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After the debacle of our exit from Xi’an, we were excited for a fun train ride to Chengdu. We were confident that sharing the 6-berth hard sleeper cabin would be better than being scattered throughout multiple soft sleeper cabins. We were encouraged when we boarded. The train was clean, the beds were relatively comfortable, and our traveling companions in the car seemed friendly. Once we were under way, Tom headed to the dining car and ran into a Canadian couple he and the boys had met during their hike along the Great Wall. They loaned us their Lonely Planet to cram since our Rough Guide was gone and asked if they could follow us the next day to our hostel in Chengdu.

We busied ourselves by playing cards and reading books. The kids ate ramens in the dining car and located a Western toilet a few cars away, much to everyone’s relief. Chinese squat toilets are challenging enough for Westerners when they’re stationary, but the ones on the train were particularly intimidating since they were nothing more than holes open to the tracks below. As the evening progressed and people began to settle in for sleep, it became clear that hard beds and seedy bathrooms were not going to be the challenge on this particular journey; instead smoke was the demon that would plague us for the next 12 hours. Chinese people love to smoke. As if the quality of the air they breathe isn’t sufficiently horrific, they feel an insatiable compulsion to pump their lungs full of toxins and their bloodstreams full of nicotine. They smoke everywhere, all the time–in restaurants, in bathrooms, in lobbies, on street corners, in cars, and as we learned on the train, in bed. Technically smoking is forbidden in sleeper cars. The car attendants periodically scold passengers, usually men, for breaking the rule, but without fail the offenders light up again as soon as the enforcers leave. We battled the smoke by opening windows, but bothered by the wind, the smokers would close them within minutes.

My lungs were already aching from the black air days in Xi’an, and I was hopeful that once the lights were turned out at 10:00 the smoking would cease. No such luck. At any given point during the night, at least one if not ten people were smoking. I opened my window and hid inside my sleep sack hoping for some relief from the fumes. The problem with this reasoning, in a mystical land that often defies logic, is that the air outside was dirtier than that inside. The tracks were lined by coal-burning power plants that produced a steady stream of noxious fumes and a particulate content so high I could feel it settling in my throat and lungs. McKane and I both felt like we were suffocating.

Every now and then I’d sleep for a few minutes only to be awakened by the violent lurching and jerking that accompanied each and every stop and start along the route. Apparently our brakeman was an apprentice, an alcoholic, or a sadist because control of the train eluded him completely. Our Canadian friend, Helia, who slept on one of the top bunks in a soft sleeper car explained that she had almost fallen to the floor during one particularly wretched stop.

Sadly the air quality in Chengdu was even worse than that in Xi’an upon our arrival. We crammed in some amazing activities in our first 36 hours and then I collapsed into bed for 18 to let my lungs recover and recharge my immune system. Thanks, Tom, for manning the troops. After a day of rain the Chengdu skies cleared today and we enjoyed a sunny, smog-free afternoon. Tomorrow morning we take a 10 hour bus ride to Jiuzhaigou Scenic Preserve where we’ll take a brief reprieve from our city-dwelling hostel habits to bask in the luxury of a five-star resort thanks to all those points we’ve accumulated with Starwood over the years. I am hopeful the air in the Tibetan mountain valley will be clean, though the air in the bus is another matter. Signs in English in the bus station promised it is forbidden, but we already know how that works.

I still love this country. I just can’t figure out how its people are going to live very long without lung transplants.

It’s strange how we form our impressions of places. There are millions of towns, villages, cities, forests, rivers, oceans, and mountains for us to visit, yet with the exception of those few places we live, we rarely give any of them more than a few days to wow or disgust us. Poor Xi’an. While I’m sure she must be lovely on certain days and that many of her people are friendly, we left her disappointed and disenchanted. The thick smog/smoke layer was taxing on our lungs and despite the abundance of historical sites, we tired of the touts that plague them. This, we felt, was a place where people wanted to rip us off and charm was in short supply.

The nail in the coffin for Xi’an was sealed by the men who are often the barometer of a city’s mood and honesty, its cab drivers. Our exit from Beijing had been smooth and we expected our departure from Xi’an to be the same. I spoke to the girl at the front desk of our hostel the day before and asked her what time we should leave for the train station and how we should get there. We agreed that taxis were our best option since negotiating crowded local busses with the little ones and our bulky packs would be next to impossible. The normal rate for a cab within the inner city does not exceed $1.25, so we were happy to spring for two. She said she couldn’t arrange to have them at the hostel at the appointed hour, but that we should flag them from the street when the time came. When it did, I asked her for help since we were loaded down. After ten minutes of trying she informed us none would stop on this side of the street and that we we would need to cross and flag our own. This made no sense since it was a busy road we were on and all the cars seemed to be mysteriously traveling on our side of the street. With no other options, we undertook the difficult crossing. The sidewalks that for the past few days had been quiet, were packed with noisy Chinese shoppers who gawked at the nomadic Americans. Apparently our decision to leave on Saturday had complicated things immensely. After 15 minutes of walking and trying to flag down the two cabs that passed on this side of the street, we approached a group of four cabs parked on the sidewalk. With sinister grins, they quoted us a price of 40 yuan for each cab, 8 times the legitimate price. Disgusted we moved on, passing through the town’s busiest intersection, a rotary around the famous Bell Tower. After traversing a pair of crowded underground passages (think Times Square on New Year’s Eve), we came to a taxi stand where at least 10 cabs were lined up. Most flatly refused our request to go the station. We couldn’t understand this since it was only a few kilometers away and we had money in our pockets.

Now we were running out of time and sweaty to boot. One driver agreed to take us for 30 yuan and found another who agreed to do the same. By now the little kids had tired of carrying their small packs and we allocated the ever-juggling bags between the two cabs. Within three minutes we had stopped at a sidewalk a few blocks outside the station. The drivers insisted we exit, but we were confused. Why couldn’t they take us all the way to the station where we could clearly see lines of waiting taxis? When it became obvious they would take us no further, we jumped out and began removing bags from the trunks. Always worried about someone driving off with the big stuff, we focused on the computers, cameras, and the kids. Two minutes later we were surrounded by a group of pushy porters and the dodgy cabbies were gone. As I scanned the pile of bags I realized so was our tiny green day pack which masquerades as Asher’s backpack. I panicked. What was in it? Passports? Train tickets? Wallet? I opened the razor-proof, steel mesh lined day pack that I use for the really important stuff and realized that the passports, train tickets and other critical items were in fact inside. My wallet was in my pants pocket and contained all my cash and the train tickets. I knew the missing pack had my valuable and irreplaceable Rough Guide (technically many guidebooks are illegal in China since they present a non-party version of Chinese history and politics), our only hairbrush, one set of keys to all our locks, earplugs, business cards of people we met in Beijing, bandaids, nail clippers, maps, and possibly my allergy pills (ugh!). The one thing I had placed in the missing pack that didn’t belong was my….oh, it’s painful to write…60GB video iPod.

One of the pushy porters suggested I call the police and give them the number of the cabbie, which of course, would be found on the meter receipt he had given me. Right. The meter, that handy little device that none of the drivers seemed to be using today, either for us or their Chinese clients. I was crushed. I had thanked the guy profusely in my pathetic Manadarin for agreeing to take us and made small talk with my 100-word vocabulary. I had told him where we were from, where we had been, where we were going, and how much we loved his country. He had complimented me on my Mandarin. In our five-minute encounter, we had transcended the simple driver/drivee relationship and connected on a human level. And even so he had sped off with my bag.

With 20 minutes left before our train departed, we had no choice but to trudge the remaining distance to the station and leave the green bag behind, sacrificing our high-tech gadget and up-to-date information to the ancient city. Xi’an now joins Egypt as one place we’re unlikely to return.

Technorati Tags: bum, xi’an, puppy

We took the overnight express train from Beijing to Xi’an, site of the ancient city of Chang’an (Long Peace) and home to the eighth wonder of the modern world, the famed Terra Cotta Warriors. We had high hopes for the journey since we had forked over the extra dough for soft sleeper class. Unfortunately, we found ourselves in three different cabins and subject to the whims of our Chinese bunkmates. McKane, Kieran, Asher, and I occupied the two top bunks of one cabin while an elderly Chinese couple inhabited the bottom. Tom and Dax each had a top bunk in different cabins further down the car. Normally those sharing cabins hang out on the bottom bunks until bedtime and play cards, eat, talk, or watch movies on the built-in monitors. While this was an option in both Dax and Tom’s cabins, our little couple didn’t seem open to playing Yugioh cards with our three youngest. Instead we hung out in the dining car for a while before the littles got bored.

I took them back to our cabin while Tom, Dax, and Mac remained, but I sprinted back to the car to fetch them when my little couple locked the cabin door and turned off the lights at 10:00 pm. While the rest of the train was set to party into the wee hours of the night, they were serious about sleeping. I tried to keep my offspring quietly occupied, but it was tough. Each time someone had to go to the bathroom, they had to step on a retractable stair just above the head of one of our fellow travelers. They tried hard to whisper and giggle quietly, but it wasn’t always easy. The kung fu movies were funny, and Yugioh games seem to require shouting.

We arrived in Xi’an early the next morning and ended up at Han Tang Hostel in the center of town. After two months of relative luxury, we’re getting into our hostel groove. We hired a driver for the next day to take us to see the sites outside the city, including the warriors, and spent the afternoon wandering the Muslim Quarter, which includes the largest mosque in China.(Surprisingly it looks a lot like a Buddhist temple.) The kids preferred hanging out in the hostel where they could order a steady stream of food from the restaurant, watch as many DVDs as they wanted, and play games with the staff.

Though as I write now the skies of Xi’an are only moderately smoggy, on the day of our tour the air was thick and black. I couldn’t help but ask Tom every 15 minutes or so, “Are you sure this isn’t fog? Can it really be smog?” I’ve seen pictures of the smoke filled air in Indonesia that results from out of control crop fires, but I never expected that coal-burning power plants hundreds of miles away could produce a similar haze. Fortunately, the warriors are housed inside buildings where the smog cannot enter and we were able to see the statues in all their ancient glory. Though we’ve learned about them before, we never realized that in their original state they were painted in bright colors. Today they are all the familiar gray you find in any Pier 1 reproduction. What is most amazing, however, is not the detail of their design, but their sheer number. Row after row were carefully and precisely buried to guard the hidden tomb of the first Qin emperor, Qin Zhao Huang, and with one stroke of the imagination they seem poised to leap to life, like something out of Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

Our other stops for the day included the tomb the warriors were intended to guard a few kilometers away and the site of a Neolithic settlement called Banpo Village. The “tomb” was somewhat of a letdown since it is buried far below the ground and the mound that covers it has been eroded over the years. Beside the goofy dance numbers performed by young Chinese in period dress, there was one pleasant surprise to the trip. In a corner of the obligatory gift shop, which sells replica warriors and souvenir books at 40 times the price you can pay outside, sat the peasant man who discovered the warriors while digging a well in 1974. He was there to sign books, which of course, we were not buying. (We’re trying not to buy anything, since we’re toting everything on our backs.) McKane was so impressed by the man’s accomplishment that he insisted on returning to the shop to shake his hand.

Banpo Village was bizarre but gratifying. We learned that the ancient inhabitants cut off their fingers as offerings to deposit in the graves of their loved ones, that modern Chinese men view public bouts of flatulence as socially acceptable, and that reproduction villages created for tourists can be an excuse to carve nude women from modern materials in historically inaccurate forms.

We were a huge disappointment to our driver, Jack, because we refused to visit any “factories” or “exhibitions” or “warehouses,” the usual tourist traps where drivers and guides receive kickbacks from the purchases made by their unsuspecting patrons. He repaid in spades by blaring Lionel Richie on the van stereo for most of the day. (There was a little Celine Dion and Whitney Houston thrown in, but Lionel seems to take the prize for most played artist in China.) We concluded the day with our visit to a Chinese KFC and a free dumpling party at the hostel.

Technorati Tags: Terracotta Warriors, Zian, unseco

I could probably start any post with the line “getting fat in…” After a steady diet of pies, fast food, and the world’s best black licorice in New Zealand and Oz, I was looking forward to healthier fare in China. I was sure it was the high fat content which had caused me to lose a button on one of my pants. My expanding midsection would benefit greatly from healthier and lower fat food. Wow! I couldn’t have been more wrong. If we lived in Beijing, I would be 500 pounds. The food here is amazing. Everything is exquisite in taste, wonderful in price, and ludicrous in proportions. As a family we do either one or two meals out each day. We wander around and look at the huge selections of restaurants, argue a bit about who would like which one, and dive in. After seating us and gathering that we have the Mandarin skills of a one year old, they hover over us as we peruse the menu. Most of the places we dine have an English menu or at least a picture menu. I am not sure which one helps more. English menus usually give us a few minutes of levity as we laugh about the frog ovaries or deer penis dishes. Anne usually gets grossed out by some of the organ or seafood dishes and we return to our staples. The visual menus leave much more to the imagination. A dish may look good and even taste good, but there is still that little nagging voice in the back of your head saying, “I hope this is beef.”

To our surprise, Dax has been the biggest culinary explorer and has found a number of Chinese dishes he likes. McKane sticks mostly to his favorite dishes of sweet and sour pork and fried rice. Asher and Kieran get by on pieces of meat, fried rice and some white rice. Anne has found one of her favorite dishes is a deep fried sesame ball. And for me…well… I eat just about anything. (At this point I need to digress for a moment. I wrote the first half of this post while we were in Beijing but did not have time to finish. A couple of days have passed, we have been running, eating on trains and are now in Xi’an. Something happened along the way and I suffered from my first bout of intestinal infortitude. After a day of no food and some time doubled up, it appears to mostly have passed. During the time I was convulsing, I couldn’t bring myself to write about food, but now I am over it.) Now back to food in Beijing…Even though I would eat all the things we ordered, I did find a number of favorites. Topping the list was smoked duck. After a couple of Peking ducks we decided to try a smoked duck. It was amazing. It tasted a lot like spare ribs only there was more meat and it had a nice layer of crispy skin. This was also one of Dax’s favorites. Another dish he and I both enjoyed was a sizzling dish of beef (the meat) and aubergines (eggplant). It was a little spicy and served still sizzling on a hot plate. We found other chicken, pork and beef dishes we liked, and even the worst dishes were better than most Chinese dishes at home.

We also found one street food we thought Disneyland should pick up. It is fall in China and on many street corners there are vendors selling crabapples and pomegranates. While I will not let Dax eat the raw crabapples, we found that some vendors put the crabapples on a stick and cook them in toffee. At first each bite is crunchy with the sweetness of the cooked sugar grabbing your attention. This quickly passes and you are left with the pleasant tartness of the crabapples. Shortly after the tartness starts to fade, you want to take another bite and start the whole process over again. Dax and I both lamented the fact that we didn’t find this treat until our last day in Beijing. However, on further reflection maybe the toffeeing process doesn’t kill all the yickeys that can rest on un-peeled, uncooked fruit. After 10 days in China, it appears the size of my midsection upon our return will depend upon the ratio of days unlimited food is placed in front of me to the number of days I suffer as a result.

When we arrived at China, the family got the bags (with some trouble), and went outside to look for Tong’s friends who were picking us up. Tong was a Chinese lady that we met in the Armidale branch. We were thankful for their help, so we said we would take them to dinner some time. Three days later we called one of them to offer to take him out, but with his small English vocabulary and our smaller Mandarin one, it was hard for us to tell him that. He sent a text message a little while later and said that he would choose a good Chinese restaraunt, pick us up at our hotel, and invite some friends. One of them served as a translator, and one was just a good friend. He ended up taking us to a very fancy restraunt, and he had reservations! Reservations! I can’t remember a time where the whole family went out to dinner and had reservations!

The food was deliciofabulosorino and the people were very nice. We got my favorite Chinese dish, ‘Sweet and Sour Pork,’ which I’ve gotten at every Chinese restaraunt we’ve been to in China, fried rice (another greatastic dish that I oh so love), and some other chicken and beef dishes. Kieran and Asher got bored in our private room, so I took them out to the public room where Asher met a little Chinese girl her age. They played for a long time and made faces and roared at each other for a while and played with the waitresses too. But eventually the little girl left, so Asher said, ” Let’s go find another girl.” We looked around and finally found one, but she was in a glass private room and she wouldn’t come out. So we went back in the room and ate some more, but of course, Asher ran out.

I went out to look for her, and when I found her, all the waitresses were saying, “Ashure, Ahsure, Ashure, come here” and she was running around them. I decided to start a new game, and shined my new laser light that I’ve wanted since 2nd grade on a waitress. Kieran popped up out of nowhere (he must have run out of the room), and started punching her. Asher soon followed suit. The waitresses thought it was good fun so I shined it on another waitress and they both attacked her too. We did this for a while, but we had to stop because my light’s battery died. I went back to the room to try to salvage what was left of the battery, and Dax went out to watch the bits. I went out to see what they were up to, and they were just as crazy as before. They were running around the public part yelling stuff and doing the claw to all the diners. It seemed like they didn’t mind, but we made them stop. That was pretty much the whole evening. McKane Andrus, signing out.

Every visitor to China succumbs to the inevitable urge to visit the Great Wall or risks leaving the country disappointed. Though the wall was ineffective as a defense from invaders, it stands today as a monument to medieval ambition and a boon to the modern Chinese tourism industry. We chose to visit the most remote sections accessible from Beijing, hoping to avoid crowds and experience the stone behemoth in its primitive, unreconstructed state. This meant a 3-hour bus ride, and for half of us, a strenuous 4-hour hike. Tom and I debated who should get to hike the 8-km stretch of the wall between Jinshanling and Simatai with the big boys. The other would take the “easy” route and go directly to the terminus by bus with the little kids. Since I got to abseil in New Zealand, we agreed it was Tom’s turn for adventure. The day was perfect. By some miracle after Saturday’s rain and Sunday’s reduced traffic, the sky was clear and the smog had not yet settled back into its comfortable repose above the city. As we literally hurtled past the city limits in a minibus driven by a madman, we watched people sweeping sidewalks with handmade twig brooms, riding overworked bicycles to daytime jobs, and going about the business of life in the countryside. When we looked a little farther into the distance, we noticed something even more exciting: leaves in brilliant hues of red and yellow. It’s autumn here! With the air cool and crisp, the sun bright and warm, and the views unobstructed by nature or man, we were poised for a momentous day at the wall.

After the bus dropped Tom and the boys off at the more remote Jinshanling site, our Chinese Andretti drove Kieran, Asher, and I to Simatai. Though we had been warned there would be no food at the wall, we disembarked at a hostel and restaurant, which made a welcome starting point for our own tame version of the Great Wall Adventure. Joining only a handful of other visitors we entered through the official gates which sit at least a thousand feet below the wall itself. There was a long, gradually ascending path that led to the top, and I figured the little ones could make it over the course of an hour or so. Much to our surprise and delight, however, we discovered that the Chinese government had provided both the age- and height-challenged with a mechanical means of ascent: cable cars.

Without hesitation we decided to climb halfway up the mountain on some rather aged cable cars. The little kids didn’t know enough to be scared and I figured there was a slim chance we’d be the first to plummet to our deaths on the contraption, so we jumped in. This was no easy task since the cars move rapidly–like a ski lift on steroids–and the employees, who are more interested in eating noodles than ensuring safety, don’t slow them down at all. We had approximately 4 seconds to leap into the 2 foot wide opening, take our seats, and get the door locked. Intrepid travelers that we’ve become, we pulled off our entry with a second to spare. We were rewarded with spectacular scenery on all sides: sprawling tree-covered hills, a shimmering blue-green lake, and the Great Wall spanning the crest of the mountains as far as our eyes could see.

After a running dismount we prepared for our trek up the remaining half of the mountain.

But then we were greeted once again by a marvelous surprise: a “ground cable car.” I could only describe this particular contraption as something between an inclined railway and a horse-drawn wagon without wheels. Once again we anted up our money and hopped on board with faith that despite the lack of any apparent safety measures we would survive the ascent. All that stood between us and a bloody demise was a steel, grease-encased cable latched to the car and emanating from some unknown point up the mountain.

The ride took no more than a minute and we were soon on the path to Watchtower #8, which loomed precipitously above the surrounding landscape. Kieran and Asher were troopers, and skilled Utah hikers that they are, had little problem climbing the remaining way. We picked up a Mongolian trinket salesman shortly before the summit, who took it upon himself to act as our chaperone. He cautiously herded the kids up the steep, irregular stairs and discouraged them from killing the unusual beetles and millipedes they found at every turn. He claimed to be a farmer from the village just to the north and lost interest in us when I declined to buy a souvenir book, postcards, or “I climbed the Great Wall” T-shirt from his bag of goodies. I did, however, give him a 10 yuan note (about $1.20) and thank him for his assistance.

Having entered the wall at its highest point, we were able to appreciate it with the relative comfort of descent.

http://static.flickr.com/121/279597412_c26d10b9b4.jpg

Tom, Dax, and McKane had quite the opposite experience, making what all three described as a butt-kicking hike and what one guidebook described as a trail filled with “vertiginous drops” and ascents. The only regret I had about staying behind with the little ones was having to pass up on the Flying Fox on the way down. This was a cleverly named zipline that took tired trekkers the final few hundred feet down the mountain over a dazzling, peaceful river. Exhausted from their journey, Tom and the boys enjoyed the ride, making it back to the base just in time for our scheduled departure.

As we made the three hour journey back to the city, we could see the smog already filling in the horizon. We would have liked to sleep after our strenuous efforts of the day, but old Mario found the rush hour traffic a fine excuse for testing the minibus horn. Nothing he did, however, could diminish the magic of our day. It is certainly one we’ll never forget.

If you are an American (or apparently Swedish, keep reading) traveler going through the streets of Beijing, or just taking a stroll on TianAnMen Square, you will be confronted by some ‘art students.’ These supposed students speak very good English and are very nice. They are usually English students looking to make some quick yuan. If you fall into their trap and go into their ‘art studio,’ they will teach you about Chinese traditional art and show you some of their ‘professor’s work’. They will maybe give you a small gift, such as writing your name in Chinese characters on a sheet of rice paper. Then they ask you to buy some of their work, which is ridiculously overpriced. The following are some of my family’s stories involving ‘art students’. Our first experience with an ‘art student’ was on our second day in Beijing. We were walking down a street when a nice looking man asked us where we were from. We responded and as we walked he followed us. He introduced himself as “Kevin” and we found out that he had recently gone to Cleveland for some art business. He also described some of the work that he had done lately. He asked if we wanted to go to his studio where he worked with his professor and see some of his latest work. We gladly accepted thinking, “Wow, what a great chance to get some Chinese culture into to our trip. Oddly we went down an alley and into a business building. There we went up an elevator to a floor where there was a small room with loads of paintings hanging up on the walls. He explained the meanings of some of the paintings and asked us for our names. My dad wrote them all down on a piece of paper and gave it to the man.

He called out ‘the professor’ who smiled and began writing down our names. My mom called my dad into another room and showed him something she had read. It was an warning from their Rough Guide book regarding ‘art students’. After what seemed like two hours of explaining how just about everything in Chinese culture stood for long life, he asked us to buy some art. Tom kindly refused and took the free calligraphy with a smile. Kevin’s plan got to me. I felt awful for not having bought the art and asked my parents why we hadn’t. They explained the scheme and I still needed more evidence. That came an hour later when two men approached us saying, “What a happy family! Four childrens, wow that is a happy family.” We talked and then they brought up the subject of art. We declined their offer to go visit their “exhibition” and moved on. Now the fun began. We started to make plans on how to make a little game out of this scam.

We thought about having Dad call out to any approaching “students” with, “You know what I really hate? Art.” But in the end we opted for a more clever plan. Tom would say he was an art professor from Spain or Sweden and we would be his adopted children. Two women approached us about ten minutes later using the phrase, “What a happy family! Four childrens. Wow, what a happy family!” This line is what they all would use to open. My dad said he was an art professor from the U.S. and that I was born in America, Mac was born in China, Kieran was Portuguese and Asher was Spanish. They promptly asked if we wanted to see their exhibit and we refused. They immediately quit being friendly and left. To this day we continue to have fun with any ‘art students’ who approach us. I recommend that you think up something comical to say to an ‘art student’ next time you come to Beijing.

After our whirlwind tour of Seoul, we were still uncertain about what to expect from China. Just last week a friend from home warned us to prepare the kids for thick, brown air and an almost complete lack of English speakers. We’ve been all over the world, but perhaps nowhere as truly foreign as China. We had visions of frustration and confusion. Now that we’re here, we realize our concerns were largely unfounded. The air in Beijing is in fact thick and brown, but with only a week or so here we figure we’ll live. As for communicating, our one month crash course in Mandarin on the iPod has proven invaluable. Tom especially excels at diving into conversation and usually can make himself understood, though the language’s complex intonations are incredibly difficult to simulate much less master. We carry a map with us so we can point out where we want to go to taxi drivers and most menus include pictures so we can point when ordering as well. We are liberal in our gesticulation and find ourselves nodding for reasons even we don’t understand. But the bottom line is we love this place. The people here are warm, the food hearty, and the culture fascinating.

We arrived on Tuesday and were picked at the airport by three men who are co-workers of Tong West, a lovely young woman we met in Armidale, Australia. These guys took a big chunk out of the their day to wait for us at the airport and then shuttle us to our hotel. Tong had contacted them after I told her we were worried about figuring out how to function in Beijing. Though only one of them spoke a little English, we exchanged nods, laughs, and pleasantries and magically arrived at the hotel stress free. We couldn’t express to them with words how grateful we were for their generous gesture, so we offered to take them out to dinner. This didn’t go as we planned, however, because since we are guests in their country, they have insisted on taking us out instead.

Our first few days in Beijing have been busy. The first day Tom visited the American embassy to have more pages added to his passport in preparation for all the upcoming visas we will be getting. On the second day we took his newly fattened document along with our others to the Vietnamese embassy only to learn that our visas from them will not be ready until next Tuesday. (This could make life interesting since we subsequently learned we need them to move to a new hotel on Sunday.) With business squared away, we headed to Tianamen Square, the site of many of the city’s most important attractions. Some people would cover them all in a day, but not us. We like to take our time. If all goes according to plan, we’ll have seen them all by December. The blame for our snail’s pace does not reside solely with our little people, whose feet tire easily and who need frequent bathroom and snack breaks. Well, I take that back; it is their fault, albeit indirectly. Making the Koreans look shy, the Chinese cannot get enough of our kids, especially the little blonde one. They stop dead in their tracks, point, touch, smile, take pictures, and want to talk. They simply cannot comprehend that we have four children in a land where one is the norm. That none of them have black hair is even more amazing. Though I am brunette, I’ve even found an admirer or two who undoubtedly confuses me for Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie and asks to pose with me.

When we are not posing for pictures, we are fending off salespeople and scammers. We went with the first English-speaking “art student” we met by the embassy to view his work, which not surprisingly was for sale. Our Rough Guide had warned us about this particular con, so we accepted his gift of our names rendered in calligraphy, extended our thanks, and departed. That only took 45 minutes. When we got to Tianamen, McKane was eager to spend some of his pocket money on trinkets. We warned him that the hawkers would be aggressive, but according to the dictates of his typically refreshing worldview, this is a bonus. Tom gave him a brief lesson in negotiating and he proceeded to strike hard bargains with more than a few salespeople. He then took it one step further and started approaching them, brandishing a 1 Yuan bill (the equivalent of 12 cents) and begging them to sell him whatever they had for that price. When we were approached by more art students, Tom’s twist on this version of reverse psychology was to tell them he was an art professor. All in good fun, he would weave stories of how we all are from different countries and speak different languages. This worked well until one of the students started speaking Swedish to him. Oops. Dax and I prefer to say no and walk away, but Tom and McKane like to engage in lively conversation and have fun. I guess what’s fun for some people is painful for others.

We have managed to see the Forbidden City and walk up and down the Square about 5 times (it’s a really big square). We’re going out to a remote portion of the Great Wall early next week and will spend the weekend soaking up the city. What a city, what a country, and as always, what good people!

Technorati Tags: Beijing, Family travel, China, Round the world, Round-the-world, RTW, Tianamen Square