Extreme Eating

In a fit of panic my sophomore year of college I joined the Air Force; not the real Air Force, but Air Force-lite, the Air Force’s Reserve Officer Training Corps, better known by its initials, ROTC. The reason for my panic was that I was getting a liberal arts degree and more than a little worried I might be going hungry come graduation day. With my new affiliation, if all went according to plan, upon graduation I would embark on four years of fun and adventure while getting paid. During that time I would figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, thereby putting off the inevitable another four years. I had a few minor hurdles before this became official, primarily successful completion of summer field training.

Field training was pleasantly difficult with lots of swearing and sweating. Midway through my summer training camp, for three fiercely hot and buggy days, my fellow trainees and I took a break from marching and Air Force academics to hang out at a muddy Kansas lake. We called ourselves survivalists. In truth, the only thing we were really trying to survive was the young enlisted man put in charge of us for the adventure. He was actually younger than most of us. Imagine if mom and dad went out and left the youngest in charge for a change, yeah, the result would be revenge torture. The airman and I got off to a spectacularly bad start when he asked all of us the simple question, “Why did we join the Air Force?” Why didn’t I provide a safe response like most of my fellow campers? All I remember was that I was powerless to suppress the shit-eating grin stretched across my face as I replied, “So I can be the dictator of a small third world country.” Who knew there would be worse things to eat than shit? The airman, that’s who. And he made me eat them.

The airman bided his time. Day two of our hostage cum survival situation and the evil airman had us out in the fields beating the ground with clubs in order to flush out a rabbit. The male campers were channeling their inner Neanderthal while chanting “hasenpfeffer” over and over again. I never actually believed we would be successful. Unfortunately, I was wrong. After a few hours broiling under the July sun a rabbit dashed across the field on a suicide mission. One scrawny rabbit versus twenty scrawny college students. The odds were about even but the students prevailed. With all the rejoicing you would have thought we brought down a Wholly Mammoth to feed the tribe for an entire year. I figured I would make due with another granola bar for dinner and leave the lapin for the boys, but the airman had other plans. He sat us down in a circle and began skinning the rabbit, explaining the procedure as he cut and sliced. The males of the tribe were ecstatic; the females, disgusted. But now it was the airman with the shit-eating grin. I would soon figure out why.

“Cadet, when you become the dictator of a small third world country, you will have to learn to enjoy native delicacies.” With that, he popped out an eyeball and handed it to me.

“I want you to chew this eyeball and tell your fellow cadets what it tastes like.” A chorus of murmurs arouse around me, “dude,” “brutal,” ‘awesome.” I looked to the small contingent of female cadets, all with horror stricken looks on their faces. My roommate shook her head and whispered, “You don’t have to eat it, he can’t make you.”



Never before had I been able to swallow pills. Never. I always chewed them the few times pill taking was required of me. But as I starred down at the little grayish-black blob in the palm of my hand I knew it was time to learn that skill. And just like that, swallowing a rabbit’s little eyeball gave me the biggest pair of cojones in the camp. No, I did not chew it as instructed. But my sly smile and brief comment, “smooth and salty” seemed to satisfy my personal Torquemada. When the airman cut out the rabbit’s stomach and passed it around for all of us to partake of its contents, I did not even flinch. I have yet to find a small third world country interested in me as their dictator, but the ability to eat anything has served me well in a civilian capacity.

My mantra while in China has been, “One billion Chinese can’t be wrong” whenever I am confronted with a challenging dining option. My husband has been my ally in this regard. Growing up in a hunting family in upstate New York, he swears they ate squirrel pot pie as kids; and I thought my mom’s meatloaf was traumatizing.

Shortly after our arrival in China we visiting the charming southern city of Kunming, famous as the home base of World War II’s Flying Tigers. While there we were feted by customers of my husband’s company. Hospitality is an important aspect of Chinese culture. One of my endearing memories of China is the near universal pride in their culture, and their desire to share their culture with visitors. An integral part of Chinese culture, is Chinese cuisine.

Chinese believe in big dinners with lots of different dishes. Food is served family-style on large lazy-susans. In this way, everyone has the opportunity to try many dishes. The optimal number of guests at a Chinese meal is ten, with at least that many different dishes. At our dinner in Kunming the snacks arrived first; baskets of grasshoppers and what I thought were deep-fried worms. Since worms have no legs they look less threatening, so I snacked on some of those. They were like Cheetos, without the cheese. I guess my husband did not have the heart to tell me those were no worms. I would only find out much later from someone familiar with Yunan food that what I had eaten were really deep-fried maggots; as if the distinction were significant. Who knew all the ways my Air Force training would come in handy?



But it was not all maggots and bugs. Despite the fact that little of what I encountered in China resembled anything from the Peking Garden restaurant back home, I did really like some of the things I ate. One of my favorite Chinese dishes comes from Sichuan province. It is called MaPo Doufu. The translation of which evokes images better suited for the dermatologist’s office than the dining room. MaPo Doufu translates as pock-marked, old lady’s tofu. If you can get past the title it is a delicious, spicy tofu dish. Ants Climbing Up a Tree is another Sichuan favorite. Not mine, but someone’s. It is not really ants, but bits of beef served on noodles. I know; darn. In other cultures ants or their image are unwelcome at mealtimes, but for someone from Sichuan the ants marching one-by-one is a saliva producing image.

Despite images of insects or nasty skin conditions, the folks in Sichuan cannot compare with their adventurous neighbors in Guangdong province. During the 2003 SARs crisis it was thought the disease was spread by Civet cats sold in markets for food. An individual interviewed at a market specializing in exotic animals offered by way of explanation a commonly held sentiment in Guangdong, “You see an animal and you naturally wonder what it tastes like.” As the saying goes, “the Cantonese eat everything with legs but tables, and everything that flies but airplanes.”

For lovers of American Chinese food, being confronted with Chinese Chinese food may feel, look, and taste, a bit like bait and bait. There may even be the temptation to dine at a non-Chinese restaurant. Flashing red warning sign. If you see a foreign restaurant you may want to dine at, make sure there is a foreigner who matches the cuisine working in the kitchen. Or you may encounter quiche with nary a whiff of egg, pita bread being passed off as pizza, or enchiladas with a red curry sauce. Then try bringing the discrepancy to the attention of your unconvinced Shanghai waitress. The Chinese do not do attitude, they do impassivity.

During our China tenure we held a nearly unbroken streak of confronting and consuming culinary challenges. I will admit to two failures. The turtle. I just could not do it. It reminded me of the old box turtle that showed up from time to time in our backyard as a kid. I draw the line at pets as food. My husband is far less principled. He nonchalantly sliced off its head and mucked it on down. But even he reached the edge of his eating envelope. When offered the business end of a male donkey he politely declined. He later vaguely explained it had something to do with gender solidarity.

Oh Nader, Where Art Thou?

Efforts to protect American consumers began more than 100 years ago. The first products to receive scrutiny were food and drugs. With the passage of the Consumer Product Safety Act consumer products would have their own comprehensive governmental oversight in 1972. Where there are new laws, could lawyers and lawsuits be far behind? Coming to the rescue of maltreated American consumers is an army 1 million lawyers strong. By contrast, China, a county with almost four times the population of the United States has just over 100,000 lawyers. As you might have divined, it is dark ages of consumer activism there. Given the expansion of manufacturing in China in recent decades, the Chinese consumer is at the mercy of the law of the jungle rather than the protection of the law of the land.

I was one of those hapless consumers. When we moved into our Shanghai house I was not initially alarmed by the window mounted fans in the bathrooms and kitchen. It was a different approach than the fans installed in ceilings that I was used to in the US. However, they build with concrete in China so I could understand the path of least resistance was a thin pane of glass rather than twelve inch thick reinforced concrete.

The only trifling problem with the window fans was their lack of a screen covering their blades. They appeared remarkably dangerous. But really, who would be stupid enough to stick their finger in a fan? As it turned out, I was.

I am not a thrill seeker or even particularly curious. I am, however, rather fastidious. I was cleaning the window and my hand inadvertently passed in front of the fan. It must have sucked in a few fingers. I jerked back my now fiercely throbbing hand expecting to see a bloody stump. The intense pain made me dizzy. I carefully climbed down from the toilet seat I was standing on and wrapped my hand in a mass of tissue.

I hobbled over to a chair and slumped into it. By now I was both queasy and faint and my hand felt like I did not let go of the grenade. At this point I was approached by the pair of four-legged furry men who share our home. To them, I am the “help” so I knew they were not there in a support capacity. Please. Cats? They were more worried about how the can of Friskies was going to get opened that night now that the “help” was indisposed.

As my head cleared and my nausea abated I got up to survey the damage. The cats looked relieved. I teetered over to the bathroom and gingerly opened my makeshift bandage. It could have been worse. The fingers were intact but the finger nails were history. Since I had crummy nails to begin with it was not such a devastating loss. However, I did hope they would return someday. Losing a few fingernails now seems minor compared to almost frying an entire arm.

Shanghai resides on the southern bank of the Yangtze River. Like New Orleans, this is a low, marshy floodplain; which means bugs. Amazon jungle, size of your head kind of bugs. Especially mosquitoes. Once again, my dwelling conspires against me. Because just like the window fans, the windows themselves had no screens on them. Not that I would open windows to allow in the chemical-laden Shanghai air, but I did have to open the front door occasionally.

To fight my mosquito war I possessed a few weapons in my arsenal; both offensive and defensive. My defenses consisted largely of chemical weapons. My body armor consisted of a spray that probably contained chemicals that had been banned by the Geneva Convention. The label depicted a person surrounded by what resembled a Star Trek inspired force-field. I would have preferred a Romulan cloaking device. It glistened on exposed skin making me look like a Mr. Universe contestant, sans muscles. As an additional line of defense, I burned mosquito coils on either side of my front door. My house either looked like a Buddhist temple or some New Age retreat.

Fly-swatters were too low-tech for back to the future China. Showing up on store shelves in March like a harbinger of spring were little electrified tennis racquets. Killing as sport may have gone out with Teddy Roosevelt, but the Chinese brought it back by combining technology, necessity, and sport to create mosquito killing tennis. Killing a mosquito is a satisfying accomplishment any time, but even more so mid-flight; do unto them before they tap into you. A loping mosquito however, hardly compares to the manic, erratic flight path of their fellow pestilence disseminators, flies. Killing, whether it is a mosquito or fly, is a community service making the world a safer place.


My primary offensive weapon, WMD for flying insects, was the Kill-O-Pest. It was an industrial-strength bug zapper. The advertising literature proclaimed, “If it flies, it fries.”

I was pleased to observe a full tray of bug carcasses at the bottom of the Kill-O-Pest just days after it was put into operation. I had heard a rumor that the Kill-O-Pest zapped bugs with such intensity that it blasted their body parts out in a 14 foot radius. Upon closer examination of the fatality catch tray I noted with disappointment that most carcasses belonged to flies. Not that I did not want to kill flies, I did. It is just that I wanted to kill mosquitoes even more. Perhaps pudgy poo eaters have more heft to them than mere blood-suckers. Presumably, mosquitoes, being less substantial than flies, now had their little legs, wings and thoraxes strewn about my living room. Odd as it sounds, I was somewhat comforted by that thought.

I now had proof that the Kill-O-Pest did in fact kill. My hope was that it would kill all the flying pests in the house. Despite the lack of dead mosquitoes, the tray was full and looking a little gross so I turned off the bug execution device in order to empty it. As I reached for the tray my hand lightly brushed against the coils and zap; the Kill-O-Pest was trying to kill me. My arm flew up and almost detached from my body. I went skidding back across the wood floor with the other arm trying to break my fall. My personal air defense artillery just mistook my arm for a flying insect.

I stared in disbelief at the Kill-O-Pest, with the switch in the off position. Perhaps off does not mean the same thing in Chinese.

Shanghaied in Beijing

In our new home in Shanghai, my husband and I furnished a spacious, comfortable guest room to accommodate the anticipated throngs of visitors we were sure to receive. We were certain family and friends would be eager to experience the exotic Far East. A subsequent relocation from Shanghai to Hong Kong resulted in a downgrading of our guest accommodations in terms of space and luxury. Our once commodious accommodations now consisted of a cramped cubby hole that doubled as storage space; closets and garbage disposals mystifyingly absent in Hong Kong rentals. Sure, space is at a premium in Hong Kong, but that did not entirely explain the downsizing. Almost a decade in Asia and our guest book had a grand total of three entries. I felt snubbed. I interpreted this as a broad indictment of my hospitality skills. My husband claimed it could not be him, as he was considered nice half of our couple.

Reasonable people would be grateful and kind to the few people who subject themselves to the formidable 14-hour flight across the Pacific staffed with flight attendants recruited from SuperMax facilities. But I was more like a wounded wombat than a reasonable person. Embittered or simply innately sadistic, I began developing guest itineraries that were directly proportional to the vexations guests visited upon us.

Clogging a toilet earns a guest an express trip to the local wet market; even better in the summer when the food starts cooking under the hot sun before it ever leaves the food stalls. Whether or not an offense was committed, this is a mandatory excursion for any vegetarian guests. Wet markets communicate to a more primitive version of our selves. Large chunks of red and white striped meat hanging on hooks above bloody cutting boards seems one step removed from running it down on the veldt ourselves. Even better if they have left a little fur on, or a hoof.

Once guests start craving familiar food from back home I patiently admonish them. Feigning distress, I claim that I would be remiss in my hostess duties if I neglected to provide exposure to all nine of China’s regional cuisines. I further proclaim that I cannot allow them to return home without experiencing the local delicacies such as fish heads and chicken feet. I assure them these items will not be on the menu at the Peking Garden restaurant back home.

Republicans. It just does not get much better than leaving them at the museum of the First National Congress of the Chinese Communist Party. To prevent international incidents we pick them up after about an hour.

Any of my siblings who visit automatically rate the most diabolical tour I can devise. I have a lifetime’s worth of payback stored up after the childhood hell I endured at their hands. When my sister and brother-in-law timed their first visit to Asia when I was seven month’s pregnant I was not deceived for a moment thinking they were actually concerned for my welfare. No, they wanted to see my massive maternity-clothed body waddling through the Forbidden City.

However, even my warped scheming could not have conjured up the maltreatment that lay before them at the hands of a Beijing cab driver. Prior to the Beijing Summer Olympics, most cabs in Beijing were dark red Jettas. The driver sat behind a plastic and metal cage. On the dash were the driver’s registration and the fare meter. Usually the shocks were shot and the the interior reeked of cigarette smoke.

Due to my expansive girth relative to the modest confines of the cab interior we decided to take two cabs when we went out to dinner our first night in Beijing. We communicated to the driver via the hotel doorman our destination and sent my sister and brother-in-law off in the first available cab. Our wait was no more than a few minutes and we were off in the same direction, or so we thought.

Beijing has heavy traffic spurred on by increasing car ownership. This heavy traffic load is exacerbated by tremendous construction projects throughout the capital. Keeping everything exciting are the skills of the Chinese drivers. That night our journey took forty-five hungry minutes. We expected to find our relatives waiting for us. That they were not there was not at first a cause for concern. Different routing, driver’s skill, and luck could account for different arrival times. The minutes ticked by. I visited the facilities, several times, as pregnant women often do. Minutes turned into an hour, which turned into another hour.

Perhaps it is worth noting that both missing relatives were former military members and currently employed by a sensitive department in the US government. While I had never heard of Americans getting nabbed in China, my inherited paranoia was just kicking in. Just as we were debating whether or not to contact the authorities, which began with a discussion of whose authorities, a red Jetta careened into the parking lot and came to an abrupt stop at the restaurant entrance. My relatives wearily emerged from the back seat. Their mouths started to move and nothing came out. My husband suddenly became fluent in Putonghua and embarked on a spirited debate with the driver. The driver claimed that he was told to take them to a university on the other side of town. Since my relatives spoke no Chinese, it was unclear how he managed to then find his way to the restaurant he claims he was never told about. In the end he settled for what the fare would have been had he taken the correct route.

Some time after the first round kicked in the relatives regained the power of speech. Because we had not told them how long the drive was supposed to take they had no idea anything was amiss until the driver attempted to drop them off at darkened and deserted university campus. Apparently a lively discussion ensued, they speaking English and he Chinese. His already enthusiastic driving was kicked up a notch and they sped back into traffic until they arrived at the restaurant, all the while being tossed about the back seat of a well-worn Jetta with parts of seat belts that did not connect.

I could not wipe the happy, goofy smile off my face. I secretly wanted to give that driver the tip of his life. Thank you Beijing cab driver for inadvertently participating in a younger sibling’s long term revenge scheme.

Fowl Food and Supermarket Shenanigans

One bit of Americana that does not seem to have caught on elsewhere in the world is the concept of zoning. Thus, immediately behind the gated community of three-story, 4000 square foot homes that I lived in with my husband, stood a row of bleak, pollution-stained apartment buildings; just the sort of thing to pique the interest of an adventure-starved expat. My husband and I were fond of taking morning strolls exploring Shanghai neighborhoods and one morning our stroll took us though these dreary apartment blocks. We came across a mini farmer’s market in progress; not one your weekend farmer’s market attendees back home would recognize. No one was strolling around with a latte in one hand and a NYT Sunday Edition in the other.

It was a small gathering of scruffy vendors with meager offerings and contentious senior citizens tight-fisting their RMB. There were two young boys with a flat-bed cart attached to their bicycle. A few lonely vegetables waited expectantly on the cart for interested buyers. Two elderly ladies were examining the goods and initiating negotiations with the boys.

Another vendor was a marvel of engineering modification. Who knew a 50 cc Honda scooter could aspire to be so much more than merely basic transportation? This scooter had transmogrified into a food delivery and production vehicle. The scooter was mostly obscured by all of its upgrades. Attached to the left rear side of the scooter was a propane tank. Behind it was a large pot with a burner underneath it. On the right side was a collection of cages, many with live chickens in them. Across the seat was a butcher block and a large knife.

There was a fair amount of blood, feathers, and unpleasant looking globs in the vicinity of the scooter; foreshadowing the fowl carnage to come. The vendor smiled pleasantly and nodded as we looked her way. A prospective customer approached her and began looking in the cages, inspecting the flock. Quite a bit of banter was taking place between the chicken vendor and the customer; and amongst the incarcerated chickens. Eventually a chicken was selected and we looked on in morbid anticipation.

Holding the chicken upside down by its feet, the chicken vendor expertly wrung its neck upward. It gave easily with an audible snap. The chicken’s wings flapped uselessly in surprise. As soon as the last spasms of life left the chicken the vendor got to work. Expertly, almost artistically, she cut around the anus and worked the intestines and internal organs out. Some of these she tossed on ground, others she set aside. Now I saw what the hot water was for; using long tongs she plunged the chicken into the water. After removing the chicken she plucked it, placed in a shopping bag along with the saved organs, and handed it to the waiting customer. I sincerely doubt the folks at Tyson’s can top that for freshness.

As fresh as the offerings were at my newly discovered neighborhood market, I still preferred to do my shopping at the big discount supermarket. Though the preference was tenuous. Other than the potential for a line at the check-out, grocery stores back home hold few surprises. In Shanghai, I never knew what to expect.

My neighborhood store was the German-owned discounter Metro. Most Americans have never heard of it, but it is the 4th largest retailer in world. It is a lot like Costco; membership card and all. I like it because I get to shop with a flat-bed trolley. To me the flat-bed says, “Watch out folks, serious shopper here.” Not sure my fellow shoppers saw it that way.

Because it is a discounter specializing in bulk items, many of my fellow shoppers were buying for restaurants. I looked forward to the days I got stuck in line at the checkout behind some guy with several flat-beds of his own full of pork. I am not talking pristine little styrofoam trays with plastic wrap pulled tight over cute little pork chops or thin pork loins. No, I am talking whole pigs, or big chunks of them. No wrapping. What was even better was watching them pitch the pieces into the back of a waiting pickup truck.

You see parts of animals you never realized were edible in Chinese grocery stores. Pigs heads; who eats those? Speaking of heads, they leave them on everything--fish heads, chicken heads. The only heads you see at a U.S. grocery store are green and located in the produce department.

Occasionally, a fellow shopper would take an interest in my intended purchases. And that would not have bothered me so much, if they cleared it with me first. True, I had not actually paid for the items, but they were on my trolley so the intent was there. On one such occasion, a group of ladies surrounded my trolley and began examining items, passing them around, all the while commenting in Mandarin. My limited linguistic skills meant I did not understand what they were saying. But I was profoundly put out that I could not get to my cart because they had it surrounded. Some days, my reservoir of patience is deeper than others. Unfortunately, this day was not one of them. I firmly pushed one of the ladies aside, manned the helm, and steered clear of the gaggle. Much discussion followed me down the aisle. No doubt complaining about my lack of manners.

In addition to all the “raw” food in its nearly natural state, Metro mercifully also stocked unthreatening looking salmon fillets, styrofoam trays and all. As I was perusing the selection I felt something cold and hard pop me in the forehead. I looked up to see a cherubic-faced boy of about 10 years of age across the open freezer from me. He had a victorious smile on his face as he launched another salvo at my head. Another direct hit on my stunned forehead. A stern reprimand from somewhere else in the seafood section and he disappeared. I felt robbed of my retaliatory strike.

Not only do I shop with a list, I order my list according to the store layout. To a control freak like me it makes no sense to list milk and then laundry detergent. No, I cluster dairy products, produce, etc. Often my grocery list resembled my Amazon.com wish list. These were items I was hoping to purchase someday. Given the amount of quality food the U.S. produces, it was more than a little disappointing to find the only U.S. imports when I first arrived in Shanghai consisted of Pringles and Skittles. So I knew when I put Arm and Hammer baking soda on my list that it belonged in the wishful thinking column. So I was pleasantly surprised when I saw the familiar orange/yellow box. True, it was shelved with the cleaning products, but it was there.

While putting my groceries away upon my return home, something caught my eye on my new box of baking soda. What the hey? Arm and Hatchet? I had heard of counterfeit DVDs and designer handbags, but sodium bicarbonate? How could I have missed this? Instead of biceps and a tool on the box I had Dances with Wolves and a weapon. Then I wondered if this white powder really was sodium bicarbonate. While not the best student in my high school chemistry class, I did recall that mixing a baking soda and vinegar should result in a reaction. I whipped out a bottle of vinegar and prepared to conduct my experiment. Success in the form of foamy white bubbles.

Still, I felt sullied. I did not intend to buy bootleg. Could the folks at Arm and Hammer hold me legally liable? Would they retain lawyers like the Recording Industry of America? Unwilling to become another victim of the U.S. litigious machine I sent Arm and Hammer an email stressing that I was not complicit in any transaction intended to defraud their venerable company. They did not respond. Fine Kemosabe. I used the whole box, guilt free.

Chinese Fire Drill

"Come on, we're going for a ride," Christine beckoned.  She still had rollers in her hair and she and Carol were standing outside my bedroom window wearing pajamas, robes, and wide, mischievous grins.    

Idling at the curb was her mom’s 1970’s vintage station wagon in all its wood-paneled glory.

“I’m going out the side door,” I whispered, as I grabbed my green, quilted robe before tip-toeing down the hall past my parent’s open bedroom door.

Back in those days bench seats were common in cars and all three of us squeezed into the front seat. We were high school freshmen and Christine’s lack of a formal driver’s education or a legal license did not deter us from embarking on an early morning road trip. Wild and free before 5:00 a.m. Man-alive, I thought, it was going to be a great day. At that moment, I forever linked the act of driving with the feeling of freedom.

Twenty years later I found myself a resident of the sprawling metropolis of Shanghai where I was chauffeured around town in a slinky, black Lexus. Door-to-door service wherever and whenever I wanted to go. After a week or so the novelty wore off, and I missed having my own set of wheels. After a little digging by my assistant, okay my husband’s assistant, it was revealed that foreigners could indeed get driver’s licenses in China. My driver found my interest in obtaining a license amusing; in due course I would discover why. China did not offer reciprocal recognition of U.S. driver’s licenses. Which meant, if I wanted to drive, I would have to pass their test.

As in the states, the Chinese Transportation Department’s licensing process for drivers involves a written and a practical exam. In the states, prospective drivers receive a book of traffic laws to study which they are then tested on. In China, I received the test of traffic laws along with the test answers; which I studiously memorized. In the states, a practical exam involves demonstrating your driving ability with an evaluator in the car with you. In China, I would discover that the practical exam was something entirely different.

Another departure from the way it is done back home is the order of testing. In the states, in order to qualify for the practical, or driving portion of the test, you must pass the written portion first. In China it is the other way around. Emphasizing driving skills over traffic laws explains in the casual regard most Chinese motorists have for traffic laws.

My driver accompanied me to the testing facility. Eager, I suppose, to see how I would fare on the exam. Initially, I thought we were in the wrong place. This did not look like the bleak, dingy, over-crowded DMV facilities I had been subjected to in New Jersey. This resembled, no kidding, a carnival. There was a definite festive mood to the air. I was given a check sheet indicating rooms I was to visit. Each room contained a different examination. After successful completion of a task I was given a “chop” or stamp from the examiner. All were apparently critical components to operating a motor vehicle. There was no particular order, but I had to complete and pass each one prior to being allowed to take the written exam.

The hearing test was straight-forward and similar to ones I had taken during annual physical exams. I am not aware if deaf people are prevented from driving in the states, but in China it is grounds for disqualification. Next was the vision test. Makes sense that eyesight is necessary for driving. But here is where the Chinese are a bit more stringent than the states; apparently color-blindness is also grounds for disqualification.

A relevant tangent if I may; in China everything is negotiable. As many business people will attest, in China, the real negotiation starts after the contract is signed. I have witnessed negotiations over restaurant bills and at the grocery check out. So it should not have come as a surprise that when the guy ahead of me was disqualified for driving due to color-blindness, he was not going to depart quietly. Thus, a negotiation ensued between the color blind guy and the test proctor. Luckily for those of us waiting, reinforcements were brought in from other stations to get the line moving again. I was quickly tested to the sound of an increasingly heated negotiation.

Next up was the depth perception test. I sat at the end of what resembled a shuffle board table. Mid-way down the length of the table was a board, perpendicular to the test taker, with a notch missing. Running the length of the table and through the notch was a cable. Once I sat down and indicated that I was ready, the tester sent a target down the cable in my direction. I was supposed to press a button when the target passed through the notch in the perpendicular board; seemed simple enough. Evidently my driver was not so confident in my abilities. He stationed himself beside the perpendicular board and as the target passed through the notch he began to gesture emphatically with outstretched arms. I was so surprised at his thrusting arm movements that I almost missed pressing the button.

I may have failed the next portion of the practical exam, because frankly, I never understood it. For this task I stood in front of a a spinning wheel about the size of a dinner plate. It was positioned about chest high.  Red dots covered the wheel. The object was to guide a needle through, or around, the red dots. I simply wove my way around and through red dots until they told me to stop. My driver seemed a little disappointed in me at that point.

One more driving challenge to go and a chance to redeem myself after my last performance. A large and boisterous crowd pressed into the doorway of my remaining driving challenge. I would soon discover that it was not the test that was so entertaining, but rather, the test proctor. A test taker sat at a table. Across the table from her was a standard traffic light; red, yellow, and green. There were buttons at each hand and a pedal under the right foot. The point of the test was to gauge reflexes and eye-hand coordination; red light illumination required pressing the foot pedal, green light the right-hand button, and yellow light the left-hand button.

The current test taker was rather uncoordinated so the test proctor was taking extra measures to assist her. She had a long stick in her hand and was whacking the table next to the test taker’s hand indicating what button to press as the lights blinked on and off. All this whacking and the crowds’ shouts and laughter had completely unnerved the test taker. Undeterred, the test proctor seemed resolute that no one was failing her test. She continued to whack away with her stick to roars from the crowd and frantic squeals and twitches from the test taker.

When the victim left I was unclear whether she had passed or failed, but I did not have time to contemplate it because my driver pushed me through the door and into the seat. The test proctor gave me a challenging look and explained in Mandarin what I was supposed to do. I nodded my understanding; not because I understood Mandarin, but because I did not want to get whacked. She had her stick at the ready. Despite the pressure of the hungry crowd and stern proctor I passed the test quickly; the stick was never used on me. The crowd, initially out for blood, cheered my success. Soon we would be adversaries on the road, but for a moment we savored each other’s victories.

Despite flubbing the driving wheel portion of the practical exam, I was cleared for the written portion. I was anxious to proceed as I did not know how much longer my short-term memory would hold up. I felt test answers leaking out of my head. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. I quickly dispatched the written test and received a perfect score.

In short order I was the proud recipient of a Chinese driver’s license. I had a stronger sense of accomplishment than when I got my Texas driver’s license at 18. And while I never sat behind the wheel of a car with an impassive state trooper in the passenger seat holding the clipboard of shame, I think it is fair to point out that when I took the practical exam in Texas I never left second gear of my father’s Honda Civic for the entire driving portion of the test.

Up the Yin-Yang

Mysterious abdominal pain led me to a series of doctor’s visits all with remarkably similar results; each doctor puzzling over the probable cause as they palpitated my tummy. Tests were ordered and proved inconclusive. Eventually an internist recommended a colonoscopy. Anxious to discover the cause of my distress I heartily agreed. Boy, was I in for a surprise.


There are western medical clinics in China that practice standard western medical care. In fact, most of their physicians are either foreign or studied abroad. Seeing one of these doctors and obtaining a diagnosis is done just like it is back home. Where things depart from familiar territory is when an advanced procedure beyond drawing blood is necessary. While the rudiments of these procedures are the same, the context is, well, foreign.

I did not know exactly what a colonoscopy was until I got home and read the pamphlet the doctor provided. Gulp. They were going to do what? Where? In the name of medical science, and before I developed a Percocet addiction, I dutifully drank the beverage they provided that was intended to empty out my intestines. I presented myself at the Western medical clinic at the appointed time for my procedure. A hospital employee and a driver put me in a non-emergency hospital vehicle and transported me to a local Chinese hospital. The fee for the locals was probably dirt cheap, but since I had my own escort and interpreter I paid an exorbitant fee; an expat tax of sorts.

In a nation not known for the privacy of private citizens, I should not have been too surprised about what I confronted at the local hospital. I arrived at the ward where the colonoscopies were preformed. It was an assembly line process. Lined up along the wall in the hallway were people waiting their turn. Inside the room were two beds, one with the person undergoing the procedure, the other for the person coming-to from the sedation. Hospital staff milled about the two beds. I knew this in advance because, the door was open and people were standing in it watching the procedure being performed...it's not television, it's...a Chinese hospital.

Whenever I find myself in an inevitable humiliating situation, I always reassure myself by saying, “But I will never see any of these people again.” Thus, I changed into my hospital gown and took my place in the plastic chair queue. A foreigner waiting for a colonoscopy must have been a rare sight because I was now drawing more attention than the procedure room. I was doing my best to act nonchalant as I pretended to read the book I brought all the while engaging in an internal interrogation about whether or not I was a hypochondriac.

Finally, my interpreter indicated that it was now my turn. I did my best to ignore the curious onlookers and head held high, marched into the procedure room. Another difference between hospitals back home and those in China is the attire the hospital staff wears. In the U.S. most nurses and orderlies wear scrubs with ergonomic shoes. My nurse for this procedure was dressed for a night on the town with heels on and a fetching dress. An open lab coat was my signal that she was legit. The doctor, at least I think he was a doctor, looked a little more familiar with his slacks, dress shirt with tie, and lab coat. Nothing was said because my interpreter had bailed, but I was motioned toward the table. Shortly after lying down I was out and the next thing I knew I was being shuffled over to the recovery bed. Were the sheets changed between patients? Not something I wanted to dwell on.

Since I was anxious to depart and put this whole medical episode behind me I willed myself awake and moved slower than I would have liked toward the changing room.

Did the colonoscopy reveal the source of my discomfort. No. It was normal. In fact, I never discovered what was causing this pain. After a few months it was gone and never returned. Sometimes, the body just has to heal itself.

Maybe, I should have gone to a Chinese doctor practicing Traditional Chinese Medicine rather than a Chinese doctor practicing Western medicine. What is clear is that my qi was likely disrupted by too much yin. And having a tube stuck up my butt while a crowd looked on probably contributed to even more yin. Next time I have a mystery pain I think I will try meditation and massage first; definitely more yang, than yin, for the buck.

The Wonderful World of Disney--Hong Kong

The crowds are light, complaints the park is too small are common, and the Hong Kong government is losing money on the venture; but we really love Hong Kong Disneyland.

When we had our kids I was really dreading the day they would be old enough to go to Disneyland. My experience with Tokyo Disneyland and Magic Mountain in California were hellish; the lines were hours long for rides that lasted mere minutes. I was actually trying to find a way to make this into a "Daddy and kids activity."



I don't know what I was so worried about. We have had our annual pass for almost a year--and we love going. Granted, we do not go every weekend. We go every month or so. The annual pass for Hong Kong Disneyland is relatively inexpensive and frankly, with all the extras you get with it, like free parking, it has already paid for itself.

Since our kids are still quite young, 3 and 5 respectively, they are not really into the rides. Their favorite things to do are meet the characters and play in the water park. We bring swimsuits and towels and the kids spend most of their time playing in the water.

The best things in life are...$2

Riding the 100-year-old city tram from Kennedy Town, through Central, and then hoping off at the playground in Happy Valley is one of our favorite things to do in Hong Kong. The ride takes 45 minutes to an hour and costs $2 per person. We sit on the upper deck and take in the sights and smells (dried fish street!) of the city. The old trams are not air conditioned, so all the windows are typically open--something to watch out for with little ones. Mine needed reminding to keep heads and arms inside. It also makes for a breezy ride.

Foreign Objects

“Stepford Villas” is the moniker conferred on my neighborhood by the expatriate community of Shanghai. In this time-warped neighborhood, men work and women join clubs. I would say tend house but that is not necessarily true. The same advantageous wage structure that has denuded the American landscape of manufacturing jobs in favor of cheap Chinese labor, allows middle-class American expatriates to hire housekeepers, nannies, drivers, and masseuses that make house calls. Not having to concern themselves with the mundane tasks of domesticity, the über-housewives of my neighborhood can actually do the projects in Martha’s magazine.

In Stepford Villas, I feel every part of the interloper that I am. I was a reluctant housewife. Sure, I look the part of the new mother: de rigueur track suit with spit-up stains on the shoulders, over-stuffed diaper bag with the accoutrement of babyhood, unkempt hair, and the edgy expression of someone in a sleep deprivation experiment. But underneath it all is a baffled woman who woke up in a life she did not recognize.

My neighborhood, now within Shanghai’s first ring road and boasting the tallest building in China, was nothing but farm fields less than fifteen years ago. Some of the locals look as mystified about their new circumstances as I do about mine. The climate and air quality in this unlikely boomtown are practically pestilent most of the year, but winter shows Shanghai to an advantage. The normally turbid skies clear, the odor-laden air dissipates, and the mosquitoes die.

On an appealingly brisk December day I got my son Kendall up from his nap and we headed over to our weekly playgroup session. There I could look forward to an abundance of sagely advice offered by childrearing experts, most with exactly one child each. This week’s hostess was Sasha, a Koala-cute Aussie with a gorgeous daughter who looks like her name--Amber. Amber has done everything first in our playgroup cohort: first to feed herself, drink from a cup, and say “mama.” I expect a solution to global warming and an end to strife in the Middle East before long thanks to the miraculous Amber. Surely this indicates what an outstanding mother Sasha is--a natural. Since my little man is the last to do everything, that makes me the malingering mother of the group.

Recently, I was riveted by the plight of the poor penguins captured in that docu-drama tying to perpetuate their species. As a result, my new mantra is, “keep the egg alive.” In a rare burst of confidentiality, a father (God forbid his wife overheard him) recently admitted to me that once the “egg” becomes a teenager the mantra will change to “don’t kill the egg.”

With Christmas just a few weeks away, Sasha thoughtfully scattered Christmas ornaments on the floor along with some toys for the kids to play with. Kendall, my egg, put everything in his mouth; a habit he would continue for another nerve-racking year. I assumed his mouthing of objects was a phase he would grow out of so I did not do much to discourage it. However, failing to examine what he was putting in his mouth proved to be a tragic mistake. Kendall quickly found an ornament and began mauling it.

I was only arms length away from him when I noticed that he was gagging. I suspected the worst and sprung into CPR mode. I vaguely remembered to “clear the airway,” and I attempted a finger sweep of the mouth. Unfortunately I pushed the foreign object deeper into Kendall’s throat. I should be fired. I flipped him upside down and began swatting him on the back. He began howling at this betrayal, first the fingers in his mouth, then sharp blows to his back. All I knew was that howls were good--it meant air was getting through. But I saw nothing ejected from his mouth. What a time to discover I have no aptitude for the Heimlich maneuver.

In the mean time, the playgroup crowd stood paralyzed by this spectacle; me, more crazed-looking than usual, and Kendall crying at the rude treatment he had been made to suffer unjustly.
“Did you see anything pop out of his mouth?” I asked Kaori, a micro-Asian woman, and mother of three from Japan.
“No, but I’ll look.” She replied helpfully and got down on her hands and knees and began searching the carpet. “What did it look like?”
“I didn’t see it, I only felt something hard just before my finger-sweep shoved it down his throat,” I said.
By now a few of the other moms had joined the search for the mystery object. My son’s crying had tapered off to a wounded whimper.
“Thanks for looking--but I have to assume he swallowed it. I need to get him to a hospital in case this object tears his esophagus or blocks his intestines. Sasha, can you call me a cab?”
“Just use my driver, he’s not doing anything,” she offered, in a somewhat cavalier manner, or maybe that was just my imagination. (Surely Amber would never put something like a Christmas ornament in her mouth!)

I rushed out to the minivan in the driveway and climbed in. “Wo yao chu port o man.” I instruct the driver in my survival-purposes-only Chinese. It is likely the only thing he understood was “port o man;” Chinglish for the Portman complex that housed the only Western medical clinic in Shanghai. It was late afternoon and the traffic moved disappointingly, though not surprisingly, slow. Along the way I managed to phone my husband Mark and assure him that yes, his first-born son was still alive and breathing, but no, the foreign object he was chewing on just before he began choking had not been located. Forty-five agonizing minutes later I arrived at the clinic to find my husband and my driver looking equally distraught. We rushed into the clinic and were quickly ushered into an examination room. A young, female doctor entered just seconds behind us.
“I understand your child may have swallowed something? What did it look like?”
“Uhh, I think it was part of a Christmas ornament. Actually, I may have pushed it down his throat when I was trying to sweep it out,” I explain in a voice dripping with ineptitude.
“Let’s put him up on the table and take a look,” she said. She retrieved a tongue depressor from a jar and attempted to insert it into the egg’s mouth. He responded with firmly closed lips.
“Sorry little man, we need to look inside your mouth. Open up please.” I requested, and he parted his lips only slightly, suspiciously. It was enough of an opening for the doctor to slip in and take a quick look. The egg focused on me with a betrayed look in his eyes; it would not be the last one of the day. The doctor then placed her stethoscope on his chest for a quick listen. He squirmed as the cold instrument stung his skin.
“There does not appear to be anything obstructing his airway,” she concluded. But so had I, like an hour before. “But you say you could not find the object. That means it could be in his stomach by now. I suggest and X-Ray to be certain.”
“Okay,” Mark and I replied in unison.
“Unfortunately our X-Ray machine is down; you will need to go the foreigners’ unit at Rui Jin University,” she said, handing us a card with the address. Our hearts sank.

We were not enthusiastic about visiting a local hospital. As most parents quickly discover, once you have children your relationship with the health care system intensifies. You see more doctors, more often, than you typically do as an adult, and that is just for routine check-ups and vaccinations; never mind the inevitable accidents that occur. I knew that in the event of an accident or sudden illness I would have to rely on the medical care available in Shanghai. Frankly, I hoped that day would never come. Sure, Shanghai has the world’s first Maglev train, an ultra-modern airport, and river-spanning bridges and tunnels employing the latest in civil engineering technology. But everyone knows that their hospitals are scary; SARS anyone? In the end, we did as we were told.

Mr. Chang, our driver, was waiting with the car running. In a city as large and sprawling as Shanghai he has an incredible ability to find any address in remarkable time. He employed all his professional driver skills, and some insanity, to get us through the heaving and impossibly narrow surface streets on the way to the local hospital.

Mr. Chang pulled up to the front gate and sprang from the car with speed and agility astonishing in a portly smoker. One look at Kendall and I, and the guard pointed us in the direction of the foreigner’s unit. The reception area was confidence-inspiring with polished floors and uniformed personnel. The Western clinic had called ahead to alert them of our impending arrival, so they were expecting us. We were quickly directed to the radiology department.

Once we passed through the doors of the foreigners’ unit and into the hallway of the local hospital, dread returned. I know it is cliché to talk about the medicinal smell of hospitals, but that would have been preferable to the odor that confronted us. The tangy stench of urine assaulted our noses immediately as we passed the public toilets. The corridor was brightly lit with fluorescent lighting that showed everything to a disadvantage; the missing tiles from the floor and the dirty, stained walls. Local Chinese milled about and stared at the wai gou ren walking past them. We arrived at the radiology department and after a short wait were escorted into the X-Ray suite. Our confidence returned when we saw the big, beautiful, state-of-the-art Philips X-Ray machine. We were pleased to discover that the room temperature, normally frigid in Chinese public buildings during the winter, was kept soothingly warm. Technicians placed protective vests around Mark and me. We were instructed to hold Kendall still as the device moved over him. We did as instructed. He looked so small and vulnerable on the table with no shirt on. He was scared and crying. Mark and I were scared and trying not to cry. I felt like I had failed him.

We were asked to return to the foreigner’s unit to await the results. Shortly thereafter, a throng of lab coats appeared and began deliberating. Lots of people wear lab coats in China. So what they were is anyone’s guess. Soon we were approached by a woman who identified herself as the interpreter.
“Unfortunately, the X-Ray was inconclusive--we could not locate the object,” she rattled off crisply, with only a hint of an accent, “therefore, the doctors suggest that we put your child under anesthesia and go in and look for the object with a gastric scope.”
“Uh, could you excuse us for a moment?” I stammered back, much less articulately.
“Oh-my-God, are they crazy?” I hissed at Mark. “They want to go on a fishing expedition in Kendall’s stomach.” Before he could answer I whipped out my mobile and punched in my best friend Sue’s number. She had caller ID so she knew it was me calling.
“Helloooo, whatcha doin?”
“Sorry, no time for chit chat. I am at Rui Jin Hospital, the egg swallowed something and they are proposing a rather radical solution, do you have Dr. Leung’s number?” I hammered out like a Gatling gun. Dr. Leung was our mutual pediatrician in Hong Kong.
Sue rattled off the doctor’s number before disconnecting.
I dialed and was astonished when the doctor answered after the first ring. After I explained the situation to him, he paused momentarily before responding.
“Normally, we would wait a few days to see if the object passes before such an aggressive intervention.”
I quickly and quietly related to my husband the gist of Dr. Leung’s advice which we then relayed to the interpreter. She returned to the throng of lab coats where there was much intense deliberation. She returned, looking grim.
“If you do not wish to search for the object, and instead want to wait for it, the doctors think it best that your son remain in the hospital overnight.”
“Thanks…but I think we will be more comfortable at home.” I said.

The hospital staff was disappointed with our decision but in the end accepted it. We paid our bill and returned home. The egg seemed fine that evening and slept through the night. The following day he was constipated for the first time that I could ever remember. The interpreter from Rui Jin hospital called to check on him. I can never recall a clinic or hospital in the U.S. making a follow-up call. I was grateful, but had nothing to report. So we waited.

The next morning the egg had his regularly scheduled morning poo. After attaching a clean diaper we set him on the floor to play and set about the grisly task of examining the contents of his diaper. We both donned rubber gloves and began our inspection. I was the first casualty. Overcome by the odor I dropped out. But Mark, God love him, soldiered on. After a few minutes of meticulous scrutiny he declared the diaper free of any foreign object.

Later that morning, after Mark had gone to work, the egg had a second poo. I knew I had to screw up the courage to go it alone. This time in addition to the rubber gloves, I added wads of toilet paper up my nose and dove in. Mercifully, my gloved fingers immediately hit something hard and non-biodegradable. There it was--the little plastic piece that connects the ornament with the wire tree hanger. It was not quite an inch long with a circular piece on one end and a dagger-shaped piece on the other. I bundled up the soiled gloves inside the diaper and along with its contents happily dropped it into the Diaper Champ and went off to call Mark with the good news.
“Mark, I found the object, it passed!”
“What did it look like?”
“Scary actually. It was pointed on one end and rounded on the other. We are lucky it didn’t do any damage in there.”
“What did you do with it?”
“What do you mean, do with it? I threw it away.”
“What! Go get it. We have to save that for posterity.”

Once again, I dawned gloves and tissue wads, opened up the Diaper Champ, and retrieved the souvenir. How strange, I thought as I examined the object after thoroughly washing it in anti-bacterial soap. To think that item passed completely through Kendall’s little body.

Later that day the interpreter called again to check on our son and the status of the foreign object in his body. She seemed as relieved as we were when I relayed the good news.

Some day my son will also marvel at the object that passed through him. For now he just seems content that the constipation has passed. For a moment, I can breathe easier, the egg lives.

The Bold Roach

Like any moldering, somewhat tropical locale, Hong Kong has a rich and plentiful population of creepy eeewww-inspiring creatures.  Such an emissary from the bug world confronted me one evening after putting the gremlins to bed.  

Most evenings, for two glorious hours, I am able to relax with a glass of red wine and mindless television.  That night is was to be Grey's Anatomy and an Australian Shiraz-Cabernet.  I had set the glass down on the coffee table and crossed the room to the DVD player to insert the necessary disc.  

While humans are not known for the best eyesight in the animal kingdom, our eyes are good at detecting movement.  And at the moment my eyes were riveted by the movement on my wine glass.  Since there are no witnesses, I can only surmise that the look on my face combined revulsion with indignation as I watched a roach crawl up the stem of my wine glass.  

At steroid-worthy speed I shot toward the kitchen for an industrial-sized wad of paper towels. Concerned, as I was, that the perp would escape in my absence.  Evidently, I did not inspire fear in the multi-legged interloper because rather than making a run for it, he had casually sauntered farther up the wine stem--savoring the bouquet perhaps.  

Grabbing a roach off a wine-stem without breaking the glass or spilling the wine, given my heightened state of agitation, was going to be a difficult maneuver.  I determined it needed to be a two-handed operation with simultaneous execution.   Despite my hasty planning, the execution was flawless.  One roach squished beyond recognition.  

The incident cast a edge over the evening; relaxation was replaced with vigilance.   Maybe oenophile roaches are a rare breed; I tried to tell myself.  But would my English muffin be safe in the morning?