Shanghai Vixen

Home is a group of women working in a subway bunker, practicing fan dancing in their uniforms during the 3pm lull.

It is my 50ish divorcee neighbor, climbing onto her new boyfriend's scooter, enthusing that I lost weight in the US, when in fact I gained.

Home is being home. My house, my cat, my life, my friends.

The cat is very happy to have me back, although his Persianness hit puberty and a growth spurt in my absence. And that winter coat, woah: I know there's a cat in there somewhere, I just can't always find him. My otherwise wonderful catsitters didn't brush him, and those four inches of fur got quite matted around his neck and under his belly. When I started to hack away at them, I hacked a little too deep and got soft some kitty flesh. He didn't mind the stitches nearly as much as he minds having to wear a big protective collar for two weeks, and that less than the groomers finishing the shaving off of his fur tumors. It took four people to hold him down, and several of them lost limbs. Poor Silver Lining, he's this tough, independent street cat stuck in a pouncy, puffy half-Persian body. Persians are about as evolutionarily practical as pandas: neither ought to exist in nature.

I advise you all to check out another excellent blog, Learning Cantonese. She loves Hongkers like I love Shangers, and I love people who love places. And she's a friend of Peaceful Peasant's, so that alone makes her cool.

I am a good packer. It’s fair to say that if packing were an Olympic sport or a reality show, I’d be a shoo-in. I used to call it the art of Tetris with shoes, except that I have learned to minimize the shoes taken. The trick for going on trips is to pick a consistent color scheme, so everything matches everything else. My usual approach is to do black and white, plus one color - usually red, turquoise, dark green, or pink - for flavor. This trip’s color option was red; of course, acquisitions along the way can be anything.

As I packed to come home, grinning at the difficulty airport security would have replicating my precision, I contemplated luggage as a social capsule. What does what one chooses to schlep across oceans say about a person? Let’s find out, as I unpack on a dark rainy morning.

From my small carryon, the small red Samsonite Black Label Vintage bag:

Laptop and chord; baggie of toiletries plus a few teabags; my large camera, a Canon EOS D30. My dark green Gucci nerd glasses. Small black leather datebook, in which I track my daily activities, expenses, work, weight, intake of calories, alcohol, carbs and meat, and how much I exercise, write, draw and study language. My diary, currently a small black moleskin embossed with a Frank Lloyd Wright design. 80 gig black Ipod, in black leather case from Coach ($15, clearance sale). My passport, in black scored leather Shanghai Tang holder (awesome swag), and air ticket. Breath mints.

From the large carryon, an actual 1940s Samsonite hatbox in brown faux crocodile:

Three small bottles of nice sake, bought during Narita stopover. Elastic resistance band. Sleeveless Bebe top, square necked with gold sequins in a scallop pattern. Black, red-beaded Malay tunic top. Red and gold scarf from Peru. Tank tops, white and red. Victoria’s Secret satin pajamas, a turquoise/navy/yellow/black/white geometric print. Limited edition Bombay Sapphire martini glass. My favorite black with white piping linen dress, a BCBG pirate. Black slacks from Old Navy. My small camera, a Canon Ixus 700.

From the scruffy fake North Face backpack: 

Black velour pants. Black fake Prada purse, my usual carry-on. Tortillas, corn and whole wheat. Language CDs: Bahasa Indonesian and Hebrew (the latter is for my friend Iski). Black suede loafers from Nine West. Black t-shirt and safari hat emblazed with the name of a magazine I work for. Red suede loafers, a red skirt with Buddhas on it (some black guy in the US informed me he was offended by my wearing a Buddha skirt…), from small Chinese brands. Burt’s Bees gift sets and regifted candy for the cat-sitters. Black with white trim Mary Jane’s from Payless, bought in Miami in 2005. Short black with white trim trench coat (yes, I’m consistent). Black and white fake Armani tank top. Drugs: Tylenol, calcium, airborne, C, folic acid, E, multivitamins. Seeds: basil, catnip, lavender, mint, morning glory, dill. Supply of foam earplugs (I need to stock up, since the Silver Lining likes to steal and eat them.)  Black-and-white mod blouse and a black with white trim mini-dress from Bebe. (Unlike my many discount acquisitions from their outlet stores, I got these at a wincing-inducingly high full price, but they were so me and will go so well with my wardrobe, the splurge was justifiable. Sigh, pretty.) More Bebe tops, albeit discount: a sparkly black v-neck sleeveless, and spaghetti-strapped ones in gold and silver.  A high-tech knee brace, much needed on my left since the last Taekwondo accident. A novelty magnet, “I childproofed my house, but they still get in”, a Christmas present I may re-gift. Nice colored pencils from Mama Buff. Nice silver martini picks, gifts from Kaoru’s husband. A small gray stuffed kitty that mews when squeezed, unlike Silver Lining who only goes “Eh!”, but I expect he will play with it. Trader Joe’s pomegranate white tea. A small bag of jewelry. Novelty ice tray that makes cubes in jewel shapes. Red silk scarf from Taiwanese designer Shiatzy Chen, swag from November 2005. A Brown environmental mug, these big plastic insulated things, back in our day with art by a Canto-American guy I knew; I’d left mine with Dr. Uncle after graduating, they melted during his house fire, but Happy gave me her spare when I visited, so I am very warm-fuzzy about this one. My red and off-white fake vintage vinyl Channel purse. Assorted cosmetics: Neutregenia lavender and chamomile body lotion, Body Shop vitamin E face cream and sparkly nail file and lip balms from Kaoru, a candy-copia of mini nail polishes. The cookbook I got to match my mom’s Christmas present (Better Homes and Garden’s More Easy Everyday Cooking) and Lynn Pan’s Tracing it Home (a returned loan-out). Assorted camera chargers, USB cables, extra memory cards. Assorted packages from US friends for our mutual Shanghai friends. Rose stationary from Mama Buff. The ornate map of Brooklyn Xiao Xu drew for me. Plenty of socks and panties, in varying degrees of ew-ness. My trusty little pocket knife.

From my large silver fake Samsonite wheely:

“Bunny Suicides” calendar from Peaceful Dragon. Black and white Zara mini-dress. The black and white “va-va-voom boots” from Hot Wind. A silk Victoria’s Secret robe matching the aforementioned pajamas. My black-and-white corset. Earl Grey and Chai Spice teas. A black and silver shirt. “I shoot people” t-shirt. Velour pants in cream, olive and burgundy (I work out in these, so go through a lot of them). White t with the Arabic alphabet on it, from the Islamic Arts Museum in Kuala Lumpur. White with black flower design cotton qipao from Xiangyang Market, circa 2004. Another Bombay Sapphire glass. Black taffeta halter dress with sequined bodice, fake Catherine Malandrino I believe. Red wool mod jacket and matching miniskirt, both from Z’ell, one of my favorite small Chinese brands. A red silk camisole top from The Express. A black skirt with white piping in a scallop pattern, with white mesh peeping below the hemline, swag from WGNY and the zipper broke on the third wearing, so I’m glad I didn’t pay the $200 it would have cost. A strapless white dress with black piping radiating out like a spoke or the imperial Japanese flag, a fake Coast bought mid-2005 from a shop on Changshu Lu, worn most memorably on New Year’s Eve 2006 in Jakarta. Assorted stationary from the fashion magazine I work for. A vintage Samsonite suitcase, c 1940, in navy blue Formica with white leather plastic trim. Red silk scarf from Vietnam. A shlumphy black and white sweater. A long, black white and tan geometric 1970s dress; it’s bad when I pack my fat clothes and then can’t even fit into them. A black velvet 1950s top from my mom, and then some gorgeous black and red embroidered Chinese slippers that I gave to my grandma, who gave to my mom, who gave back to me; sad that her discards are much richer taking than her gifts. A simple red shirt I’ve had since college. A salmon with purple trim t-shirt with a Chinese wave design from Colorpix (their boss is a really great guy, by the way, and I’m really glad for their success). Red “Only Anarchist Are Pretty” shirt from Bali. A book of creative envelope designs, a notebook patterned with Magritte detailing, sparkly red and gold plates from Crate & Barrel, a recorder, a book on how to play it, and some tiny mariachis, and a silver choker, all Christmas gifts from Mama Buff. Soaps: lemon verbena, ginger almond oatmeal, cranberry, Caress (smells like my Grandma :). A fugly sweater from my mom, to be regifted to my Ayi. Cookie cutters from Theramini, a vegetable dicing contraption from my Grandma, and a booklet about my friend’s forthcoming tome on classical music.

My North Face knockoff backpack has served me well, it's dilapidated mass accompanying me accross the US, Asia, Europe and South America. I subscribe to a belief that one should never travel with more than one can readily carry oneself, because: who knows what sort of places and situations one might find oneself in. The Andes, the New York Subway, etc: not very wheely friendly. I have great disdain for girly women who overpack and then expect men to bail them out. The exception is for two month excursions like I am currently on, but I still am pretty manageably compact.

The think is with my backpack is it has a 30 pound tipping point, or more precisely tip-me-over point. At 35, it starts to cause inordinate amounts of back pain. Also, I need it strapped tightly on; when jiggly, my disks jiggle with it. Hence, on a freezing day and thus enthusiastically bundled, thus with 32-lb bag jiggling to much back pain, I found myself trying to shlumph from the New York subway to the Chinatown bus to Boston. I couldn't get a taxi. It was freezing, my back was screaming in pain, and I was so exhausted. I bundled into an Au Bon Pain to rest and regather, downing a soup while contemplating my options. I called my uncle to see if he was amenable, and at his assent decided I'd skip Boston and spend my remaining East Coast time ensconced in Rockville.

I was bummed to miss my Boston and Providence friends, especially one high school friend who I recently "found" after she'd gone missing ten years ago. It's sad, she was a very talented artist, but dropped out of college for lack of funds, and is now working in food service. I also missed Itching, another of my masochistic Taiwanese MD/PhDs; Spazzy, a Shanghai friend now in nursing school, and Hu Laoshi. Bjoston was in Michigan, so I'd have missed him anyway, which is just as well.

It turned out a great decision, as I had time to finish my fellowship applications, and got to chill with my DC family. My Doctor Uncle is my mom's twin and the sole sane one in their generation, and thus feels an obligation to take care of the rest of us.  He is guilt-ridden at not being able to "save" my brother, even though he did more than anyone. It's not so much the doctor's messiah complex as that he inherited my grandmother's excessive nurturing instinct. I've always refused Dr. Unc's offers of financial assistance; it embarasses me how much my mom mooches off of him. But, it was so nice to be a kid again, so taken care of. While I have a bit of a hard time relating to my uncle, it is comforting to know I have a haven somewhere in the world.

My uncle is also the best mom I know. He is so devoted to my cousin "Princess Jasmine" (since she was obsessed with that character as a kid - and we'll never let her live it down), who's now 15. She's big into dance and drama, and he ferries her to a slew of classes and rehersals, dozing in the car while waiting. I'm amazed that she's not more spoiled; I suspect the darwinianism of daycare plus high parental expectations balanced out the doted-upon only child factor.

My aunt is cool. She is a scientist, and is entertainingly wry and dry, as chatty and catty as Dr. Uncle is quiet and proper. She's Irish Catholic, casually mocking our repressed WASP sensibilities, and is a great source of random family information. For example, I discovered that my grandfather's brothers keep Pomeranians, since that's the part of Germany they were from. Ha. I am Aryan, hear me yap!

With their schedules, it's little surprise they don't cook, and at least they're more adventurous about where they'll eat out than the San Diego family. Still, after several days at their house, I got pretty sick of microwave dinners. Man, no one in my family can cook without a microwave. Even veggies, pasta, they nuke 'em.

Jasmine is fifteen years younger than me, and when I was in college I spent many holidays with them, so she and I were buddies. Teens are a bit harder to interact with, though, and I can't quite muster much enthusiasm for musical theater. The two of us look a lot alike, although she's much taller, and my hair has been dyed away from our mutual honey blonde. But, we have the same eyes, many other similar features, and often stared appraisingly at each other. We do need to get better reacquainted.