August 27, 2008
It's my last night here, and I can't believe it.
I have a wretched Olympics hangover, and I think that the city does, too. It was go, go, go, at a frantic pace for the month leading up to and the three weeks during the Games, and then, all of a sudden--nothing. The tourists are gone, the glare from the neon lights of temporary clubs have diminished, the traffic is thick, the people are going about their lives.
I picked up Noodle from the animal hospital today, and myself and the three vet technicians who took care of her for the last six weeks were all sad to say goodbye. These random Beijingers didn't have to become a part of my everyday China life, but fate (and the nuttiest hutong mutt in all of Asia) made it so, I suppose. I won't miss the things in Beijing, I'll miss the people.
Alright, that's not entirely true.
I'll miss cheap beer and cheaper dumplings, miss the serendipitous alleyways and the ridiculous taxi rides. As much as I've complained about the chaos and language barriers that have come to dictate my everyday routine (or desperate attempt to develop one), these frustrations and misadventures have come to define my Beijing experience.
I managed to avoid eating mystery meats here, which is a plus, but of all the things that, upon arrival, freaked me out the most about being in China, that's the only one that I didn't attempt to overcome. Squat toilets, sketchy massages, raw vegetables, gigantic spindly bugs, street noodles, street dogs NAMED Noodle--these are all things that I was terrified to encounter, but now are as normal to me as morning coffee in Davis Square.
I have no idea when and if I'll return to Beijing, but, if I do, I'll do so whole-heartedly.
August 25, 2008
Tonight we stopped by a snack market, featuring tasty treats like fried scorpions, boiled starfish, crunchy lizards, seahorse kebabs, silkworms, whole baby squid, and, you know, magical wands of candied fruit. No big deal.
The scorpion photo is a little bit blurry because they were wiggling. The get threaded onto a bamboo skewer when they're still alive.
I've eaten some crazy shit. Usually when I'm drunk. For example, I've discovered that eating peanut butter with a chopstick at 4 in the morning is a healthy protein boost that will curb those post-booze-binge cravings. I digress. As crazy as my cravings may seem, I can say with absolute conviction that I will never, EVER desire to put a bug in my mouth and crunch down on it, like it ain't no thang.
August 22, 2008
Besides being the fastest mothufucka in the world, he is also one of the funniest mothafuckas in the world.
The dude embodies a rare balance of knowing he's the shit and yet being totally nice, approachable, gracious, and accomodating to reporters. He always stops to talk to everyone (whether they're from a major broadcast network or a smallish newspaper), always gives great quotes, and always has a great attitude, regardless of whether you've grabbed him after a practice session or, you know, breaking a world record.
Same thing with most of the American sprinters. Lauryn Williams, for example, is my new hero, The girl is fast, she loses graciously (and wow, was it a shitty Olympics for the USA runners this year), she's polite, well-spoken, and also has a hell of a sense of humor. Plus, she's sassy. And I dig the sassy.
In fact, nearly all of the Track and Field athletes I've had the pleasure of coming in contact while I've been here seem to be great people, as well as great athletes.
I was talking to another journalist tonight about athletes and attitudes, and we agreed that one of the best things about being at the Olympics is that most of the athletes are humble and appreciative of their achievements, their fans, and the media attention. It's a world of difference, though, between people like the Track and Field competitors, and people like basketball players. Specifically, Team USA basketball players. Holy shit. Yes, you're mega athletes and mega stars (and mega lucky to have rape charges against you dropped before going to trial), but take a cue from the fastest man in the world, and have some class, humility, and humor.
August 19, 2008
When you're hanging out at a bar with Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps looks like a dude at a bar. A dude at a bar who's wearing a terrible pink shirt.
He's kind of a gentle ya-dude. Of course, with eight gold medals, he can be any kind of dude that he wants. But still...less than exciting. I don't know what I was expecting. A toga, maybe. Or skin that glows like a gilded halo of awesome justice. (Does that even make sense? Nope. Hooray for beer.) I might as well have been at Faneuil Hall on a Friday night, watching BC seniors toss 'em back and pose for photos that are destined for no greater glory than to liven up a Facebook page. Instead, I was at "Club Bud", aka Olympic athlete hang, go-to joint for free watery lager, and cheeseball haven.
Boston, I miss you more than ever. Who's meeting me for a beer at Deep Ellum upon my return? No gold medalists, please. Kthxbai.
August 18, 2008
...this is just a tribute.
I, friends, am not a sports writer. That's not my life's ambition, that's not why I'm here in Beijing. (Well, not really. When I'm home and not bound by a stupid confidentiality agreement, I'll tell you all about it. Doesn't that sound magical?)
I am ashamed to say that I perpetuate every stereotype about women and sports. I just learned that you can score a field goal in more than one sport. I don't understand why two minutes in football can take a half an hour. What the shit is "icing"? No idea. I should really take the time to learn.
But, until then, I defer to my sports writer friends. These guys, besides being able to put away beer and jaeger like nobody's business, know their shit. And, maybe someday, I will too.
Well, probably not.
Still, if you're looking for Olympics coverage that's actually about sports, check out these dudes:
The New York Times Rings Blog (I'm trying to morph Pete Thamel and Greg Bishop into drinking buddies. Those workaholic bitches have willpower.)
Pat Forde at espn.com
Benjamin Hochman and Mark Kiszla of The Denver Post. (Anyone who'll spend 3 hours with me at Hooters to watch the Opening Ceremony has my eternal admiration.)
Jeff Duncan of the New Orleans Times-Picayune
August 18, 2008
Some of my Chinese colleagues are inconsolable; hurdler and national hero Liu Xiang has pulled out of the Games.
The man is more than just a star athlete. To the Chinese youth who I spend my days working with, he's an idol, a symbol of hope, pride, and ambition who has come to epitomize China's desired global image; fast, strong, able to stay on par with international competitors.
So many things have brought a wealth of negative media attention to China during these Olympic Games. The Drum Tower stabbing, the Milli Vanilli backlash, the smog, the weather. Spain's controversial photo session pissed me off more than I expected it to, and I realize that, despite my initial protests and adversion to the culture, I've come to think of Beijing as my city, even though I've really no right to feel that way, since, all in all, I'll have spent only 8 weeks here. In a sense, I'm sad for Beijing, for China, because I perceive Liu Xiang as a representative of the country's hopes for the future. No, his departure from the Games does not mean that China is destined for social, political, and economic crumble. But it is disheartening, for reasons beyond the desire to add yet another Gold medal to China's extensive 2008 collection.
August 14, 2008
Raindrops are pestering the skylight above me, a watery
“tap-tap-tap” that then dribbles onto a tin roof in the neighboring
hutong, greeting the metal with a muted plunk. The charcoal-roasted
coffee in my cup is potent, too bitter for my soft American palate, but
better than the alternative; no coffee at all.
<shameless plug>
I'm listening obsessively to my friend Dave's new album
</shameless plug>
To my left is an oblong room brimming with low, wooden tables and
benches bedecked with crimson cushions and bamboo mats. The room is
partitioned by latticework, the odd teak bookshelf, and a gorgeous
circular door frame. To my right, a floor-to-ceiling window, which
gazes upon the now-familiar gray brick walls enveloping the tiny
courtyard neighborhoods that creep and crawl through Beijing, like
architectural inchworms.
At home, I spend the better part of my days in coffee shops, writing,
caffeinating, eavesdropping, writing some more, checking my e-mail
obsessively. I can’t say that I’m a coffeehouse connoisseur, per se,
but I know the cozy small business java nooks and highbrow cafes
of Boston, Cambridge, and Somerville like the back of my jittery hand.
These places are my offices, my spots for interviews and meetings, my comfort zones.
Whenever I travel, the first thing I do is seek out a coffee shop,
to immediately compare, contrast, and, ultimately, settle in for an
afternoon of feeling at home, regardless of whether I’m on the Cape (Hot Chocolate Sparrow) in Rochester,
NY, (Java Joe’s), Galway, Ireland (Bananaphoblacht), or, now, Beijing.
I’ve discovered a few spectacular coffee joints since I’ve been here, and these
slices of home have been havens for me. There’s a marked difference,
though, between parking it for a few hours in a Somerville retail
space, and nestling into a building that’s been standing for an
immeasurable amount of time. True, the Three Trees (on Nanluogu Xiang, in Dongcheng) probably hasn’t
been whipping up lattes for much more than a couple of years, but the
building in which it’s located likely dates to the Yuan Dynasty, which
is awe-inspiring. The architecture teems with authenticity and
austerity, and I imagine that the corner in which I’m settled was once
part of a wealthy family’s living room, given the size of the space,
the amount of natural light, the quality of the woodwork, and the
aesthetic details imbued in the room’s structure.
As a writer, being surrounded by tangible history like this is
enough fuel for endless stories, and I’m finding that it’s easier to
work here than it is when I’m at home, banging my head against a
formica table in a modern cafe bedecked with urban decor. Knowing that
thousands of people and nearly a thousand years have passed through
this space–this spot for coffee and cigarettes and the clickety-clack
of fingers on iBook keyboards–makes me appreciate the Three Trees for
much more than just its similarities to my hometown haunts.
August 14, 2008
Adopting Noodle the dog
has forced me to access a side of Beijing that I didn’t expect to.
Everything until I found her had been all awe and confusion, all mystery
and glamor, all Olympics or sightseeing or nightlife, all the time. Now
that I am in charge of caring for a living creature, I have to navigate
animal hospitals and veterinary visits and pet stores. Mundane
experiences, really, but, possibly the most valuable, as I’ve
discovered that the dog has become a catalyst for developing
relationships with some truly extraordinary people.
As it turns out, I can’t keep animals in the shitty dormitory that I’m
staying in while living in Beijing, which sent me into panic mode. When
I was forced to carry her out of the building, she tucked under one
arm, a bag with her food and toys tucked under the other, I didn’t know
where to go or what to do. I snuck her into a cab and headed to the
first pet-friendly place I could think of; the Beijing Ornamental Animal Hospital.
I’d heard about it from a random ex-pat who stopped me in the street
the day I had found her, to ask if she had a vet. (She didn’t; I had
literally plucked her from the street less than an hour prior.) He
recommended Dr. Tony Beck, a British vet whose practice, the Beijing
Ornamental Animal Hospital, is actually the official
government-sanctioned animal hospital of Beijing. This means that
anyone who wants to bring an animal out of the country has to bring it
to Dr. Beck to be vaccinated, certified, and given an official "exit exam". Perfect.
Initially, I'd brought Noodle there to get her vaccinated, and, since I was in panic mode (it's not pretty), I raced to the animal hospital to see if Dr. Beck could help me figure out what to do. Board the dog
at a random kennel? Give her up for adoption? Ship her home? None of these
seemed like fantastic options, especially since they all pose some degree of risk to her well-being.
One of the veterinary technicians, Jasmine (her English name),
remembered me, and spent nearly an hour calming me down, making phone
calls, giving the dog treats, and, ultimately, tracking down Dr. Beck,
who had the day off. It took them all of thirty seconds to decide to
allow me to board Noodle with them, at the animal hospital, for as long
as I needed to, for a deeply discounted rate. Despite the hospital’s
“closed door” boarding policy, I can visit Noodle whenever I want to,
stay for as long as I want (as long as I’m not in the way of patients
or procedures), can walk her, play with her, and generally get to know
her, all of the things that are so crucial to the beginning of an
owner/puppy relationship.
I’ve been to visit Noodle nearly every day, and it's given me a chance to get to know the staff (some better than others, just depending on
who speaks English and who can tolerate my terrible Chinese), who have been nothing short of fantastic.
These daily trips to a tiny animal hospital in the middle of a regular, working-class neighborhood have allowed me to form bonds with people that
I might otherwise never have met, because they’re not on the tourist
radar. And I am beyond grateful, not only for the opportunity to
interact with “real” people, but for the unwaivering kindness they have
shown me, and shown Noodle. It is those moments of humanity that will
be the most valuable souvenirs from this trip.
August 12, 2008
The open kitchen at Din Tai Fung
is packed floor-to-ceiling with bamboo baskets, steam wafting
frantically through the air as a dozen chefs, equally frantic, scoop
filling and pinch dough into bulbous half-moons. The world-famous
dumpling restaurant has two locations, and I am sitting on a vinyl
bench outside of the take-out area at the branch at Shin Kong Place, a six-floor shopping mall that flaunts designer brand names at stratospheric prices.
Din Tai Fung was once lauded by the New York Times
as one of the Top 10 Restaurants in the World, and who am I to argue
with the Times? I'd been here once before, for a meal that pushed the
boundaries of gluttony, and, on this particular day, I have a craving
for dumplings that simply can't be quashed. Were I not a vegetarian, I
could stop at a snack stand and grab a fistful of baozi for a
few kuai, devour them on the street, juice dripping down my chin.
Unfortunately, it's difficult to find any street snacks that aren't
made with meat, so, I have to choose my dumplings carefully, shelling
out too much money for not enough snacks.
I've been sitting for a few minutes when I am approached by a
Chinese woman. "You're here for the Olympics!" she exclaims, taking a
seat next to me and smiling widely. What the...? Oh. Right. I am still
wearing my credentials around my neck, after having donned them
to get onto the subway for free. I always feel obnoxious wearing the
bright yellow tag that announces my association with the Games, and
I usually keep it tucked in my bag unless I'm at work.
We chatted for a few minutes, the usual small talk. I'm pleasantly
shocked to learn that Yan, my new Chinese friend, used to live in Cambridge. She and her husband had met while
students at UMass-Amherst, then moved to Cambridge so that Yan could
pursue a career in pharmaceuticals. After eight years, they moved to
California, then returned to China, eventually having a daughter,
Angela, who is now a journalism student at the University of Southern
California.
While here in Beijing, I've had several encounters like this, with
friendly Chinese who, regardless of any language barrier, are eager to
strike up a conversation in a random social situation, to learn about
you, to talk about themselves. The only exception to my conversation
with Yan is that she speaks nearly perfect English and isn't at all
curious about the U.S. because she spent a large portion of her life
there.
Yan's food was ready, and, when a Din Tai Fung staffer brought it
out, she asked him something in Chinese. They confer for a moment,
while Yan digs around in her purse and I enviously sniff the Styrofoam
containers of dumplings now sitting mere inches from me. Eventually,
Yan produces a pen and scrap paper, and the two hunch over and begin to
write out Chinese characters. Since I have no idea what was going on, I
begin to lose myself in a daydream, when Yan pokes me in the side.
"This is you!" she says, tapping on the paper.
And it is:
This is my Chinese name. The translation of "Sara" sounds a bit like
"Sasha," with greater emphasis on the first syllable, "Sa." The two
characters (the large ones, circled on the paper) are the phonetic
representatives of the syllables, "Sa" and "Sha."
Yan's husband asks me to hold up the paper, and he snaps a photo of
his wife and me, side by side on a booth, me holding my Chinese name,
she holding a box of dumplings. Which reminds me...where was my food?
Yan take it upon herself to scold the hostess for leaving me waiting,
and in a less than two minutes, I have an aromatic Styrofoam box of my
very own.
A quick handshake and a business card exchange later, and Yan and
her husband are gone, leaving me with a new name, my favorite lunch,
and a new appreciation for the kindness of strangers.
August 11, 2008
When you're not in a major city, catching a taxi on a rainy Sunday afternoon is a pain in the ass. We stood on a street corner for awhile, waving our arms feebly at the yellow cabs that would sporadically amble down the street, passengers already sitting smugly in the back seat. We were about to give up and try to walk to Longqing (which undoubtedly would have resulted in disaster), when a taxi pulled over.
Success! Sort of.
A woman climbed out, and we assumed that she had reached her destination, therefore freeing up the cab. She gestured wildly at us, so we approached. A 12 or 13-year-old kid was sitting in the front passenger seat, a sweaty man in a simple linen Mao outfit in the back.
They didn't get out.
Instead, the driver, a woman (which is rare here) beckoned for us to climb in. Faced with the prospect of standing for an eternity in the rain, we hopped in. We gathered from the ensuing gesturing, and the kid's decent schoolbook English, that they were a family, headed home for the afternoon, but the woman would take us to the gorge because she felt bad leaving us to stand in the rain. A few wrong turns and a bunch of giggling, mostly at our expense, later, we pulled into a giant parking lot.
I didn't know what to expect from Longqing Gorge. But I certainly didn't expect this:
That is Falkor. I've named him that because he reminds me of the flying dragon from The Neverending Story. Inside of Falkor, you'll find...the world's longest chain of escalators. (I think that might actually be for real.) So, upon paying your entry fee and meandering through the Epcot-like "village of leisure," you walk into Falkor's mouth, ride to the top of the escalators, and come upon this:
The bowels of Longqing Gorge, and the boats that will glide you through them. Before we climbed aboard, we bought 5 kuai rain slickers - glorified plastic bags - and gigantic umbrellas, as, by now, the skies had split open at the seams and were pelting us with freezing drops. It's the only day it's really rained since we've been here, and, of course, it's the day we've decided to spend outside.
The boat ride was actually gorgeous (oh man, I just realized the terrible pun value. Well, fuck you, I'm not erasing it.), and, until the driver decided to start blaring Chinese pop music, was actually quite relaxing, despite the dismal weather. We made up our own words to the cheesy and predictable chord progressions, and took in what I can only describe as spectacular views. No doubt the travel industry will come a-callin' to hire me for my astounding copywriting skills.
(It was still foggy and pouring, so the photo quality is less than stellar. Plus, I'm not exactly Ansel Adams.)
But perhaps, the most spectacular spectacle was to come, once we disembarked...
August 11, 2008
Oh, adventure.
China certainly keeps me on my tiptoes. If I were an asshole, I might write something like "Good thing I packed a sense of humor!" but since I'm not a fan of getting punched in the babymaker, I'll keep that linguistic gem to myself.
Yesterday, I decided to use the Olympics to my advantage and do the exact opposite of what everyone in China is trying to do; get OUT of Beijing.
I'd read about Longqing Gorge in one of the myriad travel books given to me by Jerry and Michael at The Beijinger, and decided that a day filled with trees, rocks, and rivers might kick start the healing process that my poor decrepit lungs will need to undergo before they completely disintegrate.
Longqing is about 85 km (about 52 miles, my American friends) north of Beijing, a simple trip if you have a car. Buses, the international bastard spawn of public transit, are a different story.
Catching a bus to Longqing requires hopping the number 919 from Deshengmen. This would, of course, be easier if there were only one number 919 bus, and one corresponding stop at Deshengmen. There are three. Why? That's a good question. The simple answer is because nothing in China makes sense. The more thorough answer is because nothing in China makes sense and it makes me want to hang myself with a hand-pulled noodle from the giant "Beijing Olympics, One World, One Dream" sign in the middle of Tian'anmen Square.
The three 919 bus stops, a few blocks apart, are not along the same route for the same bus. Instead, there are apparently three completely different 919 buses, which travel three completely different routes. Why they're not called 919 A, B, and C, or even 919, 920, and 921, I have no fucking idea. Hell, call them Eat, Shit, and Whitey. Anything.
We figured it out, though, because we're tenacious, and soon hopped a crowded bus that smelled like onions. (It was oddly comforting. Buses ALWAYS smell like onions.) We cruised along without incident, until, about an hour into the trip, a loud, incessant "BEEP! BEEEEEEEP!" startled me awake. The crowd murmered excitedly, the driver pulled over, and, sure enough. something was wrong with the bus. I have no idea what, since I couldn't see or smell anything weird and nobody else spoke English, but I took my cues from the frantic people around me, grabbed my stuff, and evacuated.
Fortunately, another Longqing-bound bus wasn't far behind, and we stuffed ourselves onto it, sweaty limbs pressed against sweaty limbs, our skin-to-skin contact producing a cornucopia of new organic sounds and smells.
The bus doesn't go directly to Longqing; you take it to Yanqing Station and catch a taxi from there. Since, in my head, a "station" implies a large, bustling building, I almost missed Yanqing; a random, tiny stop along a random, dingy road, no building in sight except a hospital. The bus driver nearly clipped my ass with the closing doors, but I made it off, and stood, helplessly, and watched as cars whizzed by for one, two, ten minutes (there are other numbers in there, true), with nary a taxi in sight.
Did I mention that it was raining?
August 09, 2008
The cynical part of my brain scoffed at the news. Big fucking surprise. Who didn't see this coming?
The naive, doe-eyed, shy little girl part of my brain (it's small, but it exists) was incredulous. But...but...how could anyone have seen this coming?
There was a stabbing today in Beijing.
The first day of the Olympic Games should have been a joyous one, an all-day celebration of athletics and intercontinental patriotism. Last night's Opening Ceremony ignited ecstacy within the city, as people from all over the world gathered in the streets and in the bars to watch as thousands of performers served up a visual smorgasbord of Chinese culture. (Sports Illustrated has a fantastic photo spread, here.) The experience was electric.
Then, today, a Chinese man attacked two American tourists and their tour guide at the Drum Tower, and then jumped 130 feet to his death. One of the victims, a relative of the coach of the U.S. Volleyball team, has died.
To a Bostonian, a stabbing isn't particularly shocking. One or two usually happen overnight, another before our morning coffee, a few more before lunchtime. Maybe one occurs in a particularly high-traffic area, like the Common, or Faneuil Hall, so we might perk up for a moment, shake our heads in fleeting disbelief, and go on with our day. In Beijing, crime rates are low. Violent crimes, especially against tourists, are exceedingly rare. People don't just kill people, as easily as you'd swat a mosquito.
Just the other day, I remarked to one of my colleagues that I feel so safe here in Beijing. With rare exceptions, the streets are peaceful, the people kind and helpful, even when gruffy and grumpy and roused from their mid-day nap by a flustered American who has been lost for two hours because she can't read her street map, and can't tell the difference between Dongzhimenwai Dajie and Dongzhimennei Dajie.
Often, after a night out with friends, I wander the streets alone, looking for a rogue taxi, and when it appears, I sit in the front with the driver, and we chat in broken English and shattered Chinese. And I feel 100 percent safe in doing so.
This stabbing is not only a local and national tragedy, but it may be indicative of the cultural and social changes ushered in by the years-long preparation for and culmination of the Olympic Games. Whether those changes are fleeting or permanent, I really can't say.
What I can say is that I fear the international media will turn this into some kind of race war, that people, especially Americans, will take this as a metaphoric attack on us as a nation. That all of the hope and pride and warmth exhibited by the people of Beijing will be overshadowed, in an instant, by the deadly plunge of a knife.
Yes, this is an infuriating and disgusting tragedy, and yes, were the perpetrator still alive, he would deserve to be punished for this heinous crime.
But Beijing doesn't.
August 08, 2008
It's 8/8/08, and I'm about to head off to watch the Opening Ceremony. (Not in person again; on a big ole TV at a big ole sports bar). The city has been absolutely buzzing for the past few days, as people from all over the world have been mingling in the bars, the streets, the shops, the Olympic venues and practice grounds.
I watched a few middle-distance runners (country unknown, but if I had to guess, an African nation) practice yesterday, and their "warm up" was faster and more powerful than I could even dream of being. Watching the actual Track and Field competitions up close will likely require a change of pants when each medal event is done. (Classy!)
Beijing is crawling with journalists right now, and thus the city has become a crankier, drunker, saltier place. Every other English word I heard in the lake bar district last night was some conjugation of "fuck", and I love every crotchety minute of it.
August 07, 2008
Beijing has taken its revenge on me.
I was invited to attend a bachelorette party for a fellow journalist last night, so, like any good member of a bachelorette party, I decided to make her some tacky accessories, since I had no idea where to even begin looking for penis-shaped necklaces and naughty check-list T-shirts. I'd acquired a few yards of pink tulle (bizarrely, it was used to decorate a package of takeout I took home from a vegetarian restaurant--one of the best meals I've ever had, by the way. Will blog about that later. Tangential!), so I purchased a sparkly headband and a small tube of glue, and planned to fashion a giant veil. I'm crafty like that.
Little did I know, because the label was in Chinese, that the glue was SUPER glue. And it was the superest of all super glues. I discovered this when I pressed down on the tulle to stick it to the headband, went to grab my scissors, and my fingers brushed together. And stuck there.
Yes, I, like Tim Allen surely did before me, super glued my fingers together. On both hands, because I was so surprised that I for some reason made a fist with the other hand. And it, too, stuck.
I had to run screaming into the hallway, waving my crab-claw hands around, until one of my neighbors, barely able to contain his guffaws, emerged from his room and beckoned me to his computer, where he Googled an antidote--nail polish remover.
It took an hour and half a bottle, but my fingers finally came unstuck. On the plus side? My fingertips are super soft. Because I lost several layers of skin.
Ok, Beijing. I promise to never make fun of you again if you promise to never again trick me with your seemingly innocuous stationery products. Truce?
August 04, 2008
Here's a valuable tip. Chinese "white wine" is actually some kind of elixir brewed in the bowels of Hades that will leave a trail of fire in your throat and knock you off your barstool faster than you can ask "What is this?"
I, like so many foreigners before me, was tricked by the innocuous sounding name. White wine? A mild and refreshing beverage! Yes, please! When they brought me a tiny, flat green glass bottle and a shot glass, I was perplexed. Who shoots wine? How funny!
The "wine" is really baijiu, a powerful spirit distilled from sorghum grass. One shot, and you're feeling giggly. Two, and you're feeling fiesty. Three, and you're feeling the floor smack you on the ass because you've fallen on it.
I learned this the hard way. Last night. I'll be in bed if you need me.
