Dear Friends and Family,

Today, after a lifetime war with my personality, I’m seriously considering changing my name. To Bridget.


For those of you not in the know, Bridget Jones is a fictional character with… you might say… an unerring instinct for trouble, beset by her own personality. She longs for poise, beauty, intelligence, admiration, and a love–life – but she is plagued by well, the opposite. No doubt there is a Bridget in every woman; nonetheless, in real life and more often than I’d prefer, I find myself in situations comedic to the point that I fervently wish that I were reading – not experiencing - them. In fact, over the years, I’ve accumulated a set of what my family calls “Laura stories” but that friends and I have dubbed “Bridget stories.”

Whatever you call them, I suppose you’d like to hear the latest Bridget story?

Of course you would.

Well, I kind-a, sort-of fell through a glass panel - in front of 30 students.

You see, my students were taking midterms and despite my poor grasp on the Korean language, our school sends me to proctor. The other day, I arrived early to the classroom in which I was scheduled to assist and upon deciding to not interrupt frenetic student test preparations, quite naturally I settled on top of the teacher’s desk. I had forgotten about the glass panel that nestles the teacher’s computer under the desk which, of course, immediately splintered under my weight. Luckily, I caught myself from falling on the glass and onto the computer. I was unhurt but I was horrified. Here I was, an adult, a teacher, and a role model (?) carelessly wrecking their classroom. And here I was, confirming for Korean students who are already tremendously discriminatory about body size, that fat people are destructive. To their credit, my students were worried – and when the shock diminished and laughter broke out, the laughter was relieved, not unkind. Two Korean teachers rushed in to clean up the mess (they wouldn't let me help) and all of this created more of a distraction than I’d prefer while my students were taking a test. Happily, the test seemed to go fine so only my dignity was injured.


With my intelligence and dignity taking yet another bash ala Bridget, I couldn’t help but reflect on my instinct for trouble, my war on it, and this lead me to ponder other Laura stories. I began my collection of comedic real life stories, rather precociously, in fifth grade. At that time, I was an especially uncool girl, gawky and not greatly liked, but yet I hoped to remedy my classmates’ lack of friendliness with an impressive solo in the school play. When it came time for my moment to shine, the teacher handed me a microphone and I sang my heart into that mike. Unfortunately, I had never used a microphone, unknowingly sang too close to the microphone, created ghastly, ear-splitting squeals from the speakers, and was so intent on winning over my classmates that I failed to notice the audience’s pain. Elementary students are not very forgiving and it was years before my classmates quit their screechy reminders of this incident. I have always felt, probably wrongly, that this moment sent my dream of being poised - and admired – back years.

Other notable Bridget stories include a Seattle taxi ride where I rained the driver’s receipts all over the front seat, a speeding ticket on the way to the SAT, decidedly not impressing a guy that I had a violent crush on while driving a car with squealing belts, and being searched by machine gun toting airport guards because of a violin tuner. However, my classic Bridget story occurred a few years ago, when my law firm sent my department to a psychobabble team-building training session where we were instructed in personality analysis. One of the guys with a “P” personality (someone good at persuading people) did something goofy, the trainer commented, and I piped up with,

“Yeah, Victor, do not hide your P-ness.”

This did not come out as I intended. The entire room exploded in laughter while I reddened and fumbled to mend my faux pas. Frantically, I selected the next personalities on the trainer’s chart and tried,

“That isn’t what I meant! I added a “ness” to the personality labels, you know like A-ness and O-ness and...” This caused another explosion of laughter and teasing. This story, which became known the “P-ness & A-ness Story,” both cemented the Bridget story label and set the bar for judging all other Laura-created Bridget stories.

Ok, so Bridget and I are not exactly "same same": Bridget is not a redhead and I not fictional (yet). But you know, like Bridget, I too long for poise, beauty, intelligence, admiration, and a love–life. Instead, I feel plagued by my personality, cursed by my penchant for trouble. When faced with my Bridge stories, I readily laugh because really, it is a choice between laughter or crying or manically tearing my hair out (or all of the above). And truly, these stories amuse. But they also create sharp pains in my confidence like burrs under saddles – and I’ve been looking forward to the day when they go away. Throughout my teens and into my 20s, I operated under the assumption that like baby fat, I would simply grow out of my aptitude for trouble. And I set a deadline: surely I would be poised, beautiful, and admired by the time I was a 30-year-old grown-up… and yeah. That idea was obviously fictional.

Counter to my hopes and intuition, it seems that departing from the United States in order to become an improved version of myself has only increased my ability to generate comedic stories. Let’s see: last fall, I discovered that my favorite outfit unphotogenic when it and me were posted on city-wide school advertisements, I have tracked piles powdered concrete throughout clean classrooms, needed the school nurse to bandage palms bloodied by falling up stairs, lost my wallet in a taxi cab, and created whiplash in an entire group of Brits by opining that, “No one uses the word row.” (row, in British English, means to fight. They use it all the time.). My co-worker Paul’s favorite Laura Bridget story occurred after a night out drinking soju - on business! Unused to soju, I walked into work the following morning a little worse for the wear. I had skipped my coffee at home and so I prepared myself a cup of instant coffee before sitting down at my desk and staring vacantly. A few minutes later, Paul approached to talk and my response was a start of surprise, which caused me to knock over my tiny paper cup. Coffee went everywhere: on my clothing, on my peer’s books, and somehow ruined my computer’s keyboard (which had been covered in plastic!). It took the entire day and enduring a fair amount of admonishments about the dangers of soju to replace my keyboard. Although on the bright side, that was the day that Paul actually learned to leave me alone ‘til I had had my coffee!

Anyway, away from the States I feel as if I’m living life akin to a newborn colt: intoxicated to be alive and out in the world. I want to see and smell and touch and experience everything at all once – and I set about doing this, galloping on unsteady legs. Oh, how I love this feeling! But I often fall. Sometimes literally.

A few weeks ago, our school took a break from lessons in order to hold a school Sports Day. This is a big day at school: we do not attend lessons, students arrange for special class t-shirts and in the weeks before the big day, students hone their skills and compete in preliminary games. Class 4 at our school ordered me a special tee, which had “Laura” imprinted on its back. I wasn’t so special - Class 4 did this for many teachers – but nonetheless, I was touched and flattered to be remembered. On the big day, our 520 students and most teachers assembled for the kick off relay race, run by students except for the first leg which is run by female teachers. Class 4 asked me to run as their female teacher and since I’ve been jogging on a gym treadmill since last October, I acquiesced. I was nervous but I was also flattered and excited because I wanted to do well for my beloved students. The gun went off and I raced away from the starting line but soon felt that the other ladies were faster so I dug deeper into the sand field to speed up. And consequently fell flat and hard. Trembling, I got up, groped multiple times for the baton and ran as fast as I could to get rid of that baton so I could hide. Class 4 lost the race – and wonderfully but rather horribly, came a close second place in the entire day’s contests. If only I had held myself to slow and steady! Instead, I had returned to the gawky, uncool girl who had again messed up in front school.

Or had I? After my fall, I brushed myself off and found a seat in the stands to cheer. Immediately students rushed up to find out if I was ok (I was not; I bruised my knee so badly that it was weeks before I could walk or run without pain – not that I told anyone at school). After the race, the runners rushed up to find out if I was ok and overrode my apologies with thanks for doing my best for them. Never once did any person from class 4 let on (to me) that I cost their 90 competitive students a first place win. Instead, throughout sports day and throughout the following week, again and again students (from all classes) stopped to express their sympathy and ask if I was ok. It didn’t take me long to realize that yes, I was gawky and uncool – but that my students liked me, loved me, despite my not being admirable nor gorgeous. I decided that perhaps it was time for me to stop warring with my personality and like myself – even if I lack poise and possess an unerring instinct for trouble.

Of course, easier said than done when you’ve just fallen through glass pane with 30 witnesses. And I have plenty of galloping left to do. So, dearest friends and family, stay tuned for my next Bridget story.

Love,
Laura

TFLHS students compete in the "traditional Korean sport" that
we've translated to "Human Bridge" during Sports Day 2007.

2008's TFLHS Class number 4, one of my 6 beloved classes.

Dear Friends and Family,

Deagu City, its walls and its clouds are drab. But the hills surrounding us have burst to life. Winter’s lingering chill occasionally sends us into shivers and but visually, spring is all over; trees are that new green so fresh that you stare at branches and taste mint.

Last weekend could be described just this way, which made climbing into my friend’s car and driving from blah concrete into green mountains feel like an escape. We were going to Buddhist temple called Golgulsa as tourists, but we packed to stay. And were hoping for a memorable experience.

Once a friend of mine begged, “Please, whatever you do, no more temple visits!” But just as you must visit churches in Italy, you must visit temples in Asia. They are beautiful. They are a culmination of generations. They are meaningful. And I enjoy these visits but… well, but…

Another time, upon the news that I was to tour one of Korea’s most famous temples, my guiding teacher shook his head and sorrowfully said, “You will see the temple but you will not see its soul.” He meant that I would see old wooden blocks, I would point my camera at a golden Buddha statue but that I would not meet the monks and that I would miss the actual beauty of Buddhism. I understood. Indeed, when I visit Buddhist temples, I gawk at painted wooden structures, I read that the temple was built in blah blah blah and is special because it signifies blah blah blah. After reading the signs, respectfully I stroll around to absorb the sites: wooden beads, plethoras of pinprick lights, inscrutable frescos, and supplicants, foreheads on the ground in front of Buddha. But these temples hold little meaning for me, I suspect because I cannot feel the why of these temples. And that is a pity.

Luckily, I am not alone in my ignorance. Therefore, for foreigners such as myself, there is a program that allows you to overnight at a Korean Buddhist temple. The program advertises itself with the slogan, “Changing the Way You See the World.” Although under no serious illusion that our regard for the world would change after a bit of bowing and meditation, my friend and me, both feeling that we were missing a vital piece of understanding Korean culture, decided it was time to see what we could learn from staying at a temple.

We were greeted by a friendly dog, sprawled in front of the office doorway. We were signed in and given a schedule by a British woman who had been living at the temple for two years, studying Buddhism and studying Sunmudo, the martial art that the temple specializes in. We placed our backpacks in a clean, sparse bedroom and took ourselves up the path to explore.

Golgulsa was built in the 6^th century and what hasn’t disintegrated from that time remains quite distinct. The temple boasts that it is the only temple cave in Korea. Upon reading that fact my response was, “What cave?” But main cave itself has, I suppose, crumbled, exposing a topmost Goddess of Mercy carved from the exposed cliff face. The Goddess is actually rather smug, I’d say, not at all diminished by the modern glass ceiling now protecting her. It takes some climbing to get a good view of her: up steep stairs, leaning on guard rails, clinging to rock while searching for footholds. I felt very adventurous as my friend and I sat under this ancient carving, peering down at a smooth wooden deck abutting the main shrine building, where we could see a monk performing what had to be Sunmudo kicks and bounds. Soon, a dinner bell rung. Down the stairs we went to a long dining room with short tables, where we lined and were up served very good vegetarian food with two admonishments: men and women must sit apart and do not waste any food. Buddhists believe that in the after life, you are forced to sit among all the food that you have wasted during your life on earth.

Our schedule next sent us to the temple’s martial arts gym for a “Sunmudo T.V. show” – which appeared to be an advertisement for the wonders of Sunmudo framed by the beauty of Golgulsa. We watched lines of men framed by ancient pagodas performing dramatic jumps, groups of women performing simultaneous tightly controlled kicks and white westerners taking tea with the head monk. After the video, another westerner, who never introduced himself and later became known to us as Frenchie, then attempted, and I do mean attempted, to teach us a few Sunmudo moves. But the coordination that seemed to come effortlessly to him was impossible for us. Frenchie was very serious and barely patient. But every once in a while, his countenance would break and his blue eyes would beam amusement and a teasing smile would emerge. I liked watching this. But we not-so-coordinated students couldn’t help but suspect that watching us make fools of ourselves gave him a mite too much pleasure. Others resented Frenchie’s lack of hospitality, but I sensed in him strong reserve, just as strong disinterest in pandering to casual tourists, and discomfort with the English language.

When we were done with our martial arts lesson, Frenchie rapidly debriefed us on bowing techniques. The gym floor was cleared and thin cotton mats were laid facing an altar complete with a gold Buddha. Men and women separated and knelt on the mats. Martial arts instructors became monks that now lead chants and bowing. Clueless as to what was going on and unable to chime in, I kept Frenchie in the corner of my eye, and followed his movements (which was much easier than learning kicks from him). Just when my quadriceps were beginning to protest the repeated bowing, the “chanting” session was over and we Western visitors were put to work wiping down the gym with brooms and wetted rags. Then we were sent to sleep.

Traditional Korean beds are thin mats placed on a warmed floor, with a thick comforter on top and a hard pillow of grain for under the neck. These beds are too hard for my taste but our temple beds were clean and the floor was toasty. Besides a curious incident where 4 or 5 dogs barked a lot at 1:21 am, I slept.

At 4 am, a monk walked by our room ringing a small, moderately-pitched bell. We turned on our lights – brutal! - to indicate that we were awake but then conspired to snooze. I seriously considered setting my alarm but instead washed my face, pulled my hair back, and changed. Next, under bright stars and soft darkness, we plodded up the mountain for an early morning chant in the main shrine. Again we began by kneeling on cotton mats before a subduedly gleaming gold Buddha. Four monks positioned themselves between Buddha and ourselves, chanting, ringing a bell. And bowing. A proper Buddhist bow involves standing, feet barely parted. Then softening the knees, placing palms flat on the floor, knees to the ground, then forehead to the ground, then lifting the palms of your hands and rotating them towards the sky. Next you bring your palms together while raising your forehead, and subsequently raising yourself to your feet in almost a single movement. This is not as easy as it sounds.

After our morning chanting session, the head monk, dressed in gray with a burgundy wrap across one shoulder, folded himself into lotus position (cross legged with feet upon thighs). He expelled three deep breaths and settled into meditation. I did my best to imitate him. I crossed my legs and sat with my palms up. However, meditation is not my forte. That early in the morning, I awake with unnaturally clear, racing thoughts that leap and stumble around each other. As I sat, attempting to subdue my mind and tolerate my leg going to sleep, I noticed birds began chirping outside at precisely 5 am. A few minutes later, I peeked again and noticed that outside dark was fading. Towards the end of the meditating, the eldest of the temple dogs strolled in. Her toenails softly clicked against the floor but no one rushed her out. I liked that. After sitting meditation, we took our prickling legs for walking meditation. Silently, we strolled in a single file line through the temple grounds, initially making numerous laps around a sculpture that overlooks a valley of green hills before simply following the temple’s path. I marveled at the pearlescent dawn. Three of the temple dogs accompanied us on our walk, leading the way or pacing along side us. Although we Western walking meditators remained respectfully silent, our heads moved to and fro absorbing of the sights. I’m not sure that this qualified as actual meditation but it felt nice. I almost burst into laughter when it occurred to me that it looked to me as if the dogs were taking their obedient humans for a walk.

Breakfast, at 6:20 am, sans coffee, was a complicated ritual called Barugonyang. We were each loaned a set of four nested bowls with lid, a grey linen placemat, a white linen napkin, chopsticks and a spoon. We were seated, nervous, cross-legged, in a perfectly straight row and admonished that silence is an important part of this ritual. No talking. No clicking bowls together. And every last bit of food must be washed from your bowl into your stomach. Our little row of Westerners became a rectangle as Sunmudo students and teachers silently joined us with their settings before the monks seated themselves at the head of our rectangle. The head monk took a large bamboo stick and noisily struck it against the floor. Then, each of us silently:

-Opened our placemat.

-Placed 4 bowls near our left knee. We removed the chopsticks and spoon from a wrapper.

-Using our thumbs, we quietly extracted the smallest bowl and placed it right, top. (That was our water bowl.)

-Using our thumbs, we quietly extracted the next smallest bowl and placed it left, top. (That was our vegetable bowl.)

-Using our thumbs, we quietly extracted the next to largest bowl and placed it right. (That was our soup bowl.)

-The largest bowl, remaining on the left was our rice bowl.

-Temple students poured cool water from a large tea kettle into each person’s smallest bowl.

-Temple students served rice with a big paddle.

-Then, from trays placed around the rectangle of people, we quickly took as much food as we wanted. (I had a moment of panic at this stage because I couldn’t reach the trays and no one noticed ‘til this part was almost over). We were forbidden to mix foods between bowls.

-Our first act with the food was to take a piece of cabbage kimchi and wash it clean of spices and place it in the rice bowl.

-We then ate very quickly and cleanly and finished before the head monk struck a large bamboo stick to the floor to announce the end of the meal.

-Temple students then came around again. This time to pour warm water into each person’s rice bowl.

-Then, pushing around the cleaned kimchi, we each cleaned our rice bowl with our chopsticks. Then we poured the water into the soup bowl.

-Next, we cleaned the soup bowl with kimchi and water. Poured the water into the veggie bowl.

-Next, we cleaned the veggie bowl and drank the dirty water.

-Temple students then collected each person’s leftover water in large blue buckets. If the collective water was too dirty, we were told that we would have to split and drink it. Happily, this was not necessary.

-Finally, we polished each bowl with the napkin and silently returned the bowls to their original nested state. We then sat quietly in a perfect line and waited ‘til the head monk ended the ritual with another strike of his bamboo stick.

I have never experienced the like; I was too wary of faux pas to actually eat a good breakfast. My favorite moment came just as we were cleaning up, when the head monk found a long bean sprout to the side of his bowl. Clear as day, I read his intention to hide that sprout in his napkin but then he realized that too many people were watching and so he ate it.

After breakfast, I vied with the trainee monks for 300 Won coffee (30 cent) from a vending machine. Then I took my miniscule cup of instant coffee and a blanket and my journal to a quiet bench up the hill. The sun rose over the hill on my right to glint between the trees while to my left, birds called to one another. The temple’s dogs kept wandering by and I happily put down my pen each time one wanted me to scratch his bristly, thick pelt.

At 8 o’clock, we 7 foreigners gathered to take tea with a monk. Our monk’s head was shaved and he wore plain gray trousers with a burgundy collar and cuffs indicating his trainee status. We found his English inadequate for conveying complicated ideas. But his eyes sparkled and his movements were precise as he prepared tea for us in a traditional manner. After the preliminaries, I piped up with, “I have a question. Why are men and women separated for eating and worship?”

His answer was too confusing to quote but I eventually made out that his answer related to the sect of Buddhism that he was a member of preserving very traditional practices. I pictured other traditional religions that keep men and women separate during worship, Judaism and Islam, and decided that I had the gist.

Another in our group asked our monk about his own history. His reply was startled us, as he suggested that we not ask about a monk about his past because often times a monk becomes a monk to leave a troubling past behind. We didn’t know what to make of that answer. And the other puzzling, but not puzzling issue with our monk was that he seemed hypersensitive towards us girls, especially wary of almost-revealing tops or us peeling a sweater off. He seemed especially young at those moments, clearly struggling.

I kept asking questions (not about celibacy, but oh, I wanted to!) because I wanted to better understand. When I piped up with my second question, our monk tried to divert me by asking us to introduce ourselves to him. This wasn’t much of a distraction and I next asked I asked about the daily lives of monks. I couldn’t follow his answer well.

Next, I wondered how Buddhism and Sunmudo were related. Our monk’s answer referenced Korean Buddhist history when monks developed strong bodies through martial arts as a part of their philosophical practice. Eventually Buddhist monks, experienced in martial arts, became vital to repelling attacks on Korea from warring states.

That said, perhaps that answer still seems strange? Generally we Westerners consider Buddhism a peaceful faith… teaching fighting techniques at a peace-loving Buddhist temple seems counter-intuitive. But our monk’s answer about the development of a martial art going hand in hand with the practice of Buddhism made sense to me because caring for the body in order to nourish the philosophic mind has been a long-standing practice in this part of the world. Think yoga: a practice intended to unite the body and the mind through breathing. As Liz Gilbert once explained,

The ancients developed these physical stretches not for personal fitness, but to loosen up their muscles and minds in order to prepare them for meditation. It is difficult to sit in stillness for many hours, after all, if your hip is aching, keeping you from contemplating your intrinsic divinity because you are too busy contemplating, “Wow… my hip really aches.”

Hindus developed yoga to enable meditation while the Chinese and the Koreans hit two birds with one stone in developing martial arts, which both encourages work upon one’s mind and turns one into a warrior. In fact, later I read that Sunmudo, “is a training method taught at Golgulsa Temple designed to extinguish worldly pains and attain enlightenment. The goal of this training is harmonization of mind and body united with breathing.”

Bingo.

Anyway, with those questions, so began a few hours of my intermittently peppering our monk with questions. I don’t think he minded my curiosity – in fact, he started teasing me about 10 minutes into our tea - but basic discussions in English are difficult for Koreans with a basic education. Asking him to speak with us about Buddhism would be like one of us trying to explain Christian philosophy after 2 years of high school French. I felt bad for him. And I felt worse for Frenchie (as our monk dubbed him), because Frenchie apparently didn’t do an adequate job explaining our visit to us – which meant that our monk could punish Frenchie with 3000 bows. Our monk seemed half joking but serious while repeating this threat. 3000 bows is no joke. In fact, we visitors could’ve been punished with 3000 bows ourselves if we had missed our 4:30 am chant. Snoozing so rarely pays off.

Eventually, our monk got tired of pouring us tea so he put us in a white van and drove us to visit two 3-story pagodas, the remains of an ancient temple. Next we found ourselves on an East coast beach, gawking at the only known underwater tomb in the world. Our funny monk instructed me, “Go swim to it!”

I put my hands into the surf and breathed. “After you.” I replied.

Last he drove us to another temple, larger than Golgulsa, reportedly inherently defensible, which apparently made it important during times of war when a horn was sounded from the Girimsa temple grounds to summon able-bodied men to defend their country. Our monk was on much surer ground here. He was able to explain to me that finger placement on one Buddha made him a “Doctor Buddha” (a Healing Buddha) and that to this day, scholars were unsure about what this special building with beautifully aged wooden floors had been used for. We went into one building in which the sign declared housed relics but which seemed packed with paintings of good people rising above tortured people. One manuscript pictured a person pierced with many blades, somehow a cautionary tale regarding proper parental love. We found these pictures rather disturbing – and our monk, with the relish of a young man who loves studying martial arts, told us all about them, pointing out the pain of the tortured people. I couldn’t follow his explanations – and wondered at the level of metaphor portrayed in the paintings while someone else said, “I thought Buddhism was supposed to be a peaceful religion? These paintings seem violent.” The time in that dark building set us all wondering.

We were all, including our monk, hungry and tired when we returned to our temple around 11 am. We friends snoozed in our room. We ate one more vegetarian lunch. Bade farewell to the other westerner temple visitors and sleepily returned to Daegu. During journey out of the green hills, I reflected that I wasn’t sure how much I had learned from our visit. I had hoped to emerge with a foundation that I could use to build an understanding of Buddhism. Instead I felt as if I had been presented with a box for a 100 piece puzzle but that the givers had only included 3 of the pieces. I suspect that my next reverent temple visit will be to… a bookstore.

With love,

Laura

For the record, that is not me with our monk.
I kick much higher!!!

Dear Family and Friends,

We interrupt the previously planned blog regarding Chinese New Year to bring you an almost live update from Taegu Foreign Language High School.

My final semester has begun and I am savoring memorable moments; I’m writing down the funny moments. As this is me speaking, I hardly need to tell you all that my memorable moments usually involve my committing what you might call… acts of foolery… and, of course, my laughter is often returned in kind. Recent examples:

On the subject of my favorite movie star, one student said,
“George Clooney?? He is grandfather.”
I have joined the ranks of the truly old.

On the state of my classroom a student complained,
“Teacher, this room smells like a hedgehog!”
Seriously, does she know what a hedgehog smells like???
(Her answer: “Teacher, this room!” Hard to argue with that logic!)

Our school bell intones from a ceiling lodged speaker. I’m constantly complaining about the thing (it interrupts me!) but one time the bell rang and a student beat me at my own game with,
“Holy cow! WHAT THE HECK…???
Maybe you had to be there.

One day we were having a relay race where teams were writing words on the board – the ultimate object of the race was to use the greatest number of letters. One student froze every racer by spelling,
“pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanokoniosis”
This is a real word with 45 letters. Look it up.

Yesterday we were in the midst of a discussion regarding Charlotte’s Web, when a student interrupted to announce,
“Teacher, you have a TAIL!”
My tail turned out to be a scarf dangling from my jacket. The double meaning of tail passed them by. But oh, the hilarity.

And, come to find out, April Fool’s Day is popular here in Korea, popular to the extent that students play pranks even on teachers. I.e. a teacher is scheduled to teach class 1-3, but she walks into the appointed classroom only to find a mix of students from 1-3, 2-3, and 3-3.

Happily, I only get reports of those pranks and yesterday I learned the origin of April Fool’s. Once upon a time, before the Wright Brothers flew at Kittyhawk, there lived a British pilot by the name of Loof Lirpa. Have you heard of him? Anyway, he made a grand announcement to the people of London that he planed to demonstrate the first flight ever at noon the following day. Sure enough, an excited crowd gathered the next day to witness the event. The crowd waited and waited but Mr. Lirpa did not show up. Later, Mr. Lirpa was discovered stuck in a tree - making fools of both himself and the people that had gathered to watch him. Nice, huh?

Oh, please note Mr. Lirpa’s full name: Loof Lirpa.
Conversely this spells A-p-r-i-l F-o-o-l!

Happy April Fool’s Day!

Love,
Laura

Dear Friends and Family,

Because pictures can save you all from thousands of words from me, here are a few more pictures of the Forbidden City.

A solitary soldier guarding Tiananmen Square – there were hundreds but I feared photographing groups of them.

Mao, enshrined at the head of Tiananmen Square, entombed at the foot.

Roof lines and “peach vats”
(bronze vats that actually held water in case of a fire).

Mouth-watering colors, intricate tile work.

Would you anger these lions?

The emperor’s throne in the incongruously named
Palace of Heavenly Purity.

Imperial garden “shelter” – a more accurate label continues to evade me.

Treasure.

More treasure. I’d want this globe, if I could read it!

A cunning clock.

This one can literally move.
The Clock Exhibition Hall was too dark for me
to convey any truly incredible clocks.

Jasmine Blooming Flower Tea.
A single ball of leaves blooms into a flower
that can flavor at least 5 cups of tea. Pretty and refreshing.

The Forbidden City.

--Laura

Dear Family and Friends,

A visit to China’s Forbidden City began my second morning in Beijing. The old city is set on a long north-south axis, making it very hard for a visitor to get lost. Perhaps it was the chill in the wind or my inadequate morning coffee, but the walk from the subway to the Forbidden City felt as if would never end. I emerged from an underground stairway, past a roped-off chokepoint of some eight unsmiling military police officers in long olive green coats and rounded fur hats. Outwardly I smiled at the officers but when my smile was neither acknowledged nor returned, inwardly I quaked at the sight of them. I am not accustomed to visible military control.

I began walking from the southern most point of Tiananmen Square, a square of tremendous proportions, paved in textured granite, edged by buildings with an air of importance about them, including the National Museum of China (a hulking skeleton in the midst of renovation) and the Great Hall of the People. Tiananmen Square, of course famous to us Americans as the site of the 1989 violent protest suppression, is actually a plaza of long-standing political significance. Named for the Gate of Heavenly Peace that dominates its northernmost point, the Square also once held a ceremonial gate of great importance latterly known as the "Gate of China" which used to remain closed except when the Emperor passed - commoner traffic was diverted to side gates. However, since the end of the Chinese empire, the Square has been open and the site of many well-photographed political events such as Mao Zedeng's proclamation that established the People's Republic of China, a host of military might displays on "National Day" and for rallies during the Cultural Revolution. The Square's significance to Chinese culture is such that it has been the site of many protests besides the well-known 1989 one. Today, the Square is not only colossal but it houses an imposing mausoleum with Mao Zedong’s body and a gigantic Obelisk monument to the People's Heroes. As I briskly continued north, my attempts to capture the size, the military control, or the feel of Tiananmen Square with my camera were fruitless.


Walking the breadth of Tiananmen Square, passing the hoards of early morning tourists posing for pictures with a portrait of Mao, walking under the imposing red of the Tiananmen Gate, down a wide, tree-lined cobblestone corridor, reminded me of the movie The American President when the fictional president said that, "The White House is the single greatest home court advantage in the modern world." The red walls around me seemed to stretch higher, imposing their shade. I felt my own insignificance most acutely: I was one amongst a large crowd during one minute of one day, one amongst the billions of ages. I wondered if Beijing might've been classified as the greatest home court advantage of the old world.

Evading aggressive hawkers and tour guides, I purchased an entrance ticket and continued northward under the arch of yet another gate into a courtyard dominated by an artificial “Golden Stream” described to be in the shape of an archer's bow. I paused on one of its five white marble bridges to trace the bow shape with my eyes but froze watching distant two soldiers marching towards me. I backed out of their path, realizing that they were not after me. Their course was invisible but their precision tight as they proceeded to the southern corner of the courtyard. Then another two soldiers advanced with the same precision on the same pre-designated course. Reluctantly I unfroze while again inwardly quaking yet another show of the military; I would observe similar displays throughout the day.

At that very moment, and really for some time to come, I kept pinching myself - yes, figuratively. I could hardly believe that I was inside the Forbidden City. Completed in 1420, the palace complex that I was standing in housed 24 emperors over 491 years. I cannot find two statistics that agree – a BIG surprise considering my Great Wall experience – so I’m going to pass on The Palace Museum’s brochure’s assurances that the complex exceeds 10,763,910 square feet and that the buildings occupy a mere 17% of the space. The complex, on the afore-mentioned north-south axis, can be further split into two sections: the expansive southern Outer Court used for governing, ceremonies, and governing ceremonies and the cozier Inner Court where the emperor and empress, consorts and concubines, lived along with buildings for administrative activities. What I can assure you from personal experience is that despite its layout, the Forbidden City is too big not to get lost in.

I had started in the Outer Court where the building directly ahead and the ones that followed held familiarity bred by coffee table books. I crossed the Gate of Supreme Harmony, mostly obscured by scaffolding, and gasped from the edge of the famous court where majestic ceremonies were held. Unfortunately more scaffolding hid the Hall of Supreme Harmony (they were spiffing it up for the Olympics, I imagine) nonetheless, I could still see carved white marble tiers and a heavy gold-colored tiled roof. I paced the perimeter, exploring visual angles, and briefly detoured into the Pavilion of Spreading Righteousness to check out the “Weapons and Armors of the Qing Dynasty” and the “Qing Dynasty Ritual Music.” Both exhibitions turned out more kitschy than enjoyable so I returned to my north-south axis, past the Hall of Central Harmony, and the Hall of Preserving Harmony. Each bronze description was emblazoned with, “Made Possible by The American Express Company.” Shocking!


Still heading northward, I found that the Gate of Heavenly Purity is connected to the Palace of Heavenly Purity by a marble causeway. The Emperor’s living quarters were in the Palace of Heavenly Purity – a name that I regarded with skepticism.

“Where do these building names come from?” I asked myself. “What do we in the West name our buildings after? Architectural features?” (The Hall of Mirrors?) “Function?” (The Grand Apartment of the King?). Intellectually I admired the Chinese salutes to virtue but I am too cynical for high-minded building names.

Although I did find the Hall of Union aptly named. Apparently, as mentioned, the emperor would reside in the Palace of Heavenly Purity while the empress, representing the earthly Yin in contrast to the emperor’s heavenly Yang, would live in the Palace of Earthly Tranquility. The Hall of Unity stood between the two palaces and was the designated location where the emperor and empress would “mix their Yin and Yang to produce harmony.” The Hall of Unity seemed overly spacious for comfort, which lead me to feel rather sorry for the emperors and empresses – I imagine that the pressure that they must’ve experienced within that room would have been extraordinary, and less than pleasurable.

Beyond the Palace of Earthly Tranquility was the Imperial Garden, which probably contains its share of earthly tranquility but it was too wintery and too crowded for me to derive any feelings of tranquility from my visit. I loved a garden shelter – a better architectural definition now escapes me – with an intricately painted dome, unmarred by recent restoration. And I was especially taken by two cypresses in the garden, not due to their appearance, but because, well, read the picture.


The romantic in me sighed.

It wasn’t long after falling for twisted cypresses that I knelt to peak through another ochre arch at high hill built of the dirt from removed from the Forbidden City’s moat. The gate blocking my view was northernmost and satisfyingly dubbed the “Gate of Divine Prowess.” Later I would climb that dirt hill and realize that the Gate of Divine Prowess is famous in photographs, with seemingly countless gold tiled roofs of the Imperial Palace shifting behind it.

Having reached the northernmost point of the Forbidden City, I turned to search for royal treasure. And the Imperial Treasure Gallery was enjoyable – in great part because I could warm my dripping nose. The exhibition contained predictable jewel-encrusted jars, Buddhas and daggers, humungous jade urns. I was most taken by a golden globe, engraved with names and studded with pearls. I took a million bad pictures but didn’t linger. I had clocks to see.

Ok, so, family, friends. Did you know that I love clocks? Admittedly, this is an ironic facet to my personality considering that I never miss an opportunity to be late. Nevertheless, I admire the science and the precision of clockwork, and I cannot wait to be rich so that I can buy beautiful clocks. No doubt I’ll ignore expensive clocks as ably as I ignore the cheap ones! Anyway, LP described the Imperial Clock Exhibition as “unmissable” and indeed, they were extraordinary.

The building that housed the clocks was dark, only the occasional ray of sunshine sliced dust through cracks in the window shades. The display cases were dusty too. The exhibit began with an explanation: in 1602, Galileo Galilei discovered the key property which inspired the later invention of the pendulum clock by Christiaan Huygens in 1656. Consequently, sometime during the early Qing Dynasty (1644-> ), European-made mechanical clocks began to be imported into China. By the eighteenth century, many clocks produced in both Europe and China were brought to the Qing palace, purchased as gifts. Clocks were exquisite to the point that they were considered precious palace furnishings. Hmm… anyway, then I began to move from an amazing clock to an enormous clock, from an original clock to an incredible clock, from marvelous clock to a meticulously wrought pocket watch, and back to another amazing clock… Each clock seemed more incredible than the last incredible clock: there were clocks with moving figurines, inland jeweled faces, gold tiers, Greek goddesses, clocks clasped in a lady’s hand or shaped like steam ships. The awesomist clocks included early robotics: one clock was pulled atop a gold carriage by a mechanized elephant while another gilt copper clock set a robot dressed in European clothes into writing Chinese characters with a brush. Wonderful, truly, extraordinary.


I began to wind down after the clocks. Outside the sun shone but it was cold – I mean layers + long underwear and wind-chill-in-the-teens kind-of cold. I wandered the Forbidden City for another hour or so of gold tiled roofs, bronze “peach vats,” dragons painted in gold, and unending red walls before I realized that I need to sit before I collapsed. So I turned south, again traversing that north-south axis.

As I departed, parched and chilled, I reflected upon an ache that I had discovered during my visit: I ached for the ability to imagine life in the Forbidden City. My visit felt like walking in a magnificent shell. Signs that stated things like, “Inscription written by Emperor Qianlong” meant nothing to me. I wanted to picture an empress in her quarters, surrounded by exquisite clocks, I longed to attend an imaginary feast hosted by an emperor. (Yes, I was hungry at that point!). And I wondered: how would I have fared if my visit had been to a palace in a Western country?


In fact, please, imagine for a moment, if you will, that you are on your first visit to the Chateau de Versailles, in the French Republic. Versailles, also once the seat of kings, still breath-taking. During your visit you would likely find yourself strolling through state bedrooms, examining the kitchens, gawking at your distortions in 350 mirrors, often pausing to read plaques detailed with history. As you tour the palace, you would know – just know – a myriad of details about Versailles. You wouldn't need a guide to tell you that king and queens ruled France from the very rooms you were standing in; you would already be aware, vaguely, of the monarchs that ruled France: Louises, Philips, Henries, perhaps the Xth or XVIth of their kind. You would know that their queens were descended from the royalist of the European royal: Adelaide of Aquitaine, Anne of Brittany, Catherine de' Medici, Mary Tudor, Maria Antonia of Austria. Perhaps you were lucky enough to study France and its history in detail: alliances and violent divisions, flamboyant affairs, high philosophy, fashion and food that exceeds substance to the point of art. And even if your education about France lacked cohesion, you have no doubt seen, at some point in the past, paintings of French royals: what they ate, the shapes of the glasses that they drank from, what they sat on, how they dressed, who they worshipped, where they slept. Therefore, during your tour of Versailles, your factual mind could enliven your imagination with a myriad of detail, absorbed throughout your entire life, which would allow you to tour the present-day museum known as the Chateau de Versailles and see the past.

(Oh, my! I'm imagining Versailles so vividly that I'd kill for a decent glass of Cabernet Sauvignon!).

Anyway, from France, we Americans inherited a certain number of customs (including fine wine drinking!), societal structures, ethical values, not to mention certain aesthetics and technologies. I imagine that we continue to have much more in common with France than we realize. Indeed, we have a lot in common with France; we have a lot, lot less in common with China.

This realization crashed upon me as I balanced on not perfectly even cobble stones in front of the Forbidden City’s famous Hall of Supreme Harmony – and drew a blank. I couldn't summon the name of a single emperor or empress, I didn't know the Ming Dynasty from the Qing Dynasty. I had no clue who had inhabited the compelling palace that I was then standing in, let alone what they ate, what they sat on, or who they worshipped. Yet if I had been on a visit to the Palace of Versailles, I would’ve ably been able to guess.

It became clear to me that over the span of years, our society plants bits and layers of knowledge within us in a variety of ways. We utilize our knowledge (our Western-cultural knowledge) without being aware how much we know. That day in the Forbidden City taught me how much I know, in a new way, and reminded me, again, how much I do not know.

Recalling pieces of Versailles but avidly soaking in final impressions of the Imperial Palace of China, I walked out of the Forbidden City, once the seat of emperors, still breath-taking, and towards a glass of jasmine flower tea and a very heavy night’s sleep.

--Laura

I couldn’t quit taking pictures in Beijing; here are some of my favorites…

Upon my arrival, I was told that the building was decorated for Spring Festival. “Spring Festival?” I inquired, puzzled. “Are two holidays in China in February?” (No.)

A tiny blurb in LP called the Poly Museum “sublime.” I agreed – even before spotting the array of gorgeous Buddhas on display there.

Stir-fried noodles topped with Peking duck. Sadly, very sadly, I did not enjoy any food beyond mediocre during my week in Beijing. No doubt this was part my fault as I didn’t bring friends to dine with and the Chinese do prefer to serve their best food to groups. Although, counter-intuitively, Chinese cream puffs were scrumptious.

Wafujing Catholic Church, also known as St. Joseph’s, a mere two blocks from the Forbidden City. Originally built in 1665, it was destroyed by earthquake, rebuilt, burned by accident, rebuilt, burned by revolution, rebuilt and miraculously, considering its history, managed to survive the Cultural Revolution. Their Sunday mass schedule announced a 6:15 am mass in Latin and I was so intrigued that I went. The mass was in Chinese.

Kids and their parents rented these special ice bikes to ride between the colored flags on the iced-over lake at Behai Park. Riding bikes on ice, who knew that was possible?

Buddhas receiving lap dances – I’m sure that there was a holy reason for this.

An acrobat – balancing a tower of glasses on her foot. She actually balanced six towers at one point but I was too busy gaping to take a picture at that point! The other acts during the acrobatic show that I attended were equally enjoyable or amazing.

Beijing’s Famous (?) Temple of Heaven at Sunset. Beautiful.

Dear Friends and Family,

As my cab pulled away from Beijing’s Capital Airport, a clock excitedly exclaimed, “190 days remaining!” And when I passed it a week later, no more excitedly, the clock proclaimed, “183 days remaining!”

From the moment that the International Olympic Committee announced that Beijing would host the 2008 Summer Olympic Games, the people of China have been preparing to impress the world. On the very day of the announcement, people flooded alleyways and spilled onto the streets smiling, waving flags, and lighting scads of fireworks. No doubt before the fireworks yet to subsided, the Chinese government immediately put itself to work, hatching an expensive plan to spiff-up their capital and set their Olympics in motion. Perhaps over the intervening years, you too have heard about the cost of Beijing’s Olympics: the tearing down of traditional residential districts, billions of dollars, controversial “restorations” of historic buildings, and the creation of city greenbelts. I cannot knowledgeably write on this subject and so I shall not; however, most accounts have assessed Beijing’s Games preparation as excellent.

What I can personally report is that excitement for this event, now 155 days, 3 hours, 15 minutes, and 22.8 seconds away, is PALPABLE. Already Olympic advertisements and licensed product stores are ubiquitous. And 3 out of the 3 Chinese people that were willing to converse with me diligently ensured that I was impressed that the Games were soon to arrive. I duly assured them that I was impressed.

The Games will be 15 times zones from Pacific Standard Time - effectively 9 time zones away from the west coast of the US. If you watch the Games this summer, some of the buildings that I particularly noticed are:

The National Stadium - also known as the Bird's Nest

The Aquatics Center - which I noticed has several nick-names including the Watercube or the Bubble Wrap Building

And the Laoshan Velodrome (which looks cool from a distance but even cooler in the construction pictures)

If you feel the need to surf through more venue pictures, check out: http://en.beijing2008.cn/cptvenues/venues/lsc/index.shtml.

For my part, sometime ago it occurred to me that I am closer to the Olympic Games than I’ve ever been, financially and geographically, and with this realization, I became very exited. Can you imagine? Attending the Olympic Games in a non-US city? Awesome! Despite the rumors that flights and hotels were already booked, I was optimistic that if I waved my card de credit around and was not picky about where I slept, I, too, could squeeze into over-priced seats to cheer archers and football players and swimmers and table tennis players. I went so far as to excite a few friends in Korea about the notion of attending the games, began my research, and realized that family obligations will pull me to the States during the Beijing Olympics. I was forced to swallow my disappointment then as well as during my later exploration of Beijing when I savored my glimpses of the “Bird’s Nest,” marveled at the Aquatics Center, and bought my father an Olympics baseball cap.

The theme of the 2008 Olympics will be “One World One Dream.” These words are everywhere in Beijing - apparently even in Hollywood-sized letters just below a picturesque section of The Great Wall. The Beijing Olympics open on August 8, 2008 (although for you in the States this means August 7th). Stay tuned to your local station.

Love,
Laura

Dear Family and Friends,

I knew better and yet, I still did it. After four days with too many stops in order to twist maps into readable angles and reading hundreds of placards in mostly sub-zero temperatures, I was ready for the warmth and ease of a guided tour. So one evening, I plopped hard onto a chair in front of my hostel’s tourist sales desk and asked for a tour to The Great Wall. The travel guy suggested tour number 5 and quoted a higher-end price. My feet were sore and my nose was numb with cold, so I signed up – no questions asked.

I knew better. But did it anyway.

Just after sunrise a few mornings later, I was gathered up by a well-spoken guide and ushered into a white van warmed by a driver. I broke into treats obtained from the posh supermarket that I had discovered the night before (bread and cheese and a pear and bottled Starbucks) as we wended our way to another hostel in order to pick up another tourist like myself, well, except that my tour companion was male and Japanese. We drove north, first along city streets and then picked up a highway. Almost immediately, my Japanese companion drifted off to sleep – which could’ve been my fault as I had immediately launched into interviewing my guide while simultaneously watching the city flash by. My guide answered my questions, even the personal ones, good-naturedly. Amongst the questions asked were: where had my guide studied English? Is English a hard language to study? Does he have brothers and sisters? What did he think of Korea? What did he think of Koreans? And while I was at it, what did he think of Americans? Did he own a car? How would he and his family celebrate New Year’s? What were other holidays celebrated in China? Where were we going first?

“First we are going to a jade factory – jade is very precious to China. You will enjoy this. And then we will visit the Ming Tombs.” My guide replied.

I knew what his reply really meant – and silently groaned. There was no helping this now; I would not enjoy the jade factory. “Oh. Ok. Question: how many factory stops will we be making today?”

“Four.” My guide hesitated before answering and his tone was reluctant.

“Oh. Huh.” Was the most congenial response that I could summon because my brain had kicked into chastisement mode. “Laura, you know better! You should’ve asked if this is the sort-of tour that visits ‘factories.’ Or you should’ve attempted to go with a different tour to a less touristed location. Now you paid too much for a tour that will drag you from place to place selling junk at outrageous prices to hoards of tourists. Crap, crap, crap.”

This self-chastisement was based on experience. One of the most popular, often government-sanctioned ways of squeezing money from tourists in Asia is to sell tours to famous places, tours that also include multiple stops “factories” in order for tourists to get an authentic look at native people manufacturing native products: palm sugar in Thailand, silk in Vietnam, and jade in China. This in and of itself doesn’t sound too bad but the problem with this practice is that the only thing authentic about this sort-of factory is the intent to sell as many products as possible for sky-high prices. In Thailand, for example, we were taken to one store of “native crafts” where my friend and I counted 7 “Made in China” stickers on items priced three-times what we had seen in the local market (and you can bargain down prices at markets) before we walked out of the store in disgust.

In Beijing, I had already discovered a certain level of tourist-selling savvy in places such as Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden Palace. And I had already seen a multitude of tourist gift shops. I was reminded that we Stateside tourists laugh when we visit the Statue of Liberty and then buy a t-shirt, only to find that our souvenir of America was made in China. And that during my various travels I have run across a multitude of “native” tourist items with “Made in China” labels. If I purchased an item marked “Made in China” in Beijing, for once I would be buying “A Made in China” souvenir from China. However, cheery as that thought was, I was a tourist, on a tour, in a country with some tourist savvy that manufactures the majority of the world’s souvenirs. There could be no possible way that the “factories” that we were about to visit were authentic.

So. With one word - “Four” - I knew that I had made a dumb tourist mistake. Nonetheless I was determined to enjoy what I had. With some interest, I examined the enormous jade carving of eight running horses in the lobby of the first “factory” and I was genuinely delighted to discover I had an eye for “real jade” during the ten minute factory informational tour – although the “factory” was a smidge larger than my studio apartment. When we were let loose in the actually-factory-sized gift shop, our day tour guide sought me to say, “I’ll meet you guys in the lobby in 20 minutes.”

With a smile, I brightly inquired, “Could we make it 10?”

“No.”

My guide smiled sympathetically while yanking away my hope and left me to wander through glass cases of jade bangles, fat jade Buddhas, jade bowls, jade eagles (patriotic American style), jade beads, jade beaded necklaces, pearls, slim jade Buddhas, jade tea pots, and oh! I could go on for pages. But your only mistake was to endeavor to read this blog so I shall spare you that annoyance.

Already we were on the outskirts of the city, where the apartment buildings were squatter and spread further apart and finally began turning into sparse black-tiled roofs scattered among withered brown fields. As our van wended through narrow country lanes towards high hills, our day guide, after a well-deserved break from answering my unending questions, began to talk about the tomb site we were about to visit.

The Ming Dynasty, as I’m sure you’ll recall from your Chinese history classes (yeah, I know. What Chinese history classes?), stretched from 1368 to 1644. No doubt a lot can be said about this dynasty but I will confine myself to commenting that the Ming Emperors, especially one Yongle Emperor, seemed an outstandingly ambitious lot and were responsible for the restoration of China’s Grand Canal, they added a vast deal to the Great Wall, and built Beijing’s often-called Forbidden City.

Because the Mings were driven to great building projects and because they felt it only fair that they journey to the next world with near-equal pomp to the Egyptian Pharaohs (I couldn’t help but suspect), selecting a site for the tombs was an arduous process in which the final decision was based on nebulous factors relating to Feng Shui along with tangible factors related to natural scenery. Our guide explained that just after an emperor began his rule, the process of designing and building his tomb would begin. And when the emperor departed, he was sealed with his precious earthly belongings, as well as the still-living tomb laborers, and sometimes even the still-living empress and concubines.

Each Ming tomb was roughly the same design with a “front yard” for the living and a “back yard” for the dead. (Our guide really used the word “yard!”) To pay our visit, we stepped through a classic Chinese gate, arched, painted ochre red with a glazed tile roof and entered the square front yard. The yard was dominated by a large temple flanked two long “divine kitchens.” Inside the temple were instruments ever-set for musicians, a curtained bed that the emperor’s body would only momentarily rest before being sealed into the tomb, and a large alter with candlesticks and the provisions for Confucian ceremonies. Apparently throughout his life, an emperor would visit his ancestor’s tomb in order to pay respect to the departed. As the Ming Dynasty accumulated years and dead emperors, later emperors would send court members to pay respects to longer-dead emperors. However for common people, the tombs were secret, completely buried, did not exist.

The front yard seemed pretty lively for a tomb while the back yard seemed possessed of the gravity of an imperial gravesite. To enter the back yard, we walked the perimeter of the temple and through a gate of ghosts (so called because whoever walked through that gate was never seen again) and then up a long flight of stairs into another gate held a tall stone pillar engraved with the emperor’s name that directly shadowed a mounded hill under which was the actual tomb. From the archway protecting the stone pillar, we peered at the large grass-covered mounded tomb, sealed by an ochre Chinese screen. Our guide told us that this tomb had never been opened. As we departed, we again passed through the gate of ghosts because if we did not, we would leave our soul with the tomb. I wasn’t willing to take any chances!



The tomb tour was interesting but my interest was caught imagining the fate of the tomb builders. The tomb builders’ lives were, literally, devoted to building the tombs. When selected for the honor of building the emperor’s tomb, a worker would be removed from his life, yes, from his family, and confined to a village near his tomb. For days, months, years, he would freeze or sweat, he would ache for his family, and his end would be closed in, dank, and hungry, breathing while the emperor’s body decays. Would the worker feel honored or tortured?


Our tomb park visit was hurried while our next two visits felt interminable. We stopped at two more shops, I mean “factories,” for more “special shopping” and for lunch. Lunch was numerous small plates of barely appetizing Chinese food, the deliciousness of which could easily be exceeded by an American supermarket Chinese counter and afterwards, we were left for yet another 30 minutes of shopping. I wandered the cavernous shopping area with its myriad of tourist items: cloisonné vases of all sizes, t-shirts, fat Buddhas, thin Buddhas, pearls and … and … (you can imagine) mostly price shopping with the notion that it couldn’t hurt to figure out what other people ended up buying and how much NOT to pay.

At one point, because it was a slow day in the money-making factory, one sales lady brought out a Korean traditional dress, holding it against herself to show her friends how she’d look in it. Silently observing this scene, which was much more interesting than the nearby arrayed pens painted with the Imperial palace, my reaction was, “Oh my gosh. Are they trying to pretend that that dress is Chinese? The nerve!” Bored and now curious, I began searching the clothing section for Korean style-dresses but I only found Chinese. Koreans feel that Japan and China have the bad habit of co-opting precious Korean items for their own – apparently I’ve begun to harbor this concern as well. Perhaps I’ve already been in Korea for too long. Koreans say that it is scientifically proven that kimchi can prevent illness, I wondered if studies had been conducted about whether kimchi causes paranoia.

Finally, we drove higher into the hills and soon the hills became low mountains and surprisingly soon we were at a section of The Great Wall of China. The day was hazy; nonetheless the mountains felt familiar, all those pictures in textbooks and PBS documentaries and coffee table books, I imagined. Our guide trotted out the usual statistics, rendered unboring by the fact that we were approaching the actual wonder. He informed us that the section of the Wall that we were visiting, known as the Badaling, had been rebuilt on top of an older portion of the wall around 1400, during the Ming Dynasty and had not been touched since. Hmm… Anyway, I thought back to what I’ve read about the Wall – probably what you’ve read: that it is a wonder of the ancient world, built on the ridges of the mountains to defend the country against marauders, but more often used as a road to transport goods. Some estimates peg the centuries-long wall building death toll in the range of 2 to 3 million. The urban legend that the Great Wall can be seen from the moon persists… although it has been definitively debunked on many occasions. All this crossed my mind just before my next realization: touring the Great Wall meant that I was going to climb to the top of a mountain, albeit not a very tall mountain, via many, many stone stairs. I wrinkled my nose at this thought; I wasn’t in the mood for an intense hike. But soon our van was parked and our guide pointed us up the path, politely ordering us to return an hour and a half.

An hour and a half.

My Japanese companion and I took turns posing for pictures at the base of the stairs and then we climbed. The stones of the wall were smooth, and the stairs irregular. Some were shallow, a matter of inches, and others were level with my knees, which made took more effort to climb. Two-story guard towers with arched windows that peered over the hills were set at irregular intervals along the way up. Climbing stairs naturally made me puff and the towers were a good excuse to stop to stick my head out the window and absorb the view. The hills below seemed arranged in layered terraces, lined with stubby tinderbox trees. As we worked our way higher, the intervals to catch our breaths became closer and closer together. I kept reminding myself to relax, to enjoy the time, to savor the moment, but I kept looking at the time, measuring how far I wanted to go versus the advancing minutes.

The final guard tower mounted at the summit was two stories high. My Japanese companion and I scrambled up steep stones that were cracked and bowed in the middle and found ourselves on small roof enclosed by ramparts. Leaning against the stones, I lightly shivered as I absorbed the view. Despite our hard work, the day remained stubbornly hazy and the view of the Wall was less than perfect as it snaked through the shriveled brush. Without taking my eyes from the view, I reached into my bag and practically sucked my water bottle down my dry throat. I was in the midst of viewing my second wonder of the ancient world – and I didn’t have the time to properly explore, the view was obscured, and the stones under my feet were too clean to be 600 years old. My primary feeling was disappointment, not wonder.


Yet I was standing in a place where, for centuries, men in armor had cocked arrows to guard their family and friends and their emperor. A place where merchants and monks and laborers with stooped backs paced the spine of their country, exchanging goods for a living. I was standing in a place so historic, so amazing, so famous that it is classified as a world wonder. Billions of people dream of visiting but only a fraction of those would ever get closer to the Wall than examining stones in a coffee table book.

It was then that the wonder struck. I arched my neck, threw my hands to the sky and let a long, “Whoo hoo!!!” echo across the ramparts. The tour was a mistake. But that didn’t matter so much. I, one insignificant Laura Drumm, was in China, puzzingly, distant, mysterious China, with my feet planted on The Great Wall of China.

“Whoo hoo!!!!!!”
--Laura

PS: After returning to the base of the Wall, defiantly twenty minutes late, I asked our guide to again tell me about the Wall. I was most interested in whether the Wall had been restored. Our guide insisted that the portion of the Wall that we had climbed had not been touched since the Ming Dynasty. That was my other realization of the day: that later I would need to fact-check our guide’s explanations. Sure enough, much of what he told us turned out false. For example, I cannot say which Ming Emperor’s tomb we visited, but if we visited Dingling, the 13th Ming Emperor’s tomb, there is an entrance to the underground tomb that we missed. That tomb had been unsealed and thoroughly excavated. And as for the Badaling portion of the Great Wall, it underwent heavy restoration in the mid-1950s. Sometimes you do not get what you pay for.

Post Script II: You can see the Ming Tombs for yourself at: http://www.world-heritage-tour.org/asia/china/ming-qing/eastern-tombs/map.html. Warning! This online tour may cause motion-sickness!