Susan Jackson

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.

In all my childhood Olympic gymnastic fantasies, there were never any 71-cent beers, a feature that made my Olympic gymnastics reality all the more special. Don’t worry, when I attended the women’s gymnastic qualifier round the other night, I did not abuse the bargain at the concession stand and try to lead a chant about the balance beam being approximately the width of your television remote control (did they mention that figure on NBC this year? They have for every other summer Olympics). I did, however, feel very lucky to watch the competition. I never thought I would attend an Olympic event in my life, though the Games deeply inspire me every two years. Despite seats near the top of the venue, we had a great view and watched the athletes dazzle us with their spangles and tumbles. Our fav was a tiny (aren’t they all?) girl with dreads from Greece, blowing my belief that 342 hair clips and one white scrunchy per athlete was a uniform requirement.

When we arrived last month, the Olympic excitement was palpable. China is so incredibly proud to host the Games and when the first firework exploded over the opening ceremony on Friday night, the country collectively let out a pent-up jubilation seven years in the making.

A friend and I braved the crowds to celebrate with the reported 90,000 people gathered outside National Stadium. We weren’t able to get too close, but from where we stood we could see the fireworks shooting out of the top of the Bird’s Nest, and more importantly, the reactions of the thousands of Chinese packed in around us. Because of the distance, smog, and line of sight, it was virtually impossible to capture photos of anything recognizable as the ceremony, but throngs of people spilled into the street anyway, cameras held high and snapping away. Slick with sweat because the thick crowd blocked what little breeze there was on the humid night, my friend and I cheered and laughed with the locals around us, marveling that despite the heat and pushing everyone was in the highest of spirits.

After swimming in the sea of humanity for a while, we left to meet up with friends watching the ceremony on the roof deck of a popular expatriate bar. Initially, a bar was the last place I wanted to watch the opening, but when I got a friend on the phone for directions, it was instantly clear that my fear of a crowded, rowdy bar with no one paying attention to the ceremony was uncalled for. My friend spoke in a whisper and it was so quiet in the background that I thought he had stayed at the dorm to watch from his room.

We arrived and tiptoed through people jammed onto the roof deck, sitting two to a chair or on the floor and intently watching a projection screen. Under low lights and the bow of a beautiful tree that grew over the deck, we watched the parade of nations begin. Expats and travelers from all over the world stood up and cheered when their countries emerged from the tunnel to circle the track. The rest of the bar joined in the celebration for each and for a few seconds, everyone got to feel like they were home.

When the citywide fireworks display started popping, we turned our chairs to watch the action over nearby Hou Hai lake, an trendy area full of bars and restaurants. It was like a New Year’s celebration wrapped into something bigger and more meaningful because the whole world was watching. Years of preparation for China and months of preparation for us at Emerson boiled down to this one night. It was a thrilling evening to be a part of.

Ready or not China, it’s time to show the world what you’ve got.