Franzen’s former fears are my current ones.

In the five years since I’d written the [1996 Harper's essay titled "Perchance to Dream"], I’d managed to forget that I used to be a very angry and theory-minded person.  I used to consider it apocalyptically worrisome that Americans watch a lot of TV and don’t read much Henry James.  I used to be the kind of religious nut who convinces himself that, because the world doesn’t share his particular faith (for me, a faith in literature), we must be living in End Times.

From the preface to Jonathan Franzen’s How to Be Alone.

Six Days, Six Airports

I’d been meaning to write about the week that preceded my time at home, but while I was at home, I never felt like writing much.  My thoughts in the following paragraphs are probably not as detailed as they would’ve been if I had written them immediately after getting back to the States, but nevertheless, I wanted to get to them.

Two nights ago I landed in Shanghai from San Francisco, but around five week ago, it seemed like my life revolved around going to and from airports and sitting on planes.  It was a disorienting (albeit fun) week of traveling, which perhaps helped me settle comfortably back in the good ol’ American South, where the pace of life is a lot more stable and slow.

The first (and most interesting) flight was from Hong Kong to Bangkok via Ethiopian Air.  When I got to HKG, giant boxes upon boxes of goods were stacked in front of the EA counters, with African men whose tall stoutness stood as an imposing and curious presence next to the diminutive petiteness of the Hong Kong women behind the counters.  But after thinking about the strange juxtaposition of these two groups, I slowly grew frustrated at the wait.  In a city known for efficiency, I waited for almost twenty minutes for the two people ahead of me to check-in.  When I finally got to the counter, I jokingly asked the clerk why it had taken so long and she informed me that the visa regulations for African people going to Addis Ababa (where the flight to Bangkok was headed afterwards) was stringent as all hell, which took me by surprise as I thought that these men (and yes, it’s usually men) found HK (and not Ethiopia) as their business haven (this thought became stronger after reading Chungking Mansions: Ghetto at the Center of the World).  The flight itself was more interesting, as it was mostly Africans wearing anything from lime-green caftans to three piece suits.  There were also a handful of Chinese (and from what they wore, they looked more like Mainlanders than HK’ers) on the flight, but I had no clue whether or not they were headed towards Bangkok or Addis Ababa.

While waiting for the restroom, I encountered a Chinese mother holding her baby having a conversation with a Chinese man.  Since none of us knew each other, I joined in and found out that she had actually flown from Shanghai to Hong Kong and was now going to Addis Ababa and then connecting to Rwanda where her husband was working.  (If I ever complain about flights, I try to remember her hell of a cross-continental baby-carrying commute and then my frustration dissipates immediately.)  My previous conception of chunyun was that it was largely a domestically-contained event, with folks migrating from coastal cities back to the hinterlands, but the uniqueness of this woman’s chunyun proved that the event is a globalized phenomenon.

The Ethiopian Air flight back to HKG was less than a quarter full, which—while relaxing—was definitely not as interesting as the first flight.

Then it was off from Shenzhen to Shanghai, a route that I’ve taken almost a dozen times by now.  It was the usual (mostly-Mainland) mix of businessmen and women who wear heels on flights.

I wasn’t too awake for my flight from Shanghai to Tokyo, mostly because I’d woken up before 6AM to trek to Pudong International, but the connecting flight to Atlanta was interesting because it was my first trans-Pacific flight that wasn’t directly from China to the States (or vice versa), meaning that it wasn’t filled to the brim with Chinese citizens (and here I mean those who actually hold Chinese citizenship as opposed to any ol’ Chinese “citizen”), i.e. no obnoxiously spoiled children and no senior citizens who roamed the aisles to avoid stiffness.  The flight consisted of Mainlanders, but it seemed mostly Japanese folks and a smattering of white Westerners, many of whom looked like they were either headed back to the Mid-West they had come from or were repatriating after serving military duty.

What struck me the most during the flight was the rapport amongst the Japanese elderly, their general geniality and sense of camaraderie.  After seeing how friendly and orderly the flight was, I couldn’t help but think of the Chinese reaction to the aftermath of last year’s Tohoku tsunami.  The frantic buying of salt in China stood in stark contrast to the composure of the response in Japan, and I couldn’t help but to think that that behavior on this flights functioned in the same way.

Finally, the week of commute and travel ended as I landed in Atlanta, but landing in Atlanta wasn’t as strange as it was stressful (going through customs always gives me anxiety), and I’d forgotten how bizarrely strict and stringent American airport security could be.  From rechecking my checked bag for clearance into Hartsfield-Jackson proper, to taking off my shoes as I cleared security into the airport—these were the little things that I had forgotten about.  However, what remained constant was answering the customs officers’ questions with a sense of confidence, mostly a loud and emphatic “YES” that belied the anxiety bubbling underneath. Nevertheless, my first hour back in the States at the airport seemed a bit foreign.  But as I was going through security, the long-lashed, young African-American security guard asked me where I was flying from, and after saying “China” and quickly explaining my background, followed up with “Did you learn your language?”  It took me a second, but I turned back to her while putting on my shoes and responded with an emphatic “YES”.  I immediately turned around, scrunched my face in confusion and thought, Why the hell did I just say that?  

And then strangely enough, it felt like home again.

Apple and Foxconn okayed this report?

My cousin just sent this over to me (ironically via his iPhone) and while I don’t think the report is anything revelatory, it does show the inside of the factory, including the assembly line.  Nothing new, but I wonder how an American audience unfamiliar with the poverty and population in China will digest images of rural Sichuan or the droves of migrant workers flocking to seek jobs at Foxconn.

Back to China Tomorrow

A longer than expected stay in the States meant that I was patroning taquerias, catching up with friends, and a bit unmotivated to write.  That will change when I fly back tomorrow.

An hour at the Auburn University Library

The lack of updates comes as a result of being home, which means I’d rather hang out with the family, doing mundane but meaningful things like helping The Sister with her project on Marquis de Lafayette, or helping Dad slice up oranges while we chat about social issues in China.  There’s lots to distill and dissect (which I hope to do by the end of this week), but another reason for the lack of updates is because the one hour I spent at the Auburn University Library (my sanctuary since age nine) yielded so much in terms of things I wanted to read that my remaining week in Auburn will be spent fanatically pouring over them.  I’m trying to read at least the intros for each book before skimming through the chapters I find interesting, but here’s the list:

Lost in Translation: Orientalism, Cinema, and the Enigmatic Signifier (Homay King)

Out of Time: Desire in Atemporal Cinema (Todd McGowan)

Ghetto at the Center of the World: Chungking Mansions, Hong Kong (Gordon Matthews)

Hong Kong: Culture and the Politics of Disappearance (Ackbar Abbas)

Celluloid China: Cinematic Encounters with Culture and Society (Harry H. Kuoshu)

Cultural Curiosity: Thirteen Stories About the Search for Chinese Roots (Josephine M.T. Khu)

The Chinese Diaspora: Space, Place, Mobility, and Identity (Laurence J.C. Ma)

Planet Shanghai (Justin Guariglia)

I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m interested in, right?  Currently reading the Abbas, parts of which I’ve read before for one of my college classes, but with the recent HK vs. Mainlander debacle (codename “Noodlegate”?), it’s a lot more compelling and a lot more vital.

Going home for three weeks.

While I’m not sure I liked the Granta piece “Holy Solitude” as a whole, its ending resonated with me–

I always think, either as a reader or as a writer, one person – anyone – can struggle against this filthy world by entering into a world of literature. It’s not naivety. It’s not escape either. It’s great. It’s great because it’s so simple, so beautiful, and – almost – no one can prevent you, even in China.

Especially in China.

(Via Janice.)

On the phone with Mom

My mom is pretty funny.

When I was talking about things I’ve done and foods I’ve eaten in Hong Kong, she said…

Did you try the hot dogs? [When I went to Hong Kong before we moved to America I tried them and] I remember the hot dogs there were amazing.

(Because yes, if Canto cuisine is known for anything—it’s hot dogs.)

When I mentioned I wanted to go to grad school to study Film and Media Studies and in particular, a program that focuses on both theoretical as well as technical knowledge, she said…

Good–now you can be your sister’s agent!

(Because yes, if I want to pursue grad school—it’s to ensure my sister’s future success as a Disney princess.)

Anti-SOPA/PIPA all the way

The primer from Gizmodo explains a lot, as does this page from Google.

I also regret not studying Dante.

From Virginia Postrel’s article “How Art History Majors Power the U.S. Economy”…

I thus entered college to pursue learning for its own sake. As an English major determined not to be a lawyer, I also made sure I graduated with not one but two practical trades –neither learned in the college classroom. At the depths of the previous worst recession since the Great Depression, I had no problem getting a job as a rookie journalist and, as an emergency backup, I knew I could always fall back on my excellent typing skills. Three decades later, nobody needs typists, and journalists are almost as obsolete.

The skills that still matter are the habits of mind I honed in the classroom: how to analyze texts carefully, how to craft and evaluate arguments, and how to apply microeconomic reasoning, along with basic literacy in accounting and statistics. My biggest regret isn’t that I didn’t learn Fortran, but that I didn’t study Dante.

As an English Literature major, Postrel’s words offer hope and reassurance to a still confused twenty-something still exploring the world.

(Via John.)

What are the odds?

(Yes, I’m naming names in this one.)

On New Year’s Eve, I decided at the last minute to go to Hong Kong with my friend Kevin ’13 and his HS friend Maury.  I should’ve planned better to coordinate with friends and folks from HK, but was too busy with work to really think about the intricacies of NYE.  Anyway, NYE was fun albeit quiet—a sober, non-heels-wearing night where the three of us ate Indian and caught the fireworks display after walking around at LKF, the much ballyhooed bar district.

But on the way up LKF’s crowded main strip, I walked past a bar teeming with raucous partygoers and one of them looked eerily familiar.  As I walked through the crowd, my head turned slowly to stare at him because he looked exactly like someone whom I went to middle and high schools with.  I stopped Kevin and Maury and said to no one in particular, “That guy looks like this guy I grew up with in Auburn.  That guy looks like Philip R.” (Obviously I said the last name to my friends, but I won’t do it here.)  It wasn’t so much a case of deja vu as it was a case of—no way, that couldn’t possibly be him.  There could be no way that I’m walking past him in the middle of a busy Hong Kong street.  We proceeded onwards, but my mind kept reeling from wondering whether or not it was actually him.  A few days later, I added and messaged him on Facebook, inquiring about the small chance that the person whom I had seen days earlier was actually him.  And it was.

My friend Will ’12 is currently in Shenzhen and a few days after NYE, we headed from Shenzhen to Macau, where we would catch Kevin and Maury who were coming in from Hong Kong.  Of course, the three of us Swatties knew each other, but since Maury and Kevin were HS friends, I was reassured that the social dynamics would course smoothly.  As I spent the first half of our ferry ride catching up with Will (before I conked out to sleep), he told me that he had spent part of the past semester co-teaching Chinese to elementary students with a Haverford student, who as luck would have it, turned out to be Maury, Kevin’s friend.  Coming all the way across the world and meeting up with your friend and his friend, only to discover that the friend is someone with whom you’ve studied and worked with before—so strange, yet such a wonderful surprise when the four of us embarked on our Macau journey.

And speaking of Macau and odds—it was my first time gambling and I eased my way into it through roulette, which is also fitting since my fantasy football team at work (aptly named “Rushin’ Roulette”) came out first in the league.