Today, as I was walking on the streets of Beijing, I made two saves.
As I was walking near Ditan Park this afternoon, two boy were driving in their motorized cart when I bottle of water (one of many) came tumbling down. They stopped their cart and one of them got off. As the water was rolling toward me, I grabbed it and then I tossed it across the street into the arms of the boy. It was just like making a doubleplay in little league. The bottle looked like it bounced off of the boys chest and that he wasn't going to catch it, but he made his own save. He smiled and said thanks.
Then, later in the day, a women is playing with a golf ball in front of her shop when it gets away. I step forward to catch it and then walk up to her and give it back. She tell me in English: "Thanks!"
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Shitty Fruit Stand
In front of my apartment there's a small fruit stand, the Shitty Fruit Stand. Most of the fruit I get there is a waste of my money.
For example, the bananas, even when fully ripened, still taste like they're still green. I love mangoes, so for me it's torture to eat the shitty mangoes at the Shitty Fruit Stand. While they're beautiful on the outside, and even beautiful on the inside, they taste like shit. Their flesh is soft and gleaming in the light streaming into my kitchen, but when I bite into them, I'm always disappointed. They're slightly sweet. Do you know anyone who wants to eat a "slightly" sweet mango? I want my mangoes supersweet and tangy (which is why I'll never forget my first bite that I even took of a mango when I went to Florida on a trip with my grandmother when I was twelve).
The tangerines. Well, I'm not even going to talk about the tangerines at the Shitty Fruit Stand. The other day, I went through about four of them, peeling them, biting into them and then spitting them out. They were all very dry and tasted like fertilizer. Nevertheless, since I am a hopeful kind of guy, I kept trying them in hopes that I would get a good one. My hopes, however, were dashed.
Oh, by they way. The papayas are shitty, too. They taste like potatoes. I'm going to boil them and mash them and add butter and salt. I'll bet they'll taste great like that served with a steak.
I am sure my eighty year-old neighbor (who likes to look for recycling in the common trash can on our floor where everyone throws away their trash) wonders why I always throw fruit away. Last week, though, instead of throwing the tangerines away, I brought the ones I had leftover back to the old woman who works at the stand. "They taste bad," I say. She takes them and start to weigh them to figure out how much credit I should get for them. "Just give me a banana, that'll be fine," I say. So, she gives me a shitty banana and I'm on my way.
The other day, I found another fruit stand not too far from my house and bought some strawberries from them. They were sweet! They tasted like real strawberries! They weren't shitty!
And so today, on my way home, in the mood for fruit, I decided to head to this new fruit stand. The Non-Shitty Fruit Stand.
I pick up some bananas and the woman immediately asks what else I would like. This is Chinese service for you, very different from what we are used to in the West. I tell her I don't know what else I would like, I still need to look around.
There are some papayas, and I pick one. I pick up some mangoes and strawberries as well. I pay for them, put them into the basket of my bike and ride home, anticipating a fine fruit salad.
After I walk into my apartment, I put the fruit down on my kitchen counter. I pour some water in a bowl and dump the strawberries in it. Then, I hastily grab a banana and I chop it up using the only knife I have--a chef's chopping knife. I pretend I am a Chinese chef and chop it into 100 (well, almost 100) thin slices and throw them into some tupperware. Then, I grab a few strawberries and chop them up with the same pseudo-masterful technique and add them to the bananas. (Of course, I have to sample the berries and they are sweet. They're not rotten!).
It's time to get a mango. I cut it up and as I slice it into the salad, I sample some and I am practically on the floor writhing in ecstasy. It's been so long since I've tasted a real mango. I guess I'm too used to eating "pirated" mangoes (if you live in China and you've ever watched a DVD here, you know what I am talking about).
I notice in my haste to make my fruit salad that I'm still wearing my backpack, but I don't take it off. I finish my salad by chopping up the papaya. I mix all the fruit together and begin eating.
My ecstasy continues and I wonder why I've bought so much fruit at the Shitty Fruit Stand. Was it because it was so convenient? Because of that old woman's smile? Or maybe was I worried that I would get "caught" bringing in fruit from other stands as I entered my building?
I don't know the answer, but I do know one thing. I don't think I'll ever go back to Shitty Fruit Stand again.
For example, the bananas, even when fully ripened, still taste like they're still green. I love mangoes, so for me it's torture to eat the shitty mangoes at the Shitty Fruit Stand. While they're beautiful on the outside, and even beautiful on the inside, they taste like shit. Their flesh is soft and gleaming in the light streaming into my kitchen, but when I bite into them, I'm always disappointed. They're slightly sweet. Do you know anyone who wants to eat a "slightly" sweet mango? I want my mangoes supersweet and tangy (which is why I'll never forget my first bite that I even took of a mango when I went to Florida on a trip with my grandmother when I was twelve).
The tangerines. Well, I'm not even going to talk about the tangerines at the Shitty Fruit Stand. The other day, I went through about four of them, peeling them, biting into them and then spitting them out. They were all very dry and tasted like fertilizer. Nevertheless, since I am a hopeful kind of guy, I kept trying them in hopes that I would get a good one. My hopes, however, were dashed.
Oh, by they way. The papayas are shitty, too. They taste like potatoes. I'm going to boil them and mash them and add butter and salt. I'll bet they'll taste great like that served with a steak.
I am sure my eighty year-old neighbor (who likes to look for recycling in the common trash can on our floor where everyone throws away their trash) wonders why I always throw fruit away. Last week, though, instead of throwing the tangerines away, I brought the ones I had leftover back to the old woman who works at the stand. "They taste bad," I say. She takes them and start to weigh them to figure out how much credit I should get for them. "Just give me a banana, that'll be fine," I say. So, she gives me a shitty banana and I'm on my way.
The other day, I found another fruit stand not too far from my house and bought some strawberries from them. They were sweet! They tasted like real strawberries! They weren't shitty!
And so today, on my way home, in the mood for fruit, I decided to head to this new fruit stand. The Non-Shitty Fruit Stand.
I pick up some bananas and the woman immediately asks what else I would like. This is Chinese service for you, very different from what we are used to in the West. I tell her I don't know what else I would like, I still need to look around.
There are some papayas, and I pick one. I pick up some mangoes and strawberries as well. I pay for them, put them into the basket of my bike and ride home, anticipating a fine fruit salad.
After I walk into my apartment, I put the fruit down on my kitchen counter. I pour some water in a bowl and dump the strawberries in it. Then, I hastily grab a banana and I chop it up using the only knife I have--a chef's chopping knife. I pretend I am a Chinese chef and chop it into 100 (well, almost 100) thin slices and throw them into some tupperware. Then, I grab a few strawberries and chop them up with the same pseudo-masterful technique and add them to the bananas. (Of course, I have to sample the berries and they are sweet. They're not rotten!).
It's time to get a mango. I cut it up and as I slice it into the salad, I sample some and I am practically on the floor writhing in ecstasy. It's been so long since I've tasted a real mango. I guess I'm too used to eating "pirated" mangoes (if you live in China and you've ever watched a DVD here, you know what I am talking about).
I notice in my haste to make my fruit salad that I'm still wearing my backpack, but I don't take it off. I finish my salad by chopping up the papaya. I mix all the fruit together and begin eating.
My ecstasy continues and I wonder why I've bought so much fruit at the Shitty Fruit Stand. Was it because it was so convenient? Because of that old woman's smile? Or maybe was I worried that I would get "caught" bringing in fruit from other stands as I entered my building?
I don't know the answer, but I do know one thing. I don't think I'll ever go back to Shitty Fruit Stand again.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Spring in Beijing
Two weeks ago, suddenly, it started snowing lightly in Beijing and I dug up my wool hat. Spring has been teasing us, as it surely has since humans began experiencing it (before that, who was Spring without her admirers?).
Returning from Israel last week, the last of those snowflakes have melted and I can walk around in a short-sleeves shirt (except for that wind). Spring, as Chinese people say, is like a stepmother. Sometimes oh so nice, and sometimes evil. This of course fits with the view of it in traditional Chinese Medicine. Both the wind and Spring are manifestations of the wood element, always growing and coursing nervously like the new branches, erratic).
Today, I am in Northeastern Beijing, Wangjing, and it's snowing again! Except this time it's pollen that is snowing. I've never seen anything like it. I'm not talking about a few dandelions shedding their seeds in the wind. It's like millions of dandelion seeds in the air. Honestly, Hollywood could come here and film a few heartwarming Christmas films (It's a Wonderful Life with Chinese Characteristics and Kaoya Roasting on an Open Fire).
This is poplar pollen. I'm in a Sichuan restaurant eating a bowl of chicken noodle soup and people walk in with specks of poplar pollen covering their hair. A girl walks by with her hand covering her face. It's particularly bad in this neighborhood.
Taking a cab back to the subway, I point to some floating in his car and the driver tells me it will all be gone in a few weeks.
The Stumbling Son
I'm in a taxi and we stop at the light. I see a thin old man with grey-white hair and his taller thirty-something son walk arm in arm slowly across the street.
I'm always amazed at how integral xiaoshun (孝順, filial piety) is to Chinese people, that a grown man would be walking his father across the street. I remember returning to the States and walking with my grandmother across a parking lot to go into a shopping mall. I instinctively held her arm. In that way, perhaps China has changed me.
I watch them cross and then upon closer examination, I realize the young man isn't walking his father across the street at all. I see that the young man has difficulty walking and his face is slightly distorted, tilted, and has a haze as if he has some musculoskeletal disease.
The father, however, walks upright with clear eyes, guiding his son as they slowly make the trek. As they approach the curve at the other side, the son stumbles a little over his own two feet and his father supports him, as he surely has been for a very long time.
I'm always amazed at how integral xiaoshun (孝順, filial piety) is to Chinese people, that a grown man would be walking his father across the street. I remember returning to the States and walking with my grandmother across a parking lot to go into a shopping mall. I instinctively held her arm. In that way, perhaps China has changed me.
I watch them cross and then upon closer examination, I realize the young man isn't walking his father across the street at all. I see that the young man has difficulty walking and his face is slightly distorted, tilted, and has a haze as if he has some musculoskeletal disease.
The father, however, walks upright with clear eyes, guiding his son as they slowly make the trek. As they approach the curve at the other side, the son stumbles a little over his own two feet and his father supports him, as he surely has been for a very long time.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Taiji Corrections
I'm doing taiji "cloud hands" near my building and a neighbor walks by me. I say good morning to her, a short woman with white hair, probably in her seventies. She smiles back at me and says something in Chinese. I don't catch it and ask again. "手跟着眼睛走," she says. ("Your eyes should follow your hands.")
I thank her for reminding me and practice the technique over again, the correct way.
I thank her for reminding me and practice the technique over again, the correct way.
The New Leaves of Spring
I get a text message from my friend Michael who lives in Beijing: "It's nice to see the trees are getting leaves!" I reply: "My English is getting pretty bad, too!"
Despite my joke-making, I wake up this morning (after the first spring rain) and notice that all the trees do have leaves on them, and it brings a sense of relief (yeah!), a burst of joy (yeah!), and hope (yeah!) to my heart.
I wake up and after my cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal, go outside to do my daily set of taiji. People walking in my neighborhood walk by and stare with perplexed looks and they sometimes smile.
Surrounding me is a yard full of trees and I notice their tiny leaves are just beginning to sprout. As I am doing doing taiji, I notice an old man behind me walk into the yard with a plastic bag. The yard is usually messy, filled with trash, and I am happy because it looks like he wants to clean up a little. But as I continue my set, I notice he's not cleaning up at all.
He walks up to a small tree with small greenish-purplish leaves and starts picking them and putting them into his bag. I assume he is just going to pick a few leaves, but he keeps picking.
I am curious and instinctively, want to stop him. I want to "protect" those young leaves. I stop my taiji. I wonder what he wants to do, maybe take the pickings home and grow them in glasses of water or something.
I decide to continue doing my taiji, but then I notice that he keeps picking those leaves. All those new young leaves are almost gone!
I stop my taiji and turn around to him. "Good morning!" I say. He is short, in his 70s, with white hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. He looks over to me. I ask him politely what he is doing and he tells me that you can eat these leaves. "Fried eggs," he tells me. They are good with fried eggs!
I ask him what that name of the plant is. He tells me and I thank him and go back to taiji.
He's finished picking leaves. I turn back again and look at the tree. It's bare and only the top most bunch of small leaves are left.
I guess someone will have some tasty eggs for the next few days.
Despite my joke-making, I wake up this morning (after the first spring rain) and notice that all the trees do have leaves on them, and it brings a sense of relief (yeah!), a burst of joy (yeah!), and hope (yeah!) to my heart.
I wake up and after my cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal, go outside to do my daily set of taiji. People walking in my neighborhood walk by and stare with perplexed looks and they sometimes smile.
Surrounding me is a yard full of trees and I notice their tiny leaves are just beginning to sprout. As I am doing doing taiji, I notice an old man behind me walk into the yard with a plastic bag. The yard is usually messy, filled with trash, and I am happy because it looks like he wants to clean up a little. But as I continue my set, I notice he's not cleaning up at all.
He walks up to a small tree with small greenish-purplish leaves and starts picking them and putting them into his bag. I assume he is just going to pick a few leaves, but he keeps picking.
I am curious and instinctively, want to stop him. I want to "protect" those young leaves. I stop my taiji. I wonder what he wants to do, maybe take the pickings home and grow them in glasses of water or something.
I decide to continue doing my taiji, but then I notice that he keeps picking those leaves. All those new young leaves are almost gone!
I stop my taiji and turn around to him. "Good morning!" I say. He is short, in his 70s, with white hair and thick-rimmed black glasses. He looks over to me. I ask him politely what he is doing and he tells me that you can eat these leaves. "Fried eggs," he tells me. They are good with fried eggs!
I ask him what that name of the plant is. He tells me and I thank him and go back to taiji.
He's finished picking leaves. I turn back again and look at the tree. It's bare and only the top most bunch of small leaves are left.
I guess someone will have some tasty eggs for the next few days.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Turkish Flavor
I flew Turkish Airlines to Israel and enjoyed getting a taste of the Mediterranean even before I got there. I have to say the food was excellent. Salads with cucumbers, olives, feta cheese, yogurt, spiced beef, dolmas. Please allow me to stop or else I might fall on the floor as I might not be able to deal with the ecstasy of it all...
I loved that when we landed in Istanbul, people started applauding! I remember as a kid, flying El Al to Israel, people would clap when we landed after our long transatlantic flight. But since then, have never heard anyone doing this. Landing safely after sitting on your butt for ten hours is definitely applause-worthy.
There was also another taste of the Mediterranean--the plane left Istanbul about an hour late.
Of course, living in China and having at least 78% of my "American-ness" forced out of me (and fortunately for me, it never really has been strongly rooted there anyway), it wasn't such a big deal.
Waiting for my flight to Israel from Istanbul, I got a chance to see hundreds of Turkish people on the way to their flights. This was my first time in a Muslim country and it seemed like everyone was dressed in traditional costume. Walking around the airport to find a water fountain (I never did find one), I remember seeing men (who could have easily been transported from one thousand years ago) sitting in their white dresses that were made from patterned towels, reading what certainly must have been holy books. All the women's heads were covered and some had their face covered.
On the way back to China, my flight from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was also delayed an hour. This meant that soon after landing, I unofficially broke the Olympic record for the 500 meter dash (with carry-on luggage) to gate 212 at the Istanbul airport.
I arrived panting at the gate not sure how late I was. I was curious to know what was happening, so I asked the Turkish woman from security if we were boarding. Her English was like my Turkish and as soon as I figured this out, I grabbed my carry-on and turned around to a Chinese guy and asked him in Chinese if we had already started the boarding process and he told me we hadn't.
I made my way into the small waiting area which was full of Chinese and Turkish people. It was good to hear Chinese again, and soon, I realized, I would be back in Beijing, far away from the flavor of Turkey and that good feta cheese.
I loved that when we landed in Istanbul, people started applauding! I remember as a kid, flying El Al to Israel, people would clap when we landed after our long transatlantic flight. But since then, have never heard anyone doing this. Landing safely after sitting on your butt for ten hours is definitely applause-worthy.
There was also another taste of the Mediterranean--the plane left Istanbul about an hour late.
Of course, living in China and having at least 78% of my "American-ness" forced out of me (and fortunately for me, it never really has been strongly rooted there anyway), it wasn't such a big deal.
Waiting for my flight to Israel from Istanbul, I got a chance to see hundreds of Turkish people on the way to their flights. This was my first time in a Muslim country and it seemed like everyone was dressed in traditional costume. Walking around the airport to find a water fountain (I never did find one), I remember seeing men (who could have easily been transported from one thousand years ago) sitting in their white dresses that were made from patterned towels, reading what certainly must have been holy books. All the women's heads were covered and some had their face covered.
On the way back to China, my flight from Tel Aviv to Istanbul was also delayed an hour. This meant that soon after landing, I unofficially broke the Olympic record for the 500 meter dash (with carry-on luggage) to gate 212 at the Istanbul airport.
I arrived panting at the gate not sure how late I was. I was curious to know what was happening, so I asked the Turkish woman from security if we were boarding. Her English was like my Turkish and as soon as I figured this out, I grabbed my carry-on and turned around to a Chinese guy and asked him in Chinese if we had already started the boarding process and he told me we hadn't.
I made my way into the small waiting area which was full of Chinese and Turkish people. It was good to hear Chinese again, and soon, I realized, I would be back in Beijing, far away from the flavor of Turkey and that good feta cheese.
Friday, April 03, 2009
The Old Central Bus Station in Tel Aviv
It's my second-to-last day in Israel and since I have been so (happily) busy visiting with family, I haven't had time to buy gifts for my Chinese friends. This is part of Chinese culture and I am more than happy to give my friends here a taste of Israel. Funny, once I bought gifts for friends and family in the States and most of them told me lovingly, "You don't need to get us gifts!" Ah, cultural differences.
I've been hanging out with my mother, sister, and grandmother and we've just arrived in Tel Aviv. We have plans to visit with more family in the afternoon and I'm afraid that since the shops close on Friday afternoon until Saturday evening for the sabbath (in Hebrew, "Shabbat") that I won't be able to buy any gifts. At about six, after we say goodbye to our family who lives in Tel Aviv, I start my search for a place to buy some typical Israeli gifts.
Everything is closed. When I ask a shopkeeper of a convenience store if there are any places where I can buy these gifts, he smiles with a look that says "you are basically screwed" and says I'll have to wait until shabbat is over. He does suggest though, that I head to where the old bus station is, about a twenty-minute walk away.
I take a cab there and it is packed. There is a main pedestrian walkway filled with shops selling used cellphones, small restaurants, and vendors lining the streets. Unfortunately, I find that there are no places selling gifts. I realize that I might need to just buy my gifts at the airport tomorrow and I decide to just enjoy this promenade.
The area, I notice, is full of immigrants. Lots of Ethiopians, Russians, Filipinos, and Chinese. I stop a Chinese man in his thirties and start talking to him in Chinese. I ask him how life is for him in Israel. He says it's hard, that right now jobs are hard to find. He's from Fujian and works in construction. As we are talking several other Chinese guys start watching us, amazed that I am speaking Chinese. I start "interviewing" them, too.
They're from small villages from Fujian and Jiangsu and they're doing the same thing their friends are doing in Shanghai and Beijing--here for a few years saving up money for their families. To them, Israel is just Western culture--very different from what they know. They miss home.
I continue walking on the crowded street. Russians are sitting at plastic tables in front of small restaurants drinking and talking loudly.
There is a guy who has set up a small table with three cups and a foam ball. He is playing a cup game and people are crowded around, placing money on top of cups after he shuffles them around. He's got a strong Russian accent he's a born performer. You do what you gotta do to survive.
I know what he's doing. He gets people hooked and confident and then takes all their money. He's a pro.
I continue walking to the end of the street and notice that someone has called my cellphone, a missed call alert. It is my cousin Shlomi, who I am supposed to see tomorrow because he has to work late this evening. I call him back and he asks me where I am. I tell him I am near the old Tahana Mercazit, the old Central Bus Station. He starts laughing. "You're in the worst and most dangerous place in Tel Aviv, full of poor immigrants!"
As we talk I turn around and suddenly it hits me. I am standing in the old bus station! It has mostly been demolished, but you can see most of the concrete structures, the islands where people would wait for buses, perhaps ten lanes. I think it used to be covered, but that is gone and it is all exposed and deteriorated.
I am suddenly taken to the past. Twenty years ago. I was just a teenager. I never really knew Tel Aviv, except for the bus station. I was working in the south, in Kiryat Gat, and I would transfer here on my way to see my family in Haifa. Or, I was younger and was traveling around Israel to see the sights, perhaps to go to Masada or Eilat.
I can see the old bus station clearly, how alive it was with all the people, all the buses. And I remember the small shops facing the bus station where I could buy cassette tapes. I remember looking for a Shlomo Artzi double cassette (Hom Yuli August) and when I told the young shopkeeper it was too expensive and walked away, he called me back. He affectionately slapped me on my face, like a cousin, and said, "Okay, okay, hamud, it's yours!"
Standing here, I am in shock, like I am visiting an old holy place, and I mention this to Shlomi. We were both teenagers then, and the best part of visiting Haifa was seeing him and hanging out with his friends. Shlomi was like my older brother. I was a "good" kid, the smart kid in class. I won the big spelling bee. Shlomi was the daredevil. Surfer. Into fast cars and going to discos. Living life on the edge. I learned a lot from him.
Now, he's a trader and works for one of the largest banks in Tel Aviv. He tells me to look up and look for the tallest building. I look up and read the words on the tallest building I can find. He says that's it, that's where his office is. He wants me to come over and see his office and then join him for dinner.
So, I do. I walk about ten minutes and go to the 22nd floor, where my cousin Shlomi and I are reunited.
His office is full of computers showing stock quites and showing the business news in English. We take a walk to a nearby sushi restaurant and I admire how beautiful Tel Aviv is. It's a warm spring evening and people sit on benches and cafes chatting as their weekends begin. Shlomi tells me more about his new life in Tel Aviv and I tell him about my life in China.
The evening winds down and we go and get my things from the hotel and he takes me back where I'll get my things. I'll stay with him and his family during my last hours in Israel.
I haven't gotten my gifts yet for my Chinese friends (I'll have to wait for tomorrow, when we visit the namal, the port of Tel Aviv), but now I know why I was magically brought to the old bus station, where I found some other kinds of gifts...
I've been hanging out with my mother, sister, and grandmother and we've just arrived in Tel Aviv. We have plans to visit with more family in the afternoon and I'm afraid that since the shops close on Friday afternoon until Saturday evening for the sabbath (in Hebrew, "Shabbat") that I won't be able to buy any gifts. At about six, after we say goodbye to our family who lives in Tel Aviv, I start my search for a place to buy some typical Israeli gifts.
Everything is closed. When I ask a shopkeeper of a convenience store if there are any places where I can buy these gifts, he smiles with a look that says "you are basically screwed" and says I'll have to wait until shabbat is over. He does suggest though, that I head to where the old bus station is, about a twenty-minute walk away.
I take a cab there and it is packed. There is a main pedestrian walkway filled with shops selling used cellphones, small restaurants, and vendors lining the streets. Unfortunately, I find that there are no places selling gifts. I realize that I might need to just buy my gifts at the airport tomorrow and I decide to just enjoy this promenade.
The area, I notice, is full of immigrants. Lots of Ethiopians, Russians, Filipinos, and Chinese. I stop a Chinese man in his thirties and start talking to him in Chinese. I ask him how life is for him in Israel. He says it's hard, that right now jobs are hard to find. He's from Fujian and works in construction. As we are talking several other Chinese guys start watching us, amazed that I am speaking Chinese. I start "interviewing" them, too.
They're from small villages from Fujian and Jiangsu and they're doing the same thing their friends are doing in Shanghai and Beijing--here for a few years saving up money for their families. To them, Israel is just Western culture--very different from what they know. They miss home.
I continue walking on the crowded street. Russians are sitting at plastic tables in front of small restaurants drinking and talking loudly.
There is a guy who has set up a small table with three cups and a foam ball. He is playing a cup game and people are crowded around, placing money on top of cups after he shuffles them around. He's got a strong Russian accent he's a born performer. You do what you gotta do to survive.
I know what he's doing. He gets people hooked and confident and then takes all their money. He's a pro.
I continue walking to the end of the street and notice that someone has called my cellphone, a missed call alert. It is my cousin Shlomi, who I am supposed to see tomorrow because he has to work late this evening. I call him back and he asks me where I am. I tell him I am near the old Tahana Mercazit, the old Central Bus Station. He starts laughing. "You're in the worst and most dangerous place in Tel Aviv, full of poor immigrants!"
As we talk I turn around and suddenly it hits me. I am standing in the old bus station! It has mostly been demolished, but you can see most of the concrete structures, the islands where people would wait for buses, perhaps ten lanes. I think it used to be covered, but that is gone and it is all exposed and deteriorated.
I am suddenly taken to the past. Twenty years ago. I was just a teenager. I never really knew Tel Aviv, except for the bus station. I was working in the south, in Kiryat Gat, and I would transfer here on my way to see my family in Haifa. Or, I was younger and was traveling around Israel to see the sights, perhaps to go to Masada or Eilat.
I can see the old bus station clearly, how alive it was with all the people, all the buses. And I remember the small shops facing the bus station where I could buy cassette tapes. I remember looking for a Shlomo Artzi double cassette (Hom Yuli August) and when I told the young shopkeeper it was too expensive and walked away, he called me back. He affectionately slapped me on my face, like a cousin, and said, "Okay, okay, hamud, it's yours!"
Standing here, I am in shock, like I am visiting an old holy place, and I mention this to Shlomi. We were both teenagers then, and the best part of visiting Haifa was seeing him and hanging out with his friends. Shlomi was like my older brother. I was a "good" kid, the smart kid in class. I won the big spelling bee. Shlomi was the daredevil. Surfer. Into fast cars and going to discos. Living life on the edge. I learned a lot from him.
Now, he's a trader and works for one of the largest banks in Tel Aviv. He tells me to look up and look for the tallest building. I look up and read the words on the tallest building I can find. He says that's it, that's where his office is. He wants me to come over and see his office and then join him for dinner.
So, I do. I walk about ten minutes and go to the 22nd floor, where my cousin Shlomi and I are reunited.
His office is full of computers showing stock quites and showing the business news in English. We take a walk to a nearby sushi restaurant and I admire how beautiful Tel Aviv is. It's a warm spring evening and people sit on benches and cafes chatting as their weekends begin. Shlomi tells me more about his new life in Tel Aviv and I tell him about my life in China.
The evening winds down and we go and get my things from the hotel and he takes me back where I'll get my things. I'll stay with him and his family during my last hours in Israel.
I haven't gotten my gifts yet for my Chinese friends (I'll have to wait for tomorrow, when we visit the namal, the port of Tel Aviv), but now I know why I was magically brought to the old bus station, where I found some other kinds of gifts...
Thursday, April 02, 2009
The Crying Girl at the Bus Stop
I walk past a bus stop. It's a beautiful spring day and to my left is the Mediterranean sea.
A pudgy, dark-skinned Israeli girl in her twenties is taking out a pack of cigarettes and as I walk by her, I see tears streaming down her face.
Her heart must be broken in one of the thousand and one ways our fragile human hearts can be broken. I hope she has gone home and talked to her mom or her best friend, and that soon, she can smile again.
A pudgy, dark-skinned Israeli girl in her twenties is taking out a pack of cigarettes and as I walk by her, I see tears streaming down her face.
Her heart must be broken in one of the thousand and one ways our fragile human hearts can be broken. I hope she has gone home and talked to her mom or her best friend, and that soon, she can smile again.
Visiting My Homeland
I'm walking on the Carmel, Haifa. Israel. It's good to be back here, the land of my ancestors, the land where my parents spent their childhoods.
I used to come here as a kid during the summers, sort of like the way those Taiwanese ABCs come back to Taiwan every summer (and my Hebrew is like their Mandarin). I went to the beach with my cousins, ate a lot of good middle eastern food, slept in my grandmother's house, not too far from the famous Bahai temple.
Walking along the streets I once walked as a teenager brings back a lot of memories. Who would have guessed that I would be living in China?
Drinking tea with family I haven't seen in twenty years, I tell them that in China, I have magically "become" Israeli. This is because I used to tell the cab drivers of China that I'm American, but they all would take so long to respond, trying to figure out a polite way to cover up their dislike of the States. I saw right through their hesitation, and so decided to tell them I'm Israeli and now they are always so friendly, complimenting me and my homeland.
I get on an elevator at the hotel where I am staying and say hello to a middle-aged Israeli man. He looks like he likes sports and the outdoors. He suddenly says to me, "You look Israeli, but then when you said hi, I realized that you aren't."
"Thanks for the compliment," I tell him, after explaining to him that my parents are from Israel.
Talking to my Israeli family, it saddens me to realize how difficult the situation is for them here. They just want to live in peace in their land. Others don't see it that way. And of course, there are fanatics to blame on both sides.
As I walk around Haifa, especially because I live in China now, a waiguoren (foreigner), I look at these people and I realize that I am home.
I used to come here as a kid during the summers, sort of like the way those Taiwanese ABCs come back to Taiwan every summer (and my Hebrew is like their Mandarin). I went to the beach with my cousins, ate a lot of good middle eastern food, slept in my grandmother's house, not too far from the famous Bahai temple.
Walking along the streets I once walked as a teenager brings back a lot of memories. Who would have guessed that I would be living in China?
Drinking tea with family I haven't seen in twenty years, I tell them that in China, I have magically "become" Israeli. This is because I used to tell the cab drivers of China that I'm American, but they all would take so long to respond, trying to figure out a polite way to cover up their dislike of the States. I saw right through their hesitation, and so decided to tell them I'm Israeli and now they are always so friendly, complimenting me and my homeland.
I get on an elevator at the hotel where I am staying and say hello to a middle-aged Israeli man. He looks like he likes sports and the outdoors. He suddenly says to me, "You look Israeli, but then when you said hi, I realized that you aren't."
"Thanks for the compliment," I tell him, after explaining to him that my parents are from Israel.
Talking to my Israeli family, it saddens me to realize how difficult the situation is for them here. They just want to live in peace in their land. Others don't see it that way. And of course, there are fanatics to blame on both sides.
As I walk around Haifa, especially because I live in China now, a waiguoren (foreigner), I look at these people and I realize that I am home.
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