The Last Night: Victoria Harbour

So I finally got to doing the Star Ferry Night Harbour Tour as well. Like the Tian Tin Buddha, I just got to it, and it just so happened to be the last thing I got to do here in Hong Kong.

Right now, I'm finishing up the blog before some concluding posts. Yeah, it's almost 6:00 a.m., but I've decided to pull an all-nighter today so that I can sleep through most of my flight. It makes sense, since I'll arrive at San Francisco in the morning (9:00 a.m. Pacific, 1:00 a.m. Hong Kong). So if I don't sleep in the plane, I'll end up sleeping in SFO waiting for my connecting flight to Los Angeles. And with the stuff in my carry-on luggage, I'd rather sleep on the plane than in the waiting area for a gate.

The Trips that Never Happened

I thought I was going to go out with a bang. To end my stay here, I was going to travel around—to Singapore, Japan, and South Korea to be exact. Despite my intentions though, I won’t be going to any of them in the near future, and while I’m a little saddened, I know I’ll get over there some day. 

It came down to a lack of earlier planning and the fact that I would have been traveling by myself. I was highly advised by my parents not to travel alone, because it’s always good to have at least one traveling companion for safety, even if you speak the language. (English and Mandarin for Singapore—yes, Japanese I could brush up on, South Korea I would have been relying on hoping to find English speakers.) I understood my parents concerns, but I wanted to go for it at least once. I heard that traveling alone is an experience like no other, and similar to studying abroad, I wanted to make this experience my own.

The ultimate reason why it didn’t work out was because of money. Because I hadn’t planned earlier, the prices were all inflated for the holidays. Because I was to be traveling alone, accommodation priced for two was little cheaper for one. One of the major services that I’ve been using, Cathay Pacific Holidays, doesn’t even allow for single travelers to book because all their prices are worked out for parties of two.

I looked into a weeklong trip to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. Hotel and flight alone would have cost me $700 USD. For just $300 dollars more, I could have brought along two more people. So in the end, I decided that in order to spend money in a more sensible manner, I would postpone these trips indefinitely. After all, I’m most definitely coming back to East Asia sometime.

Phuket: Pad Thai and Elephants

As of late, I’ve had to focus my time and effort into my studies, so my blogging has unfortunately not been as frequent as I like. As a result, I’ve begun to fall behind again.

Now two weekends ago, we managed to make our way over to Phuket, Thailand (ภูเก็ต). The name isn’t pronounced as crudely as it looks. As I was enlightened, the “h” in Phuket (as well as in “Thai”) denotes aspiration, think puff of air, rather than an “f” (or “th”) sound in conjunction with the “p” (or “t”). As such the “Ph” at the beginning as “p” like at the beginning of the word “pin.” Glad we got that one straightened out.

Secondly, Phuket is an island, according to my research. Telling my friends though was an uphill battle, as I had to contend with faulty logic in convincing them—example of which include: “I don’t think it’s an island because I don’t think it’s an island;” “But there’s buses going to Phuket”—ever heard of bridges?; and my favorite, “It doesn’t look like it on the flight map”—well I’m sorry, but small islands aren’t worth drawing as separate from the mainland when covered by a dot and lines—does Singapore look like an island on the flight map? As I would later find out, that friend didn’t know Singapore’s land mass consists of one main island and a number of smaller ones. And Australia is smaller than China, but only by about two million square kilometers. Cool.

Well we landed after four hours of flying from Hong Kong (I remember five hours from Los Angeles to Washington, D.C.), and went through immigration. Like in Taiwan, the officers stapled our departure cards to our passports, but we went through without a hitch.

On the other side, I pointed out the stand of tourist maps saying “Welcome to Phuket Island” in English and when we went up to the taxi counter to get transportation to our hotel about an hour away at Patong Beach (หาดป่าตอง), there was a map clear as day showing the island formation. Without rubbing it too much into their faces, I gave them haughty looks for fun as they looked away in shame, realizing that their (faulty) logic had been to no avail.

We ended up in a minibus (smaller than Hong Kong minibuses) to Patong Beach and our lodging, the Patong Swiss Hotel. The whole ride was in the dark, but from what I could see (mostly buildings), it became obvious that we weren’t in China anymore. The funny thing was that this was the first time on the whole trip that we (myself included) had been outside Greater China. As I’ve just recently figured out, this was to be my last trip outside Greater China before going back to California.

The thing is, though, that despite the fact that we were in a foreign foreign country, there was more English on signs and in general than Thai (which by the way is quite aesthetically pleasing). Our minibus stopped midway at a storefront to collect our tickets, and after politely refusing their tours and excursions, I got back onto the bus.

Arriving at the Patong Swiss Hotel, I was exhausted. By this time, it was about 1:00 a.m. Hong Kong Time and about midnight local time. Ready to lie down, we checked in to find that they had given us just two beds for our five-person reservation.  One person got sick though before the trip, so we arrived as four. So the first night we ended up sharing beds, though the next morning we were given two bigger rooms (and me my own bed). Like in Guilin, the showers were without curtains, which only meant to me that the cleaners would have more work (though I tried hard not to get water everywhere).

That first night, I studied for my Fine Arts final, which was to take place the day after we got back to Hong Kong. The rest of them went out exploring Patong Beach nightlife.

The first morning, I woke up in a rut. It was quite hot and humid (though admittedly not as bad as my first weeks in Hong Kong), and we had just come from sub-75 degree temperatures back in the SAR.

After getting ready, we went out the front door, and much to my amazement, the beach lay right across the (two-lane) street from the hotel. I hadn’t noticed it at all the night before! I guess I forgot that my friend booked us a beachfront hotel.

We walked a couple blocks along that street. What was expected were the large volumes of shops selling merchandise, particularly knock-off brands. What wasn’t expected was the large number of expats there—and I say expats rather than tourists because most men were hand in hand with Thai women (though I remain open to the interpretation that many of them could just be escort). It was odd to see such a large expat population, but on the other hand it wasn’t unreasonable since they, along with the large numbers of European and Australian tourists present, were the reason for all the English signage.

Walking by, the hawkers try to grab your attention—and they do it much better than in Mainland China and definitely better than in Hong Kong, where they don’t even attempt. There, they understood the value of the relationship in business. Rather than pulling you in by listing off their merchandise, they’d start by “Hello, where are you from?” or “My you’re handsome,” or something to that effect. I personally got a lot of “你好s.” One of my American friends who speaks Cantonese answered back: “I speak Cantonese” in English, to which I laughed.

We got breakfast at one of the many done-up venues. I got some authentic Pad Thai, which was delicious, and some (real?) Thai Tea, which tasted more like cold milk than anything else.

This is the only trip that I took this term that I didn’t really take to get any historical culture out of—no sightseeing, more fun I suppose (though I enjoy sightseeing).

So that day we actually got to ride (Asian) elephants. It cost ฿500 Thai Baht for a half hour (฿33 Baht = $1 USD), so that was like $15 USD. The experience wasn’t really like I’d imagined. I’ve ridden on horseback on multiple occasions (and my fair share of carnival ponies when I was under three feet tall), but never an elephant.

There was a platform to mount them that was a good ten feet in the air. Getting on was intimidating, as you were to step onto the elephant’s back to get into the seat secured on the elephant. The guide sat right behind its head, on its neck with his feet touching the elephant’s ears. To move left, the guide would shake the elephant’s left ear with his left foot, and to move right, the guide would shake the elephant’s right year with his right foot.

The whole thing made us feel oddly sad for the elephants, and remembering back the horses, I remember having similar sentiments, only to cast them off by saying that we aren’t the first to do this.

We were taking all over a muddy trail. The barefooted guide dismounted the elephant halfway and took pictures of us, this led the elephant back to the base with voice commands. At one point, the elephant began to make a wrong turn, and the guide hit its right leg hard with a sickle-looking rod, making a vicious sound and making us wonder what was going on.

I guess we couldn’t help but to feel sorry for the elephants. I guess you could hope that at least they are well taken care of and fed properly. As we dismounted the elephants, one put its trunk up on the platform. My friends petted it, thanking him (or her) for his (or her) service. I guess I was too busy taking photos, because as I reached my hand out after putting my camera away, it retracted its trunk and went on its way.

The rest of the day we went around the shops and played a modified (and more intense) form of Jenga at a bar. At night, we got Mexican food. Right after, I went back to the hotel to keep studying for my Asian Art History class.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Guilin: The Two Sisters

We arrived at about 7:00 a.m. at Guilin Railway Station. Off the train and out of the train station shortly thereafter, we walked wearily though we were not overly tired. The forced early morning start was good in that we were now up and had a nice long, full day to do stuff.

Out of our group of six, three of us were going to catch the 9:25 p.m. train back to Shenzhen that night of that same day. Three of us, including me, were to stay overnight and catch the train back the next day. To this effect, we all went to the hotel that three of us booked, where we all put our stuff for the day.

The reception at the small hotel (named Guilin Riverside Hostel) was extremely nice, especially by Chinese standards, and helped us book our Li River Cruise the next day. As I was to find out, Guilin is really a tourist town (more like city), and many people are very nice as I ended up spending a lot more money than anticipated.

After stopping at the hotel, we went out to the main street to find bus number 11 to Seven Star Park. While we were walking though, a taxi driver offered to take us around the city for ¥30 CNY for the whole day to as many tourist sights as we wanted. When we made it clear that we would need two cabs since there were six of us, the cab driver brought over an additional cab driver, and the price for both sat at ¥50 CNY, all people included. It sounded unreasonably cheap, and I was a little weary of taking them up on their deal.

After a bit of group deliberation, we decided that it would be fine. Though they would be going off the meter for us, they were official cab drivers, legitimate and legal, and we figured that even if they upped the price on us at the end of the day, it would still be really cheap.

So we hopped in the cabs. Since we now had longer-distance transportation, we figured we’d see the sights farther out first. First on the list was breakfast, now Reed Flute Cave (芦笛岩), which sat on the outside of the city and was a considerable walk from the closest bus stop.

The cabs went all of a block-and-a-half to get to where the drivers took us for breakfast. The place was in a backstreet and served really good Guilin noodles (桂林米粉), a big bowl for ¥3 CNY, which I later found out that you pour soup into

The city was quite dense, and though the air was not noticeably polluted, the traffic was often gridlocked, and it took us a while to get out to the mountains.

Guilin is famous for its mountains. They are unusually vertical and skinny for their height, and they noticeable pop up from relatively flat ground. Most are covered with vegetation, and some have temples built on top. The majority of them, though, sit grouped in formations that have led many a Chinese poet to muse over their beauty and uniqueness much in the same way they’ve marveled over Hangzhou and Suzhou. And with Mao Zedong on one side of the ¥20 bill, one particular scene from these mountains is printed on the other. They truly are one of the many prides of China.

We arrived at Reed Flute Cave and bought out tickets at what I thought was the entrance. Actually, we gave our money to the taxi drivers, who went up to the window and bought our tickets for us. After that, they drove us to the actual entrance, probably another half mile down the road.

The entrance, while not done up, was noticeably commercially centered, with an official gift shop selling goods and hawkers selling the same goods for less. Entering the cave was unlike any cave that I had been in before.

Yes, I’ve been in caves before—two to be exact, namely in the Jewel Cave in Black Hills, South Dakota (where Mount Rushmore is), and Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky. Each was about the same as the other. There were small caves to crawl though and generally a few larger caves. All of it was lit brightly to avoid accidents and considerably cooler than the aboveground weather.

Reed Flute Cave was pretty much the same actually. The main differences were in the way it was actually done up. The floors were all relatively wide and concreted flat with aggregate stone. The caves were lit with bright, alternating colors. Places were concreted to accumulate water to make the interior more picturesque, in which case tube LED lights would light the shoreline between the pond and the path.

I thought that while it was visually appealing (minus the visible LED tube lighting), it wasn’t what I felt nature should be. I’ve thought that nature is best left untouched—a concept, which I now know, I was taught.

Inside the caves, besides stalactite and stalagmite formations, were also some big turtles being attended to by staff members. Each was named by a sign saying “Thousand-year-old Turtle,” the validity, of which, I of course doubted. For each turtle (there were three total) you could pet, which of course, was as fun as petting any turtle, with the same fear that it could nip your hand off (though they were so lethargic that they probably didn’t care at that point in their lives). Two, you could buy pendants off their shells and one you could buy food to feed it.

Exiting, I used the bathroom, which reminded me of the infamous pooper stoopers that China is known for and the general lack of sanitary measures both on the ground and through the lack of soap next to the sink. For a country that’s so concerned about a swine flue pandemic, it would seem reasonable that more measures would take place to prevent the spread of germs, and by extension, disease.

Though the tour through the caves was guided, the path was clear, and most visitors, especially us for our lack of Mandarin comprehension, ended up wandering around by ourselves. By the end I forgot that there was even a guide to begin with. The taxi drivers met us at the exit of the caves.

Next on the journey was Yaoshan (瑶山), which is the highest peak in the range of mountains around Guilin. The park had a cable car going up, which we took. At the top, we got the classic frame of the beautiful mountains that Guilin is known for. Again, the cab drivers took our money and paid for the tickets. They said they needed to do so to get free parking for the taxis.

On the cable car ride and at the cable car stop, the view was not the best though, because though it was a sunny day, fog masked the clouds and all that was visible were faint outlines. From the cable car stop, walking further up towards the top of the hill, the view did not get any better, though the white members of our group kept getting asked by the locals to take pictures with them because I guess they don’t see white people that often. They didn’t mind, and I even ended up taking the picture.

Taking the chairlift half back down the mountain, you’re prompted to get off. As part of the round-trip ticket to the top of the mountain and back, there is a toboggan-style ride to get from midway down the mountain all the way to the bottom, believe it or not.

Unfortunately, I got few pictures of the ride itself, since I was told I couldn’t take pictures while speeding down the winding metal track. We were allowed to control our speed with a lever and warned that there’s a sharp curve at the very beginning that’s kind of nasty that we definitely need to slow down for. I was sure that many of my friends would just go for it at full speed, because, I guess, you only live once.

I, on the other hand, took my time. While in parts I did go fast for fun, I figured I was only going to go down the slope of this mountain once, so I would rather enjoy it. As I went down, there were a lot of safety personnel that I didn’t expect. Most stood on right before the curved sections to blow their whistle to prompt you to slow down if need be.

I could feel the fresh Guilin air through my hair I suppose. But while the ride was exhilarating, there was no real view involved with the track layout. It was fine, because, I guess, we’d already gotten the view on the top and on the chairlift.

At the foot of the hill, next to the visitor center, there were some small shops. We went to a small coffee shop hoping for a good cup, as some of us were starting to crash from the early start to the day, but it was exactly how it was in Beijing airport—noticeably “brewed” from instant and quite sub-par.

Meanwhile, the taxi drivers were booking tickets for us for the Four Rivers, Two Lakes cruise later that evening. The later came up to join us at the coffee shop, where we found I found out that they were sisters.

The time now was around 12:30 p.m., and the cruise was set for 4:15 p.m. So with hours to spare, we decided to check out the Ming Palace along the way. It’s officially called the Jingjian Princes City (靖江王城), and while it was never used as the main residence of the royals, it served as one point from where the ruler could do business.

Once again the sisters insisted on buying our tickets for us after we gave them our money. It became apparent that what seemed at first just a courtesy was actually a way for them to make money. For the price that we were to pay, it now made sense how cheap it was, and frankly, we were fine with it, because for the individual sites we still paid the listed entrance fee.

Entering, the complex looked small and unimpressive with the exception of the lone mountain the middle. To get to the mountain, we went through building upon building, ranging from dining halls to bedrooms and throne rooms, and the cave under the mountain.

After coming out of the cave on the other side of the mountain, we realized that we’d missed the path to the top. It ended up being on the west side of the hill, and when we got to the foot of the steps, the path that we were about to climb became visible and clearly steep.

All things considered—namely how long the day had already run—the climb wasn’t too bad. It was taller than it looked and the view of Guilin from the top was pretty good. There were a few buildings at the top, as well as a place to buy drinks, of course. From there you could clearly see the way that the city formed on the flat land around the mountains.

I guess you could say I’ve got a thing for getting the bird’s-eye view of a city. In Rome, it was as simple as the roof terrace of the hotel. In Paris, it was the Arc du Triomphe (because we didn’t go up the Eiffel Tower). In Hong Kong, the view I got was from the Peak. Chicago—Sears Tower (now renamed). Both the Ferris wheel and Taipei 101 did the trick in Taipei.

At this time, we still had a couple hours before the cruise, so we got lunch. The food was good, though we had to eat around of the odd-sized bits of bone with the lamb.

After walking around a local supermarket for a bit and checking out what was there to be offered, we went over the center of Guilin, where the famous pair of pagodas stands.

The cruise was supposed to go for an hour and a half, but ended up going for about an hour. The usual route was not taken for a couple reasons. First the normal course would have run straight past Elephant Trunk Hill, a symbol of Guilin that has been effectively monetized by strategically planting trees to block views from the street and charging ¥30 to get into the park. In addition, according to the taxi drivers, the water level when we went was too low, so many boats by design cannot wade through those waters.

Waiting for the cruise to board, another group of locals insisted on getting a picture with the white people in our group. I took a photo as well.

We got a good picture of Guilin, though. It was very obvious which edifices were historical and which ones were new development. Many of the hills that we saw were covered with climbers and hikers. At the end of its course, right before turning around, there was a well-kept historical-looking area whose name we never found out.

By the time we met up with the taxi drivers again, it was nearing 6:00 p.m., and with half of us getting on a train in just three hours, we decided it would be best to just grab dinner. Anyways, one of my friends wanted to go see the “Dream of Li River” show, which was to begin at 8:00. The cab drivers helped us book us tickets and later picked them up for us.

We asked the sisters to take us somewhere local to eat—and I would find out, it was a little too local for me. The menu had all sorts of exotic things listed. Absent were beef, pork, or chicken dishes, since I guess we weren’t taken to a touristy restaurant.

So we tried it. There was a plate of snails, a plate of Li River shrimp, some soup, some sort of fried rice, and white rice. I ended up with some fried rice and a whole lot of white rice. I tried the soup, and I while I could see why others like it, it just didn’t suit my taste.

Also, I tried the Guilin Li River snails. One actually was enough for me. The snails were small, as were the shrimp, and I found myself trying to get the meat of sorts out of the shell with a toothpick. Once that was successfully done, I put the object into my mouth, aiming to look as little as possible at it, which was easier said than done. I chewed a few times and it was notably mushy, with a little crunch at the end. I took a picture of the animal’s now empty shell and that was the end of that experience.

On the other hand, one of my friends took quite a liking to those snails and ended up eating most of them. With his plate of empty snail shells in front of him, I dubbed him the snail master. Another one of my friends were showing everyone how to peel the shell off cooked shrimp in his mouth and without hands, causing me to be impressed and others to look away. With his plate piled high with shrimp shells, I dubbed him the shrimp master.

The sisters ate with us as well, and they ate a bit of everything really. I guess it fits since they were probably from Guilin and were accustomed to the local food. The whole day, they had been really helpful to us—offering advice about where to go and helping us get tickets, so the group treated them to dinner.

From there, we went back to the hotel for them to get their bags. There we decided that we were each going to chip in ¥20 CNY each for the cab, which added up to ¥120, which was more than the ¥50 they asked for, because, well they deserved it, and ¥20 per person for the whole day is really not that much money (about $2.90 USD). From the hotel, our cabs split in different directions. One went to the train station.

Mine went to the “Dream of Li River” show. It wasn’t that it wasn’t impressive, but for someone who’s already seen most all of the acts of that show done in different places, with more skill, it was kind of a letdown. Similar in the ballet-based show we saw in Beijing, “History of Kung Fu,” as well as to the shows I saw in 2007 in Beijing and in Xian, in addition to the show I saw at the Thousand Oaks Civic Arts Plaza in 2006, I was kind of disappointed at their lack of originality.

Though that day ended on a low note, the overall activities that we got accomplished in that first day well overcame the mediocrity of the evening ballet-style show. The sheer volume of events that we did made me feel like the morning we arrived was a full day earlier.

Guilin was really more than I expected in the atmosphere that I got from the city, though the scenery was a bit of a let down through the choking fog. Little did I know of the beauty that was to come but the next day.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author. 

Taipei: Monuments and Memorials

Friday, we saw stuff on the north side of Taipei; Saturday was for the south side.
We started out walking to the MRT station again and worked our way over to the Presidential Palace. The nearest station was at Red House West Gate (which has a much different name in Chinese than in English). The building itself was not eventful. The shell housed a restaurant and a small exhibit on the building’s history accompanied by a bookstore.

From there we walked to the Presidential Office, which took a leisurely ten minutes by foot. We approached the backside of the building and noticed all the guards around the building were armed with automatics (they looked like AK-47s). On the front side, we took pictures. The layout was quite western I now realized because a large road goes right to the front of the building and Ts off in an intersection. In comparison, the Forbidden City in Beijing is surrounded by water and is flanked with lakes on its west side. At its front gate sits Tiananmen Square, and not a major road.

From there we went to the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial. Though by this time it was absolutely pouring, approaching the memorial from the front and seeing the iconic blue-roofed building at the back was breathtaking; it was one of the few monuments that amazed me by its sheer size and imposition. Dodging the rain, we went to the National Theater and Concert Hall, which was halfway to the memorial itself.

At the base of the memorial, we ascended the steps and saw Chiang Kai-shek’s statue. Before seeing it, I’d imagined it would be something like Abraham Lincoln’s memorial in Washington, D.C.—and for the most part, it really was. There was some writing on the walls (headed by “Ethics,” “Democracy,” and “Science”) and the white sun in the “rotunda” area.

On the ground floor of the memorial with its entrance on either side, was a museum including little about Chiang Kai-shek. Instead, there was a ceramics exhibit and a contemporary calligraphy exhibit (in which you signed the visitor log with a brush—though I had a bit of training on the matter, my (Chinese) name turned out pretty bad). Exiting, there was a post office from which I sent off a postcard back to the United States.

From there, we took the MRT to another cluster of sites. We got out looking at the Sun Yat-sen Memorial. It was a yellow-roofed building that impressed much less than Chang Kai-shek’s. That day, there was an exhibition, probably interactive, for children, and as such there were tons of families with young children crowding the halls.

After taking photos in front of it, we walked a few city blocks to Taipei 101. Along the way, there was a fair-type setup in front of Taipei City Hall that we got snacks at. The setup also contained plenty of advertisers as well as a stage being used by advertisers to showcase their products.

On a side note, I’d like to expose the partial lack of common sense of my traveling buddies for this trip. Taipei 101 stands at one hundred one stories tall. From our hotel, Taipei 101 stood at the southeast, whereas our window looked to the southwest. At night, they insisted they could see Taipei 101 out the window. The logic behind this was that the building was pink at night and that Taipei 101 was the only skyscraper in Taipei. My reasoning for it not being Taipei 101 was that it was noticeably shorter than one hundred one stories and bore little resemblance to Taipei 101 (namely they both are smaller at the very top than at the bottom and they are both skyscrapers). In addition, the direction was totally wrong. That building turned out to be Shin Kong Life Tower, and ever after we referred to it as “Fake Taipei 101.”

Walking towards skyscrapers I guess is like walking towards a mountain—it just gets more imposing. At 1,474 feet from ground to roof (and its namesake one hundred one floors), it stood until just recently as the tallest building in the world. The bottom several floors are mall space, with the rest being standard skyscraper office space. Trying to find the elevator to the observation deck, we got lost going through the mall (designed in a more western style with a modern and confusing layout).

Finally we found the express elevator to the top on the fifth floor. The twin elevators, costing $2.4 million USD each, propel passengers up to the observation deck in around thirty seconds and descend back down in a little bit more time. In the elevator, the lights dimmed to a futuristic LED light experience conducted to distract the crowd from the fact that they were squished into the tight space like sardines.

At the top, the view was amazing. The elevator ticket came with an audio guide (I asked in Chinese for mine in English) explaining was being seen, which was basically most of Taipei. Going through the path set up, we saw the damper, which is basically a big ball in the center of the building used to stabilize the building during storms and such. There was an upper viewing floor and a lower viewing floor.

Also on the lower viewing floor was a coral art exhibition followed by coral art vending shops, which we quickly slipped by. At ground level, there was a free shuttle bus (which happened to literally be one bus) to the neared MRT station. Light turned to dark waiting and we ended that day in the hotel, ready to go back home in the evening the next day.

Early the next morning, we went to the central station (appropriately named Taipei Station) to buy High-Speed Rail tickets as part of the journey to get to the airport. After doing that, we ventured over to the Miramar Entertainment Complex and decided to ride on the Ferris wheel, since the area turned out be no more than cheapish shopping. The views from it were okay, though definitely not as good as those from Taipei 101. After having our final lunch in Taipei, we headed back to the central station to catch our train to Taoyuan.

I’d been on trains and high-speed rail before, but my fellow travelers had not. One expected to be pushed against the back of his seat by the shear physics of traveling at high speeds (a fact, which, if true, would render airplanes illogical). The entire high-speed rail line cost a bundle to build for such a moderately populated island, but from what I’ve read the venture has been a success. It took 20 minutes to make the journey to Taoyuan (where Taipei’s international airport is) and two hours to get all the way to the last station three hundred thirty-five kilometers away at Kaohsiung.

From the train station we took a short bus ride to the airport in which we arrived. As airports go, it was as dingy as Los Angeles International Airport, and super empty, which made it creepy to walk around while waiting for our flight. The time to leave though came eventually. Before going through exit immigration, we removed the staples in our passports ourselves so that the immigration officers wouldn’t tear pages or what have you.

In case you weren’t clued in, this post ends my trip in Taipei. Two weeks later (from which I just got back from yesterday) was Guilin. Stay tuned and thanks for reading!

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Beijing: Legacy of the Past

So it took me about two weeks to kind of finish talking about my latest trip to Beijing. This will kind of be my last published post on the matter. I don’t know how many avid readers I have (hopefully a handful), but I’ve been told, as has a fellow friend a blogger, that these (study abroad) blogs seem impersonal and all. I would like to say that, considering that a good chunk of the world could read this if they want to, I feel I’m being as personal as I can be without putting my public life (if such exists) on the burner. Like I’ve said before, I write first and foremost for myself. I care what other people think, and I have published it so that friends, family, and anyone interested can read about my adventures and comment, but I hold the reigns and I hold the pen, so some posts I write and put in the desk drawer. This is my open journal.

Beijing is undoubtedly a well-endowed city culturally. Similar to Italy, it has so much history in such an accessible area. Different from Italy, locals appreciate tourism and choose not to correct your English. In case you don’t remember, go back to my Roman Holiday. Unlike in Italy, where priceless paintings in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence were suffering from the same heat and humidity as outside, in China, they understand that they have stuff worth protecting and do so protecting it.

Take the Temple of Heaven. It’s an iconic symbol of Beijing. I actually bought a Temple of Heaven snow globe for a friend of mine--well actually I opted for the Great Wall snow globe, but you get the point. When I went there a few years ago, I didn’t realize that it was actually in the middle of a giant park of the same name. Not only do they keep the Temple of Heaven in tip top shape, the park is a local hotspot for everything Chinese. There were several erhu players, plenty of taichi practitioners, and some dancing going on. It was recreational area for the city with plenty of open space, creating a positive atmosphere for tourists and locals trying to unwind alike.

Even when it’s corny, it’s apparent that Beijing appreciates its tourism. We went to this “famous” production of “The History of Kung Fu” at Red Theater near the Temple of Heaven, which was really good. Though it was apparent the production was more about dancing and less about fighting, it was still really well coordinated and visually stimulating. The corny part was the fact that the dialogue was all in recorded English. The actors themselves mouthed along happily as the Chinese translation played along the caption screen above the stage. And though I didn’t follow some of the story line because about four actors played the main character, it was all good fun.

Lastly, to show that I did do something new in Beijing, I visited Lama Temple, which in Chinese is Yonghe Gong (雍和宮). It was touted as a compilation of Buddhist arches in Chinese, Tibetan, Mongolian, and Manchurian styles. It was nice looking, but for the size and because of the fact that we’d already seen so many temples, the impression was just average.

Sorry, not much of a conclusion to the Beijing posts! Onward and upward—Taipei’s coming up!

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Beijing: A Question of Scale

Going back to Beijing and when we arrived, the gigantic airport was imposing but not impressive. As we scuttled through the terminal in an attempt to leave the airport it was noticeably empty. Don’t get me wrong; empty airports are good airports, and any day I’d take a flight in or out of the closer and smaller Burbank Airport over the larger and more crowded Los Angeles International Airport.

Designed and built by the same company that did my one of my favorite airports, Hong Kong International Airport, it shared much of the same features. The airport was noticeably efficient—we got our luggage quickly and lines at immigration were relatively short.

It’s architectural merits were there, with large and simple imposing columns with red being the main color of the place (with a slotted white ceiling). I personally didn’t like it looked, and from a glance it was evident that the terminal, built in preparation for the Olympics, was designed to impress. With a big country comes a polished capital airport. I could feel the might of China above my shoulders.

In contrast, flying into Washington Dulles Airport (which I’ve done once), I can’t say I felt the same. The airport was dingy and if I remember correctly we had to do an avoidance maneuver before landing which required us to ascend, loop around, and descend again. The terminals, while not shabby, were in no way impressive. It was designed for utility and though I have no idea how efficient it is, no one had in mind the wish to make an architectural statement or anything.

And therein lies one of the biggest changes I saw in Beijing in going back after two years. Starting at the way-too-big airport and ending at the way-to-big airport (where we spent hours bored because of a lack of decent coffee and a surplus of closed stores), Beijing was noticeably more secure than just a few years ago, and whereas some would cite Communism and extreme maintenance of the peace as the reasons behind this very apparent security, I, having been there before the Olympics, can say that this is not the way it’s always been.

After the Olympics and also due recently to National Day, security has been ever higher. Whereas I’ve met people who couldn’t point to China on the map (as they tried), now China’s has the world’s attention. I guess with great fame comes great responsibility. With China’s human rights record in question and the recent ethnic conflict in the west, China understands that it has enemies and understands that it has more real threats than before.

Two years ago, we went through airports in a snap. We walked through metal detectors without hesitation and even if one us beeped, rarely were we asked to stand for wand-waving or what have you. Mind you, that trip two years ago sent my family and I through four Chinese airports.

This time around, on leaving from Beijing, I beeped the metal detector because they didn’t require belts to be removed. Fine, whatever. A female officer did the whole wand-waving business and then proceeded to frisk me thoroughly. Through exit immigration, the officer alternated his focus between my passport picture and my face about five times. A friend of mine got whisked into a side room for potential questioning because her British passport looked suspicious somehow, though she was let go after six officers eyed it with a magnifying scope.

And that’s not the only place security is tight. China knows about domestic terrorism as well, don’t worry. The entire subway line, which expanded from two lines before the Olympics to God knows how many now and expanding still, has security personnel with x-rays to have you scan bags before entering the system. China’s vigilant and it shows.

But not everything was bigger this time. For one I would like to make a point now validated to me because of this trip. If you can do it, explore and sightsee yourself rather than with a tour group.

Two years ago, my family and I went to China in a tour group. It was super convenient. They loaded us onto a bus and shuttled us around and provided us with food for a real decent price. The thing is though, going to new places is not all about sightseeing, I’m convinced.

Yeah, I still see the sights and then some like the average tourist. The thing is though that when you get whisked away in a tour bus, you lose the opportunity to see real life—something that really doesn’t take more time to see.

This time around, we rode the subway to get to most places. We took a tour bus with Mainland Chinese people to see the Great Wall and Ming Tombs. In addition to the subway, we had to take a bus to see the Summer Palace.

Just being on the subway, you get to see the people. Mixing in with the locals and commuting with the businessmen, you really see some of the more innate aspects of culture—what is different and what is the same. I can’t even begin to describe how much I learned about Beijing this time around than the last time.

One thing that we did that was way off the tourist path though, I’m glad we did. The hotel was just a few subway stops away from the Temple of Heaven, so we decided to walk back to the hotel rather than take the subway. Along the way walking back alongside the main road, we peered into a side street. Feeling in the mood to explore, we ventured back into there. It was like a street full of vendors catering to locals. There were home supply storefronts as well as a guy selling lamb skewers to mention just a few. Walking even further we walked by the home fronts in one of the many hutong not mentioned or marked on maps. There was nothing the average tourist would want to see, but in my opinion it was all part of the experience.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Beijing: My Mandarin

My intentions in this series is to go topic by topic rather than day by day, but for a reference, here’s the breakdown for how everything went down:

Saturday: Arrival at airport, Mao’s Livehouse, Hutong in NW core
Sunday: Tiananmen Square (with national day decorations), Forbidden City, Snack Street
Monday: Great Wall, Ming Tombs, Olympic Park
Tuesday: Tiananmen Square, Mao’s Mausoleum (exterior), Summer Palace, “History of Kungfu” show, Hutong near Temple of Heaven, Houhai Bar District
Wednesday: Lama (Yonghe) Temple, Temple of Heaven Park, Beijing Underground (closed), flight back

My Mandarin

Mandarin (or Putonghua as HKU prefers) is one of the languages that I purport to have conversational fluency in. The others are French and Spanish (and of course English). Besides these, I study Cantonese, Japanese, Italian, American Sign Language, and Latin.

So going to Beijing it only made sense to take advantage of the opportunity to practice my Mandarin, and I did.

The second day we were there, we did the tourist trip of going to the Great Wall and the Ming Tombs, which are located a considerable distance outside of the city. It took a few hours to get to the Badaling section of the Great Wall, the specifics of which I will get back to later.

Two years ago, on my first time to China and my first time out of North America, I decided I would use my Mandarin in the same way. Granted, I was really bad. My Mandarin-speaking friends back home claimed to not be able to understand me, and I found myself incapable of making sentences to the effect of “I bought the same thing back in the United States for ten dollars.”

I can now get that sentence across in Mandarin. I might not understand the response, but what I had was better than nothing. After my ten days in China, my Mandarin had improved in confidence but not in skill. People could, in general, understand what I was saying through my incorrect tones and funny articulation.

Back home, I told my friends that people where I went in China could understand my Chinese yet they couldn’t. It turned out that most of them could figure out what I was saying, but because I was so stilted and heavily accented, they chose not to understand me.

This time around, I had a few more years of Mandarin up my sleeves (one to be exact). By practicing with a teacher on top of learning from books, my problem with tones was lowered to a minimum and my vocabulary and grammar drastically improved.

I was armed and ready to go. For haggling, it was casual. At the Great Wall, I got a plaque with my name on it, saying that I’d climbed the Great Wall for ¥5 CNY (about $0.75 USD) and a mock Beijing 2008 Olympics metal for ¥4 CNY (about $0.60 USD).

The weirdest thing about my using Mandarin in Beijing was the benefit of the doubt that they gave me. I know that no matter how hard I try, I will always have at least bits of a foreign accent in the languages that I learn, but in Beijing, the people didn’t seem to care. (But why would they?)

Well, in many places, there’s a tourist price and a local price, and it seemed that my relative fluency in Mandarin was getting me the local price more often than not. It likely has to do with the fact that I’m of Chinese descent, in combination with my use of Mandarin, but let me give you an example.

At the Ming Tombs, we arrived and got off the bus. Now, the Ming (as in dynasty) tombs are scattered all over the place, and it just so happened that the particular tour bus group that we were on took us to this one, which, luckily, was different than the one before.

It was definitely smaller than the tomb I’d seen before. Equally ornate, this particular tomb appeared to be more intimate in a sense. Far from foreign tourist crowds, this particular tomb seemed relatively empty for the Beijing that I had begun to reacquaint myself with.

On the way out, there were carts on the path back to the bus. Some sold fruits and nuts. Others sold dried goods and souvenirs. Of particular interest was the bottled water that they were selling. A friend of mine who happens to be white was charged ¥5 CNY for his bottle. I went up and asked for a bottle in Mandarin. I got mine for ¥2 CNY. After that notable savings (think of it as a percent), I did all my talking in Mandarin.

But no matter how good my haggling skills were (better than average, if I do say so myself), I was no match for the tour guide that was leading us around.

My Mandarin-speaking friend found this particular tour company as we were wandering around the Forbidden City the previous day. We were approached by an agent (one of many) and were told about what was happening. I understood close to none of it.

When we ended up on this bus, the tour guide as well as the tour group except me and three of my friends understood and spoke Mandarin. I was in a bit of a rut, you could say. However, we only paid ¥90 CNY (about $13 USD) for the whole day’s transportation, admission, and lunch as part of the package, so despite the fact that I couldn’t understand the information she was feeding us (I’m sure it was very informative), the day was a good deal as a whole.

We ended the day being dropped off in the Olympic Village, just north of the city core. I knew what to expect but didn’t account for the emotional factor, you could say. But that’s for next time.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Beijing: The Northern Capital

Reading week here in Hong Kong is similar to many universities’ fall break back in the States and Revision week here in Hong Kong is similar to many (though declining) universities’ reading week. Reading week was last week, with school resuming just this past Monday, and for about half of that week, I was in Beijing, some 1200 miles north of Hong Kong in Mainland China.

For those of you who don’t know (don’t be ashamed), Beijing (北京) is the capital city of the People’s Republic of China and literally means “Northern Capital” in Chinese. According to my reading, Beijing was named when it was fashionable for capitals in East Asia to be named literally as such. Kyoto (京都) means “Capital City” and Tokyo (东京) means “Eastern Capital” in Japanese. Nanjing/Nanking (南京) in the southern half of China means “Southern Capital” (and functioned as such for some dynasties). Seoul and Hanoi both have previous names that mean capital in some capacity.

My journey in the Northern Capital started in Hong Kong, of course. It was to be my second, the first having taken place in the summer of 2007, when my family and I had a China highlights tour. That was my first time out of North America. Now I was heading back, and while excited, I was of course wondering what to expect.

Having been there before, I expected I would see the normal tourist sites: the Great Wall, the Ming Tombs, the Forbidden City, and Tiananmen Square, to name a few. I wanted to make a point to see some new sites as well. Overall I hoped to get an understanding of Beijing more profound and more refined to surpass my first.

And I knew what I was expecting. Pollution, in a word, I thought—gray skies and spitting people, to name some more. When I went there in 2007, they were preparing for the Olympics by building venues such as the Bird’s Nest, improving and expanding the metro, and relaying many sidewalks around the city.

What I expected and what I saw overlapped to less an extent that what I thought as well. Buildings went from being unfinished concrete to painted; pollution, while still present, didn’t embed myself into my clothes. The lake-side hutong (胡同) that I saw over two years ago turned into a well-appointed bar-side lake district—but more on that later.

My journey, as I said, started in Hong Kong, and a three-hour flight. We took the airport bus from in front of Queen Mary Hospital (whose canteen I frequent). The bus ride took about an hour, ending at Terminal 1. Going through the airport and experiencing the clean design coupled with efficiency that is HKG, I was reminded of the false impressions that the airport gave me when I arrived two months ago on August 21 (that fateful night).

Going through immigration, we used the “Hong Kong Residents” line and proceeded through smoothly. Security was simple and didn’t require us to take off our shoes (as we do in U.S. airports), though everyone’s belts set off the metal detector.

After waiting a couple hours in the airport, accompanied by coffee and expensive duty-free stores filled with elitist junk, we boarded our plane, flying direct to Beijing. The security video was double the length (once in English, the international language of air travel, and Mandarin). We had in-flight entertainment consisting of “The Brothers Bloom,” a recent movie with Adriane Brody and Rachel Weiss (with her good acting but bad accent).

Landing at the new Terminal 3 at Beijing Capital International Airport, we found ourselves walking for ages, passing through temperature checkpoint after temperature checkpoint (Swine flu/H1N1 alert still noticeably present), followed by Chinese immigrations, who let us through without a hitch.

We then had to take light rail to the exit of Terminal 3. The entire terminal was decorated with high red-and-white paneled ceilings supported by tall, cylindrical white columns. I personally like the design of Hong Kong International Airport better.

On the way to the airport express train, I picked up some renminbi (人民币)/Chinese yuan (元) from the HSBC ATM and we were on our way.

The airport express train was partially subterranean, but the parts of Beijing that I saw I didn’t recognize. Admittedly, it was dark, but the only thing that told me I was out of Hong Kong was the use of simplified Chinese characters (which I feel more comfortable with).

After transferring lines and getting off at the appropriate station, we had a bit of trouble finding our hotel. One of my friends speaks better Mandarin than I, but being more inclined to ask for directions that most men, I found myself asking everyone, including a different hotel’s bellhop where our hotel was. Finally, we found it on the backside of a building, still in Chongwenmen (崇文门) district.

Over several posts following this I hope to elaborate on and reflect upon my adventures in Beijing.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Shenzhen Shenanigans

The day after Mid-Autumn Festival, we went up to Shenzhen. Admittedly, it was a spur-of-the moment decision, but for $20 HKD to get there, it was worth the daytrip.

Shenzhen is the first of China’s Special Economic Zones, sharing its southern border with Hong Kong’s northern border. From what I can gather, it was set up right around when China began opening up to the world. Back then Hong Kong was still a British Crown Colony and these zones were meant to stimulate international trade and investment.

My aunt and uncle, who are familiar with Hong Kong as of recent, told me of Shenzhen’s amazing transition. I couldn’t gather whether they thought it positive or negative, but they talked about gutting the mountains to reclaim the sea, skyscrapers popping up from the small fishing village that it used to be. Today, Shenzhen has an official population larger than Hong Kong SAR (8.6 million over 7 million), with many more unlisted and commuting people contributing to its makeup.

In just one of the many examples of China’s massive and impressive economic growth, Shenzhen has two subway lines crossing each other with about thirty stations total. Before 2011, there will be three times that many stations open on five lines.

Heading from Central District on Hong Kong Island, the journey to the border at Lo Wu took about an hour, transferring lines thrice. Alternatives to Shenzhen (that we did not take) were ferries from Sheung Wan and Central Piers, some of which conveniently go directly to Shenzhen Airport. From Hong Kong Airport, there are ferries direct to Shenzhen Airport as well for transfers free of additional security checkpoints.

At the border, we went through Hong Kong exit immigration (which I now know I can use the “Residents” line at) and Chinese immigration, where the woman thoroughly checked my passport and shifted her eyes between my face on my passport and my face in person.

Through customs, Shenzhen Railway Station is immediately to the left. A shopping mall is to the right. We went into the shopping mall, where they persistently kept trying to sell us fake Rolexes and the like. They went so far as grabbing arms to try to drag you into their shop.

From there, we took a bus to this beach area that a local recommended to us. There was pretty much nothing there but some street shops and a theme park that we could see the other side of without entering. We took the bus back shortly thereafter.

On the bus ride both ways, it was apparent that we were no longer in Hong Kong. The streets were three lanes wide in each direction and ran straight as arrows. Each light post on either side of the road had two Chinese flags all the way down each avenue (possibly because of National Day).

The buses themselves were operated differently. There were no money-collecting machines that I am so used to. The buses cost about ¥6 CNY and instead of paying a machine (or metal box), you paid the ticket collector, who in turn kept an eye on who entered the bus, announcing stops as crowds came and went.

Back to where we started, we took the Shenzhen Metro to a park called Window of the World, which I feel turned out to be kind of a waste of time.

Exiting the subway station, you come out of a glass pyramid (hey, that’s the Louvre!) and proceed towards the entrance. While corny, some would say that’s part of the appeal. Entering the park the first thing you see is the Eiffel Tower, which dominates the curb appeal of the property. After buying tickets, you ascend to the park and enter to the main stage, surrounded by different style columns.

Going around the park, it’s divided into different continents. The biggest section of the park is Europe (big surprise). That’s in the center where the Eiffel Tower stands opposed to the Arc du Triomphe as well as Venice, with St. Mark’s Square and Holland with a bunch of windmills. Elsewhere in the park were sites in Thailand as well as the Taj Mahal and a garden representative of Japan. I posed in front of the Sydney Opera House, flanked by “traditional” Maori dwellings. For America, there was a model of the main sites of Washington, D.C., as well as Niagara Falls incorporated into the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore. For Africa there was an elephant and the Pyramids of Giza.

Leaving the park, we crossed the road to a mall in search of food. We found some average food and walked outside and saw the street vendors (who kept having to move their carts to avoid the police). With a friend’s assistance, I learned sort of how to eat sugar cane that cost me just ¥1 CNY.

After that it was back to the border and back to Hong Kong Island.

Copyright © 2009 James Philip Jee
This work may not be reproduced by any means without express permission of the author.

Welcome to Hong Kong

I am so utterly confused.

When I landed on Friday, August 21, I just wanted to get to my dorm as quickly as possible. From the airplane Hong Kong looked beautiful, and from the ground it still does. I took the airplane express train to Central Hong Kong, where the taxi pick up area was located underground.

I waited there for half an hour as the taxis slowly came and went. In the meantime, I began sweating up a storm as I realized how humid it really was. Even inside the stations, which I believe were somewhat air-conditioned, I was a precipitating mess carrying around my bags. I just wanted to get to my hall.

Just about 20 hours before then, my parents dropped me off in the airport. We didn’t weigh my one suitcase, so my dad brought an extra duffle bag in case I needed to repack to avoid the $150 over-weight fee. I could bring up to two pieces of luggage weighing less than 50 pounds each, but not one weighing up to 100 pounds. It turned out that my suitcase weighed almost eighty pounds, so it was good my dad brought the extra bag.

Security was on high alert that day, so I had to wait through winding Disneyland-style lines with the other travelers trying to get into the terminal. Before then I said my goodbyes to my parents, and then I was alone and off on my way. The next time I would see home or my immediate family would be in December.

Finally my taxi came up to the gate. I entered after my bags were in the trunk and we were off. He asked where I was headed in Cantonese. I replied “6 Sasoon Road, the University of Hong Kong.” Unfortunately, I mispronounced “Sasoon,” which I said with an “oo” like “moon” as I was taught. However, as Anglicization is an aid more than a solution, the way the “oo” of “Sasoon” is pronounced is closer to the French “u” as in “tu.”

So he misunderstood me. I ended up showing him the cheat card that the university provided me with that explicitly said, “Please take me to the following hall at the University of Hong Kong at 6 Sasoon Road: Lee Hysan.”

Then he was like, “Oh Sas[French “u”]n Road!” As we emerged from the underground pick-up place, I couldn’t help but notice the roads sprawling upwards, the streets visibly twisting back and forth among themselves—and it wasn’t even a freeway. These flights of roads gave me the impression that most of Hong Kong Island was like that, and I quickly became hesitant to go exploring the city by myself. Now most people tell me I have a good sense of direction, but this sight just intimidated the hell out of me and at that point I just wanted to sleep.

We drove from the downtown district up and around the west side of the island, into Pok Fu Lam District where I couldn’t help but noticing the propensity of Hong Kongers to finish their buildings in tile. While not really noticeable in pictures, most residential buildings are covered in small ceramic tile squares of varying colors.

As we approached my hall I was shocked. I was still in a surreal mind state, but the hall was nothing like what I expected. The turn-around driveway was partially under construction and all the buildings surrounded it had bamboo-constructed scaffolding and green covering.

I walked in and found an unexpected language barrier with the woman who was helping me check in. I was under the impression that since classes were held in English, most of the staff would be competent as well. Well there’s an expectation thrown out the window.

I went up to my room on the fourteenth floor, which has great views (albeit covered by green mesh netting) of the west entrance to Victoria Harbor. I also found a couple hall mates to introduce myself to. One was really nice and one was really not so nice (like students elsewhere).

That night, I finished up by calling my mother (at 6 a.m. pacific daylight time) and my HKU exchange buddy, who offered me a tour of campus the day after I arrived. The first picked up, relieved that I had gotten there on time and safely (as there is only one SFO-HKG flight a day and my flight to SFO from LAX was delayed by almost two hours). The latter didn’t pick up, but as I will explain, I still got my tour later.

That night—no air conditioning, fully humid with just a fan and five open windows—I went to sleep, apprehensive about what was to come. My thoughts drifted on, as always.

Lesson learned—pronouncing Anglicized Hong Kong names and places with an American accent won’t get me very far.

Welcome to Hong Kong, James.

Some Notes Before I Go

Tomorrow, I leave for Hong Kong and the University of Hong Kong, where I will spend the next four months studying and sightseeing. I’ll leave for Los Angeles International Airport at 6 a.m. for my first leg to San Francisco. From there I have a thirteen-and-half hour flight direct to Hong Kong. I’m all packed but not necessarily ready to go.

I’m still nervous as ever as I anticipate my long journey and longer transition. But already I am confident that I will quickly make Hong Kong my home away from home. At UCSD I served as an American student to help orient international students and in the same manner, HKU has set me up with a Hong Kong student to help me, now the international student, find my way. While I’ll mosey my way to the university from the airport, she has graciously offered to show me the campus the day after.

I arrive on August 21 and have orientation the following Friday, August 28. Class begins on September 1. Maybe by then I’ll get used to British English orthography and the metric system. Surely by then I’ll have bought blankets and a pillow.

Next time, I’ll be writing from Hong Kong.

Roman Holiday

Continuing on with my trip to Europe this summer, my brother, mother, and I traveled from Paris to Rome on June 24, 2009. From there we took trains to the Campania region, Venice, Florence, and back to Rome.

I am grateful for having gone on this trip, but when people ask me about how it was, I make no qualms about speaking my mind. Most have been accepting or at least respectful of my opinion, but a few feel I haven’t given Italy proper credit.

While I enjoyed the experience and would not hesitate to go back, it was by no means what I thought it would be and by no measure as romanticized as I have found it to have been. It was actually as a result of this idealistic state that I feel many negative aspects of my opinion exist. So while I grew to like France, I have found less of an occurrence in Italy.

Don’t get me wrong—I thought Italy was beautiful. I felt that there was grandeur and culture present, but had to learn that it was not to be presented how I was used to it.

If the graffiti in my travel to Paris made me realize not all would be how it was expected, then let’s just say that there was a lot more graffiti in Italy—a lot more.

Charles-de-Gaulle airport is okay. The terminal that I flew through was not the new, classy one that many people fly through. Other than the fact that Lufthansa, my airline, was quite late (though officially on time), causing us to miss our connecting flight to Rome, I had no problems with the Paris airport. It was relatively clean and definitely secure, though when we first landed, I asked some security personnel who we were talking to whether we had to go through customs or not.

A lot of people don’t seem to believe me, but when you enter the United States, you go through customs. You fill out a form and get “randomly” selected for an actual customs check, which most people don’t end up going through. In France, it was not up to random selection as to whether or not you go through customs. Upon exiting the airplane, the exit was straight ahead, and if you had anything to declare to customs, you could go to the right to do so.

I didn’t know there was this honor system in place, so I asked the guards. I asked in English. I was answered frankly, but the other security guards murmured something to each other about those stupid American tourists in French. The statement was off-putting, but I didn’t really care. I heard how annoying tourists can be, especially American tourists. I guess the French airport security guards had enough exposure to English to distinguish accents.

On the other hand, I can’t say the same thing about the Italian civil servants we encountered, but more about that later.

En route to Rome (and also coming back home), we went through Munich, where it was raining both times. While the Paris airport was acceptable, Munich’s was immaculate. Their bathrooms were so clean that I hesitated to use them; their floors everywhere were perfectly polished without so much as a scuff in sight. As our flight was delayed, the Lufthansa employee was courteous throughout helping us get on the next flight and gave us meal vouchers—not to mention his English was perfect (albeit foreign-accented).

When we got to Rome’s Fiumicino airport, the situation was quite a bit different. The terminal we landed at was dingy, at least giving it the appearance of being dirty. Before leaving the airport, we needed to find the tourist information area so we could buy our Roma Cards (which gave us some free museum entrances as well as transportation in its entirety).

Now the airport’s exit was lined with quirky little shop booths and information stands. So we went up to one of them. My mom asked, “Do you speak English?” Unlike my French, which I could get by on, our Italian was not so good, and we had to resort to using their English instead, which, as I understand, they Italians (as well as the French) really don’t like.

The question was met with an offended tone by the woman who my mom had asked. “Yes. Of course I do.” Okay, great.

“Do you know where Tourist Information is?” my mom asked.

“Do you mean Touristic Information? It’s down on the left.” My mom was confused.

“So Tourist Information is on the left?” she asked just to make sure.

“Yes! Tou-ris-tic Information is down on the left!” It appeared the civil servant was upset. She insisted that our English was wrong and made sure she corrected us, or at least tried. Unfortunately it was she who was wrong. She had simply mixed up her languages and stayed stubborn about it. In her mind, she was thinking how in French, the term is “(les) informations touristiques.”

Whereas in Paris, the metro and RER light rail lines were clean and efficient, the airport express train from the airport to Roma Termini station was extremely late and ran bumpily down the tracks. There was more graffiti down this corridor than that from Aéroport Charles-de-Gaulle to Paris’s central station Châtelet-Les Halles. This did not bode well for what was to come.

My main conclusion about Italy was that it was interesting; however, I did not find it more exciting than other places I’ve been—say China. As aforementioned, I’ve gone on a two-week tour to China. Like Italy, it was full of cultural significance. Like Italy, English competence is something to be improved upon. Unlike in Italy, China’s people understand that their English isn’t the best. And also unlike in Italy, China’s people seemed to appreciate the money coming through tourism, as evidenced by their attitude towards tourists.

Italy was something else, in my opinion. For the money that tourists, especially American tourists, spend in Italy, many people that we’ve met seemed ungrateful and sometimes spiteful towards our presence. I realize that this is not and should not be a reflection on an entire country, as there were many nice people, but this is the basic impression that I received from the areas I visited.

An example of this is the Capuccin Crypt in Rome, which is famous for its collection of monks’ bones artistically arranged as morbid figures. The site is owned by the Catholic Church and run by what I think was a priest. Upon entering, we were met with a donation basket with a sign that said “1 euro minimum!” Whatever. Other than the fact that a “donation” is optional on an exhibit or museum, and what they were asking for would properly be termed “admission price” as it was not optional, the priest gave us a death stare walking in. We deposited our money into the basket, which we were going to do whether he gave us the dirty look or not.

He then proceeded to get upset with us, telling us in English that we didn’t put enough money in. I pointed to my coins, insisting that I had put enough in. Hearing us going back and forth, a tourist came by unsolicited with good intentions but bad sense. In her American (probably Midwest) accent, she insisted on translating the priest’s English to English that we could understand, if that makes any sense.

The fact that this tourist thought she would help us understand her English was off-putting to me, so I stopped her midsentence. “Thank you. We speak English,” I told her. Yeah, I was curt, but I wish she would have spent some time figuring out how our interaction was going before interjecting.

And another point—call me spoiled, but I’m used to American museums. They’re large, air-conditioned, and if your flash goes off, a security guard would be sure to inform you promptly that you just did something that hurts the artwork. Those old paintings are delicate, so the curators have to keep them in low-humidity, low-light environments, right?

Apparently in Italy they didn’t think so. If any one of those paintings (maybe one of the three hundred “Madonna and Child” paintings from the Uffizi Gallery in Florence) found its way to the Getty (which is probably my favorite museum), it would be pampered and kept in a special room in a climate-controlled environment with two security guards to promptly ensure no flash photography. In Italy, they say no flash photography, but even if security wanted to stop all the flashes from going off (which I think they didn’t), they couldn’t if they tried due to the hordes of tourists flashing away indiscriminately. And if paintings are vulnerable to flash photography, they must surely be vulnerable to the hot and humid environment that the interior of the museums provided. Though on a hot day, I love air conditioning, I could do without, but seeing as they put minimal effort forth to preserve and protect their pieces, I couldn’t help thinking where all the money from tourism went.

The only museum that I can say was what I expected was the Vatican Museum, but then again Vatican City is not technically part of Italy, as it is its own sovereign.

From Rome it was on to Campania. Naples is known for not being the most appealing of cities, so we pretty much skipped it. Instead, we stayed in Sorrento, which many people told me was really nice. And it was really nice, but it seemed basically like a less humid Santa Barbara. It seemed really done up for the tourists, and it was one of the few places that didn’t have conspicuous and copious graffiti. (In Rome, I could only tell that I was in a ritzy area because of the few brands that I know. The storefront of Versace had quite a bit of graffiti on the front, for example).

We also took a ferry along the Amalfi Coast and a bumpy bus ride back. (Amalfi is where we found out we were from Giappone a few posts ago.) It was also beautiful, but like Sorrento it looked like Central California. In fact, when I went up the coast a few weeks ago, Big Sur looked just as striking, but the road was wider and much better engineered.

We saw the regular tourist stuff. Pompeii was great and met expectations, but my mom had us take a decently long journey off to Paestum. Though it was farther than expected, it was well worth it. Formerly a Greek colony (I believe Athenian), it had some pristine Greek temples and some of the only surviving Greek artwork placed in the nearby museum. The reason it was so well preserved was because it was spared from conflict and human inhabitants for some 800 years due to a mosquito infestation.

Next was Venice, which I thought probably failed to meet my expectations the most. It had the famous canals and some old, noticeably sinking buildings along the Grand Canal. It was quite hot and even more humid, but the small city on the water lost its charm with the hordes of tourists ever present on the islands. Compounded with the narrow pedestrian streets and constant, familiar noise of English, the experience was less than charming. On top of that, many facades around St. Mark’s Square were under renovation, so our picture of the Bridge of Sighs is surrounded by scaffolding covered by advertisements. Whereas the Bridge of Sighs is often immediately recognizable, many people asked if that was truly it.

Near Venice was the island (or two?) of Murano. It’s famous for its glass shops. We got some interesting tours of the glass blowing and shaping factories, but one shop stood out from the rest. I doubt they sell many pieces. We went into this one shop and there was a nice old man assisting a couple from China look at some of the pieces. They spoke only Mandarin and understood a little bit of English, probably less Italian.

Looking at the different glass horses to see which ones they wanted to buy, the younger employee came back from his lunch break and rudely closed the door of the case after repeating, “I’m stressing, I’m stressing!” which sounded more like “I’m stretching!” He pulled the glass horse that they were holding and brought it to the check out counter to wrap it up. Because of his rudeness they decided that they didn’t want it any more.

My mom helped them tell the employee but he didn’t quite understand. His English was quite broken and the only conclusion he could come to was that that couple and the three of us were the same party. When he insisted that he wrap it up for us, even though no one wanted it any more, we all just left.

From there it was off to Florence, which had a lot less to do than expected. We went to Uffizi but skipped Accademia (where Michelangelo’s David stands). We took a sidetrip to Pisa, followed by Lucca (in a feeble attempt to escape the tourists). In Pisa there was basically the Leaning Tower, and instead of taking a picture pretending to lean against it, I took pictures of the many people doing so.

From there it was back to Rome, where we went on our flight to Munich (which landed an hour late) and then to Los Angeles (which, luckily, was also late). The trip was well worth it, and this Thursday, I fly off to Hong Kong. I plan to post once more before I go.

Packing for the Trip of a Lifetime

With just over a week left before departure, it seemed time to pack up. I guess if I needed anything, I would have the time to buy it. But honestly, I’m a little confused.

I try not to take for granted that some things are the same here in California and there in Hong Kong. Some things I know are different—I bought some British electrical plugs; the standard paper size is a little longer and a little skinnier than here because of letters they have sent me. Some things I know are the same—most appliances will use Arabic numerals rather than traditional Chinese characters. Some things I’m just not sure about—I’m not bringing sheets because I have no idea what size their beds are.

Some things I want to stay the same—I’ve packed my own binders with a three-hole punch because I feel secure in the standard American binder size.

I’ve decided to pack relatively light. I’ll have one large roller (that I believe has to be kept under 50 pounds) and my computer backpack. Hopefully that won’t be too much to carry. When I land, I have to take on the airport express to Hong Kong Central Station and then a taxi to my dorm hall near campus.

I’m arriving in the evening, but hopefully not after nightfall. My uncle told me that HKU isn’t in the best neighborhood—but I’m not sure whether he meant aesthetically or crime-wise (thought I think he meant the first).

Since I’m not bringing bed sheets, hopefully somewhere to buy them won’t be too far.

Quality v. Quality

Somehow I wanted to insert this aspect of my college experience into this blog by making it relevant somehow. Here’s my shot. I have full confidence that I may express certain feelings without upsetting certain people, mostly because I am sure that most of those people are not reading my blog. Some will be glad to read this post and some might think I’m just being bitter. Please believe me when I say that I have no intention of either.

It goes back to when I was real, real little. I think it was my father who gave me an “I’m going to Harvard” rattle. Whether or not he was the giver is irrelevant. My father is one of those who “only wants the best” for me, he would say; and I do so believe in his intentions.

Entering middle school I was poised to get straight As, no doubt. In the big jump from sixth to seventh grade I guess I found myself at a crossroads. At the time it would have sounded silly to say this, and it sounds only a little less now that I’m 19, but I like (as in prefer) to think that that was the end of my formative years in a sense. From then, my opinions have changed; I grew a few feet (I think); I learned how to drive—but nothing unlike that in the course of one’s adult life. I was poised to get into Stanford and remained so until I was rejected in 2007, in December.

Was it stubborn optimism that turned (what I like to think was) misfortune into hope?

Needless to say, I didn’t get straight As in middle school, nor high school for that matter. On the bright side, I didn’t get any Cs (or lower), nor did my GPA ever dip below 3.6.

And here we get to the topic of today’s post. Yes, the two sides are both qualities. And I know I’m not alone in thinking that I have had to make some difficult decisions over the years between two (or more) perfectly and equally equitable situations. In my case, I was caught up by quantity due to my inability to make chose but a few of the many existing scenarios before me.

Was it a good decision on my part? My mother asserted to me, after it was all set and done, “You probably should have done less. I think you stretched yourself out too thin. You couldn’t concentrate on grades and now you aren’t going to be going to your top choice school.”

I replied, “I honestly wouldn’t have done anything different.” And true to my words, my mind didn’t and still doesn’t think anything different.

My seldom-existent inner romantic would say that the heart wants what the heart wants and the brain could not, at that time, overcome the wishes of the heart, for rationality was gone. The heart had become one with the brain and there was nothing to be done.

So in this post I plan to pose three major decisions of quality versus quality (with many minor ones) that I went through. You may disagree; you may agree. All I hope is that my logic shows in my actions, hopefully culminating in relevance to my upcoming study abroad experience.

My first was in middle school.

When I was approaching fifth grade, there was a decision of whether or not to go to middle school. State legislation had just promoted the sixth grade to middle school (junior high school) status. However, there was a large enough group of parents who wanted to keep their kids in elementary school for sixth grade that Westlake Hills Elementary School kept sixth grade.

Why not stay in elementary school for sixth grade? My parents, with my consent kept me at Westlake Hills for sixth grade.

A third of the way across the school district (and Thousand Oaks), a good friend of mine went to Meadows Elementary School. Their parents had voted to get rid of sixth grade entirely there. As such, my friend went to middle school one year before I did.

I got to middle school as a seventh grader in the fall of 2002. My good friend and I were still pretty chummy and I ate lunch with his group of friends for the first week or so. With good intentions (in middle-school sense) he told me that I was not to get all problems correct on a math test or homework, because that’s not cool. I was told to deliberately work every tenth problem or so wrong to this effect.

I decided not to follow this piece of advice. If I wanted a good circle of friends, they first would not fall for gimmicks that make me supposedly look cool. If they did, then they could be considered shallow, at least in part. Because of this decision, I worked hard throughout middle school. So much that I kept a full load of honors courses with a workload to match. In eighth grade, I found myself in honors science, a relatively hard class with a good teacher.

Back in the day we would get assigned seats, of course, and for one rotation I sat next to this kid who needed a bit of help. The bit turned into a lot of help, for which I was perfectly glad to assist, for we had become pretty good friends.

The next seating rotation, we did not sit next to each other any more. That was it for our friendship. I saw him outside of class one day and said hi to him, for which he ignored me in the presence of his cool friends and pretended not to know me.

Because I have chosen not to name this individual, I’ll finish out why I mentioned him. So seeing how he had befriended me for the help, I judged him as being dim-witted and in need of plenty of help. Two incidents thereafter solidified this opinion.

The first was at a dry Christmas party senior year of high school. All the party people, including myself, were seated outside in comical conversation circles. Within our own circles we were conversing with each other.

Now many of my good friends are female, so my conversation circle was pretty much girls plus me and this other guy. In an adjacent circle was a group of football and baseball jocks. With most all sports being segregated by sex, their conversation circle was comprised only of guys, if memory serves me right. In that group was the aforementioned science class “friend,” if you will. Now a star football player, he received a scholarship to (the) Cornell University in New York.

The group began poking fun at me behind my back. I don’t remember the exact dialogue, but it was nasty and I do not care to elaborate for sake of word choice, if you catch my drift. They persisted and then moved on to the other guy in my conversation circle, another friend of mine. He wasn’t so good at hiding that he was hearing the entire insult and controlled himself to stay seated in his chair.

What transpired between the aggressors and the aggressees is irrelevant, so I’ll let you speculate as to the outcome.

The second incident regarding this individual did not happen but half a year ago. By this time, he was in attendance at Cornell and knowing fully well that he was, as my dad likes to call people, an idiot, I was curious as to how he was faring.

It just so happens that I’m friends with his ex-girlfriend, who also attends UCSD. Knowing that they’d broken up because of his infidelity, I asked how he’s doing at Cornell. She said that he feels really stupid there, to which I was not surprised and suddenly finding trouble containing my running laughter.

My second was in high school.

Many of my old friends may sense what’s to come in this second major decision. They would always remark to me stuff like: “You’re so busy!” “I never see you outside of class,” or “Do you have any free time?”

At the end of eighth grade we were led through registration of classes for freshman year of high school—the upcoming year. I talked to a counselor there. She said that if I wanted to get into Stanford, I would have to work extra hard and find a passion that you revolve around. I did both, definitely, but what pushed my chances of getting over the edge to the other side of the curve was a little thing I like to call community service.

My parents used to tell me that I’m really spoiled. When they would utter it, I would hate it. Now, I would say that was somewhat true. While I did not receive everything I wanted, I received everything I needed plus more. I never received stuff like big screen TVs or video game consoles for free, as did many of my classmates, but I never had to fight for food or had to find shelter like so many 40 miles southeast of Thousand Oaks. I was not given a car when I turned 16 (or ever for that matter) but I was given near unlimited access of my parents’. Being a teenage male, my driver’s insurance rates were sky high, but my parents never asked me to get a job to help pay for it.

So I took a look at the world, so to speak. Knowing full well what many of the underprivileged do with their lives—starting on a low note and ending on a high—I should be expected to end on an even higher note, having started from a relatively high note to begin with.

From this basis, I changed in two ways. One is ongoing and the other has already pretty much happened.

The first is that I became addicted to community service. I figured that I should use my ability and good health to assist others and those less fortunate. This is still going on as I try hard to find time perform my passion for service. I donate blood whenever I can (and so should you!) though I won’t be able to donate again until January 2011 due to my recent trip to Europe and my upcoming trip to Hong Kong.

The other is liberal (in the American sense) views (much to the covert dismay of my Republican father). No one person is inherently better than another in the same way that no one country is inherently better than another. In no way should making money be the primary goal for anyone’s life. Why should one person live with $10,000 drapes on every window in every room when someone not halfway across the globe works tirelessly every day for basic necessities? How can the United States call itself a Christian nation and claim to be accepting people of all faiths at the same time? Or for that matter how can the United States claim to be accepting and fail to insure every individual the same civil rights as the next?

While I claim a dislike for the Republican Party, I do not claim a dislike for its individual members, nor conservatism as an ideology.

I included this because as I am a political science major, I intend to write heavily about politics, political economy, and globalization from Hong Kong.

So by the time I was finishing high school I had been involved with at least six organizations. I did community service throughout Boy Scouts of America, including a 440-man-hour, $2,500-budget project for Eagle Scout rank; American Red Cross (of Ventura County), where I was involved as Youth Services Chair on the Board of Directors and Westlake High School Club President; National Honor Society, which does service with a variety of local organizations; Ambassadors Club, for service to the school; Los Robles Hospital, where I assisted the friendly pharmacist with inventory and paperwork; and Thousand Oaks Youth Commission, which gave me an award.

Even though all this organizations dominated nearly every day after school, this alone did not cause me to not get the best of grades.

I had another addition—school. I know it sounds silly, but I had a thing for taking extra classes. Each and every year I took seven classes. Junior and senior years I took an additional class at Moorpark Community College. My final semester of senior I took two classes at Moorpark Community College for a grand total of 9 classes at during my final semester at Westlake High School.

At graduation I was not going to Stanford, I had a ton of community service hours (probably literally), I had a respectable GPA (though not respectable enough for the Ivys), and I was set to go to UCSD with a combined AP-community college transfer of 86 credits (4 shy of junior standing).

My third was in college.

I guess this last major decision was not so much of a decision as a justification. I had not gotten into Stanford or the Ivys. I came to Eleanor Roosevelt College at the University of California, San Diego, to make a name for myself with expectations and disappointments.

Now that I’ve spent my first year at UCSD people ask me how I like it. My response it always the same: my biggest problem with it is that too many people don’t think they belong there. Out of all the first-years I’ve talked to, I can only name a handful that say they want to and plan to graduate from UCSD. In fact, this past year I’ve had two roommates because my first transferred out after the first quarter.

The part that bothered me was that the reason they didn’t feel they belonged was because they felt they should have gotten into college elsewhere. I got plenty of Berekeleys and UCLAs as responses.

At first, I was poised to become one of the many who didn’t “belong.” But what good would that do? UCSD is a perfectly good school and actually turned out to offer a really good education in my interests.

As I’ve explained in previous posts my majors, I have been unable to find comparable programs at other universities; and at none have I been able to find a program as enriching as Making of the Modern World.

Which brings me to my next point. Students are lazy. Well, that’s not my point, but not only are students at UCSD feeling as if they don’t belong, my classmates feel like they’ve had an injustice done to them by being placed in Eleanor Roosevelt College.

Most of the hate for ERC (from those who hate) is directed at MMW. As I explained earlier, I really appreciate MMW. Most complain about its length. One spiteful Wikipedia author claimed that at six quarters, MMW is by far the longest core writing class of all of UCSD’s six colleges.

I dispute that claim. It is indeed the longest, but not by far. Revelle College has five quarters of Humanities (HUM), which appears to be a western cultures and literature course, and an additional quarter of American cultures, making their grand total six. Sixth College has three Culture, Art, and Technology (CAT) lower division classes plus a colloquium for a total of four. Marshall College has three quarters of Dimensions of Culture (DOC), which many Marshall students say is useless, and the administrators are considering adding a fourth. Warren College has two writing courses plus Ethics for a total of three. And Muir College has two writing courses plus American cultures for a total of three as well.

So where is this all going? Rarely in my actions and choices have I been overall lazy. The decision to study abroad was no exception. The mountain of paperwork, multiple applications, and the money, just to name a few things. So why do it? I guess ironically going away to another university for a while would enhance the quality of my education at UCSD.