flashback... japan... I am in your arms

Flashback to Japan, the crowded trains, the bright lights, the rain and snow seeping into my socks, the view from far above the city… I wait for something, I can feel myself waiting for something…. but lets start from the beginning.

The first thing I noticed about Japan was that all the hand rails had brail. I found myself thinking, “Japan is so clever” and then knowing that most of my time there would be spent with this same phrase running through my head. On some level Japan made me very nervous. There were so many rules to follow, so many unknowns. But by the time I met my host family and Stephanie and I were safely seated in the back of their Honda headed out of Kyoto, I somehow gained a sense of comfort. Everything leading up to that moment though, was rather stressful. Making sure our clothes were clean, memorizing our Japanese greetings, wrapping our home stay gifts, and wondering what exactly the months ahead would hold for us, made the hours leading up to our meetings very nerve racking. The ride to Osaka was very pleasant. Our host mother (Okason) and our host father (Otasan) were just thrilled to have us and explained all about their family and all the other foreign students they had hosted in the past. Although they both claimed that they did not speak English, Okasan knew more than she let on and our conversations went well, especially when the element of charades was added in. When we arrived at their home in a suburb of Osaka called Suita, we found that our new family were small business owners and that their home was cozy and well kept with an entire top floor for me and Steph to share. Otason was a shoji screen door builder and his shop was the front bottom part of their home. Okasan worked at the post office and spent much of her time knitting beautiful sweaters and scarves. Since we arrived on a weekend we had plenty of time to get acquainted with the family and the area before we started our days of commuting the two hours to school in Kyoto. Most other students had been put up in Kyoto, so although we were much further away we also got to see more of the area.
Okasan was a great cook so Steph and I ate really well. We had green tea with every meal and although we ate at home most days we would sometimes go out for udon noodles. Our first udon experience was at the park that was built for the World Expo of 1970. Our host family took us here because there was a large history and pottery museum that would give us some background on where we were. This was very helpful but more helpful than our history lesson, was the contemporary lesson on vending machines that was to follow. Okasan asked us if we wanted coffee and Steph and I both beamed at the possibility. However, we found ourselves at a vending machine and as Okasan is pumping yen into the thing, both Steph and I realize that we may be getting cold, nasty, instant coffee and as we prepare ourselves for this, Okason hands Stephanie a warm can of coffee. Stephanie is thrilled and holds the thing up to her face for warmth, which gives Otasan and Okasan a hoot! Soon we are all having our warm delicious coffees while walking amidst the beautiful trunks of cherry blossoms, tea fields and bamboo walkways. As the outing comes to a close we decide it is lunchtime and I get my first real udon soup. The noodles are very thick and there is something like sweet tofu on the top and I eat it right up. Okasan is very happy we like udon. How could we not… Japan is so clever!

School soon starts and Stephanie and I somehow navigate the trains and buses and end up at the right place. The weekdays find us on morning commuting trains and jammed evening trains. We eat at Kombini’s (convenience stores) because they have everything from sushi, to cream puffs, to coffee. Sometimes A few of us would go to this tiny coffee place owned by a few hippies and we would sit and drink coffee and eat friend noodles or curry.

The weekends were relatively ours and we spent some of this time with our host families but some on our own. One weekend I decide to have a bike day. I had compiled a list of great shops in Osaka and so I took the train into downtown with little direction and tried to find my way by instinct. This was harder than I first imagined and so I found the subway and got myself to the bay area right above Sakai. I had a map, but all the directions for getting to bike shops were in Japanese, so I was purely looking at numbers and not names. Eventually I find what I think is the right street to locate the particularly neat bike shop I am in search of. I don’t think that I appeared lost but I was pretty absorbed in taking photos of the some 10 bike shops I came across on my way to the Uemura cycle shop. At some point a young man stops me and asks if I am doing a study or something. I say no, that I just really like bikes and that I am a bit lost and so we walk and talk as he gives me directions. He was originally from India but moved here to go to school and then he met his wife and just never left. As he sends me on my way he warns be that if I don’t watch out the same thing could happen to me and I might just end up staying in Japan forever. I think that there could be worse things. When I do arrive at Uemura, it was well worth the hassle because it is perhaps the Spoke and Sprocket of Osaka. The place is jam packed with bicycles and very busy. There are so many colorful bikes jutting out of here and there that I worry I am going to knock something over. The shop is run by a family and I spend maybe 3 hours looking and talking. I am caught staring at a beautiful pink Nakagawa frame and the owner just laughs at me. It is too big and too expensive… but hey… a girl can dream.

Soon enough my host family learns of my bicycle obsession and so our host sister Yukari tells me about a cycling convention happening in a few days. She says that she will even take Stephanie and I if we want to go. Stephanie is perhaps not as thrilled about the idea but she says sure. The convention turns out to be a huge event and Stephanie and I spend a few hours riding bikes and talking with people and taking a lot of pictures. Stephanie has a trek at home so we got a few pictures of her in front of a large crotch shot of Lance Armstrong. I locate the Nakagawa booth and spend another bit of time admiring the work. At first the reps do not take me to seriously, but I really wanted to know what the going rate for the frame was so I mull around and whip out a business card when the timing seemed right. Suddenly I am taken very seriously and I talk with a rep as Stephanie rides a strange clown fold-up bike in the distance. Soon enough I am shaking Mr. Nakagawa’s hand and they are giving me gifts and introducing me to other Japanese builders. There is still a lot more to see though so as I am trying to walk away a young man comes up to me and asks “Nakagawa told me you own a bike shop!” I say that yes my family owns a shop in America. He than proceeds to tell me he is a pro Kieran racer and goes on to impress Stephanie and I with his race stats and his earnings and finally asks if I would like to see him race and have dinner with him. I say that I would love to see a race but that I cannot have dinner, I don’t have a phone! He seems to take this graciously but still writes down his contact info and race times. (in the end he emails my dad and their brief correspondence seems to satisfy him) All in all the day was fantastic and Steph and I got some exercise and some swag.

At some point school really starts to become busy. My computer breaks one evening and the rest of our school days seem hectic and busy without my little apple helping me out. I am at school almost everyday using the worst computers and internet that I have ever used and my faith in Japanese technology becomes something to laugh at. We are taking two classes, a Japanese history class and a Buddhism course. I spend my days writing about strange religious phenomena, Japanese wars, Mongolian, Japanese and Chinese architecture, Shinto and politics. I am learning a lot but also missing out on the world around me a bit. To fix this, Okasan takes it upon herself to take us to do important Japanese things like a tea ceremony, a visit to the Asahi beer factory, recommendations of temples and parks we must see and a visit to a foot onsen (soaking pools). These visits combined with school field trips end up bringing about some of my favorite Japanese memories.

October 27th 2008
Japan makes one very aware. No matter what you plan to do, you must always know what time it is. Japan is prompt, if you are late you are out of luck, the big temple doors will close while the attendant just looks at you. In order to say hello for example, you must be aware of the time. There is no “hello” in Japan. There is “good morning”, “good afternoon”, “good evening”, and “goodnight”. These greetings have distinct start times that must be followed. “Thank you” is similar; you must know your place in order to say thanks. Is this my elder? Is this my peer? Am I thanking them in advance or for something they have done or for something they are presently doing? Whatever the case, you become very aware…. and you always bow. in fact, when in doubt… bow.

October 30th 2008
At night Stephanie and I have Suntory times; whiskey and coke while we work on papers and read for the coming days. I get distracted and find myself looking at pictures of home, of the past, of people I know, who know me, of my life that sits somewhere else right now. It is November and things everywhere are changing. America will soon have a new president, the leaves change to deep reds, the Asahi Ginger Draft beer is disappearing off of shelves, I will soon be on my own, alone in Kyoto … a sound I like.

November 7th 2008
Today I woke up to rain on the rooftop. I traveled downstairs for coffee and toast, yogurt, oranges, and a bit of sushi. I composed my sentences for a paper of which my interest waned and then dissipated. I cleaned my little Japanese bedroom, careful to open the screens, make the bed and organize all my books in a row on the desk. I put on a hat, we left the house as we chirped our “ittekimasu!” (I’m leaving!) to walk to Suita Station on our way to school. It is like Washington now, with its cold mornings that bite the lungs and its fall evening so good for walking.

November 9th 2008
Its November and it starts to get gold in Japan. Okason brings us warm blankets and a heater. I go to task writing a paper. I mend clothes and organize for the coming days. Today Todd and I ventured south to have a day of art and temples. This is nice after a day spent fighting with computers, paper writing, and all the other things that make homework seem impossible. We ended in Uji- a city split by a river. It began to get dark so I set my film speed higher and we stand really still for pictures. We visit art I never thought I would see with my own eyes and temples I did not know existed. We arrive a little bit after closing to the great Phoenix Hall and so we are left to just peer into the closing gates. Instead I buy Gen Maicha green tea which is famous in Uji and call the trip a success. Later that evening I arrive home to find an after dinner snack waiting. It is much like high school… homework, new friendships, public transportation, arriving home to the smell of dinner and a family of faces ready to hear what you have filled your days with and what new things you have discovered.

November 10th 2008
Today I walk down thick streets streaming with people. It is nighttime now, evening followed me like the cool weather that is reaching Kyoto now. I do now know these busy streets but I take them in, I get to know them. I listen to MEW as it starts to rain. Each drop falling gently on my jacket, my hat, my nose and lips. I travel towards the station having gotten off of the bus early. The streets are crowded but the bus was unbearable so I opt to use my feet and memory to lead me to the station. I follow the sight of the tower and the rhythm of Japan’s commuting hour. Earlier in the day we saw old time Kyoto. We followed the same sightseeing route the Dutch followed when they visited in the 18th century. We visit the hall of one thousand Buddha’s, the ear mound, a few temples and a shrine to cure hemorrhoids. This trip is nostalgic but highlights the way things have changed. I do not mind the industry and modernization that has entered these things. It is enjoyable to see co-existence.

November 11th 2008
In the end, it is Obama that really makes me miss America (not Obama, Japan… the Barack kind). I expedited all of our ballots with cash money my parents mailed to me. The Election Day is about a week later on a pleasant, quiet Wednesday like any other in Japan. In the early part of the day I was actually much more concerned with finishing my paper, but after the two hour commute to find that the school, the library and therefore my only computer access was off limits… I was somehow free to forget about that terrible dilemma and enjoy the election festivities. A small group of us gathered at Marlene’s host families house and settled in to watch the coverage… half in Japanese and half in English. It was early afternoon and I had a skype date. I could hear the commotion downstairs as I chatted away and checked the online poles. Finally however, the news came through and I broke away to go downstairs and listen to the speeches. The TV coverage was all in Japanese and so we found Obama online and crowded around to listen. Somehow the picture was lost and we were left staring at a black screen with only a booming voice flowing out of it. At one point Obama says something about all of the huddled masses in the distant corners of the world listening in… and that was us! We got a shout out! After we listened to the speech twice and also McCain’s gracious concession speech we decide it was celebration time! The small group of us grabbed some yen and headed to the Kombini to buy some Chu Hi (the Asian version of Zima) and some ginger draft beer. We followed the river bank by Marlene’s home and ended on a little set of stairs to sit and cheers. After we had all clinked our tin cans and realized we were all suddenly filled with pride, we began a quiet, out of key rendition of the star spangled banner. It just seemed right to be there in the sun, on just another Japanese Wednesday, on the banks of the river, sipping our celebratory drinks and watching all the dog walkers around us that could care so little about our victory. That night back in Osaka Stephanie and I tell Otasan and Okasan about the day and Okasan smiles and says “Yes we can!” and everything felt right.

As our time in Osaka neared its end, Stephanie and I began to plan our week off. Okasan seemed particularly invested in getting a word in about where we should go, so in the end, our trip plans mirror her ideal vacation. We spend our last morning in Osaka with Okasan having coffee and sweet bread and apples cut to look like bunnies. We pack our things and head for the coast.

man... oh man...

Do not worry. Things have been crazy. Japan was a blur of clean air and scenic adventures. China (round two) was a whirlwind of school, history and interaction that left me dazed. Vietnam is both beautiful and devastating, a mix of everything I had preconceived Asia to be and also what I never could have imagined. I have a journal full of text, and no time to translate it onto these pages for you all.... but soon, very soon....

I sit on a dormitory balcony watching the haze start to darken this place. Soon I will go out into it and get a cold, sweet, Vietnamese coffee and talk about politics, government, and the future of this place with a few friends. I wish to share these moments with you.... cheers!

Osaka to kyoto and back again

My mama probably remembers very well our late night outings for cream puffs. Sometimes a girl just needs a puff and my mother knows that I need them more than most girls. In this regard (and many others for that matter) Japan was for me. Japan offers me cream puffs just about as much as I take her picture.

We arrived in Japan early in the afternoon. The airport always tells you a bit about a new place but it is really when you emerge from the comfort of it that you learn the truth about a place. We all boarded our bus and headed off towards Kyoto. As much as I wished to enjoy the scenery I promptly fell asleep and did not awake until we were in the city. This was no problem though because I get to commute two hours from Osaka to Kyoto everyday and this provides plenty of “viewing time”.

We are presently students at the “Kyoto School of Art and Design”. On a daily basis I am reminded of how much I miss art school. Sometimes I immensely regret my choice of education because of this and I have to remind myself that if it was not for UPS I would not even have the chance to regret it. If it was not for UPS I would not have the best host family in the world. I would not have my own bike to ride around Osaka. I would not live within walking distance of 3 bike shops. I would not be learning Japanese in a comfortable exciting setting, eating wonderful home-cooked food that I cannot pronounce, spending time learning about the tea ceremony from my host mother (she used to practice) or all about making shoji doors (my host father owns his own shoji door company), and I would definitely not be eating the best cream puffs of my life in tiny shops with stacks of books. Japan is everything I expected and nothing I expected all at the same time. It is brilliant. It is historical and modern. It is clean and organized but also busy and mysterious. I enjoy my little 3rd floor bedroom with three walls of shoji screens that let the light in early in the morning. Stephanie and I share the top floor and spend our time conversing as best we can with our host family and going to museums and parks. We play a version of charades that always results in laughter. Japan is laughter. Japan is polite and bright with smiles. I am learning new phrases everyday and using them incorrectly as much as correctly. I enjoy the two trains and the bus that Stephanie and I take to our school everyday. We eat bread before we leave and two hours later we eat bread before school… and I eat cream puffs every chance I get.

MOMA and more

China remains a blur of cities. Small nine million people sized cities and large cities like Beijing and Shanghai all blend together to form my view of this strange, vibrant, loud country.

Xian reminds me of Tacoma. In this “home” of a city we stay in a fairly large hotel that overlooks the drum tower used in the time of he cities birth. This tower is beautiful and traditional in its structure and colors. The view from my window is vast with old and new. At night the city is bright with lights and during the day children fly strings of kites in the square. We go out to explore the city with cameras and dreams of new clothes. We find a wonderful market and buy chocolate, fruits and whiskey and cokes pre-made in tiny glass bottles. The highlight of our visit is a trip to the terracotta soldiers. We take a bus to the grounds and walk along wet paths until we emerge in front of huge buildings housing the find. We learn of the farmers who discovered the first detachable soldier head as they dug a well. We walk all around the huge plot of land that has become the museum. It begins to rain as we walk from building to building seeing all the rows of heads, bodies, horses, and bronze works. My camera surprises me and carefully captures the scene even and mood.

The overnight train leads us to Shanghai and we find that Shanghai is big beyond words. It is loud, crowded and so pleasantly comfortable that I fall right into the pace and structure of the city. There is the comfort of starbucks and a hotel with internet. I begin to plan for all the art I will see here. I make a list of 5 museums and galleries that I must see. I notice the vast size of the city upon planning this and our group outing to the TV tower and various temples reiterate this the concept of “vast” as I have never known it.

What I love best is standing on the bank of the Bund. I stand on the English side and stare out towards the Pudong side. This side has so many new buildings that a panoramic inspection of the scene would be confusing. New vs. old is highlighted with extreme color. The new area of Shanghai intrigues me so much that I almost jump with excitement when I discover that The Shanghai Zendai Modern Art Museum (the MOMA) is located on the other side of the Bund from us. I convince Todd and Rachel to come with me (it was’t too hard really) and on our free day we venture to the subway and begin our adventure. It is relatively flawless and after a short ride, some walking and lunch at a greek restaurant (who knew!?) we are in the MOMA (on free admission day no less… this means we get avigato’s later!!) enjoying a show called E-arts Shanghai. This exhibit is a city ide exhibit all about electronic arts. The show is wonderful, exciting, and interesting. I begin to feel inspired and wish that I was home with all Tacoma to support my habit. Instead I buy a book and we head home. That evening Jeff, Rachel and I go to an underground bar and have a few drinks. On the way we find a chocolate mouse tart and drink Chamay white beer. We are pleased beyond words as we enter the cute tiny bar of which we have sought. We relax and enjoy each others company in the warmth of the tiny hidden bar.

The next day we find ourselves packed and ready for the new tastes of Japan.

we find ourselves in a little valley

"not if the earth could look like this, he thought. Not if he could hear the hope and the promise like a voice, with leaves, tree trunks and rocks instead of words. but he knew that the earth looked like this only because he had seen no sign of men for hours; he was alone, riding his bicycle down a forgotten trail through the hills of Pennsylvania where he had never been before, where he could feel the fresh wonder of an untouched world."

It is Ayn Rand who best describes the Wutai Shan valley.

tour days

My dreams here are driven. They follow patterns that elaborate on each other. Each new bed is like a new interpretation of the same things, and I wake up every morning with multifaceted viewpoints.

Everywhere we go now, we are fed with buffets. Buffet breakfast, lunch, dinner with tea and coca-cola. The amount of food is overwhelming and we leave so much of it to waste despite our attempts to ingest all that we can. At some point now I begin to avoid the meals and return to my room to eat crackers and peanut butter. We watch cute anime films and drink strong tea on hotel beds. This seems to sustain us and I continue living healthily.

One morning Rachel, Allison, and I head out in the early hours to visit the Temple of Heaven. This place is like an outdoor YMCA but with a beautiful, pristine, temple setting. There are groups of retired friends playing hacky-sack, practicing Tai Chi, laughing, dancing, chatting and stretching. The air of the place is wonderful and we travel through the groups taking it all in. We are the youngest people there by at least 30 years but the situation feels right so we walk and smile and don’t even take any pictures. Finally we have to take a taxi to school and all through class I am imagining myself in other places.

These days we are tourists. We are tourists in a perfectly beautiful post Olympics Beijing. We all find it hard to follow the man with the blue flag. These days we only do what is on the plan and our plans last all day with little room for rest. We wake, get on a bus, get dropped off, listen to a tour, get back on the bus, get dropped off... the regiment is draining. We make due somehow and this way we see the Forbidden City, the Great Wall, the Ming Tombs and many other attractions. These moments are when I can really see the 19 million people in Beijing.

The crowds at the Forbidden City are amazing. We follow literally thousands of people through small arches that spit us out into vast courtyards, hidden niches, and gardens that lose all their peaceful qualities when jam packed with people. There are groups of school children all dressed in their blue or red sweat suits. There are many foreign tourists, but even more Chinese tourists all gathering, crowding for a glimpse of a royal thrown or the beautiful royal relics. A few of us pay a little extra money to enter a museum section of the city. Here they have collections of jewelry, Buddhist paraphernalia, and huge royal seals. We visit temples with titles like "Mental Cultivation Temple" and "Spiritual Cultivation Temple". It is relaxing here and we stay for a moment and sit as a tiny group enjoying the "cultivation".

The Great Wall requires a bit of a drive out of the ring roads of Beijing and up through the surrounding hills. We drive on the same route as the Olympic cycling teams did. All along the road up to the Great Wall I notice little painted bikes on the road bearers. These lead us past the huge, shiny, Olympic Velodrome. I try to convince our tour guide to stop at this amazing location, but those tour guides... they stick to the plan... do or die. Finally we get to the entrance and we all stumble off the bus and stand in a huddle as we wait to file in. The wall appears smaller than I imagined, but as I begin to climb up the stairs and ramps I realize that although it is short, at times it is very steep. The tour is nice because we are left to our own devises for much of it and allowed to climb and explore at our own pace. I find myself wondering how I got here. I plot all of the planes, buses, passport stamps and footsteps it took for me to get to a place with so much history. It is almost as if I would have forgotten if I had not looked up past the wall, passed the hills, passed the city in the distance, to realize I did not recognize anything. The realization that absolutely nothing in my sight was familiar to me, but that I was standing on a structure familiar in concept to almost everyone was worth all the travel. We are poor tourists in both senses of the word and we never buy anything. I always take pictures though. They are far better.


The Beijing train station is hectic and crowded. After we all come together with our bags and our buddies we file onto a tiny train and squeeze into the next 6 hours of our lives. We slowly putter our way towards Detong in four person sleepers. We cut through the country, in and out of tunnels. We talk about nothing too serious. We share our sparse future plans and some of us read while some of us rest. I fall asleep easily to the lull of a moving train and the sound of rollers on track. We arrive and carry our packs up and down and out into the evening. It is always so rewarding arriving in a new place. I discover a sense of accomplishment watching all the packs bob up and down in front of me. But it is not until we get to our destination that I can really be pleased. I lye on my bed with all of my things in two little bags and I look out the window. This is the new view for a while.

It is raining out now. My roommate Rachel sleeps and I write about all sorts of past loves. There are no sounds but my pen on this paper and the ping of the rain on glazed tile roofs. I wish to go about in it on a bike. I wish to touch the earth and the sky at the same time.

Greetings to Beijing!

We left UB when it was still dark out. Driving to the airport I am watching the stars thinking how here I am oriented differently yet they still remain stars. This leads me to thinking about the Saul Williams poem, that Saul Williams song when he says, “you contemplate the setting sun, unaware of your disorientation. Disorient, turned away from the east, shifting currents.” And I have to wonder why I have stayed away from here so long, why I have not come sooner.

The sun rises half way through our flight and it is beautiful. We fly over Beijing and watch the smoke stacks poke through the smog. My first view of China is one still pink and yellow with the morning’s sun.

This city has an incredible feeling. It could be the shear amount of living bodies bustling and talking and laughing. It could be the tiny picturesque brick framed neighborhoods with courtyards (Hutongs) or the old men smoking and playing board games. It could be the streets that circle the square in neat rings or a city almost completely run by Volkswagens. It could be the boys reading tiny books as they sit on there bikes…waiting, or it could be the fact that the moment we stepped off of the plane… boys on bikes! Girls on bikes! Old women on bikes! Couples on tandems! Grocery men on bikes! Paper-boys on bikes! Bikes! Bike lanes wider than the streets... bike lights that appear in tiny bicycle shapes… underground bike tunnels! Yippee!


All I can do to keep from screaming my joyous excitement is to imagine being on a bike again. When we arrive at our hostel we walk down a fairly wide alley lined with Volkswagens. We walk into our hostel courtyard and there… all lined up on a nice brick wall… a row of little white bikes! I ask our guide and he informs me that they are free to ride, and I am overwhelmed with excitement! Later as Todd, Safa, Norah and I pedal through the city I know that this is why I came here. This is where I am oriented. I am collected, calm, and unbound, piloting my way through more bikes than I have ever ridden with. I am firmly planted as a present part of this city. I am secretly comforted that I have not lost my bike riding skills and I after a bit I allow myself to ride faster and look around. I put my camera on Auto and shoot with one hand for a while as my other guides me past the city’s afternoon duties. Our little bike team (the Bodhi Riders), plot a route, go in circles, go underground, get a little lost, get back on track, steer down a cool alley, pull over to take pictures of art, get a bit lost, fix derailed chains, stop and eat food we order without direction, and a few hours later emerge from a clump of beautifully active hutong’s to find we are home.

goodbye Mongolia!

I am sitting at a pleasant cafe in Ullanbator. This is the same place I met the couple from Beijing, the sculptor studing at Columbia, Don Croner "our great scholar", and the well dressed missionary. There is a blacony that looks out over peace street and i feel the cold air reach me all the way back here, where i sit by the window with a view of an abandoned soviet playground. Last night a small group of girls traveled down the street to a nice lounge. We put on dresses, yak shawls, and our nicest shoes. We sat around a single table drinking good gin in mixed drinks. We talked about Mongolia, home, China, Japan politics, people we were missing. We freely talked about politics- something we would soon not be able to do. At 11:30 we headed back home. I realized that soon even this would be uncommon. By India, we won't be able to be out past dark. It has never been easy being a woman. This trip has highlighted so many things, including my gender.

I have become close with the city. So close in fact, that the Beijing couple ask allison and I, "Do you live here or are you traveling?" . Jane and I find ourselves humming Mongolian songs as we grocery shop. We have gotten good at taking taxi's. We have gotten good at navigating the unmarked streets by foot. I have gotten good at strapping my camera to myself and setting up Fstop, ordering drinks without ice and keeping an eye on my shoes. We have gotten good at watching out for each other.

In the evenings we have Japanese and Chinese language hours. I learn important things like "hello", "thank you", "where is the bathroom?" I learn even more important things like, "Where is the bike shop?" and "TERRIBLE, DISASTER, I got a flat tire!" After this we watch films. It is too dark and too late to go out in UB, so we crowd around any ol' mac and watch vivid, beaitiful, mind altering anime or dark, dry humor comedies and dramas. We have RAD viewing night and a few members of the PACRIM family come to appreciate a good bmx backflip, ass sliding, and a good quality 80's dialogue. I miss my bicycle then. I miss it more then ever. I miss the sounds of clipping in , chain on teeth, and the click of a perfectly shifting campy lever. When this first bite of “missing” happens, I begin to miss faces, my bed, metro coffee, and so I do what I must do to counterbalance this feeling… I plan. I make lists of to do’s, titles like “Art in Beijing”, “Hokkaido Museums”, “Bike Shops in Japan”. I compose lists of artists, museums, universities and programs pertaining to my thesis. I make lists of things to remember and still always… things I would not mind forgetting.

Allison and I go out to explore the city some more. I take photographs of new architecture, young people, the aesthetic structures of mountain/building/sky. I say “one, two, three” as I capture Allison at Suk Battor square. The Mongolian guys smile and laugh, imitating us… “one… two… three…. Smile!” they say.

The couple from Beijing tell us about a section of Beijing, “all artists should go to.” It is an old bomb factory converted into an artist’s community. They give is directions and recommend bars and coffee places. I add these to my lists and at night I listen to “The Notwist” and try to imagine all the unimaginable things I will come to hold in my heart throughout my life.

A week ago I take a look at my list titled, “Must Do: Mongolia”. I plan my last days here according to this. Visit the black market again, the calligraphy museum, Sukbattor, the art museum one last time, get some Gobi chocolate, a curry puff, a camel wool hat. The black market it as good as always. We look at the antigue section. I price door knockers and lapel buttons from soviet times. We look at wool, felt, cashmere vests. We find the Home Depot sections, the Drug Store section, the Best Buy section, and finally the pajama section! I haggle and buy a mens top and bottom. The set is fantastic with black and tan and neon lions, a big “2008” sprawled across the chest… as if I would forget this time and place. Allison buys a handmade lock. Its welding is spectacular and persise. I miss studio, work space, art supplies at my fingertips. I buy some other things too. I wrap they up nicely for the trip to China. They stay as the heart of my bag, the well protected core (This is important, they are gifts). I also keep all the gifts I have received. I keep all the emails I received from girls at Gangus Khan University. I keep the bracelet I was given from the Abbot and his family. I keep the firework rock the Gobi gave me and the tiny, pale, shapely twig the Tereiej national park gifted me. I keep all the bus tickets that Todd, Jane, Safa, and others collect for my art. I keep all the gifts Mongolia gave me that remain inanimate. I keep them in my big black sketchbook. I keep them in me.

"the coffee isn't even bitter"

I have been missing my typewriter, my light-box, my paper cutter… my sewing machine. I have been sitting in my hostel bedroom sprawled out on the floor with my tiny mat cutter, my rulers, my glue and binding kit. I have been collecting colored bus tickets to make into books (the whole group has caught on and now I come home to gifts of found trash left on my bed). My roommates watch Japanese dramas as I sit on the floor bending over my work in a way Olivia always thought funny. I reference my sketchbook. I reference all the tiny drawings and tiny writings I have composed about rocks, and people, Ger’s, cell division and mutation, wind power, natural history, beets we put into soup, dreams and religion, interactions and language. It occurs to me that Mongolia is much like a light-box. It allows me to see things clearly, as lines and patterns that make up a whole.

We took buses into the Gobi. Our professor’s long time friend, who happened to be the Abbot of a well-known monastery, arranged this trip. I took a tiny bag, my sketchbook, and my camera on a ten day drive. Each day we would wake up in a new place with new people close to us (both physically and mentally). One day we set up our camp in a clearing surrounded by huge protective rocks. Allison and I put on our head-lamps to go relieve our bodies full of tea and purified water. We traveled out of our rock shelter and into the huge expanse of unknown field. In the dark Allison says that it looks like the seafloor, so we float across the desert as if we were scuba diving, challenging and discovering. In the morning we have class on a set of large flat rocks. I have one hand gloved and the other free to write and I think of my cold house of last year and it makes me smile about it, which I thought might never happen.

We spend hours a day on the bus watching the Gobi grow and reveal itself. At one point I look past my sleeping bus mate Todd, (his head rising and falling at each dip in the gravel road) and I see what Mongolia is well known for… uninhabited beauty. All around our buses there is nothing but land and sky. On the land there are horses, sheep, goats, camels… all seemingly left to their own devices. In the sky there are clouds and sunlight that filters through and shines off of Todd’s glasses. Every few hours we get off of the bus and drink tea, eat choco pies (yes kim, I get Mongolian moon pies by the dozen!) and find “bathrooms”. Sometimes these bathrooms are dips in the terrain. Sometimes these are areas shielded by rocks. If we were lucky we would get to stop in a tiny town and find a walled outhouse! Thus, jane and I coined the pacrim motto for Mongolia, “the world is our toilet”.

Our buses sometimes needed gas and we would wait by a gas station while the Abbot’s assistant or daughter would locate the attendant. Sometimes these attendants would live far away from the city and we would wait, and wait for the gas-man. This always gave us time to meet and interact with the residents of tiny towns across Mongolia. We would bring out frizbees and hacky sacks and use our universal language skills of body language to communicate. At one point we met a group of kids with play metal swords. They chased each other with the drama and sound effects of a western film. They played frizbee with us and we introduced the concept of a high five. Which they shouted as “HIGH TOW!”(five). The abbot came back after retrieving the gas-man who was picking grass in the country with his family. The bus was filled with gas and we waved and high tow’d our goodbyes.

One night after dinner and writing I fall asleep to the gypsy like music of Lisa on her fiddle, Norah on her clarinet, and Safa’s guitar. After awhile everyone else piles into the tent and we sleep like sardines. Sometime during the night the wind picks up and violently sweeps sand and plants across the Gobi and into the sides of our tent. At first it is comforting and sounds like rain pelting our tents. Our shelter begins to sag and cater to the winds demands, and as the wind turns into a full blown storm, rain seeps into our tent and it sways as stakes are ripped out and zippers fail. Allison and I get out of the tent and attempt to repair it… twice. At some point the Mongolian guides shuffle us all onto the buses and we sleep upright. Mama Khan (a name we gave the head cook) comes by and tucks us all in, making sure our sleeping bags are secure around us and that we can sleep for a few more hours. In the morning we survey the damage and pack up the drenched tents. We eat breakfast in a near by Ger that is full of splayed goats. The family there is curious at us, and us at them. We notice bladders that are full of butter and horns displayed like trophies. I eat my rice milk that is warm and pleasant as I try to avoid the smell of dead animals and dried cheese. The family lets us ride their camels for a bit before we leave. The woman who runs the family is patient and polite to her camels and she offers them like a mother coaxing her child to meet a friend. One of our guides named Donald (his western name), takes me around for a bit and the camel begins to jog. The sky is huge and open as I ride in the safe confines of the camel’s humps.

We arrive at our next stop, which because of our tent damage is a Ger camp not too far away. We have class and set up the tents so they can dry out. We find bedmates and file into our Gers. I finally get to take a shower and I catch up on reading and riding while sitting outside in the wind. Todd joins me, and then Rachel and Anna. We all let the wind whip through our hair (everyone except Todd) as we converse (my hair retains the smells of the wind and later in my bed I wrap it around me to remember). We study for our first test later that night in the warm pleasantry of our Gers. We tell Buddhist jokes and funny science jokes that make me remember I am in the Gobi going to school. Donald, the Abbots daughter, and some of the other Mongolians crew members invite us to drink vodka with them, so a few of us sit around a large table and talk as best we can. They teach us a Mongolian love song called “amrag min” and we practice and practice. We sing them “L-O-V-E” in our best Sinatra voices and we all drink tiny shots of vodka. One of the older Mongolian men who acts as our security guard stands up to give a speech. He clasps his hands and talks and smiles and laughs. The Abbots daughter, Erica, speaks very good English, so we all look at her for a translation. She relays that he is very happy we are there. He is very pleased about our interest in Mongolia and our interaction with him and the other Mongolians. Erica rolls her eyes at his sincerity and we tell her to tell him that we have enjoyed every moment. She does so and later as I fall asleep the image of his pride and happiness allow me a good nights sleep.

There is always more driving, more images, smells, sounds, and interactions. We visit monasteries high on hills and deep within cities. We stack rocks into piles and look at the felt arts and crafts of countryside artisans. I watch as a fly navigates the plaid of Todd’s shirt, as Jeff tries dried cheese, as we all politely try arahg (fermented mares milk). We sing Disney songs, show tunes, and Christmas songs on the bus. The Dramamine lulls us all to sleep and we dream simultaneously.

We arrive at a huge waterfall and its resemblance to my idea of middle earth is stunning. A few of us hike down to the rivers edge and I leave my camera behind. I notice tiny, elegant, black daddy long legs and startling clear water. That night as we serve dinner at our nearby Ger camp the sun begins to set over the most beautiful place I have ever been. Donald and I walk to the river to get water and he asks me what I write about in my black book. I tell him it is my sketchbook and my journal. He is curios about my home and my family. He asks where I live and assumes that I mean Washington DC. This is impressive to him. It is impressive to me that he only has one sibling, because most Mongolians have many. We carry water back to the camp and he points out a huge group of Yaks. He tells me which one is in charge and I ask him how he can tell. He is either bullshitting me, (which is likely, the Mongolian crew like to have fun and tease us) or he knows things like this innately, just as I know a good apple from a bad one.

Somehow someone finds out that I have a musical side project going on and everyone starts demanding to listen. Slowly epiphenomenon circulates within the group and I sit and read the Fountainhead while my ipod travels. I write. I write so much that I feel like I go to sota again, where everything was inspirational and interesting. I write about home and missing people there. I write about here and how many new people I am meeting and am going to meet. I write about smells, sounds, and dreams. I make notes about the quality and fertility of dirt, things that my parents would find interesting, memories I have of tea and meals with friends, things to do back in UB, and things to forget. We stop at a monastery and we hike up, up, up until we reach a spot that does not allow women. I have been obsessed with capturing panoramas of this country and this rule has disrupted my chance at attaining one from this very high altitude. Todd offers to take some pictures for me, but I decline. This is part of Asia, this is part of coming here. I listen to the birds banter and whip into each other. Their wings flap above me and I am satisfied.

On the bus we talk about Twin Peaks, arrested development, and Japanese and Chinese movies. We talk, sleep, and eat until our bus gets stuck in the sand and we all file out to gather rocks to place beneath the wheels. The bus starts and we push and push until we are free and proceed back onto the bus. Our last night in the desert we stay at a very nice Ger camp that has a main building with a restaurant. All of Gers are full so we stay in hotel rooms inside this main building. We find our rooms and the first thing I do is use the beautiful clean bathroom! The toilet will not flush so I do the logical thing that a mechanic would do and I remove the porcelain top to get a closer inspection. Allison comes in to consult and as we are talking and planning the top slides off of the seat and smashes into many small splinters. Needless to say I am the only pacrimmer ever to buy a toilet in Mongolia. After this is all squared away and I have paid ten dollars for a new toilet, some of us have a few beers and eat traditional mutton which is cooked over hot rocks. It tastes like a very great beef brisket and I am in heaven. After dinner we listen to some Mongolian music complete with a throat singer. He is so good and his voice sounds completely synthesized but it is real and happening right in front of me. Nat requests them to play “amrag min” and we all sing along with the chorus. Later that night, I sit in one of the hotel rooms lounges in my pajamas as the hot water for the shower heats up. Safa and Stephanie play music on their black market guitars and somehow we end up singing Dashboard Confessional songs and laughing at our playfulness and past ignorance’s.

We leave pretty early in the morning to start the long drive back to UB. Ulan Bator is a home away from home and as we pull into the familiar hectic streets and bright lights, it hits me that my home now is just me… I am like Chunky in Craig Thomson’s book… I am a turtle who takes my home with me. My shell just happens to be a really nice Gregory backpack with a wonderful storage system and secret pockets. As we drive through town back to our hostel we drive past “Metro Spresso” and I feel more at home here than ever before.

school

thats why i am here right?

today we had our first day of classes. we started the same day as all of mongolia. we walked to our monestary classroom and saw all of the children in their nice clothes, holding flowers that they give their teachers.

i listened to my prof lecture about dinosaurs and carbon 14 and explorers as the monks sung their soft chants. it could not have been a more perfect first day of school.

mongolia liked my shoes

oh mongolia.... your clean, wonderful air.

I like to watch your sky and purple, pink sunset clouds. I like to breath your strong air that smells like flowers and meat. Watching the streets busy with traffic that stops for nothing, watching the mongolian teens with their dior and high heels, watching the boys on the trampolines, what a thing i have re-discovered here... watching, recording, drawing, writing....waiting waiting waiting for what comes next. Mongolia, i love your dirty streets, russian architecture, street signs, grocery stores, strange cigarette boxes, dumplings and turkish coffee, but mongolia... why did you steal my shoes?

It is cold here and we crowd into one room to talk and make toast and drink tea and juice. I wear scarves on my head to keep my ears warm. I buy sweet rolls without knowing what they are. Allison and Stephanie and I lie on our beds in our quaint little hostel and let the pure light filter through and flood our room. I spend hours walking, looking, taking photos. and now, i buy new shoes.

They were there inside out hostel door and now they are out in the streets of Ulaan bator! Snatched, stolen, whisked away. I wonder what they are up to. luckily they have my superfeet to keep them company.

All is well in mongolia, and tomorrow... i take more pictures, i buy new shoes (yippee, a reason to shoes shop!), i drink tea and juice, i write, i draw, i pick up trash to glue in my sketchbook, i discover the city, i talk with new people, i hope i don't blow up my electronics, i read and i walk.

and after that... i start school.

epiphany

olivia: the dirt here is exquisite!

victoria: when my shoes got stolen i thought... maybe this is why tory is not so fond of visiting asia.

kim: i want to buy you everything i see. everything!

thank you arrested development

After a flight full of wonderful foreign films, red wine and trashy magazines, the bright haze of the inchion airport greeted my sleep deprived eyes.

annyong!

it was all i could think to say.

annyong!

hello! hello! hello Korea with your beautifully designed airport and bustling baggage claim. Korea with your bright lights and funny signs. Korea which is lacking in drip coffee but makes a mean americano. hello Korea with your red mud beaches and reflective skyscrapers, corn syrup free grape candies, city bus karaoke, hordes of uniformed high school students, amazing electronica, and your big crisp, refreshing "beer bar" beers.

We took a five am bus to Seoul for a 7 am check in at the USO. This prepared us for a 8 am departure and a 9 am arrival at the DMZ. Somewhere in here, while looking past my sleeping bus mate i realize that i am in a place where all the signs are unreadable... all the speech is unrecognizable... all of the people on the streets, in the malls, in their cars, on the bus, on their bikes, holding their parents hands, kissing their boyfriends face, speaking and laughing and teasing their friends... are foreign to me. I am in a completely foreign land.
yet... as i cut my beef with scissors, order coffee, count out my won (i spent thousands today!), attempt to talk to police officers, help Korean elders travel through the DMZ tunnels deep into the earth.... i have figured out that all i really need is a smile and an "annyong!"

thank you arrested development... you have taught me well. The one Korean phrase i need was right on the tip of my tongue.

epiphany

ps

mama: i didn't cook my beef long enough.... but don't worry the waitress came over and laughed at me. she took my beef and put it back on my grill. she stood their until it was black. she was right... it was better that way.

papa: i didn't take my camera to the DMZ which was a huge mistake. On the way there the sun was rising, it was just a big ball right above the mountains. The water was red and the mountains such a array of greys. i thought to myself "if i could take this picture it would be the one i frame for papa."

rachel: annyong! this is how my conversation went... "do you have drip coffee?" they smiled at me. "do you have brewed coffee?" they just smiled at me. "do you have americanos?" yay! finally they understand me! annyong! thank god. I get a bit of coffee.

preston: all the buildings here... you would love them. The men in their shiny dress pants, the beautiful Seoul Marriot, the abundance of rice milk, the wonderful world of Korean electronica (check out Towa Tei), and fine cigarettes... you would love them.

Most of the goodbyes have been said. My bag is a solid 36 pounds. I have been given some of the best gifts of my life.

With a belly full of lambic, a heart full of excitement and a pack (aka my new apartment) full of everything from bike tools to my fabulous sleeping bag liner... i am headed off to my bed.

thanks for the book, the bracelet, the journal and the songs. here's to life abroad!

epiphany