baby oranges

I hope that the pen that I accidently stole from the kindergarten yesterday came from the same classroom where I accidently left the big apple and the big orange. Big apple as compared to small apple. Big orange, small orange. Big book, small book. Is it big? Yes, it is! Is it big? No, it's SMALL! So much fun. 

Nearly three months in I can still say I love kindergartners. Most of the time. When I walked into the first class of three-year-olds yesterday I caught my breath at their adorableness. They are so adorable. Every Thursday morning I see six different classes on two different campuses within the space of two hours. It's quite a rush. I'm still figuring out the best way to entertain, control, and hopefully teach something to twenty or thirty (and sometimes even forty) 3-5 year olds. Those teachers are saints. Though you can feel a few are harried, and the difference when you walk into a classroom exuding warmth and calm. 

Nanchong Baby

It's been heart-achingly beautiful out, when the morning fog clears, and I've slipped down the steep muddy banks of the river to watch the sunset, and ridden my bike all around the campus looking for love. Shelley and I arranged to meet for a short (but wild) frisbee toss. Mmmm, Sunday afternoon. There were nine boys playing volleyball like they knew how, and I made ten. They let me serve a bunch, and every one flew true, but I didn't get close to the front row, apart from my faithful block-covering 马步. I may as well not have been there since they missed few hits. They set high and the outside hitter cooly switched his cigarette from his hand to his mouth before the approach.

A yoga teacher from India talked about smoking that evening in a first-floor classroom decorated with pink balloons. He confirmed that we (and the boys especially, since they're the smokers in China) know it's bad for us, and then asked why we still do it. Like all the other things we know are bad for our bodies and still do. Like the delicious cranberry scones that I made this morning and shared with Shelley and Phil and Hainan coffee. Two and a half teaspoons of margarine, almost a teaspoon of sugar, and a whole lot of cream in each one. For five years I've been listening to Chinese people, and mainly middle-aged woman, talk to me about food, and health, and I'm starting to listen. 

When Kathi came from Beijing we talked about eating whole foods instead of the derived nutrients and "enriched cereals" we Americans try to pass off as healthful. This time of year people in Sichuan eat a lot of sweet potatoes. Street vendors roast them over coal in a fifty-gallon barrel and sell them when they're so soft and caramelized you eat them walking home straight out of the little plastic bag. People cut sweet potatoes into chunks and steam them along with the rice, piling them into the bowl with the reminder that they're very "nutritious". And rarely more than that; there's no explanation of vitamins or minerals, or fiber, just, "Yogurt helps digestion. Dates are good for women. The chicken broth is full of nutrition. Bitter melon is good for you. Here, have more."

brewing

This is a start. 

In the afternoon I drank tea. Really, really good 铁观音 from high on a bedroom shelf in Sam's house. His mom insisted on sending it home with me a few weeks ago  when she found out I liked it. After this incredible search to find the right stuff. She climbed up on the ladder and pulled out all the boxes. Fancy gifts in fancy oversized packaging, tea and alcohol and who knows what else, all of it looking appropriately expensive cradled in the red and gold fabrics. Five minutes in, I found she and the aiyi in the unused bedroom juggling boxes. I instinctively jumped to catch the one that fell to the floor, and made a few attempts to dissuade them from the trouble . . . but in the end I left them there because I could see that's what she wanted.

Then coffee with Johnson at SPR so we could go over his IVEP application.

These are probably the reasons that I'm still wide awake at 3, surfing baking websites and trying to keep a promise.

last saturday's joy

Shuai Ye

It's better to walk to the yoga place - find yourself five minutes away at 10 when the class is to begin - and back, than to not go out at all, I think. In the park I met Teacher Liu with his wife and granddaughter, and another erhu player who urged me to pick the instrument up occasionally so as not to lose the skills. I think I've already lost the skills, I told him. Nonsense, he said. You can't lose them, they're still there in your head.

nothing wrong with that

Yesterday I bought an electronic (sorry Tim, but I AM still grinding my coffee by hand?!) scale. Back at the tiny shop that I'd found before. The exceptionally friendly boss recognized me right away. Her husband was there this time, and funny! He thought I was English. I said US. He said, mmm, the US and England "耍得很好" (play well - the way you talk about the relationship between close friends or a couple). I laughed hard with them and found myself opening up when they asked the usual questions. I'm not married, but I have a boyfriend. He's from Nanchong. "Does he treat you well?" the immediate question from the woman. And then the usual about how Sichuan men “下厨房” (enter the kitchen) and are "怕耳朵" (fear being pulled around by their ears). I avoided the potential extent of that conversation, and let myself delight instead, in how she loved his jokes. I didn't really get any more after that first one, but I enjoyed them all, watching her eyes light up as she laughed.

we two both foreigners here

I take it as a compliment that the couldn't-have-been-13-year-old (he claimed he was 15) overdid the grilling of the two tiny lamb kebabs . . . we were having such a fine time chatting. American movies and such. When I climbed up out of the underground Uni-mart,  he had taken off his belt and was swinging it like numchucks, but quickly held it down beside him when he realized I was going to be a customer. 

We talked, me open and gently prodding, his curiosity getting the best of him. He was born here, but it's obvious that Mandarin is not his first language. Mine neither. It took us long minutes to try to communicate simple ideas. At first I mistook his shyness for disgust; he would turn his head down and away when I utterly missed the point. . . . but I was in that mood where laughter comes freely, and in the end we were friends.