Experience means endings

Be sure and act smug. Hold your hand steady, let your gaze slack a bit, but not too much; they will take advantage of your naivety. Feign boredom, it helps if you sigh from time to time and chatter among your American friends. Be careful that you’re not rude; despite how they act, they will all know English. Rotate the pins on your displayed hand. Be sure to play up their value, they are ones you want to trade, the others pinned to a hat on your lap will be more desirable. Use these to get pins from past Olympics, or those from the media. People will crowd around you, only a few will have pins. Some may expect you to give yours away; they’ll wait for you to notice them. Don’t. Only respond to them if they have a pin you are willing to give anything for, but never let them know that. Others will point and smile toothlessly, ask them to trade. They will shake their hand in rejection, egg them on; show them the 2008 Mizzou pin. Don’t let their eyes stray, you have hundreds of these pins and this cute old Chinese man has nothing of significant interest in his fanny pack. Point out the 2008, he will like the number eight. Tell him it’s a lucky pin, accept any pin he offers, it’s probably his only one; don’t take buttons, they’re worthless. Tell them “xiexie,” he will walk away smiling, examining the pin from another world you have just bestowed upon him. Now, resume your smug look, it worked before.

Pin trading is as important to the Olympics as politics. The atmosphere is mostly jovial. The Chinese are arrogant when it comes to bargaining and I’m Jewish, we might as well be cousins in that regard. I rarely had to pelt out a punch over a pin, but I did tell a few insulting lurkers to “go away.” It wasn’t necessarily over the traditions of swapping, more on cultural variations of rudeness. In one instance a woman looked mockingly at our Mizzou pins as my comrade attempted to swap her. “This is not a real pin. It has nothing to do with China. It is not a pretty pin.” My annoyance over China’s vanity had already reached a critical point. I broke many of my own rules, looking away from my pins (they really will get stolen if you don’t watch them), managing my burning voice as best I could; I said, “The Olympics is about all countries, not just China.” She was taken aback by my abrasiveness. She responded merely by backtracking her comment and I turned back to my pins. I wasn’t sorry for it. Most of my opinions have, and will continue to be, kept absent from this blog. I felt justified, my reasons for why I broke cultural rules and boundaries were evident to me and to those around me, who have been here for some time. Ask me about it on Sept. 18th.

The Closing Ceremonies were that same night and after we wrapped up our last official pin trading session, four other delinquents and me gallivanted around on the Olympic Green semi-illegally. We had a couple of hours until show time, so our adventures and hunger brought us to Mickey D’s. Chinese lines are a great way to break social boundaries and bring you to question what you’re touching and what is touching you. But Chinese food lines are a fabulous place to make friends—or enemies. On this particular night I aimed to keep the woman behind me from using my back as a ramp in which to launch herself at the counter, while I attempted to lure the perverted gaze of the Chinese man to my right elsewhere. The frightened bewilderment of the man to my left distracted me from my line’s work. He shook his head at the chaos and I smiled at him. We chatted for a bit, he was an older man who was born in Spain and slightly upset by the U.S.A’s win over Espania in basketball earlier that day. But he had a ticket to the ceremonies and glowed with excitement. Despite the lack of personal space and unnecessary jostling, he truly seemed to enjoy every aspect of the Chinese culture. I got my food and with it a ticket out of the jumble, I bid him good luck and walked on. As the five of us sat at a table for two, we teetered our dinners on the table’s edge and laughed at how comfortable we had become with these situations. I looked up to see the monster crowd throwing up my new friend now jovially carrying his food. Beside us were two open seats and he and his partner joined us. The seven of us joked mostly about our run-ins with Chinese food. Their experience with the mysterious Chinese cuisine was eons better than ours, which always causes me to raise an eyebrow in confusion (but I suppose they never had to eat the free “food” at an Olympic venue). Nevertheless, we left the two to finish their fries and continued on our way to see how close we could get to the ceremonies.





It turns out tickets are necessary if you came to see the show, that is; we had no interest in viewing the ceremony inside the Bird’s Nest. The jangling bells, matching stretch suits and excited looks of the performers as they waved at us on their way inside was a far better view. Our interest waned, however, as all the excitement did compact itself into the Bird’s Nest. That is until we received a call from one of our little cohorts. She had ventured off in search of a bathroom and found herself barricaded watching athletes gaily parade into the stadium. Would we like to come? “Seriously?” was my only response. We coursed through the stragglers pacing themselves up to the stadium, which was patiently waiting for it’s last night in the spotlight. We found our little friend chatting up the guard (who was not supposed to be talking, by the way). We had front, um, barricade seats to greet the athletes. Chinese culture is relatively quiet, so let’s just say that our excitement screamed “American,” but it was worth it to see it bleed into the athletes. They were genuinely happy to see us wave at them by name. They threw pins and gifts into the crowd, and we watched each country as they made their way onto the world stage. I looked for Viktor Ruben, the Archery Gold medalist and my crush, but he wasn’t there.

I’m genuinely not sure if it is a surprise to know that the biggest, most exciting part of the Olympics, for me at least, is not the athletes. I rarely go to movies because of who is starring in them; I go for the high of being lost in something imaginary and surreal. The Olympics, to me, were like a movie; each player delicately placed and engineered to depict a persona or portray a feeling. Knowing about the Olympics, watching the games became a common thread for everybody in the city. It was the one thing we knew about each other and the one thing we could share. Like an omniscient narrator, all the readers knew what everybody was thinking, but the ending was still a surprise.
That night, after the ceremony had started and everybody was inside we walked back to the other side of the stadium. We settled on a rock just behind the Olympic flame. I kept my eyes above the stadium, watching the flame dance and swell with the performance. Every minute that ticked by the flame became more passionate. It grew, knowing it was soon to be over, and I became anxious. I wanted to record it, to watch it disappear. The five of us began to ignore the big screen cluing us in on the inside events. Nothing else seemed as important as the burning flame. We knew the end was getting closer, as the flame hedged further up in the sky, as it grew more passionate, as if fighting the end as much as we wanted to too. The five of us edged closer to the stadium, now barefoot from horsing around only moments before. We grew more silent. With the extinguished flame came a bigger finality to one adventure. For the others it meant an end to their time in China, to the trip of a lifetime that turned so unexpectedly taxing. For me, it was more than the end of this journey—I’m still here, you see—perhaps it’s childish and maybe even dramatic, but with the end of the Olympics came a signed journalism degree. The end of college, for me, the start of life and adulthood, I merely wanted to stay inside the movie, lost in the rare surreality of life.

Love to you all!

~Molly

Experience means taking everything in

I love it when life imitates art. This week my life has read very much like “Where the Wild Things are.” A tantalizing kid’s book about a boy who is transported to an island inhabited by giant, hairy, kind monsters. If I remember right, the boy on the island was pleased to monkey around with his vertically blessed buddies; however, he never had to interview them!

Perhaps my life-long dislike for basketball is really some Freudian suppression of a desire for height. Every day this week I have traipsed out to a basketball venue only to have sweat drip on me from the towering people above. My voice reaches each player (yes, the women too) like a child-like gust of air and I often have to ask him or her to speak down to me instead of speaking up. I spoke with Marc Gasol of Spain the other day, a former NBA player and current giant. When I first saw him I was deeply distracted by his shaggy hair and beard, they only enhanced his likeness to a giant tree. He was sitting on the court being stretched by his trainer as some of his teammates exchanged remarks in Spanish and others continued their winding-down practice with a few nonchalant baskets.

As I stood waiting for interviews, I was either percieved as a water girl, doping police or a blue-eyed Chinese volunteer (yes, it has happened), rarely am I seen as a journalist, and that is another tale of frustration. Anyway, seeing as he was busy for the moment I turned my attention to his teammate Jose Calderon (a current NBA player, I’m told). “Jose” I whispered behind his head as he laced his large shoes. He looked up as if water had dripped from somewhere not as if I had just delicately whispered his name. I walked around so that he could see me. His head was even with mine as he sat and I stood. But he was quite accommodating and spoke with me, although a little more diplomatically than I would have liked, I still got my quotes. My time on the island of giants wasn’t over just yet, I quickly went back to Marc, waiting as Spanish journalists interviewed him and frustrated me. His seven-foot tall self stood two feet taller me and I had to instruct him to look down when I called his name.

In all my basketball glory, I have to admit that I miss archery. I miss its simplicity and passion. I had formed a bond with a lot of the athletes and they began to recognize me. Including Gold medalist, Viktor Ruban. No, I was not working the night he won. I had worked an earlier shift, but found out later that my lovely blue-eyed Ukrainian had beat out the Koreans. I was ecstatic. I interviewed Ruban the first day of competition with an incompetent translator. Despite the fact that his (probably) enthralling words were misconstrued, I knew he was being frank and probably weaving some marvelous quote for me to submit. Sadly, things were lost in translation that day, but I interviewed him several times afterward. He was always the only Ukrainian willing to speak, and the only archer whose eyes sparkled when he smiled. In case you haven’t noticed, I developed a small crush on Viktor Ruban and he quickly became my favorite male archer (although I did like Brady Ellison from the U.S., I interviewed him as well, but his eyes didn’t sparkle).

So things at the Olympics are going well still. I feel the energy slowly winding down with the week. As athletes and students prepare to go home to the respective countries, I will wait with China for a little longer. Most of my group will leave next week, and return to the mundane streets of Columbia. Perhaps meal time will be a little more boring when you’re not tasked with guessing what you’re eating, and maybe some of us will miss that. For now though I’m happy to relax in China and allow the slow panic of job searching to remain at bay for another month.

I was talking to my parents on Skype this morning. Which reminds to digress for a just a minute, Skype is a lovely little invention and if anyone is terribly missing my face ;-) then let me know and we can chat for a bit through this fabulously free gadget. Anywho, so I was talking to my parents relaying something that happened to my roommate and me a while ago. They suggested I regale y’all with it too, so cue the flashback music:

It was one of our first weeks here back when mealtime resembled packs of hunters and gatherers scavenging for food. On one of our many food-investigating trips, Laura and I stumbled on a campus canteen that we had been to on our very first night in China. Problem 1: the entire menu was in Chinese. Problem 2: we don’t speak Chinese. Problem 3: unlike on the first night, we didn’t have any Chinese helpers to order for us. Okay, Laura expresses to me that she would like Kung Pao Chicken. Unfortunately, while I understand English moderately well, I don’t make Kung Pao Chicken and thus can’t help her or myself. Having already gotten lost going to Tian’anmen with our poor pronunciation saying “kung pao chicken” yielded mixed looks of frustration, amusement and apathy.

“I got this,” my creative roommate says, then proceeds to fold her hands under her arms and flap her elbows. “Cluck, Cluck, chicken,” she says looking hopeful at the now shared looks of amusement from the staff. No sign of understanding though. Okay. Laura ups her performance and bobs her head along with flapping “Cluck, chicken? NO?” My speech has been impaired by laughter, and when I’m finally able to wrench my eyes back open and blink through the tears, she is gallivanting down the aisles of tables looking for somebody who is eating Kung Pao Chicken. “You!” I hear her yell, “I got this, Molly, I got it,” she mutters more to herself than to me. My face now resembles the Chinese look of amusement and confusion as Laura steals a menu from the counter. “What are you eating,” I hear her enunciate from 20 feet away, the man points to the menu, and Laura's smile returns. “Xiexie, xiexie,” she says before skipping back to the counter. “I want this” she announces pointing to where the gentleman had pointed a second ago. “Oh Kung Pao Chicken,” the cashier says as if it was the easiest order she had ever received before she proceeds to put in the order.

Finally, I wanted to add a brief report about my visit to the Bird’s Nest last week. Being on the Olympic green is like being in the World’s embassy. It’s neutral and there are no country real lines. Yes, people show their support and love for Russia, Australia, Ukraine, China, Uzbekistan, Tinidad and Tobego, on and on, but as you walk down the lighted sidewalk and gaze at the uniquely beautiful architecture, you see people flashing their country flags and shouting innocent “hellos” or “nihos” to everyone. Languages dissolve with the fading sun, and attentions turn to the sporting event. The only rules you need to understand about track is to run, you don’t really need to know any language to understand that. I saw Usain Bolt break the world record. I celebrated with the entire stadium as he energetically dashed around to Bob Marley’s tunes wordlessly bouncing along with him. We didn’t care that he wasn’t from the U.S., he did something amazing, and we were amazed!

P.S. I'm sorry the photos don't really match the text, but I had so many to share! Enjoy!

Experience means comfort

UPDATE!:

Courtesy of BOCOG, we have scored tickets to a track and field event on Saturday. Please revel at my photos! :-) I get to go to the Bird's Nest! YIPPEE!




I have been in China a long time. I’m starting to feel as if I have lived my whole life here. Not because I fit in particularly well, it’s more because forced comfort has a way of becoming real. Maybe life should really only be measured in months not years and decades. I hardly feel the same now as I did before and for that my life is now changed. The luxuries of a common language and heritage seem to be from a different life now. Walking across stage at graduation, seeing Dave in concert and sitting at a bar in Chicago have all faded as part of a mirage of somebody else’s life.

Despite the still unfamiliar food and undesirable smell, I have grown comfortable here. Enough so that my mind no longer wanders as much to the people at home watching the games so much as it does to those participating in them. In many ways going home seems like an end to everything, and that is more than scary. At least here, in my unknown and unpredictable environment, I have a purpose. I’m “Molly, Olympic flash-quote reporter,” and my skills are needed, even wanted. It’s ironic that I have a more solidified identity in China than I do back home, and that makes comfort for the time easier.

The Olympics began and the world spilled over into Beijing. The influx of Westerners has downgraded us from mini-celebrities to… commodities. Our private viewing of Beijing has ended as the world’s flags flank all sides of the streets and experience what we have known for months. When we see a fellow foreigner stalking his map, circling a street like a vulture, it’s as if we are sharing a private joke with ourselves; I feel as if I can relate more to the Chinese than the Westerners at times, and it was my alone time with them that allows such a response.

Of course, the Chinese and the Americans are not alike. We all know that. At times I feel as if we are timid animals, slowly observing each other, curious enough to stare, but never to interact. Like children parallel playing, we know we are alike in some ways, but much too different in others to ever forge true friendship. At work we segregate ourselves. It’s not out of malice or disgust, but more out of general boundaries. We are the children in a china (excuse the pun) shop, told to look but not touch. We are forever observing and absorbing but rarely interacting. It’s just how it is.

I’m sorry that my only report in days is a vague, dramatic description of my mental stability. I have spent the last four days in the clutch of Archery, and have three to go. It has become oddly therapeutic, and for once I feel like I’m (sometimes) doing it right. My round, freckled face has become familiar to many of the Archers and most of the time they are happy to oblige my pestering request for answers. I have seen several cry and other’s redden at the loss of medals. I participated in a medal press conference and chilled when the athletes held up their Gold, Silver and Bronze medals merely feet away.

I’m all too happy to be here, all too happy to see athletes and know that they are real people. To see them cry, laugh, breathe and ache as we do. And even when I’m running to them with my ONS bib and fanny pack draped across my back, praying that I catch their last sentence, facial expression, or best of all, their attention, I don’t envy them. I was more excited when a reporter from BBC tapped my colleague and me on the shoulder after we had secured an interview with Alison Williamson, a Bronze medalist in 2004, to secure a simultaneous interview. I was even more excited when the reporter’s questions turned up little from the athlete, and I pulled her aside for a second interview and better quotes. And my heart fluttered once again when my blatant stubbornness and attitude was the only reason I, and about 20 other reporters, received comments from a well-known archer (it’s a good story ask me about when I come home). For me this is stardom. While I miss the calm days when it was just the Chinese and us, I enjoy the atmosphere of the Olympics and the camaraderie that truly seems to infiltrate cultural barriers.

Experience sometimes means a "brief"

Extra! Extra!

Yes, I know better than to begin anything with a cliche, however, in the spirit of limited creativity and time I will make an exception. The thrilling sport of Archery begins today and my cohorts and I have mixed zone passes (I will explain later) to the Games! While y'all are all nestled warmly in your beds, I will be in the media war zone of the much anticipated sport of Archery.

Ok, so only Robin Hood is flipping news channels cursing at the lack of broadcast.

This entry is meant to be quick, so here we go; I'm certain that my curious little readers want to know how the Opening Ceremonies went and if I got my nosy journalism-self inside any of the action....

No, long long story, but it turns out that I can literally get closer to the Pentagon than the Bird's Nest and in fact had trouble getting close to the Subway. So, in all my Olympic journalism glory, turns out I'm not so cool after all. Hmmm...oh well. I get to interview athletes today!

UPDATE!

Here are some videos of my roommate's and my attempts to get to the Opening Ceremonies on 08/08/08 and some scenes from the insanity of it!







Enjoy your sleep, watch those archery results.

~Molly

Experience means being mum

The sweltering temperatures and excited streets tell me that it must already be August and time for the Olympics. Along with everything, I have assumed the ability to disappear and I blame August for that. I have replaced my frequent trips to blog with bus rides and a cow-like six flags uniform, which would turn Angelina Jolie frumpy and designates me as a stupid English speaker who gives away her time and skills for free.

Hopefully people don’t get too used to that, because when I finally reach the U.S. again I intend on spending buckets of money on food. Edible food. I might miss the eloquent green glow that Beijing rice and mystery meat so uniquely evoke upon me, but I would intensely love some of my mom’s cooking right about now. Hell I wouldn’t mind some of my sister’s cooking!

My regimented meal of crackers, bread and peanut butter has gone relatively unchanged (except for last week when I slipped and bought corn bread. No, no, think literally), but just about everything else in my leisurely tourist lifestyle has gone awry in exchange for Olympic zoo-ery.

Unfortunately, I have exchanged my nonchalant comments and writings for “mum” and I am limited in both time and what I’m actually allowed to say. Censorship is a dirty word, but NBC owns the Olympics and Al Gore owns the Internet, so I best keep my mouth, or fingers, quiet on many fronts.

What can I tell you? Hmm…well I have met athletes. I have met very cute athletes. I have met very ugly athletes. I have interviewed several athletes. Let’s be honest though, how many of you have your quiver full of arrows and bucket hats in anticipation for archery? That’s what I thought. So you’re probably not concerned with whom I have spoken, and maybe not anticipating their quotes as much as my own. Well bottom line, I have talked to some people, I have watched some people, I have eaten a lot of….rice. I have yet to be arrested, and that suits me just fine! Ask me when I’m once again cradled in the arms of the first amendment about my multitude of experiences that would have rendered that previous statement false, but please not now.

Perhaps it is by some off chance that I matter among the millions of volunteers and workers it takes to nurture the Olympics, but it is more likely just my mad English skills and beating heart that have lead to a transfer to basketball after my love affair with archery. But, remember the yin and yang? Light and dark? Good and bad? Good: I’m covering basketball with a very high possibility of meeting Kobe Bryant and Lebrone James. Bad: I’m only covering the practices. Now I know, I’m a 5’ tall Jewish white girl, why would I want to talk to basketball players, and how are they even going to see me? It is quite simple, the snickers and passive approvals of my archery assignment will soon be replaced with cries of jealousy. Kobe and Lebron are tall, but I’m loud and this white girl can jump.

My diploma is in the mail and barring any dogs or strong gusts of wind, should be designating me as another scumbag journalist in the coming weeks. However despite all of this, I must continue to appease professors and write papers. So I’m off to whip together another masterpiece of the written word, or at least string some coherent sentences together. In the meantime, guys, please don’t be worried if my presence on here wanes even more. With my speech barred and my schedule jammed there is little to say and little time to do it. Know that I haven’t forgotten y’all. Much love.

~Molly

Experience means rain and summer camp

I think it’s safe to say that first impressions have expired. We have been in Beijing a month now and for better or worse we have decided what it will always be for us— if I truly believed that this blog would have started out “I’m home.”— It’s very difficult to like Beijing. The noxious smells and white sky make most days gloomy. The other night I dreamt about bright blue sky, before thunder and reality awoke me. We had felt the tension of rain for weeks, seen the sky wrought with pollution and felt the sticky air offer the moisture that the environment was craving. I’ve always loved rain; the soft methodic thump can ease any tension and make sleep unavoidable. At home rain seems more innocent, not always necessary but still welcome. For Beijing its innocence is forgone by urgency. It’s not just that you can feel the pollution piling on your skin and clinging to your lungs, it’s that you can see the tops of buildings slowly blend in with the murky sky that was meant to be tinted blue.

Maybe I’m just making small talk with the weather, but my days now are rarely spruced with historical artifacts and funky foods. I have traded that all in for the glisten and glory of Olympic Archery. Happily donning our delectable uniforms four of us have swayed rhythmically on the bus that leads us to work every day. I often feel like a kid at summer camp, and maybe that’s exactly where I am. Nonetheless, I’m gaining impressionable knowledge about archery and showing off my journalism skills as well. It turns out I have them, who knew? While we have grown accustomed to the feel of being inside a venue, awe can still strike. Thoughts of the competition summon up fear and nerves and a slight respect for world’s ability to overcome what it can to compete.

I felt a little twinge of excitement and a connection yesterday as we watched the Men’s team practice, and today when we interviewed Jenny Nichols, the #1 female archer in the U.S. and #8 in the world. (In the archery world, that would be considered name-dropping, forgive me). Although we have been lumped with scores of Americans for weeks, seeing the athletes was relieving, a promise that home is still there and that we really get to share in an experience few others can counter.

I’m limited in what I’m allowed to write and to be honest a little tired. Sorry for the laxed blogging, I will try and keep up with myself. I do want to add, for those of you who may care, that I will give my regards to Lebron James when I move over to Basketball on the 16th! ;-) Take care all,

~Molly

Experience is humbling

While you can’t escape the political carnage that seems to be the side effect of every Olympics, swallowed in the masses of the country there is a hint of camaraderie and love of sport. Tibet, North Korea and Taiwan might be swear words around here but for so many it truly is about China’s spotlight year.

“I give a shit about these Olympics,” a young Chinese man told three of us as we sailed along on line five to the pearl market. “I’m going to put my ticket in picture and show my kids kids.” He wasn’t old, but he looked it. His father stood beside him and grinned at our American enthusiasm for the Beijing games. The two had spent three days and three nights sleeping on newspaper outside of the Bird’s nest to get tickets for the 100m swim. I think I would look old too. Their shirts offered proof of their ambitions; the white had browned to match the earth they had slept on but neither quit smiling. We stood and let them take our seats, “That is why you have the spirit for the Olympics,” the young man said. Despite enduring China’s heat and smog on beds of old newspaper the pair weren’t tired. They came from a different province and wanted to see Beijing museums, but they had been here before. The older man was a general in the army and that was enough to keep them off of newspapers while scrounging for Asian games tickets a few years ago. This time however, “the Olympics are fair. So we must sleep outside.”

The food sucks and I miss home every day, but the excitement is genuine and infectious. Our mere presence as Westerners incites conversations about the Olympics and elicits a glow around citizens who may have felt slightly neglected by their Western neighbors. There’s still a lot more to do, however, before the city is prepared for additional visitors. Beijing is already bulging at the sides with its current population, and I see my well-thought-out travel routines halting like the traffic once the games begin.

On another note, I had my first and so far last day of training on Tuesday. Although it was relatively uneventful, I experienced something most people never will. I got to stand on the turf for Field Hockey and sit in a vacant, echoing Archery stadium. They’re always different than you imagine. But none of us has ever experienced an Olympics without the aid of a glass screen and a cable box. It’s something that’s bigger than any one country; it’s as big as this world. It’s humbling (and corny) to know that soon the world will come to Beijing, and for two weeks seven continents will be smaller in something that is bigger than we can imagine.


Now, as promised, here are a couple of pictures of my uniform to tickle your fancy and brighten your day! Have a good laugh at my expense, I had one already.

Experiences means occasional clip blogs!

For all that is great in this country it must be balanced by all that is strange. For a change of pace, I thought I would visually share some of my experiences for y'all. Here is a video of a Peking Opera we attended one Sunday night. It is entirely in Chinese, and despite the English subtitles I'm still at a loss for the plot. However, the colorful costumes, atrocious singing and cultural wealth kept me interested. As usual, I try to pass on a bit of my acquired knowledge: The Peking Opera was entertainment put on for a particular empress at the summer palace. Once a month for six days she could expect to see a new show in similar format and be entertained for an entire summer. For us, one night was enough. Enjoy.



Shrimp complete with eyes, scorpion and shish-ka-bob hearts may be on my black list, but Peking duck is not! I'm a notoriously picky eater, with the exception of chicken and beef, I would typically prefer to name my meat than eat it, but in the spirit of trying new things and being in China, I found it necessary to try something a little "gamey." While I could regale you with the detailed preparation steps for Peking Duck, I will opt out and just tell you that there is a reason it is so expensive (no, I didn't pay for this meal). Anyway, the video portrays our chef cutting the duck into 90 equal pieces, which you then roll in tortilla-like pancakes and add onions and soy sauce.




I'm certainly glad that I didn't have aspirations of being an artist because the fluid talent of this man's calligraphy would have promised a career change. Unfortunately, I can't remember his name, but he was supposedly one of the best calligraphy artists around. We intruded on a lesson between him and his student, but both were eager to show us the true art of Chinese characters. In this video he is making something special for one of the girls in our group. I believe this translates to "bold" or "gutsy." I was, however, neither when it came to showing off my Chinese to several news cameras. I opted to document the process, however shaky it may be.

Enjoy all the videos guys. I have a few more, but I didn't think Chinese Hooters girls line dancing would be appropriate for the blog. However, if y'all want to see the video, I will be happy to share it. Until next time!

~Molly

Experience means fame!

Two weeks into our journey and I’m pretty sure if someone were to utter the words “cheeseburger” or “chicken strips” our heads would spin with intense excitement. The same goes for the discussion of flushable toilet paper, Pepto Bismol and hand sanitizer. I think a lot of us are ready to grovel apologetically for not having appreciated things like ice, sit-down toilets and non-upset stomachs while we were home. However, in the spirit of my genius parents I will utilize their advice: “Molly, it’s all part of the experience.” Great guys, but I can’t eat experience, and if you do here you run the risk of it eating you back…

Aside from bipolar stomachs constantly torn between sickness and hunger, we are all doing fairly well here. The Olympics are creeping ever closer and China seems bent on expressing itself as best it can. While stories of pollution reduction may seem absurd back home, I have to report that I have seen a drastic change in just two weeks. The air no longer posses the thickness of soup, and we are quite often greeted with blue sky (at 430 am, I might add). My official training begins Tuesday, that means spandex pants, bucket hats and fanny packs may be in the forecast. If I receive my uniform on Tuesday I will be sure to post pictures, I know y’all are aching to see it. Believe me, I’m aching to wear it.

The blocks that surround the famous Olympic Village have received intense makeovers promising scads of tourists and more importantly money. Whether it’s cultural or industrial, the unique buildings boast their own personalities. Side streets feed off of the curiosity of tourists eager to see the tales of Chinese cuisine. Past the modern architecture and flashing English signs, the outer streets host kiosks baring fried cicadas and cockroaches on sticks, and that’s just what we were able to identify. Past the aisles of mystery meat and “burritos” (I’m from Texas, those weren’t burritos!), are locals selling cheap goods that supposedly display Chinese culture. The benefits of the Olympics seem to run deep, as these unique gifts (such as Mao Bags and magnets) are only worth something to foreigners. Nike and London Fog buildings conceal these small shops and perhaps this speaks a little about the exaggeration of China’s wealth. As it is the locals and poor that stay up late in order to mimic the schedules of Westerners seeking an opporutnity to make a sale, I’m not sure that every one is climbing up that “wealth” ladder equally. In the spirit of transparency, I have to say that this is only based on my observations, but we met a young Chinese man (about my age) who is working for BOCOG to send money to his family back home. His advice for young travelers: go to the smaller provinces of China to really see the culture, because Beijing isn’t quite it.

Cultural change is slow, and as an American I’m not about to shirk the responsibility that my own country still holds to its people. I am, however, enjoying first-hand recognition of the contrasts between the U.S. and China and the tension it breeds. Observation is the key to experience, and with the help of several overly-caffeinated Chinese people, I now know why so many people hate journalists. It’s a misconception, of course, as journalism truly is an industry of curiosity. However, I was a bit worried when curiosity almost killed…well me! Ok, now I’m sensationalizing. Anyway, a series of events on Wednesday night led my friend Lyndsey and me to a well-populated park in the center of campus. Man-made ponds and older women exercising set the ambiance for the “English Corner,” which was meeting that night. As we stood conspicuously watching the women’s synchronized movements and listening to the slow, even flow of the music, a young Chinese man asks us to join him at the “English Corner.” Had we not already known what this was we wouldn’t have gone, but a few others from Mizzou had read to the group a couple of weeks ago and I was eager to meet them. We followed him as he tried to make conversation, “Our teacher much better than me,” he said. I could only make out a shy smile in the fading sun when I told him he was doing great. We were led only a few feet from where we were initially standing, but like a kid coming back to camp after having caught a fish, the young man smiled at probably 25 Chinese people all wanting to practice their English. Lyndsey and I were swarmed with questions, and I felt like the president at a press conference. For many of them, we were the first Americans they had ever spoken with or seen. And they weren’t shy about asking us difficult questions, “Do you like China,” “I bet America really doesn’t care about the Olympics, they are too far,” “Tell me about the weather here. The pollution isn’t bad, right?” “What do you think of your country’s economy?” “President Bush is from Texas, right?” Like mosquitoes swarming around a light, some questions came simultaneously others came before I could answer the last. At times I struggled to understand their questions, and they struggled to accept my answers. The group grew and waned as the hour passed. Sometimes the numbers inflated with the question, as others got bored of waiting their turn. Most had never left China, and saw little reason to do so. Many wanted me to move to China to study at Renmin or find a job here. One man even took down my blog address; I hope you found it ok, sir.

Surprisingly, we all had to go to a foreign country to lose our anonymity and we constantly discuss how we have grown accustomed to the stares or awkward and surprised looks when we blurt out “nihao” to anyone who finds our appearance particularly exotic. In fact the young man I mentioned earlier was kind enough to point out that he had seen us on TV, although we hadn’t bothered to watch the news cast ourselves.

Moral of this blog: Mom and dad, the next time you tell me I talk too much, put yourself in the shoes of these people who stood around for an hour just for the chance to ask me a question.

~Molly

Experience means sweating

I went on a walk this evening because it was unusually cool and the sky resembled, well, sky. For me, walks are as essential to writing as a pen or keyboard. But in this instance when my lack of organization, time and motivation has led me to a four-day lapse in blogging, I find a walk to be as essential as breathing.

Whether my walk was to escape or to just get lost (you know how I like to do that) I’m not really sure. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. With 17 million Chinese people in one city, and 80 or so American journalists in a hotel, it’s rare to catch a solitary moment. You begin to blend in more with each other, and as a result stick out more in the crowd. And while it seems that Chinese culture is privy to mixing themselves with others, I just can’t. I’m frightened of being labeled as “that girl from Missouri,” but at the same time I’m tired of being seen as a novelty for my round, blue eyes (we are all constantly stared at). I think everyone can testify that being “cool” has always eluded me; I would so much prefer ice cream to alcohol, a museum to a bar or a quiet walk to a loud, late night. So sometimes escaping into yourself and remembering how you are different is vital and getting lost is just preferred.

I didn’t, however, have much opportunity to get lost these last few days. As we were bussed around the city we were lost to memories within American music and YouTube. While it’s only been a few weeks at times it feels like months. We have all stopped questioning what we are eating and either just accepted the cuisine or else quit all together (don’t worry, mom, I chose the former). A trip to McDonalds or Pizza Hut is a happy occasion, but on the plus side, we are all becoming very professional with our chopsticks (although we still aren’t wearing white clothing to meals). As a result of our tour, I’m pretty sure I know more about Beijing than Fort Worth now, and could probably give you better directions. However, having seen the water purification plant and government housing, I’m also certain that Friday was a day centered on propaganda. Despite their best efforts, I’m still not drinking the water!

While Friday was as transparent as air, Saturday and Sunday did offer the essentials of a genuine tour. I feel as if I should enter this part with a drum roll, however, my music skills are on par with my math, so I suggest using your imaginations. Achem, yes, I have seen the second wonder of the world, the Great Wall of China. I mentioned earlier that I don’t consider myself a writer. I didn’t say that to get comments. As much as I want to be a writer, I truly can’t see myself as one until I have met my goals. However, I feel like if I can express to you what I saw on top of that wall than I might be one step closer.

The wall is outside of the city and that day the sky was completely blue, but the hills and mountains still hid behind a mask of smog and clouds. Their grandeur made the city dissolve behind us as we wound our way through the paved streets that seem to bow to the whim of the hills rather than interfere. The wall stretches for 621 miles and so began long before we arrived at our particular spot. You can see as it too bows and weaves around the mountain. Like a freckle atop skin, the wall only adds character to its already impressive host. Your eyes follow as it disappears behind a nook of a hill, reemerging on another hill or side. Some of it is torn and beaten from centuries of duty.

After parking and dodging the masses of people attempting to sell us postcards, hats and fans we walked through a street that boasted a Starbucks, which resulted in cheers of gratitude from a group that has felt quite deprived. As we neared the top of the street and the winding entrance to the ancient wall we were stopped because the president of Mexico decided to take a trip to the wall as well (suddenly our blue eyes, blonde hair and American accents hold no merit). Long story short, thirty minutes later we let out a big cheer as the Chinese military allowed us to pass them and then, I’m sure, they erupted into a raucous of laughter after watching us cascade into each other. Like cattle we prodded, pushed and screeched at each other in a multitude of languages, before finally reaching the stairs that would allow us to touch the ancient relic.

We joked around as we gracefully followed the initial bits of the wall. Not only did it serve as a physical defense for ancient China, but it works as a psychological one as well. We played in the small openings of the first guard tower. The tiny corridors worked as a maze, and I was the only one who needn’t duck! We paused for scads of pictures before staring stupidly at the height of our endeavor. The top was easily visible, but the uneven steps stood testament to ancient Chinese defense, and we struggled to keep from sliding down the slopes or collapsing. I had never imagined the wall being so difficult to maneuver, and I kept thinking about the millions of individuals who spent centuries carrying stones up the unwavering hills.

Eventually the wall overtook me and I gave up, not quite reaching the top guard tower. I can’t say that I had an epiphany, discovered the meaning of life or achieved enlightenment (I need to have Dave Matthews playing for that to ever happen), but it was astounding to see. Some had stayed behind and others had gone on, so I rested comfortably in the middle alone. Beneath my feet stood thousands of years of imperial rule paranoid about vulnerability and below that stood probably millennia of earth that had yet to succumb to the development of modernity. The pair has relied on each other for centuries of solitude. The wall is allowed to rest upon the hills while warding off threats of development simply because it’s there. Leaning against the wall so as not to slide back the way I came, I gazed past the stone structure and over the horizon of the hills. They ran pure green and together the wall and hills were frozen in time. As cliché as it may be, I felt as if the grass blanketing the hills and the ancient stones could combine to expel centuries of tales. I felt as if all the discrepancies of history could be dispelled by a whisper of agreement from both nature and civilization, which had witnessed so much. The wall only made up a thin part of the clustered hills. The rest was littered with purity and solitude. For once I wanted to blend into the landscape, become a part of what the wall and those hills knew. Perhaps even to escape for a time from the ills of civilization that the pair had so willfully fended off.

While there is more to tell, I think this should suffice for now. We are currently in our training for the Olympics, so I will be sure to regale y’all with stories from that as soon as they become interesting! Love to all,

Ziajian
~Molly

Experience means tranquility

The busy streets of China chime with squeals of pedestrians as angry car horns pressure them out of the way. Subways bulge as travelers, businessmen, children and families make the immense population of China imaginable. And crowded sidewalks promise to teach the casual observer how to stop texting and walk!

You could almost liken Beijing to New York, where trusting your life to a taxi driver may label you “reckless” and eating the local fare may temporarily render your stomach out of commission. It is a rare and fleeting moment to stop and gather your thoughts and, if you take it, I’m certain the city would pass you by. The city and its people move with the chaos and thrive on the adrenaline it takes to keep up.

The intoxicated smells of sewer and subway, the vivid sounds of life in china and the thick air that engulfs it all can’t be experienced from the back of a tour bus. It is within one’s ability to get lost in the smells, sounds and smog, to question it and ask people for help that experience is born.

With everything that this city is, it is everything different from the guided, comfortable life I have always known. Chinese, and English have both become obsolete in the world outside of my hotel, which means communication is reduced to pointing, nodding or smiling. It takes immense amounts of work even to receive a meal worthy of my evolving chopstick skills, and yet yields intense appreciation. The range of human emotions that can be expressed through gestures is refreshing. Language can only bar so much before something breaks through and connects two beings from separate worlds, binding them as humans. In the end, language is the same words that just sound different.

In all its intensity, Beijing is little more than overwhelming at times and today’s adventure brought a slight balance to all the originality. Our first stop was the Lama Temple just out the Yonghegong subway station. A beautiful garden surrounds the inner gate of this several-layered Buddhist Temple. Although there are the expected ice cream and Olympic licensed stores in the beginning, past the gates lay several yards of temples filled with Buddhas. We grazed through the temples, sampling each ritual and smelling the incense that burned so delicately as an offering to each Buddha. The most impressive was a 60-food Buddha carved from a tree by monks, who still live there and can be seen walking amongst the grounds. It took the temple several years to acquire the money to buy the giant tree, another three to bring the tree from the forest to the temple and another few to carve the magnificent statue. While no photos were allowed, we did receive a CD supposedly of pictures from the temple. I’m hoping to use those.

We finally maneuvered the tiny, crowded streets to the Confucius Temple. Inside there were few visitors save some Western tourists and others leisurely absorbing the gardens and temples. While I’m not completely familiar with the practice of Confucianism, I know that this was one of the most peaceful places I have ever experienced. It was as if a bubble had formed over the centuries-old buildings and relics, preserving the tranquility that you would expect from a temple. As Americans we despise crowded areas, and surprisingly tend to veer from intense noise (especially since we are often the ones causing it). It was a sighing relief to hear nothing besides the beautiful “flute” that seemed to come from nowhere. It was hypnotizing and for the first time I felt my heart relax and my head ease. The tranquility issued in that bubble pulled me away from the exit, begging for just one more moment of solace.

A few of our friends opted for massages instead of the temples today. I don’t blame them, but I’m certain I gained more relaxation from the beauty and serenity of those temples than they did from an hour-long massage.

*Yes, I'm trying to add pictures. But by now, you know how that goes.

Until next time!

Ziajian
~Molly

Experience means getting lost

After four years of college you could almost amount what I have learned to what I owe. I have learned that philosophers who predated Jesus penned the persistently true thoughts of our society. I have learned how to grocery shop, cook (well, relatively), make enemies and lose friends, weigh small problems with large and how to hold my alcohol. With all that, nothing compares to what I have learned here: I was wrong.


(While I know someone who will try and etch that statement into stone, he should know that he can’t make me grow, and therefore he is still wrong.)


I took this trip to China in stride with everything else. I never amplified its possibilities in my mind or tossed around my luck or accomplishments in the endeavor. I passed over every excited glance I received from people as I worried about what story my life would tell afterward. For that, I’m sorry to all of you. I apologize for not acknowledging what an experience China is.


China is the smog that invasively masks the tops of buildings, and yet hides the suns heat. China is the wafted smell of sewer that permeates through the air, blending with the pollution above. China is the delicious smell of simmering mystery and the pleasure the people take in watching you cringe. China is the curious smirks of children steadying themselves for photos taken by foreigners who speak strangely, loudly and often. China is the beauty of a culture matured well beyond our knowledge and proud of such. And China is the inducer of tempted envy for a country where chivalry, respect and certainty seem abundant.


At 22, I’m far from smart. I don’t know how to do my own taxes, I can’t keep up with dishes and I still can’t get anyone to explain what “escrow” means so that I can understand. But in light of it all, I’m here without any guidance besides that of my peers, and I’m proud of myself too.


Now I know I promised regaling y’all with stories of news outlets and pizza, but things change. I have better ones instead.


While I’m in a country that puts toilets in the floor, packs rice within their peanut butter and changes the elevator rugs to reflect the day, sometimes it feels like I’m in the States. Perhaps it’s the 58 other goofballs traipsing around in their Mizzou paraphernalia loudly swearing and towering over the Chinese people, (ok I don’t tower…). Saturday led us to Tian’Anmen square and the Forbidden City (yes, I know, not so forbidden). Both were breathtaking, in both size and historical value. The Forbidden City acts like a beacon in the center of Beijing and echoes memories of centuries-old architecture and evolving government. The staunch buildings, bland and intimidating of Tian’Anmen square mark the fall of the neighboring Forbidden City and the ushered new reign at the beginning of the 20th century. Both can only be told through pictures and video, so I will be quick in posting those for you.


Now, the good stuff. As I sit here writing, I’m enjoying the childhood joy of pocky sticks, which eluded me after we left Japan. I have American Music playing and my tea is Lipton. However, not everything can be so familiar in a foreign country. Yesterday began as any other day on Molly’s agenda: a day of shopping! A day off to explore meant such to all of us. So as five of us started a trek across Renmin’s campus with several issues of Frommer’s Beijing guide and a Mandarin picture book, we were ready to experience China—in a mall riddled with American clothing and a Dairy Queen. Ok, not so much.


So in the middle of an air-conditioned mall the five of us literally put our heads together over a map and guide book settling on a market famous for bargaining—we all thought we could use a little practice with our poker faces. Frommer’s in hand, we headed off to hale a cab and take a subway several stops across the city to our destination.


Clamoring up the stairs we all talked excitedly about our experiences bargaining for fake brands and devising a strategy to keep me away from all possible deals (I have no poker face. My only talent is sneezing). Now picture our excitement halting like the screeching tires of a semi-truck as a squirrel barely eeks through the tires with his life. Such was our emotional drop when the taxi driver refused to continue onward with five people squeezed on his pleather bench seat. We had to split—two and three. I ended up in the group of three as we excitedly continued our drive to the subway station. Remember that poor squirrel? Well here comes another semi—the lovely cab we were all schvitzing in begins to slow down on a bridge before coming to a halt on the shoulder of the highway.


“Sorry” says the cab driver in probably the only English word he knew (which leads me to believe he uses this one a lot) before he shoos us out of the cab and onto a highway parading with cars, busses and taxis, none of them willing to stop for anything more than a photo of the stranded Americans.


A few walked blocks in sweltering heat, a dart through oncoming traffic and persuaded taxi driver later, we are on our way again to meet our friends at the subway station—maybe not. Apparently my Chinese isn’t up to par and a missed pronunciation brought us back to Tian’Anmen Square in the second taxi. Lovely spot, not where I wanted to be…


We paid the sorry driver and the three of us again put our heads together around a map like some ancient religious ritual. A few photos, broken Chinese, and a subway later, we found Yashow market and proceeded to buy cheap goods. I bought a bag and with the help of my friend lowered the price from about 650 yuan to 200 (that’s about 28 bucks). Still, I’m certain my giggling and probably sneezing limited our possibility to get it down more. We ended the night at Hooters Beijing (I have a video of that too) and some lovely chicken strips!

To finish up here's a treat: A Chinese paper did an article about us. No, I'm not in it, but it's worth a gander.

http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/cndy/2008-07/04/content_6818182.htm

Finally, I know y'all are craving pictures as much as I'm craving American food, however, I'm continuously running into problems on that front. Our Internet is restricted, so for now use your imaginations, and if y'all want I can try and e-mail some pictures. Sorry about that, xiexie


Zaijian!

~Molly

"Let's order Pizza!"

“Misunderstandings lead to more problems than shared interests,” Dean Gao so tactfully (and in Chinese, I might add) preached on our second day. Misunderstandings about culture, or desires perhaps? It’s almost as if we expect that by jumping continents we will some how emerge walking on the sky instead of the ground. As if flavoring various cultures may lead our insides to unfold in shock at the differences. With the exception of a 13-hour head start on the day from the U.S., China and its people seem to share twin ambitions with the U.S.

Our initial arrival into China was marked (thankfully) with nothing save a camera lens, and that seems to have continued as a theme for our trip. The eye of some man’s video camera and many interested Chinese have kept track of our group, scouting our moves and musing at complete misunderstanding of their language. However, in no disrespect to Professor Gao, I’m certain we haven’t stirred up any hard feelings.

It seems however, in our musings around the country, I have some catching up to do here.

Day 1

While I’m neither a prisoner keeping track of my incarceration, nor a stranded sailor, I’m organizing myself by labeling each day.

After a groggy night and several forced hours of consciousness, including a dinner menu with no traces of English and a meeting where nearly every attendee fell asleep with their eyes open, we awoke somewhat refreshed. My roommate and I started out with our tourist hats on and got lost on Renmin’s campus (we are staying at the hotel at the university). Clearly a quizzical look is the same in any language (chalk one up to similarities!) because a nice Chinese student approached us to ask if we were lost. I was both ecstatic to hear English and to know that I wouldn’t be late to our first meeting. Tom showed us to where we needed to be and we clamored up the stairs to meet our group.

Now, back home I know my place quite well, and have become accustomed to being knocked around. My anonymity at home is nothing to warrant the star treatment we have so far experienced. I’m just guessing but it may be the University I attend and (quite honestly) the power over the journalism community it holds, but that’s just a guess!

However, not all cultures can meet right in the middle and later that day it was like awakening on Christmas morning to socks. We were asked to try on our uniforms for the Olympics. Exciting, you say? Ah, but I beg to differ; the shirts and shoes pose no problem besides the obvious carnie feel of 59 matching college kids as we collectively march off to a "summer job". No, no, they say Beijing Olympics, and this opportunity is worlds away from a high schooler matching with his Six Flags co-workers, they get paid. It’s the pants. It’s their murky gray that matches the polluted smog, which on most days hides your head from your feet, it’s their spandex waist band, which could double as my bra, and its astonishing talent to make my butt look especially elongated several decades beyond its age.

By days end we were hungry and seeking a meal experience fat different from lunch, which ended with many of us questioning our decision to come to China; “I had a plate of tomatoes,” “A ball of rice was my lunch,” “Really, I had nothing.” Our chatter must have mustered its way to the top and that evening we were greeted with an assortment of fruits and a less intimidating introduction to Chinese cuisine. (By the way, American-Chinese food isn’t even close, and that’s probably a good thing). We were again greeted by Professor Gao, thanked for our interest in China and told that when we start to miss our home to please consider his campus home. He presented us with stamps with our Chinese names. Want to know mine? “Molly” I know, I was excited too! It means Jasmine Flower, and we were given stamps with our names in English and Chinese, I will be letter-heading my correspondence with those, so just wait.

While I can see each of you poised at the edge of your seat ready for more, I will have to leave you here as my chattering takes too long and I will be even farther backed up tomorrow.

Next time on “Beijing Bound”… Day two of my adventure starts with a tour of two media outlets and ends with Beijing pizza…stay tuned!