Oopsie

Posted by She Said.

Guess I needed to learn the Chinese character for “permanent” before buying those markers for the kids today.

Give That Man a Truck

Posted by He Said

Each and every day I walk down a small alley on my way to work.  It’s not really an alley, but more of a small side street.  If it weren’t for the small bottled water shop (with its army of electric bicycles and attached flatbed trailers) on one side and on the other a restaurant (which at first, second, and third glance I will likely never enter) and finally the “Stemed Dumping Shop”, which I hear has tasty dumpings, this would be any other dirty side street in any other town.  Well, not really, this is Beijing after all.

Just past the Stemed Dumping shop the smell hits me.  Not the powerful smell of Asian food, but of garbage.

This is the next visual attraction that I pass each and every morning.  Piles and piles of garbage on the side of the road. The first few times I walked past it, it was quite early and I was just surprised and frankly a little grossed out by the volume of garbage piled so high directly across from the restaurant that was now so aptly named.

It took several passes through the alley before I noticed a man hanging around the garbage, then another few times before I noticed him sifting through the garbage. 

My first American impulse is that poor man, scrounging for what he can find.

After a few more passes through the alley a new picture emerged.  This was not a homeless man looking for a bite to eat.

This was the garbage man. 

Each and every day that pile reappears, and each and every day he is seen sorting, sifting and bagging the garbage.  On cold days I have seen him wearing gloves, but lately he has been doing this barehanded.  He sorts, flattens and stacks the cardboard.  He separates the bottles and cans.  He bags the miscellaneous garbage together.

And he stacks it onto his bike.

This is the life of the Beijing Garbage Man.  Once his bike is loaded, he then takes it to a central collection location.  There are no garbage trucks (at least in this area).  There is an army of men on bikes.  Men who have meticulously sorted the trash and loaded it on their bicycles which they then climb on and pedal to the “dump”, wherever that might be.

You have a hard life, sir, and I suspect you don’t get the respect you deserve. Thank you.

I’ve Died and Gone to Cilantro Heaven

Posted by She Said.

 

I had my dream meal last Saturday after our visit to The Summer Palace. Chang was very excited to take us to one of his favorite places to eat. But first, we took the kids to McDonald’s for a cheeseburger before we went to lunch so they would actually EAT SOMETHING. I’m not thrilled about feeding them McDonald’s, but I have to say, not having to bribe our children with 99 cent iTunes games to TASTE SOMETHING NEW is kind of nice. And, well, the cheeseburgers taste just like they do back home. Hooray for them. Ewww for me.

I couldn’t begin to tell you the name of the restaurant we went to, and sadly (for Greg and me) there was no English on the menu, making it hard for us to go back without someone who speaks Chinese. Based on my experience with this place however, I will be begging people to take us back.

The table has a built in “hotpot” in the middle of it. The waiters bring over a huge pot of water that is divided into two sides, one flavored with hot spices and one spiced regularly. A dial on the table allows you to control the amount of heat that goes to the pot. Chang then ordered a plethora of items for us to cook in the boiling broths.

(the hotpot)

(the veggies, tofu, and an egg)

(the meats and fresh noodles)

(the calamari and… squid balls?)

And then, as if it were created for me personally, you dip all of the cooked goodness into a bowl of peanut sauce, called satay in the States, and if you wish, you can add cilantro to this. IF YOU WISH. Hello? Anyone who has been around me long enough knows that I would bathe in juiced cilantro and lick myself clean if I could. I risked the whole fresh herbs thing because IT WAS CILANTRO IN PEANUT SAUCE!

(Greg’s peanut sauce, minus the cilantro and with spicy oils added)

 (Greg’s blood tofu ready to take the plunge)

This was seriously one of the best meals I have ever had. In addition to the mouth-watering food itself, the very nature of cooking your meal together has a very intimate feel to it. Even though language can be a hurdle at times, there’s nothing like cooking food together and then dipping it in CILANTRO LADEN PEANUT SAUCE to bring people together.

Can You Hold that Thought Until I Get the Fish Bones out of My Teeth?

Posted by She Said.

 

Our much anticipated dinner with Greg’s coworkers was on Friday night, and we had a great time. And what is the phrase? Getting there is half the fun? As far as our kids go, I would say that was true. Why? There are no car seat laws here. I did some research prior to coming and could not find any significant reference to car seats in China. There were plenty of references about car seats MADE in China, but not necessarily using them while you were here. We figured most of our transportation would either be on foot or public transportation anyway, but tonight, Jason and Sinny, Greg’s coworkers, offered to pick us up and drive us to our big group dinner. Four of us, including the kids, sat in the back seat of Jason’s car. UNBUCKLED! *GASP* At first I tried to put Emily in my lap and put the seat belt around both of us. Greg turned around and said, “Well, THAT’S a good way to crush your daughter.” I gave up my battle with the belt. Hey, at least I tried.

The kids thought the free reign in the car was pretty cool and were quite rambunctious until I pulled out the tranquilizer, AKA iPod Touches, to calm them down. I have mentioned the traffic before, but we got a serious dose of it during Friday night rush hour traffic. It took us 2 hours to get to dinner (1/2 hour on the way home), making us about an hour late meeting the rest of the group. They were graciously and patiently waiting for us, and they all stood up and waved hello to us as we came in.

And then we started eating. Have I mentioned that my kids are picky eaters? OH YEAH, IN EVERY BLOG POST ABOUT FOOD. Well, it was no different tonight. I honestly believe they would enjoy some of the food if they would stop freaking out about what it looks like. Just ignore the fish head, Braedyn! Try the fish! Speaking of which… This amazing fish dish was placed on our table. Everyone uses their chopsticks to take pieces from the plates placed in the center of the table. I took one piece, and it was savory and scrumptious! As the fish was making its second pass around the lazy susan, I skillfully used my chopsticks to take another piece. As I put it in my mouth, I realized the piece I took was FULL of fish bones. As I scrambled looking for one of the two napkins they must have placed on the table for the ten of us, one of Greg’s coworkers stood to propose a toast. “Welcome!” he said, smiling at us. “Welcome!” said all the others, glasses raised. And there I am with a mouth full of fish bones and no napkin. I smiled, my teeth glinting from the shimmer of fish bones, and lifted my glass, toasting with the group. I then used my mad charade skills to get the one napkin left on the table. I SO did not want to be rude, but HELLO!? I had a mouth full of fish bones! I did my best to get them into the napkin and moved on.

It didn’t take long for my next blunder. Mere seconds, actually. I moved from the fish to the soybeans. I asked, “Are these soybeans?” “Yes!” I heard enthusiastically. I calculatedly used my chopsticks to pick one up from the community bowl and put it in my mouth. The instant it hit my tongue, I heard, “No, no, no, no, no!” Panicking, I pulled it out of my mouth with my fingers. They laughed and said, “Not the whole thing.” Then they showed me how you squeeze the pod to get the soybean into your mouth.

The night wasn’t all full of silly blunders on our part; in fact, we were complimented on how well we used our chopsticks. Score!

Many thanks to the gracious and patient localization team for a memorable evening! (Oh, and if you are wondering where Braedyn is in this shot, he is asleep in the chair behind me.)

Brangelina Visits The Formerly Anglo Ransacked Beijing Summer Palace

Posted by He Said
Today was a surreal day for us. It was a long day for us.  I wish I could convey all that happened in our 8 hour day, but this will have to suffice. If you have not read Susannes prior post, I recommend you do that first before reading any further.
Our gracious and wonderful hosts Chang and Lydia met us in our lobby at 9am to take us to the Summer Palace.

Entering The Park

We have had a bit of a shortage of Chinese cash (yuan) because I have I been too lazy to head over to the bank to exchange my last few American $20 bills. We had a total of 73 yuan (about $10 bucks) in our pockets when our hosts arrive and we were immediately informed that they wanted to take a cab (they had already walked 20 minutes to meet us at the apartment) because the bus would be too crowded (in Beijing, really?).  I was expecting to pay $1 yuan for a bus ride.  The cab ride is going to cost us $20 yuan and we are going to have to take two cabs. Ok, but um we are a little short on cash?  “Don’t worry about it” I am told from the newly married Chinese couple who JUST got back from their honeymoon and love to eat “very cheap”.  I know these people are not flush, and so this puts me in a very uncomfortable position as you can imagine.  They assure us that it is ok, we can pay them back. I felt like an ass.  A total ass, let me tell you. It was not the first time I would feel that way today.
For those of you who are members of the Chinese Cultural Moron’s club like me, this is a very expansive and grand palace that was created in 1750 (Reign Year 15 of Emperor Qianlong). I cannot say how amazing, beautiful and awe inspiring this place is. One day is not enough to take it all in. Take a moment to read the wikipedia page about it.  Go ahead.  I will wait.

Yes, we Climbed up this high and back down.

When we arrived alive, once again after a carseat free taxi ride for the children (kids fun 2, Mom’s Heart Attack Scoreboard 42) we learned that it was going to cost us another 60 yuan to get into the park.  There we are with a whopping 43 yuan and our hosts insisting they pay for it and that we could pay them back.  I hoisted my “I am an ass” flag, swallowed my pride and we moved on.  But we didn’t actually get to go anywhere.
A women with only two more teeth than Walter Brennan but a smile that lit up her classically wrinkled Chinese face swooped in on us and began what I can only describe as a chant.  Over and over again she was saying (we were told) how beautiful Emily was.  Now this elderly woman who in retrospect likely stood only a few inches taller than Emily (no exaggerating), locked onto her target and would not back off.  The dance between Emily who was hiding on the opposite side of my legs and this Chinese cheek pinching grandma made me dizzy. Round and round they went till finally I just had to scoop her up and walk away.
And she followed us.
She followed us into the park.
She followed us past the ladies who threw a traditional Chinese dress on Emily (wanting to sell it to us and charge us for pictures).
She followed us on to the bridge where we were taking pictures, and she was IN our pictures when I realized she was tracking us like Susanne can track her way to a Starbucks store in Beijing (it is uncanny really).  At that point Chang said something in Chinese and she explained that Emily was just so beautiful that she wanted to be near her. 

That pink arm, there on the left, that is Emily’s Summer Palace Stalker.

It didn’t stop there.  I cannot begin to describe how constantly we were chatted to, smiled at, asked to have pictures with, and in once case a “grandpa” positioned his family with the camera then walked over to me saying in Chinese what only could have been “Come to grandpa” while he patted his chest for me to hand my daughter over to him as though we were family.  I declined as gently as I could.  Maybe I should start charging picture fees myself.
The attention, the chatter, the reaching out and stroking of the cheek was (and I am NOT exaggerating here) non-stop. In fact, it is so constant that I can guarantee that I can capture a video of it while it happens before the week is out.  Seriously.
I just hope she doesn’t let all this fame go to her head. 
Do you see how I am holding my precious little AMERICAN PRINCESS.  I carried her like that for almost the entire day.  And this is no Disneyland, let me tell you.  It’s BIGGER!.
This huge palatial compound was interestingly attacked and nearly destroyed twice by “Anglo” forces.  Now lets get this out of the way.  Yup.  The Brits and the Americans were tearing it up over here for two reasons on two different occasions.  The first was our united attempt to legalize Opium drug trade (no, the irony is not lost on me here) and the second was a battle to keep out the religious right (ok, my words, but we were here fighting to keep them in, and again, the irony is not lost on me).
Now don’t get all political in your comments.  I get to be political here because it’s my blog, and you read it if you can get through all my (subtext) and weird cultural (Walter Brennan) references.  I, on the other hand, don’t have to read your flames on my blog.  That’s just how it works.  Besides, I do bring this up for a very good and relevant reason. 
Every sign (and I mean EVERY sign, and I NEVER exaggerate so don’t look at my pictures to see 0 examples of this) describing this Buddha statue or that temple or this courtyard did not fail to point out that the “Anglos” had damaged them during one of the two wars and they had to be restored. Chang mentioned several times (completely in a conversational way to his credit) about the restorations required of areas of the grounds after the Anglo caused damage.  There we are.  Me raising ANOTHER ASS FLAG because of American actions that took place before my ancestors even CAME to America. What a Charlie Brown I am. I realized this also makes me a member of the American History Morons club because I don’t remember any of this from history class.

What is this? "I don't know in English."

I get it, history is history and we cannot change it.  So on one hand I have this constant reminder that we destroyed not once, but twice a historic and significantly cultural icon of the Chinese people, and on the other, I don’t even have money to pay for my taxi ride home.  Bad American, BAD.
It’s ok.  I made up for it by bringing my little piece of Brangelina to the Beijing Summer Palace and don’t you forget it.

Gotta GET Me Some Of Those

 

I walk past this shop every day on my way to/from work.  Now I LOVE the steamed dumplings around here, but the idea of eating here is rather difficult for me.  I bet you can see why.

Market Tales

I can see after our trip to the grocery store today that much of my education about Chinese culture and people will come from those aisles. I have learned a few things to help me out when it is just the kids and I going to the store. First, let them turn their minds to mush playing their iPods while I shop. They are sitting quietly in the cart, and I’m not worried about losing them among the sea of people. This gives me more time to stare blankly at the Chinese characters on the food packages. Second, I bought a backpack. This allows me to put their jackets in it while we are in the store, and some of the heavier items (like our Dynasty white GRAPE wine, can I hear a WOOT!) in it for the walk home.

At the store today, it was a tossup as to who got more stares, the kids or the kids’ iPods. I felt like such a privileged American with my TWO children, both with expensive toys. But, again, it was worth it for my peace of mind while I shopped. Those things are seriously better than Benedryl when it comes to chilling out my bundles of energy.

I’ve mentioned the attention Braedyn and Emily get from the locals, but I must spend a little more time explaining just how much and how often this attention gets directed their way. I feel like Angelina Jolie walking with her kids down a New York City street. OK, without the full lips. Or Brad Pitt. Or the commanding jaw line. Seriously though, I must be experiencing a little bit of what those stars feel like walking around. I bought ice cream for the kids yesterday and a group of people came in, sat down next to us and watched them eat, all the while chatting and smiling our way. The thing is, they didn’t order anything! The little blonde white kids were the attraction! Then today in the store, a woman said “hi” to us in English, followed by “how old?” as she pointed to the kids. Oh, did I ever want to stick her in my pocket to be my personal food translator, but instead we chatted through our limited shared vocabulary. Then she asked if she could have her pictures taken with Braedyn and Emily. Since she explained how to cook the rolls I was staring blankly at in the freezer section, I figured it was the least I could do. It’s a good thing we are only going to be here three months; any longer than that and this star status might go to their heads.

Napkins? Paper towels? These are words I need to learn in Chinese because I have scoured the aisles in the super market THREE times, spending extra time near the Kleenex and toilet paper, and I can NOT find them. We’ve noticed in restaurants, they will give one or two napkins even though there will be five or six of us. In America, the waiters see children, and they bring over a palette of them. The fact that I can’t find them in the store is even more puzzling than this newfangled Chinese math. Are we just messy Americans? Is it that it is considered wasteful?

The last few times I’ve gone to the market, I get home and realize I am missing something that I know I had in my cart. Where are my bananas? I even remember putting them on the conveyor belt. I bag my own groceries, so I figured I must have left them on the counter. Today I spent more time in the fruits and vegetables area. I have been a little nervous about buying any because of the safety issues with fresh foods, but as I dig my heels into the culture more and more, I figured I have to at least give the foods I can peel a shot. I found a beautiful avocado (hooray for good fats!), an enormous apple wrapped in a special bubble wrap to keep it from bruising, and several bananas. While checking out at the store, I kept a watchful eye on my precious fruits, making sure I didn’t leave them on the counter. Only this time they didn’t make it past the checker. She left them on the conveyor and gave me the universal no movement with her hands. Then she pointed to a sticker on a set of knives I bought (because I was tired of trying to cut cheese with a plastic knife).

Ding! <—the sound of the light bulb going off over my head.

Doh! Fruits and vegetables work the same way as the rice did for me the last time! You must have a worker weigh them and price them, or else? No apples for you! Braedyn was very sad about not getting his bubble wrapped apple, but I promised him I understood now and would be able to get them next time. Honestly, I was equally disappointed about not getting that perfectly ripe avocado.

I was pleasantly surprised to see Jacob skyping me when I got back from the market. Our conversation went like this:

Me: We just got back from the market!
Jacob: What did you get?
Me: Food for dinner.
Jacob: What are you having?
Me: Ham!... I think.

Mystery Meats and the American Food Aisle

Dinners have been a bit of a challenge here. Well, they are back in Reno too, but that’s because our kids have some super-strong mutated form of Greg’s picky gene. Here, we have that to deal with along with several additional hurdles to jump over before dinner is even served. First hurdle - what to serve. Second hurdle - how to make it.

We were told there was silverware in the apartment, but upon arriving we realized that it was the Chinese version of silverware – chopsticks and soup spoons. So after stirring my coffee with a chop stick the first morning, we decided we needed some supplies. During our first trip to Carrefour, we found the “American” section of food. Similar to the American version of Asian or Latino food sections, it’s a short aisle with various things like pasta, pasta sauce, pancake mixes, ketchup, and (insert choir chorus here) macaroni and cheese! Picky eaters unite! We grabbed some spaghetti and sauce, a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese (kraft!), and some peanut butter and honey.

After opening up the can of spaghetti sauce with a wine foil knife because the apartment had no can opener, we all devoured our simple, one-pot spaghetti dinner. We have one pot and one fry pan, so if I can do it all in one, I’m going to. I even used a potato peeler to cut off bits of cheddar cheese to put on top. Hey, adventurous times sometimes call for creative measures.

I know it doesn’t seem possible, but I feared we would tire of things like spaghetti and hot dogs with mac and cheese, so I thought I would try a couple of new things at the store. So, on our second trip to the big mega-mart grocery store, I went up and down some different aisles. I stood in the bulk rice section for about 10 minutes watching other shoppers until I figured out how to get, weigh, and price your rice before I actually tried it. It was fascinating to watch people maneuver around these huge bins of rice. They would run their hands through it, inspect it very closely, and then sometimes walk away with about 10 pounds or so (after getting it weighed and priced by the store worker nearby). It took some of my famous (infamous?) hand gestures and pointing to get it weighed appropriately, but I did it! I proudly placed my little bag of rice among my other items, and as I continued on, there was a little spring in my step.

Then in the freezer section, I found these:

Yeah, your guess is as good as mine as to what these are. Mystery meat at its finest! And to be honest, these yummy little, um, pita pockets stuffed pizzas, things looked nothing on the inside like they advertise them in this picture. It was more like a little monochromatic sausage patty. Frankly, I bought them because of the back of the package:

Hot damn! The one piece of English on the package told me how to cook it! For dinner tonight, I made the rice, which honestly turned out to be some of the best rice I have ever had in my life, and these, uh, things. Of course, the kids didn’t eat anything but a few bites of rice. This inherited picky gene must be something that loses potency with age because Greg finished theirs off, no problem.

We also found one other little gem. These:

 

We each had one last night. Greg, Braedyn, Emily, and me. That’s four. Oooh, there are two left, and the kids are in bed! Gotta go!

But Wait! Have Those Dishes Been Through the Ozoninator?

Water is a BIG HUMONGOUS issue here in Beijing. There are bad, microscopic things living in it. Things I can’t even pronounce. It’s so bad, even locals boil their water before drinking it. Every website I read while researching our temporary Beijing move warned of the dangers of the tap water. The nurse who did our vaccinations emphasized the importance of using bottled water and of not eating any fruits and vegetables you can’t peel. Other tips gleaned from health professionals and travel websites:

• make sure you always get new chopsticks with your meals when dining out (in case the previous user had something you didn’t particularly want to share),
• do not get ice in your drinks (in case it came from the dreaded tap water),
• make sure your food is served PIPING hot so as to kill any pesky little critters like e.coli living in it (to make sure it hadn’t been sitting around for a long period of time before being served to you).

It seems to me bad water is treated as a nuisance by the locals but nothing to freak out about. So, my new mantra is, “Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.”

WAIT! Did you just get water in your eye? Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

OH MY GOD! Did you just WASH YOUR FACE with tap water? Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

EEK! Is the steam from the shower going into my lungs? Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

Companies have even created devices to work around the bad water. Things like the ozoninator in our apartment. OK, that’s our nickname for it; technically, it is the “utensil sterilizing cabinet”. I thought it was a dishwasher at first but couldn’t figure out where to put soap or how to turn it on. Then Greg found the apartment’s “Operation Manual”. Turns out this handy little machine sterilizes your dishes AND can even sterilize your fruits and vegetables. It does this through UV light and “ozone”. The description of this unit in the manual says:

“Thru the utilization of ozone and PTC heat circulation, this cabinet dry, sanitize, defrost and keep fresh tableware, fruits and vegetables.”

Hooray! We have something to kill all the germs on our washed dishes! Oh crap! We figured out this handy little fact on our third day here. How many dishes had we washed and used already? *sigh* Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

Here’s the ozoninator in action:

So, we learn and move forward. Don’t freak out. Right?!  That is exactly the approach I am trying to take as my stress level with this whole water thing gets tested - over and over again. My first real test came yesterday when Emily comes to me, smiling proudly, with her toothbrush in her mouth. She barely got the words out her mouth, “Mommy, I am brushing my teeth!” before I sprang from the bed like a lion on its prey and yanked the toothbrush out of her hands. “Where did you get the water, Emily? WHERE?!” Poor thing didn’t understand; she was doing a good thing, right? “Where, Emily!” She pointed to the cup, the same cup we put bottled water into for our teeth brushing. “But Emily, what water did you put INTO the cup?” Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Then she pointed to the faucet. THE TAP WATER. FREAK OUT! FREAK OUT! FREAK OUT!

OK, deep breath. It’s too late. I can’t throw her into the ozoninator, so we’ll just have to hope for the best, hope that those Olympic websites that claimed the water was improved prior to the Olympics were accurate and we’ll be in the clear.

My stress with the water quality met its second and third challenges today when we went out to lunch. Chang, an uber kind coworker of Greg’s, showed us some more restaurants in a different mega-mall several blocks from the apartment. It must have been six or eight stories, but Chang insisted it was not big. Can’t wait to see what makes up a big mall around here! We picked a noodle restaurant, and Chang helped translate our order to the waiter. No ice in the kids’ juice, we said. No ice. No “bing”. When their mango juices were delivered, they were in these huge carafes with gigantic straws. AND ICE. We repeated to Chang, no ice please. He called the waiter over, bantered with her in Chinese, and then she scooped the drinks away. I noticed one of the carafes had a memorable chip in it. Moments later the same chip came back to us. No ice this time, but I had to wonder, did they just scoop the ice out? Was it the same juice with bits of melted germy-ice in it? Oooh, and what did they use to scoop it out? Had it gone through an ozoninator? *sigh* The kids drank their juice. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

Next, the waiter brought over our super yummy noodle dishes with reusable chop sticks. Chang dug right into his dish, so I did too. When in Rome… I noticed later that some of the other patrons had been given sets of disposable chopsticks with their lunches. You know, the kind you have to break apart? I asked Chang why we got one type of chopsticks while others got the disposable ones? He just stared at me and shook his head. OK, moving on.

So, in less than a week, we’ve managed to break several food and water rules. It’s hard enough with kids, but throw in the language barriers, and it is an ultimate challenge. 

Making The Sacrifice

The second day that we were in Beijing and shopping at Carrefour and my daughter has to go to the potty.

If you have never heard stories of the bathroom facilities in china then you have no understanding of the dread that washed over me.  I had been told stories of bathrooms with just simple holes in the ground with ledges on the side for your feet.  Public bathrooms lacking toilet paper and garbage cans full of used tissue because you cannot throw them in the hole.

Now perhaps my fears were a little unfounded as I was not in some far flung remote village in the backwater of China.  That did little to prevent me from having visions of urine soaked paths leading up to a dirt hole lined with ancient crumbling tiles to balance on while I held my 4 year old daughter over the gaping hole to pee as she screamed in fear of being dropped in as a human sacrifice.

But first I had to find it.

I asked our kind host how to say bathroom in Chinese.  I practiced the word he told me over and over until he smiled and nodded.  “Great, I’ve got it,” I thought and headed off to be directed to the nearest sacrificial pit.

I found the nearest employee and asked where the bathroom was in my new well practiced Chinese phrase and was presented with a blank stare.  I asked again and simply received a shaking head and a string of Chinese phrases I cannot even begin to comprehend.  You see at this point my vocabulary is limited to hello and thank you, and I THOUGHT bathroom.

She pointed me around the corner to a desk with a sign in both Chinese and English. “Customer Service”. Here we go again.

When my turn at the counter came I simply said “English"?” and as the soundtrack chorus sang she said  “a little.”

Small important detail to keep in mind here.  I am carrying my now squirming 4 year old daughter who REALLY has to pee at this point.  Every second that passes I can hear the second hand of my mental clock ticking and bringing me closer to the brink of a urine soaked arm and shirt.

“Bathroom?” I ask in my newly learned phrase.  A phrase that has apparently already mutated.

More blank stares and a shaking head.

I am more fearful of being peed on as every second passes and my mental facilities begin to leave me. A brilliant stroke of genius hits me. I signal for pen and paper (thank the FSM for universal hand gestures) and draw the universal symbol for toilet.

Now as I finish this drawing I realize that the fear of being pissed on as made me completely retarded. Now maybe that SHOULD be the universal sign for toilet, but it isn’t and at this point I am in almost in a panic.

Incredibly though, this works and I see the light go on in this very kind woman who is trying to help me. “AAAH,” she says, “dubbaya see’. I am slightly baffled by her response and seeing this she draws a picture for me.

Now many of you readers may get this, and in HINDSIGHT it makes perfect sense, but I am in a HAZE of fear of being peed on AND hanging my daughter over the bog of eternal stench WITHOUT toilet paper.  Yes, at this point I realize I forgot to bring my public toilet paper with me, but a flash of inspiration hits me and I draw this.

She smiles brightly and says “Yes, yes, dubbya see” and I realize she is saying W C and is referring to Water Closet.  At this point I wish we had not only driven the British off the North American continent but pursued a worldwide campaign to wipe their sordid snobby language off the planet. Water closet, loo, restroom, bathroom.  How many names do we need for a TOILET.

After a very quick but gracious “shea shea” (谢谢 – thank you) I am sprinting as fast as you can while holding a squirming 4 year old through a crowd of people in the direction she points. Sprinting to the pit of doom.

The floors were tile, the floors were wet (and I don’t think it was water), the hole was porcelain and it was at floor level, and my daughter did scream like she was about to be sacrificed as I held her over it …. and the toilet paper?  Let’s just say nobody noticed that my knee was a little wet and I washed my pants as soon as we got home.