Getting bikini-ready

This will be my last post for a while. I will be heading to the jungles and beaches of Thailand and Cambodia for my month-long New Year’s vacation. In the meantime, I am spending this week in Changde with my boyfriend in preparation for the trip: Booking hostels and beach resorts and, more importantly, getting my winterized body ready for a bikini.

Fortunately for me, my boyfriend recently joined a newly renovated gym near his apartment. I went for the first time three nights ago for a spinning class. I have never tried spinning, but I thought to myself, I know how to ride a bike, so how hard could it be?

Spinning, it turns out, is torture. The worst part is that the class is in a small room enclosed in glass, so everyone in the gym walking by or on a treadmill can witness the pain. The bicycles have these heavy metal wheels that can only be stopped by pressing a level under the handlebars. A couple times I tried to stop and nearly toppled off the bike.

“Are you OK?” my boyfriend asked over the thumping bass of the music.

I turned around on my bike seat and looked back at him. “This is hell,” I said.

“It’s only been five minutes.”

Forty minutes to go. I considered faking a stomach cramp and slipping out the door, but I knew I would get hell for it from my boyfriend. So I tried to tap into that burst of energy I experienced the last mile of the Chicago Marathon, when I was so exhausted I could have collapsed to my knees but instead pressed on, saying to myself like a mantra, “Forward, forward, forward.” I could do it then, after 25 miles, so I could do it now on a stationary bike amidst flashing disco lights.

That burst of energy didn’t come. I struggled. I panted. My thighs quivered. I did not even try to hide my exhaustion. I pedaled slower than everyone else. A chubby man in glasses on the bike next to me pointed to the black knob on my bike frame and said, “You can turn it to the left to make it easier.” Even he, that chubby, bespectacled man, was pedaling faster than me.

I tried to focus on the thumping bass, tried to bring a foot down with each beat. I was a little behind the beat, but the music drove me to pump faster than I would have otherwise. So, song by thumping song, I got through the Spinning Class from Hell.

Encouraged that I survived spinning without making (too much of) a fool of myself, I agreed to try an aerobic dance class last night. For a non-dancer, I can honestly say, OK, not too shabby. The directions were pretty straightforward. Side step, side step, hop hop, shimmy shimmy, shake your butt (pictured above). Repeat.

Next on the agenda: Pole-dancing class.

For once, a sunny Sunday

The weather this Sunday was unseasonable warm, a preview of spring. The timing was perfect for the students because Sunday afternoons are the only times they do not have to be in the classroom. People shed their coats and came out of hibernation from indoors. Here was the scene from this afternoon

Learning Chinese with my chopsticks

One of the delights of living in China is eating Chinese food. For someone who cannot handle her hot food, I have learned to tame the chili pepper. And as my concentration has shifted away from trying to control watery eyes and sneezing from the spiciness, I can now eat meals and listen to the words flowing around me.

The scene from last night: At a restaurant near the school is myself, my upstairs neighbors -- who I call big brother and big sister, my Chinese tutor Mr. Tang and his wife Mrs. Mo, and Ms. Huang and another Mr. Tang, a couple that teaches at my school.

We have a room to ourselves and the table is full. Our dinner: Lamb hotpot with rice noodles and spinach, Japanese-style tofu, eggplant and green beans, beef with hot peppers, pig stomach soup, spicy duck and river fish. Not to mention the three kinds of alcohol: Bai jiu (white rice wine), huang jiu (yellow rice wine) and tian jiu (sweet rice wine.) Yes, Chinese people love their rice so much that they eat and drink it.

My greatest Chinese lessons have come from such dinners. As I stuff my face, my ears stay open. What was once a gurgle of consonants in throats now carry meaning. The stock went up up up and then down down down ... My son is in Wuhan, on break from graduate school ... If you want your child to get better grades, you must tell the teacher to move him to the front of the classroom.

My dinner companions shift from putonghua -- standard Mandarin -- to a variety of dialects. I can't understand every word they say, but the idea is there. I know when they are talking about money or education or food. Usually the topic falls within those three categories. I can follow the string of conversation, from "Ms. Zhou's son has a fever," to, "Did you hear about so-and-so's husband dying of cancer," to "Drinking wine everyday is good for your health."

I only wish my Mandarin were good enough to put in my two cents. On the other hand, being the silent observer has its perks: My chopsticks are always moving.

And now Miss Lee covers The Beatles

To be honest, I don't have a singing voice. On top of that, I have horrible stage fright. But before the New Year's break, I found myself in front of about a thousand junior students and teachers singing to a karaoke version of 'Hey Jude."

'Hey Jude' is not one of my favorite Beatles songs. It is, however, within my vocal range and familiar to the students -- The song had been playing for weeks over the campus loudspeakers. I figured if the students didn't understand the words, at least they would recognize the tune.

So in the days before the performance, I practiced my heart out. I recorded my voice, critiqued my pitch and tried my best to imitate Paul McCartney's phrasing. In the end, I don't think all the work was necessary. The students would've been happy if I just clapped and hummed a tune. They're very accepting.

The rest of the show was a mix of traditional Chinese folk dances and some very non-traditional hip-hop/pop/break dancing that made me wonder to myself at what age it was appropriate to wear midriffs and sequin short-shorts. (The junior students are 12-14.)



For a culture as conservative as China's, the show at some points was straight-up pornographic. Girls simulated sex moves by thrusting their hips back and forth. They dropped down to their knees in front of boy dancers and shimmied up to their feet. Sitting next to the headmaster, I wondered what was going through his head. Then I looked at the younger kids watching the show. Was this what they would hope to dance like and look like when they went through puberty?

Compared to the all the butt-shaking going on, my performance was probably the tamest. No skin (I wore a turtleneck) and certainly no movement waist-down. But also no booing, so I'll call that a success.