The Yellow River Park in Zhengzhou

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The Yellow River is called “The cradle of Chinese civilization”. Chinese dynasties were built along this river, and in the early periods of Chinese history the regions around the Yellow river were the most prosperous. It is the 3rd longest river in Asia, and the 6th in the world. It is a life giver and referred to in Chinese as the mother river, but it has also earned the name, “China’s sorrow.” This river has has taken well over a million lives. The river’s flooding from it’s constant changing of course from erosion has earned it the world reputation of being the only natural disaster in recorded history to kill more than a million people.

In the years between 1332 and 1333, seven million people were killed from theYellow river flooding, and the subsequent famine and disease that followed after. In 1887, 900,000 to 2 million people died, and in 1931, 1 to 4 million people died. The most interesting of floods happened in 1938 during the second Sino-Japanese war. The Chinese military decided to break the levees and flood the valley on purpose as a way to prevent the advancing Japanese army from reaching their goal of capturing Wuhan where at the time the temporary Chinese Government was set. The idea was to have “the water be a substitute for soldiers”.  5,000 to 9,000, Chinese civilians were killed in the floods, and an unknown number (but most likely not as many Chinese) of Japanese soldiers. The flood stopped the Japanese from capturing the city of Zhengzhou, but they still reached their goal of overtaking and capturing Wuhan.

A river that has birthed a civilization and taken away such a multitude of life is not going to  continue in modern China with out a park dedicated to it. The Yellow river park is located in the northern part of Zhengzhou, and can be long trip on a bus, but we were lucky to have a friend with a car, and he drove his family, and my friend’s family, and myself to the park for the day. This happened near the end of our stay in Zhengzhou so it was a nice way to end a year in this Chinese city of Northern China.

It’s a huge park with five sections. At the time of the visit, we were not informed of where we were or the significance of any of what we were looking at so much of it was just interesting for the sake of its existence, and carried little historical reference for any of us foreigners. Aside from the massive statue of Mao, I had to look up the names of other statues and buildings on the internet, and I wasn’t able to find the names of everything, but I was able to find some bits here and there.

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We first ascended a small mountain, and that is where we found the giant statue of Mao. The children quickly preceded to climb him in order to race to the top to see who could tag Mao’s mole first.  It is considered good luck to rub the hands of Mao. The infamous leader  is known for saying, “We must control the river,” which resulted in building dams and levees. The view from the statue of Moa looked down on the the wide and literally yellowish brown river. Looking down from the mountain we could see areas for rice paddies but most of the area is now used for the purpose of the park, and transferring the water from the river to Zhengzhou.

We crossed over a bridge called the Luotuo (camel) bridge which led to the Yueshan temple on Yue Mountain. There is a great view of the statues and the monument that they built below. I didn’t know the significance of much of what I was looking at, unfortunately, but what I’ve gleaned from the internet is that the giant statue on the mountain measuring 59ft high is the connected heads of Yandi and Huangdi the great ancestors of China, and they face the river in a symbolic reverence for this giver and taker of life. Information pretty much dies out from there.

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At the base of the part of the park that is called the Five Dragon Peak there is a statue of a Mother cradling her son. This statue is to represent the mother river and China, and their harmonious relationship (they’ve yet to build the statue of the mother dropping and shaking the baby to represent the times not so harmonious). The park also has statues of very famous calligraphy writers- non of whom I knew of, but calligraphy is an art form in China, and to be called a writer in China means that you do calligraphy. It was in this area of the park were we found a man who painted a quick drawing for each of us (for a cost) and then wrote a poem. I had asked my Chinese friends what the poem said, and they all replied, “It’s too hard to translate,” which I found to be the common response when asking for the translations of certain things.

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Our tour guides drove us around to parts of the park where not all tourist were allowed to go which is the advantage of having your driver being a Zhengzhou cop, and he took us to a quiet area near a sharp curve in the river where there seemed to be people disgusting the construction of something. A woman rode out on horse back to deliver a message to people working, and then she quickly rode away as if riding back into the past. We were warned not to stand too close to the river, not because it can jump up and pull you in, but because the soil and silt is very soft and can suddenly crumble under your feet. It is this soft earth that causes the rapid erosion and the continuous changing of the river. Although, the river has not changed much since Moa exclaimed that it must be controlled.

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We ended at the base of the figure heads of Yandi and Huangdi where many Chinese were ringing giant bells, taking pictures and a couple of men were swinging whips over their heads to make giant cracking sounds that reminded me of firecrackers or gunshots. We watched the sun set behind wires and trees, and took the long traffic flooded drive back into Zhengzhou.

Take a Train Through Bohemia: Drawing Maps with a Stranger

You know I’ve seen a lot of what the world can do
and it’s breaking my heart in two
because I never wanna see you sad girl.

Don’t be a bad girl.

a photo of a train station in Trebon, Czechia taken through the train window.

The Czech man and I shared the train car in silence for about an hour. I am not sure what prompted him to break the silence but he began to speak to me even though I could not understand him. He knew I was going to Cesky Krumluv because I had shown him my ticket before I sat down. I handed him the ticket said, “prosim?” And then pointed to the seats. “Ano, ano,” he replied. I sat down and we smiled those strange tight smiles that you smile when you know that you can not communicate. There is a holding back in the smile because the next instant behind a genuine smile is the impulse to speak. The smile is lost and stuck in a sort of limbo. It doesn’t know if it should stop smiling. There is no where else for it to go. There we were stuck in awkward silence with these lost grins. There was a moment in China when I had first experienced this lost smile. I stood waiting for an elevator in my apartment where the school had housed me, and as the doors slowly parted I saw the kind face of one of the Chinese head teachers at my school. We both greeted each other with a surprised, “ni hao,” and behind this simple hello brimmed the communication, “Hey, what are you doing here? So surprised to run into you here.” Our smiles were bright and open, but just as quickly as the elevator doors slide open and then closed we remembered that we could not speak the same language and our smiles fell into the same tight smiles as the one I shared with the Czech man on the train. That silence of inability is strong. The desire to communicate is visceral and real. There is a poignant moment of realization that the moment is lost like  our smiles.

“Cesky Krumluv?” He said.
“Yes. Ano.”
“Ceske Budejovice…”

…And he began to pantomime instructions to me. “Smer”, he said. I had seen this word many times in the train station and metro and I had guessed that the word meant exit. “Ceske Budejovice smer…” and somehow out of only recognizing one or maybe two words I figured out that I needed to get off the train in Cseke Budejovice and transfer to another train. The beauty of all of my understanding of the word smer is that I was incorrect in my translation. The word means direction, but my guess of exit is what saved me from missing my transfer. To clarify my understanding of what the man was telling me I handed him my journal and had him draw his communication. I needed to transfer in Budejovice, but where was I to find my connecting train? I decided to worry about it once I arrived.

A hand made map of directions written in black ink.
Clear enough instructions.

Once the man knew that I understood him he began speaking to me more freely as if I could clearly understand the Czech language. I realized at that moment that I didn’t even know how to say, “I don’t speak Czech.” I continued to smile at him and nod my head, and in truth, I was straining to understand. In retrospect it is amusing that I would attempt to understand words that attached no meaning to my native language, yet I still tried.

“Cesky Krumluv…Ceske… Historicky.”

Any word that I slightly recognized caused me to jump with a small jolt of excitement.

“History? Ano. Ano.”

He grabbed a magazine from his bag. The cover had an image of what looked like a viking and the title ‘Historike Ceske’. He leafed through the pages and showed me a picture of a castle, and then he began naming off places. Then an amazing thing happened. I understood that this man was telling me of all the historic places in Bohemia that I should visit. He also told me how many kilometers by train or walking it would take to get from one place to another. Again, I had him draw me a picture. In my journal he made a scratch pad map of where I should visit and what places to stop to transfer to the next place. We spoke in this manner with drawings, and his use of one or two English words and my understanding of one or two Czech words for thirty minutes. Once we had exhausted our abilities to communicate we both returned to our silence and watched the sky and the trees quickly stream past our window.

Directions to Cesky Krumlov written in a journal.

I felt free as I often do on trains. There is a magic to traveling by train that I never experience or feel when I’m on a plane or traveling by car. Although, all forms of transportation delivers you to a place it is on a train where I feel like I am truly traveling. It is on the train when I feel truly free. It breaths life into the saying, “It is not the destination, but the journey,” for me. I’ve had the experience more than once in my life that it isn’t the moment when I am in a new place or the moment when I am leaving a familiar place that brings me happiness. It is when I am in-between. I am nowhere. I am leaving and going simultaneously. Time is crossing paths with the future and the past and it is in this moment where I am present. Now. Now I am going. I don’t dream of the next place or long for the place I had left. I am only here on the train listening to the wheels singing against the rails, and watching the trees and the life outside, the entire world, flow by like a river. I flow with it into nothingness and everything, and that is when I am free. My home is the train.

We are familiar with the notion that the reality of travel is not what we anticipate.

The Art of Travel- Alain De Botton

Botton, Alain De. The Art of Travel. New York:Pantheon Books,2002. Print.

P.S. A tip on traveling:  The best thing to take when traveling from Prague to Cesky Krumluv is the student agency bus. It is cheaper and faster than the train, and it takes you directly to the city center. Still, there was a personal advantage to my making the mistake of taking the train. I just happen to love trains.

Traveling Does Not Erase the Loss You Feel, But it Sure is Beautiful

Today, I randomly opened my book Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman and read a quote that seemed to answer a common request I’ve had of late.

Not I, not anyone else can travel that road for you,
you must travel it for yourself.

The quote is from his poem, “Song of Myself”. An ex-boyfriend gave me the book nearly ten years ago, and his reason was specifically for me to read “Song of Myself”. It took me a couple of years after he had given it to me for me to read it. When I finally did, I couldn’t remember a poem moving me so greatly and causing me to pause with such huge sighs of awe. How could this man from the 1800’s know how I was feeling today? It is a poem of self empowerment, and a testament to the wonder of life, and what potential we all have, and it is more.

I had grabbed a few books with me on my journey to China. I’ve already left a couple behind when I came to Prague, and I will most likely leave the rest behind, but Leaves of Grass will travel with me. Walt Whitman speaks to all my life longings perfectly as if he had taken words from my own mouth, my own dreams. He answers my questions and soothes my anxieties as if he is here listening to me speak and cry out,  but this is impossible because he had these thoughts, these ideas, these wonderments before my existence. Even so, I feel he speaks to me as if we were alive in the same time. Would we be kindred spirits? I like to believe that we would.

This journey, as wonderful as it is, and as grateful as I am to experience it, has been hard. As I look back on my life, I think in most moments I have thought things were almost always hard, and part of this is because there is something wrong with my brain. This is true, it is called depression, and it can cloud even the most amazing experiences. I’m fairly certain it is hereditary based on some of the behaviors and actions of people in my family. I’ve struggled with it since I was a teenager, and at periods of my life it had been pretty bad, coming with its wonderful array of self-loathing and suicidal thoughts- it’s truly a joy to have around. There have been periods when I was able to keep it under control through meditation, yoga, and other forms of exercise. It can sometimes be an extra challenge to the normal challenges of life,  like a layer cake of challenge. This year is a great challenge: living in foreign countries, loosing my mom, struggling with the monsters called bureaucracy and soon to be dealing with the issue of no money, and plus this little brain thing. I’m beginning to wonder if I can handle all this shit. My life in the now is rarely happy. It is only in the past that places and experiences look better or they create longing. This is a thinking pattern that really bothers me, but I have yet to change it. There is one particular moment of time where I feel real contentment and peace, and it does involve traveling, but I’ll save it for the next post. I often feel bad about feeling bad, like I’m ungrateful or filled with self pity and misery and I don’t deserve to have these experiences- they should go to people who have a greater appreciation for the adventures of travel. The kind of people you see in photographs.

I had wondered before coming to Prague if it was really the right decision. If I had the strength to make it through the course, if I have the strength to make it through this process of trying to find work to get the visa to deal with the bureaucracies. I also wonder what I’m doing it for. If it is all so hard in the moment then why bother? Why not just go back? At this moment I can’t answer these questions. I kept hoping I would get a sign, something to tell me I am on the right path, that I’m actually on a path and not just flailing about lost in a forest that I don’t even know I’m in because all I see are the trees.

This year (who am I kidding I’ve done this multiple times) has made me throw imaginary arms into the air and cry out, “I give up. I can’t do this can somebody please do this for me? Can somebody else live my life?” But, no, no-one can. Like Whitman said, “no one can travel that road for you, you must travel it yourself.”

All I see are the trees.

It is not far, it is within reach,
perhaps you have always been on it since you were born and did not
know,
perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land.

A few days ago, for the first time, I had felt the prickling of missing China. It was small like I mentioned- a prick. I had wondered if I would miss it. If missing it had been too buried under my culture shock, my mother’s death,  the pollution. I was kindly relieved to feel this small feeling of missing this place. It gave me some kind of hope that it wasn’t a mistake that I did learn something there and that over time I will grow from it. Time is never what we think it should be. We don’t heal or grow like we are told we should. We don’t become wise just because we grow older and we don’t get happiness just because we followed the rules. It is never what we expect. I had read Siddhartha while I was in China, and I had asked myself, and I still ask myself, will I ever see my life as Siddhartha saw his; that each experience was purposeful, and carried meaning? Will that self-reflection of one’s own journey- my own journey; will it be seen? Will I see the forest and the mountains, the land and the sea? Siddhartha is a little over a hundred pages, but years had passed in the story. Time is never like a book or a movie. Patience. That is the only word I can really say to myself in this moment. Patience, and perspective, and don’t panic, after all it’s just life, and mine isn’t so bad even with depression.

I know I am not alone in these thoughts. I also know I am not alone in feeling bad of feeling bad about being in a foreign place. After all don’t people dream about traveling? Don’t people wish they could pack it all up and start a new life in an exotic place? But, dreams are not realities, and nothing can be how you expect it especially if you’re bringing yourself along, and maybe yourself has some extra baggage. So, this is my final thought on the matter of someone else doing this whole life thing for me or maybe for you if you ever feel similar. No one can travel the road I’m on as no one can travel the road you are on. I know we are not traveling together, but with all these roads we must be crossing paths. So, with the baggage we carry, the pieces we were born with and the pieces that we’ve accumulated, I hope, that when all the roads converge, we’ll be able to drop our bags and converse before traveling on our own roads, but with our hands free.

 

Long enough have you dreamed contemptible dreams,
Now I wash the gum from your eyes,
You must habit yourself to the dazzle of light and every
moment of your life.

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,
Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,
To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me,
shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

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The Burial Tomb of Emperor Qin. Legend is that it is protected by a lake of mercury. Scientists have tested the hill and have found extremely high levels of mercury. It will be many years before the story is told.

My Last Days in America: China Diaries

Portland, Oregon night city scape.
Photo by Tabitha Mort on Pexels.com

I’m what you call between employment. I need to make a small amount of money last a couple of months in two countries before my new job begins. I’m going to be a teacher. In China. I don’t know what that will be like, but hopefully in the next year I will be able to expound on this experience.

The journey started over a week ago. I ended my job, left my room in the house where I rented space, and I left Portland, OR.

Three women bundled in jackets posing on the beach in front of Haystack rock in Cannon Beach, Oregon.
An Oregon coastal January with friends

I’ve lived in Portland for almost thirteen years. It would be thirteen years’ on the 11th, but I didn’t quite make it. I had always had a love-hate relationship with the city. I loved the people I became friends with, I loved the easiness of living, I loved the beautiful scenery and the fresh woodsy air, but there was something I disliked too. It was a something that I could ever put my finger on and still can’t. A feeling of not really fitting in. I could never really make things “work” in Portland. I found that finding the job that was in line with my career dreams was unreachable except through volunteering (which I did but it never or rarely turned to pay) romantic relationships seemed impossible, and creatively I lumbered along like a bog sloth. I was complacent and I didn’t create, and I couldn’t break out of the rut. Yes, yes, I know this is not Portland’s problem it’s mine, but all the same, the dislikes compelled me to leave. To become uncomfortable.

I left Portland on the fifth of August. Most of my personal items were sold or given away. I’ve stored some boxes of books and photos, two small items of furniture, and various sentimental knick-knacks at a friend’s house (my former roommate/landlord). The contents of my life can literally fill a small car. I’ve packed two large pieces of luggage each weighing just under 50lbs. I have a carry on, my laptop, and a purse. These items will be my possessions for the next year.

In order to officially and legally work in China I had to go to the consulate in San Francisco to pick up my visa. This made for a great excuse to take a road trip from Portland to San Francisco where I could stop in a small college city called Chico to visit my mom.

My good friend and I decided to drive down to California together. It was her ideal really. She said it was a great excuse to visit her family, and also nothing is more fun than a road trip. My friend, and I are both Portland transplants. Both of us are Northern California natives, so a trip to California is also a visit to our places of birth.

A woman in dark sunglasses standing in from of a tree in front of glassy Crater Lake in Oregon.
Crater lake and me.

We stopped for a night in Crater Lake and camped. The night air was warm and smokey due to the fires in Southern Oregon. We made a small contained fire and ate snacks. We made vodka cocktails mixed with grapefruit juices manually squeezed from grapefruits, with added bing cherries and cherry juice. All of these items were left over from my going away party. We drank our cocktails in front of the fire. Cocktails and camping in Crater Lake seem contradictory to me like the two don’t belong. We needed beer or a bottle of whiskey. Vodka never struck me as a camping drink, but there are no rules.

In the morning we drove to the lodge and walked to one of the many viewing points. We walked on a hiking path to Discovery Point, and there we silently stared at the crystal water that reflected the clouds. The line between earth and sky was blurred and my thoughts drifted to my friend Sue who died six years ago. It was Sue who convinced me to move to Portland in the first place, and on our drive up from Chico, CA we stopped in Crater Lake. I hadn’t been to Crater Lake since that trip 13 year’s ago. Now, I was leaving and I would never see Sue again. I knew I wouldn’t see her again when I got the news of her death, but sometimes I forget she’s really gone and not just traveling. Death can be like that sometimes. You forget, but then you remember. You remember and you feel the loss, again.

It was hot and smokey like we were driving into desolation. The hazy sky reminded me of images of China’s cancer villages. Rarely a blue sky I was told. I’m hoping that it is not as thick as this burning air.

In truth, I never thought I would leave California, but life happens and sometimes your roads take you to places you did not expect to go.

In Shasta we took a detour to Whiskey Town Lake. We set up a make shift picnic and split a beer and ate cherries and chips. I waded into the water that was warm. The red clay beneath the water swirled under my feet and turned it pink, but only when I moved. I wanted to swim, but my suit was packed and I knew from many childhood experiences that the clay stained your clothing.

My home town of Paradise in northern California is in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. It gets hot and dry in the summer, and sometimes we’d get snow in the winter. My father left Paradise when I was seven or eight, but my mom lived there until her 50’s then she later moved to Chico which is only 20 miles west of Paradise. I didn’t get to make it to Paradise before I heading to San Fransisco, since my parents no longer live there and most of my friends have moved away, but I did visit Chico to spend time with my mom.

We drove the rest of the way to Chico, and spent a night with my mother. That evening we went to a bar I used to frequent when I was a student at Chico State. It’s always fun to be new in a small town, even though you had actually lived there in the past. I spent my teenage years hanging around downtown Chico from time to time, but the places my teen self would go are gone. I spent five years of my twenties, my college years, going to bars and restaurants, and bookstores, and record stores, seeing bands, and running into people I knew, but those days are in the past. The places I used to frequent are gone or have changed. The bands are gone, and the friends are gone and the kids I knew have kids. Yet, this old bar named Duffy’s that catered to the theatre crowed was still there. It was there, but I was different. I moved and grew older. I sat for the sake of nostalgia, in this bar, where I spent one too many days during my spring finals, but it was as if I had never been there before.

The Entrance to Sierra National Forest picnic grounds. Red Bud.
Photo by Guy Hurst on Pexels.com

In the morning my friend said good-bye, and the reality of my actual life change hit. Although, only subtly because I had decided to stay with my mom and staying with her is like nothing has changed. I’ve been here for five day’s now, and tomorrow I will see an old friend, my oldest. A friend I met when we were eleven or twelve, and I will spend the night in my hometown of Paradise, and then on the eleventh we drive to San Francisco, and that is where things will begin to take hold. So, I did stay in Paradise after all.

The Golden Gate Bridge over the San Francisco Bay.
Photo by zahid lilani on Pexels.com

In San Francisco, I have that final step left to take before I get on the plane to China. My visa. It has been difficult getting my paperwork from China in order for me to apply for the visa, but it is all finally here waiting for me at a friend’s house in San Francisco.

Two days ago I felt fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of the plane flight, fear of being lost. Today is calm. Excitement hasn’t hit yet. Maybe, I don’t understand what I’m doing yet. I know I don’t understand because I don’t know what I’m doing.

What is the saying? I have no idea what is happening next and I’m excited about it.

I prefer the line from Sue’s favorite movie Almost Famous:

It’s all happening.

How I Prepared to Move to China

CBD in Zhengzhou

Three weeks ago, I e-mailed off an application. Last Wednesday, I had an interview over Skype, and the following day, Thursday, I was hired.

Just like that a new door opened. A door that leads to the East. Farther than I’ve ever gone. I’m nervous and excited for the change, the possibilities, the challenges, and of course the potential for new stories. In August, with just a few bags I will walk through a door that I never saw until a month ago, and once I’m over the threshold, I’ll be working as a literature teacher and leading drama classes in Zhengzhou, China.

Shanghai city scape at night.
Photo by Wolfram K on Pexels.com

I am moving to Zhengzhou, China. It is in the Henan province, that is in the northern central part of China. I don’t know anything else about it. Honestly, I don’t know a lot about China other than it is a place that has been used as a political boogieman and education marker since I was a kid. I remember Ronald Regan saying that our American high school math scores needed to beat China’s, but we were far behind. I also know about Tiananmen Square protests and massacres because I watched on the news in real time, but I also know I’m not supposed to talk about that because in China-it didn’t happen. I know there is suppressions of speech and religion especially when it comes to speaking out against the CCP. There have been great historical dramas that have come out of China, and incredible inventions came out of ancient China, like paper making, gun powder, the compass, and the printing press to name a few. I know about the Great Leap Forward that led to mass starvation. I know about the Cultural Revolution and of course I know of Mao. Still, China is huge, and filled with over a billion people, and you can never really know a place until you go there. Yet, as a foreigner, I may still never truly know China.

It’s almost June, and my panic scale has just reached “nervousness” and the early stage of “what if-mania” is baring its teeth. I have three months left in the U.S. before I start my new, yet, temporary life in China.

I bought my ticket this morning. I’ve never been so hesitant to buy a plane-ticket, ever. My dilemma was that I didn’t really know what day to fly or when to arrive. My contract begins on the 25th of August, and two days ago I found out that school starts on the 1st of September. So, I took the chance and bought it today.

Every step of purchasing the plan ticket felt mentally challenging. I chose to fly one-way for a couple of reasons. Although, I wasn’t sure if it would cause me visa problems if I didn’t have an actual round-trip ticket. I’m going to be there for a year, and I can’t book out a year in advance, so I had to take the risk of booking one way. Also, I might not want to come back. I may want to stay in China, or work in another country, or fly into some other part of the U.S. I don’t know what I will be doing as of August 26th 2014.

After talking with some folks who have lived or are currently living in China, I decided that the one-way was a good choice. It cost around $700.00. Some people believe that buying a round-trip is cheaper in the long run, but it isn’t. The lowest cost I found was $1400, and well that’s two one-ways, so I didn’t see the deal, especially since I would have had to change my return flight anyway, and that would come with an extra fee.

A glowing U-shaped building reflecting on dark water with other brightly lit buildings. China.
Photo by The Whale on Pexels.com

The visa. Oh the visa. Visa. Visa. I live in Portland, Oregon, and the closest Chinese consulate to me is in San Francisco.

This is okay. I want to fly out of SF anyway. I’m from California and it would give me an opportunity to see my parents, and some friends before leaving. The problem is “the when“. When do I leave from Oregon to California, and how long do I have to wait in San Francisco without a job? These are the tiny things that plague my thoughts at the moment, and surrounding these thoughts is the main worry that always presses my panic button- money. I hate money because I never have it, and it’s all anyone wants.

One of the first steps I had to take care of before even flying out to San Fransisco was getting my physical. It was a very specific physical that was sent to me by the school and required by the rules of Chinese immigration. I just had my physical and all my lab tests that I had to do in order to get a clean bill of health (part of the visa process). This isn’t a bad thing, but with each vial of my blood I thought, “I bet my insurance does not cover this.” Always, money.

I need to gather a copy of my passport, some passport photos, two letters of recommendations from schools, my diplomas, the contract, a letter of invitation from the Foreign Expert Bureau, and an application fee then take all of these to the Chinese consulate in San Fransisco.

Apparently, I have the option of going through a visa service agency, so I’ll explore that. I can’t apply until I get my medical report and send it off to my employers, and then I need to wait for my letter of invitation.

Two traditional Chinese buildings built on a lush green cliffside.
China

Getting things together for this move is in the forefront of my mind. I haven’t followed up on any of my writing pursuits, but moving to China is a great excuse. I haven’t written in ages. Although I think about writing every day, but to sit and to focus and to write has not been happening. I need to relax and just do it because everything is going to work out, and I have three months before flying over. I’d really like to bust out a ton of query letters, and get my book out to a much wider net than 9. Nine rejections is nothing. I should have a least 120. My procrastinating brain say’s, “but, I need to get the China stuff sorted first”. Which is probably true.

I’ll arrive in Zhengzhou at 10:50 pm. I have a layover in Beijing, but I don’t think I’ll have much time to look around. I worry about what I will do once I get to Zhengzhou. I haven’t heard from anyone from my new place of employment in the past few days, so I’m not sure about the logistics of my arrival. I will fly in late. I’m nervous that my arrival time might make it difficult for someone to meet me.

This will be my second time living overseas. I’m leaving all of my comforts and false securities, (false securities that make me feel secure) and I’m going to China. China. To live. I believe I will have my own apartment not to far from the school, and that’s pretty exciting. I’ve lived overseas before more then ten years ago, but I had to share a flat, so having my own place sounds amazing.

A young woman on a swing holding three balloons colored red, white and blue.
Preparing to be An Accidental Vagabond

This is where I am right now. Today. May 28rd, 2013. Beyond the nervous worry, that really isn’t that bad, I’m really excited. I have no idea what my future will hold. None. There is no blue print or life travel guide for me to follow. I don’t even know where I will be next year. It’s a little strange, but that’s okay. In truth, I never really know what I will be doing the next year. I think I know, but I don’t because life is- unexpected.

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