In the Spotlight

I've boarded the train, scrutinized the numbers on my ticket amongst the the Chinese characters and meandered my way to what I hope is my hard sleeper. Next stop: Xian, the Terracotta Warriors with over 2000 years of history and an adventure in the making.

Shortly thereafter a couple arrives with a new born. The woman smiles and nods and then busies herself with the child. The man quickly engages in conversation as the train slowly begins to rattle its way along the tracks. I find the Chinese very curious and friendly. Canadians are well thought of in China due to Norman Bethune's participation in the Long March. "Canada and China...very good friends," the man tells me.

It hasn't taken me very many days to realize that our western sense of "taboo" is completely non-existent in this country. Just a day before, after a bout of food poisoning and looking incredibly jaundiced, a Chinese person came up to me and inquired, "so, is your skin white or is it yellow?" How does one explain that? Normally, if I feel good, not quite so yellow. One would never get away with pointing out skin colour in Canada...it just simply isn't politically correct. Here, however, absolutely nothing is off limits, except perhaps criticism of the government.

As the train creeps through the country side, We pass a series of your standard Chinese shanty shacks. Farmers toil the fields accompanied by mangy looking dogs. Eventually, up a dusty hill, I see an unusually luxurious looking residence. Officially the Chinese can't own land, or so I've been told, but the man is most obviously nervous about this topic and the sharp contrast of this house compared to those we saw previously.

The conversation turns back on the baby. With the one child rule, children are spoiled and doted on. These parents, like so many others, are beamingly proud. My mind keeps flitting to a particular fair haired, blue eyed "waspy" looking friend back home who had allegedly been born with a mysterious "Mongol spot", a dark spot at the base of the tailbone which I've been told is common place amongst almost all Asian children. The spot usually disappears when the child is anywhere between two and four years of age. For years, this girl's doctor teased her of being descended from Genghis Khan, for the spot is sure "proof" of Mongol blood. I wonder. It is not something that I had ever witnessed. Was it true?

Eventually curiosity overcomes my reserved, stoic upbringing. I have to know...so I ask, "is it true?" The father immediately flips the child over and whips off her bottoms and there it is. I'm stunned. I no longer remember what I had imagined, but it certainly wasn't this...a big dark blue, round spot that looks like a huge bruise. The father explains that there is a myth about a benevolent goddess...although looking at the size of the spot, I'm not quite sure how benevolent she could be. When the child is coming into the world, if the goddess decides to spare the child's life, she gives it a hard smack on the bottom right as it makes its way into the world leaving this big round blue spot. This young girl has been spared and apparently blessed.

Small Realizations

I recently had the following snippet of a conversation with a delightful international student that I have had the privileged of knowing and working with this year. I love how the wheels in the minds of children turn as a new realization sets upon them and expands their understanding of language.

DG - Carla... (slow and ponderous) is your hair blonde?
Me - Ya, I guess you could call it blonde.
DG - Oh...
Me - Well what colour did you think it was?
DG - I thought it was yellow.
Me - Hmm... I see...

The Sinking

Oh, for goodness sakes Otto, what are you going on about now? Would you get down off of that soap box. We have more pressing matters to deal with these days, you know. And quit staring off into the horizon. You make me nervous when you get that strange look in your eyes.

It's All in the Name

I have a colleague who shares my name. That in and of itself is interesting as there are not many around here who have my name, and in fact, I have not run into many at all anywhere I’ve gone. I’ve often wondered if names impart certain personalities on the people who carry them. Many teachers, it would seem, think so. I can’t tell you how many times I have heard to never name a boy one of the dreaded "J" names. Apparently John or James is safe, but almost all the others are a teacher’s worst nightmare: Jason, Jordan, Jeremy, etc…all bad news: hard to manage, hyperactive, and the sort that “stir” up trouble. Of course I have no solid evidence on any of this, but it would make for an interesting study. But back to the story of my namesake.

Carla has a bubbly personality and a smile that would melt the coldest chunk of ice. Like me, she seems to attract interesting, bizarre situations which, if nothing else, make for wonderful stories. One day, she shared the following with me: She had just been in Vancouver and one of the afternoons she was there, she was walking down Robson Street when she sees this guy she is sure she recognizes. She thinks, “Hey, there is one of the Trail Italian boys my brother used to hang out with.

(As a side note, Trail is known for its large Italian population…for years, and we are just talking Canada here, it had the largest percentage of Italians per capita outside of Toronto. Also, in this area, it is very common to identify people with their ethnic / cultural heritage even if they were born in Canada. I could probably tell you the ethnic identity of every single person who was in my kindergarten class. Back then, we just called it nationality, but of course semantics have changed since then.)

In any case, Carla can’t remember this guy’s name, but in typical Carla fashion, she waltzes right up to him with a huge grin and says, “Hi, how are you?”

He smiles and politely replies, “I’m fine, how are you?”

She continues on, “Great. Wow! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you. What have you been up to? What are you doing these days?”

He says, “Well, I’m in the movie business. I’ve just finished making film.”

Carla’s thinking, “Whoa, that’s pretty good for a Trail boy,” and blurts out, “Wow! Who would have thought? You making movies? That’s fantastic! You must be pretty proud of yourself.”

The stranger smiles, in fact almost blushes, then says, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

Carla takes a good hard look at his face and suddenly the penny drops. “OMG, you’re John Travolta, aren’t you?” Yes, indeed. She said that he was extremely personable, gracious and polite. And she got to walk away with a good story.

Random Conversations

An Arab fellow leaves his male pack and approaches me. He opens with, "So, are you German or are you American?" I am little taken aback, first, at the boldness with which he asks his question, but mainly at the thought that there are only two possible choices for me and they are either German or American. Why is it that when I travel or even when I don't no one ever asks me if I am Canadian as if that couldn't ever be a possibility? In any case, feeling rather singled out with no previous conversational lead up to this particular question, I reply, “Are you trying to determine my ethnicity, or would you like to know which country’s passport I carry?” Then it's his turn. He gives me a somewhat stunned look not quite sure what to say next, so I smile and shrug my shoulders. End of conversation. What would you have done?

Crossing Boarders

Finally…the plane lands. Now before I go on, I must let you know that the night before I left, I had only had about four hours sleep. Further, I’ve never done well at sleeping in moving vehicles. So in total, I had only had at most five hours of shut eye in about 48 hours. All this to say that I was probably a bit of a mess. It was in this state that I made my way through customs. I handed the young man at the booth my passport, opened to the picture. He took it. He looked at the picture, then at me, then back down at the picture. Still looking at my passport, he inquires, “so, where are you off to next?” Without thinking, I reply, “I’m kind of tired, I think I am just going to make my way downtown and then look for a hotel.” He and his colleague next to him immediately burst out into peels of laughter. They don’t even try to contain their giggles. He gives me a wide grin and then with smirk still on his face says, “So how long will you be staying in the country?” To which I reply, “Oh,” slight pause, “now I get it…this isn’t friendly chitchat to pass the time while you’re determining whether or not I really look like my passport photo. This is actually part of your job.” Then the second round of loud guffaws ensues. At this point, I am sure that he thinks that this is utterly hopeless. With a flick of the wrist and a smile, he waves me through and tells me to have a good time. And I could have sworn that I heard him say that the men in white jackets would be waiting for me down at the end of the hall.

Any guess where these photos were taken? If you’re not quite sure, don’t worry. More photos and proper hints are on their way.

They've Got My Number

Gone are the quiet days where the phone refuses to intrude on my peace and serenity. That's right, they've got my number. The calls are queued up and continue non-stop. "Would you like to donate to this?," "Can we interest you in that?" Well, they've found me. This is the latest.

Me: (Phone ringing, me picking up) Hello.
Them: (silence then ever so light click) Hello, is Mr or Mrs Jones there?
Me: Sorry, you have the wrong number.
Them: (Deep sigh and then with sassy American twang) Ma'am, we might have the wrong name, but we don't have the wrong number.

Uhm...trust me...ya, you do.

Now, if I thought I could hold it together...this is really how I would like the conversation to go:
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