Dedication and Dehydration (Polkahontas Gets a Chinese Hangover)

Dedication and focus run my life in China. I have never been more set on success. It has become apparent how quickly a year actually goes by, and I want to look back on this year with a sense of accomplishment and pride. Practices are hot, river runs are early, and studying for the GRE reminds me how difficult it is to set aside time for schoolwork. But then there are days off, when I am free to do anything my heart desires. A few weeks ago my heart desired to go on an exploratory jog on the other side of the river. I had not yet crossed over to see the other bank where the grass looked a little greener and the air seemed a little less polluted. I ran across the bridge and down a stairwell to find a park with bustling basketball courts, ping-pong tables, a jungle gym, and the most run-down tennis courts I’ve ever seen (and that’s saying something coming from Farmington, New Mexico). Two men were playing on one of the courts, which were cracked with weeds growing out of the crevices, had lines faded from the sun, and no nets. The men had fashioned a net out of string tied to the fence with fishing net draped over it. They were playing with beat up racquets that had to be 10-15 years old. I stopped running to blatantly stare. They uncomfortably took glances at me in-between points. The social acceptability part of my brain screamed at me to keep running.

Stop being a creep, Darrah!

But I couldn’t. I stared because I was soaking in a hard dose of inspiration. These men may not have been great tennis players, but they enjoyed the game enough to make a court out of trash. I was suddenly even more thankful for our oven-like tennis courts on the roof of the wet market. My thoughts drifted to Tennis Fantasy Week back at the ranch in Texas, sitting at the dinner table with some of the greatest tennis players to ever live, and listening to Roy Emerson tell the story of his first tennis court in the bush of Australia which was made out of the clay of a flattened termite mound, sticks, and chicken wire as the net. This raises the question- how bad do you want to play? How much do you want to succeed? Couple this with Ross Case’s story about raising money to buy a plane ticket to go on tour. He reported that he was given a per diem to ride the train when he worked as a courier. Instead of riding the train, he ran his route and saved the money for a ticket. How bad do you want to succeed? Do you want it more than comfort? Do you want it more than luxury? I was even taken back to my own story of coming to the game as a young girl, volleying against the dented garage door all evening until it was too dark to see. My body kept running up the river even though my head traveled to Texas, Australia, and New Mexico circa 1999. I was brought back to reality by a heavy rain that drenched me as I ran. There was one cloud in the sky and it was raining on me. The sun shone through the rain, forming a full rainbow, spanning across the river. The end of the rainbow seemed to be south of the river, just over the place where I work- the place with nets on the tennis courts.

Contrary to everything I just wrote about motivation and dedication, I have had some fun in Zhong Shan, too. As much as I enjoy my life here, I have been quite lonely. I am a very social person and I’ve struggled with living alone on ‘English Island’. Loneliness is not conducive to motivation, so I set out to find some friends. Actually, I set out to read and drink a glass of wine with the hope of finding friends. After my run I went home and took a shower. I put on makeup, which is becoming a rarity in my Chinese life, wore clothes other than tennis attire for the first time since arriving in China, and left the apartment. I ventured to Deyas Café, a small restaurant about a block away from my apartment. I practiced ordering a glass of red wine as I walked. When I arrived, the restaurant was empty and nobody was behind the register. As I turned to leave, a man came down the stairs. I used my well-practiced line to ask him if they served red wine. I had to say it a few times before he understood what I was saying. He gave me a firm ‘bushi’-‘no’ and called a woman down from the loft. As I started to make my exit, the woman followed me out and pointed south. I used broken Chinese to ask her how far and where to turn. I have no idea what she told me, but I started walking south without a clue of where I was going. I stopped at a park to watch kids roller blade, then meandered up the block to the next restaurant I saw. There was a young hostess blowing up balloons for two little girls eagerly waiting. I asked her if there was an English menu available. She and a few more employees scrambled for a few minutes and even brought out their best English speaker, a bus boy who informed me that there were no English menus. I thanked him and left. I decided to try once more before giving up. I walked up the block 20 meters, took a deep breath, and entered the next café. As I tried to ask if they had an English menu, everyone in the small restaurant whipped their heads around to witness the communication failure. I got an uncomfortable feeling, like the ‘being on stage in your underwear’ dream. I thought the stress of trying to find a glass of red wine had made something snap, because I heard an unfamiliar voice in my head- a male voice speaking English. Wait. No. That’s an actual voice.

‘What is it that you want?’ I swiveled around to see a Chinese man at the closest table looking at me from behind his trendy glasses.

‘Just a glass of red wine.’ I stuttered. He laughed and passed the request on to the group of employees that had accumulated. They informed him that they would sell me a whole bottle of wine, but not just a glass. I scoffed, thanked them, but said I didn’t need a whole bottle. They immediately lost interest in me and dispersed. I talked to ‘Glasses Man’ for a few minutes. He told me that there was a new Italian deli next door. I kept up the conversation too long because I was in such shock that I ran into someone who speaks English. This was my first conversation with anyone outside of the tennis bubble. I thanked the man and walked next door. Joe Molese is a pizza deli run by an Italian man. I walked in and was greeted by a man in the kitchen who spoke enough English to show me the red wine selection, which was chilled in a wine cooler. Strange, but I decided that this day was not the day to be a wine snob. I sat and sipped my chilled wine, reading and feeling accomplished. An old Italian man walked in and took the place by storm. He went into the open kitchen and started cooking. My gaze went to him after each paragraph I read, wondering about him. He finally emerged from the kitchen with the pizza he had made. As he walked by me, he greeted me and did a double take. Then he started talking to me in Italian.

‘Ummmmm…what?’ I asked. He started talking to me in Chinese.

‘Ummmmmm…what?’ He gave up and called a waitress, Zuzu, over to my table. For the next twenty minutes, Zuzu translated a mixture of Italian, English and Chinese- a trifecta of languages. The man, Graziano, invited himself to my table, bringing with him his pizza, another glass of wine for me, and two cups of espresso with some kind of awful liquor. Graziano lit a cigarette and smoked as we talked and drank espresso. When he was about to leave, he kissed my hand and bowed.

‘Malto bella!’ he proclaimed. THAT I understood. He paid for my wine and left as quickly as he came. Zuzu and I talked for a while and made plans to reconnect. I left Joe Molese and walked home, buzzing from espresso, chilled red wine, and human connection. A block from my apartment I stopped to buy fruit from the fruit lady.  I made a stab at conversation. I found that I am much better at speaking Chinese after two glasses of wine.  

My night at Joe Molese was exactly what I needed. But a week later I needed another fix. I decided to venture out to a shopping center across town. The parents of a child I teach told me about a great Italian restaurant near the mall. The woman wrote down the name in Chinese so I could show it to the taxi driver. I hailed a cab and showed him the paper. Fifteen silent minutes later I arrived at the mall. It was HUGE. I am not much of a shopper (not like the people here; they consider shopping a sport. No joke) but this mall is a sight to see. It is the Las Vegas of Zhong Shan. It has gigantic LED lights and signs everywhere. The mall was a hive of shoppers, some craning their necks so hard to get a look at me that I thought they might snap. I wandered around with eyes the size of the moon, stopping in stores and boutiques to browse. I bought a dress on sale before deciding it was time to find some dinner. I navigated the streets, stopping people to point to my paper and ask which way the restaurant was. I finally stumbled upon Mamma Mia on a side street. It is a very humble little restaurant with maybe ten tables, the largest of which was full with a group of six people in the center of the room. I was seated and waited patiently for Gulio, the owner, to come take my order. I listened to the flood of languages swirling into my ears. I heard Italian, Chinese, English, and Spanish. I pulled out my Harvard Business Review magazine that I came armed with. Dining out alone is a science that I have mastered. When Gulio finally got to me, I ordered a salad and antipasti. I ate the delicious meal while reading about the human brain and trying not to creep on the boisterous table of 6. I caught eyes with a guy at the big table and gave him a ‘hello’ nod before diving deeper into my brain research.

Stop being a creep, Darrah.

As I was paying, two of the men were coming in from a smoke. The man I had nodded to stopped at the counter on his way in. He was dressed to celebrate in business pants and a white button up shirt.

‘Would you like to join us at our table?’ he asked in accented English. He motioned to his group of friends. I played coy for a second, pretending that’s not the exact outcome I wanted.

‘Excuse me? Join you…..? YES. YES I WOULD.’

I followed Jose from Spain over to his table and sat down to meet Jyrki from Finland, Irene from Singapore, and Simon from Italy. There was a couple with a baby, too. They were getting ready to leave as I sat. The group was out celebrating Jose’s return for a visit. He lived for 10 years in China before moving away for his business. Jyrki poured me a fishbowl of wine as I told them my story and interrogated them about the entertainment in Zhong Shan (there is none). We finished our drinks at Mamma Mia and then decided to migrate to a swanky bar a few blocks away. Simon acted as our translator as we ordered. I tried to think of something simple to order and decided to go for a gin and tonic. This set into motion a long negotiation between Simon, Jyrki and the waitress. The manager, an assertive Chinese woman who didn’t seem to believe in ‘the customer is always right’ American business motto, joined in on the debate. After much talk, she left, returning almost immediately with ice, lemon slices, tonic water and a full bottle of gin.

‘MOQ!’  Jyrki exclaimed!

‘MOQ!’ everybody cheered. Jose explained to me that in a factory (they all work in Zhong Shan because their businesses have factories here) there is an MOQ, or minimum order quantity, to certain items. You cannot buy just one item, so you buy a lot. And let me tell you, that was a LOT of gin. We all talked and laughed as Jyrki concocted a pitcher of the best gin and tonic I’ve ever had. We sipped our drinks and told travel stories about the crazy shit that has happened to us abroad. We gossiped about different countries as if we were at the mean girls table in high school.

‘No, Dallas is the worst. Austin is the place to be.’

Y’es, Moscow is the best. Did I tell you about the time I saw a man stabbed in the subway in Moscow?’

‘Zhong Shan is awful, but if I am away too long I miss it.’

‘You must go to the Philippines; it is so cheap to have fun there!’

 When I started feeling the alcohol a bit more than I wanted to with a group of new friends, I thanked them for the drinks and wonderful company, then jumped in a taxi and found my way home. I wish I could say I had a deep, introspective taxi ride- that I took a second to thank the heavens for human connection and my new friends. But in reality I sent a few drunk texts to America and passed out with my shoes on. I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache and no regrets. I had never been so happy to be hung over. 

Gangster is a Universal Language

Tomorrow marks one month since I left home to go on this voyage. It has been a very quick month filled with new experiences, wonderful people, great food, and adventure. But it hasn’t been all butterflies and rainbows. Life in China has presented me with new challenges, struggles, and frustrations. Some of these I was prepared for; others not so much. My two biggest frustrations are communication and my backhand. The latter is the result of a grip change that I’ve been trying to become comfortable with. I am making some progress, but only one in every five backhands is well struck. I feel like a scrub, a beginner who shouldn’t be on court with professional tennis players. I resist my reaction to put down my racquet and crouch by the net post; ready to retrieve tennis balls for the worthy tennis players on the court. I keep trying, sailing one ball ten feet out, and burying the next into the net. I’ll get it.

Communication is my biggest struggle because I value it above everything. I view it as my gateway to human connection. To have verbal communication taken away from me feels crippling and wrong. I feel that I have lost my voice. This motivates me to learn like my life depends on it, because in a way, my quality of life for the next nine months does depend on it. Every day after lunch Oldman and I sit at the

table in the clubhouse as I read out of my Lonely Planet book on Mandarin. The book covers a broad array of subjects including dining out, cooking, directions, shopping, business transactions, etc… The words are written in Chinese symbols, then in Pinyin, a phonetic breakdown of the symbols, then in English. We spent weeks going through the food dictionary as I read out loud the names of different foods and wrote down in my journal the ones I like or don't like. Oldman closes his eyes and listens, gently correcting my mispronunciations. When we finished going through the food dictionary, we moved on to restaurant terminology. We are currently studying giving and understanding directions. I am slowly picking up social conversation, too. Though, people still stare at me like I have a second head when I try to put it into practice.

Every couple weeks Dani and Howard leave to a tournament in Thailand. It’s always a little more difficult when they are gone because nobody else speaks English here. Feelings of loneliness wash over me, and when I stop to ponder the reason, I realize that I haven’t spoken to anyone who understands me in a day and a half. When this happens I try to catch someone on Skype, just to make sure I still have the ability to speak English. But there is an upside to this. I have taken up interest in what I think of as absolute emotion- emotion that is felt by all humans, regardless of time and location. When thinking of communication, the natural thought is words…understanding through speaking and listening. But I am realizing there are many ways to listen without interpreting words. Of course there is tone and body language. However, this intimidates me more than helps. To an American ear, the Chinese language sounds very harsh. There are so many blunt and forceful tones to the Chinese language that I sometimes think people are in a heated argument when they are actually discussing a lesson that went well. This is the part of pronunciation that I struggle with, as I don’t yet have the fiery disposition to deliver the words with harsh fluidity as Oldman does. These absolute emotions aren’t always easy to spot, but they’re everywhere, creating a universal language all around me.

Yesterday I gave a lesson to a very cute little boy who doesn’t speak a lick of English. He’s six, tiny, and concentrates on each stroke like he is taking the SAT. I put him in the position to hit forehands and fed him ball after ball, standing a few feet away from him and tossing the balls, encouraging him after each shot. It was a struggle to get this kid to slow down and not swing for the fences at each and every ball. Halfway through the set, he decided to let loose and swing as hard as he could. He wound up and flung his racquet forward as fast as he could. The ball hit the top of his racquet frame and went spinning straight up in the air as the boy’s centripetal force spun him in a 360. He regained his balance in time for the ball to come straight down, hit him on the top of the head, and bounce away. The little boy looked at me, stunned, as if to say ‘Why did you do that to me?’ I stared back. Then, simultaneously, we both burst into laughter. Some things are just universally funny.

The guards that man the gate into my apartment complex exemplified this universal language. Usually there are three or four men who gaze after me in silence when I pass through. I haven’t been wearing make-up here because we sweat so much on court in heavy humidity that my face would always look like an abstract painting if I did. But on my day off last week I put on some eye makeup before I left my apartment to explore the city. The men at the gate were beside themselves. They

greeted me, talked to me in Chinese, and even kissed my hand. Beauty is a universal language. Since that day, the guards will playfully heckle me when I pass. On Tuesday morning I was coming back from my morning river run when one of the guards motioned me over. I thought maybe there was a problem and that I’d need to call Howard to translate. The guard pointed to my headphones and held out his hand. He wanted to hear my music. I handed over an ear bud and he put it to his ear just in time to hear Roscoe Dash chant ‘Rain rain go away, That’s what all my haters say’. His whole body bobbed up and down as he listened. I bobbed my head and did my best gangster hand motion while I sang ‘Roscoe Dash!’ He repeated. ‘Dusoo Dag!’ Gangster is also a universal language.

When I was in second grade a space expert came to our classroom. He finished his talk on space and afterward we were free to raise our hands and ask questions. My classmates asked him various questions about what stars are made of, and where babies come from, and whatever other bullshit things 8-year-olds wonder about. The 8-year old brave, stubborn little half Navajo girl that I was raised her hand and asked, ‘How is it that space goes on forever and ever and ever and never ends?’ I don’t remember what the man said, but I do remember that it wasn’t a clear answer that I was happy with. The sky has always enthralled me. It is huge and expansive and beyond my comprehension. There is a moment in the game of tennis when all is calm and the world dissolves. It happens while the athlete serves, right after the ball

leaves the hand, right before the racquet strings strike it. In this moment, there is nothing but ball and sky, the same sky I wondered about as a girl. The athlete doesn’t need to be anything, do anything, say anything, or think anything. In that moment, he or she just is. I have always relished in this moment for that reason. But I am also realizing that this feeling is not specific to tennis. All day, every day we have opportunities to get lost in a moment. We can surrender to the experience and feel the love, the joy, the anger, the hilarity, the beauty, the loneliness, the sorrow, the calm, or the compassion. We don’t need to buy books or twist our tongues to learn this language. We simply need to be present, to be right here right now and listen, not with our ears but with our hearts, to the conversations happening around us. I can’t think of better way to put this than the rapper Brother Ali does in his song “Good Lord”. He asks,

‘Can you tell me what language do you laugh in? A human reaction of smiles and cries- what language are the tears when they’re falling from your eyes?’

There are always going to be frustrations in life. When it happens, when everything seems wrong and dark, when we feel as if we are standing alone, it is nice to know that these opportunities to connect exist. I don’t yet speak Chinese, but I do speak this language of absolute emotion, the language of humanity, and through it I have had some great conversations. 

Dueling with a Cone, Drooling Condoned

Have you ever worked out so hard that you slobbered on yourself? I’ve been reminded what it takes to compete; it takes a lot of hard work. Like hitting on the ball machine, concentrating so hard and putting forth so much effort that apparently holding spit in my mouth is no longer my top priority. But I’ve been reminded how much I love to train to compete, too. In the mornings I run by the river that is a half a mile from my apartment. It’s the most natural place near me, so I get a bit of a nature fix. I have never lived in a city before and my soul has been missing those Rocky Mountain trails. One day it rained in the middle of my run so I sought shelter under an overhang that shields rows of cement bleachers from the elements. There were a dozen people with the same idea, including a man kicking a hacky sack. The middle-aged Chinese man wore very loud British flag patterned shorts and no shirt, revealing his potbelly, tanned by the summer sun. He was wearing beat up converse and had a towel hung around his neck. I asked if I could try, motioning to the hacky sack, which wasn’t really a hacky sack at all, but four stacked small rubber discs held together with wire intertwined with rooster feathers, looking similar to a badminton birdie. He handed it over and I sent up a quick apology to the PETA gods for using part of an animal for sport. I tried to mimic the man’s graceful foot motions, but I’m sure I looked more like a three-legged giraffe trying to break dance. I counted my strokes in Chinese as the man watched and chuckled.

‘yi, er, san….shit.

yi, shit. I’ve got it now. Going for five. I mean, wo. Going for wo’

yi, er, shit.’

Thankfully I didn’t get more than three because I hadn’t learned how to count that high yet. People seeking refuge from the rain stood around to watch and giggle at the shirtless man and goofy American girl. Since that day, when I see Hacky Sack Man I stop to practice. I have improved greatly since the first day. I can count to ten now, too.

Later in the morning we have tennis practice. By the end of my 7 A.M. run it is already uncomfortably hot outside, so practice is even hotter. We rub on the sunscreen, add electrolyte powder to our water bottles, and head outside to warm up….more like heat up. For the next two and a half hours Howard puts us though whatever practice plan he has cooked up for the morning.

On one particularly hot morning Flash, Dani, and I were doing a serve practice before lunch. Our goal was to hit down each of the 16 cones in the service boxes. Five serves in, I knocked down three cones with one serve. Yeah, you heard me. It was a screamer. Still, it looked like a left-handed throw next to Dani’s rockets. We all took turns popping cones for the next 30 minutes. I let out a cheer at every cone pop as if we’d just won an Olympic event. My competitiveness was on fire that day. Finally, there was only one cone standing in the far right corner of the deuce box. We were all tired, hungry, hot, and drenched in sweat. The delicious fumes of the lunch Oldman was preparing wafted from the outdoor kitchen to our court,tempting us to give up and leave the last cone standing. But we kept on. Fifteen minutes passed. We took turns coming close to knocking down the last cone. Flash hit a bomb  

inches to the left. Dani smoked one inches to the right. There wasn’t a square foot of court without a ball on it, turning the once green and red court into an electric yellow sea of balls. On our side of the net the ball supply was dwindling. I only had three left. I had a flashback to the time at the tennis ranch in Texas when one of the directors put me up against another pro, Luis, to win a serving game for our team of guests. Luis had popped two cones right off the bat (or racquet) and I was supposed to answer back with a miracle. That time, I failed miserably. But this was going to be a different story, I decided. I looked at the last cone. It stared back, mocking me. I rocked forward, bounced the ball three times, picked a wedgie, rocked back and brushed up on the bottom of the ball with my strings, resulting in a beautiful, fast spinning kick serve heading straight for that orange bastard. A popping sound resonated the rooftop as the fuzzy neon ball made contact with the orange plastic. My champion heart soared as I lifted my head to see the cone rocking back and forth like a Weeble Wobbler. It seemed to dance around for minutes; hours even, as I watched helplessly from the baseline. But just like a Weeble, it wobbled but it didn’t fall down. The cone finished rocking and settled exactly back where it started, upright in the corner of the box. Now, this part of the story you may believe and you may not. But I swear on my hamster’s grave (RIP Dimmie. You were taken from us too soon) that it’s true. That cone looked into my soul with its orange, beady eyes and sent me a very simple but clear message.

 ‘Fuck. You. Darrah.’

Defeated, I coached my tired arm to finish the last ten minutes of the serve practice until Flash finally assassinated the bastard with a fast one up the middle. He had it coming. He had it coming.

Not every practice is full of such vengeance and rich plot. But each one does leave me walking off the court with an exercise high and a profound sense of accomplishment. Or maybe it’s just heatstroke. Either way, I dig it because I am so grateful for the game of tennis. It has taken me to incredible places where I have met some amazing people. These experiences have further motivated me to pass on the skill and passion that has been flowing through me since I was a young girl hitting forehands in the driveway against the garage door. Because of this appreciation, my competitive nature, and my aptitude for pushing my comfort zone, I am motivated to train hard to see where else this game can take me. This love and deep-rooted passion is necessary for all of us training here; otherwise, the blistered feet, calloused hands, early mornings, and grueling workouts aren’t worth it. But for love? For passion? I can’t think of a more worthy cause. Can you?

Puppy Fried Rice

And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for: a blog about Chinese food. I came to China hungry. I was starving for excitement, deep relationships, cultural knowledge, and good food. I was nervous about the diet situation before I came, as I didn’t know what ‘rabbit food’ (as my brother would call it) I would be able to find here. Anyone who has spent a little bit of time with me can tell you that my eating habits are somewhat difficult. I chose to stop eating red meat when I was in middle school. I gave up chicken and fish soon after (as soon as mom finished her anxiety attack about a ‘lack of protein’). My reasoning for choosing vegetarianism is threefold and very simple:

1)  My body loves it. It is so much healthier…..when done correctly.

2)   The environment loves it. Meat farming is responsible for outrageous sins against our environment.

3)  The animals love it. Animals have the capacity to feel pain and fear just like we do. Plus, they’re beautiful.

Ok, I’ll get off of my soapbox. If you want to read more, here’s a link> RIP Bambimamma
Around April, I was feeling that my diet wasn’t bothersome and inconvenient enough to those around me, so I decided to go paleo (a.k.a. the caveman diet). Except without meat. Soooooo….I went kaleo. At first this was a big problem here in China because Oldman didn’t understand ‘no meat’. He heard this and interpreted it to mean ‘a little less meat’. But he soon adjusted. He buys

produce each day to cook myriad meaty and vegetarian dishes. A typical lunch at the courts includes sticky rice, stir-fried tofu and vegetables, (okra, carrots, peppers, onions, eggplant, squash, potatoes, mushrooms, Chinese cabbage etc…) a dish called fanqie chao jidan (tomatoes and eggs), cucumbers with cilantro, oil, and rice vinegar, and bitter melon. Bitter melon is crunchy and tart. It is believed to have cleansing properties, and has lots of vitamins. It tastes awful, but I tell myself it’s good for me so I eat a lot of it. I’m actually starting to like it….kind of. Many of Oldman’s dishes are stir fried, but sometimes he will make a fresh salad with Chinese cabbage, pea shoots, and mushrooms with a soy sauce

dressing. It’s SO GOOD.
Although the meals are great, the best part about China is the fruit. Underneath the courts is the wet market with a ton of produce. Just outside, local farmers set up stands on the street displaying their fresh fruits, picked that morning. There is a spread of the normal fruits one would expect (apples, oranges, grapes, pears, peaches, watermelon). But there are also new and exciting fruits with new flavors and textures ranging from sweet to sour to bitter, coupled with creamy, jelly, crunchy, and fibrous textures. My new favorite fruit is lychee. Old reliable is an apple (if only I could find some almond butter….*sigh*). Each morning and afternoon (and sometimes evening) I stop by a fruit stand for something sweet. The older woman who works my favorite stand is my new best friend. We have a game. I try to say the name for each fruit in Chinese as I browse and she laughs at me. It’s not a very fun game. My most recent new fruit experience was the dragon fruit. This is a beautiful pink and green bud-shape about the size of two fists, with curled ribbon ends. It is cut in half to reveal a pit-less orb of creamy white flesh specked with tiny black seeds. Grab a spoon and enjoy the soft, creamy mildly sweet flesh. Yummmm.  

Last week Howard, Flash, and I went to a restaurant for dinner. Howard ordered many dishes, all vegetarian. We started with mushrooms called ‘little ears’. These ‘shrooms have a floppy, plastic-like texture that squeaks against your teeth when you bite down on- it’s a similar feeling to biting down on an un-inflated balloon. They taste earthy and salty and are quite delicious dipped in soy sauce and wasabi.  We also had watercress salad with rice vinegar and oil, steamed dumplings filled with egg and tomato, seaweed and dried tofu salad, cornbread, and, of course, cucumbers with cilantro. It was delicious. I ate until I couldn’t eat another bite.

Yesterday Dani, Danimamma and I stopped at an outdoor market for dinner. We were handed baskets to fill and got to work choosing from different noodles, vegetables and proteins. At this stand the customer fills a basket with ingredients that the ladies in the open kitchen will cook. I opted for Chinese cabbage, cilantro, broccoli, quail eggs, mushrooms, and pea shoots. My eyes were bigger than my stomach, as my basket soon runneth over. Ten minutes later the return investment was a brothy, warm (SPICY!) bowl of fresh deliciousness.

My favorite and least favorite items are from street vendors next to each other downstairs from the courts. One vendor sells hard boiled eggs that are cracked and boiled in tea so that the flavorful liquid seeps into the egg white, giving it a scrumptious zest. The worst is cooling tea. If you kept up with Tour de Polka, you know how much I love tea. When I arrived in China I was SO excited to drink a great cup of tea. The first day I walked from my apartment to the courts I saw a lady downstairs who sells cups of tea….like a Chinese Starbucks. The first chance I got, I marched downstairs and bought a cup of tea. I could smell the spices wafting from her teakettles. Due to our language barrier, I just pointed to a random kettle and handed her my Yuan. With my first cup of real Chinese tea in my hand, I savored the moment I’d been waiting for as I put the cup to my lips and waited for the heavenly elixir to reach my taste buds. When it finally did, it was all I could do not to spit it all over the sidewalk. Whatever was in that cup was the most rancid, disgusting, bitterly pungent liquid ever invented. I immediately poured the remainder of the hellish slop into the nearest plant, half expecting the shrub to shrivel up and die before my eyes. Howard later told me that I’d had cooling tea- a medicinal tea used to treat colds and respiratory issues. He went on, ‘Yeah, that’s nasty stuff. Don’t drink that’.

‘Good to know. Thanks’

I live in one of the more progressive parts of China. There are still people in parts of China who eat pretty much anything they can catch including birds, dogs, cats, rabbits, turtles, etc.. This practice was necessary when the people of China were so poor, and now it has transitioned into more of a cultural practice. Here in Zhong Shan, dogs are pets (thankfully) but there are still some stomach-churning items in supermarkets. Every part of the animal is eaten

(yesterday Oldman prepared pig’s feet). Pickled chicken feet are a snack item. It’s a cultural thing……a very gross cultural thing.

Yes, many foods have surprised me here: some pleasant, others not so much. The biggest disappointment (other than my first cup of tea) is the absence of fortune cookies. I have yet to see any sign of our Americanized ‘Chinese’ fortune cookie that accompanies every Chinese meal we’ve ever had, offering wisdom, humor or knowledge. The lack of fortune cookies is depressing- like finding out Santa didn’t come to the local mall to grant your wishes, but you actually spilled your secrets to and sat on the lap of a classmate’s sweaty uncle who’s unemployed 11 months out of the year, smokes Marlboros, and tells the elves (recent college grads with degrees in philosophy) dirty jokes on his work breaks. I do miss that bland, dry, crunchy little fortune snack. But then again, I’m fortunate enough.