First day in Beijing, semi-spell checked

greetings from the Middle Kingdom, where blogspot (as well as the Washington Post) is (are??) apparently inaccessible.

I wasn't sure I'd have time for internet access, and I probably won't as the trip goes on, but it's crappy out, there's a business center in the hotel, and it was a great opportunity to spend a few hours away from mom. Here's a rundown of the trip over and first full day in Beijing.

I wish there was as much Beijing blog here as mom blog, but as it were, I don't have much to say. Tian An Men was big, cloudy. Our city guide, Jen Jun suggested that we save any political questions for inside the bus. Street vendors were pushy. There were many tourist groups, but mostly from other parts of China. Many of them came and stared at us and tried to get pictures with us-- Jen Jun had foreseen this, said they like to show people at home that they've been in the presence of exotic foreigners. The Forbidden City was enormous and beautiful, and I wish we'd been given more time in the Imperial Garden, but such is the downside of being with a tour group. Hu Tong was neat. The food has been good but not amazing. Little interaction with locals, unfortunately... which brings me back to why this is mostly mom blog.

***
Congratulations to those of you who picked "I don't like your hair," especially if you predicted that I would hear it within sixty seconds of our seeing each other.

I was sitting in the departure lounge in O'Hare when they came in. I waved. Even as dad saw me, mom kept walking because she didn't turn her head enough to see me. Dad points out that I'm right there, we greet each other, organize our stuff across a few seats.

Dad: I'm going to run to the restroom.
A.: I'll watch the stuff.
Mom: I'll go to the restroom too...

Pause

Mom: I don't like your hair.
A.: Just go to the restroom.
Mom: I don't like your hair.
A.: You never like my hair.
Mom: Sometimes I do. This time I don't.
A.: Just go to the restroom.

I mean, I don't even like my hair. It's a disaster. I'm not arguing; I just don't like to be reminded.
***

We've boarded. The nice check-in person in Boston seated mom and dad together, i.e. in Economy Plus with me. I naively was purely excited about this, until the implications hit me. Still, I'd rather sit with her and deal with it than not sit with her. Economy Plus on a long flight is a great thing, especially when you don't have to pay for it because your daughter has status with the airline.

Mom, upon getting to the seats: What makes you think these are special seats? They look like any other seat on the plane.
A.: There's more legroom, and there are less likely to be kids here, as families usually won't want to pay more for multiple people.
Mom: They look like any other seat.

Perhaps because she soon saw multiple stickers and other signs saying "Economy Plus," she had a change of heart.

Mom: There is more legroom here.

Mom started talking about how it had felt good to have paid off all her credit cards before leaving. I said that if I get a decent performance rating at work, I'll be eligible for some student loan reimbursement. This is unequivocally good, right? It's a great benefit of a new job. A fitting response would be, "that's great." Instead, mom sees it as an opportunity to pick up on the 'all government is idiots' theme, says "well, everyone in the MA attorney general's office is an idiot."
***

Mom asks to get out, takes the opportunity to lecture me on the virtues of a window seat.

Mom: You have to get up three times as much as I do. I only have to get up when I get up. You get up when dad, you and I get up.
A.: That's the point. It's good to get up during a long flight.

Now, I'd failed to consider the extent to which my mom dilly-dallies. Unlike my dad, who does things slowly because he can't help it, mom just likes to take her time, look around. Which is fine, when it's the time and place. Which is not when you're blocking the aisle and other people are waiting for you.

I will say that it was good to have mom, rather than a stranger, in that window seat so I could see some of Alaska out the window.

She came back, I got up to let her through, sat down and put my earphones back on, continued to watch the film. Dad went back to sleep. Mom decided it was a great time to talk to both of us, but not about anything substantive. She just kept thinking out loud, except she really wanted us to hear these thoughts, because she poked dad to wake him up and me to have me remove the earphones. Mom's comment was about the film was Mr. Magorium's Magic Emporium.

Mom: We went to a store that looked like that, in Sarasota. Do you remember?
A.: Vaguely.
Mom: You didn't have a bad childhood, you know. We took you everywhere, tried to teach you everything...

And here is one I didn't call, but should have. It's a Mom Madness omission: taking great pleasure in listing all the high hopes she had for me, and how none of them took. All the lessons she took me to, and how bad I was at all of them.

Mom: We put you in dance classes, we had you take...

I put my earphones back on. She prodded me.

Mom: Hey!
A.: I'm watching the movie.
Mom: I'm talking to you.

You know that scenario when the person sitting next to you on the plane insists on talking, even though it's clear you're not interested? Is it better or worse when that person is your mother?

She persists. I get agitated and turn away from her with a sweeping hand motion, knocking over my cup of water in the process. The water spills onto my seat.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up on a flying half-way across the world, with eight hours to go, with a wet bottom.

***
Four films have now been shown (I watched one, half-watched two) and the screen is now displaying our route. We're flying over Japan, then Khabarovsk. My parents both tell me they'd traveled there on business. Dad talks about being a young student, and one week during the Korean War being too sick to go to school. He stayed home and followed news of the war, found all the battlegrounds on his atlas. He tells me he was always a current events junkie. I remember that I get it from him, and not genetically-- he always talked about the importance of being aware of what was going on in the world. He encouraged me to read the newspaper (mom always wanted to cancel home delivery). He also did his part in ensuring that I wouldn't grow up to be one of those people that can't do basic arithmetic without a calculator. I may have mentioned that when he would pick me up at school (and we would walk home, of course), he had me add up the numbers on license plates we passed along the way.

My dad is a really smart guy, but for all his intelligence, remarkably, consistently slow on the uptake. This wouldn't be as noticeable if he didn't also consistently announce things as he discovered them-- minutes after they became clear to others or had even been discussed.

***
I mentioned in a recent blog that mom doesn't really think rules apply to her. It's hard to describe-- she doesn't actively think they don't apply (sometimes); she just doesn't pay attention and sometimes just doesn't listen. So she decides not to stow her bag under the seat in front of her for landing. The flight attendant notices and asks her to. She looks confused, as if this is the first time she's hearing this.

We land in Beijing's uber-sleek, spotless airport. I thought it must be new, was right-- apparently, it had opened three days before our arrival.

The immigrations officials' booths have customer service satisfaction buttons. You can choose "very satisfied," "satisfied," "poor service," etc.

At the booth, dad as usual gives too much/irrelevant information, such as the tour group we're with. Mom, as usual, overreacts and snaps at him. This only makes it worse, but the immigration official doesn't care and waves us through.

Oh, and they did check baggage, but did not take the opportunity to pack a whole tube of toothpaste, even though we had discussed it.

Mom sees my dufflebag (not for the first time during the trip).

Mom: You could have told me you didn't have a wheeled suitcase, I could have brought you one.
A.: We have this conversation EVERY TIME you see my luggage. I do not use wheeled luggage; it is more trouble than it's worth. The wheels make it heavier, and there will always be circumstances when you can't roll it. And it is easily broken.
Mom: This is the first time I'm hearing this.

True, this isn't worth snapping over, but please understand that at that point I hadn't slept in more than 24 hours (the little rat decided to meow outside my room at 3:40AM and I couldn't sleep for more than 30 minutes on the plane). And it's the principle. How many times do we have to have the same conversation?

Mom: Did you bring an umbrella?
A.: OF COURSE NOT. I brought a waterproof jacket.
Mom: Could you say that without implying how superior you are for your choice of raingear?
A.: Could you just leave me alone?

I don't think I'm a better person for choosing a jacket over an umbrella, although the latter is the raingear version of wheeled luggage in terms of practicality: it's bulky, requires a free hand, can be broken, etc. It doesn't double as a warm/windproofing layer, doesn't come with pockets, doesn't operate well in the wind. It's great for business trips or maybe cities where style is that important, but it's not great for much else. But I snap not because it's a better choice--I'm not one to proselytize-- I snap because I haven't slept in a very long time and need my mom to stop henpecking.

We're corralled into a chartered bus and driven, by the second-best driver in Beijing no less (the first is in the hospital) to our hotel. Traffic this rainy Friday afternoon rush hour is particularly horrendous, and the trip takes over two hours. Our trip manager and tour guide take the opportunity to tell us a little bit about the upcoming trip. Contributing to our national delinquency, they ask us to call them Cathy and Jason, because Jen Jun and Yem Ping (Chinese speakers can forgive my phonetic but incorrect transliteration) is apparently too much for most of the people they guide. I don't blame them-- they're probably sick of getting their real names butchered-- but I won't call them Cathy or Jason.

We see the massive "bird's nest," which will host the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games. Little on the way signals that we're in Asia-- largely because much imitation has interfered with my appreciation of the real thing. Remember (that was a rhetorical "remember"-- I don't actually expect you to remember) when I was in Nicaragua and thought, "funny, my skin smells like a Bath&Body Works grapefruit product, I wonder how that happened," and then realized it was because I had consumed several grapefruit earlier that day? I mistook real grapefruit for fake. Well, since I walk by a Chinatown gate every day on my way to work, the sight of a few pagodas wasn't enough to signal the fact that I was actually in China.

[Months later, a Times article would say, "Yet your sense of marvel at China’s transformation is easily deflated on the drive from the airport. A banal landscape of ugly new towers flanks both sides."]

We finally get to the hotel; everyone is exhausted and ready to turn in. We as Yem Ping to point us to an ATM, she does. Mom starts small-talking over the falling dollar. Warped sense of urgency, no sense of what's the right time/place. We go to the ATM, it doesn't take our cards. Mom's about to try a third time, I warn her not to lest the machine eat the card. She dilly-dallies, I entreat her that we go, change some money at the hotel, there's not much of a difference (if any) in rate. I go to the front desk to exchange dollars for the people's money, where the receptionists records the serial number of each twenty-dollar bill I hand over to her.

We turn in. I'm half asleep when mom decides to talk to me.

Mom: It's 8pm.
A.: That's impossible- it must be later than that.
Mom: No, it's 8pm. 8:37 to be exact.
A.: That's not 8pm.
Mom: What?
A.: 8:37 is not 8pm.
Mom: You are such an enema. [Russian idiom for saying someone is anal].

What can I say? In that context, i.e. remarking how much time has passed since we arrived or how late/early it is, those 37 minutes matter.

***
The following morning. Mom has chicken she'd brought from home, didn't get a chance to eat on the plane.

Mom: What should I do with this chicken?
A.: Toss it.
Mom: Where?
A.: I don't know.
Mom: Inside the room?
A.: I don't know.
Mom: Where should I toss it?
A.: I DON'T KNOW!
Mom: Why are you making a drama out of this?
A.: Why are you asking me the same question four times?
Mom: I'm not! Why do you always take that tone?
A.: I only took the tone the fourth time I had to answer the question.

Pause

Mom: What should I do with this chicken?

***
A.: Did dad catch the cold you had?
Mom: Colds aren't contagious. The flu is contagious.
A.: Colds are contagious, too.
Mom: No, you can't catch a cold from someone else.

I let it go.

***
Mom loves to announce that she's not hungry, as if it's a badge of honor, makes her a better person. My parents continue to be themselves, but after breakfast I'm actually able to let it roll off, or so I think. They're so disorganized-- brought too much stuff, don't know where anything is, including the important stuff. My system's not perfect, but I have a system--when I need to leave, I grab and go.

The tour group is meeting at 8:15 sharp, eight floors down. It's 8:11.

A.: We should go.
Mom: Would you calm down?
A.: I'm just saying we have to go.
Mom: We have time. Oh- you're right, we should go. But it's not the end of the world if we're late.
A.: I think it's disrespectful.
Mom: You're such an enema.

After that meeting, we have ten minutes to meet in the lobby to leave for the day. Once again, I am thrust into the role of timekeeper.

Mom: It's not like everyone else is already down there.
A.: It's rude to waste other people's time.

More dilly-dallying, searching for stuff.

A.: Let's GO.
Mom: You are SO controlling.

I LOVE that. For pointing out that it's time to leave, i.e. adhere to the schedule set by the tour group, of all things, she tells me I'm controlling.

Two people are late for the bus, incurring the irritation of everybody else. Yem Ping announces that she'll be lenient on this first day, but afterward she'll leave without people.

***
We get back to the hotel with just over an hour before we have to meet for dinner. I decide to go to the gym. Mom decides to come with me, but first she has to find stuff.

A.: Can you meet me there?
Mom: What difference does it make, I'll be a few minutes.
A.: You're just using the sauna, anyway. I want to run or cycle. I'm not going to have time...
Mom: It's only a few minutes.

We make it down there, I try to tell her that she should warm up before using weights. She ignores me but gives up on weights and just goes to the sauna. As she's leaving, I go to the sauna. I leave the fitness center with 15 minutes to spare, which is plenty of time.

Mom: There you are! What took you so long?
A.: What? It won't take ten minutes to go to the second floor.
Mom: You're going like that?
A.: More or less.
Mom: Hmph. Didn't you bring anything nice?
A.: No. The tour packet specifically said not to.
Mom: Hmph.

I quickly change into something slightly nicer. I don't see what the big deal is, especially in terms of time. This is the one event where people won't be waiting for us at the exact time, anyway.

Dad: You so don't take after us (alluding to the fact that I didn't bring dressy clothes for dinner).
A.: That's right. I read and follow instructions.
Mom: You are so sanctimonious.
A.: What I am is right in this case.

As predicted, most of the rest of the tour is there in jeans and sweatshirts.

Before dinner is served, each family has a minute or so for introductions. Dad suggests that I do ours. I do. Mom isn't happy with it, and revisits a behavior that's been annoying me all day: talking while other people are talking. This is a vicious spiral: I shush her, she gets annoyed because as she sees it I have no right to shush her. I think it's rude to talk while other people are talking. Another family is introducing themselves.

Mom: You did that all wrong.
A.: Shhhhh!
Mom: You should have said.
A.: Shhhhh!
Dad: Seriously, be quiet for a minute.
Mom: Of course. Of course you back her up.
A.: Shhhhhh!

Introductions end, it's dinner time. Mom turns to me, says, "yours was the worst of all the introductions."

I hadn't realized the introductions were competitive. Nor that it mattered, or was worth discussing after the fact. But she's not one to miss an opportunity for criticism.

She repeats her disapproval several times. We regress, become children.

A.: Could you please stop talking?
Mom: You stop talking.
A.: I'll gladly stop talking if it helps you stop talking.

Hopefully, a few hours apart and a good night's sleep will lay the groundwork for much Beijing blog and less mom blog. Click here for more on Beijing's changing landscape.