A Tale of Two Summers

I have always seen myself as something of a winter person. I love cold weather, and I enjoy taking it easy with family and close friends during the holidays. Plus, the prospect of being presented with a pile of presents on Christmas morning really doesn't hurt anything either. I like hot cocoa in all its varieties, and I am proficient in both the ice rink and in a toboggan. My meticulously formed snowballs are the gold standard by which all others are judged. Yes, it would seem that winter is the season for me. Well, me and every other sentimental, unathletic, wannabe writer in the Western Hemisphere. However, this summer may just have been glorious enough to shift my seasonal loyalty. But it didn't start out that way.... Despite the irrefutable scientific evidence that consistently suggests summer begins in late June, I start to feel a shift usually around Memorial Day. The thermometer is consistently above 80 degrees, people start cooking out, and school is a distant memory. Around that particular time this summer, I was headed home from China about a month early for a tiny but surprisingly Earth-shattering foot injury. I was informed by my father at the Charlotte Airport that he fully intended to go to the beach, as Dixon family tradition dictates the last couple of weeks in May are reserved for some time on the South Carolina sand. I got clearance for the trip the following morning from my orthopedic surgeon, so long as I promised to stay off of sand, and avoid spending any amount of time in any sort of water. Like, for example, pools, hot tubs, and the Atlantic Ocean.... With these instructions, a surprisingly Iron Man-esque walking cast, and several spy novels to occupy my time, Dad and I headed directly from the medical complex to the beach, where the rest of my family was waiting. I misplaced my tanning lotion, finished my all my books in a little over a day, and spent the rest of my time in the condo- pale, introverted, and extremely fidgety. I passed the remaining days watching Spongebob Squarepants marathons, engaging in deep brooding, and restlessly gimping through the condo. I returned home feeling none of my typical affection for the beach. None whatsoever. Once I was back, it was time to begin the process of my mission paperwork. My mom had meticulously scheduled a series of doctor's appointments that would have taken most people months to complete. In less than two weeks, I had gotten a series of shots, had follow up visits for my foot injury, and was missing all four of my wisdom teeth. For those of you that don't know Mom, just picture that lady from the Blind Side. They are exactly the same. They both just run around being sassy and getting things done. Thus by Father's Day, I had every shred of necessary documentation and validation ready to be sent to Salt Lake. During this time and a few subsequent weeks, I was completely immobilized. My car collected spiderwebs in the driveway, and I eagerly anticipated each doctor's appointment days in advance as an excuse to get out of the house. I begged to accompany my mother on every single insignificant errand and trip to the grocery store. She soon became an expert at leaving the house in an extraordinarily ninja-like fashion, and the sound of my booming, uneven footfalls would send her running for the sanctuary of her minivan. Likewise, I unintentionally annoyed all my closest friends with a series of increasingly mundane medical updates. I may as well have been a withering, ancient shut-in. To top it all off, My cast was starting to smell like a German restaurant, and I was eventually forbidden to remove it when other people were in the vicinity. By the end of June, I was eagerly awaiting three things: the removal of my cast, the arrival of my mission call, and my trip to Delaware to see my good friend Andrew. This trip had somehow escalated from a long weekend reunion of sorts in DC to an eleven day, multi-state extravaganza. I was elated. On June 30th, the cast was removed. By July 4th, my summer had made a remarkable turn for the better. The legalization of the sale of fireworks within Kingsport City Limits resulted in an Independence Day to rival the 1776 original. Pyrotechnic smoke filled the skies for days before the 4th, and the show put on by the Dixon Family was the envy of Rotherwood Estates- receiving defeated applause from the neighbors who thought they could out-redneck us with their pitiful displays. When the last sparkler was extinguished, I had nothing but Delaware on my mind. I was packed and ready to go, but eventually got nervous. Andrew of course knew what to expect, but how would I be received by his family? What would they think of this hillbilly stranger who occupies the space of two humans, eats for three, and talks enough for at least ten? Fortunately my fears were quickly cast aside when Sister Jones picked me up at the Philadelphia Airport. We talked all the way to Wilmington, as two deceptively twin-like girls slept in the back seat. Upon arriving to their house, I adjusted to the family with ease, and was introduced to Brother Jones, Sarah, Mary, Catie, Davis, and the absent Spencer, as they all darted around the kitchen making sandwiches.  I got reacquainted with Elizabeth, Andrew's sister, who had provided us with an impeccable tour of Washington when we were all at SVU in the fall. We all then headed to Andrew's American Legion baseball game. When we got back, I was presented with any number of sleeping arrangements, each carefully devised with my comfort in mind. I popped right up the next morning, and helped everyone pack for our camping trip in Palmyra, NY. It was Davis' fourteenth birthday and we celebrated with some Rita's Water Ice. After paying for my Gelati, I turned to see all 8 Joneses laughing at me. I was confused. We have Rita's in Tennessee; certainly I hadn't made some embarrassing mistake ordering? No, my mistake was that I had paid for my own treat, in strict violation of Jones Family Policy. It was at the end of that night that I felt at home. The next day, we headed out. Our road trip was rife with shenanigans, and Andrew and I passed the time taking dashboard pictures and desperately scanning the rural Pennsylvania airwaves for rap stations. The campsite was great, despite the inability of two Eagle Scouts to put up a two man tent with color coded poles.. Elizabeth, Wilderness Domestic Extraordinaire, prepared our pre-pageant hot dogs. And then, just in time, we all piled in the van and headed to the Hill Cumorah Pageant. It was an amazing show and an incredibly spiritual experience. By the time the night was over, Andrew and I were eagerly anticipating Pageant Round Two the following night. We all swam in Cayuga Lake, and toured Church history sites in Palmyra. As soon as we had finished our tour of the Grandin Press, I got a phone call from my parents back in Tennessee. My mission call had arrived, just as Andrew predicted, on July 9th. I was warmly congratulated by the whole Jones family, and July 9th, 2011 will go down in my memory as one of my best days ever. We got back to Delaware Sunday night, and started planning the week I had left. I was flattered when Andrew allowed his usual noon wake up time to be repeatedly interrupted by all of our activities. I was shown around Wilmington- ("A Place to be Somebody,") Philadelphia, Old Newcastle, a botched Valley Ride, and every other nook and cranny of the Tri-State Area. And thanks to some careful planning, I got my summer beach trip after all when Andrew, Elizabeth, Sarah and I headed Downstate (..ahem... Lower Slower) to Cape Henlopen for the day. It was by far the nicest beach I have ever been to, no matter what Southern beach purists might claim to the contrary. The day was filled with sandcrabs, Blue Drank, and a bay/bird sanctuary with tricksy-temperature water and a good deal of foul smelling sand. By this time, Andrew had introduced me to Wawa, the legendary Tri-State convenience store. My stay in Delaware perfectly coincided with Hoagiefest, the month long celebration of Wawa's hoagie greatness. By the time I left, I had consumed several hoagies and no less than four gallons of Blue Drank, that sugary elixir of life that only Wawa has. Such was the power of this seemingly unimportant store that towards the end of my stay, I shouted at a sullen overweight man outside the car window as we passed, discerning from his paunchy, faded Wawa t-shirt that he may have in fact been Hoagieman himself. My desperate shouting out the window was the source of much amusement for the Joneses. Appropriately enough, my vacation also coincided with the midnight premiere of the final installment of the Harry Potter series. Elizabeth, Andrew, and I donned lightning bolt scars and headed for the theatre and our 12:04 showing. It was one of the last things we all did together, and it seemed to be an suitable way to wrap up the trip. It also served as the melodramatic nail in the coffin of my childhood. When the movie was over, all us Harry Potter nerds the world over were confident in the knowledge that there would be no more books and no more movies. It truly was the end. And this end just so happened to occur as all those same nerds are approaching the frightening independence of adulthood. It suddenly occurred to me that the remarkable summer I was now having may very well be the last of its kind. After my mission, it will be time to buckle down. I doubt my parents will buy me a plane ticket to Delaware to galavant around for eleven days. As much as my friends mean to me, we'll likely all be spread throughout the country, and visits will be infrequent. Not that I would have the time to take off work anyway. It's a sobering realization. A few days into the trip, Elizabeth remarked that I had transcended the status of "guest" in the Jones household. We were all just too familiar for such nonsense at that point. And I am not mawkish and naive enough to suggest that I became a "family member" in those eleven short days either. But I was certainly somewhere in between. I appreciated the hospitality of the whole family, and the good times we all had made the trip the indisputable high point of my summer. Needless to say, I spent the last couple of days trying to make all of it last. But all too soon, Andrew dropped me off at the airport, and before I knew it, I was home. My mission call was thrust into my hand, and a few hours later all my extended family gathered with baited breath to hear the news. I had cameras rolling, and the Joneses on speakerphone as I shook like an autumn leaf waiting to read my call. "Dear Elder Dixon... You have been assigned to serve in the Philippines Cauayan Mission." People clapped and cheered, and I floated through the rest of the evening.  I knew that it was an inspired call as soon as my eyes landed on the words. Now that I am back in Kingsport, at least for the next couple of months, I have gotten to reunite with Courtney and the rest of my hometown homies. I've been home less than a week, and we've had a great time together almost every day, going around town, harassing our alma mater band, and eating potstickers and drinking limited edition Mountain Dew. As much as I loved being in Delaware, being at home certainly has its charms too. I have nothing but time on my hands- time to spend with my family, time to see friends, and time to temporally and spiritually prepare for my mission. The good news is that there is still some summer left. Time to create even more memories. Because when we inevitably look back on this exciting part of life, no one says "I remember that winter when I got cozy by the fire with a mug of cocoa and some book. Alone." No, memories come from long summer days- days spent with friends and family watching TV marathons, having barbeques, shooting fireworks, singing along with the car radio with the windows rolled down.  And inevitably, everyone has that perfect summer that they won't shut up about to their posterity. For me, this is that summer of "remember when.."

All Toe Up

A few days ago, I woke up just the same way that I do every day- the same way that most people without alarm clocks wake up- I had to go to the bathroom. Bleary eyed, I climbed out of my wooden bed and headed for the squatter. In my frenzied stumblings across the short length of my apartment, I hit my toe on the corner of my wardrobe. Holding back a torrent or swear words, I looked down at my foot, expecting to see some awesome gore. Nothing. Sure, my toe hurt, but so does every other stubbed toe. I hopped back in bed , watched a little television, and that was that. End of story. Definitely not blog worthy. Maybe not even Tweet worthy. Except unbeknownst to me, my story was far from over. I noticed that the pain in my foot wasn't going away, and on closer inspection, my toe was swollen like a Vienna sausage. Not only was there swelling, but it was pointing outward, like my foot was making the Clingon sign. This is obviously an anomaly. I assumed I had a broken toe. I sort of limped over to the wi-fi room, read an article about exploding Chinese watermelons, talked to my friends and parents, and mentioned my toe in passing, knowing that there was nothing that could be done for the tiny appendage beyond a little tape and some patience. Nevertheless, a visit to the hospital was suggested in the hopes that I could pick up some painkillers and have an x-ray done. I went about my business the rest of the day, teaching my nuggets English by way of crab soccer and whatnot. By the time I was ready to go to the hospital, my limp had turned into a full blown gimp. I was in high spirits throughout the visit, especially when I got my x-ray back. You see, most people assumed I was being melodramatic in my hobblings and a few questioned me outright. "Why are you walking like that?" "Oh, I broke my toe. It hurts pretty bad." ".......Are you sure..?" "Yeah, it's this one right here." "What, that one with the lump?" "No." "The one that's curled under the other ones?" "No. The fourth one, 'roast beef'." "Oh. Well I'm sure it will be fine." As you probably gathered from the conversation, I have some really ugly toes. But this thin sheet of translucent plastic proved that I am not in fact a giant sissy. Not only was there a break, but it was in the top of my foot, which is way more hard core than some lousy toe break. And it was a doozie. A crevasse, really. I was elated. If only I knew what that fracture would do to me over the course of the next 24 hours. The doctor tried to set my bone back in place (without painkillers, mind you) to no avail. Then he started pushing for surgery. The time I had spent in the hospital up to that point led me to believe that I would not want to go under the knife there. People were wandering the halls with open wounds, and I was not required to wear a radiation vest when I had my x-rays. I passed, and had the translators explain that I wanted a cast instead. I sat in the cast room for the better part of an hour, mosquitoes buzzing around my head, waiting for the temporary cast to dry and my crutches to arrive. I was in for a surprise when in lieu of crutches, I was put on a stretcher. Apparently, there have only ever been two tall people that have ever set foot in China. Me and good ol Yao Ming. There wasn't a set of crutches in my size. The stretcher was a little awkward, since I had only broken a bone in my foot, not stepped on a land mine. But I allowed myself to be wheeled to the taxi. I went back, Skyped my parents, and told them the doctor was pushing for surgery. An Skype appointment was set up with an orthopedic surgeon back home, and after taking a look at my x-rays, it was decided that surgery was indeed the best option. Except here's the clencher- it needed to be done within two weeks. And not in China. The news was overwhelming to me. It meant I would have to come home about five weeks earlier than anticipated. In fact, the wheels were set in motion for me to leave the country within 48 hours. On a much smaller scale, it was like being told I only had a certain amount of time left to live. And it was indeed the end of the life I had created for myself in China. I realized I had taught my younger group of kids for the last time the day before. Future travel plans that seemed set in stone evaporated in an instant. I suddenly had so much to accomplish in the space of a few short days. And all at once, a sea of regret washed over me. What hadn't I done? What pictures hadn't I taken, thinking I'd be able to do it later? Why didn't I eat that scorpion? What unremarkable lesson had I just taught my kids? And in that same instant, I realized that everything I would do for the next couple of days, no matter how insignificant, I would do for the last time. I was almost too shocked to do anything. I told all the teachers, they were equally shocked, but I explained that as much as I would like to stay, there was nothing that could be done. Thursday, I got up and tried to have the most normal day I possibly could. I went to a meeting, where events that I would never participate in were planned in detail. I got dressed, and I went over to teach my older kids. They all oohed and ahhed over my cast, as is to be expected, and I led my class down the hall. "Teacha! Today is letters?" "No, I think we will play soccer today." The kids started nudging each other excitedly. I told them all to come sit down, and explained in limited English that I had to see a special doctor in America, and that I would not be an ILP teacher anymore. The nuggets were stunned. I heard a few sniffles from Blake, who is incidentally my favorite child in the older group. He was soon sobbing violently and quietly. The other children stared at him and followed suit. The kids decided to make cards for me instead of playing soccer, and I was touched. I tried to look away from the sobbing Blake, and the children as a whole. One of the others looked up. Evan. Ever the class clown, I was pretty surprised at what came out of his mouth next: "Teacha, what is 'love'?" I'll admit it; I bawled. All of the cards have a crying face, me in an airplane, and a thoughtful phrase in the English that I taught them. The prospect of leaving was getting waaaaay harder to swallow. With the help of a Chinese teacher, I found all of my younger kids in my regular classes and said goodbye to them, explaining my situation with the help of Hillary, the foreign coordinator. I left her with all of my contact information, and told her to pass it on to the teachers and kids. Once they understood what was going on, there was a lot of crying from them as well. A few rummaged through their desks and pulled out goodbye presents for me- a purple pen, a chocolate wafer, a plastic ladybug. That night, I went to a farewell dinner that the other teachers threw for me. I knew that I would probably be seeing most of them for the last time as well. Friday was spent mostly in the "denial" stage of grief. I packed slowly and lazily, even though I knew I was to fly home within the next two days. I made sure to say a nice goodbye to my kids when I taught them for the final time, but I half expected to see them again on Monday. I went back up to my apartment and watched some TV, like I wasn't leaving forever. I went to bed a little late that night, hearing last that I was to leave sometime on Sunday. My room looked like I had shoved a bunch of clothes into a blender and left the lid off, but I figured I had time to worry about that later. I was awoken at about 4 am with a series of light knocks on my door, and was told by Sam that I was leaving at 8 am. In four hours. Upon receiving this news, I blearily stumbled back towards my bed (careful not to hit my foot on anything this time) and crawled back under the covers. Fortunately, I was instilled with some sense of urgency a few minutes later, and realized that if I wanted to take anything home with me, I would first need to pack it. 8 am rolled around all too quickly, and I got a fistful of fireworks and my luggage and gimped towards the waiting car. I met the other teachers in the parking lot as they were about to leave for Suzhou for the weekend, and we said our final goodbyes. I handed them the fireworks, they exploded, and I left. I had a nice ride to Shanghai with the school driver and her 16 year old son, who spoke a little English. They were friendly and incredibly helpful, babying my foot a little too much. Arrangements were made at the Korean Air counter for me to have wheelchair service for the entirety of my trip. I tried to explain to them that I was hobbling like a pro by that point, but there is just no convincing a Chinese person. Let me tell you that while it is impossibly awkward and guilt inducing, traveling in a wheelchair is awesome. I didn't have to know anything about my gates, where to pick up my luggage or anything. I can't say I was able to live with the sympathetic stares and the frantic gasping of the 14 pound Chinese woman pushing me through the airport, but the help was very much appreciated. I was definitely looking forward to my Korean air flights, and knew what to expect this time around. That the food is good, the stewardesses are hot, and there is a plethora of free movies I could watch on the 13 hour flight to Atlanta. When the connecting flight took off from Shanghai, I was overwhelmed. I left China with promises to return, knowing all along that it was a miracle that I was able to go even once. Unless another such miracle occurs, I doubt I will ever be back. Because of my "condition," I had to wear a sticker, and there was a wheelchair waiting for me when my plane landed in Atlanta. At the very end of the flight, a young woman had a psycho-suicidal episode and had to be ushered off the plane by a massive group of guards who had the misfortune of being called to help her. Unfortunately for me, the wheelchair area was also apparently a catchall for crazy people. As my assistant and I waited with the other "passengers in need of special care," we were subjected to her pitch perfect horror film screams about how she was going to kill herself and everyone else, her desire for a lethal injection sometime in the near future, and that her pants were "turning into bugs." It was the longest wait for an elevator in my entire life. As soon as the door closed, the sassy woman wheeling me around gave her diagnosis- "Shew that girl has got some demons up in her! Let's get you out of here. What'd you do to that foot, baby?" It was great to be home. I chatted up all the various attendants who helped me through the massive Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, and to my surprise, my English came back nicely. One woman who wheeled me around started talking about the Korean passengers and their "fish and tea, fish and tea. These people sure do love they fish and tea." I laughed until I cried, because she was more spot on than she could ever know. I had a great time (and laugh-related ab workout) with her as we waited for my "luggages" at the carousel. I was whisked through customs without delay and made it to the metal detector, where the ancient Jamaican woman in the wheelchair in front of me tried to take off her shirt. It was unpleasant for all concerned. As I was waiting for my final flight to Charlotte, the pilot saw my foot and she was quick to take note of the ridiculous cast- plaster in back, gauze in front. I told her that's what I got for going to a Chinese hospital, and we had a good laugh. When the woman at the boarding counter saw my foot, she upgraded me to a bulkhead seat. She said she was "gonna be my mama" since I wasn't traveling with anyone. People, I really cannot explain to you how nice it is to be back in the South. When I got on the plane, I heard the pilot talking about me. "That's the one I was telling you about- the guy who broke his foot in China!" She upgraded me yet again, this time to first class.  Even though it was mostly unnecessary, I was enormously grateful for the outpouring of kindess shown to me throughout the trip. After my long day of flying, I met my Dad at the baggage claim in Charlotte. And here I am. Three months and 13 days later- one month and 5 days too soon, blogging from my hotel room in Charlotte. It's only 6:30, but I have been up since 4. My body is still in China. And I think my heart is too. I have had a lot of time to reflect. Obviously, living in a foreign country and doing volunteer work with kids is a life changing experience. I can't express how annoyingly cliche that is, but it's also 100% true. I'm simply not the same person that I was when I left. I had the unprecedented opportunity to travel. Although I have always hoped to be able to do things like walk on the Great Wall, I never expected it to happen. I was exposed to a completely different culture. That's not something that a lot of small town boys from Tennessee get to do. My life has been filled with a lot of huge events, and living in China was by far the biggest. That's why it amazes me how simply it began and ended. It began when my Dad saw a flyer for ILP China at Southern Virginia in October. It ended Wednesday morning on my way to the bathroom in an apartment 10,000 miles away from where I grew up. I haven't had a lot of time to process the huge change that was just thrust upon me by a large fracture in a tiny bone. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit angry, and of course incredibly sad to go. But I've realized that even if I finished up my term, it wouldn't be any easier to leave. I'd still have crying children, and I would still miss so much about China. More than anything, I know I must be home early for a reason. And with all the amazing experiences in my life so far, I can honestly say I can't wait to see what that reason might be.

Derek Make the Most Good Post of Honor

In my egocentric brain, all my great readers are wondering one thing. Where has Derek gone? Why has he not blogged? For those of you that thought I had maybe given up, shame on you. The fact that I crack easily under any sort of physical or academic pressure definitely does not translate to the things that require no effort, like talking about myself on the internet. Like it or not, I am going to be around for a very very long time. But the question remains: what could I have possibly been doing for almost two months? Well, I have traveled extensively throughout China, but I always had internet and free time in the hostel. So there goes that excuse. I teach every day, but really for about 4 hours total, so that is also void. Has my life become some bland pit of ho-hum mediocrity from which there is no escape? No, I am 19. I still have plenty of time to be unfulfilled. And so far, my life is brilliant. I continue to have adventures; my nuggets are a constant source of amusement. I have stood on the Great Wall of China. I rode Vespas through the South China countryside. I beheld Chairman Mao's petrified dead body inside an eerily Snow White-esque tomb. In other words, I have no shortage of writing material, and an equal amount of free time. My only problem is that I have forgotten how to speak English. I have great adventures and endless shenanigans, but I now lack the ability to convey my antics to the public in either written or vocal form. My once impressive vocabulary (there, I said it) has rotted into a series of monosyllabic Chinese twinged phrases. I think the best way to describe my new "language" would be something along the lines of "Asian-Fusion." And I definitely do not mean that in a good way. Unlike an Asian-Fusion restaurant, my vocabulary has an alarming lack of pretension. My sarcasm has been whittled to a mere nub of its former glory. I think my downward spiral can be attributed largely to the following sources. First, the "baby talk" phenomenon expressed by stay at home moms and elementary school teachers. I teach young children for whom English is a very tentative second language. I cannot unleash a diatribe of adult vocabulary on children who don't understand abstract concepts. So I now essentially have the vocabulary of a young Chinese child. Oh, except I don't speak Chinese. The second reason I can no longer speak is because pretty much no one speaks any English. Obviously. So instead of carrying on intelligent conversations with adults, I am usually reduced to waving my arms and grunting approval or disapproval. However, a complete lack of English is much better than Engrish, at least for me. My "colleagues" and I met a group of "English-speaking" university students in Changzhou a couple of months ago. Before I came to China, I spent time daydreaming about having Chinese friends. They could tell me all the cool places to go, and I could use them as eavesdropping tools on the bus. I could have a pen pal and someone to teach me marital arts and help me barter with a ferocity that only Asians possess. In reality, making friends with a Chinese person is a lot like being stuck in a foreign language textbook. "Would you like to go to the discotheque?" "How do you spend your time on the weekends?" "What would you like to be called?" The other people in my group don't seem to mind too much. The same cannot be said for me. A conversation with these people is like two old people sitting next to each other with ear trumpets, shouting "WHAT? WHAT?" over and over again. I can only ask a person to repeat himself so many times before I completely lose interest in whatever he is trying to say. The only other English I get in China is an embarrassing hodgepodge of awkwardly strung phrases on billboards and subway stations. Don't get me wrong, I am grateful for whatever I can get. These advertisers and city officials have gotten their point across well enough, but the poor choice of words has really wreaked havoc on my linguistic ability. For example, there is a giant 15'x30' billboard in our city advertising a housing development that says the following: "COURTYARD THERE ARE THREE PIECES TOGETHER. THE SUN IS 15 METRES." Well, okay.. Is this neighborhood really only 45 feet from the Sun? When purchasing ice cream one day I had the usual options (vanilla, chocolate), the freaky disgusting Asian ones made out of beans and tea and whatnot, and then one that was listed as "A riot of colour." I think you can guess which one I bought. These signs and linguistic mishaps are all over the place. It never ends. Here are some of the best: "Rare Honour Opened The Garden House Works." I bet it did. "Hot Is The Sole Criterion For Testing The Quality." "Pays attention to the stair carefully to tumble." "General Danger."  "To protect it, that's your virtue." I could go on for quite some time, but I feel at this point that you have a general idea of the severity of the language problem. I have spoken English my entire life, and I could never even begin to form sentences as ridiculous as those. My vernacular is now peppered with some inexplicable phrases: "number one most good," "game over," "very beautiful," "cheaper for you." I hope to dispose of these, but they have been hammered into my subconscious repeatedly, and I fear there is no escape. I have reverted to a few modes when I do speak English. I have my bumbling invalid mode (it's my failsafe), my Asian stereotype mode, and charades/silence. I use the stereotype mode only when threatening my children to be good. I regularly inform them that they must do well in the end of year performance in order to bring honor to their families. Bad behavior usually results in me speaking of concepts like bad luck and shame. I hate myself for doing it, but they usually get the idea. When speaking to my children, I try to use the number one most good English that I have left. I am, after all, the only source of good ol Amurrican English they can expect to receive. But trust me, it gets many more difficult for all the days.

The Mei Gua Ren in Nugget Land

So far, my posts here in China have been a little.... Derek-centered. But people, what did you expect? That I would waste my creativity and precious keystrokes telling tales of lesser beings than myself? You know me better than that. By now you know that I am a celebrity-esque object of interest in the People's Republic, that I am the proud owner of an awesomely austere bicycle, and that I have had some difficulty adjusting to my living conditions after my bourgeois fairytale of a life back home in America. I suspect no one is surprised. "Yes, Derek, we knew you were spoiled, even by American standards, and that your excess would be your downfall in a Communist country. We also know that you will always have a hard time blending in, no matter where you go. Your delusions of grandeur repulse us at every turn, and we are less than shocked that this false celebrity has gone straight to your rather large head." Believe it or not, I am not immune to or oblivious of my own ridiculousness. I hope that gives you some comfort. After a brief blogoshpere sabbatical, that I hope you were able to gracefully endure, I am back. And I have turned over quite a few new leaves. So in this post, I won't give you incessant drivel about my goings on. Like the fact that I bought fabric softener for my smelly cardboard clothes. Or that I got a water cooler for my apartment and it leaked freon everywhere. Even, ironically enough, into my purified water. (So that's why it only cost $7...) Or even that I have lost 25 pounds simply by refusing to eat subpar, revolting food. (I call it "The China Diet.") For once, I have decided to think of the children. And yes, I do mean the children that I teach. I have come a long way from the beginning of my trip to China, where I haphazardly presented lessons to my children with trembling hands. Like dogs, children can smell fear. And they tore in to me viciously. I subsequently spent my days wishing there was sufficient yarn and Elmer's glue to fashion a noose. And I blamed my children. It was these "Little Emperors", ruining my well thought out lesson plans with their tomfoolery and bratty ways. And then I took a look at myself. It was very possible, after all, that a person with no prior teaching experience nor any of the attributes of a good teacher was at fault. To top it all off, my classroom was basically a monument to filth. You see, its previous tenant decided to basically never clean anything, ever. And through a combination of petty indignance, outright laziness, and lack of time, I left it that way. I didn't think it was that big of a deal to sweep in a country where people defecate in the streets and stray dogs wander through supermarkets. But every day the children would aimlessly pat the floor, looking for a broken crayon or a pile of dust, any forgotten treasure that would serve as a delightful distraction. "Teacha Teacha, gimme look-a! What's this?" "Look, I really have no idea, but put it down. Can you not see that I am trying to teach you all about the subtle nuances of the letter F?!" My teaching style doesn't help either. ILP asks us to "put on a show" for these kids, so that they don't get bored and thereby decide to forsake the English language forever. Fine. They want a show, they came to the wrong person. My interpretation was that I should show these kids a good time after the manner of "Mad Money." You know, that show where a full-grown, obviously degenerate man uses shouting and sound effects to show people what stocks to buy. (Trust me, people, take your liquid assets to Merrill Lynch, specifically Tom Dixon, and you will not be treated so boorishly.) My translation of this lunatic's escapades into the realm of elementary education involved me tearing pieces of paper to confetti and tossing them violently into the air to make my various points. The children would stare in amazement. Surely they had never seen someone so tall and so old be such an idiot. Once the paper was tossed, it was quickly forgotten. Soon, however, these little piles became more noticeable, and children who had never lifted a finger to do anything in their lives started to silently pick it up and hand it to me. "Teacha...." they'd say, lacking the linguistic ability to express their true feelings. "Teacha, look. This has gotten out of hand. We're worried about you. This sort of mess is not acceptable in this or any other country." It was like kids begging their parents to quit smoking. I looked at the dejected, subtly disappointed looks on their tiny faces and it was all the intervention I needed. Never again. Anyone who knows me very, very well knows that all my truly good qualities come in sparse but incredibly powerful spurts. And cleaning is no exception. When I'm in the mood to clean, don't be shocked to find me sitting Indian-style on the floor in my underwear at 3 in the morning with a scrubber in one hand and some bleach in the other. I wallow in my own filth, eating Jell-O in bed and hopping from bare spot to bare spot on my floor through a sea of clothes. Until my cleaning switch goes off. Next thing you know, I'm scraping tile grout with Soft-Scrub and a razorblade. Hopefully I will even out somewhat, but for the time being, it's just how I roll. As soon as I was in one of my voracious cleaning moods, I knew there wouldn't be much time left. So I immediately set out to do right by these poor nuggets, and provide them with an environment suitable for their education. I swept, mopped, dropped a jar of honey, and mopped again. Finally, it was clean. But I didn't stop there. I needed to make reparations for these kids, and show them I was in this for the long haul. So I cut a cityscape out of construction paper and put it in my windows. I made basketball floor markers for the children to stand on. I cut out tiny paper pizza slices, numbered them, and put them on the chairs so the kids would have a certain spot in which to sit. To my delight, these hardened little nuggets responded swimmingly. Their behavior improved as my teaching style matured, and my hovel of a classroom was sterilized and decorated. Now I just want to stuff their faces full of candy; they are so good. Well, sometimes. But hey, they're children, right? My only concern now is that I definitely have my favorites. Cut and dry, blatantly obvious favorites. And I sneak them extra candy every day. And not the cheap Chinese crap I give to everyone else, no. I'm talking about delicious candy from my own personal stockpile, sent by well wishers from the Land of the Free and the Home of the High Fructose Corn Syrup. I feel like other teachers, real teachers with degrees and whatnot, have their favorites too- kids that make the stressful days worthwhile. Fortunately, my number one nuggets are smart enough to keep the candy a secret, lest I be exposed as the hatemongering selectivist that I truly am. My fellow teachers scorn me regularly; "That's terrible! Shouldn't you give candy to all of the children?!" First of all, worry about your own life. And secondly... No. I'll make you a deal. If the other kids have the same perfect English, perfect behavior, and perfect pint-sized sass of my star pupils, I might slide them a gummy bear or two someday. And as much as I enjoy my favorites, I still like all the rest. Here in Changzhou the kids always greet us with a pleasant "Hello Teacha," no matter where we are or what they are doing. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't the most adorable jolt in the arm I have ever experienced, every time they do it. Unfortunately, I recently learned that these greetings were forced. I passed a group of children on the way back to my apartment one night, and was met with silence. I didn't care at all. If after 12 hours of classes, these kids didn't feel like enthusiastically shouting a greeting at every White person in their field of vision, I would understand why. The teacher escorting them apparently had a different opinion. "JUPOKF GFDHJPDR DSNGAO 'HELLO TEACHA!!!!!'" She said this as she began smacking the children in her immediate vicinity until a few very weak "hello teachas" came from the crowd. I hung my head in shame, gave a brisk, sympathetic wave and inaudible "hello," and walked away. As sad as that is for those poor nuggets, I soon developed a certain reputation with the children and was quickly on a whole new level. The other teachers watch with confusion and amusement as kids climb up my back in the hallway after class, shoot me with pretend guns, and demand to ride on my shoulders or be hoisted in the air like tiny Stanley Cups. I always oblige. My classroom decor pales in comparison to the other teachers, and I sometimes unfortunately fall short with a lesson or two. But when it comes to winning approval, I am unmatched. I no longer receive the obligatory "Hello Teacha." Now it is "Hello Teacha Derek." These greetings are accompanied with high fives, fist bumps, and hugs. And much to my comfort, they are 100% voluntary. In my classroom, I have learned how be simultaneously professional and kind, that almost mystical quality that all of my own favorite teachers possessed. I try to relate to the kids on their own level, and it comes pretty easily to me. Probably because I am still so childlike in some ways. And I don't mean the good ways like innocence, meekness, and kindness. I'm talking more along the lines of petty, loud, insane, and thirsty for attention. Somehow it translates well in the classroom. I promise it's not all fun and games though, (that being the most cliche phrase I could come up with) I am here to make sure that these kids learn English. Or for Heaven's sake, at least Engrish. Teaching these awesome kids makes my time here so much more rewarding. These kids give me an escape from the drama and catty hatefulness of my fellow teachers. I get to provide these children with a valuable skill and make sure they have fun too. I'm going on vacation later tonight to Guilin, the most beautiful place in all of China. The only thing I am worried about is missing my kids. Who will they shout "Hello Teacha" to in my absence? Who will give them candy and some of them, secret extra candy? Whose else's giant shoulders could they possibly ride on? When they outstretch their tiny, filthy hands for a high five, they will be met with thin air and disappointment, at least for the next eight days, until I triumphantly return. I don't think I could have ever forseen a future in which I would give a second thought to my work in the stead of my own personal happiness and goals. It's just not a very "Derek" thing to do. But Teacha Derek? That is a different story entirely.

The Invention of the Wheels

This story, like so many others in my life, begins in a Wal-Mart. But this Wal-Mart wasn't the one I'm so fond of back home in Tennessee- where ne'er do well county kids get high in the parking lot and I'm bound to run into at least 4 ladies from church, no. This Wal-Mart is in the "Business Zone" of downtown Changzhou. I remember the first time I saw it- a bright blue beacon of Western entrepreneurship in the bustling district I like to call "White Plaza." I know that if I ever get lost, I need only go to Nian Dai Xue bus stop and I will be sure to find my group. If they aren't in McDonald's, try H&M. No luck there? Check Dairy Queen. Starbucks is right up the escalator. If someone has some serious Yuan to blow, check Cartier, right across the street. And if all else fails, Wal-Mart is the ticket. There you have it, White Plaza. But on this particular night, I wasn't downtown to get a McDouble, or drop some RMB on a Swedish shirt. I was in the Bicycle Hunting business. On a previous trip to Wal-Mart, I had noticed that right past the "Washes The Thing" section (How 'bout that Engrish, eh?) was a long row of bicycles. After several minutes of cajoling by my colleagues and the successful ATMization of my American Express, I found myself in the market for a shiny new bike. I was not willing to spend more than $50 USD. I felt this was the perfect amount of money. The price was high enough to assure that the bicycle would support my hearty, fried bologna-fed American body without collapsing, but low enough that I could justify bequeathing the bicycle to the Chinese upon my departure. When I found the bike that was just right for me, I requested a test drive from the salesman. You see, buying a bicycle in China is a little like buying a car in the United States (I assume). While many people have actual cars, a lot of people use mopeds, and even more use bicycles as their sole means of conveyance. So, in essence, I was buying a White Trash car. I wanted to make sure the frame was lightweight, for curb hopping and other such commuting shenanigans, and that the seat could support my unusual height and girth. This bike satisfied all my requirements, and I wheeled my purchase toward the checkout. At 380 Yuan, it was right at my budget of $50 USD. I was feeling pretty smart. Until some EngLish speaking Chinese people saved me from possible idiocy with an Ancient Chinese Secret. They pulled me aside, explaining that bikes from the supermarket were overpriced and prone to collapse. After the hushed and strangely urgent conversation, I wheeled the bike into the stationery aisle and went on my merry way. Just like purchasing a car, I felt I should probably sleep on it. And that's exactly what I did. The next morning, I woke up, watched some pirated Seinfeld, and hit the streets with my friend Sam. We had made the mutual pledge not to return to the school until we had found a bicycle, and the smoggy air was full of hope. We walked for quite some time until coming to the Bank of China. This money lending machine is usually a surefire bastion of the English language, and this particular visit upheld that reputation. After a combination of broken Chinese, broken Engrish, and a whole lot of charades, a uniformed guard personally escorted us down the block to a bicycle shop. (Ah, it's good to be American.) The guard stood by the door, lit a cigarette, and prepared himself for an hour of Clueless White Dudes Attempting to Purchase a Bicycle. The shopkeeper was much less excited by the arrival of us moneyed foreigners as I thought he would be, but we perused the shop nonetheless. He had quite a few unassembled bikes, and he was building one for some locals while we browsed. I did my part, pointing and grunting at my various choices, and Sam helped with his Chinese. I refused the man's attempt to sell me a bike obviously designed for women (no crossbar, covered with flowers) and instead picked a couple on my own. I found one plausible option, a nice navy blue framed kit, nothing flashy. I gestured to this model and was informed that this was essentially "The People's Bike." As a product of post-Cold War America, I knew that "People's" meant shoddy quality. I also knew that People's=Commoner's. And I might be an unpaid teacher living in a 12x15 studio apartment who eats food out of tin bowls and sleeps on a wooden bed, but I am NOT a commoner. The salesman quickly offered some more opulent models. I was shown a teal bicycle, assured it was good quality, and eventually purchased it. I hated the color, but decided to settle. Sam was checking out a funky Asian bike, one that was low to the ground with a funky, curved frame. As Sam was investigating the other model, the tiny Asian salesman descended the stairs with an unassembled black frame. I was moderately irate. I had already paid for my bike, and here he was, waving this black beauty in my face?! Not ok. I felt like an idiot. The teal bike was maybe fine for a little jaunt around St. Bart's, or something along those lines, but my bike was to be used in the gritty streets of Changzhou. This is a town with smog so thick and dangerous that breathing the air has the same effect on a person's lungs as 2 packs of cigarettes per day. Not making that up. I obviously needed something a little more austere. And this beastly black bicycle was just that. I began to gesture frantically to the salesman, expressing my newfound distaste for the teal bike and my hopeless love for the black one. He took the hint. Laughing openly at my ridiculous, urgent charades and American indecisiveness, he began to assemble the black one for me, right in my face. It's like going to the Mercedes-Benz factory in Germany and watching them build your custom S500. It was awesome. I could almost see Chairman Mao nodding in approval. This bike was solid black, fender to fender. The paint job made all the difference. Why ride a preposterous teal jellybean when I could have something so much more professional, austere, and undeniably Communist? On the crossbar was a simple inscription in white- "Classic Bicycle." I envisioned my self proudly peddling through the Forbidden City, a poster child for workingmen everywhere. If the other bike was for the People, this was the bike of a Party member. I was honestly shocked that I didn't receive a complimentary carton of The People's Cigarettes with my new ride. It was minimalist, solid, and understated. In other words, everything I am not. I think that's why I love it so much. Once he was finished, I mounted the bicycle, pretentiously checking the tire pressure and brakes. Finding them both adequate, I charaded my approval and appreciation. I gave a cautionary ring of my bell as I left the store, and Sam and I morphed into the notoriously hectic Chinese traffic. The 15 minute cycle home was doubtlessly the biggest adrenaline rush of my life. Never before have I almost died so many times. Within the first few minutes, I was confronted with a cluster of taxis making an illegal left hand turn, a city bus driving on the wrong side of the double yellow line, and some shenanigans with a fruit cart. I loved it. My proclivity for white-knuckled reckless driving has found its home here in Asia. Now I get a lot of stares here in this Glorious Nation. But picture this: a loud, 6'5" White kid with red Wayfarers, going to town on a vanilla ice cream cone from Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now put that same ridiculous foreigner astride a bicycle, and the attention reaches Kardashian levels. Can't say I'm hatin' it. I spent the rest of the day peddling through euphoria. That night, Sam sent me on an errand to the grocery store for some Oreos and whatnot. I peddled proudly down the street  to the store. Once I was there, I locked my bike up with the hundreds of others and strode on into the store with my all my swagga. Once inside, I was deciding whether or not it was a good decision to buy a 2.5 liter bottle of Sprite when a group of girls came up and started talking to me. "Excuse me, but I see you are maybe having the troubles? Maybe you want that I can be of assist to you?" After telling the girl that her English was good (THE highest honor for these people, trust me) I explained that I was just pricing some Sprite. The talkative girl proceeded to tell me that I was handsome and "powerful, like Superman." (Single White Males of the Universe in need of an ego boost, go to China. Trust me.) I laughed, sufficiently embarrassed. I then pointed out that I was the proud owner of a brand new bicycle. "She's parked right out front. The black one." And the line worked. China is the only nation I know of where a grown(ish) man can use a bicycle with a basket and bell as a pick up line. Great honor and prosperity for me, I suppose. But I guess that's China for you. And it seems that the more I try to wedge myself into this topsy-turvy nation, the more I love it. For now, look for the giant foreigner- the one with the ceaselessly ringing bell- doing a surprisingly good job blending into the sea of Asian cyclists. And loving every minute of it.

A Post From The Wooden Bed

There is a light mist of toxic rain falling outside, and my plans for this Saturday have subsequently been...dampened. There will be no going into town, and the East Coast has succumbed to slumber. It's 4pm here, and there's not much to do but eat some Chinese Ramen and drink State Banquet Beverage Coconut Juice with my iTunes on shuffle. Kanye and Coldplay have done a lot to lighten my mood, and I feel like I might turn this whole day around before it's all said and done. I unfortunately missed the lunch portion of White Weekends, but my anticipation is already mounting for dinner. From Friday evening to Monday morning, our boarding school is devoid of Asians, and the cooks prepare our dishes accordingly. They dispense with the pig's blood soup and fish-with-all-the-bones, and bring out the ham-fried rice, dumplings, and fried chicken. This, of course, is glorious news. Teaching is over for the week too; even Chinese kids don't have school on Saturday. Cleaning my apartment is always a good idea. Daily life in China can dirty up a place pretty quickly. Couple that with my psychologically fascinating laziness, and it's quite a mess. It's just a hideous menagerie of pirated DVDs, H&M bags, and empty Coke cans. I've been pretty prolific lately about keeping in touch with my family and friends. Once I discovered I could text through email, the wifi room has been my second home. I love the technology, but I just hope my friends are as on board with it as I am. Derek Overload is a very real possibility. I came here to travel, and my payment for that opportunity is that I must teach. What's it like for me to teach groups of tiny Asian nuggets? Just as you think it would be: stressful, rewarding, and hilarious. Anyone who knows me well might be alarmed that I'm entrusted with anything, let alone a child. Certainly my legendary impatience, biting sarcasm, and occasional lapses in judgment would be the more negative points on my teaching resume. But anyone who knows me really well knows that I actually like little kids. They're like tiny sources of constant amusement with their crazy worldviews and adorable little faces. And until they reach a certain age, there's really not much they can do that bothers me. Most of the time. It's just really awesome to watch them learn and grow, and to know that they have so many great years ahead of them. As a teacher, I want to make their lives easier and more rewarding. I feel like learning English helps them do that. And if all goes to pot and they end up working at Tesco for the rest of their lives, at least there will be someone who can tell me where the incense is, instead of staring at me until I give up on trying to ask. My desire to help these kids is what gets me out of my terrible wooden bed every weekday. And believe it or not, it's really not all hard work. I'm the Kitchen teacher here for the next few weeks, which means I really just have to come up with things for these nuggets to eat. Every time I pour water into Jell-o or spread peanut butter for Ants On A Log and watch their faces light up and little brown eyes widen with amazement, it really does validate all my efforts. Most of my kids are so great and attentive, and the ones that aren't are easily disciplined. In fact, being a Kitchen teacher is nothing more than a constant exercise in bribery. "Be good or you don't get food!" It works literally every time. Thursday, though, was a ridiculous disaster. I had been sick the day before, and didn't get the chance to buy my supplies for the day's lesson. This meant that as the Kitchen teacher, I had no food. I don't feel like I need to explain to anyone that this lack of preparedness resulted in a colossal failure. I walked into my first class with my palms sweating and my eyes visibly displaying fear. Several of the kids had already voiced their anticipation earlier in the day about what they thought what was their upcoming meal. "Teacha Derek! Eat-a! Nood-ur-les! Jell-o!" I tried to walk away before any commitments were made on my behalf. I knew I had to come up with something to say to these children, and even more importantly, something to do. I wanted to walk in and tell just tell it like it is. "Teacher Derek was shaking with fever last night and could therefore not go into town to buy yogurt and apples for your fruit dip. So instead, he decided to come into class empty handed and is obviously screwed. Now, please allow me to get through this day without anyone falling out of one of my third story classroom windows. And more importantly, without Teacher Derek violating his ILP contract by grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you until you stop shouting in Chinese and hitting each other. Your cooperation and forgiveness are much appreciated." Unfortunately, their grasp of the English language does not enable them to understand hopeless pleading, so the monologue went more like this. "Today, we're going to play Musical Chairs. Do you know what that is?" Most of the kids were on board. I was patient with the ones that weren't; why pay attention to an unprepared teacher? I asked for song suggestions, as my laziness and fear had effectively jammed my brain's creative center. All of the kids began shouting "LADY GAGA" in unison. They were perplexed when I proceeded to roll with laughter. I was laughing so hard that I was afraid I might have to trot over to the squatter. I told them if we were going to do Lady Gaga, I would need a volunteer singer. Then I stood by and supervised as a half dozen Chinese children sang "Bad Romance" and walked in a circle, fighting over plastic chairs. It was a YouTube quality laugh riot. The next class didn't want to do musical chairs, so we played a game of structured, English-rich catch. This obviously devolved in about 4 seconds, and the class ended with a little boy named Caesar accidentally throwing the ball out of the window just as we were learning how to say "Don't throw the ball so high!" The other kids in the class ran to the windows, and I followed, frantically grabbing at them as they leaned out to see where the ball had gone. And poor Caesar, with all the blame- "Et tu, Teacha Derek?" I quickly lined them up for the next class and cast my eyes upward, thanking Government that the classes were only 25 minutes long. My final class proved to be the most difficult of all. My voice was hoarse from singing, and I was exhausted. Of course, this class contained my worst students. I ushered them in, flustered and spent. I attempted to line them up, and my eyes fell on one girl in particular, blathering away in animated Chinese to the girl standing next to her. "TINA! No Chinese!" It's Rule #1 of ILP. She continued her ceaseless drivel until I had to physically angle her chin skyward to my face. "Tina, no Chinese." She opened her mouth and laughed loudly in mockery, revealing her 8 tiny, rotten teeth. And thus started my lesson. "Okay class, we're going to play musical chairs." My response was a fart sound from one of the boys and another smattering of Chinese from that fool Tina. I instructed them in the rules, and asked them to pick a song. They all looked at me as if I had just asked them to recite the Pirate's Code backwards and continued their previous shenanigans. "How about '5 Little Ducks'?" It was a quick little rhyming song one of the good kids had taught me earlier in the day. I put the chairs in a circle and the kids began to trudge around, unimpressed. Then the boys started sitting in the chairs prematurely, determined not to lose. "No! You only sit down when Teacher Derek stops the song! FIVE LITTLE DUCKS WENT OUT TO PLAY, OVER..." My lesson was rapidly deteriorating into a terrible educational abyss. This was about the exact moment that my head teacher, Sam, walked in to evaluate me for the week. He came in as I was screaming "Five Little Ducks" at the top of my lungs, peppered here and there with "NO CHINESE!" I stuffed Tina into a chair with one hand as I grabbed King by the collar of his sweater with the other, my throat getting raw all the while. The kids were running and screaming, undeterred by Sam's presence. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he wrote what had to be the worst teacher evaluation in history on his clipboard. After his time was complete, he gave me a sympathetic chuckle and left the room. I knew the damage was done, and spent the last few minutes of class trying to keep the kids in some semblance of order, while also restraining myself from smacking their ridiculous little faces. When class was over, I opened the door and released my little hellions out into the world. I collapsed, feeling pretty ashamed. I knew it was the lowest point of my teaching so far. Fortunately, my week was over. I shrugged off my teacher's apron and took a minute to collect myself. Fortunately, when I was presented with my pitiful evaluation, Sam understood. He told me he knew I wasn't at my best, and that he would re-evaluate on Monday when all my foodstuffs were in line. I decided I needed a trip into town, where I bought a 6 Yuan McDouble and a few 5 Yuan DVDs and tried to end the day on a high note. Thankfully, most of my days aren't as pitted with setbacks and stumbling blocks- very few of my days are "Thursdays." People always get really corny when they teach- "the kids teach me," they say. And while I did learn a pretty catchy new nursery rhyme from one of the kids, I know that I never go in to class expecting to learn anything. I'm here to teach, I go to college to learn. Plus, I'm the one who knows all the Engrish already. I already know how to share, how to make Jell-o, how to play Red Rover. But as I crawl into my wooden bed each night, bathed in the subtle orange glow of my $4 heater, I realize I learned something every day too. The well-behaved children don't ever teach me anything; they just make my teaching experience worthwhile. It's Tina who teaches me patience, Roofio who teaches me that sometimes kids just act out because they aren't being challenged enough. And every day I can't help but reflect on those little inadvertent lessons. And while I'm pretty sure that teaching isn't in the career cards for me, these children are preparing me to be a better husband and father someday. These kids help me have fun and help me to see the good in everyone, even when it's really, really hard. They might have a whole other language to learn, and it just so happens to be the hardest one on Earth, but I'm the one who needs to grow.
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On a completely unrelated note, people have been asking me for pictures. Here I am, obliging.

                                          (some of ) The Nuggets

                                          Shanghai Skyline

                                          Changzhou Street

                                          Me and Kylee

                                           Behold, my toilet! That other drain by my shoes is for the shower. Yeah.

                                          My Apartment

                                          The Awesome Bullet Train!!!!

                                          The Sketchy Shanghai Street Market

                                          Shanghai Traffic

                                         Me, Jennifer and Carlie

                                          My wooden bed and little heater.

Shanghai(ed)

Well, I've found my Washington, D.C. of China. It's called Shanghai. At only a 45 minute bullet train ride away, it is the unsurpassed weekend destination for Changzhouians. I suppose that's what we're called. Oh, and yes, I did ride a bullet train. Zipping along past apartment block after apartment block at 397 km/h (whatever that means), I was only one turtleneck and baguette away from feeling like a full fledged European. I must admit that the high speed train is one area in which the Land of the F**e and the Home of the B***e really needs to catch up. However, they do have toilet paper and soap.... So... I guess it's a tie. Except that it's not. But I digress. This bullet train eventually dropped my fellow teachers and I off in the hustling Asian bustle of Shanghai. At 16 million people, it is by far the largest city I have ever been to. When we did some sightseeing across the bay from the Bund, (that funky building that looks like the Sunsphere in Knoxville except Chinese-size) I felt like I was on that planet in Star Wars that is just one giant city. There were multiple skylines, just like L.A. Except Shanghai has even more smog. And fewer douchebags. The streets were much less crowded than I expected, which is a good thing for sure. I definitely didn't need anyone stealing my trillions of Yuan out of the knock-off Louis Vuitton wallet I had just gotten from that ancient, senile street-peddler. There was a lot of that there. And all of us White folk have a lot of financial clout in the Orient. Nothing warms the hearts of crafty Asian merchants quite like a crowd of naive college aged Americans. One glimpse at a lock of blonde hair or a pair of sunglasses and the sidewalks of Shanghai would burst with the off-key siren song that would lure us all to our financial demise- "YOU WAN BUY JEANS?!!?" "PURSES, BAGS, VEWWY GOOD PWICE!!" "SUNGRASSES, JUST YO STYLE! GOOD QUARITY!!" The best approach was to just keep walking; any sign of weakness or even the slightest interest would result in a 25 minute bartering session with a person who is trained in nothing more than the art of constantly ripping people off. The bartering was exhausting, and we all walked away knowing that we had been screwed. No matter how low the price got after incessant haggling, I was still perfectly aware that the man selling me those "True Religion" jeans was turning a handsome little profit. This is bad news to me, as China has a reputation for being the metaphorical Filene's Basement of the retail world. Or at least its TJ Maxx. The first day's shopping was exhausting and fruitless. I walked around some dimly lit hovel of a market at the request of the 5 girls I had split off with. They decided to leave after we watched an enormous rat crawl out of a shirt and up a pipe. This was, unfortunately, AFTER we had browsed that market for the better part of 4 hours. When we met up at Papa John's with the rest of the group, we were bombarded with details of their grand retail shenanigans at the Science & Technology market. Apparently, their market was rat-free. But what really piqued my interest was that they actually sold stuff for dudes. I knew where I was headed the next day. After paying 108 Yuan for pizza and Coke (which was more than the train ride to Shanghai, mind you) I decided I needed a massage. We went back to the hostel for recommendations, giving our sole stipulation- that the massage parlour NOT be a front for human trafficking, and set off to the specified address. Conveniently located behind the Kentucky Fried Chicken (which is about the most high class joint in town over here, for some reason) was by far the fanciest massage parlour I have ever seen. There were all sorts of funky Asian chandeliers, marble floors, and European-looking paintings. When my appointment time rolled around, I was told to remove my shoes and was given sandals and a weird wristband and led down the hallway. I was either about to get a massage, or be initiated into some sort of Chinese cult. Luckily for me, I was shown to a room with a velvet covered massage table and given a set of pajamas that were for some reason covered with tiny renderings of what looked like the Mitsubishi logo. My masseuse arrived, and thereby commenced the greatest 60 minutes of my life thus far. I floated to the counter and gave the clerk the equivalent of $7 USD. Now THAT is more like it. After that, it was back to the hostel. Now, seeing as this is my first time abroad, I had never had the hostel experience. I knew that hostels were typically frequented by people around my age, and they have that whole "I go backpacking in Europe" stereotype. When I saw the lounge of our hostel, I immediately made one of my trademark Snap Judgements, and wrote the entire place off as nothing more than a petri dish of petulance and pretension. Fortunately for me, I was forced to give everyone a second chance. Later in the night, I talked to some girls from Moscow and Kiev and a guy from Denmark. Everyone was just as alone and eager to meet people as I was. People were friendly and the conversation never lagged. Before I knew it, it was 2 am. People started trickling off to bed. I was just about to do the same when 4 women came up behind me and started talking. They were heavily made up, but not pretty, and enveloped in an almost visible cloud of perfume. When I asked them where they were from, they said "Vhtruisrtjin." When I informed them that I wasn't familiar with that city, one girl made an incredulous face and proceeded to mock me. "Vhat" she said "You ave never heard of Russia?!" My mistake. By your accent, I just assumed you were gargling stones. It wasn't until after they disappeared into the Shanghai streets at 3 in the morning with their miniskirts and thigh length boots that I realized I had just met my first gaggle of prostitutes. My suspicions were confirmed when I saw one of these women leave the room of a redheaded man the next morning, and walk right back out on the street. Work that corner, Olga. The next day was spent with me haggling until my throat was raw, saying the only Chinese phrases I have learned so far- "too expensive" and "don't want." As the weekend progressed, I remembered how much I loathed traveling with groups. Everyone has his or her own agenda, and this particular bunch of people is disgustingly inflexible. Also, 3 or 4 of them happened to be "Shanghai Experts" even though no one in the entire group has ever set foot in mainland China. It was nothing more than the arrogant blind leading the pissed off blind. A couple of people in particular really creamed my corn (to keep it PG) and if I was told "what we should do next" or led to the wrong subway transfer one more time, I was gonna backhand some people. Look, fool, you are from Podunk, Utah. You wouldn't know a subway if you were run over by one. When this same girl admitted 5 minutes later to never having ridden a subway, I could feel my hairs fraying. I suddenly pined for home, where I hand selected my traveling companions based on their excellent personalities, agreeability, and hilariousness. Traveling was always a breeze. I could count on my buddies to put up with my quirks, and we all had an air of mutual flexibility. DC groups, I'm talking to you. Hold your heads high, knowing you passed a series of rigorous tests with flying colors. Yes, I am that insane. But I figure if I'm going to be spending a few days in a Residence Inn with people, they had better be awesome. Too bad I didn't get to pre-screen my Chinese traveling companions... I had many Shanghai Shenanigans nonetheless. And my time in the hostel especially cemented my addiction to traveling. Couple that with the massage and I think I could really get used to this.

Squatter's Rights

I have only been in China for 10 days. And people, it has grown on me. I've already adjusted to the 13 hour time change, a feat I never thought I'd overcome, and I am fitting right in. Well, as much as a 6'5" White American who speaks no Chinese possibly can. I don't even know where to begin. So I will start with my apartment. I was given a key shaped like a Phillips-head screwdriver and led down the hall to my unheated room. The living space is pretty large, but smaller than all the rooms in my house. Then there is a sink area with a window and a shower/"squatter" combo that I will discuss later. The decor of the room is what I would call "Communist chic." Whitewashed walls, an exposed flourescent lightbulb, and a tabletop fan mounted to the ceiling. It came pre-furnished with an armoire and broken television, and of course a bed. I took a table and some chairs from an empty apartment and ta da! Home. The heater is controlled by some outside force or entity (I think the Government) and will cease to function whenever it pleases. Once it decides to stop providing me with heat, it cannot be turned on again unless I go outside and reset the electricity for my entire apartment. This happens multiple times per day. And I'm the lucky one. Other teachers report non-functioning heaters, no electrcity, and missing lightbulbs. In addition, my apartment came equipped with a microfridge, microwave, and nugget sized washer. I am therefore King of the People's Republic of China. My most reliable heat source is a space heater I bought from Tesco yesterday. It cost me 28 Yuan (about $4.50) and does a very good job heating the 3 feet around my head. I keep it right next to my face at night while I sleep. I think that's why I woke up to the smell of burnt hair this morning. My surroundings are squalid, but I couldn't be happier. I roll with a pretty peppy bunch here at ILP. I get along with almost everyone here; it's in my nature to be social. My happiness comes not from the people I am with, but mostly from all the foreign experiences I am having. Even though some things about China are strange, and even depressing, I'm enjoying everything. Every day, I eat 2 meals out of a tin bowl with tin chopsticks. I don't know what the food is. I don't ask. I just eat. It doesn't taste good, and it looks even worse, but I still get seconds. I would never do that in America. I bought some food at Tesco. Western-ish stuff. For example, I got a bag of what I though was beef jerky. It had a picture of meat and a campfire. Pretty self explanatory. This was a terrible falsehood. When I opened the pack, I was assaulted by a smelly brown substance that had never been anything even resembling meat. It was sitting in a broth. Further investigation informed me that the substance was "100% (Chinese characters). Obviously, I have no idea what that means. It could be 100% Angus Beef or 100% cat poop and I would be none the wiser. Part of the appeal of beef jerky is its versatility. Meaning that I can eat with my hand, directly from the bag, in my bed. My bed, which appears deceptively comfortable, literally has no mattress. It is actually a raised platform made of wooden boards. Yet every night, I pull a blanket up to my chin, and let the Tesco heater do the rest. My toilet is a hole in the ground. In the same area where I shower. My shower is filthy, yet I bathe in it every day. I brought Irish Spring, a strong-scented soap, fully prepared for the stankiness I would encounter in China. Little did I know, the water stinks too. I could shower in Chanel No. 5 and when I rinse, I will smell like the Yellow River, just like everyone else. I brush my teeth with bottled water. There are no garbage cans in the entire People's Republic. Also, there is not a great deal of soap. The filthiness of it all would make my mother perpetually vomit. The people? They're actually great. I am a celebrity here, finally. My height and Whiteness make me quite the public figure. I want to subtly convince the Chinese that I am in the NBA. In the event I am challenged to show my basketball skillz, I will politely decline, pointing out that my ankles aren't insured in the Pacific Rim. People stared at me while I shopped yesterday. An older man even followed me around for a few minutes. People peered into my cart, wondering what foreigners required for sustenance. The coolest part is that they will often buy the exact same thing as me. This level of emulation is undeserved, unprecedented, and perfectly awesome. Everyone is friendly. As I was browsing the milk tea section, a woman advertising Lipton came up to me and gave me her schpiel. In Chinese. "Rfbgoodafbjn-ednboldknsl sldvnkljnfb. Anhgvosfnbofhb owsofbosfn bjsfbondojbnso spdknspng. UJiosfnbgnlskns sdoijngonsobg." This continued for about 2 or 3 minutes. Apparently at no point did she see or understand that my pallid face and English stammerings that I don't speak annny Chinese. I eventually picked up her box, said "xia xia" (or however you spell "thank you" in Chinese) and sped away ashamed. 1.25 liters of vodka, at 5.80 Yuan (about 75 cents) was cheaper than juice (9.90 Yuan or about $1.50). Milk is about $10 (65 Yuan) and comes in small boxes. There is basically no cheese. And driving? Fugged about it. It's a disaster. One girl in our group got hit by a couple of dudes on a motorcycle on our first day. (She's fine, of course) Drivers honk to remind people they are on the road, that's it. And there are a surprising amount of expensive, foreign cars here. It's odd to me to see a Mercedes at a stoplight while on the other side of the street, a toothless man is urinating on the sidewalk. But I guess that how it goes here. And I am both impressed and horrified by the lack of "pansification" here in China. For example, there are no wet floor signs, no smoke detectors, no health codes, minimal indoor heating (you can even see your breath in Tesco) and no FDA. It's nice that the government here actually believes people have common sense, but I am used to being warned- the coffee with steam billowing from it may be hot. A recently mopped floor is wet, and so on. I've actually adapted to some of the nuances of Asian culture I once considered ridiculous. The best example is the slipper. In Tennessee I go barefoot (shocker) and only put shoes on outside. In China? I have a ridiculous circus of shoes. Immediately after stepping into my apartment, off go the shoes, and straight into slippers. A trip to the bathroom requries a seperate pair (I'm not about to track squatter water all over my house) and the only time I am barefoot is in bed. I used to laugh internally at the slipper, thinking it was a ridiculous, complicated and outmoded tradition. Now I understand that people just don't want poopy water on the floor of their home. This seems reasonable. Shanghai is a grand ol place too. Twice the size of New York, and still no one will take my American Express. Really, China? Really? Pull it together soon, please. I want to like you, I really do.

Up in the (Korean) Air

You were promised a tale of my journey from the rolling foothills of Northeastern Tennessee to the smog-filled streets of China; well, here it is. Tuesday night, my last night at home, was spent packing. My family room became a metaphorical deli counter for suticases. Scales and piles of clothes
littered the floor. The weighing and re-weighing was seemingly endless- each checked bag had to weigh less than 50 pounds. Anyone who knows me knows that with the sheer amount of clothes I have, this was certainly an ordeal. It was an endeavor that required a lot of undignified stomping on my luggage
and straddling my bags just to close a zipper. When the last bag had surrendered to my desperation, I went to my temporary bedroom for a few hours sleep. The next morning, I woke up in eager anticipation of my last American shower. I couldn't wait for the blistering, lava-hot water and the jet stream of water pressure. Who knew if China could provide the same showering satisfaction? The water was freezing. However, my tiny morning rampage fell on deaf ears; it's kind of hard to feel sorry for someone who was about to set off on the journey of a lifetime. After several false starts, we finally left the house. We sped along through Virginia listening to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio, with DC getting closer by the mile. The next step for me was dinner at my favorite restaraunt- Filomena Ristorante in Georgetown. It has the best Italian food I have eaten thus far in my entire life. And at $40 an entree, it's just the kind of awesome Western gluttony I needed before my long trip. Once we hit Reagan Airport, my mood darkened a little.. I came to the realization that I had never traveled alone. And here I was with 3 flights ahead of me and not a second of international
traveling experience. Of course, we all know how friendly airport workers are. So that definitely made things easier for me. Thanks, TSA, for doing your job with a smile. By the time I had boarded the plane in DC, I had pretty much lost faith in the decency of mankind. As a product of the American South, I expected smiles and kindness, and was met everywhere with cold indifference. Clueless expressions and a complete lack of knowledge about the minutiae of traveling didn't help matters too much either. By the time I was in my seat, I was forlorn. An exhausted flight attendant mumbled the safety procedures and we took off. Country fried hillbilly that I am, my face was plastered to the window as that awesome, sinking stomach feeling of takeoff spread through me and the plane sped upward. Once we leveled, I took a second to look around the plane. It was like a cigarette with wings. It was, without a doubt, the tiniest form of air travel I had ever seen. I half expected the flight attendant to give us instructions on how to prepare for the upcoming parachute jump.
But it never happened. Approximately 45 minutes later, all dozen of us were on the ground at JFK. My time in New York was spent trudging from terminal to terminal- endless lines and luggage mishaps contributed to my exhaustion. When I had reached the Korean Air counter for the second time, I was a sweaty disaster. I handed my passport to the woman at the counter (who I thoughtfully nicknamed Jersey Shore) and I was informed that I could pick up my "luggages" in Shanghai. I quickly realized that this flight was going to be different. The gate was full to the brim- mostly with Koreans. Their chanting, sing-song language filled my soul with horror. I looked around and found some White dudes, and they were even right around my age. But they were less than welcoming. After some eavesdropping, I realized they were military men of some sort. They took one look at my Kindle and Sperrys and decided I wouldn't really be much use in a conversation. Even though I was 4 feet away, and the only other English speaker in the vicinity. For 2 hours. Thanks, guys. Semper Fi, or whatever. I lugged by broken duffel bag up the ramp an onto the most giant plane I have ever seen in my life. There were 2 aisles and 7 seats per row. And over 100 rows. I didn't really have time to take it all in; I was too busy attempting to shove my 7,600 pound duffel bag into the overhead compartment. It didn't work. I was being glared at by scores of pissed off Koreans, until a 90 pound flight attendant whisked my bag away to a larger compartment. After firmly establishing myself as the village idiot of the entire plane, I took my seat. By this point, I had literally never felt more alone in my entire life. I missed my parents and my friends.I knew there was no turning back, but I didn't want to go home. I just wanted someone to have a conversation with me. Fortunately, an English speaking Korean businessman seated right next to me did just that, and thus restored my faith in people. Over the course of the 15 hour flight, he told me what in-flight meals were best, and how to eat the Korean foods I was being given by the incredibly hot
 Korean Air stewardesses. The conversation periodically lagged, and I watched a few movies in my complimentary in fight slippers. Now this was the life. I fell into fitful sleep, not knowing or caring what time it was. When I woke up, my flight companion informed me that we had just flown over the North Pole. It was the coolest thing I had ever done. After I had been given some advice and wished good luck by my new friend, I "de-planed." As in all other flight-length comeraderies, I never learned the man's name. But he had done me a lot of good, being helpful and friendly when I needed it most. I will never forget the feeling I had when I took my first steps into the Incheon Airport. I looked out the windows, wide-eyed at the unfamiliarity of it all. The tiny, foreign cars. The Korean scribblings on every sign. The roof of my mouth was dry as my mind tried to take it all in. It was my first time outside the Continental United States. I was bewildered, excited, and scared. For a lifelong travel fanatic, it was the bizzare and amazing realization of a long held dream. I floated through Incheon, by this time a far more seasoned and confident traveler. I found my gate quickly, and scoured the airport for a Starbucks, with no avail. I then waited for my group to arrive from LAX. They came, and we left for Shanghai. We quickly formed bonds over bean curd, and my mind was finally at ease. We had all touched down in Shanghai, most of us for the very first time,
preapred for adventure.

Mountain Sunrise Doorknob

As my departure to China creeps closer and closer, I'm getting a little less confident and a little more- well, petrified.. Of course, there are a lot of things to be afraid of.  The way people talk, Communism must be the bedside reading material of Satan himself.. I suppose it's not really the Marxism, but the implications- no free speech, no internet, a decrease in the emphasis on personal liberty and the value of human life blah blah. Trust me, people, I have been sufficiently warned. But even the totalitarianism doesn't scare me too much. It's just a giant nuisance, a metaphorical thorn in my freedom loving side. Nor am I scared of traveling by plane, large cities, or being tricked repeatedly by crafty Asian merchants. As naive as I may be, I feel pretty prepared in all those aspects. No, the thing that has me running scared isn't dangerous at all. It's the Chinese language. Every time I see Chinese characters- on my work visa, in my address- even on a pack of takeout chopsticks- my palms start sweating. Since my subtle arrogance knows no bounds, I consider myself something of a linguist. I picked up Spanish pretty quickly (retention is another matter entirely) and I enjoy learning about the subtle nuances of foreign language. I feel like if I traveled to Europe, I would know that a pastecceria would be a place to get bread and little desserts and that I could probably use a telefono to call people. But Chinese? Really? All I think of when I see those characters is those little stick figures hanging from the trees on The Blair Witch Project. They literally mean nothing to me. I could see a sign on a building and not know whether it meant "This is where you buy fish!" or "This is where a person comes to be disemboweled and thrown to the hounds." This lack of knowledge could cause some problems.. I do plan on speaking some Easy Chinese- the Easy version of any foreign language being shouting what one wants in English at the top of one's lungs- until I learn a few useful words. Some apropos examples for me include "PLEASE REMOVE THE BEAK AND FEATHERS FROM THAT CHICKEN BEFORE YOU SERVE IT TO ME." Or "IF YOU THINK I AM PAYING OVER $3 FOR THAT JADE LION, FEEL FREE TO THINK AGAIN." I'm sure my behavior won't do much to help eradicate the stereotype of Americans as pushy, obnoxious people who refuse to adapt to or respect the cultures of others, even when they are guests in that nation. But I never said I was out to change the world. I think I can get a handle on the speaking, the various chings and chongs will hopefully roll right off my Anglo-Saxon tongue. But I don't think I'll ever grasp those pesky characters. I did get a useful suggestion from a friend, however. She told me instead of attempting to learn a 5,000 character lexicon, why not just see what the characters look like and say that instead? It is, after all, a language of pictures. I started with my work visa. Let's see... "houseboat, lantern, toaster oven, stool." My friend then pointed out that if I said these words in rapid succession with a Ms. Swan kind of voice, it sounded something like Chinese. So, until Wednesday, a good Treesubwoofersmallchildeatinganapplewindowpane to you all.

Bleeding Red, White, and Blue (Well, Mostly Red...)

Alright, people. Prepare for the insufferable. From this point forward, most of these blog posts will talk of nothing but China. Whether it's anticipation of the trip, an account of my nonstop 16.5 hour flight from NYC to South Korea, or my adventures with the Chinese Nuggets, my blogs will inevitably take on a certain...slant... I mean, I could talk about China, or I could give you a scene-for-scene recount of the Seinfeld episodes I watch on any given day. That's about all that's going on in my life until our Buffalo Wild Wings opens. For those of you that have had enough already, I highly recommend Stumble Upon as an alternative way to waste your time. Self-depricating ramblings aside, I have less than 2 weeks before I arrive in the People's Republic of China. I suggest the Republic prepare itself accordingly. As my departure date creeps closer, I get asked more and more-what will I miss most about being home? My family, my friends. The answer seems a little obvious to me. Of course, there are also quite a few non-human aspects of American life I will miss. My car? French fries? Drinking water that isn't full or carcinogens and poison? Sure. But there is something much more important to me. My rights. For the past few days, I've been doing a little research about what my life will be like in China. Will I be living in a dirt floor hut, washing my face with handfuls of river water? No. Apparently, Asia has taken a turn from rice paddies and funny triangle shaped hats. Now, I hear tales of smog filled skies and billions of industrious, well-mannered people whose heads I see over for miles in the bicycle clogged streets. I've sought advice from my parents, international businessmen, and even a close friend who visited China before. And of course, I get tons of unsolicited but helpful advice from pretty much everyone else. People have brought various aspects of my personality to my attention in an attempt to keep me from being thrown in Chinese jail. "Derek," they say, "you can't be sarcastic over there. No making fun of people. No satire. Don't wear your 'Communist Party' t-shirt. Don't complain. Actually, we would really just advise you to not say anything to anyone, for any reason, ever." As it turns out, I seem to be a pretty incendiary figure. And then it hit me. A huge part of my life, and my personality, is the ability to communicate freely using my First Amendment rights. I have Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, Skype, an average of about 7,500 texts a month, and I still talk to people face to face. I even talk in my sleep; just ask my former roommate. So what's a blabbermouth windbag like me to do in a country where even Google is illegal? Some people have tried to give me the impression that if I utter the word "America," I will be taken to windowless room and shot in the face at point blank range. Other people tell me that I don't have to change my habits at all, just skirt the Great Firewall like all the rest of the ex-pats. Honestly, I can't say I subscribe to either philosophy. But I do know that I will miss being in a land where I can say literally anything that I want. Because I do just that. For example, I think Sarah Palin is a complete idiot. All of the stupid ideas that come from her dumb Alaskan mouth make my liberal soul quiver with disgust. And I'm well within my rights to say all that and much, much more if I felt the need. That's why I love America. The constant free exchange of ideas we often take for granted force progression and change. And sometimes, they do nothing at all. We can be smart or stupid with our rights. The important thing is that we use them. As an American, I have access to an astounding amount of information. I can access my FBI file. I can write letters to my Congressperson. I can attend city hall meetings. And I can also watch YouTube videos about a fat girl that can't sing, or pandas sneezing. I can hold up signs and shout whatever I want. I can chain myself to old trees. Every time I go to DC, I see the tent with the crazy nuclear protester, right behind the White House. You've seen it. It's been there forever. And I can't help but smile. I honestly can't think of a single thing I care about so much that I would live in a tent until I got my way, but I have that right. With all this awesome free expression comes equality of opportunity. My favorite example of this is Basil Marceaux, candidate for Governor of the State of Tennessee. Find him on YouTube, and you will be reminded that literally anyone can run for political office. (Don't worry; he didn't win. We aren't THAT stupid..) Yes, I may be a nerd. My love for America and her idiosyncrasies may be a little beyond the comprehension of sane people. Despite decades of mind boggling stupidity from BOTH sides of the party line, I still have faith in the government. But more than that, I have faith in the ingenuity and spirit of the American people. (the National Anthem should begin to play in your head at this point) We built a nation based on ideas that had never been tried. We made it through Depressions, Great and small. We've watched 44 (almost 45!!) Superbowls together. Some people think America is on the decline. I say no way. We aren't going anywhere. We'd make too much of a fuss about being #2 to anyone. I will miss my freedoms while I live abroad. I'd say the Chinese would not be huge fans of this post, for instance. And I doubt I could slander government officials like I did to poor Mrs. Palin. So I plan to get out all my rants while I'm here. I'll say whatever I want, as much as I want, because I can. And that's what we Americans are all about.