Amsterdam, Holland

I had never had any real desire to visit the land of my ancestors, but I had always wanted to go to Scandinavia. Denmark and Sweden appeal to me for some reason. While I was working at an airline the opportunity to go to Sweden came up and I jumped on it. The company had only recently installed a new flight scheduling system and the powers that be determined that it would be best to have those who actually used it (my department) visit the regional operations centers that would rely on it the most and train them. But being practical (cheap), and having a few dozen OPS throughout the world they thought it best to tackle the project one city at a time and decide later if any further trips would be necessary. Stockholm OPS was chosen as the first since that was where the company that created the software was based and it was a relatively minor leg on a relatively minor pairing.

I was selected by the SEDSUP (my immediate supervisor) and the OPSVP (vice president of operations) to be the IX (instructor) since I knew the system better than anyone else in the WORLD (Western Hemisphere, north of Mexico). We were the only airline in the world to actually use this system. It was almost a combination of ROC and RM, but as long as you knew SITA you would be fine. At the time most of the people in my department were still using the old system (ROC) and I had been a temp working almost exclusively on the new system (CMS) before I was hired, so I had much more experience with it than anyone. I was currently training all but one of the people in my department so it seemed only logical that I could IX the Swedes. The one person I was not training had been considered the expert before I arrived (she had used it a few times in the week or so they had it before I got there) and she did not feel that she needed any assistance. She was wrong, of course, but she had a bit of an attitude toward everyone and was not especially popular. I had no problem with her avoidance of me since it meant that I did not have to spend any time with her. This was the kind of job where co-workers actually had to communicate with each other and she had a habit of leaving out pertinent information, which made other people’s jobs harder. I find that most people do not like that.

A few days before I was supposed to go to Stockholm someone in HR (human resources) was kind enough to point out that I had been at the company for less than 90 (ninety) days (not including my period of temporary employment) and that company rules prohibited probationary employees (problees? They problee work here. We do not know) from riding company aircraft SA (space available). Much to everyone’s chagrin Ms Attitude was chosen to take my place since she was the only other person both willing and able to go on such short notice. They could have just flown me commercially, but why spend money when you’ve got your own planes already going there.

After she got back from Stockholm they reported problems with the system daily and her career at this particular airline, which was already tenuous, was given the last rights. Within a month or so she was relegated to backlogged paperwork and within a few weeks none of us ever saw her again. But before her timely demise they decided to send someone to Buenos Aires OPS, despite the complete failure of Stockholm. I was still within the 90 day period, so someone who really did not want to go to Brazil was chosen. We quickly reminded him that Buenos Aires is not in Brazil and, more importantly (although less frightening) he spent the next week with me in intensive system training. Which just meant more donuts for me. I was once again screwed out of a free trip, but I got a lot of double time. Plus the guy who went was more enthusiastic about cheap booze and even cheaper whores, so he had a good time. He was only marginally successful, so the bosses decided to scrap the whole idea.

Many months later I was trying to get the OPSVP to authorize my SOUTHPAC. This would have taken me Los Angeles – Honolulu – Fiji – Sydney – Tokyo – Anchorage – Los Angeles, and was the longest and least popular pairing we had. Once upon a time this particular OPSDIR had envisioned a world where the people in my department would PAX with various crews to various stops and see what life as a CX entails. Due to that annoying reality this had never happened and I was pushing to make it so. Not so much for educational purposes, but because I wanted the free trips. He then told me that if I wanted to travel I should just go to Amsterdam OPS. I had no idea this was an option. Apparently the training program had been tentatively revitalized. I never found out why. Suddenly almost everyone wanted to go. I think because of the cheap hash and even cheaper whores. But since I was now well beyond the 90 day period and I was the undisputed CMS king I was finally authorized to leave the building. The irony was that since the London – Amsterdam leg had been temporarily discarded I flew to Amsterdam commercially. The company spent about the same amount of money sending me to Amsterdam that they would have spent on Stockholm months earlier and everyone could have been fully trained sooner and better. Such is corporate America.

My mission was a resounding success and the company was planning OPS visits to London, Osaka, New York, São Paulo, Melbourne, Copenhagen, Helsinki, and even Cairo. Although no one expected that one to ever happen. Regrettably, they had also just bought a dozen 404s (at about $150 million each) as well as updated MX and WX equipment and were in the beginnings of bankruptcy. But at least I went to Amsterdam first.

The tension mounting between the Nederland and Frisian protestants and the Spanish catholics became intolerable by the middle 1500s. When King Philip II of Spain sent the Inquisition to torture and murder as many infidels as possible it was the finger that broke the dyke’s crack. Under the banner of Willem van Oranje the people of Holland, with the assistance of Frysland, Utrecht, Limburg, and a few Gelderlanders won their independence. Twenty years later. You know how those Gelderlanders are. Previously isolated regions, these Netherlands became allies, although Holland has always been the dominant province within this United Kingdom. Queen Beatrix van Oranje Nassau is from Holland, as were all her forebears. Unlike Britain’s Helen Mirren, who is linked to Normandy’s William the Conquistador by many twisted and tangled branches, Beatrix’s lineage is directly descended from Holland’s Willem the Silent.

Thanks to the impressively adaptable port cities of Amsterdam and Rotterdam, Holland quickly became the center of the universe. At least that is what some drunk guy in Amsterdam told me. Artists like Rembrandt van Rijn made the place as intellectually impressive as it was culturally diverse. The 18th Century saw wars with pretty much every major European power until that troublemaker Napoleon took the place over and, nepotism being all the rage, replaced Willem V with his own brother Louis. On the plus side, the weak cheese-eating regions of Belgium and Luxembourg were added to the Netherlands, fitting in nicely alongside Limburg, Gouda and the obscure Processed Foodlike province. The down side was that this union was not to last.

Sometime after that Tchaikovsky overture Willem I van Oranje (not to be confused with Willem van Oranje), son of Willem V, was crowned the first king of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands. But soon the Belgians, being Belgian, became uppity and revolted. The Luxembourgers said what everyone says at some point in their lives. If the Belgians can do it, so can we. Thirty five years later they too were an independent state. Eventually Holland (at one point the dominant navy in the world) lost or abandoned its territories in what are now Indonesia, Malaysia, Mauritius, South Africa, Botswana, Angola, Liberia, Benin, Ghana, Guyana, Suriname, St Lucia, Trinidad and Tobago, Tonga, East Timor, Taiwan, and the United States. Aruba and the Antilles are still Nederland territories, but under their own administrations.

Things remained relatively stable until two small nations no one has ever given a shit about started the first War to End All Wars. Holland pulled a Switzerland, as it tried to do when Germany invaded another country no one has ever really cared about and started the second War to End All Wars. Lamentably, Germany invaded Holland on its way to completely sinking the indestructible Maginot Line. There is some value to bringing the French down to size, but blitzing the schitz out of Rotterdam was simply not necessary. Holland’s subsequent resistance movement was far more impressive than France’s, but de Gaulle had always been a more flagrant self-promoter than Wilhelmina, so people still talk about all those chain smokers in berets singing along to Edith Piaf. Thus is history.

When the United States eventually got around to helping out its oldest continuous ally Holland followed the trend of the day and changed its familiar orange flag (as in Haus van Oranje) to the less original red, white and blue that it has today, and Queen Wilhelmina started the curious custom of abdicating in favor of her heir. Her daughter Juliana (who recently died) became Queen in 1948 and abdicated for her daughter Beatrix in 1980. Prince Willem is waiting to become Willem IV, but like England’s Charles, he has a stubborn and popular mother who refuses to step down.

Meeting The Family

A week or two ago, or maybe more I met Pi Chi’s family. When you work six days a week in a country where most foreigners work four the days all just blend together. She had been after me to meet them for some time and I had been putting it off as much as possible. My reasons were selfish and practical. I knew that once I met them I would be expected to participate in more family activities, and I have never known that not to be a gigantic pain in the ass. I also knew that I would only have one chance to make that first impression and no matter what I did or said later on they would always know me as whomever they decided I was when we first met.  

This becomes more important when you live in a place where the foreigners have a deserved reputation for banging the young locals and skipping town and country. These people love our overpriced products and inferior cars, but they tend to be a little suspicious when some slacker who works two hours a day and dresses like a Venice (CA) surfer dude with one of those idiotic goatees is knocking boots with their daughter. When your daughter is dating a foreigner you will face one of two outcomes. He will either use her and throw her away, possibly with child, or worse, marry her. Like most racist people Chinese parents want their daughters to marry one of their own kind. The goal is to find a young Chinese man with a good job and a reputable family. If he drinks too much and stays out at KTV all night and slaps her around a little that is ok. Tradition is tradition.

Pi Chi’s father was a career soldier. He spent his entire adult life in the military. His two oldest daughters are married to Chinese men with stable jobs and reputable families. They own their own houses, cars and children. His youngest daughter (who recently received her PhD in chemical engineering) is engaged to an “astronomer”. They have bought a house together and are waiting for it to be built before they get married. His youngest child, and only son, recently entered the military. Pi Chi is the middle child. Having five children is extremely rare around here and a source of pride for the father. As the head ICU nurse at a very large and possibly famous hospital she has already broken with tradition to choose a career over a husband. Her younger sister will probably continue with her career when she is married, but Pi Chi was the trailblazer. She is already a bit of a rebel, but bringing me into the fold cannot make her parents happy.

Or so I thought.

Her mother likes me. She said I am handsome. She is older and, like almost all Chinese, has poor eyesight. And to be fair she is likely comparing me to all the Chinese men her daughters brought home. She speaks no English, but has been friendlier to me than any mother of any woman I have ever dated. Most of them did not care for me all that much. And the fathers usually wanted to see me roasting on an open flame with a spit up my ass and a shiny pinch of Washington apple between my cheek and gums.  

I had already met Pi Chi’s younger sister so I knew that she was friendly, although usually pretty busy as chemical engineers are for all I know. This particular family gathering was to celebrate her birthday. I had intended to score some major points by offering to pay for the entire lunch, which would have been a generous offer since this was a fancy restaurant in a large building overlooking the river. What made it more expensive was the fact that these people ate like the government was going to ban food tomorrow. Having been to two Chinese weddings I have seen how they eat at celebrations, but those occasions were a ritual fast compared to this. The food just kept coming and the family just kept shoving it into their pie holes. After two hours of constant eating we all left the restaurant and went to the parents’ house for birthday cake and more food. Amazingly none of these people are grotesquely obese. The way they eat they should all look like Americans.

I did not pay for the prodigious meal because, as I was told, it is tradition that the person with the birthday pays for everything. That worked out well for me since there was such an endless parade of food. I have no idea what it all finally cost, but it must have been considerably more than the egg sandwich I get in my town. I just have to remember not to let them invite me out to eat on my birthday.

Most of Pi Chi’s family do not speak any English, which should really cut down on banal conversations about the weather. It is hot and humid. It was hot and humid yesterday. It will be hot and humid tomorrow. It is always hot and humid. Her father made no effort to say anything to me, but I really did not see it as a personal slight. He was old and tired and barely spoke to anyone the entire afternoon. Her younger sister speaks rudimentary English; advanced by local standards. Her oldest sister’s husband speaks some English, but he cannot tell the difference between a gerund and the Grand Canyon. I found him amusing anyway. I was sitting between him and Pi Chi. He is the kind of person who likes to take charge of a situation, so he was the self-appointed welcome wagon. He could easily be an American car or insurance or car insurance salesman. He was very proactive, and his motivational paradigm was clearly outside of the box. If such business babel exists in Chinese I am sure he uses it. He also said that I was attractive, although I chose to assume that he meant it in the most heterosexual way possible. Separately, and through my interpreter (Pi Chi), both of Pi Chi’s older sisters said I was attractive, making a total of four such observations in a two hour period.

Further proof that the Chinese are batshit insane.

Photographs Of Bali

Pura Tanah Lot
Tabanan, Bali

The Wife at Tanah Lot

Puri Saren Agung
Gianyar, Bali

Self portrait in Seminyak

Ubud Monkey Forest

Pura Dalem Agung Padangtegal
Ubud, Bali

Bali, Indonesia

“Get a total privacy without heading the crowds and let your family get their own dreams to the reality. Traveling with the family include your kids with no doubt of the children when you want to spend moments away from the kids.” - Villa advertisement

Ever since I arrived at my school I have been hearing about what a great tropical paradise Bali is. Boss Lady loves the place so much that they have been there more often than anywhere else. They would rather go to Bali than Europe any day. From what they and other people have told me, Bali has calm weather, clear skies, wide beaches, excellent hotels, exceptional scenery, the finest food, friendly people, and is inexpensive as far as tropical paradises go. Various people had been selling me on this place for well over a year. With all the hype, and my last trip out of the country having been to Africa, my expectations were high.

Bali never stood a chance.

A scenic Bali cove

The original plan was to take a nice relaxing vacation at a private villa on Bali. When you do not have to fly halfway around the world it really is not all that expensive. Although Bali has plenty of hotels, a private villa is the way to go. Most villas have private swimming pools and private courtyards. Kitchens and bathrooms tend to be outdoors, with usually only the bedroom and living room indoors. With an all year tropical climate, having a villa that is mostly outdoors makes sense. A good villa is surrounded with enough walls and landscaping to ensure complete privacy.

A scenic Bali temple

This was going to be my first relaxing vacation in ten years. Most of the time I go to some busy city or someplace where I have to wake up at dawn to do whatever one is supposed to do, and more often than not I travel to multiple destinations within the trip. Bali was supposed to be easy. You fly in, hang out until you have to go home, then go home. In between one can take a dip in one’s private pool and maybe have a nubile nymph or two give one a number five. The kitchen was an important amenity to me. I do not have a real kitchen at home and I miss cooking the way I used to in the real world. But the most important thing to me was the pool. After not entering a pool in years I went swimming again in Africa and have been jonesing for it ever since. This was a good plan.

A scenic Bali palace

Life generally does not adhere to the original plan. If it did we would all be cowboys and princesses. I wanted to be neither, but I once said that if I had the money I would buy an industrial size refrigerator that dispensed unlimited chocolate milk. This is no longer a priority for me. I have not had milk of any flavor in about 100 years.

My first mistake was having Pi Chi make all the travel arrangements. She speaks the language and is more suited to dealing with the local agencies that have all the great package deals. The Chinese love to go to Bali and every travel agent in the country has several packages available at any given time. Unlike me, Pi Chi actually works for a living, usually well over ten hours each day. When she is wrestling a patient from the gelid grip of death it is somewhat inconvenient to return phone calls and look over itineraries. She also has a tendency to change her mind after something has been booked. Not that I am complaining. Combined with the fact that the local travel agents are generally pretty lazy and love to do everything at the last minute this made for an unrewarding trip planning experience.

Circumstances and convenience led us to choose a five day stay at what appeared on their website to be a really nice villa resort. This meant that we would have a few days left over that I really did not want to spend at home. My job is neither hard nor terribly time consuming, but it does require my presence six days a week, which means if I want to actually go anywhere I have to do so during the breaks. Wasting any part of a break at home is not an appealing option.

Given Bali’s location I figured spending the remainder of days in Jakarta or Kuala Lumpur would be a good idea. I would like to see the Petronas Towers before they become average sized buildings. However, all of the package deals we were looking into included direct flights from Pi Chi’s city to Bali, as any good package would. Changing the return flight would be phenomenally expensive even though the cities in question are very close and more or less on the way. The cheapest option would be to fly home as per the package and then take an additional flight back down to Jakarta or Kuala Lumpur. This seemed pretty stupid to me. The only reason I chose those two cities was because they are near Bali. If I have to fly home and take a separate flight elsewhere I might as well go somewhere I would rather go.

This is where Mickey Mouse comes in. Pi Chi and I had previously discussed taking a trip to Disney World in Florida some day. This is one of those distant plans that will most likely never happen. We talked about both California Disneyland and Disney World. I prefer Disney World since I have been to Disneyland far more often, and as long as we would have to fly halfway around the world an extra 4000 kilometers would make no difference. During the month or more it actually took to put the Bali trip together Pi Chi saw some advertisement somewhere that mentioned very good discounts to Tokyo. Going to Tokyo for three days seemed like a waste. But then it occurred to us that Tokyo also has a Disneyland. We could fly to Japan for the sole purpose of visiting Mickey and friends. We had both been to Japan on more traditional trips, so why not.

The scenic Bali coast

Originally we were scheduled to go to Bali first and Tokyo afterward. One of the many changes reversed that. Overall this was a good idea, but it meant the loss of a very nice villa resort to which I really wanted to go. This resort was pretty much what sold me on the idea of going to Bali in the first place. The resort we settled on was not nearly as good.

The scenic Bali view from Ubud

As is usually the case my last day of work before the break was entirely too long. I will not mention how many hours I normally work because it is just sickening, but this day was almost three times longer. It was the longest day I have ever worked here and the longest day I have worked since my fourteen hour per shift airline job. You should not need a calculator to figure out that I do not currently work what anyone considers full time hours. An abnormally long day here (typical day in the real world) would not have been such a bad thing had I not had to be at the airport by 5am the next day. When you consider that the train that took me to the town where I spent the night got in at 1am, this meant very little sleep before dealing with all the long lines and security hassles that are the joy of international travel. By the time we actually settled into our Tokyo hotel I had been awake for 26 hours. This seems to be the case most of the time I travel, so I was not at all surprised. The difference was that this was my first trip abroad with Pi Chi. Had I been alone I would have gone to sleep immediately, but she dragged me out on the town to do some shopping. At the time I was bottling up a few litres of resentment, but I got over it. She does not go to Tokyo every day and it was pretty much her only chance to do any non-Disney shopping on this trip.

What made going to Tokyo before Bali the right choice was that it was a pretty hectic trip. Bali was relaxing, despite the utter ineptitude of the resort staff. Bali itself is a pretty scenic island. There are too many tourist traps and far too many tourists, especially Australians, but the sky and ocean are the appropriate shades of blue and green. Getting away from the tourists is easy, especially if one has a private villa. If it takes an hour or more to get somewhere via a decimated dirt road it is probably not big on the tourist agenda. If it is near the beach and has a Hard Rock Café, odds are there might be a tourist or two about.


Scenic Bali waves

When it became obvious that my expectations for this trip were higher than Pi Chi’s we agreed not to complain about any negative aspects that would inevitably arise once we were there. So I will do all my complaining here.

The pool was the biggest disappointment. The private pools in the villa we originally booked were most likely exactly what I wanted. The resort we went to was new and had clearly not worked out all the details yet. The pool was not actually a pool, but a large bathtub with only cold water. Bali is a tropical island, but it is never so hot that one would be willing to swim in frigid water. It was large enough, as bathtub pools go, but it was entirely too cold.

All the other problems with the villa were pretty minor as far as I was concerned. A lot of things broke. We had to call the front desk about the main door handle, the bathtub knob (both of which they fixed immediately), the bathroom door (they never got around to that), the pool (they could not fix that), the refrigerator (I figured it out on my own), and the various light bulbs that burned out daily. On our second day, housekeeping turned the refrigerator down all the way, ruining some of our food. I put a stop to that practice with a few choice words. Whenever we wanted a taxi it took quite some time for one to arrive. As a new resort, none of the drivers had any idea where it was, and the resort’s car service was far more expensive. I had been told by someone who has been to Bali several times that one can hire a car and driver for about NT1000 per day. We tried to do this through the resort and their rate was closer to NT9000 per day. Realizing that any resort would have excessive rates we asked various drivers what they would charge. No one came close to NT1000. Eventually we had a taxi driver shuttle us around with an informal agreement that he would turn off the meter while we were at some site. In return he got what the locals consider a pretty good tip each time I paid him the fare for each leg of our journey. In the end he probably cost us about NT4000 for the day.

Our kitchen did not have as many cooking implements as it could have, but I got the chance to cook like I have not cooked in years. The resort usually has one of its chefs prepare breakfast for the guests in their villa, but I wanted to do my own cooking. I had them just bring the food and leave, which caused no small amount of confusion. Plus Pi Chi comes from a culture where the woman does all the cooking and the man sits around waiting to be served, not that she has any desire to cook for me. My wacky foreigner ways may have jostled everyone else, but it worked for me.

Our scenic Bali kitchen
Look at that scenic oven
There is nothing like that at home

And there is the matter of massages. Bali is known to some as a haven for massage. The island is littered with spas of varying quality and cleanliness. I got the number five after all, but a nubile nymph in a predominantly Muslim country is not the same as in Europe or Japan. Mine was neither nubile nor a nymph, and for some reason was unwilling to oil her bare breasts and rub them all over my body. The only thing bare or oiled were her hands. Apparently this is what they mean by “legitimate” massage. Pi Chi’s masseuse was equally aged (late 20s to early 30s) and neither of us was impressed by the massage. She went to a spa later in the trip by herself and said that it was much better. Her two or three hours away were the only time we spent apart the entire trip. It was pure heaven. [Note to me: Delete that if she reads this].

Scenic Bali rice paddies in Ubud

Overall I have mixed views of Bali. It looks great on film, and some of the beaches “allow” topless sunbathing. More or less. But this particular resort really made a bad impression. If I ever go back I will definitely go to the original resort. But I doubt I will ever go back.

Appropriately, Indonesia has a few thousand other islands.


Scenic Bali palace architecture

This trip highlighted yet another difference between Western and Chinese thinking. Pi Chi keeps her expectations low. That way if things go wrong she is not too terribly surprised or disappointed. This certainly explains what she is doing with me. I expect a certain level of competency and ass kissing commensurate with the amount of money I am paying. The Chinese sit back and take a great deal of crap from whoever happens to be dishing it out. After five thousand years of emperors and dictators it is their natural attitude. As an American I will inevitably take a great deal of crap, but I will bitch and moan about it every step of the way.

Looking back on this trip it occurs to me just how petty all my complaints are. There are billions of people who would love the opportunity to experience the pain and suffering of our broken villa. As I was writing the paragraph about having to work an actual shift and catch a plane the next day I was thinking about how many people would gladly take a flight with little or no sleep if it meant going to some tropical island. When I was in Africa I had a moment of complete contentment unlike anything I have ever experienced in my life. Just to be able to reach that point should make it difficult to whine about broken doorknobs and other crap that has no significance long after the entire experience becomes a faded memory.

But that pool still could have been better.

The scenic Bali coast

Tokyo Disneyland

Tokyo is a thriving urban metropolis with a relatively short history, but an abundance of culture and determination. After becoming the largest city in the world in the 17th Century, Edo’s rapid expansion suffered a few setbacks in the form of internal turmoil, natural disaster, and American carpet-bombing. The US liberation of Edo in 1853 under the command of Matthew Perry brought about the end of the 250 year Tokugawa rule and a traditional way of life the people of Japan had known as far back as their written and oral histories cared to remember. With the Meiji Restoration bringing power sensibly back to the family bloodline that was fortunate enough to be born living gods, Edo became Tokyo, and Tokyo became the capital of the newly restored undemocratic Japan. Unfortunately, the Imperial Palace, once home to the Imperial family, then to the Tokugawa Shoguns, and now to the Imperial family, went from being the largest castle in the world before Meiji to not even being close after the gods moved in.

Once Japan had been wrestled away from the efficient control of a large ruling class and safely returned to a single dictator under American influence and economic control, Tokyo went about the business of further expansion until the earthquake in 1923 pretty much wiped out half of the buildings and almost completely destroyed the Imperial Palace. The earthquake itself was not that destructive. Since Japan has always suffered large temblors, their architects and engineers wisely designed buildings to withstand quakes that would level the freeways of Los Angeles. What apparently was unforeseen was the immense conflagration that grew large enough to serve as a beacon for the interstellar vehicles gradually making their way to Roswell, New Mexico. After forty hours on fire the expanse of wood and paper buildings was no more.

Things were going pretty well for Tokyo until the US territory of Hawai’i, the pride of America’s unrelenting imperialist conquest, had the misfortune of being in the path of Japan’s unrelenting imperialist conquest. In addition to the 80,000 plus killed in the bombings of Tokyo, the Imperial Palace was once again beaten and battered. Hirohito was lucky enough to survive and witness two more of his cities laid waste by American (mostly German) ingenuity.

Today Tokyo is not so much a city, but a sprawl of several cities. Much like Los Angeles, but with an efficient public transportation network. There are almost 6000 people per square kilometer. That is about 15,000 people per square mile. That is pretty crowded. Los Angeles has about 3000 per square km. In addition to the aforementioned Imperial Palace, Tokyo is filled to capacity with the museums of Ueno and the shopping paradise of the Ginza. People who like to eat, and some do, can stuff their faces until they vomit in Akasaka, while Asakusa houses some of the world’s oldest traditions. I am referring to bonsai trees and Japanese calligraphy, not prostitution and man’s inhumanity to man. Those with an appetite for prostitution and illegal substances might want to visit Roppongi, and for pure surrealism Shinjuku is the place to be.

One could spend a month in Tokyo and still barely scratch the surface. So we went for three days. And since three days is really not much time to absorb such a massive city, we went to Disneyland. A few thousand years of history and culture just cannot compete with The Enchanted Tiki Room, Now Playing “Get The Fever!” (presented by Shinko Securities Co), which was closed that day.

Tokyo Disanee Landu

Finding a hotel in Tokyo was easy. They tend to be pretty expensive and fill up rapidly during the summer season, but when your sole reason for visiting the country is to go to Disneyland you quickly separate yourself from the hoards of tourists and businesspeople there for more reasonable pursuits.

There are six hotels outside of the vast Disney complex at Tokyo Bay and one within each of the two Disney parks. Three of the adjacent hotels cater to Japanese and offer no English speaking staff or services whatsoever. The other two are among the most expensive hotels in Tokyo. The two hotels within the Disney parks are not actually that expensive, but there is a substantial waiting list. The final hotel to consider is a tiny piece of crap that sits beneath the on-ramp to the expressway and part of the JR station that serves Disneyland. It is relatively inexpensive and easy to book, but it is a tiny piece of crap that sits beneath the expressway and railway station. Beyond this ring of tourism are a very large bay and a lot of industrial property. Most of Tokyo’s hotels tend to actually lie within the city of Tokyo. We chose a hotel that had a free shuttle service to the park. I do not ordinarily like to give free publicity to hotels (and so far none have paid for product placement, oddly enough), but the Akasaka Excel Hotel Toyku is one of the best hotels I have ever visited. I have been to a few that should have been better, but for a reasonable price at the high season the Akasaka offered very clean rooms with bathrooms larger than a closet (not easy to find in Asia) and a friendly and efficient staff. It sits across the street from a JR transfer station, making it very easy to get to a wide variety of locations, and is in the middle of one of Tokyo’s many shopping and dining districts. The complimentary “Western” breakfast is not very Western, but it was pretty good. All this and only 30 minutes to Disneyland. They have an informative website, which I will post here as soon as they send me a check. I gladly accept Yen. Euros would come in handy, too. US dollars need not apply.

We took the first shuttle bus of the day to Disneyland, which is my only complaint about the hotel, although we easily could have taken a later bus. The bus arrives at the park one hour before it opens. There really is no need to be there a full hour before they let anyone in the gates. Even on a crowded summer day buying tickets does not take that long. Like every other Disneyland there are about a thousand ticket booths, so if you buy your tickets when the booths open you can look forward to waiting a good 45 minutes to actually get in the park. This tested the limits of my patience.

I am not as ignorant as I appear. I knew there would be one or two children at Disneyland. I knew that I would be spending a good deal of the day waiting in lines with said children. What I did not anticipate was 45 minutes in one of those mass lines where there really is no actual line and thousands of Asian children with backpacks. I do not mean to generalize, but all Asian children are exactly the same. And they are the worst. African children are the best. If I have to be surrounded by hyperactive children I would prefer they be African. European children probably come in second. American children are harder to classify since they are the offspring of everyone else.

I really wanted to be more tolerant of the little people that day, but after a good half hour of some little shit hitting me with his backpack I used some words that not even his hoodlum friends can teach him. I should point out that giving Asians that look that tells them you are considering lighting them on fire if they do not stop kicking the back of your chair is completely useless. Politely telling them to fuck off when they jump in front of you at the post office is equally a waste of time. Even if you say it in their language they will look at you as if you are crazy to think that arriving first makes any difference.

For reasons I do not understand, every child at the park had a backpack. I somehow doubt they all brought their homework. I saw a child barely old enough to stand of her own volition with a tiny backpack. Whatever small item she had in there could probably have fit easily in her mother’s massive handbag. The offending child behind me was considerably older and his backpack much larger and heavier. When I stood all I could stand and could not stand any more, and having no spinach in sight, I grabbed his backpack and told him that the next time it hit me, it was mine. He had no idea what I was saying, but my tone of voice and the fact that I was taller than everyone in his party combined pretty much did the trick. He soon sat down, as many people already were, and was of no further nuisance. A good example of how different Asian and Western cultures are is that none of the three adults with this child had any noticeable reaction to this incident. If some foreigner grabbed an American child’s backpack and threatened him in a foreign language, every American parent would intervene enthusiastically. In some ways Asians are more polite. I rarely see anyone yelling at someone in public, other than their natural shouting form of speech. Conversely, most of them seem completely oblivious to the fact that there are other people on the planet. Their words are polite, and this is where that reputation comes from, but their actions can be extremely rude.

Tokyo Disneyland is eerily similar to California Disneyland. I do not have engineering specifications or any statistics in front of me, but I think it is significantly smaller. The layout is pretty much the same, although the Haunted Mansion is in Fantasyland for some reason and Main Street is called the World Bazaar. The park is actually owned and operated by the Oriental Land Company, but they have agreed to do things the Disney way and sell only Disney merchandise. And Disney gets a healthy piece of the pie. All the signs are in English and the only written Japanese I noticed was on menus and price tags. Other than some decidedly Asian food at the restaurants there was little indication that this was in Japan. And there was an unusual preponderance of American flags with 23 stars. Apparently Disneyland was founded in 1821.

New Orleans Square
Part of Adventureland at this park

The first ride we went on was the Pirates Of The Caribbean (presented by Kirin Brewery). Since the park had just opened there was no line. Everyone else turned right to Buzz Lightyear and Toon Town. We turned left toward the good rides. As our empty (other than us) boat curved right and passed the Blue Bayou restaurant I felt for a second that I was in California. It was a strange feeling. I have never felt homesick. Not that I consider California home. And this was certainly not that, but for a brief time I was embraced by a satisfying familiarity despite being in a country in which I have spent three weeks my entire life. Maybe it was the Disney Magic™. Maybe it was those bloated animatronic rapists and pillagers. Whatever the cause, it ended as I explained to Pi Chi what was going on. Apparently they do not study mid 20th Century American fairy tale revisionist histories of 18th Century European criminals in Chinese schools. But I was relieved to see that pirates were chasing women as they used to in California before someone realized that PC could also stand for Pirates of the Caribbean. This was the ride as it used to be, except for one glaring difference. It ended entirely too soon. We saw the pirates invade and loot the town, selling women as sex slaves and generally partying like it was 1799, but there was no fight for the gold and no stabbed skeletons guarding the treasure. It just ended. There was not even an ascent and that final, tiny dip, which was strange since we went underground for most of the ride.

Translating the Pirates Of The Caribbean was pretty easy. Point to the guy being dipped into the well and the singing donkey. Translating the Jungle Cruise (presented by Nippon Oil Corporation) was a little more difficult. As far as I remember it was the same as the original, but I could not say if the jokes were the same. Since this was in Japan, and the guide and all but two in the boat (including us) were Japanese, everything was conducted in their language. The guide seemed to be doing an appropriately exaggerated job, but the Japanese are probably not the best audience for a zany comedy routine. They are not exactly well known for their public displays of ebullience.

At one point he told some joke that required audience participation. He was waiting for the audience to react and glanced at me (we were sitting in the front). I said, “Can’t help you there, buddy” and he gave me a thumbs up before moving on. I have no idea if he spoke any English, but I got a sense that he knew I knew what was going on when I told Pi Chi that we were seeing the backside of water.

The Haunted Mansion (presented by Dai Ichi Mutual Life Insurance Co) is an interesting concept in East Asia. To Westerners a haunted house is a frightening place where dead people make the walls bleed and steal children through television sets. In most East Asian cultures the dead are not to be feared, but revered. If the spirits of your ancestors are hanging around your house it is a good thing. Calling Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis, both of whom would need an extra large backpack these days, is not necessary. A haunted mansion simply does not have the same effect as in Western cultures. Maybe that is why the Japanese put it in Fantasyland, the original kiddie land.

The Haunted Mansion, Japanese style

The Haunted Mansion also ended prematurely, as did a number of rides. Perhaps they did not have enough space to build the full ride, or maybe it has something to do with the fact that most of the rides that went underground never came back to the surface. Instead of an escalator in the exit or an ascent on the ride, many of them seemed to gradually return to the ground floor through the course of the ride.

The only other ride we went on in Fantasyland was it’s a small world (presented by Sogo Department Stores). Pi Chi loved it. I am sure she has never seen anything like it before. I found it oddly decorated. It was bright and colorful, and all the plastic children were singing and doing their respective cultural thing, but the ceilings were ominously bare and provided a jolting juxtaposition to the goings on beneath.

The first time I went on Star Tours was when it initially opened in California. The line for the ride was four and a half hours long. Being young and defiant, we skipped ahead in the line somewhat. One or two decades later the line for Tokyo’s Star Tours (presented by Matsushita Electric Industrial Co) was practically nonexistent. And this was mere months after the final Star Wars movie was released. Apparently the Japanese are unimpressed. While we were in line I told Pi Chi how to combat any motion sickness she might feel. I was being the self-proclaimed expert doing my public service for the less knowing. Like most self-proclaimed experts I was just making an idiot of myself. When we left the ride Pi Chi said that it was nothing compared to a motion simulator they have in Hong Kong.

More Japanese people than Disneyland Paris
Fewer than California Disneyland

The weather had my interest most of the day. When we arrived at the park it was typical Tokyo summer heat. Throughout the day it got cloudier. Some of the clouds were pretty dark and eventually there was no blue in the sky at all. I was certain that it would rain, and neither of us brought an umbrella. Being my usual penurious self I did not want to buy one at a Disney shop. It never rained and actually, although cloudy all day, was very nice weather. The clouds took away the heat and a good percentage of the crowds.

The plane is actually nowhere near the castle

The Japanese are not known for their dry wit, so I would imagine the sponsorship of each ride was matched on purpose. In addition to a beer company sponsoring Pirates Of The Caribbean and a life insurance company sponsoring the Haunted Mansion, the Western River Railroad is sponsored by a company that makes toy trains, Alice’s Tea Party by a housewares company, the Grand Circuit Raceway by a tire company, and Star Jets by Japan Airlines.

Corporate sponsorship

Lest this become more tiresome than it already is, I have no intention of detailing every ride we experienced. I am pretty sure that we did not go on all the rides anyway. Some of the rides at California Disneyland were not here, like the Indiana Jones thing. It is next door at Tokyo DisneySea, which looks like it might be better than Disneyland. It is not a waterslide park. It is the same size as Disneyland and is unlike any other amusement park in the world, Disney or otherwise. We did not have nearly enough time to go there. But we did spend a good deal of time in the Disneyland shops. I am reasonably sure that California Disneyland has a few souvenir shops, but I cannot say I have been in most of them or that I have ever spent much time in any of them. I can say that I have been inside every single shop in Tokyo Disneyland. The World Bazaar (Main Street) is nothing but shops and restaurants, and we went inside each and every shop. Every land has its own shops based on a particular theme and we looked at all of them. It may be needless to say, but I will say it anyway. We did some shopping. When we arrived in Tokyo our luggage was probably half full. All the shopping at Disneyland and in Tokyo itself left our bags flowing over. Those of you with young daughters named Alison can expect to see a really kick ass gift this Christmas/birthday. I have not decided which.

The best moment of the day for me was during their version of the Main Street Electrical Parade, although I had resisted wasting my precious time on it as best I could. They have no Main Street but the parade still carries the name. The medley of every trite Disney song ever written was a recording, but it was amusing to hear familiar Disney characters speak Japanese. I had forgotten we were even in Japan by that point. As the sun set in the Land of the Rising Sun, the lights of the parade shone bright and Pi Chi and I stood there watching what was actually a pretty impressive display. The music, the lights, the soft breeze, and Pi Chi helped make this one of the most romantic moments I have ever experienced. I almost proposed to her right then and there.

Call it a momentary lapse of reason.  

My Second (Far Less Amusing) Encounter With Chinese Police

My weekend started like every other weekend. On Saturdays I wake up anywhere between whenever I wake up and 8am. Unlike every other day of the week I actually have to be at work before 4pm. Most Saturdays I work from 9am to 9pm, with two or three very long breaks. I may be the only foreign teacher here who works a full day on Saturdays (or any other day for that matter), but on this particular day I worked for 10.5 long hours. That has got to be a record. I think most of the foreigners would quit their jobs rather than work a full day. After working part time for so long I am not entirely wild about working a real day, but I would not quit unless this kind of thing happened at least two or three times. The reason for this sudden glimpse into the real world was that I arranged to take the following Monday off for a weekend trip to the coast. As the only English teacher here I cannot simply switch schedules with someone else. Ordinarily when I take a day off (which has only happened fewer times than I have found shards of my teeth in my food) one of the Chinese teachers takes my classes. It is a step backward on the educational dance floor, but at least I get out of the building for a while.

After a grueling day that only prisoners of Manzanar can relate to I caught the 11:35 (pm) to 左營. The main benefit to taking the train so late at night is that it is not nearly as crowded. Ordinarily (between 6am and 10pm) the trains are packed tighter than that porn star who set the record for most anal penetrations in one sitting. So to speak. A major drawback is that it does not arrive until after 1am, and since it is always delayed, even later. I “alighted” the train at 1:30am, a good 20 hours after I awoke. “Please watch you step when alighted”.

This is where things start to go downhill.

At 1:40am Pi Chi and I were in her three week old Mazda Isamu traveling down a relatively quiet street when a scooter monkey decided to drive across the road and directly in front of her car. Fortunately, she is perhaps the only Chinese person alive today who actually drives within the legal speed limit. Whatever that may be. It is not that she is a good driver. She has a fondness for making u-turns in the middle of congested roads and driving in multiple lanes at the same time. Neither of which are in any way uncommon here. But she does not usually drive terribly fast, which proved to be a good thing in this instance. Had she been driving like the rest of the country, said scooter monkey would be dead. As it was he suffered no apparent injuries and his scooter and her car were only superficially scratched.

When the scooter first appeared Pi Chi hit the brakes and my immediate thought was that she could not possibly stop in time. She did not. I believe I mentioned something about a dog’s male offspring. I was not concerned for his safety or ours. The impact was simply not that hard. I was not thinking of the immediate consequences. Indeed I was not even aware there would ever be any consequences. Abysmal driving rarely has consequences around here. I was not considering how this could hinder our impending weekend getaway. My sole concern at this point was that this asshole just scratched a brand new car. After 10 years another dent is just another endangered species going extinct. In for a penny, in for a pound, I never say. But that first scratch on a new car is worse than a lizard tail in your mashed yams.

While Pi Chi and Scooter Joe were squawking at each other in some heathen babble (after 20 hours of uninterrupted wake it all sounds like pigs being gutted to me) I was watching a police car casually approach the scene and wondering how and why they arrived so soon. A simple turn of my ever observant head revealed that across the street was a police station. Lucky us.

When the police arrived I wondered how they would interpret the situation. The drivers were male and female, and I could easily see the male police taking the male driver’s side. This is a very sexist country. I, being male, might be able to turn the tide if I could communicate effectively with the authorities. Sadly, I cannot. In this class-conscious society it helped that Pi Chi is the head nurse of the Intensive Care Unit of a very large and possibly famous hospital. Scooter Joe is a 7-11 cashier.  

While all the parties concerned were arguing and the police were pretending to pay attention I noticed something that would make it very difficult for the police to ignore who was at fault. From about four meters away I could smell Scooter Joe’s breath. He also seemed to be having a difficult time remaining erect. This is not an affront on his manhood. He simply could not stand up. During the course of the evening I watched him stumble around in an attempt to walk. Although he was clearly inebriated his driving was not at all unique in these parts. Jumping in front of moving vehicles is like a hobby to these people. While driving I have had large trucks, buses, blue trucks, cars, scooters, pedestrians, and everything in between jump in front of me. Some months ago I could not stop in time and hit a child on a bicycle. His reaction gave me the impression that this was common practice for him. My hand was still on the horn when he got up from the ground and peddled away. Leaving the scene after hitting a child on a bicycle would be a very bad thing in most countries. Here it is in everyone’s best interest to leave the scene immediately.

After about 30 minutes Scooter Joe’s people arrived. They were five to twelve mostly young, ruggedly ugly betel nut chewers. The one in the blue t-shirt was older, and it did not take long for him to protest the situation. At first he wanted Pi Chi to just take some money and call it a day. The police thought that was a wonderful idea. They favor anything that lets them get back to smoking and watching tv. With a brand new car, all the proper insurance and documentation, and being in the right, Pi Chi wanted to do things properly. What was she thinking.

Blue T-Shirt Guy became increasingly hostile. When he started to yell at Pi Chi I stood between them, and he started yelling at me. I said a thing or two that was not entirely diplomatic, but I never matched his lack of control, and only one person there (Pi Chi) understood anything I was saying anyway. She later told me that he warned her against going out with a playboy foreigner and she told him that she sees people like his friend in the hospital every day, only in much worse shape. She obviously did not need my protection. 你去女朋 . (Literally, “You go, girlfriend”, but really gibberish). A linguistic example of the deeply rooted misogyny in Chinese culture: the 女 in “female” is also part of the compound words for slave, flunky, subservient, anger, cruel, tyranny, embezzle, coward, argue, and malaria. By contrast, the 男 of “male” is also in hero, embrace, include, and benign (not malignant) tumor.



Pi Chi, Blue T-Shirt Guy, Useless Cop, Scooter Joe, one of Scooter Joe’s many friends

After another 10 or 20 minutes Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy must have realized that the police were not going to just go away and he sprang into action. What I saw surprised me, and there is very little a drunken Chinese person can do at this point to surprise me. While yelling at both and/or either of the two police officers Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy grabbed one forcefully by the arm hard enough to turn him around. A hostile, possibly drunk civilian was laying hands on a police officer and there was no choke hold, no beating, no imprisonment. The police officer did not even tell Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy to back off. He simply ignored his assailant as if no one was clawing at him. Chinese police are impressively lazy. I would never begin to imply that American police are not lazy, but if someone grabs them violently they and 10 of their colleagues will become very active very quickly.



Blue T-Shirt Guy assaults a police officer while they allow a mob to surround them

While I was still wandering in amazement another police car approached. It looked the same as the first car to me, but Pi Chi expressed approval that the “right police” had arrived. Being very close to the police station, the first police to arrive were merely the local precinct police, apparently not the appropriate authorities in a traffic accident. All of this explained to me, I began to understand why it was taking an hour to write up a minor accident and I was hoping that maybe we could end this soon now that the proper authorities had arrived. It was almost 2:30am.

When the traffic police arrived they asked everybody involved, and even the people who swarmed on the scene after the fact, all the same questions the other police asked. The only difference was that the traffic police came with equipment. They measured the distance between this and that and looked at the skid marks on the street and did all the things traffic police are probably supposed to do.

Pi Chi was able to convince the traffic police that Scooter Joe was drunk. The other police knew it all along, but that probably means more paperwork so they were willing to ignore the obvious. The traffic police whipped out their little breathalyzer and tested Pi Chi. I assumed they would be testing Scooter Joe forthwith, but minutes later Scooter Joe was still wobbling about while Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy was still yelling at everybody except Scooter Joe. Pi Chi later told me that he threatened to hit her right there in front of the police officers. They later said that they heard and saw nothing. Typical of the lazy, inept and often corrupt police force in a country where it seems that every type of official is lazy, inept and corrupt. I still could not believe that Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy was not bleeding and in chains. Or that he was in charge of the scene. He was not driving either of the vehicles and was not even present at the time of the accident, yet the police spoke with him more than anyone else and they let him control the situation.

Eventually the breathalyzer printed out a little receipt which Pi Chi had to sign. Her blood alcohol level was 0.00. Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy suggested that they test me. His theory was that I was the one driving and that I was drunk, despite the fact that I was the calmest person on the scene and the only one capable of standing still for more than ten seconds at a time. If you ignore that I have not had a drop of alcohol since 1987 one can admire Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy’s persistence in defending his friend, if not his methods. Considering the way people drive here the traffic police probably have more experience with traffic accidents than American police have with mustache grooming. It was pretty obvious from the location and position of Pi Chi’s car and Scooter Joe’s scooter that he had to have been driving across the street while she was moving straight ahead within the lane. Even if I had been driving it was clearly the scooter’s fault. I could not tell whether Scooter Joe looked drunk or was just naturally goofy looking, but he could not walk straight or speak clearly, whereas I was my usual pillar of poise, raging charm and enunciation. Not that anyone around here would notice. Pi Chi was somewhere in between, though further on the sober side.

After more questions and shouting the traffic police finally tested Scooter Joe. Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy was decidedly not happy about it. When the test result was printed I went and had a look. Since the scene was anarchy I had no problem looking at whatever I wanted to look at. According to this test Scooter Joe’s blood alcohol level was .54. That seems a little high to me (.08 is illegal in most of the US), although their system might be different from anything I know.

When it seemed like things were starting to calm down and maybe we would be able to leave soon Pi Chi informed me that we now had to go into the police station to give statements and fill out forms. Apparently the hour and a half we spent in the middle of the street blocking traffic was just to determine if the situation warranted going inside to do the paperwork. The scene inside was no better than that outside. Instead of a bunch of angry drunks wandering around the street there were now a bunch of angry drunks crammed into a tiny police station. While one precinct officer filled out a form of Pi Chi’s version of the story another handled Scooter Joe’s side. Scooter Joe had changed his story a few times, but now he was sticking to the defense that he was crossing at the intersection when we hit him. I do not know if he could explain how his scooter managed to fall 10 meters or more before the intersection when the impact would have forced him in the opposite direction. If you have never driven Chinese-style you might find it odd that driving a scooter across a crosswalk would be used as a defense, but driving on crosswalks is so common here that it is probably not illegal even if it is.

While Precinct Officer Number One was taking Pi Chi’s statement one of Scooter Joe’s friends was trying to convince her not to sue. Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy had been replaced by a slightly younger, much calmer version. While this New Guy never yelled at or grabbed anybody I considered him more dangerous. He was sober, calculating, and had an agenda contrary to ours. In a civilized country the authorities keep parties separated to avoid potential conflicts and make life easier. Here anything goes. While New Guy was trying to talk Pi Chi out of doing anything he mentioned the hospital where she worked. She was surprised that he knew where she worked and asked Precinct Officer Number One how this could be. Precinct Officer Number One pointed to one of the computer monitors that had Pi Chi’s information for all the world to see. Pi Chi wanted me to photograph the monitor, showing that the police were doing absolutely nothing to safeguard her information. I naturally assumed that the police would not let me photograph their equipment in their station, and I know enough about Chinese culture to realize that safeguarding personal information is an alien concept. I got my camera out anyway and expected someone, anyone, to tell me to stop. No one did. I was free to photograph absolutely anything I wanted.

During the course of the questioning I went outside to check on Pi Chi’s car several times. When we all went inside she had parked it near the station, but too far away to see from inside. Since some of Scooter Joe’s friends were loitering outside and none of them were entirely rational I felt it prudent to make sure that they were not vandalizing her car. I knew that if they did the police would do nothing. Just outside of the station door some of Scooter Joe’s friends were sitting in a van so I photographed it and its license plate. The van soon drove away. During one of my outings to the car I noticed that some of Scooter Joe’s friends were walking toward the station, away from her car. I went inside and told Pi Chi that I would be staying with the car from this point on. While I walked out to her car one of the police officers followed me. I have no idea why. He was certainly too lazy to be my protection. He watched as I inspected her car for damage and then wanted me to go back to the station. I told him that I was going nowhere as long as this car was vulnerable and those people were wandering around. I said this in English, but with the proper hand signals I think he may have understood me. He soon left and returned with Pi Chi. She told me that we could move the car in front of the station. That did not seem like much protection to me since these police are lazy enough to just sit and watch as someone destroys a car, so I had Pi Chi park directly in front of the door. Again, the police are too lazy to tell us to move it or give us a ticket.

After about an eternity it seemed like things were starting to wrap up. Precinct Officer Number One was getting all of his papers together and seemed to be finished. I asked Pi Chi if we were done and she told me that now we had to talk to the traffic police. I expressed my confusion as to why we were being questioned by the police for about two hours for a minor traffic accident and the drunk driver who caused the accident was not in a jail cell. Pi Chi told me that he would not be going to jail. Despite driving recklessly and causing an accident, despite wasting so much of so many people’s time, despite the fact that he was drunker than a televangelist on election night, he was not going to be arrested. Apparently driving drunk is perfectly legal here. The issue was not that he was driving drunk and could have killed someone. The only reason the police were involved was because there was property damage.

While Pi Chi was answering all the same questions with Traffic Cop Number One, Scooter Joe was in his corner answering questions with another traffic cop. The difference between Precinct Officer Number One and Traffic Cop Number One was that Precinct Officer Number One wrote everything down on pieces of paper whereas Traffic Cop Number One used a computer. I thought the use of technology might speed up the process and I was hopeful until I saw how Traffic Cop Number One typed. While most of us use multiple fingers (I use seven for some reason), Traffic Cop Number One typed with just one. The last time I was tested years ago I typed about 75 words per minute. My unofficial calculation was that he typed about one word per hour. It did not help that he stopped many, many, many, many, many times. He stopped typing the report to talk to other officers. He stopped typing the report to have a cigarette. Indoors, of course. He stopped typing to use the restroom. He stopped typing to argue with New Guy. Long after this had all stopped being amusing I implored Traffic Officer Number One to finish the report and argue with whoever the hell he wanted to argue with later. I pointed out that I could type it up faster, and I cannot type in Chinese. During the course of the evening I said quite a few things that I would never be stupid enough to say in an American police station. It was not the language barrier that dissuaded my self-censorship, but my knowledge that Chinese police are so lazy and so inept that one can violently grab them on the street without repercussion.

Eventually Traffic Cop Number One gave up and let Pi Chi type up the police report. I like to think it was my aggressive complaining, but the real reason was probably something baffling and unheard of in civilized countries. Why is irrelevant, but now Pi Chi, a civilian, was typing the official police report of a traffic accident in which she was involved. A bad idea? Definitely. Blatantly illegal? Probably. But it sped up the process considerably. Meanwhile Traffic Cop Number One was outside with some of his colleagues and Scooter Joe’s friends having a smoke and a good old time. As I watched the sun rise Pi Chi was just finishing what it took a “professional” hours to begin.



Pi Chi typing the police report

At 5:45am we left the police station and began our weekend holiday. So much for sleep. I had only been awake for about 24 hours at this point and knew from experience that I would be getting very little sleep over the next two days.

The drunk driver who started it all was not imprisoned, nor did he lose his license or his scooter. He was fined NT48,000 (about US$1,500). Although he did have to sit in the police station as long as we did and it probably took a lot out of him as the alcohol wore off. His hostile friend who threatened Pi Chi and assaulted a police officer went home with no repercussions whatsoever. We do not yet know how much it will cost to fix Pi Chi’s car, but I am certain we will have to pay for everything.

The people who pissed me off the most in this situation were the police. Scooter Joe did not bother me, although he is a drunk driver and should be made to suffer terribly. Angry Blue T-Shirt Guy was an asshole who said and did things that one really need not say or do to strangers in public, but it was probably all just that typical suppressed Chinese hostility. The police, however, are supposed to be professionals. They work an eight hour shift and it takes them half of that time to type up a simple accident report. What happens when someone is murdered. The best advice I can give to anyone who is in a traffic accident around here is to flee the scene as soon as possible. If you are in any situation that would normally require police assistance, resist your urge to seek out the authorities. Chinese police are more useless than a vestigial tube of cecum and take longer to excise. And they smell worse.  



Scooter Joe. Drunk driver and all around idiot.

KTV Wedding

I went to my first traditional Chinese wedding. It was not entirely as I expected, but having lived here all this time I was not nearly as surprised as I would have been had I had this experience a few years ago. Anyone expecting it to be a somber, respectful occasion would be tragically disappointed. The Chinese are rarely somber or respectful.

The long circus tent in the middle of the street did not surprise me. The locals often hold their parties under brightly colored, striped tents. And blocking an entire road with no prior notice or authorization is standard operating procedure. What I was not expecting was the large neon Las Vegas game show stage. I kept expecting someone to pull a giant handle or spin a large wheel. Despite the enormous cultural difference I think a lot of Westerners would have loved this wedding. Every table came with a pack of cigarettes and cheap alcohol.



The horizontal lines on the ground are a crosswalk

Having a wedding outdoors can be romantic in the real world. When it is 30 degrees outside with 100% humidity romance is at the library. Not to read the books, but because it is always air conditioned and the drinking fountains are cold. Not Chinese libraries. But the library we went to when I was a child had the coldest water outside. A good library also has comfortable places to sit. Most weddings do not.

If you only know five things about the Chinese two of them are that they are a very loud people. And they love KTV. This wedding had both of those in spades. (I cannot get that game show stage out of my mind). The tradition is to have a master of ceremonies, let’s say, who introduces the high rollers and tells the guests what is going on at any given time. What I did not like was that this person just kept talking. From the time the festivities officially began until well after we left she was onstage and screaming into her microphone. The only breaks were during the singing.

KTV is the national pastime. The Chinese love KTV more than sex, and there are over 1.5 billion Chinese on the planet, so that says a lot. Even the smallest towns have KTVs. My town has at least five that I know of, and it is a very small town. In addition to the three KTVs every square meter, you can sing to your favorite Chinese elevator music and Air Supply in restaurants, hospitals, schools, taxis, fisheries, on boats, buses, at train stations (although not on the train for some reason), department stores, grocery stores, bowling alleys, temples, cemeteries, my neighbor’s house, and of course, at weddings. Sing is just a euphemism. The proper way to KTV is apparently to scream as loudly as you possibly can. Art and entertainment are relative. As they should be. But music has a few simple rules that I think probably apply regardless of your culture or preference. Call me old fashioned, but I think notes are an integral part of music. If you choose not to adhere to any particular time signature or any sense of rhythm, that is your prerogative. But when singing a song of any style in any language it is probably a good idea to at least pretend to try to hit one or two correct notes. Everyone knows someone who drank a shot of courage and got up there one night to destroy “Copacabana”. At their worst they were angels in the shower compared to the average Chinese tearing apart the average Chinese folk song. Simply put, KTV is an abomination.



The wedding stage

At one point I was paying absolutely no attention to the antics onstage and I heard what I swear for a second I thought was a dog being skinned alive. My immediate thought was, ‘They are skinning a dog. It is probably the main course’. This is unfair as dogchops are not nearly as popular as they once were. Had a dog actually been skinned alive onstage I do not think I would have been all that surprised. I was more shocked by the noises coming from what I quickly realized was a child onstage. I think he was trying to sing whatever song was scrolling across the monitor in front of him. Everyone applauded at all the appropriate points, but for my own piece of mind I have to assume that they were just being polite and encouraging him because he was a child. This is unlikely as being polite is not a Chinese trait. And I am not often accused of being overly polite myself so when I complain that someone is impolite that should tell you something. The locals absolutely and habitually spare the rod and spoil the child. They hit their children left and right, but they also let them do whatever the hell they want at any given time. This particular child’s “singing” was bad enough, but the volume was just unbearable. He actually blew out one of the speakers, for which I was grateful. I have no doubt that I was the only person there who considered that maybe they could have turned the volume down a hair.

In the middle of this aural assault the MC began screaming directly at me. I was the only foreigner there, and so afforded my minute of fame. I did not realize that she was screaming at me until I was told so. Screaming is screaming regardless of where it is directed. She asked me (in Chinese) if I wanted to come up and sing a song. I replied (in English) that I did not know any crappy Chinese beer hall tunes. Of course no one knew what I was saying since I said it in English and I did not have a microphone to scream into.

In addition to all the amateurs from the audience the MC sang a few songs, as did the stripper. I realize I come from a puritanical society, and I do not consider myself to be a prude by any means, but it just seems to me a tad inappropriate to have a stripper at a wedding. I had been told beforehand that there might be a stripper. Despite my attempts to clarify this I was still pretty sure that it was just a language issue. Wackier things have been lost in translation. The Chinese are not big fans of public nudity (like the Japanese) and there are no legal strip clubs anywhere in the country. I checked.

I have no idea where this curious custom started or why it continues, but there are indeed strippers at some weddings. And not the classy kind, like Elizabeth Whatever in that horrible Paul Verhoeven film. These are the cheap North Hollywood variety. The stripper came onstage in a sparkling turquoise halter top and matching tight shorts. Her costume fit the stage perfectly, but did not exactly match the bride’s gown. In fact, the bride’s wedding gown was the only thing I saw that reminded me of a wedding. Eventually the stripper’s shiny wardrobe came off to reveal an equally tacky bikini. Unfortunately, she never got completely naked. I did not think that she would even though I had been told that it does happen. Subsequent conversations have revealed that it really does not happen, so there are limits to even what the Chinese consider bad taste. 



The MC and stripper do a duet

Speaking of bad taste, we were at one of the vegetarian tables, so there was no eel rectum or feral pig bladder, but the food they did serve was mostly unidentifiable and more aromatic than I prefer outside of a sewer treatment plant. One of the great inventions in the history of Chinese restauranteering is the large Lazy Susan that they place atop tables. Of course, this is to make everything accessible to everyone. What is curious is that these people invented this device and it can been seen at almost every restaurant I have been to, and yet no one at this wedding (or at least at my table) had any idea what it was for. Tiny Chinese arms stretched regularly across the table to reach for the pickled goat testicles in dirt sauce. I watched silently as more than one elbow made its way into some dish or other. At one point I rotated the turntable just to flaunt my foreign ingenuity and one of the guests looked at me as if I was Bertil Anderberg in Bergman’s “Det sjunde inseglet”. I am sure we have all been there.



The happy wedding party

Three days later I was dragged kicking and screaming to another wedding. This one was indoors, which proved convenient since it was raining, and a notch higher on the class meter. There was no stripper. Strippers are only for outdoor weddings, of course. It was at a “nice” restaurant, which seemed less nice to me as I watched people walk in and shake their umbrellas over food that was just lying out on open tables next to the front door. I have seen some pretty repulsive food handling practices here. By comparison this was gentile.

We sat at a vegetarian table that was far enough away from the stage and where I could sit with a reasonable amount of comfort. In no time we were asked to move to a more crowded table that was very close to the stage and where I had to sit a foot or so from the table since it probably never occurred to anyone that when you put 20 people at a table for 10 there just is not enough room for all those legs.

This one was not quite as loud since it was indoors, but the MC did scream through it all, except when people “sang”. As hard is it still is for me to believe there was actually a woman who sounded worse than the boy at the previous wedding. She was not screaming as loudly as he did, but her bleeding boar voice and complete disregard for rhythm and pitch caused me physical pain.

Since we were no longer at a vegetarian table I was given the honor of watching people eat body parts that most people could not name from animals that most people would chase away with brooms. I watched the servers bring to our table a large bowl of dirty water with a whole duck floating about. The first two salivators merely scooped up some of the rancid soup, but the third used the serving spoon to hack off the duck’s head. Apparently the duck was cooked in such a way that its head could be hacked off with a spoon. I do not know if that is in the marketing. “Spoon hackably soft”. But that head went down her throat as easily as it was severed from its rightful position. Others seemed envious that she got the duck head, and I assumed that her boyfriend must be a happy man since she will clearly put anything in her mouth.

The person sitting next to me was obviously hungry. With great enthusiasm he tore apart several tiny crabs, lapped up three bowls of what looked like rat dropping soup, ate a variety of land and sea based species I could not identify, and sucked on a fish eye. I have made this observation before, but the locals will eat absolutely anything. You can put a plate in front of them with dog shit covered in live maggots on a bed of used koala embryos and top it off with the vomit of a hepatitis infested $5 Thai prostitute and they will suck it down like it is ambrosia. For me the highlight of the evening was when I left the building to go to the corner convenience store for drinks and M&Ms.

The next time I go to a wedding I am bringing a pizza.