A Struggle is Worth A Thousand Words: Beijing Edition

Here's the thing about me: I'm a super creeper. When not challenging strangers to trivia contests and whiskey drinking races, I'm the person at the edge of the party, taking pictures, catching uncomfortable moments and suprise instances of double chins (a tragedy common to all but maybe Kate Moss, and I dislike her, so she doesn't win this one). And here's the thing about China, it's practically made for staring. It's like New York Fashion week, all kinds of crazy things are going on, everyone is wearing heels, and no one seems to have heard this rumor about "pants". You replace Anna Wintour with Chairman Mao and you are in business, baby. (By the way, if Beijing had a Fashion Week next year, you heard it here first. I'd say China would owe me money, but I think we all know how that nation feels about copyright laws...)

Anyway, considering that not only did I elicit looks everywhere I went, especially in Beijing, and will be included in more then one chinese family's photo album ( I'm not going to tell you the number, but I was asked to pose with quite a few smiling Chinese families and even had some solo photos snapped of me with various camera phones. I now know how Brangelina feels, obviously), I decided it would be perfectly socially acceptable for me to retaliate in kind. Turnabout is fair play, right?

Struggle Gets Shanghaied

Let me tell you something you might not find surprising about the Peoples Republic of China. Now, to be fair, there are indeed many things that ARE surprising about this here country, it’s visa fees, the fact that you have to register with the police upon arrival, it’s curious lack of other ethnicities… but that’s enough of that (and people may be reading this, so…). And besides, when you go to visit your friend who has moved to China because of all “opportunities”(Hi Lisa!) because there just aren’t enough real jobs  at home, you have to expect a certain amount of crazy, if only because as a US citizen you don’t feel super great appearing in public in pajamas (one of those pesky little puritanical rules that sticks with you). But to return to my original point (feel free to scroll up, I tend to wander) this place is not easy to get to, and I will be more then happy to tell you just how not easy it can be.

Those of you who have been playing along at home will recall that my last port of duty was a small and remote little town that the locals call London. I spent a bit of time in this London place after my stay at the not-Yale that is Oxford, indulging in amazing Indian food with my friend Andrew (Hi, Andrew!) and watching amazing disturbing Italian melodramas  and dodging French tourist while staring at Mesopotamian artifacts in a British exhibition case. You have to love a post colonistic country, they have the best of everything. They should, after all, they stole it.

So, having watched the sun indeed set on the British empire, (and, to be honest, it looks like when the sun sets everywhere else. Please don’t tell India, Rushdie will be SO out of a job) albeit from the Gatwick aiport, I boarded a plane to Dubai, on United Arab Emirates Airlines. Let me tell you a new life rule, if you have the chance, ALWAYS, and if I didn’t make myself clear, ALWAYS take United Arab Emirates Airlines. The air hostess outfits alone make this trip worth it, but the combination of halfway decent food (the best you can hope for on a plane) hilarious safety demonstrations, movie selection and free booze make this trip the best that 15 hours with a stop in Dubai could possibly be. Having done my best in my 3 hours in the Dubai airport to marry rich (hung out in the duty free, helped several asian tourists buy cigarettes, left without a ring, you tell me the modern age has no great tragedies), I boarded another plane to Shanghai, and after an addition few hours (or 8, or 9, or so…) I finally reached the beginning of the Silk Road, from whence all raw materials begin. That is to say, as western visitor, I couldn’t help but create my own sphere of influence. In other words? How do people who are not from China look at China in anyway other then predatory? Our money, for the time being, is worth more, and this is indeed the place to buy, to buy whatever you want, whatever you can conceive, whatever is made by hand it made in China. You can’t get a glass of wine here for a reasonable price, and bread is like some kind of precious gem, but silk made gowns or slippers, ceramic bowels or rubber shoes, cotton, linen, hair ties and glasses, rugs and watches, fake designer, well, whatever, shoes, ties, bikes and wallets, my friend, you want these things for cheap? You want these things from China. And darlings,  let’s be real, these things from China? I’m buying them.

Today, Lisa and I, and by the way, this Lisa character I keep talking about? She is a saint. She speaks this lingo (and who else really does, I mean, a pictogram based language? COME ON), and, well, we went to a fabric market. I had, at Lisa’s recommendation, brought a favorite blouse of mine to get remade by Chinese tailors. We picked out a few bolts of silk (as once does in China) and bargained (she bargained) the saleswoman down to the lowest possible price to get things tailor made for me in what seems to be the garment district of Shanghai. I am now, by the way, the proud possessor of a bathrobe, 5 boxes of cookies and 3 imaginary but assumed shirts. I really think this is how I’ve always imagined China to be. Irresistible, but full of imaginary things. Let me assure you, this is not untrue. Come to Shanghai. It’s worth the Struggle.

Das Struggle

When I was but a young struggle, innocent and naive, filled with the flush of youth (so, you know, two years ago) I spent some time in Russia, eating blini and pilmeni and looking for a motivation, as one does. And during my time in the artist formerly known as the Soviet Union, I had to take a film class on Russian cinema, which was very good, very bad, and now is very good again, because such is life in a system in which the FILM watches YOU! But of the good and bad and straight up bizarre Russian cinema I watched every Saturday morning for three months while outside, you know, snow happened, one of my personal favorites has to be The Fall of Berlin. Now, this is not a good film. This is in fact a terrible film, it's cliched, it's pure propaganda, and every single person in the movie is in love with Joseph Stalin, girls, boys, farm animals, everyone. But despite the fact that this is terribly acted, directed and filmed, and believe me, it is, this movie is just hilarious. Leah, you ask, how can a Soviet propaganda film, made after the Great Patriotic War, featuring one of Stalin's favorite Stalin impersonators (you read that right, he had several), a love story between a steel worker and a teacher (a marriage of labor and education), which portrays Hitler as a crazy McCrazy, Eva as a ho and a half, and the United States as a German ally be hilarious? Well, did you read that last sentance? Um, yeah, I think I just explained it perfectly. Picture "Springtime for Hitler" but without the irony. Yes, that's it. What's not to love?

So why am I bringing this up now, one might ask? Well, here's the thing, strange as this may sound, whenever I think about Berlin, I think about this movie, which, at the very least, is just SO unfair to Berlin, and more then a little weird for me. But in just two days time I'll be leaving the peaceful and beautiful city of Hamburg for busy and bustling Berlin for a night, which I'm expecting to be just the way it is in another propaganda piece, though this one is less beef borsch and more apple pie.

Now, if you ask around, most people who come to visit Germany don't look to Hamburg as a vacation destination. It's famous red-light district is more slimy then sexy, and since some boy band played here back in the 60's it hasn't exactly been the center of the music world. But the truth is that Hamburg is a graceful and interesting city, and the wealth it's citizens amassed during Hamburg's heyday at the end of the last century means that the city hall is a gaudy gorgeous little overcompensation for whatever was lacking in the lives (and pants) of Hamburg's then prominent merchant class. Moreover, Hamburg  to this day remains a shopper's paradise, and if the exchange rate didn't cause me physical pain you can bet I'd have accumulated enough for a second suitcase by now. Sadly I've had to restrain myself to art postcards purchased at the Kunsthalle, Hamburg's Expressionist-heavy art museum. And, you know, some H and M. What? I have needs!

So I will indeed be sad to say goodbye to Hamburg, but I can't say I'm not excited spend a day in Berlin. After all, I've had hamburgers from the best. I can't help but be excited to be a jelly donut for a little while.

New Amsterdam Vs. Old Amsterdstruggle (Cagematch)

As I wandered about Amsterdam and the surronding areas for the past few days, I was struck by the strangest feeling. It wasn't deja vu, not quite, but something more worrying, not quite a sense that I'd been there before, but something close. As I surveyed the adorable streets and canals of Amsterdam, or perched on my seat on the various trains I took during my wanderings around and outside the city, I knew that something about it all resonated with me deeply. This is not to say that I've ever lived in a town that was adorable and sleezy at the same time, Struggledelphia is more straightforward then this. No, it reminded me of somewhere else I've been, somewhere else I've wandered, some other struggle I've witnessed....

Oh, that's right. It reminds me of New York. Now, before you scoff, those of you who have seen both cities and know that Amsterdam is drastically cleaner and nicer then that so delightful city de Pomme Grande, bear with me for a moment. As we all know, having suffered through at least a year of American History (though we so rarely discuss, say, South America in these classes, has anyone else noticed that?), before New York was a cheap imitation of an English City, it was a cheap imitation of a Dutch city, known as New Amsterdam. And anyone who has a taste for history or Martin Scorsese will recall that while Struggledelphia and Boston were trader's capitals and cultural meccas on this side of the pond, New York was a swirling mess of awful, characterized by uneven streets, entropy, and Cameron Diaz's terrible Irish accent. So clearly between the best land deal before the Louisiana Purchase and Leonardo Dicaprio, something dreadful happened to New Amsterdam/York, something that only Mad Men could do anything about.

Nevertheless, while New York and Old Amsterdam may have grown apart, there are still quite a few things that connect them in my eyes. New York is famous for it's cramped houses and apartments, due to rising real-estate prices and a desire for many people to live in the center of the universe (these people clearly haven't seen The Core). Old Amsterdam is also famous for it's narrow houses all connected in a row, but this was, of course, a building choice made by rich merchants and Burghers. New York is known, at least in the more god-fearing bible-belt of the USA as a place for drugs, homosexuality, and other things that killed the dinosaurs. Amsterdam, well, we've all seen Eurotrip, we know how that works. And New York is famous for it's Jewish Population, it's Jewelry District and it's dinners. Amsterdam? Famous Jewish population, most of whom were diamond cutters, and popular dishes include pancakes and waffles. I know. I just TOTALLY blew your minds.

The comparisons are certainly endless, and have started to give me a headache. So I headed off to Haarlem yesterday for a brief respite from big city life, I smiled. At least New York doesn't have one of THESE. Oh, wait....

Struggle Does if for the Mortgage

You know what's a huge struggle? If you answered me, then you are indeed correct, but that was the easy answer, so no points for you. However, if you instead answered "growing up and joining the human race", well, go ahead and pat yourself on the back because you won.

Now, I am fully aware of how difficult it is to get a job in today's market. However, despite "la crisis", or perhaps because of it, most of my friends are, surprisingly enough, gainfully employed, if only because the people my age are willing to accept lower salaries and longer hours then, say, a parent of two. So here we all are, fresh out of college, filled with the vigor and promise of youth, our whole lives ahead of us, and then we jump straight into a world of heath insurance forms and taxes and early bedtimes. I mean, did you know that based on your commute you have to wake up by at least 8 to be somewhere and caffeinated by 9? Which means you have to go to BED by at least 1, which means you can't watch adult swim, which means what the hell are you going to talk about with anyone ever? I honestly don't know how adults do it!

And listen, this isn't just hearsay, I really do know what I'm talking about. For the next two months I myself am working what I believe the kids call a 9 to 5, answering phones, filing papers, selling my soul to the company store, the usual. And I have a few observations from my long hard days in the salt mines (and by salt mines I mean Real Estate Company. And by long hard days, I mean my father buys me lunch every day) which I would like to share with you, as a way to aid my fellow compatriots, young and old. And by compatriots, I mean drones.

How to make a 9 to 5 a "Nothing but Fun":
1. Use the time when you are being paid to be "working" as covert opportunities to catch up on some serious reading. May I suggest observing the social habits of others? Boning up on the news? Or, you know, stalking?
2. Construct a suit of armor out of paper clips. It worked for my brother in the 6th grade, it can work for you. Ladies, don't be gender normative, armor on up! Only you can defend middle earth!
3. Make long distance phone calls on someone else's dime. Come on, don't you have some friends in New Guinea you could be catching up with?
4. Set up an internet dating profile. The sketchier the site, the better.
5. Fill out magazine subscriptions and catalog offers in the names and addresses of people you dislike. Penile enhancement offers always sweeten the deal.

I'm sure you've all got more at home. And if you do, would you mind sending them to me? I seem to have a lot of grown up time I need to fill.

Struggle Tries Hibernation

There are a lot of reasons to envy bears. They are adept at catching fish with their hands, which I haven't seen a human doing outside of Mulan, they are outfitted with a nice and quite fashionable coat that works with all seasons, and their diet of berries and honey works for me. Yes, bears have a lot going on for them, but I would say the best thing they do is hibernate. I mean, what a concept, you know? All summer you work up to being a fatty no-friends, gorging yourself on all of the wonders of the forest, getting chased by bees, all that fun stuff. Then, when the weather starts getting nippy, you find yourself a nice warm cave, kick out and wolves that happen to be in the vicinity, and just curl up and sleep. I mean, doesn't that sound amazing this time of year? As someone who doesn't do the whole Christmas thing, honestly, right about now I could use some cave time.

The problem with Madrid is, well, let me stop myself right there, because, when we start talking about the problems of Madrid you need a snack and a comfortable chair and a bathroom break and maybe a drink or two because that's like a whole day right there. But one of the MANY problems of Madrid is that as a catholic nation, Spain is all about the Christmas in a big way. Now, I myself have no problem with "La Navidad" back home in my native land. Sure, lot's of things are closed and, frankly, red and green looks good on approximately NO ONE (sorry to burst that bubble there), but as long as movie theaters and Asian communities stay open I'm pretty much good to go. The trouble is that here in Spain things don't actually work that way. This place truly does shut down for the birth of Jesus, everything just stops. Cafes, shops, supermarkets, pretty much everything but the churches, for some reason, are shut down from the afternoon of the 24th to the morning of the 26th. I know. Crazy.

So really, the truth is that I have no choice but the hibernate at this time of the year. And that is exactly what I have been doing. Curled up in my little cell-like room, gorging myself on Spanish cookies and endless cups of tea, I've honestly almost forgotten that the outside world is all about decking the halls with boughs of whatever. However, while bears sleep all winter, I myself will be exiting my period of self-imposed hibernation, and, in fact, the Spanish Empire, in two short days. That's right, gentle readers, I'm off to Bundesrepublik Deutschland, or Germany, for those of us not born with pretzels and beer in our hands. In the beautiful and, might I add, very cold city of Berlin I will be checking out museums, cafes, some famous wall-thing, and spending time with my delightful compadres in struggle, Ben and Michael (hi, guys!). So even as my struggle in Spain draws to a close I can see the next struggle on the horizon, glowing in the light of the northern European sun. Bring it on, Berlin. After my battles with dusty Spain, I think I'm ready. And as for Madrid, well, suppose I must bid it a semi-fond farewell. It's been, at the very least, emotional.

Tidings of Struggle and Joy

So I recently had to explain to a room full of people what the miracle of Hannukah entails. In Spanish. Yeah. Are we having fun yet?

Look, it's not like I didn't expect for this country to be a little, shall we say, Jew-deficient. I'm neither crazy nor particularly stupid, and I've read, you know, at least one book about European history, like, ever. But to be fair to myself, it's not like I've ever really spent a long time in a place that had no knowledge of Jewish culture, practices or general sense of humor. I mean, after 5 years in an Episcopalian elementary school, which was, to say the least, slightly confusing, I ended up spending 10 years in Quaker School, so, well, in Struggledelphia that pretty much means bring on the bagels and shmear because you couldn't swing a dead cat around your head without hitting a fellow tribesman in that place. And while I myself considered not-Yale pretty damn Christian, 30% of the population does indeed, in theory, shun the pork products, so, really, not too shabby. So I suppose you might say that I've pretty much spent the majority of my life among the chosen people, and, hey, it's not like there is anything wrong with that. We generally tend to be funny, self-deprecating, and we nosh like no one else. All in all, I'd say it's been a pretty good deal, thus far.

However, the one thing a life lived in Hebrew hasn't really given me is the concept that there are large groups of people out there for whom the term "latke" means nothing at all. So when Hannukah came around here in Madrid I was, shall we say, at a bit of a loss. One problem is that the Jewish community here is, well, chicitita, as the Spanish would say. We as a people tend not to return to those places from which we've been asked to leave. Of course, the consequences of this mean that we are currently looking for a new planet. Still, I figured, if Mount Sinai wont come to Noah, Noah could go to Mount Sinai. So I decided to throw my own Hannukah party, in defiance of several hundred years of Papal decrees. And while I actually was able to convince a large group of people to come and celebrate the festival of lights with me, I ran into some trouble explaining to them exactly what it was.

To be fair, it's not as if Hannukah is really our most important holiday. While fun and chock full of fried foods (how can you go wrong), it's not nearly as significant as Purim or Yom Kippur, and it doesn't hold a candle (see what I did there?) to Passover. The only reason it's gained such popularity in recent years is because it falls so near to Christmas that we can pretend we've got something to equal the birth of the Christan Messiah. But what further hindered my celebration was the fact that here in Spain there is no cultural context for Judaism. It's not as though people have any kind of association with the term "Jewish". They don't consider us greedy money lenders screaming for our pounds of flesh, nor do they see us as lawyers and doctors who love a nice brisket, nor do they understand us as hilarious if neurotic comedians who marry their own step daughters. They've got nothing when it comes to us.

So when you are trying to explain the Maccabes and oil lamps and dreidel and gelt it's like you are speaking another language. And if you are in fact accustomed to speaking another language altogether, well, that, my friends, is what we call a struggle. Put it on the list you are keeping at home.

In the end I just sort of had to throw in the towel and tell everyone this was our version of Christmas. It's not entirely untrue, to be fair, and honestly, after some wine, it's not like anyone was listening to me anyway. I suppose some things are just untranslatable at a certain point. Upside? They really seemed to understand the concept of latkes. You have to take the victories that you can.

The best laid struggles...

Oh, my dear lord. Last night I legitimately spent the evening with a young man of my age and general demeanor who totally and without shame listened to his c-d player the entire time. From my apartment to one bar to another bar and every street upon which we walked, this kid was in his own world, with the c-d of his choosing. Naturally I was both enthralled and concerned by this action. Why, might you ask? Let me explain.

First of all, who the HELL has a portable c-d player in this day and age? My GOD that was odd to see. To be fair, this young man also carried around with him a small but substantial library of c-ds to switch in and out. Which is something that would be quite common to see in, oh, I don't know, the late nineties? Yes, well, welcome to Spain, a country where the concept of the Internet is still one that needs to me explained to the majority of the population. The other day someone told me that her parents refused to get the internet in their house because they insisted that they didn't have room for it. A second of all, who on Earth DOES that? Who listens to their music when they are with other people? Because I am a creeper at heart, at one point during the evening I found myself unabashedly staring directly at this person, as one does when something totally insane occurs. "What?" he asked me. "Nothing", I said.

Now, in another life, this incident would have totally baffled and confused me for days, maybe weeks on end. But since I came to and started living in Spain, well, this is just another day in the life. Now that I'm here I've come to realize that Pedro Almodovar isn't making fictional movies, he's making documentaries. The randomness of this country continues to amaze me daily. For example, yesterday I had planned and hoped to take a day trip to the nearby town of Segovia. I woke up, shook off my hangover, and headed to the train station to meet some friends and buy the tickets. Of course, as this is SPAIN, all of the trains for the day were sold out. How it is possible for every train leaving every half an hour to a town less then an hour away to be sold out, well, I have no idea, but guess it is. Just another fun fact about being here, I suppose.

This month at my favorite vintage theater here in Madrid they are showing a series of Charlie Chaplin films. When watching the hilarious and heartbreaking movie The Circus and observing the hijinks and antics of Chaplin as he ran, bowlegged, around a group of clowns, I couldn't help but relate strongly to his "little tramp". Lost, confused, mugging for the camera, honestly, that's like my Tuesday night here in Spain. If I had a mustache and a bowler hat, hell, you wouldn't know the difference.

Still. At least I take my headphones off when spending time with other people. I have to say, I don't think that's culture difference, I think that's just a struggle.

Struggle Would Like to Give Thanks

Ah, Thanksgiving, that special time of year where it's socially acceptable to eat so much that you either pass out and drink so much that it seems like a good idea to scream at a group of men in strangely tight pants as they throw a ball around a large field of grass. Well, to be perfectly fair, back home in the States both of those things tend to be socially acceptable ANYWAY, but I think you see my point. The fact is that I actually usually find something strangely comforting about this holiday, the food, the family, the copious amounts of alcohol (oh, dear, is your family not like mine? Pity). Despite it's puritanical heritage, it isn't a particularly religious holiday, so everyone can pretty much celebrate it as they like. As my mother reminded me, the true origins of the holiday really lie in a group of desperate and isolated people who were probably so thrilled to have lived through the year in that terrible and strange land we now know as Massachusetts that they were just looking for a little celebration. I'm sure they never dreamed that one day their distant ancestors would be honoring the tumultuous early years of settlement and slaughter by covering sweet potatoes with marshmallows and trying to eat our weight in turkey. How proud they must be.

Of course, this year I'm not spending Thanksgiving in the States, so I supposed it's a whole new ballgame. As turkey is one of the few native foods of North America it can be fairly difficult to find here in the land of smoked pig products, so that was out. And because my decision to come to Madrid was spontaneous, to put it mildly, I don't really know enough people here to cook a whole bird of any kind, I mean, considering all the people I know here, frankly, a cornish game hen might be pushing it. So what is an American girl in Spain to do? Well, the only thing she can, frankly, which is make a nice meal for the few people she can rope into bringing wine, and count her blessings. Frankly, considering how cheap wine is here, that's not so bad, all things considering.

There are a lot of things I'm thankful for this year. As always, I'm thankful for the big things, my family, my friends, my wireless internet connection. However, I've always said that it's the little things that make life worth living. Here is the short list, in no particular order:
1. Mad Men, Season 3
2. Impossible dogs, and the people who put sweaters on them
3. The fact that I saw an old man hit a waiter with a cane today in a Cerveceria
4. Modcloth.com
5. The fact that I no longer live in a hostel, though at times my apartment feels like one...
6. Free tapas with every glass of wine at basically everywhere in the greater Madrid area.
7. In light of the temperature fluctuations here in Madrid, the fact that I brought multiple layers to Europe.
8. The fact that I will be back in the US by the time Sherlock Holmes comes into theaters
9. Free entrance to El Prado and El Reina Sofia daily.
10. The fact that no matter where I am, my flourless chocolate cake still sames to taste the same.

I must say, while we in the States might think we know what it's like to love sports, but we have NOTHING on Europe. I saw a group of men crying the other day when Real Madrid won in a seasonal match with Zurich. Take THAT, Superbowl. To all you football fans who are offended, well, call me when you start crying.

As for the rest of you, Happy Thanksgiving! Eat some extra turkey for me. I myself will be contenting my stomach with chicken. Same difference, right?

Struggle Acts Out

I don't know if there is something in the water they give you at large private universities like not-Yale, or something in the air, or some subliminal signal they implanted in my sesame street, but I have to say, I'm good at the shmooze. While generations past may have attempted to disregard social conventions and overturn Emily Post, my own peers and I seem to have decided that if there is a cocktail hour happening we are damn well going to be a part of it, and not only because we are resessionistas, but because talking with people twice our age about subjects beyond our comprehension is really what we do best. We as a generation when asked what we are rebelling against can calmly give answers like "racism" or "global warming" or "low rent vodka", rather then upsetting a small town and driving away on a motorcycle (do you know the mortality rating on those things? Incidentally, aren't these horsd'oeuvres fabulous?) Reading social cues and bantering about political situations is the way we roll. Or at least, I thought it was.

I recently was out to brunch with my brother,who is himself a champion level shmoozer, and we ran into an acquaintance of mine who is the sibling of my brother's friend in LA. Now, this young person is, with the exception of their west-coast origins, nearly identical to many of the people I know, private school educated, recently graduated from a high profile college, clearly intelligent, not a terrible dresser. But the thing is, well, the thing is, this kid just can't play the game.

Now, let's be clear here, I'm not saying that I myself don't have my share of awkward moments. I actually probably have more then my share of awkward moments. I could open an awkward moment store and sell some off and still really have enough left for the rest of my life, just to give you an image of my awkward moment reserves. But I at least can carry on a conversation without feeling like I need to phone a friend.

But perhaps I'm being harsh, here. Perhaps I've been deluding myself all these years in thinking that the people around me know what they are doing in public. Perhaps lots of us are struggling to make conversation as they wait in line at the grocery store or for more canapes at a party. Perhaps it's only the weather that is preventing humanity from leaving their homes naked each day because they can't be bothered to dress. And so, for those secret struggles out there, unable to discuss topics which they neither know nor care about at length with virtual strangers, I provide for you now a practical guide to shmoozing:

1. Gently mock yourself. It makes other people feel instantly superior, and therefore, at ease.

2. Once you find out where the other person is from, inquire about that location. For example: You're from Iowa? Wow, is it weird for you to be in a building over two stories and not made of corn husks?

3. When discussing someone else's job, it's wise not to react badly when you find out they do something you neither understand or respect, like hedgefunders or people who make handbags.

4. Talk about T.V. Everybody loves T.V.!

5. If they don't love T.V. just walk away. It's not you, it's them.