Bananas, babies, and beasting the Wall - Nech does Beijing

Hi all. Sorry for the long delay. As I’ve told some of you, I’ve been quite busy with a little homework, a lot of trip planning, and an inordinate amount of time spent organizing housing for next semester (living with my buddy Ayal Robkin on 41st and Spruce) and next year (with Mordechai, Danny, Brian, Ben, Ross, Jon, Jesse, and Ariel in 318 S 42nd). During my last Astrophysics lecture, we finally got together in an eight-person group gchat to iron out some final details.

Enjoy the many (slightly out of order) pictures (warning: doesn't work perfectly on google chrome.  also, any of the captions are greg's work, not mine).

Upon touching down in Beijing, Brian and I briefly parted from our group in order to celebrate Sebastian’s birthday with him and Johann at a club called something Banana. Or Banana something. We didn’t really know. So we found ourselves after much confusion at Coco Banana. “This is probably it; right, Brian?” “There can’t be that many Banana clubs in Beijing.” After a fruitless search in the dark, we approached an older white guy to ask for info. Noticing Brian’s sweatshirt, he shouted, “Wharton? USC!” and held out his fist for props. Amused, Brian asked if he knew of another Banana club. “Club Banana? That’s a gay club!”

He was clearly very drunk, so we decided to try to find it anyway.

Luckily, there was a giant sign for a GT Club Banana right outside, and we eventually persuaded a taxi driver to take us there. After again failing to find our boys, we gave up and danced away.

The next morning I found Sebastian. “So which club were you in?” “GT Club Banana.”

We were soon marching through Tianammen Square wearing our Wharton and U Wisconsin sweatshirts proudly before heading into the Forbidden City.

Though we enjoyed the beautiful architecture and journeys back into ancient emperors’ lives, we enjoyed even more the austere buildings’ names. Behind the Palace of Supreme Harmony stood the Palace of Medium Harmony and then the Hall of Preserving Harmony. The three-year-old emperors had fun in the Hall of Arts and Crafts and Hall of Toys while the older ones went left to the Hall of Martial Victory or right to Hall of Literary Glory; Bob refused to enter the Hall of Abstinence. Later on in the trip we encountered the Temple of Excessive Moisture.

We spent the night riding bikes through quiet alleys and walking alongside a
picturesque lake, chilling in dive bars and crashing a local Halloween party.

We escaped the city smoke the next day with a trip to the stunning Summer Palace, a historic royal retreat that puts Camp David to shame. We then hopped over to the glorious Olympic stadiums where we found ourselves to be nearly as big an attraction as the Bird’s Nest – Chinese tourists literally lined up to take pictures with us.

Particularly cute were a little boy who would hide behind people whenever we looked at him (he was trying to take pictures of us from a distance) and a super-cute baby dressed in a tiger suit who is probably now scarred for life after his mom tried to make him pose with us for a picture. Way too many vanilla faces for that little man.

At night we bargained down polo shirts and communist hats at the city’s historic Silk Market and got a taste of Beijing’s signature Peking Duck.

Our final task now remained – camping illegally on the Great Wall at Simatai. Armed with sleeping bags, tents, bagels, and furry communist hats, we got to the wall just before sundown, upset that the cable car had closed and that we would have to walk all the way up the mountain before even starting our wall hike. Our driver told us later that our timing was perfect; “The guards would have stopped you when they saw your gear; they just happened to be on a break

when you entered.” We raced up and pushed ourselves as far away from the entrance as we could climb in order to best escape the police. The night provided a beautiful sunset and a starry sky before we settled in the tents we had erected earlier in hope of some rest.

We had brought a two-person tent, one-person tent, and five sleeping bags for me, Brian, Greg, Vivian, and Mark. Then Bob decided to sleep on the wall too, and joined me and Brian in the one-person tent. One of us slept very well, stretching out and snoring loudly. I was in the middle and didn’t even have enough room to put my feet down next to each other or lie on my back. Midway through the night I heard Bob, “Hey Nech, you sleep at all?” “Nope.” “Think it’ll help if we switch positions?”

It didn’t.

We got out of the tent at 5 AM in order to see sunrise over the wall. Frozen, we retreated. An hour later we ventured out again, packed up, and hiked to the end of our wall section with time to spare.

Sixteen hours later I put my very own Great Wall stone on my bookshelf at UST.

If I have time, check back next week or this week for Nech does Qingyuan or Nech does Sichuan (or both).

Nech does Beijing

I'm working on the post and waiting for my groupmates pics to be uploaded. I've been delayed by some work and slight illness, but we'll get there soon.

Obama!

20,000 people on ecstasy and alcohol - Nech does Thailand (part II)

We returned from the trek with just enough time to shower and eat before Brian headed off to Yom Kippur services at Chabad. He got lost en route and arrived there well after sundown feeling flustered, sweaty, and not happy at all. Expecting white robes and long prayers, he was shocked to find instead a bunch of Israelis eating shawarma. When I got back to the room after (by chance) meeting up with other HKUST exchange students, I found this note:I still can’t look at that without cracking up.

For our next Chiang Mai adventure, we motor-biked up a mountain to the forest temple of Doi Suthep. It was incredible fun and we didn’t even crash once weaving through cars in the city or banking down sharp turns along the mountain road. Though we took some time finding a rhythm – Brian didn’t like the speed I chose when I was ahead but I didn’t like Brian not checking his rear-view mirror for me when he was ahead (not his fault, the mirror just didn’t go far out enough for him to see around his stomach) – we rode like pros by the end.

While we were sitting taking pictures of the temple’s largest Buddha, a Thai family approached a monk sitting on a stool nearby. He started mumbling something and sprinkling them with water and, noticing my interest, included me on the third or fourth round. As the family members approached one by one for a blessing, I felt intrusive and slowly inched away. Then the dad pointed at me. “You sure?” He responded with more motioning to me and the monk. Always up for a blessing from any peaceful man of the cloth, I shuffled over and put my hands together in a show of respect. After some more mumbling with his hand on my head, he took my hand and made me my very own white string bracelet. I’ve been lucky ever since.

In the following days, I took Thai cooking and Thai massage classes (a fellow New Yorker in the cooking class joked, “What girl are you trying to impress?”), saw some Muay Thai no-holds-barred boxing, tried to chat with student monks at the local temples, got a Thai haircut and shave, and turned down many advances from overeager ladyboys. But backtracking a bit – Brian has been gracious enough to not only let me write (undeserved) fat jokes about him, but also to share the following story:

Our first night in Chiang Mai, we found a little shop still offering massages at 11:30 PM. Many such parlors are known to offer “special” massages, so when I heard some discussion going on midway through over on Brian’s side of the curtain, I had a hunch what it was about. Though trying to mind my own business, I still couldn’t help but hear Brian repeat one word over and over – “non-negotiable.” Shockingly, the girl didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t just her price that Brian objected to. [Editor’s note – Brian wants me to make it abundantly clear that there was no “happy ending.”]

We arrived back in Bangkok on Thursday night with the single goal of seeing a ping pong show (we both love ping pong) before another flight the next morning. Sadly, we got lost looking for hostels that were closed anyway and missed the last shows, at which point we gave up and went into McDonalds for a drink. With no room booked and too tired to continue searching, we decided to camp out there and crash on couches in the relative safety and comfort of the golden arches. “You’ll laugh about it later, Brian.” “No I will not.” “C,mon, take a step back; think of the irony.” “There is nothing funny about this.”

Unrested, we spent most of the next day journeying to a backpacker-friendly island called Koh Phangan in southern Thailand. The island is most famous for its Full Moon parties on Haad Rin Beach that Brian’s friend described as “20,000+ people on ecstasy and alcohol dancing on a tiny beach.” Wanting to spend Shabbat in peace, we went instead to a more remote part of the island and enjoyed the private cabin, ocean-side restaurant, clean sand, and blue water that our isolated guesthouse afforded. After being together for so long, we ran out of normal things to talk about and conversation became increasingly desperate. "Hey Nech, would you date a decapitated head?" "If it had a nice smile." Saturday night we hopped over to Haad Rin to celebrate Brian’s birthday along with the hundreds (thousands?) of Israelis on vacation who had gathered there to celebrate the full moon that was to rise the night after we left. Creating the antidote before the poison, God arranged that the ocean was a mere thirty feet away from the flaming jump rope (even when sober, jumping rope on the beach is not easy). I wisely elected to pass.

After another day relaxing on the beach and a comfy night bus up to Bangkok, I hit up the 7 AM meditation class at Wat Mahatat and then enjoyed a final massage back on Khao San Road. Check back next week for Nech does Beijing.

Buddhas, elephants, and locals with bad social skills - Nech does Thailand (part 1)

“Beware of tuk-tuk [three-wheeled taxi] drivers who tell you that a popular attraction is closed and then generously offer to take you to an lesser-known but ‘better’ destination (for a fee, of course).” “Oh c’mon,” I said to myself as I read that sentence in Lonely Planet, “there’s no way they actually do that.”

Even so, when the first tuk-tuk driver told me about the election day ceremony that temporarily prevented entry to the Grand Palace, I declined his offer of an alternate location. Then I got the same story from another driver, two more people on the street, and a tourism agency who didn’t even offer another place to go. They wouldn’t lie just for the heck of it, would they? Still, I insisted they give me directions and, to my credit, I continued towards the Palace. Or at least I thought I did; the book didn’t warn me that they would also give bad directions.

Eventually, I found Wat Phra Kaew with its famous emerald Buddha, the stately Grand Palace, the giant reclining Buddha of Wat Pho, and the rising spires of Wat Arun. And, to top it off, a Thai slurpee.

Later, I felt a tap on my back while walking up Khao San Road, Bangkok’s backpacker central. Surprised, I turned and found a friend from my first Wharton class, Management 100. He was studying abroad in Australia and also traveling in Thailand with a Penn friend. “I’m really impressed you recognized me,” I said at the end, “I must have walked right by you.” “Truth be told,” Eric responded, “with your hat, sunglasses, and giant backpack, I couldn’t tell who you were. But that [pointing at the Management 100 shirt I was wearing] gave you away.” Cohort Rupee represent.

After flying with Brian north to Chiang Mai Sunday night, we embarked Monday on our two day trek in Mae Hong Son led by Bowy and joined by two Dutch girls. After stops at the butterfly garden and elephant riding(!) (they’re huuuge!)(but not nearly as huge as the giant Buddha), we began the first part of our hike – 3.5 hours through mud and streams up a mountain. We arrived at a small village before dusk, wet and tired. Brian and I eagerly accepted a “local” massage, something we both had extensive experience with (12 hours combined at $3-6 per hour, plus a six hour course for me). But this was no ordinary massage.

And no, it wasn’t a “special” massage either.

The fun began even before we started, when we attempted to ask for the two younger masseuses instead of the 80 year-old shriveled woman. So awkward. And very unsuccessful.

At first, I got one of the younger ones and Bri had the grandma. He looked at me menacingly “I hate you. You did this on purpose.” I was laughing too hard to respond. Suddenly, they switched. Oh joy. Then, the other woman jumped in and started massaging Brian’s feet. “Hey Nech, do you see the one near my feet?” “Yah.” “She’s only using one hand.” “So?” “The other hand is holding a baby.”

Soon they start motioning to Brian and pointing at his stomach. “You very big!” ***DISCLAIMER - Brian is normal sized; to Thai people, all Americans are very big*** they declared as they spread their hands apart the width of his tummy; the women repeated this many times to make sure he understood. “Thanks, guys.” “Don’t worry Bri, you look great.” Meanwhile, I’m still being pummeled by the old woman while dying with laughter. It didn’t help when one of the women motioned to her three year old son and pointed at Brian’s arm, saying something in their local dialect. Now, in addition to the two women and the baby surrounding him, he also had the little dude poking his arm.

It was the only time we ever got five masseuses (six, if you count the two-year old daughter standing next to us). Though, to be fair, a later masseuse did tell me that my butt is “full.”

Other massage parlors advertised fragrant candles, peaceful music, air conditioning, and oil. Here we got random villagers walking in to stare at us. And each time, the women would demonstrate exactly how big Brian was. All the while, they were chatting and laughing at us. “What do you think they’re saying?” “Did you see that one’s butt? He’s bigger than an elephant.” “I know! He’s so fat, he’s got more Chins than a Hong Kong phonebook.” “Ha ha ha ha.”

Least relaxing massage ever.

The next day we continued the trek with a lot of mosquito bites (our nets at night were only partially effective), some more hiking, a pretty waterfall, and rafting. By late afternoon, we were back in Chiang Mai.

Check back next week for part two of Nech does Thailand.

Inside and out - Nech does Judaism in Hong Kong

I've been a bit busy since returning from Thailand and have been unable to devote enough time to write a good post for that. So for this week, check out a little reflection I wrote in response to a prompt asking for essays on Jewish experiences abroad:


I am a Jew studying abroad in Hong Kong.

I’ve eaten Sabbath dinner with a local Jewish family, translated my Hebrew name for dozens of people, and befriended the other Jewish exchange students. I’ve compared Jews’ and Asians’ material success in my Hong Kong Society class , debated Sabbath prohibitions with a religious friend, explained the dietary laws to locals, and squirmed while being served baby octopus, diced dog, and congealed pigs’ blood.

Through it all I sensed my Jewish roots hanging over me.

When I felt my religion most, however, I was nowhere near Jews, holidays, rituals, or even food.

I was walking back to my room one Thursday morning after class, hoping for a quick nap that would enable me to stay awake for the five lectures still to come. As I was crossing the bridge-link, I noticed a Chinese boy struggling with two pieces of luggage. He was panting, sweating, and taking breaks every few steps. He hadn’t even reached the stairs.

Dozens of other students passed by. And I, too, after stopping for a brief moment of pity, continued down the steps.

A few words, though, kept reverberating in my head. “Thou shalt not see thy brother's ass or his ox fallen down by the way, and hide thyself from them – thou shalt surely help him to lift them up again (Deut. 22:4);” “thou shalt surely assist him (Ex. 23:5).” The poetry of the Biblical Hebrew rang even stronger, “hakeim takim imo;” “azov ta’azov imo.”

I am living in a different society with very specific rules. I cannot make eye contact with an elder or point the teapot at anyone during Yam Cha; I should avoid tipping waiters and putting soy sauce on my rice. I must wait to unwrap gifts, use both hands when giving an item, and belch loudly after a hearty meal to declare my satisfaction.

The Lonely Plant culture guide says nothing about a twenty-three year old chemistry student holding a Mickey Mouse duffel.

I reached the bottom and looked up. He fumbled to reposition his bags as he approached the stairs; his face betrayed a sense of defeat. I turned around, walked back up, and offered him a hand. His name is Xie Ni, shorthand for one of the few Mandarin phrases I know. It means, “thank you.”

I am living in a different society with very new people. I am sleeping across from Sun-Tan and Fai instead of Mordechai and Daniel. I am learning about Confucius and Mao instead of Moses and Akiba. I am wearing a white string from a Buddhist monk in a forest temple instead of a red string from an old woman at the Western Wall.

I am no longer living in a Jewish bubble. But as far as I’ve gone from external Jewish influences, they remain powerful within.

How I became a badass - Nech does Shenzhen

In the days following my most trip to the mainland, several exchange students have greeted me with the same excited sentiment, "Whoa, I heard what happened. You're so badass!"

This is how it went down.

On the way back from Guilin, Greg and I broke off from the group (no more Lance to guide us) to spend a day in Shenzhen, which is right across the border from Hong Kong and famous for its illegal DVD’s, cheap massages, and fake clothes and accessories. There we walked in circles looking for an archway we never found, bargained with physically abusive storekeepers, felt very shady in drug deal-esque DVD purchases, and scored some $3 (U.S) ‘Nike’ shirts.

Browsing through a pile of fake Giordano polos on the street while wearing a full backpack and holding 3 plastic bags of clothes, I felt a bump on my side. Suspicious, I reached into my pocket and shouted at Greg, “My wallet’s stolen!”

Thank you Tom Clancy for teaching me what a professional pickpocket feels like.  Because as much as getting pickpocketed sucks (and it does; I felt like an absolute fool), if I was right about that bump, the thief could not have gone far. Looking up and around, I saw an older man about 15 feet down an alley walking away from me with his hand by his back pocket. If I wanted to see my wallet again, it was now or never. It was the most intense call I've had to make.

I started running.

He started running too.

He turned into an empty building. Heart pounding, I followed. He ducked into a staircase. I got within six steps barreling down full speed.

Suddenly, he stopped, turned, and threw me my wallet. Stunned, I watched him walk to the bottom of the stairs. Not knowing if he took anything from the wallet and not wanting to lose him in case he did, I ran to catch up with him, now in a crowded basement market, and grabbed his arm. Nothing missing. I let go.

Apparently, he did not want to mess with me.

Badass.

Or stupid.  Still haven't decided.

Trembling after the adrenaline rush (I'm a wuss at heart), I retraced my steps and showed off the reclaimed wallet to Greg; after taking too long to process my shout to join the chase, he had been teaching the surrounding vendors some choice English curse words. The ladies at the stands gave me thumbs up. “Did you buy that already?” Greg asks, motioning to the polo shirt I had inadvertently stolen as I bolted from the shop and had completely forgotten was in my hand. I could barely keep my fingers still enough to pay.

The shirt was actually ugly, but what the heck.

They let me exchange it for another one anyway after I calmed down.

Check back next week for Nech does Thailand. (I rode an elephant yesterday!)