The Great Workout...I Mean Wall

You can't go to China without visiting the Great Wall--once.

Arriving in Badaling (insert your own Sopranos joke here), we got off the bus and proceeded to run the gauntlet of vendors selling everything from watches with Mao frantically saluting every second to "mag-a-nets" the size of the wall itself to "genuine imitation" (I swear they actually said this) purses, clothing, jewelry, etc. And they did not want to take "no" for an answer.

As if this wasn't daunting enough, we then passed through a short, single lane tunnel competing for space with cars and buses who all seemed to be playing a game called "pick off the tourists" (personal safety is apparently not a big issue for the Chinese people) to climb the steps that led to the Great Wall.

Our guide explained that if we went left on the wall, we were following in the footsteps of Nixon and other great (?) world leaders. In fact, all eighty gazillion Chinese people went left when they came to visit. If we went right, we were a bunch of weak little American sissies who needed our mommies to wipe our noses.

Naturally, since it was a matter of national pride, we all headed left and, after about ten minutes of foolish bravado and excruciating pain, we realized we should have wimped out and gone right and to heck with being macho (Meanwhile, all the Chinese people who, in actual fact, go right were having a good laugh at our expense!).

The first incline really wasn't too bad. It was only at about a mere forty-five degrees. Even the first flight of steps wasn't too bad. There were only two dozen that randomly ranged from two inches to twelve inches in height. It was the second through 142nd inclines and flights of stairs that did us in, where the incline increased to ninety degrees and the steps became the stuff of nightmares. Oh, and did I mention that the only railing was about six inches off the ground, so you couldn't even pull yourself up? I hadn't realized that they had consulted with the Marquis de Sade when building the wall.

Except for a few fitness freaks of nature, we pretty much dropped like flies. At each and every plateau, we found someone waving the white flag and trying not to cry like a baby. This thing would have brought Jack LaLane to his knees! Most of us tried to push on to the fourth tower and end of the section, but we were just kidding ourselves. Oh sure, maybe if we'd had two weeks, a Sherpa and a system of pulleys and levers.....maybe. But an hour to get up, down and back to the bus???

We tried to make the most of it though, stopping to admire the scenery and take photos, but it was really all a cover. What we were actually doing was gasping for breath and surreptitiously checking for signs of heart attack and stroke.

Meanwhile, an eighty-year-old Chinese man with a cane passed us by around the third tower as though he was merely out for his daily constitutional around the block. To add insult to injury, when you finally did drag yourself up to the next tower or plateau, there were vendors waiting for you with tables and trays and cases full of more "genuine imitations", T-shirts and paintings.

I like to imagine that they are air-lifted up to work each day since I could barely drag myself up that far. Either that or they simply live up there, coming down to visit the family on holidays and replenish their supplies. Any other explanation is unacceptable in my fantasy land. You almost want to buy their stuff just to applaud their stamina. (Although if they were selling oxygen tanks, they could make a killing).

Coming down was only slightly less traumatic than going up. First of all, the vendors knew this was their last shot (forever), so they began chasing us and pushing their wares in our faces, rapidly dropping their prices ($60...okay $30). Fabulous. The wall wasn't enough of a challenge, now we had a human obstacle course to maneuver around.

Stairs that had seemed impossibly steep on the way up now looked like ladders that you were somehow supposed to go down forwards, without taking out the two hundred other people struggling to climb up.

They told up that when the men building the wall died, they were simply buried in the wall (we suspect they died because they wanted to). It made us wonder if the renovated sections might not be filled with hapless tourists who decided to turn left instead of right!

Chicken, Dumplings and Goldfish

You know you're in trouble when you visit a country that has a KFC on every corner which the locals consider "five star dining at one star prices", and it is the go-to-place for the all important first date.

Our first night in Xi'an (she-an), Beth and I ate at House O'Dumplings (a.k.a. Defachang Restaurant) which boasted 180 different kinds of dumplings shaped like everything from porky pig to Buddha.

The meal started innocently enough with four small appetizer dishes of tofu, peanuts, beans and corn. Then they brought four steamer trays of dumplings...then four more trays...and four more after that. Would the madness never end?!

There were walnut dumplings (China is not the place you want to be if you have a nut allergy), fried rice dumplings, spinach dumplings, chicken, beef and pork dumplings (remind anyone else of Forest Gump?) and some with fillings we could only guess at, but which we suspected might contain the turtle that had been swimming in the tank by the reception desk. Of course they swore that anything unidentifiable was chicken, but that turtle had looked scared. Real scared. Like he knew something we didn't.

The steamed dumplings courses were followed by, surprise...dumpling soup! It was only when the watermelon came (the Chinese idea of dessert...have they never heard of Entemen's or Pepperidge Farm?) that we knew were were finally saved from the relentless parade of dumplings. (FYI, you do not want to go to bed too soon after eating your body weight in dumplings. It is not pretty)

Our first meal in Beijing, at a place called the Green T, proved just as interesting, but for different reasons. Walking through floor to ceiling white curtains which billowed constantly despite the fact that there was no breeze, we found ourselves transported to a black and white version of Hogworts where candles hung in midair over long tables whose chairs had backs reaching halfway to the twenty foot ceiling and purple boa feather pillows. Flute music was provided by a young woman perched atop of what looked like an ice sculpture set on top of the bar. (for someone who turns on their heated car seat in July, my bottom grew numb just looking at her!)

Even the bathrooms provided entertainment for us with clear glass walls that magically clouded up as you entered("okay, you stand our here and yell when you can't see me any more." --Tim can kiss that ambassadorship good-bye!) and stalls completely lined with mirrors--inside. ( I definitely could have done with a little less entertainment there.)

As for the food, we all steered clear of anything that sounded suspicious including the green chicken and something that still had feet and various innards. We found that nothing was completely safe, however, when the woman sitting next to me ordered a vegetarian dish only to have it served with a wineglass containing a live goldfish. We weren't sure if he was a garnish or for downing like a chaser, but we named him Larry and debated flushing him to freedom. (He actually looked even more scared than the turtle, and I think I saw him mouthing,"Help me!", at one point during dinner)

After several more days of meals involving many courses of things that may have previously barked or meowed (and not a fortune cookie or piece of chocolate in sight), we celebrated our last night in China with a trip to (another) funky restaurant that looked like it had been designed by the Picasso, Poe and Addams Family firm. (This time, the floor to ceiling bathroom mirrors were tinged green. And I thought the clear glass was bad?).

Despite things like Shark lip soup (who knew Jaws had lips?) and oysters the size of my head, (can you say mutant, boys and girls?) the meal was good. All eighteen courses (How do these people not weigh 1000 lbs.?) Even the watermelon dessert.

An Auspicious Start

Our trip to China had finally begun.
Turns out my travelling companion, Beth (our friend who works with Tim), is just as anal as I am, so we were at the airport way early. There were maybe six people in line and security was a breeze, plus they were able to check our bags all the way through to our final distination (we we landed in Beijing, and had to change planes to get to Xi'an to see the terra-cotta soldiers). Could life get any better?

Since we were there so early, we decided to celebrate with coffee at a cafe across from the gate, a major decision for someone who normally sits at the gate anxiously watching every move made by the gate aagents, knowing that the minute I leave, even to go to the bathroom everyone will be hustled aboard and the flight will take off without me (paging Dr. Freud). Either that or all the overhead storage space will be taken, which is worse.

So there we sat, sipping and chatting when we looked up and realized that, oh no, our flight was boarding (early) and the waiting area had completely emptied out (who's crazy now, huh?).

First to arrive, last to board. Not good for someone who makes the Rainman look like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy. Especially when it takes me a good fifteen minutes once I'm actually in the seat to perform my pre-flight checklist (book, ipod, sudoku, blanket, pillow...the list goes on and on and that's just for a two hour domestic flight).

As if it wasn't bad enough, somehow I handed over the wrong ticket which they put through the machine and ripped in half (how was I going to explain that sixteen hours later to someone who spoke Chinese?). Then, I couldn't free my passport holder from the pouch inside my bag, or the passport from the holder. I also managed to get tangled up in my jacket after dropping it twice. This was beyond Lucy. I had become Jerry Lewis! Of course, Beth was a great help, doubled over laughing.

Once on the plane, the comedy of errors continued. Trying to lug my bags up the narrow stairs to the second level (and by bags I mean a suitcase I could live out of for several weeks and a "purse" that could house a family of four -- packing light to me meanns not bringing my out of season clothes) was like trying to wrestle an alligator while juggling jello.

At this point, my jacket was wrapped around my neck and my passport and boarding pass were clenched in my teeth. Concerned for the safety of my fellow passengers and possible personal injury lawsuits, the flight attendant relieved me of my suitcase at the top of the stairs.

Now all I had to do was unpack and settle into what would be my home for the next thirteen and a half hours. Refusing a pre-flight glass of OJ, I leaned forward to open my bag, not realizing that my seatmate had decided that a nice glass of juice would hit the spot and was reaching for it behind my back. Unfortunately, I chose that moment to sit back rather abruptly and the juice hit the spot allright. It hit several on my shirt, my chair, my pillow....
The rest of the flight passed uneventfully, but by then the tone was set. Therefore, it was no surprise when we landed in Beijing and I got patted down by a security agent who got further around the bases than Tim on our fourth date. And then Beth walked into a table, knocking over a soda (karma for laughing at me)...yep, it was going to be an interesting trip.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

They say if you want to know how a girl will turn out, look at her mother.

My sister, annonymous, seems to think Tim should have looked more closely twenty years ago. Although she disagrees, I think, that of the two of us, I dodged that bullet more successfully than she did.

Like my mother, I may exhibit a certain lack of coordination, but, unlike her (and Pat) I don't tempt fate.

In her fifties, my mother took up skiing. In her sixties, she went parasailing. And last year, at seventy-one, she jumped out of a plane in New Zealand.

Skiing? No thanks. My first (and last) attempt ended with a trip to the first-aid station to bandage my thumb which, after an unfortunate encounter with a ski boot clip had no nail--at all. Sitting by the fire sipping a hot chocolate is definitely more my speed.

Parasailing?!?! The only way I am getting off a boat in the middle of the ocean is if it is sinking.

Sky-diving? I had a massage while she was plunging to the ground from nine thousand feet up. Trying a new massage oil is enough of a risk for me.

Like my mother? Please. I consider driving my four-door sedan three blocks to the store without a seatbelt an unnecessary risk.

My sister though, is just like her. Skiing? You bet! And this after she broke her arm twice (in the same place) rollerskating. Hellooo? Having wheels on your feet was not dangerous enough?

She has also jumped from great heights...attached to a bungee...over concrete. No soft, water landing for her. That's for sissies! Even my mother bypassed this opportunity in New Zealand.

And then there are her motorcycles. One is for going fast. The other is for going faster and farther. She and my mother even attended the motorcycle convention in NYC last year (Hell's Angels, watch out!) . I have to take a valium just to get into a NYC cab.

Pat has always been far more the daredevil than I. Years ago, on a trip to the Catskills, we were all in separate cars. Somehow, two trucks got between Pat and my father and refused to let her pass. She solved that problem by creating a middle lane for herself between them (This was the same trip where, when Tim got out of the car with a sunburned arm, she told him not to worry...he could even things out when his other arm burned on the way back---definitely shades of Mom!).

And finally...you know you are just like someone when you are the only one who understands what the heck they are talking about.

Some time ago, the family got together for dinner, and, appropo of nothing, my mother suddenly informed us that, "Wood is on shark". Silence greeted this announcement as we all struggled to decipher her meaning. Had she seen some National Geographic episode the rest of us had missed? Was this code for, "I'll have the surf and turf"? Had she lost her mind?

We all gazed at each other, helpless, until Pat decoded it for us.

Apparently, James Woods was set to star in a new show called Shark !

Yeah, she's not at all like my mother.

An Unfortunate Break

I have an unfortunate tendency (inherited from my mother) to walk into things like walls, doors and other moving objects. I always have at least two or three bruises on my legs, and I have broken various toes several times over the years. Despite ten years of ballet...graceful, I am not!

On our last vacation alone, I managed to misjudge a set of steps and sprain a couple of toes, cutting and bruising my foot in the process (so much for romantic moonlight walks--somehow, gushing blood, hopping around like a demented rabbit and swearing like a sailor isn't a turn-on. Go figure)

I also smashed my knee on the steps in the kiddie pool, again cutting and bruising it (no hopping this time, just sinking like a stone). Oddly enough, I did not expect steps six feet down in the "kiddie pool" since the adults only pool was just four feet deep. Nor could I figure out why the swim-up bar was there. How exactly does that logic go...get the kids liquored up, then make them swim through six foot deep water to safety? Why not put a few great whites into the pool too? Just to make it more interesting.

Anyway, Tim is convinced that he will be arrested one day for spousal abuse. Although there is the time that he broke my arm...(sweetie, you had to know this story would eventually make the blog!)

Our house has hardwood floors throughout. Days after we moved in, we had friends coming over, and Tim volunteered (was drafted) to clean the floors. The last words out of my mouth as he headed out to the store were, "Don't get Endust. It makes the floors too slippery."

Of course, he heard, "Get Endust," and the rest, as they say, is history.

Hours later, as I headed downstairs to get a refill for my glass of water and tell Tim that I was going to bed, disaster (and Endust) struck. Holding onto the railing (safety first), I took the first step with my foot and the next thirteen with my backside and left elbow. Strangely, some instinct made me protect the expensive crystal glass from K-Mart, but not my own elbow!

Of course, Tim wanted me to go to the ER (on a Friday night? There's eight hours sucked out of your life), but I refused.

The next morning, after half a bottle of Tylenol and almost no sleep, he tried again. And again, I refused. We had an appointment at the furniture store and it was the last day of a storewide clearance! Was he insane? What was a sore arm compared with fifty percent off!!!

As we pondered tables, chairs and couches, I began to suspect I had made the wrong decision. I lost interest in colors and styles, fabrics and wood grains. After receiving a less than enthusiastic response to a couch he had chosen, Tim lost his patience. He turned to me and said (here it was---the mother of all mistakes) "Suck it up and walk it off!"

Now some people are surprised that I didn't kill him instantly, but where would the fun be in that? Instead, I have meted out his punishment slowly over the last ten years. Whenever he thinks he is right about a particular issue we are debating, I will grab ahold of my poor, sore arm, and quote, "Suck it up and walk it off". There is no defense.

Ultimately, we did go to the ER (after lunch. Please. Saturday in the ER? We could be there until lunchtime on Sunday, the way they move and you have to have your priorities in life!)
where I was diagnosed with a green twig fracture.

The worst part of the whole ordeal though, came during the next few weeks when Tim had to wash and dry my (then waist long) hair every day. At least on this vacation, I only chipped my (toe)nail polish!