"Squatty Potties."
Decorum prevents me from lengthy desription of these facilities. Suffice it to say that someone may have been thinking of them when coining the phrase "doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground." They are sufficiently terrifying that some days Katrina has gone without liquids longer than a dromedary to avoid using one.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wuhan to Guangzhou: Elaina is a trooper
Elaina did exceptionally well on the trip from Wuhan to Guangzhou. First, it was hot and very humid; as uncomfrtable a day as we had in Wuhan. Then there was the long wait in the airport for tickets, then the long wait on the other side of security. Then we crammed into a standing-room only un-airconditioned shuttle bus from the terminal to the plane; it was an overstuffed oven. At the plane we waited in the direct sun to file up the stamps. By this point I was extremely cranky, but Elaina took it all in stride. She was unimpressed by her first plane ride, and refused in the face of all prodding to save any of her bottle for the ascent. She slept on my lap most of the way, which looked far more comfortable for her than it was for me. That kid gives off heat like a furnace.
Guangzhou airport is sleek and chromed and modern. Our Guangzhou guide picked us up there and led us to yet another bus -- this one blissfully cool. Then we set off through rush-hour traffic to our destination, the White Swan Hotel. At times the traffic seemed predominantly made up of mini-minivans very popular here -- like an American minivan put in the wash by some incompetent husband and consequently shrunk several sizes. They look impossibly narrow from the front; it's like looking at an Escher drawing and gives me a headache.
The trip from the airport to the hotel was in stark contrast with what we saw in Beijing and Wuhan. There were rural areas near the airport; the road ran along a canal choked with tall reeds, crossed frequently by impersonal concrete slabs and occasionally by ornate and delicate-looking bridges, their scrollworked expanses now closed off by bollards on each side. Soon, however, we reached urban areas. Here the difference in city planning and growth were apparent. Where Wuhan was modern in design and had many urban green spaces, and Beijing had contrasts of modern and ancient architecture, Guanzhou -- or at least the route we took -- was a long stretch of apartment buildings, their designs ranging from pre-war to modern. Many were in ruins, many others were in poor repair. The sheer number of them was breathtaking --- miles and miles of row upon row of tall grey structures, laundry fluttering from balconies. (It can't possibly get very dry in this dratted damp.) Often the streets between them were mere alleys, alive with vibrant street markets, bright canopies, and street-vendor carts.
Roof gardens were extremely popular. There had been a heavy rain just before our arrival, so we could see great puddles on many roofs. Some of the dilapidated buildings had roof gardens turned to mud, with only a few tenacious weeds. Others had verdant roofs of rolling grass, shimmering from the recent rain.
After 45 minutes or so we reached our destination, Shamian Island. The island, which sits in the Pearl River in Guangzhou, is less than a square kilometer--about three blocks north to south and five east to west. It's a holdover from colonial times; European trading interests headquartered here. Until recently the American consulate was here, which is why the place was so popular with adopting parents. More about it, and the White Swan, later.
We reached the hotel and waited a remarkably long time for our bags in our room, all of us hungry and two of us (not Elaina) noticably cranky about wanting dinner. Eventually we made our way downstairs, only to find that the "coffee shop" -- the informal restaurant of choice -- was full. They suggested the Italian restaurant on the next floor. By then we were to hungry and tired to argue, and made our way there.
The White Swan's Italian restaurant is like an ambitious youngster who has set out on an exciting course of action withuot a firm practical plan. It's really an upjumped lounge bar that serves heavy food. There are no tables or dining chairs; rather, there are little groups of stuffed modern armchairs and small cocktail tables. By now the experienced parents among you are thinking "A hotel that caters extensively to families with infants serves pasta with red sauce in overstuffed armchairs and end tables? At least tell me they have high chairs, or that the armchairs are not light in color." Alas, I cannot. No high chairs, light colored armchairs.
And yet, it worked. Maybe it was just the long day talking, but the food was excellent -- I went for the comfort food and had a succulent beef lasagna. Elaina lounged in our laps, feet up on the chair arms, indolently dropping pasta bits in her mouth with a peel-me-a-grape-boy air. And the view! We were into our first drinks before we saw it. The lounge area looked out over the Pearl River, and as darkness truly fell, it came alive with light. Neon flashed up and down the opposite bank. The faces of several tall buildings transformed into screens, some advertising and one showing the 2008 Beijing Olympic mascots in rapid succession. Brightly and colorfully lit boats motored back and forth. With the neon Chinese characters, the building-sized movies, and the rainy sky, it looked like the place that the people in Blade Runner's dystopian future Los Angeles go on vacation.
More tomorrow, including shopping, more about the impressive White Swan Hotel, and how we were insufficiently foolish to take a boat tour in a thunderstorm.
Guangzhou airport is sleek and chromed and modern. Our Guangzhou guide picked us up there and led us to yet another bus -- this one blissfully cool. Then we set off through rush-hour traffic to our destination, the White Swan Hotel. At times the traffic seemed predominantly made up of mini-minivans very popular here -- like an American minivan put in the wash by some incompetent husband and consequently shrunk several sizes. They look impossibly narrow from the front; it's like looking at an Escher drawing and gives me a headache.
The trip from the airport to the hotel was in stark contrast with what we saw in Beijing and Wuhan. There were rural areas near the airport; the road ran along a canal choked with tall reeds, crossed frequently by impersonal concrete slabs and occasionally by ornate and delicate-looking bridges, their scrollworked expanses now closed off by bollards on each side. Soon, however, we reached urban areas. Here the difference in city planning and growth were apparent. Where Wuhan was modern in design and had many urban green spaces, and Beijing had contrasts of modern and ancient architecture, Guanzhou -- or at least the route we took -- was a long stretch of apartment buildings, their designs ranging from pre-war to modern. Many were in ruins, many others were in poor repair. The sheer number of them was breathtaking --- miles and miles of row upon row of tall grey structures, laundry fluttering from balconies. (It can't possibly get very dry in this dratted damp.) Often the streets between them were mere alleys, alive with vibrant street markets, bright canopies, and street-vendor carts.
Roof gardens were extremely popular. There had been a heavy rain just before our arrival, so we could see great puddles on many roofs. Some of the dilapidated buildings had roof gardens turned to mud, with only a few tenacious weeds. Others had verdant roofs of rolling grass, shimmering from the recent rain.
After 45 minutes or so we reached our destination, Shamian Island. The island, which sits in the Pearl River in Guangzhou, is less than a square kilometer--about three blocks north to south and five east to west. It's a holdover from colonial times; European trading interests headquartered here. Until recently the American consulate was here, which is why the place was so popular with adopting parents. More about it, and the White Swan, later.
We reached the hotel and waited a remarkably long time for our bags in our room, all of us hungry and two of us (not Elaina) noticably cranky about wanting dinner. Eventually we made our way downstairs, only to find that the "coffee shop" -- the informal restaurant of choice -- was full. They suggested the Italian restaurant on the next floor. By then we were to hungry and tired to argue, and made our way there.
The White Swan's Italian restaurant is like an ambitious youngster who has set out on an exciting course of action withuot a firm practical plan. It's really an upjumped lounge bar that serves heavy food. There are no tables or dining chairs; rather, there are little groups of stuffed modern armchairs and small cocktail tables. By now the experienced parents among you are thinking "A hotel that caters extensively to families with infants serves pasta with red sauce in overstuffed armchairs and end tables? At least tell me they have high chairs, or that the armchairs are not light in color." Alas, I cannot. No high chairs, light colored armchairs.
And yet, it worked. Maybe it was just the long day talking, but the food was excellent -- I went for the comfort food and had a succulent beef lasagna. Elaina lounged in our laps, feet up on the chair arms, indolently dropping pasta bits in her mouth with a peel-me-a-grape-boy air. And the view! We were into our first drinks before we saw it. The lounge area looked out over the Pearl River, and as darkness truly fell, it came alive with light. Neon flashed up and down the opposite bank. The faces of several tall buildings transformed into screens, some advertising and one showing the 2008 Beijing Olympic mascots in rapid succession. Brightly and colorfully lit boats motored back and forth. With the neon Chinese characters, the building-sized movies, and the rainy sky, it looked like the place that the people in Blade Runner's dystopian future Los Angeles go on vacation.
More tomorrow, including shopping, more about the impressive White Swan Hotel, and how we were insufficiently foolish to take a boat tour in a thunderstorm.
And Now, A Brief Word Regarding Marriage
If a 38-year-old man wants to buy nunchucks, don't you think he should be allowed to?
Friday, August 24, 2007
How To Distinguish Elaina From Wolverine
I grant you there are certain similarities hair-wise, especially after she has just gotten up from a nap.
Elaina:
Wolverine:
But there are also important differences. In case you become confused, here is a handy chart:
Fictional:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: It seemed that way for two years, but no.
Cute:
Elaina: Very
Wolverine: Well, not to me. Not that there's anything wrong with that if you think so.
Moody, gruff:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: Only right after getting up from naps.
Has Tony award:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: No*
*Yet
Disembowels irritating people with retractable adamantine claws:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: No*
*Yet
Fond of suddenly grabing and twisting father's right nipple through shirt:
Elaina: Yes
Wolverine: I sure hope not.
Missuse of image prevented by menacing and vigilant lawyers:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: Just try it.
Minor umbilical hernia pops out after big meals or when crying angrily.
Elaina: Yes.
Wolverine: Not sure. Does Wolverine have his shirt off after a big meal or during a crying jag in any of the movies?
Elaina:
Wolverine:
But there are also important differences. In case you become confused, here is a handy chart:
Fictional:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: It seemed that way for two years, but no.
Cute:
Elaina: Very
Wolverine: Well, not to me. Not that there's anything wrong with that if you think so.
Moody, gruff:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: Only right after getting up from naps.
Has Tony award:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: No*
*Yet
Disembowels irritating people with retractable adamantine claws:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: No*
*Yet
Fond of suddenly grabing and twisting father's right nipple through shirt:
Elaina: Yes
Wolverine: I sure hope not.
Missuse of image prevented by menacing and vigilant lawyers:
Wolverine: Yes
Elaina: Just try it.
Minor umbilical hernia pops out after big meals or when crying angrily.
Elaina: Yes.
Wolverine: Not sure. Does Wolverine have his shirt off after a big meal or during a crying jag in any of the movies?
Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair
Surely some far future archeologist will wonder how the religion with the big M spread so far so fast.
Thursday in Wuhan
Catching up on the week here.
Elaina is getting more comfortable with us, and showing us many more smiles and the chuff-chuff-chuff breathing that is her laugh. She particularly loves airpline rides and rasberries blown on her stomach, which produce her face-transforming smile. She still loves to do bridges, and has ambitions regarding sumersaults:
Hair remains an issue; I've seen Katrina gaze speculatively at the scissors she packed. Elaina's hair is an untidy waterfall; soft and fine, but untamable, particularly after naps. We paid a ridiculous amount for a meagre assortment of barrette and scrunchies at the department store, but they do little good - the hair is defiant, and Elaina has twice managed to extract a barrette from her hair and get it into her mouth.
She's getting good naps during the day and sleeping pretty well at night -- though she still wakes up in the middle of the night and will only be satisfied by a bottle. Katrina firmly believes that this is a habit that must be changed, but is notably less firm about getting up herself to manage Elaina's behavior at 12:30 a.m. -- she's slept through two of these feedngs.
So Thursday we went for a morning expedition to a bonsai garden not too far from the hotel. Our guide explained that the garden used to be the estate of a noble before it was, for want of a better term, nationalized for the benefit of the People. I was surprised to learn that the art of Bonsai originated in China as penjing, as I had always associated it with Japan. I was more surpised to look this up when we got back and learn that it was true and not a national boast. Dad, Google "bonsai wikipedia" and check it out.
The garden was not terribly impressive, as bonsai goes. But the estate also included a sort of natural history museum focussing on minerals and fossils. We saw several dinosaur skeletons that the kids would have loved: Evan and Abby, one fossil was of a small elephant with straight tusks:
and some were of little dinosaurs the size of Meeko or Maverick!
Even more impressive, though, were the stones. There were great slabs of soft jade polished until they shined,
great crystals that caught the dim light and seemed to glow from within, and huge smooth stones with fossilized seashells protruding from them like polka dots. We particularly liked the wide variety of what they call chrysanthemum stones. These are pieces of volcanic rock, ususually worn smooth by time or careful hands, shot through with bits of crystal. The effect is like a jet-black stone decorated with delicate flowers. The effect is quite striking, expecially in a stone taller than I am with hundreds of the crystal flowers.
The most beatiful ones had survived multiple volcanic eruptions, so that they were covered in crystal blossoms on all sides.
Let it be known that I behaved. When members of our group asked what province of China a particular fossil came from, and the guide responded "Tibet" or "Taiwan," I did not even roll my eyes.
There were also stones sectioned to show different geological strata. Some of these had been painstakingly worked into pictures, so that a orangish-brown strata of stone formed a tiger or rooster against a milky-white strata.
I should have enjoyed it more. Unfortunately, this was when the trip caught up with me. Perhaps I did not sleep enough. Perhaps it was particularly hot and humid. Perhaps I had only had coffee with breakfast and no water since the night before. But suddenly my legs went rubbery and the air felt like a wet electric quilt and my balance went all finished-the-whole-bottle-of-wine, and I spent some time sitting down with my head between my knees. Elaina took the opportunity to pull my hair, an experience that was unsatisfying for both of us. I chugged a half-liter of water on the bus and felt much better.
Thursday night we took a short walk to another local restaurant. Once again I was struck by how overstaffed such places are: a phalanx of ladies greets us at the door, there are more broom-and-dustpan-wielding older ladies than in a circus parade, and the waitresses and waiters are six deep. This results in a relentlessly friendly presentation and a great deal of widespread interest in good service, if not in particularly speedier or better service. Once again the meal was excellent. The beef ribs were crispy (I think they fry them after cooking them, an almost American indulgence that made me nostalgic for my sweet and brave land where you can get deep-fried twinkies), the snow peas were perfect (crisp, fresh, only lightly flavored by a brothlike sauce), the dates were sweet (everyone agreed these were the only dates our daughters would have until, say, 2025), and the surprise hit was a lotus root cake, crispy and with a sliver of pork for contrast. Excellent! Snow beer, a new friend, flowed freely.
Afterwards we walked out to the plaza beneath the hotel that I have mentioned before. It was early, so not yet too crowded, but there was plenty to see. Young boys with shaved heads shouted with laughter as they executed perfect bootlegger turns on souped-up big wheels. Mothers held daughters on carts shaped like horses and carriages and one made to look like a Red Army jeep, complete with rocket launchers designed strictly for defensive purposes.
A boy of perhaps two wearing split pants over spindly legs shrieked as he chased a remote-control red car directed by his father.
Skaters young and old, driven and casual, whirled about a great circle, somehow managing not to collapse into a ball of limbs of varying skill level and padding.
The girls watched placidly from their strollers. It didn't feel like Disneyland, or even like our local park -- it felt more like this was the courtyard of a group of families who liked to spend time together as dusk gave way to dark and the hot, sticky air relented.
Elaina is getting more comfortable with us, and showing us many more smiles and the chuff-chuff-chuff breathing that is her laugh. She particularly loves airpline rides and rasberries blown on her stomach, which produce her face-transforming smile. She still loves to do bridges, and has ambitions regarding sumersaults:
Hair remains an issue; I've seen Katrina gaze speculatively at the scissors she packed. Elaina's hair is an untidy waterfall; soft and fine, but untamable, particularly after naps. We paid a ridiculous amount for a meagre assortment of barrette and scrunchies at the department store, but they do little good - the hair is defiant, and Elaina has twice managed to extract a barrette from her hair and get it into her mouth.
She's getting good naps during the day and sleeping pretty well at night -- though she still wakes up in the middle of the night and will only be satisfied by a bottle. Katrina firmly believes that this is a habit that must be changed, but is notably less firm about getting up herself to manage Elaina's behavior at 12:30 a.m. -- she's slept through two of these feedngs.
So Thursday we went for a morning expedition to a bonsai garden not too far from the hotel. Our guide explained that the garden used to be the estate of a noble before it was, for want of a better term, nationalized for the benefit of the People. I was surprised to learn that the art of Bonsai originated in China as penjing, as I had always associated it with Japan. I was more surpised to look this up when we got back and learn that it was true and not a national boast. Dad, Google "bonsai wikipedia" and check it out.
The garden was not terribly impressive, as bonsai goes. But the estate also included a sort of natural history museum focussing on minerals and fossils. We saw several dinosaur skeletons that the kids would have loved: Evan and Abby, one fossil was of a small elephant with straight tusks:
and some were of little dinosaurs the size of Meeko or Maverick!
Even more impressive, though, were the stones. There were great slabs of soft jade polished until they shined,
great crystals that caught the dim light and seemed to glow from within, and huge smooth stones with fossilized seashells protruding from them like polka dots. We particularly liked the wide variety of what they call chrysanthemum stones. These are pieces of volcanic rock, ususually worn smooth by time or careful hands, shot through with bits of crystal. The effect is like a jet-black stone decorated with delicate flowers. The effect is quite striking, expecially in a stone taller than I am with hundreds of the crystal flowers.
The most beatiful ones had survived multiple volcanic eruptions, so that they were covered in crystal blossoms on all sides.
Let it be known that I behaved. When members of our group asked what province of China a particular fossil came from, and the guide responded "Tibet" or "Taiwan," I did not even roll my eyes.
There were also stones sectioned to show different geological strata. Some of these had been painstakingly worked into pictures, so that a orangish-brown strata of stone formed a tiger or rooster against a milky-white strata.
I should have enjoyed it more. Unfortunately, this was when the trip caught up with me. Perhaps I did not sleep enough. Perhaps it was particularly hot and humid. Perhaps I had only had coffee with breakfast and no water since the night before. But suddenly my legs went rubbery and the air felt like a wet electric quilt and my balance went all finished-the-whole-bottle-of-wine, and I spent some time sitting down with my head between my knees. Elaina took the opportunity to pull my hair, an experience that was unsatisfying for both of us. I chugged a half-liter of water on the bus and felt much better.
Thursday night we took a short walk to another local restaurant. Once again I was struck by how overstaffed such places are: a phalanx of ladies greets us at the door, there are more broom-and-dustpan-wielding older ladies than in a circus parade, and the waitresses and waiters are six deep. This results in a relentlessly friendly presentation and a great deal of widespread interest in good service, if not in particularly speedier or better service. Once again the meal was excellent. The beef ribs were crispy (I think they fry them after cooking them, an almost American indulgence that made me nostalgic for my sweet and brave land where you can get deep-fried twinkies), the snow peas were perfect (crisp, fresh, only lightly flavored by a brothlike sauce), the dates were sweet (everyone agreed these were the only dates our daughters would have until, say, 2025), and the surprise hit was a lotus root cake, crispy and with a sliver of pork for contrast. Excellent! Snow beer, a new friend, flowed freely.
Afterwards we walked out to the plaza beneath the hotel that I have mentioned before. It was early, so not yet too crowded, but there was plenty to see. Young boys with shaved heads shouted with laughter as they executed perfect bootlegger turns on souped-up big wheels. Mothers held daughters on carts shaped like horses and carriages and one made to look like a Red Army jeep, complete with rocket launchers designed strictly for defensive purposes.
A boy of perhaps two wearing split pants over spindly legs shrieked as he chased a remote-control red car directed by his father.
Skaters young and old, driven and casual, whirled about a great circle, somehow managing not to collapse into a ball of limbs of varying skill level and padding.
The girls watched placidly from their strollers. It didn't feel like Disneyland, or even like our local park -- it felt more like this was the courtyard of a group of families who liked to spend time together as dusk gave way to dark and the hot, sticky air relented.
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