Check this out: if you take an overnight coach in China, you (may) sleep in bunk beds. You climb aboard a bus equipped with upper and lower bunks, each bed is slightly elevated in lieu of a big pillow but nonetheless includes a grain pillow and a comforter.

I discovered this on my way from Qingdao to Shanghai: after leaving my backpack in the lower hold, I climbed aboard and my jaw dropped even as the driver pointed me to the top bunk right behind him. I had to lever myself up like a gymnastist on the parallel bars (the first time I've used junior high gymnastic skills since well... junior high!) - and no doubt I amused all the passengers behind me while I tried to grasp my excitement about this novel way of travel.

Anyway, I used the word "sleep" but what I actually meant is, after a fascinating conversation with a near-genuis areonautical engineer also on his way to Shanghai, you lounge uncomfortably while half of your body falls asleep. Then you switch positions and let another portion of your anatomy fall asleep. You watch the darkened countryside flash by, sometimes illuminated by saffron lights or highway toll booths, until you get stuck in stop and go traffic on the outskirts of a big city that turns out to be Shanghai.

I had thought this sort-of bus only exisited in J.K Rowling's imagination! --Laura

* * * * *

A myriad of Shanghai city scenes
collected by the Shanghai Art Museum.

Dear Family and Friends,

There is a slow boat to China. Did you know? Well, to be fair, it was about 15 hours from on the ferry from Korea to China... which isn't that slow and the hours were congenial.

I had been prepared for a more... intense... experience more in line with the ferry that an American friend and I took some months before from Korea to Japan. That ferry was chaos. Crowds pressing. Once people pushed and spilled on board our shabbily outfitted cruise ship, people hurried to their cabins. The majority of the cabins were carpeted with a sum of twelve cubbies lining two walls, adequately wide for a torso and each the with a neat stack of bedding. My friend and I greeted our male roommates, received the admonition to take our shoes off with apologies, and dropped our weekend bags with some trepidation. The trepidation grew into barely concealed culture shock as we walked amongst the swirling boat partiers: kids running, old women in ill-matching outfits nodding off in padded chairs, people our age investigating the noribang (aka karaoke) and video game rooms, and the smoking room packed with men. And the noise...! But what we found most interesting was that occupants of several other cabins covered their carpets with newspapers and pulled Korean picnics: cabbage kimchi, radish kimchi, ramen, hard boiled eggs, rice, green onion pancakes, rice cakes, fruit, and many round, green bottles of soju. But what was most striking, and a glaring exception to the rule of Korean hospitality, was that my very American self and friend were either invisible or even regarded with disdain. At one point, despite lacking towels, we decided to visit the on-board public bathes, and an old lady who had watched us stuff our clothes into a locker, followed us and began screaming at us because we had forgotten to shower before climbing into the pools of warm water (I had sighted the windows that appeared to display us to anyone walking the boat decks and forgotten bath rules). The lady was not at all pacified when I indicated I understood what she was saying and apologized, all in Korean. She didn't leave until we both had climbed out of the bathes - eyeing the windows warily. Two years in Korea and never had I or would I be treated that way again. Anyway, that crossing was cultural and made quite the travel story, but it made arriving in clean, orderly Japan rather a relief. And it made this crossing to China heavenly.

Because I preferred to skip the kimchi picnics, I upgraded to bunk beds - which on this ship were clean and curtained. The ship couldn't have been at half capacity passenger-wise and my one roommate was a lovely, bi-lingual Chinese lady, we communicated in minimal Korean and with lots of smiles. Our ship was not as shabby and lacked entertainment venues but more than made up for this lack by being equipped with a convenience store. I dropped my backpack near the cubby and hurried to the deck to watch as whole containers and lorries were driven through a lowered section of the boat's hull. It took over an hour to leave the bay at Incheon, we were lifted to sea by locks. The boat rocked me to sleep early and awoke me in plenty of time to watch us draw near the Chinese coast. Cirrus clouds feathered the sky, fog smudged the horizon, and we were an hour and a half from docking when we passed through a good 200 fishing boats, engines off, their hulls weathered dark, rocking, with one or two busy fisherman in each boat while a rippling triangular orange flags of plastic attached to their dwarfed masts announced their presence, like a headlight in the dark.

My bags were searched at the port of Qingdao. A friendly shipmate and ran a gauntlet of taxis and took one to the bus station - my map told me that I could walk to the train station from there. After 25 minutes of trudging through crowds and dusty sidewalks, enduring many unfriendly stares, and no sign of the train station, I gave in and hailed a taxi. And discovered I was on the wrong side of the city.

Unsuccessful in my quest to purchase a train ticket, instead I purchased an overnight bus ticket and caught another cab to my hostel. My world felt new and overwhelming... and even though I liked what I saw and was excited to explore, I missed familiarity.


The city of Qingdao sports its history in its architecture. Basically a fishing village 'til the late nineteenth century when the Qing Dynasty ceded the territory to the Germans, who made an indelible architectural mark on the city. But soon the colonizing Germans ran into problems of their own (notably World War I) and Qingdao fell under colonizing Japanese, followed by the Kuomintang, a stint of hosting the US Navy and finally, the Communist Red Army brought the city back to China in 1949. Today the city rated one of the most livable in China, it is famous for its beer (Tsingtao), and it hosted the sailing events for the Beijing Olympics.

My visit to Qingdao was brief. My first tourist visit was to walk to the reputedly beautiful Catholic church, whose black iron gates were adamantly secured. Disappointed, I turned my attention to other visitors of the church square. They were a good ten or so groups - each composed of a make-up artist/assistant, a photographer on his back shooting up, a photographer on his feet shooting out, a groom and a bride. Throughout my visit to Qingdao, I would find brides and their grooms, sometimes in rather unexpected poses, in front of churches, mansions, or waves from the sea. I loved watching the brides inelegantly dragging their dresses around, sometimes I caught glimpses of grubby sneakers or jeans under the dresses. I cannot rightly say, but I assumed from the condition of the dresses (often showing a history of being dragged across sandy beaches or dusty cobblestones) that their western-style dress was rented and that their wedding would be a separate occasion.

Finally, bored with the brides, I proceeded to other tourist sites: the famous Christan church (whose hospitality extended to admission into the church's clock tower), the former German Governor's mansion (beautifully preserved, threadbare carpets and deeply polished woods), the famous brewery, another two mansions (sad, sad neglected places - preservation not even a useful adjective for them), and ended up walking the beach near sunset. A few of the famous Qingdao kebabs for dinner... and I was content with time in Qingdao... and ready for Shanghai.

Cheers!
Laura

My cabin on the slow boat to China...
a very civilized way to travel!

The first of many portrait sessions
that I'd run across in Qingdao.

Reportedly the governor got fired for the
expense of building this mansion, but I say it was worth it!

Bottling Tsingtao beer in Qingdao...
although not a passionate beer drinker, I quite like this beer!

Dear Friends and Family,

Ok, so now you know that I am no longer in the Republic of Korea. But you may be wondering, where in the world is she?

Frankly, I find myself asking myself the same question - a lot. Today's answer: "I am in Shanghai."

You see, I carefully considered what I would do after my second teaching contract in Korea finished. I was not and am not ready to return to the States. I'd love to explain to you all, succinctly and logically, why I left the States and why I do not yet feel ready to return but I cannot. I cannot say - and as a woman rarely at a loss for words, I feel that my inability to express why I felt the need to go adventuring remains a wee problem. Happily, I can assure you that I have accomplished some of what I set out to do: my friends say that my new-found confidence shows in my face, I have some savings, I've met kindred people, and I've begun to see the world for myself. I am conscious that this time away from the city and people that I consider home is precious and I'm determined to make the most of it. And I wish to hone my travel skills so that world travel will always have a place in my future.


May I suggest that you take out a map? Because my rough plan for the next few months is to budget backpack to my next destination: I shall cross China, through Tibet, pause in Nepal, linger in India and finally, alight with teaching resume in hand, in Turkey.

I describe my plan as "rough" because well, it feels rough. Part of this sort-of travel requires planning and trouble-shooting as one goes along. And although I had done an extensive amount research, budgeted and planned for things not to go perfectly, I still found myself startled to the point of acute dismay when a problem arose days before leaving Korea: China granted me a tourist Visa from Korea earlier in 2008, but my second application of the year was denied and the Korean travel agency had to return me my money and my passport. Some weeks later and thanks to the generosity of friends (who offered me beds to sleep in, things to eat, ready sympathy, internet access, and undertook, on my behalf, heroic trips to the Chinese consulate), I departed on a westbound passenger ferry to China with the rest of my rough plan in hand:

-Dock in Qingdao, China
-Journey via bus to Shanghai, China
-Hike in the
mountainous Huang Shan, China
-Consider a stop in Nanjing, China
-Journey via train to Xi'an, China
-Ride the world's highest train to
Lhasa, Tibet Autonomous Region, China
-Hook up with an overland tour for the
journey from Lhasa to Kathmandu, Nepal
-Visit pretty places in Kathmandu
-Take bus then train to Delhi, India
-India, tour, cook, and study yoga
-Fly to Istanbul, Turkey, find a job

Already, it feels good to be out... out of every day life, out studying the world, contemplating myself. Pico Iyer once wrote,

The reason I love travel is not just because it transports you in every sense but because it confronts you with emotional and moral challenges that you would never have to confront at home... and forces me to reconsider my assumptions and the things I took for granted. It sends me back a different person.

Perhaps I too travel to challenge my assumptions? Perhaps I indeed intend to return a different person? I cannot say. Maybe I'll find the words before I reach Istanbul?

Laura

A nice place for a walk in Qingdao, China.

The Shanghai Art Museum...
and perhaps the reason that I walked around most of
Saturday singing, "The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the waterspout..."

Dearest Family and Friends,

As it has been incredibly long since I've posted here so I'm going to start in the middle of my adventures, such as they are.

Just over a week ago, I was curled over a book in Daegu, when the doorbell rang. Well, by doorbell I mean a small, walled tv security screen in the livingroom of my borrowed apartment lit up. Curious, I padded across the room and stared at the television screen tallying up details: the man was ringing my individual apartment, the man was standing outside, and the man was wearing a DHL uniform...

And then it hit me. That man had my passport! He must not leave! Urgently, I hit a button on the tv screen. It went dark. Panicked, I flung my arms out, wildly casting my eyes about, searching for my key. I crossed to the counter, my panic increasing as I heedlessly scrabbled and I didn't feel even a flash of relief when I snatched the key from under some papers and raced for the elevator - which was on the 22nd floor - so I veered to the staircase. I raced down counting 7, 6, 5.. 2... slightly conscious of my mussed hair flying while more conscious of my foot on each step. At the lobby, I sprinted across the textured granite floor, only for my feet to slide across the newly polished floor and sprawl me on the floor.

"NO!" my panicked brain exclaimed as I ignored painful twinges and picked myself up to keep running outside through hissing doors and whipped my head left then right then left. No delivery man. Determined that I would chase the DHL truck if I had to, I picked up my feet and ran around the corner and came to a breathless halt before a DHL delivery many with a cell phone on his ear. Seconds and smiles and signatures later, I tore open an envelope and my passport fell into my hand. I clutched my passport and burst into tears.

I was leaving Korea.

*************************************************************************

A few months ago, as the time stipulated in my second contract began to draw to a close, I began mentally departing from Deagu. I had been invited to speak, for 2 hours, at a Korean English Teacher training course, and I was asked to address: "how teachers could improve their language abilities" and "what I've learned teaching English in Daegu." The text for the speech was due in days and so I dropped everything - including my highfalutin plans for writing daily on this blog - and feverishly set to work contemplating. My brain turned into a seething stew of memories and random ideas. I couldn't keep my mind on other tasks... and I was haunted by the questions of "what had I learned teaching in Korea?" as well as "What had I learned, personally, from my 2 years of living outside the United States?" I did not have readily available answers to these questions.

Eventually I submitted my manuscript, developed a PowerPoint, tamped down my fears that I would fail the man who asked me to speak (in Korea, speakers must uphold their bosses reputations first), and the speech went ok despite no air con on a sweltering July day. During the last week of August, I bid summed up my conclusions for each good-bye class of beloved students by telling them that,

Because I am an adult and a teacher, I cannot leave without giving you guys two
pieces of advice:

(1) As you guys know, in your 3rd year of high school
you guys will be taking a major test - in English we call it the KSAT. [A
heart-felt groan from my students.] The test is important, I cannot deny this,
but I want to remind you guys that you are here at Taegu Foreign Language High
School to be educated, to be prepared for your adult lives. That test, the KSAT
is 1 day; but you are going to (hopefully) live 60 years after this test. I fear
that your society is putting so much pressure on you that you will forget to
prepare for your future. Your future is more, a lot more, than 1 test.

(2) When you are thinking about your future, remember that every day,
every day, you will get out of bed, face yourself in the mirror and then walk out your door to your job, which will be a very important part of your life. So when you decide on a career, please pick a job that you will value, please pick a job that is a good fit with your abilities, a job that reflects your values. By all means, listen to what your society says are good jobs, listen to what your parents think you should do, but remember that in the end, you must live your job, you will live your own life. Do not pick a job that makes you miserable. I had to learn this the hard way; please be smarter than me.

Sadly, and I must say rather incredibly, there were tears during this talk and as we, students and English Conversation teacher, bid each other farewell. During my last conversation classes, students and I baked vanilla cupcakes and smothered them in icing and colorful sprinkles. Students gave me a hug and walked out the door, cleaning their fingers of icing and crumbs. I watched them and repeated over and over to myself that this was the right time to leave them.

Bidding my peer teachers was just as hard. I remembered my inauspicious beginning at TFLHS, I arrived one night just in time for dinner. The night before my arrival, I had taken a red eye from Bangkok and spent the day following in subdued, polite, taxing boredom. Indeed, my eyes felt red and irritated with grit by the time my new guiding teacher escorted me to the school's cafeteria. He briefly introduced me to a few teachers and I think I responded politely but I was dizzy with exhaustion. I took my first bit of kimchi and the heat stabbed my tear ducts and I began crying and gesticulating wildly for tissue. I hate to think about what my new colleagues thought of me that night but I swear that my guiding teacher told me a story about a Texan that came to teach in Korea and only lasted five days due to Korean food. I dragged myself away from dinner that night still surreptitiously dabbing the corners of my eyes and promising myself, that by gum, I could last longer than a Texan.

Two years later, I thought of those tears as I held tears at bay and bid my teachers good-bye. My time at TFLHS was punctuated by serious consternation and lots of smiles, if not outright laughter. I tried not to think, "Will I ever meet the people that I loved so much, that seem to adore me, will I ever meet them again?"

A wise Korean friend once said to me, "We are citizens of the world. Yes, we may be born in Korea or Australia or the US... but we are truly citizens of the world." If nothing else, living in Korea amongst genuinely wonderful people, taught me that. Who knows what the future holds?

Love,
Laura