Peter’s Blog V2

On this one day when I finally managed to escape the office by 6, the BART station was closed.  A sea of commuters hovered around the entrance to BART, with some walking down to check out the fully shut steel gate and then returning upstairs.  “The BART station is closed,” I heard somebody say.  My New Yorker instinct kicked in and I started walking.

Why would you stand there, anyway?  Pray for the service to resume like the Indians danced for rain?  Or talk to other equally clueless passerbys to get some insights?  The New York-trained commuters are so used to seeing service disruptions that we’d turn around and start heading toward the next optimal means of transportation before we even think of complaining.  That’s what I did.  Oh, except that I was so new to San Francisco that I had no clue what other means of transportation there were.  I walked along the one and only line of BART in the direction of home.

I realized that something was up.  First there was a single file of about 20 armored and armed cops marching on Market Street.  Then there were some police motorcycles, and a whole bus that said “police service”.  Then I came across three guys wearing the kind of creepy clown masks that you typically see bank robbers with machine guns wear in the movies.  They had a protest sign, but I was too far to read it.

So I Googled the news.  Apparently there was a big protest going on that forced BART to shut down all of its stations in downtown San Francisco.  And I was walking toward the center of it.  Hmm.  Alright.  I stopped, and considered going all the way back to the office.  Then the station near me miraculously opened one entrance, so I got in, jumped on a train, and got home.  Nobody was on the platforms of the next few stations so I assumed they remained closed.  The one by my office also remained closed for at least 30 more minutes, because BART kept announcing it.  Guess I was lucky.

And what was the protest about?  Let me attempt to summarize:
(1) cop shot a homeless man with criminal records who was attacking people with a knife
(2) people protested (1) in BART stations, organizing disruptive and dangerous stunts via cell phone
(3) BART cut off cell phone service in its stations temporarily to deter (2)
(4) An organized effort led by Anonymous now protested (3)

WHAT THE FUCK?  Is my IQ not low enough to understand the logic here?  Thousands of hard-working commuters could not go home to their loved ones at the end of the day, because some teenage girl wasn’t able to txt her bff on the BART?  Complaining is one thing but making a front page-worthy protest out of this?  When was the last time a New Yorker protested not having cell phone service on the Subway?

San Francisco is surely holding strong onto its hippie reputation.  And my once-in-a-blue-moon chance to go home early was ruined.

We went last night to P.F. Chang’s, the Chinese-themed TGI Friday.  It was a surprisingly cultural experience.

This was my very first time.  Prior to the visit, most of my knowledge about this chain establishment had been from South Park depictions: (1) its food makes you super constipated, and (2) it’s run by an army of white people with a plot to take over America for China.

But that sort of “reputation” apparently did nothing to deter its business.  In fact, this particular restaurant has always been one of the most popular in Central New Jersey.  We waited in line for 45 minutes.  By the time our beeper went off, I think they were handing out 2-hour wait notices.  All this quality time spent there made us extra observant of the atmosphere:

One diner finished his business and exited the dim restaurant in a power suit, dark sunglasses, a pink tie, and a pink handkerchief.  That was a bit overdressed for any meal… let alone at a Chinese TGI Friday’s on a Saturday night.  Well, at least nobody would wear that kind of thing to a real Chinese restaurant.

More Indian people were waiting in line at the entrance to this PF Chang’s, than all the Indian people I had seen in any Chinese restaurant in the past 20 years, combined.  I had wondered for the longest time why no Indian (including anyone who appears to be of West / South Asian descent) appreciated Chinese food… well, there they were.

When we finally got seated, we sat next to a Caucasian family who was sure having a good time.  The six adults and three children had managed to drop under the table the following: five pairs of chopsticks, one “training wheel” chopstick, one fork, two spoons, three straws, one paper napkin, two clothe napkins, a bowl worth of rice and food, and various liquids.

2011 has been a year of Asian-American awareness.  Having already caused controversies were Amy Chua’s Tiger Mother and Wesley Yang’s Paper Tigers.  Without getting into the details, both articles discussed ways and challenges for traditional Asian cultures to fit into the white male-dominant American society.  One of them leans more toward tradition and the other leans more toward change, but both of them have been highly criticized.

Now, dining at PF Chang’s caused just as much complex as reading those articles.  Many of us have the reflex to discredit “fake” Chinese food whenever we spot it.  I’d go as far as not using chopsticks at a place that sells beef & broccoli, because it really is “American” food and a fork would be more appropriate.  Do I want my culture associated with panda bears, terracotta warriors, and a plate of colorful sauces on the table?  Not really.  But on the other hand, what’s wrong with an evolving subculture that reaches out to accommodate people outside our community?  Isn’t it better to invite them into our world with a highly modified version of kung pow chicken, than to shut the door and have a stinky tofu party among our own kind?

PF Chang’s is as Chinese as Taco Bell is Mexican.  What’s harder to understand, for the more conservative of us, is that there’s nothing wrong about it.  If we want to break through the barriers of tradition and move beyond the passive, obedient, piano-playing math nerds that we’re known for, perhaps we should embrace the same kind of evolution that PF Chang’s applied to its food.

This evening, I went to CVS and picked up a box of (the CVS generic version of) DayQuil.  Upon check out, the cashier asked me for my birth date.  Somewhat stunned and confused by the inquiry, I held back and paused for a second.  Then I saw the piece of print out in his hand that read “preventing teen cold medicine abuse” while he explained, “it’s a New Jersey law thing.”

That’s when it clicked in my head, “oh wow, I didn’t know you could get high on cold medication…”  I was intrigued wondering how it would work and what it’d feel like.  People talk about substance abuse all the time but I didn’t know DayQuil could be abused so bad that there needs to be such a regulatory hassle to intervene.  Then I wondered if this law actually prevented any abuse, or did it educate more people about this drug’s “alternate use”.

Every year around this time, I get very depressed.  It has become a pattern for a few years, and the intensity only seems to grow.  It’s the Chinese New Year, plus minus a few hours depending on where you are.  Some prefer to call it the lunar new year or Asian new year, just to be fucking sensitive to the other cultures.

I am part of the blame for this depression – although I try to sneak in some festive Chinese elements like a red shirt, I plot to appear at work as “normally” as possible.  Not gonna make a big deal out of it, just like how millions of other Chinese people will not take the day off or close their businesses to celebrate.  Unless you’re “in the know”, you would not even realize that the most important holiday to 4 million people in America has just gone by.  We kinda treat it like a big secret.

When I see the Japanese and Koreans put on traditional costumes for holidays and ceremonies, and when I see the Jewish observe their Sabbath ritual on a weekly basis, I often wonder, what the hell are we doing for our Chinese traditions?  If anything should be embraced as the Big Deal, shouldn’t it be the new year for the 1.3 BILLION people on Earth?  Unfortunately, it seems to be our cultural trait that we do not insist on sticking to our cultural traits.  We adapt and evolve, just like the essence of Darwinist survival.  We cook colorful General Tzo’s Chicken for stupid white people… heck, we make sushi and tacos, too!  We’re proudly Chinese by blood, and we don’t need anything superficial to prove or reaffirm this identity.  Or maybe we don’t even care?  It’s hard to say.

So it goes back to the Chinese New Year, the most glorious and festive holiday that somehow people don’t take as seriously as Cinco de Mayo.  I hate being reminded how pathetic we are toward our own selves.  What the hell.  One day, I’m going to change this.

The 4.5-day weekend turned into a 5.5-day weekend when the historical storm struck the New York region.  Some areas near us reportedly got 32 inches of accumulation in less than a day.  I cursed at the people who asked for a white Christmas, although didn’t mind the notice about office closing on Monday.

Hong wasn’t so lucky.  Like the snow plowers, police, and emergency workers, hospitals were expected to stay open even if radioactive meteors were falling from the sky.  We went out late Sunday night to plow out our cars, in the middle of the blizzard, so she could have an easier time getting to work in the morning.  Fine crystals of snow never stopped falling into the parking lot, for the whole hour when we let winds up to 65 mph slice our faces open, but it was still fun to hop across knee-high piles and to see the artistic sand dunes on each car.

The greatest thing about not owning our place of residence was that some other poor men had to stay up all night to clean up the driveway.  All we had to do was digging our own cars out, which “only” took an hour at night and 30 more minutes in the morning.  Good thing we did the bulk of the work before anything melted or re-solidified, so our cars looked almost as clean as garaged, and our parking spots were the cleanest in the community.  Then it pissed us off that a black Chrysler SUV, who drove away in the morning leaving a foot of snow in its spot, decided to take one of ours in the afternoon.  So before Hong could get home from work, I had to shovel out another spot and secure it for her.  Inconsiderate bastard!

Balcony

Attempt to reach the gym

Bikes

I was barely able to open the gym door wide enough to squeeze myself in

Pool closed.  Okay.

After so many days of gaming, I didn’t mind returning to work on Tuesday.  I overestimated the cleanup progress, however, and was surprised by the amount of snow left on the busiest state highways.  This was my car’s first snow, and my personal first time having to commute by car in a post-storm mess.  The mentality and obstacles were quite different from the New York lifestyle – I was glad not having to jump over black slushy puddles any more, but the new challenges could be more life threatening.

The left lane on the Turnpike was like a Russian Roulette – the majority of it was clear, but a few scattered stretches were definitely not safe to drive on.  Picture this: I was traveling at 65 mph on the healthy looking asphalt pavement.  All the sudden there was a sheet of white stuff under my tires, and before I could react, the thin sheet became half inch of bumpy snow.  To make matters worse, a big van insisted on traveling alongside me so I couldn’t switch out of the left lane.  For the sake of physics education, I wondered what would happen if I stepped on the brakes.  But I wanted to live to write this down, and just let Vehicle Stability Assist do its wonders while watching its signal blink violently.  Thank goodness for these electronics.

When I made it to Newark alive, my dream to keep the car somewhat clean was completely broken.  Raymond Blvd, one of the most important roads in New Jersey’s biggest city, was in a worse condition than our apartment parking lot.  The small areas that resembled shoveled road surface were covered in black slushy mud, and the densely packed layer of snow at the sharp turn is almost guaranteed to become ice by tomorrow.

That was a hell of a u-turn

This was meant to be a three-lane road (note: 2-3 blocks long of trucks and cars were idle blinking lights on the right side, not sure why)

This was meant to be a three-lane road plus sidewalks

Do not kill the pedestrians buddy

This parking lot attendant hollered business while shoveling out an entrance for his customers.  Then he helped pushing the customer car into the lot.  What awesome service!

This was a lot of accumulation for a covered parking garage

Today marked our last day in Japan.  We both were sad about ending this fun trip, but at the same time relieved to end this continuous pain from walking too much.

After checking out of the hotel, we locked our luggage up in a convenient coin-operated locker at Shinjuku Station.  This was the third time we used this service to avoid dragging heavy suitcases around – every train station we went through in Japan provided this service, although it wasn’t very cheap.  Seriously, though, NYC should learn to do this.  Many times in the past five years I had wished Penn Station or Grand Central or a large subway station in NYC would have lockers for short-term use.  I wonder how many people insisted on driving into New York just because they needed some place to leave a backpack while going into a party.

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At the onset of this trip, I thought we’d have a chance to practice and learn some Japanese.  Perhaps I could pick up a phrase or two, or ask for the whereabouts of a restroom.  It shouldn’t be hard to at least see some improvement in my pronunciation of the limited vocabulary that I commanded (two words: thank you and excuse me).  It didn’t happen.  Or let’s just say that we gave up at the comfort of being silly foreigners.  I rationalized that if English plus body language could get us nonsmoking seats, restroom, and the right dishes at a restaurant, there was no reason to insist on thanking the wait staff in their own language.  As a result, the only knowledge about the Japanese language that I acquired as an ignorant tourist were:

1. About 80% of the things ever said in public areas went “[something something something]maaaaaaaaaaaaas” or “[something]seeeeeeeen”, and most of them were in annoyingly cutesy-wannabe high-pitch female voices.
2. All the Japanese words that I knew well, i.e. names of places, were pronounced nothing like what I imagined.  For example, Harajuku actually wasn’t “HAA RAA JUU KUU”, but instead “hala JUU KOO”.  And I still couldn’t say it like the train announcement said it.

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After picking up a couple of heavenly sandwiches from the Family Mart downstairs, we enjoyed them in the brisk morning outside an after school classroom names WAC.  Then we decided that it wasn’t enough, and had seconds at a 24-7 McDonald’s filled with trendy youngsters who probably didn’t go home all night.  I spotted this girl brushing her teeth right at her dining table – it was sure reassuring that Japan’s crazy partiers cared about their dental hygiene.

Today’s destination was Odaiba, an artificial island in Tokyo Bay that had been developed into a vacation hotspot.  We took a train to Shimbashi first, and transferred to a special tram on rubber wheels that took us across the famous Rainbow Bridge.

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The mountain climbing trips did wear us our because we passed out watching TV at 9:30 and didn’t get up until 5:30am.  Hong got up and watched another hour of TV around 3, but she also got up slightly later.

We took a brief morning walk to Higashi (East) Honganji, a Buddhist temple around the corner.  That and Nishi (West) Honganji took up significant space on the map and were set symmetrically in central Kyoto, a feature reflective of Kyoto’s design basing off an ancient Chinese capital.  I love grid systems that have a logical pattern.

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It had become clear that we were adjusting for jetlag backwards: we were mostly awake between 12:30 and 7am, talking, showering, soaking beat-up feet and applying Tiger Balm, watching TV, etc, with a nap somewhere in there.  Turning on Japanese TV for the first time was pretty entertaining.  Too bad they didn’t play any prime-time shows at 5am.

Breakfast was at Cafe du Monde, a chain supposedly from New Orleans.  The one thing surprising and annoying about Japan was the smoking at public places, including most dining establishments.  During the course of our brief sandwich-and-coffee breakfast, 5 people had come, seated right near us, and smoked.  Our risk for lung cancer had just gone up a notch!

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