ayuENImZ_i0aYucVd1RomLDoG2CUhBdHJBO0qUknSE/s1600/Picture+12.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Zj9q9J8cmsZZxYMPCd2XQWrrjD2f7pfbZohJ8-fBZTFhNUH9s-x5R_Jy2zudA1Xy1wFOyzCqg4qT-g8UFDr9iPMvTdVkJLhki_ayuENImZ_i0aYucVd1RomLDoG2CUhBdHJBO0qUknSE/s320/Picture+12.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576558023983382978" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Strangers on a Train</span><br /><br />Just before Christmas I made my final visit to Vienna via overnight train. Have I mentioned my love of riding trains? I love it because you are traveling and making progress but there's no rush or stress, you are forced to sit still. You can just reflect, collect yourself and look out the window at the scenery wizzing by. I read once that J.K. Rowling had the whole Harry Potter universe just reveal itself to her on a train once, so I always do my best to look pensively out the window in order to fool a billion-dollar literary idea into entering my head.<br /><br />Oh, and another awesome thing about being on a train is that instead of being on a plane, it's pretty casual so you get all kinds of strange people who would never be organized enough to buy a plane ticket or make it through security. On that particular train I saw plenty of the usual lot, business people and backpackers, but there was also a college aged couple who aggressively made out from 9am until lunch when their mouths were otherwise occupied devouring their liverwurst sandwiches. I found the latter activity more offensive. There were also shivering Koreans wearing Russian style hats, and three old ladies holding identical bouquets of one dozen yellow roses. What were their stories? Should I feel like a creeper because of the joy that staring at people on public transportation affords me? I feel like it's okay as long as I call it <span style="font-style: italic;">people watching.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ZUMcxsn2K08Swasod6NXWWU4Hb88WLcYPLtQbvg3gXEDwQdob8DMUbFfx2ph0X_hqsff5zPdoxedW5y_XYYdKVewhnH6pkPqzjJ1IeRO-5sFdEVgdFPSj2PNZxgnWpZvoite38bHJZ7e/s1600/thumbnail.xlarge.14.1263850655.on-board-the-train-to-vienna.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ZUMcxsn2K08Swasod6NXWWU4Hb88WLcYPLtQbvg3gXEDwQdob8DMUbFfx2ph0X_hqsff5zPdoxedW5y_XYYdKVewhnH6pkPqzjJ1IeRO-5sFdEVgdFPSj2PNZxgnWpZvoite38bHJZ7e/s320/thumbnail.xlarge.14.1263850655.on-board-the-train-to-vienna.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576537281226400130" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And there is also the army of senior citizens who feel compelled to strike up conversations with me. There seems to just be something particularly inviting about me for senior citizens. They usually are traveling with younger relatives that help translate. We never end up getting more than the basics introduced but it's still interesting to see their wrinkled faces try to understand why a computer company would pay an American to study Chinese music in Austria.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJNzT3LLYJHlW3q-ap_8chfNSwk_HRdNJKcP5-or9yGWmLrr-nnV0EMjiUalyd9IQCQlntQ86oAXnDwxVygqpr_a8PQ4Zw21-bOV_mEkWaOnQpT6WObzG43gY6uKKACI3q8yARS6s1DEF/s1600/516NC1CW6BL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJNzT3LLYJHlW3q-ap_8chfNSwk_HRdNJKcP5-or9yGWmLrr-nnV0EMjiUalyd9IQCQlntQ86oAXnDwxVygqpr_a8PQ4Zw21-bOV_mEkWaOnQpT6WObzG43gY6uKKACI3q8yARS6s1DEF/s320/516NC1CW6BL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576540510491827826" border="0" /></a><br /><br />When I wasn't ogling, I was reading <span style="font-style: italic;">The Piano Teacher</span> which is about a failed piano prodigy in Vienna who lives with her mother. It makes <span style="font-style: italic;">Black Swan</span> look like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Partridge Family</span> and apparently won the Nobel Prize for Literature, despite no one I talked to ever having heard of it before. So as I finished the book (which has an awesome scene where a student stabs his teacher's foot with the endpin of a cello) the other crazies on the train and I rolled into Vienna, Capitol of Classical Music, City of Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss, and if my novel was to be trusted, violent and psychologically traumatizing relationships with piano teachers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Community</span><br /><br />I noted earlier that Freiburg didn't seem as welcoming as Paris but the Viennese attitude is generally downright nasty. The Austrian accent sounds very nasal and abrasive, and a little bit Chicagoan. There's just something about northern cities that makes people afraid to open their mouths, I guess. Did I mention that I totally have a BA in linguistics?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkcDW01JmSf7lyHsCpzDV26qgITWptBqj2mG9o-oy_FHJ0V7AfuzRWWWwyStkp04PyluG1acj4khQfq4suMkL33epmi85C6CSZ5YmEWDBw8jr0mqNwfNQqzhDzSNxeqSVHgN3EZtZoMFnW/s1600/vienna-christmas-market.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkcDW01JmSf7lyHsCpzDV26qgITWptBqj2mG9o-oy_FHJ0V7AfuzRWWWwyStkp04PyluG1acj4khQfq4suMkL33epmi85C6CSZ5YmEWDBw8jr0mqNwfNQqzhDzSNxeqSVHgN3EZtZoMFnW/s320/vienna-christmas-market.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576540515593070402" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I actually went to Vienna three times. The city ain't no Paris, but it's still absolutely beautiful and the Christmas lights make the nights seem magical. The last time I sang with a senior citizen's choir of Taiwanese immigrants (again my odd affiliation with the elderly). We had a loooong concert and you can see a video clip of it here, somewhere into the third hour. The song featured is actually a pop song which Algy, our director and arranger <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> the guy playing his bandoneon, arranged for our choir. I think it's especially impressive since the choir was unable to sing in unison only 4 years ago but now they're managing four part harmonies. In the video you can see me awkwardly tucking in my shirt as I sing. But in my defense none of the clothes I was wearing were mine.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4rSisYXIQuw" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />The accoustics in the church were really amazing but somehow didn't translate to amazing sound on this video. I promise the video doesn't do it justice. The service was in Taiwanese instead of Mandarin which I thought was very interesting. Apparently those in the Chinese community that came (and the entire Chinese community of Vienna did come!) mostly were not Christian, but all of the Christians could speak Taiwanese since they were probably Christian from their families being converted back in Taiwan.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tJfdWSP1V6A" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JYlFMMpm_8I" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />The best part of the concert was that all of the incredible young musicians who had come to Vienna to learn classical music played. So we heard world class string quartets and woodwind quintets. In the final number the talented young instrumentalists kindly joined forces with the elderly choir for Laudate Dominum and Joy to the World. If you can ever make out the basses singing, that's me or Tree, we were the only basses. After the service we all got together to eat Jesus' birthday cake and a Chinese potluck.<br /><br />At the potluck I had to fend off German questions and parry with Chinese ones. But felt so relieved to be able to understand the language again and was releasing a month of pent up conversation on the poor potluckers. I had an amazing conversation with one of the members of our choir. He was really interested in linguistics and the cognition of music. At one point I was talking about how I'm trying to switch from studying the human behavior of language to the human behavior of music and the differences therein. I mentioned that language is evolutionarily advantageous but music is not, so why do we do it? He earnestly objected that music is advantageous! "Look at how it brought this entire community together tonight! The service couldn't communicate with all of us, but we all understood the beauty of the music! Music helps us to build bridges with our enemies that we otherwise cannot understand. It's a direct link to the subconscious, a calming shot of morphine to the amygdala." Looking around at the Mainlanders and Taiwanese gathered peacefully together, it was hard to argue.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The One and Only Time I Feel Like A Bro</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpUUgVVK3aHjN8-7IvgHzbvQ3mb86hyqPaJ4P7-GwBAf0y9nDFLEIdtvxzkzbNQLHHpFIr1pWh5IF_AQuopCytsm3kC-S-RvbB1mlMWpPfq20rK_5KWSM9MYSxpklGG1As9knRsCIs2pB/s1600/Franz_Sacher.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpUUgVVK3aHjN8-7IvgHzbvQ3mb86hyqPaJ4P7-GwBAf0y9nDFLEIdtvxzkzbNQLHHpFIr1pWh5IF_AQuopCytsm3kC-S-RvbB1mlMWpPfq20rK_5KWSM9MYSxpklGG1As9knRsCIs2pB/s320/Franz_Sacher.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576542103503882146" border="0" /></a>Pictured to the left is Franz Sacher, creator of the Sachertorte and supporter of diabetes and heart disease. After the potluck, us youngens headed out first to get some of Vienna's famous Sachertorte, a cake consisting of two layers of dense, rich chocolate sponge with a thin layer of apricot jam in the middle and dark chocolate icing on the top and sides. It is traditionally served with Schlagsahne, sugarless whipped cream. While I sipped a coffee and suppressed moans of ecstasy as I sampled the perfection that is Sachertorte, my friends told me variations of the cake's origin myths. It was a case of death, ambiguous bequeathing (which incidentally is my favorite variety of bequeathing), bankruptcy, margarine, marmalade, and butter. I decided that I wouldn't go meta and would instead just enjoy the cake for what it was: delicious.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpi4-vzvq5QV2lbGyqrckkpNotffpE0ld-bK0PCqLIPTllCjHDXN30kYybtL8BubHYUcd415z4VE59EhiEoTgXlqOuWWEWkq4qOHIVIa2rTu-i5GFN1c18BXHedTPc79uBRMetsYMHNvWM/s1600/800px-Sachertorte_DSC03027_retouched.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpi4-vzvq5QV2lbGyqrckkpNotffpE0ld-bK0PCqLIPTllCjHDXN30kYybtL8BubHYUcd415z4VE59EhiEoTgXlqOuWWEWkq4qOHIVIa2rTu-i5GFN1c18BXHedTPc79uBRMetsYMHNvWM/s320/800px-Sachertorte_DSC03027_retouched.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576541574171718402" border="0" /></a><br />Outside Hotel Sacher I took a video of the area while the rest of us jumped in place on sugar highs. <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz0wCahUnIz1jTiQm-eH8Jymh9UlDmyltcw0asXGCScN0QpbhELewgPszNzS39FJT5_Z0oXkiCjZnPASicArw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Our next stop was to go to a bar for some Getränke. One of our party was in a wheelchair and the seating was downstairs. I looked around at the others who were all in awkward turtle mode. I asked why don't we just carry her down. They looked at me in amazement, "You could carry her?" Readers, she weighed 90 pounds max, but as the next biggest male in our party wasn't much heavier, I suddenly became aware of how gigantic I was. So I hoisted her up and carried her down the stairs new bride style to her new seat. Afterwards I kept almost spilling my drink because my arms were shaking from the strain of carrying her deminuitive frame. But it was good I was physically incapable of going through the action of drinking because I needed to stay sober to return the girl upstairs (don't drink and carry!) and maintain my language faculty to keep up with the conversation of drunk Taiwanese young adults.<br /><br />I met lots of really interesting people. They all had left Taiwan to attend high school in Austria. Some had made it into conservatories, others had not. But they all played western instruments and believed that Classical music was the epitome of civilization and the purest form of art. They were curious about my curiosity for their traditional music and then someone pointed out that we both were cross cultural invaders.<br /><br />I also found out that I shouldn't judge old ladies by their snarls. When asked about my opinion of Vienna, I expressed my appreciation of its beautiful buildings and concert halls and streets, but felt the people were downright unfriendly. I relayed the story of how after holding the door for an elderly woman at a restaurant she responded not only with the typical Viennese snarl, but also by calling me, "Donkey!" What!? I was just trying to be polite. After some discussion they figured out that she had actually said <span style="font-style: italic;">danke</span> with a strong Viennese accent. Oh, whoops! That did make more sense than that old lady using English to call me a mule.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Glühwein and Other Malpheasants</span><br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwTJuSPXMwGgOIKvBVT_1fhFP3SmQbNgF8RjXU9ldLyR_LQdhZcLnaO18By6YjruIpg8FQ5vjbz1skL3duluQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />Vienna has an amazing Christmas market. There were so many pretzel options I had to pan this video to show them all. Everyone excitedly walks around enjoying hot bevs and giant pretzels and sweets, buying Christmas related novelties and playing the odd carnival game. Everyone brushes up against each other in their winter-wear so it's also a pickpocket's paradise. After watching a German language and quite modern version of Faustus, Algy, director of the senior citizen's choir, Tree and I walked the market. Apparently they used to sell ads in the advent windows on the big state building, (the most expensive ones being December 1 and the cheapest December 23) but this year with the economy the way it is, it had been canceled. I wondered if it was the cost of buying the ads or just opening up windows and leaving them that way for a month. Not eco-friendly!<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxxBJk966Pyp9pLcqBL9CdSQQJyigS6boWFgMRRY7kPHefaIsccnFMgI4PSEisY6ZexzXDM4legvr90TKkfPg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />I tried to go buy glühwein, hot wine and fruit juice, for everyone. The guy told me something and I understood "16." It seemed expensive and I also couldn't figure out how 3 went into 16, but you have to put down a deposit for the mugs so I tried to give him 16 euros. "Nein, nein," he laughed. Then in English, "Can I see your passport?" What? I asked why. "You cannot be 16 years old? Really 16?" he cocked his head at me and smiled at me, the naughty little boy trying to buy grown up alcohol.<br /><br />After being carded at the Christmas market in Vienna, I decided I was growing sick of this baby face of mine. People can't tell my age within 6 years! I showed him my passport and after an unusally long period of calculations, he decided that 1988 meant I was indeed old enough. He said he originally thought I was 14. So that means he was off by 8 years or as I saw it, he had dismissed 36% of my time on earth. I carried the mugs back to Tree and Algy and decided I needn't tell Algy and Tree about this tale. Afterall I had just lost over one third of my experiences and this was definitely one with which I wouldn't mind parting.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ARB_oUfOtiXKNOp1asMtn-iK-bmVgyi7j4YwhGDHo95HTkKhWpIqRw5je1fvvOXiC4KBed_bTy51RjG0SR9YI_S7I_nhfZbM_IeUWz4ks1DxyFqg1ILnXKRm4NieKkADRBY0a6GX-F1-/s1600/Picture+14.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ARB_oUfOtiXKNOp1asMtn-iK-bmVgyi7j4YwhGDHo95HTkKhWpIqRw5je1fvvOXiC4KBed_bTy51RjG0SR9YI_S7I_nhfZbM_IeUWz4ks1DxyFqg1ILnXKRm4NieKkADRBY0a6GX-F1-/s320/Picture+14.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576558238964512018" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I also continued my immaturity and cultural insensitivity by laughing at this sign for the Viennese Adventureland. It didn't seem like an appropriate place for children.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Icy Isolation</span><br /><br />The real lesson I learned from being in Europe is what it is like to not be able to communicate with the average person on the street. There were so many things I didn't understand and so many times I just felt like I was letting down America by promoting the monolingual stereotype (the monotype?). Fortunately I could use my Chinese skills with friends to impress/confuse people, but needing to ask constantly for translation really prevents you from understanding things as well as firsthand. Eventually you have too many questions and you just keep them to yourself.<br /><br />But this clinging to an immigrant community was also an invaluable experience. I saw the connections and kindness that being Chinese could bring, from discounted haircuts to free dim sum, to escorting strangers to bus stations. I get the feeling this is a universal thing too, because Tree who is frequently mistaken for Japanese or Korean, seems to attract momentary kindness from these groups also. Of course I went to art museums and saw some classical music concerts, but the highlights for me were more cooking dinner in people's homes.<br /><br />And the courtesy within the community is so extreme that one time after eating with Tree at a Mainlander's hot pot restaurant, he accidentally bargained the price when he misunderstood. The bill was 42 euro. Tree gave her 50 and said, "還給我四塊就可以。” <span style="font-style: italic;">Give me back 4, ok?</span> He was trying to be nice and give her a culturally unexpected tip. She was so surprised by this and his Taiwanese accent that she mistook 4, si, for 10, shi, and gave him back 10 euro thinking he was haggling the price and she happily accepted the barter. They both looked at each other confused as I, someone who had suffered through the 4/10 distinction issue before explained their overly polite misinterpretations.<br /><br />Both the weather and the people have been getting colder in Europe. I'm looking forward to returning to Asia where people are welcoming and I am exotic instead of just ignorant.<br /><br />Up next: I Christmas in Taiwan and move to the Equator.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-3938153639995124222011-01-28T00:56:00.000-08:002011-02-17T21:10:41.525-08:00Freiburg: Universities, Ukranians, and Ukuleles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhru9VS7t7zc9t6gFvH2gymT_3Qfw_ChFA_36mFz9WETgVm6xT2cQAEaP8xzfF3_RpGJPE17Sa5yTT6Dg7zZQ4gBmJEhdr1V17gT1pmKg_kS1y3_VVc-4GCqnnd5j87Y8Dy-zqq3fl0FdzX/s1600/Freiburg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhru9VS7t7zc9t6gFvH2gymT_3Qfw_ChFA_36mFz9WETgVm6xT2cQAEaP8xzfF3_RpGJPE17Sa5yTT6Dg7zZQ4gBmJEhdr1V17gT1pmKg_kS1y3_VVc-4GCqnnd5j87Y8Dy-zqq3fl0FdzX/s320/Freiburg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574773946218084482" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grimm Location</span><br /><br />I crossed the Alps and the language went from Romantic to Germanic, along with the culture. <span style="font-style: italic;">Pan</span> was replaced with a brown, rocklike substance that the Germans referred to as <span style="font-style: italic;">Brot</span> but I referred to as <span style="font-style: italic;">Gestein</span>. Airkisses and hugs fell way to more efficient handshakes and any passions for art and life were replaced with satisfaction in concocting grammatically complicated sentences and ridiculously lengthy compound words like Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung (speed limit).<br /><br />In Freiburg I stayed in Tree's fraternity or Studentenverbindung. Their founding documents stress music and fencing, though these activities are not encouraged simultaneously as I was disappointed to discover. They have a choir and I was forced to join as payment for invading their space. In comparison with the frat brothers I looked even younger than usual because most of the fraternity members were nearly 30. Apparently high school is 5 years in Germany and only recently, as mandated by the EU's standardizing of education, could a German earn a bachelors degree on its own. They used to be forced to also complete a masters. Despite this no longer being the case, that cultural idea remains that you shouldn't hurry through your academics. "Go ahead and take terms off because your youth will be gone when you graduate!" This whole idea of waiting for 3 or 4 years before starting college or even just taking a year off to be a bartender in New Zealand was hard for me to grasp. No one could believe that at the tender age of 22 I had already finished college. Was I some sort of prodigy or just a nerd?<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx28mRW2awwChF4xhfoyd19VSK1wOjSM8eDnw2ZntGS94CEG6kao1KQlRDHBvLW9w690BmS9VmKStD2rObNrA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />Freiburg is a really cool city. It looks like it's straight out of Grimm's fairy tales. Even the McDonald's is in a quaint building that looks like it houses Snow White. The town is filled with college students, albeit old college students, and street performers that have posts on all of the corners of the cobblestone lanes. Weird African drums that looked and sounded like UFOs, South American whistles and ukuleles were performed everywhere. I guess that there is one accordion for every 3 Freiburgers, but I SCrNCed Stats so don't take my word for it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The WMGP</span><br /><br />Tree plays bamboo flute with the World Music Group Project. They also have a violin, two guitars, a trumpet, and an accordian. I really wanted to see how he would be incorporated into music from Greece, Mexico, Italy, and Romania. I attended some of their rehearsals and then began to play bass using my mandocello. I think they just let me play with them so that they could claim another nationality in their ensemble, but I was grateful for the chance. I realized that it was totally necessary to be able to understand the rehearsal language because getting things translated for you is really tricky when everyone is trying to concentrate on the music. Luckily the violin player next to me went to high school in Australia so she could translate quickly. I also realized just what a disadvantage I had in Asia. As a Westerner, or just someone who grew up watching Looney Tunes I automatically recognize pieces like <span style="font-style: italic;">La Cukaracha</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Santa Lucia</span> whereas Tree wasn't sure if these were original compositions or not.<br /><br />The concert I played with them was really fun and well received by the audience of the subterranean pub. In the program I also got the best mispelling of my last name ever: Phervilinger. Even better than the fusion of the instruments was that the second half had everyone playing solos or duets to showcase a piece from their homeland. I decided to forgo my cowboy act and just accompany Tree as he played a Taiwanese classic. Other highlights were a Romanian pop song which I assumed no one had ever heard before, but suddenly the singer's friends in the audience burst into three part harmonies for the chorus and they were further accompanied by the sound of shattering glass. At first I assumed that they had broken fine crystal with their vibratos, but then I saw the flustered expression of the bartender who had been so shocked by the sudden singing directed into his ears that he had dropped the bottle of wine he was pouring onto the stone cellar floor. Unfortunately I didn't record that piece or any I was in but here you can hear a Macedonian folk tune from that night with Chinese bamboo flute! It was a rough start with the weird meter but I think the bamboo flute really fits in well.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/lWlyraYOnLg" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="500"></iframe><br /><br />In the second link you can hear an Italian woman sing. I love her voice and she is one of those people who seems to have been born into the wrong time. She wears dark red lipstick and smokes with a Cruella De Vil style cigarette holders. Her speaking voice is slow, drawling and lethargic, so much so that I get the feeling that if I were the one to give her the news of her mother's death her response would be a purposeful, contemplative drag off of her Cruella cigarette attachment followed by the question, "So what else is new?" I went up to complement her after the show but had to use Tree to translate since she only spoke Italian and German. She wanted to make it clear that she could sing in 16 languages, but she could only speak/smoke in two. Oh also, in the video, the reason I'm off to the side in a hole is because I was waiting to go on and perform but then I got so busy applauding I forgot to charge onto stage.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/khGY4NL_t6o" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" width="500"></iframe><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Singing in Tongues</span><br /><br />As I mentioned earlier, I began singing in a fraternity choir. Actually they merge with a sorority to form an SATB ensemble. They were impressed with my ability to pick up the parts to German Carols. Tree knew I'm no great singer so I decided to let him remain impressed and not let on that I'd already sung Hark! The Herald Angel Sings and Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming in choirs before, in German. As far as he knew, Americans had never heard such songs before. We also were singing in Latin and English and I got to be a speech coach for the English song which was The Circle of Life.<br /><br />Our director was a 26 year old Japanese-German Opera conductor-in-training. She is high energy and has a shockingly powerful voice for someone who is probably 4'10 in high heeled boots. Occasionally she would translate her instructions to Japanese for me, which I was grateful for, but usually I could follow along having managed to pick up numbers and basic phrases like, "From the top!" or "Second verse!" Sometimes I would have to point out where we were in the music to the German guy next to me. I think he needed some Ritalin.<br /><br /><br />The Chinese community in Freiburg is extremely tight. They all attend each other's concerts (most of which are Western style) and the Sinology programs at the universities in Freiburg provide plenty of get-togethers which the German students use to practice their Chinese. So I got to watch a choir of Chinese German students and German Chinese students sing songs in a choir together.<br /><br />On the weekends I was also taking a train to Vienna to sing with a choir of Taiwanese senior citizens (they were in desperate need of basses). For some reason my mother was convinced that I had joined the Vienna Boys' Choir. I tried explaining that for someone who had, however belatedly, suffered through puberty this was not possible. I also explained that the average age of the choir members was around 60. Still no success.<br /><br />The choir is directed by Algy, the Golden Horse Award nominated movie composer who lives in Vienna. He also plays bandoneon in two tango ensembles. Pictured below you can see him at one of these tango concerts.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcTSLqV40stklM6xqebi8dcPPe1vlPDv5vwz9Mo4dqAvddTNvJdv6J4MmA4fRy2jJGtWMreTN9NjR5lWAcXzkb-tJUWsVuT6p4uyydF-OyTb7GWQYbu6nhaqg6m_DHEk3Lr9ILAimKVb_/s1600/67319_121835361208575_118175298241248_134866_1781846_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGcTSLqV40stklM6xqebi8dcPPe1vlPDv5vwz9Mo4dqAvddTNvJdv6J4MmA4fRy2jJGtWMreTN9NjR5lWAcXzkb-tJUWsVuT6p4uyydF-OyTb7GWQYbu6nhaqg6m_DHEk3Lr9ILAimKVb_/s320/67319_121835361208575_118175298241248_134866_1781846_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574780968308358514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In Vienna, I had to deal with two issues. The first was that the choir members would speak German to me and I would have to try to convince them to speak Chinese with me. Unlike with the assumption that I could only speak English in Taiwan, this really was an issue I had to press. Most of them were in states of complete disbelief. "No, really!" I pleaded in Chinese, "I don't understand German, you have to speak Chinese with me." Some of the suspicious ones spoke German to me just to see if I would slip up and accidentally understand it. In this choir we sang in German, Latin, Mandarin and Taiwanese. After rehearsals I always felt like I'd lost control of my tongue. The second issue was that everything in Vienna has Wiener written before it. You can buy Wiener Newspapers and read them at Weiner Cafes. Eventually I found out that Wiener means Viennese. Unfortunately I have the mental maturity of a 4th grader and this remained hilarious to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My Future and Her Past</span><br /><br />During my time in Freiburg I spent many afternoons in cafes tucked comfortably away from the snow attempting to finish applying to grad schools. Of course the whole time I kept doubting whether or not I really wanted to go next year. So I decided to cut my losses, apply only for my dream schools and no safety schools. That way if I get in, it's a dream come true and if I don't get in then I have another year to teach English abroad somewhere before getting back to reality.<br /><br />While applying I became desperate for conversation (read: procrastination) and ended up befriending an old Chinese lady whom I had tea with every Tuesday and Thursday at 3:30. We both chatted about our dreams. Mine in the future tense and hers in the woulda/coulda/shoulda tense. She was an extremely interesting character, nostalgic but never self pitying, elderly, but still tech savvy(she has facebook!), charming yet aloof. I told her my life story over the course of three weeks and she told me hers. She had fallen in love with a businessman in the 1950s and shortly after marrying they moved to East Germany which was friendly with Red China. And since that move, she still hasn't been back to her native China. She says she's too old to travel so far now, but she was interested in what I had seen recently. Were things really developing as fast as everyone was saying? She didn't feel she could trust a real Chinese citizen's opinions since they are always so immersed in the propaganda. The last time I met her she was hailed by some people her own age. She waved politely but continued on to my table. I felt extremely honored that she chose to sit with me. I said good bye to her and told her I felt so lucky to have heard her stories. We both gifted each other a CD before parting and exchanged a look that in my mind read, "Are we soulmates?"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Cold Play Makes for a Green Day</span><br /><br />One day I wondered why I never played on the street for money. There are some really talented players on the streets but there are also some really sucky ones and they all seem to get cash. Also, it would just be good practice. So I put on some flannel and played my most typically American tunes with exaggerated country twang. A crowd gathered around and they asked if I was really American. Umm. . . yeah. They seemed suspicious. So I switched it up and played a mandocello rendered version of some Lady Gaga, Green Day, and Coldplay songs. This went over better and in the end I made 45.65 euros before my fingers got so cold I couldn't create chords anymore.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">See Sharp or Be Flat!</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3cJJUaIvbRNksJGyIlMbClOCIQW2TSvTlQ6sc4Ez4EPiwwCEacOPLHXpqHCQdQmmqOxhb3KGLxecb8a2f_TJh1tLKMjMI6_xlgnDrKVIP5wqjLnIUvStnmBvYcCo9DQsicAz6SFLzxvL/s1600/1308719_9d5a8ca75d_b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3cJJUaIvbRNksJGyIlMbClOCIQW2TSvTlQ6sc4Ez4EPiwwCEacOPLHXpqHCQdQmmqOxhb3KGLxecb8a2f_TJh1tLKMjMI6_xlgnDrKVIP5wqjLnIUvStnmBvYcCo9DQsicAz6SFLzxvL/s320/1308719_9d5a8ca75d_b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574765121609398402" border="0" /></a>At Tree's fraternity I had the opportunity to learn fencing. Not surprisingly my fencing lessons also gave me insight as to why all of the people in the pictures of the fraternity brothers have giant scars on their faces. They told me that they practice with masks but do not duel other fraternities with such protection. At first I thought they were kidding but after one of the brothers showed me the scar on his scalp I began to take them more seriously. Also, the sabres are not the flimsy things you see in Olympic fencing but thick and heavy clunkers. The handles act as a sort of a protection because when it is swung high it acts as a shield for the face.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Comprehension</span><br />It is true that most Germans speak pretty good English but the people I needed to talk to everyday were usually the Ukranian immigrants working at restaurants, bakeries, and bus stations. They could speak German of course, but I could not. This forced me to order lots of things that sounded the same in English so even if I wanted a delicious looking roll, I usually ended up ordering "ein Brezel." Eventually I got frustrated enough that I began pointing games and surrendered to the if-I-speak-a-language-you-don't-know-loudly-and-slowly-enough-you-will-magickally-pick-it-up-and-understand-it school of thought.<br /><br />I attended a lot of classes at the Jazz and Rock School as Tree or Suzy's guest. The topics varied from sightreading to music theory to pop music history to movie music. These last two were conducted in German but I decided to go anyway. When the professor asked which 60s artists had used the theremin in the background of their pieces I couldn't help shouting, "The Beach Boys!" Tree looked at me amazed. "You can understand this class? I don't even understand this." Since the class is primarily dates and names and all the names are familiar to me, it was super easy to follow, but poor Tree hadn't grown up listening to Oldies like me and had no idea what Motown was. I continue to be shocked at how the shared cultural history of the West makes living in Europe so much easier for me than living in Asia.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NFBkOQrgelQcNRZsXYCRoAuKTAVXpsJPw6uCTAdu65I84buQS6kNEJgJlVjOwNWn5AOD-WGj1iUfbVoYNAcLJ-RlQ2yOoqRfwYreisEDVigmXSU6WMRUWr5sOJA6jsDqwHgrV8QLbim6/s1600/the-reader_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NFBkOQrgelQcNRZsXYCRoAuKTAVXpsJPw6uCTAdu65I84buQS6kNEJgJlVjOwNWn5AOD-WGj1iUfbVoYNAcLJ-RlQ2yOoqRfwYreisEDVigmXSU6WMRUWr5sOJA6jsDqwHgrV8QLbim6/s320/the-reader_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574775208284105394" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDXBaRoz0V1FthX94fcGxiOsLunbqNSVOjLVGUPaBEHGl8efUQQi4Ae7YiKI-LdfBje84B9LES028sZW2KiPMIBIj3cEsiqBMajp94WIeqH6n_8j77FXFXwZauepmzwZ_wpIW86WyAPQx/s1600/220px-Lust_caution.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVDXBaRoz0V1FthX94fcGxiOsLunbqNSVOjLVGUPaBEHGl8efUQQi4Ae7YiKI-LdfBje84B9LES028sZW2KiPMIBIj3cEsiqBMajp94WIeqH6n_8j77FXFXwZauepmzwZ_wpIW86WyAPQx/s320/220px-Lust_caution.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574775210000688562" border="0" /></a>I had a similar triumphant experience in movie music class when they had a listening bee and had to name the composer for samples of movies from the last 15 years. I made a noise similar to, "Squee!" when I found out about the listening bee and forced myself into the line even though they assured me they'd been preparing all semester for this. I was like, puhhlease, I have 10 different movie music playlists on my iPod which I listen to every night before going to bed. I mentally prepared myself to appreciate this moment as I realized that I would never again have the opportunity to feel so superior. I scanned the room and was disappointed to see that only 11 other souls would share this, the highlight of my life, with me. <br /><br />It started off ridiculously easy with John Williams, Howard Shore, Hans Zimmer, James Newton Howard, and James Horner. It progressed to Michael Giacchino, Aaron Zigman, and Dario Marianelli. With only one other dude left we had to name the director, movie and composer. I heard a 10 second snippet of Lust, Caution (a Chinese language movie) and obnoxiously pronounced Ang Lee's name with tones and did an even more despicable French accent on composer Alexandre Michel Desplat's name. Finally my opponent was given 10 seconds of The Reader but had no clue. I answered Nico Muhly winning both the competition and the hatred of everyone in the room. I was in heaven.<br /><br />Up next: My adventures continue in Vienna and Christmas in Taiwan!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-39068378825190413322011-01-26T02:58:00.000-08:002011-03-12T13:57:54.366-08:00Five Mongolians, Two Swiss, and an American Walk into a Bar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSUGg7Csu-gboFuGSzTP_4UJSBhIUDYEias1uEHZoaS2RsimDdCiqUX3rX4nXf4fZPi9rDtRBmgDupfZUHuN7JWMQCXzQG0WT9NGxL9lWGJnNBFFYDQumUS0a1dhItwjaTmvFMi0yxw11/s1600/162693_467784153225_284024583225_5998760_7181812_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUSUGg7Csu-gboFuGSzTP_4UJSBhIUDYEias1uEHZoaS2RsimDdCiqUX3rX4nXf4fZPi9rDtRBmgDupfZUHuN7JWMQCXzQG0WT9NGxL9lWGJnNBFFYDQumUS0a1dhItwjaTmvFMi0yxw11/s320/162693_467784153225_284024583225_5998760_7181812_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566449485070106594" border="0" /></a><br />*Special thanks to anonymous commenter who caught my errors! I called Bagen by the wrong name and misattributed his towering height to Hurcha. This was due to impaired memory from alcohol consumption. Stay aware from it, kids!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />My Folk Heroes</span><br /><br />Sitting back in the Libe at Carleton last September, I was attempting the first draft of my Watson proposal. My description of my passion for music came out dry and clinical. But when Hanggai's music came up on my iTunes, that indescribable love for folk music finally became describable. I have now listened to their album on repeat 256 times according to iTunes. I feel like that is a slightly embarrassing number, but I think it's necessary information to confess so you guys understand just how much I love their music.<br /><br />Now imagine my level of excitement when I heard that Hanggai was playing in Bern, just an hour train ride from Freiburg. I found out about the concert two hours before it started. Just enough time, I thought! I just hoped that I would be able to meet them afterward to thank them for the inspiration. How lowly I set my expectations.<br /><br />By the way, you should totally listen to their music at this link (myspace.com/hanggaiband) while reading the blog!<br /><br />I arrived in Switzerland and somehow managed to navigate the streets of Bern to the club where my favorite throat singers were performing and convince the ticket vender, who doubted the veracity of my passport because there was no way I was 18 let alone 22, to accept my euros since I didn't have any Swiss Franks. I stood right under the stage and had just found my place when the concert began. It was unbelievably good! They sound way better live than on their album. Their concert also included pieces from their new album which I hadn't heard yet. They all wore traditional costumes from Mongolia and while their sound includes traditional instruments and traditional singing styles, they supplement this with drumset and electric bass and electric guitar. The energy was fantastic and contagious. The dry ice and blue-tinted flashing lights added to the high energy. And I was surprised because their albums just don't feature as much of the rock vibe as their live concert.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_hqkQBykTrWn5lMIhZryZiNXCiU6ELcQXJNHhgbU6CqM3WbfimNc_7pGqpkkHMLfYtSRz4i3xLgjI6zb0g7twxe3qHd5Sz6Myv52gdHdpMoM3vtrp4JviyoApNdWPIA0R5umtyV2pmat/s1600/155509_467784213225_284024583225_5998763_1508179_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_hqkQBykTrWn5lMIhZryZiNXCiU6ELcQXJNHhgbU6CqM3WbfimNc_7pGqpkkHMLfYtSRz4i3xLgjI6zb0g7twxe3qHd5Sz6Myv52gdHdpMoM3vtrp4JviyoApNdWPIA0R5umtyV2pmat/s320/155509_467784213225_284024583225_5998763_1508179_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566450035325811666" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Pictured here, you can see Bagen playing his Morin Khuur, the horse-headed fiddle. Instead of applying pressure with your left hand from above to change the pitch of the string, you press up with your fingernail. I'd heard that this causes experienced players to lose their fingernails but later Bagen dispelled that myth. Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRCCzgPCFsJ91sAzCx_LFl1YBf98hHlxYHSf7qoHI3MQDi2AO_CXKDqxtpqIus21kRVTOYSrmFG-ispkBvo6sR5GrUQl6QeTIuJAoQzBte0PPgW0gKYcmAoATtoP27b5LOitORvhMqUyk/s1600/156165_467784303225_284024583225_5998767_1316752_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRCCzgPCFsJ91sAzCx_LFl1YBf98hHlxYHSf7qoHI3MQDi2AO_CXKDqxtpqIus21kRVTOYSrmFG-ispkBvo6sR5GrUQl6QeTIuJAoQzBte0PPgW0gKYcmAoATtoP27b5LOitORvhMqUyk/s320/156165_467784303225_284024583225_5998767_1316752_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566449486300541442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ilchi is seen here playing the Taobuxuur, a two stringed Mongolian banjo. He is the founder of the group. Originally he was the lead singer of a punk rock group in Beijing, but in an attempt to find his roots in Inner Mongolia, he traveled to his grandparents' hometown and ended up learning hoomei, the Mongolian technique for singing two pitches simultaneously. Then combining his roots and his experience with punk rock he founded Hanggai. It was hard to imagine Ilchi as a punk rocker because he nervously made quiet comments in English to introduce the songs, since all folk musicians have to talk in between their pieces.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGjehPuhuNB6CBvCXhPW3ORLGpeKJPU7nxLzvbtjB9mTaOHa70R_ZthxroXKyWC20OORZ8Xbrn_36MJWZm5r-W46nRWf8RZn3MaP6g55W19ssRf_2NYoSd6_r44rtTGpnKnG-fJHV9J0A/s1600/18656_284039798225_284024583225_3637740_8235940_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWGjehPuhuNB6CBvCXhPW3ORLGpeKJPU7nxLzvbtjB9mTaOHa70R_ZthxroXKyWC20OORZ8Xbrn_36MJWZm5r-W46nRWf8RZn3MaP6g55W19ssRf_2NYoSd6_r44rtTGpnKnG-fJHV9J0A/s320/18656_284039798225_284024583225_3637740_8235940_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566449482823926802" border="0" /></a><br /><br />They played all my favorites but the obvious crowd favorite was Jiuge, Drinking Song. A simple melody is repeated slightly faster everytime. The lyrics are simple so by the end the audience could sing along and shout "Hey!" together. For the encore they played it again and all drank a glass of beer between each repetition. They made it through 5 repeats before the drummer lost control of the beat. The audience erupted into even louder cheers as the train wreck came to a screeching hault.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You Are the Wind Beneath My Horse!</span><br />After the concert I realized I had missed the last train back to Germany. I planned on spending the night waiting at the 24-hour McDonald's for the morning train but just then I struck up a conversation with a young Swiss couple. I explained my plight, reassuring them that it was totally worth it. The girl, Johanna, knew Ilchi from her year abroad in Ulaanbaatar. She could even speak Mongolian. After our bonding over our experiences in Asia, she invited me to sleep on her couch until the morning train. But there was a catch, she sighed. She and her boyfriend were going to spend the evening pub hopping across Bern with the members of Hanggai and I'd have to come along, would that be okay??? For some reason I had a flash to this scene from Love Actually (see around 2:40 for an exact replica of my calm reaction to the best news of my life).<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QbBONaR8As<br /><br /><br />So 30 minutes after the concert I had a place to stay and an in with Hanggai! Just then, the entire band came out and began drinking at the club. Since there was a two drink minimum to get in to the place, I had already misplaced my inhibitions.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWVQMeELfij4R_Z2hyphenhyphenyvO77aC4MPpsqX7d8lBU0MM3bKU_TZPu-AaJRewiphnWzlNLgVnQKX-wQh3cBMt3JhkY_RC3dPUSw47CU73CSbXO-IUa5bg6tN8dUFpKHyt8kflEbwiGy9us-gD/s1600/Picture+12.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzWVQMeELfij4R_Z2hyphenhyphenyvO77aC4MPpsqX7d8lBU0MM3bKU_TZPu-AaJRewiphnWzlNLgVnQKX-wQh3cBMt3JhkY_RC3dPUSw47CU73CSbXO-IUa5bg6tN8dUFpKHyt8kflEbwiGy9us-gD/s320/Picture+12.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566470163269927362" border="0" /></a> I ran up to Ilchi and proclaimed in my best Northeastern Chinese accent, "You are the wind beneath my horse!" Folks, I'm not sure why that came out of my mouth. But I managed to recover and explain my whole Watson spiel. I told Ilchi I was such a huge fan and he totally inspired me to begin this travel around the world, hunting down Chinese musicians. Unfortunately in the bar lighting, away from the well lit stage, all of my pictures with the band members transformed into these blurry things.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Depositing Drunkards</span><br /><br />Bagen and Hurcha, who sings lead vocals, heard me speaking Chinese and so I told my whole story over again. So the 8 of us headed off to paint the town red. After the 3rd stop of our progression, all of the Mongolians except Ilchi and Bagen ready to blackout back in their hotel. So the two coherent Mongolians each supported one of their bandmates but it took both Johanna's boyfriend, Rik, and me to support the massive and drunk Hurcha. He's well over 250lbs. When we got them to the lobby of the hotel and left them in the capable hands and wide eyes of the Swiss hotel staff, Hurcha suddenly jabbed me with his finger, sending me flying into the wall. "Aren't you coming to my room?" Johanna translated because he was speaking in Mongolian. "Uhh. . . no, I'm gonna keep drinking with these guys," I said in Mandarin, indicating those of us who could walk without assistance. "4.! 2! 6!" he replied in Mandarin this time. "That's my room number if you get bored! [Mongolian words]" I looked at Ilchi and asked with my eyes if I'd understood him correctly. Ilchi gave me an incredulous nod but Johanna and Bagen were both laughing so hard that they were clutching each other, tears streaming out of their eyes. "He thinks you're pretty!" Johanna managed to squeeze out between hyperventilating spasms of laughter. Somehow I wasn't flattered and I got the heck out of there before Hurcha shoved me into any more walls.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mongol Invasion</span><br /><br /><br />Since it was a Wednesday night in Bern there were only two more bars still open. The first was quiet so we had amazing conversations (read: interrogation) with Ilchi and Bagen. You know how you aren't supposed to meet your heroes because they'll just disappoint you? Well, these guys did NOT disappoint me. If anything I was overwhelmed by their dedication and passion for their art.<br /><br />I never get fail to be fascinated by the complicated linguistic capabilites of the tables I tend to sit at. Johanna could speak Swiss-German, Regular German, English, French, and Mongolian. Rik could speak Swiss-German, Regular German, English, Spanish, and thanks to an anthropological trip to Peru, a bit of Quechua. I claimed only English and Chinese but after a few beers I found myself speaking Spanish with Rik. Bagen and Ilchi both spoke Mandarin and Mongolian and Ilchi also spoke a little bit of English. But somehow we all managed to get our points across to everyone.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96Wbo6R2ya1k2QwZU8voqV5by8XQjCT3mNptWoCSQi-E39Oblzfaw4fM6zDWeQRtErh4lFqg6r4dl6cCreqZmf7FcEPAGGiyAhRQokuJjyf7fjTRi31YJYKsqNr84GuvjfLSE013UTiRU/s1600/220px-Batu_Khan_on_his_throne.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj96Wbo6R2ya1k2QwZU8voqV5by8XQjCT3mNptWoCSQi-E39Oblzfaw4fM6zDWeQRtErh4lFqg6r4dl6cCreqZmf7FcEPAGGiyAhRQokuJjyf7fjTRi31YJYKsqNr84GuvjfLSE013UTiRU/s320/220px-Batu_Khan_on_his_throne.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566492865456200754" border="0" /></a><br />Rik was going on about how globalization and technology was making people from the farthest reaches of the earth come into contact for the first time. Because I was rather drunk I confronted him on the inaccuracy of this claim. This was not the Mongolians' first excursion into Switzerland! "They've been here before! in the 13th century, yo! After Batu Khan captured Russia, Hungary and most of Poland, he was poised to take Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Italy! But after a few preliminary skirmishes the Great Khan Ogedei died in 1241 and Batu Khan and all the other leaders had to go back to Mongolia to elect the new Khan. If Ogedei had just lived a couple of more years y'all could be speaking Mongolian right now!" Rik argued that the Swiss couldn't be conquered by Mongolians. I was about to concede that Europe's wet weather did affect the sinews and glue of Mongolian bows, when Johanna, who was both confused and angered by this conversation interrupted us. "But I do speak Mongolian right now!" she proclaimed, ironically in English.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He Who Travels Far</span><br /><br />Later I found out that Hanggai is a Mongolian word from a folk legend about "he who travels far." Hanggai refers to an idealized landscape containing grasslands, mountains, rivers, trees and a blue sky. Ilchi told me that when he plays music right, clears his mind beforehand and lets the music completely surround him and enter him (he said that he was a teabag and that the music was the hot water) then he can feel that contentment and awe that can be felt from entering the legendary landscape called Hanggai.<br /><br />Bagen told me that he saw me during the concert and first thought I looked a little less interested than everyone else, a little less lively. But then he realized I was just really feeling the music, really appreciating it. I always forget that people onstage can totally see the front row. But he was right, I was completely transfixed the whole time.<br /><br />At one point I asked if I could see his hands because I had heard how playing the horse-headed fiddle can make your fingernail fall off. He told me this was total bullshit! Then he told me the name of the guy who started this myth and told me he had a personal vendetta against him. "If I saw him, I would not hesitate to kill him!" Sidenote: Bagen has the largest hands I've ever seen. From his palm to his fingertips stretched from my fingertips to my elbow!<br /><br />We talked about music for another 2 hours. We discussed their method of composition. They always use a traditional folk song as the base, although some pieces have evolved so much that they no longer acknowledge the link in the title. They really wanted to preserve their roots and their heritage. They explained that globalization was killing these old ways of looking at the world, these old perspectives and when they die, so does a lot of ancient wisdom. Their elders were not totally happy with the rock blend they create but Ilchi says it's necessary to get heard. "We lure them in with the rock sound and then they realize that the Mongolian folk is really cool. People just need to give it the first taste!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpZaOk68WIzP2eUH9J04H6rN9se_uYc2V9rzHO9F2sbMNbANQPtp8sXCHZPk88ouFenXqmoYRp9dZQ3_p_-EDehamkWw8hB6Ph2dfXCqprDG7XGe1qlYdHnMUJg0Y4ENCXa3aWzHkFmCF/s1600/8439447-lg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnpZaOk68WIzP2eUH9J04H6rN9se_uYc2V9rzHO9F2sbMNbANQPtp8sXCHZPk88ouFenXqmoYRp9dZQ3_p_-EDehamkWw8hB6Ph2dfXCqprDG7XGe1qlYdHnMUJg0Y4ENCXa3aWzHkFmCF/s320/8439447-lg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566493655826046946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />They told me about how rough it is to be on the road all the time. They don't always find people to speak Chinese with. And it's rough traveling all the time and only really getting a few post concert hours in each place. They told me that Mongolian folk music was often inspired by the sense of homelessness or drifting that a nomadic lifestyle entails. Sure, you take your family with you, but you lack that stability that humans crave. Now in Mongolia, a large number of people have given up this lifestyle and settled down. But in attempting to give Mongolian culture to the new generation, they have become nomads on tour. "We represent the past too well!" Ilchi confessed. We walked to the final club called "Dead End" and as we entered the final club and the pulsing dance beat made conversation impossible, I was so glad we had this chance to talk!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Swing Dance and Vomit</span><br /><br />In lieu of conversation, we played a Mongolian drinking game. I couldn't follow it but I knew the point was that the last person to upchuck won. But I did not win. In fact I lost twice. The other highlight of the bar was that two ladies in their upper forties took turns swing dancing with me. I couldn't escape them for the longest time. Johanna thought this was funny and did not rescue me. Instead she cracked jokes about how I am only capable of attracting people twice my age.<br /><br />All too soon the Swiss, a.k.a. my couch connections, were ready to go. They hailed a cab and I bid farewell to my heroes. Bagen told me that if I ever go to one of their concerts again I have to drink with them afterward again. If I do not do this and "sneak a peak" at their concert, then he said, "I will have no choice but to kill you." I noted that this was the second time he had threatened to murder someone that night. Looking at his ginormous hands it wasn't hard to imagine him simultaneously choking two people. Ilchi told me that one day I will come back and follow them on tour and write a book about the members, making them famous in the West. I told him that sounded like an awesome idea and I hoped it could happen someday. "Don't hope. It will happen." he said in his usual calm, nonchalant voice.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NPU_Xlc1e_ucNusybaWah0chaGrEjjI-NTeSGfZEHUmjQvbeh9E_Ocb59q2p_r0FuDkMmzwVoqr_oY8x8WU_kVH8oh4pPfpZHHNBjJJopte5T15WwdwEtU40NSjhfLc5plxIua_gyGox/s1600/SaasFeeWinter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NPU_Xlc1e_ucNusybaWah0chaGrEjjI-NTeSGfZEHUmjQvbeh9E_Ocb59q2p_r0FuDkMmzwVoqr_oY8x8WU_kVH8oh4pPfpZHHNBjJJopte5T15WwdwEtU40NSjhfLc5plxIua_gyGox/s320/SaasFeeWinter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566495387465710978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On the train back to Germany I marveled at not just the Swiss countryside, which I was seeing for the first time, but also my luck. I missed a train and ended up conducting an interview with my favorite folk musicians in the world. I still don't think it has sunk in that I've actually met the creators of this CD that I've listened to over 200 times. If you haven't already, listen to Uruumdush on their Myspace page!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-9581124181361823092011-01-18T21:56:00.000-08:002011-01-25T09:06:40.301-08:00Paris Adventures Part Two (I'm not gonna be one of those guys who writes Part Deux, ok?)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uy_6Ihu_vx3yXJ-AwgBWPzMRMknwIrEFDsI9SFWhUlzbstoA0nKqhiT_rFxB-v5jPkWAUoGlX2_bcfqS8clGLAUi3lSBhqjQgemhALGy5Z-iS7DhoE1NdcJ08YEp7Dm7SEQE2VpNlm6i/s1600/P1000253.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0uy_6Ihu_vx3yXJ-AwgBWPzMRMknwIrEFDsI9SFWhUlzbstoA0nKqhiT_rFxB-v5jPkWAUoGlX2_bcfqS8clGLAUi3lSBhqjQgemhALGy5Z-iS7DhoE1NdcJ08YEp7Dm7SEQE2VpNlm6i/s320/P1000253.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564182270755346914" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4Qr1DdQtmjYr6itD8FgQHpkfLADhAodP2xVos_J7XztiL_T-yzSIdXANWKWl1pRlIh_-7h4oxzJnOHKacky6dqVOuE7ZjVAZLupQMg-jjmWBn7KSLGo94cZBHX4ZiYKEPDtkhxEy9s6D/s1600/P1000178.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY4Qr1DdQtmjYr6itD8FgQHpkfLADhAodP2xVos_J7XztiL_T-yzSIdXANWKWl1pRlIh_-7h4oxzJnOHKacky6dqVOuE7ZjVAZLupQMg-jjmWBn7KSLGo94cZBHX4ZiYKEPDtkhxEy9s6D/s320/P1000178.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564175869051068978" /></a><br /><br />Technical difficulties delayed last week's post but double post this week to make up for it!<br /><br />Parisian Dinners<br /><br />So I left off last time reminiscing about a dinner I had with a couple from Taiwan, living in Paris. They busted out their fiddle and piano skills and we had a good time jamming. The dinner conversation was also amazing. Usually when I talk to people in Taiwan they can throw in some English words once in awhile, and enjoy doing so to spice up the conversation. But I quickly found that most of the native Chinese speakers I met across Europe had had their English skills absolutely obliterated by their required fluency in this third language, be it French or, later in my travels, German. The only exceptions to this obliteration of previously learned languages are Italian music words like mezzo forte.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IIP85PGPLC0AGwfniFBm7rMAZzI8BHPqVcoCFcRk6bt4lHgDzNkSyivt4ygWdioWMaeXZj0zb780Z0HBhGqllE0u-Pma50ZRpWot8LtO5HYNCcHLbIPTQhNmSkL09_hWx6D8XK90hy1x/s1600/P1000172.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IIP85PGPLC0AGwfniFBm7rMAZzI8BHPqVcoCFcRk6bt4lHgDzNkSyivt4ygWdioWMaeXZj0zb780Z0HBhGqllE0u-Pma50ZRpWot8LtO5HYNCcHLbIPTQhNmSkL09_hWx6D8XK90hy1x/s320/P1000172.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564175855321517858" /></a><br />The dinner was repeated the next week but this time they invited a dizi player to come too. He told me that he performed with a dance troupe, but besides his part, all of the instrument sounds in the dance music were not only prerecorded, but synthesized. He was very religious, enough so that for reasons I never figured out, he could not eat the cake I brought for dessert. He played dizi, shao, and hulusi pieces which I recorded and will post as soon as someone shows me what it is that I'm doing wrong that it takes over 24 hours to download a single video. I'm so helpless with technology :( After one of the hosts spontaneously accompanied him on the piano, the meal concluded with more political talk which a second glass of wine made me too sleepy to follow. <br /><br />Ethnosummary<br /><br />So in Paris I had found Chinese musicians who teach individuals to play by themselves. Their motives being the continuation of tradition. I had also found a musician and dancers who perform for Buddhist ceremonies and holidays. But playing flute over electronic music, despite its Buddhist routes still lacked that sense of community I was hoping for where people play together, where music acts as a form of communication. <br /><br />A talk with an ethnomusicologist at Paris 8 University (which is the right translation for that University even though it sounds like 123 Fake Street) told me that this is really all I could hope to find in Paris. She suspected, but had no statistics to confirm, that Chinese in Paris were more likely to be musicians than the general population of China or Taiwan, but that the types of people who uproot and move here aren't really the kind that play in a community. Chinese who play Classical music, those are the ones that form communities. The Chinese music playeres are loners and weirdos. I suggested independent as a better term. The ethnomusicologist in question was born in the Mainland but moved to Paris when she was just 4 years old and studied Renaissance music in order to create historically informed performances. Our conversation was held in English. I decided that I didn't like her attitude about Chinese immigrants.<br /><br />THE Julia Weisman!<br /><br />Before abandoning Paris for a different location, I was visited by my fellow Carl, Julia Weisman! She is teaching English (isn't everybody?) to Elementary Schoolers in St. Dié (thus the amazing title of her blog, St. Die Another Day). But on Saturday she took the morning train to Paris and met me at the metro stop in Chinatown. Tree also joined us as I was to follow him back to his Rock and Jazz School in Freiburg to take some classes and have free housing in a centrally located spot while I figured out what to do next. The three of us had a blast as we bumbled around Paris together. <br /><br />We first went to Tree's FAAAAVORITE restaurant in Europe. It's in Little Tokyo and the waiters always think that Tree is Japanese and tell him stuff which he doesn't understand. Sometimes I understand the basic stuff and translate to Chinese for him which sufficiently confuses everyone. But we had Julia with us today which meant that we had a French translator! I marveled as Julia ordered and effortlessly produced voiceless uvular fricatives and spewed non-aspirated voiceless plosives with convincing French nonchalance.<br /><br />After we walked off our giant steaming bowls of ramen (which absolutely hit the spot after walking around in the chilly Parisian weather), we found ourselves in front of the main goal of the day (besides having fun and eating good food, of course). The goal was a store called Thanksgiving. There Julia was going to buy some final ingredients to create her Thanksgiving meal. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEslo3UBByWu_j3xt6l_rwssoSl-22Ba6myEuX-qsoexu9utR14elUloc3LSGDVhFcuwweLNTeRB6muVBArpp6R51hYcRSc-tV1bf0rthfHSH0qWNnxg1Xm1kDtpzfD09779tX_tZvPWg_/s1600/jiffy-mix.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEslo3UBByWu_j3xt6l_rwssoSl-22Ba6myEuX-qsoexu9utR14elUloc3LSGDVhFcuwweLNTeRB6muVBArpp6R51hYcRSc-tV1bf0rthfHSH0qWNnxg1Xm1kDtpzfD09779tX_tZvPWg_/s320/jiffy-mix.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564185697860537666" /></a>I also wanted to go to buy Jiffy instant corn bread muffin mix because after 5 months abroad that was what I missed most. There were lots of other tempting things like cans of refried beans and tortillas. When asked what I miss most about home, I always swiftly reply Mexican food. People think I'm kidding and I'm just covering for a more serious answer like family or friends or my house but in all honesty I miss Mexican food the most. Tobasco, chili pepper and cheese are just not tastes you can get easily in Taiwan or Europe. Besides, friends and family can send me emails and keep in touch. Mexican food cannot.<br /><br />Since a can of beans is about 5 euros I pass on my plans of a Mexican Thanksgiving and just stick with my muffin mix. Julia told me she too was shocked at the prices. "How can they charge 9 euros for a small bag of Ree C's Pee C's?" "You mean Reese's Pieces? Why the hell do you say it like that? It sounds like feces." She claims that I am wrong and that the original Reese pronounced his name utilizing two syllables. I maintain however that it is better to not say it right and avoid the acoustic reminder of excrement. Just like how that wench changed her name in Robin Hood: Men in Tights to the French-sounding Latrine from the original more Germanic, Shithouse. <br /><br />Speaking of which, it is impossible to use a toilet in Europe for free. Restaurants and cafes have codes that are switched up more frequently than vault codes in banks. When you gotta go and you're just walking around town, it might cost you a 5 euro coffee to get in there. But hey when you gotta go. . . Sometimes I've played up the dumb foreigner act and just charged in jumping and clutching at my groin. This usually does the trick in smaller shops since they would prefer to let me urinate for free in the doobluh-vay-say than to have to clean up the mess themselves. But for larger places like McDonalds, the jump 'n' clutch doesn't cut it. Okay, end of tangent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRChZky77RiFjYHOB1EmUJbcJnQR-raQIFtHjpwlNlSWvA7QJL0uQDmDLrOqfSyaNwhmJBPu1OYym3TlY-YRN6GHXkJ0jK9dLzG7imp3uDiVCH5rxzDnYOnSwFdLC7osMjYpFa0Lz1FpJ/s1600/P1000254.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvRChZky77RiFjYHOB1EmUJbcJnQR-raQIFtHjpwlNlSWvA7QJL0uQDmDLrOqfSyaNwhmJBPu1OYym3TlY-YRN6GHXkJ0jK9dLzG7imp3uDiVCH5rxzDnYOnSwFdLC7osMjYpFa0Lz1FpJ/s320/P1000254.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564182274151878002" /></a><br /><br />Hunched Over at Quasimodo's <br /><br />After resting our feet in the only free seating we could find, Notre Dame, the three of us decided we needed food! We wandered through all of Chinatown until Tree had found us a satisfactory place. I like Chinatown in Paris because it seems to be mainly Mandarin speakers so I can use Chinese and not have to worry about stupid French. After very authentic stinky toufu, kungpao chicken, spicy fragrant eggplant, and egg drop soup, we went to see RED which was the only movie we could find that wasn't playing in French. The movie theater turned out to be in a really amazing walkway with festive lights hanging over our heads. Photo op! Again Paris is disgustingly beautiful.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJzBndHCRhx2nDSVZPozjvKelvcMYt2qSSc0TghiOmQAJzDlk31NYaFs4GUmXytLNFdzs0ZoPplThu15l53up4sBNrqMaGWINWFmE63fRrsQDJZrAk3bzJZ0si5vLAoZJrkOL94trUqweW/s1600/DSCN1726.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJzBndHCRhx2nDSVZPozjvKelvcMYt2qSSc0TghiOmQAJzDlk31NYaFs4GUmXytLNFdzs0ZoPplThu15l53up4sBNrqMaGWINWFmE63fRrsQDJZrAk3bzJZ0si5vLAoZJrkOL94trUqweW/s320/DSCN1726.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566170375194945106" /></a><br /><br />Telephone<br /><br />Apparently I look super confident or probably just approachable or something because on our walk home multiple people approached me specifically and asked me for directions. I usually don't have any idea where I am and just always leave 3 extra hours to get lost, so the fact that someone mistook me for a competent navigator struck my companions and me as hilarious. Oddly though, the person who knows Paris the best is Tree, since he is a competent navigator and has visited many times while studying in Germany. So when a lady asked in French how to get somewhere, Julia translated to English, I translated to Chinese, Tree thought for a moment, told me in Chinese, I told Julia in English, Julia translated to French. I seriously doubt that the end directions were accurate, but at least we all felt useful and good about ourselves for out intended benevolence. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1vVCIi5QntxUvh-ii6CaEh-9CDVQD3xEt-D_AYqGfLk80mnXQqMnFt7LRkddFS7AAKU3IYVlL2OZ8PC8C09ju4OvWOr-urqrEIWASZKtxG7mO6OremjmJu8wM_qG2PrA4vJRRWwk8n-9/s1600/DSCN1724.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS1vVCIi5QntxUvh-ii6CaEh-9CDVQD3xEt-D_AYqGfLk80mnXQqMnFt7LRkddFS7AAKU3IYVlL2OZ8PC8C09ju4OvWOr-urqrEIWASZKtxG7mO6OremjmJu8wM_qG2PrA4vJRRWwk8n-9/s320/DSCN1724.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566170371750494626" /></a><br /><br />Crossing the Rubicon<br /><br />We all crashed in a hotel room that night until our morning trains to St. Die for Julia, and Freiburg, Germany for Tree and me. Julia left before Tree and I woke up and just left a note on the bedstand. On the bedstand. Like a hooker. Why Julia, why? According to the note she is not big on good byes. <br /><br />In any case, after recharging my batteries on pastries and wine, I felt ready to tackle more of Europe and to actually play music instead of just talking about it. And finally after leaving Paris this happened. Coming up in the next post: My completely unbelievable adventures with Mongolian Throat singers/Rock banders Hanggai!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-85532498252769041002011-01-05T06:21:00.000-08:002011-01-20T00:48:09.697-08:00Parisian Adventures Part I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNdqDbHOjrkvFLQWGhX95Bfw5Br1g-P1z-FIHgv0geYogtYHjVBX9JeJ1Tesf_xj10a-E0tD4LCepYlJoOhAZPVbSabJ1JkiEZyb2bbYggxi1Y8aCqudv6v4vcXHdYu9lgHURoofrgJc4/s1600/P1000196.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDNdqDbHOjrkvFLQWGhX95Bfw5Br1g-P1z-FIHgv0geYogtYHjVBX9JeJ1Tesf_xj10a-E0tD4LCepYlJoOhAZPVbSabJ1JkiEZyb2bbYggxi1Y8aCqudv6v4vcXHdYu9lgHURoofrgJc4/s320/P1000196.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558899749560831074" /></a><br /><br />Gaul: I came, I saw, I shivered<br /><br />I arrived in Paris INCREDIBLY awake due to rest, fear, and caffeine. I fell asleep before take off and slept for 11 of the next 15 hours of the flight. I watched the movie Taken on the airplane. It is about a young woman who travels to Paris and is abducted by a stranger she meets outside of the airport and shares a ride with. Cool, I thought, as I decided not to take a taxi ever again. I spent the final hour of the flight drinking coffee. <br /><br />I managed to haul my two ginormous instruments and backpack through the metro and to my aparthotel (a.k.a. private hostel style room plus kitchenette.) The metro is its own story. Everytime I take it I see the most interesting characters. There are miusicians that board your train and sing or play accordian, which is always entertaining. This guy was just reading a book but he still made me laugh. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoM6dFjX_ZY3PoJdllUNDZHfclZYfqePwzpnmDcwZTtmPPigkC0nDfd7eMV49RtCi7_T0Two3FfMO2C7b8XRx75KPuvh2BuzKnZWP_jzKBxlctguGmaFFqxC-HSOEDfZBXpr0_-oKFcGw/s1600/P1000143.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPoM6dFjX_ZY3PoJdllUNDZHfclZYfqePwzpnmDcwZTtmPPigkC0nDfd7eMV49RtCi7_T0Two3FfMO2C7b8XRx75KPuvh2BuzKnZWP_jzKBxlctguGmaFFqxC-HSOEDfZBXpr0_-oKFcGw/s320/P1000143.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558897445432756786" /></a><br /><br />I was staying in St. Maurice and the whole area is straight out of the drawings of Paris on Madeline, basically the only text I consulted before arriving in Paris. The stores in the area were all bakeries, cheese and fruit markets, or Asian restaurants. Naturally, I took a small break from Chinese food and devoured about two dozen pain au chocolate for breakfast. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdA-O8R6ry6P6DnPAxPrlIFHtKdjlJIPS4lQrBBH97ie1Z4FYjbjspnvUCIRv1E-8nRLgDPhcCoxMxqEVzAMYpd895y_-cXIK9vYnRXtCg5QEAng23fz-ItBZw8v5cUS8jFML2Ehm7z3U/s1600/P1000138.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdA-O8R6ry6P6DnPAxPrlIFHtKdjlJIPS4lQrBBH97ie1Z4FYjbjspnvUCIRv1E-8nRLgDPhcCoxMxqEVzAMYpd895y_-cXIK9vYnRXtCg5QEAng23fz-ItBZw8v5cUS8jFML2Ehm7z3U/s320/P1000138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558897443815355746" /></a><br />My first real surprise in Paris was that people were really nice to me. I was very confused. Where are the snooty Parisians, fuming at the foreigners invading their picture book city? (Quick fact: France is the most visited country in the world by tourists.) When I approached people for directions or large chunks of brie (the latter being in markets, not just random people in the metro), they were totally courteous and helpful. On the seldom occasion where people did not speak English, my attempts at French were not mocked. I was very surprised. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqhKfVWdIBvLX8gR19CR85ORgvop_66YI_vhmHFkvdGlPz9plxopAe9O9ADXGeweHJhnlNSIqNW4bWjyPSxtkG-KZqs9cCuH-P_1hpTBqYzqFER2XWf4IOAhyphenhyphenfM02zGToXOe0DtTbALk8f/s1600/P1000140.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqhKfVWdIBvLX8gR19CR85ORgvop_66YI_vhmHFkvdGlPz9plxopAe9O9ADXGeweHJhnlNSIqNW4bWjyPSxtkG-KZqs9cCuH-P_1hpTBqYzqFER2XWf4IOAhyphenhyphenfM02zGToXOe0DtTbALk8f/s320/P1000140.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558897441970229826" /></a>But for some reason no one suspected I was American (at least not to my face) and people often asked, “'Olland?”<br /><br />My second surprise was that Taiwanese coats are about as effective as a silk scarf when it comes to protecting you from the cold. Before leaving Taiwan, I bought some very cheaply priced coats and sweatshirts, and I now fully understand how the people of Taipei are able to walk around in the 90 degree weather so stylishly dressed. Luckily, at the beginning of November, it was still pretty warm so if I wore 5 layers of Taiwanese clothing it was sufficient for the Autumn wind. <br />My third surprise was that I really don’t want anything more in the world than French baguettes and brie. Maybe it was just because I had come from a continent without ovens, but the bread in France was actually as good as all that hype. Annoying.<br /><br />My first week in Paris was spent with trips to the Taiwanese Cultural Centre, the only one in Europe. I lugged both my instruments down there, not knowing what to expect. Sometimes my instruments are my only tickets in and other times they make me look like a huffing, sweaty mess of a crazy person. I got lost and asked a man for directions in English. He responded in French that he did not speak English, but did I speak German. "Non," I replied, "pero puedo hablar un poquito espanol." "Really?! But I am Spanish, he replied in rapid-fire Castellano Spanish with lisping c's and exaggerated trilled r's. So I followed his Spanish instructions to the Taiwan Cultural Centre. I was proud of myself for being able to understand that much because my Spanish is basically limited to telenovelas.<br /><br />At the Centre I got contact information for three Chinese music teachers: two guqin players/teachers and a general Chinese instrument teacher. I met them all separately but the first two, in the oddest of coincidences, were both named Wang Laoshi, and both preparing to move back to Taiwan. I asked the guqin playing Wang Laoshis why they were returning home. They replied the same way. It’s too hard to live here. Too cold. Too inconvenient. I asked what initially drew them. They both replied wistfully, “A young man.”<br /><br />The general Chinese instrument teacher felt much happier about Paris. She looked it too. She wore a giant fur coat and matching fur cap. She told me how happy she felt living in Paris' Chinatown. Below her apartment she shared a studio with a calligrapher. “Taiwanese overseas have to create a community. I help people here stay in touch with their roots. I make sure the children don’t forget!” Her main instrument was either guzheng or dizi, she couldn’t decide. But she also taught pipa, ruan, erhu, suona, bawu, and liuqin. When I asked her what brought her to Paris, she said, “Romance.” I asked what his name was, and she looked wistfully out the window of the café we were sitting in. “His name is Paris.”<br /><br />Visitors from Freiburg<br /><br />On my second weekend, the students of the Freiburg Jazz and Rock School had midterm break and this was relevant to me because Tree came to visit along with his friend Suzy from Kansas or Oklahoma (is there really a difference?). Suzy is half Korean but this is hard to discern because her hair is Hilton-blonde. Between Tree and Suzy, I felt so conservative with my naturally colored haired. Suzy greeted me with a hug and a hybrid of an accent, part southern charm, part MTV Valley Girl. The German school is her study abroad as she is a singer songwriter attending Berklee School of Music in Boston.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuobkEsgKdLtZIwzwxPePN1TfTKDpv53jsf7PtoQ8ROl44vU6dmdUUX20RUa_zRTW66QD_aswJ7i_G7VsMpjbBgYJZ-GAD3VeoVQqZKubGXMozE4McSrsn0fBntKRPHKBBI4TBDiCwHnS/s1600/P1000205.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihuobkEsgKdLtZIwzwxPePN1TfTKDpv53jsf7PtoQ8ROl44vU6dmdUUX20RUa_zRTW66QD_aswJ7i_G7VsMpjbBgYJZ-GAD3VeoVQqZKubGXMozE4McSrsn0fBntKRPHKBBI4TBDiCwHnS/s320/P1000205.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558899746909659794" /></a><br /><br />The three of us marched off to do the tourist thing starting with the Eiffel Tower for photo ops. We were approached by silent girls with clipboards. The clipboards said they were from a deaf academy and needed money. I reached for my wallet and then thought for a second. Something was off. They made no noises, no hand signals except blowing air kisses at people who gave them money. Hmmm. . . I told Tree in Chinese to scream like I would if I saw Snakes on a Plane. His impression was uncanny and bloodcurdling. And to my delight, the little girls’ heads both whipped around on instinct. That seemed not like deaf behavior. I sarcastically blew the girls airkisses as they fumed at Tree. They had lost customers from my mischief. Unfortunately for Tree, they didn’t realize it was my fault and he got kicked and his hair tugged before Suzy, who had fewer qualms about hitting little girls albeit scheming manipulative little girls, than Tree and me, hip checked them both to the ground. We scuttled away and up the Eiffel Tower. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhRQy4R5KwBMwKrQ3oeUoegW44jTXdzD9uMRHr2m_Re-78Jvd4AX4hCHv2vgCK8bH-U52lfb54L_t0LOpPLJaAeurpk3BC7uWUU7x5Y8yb6Lp-OoPQ1eod6wtrXIw0Wwp5EeKDnqb-Kzk/s1600/P1000215.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhRQy4R5KwBMwKrQ3oeUoegW44jTXdzD9uMRHr2m_Re-78Jvd4AX4hCHv2vgCK8bH-U52lfb54L_t0LOpPLJaAeurpk3BC7uWUU7x5Y8yb6Lp-OoPQ1eod6wtrXIw0Wwp5EeKDnqb-Kzk/s320/P1000215.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558899753137420210" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3xO9WapDhIZLh7n1d3DwlTqa5-B2MHmMNTupzImXwGvrQe5uHhPxmQsj0_TlGg4Ldk2nEJsgQ0h0N4JNI41Xk7-3tBAnVtkP_fokYJpa0huvTegzQaE6aKK7s9opA0mPQyQwyk_5CYSu/s1600/P1000240.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3xO9WapDhIZLh7n1d3DwlTqa5-B2MHmMNTupzImXwGvrQe5uHhPxmQsj0_TlGg4Ldk2nEJsgQ0h0N4JNI41Xk7-3tBAnVtkP_fokYJpa0huvTegzQaE6aKK7s9opA0mPQyQwyk_5CYSu/s320/P1000240.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558901751563090722" /></a>The view from the top of the tower was pretty fantastic. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhb2dVafjP5D1yqdlNyeFW6leECmjwaTCn-kNoTdxnvvu6quHnFKHYe5s5142VuHUWgTNeA47vrqpryjYEAAezw0IvGoRefzKfN5qjGNVrJQi3oabt_r-LYDjG5qyPCkMHyvGGc8rNotk/s1600/P1000238.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhb2dVafjP5D1yqdlNyeFW6leECmjwaTCn-kNoTdxnvvu6quHnFKHYe5s5142VuHUWgTNeA47vrqpryjYEAAezw0IvGoRefzKfN5qjGNVrJQi3oabt_r-LYDjG5qyPCkMHyvGGc8rNotk/s320/P1000238.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558901746093121138" /></a>Paris is a ridiculously beautiful city. I keep exclaiming aloud, “Oh, so now we’re in the pretty part.” but since I’ve come to Paris I can’t seem to find any part that isn’t the pretty part. Every block looks like a movie set. Even better than the view from the top was the people-watching that could be done. Japanese tourists, all wearing the same hats and carrying laughably large cameras filed passed greasy Europeans in black socks and sandals. The latter group were all wearing matching scowls so I guessed they were Russian. I’ve had a lot of fun guessing nationalities from afar and then listening carefully to the language when the people get closer. (They were Russian or possibly Ukrainian, I can't tell the difference.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixfPhQob1KO2DAlXny_RrSd2jNcAENfehIAwf4dbI1ZabVysd1fST-m6Lmh1zd0upZwMDLOKbPIv67AgBoeVJEQLMgFVtyXrmLCvVwTT5XJW0rfk-q8QjbfhDnlgZEr6zx2TFiMMpd7ys1/s1600/P1000231.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixfPhQob1KO2DAlXny_RrSd2jNcAENfehIAwf4dbI1ZabVysd1fST-m6Lmh1zd0upZwMDLOKbPIv67AgBoeVJEQLMgFVtyXrmLCvVwTT5XJW0rfk-q8QjbfhDnlgZEr6zx2TFiMMpd7ys1/s320/P1000231.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558901742502358354" /></a><br />For some reason I have dozens of photos of Tree and Suzy pointing at things and seeming really cheesy, but it's candid, I swear!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYUMuo76wJwF7r7NA40fsPEtdPZ9MNd-0lGsLIdvTT7XPzRWjt0BjP2EaHSwIW9i6-h7WcC2InxXgUyn13GMTjSy2IHtvP3NMWEt-FS1uaqUq6sQcXjEa8c3dC5YimIQ4dy6uqQBBLJHg/s1600/P1000223.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYUMuo76wJwF7r7NA40fsPEtdPZ9MNd-0lGsLIdvTT7XPzRWjt0BjP2EaHSwIW9i6-h7WcC2InxXgUyn13GMTjSy2IHtvP3NMWEt-FS1uaqUq6sQcXjEa8c3dC5YimIQ4dy6uqQBBLJHg/s320/P1000223.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558901735785186354" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDs3sYw3XNuqhzGvipoOoX73Ut6hlYfNj57wrpiuSGiZ1UjhrwfK4XR-ZxbGPhBsm3Ryr2K87qfTwZ70C-xZXeRxcxVmaLGuhXbe2smoxollR16N5Bv6kx6o_Ev4b6-ScjLXPzR4wH_VM/s1600/P1000244.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDs3sYw3XNuqhzGvipoOoX73Ut6hlYfNj57wrpiuSGiZ1UjhrwfK4XR-ZxbGPhBsm3Ryr2K87qfTwZ70C-xZXeRxcxVmaLGuhXbe2smoxollR16N5Bv6kx6o_Ev4b6-ScjLXPzR4wH_VM/s320/P1000244.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564176718099595714" /></a><br /><br />While going down the windy staircase, Suzy had a hard time keeping her skirt from flying up. Tree said that she looked just like 瑪麗蓮夢露 (Ma Li Lian Meng Lu) so we had to stop for this photo.<br /><br />Aerobics at the Louvre<br /><br />I declared the afternoon museum time. Tree and Suzy looked a little reluctant, but I told them that I would take them through the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay in 3 hours. But I also I told them before we did this we needed to be properly caffeinated. We went to what I call a Look-at-me! café. This is because the outside seats all face the street so instead of everyone facing each other at tables they line up like they are in class. My companions tried to explain to me that this was so the customers could look out at the street, but I wasn’t buying it. I knew it was really vanity. I also discovered that they don’t add water to coffee in France. I got all of the coffee bean I wanted and it was conveniently condensed into a minuscule cup with three thimbles of water. After I bought a round of espressos, we ran to the Louvre, thick doses of caffeine coursing through our veins. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfuxZUVgyJAkdVbHb2jrZ31_ZuEXh_Tf03MeGOVK2S_uEcmB1Arr60s42x4ng2WYPquGEIs5ANJMnQfSx42BacxsZuFaHXEnQAgsWRe6bIQBPiybcPLI4cnl_I8RtwXlbrNjSu3TgKiGH/s1600/P1000246.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRfuxZUVgyJAkdVbHb2jrZ31_ZuEXh_Tf03MeGOVK2S_uEcmB1Arr60s42x4ng2WYPquGEIs5ANJMnQfSx42BacxsZuFaHXEnQAgsWRe6bIQBPiybcPLI4cnl_I8RtwXlbrNjSu3TgKiGH/s320/P1000246.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564176719579895122" /></a><br />Outside the Louvre we saw these children who really seemed like they could use some parental supervision. Way too easy to snatch these punks.<br /><br />I used my Watson ID card to pretend I was an EU student and got in for free. I hurried the first-timers through the Classical Greek and Roman section. Waste of time guys! We are in France, let’s get to the Renaissance! I told Tree and Suzy to each pick one thing to gawk at in each section and then to bust a move to the next. After 11 minutes we made our way to Winged Victory. “You guys this is really famous!” I exclaimed. “Why?” Tree and Suzy pondered in unison. “I don’t know, just take pictures and look carefully. You have 4 minutes to catch your breaths!” I declared eying my watch. We hit up Venus di Milo and the Mona Lisa and while I was explaining what I remembered from my previous tour at the Louvre when I was 12, a group of Virginians began following us thinking I was some sort of official tour guide. One thing that was fun was that in the Louvre I could explain a lot of the back story to paintings dealing with Greek mythology or the Bible that Tree really didn’t get. This was fun because it was revenge for when I was in Taiwan and Tree was constantly frustrated with my lack of knowledge of Chinese Classics or Taiwanese Opera. Now I could exasperatedly proclaim, “You don’t know the story of David and Goliath?”<br /><br />We left the Louvre 90 minutes after entering and were in the Musee d’Orsay Impressionist Museum with one hour to enjoy. Van Gogh’s self portrait was my favorite and I stared at it for way too long along with a hay painting by Gaughin that had so much texture, the straw stuck out at least a full inch from the canvas. I also got lost in the Degas section. This museum is so much more interesting than the Louvre. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfSRw7r4A7vrGoX9iUeQUYlpPGxSErD8CF7UzOPZcrtZw_2ZuaZPeUKO_Of3pZmvIS1XglAEeiLMyQqtNmPvZ-pg8P62A9SbeSNL_JR5l0JbXgcuojM7xzrVAeF-X_IozysBUwBdKgnss/s1600/P1000158.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXfSRw7r4A7vrGoX9iUeQUYlpPGxSErD8CF7UzOPZcrtZw_2ZuaZPeUKO_Of3pZmvIS1XglAEeiLMyQqtNmPvZ-pg8P62A9SbeSNL_JR5l0JbXgcuojM7xzrVAeF-X_IozysBUwBdKgnss/s320/P1000158.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558899743337872898" /></a><br /><br />At 5, the Impressionist Museum closed and we were outta there with all that gross Museum business behind us. We walked the Champs Ellysees and had photo ops with cotton candy, the Arc de Triumph, and some stuffed animals before getting the most menacing shaking of the finger methinks I have ever encountered from the security guard at the Disney store. <br /><br /><br />After a very long argument on whether or not this lamp in the window was a frog or a monkey (it's totally a frog, right?), <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht4hOwNh9V199TwVKyZ6TNNsN8PniCocy2Ral6yA8b2k86a22jf5aL_eAzFk6Wu_T3reGUXd0CdJZ482U3CfNYqAdungDje4ET5IAol1Q81gnyozUziinMFNhjefvj0nlLV7Gk9O9SYJgm/s1600/frog.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht4hOwNh9V199TwVKyZ6TNNsN8PniCocy2Ral6yA8b2k86a22jf5aL_eAzFk6Wu_T3reGUXd0CdJZ482U3CfNYqAdungDje4ET5IAol1Q81gnyozUziinMFNhjefvj0nlLV7Gk9O9SYJgm/s320/frog.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564179895904656498" /></a><br /><br /><br />the three of us ate a way too expensive meal that was soooooooo good. I had a fight with Tree because he was convinced the Rose' wine was made of roses. Naturally we had to have a bottle to test the theory. We then were given free shots on our way out “for digestion,” the staff said as they rubbed their stomachs in unison. I showed them that I could rub my stomach and tap my head at the same time. They were unimpressed.<br /><br /><br /><br />The Dinner<br /><br />The next day I met Tree's Taiwanese friends who live in Paris. We ate delicious homemade food and then sang American folk songs with my mandocello while the couple whose house we were invading played the piano and the fiddle. The conversation turned from music to traveling to politics and I did my bestest to hang on for the sometimes completely random jumps in topic. I got applause when I explained the differences that the Cultural Revolution caused. They were nice people and the only thing that seemed different from that dinner in Paris and any other in Taiwan was that we were drinking really really good wine.<br /><br />They invited me back to meet with a bamboo flute player, but because I am tired you will have to hear about that in Paris Adventures Part II!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-11201353573873996932011-01-03T07:24:00.001-08:002011-01-03T07:27:18.696-08:00New Year's ResolutionAhhh!!!! I did not blog in Europe. But my goal for the new year is to post a weekly blog on Wednesdays. That way I will still be blogging when it is fresh and my posts won't turn into behemeths.<br /><br />Blogging the first of many catch up blogs now, from Singapore. Happy New Year!!!!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-37321279870809935012010-11-14T05:00:00.000-08:002010-11-16T18:35:42.530-08:00Formosan Farewell: Zaijian Taiwan, Bonjour Paris<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW8vK0I4GUmg4zq-geih5_H9jxc3TMWAGO8ubtrAjD1PasvUYInDiWeUPwjHZTAEENrJMO5Tu_27YL6pnKQvGG3Y-76n4SieJ4-OsjkZgZZ7cRsyM4D1dwX84S5OYLPTiTTjvmHyvM2mT/s1600/150052_460152232289_133485357289_5428017_5048342_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizW8vK0I4GUmg4zq-geih5_H9jxc3TMWAGO8ubtrAjD1PasvUYInDiWeUPwjHZTAEENrJMO5Tu_27YL6pnKQvGG3Y-76n4SieJ4-OsjkZgZZ7cRsyM4D1dwX84S5OYLPTiTTjvmHyvM2mT/s320/150052_460152232289_133485357289_5428017_5048342_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539391045515017746" border="0"></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Behind the Scenes</span><br /><br />September 25th, the big day finally arrived. My mandolin troupe performed at the National Concert Hall! The last rehearsal before the concert we had five new players come in from a small group in the south of Taiwan. One of them was a mandocello player!!!!!!!! He told me that he had made his own mandocello because he couldn't find one to buy. I could relate. His 'cello was really beautiful. I saw that he had personalized it with a Christian fish. After chatting some more he handed me a pick. There was a hole in the middle. When I looked closer I realized that he had stamped a cross out of the middle of it. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-qaOKL9Wgzg5CKi9sbtQI0v4hQ5QIKiDVm5l3nGjy64jPRnFSnqrBbRnhlAA96W5cFjGm7ZrVCdlNXbZ5mDap7yeZXTrGNOQwoabYeUNKcudcGpTHMWGy7v3KogbBx8tP2HgHUR-5BsyD/s1600/P1000116.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-qaOKL9Wgzg5CKi9sbtQI0v4hQ5QIKiDVm5l3nGjy64jPRnFSnqrBbRnhlAA96W5cFjGm7ZrVCdlNXbZ5mDap7yeZXTrGNOQwoabYeUNKcudcGpTHMWGy7v3KogbBx8tP2HgHUR-5BsyD/s320/P1000116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539444554855715282" border="0"></a><br />He told me that Jesus helped him with his tremolo. I suspected it was the increased flexibility of the pick but I didn’t press the point. <br /><br />I arrived at the Concert Hall at 1PM for the 8PM concert. I had a special pass to get in which the guards carefully scrutinized before letting me in. To prove I really was TaoWeiAn they wanted me to write the Chinese characters. I had to explain that I studied in the Mainland when I wrote the simplified version of Wei instead of the Traditional version, or as they say in Taiwan, the correct version. <br />Backstage I was impressed with the facilities. We had our own changing room and green room, complete with food table! Everyone was excited but also oddly quiet. I suspected it was nerves. We were sold out. <br /><br />We ran through the program once and then took a ridiculous amount of photos in every possible combination. The photographer wanted me to move to the back at one point (since in Taiwan I am ridiculously tall) and the way he referenced me brought up his fear of being called a racist. He was calling everyone, “That girl with glasses,” or “The man with the green tie.” When he wanted me to move, he began by saying, “That white. . . uh. . . that foreign xiao pengyou.” <br /><br />Readers let’s pause for a moment. He called me xiao pengyou or "little friend", a term which teachers use to call their students in elementary schools. Why couldn't he call me the awkward tall kid? Do I really look like an elementary school student? Ok, don't answer that. True, my friend Becky did accuse me of looking exactly like a British lesbian after my haircut, but I liked to think I at least resembled a British lesbian who had mastered her times tables. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqJMtgHdUzET0sC6172n8txJorsYOp4RDj6sqYnJq83m6ewgKc5qMVTyzp5uDZyPZKBq3wl28j5mv_wyZYWZepMAIhRM6JEH_oTLcdXrllO18wztH38bXfU80G6LjZ9QC53o357aios-T/s1600/76106_460156182289_133485357289_5428139_4297806_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqJMtgHdUzET0sC6172n8txJorsYOp4RDj6sqYnJq83m6ewgKc5qMVTyzp5uDZyPZKBq3wl28j5mv_wyZYWZepMAIhRM6JEH_oTLcdXrllO18wztH38bXfU80G6LjZ9QC53o357aios-T/s320/76106_460156182289_133485357289_5428139_4297806_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539391031012411762" border="0"></a><br />Backstage while waiting, one of the stagehands told me that my friends were here. I asked how she knew they were my friends. She told me that an American couple and a Taiwanese guy with green hair had come in and gotten tickets. I repeated my previous question: how did she know they were my friends? Apparently Tree, despite not having a ticket, was trying to get in by inquiring whether the tickets were really sold out and if he knew a certain foreign performer if that would make any difference. The answers were yes and no, respectively. But, in an amazing stroke of luck, a woman passing by told him that one of her friends was sick and he could have her ticket and that ticket was right next to my two less conniving guests, Becky and her boyfriend, Jubjub. For some reason this was interesting to the staff working the event and word had spread backstage. Bizarre.<br /><br />Backstage there were lots of posters announcing "It's Hogwood!" which I found hilarious at the time but now I'm not sure why. Nevertheless, I have about two dozen photos of the various posters and I feel obligated to share at least one with you. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMRMoNrwLPNxxH9NbVj8nYKXfCoXU4eLPi2KGI3xukANwnX6edJ8GFH5k51elCtMN3Cn49cS2xuXAmllUS0dGeAu7N45DGl7KaF-DDg9qct-lo5Fnu_BJQoAuXWJ_SmRoWFrnwHpw_jyq/s1600/P1000067.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirMRMoNrwLPNxxH9NbVj8nYKXfCoXU4eLPi2KGI3xukANwnX6edJ8GFH5k51elCtMN3Cn49cS2xuXAmllUS0dGeAu7N45DGl7KaF-DDg9qct-lo5Fnu_BJQoAuXWJ_SmRoWFrnwHpw_jyq/s320/P1000067.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539444553400550098" border="0"></a><br />Before the performance I took a break from pacing anxiously and sat down in an empty chair. Immediately I felt the dynamic of the room shift to utter terror. I looked up from my scores in time to see our conductor/special guest/master Japanese mandolin player storm out. I had sat in HIS CHAIR! The nerve! I immediately lept up and caught him in the hallway where he was shaking with a)nerves b)rage c)embarrassment d) all of the above? I apologized in my atrophied Japanese. Fortunately the surprise that I could speak a little Japanese mollified the situation. To the slack-jawed awe of my fellow mandoliers I returned laughing with our guest of honor, or as I learned to call him from then on Aoyama Sensei.<br /><br />Two minutes before the performance the woman from Japan in our group politely excused herself. She calmly walked to the hallway, I heard her retch into the garbage can. She returned with a nervous smile, popped a breath mint into her mouth and then we went on stage to raucous applause. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrBMkcj28bs0cK2kcBLwiCZB0vRswj0c9SKO7r2UamnSz_FdVAOZ7EYEzyIq1edLU2J42wVrpJ-BNH62u1xLDHI3EayOjG8Q6qoGcyPB7e3vstDcUeETn_Rx9jfcKryTJZicyQ95Q0zC3/s1600/148884_460156927289_133485357289_5428164_903026_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDrBMkcj28bs0cK2kcBLwiCZB0vRswj0c9SKO7r2UamnSz_FdVAOZ7EYEzyIq1edLU2J42wVrpJ-BNH62u1xLDHI3EayOjG8Q6qoGcyPB7e3vstDcUeETn_Rx9jfcKryTJZicyQ95Q0zC3/s320/148884_460156927289_133485357289_5428164_903026_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539391038557771538" border="0"></a><br />I was only in half of the program so I got to watch from backstage. It was extremely interesting to see the near perfect performances but even more interesting to see the performers come off stage and immediately start apologizing to the Japanese-special-guest-artist-conductor. Their onstage prowess was only rivaled by their backstage professions of inadequacy.<br /> <br />At intermission I attempted to go out and greet my friends but while straddling a red velvet rope I was assaulted by an usher and retreated backstage with my tale between my legs. Fortunately I was in plain sight of my friends during the scolding and my look of fear and confusion and awkwardness in deciding which direction to dismount the rope was far more entertaining for them than I could have been had I made it within earshot.<br /><br />When I was looking at the program I realized that two of our pieces were not listed. I pointed out the oversight and everyone sighed exasperated. Those were obviously the encore pieces. Sure enough, after our final piece people began shouting, “Encore!” though as Becky and Jubjub pointed out later, with the Chinese accent it sounded an awful lot like, “UNCLE!!!! UNCLE!!!” So for a moment they thought the other audience members wanted us to be merciful and stop our playing. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvPum9zcsJhsOEor1l14De77vddGc0giXZk_bs-6aJcVLsN_75eTranHE9aOdloLBmdQ6GKGp-1EQfJQhrjnmtbJeRal15VhE0UbfBR8BZtXch_948dGlMXkgglSIXudPRUPno6VrvPhM/s1600/76973_460154152289_133485357289_5428066_2842995_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvPum9zcsJhsOEor1l14De77vddGc0giXZk_bs-6aJcVLsN_75eTranHE9aOdloLBmdQ6GKGp-1EQfJQhrjnmtbJeRal15VhE0UbfBR8BZtXch_948dGlMXkgglSIXudPRUPno6VrvPhM/s320/76973_460154152289_133485357289_5428066_2842995_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539391035987034258" border="0"></a> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">El Diablo</span><br /><br />The next day my posse and I rode the High Speed Rail to the southern city of KaoHsiung. We arrived at the Concert Hall just as the Chopin concert we wanted to see was starting. We hadn’t even bought tickets yet so we resigned ourselves to missing the first piece and opened our wallets in preparation for forking over large wads of cash for our tickets. But just as we got to the ticket booth a girl ran up to us and said, “Don’t buy! I have extras!” And she handed us free tickets, saving us over 200 USD. Sweet. The saved time also allowed us to sneak in before they sealed the doors. Double Sweet!<br /><br />The concert was interesting. We had front row seats and from where I watched I could see individual beads of sweat form and drip down the pianist’s face. I noticed people were much more dressed up for the Chopin concert than they would be for a Chinese concert (the mandolin concert fell somewhere in between). As you might expect there was no introduction to the pieces from the performer to explain their meaning. There were no anecdotes about the songs' history. Is this a good thing? Should a performer be allowed to shape the listeners’ perspectives so strongly or should the performances speak for themselves? I prefer the folk concert etiquette, but I think there are definitely merits to letting the audience have more freedom in their interpretation of a concert. Let me know what you guys think.<br /><br />The pianist, Dang Thai Son, was from Vietnam and there is currently a documentary being made about him called The Man Who Loved Chopin. He played the pieces with mechanical precision, but after he played I realized I hadn’t learned anything about him personally. Chopin’s piano pieces are so emotional and the way he played was pretty, but somehow he managed to be completely removed from it. Very strange. Tree made us all laugh when he reviewed the player as having, “. . . physical precision with the emotional depth of a dumpling and musical comprehension of an egg. That’s Mainland style for sure.”<br /><br />Outside the concert we ran into the most amazing Diablo master. He said he had been playing (Is that the right verb?) for 5 years. It showed. You can watch the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMt9pqFZXN4 <br /><br />This was possibly more entertaining than the concert we’d just seen.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Kenting!</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-XgKz4j_0bQmssh-UO82qG7-ycaKSnwb7kOOD_rsG0M9NrfQJhVg96Mn7w4hVf1GVCrgnUiAbe7CGlvNBw3LjJ5KZzPUnxat8YhHbEuwiia4MJKLiaMqhTNo_M0C4mpYJXZJBZS_VfN7/s1600/kenting_map.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf-XgKz4j_0bQmssh-UO82qG7-ycaKSnwb7kOOD_rsG0M9NrfQJhVg96Mn7w4hVf1GVCrgnUiAbe7CGlvNBw3LjJ5KZzPUnxat8YhHbEuwiia4MJKLiaMqhTNo_M0C4mpYJXZJBZS_VfN7/s320/kenting_map.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540340252643997650" /></a><br />The next day we bused to the quaint touristy beach town of Kenting. The weather forecast was 30% Typhoon so it wasn’t a great day but it was hot. We rented bicycles and biked 12 miles to a beach famous for its white sand. The landscape and people we saw on the way were so cool! Completely different from the sights of Taipei. We saw some areas considered very poor by Taiwanese standards though not by Mainland standards. At one point we all got stuck in a sort of dead-end quicksand path and several people pulled over to help which I appreciated. But it took them about 15 minutes to stop laughing. That last bit I did not appreciate.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcI8KNDaFRlL1AoeG99ptEefpfe2bJaxWgONrTnnr-_eglLw59Id_A3Mmc4F2eFHOY8QUzRmHMwefJVK742lO28C4Fcf0hmkaLlOulw57ZRPgMerxrsGLTS15zjuIWeBuCdpIdAzb_OPOM/s1600/famous04.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcI8KNDaFRlL1AoeG99ptEefpfe2bJaxWgONrTnnr-_eglLw59Id_A3Mmc4F2eFHOY8QUzRmHMwefJVK742lO28C4Fcf0hmkaLlOulw57ZRPgMerxrsGLTS15zjuIWeBuCdpIdAzb_OPOM/s320/famous04.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540340248862634818" /></a><br />The big difference between beaches in Taiwan and beaches in America is that Taiwanese people are AFRAID OF THE SUN!!! I looked around at the beach and it looked much more like an archaeological dig than Venice Beach. There were white linen tents all along the shore where people were “enjoying” the beach safe from all UV rays. Of course young kids ventured into the water but many wore shirts and hats and looked much more like Brits on Safari than Taiwanese prepping to brave the surf. The thing I wanted to do most at the beach was build a sandcastle but that is apparently forbidden. When I scoffed at this, Tree countered with, “Would you just dig a hole in the middle of the highway?!” Touché??? <br /><br />Interesting fact: 12 mile bike ride=excruciating gluteal pain the next day.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Flute Maker</span><br /><br />The last day before Tree left for Germany, I went with him to see the only bamboo flute maker in Taiwan. All other flutes are imported from the Mainland. Tree was going to order a flute and I was going to try to learn more about instrument production.<br /><br />I found out while I sipped my tea and listened to the flute maker that most flutes in the Mainland are made by people who are not flute masters like he is. He asserted that he had special secret techniques which made usual intonation issues less severe. The guy had about 5 minutes of information to share but he was on repeat and talked for nearly 90 minutes. Eventually we had to tell him that Tree had to go to the airport. The flute maker seemed almost hurt. What?<br /><br />Before we left he told us that upstairs he had a special studio and that there would be a concert in a week at the end of October. He said I could come and be the guest of honor if I played some American songs on my mandocello. I was ecstatic though completely clueless how I was to represent all of American music in two songs.<br /><br />I said goodbye to Tree as he headed to the airport and I went to meet Becky and Jubjub. Also I just found out Jubjub's real name is Chris and apparently I’m the only one who calls him Jubjub. Okay, one more time, Jubjub. Now I'm done, but I really thought that was his name. Huh. We went to an all winds band performance of movie music. They played Schlinder’s List, Avatar, Up, and many others but the highlight for me was the new Star Trek music where they brought out an erhu! The erhu is featured in the score to sound alien and other worldly whenever they show Vulcan. This is also my favorite random fact and I obsessively tell people about this all the time, so when the erhu came out my friends laughed and rolled their eyes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4N2jACZ9YVC5MaltyBGrbST2hGxUxOtHEXf0ZsYMp4OOfs_zvJj8YFp7cBJWbmVypgysIciOIhmJE55HwsLYLm0xX6pOXj82eSzJthMz767UzdCinlz6Mb6LnX6l4JYY115qoLonSHdhR/s1600/P1000125.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4N2jACZ9YVC5MaltyBGrbST2hGxUxOtHEXf0ZsYMp4OOfs_zvJj8YFp7cBJWbmVypgysIciOIhmJE55HwsLYLm0xX6pOXj82eSzJthMz767UzdCinlz6Mb6LnX6l4JYY115qoLonSHdhR/s320/P1000125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539447936930666018" border="0"></a><br /><br />The next week I opened up the concert at the flute maker’s studio by playing Take Me Home, Country Roads and Desperado. There were about 40 people there but they were all musicians or music students so the pressure was high. I talked a lot about what little I know about music in America and finally they let me sit down and watch the rest of the performances. <br /><br />There was a rather famous bamboo flute player. He also played the shakuhachi and the xiao. While he played there was a video on loop of rising incense smoke. The pieces were very good. And you could see him disappear within himself before he began playing. He told us that the emotions must be right before such pieces can be played. It reminded me much of the shakuhachi players we saw in Japan. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYAx-BPEqZ65EwYiaO0A1_XvCBAdblhhr0JGJ2p1MmH__1teXr99ulyNTrdsuh_ef7lQXEJmVHsdL_K-eTta6ayqbF-7TfuogKIroT95a-xa-KJgY8ytdSfsNUSKqWDi-k3moKZLA3zQz/s1600/P1000121.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilYAx-BPEqZ65EwYiaO0A1_XvCBAdblhhr0JGJ2p1MmH__1teXr99ulyNTrdsuh_ef7lQXEJmVHsdL_K-eTta6ayqbF-7TfuogKIroT95a-xa-KJgY8ytdSfsNUSKqWDi-k3moKZLA3zQz/s320/P1000121.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539447908361683906" border="0"></a><br /> <br />Next a pipa player, whom I had seen in concert already, played many great pieces. <br />The really interesting thing about her performance was that a sculptor was carving a block of clay in her image while she played. After 3 musical pieces, the sculptor’s piece was finished. You can check out videos on youtube. I'm having issues uploading but here's one of the pipa player and the sculptor for now.<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HmAndgLqa7M<br /><br />Random fact: At intermission we were served sweet, dried olives.<br /><br />I left after taking many photos with people and getting a couple of free DVDs and CDs. While waiting for a taxi, I heard a jarringly familiar accent. Someone from Iowa was talking behind me. I turned to see a Taiwanese woman. I asked her, “You speak English?” She told me she did her PhD at University of Iowa. I wanted to concentrate more on what she was saying but I was racking my brain trying to think of a way to make her say barrrrs. I wanted to hear her dig into one of those word final Midwestern r’s. Instead of bars though, she offered me a free ticket to see another Chinese orchestra concert at the National Concert Hall.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Familiar Faces</span><br /><br />Whenever I go to meet a supposedly new group of musicians in Taipei now, there is inevitably someone there I have already met. I went to a fusion concert the other day and I had already seen all of the members playing in traditional groups. I even have begun to recognize audience members. At 7-11 sometime people say, “Hey, weren’t you at that concert last week?” or “When did you get your haircut?” And I just want to ask, “Who are you and why are you tracking the growth of my follicles?” People add me on Facebook saying that their friends told them about me, and now when I explain my strange situation as not exactly a student, not exactly homeless, people tell me they've heard about me already.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXi5BdvL_gDCApmgL6VNDavSeg67hbCSmbOPqHP1APpgnZh5d13oFR2ad7KsZVVp9nAJm75lG0t_I6ZEF1htmmlhPRnlJDNgAVOAlsXscWPVcGPdVjDRTRtIcUYCWWQVBlubTR2nAue5tI/s1600/P1000130.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXi5BdvL_gDCApmgL6VNDavSeg67hbCSmbOPqHP1APpgnZh5d13oFR2ad7KsZVVp9nAJm75lG0t_I6ZEF1htmmlhPRnlJDNgAVOAlsXscWPVcGPdVjDRTRtIcUYCWWQVBlubTR2nAue5tI/s320/P1000130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539447919002541586" border="0"></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Au Revoir Taipei</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNX6tILWC7MKlWCmjXr_Oa46Nl4Pp574FkQdvB5fRs2JiuinnPeMDvYk5xDSf7beQ5lfPN9PSk4ofi7xy_REYL40rCo4VRWILjgUASXpIQJGR5XfUNUmYa5xAYQk4Rm-1MU67bV9EUt9T/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 141px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNX6tILWC7MKlWCmjXr_Oa46Nl4Pp574FkQdvB5fRs2JiuinnPeMDvYk5xDSf7beQ5lfPN9PSk4ofi7xy_REYL40rCo4VRWILjgUASXpIQJGR5XfUNUmYa5xAYQk4Rm-1MU67bV9EUt9T/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539552211403268450" /></a>Au Revoir Taipei is a cool movie that does a really good job of showing a slice of life in Taipei. Though during one of the chase scenes I noticed several geographical inaccuracies. I mean, come on, Xiaonanmen is not within sprinting distance of DaAn Park!!!! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLqr1yvy7SJ6QQ8y1LrBmBCiTAWgGwO4JdiFFqabyhFbeBksRsySy-HwXCLD0wXPADiMJ3i5U6l4g10QQHSp1tyTRX5oz3lcaLxirKrB3cuoarKjEJeLJ0KvOPLAsoq63H39Fx08QVxDJ/s1600/IMG_0778.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibLqr1yvy7SJ6QQ8y1LrBmBCiTAWgGwO4JdiFFqabyhFbeBksRsySy-HwXCLD0wXPADiMJ3i5U6l4g10QQHSp1tyTRX5oz3lcaLxirKrB3cuoarKjEJeLJ0KvOPLAsoq63H39Fx08QVxDJ/s320/IMG_0778.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539552731630314066" /></a>It also features many scenes in Taipei's famous 24-hour bookstores which has been one of my favorite places to go when suffering from insomnia, bested only by McDonalds. I took this photo in Eslite Bookstore because it bothered me that this book was in English Literature. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0FIQJP7WtzE75L_FTxBwV89ULIhHqSJb7mBw9JNX1t069VGYn40O6eZD18IjpzHA8J3sk8VesGnaKp9ZIqqNqe9W31Wwp-f6J9Df62Ioyw6qNLnL5_Vx2TibWdq-Hw6dFL7TXB7MHACC/s1600/P1000134.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0FIQJP7WtzE75L_FTxBwV89ULIhHqSJb7mBw9JNX1t069VGYn40O6eZD18IjpzHA8J3sk8VesGnaKp9ZIqqNqe9W31Wwp-f6J9Df62Ioyw6qNLnL5_Vx2TibWdq-Hw6dFL7TXB7MHACC/s320/P1000134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539449556958006402" border="0"></a><br /><br />Leaving is so hard. I really feel like I could live here. The last week in Taiwan I didn’t go to any rehearsals. I didn’t meet with my regular language exchangers, I didn’t even go to my usual 7-11’s or Bubble Tea places. Though cowardly I know, it seemed easier to just disappear from people’s lives than to say goodbye. . I took long jogs in the park to collect my thoughts. Taipei is so safe, even at night. The closest thing I saw to a flasher was a guy jogging with a baseball jersey that read Wang. Taipei has seemed like a home in a surprising number of ways. Leaving is so hard.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Change in Itinerary</span><br /><br />Surprise trip to France! I realized that I actually had made many connections to musicians studying in Europe. I thought this would be an incredible opportunity for my project. Paris is sooo different than the other places I'm going. One of my friends asked me why I wasn't going to go visit her and I suddenly couldn't come up with an answer. So, with an offer of a couch for a month and permission from Watson, I bought a ticket to Paris. I packed up my things into my backpack (the CDs and DVDs and newly bought winter clothes literally made it burst at the seams), sealed up my zhongruan and mandocello cases and left my apartment and my neighborhood one last time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmtP4wTNKh3WFhq45rIgydgcOowkfAgF-KzAKjKt-1S4t68xSxVOH2jgHvNuyBkYC5eBbwD7nKWhx5GaajJcz8HuzajcT2azeJU98sjKW74SDW4T02hdrCW14siX8-neyMB0doAJ26gmJ/s1600/P1000136.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmtP4wTNKh3WFhq45rIgydgcOowkfAgF-KzAKjKt-1S4t68xSxVOH2jgHvNuyBkYC5eBbwD7nKWhx5GaajJcz8HuzajcT2azeJU98sjKW74SDW4T02hdrCW14siX8-neyMB0doAJ26gmJ/s320/P1000136.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539449573551681058" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKaDcuz4eVgK8ssx1vKuaEGE57UIGiLfwaj4QS9B8LSnHy48dsE-ZgngKyDuOhtqzdHLxWSnLl4JHMYElZlKdSLbLKd810PpgF_bJASuU-dMkadtfTcugNZXJNEoDh95P-RDc8CaZc4A0/s1600/P1000135.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEKaDcuz4eVgK8ssx1vKuaEGE57UIGiLfwaj4QS9B8LSnHy48dsE-ZgngKyDuOhtqzdHLxWSnLl4JHMYElZlKdSLbLKd810PpgF_bJASuU-dMkadtfTcugNZXJNEoDh95P-RDc8CaZc4A0/s320/P1000135.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539449564324959154" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />Pictured here is my favorite cafe which makes the bold assertion, "We are not the best, but we are one of the bests." on their store window. The last photo is a dummy wearing a hard hat and he is presumably used to scare away youths during construction workers' lunch breaks. Do scarecrows work on people and if so are they more aptly called scarepersons or is the irregular plural incorporated into the plural as scarepeople(s)? These were the deep thoughts that troubled my mind as I hopped 6 planes to get from Taipei to Paris.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-40464649501885783942010-10-13T02:21:00.000-07:002010-10-30T07:21:13.497-07:00Fortnight Three: Conspiracies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgY9DwxWcowPYZEH5fzATnAHpm9cGG_YaprfuRrD-8UR15lfFGzCdgTg-_-TVvSTYlv3_9OiftGu5vMznS5u81dZOQq45SZZsB7bsologLcdcxOrIcFFO4Vtc1iAuzzYIBCWWjn-A77fE/s1600/61284_441205517289_133485357289_5083736_1958505_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgY9DwxWcowPYZEH5fzATnAHpm9cGG_YaprfuRrD-8UR15lfFGzCdgTg-_-TVvSTYlv3_9OiftGu5vMznS5u81dZOQq45SZZsB7bsologLcdcxOrIcFFO4Vtc1iAuzzYIBCWWjn-A77fE/s320/61284_441205517289_133485357289_5083736_1958505_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533839092525810338" /></a><br /><br /><br />The Taipei Mandolin Ensemble is gearing up for the big performance on September 25th. I've finally become proficient at the mando-tremolo and every rehearsal is a blast. The music is really fun. We're playing a medley of famous pieces from around the world and I always start laughing during the Italian Funnicula Funniculi, which only solidifies their suspicions that I am a crazy person. It's just too much fun. Besides my friends at the ensemble, I also have been getting pointers on techniques from various other musicians I bump into or that see me playing in the park. Sometimes I feel like all of Taiwan is conspiring to teach me music.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Moving Sound</span><br /><br />I got an email response from a really amazing group called A Moving Sound. They were founded by a husband and wife; the man is from the US and plays zhongruan and the woman is Taiwanese and sings. Also in the group is another zhongruan/guitar player, an erhu and a percussionist. They practice in a community space and weren't allowed to use drums for the first half of their rehearsal because it bothered the meditation group in the next room.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5toePRg7a8bE24njSnx1O9liq2FlY7vjfFjo0KfAcSuJ2Ze_gH6dNS1SY_2f6XpZPaovYsX_sqtQlN8p2X5jxzJ1zWM8-WGhoX9v29-yRKY0tJNSiY1qzk6Sk77qMinh7BB4iLuRJfn9/s1600/26389_367464817507_367453437507_3514227_7643475_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif5toePRg7a8bE24njSnx1O9liq2FlY7vjfFjo0KfAcSuJ2Ze_gH6dNS1SY_2f6XpZPaovYsX_sqtQlN8p2X5jxzJ1zWM8-WGhoX9v29-yRKY0tJNSiY1qzk6Sk77qMinh7BB4iLuRJfn9/s320/26389_367464817507_367453437507_3514227_7643475_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533839097421298978" /></a><br /><br />I chatted with them, but it was difficult to learn much at first because they kept quizzing me on my folk music adventures. I played zhongruan for them and told them about my project. They laughed a little bit when I told them I originally played french horn because their white member also played french horn and then started zhongruan. He said that he was just drawn to the sound of Chinese music. It sounded familiar. <br /><br />He married his Taiwanese wife and has been living in Taipei for 8 years. However, as I found out during the rehearsal, he doesn't speak a word of Chinese! His wife repeats everything during rehearsals in the language in which the utterance wasn't originally spoken. I admire her patience.<br /><br />During rehearsal I got to see them compose songs. The erhu player brought in an idea and they jammed together figuring it out. You can watch it here on the youtube link below and enjoy their expressions as they work out a particularly tricky transition:<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lhTuU_vrxE<br /><br />After the jam, I went with the happy couple to get some breakfast. Yes, it was 10PM but they were musicians and thereby necessarily nocturnal. I learned more about their pasts and how they met in New York. I also learned really interesting things about their views on the differences between the Mainland and Taiwan and Taiwan's slow move away from trying to retake the Mainland. As I learned, there are still ex-soldiers who hold pieces of paper from the Taiwanese government which give them the rights to vast areas of land in the Mainland. These men were promised these plots by the exiled Taiwanese government and were not allowed to marry or have families, but had to remain ready for the triumphant return. It wasn't until the early 90's that the Taiwanese government officially nixed the goal of the government: Retake the Mainland.<br /><br />Finally, we talked about why people do folk music. They both posited that folk music from all over the world had this amazing ability to just grab you and engulf you. They had both been doing other things with their lives. She was a dancer and he was a classically trained composer, but they decided to dedicate themselves to this music. But they also suggested that folk music was not something that was created but something buoyant which you allow to float to the surface. You have to feel it rise up both from and within you.<br /><br />Drunk on good music and conversation, I floated home via the MRT and was fast asleep within an hour of eating breakfast.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Secret Mission to Kuala Lumpur</span><br /><br />On the second weekend in September I took a "visa run" to Kuala Lumpur. My visa allows me to enter Taiwan as many times as I want until 2015, but I can only stay 60 days at a time. This is to prevent me from illegally teaching English. Why a $60 roundtrip flight to Malaysia would hinder my teaching beats me, but I complied because it was easier, and most surprisingly, cheaper to fly abroad than to reapply for a different visa. <br /><br />At my GRE study group, I realized to my horror that the GRE is different in Taiwan and a few other places in Asia. In most places, you can take a computer test on any weekday. You just make a reservation and go in. It's just like a more painful trip to the dentist. But because in Taiwan students had a habit of memorizing the answers to the tests and telling their friends, people who were taking the test later in the year were doing significantly better than those who took the test earlier. I really wanted to get the test over with and not take it at the end of October in a giant hall, so I opted to kill two birds with one stone and take the test in Kuala Lumpur. Now I just had to find a place to stay for my 3-day-getaway.<br /><br />Methodists to the rescue! Most of my friends from church are Malaysian and one of them works at a Hilton Hotel in Taipei. Her cousin works at one in Kuala Lumpur. Before I could even ask they told me they had a plan. I was to pretend to be Pastor Andrew. They asked me if I accepted this mission and I replied solemnly, "Absolutely, I do."<br /><br />The Sunday before I left I met with my conspiring compadres after church. They gave me a black shirt and a white collar. I couldn't stop laughing. What was going on? How were they pushing me to do this on the church stoop? How could they know that I would absolutely love the chance to do this? They told me that I would have to fly as myself since it is a really serious crime to pretend to be someone else at the airport, but I should change on the train to the hotel into my priest outfit and check in as Mr. Andrew Charles. WHAAT!?!?!?<br /><br />Apparently the Methodist church and the Hilton have some sort of deal, I still don't understand what it is exactly but clergy stay for cheap. So this 5-star suite was going to cost me only $50 for the weekend instead of the $500 it normally would have. They explained that I needed to be careful because both cousins could lose their jobs for this. My laughter subsided slightly. Could I go to gaol for this? Don't they kill people for possession of marijuana in Malaysia? What would they do for this? Public caning? They told me to relax that it wasn't that big of a deal, it's just that they got caught last time so the cousins would definitely get fired if something went awry a second time. I relaxed comforted by their track record: 0 for 1. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgv8CPHaGc8-alTDMRv0B5IE540e4xMV8LdovOZlXdUnXSHRrA3la_ShdMTIb1KyeafEAwz2m2SzExFOY2Ry5HHWc5_ZjElIjxnDDnPkPXJRzFGIkJmUyN7koU-YX6KMkIHeSaTpm8gBn/s1600/IMG_0801.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAgv8CPHaGc8-alTDMRv0B5IE540e4xMV8LdovOZlXdUnXSHRrA3la_ShdMTIb1KyeafEAwz2m2SzExFOY2Ry5HHWc5_ZjElIjxnDDnPkPXJRzFGIkJmUyN7koU-YX6KMkIHeSaTpm8gBn/s320/IMG_0801.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531123853460969522" /></a><br /><br />The sign at the airport was in Malay, English, Japanese, Arabic and Chinese. Three for six ain't bad!<br /><br />Dutifully I changed into my costume on the train. I checked into the hotel and coolly handed over my passport. They didn't ask why there was a "Terwilliger" tacked on to the end of that Andrew Charles and greeted me as "Pastor Charles." I spent my first day locked up in my ridiculous room, equipped with a jacuzzi bathtub and king-sized bed, studying for my impending exam.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGmyQE6ngFG9zkZA6sJtcPl7mD-p29EwscD6_QImbPIeP-7G9fRQYDcGV84N2VnQki_CsTbYvzZcBzXKDLLnO72dNjNPu3VLLVweyl9HkH_AgmolZ91iI4J4zK5p-DNfKRk70karWqHTx/s1600/IMG_0813.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGmyQE6ngFG9zkZA6sJtcPl7mD-p29EwscD6_QImbPIeP-7G9fRQYDcGV84N2VnQki_CsTbYvzZcBzXKDLLnO72dNjNPu3VLLVweyl9HkH_AgmolZ91iI4J4zK5p-DNfKRk70karWqHTx/s320/IMG_0813.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533839079609990642" /></a><br />The morning of the test, I sneaked downstairs sans-priest-collar and hailed a cab. The cabdriver didn't speak English. I thought, no problem, I wrote down the Malay. Problem: he doesn't read Malay. What??? Luckily I had audited Syntax of an Unfamiliar Language which focused on Malay. This meant that I had a basic idea of how to sound out the words (and the syntactical structure of sentences, but that wasn't going to help me here). I retroflexed my tongue and tried pronouncing the name, "Jalan Sultan Ismail" and he figured it out. I heard a Cantonese song on the radio. I used Mandarin and asked if he could understand me. He beamed, "Hai!" Yes, he answered in Cantonese. "Can you speak Mandarin?" I asked. He shook his head no. We then had a very strange conversation where he asked questions very slowly in Cantonese/Mandarin until I figured it out. I then replied in Mandarin which he understood no problem. He also flexed his linguistic muscles by stating things like, "USA, A-Okay!" I was happy to hear that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPqK7VLCwoyyz2b68BGL6JsHcB0QG0g8vKfQ24blj4cp72vZS0xrVfyDEwWeZGlpUoDclY0EMjlRhB4UFV8nXB3UkoGNnzr20icGKo4aQA3suTOgbQY2aadwHlv2Urc2uF5E5u5PNplQF/s1600/IMG_0811.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbPqK7VLCwoyyz2b68BGL6JsHcB0QG0g8vKfQ24blj4cp72vZS0xrVfyDEwWeZGlpUoDclY0EMjlRhB4UFV8nXB3UkoGNnzr20icGKo4aQA3suTOgbQY2aadwHlv2Urc2uF5E5u5PNplQF/s320/IMG_0811.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533837463249095058" /></a><br />I arrived at the Sheraton Hotel which is where the GRE test is administered in Kuala Lumpur. It's in a really cool area called the Golden Triangle. It features those famous skyscrapers, the Petronas Twin Towers, and all kinds of malls and food stalls. At the test site I met 5 ethnically Chinese Malaysians eagerly waiting, proper identification and registration number at the ready, parents whispering words of encouragement in their ears. I arrived barely on time, breathing heavily, alone, completely disoriented, and unaware that I had been assigned a registration number. Nonetheless, I managed to calm down and find my computer, after being strip searched for electronics and other cheating devices. The strip searcher grimaced at my dampness, but I'd like to see her sprint up 7 flights of stairs in tropical heat and not break a sweat!<br /><br />I took my 3 hour test. I was allowed one bathroom break, during which I discovered that sometimes students are so fried during the GRE test that they need a reminder on toilet basics. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTH5fY1N5AUFAuCVqnZIPJpFWhK4kKR1qVQedLi3ZbUgeUoPO65Gy7UrUpWQQvbb2AF-PknPJrA1d65YPwlFPXjLJ9CBL2nCd6DYptjzgEMUOZwKnzGFNzAvgHE70mcHCyiwhbOVlQW-Eo/s1600/IMG_0805.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTH5fY1N5AUFAuCVqnZIPJpFWhK4kKR1qVQedLi3ZbUgeUoPO65Gy7UrUpWQQvbb2AF-PknPJrA1d65YPwlFPXjLJ9CBL2nCd6DYptjzgEMUOZwKnzGFNzAvgHE70mcHCyiwhbOVlQW-Eo/s320/IMG_0805.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533835616784147794" /></a>When I was done, the computer said, "Test Complete: Would you like to view your scores?" In my mind it said, "Game Over: Insert coin to continue."<br />I viewed my scores and skipped down the stairs. I was in such a good mood that I decided to hijack a piano in the fancy "Entry Plaza." <br /><br />I took the monorail home which was a much better way to travel. I got to see the people and Kuala Lumpur is an amazing array of every kind of Eurasian. I saw native Malays, ethnic Chinese, Japanese businessmen, Middle Eastern business men, Indian families, and sweating, pink-faced European tourists. I grabbed some Indian food on the street, which I hadn't dared try before my test (for fear of bathroom issues), and cruised through the shopping centers on the way back to the hotel. I stopped in a McDonalds and changed into my priest costume before reentering the hotel, just to be safe. A girl behind the reception counter greeted me with a coy, "Good afternoon Pastor Charles," and a wink. I realized that she must be The Cousin. I solemnly bowed back to her the way I'd seen men do here. They dip they heads down and touch a hand to their breast. She giggled, but discreetly.<br /><br /><br /><br />I wandered over to the Chinatown and other tourist-filled areas. It was fun to just walk around and do some people watching. But I was interrupted by several old men who approached me and half-whispered, "Enjoy pretty lady? Beautiful young girl?" Aaah! Where's Salander when you need her? The later it got, the more frequent the offers for prostitutes became. I decided that meant it was time to go home, ALONE obviously. I thought vaguely of attempting an experiment to see if wearing a priest collar affected the frequency of offers, but decided that the GRE had drained me of any further academic curiosity for the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c4960syODGTDcS2vOHIJ0I9IZT8yoCTnj7gpaYj0VDhMOMBqIA9BkncUDChCxhdFX3uvilVxNf8RaoN5c0vOMRFu3-hZqT8hUuOEFJZ9wgYewAhEPpXxc1IABXsxW2OpLNwu0pJ7-Hs7/s1600/IMG_0809.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2c4960syODGTDcS2vOHIJ0I9IZT8yoCTnj7gpaYj0VDhMOMBqIA9BkncUDChCxhdFX3uvilVxNf8RaoN5c0vOMRFu3-hZqT8hUuOEFJZ9wgYewAhEPpXxc1IABXsxW2OpLNwu0pJ7-Hs7/s320/IMG_0809.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533843678753922162" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mixed-Race Babies</span><br /><br />Tree arranged for me to meet with a pipa student, Chen Ying-Chun at TaiNan Conservatory, the best music school in Taiwan. She was really interested in my style of playing zhongruan which uses pipa-influenced finger picking and, as she pointed out, cello arm positioning on my left arm. She also explained that the mandocello was influencing me and making me tilt my zhongruan more to the left than I really should. I thanked her for her instruction and she invited me to go to her campus sometime. Awesome, I thought! <br /><br />Later Tree called me and asked if I had checked out a note written on Facebook by my new pipa friend. I found it and stared flabbergasted at the screen. She had written about the day with me, but she had included some interesting details.<br /><br />他有雙綠色的眼睛,太可愛了,第一次能這麼靠近看一個眼珠綠色的人,害我一直盯著他看.<br />He has a pair of green eyes, too cute. My first time I have been so close to eyes the color of jade. I may have hurt him with the intensity of my gaze.<br /><br />The note was followed by 25 comments from her friends ranging from comments about me resembling Lord of the Rings characters to "I wanna meet him!" to the following: 快生混血寶寶.........哈哈哈(也太快了). <span style="font-style: italic;">You'll produce a mixed-blood baby soon. . . Hahaha(too soon?) </span>. I decided to respond with a short message in Chinese about how I thought they were soooo funny. I got a curt and shocked reply, "You can understand Chinese characters?" I didn't think this would come as a surprise since she had bragged that my Chinese was "extremely good" in the note. I made a mental note (not the Facebook kind) to be careful should I venture to TaiNan.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Elementary, My Dear Watson</span><br /><br />The next day I headed back to TaiZhong to perform at Tree's old elementary school. He was still good friends with his 3rd grade teacher and after meeting her and the infectious enthusiasm she brings to everyone she encounters, it wasn't hard to understand why. I brought out my trusty mandocello and Tree played the bamboo flute. While he introduced his instrument, I waited backstage at the school with the other performers. There were 3 violinists and 2 hulusi players. The hulusi players were siblings and took lessons from Tree's dizi teacher. They are really funny and love to ask me about the differences between Americans and Taiwanese. When I was laughing at a joke, the boy suddenly shrieked, "FISSSSHTAIL!!!!!" I ducked assuming that a bucket of fish parts was heading for my head. They laughed and then I laughed. And then they both pointed in unison at my face and yelled, "FISSSHTAIL!!!!" again. What? They asked if all Americans have fish tales like mine. Unaware that I had a fishtail until that point I was at a loss to comment on a majority of Americans. The elder sister noticed my confusion and explained that when I smile, my eyes crinkle and it looks like a fishtail. I told her that we call this crow's feet. I suddenly felt very old. <br /><br />Finally it was my turn to go on stage. I played <span style="font-style: italic;">Take Me Home, Country Roads</span> with Tree and then <span style="font-style: italic;">Snowy Woods</span> a piece I wrote and adapted to a dizi solo accompanied by me on the piano. I finished alone by playing them Old Susannah and Old McDonald. The teachers guffawed when I explained that the American mandocellos, just like Americans are not as good looking as their Italian counterparts. The children nodded stoically, accepting this new factoid. I also explained that the reason that American mandocellos have round backs and not round backs like the Italians is that the Americans need room for their bellies. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oFT88Fne3wy4CYKDXNSvWcZSIr_HhbEq8NRkSbW3y88kMHlyFFZ140a4K0oEIwKOFL4Jkgjpwf2NhDlwSuuTT55kfsrPlhqCDOYbNIfRs5FqgGk_Ium4dXVQjoa5KAfHmh_PeShhyphenhyphen3CL/s1600/DSC08506.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2oFT88Fne3wy4CYKDXNSvWcZSIr_HhbEq8NRkSbW3y88kMHlyFFZ140a4K0oEIwKOFL4Jkgjpwf2NhDlwSuuTT55kfsrPlhqCDOYbNIfRs5FqgGk_Ium4dXVQjoa5KAfHmh_PeShhyphenhyphen3CL/s320/DSC08506.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531115518152688226" border="0"></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rehearsals</span><br /><br />On Old McDonald I had the children rolling around on the Gymnatorium floor. I introduced each animal in Chinese first and then EXTREMELY loudly barked, honked, oinked, and elephant called before quite seriously and sweetly singing in my most velvet-smooth voice, "E-I-E-I-O." Fortunately the children enjoyed my schizophrenic performance much more than my cross-cultural jokes.<br /><br />Next, Tree's old teacher's class played a Taiwanese pop song on recorders, violin, and piano. We finished with <span style="font-style: italic;">Imagine</span>. The kids had learned the song before and it was surprisingly moving to hear 400 children singing along with you, "Imagine all the people, living life in peace..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_fYfdleMCyaEZXgiYHeD9tZ4CUI3AmXLL21CNVW4s1UQPNKdiFxL7sZqnyELHstG1vcrM-f8Qz4zbWppvDCaOWUufd9jPtnD7gMBTWBA-Zt_gKECVqbbvhZOHErPNRE8Ji0U2T8z7qiOu/s1600/DSC08463.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_fYfdleMCyaEZXgiYHeD9tZ4CUI3AmXLL21CNVW4s1UQPNKdiFxL7sZqnyELHstG1vcrM-f8Qz4zbWppvDCaOWUufd9jPtnD7gMBTWBA-Zt_gKECVqbbvhZOHErPNRE8Ji0U2T8z7qiOu/s320/DSC08463.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533842307718460386" /></a><br />Afterwards we met one class of 25 kids. They all had questions for us and we basically told them that they should all play instruments! Then they all wanted us to sign their stuff and the teacher thought this was adorable and so I signed 25 notebooks, folders, and pencil cases. Then they found out I had a Chinese name and the process repeated. Then things got really weird when one of the kids pulled out a hair from my head and a hair from Tree's head and ran away. When we were leaving the school he showed us a tissue he had put our hairs in. I really hope that kid doesn't become a stalker.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIS1_dnzUzB21RlpRDAtuyAzlWAuYSbDEIGwNR5n8ZVs2r2WfTESu6VMZtqowbMEl5d9rUVR_YXvoiNMinHw73Jds0TG7b2wCnU6uYwCOgW20OhKv2DOTG8MTtTt0Srm8iSaVNj5IkE2M-/s1600/DSC08505.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIS1_dnzUzB21RlpRDAtuyAzlWAuYSbDEIGwNR5n8ZVs2r2WfTESu6VMZtqowbMEl5d9rUVR_YXvoiNMinHw73Jds0TG7b2wCnU6uYwCOgW20OhKv2DOTG8MTtTt0Srm8iSaVNj5IkE2M-/s320/DSC08505.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533842310946547698" /></a><br /><br /><br />Later Tree and I found out that our performance of "Intercultural Exchange" had been documented in the GuoYu RiBao, a newspaper made for kids and foreigners that has all of the pronunciations written out phonetically next to the characters. Unfortunately I can't find a copy, but the picture apparently was quite similar to the one above. My compensation for not getting to see my picture in the newspaper came in the form of the letters the kids wrote to us. It was so sweet to read what they thought of us, what they had learned, and their new aspirations to learn music and become things from opera singers to rock stars.Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-68218506650633602162010-10-11T03:59:00.000-07:002010-10-13T12:39:07.232-07:00The Second Fortnight!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzQnl23QZ9nHjPTzOnL4czt8lyBsnFwJtO1AdM3mNJK5aN5lGutKwN_iVonLOEYuAXLSfHzz_q4vdbdPni7PguiS_oBGKe99by9CZMra3X68c5CVPJrVzqG7Wj0llHDhu5QiYv6J1oWT3/s1600/IMG_0724.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzQnl23QZ9nHjPTzOnL4czt8lyBsnFwJtO1AdM3mNJK5aN5lGutKwN_iVonLOEYuAXLSfHzz_q4vdbdPni7PguiS_oBGKe99by9CZMra3X68c5CVPJrVzqG7Wj0llHDhu5QiYv6J1oWT3/s320/IMG_0724.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526811750131970562" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Death of the Gehu</span><br /><br />On my third Monday, I visited the Taipei Chinese Community Orchestra. It was 50% senior citizens and 50% college-aged students. The former were bored and using the orchestra to fill up free time. The latter, including my friend from the Taipei Mandolin Ensemble, were pressured into playing with the group because either their former teachers or grandparents were playing and needed the youngsters to fill out their ranks. I introduced myself to the players and they welcomed me with applause for some reason. I hadn’t brought my zhongruan, but they found an old one lying around the rehearsal room and told me I could join in. Woot! I was playing with my first, full-sized Chinese orchestra! The only problem was that the scores switched between WuXian Pu, five-line score (the one that Westerners use) and Jian Pu, the Chinese score that uses numbers to represent each pitch. I’d never played zhongruan with Western score so it took awhile for my brain to switch over.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTyMZT7RVtzKrOOAYo2DLgTaQU0gMS6htljVwfmcDKPsI40KK6t8gdTMPV4Ewb3cX-fCvlF7oG_3rTbmf5GnxsaFDUSADDaf9cN8G9g38iS24MLYE6yHdxMaC_0fQ3CuL5cMDkieh4U9J/s1600/IMG_0725.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaTyMZT7RVtzKrOOAYo2DLgTaQU0gMS6htljVwfmcDKPsI40KK6t8gdTMPV4Ewb3cX-fCvlF7oG_3rTbmf5GnxsaFDUSADDaf9cN8G9g38iS24MLYE6yHdxMaC_0fQ3CuL5cMDkieh4U9J/s320/IMG_0725.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526811759899234194" border="0" /></a><br />There were tons of erhus and it seemed that they were the problem section. The conductor frequently stopped us to make the erhus go over difficult passages. <br /><br />Behind me sat both cellos and gehus. Gehus are a dying instrument. In modern Chinese orchestras they have been replaced with the Western cello. All of the Chinese traditional instruments were modified in the early 1900s so that they could play Western music. For example, zhongruans and pipas were both given many more frets in order to be able to play chromatic scales. Somehow though, the gehu did not have as much success being transformed into a Western-music compatible instrument. The issue lies primarily with too many wolfs and pythons. The wolfs are pitches that, for various reasons that I don't understand dealing with physics, just sound nasty on the instrument. The gehu, according to the lady behind me, has 3 or 4. Yikes! The cello only has one. The other practical issue is that you have to kill a lot of pythons to make a gehu. A gehu is really big and like its baby cousin, the erhu, it uses snake skin to resonate. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBYTbjyRXKRA2KS-xfE31SaN2C9eIdjIKSxgf_93JDk0ss0cQsckpZiK92px5eyPZRojwdNi5uIbT2Gd5t8uX4vI1OVHa7a4y-t8KvHBeiSBK5gS3VsrRz_FpE2AczpSmiXLHYYllQW4B/s1600/IMG_0797.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSBYTbjyRXKRA2KS-xfE31SaN2C9eIdjIKSxgf_93JDk0ss0cQsckpZiK92px5eyPZRojwdNi5uIbT2Gd5t8uX4vI1OVHa7a4y-t8KvHBeiSBK5gS3VsrRz_FpE2AczpSmiXLHYYllQW4B/s320/IMG_0797.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526814343623729762" border="0" /></a>There are artificial alternatives, but they have not caught on and almost every erhu player in the world uses real python skin, which is a problem when going through airports, because python products are on a banned list for international transport. <br /><br />The very chatty gehu player behind me, who also was extremely aggressive about giving me pieces of chocolate during rehearsal, told me that her gehu was 50 years old and that “Today no one makes them.” I’m not sure that’s accurate, but I do believe that makers are few and fare between. She also mentioned that the skin becomes loose frequently and has to be tightened or even replaced.<br /><br />The pieces they played included traditional Mainland pieces, Taiwanese folk tunes, and some relatively modern popular songs. I was amazed at myself when I saw their repertoire. I knew every piece. Holy crap, I thought, I’m starting to get a grasp of this thing!<br /><br />After being force-fed more Dove chocolates, I left the rehearsal in a glow and crossed the street to the Ximen Pedestrian Area, where my favorite street food is. I treated myself to spicy roast corn and a fried chicken steak with Chinese broccoli.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Day of Pleasant Surprises</span><br /><br />The next Saturday I awoke to what I thought was several people kicking me from underneath my bed. After 5 groggy seconds, I realized it was a small earthquake. Wow, my first tremor! The next 20 seconds of shaking would have been fun if I hadn't been afraid that the building was going to collapse. Do people ever get used to these things? <br /><br />That day I got my first package. I received a slip in my mailbox and spent 2 hours trying to find the right post office to go pick it up from. Eventually I got to the right area with four new facebook friends. It takes me forever to get anywhere when I'm asking for directions because I have to tell my life story to everyone I ask. Even when I order coffee, the questions are usually, "Ni yao he shenme?" What do you want to drink? "Rede, bingde?" Hot or cold? "Ni lai Taiwan dushu ma?" Did you come to Taiwan to study? "Neiyong, daizou?" For here or to go? So after four long conversations and email exchanges, I entered the building.<br /><br />A lady with unevenly drawn on eyebrows behind the counter marked <span style="font-style:italic;">courtesy</span> took one look at me and barked, "Third floor" in Chinese. I went up the stairs to the third floor and showed the clerk my slip. She laughed and said, "No, you want the third floor." I asked, "Isn't this the third floor?" She thought hard for a moment and then giggled. "Well, yes, BUT you want the third floor." Huh? I was missing something. I asked if she spoke English. She repeated in English the exact same thing she'd been saying in Chinese. What am I missing? I asked her if she could give me directions to the third floor. She told me to go outside and I would see it. Okay. . . what? I went outside and asked a man in a little shed-like building next to the post office if he knew where I should go. He said, "Yes, of course. Go to the third floor!" What! I asked him how I could do that. He told me not to be stupid. I looked around. I was outside on the side walk. How was I supposed to magically ascend to this <span style="font-style: italic;">third floor</span> they all spoke of? Just then I realized that there were English-only signs EVERYWHERE saying "Third Floor This Way." and "International Package Pickup Is On the Third Floor. Please Tread Lightly On the Elevator!" I didn't see the signs because I was only reading the Chinese. DOI! There was no door except an elevator. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT83rKdrLz3R9TN0sWZxZT5zQGP05foAzghrxms5qm_MmgKvpm8xJfPTNWtNNh0gk4FueIFdZuReQlx7afSzL-pZjQh7iBuMkgJBv-WsSn8kk8GGpCzX9znq8Q1HtZF1J_dwi0dg9VWK_5/s1600/Picture+11.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT83rKdrLz3R9TN0sWZxZT5zQGP05foAzghrxms5qm_MmgKvpm8xJfPTNWtNNh0gk4FueIFdZuReQlx7afSzL-pZjQh7iBuMkgJBv-WsSn8kk8GGpCzX9znq8Q1HtZF1J_dwi0dg9VWK_5/s320/Picture+11.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526982466635700914" border="0" /></a>I walked inside, read the sign pictured here, and pushed 3. 15 minutes later I was home with my care package: a lone GRE prep book fell out of the box. Thanks, Mom. I groaned and began reading about triangles.<br /><br />That afternoon I ate lunch in my favorite cafe. They have amazing pie! I walked in and there was only one seat open but it was at an occupied table. I hesitated and the waitress/owner say my dilemma. She went up to the young woman at the table and asked in Chinese if I could join her. She replied with, "Uhh. . . sorry I don't speak Chinese." It turns out she was born in Chicago and came to Taiwan to teach English. Her parents are Taiwanese but she doesn't speak her mother's mother tongue. Over coffee and key-lime pie, we swapped funny stories about misunderstanding things in Taipei. I told her about how waiters and waitresses often run away from me in restaurants to find a friend with better English. She told me about how people just can't believe that she doesn't speak Chinese. Ahh, racism. <br /><br />That night at the National Concert Hall I attended the best concert I've been to in Taiwan. It was the state-sponsored Chinese Orchestra. Not only did they play amazingly well, they brought on soloists that gave me goosebumps. There were <span style="font-style: italic;">erhu</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">dizi</span> solos. The finale involved a new composition with narrators and a full choir. It was epic! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJqXoWb_41Rk3JaYaXO3Cuh7Tq6-vSW0bYvvi6YMKyRpm4v9bKJvd3HiNlvgY0H2901CS6f9ptv0BtQOupSHpW_5JtgYiTwm0kEqXcUfq69Yonyk71ncSUdAKK-3TbisG2FTczhYbAHoRH/s1600/Picture+15.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJqXoWb_41Rk3JaYaXO3Cuh7Tq6-vSW0bYvvi6YMKyRpm4v9bKJvd3HiNlvgY0H2901CS6f9ptv0BtQOupSHpW_5JtgYiTwm0kEqXcUfq69Yonyk71ncSUdAKK-3TbisG2FTczhYbAHoRH/s320/Picture+15.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526980134368946962" border="0" /></a>I sneaked these photos before a watchful usher swooped down on me. People shouted encore afterwards but they hadn't prepared anything so they played the classic, "Good Flowers, Round Moon." I was so proud that I knew it!<br /><br />After the concert, which was only half empty (or I guess I should try to be optimistic and say full) I stepped out into a free outdoor jazz concert. Chang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall Plaza was packed! After enjoying "Fly Me to the Moon" I walked to the MRT station. On my way I noticed out of the corner of my eye that someone was following me. I slowed down to force the would-be thief to pass me, but when I turned back I saw that I was still being followed. I held my hands close to my pockets and hurried toward the station. The culprit got closer and I noticed he had grey hair. This old guy is gonna pick my pocket? I decided to pretend to tie my shoe. When I stood up again I was greeted with, "Hello! Where are you from?! Sprechen sie Deutsch?" But it wasn't an old man. In the dark, and probably because I am colorblind, I thought this young guy's green hair was grey. He was wearing shoes that didn't match and a heavy green chain instead of a belt. But I noticed that he also was carrying a <span style="font-style: italic;">dizi</span> case. I told him in English that I didn't speak German. Not wanting to continue the type of racism Kristine had faced in the cafe today, I asked this Asian in English if that was a bamboo flute case. He didn't understand. I asked in Chinese, "Can you speak Chinese? Is that a <span style="font-style: italic;">dizi</span> case?" I had so many questions. Why did he ask me in English when he doesn't speak English? Why can he speak German? Did he buy those mismatched shoes that way or did he have to buy two pairs or does he just collect spares? <br /><br />15 minutes later I was digesting food from the night market along with my new friend's life story. His name is Boshu, which means cypress tree, so his English name is Tree. Perhaps this helps to explain his hair color. He went abroad for high school because he hated the memorize and regurgitate teaching style in Taiwan. So, when he was 15, he went to Germany without knowing a word of German. 6 years later he is fluent. So he hasn't had much chance to play bamboo flute in ensembles, but he is incredibly knowledgeable when it comes to Chinese music and has mastered most of the bamboo flute solos. He told me he lives in Taizhong but came to Taipei for a composition lesson. We immediately took out our mp3 players and played each other our compositions. Tree and I decided to meet the following Monday at 6am to play in Great Peace Forest Park and see if we could improv together. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Andrew Terwilliger: Jazz Trivia Master?</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGofoHytP70LhjZYiHtZX8rFMxYEWXms9DxR-Sf45rvZEDFbrrUZJqtcXxBCOlG5CxP7n8YqDvSzK_AGeNvL1XAxQwABiu3XOp-u18uM3u3zuP664n2cYsvNflV9YM9wHB8pGTaWZHZUTO/s1600/Picture+14.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGofoHytP70LhjZYiHtZX8rFMxYEWXms9DxR-Sf45rvZEDFbrrUZJqtcXxBCOlG5CxP7n8YqDvSzK_AGeNvL1XAxQwABiu3XOp-u18uM3u3zuP664n2cYsvNflV9YM9wHB8pGTaWZHZUTO/s320/Picture+14.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526982138467792386" border="0" /></a><br />On Sunday I went to the second day of the free jazz concert. We all sat on the ground in the plaza between the National Concert Hall and the National Theater. Between jazz ensembles they asked trivia questions to stall while they set up the next group. The first question was "Who sings <span style="font-style: italic;">What a Wonderful World</span> and what instrument is he most famous for playing?" I shot up my hand and a microphone surfed its way through the crowd to me. I hoped saying Louis Armstrong in English was good enough because I sure as hell didn't know his name in Chinese. It was and I won a free CD. Sweet! Then they played a music clip and asked if we knew what the pieces were called. The first one was Route 66. After 2 minutes of noone responding, I put my hand up again and won a free T-shirt. The second listening test was Caravan. What a coincidence. I wouldn't have known that one if I hadn't played it in middle school jazz band. Another awkward pause. I put my hand up for a third time and got another CD. The same thing happened when I knew Benny Goodman's main instrument was clarinet. They stopped the trivia after that. I hope it wasn't my fault. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tree-Day</span><br /><br />By the second half of August, I was no longer twiddling my thumbs in cafes or taking long walks around the city. My schedule was packed! I had meetings with professors and music students and rehearsals to attend all the time. My one free day was Monday, but now I had to get up at 5 in the morning to make it to the park to see Tree. We found a quiet spot between various groups of senior citizens doing yoga and taiqi. The music we made was really cool. It took me about 3 seconds before I realized that Tree seriously outclassed me musically, but since this was his first time attempting to improvise he felt self-conscious and was apologetically playing amazing music. But soon we both became more confident and amazed at our own abilities to read each others' minds. Soon a large mob of elderly Taiwanese had gathered around us to watch the cross cultural exchange. They applauded loudly every time we took a break.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjvejKxyFNgICpuz4hH7bI232bL-WAnEB_ZzedFQT4SFXBSk-YBDee1EoCuT50MSiUMiNU9isMrKjY5_tjmkF9SBHO68nnh-E_XHAoWdjCFBzXmkQKr7SJ7QqXC0vTUfX_6WrkyWgnCj1/s1600/Picture+13.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXjvejKxyFNgICpuz4hH7bI232bL-WAnEB_ZzedFQT4SFXBSk-YBDee1EoCuT50MSiUMiNU9isMrKjY5_tjmkF9SBHO68nnh-E_XHAoWdjCFBzXmkQKr7SJ7QqXC0vTUfX_6WrkyWgnCj1/s320/Picture+13.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526982320137582850" border="0" /></a><br />At 10, I accompanied Tree to his composition lesson. There I met Tree's classmate and composition/recorder major at Tainan Conservatory, Nadine. The teacher's name is Algy; he is ethnically Chinese but from the Philippines. He is a really amazing person and extremely talented. I played him some things I had written on the piano and he gave me some helpful feedback and some good ideas for what to fix. Tree told me that he had composed the music to a Taiwanese movie called <span style="font-style: italic;">When Love Comes Along</span> And I just found out that he has been nominated for a Golden Horse Award, the Chinese language equivalent to an Oscar, for the score. Wow!<br /><br />Next, Tree's friend Nadine joined us for lunch, which was followed by more chilling with music in the afternoon. I recorded Tree playing flute solos so I could become more familiar with the traditional solos. I made Nadine pretend to play my zhongruan for this picture since she is a musician, but she had left her recorder at home. I think she really sold it. Behind Tree you can see his flute case where he has a bamboo flute in every key!<br /><br />Eventually we headed out for adventures through the night markets and KTV (karaoke). <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD2-65tVDhS-xstDodfBI5Peoge0QMYVNKD1-rsDU11kKaCXHxD0v90f2UcrU-N3y633OG1DjoakxVz7M93zAwg0aFkk9y-FhSjxYxmd7Ugzdk7zcG5zYBjtgjG5byfk4EIRqOcwylPyc1/s1600/Picture+12.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD2-65tVDhS-xstDodfBI5Peoge0QMYVNKD1-rsDU11kKaCXHxD0v90f2UcrU-N3y633OG1DjoakxVz7M93zAwg0aFkk9y-FhSjxYxmd7Ugzdk7zcG5zYBjtgjG5byfk4EIRqOcwylPyc1/s320/Picture+12.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526981674681112098" border="0" /></a>There Tree belted out some Taiwanese folk songs and I countered with that KTV's entire English catalogue. There were only 5 English songs: True Colors, Take Me Home Country Roads, I Believe I Can Fly, Alicia Keys' Fallin', and Bad Romance.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">New Composers</span><br /><br />I went to a really amazing concert which featured the music of two new composers on the rise. The music was sooooooooo cool! The first half was all music written by a lady composer who went to the Berklee School of Music in Boston. It was spectacular. She didn't shy away from modern pop froufrou but there was also some sort of respect for traditional sound that could be heard. There were yangqin, Chinese hammered dulcimer, piano, drumset, a string quartet, bass and accordion. My favorite was a piece called 1949. It was epic and sweeping and seemed like a more like a movie score than anything else.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnClvDbRwn1wdhQhz8VgDlPSslgdgo2i_okG96pAc9azV3VjEoyYO5WmUyoHDHy-hvMadqp2Slfb4g9x1Ez0PvDLXe4mNHrEWcjhyphenhyphenzq-da8uuQuMYBV_eL2b4t_ss8f0gaVkpYjSsV-u-/s1600/65482_158709600824712_100000570199045_395720_2151000_n.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnClvDbRwn1wdhQhz8VgDlPSslgdgo2i_okG96pAc9azV3VjEoyYO5WmUyoHDHy-hvMadqp2Slfb4g9x1Ez0PvDLXe4mNHrEWcjhyphenhyphenzq-da8uuQuMYBV_eL2b4t_ss8f0gaVkpYjSsV-u-/s320/65482_158709600824712_100000570199045_395720_2151000_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527465062710717170" /></a> <br /><br />The second half was equally as impressive. The ensemble consisted of 6 erhus, a daruan, zhongruan, liuqin, 2 cellos, bass, 2 dizi, 2 sheng (Chinese mouth organ) and tympani. The sound was perfectly represented by the conductor's attire. He wore a Western penguin suite with a traditional blue Chinese shirt underneath. The music was traditional for the most part but would sometimes riff into 1950s rock territory. It sounds bizarre, but somehow it all melted together into a wistful and sentimental sound.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Out of Taipei</span><br /><br />I finally left the sanctuary of Taipei and headed to Tree's hometown of Taizhong. I took the Gaotie, or High Speed Rail, to Taizhong. It's this really cool train that zooms across the west side of Taiwan from Taipei in the north to Gaoxiong in the south. Instead of a 3 hour bus ride, it took just 45 minutes. The best thing about riding the Gaotie though is that the stations seem like they are really fancy airports from the future. They are minimalist metal and glass structures and brand new. Also, the signs at the exit declare, "Kiss and Ride," which of course is where you either pick up your loved ones or park and kiss your loved one goodbye. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5r5Rvvksx2VEqwIeDYnvwYdJKITzA43dXAIOJZRlKee7oVhE7P7U7RlKjXqo8nTsRpLSsCGWUwG44MCzx7hy2zORQlBTPIzBSXL_0k880aiYS3Uvqpy7vBbtyaRRPwDjIlNOk9eDfyFBn/s1600/kiss-and-ride1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5r5Rvvksx2VEqwIeDYnvwYdJKITzA43dXAIOJZRlKee7oVhE7P7U7RlKjXqo8nTsRpLSsCGWUwG44MCzx7hy2zORQlBTPIzBSXL_0k880aiYS3Uvqpy7vBbtyaRRPwDjIlNOk9eDfyFBn/s320/kiss-and-ride1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526986802769355458" border="0" /></a>Many foreigners have tried to explain that in English this sounds like a prostitute pick up area, but the Taiwanese have refused to adjust the sign. The stations are all slightly outside of the city to promote development on the city outskirts. This didn't work very well though because everyone immediately walks from the Kiss and Ride area to the free bus to the city. Sadly there is not much kissing or riding in outside the Gaotie station. . . <br /><br />Tree's mom picked me up in her car. (While there was riding, alas, there was no kissing.) She dropped me off at the Confucius Institute where she works. There I saw a group of senior citizens practicing Nanguan music. Nanguan music is similar to silk and bamboo music except that the instruments are not the standard ones used in the Mainland. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLwehNGuZiIw43pzKIgIhFPtO5DExUxlE88FBLk8PBmWJzLmXop5-7fbpKtd9ibgEgTKhCLUfh1e7Fnsz-UNLFUEygftL93JmWxGQY_s_ilLu-fEvYf7F6ixIcLyWUXzwzX6RDbX7hxjS/s1600/Picture+16.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLwehNGuZiIw43pzKIgIhFPtO5DExUxlE88FBLk8PBmWJzLmXop5-7fbpKtd9ibgEgTKhCLUfh1e7Fnsz-UNLFUEygftL93JmWxGQY_s_ilLu-fEvYf7F6ixIcLyWUXzwzX6RDbX7hxjS/s320/Picture+16.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526981988358446322" border="0" /></a><br />But there is something that resembles the pipa, suona (Chinese oboe), erhu, shao, and something called <span style="font-style: italic;">sikuai</span> four sticks which was four pieces of wood that are held in the hands to create cool rhythms. All the players were relatively new to their instruments, picking them up after they retired, but they played well together and asked me to join them for rehearsal. I played my zhongruan along with them. The parts were divided into plucked, bowed and blown. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VXSNyy4znYvAeyXu0KzmZ5WyaQ0b_5H8WchNXr8okCTbMypqi-yhTrhiARUUVjmEyFUeSdT8LtTQYQMcKy-VUnDQsMj-YE8oAV-YsUyu-ToyYgM3UzCw60d0s8XJAj9f5EjwyynzaN8X/s1600/Picture+9.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VXSNyy4znYvAeyXu0KzmZ5WyaQ0b_5H8WchNXr8okCTbMypqi-yhTrhiARUUVjmEyFUeSdT8LtTQYQMcKy-VUnDQsMj-YE8oAV-YsUyu-ToyYgM3UzCw60d0s8XJAj9f5EjwyynzaN8X/s320/Picture+9.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526980900440699826" border="0" /></a>Tree joined in with the wind players. At the back of the book I found a Chinese pop song "The Moon Represents My Heart" as well as <span style="font-style: italic;">Eidelweiss</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">You Are My Sunshine</span>. They said they didn't know how the English ones were supposed to sound, so I took out my mandocello and played and sang them for them. After two times through, they were playing along with me. It was soooo much fun!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxky64B8Vt3BvAdGntvjE7NWCtI8WHgk14J2E_s3oufl29FQWwRi1BDkS4Dws_l0sEbiNc0x52TpIzaXcxy8AHq27av9ZEwmiha-Pngi4Xk06cx5ZScQTIOIEsiyTHbXM1FPz3lUG812j/s1600/Picture+10.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBxky64B8Vt3BvAdGntvjE7NWCtI8WHgk14J2E_s3oufl29FQWwRi1BDkS4Dws_l0sEbiNc0x52TpIzaXcxy8AHq27av9ZEwmiha-Pngi4Xk06cx5ZScQTIOIEsiyTHbXM1FPz3lUG812j/s320/Picture+10.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526981037391591106" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />At lunch, which was both vegetarian and Chinese medicinal, I talked to Tree's mother for a long time about the importance of teaching Confucionist thought to young children and how it can serve as a foundation for their character. She told me that she thinks religions all boil down to one word: forgiveness. <br /><br />After lunch Tree and I headed to a really cool music store. The clerk was chill and let me try out an erhu that cost about the same as my Watson Fellowship. I also perused music scores and bought some new pieces as well as some Japanese piano scores. I really want to figure out what it is that makes those pieces sound so distinct.<br /><br />Later we did what everyone does when they come to Taizhong: eat! Taizhong is known for its night market's delicious foods. I had sweet 'n' salty sweet potato fries, bread cakes filled with molten vanilla, red bean, and chocolate, egg cakes, stinky tofu, pizza crepes, and roasted corn. I also sampled a rosemary milk tea because a crazy or perhaps awesome, I haven't decided yet, lady threw a rosemary branch at me. Tree saw what was about to happen and decided to let me handle it on my own. Thanks, Tree.<br /><br />She decided that she would teach me Chinese. She threw the branch back in my face and repeated slowly in Chinese, "ROOOOOOSEMARRRRRY." I repeated back and she was delighted. Then she sloooowly said, "PLEEEEEASE ENJOOOOOOOOOY OUR ROOOOOOOSE MARRRRY MIIIIIILK TEEEEEEEA!!!" I repeated back, mimicking her slow and extremely loud speech. She looked dangerously happy. It seemed like something was about to burst but I wasn't sure what. I turned around and saw Tree contorted in a fit of laughter. I realized the thing that was about to burst was his bladder. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lucky</span><br /><br />The next day I rode the Gaotie back to Taipei for a guqin concert. I was very eager to see how it compared to the one I saw by the master in Beijing. Unfortunately I was late because Tree is always late and makes every around him late too. I bitterly thought to myself as I waited outside, Thanks for making me late, Tree. But, this turned out to be an amazing bit of good luck because I waited outside next to a guqin maker and the show's producer and got both of their contact information. The producer told me that the guqin maker doesn't usually talk to people at concerts and that I was very, very lucky! Thanks for making me late, Tree!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-34302569949134577702010-10-03T06:12:00.000-07:002010-10-03T06:13:18.066-07:00Now Blogging!After a long silence, I'll be back! Two new, rather long posts are on their way!Andrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-863809270988233619.post-19239611399567327802010-08-24T08:51:00.000-07:002010-08-25T10:38:21.758-07:00The Watson Begins: The First Fortnight<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4Pjer9EB3_xCUdnVLayFJoxL7s4ihNsCL2I96b-p-Kh42d5B8Wrqw4E4zIDxGCXbU1rTBdN4RDH2nLS1jdO1rFj9tTZImdDM4d5CspGDTsIyuFxBJEmYOnTt8cKKACAq16GrULq0bnxX/s1600/IMG_0728.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix4Pjer9EB3_xCUdnVLayFJoxL7s4ihNsCL2I96b-p-Kh42d5B8Wrqw4E4zIDxGCXbU1rTBdN4RDH2nLS1jdO1rFj9tTZImdDM4d5CspGDTsIyuFxBJEmYOnTt8cKKACAq16GrULq0bnxX/s320/IMG_0728.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509330584285418530" border="0"></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 1: The Arrival</span><br /><br />I landed at Chiang Kai-Shek Airport in the International Terminal, though I left Beijing from the Domestic Flights Terminal. Once I got my luggage and made it through customs, I headed over to the ATM to get some Taiwanese Dollars. Once I had stood in line for 10 minutes and it was finally my turn I realized I had no idea what the exchange rate was. So when the machine asked me if I wanted to take out 1000 or 100,000 NT, I had no idea. Unwilling to stand in line again, I leaned over and spotted the price of a Big Mac at a nearby McDonalds and deduced that it must be around 30 NT to 1 USD. Whew, crisis averted. But this was really pretty indicative of my preparation for Taiwan!<br /><br />I hopped a bus to 忠孝復興 which I was told was close to where I actually wanted to go, 忠孝新生. I de-bussed and looked around without a clue as to where I was. I was in the middle of a giant shopping area. Signs like Gucci and Prada were everywhere and I was nailed by several Louis Vuitton bags as I stood awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk, carrying my backpack and 2 giant instruments, and sweating profusely. The sweat was both heat and panic induced. I suddenly felt very alone.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8Ao7CBWHpHnoIo27mXxQNwLXaOw4oGMj3jTZpU6qf-uLIyJj_D2Rx1os-zSohG3NSgSRlWbcWGN37wLqih70N4BBp3ELBRxLNlBp6CWYjUcxAGcz6FWlD8p1hO4Tl_z5c38mWk-F9FOp/s1600/map+guide.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8Ao7CBWHpHnoIo27mXxQNwLXaOw4oGMj3jTZpU6qf-uLIyJj_D2Rx1os-zSohG3NSgSRlWbcWGN37wLqih70N4BBp3ELBRxLNlBp6CWYjUcxAGcz6FWlD8p1hO4Tl_z5c38mWk-F9FOp/s320/map+guide.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509258746938364082" border="0"></a><br />My instructions to my apartment were from the subway stop so I knew I had to find that. I asked someone, "请问,地铁站在哪儿?“ I was greeted with a blank stare. I tried English, "Excuse me, where is the subway?" This time the eyes concentrated hard on me and there was some nodding. "MRT?" the young lady asked me. This time I stared back. MRT, MRT, I'd heard that befire. "YES!" I suddenly responded, remembering Shao Min and Ava talk about the MRT, Mass Rapid Transit, in Singapore. <br /><br />Once in the MRT I learned that here it's called, 捷運, jieyun and not ditie. One subway stop over and I was on the map that the language associate at Carleton had provided for me. She is from Taiwan and lived in Taipei for one month after she was done teaching at Carleton. She is now in Australia getting a master's in education. But she was kind enough to arrange for me to take over renting her apartment when she left. <br /><br /><br />I followed the map to a 7/11 across the street from my apartment. There I used the payphones to call my landlord, Shiny, and told her to go downstairs and let me in. I was a sweaty mess, huffing and puffing from carrying my instruments in the 100-plus-degree weather. While I waited, I made my first friend in Taiwan, Chen Ying, who worked at the 7/11. She came up and asked if I needed help. I told her my problems were psychological and we've been friends ever since. Whenever I go into that 7/11, which is often, we have a long chat.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJd1KJE_sdwbUGEM59dEDDPDwmT7m9pcOgrHPgiiqik-c_ojHC317AtJHWZwfNw-oj_7qD-hyzzd-AisCW60R0Q3iDudiqgIKajI4vbHAz4uWi8n9cviCHBzdyjlzmz8wnU774-BSGR9R/s1600/IMG_0705.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJd1KJE_sdwbUGEM59dEDDPDwmT7m9pcOgrHPgiiqik-c_ojHC317AtJHWZwfNw-oj_7qD-hyzzd-AisCW60R0Q3iDudiqgIKajI4vbHAz4uWi8n9cviCHBzdyjlzmz8wnU774-BSGR9R/s320/IMG_0705.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509323805584205298" border="0"></a><br />But I digress. Shiny, who literally translated her Chinese name to get her English name, gave me the four keys needed to access my apartment and led me upstairs. I followed her up five flights to the very top of my building. That's where I use the second key to open the balcony. On the balcony, I have a neighbor on either side of me, a laundry machine, a sink for washing dishes, and a spectacular view of the city. Shiny's brother is one of these neighbors. The other is Sandy, a mortgage broker who works 12-hour days and is only home when she is asleep.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNsIt2h7ooxbAwawgdQ36PQunh8ZIA89agiCA-XuirqficNEkn_bw39wYGosb1Zgo_vXfi6YMtXet7AXBoVk-O3QFMH67AJjOpCF2kDopXuWQ-eVrEldmEBLyt0ScKDyg90l3zZejMlr2j/s1600/IMG_0715.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNsIt2h7ooxbAwawgdQ36PQunh8ZIA89agiCA-XuirqficNEkn_bw39wYGosb1Zgo_vXfi6YMtXet7AXBoVk-O3QFMH67AJjOpCF2kDopXuWQ-eVrEldmEBLyt0ScKDyg90l3zZejMlr2j/s320/IMG_0715.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509326927183037666" border="0"></a><br />I used the third key to open a giant metal door that looked like it belonged on a refrigerator. I saw from the hole in the wall that I should not let this door swing open. After carefully opening the metal door, I was left with one more key and one much more normal looking door. Inside my apartment I have a queen sized bed, two desks, a tv, a wardrobe, INTERNET! my own toilet, shower, sink and most importantly of all: AIR CONDITIONING. Wahoo!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnR5-xbD9-wg6u08GlrEDqP5chydq9fi7EDdAEKQzUC0s9cBJ7q07aL0sHluDEqjlek0RrLAMSU29tc0hUOCCaj4HOGy0sP6SYbux-mVtdM6mSbcRMY6v8xyAJYvawKaLo9v8hzpjweKUq/s1600/IMG_0714.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnR5-xbD9-wg6u08GlrEDqP5chydq9fi7EDdAEKQzUC0s9cBJ7q07aL0sHluDEqjlek0RrLAMSU29tc0hUOCCaj4HOGy0sP6SYbux-mVtdM6mSbcRMY6v8xyAJYvawKaLo9v8hzpjweKUq/s320/IMG_0714.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509326916607623074" border="0"></a><br /><br />I found a couple of notes around the room from Zoe, the language associate who previously inhabited the room. These are my favorite: "Here is my shampoo. You can use it, but you will smell like girl." "Can you take this stamp back to my friend at the Taipei University of Technology? If not, just throw it away." "Taiwan people don't drink water from faucet, we'll boil water then drink but it's up to you. It is not expensive to go to see the doctor."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97LfTYAIDvp4dXKB72GZYiNMpqxPIPEPW_2uM__uwbbdnaY3YCPObSQ6b2_ZvSU-zN2ceB-a_D2CZsl36ZCirx6SrXIznmGqpLhDwS0-ivfWLVOw9OaZl63rsA82hdlC81O-HBCUwa6ES/s1600/IMG_0716.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi97LfTYAIDvp4dXKB72GZYiNMpqxPIPEPW_2uM__uwbbdnaY3YCPObSQ6b2_ZvSU-zN2ceB-a_D2CZsl36ZCirx6SrXIznmGqpLhDwS0-ivfWLVOw9OaZl63rsA82hdlC81O-HBCUwa6ES/s320/IMG_0716.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509326906587484722" border="0"></a><br /><br />It was Sunday, the one day that Sandy doesn't work, so she offered to take me to IKEA to buy some sheets for my bed and then show me the neighborhood a bit. I found out that you can do everything at 7/11. You can reload your SIM card, buy a bus/subway card, and my favorite: pretend to be considering buying a drink when you have no intention of doing so and are actually just absconding from the heat and enjoying free air conditioning. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENHMyW6w0v_5V4hrnUvomMi56FtnHZSd8rJQ6wSWLOA9f4TO6RrVK3svf3vwo8tlGA8KGLvOFgPwpHBHyyL4KMbneL8aK4u0x3i3ppUJSkU7G6AibZfdTgcYFJhOA4nhWM48ITslKghD4/s1600/IMG_0736.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiENHMyW6w0v_5V4hrnUvomMi56FtnHZSd8rJQ6wSWLOA9f4TO6RrVK3svf3vwo8tlGA8KGLvOFgPwpHBHyyL4KMbneL8aK4u0x3i3ppUJSkU7G6AibZfdTgcYFJhOA4nhWM48ITslKghD4/s320/IMG_0736.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509328714261214578" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />The neighborhood is really great. The richest man in Taiwan lives the block over in a complex called The Palace. Just a few blocks away, where I got off the bus from the airport, is the shopping center of the entire island. Closer to me, there are lots of coffee shops, food stands, parks, daycare centers, and churches. This is really strange, but seeing the daycare across the street from my apartment gave me a rush, a residual effect from hunting kindergartens in the Mainland last December. <br /><br />After a dumpling dinner with Sandy, I was ready to hit the hay. Unfortunately, unbearable stomach cramps made this impossible. I laid on my bed moaning in agony for hours. Next came the diarrhea and finally, the vomiting. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">A Trip to the Hospital</span><br /><br />My second day in Taiwan, I didn't leave my room. I couldn't get off the toilet. By day three in Taiwan I had run out of things to expel from myself so I headed out to walk around a little. After wandering for a bit I went into a 7/11 (there is literally one on every corner in my neighborhood) to buy some juice and instant noodles. I asked the clerk where the "Fangbian mian" was. Blank stare. I tried again in English/Japanese, "Ramen?" Realization dawned on his face. Here it is called "pao mian" or boiled noodle rather than convenient noodle. While browsing the drinks, with intent to purchase, I suddenly, and I imagine, quite dramatically, lost consciousness. <br /><br />The next thing I remember is being in the hospital with an IV in me that said in English, "BANANA." Why my IV said banana, I still don't understand. I asked while I was still kind of loopy, but it apparently had to do with them thinking that I was drunk. That's all that I could understand of their responses anyway. I'm also not sure how I got to the hospital. I have been too embarrassed to go back to that particular 7/11.<br /><br />I told the doctor that I had been sick and every time I ate anything, that food would would have a strong desire to leave me very quickly. I was shortly diagnosed with typhoid. Which I got in Beijing from eating something contaminated with feces. But the cure is just 2 shots, so that was simple. I checked out of the hospital after 12 more hours of rest and rehydration via BANANA IV. And when I got the bill and saw that my visit cost only about 30 USD, I realized that Zoe was right, it's not expensive to go see the doctor in Taiwan!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Swedish Chocolates and Cockroach Noodles</span><br /><br />Once my tri-hourly need for a toilet had passed, I was free to explore my environs. For three days I just wandered around the city. I enjoyed a novel, GRE math prep, and iced coffees in quirky little coffee shops. I never left a cafe without having a really cool conversation with someone. This was great because I got to work on my Chinese, which has improved both quickly and drastically. I've had language pledges before but never have I been surrounded by native speakers for so long. People are soooo friendly here. I have more amazing conversations than I could ever hope to type up on here or you could ever be expected to endure reading. But just talking to average people and occasionally musicians has been really informative on the music scene. <br /><br />In the mornings I typically jogged to 大安森林公園 and through the park, scoping out the old people exercising to see if any of them were packing musical instruments. By noon I would be back at my apartment practicing zhongruan and trying to get the single-picked Taiwanese style of strumming down. In the late afternoon I walked around and found a new cafe to enjoy some iced coffee and chill. At night I send out tons of emails to everyone I can find online to see if I can meet with them. <br /><br />In my recovery time, I did tons of observing in order to adapt to the differences between Taiwan. Lots of words are different here. So when I ask for tomatoes on my sandwich, "Xihongshi" means nothing. Here they say, "Fanqie." The word for potato in the Mainland will bring you peanuts in a Taiwanese restaurant. Lots of people don't really distinguish between s and sh here either. This has resulted in me numerous times mistaking the number 10 for 4. And I have to work hard to get rid of the "rrr" that I relished so much in the Beijing dialect. So now when I say door in Chinese, it sounds like the first syllable of <span style="font-style: italic;">money</span> as opposed to a Midwesterner saying something that begins with m and rhymes with <span style="font-style: italic;">bar</span> (as in what you bring to a potluck). <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSvcYI7MO61VKsP4oYxdXu6IVEtRb0YfP64SJBoaN-CnSPUvbB_i2dK2i4CrYvKeNaF_GMML5L-fu3BLPBc2XB8QIImvr2LBDPJGoTZhsOWKu-obgP74DAF3-h5ITRG8VKYx5H1bQC-KP/s1600/IMG_0699.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJSvcYI7MO61VKsP4oYxdXu6IVEtRb0YfP64SJBoaN-CnSPUvbB_i2dK2i4CrYvKeNaF_GMML5L-fu3BLPBc2XB8QIImvr2LBDPJGoTZhsOWKu-obgP74DAF3-h5ITRG8VKYx5H1bQC-KP/s320/IMG_0699.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509323796151319954" border="0"></a><br /><br />One day in a cafe, I overheard three students talking to each other. One had a GRE book propped open on the table. They were talking about going to grad schools. Then the one with the GRE book said he wanted to go to Sweden because of their famous chocolates. Mixing up Swiss and Swedish is my pet peeve, so I jumped in with, "你的意思是瑞士的巧克力.瑞典的巧克力不是有名的" <span style="font-style: italic;">You mean Swiss chocolates. Sweden's chocolate ain't famous.</span> They looked at me very shocked and then one of them said, "Which one is next to Germany?" "Switzerland," I replied. And that's how I met my GRE study group.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IcN6X5a5CMV2yvQY6Prep-7ngND_WOtUHJsZiDIP0G7RD4rrO4ZcBi6-vagZDdOE7fIOuMnJS-Sq8U1b5RFaebHej0alVFsKL8uOhMnIxpkHej934bXn2UrMFVWdEXSuolgwZCgCduu_/s1600/IMG_0737.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3IcN6X5a5CMV2yvQY6Prep-7ngND_WOtUHJsZiDIP0G7RD4rrO4ZcBi6-vagZDdOE7fIOuMnJS-Sq8U1b5RFaebHej0alVFsKL8uOhMnIxpkHej934bXn2UrMFVWdEXSuolgwZCgCduu_/s320/IMG_0737.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509334827727958210" border="0"></a><br /><br />Later I was having dinner in a noodle shop. I had a mouth full of grey noodles when a cockroach the size of a chicken egg scuttled in. The waitress, who proudly told me, "Today is my first day!" screamed and looked at the chef, an older-than-the-hills woman who looked like she was hiding prison tattoos under her long sleeves. The chef stepped on the monster-bug and its green and yellow guts sprayed a 6 inches across the floor. Then the chef picked up the bug with her bare hands and threw its smitten remains into the garbage. She then turned back to making noodles with those same hands. It took a massive effort to swallow the noodles that were still in my mouth. I looked around. The walls and ceiling were covered with spatter patterns matching the one on the floor. I haven't been back to that particular noodle shop yet. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seeing Fireworks</span><br /><br />After my first week, I realized that I LOVE living in Taipei. It feels much more like Japan than China. Everyone is polite and says, "不好意思" <span style="font-style: italic;">Sorry for the inconvenience</span> before talking. Little things make me smile to myself all the time. I bought some really good coffee bread from a stand and the wrapper told me, "Thank for Patronize!" The subway warns me in pleasant English, "When you alight, please mind the gap." This always causes me to burst out laughing on the subway and I'm pretty sure it freaks out my fellow commuters. One day on my walk home, I stopped to admire fireworks in the distance. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL55G5jyHSZsw67O-dWsGvFVdK9BG7FZPhpNaiqK40jh90b3wTL19Jx03_TSNqDUFFYXYMqsLMZ6uTa9zdQCMYFTxR7rQ9Kt6a05Ude-pdg3xOEyCen0u7UfTvjWlIpihQonRtmdv0RK-/s1600/IMG_0766.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL55G5jyHSZsw67O-dWsGvFVdK9BG7FZPhpNaiqK40jh90b3wTL19Jx03_TSNqDUFFYXYMqsLMZ6uTa9zdQCMYFTxR7rQ9Kt6a05Ude-pdg3xOEyCen0u7UfTvjWlIpihQonRtmdv0RK-/s320/IMG_0766.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509334846952585282" border="0"></a><br />It must have been some holiday because earlier that day, I had seen food products set out on tables as offerings and people were burning yellow ghost money in trash cans all over town. Not knowing why the fireworks were being shot off for some reason made me enjoy them more. While I was watching them an old man came up to me and said, "Hello. Go to sleep earlier. Healthier!" I checked my watch. It was 10:15. Little things like this have been making me so happy.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sauerkraut</span><br /><br />If you ask anyone in Taipei if they can speak English, they will invariably respond with, "A little." This is completely uninformative. Sometimes it is a true statement. Often it is a blatant lie and they are totally fluent in English or, conversely, they don't actually speak any English at all, except the words, "a little."<br /><br />One day, I walked in to a 7/11 and was greeted in English, "Gewd Eebuhneeng!" I smiled back. Then when I had made my purchase, the clerk asked me, "Do you want a bag?" Usually I would have complemented her English, but for some reason I was sick of this racism. You assume all white people can speak English!? I was mock-offended. And I was especially offended because she was right. I replied in Chinese with, "How embarrassing. I am German and do not speak English." Then I wondered if I too was being racist, assuming that this Asian woman could understand me, so I asked, "Can you speak Chinese?"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Contacting the Professionals</span><br /><br />On my second Monday I joined a gym and found the 國家音樂廳, National Concert Hall, right across from it (shown in the photo below). I went in to the ticket office and bought a dozen tickets for about 100 USD. They are all to traditional music except for an intriguing concert called, "Let's Go Traveling With Mandolin" by the Taipei Mandolin Ensemble. I found them on Facebook and messaged them explaining who I was and that I had a mandocello. I thought maybe they would be curious enough to let me meet with them if I offered up a chance to play such a rare instrument. They messaged me back within minutes and told me to be at their rehearsal on Saturday at 7PM. Wahooo!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMA1Eedw7T3aXJ40k5Gqs_06IBe472P6tMQaU69z2_nPxk-jwV2-n0g8uA6eutax5kkF5WGtz48VnPXfa8tWrDolkHIGztWLVp0CGP0E53yTt0GsIIAZVU31l5YoVrlbwQPBU1mWqDO4lq/s1600/IMG_0763.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMA1Eedw7T3aXJ40k5Gqs_06IBe472P6tMQaU69z2_nPxk-jwV2-n0g8uA6eutax5kkF5WGtz48VnPXfa8tWrDolkHIGztWLVp0CGP0E53yTt0GsIIAZVU31l5YoVrlbwQPBU1mWqDO4lq/s320/IMG_0763.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509337226620733938" border="0"></a><br /><br />I also got an email back from the lead erhu player in the Taipei Chinese Orchestra. She told me her English is very lazy, but if I can type her a message in Chinese, then we can probably communicate fine. So meeting number two on my schedule!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Keymaker</span><br /><br />On Tuesday as I was leaving, I realized that had I locked myself out of my room, so I went downstairs to find my landlady, Shiny. She told me that she didn't have a spare to my outer door (the metal one) and that I should just try climbing through the window. I explained that actually I realized I didn't have the key before I closed that one. She told me I was very lucky because she had the key to only the inner door. She emphasized that I was in fact extremely (非常非常的)lucky because she is not usually home in the afternoon but her child was sick. I thanked her for the key but she wouldn't release it from her hand. I tugged it a couple of times chuckling. She said that first I had to promise to go to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Keymaker</span> with my key that she doesn't have a copy of and copy it and take the new copy to her. I promised, slightly troubled by the shadow that had passed over her face when she wouldn't let go of the key.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiGpknVojElbuRsmXBu-iC3fnerKJfTukM8Nkm4fLR27efKrnK416VPDNglTP6x7OoshK5b9QK-XHICRJSI9H2rcKNXnBO0pJmcgl44BcjljTGwgx2mTb6X6GtN8X989SZsUAzFD6JmJP/s1600/IMG_0782.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfiGpknVojElbuRsmXBu-iC3fnerKJfTukM8Nkm4fLR27efKrnK416VPDNglTP6x7OoshK5b9QK-XHICRJSI9H2rcKNXnBO0pJmcgl44BcjljTGwgx2mTb6X6GtN8X989SZsUAzFD6JmJP/s320/IMG_0782.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509337216033364434" border="0"></a><br /><br />I walked around until I saw a big picture of a key on a shop. Inside, there was a grandmother and five three-year-olds. They were all eating grapes and watching cartoons. When the old lady saw me she jumped up, wiping purple juice on her oil-stained skirt. I asked her for a copy of my key. I watched impressed as her old hands moved deftly, cutting the new key. She made it in 20 seconds while balancing an attention-seeking toddler on one knee, her thousand-lined face furrowing with concentration.<br /><br />When she was done, she looked at me. Like really stared at me hard and asked if I was superstitious. I told her I was. She nodded as if this all made a lot of sense. She gave me another key; it was small and brass. She told me to keep it on me and it'll protect me. I asked her how much it was. She looked exasperated. "送給你!“ <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm gifting it to you!</span> All in all, it was the strangest afternoon I'd had yet in Taipei. Very spooky actually.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Methodist</span><br /><br />On Wednesday I met Irene at MOS Burger. I had just gotten my food but there was nowhere to sit. Irene, a 50-something woman dressed up too nicely for MOS Burger, said I could sit with her. We struck up a conversation and she invited me to her church to listen to the music there and meet people my own age. I asked what kind it was. The answer: Methodist. Now most people think Christ is Christ, but probably in Lancaster, Wisconsin alone, there is a weird rift between the Congregational Church and the Methodist Church. I remember my mom distinctly saying, "Andrew, you can become a Catholic or even a Muslim, just promise me you won't become a Methodist."<br /><br />Nonetheless, I triumphed over the prejudices of my childhood and braved the Methodist Church. It turned out to be right next to my apartment. I met Timothy who just had finished the GRE and promised to bring me his study books on Sunday. I also found out that anyone could come in and play the piano which made me EXTREMELY happy because I had been missing the piano a lot. I told Irene I'd see her on Sunday.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Rain + Musicians = Easy Target</span><br /><br />On Friday I met some Taiwanese Tennesseans in Starbucks. They were missionary kids and had spent half of their lives in Taiwan and half in America. We chatted a lot about the differences in culture between their two native lands. Just then I noticed someone carrying a zhongruan case walk by. Then erhu, then pipa! What was happening?<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigp_6AZTj_UmDdKWS6DgjquWP2_9-2J3Gpy4zXxIzFq69I53k4aAtTHzbxoqFLIgrgKhZItU10SI3Fpp5LRh1c4YkiQ-sWVCxAdaXxsnUfEVrtPK-fxtPPxAQtLscbuX_xK5iSjnaAs2mH/s1600/IMG_0718.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigp_6AZTj_UmDdKWS6DgjquWP2_9-2J3Gpy4zXxIzFq69I53k4aAtTHzbxoqFLIgrgKhZItU10SI3Fpp5LRh1c4YkiQ-sWVCxAdaXxsnUfEVrtPK-fxtPPxAQtLscbuX_xK5iSjnaAs2mH/s320/IMG_0718.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509334819762545314" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br />I ran outside and discovered a Chinese ensemble setting up in the park right outside the Starbucks. I ran home to get my camera. When I returned it was pouring rain and all of the musicians had retreated under a tarp. Was this a bad thing? NO! They were trapped and easy targets. I interviewed them and found out that they were part of a community group that brought "Music to the Neighborhood." They said that they had a competition on the 28th in the park where I go jogging and that they'd be happy to talk me then, but right now, they were getting wet! I thanked them for their time and marked the concert on my calendar.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Go Traveling With Mandocello</span><br /><br />Finally, on Saturday I got to go meet the Taipei Mandolin Ensemble. I dragged my mandocello all the way across town and followed the sound of mandolins to the third floor of a residential building. Afterward, I recounted my experience to my friend from Middlebury, Becky who is currently teaching English in Taiwan. When she saw me approach the cafe with a stupid grin plastered across my face, she decided to record the conversation, guessing correctly that it would be hilarious and very embarrassing for me. I have transcribed it for you below:<br /><br />Becky: Wow! What happened? Sit down, order something.<br />Andrew: Oh. My. God."<br />Becky: Stop with the dazed look and explain!<br />Andrew: Okay, so I went in and there were like 10 mandolins. . . oooh! and they are Italian style and look more like they're from the Renaissance than like, you know, like, the ukulele clones we use in America. They have these giant rounded backs.<br />Waitress: 不好意思。[Inaudible]<br />Becky: Yeah, oh you have to order something here that costs at least 80 dollars.<br />Waitress: 你想要甚麼?<br />Andrew: 火雞三明治,一杯冰咖啡。<br />Waitress: 加糖,牛奶呢?<br />Andrew: 只要糖。<br />Waitress: 好。<br />Andrew: Right, so I go in and they are finishing up a mini traditional music recital. The head of the ensemble also teaches Chinese instruments and plays the liuqin!<br />Becky: What's the liuqin?<br />Andrew: It's basically the Chinese mandolin. And this 10 year-old boy plays Yunnan Huiyi, Reminiscences of Yunnan, and that's my absolute favorite zhongruan piece. <br /><br />[I then showed Becky this clip that I secretly filmed.]<br /><br />http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BzjIOUFBpHA<br /><br />So afterwards I flip and tell him that that was the best version of Yunnan Huiyi I'd ever heard in person. And then they all flip cuz I knew the name of the piece. By the way, none of them could or I guess I should say were willing to speak any English. It's so weird. It seems like musicians here are the only people that won't speak English with me. But anyway, it turns out that the girl playing the mandola next to me is majoring in zhongruan at a conservatory.<br />Becky: What's a mandola?<br />Andrew: Huh, oh, it's the viola version of a mandolin, except here instead of being tuned CGDA, an octave higher than a cello and the same tuning as a viola, they're tuned GDAE, an octave lower than a violin, so I guess these are really octave mandolins. Anywho, the girl and I have the exact same b-day, same year too. I told her I play zhongruan so they made me play a solo for them. Then they said I had to do a solo with my mando and I was like SHIT! I usually just play chords so I just played Country Roads and sang along and then this one lady sang along in Japanese and it turns out that she is from Japan, so then I said like a really basic greeting and told her in Japanese that I studied Japanese for one year. Then everyone is just basically in love with me. They're like who are you? You speak Chinese and Japanese, play zhongruan and mandocello and sing. And I was just like, ha, don't ask me to play anything else cuz I just did everything I can. That was the full extent of my talents. Then she told me that if I give her English lessons, she could teach me to play Yunnan Huiyi! <br />Becky: Wait, the Japanese lady?<br />Andrew: Sorry, no. The same-b-day girl.<br />Becky: Oh, gotchya.<br />Andrew: Oh and then b-day girl helped me majorly with that damn Taiwanese picking style and I think I've almost got it. So the first half hour was all traditional stuff and making me perform, then the ensemble began rehearsing and they had sheet music for me! Some of it even had mandocello written on it. Like, how is that even possible? I doubt there is another mandocello on this island. Well, they say I can play along with them and after the rehearsal, which was awesome, they asked if I wanted to join them on stage for the concert! <br />Becky: (squeal) <br />Andrew: And I was like, WHAT?! REALLY?! YES! So now I'm gonna play with them at the National Concert Hall! Ahhh! I'm soooo excited.<br />Becky: Omg, that is fabulous. Do you have lots of rehearsals? What are you playing?<br />Andrew: We're playing some Italian stuff, Danny Boy, a song from a Japanese cartoon, and a Taiwanese folk song. Umm. . . yeah, there is another rehearsal tomorrow and then about 2 a week until the concert on September 25th.<br />Becky: How did you do this? How is this possible? You are a ridiculous person!<br />Andrew: (giggles) Yeah, I know. I think I'm in shock right now. And like, the girl said that on Monday I can go join the Chinese Orchestra that she plays with cuz it's informal and has old people in it. So this morning, I wasn't in any group and hadn't really met any musicians and now I am in two ensembles and getting free lessons.<br />Becky: Will you buy me a lottery ticket?<br />Andrew: No but I guess you can have my ticket to the mandolin concert, cuz I don't need it anymore.<br /><br />My calendar is now full of meetings and rehearsals. People are so shocked that I'm interested in Chinese music and happy to tell me about their experiences with music. The blog entries for weeks 3 and 4 are coming up! Lack of updates just means I'm busy which is way better than being bored! Every week becomes busier than the last as I establish more connections and become more and more familiar with Taipei.<br /><br />Also, I started a youtube account to post videos from the Freeman trip and the Watson which I will be updating as my internet connection permits. It takes about a day to upload a video! http://www.youtube.com/user/chinesetroubadourAndrewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14983467890666010092noreply@blogger.com12