There are some new pictures of recent adventures up in the Business Casual Shutterbug's lair:
Livermore Rodeo
Independence Day
Seattle
And now it's long past time for bed. There can't be anything about a cold and achy quads that a few solid nights of rest won't fix.
Plus a case of Emergen-C, that nectar of the homeopathic gods.
Sleep tight.
July 31, 2007
Summer photos
July 29, 2007
Second half
My legs are achy and my belly is full of pancakes. That's right, today was San Francisco Marathon day.
I woke up at 5:24—not to my alarm, since I forgot to turn it on (oops)—but the old internal clock served me well. Zipped into the city on deserted streets, then caught the shuttle to the starting line for the second half of the race.
Then I spent 45 minutes standing around in the rain waiting for it to start. Let's not dwell on that part. We'll just say I got some really good stretching in.
Mile 1 passed by like water. Miles 2 and 3 were strangely hard, but after that I found a zone and didn't really notice miles 4 to 7. The course is blessedly flat, with only a few minor upgrades and several significant downgrades about halfway through.
The section through the Haight and the Mission was pretty cool—the slightly illicit feeling that we were running where only cars are supposed to go. Then miles 9 to 11 ticked by like torture, especially when I mistook mile 11 for mile 12, and pushed faster than I should have.
The last 1.2 miles were like doing endless sprints in high school during preseason soccer, having to talk my way (yes, out loud) through each step. "I'll never do this again," I swore.
Then it was over! And the repulsive electrolyte drinks flowed like...um...nectar. Or anything that tastes better than electrolytes.
Here are my official results:
Bib: 20141
Age: 29
Hometown: Oakland CA
Place overall: 919 out of 2050
Women: 400 out of 1227
F 20-29: 150 out of 372
Finish: 2:05:43
Pace: 9:36
So I won't be representing you in the Olympics anytime soon, but I'm proud of improving my time by about 10 minutes over the Nike Women's Marathon half last fall. It's a direct result of the course—no big hills, compared to five brutal ones in the Nike route, including a really evil climb at mile 11.
After a trip to the hot tubs and the sauna this afternoon, plus an excellent dinner and the refreshing G&T that's a critical part of any training program, I feel great. Drained, mind you, but hearty enough that I can almost forget the pain of the final stretch.
Maybe I'll run the first half next year.
I woke up at 5:24—not to my alarm, since I forgot to turn it on (oops)—but the old internal clock served me well. Zipped into the city on deserted streets, then caught the shuttle to the starting line for the second half of the race.
Then I spent 45 minutes standing around in the rain waiting for it to start. Let's not dwell on that part. We'll just say I got some really good stretching in.
Mile 1 passed by like water. Miles 2 and 3 were strangely hard, but after that I found a zone and didn't really notice miles 4 to 7. The course is blessedly flat, with only a few minor upgrades and several significant downgrades about halfway through.
The section through the Haight and the Mission was pretty cool—the slightly illicit feeling that we were running where only cars are supposed to go. Then miles 9 to 11 ticked by like torture, especially when I mistook mile 11 for mile 12, and pushed faster than I should have.
The last 1.2 miles were like doing endless sprints in high school during preseason soccer, having to talk my way (yes, out loud) through each step. "I'll never do this again," I swore.
Then it was over! And the repulsive electrolyte drinks flowed like...um...nectar. Or anything that tastes better than electrolytes.
Here are my official results:
Bib: 20141
Age: 29
Hometown: Oakland CA
Place overall: 919 out of 2050
Women: 400 out of 1227
F 20-29: 150 out of 372
Finish: 2:05:43
Pace: 9:36
So I won't be representing you in the Olympics anytime soon, but I'm proud of improving my time by about 10 minutes over the Nike Women's Marathon half last fall. It's a direct result of the course—no big hills, compared to five brutal ones in the Nike route, including a really evil climb at mile 11.
After a trip to the hot tubs and the sauna this afternoon, plus an excellent dinner and the refreshing G&T that's a critical part of any training program, I feel great. Drained, mind you, but hearty enough that I can almost forget the pain of the final stretch.
Maybe I'll run the first half next year.
July 22, 2007
Dear Gibson...
You saucy devil. I'm finally done paying for you.
In exchange for the return of your soul from the credit union, will you please lay off the check engine light? I bought you from a dealer, man. I know your repair history. Stop being coy. The guys at Frank's are very nice, but I don't need to visit them quite so much.
But come to think of it—if you're planning any major electric illnesses, do me a favor and cough them up before the end of the year. That's when your extended warranty expires, and it'll take much more than a dashboard light for me to fix your pricey li'l bod then.
You're a young buck with a lot of good years left. Let's not spend them at the Golf hospital when we could be on Highway 1.
Love,
The BCB
p.s. Also: You're the greatest! Turbo still rules, and you're so green and shiny. Don't ever change, except maybe be a little less grumpy. Thanks.
In exchange for the return of your soul from the credit union, will you please lay off the check engine light? I bought you from a dealer, man. I know your repair history. Stop being coy. The guys at Frank's are very nice, but I don't need to visit them quite so much.
But come to think of it—if you're planning any major electric illnesses, do me a favor and cough them up before the end of the year. That's when your extended warranty expires, and it'll take much more than a dashboard light for me to fix your pricey li'l bod then.
You're a young buck with a lot of good years left. Let's not spend them at the Golf hospital when we could be on Highway 1.
Love,
The BCB
p.s. Also: You're the greatest! Turbo still rules, and you're so green and shiny. Don't ever change, except maybe be a little less grumpy. Thanks.
July 12, 2007
Eighth circle, sort of.
I mean, if you're going to get dramatic about it. And by you, I mean me.
Every time I fly Alaska Airlines, I fool myself into thinking: This time, it won't be delayed. Even though every single flight (truly) I've ever been stupid enough to purchase from them has been anywhere from one to three hours late taking off, they're the primary carrier between Oakland and Seattle, and my big brother lives up north, so . . . this would be an awesome time to rant about monopolies.
But I just paid $10 for this scant 25 minutes of Wi-Fi time—no, really, because I've been sitting in this sweaty chair for an hour and a half and that's just how bored I am—and it'd be a crying shame if I didn't entertain you somehow. Whining is not the way.
So here's a story about a different monopoly, and if you wanted to draw some kind of parallel, who would I be to stop you?
In the 15ish-minute walk from the Montgomery BART stop up Sansome to my new office, I pass half a dozen Starbucks and about eight other places to get coffee. If I split the walk between Sansome and Battery, I can totally double that number. Even the places that aren't Starbucks pretty much feel like Starbucks, except they don't carry the new McCartney album with a no-way-I'm-65-now-what-about-all-the-LSD title that references computers. You know, so the kids can relate.
I also pass the city's central Immigration Services office, which always has a long line out the door of nervous-looking people holding sheaves of documents. Why do they make everyone line up on the sidewalk? Today I thought about photographing the scene, the juxtaposition of American greed and the quantities of good people trying to become part of it.
But if I were uncertain about my immigration status, I probably wouldn't want some curious local chick taking my picture.
Ah, they're calling my flight. Alaska, you're semi-forgiven. Just get me up there, let me sleep, don't drop into the sea, and we're back in business.
Every time I fly Alaska Airlines, I fool myself into thinking: This time, it won't be delayed. Even though every single flight (truly) I've ever been stupid enough to purchase from them has been anywhere from one to three hours late taking off, they're the primary carrier between Oakland and Seattle, and my big brother lives up north, so . . . this would be an awesome time to rant about monopolies.
But I just paid $10 for this scant 25 minutes of Wi-Fi time—no, really, because I've been sitting in this sweaty chair for an hour and a half and that's just how bored I am—and it'd be a crying shame if I didn't entertain you somehow. Whining is not the way.
So here's a story about a different monopoly, and if you wanted to draw some kind of parallel, who would I be to stop you?
In the 15ish-minute walk from the Montgomery BART stop up Sansome to my new office, I pass half a dozen Starbucks and about eight other places to get coffee. If I split the walk between Sansome and Battery, I can totally double that number. Even the places that aren't Starbucks pretty much feel like Starbucks, except they don't carry the new McCartney album with a no-way-I'm-65-now-what-about-all-the-LSD title that references computers. You know, so the kids can relate.
I also pass the city's central Immigration Services office, which always has a long line out the door of nervous-looking people holding sheaves of documents. Why do they make everyone line up on the sidewalk? Today I thought about photographing the scene, the juxtaposition of American greed and the quantities of good people trying to become part of it.
But if I were uncertain about my immigration status, I probably wouldn't want some curious local chick taking my picture.
Ah, they're calling my flight. Alaska, you're semi-forgiven. Just get me up there, let me sleep, don't drop into the sea, and we're back in business.
July 09, 2007
On turning 29
It's funny to have been around this long and still be ridiculously young.
Edging toward three decades of memories and reshuffled details, still counting on friends I made 20 years ago (or at least 20 days). You'd think we'd all be seasoned and wise now.
It doesn't seem to work that way, but I do know their insights keep gaining value, like triple-cream illegal French cheese.
Thank goodness other people can write poems.
Edging toward three decades of memories and reshuffled details, still counting on friends I made 20 years ago (or at least 20 days). You'd think we'd all be seasoned and wise now.
It doesn't seem to work that way, but I do know their insights keep gaining value, like triple-cream illegal French cheese.
Thank goodness other people can write poems.
When I snap my fingers
You will wake in a dear yet unfamiliar place
You will scarcely remember your travail
You will be eating green caterpillars over a small fire
An awesome congeries of youthful men and women
Will be brushing these very tracks away
You will scarcely remember your travail
You will be eating green caterpillars over a small fire
An awesome congeries of youthful men and women
Will be brushing these very tracks away
—C.D. Wright—
July 04, 2007
New job!
Goodbye, zbufs.
Hello, San Francisco.
It may take a little while to get used to the quintupling of my commute time and the return to cube-dwelling, but it's all to the good.
Now if I could just figure out the voicemail system. Why is that always the hardest part?
Hello, San Francisco.
It may take a little while to get used to the quintupling of my commute time and the return to cube-dwelling, but it's all to the good.
Now if I could just figure out the voicemail system. Why is that always the hardest part?
June 29, 2007
June 26, 2007
Speed reader
I'm in that floaty space between the old job and the new one, trying to wind down and ramp up at the same time. It involves shuffling big stacks of paper.
Other editors may purge their files like clockwork, but I expect we're mostly pack rats. You never know when you might need to reference that thing you worked on a few years back. The one where that guy was talking, with the clause you fixed just right, and it may come up again, so . . . you understand.
Looking over two-plus years of work reminded me of the painful, sweet, inevitable learning curve, its steepness and pace. As the new kid, you know the least about what's going on; as the editor, you're supposed to correct what all the seasoned writers have to say about what's going on. It's an odd situation.
I've always read quickly, and I imagine that's no small reason I wound up doing it for a living. That and the fact that people were willing to pay me. (I'm still amazed.)
But reading for pleasure tends to go much faster than reading for work. A novel passes by like so much ethereal distraction. The more I like it, the sooner I want to move forward and see what's next.
Reading with an eye to correct is a very different beast: slower by necessity, less about immediate gratification than about establishing a prolonged relationship with the words. Context is king either way—but in a pleasure read, I aim for total immersion with no awareness. In a professional read, I'm constantly aware.
This is all by way of observing that my professional reading pace has increased lately, and so has my snap judgment of what I read. It might just be a survival mechanism, since the volume of work has been vast in this job. But I'd like to think it's also a sharpening of instinct.
The deeper I dig into this craft, the more often I look things up. Back in the day, I thought I was supposed to have the rules down and recite them on command. The biggest surprise has been the flexibility of language within those rules. Not everything can be argued—thank goodness, Mr. Strunk and Mr. White—but it can often be discussed.
So why the honed instinct? How does it help? I'm still sussing this out, but I think it means I'm starting to understand when the discussion is worth having.
Other editors may purge their files like clockwork, but I expect we're mostly pack rats. You never know when you might need to reference that thing you worked on a few years back. The one where that guy was talking, with the clause you fixed just right, and it may come up again, so . . . you understand.
Looking over two-plus years of work reminded me of the painful, sweet, inevitable learning curve, its steepness and pace. As the new kid, you know the least about what's going on; as the editor, you're supposed to correct what all the seasoned writers have to say about what's going on. It's an odd situation.
I've always read quickly, and I imagine that's no small reason I wound up doing it for a living. That and the fact that people were willing to pay me. (I'm still amazed.)
But reading for pleasure tends to go much faster than reading for work. A novel passes by like so much ethereal distraction. The more I like it, the sooner I want to move forward and see what's next.
Reading with an eye to correct is a very different beast: slower by necessity, less about immediate gratification than about establishing a prolonged relationship with the words. Context is king either way—but in a pleasure read, I aim for total immersion with no awareness. In a professional read, I'm constantly aware.
This is all by way of observing that my professional reading pace has increased lately, and so has my snap judgment of what I read. It might just be a survival mechanism, since the volume of work has been vast in this job. But I'd like to think it's also a sharpening of instinct.
The deeper I dig into this craft, the more often I look things up. Back in the day, I thought I was supposed to have the rules down and recite them on command. The biggest surprise has been the flexibility of language within those rules. Not everything can be argued—thank goodness, Mr. Strunk and Mr. White—but it can often be discussed.
So why the honed instinct? How does it help? I'm still sussing this out, but I think it means I'm starting to understand when the discussion is worth having.
June 16, 2007
June 12, 2007
China highlights
What's that, Biz Cas? You were in China?
Yes, my Beijing photos are finally up at the BCS. Please take a look at them all if you'd like, or just enjoy these 10 favorites:
Yes, my Beijing photos are finally up at the BCS. Please take a look at them all if you'd like, or just enjoy these 10 favorites:
June 10, 2007
And it doesn't get dark until 8:30
I just took my hammock out of storage. Then I went to the market for these:
Y A Y
S U M M E R T I M E
S U M M E R T I M E
June 06, 2007
Campin'
Warning: Inside jokes ahead. They're probably only funny when box wine is involved, and maybe not even then. But who would know?
A possibly stolen talisman is essential for highway safety. Give it a common name to avoid suspicion.
Take your time. Enjoy the scenery, sample the bounty of the roadside stands.
When you reach your destination, spend a while appreciating nature's burbling.
Let your mind become peaceful, and your body numb.
Become one with the trees.
Stop and say hello to your many-legged friends.
Do not stray from the clearly marked trail.
Stroll on back to your campsite. Play a little tune, light a little fire.
Wake up slightly worse for wear. Ask yourself what happened.
Consult the Semiotician to the Stars for answers. She'll want to confirm that you brought along all the outdoor essentials:
remote-controlled latern . . . check.
plastic mallet . . . check.
pedicure . . . check.
the naughty . . . check.
the tent mahal
it's for his own good
Turn and see the woodland creatures scatter. Consider the carnage.
Finally, remember this: If it starts with Franzia, it ends with smiles. Or something like them.
And if the good lord doesn't smite you down soon, the neighbors will.
kathmandon't, b.w. slim, h. mcgraw, a.m. johnson, the fiddler, ladyboy, magic hands.
not pictured: penelope.
Leave the woods as pristine and unscathed as you found them.
CAMPIN'
A Jujubes for Jesus™ How-To Guide
A Jujubes for Jesus™ How-To Guide
First, find an open road. Put them car wheels on it.
A possibly stolen talisman is essential for highway safety. Give it a common name to avoid suspicion.
Take your time. Enjoy the scenery, sample the bounty of the roadside stands.
When you reach your destination, spend a while appreciating nature's burbling.
Let your mind become peaceful, and your body numb.
Become one with the trees.
Stop and say hello to your many-legged friends.
Do not stray from the clearly marked trail.
Record your greatest hits album. Having prior hits is not required.
Stroll on back to your campsite. Play a little tune, light a little fire.
[Musical Interlude]
Wake up slightly worse for wear. Ask yourself what happened.
Consult the Semiotician to the Stars for answers. She'll want to confirm that you brought along all the outdoor essentials:
remote-controlled latern . . . check.
plastic mallet . . . check.
pedicure . . . check.
the naughty . . . check.Decide not to sweat it. Observe your fellow campers at rest.
the tent mahal
it's for his own goodTurn and see the woodland creatures scatter. Consider the carnage.
Finally, remember this: If it starts with Franzia, it ends with smiles. Or something like them.
And if the good lord doesn't smite you down soon, the neighbors will.
kathmandon't, b.w. slim, h. mcgraw, a.m. johnson, the fiddler, ladyboy, magic hands.not pictured: penelope.
Leave the woods as pristine and unscathed as you found them.
May 31, 2007
Half of China
The epic post-vacation photo project marches onward.
And so do I, to Big Sur. First camping trip of the year! Bringing my woolies and a warm hat.
Please enjoy some pictures while I'm away:
China (1) The 798
China (2) The Forbidden City
China (3) The Great Wall
And so do I, to Big Sur. First camping trip of the year! Bringing my woolies and a warm hat.
Please enjoy some pictures while I'm away:
China (1) The 798
China (2) The Forbidden City
China (3) The Great Wall
May 27, 2007
Two unexpectedly fantastic things
Forever Stamps
Let's play a game. The one where I'm no longer 28, but magically 90. Ready?
I remember when pay phones cost a dime and stamps cost 20 cents. Not postcard stamps, real stamps. Only a handful of pennies to mail a handwritten letter or a nice birthday card to anyone all over our fine country.
But since my childhood ended and Norman Rockwell moved away, they've been jacking up the price every other month, and suddenly stamps are 41 cents! Ridiculous.
Except for this saving grace: the Forever stamp. Whether you ignore its stupid name or write it all over your Trapper Keeper, you have to admit these expiration-free stamps are the best idea America has ever stolen.
(Thanks, England! And 29 other countries.)
Tilex® Mold & Mildew Remover
OK, in this part of the game, I'm Donna Reed. You can be her doctor husband or the family dog, whatever you're into.
I love my apartment more than most things, but the shower is a serious drag to clean. Not that any shower is fun to clean, but some are easier than others, and this particular shower has an evil brand of tile with a stubborn soapscum/mildew fetish. It just can't get enough.
Until now! After trying quite possibly every brand of tile cleaner available in California, from the most organic to the most chemical-infested, I finally found The One that works: Tilex Mold & Mildew Remover.
Spray it on, give it some privacy for about 15 minutes, then come back and rinse. No scrubbing, no ruined nails, no coughing fits from all those gnarly chemicals.
Don't get me wrong: Tilex is chock full of ingredients people were never meant to inhale. But you don't have to touch them, and that's beautiful. So is my sparkly, sparkly shower.
Let's play a game. The one where I'm no longer 28, but magically 90. Ready?
I remember when pay phones cost a dime and stamps cost 20 cents. Not postcard stamps, real stamps. Only a handful of pennies to mail a handwritten letter or a nice birthday card to anyone all over our fine country.
But since my childhood ended and Norman Rockwell moved away, they've been jacking up the price every other month, and suddenly stamps are 41 cents! Ridiculous.
Except for this saving grace: the Forever stamp. Whether you ignore its stupid name or write it all over your Trapper Keeper, you have to admit these expiration-free stamps are the best idea America has ever stolen.
(Thanks, England! And 29 other countries.)
Tilex® Mold & Mildew Remover
OK, in this part of the game, I'm Donna Reed. You can be her doctor husband or the family dog, whatever you're into.
I love my apartment more than most things, but the shower is a serious drag to clean. Not that any shower is fun to clean, but some are easier than others, and this particular shower has an evil brand of tile with a stubborn soapscum/mildew fetish. It just can't get enough.
Until now! After trying quite possibly every brand of tile cleaner available in California, from the most organic to the most chemical-infested, I finally found The One that works: Tilex Mold & Mildew Remover.
Spray it on, give it some privacy for about 15 minutes, then come back and rinse. No scrubbing, no ruined nails, no coughing fits from all those gnarly chemicals.
Don't get me wrong: Tilex is chock full of ingredients people were never meant to inhale. But you don't have to touch them, and that's beautiful. So is my sparkly, sparkly shower.
May 22, 2007
That "new magazine" smell
Canteen is here! We had launch parties on both coasts to celebrate.
Here's what we looked like at the beginning of the San Francisco event, all frayed nerves and cautious grins:
© Susan Walther
And here we are four hours, 200 guests, countless cheek kisses, several reporters, and one Miranda July later:
no idea who took this picture
For the record, that's a bottle of mineral water. We're just happy because of all those empty boxes—we sold out of copies.
Here's what we looked like at the beginning of the San Francisco event, all frayed nerves and cautious grins:
© Susan WaltherAnd here we are four hours, 200 guests, countless cheek kisses, several reporters, and one Miranda July later:
no idea who took this pictureMay 21, 2007
Let us now praise traveling women
In a jetlagged haze, sitting on the runway for two hours at JFK yesterday, I gave a mental salute to my friend Amy. She'd taken off from the Philly airport earlier in the afternoon for her Next Big Move: Buenos Aires.
I remembered how it felt lifting off from Boston to Paris, about this same time three years ago. Preparing for it is irrelevant, no matter how well or how much you think you have. The magnitude only hits when you're in the plane: a cocktail of ecstasy and fear, served neat.
I remembered that I meant to write this post two weeks ago, when Amy and Catherine and I had dinner in the Mission. These two are my travel ladies, the ones who get it.
They met years ago just after Catherine returned from her round-the-world trip, while Amy was planning hers. I worked with Amy at Avalon, where we put in long cubicle hours while patiently plotting international moves. Catherine and I first joined forces in Paris, when she passed through my apartment for an all-too-brief cheese coma on her way to Italy.
When we met this time, Catherine had flown in the night before from Jazzfest in New Orleans. I was recovering from Kyoto and Beijing, gearing up for New York. Amy was passing through for goodbyes in Maine, Oregon, and California while packing for Argentina.
Unquestionably, we are women on the move. Nostalgic for what's passed, giddy for what's coming up.
We counted countries—30 between us so far, with only four overlaps—and were sorely disappointed at the total. So much left to do!
Wanderlust and wine go well together, even better with friends who already have more stories than we could tell each other in a lifetime. And it's not like we're getting close to done.
Hey Amy, the next story is all yours. Here's to safe travels, gentle transitions, and the unmatchable high of not knowing what happens next—except that we'll be coming to visit.
I remembered how it felt lifting off from Boston to Paris, about this same time three years ago. Preparing for it is irrelevant, no matter how well or how much you think you have. The magnitude only hits when you're in the plane: a cocktail of ecstasy and fear, served neat.
I remembered that I meant to write this post two weeks ago, when Amy and Catherine and I had dinner in the Mission. These two are my travel ladies, the ones who get it.
They met years ago just after Catherine returned from her round-the-world trip, while Amy was planning hers. I worked with Amy at Avalon, where we put in long cubicle hours while patiently plotting international moves. Catherine and I first joined forces in Paris, when she passed through my apartment for an all-too-brief cheese coma on her way to Italy.
When we met this time, Catherine had flown in the night before from Jazzfest in New Orleans. I was recovering from Kyoto and Beijing, gearing up for New York. Amy was passing through for goodbyes in Maine, Oregon, and California while packing for Argentina.
Unquestionably, we are women on the move. Nostalgic for what's passed, giddy for what's coming up.
We counted countries—30 between us so far, with only four overlaps—and were sorely disappointed at the total. So much left to do!
Wanderlust and wine go well together, even better with friends who already have more stories than we could tell each other in a lifetime. And it's not like we're getting close to done.
Hey Amy, the next story is all yours. Here's to safe travels, gentle transitions, and the unmatchable high of not knowing what happens next—except that we'll be coming to visit.
May 14, 2007
Japan highlights
Happy to report that all my Japan photos are up now, courtesy of the BCS.
But in case you're not in the mood for long posts, here are my 10 favorites. No particular order, no explanations, just some pretty pictures.
But in case you're not in the mood for long posts, here are my 10 favorites. No particular order, no explanations, just some pretty pictures.
May 12, 2007
Meet the BCS
It's still a work in progress, but I'm pleased to introduce the BCB's shiny new companion photo blog:
The Business Casual Shutterbug
Please stop by to see my first few sets of pictures from Japan.
The Business Casual Shutterbug
Please stop by to see my first few sets of pictures from Japan.
April 29, 2007
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.
Pleasant Dining Bar
Kind Time and Light Space
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.
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
—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.
April 27, 2007
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.
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.
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