In the lobby of the J.W. Marriott I had passed small groups of people whom I’m sure were of Chinese descent but were speaking Bahasa Indonesia. I spotted more on the streets and in the restaurants where we ate. They seemed to be fully integrated in Indonesian society, whereas the Chinese in Malaysia generally seemed to segregate themselves. On Thursday evening, I met with two representatives from the Jakarta office of M., a large multinational corporation that has been assisting Atlas with sourcing, logistics, etc. I had been referred to them by the head of M.’s U.S. office just a week or so before I departed Seattle. It turns out that these two had flown up to Medan just to meet me and introduce me to several exporters.

That evening we had dinner at a very nice Chinese restaurant with the son and daughter-in-law of the owner of the largest coffee exporter in all of Sumatra. One of their employees was there as well. All six of us at the table were Chinese and eating Chinese food, yet speaking in English. The next day the two guys from Jakarta took me to visit three exporters, the first one being the one who had hosted us for dinner the previous evening. We spent a couple of hours there, first cupping coffees processed four different ways (fully washed, semi-washed, natural, and unwashed) and then seeing the milling operations.

From there we went to a smaller exporter whose facility was practically empty. The owner, a man in his 50s, seemed to know quite a bit of English but was more comfortable using Bahasa Indonesia and Mandarin. So I managed to communicate using Mandarin even though my proficiency is probably at a second grader’s level. He took us out to lunch at a Japanese restaurant inside the Cambridge Plaza, which is the fanciest shopping mall in Medan. Fancy, indeed! I ended up getting chirashi zushi which is what I normally order at Japanese restaurants in the U.S., but while I was eating it I began to question the wisdom of ordering raw fish in a developing country. I hadn’t given it any thought when I ordered, yet I pictured myself getting stricken with a bad case of food poisoning and having to cancel the trip to the Gayo Highlands. Fortunately nothing happened and my mostly strong intestinal system prevailed once again.

The last visit of the day was with yet two more ethnic Chinese exporters, one of whom is based in Jakarta. We did a quick cupping and the obligatory warehouse tour, but the entire time I feared what might come later that evening. The exporter from Jakarta had invited us to dinner at an informal restaurant specializing in seafood. I had been forewarned about him, his fondness for whiskey, and his tendency to push the whiskey on others. My guides promised to shield me from any uncomfortable situations, especially since I had a 7am flight the next morning. The dinner itself was great. I was served a grilled prawn so big that I thought it was a lobster. I ate an entire deep-fried pomfret fish, bones and all. I drank the refreshing liquid from a huge coconut and squeezed some lime juice into it.

What happened after dinner was definitely one of the most bizarre experiences of my entire life. My understanding was that we were going somewhere to have a drink, so I had a hotel bar in mind. We were driven to a different neighborhood and parked in front of an old building constructed during the Dutch colonial era. There were heavy, dark curtains on the windows so I couldn’t tell what it was. After we walked inside, the first thing I noticed was the colored lighting: very dim, but I recall a deep shade of red that was almost purple. We walked down a narrow hallway on the first floor, turned a corner, and then came to a staircase. At the top of the staircase was a hostess station staffed by two women in very short skirts and a man. One of the women seemed to recognize our host and immediately swiped a card that granted us access to the second-floor. Down another narrow hallway with black walls and doors, each with an electronic keypad mounted next to it. I started to wonder what was happening behind each of those doors. Was it a private strip show? On the flight from Seattle to Tokyo I watched the movie “Taken,” starring Liam Neeson as the father of high school-aged girl who gets abducted in Paris and sold into a sex slave ring. In one scene there are extremely wealthy men bidding on the daughter (who’s been drugged so that she doesn’t fully understand what’s going on), each one sitting in a darkened glass enclosure and pressing a button to place a bid. I thought of this scene as we were walking down these hallways.

Finally we stopped in front of a doorway and, with another quick swipe of the magical card, were shown insde. One of the other exporters with whom we had met in the third visit was already there with two younger women. It was a private karaoke lounge, and one of the women was singing along to a song in Bahasa Indonesia. I laughed. Mind you, I’d tried karaoke only once before in my entire life, and that was at a Mexican restaurant in Lower Queen Anne when I unsuccessfully tried singing along to Mana but ended up mouthing the words because I couldn’t remember the exact lyrics. But I never had personally seen karaoke like this, with a huge screen, a full menu of songs in multiple languages, and an enormous sound system.

I had promised myself that I would stay for no more than one hour. Magically two bottles of whiskey appeared, one being Johnnie Walker Blue Label. I can’t remember the other, but something liked MacLellan’s. I was asked to sample both and choose the one I liked better, and I ended up taking both glasses. Drink in hand, I started looking at the sub-menu of songs in English and felt bold enough to try my hand (well, voice) at “Summer of ‘69” which had been my favorite song during the summer of 1985. I knew the lyrics well, but Bryan Adams’ voice is at a higher register that mine won’t reach without straining. Plus I don’t sing well if there’s no one else with whom to sing.

The Jakarta-based exporter turned out to be quite good, even at his age, so we agreed to do Sinatra’s “My Way” together. I have only one CD but am a pretty big fan of Frank and can do a mean rendition of “Luck Be a Lady Tonight” (just ask my former co-dwellers of Da Lower Mezz , aka the basement office at the old Alterra HQ). As much as I think I suck, I actually sang much better than I thought I could (again, it makes all the difference when I can match my voice with someone else’s). We got a huge applause from the three women in the room. Feeling flush with my sudden vocal prowess, I was ready for something more of my era. I picked Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name,” and together with the assistant manager of M. we whipped out the air guitars and invisible drum sets and rocked that private karaoke lounge.

By this time I had passed my self-imposed one-hour limit. I wasn’t ready to hand over the mike, though…my flirtation with a singing career wasn’t quite done. Someone suggested The Beatles, and I persuaded everyone to do “Twist & Shout” which is probably the most un-Beatles song in their entire repertoire. Of course, I knew it best from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” having watched that 80s cult classic at least 75 times (I kid you not…”I’m very cute, and I’m very alone, and I don’t want my body to be violated in any way! Speak any English?!”). I threw in the back-up vocals and for good measure ended the song with a kick like Matthew Broderick does in the movie. Or that’s how I seem to remember it.

We were out of there by 10pm, and as I walked through the eerily familiar hallways of the club I felt a new appreciation for karaoke. It indeed is a lot of fun. You don’t even have to be drunk to enjoy it. I had consumed three small glasses of whiskey and barely felt the effects. Too bad that karaoke has become synonymous with seedy bars populated by lonely men and trashy women. While I wait for it to come back into fashion, I will need to take some singing lessons with my future brother-in-law, Justin, a classically-trained baritone. So watch out!

I Could Have Been a Lounge Singer... remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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The Gayo people, who are a distinct ethnic group with their own culture and language, for the most part did not identify with the GAM but unfortunately - as often is the case - got dragged into the war by both sides. Many ended up fleeing their villages and returned only after they were convinced that the peace accord would be enforced. They resumed farming, with many of them tending to their coffee plants that had fallen into neglect. The result has been high-quality coffee coming out of the Gayo Highlands, grown by small-scale farmers that have been organized into various cooperatives (some of which have received Fair Trade certification). It is because of these cooperatives that I came to Indonesia in the first place, as Atlas is now buying from three of them.

First, however, I had to go to Medan, the third-largest city in the entire country and the capital of North Sumatra Province. All of the exporters are based in Medan, which makes sense not only because of its size but also because the container port of Belawan is about 30 miles away. I had been forewarned that Medan is not the most attractive place, and sure enough it proved to be a fairly chaotic, crowded, and slightly worn-down city (though it has some shiny shopping centers that cater to the wealthy). The traffic alone is quite something: in the four days I spent there I didn’t see very many traffic lights, even at larger intersections, so cars, motorcycles, and becak (motorcycles with covered carts attached to them) just weave in and out. Everyone’s on the lookout for even the slightest seam yet accidents are relatively rare.

While planning this trip I discovered that the new J.W. Marriott, which opened just this year, was offering a special 21-day advance reservation rate at $60/night. Normally when I travel to coffee-producing countries I don’t stay at the nicest hotels, especially in larger cities. Part of this is because I think hotels generally are rip-offs, plus I know that a one-night stay can be the equivalent of a family of four’s food budget for an entire month…if not more. But I’m never one to pass up a good deal (if you’re reading this blog but don’t know that about me, then we must not be spending enough time together), so I opted for luxury. It wasn’t until I was in Malaysia that I remembered the bombing of the J.W. Marriott n Jakarta six or seven years ago. I suddenly had visions in my head of the hotel attacks in Mumbai last year and started wondering if I had made the wrong choice. Well, too late…I was sticking with the plan.

Having departed from the enormous and ultra-modern Kuala Lumpur International Airport, it was quite a contract to arrive at Polonia International Airport in Medan. The airport interior was fairly cramped, with more airport workers than passengers scurrying about or just standing still waiting for something or someone. I knew that I had to get a visa-on-arrival (VOA), and just navigating that process was slightly unnerving. First I had to pay $25 at one tiny office and then go right next door to an equally small office to get the visa – both were filled with smoke, though I have to say it wasn’t as offensive to me because the local cigarettes are laced with cloves. After passing through immigration and finding the baggage carousel, I was pounced upon by a short man in uniform who grabbed my bag from me and whisked me past customs. I had two boxes of smoked salmon that I had brought as gifts from Seattle, and I declared them on my customs form under “Animal products, food, plants, etc.” because the last thing I was going to do was get detained (I pictured myself stuck for hours in a smoky office or worse). I barely had enough time to hand the form to the official because the airport employee had bolted right past. We went outside to where the taxi drivers were crowded around the arrivals area, and I suddenly felt the strong need to separate myself from this man and any potentially dicey situation that could ensue. I took my bag from him and said I was waiting for someone. He asked for a tip. I said I didn’t have Indonesian rupiah. He said that was OK. I gave him $2. He seemed dissatisfied and asked for more. I refused and dismissed him with the wave of my hand.

You can imagine my relief when S., the head of the local office of an exporter, found me. We would be spending the next two days together, so I said that I was fine on my own for the rest of the evening once we arrived at the hotel. After gorging myself in Malaysia I needed to work off some stored fat, so I spent a good hour at the hotel gym – the sophistication of which I had never seen in any hotel in the U.S. or otherwise. I also signed up for three days of Internet service in my room and cursed the Marriott Corporation for gouging guests like me. The cost for those three days turned out to be about as much as a one-night stay at the discounted rate. I was aghast but realized I didn’t have any other options for staying connected.

On Wednesday I visited the exporter’s office and met the rest of the staff as well as the head of one of the cooperatives from which Atlas was already buying FTO (Fair Trade/Organic) Sumatra. It didn’t seem all that hot when I first got there, but soon I was sweltering in the heat and humidity with the back of my shirt completely drenched. Ugh. I gave Atlas t-shirts and Obama ’08 bumper stickers to S., his co-worker, and the cooperative leader. It’s customary for roasters in the U.S. specialty coffee industry to bring t-shirts, baseball caps, etc. when they travel to “origin” and meet producers and exporters, and on numerous occasions I had packed my bag with multiple items of Alterra Wear. Knowing that Indonesians practically claim Obama as a native son, I knew the bumper stickers would be a big hit. And they were.

For lunch S. and the cooperative leader took me to one of the best Padang restaurants in town. Padang is a city on the western side of Sumatra but its spicy, chili-laden cuisine is famous all over Indonesia. The way in which the food is served is also distinct: the restaurant or food stall will cook a number of dishes and place the plates and bowls in a window for everyone to see. When the diners sit down at a table, the server brings the dishes over – the bill is calculated based on how many dishes were eaten. Those that were untouched do not get added. I swear, there were at least twelve or thirteen plates on our table, some of which were stacked on top of others. It was crazy. Since this was a nicer restaurant, everything seemed to be hygienic. I never figured out what happens with the food that is not eaten, though. Does it get served to another table? Either way, the food was excellent. I didn’t get to even half of the dishes because of my slow eating habits…very unfortunate.

After lunch we went to the cooperative’s mill where the parchment shell is taken off before final drying and manual sorting. The tasks were split along gender lines. The males, almost all of whom seemed to be in their late teens, spread the beans on the cement patio with wooden rake-like tools, while the women were seated at low tables doing the sorting. It’s apparently common knowledge all over the coffee-producing world that women are more meticulous and therefore better at picking out defective and misshapen beans. Only at PRODECOOP in northern Nicaragua have I seen a man engaging in manual sorting.

The next day (Thursday) S. and I paid a courtesy call at the office of another exporter. The main purpose was to meet someone with whom I had exchanged countless e-mails and then engaged in Skype chats. He’s an advisor to another Fair Trade Certified cooperative in the Gayo Highlands and was extremely - bordering excessively - eager to sell to Atlas. The problem was that the cooperative does not have organic certification, so I unfortunately had to shift in another direction. Since I was in Medan, however, I felt like I should still meet A. just to put a face with a name and all of the Skype chats that popped up at 11pm Pacific Time, always with the same intro: “Hello Al. How are you?”

After we fulfilled that obligation, S. took me to a restaurant nearby that specializes in Javanese cuisine. The food is sweeter and less spicy than Padang food, and I did notice a difference. The restaurant itself was quite something – most of it was open-air, covered by a very high wooden ceiling/roof built in a traditional architectural style with sweeping eaves that ended in points. Gamelan music played in the background, which I immediately noticed since my younger sister referred to it as “ka-TANG ka-TANG” back when she was an undergrad music major (the University of Wisconsin has a gamelan orchestra). Now we use the term for most world music.

S. and I ended up getting into a fascinating conversation about all sorts of political topics, mostly relating to Islam, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and U.S. foreign policy with all of its hypocrisies. I already had been telling him about how specialty coffee has become intertwined in certain countries with U.S. policies, such as the anti-narcotic efforts in Colombia that have funded the USAID project administered by ACDI/VOCA. We talked about what USAID is doing in Rwanda with the PEARL & SPREAD projects, and how the U.S. still bears collective guilt for not intervening in the 1994 genocide. I told him about Atlas’ relationship with indigenous Ixil producers in Guatemala who suffered terribly during the civil war. Having spontaneous discussions like this one really make me appreciate working in specialty coffee, because I get to interact with people from all sorts of backgrounds, cultures, religions, etc. Far from being an expert on these topics, I did try to explain to S. why the U.S. has backed Israel all these years, why we support regimes in certain Middle Eastern countries and then preach to the rest of the world about democracy and human rights. Finally putting my SFS degree to use, I think!

Yet another marathon post, and I’ve only covered 48 hours in Medan. More to come!

Going Indie in Indo remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It was already warm when I hit the street. I crossed the river, walked around the Stadhuys, and wandered down a street lined with small museums: an architecture museum, an Islamic museum, and even a museum of human beauty (really!). My first destination was the Porta do Santiago, the ruins of the original Portuguese fort A' Famosa that the Dutch later took over and the English almost completely dismantled. The small part that's left is still impressive and made me realize how old Melaka truly is. Right behind that is Bukit ("hill" in Malay) St. Paul, at the top of which are the ruins of St. Paul's Church - again, built by the original Portuguese colonists. This was one of the first Christian churches in all of Asia and was regularly visited by the Jesuit pioneer St. Francis Xavier, who was buried there for nine months before his body was moved to Goa, India, where it still lies to this day, As a product of eight years of Jesuit education, even a lapsed/recovering Catholic like me could appreciate the significance of standing in the ruins where St. Francis Xavier had presided over Mass.

I walked back to Chinatown without any specific plan in mind other than to take some pictures. It's hard to describe the side streets and back alleyways - there's a certain faded charm that just hangs over the entire neighborhood. Many of the houses and buildings are not in great shape and there often is an unpleasant smell wafting in the air, but I still get a sense of traveling back in time to the 40s or 50s. Some of the structures have been renovated, and those that are open to the public (like antique shops with hefty price tags) give you a glimpse of what the interiors once looked like. Many of these houses were once occupied by wealthy families who had made their fortune in rubber, tin, or some other resource, and they spared no expense in decorating (including adorning the facades with glazed tiles imported from southern China). You don't see this kind of stuff anywhere in China, as the style and design were unique to this area.

I walked down one street and passed the oldest Hindu temple in Malaysia that to this day serves the Chitty community (Chitty are the Indian version of the Baba-Nonya, i.e., early Indian settlers who intermarried with the Malays but kept their culture). One block down was the oldest mosque in Malaysia, and on the next block was a Chinese temple. I think I probably could have walked into the mosque if I had wanted to, but I decided against it and went to the temple. Mind you, it was still a completely foreign place to me. My parents converted to Christianity when they were college students in Taiwan (they didn't meet until both of them were in the U.S.), and when they did they shed all of the traditional Chinese religion in which they had grown up. So I know virtually nothing about the different deities and what they represent, nor do I have any idea what to do inside of a temple. Since I look like everyone else, though, I could blend in without drawing much attention to myself.

The temple had different altars, presumably for the different gods. Some of them had little tablets bearing photos of the deceased, which is consistent with the practice of ancestor worship. In front of each altar are urns where worshipers placed sticks of burning incense. Some were kneeling on cushions, bowing several times, saying prayers, etc. A couple of people were doing their own fortune-telling. One old man was shaking a wooden container filled with thin wooden sticks (each one bearing characters that represented something unknown to me) until one of the sticks would pop up. A younger woman had two pieces of polished wood (that would form the ying-yang symbol when placed together) that she was shaking and then throwing on the ground - the fortune would be determined by the specific position of the two pieces. I stood to the side and just watched everyone rushing to and fro, knowing that my own grandparents and ancestors had done these same rituals but feeling fairly disconnected from the whole scene.

Something of note that I observed was a middle-aged Indian couple who had jumped right into the otherwise exclusively Chinese fray. The man and woman were together for a bit, but then he took off for another part of the temple so I just watched the woman. She wasn't wearing a sari or anything but had a nose stud as well as a tikka (the red dot) in between her eyes, which made me conclude that she was Hindu. But she knew exactly what she was doing with the incense sticks, the bowing, etc. I watched her for a while - she was wearing a turquoise blue polo shirt and was easy to track - and wondered to myself why she was there.

By this point it was getting pretty hot even though it was only 10:30am. I walked back in the direction of the hotel and stayed on the shaded side of the street (good alliteration there!), deciding along the way to hit the Baba-Nonya Heritage Museum. By the time I got there, there were about ten people waiting outside just to get it. I hung around a bit, and when the gate opened only six or so of them were allowed inside. The museum is located in a renovated shophouse and has multiple rooms decorated in the style of wealthy Peranakans back in the day. It looked very ornate from the outside (the front door was open so I at least could peer inside) but it wasn't worth waiting. My time in Melaka was coming to an end soon and I still hadn't eaten any nonya laksa yet. Once again, food trumps everything else.

On a basic level, laksa is a bowl of noodles in a rich broth with various vegetables and often some type of protein (fried chunks of tofu, fried sardines, etc.). The actual flavor depends on the location and style. In Penang, assam (sour) laksa made with tamarind paste is very common, while in Melaka most people use coconut milk which gives the broth a thicker consistency. I reverted to the Lonely Planet recommendations and went on a mini-scavenger hunt just trying to find a restaurant called Donald & Lilly's. It took me about 20 minutes, but I finally spotted the back stairwell just off a side street and walked in. The front dining area looked like it had been a living room or back porch, and I was lucky to score the only empty table. I ordered a bowl of laksa and was in instant heaven - so much that I slowed my chewing just to prolong the sensory experience. For dessert I got a small bowl of cendol, this one seemingly more authentic than the "cendol ice breeze" that I had at the cafe twice. Sure enough, this one had gula melaka (a syrup made from palm sugar) drizzled on top of the crushed ice. The bill for this culinary pleasure was RM4.50, or $1.32 at 3.4 ringgit to the dollar. Now you know why I love Malaysia.

I returned to the hotel to take a shower and pack before catching a taxi to the bus station, Melaka Sentral. I got there about an hour ahead of time (the hotel and the taxi driver they had contracted both strongly suggested that I leave earlier due to traffic...on a Sunday?) so I had a rare moment to sit and read one of the two issues of The Atlantic that I had brought with me. The two-hour bus trip to Kuala Lumpur's Puduraya station was uneventful. The passengers who sat in front of me were a younger, hip-looking African couple that was mixing English with what sounded like Kiswahili but probably wasn't. At one point the man reclined his seat so far back that it was pretty much in my lap, so I rebuked him with a sharply-toned "Excuse me!"

As we approached downtown KL I could see the twin Petronas towers poking through the haze of the late afternoon sun. During the first trip to Malaysia my sisters and I stood uy wnderneath them and took a host of pictures, so it was almost a familiar sight to me even though they've lost their standing as the tallest edifice in the world. Some passengers who didn't have any luggage in the bowels of the bus started asking the driver to let them off at unscheduled stops, but I didn't have that option. Lonely Planet had made Puduraya out to be a chaotic, hot den of iniquity with pickpockets roaming freely. I steeled myself for the unpleasant experience of dragging my bag around and pushing my way through the masses with the faux determined look on my face that I know where I'm going when in truth I really don't. It normally works, or at least reduces the risk that touts, scam artists, and the like will approach me offering rides, personal tour guides, etc.

We ended up getting stuck in a mini traffic jam right before we pulled into the access road to Puduraya, so the driver suddenly signaled that everyone should get off the bus ASAP. I suppose this was a blessing in disguise, as I wouldn't have to deal with the bus station at all, but as I pulled my bag out of the storage compartment I realized that I would have to find a taxi. Fortunately I saw a bunch of them waiting across a busy street, and for added protection I sided up to a Malay family that was attempting the same crossing. KL's taxi drivers are notorious for overcharging, and knowing this already I was hell-bent on not becoming another victim. So I approached an older driver who looked Chinese to me and started the conversation in Mandarin. He quoted me RM20 for the trip to the Masjid Jamek LRT station, which I knew was way too much, so I shot back with RM6. No dice...rather, he laughed at me and gesticulated to the driver standing next to him (also Chinese) that I was trying to pull a fast one on him. So with heavy bag in tow I moved down the street to another driver. He quoted me RM15, and by that point I already had given up and was resigned to being taken for a ride, both figuratively and literally. I was tried of carrying my bag in the dusty street with exhaust fumes swirling around me. Then I saw that he wasn't driving a clearly-marked taxi but rather a regular car. I stopped in my tracks and pointed at an official taxi parked behind his car, and he yelled out "i yang!" ("the same" in Mandarin). I knew I was being paranoid since this guy was about as old as the first one and definitely not a visible threat, but I've heard enough horror stories from various countries to not want to get into a taxi that's not marked as such.

Finally I got the attention of yet another driver who also asked for RM15 to Masjid Jamek ("masjid" means mosque), and I wearily accepted. The lesson I learned is that as much as you try, sometimes you just can't win - especially when you're saddled with a bag that inhibits your willingness to haggle until you're blue in the face. The ride to the LRT station was less than one mile, and when the driver pulled up to the curb I threw out a "hen gui!" (very expensive) in a good-natured tone. As expected, he launched into a full explanation of why he was fleecing me...blah blah blah. I've heard it all. My next mission was to get on the LRT train heading to Petaling Jaya, the satellite city where my friend Eugene lives. KL's public transit system seems very extensive and modern, however the lines are run by different companies and the stations designated as transfer points sometimes are split into different sections that make transferring more difficult. I had a bit of trouble finding the Kelana Jaya line and once again was cursing myself for using luggage that didn't have wheels, especially in a tropical climate. By the time I got to the ticket machine I was a dripping mess. Ugh.

Fortunately the A/C inside the trains was on full blast, so I enjoyed the ride out to Taman Bahagia, the second-to-last stop. I noticed quite a few Westerners in the train car, and they all looked like they lived in KL - most were wearing flip-flops and did not have the dazed look of tourists who weren't prepared for the heat and humidity. I got to my destination and waited for about ten minutes before Eugene showed up. We originally met in DC in 2002 through my friend Jenn (whom I have called "Felise" since we were Peace Corps trainees in Bolivia), as they both were working at the World Wildlife Fund (where I spent a year in between grad school and Peace Corps). I had been in town for the National Peace Corps Association conference but ended up bagging most of the events in favor of hanging out with my PC friends. Jenn, Eugene, and I stayed up all night to watch the England-Brazil World Cup match at some diner in the Adams Morgan neighborhood. When I was planning the trip to Malaysia in late 2004, Jenn suggested that I look him up as he had just moved back to KL. He and a friend of his picked up my sisters and me at our hotel, shuttled us around town, and took us out to dinner - an incredible host. We had lost touch shortly after that visit, but I got his e-mail address from Jenn a couple of months ago and successfully tracked him down.

I'm going to end this post now because it's ridicurously long (Seinfeld to Donna Changstein: "Did you just say 'ridicurous'? You know, you're not Chinese."). I will consolidate my time in Petaling Jaya, or PJ, into one separate post. If you've managed to stay awake until now, you are truly a dedicated follower of my rambling, over-detailed posts and therefore should be commended. So I commend you, dear reader.

Off to the Big City remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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There's no better way to celebrate a birthday in Malaysia than to eat, so I started my day having breakfast at the hotel. I remember reading the reviews of the Hotel Puri on Trip Advisor when I was planning this trip, and some previous guests had commented that the breakfast was not up to snuff. The hotel management must have been paying attention, because the buffet spread was larger than what I had been expecting. Nothing spectacular but certainly enough to get me started for the day. I mentioned before that this hotel has several large courtyards with trees, flowers, plants, etc. The one that serves as the breakfast room also has a fountain stocked with koi, which never cease to fascinate me with their random color patterns.

At 11am I got a call from the front desk saying that Gavin had arrived, so I went downstairs to meet him. He had brought his friend Sean, and Sean brought his girlfriend May. Sean and Gavin went to a private college together in Kuala Lumpur (not the same as a university in Malaysia but still post-secondary) and speak Cantonese to each other even though both are completely proficient in a host of other languages. Sean and May use Mandarin, though, so he would be jabbering about something to Gavin in Cantonese and then turn his head and switch to Mandarin with May without missing a beat. Then he would say something to me in English. Mind you, these guys also speak Malay and probably one other language that I'm missing. It's really impressive and watching them made me feel linguistically inadequate. My Mandarin is functional, but I still mix up certain tones and therefore will use it only when I really need to.

Our first destination was to try the Melaka specialty: chicken rice ball. It's not as exotic or bizarre as it may sound. The immigrants to this part of Southeast Asia who came from the Chinese island of Hainan brought with them a dish called Hainanese chicken rice. It's pretty much a boiled free-range chicken served with white rice made with the stock from the chicken - it always is served with a chili sauce on the side. Perhaps it's because I've never had a really good example of this dish or didn't grow up eating it, but it just doesn't speak to me (no me llama la atencion, para los que entiendan esta frase). Here in Melaka, the custom is to form small balls with the rice, about halfway between a golf ball and a tennis ball in size. The ones that we were served yesterday didn't meet the standards of my companions, and sure enough, I could tell that there was something not quite right. I think the rice balls were on the older side because they had a certain texture that frequent rice eaters can detect.

From there we crossed the Sungai (River) Melaka, first passing another chicken rice ball restaurant with a line snaking out the door. Hmm, guess we went to the wrong place. We wandered down the riverbank for a bit and came to a big wooden galleon ship that had been turned into a museum. Melaka is full of little museums, many of which allude to the glorious history of this city that for many years was the most important trading post in Southeast Asia. We decided to pay the RM3 entrance fee (about 90 U.S. cents) and board the ship, which was already very crowded. As it turned out, the ship was built sometime in the 80s as a reproduction - even so, for that price I didn't think it was a complete waste of time or money.

The heat had started to kick in by this point, so we headed to that cafe I had visited the previous evening to get something to drink. I ordered the cendol ice breeze again and sucked it down. This particular cafe serves coffees that represent the styles found in all of Malaysia's 13 states, but unfortunately none of them appealed to me in the least bit. A common practice is to roast what are already low-grade robusta beans with sugar, salt, and even margarine, the result being a sticky, black mess that sounds disgusting. I was slightly curious to try one of these variations but decided against it. One of the offerings - I forget which state it represented - actually has wheat added during the roasting process. Not appealing.

If the heat and humidity weren't bad enough, the sun had emerged at this point and was beating down on us when we left the cafe. Ouch. I think I have a mild case of photophobia (or just a lot of common sense) because I don't like walking or sitting in direct sunlight. So we decided to take refuge in Gavin's car with the A/C blasting away and drove around the city, initially aimlessly but then in search of the Medan Portugis, the neighborhood that's home to the Portuguese descendants. It's a popular destination on weekends for the food, and none of the other three had ever been there. I played the role of navigator, which was kind of ridiculous since all I had was the map in the Lonely Planet book., Also, some of the major streets are one-way, which forced us to drive around in circles and down back streets. Finally we got on the road leading to the Medan Portugis and pulled into the main plaza-like area. Sure enough, there were some restaurants all clustered around an open-air shopping mall type of complex. It looked like most of the restaurants were closed, but one of them - Restoran da Lisboa - had a bunch of tables on the shaded patio where people were eating. We sat down and ordered a fish in a chili sauce, fried eggplant (not breaded), and "chicken debal" (debal means devil," though I think the spelling has evolved from the original Portuguese word). The chicken was just OK but I liked the fish and the eggplant a lot.

After we finished eating I wandered over to the gift shop near the entrance to the complex and found the owner at the back with her school-aged daughter. The woman (whose name was Sharon) looked Latina and definitely was not Asian. I asked her if she spoke Portuguese and we ended up having a ten-minute conversation, though the version she spoke was unlike anything I had ever heard before. Still, it was pretty cool to talk with a descendant of the original Portuguese colonists in their native language. She told me that Kristang is not taught in the schools, so it's up to the parents and grandparents to teach it to the children. I looked at the homework her daughter was doing and noticed that she was writing sentences in Bahasa Melayu. I bought a jar of mango chili sauce that she had made and canned herself...looking forward to trying it with rice.

As we were leaving the Medan Portugis, Gavin decided that I needed to try durian. If you've never heard of this tropical fruit that grows only in Southeast Asia, it's larger than a football and is covered with hard, pointy spikes that can do some serious damage. What makes durian famous, however, is its rather pungent smell, which has been compared to blue cheese, unwashed feet, and other unsavory odors. Most Westerners are completely turned off by durians, but it's got a huge cult following in this part of the world. Even so, airlines, hotels, etc. typically ban durians because of the rotten smell they emit. I tried one when I was in Beijing last August but it turned out to be unripe, so I don't really count that as my first durian eating experience. I have to say, once you get used to the smell it's actually kind of good - the creamy texture is nice too. I'm not anywhere close to going out and buying one myself (they sell them at Asian grocery stores in the U.S.) but I'd eat it again if one were put in front of me.

When we got back to the main part of town, Sean and May said they wanted to keep eating (with no prompting from me, I swear!). We drove to a very famous restaurant that serves satay celup, which apparently is a Melaka specialty in which you dip the skewers into a vat of bubbling sauce that cooks the raw meat. The line snaking out of this joint, Capitol Satay, was ridiculous so we decided to find a Nonya place instead. The Baba-Nonya culture started when the male immigrants from China intermarried with local Malays starting several hundred years ago. They adopted the Malay language but held on to many Chinese traditions, customs, and beliefs. The Babas were the men and the Nonyas were the women, and since the women did almost all of the cooking the food goes by that name. It's probably one of the first fusion cuisines in the world, and when my sisters and I were here in 2004 we had a great meal on New Year's Eve at a Nonya restaurant in Penang.

Lonely Planet recommended Bayonya which was in a busy commercial part of the city. It was packed but we were able to score a table, even though we had to sit on plastic stools due to a shortage of chairs. By this point I was fading pretty quickly and dozed off right at the table while we were waiting for the food to come. Shortly after I woke up, three dishes were placed in front of us: assam sotong, belacan kangkong, and ayam rendang. I think assam is the Malay word for tamarind, and sotong is squid or cuttlefish. Belacan, or shrimp paste, is an essential ingredient n Southeast Asian cooking, and often is sauteed with vegetables like kangkong (water convolvulus, or what we all "kong xin cai" in Mandarin). Yes, I know "convolvulus" sounds like it should have been uttered on a certain "Seinfeld" episode (remember Mulva?), but it is one of my favorite vegetables and one that I remember my dad cooking a lot when I was growing up. The last dish, ayam (chicken) rendang, was more familiar as I had eaten rendang on many occasions in the past though usually with beef. All three were quite good, but the squid took the cake - the sauce was a rich, deep brown (almost black) with a perfect level of tartness. I was close to spreading it over white rice but unfortunately had eaten all of the rice on my plate already. In more familiar company I would have eaten the sauce with a spoon or, at home in complete privacy, licked it right off the plate. It was that good.

Gavin and his two friends dropped me off near my hotel - I was stuffed and could barely waddle up the stairs to my room. I lay down for what was supposed to be ten or so minutes, after which I was going to get up and meander to the next street for the Jonker's Walk weekend night market (Jonker's Walk is the touristy name for Jalan Hang Jebat, the main thoroughfare in the Chinatown area of Melaka). I crashed hard on the comfortable king bed with the A/C droning above me.

A Birthday Feast remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Back to my bus journey from Singapore to Melaka. Crossing the border was an interesting experience: you have to get off the bus not once but twice, first to pass through Singapore immigration and then Malaysian immigration once you've gone over the bridge into the city of Johor Bahru. At each checkpoint the bus driver pulls up and lets everyone off - afterward he comes around and picks up the passengers again. The ride was uneventful - the Lonely Planet book said that the state of Johor is covered with palm plantations, and it was right. That's all I saw...fields and fields of palm trees that are tapped for their oil. I suppose it's prettier than looking at the cultivation of most agricultural commodities, but apparently there's been rampant deforestation in Malaysia due to the palms.

I spent part of the bus trip relearning the numbers in Malay as well as some basic phrases. I've been in this country for less than 24 hours and already I'm wondering if there's any point, since pretty much everyone (at least here in Melaka) speaks some modicum of English. Also, their English - however limited - is inevitably going to be much better than my Malay, So I already have started defaulting to English and peppering it with random Malay words, mostly to amuse myself and break the ice. Actually this is good practice for me, because Bahasa Indonesia is based on Bahasa Melayu - about as close as British and American English are to each other - and English is not as common in Indonesia from what I understand. When I go to the Gayo Highlands coffee-producing region in northern Sumatra next week, most of the people I meet will have learned Bahasa Indonesia as a second language.

I arrived at the bus station in Melaka, found a bus line for the two-hour trip to Kuala Lumpur on Sunday (again, using Chinese to buy my ticket). A nice taxi driver then took me to the Hotel Puri in the Chinatown section of the old city. It looks a lot like the Chinatown in George Town, Penang, but is more touristy with narrower streets. The architecture is pretty stunning, though: all of these two-story "shophouses" with sloping, tiled roofs and Chinese characters posted on the facades and doorways., The lobby of the Hotel Puri is spectacular (check out www.hotelpuri.com if you want to see for yourself) and there are a couple of verdant gardens in the back with swallows that fly around (they actually harvest the swallows' nests - made from their saliva, mind you - and sell them for bird's nest soup, which is a Chinese delicacy). The only drawback is that there is no elevator, and my room happens to be on the third floor (fourth floor in the U.S.). Normally I like taking the stairs, but it's really humid here so any form of exercise, however simple, is going to render you into a dripping pool of sweat.

At around 4:45pm I left the hotel intent on finding something good to eat. The Lonely Planet book (they actually came out with a special edition just for Kuala Lumpur, Melaka & Penang) recommended an Indian restaurant that offers a ten-dish vegetarian thali on Friday afternoons, and since it happened to be Friday afternoon I headed in that direction. After finding what I thought was Selvam on Jalan Temenggong (jalan means "street"), I walked in - the place was sparsely decorated, with metal tables and chairs, a TV mounted in a corner, and an open kitchen area in the back. There were about six or seven Tamil men sitting at various tables, glued to the TV that was broadcasting a show in Tamil. I strode in like I knew what I was doing, sat down, and ordered a thali and an unsweetened iced tea ("teh o ais kosong," or "tea without-milk ice zero"...the "zero" referring to no sugar). The proprietor first spread a large, freshly rinsed banana leaf in front of me and then started ladling out various dishes. Everything looked good, but for some reason I starting wondering if I was in the right place. Then he asked if I wanted chicken or mutton curry. Hmm, what happened to the all-veggie feast? I explained that I had come for the vegetarian thali and that it had been recommended. He smiled and pointed to a different restaurant down the street - he even offered to show it to me, presumably allowing me to get up from my seat, leave the food that had been served to me (I hadn't touched it yet), and walk out the door., I felt bad and said that I would stay. So after he was done covering the banana leaf with various dishes, I proceeded to dig in with my right hand (not an easy task for a southpaw like me!). This practice entailed scooping up some of the rice and then grabbing a bit from one of the piles before shoveling the whole thing into my mouth.

At first I was a bit concerned that none of the dishes was at the very least warm - the rice itself was slightly below room temperature - but I threw caution to the wind and continued feasting. The flavors were spectacular. Everything was nicely seasoned, with a couple of dishes on the spicy side without being searingly hot. The mushroom dish in the upper left hand corner of the banana leaf was amazing...I couldn't stop eating it. After clearing my plate....err, leaf...I sat back, wiped my turmeric-stained right hand, and watched the table next to me. Two older Chinese men had come in, one wearing an orange uniform of some sort and the other with the same uniform shirt in a clear plastic bag. They ordered dosai, the South Indian crepe-like pancakes served with different sauces and dips. Later two younger Malay men wearing the orange uniform shirt walked in and sat down with them. They all chatted with the proprietor in what I'm guessing was Malay. When I came to Malaysia the first time I remember finding the ethnic diversity very interesting, but I don't recall ever seeing people from different groups interact with each other - especially outside the business/commercial context. So it was interesting to watch this scene unfold.

The rest of my evening was spent at a museum built inside the Stadhuys, the original colonial administration building constructed by the Veereinische Oostindische Compagnie (VOC, or Dutch East India Company) in the mid-1600s soon after Malacca was captured from the Portuguese. The museum's exhibits seemed to be cobbled together somewhat randomly: several life-sized displays depicting the Dutch governor's office, a Malay wedding ceremony (including the matrimonial bed), an Indian used bookstore, and a Chinese satay house. Upstairs were various galleries with paintings and dioramas showing different stages of Malacca's/Melaka's history. Every single exhibit had a plaque in both Malay and English with more details than you possibly could want to know. I didn't have the patience to read all of them, plus it was still uncomfortably hot in spite of the sun having gone down.

I ended my night at a touristy cafe/restaurant not far from my hotel - again, a Lonely Planet recommendation (sorry, I'm a slave to LP!). I ordered a cendol ice breeze, which was their take on a local dessert specialty that looks frightening. The weird part is the thin green blobs that look like worms or insect larvae but are actually mung bean noodles. There also are red beans mixed in for texture and color. The base of the dessert is coconut milk, and this place blended it with ice to make a smoothie-like beverage. It was actually pretty tasty, though the texture of the noodles was slightly odd.

OK, I think I'm done blogging for now. It's 8am already and I need to start planning what I'm going to eat today. At 11am I'm meeting with Gavin Sia, whose family has a coffee roastery in the town of Muar about 45 minutes south of Melaka. Gavin participated in the three-day Diedrich advanced roasting workshop that Atlas hosts every September right before Coffee Fest/Seattle, so I reconnected with him through Facebook and told him that I would be coming to Malaysia. He's meeting me in Sumatra next week and we'll travel together to the Gayo Highlands. Today, however, I'm going to see if he wants to go to the Medan Portugis, the part of Melaka that is home to the descendants of the Portuguese colonists. It's a dying community, but those who still are here cling to their traditions, their Catholic faith, and a hybrid language called Kristang that follows Malay grammar but uses archaic Portuguese words. Fascinating stuff. Apparently they have a distinct cuisine as well that I am curious to sample. Devil curry, anyone?

Why I Love Malaysia remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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It's about 6am right now in Melaka (formerly known as "Malacca"), Malaysia, a historic city on the west coast of the Malay Peninsula about two hours southwest from Kuala Lumpur, the capital. I could write several posts about this place and all of its past glory, but first I need to explain how I got here and why. About six months ago I started corresponding with a leader of a Fair Trade Certified cooperative of coffee producers in the Gayo Highlands of northern Sumatra. He was very persistent in wanting to sell coffee to Atlas, however they didn't have organic certification yet and therefore were offering only conventional Fair Trade. In February I was connected to the exporter for another Fair Trade cooperative that already had been certified organic, which led to series of purchases on behalf of one of our roaster clients. Even before that happened, my boss approved a trip to Indonesia so I could meet these and other cooperatives that are based in the same area.

I didn't have to look at a map to know that Sumatra is just across the Straits of Malacca from, well, Melaka. When my two sisters and I came to Malaysia in December 2004 (we were flying from Shanghai when the tsunami struck, which is a whole other story), we visited Kuala Lumpur, the island of Langkawi near the Thai border, and the historic city of George Town on the island of Penang. We didn't make it to Melaka, however, because it requires a bit of effort to get here. There are no scheduled flights - not even domestic - to the city's airport and the nearest train station is about 40 minutes away. So one has to arrive by land, which is easy enough with all of the luxury coach buses (much nicer than Greyhound, I must say) and well-maintained roads. Even so, one needs at least two days to do this city some level of justice. Aside from the fascinating history, the food in Melaka is world-renowned due largely to the fusion between Chinese and Malay cuisines that evolved over several hundred years. Throw in some European influences (mainly Portuguese) with a dash of South Indian (primarily Tamil Nadu) spices and you've got yourself an amazing food scene that begs to be explored. And I, of course, am just the man to do it.

So my long journey from Seattle started on Wednesday mid-afternoon with a Northwest flight from Sea-Tac to Tokyo Narita. Quite pleasant, actually, aside from the bland chicken breast that I got as part of my non-lactose meal...the only advantage is that special meals get served before the regular ones. The window seat next to my aisle one was empty, so I could spread out and not worry about getting into anyone's "bidness" (as my former boss Ward used to say). I watched four movies, a few of which I had been wanting to see. I found it ironic that the flight attendants passed out ice cream sandwiches halfway through the flight, given my attempt to be lactose-free on board. As I was not about to pass up the forbidden fruit, I popped two Lactaid pills and downed the whole thing...more like crunched through it.

A two-hour layover in Narita, through which I had not traveled since my last trip to Taiwan as a sullen 14-year-old (that was in 1988) bitter at his mom's experiment in total linguistic immersion. Narita is not as sparkly and shiny as Incheon (Seoul) or the mammoth airports in Beijing and Shanghai: low ceilings, earth-toned carpet instead of well-scrubbed floors, and not much in the way of shops or restaurants. Maybe I just was in the wrong terminal or something. What I did notice was the proliferation of surgical masks that people were wearing - I had heard that the Japanese put these on when they're sick, but I suspected that many of these mask-wearers were protecting themselves from the H1N1 flu virus. The guy sitting behind me on the SEA-NRT flight was wearing one as well, and he was far from being Japanese (red hair and pasty white skin). Anyway, some of you may be surprised that I didn't have my own mask NOR was I interested in wearing one. Joe Biden had it all wrong - the air circulation on airplanes these days is pretty efficient. One side note from my layover in Narita: I started writing a blog post and thought I had saved it, but it didn't show up when I logged in just now. Oh well...sayonara.

Another empty seat next to mine on the Tokyo-Singapore flight, and this time a better-seasoned chicken breast in the non-lactose meal (thanks to the on-the-ground caterers at Narita!). We landed at Changi Airport just before 1am local time, about 23 hours after the shuttle van picked me up at my apartment in Seattle. Changi consistently gets ranked as the best airport in the world, so I was very eager to see it. Even in my semi-dazed state, I was very impressed and will do more exploring the next two times I pass through it on this trip. I got my bag, exchanged some greenbacks for Singapore dollars and some Malaysian ringgit, and found my way to the Crowne Plaza attached to another terminal. Wow, crazy modern hotel. The bathroom had glass walls on both sides, which were covered by a painted orchid motif but otherwise very visible to anyone standing in the room.

I slept for about six hours, checked out, and took the MRT train from the airport to the Lavender station. Singapore has a similar ethnic mix as Malaysia but with different proportions. Most of the residents are ethnic Chinese, with large Malay and Indian communities - plus a ton of Westerners who live/work there like my friends whom I'll visit at the tail end of this trip. English is the lingua franca, but all of the signs are also in Chinese, Malay, and Tamil. Just listening to the other passengers on the crowded East-West green line of the MRT was fascinating. Sometimes I couldn't tell they were speaking in English (or "Singlish," as the local version is called) unless I listened very closely. What's even more interesting is that all of the Chinese people use Mandarin even if their mother tongue is one of the many other dialects: Cantonese, Teochew (Chaozhou in Mandarin), Hokkien (Fujianese), or Hakka. I ended up using my 2nd-grade Mandarin with the taxi driver as well as the guy at the bus company ticket office. It seems to be something that Chinese Singaporeans just do - if the person with whom you're speaking looks Chinese, just default to Mandarin unless you know he or she speaks your dialect.

My bus to Melaka departed from the Golden Mile Complex, this dilapidated shopping mall that probably was built in the 60s or 70s and already missed its chance for an extreme makeover (Singapore edition!). What I was surprised to discover is that it's the hangout for the immigrant Thai community. On the outside all of the signs are in English and Chinese. On the inside, the signs are mostly in Thai with some English. Everyone in the mall is Thai, All of the restaurants are Thai. I paused to look at the meat counter of a small grocery, trying to identify the more mysterious-looking organs, and was greeted with a "Sawat di kha!" I was too embarrassed to answer with "Sawat di khrap" because my tones would have been way off. Thai has even more tones than Chinese!

As they say, when in Rome...so my very first meal of this trip was not Chinese, Malay, or even Indian. It was Thai, and let me tell you it was damn good. My Lonely Planet guidebook recommended a specific place that I quickly found: the Nong Khai Food & Beer Garden. Not an actual beer garden, at least in the Bavarian sense of the word (how I miss the Seehaus and Chinesischer Turm in Munich!) but rather a two-room restaurant brightly painted in orange and yellow. The woman behind the counter was surrounded by all these fresh ingredients, and after I told her in a mix of English and Mandarin what I wanted, she proceeded to gather a bunch of things and start pounding them in in a mortar.l Thwack thwack thwack. I sat at a table musing how random this whole scene was, eating Thai food in a run-down shopping mall in Singapore. Thwack thwack thwack. Then the tom sum (green papaya salad) arrived, followed shortly by the grilled half-chicken with chili sauce. Mmm. The salad was ridiculously good, so much so that I contemplated lifting the plate to my mouth to suck down the sauce.

This post is getting pretty long, so I'll end here and start another one. Thanks for reading!

The Blogging Hiatus Ends remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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When we arrived at the the restaurant, we all noticed that it seemed very "Chinese," meaning that there were a) no Westerners in sight, b) the decor was not gussied up, and c) the food looked very authentic. For those who haven't tried Sichuanese cuisine before, it's dominated by chili peppers that originally were introduced to China by the Spaniards (who discovered them in the New World). I find that bit of historical trivia very interesting because Spanish food itself is not spicy or anything close to it. Anyway, we ordered way too much food and sweated through it as best we could. One of the dishes, la ji ("spicy chicken"), came out in this enormous shallow dish that was over a foot in diameter. The small pieces of skinless (but not boneless) chicken had been deep-fried with a huge amount of chili peppers, so we couldn't even really see the chicken. Rather, we had to fish through the peppers to find the meat. It actually wasn't all that hot, but just the sight of the whole presentation was pretty searing.

This restaurant had the best mapo tofu that I've ever eaten - since this dish is a hallmark of Sichuanese cooking, it's used to judge the authenticity of the restaurant. Mapo tofu has ground pork, cubes of soft tofu, Sichuan peppercorns (which slightly numb the mouth)...usually there's a noticeable layer of oil at the bottom. It shouldn't be too spicy because that would overwhelm the other flavors.

Afterwards the three boys wanted to get dessert, so we went to a part of town nearby where the China World Trade Center is located. I had made plans to get together with Herbert again, mainly to pick up the sample of green coffee from Yunnan that he had found for me after our first meeting. We decided on the Starbucks on the ground floor of the shopping center attached to the China World Trade Center. Afterwards I wandered around looking for a bathroom and was absolutely blown away by the shops I saw- we're talking extremely high-end stuff, mostly European houses of fashion, that you would find only on Fifth Avenue, Michigan Avenue, or Rodeo Drive. Right next to each other in a shopping mall in Beijing. The mall itself seemed to be constructed entirely of white marble. As I was riding an escalator, I couldn't help but think how many times Mao has turned over in his grave ever since Deng declared "To get rich is glorious." There are certainly loads of rich people in China, especially in Beijing, Shanghai, and other major cities. You really have to see these malls to believe them...you wouldn't think for a nanosecond that you're in a communist country.

I wanted to do some last-minute Olympics shopping, and my cousin told me that there was an Olympics superstore on Wangfujing Dajie. This is the original Western shopping street in Beijing, and it was already fairly upscale when I first visited in 2000. The store was a mob scene, even more so than the one on the Olympic Green. To confuse the situation even more, you couldn't just select an item, pay for it on the spot, and walk out. A shopkeeper had to find the right size and write up a ticket, after which I had to walk over to a cash register, pay for the item, and return to the original place where I found it to retrive my purchase. It's basically a shoplifting prevention method, but having to jostle with the overeager crowd of people was jarring. The funny thing was that I saw a young American guy with a Georgetown Rowing t-shirt on, and he indeed was a Georgetown student. I think I caught him off-guard by coming up to him.

Upon escaping the store I realized that I was pretty close to Tian'anmen Square, so I made a last-minute decision to walk over. There were tons of people on the street and the weather was beautiful once again. I recall having done that same walk back in 2000, and it blew my mind to see how much had changed. The main street that divides Tian'anmen from the Forbidden City is Chang'an Jie - the section to the east, close to Wangfujing, is lined with monstrous hotels and office buildings that are all lit up. Tian'anmen Square itself is nothing like I remembered it. There were multiple Olympics-related decorations, signs, monument-type things, flower beds, etc., most of which was pretty tacky. You could barely see Mao's mausoleum that sits in the middle of the square. Also, there were a zillion cars going up and down Chang'an Jie...in 2000, my aunt and I walked back to our hotel at night in near-silence.

I don't need to say anything here about what happened at Tian'anmen in 1989 - you all know the story. After taking a few pictures of the front gate of the Forbidden City where Mao's portrait hangs, I stood there and thought about all of the things that had happened over the past 100+ years at that very spot. In the movie "The Last Emperor," the boy emperor, Puyi, watches the Qing Dynasty come to an end without being able to do anything about it. Then the Japanese invade prior to World War II. Then the Communists defeat the Nationalists (the side on which both of my grandfathers served, one in intelligence and the other in the navy) and Mao declares the birth of the People's Republic of China. Then the Cultural Revolution in the 1970s. Then the student protests in 1989. And now throngs of people, mostly Chinese but some Westerners as well, celebrating the Olympics. It was enough to make my head spin.

My final part of the pedestrian pilgrimage was to head a couple more blocks west to the National Performing Arts Center (or something like that), which is an enormous structure that looks like half of an egg lying on its side, with a large moat-like lake surrounding it. Metal panels cover the building, and on that night there were a ton of spotlights shining on it. The color of the building changed from white to blue and back to white - I couldn't tell if that was happening externally or internally, but either way it was both cool and over-the-top. What was especially weird was the juxtaposition of that building and the large, stately granite one across the street.

It was in front of that granite building where I caught a taxi to go back to my cousin's house. The driver seemed to think I was unaware of how much the fare would be, and he returned to the topic a couple of times before we even got to the Second Ring Road. It ended up being 90RMB, which is close to $13...a huge sum in China, especially for transportation. For me, though, I gladly paid the price - I couldn't have left Beijing without at least going to Tian'anmen, as gaudy as it was on that night.

Ch-ch-ch-changes! remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Saturday was yet another beautiful day in Beijing: blue skies, low humidity, and a gentle, refreshing breeze. Having returned from tennis very late the previous night, I slept in and then caught some Olympics coverage on TV. My cousin and his family not only get the local TV coverage (CCTV, which is the state-run communications company) but also various American channels. NBC's coverage comes through on AFN, the Armed Forces Network. Since it's a military operation, they can't show commercials - so when you're seeing commercials for VISA, McDonald's, Coke, or whatever, we're watching public service announcements geared towards members of the military. Some of them are overly militaristic, some are interesting, and more than a few are downright bizarre.

In the mid-afternoon Peggy, her mom, the two younger boys, and I drove down to the Olympic Green for men's water polo. These were among the tickets that I purchased on-line from CoSport last November, and I remember being interested in water polo even though I knew very little about the sport. The matches were taking place right next door to the handball venue and unfortunately not at the Water Cube, but the smaller space made for a cozier environment. Spain and Montenegro were in the first match - Montenegro had a fairly large cheering section on the other side of the pool, but there were some Spaniards scattered around as well.

It was obvious from the beginning that water polo is a pretty violent sport, with a lot of thrashing, holding, and kicking. You can only imagine what happens underneath the water. Something interesting that I noted was that the referees aren't actually in the water themselves - rather, there's one on each side of the pool running up and down. I suppose it works OK, but it's kind of weird to watch. Another cool bit of trivia is that each quarter starts with the two teams lining up at their respective ends of the pool and then sprinting to get the ball, which is sitting in a life preserver that floats in the middle. The BOCOG organizers decided to be cute and play the theme to "Jaws" during each sprint, and I read that the water polo players initially were taken aback by this musical serenade.

The most exciting match was the second one, featuring Hungary versus Australia. Even though I had very little familiarity with water polo, I knew that it's a big sport in Hungary. I think it was at the 1956 Olympics in Melbourne when Hungary and the Soviet Union faced off in a match that took place just days after the USSR had invaded Hungary. It was vicious - you may have seen a famous picture of a Hungarian guy with blood streaming down the side of his head. Anyway, there were two large sections of Hungarians who shouted cheers in their exotic-sounding language. I spent a few days in Budapest in October 1993 and remember being flummoxed by the words that seemed to be 15 or 16 letters long. Hungarian is completely unrelated to the languages of neighboring Slavic countries - rather, it's part of the Ural-Altic family that includes Finnish and Estonian. To demonstrate, the main cheer that I heard was "Hajra Magyarorszag," which I think means "Go, Hungary!" The reason I know how to spell it is because it was printed on the back of the shirts worn by many of the Hungarians. When pronounced, it sounds likes "HOY-rah mah-dyar-OHR-sahg." Very interesting, indeed.

The Hungarians jumped out during the first two quarters and looked like they were going to sail to an easy win, but Australia came back in the second half and ALMOST tied. It actually went down to the final 20 or 30 seconds, which made for an exciting match. For some reason water polo is very popular in Central and Eastern Europe. Hungary is landlocked, with the Danube River and Lake Balaton being their main waterways, but people there are into it. Gotta give it to those Aussies, though - they are definitely a sporting nation, especially in the water. The final match pitted China against Serbia, and even with an extremely vocal hometown crowd I knew the Chinese would be outmatched. They were smaller than the Serbians and obviously less experienced. Still entertaining, though.

After we left the water polo venue, I decided to head off on my own and explore the Olympic Green (Peggy took her mom and the boys back to their house). Just getting there required a significant effort, first with figuring out where to exit, then walking on a pedestrian overpass that crossed the Fourth Ring Road, weaving through throngs of people to get to the entrance on the southwestern end of the Green, and finally getting past security. The Olympic Green is closed off to the public - to gain access, you need to show a ticket for an event held that same day, even if the venue isn't on the Green itself. Security, security, security. Kind of sad but necessary, I suppose, especially these days. While waiting in line I struck up a conversation in Spanish with a middle-aged Chilean woman who was wearing a Brazil tank top. She had been in China for over two months and was flying back to Santiago the following day. Can you imagine how long that would take?! The poor woman had to go through Sydney and said that the only other option would be Frankfurt. Crazy.

Even after having been to about ten Olympic sessions, none of them had been at venues on the Green. So I definitely wanted to check it out, especially after having seen shots of the Bird's Nest and the Water Cube. They certainly didn't disappoint. It was about 7pm by the time I got through security, and the Bird's Nest was lit up in red - there were already tens of thousands of spectators inside for the finals of the men's 100m (which I didn't realize at the time). Right across the wide plaza is the Water Cube, which lit up in blue just as I was walking past. Truly amazing. The fencing hall was just north of the Water Cube and seemed pretty spectacular as well.

I spent about an hour and a half wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere, and enjoying the temperate weather. A bunch of corporate sponsors have custom-built pavilions to the northwest of the Bird's Nest, and I checked some of them out: Omega (the watch company and the official timekeeper of these Games), Bank of China, China Mobile, Volkwagen, etc. Mind-blowing to think about how much money they fronted, all with the hopes of capturing the attention and spending power of the Chinese middle and upper classes.

At the northwest corner I found the Olympic Superstore, where I jostled with overzealous shoppers looking for pins, t-shirts, hats, and all sorts of Olympic kitsch and tschotckes. Most of the stuff was tacky, though a few items were actually appealing. I resisted the urge to go crazy and limited my purchase to pins and a couple of shirts. Afterwards I did the unthinkable and went to the enormous McDonald's across the way for a burger, fries, and Sprite. You already know, Gentle Reader, that I am very much opposed to the fast food industry - if you haven't already read it, you must pick up a copy of "Fast Food Nation." Well, in defense of myself, I was hungry and there was absolutely nowhere else to go on the Green aside from the generic refreshment stands that sell the same stuff. As I believe I mentioned earlier, the food at the venues is dreadful and definitely a missed opportunity for BOCOG. If you order what's listed on the menus as a "hot dog," you get a vacuum-packed, thick, short sausage that has a nasty smell to it and is pockmarked with globules of fat. It must be tasty to the Chinese, however, because they eat it.

A linguistic sidenote: the term for hot dog in Chinese is literally "hot dog" ("ri gou"). It's like "perro caliente" in certain Latin American countries. I can't remember what it's called in Paraguay, but I recall having a great laugh about that with my friend Venisha when we hit the Shell station in Asuncion back in late December 1998. Only days before we almost got thrown in jail on New Year's Eve for crossing into Brazil without a visa. But I digress...

As I left the Olympic Green in search of a taxi that would take me all the way back to my cousin's house, I couldn't help but feel a little sad to see my second Olympic experience come to an end. There was still more than a week of competition left, but I would only get to watch events on TV or read about them on-line. Being the Olympics geek that I am, I already am thinking about Vancouver 2010 for the Winter Games...only a couple hours north of Seattle, after all!

Day 8: My Last Olympic Event remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So I need to backtrack to Friday and will write a separate entry instead of combining it with Saturday's. After Thursday's downpour the skies cleared and the humidity went away - it was still hot out but in a different way than last week. A very pleasant and welcome change! My cousin Bing and her kids were to fly back to California that evening, so we made plans to have lunch at a Peking duck restaurant in the city. First, though, we all hovered around the flat-screen to watch the finals of the women's all-around gymnastics. What a nail-biter. We agreed that Nastia Liukin and Shawn Johnson had been dinged a bit on their scores on a couple of the apparatuses (apparati?), which made the floor exercise all the more dramatic.

After seeing them clinch the gold and silver, we piled into the van and headed to the restaurant. For those of you who have never eaten Peking duck, it's quite the experience. The preparation takes quite a bit of time (at least 24 hours, as I understand) and is painstaking, but the results are well-worth the price. If it's cooked the right way, the fat is essentially cooked off, leaving crispy skin and moist, succulent meat underneath. The custom is to wrap some pieces of skin and meat in a thin pancake (think of a small crepe) with some hoisin sauce and slivered green onions. Delicious. We ordered a bunch of other dishes, and I ate so much that I didn't think about food for the rest of the day...you should know that such a thing doesn't happen often to me.

We made a quick stop at a supermarket so that Bonnie could buy some more Chinese candy to take back to the States, and then Peggy and I took off for the tennis venue at the far northwest end of the main Olympic area. With zero smog you could see the mountains that surround Beijing - who knew?! Peggy told me that such an occurrence happens only four or five days out of an entire year. Since we had been there earlier in the week, we knew exactly which route to take and where to park. Many of the roads surrounding the Olympic park are closed, which makes navigating a huge pain in the A. Even the roads that are open often have barricades down the middle so that you can't turn. We made it as close as we could get to the venue in short time, but since we had left at 4pm (the time that the session started) we missed the first set of the semifinal between James Blake and Fernando Gonzalez of Spain. Blake had won the first but Gonzalez took the second 7-5, which pushed the match into three sets. It seemed that both were playing somewhat conservatively, trading groundstrokes and not moving to the net.

The third was a back-and-forth marathon with each player holding serve, all the way until the 19th game when Gonzalez broke Blake. By that point I knew it was just about over, unless Blake could break back. Unfortunately that didn't happen, and Gonzalez won the match at 11-9. Very disappointing since Blake wouldn't be able to compete for the gold medal and had been the last American player left in the singles competition. Gonzalez indeed played well, but I already knew he would lose in the finals after I found out who was in the other semi: Nadal and Novak Djokovic.

First, however, we watched a women's semi between Jelena Jankovic of Serbia and Dinara Safina of Russia. Jankovic recently took over the world's #1 ranking, but I had never seen her play on TV before. Safina is the sister of Marat Safin, who was one of the top three men's players a while back before Federer and Nadal became household names. Jankovic's and Safina's forehands were huge - they pounded the ball and had these amazing rallies that seemed to never end. Safina took the first set and Jankovic the second, but in the third Safina proved to be better on that night. Jankovic displayed a sassy attitude that I had heard about before, and I don't think she won over the crowd at all. She's a great player, but I wasn't displeased to see her lose.

After two three-setters, it was already close to 10pm. We had sat in the sun for the first hour or two, so I was feeling pretty drained already. But with Nadal and Djokovic about the play the other men's singles semi, it wasn't like we were about to leave. Djokovic may not have the same name recognition as Nadal or Federer, but he's the world #3 and won the Australian Open in January. He's the one who does the on-court imitations of other players - if you've ever seen him in action, it's priceless. Otherwise he's awesome and proved that he could hang with Nadal. Compared to the Blake-Gonzalez match, this was at a whole new level. The ball flew back and forth with so much power and speed it made me dizzy to watch.

Yet another three-setter, as Nadal took the first set and Djokovic the second. Just as was the case with the previous two, the players held serve for a while until Nadal was able to break Djokovic and then win the match in a thrilling last game, featuring three overheads by Djokovic and two saves from Nadal (the third overhead having gone out). Right after that point Nadal collapsed on the court and spread his arms and legs out, like he had spent every last ounce of energy. Amazing stuff.

By this point it was about 12:15am, and yet a FOURTH match was about to start: women's doubles between Russia and China. Dinara Safina was part of the Russian team and had to come back on to the court, which was unbelievable given her three-setter with Jankovic. Peggy and I decided to bail and go home. I have to say, Olympic tennis is a much better value than any of the Grand Slams if the big stars decide to compete. I sat in my seat for EIGHT hours straight and saw the men's #1 and #3, the women's #1, and several other big-name players on the circuit. Even though the matches are best-of-three for both men and women, you know that the athletes are playing for their respective countries and really want to win.

Some final observations from the tennis venue:

1) Friday night was the fourth time I saw a University of Wisconsin t-shirt since arriving in Beijing. There was a guy sitting behind LeBron James at the tennis prelims who was wearing a Duke shirt, and I saw an American in a Georgetown shirt at the Beijing South Train Station (I couldn't help but approach him - it turns out he had lived in DC but now owns and lives on an olive farm in Tuscany...tough life!). Four UW shirts, though??

2) No famous sightings this time, which was weird considering the matches were semis and not just prelims. The Prince of Spain, Felipe, must have gone back to Madrid already. Oh well.

3) There was a group of middle-aged, overweight Chileans sitting at courtside cheering for Gonzalez. For some reason they annoyed me - they acted like college frat boys. I hope they get their own when Nadal absolutely destroys Gonzalez in the men's final.

4) The Chinese spectators at these Games don't seem to cheer for Americans when there's a choice. Why do so many people dislike us? Oh, sorry, I forgot...because we have a warped unilateral foreign policy. Question answered.

5) The Chinese man sitting behind me for the first few hours smelled like Tiger Balm, that menthol rub in the octagon-shaped jar that's the Chinese equivalent of Vic's. At one point during the Jankovic-Safina match he let out a small fart.

6) There's been a bit of talk about the etiquette that Chinese people exhibit at tennis matches. For one, they don't keep quiet during points - rather, they ooh and ahh. Also, they talk amongst themselves instead of being silent. They answer their cell phones. They make verbal commentary on well-hit balls by saying "hao qiu" which translates as "good ball." It takes a bit of getting used to, but I could tell that they were starting to pick up on the appropriate behavior. That didn't stop me from shushing people in our seating area a couple of times.

7) I'm still not a huge Nadal fan, but he is a spectacular player...no one can doubt that.

Day 7: Blue Skies and a Marathon (of Tennis) remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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A couple of months ago we received an e-mail at work from a guy who was asking about buying green coffee from us and having it shipped to Beijing. I replied to him (being the resident Chinese-American at Atlas) and we started going back and forth. Herbert is partner in an Internet company here that seems to be doing well, but his heart is in coffee and he's looking to start a roasting business. He originally is from Hong Kong and went to Carnegie Mellon to study engineering, so he has the mechanical background that will serve him well.

Herbert originally planned to escape Beijing during the Olympics but ended up staying to get minor surgery on a toe. So we made plans to meet up at the Starbucks (!) at the Holiday Inn Lido Plaza, one of the first Western hotels in Beijing that's still somewhat of a local landmark. At the time (11:30am) it was pretty humid outside so I got a sweetened iced tea. We walked around the immediate area surrounding the hotel where there are all these higher-end shops, and on the way to a dumpling restaurant we passed one of the original branches of a local chain of cafes called Sculpting in Time. An odd name, yes, but apparently it's the title of a French movie. The cafe was fairly large and looked pretty cool - they used Illy espresso which was a good sign. We didn't get anything, in spite of a female employee eagerly trailing us with menus in hand as we walked around.

After a great dumpling lunch, we took a taxi to 798, the much-ballyhooed complex of art galleries that's occupies a former factory. Contemporary Chinese art is the rage these days - I had read about it on the New York Times Web site a couple of times over the past few years, and 798 is the center of that movement. The complex is enormous, with multiple buildings and alleyways. The art itself (at least what I saw) ranges from black-and-white photography to sculpture to paintings to these large installations that I cannot even begin to describe (one was like the set for a model train but without the train, though very artsy-fartsy). There was even a gallery representing Japanese artists...who would have thought that Japanese would want to exhibit their works in China!

One of the interesting things I noticed was that there were no prices listed on any of the works. I suppose it's one of those situations in which only people who who can afford these kinds of things will dare to inquire about the cost. At the first gallery we entered, Herbert explained to me how photographs are sold. The gallery sets a limit on the number of prints (30 was the common number that we saw) and will destroy the negative once that cap is reached. The price starts on the lower end for the first few copies, but it climbs as more copies are sold. Each sale is marked on the placard with a red sticker so the potential buyer can see how many copies are left. Pretty ingenious.

It started raining in the mid-afternoon so we ducked into a cafe/restaurant, the second floor of which was a no-smoking section (smoking is rife, though you rarely see women doing it in public). I had a decent americano that was slightly watered down but still decent, and Herbert got a latte that even had latte art on top. Impressive! We continued to talk all things coffee, and in the process I found out that Herbert knows quite a bit - especially for being completely self-taught. He gave me a clearer idea of what the cafe scene is like in Beijing. Starbucks is everywhere, of course...recently the company publicly said that China will be their second-largest market after the U.S. Many copycats have popped up, including UBC Coffee and SPR Coffee (whose lettering and colors mimic Starbucks') that have outlets all over town.

The rain continued to pour down, and when we left the cafe at 4:30pm it was a mess outside. Since Herbert was wearing flip-flops and couldn't get his toe wet, I volunteered to look for a taxi. I sloshed through the streets from almost an hour - the guards at the entrances weren't letting taxis into 798 for some reason, and eventually I lied and told one of them that I was buying art and needed a taxi to protect it from the rain.

Since my cousin Bing and her three kids are flying back to California today (Friday), we were planning on all going out to dinner for Beijing duck last night. Calvin and Bonnie decided to hang out with friends of theirs from Santa Cruz who are also here for the Olympics, so a smaller group of us went to a new branch of a very successful, upscale Sichuan restaurant called South Beauty (don't ask...the Chinese names often don't make sense when they're translated into English). The restaurant was on the top floor of a brand-new, glitzy shopping mall called Euro Plaza that's only 1/5 occupied. Peggy told me that the rent is so high that tenants won't sign leases, so for now it's kind of a ghost town. Not to fear, though...there's a McDonald's on the ground floor! Ugh.

Good thing it rained so hard yesterday, because it's absolutely beautiful outside right now. Blue skies - a rare sight during these Games - and a perfect day to watch the tennis semis. James Blake beat Federer in a rain-delayed quarterfinals match last night, which now gives us an American for whom to cheer. I was a bit bummed that Federer wouldn't be able to redeem his two previous Olympics losses in Sydney and Athens, but I love that Blake beat him for the first time in his entire career. So stay tuned for my next post!

Day 6: A Different View of Beijing remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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First I'll write a bit about handball. Bonnie and I got a late start and didn't leave for the city until 1:30pm - we caught a taxi straight to the Olympic Sports Center Gymnasium, which is across the street from the Olympic Green. At the security checkpoint I had to empty my bag, which was no surprise since it's happened at every venue, but this time I had to leave behind four rechargeable batteries. I already had a set of four replacements in my camera bag and should have known to take out the second set. Fortunately the volunteers staffing the checkpoint said I could come back to retrieve them.

We made our way to the gymnasium and found our seats about 2/3 of the way through the South Korea-Sweden match. Since handball isn't played in the U.S. outside of middle school gym class, perhaps, I can't imagine that anyone reading this is well-versed in the game. Think of it as hockey on a wooden floor. First of all, the ball looks like a small volleyball and is easily held by one hand. The players have to dribble it if they're going to run more than three (I think) steps. The defense forms an arc surrounding their own goalie, and the offense passes the ball around rapidly before someone tries to break through and score a goal. The goalies do not wear any protective gear other than long-sleeved jerseys and long pants, and they have to contend with balls that are whipped in their direction.

The action is pretty fast and the contact way more physical than I had expected. The Swedes and the Koreans were all over each other, and although the ref calls fouls they didn't let up. South Korea ended up winning 31-23, and I could tell that the Swedish coach was unhappy with the reffing. Towards the end of the game he even got a yellow card for arguing with the ref.

China and Angola were on next, and as you can expect they got a lot of support as the hometown team. Angola wasn't going to give up without a fight, though. We left just after halftime because we had to make our way to the Capital Gymnasium for more women's volleyball. After picking up my batteries, we walked to the nearest subway station at Bei Tu Cheng. Just before we got there we passed two Chinese guys in their early 20s who were holding a crude, handwritten sign that said "Volleyball" and "Tickets." I hesitated a bit and then called them over, mostly to ask if they were looking for tickets to the China-Cuba match that was about to start in a couple of hours. Their eyes got really wide and they asked if I had any. Well, yes, I happen to have a pair in my bag. You should have seen their expression...it was like a sad puppy who really wanted a bone or a treat and would do just about anything to get it.

Since we were supposed to me my cousin's wife, Peggy, and her mom at the venue, I needed to check in with her first. The puppy-dog-eyed guy whipped out his cell phone. After a long conversation with Peggy (and with Bonnie's quick approval), I decided to sell them. These guys were on the verge of begging me for those tickets, and I just couldn't let them down. It was kind of a weird situation, but I don't regret it. Plus Bonnie and I were able to get back to the house by 7pm and have a chill evening for the first time in days.

Tomorrow I have a free day, i.e., no Olympics events to attend. I'm meeting up with this guy, Herbert, who wants to open a cafe here in Beijing. He had sent an e-mail to Atlas randomly asking about importing coffee into China, and I answered it. We started corresponding and were able to coordinate our schedules. I may not post tomorrow since I'll be in town all afternoon and evening, but fear not, Gentle Reader...Al Sandiego will return shortly.

Day 5: Handball, Anyone? remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Day 4 was great. My cousin Bing's daughter, Bonnie, and I went to men's volleyball at the Capital Gymnasium, which is on the west side of town. To get there, we took the 10:55am shuttle bus from the River Garden Villas (where we're staying) into the city. The Villas are located in the 'burbs where a lot of expatriates live - there is a high-class strip mall down the road with a Starbucks and a Subway. It's a nice, green, leafy area that's a nice change to the hustle and bustle of Beijing, but the downside is that it's a hike to get downtown. From the Guomao subway station we rode to the Fu Xing Men station, switched to Line 2 to get to the Xi Zhi Men station, and caught a taxi to the venue.

Unlike most of the other venues, the Capital Gymnasium was not built for these Olympics. It actually has a lot of history: it was the site of the much-vaunted ping-pong matches between the U.S. and China in the early 1970s before the two countries formalized diplomatic relations. You may remember the scene from "Forrest Gump." The Gymnasium has been renovated for the Games, of course, but it still has a proletariat-ish facade with long, vertical granite lines. The seats inside are squeezed together (maybe because most Chinese people are shorter), but the environment was electric.

The first match we watched featured the U.S. against Italy. By now I'm sure you heard about that bizarre, tragic murder of the father-in-law of the U.S. men's volleyball coach at the Drum Tower of the Great Wall. So, so sad. The coach has not been with the team for obvious reasons, and I wondered how the players would adjust. They lost the first game 26-24, and it initially looked like Italy would win. The U.S. came back in the second 25-22, however, and won that as well as the third and fourth, 25-15 and 25-21. In the third and fourth games they looked very much in sync with their sets and spikes...Reid Priddy and Clayton Stanley were especially awesome spikers.

There were two American boys who couldn't have been older than 12 who sat next to us. They both were wearing USA Volleyball warm-up jackets and turned out to be from Poulsbo, WA, which is on the Olympic Peninsula. Small world. We happened to sit in the middle of a big crowd of Brazilians, since Brazil played Serbia in the second match. If you've ever seen Brazilians at a sports event on TV, you know that they really get into it. Most of the people in this crowd were middle-aged, but they knew all of the cheers and songs. One of them was particularly catchy and went like this:

Heyyyyy, sou brasileiro (I'm Brazilian)
Com muito orgulho (with much pride)
Com muito amor (with much love)

I arrived at the event wearing my USA Olympic t-shirt but brought my yellow "Torcida do Brasil" (Fan of Brazil) t-shirt that I got from the back of a Brazilian at a men's volleyball match at the Sydney Games in 2000. I changed into it in between the two matches, much to the delight of the people sitting around us. Something funny I have to mention has to do with the cheer that the Chinese spectators use, which is "Zhong Guo, jia you!" that translates literally as "China, get gas!" You've probably heard this being screamed if you've been watching NBC's broadcast. Many non-Chinese fans have appropriated this cheer and inserted the Chinese or English name of their respective countries, so instead of "Zhong Guo" the Brazilians yelled "Ba Xi" (xi" being pronounced "shee"). Really funny. During the U.S.-Italy match I screamed "Mei Guo (literally as "beautiful country"), jia you"...that elicited turned heads and stares from some of the Chinese attendees in our area. I'm sure they're confused as to why a Chinese person is cheering for the U.S. and waving a large American flag.

We left the Brazil-Serbia match during the second game because Bonnie had to meet up with her mom and some friends of theirs from Santa Cruz, CA, who are also here. I got her into a taxi and then made my way over to Worker's Stadium in the Chaoyang District just northeast of the city center for women's soccer. Yet another urban adventure combining bus, subway, and foot. I'm feeling like I can get around this city pretty easily now, but that doesn't make the travel time any shorter. I got to the stadium a bit late and was soon joined by my cousin Andy. We had great seats just six rows up from the field, but our view of the far side of the field was partially obstructed by the team benches.

Nigeria was leading Brazil 1-0 when I arrived, but Brazil scored once, twice, and thrice. The second goal was a spectacular bicycle kick - I've never seen one before, so witnessing it live was pretty incredible. The Brazilians were fast and just too good for the Nigerians, who did have a small cheering section including a brass band that played during the ENTIRE match (except for halftime). Repeating the same tune over and over and over. I felt bad for the spectators who were seated in their section.

The second match was between Sweden and Canada, two teams I saw in Tianjin last Saturday. They were fairly evenly matched in terms of size and style of play (from what I could tell), but Sweden was better at passing the ball and won 2-1 (if I remember correctly). Good game, though - originally we were planning to leave at halftime but decided to stay. At halftime we walked outside to food & beverage venues to get some sodas. Wow, what a mess. First of all, Chinese people don't know how to form a line. Even if there is one, people will try to push or squeeze their way to the front. If you ever come to China and need to stand in line for something, you'll need to learn the term "pai dui" (pie dway) so you can tell the skippers off.

We stood in line for what seemed like forever. I ended up helping this other woman play line cop. She looked kind of Euro with her green-framed glasses, and I wonder if she had lived in the West because she had no qualms about telling the line-jumpers to go to the back. She even pulled the metal posts in between the red ribbon barriers out so that they were more obvious. The killer was the electricity apparently went out just as we were getting close to the order counter, so the volunteers staffing the refreshment stand had to stop. The Euro woman barreled to the front and went off - I couldn't hear what she was saying, but boy was she pissed. Andy and I surrendered and pulled out of line, only to notice several Coca-Cola carts behind us with fast-moving lines. Ha...if only we had known.

Afterwards we walked around the area next to the stadium and checked out the bar area in Sanlitun, which was the original gringo/expat hangout neighborhood in Beijing. It had been a long time since I had seen anything so cheesy. One bar after the other, each with a neon sign and inside a tacky band on stage whose members crowed like screech owls. A sad sight. Andy guided me into a maze of alleyways off the main drag and into a cool bar that had been built in an old Chinese house. They had Grolsch in bottles, but I stuck to Qingdao - made in the port city of the same name at a brewery started by Germans over a hundred years ago.

We didn't get home until after midnight...I did a load of laundry and collapsed. Now I need to get motivated to head into town for handball!

Postscript: I forgot to mention in my previous post that I saw a bunch of celebrities at the tennis session on Monday. Carl Lewis, the star of the 1984 LA and 1988 Seoul Olympics, walked down the stairs right next to where we were sitting. In the VIP section 1/3 of the way around Center Court, Prince Felipe of Spain was there to watch Rafael Nadal. The last time I saw him was in 1995 at my graduation from Georgetown - he got a MSFS from the School of Foreign Service the same year I got my BSFS, so King Juan Carlos II was the speaker.

LeBron James later showed up to watch Roger Federer - he was with three other guys, one of whom also looked like a member of the U.S. men's team. With basketball now the most popular sport in China, millions of people now know the NBA stars like they were homegrown heroes. You should have seen how all these Chinese spectators mobbed him for autographs when he was leaving the tennis stadium. He actually had to push people away. It makes you wonder if being famous is really all that...

Day 4: Jetsetting Around Beijing remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Never could I imagine that I would witness the world's #1 and #2 men play in the same day. My cousin's wife, Peggy, asked me if I wanted to go to one of the opening sessions of tennis, and I didn't hesitate to say yes even though I already had tickets for the semifinals of men's and women's singles. It took us forever to get to the venue, the Olympic Green Tennis Court, because of closed roads and mislabeled maps. We finally got as close as we could and still had to take one of the free Olympic shuttle buses to the gate. The hassle was well-worth the effort. Once we had passed through the security checkpoint, Peggy found the information booth and discovered that Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, and Serena Williams would each take a turn on Center Court (the design apparently was based on a lotus flower).

Nadal appeared first and played against Potito Starace from Italy. I can't say that I ever jumped on the Rafa bandwagon - I find his style to be on the brash side - but there's no doubt that he's an awesome player. You can't win the French for the fourth straight time and then beat Federer in five sets at Wimbeldon. He didn't seem all that sharp today, though. He took the first set 6-2 without any problem, but he started slipping in the second set while Starace picked up his game and won 6-3. In the third set, each held serve until the critical fifth game when Nadal broke Starace and closed out the match at 6-2.

Serena Williams' first-round match had been suspended because of yesterday's rainstorm with her leading 6-2, 2-1, so we had the fortune of seeing her absolutely whip Olga Govortsova of Belarus. What was especially impressive about Serena was her return of serve...wow.

To complete the trifecta, Federer played Dimitry Tursunov of Russia, whom I recognized as a decent player in his own right. I can't begin to tell you how absolutely stunning Federer was. Tursunov has an awesome serve and could keep up for the most part, but Federer simply outclassed him. His backhand slice just floats over the net. His forehands are so precise and powerful. I was amazed. End of story.

After tennis Calvin (my cousin Bing's son who was at tennis with us) and I made our way across town to Chaoyang Park for beach volleyball. We had a bit of extra time and by chance ran into a Dutch couple who told us that the Heineken Holland House was open to the public. I had remembered hearing about the Holland House at the Sydney Olympics - it was actually a three-masted ship docked in Darling Harbour and the site of much partying. At the one here in Beijing, Chinese nationals apparently have to download an invitation from a Web site, but everyone else can get in with just a passport. Very cool place - they took over a large building with traditional Chinese architecture and decked it out in orange, orange, and more orange. There was an outdoor area with tents that served snacks and drinks, so we got burgers (topped with mayo and ketchup) and fries (with more mayo). Much better than the food at the Olympic venues!

Beach volleyball is pretty much what you see on TV, including music clips (many of them cheesy) played in between every single point. The weird part was the three large groups of uniformed spectators who seemed to have been planted in the audience to lead cheers or at least clap their plastic blow-up sticks in perfect sync. I can't help but wonder. Anyway, the first match featured Nicole Branagh & Elaine Youngs of the U.S. against a German team - good action and close in both sets, but the U.S. duo pulled away. The second match pitted two Australians against a pair from the Republic of Georgia, with the Aussies winning in two sets. We left after that and made the long journey by taxi back to Houshayu in the Shunyi District where we're staying.

Final notes: saw the Olympic Stadium (aka the "Bird's Nest") and the National Aquatics Center (aka the "Water Cube") on the way to and from tennis. Very cool indeed. If BOCOG (Beijing Organizing Committee for the Olympic Games) did one thing right, they designed great facilities and made sure they were spectator-friendly.

Day 3: Wake Me Up Because I'm Still Dreaming remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Yesterday Calvin (the elder son of my cousin Bing in California) and I took the train to Tianjin to watch two women's soccer games: Sweden vs. Argentina and Canada vs. China. Tianjin is about 120km (72 miles) southeast of Beijing, and we got to ride the new bullet train that just started service on Aug. 1st. Aside from the fact that the train is super-fast and cuts the trip down to half an hour, we had to wait for over three hours for the next train that had available seats. This unexpected delay gave us plenty of time to wander around Beijing South Station, which is pretty impressive with its shiny granite floors, curved ceiling, and large waiting area with cushioned chairs that you might find in a hotel lobby. The perimeter of the station was lined with the type of stores you see in the international terminal of an airport that sell liquor, cigarettes, perfume, etc. The two McDonald's branches weren't open yet, though I was surprised to see a large Costa Coffee outlet - Costa is a large chain of cafes in the UK but I didn't know they had expanded into China.

There were lots of people waiting for trains, and it was obvious that they were members of the burgeoning moneyed class in China. Usually when you go to train stations in China, you see small groups of migrant workers from the rural areas either squatting on the floor or sitting/lying down on their overstuffed nylon bags or sacks. They're easy to spot and serve as a grim reminder of how huge numbers of people from the countryside move to the cities in search of better lives. That's worth a blog posting on its own. I didn't see any of these migrant workers at Beijing South, though - rather, the place was crawling with "Chuppies" (Chinese yuppies), toting the latest in cell phone technology and thumbing their noses at the days of the androgynous Mao suit.

Getting a taxi from the Tianjin train station to the Hyatt Regency Tianjin was a bit of a hassle, not because there weren't any taxis to be found. Au contraire, we saw plenty of them waiting right outside in a designated area. These taxis didn't have meters for some reason, so the drivers were all trying to draw passengers to their respective vehicles. The first guy tried to charge me 30 RMB (just over $4) to go to the hotel. I'm familiar enough with China to never accept the first offer, so I tried to get him down to 15 RMB. He went up to 20 and I didn't budge, so Calvin and I walked away. I expected the driver to call us back, saying that he would take us for 15, but that didn't happen - this is when you know you've gone below the seller's/vendor's threshold. The next woman quoted 30, and I countered with 20. Deal. When we got to the hotel, however, she asked for 30. My conversational Mandarin is fairly limited and I'm often self-conscious about speaking because I often mix up the four tones, but this was a rare instance in which all of the words poured out of my mouth. I challenged her right away and she backed down.

At this point it didn't feel excessively hot or humid outside...slightly uncomfortable, yes, but not unbearable. We chilled out in the room for a bit and then caught a taxi to the Tianjin Olympics Center Stadium. The boulevard leading to the stadium was closed off to traffic, so we had to walk for a few blocks and then go through several security points. Everything went smoothly and I was pretty impressed with the infrastructure and the flow. The seats themselves were quite good - just past midfield and high enough to be able to see everything but low enough to feel like we were in the middle of the action. The shocker came soon after we sat down. We were sweltering to the point of using our event tickets (printed on thick paper) to fan ourselves, but that didn't stop a large bead of sweat from running down my right leg even though I was stationary. My theory is that the bowl-shaped stadium trapped the humidity and prevented the breeze from coming in.

I can't imagine what it was like for the players to have to run around in those conditions. Regardless of the weather, Argentina definitely looked outmatched by Sweden. The Swedes were bigger, heftier, and more aggressive, and as such controlled the ball pretty much the entire time. The Argentines looked lethargic and couldn't gain control of the ball. 1-0 in the end. The main draw was yet to come, though. China's women's soccer team has been one of the best in the world for quite some time - remember, they barely lost to the U.S. in the inaugural World's Cup when Brandi Chastain whipped off her jersey at the end of the final. Obviously the vast majority of the spectators came to cheer for China. What I certainly didn't expect to see was how rah-rah Chinese people have become. Nearly everyone had a Chinese flag sticker either on their shirts or stuck to their faces. Lots of red headbands with yellow characters sporting various messages. And, of course, a sea of flags.

The China-Canada game definitely was more interesting. Canada's players were taller and larger, so they won all of the contested headballs. China had speed, agility, and good ball-passing skills, though. Add a fired-up crowd, and it was exciting enough to distract me from feeling very uncomfortable...temporarily. When we first arrived the Jumbo-tron screen showed the temperature at 92 degrees, and during the second game it had dropped to a balmy 85 but with 72% humidity. Nasty stuff. Needless to say, I was happy to get back to the air-conditioned hotel room.

This morning we took the train back to Beijing South Station and made our way all the way back to my cousin's house via taxi, subway, and taxi again. In the afternoon a group of us went to the Shunyi Olympic Rowing-Canoeing Park to watch the preliminary heats for men's & women's pairs, lightweight fours, etc. Wow, what a cool venue. The flatwater course is 2,000 meters long, and our tickets were for a section relatively close to the finish line. It was so hazy out that we couldn't see the rowers at the start line and instead had to wait for a couple of minutes before they came into view. The great part was that the temperature had dropped significantly and probably was in the low 70s with overcast skies, which made for great conditions in which to sit outside. The U.S. team had entrants in some of the heats we watched, so it was fun to cheer for them and wave our flags. I had brought a large flag that almost got confiscated at the security checkpoint, because the BOCOG volunteer thought it was too big to bring in. My cousin Andy saved the day by challenging the volunteer and then his supervisor, otherwise I might have lost it for good. This particular flag flew over the U.S. Capitol back in 1993, and I've schlepped it around the world with me: Germany, Bolivia, Australia (for the 2000 Summer Olympics), and maybe even one other country.

About halfway through the heats it looked and felt like it was going to start pouring rain, so we hightailed it out of the venue. Just as we were walking to the van after getting off the shuttle bus, it began raining - harder than I had seen rain fall in a long time. As I type this at 2:40am local time, it's raining again. Hopefully the net result will be a blue sky (or bluer, which isn't saying a whole lot) tomorrow and/or cooler temperatures...otherwise it might just keep coming down.

I'm dozing off right now so I'd better end here, but I'm happy to report that I saw myself on NBC's Olympics broadcast a few hours ago. They were covering the rowing and showed the women's quads heat with the U.S. in it - from a distance I spotted my big flag that almost didn't make it in. Very cool.

Days 1 & 2: Weathering the Weather remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So I made it to Beijing after an uneventful trip from Seattle via Seoul. I got to Sea-Tac at 11:30am on Tuesday morning, three hours before take-off. While checking in at the Korean Air counter, the women told me that my big red suitcase (aka "Clifford") was 3 or 4 kilos over the weight limit. When they told me this, my other check-in piece already had been put on the conveyor belt and disappeared into the bowels of the airport that mere mortals never get to see. That meant I couldn't transfer anything to the duffel bag. I sat there with Clifford open, pushing things around, and realizing I couldn't do a whole lot. Finally the Korean Air peeps told me to reweigh the bag, and after they saw that the weight hadn't changed much (I had taken out 2 lbs. of coffee) they said I could check it in but that I would need to stay within the limit the next time. Sure, no problem, since EVERYTHING in Clifford was for my cousin and his wife or my mom.

On the plane I got bounced around from one seat to another, not by the flight attendants but by other passengers who were trying to keep their respective groups together. I can appreciate that, but since I always travel solo I'm the one who gets asked. I went from a window seat to an aisle and finally back to a window, four or five aisle ahead of where I originally had been. Plus, I was fortunate to have a really nice Korean woman (probably in her mid- to late 30s) and her cute daughter (8 or 9 years old) as my aisle-mates. The mother spoke English fairly well so we chatted on and off during the 11-hour flight. She even showed me the proper way to mix bibimbap, the well-known Korean rice dish. When you order it at a restaurant, it usually comes pre-assembled or close to it. Korean Air, however, served it in components that you had to blend yourself. The meat and vegetables were in one bowl, the rice in another, and the condiments separate from that. So following the instructions of Nice Korean Woman in Seat 30G, I dumped the rice on top of the meat/vegetables, drizzled a packet of sesame oil on top, and squeezed out a small tube of hot pepper paste. Mixed well, ate, and enjoyed.

The Korean Air flight attendants, starting with the ones who greeted us as we were boarding and ending with those who said goodbye when we were deplaning, assumed I was Korean and therefore spoke to me in Korean. This is not the first time in my life that such a thing has happened. Usually Asians are pretty good at deciphering who belongs to what ethnicity based on facial composition, but I guess I look Korean because I kept getting "Anyeong haseyo!" and who-knows-what-else thrown at me. I almost felt embarrassed revealing that I wasn't one of them - it's like telling them they've been fooled. As far as I know, this doesn't happen to anyone else in my immediate family, even though my younger sister Christine is a carbon copy of me (with longer hair).

I have to say, Korean Air has a great in-flight entertainment system. Each seat has a screen as well as a remote control that pops out of the armrest. You can watch a number of different things (full-feature movies, short movies, documentaries, news broadcasts, sports, etc.) and even pause and restart if you need to use the bathroom or something. I watched four movies and four travel shows in between the two meals, which is about equal to my exposure to TV over a five-month period. Just another reason that foreign carriers are usually the way to go when you have a choice.

Nothing to report on my short layover in Incheon (the actual location of the Seoul airport), other than having to guzzle an entire bottle of water because I couldn't take it through security. The water was in my 2008 Great Lakes Regional Barista Championship commemorative bottle that I didn't want to leave behind, so the only option was to empty its contents...into my stomach, as I would have lost my place in line had I left for the bathroom. On the flight to Beijing, we were served another meal that was a bit perplexing. There was a plastic container of a white gelatin-like substance, but the entire label was in Korean with no indication in English as to what was inside. I opened it and found that it had a creamy texture, but I wasn't sure it was tofu or if it was supposed to be sweet or salty. There was a sauce packet that, again, was labeled only in Korean and therefore not indicative of being sweet or salty. I dumped that over the creamy white blob and tried it...salty. I'm not a huge fan of cold tofu, but this was passable so I ate most of it. As many of you dear readers know, I hate wasting food.

Arrived in Beijing and breezed through immigration and customs. Literally. The whole episode was anti-climactic, since my cousin had gotten his supervisor at the U.S. Embassy to sign a letter attesting to my identity, relationship to my cousin, and location of their residence. The plan was to whip it out in case I got hassled by the authorities because I wasn't going to stay at a hotel. No problem there. The only problem was getting through the thing that looks like a metal detector but actually measures your body heat. I think it was installed during or just after the SARS outbreak, because I've seen it at the Shanghai airport as well. The one in Beijing Terminal 2 kept going off and the people manning that station didn't seem to know what to do. Fortunately I squeezed to the front of the line and managed to avoid setting the alarm off, meaning that my body temperature is normal. Well, duh...I'm such a cool person (har har).

I was going to blog about our short trip out to the Huanghua section of the Great Wall as well as the Chinese acrobats show we attended, but it's now past 2am and I'm having trouble staying awake. So I'm going to post this now and try to catch up later.

First Report from Da Muthaland remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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Originally I was going to post the second entry of my blog either on the way to China or right after I got there, but a couple of weeks have passed since my inaugural entry. My friend Monica said she heard that a blogger needs to post at least twice a week to maintain consistent readership levels. Wow, I never knew. Since my blog is limited to writing about international trips that I take, I don't think I'll be posting that often. I like traveling and all, but who's on an overseas flight twice a week? Well, aside from my friend Tom, who criss-crosses the world like it's going out of style. I aspire to have his frequent flyer elite status someday.

One of the reasons I decided to blog again was to explain my motives behind going to Beijing. A couple of people asked me over the past few months if I felt conflicted in any way, given all of the negative press that the Chinese government has received - particularly during and after the civil unrest in that southwestern region whose name starts with the letter T. It's probably best to refrain from addressing this issue on-line, lest I get seized in the middle of the night by masked agents and shuttled on the first flight out of the country. Either way, I don't feel that my attendance really contributes to and/or legitimizes the policies & actions of the Chinese government.

First and foremost, I am a self-professed Olympics geek. I've watched every single Opening Ceremony (winter AND summer, thank you very much) on TV since Sarajevo and Los Angeles hosted in 1984. I toured the Olympic stadia in Munich (1972) and Barcelona (1992) during my junior year in college. In 2000 I used my Peace Corps readjustment allowance (which many of my peers spent more judiciously) and traveled to Australia for the Sydney Games. So when I found out two years ago that my cousin was getting posted to the U.S. Embassy in Beijing, I told him and his wife that I definitely would come in 2008.

Also, I view these Games as a celebration of Chinese history, culture, and traditions. As one of the estimated 40 million members of the Chinese diaspora, the Beijing Olympics are like a coming-home party to which I invited myself. I recognize that there's quite a bit of baggage, but let's not forget that no one regime, country, political system, or whatever owns the Olympics. Even with all of the criticism and scrutiny, the Chinese still have to put on a good show.

There's a lot more I could say about this, but I need to make my way over to the S Terminal...wouldn't want to miss my flight!

Beijing or Bust! remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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So you may be wondering why I'm calling my blog "Where in the World is Al Sandiego?" It's not like I live in or am from San Diego. My older sister Trish and my brother-in-law Anthony (aka Twan) both lived there for a long time before they even met, but those who know me well shouldn't be surprised that Southern California really isn't my thang. Sorry, T&T. Rather, I've assumed the identity of Carmen Sandiego, a popular cartoon figure from the 1990s who trekked around the globe chasing shadowy figures. She had to solve geographical trivia questions, if I recall correctly, to stay in hot pursuit, and eventually she would catch the thief and put him/her in jail. I saw the show a few times and thought it was very clever, i.e., using the medium of animation to teach viewers (kids, ostensibly) about geography. I also recall that the main character had a mysterious side to her: she always had her large fedora tilted at an angle so you couldn't see both of her eyes. As if she were a secret agent or something. I've always liked James Bond movies and admit fantasizing about being a spy...when I was younger, of course. Mmm hmm.

But I must give credit where credit is due. My former co-worker Ramie, whom I supervised during my last 16 or so months at Alterra and who remains a good friend, used the line "Where in the World is Al Sandiego" for a newsletter title or some such nonsense. The details are hazy - I think I was in Africa at the time - but it stuck, and I could barely leave the basement office (affectionately and dis-affectionately known as "The Lower Mezz") without someone humming that catchy tune. OK, perhaps that was a bit of a stretch, but I secretly liked the idea of adopting that persona. Plus the surname sounds Latino, especially if pronounced correctly, and a small part of me still identifies with the Latin culture...which is why my 13-1/2 month old niece Nina will start calling me "Tio" when she learns how to enunciate the word in the near future. Don't laugh. I'm completely serious.

Anyway, I'm now Al Sandiego, perhaps not tracking criminals but enjoying the adventure just the same. I've taken quite a few domestic trips this year, mostly for work, but I intend to dedicate this blog to the occasions when I get to collect more stamps in my passport. Again, those who have had the fortune (or misfortune) of traveling with me overseas are well-aware that I like to see stamps in my passport, particularly new ones.

Next stop: Beijing, China, for the Games of the XXIX Olympiad!

I've Succumbed! remains copyright of the author alsandiego, a member of the travel community Travellerspoint.

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