Grass

This is a view you don't see in Beijing. I see this every day.

A year ago I landed in Beijing, China. Before then I had stepped foot on the soil of two countries: Canada (my home and native land) and the United States. Since then I have stumbled through China, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Spain (a bit of a detour).

I chose not to renew my contract at the school despite being welcome to do so. I wanted to review my options and pursue other avenues. I arrived back in New Brunswick at the end of June with relief and joy. The pollution was not oppressive and I could see stars in the sky. It was great.

I went camping and bounced around from city to town for a couple weeks re-uniting with folks I hadn't seen in a long time. I hosted a great storytelling event at the Dooryard Arts Festival (the recording of this event will be available...hopefully soon). I have began writing and work on several projects from a novel to a screenplay to a new website(s) to a non-fiction memoir/how-to and more.

Quite productive.

Then I saw the status updates. Everyone I worked with last year were announcing their impending returns to the urban sprawl of Beijing. They were prepping their classrooms and getting ready for the year and the slew of new students. I wondered if I made a mistake.

This was unavoidable. We tend to build up the alternative options or the choices we didn't make in our minds and calculate the what-ifs. I found myself thinking that maybe the grass was greener on the other side.

Now, in a literal sense this is not true. The grass is definitely more lush in New Brunswick than in Beijing. They both have their pros and cons.

Ability to collaborate with my writing partner (Canada)
Travel opportunities (China)
Career opportunities...aka steady paycheck (China)
Air quality! (Canada)
Independence (China)
Food (China)
Family (Canada)
Car availability (Canada)
Live sports (Canada...well, I can watch the games live in the mornings in China but no beer)

I've been reading more, too.

There are more. I have friends in both places so no matter what I miss people. What I need to be sure to do is not speak or act in definite terms. I may have expressed a notion that I would never return to China or never teach again. This is not accurate, and if I had expressed that it was a mistake. Who knows what the future holds? All I know for certain is that I need to constantly be changing. I cannot settle for the same routine.

I have my projects on the go...I feel good...but there's still a nagging thought that I need to run out the door and back into the wild smoggy yonder. I imagine this may become magnified after the first snowfall and I'm out shoveling for two hours. I love mowing lawns...shoveling snow is the worst thing.

Also, this will likely be the last post on this blog other than to direct you to my new location in conjunction with a bit larger project.

Thanks for reading. Go outside. Put your phone away. Read something interesting.

Expectations

"Crushing one another with colossal expectations."

                      - Stuck Between Stations by The Hold Steady

Good God it doesn't take long for the rabble to rouse.

Not a month into the Major League Baseball season and the sky is falling for fans of the Toronto Blue Jays. It has been 20 long seasons since Canada's team has sniffed the postseason. 1992 and 1993 are years of legend. The Jays marched through the American League and won its only two championships. Since then, the team has been a disappointment. Every ounce of hope snuffed out to shrugs like it was supposed to be that way; like the Jays never belonged in the conversation to begin with; like it was a fluke.

For every Roy Halladay there was a Josh Towers. For every Carlos Delgado there was a Vernon Wells. There was never a complete roster. Attendance dropped and a fourth or third place finish became the norm, the expected finish.

When the Jays acquired Jose Bautista in 2008, it didn't turn any heads. He was a depth addition to spell the regulars when they got injured or needed a day off. He was a role player. He remained as such for most of 2009 before having a huge September mashing 10 of his 13 home runs on the campaign. He proceeded to lead the majors in dingers into 2011. How soon we forget.

With his glimpse of hope being injected into the Jays, people started getting interested again. He gave Toronto fans something to cheer for. An underdog story. Being the underdog, though, missing the playoffs was still a foregone conclusion but steps were being made. Good drafting and some savvy trades beefed up the farm system with guys like Brett Lawrie, Travis d'Arnaud, and Kyle Drabek. Some have panned out, others not so much and others have since been moved.

How soon a tune can change.

Injuries plagued Bautista and the Jays in 2012 but another under the radar acquisition, Edwin Encarnacion, thrived in his new leadership role. Then the team did something it hadn't done since those fabled days in the early 90s. General manager Alex Anthopolous made some huge moves to make the team relevant in the hunt for a postseason berth. They dealt youth like d'Arnaud, Jake Marisnick, Justin Nicolino and Noah Syndergaard for big league talent Josh Johnson, Jose Reyes, Mark Buehrle, and R.A. Dickey. Hope was restored.

Then the 2013 season began and as we hit the end of April, the Jays sit with an underwhelming 8-12 record. The world is over! Burn the whole organization to the ground. Bring me the head of Alex Anthopolous!

It's a long season, but apparently patience has given way to desperation and rage. For the first time in years, the Blue Jays were pegged to be front runners for the AL East and a rough start to the season has apparently destroyed everything. Fans are looking for scapegoats, excuses, anything to sick their teeth into and tear to shreds. It brings out the worst in people.

Some comments are relatively innocuous. A friend of mine, a hardcore Blue Jays fan, posted "different year, different players, same ole pathetic bluejays" to his Facebook. Others, like on TSN comment boards, have been more vitriolic and downright maddening. After a loss to the Yankees on Saturday, fans were calling out Bautista for his back spasms saying he is a bust and should man up and play through his injuries. They've called him a disgrace, a fraud. This is horrible. If you are suggesting someone to risk further injury to sate your desire as a fan, you are giving the whole notion of sports fandom a bad name. He does not owe you his health. If he takes the time he needs to recover and can offer a more balanced approach on the field, he will be more likely to produce the desired results. But no, play through it because the ignorant fan demands your blood, sweat and tears. Sweat, perhaps but let's not ask for him to destroy himself for our bloodlust.

"Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing," Vince Lombardi said.

The city, the country, wants a champion. This is fine, but learn to temper your expectations. Baseball seasons are long and nothing is lost after one month. The St. Louis Cardinals overcame a huge deficit in 2011 to sneak into the playoffs on the final day of the season. That team won the World Series. It shocked everyone, Cardinals fans included.

Fans want immediate results. Well, that doesn't always happen. There is a chance that this isn't the beginning of a dynasty as many soothsayers predicted. It may, however, evolve into a successful season the longer we press into it.

When the 2013 NHL season began, albeit after the delay of the strike, no one believed the Montreal Canadiens would be a playoff contender. The team's hot start and continued success brought its following out of its slumber as people started to believe. Fans on a message board I frequent were saying things like "I don't even care how this season ends, it's been a success."

That's what expectations can do. The Habs have stumbled down the stretch and any fan who has followed this team through the year can attest to the fact that it's been a remarkable ride. While an early bounce in the postseason will certainly be disappointed, it won't necessarily be a crippling blow.

With every loss the Blue Jays take, the fans are running to the hills to profess how much of a disgrace the team is. Get off your high horses and cheer your damn team through the bad times like you would during the good. That's what you sign up for as a fan, whether you like it or not. Have a chat with a Cubs fan about disappointment. That will put your pain into perspective.

Would you chastise your child's sport's team for its losses? Maybe you would, but then maybe you should take a hard look in the mirror. No, the players on the Jays are not personally known to the fans but the beauty and the beast of it all lies in the emotional connection we form with these players.

Will the Jays win the World Series? It's far too early to tell. It is clear that the team is not going to be the indestructible behemoth as it was advertised. There is time for everything to balance out. Reyes' injury hurts and only exacerbates the holes in the lineup that were glossed over in favour of focusing on hype. 

Wait it out and enjoy the game of baseball, even if things don't always turn out in your team's favour.

Disconnect

Pensive atop Parc Guell in Barcelona.

I’m trying to decide which cliché contains more truth: distance makes the heart grow fonder or out of sight, out of mind.

It’s probably both depending on the situation. Context is everything, after all. I moved to Beijing at the beginning of September 2012. It’s only been eight months away from, I guess, home. It has and hasn’t been a struggle.

Over these months, it has been interesting to watch and consider the relationships with people both in Canada and here in China. In Beijing, I’ve become friends with people who may never have crossed my path elsewhere. I’d like to think that some of these people are now lifelong friends as we have been permanently entwined in our journeys. Maybe they will be, or maybe it’s fleeting. I wonder how much of friendship is determined by personal proximity.

I am a ghost. I have been absent for many significant, and possibly minor events that have befallen my friends and family. Babies have been born. Relationships have formed and fallen. Careers have changed. I know about things tangentially and without much detail. This is no one’s fault, and I hold no bitterness. Some have reached out, and some haven’t. I have been better with some more than others. 

In class, we watched the documentary “Spellbound” about eight teenagers competing for the championship at the 1999 National Spelling Bee in Washington, DC. It’s a pretty effective, if slight, look into the lives of these youths. I did some basic digging to see what happened after the movie was released. One of the competitors died in 2007. One of them got pregnant and became a mother at age 18 only to be the beneficiary of a group of concerned citizens wanting to help her achieve her dream of going to university. She graduated university in 2008, apparently, and had the dream of pursuing her master’s and PhD in social work. No new information is available.

Another is a teacher, and even maintains a blog that shecontinues to update. They’re regular people facing regular trials that life throws at them. They likely have had people drift in and out of their experiences over time. This is one of the things I’ve been trying to communicate to my students, as they are the same age as the people in “Spellbound” were when the movie was filmed.

It’s easy to fall into the blame trap or to develop paranoia. There’s no point in wondering if you did something to upset someone, even though it’s a sensible emotional response when feeling separate from what only a few months ago was your reality. It’s also logical that as we age, we don’t remain friends with every person we’ve encountered along the way. This separation happens; it’s unavoidable.

I’m not bitter, though I will excuse anyone who interprets my mood as such. I’m nervous. I’ve been warned about reverse culture shock upon returning to Canadian soil. Will I slide back into the roles that had been established for me prior to my big move, or will things be fundamentally different? Have things really changed as much as they appear or is it all still pretty much the same?

This year has helped me strengthen my independence. Through traveling Spain alone and figuring out my new job on my own, I have grown.

I have also identified a nearly crippling fear of commitment that shouldn’t surprise me. I can’t stay still. Unfortunately, the tenuous nature of relationships when one moves around comes with the territory. Writing this reminded me of an interview with comedian Aziz Ansari as he commented on the oddities of romantic relationships. As the days press on, I am becoming more resigned to the notion that the fading glow is going to happen. I want to be there for people, but the fact is I’m not. I’m here.

Just know that I am neither writing this with tears welling in my eyes nor a scowl furrowing my brow. A wise man said it’s just a ride. The best thing we can do is find a balance between letting go and holding on.

The Band has been on a regular cycle recently. I feel nostalgic and the summer will sate some of my desires for the familiar.

“Oh to be home again

Down in old Virginny

With my very best friend

They call him Ragtime Willy

Woulda been nice to see folks

Listen once again to the stale jokes

The big rockin’ chair won’t go nowhere.

I can hear something calling on me

And you know where I want to be

Oh Willy don’t youhear that sound?”

The song Rockin' Chair is a plea for an old friend to come home. It's a beautiful song about undying friendship and the losses that accompany aging. It's been a cathartic song helping me adjust with, I don't want to say dying but, changing friendships. It gives me that needed boost to know that some of the best is yet to come even though the song is perhaps less optimistic in places.

It's ironic, too, since the Band toured nonstop for many years. The song Danko-Manuel, by the Drive-By Truckers laments the toll the road took on members Rick Danko and the angel-voiced Richard Manuel (who sang the aforementioned Rockin' Chair). 

There will be laughs and tunes and stories to share. Regardless of how distant I've become, for whatever reason, I look forward to the reconnect. 

Cheers.

Criticism

Roger Ebert, as everyone has heard by now, passed away last week. I'm a bit late to the party championing what he meant to world of cinema and writing, but that's okay. Ebert was an inspiration, even tenuously, to a ton of film nuts the world over and his passing is sad even to those who never met him. Like me.

It doesn't matter if you agree with a critic. If you take it as a personal affront when a writer dislikes something you cherish, you need to re-evaluate the situation. Watching film (and experiencing any type of art) is an intimate experience. The connection a movie can have will vary depending on the eyes and perspective angled at it. I may have been moved by Jason Reitman's Up in the Air when it came out in 2009 but that doesn't mean I'm owed the same reaction by anyone. Up in the Air worked as an example of the isolation felt in crowds. We have opportunities to make connections with others and sometimes we will have a negative impact on people, regardless of our intentions. We are all under a lot of pressure to make the right choices, to fill our suitcases with the right items so to speak. Some of us shut people out because it's easier in the short term but what are we left with when the dust settles?

Those are some of the ideas that came to me when I saw Up in the Air. Not everyone shared my love of that movie, and that's fine. If you saw that movie and did not connect to the themes of isolation or crushing disappointment when you actually do throw yourself out there only to be rejected, all I can do is explain to you what I did see. Maybe you'll give it another look. Maybe through that second look you will develop a different understanding and see something in the movie you didn't see before. Maybe you'll shake your head and ask yourself why you listened to that jackass.

Criticism is about communication, not about cutting artists down to size. Some critics may see themselves as the king of the mountain whose words of 'yay' or 'nay' can determine the value of something. I can't speak to that because a critic's words do not carry any importance in isolation. The conversation is not over when those words are printed.

This is what Ebert represented so well. While I never experienced it first hand, I've been reading stories and listening to podcasts about him and his connection to his fans and readers and dissenters. He did take the time to reply to people. He did consider what others thought. He did not apologize for his opinion. He was willing to share the experience with others without being dismissive. He may have savaged a movie here and there when he felt passionately about it (North) but he did so in a way that was equal parts entertaining and well-written.

My students are in the midst of a unit on film history. I am trying to inspire the idea that movies are about more than entertainment. This is a difficult task as many adults see them only as meaningless time-wasters. My goal is to have them think more critically about the things they see in movies. If they can analyze a theme or identify the purpose of a movie they otherwise label as boring or bad, they may develop a greater appreciation for film.

Movies were notoriously used to waste time when I was a student. We would watch a movie in class to kill time or reward us for good behaviour. Sometimes it was to accompany a novel or play we read, which at least provided a contextual connection. There were times in my grade 11 history class when my teacher asked me to provide copies of Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan to the class for our unit on World War 2. I am asking more.

Films have the opportunity to give audiences perspective on the world around us. Blue Valentine provides a glimpse into the rise and fall of a romantic relationship and the failed attempts at sealing the cracks. That is a fairly standard type of movie, but Derek Cianfrance executed it with a harsh realism that shakes the audience. It's uncomfortable and it should be. Blue Valentine, while very separate from my own romantic endeavours, forced me to reflect on the failings of past relationships. In some cases I likely washed my hands of responsibility of the disintegrations I was involved in. That movie was a splash of ice cold water in my face. Unpleasant but necessary.

I don't begrudge people who watch movies only for entertainment. They're missing out on the depth that is available to them. Sure, The Dark Knight Rises is exciting and features explosions, chaos and ass-kicking superhero action. But it is also a commentary on the effectiveness of fear as a method of control and manipulation. Looking at an otherwise easily dismissed movie in that way provides me with a greater enjoyment. It expands the conversation.

When Fargo came out on video (not DVD, we watched it on the VCR!) I hated it. I found the characters shrill and annoying. I, frankly, was bored. Nothing happened! Why is there this scene where this woman meets up with her old friend from high school where he becomes a blubbering mess? What's with the accent? Revisiting it a couple years later on CBC, I was hooked. It was all about desperation and what people do when there seems to be no way out. It's the same for Jerry Lundegaard as it is for Marge Gunderson's high school friend. Only Jerry is desperate for money while the friend is desperate for companionship. It has been a long while since I last watched Fargo, so I am not as specific about it as I could be.

The next time you come out of a movie, don't just go home or go to bed. Don't just move on. Let it percolate. Let it bubble. Think about it. Why was the movie made? What were the filmmakers trying to say? Granted, if your escapism is fueled by trips to Transformers movies you may find this exercise tiresome and unnecessary. But if you find yourself frustrated by a movie like The Master or Tree of Life, wrestle with it. It is perfectly okay if you hate it with all the fiery passion you can muster, but think of what didn't work for you. If something is confusing, talk with someone else who watched it and figure it out together. That's part of the fun. Whether you realize it or not, watching movies is a skill that needs to be developed to get the maximum experience possible.

It's not always easy, some of the work is left up to the audience and I challenge anyone who doesn't normally think that way about their entertainment to look deeper.

PS. Ebert's final review, of Terrence Malick's To the Wonder, features a line at the end that I find very poignant. I wish I wrote it.

"Reach beneath the surface, and find the soul in need."

Movies inspired him to write that. That is the power therein.

Words

I came to the other side of the world with the intention of documenting my every move as I navigated the concrete jungle of Beijing and beyond. What followed was a blog post twice monthly until recently when it has almost entirely evaporated.

I told a friend with whom I work that I hate forcing it. While I may be having a great time, and building stories to share, I don't have the drive and I don't see the interest in my daily routine. For the most part, my weeks are fairly commonplace. From Monday to Friday I tend to wake up a little after 7am and get ready for work. Some mornings I have cereal, other times I don't. Some mornings I shower, others I did so the night before; this is usually so I can negotiate a few extra minutes of sleep.

Work goes from 7:50am until 4:00pm (occasionally extended due to meetings). I teach classes to four grade 8 groups and one from grade 6. We talk, we learn, and it's both good and bad; it's like any job in that way. I come home, get supper and may go to the gym...the order is sometimes switched around. Some days I watch a movie or an episode of a television show and other times I go out and see a part of the city, though that doesn't happen as often as maybe it should.

My eyes are drooping.

The truth of the matter is that other than the obvious differences like the language barrier and mega-pollution, life in Beijing is not much different than life at home. It's an adventure and I've had better opportunities for travel -- both to Spain and Vietnam -- but the everyday existence is enjoyable, mundane, sometimes boring, sometimes insane; just like life in Canada. One welcome difference, though, is the weather is getting warmer much sooner.

The problem is that I feel like my writing chops are dulling. It's like any skill, and it requires repetition and practice. It's not quite writer's block. It's more like writer's apathy.

I think I'm trapped looking toward the future. A few weeks ago during a sleepless night (30 consecutive waking hours!) I wrote a monologue about fear. This summer, in Woodstock, New Brunswick, I will be hosting a storytelling event at the fifth annual Dooryard Arts Festival.

This is largely inspired by my love of people's stories and the words chosen to share them. Programs like The Moth, This American Life and WTF With Marc Maron have helped give me a template. The Moth, especially, has given me an example to follow. I have come up with a list of themes for people to share their stories; lost, discovery, and fear.

The monologue I wrote a couple weeks back will be my contribution to the fear theme, and so I don't exactly want to share it here. I'd rather save it for that day. My hope is people will feel comfortable, or at least willing, to open their lives up to the public -- friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers. Sharing your own personal experiences with others can be cathartic. I realize that every day or every week is not going to be possible for me on a blog because I'm more interested in turning it into a conversation; true sharing. I want my stories to be complemented by those of others in a community of storytellers. The truth is we all have stories worth telling and sometimes we just need a little nudge.

I'm hoping it will be a success, perhaps one I will be able to take around to other establishments and events. Is it a pipe dream? Maybe, but anything worth doing usually is predicated by being unsure of whether or not it will fly.


*If you are interested in participating in my storytelling event, or you would like more information, please give me an email at ratedargh@gmail.com. Thank you.

Morals

"Won't somebody please think of the children?" Helen Lovejoy shouted this anytime a moral cause was taken up in early episodes of The Simpsons. It was meant as a satirical jab at those who may be perceived to take the world too seriously. It also worked as a message to those parents and others who complained about the content of the show damaging society's moral fabric.

Living in Beijing, one might assume I don't have time to keep up with television or pop culture. Well, I am a creature of habit and obsession so to shut myself off from my stories would be unacceptable. I try to achieve a balance. Considering the recent rises in pollution, staying inside and watching movies doesn't seem like such a horrible idea.

(Aside: the pollution leaks through the windows. There is nowhere to hide!) (Second aside: Terminator 3 is on HBO at the moment. I forgot how unforgivably bad it is.)

I'm a binge watcher. The beauty and danger of DVD and Netflix is we have access to full seasons of television at our fingertips preventing the expansion of our social lives. I missed the boat, initially, on Breaking Bad but caught up through the first two seasons in maybe a week. Since then I've been hooked. I used to watch The Sopranos by season. I plowed through The Wire and Lost several episodes per sitting. It's the viewing equivalent of novelistic storytelling.

"The Edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."
                                                           - Hunter S. Thompson

About a month ago I started watching Sons of Anarchy. I'm not far in, and I like it well enough, but I started thinking about the potential moral rebuking coming from viewers who believe it to be polluting the future generation. Through (very) brief searching I found two sites that provided slightly differing methods of telling parents that Sons of Anarchy is not appropriate for children.

One is quick and to the point. It goes into detail about the summary of the show and then explains in a paragraph the events that may be questionable for people under the age of 18. It does this without standing on a pedestal of outrage that such a show exists but simply acknowledges that children probably shouldn't watch a show about violent, promiscuous bikers who sell guns.

Common Sense Media paints a different picture. In the interest of fairness, the site does not gloss over the details and actually does more than the radical Simpsons haters of decades past. The problem is the site doesn't use common sense in its analysis. It's obvious that this show is not intended for children but I think they are making an error in suggesting the show "glamorizes the lifestyle of some very unlikable outlaw bikers." If you watch SOA and get a hankering to join a bike gang, there are a few more things wrong with your psychology than enjoying a television show.

If a show is inherently violent does that mean it is glamorizing it? The setting of Sons of Anarchy and the subject matter dictate that this will not be a pleasant undertaking for those involved. It is a motorcycle gang and the show does a decent job of displaying the moral conundrums and diversity the characters are involved with. There is a depth of character at work here that isn't explored at all in Common Sense Media's explanation of the show. Jax, the focal point, is not an all-the-way bad person. The show does not work in black-and-white generalities -- at least not when it comes to SAMCRO.

(So far, by season two, the rivals SAMCRO face are generic plot devices designed to provide conflict. It'd be nice if characters like Darby had a little more depth so the conflict provided a little more overall resonance and was more challenging for the viewer.)

I take issue with the assertion that the show does not feature positive role models. Or, rather, I take issue with the idea that this is important when judging a television show.

First of all, it's more complicated than simply defining positive and negative on these characters. Jax himself is struggling with the notion of becoming a father and leaving a legacy for his son. The early parts of the series focus on Jax's relationship with his deceased father through a found journal. While Common Sense Media may be right about some characters being thinly drawn, Jax is going through a fascinating series of trials and revelations. His perception of his father and the gang is evolving because of these journals. Because of his father, Jax is part of Sons of Anarchy. Does he want his son to go through the same thing? Jax isn't exactly the moral compass of the show because it doesn't deign to have one. Instead, he's a direct criticism of the lifestyle and the backwards thinking it can instill on its members. He doesn't want to kill, though he does. And make no mistake, Jax loves being part of SAMCRO because it is a family. Like with The Sopranos, and many stories about gangs, one of the overarching themes is the importance of trust and family. This is tested fairly early and regularly.

Secondly, when can we all just agree that television is not an appropriate substitute for parenting and babysitting? I think Common Sense Media has an altruistic motive and they definitely open their message up for discussion, which I congratulate. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the site doesn't seem to be on a soapbox of family values, as they do mention the high quality of The Sopranos in comparison to SOA.

Context is important. Some stories are unpleasant but that doesn't mean they aren't worth telling. Sons of Anarchy is not a perfect show as many characters are paper-thin space-fillers. When I was young, if I ended up watching something that featured violence, sexuality, strong language, etc. my parents explained the nature of it to me. They were sure to put it in the proper context so I didn't get the wrong ideas. Kids are impressionable, sure, and it is up to parents to put what they watch into proper context.

I'll continue to watch Sons, and while it will occasionally rub me the wrong way I know enough not to look to the television shows I watch as a guide on how to live my own life.

I do want a motorcycle, though. This is not a new development.

For another look into motorcycle gangs, check out Hell's Angels by Hunter S. Thompson.

Conscious

 I don't like repeating myself. As such, I am not too keen in re-transcribing my thoughts and descriptions of my two weeks in Vietnam and Cambodia. It was a terrific time with some wonderful people (both friends and strangers). I captured my pontifications in my personal notebook, though, and that is where they will stay. Ask me and I'll share it with you, but I'm not going to run down my vacation.

Besides, nothing negative happened so it's immediately less riveting than a total train wreck would have been. Flying back into Beijing the flight attendant came over the loudspeaker in the plane.

"The ground temperature in Beijing is -11 degrees Celsius," she said.

I groaned. It's silly to complain, since I spent the previous two weeks in paradise, but it was a fairly severe shock to the system. I grumbled.

Memories will settle in and nestle their way into my subconscious. This is why we travel. It's an opportunity to see the world and build on our perceptions and experiences. Every meaningful moment, positive and negative, is a puzzle piece forming our personal identities. Mine is unique...just like everyone else.






Worse...the pollution is more oppressive than ever. The air quality index was, apparently, off the scales on Saturday. It probably set me back to day one of not smoking. Drat.

For everything new, there is something familiar. Upon returning to the frigid concrete jungle, the safest and most comfortable option is staying inside to catch up on movies and television. Hooray! From Lincoln to Django to Zero Dark Thirty, the movies of 2012 have impressed. Netflix has given me access to Sons of Anarchy, which I have put off for some time. Turn the heat on, lay back on my tiny couch and I avoid the cold. Not a bad call.

But still I am restless at times. I don't like to blog without purpose...but I also don't like leaving this space untended for too long. It's good practice to compose these posts, however aimless. I'm not Kerouac, though and stream of consciousness doesn't flow easily for me. Perhaps the more I force myself to do it, the easier it will get...like most things.

Less than a month until Spain. My mind is already there.

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.

STORIES:
Devil's Brigade Commando
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Fred Eaglesmith
The Adventures of Josh Gabriel
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.