It was a funeral.

While it was still dark this morning I heard voices down in the street and saw this strange procession of what I assume were relatives and friends carrying belongings from the apartment across from us and putting them into cars and vans. The flowers were all gone too. Just a moment ago, at 7:13 am, fireworks erupted and chased away evil spirits.

addendum

When we were coming home from a friend's place last night, it started to snow. I took a picture of the flowers with a little snow on them, and then this morning everything was covered with it.

window things

I was in my kitchen this morning making pancakes for Erin. Our kitchen is my favorite spot in our apartment, because you can see all of the other people in all of their kitchens in all of the surrounding apartments. I like the feeling of everyone cooking at the same time. Now that it's winter, I especially like to look out the window and see all of the windows steaming up at once. When the sun is setting, this look the best, but I can never get it to come out in a picture very well. One of the reasons the buildings are all constructed the same way is because the gas for the stoves is piped to the same place in each of the units. I think the uniform construction of Chinese apartment buildings is beautiful and pragmatic. At least, it seems that way to me. I'm sure that I'm missing a good deal of what is happening around me on a daily basis. My interpretation of events is wonderfully askew. For example, this morning when I was making pancakes, I looked out the window and there were these flower arrangements in front of the door to the opposite apartment building. I looked at these for a long time trying to figure out whether they were for a wedding, or for a funeral. I'm still not sure. "I'm Waiting For My Man" by the Velvet Underground was playing on my Ipod in the kitchen while I was cooking, which would be appropriate for either occasion.

"Pizza for Women"

Apparently, my idea to post something every day didn't work, owing to my truant disposition. I digress, though. I'll move on.

I was teaching some of my younger students different food and restaurant vocabulary and they asked me, with genuine seriousness, whether I had ever eaten pizza. Once I told them I had, they asked me what my favorite kind of pizza was. I, in turn, asked them what their favorite kind of pizza was and they informed me that, OF COURSE, it was Potato Pizza. There was much horrified sighing and rending of garments when I informed them that I had never eaten potato pizza, and they were positive that I was lying to them. According to my students, every American MUST have eaten potato pizza, since pizza is American food, and everyone loves potato pizza. (Sorry Italian peoples of the world. Apparently my country has appropriated your food. We have a tendency to appropriate things. Mea culpa.)

My very serious student Carol repeated, half to herself, under her breath, "But Mr. Cartwright, potato pizza is so delicious. Is is SO delicious."

What could I do? I asked my students where the best place was in Tianjin to eat Potato Pizza and I promised them that I would try it. Carol also said "You should try corn. Corn is good, but Potato is the best pizza." My students told me to go to Mr. Pizza for Potato Pizza. Luckily, Erin and I knew where this place was, since it is close to where we buy groceries. Mr. Pizza is memorable, to me, because their slogan in English, under the name, is "Mr. Pizza--Pizza for Women." Erin and I have tried to figure out why Mr. Pizza has pizza for women, but it is a mystery.

Here are some highlights of potato pizza:

1. Potatoes (naturally)
2. Corn flakes (?)
3. Mayonnaise (??!)
4. A stuffed crust filled with warm, pureed pumpkin. (??!($#*(##(@*@!)

"distressed" bicycles

Erin and I just got home after having dinner with her friends Miguel, Juana, Lihuijin in this tiny restaurant inside of an apartment building. I liked it. It felt like a secret restaurant. Most of my favorite restaurants and bars feel like secret restaurants and bars. For example, in Seattle, I love the Alibi Room. It's in an alley off of Pike Street. There used to be this coffee shop, or maybe a bar, (I can't remember which and I think that means I'm getting old) in Port Townsend, Washington, and you had to enter the place through this little half-door. Maybe if one of my cohorts from those days reads this they can comment and tell me the name. I can't remember the name of it.

After dinner Juana and Miguel told us about this guy who sells cheap bikes down the street from the restaurant. The cheap bikes are actually new cheap bikes, not stolen cheap bikes. Erin and I jumped at the chance to somehow circumvent her earlier moral dilemma about buying a stolen bike. Juana and Miguel kindly offered to show us the place. The bikes cost what amounts to about $25 after conversion, so we jumped at buying one for Erin. Bicycling is the most practical way to get around here, and getting one's bike stolen is nothing to write home about. The timing was perfect, too, since I had previously taken a taxi from my school to meet up with everyone. Erin had our one remaining bike with her, and I wasn't looking forward to hoofing it home in the progressively bitter cold of a Tianjin winter. After we bought the new bike we both got to ride home.

On the ride home I kept thinking about the word "distressed" because Erin and I had already discussed wanting to rough up a new bike, if we bought one, so that it would look less appealing to steal. In the states, at a Pier One, or some other store, "distressed" tables are being sold for exhorbatent fees. At clothing stores "distressed" jeans are also being sold for exhorbatant fees. Distressed leather jackets, distressed baseball caps, the list goes on. I've been thinking lately that America may be unique in its need for "distressed" goods. From what I can glean, Tianjiners distress things on their own, and don't need manufacturers to do the distressing for them. In fact, things here maybe be a little too distressed at times. The air is distressed, the water in the canal is distressed, the frozen globs of spit on the sidewalk are distressed. But I digress.

Advertising language keeps coming up in my thoughts and my writing, lately, because I'm coming to terms with the fact that many sounds and sights that make me feel nostalgic, or safe, are really just Pavlovian responses to advertising. For example, after about a month in, here in China, I walked into a Fomax store and was in the drink aisle when I suddenly felt an emotional tug towards a plastic bottle with a familiar color scheme. It was a Minute Maid bottle of "orange drink". Here was the distressing part, before I move on to discuss "distressing" a bike; I don't read characters. I have merely been trained, through all of the years of my childhood, to know that the colors orange and black mean "Minute Maid". At first I thought it was a fluke, but a week later I was in Carrefour, in the toothpaste aisle and felt a similar, nostalgic tug. After I felt the tug I pointed to a display and said "That's Crest." Then I pointed to another one and said "that's Colgate," and then I felt a little like a trained monkey. And also, shamefully, a little bit at peace.

But back to the bike.

Once we got the new cheap non-stolen bike home I ran up to our apartment and got some supplies: 1) the steel wool from the kitchen, 2) a roll of strapping tape, and 3) a plastic bag. Then I proceeded to scratch the new cheap non-stolen bike as much as I could. I wrapped a piece of strapping tape around it. I used the steel wool on the "leather" of the seat. Erin grabbed some dirt and we rubbed it on the bike for good measure, before locking it up. Voila. We successfully "distressed" a bicycle.

I'll take a picture of the distressed bicycle tomorrow and post it.

If it hasn't been stolen.