ON BECOMING A COLLECTOR

I've never considered myself a collector, but I am one.  I caught the bug from my husband Bruce, who inherited the gene from his mother, Marge   My impression was that collectors bought German Hummel figurines  and displayed them on a mantel, or purchased silver spoons from countries around the world that are hung on a wooden rack.   One of my friends buys a Christmas ornament or two or three in every country she visits.   She must have several hundred, at least.  

MY HISTORY

My mother was not a collector per se,  but for some reason, she thought I should be, so when I was first married, she started me on a collection of porcelain tea cups and saucers.  These are the delicate ones painted with pale pink roses or purple violets,  with tiny handles too dainty for fat fingers.   "You don't drink tea from these cups," she'd say.   "No, you display them in your glass china cabinet, so guests can admire them when they come to visit."  I didn't even own a glass china cabinet, but she did.  After receiving five or six cups over multiple visits, I begged her to stop, politely  explaining that these were more her style than mine.   Years later,  I sold them for cheap at my garage sale.   In the 1960s, a friend convinced me to buy Bing and Grondahl blue and white Christmas plates.   "They are an investment," she told me, "because the mold is broken after the release of each edition, so over the years your plates will grow in value."   When my friend moved away, I stopped buying the plates, and now I wonder what I'll do with the ones I have stored in my garage.   On the Ebay website, these plates go for about the same price I paid almost fifty years ago.


THIS IS NOT JUST ABOUT ME

I think I should tell the rest of this story by using the collective "we" instead of the singular "I" and give credit where credit is due, because it is really my husband who got us into this collecting business, although I've happily gone along.   I should have known what was to come when he told me 15 years ago about his "almost complete" collection of Mad Magazines from the '50s and '60s,  and his elaborate stamp collection that sits in a cardboard box labeled  "Bruce's mementos."

PAPUA NEW GUINEA

Our first foray into collecting indigenous art began ten years ago on a trip we took to Papua New Guinea, where we were confronted with amazing tribal artifacts carved and painted by talented artisans, living simply in rural villages along the 700-mile Sepik River.   It was very easy to get caught up in the exotic beauty and the spiritual interpretation of these traditional crafts, especially when you are rubbing shoulders with the local people in a village setting that requires one to walk a good distance on dirt paths through a jungle that smells like wet dog, unlike any place we'd ever been before.    A crowd of villagers, mostly kids, stood on the black volcanic sand waiting to greet us, since they knew the schedule of the very few boats that bring tourists up river.  A few called out to us, "Mornin now and yu stap gut."  Translated from a form of the pigeon English they speak, this friendly greeting means good morning and how are you.  Eager for some kind of connection, we replied with similar words we'd memorized the night before. 

Palembei kids awaiting our arrival

PALEMBEI VILLAGE

We scrambled through a labyrinth of entangled vines to reach Palembei Village, a small community in the region of the Middle Sepik, where electricity and running water are light years away.   Like in most tribal villages the women were busy doing chores, either breast feeding their babies, or carrying water in plastic buckets up from the river.  Men wearing dog teeth headbands decorated with bird of paradise feathers greeted us in ceremonial costumes.  Others brought out their imaginative carvings and posed proudly alongside them, offering prices that sounded more like thousands of pennies rather than thousands of dollars.   

THE BOY

Lynne, one of our experienced travelers, had already spotted Bruce as the authentic shopper in our small group, and since she had plenty of tribal art at home, she was reluctant to buy more.   Instead, she saw my husband as her shopping surrogate.  She pointed to a large carving of a young boy lying half-naked, with his small arms and legs outstretched on the back of a wooden canoe that had been carved in the shape of a crocodile.   She called out to Bruce. "You've got to come see this," she said.   We were walking inside a large thatched-roof house,  a place where ancestral spirits are worshipped and carvings of cultural significance are sold to the few tourists who come to this out-of-the-way place.    "Look at the intricate detail of this piece," she said.   Bruce gently touched the boy's back, feeling the roughness of the wood which represented the razor- inflicted cuts made by tribal elders during this village's coming-of-age ceremony.   Like scarification in Africa, this brutal tradition of skin cutting continues to be part of a Papua New Guinea tribal culture, connoting signs of bravery and manhood.  Because of possible infection, the ritual is considered very dangerous.  Some teenage boys don't survive this terrible ordeal.   

Note the detail on the back and face

Immediately Bruce and I were emotionally engaged with this piece.  We realized it was something we wanted to own, so after discussing a figure somewhere between the customary first and second price, a happy deal was struck.   The artist Raymond Dumoi learned English from the Marui Catholic Missionaries, but his tribal life centered around the spirit house or the Haus Tambaran as it is known in their language called Tok Pisin.  He and other villagers spend many hours in the Haus Tambaran  since it is the most symbolic and respected place in the village.  Outside we took photographs of The Boy, after which three tribesman hoisted the heavy carving over their heads and walked toward the river and the small boat on which we are traveling.  

The Spirit House

  

The Happy Family, 2004

THE REST OF THE STORY

On that exotic trip we purchased seventeen pieces of ethnic art, mostly carvings, big and small, and a few colorful masks, all of which were shipped to us in a large wooden crate.  After seven months and more government bureaucracy than we expected,  the crate eventually reached us in California, although at times we wondered whether we would ever receive it.   There was no buyers remorse, but I did have one regret, which was bringing home a rattan-woven full body mask.   Bruce thought this piece was so fantastic that I couldn't talk him out of it, although I did question its size and its condition because I wasn't sure it would work in our house.   I'm not a told-you-so sort of person, but it irks me when I see this piece sitting unseen and lonely in our garage because, as I suspected, it doesn't fit in our house.   We've tried selling the mask, but to no avail.  We can't even give it away.  I guess it's like an acquired taste and not everyone's cup of tea.

This full body mask has a special place in our garage but
it's for sale if anyone is interested

On the other hand, The Boy from Palembei's Spirit House is a focal point in our growing collection of indigenous art.  He tells an unbelievable story about a tribal tradition that is quickly vanishing and becoming very rare today.   Looking at The Boy displayed prominently in our living room reminds us how fortunate we were to have had a glimpse into the window of such a rich culture and to meet these extraordinary people, who live in an environment that is truly another world.   

THE BOY has a special place in our home and in our hearts

Watercolor by Marjorie Berger

NAME THE TEN MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACES IN THE WORLD YOU HAVE BEEN TO

That's what I told Bruce we should think about today and then name them at dinner tonight. Certainly the landscape we have covered these last three days has to be on that list. At least in my opinion, but making a list like this is a very subjective process, as you know.

Why I would put the Salta region of Northern Argentina on my list is not only the stunning beauty, but the diversity of the geological formations we saw. One minute I could be in the cacti fields of Tucson. And next I'm standing beside a cactus looking up at the Tetons of Wyoming.

For the last three days we have driven 250 km on dirt roads with our windows rolled down because our car's air conditioner isn't the greatest.  You know what that means.  We are two dusty "kids" by the end of the day.  We have traveled through deep gorges, canyons, grasslands, marshes, lagoons, and highland valleys. Bruce drove 20 km of hairpin turns (still on a dirt road) to ascend the mountain pass at Cuesta del Obispo, leading us to the magnificent Los Cordones National Park, a protected forest of giant cacti.

The lovely small hotel where we spent two nights had incredible views and lovely Argentine hospitality. The regional dishes they served in their tastefully decorated dining room were delicious, although I might not ask for seconds of the candied tomatoes layered over bland white cheese. It was at this hotel that we met Ricardo and his wife, who live in Salta and were having a short weekend getaway. When I heard him speak English at breakfast, I struck up a conversation. He told us that he worked as a guide, mainly leading birding trips and that he had just returned from Columbia where he guided a tour. I mentioned that I had friends from Texas, who also just returned from a birding trip in Columbia. It only took a few seconds of peeling the onion to discover that Ricardo was their guide on this trip in Columbia, and he has guided them on other South American birding trips as well. Peeling the onion even further, we discovered that Ricardo was the father of the local tour operator in Salta who arranged this trip for us. In fact, our initial conversation about a trip to Salta began with Ricardo many months ago, but he turned us over to his son because he serves mainly as a guide but his son makes all the arrangements in the office. What a small world, yet again. Some day I'm going to write a blog post entitled "Pam's Small World" because as many of my friends know, these coincidences happen to me often and there are many stories like this to tell.

But as Bruce might say, "Shit, I'm digressing again. Back to Argentina.

On our layover day, among other things, we took a side trip to the tiny village of Seclantis, which is known for its high quality weavings. The artisans who live there are master craftsmen who export their gorgeous alpaca and llama ponchos and table runners to collectors around the world. One weaver whose name was Tero Guzeman even wove a black and red poncho for Pope John Paul and had photos in his studio (with a dirt floor) to prove it. Tero showed us some handsome ponchos, but knowing that I would probably never wear one, we bought a beautiful table runner instead. A tourist from Buenos Aires, who was in the shop at the time, told us that the $160 poncho here in Seclantis would probably sell for $300 or $400 in Buenos Aires. For a minute we had second thoughts, but then I came to my senses recalling the time I went nuts in a fabric shop in India and bought stuff that has never been used and is stored away in a drawer.

The adventure continues.............





Our first glimpse of the different colors


We haven't started climbing yet but we are already impressed with the views.




Lots of hair pin turns


We are climbing higher and higher into the clouds


At 10,000 feet above the clouds we met these crazy Brazilian motorcyclists




- Now we are on a high plateau




Except for the geology, this could be the road to Utah's Monument Valley


Tin Tin Cactus Field



The Cardon Cactus



Taking a break for lunch in the charming town of Cachi. Salta beer is very good.




This could be a scene from the American West




PHOTO-OP



The stunning rock formations of Quebrada de las Flechas. (My favorite)




I took many pictures of this gorgeous man at the gorgeous Las Flechas formations



Driving through the Las Flechas wind tunnel




PHOTO-OP




Cafayate, Salta's wine region will soon compete with Mendoza


Harvesting the grapes. After all it's fall in Argentina.

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DON'T CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA

April 1 & 2

Well, we arrived in Brazil with no complications until we got to the Argentina border where we learned that we had not paid the $160 per person reciprocity fee over the internet in advance, so we were denied entry. Some friends who had traveled here told us we could pay the fee at the border, but that option ended a few years ago. By the way, the reason for the reciprocity fee is because Argentina decided that since their citizens have to pay a fee to enter the United States, then Americans have to pay a fee to enter Argentina. In other words, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, except these geese didn't have a clue and were left high and dry.

Our very inexperienced taxi driver, who spoke no English, tried to help us, but it became obvious he had never driven anyone to Argentina before. Finally, someone we met at the border who spoke some English explained that we needed to pay the fee via the Internet and get a printed copy to show the officials at the border. Not knowing if this was a good place to go or not, we stopped at the first hotel we saw on the road, where the clerk acted nonchalant, as if this happens all the time. He didn't even charge us. Ok, so with the papers in hand, we returned to the border and were finally given entry.

Thirty kilometers down the road when we arrived at the gate of the Sheraton Hotel, we learned that we needed to go back and buy an entry into the National Park, since the hotel is located inside Iguazu National Park. Back we went and bought the entry ticket for another $20 each. And now back to the hotel. FINALLY! And of course the price of the cab ride went up considerably, and the ATM machine at park headquarters ATE Bruce's ATM card (and I didn't bring mine). Oh well, a good story. So now I can say we went from Brazil to Argentina, back to Brazil, and back to Argentina in one hour!

The Sheraton Hotel is beautifully situated with a view of the Falls, and the rooms are ok. But for $400 a night, I would have liked a clock radio or a TV that worked. And maybe more bottled water. The food was tasteless, but we'd already been warned about that on TripAdvisor. Plus they gave us a totally unfair exchange rate, even lower than the bank. Geez!

Iguazu Falls are gorgeous, beyond gorgeous. We spent one and a half days walking every trail possible in two countries, no less and viewing the Falls from every possible angle and direction. Since we had BrazilIan visas, we also took a cab to the Brazilian side yesterday and WOW!! Even better than Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, Africa. From Brazil you can see ALL the falls at one time, but my wide angle lens just isn't wide enough, I guess. Spectacular! Both Argentina and Brazil have done a fabulous job in making views of the Falls accessible for just about everyone.

THURSDAY, APRIL 3rd

This morning we said good bye to Iguazu Falls and flew an hour and a half to the Northwest region of Argentina called Salta, where we will tour around for the next twelve days. Most Americans have never heard of this place, so let me say that this lofty, dry, and tough high plateau sits beneath the mighty Andes mountains. It has a reputation for its Spanish colonial architecture, gaucho (cowboy) life, vineyards that easily compete with Mendoza, Andean culture, and beautiful national parks for hiking and birding. We first learned about this area when we were in Patagonia a few years ago and always kept it in the back of our minds as a great place to visit.

Most of the arrangements were made with a local tour operator that friends of ours recommended. We met him this afternoon to go over some of the details of our itinerary, since we will be driving ourselves in a rented car. All of our hotel reservations are made, but we wanted our local contact to help fill in the blanks of a fairly sketchy route. Before meeting him this afternoon, we bumped into two American couples just concluding a similar trip by car, and they warned us of a few bad roads and the fact that they had three flat tires in the middle of nowhere. Our local contact assured us that we should not have any problems since all of the roads we will be driving, with the exception of a 40 km stretch of dirt, will be paved, but when we pick up our car tomorrow, we will examine our tires with a magnifying glass.

Our next adventure had to do with exchanging money, which we viewed as a bonanza since recently the Argentine peso suffered weakness, and we were told that we could buy pesos at a significantly better rate on the street. If we were to obtain pesos from an ATM machine or use a credit card for purchases, we would be paying the official government rate of eight pesos to the dollar, so we brought several hundred dollars in cash to pay for ten to twelve days of expenses, other than hotels and the car rental which we paid for in advance. With our crisp one hundred dollar bills, we bought pesos from a man on the street (literally on the street) at 10.5 to the Dollar, a 31% better exchange rate than we would have gotten if we hadn't known about the black market. I have to say that it was easier to do this here with our local contact's help than it was to do a black market exchange in Mali, West Africa, where we had to find a big guy driving a black Mercedes on a dirt road outside of town.

The Adventure continues...........































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MY DAYS IN COURT

I went to Small Claims Court today.  Not as a participant, but as an observer to listen to a case where my husband, as the president of our homeowners association, defended a ridiculous suit brought against our complex by an angry resident.  Although the details of the case weren't very interesting,  I wanted to listen and observe the process, especially since it was my husband who would be doing some of the talking.  I've never been sued nor have I taken anyone to Small Claims Court,  but I wish I'd had the chutzpah to do so a few years back when the engine of my Lexus 400 was seriously damaged by an auto detailer who steam cleaned the "interior" of my car.   I guess when I told him I wanted both the exterior and interior to be detailed, he took the word "interior" just a little too literally.  Apparently he opened up the hood and steam cleaned the engine, screwing it up badly.    

A couple of years ago I went to court as an observer because a lawyer friend of ours was representing a sister and brother who were suing another sibling in a very complicated case concerning their parents' estate.   As I listened to my friend give his opening remarks in a convincing voice, laced with passion and drama, I felt as though I was watching a play unfold on stage and my friend was the 21st Century Perry Mason.   

I was on a jury once in Superior Court, but it was a long time ago.  To be honest, I don't think I handled myself very well.  I was barely 21 years of age and still green around the edges.  I certainly was not mature enough to make a decision on an armed robbery case.   Although eleven members of the jury felt the defendant was guilty, I had a hard time making up my mind.  I don't recall the details of the case, except that I was the same age as the defendant, and I probably didn't want to see someone so young go to jail.  I do remember that other jury members were eager to go home and put this case to bed, so they patiently reviewed the evidence with me again until I finally came around and joined their position.  I'll never forget the scared look on the young defendant's face when our foreman told the judge, "Your honor, the jury finds the defendant guilty as charged." 


Last year my husband was a jury foreman on a case in which an obstinate young man challenged a policeman who stopped him for talking on his cell phone while driving, which is illegal in California.  Not only would the driver not give him his license or registration form, he locked the doors of his car and ignored the policeman completely.  Eventually two other officers showed up to help deal with the problem, but the situation escalated and the driver ended up being taken away to the police station.   He was found guilty, of course, but what a waste of judicial resources and people's time. 

I realize that the law says it's my civic duty to serve on a jury, and, of course, I believe in a fair judicial process.  But perhaps mandatory jury duty should be replaced with a voluntary system.   If jury duty were voluntary, I might be willing to step up to the plate when it's convenient, but as it is now, I just keep my fingers crossed that I'm never called.

  

THE OTHER LAND'S END

 When a friend told me she had visited Land's End, I thought the mail order catalog company had morphed into a bricks and mortar store.  "No, not that Land's End" she informed me.  "This Land's End is a nature trail located in the northwest corner of San Francisco, where urban development ends and the Pacific Ocean begins."   

One of many beautiful views from Land's End

Last Saturday Bruce and I drove to San Francisco and spent some time hiking the three mile loop from the Cliff House to the Palace of the Legion of Honor and back.  Eager to check it out, we explored  the rugged coastline of what is called Land's End.   

Beautiful views in every direction

The Visitors Center had an excellent display detailing the early development of this historic area.   In addition to browsing the gift shop and devouring a yummy lemon scone, we bought a book entitled Stair Walks of San Francisco and decided our goal would be to hike all of the 29 city stair walks....... some day! 

"I think I can see China from here."

We started walking on the trail along with half the population of San Francisco, I swear, and every Heinz 57 and AKC breed of dog. We had been warned that Saturdays were a busy day in general, especially if the weather was sunny and there was no coastal fog.   We didn't care.  The views of the jagged coast were spectacular in every direction.   The ruins of the historic, very late 19th Century Sutro Baths fascinated us, knowing that this famous sight represented another booming era in San Francisco's colorful history.    Adolph Sutro, a wealthy city poo-bah, whose interests included natural history and marine ecology, constructed an ocean pool aquarium among the rocks just below the Cliff House, another site he also built.  His goal was to create a landmark that would attract residents and tourists to visit this special place he affectionately called Land's End.    Although we could have accessed the Baths via steep steps and a winding path,  we decided to save our knees this time around.   Besides, there is so much history surrounding the ruins themselves that exploring the Baths could be a dedicated visit all by itself.  

Cliff House and the ruins of historic Sutro Baths below

Good exercise for the buns

I brought my camera, of course and thought I might hold Bruce back from getting the exercise he hoped for, since there were so many beautiful sights and interesting people to photograph.   Wildflowers brought on by the recent rains and kids in brightly colored jackets made a simple forest picture pop to life.  Strangers  falling in love?  Now who could resist taking that photo.  And, of course, there's always another boring picture of the Golden Gate Bridge.  

A family field trip

Falling in Love

This is just one of the many beautiful views that will have us coming back

Land's End provides a corridor of dramatic spots, connecting you to secret beaches, breathtaking cliffs, coastal chaparral, redwoods and gnarly cypress trees.  While on a map,  the setting may seem accessible only for the hearty and adventurous, but that is not the case.  The trail has been developed to accommodate people of all ages and various levels of fitness.  All that's required is an interest in spending time with nature, and a willingness to get out there and do it.

Views of China Beach and Baker Beach

Can't NOT take a photo of a bike, even if it's not the kind I ride

Surfer Dude

MY PREDICTIONS FOR THE 2014 OSCARS

In a couple of hours I'll open a bottle of wine, get out some cheese and crackers and plunk myself down in front of the TV to watch  two hours of scintillating entertainment spread out over four hours called the Academy Awards.  With the Oscar ballot in my hand, I'm wondering whether I should vote for the movie I loved or vote for the movie I think will win.  I know that the Oscars are very political.    I've been disappointed before, but this year most of the films nominated for best picture are worthy, although I'm basing that comment on my having seen only six films out of the nine.    

I would like American Hustle to win Best Picture because it is my favorite, but I think the Academy will pick Twelve Years a Slave because it's the politically correct thing to do.   

Some people took American Hustle way too seriously, thinking it was a documentary on the Abscam case , but, in fact, it was a farce, a spoof, a good laugh in almost every scene.   The first five minutes had me cracking up with Christian Bale gluing on his hair piece and a few minutes later Bradley Cooper messing it up.  What's not funny about this?  And Amy Adams?  Only a con-woman would show up at a meeting with members of Congress wearing a dress cut so low you could see her navel and everything else.  And then do you really think it was the sour-smelling fingernail polish that kept Christian Bale going back to Jennifer Lawrence's bed?   

The best thing about Dallas Buyers Club was the story and the tremendous talent of Matthew McConaughey, who up until recently appeared mainly in B-rated movies, like Surfer Dude, not A-plus movies like Mud.   Along with his cameo role in Wolf on Wall Street,  McConaughey has finally transformed himself from a handsome star into a first-class handsome actor.  I just hope he gains those 42 pounds back before he does another movie.

Gravity was entertaining from a cinematic point of view, especially in 3-D.   I loved the amazing special effects and the gorgeous scenes from space, but I had to listen to the Sandra Bullock and Alfonso Cuaron's interview with Charlie Rose before I understood the true meaning of the story.  


Nebraska is another movie that I hope receives recognition tonight. Bruce Dern was so believable in his role as Woody Grant, and June Squibb as Mrs. Grant has my vote for Best Supporting Actress.  While I think Jennifer Lawrence has a better chance for American Hustle, Jennifer has many good years ahead of her, while I'm not sure about June Squibb.   

For Best Director I have to vote for Martin Scorsese for Wolf of Wall Street although it was not my favorite movie.    It was just too over the top, too long at 3 hours, and although I'm not a prude by any means, too graphic sexually.  But Scorsese gets my vote because this film exemplifies his talent as master of his craft.

Amy Adams has my vote for Best Actress, but Cate Blanchett is a shoe-in as she was stunning in Blue Jasmine and the recent controversy involving Woody Allen has to give an added boost.

Well, I only have an hour before the show begins so I'd better hurry and publish this since it's a time dated piece and tomorrow will be meaningless.

PS:  For those who subscribe to my blog via email, I'm sorry but this post will be meaningless!

MOTHERHOOD AND APPLE PIE

I knew traveling home from Southeast Asia would be a killer.  Five hours in the air from Yangon, Myanmar to Bangkok with a very short overnight at the airport hotel.  Then a 2:30 AM wake-up call so we could make our 6:30 AM flight to Beijing and another five hours of flying.   I psychologically planned for the three-hour layover in Beijing before catching a 12-hour flight to San Francisco, but the three hour layover  became a six hour delay because of a mechanical problems with the aircraft.  As my Jewish friends would say, "Oy Vey!"

The Boeing 747 was fully loaded, but Bruce and I were able to book seats in the back of the plane where there are two rows of two seats (window and aisle) instead of the usual three.   We sat one behind the other in two different rows, so we could each have a window seat for sleeping and plenty of room to spread out.  


It was on this flight that I met Donping Qiu from China.   Although he and I spent 12 uncomfortable hours as seat mates in coach, we didn't strike up a conversation until we were thirty minutes from touching down in California.   My friends will say that keeping my mouth shut for 12 hours doesn't sound like me, but I was really tired, and knew that if I engaged in conversation, I'd never get any sleep.  Besides, my seat mate seemed very pre-occupied, and I didn't want to disturb him.

I'm not exactly sure how we started talking,  but when he told me  he was traveling alone to America for the first time so he could study engineering at San Francisco State, I got caught up in all the details of his adventure.

"My name is Donping," he said, "but my American name will be Erick, spelled E-R-I-C-K, since names with five letters are luckier than four."   Here's another Chinese superstition to add to my growing list, I thought.    My recent trip to his country interested him, so I mentioned my Biker Chick posts, but wondered if some of my comments might upset him.   Because he has never been to Southwest China,  I opened my iPad and showed him a few portraits of some of the ethnic minority people I'd photographed while we were there.  

The Long Hair Yao People

The difference in our ages didn't seem to matter.  Connecting with Donping by finding things we had in common was easy.  We both love new experiences, and share an enthusiasm for adventure, although my idea of adventure may be different than his.   Our conversation lifted my spirits and reminded me of a time when I moved to California from New Hampshire in my early twenties, and although I had no idea what lay ahead, I knew my life, like his, would be changed forever.   


I remembered my first glimpse of the Sierra Nevada Mountains when I traveled to California, so I gave Donping my window seat so he could see the beautiful scenery and the city of San Francisco.  When the wheels of our jumbo jet finally touched the ground, I put my arm around his shoulder.   "May I be the first to officially welcome you to the United States of America,"  I said.  My heart went pitter-patter when he gave me a little hug.  That's when I knew I wanted to be his American Mother.


Donping's English was really pretty good,  but I figured he'd find some of our crazy idiomatic expressions confusing.   "If someone says you are barking up the wrong tree or beating a dead horse", I told him, "don't take that person literally or maybe I should say it another way, don't believe what that person is saying."     



As we gathered our belongings before exiting the plane, I scribbled my contact information on a scrap of paper and gave it to him.   "We don't live very far away, " I said.   "Maybe you can visit us sometime, and we can show you around Silicon Valley."     We waved good-bye to each other, as he stood in the foreign visitors' immigration line looking tired but happy.    I thought how difficult it must have been for his mother to send her only child to a strange, far away land.   I also wondered how Donping was going to find his way to San Francisco State, since our public transportation is so iffy and no one was meeting him at the airport. 

The next day I received this amusing email from him: 

"The travel to my hotel is really a big deal for me, I should call the waitress of the hotel, they
will send the free shuttle to pick me up, but I can't understand all the things she talked, and I
don't know where should I take the shuttle, fortunately, some friendly Americans told the
me the location where all the hotel shuttle park, then I meet the Laquinta hotel shuttle, I was
so exited to see the sign of the hotel and got in it, but I didn't realized that I take the wrong
shuttle for a different subbranch, until I arrival the chashier.  Finally, I spend 25$ to move
from the south subbranch to the west subbranch, but I am fine.  I just regard it as a funny
story!  haha."


Email exchanges between us continued over the next several weeks.   He was enjoying his engineering classes, but they were difficult, so he was giving his Chinese-American dictionary a good workout.   Somehow he found time to read my blog, and here's an excerpt of what he wrote me:

"I really appreciate the clean air in San Francisco, When I arriving the US.  You know people
have to wear masks in China, especially in Beijing.  I think the deep seated reason of the 
pollution is the strong will of China to develop the economy power, they have to sacrifice for
that, the victim will be the environmental quantity.  China has exuberant economic growth, 
Due to the cheap labor and exuberant manufacturing industry.  But the low level
manufacturing industry must give rise to the pollution,  Other mistake the Chinese 
government have made is the assessment system of official.  The economic growth
accounts for a large weight, but the environment condition doesn't occupy that weight, so
the official doesn't take care of the pollution when they feed the investment. "

  
A few Saturdays ago, after exchanging emails back and forth, Bruce and I met Donping at a bus stop on Nineteenth Avenue, not far from his campus apartment.  He was carrying a green plastic bag.  After he got settled in our car,  he opened the bag and presented us with an apple pie that he had made the night before.    Since he started cooking at the age of ten, he didn't need a recipe.  "I just bought a few apples and some powder and measured the ingredients by feel."    The apples were juicy, the crust was tender, and the pie was delicious.

A Delicious Apple Pie

Saturday was not a great day to show off our beautiful city because it was raining.  Regardless, we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and although the visibility was poor, we drove up to the Marin Headlands, which in the sunshine would have given us a spectacular view.   But even with the rain and fog,  Donping enjoyed the experience.  "Awesome, Awesome," he kept  saying.  Obviously he had quickly picked up one of our most overused expressions.  I loved hearing about his American adventures:  how he couldn't understand the Chinese people in Chinatown, so he spoke to them in English;  how surprised he was that American students like to party so much;  how he got lost when trying to find the Pacific Ocean. 

Bruce & Donping at the Ferry Building

After driving around the San Francisco Presidio and some upscale neighborhoods like Sea Cliff,  we parked our car near the Ferry Building where we found a dry place for lunch and checked out various vendors and stalls.   I wanted Donping to try a hamburger, like I tasted Peking duck in Beijing, so we stood in a long line at a fast-food restaurant called Gotts.   We even bumped into some friends who were doing the same American hamburger thing with their relatives from Israel.  

Donping eating his first hamburger in America

After lunch we checked out Cowgirl Creamery to sample some interesting cheeses, since cheese is rare in China, but I couldn't tell whether or not he liked it.  Maybe it's an acquired taste.  I could certainly say the same about some of the foods we tried in China.   

At the end of our wonderful day spending time together and touring San Francisco, Donping  gave me a hug and said he'd like to call me his American Mother. 

Donping and his American Mother