By the time I get up to my room, fall into bed, into fitful sleep, there's something very wrong, and there doesn't seem to be anything to do about it.
My head is throbbing, my legs are throbbing. Everything hurts; my hair hurts, my skin hurts.
Time passes.
I'm sweating into the pillows and sheets, a tangled, sweaty mess of fever. My throat has closed up long ago. It hurts to get out of bed, so I don't.
More time passes, and it occurs to me, sometime Wednesday that I could die here in this Shanghai hotel, with the neon lights and buildings outside, with the lights off, with no one calling. I imagine that maybe I have some brain-eating virus -- something has to be eating my brain, or I wouldn't be hurting, aching, throbbing like this.
I feel so helpless; I would never allow myself to access this level of pain in my normal life. On the second day of any fever, or once my throat closed, I would be in a doctor's office like that. I can't imagine trying to call down to the front desk and make my way through the language barrier to get a doctor; I can't imagine trying to navigage my way through a Chinese hospital. I'm a little bit afraid, but the pain is actually too overwhelming to feel much fear.
During the very bad parts, I moan little prayers to a god I don't believe in.
We fly back to San Francisco; I stumble out of the airport, sit on my luggage, smoke morosely. Lisa drives up, feels my forehead, says, "Oh my god, I'm taking you to the hospital."
We go to UCSF and because of my "recent travels" I get a private room and the nurses, techs and doctors all come in with masks on. I worry they will stick me in a scary quarantine room but they don't.
Six hours, one EKG, a chest X-ray and multiple blood tests later, they give me the happy diagnosis of a non-brain eating virus and dehydration. I get 2 liters of saline pumped through my veins, a prescription for codeine and we go home, to Lisa's home.
I stay in her bed for three more days.
I am so happy to be alive.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The Whole World Is Watching
I check Google News from the new hotel we’re at in Hangzhou. The top story -- the protests (over China’s human rights violations) in major European cities where the Olympic torch is making its way across the world.
I conduct an experiment here in the hotel internet cafe. I click on several of the news articles on the protest -- almost all of them come up. A few, however, give me what looks like a Page Not Found error. I Google "Tiananmen Square Massacre," and every single link comes up Page Not Found.
I can’t read Chinese, and I actually think the page reads an explanation of why I cannot view it.
The truth is, except for today’s village, the square has been my favorite part.
********************
I woke up sick this morning. Sore throat, body aches, fever. We made our usual frantic dash throughout the factories and took a nice canal ride. Today was actually the best day in spite of a hacking cough. We were allowed to roam for the tiniest bit of time in a small canal village. I walked through narrow streets and managed even, by pointing to the phrase "I’m sick" in my Chinese phrase book and coughing to prove it, to buy some inported cold medicine.
The village was beautiful and smelly and had little storefronts of fresh vegetables, little rooms that might have been houses or might have been restaurants, or more likely, a combination of both. I walked through the narrow alleyways, stepping aside to allow for the traffic of speeding bicycles. An old woman smiled to me and waved. "Ni hao," I said, returning her grin.
********************
I am not the only one breaking down from the crazy pace, the 141-thick group. Another man on our bus freaked out today, covering his ears with his hands to drown out the sound of everyone and skipping dinner, going directly to bed.
We’ve all had our moments. We muse about the fact that as a government-sponsored trip, we’re here only to see what the government wants us to see. We wonder if it is just the nature of organized trips to begin with. We talk about the consumerist quality of the trip even as we buy little hats from street vendors and silk scarves from the largest silk factory in China. ********************
I’m sweating; I have chills; my throat is raw.
The smog, the stress, the lack of sleep; the smog; the muggy weather; the night of semi-hard partying on our last night in Beijing and finally the intense, hard Chinese massage all pushed me over the edge. I didn’t think I’d be the one to get sick on this trip.
Didn’t think I’d be the one to turn down a night of exploring the neon-light streaked city outside.
I barely know what day it is, and I don’t know what city we’ll be in tomorrow. We are dragged or prodded onto bus after bus, hotel after hotel, shoved in round tables for meals, herded like cattle into factories and then marched back onto the bus.
********************
We’re so tired; we’d give anything to sleep till noon, wander for a few hours until we find tea, get lost and have to ask directions from a policeman, have strangers run up to us because they want to practice English.
We want to walk where no tourist goes and eat hot soup or find a dumpling stand. We want to go to a garden where there is not hundreds of Americans.
My friend Sarah’s dad said to me yesterday, "This entire restaurant is filled with white people. This is seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen."
Me too.
I conduct an experiment here in the hotel internet cafe. I click on several of the news articles on the protest -- almost all of them come up. A few, however, give me what looks like a Page Not Found error. I Google "Tiananmen Square Massacre," and every single link comes up Page Not Found.
I can’t read Chinese, and I actually think the page reads an explanation of why I cannot view it.
The truth is, except for today’s village, the square has been my favorite part.
********************
I woke up sick this morning. Sore throat, body aches, fever. We made our usual frantic dash throughout the factories and took a nice canal ride. Today was actually the best day in spite of a hacking cough. We were allowed to roam for the tiniest bit of time in a small canal village. I walked through narrow streets and managed even, by pointing to the phrase "I’m sick" in my Chinese phrase book and coughing to prove it, to buy some inported cold medicine.
The village was beautiful and smelly and had little storefronts of fresh vegetables, little rooms that might have been houses or might have been restaurants, or more likely, a combination of both. I walked through the narrow alleyways, stepping aside to allow for the traffic of speeding bicycles. An old woman smiled to me and waved. "Ni hao," I said, returning her grin.
********************
I am not the only one breaking down from the crazy pace, the 141-thick group. Another man on our bus freaked out today, covering his ears with his hands to drown out the sound of everyone and skipping dinner, going directly to bed.
We’ve all had our moments. We muse about the fact that as a government-sponsored trip, we’re here only to see what the government wants us to see. We wonder if it is just the nature of organized trips to begin with. We talk about the consumerist quality of the trip even as we buy little hats from street vendors and silk scarves from the largest silk factory in China. ********************
I’m sweating; I have chills; my throat is raw.
The smog, the stress, the lack of sleep; the smog; the muggy weather; the night of semi-hard partying on our last night in Beijing and finally the intense, hard Chinese massage all pushed me over the edge. I didn’t think I’d be the one to get sick on this trip.
Didn’t think I’d be the one to turn down a night of exploring the neon-light streaked city outside.
I barely know what day it is, and I don’t know what city we’ll be in tomorrow. We are dragged or prodded onto bus after bus, hotel after hotel, shoved in round tables for meals, herded like cattle into factories and then marched back onto the bus.
********************
We’re so tired; we’d give anything to sleep till noon, wander for a few hours until we find tea, get lost and have to ask directions from a policeman, have strangers run up to us because they want to practice English.
We want to walk where no tourist goes and eat hot soup or find a dumpling stand. We want to go to a garden where there is not hundreds of Americans.
My friend Sarah’s dad said to me yesterday, "This entire restaurant is filled with white people. This is seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen."
Me too.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
In Suzhou
The misanthrope arrives, not unexpectedly. The Americans are infuriating. I myself am infuriating. I drop drug comments all day long in an effort to shock and halt further conversation.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
***************
On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
***************
When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
***************
On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
***************
When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.
Beijing to Shanghai
The city is choked by smog.
I’ve not seen anything like it, not even in Mexcico City, or perhaps they’re tied. Our days are filled with live infomercials and gray skies. Our nights are filled by a 5-star hotel and the hotel lobby bar.
We walk.
From Tian’nmen Gate, we walk through an underground cross street and my eyes surprisingly, but not really, fill with dark gray water. I realize I miss Russia, I miss Moscow, I want to say "Spasiba," when I really should be saying "Shi Shi."
I realize that I look at a tall Chinese soldier and feel instead the quickening pulse that comes from walking by any Russian man.
I love the huge portrait of Chairman Mao; I love the big public square; I love Tom, our guide, who is a little bit communist, a little bit brainwashed like we all are by our governments, a little bit wise, a little bit shocked when two of us decide to opt out of the non-negotiable "optional" tour and strike out alone.
I feel so constrained, so trapped. I got lost today in the Forbidden City. I am the only person on our bus without a buddy, without a partner; I’m alone as I always am, and so when I stopped to squat in a public toilet, I got left behind.
When I left the bathroom and couldn’t find the group, I had an exhilerating few minutes of joy. I was free! I was outside of the box. The square inside the Forbidden City opened up to me. I saw an old Chinese man scream at his old and still smiling Chinese wife. How could she keep that amused smile on her face as she was being yelled at in public, I wondered? I saw young, god how young, soldiers marching. I was free, I thought. Free from the oppressive schedule, the merchants, every last one of them who accept my shitty US dollars. free from Tom overlooking us like a mother hen, free from the petroleum-guzzling bus, free from Lin with her camera, free from the complaining, irritating, loud, obnoxious Americans .... so free ...
And that’s when I realized that if I didn’t find my tour group pretty quickly, I was going to be totally fucked.
**************
I eat dumplings and duck. I don’t stray too far from the group, because they want to keep us in check, in a line, a number on a bus, I get it.
I buy surprisingly cheap souveniers. I tell a woman selling 7 purses for $10 that she is underselling herself. She can sell them for $5 apiece. Maybe she will come August when the Olympics are here.
Dear god, what are these people going to do when the Olympics are here? How will they explain the everlasting gray sky and factory pollution? Why would they even show anyone around town or even allow people to talk to foreigners when the story is the same as it is all over the world -- we are all controlled.
I drink tea. I am with people and this is not always a bad thing. Maybe I only breathe a little bit after the climb up the Great Wall. Maybe I pretend to sleep on the tour bus so I can think. Maybe my hands hurt right now and my contacts are falling out and I’m catching an early flight to Shanghai and I can’t really see the screen.
It’s still better than what’s going on at home.
I’ve not seen anything like it, not even in Mexcico City, or perhaps they’re tied. Our days are filled with live infomercials and gray skies. Our nights are filled by a 5-star hotel and the hotel lobby bar.
We walk.
From Tian’nmen Gate, we walk through an underground cross street and my eyes surprisingly, but not really, fill with dark gray water. I realize I miss Russia, I miss Moscow, I want to say "Spasiba," when I really should be saying "Shi Shi."
I realize that I look at a tall Chinese soldier and feel instead the quickening pulse that comes from walking by any Russian man.
I love the huge portrait of Chairman Mao; I love the big public square; I love Tom, our guide, who is a little bit communist, a little bit brainwashed like we all are by our governments, a little bit wise, a little bit shocked when two of us decide to opt out of the non-negotiable "optional" tour and strike out alone.
I feel so constrained, so trapped. I got lost today in the Forbidden City. I am the only person on our bus without a buddy, without a partner; I’m alone as I always am, and so when I stopped to squat in a public toilet, I got left behind.
When I left the bathroom and couldn’t find the group, I had an exhilerating few minutes of joy. I was free! I was outside of the box. The square inside the Forbidden City opened up to me. I saw an old Chinese man scream at his old and still smiling Chinese wife. How could she keep that amused smile on her face as she was being yelled at in public, I wondered? I saw young, god how young, soldiers marching. I was free, I thought. Free from the oppressive schedule, the merchants, every last one of them who accept my shitty US dollars. free from Tom overlooking us like a mother hen, free from the petroleum-guzzling bus, free from Lin with her camera, free from the complaining, irritating, loud, obnoxious Americans .... so free ...
And that’s when I realized that if I didn’t find my tour group pretty quickly, I was going to be totally fucked.
**************
I eat dumplings and duck. I don’t stray too far from the group, because they want to keep us in check, in a line, a number on a bus, I get it.
I buy surprisingly cheap souveniers. I tell a woman selling 7 purses for $10 that she is underselling herself. She can sell them for $5 apiece. Maybe she will come August when the Olympics are here.
Dear god, what are these people going to do when the Olympics are here? How will they explain the everlasting gray sky and factory pollution? Why would they even show anyone around town or even allow people to talk to foreigners when the story is the same as it is all over the world -- we are all controlled.
I drink tea. I am with people and this is not always a bad thing. Maybe I only breathe a little bit after the climb up the Great Wall. Maybe I pretend to sleep on the tour bus so I can think. Maybe my hands hurt right now and my contacts are falling out and I’m catching an early flight to Shanghai and I can’t really see the screen.
It’s still better than what’s going on at home.
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