Your Time and Pageviews

Dear Reader,

I am home! Happy, safe and, most importantly, fed. It is strange to be surrounded by Americans, traffic laws, and tipping. I already miss China prices, but I’m sure I’ll stop yelling and trying to bargain soon enough.

It’s such a relief to be in my own country, in my own home, with my dog and my family; but before I get too settled, I have to thank you, dear reader.

I am so appreciative of your patience with my posting, or lack there of, and I have to tell you how much it means to me that people in America, Russian, Jordan, and on stumbleupon found me interesting enough to read the thoughts and experience of a 20-something engage in writerly pursuits.

You trusted me with the only thing a writer can hope for: your time and pageviews.

I look forward to making our relationship permanent, thank you,

Mr. Mockler

P.S. I’m going to take a break from posting original content and finish posting everything that I have hand written and start adding photos. Hopefully I’ll be done in a two weeks and can start focusing on the Eastern side of the Pacific for awhile.  

My Countrymen and Women

I love a good travelogue.

No matter if someone is showing me a slideshow, I’m reading a magazine, or I’m just hearing about it over a cup of coffee, I’m frequently entranced re-imagining tales of riding in hot-air balloons over France, witnessing riots in Ireland, or putting bird seed in your sister’s hood at Trafalgar Square while she isn’t looking, so she gets attacked by pigeons.

Romanticizing mundane walks through a European street is one of my favorite pastimes and thinking about exotic, far-away places and spaces leaves me in a fantasy world of first class flights and champagne that (I now know) is as far from the reality as possible. When I was still in possession of my naiveté, however, the only thing that could ruin my musings was when someone said,

“I had fun, but it sure isn’t America, and I’m glad to be back.”

Instantly, my imaginings evaporated and all I could think was:

“Well…DUH! Of course it wasn’t America. It bet it was better! You just got back from riding in gondolas and lazing about in palazzos. In America, you probably would have been riding in SUVs and lazing about in the McDonalds drive through…” 

In my mind, America seemed so…ordinary. Timbuktu, Shanghai, London, New Delhi, Dublin, my mind didn’t want to make these places any less than I had imagined them, and I scoffed that returning to America could be so wonderful.

Going to Tiananmen Square, however, made me realize why foreign stories are always upended with my old daydream killer.

                                                                      

Before I begin, contradictions, restrictions, and all-around ridiculous bureaucracy tend to make me laugh. It always seems to be people can’t see the pointlessness of it all and they either get really mad or timid. I, however, get giddy and start to skip. Literally.

As we crowded onto the bus from the hotel, I couldn’t help bouncing in my seat. I kept imagining what everything looked like in 1989 and wondered if we were on Tank Man’s street. Since I had known I was coming to Beijing, I was unable to contain my joy at going to the paragon of ridiculous restrictions, and planned on doing something  sarcastic that screamed “’MURICA!” As I scampered off the bus, however, I was struck with an epiphany:

The Chinese government don’t play, y’all.

Tiananmen Square, at first, seems to be your typical square that is able to hold 500,000 people. Really big and really empty (except for the line to see Mao’s body). Every couple hundreds of feet, there is a group of tourists, the odd street vendor, and really elaborate lamp posts that immediately caught my attention. Classic and elegant, these lamp posts have obviously been here for a while, but on closer examination, I realized they have been subject to some modernization and now each is home to a large, wholesale electronic store.

Speakers are arranged like a hive under the lights and at least five cameras are pointed in every direction. If I pulled my little stunt, it would be seen from 614 different angles, and would probably result in me starring in my own combination show of LockedUp: Abroad and Survivor. Sitting in a Chinese jail cell, I’m sure I would have still found the situation hilarious, but in a very dark “Call-my-embassy-I-promised-my-mother-this-wouldn’t-happen-I-don’t-want-a-bullet-int-the-head” sort of way.

Still marveling at all the security, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was standing on some kid’s (who probably wasn’t much older than me) grave. Would I have had his courage to stand up for my beliefs and hunger strike in the middle of a Square? How could this place –filled with families, fans, and fake, waving Mao watches—be the staging ground and cemetery of a better organized Occupy Wall Street?

Suddenly, being there, knowing what I know, Tiananmen stopped being funny.

It stopped being something I had only read about in history class.

It stopped being passing pop culture.

It became serious.

It became real.

It became morbid; a hallowed ground showed no reverence because the principles it stood for ran counter to the goals of the reigning status quo.

I finally realized that my friends weren’t talking about the little things in foreign countries that make you realize you aren’t in America, like the food, the toilets, the beds, the bugs, the fruit, the traffic, the streets, the houses, the farmer’s markets, the night markets, the malls, the mannerisms, the clothes, the people, etc. etc.

Those are superficial and (hopefully) you get used to them (I have), but that my friends, my countrymen and women, were talking about the big things.

Like the Declaration of Independence.  The Constitution. The Bill of Rights.

For many Americans, those documents can seem like old, crusty pieces of paper that you are obliged to see when you pass through D.C.; however, when you don’t have them and are staying in a country that fundamentally doesn’t understand them… that’s stuff I could never get used to not having and would never want to…

Proud to be an American,

Mr. Mockler 

Monocles and Waistcoats

I’m writing this as I pass through the idyllic Chinese countryside by train. The perfectly manicured peasant fields meld incongruously with the remnants of the Great Leap Forward and only the occasional nuclear reactor break up the flat, northern expanses of China.

Unfortunately, the romance is all lost on me because I’m so hungry, I’m about to eat my keyboard.

Look up hungry as a bear in an idiom dictionary and you’ll probably see a picture of me when I a) Wake up b) Get out of class c) Have free time d) Stay up all night to talk to people in America and miss breakfast. Generally, I exemplify all the positive qualities of my ursine cousin: cute, cuddly, hair--but I will eat your arm, dear reader, if I miss a meal.

Usually, hunger and sleep deprivation just make me unpleasant, but throw in the frustrations of navigating the Chinese transit system and I was about to go full blown grizzly.

Honestly, the Chinese are good at a great many things, but they are the best at making travel so exceedingly difficult that I was all set to have a staycation by the time I made it to the train station. As we packed into our cattle car bus, I proceeded to engage in a contortion routine to fit into my seat. Since my driver was too lazy to down sift, the bus proceeded to chug and puff, leaping in jolts and starts, making it easy to visualize how rough seas feel.

Finally getting off the bus at the train station, I slammed my head into a bar obviously put on the bus to punish tall foreigners. Sleep deprived and hungry, I would have normally grunted and swore under my breath; however, today, dear reader, I bellowed so loud, people not in our travel party stopped and stared.

Trying to find my happy place, I removed myself from the general crowd so as not to yell at anyone and sat quietly in the centuries old train station. Getting on the train, I put the Grizzly to sleep for a little bit, as I realized that I was super excited to be riding on a train. 

I’ve always felt it superior to other forms of travel, but never had the experience to make a definite decision. Sinking into my comfy SPACIOUS human –sized seat, my feelings were confirmed, and I spent a few moments imagining myself in the 1920’s, getting ready to set off across the US on the transcontinental. Monocles and waistcoats lulled me into hibernation and I hoped to wake up in Beijing.

Since, I am still writing this from the train though, it is obvious that I have not arrived in the land of milk and honey. When I woke up to the fleeing peasant landscape, I accepted the fact that I will never be able to properly gauge how long a trip will take, and tried to find the dining car. Finding only dried fish and other sketchy Chinese snack foods, I’ve moved from contemplating eating my keyboard, to eating more substantial prey…

Seriously contemplating cannibalism,

Mr. Mockler 

Wingman

Clear azure morning. Light cloud cover and light streams through the puffy white clouds. Quiet afternoon. People walk to and from class. Tree tops stir. The silent breeze whispers as it rushes towards me. Turn to feel the sun on my face. The breeze feels nice as it moves from my knees. Upward. A stirring on my cheek, and…wait, could it be? Is it possible? Why yes! Yes, dear reader it is! So joyous an occasion, for MY FACIAL HAIR IS LONG ENOUGH TO BE STIRRED BY A BREEZE!

Yes, dear reader, I have stopped shaving. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to announce it to the world and let everyone know about my decision to become a wild man. Between an 1/8 and ¼ of an inch of fine black hair now extends from pretty much every place a beard should extend (still working on the upper cheeks). Most of you are probably thinking, “So what? It’s just a beard. Probably looks as dumb as that ‘moustache’ my brother had in the seventh grade.” While I assure you, dear reader, that assumption is probably correct, I am ecstatic all the same.

In the time I’ve had facial hair (probably since I was 11, give or take) my relationship with my whiskers has been filled with issues and bad decisions. Like in the sixth grade when I was so embarrassed of my mustache that I Naired it off. Or the Christmas break that I tried to grow out a beard, only to have my facial hair take revenge because it became so itchy that I literally sanded the hair off my face by rubbing it with my hands so much.

But this time, I bit the bullet, stopped shaving two days before I left, and handcuffed my hands to my side. For my patience, I’ve been handsomely rewarded with a handsome display of my God given secondary sexual characteristic. I still have a month to go, but I’m already planning on how I will style my beard once I get back. Initially, I intended to shave it like Senecca Crane from the Hunger Games, but a quick Google search and some time spent on Wikipedia later, I learned I have so many more options as well as some surprising statistics about beards.

Styles of Beard or Mustache

Full, Circle, Sideburn, Chinstrap, Lincoln, Giribaldi, Goatee, Junco, Hollywoodian, Hulihee, Reed, Royale, Stubble, Van Dyck, Verdi, Neard, Soul Patch, Friendly Mutton Chops, Stashburns, Monkey Tail, Natural, Hungarian, Dali, English, Imperial, Freestyle, Fu Manchu, Pancho Villa, Handlebar, Horseshoe, Pencil, Chevron, Tooth Brush, Walrus

Quotes about Facial Hair

Wisdom is in the head, not the beard. –Swedish Proverb

I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face; I would rather lie in the wool. –William Shakespeare

I have the terrible feeling that, because I am wearing a white beard and am sitting in the back of a theatre, you expect me to tell you the truth about something. These are the cheap seats, not Mount Sinai. –Orsen Wells

He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he who hath no beard is less than a man. –William Shakespeare

When a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers. –Ralph Waldo Emerson

Statistics about Facial Hair

In 2009, the popularity of facial hair in Hollywood created a trend that ended up causing sales of shaving products to drop 12%.
33% of men in America have facial hair.
50% of the world’s men have a hairy face.
63% of men think they look more manly and attractive with a beard
92% of women think these men are idiots, and would rather date his clean-shaven wingman
95% of women also think that kissing a man with stubble is like kissing a Brillo pad and makes romantic kissing a turn off.
The last US president to have any facial hair? William Howard Taft in 1908.
(Statistics prove that I should shave this beard if I don’t want to end up like Taft, stuck in a bath tub)

Awesome People with Facial Hair

Teddy Roosevelt
Jesus
George Clooney
Chuck Norris
Weird Al Yankovic
William Shakespeare
Zach Galifianakis
Abraham Lincoln

Braiding my beard,

Mr. Mockler

DELICIOUS

Today, I wrote self-pitying me a self-gratifying note because, to tell you the truth, dear reader, this Monday sucked just as much as the last one. Staring at my terrible grades, I longed to fall into a carb induced permacoma. My fingers lingered over the evil white strip, and I was set to launch into a new sets of groans and moans, before I stopped myself and began to write a letter to my wounded ego.

Starting with trite cliches, I covered an entire page with babbling platitudes that ranged from The Help's "You is smart..." to "You did not come to China to get fat." When I finished, I managed to yank myself from the clutches of the buffet table, and realize: I'm in GOSH DARN FRICKIN' CHINA!

Again, life has handed me two choices. I can weep daily and refuse to see anything else other than my grades and complain at every opportunity, or I can pull myself together, get some help, go exploring, and avoid adding a third person to my already large frame.

I believed I softened my last epiphany with a puppy picture. Please take a moment to go to look at it; however, I can't wait, though, because I only have so much time in gosh darn frickin' China.

Since you are still enveloped in the sweet glow of puppy pictures. I'll tell you, I'm going with the second option. While I have no regrets about last week (that ice cream was DELICIOUS), eating like a pig really didn't help anything. In fact, it made me a hypocrite because I refused to take my own advice from the mini-crisis post. As I prophesied, I put myself in a situation to be imperfect, but was still shocked when I found out I wasn't perfect.

Wallowing in my self pity (again, DELICIOUS) only made me want to come home, not take advantage of all the wonderful things I can do in this country. I've been to Old Qingdao and New Qingdao. A farmers market, a night market, and a fake market. I've done so many things here and still only seen an eighth of all this city has to offer. Basically, I've opted to make this trip about complaining, instead of making this trip about learning.

Obviously, I can't escape complaining, it is a way of dealing with new settings and circumstances: however, when did my coping mechanism become a never-ending-pity-orgy? I've literally never heard or caught myself complaining in so many different ways. Sarcastic complaints, statement of fact complaints, illogical rambling complaints, complaints about complaints, etc. have bred nothing but animosity and perpetuate an emotion cycle that has made me miss America.

Other people cautioned me about culture shock and such before I came, but I've been using my complaints as horse blinders to all the marvelous things this country has to offer. Ultimately, I think we thought we were going to Chinatown, not China. Chinatown is intriguing and exotic, but you don't actually have to "experience" it before you flee back to the Western part of the city. In China, you're are encapsulated in thousands of years of history. Old cultures, new cultures, and weird cultures come from all sides and must be accepted. Shutting down and locking it out has been like watching a bug fall into a glass of water. The bug buzzes angrily, makes a lot of noise, but if it doesn't find a way to pull its way up, it ultimately drowns...

Anyway, dear reader, I vow from this day forward that I will only complain when there is something legitimate to complain about. I vow to experience China in all her glory, and run away on weekends to avoid all negativity. I vow to work hard, but not kill myself. I vow to finally start taking my own advice and really start enjoying China.

Thinking happy thoughts,

Mr. Mockler

Early Bedtimes

Today was a bad day. No silver lining, no redeeming quality, just a very bad rotten no-good sort of day. My first round of grades has ripped through my sails, and left me somewhere between Lake Lachrymose and De Nile.

Bad test grades typically don’t get me down, but today it cut straight to one of the things I value most, my writing.

Did I consider myself the next Mengzi? Had I really believed my writing was a beautiful work of time and effort? Did I believe that somehow my efforts would count for something, even if I made errors?

Yes, yes I did.

But, with one slip of white paper, my false pretentions have been swept away. Flipping past streaks of red (no more than in America, mind you), I almost threw the journal across the room I was so shocked at what was written. At first, I didn't know whether to laugh or rip the journal in half. I shed a single solitary, requisite manly tear, and then set about repressing the memory into something better. Fat. That’s right, dear reader, I decided to eat my feelings.

Zipping down to the convenience store on the break I bought a Coke and some candy bar. I’d tell you what the candy bar was, but I inhaled it so quickly, I'm surprised I'm not dead with the wrapper halfway down my throat. I managed to get through the rest of class only throwing the occasional smoldering look of contempt at my journal, and by the time I'd thrown it in my bag with particular venom, I was mentally prepared to leave my dignity on the lunch table.

As I sat down, my sadness-induced gorge slowed ever so slightly, only because who doesn’t love a good whine with Chinese food? I sang the Woe is Me chorus to everyone within earshot and worked my chopsticks more skillfully than a ballerina works at the bar. Listening to my other classmates, I realized I wasn’t just eating to assuage my sadness, but theirs as well. Their skinny frames screamed to be fattened, and I knew I could answer their calls.

Tears are temporary my doe-eyed health nuts, but pounds are at least six months.

The afternoon activity brought us into a mall. For a few minutes I forgot my food crusade as I marveled at this eight (nine with basement) story monstrosity. Floor after floor of brands I’d never heard of and all the advertisements had white people. My momentary lapse was soon forgotten as I headed for Snack Alley (2nd floor) and the “Boutique Supermarket” (Basement). Unfortunately, my food court follies were foiled, as, since nothing is simple in China, they wanted me to buy a card to load with money to buy food. Too much of a hassle, I sat down in the middle of the atrium, scowling. After leaving the mall, the self-pity-orgy-buffet continued as I lay in my bed, listening to sad jazz, and eating trail mix.

Eventually I sulked down to dinner. Choosing my favorite restaurant, my palate watered for plate after plate after plate of newly discovered comfort food. As each dish came to the table, I set about stuffing my resentment under a mountain of food. When I finally finished the meal, I headed out for some ice cream and a remote locale where I could break some of the many bottles that litter this former German colony.

Bottles broken, I entered the convenience store, going straight for the premium ice cream case. The door glided open, and I plucked a Magnum ice cream bar from the top of the pile. Inconvenienced by paying, I finally sat on the steps, and once again let my emotions over take me.

First, rage consumed me and I eviscerated the packaging. The chocolate shell of the ice cream bar glistened in the street lights, and I admired the embedded swirls, mattes, and sheens of the cold chocolate. My appreciation flashed red and I sank my teeth in with a satisfying crunch, imagining that I was actually ripping out the spine of my imagined diary. The ice cream had already begun to melt on my tongue, and I uttered a low moan of self-pity as the velvety rivulets of cream and chocolate began to mingle in my mouth. Each luxurious bite rocked my body with self-loathing, but also made each morsel taste even sweeter. Finally, I snapped the stick in half and reluctantly thew the wrapper in the trash. Pity party over, I headed back to the dorm in silence.

Turning in for an early bed time,

Mr. Mockler

Yoda

Luckily, I had a parent who loved me when I was a child. Pushed me to be my best, taught me to get up when I fell down, and, thankfully, never threw me in the pool and said swim or sink.

I have now come to learn that real life doesn’t give two splits about cushy parenting styles and life is totally the jerk kid at the pool who likes to shove people into the water when they are fully clothed.

Every moment since I’ve set foot in China has been a sink-or-swim-go-now-don’t-think experience. Getting into the taxi, eating breakfast, figuring out where to eat this afternoon, all of it comes down like a wave. Wave, after wave, after terrifying wave. I like to believe handling the onslaught well, but I can’t express to you, dear reader, how uncertain my existence is because I don’t know Chinese.

Case in point, today we were treated to (maybe assaulted by) a tour of Qingdao. We gathered in front of the International Student building and waited for anyone familiar, program coordinator, TA to show up and tell us the plan for the day. Weren’t we in for a surprise…

Around 9:45 a bus shows up with two Asian girls. I’d call them tour guides, but they were more like program sanctioned handlers because they didn’t speak any English and I’m almost convinced couldn’t speak at all because they barely said a word in Chinese, too. At 9:55, they started making noises and gestures at us that seemed to imply we were supposed to get on the bus with no explanation of where we’d be going or what we’d be doing. Forgetting all our American indoctrinated “Don’t go anywhere with strangers” talks, we all herded onto the bus and were whisked away into the snarls of traffic.

After about a twenty minute bus ride, we got off at a beach and sculpture garden and began looking around, wandering aimlessly, and asking each other what was going on. This initial stop set the precedent for how every other stop would ensue. We’d get off the bus, follow the Asians until they stopped, turn around and follow the Asians the other way; all the while receiving no explanation as to what we were looking at or why we had decided to stopped where we were. I managed to snap some neat photos, but I could have just as easily took pictures of the ground and have had better explanations for why the photos were important.

For about an hour we trekked through scenic walkways, up mountain sized hills, and just generally around. By the time lunch rolled around, most of us were suffering from some form of lingering jet lag and thought lunch would be an opportunity to sit and rest. Unfortunately, my hopes dissolved when we pulled off the side of the road and followed the Asians into an alley (Not a good sign. Ever).

Teeming with life and noise, the alley was lined with restaurants. Small Asian men and women stood outside doorways screaming at us from stalls filled with strange ingredients. Starfish, jellyfish, sea urchin, squid featured prominently at each location and each store seemed to have its own city-sized aquarium. The massive displays were reminiscent of the pet fish aisle in Wal-mart, but instead of guppies and tiger barbs, these tanks were filled with catfish, clams, snails, conch, and a whole manner of other aquatic animals that I had never seen, but assume people eat...

It wasn’t until the small Asian men and women started coming up to us and touched our shoulders with one hand as the other motioned towards tables and menus that we finally understood that they wanted us to eat in their restaurants. Either way, our group stayed huddled together from fear of getting lost and followed the Asians deeper and deeper into the network of alleys and people, chasing the dream that maybe we were headed to a restaurant laid out for thirty with menus and quiet time.

Nope.

After dodging and squeezing for about ten minutes, we finally stopped in front of the one food stand that I’ve seen in every movie, travel show, and slide show that centered on Westerners going to foreign places: a bugs-for-food stand. Pods that shook, truncated worms that squiggled, and others that just lay there, accepting their foodie fate were presented in a terrifying tableau of bowls. Basically, everything I have been taught since birth is the stuff of nightmares was ready to be skewered and slapped over some coals. The most jarring sight was the live scorpions (a bowl of yellow camping-sized ones and a bowl of giant black, Egyptian tomb guardians) clicking and pinching at gloved chef hands as they were scooped from a slithery mass of at least 100 and turned into someone’s lunch break…

Luckily, we weren’t eating at the nightmare stand, but we were treated to an even worse announcement: “Alright, time for lunch, you’re on your own.” By the time I had asked someone for a translation, the Asians had disappeared, leaving me and my companions huddled in the street.

Almost immediately, two girls latched onto my arms telling me they were coming with me and, others assuming that this meant I had a plan, soon crowded around me asking where we should go. In America, I’d have no problem with this. I’m usually able to ferret out some delicious whole in the wall that causes envy at my gastronomic prowess, but, not having a deep and abiding knowledge of food terminology in China, I was caught in the classic situation of the blind following the mute. Eventually it just came down to eeny-meeny-miney-moe and a kind waiter who pulled us off the streets and up into a private room.

Finally we were seated and faced with the new challenge of having to order food. Probably the best part is that every restaurant has pictures in their menus, so we were able just point and finally eat without thinking. With one minor snafu over some vegetables, we gorged ourselves and were eventually found by the Asians. In a burst of Chinese, we were told that we were late and had to hurry and return to the bus. Whether or not this was true or not, I don’t know, and I feel I can only blame my not knowing on the fact that my Chinese mental telepathy just wasn’t up to snuff to catch it, so yeah...

Sorry I am, Yoda, failed you I did,

Mr. Mockler

Communist Pandas

I’ve finally made it to Qingdao. It was a pretty short flight from Beijing and I cannot believe how beautiful everything is here. You can read about China and look at pictures, but like with anything else, you have to go to it to really experience it.

Getting to Beijing Airport was a lot easier than getting to the hotel. We found out that there was a free shuttle to (hopefully from, since I’ll be staying at this hotel again, person in my room or not) the airport. Weaving in and out of traffic, we made it to the airport in no time, and all I can say is that I won’t be changing my major anytime soon because the airport is GIGANTIC and I need a reason to come see it. This place has space everywhere, every single store imaginable, and even a children’s playground that sells communist pandas!

After walking back and forth between the AirChina check in gates because we couldn’t figure out how to get our tickets, my travel companions and I went to airport security. I’ve never felt safer in an airport. Every check point has at least five guards. I could probably take five by myself, but if wave after wave came after me, I’m not so sure*. They were also incredibly thorough checking everything, going so far as to run my iPod touch through twice**.

After we made it into the terminal, we spent time looking at all the different stores and sat down to our first true China meal. We also managed to slam head first into the language barrier. I don’t know if I legitimately thought the workers would speak English, but I’ve never been more intimidated. Not having the ability to communicate is a very profound and alienating feeling, but I should probably get used to it…

The plane ride was definitely different, but also strangely familiar. Here are some of the things I learned:

1.       No matter what the language, the love between a parent and child is very genuine. I was seated next to a father and son and it was so cute to watch. The made sure the kid was strapped in, had some sort of entertainment, and got him a juice box when the cart came by.

2.       No matter what the language, nobody  cares about the safety video. Everyone stayed just as engrossed in their newspapers and books as any other flight and I heard a collective “thank goodness” sigh when it was over***.

3.       No what the language (or airline), air travel sucks. The seats were just as cramped (maybe even smaller) and I resented first class just as much.

4.       No matter what the language, all flight attendants are from Stepford.

5.       No matter what the language, children on planes are annoying. Imagine all the squirming and screaming a kid does in America in a plane, now imagine it in Chinese…

Disembarking and baggage claim was very quick and we met our teacher before being whisked off to the college in a taxi. Looking out the windows, I can already tell that this city is beautiful and that I will probably die in a horrible traffic accident.

First, the beauty. It is pretty foggy now, but everything is landscaped and there are a lot of western looking building complexes. This is where the sailing events were held during the Beijing Olympics and they did a lot of work to clean up the city. I’m in the new part of the city, so I’ll have to check out the old part in a few days.

Next, horrible traffic accident. There are no rules here on the streets of China. People run across the freeway and cars just fly in between one another. For at least five minutes, our cab driver drove on the line. Not in any type of lane, just cruising along at 90 miles an hour over the line, no big deal. A few times we even tried to fight some semis. People complain in America about how people don’t know how to drive. No, people know how to drive, they just don’t drive the way we want them to. Here, people literally don’t know how to drive****.

Happily, after almost two and half days and seeing nothing but 1/16 of the population of China, I again saw some familiar American faces sitting on the steps of our dorm. This place certainly isn’t the Waldorf-Astoria, but it is actually a step up from the dorms at my college. I think my dorm is in the old part of campus, so the buildings are pretty austere. The dorm is co-ed, and my floor is (from what I can tell) mostly Indian or Pakistani. It’s very cool and weird to hear Chinese here, some Urdu there, English off to the side, and Russian from up the hall. Luckily, the rooms have bathrooms and “showers” and the beds aren’t terrible. Either way, I’m done traveling for a bit and that’s all I can hope for. *****.

Trying to figure out how to work the shower,

Mr. Mockler

*I would have taken a picture, but I was afraid that they were going to come after me if I tried.

**List of things that other friends were to make it through America with, but not China: Bottle of cologne, bottle of contact solution, and adult-size SCISSORS!!!!

List of things that made it through America and China: A pen knife. WTF, TSA and Chinese TSA? 

*** Fun Fact: AirChina also shows the safety video in sign language.

**** A friend who came in from Shanghai told me that they saw someone literally just sitting in the middle of rush hour traffic, parked in the middle of the lane, smoking a cigarette. THIS PLACE IS RIDICULOUS!!!

*****0’s and 5’s, 0’s and 5’s, I sure do love me some 0’s and 5’s

Wo-manning?

Only here twelve hours and I’ve already been ripped off by a cab driver, found someone in my room who wasn’t me or a travel companion, and eaten something and had no clue what it was. All I can say, dear reader, is welcome to China. 

After my eleven hour flight yesterday, I ended up in the Tokyo-Narita Airport. I know I said Atlanta was the worst, but Narita is now, definitely by far, my least favorite. Even though I was getting on the same plane, I had to disembark and go to another gate. Strange, but no big deal, until I found out: I HAD TO GO THROUGH ANOTHER SECURITY CHECK POINT!

I’m fine with security check points. I don’t mind TSA being thorough, keeps us safe, blah blah blah, but my expectation when I walk through an airport is that I only have to go through ONE security check point. One. That’s it. But, nope, I had to go through another.

 At Tokyo-Narita, international connectors are all run through the same place, but to add insult to injury, they only do it with THREE metal detectors. One line for first class, Two lines for regular passengers, Three altogether for up to TEN full flights of people. I waited at least forty minutes to run stuff through that had already been run through. It was indeed the cruelest of all airport pay backs…

Once I finally made it through that and headed to the gate, I did get a little uplift as some friends who were on their way to Shanghai happened to be in the same terminal. We chatted until I had to board and I got another little blow. What I thought was a two and a half hour flight is actually three and half. Long enough for them to treat it like another transoceanic flight. WHY?!

Well, it turns out that I now have a vested interested in seeing the North Korean government fall or open up. Yes, human rights violations are terrible, starving in the streets, I get that, but it turns out that since NK is a no-fly zone, planes headed to Beijing have to cut over South Korea then hit a diagonal to the mainland. If we didn’t have the NK problem, think of how much time we would save! (The Pythagorean Theorem, it works, guys.) Either way, I was obviously stuck and just tried to go to sleep. They fed me second dinner on the flight, so it wasn’t terrible.

(Side note: I have no idea why people complain about airplane food, I found it delicious. On my Portland flight I had shrimp cocktail and international service has free alcohol. Not saying I would partake, but that’s pretty awesome. I think I will only travel internationally from now on because if they are going to feed me every two hours and water me pretty much every thirty minutes as well as give me a pillow and blanket, then I’m sold.)

Getting off in Beijing and going through customs was a cinch and I met up with my TA. I’ve never been so happy to see an American face. Everything about China right now is sensory overload. The people, the food, the smells, the TV, everything invaded my poor sleep deprived brain. We managed to find two cabbies that weren’t actively trying to rip us off and loaded into the cars. My bag was too big for the drunk and we ended up careening through the streets of Beijing with the trunk open. 

Quick, here’s a simple math problem. 200 kuai – 2 (88 kuai cab fare) = ? If you guessed “Steven got ripped off,” you get the gold star for the day. Turns out, our hotel was a) so close to the airport we could make out the people in the LANDING AIRPLANES, and b) that the cabbie only gave me 10 kuai in change. By that point, I was too tired to care. Luckily, the staff was very nice and we got our room keys and straight to bed.

But, not really.

First, the hotel wanted a copy of our passports as well as a deposit for the room key. Fine, whatever, took care of that and after I escorted my female travel companion to her room, I went straight to my room, only to discover SOMEONE WAS IN IT! Put in the room key, opened the door, and got stopped by a door chain and some old woman yelling at us in Chinese. To add to the fun, we held the door open too long, setting off an alarm, and causing security to come get us. Security turned out just to be the small Chinese girl who had been manning (wo-manning?) the desk when we came in. She put us in a new room and I finally collapsed into bed.

Adding insult to injury, this morning, I went down to breakfast and it turns out you need a room number to eat in the restaurant. Unfortunately, after being switched to a new room I couldn’t remember the number and felt like an idiot as small Chinese girls giggled at my misfortunes. Finally I was able to pay with cash (no 10% surcharge for me!) and sat down to breakfast. I piled my plate with food, and what I expected to be a meat filled dim sum bun, was actually filled with some purple sweet paste. No clue what it was, but it was tasty.

More food experimentation to come,

Mr. Mockler

Happiness Abounds

Just arrived in Portland and I like this place. The airport is new and hipster, but I guess I should have expected the latter bit. Everyone is wearing plaid or glasses. This is my last stop in America before I head out over the ocean.

It is also my last American meal: a giant Rueben sandwich and some cheesecake. Seriously, the sandwich is the size of my face.

 I also finally managed to find a magazine shop that sells Wired. Definitely my favorite print publication, I wasn’t able to find it in my home airport or Atlanta. I also stocked up on snacks for this 11 hour flight, so I should be set.

Happiness abounds,

Mr. Mockler

Bagillion

I hate the Atlanta airport. No matter how much time I spend there, I can’t stand it. I know it’s the busiest airport in the world, but if it could be a little less busy I’d still hate it.

Probably the worst thing about Atlanta is its size. Each terminal is fifty bagillion gates long and it takes forever to walk the concourse to get to the sardine can tram to go to another fifty bagillion gate long terminal. My flight is never in the center and I always have to sprint to one place from another. I think the airlines are getting payback for years of ungrateful customers by making layovers there as short as possible, too.  A57 to E32 in 10 minutes, who will win? You? Or the Atlanta Airport?

Today’s trek through the worst place on Earth was made particularly uncomfortable as one of my travel companions decided to stop in the duty free store. Of all the duty free stores we will pass, he chose to go to the one in the airport with the shortest layover.  Waiting on my friend to buy his duty free chocolates, I had some time to admire some recycled clothing displays in the airport.

I participated in an Eco Fashion show a few weeks ago, and it was neat to see how other designers came at some of the problems I did. Of course the outfits in the terminal were professional, but (if you didn’t look too hard) I think my designs could have been displayed next to them.

I had been in the midst of creative dry spell when the show started looking for entrants, and I leapt at the opportunity to focus on not school. Despite the fact that I felt like a small sweatshop child (3 complete outfits in 2 weeks, initially without a sewing machine), I had a great time. Choosing fabrics and looking up patterns, I experienced a way of life and doing things that most people just don’t do anymore.

Probably the biggest obstacle I faced was the idea that guys don’t make clothes. That’s stupid, I can do whatever I want, I could be President if I wanted to… but instead of working on my stump speech, I made a t-shirt halter and some burlap shorts.

Making clothes made me look at how I relate to clothing differently. By making for different body types, I learned how to capture lines and curves and what really brought out the best physical features in a person using their wardrobe. Also, I felt a lot of pride in my designs. Going from someone who had only ever sewn buttons and rips, I gained a whole new skill set that I hope to practice in the future.

Portland Bound,

Mr. Mockler

An Aggregated Amalgam of Aggravation

Vacationing is stressful. The planning, the packing, the traveling, each component is one small annoyance in an aggregated amalgam of aggravation. The delicate balance that is supposed leisure is typically one delayed flight away from a nuclear disaster in our first world problem lives. There is one virtue, however, to a trip falling off the deep end into oblivion: it typically indicates that you’re in for a good time.

I’m not saying every disaster indicates a good time. Missing a flight, getting sick, arriving at your destination in time to enjoy multiple natural disaster are proven vacation ruiners, but, like I said, in our first world problem lives the mini-disaster; a forgotten camera charger, something left on the plane, being selected for additional screening; is enough to elicit exasperated sighs of “Oh, my vacation my beautiful vacation.” The mini-disaster snuffs out our pretentions of having a perfect vacation and kindles our ability to enjoy it. 

Considering what happened to me last night, my mini disaster has coaxed my enjoyment into a strong flame, as nothing on this trip could terrify me more than my mini disaster last night. 

Finishing my gorge on American TV that I had missed and would be missing, I decided to check my itineraries again. Checking arrival times, airport maps, and my hotel reservation, I was about to send a confirmation email to my program coordinators when I asked my mother what I thought was an innocuous question. “Yes, I know I have to email him, but I have to email him my arrival time for Qingdao, all I have is my travel information for getting to Beijing. Where is the Qingdao flight?”

… 

“Where is the Qingdao flight?”? Where IS the Qingdao flight? OH GOD, WHERE IS THE QINGDAO FLIGHT?!  No confirmation number, no contact from AirChina, no piece of documentation that conclusively proved that the Qingdao ticket had ever been booked. My summer in Qingdao was transforming into a summer in Beijing. My mother, paging through months old emails, desperate to find something that would assuage both our oncoming ennui, proved too grating, and, as is best in these situations, I followed the Scarlet O’Hara Guide to Crisis Management, and took the dog for a walk.

Since I decided to check everything when the only person I would be able to get a hold of was a machine, my Romantic escape to the beach to say goodbye to my dog and my hometown, appealed more to me than panicking. By the time I came back, my mother had already found train schedules and I began to look at the train ride as a practice exercise before I had to go to class on Monday. Finally, a phone call from my TA set all my worries to rest, as we were going to be in Beijing at the same time and he promised to help me out. Considering that he’s going to be living in China next year, knowing I had help and wasn’t going to have to rely as much on my broken Chinese relieved me.  

While my mini crisis was resolved, I didn’t realize how nervous I was about this trip until I thought I wasn’t going to have a flight to Qingdao. Based on what my friends said, I built this utopian view of what is an exceedingly difficult program and expected everything to fall into place perfectly, but honestly, for two months, I will be immersed in a culture I’ve only read about and speak a language I’ve only spoken with mostly non-native speakers. I will live with a person I’ve never met and will probably not be able communicate with for the first two weeks. I will invade a family’s home and live with them for two weeks. I will eat things and won’t even know what they are. I will probably buy so much stuff I need a second bag to bring it all back to the US. I am putting myself in a situation to be imperfect and by getting over the lack of perfection now; I will be able to enjoy whatever.

Taking it easy at 20,000 feet*,

Mr. Mockler

               

*My row of two seats is empty on my first transoceanic flight. I'm all types of sprawled out and am enjoying the looks all the other cramped sardine passengers are giving me. Yay, me!

Two Months...

It took me five minutes to run through the TSA check point, and I am watching the last blue-gray of night, turn into the pink and gold of a new morning. I’m glad that on the start of a very long day, TSA has not been the major obstacle it usually is.

My journey began as of 2:30 a.m this morning. Getting up, no matter what the occasion, is difficult for me, but my left over adrenaline from a mini-crisis (more on that later) helped me to get up before my alarm. I let the dog out, said goodbye one more time, and made sure everything (well, almost everything) was where it needed to be. With my sights on my usual pre-travel McDonald’s breakfast meal, I forgot my new neck pillow (so close…). No vacation is ever complete unless I go back for one thing, so pre-vacation ritual completed; my mother and I got on the road and headed for the airport.

Crossing over the bridge, I realized how much I like living on the coast. In the morning in particular, everything is peaceful and quiet. Cruising down the highway, I said goodbye to the casinos as well as the beach. I’ve never one to be homesick, but going this far away from home feels very different. Two months had sounded like a long time, but looking out the car window finally made it feel longer. We stopped into the McDonald’s and decided to take the interstate. I didn’t feel like saying goodbye to the billboards, so it was much easier to not think about home as I tore into my Sausage McMuffin, no egg.  

My home airport is never busy in the morning, but today I found myself at the back of a long line of New York-bound theatre students. Waiting on the new travelers to check in, I planned how to make my goodbye to my mother as short as possible and avoid the overdone crying-in-the-airport-goodbye cliché. Usually, I don’t care how long goodbyes are. Long or medium (no good-bye is ever short), I’m able to get my closure and go happily to my pat down; however, since this is my first transoceanic flight, I knew that I’d have to keep it short for the sake of our tear ducts.

Anyway, this is not goodbye dear reader, in fact it is only beginning. I’m going to have stop posting because the gate agents just arrived and I want to check out the Hudson News before I head out. I’ll try to post about the trip through the day, but maybe I’ll just tell you all about it when I make it to China!

Wish me luck,

Mr. Mockler

On the Eve of the Eve...

Of my many neurotic habits, the most life dominating is my need to organize things so that I end on a time that ends in five or zero. I have no clue why. Deep seated need for order? Aestic pleasure? Secret love affair with the metric system? Who can say, but, ultimately, this is only my second post and I already feel behind on my schedule. In exactly 70 days I will get on my return flight from China to the United States. So, in order to make sure I stay on the 70th day (and make sure that rabbits don't attack me in my sleep or whatever happens when you don't do stuff on 0's or 5's), I have 55 minutes to finish this.

As I mentioned in my last post, I have a chronic underwriting problem, so in an effort to correct that, I'm using you, dear reader, as a crutch to feed and structure my addiction to writing. After months of procrastinating and looking for reasons not to, I've finally managed to hit on what I think might be my solution to stick to writing,  by writing about something I want to talk about anyway: Going to China

I know, shocking. I'll give you a minute to process and then we'll continue.

Here's a picture of some puppies to soften the blow of my Earth
shattering announcement.

 By posting about China over the next two and a half months, I should a) gather a ton of material, b) create a writing schedule, and c) create a venue to share pictures and stories, while also directing people to a location where they can read about everything I did and not pester me for the same story an nth number of times. I don't mind, but I can tell this will be one of those experiences. I already feel tired telling the story and I haven't even been to the Middle Kingdom yet.

So, for everyone who wants to know on the eve of the eve of my departure, yes, I am excited to be going to China. Yes, I am nervous. No, I don't think the food will be terrible. Yes, I know, I won't do anything to be made a political prisoner. Honestly, with as many friends as I have had be a part of this program and as similar as we are, I think I'm going to have a blast. Luckily, I'll have one of my best friends with me and I'll be surrounded by 29 other classmates. As much as it seems like I'm heading into the Wild West, I assure you, this is not the case.

Oh good, done in time for 11:40. No rabbits tonight!

Mr. Mockler

P.S. I won't be all about China because that implies that when I'm done with the trip, I'm done with the blog. While my slacker self sees that solution as an excellent idea, I won't let myself off the hook that easy. Be prepared, dear reader, this is, hopefully, a life-long journey.

You Come Here Often?

Hi, it's nice to meet you, I'm Steven. You come here often? No, well, me either to tell you the truth. My first day... Oh, me, well, I'm a college student. Yeah, yeah, incredible, I know. Yep, love the experience, made for college, learning and all that... Study? I'm majoring in party if that's what you mean! No, no, no, please don't walk away! I swear, I'm not this awkward. Well, I am, but... I try? I don't try to be awkward, I try to not be, and then, but my words, they...BLEH! ...alright then, yeah, no. I'm sorry, let's start over.




Dark and mysterious...

 

Hi, my name is Steven, but you can call me Mockler or Steve, whichever you prefer. I'm a college student, I'd tell you more, but the internet and singularity, etc, too much exposure, but I still want to be famous. Maybe not super famous, quietly famous, or some other type of adjective famous, but definitely that arm length type of famous, where you tell you're friends "Yeah, he's pretty cool, I bet he'd be awesome to hang out with," but still far enough that I can maintain my aura of mystique. You know, like George Clooney, dark and mysterious.

Anyway, I've started this blog for I guess all the other reasons people start blogs. Like most writers, I have the chronic problem of trying to avoid writing, so I guess I've also started this blog to harness the most potent force in the universe, peer pressure. Yes, reader, wondering whether you're reading or not reading and wondering whether or not you're judging me for not sticking to my posting schedule or any other offense that I feel I may commit while trying to turn out posts, should ultimately turn me into a better writer. Ah, the beauty of neuroses.

Anyway, I have to write another post for tonight, so I'll encourage you to go look at that, and then keep coming back and looking, because if you don't, well... we'll see what happens.

Mr. Mockler

Photo Credit: http://bahighlife.com/Media/images/GeorgeClooneyH-d4d44e8d-c23a-44ae-99fe-75fdd5bd2e3a.jpg