This is another ten-pager folks; you might want to print it out. If
youÍve missed any of my former ñYangzhou Impressionsî (All except the
first one which hasnÍt been posted), you can find them on the Staples
High School web page. Go to: http://staples.westport.k12.ct.usî. Next,
click on the ñSister Citiesî web link on the left side of the page. From
there, under the ñWestport Informationîcolumn, click on ñCultural
Exchangeî and then youÍll see my ñImpressionsî under ñFray Journalsî. My
colleague, Jim Honeycutt, and his Computer Club should be adding
photographs to the entries as soon as they receive them.



 The first week after my cousin BruceÍs death found me crying or
teary-eyed at unpredictable moments. I managed to reach my brother Scott
in a South Carolina hotel room hours before the funeral. Armed with the
comfort of a family memberÍs soothing voice, I set about to keep as busy
as possible for the rest of the week.
 My lesson plan for that upcoming week involved a discussion on
Sojourner Truth, the 19th century African-American abolitionist and
womenÍs rights advocate. With my bed quilt wrapped around my shoulders
and my winter scarf the closest thing I could find to simulate a
white-laced hair piece, I began each class by delivering SojournerÍs
famous, ñAinÍt I A Woman?î speech. I stayed in character for the entire
class as we discussed slavery, the 1848 Seneca Falls WomanÍs Convention,
the Civil War and the conviction of one ex-slave who had only courage
and determination in her favor when it came to defending the rights of
her race and her sex. The students seemed thrilled by the live theater
and some students actually volunteered their questions and responses
during class. Since all sixty students normally sit quiet as church mice
when I facilitate a discussion, this was particularly gratifying.
 That weekend, I took long walks and bike rides, attended Saturday night
karaoke and caught up on some work. On Monday, I was invited by my
English Department colleagues to join them and their spouses for dinner
that evening in a local restaurant to celebrate the upcoming National
Day holiday. I decided that I had moped around for long enough and
noticed renewed vigor in my stride as I crossed campus that afternoon to
bring Ji Chunhong the following weekÍs lesson plan to be copied.
 We all gathered at the schoolÍs back gate at 6pm and rode the ten
minutes to a less-than-elegant restaurant with a cozy banquet room. A
television blared in the corner, suspended by the usual pendant fixture
and I instinctively surveyed the room for a karaoke machine but found
none. ñSusanÍsî brother arrived clutching in his arms a set of four
Chinese rice wine bottles, the tattered pink gift ribbon which bound
them suggesting unfinished business from an earlier banquet. ñAnnieî,
whom I call ñDangerousî for her giddy, mischievous ways, introduced me
to her husband. ñIt was love at first sightî, she told me with a wink.
ñHazelî was just back from visiting her 42-year-old aunt in Shanghai, a
non-smoker whoÍs dying in a hospital from lung cancer. Her fiancÚ was
expected soon, fresh from that eveningÍs local newscast where heÍs an
anchor. ñMarieÍsî husband was hosting a business dinner in an adjoining
banquet room, but Marie promised heÍd be in to meet me. My deskmate from
the office, ñAlbertî, sat faithfully at my side and as the others teased
me about how much rice wine I was meant to drink to ñshow respect for
the hostî, I turned to him and said, ñIÍll take care of you tonight if
you take care of me.î He nodded his assent with his usual boyish smile.
 SusanÍs brother was the first to ñchallengeî me to a toast> I was told
that he had a reputation for being able to put it away, but I warned
them all that the Russians had taught me how to drink years before. They
appeared mildly intrigued. After a number of toasts and a steadily
spinning lazy Susan brimming with hot dishes, I noticed that AlbertÍs
face had a bright red flush. ñI donÍt drink wellî, he told me, his smile
less convincing as he briskly maneuvered his chopsticks to extract a
steaming dumpling from the passing melange of pork, chicken, duck,
vegetables and soup.
 ñA toast to our birthdaysî, said Marie with grand gestures, raising a
tall glass half full of rice wine. "And hereÍs to HazelÍs upcoming
marriage which comes right after our birthdays!î I added, partially in
acknowledgment of her fiancÚ who had just arrived. I threw back the rice
wine in true Russian-style and Marie did the same. What I remember of
the rest of the evening is Annie ordering me more Peking Duck, being the
subject of several photographs, HazelÍs fiancÚ appearing to deliver the
news on the blaring television above our heads while he sat right next
to me and, finally, following a crowd out to the restaurantÍs front door
to watch poor Albert throwing up in a side alley.
 ñWould you like a taxi home?î Annie and Marie asked me soon after. They
had looks of mild concern. ñAlbert would be glad to escort you home.î It
was at about this precise moment that I noticed that I couldnÍt walk a
straight line. ñSure, thatÍd be fineî, I responded, wondering how on
earth I had actually arrived at this pathetic state. Years of Russians
hadnÍt been able to accomplish what these Chinese had been able to in
one evening; I had always known my limit up until now, it seemed. They
all waved off Albert and me and I turned to him in the taxi and
repeated, ñIÍll take care of you if you take care of me.î
 Sitting in my kitchen, I tried to appear as cheerful as possible for
Albert, no matter that the room was spinning. At one point, my gaze sat
fixed on him and he made for me the international symbol for
self-induced vomiting. I repeated it back to him with a surprised,
uncertain mimicry. He nodded his head up and down, his finger still
lodged in his throat. As we took turns praying to the porcelain God, I
tried to remember the last time that alcohol had caused me to be ill: 15
years old? 18? ñWeÍll never drink that much again, right Albert?î I told
him as he stood to leave. ñNo, Mr. Chrisî, he affirmed, ñNever again.î
 The next morning, Marie, Hazel, Annie and Susan knocked at my door with
their tail between their legs. I could see them trying to appear
contrite instead of breaking into the smile that lurked just beneath
their painted lips and the delicate lines around their eyes. They
appeared only somewhat relaxed when I told them that the first thing I
had done when I had woken up at 5am, fully clothed and with all the
lights on, was to laugh out loud. ñBut please donÍt tell anyone about
this in the Administration. They would not be happy with us.î After
assuring them IÍd keep quiet (MumÍs the word, Ye Ningqing!), they
invited me to a quiet lunch later that afternoon in part, it seemed , to
offer their apologies for something for which I did not hold them
responsible. Although my stomach was hardly up for the meal, I slurped
down some ñCrossing The Bridgeî soup, one of the special dishes from
Yunnan Province, the place where I was slated to go for the National Day
holiday in a mere two days.
 The school driver, Lao Zhou, was waiting for me early Thursday morning
in the warmed up, Korean import car. Mrs. Ding, the English Department
Head, and her young grandson sat in the back seat for the trip to
Nanjing. He and I played peek-a-boo until the red banners for National
Day distracted him long enough so that I could take some drive-by photos
of the ñotherî Chinese capital as it unfurled for the dayÍs celebration.

 My flight to Kunming in Yunnan Province took nearly three hours and I
shared my anticipation with the couple to my left, two twenty-something
Nanjing natives who were off on their own 16-day odyssey throughout the
Province. As we prepared for landing, I gazed expectantly down upon the
City of Eternal Spring and wondered what it might have to offer. For
many ñclass enemiesî had been sent to Kunming and the environs during
the Cultural Revolution as well as students who were assigned to live
among the peasants. When these people were rehabilitated and ordered
back to their hometowns, many of them refused to go, preferring the mild
climate and abundant resources to the chaos whence they had come. On
another historical note, my Aunt TheresaÍs father had been stationed in
Kunming during WW II, helping to prop up the Nationalist army of Chang
Kaishek in his bid to drive out the Japanese before turning his
attention to MaoÍs Communists.
 Although China only has a 10% minority population, the other 90% being
Han Chinese, many of them live in this Province which runs along the
northern border of Burma. I made a hotel reservation in the airport with
a young woman from the Bai minority nationality named ñCeciliaî. After
flirting and writing out the words to ñCecilia, YouÍre Breaking My
Heartî for her, I popped across the street and booked an air ticket to
Dali for that Saturday. Although my spoken Chinese is slowly evolving,
hand signals and sheer determination helped me to win giggles from the
airline sales representative and a round-trip airfare for cheaper than
booking through a travel agent. I was on my way.
 On the airport bus to my hotel, I met the first of two fellow travelers
for whom I felt myself to be somewhat of an older brother. Both were in
their mid-twenties, both loved traveling but were feeling the pull from
home to ñsettle downî, and both had attended a family wedding within the
previous two weeks at which more than one relative had wondered aloud if
their turn would be next. I myself had once been in their shoes.
 Yasu was quite excited on the bus ride into the Kunming city center.
This was the first day ever to lay eyes on China for this Japanese
native. He was short, with a handsome face and thick, geaky
tortoiseshell glasses. As he half spoke with me, half kept his eye
peeled for his stop, I wondered if the glasses were a fashion statement
or a pair bought in hope of sharpening his vision. After chatting for a
bit, we agreed to meet at my hotel later that evening to go to dinner.
 The National Day celebrations were getting under way as we sat in a
restaurant called ñYunnan Typical Foodî where I had the best Sweet and
Sour Pork of my life. The fried cheese was also a treat since the
Province of Yunnan untypically prepares and sells dairy products. The
Tsingtao beer washed everything down perfectly. After dinner, Yasu and I
sat on a bench under the overpass between the Holiday Inn and Kunming
hotels. He asked my advice on some of the larger questions he was
confronting, particularly those concerning his family. ñJapan is
differentî, he said, his thick glasses dipping on his nose as he tried
to articulate, ñIÍm expected to take care of my parents as they get
older, but all I want to do is travel.î Conversation eventually turned
to some of the social problems in Japan, AIDS in particular: ñThere are
many questions that I have, things that I want to know about AIDS, but
in Japan, no one talks about it.î Soon, we began to walk as the lights
and horns and sounds of celebration beckoned, promising a longed-for
entertainment.
 Our first stop was an amusement park just off of one of KumningÍs main
streets. Amidst the ferris wheel, bumper cars, food stands and game
arcades stood a solitary hall with an open entrance in all four
directions. The walls were stocked seven- or eight- high with formal
portraits of Communist officials, yellow Chinese characters on Miss
America-style red banners draped over their shoulders. As was typical,
several Chinese openly stared at me while Yasu remained oblivious. After
a young girl stared up at me from between her fatherÍs legs, her
expression one of half-horror, half-fascination, it struck me that one
day she might cite this moment as the first time she ever saw a
foreigner. As Yasu and I watched the bumper cars thrash about, it seemed
to me that he wanted to ride them. As we left the park, a tall Chinese
man with a directed, graceful stride followed me and my eyes as we left
the park. Again, Yasu remained oblivious.
We continued our walk, past decorated streets, open department stores
and orderly revelers. We parted company under the hotel overpass,
promising each other a shared meal if we happened to meet up in Dali in
a few days. I watched him walk away for twenty seconds or so, his steady
gait betrayed by an occasional skip, the possibilities for China dancing
just beneath the surface of his imagination.
 My next younger ñsiblingî appeared bright and early the next morning
just after breakfast in the hotel lobby. Her accent sounded French and
without the pretense of an introduction, she asked me where I had gotten
my tickets to go to the Stone Forest. Barely waiting for my response,
she complained that she wanted to get hers directly and not pay the fee
charged by a travel agency. I then meandered a bit around the lobby,
poking my head in the lobby shop. When I got into my air-conditioned
van, the more expensive one for foreigners, she was sitting there next
to me. She introduced herself as Sharon and said she was from Tel Aviv,
Israel. ñI knowî, she half-sighed, ñEveryone thinks IÍm French.î Our
tour escort introduced himself, a university student with barely
passable English who probably received a pittance of a salary in
exchange for the right to practice his English and, more precisely, to
practice it with foreigners. A tall, lanky Swiss businessman sat behind
us with his Chinese wife and two children. ñI came to Chengdu on
business in 1987 and I never leftî, he declared with a broad,
much-too-enthusiastic-smile and gleam in his eyes that I normally
associate with the Germans. The other three Japanese spoke only among
themselves.
 Sharon made a cutting remark after our escort announced our second rest
stop at a gift shop, on that was certainly loud enough for him to hear.
Like someone passing gas in a room of strangers with everyone trying
their best to ignore it, I smiled weakly to myself a consciously avoided
looking at he Swiss-Chinese family. ñThe Chinese talk so loud!î Sharon
continued, equally as loudly as we got out of the van, ñI took the
overnight bus from Dali last night and got no sleep because the two
drivers were practically yelling all night. Finally, they shut up.î
After pressing her, she admitted that they had quieted down at her
insistence.
 As is my pattern with all strong-willed women I meet, I immediately
attached myself to her, both fearful and fascinated as she blazed a
navigable path before us with her sharp wit and tongue. As is true with
all fast friends on the road, we shared the germane facts of our lives
and it was a given that we would spend the day together in the Stone
Forest.
 ñI canÍt believe how many pictures Chinese people take of each other!î
she exclaimed. The path before us looked grim as throngs of Chinese on
National Day vacation milled along the stone path. The Stone Forest,
however, a natural wonder resulting from seismic, geological
disturbances millions of years ago, proved a magical backdrop to our
evolving acquaintance. ñThis place is too touristy, just like Dali wasî
she told me as we pulled up a rock for our lunch. ñI just spent five
wonderful days with an American professor in the backwoods of the
Province. We went to these remote villages where, when I pulled out a
cigarette, the peasants just about fainted from shock.î She went on to
explain how fascinated she was by the professors theories on the
biological interconnectedness of the Earth. He was given grant money
from the University of Colorado and was doing field work al over the
world to show that ecological phenomena observed in the Amazon Forest
can be observed as far away as China from a time when the planetÍs land
masses were united. ñAnd he owns a dance studio on the West Coast! What
a life! I want a life like that, being able to travel, to do work thatÍs
important.î We split a Snickers and a cigarette before continuing our
walk in the Forest.
 When we found our way out, we sat and talked more. I was careful when I
spoke not to come off as too patronizing or else a sharp look from he
would let me know that I was pushing it. ñIÍve got his job offer in
Amsterdam with a great engineering company. HavenÍt told my boyfriend
yet.î she laughed. ñOf course, my oldest brother thinks I should settle
down. And my mother jokes that sheÍs got two daughters and a
son„me„because I travel the world and ride a motorcycle.î I nodded and
said nothing. ñBut I want more from life! My best friend growing up got
married to an Army officer and has two kids at 26. She always asks me
about my life and once she started crying when I was telling her about
my life and my love affairs.î She paused. ñI donÍt want to be the one
whoÍs left crying.î
 When we got back to Kunming, we went to dinner at ñYunnan Typical Foodî
and I thought of ways to smuggle home the Sweet and Sour sauce. We
parted company at the hotel, exchanging addresses before she set off to
get her bags for Guilin. The next morning I grabbed my camcorder and
ventured out into town. My first stop and only stop as it turned out was
the cityÍs main square. Crowds thronged the open expanse surrounding the
central fountain, each person part of a group pursuing a different
interest. One group performed Chinese ballroom dancing, some older men
in attendance but mostly pairs of women in their sixties and seventies
swayed in the early hours to the music. Another group was doing what
looked like line dancing. Still anther group of older women waved small,
pink pom poms, reminding me of a 50th reunion of some high school
cheerleaders doing it once more for old times sake. Another group of
senior citizens was getting their blood pressure taken at a table set up
by a local health organization. Finally, a circle dance of old-timers
spun round and round to the accompaniment of tow younger men in their
50s who were softly played their guitars. This peripatetic Congo line
was too cute. I would have been hard pressed were it my task to assign a
ñBest Hatî prize as some of the women were quite creative in their
efforts to block the City of Eternal SpringÍs morning sun.
 Other older folk outlined the perimeter of the square, their various
games drawing old friends and acquaintances as spectators. As in other
parts of China, older people rise early to beat the traffic rush and to
stay active both mentally and physically through participation such
activities. The only younger people I saw were those performing Tai Chi
in circles of spectators. Some Tai Chi enthusiasts seemed quite amused
at my efforts to film them and one in particular kept saying ñ ÍLaowaiÍ
this and ïLaowaiÍ thatî (ñLaowaiî meaning ñForeignerî).  After I was
satisfied with my footage, I said to the assembled crowd, ñLaowai shuo
xie xieî (ñThe foreigner says thank youî) and got roars of approving
laughter. In particular, I remember an old man whose smiling mouth was
missing more teeth than it retained. Games of cards and chess stopped
momentarily to acknowledge my presence. Only the participants in the
fierce games of Maah Jong didnÍt react to my cameraÍs intrusion, their
concentration too fierce to be distracted by a wandering Lao Wai.
My half-hour afternoon flight to Dali brought me to an airport a full 50
minutes from the Old City. Perplexed by the expensive taxi fair that was
quoted me, I went back into the small airport and caused quite a stir.
Chinese have no qualms about forming a crowd around you and staring,
especially when it involves a Lao Wai. Their natural timidity takes a
back seat to their curiosity, a public disturbance or spectacle
providing the perfect cover for the quelling of said curiosity. I
spouted prices and poorly formed questions to the young woman behind the
information counter. The good-natured Chinese laughed at my struggle to
express myself and did their best to help me to be understood. Finally,
after a call to a local Dali hotel to secure a reservation and a
negotiated taxi price, I was off.
 The taxi pulled into the ancient City Gates and I was let off at ñOld
No. 5î, a suggestion from my guidebook. The two stories of rooms were
set around a central courtyard reminiscent of a Spanish hacienda. After
being shown my double room with a bath for 100 kuai a night (about $12
US), I was suddenly informed by Reception in broken English that my room
was no longer available. Indignant, I looked up ñto telephoneî in my
dictionary and insisted that I had called from the airport an hour
before and was entitled to the room. My argument was persuasive and it
soon became apparent to me that a young Chinese couple had just walked
in off the street and didnÍt want to be separated in single rooms. I
asked to see the single room. It was certainly comfortable enough for
the evening, but the communal shower was dismal and I had to hold my
breath upon being shown the communal menÍs room. In the end, however,
the womanÍs pretty face and pleading eyes convinced me to be a good guy
and give up my room ïjust for one nightÍ, as I was assured.
 Walking around town for the rest of the afternoon and early evening
gave me a great deal of pleasure. For the first time in China, I felt
comfortable, in control and utterly charmed. Sharon had complained that
Dali was too touristy, but the souvenir shops and streets lined with
restaurants advertising ñWestern Foodî were right up my alley. I drank
Becks and wrote in my journal in one bar/restaurant, occasionally
looking up to see the Westerners pass by. Most of them were in their
20Ís, on low budgets and sporting tie dyes or some of the colorful
embroidered local threads theyÍd bought for cheap from one of the shops
run by members of the national minorities. After pizza and hot and sour
soup, I wandered the streets, coming across an older drunk Chinese man
who brought me into his familyÍs small restaurant where we both tried to
pretend we didnÍt notice we were being ignored. After a quick jaunt into
a small karaoke bar, where the owner and the wives of two Chinese men
seemed thrilled to have me but the men were clearly not, I made my way
from shop to shop to price souvenirs.
 Dali was a turning point in my language ability. As a foreign language
instructor, I stress reading, writing, listening and speaking abilities
in my students. I myself have put off learning Chinese characters for a
rainy day, but haggling that evening with the shop owners was the first
time I was forming complete sentences and being understood! Of course,
when the shop owners went on ranting about the great value of their
product, I was utterly lost but became quite good at shaking my head and
smiling.
 The next morning while renting a bike, I met an American, a professor
on a plant gathering expedition, who had grown up in Norwalk, CT and had
been on Main Street, Westport many times. He promptly introduced me to
Terry, a Kiwi working at the Kunming Botanical Gardens and her two
friends, Ian and David, two Aussies who had turned a Hong Kong business
trip into a tour to Mainland China.
 We spent the morning and afternoon climbing sixth century pagodas and
gawking at the beauty of the Himalayan foothills. We rode our bikes
through the narrow alleys of a small village where spiders the size of
an adultÍs hand basked in the warmth of their intricately patterned
webs. They hung suspended from one roof to another and looked out over
the villagers collecting the harvest in the fields. We found a small
restaurant where Ian and I immediately put the warm beers in the freezer
and Terry walked into the kitchen to make sure it was clean. Over lunch,
Terry told me she had had a dream that she would meet someone who was
reading Charles FrazierÍs Cold Mountain, a novel she had just finished
and that I had just begun. ñDue to my work, I loved reading the names of
all the plants in the book. But please tell me one thingî she said, her
exasperation expressed comically in her New Zealand twang. ñWhat in
GodÍs name are ïgritsÍ?î
 After lunch, we parted company as I had to make a 2:30 p.m. combination
horse and buggy and then boat ride on the lake. As I pedaled, I noticed
the foothills had clouded over and many of the field gatherers had taken
the opportunity to have lunch. They ate from large bowls with chopsticks
next to rows upon rows of freshly picked hay bundles which were wrapped
up neatly and looked like armies of corn husk dolls in the distance.
Others continued their work in the rice paddies, wading in ankle deep
water with their pant legs rolled up and their bamboo sun-blocking hats
making them look like fleeting stills (howÍs that for an oxymoron?) from
a CNN promotion for News Asia. After realizing that I wouldnÍt make it
on time, I hitched a ride on one of the many vehicles transporting
harvest bales but discovered to my dismay that the young man was
transporting stones from a quarry. After helping me to secure my bike to
the rock pile, we climbed in the cab of the small truck and he pulled
out a long tool to crank the engine. With the cab huffing and puffing
and smoke ascending from the engine, he pulled out a pear from the glove
compartment and offered me a cigarette. When he deposited me at the City
Gates, he charged me 3 yuan ($ .38) and shook my hand like a gentleman.
 The next day I happened to be on the same flight back to Kunming with
Terry, David and Ian and so we shared a cab to the airport. In the
waiting room, Ian, a rough Aussie with a cynical, funny sense of humor
and his best drinking days behind him, told me that I hadnÍt been
imaging things when I smelled pot coming out of the another room at my
hotel. ñYou know the guys trying to change money in the streets? Any of
of ïem will sell ya dope. In fact, go to the Muslim quarter of any
Chinese city and youÍll be able to buy some. The Chinese authorities are
more worried about the heroin coming up from Burma or else theyÍre
lining their pockets with it.î
 Back in Kunming for my last night, I made a beeline for the Holiday Inn
where I had a date with a bacon double cheeseburger and fries. I taught
myself to say ñHappy Mid-Autumn Festivalî in Chinese and took to wishing
the waiter and hostess a nice holiday. I made my usual scene, bopping my
head to MadonnaÍs Ray of Light on my Walkman in between cheeseburger
bites while completing lesson plans for the rest of the semester. It was
only after paying and walking down the street that it dawned on me that
I had arrived in Kunming on one Chinese holiday and was leaving just
after another.
 My first stop was a sidewalk stage where a young man in a florescent
green suit with a 70Ís wide-neck collar sang a Chinese version of the
Western pop tune, ñNothingÍs Gonna Stop Us Nowî. Children sat on their
parentÍs shoulders so they could see, holding the balloons they had
bought from the man who also sold stuffed animals. Families strolled and
women laughed. It could have been a Memorial Day parade celebration in
Anytown, USA except that everyone was Chinese.
 I continued to the square where the older Chinese had been dancing a
few mornings before and was struck by what a source of amusement I
really was. ñYouÍll be a celebrity wherever you go.î Jan Bianco had told
me. Some yelled out ñHelloî, others pointed at me and smiled while young
girls giggled amongst themselves when I caught them staring at me. When
I stopped in a public restroom, the tension was palpable. The Chinese
tried so hard not to be shocked by my presence that it was almost
comical.
 On the way back to my hotel, I passed the stage where the man had been
singing and noticed a huge mooncake being carved by chefs in white hats
and families lined up for their piece. Ascending the crosswalk by the
Holiday Inn, my gaze rested on a beggar crawling on all fours amidst the
scurrying pedestrians. Two young men who finally walked off were clearly
taunting him. Taking pity on him, I pulled out a five yuan note and
followed him until he stopped for long enough for me to bend down to
hand him the bill. He snatched it out of my hands at about the same time
that I noticed that he was missing three fingers. He looked up into my
face and with a broad grin said, ñXie xieî (ñThank youî) My eyebrows
leapt in horror.
 My immediate instinct was to run away and I actually took a quick step
with my right foot. But I stood my ground, the ripples of goose bumps
running up and down my spine and then down the backs of my legs. The
young man had had the majority of his face burned away. His nose was a
stub. That he could have spoken such clearly pitched Chinese mystified
me, but I managed to say ñBu Yon Xieî (ñYouÍre welcomeî), smile at him
and walk away. By the time I descended the crosswalk on the other side,
my goose bumps were just beginning to dissipate.
I saw a woman selling art on the sidewalk, something that IÍd normally
walk by. A drawing caught my eye and I stopped. The artist was a member
of the Bai minority, I was told, and he used bright, living colors on a
black background. I began to haggle with the woman over the price of a
drawing that featured a Bai woman in full native costume. A crowd
gathered, staring intently from the woman to me as at a tennis match as
we played the bargaining game. My exaggerated gestures and declarations
of incredulity provoked laughs from the spectators. As a break in our
negotiations, the woman pulled out another picture and smiled as she
examined the ways my eyes danced. I looked up the crosswalk and then
back down to the black canvas which featured three woman. ñTis wimin is
Asia wimin. And tis wimin is Africa wiminî, she said, pointing to the
Black woman in the sari wrap, her baby caught in the folds on her back.
ñAnd this wimin is Western wiminî she said, a blue-eyed woman with blond
braids down to the middle of her back. All three woman had their palms
turned up to the sky in a gesture of supplication, a flock of doves
having flown off into the horizon seemingly from their collective
embrace. ñDuoshao qian?î (ñHow much?î), I asked. My subsequent
bargaining was half-hearted. The same word echoed in my head over and
over as I thought of the disfigured beggar and then looked down upon the
drawing of the three women: transcendence. We agreed on a price and I
headed back to my hotel, both pictures rolled up under my arm.
 The next morning, I arrived at the airport by 7am. Lao Zhou, the school
driver, picked me up again and we stopped at Nanjing Southeastern
University for lunch. Although I was tired at the restaurant, I managed
to perform my role for the assembled group of nine Chinese men, none of
whom spoke English. After lunch, while driving across the Yangtze River
Bridge, I took a break from reading Cold Mountain and reflected on my
good fortune.