Gettin' Nanjingy With It
Though my trip to China was book-ended by a double visit to Shanghai, the overall plan for in between was about as well-laid as a 16 year old Spelling Quiz-keteer at Star Trek camp. Sure, Miss Kristen was kind enough to open up her home to me and my homo-nanigans. But I still wasn’t about to schlep around for a week mooching off her frozen mushu pork when a wide world waited. Truth be told, I've never been the one-pair-o-undies-per-week hostel-hopping type (roughin' it for me is a night at the HoJo). But I decided to dust out the backpack and set my sights for Beijing, solo-bound!
But let’s not bolt ahead.... Traipsing up to Tiananmen for an ol' fashioned Forbidden City frolick was still days away. In the meantime, I'd come with Kristen to Nanjing and there was much to see, much to conquer....
Oops, sorry. Bad choice of words.
Nanjing, the forth largest population center in China, is like most of the eastern cities here: on the go, up and out, paving over the past in a mad dash for better Starbucks parking. Its history is 10 times older than my own alma mater, yet much of what I knew at the time was gleaned from History Channel docs about those happy-go-lucky days of Japanese occupation, widespread rape and mass beheadings. I was nervous, to be honest. Being an America is bad enough these days. But an American, fresh off the boat from Tokyo to boot, does not get you good street cred in the back alleys of this part of town. I was especially apprehensive when I joined Kristen for some team-teaching at the university where she works. Apparently, it was show-n-tell day in class and I was the gift-store trinket being passed around for a good look. What will they think? What will they ask? Would they give the "favorite foods" and girlfriend inquiries a good ten minutes before grilling me over an open flame? Were they ready to pounce at the first whiff of wasabi on someone's breath? There was no way to tell and so I did what I guessed best: strolled into the room all smiles and charm, with a few breath mints in my pocket and a smoke bomb or two in case things got hairy.
Turns out, these kids rocked! Smart, funny and naïve enough with the language to make even a seen-it-all sensei say, "Aw, super cute!" For instance, in China, students can pick their own English aliases. And with names like Artemis, Kaka, and Cabbage, morning role call is WAY much more interesting! All class, we goofed off, Q-and-A'd and just plain kicked it together.... when suddenly, I didn’t feel quite up to snuff anymore. There was, at first, a jumbly in the tumbly, and then an itty bitty ache.... an ouch.... "down there".... you know.... in my gennies!
I thought to myself: "Oh NO NO NO! Please don't be a rebound, a reoccurrence of that problem I had awhile back. Not here! Not now!! Because I sure as hell slammed that chlam with a thorough regimen of Japanese germ killers and I should be right as rain!"
But by afternoon, I was nearly doubled over by a stabbing pain in the stomach. Poor Kristen (bless her heart) rushed me to the local drug store for some OTC relief. The pharmacist, a wizened old lady who was 80 if she was a day, looked me up and down, asked where it hurt, and rattled off her diagnosis in a Mandarin diatribe quite abrasive to my dainty state of mind.
"Um," Kristen chuckled. "She wants to know when you last took a poop."
I calculated momentarily, feeling my face flush red. "Hey, if you need to think about it, then it's been too long!" Kristen joshed.
"Look, Missy," I hissed. "I may be willy-nilly when it comes many topics, but bowel movements are strictly between me and the bowl!"
Unfortunately, when everything from the belly button down's being speared and skewered, it's not the time for modest, and I reluctantly confessed my intimate intestinal details. The old lady laughed at my plight (not an uncommon occurrence in Asia when private parts are concerned) and she handed me
Now, if that’s not a sign from God, then nothing short of a burning bush would convince me I was simply constipated. I mean, my NAME was written all over the frickin' thing! LITERALLY!! Oh, sure, I hadn't the foggiest idea what was in these diuretic pills - powdered tiger's tongue probably - but I didn't care as long as it got IN me, and the brick-hard bulk got OUT!
Sadly, alas, an hour later the scathing pain had yet to depart with its most likely cause, and it didn't take a genius to figure out something else was seriously wrong.... Kinda gives a whole new spin to the saying, "No shit, Sherlock," eh?
And so, after much lolling about and general wailing, Kristen'd had enough (what a doll!) and whisked me away to the nearest ER - not my idea of a hot tourist spot in any place, but especially not in a country just a few decades out of the third world. I had visions of iron lungs, waiting-room amputations, and stadium-sized bird flu-itoriums. In hindsight, though, the hospital wasn't all that bad, albeit a bit convoluted. I’m still fuzzy on the details - being metaphorically impaled by a stake tends to take your mind off other things. But the procedure, as clearly as I recall, involved: several crash-courses in medicinal translation, dealing with more than a few fourth-shift receptionists bitchier than junkyard bitches, and lots of time spent poked and prodded by people in lab coats.
Does it hurt here? No. Does it hurt here? No. Does it hur- OH FUCKING FUCK YES!!
At one point I was on my back, covered in lube while a strange man had an intimate look at my insides.... not so different from a typical Saturday night. But in this case, the guy sure liked his toys: a million dollar medical sonogram with monitor (kinky!). Lots of heavy petting (but without any affectionate foreplay) later, he tossed me a tissue in disdain and announced the diagnosis: inflammation of the urinary tract due to long-term chemical crystallization.
Oh GREAT! Ever since I was eight, I'd fantasized about getting a big rock one day, but kidney stones were NOT what I had in mind!
The only good news was that they were small, and surgery wasn't necessary. A few injections in the love handle, a four-hour IV drip-a-thon and two days bed-rest were enough to break up my build-up. But regrettably, even though the whole affair passed (or rather, did NOT pass) without further incident, I had to cancel my trip to Beijing. Instead of turning into super go-go tourist, I spent the rest of the week chilling about Nanjing and catching up on Hollywood (not all pirates steal booty and babes, you know!). And yeah, I was a little disappointed, to be sure, but looking back, thankful it had happened at a time when helpful friends were around, and in a country where a whole day at the hospital only costs twenty bucks.
Eventually, at week's end, Kristen and I returned to Shanghai for our goopy good-byes. But, the final night before my flight out, I spent alone, walking the luxurious streets of the Bund in search of last-minute shopping and feeling quite sad to leave so soon. Shanghai, for sure, may be louder and crazier than what I've grown accustomed to in Tokyo. But, I could see myself returning to China's crown gem, loving once more this city's life, and looking again upon the skyline's soaring centerpiece: that bulbous Pearl Tower, so aptly named after the jewel born from an oyster's years of hard labor.... so aptly a symbol of modern China, agonizingly coating its hard and gritty past with layer upon layer of lustrous mineral....
And as I stood on the banks of the Huangpo River, gazing at the sight, I patted my still-sore side, and thought, "I SO feel your pain!"
But let’s not bolt ahead.... Traipsing up to Tiananmen for an ol' fashioned Forbidden City frolick was still days away. In the meantime, I'd come with Kristen to Nanjing and there was much to see, much to conquer....
Oops, sorry. Bad choice of words.
Nanjing, the forth largest population center in China, is like most of the eastern cities here: on the go, up and out, paving over the past in a mad dash for better Starbucks parking. Its history is 10 times older than my own alma mater, yet much of what I knew at the time was gleaned from History Channel docs about those happy-go-lucky days of Japanese occupation, widespread rape and mass beheadings. I was nervous, to be honest. Being an America is bad enough these days. But an American, fresh off the boat from Tokyo to boot, does not get you good street cred in the back alleys of this part of town. I was especially apprehensive when I joined Kristen for some team-teaching at the university where she works. Apparently, it was show-n-tell day in class and I was the gift-store trinket being passed around for a good look. What will they think? What will they ask? Would they give the "favorite foods" and girlfriend inquiries a good ten minutes before grilling me over an open flame? Were they ready to pounce at the first whiff of wasabi on someone's breath? There was no way to tell and so I did what I guessed best: strolled into the room all smiles and charm, with a few breath mints in my pocket and a smoke bomb or two in case things got hairy.
Turns out, these kids rocked! Smart, funny and naïve enough with the language to make even a seen-it-all sensei say, "Aw, super cute!" For instance, in China, students can pick their own English aliases. And with names like Artemis, Kaka, and Cabbage, morning role call is WAY much more interesting! All class, we goofed off, Q-and-A'd and just plain kicked it together.... when suddenly, I didn’t feel quite up to snuff anymore. There was, at first, a jumbly in the tumbly, and then an itty bitty ache.... an ouch.... "down there".... you know.... in my gennies!
I thought to myself: "Oh NO NO NO! Please don't be a rebound, a reoccurrence of that problem I had awhile back. Not here! Not now!! Because I sure as hell slammed that chlam with a thorough regimen of Japanese germ killers and I should be right as rain!"
But by afternoon, I was nearly doubled over by a stabbing pain in the stomach. Poor Kristen (bless her heart) rushed me to the local drug store for some OTC relief. The pharmacist, a wizened old lady who was 80 if she was a day, looked me up and down, asked where it hurt, and rattled off her diagnosis in a Mandarin diatribe quite abrasive to my dainty state of mind.
"Um," Kristen chuckled. "She wants to know when you last took a poop."
I calculated momentarily, feeling my face flush red. "Hey, if you need to think about it, then it's been too long!" Kristen joshed.
"Look, Missy," I hissed. "I may be willy-nilly when it comes many topics, but bowel movements are strictly between me and the bowl!"
Unfortunately, when everything from the belly button down's being speared and skewered, it's not the time for modest, and I reluctantly confessed my intimate intestinal details. The old lady laughed at my plight (not an uncommon occurrence in Asia when private parts are concerned) and she handed me
Now, if that’s not a sign from God, then nothing short of a burning bush would convince me I was simply constipated. I mean, my NAME was written all over the frickin' thing! LITERALLY!! Oh, sure, I hadn't the foggiest idea what was in these diuretic pills - powdered tiger's tongue probably - but I didn't care as long as it got IN me, and the brick-hard bulk got OUT!
Sadly, alas, an hour later the scathing pain had yet to depart with its most likely cause, and it didn't take a genius to figure out something else was seriously wrong.... Kinda gives a whole new spin to the saying, "No shit, Sherlock," eh?
And so, after much lolling about and general wailing, Kristen'd had enough (what a doll!) and whisked me away to the nearest ER - not my idea of a hot tourist spot in any place, but especially not in a country just a few decades out of the third world. I had visions of iron lungs, waiting-room amputations, and stadium-sized bird flu-itoriums. In hindsight, though, the hospital wasn't all that bad, albeit a bit convoluted. I’m still fuzzy on the details - being metaphorically impaled by a stake tends to take your mind off other things. But the procedure, as clearly as I recall, involved: several crash-courses in medicinal translation, dealing with more than a few fourth-shift receptionists bitchier than junkyard bitches, and lots of time spent poked and prodded by people in lab coats.
Does it hurt here? No. Does it hurt here? No. Does it hur- OH FUCKING FUCK YES!!
At one point I was on my back, covered in lube while a strange man had an intimate look at my insides.... not so different from a typical Saturday night. But in this case, the guy sure liked his toys: a million dollar medical sonogram with monitor (kinky!). Lots of heavy petting (but without any affectionate foreplay) later, he tossed me a tissue in disdain and announced the diagnosis: inflammation of the urinary tract due to long-term chemical crystallization.
Oh GREAT! Ever since I was eight, I'd fantasized about getting a big rock one day, but kidney stones were NOT what I had in mind!
The only good news was that they were small, and surgery wasn't necessary. A few injections in the love handle, a four-hour IV drip-a-thon and two days bed-rest were enough to break up my build-up. But regrettably, even though the whole affair passed (or rather, did NOT pass) without further incident, I had to cancel my trip to Beijing. Instead of turning into super go-go tourist, I spent the rest of the week chilling about Nanjing and catching up on Hollywood (not all pirates steal booty and babes, you know!). And yeah, I was a little disappointed, to be sure, but looking back, thankful it had happened at a time when helpful friends were around, and in a country where a whole day at the hospital only costs twenty bucks.
Eventually, at week's end, Kristen and I returned to Shanghai for our goopy good-byes. But, the final night before my flight out, I spent alone, walking the luxurious streets of the Bund in search of last-minute shopping and feeling quite sad to leave so soon. Shanghai, for sure, may be louder and crazier than what I've grown accustomed to in Tokyo. But, I could see myself returning to China's crown gem, loving once more this city's life, and looking again upon the skyline's soaring centerpiece: that bulbous Pearl Tower, so aptly named after the jewel born from an oyster's years of hard labor.... so aptly a symbol of modern China, agonizingly coating its hard and gritty past with layer upon layer of lustrous mineral....
And as I stood on the banks of the Huangpo River, gazing at the sight, I patted my still-sore side, and thought, "I SO feel your pain!"