hangzhou baozi

My morning class is now over, and lunch time is near.

I take to the busy streets of Beijing and head toward my favorite diner: a small hole in the wall that specializes in steamed buns and steamed dumplings.

The small restaurant is impossible to miss; circular stacks of bamboo steamers rise like culinary skyscrapers from atop the barrel of boiling water. Steam pours through the trays, around the stacks. Every so often a woman ducks out into the open, shuffles the trays and disappears again, back into the restaurant she's processing even more buns :

flour + steam = baozi

I used to duck in for take-out and buy a tray of garlic-chive and egg steamed buns for just ¥3.5 (just over USD0.50), then continue on my way homeward. But lately, I've decided to stick around for a sit-down meal.

Vegetarian buns are sold out at the moment, which I infer only from her pause and simple comment, "wait awhile." A simple reply of "okay" is enough to put in my order.

I regret not asking how long a wait it will be, but I realize that time is an honest teller. So, I take my seat and listen to the TV that blares from the front corner: an ancient soap with characters befuddled in a time of war.

My gaze follows the woman, who stands at the front of the restaurant, her seasoned hands dusted with flour and crusted with tendrils of dough:

bamboo manger: where baozi are born

Her husband appears from a door at the back, and silently delivers two bowls of broth to the girls at a neighboring table. I decide soup will be a wonderful way to pass the time, and place another order with him, which he silently takes into the shop's rear kitchen.

In China, one *drinks* soup [喝糖]. Below, a simple egg drop soup in hot water, with a double sprig of seaweed and cilantro for aroma:

scrambled egg drops the soup

Before I had time to drink mine, the wait for steamed buns proved fruitful; a tray made just for me:

garlic & chives egg the baozi

A boazi and tang (dumplings and soup) set, complete with a friendly serving of red chili & oil, black malt vinegar, and dark sweet soy:

the friendliest chili you'll ever taste

Still not tempted? Visit the bun shop for yourself:

the Hangzhou Diner

Note: Access to Blogger is still blocked within China. Without access to a much appreciated VPN (proxy), I would be unable to publish to my blog from within mainland China. Thus, I am blessed and grateful to be sharing. With every post, I hereby protest the oppressive nature of the Chinese government blocking access to any part of the web.

goodbye bellow, hello boombox

verbal vending

The thought of a peddler shouting out the day's services and goods is sure to bring a sense of familiarity... at least in China.

Even if you have never been to China, you can readily imagine a peddler slowly riding a bicycle through the street, shouting out to the residents.

oral history

I owe a special thanks to a friend, back in OR, for sharing a recent NPR story, relaying the venture of one Chinese businessman set to share the sounds of China with the world.

By banking the sounds of the people of China, Qin Jie (秦杰) is doing more than just sharing culture and turning a buck, or a yuan. He is preserving the very sounds that are on the brink of extinction, due to modernity and economic development.

China's 56 races and countless dialects have a lot to lose in this day and age, but so also have much to give. Now, the race is on to capture all that defines the expanse of China and her many peoples, one [sound] bite at a time.

brink of modernity

With the world's largest population and impressively expanding economy, it is no surprise that the modernization of China is having a large impact on her people and also the culture.

At worst, one might imagine the horrors of tradition simply lost with the passing of a generation. But then, modernization also and often reveals itself in small and surprising ways.

goodbye bellow, hello boombox

What is not commonly known is that these peddlers are often not using their own voice to advertise their services. Gone are the days of the past.

The physical demands on their vocal chords and lungs, alone, are enough to leave any passing customer marveling in a mix of sympathy and equally grand admiration. The call is unique, not only to one's profession, but also to each vendor.

Rhythmic and melodic, a few words aim to clarify how your day will be made easier by answering their calls.

But today, these calls are increasingly digitized and broadcast over small portable speakers. The familiar tinny sound of a poor recording coupled with low qualities speakers does not reduce the effectiveness of the sales pitch.

jiangxi, de'an

For example, the [recorded] sounds of a street peddler, literally peddling, selling steamed breads on a scathingly hot August afternoon on a dusty deserted road in De'An, Jiangxi province, southern China:

steamed breads and dirt roads greet modernity: my latest ringtone*

While visiting a good friend in his hometown province of Jiangxi, we walked from his house to his brother's home in the nearby countryside. From the edge of the small town (100,000 residents) to the adjacent countryside, we follow a dirt road that soon becomes a trail.

In 2001, we took this trail by foot. By August of 2008, the family had acquired 2 electric motorbikes to save the time and sweat of the 20-minute bipedal commute.

Even in the heat of that August sun, I requested that we romanticize the trip and go on foot. With so much to absorb, I didn't want my parents to miss anything. Pausing for a timely pit-stop, I was delighted to be present for what was to come over the crest of the hill.

A peddling peddler, riding our way, selling steamed breads.

And while a peddler selling steamed breads is not so unusual in a small village in China, I was intrigued by the fact that the vendor was using, not his voice, but a taped recording of his announcement.

I fumbled to ready my camera and was lucky enough to capture his passing. Priceless.

my parents and our friends at their home in De'An, Jiangxi

vending today

Over the last year, I have heard the calls of Beijing's vendors for scissor and knife sharpening, as well as candied haw fruit kebabs.

Occasionally I also see a cardboard or plastics recycler, calling out to make his presence known in a residential street.

Even in grocery stores, it is impossible to avoid the ranting of brand-name representatives who hope to win your loyalty with a free sample of instant coffee, strawberry-filled double chocolate wafers, or the latest skin-firming, kilo-trimming yogurt.

"buy 10, get 2 free", but only a local knows that

"Buy 5, Get 1 Free" [买五送一] is a very common sale here, and any mindful shopper is sure to benefit from this phrase on even the first trip to the market.

surprisingly, liquor in a sports-bottle is not advertised verbally

verbal ads

Being a [mostly illiterate] foreigner, I personally want to believe that the custom of shouting out the services to potential customers was born more out of necessity, than out of a purposely flippant intent to ingrain the latest discount in my mind. According to one source, an estimated 9-10% of the local population is illiterate -giving another reason for keeping ads verbal and not simply written. And that statistic does not even include the foreigners!

The sale 'calls' are actually quite helpful to the illiterate, if a bit tiring on the ears. Imagine being on the verge of picking out a comfort of a yogurt selection and need not even look up to know that it is possible to be adventurous and thrifty by choosing another brand boasting of the latest wheat and aloe, honey, or jujube flavors. The salesclerk verbalizes that bargain for your glazed eyes.

Here in China, if you keep your ears tuned, you just might find the next bargain of your lifetime.

And the vendors can save their voices for an evening's round of karaoke.

*This 'mantou' ringtone is available to anyone interested, just send me a request via email.

tread, trains, taxis, tokens

Traveling across Beijing at night -by public transit- can be a challenge, but is always an adventure.

This is true not only for someone who spent their entire life in small towns where public transit was essentially nonexistent, but it is an equal mystery for people who were raised right here in the city, perhaps some blocks down the street.

bicycle by day, taxi by twilight

Bicycles are locked up and the subway shuts down, as it must, when the foot traffic slows. Particularly in China, when night time falls, so do the lights dim, the eyelids droop in waning lackadaisical enthusiasm. This is not entirely true, but most locals would agree.

The foreign community and younger Generation X, on the contrary, may even perk up once the sun hints at setting, and the most experienced of taxi cab drivers swear by the night shift.

taxi master

Indeed, the cabbie of China is referred to as 'Master' (师父), and with full justification granted.

The drivers know that anyone still wearing tread on the soles of their shoes after 11p is entirely dependent on them for any distance over 2 blocks traveled. Business is business!

stranded in the city

While Beijing is rather neatly composed of concentric asphalt 'ring' roads (somehow, the 10+ lane highways are still referred to as 'roads', perhaps because a road is more lovely than a highway?) , the blocks themselves are rather imposing.

To find the next major intersection may require the downing of an energy drink or a changing of the socks. At nighttime, this may not be what the typical pedestrian had in mind.

It isn't for lack of safety that pedestrians hail the next taxi upon setting foot to curb. It may, though, be for lack of familiarity (did I mention, it can be rather intimidating finding your bearings in a concrete, let alone foreign, city? At night? Without stars to point the way? And with a limited vocabulary, should you get lost?) Some might say that 'outsiders' know Beijing like the back of their foot, which is to say, not very well.

Furthermore, the popular and often visited evening venues of Beijing are not necessarily located in adjacent districts. The main University District is brimming with quick minds and thirsty palates, and the night is ever young in Beijing, where many bars double as cafés and smoothly switch from Dos Equis to Espresso while the sun is not yet risen.

But then there are those who are simply out with friends, and the night gets away from them. Or rather, the day sneaks away and leaves all with nothing other than darkness to share. Dinner primes the palate for a fermented beverage, which might be followed or paired with a duel at the billiards hall or a jiving at a local music joint. It may be with purpose, but it is often without intent that the night is suddenly upon them, and the clock is too soon to strike midnight.

trains, no more

There are perhaps no sadder words exchanged between the transit operator's voice over the loudspeaker and the hopeful, but now helpless, passengers. After paying the ¥2 fare, flock after flock of Nightowls are left to climb or descend the stairs once again, back to the level of the street.

And the Master Cabbie is awaiting their return to the curb:

WuDaoKou subway station is popular... when it's running

like fairytale, like fear

I could almost swear that on one of those evenings, I saw one girl limping up those subway station stairs carrying a single glass slipper.

Being as I've recently moved from the University district to a [local] residential area, I too have learned the hard way that the Subway waits for No One. And it is just as well.

will the doors be open?

first time, the lesson

The first time I misjudged the last train to pass through the connecting station, I saw no other alternative than to hail the Master as if obeying a greater order of the urban universe. Having already paid my subway fare of ¥2, the master greeted me at the curbside with his blinker, and I... bid farewell to another ¥23.

It was a fare well spent, however, with not a yuan lost to regret. Aside from the plush seats and door-to-door service, I shared a great conversation with the Master. A private conversation with the common local makes for an enjoyable commute.

He, a native of Beijing, preferred the night shift... because he understood that the night wanderers swarm to the red 'for hire' light of a taxi as do insects to the electric blue killer lamps. Business is rockin', or 'red' as the locals say. He was just 3 years older than I, which we figured out because I am a snake and he is a tiger. -So says the the corresponding zodiac of the Chinese lunar calendar.

A short ride of 15 minutes, coupled with inquisitive conversation, and I was home sooner than the subway could have delivered my commuting tail. And back in my humble abode before the clock struck midnight, to boot!

still in Beijing!

second time, the smarter

A couple weeks later, however, daylight once again teased with the lengthening of the spring day, giving the night ample time to sneak up on me, before I could make the necessary one of two subway transfers.

However, on this evening, it was unclear as to whether there was another train yet to come. Or whether the lights had accidentally been left on to tease where indeed no train would arrive.

I stood pondering aloud (in Mandarin) with the others who hovered in angst, and reasoned aloud that the possibility of the last train coming to save us... was slim. It was the end of hopeful naiveté at best, and we slowly took to the stairs with what little pride we had left.

It is in this fine moment of desperation, when the mind is struggling to cope with extreme disappointment and is toying with regret over timely responsibility, that the bond between fellow passengers can be stronger than any social anthropologist could pry from the grips of any algorithm:

The man who had, in fact, beat me to the unforgiving doors of the transfer station turned to me and asked where I was headed. East and slightly north, near Subway Line 5, I say. He suggested we carpool, dare we fall only half the victim that each of us was destined to the taxi Master.

How could I turn down an offer like that?

As I learned on the walk up and out of the station, he was newly back to Beijing after 5 years studying abroad in Germany. He had guessed that I was Russian or German, but had not expected my Mandarin to be at [whatever] level that it is. And so, we talked our way out to the street side and hailed the next Master to deliver first me, and then him.

Before parting, I contributed a ¥20 towards the fare total, as he was still not yet halfway to his destination, and he left his email with promise of a coffee (only a Chinese living in Germany for 5 years would promise such a toast.) It seems the next time we meet, the night will have receded and the day will brim with promise of a brew.

And so, I discovered once again, by way of this humble reminder, that the world is small. That people want to be and are friendly. That cities are social by nature. That strangers can meet. That the Masters do not win every time.

third time, the charm

Interestingly, there is something undeniably mystic about the number 3, which has been a subject of science fiction and superstition alike for millennia.

And tonight's journey homeward proved to be no exception. It was indeed the third time [tardy] that showed me the Way of Three.

Paying careful attention to exit the subway station at it's southeast exit, I knew I would be rightly positioned to take a taxi in the direction of my apartment (east) without stumbling across an intersection, taking a sky bridge, or having to direct the master through a U-turn (all the while, with hairs raised in fear of being led down a more 'scenic' route.)

Deciding not to fight the rest of the flock for the next taxi, I walked eastwards to where the crowd no longer ventured.

And there It was.

It was as if fate itself had led me to no other place than... the bus stop. How obvious! Could it be possible that there a bus would pass by my apartment and save me from the squeeze of the Master's fare?

After studying the bus stop charts for 3 different buses, desperately searching for something resembling anything close to the one of four characters in my street name, a bus #689 pulled up. And there, lit up above the door was the bus' sign with two of these very characters! It could no more have called me out by name!

Barely believing my luck, I rushed aboard to verify with the driver whether it could maybe, just possibly, be truly headed where I was hoping to head. A nod of his head and a swipe of my transit card later, I found a seat - but not before counting the number of stops until I could walk the last 10 minutes to my address. Home, sweet home.

At ¥0.40 (as opposed to ¥23), I did not even attempt to restrain the twinge of pride that crept over me in the course of that minute.

I think next time I miss my last trusty subway train, I might hitch-hike door-to-door.

pineapple spiral

The Spring and Summer seasons of Beijing meet with street intersections laden with vendors selling wares of pottery, services... and fruit.

oh, pineapple quarters: real sweet treat

For the affordable sum of ¥1, the common people pause on a typical afternoon to enjoy a quarter of a pineapple on a stick - a cooling and tangy refreshment to ward off the dryness and heat of Beijing.

The vendors wheel their goods up to the street curb, pull off a tarp that covers a bounty of fresh fruit, and set blade into action.


fashion meets function

The carving of pineapples is an art.

It is also a very efficient way to carve the pineapple, for the waste removed is minimized, so as to maximize yield. It is done with the fluidity of hands well-practiced and technique well-harnessed.


grandma knows best

My Grandmother grows a score of pineapples in her Floridian yard each year, saving the plumed core and replanting it for an ever-giving harvest. It is only with patience that one raises their own pineapples, and experience warns that a pineapple picked in haste is even slower to ripen.

The perfect pineapple is ready for eating when a tender leaf can be easily plucked from its center; lifting a pineapple so, its own weight should release the leaf.

With this in mind, it was time to try my hand at this art of carving pineapples and see if I could tame this flowering fruit in my very own kitchen.


do try this at home

I set out to pick up a small, but well-ripened pineapple at the local supermarket, which ended up sweet-talking a mere ¥4 from my wallet:

fibrous green plumes and plumply golden flesh

The first task is to fashion the wild mess of leaves into a handle:

trimming of the leaves: the handle

Remove the loose leaves that do not stay tight at the core, useful as a handle during the rest of the carving. Be careful not to cut too deeply at the base of the core, lest your *handle* snap at a later step in the vigorous progress (ask me how I know!)

Using a long, sharp [butcher] knife, graze the outside of the fruit, careful to minimize the removal of worthy flesh.

a shave gets down to the bare stubble

the tool rules

At last, I happened upon the unique tool at a local market (¥5), made specifically for carving pineapples. I decided to take it home and see for myself just how hard it is to carve up a beautiful spiraled pineapple:

3 remarkable teeth, 1 remarkable tool

Not surprisingly, the actual technique and process of carving is not as easy as the vendors make it look. Yes, it must only be learned the hard way: sheer first-hand experience.

nose pointing down, teeth digging in

I also discovered that a secret may lie in selecting a ripe, yet firm, fruit. I chose the pineapple shown here based on ripeness alone. While in this state, it would carve up just fine with a knife, it rendered itself too juicy to handle the firm pushing demanded by the tool.

Nonetheless, even a 'new hand' (新手）, with a bit of luck, will find it possible to obtain satisfactory, if rudimentary, results:

the spiraled pineapple: sweet success!

I have learned a thing or two about carving pineapples: What may be ripe for the tasting may be too supple for the carving.

And 'lo, though I am not a master carver -yet- my taste buds will never know the difference!

utility in humility

in deed, in a word

There are days when the world rolls and you feel yourself at a crawl. Time stands still, and you can only watch it all unfold in slow motion.

Apparently, after all of my travels, I am still learning a thing or two about tourist visas. While it is my 5th entry into mainland China [over 10 years], it is only my first time entering on a tourist visa.

The Continental Airlines staff of Newark, NJ refused to let me check in properly, as my return trip date exceeded the 90 days limit of the [L] visa. But... wasn't it a one-year, multiple-entry visa, I posed? Unfortunately, they look at the maximum stay for each entry, which is 90 days... and I had no proof of departure within that time frame. This was the first hint of my traveling neophytis. She justified the hassle by saying that her job would be jeopardized and a $20k fine would be imposed should I arrive in Beijing without proof of timely return. Not to mention that they would promptly ship, or rather fly, me back to the States, she threatened.

And that is how she so kindly helped me to purchase a $2930 one-way refundable ticket back to the states on June 2. The key word is 'refundable', meaning I *should* be able to gain entry into the country, and promptly refund the ticket aft. It was a moment of trust that I could not outwardly argue with.

lingually refreshed

After 6 weeks of being in an English-only environment, I had a small refresher sitting on the direct flight from Newark to Beijing. The elderly Wuhan couple sitting next to me could only speak Mandarin, and so we conversed over light topics. The display monitors had stopped displaying any Mandarin equivalents, and it was just as well. I translated such terms as ground speed, distance covered, altitude, and the like. It provided an opportunity to converse with this friendly couple. While he quizzed me inquisitively about tea, she sat between us with her eyes closed. He was a jovial soul, and bragged about my Mandarin skills to the woman across the aisle. Most foreigners on the flight, after all, were on their first flight to the mainland. The glory was short-lived, anyhow.

utility taxings

Assuming that one has gained successful entry into a country such as China, the first few days back in Beijing can prompt one to feel not just faraway, but also far behind. And so, I can only try to fit in. There is much to be done, and I am unsure how to tackle most of the tasks.

My 'new' apartment awaited my return. And unreservedly demanded my prompt attention.
• The plaster walls are falling apart (otherwise known as the Tao of Plaster).
• The tiles appear to be like new, but the grout job was never properly cleaned, and so a thick matte of grunge enshrouds every line, begging for more elbow grease than ay airline dare allow one to safely carry on.
• My apartment has but a few rudimentary outlets and begs for a bit of new wiring.
• My hot water is nowhere to be found.
• The washing machine is not plumbed.
• My gas stove begs for gas to light it's way.
• My zip code is mysteriously absent from my renter's contract. Where exactly am I?
• I am without potable water and need to order a few carboys of water, delivered.
• I am without Internet. Or rather... aside from the spotty, stolen wireless connection, I am without a defined access point. Furthermore, the phone that I must use to set up this connection is missing a power cord.
• I, being the foreigner that I am, need to register with the local police within 24 hours of arrival. Only problem is that I was *mainland* for closer to 48 by the time my landlord was able to escort me...

And of course the list does not end here. A larger problem is... how to approach solving these problems? My Mandarin characters are lacking in an undeniable way, and this limits me from hopping online to sort out these *routine* matters.

tongue tied

While I am able to communicate *which* problems I am facing, I struggle to set my feet upon the right path to solving them.

As a first step, I visit the maintenance crew of my apartment complex, apparently interrupting a visit from the worker's wife. She shoos me away in quest of a call with my landlady. These matters should be handled by the owner, of course. In fact, I only wanted to hear confirmation of what I already knew; I just wanted a line of defense should the landlady deflect my request.

A call with her leaves me to asking the real estate agency with which I signed the contract. They in turn tell me to ask the landlady. Sigh. There isn't enough eagerness in the world that could help me find the right person to ask.

I remind myself that they have all spoken the truth. The problem, stated rather indirectly, is my own. The problem is but for my own lacking that I cannot solve these matters singly-handed. Or doubly-handed, for that matter.

And so I was prepared to kowtow to my landlady. Relieve myself of any surviving pride and bow with fervent pleading - what better way to convey that one is truly in need of help?

Humility arrives not in stealth-like fashion, but more so as the unkempt town crier bearing truth.

lessons in locality: burgers & bicycles

Every city and village on earth has its own standards for who may call themselves a "local".

In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, for example, true locals will say that you can't call yourself a local unless you are born there - leaving not much hope for those who fall in love with the place after visiting as an adult! Other places are not so demanding, however, and the mastering of a few local habits or traits may be enough to fool the average native.

you raised here?

If you want to fake being from Beijing, you must understand etiquette. The North of China is said to have more manners than the South, at least in the way of showing politeness - i.e., the right words in the right way at the right time. Beijing is no exception to this generalization, and just may be the pinnacle of such culture.

So, when a Beijinger compliments a foreigner's accent... should the sweet words be taken with a grain of rice and ought I remind myself that *anyone* who even attempts to speak Mandarin is greeted with warm compliments fit more for royalty? Or is it justification for an ego... if not only for the next 30 seconds until I am again humbly reminded of how illiterate I actually am?

It is hard not to be somewhat prideful when a local asks if, by any chance, it isn't that I grew up here. Here, being Beijing. Ok, I admit this is not the typical response I hear from locals, but even twice is enough to lift me up when I get overwhelmed at the thought of learning 50,000(+) characters (each of which may have between 2 and 64 (!) strokes).

The sweet words came to me last week as I was walking to the subway station: I spotted a vendor selling marvelously golden little fried cakes, which turned out to be 鸡蛋汉堡包, or 'egg hamburger'. Here's a close-up of the golden [special vegetarian version of a] cocoon:

It's easy to see where "egg *muffin" was born...

Since I might have been their first vegetarian customer, they said I'd have to wait for about 10 minutes, the time for one round to cook to completion. I was glad to wait. It gave me a few minutes to talk with them, as much as they could manage as they feverishly poured and lifted and turned their golden gems.

It was while my burger was sizzling that they couldn't figure out where I was from and guessed that I had grown up in Beijing. Given my non-Han-ethnicity look and -decent- accent, people often guess that I am from Xinjiang province in China's northwest. Which is to say that I might fall somewhere between the majority (Han at 95%) and minority (Uyghur at less than 1/2%) ethnicities, but not a foreigner.

watch the vendors in action

Street vendors often work in husband-wife teams, and this couple worked in an obviously well-oiled rhythm, very much in sync with the other's every move. He handled the first stages of the burger, which meant handling the eggs, and making sure there was a ready supply of batter, as well as pickles and meat. She worked street-side, handling money and bagging the burgers while she simultaneously manned the griddle.

...husband and wife teamwork...

An egg is first fried in a cast iron mold (美式鸡蛋汉堡包机, ¥350), then smeared with spiced ground chuck, and topped with preserved vegetables (榨菜, aka, Chinese pickles):

...impressively clean for street food!

After setting, each egglet is tenderly lifted while batter is poured into the mold. The egg is returned and the pair is lifted once again upon cooking to unity. More batter is poured in, and the second time around, the egg ensemble is flipped into the same same cup, such that it is now sandwiched between the two muffin-like halves:

...eggs, preserved vegetables, ground chuck, oh my!

A drizzle of oil is then added to the perfectly heated cast iron form, and the white cakes sizzle to a golden brown:

...no chopsticks in sight!

At a rate of 14 egg•burgers turned out every 10 minutes, coupled with the price of ¥2.5 each, it's quite possible that this couple could bring in roughly ¥175/hour... minus the minimal overhead and raw materials, etc. Their location is prime real estate, just South of the 2nd Ring NW Road, in close proximity to the Xizhimen Subway stop (西直门地铁站) and situated smack in the middle of several upscale shopping centers and underground wholesale markets.

...another soon to-be-satisfied customer

Summer, winter, spring, & fall, these tasty treats await the ready appetite!

On the rare subject of Chinese hamburgers, take a look at this 鸡蛋火腿汉堡包, interpreted as the Egg•Ham•Hamburger (but literally translates as "chicken•egg fire•leg Han•fort•wrap"). It's worth noting that Chinese cuisine overseas is just as authentic as is this 'American hamburger'.


warning: noodles could lead to loudness

You might be of the mind that eating a hamburger in Beijing would disqualify one from being a local. In that case, you might have also heard rumors that the Northerners are louder than the Southerners. Rest assured, the rumors are true! As was recently explained to me, verbal volume is easily attributed to the fact that rice is eaten in the South, while [steamed bread and] noodles are eaten in the North. Right, so... noodles = loudness?

What do [only certain] staple starches have to do with loudness? Well, If you ever have the chance to sit down to a bowl of freshly pulled noodles, you will immediately understand why friends conversing tend to up their volume. The slurping that accompanies the ingesting of noodles is not only a challenge to hear over, but it is an indispensable part of the art of noodle eating!

Never seen noodles being pulled from a batch of fresh dough? Check out this clip of a restaurant in Lanzhou, Gansu province (甘肃兰州）for a peek at the art of noodle-pulling. Price (¥3.5) aside, it was the best bowl of noodles I have ever eaten!

... the best noodles in the world!

deflated?

If accent is enough to make you a local, then being one of the millions of bikers to ride daily on the streets of Beijing must be a close second. Check here for a video (in Portuguese) of Beijingers' Prefered Mode of Transportation that I helped to film and produce on a consulting job.

And if for a moment you feel the proud ownership of a fuel-free vehicle, it is soon followed by the reality [and implications of] owning such a poor quality bike. It is to be expected that any shop selling 2nd hand bikes are likely running a nightly business that spends an equal effort abducting unsuspecting and briefly neglected cycles.

And so, it is with mixed feelings that I ride each day... thankful to have a bike, but also wishing I had invested in a higher quality [brand of] bike (GBSDLY, perhaps a Czech import?), and meanwhile wondering how to own such a nice bike without it being stolen the 2nd day.

...GBSDLY spells Q•U•A•L•I•T•Y... or not.

The last time I was in Beijing, I owned 5 bikes in less than 10 months... so much for the security guards that stood guard day and night at my then campus gates. So, no matter the quality of my bike now... I must say that I am happy that I've had the same bike (to complain about) for the last 6 months, going on 7. :)

But all good things lead elsewhere, and taxying a friend home from campus rendered my tire not only flat, but exhausted. A patch ought to fix it, right? For ¥2, I decided to take a risk. But one day later, I was working up a sweat on a downhill... deflated again, both the bike and I!

...fond memories of the GBSDLY at just one week old...

So today, I stopped one last time at one of the campus bike stands and asked the bike master for advice: Fix the tire or sell the bike? He suggested fixing the bike, saying any bike I buy here will be roughly the same quality. I found it hard to believe, but could see that he posed a valid point. It seems that maintaining an old bike would be to make ado, but a new bike would save on my time, if only in the short term.

... watch my daily commute by bike

Even bad luck brings goodness. The flat tire of today provided a wonderful opportunity to chat with the 60-ish bike master, who has been fixing bikes for "oh, quite a few..." years. It was small talk, but as it was my second time getting air that afternoon, we talked like old friends. And given that he fixed my tire for another reasonable ¥2, it looks like I'll have another opportunity to visit him in the near future.

So remember... the next time you find yourself feeling foreign in Beijing, think on two local words: burgers & bicycles!