Yangtze Riverside - Chongqing, China, a set on Flickr.
New pictures of Chongqing in the spring.
7.4.11
Stop the Bus
A few things that have become regular parts of our daily existence in China are extremely spicy foods and long bus rides. Unfortunately, sometimes these elements are combined and make for a disastrous combination, especially for the colon. [Warning: the contents of this blog posting may be unsuitable for sensitive individuals, those currently consuming food or those who wish to believe that visiting China someday will be an experience without occasional intestinal distress.]
Finishing up a weekends' trip to Yibin to visit friends, Richy and I headed to the bus station to pick up our tickets back to Chongqing. Our bus still wouldn't be leaving for about an hour, and since the trip is usually about 4 hours (give or take depending on traffic) we decided we'd better get something to eat beforehand to avoid the overpriced and questionable cleanliness of the pit stop snack stands. The only restaurant nearby was a typically small, family-run restaurant serving noodles and local dishes. We sat down and looked over the menu, noticing that they had a dish we often enjoyed in Chengdu, but rarely, if ever, see in Chongqing: hongyou chaoshou (red oil dumplings). Slightly spicy and slightly sweet, the red oil provides a nice contrast to the pork and green onions in the dumplings. What a pleasant coincidence that this restaurant would have them! The son/grandson of the women working the fully-exposed kitchen took our order and walked away.
To our disappointment, he soon returned, "Jintian meiyou." They didn't have any that day. Back to the menu. All of it was in hanzi (Chinese characters) and although we can recognize several dishes, the majority of the items on the menu were a mystery and we have a constant fear of accidentally ordering parts of animals we are not fond of eating (as has happened on occasion). I recognize niu rou mian (beef noodles) which, although it's not my favorite, tends to be relatively mildly spicy and edible. Richy orders the local specialty, dandan mian (spicy noodles with peanuts). When my order arrives, it confirms what I have begun to suspect about food in Yibin - it tends to be much spicier than the already quite spicy Sichuan-style fare in Chongqing and Chengdu. Gristly chunks of beef were floating in a totally opaque red broth, with puddles of bright orange chili oil collecting in the folds of the noodles. I took a deep breath and dug in. Although I have come to enjoy spicy food to a certain extent, in some cases, especially these types of noodle joints, you might as well be seasoning your food with pepper spray. Add a kick of hua jiao (Sichuan peppercorn) and your lips will be tingling (and burning!) for at least a half an hour to boot. I can understand adding a little kick to spice up a dish, but at a certain point, you can't even taste what you're eating anymore. It's all texture and sensation.
I finished most of my noodles, but had to leave the beef (almost all gristle) and broth behind. We quickly paid the bill (about $1.50 for the two of us). The heartburn started kicking in almost immediately, and I started looking for a milk tea or peanut milk to wash it down, which usually kills the burn. I bought an overpriced bottled milk tea (almost $1) from the elementary school-aged child manning the bus station snack counter and we hopped on our bus.
The driver was flying unusually fast down the highway, blaring his horn and aggressively passing other motorists. We were seated in the back of the bus per our assigned seats, so our passive-aggressive protests in English and Mandarin fell on the deaf ears of the noticeably-less annoyed passengers around us. Finally the traffic got heavier and he slowed down, giving us some time to sink back in our seats and have a bit of a nap. By the time we got to the customary halfway point pit stop two hours into the ride, my stomach was starting to churn and gurgle a bit, but when I used the restroom there was no urgency and things seemed to be generally operating as normal in my bowels.
Back on the bus, I drank a few more swigs of my milk tea and settled in for part two of our bus nap. After about 40 minutes, just as the traffic was starting to thicken to a crawl, I woke up in a distinctive cold sweat. The gurgling had intensified and I could feel a slight burning sensation in my bowels. The line of tail lights up the hill in the distance was not a promising sign. I began mentally preparing myself for a long wait for a restroom. I tried to focus on the scenery, but the sky was beginning to darken and the windows were foggy from the outside, making it hard to distract myself. The entertainment selection on the TV screen was a manic Chinese variety show with a distinctive, rapid, zoom-in, zoom-out, zoom-in, zoom-out cinematography style that did nothing to quell my discomfort.
As 10, 20, then 30 minutes passed, my ability to keep my thoughts distracted from my bowels waned. Memories of childhood "incidents" began to flood my mind: wetting my pants as the flower girl my cousin's wedding - age 5; vomiting on the table after one too many ice creams at Old Country Buffet - age 10; puking on the school bus after over-indulging on the poorly-executed fruits of my labors from ethnic foods class - age 15. I was starting to imagine how I would remember the time I soiled myself on a Chinese bus - age 27. I informed Richy of my predicament and began to plan. "Richy, I may need to ask them to stop the bus. You need to make sure they won't leave me behind." and "Do you think we could just have them let us off in the next town and we can find another bus from there?" Richy shot me worried looks, and asked me if I was sure I couldn't hold it until Chongqing. I was taking deep breaths, squeezing the seat cushion as I endured waves of cramps from my bowels. I had goosebumps and chills, I could feel the sweat starting to bead in my hairline.
Finally, when we reached a toll booth about 30 kilometers from Chongqing, about an hour after I first awoke in my dreaded condition, I knew I had to act because I didn't think I could hold it in through another 40 minutes or so of traffic. I grabbed my purse and ran to the front of the bus to present my case in questionable grammar and diction:
"Fuwuyuan, wo you laduzi. Zhende li hai." (Attendant, I have diarrhea. Really serious.)
"Shenme? Laduzi ma?" (What? Diarrhea?)
"Dui. Wo xuyao yong cesuo. Wo keyi paobu." (Yeah, I need to use the toilet. I can run.)
The attendant shoots the bus driver a worried glance. The bus driver mumbles something about foreigners and pulls the bus over near the restroom.
The attendant tells me, "Kuai yidiar!" (Quickly!) and I manage to respond with, "Duibuqi, duibuqi, bu hao yisi!" (Sorry, sorry, how embarrassing!) as I jump out of the bus and run to the restroom.
In the bathroom, I bypassed a long line of middle aged women and jumped into the next available stall. I didn't have time to apologize. As I fumbled with my belt and my jeans, I could hear them mumble something about foreigners.
(I'll spare you the details of the following five minutes - it was not pleasant, but I imagine much more so than if it had happened in the back of a bus).
Upon returning to the bus in which 36 pairs of eyes, no doubt curious as to why their long bus journey had been suddenly halted, had just watched me bolt out of the bus and into the women's restroom on the side of the highway, I felt a surge of relief. I knew they would have been much more annoyed with the stench of a foreigner who can't handle the spice in the back of the bus. Still, I hear them mumbling something about foreigners.
For the rest of the ride, I sat more comfortably, but exhausted, and curious about the long term effects of ingesting (and holding) the Chinese culinary equivalent of pepper spray in my guts for those hours.
Moral of the story: even if you have learned to be capable of consuming the very spiciest of foods, it is most certainly not a good idea before a four hour bus ride. Although I hate to waste food, I probably would have done myself a favor by just pushing that bowl away or if I had simply swallowed my pride and told them "bu yao la jiao" (don't want chili pepper) when I had ordered it in the first place.
~ Katie
Finishing up a weekends' trip to Yibin to visit friends, Richy and I headed to the bus station to pick up our tickets back to Chongqing. Our bus still wouldn't be leaving for about an hour, and since the trip is usually about 4 hours (give or take depending on traffic) we decided we'd better get something to eat beforehand to avoid the overpriced and questionable cleanliness of the pit stop snack stands. The only restaurant nearby was a typically small, family-run restaurant serving noodles and local dishes. We sat down and looked over the menu, noticing that they had a dish we often enjoyed in Chengdu, but rarely, if ever, see in Chongqing: hongyou chaoshou (red oil dumplings). Slightly spicy and slightly sweet, the red oil provides a nice contrast to the pork and green onions in the dumplings. What a pleasant coincidence that this restaurant would have them! The son/grandson of the women working the fully-exposed kitchen took our order and walked away.
To our disappointment, he soon returned, "Jintian meiyou." They didn't have any that day. Back to the menu. All of it was in hanzi (Chinese characters) and although we can recognize several dishes, the majority of the items on the menu were a mystery and we have a constant fear of accidentally ordering parts of animals we are not fond of eating (as has happened on occasion). I recognize niu rou mian (beef noodles) which, although it's not my favorite, tends to be relatively mildly spicy and edible. Richy orders the local specialty, dandan mian (spicy noodles with peanuts). When my order arrives, it confirms what I have begun to suspect about food in Yibin - it tends to be much spicier than the already quite spicy Sichuan-style fare in Chongqing and Chengdu. Gristly chunks of beef were floating in a totally opaque red broth, with puddles of bright orange chili oil collecting in the folds of the noodles. I took a deep breath and dug in. Although I have come to enjoy spicy food to a certain extent, in some cases, especially these types of noodle joints, you might as well be seasoning your food with pepper spray. Add a kick of hua jiao (Sichuan peppercorn) and your lips will be tingling (and burning!) for at least a half an hour to boot. I can understand adding a little kick to spice up a dish, but at a certain point, you can't even taste what you're eating anymore. It's all texture and sensation.
I finished most of my noodles, but had to leave the beef (almost all gristle) and broth behind. We quickly paid the bill (about $1.50 for the two of us). The heartburn started kicking in almost immediately, and I started looking for a milk tea or peanut milk to wash it down, which usually kills the burn. I bought an overpriced bottled milk tea (almost $1) from the elementary school-aged child manning the bus station snack counter and we hopped on our bus.
The driver was flying unusually fast down the highway, blaring his horn and aggressively passing other motorists. We were seated in the back of the bus per our assigned seats, so our passive-aggressive protests in English and Mandarin fell on the deaf ears of the noticeably-less annoyed passengers around us. Finally the traffic got heavier and he slowed down, giving us some time to sink back in our seats and have a bit of a nap. By the time we got to the customary halfway point pit stop two hours into the ride, my stomach was starting to churn and gurgle a bit, but when I used the restroom there was no urgency and things seemed to be generally operating as normal in my bowels.
Back on the bus, I drank a few more swigs of my milk tea and settled in for part two of our bus nap. After about 40 minutes, just as the traffic was starting to thicken to a crawl, I woke up in a distinctive cold sweat. The gurgling had intensified and I could feel a slight burning sensation in my bowels. The line of tail lights up the hill in the distance was not a promising sign. I began mentally preparing myself for a long wait for a restroom. I tried to focus on the scenery, but the sky was beginning to darken and the windows were foggy from the outside, making it hard to distract myself. The entertainment selection on the TV screen was a manic Chinese variety show with a distinctive, rapid, zoom-in, zoom-out, zoom-in, zoom-out cinematography style that did nothing to quell my discomfort.
As 10, 20, then 30 minutes passed, my ability to keep my thoughts distracted from my bowels waned. Memories of childhood "incidents" began to flood my mind: wetting my pants as the flower girl my cousin's wedding - age 5; vomiting on the table after one too many ice creams at Old Country Buffet - age 10; puking on the school bus after over-indulging on the poorly-executed fruits of my labors from ethnic foods class - age 15. I was starting to imagine how I would remember the time I soiled myself on a Chinese bus - age 27. I informed Richy of my predicament and began to plan. "Richy, I may need to ask them to stop the bus. You need to make sure they won't leave me behind." and "Do you think we could just have them let us off in the next town and we can find another bus from there?" Richy shot me worried looks, and asked me if I was sure I couldn't hold it until Chongqing. I was taking deep breaths, squeezing the seat cushion as I endured waves of cramps from my bowels. I had goosebumps and chills, I could feel the sweat starting to bead in my hairline.
Finally, when we reached a toll booth about 30 kilometers from Chongqing, about an hour after I first awoke in my dreaded condition, I knew I had to act because I didn't think I could hold it in through another 40 minutes or so of traffic. I grabbed my purse and ran to the front of the bus to present my case in questionable grammar and diction:
"Fuwuyuan, wo you laduzi. Zhende li hai." (Attendant, I have diarrhea. Really serious.)
"Shenme? Laduzi ma?" (What? Diarrhea?)
"Dui. Wo xuyao yong cesuo. Wo keyi paobu." (Yeah, I need to use the toilet. I can run.)
The attendant shoots the bus driver a worried glance. The bus driver mumbles something about foreigners and pulls the bus over near the restroom.
The attendant tells me, "Kuai yidiar!" (Quickly!) and I manage to respond with, "Duibuqi, duibuqi, bu hao yisi!" (Sorry, sorry, how embarrassing!) as I jump out of the bus and run to the restroom.
In the bathroom, I bypassed a long line of middle aged women and jumped into the next available stall. I didn't have time to apologize. As I fumbled with my belt and my jeans, I could hear them mumble something about foreigners.
(I'll spare you the details of the following five minutes - it was not pleasant, but I imagine much more so than if it had happened in the back of a bus).
Upon returning to the bus in which 36 pairs of eyes, no doubt curious as to why their long bus journey had been suddenly halted, had just watched me bolt out of the bus and into the women's restroom on the side of the highway, I felt a surge of relief. I knew they would have been much more annoyed with the stench of a foreigner who can't handle the spice in the back of the bus. Still, I hear them mumbling something about foreigners.
For the rest of the ride, I sat more comfortably, but exhausted, and curious about the long term effects of ingesting (and holding) the Chinese culinary equivalent of pepper spray in my guts for those hours.
Moral of the story: even if you have learned to be capable of consuming the very spiciest of foods, it is most certainly not a good idea before a four hour bus ride. Although I hate to waste food, I probably would have done myself a favor by just pushing that bowl away or if I had simply swallowed my pride and told them "bu yao la jiao" (don't want chili pepper) when I had ordered it in the first place.
~ Katie
17.3.11
Pass the Salt!
I hear that people back home are buying up all supplies of potassium
iodide in case small amounts of radiation blow over to the US. In
similar panic-induced, illogical behavior, rumors have been going
around in China that if the seas are contaminated with radiation, that
salt production will stop. Never mind that most salt comes from mines, or
inland salt wells, not from the sea, or that even if the seas around here did
become radioactive, salt would probably not be the most important
thing to worry about. But if you've ever tasted a real Chinese dish in
China, you know that salt is considered pretty essential (along with
the oil, and the MSG, and if you're in Sichuan or Chongqing, the hua
jiao/la jiao combo).
iodide in case small amounts of radiation blow over to the US. In
similar panic-induced, illogical behavior, rumors have been going
around in China that if the seas are contaminated with radiation, that
salt production will stop. Never mind that most salt comes from mines, or
inland salt wells, not from the sea, or that even if the seas around here did
become radioactive, salt would probably not be the most important
thing to worry about. But if you've ever tasted a real Chinese dish in
China, you know that salt is considered pretty essential (along with
the oil, and the MSG, and if you're in Sichuan or Chongqing, the hua
jiao/la jiao combo).
Richy and I took a walk to the nearby E-ling park today to get some
exercise and see some blue sky on an usually clear day. We had a rare
horizon to horizon view of the city with virtually no fog. It was
peaceful. On the way home, we stopped at our local Yonghui grocery
store for some peanut butter. The store is usually packed and chaotic,
especially on the weekends, but today, instead of the crowds milling
through the aisles, they were strangely lined up from the back of the
store (where the spices and oil are shelved) all the way out the front
door. Essentially a wall of people had been built between the deli and
the produce section. The women and old ladies were a little aggressive
about their spots in line when we tried to pass through them for
regular browsing, and the grocery staff was flustered trying to keep
everyone orderly. Some people had whole empty baskets and carts as if
they were going to fill them with salt packages. I went ahead and
looked at the produce to see if there were any cheap apples (holding
back a little tear at the sight of imported Washington state apples
selling for more than 12 kuai/jin - that's $2/pound, whereas normal
Chinese apples are less than 1/2 that price), while Richy stood and
watched the line for a while, confirming that they were, in fact,
lining up like that just to buy some extra salt. They were.
The funny thing about it, is that people are causing a salt shortage
simply by freaking out about it. The salt shortage becomes a
self-fulfilling rumor. Despite the governments best efforts to assuage
fears, people do what people do: panic.
I can understand that watching the news about Japan gets your
adrenaline going. Watching people lose everything makes you think,
"What can I do? What should I be doing? Can I help someone? How can I
keep horrible stuff from happening to me?" When someone says "Buy
salt!" or "Buy potassium iodide!" it makes sense, it fulfills that
human need to do something. It's tangible, and when you get to the
store and there's a huge line, it makes sense to line up too.
Unfortunately it's not really the kind of thing that will really help
anyone, it just creates a new problem. It seems that the better
courses of action, donating to the Red Cross, preparing an emergency
kit, demanding stronger building codes or going over plans in case of
an earthquake or nuclear wind, don't carry the same kind of emotional
pull as standing in line as a community and enjoying some salt-less
self-pity.
Richy and I made our way to the checkout lines with our peanut butter,
some regular dairy butter and some yogurt. The lines were shorter than
I had ever seen them. Thanks salt shortage.
27.2.11
Restart!
Still recovering from our journey through Vietnam and southern China, our two week training in Chengdu was another shockingly emotional journey. After the excitement of seeing some of our friends from pre-service training that we hadn't seen in months, we started our first training session by hearing the terrible news from our country director that one of our fellow Chongqing volunteers had died (official Peace Corps statement here). We didn't know him well, but empathized with our fellow volunteers who did, unable to imagine what his family must have been going through. It was also a stark reminder of our own mortality, and how important it is to take care of each other and ourselves during our service. With that dark cloud hanging over the group, we kept up a brisk pace of training sessions, including language, TEFL training, safety and security, and health. Colds started going around, health issues started springing up, and people generally were feeling run down after all the sessions, particularly since many people were arriving at training after keeping intense vacation travel schedules (and it was hard to go to bed at a decent hour when there was so much socializing to be done with all our training pals). But despite it all, some of the sessions were really helpful and got us thinking more critically about how to improve our teaching for the upcoming term and how to create secondary projects that might have a lasting impact in our site communities. It was particularly exciting to have guest speaker Rob Gifford (NPR correspondent and author of China Road) come and talk to the group, and even more exciting when he showed up at the bar that evening to continue his discussions with volunteers. We ended our training with a touching candlelight memorial for Cannon, and after our goodbyes with friends from far flung sites, headed back to Chongqing exhausted, but ready to get back to work.
Our first week of classes started right away. I was pleased to be assigned all English-major writing classes, and Richy seemed content with his oral English workload. Starting with our usual introduction lessons, we have been working on streamlining our classroom rules and expectations to avoid some of the pitfalls we ran into last term - such as the several students who freaked out (channeling their frustration into incessant phone calls) when they didn't pass my oral English class, even though they had only attended a fraction of the classes. Luckily I found myself sitting next to the English department head one morning on the bus and he was able to explain to me the English department policies in more detail (we were provided an English translation of the policies at the beginning of the term, but they didn't make much sense at the time). Apparently if students miss more than 1/3 of classes for the term, I shouldn't allow them to take the final, because if I let them take the final, they have the right to a retake the following term. If I don't give them the final, they get a zero and have to retake the class. Although hopefully I won't have that problem with my writing classes this term, as English majors are much more engaged in their English classes (surprise, surprise) and have much fewer problems with attendance.
We are still waiting for word about the on-campus apartment situation, although it seems like something will definitely happen this term. In the meantime, I am planting up every container I can find and fit into our window-cages (our 5th floor apartment features cages around all the windows for security), keeping myself busy with craft projects, reading student papers, daydreaming about secondary projects (my students seem way more excited about cooking club than a resource room or anything else), and trying to keep the construction dust from building up on everything. We are ready to enjoy the Chongqing springtime as we know all too well that the sweltering Chongqing summer is on its way.
~ Katie
Our first week of classes started right away. I was pleased to be assigned all English-major writing classes, and Richy seemed content with his oral English workload. Starting with our usual introduction lessons, we have been working on streamlining our classroom rules and expectations to avoid some of the pitfalls we ran into last term - such as the several students who freaked out (channeling their frustration into incessant phone calls) when they didn't pass my oral English class, even though they had only attended a fraction of the classes. Luckily I found myself sitting next to the English department head one morning on the bus and he was able to explain to me the English department policies in more detail (we were provided an English translation of the policies at the beginning of the term, but they didn't make much sense at the time). Apparently if students miss more than 1/3 of classes for the term, I shouldn't allow them to take the final, because if I let them take the final, they have the right to a retake the following term. If I don't give them the final, they get a zero and have to retake the class. Although hopefully I won't have that problem with my writing classes this term, as English majors are much more engaged in their English classes (surprise, surprise) and have much fewer problems with attendance.
We are still waiting for word about the on-campus apartment situation, although it seems like something will definitely happen this term. In the meantime, I am planting up every container I can find and fit into our window-cages (our 5th floor apartment features cages around all the windows for security), keeping myself busy with craft projects, reading student papers, daydreaming about secondary projects (my students seem way more excited about cooking club than a resource room or anything else), and trying to keep the construction dust from building up on everything. We are ready to enjoy the Chongqing springtime as we know all too well that the sweltering Chongqing summer is on its way.
~ Katie
3.2.11
Last legs in Vietnam and a Happy New Year Homecoming
We arrived from a long, suffocating bus ride in Nha Trang 5 hours late due to traffic, only to be met with the disappointment of gray, drizzly skies over a beautiful beach and canceled hotel reservations. We were all running on our last nerves and it took considerable willpower not to freak out at the hotel desk lady who seemed to insinuate that the bus being late was something we could have foreseen or controlled. At last she found us a room for the night, one suspiciously cheaper than the one we originally booked (we later found out she had automatically booked us more expensive air-conditioned rooms the first time, although unnecessary without warm weather).
With the weather uncooperative for beach-side lounging, we decided instead to wander the town and sample its unusually cheap and delicious international food selection, particularly the Indian food and the gelato. On the second day, we decided we needed to take drastic measures in order to find some semblance of vacation-like fun and excitement under the overcast sky. Those drastic measures meant buying tickets from the hotel desk for a theme park situated on an island across the bay. It was a hard core tourist move and one we had hoped to avoid, but one that paid off in a day of hedonistic enjoyment. For about 15 dollars, we took a 3311 meter cable car to an island which has been turned into a resort/amusement park/water park and spent the entire day riding amusement park rides, playing arcade games and splashing around in the water park. Everything but the food was free and unlimited. It was a bit of a harrowing ride back after dark on the cable car as the winds picked up, but we kept ourselves occupied trying to come up with the most horrific disaster scenarios we could think of.
Thankfully we were finally rewarded the next day with beautiful blue skies and sunshine to enjoy the beach with - which we did despite the wind and the sand blowing in our faces. I managed to get myself a hearty sunburn across my back, but otherwise we were able to head off to Saigon proud of our vacation-y accomplishments.
We found Saigon much warmer and more alluring than Hanoi, with its street side iced coffee, expansive markets and interesting historical sites. We visited the Reunification Palace and the War Remnants Museum, which were both interesting contrasts to the Hanoi Hilton prison we visited previously, as they seemed to show the "American War" in a richer context and made more light of the lasting legacy of the conflict for Vietnamese people. We also enjoyed watching Vietnam's largest city prepare for Tet, the Lunar New Year. Yellow flowers and red lanterns were going up everywhere, while women stuffed fried tofu with minced pork in alleyways and men mounted ladders to scrub down the shop signs. On our last day in Saigon before catching our plane back to China, we regretted having to leave the warm weather, amazing food, and sassy shop ladies (who we found had a strange preoccupation with discussing marriage and baby-making) for the grit and grime of China.
But, China had a few tricks left up her sleeve. Even as our plane landed in Chongqing, we were dazzled by the array of New Year fireworks lighting up the night sky, and as we took the shuttle back into the city, we were even more dazzled by the transformation of the city streets. It seems that in our absence, every single tree in the city was covered with electric lights and lanterns and every roundabout became a spectacle of holiday displays. Between the bus stop and home, we bought ourselves some sparklers and firecrackers, and with our backpacks still strapped to our backs, rang in the year of the Rabbit (year of the Cat in Vietnam!) with our own little show in the apartment parking lot. As I sit writing this post, the sky around us on all sides is erupting with flashes, blasts and crackles of fireworks, while the neighborhood car (and motorbike) alarms sound from the vibrations. Xin Nian Kuai Le!
With the weather uncooperative for beach-side lounging, we decided instead to wander the town and sample its unusually cheap and delicious international food selection, particularly the Indian food and the gelato. On the second day, we decided we needed to take drastic measures in order to find some semblance of vacation-like fun and excitement under the overcast sky. Those drastic measures meant buying tickets from the hotel desk for a theme park situated on an island across the bay. It was a hard core tourist move and one we had hoped to avoid, but one that paid off in a day of hedonistic enjoyment. For about 15 dollars, we took a 3311 meter cable car to an island which has been turned into a resort/amusement park/water park and spent the entire day riding amusement park rides, playing arcade games and splashing around in the water park. Everything but the food was free and unlimited. It was a bit of a harrowing ride back after dark on the cable car as the winds picked up, but we kept ourselves occupied trying to come up with the most horrific disaster scenarios we could think of.
Thankfully we were finally rewarded the next day with beautiful blue skies and sunshine to enjoy the beach with - which we did despite the wind and the sand blowing in our faces. I managed to get myself a hearty sunburn across my back, but otherwise we were able to head off to Saigon proud of our vacation-y accomplishments.
We found Saigon much warmer and more alluring than Hanoi, with its street side iced coffee, expansive markets and interesting historical sites. We visited the Reunification Palace and the War Remnants Museum, which were both interesting contrasts to the Hanoi Hilton prison we visited previously, as they seemed to show the "American War" in a richer context and made more light of the lasting legacy of the conflict for Vietnamese people. We also enjoyed watching Vietnam's largest city prepare for Tet, the Lunar New Year. Yellow flowers and red lanterns were going up everywhere, while women stuffed fried tofu with minced pork in alleyways and men mounted ladders to scrub down the shop signs. On our last day in Saigon before catching our plane back to China, we regretted having to leave the warm weather, amazing food, and sassy shop ladies (who we found had a strange preoccupation with discussing marriage and baby-making) for the grit and grime of China.
But, China had a few tricks left up her sleeve. Even as our plane landed in Chongqing, we were dazzled by the array of New Year fireworks lighting up the night sky, and as we took the shuttle back into the city, we were even more dazzled by the transformation of the city streets. It seems that in our absence, every single tree in the city was covered with electric lights and lanterns and every roundabout became a spectacle of holiday displays. Between the bus stop and home, we bought ourselves some sparklers and firecrackers, and with our backpacks still strapped to our backs, rang in the year of the Rabbit (year of the Cat in Vietnam!) with our own little show in the apartment parking lot. As I sit writing this post, the sky around us on all sides is erupting with flashes, blasts and crackles of fireworks, while the neighborhood car (and motorbike) alarms sound from the vibrations. Xin Nian Kuai Le!
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