Susan Jackson

With my new(ish) short doo I need a trim every six weeks or so to combat against a raging case of the mullet. Spending seven weeks in China meant that even with a pre-trip cut, I was getting a little shaggy toward the end. So I did what any good high-maintenance girl would do in a country where she doesn’t speak the language—I strolled through the local hutong and plopped myself in a chair at one of the (seemingly) bazillion hair salons in Beijing. I did my best to say yiyang—the same, and yi dian—a little. The stylist looked at me, we smiled, and I hoped for the best. There were plenty of people in the city with cute short haircuts, which was a comfort. A concern though, was the equal amount of dramatic and angular precision cuts in abundance. For example, if there was something appealing about the female crew cut complete with spiked bangs and accompanying two-foot rat tail I’d seen on the subway the day before, it was lost on me (Note: this was not an attempt at a punk rock look, trust me).

Fortunately, things turned out all right. When was the last time you could say that about a hair cut that cost $2? Though my stylish didn’t speak any English and my hair salon Chinese didn’t go far beyond “good!” and a thumbs up, we made it work. But, the best part of the experience may have been before the actual cut. While seated in a chair nowhere near a sink, I received a shampoo and head scratch/massage that would make a dog’s leg spasm. With only a glob of shampoo on the back of my head, a few spritzes from a water bottle, and 10 magic fingers, the shampoo boy created a nice foam mountain on top of my head which he began to work from the front to the back. When he finished and I awoke from my head-scratch-induced near-coma, he led me to the orange-walled, golden Buddha, sink room in the back, for a rinse. Try and top that on Newbury Street.

Dad’s pants? I haven’t posted in a month after being banned the Chinese government and the title of this one is Dad’s Pants? It was the Olympics, not the tailor shop (which, I incidentally visited multiple times). But, anyway, while I toil away on getting you all up to speed, enjoy these photos of the new China Central Television tower, lovingly referred to by some Beijingers as Dad’s Pants. Along with the Bird’s Nest and the Water Cube, the building is one of the city’s favorite new architectural gems, and I nearly broke my neck staring at it each time I passed it in a taxi. Since its construction isn’t quite complete and it isn’t yet lit up like a Christmas tree (or Chinese lantern), the building is barely distinguishable from the dark, smoggy sky around it in the evenings. It therefore looms in the night sky, and illogically made me think that it was about to fire a laser or tractor beam at any minute, that is how modern, unusual, and huge it is. Or, that is just how weird my thought process is. It’s up to you.

For all of you wondering why I’ve been silent for a while, let me take the gag out of my mouth and tell you why. First, let me hand that gag back to the Chinese government.

For reasons not known to me, my website is officially baned here in China. I haven’t been able to access it or update it in more than two weeks. My friend Daniel, who designed my site (he does good work, eh?) was nice enough to post this for me from Boston, where everyone is allowed to access any internet site they want whenever they want (if they are 18).

There are so many things to share about the Games and life here, and don’t worry, I’ve been writing them down. When I get home, I’ll update everything I’m banned from doing here.

Tonight, I board an overnight train to Shanghai with a couple of classmates. After some traveling, I’ll be back on U.S. soil in a week or so. Look for updates then.

Each summer I’m usually lucky enough to randomly score tickets to more than a few Red Sox games. Like every good New Englander, I love Fenway Park and all the sights, sounds, and suds it offers (even if the sud prices did go up…again). I made it to a couple of games before taking off for Beijing, but neither were on the kind of warm summer night baseball fans dream about all winter long.

The other night, I got the next best thing Beijing can offer at Olympics time—a softball double header. A group of us headed out to Fengtai Sports Center Softball field to see China smoke the Netherlands and Japan eek one out over Australia. The weather was warm (though progressively smoggy as the night wore on), the beer was cold (and still only 71 cents a pop), and the hot dogs were…full of corn.

In what could be one of my favorite lost-in-translation moments of the trip, I bit into my hot dog (that was bun-less and on a stick, mind you) and came face to kernel with a bright yellow piece of corn. Now, I haven’t researched whether or not this is a basic Chinese dog—they do offer a corn cup as a side at McDonalds—but I like to think that someone mentioned “corn dog” and this is what they came up with.

As hard as it is to believe, inhaling two corn dogs (and likely meeting my daily vegetable intake requirement) wasn’t even the highlight of the evening. For the Japan/Aussie game, we ended up surrounded by Japanese softball fans, and let me tell you, those folks know how to whoop it up. I still don’t know if it was organized or perfectly random, but throughout the game a man wearing white gloves seated near the bottom of our section led the fans in coordinated cheers. We befriended a Japanese fan sitting next to us who gifted us a few pairs of thunder sticks and translated “dung buddy dung buddy* (insert name here)” as “hang in there, hang in there (insert name here).” After that cheer, we all banged our sticks together four times. When the gloved one chanted and pumped his fists in the air, we banged the sticks eight times, and for another that we never figured out, the count was six.

I can’t wait to get those sticks to a Sox game when Dice-K is on the mound. Warm summer night or not.

*Clearly written Japanese is not my forte. Please excuse me if this actually spells out something offensive.

It’s official—I’m a smoker. Now, everyone who actually knows me, pick you jaws up off the floor and let me elaborate. I’m diagnosing myself (and not with the help of Web MD) as having the Beijing Lung, an ailment I may or may not have just invented. It started with a tiny cough each morning that I thought came from my roommate permanently keeping the air conditioner on the Antarctic Winter setting. Wrong.

I’ve heard from several people that breathing the air in Beijing for one day is equivalent to smoking from 50–700 cigarettes per day; it depends on whom you ask. I know that figure sounds scientifically solid and all, but I think it might be partly true.

As I type, I’m hacking a volley of what my doctor would call “productive” coughs—my new morning revelry. And just so my roommate isn’t the only one who gets to enjoy my symphonic loogie removal, I’ve started taking it out in public. It’s an especially big hit at my venue, where each cough brings 3–4 people to my side, asking if I need to “have a rest” (they love resting here). And, last night when I accidentally ordered nuclear-fire beef noodles, it was wonderful to simultaneously cough up a lung and inhale a rocket-fueled noodle while my five Chinese coworkers tried desperately not to choke as well from laughing at me.

I figure that I’m smoking the equivalent of two packs per day right now, without enjoying all the great things people love about smoking (whatever those are). To get something out of this (besides phlegm), I’m on the market for one of those long, costumey cigarette holders that Miss Scarlet used in Clue. That way I can blame the coughing on something tangible, start using the word daaarling at the end of every sentence, and maybe kill Colonel Mustard with the rope in the conservatory if I have time after work. Track cycling starts today, and I’m going to be busy.