stint in suburbia

Today concludes my brief stint in suburbia. I rode back on Amtrak, which was uneventful as always. The little patch between New London and Kingston is the prettiest, especially the silvery waves along Mystic and little inlets where motorboats glide past. The marshes are also charming in an unassuming way. There are always one or two swans lazily floating and a whole boatload of herons just standing there. It's nice to get out of the city for a while and see green and blue and other colors besides gray, brown, and black.

I went home on Wednesday, and the first good thing that happened to me was my dad's cooking. It was the simplest meal ever, but so good. Noodles and stir fried green peppers. Besides being an excellent cook, my dad also apparently has a green thumb. There are suddenly deep green jasmine plants on the windowsill and an explosion of red and yellow flowers in the urn outside our porch. Bedtime for me is suddenly 11PM rather than 3AM, and everything is pitch black at night and disturbingly quiet.

On Thursday, I went running on the bike path near my house and somehow managed 4 miles (divine intervention). It's nice to say hi to everyone I pass, and smile at the woman leading her freaked out teenage daughter on roller blades. I think the daughter's roller blading skills are slightly superior to my running skills. On the way home, I stepped off the sidewalk so a boy on his bike could pass me, and he said thank you so politely that I was touched. Then I came upon his mom and some other mom talking about casseroles and arranging a play date for their kids. Finally, as I walked down my street, an adorable little girl in a summery green dress with white lace trimming ran past me barefoot with her school project in her hand. There's something to be said about the burbs. It's so idyllic and safe. I know if I had kids under 12, I wouldn't want them running around NYC or Philly alone.

Friday started off with some fishing with my dad. I managed to get one small bluefish in two hours, which was unceremoniously strung up on the big pole and eventually lost its life to a crab. Dad fared much better with three flukes, two crabs, and one latex glove. Then we stopped by a local farm stand and bought a few ears of gigantic sugar-butter corn. It's always nice to pick out ears of corn from a burlap sack and smell the sharp tang of limes, herbs, and cinnamon in the air. I also think it's cool that the owners bottle their own cream soda.

In the afternoon, I mowed the lawn, which was a herculean effort in itself since I could barely walk from Thursday. I probably looked like a penguin suffering from osteoperosis. It wouldn't be so bad except that my house is on a hill. A hill that looks deceptively mild until you a) try to park your car on the driveway, or b) mow the lawn. I think the key to mowing a lawn is to wear a hat and breathe through your nose so that bugs/dirt/grass doesn't end up clogging your throat. Still, I'd have to say that freshly cut grass is one of my favorite smells, and I get a workout on the side.

Conclusion? Suburbia is good in micro-doses, and maybe if you plan to have small children and/or small animals someday.

another swimming post

Apparently I'm hopelessly addicted to swimming. I don't actually swim that much, but I devote a large chunk of my day (what's not used for Chinese) to reading, thinking, talking, and dreaming about swimming. Today I did manage to visit the pool and do my usual workout of about 2000 meters, 95% of it freestyle. After my usual 300 warm-up and 200 pull, I was doing 200 kick (albeit painfully and slowly) when the guy in my lane left and a backstroke god-like male specimen took his place.

This guy had the most awesome dolphin kick ever. His turns were lazy, and he didn't really build off the wall, but he had a Phelpsian kick and went 15M underwater on every lap. Seven strokes to the wall and repeat. He had extremely good form on his backstroke: very precise hands, straight arms, and good shoulder rotation. His strokes looked so lazy, and incredibly perfect. He definitely swam in college. I'd have to say that his freestyle wasn't terribly great, a bit too slow and relaxed. But oh my goodness, his backstroke was to die for. And he was absolutely and unquestionably hot. Blond, nice build, and short red swim trunks. No, he was physically nice, but it's really his backstroke that was smoking.

This swimmer, despite his technical excellence, wasn't actually going that fast. I only got lapped every 200 meters or so, at which time I'd stop for a breather anyway. Or maybe I was inspired to swim a lot faster than my usual lethargic pace. When I'm not on a team or forcing myself to do timed sets, I slack off horribly. I would love to have a swimming partner, preferably someone slightly faster than me (that shouldn't be too difficult). Today, I felt that I swam really well. The second 1000 meters just felt incredibly smooth, maybe because I switched to breathing on both sides. I think it made my stroke more continuous (though I still feel that I over rotate my body), and I think breathing on both sides helps me not get any stomach cramps.

When I was little, I used to hate swimming freestyle. I was much better at backstroke and breaststroke. In a complete turnaround, I now swim freestyle pretty much exclusively. It certainly feels easier than my other strokes. I think my form is all right, though I don't have much speed. I have decent extension, though I could and probably should bend my elbows more when my arms are out the water. My kick bothers me because it's very weak and rather slow. I can't nail down its rhythm or the momentum, especially when I'm breathing. Breathing on both sides probably helps in that regard as well because I find myself stroking a lot faster, which demands a faster kick.

My pet thing about swimming is flip turns. I love slamming off the wall, and ever since the Olympics, doing underwater dolphin kicks. It's amazing how far you can go underwater with a couple of hip thrusts. I usually go 10 meters off the wall. Then I can take less strokes to the other wall! Granted, long underwater stints are fatiguing, and I'm usually feeling it on the 7th or 8th turn. Anyway, I also love gliding, and today's guy had an amazing streamline.

It bothers me that I suck at backstroke now. It was my signature stroke about fifteen years ago. At least Central Jersey thought so. Now I've lost the touch. Rotating my shoulders feels much harder now, and I constantly find myself choking on water that persistently slaps across my face. And I can hardly get my feet up to kick. As for breaststroke, I don't think I've ever mastered it, so I still bobble my way across the pool. Once in a while, I feel that I'm getting the up-down motion correct. Of course, it goes without saying that I love pull-outs. And let's not mention butterfly. If I ever got the hang of that dastardly stroke, I'd more or less consider my life complete.

Professional swimmers always talk about 'feeling the water'. That's where all the shaving comes in. There are definitely days when I feel and swim like a lump of lead. Sometimes I feel weightless in the water, but I'm never sure if it's because I'm swimming extremely smoothly or because I'm not pushing the water at all. However, today felt absolutely extraordinary. I went through 200s and 300s at a decent speed and barely felt it. It was almost like skimming through the water. I would love to join a master's class, but there isn't one close by in Philly besides a gay/lesbian chapter. Still, I think I'm at a place where I definitely need the solid discipline of a coach and a class.

The thing is, I know a bit about swimming, and that knowledge just reinforces how far I am off the mark. People can be confident and swagger when they don't know shit about what they're talking about. It's when you know a little and realize the richness and depth of the subject matter that it truly becomes frightening. You start wondering if you're destined to be sitting in the muck of mediocrity forever or if you can gradually pull yourself up. In any case, I'm really glad to be obsessed with something positive for once (Not that being obsessed with with tv shows and movies is terrible), and moving my lazy bum. Sometimes I frighten myself with my psychotic single-minded obsessiveness, but I hope this one lasts.

Chinese is frying my brain

My days are starting to take shape. Fuzzy until 8:30PM, then 1.5 hours of intense Chinese on the phone with mom followed by a headache and an inability to concentrate on anything except for surfing the web. It's been exactly a week since I started this Chinese regimen, and I'm starting to feel stuck. The first three days were great because I went from nothing to something (you can't get a steeper learning curve than that). Now I'm frustrated by my five year old's vocabulary and absolute ignorance of Chinese grammar. Mom says that the grammar is easy: subject-verb-predicate. Right. Considering that I almost never follow that standard structure in English, I tend to have incorrect word ordering in Chinese.

On the second day, I realized that Chinese grammar really was simple. That doesn't mean that I'm any closer to understanding it, just that there are no articles. It's very strange for me to formulate a sentence without all of the little words in it. In Chinese, it would be something like 'I formulate sentence feel strange'. I can see how difficult it must be to go from Chinese to an alphabet-based language. My sentences feel so bloated and unwieldy. I keep on inserting random blips when I attempt to speak Chinese, and they definitely shouldn't be there.

The last time I touched a foreign language seriously was...never. High school French taught by non-French speaking teachers doesn't count. I also haven't done anything seriously English/Liberal Arts related since high school, causing signficant parts of my brain to atrophy. In general, I can say with confidence that my grasp of language is not wonderful. Today, I spent the hour and a half talking about the Olympics and mostly Fe er pu si (Phelps). I summarized his technical excellence and dominance in freestyle and butterfly. Then I gave some air time to Lochte and his prowess, though not his unhealthy love for McDonald's. I predictably ended by blabbing about the Longhorns. Having not won eight gold medals each in Athens, they don't have online dictionary entries (which apparently can translate Bilbo Baggins but refuses to give me the Chinese characters for Zhang Ziyi), so my speech went something like this: *broken chinese* Peirsol *long string of broken chinese* Hansen *short string of ugly broken chinese* Crocker *gave up on chinese completely*. At least my mom knows a lot now about the US men's swim team.

Having completely neglected Chinese for practically my entire life begs the question: What the hell was I doing? Math, the universal language. Or English, destined to become one of the universal languages at the very least. Today I was humbled in the post office while buying one cent stamps (When did stamps become 42 cents?). Two Chinese girls came up to me and asked me to translate some Chinese written on a piece of paper. The words were fairly common, but I still couldn't read most of them. I should've just said that I wasn't Chinese when they approached me, but I wanted to see if I had learned anything. Apparently not. In this age of instant gratification, why can't I learn a language in a week? Or is google searching the only skill I have left?

Chinese is difficult

Whoo... who knew speaking Chinese for forty minutes would be so dizzying?

It's amazing how much I take English for granted, nonchalantly flinging bits of slang, esoteric words, and banal cliches left and right. What's even more amazing is that I'm basically starting at ground zero for Chinese, even though I'm technically Chinese (double-check that). Hmmm... maybe I'm more Chinese American, or American Chinese (what is that) or American? I have a funny feeling that I implicitly reject Chinese culture due to my disastrous grasp of the language.

I can say that I know all of the dim sum dishes (in Cantonese and Mandarin), but that's not really an achievement. It just means that I'm a pig. Plus, pointing works just as well. In a non-dim sum restaurant, I sometimes order the only dish I can read on the Chinese menu just to feel superior, i.e. green vegetable or boiled chicken. Unfortunately, rice is usually complementary, so that cuts down my vocabulary by half. More often than not, I address the waiters in Chinese and they promptly reply in broken English. Or the waiters take one look at me and start conversing in English. I swear I don't look like the rest of the Chinese population. Maybe it's my air of self-possession and supreme confidence. Nah, it's probably my double chin (two more than the average Chinese girl) and either looking like a beach bum wannabe or like I missed the restaurant that served foie gras and caviar and ended up in Chinatown instead.

It's nothing compared to what actually happens in China. It seems that all of my Chinese American friends have tales to tell about China. More specifically, about how there are three clothing sizes in China, 00000, XXL, and XXXL. I know this because I apparently can only fit into XXL on a good day. Considering that I wear medium sized tops in most American stores and size 4 pants, it's a bit ridiculous that I'm considered morbidly obese in China. Chinese people are not known for their tact. Every cousin and aunt and uncle says to me, "Oh my, you're strong. Strong like a bull. You have arms of tree trunks and legs like monumental pillars." I can't even imagine that a guy would take that as a compliment, and I'm most definitely not a guy. Buying shoes is even more hilarious. I admit that I have huge feet for my height (eight and a half), but the size apparently doesn't exist in China. Venders would look at my feet blankly and state, "It's impossible for any human being to have feet that big." Okaaaaay. How do I respond to that? "I'm not actually a human being. I'm some foreign species with absurdly large feet."

Being obese in China, it's natural for people to chase you down with weight loss pamphlets. It's also uncomfortable when three other people squeeze into a small box of a dressing room and start happily stripping next to you, although that's preferable to the sales lady coming in and dressing you herself, tugging and pulling and pushing and doing god knows what to places-I-don't-ever-want-another-woman-touching-me-unless-she's-my-doctor. I've decided to avoid Chinese department stores altogether. 99% of the time, the salespeople just stare at me condenscendingly and tell me that there's nothing in my size. The remaining 1% is spent at stores which carry XXL and devoted to unwarranted dressing room drama.

Other amusing incidents:
1) Me wearing a raincoat in the summer (it was raining!) and the sales lady asking me if I was from the North Pole.
2) Me singing along to an English music video and the sales lady telling my mom that my English was pretty good.
3) A friend who also didn't speak Chinese well ended up having another concerned parent tell her mom that "there are special schools for people like your daughter."
4) Telling all the sales people that I'm Taiwanese to explain my American accented Chinese.
5) The first question strangers ask my 6'1" friend, "Wow, you're so tall. Do you play basketball?"
6) The first question strangers ask his parents, "What do you feed him?"

Ok, I guess I shouldn't knock China and Chinese people that much (I think I'm really Chinese since my XXL trumps 00000?). We make good food and good Olympics, and that's all that matters.

Disclaimer: I last visited China six years ago, and I hear that Chinese people have gained some weight since then. I'm sure you can find 0000 in stores now as well as XXXXL.

Disclaimer #2: I stretched the truth just a bit for the purposes of this post. I can actually read about 20% of any Chinese menu, but the waitresses still speak to me in English (maybe it's my penchant for blue toenails). I actually wear XL, and I'm sure I saw other sizes ranging from 0000 to 00. Only two other people crammed themselves into my fitting room.

US Open: On the shoulders of giants

This match between Andy Murray (6) of England and Jurgen Melzer of Austria was breath-taking. It was exciting because Melzer was close to winning for a very long time and both players seemed awfully fond of trash-talking and screaming. Murray is known for being surly and angry on the court, even going so far as swearing at the ref once (He later apologized). As the game went on, the stands filled with people who were drawn by all of the buzzing. As in any sports, interesting indicates that either player/team has a chance of winning, which then implies that the underdog is playing the game of his life.

This was a very long match indeed, clocking in at over four hours. We were here for the first set, left to watch some Coin/Mauresmo at Louis Armstrong next door, then promptly came back when that turned out to be terribly uninteresting in comparison. We stood on the top level, which gave us an awesome bird's eye view of the match. I could actually see Andy Murray's face when he was serving. It was also unbelievably sunny during the first few sets, and just seeing the ball's shadow bouncing around on the ground was pretty cool. It's amazing how fast the ball goes, which is impossible to tell when we're looking at the game from the players' perspective. I just kept on jerking my head back and forth in amazement.

Here are the two men, delightfully arguing over calls. However, neither used any of their challenges, leading me to believe that they were just stirring up enmity and getting the crowd's attention. Or there aren't challenges in the Grandstand, which is very strange. Andy Murray is especially funny with his distinctive Scottish accent. Once, when he hit the ball a mile wide, he screamed in frustration, "What is that?" He also kept on screaming "What?" over to Melzer as a mild challenge. Not to be left behind, Melzer didn't skimp on his share of trash-talking (I think I heard a 'damn' somewhere in there). In the second and third sets, both players protested over just about every single call. It made for great entertainment. In the beginning, Andy Murray got into it and sulked and muttered and screamed. Melzer lost his calm a bit later (maybe when Murray taunted him one too many times). I don't think they'll be having a drink together any time soon.

In the third set, Melzer cramped up because he played the first two sets much too hard (Murray was certainly surprised that he dropped both sets). Two trainers came onto the court and rubbed cortisone (or what I think is cortisone) on his legs. Poor man. He just wasn't experienced enough to pace himself, although he might have lost by that point if he had played at a lower intensity. Having faced several five-setters himself, Murray looked soft and definitely uncrisp the first few sets. I doubt that it was deliberate. It's more likely that the young up-and-coming Scot underestimated Melzer's ability. From this point on, there wasn't really any question of who was going to win. After each break, Melzer staggered over to the baseline so stiffly that it was obvious he was going to die of pain. For all that, he still played each point to the best of his ability, running cross court if necessary. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do after his legs gave out, although he still put up a damn good fight. Murray looked a lot more energized the second half of the match, playing much better once he adjusted to what he thought would be an easy win.

This shot was just heartbreaking. It was in the middle of the fifth set, when Melzer was in incredible pain and realized that he was going to lose the game. There's no way to describe the feeling. He put so much into his game, playing through leg cramps, running even though he couldn't walk. I can't believe how much discipline he had to just keep on going. Most people, even professional tennis players, would have quit in the fourth set. It must have been so bitter for Melzer because he was so close to winning in the third set. Instead, all of the trash-talking and cramps didn't bring him victory. It's also a testament to human spirit, the wanting to, needing to keep on going even when the body breaks. Although Melzer might be crushed by his loss, I greatly admire him for the way he played and his unwavering determination. To me, that's far more impressive than Andy Murray coming back in the last two sets. Undoubtedly, getting ahead in the world is all about getting results, but sometimes the effort is praiseworthy as well. I hope I get to see Melzer play in a few more tournaments. I'm sure Andy Murray will be around for quite some time. He's a young 20 to Melzer's 27. At least Murray will always be amusing whenever he steps on the court. He's not quite John McEnroe, but not a bad apprentice either.

The last match that we watched was absolutely amazing as well. The great thing about having day tickets is that we can still watch the night matches (and the day matches end so late that they drag into the night as well). The court gives off a very different vibe at 6PM than at 11AM. Everything's still at night, which makes the game really stand out. In general, things happen at night.

Kei Nishikori, an unknown player (ranked 126th) beat the 4th seed David Ferrer in this five-setter (We only stayed for the first three sets). In many ways, this was similar to the Murray/Melzer match except that the young Japanese phenom prevailed. Nishikori took down the first two sets much too easily. Ferrer looked terribly sluggish. By the third set, it was obvious that Nishikori was caving a bit from fatigue and a lot from pressure. When he first stepped onto the court, he was free as a bird. There were absolutely zero expectations. But when he took the first two sets with well-placed shots, a wicked top-spin, and an excellent forehand, people suddenly expected him to accomplish something. It's amazing that Nishikori managed to come back in the fifth set and take the match away from Ferrer. It's the fairy tale of tennis.

I usually don't root for the underdog, but now I see why others do. It's amazing to go against one of the top ranked players in your sport, face your nerves, stretch your body until it's screaming in pain, and hopefully conquer. It's so brutal and primal, and ultimately sublime. The underdog winning is all about achieving the impossible, rising above statistics and against reason to win. It's the men's 4 by 100 free relay in the Olympics, Michael Phelps out-touching Cavic by 0.01 seconds in the 100 fly, the Patriots winning their first super bowl. The underdog triumphing is a testament to human resilience, the sheer power of will and determination. Oh, how I love sports.