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One of my goals during our trip to China to fetch the Ladybug was to post pictures to Flickr and to update the site with stories from the Far East. Unfortunately, I neglected to remember the fact that I can’t remember to do anything on time, and so I didn’t. Nevertheless, I’d still like to document the voyage (no matter how late) simply for myself, so that I can remember all the interesting details when I tell the story to the Ladybug years down the road. So, I present The Ladybug Chronicles.

Day 5: Gotcha Day

Monday, November 13, 2006, was the day all the waiting had been leading up to: the day we would first get to see and hold and touch and take the Ladybug into our arms. In the parlance of adoptive families, the day is called “Gotcha Day,” since from the parents’ perspective that’s the day they finally get their kid. That’s cute and charming until, of course, you think about it from the little baby’s perspective: it’s the day when strange white people come up to you and go “Gotcha!” and take you away with them. The Queen B (in a strange departure from form) agreed with me on this, and she decided to use the term “Forever Family Day,” which, despite being excessively saccharine, does a better job of conveying the purpose of the day. Plus, it was the Queen B’s birthday as well, so what she says goes.

At 4 in the morning, those families heading to Guizhou checked out of the hotel and assembled onto the bus for the drive back to the Beijing Airport. The drive there was quite easily the least terrifying of any we experienced in China, partly because our minds were elsewhere at the time, but mostly because noboday else was out on the road that that ungodly hour. By 7:00, we were safely packed onto a cramped Air China jet heading for southern China, to Guizhou.

The flight to Guizhou was pretty much uneventful, although breakfast does merit mention. The flight attendants offered a choice between a Western breakfast, which consisted of an omelette, potato cake, sausage, a fruit cup, and a croissant, or a Chinese breakfast, which consisted of a tray of lukewarm, watery rice and something resembling bread. Is that really even a choice?

A little before 11 we touched down in Guiyang, the capital city of the province of Guizhou. There we were greeted by a new adoption agency liason, a mousy young woman named Pheobe, and our local tour guide Simon, who resembled a punk-rock version of Yao Ming. As we drove to our hotel, Simon told us a bit about Guizhou. The province of the Ladybug’s birth is green and mountainous, covered in a perpetual warm wet mist. Guizhou is mostly a subtropical climate, a vast land of irrigated fields and rainforests, humid with the omnipresent threat of rain. According to Simon, Guizhou means “precious sun,” in that there is precious little of it. Guizhou is also extraordinarily poor, one of the poorest in China, with many different ethnic minority groups ekeing out a living of subsistance farming in the country. The people of Guizhou are also known for their hot cuisines and hot tempers, a trait captured by the local saying that “Guizhou girls are spicy girls.”

The capital city of Guiyang is a smallish Chinese city, Simon explained, with a miniscule population of only 3.3 million people. Like Beijing, the city is a maze of massive skyscrapers (apartment blocks and businesses alike), but whereas Beijing is a diverse cosmopolitan city looking to the future, Guizhou is noticably poorer and feels very much rooted to its past. Very few of the people speak any English at all, and ties to China’s pre-industrialized past are everywhere: ox-drawn carriages are common on the freeways, peasant farmers peddle their ware on every street corner, Chinese buddhist influences are everywhere, and so on.

Of course, we had very little time to sightsee. According to Pheobe, the children would be arriving at the hotel starting at noon, and each of the child “hand offs” (which sounded more to me like a mob transaction than the completing of an adoption) would happen about once every fifteen minutes thereafter. Pheobe suggested that we simply take our bags to our rooms, ready the crib with whatever baby toys we brought, and prepare ourselves to me our new daughters. I don’t think the reality of this actually hit home with me, however, until I finally stepped off the elevator in our hotel and looked down the hallway to our room:

There’s nothing quite as surreal as an entire floor of a hotel lined with baby cribs and wash basins outside each and every door.

The Queen B, together with the grandparents and I, readied the room. The Queen B unpacked the baby’s essentials (toys, diapers, bottles, and so on) while I set to work writing down a list of questions about the Ladybug that we would hopefully be able to ask her foster mother during our fifteen minute meeting, on the grounds that once we saw the Ladybug in person for the first time, we’d be too starstruck and flabbergasted to remember anything we wanted to know.

And at noon, we all assembled on the little bench in our hotel room and waited for the Ladybug. From outside out door came the sounds of a baby crying, and our collective hearts raced faster and faster as the cries grew louder and louder as they approached our door… and then collectively broke when the cries dissipated as they continued past our door and further on down the hall. The Ladybug would not be the first to be delivered. Nor would she be the second or third or fourth…

In retrospect, it’s hard to say which wait was more agonizing: the fourteen month wait of adoption limbo, not knowing who our daughter would be or where she was, or the three hour wait in a cramped hotel room, knowing the Ladybug was there in the hotel, but unable to see or hear her. Each of us dealt with the stress in our own way. The Queen B, a multitasker by nature, fretted about the room, endlessly checking to see if all the toys were out, or all the gifts unpacked, or all the cameras fully charged and readied, and so forth. I, on the other hand, agonized over personal torments: how would the Ladybug react to her new family? How would her foster mother react? Would the sad-eyed little girl in our pictures smile for us? And so on…

Finally, after what seemed like an eternal wait, the door finally knocked, and in came the Ladybug:

Meeting the Ladybug for the first time was a bit like first meeting a famous movie star: she was a lot smaller in person, and was flanked on all sides by a heavy entourage of people. (In this case, her foster mom, two Civil Affairs officers, Pheobe, and Simon.) There, just a few feet in front of me, the Ladybug was more beautiful that I could imagine: round rosy cheeks, a little button nose, pouty rose-petal lips, soulful brown-black eyes, and a sweaty mop of curly black hair. The Ladybug, dressed in the same red sweater we saw in her orientation picture the previous day, looked altogether unsure of the event, and clung tight to her foster mom (whose name, we later learned, was Maoqing).

It’s hard for me to be witty or pithy about this (although frequent readers of the site will probably aske “What else is new?”), and so let me simply recount as best as I can. Everyone assembled into the cramped hotel room, circling around the little Ladybug. The little one’s foster mother Maoqing, saddened to tears about letting her go, handed the Ladybug to the Queen, who, in an act of compassion characteristic of my wife, simply wrapped the Ladybug and Maoqing in a giant bear hug, a special moment shared by the Ladybug’s two loving mothers. The civil affairs folks eventually moved the Ladybug to the Queen B, who hugged her tight and then gave her to me, and for the first time ever I got to hold my daughter:

During the next ten minutes, the grandmothers took their turns holding and smooching the little girl as the Queen B and I sat in the corner of our hotel room and spoke with Maoqing, with Simon and Pheobe translating for us. According to Maoqing, the Ladybug was loving and mostly easy-going, although she could have quite a temper, or as she said it, “She can be a spicy girl!” She told us about the Ladybug’s foster family, her wishes for a happy and healthy life in the United States, and her hopes that the Ladybug would one day return to visit China and her foster home there. It was a tearful talk, and I in particular felt particular powerless to convey to this woman just how grateful we were to her for the home she had given the Ladybug and the family she had given us. Eventually, the civil affairs people moved towards the door, and with some final hugs — foster mom and new parents, foster mom and little daughter — the entourage vacated, leaving the Ladybug with her new family.

To say the Ladybug wasn’t immediately overjoyed at the situation would be a gross understatement, and the first half hour after the hand-off, the poor little thing cried and cried, endlessly looking at the door and shying away from strange faces around her. The Queen B just held and held her until the cries subsided, and the Ladybug went silent, save for rythmic gasping for air as she calmed herslef, and the noise of her succking her fingers for comfort.

During this time, as the Queen B rocked and held the Ladybug, the nanas went to work moving toys to the bed and clearing out her crib, and I dutifully followed the baby around shooting video footage. While it was somewhat frustrating to be stuck behind the camera, I was in a way grateful for it. Les warned us to prepare for unexpected emotions during the hand-off, and I was unprepared for how sad and guilt-ridden I felt at the sight of the Ladybug. Not sad about being a dad or about the adoption; rather, I just felt sick-to-my-gut terrible about sepearting this little girl from her foster mother, and witnessing first hand how much it had hurt them both. Yeah, I knew that this was for the better and this was how it worked, but that woman loved that little girl, and she was the only mom the Ladybug had ever known, and it hurt like hell inside to end that relationship.

On the other hand, I was so thrilled that the Ladybug was finally here, and that she was as beautiful and precious as I’d dreamed. Being behind the camera gave me a chance to look at the little girl who was about to become our daughter. Like all dads do, I instinctively knew that my kid was the most beautiful in the whole wide world, although I have to admit that, with her rounded face and her wild hair — pompadoir on the top but shaved short around the sides and back — she looked a little like a cuddly-cute version of Kim Jong Il. When she was eventually calm, the Queen B laid the Ladybug down on the bed, and the little girl stayed there, exhausted and confused and vigilant.

We were told that Chinese parents always bundled up their kids, and the now we had proof. The Ladybug was wearing enough rotective layers of clothing to survive an Antarctic winter in style, but given the tropical humity of Guizhou and the fact that our hotel thermostat would go any lower than 80 degrees F, she was sweating profusely. The Queen B took off her thick red Pooh-Bear booties, and carefully removed her red wool sweater and yellow sweatpants (which we suspect were hand made); underneath that she had a thick pink sweatsuit, and underneath that a set of footie pajamas. As the B went on to change her diaper, I discovered the only flaw on my otherwise perfect kid: her little butt is covered with purple spots, as if the Ladybug is part purple-peater-eater. They’re actually a condition called Mongolian spots, and they’re supposed to go away in time, but for now her baby buttcheeks look like bad renditions of robin’s eggs.

Eventually the Ladybug roused herself up, and began to explore the world around her. She stayed mostly in the middle of the bed, working her way through her different toys with an air of such stern concentration that it bordered on the comical. We also discovered (as all parents do) that, while she seemed to tolerate all of the colorful, splashy, and above all expensive toys we brought for her, the things that really caught her fancy and held her attention were crinkly plastic bags. Formula bags, ziplock bags of toiletries, drop-in bottle liners — those were the real treat. Within an hour after the hand off, the Ladybug was playing with toys and, if not exactly thrilled about her new family, at least willing to give them a shot.

That was more or less the state of affairs for the next three hours: the Ladybug played with her toys and kept a constant vigil on her new family. While she cracked a smile here and there (which did my heart wonders), she was mostly intent on staring at the people around her, trying to decipher their funny sounds and funny smells and funny faces. From time to time Pheobe or the hotel staff would turn up at the room, bringing either fresh paperwork for the parents or fresh linens for the baby, and whenever the Ladybug saw Chinese faces or heard Chinese voices, sadness would creep into her eyes and she would cry, although she allowed herself to be comforted by the Queen B and I. And every now than then she’d light up and giggle, giving me hope that she was going to be okay.

By 6 o’clock, the Queen had dolled the Ladybug up in a bow, and together we collected with the other adoptive families, officially to begin our daughters’ finalizing paperwork, but mostly to see each others’ children. The Ladybug, being just shy of eight months old, was the second youngest girl there; she was just beat out by a 7 1/2 month old. As a result of their relative youth and apparent follicular differences, the two became known as “Baby Big Hair” and “Baby No Hair.” (I’ll let you guess which one was the Ladybug.) The real purpose of the meeting was official family pictures, which were needed for the finalizing procedure for the adoption scheduled for the next day. Here is the first official picture of the Clan Komplexify:

That night was a long one for the Ladybug. We returned to the room, fed her a warm bottle, and set her down on the big bed between us. The Queen B and I laid on either side of the bed like bumpers on a kiddie bowling lane, with the Ladybug the fitful little bowling ball between us. She (and by extension, we) splept very little that night. Instead, she stayed curled in a mostly fetal position, with her face in the covers. She would turn to look at me, and then at the Queen B; back and forth like this for hours. While she did not cry very much, her sadness was evident, and she would roll away from most attempts to touch or caress her. The little thing simply grieved, and while the Queen and I were blissfully happy to have the Ladybug finally there between us, we were simultaneously heartbroken seeing the little girl suffer.

Eventually, in the wee dark hours of the morning, an exhausted Ladybug and her equally exhausted parents fell asleep, finally a family after all these months.

More…

You can check out more pictures from “Gotcha Day” over at Flickr.

It’s been frighteningly cold here in the Black Hills this week.  Starting on Sunday, we got anywhere from 5 to 10 inches of snow, and then the week has been consistently blustery, with snow flurries, biting winds, and deep deep cold.  We even broke a thirty-something year record when the temperature outside dropped to minus 24 on Tuesday night.

Consider this backstory for two anecdotes.

Control-Alt-Duh… 133T?

This year, Komplexify U (the school at which I teach) implemented a laptop program for all incoming freshmen students.  The Math Department, in trying to make help students get the most out of the program, has made all of its Calculus courses laptop-required, the immediate consequence of which is that I, as a professor, now have to deal with students having problems not only with the mathematics, but also with the computer itself.  For example, consider the following conversation I had just before class with a student on Thursday.

Student: Dr. K?  Can I ask you a question about our laptop computers?

Me: Sure.  What’s up?

Student: What should I do if my computer keeps freezing up?

Me: Is it a particular program that causes the computer to freeze?  If so, uninstall the program and then reinstall it.  If its Window’s itself that keeps freezing up, take it down to ITS and have them re-image your laptop.

Student: Well, that’s not the problem, see…

Me: Well show me your laptop and let’s see if we can find the problem.

Student: Umm… (Shuffles around in his backpack for a moment, and then pulls out his laptop.)  Here it is.

Me: Ah, I see.  To prevent your laptop from freezing up again, I’d suggest not leaving it in your trunk overnight during a blizzard.

There’s no business like snow business

Today, Friday morning, is the first time all week its been bright and sunny and especially warm.  Indeed, by 7 o’clock, the outside termperature was already 45 degrees, and the effects of the rising mercury are already noticable: snow is melting off of the streets and sidewalks, the sky is blue and full of promise, and the capillaries in my face don’t immediately crystalize and explode the microsecond I step outside.

So imagine my surprise when, as I turn on my office computer and check my email before my 8 o’clock class, I get the following.

Sent: Friday, February 16, 2007 7:00 AM
Subject: Classes canceled

Classes have been canceled for Friday, February 16, 2007 due to severe weather.  The main reason is that the campus parking lots and walkways are covered with ice.  

This irritates me on two counts.  First off, no they aren’t.  They were covered in ice (and snow!) for the past week, but today they’re just covered by ex-ice, i.e. “water.”

Secondly, even assuming the parking lots and walkways are, in fact, still icy, this email, ostensibly sent out to protect the faculty from these trecherous conditions, wasn’t even sent out to the faculty until one hour before the first scheduled classes of the day, which meant that anyone unlucky enough to teach at 8 o’clock (e.g. me) was unable to discover that it was unsafe to be on campus until after they were already there. 

So, to recap the email… Traveling across town through the trecherous snow and ice to get to work: no problem.  Walking the final 50 yards from your car to your office to read the email: certain death. 

I’d go back home now and try to get some sleep if I thought it was safe to go to my car.

While copying exam papers in the Math Department office, I had the following brief conversation with a colleague, struck up (appropriately enough) as I was filling small party bowls with “Conversation Hearts,” which you may fondly rememeber as those candied cordiforms that taste like cough suppressant and are made from what appears to be compressed chalk.

He: Whatcha doin’?

Me:  I’m giving candy to give my students to make up for giving them an exam today. 

He:  You’re giving an exam today? That’s ruthless.

Me:  Yeah.  I’m calling it my Sweetheart Surprise.

He:  I guess that’s better than The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

One of my goals during our trip to China to fetch the Ladybug was to post pictures to Flickr and to update the site with stories from the Far East. Unfortunately, I neglected to remember the fact that I can’t remember to do anything on time, and so I didn’t. Nevertheless, I’d still like to document the voyage (no matter how late) simply for myself, so that I can remember all the interesting details when I tell the story to the Ladybug years down the road. So, I present The Ladybug Chronicles.

Day 4: Beijing up close

Sunday, November 12, 2006, was the first “official” adoption day in China, in that it began with the Orientation meeting, and the last “official” day without kids, in that tomorrow we would get the Ladybug. Orientation is the meeting wherein we were changed from giddy tourists into panicky pre-parents, as the brass tacks and grimy nuts and bolts of the final adoption procedures were laid out for us with frightening clarity. Les, our amusing British adoption representative, walked us through aspects of China and Chinese adoption, and then briefed us on what to expect in the next few days ahead: the baby hand-off, the documentation and passport process, the works. And while we were delighted to find out that we could be meeting the Ladybug for the first time as early as noon on Monday, our initial excitment was tempered by the fact that we needed to be up and out of our ritzy five-star hotel at 4 in the morning to catch the flight to Guizhou.

Les also announced that, in contrast to every other adoption hand-off he’d been involved with, all families heading to Guizhou would be given their daughters by their respective Chinese foster mothers. I gotta admit, I was more than a little unsure about that. On the one hand, I was terribly excited at the chance to meet the woman who cared for the Ladybug during her first seven months, and to thank this woman for giving us our beautiful, healthy, wild-haired, soulful-eyed daughter. I on other hand, I was nervous to the point of puking about taking away the Ladybug from the only mom she’d ever known in exchange for a pair of strange smelling, funny talking, pale-face parents, as well as having to be there as her foster mom gives up the gorgeous little child she’d come to call Mei Mei, or “little sister.”

The first half of the orientation ended with a pop quiz: one by one, Les projected a single new picture of the soon-to-be American daughters, challenging families to find their child based on only their referral pictures. One by one, pictures of beautiful little girls appeared on the screen; one by one, the entire audience of adoptive parents oohed and aahed the precious children; and one by one, parents sheepishly announced that they didn’t know whose child it was.

Execpt for the Ladybug, that is. The minute her picture popped on the screen — a pink lump of skin in an oversized sweater, with a pair of big brown eyes looking out from under a mop of curly black hair — the Queen B and I announced “That’s ours.” In fact, several of the other families shouted “That’s the Ladybug!” Not even eight months old, and she’s already famous. Among tens, at least.

The highlight of orientation, though, was the red book. As the pop quiz ended and parents began to wonder about the new picture of their kid, Les handed to each family an ornately embroidered, red silk book. Inside our book, on the first page, was a picture of China superimposed with a picture of each of the children we had just seen, a “group portrait” of all of our new daughters. The third page included an updated personality profile, indicating her feeding preferences (soy milk, apple sauce, and bananas), favorite activities (playing with toys, watching TV commercials, and listening to music), and how to comfort her when she cries (hold her tight). No problem there. It also says that she’s shy and sometimes scared of strangers, and that her foster mother calls her by the pet name of Mei Mei.

But the second page took our breath away: four new pictures of the Ladybug! In one day, the number of pictures of our kid more than doubled! The pictures showed the Ladybug dressed warmly in a yellow sweater and knitted jumper, standing (standing!) in her crib, and playing with a toy. The Queen B was so excited to see the new pictures that she literally bounced around the hallway, squealing “I got new pictures! I got new pictures!” with unbridled glee. It might have been a tad embarrasing, if not for the fact that every other new mom was doing the same thing, as the hapless dads watched on, futily trying to swipe the red books back so they could see too.

With euphoria in the air, our group piled onto a tour bus to visit two last sites of Beijing, a final bit of sightseeing before the big day. The first was the Temple of Heaven, which many locals view as the true symbol of Beijing. The Temple of Heaven is actually a sprawling tree-line park smack in the middle of downtown Beijing. Running north-south along the central axis of the park is the actual Temple complex, consisting of three main Temple sites and a number of smaller buildings along the periphery. Though originally built as the site for the Emperor to make ceremonial sacrifices to Heaven, the Temple of Heaven nowadays is the place to go to see Chinese folks doing ordinary Chinese things: practicing martial arts, playing musical instruments, singing Chinese songs, knitting and talking and enjoying the history of their home.

We arrived at the Temple in the early part of the afternoon, entering from the northeasternmost corner. My initial impression was of a vast park with many walkways lined by tall cypress trees receding off into the horizon, disappearing into the wonderfully atmospheric mist in which the Temple of Heaven is pertually covered. (I was later informed that the mist was, in fact, Beijing smog. Lots and lots and lots of smog. But it sure did look pretty.) This corner of the park is also the far end of a thousand-foot-log zig-zagging covered hallway called (in what is apparently a running theme in Beijing) the Long Corridor.

At one point in time, the Long Hallway connected several of the smaller kitchens, warehouses, and offices for the Temple’s day-to-day functions, but today it is the place where friends come to congragate and talk, musicians come to perform, choruses come to sing, wizened old men come to teach clueless Westerners to play badminton, and countless old ladies come to play cards. I didn’t entirely pick up the rules of the card game, but I noted that it involved (i) the frequent throwing of cards at opponents, (ii) the frequent shouting of (apparently) Chinese profanities, (iii) significant betting on the side, and (iv) liberal quanitties of rice wine, although it’s quite possible that the first three observations may in fact be mere consequences of the fourth. At the other end of the 1000 feet, the Long Corridor ends, connecting to the nothernmost site of the main Temple complex itself, and the centerpiece of the Temple of Heaven: the Hall of Prayers for Good Harvests.

The Hall of Prayers for Good Harvests is a massive building circular building with an ornately detailed three-tiered roof. The base of the building, painted red and detailed with golden dragons and pheonixes, measures about 100 feet in diameter and is mostly open inside, like a 120-foot tall Chinese tee-pee. It stands atop a ginormous, three-tiered mound decorated with marble railings and a nearly infinite supply of dragon heads gargoyes spitting out to the horizon, and is flanked on either side by two massive store houses. The site of ceremonial sacrifices made by the Emperor to honor Heaven, the entire Hall is supported internally by four massive pillars (representing the four seasons) and twelve secondary pillars (representing the twelve hours of the traditional Chinese day), and was built without any steel, nails, or delusions of subtletly.

In the orange mist of Beijing’s afternoon smog, it feels distinctly otherworldly, like a flying saucer about to lift off, or perhaps like the business end of the giant drill coming out of the Earth. Its rafters and beams are decorated with the same excessively ornate craftsmanship of the Fordidden City buildings (which, given the fact that these were sites of important ceremonial duties of the Emperor, is not too surprising). However, during those brief moments when the sun cuts through the haze, the Hall gleams as if on fire as the light catches the gold paintings and details of the building.

The Hall of Prayers for Good Harvests is the northern endpoint of the Imperial Stairway Bridge, which forms a north-south axis bisecting the Temple grounds and eventually exits the park at its southern boundary. From a tourist’s perspective, the Imperial Stairway Bridge is interesting only in that it is neither a Stairway or a Bridge: it’s just a very long, flag-lined walkway that connects the Hall of the Exceedingly Long Name with the other two landmarks of the Temple.

The first of these two landmarks, the Imperial Vault of Heaven, occurs at the midpoint of the Stairway Bridge. The Imperial Vault might be best described as the Hall of Prayers’ little brother: it’s a smaller, single-tiered circular building stading atop a single-tiered marble base, flanked by two itty-bitty storehouses.

The Vault itself is enclosed inside a tall, slightly elliptical wall called the Echo Wall, which demonstrates the following curious acoustic phenomenon: if you stand inside at one end of the Echo Wall while your wife goes to the other end, and then speak in a normal talking voice, she won’t hear a thing, ’cause she will totally ditch your ass to buy pricey souvenirs since you’re no longer around to dissuade her. Neat!

Further south past the Vault is the third landmark, the Circular Mound Altar of Heaven. The Mound Altar is just that — the altar proper — and is best described thus: start of with the Hall of Prayers for Good Harvests, and then remove all the buildings, so that your left with an epic but completely empty three-tiered marble base. At the exact center of the base is a single circular stone, upon which one can stand for good luck and (assuming the Altar is relatively devoid of tourists) speak and have their voice echo back from several cleverly placed balasades.

From the Circular Mound we headed south along the final stretch of the Imperial Non-Stairway Non-Bridge and out of the Temple of Heaven. Les and Mei quickly diverted us onto a bus to high-tail it north to our final tourist stop, Tiananmen Square. It wasn’t immediately clear what the rush was, but our guides seemed determined to get us to the Square before sundown, and given the reckless disregard for life or limb demonstrated by our Chinese bus driver, accomplished this with ease.

Tiananmen Square is a huge rectangular plaza located just south of the Forbidden City in downtown Beijing. I was unclear as to the need to rush, since the Square is mostly devoid of any structures, except for the Masoleum of Chairman Mao and the Monument to Heroes. The Masoleum, flanked on either side by patriotic statues of Mao Zedong, is a mostly nondescript squarish building that one could easily mistake for a university library, except for the Chinese soldiers with automatic rifles who stand guard at the entrance.

The Monument, on the other hand, is a rather pretty obelisk sitauted smack dab in the center of the Square, and is also guarded by heavily armed soldiers. At the northern end of the square is the Tiananmen Gate itself, a huge red pavilion which, to my untrained eye, was of the same architectural design as in the Forbidden City. (In fact, the Tiananmen Gate is actually the true southern entrace to the Forbidden City, so Yay, untrained eyes!) The only other thing you’re likely to see at Tiananmen Square are tourists. Chinese tourists. Lots and lots of Chinese tourists.

For as the sky darkened with the waning evening sun, Tiananmen Square seemed to spontaneously erupt with Chinese people. From old folks to teenagers, from isolated business men to multigenerational families, the Square went from a vast and empty expanse to a churning sea of people, all pushing north to the Tiananmen Gate. The Queen B and I went with the flow, and discovered the reason for the mad rush: at dusk, the Tiananmen Gate becomes illuminated. Initially a spotlight illuminates the portrait of Chairman Mao and the Communist star above him; then floodlights illuminate the two massive banners on either side of the portrait; then more lights illuminate the pavilion upon the gate; and finally the street lamps on the square alight as spotlights fix on the Monument for Heroes.

From a tourist point of view, the lighting of Tiananmen Square is fantastic. The perpetual haze of Beijing pollution makes for a particularly atmospheric setting, with the bright beams of light dissapating like watercolors into the fluid sea of mist. But the real charge in the air doesn’t come from the dangerous levels of industrial pollution, but from the Chinese people themselves, for although I am completely unfamiliar with the particulars of Chinese history, completely ignorant of the Chinese language, and frighteningly naive in the ways of Chinese customs, it was clear to me standing in Tiananmen Square at dusk that the Chinese are deeply proud of their past and are looking forward to their future. As it reads on the Chinese characters next to Mao’s portrait, Longevity: China forever! And then with the final lighting of the streetlamps, as quickly as they appeared the Chinese citizens disappeared back into the mist, leaving the Queen B, our family, and me mostly alone in the Square.

Les and Mei then took us back to the hotel, where we packed up our suitcases and readied ourselves for tomorrow. It was simply impossible to get any rest: we were both too excited and terrified about finally holding the Ladybug that we simply couldn’t fall asleep; and even if we could, we needed to be out of the hotel by 4 in the morning to catch the flight that any sleep we’d get would feel like a cruel joke. To get our minds off that (and to tire us out some in the hopes that, if nothing else, we could exhaust ourselves into getting some rest), the Queen B and I joined my mom for a late night tour of Beijing.

Our hotel was right next to the Wangfujing, a pedestrian shopping district which, due it its many upscale stores, is popular among locals and, due to its considerable distance from any Chinese drivers, is popular among tourists as well. We strolled down the main avenue of the Wangfujing, past giant karaoke bars and stores with names like “Happy Happy Super Time Fun Emporium,” until we came to Snack Street, a massive culinary street fair lined with red lanterns specializing in Cantonese cuisine.

As this was later explained to us, Cantonese cuisine consists of the eating of anything with legs or wings, except possibly tables and planes, and Snack Street is proof of it. Anything that could be put into one’s mouth, someone on Snack Street was peddling it, from staples like beef and fish to more exotic (and downright disgusting) choices: cockroaches, scorpians, sparrows, sea horses, snakes, squids, starfish, you name it. Indeed, Snack Street is less a culinary showcase of Chinese cuisine as a neverending horrorfest of creepy-crawling things on skewers. Les had advised us earlier on that, should we venture to Snack Street, we should probably not eat anything there, a sage piece of advice to which I can only add a most solemn “No shit, Sherlock.”

Thank God tor McDonald’s, where you can get a tasty treat… like a Green-Bean Pie…

What the hell is wrong with these people?

Finally, at 11 o’clock, the lights along the Wangfujing’s storefronts dimmed, and the throng of late-night shoppers and tourists gradually thinned. The Queen B, Nana Schu, and I headed back to our hotel for our last night in Beijing, still excited out of our skulls for tomorrow, but also blissfully exhausted…

We’ll see you tomorrow, Ladybug!

More…

You can check out more pictures from last day in Beijing over at Flickr.