Randy came to me last week and told me he wants to take an Architectural Road Trip to cover a bunch of stuff at one time that he'd like to see but that doesn't necessarily warrant its own road trip.
This has nothing to do with China, by the way.
So here's what we're doing this weekend. We're driving up Route 66 through Winslow, Peach Springs, and Seligman and we're spending the night in Kingman.
Then tomorrow we're going to finally go walk out on that big glass bridge thing they built above the Grand Canyon a few years ago that we haven't seen yet because it costs like eighty dollars a person which is ridiculous. I was surprised to find out this was on the list since Randy generally takes his boycotts pretty seriously, but apparently the awesome factor broke him down. It is, after all, a giant glass bridge above the Grand Canyon and we are, after all, only human.
Provided neither one of us plummets to a steep, shardy death, we're then driving the rest of the way to Las Vegas. Primarily to see the new Hoover Dam Bypass, obviously, because whenever I think "Vegas" I always immediately then think "bridge".
Once in Vegas we're going to take a gander at the new and completed City Center they were working on last time we were there, and then we have reservations to go to the Minus 5 Ice Lounge, a bar made entirely out of ice. Ice tables, ice walls, ice chairs, even the drinking glasses are made of ice. We saw it on the Travel Channel last weekend. I can't even write any more about it because I'll start jumping up and down again.
I've packed a huge surprise picnic lunch complete with Brie and bread and prosciutto and tiny bottles of olive oil and aged balsamic, and I'm not at all embarrassed to tell you that I'll be busting out some of the good lingerie over the next couple of days because this is going to be the coolest, most weirdly romantic road trip ever.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Beijing, part three.
The Great Wall. I still can't quite believe I was actually there.
I carried that camera bag around like it was my job. And the camera was never in it so by the end of the trip it was just stuffed with random flyers and used napkins and stretched out hair ties, and there I am, curled around it on an airport bench like my left kidney's in there.
Randy and I knew we needed to bring raincoats with us so I, being hyper-cognizant of the 44-pound luggage weight limit, bought one of those "coats in a bag" from REI; an ultralight waterproof shell jammed inside a bag the size of a tennis ball. Randy went the other way, opting for this three-layer red jacket in the picture. He strolled around the store zipping up zippers and snapping snaps, looking for a coat with, quote, "enough systems". Randy really likes a coat that does the work for him; if he gets hot, he wants a ripcord he can pull that opens a hidden vent under his arm. If he gets cold, he wants to be able to reach back and unzip an entire other, heavier coat out of the hood. I felt smugly efficient tossing my coat/bag combo into the suitcase, but then in China I refused to take the coat out of the bag. It was sprinkling at the Great Wall but it wasn't enough to justify destroying the compact perfection of coat in a bag. Randy strutted around like a big red dry rooster, zipping shit, unzipping other shit, "Erin! Look at all my systems!" Meanwhile I'm hunkered down in a damp sweatshirt with the camera bag on my head, waiting for a typhoon so I could spring my coat from its skintight chrysalis. Whatever. When Randy manages to find the fifty yuan his systems ate I'll concede defeat.
We also went to The Summer Palace. Breathtaking.
And we drove downtown to walk around the Olympic venues, the
National Stadium (the Bird's Nest) and the National Aquatics Center (the Water Cube).
Man, I love going back through these pictures. This was such an incredible trip. And now you're up to speed on the first two days!
I carried that camera bag around like it was my job. And the camera was never in it so by the end of the trip it was just stuffed with random flyers and used napkins and stretched out hair ties, and there I am, curled around it on an airport bench like my left kidney's in there.
Randy and I knew we needed to bring raincoats with us so I, being hyper-cognizant of the 44-pound luggage weight limit, bought one of those "coats in a bag" from REI; an ultralight waterproof shell jammed inside a bag the size of a tennis ball. Randy went the other way, opting for this three-layer red jacket in the picture. He strolled around the store zipping up zippers and snapping snaps, looking for a coat with, quote, "enough systems". Randy really likes a coat that does the work for him; if he gets hot, he wants a ripcord he can pull that opens a hidden vent under his arm. If he gets cold, he wants to be able to reach back and unzip an entire other, heavier coat out of the hood. I felt smugly efficient tossing my coat/bag combo into the suitcase, but then in China I refused to take the coat out of the bag. It was sprinkling at the Great Wall but it wasn't enough to justify destroying the compact perfection of coat in a bag. Randy strutted around like a big red dry rooster, zipping shit, unzipping other shit, "Erin! Look at all my systems!" Meanwhile I'm hunkered down in a damp sweatshirt with the camera bag on my head, waiting for a typhoon so I could spring my coat from its skintight chrysalis. Whatever. When Randy manages to find the fifty yuan his systems ate I'll concede defeat.
We also went to The Summer Palace. Breathtaking.
And we drove downtown to walk around the Olympic venues, the
National Stadium (the Bird's Nest) and the National Aquatics Center (the Water Cube).
Man, I love going back through these pictures. This was such an incredible trip. And now you're up to speed on the first two days!
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Beijing, part two.
The timing worked out that we happened to be in Beijing for the Mid-Autumn Festival, or the Mooncake Festival. This is significant not only because we had the opportunity to witness and enjoy a significant cultural event, but also because it sounded a lot like there was gonna be cake.
Ming picked up that I was excited about this Mid-Autumn Festival, mostly because I kept slipping and calling it "Cake Day", and she pulled out her very best American analogies to talk me in off the cake ledge.
"In America, you have fruitcake? Yes?" Crap. Yeah. We have fruitcake. "The mooncake is like the fruitcake in China. You give it? And it's nice? But no one likes to eat it." She made a blick face there to punctuate. Mooncake is bad.
"Not all mooncake is bad," our regional guide piped up. "Some kinds aren't very bad."
"Ming, what's your favorite kind of mooncake?" I asked.
This required kind of a ridiculously long conversation with the regional guide in Chinese, I don't know what was going on there. Then she turned back to me, her hand on her chin. She squinted her eyes appraisingly.
"I try to figure out what kind of mooncake you will like best," she told me. I sat up straighter. I felt like I was about to get my cards read. She tapped her chin and thought.
"Okay, which do you like better: bean paste or soy curd?"
Oh. Wow. Okay. We're in a whoooooole other spectrum of "cake", now, aren't we.
"I like... strawberries?"
Ming nodded, satisfied. "I think you will like the bean paste."
Uh, and I think we need to work on our negotiating skills. The only thing bean paste and strawberries have in common is their inability to get along.
The hotel left complimentary mooncakes in our room that night; Ming told us to eat the mooncake while looking up at the moon and thinking about our families. I'd already eaten a mooncake when pressed at dinner so I was pretty sure that if I ate a mooncake and thought of my family, my family would be filled with an instant yet mysterious sense of annoyance. So I packed it instead and brought it home. One of these days I'm going to frost it and try and convince Randy it's a cupcake. And then I will pack my shit and go.
Ming picked up that I was excited about this Mid-Autumn Festival, mostly because I kept slipping and calling it "Cake Day", and she pulled out her very best American analogies to talk me in off the cake ledge.
"In America, you have fruitcake? Yes?" Crap. Yeah. We have fruitcake. "The mooncake is like the fruitcake in China. You give it? And it's nice? But no one likes to eat it." She made a blick face there to punctuate. Mooncake is bad.
"Not all mooncake is bad," our regional guide piped up. "Some kinds aren't very bad."
"Ming, what's your favorite kind of mooncake?" I asked.
This required kind of a ridiculously long conversation with the regional guide in Chinese, I don't know what was going on there. Then she turned back to me, her hand on her chin. She squinted her eyes appraisingly.
"I try to figure out what kind of mooncake you will like best," she told me. I sat up straighter. I felt like I was about to get my cards read. She tapped her chin and thought.
"Okay, which do you like better: bean paste or soy curd?"
Oh. Wow. Okay. We're in a whoooooole other spectrum of "cake", now, aren't we.
"I like... strawberries?"
Ming nodded, satisfied. "I think you will like the bean paste."
Uh, and I think we need to work on our negotiating skills. The only thing bean paste and strawberries have in common is their inability to get along.
The hotel left complimentary mooncakes in our room that night; Ming told us to eat the mooncake while looking up at the moon and thinking about our families. I'd already eaten a mooncake when pressed at dinner so I was pretty sure that if I ate a mooncake and thought of my family, my family would be filled with an instant yet mysterious sense of annoyance. So I packed it instead and brought it home. One of these days I'm going to frost it and try and convince Randy it's a cupcake. And then I will pack my shit and go.
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Beijing, part one
The thing about our trip to China was that it was completely insane. We went so many different places and saw so many amazing things, I'm literally still completely overwhelmed. A couple of days ago, someone asked me what my favorite part of China was. I just sat there, glassy-eyed, slack jawed. I don't remember what I finally came up with. Pandas, maybe. People like pandas. Pandas are a safe answer. Pandas'll shut people up and let me eat my dinner, already.
Our trip was professionally engineered by an international tour company that specializes in making sure every second of every minute of your time in China is spent as efficiently as possible. This is an excerpt I just copied directly from the tour company's website:
"[Our] tours are not particularly designed for those who are looking for relaxing holidays in China. We strive to provide more of a cultural journey, an adventure, rather than a getaway; a learning experience rather than an escape.
In tune with this approach, we designed our China journey for those who would like to discover this great culture with flexibility and an open mind, and for those who would like to work together with us to achieve this goal."
Translated: We're going to run your ass off every second of every day making sure you leave here securely convinced that China is a paragon of modernity, tradition, progress, and morality, and if that means you get five hours of sleep a night, then that's what it fucking means. If you're not with us on this then you're against us, and this is China, right, so that strategy clearly isn't going to work. Now get back on that bus."
All of these tours are sanctioned by the Chinese government, meaning that in addition to the requisite government stores and factories that popped up on our tour itinerary, we never ever heard of or encountered any signs of poverty or national unrest. We had at least one guide with us the entire tour, and most of the time we had two. Our hotels, restaurants, tour stops, domestic flights, and other transportation were all arranged behind the scenes so there weren't any choices to be made on the fly. Add to that the fact that we literally-- LITERALLY-- had roughly thirty minutes of "free time" (meaning time to sit down in a chair somewhere and gasp for breath) from the time we left the hotel at 7:00am until we reached another hotel at 9:00 or 10:00 that night, and it's clear that no one was going to have an opportunity to accidentally stumble upon something culturally unflattering on one's own.
Our "national" guide, Ming, met us at the Beijing airport when we landed. As the national guide, she stayed with us the entire trip; the "regional" guides changed daily and were along to coordinate travel, food, and hotel details for a specific city. But Ming was our girl. Thirty-one years old, tall, very slim, cute, Chinese.
"My name is Ming," she told us once she'd corralled us through the arrival gate, "but you can call me Kate." Apparently the tour company had given all of their guides "Western" names to make it easier for their charges.
Which struck me as really funny; are there a lot of Americans who can't pronounce "Ming"?
"I'm sorry, Monp? Mirg? Say it one more time, slower. Okay... Mmmmelg? Fuck this, I'm calling you Kate."
Our trip was professionally engineered by an international tour company that specializes in making sure every second of every minute of your time in China is spent as efficiently as possible. This is an excerpt I just copied directly from the tour company's website:
"[Our] tours are not particularly designed for those who are looking for relaxing holidays in China. We strive to provide more of a cultural journey, an adventure, rather than a getaway; a learning experience rather than an escape.
In tune with this approach, we designed our China journey for those who would like to discover this great culture with flexibility and an open mind, and for those who would like to work together with us to achieve this goal."
Translated: We're going to run your ass off every second of every day making sure you leave here securely convinced that China is a paragon of modernity, tradition, progress, and morality, and if that means you get five hours of sleep a night, then that's what it fucking means. If you're not with us on this then you're against us, and this is China, right, so that strategy clearly isn't going to work. Now get back on that bus."
All of these tours are sanctioned by the Chinese government, meaning that in addition to the requisite government stores and factories that popped up on our tour itinerary, we never ever heard of or encountered any signs of poverty or national unrest. We had at least one guide with us the entire tour, and most of the time we had two. Our hotels, restaurants, tour stops, domestic flights, and other transportation were all arranged behind the scenes so there weren't any choices to be made on the fly. Add to that the fact that we literally-- LITERALLY-- had roughly thirty minutes of "free time" (meaning time to sit down in a chair somewhere and gasp for breath) from the time we left the hotel at 7:00am until we reached another hotel at 9:00 or 10:00 that night, and it's clear that no one was going to have an opportunity to accidentally stumble upon something culturally unflattering on one's own.
Our "national" guide, Ming, met us at the Beijing airport when we landed. As the national guide, she stayed with us the entire trip; the "regional" guides changed daily and were along to coordinate travel, food, and hotel details for a specific city. But Ming was our girl. Thirty-one years old, tall, very slim, cute, Chinese.
"My name is Ming," she told us once she'd corralled us through the arrival gate, "but you can call me Kate." Apparently the tour company had given all of their guides "Western" names to make it easier for their charges.
Which struck me as really funny; are there a lot of Americans who can't pronounce "Ming"?
"I'm sorry, Monp? Mirg? Say it one more time, slower. Okay... Mmmmelg? Fuck this, I'm calling you Kate."
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
The CIA should recruit me in 2024
I had a meeting this morning with my boss. Whom I've met four times. In two years. That's how it is when you're an international spy. Not a lot of face time.
I'm assuming. I'm only an international spy if someone somewhere has cake. If you have cake and you're reading this right now, don't look but I'm under your futon. Shhhhhh. Just go to sleep.
Two years ago I signed a contract with a local publishing company to write a book, and after a lot of organizing and research and chasing interviewees, it looks like that book is actually going to get written.
And that's all I can say because I've had this website for almost eight years and I think the "don't talk shit about work" lesson might have finally taken hold.
35% of it, anyway.
I'm assuming. I'm only an international spy if someone somewhere has cake. If you have cake and you're reading this right now, don't look but I'm under your futon. Shhhhhh. Just go to sleep.
Two years ago I signed a contract with a local publishing company to write a book, and after a lot of organizing and research and chasing interviewees, it looks like that book is actually going to get written.
And that's all I can say because I've had this website for almost eight years and I think the "don't talk shit about work" lesson might have finally taken hold.
35% of it, anyway.
Monday, November 01, 2010
One!
So this is a pretty great way to cheat on the first day of NaBloPoMo... Go to trapeze class.
Somehow Randy ended up with the camera for this one and I just knew bad things were going to happen.
"You watch," I told the trapeze guy (handler?) up on the platform with me, "I love that guy to death but I'll give you a hundred bucks if he gets me in this video AT ALL."
We both glance down at Randy. Who's already filming us. So I guess I owe that guy a hundred bones.
I wish there was video of the time I overflipped and caught my ponytail in the net. Or the one where I caught my foot in the net and half my big toenail disappeared. Where was Randy taking jerky close-ups of the ground THEN?
Here's a wider shot of virtually the same thing:
Somehow Randy ended up with the camera for this one and I just knew bad things were going to happen.
"You watch," I told the trapeze guy (handler?) up on the platform with me, "I love that guy to death but I'll give you a hundred bucks if he gets me in this video AT ALL."
We both glance down at Randy. Who's already filming us. So I guess I owe that guy a hundred bones.
I wish there was video of the time I overflipped and caught my ponytail in the net. Or the one where I caught my foot in the net and half my big toenail disappeared. Where was Randy taking jerky close-ups of the ground THEN?
Here's a wider shot of virtually the same thing:
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