I sat next to a 29-year old woman. She came into the cabin late, hurried and nervous, found her seat next to me. Oh so sorry, I’m pulling on your seat belt. This is my first time flying. I’m freaking out.

I said I’m going to fly 8,450 miles today. No worries, we’ll be alright together.

She said she always drove. But not to Texas, I said.

No, but I never went beyond South of PA.

We stayed on the runway a long time while a truck sprayed liquid onto our plane. We needed to be de-iced. It was snowing outside, she said, it is worrisome. I agreed. But, I said, imagine it is just a big car,  it has more space to drive in the sky, more than on the highway. She laughed. She has blue eyes, very beautiful. She is a smoker, I can smell.

She is in school, wanting to become a forensics specialist or a cop; she works and is raising a four-year-old as a single mom. She doesn’t go to bed until two or three. She has circles under her eyes.

Newark is never pretty. We could see the runway among the congestion. We approached, and the roofs were coming near. Then, we climbed up.

What is going on? She looked out the window.

Oh, no worries, I said,  this is what I don’t like flying from the town we both called home. Small planes always get bumped when runways get too busy.

It climbed to a fairly significant height and stayed there. A call came from the cockpit. The flight attendant stood up from her strapped position and looked outside of the left window and whispered into the phone. I knew something was wrong.

No announcement came. You’d think they’d say something! The woman in front of us craned her neck.

After another while came the voice: “I’d like to ask the passengers sitting in the emergency aisle to make sure the passage is completely clear.”

People turned around to look at each other and began to make noise.

After another while the voice came again: “May I have your attention, please. The captain has informed me that we are having landing gear problems. The captain is resolving the issue and there is no reason to panic. But I’d like to ask all of you to take the safety brochure out of the front seat pocket and review the emergency procedures with me.”

All hands reached into the pocket.

“I’d like you all to flip to the last page. Look at the upper right corner where it shows the position you’ll need to be to brace impact.” The flight attendant must be in her twenties; this must be the first time she is announcing this kind of message; her breathing was heavy.

I pointed to the picture she was talking about to my neighbor. She was saying, my God. I told her, not to worry, you just cross your arms like this and do this. I demonstrated, as if I knew how.

A little while later, the flight attendant announced that the landing gear should be OK now. Should? The woman in front of us said loudly. No, the young girl quickly corrected herself and said, “It IS OK now. But please remember the position, if we needed to use it.”

No one made any noise. We saw the runway again, the roofs came near again, the ground was in sight. With one wheel touching the ground first, we landed safely. A few people clapped. We sped off the main runway.

Then we saw the two fire trucks and a police car waiting with lights flashing. They followed us all the way until we made to the gate.

My neighbor and I said good-bye. She is going to Texas to see a guy. We believe there won’t be any worse flight than this.

Only when I went into the terminal did I begin to feel the knots in my stomach. I walked briskly through the terminal until I feel the desire to speak. I called home. I have rice crispies, fruit gummies, and sneakers in my bag. They are for my sons. Nothing matters more than they. I have to get home.

[Posting written at the Tokyo-Narita Airport]

Red envelops I have for this year.

I went to the bank to get money this morning. I need brand new bills for the red envelopes.

Last year I forgot about this tradition; I stuffed the envelopes with used bills. Not too good, said my friend. (You see, how indirect we are!)

The clerk said the bank won’t start doing this until Jan. 17th. My friend said, go early, they run out sometimes. The clerk said, true, come early; but today was too early.

The envelopes I got from my grandma and my mother always had crisp bills; they even had them in sequential serial numbers. The crispness made the bills more precious than their face value. It was painful to spend one of them then, as if I was breaking some kind of magical chain.

I will be getting off the plane back from the U.S. the day before. But I’ll be at the bank, jet lagged, so that someone will get my envelopes this year with bills new.

Liuli and Beizi*

They were not from here. He came to this town as a tourist and liked it. He quit his job and started a tiny inn downtown. He likes photography, so he made his inn to attract guests with similar interests. He was able to make enough money to pay rent for the inn during the “golden weeks” (holiday weeks in China). After that, he locked up the inn and went on photography trips. That was more than two years ago.

We picked this inn because it is top-rated on Trip Advisor and because it is away from the tourists’ hot spots in Yangshuo. Yangshuo is in Southwest China. The region has incomparable, natural beauties.

Town’s road was quiet. Sugar cane is in season. Osmanthus trees are still in bloom. But 50F is considered winter; people don’t swarm here.

Then, out of nowhere stood a wrought iron gate. Paved road began.

The room was kept warm. The mountains were just outside of the window. The shower was hot.

We slept in. Dogs barked somewhere afar, birds sang. Morning was bright.

The young couple met in Shengzhen. This is one of the most famous modern cities in China, not because it had any particular history but because this former fishing village turned into a booming city overnight, after China opened its door to the Western world in the 80s. For twenty years, people went there looking for opportunities. They were among them.

She worked for eight years up the corporate ladder until she became a manager. He was an engineer, working for a Taiwanese-owned company. They had very narrow responsibilities – For efficiency sake their companies were run like assembly lines. Housing was expensive, they commuted. Work was demanding, they put in long hours. It was normal for the boss to call any time, even midnight. She had sleeping problems. They quit.

The air is fresher than downtown. Guests are nice. I like the peace here on the hilltop. Our friends say we are taking an early retirement. I enjoy it. Although our sleep pattern depends on the schedule of the guests, I do not have to commute and get to the office by a certain hour. I sleep much better. My anxiety is gone. Indeed, they both are easy-going and relaxed.

They got their parents here to help. The mother cooked. We stuffed ourselves with the homey meals every morning. (Millet porridge, thick sweet bing with the texture of bread, thin egg bing made from batter the same way as pancake, steamed scallion buns, hard-boiled eggs, homemade pickled turnips and orange jam. Then there is the local fruit, jing ju, which are of the size of cherry tomatoes. They taste like mandarin orange. It is the skin you are after, not the inside. They are just in season, deliciously refreshing!)

Father gardened and landscaped. "It is nice to give older people something to do. They like working. If they don't they are more likely to get sick from being idle."

The sister is a student. She is helping during the winter break. "We eat dumplings for Chinese New Year. Today is Christmas, we made dumplings for you."

What a delight after having had the salad that was frozen stiff on the China Southern last night.

We biked for hours through mountains dotted with villages that afternoon. The December sun was perfect.

At night, we sat outside, chatting with the young lady, breathing in the cool mountain air.

They are adding 13 more rooms. Yes, we’ll be very busy and might need to hire new people. We hired one person but soon she left. She must have felt awkward being the only non-family member among us. Oh yes, when in the beginning we ran into lots of problems, like the drainage. The owner didn’t install a U-tube, the bathroom stank like mad. We dug up all bathroom floors and re-installed it. Over the two years the engineer learned to fix a lot of things. Yes, there were a few memorable guests, like the one who complained about cold water. He should have let the water run a bit, it takes time for hot water to reach the room; or the Dutch couple who fought drunk and ran out of the room naked. There were days we worried to death because a foreigner-guest didn’t return until past midnight. No, we have to wait until everyone comes back. We feel responsible for the guests.

On a lower level of the hill was a big area. The owner of this place runs a restaurant there to entertain day-guests. The inn keepers do not participate in this part of the business. But the guests like us can eat in the restaurant if we want to.

Business people, officials on business bucks, and students come here to have roast geese, roast whole pig or sheep, sing karaoke in warmer days.

Beer and sorghum wine go well with the surroundings.

No, we do not actively market the rooms right now. We like it this way. We are working but not busy. We’ve been busy all year. It is time for us to take a little break.

Everyday, we got up, ate the meal their mother cooked and went to the places Liuli and Beizi suggested. If we go to Yangshuo again, we would stay in the same inn again.

*Photo courtesy of Liuli and Beizi.

At Taoyuan International Airport

At the check-in counter, we realized that we took an expired passport. The staff said they cannot re-book us to next day.

Huh?

Taiwan staff are not authorized to change Chinese flights. China Southern is a Chinese airline. Skyteam? No, we have to talk to the rep ourselves.

Standing at the counter, we called again and again, no one answered. “The office must be closed. They close at 6 p.m.” But it was not yet 6. No matter, no one was there. ”As long as you change your flight before noon you’ll be fine.”

We called Expedia. We bought our tickets there. But American staff couldn’t re-book, either. They had to go through the rep., too.

We called the airline next morning. The line cut us off over and over again. It was almost 10 a.m., we took a taxi to the airline’s Taipei office.

Frozen salad

The glass doors were locked. They are closed for weekends.

We called our brother in Shanghai and asked for help. He called the airline’s office in China. After two hours of emails, texting, and faxing of information, we got re-booked.

As always, the flight attendants are young and beautiful. They radiated loftiness.

They brought me frozen salads and ice-stiff fruits.

Ah, what a memorable Christmas Eve.

Shi jia

Shi jia belongs to the type of fruits one spends more time looking at it than eating.

I searched Google and the Wikipedia for a common English name but I only got this: Annona squamosa.

In Chinese, the name is quite simple. It came from the word, Śākyamuni, the Buddha. Because the fruit looks like Buddha’s hair, we call it ”Sakya” – that’s how shi jia sounds in Chinese.

The fruit seller said I should pick one that is soft to touch if I wanted to eat it today.

The heavier it is, the juicier it is.

The brown spots don’t matter, that’s where the fruit touched another one or the tree trunk.

Last but not least, he put two next to each other and said, “The bigger the scale the better it is.” After weighing several of them and teaching me all these, he handed me this one and said, “You cannot do wrong. All of them are sweet. Some think they are too sweet.”

Inside

“How to eat it? Easy! Just open it and eat the inside. Ai ya, why that much trouble! No knife, hands, your hands!” The man held the fruit in his hands and showed me how to use the thumb to poke in from the top and open it, as if he was opening a book.

But I still used a knife at home.

The inside is pure white, big black seeds wrapped inside the cotton-like flesh.

The texture is like a watery ripe banana, too mushy for me. It is VERY sweet, too sweet for me.

Next time I’ll try a pineapple shi jia. The vendor said, “Come back next time when they are ready. It is a hybrid of shi jia and pineapple, if you think this one is too sweet for you.”

Take out the stem, scoop the content, spit the seeds. Easy.

Wasabi coated peas

The woman was giving out samples of grass tea at the end of an isle in Jason’s Market, an overpriced supermarket selling imported goods that cure cravings of people like us who must have, say, Philadelphia cream cheese in Taiwan.

Her smile was too timid to pass by. So I stopped to take a paper cup from her hand.

“Wasabi peas! I like them myself.” She spotted the bag under my arm. “Is this brand good?” I took a sip. Wasabi coated snow pea is a popular snack here. There are several brands in the store.

“Oh yes, I bought this brand myself.” I drank the grass tea, handed her the empty cup, “Thank you! Not today.”

“No problem. Thank you for stopping.” Her voice was gentle.

“Why didn’t you take two bags?” She said as I turned to walk away. “It is on sale, buy one get one free.”

“Is it?”

“Wait here.” She left her stand on which three types of grass tea were on display. I stood there, didn’t know what to do. I ran down the list of the names of grasses and read their healing effects on the poster. I just drank the type that would regulate my metabolism during winter.

Wasabi peas, they make your nose run.

Where did she go?

There she was, coming around the corner in quick steps, with another identical bag in her hand. “Here. It is really a good deal.” She just went to the other end of the store to get the peas.

I thanked her profusely. She just waved.

Standing in the checkout line I turned to look at her. She would be standing in that tight corner for the rest of the day, in a grass-green apron, handing people tea samples and helping them realize the buy-one-get-one deals.

I regretted for having made the disgusting facial expression after gulping down her grass tea.

Our landlord belongs to the richest. Her family lives in the only two apartments in our building that have drive-in courtyards. She owns several other units in our building alone that, I heard, are worth a couple of million U.S. each. I mention this, because I wanted to say that the setting and the scale of the funeral is not possible for average people, but the process is more or less the same.

One day, a tent was erected in the courtyard. A big group of monks chanted for almost a day. The security guards said the mother-in-law had passed away.

For many days after, the tent stood in their courtyard silently. No monk came again. A slim banner of pink paper was posted next to the wrought-iron gate. On it, there were two Chinese characters in black ink, ci zhi (慈制). It meant: this house lost a mother. It was in pink, because she died after she reached a good age. Otherwise, the paper would be white.

Many days has passed. All of a sudden, many people were in and out of their apartments one day. The guards said, “Now 49 days have passed. They are preparing for the funeral.”

Ah, I recall what my grandma used to say: Seven (days) times seven (weeks) makes 49 days. This is the longest a calendar can count to. This is how long the living mourns a family member before the burial. It shows the family does not want to let the deceased go. After 49 days, it is ok to carry out the funeral. After the funeral, the memorial ritual will be done once a year. However, the immediate family of the dead would wear black arm band (son) and white cotton flower (daughter) to symbolize their mourning. Some wear it for another 49 days, others for the rest of the year until it hits the first anniversary of the passing.

Death was an exciting event for children. When I was young, I followed the procession as long as I could walk. I watched the family members cry until they fainted. They had to be carried along by other relatives, lagging behind the procession, whimpering with their last bit of might. All neighbors would come out to watch. Bystanders shook their heads: “Aiya,” They said, “What a pity, died so early, but lucky, look what good children s/he has! They are crying themselves to death!”

It is customary that children or relatives started to cry before they reached the home of the deceased. We lived in alleys among many families. It was not unusual that some families started to cry when they entered the alley and cried their way through until they reached the gate of the courtyard. The more they were heard, the greater it was, because it showed love and xiao, filial piety, an English translation I never liked, because it does not tell the essence of this word.

Some families would leave the courtyard gate open, others would have it shut. But from the moment a person died to the funeral procession, cries can be heard every day.

I also peeked into courtyards where tables were set up and a post-funeral feast was served. The sons and daughters of the deceased still had tear-marred face and swollen eyes. They ran between the kitchen and table, bringing out dish after dish to serve those who attended the funeral as a thank-you tradition. The meal had a special name, it is called “tofu meal”.

Death is remembered through big commotions in my culture.

Unfortunately, the ritual was suspended when I was still very young. It was deemed as “feudal garbage”. Thus, seeing the rituals replay in Taipei in the 21^st century is like traveling back in time.

Flower baskets began to appear.

A few more days have passed.

Then, one night, the sidewalk along their gate was lined up with flower baskets. Each basket had satin couplets with beautifully calligraphied condolence messages and the names of the givers.

The guards said the funeral was next day.

During that night, more tents were erected on the sidewalk across the street. More flower baskets were added to the row.

Next morning around 8 o’clock, monks began to chant. The wrought-iron gate opened wide and remained that way till the afternoon.

Many trucks came in and out.

A group of women wearing green jackets and white pants proceeded from the end of the street. They played suo na, a Chinese wind instrument that is used for weddings and funerals. They played a lamenting song and banged on the gong that they wheeled with them. Suo na makes awfully loud, high-pitch sound that can be heard far, far away.

They repeated the song over and over, as if the living is begging the dead to stay. Then they stopped and I can hear the monks chant again.

A plastic cauldron was delivered. In the old days, a real one would be buried in the tomb.

This group of women retreated. A group of men wearing pink uniforms came in, also with suo na, playing seemingly the same sad tune. They came from the opposite direction of the street, proceeding in the same fashion and turned into the gate. Once inside, they continued playing like the women’s group did and then retreated.

Many cars and taxis came. Many friends and families arrived. Many small blue trucks came with paper mache temples, flower baskets, plastic cranes and cauldrons etc. Under the tent across the street, people were stationed to register the visitors, taking in the money they brought as mourning gifts.

A group of young people stood outside of the gate, handing the visitors a small packet. I could not tell what was inside, but one was a hooded cloak.

Mourners arrived one by one.

The visitors put them on before they entered the gate. They stood at the end of the line, waiting for their turn to move to the front to pay respect. Some wore pure white cloaks, a few yellow, one person wore bright red. I could not see what was set up in the front. I imagined that it was the coffin adorned with flowers and encircled in the smoke many incense made. Or, it is her name plaque with her picture as a backdrop.

Paying respect to the dead.

When I was young, I only saw white cloaks. So I wanted to know what the different colors meant and whether the coffin was open or closed, but it was too inappropriate to ask anyone. I don’t remember that the ritual had any specifications about the coffin. We had an open coffin when my father-in-law passed away. But it was inside of an air-conditioned funeral home. This was a miserably hot day, and more than 49 days after her death. I wondered how they prepared her for this.

Most people bowed. A group kneeled. They must be the closer relatives.

People began to form lines to get ready for the procession.

For the entire morning, suo na played over and over, monks chanted, people came in and out. Gradually, around 1 p.m., men and women congregated on the sidewalks. Men wore white shirts and black pants, women in navy blue traditional Chinese dresses. They slowly formed lines on both sidewalks. Lilies were distributed to the women.

Police and the suo na players.

A police took position at the intersection where our alley merged into the street. He began to direct cars.The suo na players from the morning gathered their gongs and instruments and got ready to climb into their respective trucks.

People are lined up and the flute players are ready.

A group of young, beautiful ladies wearing bright orange shirt and black long skirts were conducted into position by a young man in black, who seemed to be the general conductor of the procession.

Then, as if on timer, all of the suo nas began to play in unison, from the trucks where the women in blue and men in pink sat, and from all the small blue trucks. Loud speakers on all the trucks amplified the sound. I could hear nothing but the heartbreaking tune.

The procession began.

Bluck trucks all had loudspeakers.

Several floaters, adorned with thousands of flowers lead the way, followed by a row of small blue trucks, each carrying either a suo na player, or paper mache bird or flower basket.

The coffin bearers.

The coffin came out. It was painted in bright red, with the word “fu”, bliss, on its head and foot boards. A tapestry with red tassels draped over the coffin. This again was done because grandma lived to a good age. For less blessed ones, the coffin would be painted in black. A dozen strong men carried the coffin on their shoulders, just like how I remembered from my childhood. Back then, though, I thought the sons and male relatives actually carried the coffin themselves, not these hired men.

The group of young ladies in orange held their flutes in hands. They stood in front the coffin bearers, waiting.

The coffin floater.

In the middle of the caravan was an elaborately decorated floater that carries a gigantic picture of grandma in the front. It came slowly and deliberately down the street, as if hesitant to approach. That’s the special floater for the coffin.

Proceeding into the street.

Upon seeing it, the young ladies in orange began to play their flutes. As the floater passed, they bent around the corner and followed behind.

The coffin bearers walked behind the young ladies.

Immediate descendants

The immediate descendants, sons and grandsons, followed the coffin; their wives followed them. Their cloaks differed from all the rest: they were linen ones of earthy color. On the heads of the sons and grandsons, they wore a thin crown made with twisted strands of straws. The son walked in the center. He held a red box at his chest, in which stood a wooden plague with grandma’s name. This plaque will join other plaques on the family altar that will receive worship every year during major holidays. The grandson held a black umbrella over his father to shield the plaque from sun and rain, and his dad, too.

Mourners

Suo na blasted through the loudspeakers, the mourners followed the family and proceeded on.

Setup is being taken down.

Many hours later, a smaller caravan came back. A few suo na players accompanied it. I assume they came back with the plague and the ashes. Meanwhile, the workers cleaned the area, taking down the setup. I guess at some point a tofu meal was served.

Not too long ago, I was touring Taipei with two friends from the U.S. The taxi driver was a gregarious man. We drove past a mountain side covered with tomb stones. “Look! “He said, “We Chinese leave the best sites to the dead, like this hillside with a view. The living takes the bad site.” He pointed to the foot of the hill. We laughed with him, looking at the many roof tops in the congested valley.

That, he said, is xiao, filial piety.

Day 15 status

Day 15, not going well, hasn’t been going well since Day 1. Meeting after meeting in the evening when I write best.

Staring at the chart, it says coldly, “At this rate you will finish on December 15.”

Can’t. This is a November thing!

I want to give up, I really do.

But my children cheer me on. They, too, struggle, but they are trying.

“writing is about outlasting your doubt“. Thanks for sharing the quote, G!

My son is obviously going strong!