Purgatory

I should have stayed for tea.

Saturdays are for adventuring in Beijing. The rest of the week is predominantly filled with work and the occasional jaunt around the neighbourhood but rarely results in any kind of journey straying too far from familiarity. A knock on the door woke me earlier than my usual Saturday and thus the wheels were put in motion for a day full of surprises, frustration and maniacal laughter.

Amanda, Katie and I made our way to the bus stop at around 11:00 AM. We had to go several stops on Bus 300 toward the south-east of Beijing to meet Jeffrey, a former colleague and current friend also living in the city. The plan was to meet, jump on another bus, and check out a pet/jewelry/plant market (yes...you could buy a rabbit and a necklace in the same place).

Nursing my wounds from the night before was made more difficult by the heavy traffic and stuttering movement of our bus. At our stop I tossed away a half pack of smokes. I made a mental decision that I didn't need them and I'd been cutting back anyway. I later regretted this. We finally met Jeffrey at a Costa Coffee where I downed an Americano and a cereal muffin. We shot the breeze for a while and went on our way.

Another lengthy bus ride brought us to the pet labyrinth. This place is corridor after corridor of various shops with fish, tarantulas, flying squirrels, and more. We browsed and found some depressing spots where the animals live in tiny cages wallowing in their own feces.

It was still an interesting place, and not all animals were being abused (at least not openly). It's another one of those things that certainly wouldn't fly in Canada, in the open, but no one really bats an eye here.

We grabbed a cab to a tea market even further away. The clock read 3:45. I had plans to meet up with a friend back at the apartment at 6:00. I still wanted to shower and relax, so I figured if I cut the tea market out of my schedule, I'd be back at the apartment around 5:00. The traffic was rotten so an hour in transit seemed believable.

Jeffrey said it was not a problem and that a subway station would be nearby. What he meant, though it wasn't clear to me, was that a subway station was several bus stops away from the tea market.

I cursed upon this realization.

Jeffrey asked if I wanted to join them for a couple cups of tea before heading off. I said I'd rather just get on my way. I'm a punctual person, take great pride in being on time when I say I am going to be somewhere. I was admittedly getting a little stressed as we tried, with futility, to flag a cab because I saw my chances at getting a shower were slipping away. I acquiesced and jumped on the bus, waved goodbye and was gone.

Traffic was hell. There were so many stops and very few starts. Finally, I made it after what felt like an eternity. Off the bus I looked for a subway. By now I had become aware that I needed to first take line 1 and transfer to line 10 so I can get back to my neck of the woods: Liangmaqiao Rd. Problem was I couldn't find the subway.

I walked down the street where I assumed it must be. The bus schedule said this stop had a subway station with line 1 on it. I came to a sign that said the station was 200 metres away...in the direction I came from. Confused, I went back that way for several minutes but again couldn't find it.

Past the sign, which I returned to, I walked up a set of steps to an overpass to get a bird's eye view. I looked back in the direction the sign had suggested. In the distance, I made out a subway stop. It was like a level of Doom, though. I could see exactly where I wanted to be but had no real idea how to get there.

For the third time I walked to where the sign was telling me. This time, I crossed the street to a narrow sidewalk. One subway station was obscured by blue walls. It was definitely closed for construction. I was bewildered. A steady flow of people was coming from around the corner ahead of me. Others were walking in that direction. It seemed likely that the subway station was there because it made little sense for these people to be walking through the desolate underpass near a slew of construction. Sure enough, the subway was there.

A subway ticket in Beijing is 2RMB. That is the equivalent to just over 30 cents Canadian. The problem, another of many this day, was I only had one 1RMB bill and two 100RMB bills. Ugh. I tried to buy a subway card with one of the 100s. This way I can just use the card whenever I use the subway. That's when I notice my bank card is gone. The worst case scenario is I left it in the machine when I used it the day before and the next person in cleaned me out. My own stupid haste. As I'm dealing with this, the vendor shakes his head indicating he either can't or won't sell me a card or accept my 100RMB bill.

Back above ground I went to the other subway station just across from the exit of the first one. Fortunately, there was a vendor here who sold me a card and I was on my way again. On the subway, just as the doors closed and it started moving, I noticed the station I was at was a transfer station for line 10; the line I needed to be on. It would have been smart to get off at the next stop and walk across to the other train to go back one stop to make the transfer. I did not think of this and instead went 11 stops to the next transfer line.

"You've got to be kidding me," I yelled.

The entrance to line 10 was gated, closed. If I had read my email more closely this week I would have remembered one specific notice that informed us all that line 10 was going to be closed for work to be done.

The sun had set between the 11 stops.

On the street I recognized nothing. I ended up in a brand new section of town. It didn't matter to me if I was going to drop an extra amount of money for a cab. It was 5:30. The shower was out of the question but if I got a cab quickly enough I would still be able to meet my friend.

Nope.

There were at least ten people, or groups of people, trying to flag down their own cabs.  I walked in some random direction hoping I'd get away from the crowd and have the taxis all to myself. None stopped. Most had passengers in them, but there were a few who simply waved me off or shut off their lights as they approached me. Without any coherent plan, I walked.

Normally, I'd hoof it home no matter how far I had to go. There was one hitch in this idea, though. I did not know what direction to go in. Considering I didn't know anyone, the signs were in Mandarin, and no one spoke English I may have been going completely in the wrong direction. I lost my phone a month ago and haven't replaced it so I couldn't call on anyone for help either.

I saw a bus stop and it dawned on me that I might be able to find the 300 bus and make it home. I sighed in relief when I saw the 300 bus listed at this stop. After waiting a bit, it arrived and I settled in. After a few stops being announced, it seemed like the bus was going away from my road. Another setback.

I got off at the next stop, crossed the overpass, and got on the next 300 bus going in the opposite direction. Somewhere I made a mistake. Two stops after I got on we reached the end of the line and everyone had to get off. I felt like I was in the movie After Hours only without a dead woman or a mob chasing me.

Again I set to walking. And after a few minutes I, again, came across a bus stop with 300 on it. I waited, and for the third time I got on the bus. This time I asked the ticket-seller "Liangmaqiao?" She gave me the universal signal for the number 5 by holding up her hand and digits. I assumed this meant five stops.

"YES!" I yelled repeatedly as I exited the bus on familiar ground. I bounced down the street toward home, finally walking in the door at 8:15. I missed tea, and I missed my friend at the apartment but wow...what a day. My frustration grew for so long until I could do nothing but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Every time it seemed like I was on the right track, something went wrong.

My freezing body was cured by the warmth of the shower, a bowl of cereal and a bottle of water as I curled up on my tiny couch. Any prospects of leaving again had been shot by my ridiculous mishaps.

A day in purgatory had finally been solved and I needed a rest.

Nostalgia

As I teach a unit on media and the messages presented by media to a grade 8 class in Beijing, I can't help but be reminded of my first real gig as a journalist.

I was partway through my third year at St. Thomas University when I got my first crack at an assignment at an actual newspaper. It led to my first full time job the following summer and to what I thought, at the time, would be a long and fruitful career.

This was incorrect.

About a year after the paper opened, it shut its doors.

I'm thinking about it a lot because I've been using stories from my portfolio as exemplars for my students. They are writing interviews and I am giving them my professional writing as examples of format and style.

I have come a long way. My writing and editing has improved ten-fold and I am picking out errors in stories from 2008 that make me groan in 2012.

I am certainly still proud with this work, especially stories like this one where I spoke with Curt Wetmore about his three-week trip to Thailand among others (links will be at the end...in case you would like to peruse my old words -- I have touched them up a tad).

It's interesting to look back and be reminded of something I once felt very strongly about -- and discovering that it may mean just as much now.

Re-reading my long form final piece from journalism school The Death of the Carleton FreePress I recognize some things that I could have done better with it. I should have spoken to Rob Perkins (the former editor from before I arrived) and I should have fought to speak with someone from Brunswick News, and especially Ken Langdon.

Langdon was too busy at the time I was trying to put the story together. He never answered his phone. Perkins probably could have been reached and maybe if I pressed harder I could have gotten someone at BNI to give me his or her perspective on the happenings.

I made a judgment call to write a profile on the staff and how our relationships formed and how it appeared to us as the paper reached its nadir. I am incredibly proud with how it turned out but it could have been more; it could have been something special.

The Carleton FreePress is mostly forgotten now; a distant memory. It's a casual conversation piece that starts with "remember when." I'm not entirely bitter, I swear I'm not...I'm just disappointed in myself that I didn't fight harder for that career.

I've dabbled in it since, and even had a full time gig at the Bugle-Observer in Woodstock and a freelance one at the Daily Gleaner in Fredericton. Something didn't click. It wasn't the staff, they were incredible. Jim Dumville is the best boss I've ever had in my life. Bryan Tait, Jeffrey Bento-Carrier, Peter MacIntosh, Devon Judge, and fellow FreePress alumnus Allison Adair were joys to work with in the editorial side of things. In fact, everyone at the paper with whom I had regular contact helped make it a great working environment.

Before being offered the full time job, and while I was freelancing for the Gleaner, I applied to education school at St. Thomas University...my alma mater. Ultimately, a few months into my job at the Bugle, I got accepted to school and worked my way through the summer looking ahead to change. It was difficult to keep my head in the journalism game as I thought about the impending finish. I still worked hard but had grown to dislike court reporting (which I did every week) and I'll admit my attitude suffered down the stretch.

I hope it doesn't seem like sour grapes, it's just that I am recognizing my own shortcomings at a job where I still have so much to give. Before moving to Beijing, I had started freelancing again at the Bugle-Observer and I wrote one of my favourite articles yet (hopefully I can grab a copy and post it).

Then I was whisked away to a new, mysterious place half a world away. How could I pass up this opportunity? Easy answer: I couldn't...so I didn't.

As I teach this course, my heart swells with nostalgia. I think of the Carleton FreePress and the incredible feeling it gave me at the time. I think of journalism school, which nearly broke my love of the job but prepared me for it in ways I was possibly unaware of until now. I think of my colleagues who have moved on to God knows where (I can't track down Bob Rupert, my FreePress editor). I think of how I was the first (other than Gleaner reporter Adam Bowie) to get a full time job while in j-school and how many never continued in the business.

I'll return to journalism, I know this. The best part is that pursuing my bachelor of education and teaching english and journalism has helped make me a better writer and editor.

For now I'll bask in the glow of nostalgic feelings as I read old work and shudder at rookie mistakes. It was the time of my life.

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A Book to Find Solace

Snowfall

It snowed overnight.

Before I came to Beijing I was informed that while the winters get very dry and cold, the snow mostly holds off. Waking up Sunday morning to see the soccer field outside my window with a patchy quilt of snow was somewhat surprising, but also comforting.

I am no fan of winter, or so I've claimed since I was young. I've longed for year-round summers or autumns. I've hoped the eternal chill of December through February would not rear its head. I've wished that global warming would hurry the hell up. And yet I couldn't help but smile when I looked out the window.

Could I be homesick? I've wondered this, and I think the answer is yes...and no. I miss the people, I miss live sports, and I miss movies opening on their scheduled weekend (though never a guarantee in New Brunswick). I know, however, that I would feel like I was missing something. The problem is, even on the other side of the world I still feel that nagging void. I came here to see if this would pacify it; to see if it would help. In some cases it has, and will continue. Seeing the Great Wall, walking the streets of Shanghai, finding a Tapas Bar down an alley that shows old movies on Tuesday nights, losing myself to the call of karaoke each have fueled a joy and I expect travels to Vietnam and Cambodia and possibly Thailand to do the same.

It is an amazing experience that I will never regret. I will see things that many of my friends never will. No matter where I go, no one will be able to take these away from me. I look at those who have built lives here over the years, and while I don't think I'm exactly jealous I do yearn to be able to do the same somewhere. Stability is an attractive concept, and I haven't found it yet.

When my thoughts swirl and I question my existence on this floating sphere, I retreat into the world of movies. Those close to me, and probably everyone who has ever met me for more than a minute, know that I am obsessed with film. In one leg of town, Sanlitun, there is a DVD shop. I don't plan on rebuilding a collection but the price is right. I bought 11 DVDs and spent around $20 Canadian. Good news: so far they all work! This whole weekend, with the exception of a few excursions out and about, has been a movie weekend. Not a bad thing, it's how I cope with life. That sounds depressing, but it's not. Movies, good and bad, help me form connections to the world. They get me thinking about different mindsets and perceptions. Movies are not a break from reality, they enhance it. The casual moviegoer will never get this, and will probably think I'm certifiable. In fact, I feel kind of silly even writing that.

I stood with a coffee looking out the window at the freshly fallen snow. I felt like I was back home. But what, and where, is home? I don't know the answer to that question yet.

Great Wall or Greatest Wall?

The Great Wall of China is one of those places where you can’t help but have exorbitant expectations prior to experiencing it. What those expectations entail is likely a litany of vague, second-hand information or photographs. You can subdue those expectations by trying to convince yourself that it’s “just another place.”

You would be right if you stopped at the main gates of the Mutianyu section after walking through the preliminary crowds and past the aggressive street vendors as they shill their wares at inflated prices – I got a pair of sunglasses for 20 Yuen when I was first asked to pay was 85. Once you’re past these early distractions and begin the climb, to whatever area you have entered, it takes on a life of its own.

The feeling of impending awe will loom as you walk up the steep walkways and stairwells. Before reaching the actual wall, people were already resting on the side. It is an arduous climb but any pain or stress will immediately disappear when you come to the stairs leading to the wall. Reaching the top I looked out across the landscape at mountains in the hazy distance and saw the wall stretch for what seemed like infinity in every direction. To be standing on one of the only man-made structures that can be seen from space carries a feeling of insignificance and wonder that I don’t think I have ever reached before.

We walked, we joked, we haggled for beer, and we saw a small fraction of a magnificent place. Down in the valleys sat villages of tin roofed houses, shacks and invisible locals. Talking with another Westerner after returning from the trip I was told that many people who live in areas near the wall have likely never even been to Beijing and yet here we were venturing to their necks of the woods. It makes sense. The lives of these people are still a secret to us. The people who worked the area weren’t likely locals from the Wall. They spoke decent English and had items for sale that certainly weren’t hand woven or carved. My real or knock-off Ray Bans were not assembled down in the valley.

The come down was inevitable. For such a large portion of the day I flew high, astounded at every sight my eyes fell upon. Leaving after a quick meal and belt of coffee trying my best to lose myself in my headphones a heavy sense of emptiness descended. I was returning to routine, to a sense of normalcy. I had experienced the extraordinary and had returned to the ordinary -- this is only in the context of living in China, which upon extra thought is not all that ordinary in my case.

I sat on a cannon on the Great Wall. That is not something that happens every day or, in most cases, ever.

Going to such a breathtaking and incredible place will be a personal journey for all those who enter. You may share it with friends as you hike together but everyone will feel their own individual and emotional rush. To predict how one might react to the place inwardly is impossible.

                                                     

 It is a place to be seen, a place to behold. It is certainly a place but it is one unlike any other. Obvious sentiments, sure, but words cannot do it justice.

Out of the subway into Shanghai

View from the street outside Shanghai subway station.

Equipped with a ridiculous handlebar mustache I set out on four hours sleep and a touch of the special shine for the airport at 5:30 for a 7:30 flight. The Beijing airport was hell, as are all airports. It's a hassle akin to being rats in a maze being funneled toward the cheese, which unfortunately was my seat in coach...or economy class as they so kindly renamed it.

I slept the entire flight, missed the meal and landed in Shanghai ready to take on the new city. I can't say I missed the meal exactly. Airplane food is one area, where no matter how many advancements in technology have been reached, that is always atrocious.

Shanghai is anything but. As soon as I filtered out of the subway into the relatively inactive street, I knew I was in a special city. The air was cleaner than Beijing and the sky was clear blue. Guillermo and I sauntered to our hostel down an alley-like sidestreet. We watched the local hole-in-the-wall eateries serving various treats from dumplings to moon cakes to fried chicken and vegetables.

The hostel itself, Blue Mountain Youth Hostel, seemed pretty decent. I'm not usually one for communal living but the showers were clean and separated from one another so it was of little concern. The room (and the hostel itself), on the sixth floor of twenty-eight, was tiny with four bunk beds. Eight people at a time stayed, including an American psychotherapist and Chinese tourists who work together at an automotive firm...I think.

The cafe served pizza and mellow music...some good like Iron and Wine; some bad like Jack Johnson. It was a nice, relaxed little cafe with various foodstuffs. Pizza, muesli, Snickers bars, coffee, beer, eggs, mystery meat and toast, among other things. If you buy outside beer, they'll pop the top at the bar but you must promptly abscond to the patio.

Guillermo and I walked the streets. It reminded me of Las Vegas with all the colours (moreso when the sun went down) and abrasive shills on the street forcing pamphlets in my face. One day, as we walked, I saw a fairly well dressed man walking toward some people he obviously knew as I was walking by. I was close enough, apparently, for him to whisper in my ear.

"Lady massage," he said quietly before turning and continuing his conversation with his acquaintances.

Knock-off watches can be acquired every few feet as you pass one of the many KFCs.

Pudong. The Pearl is that big one on the left with spheres at various levels.

We hit up the Bund, a beautiful area overlooking the water. Across to the other side are large buildings, none identical, including the Pearl. It's all unique and yet also vaguely familiar. Shanghai has an immediate impact on the senses somehow blending energy and relaxation into one mega-vacation-smoothie. In Beijing there is a constant swath of honking from the traffic; not so in Shanghai. The honks make some sense, where in Beijing they're redundant chest pounding. Traffic cops were efficient, maybe because it was the national holiday, and actually helped pedestrians. It wasn't a constant game of Frogger.



More to come...including my review of the movie Looper, which was partially shot in Shanghai.

Ridiculous mustache...check!

Counterfeit

Son of a bitch.

It was shaping up to be a great day and then the night happened. That's not entirely fair, the night was mostly good but sometimes it takes one thing to put a damper on the entire proceedings.

We played games, had a few drinks, shot the breeze at the residence. Smiles abound. I'll admit I was getting restless as the clock inched closer to midnight because the goal was still to go out. The later it got the later I'd be out and about. Normally, this isn't a problem but I was not in the necessary dexterous shape to spend a second consecutive night carousing until 4 or 5 in the morning. You need training to go on a spree like that.

We made it to the First Floor at probably 12:15. When people in Canada go to the bar that late it makes me shake my head; last call comes at quarter to 2 and the bars close shortly after (some exceptions stay open a bit later). In Beijing, last call is more in the mind of the beholder; you are left to your own devices and limits.

Making it out, I felt better and was ready to have a fun time. Some decent music was playing and it takes me some time, and the right song, to get me moving. The First Floor serves Guinness on draft - 50 RMB (equivalent to 8 Canadian dollars) - and while it's slightly overpriced, I wanted the delicious dark beer to set my mood. I gave the bartender a 100 RMB bill. After a few moments he returned it to me.

"It's fake," he said.

I stared at him, dumbfounded, and scrambled through my wallet to find 50 RMB in smaller bills. Mulling this oddity over I sauntered back to the crew of colleagues that had gathered to dance, cheer, and chat.

The right song came on, causing me to momentarily forget about the counterfeit bill I was apparently peddling. "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen is one of the best songs I've heard, it brings out the need to sing along and bounce that few others inspire in me. Forget the typical heavy bass dance songs popular in clubs, it's songs like this that really get me going. I am, apparently, a less than energetic person in the eyes of some of my colleagues. I noticed Anthony staring, jaw-dropped, as I bounded and smiled and jumped around like a spastic hyena.

The song ended and I tried to keep the groove in tact, but the beer was gone and the fake money was burning a hole in my pocket. The damndest thing is where I got the money: the bank. I didn't get it mixed in some change from a cabbie (they would never have a reason to give me 100 RMB as change anyway), or food, or anything else. I exchanged some Canadian money earlier in the day as I set up my bank account. I figured since it's a bank that I'd have nothing to worry about; apparently not.

I mentioned the conundrum to a colleague expecting to be greeted with shock and awe.

"Wow, your luck isn't very good this week," she said, referencing earlier in the week when I accidentally swallowed my fake tooth when taking a sip.

According to her, this thing happened last year to another colleague. The bank issued fake money and when she returned to the bank later, they refused to fix it. Makes sense, how could you prove that the bank gave it to you? They would probably look at you like you're trying to pull of some backward scam.

I had another 100 in my pocket and about 25 more in small bills that I intended for the cab later. I gave the 100 to another friend who proceeded to get me a second Guinness. She returned with the beer and my 100. Two counterfeits. I shook my head, graciously accepted her charity beer and stewed in my brewing anger. At this point I should have collected my losses, tucked my tail and return home to lick my wounds and vow to do better next time. Instead, I finished my drink and joined the crowd on its way to Kokomo, a rooftop dance bar down the street from the First Floor.

We danced, and crammed into the crowd near the DJ at the front of the dance floor. I got elbowed in the side, shoved a bit and was generally pressed between five bodies at once. In a different state of mind, and maybe without my heavy leather jacket, I would have been able to have fun. As it was I was mellow and the music and scene was anything but. My friends were all jovial and laughing and dancing, exactly how you should be at such a place of decadent excess, flashing lights and deafening bass. As Cee-Lo Green's catchy "Fuck You" faded, and the sing along ended, I lunged at the hole in the crowd to my right. Standing at the edge of the bar in the only place where I wasn't shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of other people I watched the sweating mass become a singular entity wishing I could merge back into it but my mind was set on dwelling on those rat bastards who gave me fake money. To the streets.

This was the course of some excitement, as I hadn't been left to my own devices to get home yet; I'd always been with others. I tried to take what looked like a shortcut through a shopping area that closes around midnight. A security guard stopped me. While I couldn't understand the words, I knew he wasn't letting me pass through that area. I considered for a moment the excitement that would follow if I were to run into the area and thought better of it. No need to be reckless.

A cab stopped for me and didn't unlock his doors. The cabbie rolled down the window and raised three fingers. After a few seconds of trying to communicate it was clear he wanted 30 RMB for the cab ride. This is absurd by Beijing standards. Even in heavy traffic, it usually costs less than 20 to get to Sanlitun (the district we were in) from our residence. I told him I would only give him 25 (still overpriced, but it was all I could muster). He acquiesced, unlocked the doors and let me in. He didn't set the meter. He ripped me off. But I got home and it wasn't that late, somewhere around 2 AM. Others started coming through the halls around 4 or 5 or maybe 6.

Now to find someone who can tell the counterfeit bills from the real ones and to find a way to fix it.

Grey skies and blue water

From my trip to the art district two weeks ago.

The sky was a haze of grey this morning. For the first time in a week or more the sky lacked any hue of the pure blue we had grown, perhaps foolishly, accustomed to. It felt clean and today felt musty.

Beijing is a city of excessive crowds. It's surprising, though, that I have yet to feel helpless (came close once or twice when trying to communicate with a late night cabbie, but we managed to see eye to eye). It's easy when you're surrounded with people who know the ropes and are willing to show them to you. After a time, though, there must be a point where it becomes a hassle. Possibly not, but I know that I don't want to constantly be in need of piggy backing in order to get where I want to go. In a city this large, where I can be anonymous, I will savour the occasional hour or two of solitude I can muster outside the confines of campus life.

For that's what it is; a campus. It's first year all over again in many respects, only I have an entire apartment to myself; a step up. The communal life is a great social experience. Being in such close confines we are forced to get to know one another quickly. I could slam and lock my door and be a hermit but that would be alienating and no fun.

Solitary time is rare, and that makes it all the more necessary to nab when you can. Saving sleep for the only time you are alone with your thoughts is a dangerous enterprise, you may lose yourself and find a day where up and down are interchangeable. Some may function well in that chaotic landscape of constant stimulation, not I.

I went swimming. We have a pool in our school. I have been planning to abuse its presence since I arrived nearly three weeks ago but have been lazy and/or otherwise preoccupied. In other words: I have not made time for it and instead have sat on my ass on the couch watching Supernatural and telling myself I would swim eventually.

The poolside and the pool itself were empty. I looked around for a lifeguard. I found him in the side office talking on his cell phone and lying down on a cot. He waved me to the pool assuring me it was fine. He got up, walked around the sidelines a bit as I started my laps. I am not a professional swimmer; I barely qualify as amateur it turns out. I was gassed after ten minutes. Four laps in, with several pauses to catch my breath, I looked up expecting to see the clock had gone half an hour. I had, indeed, been in the water ten minutes. Despite being the only one there, I knew I'd feel severe shame and embarrassment if I quit that soon. I pushed, got a second wind, and improved my times by the end.

I don't think the chlorine was especially good for my skinned foot. During the protest, when our school was closed, some teachers had a pick up game of soccer baseball. Something about that game brings out the competitive bull in me. I tried, and succeeded, in stretching a single into a double. I dove head first and the top of my foot skidded on the turf. Returning to the field after the inning I looked down to inspect a sharp pain and the skin on the top of my foot was gone in two places. It's healing thanks to the generous gift of polysporin and band aids from my colleagues.

It was much worse.

Shanghai in a week.

Helicopters make good alarm clocks

I woke up this morning to helicopters and shouting outside my window. The shouting, which grew all day long, was from a group of people in the streets of Beijing protesting the Japanese embassy due to the dispute over ownership of a group of uninhabited islands.

The street is closed to traffic and close to a thousand, if not more, protesters are marching down the street chanting loudly, in unison and in Mandarin.

As the early rumblings took shape this morning, I had to go to the police station to complete my application for a residency permit. Despite the large crowd, and the helicopters circling the sky, it didn't seem serious. When we returned, less than an hour later, the streets were mostly barricaded and our driver had to be creative; he drove through parking lots, alleys and side streets to get us back to campus.

All week, there have been crowds of people near the embassy. It's been growing slowly and today the marching began. We've heard stories of Japanese cars being turned over in random areas, though that has not been confirmed.

We received an email recommending that we stay on campus unless it is an absolute emergency. I went for lunch.

On our way to the restaurant in Solana -- a place seemingly untouched by the demonstrations, though a ghost town today -- we stopped at the bank next door. Standing on the steps outside the bank I watched as the clusters of people marched the street in both directions and in separate lanes. They continued to chant.

A Chinese man who spoke English approached us, seeing us as foreigners, inquired about our thoughts.

"What do you think of the protest?" he asked.

"Well," I started, knowing I needed to choose my words carefully. "As long as no one gets hurt."

"I think it's illegal," he said to me.

I asked him what the marching clusters were chanting.

"They're saying 'fuck Japan' and 'kill the Japanese,'" he said.

I turned around and saw someone walk into the protest crowd with a homemade sign with a rudimentary drawing of the Japanese flag and the words 'fuck Japan' written on it.

This is all happening on my doorstep. We live down the street from the Japanese embassy. The air is heavier today, it has substance and it's not the pollution. It's anger.

Returning from lunch, police in full riot gear had joined the march alongside the people in civilian clothes and the boys on roller blades carrying Chinese flags.

I've been told not to take pictures. Some stories are starting to filter into the media at Reuters and Yahoo so it is getting attention.

It is expected to grow each day. People are saying Tuesday is supposed to be critical mass as thousands of people are predicted to be flooding the streets on the anniversary of the first day of the Mukden Incident that led to Japanese occupation of parts of China.

The story is being written in the streets.

Buses in China and a whole district of art

The sun was shining a little too bright as I rolled out of bed Saturday morning. My first week of teaching in Beijing over, it was time to venture out a little further than the confines of my neighbourhood. I thought it might take some time to fully come around, but I promised Kyle I would meet him at noon.

Kyle and I graduated from journalism school together. He enrolled in education that next fall and, upon completing his degree, came to China in 2010. Knowing Kyle is in Beijing is a comforting notion; he's a familiar, friendly face in a sea of the unknown. I have met some wonderful new friends and colleagues, so this trepidation is quickly evaporating but getting in touch with Kyle was wonderful...especially since he knew where to take us.

We hopped on the bus, first time since arriving, and followed Kyle's lead. The stops are announced over the loudspeaker both in Mandarin and English. It is very English-friendly in my neck of the woods and in most of the areas I've gone to so far. Most menus at restaurants have both languages and usually pictures to accompany the food. It's easiest, at times, just to point at a picture of what you want to order.

The art district in Beijing contains more art galleries than you can count on your hands, and most of them are free. Many are designated by the art's country of origin: Mongolia, Hong Kong, etc. The galleries provide a nice respite from the incredible volume of noise that follows you outside. Beijing, in places, is a loud city. You can't walk more than 20 seconds without hearing a car horn. Once you enter these galleries, the volume level drops and you are left with time for quiet contemplation and beautiful paintings and sculptures from all over.

There was one exception. Gil, one of my fellow teachers who joined us, saw a poster for a gallery for 3D art. I had no understanding of what this would entail, but we went. This place was loud, but it was a happy and boisterous noise; relaxed and fun while the noise outside was usually accompanied with a certain level of stress. The 3D gallery, which was temporary as we arrived on its second-last day, was completely interactive. The paintings appeared to be jumping out of the wall providing visitors the opportunity to enter the art and become a part of the process. It was also the only gallery that allowed photographs, in fact it was encouraged.

Twas beauty killed the beast.

We wandered the streets of the art district for almost four hours checking out shops and more galleries (including one dedicated to North Korean propaganda posters). We had lunch at a cafe that served espresso, smoothies, sandwiches and familiar breakfasts like French toast. Kyle and I chatted about journalism and where our fellow classmates are now and the desire to write that still burns in both of us.

I bought two notebooks at a shop. They will be used.

So I live on the other side of the world now

My view. The turf was just replaced this year apparently.

I landed last night in Beijing. It was raining, which, according to my principal, is rare. He said it hadn't rained since he arrived several weeks ago and during his time here last year it was a similar thing. But here we were, walking around Beijing looking for a place to eat after brief tours of our apartments and facilities -- no time to get changed or cleaned up but hey, I don't mind being a sweatbag werewolf if I'm seeing a new place.

The living room. All those drawers remain empty.

Apparently, the rain kills traffic. The part of the city I'm in was dead quiet. It's not usually like this but the rarity of the rain and people's unwillingness to drive in it makes it seem like a sleepy town. After some wanderings and seeing most restaurants being closed for the night either from their regular hours ending or lack of business due to rain. We ended up in Nashville (on Lucky Street), a Western-styled pub with a five piece band (lead singer is from Malaysia, so I was told) that played strictly classic rock. They opened their set with a pretty sweet rendition of Another Brick in the Wall.

We toured around briefly, seeing the sights that will be much more vibrant in the dry days ahead. It's good to know I'm not going to be without access to precious coffee. There are plenty of cafes around to fill that void.

My apartment is pretty nice. It's got air conditioning, tons of closet and drawer space, and comfortable furniture; more than what I need.

The bedroom. It may take some time to get settled. I was up by 6:30.

As for the flight itself. I was stiff and sore and watched Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol before sleeping off and on. I had a meal advertised as pork and listened to comedy podcasts for the near 14-hour duration. No baggage lost and only slight nausea; I'll call this a win.

And away we go.

The road is a part of me. For years I've yearned to escape; to wander. I've managed, briefly, to barrel down the odd highway; initially foreign only to become a new home for a fleeting moment.

Three years ago this blog died. I moved on. As I embark on a new set of experiences I have decided to resurrect it as opposed to start from scratch. It's a way to reflect on past writings and to see how much I have changed and remained the same.

Tomorrow, I leave Canada for ten months. Tomorrow, I leave the continent for the first time.

I'm prepared to be unprepared for the experiences that follow. I will be overwhelmed as I attempt to build a life as an ex-pat teaching in China. I will panic. I will adapt. I will see things I never imagined I'd even glimpse.

It is a bittersweet moment leaving friends and family behind as I am sure much will be slightly askew when I return. Events will go on during my absence. Tears will be shed and laughter shared and I will be distanced from it. Likewise, my own travels and travails will be a fair distance away from these beloved friends of mine. Things will change and things will stay the same.

When I enrolled in journalism school I wanted to be a foreign correspondent for a newspaper or website or radio station. Teaching is a noble profession, but I am slightly saddened that I'm not traveling as a writer. This blog will hopefully sate that thirst.

So begins a new journey.