Sorry for the recent radio silence (is there an internet-equivalent for that phrase?). I have been really really busy lately as the end of the semester approaches, and I had to ban myself from using VPN-powered internet in order to keep focused and productive. I am going to take a break from the backlog ofposts in order to tell you about my life in its current state.

That… and because irony never escapes me.

Last week, I didn’t have water in my flat for three days. I have been without water for that long before, and it wasn’t too bad because I was warned about it beforehand. I was prepared. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—I was without water without warning. I know what you’re thinking: “But Mike, you’re an awesome Boy Scout, and a resourceful Peace Corps volunteer. Why on Earth would you be unprepared? Also, I’m glad to see you’re growing your hair out again. I always loved your long hair.”

Well, thank you. I just wish my hair would grow faster; it’s stuck in that in-between stage where it never really looks great. But, more importantly, that is a good question. Typically, I am the most prepared; I fill my washing machine with water when it is idle—just in case. However, I had just done laundry on Sunday, and forgot to fill it.

For the record, I did technically get a warning about the water going off. I received a text that read: “Store water. It will be off for 3 days.” Unfortunately, by the time I got that message and raced to fill my washing machine, I was already without.

It was a rough three days, but the worst part was it rained nearly non-stop for those three days. It rained more in the three days than it has the whole time I have been living in Lanzhou. It wasn’t all a downpour. Sometimes it was no more than a mist. Regardless, it was still more water than I had in my flat.

After Wednesday, it was on most of the time, with random four-hour blocks of nothing.

For clarification: the reason for such water interruptions is the colossally gargantuan amount of construction going on in front of my university. Many people have written about the speed in which construction changes China. I have seen it first-hand as construction evolves on the major road in front of my uni.

Then last Friday, I got an email informing me I wouldn’t have water this week either. This time it would be off from Monday until Thursday. Speaking with other volunteers, it seems that the ENTIRE CITY will not have water this week…

Which brings me to now. Monday. I considered taking screencaps of my Lanzhou friends’ facebook statuses. All of them are bemoaning, lamenting, or otherwise cursing our lack of water. It is quite frustrating.

My goals for this waterless week: One, grade 350 free-writing/journal entries. Two, focus on getting ready to run a half-marathon in two weeks. Three, try to organise a group of my students to compete in a frisbee tournament on Saturday. Four, stop focusing on the fact that my birthday is a month away (and the existential crises that accompany it). Five, keep grading those free-writes.

Let me tell you about my day…

I was supposed to observe one of my Chinese colleagues at eight this morning. I awoke at 7:15 to a severe la duzi fit—so I cancelled that. Regardless, I wanted to make the day worthwhile. I worked through the morning: washed a load of laundry, ironed my trousers, graded midterms, organised and tidied up my flat and even found a website to watch the last episode of The Walking Dead.

Other than cancelling to spend too much time on the porcelain throne, I would have to say all in all, a great morning. Then I left for a lunch date I had made with a couple of PCVs and another foreign teacher at my university. I successfully ordered some zi ran tudou pian over rice, and it was delicious.

At this point, China turned on me. It was no longer a good day...

After lunch, I returned to my flat about an hour before my 4:30 class, only to discover that I did not have my keys. I left them in my flat when I left earlier that day.

After calling my lunchmates to make sure I did not leave it anywhere, I called the Waiban (the persons responsible for taking care of the foreign teachers) and asked if they have an extra copy. She told me she did not know if there was an extra key, but I could meet her at five to look for one.

Well, that’s not going to work…

I explained the situation with my afternoon class—now about 30 minutes away—and she said I could come to her office right away, then. I ran down my seven flights of stairs and across campus to her office. As I got in the lobby and keyed the elevator, she called me back. Some other person would meet me at the storage room in twenty minutes.

Good thing I’m not in a hurry…

After getting directions to this mystery storage room, I walked across campus, stressing. I waited. I called the class monitor and explain the situation. I did not want to cancel class just yet; they were only taking the midterm, which took the previous class only an hour of the two-hour class.

The class monitor informed the class, and they were going to wait. I paced in front of this storage building for what felt like an eternity. As the clock struck 4:30, an old woman teetered up and laughed at me with a thick Gansu-accent. We entered the storage room, where a multitude of keys were hung. None of these keys were marked with my room number.

Good news…

The woman asked me for my room number again as she looked through a key ring for the fifth time. It had other keys for my building, but none belonged to my room. She decided to take the entire ring, plus a couple random unmarked keys. Now, we were walking back to my flat.

We were walking back to my flat at an elderly-China pace…

I do not usually mind people who amble along at a promenadingly slow pace, but at this point in my life, I was stressed about the predicament I put myself in, and was in a bit of a hurry. She was the most plodding of amblers. We made it up my seven flights of stairs—after she took a break from being winded—to discover my hypothesis was correct: none of those keys are for my door.

Calling the Waiban back, she decided that she could succeed where this other woman has failed, so it was back to the storage room. (Here, I like to imagine this happened with one of those old Batman sound effects; then I can pretend another half hour had not passed.)

I wish…

My Waiban arrived to discover the same thing I explained to her over the phone—there was no key. She called another man who works in the Waiban office. No answer. She sent him a text. At this point, another foreign teacher walked past, who apparently had a package in the Waiban office.

He wanted to go retrieve it immediately; he said it was from his father, and he was excited to receive it. We get a text message saying there should be another key to my flat in a box—a box located in the Waiban office.

So we are returning to where this all began…

This walk, I openly discussed my situation with the other foreign teacher, expressing copious amounts of stress at the time crunch I had found myself in. These oh-so-subtle hints went unnoticed; again we amble.

Taking the achingly slow lift to the seventh floor office, we found the box. We located a ring marked with my room number. I pulled the key off. I thanked her graciously and tore out of the building faster than the little coat on Chris Farley.

The next question: is there enough time…

As I sprinted across campus, I noticed it was 5:20. I could get back to class with the tests with just an hour for my students to complete them. This was not an ideal situation, but still better than trying to reschedule a class—probably the most recent labour of Hercules.

Also, as I sprinted up seven flights of stairs, I sent a text my class monitor—not easy to do while climbing stairs in a fury—informing him of the situation. I asked him to arrange the students in testing seating, with space between each student. I threw open my door. Luckily, when I was straightening up earlier in the day, I put all of the things I needed for class in my bag.

Maybe my luck has turned, and this will work out…

I flew back down the stairs. I sprinted back across campus. I made it to class at 5:35. I hurriedly apologise and open my bag. My heart sank. Apparently my luck had not changed. The answer sheets for the test were missing-in-action. My students gasped at the look of anguished frustration on my face.

Still wanting to avoid rescheduling as time ticks by, I improvised. I decided I would just give them the test papers and tell them they can write on them. Sure, it will be more difficult to grade, but then I can save some face and they can still finish the test.

I passed out the tests, only to discover I did not have enough. The day before, I threw some of the tests out because students wrote on them after I told them not to. I was short ten tests.

Clearly, my luck would not turn…

My class monitor, without missing a beat, jumped up to go make the copies. He came back with them in a short enough amount of time, but given the already tumultuously delaying event, some of my students would only have twenty-six minutes to complete the test.

I stayed about twenty minutes after class was supposed to end while a few students finished. It was the least I could do after creating such a stressful test day…

Hours later, as I sit and write this, I’m still upset. I can’t believe the series of unfortunate events that caused such a day. I skipped dinner, irritated.

***

That was 1 November 2011. Notice, I didn't write anything from the first day of the semester, 5 September, until this monstrosity of a day (a couple published updates aside). I wasn't kidding when I said writing is hard.

I wrote this on 5 September, right after teaching my first class. Enjoy...

I have a confession to make: I love teaching.

I had to tell someone. My first class as a teacher at a Chinese university went dreadfully, but I don’t even care. I love teaching. I don’t know if there’s a greater feeling than being an educator.

I guess I’m getting ahead of myself…

I’ve been in Lanzhou four days now (I think). I got my schedule and have been going nuts stressing out about my classes. I don’t think I’ve ever been nervous about being a teacher before. Nothing at all like this.

Seriously, I’ve been going stir-crazy, absolutely terrified that my classes and my teaching would be a disaster. Any and every bad scenario has played out in my head at least twice.

Then I got in front of my students.

Then everything was okay.

The class, in retrospect, didn’t go well logistically. And the book I’d created my curriculum from, as it turns out, is not the book that my students have. It turns out I’ve been misinformed.

But it doesn’t matter. What matters is I was in front of my students. I got my first opportunity to interact with them, connect with them. That’s what education is about for me. Even if they don’t remember every last thing I taught them—not that I know what those things will be, given this book situation—they will still walk away with a great deal of knowledge.

I think, more so than anything else, the Peace Corps and its mission really allows for that to ring true.

I knew this is what I wanted to do.

As frustrated as I was during PST about not having the ability to post my blogs, this exercise of posting them months later has been quite delightful. I have enjoyed being able to look back and review/reflect on what I was going through. Even if the post was nothing more than a snapshot of the instant when my fingers were on the keys, it has been interesting to compare my thoughts and feelings from then to now. The following is one of those snapshots—digitally scribbled as I transitioned to the toughest job I'll ever love.

And, as a blogistic note (you see what I did there??), the backlog of blogs is nearly finished. I'm ashamed to admit that I did not write a lot during my first semester of teaching. In the coming weeks, expect those blogs, then the most recent blogs about my travel and vacations. Hopefully, I'll be posting in real-time before the semester is over.

***

It’s nearly midnight. I rock back and forth with the train. I cannot sleep on trains, I’ve learned—even though the two babies below have finally fallen asleep. Now seems like as good of a time as ever to take some time and reflect.

I am officially a Peace Corps volunteer. I am on my way to Lanzhou to settle into my apartment. My apartment. After two long months of a travelling, transitional limbo, I no longer have to live out of my suitcase. I said goodbye to my host family, and will be saying hello to a vacant apartment. My apartment.

My apartment? Other than a dorm room, I’ve never really lived on my own. Now I have my own apartment in China. But I guess all college professors live in apartments if they don’t own a house.

I am technically a professor at a university—Lanzhou Jiaotong University, to be specific. (Ed note: I realise I'm not actually a professor. They don't use that word here; I'm just a teacher. However, I can dream, can't I?) I don’t know my schedule yet. All I know is that I’m going to be teaching a class about culture to post-graduate students. How often do 24 year olds teach post-graduate students?

I realise age doesn’t really matter, but it has been on my mind a lot. At my training site, which from my understanding was one sorted to be full of teachers with lots of experience, I was the second-youngest trainee. Humbled to be there with so many great teachers, I guess I have been pretty conscious of my age since coming to China; I am “the young one”.

Young or old, the people at my training site have become some of my greatest friends. I realise it’s much easier to bond when going through mutual stress—like moving to China or the like—but I just revel in how awesome my fellow volunteers are. For every odd quirk or preference I have, I’ve met someone who shares it: things like listening to NPR, reading poetry, doing crossword puzzles, obsessing about Frisbee and Scrabble. I’ve played more Scrabble in China than I typically play in a year.

I just finished a game of Scrabble; it was probably the best game of Scrabble I will ever play. They turned the lights out on the train, and so I decided to play the AI on my Kindle (my friends on the train decided to turn in early). I usually lose to the computer; it’s tough to beat.

For fear of people accusing me of telling a

Scrabble tall tale, I documented the board;

my score is in the top corner.

I start the game with a Bingo. I couldn’t believe my luck. I played really well after such a stunning beginning. I can proudly say that I never scored a round in the single digits. It was double-digits the whole game. I even managed another Bingo later in the game, and I landed that Bingo on a Triple Word Score. I ended the game with a score of 406. I rarely score in the 300s, let alone breaking 400. Although, I was playing by myself, so no one will believe that it ever happened.

I haven’t had time to do anything by myself in a while. These last weeks of PST have been chaotically busy. Ever since Biden’s speech, I have been hella-busy. This is the first time I’ve really had to sit down, write, remember and try to process things.

The busyness has affected my ability to remember things. One thing in particular I could never remember was my camera. It seemed like I forgot to bring it to nearly everything, which is such a frustrating feeling. My friends have been taking tons of photos, so I am going to try and get some from them. However, it’s just frustrating not to have my own.

Emerging from the frenzied ending to PST, I find myself with so many stories to tell—my own observations and experiences. Lots of them are random anecdotes: silly things I witnessed or ridiculous things I’ve done. I wonder how and to whom I should tell these stories. They’re just little snippets of my Chinadventures.

Would people read little, random paragraphs about things I have done? If they were short, more people probably would; although, I tend to overwrite everything—especially when I tell stories, because I have a tendency to provide more detail than is necessary, then litter it with commentary.

I assume that is why I’ll never be a successful writer. However, as of now, I’m far more worried about being a successful teacher. I don’t know why I am nervous. I’ve never been nervous about teaching before. I love teaching.

PST, in its conclusion, brought with it many more emotions than I ever expected. Some of them I could explain, others will probably never make sense to anyone but other volunteers.

Sorry this ended up being as wordy as it did; you can blame Scrabble. I just needed to get some things off my chest, I guess. There’s always more to say, I just hope I can find the words to say it.

Below is a blog I wrote on 24 August. At the time, it was meant to be a smattering of updates about what I had been doing. Now, I guess you can read it as a smattering of highlights from my last couple weeks of training.

***

I’m currently listening to “Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)”. I always love this song, but it is, at the moment I write this, appropriately topical. The power is out.

My host father is the only one home. He and I ate dinner together with what natural light was still present on a cloudy day at 6:30 in the evening. He speaks no English, and I speak so little Chinese, I should default to none. Other than the rain and thunder outside, it was a silent meal.

After dinner, with a cool breeze coming in, he and I played a game of Chinese chess. I am slowly learning (or he is just taking it easy on me because I’m such a novice). He beat me. He always beats me.

Training has been remarkably busy this week. It’s only Wednesday, and yet I am at a Friday level of exhaustion. You can tell by our smiles, we're all

pretty excited to see the Veep speak.

Sunday, I saw VicePresident Biden speak at Sichuan University. I sat direct centre, second row. I don’t mention that only to brag, but for my brother. Tim and I got an opportunity to see Obama speak while he was campaigning, and we sat second row, centre.

I was caught zoning out

before the swear-in started.Monday, I was technically sworn in as a volunteer? The newly appointed Ambassador to China was still in Chengdu because of Biden’s visit, and he could not make it back for our swear-in ceremony in a couple weeks. We have had part of the ceremony, and will have the other part at the end of training, as scheduled.

Tuesday was a long day. We had our official security and safety sessions about sexual assault and rape. Things were hypersensitive because of the recent media coverage of PC assault cases. After a draining, serious day of that, we partook in what could only be described as the most epic Ultimate Frisbee extravaganza China has ever seen. So many people were playing.

It was great.

I despise the hyperbolic use of the word epic, so trust me when I say it was epic. About 32 of the 78 volunteers (and a few staff member) turned out to play after the long day. We played for nearly two hours. Big teams, small teams. Every iteration of teams. Each person playing was fantastic at frisbee. No person was carrying their team. Epic, indeed.

***

Below are some additional photos taken during these weeks. Some are mine, others are from my friend Amanda and Zhou Xiang, our site manager at Sichuan Normal University.

We were not allowed to have our

camera during Biden's speech, but

we got to stand on stage afterward.My friends Amanda and

Nick are clearly excited.On the way to our swear-in,

I had to teach my friend how

to tie a tie. Swearing in...Ambassador LockeGroup photo!

My friend Amanda (seen above) took

quite a few frisbee photos, so I

thought I would include them here.China is making me fat.

Even if this was taken on a different

day, frisbee in China has been pretty

epic.

Editor's note: I wrote this blog on 22 August.

Nearing the end of PSTfeels like I’m reliving the last month of college. Everyone is coming to therealisation that these times we cherish will not last forever. PST is only thebeginning of our Peace Corps journey, and like the colon blinking on my alarmclock, every moment is gone in an instant, another taking its place. Everylaugh, joke, memory: blinked away—the blinking of my clock no different thanthe blinking of my eyes...

Watching our languageteachers blink away tears after laughing at my inspiring interpretive dance... Mylaughter later joining theirs when they ask me if I’ve ever had dance training—theynoticed I pointed my toe really well...

Amidst various levels ofsinging, we blink through squints, trying to read the words on the KTV screenwhile belting like a karaoke champion...

Blinking astonishment fromfriends as I rap the entirety of Eminem’s “Without Me”, only looking back atthe words once...

Cutting a moment’s blinkin half, I flash a wink at a friend staring at me...

My computer is on theblink every time I attempt to send an email...

Blink.

Our group hangs on everysecond. I lose myself in thought, watching the blinking of my friend’s digital-facedwatch. He never wears it in class—only leaves it sit on the table if he’s notspinning it around his pen.

With each blink, we getcloser to saying goodbye to the friends we’ve made. Friends forged throughlike-minded aspirations, lengthy safety sessions and waiting... lots and lots of waiting...

Can you count how manyblinks exist in a single day? Can one count the number of culturalinteractions—somewhere on the spectrum of failure to success—we have faced?Each one helped us grow as individuals, but more so as friends.

Like eyelids, we werebrought together. We have connected and bonded, but like each blink, we willnow be separated. One cannot see with their eyes closed.

This is me, being serene.

Notice my favourite

Chengdu food?Looking back through my written blogs, after Model School, there is a break. After a bit of thought, I remembered this was the most anxious time of PST—we were interviewing to determine our site placement. Then, that fateful Wednesday, we all met for a long morning (that no one remembers) before being given our placements after lunch.

Everyone was so nervous. I tried to approach the day with serenity. There was nothing I could do to affect where I was going, so why worry about it. The Peace Corps goal was to choose a school where I could flourish. I trusted them to do just that... I mean, my other option was to go home? Not happening. I remember how electric with anticipation the room was—not a loud stadium electric, though. It seemed like most everyone was quiet and reflective with their emotional amalgamation of excitement and dread.

I had my Kindle ready. I promised friends and family back home I would live-update facebook and twitter as soon as I knew where I was going. In hindsight, this ended up being an unknowingly introverted decision. While everyone else was flying around the room to see where their friends were headed for the next two years, I was hunched over my Kindle, reflecting and typing; by the time I had successfully updated both, much of the buzz had died down (it is labour-intensive task to type on the Kindle's keyboard).

As it would turn out, I was headed north to Gansu province, the one place most volunteers talked about not wanting to go. At the time, I was ambivalent. If my first month in China had taught me one thing, it was to avoid expectations, because they will never be accurate. And in no time, we were all headed away from Chengdu to the new horizons of our future sites. We spent a week visiting and staying with a new host family, the goal being to start integrating into our new campus community and get some ideas of what we will be teaching in the fall.

The long break in my writing was caused by this excitement, then my week in Lanzhou. I found that I only wrote one thing during my time visiting site. It was an email. The email was to Fred Berger.

Fred and I at Kitty Hawk.I met Fred as a student at my alma mater, Saint Joseph's College. He is a professor of Communications, but I met him through Habitat for Humanity. Even though I never had the honour of Fred as my teacher, still he had one of the greatest impacts on my collegiate life...

Fred, in Guatemala.When packingfor China, I grabbed a notebook under my bed I’ve not used in years, thinkingan extra notebook cannot hurt. During my site visit, I took this notebook with me. I wasn’t going to have my laptop for the week, soI thought it could serve as a place for me to write down thoughts,observations, new Chinese words... whatever. WhenI opened the notebook in Lanzhou, I discovered this was the notebook I boughtin Guatemala to use as my personal Habitat journal.

Reading that journal was what motivated my email. Below is just an excerpt from it.

Rereading [my Guatemala journal] was quite the trip. Haha! Part of it reads like themanifesto to a “Fred Berger” fan club... If I wasn’t embarrassed about how gushing parts of it were, I’d askyou to read it.

Acouple of things really stuck out to me now as noteworthy. During a portion ofit, I was writing about a discussion you were having with the group, and I talkat length about ethnocentricity. I clearly tried to remember and writeeverything you said, but ended the paragraph with, “Fred says it’s somethingtaught in Core 7. Even though we’re currently in Latin America, Fred’s Chinastories are always much more fascinating”.

Thereis another portion where I talk about lengthy conversation you and I had at thework site. I don’t know if you remember, but you and I were bending pieces ofmetal into a C-shape to wrap around the rebar that was going to reinforce thewalls of the house (my journal entries have a fairly vivid attention todetail). I do remember talking with you that day, because I remember beingincredibly amused. You told me that the only reason you’d remember youranniversary was because the date was 6-7-08. In my journal on this day, I explain thatafter talking to you, not only was really considering travelling andvolunteering as two things I wanted to do with my life, but even though I “hadnever thought about it at any significant length or with any seriousness”,after hearing you talk about it, I actually wrote “the Peace Corps was something Ishould consider doing after I graduate”.

I do not know if many people can pinpoint inspiration to the exact moment in time when it happened, but when I did, it was humbling. I often say that I'm living the dream, and when I was in Lanzhou for the first time, I knew who to thank for giving me the courage to dream it. If you are ever around the Rensselaer area, he and his amazing wife are the innkeepers of a wonderful bed and breakfast. It would be remiss of you not to stop.

The only way the weekend of 23 July could have been better: if I would have miraculously developed the ability tobe fluent in Mandarin Chinese.

Okay, so there may a bitof hyperbole there. For instance, I did spend the weekend battling my first serious boutof diarrhea. However, I knew the Runny-Dee would make an appearanceevery now and again. (Sadly, it’s not the good stuff kids go for.) A couple ofmy friends even gave me some anti-diarrheal medicine as a going away present(thanks again). But ignoring that fact altogether—as I am sure a lot of youwant to, wondering why I would bring it up at all—my weekend was justoutstanding.

Other than theheat/humidity-plus-sweater vest combo, Friday was a pretty easy and relaxingday: always a great omen for the weekend to come. After dinner, I went with myhost father and brother to play ping-pong. I’m not good at ping-pong, but theytook it easy on me.

Saturday morning, I sleptin. It was glorious. It was raining when I awoke, so the morning was lazilyspent finishing lesson plans for Model School. (Clearly, China’s done somethingto me; the last time I was productive on a Saturday morning, I woke up at sevento watch a Power Rangers marathon.) During breakfast, my little host brothertold me we were going to go to an arcade in the afternoon, and I was going toeat huoguo for the first time.

Huoguo isliterally translated as fire pot, and—for those of you who chose not to clickon that link and read about it (which is fine; link-clicking isn’t foreveryone)—is a traditional Chinese meal that consists of cooking things in avat of boiling oils and seasonings in the middle of your table (similar to anoil fondue).

If there was something Iwas scared of coming to China, it was hot pot. I read about so many horrorstories: the best came from a story about eating it, and I quote, “you haven’treally been in the Peace Corps until you soil yourself”. PC said that if therewas one thing that made volunteers ill more than anything else, it was this.Partly because it is so spicy, but also because there is a danger when you areresponsible for cooking your own meat by holding it in boiling oil withchopsticks. After the fact, I cannot judge anyone who ate something before itwas finished cooking if only to stop the heat from burning his or her knuckles.(And with the ghost of Runny-Dee’s past already visiting, my tentativeness wason high alert.)

The meal. It was a verylong, slow process; it was a learning experience. I can also mark more foodsoff of my “I would never eat that, but now that I’m in China, I may as well tryit” list. I ended up eating with another volunteer, which was a pleasantsurprise. (This isn’t the first time my family has done that, either. It feelsalmost like they are scheduling play dates for me, but I’m grateful; I was gladto pop my huoguo-cherry with anotherPCV.)

Looking back, I cannoteven remember everything that happened during the meal. It was a blur of boilingoils, heat and my burning mouth. The first thing I tried was comparable tobacon (this was what I held in the oil with chopsticks, only to have myknuckles burn). At one point, there was a small fish in my bowl. There was someother seafood that was pretty tasty. Quail eggs. The most notable consumptionof the meal was the duck blood. When it entered the oil, I swear it lookedexactly like cherry Jell-O; when it came out, it looked like grey. It was nolonger Jell-O, but the monster lurking under Jell-O’s bed at night. Theyinsisted that I did not have to eat it if I did not want to, but I wanted totry it. When in Rome, right?

It just tasted like thefire it came out of. I did not notice any distinctive flavouring, other thanthe same spices that came from the hot pot itself. What makes huoguo spicy is what makes all ofSichuan known for its spicy cuisine: the Sichuan numbing pepper. That is notactually what it’s called, but that is how most of the PCVs refer to it, so thename stuck. Huajiao looks like asmall popcorn kernel, but if you eat one, imagine you put your tongue on anine-volt battery. Your mouth is filled with a numbing, tingling sensation.

Oh man: you’re 750 wordsinto this blog post, and I’m still talking about my lunch on Saturday. LONGESTBLOG POST EVER.

The arcade was locatedwithin what they told me was a “department store”. it was a five-story mall.Being from small-town Indiana, I’ve always had a soft spot for the mallculture. I hope to go back another time and just wander around for a while (note: later in training, this did mall did become a meet-up and hang out spot for some of us). Iwas devastated to find that Chinese arcades do not have skee-ball. Chinesearcades do have a lot of those shooting basketball games, racing games, andTekken 6. Li Yanxi (my little host brother), I learned, loves racingsimulators. He’s not good at them, but man does he love to play them. The onlyracing game I played was Mario Kart, and I rocked it like a hurricane (am I too young for that reference?). After hours of arcade fun,I thought the day would end. That was foolish of me... From there, we went to Jinli street, a part of Chengdu developed and restored to architecturally lookas the city did in Ancient China (read: touristy). Okay, that’s not entirelyfair; read “touristy” without the pejorative context. Chengdu is a city thatboasts a very long history, and Jinliis meant to reflect that. Also, most of the people there were simply visitingfrom other parts of China, not waiguoren.

We spent the entireafternoon, evening and night at Jinli.I saw people making small wax figurines, blowing candy and molding it intoanimals of the Chinese Zodiac, cooking all sorts of identifiable andunidentifiable food products. There was also a Starbucks and Dairy Queen builtinto the façade of the streets. That evening, I ended up eating what I count astwo and a half meals. Walking up and down a street with literally nothing butfood shoppes (here is a lack of hyperbole; that is an accurate use of“literally”), my host-father continued to buy me different things to try. Wearyof seeing the ghost of Runny-Dee’s present, I tried to politely refuse what I could. Aftereating the spiciest noodles I have tried since arriving in China and trying tocool it with a sweetened tofu pudding/water, it was then time to go have aformal dinner. I met another volunteerafter dinner—two play dates in the same day!—and we walked around some more. Imanaged to draw another crowd, but this time it was on purpose. There was acart peddling puzzles, many resembling those wooden-style ones that can bepurchased at your local Cracker Barrel. However, there were also a number ofknock-off Rubik’s Cubes. I did not bring mine to China, so I had been looking forone. They were grossly overpriced, but in my exchange with the shopkeep, Inoticed he had a mixed-up Mirror Cube next to his toilet paper.

A Mirror Cube works justlike a Rubik’s Cube, but instead of colour differences, the squares aredifferent sizes. It solves exactly the same way, but unless you have thespatial reasoning of Jason Bourne’s cartographer cousin, it is considerably moredifficult to solve. Despite only being sold in Japan, I’ve had some experiencesolving them (thanks to my enigmaphile of a brother who owns one black market,no big deal). I took it from him and began solving it, trying to communicate tohim that he should give me a discount when I finish solving it for him. As Iworked on the cube, people took notice and stared. Each step I solved from thenon out, I would point it out to the onlookers; they would emit noises ofdelight. The oohs and ahhs increased until I completed it, drawing a round ofapplause.

It was a late night, butluckily I slept in again the next day (PC didn’t give us many two-day weekendsduring training, so I took full advantage of it). After another late breakfastand productive morning, my host-family told me that we were going to go to apark to exercise and ride bikes. Initially, I was weary—on another occasion, mylittle host brother said exactly that same thing, so I donned athletic shortsand a cut-off shirt, and we ended up at the Wenshu Buddhist Temple—but was excited at theidea of spending time at a park and exercising. (With all of the terrifyinghealth talks PC has given us about the pollution in China, I’m consideringgiving up exercising for two years for fear of developing serious lungproblems.)If you didn't believe me.

I cannot say I actuallyknow the name of the park I went to, but it was wonderful. The sign in thefront only had “LOHAS” and “greenway” surrounded by Chinese characters. LOHAS Iknow stands for “lifestyles of health and sustainability”, and with all of thegoogling I have done, I gather that “greenway” is a Chengdu initiative toprovide cycling/walking paths throughout the city and connecting with itssuburbs. Regardless, it was awesome. We rented bicycles and toured the area. Itwas like a very large area with many different groves and gardens, growing allsorts of fruits and flowers. Part of the adventure also went through abeautiful birch forest. It was so gorgeous and I enjoyed it so much, it didn’teven bother me that every third person I biked past shouted “haalllooo!” at me.When I took this shot, I was

actually trying to get a photo

of the back of her shirt.

After such an exhaustingafternoon, we returned home. My family recently discovered that I am a big teadrinker, so they boiled a pot of water, and we sat down together and had anafternoon teatime with some freshly sliced xigua(that’s watermelon; food is really the only Chinese vocabulary I have a handleon, so I use it frequently). It was wonderful, because before my family calledme to get tea, I had picked up the crossword book I brought with me. I spent mySunday in China doing exactly the two things I loved to spend my Sundays in theStates doing: drinking tea and doing crosswords.

The rest of Sunday was asmall dinner—I ate a lot of xigua—readyingmy lessons to teach Monday, and beginning to write this Godzilla of a blog postby finding a way to politely mention diarrhea: which ended up a terriblereference to a kids’ drink. Although, to be fair, it was almost a Run DMC joke,so I would like to think I made the right decision.

(ed note: I have more photos, but they'll have to come later. The internet's disagreeing with me right now.)Li Yanxi bought an opera

mask; how do I look? I enjoy flower pictures,

and so should you.

No one said training was going to be easy—in fact, quite the opposite. All of the PC literature I read always used the word “intensive” in reference to pre-service training (PST). And on top of that, China’s PST is an entire month shorter than typical training programmes in other countries. All of this adds up to what can be a very overwhelming and very exhausting experience.

One of the more important aspects of PST for volunteers working in education—besides learning the language you are going to need to survive for the next two years—is a process called model school.

Unfortunately, model school has nothing to do with Tyra, and I’m nowhere closer to becoming America’s Next Top Model. It does, however, have EVERYTHING to do with giving us an opportunity to practice developing a curriculum and lesson plans for an oral English class. Most of us have teaching experience—my site, in particular, is loaded with teachers—but few of us in teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL). (The Peace Corps loves its acronyms.)

We had taken many TEFL classes leading up to, and in preparation for, model school. We partnered up; then designed a curriculum to teach for the two-week duration. My partner was an incredible Texan who spent the last three years teaching AP Economics, and after deciding a unit on poetry may be too difficult, designed a curriculum about travel.

Our board on the first day. As you

can see, it was going to be an

exciting day.

Our classroom was challenging from the get-go because we were immediately thrown a curve ball. Instead of the high school-age students we were told we were going to teach, they decided since Amanda and I were both incredible, flexible teachers (read: suckers), we would be the best to handle a classroom of twelve year olds. We handled it like champs, but it was stressful going in, as we had to retool all of our lessons to accommodate younger, less fluent students.

Just like teaching in the States, each day brought different challenges and different successes. I found that my young male students disliked Justin Beiber quite a bit, so any time any of them goofed off, or were apprehensive about participating in an activity, I just started calling them “Beiber”. They were instantly more apt to working.

Me and my model school students.Chinese students, from what I’ve been told as well as my observations, are not unwilling to learn; they are apprehensive about participating and being active in the classroom. So much of the pedagogy the United States holds dear about active- and collaborative-learning environments does not exist in the Chinese classroom. Their classes are an entirely teacher-centric dissemination of information, where the students are expected to learn passively through lecture and note taking; from what I can tell, students rarely even ask questions of their Chinese teachers. For anyone who has ever taken any kind of foreign language before, that kind of one-way instruction is not epistemologically sound—no one develops language skills in such a fashion.

(Sorry that last paragraph got a little teacher-talky… I needed to remind myself that I’d taken an educational psychology class.)

In the end, it was a good experience to see what I could and could not get my students to do. Gauging their reactions to certain activities will hopefully help me be more prepared when I start teaching permanently.

***

The greatest thing that came

out of the model school

experience was the discovery

of my favourite childhood

snack being sold nearby.At the risk of sounding too cynical, it didn't. In hindsight, the experience did not prepare me for anything, other than expecting and preparing for one thing and getting another and having to deal with it and adapt without any warning.

However, please do not interpret what I said negatively. On the contrary, my feelings are just the opposite. I am so thankful my actual teaching position for the next two years is nothing like what Model School was. I do not have to teach them vocabulary or basic grammar. I am blessed with higher-level English majors. Most of them care a great deal about learning the language and try very hard to succeed at everything, which has been a delight. Instead, I get the pleasure of teaching culture and writing. Last semester, I taught a post-graduate class that focused solely on Modernist literature. We explored the translation of Ezra Pound's "The River Merchant's Wife" and compared it to the original. I taught juniors about the joys of Greek theatre while they sat on the school's miniature outdoor amphitheatre (which I have a picture of on my other hard drive, so I'll post it when you check back on Wednesday).

Today is a special day. It is a momentous occasion very dear to me. Today is a hallowed celebration of every great, circular mind ever to consider the impending greatness of nature, and that says nothing of the fact that it is Einstein’s birthday.

Today is 14 March 2010.

Today is Pi Day.

I LOVE Pi Day. I love it so much I had to use capital letters to better express the severity of my love. I have done something to celebrate Pi Day every year since high school (yeah, I’m pretty cool). In college, I surprised one of my math professors—who never took kindly to my shenanigans, I might add—with those Little Debbie Pies for our entire class. Last year, I bought a pie from Martin’s and shame-ate it for dinner.

The greatest Pi Day celebration came while I was studying in London. Upon mentioning my adoration for the holiday, my ambitious and amazing friends said we should just make a pie ourselves. We googled a recipe, bought the supplies and had a fantastic evening.

This year, again finding myself out of the country, I decided I should again attempt the terrifying task of baking a pie. Don’t fret; this will not be a hive-inducing account of my endeavour. Instead it will be a charming tale of success and whimsy.

As I mentioned in the aforementioned hive-inducing post, my kitchen is less than ideal. My knowledge and skills with an oven are even less competent than my stovetop abilities. Couple that with my hand-me-down toaster oven, and I was fairly nervous. Something was going to go wrong.

So, to alleviate my anxiety, I reached out to another Lanzhou PCV—the amazing Courtney—who is not only knowledgeable in the realm of baking, but has proven it time and again, bringing delicious baked goods to our many potlucks. I asked her some questions referencing various recipes I had poured over online. Her response not only answered my questions, but extended an invitation to tag-team the pie at her place, where all the necessary ingredients were already gathered.She's making it up as she

goes, and it's perfect

Deal.

Today was a particularly occupied day personally, so the preparations and production of Pi Day’s eponymous and pleasantly palatable pie took place previously. And by previously, I mean yesterday.

Mmmm. Doughball.The crust was a simple combination of shortening, flour, salt and water. We didn’t have an actual measuring cup (because I left mine in my flat), so we improvised the amounts, and with Courtney’s experience, it wasn’t a problem. I wish I could tell you what kind of apples they were, but I bought them off the back of a truck outside my university.

Adding that bit of ginger

was a stroke of genius.After the apples were washed, pealed and chopped, we squeezed some lemon juice over them and added just a pinch of fresh, grated ginger. We tossed them in a mixture of flour, sugar and cinnamon. (If there was one thing I could do over, I would have discovered the brown sugar in her pantry sooner and added it to this mix.)Mmmm. Apple filling.

When we rolled out the crust, it was a tad difficult, but we managed. I had a glass platter in my flat that looked close enough to a pie tin, so we used that. Crust on the bottom, then a filling full of delicious apples. Apparently, it’s good to put a bit of butter over the apples before adding the top of the pie. I learned that after we put the top on and Courtney realised we forgot.

Into the oven it went after a brushing of egg. Fast forward however long it took to bake… and it was done. It smelled marvellous. The before.The delicious after.

With the leftover crust and apples, we made a couple muffin-sized mini pies. Although, we wondered if they should be called tarts instead. They followed the pie into the oven, and smelled equally marvellous. As a reward for our efforts, we split one of the minis. What do you think?

Should it be called a tart?

I hope you enjoy your Pi Day. Even if you don’t bake your own pie, eat something circular, learn about the history of Pi, thank Leonard Euler for popularising the use of π and take the Pi Day Challenge.

I washed while Courtney handled

the dough.She was showing off while

I was using a peeler.The goal was to get a picture of

me cutting myself. Alas...The delicious mix, pre-apple. The delicious mix, post-apple.We peeled an extra apple? Don't mind if I do. I was told to poke holes in the bottom to help it cook

properly. Whaddya think? Quotation of the evening: "Instead of slits,

we'll just call these 'butter holes'!"

Editor’s note: Here's a blog I wrote on 17 July that I didn't have a better way to introduce.

My first impressions of Chengdu were mostly an awed terror. Admittedly, part of it was the exhaustion of travelling for thirty hours, but part of it was the overwhelming sensory overload of experiencing the city.

Being nearly midnight, I was astounded by how much activity was taking place. Outside of that Kanye video, the last time I saw that much flashing neon was when I was doing some evening shopping at Piccadilly Circus. There were western-looking skyscrapers next to ancient Chinese facades; there were brand new buildings next to dilapidated, crumbling structures next to buildings months in the making (fluorescently illuminated, I might add: I learned later that much construction takes place at night because of the soaring temperatures during the day). Bizarre juxtapositions around every corner—our fancy hotel was across the street from Hooters, to boot.

Venturing out during the day eliminated some of the visual stimulation, but replaced it with more pollution, and much more noise: the large growl of diesel busses; the rapid-firing horns on not just taxis, but every vehicle zipping down the road. You cannot go three minutes without hearing that quintessential car alarm made more (or less) tolerable by that old Dane Cook joke. (I learned after walking into one, the noise is not a car alarm, but a scooter alarm.)

However, ignoring the bright lights and tremendous noise, the single most astonishing thing about Chengdu is the traffic.

It reminds me of a more dangerous version of the traffic I saw in Cairo, actually. Many volunteers remark about how dangerous it is, and how terrifying it is to ride the bus or in a taxi and watch it. They say they do not mind that Peace Corps does not allow volunteers to operate motorized vehicles, because you could not pay them to drive in Chengdu. Between the buses and large trucks, the multitude of green taxis and personal vehicles, and compound all of that with the scooters, bicycles (motorized or not) and pedestrians, the traffic in Chengdu is chaos.

My host family does not own a car, so I’ve spent a lot of time going from place to place via bus and taxi. Any line on the road, sign or signal meant to direct traffic is more of a guideline than an actual rule. Every vehicle jockeys for position that will get them to their destination the fastest means necessary.

If Chengdu traffic is chaos, it is the type of beautiful chaos seen in the raging currents of a river. Everything seems to flow, finding a way downstream, from point a to point b. When I taught soil erosion experiments to Boy Scouts, we observed and discussed the path of least resistance the water will inevitably take. Traffic in Chengdu seems to follow unspoken rules of the road, where everyone accommodates others, while still looking out for number one. It is a successful combination of aggressive and defensive driving.

Driving down the road, lanes may multiply from two to four without reason; vehicles drift easily from lane to lane, swerving around slower cars or tricycles hauling a towering mass of something or another; quick horn blasts communicate a jockeying for right-of-way.

The traffic ebbs and flows, sometimes swirling as taxis make a U-turn to deliver passengers (regardless as to whether there is a U-turn lane or not). Jams will happen, but that’s to be expected when there is such a huge population of people on the road. Outside of jamming, I have not seen, nor heard, of any accidents taking place. (Editor’s note: Since the time this was written, I have seen one accident and come up on another after the fact.) With all of those stereotypes about Asians being terrible drivers, I have not seen anything but superb automotive handling. Maybe it’s our traffic rules that are too stringent?

I didn't run to the streets, but I did get a little wet.In the end, if the mean streets of Chengdu have taught me one thing, it is that the music we lovingly associate with ice cream trucks is not universal (I assumed it was after hearing it being played from the back of a bicycle selling ice cream in Guatemala). Here in China, that noise invokes the opposite reaction. Do not run toward the street looking for a tasty treat. Get away from the street because you are about to get blasted with water from the street sweeper coming up behind you. (Editor’s note: Now that I live in Lanzhou, I've discovered that the garbage trucks play "Jingle Bells".)

If I ever wanted to get adorabled to death, my chance came and went on .

My host family took me to the Giant Panda Research Centre (its other official name that appears on much of the literature: Chengdu Research Base of Giant Panda Breeding—I don’t know if I’m comfortable using the word breeding that many times in a single blog post). This was one thing that I knew I must do during my time in Chengdu, and needless to say I was excited about it. One of my dear friends, who is a fairly zealous animal-lover, would have been whole-heartedly chagrined if I did not visit the pandas while in Chengdu.

My family does not own a car. I appreciate this because it gives me experience navigating the bus system when we go places (or, alternatively, provides adequate exercise). It was a very long bus trip, which gave me plenty of time to make more observations about Chengdu and China.

Upon arriving, it was lunchtime; my family didn’t want to purchase expensive food from the restaurant inside the park, so we asked if there was one nearby. We were pointed down the road, and after a walk, we find a woman selling buckets of instant noodles, pouring boiled water in them upon each order. Nothing more. So for lunch, I believe I ate the Chinese equivalent to Ramen noodles. And what’s worse? I ate the Chinese equivalent to Ramen noodles with a fork. It was a remarkably foreign feeling.The one adult panda I saw

was sleeping indoors.

I knew going in that I wouldn’t see everything. A friend went the weekend previous and informed me that a lot of the pandas are lazy or hiding indoors when the weather is hot. And like every day this time of year in Chengdu, it was hot. Walking around the park was a joy, regardless. I was super disappointed initially because one of the red panda exhibits was completely closed; however, the second was open. It was amusing to see tons of park visitors, Chinese or otherwise, running along the sidewalks along the exhibit to catch a good photo of the red panda that scampered by.

I couldn't believe it, so I got proofRandom: Outside of the red panda exhibit, there was a peacock in a tree. I didn’t know peacocks could climb trees.

If there’s a moral to my story, it is that pandas are adorable. If you take anything from this post, let it be that. It was a wonderful day walking around. At the end of the day, we bought ice cream cones, and the top of mine fell on the ground. It was pretty sad.

I did manage to create one minor scene, because I didn’t have the foresight to figure out the Chinese word for what I wanted before I opened my stupid mouth. At one of the gift shops, I was perusing their wares, and wondered aloud if they had patches—my satchel could always use another one.

My little host brother speaks a tad bit of English. Not a lot: many simple verbs and a smattering of nouns. He wanted to help, so asked me what a “patch” was. He has a pocket, digital translator; it’s usually incredibly helpful. However, in this instance, I was worried. Patch could be a verb, and is probably more commonly a verb. When I was in Cairo, and they spoke fluent English, they didn’t understand “patch”. After I described it, I learned they typically called them badges. So fast-forward to now: I’m standing in a little gift shop. I am typically stared at, being a waiguoren—and a particularly tall, blonde one at that. However, now I’m slowing my words, simplifying my English in hopes of adequately describing “patch” after the digital translator is fruitless. A crowd is gathering. Li Yanxi hands me a magnet. My host mother comes over to try and help. She speaks more English, but is not fluent. After attempting another description—this time explaining it’s something I can sew—she asks if I need my clothing mended.

In the end, I walked away empty handed, and I gave some random Chinese folks a story to tell. There are no patches at the Giant Panda Research Centre, unless you count the black patches over their adorable eyes.

***

Also, I'm not fooling myself into thinking this is a post you're reading to enjoy my wit and banter, so below are more pictures from the day. I apologise in advance for their cluttered appearance. I am new to putting pictures in blogs, and therefore struggling trying to use the interface and layout the photos in an aesthetic way.

I saw more peacocks that day than I've seen my entire life.

There was this amazing pool of fish that would lose

their minds if someone threw in a piece of bread.

These young pandas were the most we could see.



One of my favourite pictures was this red panda sleeping in the tree.

I have seen the sun on two occasions since arriving in Chengdu; both occasions have been brutally hot, so despite my elation, there has been some level of unavoidable discomfort. However, on one of those days, I made a most joyous discovery, which lead to a realisation that has since helped me truly appreciate the little, fleeting joys life presents to us.

But before I get to all that, allow me to set the scene and explain some things...

I am completing my training on the campus of Sichuan Normal University. Training can mostly be defined by two words—demanding and exhausting. During a cherished moment of free time, I was exploring campus and made the discovery: a teashop beyond my wildest dreams.

The place is small, but the menu is large; if only I could read hanzi to adequately appreciate it. Since discovering it, I’ve tried to go every day. I am ordering by pointing to things on their menu.

One the day of discovery, I was tantalised by anything made with ice. Not only was I incredibly hot, but I’ve found that most people in China could not care less about the temperature of their beverages, and some even believe drinking cold liquid is bad for your health, so rarely is anything served cold. Enjoying a choco-mocha-heaven iced drink (I assume that is its name in Chinese), while my friend drinks a mango smoothie, the joy is overwhelming. However, in that moment, I have an awakening:

The tragedy of a cold drink is the longer you try to enjoy it, the warmer it gets.

In the next two years, I assume I’m going to have many moments of simple, small, unadulterated joy, but these moments are just that—moments. I will need to always remember to appreciate the ephemeral bliss of them, then keep going, living from one evanescent rapture to the next.

***

I wrote this on 14 July, two weeks into my service. I could not have been more right. Last week, I received a care package from my parents. I relived similar moments where I could do nothing but enjoy the taste of a small Ghirardelli square. It’s the little thngs…

Ed note: Here's my first attempt to backlog blogs I wrote before I had access to a VPN. This blog was written 9 July, 2011, four days after moving in with my host family.

After four days, they joked the honeymoon was over. They weren’t kidding… All right, that is a tad melodramatic, but Tuesday was a dramatic day: we met and moved in with our host families.

Part of the Peace Corps training here in China is living with a family to help facilitate learning and understanding of culture, as well as language learning. After four long days living out of a hotel, we were split into groups and sent to four different universities, where we will be continuing training for the next ten weeks.

Information dump aside, meeting our host families has been something we have been building up to for days. They gave little information about our families and lots of suggestions on how to cope, communicate and make the most of our stay. Anticipation was high as we herded ourselves into a room with signs bearing the names of our hosts, meeting smiling Chinese faces holding signs bearing our names.

With coupling anxiety comparable to the nerdy kid at the middle school dance (I remember it like it was yesterday), I found a young boy holding a sign with my name. We exchanged nervous “ni hao”s and I say hello. He giggles shyly and replies “hello”. Within a minute or two, communicating between his limited English and my negligible Chinese, I learn his name is Li Yanxi and he is twelve years old.

In an instant, I am following him back outside, only to meet his father, locate my bags and jam into a car. Riding shotgun, the driver bombards me with what I assume are questions, but it just sounded like Chinese. Yanxi tries to translate, telling me the man wants to know where I am from. When I say “United States”, he continues with the Chinese; the only word I recognise—because he says it four times—is “Obama”. He rolls up the windows, cranks the air conditioning, laughs at me for attempting to fasten my safety belt and offers me a cigarette, all while speeding away. Most importantly, “…Baby One More Time” was belting through the radio to soundtrack all of this happened.

The afternoon was a blur of nervous sighs and embarrassed laughter as we tried to communicate—searching through our respective Chinese/English dictionaries and pointing to words and symbols on Peace Corps-provided phrase lists. My host father was trying to be as accommodating as possible, and for that, I am grateful. My host mother had not been home at that point. (I learned later that she was working overtime at the Sichuan Normal University Library, preparing for a national inspection.)

After a tremendously delicious dinner, the evening was spent walking around where they live. It rained in the afternoon, so it was a most agreeable temperature outside. They showed me how to get to the university where I would need to be in the morning. I like the idea of recording my walk to school one morning, like one of my dear friends did on his vlog. Or, I did until I tried it. I learned I am incapable of walking or holding a camera level. Every recording I made was too bumpy, with more visual jostling than Cloverfield.

I’ve joked many times about not being an adult. Mostly, it’s banter, but sometimes I wonder if I really mean it, because there are lots of things I associate with adulthood that I either cannot do, or have never done. I wonder why I feel as though I need these life experiences to give myself the peace of mind.

The more I think about these “adult-making” experiences—these rights of passage—the more I think they are my attempts to emulate my father. Growing up, Mom had to work nights, which left Dad to deal with feeding my brother and I. This was never a problem, because my dad loves to cook. I have many memories of nights after band practice, or cross-country practice, or track practice, or theatre rehearsal, sitting on the sofa reading or doing homework while my brother played games on the computer. The television may be on, but if so, it was muted, because my father had some Steely Dan or blues radio cranked, cranked so he could enjoy it in the kitchen. He would be sipping on a glass of wine, or a beer, peeling or chopping, slicing or boiling, frying or baking. Even if it was an “easy” night with a frozen pizza (or two, if Tim and I were in-season), he was cutting up extra onions, peppers and olives and covering it all in extra mozzarella cheese.

It was a mystery the things he did (and still does) in the kitchen. When I was young, I guess I was always too scared to get in his way. I took it for granted that there was a chef preparing my dinners. (And, let the record state, my mother is also a phenomenal cook. Some nights, we would come home to find things already prepared: lasagna in the oven or a roast in the Crockpot; it was always delicious.)

Flash forward to college: I lived in a dorm, so I never cooked. I was on a meal plan. Cooking was still not necessary. That is, until my junior year, when I spent a semester living in London. That semester, I had to cook for myself. It was terrifying, but I found out I could make a mean chicken noodle soup with bouillon and carrots… so I ate that a lot. My other tactic was to team up and help my friends cook. They could do it well, so I learned some things from them.

Fast forward and I was living at home again, waiting for my Peace Corps application to be processed. Mom still worked nights; I was working at a high school, still coming home late from grading and lesson planning. When I got home, it’s déjà vu. Dad’s cooking and working his magic. I wanted to help. I had acquired some dexterity in the kitchen. Every time I prepared and cooked dinner, something went wrong. My father had to step in and help me out, or I was asking for it because I panicked. I was still a failure in the kitchen, but I was at least working along side my dad, trying to learn everything I could before I left the country.

Fast forward again, and follow me across the Pacific. I find myself with my own, albeit small, kitchen. The last volunteer who lived here told me he rarely cooked, because it was, “just easier to eat out, and just as cheap”. That’s totally true, but dammit, I want to cook. There are many things I hope to gain from my Peace Corps experience, and one of them is an ease and competency in the kitchen. So armed with the knowledge and experience from London, my father and that delightful Wii game Cooking Mama, the following is the narrative I wrote 17 November, 2011, after cooking my first meal in my flat.

***

I am afraid of cooking. I can’t do it. I’ve never been any good at it. However, I feel obligated to start doing it. Chinese food isn’t always the healthiest, especially most of the food I eat off the street. This is a way I can have more control of what I consume. I want to be healthy.

I’ve been avoiding actually cooking. I cleaned my kitchen over two months ago. Then I put off buying a frying pan or wok. You see, my kitchen doesn’t have a stovetop, which scares me even more. The very little experience I have in the kitchen is on a stove. Now, all I have is a half-busted hotplate and this wok I bought last week. I’ve never cooked on a hotplate, nor in a wok.

Because I have a wok (and because it seems simple enough), I’ve decided my first meal is going to be fried rice. How hard can it be, right? I have rice (of course I have rice), and I found some beautiful red bell peppers on the street today. It’s the first time I’ve seen bell peppers in China, so I bought a couple and some carrots. Thinking about fried rice I had at Chinese restaurants back home, I remember there being egg in it, so I bought a couple of those, too.

I have a rice cooker. I’m so glad I have a rice cooker. That makes that part of the process so much easier. Cup of rice and a cup of water into the cooker, then “set it, and forget it!” (Sorry, that’s a terrible reference.)

Peeling the carrots and chopping up the veggies, I can’t help but wonder if I’m using an appropriate amount. I guess it doesn’t really matter. However, I worry a lot when I cook. I’m so afraid I’m going to ruin it. In fact, I almost cut myself at one point because I was worrying instead of paying attention to the cutting I was doing. I’m using a big ole cleaver. My host-dad in Chengdu always used a cleaver, no matter what he was cutting or chopping. I assume that means I’m integrating, right? Not only am I preparing a Chinese meal, but I’m using a knife that my sensibilities tell me is too big because that’s how I’ve seen Chinese people do it.

Now that all the veggies are chopped, I guess it’s time to turn on the hotplate. I wasn’t sure what kind of oil to buy. Back home, my family uses olive oil for everything. I can’t verify this, but I think it’s because it is healthy. I wanted to get olive oil, until I saw the price. It’s apparently a luxury item here in China, so it’s not happening on my budget. I went with peanut oil because someone told me that fish oil pops more and smells bad.

Alright, oil is hot and the veggies are in. When I see people do this on the street, the wok is just as hot as can be, and they just constantly move the things around in the wok. I’m not that daring, so I’ll turn the heat down and stir occasionally. I wonder if I should season this stuff. I have salt, pepper, paprika, basil and oregano. It was here when I arrived, but because the last guy said he didn’t cook, I imagine it’s been here a while. I guess I may as well put some stuff in it. It can’t hurt, right? Those are famous last words, but in this context, I assume if it does hurt, it’ll just be my taste buds.

This is taking too long. I’m getting impatient. I’m going to turn up the heat. I want to cook these veggies more before I add the eggs.

This is going really fast. I feel like I’m having an anxiety attack. It’s hot and I’m stirring it around constantly. I guess it’s time to add the eggs. Should I turn the heat down? I mean, if I’m cracking eggs, I can’t be stirring at the same time. I’m not one of those crack-an-egg-with-one-hand people. I’ll leave it hot. I’ve never been good at cracking eggs, even with two hands. Again, I wonder how many I should use. Two sounds like a good number. Crack. Dump. No shell. Crack. Dump. No shell.

I chose poorly. I should have turned the heat down. I definitely burned the peppers and carrots a bit. Oh, well. It happens. I need to keep stirring this. The egg is sticking a lot. The rice cooker just turned off, so as soon as these eggs look cooked, I’ll add the rice.

I’m so dumb! Do I have the memory of a goldfish!?? I forgot to turn down the hotplate while adding the rice to the wok, and burned the eggs and veggies a bit. It’s not a lot. It just adds colour. Stir, stir, stir the rice. Don’t stop stirring. I want to fry the rice quickly and I’m done. Oh! I have an idea. Why don’t I add some soy sauce to the wok? That’ll make it taste better, I think.

Well, the soy sauce has made the rice change colour, but it’s now more the colour I remember fried rice being Stateside. That’s a good sign. I guess it’s “fried” enough. Time to serve it up and hope for the best. The plan is to enjoy this dinner with a glass or two of aloe juice (it was on sale at the supermarket) and watch SNL on my computer. ***

Dinner was a success that night, and the episode of SNL was pretty funny, too. In fact, since then, doing some sort of fried rice type of dish has been my go-to meal. It’s so easy to do, especially when the only pan I have is a wok.

Cooking for myself has been a learning process. I’m finding google to be a great resource if I have a question I need answered. However, better still is when I get a long email from my mom or my dad, giving me advice and recommendations on how to prepare things. I’ve even emailed them a few recipes I have tried.

It seems as though we—we being the volunteers living in Lanzhou—have potluck-style dinners at least once a month. After uncomfortably showing up to the first few with only a bottle of wine, I can now prepare real food and contribute to dinner in a way that feels more substantial. I love it. As I continue to cook, I will post some successful recipes here to my blog (like the two linked above; check them out). I expect people to try them. If I can pull them off here in China, I know you can do them Stateside.

So, before I start uploading the blogs from this first semester, I wanted to drop a line to everyone back home to let you know that PC China is getting some sweet press.

Months ago, a film crew visited volunteers in Guizhou province and filmed shorts about the life and work of volunteers in China as a part of the 50th anniversary of the Peace Corps.

The Country Director informed us today that the videos shot here in China are going to be shown on the TODAY show early next week. She said they are supposed to air on Tuesday, 7 February. I don't know how much you enjoy morning talk shows, but if you're interested in seeing a bit of what life is like for a China volunteer, you should check it out. Unfortunately, I do not live in Guizhou, so I won't be in any of their videos (they missed an opportunity on that one), but a couple of my dear friends will be.

I officially have a VPN on my laptop.

And it's working. I'm currently using it.

My dear friend Matt set it up for me. He's the greatest.

I am currently in Chengdu. Tomorrow begins IST, the final portion of Peace Corps training. It will last for two weeks. Tonight, to celebrate my arrival (and surviving the twenty-two hour train ride on a hard seat), I went and got my favourite Chengdu meal.

I wish I could say it is something unique to Chengdu, or even Sichuan for that matter, but it's not. There is a Uyghur restaurant not too far from where I'm staying. I go there and order dingding choumien and naan. Dingding choumien are special noodles, chopped up and cooked up with stir-fried meat, potatoes, peppers, onions, tomatoes in a spicy meat stock. I eat it in Lanzhou sometimes as well, but this restaurant in Chengdu is the tastiest. The coup de grâce of this meal is the Dr. Pepper I bought from the international foods store down the street (a luxury I'm not privy to in Lanzhou).

So, there you have it... My first blog with a VPN. From here, the question remains: what would be the best way for me to go about publishing all of my old blogs I have written?

Ed. note: I've decided to publish this on both of my blogs, as it has a lot to do with my Chinadventures, as well as my life.

This was going to be the first time I ever rang in the New Year with a group of my friends and peers. Alas, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

You see, my mother’s parents live in Tennessee. Growing up, we always visited them twice a year—the week of 4 July and the week of the New Year. I have no qualms about going down to visit my family; I loved spending the New Year with my family. This became even more true in high school and college, because my summers working at camp made it impossible to visit during July.

However, this also meant that I never celebrated the New Year with people my age, participating in the usual traditions and hijinks associated with the ball drop. This year, it was going to be the last first I celebrated in 2011 and the first of 2012. Needless to say, I was pretty excited about it…

Much to my dismay, the day brought balloon animal-like bloating, an upset stomach with cramps worse than waking up with a Charlie horse and diarrhea (I wanted to use a third analogy, but decided no one wants to read about how watery and frequent my bowels have been). Instead, I continue to stare blankly at the papers I need to grade and reflect on what a year it has been.

Which brings me to the present… Hours away from 2012, I find myself motivated to write: in part because I don’t feel I’ve written enough this semester—I miss it—but also because I need something to do to distract myself from the work I need to do, and the downtrodden feelings that come with missing out on a momentous night out with friends.

When first trying to reflect on 2011, I could only think of one thing: CHINACHINACHINA. However, giving it more thought, I realised quite a bit happened this year. That sounds stupid, but I don’t know any other way to explain it. I don’t want to say it was an important year; that sounds foolish, too, but this year has really changed my life (equally doltish).

January started the same way every year started, in Tennessee. However, only days later everything changed. Forgoing the nine-hour car ride home, I hopped on a flight back to Elkhart to begin my first teaching job. I had taught as a long-term substitute before, but this was going to be a full-time position (even if it was just for the semester). I was going to be a real teacher. It was going to be my curriculum, taught to my students, in my classroom. I spent four years studying and preparing, and it was my first opportunity to prove it.

February, I said goodbye to a dear friend. My first, and only, car broke down for the final time. I was never the type to name my car—I always thought that was weird—but I was still pretty attached. The plan was to sell it when I left for the Peace Corps anyway, but I thought I’d watch it drive away, not roll because we pushed it into a junkyard. February also proved that a little whimsy can make a serious impact on my life. It was random chance that I was in the right place at the right time—three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon in West Lafayette—and received the behoved encouragement of a friend (who at the time, actually, was only an acquaintance). I went to an improv audition. I told them I was just there to improvise, and that joining wasn’t really an option; I lived nearly three hours away, I was hopefully leaving the country in a month, and I was car-less. After the audition, they welcomed me anyway. One of the members was even going to school near Elkhart, and offered to drive me. Ad Liberation became some of my closest friends for the months we practiced and performed together.

March was the expected departure date the Peace Corps gave me, but I missed it because I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. I had my wisdom teeth removed in March. My brother also turned 21, but unfortunately I couldn’t make the drive to Muncie to celebrate. I spent a lot of this month and the next reflecting and writing about my time as a teacher, my students, and the state of education.

April was a big month. I received my invitation to the Peace Corps. I opened the envelope to see I was going to China at the end of June. Everything got crazy at that point. I was still teaching, but I had actually received an invitation to the Peace Corps. I started my application in December of 2009, and it finally happened.

In May, I concluded my job as a high school math teacher. It was a wonderful semester. I learned a lot, made some great friends, and I was a teacher. I watched my cousin graduate from high school, with many other seniors I happened to teach. If that nostalgia for “closing one chapter, opening another” wasn’t enough, I also made one final trip to Saint Joseph’s College. One year after my own graduation, it gave me an opportunity to reflect on what I had done and where I was going. It was also a chance to see my friends and teachers who made such an impact on my life, thank them and say goodbye.

June was a blur of preparation and anxiety. I was preparing to leave the country for two years; I was saying goodbye to my friends and family. I was reading about China; I was buying luggage. Then I turned 24 and left the country.

July was China. China. China. I landed in China on 1 July. I don’t even know what do say about the month of July. I started speaking Chinese in July. I started following Peace Corps rules and training for my new life. I was living with a host family and getting a crash course in Chinese culture.

August brought site placement and a gratuitous amount of anxiety. We were anticipating our jobs for the next two years. We made it to the end of training and said goodbye to the new friends we had made.

September, October, November and December was really when CHINACHINACHINA started. It was a blur of learning cultural taboos, small victories, embarrassing moments, and a lot of teaching. Like every teaching experience, it was a mixed bag of frustrating hurdles and amazing triumphs. I had quite a few moments this semester when, at the end of class as the students were filing out, I took a deep breath and thought, “Yes. This is why I’m a teacher”. But for each of those, there were four moments I groaned inwardly and told myself I would never do that again.

It has been a roller coaster. In November, my Peace Corps supervisor visited me to observe my classes, talk to my colleagues and student, and generally make sure I am adjusting to living and working in China. We went to dinner at my favourite Muslim restaurant after class and had a long talk about culture shock and how I was coping. My goal for the conversation was to exude optimism—partly because I didn’t want to come across as anything but well-adjusted, but more so because that is honestly how I feel.

During our conversation, she asked me directly how I was handling the frustrations and depressing moments. I told her frankly that I don’t let them bother me; I just deal with them. I said: “You’re going to face frustrations regardless of where you are or what you’re doing. That’s not why I joined the Peace Corps, and those aren’t the things I’m going to take away from my experience. I’m going to remember the joys and successes, so those are what I concern myself with”.

Admittedly, I wish I wouldn’t have ended a sentence with a preposition, but no one is perfect. She joked about how she wanted to write down what I said and use it next time she speaks with trainees in Chengdu. I was flattered, but regardless, I really meant what I said.

When I talk to other volunteers, and they ask me how I am, I always have the same response: I’m living the dream. Nine times out of ten, they will laugh (which I always appreciate), but it seems to me that they does so because they think I’m being snarky or sarcastic. It’s unfortunate, because I mean it.

I am a Peace Corps volunteer. It’s something I have considered doing since high school, and something I really wanted to do in college. There is a combination of reasons college pointed me in this direction, but I think I’ll save those for another post. I wanted this more than anything, and now I have it.

At the risk of being too sappy, I guess 2011 was the year my dream came true?

However, since 2011 couldn’t be the year I finally celebrate the New Year with my friends, I am going to end 2011 with a different first: I am going to go to sleep before the ball drops.

So, as I promised on facebook yesterday, I do have a second Christmas-related post to share with the world.

On Christmas Eve, a group of us got together for a Secret Santa gift-exchange at KTV--that's what they call karaoke lounges here in China. In honour for the evening's festivities and yuletide cheer, I decided to rewrite "A Visit from St. Nicholas" for Lanzhou.

Enjoy.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through LanzhouThe streets were empty, letting the dirty wind blow.The Mao pictures were hung—displayed as the bestIn hopes that communism would take down the West.

The students were memorizing, eating street-vendor’s yamsWhile they hoped for good grades on their final exams. And girls in their masks, most with a pig snout,They would study and study until the power cut out.

While in the KTV lounge, there played such a song, I sprang from the sofa, nearly ripping my thong.Up to the mic, I pranced like a fairy;Excited I was, even though my singing scary.

The song began, and nervously I felt pressureTo do a good job, even though it was Kesha.When, to my shocked surprise made me jump, Everyone in the room joined in my fist-pump.

With bass, fast beat, and a chorus so catchy, No one cared that their dance moves were sketchy.More quick than the Flash, the song came to close, And we laughed, because Nick took off his clothes.

“Now Usher! Now Killers! Now Spice Girls and Hanson!Play ABBA! And Britney! Do they have Jack Johnson?On to the top of the playlist, we want these songs all!”We sang out loud! Sang it proud! We sang and had a ball.

As the dry Chinese city lacked real Christmas cheer, We made up for it indoors, with the help of cheap beer.So gifts were exchanged with a joyous Secret Santa(Spoiler alert: in mine, there’s some Fanta)

And then, as a jolt, we heard a knock at the doorThat interrupted our party like a huge tidal bore. As the door opened, in came a worker speaking Chinese,I said, “Someone else communicate with him, please”.

He was speaking quick; his vocal cadence was long, And he would not leave us despite insisting, “ting bu dong”.A thick menu of drinks he had in his hand. We needed to buy more booze was his demand.

We obliged his request, already feeling quite merry;I just wished we could have ordered a vodka-cranberry.He left the room quickly, after a slight, Chinese bow, And we continued singing Akon’s “Right Now”.

We blamed it on the a-ah-ah a-ah alcohol, Then screamed, “to the window, to the wall”.I was banned from choosing songs, with my penchant for rap,Because people wanted genres from all over the musical map.

As the night soldiered on, some of us felt pretty tipsy, Fighting the urge to dance on chairs like a wild gypsy. Together we celebrated Christmas so far from home;All together, we no longer needed to roam.

They say during the holidays, no one should be alone,So without our families, we created our own.When the last song ended and we went back into China,Anyone who said it was cold, I called a vagina.

We sprang down the steps and out of BabyFace, Cherishing these holiday moments in time and space. Insisting on being THAT guy and making our departure more trite, I yelled: “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!”

It's Christmas in China...

This is the first time I will be away from home on Christmas. I guess that officially makes me an adult?

I don't know if I have much to say, beyond merry Christmas.

There's a little slice of Christmas in my flat. Merry Christmas everyone. I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season.

Today seems to be a pretty eventful day for everyone, regardless of your interests or culture…

First and foremost, today is Veteran’s Day—formerly Armistice Day (still Armistice Day in other countries); a day first celebrated to recognise the end of “The Great War”. Despite the Treaty of Versailles being signed in June of 1919, fighting ceased seven months sooners, specifically on 11 November, 1918.

However, more significantly with the youth culture (or what I remember of it), it seems as though today will be viewed as a lucky day. For whatever reason, there’s a fascination with the time 11:11. People believe if you make a wish when the clock flashes this time, it will come true. (However, only people with digital clocks will ever notice.)

I don’t understand it. People just love patterns, and there’s no better pattern on a digital clock that 11:11, I guess. Because of this fascination, the alignment of today’s date’s digits makes it fortuitous—or foreboding, if you’ve seen trailers for the horror movie premiering today). I read a snippet online about how Vegas chapels are going to have a pretty busy day.

Today is also being recognised as Nigel Tufnel Day. I’m ashamed that didn’t mean anything to me until I read who Nigel Tufnel was. Then it made me laugh. One of my friends here in Lanzhou was dismayed to hear I’d never seen Spinal Tap, so much so that he told me he was downloading it so I will watch it.

Also! Today is Kurt Vonnegut's birthday.

I even read an adorable article today about the Corduroy Appreciation Club hosting a grand event, because today’s date mirrors wales so well.

And while all these particular celebrations coalesce over yonder (because, in my head, that’s an endearing way to refer to the States?), on this side of the Pacific, today is celebrated quite differently.

11 November is called guanggun, which literally means “bare sticks”, in reference to the numerical date; guanggun is also a slang term for “single people”. 11 November is Singles’ Day.

To be fair, this isn’t an official Chinese holiday. China Daily describes it best, as a “pop culture” holiday. My students really like the idea. They’ve been telling me about it for weeks, and made sure I remembered this morning during class. However, just as wishes will indubitably come true because of the year’s extra 11, today is being called Giant Singles’ Day or (and this is the superior name) Magical Singles’ Day.

In reading about the nuances of this Chinese holiday, I found a pretty fantastic quotation: “If someone is willing to help me celebrate Magical Singles’ Day this year, I’ll give them something to celebrate on Father’s Day next year”.

My students couldn’t really explain how one was supposed to celebrate Singles’ Day. I wondered if I would get some comments similar to the Anti-Valentine’s Day snark I hear every year back home, but luckily I did not. I suggested that all the ladies in the room find themselves a cute boy to settle down with (my classes are about 85% female). They just giggled and blushed. Had I been more prepared, I would have had a ghetto blaster preloaded with Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”.

I know, a serious missed opportunity… especially because my students are convinced that I am a good dancer. It could have been my chance to perform the dance; I bought a black leotard to practice and everything.

Instead of leaving you on that horrific mental image, I’ll leave you with a bit of math. I assume that is really what people’s fascination with the day is. The number one, and by extension eleven, give us a lot of interesting patterns…

1x1=111x11=121111x111=123211111x1111=123432111111x11111=123454321111111x111111=123456543211111111x1111111=1234567654321

You get the idea…

Have a ONEderful day.

(And for you coincidence-lovers out there, the 111th word in my blog is "true".)

I’ve not written a lot lately. That’s untrue: I’ve written nothing lately. Other than those quick posts giving people some brief information about Lanzhou, I just haven’t found the time to sit and write. All of my time has been consumed with my job and my apartment.

It has honestly felt like I’ve been creating lesson plans since the moment the semester started. Like I mentioned in a previous post, I’m teaching sixteen hours this semester—four preps—and all of them are content courses. They told us volunteers always teach oral English, with the occasional content course. Apparently my situation is a bit different. However, I like it this way. Even though prepping for content courses is considerably more work, that’s what I’m used to; that’s what I’m comfortable with.

Unfortunately, I am still planning lessons only a couple days in advance. I’d like to get ahead at least a week or a week and a half. And midterms are coming within the next couple weeks. It’s hard to believe midterms are so close. After midterms, I’m going to get ahead in my planning. First, I should probably focus my energy preparing those.

I’ve got a few really good anecdotes from teaching so far, plus I have been brainstorming some ideas for blogs to write, so I’m hoping that when I get a VPN and full access to my blog (as well as some more free time to write), I can publish some things people really want to read.

A public notice: I will henceforth never refer to my living space as an apartment. Most people know I have a penchant for British vocabulary. Well, they do not use the word “apartment”—only “flat”—which, it should come as no surprise, I prefer tenfold. It’s easier to say; it’s faster to type; most of my students are used to European foreign teachers, who use British English; a couple of the foreign teachers on campus I’ve befriended are Europeans who lived in Britain for some time (so they’re heavily influencing my diction).

My flat is coming along nicely. The volunteer living here before me never cooked, so I have been spending a lot of time cleaning it. I wanted to make it clean enough that I was comfortable to say that I live in it. Also, if I am living in a place, I want to claim the messes there as my own. I am nearly comfortable owning the space and claiming it for my own. My other goal for the future is to publish a lot of pictures of my flat, so everyone can get an idea of what kind of space I’m living in. (If I was more technically inclined and/or had a better camera, I would make my own PCV Cribs episode. That would be a lot of fun, but I don’t have a camera that could film something like that.)

So, here’s a quick update:

I’ve been teaching for three weeks now. Or, rather, this is the third week of classes.

In talking with my friend, I should hopefully have a VPN within the next week or so, which means I should be able to update the blog with some frequency, and upload the backlog of blogs from PST.

I’m teaching sixteen hours this semester. I am teaching two sophomore English Writing classes: one from 8-10 a.m. on Friday, the other immediately following, from 10 a.m. until noon. I am teaching all of the senior English majors (ninety-six) for a class called Audio-Visual; that class meets on Thursdays from 2:30-4:30 p.m. I am teaching two junior Western Culture classes, which both meet from 4:30-6:30 p.m.; one meets on Monday, the other on Tuesday. The last class I teach is another Western Culture class; it meets on Mondays from 2:30-4:30 and Fridays from 4:30-6:30; this class is different because I am teaching it to post-graduate students.

It’s a very crazy, busy time right now, planning lessons and curricula and the like. I’m trying to get it all done; it’s ridiculous.

About a month ago, I had another conversation with my friend Zach. He's got it edited and up on his blog, so enjoy another podcast about my time in training.

And, as a quick update, I am finished with training. I have moved to my home for the next two years, at Lanzhou Jiaotong University. I started teaching classes this week.

Unfortunately, I am still trapped behind the Great Firewall of China. I am currently borrowing a friend's VPN to update this.

I wrote quite a bit during training in Chengdu. I would still like to publish what I've written, even if some of it is rather dated. Thank you for your patience and love.

So, blogger is behind the firewall. I wrote the previous blog post when I landed in Chengdu.

Also! I had a conversation with my friend, which he recorded for a podcast.

More later, I hope.

I took my first full, polluted breath, and I knew I had finally arrived.

The trip can be summarised with one word: waiting. One spends a lot of time waiting when travelling with a group of eighty-one. We waited to check our bags and get our tickets (and I was at the end of that line); waiting to board the plane; waiting to retrieve checked luggage; waiting when we discovered our flight from Beijing to Chengdu had been delayed indefinitely; waiting to recheck our bags, only to discover our flight to Chengdu was on time, and waiting for us at the terminal; after rushing through security to the gate, waiting because the gate manager did not allow us to board: lots of waiting.

We decided on the flight that we should not be ungrateful, as we did not have to pay for it ourselves. I will say, as a PSA, that if you have someone behind you who appears to be at least six feet tall, please be considerate and do not recline your seat: there will be knees smashed.

On the flights, I had the surreal realisation that I am going to China. Me. Going to China. I began my Peace Corps application in November of 2009; here it is July of 2011 and I am finally going to be a volunteer. (And let the record show, from my unscientific survey of friends around me, out of everyone in this cohort, China 17, I was in the application process the longest.) I am just so happy to finally be here—finally able to do something I have always wanted to do.

Our flights were long; I think it goes without saying, but we are all pretty exhausted. After thirty hours of travelling, Chengdu welcomed us with some excited Peace Corps workers directing us, and automatic flushing squat toilets (photos to come).

We boarded the plane in Chicago and raced the sun toward the western horizon. In Beijing, the sun won the race: setting as we departed for Chengdu; leaving it midnight and dark as we finally arrived at our hotel. Four hours of restless sleep await; we start first thing tomorrow morning.

Well, I have completed the pre-service training. Five hours in a conference room later, and I am ready to take China by storm.

There are 82 volunteers leaving with me for China. It's wonderful to be in a company of people as excited about serving as I am.

Nothing terribly thoughtful; it was a long day. Kesha was on the radio when I ate lunch. A fine gent named Sean is my roommate; he says "hi".

I'm going out tonight with some of the other volunteers to enjoy "our last night in America", as our leaders jokingly called it.

Thanks again to everyone for all of their well-wishes. Tomorrow should be fun.

EDIT: So a group of us went out to Navy Pier, ate burgers and rode the ferris wheel. We thought that was quintessential Americana. (Also, I spent all of my time looking for the Cash Cab; no luck.) Now I'm going to sleep.

Packing is stressful.

I should have done more of it sooner.

Welcome to my blog.

I want to keep a blog as a place for people to keep up to date (within whatever connectivity constraints I have) and share my experiences.

I leave for Chicago Wednesday morning (29 June), and will take part in my Pre-Service Orientation. The following day, I fly from Chicago O'Hare on United Airlines flight 851 at 12:15 in the afternoon. I have a direct (FOURTEEN HOUR) flight to Beijing. After a four hour layover in Beijing, I fly to Chengdu on Air China, where I will be for my first months of training.

They tell me training is a very intense experience. Hopefully I will find a tad bit of time to update and let everyone know I'm alive--although I imagine posts during training could end up just stories about learning Mandarin.

That's all for now; I have to finish packing. Please follow my blog; please comment; most of all, please enjoy.