Anyways, I realize it’s been two weeks since I’ve last posted and, considering this blog serves as my digital diary, I thought a gap in my records would run my memory awry for future nostalgia.

So I’ll write some things about our last stop in Asia, Beijing.

To get around this massive metropolis, the newly paved metro is your most efficient bet. You can quite easily navigate and conquer sprawling Beijing, although you must be willing to forgo all personal space with China’s inescapable crowd pollution that plagues even its underground roads. The trains are so overflown they make the morning 6 train to Wall Street seem spacious, and, though I hoped it was always just Greg, I must have been ass-grabbed several times in said overflow.

Regardless, we used the metro often, hopping from one sight to the next, as we rounded up China in its capitol city.

We started with Tianamen Square and the Forbidden City, the latter being more to our liking. Tianamen is neat but nothing, other than it being the largest public square, we haven’t seen before. The Forbidden City is undeniably more distinctive with it being the palace for Chinese emperors during the country’s millennia-old dynasty history. Now, after the cultural revolution in the mid-1900′s, the palace is no longer forbidden (though it continues to bear the name otherwise), and it swarms with tourists of all nationalities. We rented audio guides that used GPS to signal the automated English voice of where we were and what we needed described. It’s a great concept, but it’s hardly mastered. I would be standing at the entrance of the Palace of Heaven and the guide would start giving me a lesson on the Imperial Garden out back. I was completely confused, but managed to grasp one overarching theme: the palace grounds had a specific room for everything. One room was used to receive documents, another was to read the documents, another was to ponder them in, a fourth was to pray on them and then a fifth room served to sign the documents. I felt it somewhat unnecessary but then I thought, it only took a half a century to build each room, so what’s the harm in that?

We also visited the Summer Palace, another complex beside a breezy lake where royalty would go to be spoiled by serenity. Of all the sights in China, the Summer Palace was the most beautiful to me. And I do include the Great Wall in that call. Though the lengthy barricade slithered through a gorgeous mountainside, I was still left slightly unmoved. Perhaps I’ve seen it overplayed through media, or perhaps the unwelcome overcast clouded its full potential, but the experience didn’t engulf me like seeing the Taj Mahal in India or the ultra-futuristic shopping malls in Hong Kong. It also could have been the blazing humidity or severe incline (sure to dissuade many an intruder) that stifled my thoughts. Whatever the case, I wasn’t completely unsatisfied; I was still impressed at the feat of such an edifice of defense. Put all the gratuitous gates around Beverly Hills homes to shame.

Like the last few destinations, Beijing tourists all have the Olympic park on their agenda as well. We were most roused by the national stadium, the bird’s nest as it is called in slang. Concerning present architecture, I’ve never seen anything like it. The outside layer of the stadium looked like a maze of steel and it made little sense how the puzzle pieces flowed together to support the structure. The other buildings were pretty ratty and offensively rundown considering they only have three years of living under their belts. Restorations of B.C. architecture looked to be more maintained and fresh than some buildings in the toddler-aged park. There were also silly misspellings that made us question how much effort was put into the details of the 2008 Olympics on the Chinese’s part. If you’re going to host one of the largest international events, you might want to hire a non-dyslexic translator so that the word “squat” to proceed the word “toilet” isn’t misspelled as “spuat” on all the bathroom stall labels. Anyways, they know for the next time the Olympics come to town.

The very last experience to note in Beijing was the Pearl Market. From electronics to perfumes, beads to clay tea pots, this three-story, tourist-entrapping house of shopping really sucked Greg and I in. Three times. The first time, we ran into a busload of MBA students from Greg’s undergrad alma mater, Babson College in Boston. It’s always a fun coincidence to run into traces of back home when you are so far from it, so we became distracted from shopping until the joint closed to relate with the students. On our second try, we came across some awesome gadgets- including these computer mouses shaped like a woman’s body, with the left click button looking like a large left breast, and the right click button looking like the large right one. We called it a tit mouse, which is actually a type of animal, and definitely bought one. We snagged enough goodies to overstuff our backpacks (figuring that it was the end of our trip, it was okay to wastefully purchase inessential, sure-to-break-upon-returning-home trinkets, by the hundreds). The third and final trip we made was because I’d decided to go back and buy my dad a pair of the headphones I’d bought for myself. He’s the biggest fan of Pandora, though he refuses to pay to eliminate the commercials, so I figured he could use them to accessorize his hobby. Plus, they are those hip, rad Dr. Dre Beats kind, and my nearing 60-year-old dad totally rides the trendy wave.

Anyways, we flew from Beijing to Hawaii, stayed there for 5 days and just now flew back to mainland America. This two-month trip sped by faster than that Maglev train in Shanghai (again, that’s about 270 miles per hour) and I can’t believe, nor do I want to, that it’s all over. My collective thoughts would get lost in the length of this post, so I’ll have to compile them and save it for another day. Until then, I’ll be enjoying an In-And-Out burger in San Francisco and figuring out what in the world is next.

PS. Dad- I know you turn only 59 next week (and happy almost birthday), but you are the closest you’ll ever get to that 60 number when all the birthday cards start to have large font and dirty old man jokes…It’s my duty, and my pleasure, to help keep your image looking younger than reality. Love ya!

Since Greg and I white kids are easy to spot, and apparently an absolute phenomenon, we become the focal point of many pictures. The photographers always try to be discreet, but I’ll tell you one thing, the words discreet and Chinese have yet to mesh as well as dirty and India.

Some of the gutsier girls will run up giggling and ask for a picture. Bless their fragile little daring porcelain souls, of course we will make like best [stranger] friends with you and hold up our hands in that two-finger peace sign shape. I can just see it- Greg and I’s American smiles plastered on the family photo wall next to a portrait of an old Chinese emperor.

Anyways, we really are more than happy to do it.

In other cases (the “discreet” ones), the less approaching photographer shoots in our direction but fakes like the plain grass behind us has Pulitzer-Prize potential. I let it fly because I too realize how alien-like Greg looks.

Yesterday we were walking along the West Lake, a sprawling and crawling with tourists lake 2 hours from Shanghai. It was our most photographed day on the entire trip, and it was weird because it’s not like we looked much different from other days- I mean, we really only have one outfit in our backpacks. Maybe word had gotten out that a former Governor and his staffwoman were strolling through China…

Anyways, we decided to live up our glory. The next time we noticed a “discreet” paparazzi, we struck overly dramatic poses that would make the cover of a magazine cringe. I shoved peace-sign hands out as far forward as they’d go, gave my best attempt at an annoying peppy cheerleader smile and lunged the camera’s way. Greg spread eagle and shot his hands victoriously up to the sky like he’d just made it to the top of Everest. It happened at the same time that four long-lensed Chinese were pointing our direction- the photographers ate it up, and we heard no less than 20 shutter clicks in a matter of 5 spotlight seconds. We tried to keep our faces straight, but inside, we were dying with laughter. The attention was ridiculous, and for the last week of our trip, we’ve now decided to go this extreme during any photo scene- we will officially be hams on the streets of China.

It’s sometimes just so funny to mess with two opposite languages and cultures. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had full, long, almost tiring one-sided conversations, and surprisingly it’s usually the Chinese on the vocal side, expecting us to understand a full-fledged lecture in the hardest language on earth. I get it, if we are in their country, we should know at least some of their language, but we look so obviously confused from the second they start talking, how do they just keep rambling? Sometimes Greg will throw some English into the conversation, fully aware they wouldn’t know a word, and say “Oh cool, can we can colonoscopies there too?”

And then with kids-it’s like they are seeing Winnie the Pooh or Mickey Mouse when they realize we don’t exactly look like the rest of their friends. I know it’s totally okay for kids to stare- there’s nothing rude about it when you are four. It just gets hilarious when the kid is long gone by at least 200 feet, and he still cranks his neck around at three-second intervals to make sure we really happened.

We will occasionally mess with the kiddies, like we did the paparazzi, too. Either we’ll blow out our cheeks or crunch our eyebrows or just wave with such charisma that, if scared of clowns, you’d be scared of us too. Kids bug out, needing to double-check reality, and some start to hold mom’s hand with noticeably more aggression.

Some times and some kids are funnier than others, but with only 7 days left of this two-month Asian adventure, we’re not giving up on new experiences. We’ll continue to make nosy photographers’ blood rush and to punk the little ones, and we’ll do it with obnoxious American style.

Here’s to one more week in the orient! Ah!

I thought it was my first time in a big city, the way I admired Shanghai’s shapely skyline. We were on the west side of the Huangpu River which divides the sprawling metropolis and we were staring at a curved string of modern architectural development. The focal point was undoubtedly the Oriental Pearl Tower, a modern product of ancient influence that convinced me I was still across the world in a city with BC history. On our side of the river was a strip of European-style buildings that if not for peripheral vision, you’d think you were along France’s Seine river. Then, of course, sprinkled on both sides of the river were ultra-modern buildings that reminded me I was in one of the world’s most advanced and technological metropolitans. The blend of cross-features made the city exude such uniqueness. Where as some cities seem so replicated that I could easily confuse one with the other, Shanghai’s unmistakeable and eclectic horizon is what I admired most.

Today, our second day in Shanghai, was equally as eclectic, energy-full and a lot of it, down right nutty.

This might be the first time on our soon ending 2-month trip that Greg and I planned our day out so precisely, so check-listly. It went: Maglev, Tom’s World, 50 Mogosuan, then Shanghai Circus World. Only four things, but we as we suspected, Tom put quite the dent in our time frame.

Shanghai’s airport shuttle, the Maglev train, hits a queasy superlative- the fastest ground transportation on earth. No other mode goes even close to the 270 miles per hour that the Maglev does with ease and in eight measly minutes of its ride, you’re 25 miles clear past the city. Greg and I rode it to and from the airport this morning as our first to-do of the day.

Inside the train car, there was a digital speedometer that kept track of how close we were getting to the speed of light. I felt almost there when halfway through cruising, we topped out at the big 270.

When going at such speed trying to focus on any one object, or even trying to look so much out the window, plays games with your perspective. My eyes have never had to readjust so instantly-it gave me some motion sickness, though the adrenaline hushed away most of the symptoms. What a rush to fuel the day. Put Greg’s way, we felt “giddy as heck” smoking cars on the parallel highway, and in our speedy 8 minutes of glory, we were superheroes zooming by the lowly commoners in their fancy German cars.

Next stop was Tom’s World. It seemed like eternity before we got there, having to take the regular metro and all, and not no swift Maglev…

When we started walking downstairs to the underground arcade, I felt as excited as I did waiting on the catwalk for my turn at slip ‘n slide. I went head first into my wallet to exchange bills for tokens then hurried my way over to the juvenile gambling hall (mom, I am your blood). Greg said he’d never seen such an intense drive in me as when I threw my money into this certain game. It was the one where you drop a token into the abyss of other tokens, hoping the one you added would cause the front line of them to slip off and into your jackpot. The coins you did win turned into tickets which could be cashed in for sweet prizes. We got a keychain that split in half, like those best friend necklaces, but for lovers. We got two bobble heads of this “Tom” character who ran the arcade joint. We got scented mini-highlighters, and then we lastly got two rad eraser-less pencils. I’d say we done well for ourselves after our pouring our day’s budget into that place.

Third stop was 50 Mogoshaun Rd. It’s a curvy road stacked with art galleries and trickled with a few coffee shops. Some galleries had photography, others had oil paintings, or digital art, or sculptures of babies. In the tens of galleries we trotted through, not one was like another, and not all of them had an Oriental slant. We could have easily been in the middle of one of Manhattan’s many artsy districts.

Our last stop of the day, which by then was the evening, was the Shanghai Circus World. Greg wondered if there would be clowns and cotton candy; I wondered if there’d be movie-theater popcorn (hello 2-month long craving).

Instead, it was a team of chiseled, compact Chinese men and women doing all sorts of Cirque de Soleil kinds of tricks. Some parts of the show Greg and I gasped in disbelief, other times it was out of pure horror and fright that tonight was the night we’d see the end of someone’s head. In one of the sets, there were 7 motorcycles inside a spherical cage, running around each other, bumper to bumper and even upside down. Greg said he’d seen the same trick before but the same size cage only had 3 motorcycle. Each time a fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh cycle came out, Greg belted in shock. We both were also shocked when one of the drivers took their helmets off and a long set of girly black flowed from her porcelain skin. Go, girl, go.

There was also a hamster wheel, but for disgustingly daring and all-muscle Chinese. They didn’t play in the inside of the wheel however, they scampered over the top of it, 40 feet off the ground and with no protective harness as they flipped, cart-wheeled, juggled fire and blindfolded themselves around the wheel. We could see some women sitting across from us in the circular theatre -they had their hands tightly over their mouths and were leaned as far away from the stage as their bodies could angle them.

Contortionists were molding their bodies into each other and trapeze artists swinging one another by their big toes. There was a guy flipping on stilts, and a trampoline shooting another into 17 consecutive acrobatic jumps.

My goodness these nutty human capabilities threatened the superhero persona we’d felt earlier in the day on the record-setting high-speed train but all in all, the day was a spectacular romp around Shanghai.

Now after visiting the warriors in Xi’an, a middle province of China, I give them the OK to bump me in line for the honor.

The simple storyline behind them is fascinating, and so satisfying that I found myself having unusually little inquisition for below the surface, pun intended, details.

So it goes during a very recent 1974, a few peasant farmers, with no further agenda than to drill a simple well, punctured one of the world’s ever most famous archeological discoveries. They hit an underground collection of life-size warrior statues, existing in great numbers above 7,000 and remaining far absent from anyone’s knowledge for an unbelievable 2,000 years.

The soldiers’ creation was instructed by China’s self-declared first emperor, who began his reign at the short age of 13. In his accomplishments, Qin Shi Huang centralized long divided regions and states of China under one unified and standardized government, and his establishments served as a model for subsequent dynasties. He instituted substantial public projects, though he enslaved hundreds of thousands of his people in a cruel and tyrannical way to complete them. He also abandoned the beliefs of Confucianism, banning its practice, burning many of its records and even burying alive some 400plus of its top scholars.

To continue his reign after death and for continued guardianship, Qin Shi Huang enlisted 700,000 workers over 38 years to craft an army of soldiers around his tomb. In a civil uprising after his death, a lot of his underground army was destroyed and no signs above terrain existed. Now, two millennia later, the discovered Terracotta warriors, brittle and damaged, have rightfully claimed close rank to a world wonder.

Archeologists are still unveiling wild discoveries about the Qin dynasty through the terracotta artifacts and are still putting together broken pieces as to reassemble the full fleet. Even in my visit, there were areas around the tomb still waiting to be excavated and retouched, and archeologists were working diligently to reinstate their alignment.

It was truly a mind blow to see something pulled out of the ground almost yesterday that had been silently posted during China’s first emperor ruling, through the Renaissance, Columbus sailing the ocean blue, the Titanic and World War 2.

Let the magnitude of this far-hidden and fortuitous discovery remind us that when we, individually or as a world together, think we’ve reached it, know it or done it all, there is always much more digging to be done, and much, much more beauty to be found.

Our bus from Xi’an left at 7 am and parked below Hua Shan mountain at 9. From there you can take a gondola to the mountain’s center or just walk up yourself. We chose to walk because heck we’d just hiked 10 days straight, we were hiking kings and queens. Plus it saved us 10 bucks, so that hands down made a backpacker’s day.

Three things about today, aside from the panoramic pleasure, were notably incredible. First, the ascent was steep, if never-ending, and called for thrifty footwork. There were steps under feet to make the way more accessible, but there were still some incline angles that looked only a touch under 90 degrees.

Second, the “gaggles of geriatrics” (an alliteration by Greg) were surprising in their strong count on these imposingly vertical stairways. We young bucks, Greg and I, were trucking alongside wooden-caned grand folk who were forging the shared road with some crazy grace. Surely there is some secret recipe in Chinese tea that red bull or even cocaine would kill for.

I’ll preface the third incredible thing by noting that people, in the same way as plush toys, tea pots and knock-offs, come in the thousands in China. Today, there were that many tourists at the national park- a site the Chinese had transformed into a Disney World, where people were shoving their way to the next viewpoint as if it were Splash Mountain and as if Splash Mountain was plunging its last ride ever. Out of these pushy, nature-invasive thousands, not one had proper hiking attire. Greg and I in our exercise pants and matching Salomon hiking sneaks were the oddest balls we’d ever been heading up the mountain. Instead, these locals were in jean overalls, full-on business suits, dress shoes (even high heels) and of course those tacky, tacky visors (which I guess could be sport-wear, but only in very loose and unfashionable guidelines). I’ll repeat that some, most, inclines were so terrifying that even after just recently conquering the Himalayas, we were still frightened and thanking the good quality grip supporting our feet.

I so wish this was the last rapid incline of the trip, but the Great Wall in the next two weeks will surely change my mind…

Today on this estranged path, we ran into a street market pet shop. There were dogs and turtles and cats for sale. Birds and pigeons too, and the pigeons we later found out are used for gambling. There is a whole betting world around these marked pigeons who “race” to a human-determined finish line. Lord knows how a bird can find its way around this town and we can’t even get to the first street corner.

All the other animals were so adorable at the street market pet store, just as cute as the ones back West, go figure. We saw a few of them being inspected for purchase and then one kitten actually being bought. The new owner walked away with the tiny white kitty in a pink plastic bag, like what the gas station would put your cheap wine and gum in. Seeing that would be just absurd if we were anywhere else but China, though these “what the stink” moments still baffle our eyes. On the train one time, a baby started peeing in his dad’s arms. The stream dripped across the floor, but not a person around us flinched. Almost every day people walk down the street chewing on chicken feet (they do spit the toenail out, so I guess it could be worse), and nose picking and shirtless men are just normal. I could also count the set of clean choppers I’ve seen with a small set of chopsticks. It’s funny because the staring on their parts is intense. Like what in the world are we doing that’s so stare-worthy, other than being white? You’re over there eating bagged duck wearing patent leather shoes with high socks and a pair of jean shorts and I’m just sitting in my University of Florida tank top with a bag of Lays and reading my Lonely Planet China book. And by the way, there are blueberry and strawberry flavored Lays here, but we just stuck with original.

The staring actually makes me feel like a celeb sometimes, but Greg just hates it.

Except for the other day on our overnight train to this town. A 21 year old girl brushed passed our train seats in the middle of Greg explaining bits of the energy crisis to me.

“You speak so fast!” she interrupted. We just laughed, a bit surprised at her English, but I was really into hearing about all the reasons we won’t be flying planes in 50 years.

A few hours later though, Greg and I went to the restaurant cabin and ran into the girl again. Turns out she takes English lessons and has lots of dreams for America. She called herself Eve, and the first thing Eve says, or cries, after establishing her english talent is toward Greg.

“I have to tell you, you are so handsome. I think you so handsome!”

I thought I was reliving my Backstreet Boys days with how ragingly fanatical she was over Greg’s looks. She pointed to his eyes and his nose and shrieks again (she was quite the fireball), “you just so handsome!”. She asked if we were married and when I made her day by saying he was just my boyfriend, she tells me “you so lucky!” I wanted to say okay sweetie, can it already, but she was so innocent in her compliments that I just smiled and agreed.

After the train dinner we went back to our sleeper seats, Eve was just a few down from us so she came our way to continue chatting. We talked for hours going back and forth about our countries and languages. Chinese is far more complex then English- it doesn’t always make sense she said. She also told us about her family and gave us pointers for Chongqing- her hometown, our destination. All the while we were spending time with Eve, she’d continue throwing in crazy obsessive lines about Greg.

I could have sworn I saw his head swell every time she turned into a teeny bopper over him.

There were a few other train riders that also caused a stir to our overnight trip. It was three younger friends- two of them were married to each other. Before the train even pulled away from the station, they’d popped open a bottle of rice grain alcohol- that’s 55 percent alcohol- and began taking shots. They offered Greg and I plenty, but we only accepted one. By 9 pm, they were wasted all over the place-not bothersome one bit, just a funny bunch trying to make the most our of an 18-hour train ride.

Between a night of sleep and our Chinese friends, the long ride flew by.

Pictures from the mud cave, eating pig brain, Everest from the plane, the bicycle built for two, the Li River boat and our drunk Chinese train-mates!

Greg, on the other side of the short round table, was sweating from every gland as he crushed five plates of the dinner.

We are in steaming Chongqing, a city with over 37 million people in its municipality. It’s steaming because it’s not uncommon for temperatures to be in the 100′s, and even locals bead up with sweat and complaint.

There is a traditional Chinese meal, prepared most famously in this city called “hotpot”. It’s a spicy, spicy, spicy broth that sizzles on top of a burner on each table. It seems fondue-esque but I assure you it’s not fancy one bit, in fact, two handfuls of men across the restaurant were half-naked for the entire meal. They sit shirtless because of how grossly sweaty the spice and heat makes them. Exposed sweat helps them cool off (like a lot of things in China, it makes perfect sense, though it sticks a long tongue out at etiquette).

When you order hotpot, you also order smaller dishes of meats- some cooked, some raw, some in between- and you sink them in the broth for varying times before eating them.

A few English-speaking Chinese at our hostel had written down meats for Greg to give to the waiter. I could not believe the ones they were coming up with, and I most certainly could not believe the smile of excitement Greg wore when he said, yes, yes write that down too.

Here is what sat on top of our table for Greg’s hotpot:

Pig brain, pig intestine, fish heads, duck blood (frozen patties), cow stomach and then just some simple raw beef.

You may also be on the verge of purging like I was every second Greg “yummmm”ed a new bite.

I couldn’t stop him and didn’t want to though. His face was bright red and the hair on his neck was drenched- he was sweating so, so hard and his sinuses, too, were dumping themselves out. He was thoroughly enjoying all of it and “Man, I love China” was all he had to say when we walked away from the piping pot.

There was a local grocery shop across the street with instant noodles, like Ramen. I grabbed a pack and prepared it back at the hostel. Lying in bed while I write, I’m still skirmish about Greg eating the makeup of an entire anatomy, and it took chugging thick chocolate milk to wash it down, a few pieces of gum to rid his breath of evidence and then a hearty, hearty toothbrush to sweep the last disgusting particles away before I’d kiss him again.

Twenty minutes into my hunt, I settled on the fact that there really truly was absolutely nothing to do in this business-center-type town. I could shop through fake labels, of course anywhere if I wanted, but I was already over that an hour into China.

Out of the deep darkness of my despair, however, a woman on the corner of one of the hopeless streets proposed a massage, and she was very enticing.

Okay, creeps, it was broad daylight and she dressed like a first grade teacher, the spa owner was not the happy ending kind. Plus, she had all sorts of business women being pampered by pedicures in her simple, yet prim spa. They were all staring at me and my heavy backpack, and I knew they could read my jealousy. That feeling, too, helped me give in to the 11 dollar 2-hour massage.

The woman who brought me my asian silk robe and then returned with warmed-up, stretched-out hands spoke three things of English: she could say she was 27, she could say “no good, no good” every time she’d hit a jackpot of knots and of course at the end she could ask for “tip please?”

Though very adorable and bubbly, the masseuse was quite the hefty 27 year old. She wore itty bitty jean shorts, a bright pink shirt that was see-through in the back and high heels that put her at a good inch above 6 feet. Most women in China, girls and babies too, have a heavy set of bangs and a springy ponytail behind. The dainty amazon who kneaded my entire body, even my bladder, had a no different haircut.

I laid beneath her strong hands feeling like she was trying to push my back muscles through to my chest. She did say something in Chinese that I figured meant “okay pressure?” but she never eased up as tears drizzled the massage table and I begged “lighter, lighter.”

She’d just smile, giggle and then stumble over a wad of knots. “No good, no good.” I guess I hadn’t realized the toll that 18,000 feet of mountain hiking, overnight bus rides and one-inch-stiff-as-a-wood-plank mattresses every night were taking on my body.

I could hear the sound of her shoving the knots against my bones, and I cringed at every crinkle. I thought if anyone could take care of them, though, my meat and potatoes masseuse was the surest bet.

There were actually moments of peace and relaxation- like when she reached my knot-free hands. My head massage felt good too, and when she finally dissolved some of the roughness in my shoulders, that area also became mostly enjoyable (though now the muscles had just become tender from her badgering).

When I met Greg back at the station, he wondered what I’d gotten into for three hours.

“Oh just a two-hour massage and some McDonald’s- a fourteen-buck luxury excursion.”

There was some one else next to Greg who laughed, too.

“Ruze, this is Stacy. Stacy is my girlfriend; Stacy this is Ruze. Ruze saw me sitting here waiting for you for hours upon hours.”

Ruze was so happy to have made an American friend in Greg. He showed her crossword puzzles and she taught him the way the Chinese count on their fingers (the “surf’s up” sign we idiots of America use is equivalent to the number 6 in China).

In her small collection of English words, she also complimented Greg’s eyes, saying “they are so open!” Loved it.

Then Ruze asked for Greg’s e-mail address. A few hours later he had an email from her with a few lines like this:

“It so nice to meet you and Nancy. I happy to make foreign friends.”

Nancy, that’s cute.

Anyways, I thanked her for keeping Greg company during my warped massage and we said goodbye before our overnight bus left for further inland China.

Yangzhou is next!

This city, Hong Kong, is bursting with modernism, efficiency and tidiness. It is so technologically-excelled and energetic with bright lights, flirty advertisements and of course rolling human traffic- all of which opens the jaw and widens the eyes, no pun intended.

We flew here from Nepal and stepped off the plane to a large and pristine airport. Coming from a country untouched by time, I felt so crazed and stunned by the immediate opposition. Nepal lives in B.C. time, and I’d liken the airport here to a 15-years-in-the-future America with how digitally lit all the directions and designs were. The bus that shuttled us into the city had free wifi and continued the same spotless and flashy style from the terminals.

We grabbed dinner last night at a traditional Chinese restaurant. Greg got noodle soup topped with pork belly. I got noodle soup topped with nothing- or so I thought I conveyed in my order to the waiter.

Pointing to my self, waving my hands sideways then pinching my arm fat, I said, “I don’t eat meat. No eat meat. No meat in soup. Please.”

“Yes, yes, okay no meat,” our slender waiter tells me.

Couldn’t get much clearer cut, could it?

Well a few minutes pass by, I’m eagerly anticipating my first Chinese meal, and out marches the string bean with two bowls of noodle soup- Greg’s is clearly topped with fatty slices of pork belly and mine appears to be topped meat-free.

I thought I was all good in the hood so I started poking at the noodles with my chopsticks. As peeping as the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz, tiny somethings, somethings I was very, very afraid of though, began to creep to the surface of my soup. Dear God I wished they were munchkins and not pork bits, but it just wasn’t the case.

I know I sound crazy, but I become a vegetarian on these Asian adventure- though eating meat is a sign of progress, wealth and luxury, especially with China’s history of famine and poverty. But seeing the uncle of the chicken or even pig (gross) I’m about to cut into hanging as restaurant-window drapery turns me off entirely and sends chills through me twice.

Today, it took a bit more effort to guarantee truly vegetarian meals, but we did pull it off.

Anyways, back to the great, many, wonderful things about Hong Kong- the escalators are high speed, there are free and speedy Internet computers in the subways, hand sanitizer stations on most street corners and even a Chinese Mr. Softee. All of which we used or ate- and man were the computers delicious.

There are also short mountains in Hong Kong and an elongated skyline. There is one hill in particular, called Victoria Peak, that is 1800 feet high and has a nifty and historic tram that cruises to its top. From there you can see an expansive view of Hong Kong. It was a tad polluted, humid and overcast, but it was still an impressive shot.

We decided to follow a walking trail down instead of taking the tram again. Along the way there were super-fit uphill exercisers- some Chinese, some other kinds of Asian, some (a decent number really) western, and then a ton of dogs (sorry, not sure of all their ancestries).

It was a Sunday morning on our stroll and everyone seemed to be relaxed, laid back, in good health and enjoying their weekend. It just felt so comfy and I love comfy spots in big cities. It was on that downhill hike, I decided that I could definitely live in this international city.

The rest of the day we hopped around town via public ferries, unbelievable rail systems and our sturdy feet. We toyed with electronics, sat in lively parks, rummaged through street markets and like I said before, pushed my luck with lunch and dinner (for breakfast we just McDonald’d it- and even still had immaculate service and presentation).

To end the day, we headed down to one of the piers to watch the symphony of lights. The show plays every night- lord knows how much electricity it takes to power that- and lights up buildings in the skyline to an energetic soundtrack.

In one day of gawking at the impressive efficiency and crazy modernisms of Hong Kong (oh and boy did I go crazy over all the cutie Asian babies too), I can definitely say this won’t be the last trip I take to this town-regardless of the hanging edible pets.