Environmentalists and gastronomists alike rejoiced at yesterday’s announcement that the Swedish government is going to spend six hundred large ones studying the greenhouse gases emitted by cows when they burp. Apparently, ninety-five percent of the methane that cows release comes out through their mouth.

The hope is, by better understanding how a cow’s diet affects its methane output, we can save the world from frying like an egg in a pizza oven. This source of global warming is almost completely ignored. In fact, the only other country even researching it is Canada.

In related news, Fred Thompson dropped out of the presidential race today. Anybody know who that guy is?

The technology has existed for years, so we’ve always known someone would get around to it. And now Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano has proposed a net of state-wide photo radar devices. These machines will be built into the highways, photographing and ticketing every single speeder that passes by.

It’s true that these devices could improve safety, as there are less accidents when everyone is traveling the speed limit. They could also improve the environment, as driving faster burns more fuel. But what seems to intrigue Napolitano is that it could erase the state’s budget shortfall. She anticipates a $120 million dollar in revenue from the new system, with $90 million of it being pure profit. And that’s just the first year.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but my impression of why speeding tickets are so expensive—and why the weigh so heavily on your auto insurance—is due to the assumption that for every time you get caught, there are a plenty of times when you don’t. So shouldn’t the installation of these auto-cops, ones that catch you every single time you speed, result in a lowering of fines? Isn’t anything else just putting the squeeze on people?

Apparently not if you’re trying to balance a state budget, especially one that includes sixteen million on tourism. So don’t speed in Arizona.

Hell, don’t even go there.

What could be more succulent than beef from a blue ribbon steer? What could be more tasty than bacon cut from the pig that won the State Fair? And what if you could get this meat at your local grocery store, without paying much more than you were paying now? You’d be tempted, right?

Well, what if it wasn’t exactly the pig that won the fair, but a clone of that pig. Would that change your mind?

Well, the FDA says they are completely the same. Not everyone agrees with them, though. A full third of people the FDA surveyed said they would never eat the flesh of a cloned animal. Well, perhaps I should say, “would never knowingly eat.” Because, despite this survey, the FDA went ahead and approved the sale of cloned meat without so much as a warning label.

“We found nothing in the food that could potentially be hazardous,” FDA food safety chief Dr. Stephen Sundlof said. “The food in every respect is indistinguishable from food from any other animal.”

Well, that’s good enough for me, Steve. I mean, Science has reached such an apex of learning that there’s nothing they could have missed. You checked it good, right?

The truth is, it’ll be a long time before we’ll be eating these animals. At least not directly. Cloned cows are ten to twenty times as expensive as regular cows, too expensive for anything but breeding purposes. But they are going to dominate that arena. What farmer could resist? Put it this way: You’ve spent your evening browsing Match.com, your tired eyes scanning over the same mediocre options you see every time you look. Then you notice a sidebar advertisement that says you can have your own Pierce Brosnan clone, delivered, for a mere forty-k.

It’s a no-brainer. Soon every piece of meat sold is going to have some relation to the cloned cousin of the uber-livestock. After all, cattle farmers already mail-order the frozen sperm from champion cows. This is just a natural progression.

The failure to get regulation in place here at the beginning is going to make it impossible to discern an animal’s history later. Of course, maybe I’m just worried for no good reason. The FDA surely took a fair and unbiased approach to their decision. They would have ignored any pressure from the corporate meat lobby. Heck, I bet them meat guys didn’t even try to influence the FDA’s decision. After all, they are a model of responsibility, right?

Right?

So the New Year meant a lot of parties. It meant a lot of talking to a bunch of fellow Americans and realizing at how they know about the world around us. They know know enough to complain, but that’s about their limit. I am, of course, talking about you.

Go ahead, name six important foreign leaders. And, no, Tony Blair doesn’t count.

Before you shut me out—I know this article already stinks of “unfun learning”—let me just plead with you: take a moment to read this. It’s so important to know who these people are. And there are less words in this simple article than any two Radiohead songs put together. Even the one where it’s just that computer talking. And this isn’t nearly as painful. Consider it your booster shot against the twenty-four hour stupid that’s going around this winter. Let’s get started:

Who’s on first? President Hu, that is. Know who he is? He’s the leader of the Chinese government and their local chapter of the Communist Party. This soft-faced, well-spoken man is noted for both his work to green up the country’s industrialization and his “China’s Peaceful Rise” policy, which, just as it sounds, is an attempt to convince the world that everyone benefits from China’s bulging military. Incidentally, Hu was the party chief in Tibet during 1989, when the big crackdown came there—including the killing of the Panchen Lama (the Dali’s number two man). This bit of political success began his rise to where he is today.

Contrary to popular opinion, Kim Jong-il is not the president of North Korea. That honor belongs to his father, Kim Il-sung. Fortunately for Jong-il, his father, the “Eternal President”, has been dead since 1994. This makes the old man perhaps the most perfect puppet government ever conceived. Equally convenient is the lack of elections required for Jong-il, because he isn’t the president. He’s just that crazy-haired, huge-glasses guy who controls all the nukes.

For the last year, South Korean minister Ban Ki-moon has been the General Secretary of the United Nations. Here in America, the U.N. is regularly downplayed as the so-called organization that is powerless to stop us from invading Iraq or doing whatever the hell else we want. But Secretary Ban has real potential to make the U.N. seem like it’s back in charge. He didn’t condemning Hussein’s controversial execution and he’s done less than nothing for either Taiwan or Iran. Instead, he’s focused on no-brainers like global warming and Darfur. So there’s little fear that the U.N.’s policies will come into conflict with the way the world is already moving. After all, the best leadership is when people don’t notice they are being led.

As the “Bush of the North”, Stephen Harper is the first conservative Prime Minister of Canada since 1993. Sporting the same sort of businessman’s power suits that Bush made famous, Harper has spent unprecedented time visiting troops in Afghanistan, made a strong anti-Lebanon stance, and announced his intention to defend Canada’s claim on the Arctic waters with military strength. In fact, about the only thing that distinguishes Harper from his southern counterpart is his economic policy seems to be working.

Thirty-six percent of Mexico’s citizens still believe that President Felipe Calderón stole his office. So controversial was his election that, for several days leading up to his inauguration, there was fist-fighting on the floor of congress. Felipe is yet another North American Powersuit President (NAPP). He’s most noted for his anti-drug campaign, which included ordering the army to march into Tijuana. There, under the assumption they were all corrupt, they demanded all police officers surrender their weapons.

As a 6th Dan Black Belt in Judo, there’s no question of Russian President Vladimir Putin’s success in the WWF Superpower Slam. Time Magazine’s Person of the Year, this former KGB Major is also happy to resume Russia’s traditional role as antagonizer of the United States—granted this time with a more diplomatic angle. Harsh criticisms of just about everything Bush has endeared him around the world. And he’s a hit back home, too, going after the corrupt and the wealthy with a vigor we could use here in the west.

It’s Sunday. I went out at the park, walked around the lake. Though ringed with a busy road, the lake is mostly peaceful. The path is set far enough away that, for those of use accustomed to city noises, you barely even notice the traffic.

About three-quarters of the way around the lake, I passed a protest march that was thankfully going in the other direction. Now, by protest march I mean a odd mix of about six or seven people, with another four people whom I don’t believe had anything to do with the protest, but were really just stuck behind them.

Like all protests, some of the people had signs. I think there were three. I only remember two. One said “LIARS!” which seemed like an aggressive start. Below that, it said, “Impeach the Liars!”

I came up with a couple scenarios about the person carrying this sign. The first one was they made this sign a long, long time ago. After all, when is the last time any of us thought seriously about impeachment? I think it briefly sashayed across my brain when the democrat’s took congress last year. But I quickly decided impeachment hearings at that point would have been a disappointment. After all, the democrats fought for six years for that toe-hold of power. Seems like it would be better they do something positive instead of bogging everything down with in-fighting.

No, like many of my peers, I have adopted the win-by-waiting attitude as far as the president goes. I do occasionally indulge a fantasy where, after he leaves the office, the next administration tries him on war crimes. But I know better. Look at Nixon. Look at Reagan. Got a damn airport named after him. People get nostalgic about everything past, be it the abusive lover or the bad president. Nixon got us out of Vietnam, for which we are thankful. Reagan made America the powerhouse economy that allows even the poorest citizen to buy inflatable Santas for their yard. Everyone did something good, once.

So option two, after laziness, is that this protester didn’t feel the way I did. That they actually thought there was something to gain by starting impeachment proceedings this close to the end of Bush’s presidency. (at the time of this writing, three hundred and eight-six days. Plus two hours and eleven minutes.) Perhaps they wanted revenge. But no matter which option you choose, they are definitely the sort of person I always get stuck talking to at a cocktail party.

Of course, this person wasn’t the one who really annoyed me. The annoying one was carrying the sign that said, “Honk for Peace.”

Who could resist this simple request? Hell yes, you want peace. So you honk. You honk enthusiastically. And the next person? They want peace, too. They want it even more. And the person after that? They’re not going to be outdone. In fact, they are going to win! They are going to honk the shit out of some peace.

In the split second you’re driving by, you don’t really have time to think about it. Maybe you never think about it ever. American drivers, especially in California, are famous for giving their brains backseat to their hubris. But that’s another story.

My point is this: people drive by in their cars and they honk. A steady stream of horns surrounds the protesters. They are honking for peace, and they are raising a ruckus.

Now I’m not opposed to making noise to get what you want, but I do think it would help if there was even some slight possibility that this noise might help something. Anything. For example, it sucks to get your eardrums pierced by a fire engine siren. But those firepeople are running off to do something good, so I’m not suffering in vain.

But I can’t even begin to describe how sure I am that destroying the serenity of a park in Oakland is not going to affect our government’s war policy. In fact, the only possible benefit of all this irritating noise is that some yahoo rushing off to a post-Christmas sale is going to feel like they’ve done their part in stopping the war.

With well-organized opposition like this, I don’t see how we ever ended up at war in the first place.

I’m spending the afternoon with a friend who has chosen to go back to college. While I understand her motivations, I have to say it’s a move I have never seriously considered.

While I cherish the learning that happened in college, I always found the American academic community a little too isolated from the real world. As a result, it seems a little too self-serving. Rare is the teacher who will tell you, “Here’s something you’ll need to know when you get a job.” More likely they are going to say, “There just aren’t enough people in this world with a functional understanding of Breton’s contributions to modern mores.” And that’s where we differ. I can’t see how such an understanding would be functional, much less why, with all the troubles in this world, a person would choose that to complain about. I do, however, know I bought into this sort of thinking back when I was college myself. I drank the Kool-Aid, as they would say, for at least the first couple of years. But then the facade began to wear a little thin. College started to feel like that person who always knew all the answers, the one that would always trump your stories with a better one.

At the time, I wasn’t really concerned with figuring out what I didn’t like about college. Instead, I just focused on getting out. It doesn’t matter what’s wrong, I told myself, if I’m not a part of it. So while a lot of my peers trudged on through the chaos, anesthetizing themselves with alcohol and garden-variety inhalants, I took the pain full on, worked hard and freed myself a semester early. This nose-to-the-grindstone attitude may have made me miss some good times, but I definitely avoided a lot of bad. And once I was out, I never looked back. I swore off further education, and blessed the eyes of those who struck down the path of post-graduate degrees. After all these years, I’ve never looked back, never bothered to get to the root of what didn’t like about college. Well, this afternoon the chickens have come home to roost.

My friend and I are sitting around a huge dining room table that is covered with papers—her schoolwork and my writing. We are sitting inside, drinking coffee on a day better spent on bicycles, because we are each dedicated to what we’re doing. My friend has a mid-term coming up, and part of it is three take-home essays. The class is economics. It’s a core class—meaning it has nothing to do with her major, it’s just something the college board thinks she should know a little something about. She’s an artist, gone back to school to learn skills that will help her be successful in her career. This article is called Fairness and the Assumptions of Economics.

Halfway through my first cup of coffee, my friend hands me the article with a frown. “Does this make sense to you?” she asks. I take it and read the opening paragraph:

The advantages and disadvantages of expanding the standard economic model by more realistic behavior assumptions have received much attention. The issue raised in this article is whether it is useful to complicate—or perhaps to enrich—the model of the profit-seeking firm by considering the preferences that people have for being treated fairly and for treating others fairly.

Have I mentioned she’s paying for the privilege of reading this nearly indecipherable article? Because that’s really the icing on the cake here: the salary of the idiot torturing her with this useless reading is paid directly out of her own pocket.

Anyway, after a long and arduous conversation, we manage to translate this into English. To save you the effort, it basically means:

Lots of people are talking about what would happen if economics considered human behavior a factor. In this article, we'll talk about how a policy for treating people fairly might affect a company's profits.

That’s all. Really. But if this is all they meant to say, the question remains: why the hell didn’t they just say what they meant? Almost half the words in that paragraph are eight letters or more. It feels like the product of an obsession with complication. Instead of spending so much time with their thesaurus muddling what they’re saying, why don’t they just attempt to communicate clearly? I can only think of two reason why the author didn’t: they are either mean or they are weak.

To be clear, I don’t mean to imply that this particular person started out that way. No, this isn’t that personal of an attack. What I’m saying is they are a product of too much education. My suspicion is that academic environment, and especially the language they use in there, makes people that way. Why not? If you spend a lot of time time in roadside bars, chances are, after a few years, you’ll be given to cussing and smashing people in the face. And the truth is, thanks to internships, fellowships and the sort, very few people whose name bears the trailing letters of higher education got to spend much of their formative years outside of academia. I’m sure many modern scholars, while perhaps good people going in, inherited these small-minded personality traits during their tenure.

Later in the afternoon, we’re onto an article titled How Neuroscience Can Inform Economics . There we encounter a clue:

Parallelism also provides redundancy that decrease the brain's vulnerability to injury. When neurons are progressively destroyed in a region, the consequences are typically gradual rather than sudden ("graceful degradation").


Translated to English, this says that when your brain is functioning on both the conscious and subconscious level, it suffers less wear and tear. Took a lot of effort to do that translation. Wasted effort, because that statement is completely off-topic. The article’s subject clearly states it’s about how Neuroscience can inform Economics, not about brain health. And I think that’s one of the reasons it’s written in the cloudy way that it is.

See, I can’t help but remember what sort of snide, bright-red comment would get dashed my own paper if I were to stray off-topic as this person did. Mistakes like that don’t just lower your grade, but your ego as well. But here I am seeing someone go completely off subject, and not just in some undergrad’s paper, but one that was written by one PhD and handed out by another.

What’s the difference? Why can they get away with it when I couldn’t? Because somewhere along the path to “higher learning,” this author determined that if they hide everything they write inside a pandemonium of fifty-cent words, they are camouflaging their mistakes. After all, what college professor would invest the time to translate one complicated paper when they have such a big stack of them on their desk. Besides, how much real interest can they have in their student’s point of view on a subject the professor wrote, or practically wrote, the book on.

There’s a Hemingway quote out there, I can’t remember it verbatim and can’t seem to turn it up, but it goes something like, “When you write plainly, anyone can see when you fake.” That says a lot about Hemingway’s straight-forward way of writing, and it also says a lot about those who obfuscate what they are saying with the smoke and mirrors of complex language (obfuscate, by the way, means to muddle or to perplex.) In they end, people who write in such obfuscating language are weak because they won’t take a clear stand on what they are saying, and mean because they make others suffer for their own lack of confidence.

The same sort of weak and mean as the professor who handed my friend this printout, who could easily been motivated by the need to prove how smart she was because she could understand things the students couldn’t. Or maybe she was just trying to distract her classroom, give them busy work so they couldn’t take up too much of her time. After all, the teaching of students is really just a irksome distraction from the college teacher’s most important job: writing their own horrific jumble of Oxford-unabridged confusionness.

The mood in Brooklyn was sedate even before the rain came. In coffee shops and restaurants I ease drop on conversations, but people are only chatting about everyday stuff: their lives, travel, and health. The door of my favorite bagel shop has one of the last remaining posters around, a faded picture of the twin towers with the words emblazoned at the bottom, “Never forget.”

In Manhattan, no less than three presidential hopefuls attend the ground zero ceremony. But this year they have little to say about the war on terrorism. Some don’t say anything at all. These days, the news is Iraq and the mess we got ourselves into over there. I think many of our politicians would prefer we do forget, not about the attack, but about the panic and selfish actions that followed. For months now, candidates on both sides have been scrubbing the blood off their hands. But while some may seize at the higher ground, for America there’s no way to clean the slate. The number dead from our retaliation dwarfs that of the World Trade Center collapse. As promised, we pushed back hard. And on a rainy day like today, it’s hard not to feel guilty about that.

Most of us are no longer angry, or even sure who we might be angry at. The easy answers have been muddled and the call to arms is over-tired. I know that will never forget, but I feel differently this year. What started as national tragedy has become a quiet, personal thing. I find myself remembering the events of the day as images, feeling again the emotions I felt that day but no long ascribing greater meaning to them. Now, finally, I am content to just be sad about those who are gone.

And to softly hope it will never happen again.

This is a special message to my fellow Americans, specifically those seventy-eight million of you who still support the current President, George W. Bush. Because there comes a time in everyone’s life when everyone must admit they were wrong. For myself, that time came on August 17th, 1998.

In 1996, I voted to re-elect Bill Clinton. I didn’t disliked Bob Dole. He seemed like a fine, upstanding, moderate sort of guy. I just felt that Clinton was doing a good job, and saw no reason to change the guard. Later, when scandal broke and he denied his sexual liaisons, I stood by him, telling people that I believed him. That I believed in him.

But I was wrong. Not about some affair with an intern. That sort of thing is very personal and hadn’t much to do with the job I help hire him to do. But when Clinton admitted he had lied, he had, by proxy, made a liar out of me. Then, to make matters worse, he had to go and lob a couple bombs into Afghanistan and Sudan—a piss-poor attempt to divert people’s attention from his failures. All in all, bad show.

It hurt at the time, but I swallowed my pride and admitted I was wrong. Since then, enough water has passed under the bridge that I no longer feel the sting of this admission. I promise it will be like that for you one day, especially if you get started now.

Because right now there’s a trend among us Americans, especially stead-fast Republicans, to admit they were wrong about President Bush. Wrong about his war, his economic policies, his stance on global warming, and his inaction about our economy. Hell, wrong about his whole presidency from day one. His popularity has slipped, plummeting to record-breaking lows as more and more people are changing their minds about the man on Pennsylvania Avenue.

But there are still so many of you who refuse to jump on this bandwagon.

I can’t know what your reasons are. Perhaps you still believe in Bush’s character, in his ideas and his straight-forward way of discussing them. Perhaps your trust lies in another man, a local figure in your life who still believes. Perhaps you’re just as stubborn as a river in Oregon. As I said, I can’t know your reasons.

All I can know is that the time has come for you to join me and so many of your fellow citizens in admission that you have incorrectly judged a man. It’s not such a big deal. We’ve all bore this shame, and kept our pride intact.

I might even argue that at this point, pride-wise, you have more to lose by staying the course.

It had been a rough day, but that’s no excuse. And though it is no excuse, it had still been a rough day.

It started the day before, in Xi’an, checking out of my hotel at noon and dilling around for six hours, too uninspired to be productive. Then I went to the train station for my overnight train.

On the train, the bed is surprisingly comfortable, which isn’t to say actually comfortable, just less uncomfortable than expected. There are four beds in my berth, but only one other is occupied. My roommate is a plump Chinese woman who leaves the strobe-like TV on, but not too-too late. So I get some sleep, in tiny stages.

We pull into Beijing at dawn. I have to get across town to catch my next train. This is a big town, four times the size of L.A. Twice the population of New York. My schedule is tight; there’s no time to spare.

There is some confusion at the taxi stand, I can’t get my words recognized. There is a lot of noise. My Mandarin is poor, and no one is making the effort to understand me. Finally, one man tries: he digs through my bad accent and my mispronunciations. He uncovers where I want to go and tells my driver. This hasn’t been an exceptional effort, comparatively, but after two months in China, I’m sick of the confusion.

My connection is missed by minutes. This was the morning train. The next will be mid-afternoon. And it’s the slow one, taking almost twice as long, arriving after dark. There’s some confusion buying the ticket, but it gets bought. There’s some confusion storing my luggage, but it gets stored. I dill around Beijing for five hours, too woozy to be productive.

As I dill, I consider my train ticket. It seems too cheap, but I can’t be sure. Everything is too cheap in this country. It’s like playing with monopoly money. But I get worried, nervous. I’ve heard stories of the hard-seat class.

Back at the train station, I grab every railway uniform I meet, ask them about my ticket and seat class. Much confusion, no results.

I calm myself. It’s my tendency to worry, often when there’s no reason to. I see my train number displayed over a glass double-door. There’s a bike lock between the two door handles, holding them shut. Through the glass, I can see the track, thirty feet down, at the bottom of steep stairs. My train is right there, waiting. It’s big, thirteen cars. There are only about twenty people standing with me. There are only thirty minutes before departure. So it isn’t going to be so bad: I’m going somewhere remote, and the train will be nearly empty.

I hear my train being announced. I move to the doors, but no one comes to unlock them. People around me get anxious. We wait. Then I see it: A stream of people, a bubbling mass flows across a raised walkway on the other end of the platform. They pour down the steps.

The guy next to me curses, takes off down the hallway. I stare through the door. I watch in horror as the dingy crowd floods onto the platform, spilling out like paint, covering it completely. I can’t believe how many people there are, how small the train; it’s only thirteen cars. My eyes fall on the bike lock, holding the doors closed.

“Shit,” I say, and follow the guy who just left.

Across the station is the entry hall, the way down to my platform. People from the next train have spread out to block those of us trying to get to this one. They don’t move, rather they laugh at our efforts to get past them. Everyone is pushing, so I push. Everyone shoves, so I shove. I drag a chunky roller-bag stuffed with fifty pounds of junk. It’s wider than I am. It bounces and jounces behind me, rolling across shoes and bare feet.

Finally, I break through the crowd.

I’m on the raised walkway, heading to the stairs. Thirty feet below me, the platform is empty but for a trickle of people, an ant line of stragglers. Whatever happened is over. Only the shouting is left.

The train is old and green, like something out of a war movie. Black smoke wafts from rusted chimneys that jut from the roof of every car, coal fires for heat. I look at my ticket. My assigned car has a high number; it’s toward the back. I stroll down the platform, trying to convince myself there’s nothing to worry about. I brave quick glances into the cars I pass. They are full, overfull. The last car is the worst. The last car is my car.

My car is so full that people are sitting in the doorway. They don’t offer to stand or try to get out of the way; they might lose their seat. I haven’t even stepped on board and I consider aborting: the train, my destination, everything. But I press on, push myself forward. All or nothing. No giving up means no regrets.

I hop my roller bag over the guy sitting in the doorway. I get two steps into the car, turn into the main cabin, and stop. This car is the car for everyone else. Everyone who can’t get afford a seat. Or just doesn’t care. For a measly twenty yuan—two dollars and fifty cents—you can cram in here for the seven hour train ride. The seat number my ticket is useless. People and baggage overflow the wooden benches, the aisle, the tables. People are probably hanging from the ceiling, but I can’t tell because up there the cigarette smoke is too thick.

I stand frozen as four hundred people grow quiet, turn to me. They stare, watching, anticipating. They know something is coming. The joke has been set up, nothing left but the punch-line.

The mega bitch takes over with a flash of white. I am outside the train in a few swift jerks, leaving behind laughter and a couple complaints.

I am outside of me, watching me tear across the platform, dragging my large roller-bag, as large as the American ego.

A conductor stands outside each car: alert, attentive, blue uniform as sharp as the military in dress. The mega bitch demands of each if they speak English. She does this twice: first in English, then in Mandarin. Further down the platform, only Mandarin; she’s seen the futility of the other way. At the center of the train is the top guy, the Train General. He’s older, his uniform is decked out. He doesn’t speak English, he is no help. But inside the train, the seats are getting better, and the cars less crowded. Forward is where we wants to be, so forward she goes. The car numbers count down.

She asks the next conductor if she speaks English. They answer, in English, “no.” The mega bitch is confused, the conductor laughs. It’s a good laugh, they are sharing the joke. I am back in me, no longer outside watching. The mega bitch is gone. Diffused, I think, but I am wrong.

After some confusion, the conductor gets me on the train. A decent car, low number. There is no seat yet, so I stand in the corner. The train pulls out. I stand for another half-hour, leaning against the window. The General arrives, tells me to give him money. I do and I’m led further forward still, all the way to car number one. The best class, with a bed to boot.

I relax. I nap. My three roommates are curious about me, friendly. We cannot talk beyond a few broken sentences, but we try and have a good time trying. The scenery becomes beautiful, I can see why I came this way.

It’s a long journey. I phone my hotel to let them know I’ll be checking in late. They speak some English. This is a good sign, a lot of them don’t. But they only speak some English, and there is confusion. I am quoted a price two and a half times what is on my reservation, and the hotel wasn’t cheap to start with. I worry I’m being ripped off. The mega bitch rises inside me, but she finds no outlet: the phone is too limited, the connection isn’t good. I shove her aside and say we’ll figure it out when I get there. I tell myself this will be easy to work out in person, but myself is a cynical one, and remains unconvinced.

The train chugs on. The sun sets. My destination is reached. I disembark meekly, wary of those who saw my earlier performance. I know I am easy to spot here. I don’t need more pointing and laughing. China has provided plenty of that already. I escape into a taxi, and to my hotel.

It turns out there has been a little confusion at the hotel. Just a little. They’ve not yet matched my name with my reservation, so they are insisting I pay more, the walk-in rate. It could have been all worked out politely, but it’s been a rough day. I know that’s no excuse. It could have been worked out politely, but the mega bitch is on a hair trigger: she comes out shooting.

I watch it all happen. I watch the screaming, the disgusted looks, pent-up anger released like a tornado. I watch the innocent, frustrated hotel clerk lay her head on the counter over and over again. I watch all of this, but I’ll never repeat the details. Trust me, they are bad.

I think anyone who has traveled a long time, perhaps longer than they should have, has been here, where I am, watching myself make an ass of myself. I think I’ve probably been here before, but I’ve blocked it out, neither caring to nor seeing the reason to dwell on my own failures.

Somehow I end up in a room. A nice room in a nice hotel full of nice people. I don’t deserve to be here, but deserving has nothing to do with success. Sometimes this works in my favor.

This undeserved reward only punctuates that I have committed a crime. I should have known the Chinese staff would be nothing but helpful. I did know. I have been here long enough to learn that.

I am unable to atone. In my rage, I didn’t see my victim. I can’t distinguish her from the rest of the helpful staff. I glance over every time I pass the reception, hoping for a look of scorn or a scowl. Something to mark the one I must apologize to.

But the hate I merit is masked beneath rigid politeness. I can do nothing but add the burden of my guilt to my already overstuffed roller bag.

 
look at me, like you’ve never seen a white man
look at me, like a relative back from the dead
look at me and rubberneck, or stop in your tracks
look at me, China, not as a country
but as a billion pair of eyes

look at me closely
see the emblem
and not the man