Where do you go when you gotta go in China? Not here.
When I find myself literally at the end of a rope in China, hiking is the ultimate brain eraser. Either I’m concentrating on the beauty or not slipping, totally forgetting that the snack I purchased for my cat was freeze dried baby birds (I will spare you the photo).
What is the price to vote in China? Two Wilma Rudolphs and some Navajo jewerly.
The 26,968 steps to the summit of Mt. Jiaozi were grueling. It wasn’t altitude sickness or the ripping sensation in the back of my calves, but the memories I packed in my backpack. I trekked to the top of this holy mountain once before to make a wish, one that rusted in the wind.
I have eaten a lot of strange foods in Asia but this week, my tastebuds ventured to a cuisine that the FOOD CHANNEL has yet to try. Chinese Hospital Food.
Jing Cheng, like many Chinese boys, is dressed head to toe in Michael Jordan apparel, the real deal, not the bootlegs. He has Nikes on his feet, an 二三 sweatband on his wrist, and a red BULLS jersey that he wears every day, even though it is pushing twenty-five years since MJ put on his for the last time in Salt Lake City.
Without pondering too much if I would have to change the cat’s personal pronouns, I got my cat snipped, the pin yin for cat neutering being, yān gē, which, if pronounced incorrectly, could mean anything from death to singing.
The last thing I owned was a husband. Never listened, left a mess everywhere, thought he was superior. I guess I do have what it takes to have a cat.