Climbing the Phoenix

Today, CIEE held an excursion to Phoenix Mountain, just outside Beijing. The hike is a few hours long. 

The mountain is full of history, and Buddhist/Daoist temples line the path. A lot of the monks live there permanently, being at peace in the relative solitude of nature (until twenty loud Waiguoren come stomping through). 

So sad! I guess it has a pretty strong message though.

I was really unsure about my ability to keep up with some of the more athletic people in our group. Traditionally throughout my life, I have been the one dying at the back of the pack. This time, however, I had absolutely no problem keeping up, which was a nice change. Maybe I do have an ounce of athleticism SOMEWHERE in my body!

Some boundaries were pushed today! There was this stretch called the "Stairway to Heaven" which was basically a vertical path in the face of the rock with little footholds and a chain to provide support. It goes on for quite a while, too, the picture is deceiving. I was really excited for the thrill of doing something crazy, but about halfway up I started silently panicking! All I could think about was slipping and plunging to my death, taking out three or four people with me!  :O

I held on and told myself to knock off the melodrama, and I got to the top! It was really cool! Everyone in our group did it. No one turned back at any point, which really impressed the resident director. 

The blossoms have come out, and the view of the Beijing plain was absolutely gorgeous. 

Rock that could collapse at any moment? Yawn. 

The top!

Cassie scales the mountain. 

Summit joys! 

Resident director Lu Laoshi is kind of a boss. Totally fearless. 

The summit from a little ways down.

Stopping at a little pavilion. 

Overall, I was really impressed with our hardiness today. I was always a little abashed that one of the meanings of my Chinese name was "ascending the misty mountain" because I was always horrible at these types of things. Today, however, I held up well! 

I guess in a lot of ways, climbing a mountain is really metaphorical. You really have to pace yourself while not being daunted by the sheer mass of height before you, also not letting yourself panic at the dangers you must face. The summit isn't the end, either--it is only the halfway point! You still have to come all the way back down, with legs shaking and water running low. Once you get to the bottom, though, sheer euphoria sets in!

I was so glad I went. I felt fine once I finished, that is, until I passed out the moment I got home and slept for five hours! It was the type of nap where you wake up stuck to a drying puddle of drool. Beautiful imagery right there. I'm still tired, but I feel like these things make life exciting! The challenge, the rush, and the bonding really make it all a memorable experience. 

Growing Up in Chinese

A lot of times here in China, I feel as though we are only as old as our language skills.


Chinese is a notoriously difficult language to learn. If you think the classroom sessions of guessing at tones, remembering obscure 12-stroke characters, and learning odd grammar structures which "don't really exist" in the language is challenging, then brace yourself for your first day in China. 


It happens again and again: you know how much you know, with all your vocabulary swimming in your head, ready to whip out and impress Chinese people with.


And then she speaks. 


You have no idea what monster just flung itself from inside her mouth. 


You stare blankly.


She stares blankly, back at you.  


The awkward turtle strikes again.


But one thing that really helps is to simply ask them to slow down a little. Also, never forget that you most likely can explain what you are trying say in other words, even if you don't know the direct word for it. For example: "That thing that's like a small car, that one person rides, which has two wheels and goes fast." If someone said that to you, you'd most likely understand that it's a bicycle. If not, don't teach English to foreigners.


While this roundabout way of explaining simple things is sometimes demeaning, we just have to remind ourselves are are still growing up in Chinese: most of us are just big toddlers in terms of our Chinese skills. Especially with my host mom, I feel as though sometimes there is no possible way she understands what I am babbling on about, but she plays along accordingly. Sometimes I think similar things happen with small children, but it's how they learn. 


I feel even more like a toddler in my inability to discuss deep topics, such as why North Korea scares a lot of Americans. 


What I want to say: "They want to build nuclear bombs and threaten to decimate the populations of other countries, or at least establish themselves as a credible threat to the US. They also may not fit into the supposedly safer mutually-assured-destruction theory world, as they may not hesitate to use the nukes where other leaders would consider the well-being and safety of their people."


What I say: "They want to hit a lot of people, and kill them. They want to make a thing which will go BOOM in other countries." (with dramatic hand gestures)




Sigh. So is growing up. I may have a college-level American brain, but my Chinese brain is still in Kindergarten. It's funny though, because I definitely feel the change since I've been here. Just talking with Chinese people on the street, I can feel myself becoming more comfortable with the language. It doesn't sound so awkward and clanky when I am chit-chatting with my host-mom on the couch, and at times I forget I'm using Chinese altogether. That's the coolest feeling. I would never have been able to learn this in a classroom, with rigid curriculum and a teacher waiting to judge your every word. Obviously, the classes help to learn new vocab, but it's the practice that makes the difference. I am continually astounded with how often something we learned that very day comes up in a conversation. Maybe it was there the whole time, but I just didn't see it there before? 




 I'm really starting to get in my groove here. I finally see why studying abroad is so beneficial to learning the language. Each day has new challenges, awkward moments, and even frustrating times, but I love it. 

Down the Rabbit Hole

Ali and I have been attending a kung fu class sporadically for the past month. It is held nightly on the track by the edge of campus, a place bustling with students as they go about their various exercise routines. 


Tonight, however, the kung fu instructor, a student, was to hold practice in the basement of a classroom building so we could use the mirrors to check our stances. Ali was preoccupied with her upcoming midterms, so I found myself venturing into the massive building alone. There were so many rooms and so many people; I had no idea where to go other than down. 


I found the stairs by accident, and plunged into complete darkness. The air grew cool and damp, and I realized the basement wasn't what I had imagined: a modern dance studio with mirrors along the wall, wooden floors, and maybe a nice stereo. Instead, I was thrown into one of the strangest scenarios I have ever encountered. 


The first thing I noticed was the walls: bare, white, and dirty. I felt as though I were in some closed off parking garage, and wondered if I was in the right place. Somewhere in the distance, accordions played unrecognizable melodies which  eerily bounced off the walls. 


Then I saw the bikes. Thousands upon thousands of bikes, piled, stacked, leaning against one another, and simply thrown on the ground. Pink ones, blue ones, green ones, and red ones, all obscured by a thick layer of dust. I couldn't comprehend what I saw before me--how could so many bikes be in one place? Where on earth had they come from, and for how long had they all been here? Some had dried out vines on them, some were missing wheels, and some had no seats. The garage went on and on, with ramps and doors leading to more bikes. Tossed amongst the bikes was everything imaginable: clothes, shoes, bags, trash, boxes, books, and more. I shuffled through one small, yellow book to see that the first page had faded completely in the time it had been exposed to the lights of the garage. The rest of the pages revealed that it was some sort of propaganda book.


Over everything was heavy coating of brown soot. I simply could not fathom whether or not all of this was real; it was so strange. I felt as though I were in a dream. Between the impossibly endless bikes, maze-like, multi-level garage, eerie accordion music, and distant, bodiless voices, I felt as though I were in a completely different realm. Just as Alice found Wonderland, Chihiro found the Tea House, and Darby O'Gill found the realm of the Little People, I felt as though I had found my own parallel universe. It seemed to me that reflected in all of these bikes was the endless expanse of time. At some point in history, each bike had an owner. At another point in history, the owner had left the bike to rust and rot amongst the chambers of forgotten ages. Here I was, browsing through this gallery of time, being watched by the tragic, unloved creatures strewn from floor to ceiling. 


I found the kung fu lesson, in the heart of this strange realm. I was the only one there, which added to the sense of isolation. As the instructor guided me through the exercises, I couldn't help but wonder about my own bike. The slick, silver "Wolf" brand (affectionately named "Wolfie") was my essential means of transportation. On this sleek and silent beast, I practically floated around campus, weaving effortlessly amongst the slow walkers. When my time here was up, what would become of it? Would it end up in this catacomb, rusting away while I leave this place and live my life elsewhere? Would it be here, covered in dust, for decades and for centuries? 


I suppose it was a strange reminder of our ethereal mortality. We live as though we are the first, the only, and the last. We are ignorant to the countless others who have lived equally important lives before us, and will never know of the endless stretch who come after. All we have is relics of the past, decaying pieces of an era that we can never know.


As I packed up and wandered through the garage, I stopped and stood for a moment. This wasn't just a basement or a garage. It was a tomb for the past. A memorial to all things now gone. The accordion music and strange voices haunted me as I moved up the ramp, but as soon as the cold March air hit my cheeks and I stepped outside, the sounds stopped abruptly. 


And there was Wolfie, shiny and new, ready to race through the blissful world of open air in the here and now. 

It Takes a Global Village to Raise a Child

I'm noticing a common trend in China: just when I start to feel like I'm adapted to living in Beijing, everything changes.

Global Village

Global Village

After two weeks of living in the Zhongguan Global Village apartment complex, I gathered up my things and moved into my home stay. This was nerve-wracking--what would my host family be like? What would their home be like? And, most importantly, would we get along? I prayed that I wasn't going to be one of the horror stories we had heard about, which involved terrible living conditions, excessive invasions of privacy, and, in one case, a host parent going through the trash of a student. I knew one thing: however unstable this experience would be, I wasn't going to be one of the students moving back to Global Village.

I met my host mom on a sunny sunday outside of the Global Village. She's a friendly, middle-aged woman who works in accounting at the university. She doesn't own a car, so we took a cab to her apartment just outside the world-famous West Gate of Beida--I feel like I'm walking into Mulan every time I go through it.

My Host Parents' Room/Living Room/Dining Room

Actually not as bad as it looks!

The apartment is tiny! It is essentially three rooms, with the master bedroom/living room to the left, the hallway-balcony-gone-kitchen in the middle, and my room to the right. I was a little worried about the bathroom because the shower is quite literally a hose above the sink, which drains into a smelly hole in the ground, but so far it's been okay! Despite it's size, it is a very charming place to live. I often feel a bit more cheerful when the sun streams across the lightly-colored wood.

My room! 

I like my room a lot. It's fairly spacious, and the bed is very comfortable--a welcome change from the very solid bed at Global Village. The room belongs to my host mom's daughter, who is a college student in Seattle. In many ways  I feel like I'm living her life--her room is adorned with pink curtains and stuffed animals that surround me as I work, and there's a poster of Alan Iverson above the bed. A framed butterfly hangs on the wall, and my keys are anchored with a hello kitty figurine.





Ironically, one of the first things I noticed was a leprechaun pen. Now, owning about five of them, I knew immediately from where this pen had come--which was from my very own University of Notre Dame. I was astounded, but when I asked my host mom, she told me one of her previous students, Mariel, had lived there, along with several other ND students throughout recent years. I couldn't believe it! Mariel and I had been in the same Chinese class way back when, and last year, when she was abroad, she would send back emails detailing her adventures, and I specifically remember reading the email in which she raved over her host family and wishing I could have one as good. It's strange, but that little pen and "play like a champion today" magnet made me feel like being hugged--as if I had a little slice of ND here comforting me in China. It lessened the stress of moving into a new place a lot, and I'm grateful to the domers who lived here before me.



My mom and I get along really well--we often spend hours talking about everything and anything. She speaks no English, so she often has to help me as I stutter along in Chinese. Sometimes, though, I wonder why she hosts students. Is it because she genuinely likes welcoming foreigners into her home? Is it because of the money she gets for hosting us? Or is it because she's lonely?


We eat lunch together twice a week. She cooks the most amazing food I've had in China--I honestly don't know how she does it. From noodles, to chicken, to tomato-egg omlettes, she can do it all in a matter of minutes.


For the first week, I assumed she was a divorcee or single mom. I didn't want to ask.  That is, until I came home one night to see (and smell) her husband, smoking and watching television on the couch. I smiled as I met him, but passive aggressive rage was building in my mind--if there is one thing that is constantly offensive to other people, it's smoking. And he smokes. A lot. It's really kind of thrown a wrench into this situation--just as I was used to my host mom, my smokey-the-bear host dad comes along and stinks up the place. It's not that I hate people who smoke, but the smell is just unbearable. I need to keep my door shut when he's around, because as soon as the smell hits I can feel my sinuses swelling and congesting. Sometimes I open the window, but with the life-threatening pollution, it's not much of an improvement.


While my host mom and I have bonded over many conversations, my host dad is quiet, doesn't really make eye contact, and spends the majority of his time laying in bed and looking rather sickly. He's some sort of engineer, and will be gone for long stretches of time and around for others. I don't get it. I can feel myself withdrawing a bit to this new presence in the home, slowly inching back out as I talk with him more and more. I think he's genuinely friendly, but I just haven't had that moment of bonding with him yet.


Sometimes, I think of the girl who's life I now live, and wonder if she hates me for sleeping in her bed, using her keys, putting my clothes in her drawers, and sitting at her desk. I know if someone was at this moment putting his grimy hands all over my room, I'd hate him too. I wondered why her parents would do that to her--but Mary, a year-long student who had lived here previously--said something that changed this perception: "They do everything for their daughter. Every penny goes to her education and her well-being."



At that moment the world turned upside down. Everything these parents do, they do with their daughter in mind. The tiny apartment, the patchwork fixtures, the lack of a washing machine and car--all of it is to save money so she can study at an American university, gain experience, and live a good life. While they don't own a computer, their daughter owns a Macbook Pro and an IPhone 4S. My heart was touched by this--the amount of sacrifice they have endured is tremendous. I knew this was also my purpose--I was a gear in the motor of this plan--but I didn't feel as though that was a bad thing. My host mom has never made me feel like a means of gaining money--she's been there every night to open the door, to lock it after I leave, to turn the hot water on so I can take a shower, and even to tip-toe into my room now and then to present me with gross little candies that I eat when I run out of strawberries. Whenever I'm home she cooks for me, even though she is only required to twice a week. When I cut my finger on a shard of glass this morning, I found myself wishing she was home so I could ask her if she thought I should get stitches. Later that night when I finally did ask her, she told me not to wash it because it would take longer to heal. I smiled, telling her I wouldn't, even though her suggestion made absolutely no sense. But even something like that makes me grateful I have her around. I know we'll have our challenges as a family this semester, but I think this new global village is a good one.

Now showing: Chinese on Ice!

Sometimes it takes mutual vunerability to realize just how similar we are. In this case, it is an ancient lake that had frozen over in the desert winter of northern China.

It was a beautiful Saturday. Ali, persuading me to refrain from curling up in a ball away from the sun, decided that we should go down to the lake, which was now frozen solid. The lake is the center of the old campus, which, once-upon-a-dynasty, belonged to a very lucky (or maybe not-so-lucky in the end) prince. The lake is surrounded by vibrantly colored buildings, pagodas, and bells, providing the scenery of Chinese dreams.

In America, most people would hesitate from leaping onto a frozen body of water, perhaps opting for a skating rink instead. But here in China, everyone—from babies to professors, was sliding around unsteadily across the slippery surface. As Ali and I gingerly made our way onto the ice, half-expecting it to collapse and send us feet-first into a watery abyss, a sort of childish wonder overtook us. Here we were—walking on water, amidst skaters, sledders, and dancers. It was a fair of sorts, in which earthly troubles lapsed in loo of fresh air and fun.

The world's most adorable child paddles his way across the lake.

Xigua tian bu tian?

We were soon drawn into a game of ice-ball, joining a few Beida students as they kicked a small chunk of ice back and forth. It was difficult, and we missed it frequently, sometimes wiping out in the process (Ali…cough cough), but we had a blast hopelessly inching towards the ball as it zoomed past us.

Hockey?

Super athletic.

I realized I was grinning widely: here we were—not Chinese students and American students, and not even students—but simply kids—playing a game on a carefree day. All shyness faded as I let my joy surface, no longer afraid to approach anyone. On this icy plane, we were all vunerable—there was no home team. For the first time since coming to China, I didn’t feel like an outsider who was expected to act a certain way and be treated such in return. I was just another person trying to have fun while not falling down. As we took turns tugging one another over the surface, we forgot about our identities—sometimes 

it's so good to just play.

Ignore my stupid laughing. 

From then on, I knew that China would never be boring. Around every corner is a hidden gem, waiting to be seized and shared. One only needs to take those few steps outside his door to see what is waiting just around the bend.

Sink or Swim

Beijing Bound Bobby and Brendan (from Boston)

So here I am in Beijing! The airplane seems so long ago—and who knew thirteen hours of flight could go by so quickly? It really helped that I had my friend and fellow domer Bobby Manfreda coming along with me. I hate traveling alone!

Detour to the north pole... Northern Water Tribes?

From the arctic to the Mongolian Desert.

I suppose I can best compare my arrival to being thrown head-over-heels into a choppy ocean. It was a quick and disorienting succession of actions and quick decisions that got us over the Pacific (via the north pole!) and to the CIEE waiting spot at the airport, but we did it! After that, it was introduction after introduction, resulting in us cramming onto a bus and zooming through the insane Beijing traffic.

Hey...what's your name? 

EVERY ONE OF US WORE ND--DOMERS REPRESENT!!!

Besides simply getting to my dorm room, I had another mission--I had to somehow transport the four-month’s supply of the medicine, Humira, that was slowly thawing in my medical cooler to the fridge in the CIEE office. After dropping off my two very heavy suitcases in my temporary dorm room (until the host families are ready), I hunted down John, the student services director, who took me there on a bus that pulled a u-turn in the middle of a six lane road. Beijing drivers make Boston drivers look sane.

At that point, Beijing was a smear of neon lights and honking cars—I had no idea where I was, let alone who I was with, and, most importantly, how I was going to get back to the other students in the program, who would be leaving for the welcome dinner in a few minutes. The rapid-fire Chinese at every turn was not helpful either! I was terrified that I would be left to find my way back to my off-campus dorm, which would almost definitely result in me getting lost and swallowed up in this foreign city. To my relief, however, John showed me back to the front of the building. The other kids had gone to dinner long ago. Here I was, by myself for the first time since I had landed. I was starving, but where was I supposed to get food? I knew I would be far too nervous to attempt to handle a Chinese waiter, let alone where to go. I decided that I should just return to my room to see what I could scavage from my bag. 

I stopped in my tracks. Was I really going to go back and hide in my room? Here I was, in China, about to make a meal out of what, Milano cookies and cough drops? I refuse to be the study-abroad student the advisors tell you not to be; I refuse to be so timid. No matter how disoriented and tired I was, and no matter how hard the language barrier was, I wasn’t going to sit this out because I was alone and scared. Here I was in the vast, wide sea—you either give up and sink, or kick your legs and swim. I determinedly hunted down the nearest restaurant and sat down. I opened the menu, ordered food, and, for the first time, relaxed. My medicine was stored; my bags were in my room. Everything was fine. And, as it turns out, green tea with chrysanthemum flowers floating at the surface and lemon chicken is a much better meal than milanos and cough drops. Who knew?

Really good tea. 

That was the first time in a long time that I felt brave. It sounds so insignificant—so what, Brendan, you went to a restaurant and ordered food—big deal! But add a sleepless thirteen-hour flight, a completely new environment, completely new people, and a language you only know from a textbook, and simple tasks can become daunting. Even communicating with the waitress was hard—I had learned a different word for “check,” so when she kept wringing her hands and repeating “maidan?” over and over, I was horribly lost. But I kept at it—with the waving of the hands, the pointing, and most importantly, the explaining in any manner possible, and we got through it. I’m just glad she put up with me.

I then got lost getting back to my dorm, which was probably the scariest moment of the night. Lost in Beijing? Good riddance, bairen. Bobby, Mary, Daniel, and Christine, the other domers, were right now happily at dinner with knowledgable guides and pack security, and here I was, all by myself in an endless expanse of urban darkness. But again, curl up in a ball and cry—sink—or use every instinct possible to find the damn thing—swim. I walked and walked and, eventually, there it was! I suppose the only thing better than never being lost is to be lost and find your way back. You really learn a thing or two along the way.

I was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep, but Beijing had just one more surprise for me that night. As soon as I turned out the light, I noticed that something was glowing on the wall above my bed. The previous owner of the room—whoever it had been—had, out of glow-in-the-dark stars, created two shapes—a gigantic heart, and a tiny cross. To the lonely and insecure, a thing like that means a lot—it was as if the universe was trying to show me that everything was okay. With heavy eyes and sore limbs, I drifted away beneath that giant heart and tiny cross, comforted by the stranger who had decided to leave her stars up for a weary and frightened traveler. 

look closely...

Leap of Faith

As I sit here at home, half-heartedly tossing random objects I think I might need into my two gigantic suitcases, the wave of excitement at what is coming repeatedly washes over me. In its wake is also a lot of apprehension.

I cannot imagine what I am about to experience; this feeling of exhilaration is akin to free-falling. I look at my packing list, thinking: how on earth can I prepare for this? I'm about to be plunged into a completely different world where I know only some of the language, where I know only a handful of people, and where I know nothing of what I will encounter. Then, the inevitable: what the hell am I doing?! 

I'm leaving behind so much. What rational person would choose to risk a safe, comfortable, life for the unknown? Who would leave behind friends like Liz and Teresa, who take the time out of their Friday night to call me and tell me they miss me? Friends like Abbey, who texts me inside jokes on the daily, and Nicole, who eagerly awaits my next appearance on campus. Friends like Connor, who puts up with my overly-emotional texts having to do with The Walking Dead and emails me clips of Battlestar cast members appearing in other shows. How can I leave behind Jacque, a true bestie through and through, and live without Ricky's sarcastic quips? And how can I leave Erin, who magically obtained a framed, signed picture of the legendary Kara Thrace for my birthday? I can go on for hours, reminiscing about Avatar marathons with Colin, Collin, and Brian, heartwarming chats with Cline, Chinese class rescues by Ian, and random messages from Jessie, but you get the point: to those of you who have touched me--and we both know who you are--I'm insane for leaving you. 

I believe that every one of us has a specific purpose that we need to fulfill in this world. Call it fate or calling, but every person on this planet is unequivocally unique; we each have a set of skills given to us. It is up to us to figure out what they are and how to use them for the better. The hardest part is not knowing. But it takes us time to realize that, in fact, we know how to get there: we must follow that tiny voice in our heads. Our passion. Act as you feel is right. Pursue your passions, and you will be led down the right path: believe it. It's the little string tied to your pinky that is tugging you to the place where you need to be. 

I suppose the thing that keeps us from going along with this is fear. We hate to admit it, but we're afraid of the unknown. It terrifies me. There is so much to lose, to be afflicted with when we venture out, and so much to risk. Those who know me know my fears, and what I've gone through over the past years. These fears are paralyzing, and keep us pigeonholed into choosing the safest option. 

But with time, I realized: giving into this fear is laying down my defenses without a fight. Living as though you are a time bomb is going to make for a miserable life. It would be letting that obstacle control you, and prevent you from living your life. Fear is a hypocritical mechanism; it attempts to keep us alive but prevents us from truly living. It would be a falsity to say that I am not afraid of all the risks I am taking. But being brave and courageous isn't about not being afraid. It's about standing up to those fears, believing in our own ability to overcome our challenges, and pushing forward. Always pushing forward.  

I am now pushing forward. I'm delving into the unfamiliar, the unknown, and even the scary, but in the process, I'm going to learn a few things about the world and about myself. I'm going to grow. I'm going to make new friends and maybe some enemies, many mistakes, and some regrets, but that's part of life. I will no longer stay hidden behind the sheltering pillars of the ordinary. Every person who has ever made a difference in this world has stepped out from their shadows. I want to make a difference. I have to take that step, that leap of faith, and trust that, somehow, I'll land on my feet.

What the hell am I doing? In the end, I'm not sure I can answer my own question. That is the most frustrating part. If there was a definitive yes or no, it would be easy. I suppose I need to find out for myself. 

What I do know is that there's a tug at my pinky. I'm going to follow it.