Kind time and light space

I'm proud to say that not only did I live out two complete Saturdays this weekend—one in Beijing and a Boeing 747, one in Oakland—but I also made it through two weeks of blogging without touching on the two essential stereotypes about traveling in Japan and China.

You can blame it on jet lag or whatever, but it's time to break that healthy trend. Ahem.

1. JAPANGLISH IS REALLY FUNNY.
Yes. Yes, it is. May it please the court:

It proposes the more comfortable environment.
From you, it sends to the world.

—Window ad, Midori electronics store

Pleasant Dining Bar
Kind Time and Light Space

—On the door of a restaurant

SELFISH and Snob Envamp
—Appropriate names for two pricey boutiques

Petfeeling Mink
—I really hope this place was a pet store

"LADY,S"
—This way to the women's restroom

And let's not forget the car names:

Suzuki Every
Honda That's
Daihatsu Move
Nissan Cube

But the funnier part is that all four cars are shaped like little toasters (for full-size toasters sold in the U.S., see Element and Scion).

2. CHINA IS REALLY CHEAP.
Like, crazy cheap. Let's do a side-by-side comparison, shall we?

One-way subway ride
Beijing: $0.35 (all distances)
SF/Oakland: $1.40–6.15 (depends on distance)

Cab ride to airport (approx. 45 minutes, with tolls)
Beijing: $11
SF/Oakland: $65

Bottle of spring water
Beijing: $0.25
SF/Oakland: $1 and up

Sapphire & tonic at a hipster bar
Beijing: $4
SF/Oakland: $7

Cute li'l handbag (new, not thrift store or vintage)
Beijing: $8
SF/Oakland: $25 and up

60-minute deep-tissue massage
Beijing: $7 (no, that's not a typo)
SF/Oakland: $60 and up

Dinner for two (with wine and dessert)
Beijing: $20
SF/Oakland: $50, if you're savvy or lucky

Tipping
Beijing: You don't.
SF/Oakland: 15–20%, more if you used to wait tables or you're trying to impress your date

Monthly rent for a 2BR apartment in a midrange neighborhood
Beijing: $300–500
SF/Oakland: $1,500–2,500

But I'd be remiss not to include one final stat for perspective:

Average monthly per-capita income in 2006
Beijing: $227
SF/Oakland: $4,106

There you have it.

Next up: Photos! Will start posting just as soon as I get my scanning hand back in shape after an excellent long vacation.

Tea city

The best day I spent in Beijing was the most off the beaten path. Not surprising, but worth a tale.

It may be because guidebooks cover it sparingly—Frommer's gives a nice description, but no subway or bus directions—but we didn't see any other tourists during our visit to Malian Dao. This wide street stretches longer than a country mile, and every single store along it sells tea. Just tea. Nothing else, not even (as we discovered) lunch.

Several multistory tea emporiums tower over the family shops. They're not knocking out the little guys, though—they're filled with small divided stalls, market-style. We started at Cha Cheng, or Tea City. A whole city of tea! You can imagine how I felt about that.

Almost everyone I met in Beijing was unfailingly kind, and the tea merchants were no exception. The first young woman sat us down for an hour, offering tastes of half a dozen teas and explaining the countless rituals that go into serving and drinking them.*

She also proudly showed us photos of her beautiful mountain hometown in southern China, where the finest white teas are grown. We tasted and bought a white tea delivered fresh that morning, with a deliciously musky, grassy flavor.

It's hard to describe the elegance of her perpetual movements, but I'll try.

She kept a kettle of hot water at a constant boil on an electric burner set low to the ground, using it to fill a smaller pot on the raised tea tray. This clay (I'm guessing) surface had a shallow moat around its edge, an open middle, and a fleet of miniature clay animals set to one side.

Before serving each tea, she rinsed out the tiny cups twice with hot water from the smaller pot, lifting each cup delicately with wooden tongs. Then she filled yet another small pot with leaves—clay for white tea, porcelain for green and pu'er (strong black tea that grows more valuable and fragrant with age)—and added hot water.

The first steep isn't for drinking; she used it to rinse out the cups again. The second steep has a richer color and flavor, both deepening with each subsequent steep. Different teas have different steeping limits: One rose-petal tea we tasted can be steeped six times, while a particular green should be steeped only four or five.

She kept steeping and pouring out tiny shots of each type until the serving pot was tapped, then poured the extra tea water from the pot and our cups over the heads of the clay animals. The water ran into the moat and down into a bucket tucked discreetly under the table.

A woman we met later—the owner of a café in the 798 district—explained that she treats the tea animals like real pets, or even children. "You can raise one of these for 10 years, and it will grow more valuable over time," she said. The clay also changes color as it seasons, so anyone with a practiced eye can assess its worth at a glance.

We only stopped at three stalls all afternoon, because each merchant spent at least an hour with us. Everyone working in the shop—cousins, aunts and uncles, childhood friends—sat down and tasted with us, while telling stories about each tea and the history of tea (or calligraphy or jade or antiques). There was never a hint of pressure to buy from any of them.

It felt like visiting family, down to the last semi-awkward moment where we had to politely excuse ourselves before I floated away or began twitching from overcaffeination.

"I was about to offer you a special black tea," the merchant explained, one grown near the most exclusive tea trees in China. There are only seven, and they produce just six liang (about 50g each) of tea per year. Only emperors and prime ministers get to drink this tea, and he had the next best thing.

"But it's fine," the merchant said with a quiet smile. "This tea is always here for you when you come back."

* Big kudos and thanks to Stacey for his intrepid translation during this trip and the rest of my stay. I would never have spoken with so many locals, if any, on my own. Meeting them was easily the high point of experiencing Beijing.

Scaling the walls

Inside: The Forbidden City
They're not kidding about Tian'an Men Square. It's wicked big. That portrait of Mao over the entrance? Big. The Forbidden City? Big, big, big. But only from the outside—or so it seemed.

For some reason, walking the length of the Forbidden City (hereafter the FC) didn't take me that long. Spend hours there, say the guidebooks, but they must have a higher tolerance for small historical displays in Chinese than I do. After a few explanations of concubines and armor, I'm set.

I was there for the buildings, the passageways, and the massive walls. Burned through film in the Imperial Garden—beautifully sculpted and ready for its closeup—but otherwise the FC looks like a series of large, mostly empty courtyards paved with broken stone. A near overdose of grey.

Yes, it's palpably old, and the scale is impressive in the same way as St. Peter's: Even when there are several thousand other people within eyesight, it doesn't feel crowded. You'll have welcome moments alone with the age and significance of the place. As a historian's kid, I do appreciate that.

But it only took 15 minutes to stroll from the Imperial Garden (at the far end of the innermost courtyard) back to the main entrance. Respectfully tipping my hat to any ancient weapons and ladies-in-waiting I may have missed along the way.

On Top: The Great Wall
Lest you think I've succumbed to Grumpy Traveler Syndrome (and maybe I have, just a little bit—went a few extra subway stops to find a Starbucks this morning), let me sing the praises of the Great Wall.

Even with the choppy two-hour bus ride, hordes of other tourists, strange Wagnerian soundtrack blasting from strategically placed outdoor speakers, and postcard hawkers up in your face every hundred yards . . . the Great Wall is awesome.

It takes your breath away, then gives it back in the form of clean, delicious mountain air that your tired lungs lap up like nectar after the smog of downtown Beijing. The views are magical. The angles are dizzyingly steep, so you get a killer workout while you gawk at the sheer length and size of this world-famous thing your feet are touching.

If I had to pick just one "Holy crap, I'm in Asia" moment from the last two weeks, walking the Great Wall would be it.

In Between: Hutongs
Trying to follow a well-meaning but misguided walking tour from Frommer's Beijing today, I got pleasantly lost in the hutongs.

These crumbling alleys used to be all over the city, but many have been razed to make room for giant shopping malls and apartment buildings (including the one where I'm staying). The remaining hutong neighborhoods in this section of Beijing have a quiet, workaday feel I never expected to find right next to the congested ring roads.

My other surprise of the day was a series of pretty lakes, with groups of men and their fishing poles lining the banks. Some were in business suits, just escaped from the office; some sunburned and wizened after spending all day tending their lines. It looked like the city had grown up around them.

The lakes are tucked just off the main drag near Jishuitan Bridge and the Second Ring Road, separated from urban madness by a stone's throw and the low, narrow walls of the hutongs.

The 798

Beijing is refined chaos. I'm never sure what I'll find next.

Stacey, my old friend and host for the week, lives in a sort of hipster industrial zone, full of clothing and music shops, food stands, construction, and people. It's gritty compared with Kyoto—and even with Oakland—but it has a cheerful and relaxed personality that's a pleasure to soak up.

Yesterday, we went gallery-hopping. Stacey is the art editor for TimeOut Beijing, so he spends quality time in the Dashanzi district, also known as the 798. It's a sleek neighborhood with clean, minimalist architecture and a serious concentration of small, colorful art spaces.

I've never experienced as vibrant an art scene firsthand in any U.S. or European city. There were at least four or five openings happening at once within a few blocks of each other, all crowded, showcasing new and established Chinese artists. Their work ranged from a little weird to truly disturbing, but it was all worth checking out.

The final show of the day was the finest—a shy, sweet 28-year-old named Jia Aili. He's a small-town kid who just finished art school, but his paintings reach out and expand your mind. I didn't like all the pieces, but they were mature and moving in a way that was impossible to disregard. Crossing my fingers that he gets noticed.

Way on the other side of the spectrum, I spent today in the Forbidden City. But that deserves its own post and it's getting to be dinnertime, so please accept a raincheck.

Sakura revisited

Hard to believe as I sit here immersed in the bustle of Beijing, but I really was in Japan a few days ago. So were the cherry blossoms.

© Ann Pemberton

© Mia Lipman

© Ann Pemberton

Thanks to Ann and her digital habit for giving you this quick glimpse while my photos are still tucked away in undeveloped rolls.

Demons and gangsters

Join me as we travel back in time . . . way, way back . . . to Wednesday.

Iwakura, the suburb where Dad and Ann live, has a little local rail system they've dubbed the "toodle train." It runs from Mt. Hiei to Kurama Onsen (hot springs that feed into public baths) on the other, with the Iwakura stop just about in the middle. This route makes for a great outdoors day, even a greyish misty one.

We headed up the mountain first, leaving the cityscape behind after only a few stops. At the end of the line, we switched to a sturdy cable car that took us almost to the top, then a precarious rope cable car covered the last leg. We shared it with a cheery Irishman who was traveling alone and wanted to chat, so we adopted him for the morning.

Our band of four hardly saw anyone else during the hour we spent walking to the Enryakuji complex, founded in the 8th century by a group of warrior monks (warrior monks?) who soon numbered in the thousands.

At some point, there were 3,000 separate temples on the mountaintop. Only 200 or so remain—but hey, still a lot of temples. We narrowed in on a few, including one with two oil lamps that have been burning continuously for 1,200 years.

The views were incredible. Kyoto is laid out like a horseshoe open to the south, giving it ideal feng shui. Tradition says that demons always attack from the northeast, so temple complexes like Enryakuji are built high in the mountains to fend them off.

Makes sense to me. May as well stick it to them before they swoop into the valley to steal my mochi. Or my soul, I guess, but seems like they might want dessert after the long trip.

In the afternoon, we took the cable cars and trains all the way back down, then up again into the facing hills for a dip in the baths. With cinematic timing, it began pouring just as we arrived.

Project yourself into any Japanese scroll you've ever seen: Sitting in a pool of steaming mineral water with a closeup view of a lush mountainside, listening to the rain.

As we were leaving, Ann pointed out the attendant who came in to tidy up the changing room. "It's a good thing we're already dressed," she said.

Apparently, to keep out gangsters and other rabble from the onsen, they forbid anyone with tattoos to bathe there. I figured they'd probably have made an exception for a young female gaijin, but as I learned yesterday, rules are rules around here.

Another lucky break. But have to admit I'm a little disappointed—it's the only time in my life I'll even come close to being mistaken for a gangster. Would've made for mad street cred (at least in these parts) and a hell of a story for the grandkids.

Oh well. Leaving for Beijing first thing tomorrow, maybe I can get into some trouble there.

Sumimasen

Today was a day of cultural learning.

In other words, I made some mistakes. But they were funny, or at least I thought they were, and there isn't much a "Sumimasen" can't fix.

This handy word means "pardon me" (may I get by?), "pardon me" (for the grevious offense of handing you money for this purchase), "pardon me" (for the grevious offense of accepting your money), "please," "I'm sorry," "you're welcome," and some variation on "hello" and "goodbye."

I've witnessed entire conversations consisting only of "Sumimasen" repeated endlessly in different tones. If one sumimasen doesn't work, try a dozen.

Please benefit from my clumsiness by taking note of these tips on getting by as a gaijin in Kyoto. Like the garden display we saw at Ginkakuji labeled Very Important Moss (VIM), these are Very Important Lessons (VIL).

1. Do not write anything down with a pen in a museum.
When visiting the Kyoto National Museum of Modern Art, you will be handed a list of all the paintings you're about to view. If you're the note-taking type, you're likely to pull out a pen and start writing things down on the list about the paintings you like.

Soon, you'll become aware of the eyes. The watching eyes. The eyes of the lady gallery guards.

As you stand contemplating one of the works, try not to jump out of your skin when the guard on duty—motionless just moments before—leaps from her chair and points frantically at your pen. "Pen!" she'll exclaim, followed by a stream of Japanese.

Thinking she wants to borrow your pen, offer it to her. She will vehemently refuse. "Wait! A minute. Here," she'll say, then sprint across the gallery at Olympic speed.

Soon, the guard will return, with pleading eyes. She will offer you a pencil. Accept the pencil. Discreetly tuck your pen away and pretend it never existed.

Assure the guard that you will return the pencil to the front desk at the conclusion of your visit, because you're pretty sure that's what all the gesturing means. Say, "Sumimasen." Say it again. Smile. Nod. Bow. Smile. Nod. Bow.

Note that you are the only person in the gallery at this time, and all the paintings are behind glass.

2. Do not go out the In door.
There is an In door, and there is an Out door. They are not the same door. The friendly attendant at the information desk will direct you—manually, if needed—toward the appropriate door. Say, "Sumimasen." Nod. Smile. Laugh self-deprecatingly. Exit through the Out door.

3. There's something very important printed on the bottom of that mochi.
Don't be fooled by the fact that the mochi you wish to buy is wrapped in plastic, sealed, and sitting on the same plate as all the other mochi. Don't be fooled just because there's a sign in front of the plate that says Y105.

When the saleswoman turns the mochi over, points to something on the printed tag, asks several rapid-fire questions you don't understand, then waits expectantly for your answers—say, "Sumimasen." Nod. Smile. Repeat until she shrugs and rings up the purchase, which comes to Y105.

She will then release your mochi. Unwrap and enjoy.

Ancient-school moves

Just read about the madness over at Virginia Tech. Taking a moment to be saddened and disillusioned by it.

Unfairly—in the grand scheme of things—it's gentle and peaceful in Kyoto. Cars honk so seldom that it's startling when they do. I ran around a small park near the house this morning, and two teenage paddle-tennis players silently paused their game and stepped aside to let me pass on every lap. A city of unobtrusive navigation.

Yesterday, we visited Nijojo Castle, with its elaborate front gate and nightingale floors. The interior rooms looked older than they are, and the wall paintings seemed crude and bold in a country known for delicate art.

Afterward, we stopped by fantastic Morita Washi to stock up on Japanese paper, then wandered through the endless shopping arcades—block after block of underground market stalls selling anything edible, useful, and useless you can imagine. Let's just say that Dollar Tree has nothin' on the 100-yen store.

We spent most of today on the Path of Philosophy, a beautiful three-mile walk along a narrow canal lined with cherry and maple trees.

Along the way, we stopped to explore the elegantly sculpted garden at Ginkakuji and a few of the Buddhist temples at Nanzenji.

This was all by way of reaching Maruyama Park, which leads to the Gion neighborhood and its celebrated teahouses. Every April, apprentice geisha perform seasonal dances (known as Miyako Odori) for the public, and we managed to score a few seats on one of the balcony tatami mats for an afternoon show.

The dancers were graceful and charming, and the older geisha lining the stage had crazy shamisen skills and deep, haunting voices—but I was mostly blown away by the sets. Colorful and elaborate, they were changed entirely every 10 minutes or so by some manual sleight of hand performed backstage.

Take that, Hollywood. I'd bet a Kyoto stage crew against your CGI budget anytime.

Sea legs

I love airports. I don't love planes, but I do love being early for them. It forces a stretch of open, unscheduled time.

What to do with it? Sit, read, drink water, call your grandma, listen to the cacophony of languages bouncing off the walls. Wander through duty-free and talk yourself out of that Clinique travel pack, because it's a stupid thing to carry around for two weeks. Be wise, save your money for cool Asian stuff.

The flight was long and painless. Three movies, The New Yorker, Vogue, a couple of novels, minimal chitchat with my neighbor. A glimpse of sleep. Then, during the golden hour and a light spring rain, an unusually long shuttle ride. 20 hours door to door, all told.

But where did Sunday go? Is it out in the ether somewhere? You had one, I didn't. Some people think God and man and love are the great mysteries of the universe, but I think it's time zones.

We took a stroll around Dad and Ann's neighborhood this morning. It looks and feels like a compact English suburb, with much smaller people walking pocket-size dogs. Everyone is engaged in constant conversational and physical ritual.

About one person out of 10 wears a surgical mask on the street. Why?, I asked. Because they're sick, and don't want to make anyone else sick. Logical and civilized, if a bit Orwellian. Dad talks about the non-Fascist regimen of daily life in Japan—carefully and consciously executed, but not dictated. Behavior is entirely ingrained.

This afternoon, we'll see a castle, a temple, and some lovely trees.

The day after and the day before

Too tired to think straight after a red-letter week:

We finally sent Canteen to print, complete with 11th-hour printer drama and a flurry of correspondence. But it's the prettiest magazine you'll ever see, I swear. Especially the green.

And I'm getting on a plane to Kyoto tomorrow. Cross your fingers for clear skies, plus a few brave cherry blossoms hanging on long enough to star in some photos.

Two of the best feelings I've ever known: 1) Seeing the tangible, substantive results of what used to be only an idea. 2) Landing in a wholly new place.

Both those experiences inside seven days can only be called a coup.

Now it's time for this lucky girl to sleep.

The lives of others

A divided country, a handsome woman, a beautiful man, the secret police, subversive elements, malleable witnesses, powerful mustaches, stairwell intrigue, a prolonged dedication, an unexpected reversal of sympathy, and a whiteboard discussion of typewriter fonts.

Find a theater where it's still playing, and please go see this film.

Mad geekery

If you've ever talked to me for than a few minutes, you probably get that I'm a word person. Now I have a collection of shirts that tells total strangers the same thing. Here's the latest:

i'm a noun!

I'm in love with it. Would it be really gross if I wore it every day for a while? Maybe just as jammies?

Sorry for all the backward photos, by the way—my only digital camera lives in my MacBook screen, so perspective is limited. But hey, all the better for dressing up my desk chair in different outfits when I get home. Every girl needs a hobby.

Also I haven't evolved to the stage of narcissism where I post closeups of my chest all over the Internet. Sorry. Luckily, my chair has some convenient phantom breasts:

good grammar costs nothing!

This one gets extra credit for cleverness:

bad grammar makes me [sic]

Because nothing says humor like a little editorial Latin.

This next shirt started it all, and it's so good I had to get it twice:

reading is sexy

Also—let's be honest—I can't wear yellow. The chair looks cute in it, though. I look much less like I have jaundice in this version:

reading? still sexy.

Are there more? Perhaps. But I'd guess you're a little scared by now, maybe even deleting your bookmark to this blog or writing a long list of things I could do to fill my time better, like chopping up my credit card and never shopping online again.

That's cool, I'm OK with your constructive criticism. I'm a noun!