Life

My medical Chinese class is really starting to kick my ass, since I scored 87% on my last exam partly because I mistook the pancreas for the gall-bladder; embarassingly enough, it was the English definitions that confused me, not the language barrier. But I'm also seeing results. When we interviewed cancer patients on Friday, with Dr. Zhang translating for us, I managed to pick up "chemotherapy", "pancreas", "radiotherapy", "knee", "benign", and "malignant"; all these words I've acquired in the last two weeks. YAY!

Memorizing parts of the body and the face.

It's warm and sunny - and windy and changeable.

Currently, I've got some sort of gan mao, a cold - my guess is excess wind and heat. As usual, they're urging me to see a doctor, but, as usual, I'm holding strong to my refusal and eating fruit, avoiding alcohol, and drinking lots of water. I just wish they wouldn't nag...

Xi'an 2.0, or When Stazi Bought a Guzheng

We went to Xi'an again over the Ides of March; this time, we traveled as a pack, flew, and had a rather annoying and ineffectual tour guide. They pastured us in horrible, overpriced restaurants that were big on the fancy napkins and various innards, and pretty lacking in food quality, flavor, and edibility. So that was unfortunate. Luckily, it being my third time to Xi'an, I managed to escape the painful tourist-trap adventure to the Bingmayong, the Terracotta Army, and sneaked away several times with Chantal to eat pineapple-on-a-stick, 1 kuai tea-eggs, and copious amounts of pearl milk tea.

I also bought a guzheng.
Not just any guzheng, though; Chantal's old one, that she somehow managed to transport on a charter bus from her new campus to the old one, and from there, we squeezed it onto crowded public buses that looked unfavorably upon too big a backpack, let alone a fragile instrument the size of a small teenager. The next day, I also dropped 300 kuai on a hard case for my new acquisition; we wrestled it onto a bus, the driver of which was under the impression his vehicle was a taxi. After a couple of wild turns where the case almost took me down, the guy next to me (who was also in danger of being buffeted by the sarcophagus-size monstrosity) smirked and helped me hang onto it. The driver also let us out the front door. People are just nicer when you're carrying an instrument the size of you!

The Great Mosque of Xi'an, right before evening prayers.

In the Sha'anxi province History Museum.

Forest of Stone Steles (calligraphy).

It was my birthday!


Chantal and I explored another siheyuan in the Muslim Quarter.

Catchup Interruption: BEIJING SYMPHONY

Yesterday, Yasi's roommate gave Yasi and me free tickets to go see a mystery performance at the Beida Concert hall. It turned out to be the Beijing Symphony, but because we didn't get a program during the first half, we were presented with a series of surprises of various qualities.

The orchestra itself was okay. Almost respectable, really. For the most part, the intonation was decent, and although the dynamics could have used more finesse, they were present. I think it was the hall's fault, partly; it didn't spread the sound as well as it could, so the orchestra just sounded dry and tinny - or at least as dry and tinny as a full symphony with a harp in attendance can sound.

Their first piece was what sounded like Sousa arranged for orchestra. Yasi, who doesn't know classical music, laughed quite a few times during it and dubiously pronounced it "cute". She's too kind. (I think it was Sousa; I couldn't read the Chinese on the board.)

Next was the "modern" piece, titled "Ah!" and reflecting Chinese opera. Which... was fun for the first 2-3 minutes, as modern pieces generally are. It had more creative orchestration than most of its kind, though, including mouthpiece-popping and string-slapping, as well as hisses and cries from the musicians.

After this, Yasi was ready to quit. I don't blame her; the combination of bad-Sousa-for-orchestra and a modern piece had worn me down, too. Why do conductors made bad music choices? Sousa will not be forgotten while marching band parades and military wind ensembles exist. Why bring him into the symphony hall?!

But! They tried to win us back by playing Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet Suite. It could have been magical; it almost was. The strings really were exemplary. But... but! It was the flutes that broke my heart. During the love theme, the famous famous love theme, where it's flutes and oboes for about 32 bars? They were horribly out of tune with each other. And not just a little; a good 10 cents off, reminding me painfully of my own butchering of Dvorak and Mendlessohn. They're professionals, though - not Whitman Orchestra wannabes. That broke my heart a little. They didn't even try to fix it - just chugged on, phrase after painful phrase.

During intermission, after caving and spending 2 kuai on a program, I figured that the tu pian in the title of the next song could refer to actual pictures, and the su and er in the composer's name might be bits of "Mussorgsky"; so I was suitably excited when I overheard an elderly white man in a tuxedo patiently explaining, to the politely confused program salespeople, that Mussorgsky had a painter friend, who died, and this piece is all about paintings, see, lots of different paintings, - but he was starting to get frustrated, and I was happy to flee before he was politely and efficiently led back to his seat.

"Pictures at an Exhibition" was wonderful. Yes, the off-beats had serious timing issues; yes, the tuning was peccable; but the tuba and first trumpet really stole the show. That tuba player was bomb. As was the 6'5'' German trumpet player (we came upon him smoking outside his bus right after the concert, so I had the chance to fangirl a little and inquire as to their further concerts).

After the concert, they had three (3!) encores, which... was a bit rich. The first was a schmaltzy arrangement of a Chinese folk tune, the sort that they play on loop over the bus and train loudspeakers, but the audience was enraptured. The trumpet guy (who was the focus of our attentions, as his head and shoulders stuck out far above the rest of the orchestra) was not amused as he played his 8 alloted bars of the gentle, string and flute heavy, ornamented tune. But he perked up for their second encore - the Can Can. (As cheesy as it is, it would be hella fun to play.) And by the time they played their last encore, a mercifully short string arrangement of an erhu tune, the audience was tired of clapping and pretending to want more.

All in all, it was a nice echo of the world I left to come to China. And it was completely worth it, because it was free! :D

Old News

Remember how we had that scavenger hunt the first Saturday we were here? Remember? Tiananmen Square, Mao, taxi driver? We also had to write a Fieldbook Entry about it - a "letter home". I was meaning to post it and then got lazy, and forgot. So here it is, about two months out of date.

On our first Saturday in Beijing, we were released into the city – in pairs with ostensibly normalized linguistic ability – to complete a series of tasks that would probably make a good Amazing Race episode. I couldn’t help but imagine a camera crew frantically elbowing its way through the crowded subway. I could see confused pairs of competitors wondering how to cross the street to Tiananmen, or begging suspicious locals, – in flimsy Chinese – “Please, can we borrow your cell phone, it’s a local call, I promise…”

It was fun, intense, and a crash course in the local attitude towards foreigners. Kearney and I made no apologies for our whiteness; we’re waiguoren, and there’s no point in denying it. And to be honest, it helped us that Saturday: although we brought a map of Beijing with us, we didn’t use it once. Every time we were confused, we’d ask a passerby for directions; that’s how we changed subway lines, crossed the street, found a hutong, got to Wangfujing.

It was surprising, really, how willing people were to help us. Part of it was that we were at a national landmark, and everyone seemed to be in a holiday mood – probably a combination of clear blue skies, Spring Festival, and the grandiose Tiananmen Square. But even on the way to Wangfujing, while randomly asking guards, passerby and vendors, we consistently got (accurate) directions and arrived without issue.

At Wangfujing, however, we got a taste of the negative aspects of being an ostensible foreigner. Pushing our way into the side-street maze, full of overpriced snacks and stalls overflowing with bright trinkets, we were accosted from every side with cries of “Hi lady, look this! You want this? This? This?” The alley was bursting with every aspect of the Chinese culture that a foreigner might want to carry away with him.

Scorpions on a stick, still feebly waving their legs; foreigners buying them and taking pictures with them: “Look at me; I’m eating crazy Chinese food!” Roasting kabobs, weaving their greasy fragrance between the heaving masses, stall owners calling out in hope of capturing a fragment of the public’s splintered attention. Packages of brightly colored chopsticks, cheap and mass-produced, an ancient cultural symbol wrapped up in the new symbol – of high output commerce, thrust upon a hastily built foundation. Ranks of alarm clocks with Chairman Mao on their faces, arms ticking, ceaselessly waving goodbye to the ancient Qin clay army statuettes across the alleyway. Fake jade, fake calligraphy brushes, fake silk – the street was full of it, neatly overpriced to take full advantage of the insensitive tourist with his too-big camera, ready for him to take back his meaning of China to his home and display his worldliness on his mantelpiece.

But Kearney and I have dual citizenship: not only are we waiguoren, but we also zai Beida du shu, we’re Peking University students. PKU is the top-ranked university in China, and in a country where one exam determines what university you go to, it’s far out of reach for all but a select and lucky few. On the Beida campus, you see the highest-ranked students of their year’s gao kao, the national college entrance exam; it’s dizzying to think how much effort these students put into preparation, and how proud their families must be that their own effort paid off. Over the summer, when I was studying at Yunda, it was interesting to hear the students’ stories of how they ended up there. Some were from the province, but for many, it was their only real option. Milan, my language partner, was from the Beijing area, and four times a year she would undertake the three-day train across the country, between her home and her university. Yunda was the best school that accepted her marks.

So this is why Kearney and I received so many incredulous stares. We were butchering this country’s language, yet we went to the highest-ranked educational institution in the country. Kids study all day, for their entire young lives, to get into this university. My roommate has lived away at school ever since middle school, and she did very little but study the whole time. It’s an honor to have my picture inside the little red plastic ID cover.

One of our scavenger hunt tasks was to talk to someone in line to see Mao. The crowd that was bunched around the beginning of the line was milling and busy, and it proved difficult to catch a person to talk to, since everyone was pushing forward and pulling out their IDs and calling out to one another: “Hey I’m over here, he’ll hold our bags, let’s go let’s go here take my hand!” However, after some scoping out of strangers, we easily engaged a grandpa in conversation. He was perched on a fence with his granddaughter, watching the rest of their family’s bags while the family members shoved their way through the melee to be herded past the waxy Mao.

Our grandpa was from Shanghai, and had come up the day before; he was here on vacation with his family, since it was Spring Festival. Yes, he’d just seen Mao, you should too! Oh but seeing Mao is free - you have bags? You can check them over there across the street, yes yes, right over there. Where are you studying? Beida?! Waaa! Studying Chinese? For how long? His admiration for Beida was evident, reinforcing our impression of the pride of the Chinese people in their premier university.

It felt good to talk to him, too. Stacking words on top of one another – three from Chapter 2, two from Chapter 11 – and fitting them into increasingly highbrow grammar structures, I finally was getting satisfaction from wielding my clunky command of the Chinese language. No more were we drifting aimlessly, straining to catch momentary glimpses of clarity – oh, that’s the bird radical, I think that’s chicken, let’s order it! – and constantly discovering our limitations, for example when our order of “chicken” resulted in bony chicken feet swimming in a greasy, unbearably spicy red broth. Now I was actually staying afloat, even when I – as per our scavenger hunt instructions – engaged our taxi driver in conversation. At first, it seemed a daunting task, since he was rather taciturn, probably due to the dubious quality of our language ability. I was fidgeting in my sticky seat, looking back at Kearney with wide what-do-I-do-he-won’t-talk eyes, desperately grabbing possible topics from conversation from the streets rushing jerkily past our windows.

“Uh… jin tian tian qi hen hao, the weather is very nice today,” I began. “Wo yiwei Beijing dongtian leng...” I trailed off after expressing my confused expectation of a cold Beijing winter, but he only appended an affirmative grunt. I peeked at the meter, clicking away and spontaneously spitting out lengths of receipt paper; it was partly hidden by the thick metal divider between my seat and the driver’s. Craning around, I saw Kearney melting into a tired puddle of experiences, and felt sleep tugging at my own mind too; forcing myself awake, I ventured again towards the driver.

“Nali you hen duo youke, a?” I asked, pointing out the gaggle of tour buses arrayed around what looked like a Daoist temple. He nodded, and added something about the weather, then asked where I was from – and used “America” as his springboard to leap into the political tirade that encompassed the failing economy, the connection between China and the US, and the cost of living. His words washed over me, tinged with a thick accent that was momentarily incomprehensible until I could re-focus my hearing to accommodate it; I grasped at recognizable sounds, jing ji, meiguo, guanxi, and nodded assent, made intelligent sounds, and every now and then interjected an entire sentence.

Beijing chugged past me, full of delicious hutong food, of helpful locals, of touristy foreigners, and I fell asleep for a few minutes until we finally arrived at Beida. Hopping out of the taxi, Kearney and I lunged towards the entrance, ready to begin our true stay at Beida.

Still Life: Chinese Class

They just put me in my own Chinese class a couple of weeks ago. Now I get private tutoring 12 hours a week! Woo, Pitzer. 2 hours a week of just regular tutoring, 6 hours of "intermediate Chinese", and 4 hours of medical Chinese! I'm learning the names of bones in Chinese that I've never bothered to learn in English.

Up there is the result of a regular tutoring session using my Medical Chinese textbook - we ended up taking about blastomeres and abortion, as well as microbiology and primary cell cultures. I'm missing scienceyness more and more, so it's very refreshing to be able to discuss medicine, in Chinese, from a few different sides.

Of course I'm still studying TCM, but - I'm a little ashamed to admit - I do miss the comforting complexity of cells, organelles, proteins, and neat little boxes and acronyms to sort the world into. Entering the world of Chinese medical philosophy is taxing and confusing, and every now and then I just want to retreat to my already furnished, Western mindset. But I have to keep chugging... and eventually it will all make sense. I hope.

Also pictured in still life: plain sunflower seeds, guzheng tuner. And that's my tutor's Chinese handwriting.

TCM clinical visit

At some point we visited the Beijing University #3 Hospital, which is apparently a pretty famous one, and used to be a high-ranking acupuncture analgesia hospital. Now, of course, acupuncture analgesia has fallen out of favor because chemical anaesthesia has improved and minimized side effects and danger.

However, the acupuncture section is very good, so we visited two of our TCM professors, Doctors Huo and Guo. They specialize in acupuncture and cupping. They also do electro-acupuncture, where they hook up a low electrical voltage to the needles to constantly stimulate them, instead of manual manipulations. Makes it easier to see lots of patients.

Electro-acupuncture. Stole this off the web.

Cupping. There's also moving-cupping, where after they put the cup on the back, or neck, they briskly move it downwards. Stole this off the web too.

Basically they store the glass cups in a shallow tray of alcohol, and then light an alcohol-soaked piece of cotton wool and hold it inside the cup to heat it up. Then they either apply the cup and leave it there, or run it down the body.

We didn't get to try any of those methods on the patients, but we did question them, take their pulses, and examine their tongues. Our diagnoses were pretty crappy, to be honest, but we could tell a cold disease from a hot one, and a swollen tongue clearly denoted a spleen problem.

The Yale girl brought her camera and took some pictures of us. We're saying we're Bei Yi medical students - that's what the emblem on our lab coats is! I really want to keep my lab coat and wear it to Physio lab next semester.

Taking the pulse. You use three fingers, and each one corresponds to a certain organ.

My TCM class.

More Old Pictures: Olympic Leftovers

One weekend, the program organized us into a bus and packed us off to the Olympic Park, together with some tutors, and Tai, our gallant program student assistant, shepherded us from spot to spot and even took part in our pyramid. He's awesome.

This is it at night, actually.


Can you believe Phelps was THERE? THEEEREEEE?










10 kuai pictures with the Friendly!




This was the afternoon's star attraction for the entire Bird's Nest, actually. And there's Tai in the bottom right!

I thought the Water Cube was significantly cooler inside than the Bird's Nest, but I think that's because the magic of the Nest is in its external architecture - inside, it's really just a nice stadium.

Catching Up via Pictures: Xi'an 1.0

Ha, so this is why I have a blog. Once exciting things start happening, I get busy and too lazy to post. But I also really want to show off all my pretty pictures, because China can get so freaking beautiful sometimes.

Because we begged a Monday off of class, I left on Friday by night train and came back on Tuesday morning, just in time for my 10am Chinese class. I'd bought zuo tickets, just seats, because it cost 150 kuai each way instead of 274 kuai.

It worked out pretty well because I had relatively good conversations in both directions - on the way to Xi'an with a 20 year old soldier who showed us pictures of Russian boy soldiers (I've been telling everyone I'm Russian rather than American because the reception tends to be warmer), and on the way back, I got lectured on Chinese characters and criticized for my lack of knowledge of political vocabulary pertaining to the Russian Soviet government. At 4am.

So anyway, I arrived in Xi'an at 7am and was greeted by Chantal and the Muslim Quarter that was just beginning to stir. Chantal and I quickly learned that not all pink stuff is cao mei, strawberry, but rather it can be a suspiciously glutinous and salty concoction. We ditched the 2 kuai bowl of disaster and ran.

Touristy Muslim Quarter, still closed up. These are generally bustling stalls filled with brightly colored trinkets etc.

The white pile is all noodles! Sha'anxi province is noodle-famous.


Lots of such meat stalls in the Muslim Quarter.


Sha'anxi noodles! Yum.


Slack-line in the park, with rapt audience. Avi.


Village right next to Chantal's campus.


The face of bird flu.


We climbed a mountain and fell a lot.




These rice cakes with sesame paste and rose sauce are DELICIOUS. Omfg. Best sweet rose-flavored thing ever.

Aaand then I got home and was suitably exhausted and barely made it through class and my tutoring session. Now we have a rule that we have to get back by midnight the day before our next class. Oops.