Beijing and back

We're back! And there's so much to do: clean the cat's litter box (and spray some air freshener), write e-mails to family members (I didn't have access to Facebook, Gmail or Blogger while in Beijing) and just generally dust the apartment off. We have a visit to Techno Mart in mind as well, and then Parmesan chicken salad for dinner. But there's still time for some bloggin'.

As promised, here's the first of many posts about our three-day sojourn in China:

Beijing's location within greater China. From Wikimedia Commons.

Aah, China. Nothing could have prepared me for it: neither the good nor the bad. It was my first time setting foot on mainland Asia—or at least a part of Asia that wasn't the tip of a peninsula cut off from the rest of the continent by the world's most heavily fortified land border. During the first 24 hours, I ate duck, scorpion and bullfrog. I rode a toboggan away from the Great Wall, a set foot in a communist country, and I discovered the glory of flying in business class.

That's right: our trip got off to a good start. Miss H and I got unexpectedly bumped up on our Air China flight across the Yellow Sea. Due to an overbooking or something, our tickets were upgraded to business class.

And you wanna know the poetical part? Miss H and I have never flown together before. Not commercially, anyway. I've taken her for rides in a Cessna 172, but this was our first flight on a big ol' jetliner. And we got bumped up to business class. On a flight to Beijing. Ain't that something?

I'd heard about business class from some of my more well-off students, and I'd caught tantalizing glimpses as I boarded commercial flights in the past. But I'd never actually stumped up for it. I don't think I can ever go back. We had all the fixin's: the latest newspapers, hot towels, free-flowing beverages, reclining seats, entertainment galore, and (best of all) plenty of legroom.

I passed the hour-and-40-minute flight like any sophisticated world traveler would: with his feet up and a good book in his hands. And a Star Wars T-shirt on.

After getting off the plane, Miss H, Miss J and I waltzed into the impressive international terminal of Peking International Airport.

We plowed through immigration (thanks to the visas we paid ₩215,000 apiece for), and found ourselves at a taxi stop. We were snapped up by a tallish man with close-cropped hair, a lined face and big rough hands, in a short-sleeved button-down shirt and slacks. He brought us to his minivan, a greasy, grimy thing (like most of the cars in Beijing) and gestured us into it. We impressed upon him that we were heading for the Novotel Xin Qiao, which we somehow managed to pronounce correctly. The rate card said 650 yuan ($108) for the trip, but our driver insisted on 700 ($116). We were neophytes at the haggling game and desperate to boot, so we said yes. The driver jumped in and off we went.

I kept my nose glued to the window for most of the ride. My brain was buzzing. For years I've compared and contrasted Japan, China, and South Korea, both mentally and in writing. Now was my chance. I could finally appraise Beijing as it stacked up against Seoul and Tokyo, and divine the character of capital-dwelling Chinese.

My first impressions weren't good. Beijing was as smoggy as I'd heard. The sunset was an apocalyptic crimson, and vanished rapidly into the grayish void which extended 15 degrees above the horizon. The buildings were blocky and featureless, monuments to Stalinism, and they didn't give the city a welcoming air. The few people I saw on the streets looked rushed, harried, and miserable.

Matters improved when we lugged our baggage out of the hazy, stale air and into the bright, cool lobby of the Novotel Xin Qiao. Our room was spacious and comfortable, with all the amenities. The hotel itself was laden with restaurants, a convenience store, a bar, a bakery, and a spa. Best yet, we were centrally located, only a few blocks from most of the stuff worth seeing.

With that in mind, we dumped off our stuff in our rooms, took a thirty-minute rest, and then headed out into the cool, moist darkness of northeast China for the first item on our to-do list: DONGHUAMEN NIGHT MARKET. Tune in tomorrow for that one. I eat scorpions.

quiet down for a week or two

Recently it was announced that there's something called a naeshin week coming up at my hagwon. I haven't the slightest clue what "naeshin" means, but it has something to do with tests. The middle schoolers have big tests coming up. I don't mean SATs or ACTs or anything. This is a long, brutal week in May when the little rotters take a sort of assessment/achievement test to determine how well they've absorbed the endless miasma of knowledge siphoned into their heads by their teachers. These tests assess their chances of getting into a good university, acquiring high-paying jobs and supporting their parents in their leathery old age.

Anyway, during this upcoming week, the middle school students will be having cram sessions every night with the Korean teachers. That means we foreign teachers will have no middle schoolers to teach. However, we shall have to take up the slack with the elementary kids, whom the Korean teachers will be too busy to handle. So, we will have an increased course load during the early afternoons. Our own elementary classes will continue as normal, with lessons and such. But the classes we're subbing for will do things a bit differently. There will be a sort of "presentation class" where the students will be given a topic at the beginning of the week, distill it into a presentation, and deliver it at the end of the week. That should be intriguing. The topic will be "time travel"—if you had a time machine, where would you go? What would you change? How would this affect the future?

Following the increased afternoon course load, our evenings are largely vacant. From 6:15 p.m. onwards (7:45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays) I'm pretty much just lounging around.

Things get really interesting the week after this. This is called the "holding period." During this time the middle school students are off actually taking those big exams. They don't come to the academy at all. The Korean teachers go back to teaching elementary classes, and everything resumes as normal, sans the middle schoolers. This means that we'll have even fewer classes and be done even earlier. Think of how much novel-editing I'll get done during that span!

And now, because every good blog post needs a picture (so it'll look all fresh and appealing when it's down there in the "You might also like" zone), please take a moment to consider this:

welcome back, Beethoven

The last couple of days have been warm and muggy. The moisture in the air and the warmth of the sun have combined to produce some extreme cumulus and cumulonimbus clouds. Thunderstorms have been building up in the morning and unloading at night. It's miserable on the ground, but the view is fantastic: great white towers loom high above the desert like the hives of gigantic insects, or the airborne edifices of some futuristic civilization.

It may be hot and humid by day, but at night it (usually) cools down, and a sweet breeze blows through the house as lightning crackles over the dark mountains in the distance.

And here I sit, pajama-clad, a big glass of water by my side, fans on, listening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony, 4th movement. I actually prefer the fourth movement to the first. The first movement of Beethoven's 5th is the one everybody knows, allegro con brio—you know, duh-duh-duh-DUHHHHHH, duh-duh-duh-DUHHHHHH. It took me ages to find the fourth movement on YouTube because it's simply allegro, and search engines always assume you must be looking for the allegro con brio first movement.

The fourth movement isn't as dark or weighty as the first. It's quick, cheery, larger-than-life, full of pomp and bombast and triumph, reminiscent of Beethoven's 6th or Pastoral Symphony. I'd always been familiar with the first movement of Symphony No. 5, but I first heard the fourth movement when I was a kid, on a Beethoven tape (yes, an actual eight-track tape) that my folks had.

I was intoxicated. I saw visions, listening to it. I'd watched the original Star Wars trilogy not long before, and I saw, as I listened, Bespin and Cloud City and the sky-towers of far-flung planets. Clouds, light, air, and sun, the gleaming spires of fantastic cities...pure beauty put to music. Even at that young age I thought, "This couldn't have been written by the same man who wrote that gloomy Fifth Symphony" (this was before I knew the two works were from the same piece of music).

For years, the only place I could hear this beautiful composition was on that tape. I never forgot it. Even if it slipped my mind while I was away at school or overseas, I'd hear it again on occasion, thundering faintly at the edge of memory as I gazed over the wondrous sights of distant lands.

As the clouds built and climbed and towered and rolled over the Mojave yesterday evening, I remembered the fourth movement. I dug that old Beethoven tape out of the dresser drawer where it had lain for months, popped it into an aging tape player, and let it flow again. And man, wasn't it lovely. All those times I'd listened to it as a kid came flooding back. Just as I had all those years ago, I stared out of my window and let my mind fly. I watched the titanic cloud-castles, which hung in the skies above the desert exactly as they did above Cloud City in The Empire Strikes Back. I soared over their sun-drenched expanse, orange and pink and purple and red and gold, leaping from powder puff to powder puff, kicking up a spray of vaporous foam, dodging the skyscrapers, the lighthouses, the lofty crags, the conning towers of ethereal battleships. The sky was a landscape in itself, a glorious chaos of color and shape and endless wonder, through which I hurtled to my heart's content, buoyed on waves of sound sprung from the mind of a long-dead genius.

To this day I cannot believe that Beethoven was deaf. Nobody could weave harmonies like that and not hear them played afterward. It would be the most monstrous injustice, like erasing the very clouds themselves from the evening sky.

Thanks for the trip down Memory Lane, Ludwig.

And the leap through the clouds, too.

ADDENDUM: Thanks to Rebel, I was informed of a rather neat blogfest taking place over at Dawn Embers, the Word Paint Blogfest, where the bloggers' job is to paint a scene with words. I guess that might be what I've done here. It's worth a shot, so I've entered. Thanks a million for the encouragement, Rebel. Eat your heart out, people. 

out of the doldrums

I'm reading a book called Race to the Pole by Sir Ranulph Fiennes. It's the last word on Robert F. Scott's ill-fated second expedition to the Antarctic. Scott and four companions made the South Pole, only to find they'd been beaten to the punch by the dastardly and deceitful Roald Amundsen. To add insult to injury, all five of them died on the way back to Ross Island and their ship, the Terra Nova. (That means "new land" in Latin, doncha know.)

Reading about people dying in the middle of a wasteland (and ships getting stuck in ice) has made me think a lot about my own situation. I'd love to be off on my next adventure, giving Indiana Jones a run for his money, plumbing unexplored territory and discovering new lands. But I'm a bit stuck. There's a few things to finish, and some money to save; then I can go. In the meantime, I'm stuck in the pack ice. I'm working my way out of it with patience and tact, but it still seems like I'm in the slump of my life here.

And as a very intelligent man once wrote, "un-slumping yourself is not easily done."

But it seems that, after a full year of stagnation, during which I have accomplished practically nothing (except for finishing a novel, becoming a travel writer, acquiring a bartender's certificate and nearly polishing off a pilot's license), things are finally about to pick up.

There've been a few new developments. I'm taking some proactive steps to improve my situation (and hasten my eventual departure from said slump). There've been a few other things that have happened of their own accord, too, which stand to shake things up around here in the coming weeks.

Let's begin with the latest:

Dawg (Boss #3), lately returned from Colombia, has informed us that the Reno Air Races are coming up in mid-September.

And we're all invited.

I'm going to the air races.

Stop a moment and consider what that means to me. You know how plane-crazy I am. I'm not the most die-hard enthusiast you'll meet, and I could be doing a lot more to familiarize myself with the mechanics of engines and the principles of flight. I'm not yet a professional aviator.
But I do like airplanes, as you've probably guessed. I go absolutely nuts when I smell a warbird in the vicinity. And there's a great many civil aircraft that can make me go ga-ga as well. Air races are the province of some of the fastest, most nimble, most sporty airplanes in existence, moreover. And I'll be going to one of the most well-known and prestigious races of them all, the last bastion of the world's fastest motor sport. The Reno Air Races (formally known as the National Championship Air Races) includes the Unlimited class of aircraft, which apparently "consists almost entirely of both modified and stock World War II aircraft [which] routinely reach speeds in excess of 400 miles per hour." Some of these beasts (like September Fury, pictured above) look like they were plucked right from TaleSpin or a comic book about air pirates.

Hot. Diggity. DAMN.

I was about eight years old the last time I was involved with anything resembling a race. The vehicles were seven inches long, 2¾ inches wide, weighed no more than five ounces, and were made of pinewood.

Reno is going to be an absolute blast.

Go ahead and turn green, suckers.

Moving on...

More about what I'm doing to un-slump myself: my father recently informed me (in a nonchalant sort of way) that I have a mutual fund sitting in the pipeline. It was created soon after my birth and has endured nearly 24 years of stock market ups and downs. It's not enough to retire on, certainly, but it'll take care of the urgent things on my to-do-before-I-go-to-Spain-or-Australia list: namely, car repairs and pilot's licensing.
I think I'm going to use it for car repairs. Those could potentially cost more than $700, which is the amount I've budgeted for finishing my pilot's license. I'll knock off new shocks, new tires, new brakes and new coolant with my mutual fund and use my next paycheck to kill off the pilot's license.

And then, ladies and gentlemen...there will be nothing holding me here. I can gallivant off to a far corner of the globe, or procure any decent radio job in the Western United States and finally move out of my parents' house.

I'll let you know what I decide. This should all be resolved within the month. As of September 1, 2010, you shall be privy to the doings of Postman, the pilot (and owner of an upgraded 1995 Jeep Cherokee).

If you want to hear some writing updates, here they are:

My good buddy Nick, whom I met in college, a student of animation and visual design, who is currently working for a private animation studio near Orlando, Florida (and, with any luck, will soon be moving to Blue Sky Animation, the folks who brought you Despicable Me)...

Well, he got in touch with me a few weeks ago. We'd been in and out of contact since graduation, but never routinely. Out of the blue he dropped me a line. Prior to this, I'd talked with him at length about my novel idea, and he was very intrigued. So intrigued, in fact, that he asked me to send him some stuff and he'd draw up some sketches and pictures.

Awesome.

I'd been stressing about finding an artist for my comic book, worrying myself sick over procuring one that I could rely on and work well with. And then BAM, an old friend whom I know and trust offers me his services, which I already know to be top-flight.

Sometimes I get so lucky I feel almost ashamed.

Anyway, not much had come of that arrangement, but Nick and I renewed the promise over the phone. That was the purpose of his call, in fact. That, and to catch up. He's a good guy. He's had some hard times out there in Florida. One of the studios he was working for got shut down for want of money, which was a pity, because Nick really enjoyed what he was doing there. He's been getting by with freelancing and semi-regular work for Campus Crusade for Christ. He's been offered a half-year contract with CRU, and he's taken 'em up on it for the time being. But he's sent out applications to a half-dozen other studios, and has his eye on the aforementioned Blue Sky.

In the meantime, he said he had time to illustrate my stuff! So I said, "Heck yes! I'll send you some character bios and outlines right away."

And so I did. Nick and I are meeting every Monday evening now on Skype to exchange ideas and material (and catch up with each other's lives). It's incredible. Feels like the dream is coming alive, seeing my characters and settings leap into vibrant existence, born of Nick's pencils and pens and agile mind. His work is more than I could have hoped for. We have slightly different visions of the world I'm creating, of course, but that's what our meetings are for: to hash out those disparities and come to mutual agreement, exchange thoughts on character and detail, and just build the series from the ground up.

We're just doing it for fun, of course; neither of us is anywhere near being ready to find an outlet for this yet. Heck, I haven't even gotten the novel published (though my novelist cousin is finished reading it, and is sending it to me next week; she wrote in her e-mail "GOOD JOB!" I think she liked it!).

But when we are ready to go public with this...well, shoot. We'll have the groundwork laid already.

One last thing. My first science fiction novelette is pretty much edited. I'm handing it over to a friend tomorrow to proof, and then I'm [gulp] sending it to Fantasy & Science Fiction magazine, double-spaced, formatted and numbered, with a self-addressed stamped envelope and my little fingers crossed.

I should have lots of news for you in two weeks...stay tuned.

P.S. You know, I worry about these posts. Sometimes I think I'm going to bore you guys to tears with all of this crap. The doubts, the obstacles, the struggles, the triumphs, the baby steps forward. Posts like this grate on my nerves sometimes. Jeez, aren't there enough people in the world who are going to make me feel insecure without me making myself feel that way? I'm not a whiner, I'm a winner! C'mon, Postman, buck up!

But remember, I'm reading about Robert F. Scott. And in Race to the Pole, I learned that for all his brilliance, tact, courage, stamina, and fortitude, Scott was about as insecure as I am. He constantly blamed himself for making stupid mistakes, not doing enough to correct his personal flaws, his inherent lack of willpower, his physical frailty (he couldn't stand the sight of blood), and failing to live up to his personal standards. He got on his own case even when others praised him. After he'd accomplished a great deal, Scott still fell into depressed moods, feeling inferior to those around him. Even the fortune-teller could see that this maudlin melancholy was part of Scott's personality.

So now all of a sudden I don't feel so bad about waxing pathetic all the time.

If one of the most famous explorers in history got away with it, what's to stop me?

If I ever buy a boat, I'm calling it Terra Nova.

fameless shalsity

Well, I think it's about time I dropped the other shoe and clued you all in about the fibs I told before. Capische? Congratulations to all who were brave enough to take a stab at the truth. None of you succeeded.

1. FALSE. I have never read the Harry Potter series cover-to-cover without stopping. I imagine it would take me a lot longer than 27 hours if I tried (although I'm a fast reader). In college, my buddies and I did watch all six Star Wars movies back-to-back, however. It took us 17 hours. We started at noon and finished up at five in the morning the next day. And indeed, we had pizza, and had to take breaks to go run around the building. We watched 'em in chronological order: new trilogy first (bleh) and then the original (WAHOO!).
2. FALSE. I did not see Dick Cheney speak live at my college. I saw the man himself, George W. Bush. Dubya came to my college and spoke live. And I told you the truth: I was impressed by how natural he was, how poised, how sure of himself. He didn't give a speech, he made no prepared statements. And he never stuttered once. He talked firmly, loudly, and professionally. He was funny. He gibed at the Illinois professor so much that he got us all laughing. I wasn't too sure where my Social Security money was going to end up by the time Bush had finished talking, but that didn't matter. In my mind, this incident cemented the belief that poor ol' George has been unfairly and unpardonably treated by the liberal media regarding his "speech impediments" and poor public speaking skills, which, as it turned out, were nothing more than stage-fright. Give the man a break, I say. Not every president is a natural-born Abe Lincoln or an FDR. Talk to him in person before you judge what you see on the news.
3. FALSE. It wasn't Montgomery, Alabama. It was Atlanta, Georgia. Thought you wouldn't get that one.
4. FALSE. I'm hands-down-triple-Z-abso-freakin'-lutely awful at riddles. I couldn't solve a riddle to save my soul. I always wind up thinking too hard, over-complicating things, overshooting the simpler answer...or worse, not thinking far enough outside the box. You could dangle a ten-billion-dollar bill in front of my face and say, "I build up castles. I tear down mountains. I make some men blind, help others to see. What am I?" I would walk away none the richer. The only time I ever solved a riddle was a month ago; I can only attribute that to a flash of genius borrowed from another dimension. My friend J.H. called me up and asked me "What gets bigger the more you take away from it?" Lucky for him I'd just finished planting a tree. "A hole in the ground," I said, and I was right.
5. TRUE. I've been in only one real car accident. The rest have all been minor things, like backing into stationary objects. The car I wrecked was a 1986 Chrysler LeBaron, dark red finish, leather interior, low mileage. Sweet gangsta Grandma-car. It was bequeathed to me by my grandfather, who was managing my late great-uncle's estate. And I wrecked it a mere three months and 1,000 miles after getting it for free. Nice one, Postman.
6. FALSE. I can't play the Jew's harp. I don't understand the concept behind it at all.
7. FALSE. There was absinthe at my last cocktail party, purchased and served with my own hands...but I didn't taste it. I was working the next morning and didn't want to take a chance on something 120-proof. Maybe next time. I'll let you know how it goes.

You probably think I made these too difficult. Well, you're right. I'm a hard master when it comes to tests and quizzes.

I'm going to go laugh myself silly with sadistic joy now. Try to have a good rest of your day, now that I've shattered all of your illusions of being on Jeopardy!

And by the way, the answer is "sand."