Today is almost sacrilegious for me. The only thing that keeps it from being entirely sacrilegious is the fact that I am not religious. Word on the street is that today is The Last Sunny Day. It is hurting to think about it this much. Supposedly tomorrow we must all welcome the rain like the faithful Seattleites we are (or supposed to be - my personal fidelity to Seattle has been terrible) and embrace the second-best of Seattle's two seasons. Despite my devoted sun-worshipping, I do not hate the rain that much. This is entirely unrelated to the fact that I grew up in Seattle; in fact, it is quite the opposite. I used to loathe the rain. Luckily life stuck me in a few spots where I had no choice but to literally soak up the situation. My fondness for these memories always makes me hope that something just as good will happen every time I hear the rain again. The following are in chronological order....

The first night of spring break my freshman year of college, a group of us went to Mexico for the night and were riding the trolley home when it began to rain. I don't remember what time it was, but it was definitely somewhere past 3 AM. Mexico will wear you out, and we were oh so tired. I had a huge crush on a boy from my philosophy class, and much to my delight he had been dancing with me all night. Once the trolley dropped us off he continued the chivalry and walked me back to my dorm room. Because it was spring break the campus was deserted, and there we were, making out in the rain. I felt spontaneity and the pounding of my heart in every vein I had. This did turn out to be the height of this romance, but, it was pretty nice while it lasted.

Last May, my dad and I went to Maui for five days to visit my aunt and uncle. We were using my companion fares with Alaska Airlines, who had just released non-stops between Seattle and Kahului (a good example of life being beautiful), so we weren't paying attention to seasonality. We also rented a Jeep Wrangler, because we planned to do the Road to Hana, and that drive absolutely deserves an open-air vehicle. First night out on the beach we walked fairly far from where we parked to see my aunt's preferred snorkeling spot. On the way back, it started to POUR. We left the jeep with the top off because  yeah, we're cool and casual island people. Except my dad has a lot of man-toys (to me 'man-toys' is synonymous with 'non-water-proof') and most of the time he puts them away carefully, but sometimes not, so when the rain came down, the blood pressure went up. We were soaked by the time we got back to the jeep, and my aunt dropped her Maui Jim's in a giant puddle, but we were all still laughing. We couldn't get the top back on the jeep there in the parking lot because there are far too many pieces for novice Jeep drivers so we drove back in the rain. Alhumdillalah that my aunt and uncle live walking distance from the beach. All of the man-toys came out safe and sound.

The entire time JS and I were in the Greek Islands, I think we saw a total of three clouds. And they must have been tiny because I don't remember a single one of the three of them. Our last day in Athens started out sunny and summery so we both rolled out our least-wrinkly sundresses and headed to the Acropolis. While we were in the museum, people kept talking about how the day was supposed to turn into thunderstorms. Oh, goody. The clouds started to roll in thick and heavy, so we darted out of the museum and attempted to climb the Acropolis. Approximately three minutes (maybe one for every cloud in the islands?) after we entered the site, it started to rain. I was skeptical about continuing, I have always had this feeling that climbing to high, isolated locations in the middle of a thunderstorm is a bad idea, but JS convinced me that we were only there once, there was no way we could get hit by lightning, and that the rain wasn't that intense. We kept climbing. Ten more minutes up, there were some scary cracks of thunder and a whole lot more rain. I had just bought my first digital SLR right before the trip and was carrying it with me. No desire whatsoever to let that thing get damaged. I was wearing my nice sunglasses and had opted not to bring the case because I didn't have extra room in my purse and the weather had been so immaculate until now. Finally, I was wearing Havaiana's flip flops. Although they are ridiculously comfortable in dry weather, they're just rubber, so they stand low and pathetic versus wet weather. This was the point where I reached my limit of having a good time and I ran down that hillside as fast as I possibly could. Given the flip flops, that really wasn't that fast. JS decided to see the top, so I went inside the museum. I went on the balcony and decided maybe I could get a photo of lightning hitting the Acropolis because several bolts had already struck. What ended up happening was that I stood in front of the museum with my camera sitting on my nose for 45 minutes and a lot of shots of the Acropolis with gray skies sans lightning bolts. Below is my 'lightning shot.' Meanwhile, I continued to wear my sunglasses because I had nowhere else to put them, and I was worried my dress would bleed its blue die onto my bra because it had done that before, so I continuously looked down my own top to check on the steadfastness of my bra. For the record, I prefer to call myself a traveler, not a tourist.

My last favorite memory in the rain involves China, white pants, another round of beggar's chicken, and convenience store brewskis.

Two weeks ago GG and I went to Whidbey Island for the day and observed that "You know you're from Seattle when you can appreciate different shades of gray," and furthermore, can say this out loud without biting your tongue.

Karaoke is the greatest paradox of my life so far. It is the one activity where the worse you do, the more praise you get! Anyone who picks a slow song with lots of hard-to-hit notes, and then goes for those notes, easily brings small teardrops of boredom and disappointment to everyone in the karaoke joint. We all came for that festival of colorful singers with arms flapping all over the place that give karaoke its good name. Karaoke is also the one activity where a complete loss of inhibitions is embraced. Not only is it important to put in your best effort missing as many notes as possible and invent some new dance moves that will hopefully be retired that same night, but the sappier the song you pick the better. This is not the time to put on your gameface and pretend you are a level-headed, composed adult. Every other moment in your life calls for that. If you're hurtin' something awful, let everyone know! We want to hear that knife twisting in your back, the sharpness of being lonely. Plus, these are the songs we all secretly love, but aren't really appropriate for publicness.

What I find most ironic about karaoke is that people are consistently embarrassed to sing. Everyone exercised freedom of choice in coming to this unpretentious bar serving stiff wells and beer in cans. You choose to come, you have one shining moment in your week to lose your inhibitions guilt-free, and you decided to maintain that overrated thing called dignity. In China, karaoke is called KTV. The major difference is that you rent a small room and thus end up with only the people you came with. Is this less embarrassing, or more? No strangers to give you namesake strange looks... just your friends that will be with you tomorrow to remind you of every nuance of your creative dancing. Personally I prefer the more social American method. Many a best friend I have made over the chorus of 'Sweet Caroline.'

KTV has also brought me the closest I will ever get to living my own episode of The Real World. My last night out in China, five of us went for KTV. Two bottles of Absolut, five strangers about to part ways, and unlimited karaoke until six o'clock in the morning.

I am officially on a 50-year-plan now. Goals are important. Today I went to lunch with my mother, my uncle, and two family friends who are about to depart on a cruise to Japan, and in the spring they are going on a 32-day trip through several different countries in Asia. During this discussion it was announced that it is cheaper to cruise full-time than live in a nursing home. Traditionally I have been against the idea of cruises, because they don't let people really get to know one area. You get off in the tourist section of the port, shop around, do a tour, and get back on the boat. But....life is about having a good time. Being on a cruise ship sounds infinitely better than a nursing home, and I would rather just see the tourist market of a town than stay at home. I fully intend to end up on one of these boats, playing bridge with my white-haired compadres.

Sparkling moment of the day: I was working my dreadful job at the gym in order to rid myself of the last-minute one way plane ticket from Shanghai to Seattle. One of the members always responds to  the 'how are you doing?' question by saying he is 'unbelievable.' In my revelry of boredom I asked him if anything special happened today. He really and truly responded by saying that he got out of bed, he made it through the day, and now he is here working out. He said all this with a smile and a light-hearted tone; he genuinely meant it. When I smiled back at him I felt completely refreshed.

Fortunes from the Palomino:

"The problem with people who have no vices is that you can be fairly sure they're going to have some pretty annoying virtues." Elizabeth Taylor


"The world will always welcome lovers." As Time Goes By

Chinese women will wear prom shoes anywhere - walking on cobblestones, to the grocery store, to the Great Wall of China. They adorn themselves with Hello Kitty and rhinestones, wear teeny tiny shorts to complement their high heels, and love mixing prints and patterns. This isn't news. Personally, I became more interested in the fashion taste of the Chinese men.

While shopping for my motorbike, I debated between the bubblegum pink one and a slightly less feminine blue and white one. Despite the fact that I was shopping with three other men, I had majority support. ET and ZT said go for the pink, although NJ was a little more practical about it. I decided it would be inappropriate to buy any form of pink transportation in the States, so I might as well take this opportunity in China. I already stood out having blond hair, might as well encompass the whole experience with a pink bike. I named it Malibu Barbie's Dream Bike, and it was proof that you can buy happiness.

Later we were discussing the ridiculousness of my purchase and NJ reminded me that it might be harder to sell a pink bike than a blue one. I acknowledged this, and BG pointed out how many Chinese men ride pink bikes. Most adults in China ride bikes when they cannot afford cars, so if a pink bike is what you find available, that's what you ride. It is certainly faster than a traditional manual bicycle. What BG also pointed out was that men riding pink bikes is similar to men and their clothing. The phrase BG used, and I have yet to learn any non-English equivalents for this, is "they just don't give a fuck!" And the best part is, it is absolutely true. There is no rhyme or reason to what Chinese men wear, no patterns to detect whatsoever. Since that discussion, I have vowed to forever model the attitudes of Chinese men and their fashion sense. Wink, wink.

Obviously before I left for China I bought Lonely Planet China. Obviously I read the part about Hangzhou multiple times. That section was actually fairly small, since China is an enormous country and the spines of Lonely Planet books are only so strong. I think it is a secret joke of Lonely Planet, 'haha, you are brave enough to come to China without a guide, we'll give you a brief outline of the bus system, find your own entertainment!' Back to the point: LP did suggest a street food called beggar's chicken that is apparently the quintessential street meat. Think rolled tacos to San Diego, hot dogs with cream cheese to Seattle. That's how beggar's chicken was mentioned.

So, the first time we went to West Lake in Hangzhou, there were three of us strolling along the waterfront. There is a lot of waterfront at West Lake, which is a good thing because there are a lot of tourists. West Lake really is very beautiful. An ancient saying goes something along these lines, 'there is heaven, and there is Suzhou and Hangzhou.' This is also an excellent hyperbole. Nevertheless, the water is tranquil if you don't look too close, the lily pads and lotus flowers are very lovely, there are some delightful pagodas sprinkled here and there, and if it is a clear day, the sun sets over a range of mountains on the other side of the like. Plenty of restaurants, bars, and shops line the street if you can dodge the parasol carrying Chinese and cross the street. This street is called Hubin Lu, and there is a plethora of things to do here. Do not be fooled by the lack of attention LP gave Hangzhou.

Back to the first trip to West Lake. NJ, BG, and I were walking, and walking, because that's the best activity when you don't know your way around, don't speak Chinese, and pretty much haven't figured out what else to do. During all this walking you might see a confident Chinese hombre posing for a postcard-esque photo with his shirt rolled up half-way and holding on to his belly. He did not have a six-pack. You also might see a large group of people ogling and taking photos of a misplaced squirrel in a tree. I digress again. While we were walking, BG suggested we get some beggar's chicken at the tourist market when we got there. NJ loves trying local food; he was deadset against eating any Western food the whole time I was there. He is now in Beijing so I doubt this lasted. The point is that he was very excited about trying the best of the best local food. We continued walking and after discussing a few other things more than once, beggar's chicken came up again. Very casually mentioned still, nicely worked into the conversation you might say.

Upon arrival at the tourist market, we walked past all the shops with trinkets, fans, silk, roots you can use for medicinal purposes, and a Buddha with a belly rubbed clean. We got to the food market, and walked into it, becoming one large sweaty mesh with the heat and the crowds. BG pointed out the beggar's chicken, it comes wrapped in banana leaves. NJ grabbed one, they were only three kuai I believe, which is less then fifty cents. Don't hold me to that, I could be wrong. I didn't get one because I wasn't hungry. BG said he had the beggar's chicken before, and went to get something else.

We walked into McDonald's and that is what came out of the banana leaves. Everything you think you might be seeing, you are. Head, feet, gizzards, beggar's chicken promises a complete meal. This was the hardest I had laughed since my 5 brutal around-the-world flights, and it was glorious. After you are the victim of this joke, you almost want to invite all your friends to China just so you can persuade them to buy beggar's chicken and watch them peel away the banana leaves. The look exactly fits the credit card commercial that uses the priceless phrase. I did try a piece of it (breast meat!) and it tasted like...chicken.

I absolutely found the most romantic spot in Bellevue, no, I think anywhere. I dare to make that bold of a statement. Running this morning on the lake-to-lake trail that parallels I-90 for awhile, I passed by two benches set on alcoves of the wooden platform bridges that cut through the Mercer Slough. One bench was directly beneath an on-ramp, and the second was just a few feet in front of it, and the ramp was low enough that you could almost high-five someone leaning out of the passenger window. I wish I had a photo to display this curious situation, but I trust your imagination can handle it: Large wooden bench in the center, freeway on-ramp in the upper left corner, pond scum in the lower right. If walls really could talk, I would love to know how many people have spent more than a passing glance on these two benches.

Bonus about running in Washington! You can stop and eat blackberries when you get tired.

Rainy summer nights and sunny winter days: it feels like getting something you're not supposed to have.

Before I left for the summer, I sold my car. Genius! I thought. I planned to be gone for over a year, the car was starting to get old and maintenance would be around a corner, and I could round up a few thousand more dollars to make my Greek odyssey and tropical asian travels that much grander. And it was easy - the first person to respond to my post offered to give me what I wanted, so voila, my car was gone. Now I am at home with an ORCA card and a very limited knowledge of the Seattle public transportation. However, no complaints in that department. Public transportation here is extraordinarily clean (I have yet to smell one bad smell either waiting for a bus or riding a bus), and timely. And it certainly makes life a little more unpredictable every time I walk out of the house.

When I first came home, I was putting my sleepy unemployment mornings to good use and reading the Seattle Times. It mentioned sunflowers ten feet tall in front of the Downtowner Hotel on 4th Street. Mmmm, I like sunflowers! Finding these was my first trip into Seattle on the bus, and it also became the first time I started looking at my hometown as a place just as interesting and full of hidden secrets as any international city. Sure, these sunflowers are a relatively simple thing, but they were pretty majestic. There is also something exciting knowing the city holds something you want to see, but not knowing exactly where it is, how to get there, or what it will be like when you get there. The trip really did remind me of trying to find Paradise Beach in Mykonos, the China Tea Museum in Hangzhou, or the horrendously long day walking around Buckingham Palace. Just because I am home does not mean the discoveries have to end.


Side note on riding the bus in King County: It has appeared that people do not like sitting next to me. I have yet to figure out if this is because some of the seats on the bus are better than others, and my neighbors switch to these coveted spots, or if it is because I have a grumpy grimace (I don't think this is the case, but I am open to possibilities), or if it is because I somehow command more than my alloted space. One time I was digging in my purse and my elbow became highly invasive to the man next to me. Except for that time, I'm not sure what's going on. Solving this is going to be next week's research activity.

Originally when I decided it might be interesting to write a blog, it was to chronicle my life and times in China. This would have been highly interesting, because, well, China is a gong show. More to come on that later. Unfortunately (or for my lungs, fortunately?), something suddenly came up and I came home. So, the theme of the blog has to change a little bit....it is now primarily based off of two of my favorite words and a phrase I borrowed from some ubiquitous Lonely Planet literature I read. One of my favorite hobbies is learning foreign languages because it breaks down an incredible communication barrier between any given number of parties. I have also found that some phrases are best not-transliterated, and left in their original form. My personal favorites, given my limited knowledge, are guanxi, joie de vivre, and mumtaz. Kudos if you know them all; if you don't, you probably will after spending about fifteen minutes with me. Each one of these has multiple meanings for me, so when the time comes, they are irreplaceable phrases in a conversation. The only catch is that speaking in multiple languages all at once in the United States is a confusing matter! I actually don't have the intelligence to do this, but one can dream. Thus my next phrase, a language all my own. Once again, I wish I was smart enough to come up with this, but I read it somewhere. The entire phrase goes like this: "After a bit too much sangria, you'll be speaking a language all your own." Even more appropriately describing my life. So read on for stories and tall tales from the Far East and the Eastside....in a language spoken only by me.