Chinese NZ alumni . . .

part of a busy week . . .

Deadlines . . .

I need deadlines, a target, a goal, a commitment . . .

It doesn't mean I will make them. One of my favorite quotes from my of my favorite writers:

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.”

― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

Mine don't whoosh so much, because I get to set them myself. To some degree. (I don't freelance because I would starve but I pitch stories to my employers, and then am expected to write them.)

When there is a space to fill that I might have a story for, I get reminded that a story is expected to fill a particular space.

Then, and unfortunately, only then, I draw in all the threads of the tale that have been roaming free in my mind, try to identify the strongest and track down it's supporting friends. I love it, I love writing, I love finding what it is about each story that might ("might") grab the reader's interest and hold them, but I'm really bad at doing it without a deadline.

So, tonight, I took a "rest" day from my gym, baked brownies, made curry and texted my subject with questions that the deadline made seem more important. I already have all the background - now it's about making it sexy (newspaper sexy, that isn't actually sexy).

I have a deadline.

I have to deliver.

A wise investment . . .

I joined a nearby gym shortly after I moved to Beijing but found, for many reasons, I wasn't using it as much as I would have liked. It wasn't simply laziness or procrastination, but the gym had inconvenient hours (it didn't open til 0900 and my work day started at 1000, and it was always too busy in the evenings), was more set up for body builders with half the cardio machines out of order on any day, and had such primitive change and shower facilities I never used them but rode home to shower and change.

With my membership about to expire and the gym under new management, I was promised things would change and offered a great deal to renew. By then, however, I'd talked with friends and colleagues who went to a health club in a hotel a little further away and a lot more expensive, and decided to check it out. A friend who was also a member of my gym but never went came with me and we decided to join together (and got the couple discount).

Being in an upmarket hotel, I'm now paying per month what I was paying for three months at my old gym, but the luxury of the surroundings and the vastly superior facilities make it well worth the cost. I have gone from struggling to manage three 30-minute workouts a week to working out at least six days a week, usually spending two to three hours enjoying the gym, pool and wonderful sauna. On working days, I go straight from work and am joined by my friend when he finishes 90 minutes later, which means I do at least that long on the treadmill and/or elliptical each night. Add a swim and sauna to that and I'm sleeping much better than before. Days I'm not working, or Sundays when I start late, it's easy to spend hours there listening to music on the headphones provided (the machines all have iPod docks so I just plug in my phone and dial up a station) then luxuriating in the sauna (there's a steam room also, but the dry heat of the sauna is great for my asthma also).

The change rooms and facilities are top of the range also, as you would expect.

I've barely lost any weight yet, but am measurably fitter and stronger (lifting heavier weights, running faster and longer at a lower heart rate and recovering quicker each time). Best of all though, I'm vastly happier and more tolerant, as well as sleeping better. Even on days I really don't feel like going, I always feel better after I've been.

It's definitely money well spent!

Paris, in a sports car . . .

it is early morning on my last day of my first visit to Paris . . .

and I can't help but think how far I have come, not simply in miles, and how much further my family's next generation will go . . .

when I decided to come here, I wanted to "ride through Paris, in a sports car, with the wild wind in [my] hair" (I still may, I have almost a full day left)

I loved The Ballad of Lucy Jordan  when I was younger - it had all the angst a young girl wanted

BUT, I didn't quite understand why her life was dependent on her husband and children:

Her husband he's off to work
And the kids are off to school
And there were oh so many ways
For her to spend her days

She could clean the house for hours
Or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked through the shady street
Screaming all the way

OR, you know, she could have taken control of her own life and booked a trip to Paris and rented a sports car, or a gigolo, or whatever she thought was missing from her life

I never dreamed, as that young girl, that I would be in Paris, or living in China, or most of the paths my life journey has taken so far

but I was fortunate enough to have a mother who taught my siblings and I (and they have passed it on to their children) that life is what YOU make it

she also taught me that being human means making mistakes, and that's ok also

One taxi, two planes, three airports, three trains, one bus, two very sore feet and an awfully tired Kiwi . . .

Sunrise in Frankfurt

At 3 pm local time, I finally arrived at my Paris hotel, 21 and a half hours after stepping out my apartment door in Beijing.

Phase 1: Beijing to Frankfurt
I thought I might have trouble finding a cab close to midnight in torrential rain but it only took minutes. I tried to relax as my driver raced along the highways at normal speed despite the amount of water on the road, passing the other sensible drivers with hazard lights on and driving sedately, and managing not too aquaplane too badly. I was of course at the airport with hours to spare, but luckily had a distracting book with me.
The flight was uneventful and the two French-Canadian women seated in my row were very pleasant but, having barely slept on Monday night and then had to stay up to catch the 0205 flight Wednesday, I was so overtired that I could not sleep. Being in a aisle seat didn't help. I watched three movies on the way.

Phase 2: Beijing to Frankfurt
Frankfurt Airport is lovely, even if you're so tired you feel like a zombie. The food there is better than many restaurants I've eaten at and at reasonable prices. I had three hours to spend before my connection so explored the concourse for an hour, walking off the stiffness from the plane and deciding where to eat, spent an hour enjoying the best sandwich I've ever eaten (no exaggeration) while watching the sun rise and another hour reading.
The flight was only 70 minutes and uneventful, but it seemed strange to see so many well-dressed people on a flight when you spend so much time traveling in Asia. I imagine most were just popping next door for business meetings, like my neighbor who only had his computer and a briefcase and spent the flight reviewing a contract.
I was also surprised that, even for non-EU passport holders, once you're in Europe now, that seems to be that. My passport was checked at Frankfurt and I was asked where I was going and for how long, but didn't provide any proof and simply exited the airport in Paris with no sign of Customs or Immigration.

Phase 3: Airport to hotel, Paris
My friend had told me this was simple - metro from Charles De Gaulle Airport to Gare de Nord, walk to Gare du l'Est and transfer to line going to Rosny-Bois-Perrier. Hotel was about 500 meters from the station, he said.
It might have been easier if I was so zombified by then. And if I had been able to find any maps of Paris online before I went that overlaid the street system and subway system. Lots of either available, but nothing that gave any sense of where the hotel was in relation to the subway stop, or even how to get from Gare de Nord to Gare du l'Est. .
After buying a transport pass for the five days I will be here (long lines for that) and picking up a good subway map, I noticed a line that adjoined Gare de Nord and went to my final stop, which seemed easier than negotiating roads between the two when I didn't even know which exit I needed.
Got to Gare de Nord and had lost my five-day pass - they're about the size of a raffle ticket and did recall seeing one on the ground while waiting for my first train but was so tired I didn't even pick it up and look at it, thinking mine was safe in my pocket. I did wonder if the owner might have a problem exiting his or her destination station but that was all.
The owner did, and got to buy a pass again, which would have paid for a taxi to the hotel, I'm fairly sure.
Then was the problem of finding where to take my connection from and which platform, and thankfully the French are much more tolerant of people who barely speak their language than they have a reputation for. But it's a line that splits just before my destination, so you have to be sure you're taking the correct train. Which should be easy if you know the alternate end destinations, or so one would think. Except the one I took missed my stop and the next, so I then needed to come back again.
Once finally at the right stop, I looked at the map of the local area and the street I needed to get to wasn't on it. Ready to cry with sheer exhaustion by now, I asked a shopkeeper who sweetly took me outside and showed me the bus to take, I told the driver where I needed to go and he told me the name of the stop I needed (all individual, as in Beijing) and let me know when we were two stops away.

My relief at getting to the hotel proved less of a relief when I realized just how budget it is but, having showered, changed and walked to a nearby Carrefour to buy things I expected would be supplied, I'm feeling more positive. The WiFi won't work in my room or on my phone, it seems, but there's a comfortable lobby where I'm tiredly ensconced.

I'm sure tomorrow will bring much more interesting adventures . . .

Powerless - a forgotten post

A quick explanation - the Kiwi, who is technologically challenged, to say the least, just got her first hard drive and, perusing files before saving them, found an old post that never got uploaded. Because, as you will read, the power was off:

April 9

I woke this morning to no power – it was the silence that woke me. I first noticed the absence of my air filter, which provides white noise as I sleep. I checked the dial, the connection, then realized everything was quiet. I tried to turn on a light, and nothing happened. I dressed, checked the hall and a neighbor's apartment, and all were powerless. It's daytime, but I would still expect to see a single light in one of the many buildings outside my window – I don't.

Being a writer, with an overactive imagination, I leapfrog over the most obvious reasons directly to an end-of-the-world scenario and realize Beijing, China, isn't where I want to be for the end of the world.
Aotearoa, my home, is. So, because that's the person I am, I consider how to get there, and survive.

I also quickly realize, if my fictional scenario became real, that, failing death from chemical annihilation or conventional weaponry, I'd probably be a survivor. I know how to grow food, I can teach others, I can forage, I can make do, I can find a port, find a boat, read a chart and sail to my homeland. Which, fortunately, happens to be the place I would want to be for an end-of-the-world scenario, even if it weren't my home.
Thankfully, it is.

I'm also very good at making friends, even when we don't share a language, and even better at being meek, mild and invisible when needed. The ability to calm people and direct their anxiety into useful tasks will probably stand me in good stead also. People like to feel they are doing something useful.

So, having realized that I can and will survive, excepting “Acts of God,” and unable to do any of the work I had planned today without power and an Internet connection, I shall go back to bed and store some sleep, just in case I have to cycle to the outskirts of Beijing tomorrow to buy food from farmers (before they realize money has no value), then find my way to a harbor and a boat. Then home.

I will sleep peacefully knowing that my often erratic life path has equipped me perfectly for such a task.

Then, most likely, wake when the power comes on and go back to my series on Ambassador's Spouses, interview New Zealand directors for a preview on a Film Festival, cycle to visit my colleague in hospital and meet other colleagues for dinner. While knowing, if the worst were to happen, I could  always make my way home . . .

The Power of the Press . . .

I'm not sure about other writers, but in this world of citizen journalism, social media mediation and falling print numbers, I often feel I am only writing for myself, my subjects and their immediate whanau, and my paycheck. (None of which are worthless)

Then, occasionally, I get reminded that other people read and comprehend what I write . . .

I wrote a profile on an amazing Irish artist back in June, and went away feeling I could have written SO much more, but I'm limited to a word count for the paper. I could have easily written a magazine article from the interview and the person.

This week, Niamh contacted me to tell me that a director at CCTV, China's major TV station, read the article and was intrigued and contacted her. CCTV is now filming a 30-minute documentary on Niamh preparing for her solo show. The exhibition venue has also been upgraded.

The funny, funny thing - the documentary on preparing for her show is really getting in the way of, you know, PREPARING for her show.

Well done Niamh, I will be at the opening . . .