Last Week

So last week,

While a four-star brigadier general's career came to an abrupt end because of words in an article ...

and

While the once-most-popular-ever Australian PM, stepped down because he decidedly no longer so ...

Over here in our corner of the world, Mr Johnson and I were sitting on rented chairs, bedecked with skirts and bows (customary fashion in China when at a banquet or ceremony), at our daughters’ International school award ceremony.

The school body sang the school hymn. E's group played their violins. MGJ donned a motorboard and gown to mark her transition from primary to secondary, and walked across the stage. (It dawned on me that that was the moment I thought of when we named her, how it would sound in an auditorium full of people, and for the record it sounded lovely!)

We applauded E for her award for academic excellence for her age bracket, but are prouder simply of the way she loves to learn. (Not just that she’s particularly good at it.)

We applauded MGJ for her Chinese Language award. And we cheered loudest when she stretched out her hand to her teacher, and her educator instead reached out with a hug.

As General McChrystal and Mr Rudd learned the very hard way last week, status and power are not always what they are cracked up to be.

But working diligently, with the goal in sight, being kind along the way, and remaining humble can bring you a long way.

Relationships. People. Lifelong learning. These are the goals we hope for for our girls. And they are well on their way.

Independence . . .

Thoughtful Rumination

We were standing in our row at Fellowship this morning (not our usual row ... it's summer, and most people are traveling, so they closed off all but the front half of the 400 seat auditorium forcing our tribe closer to the stage) when it hit me. This is probably the weekend we would have been heading home.

We are in fact, preparing for our round-the-globe, dateline-defying (we will arrive in Canada at roughly the same time we depart Beijing) journey to North America this week, but it is with ROUND TRIP tickets, not one-way ones. It is with lists of things to stalk up on (Tampons, Oxi-clean, triplicate sets of black leather dress shoes, in half-size increments, two pairs per girl to satisfy dress code requirements @ their conservatively garbed international school). It is with a full calendar of doctors appointments and dates with friends and family.

I saw in the empty rows around me the lack of people... some just traveling in Asia for the summer, or heading to their home countries for a few weeks R & R. But, some of those empty seats won't be filled again by friends we enjoyed seeing on Sunday mornings and other times throughout the week. And its not just at Fellowship. There are people from other circles of my life that are poignantly absent. This was the end of the line for them in QD. This weekend was supposed to be the end of the line for us.

On the other side of the globe in middle America, in our tidy, flag-waving community (that could easily fit in the confines of our fellowship auditorium), our sturdy, brick bungalow... the one with the aging maples lining the pebble drive and the large live oak standing guard in the back yard, has just gotten a much needed face lift. Both baths have had an overhaul. (Thanks Danny & Josh!) Plaster has been repaired. The modest, square, detached garage with a slim galleys for two cars (built in an era before mammoth, petrol gluggling SUVs were dreamed up) has new windows and doors, and a proper eaves trough.

But we're not moving back in. Renters (eventually) will.

And so, this weekend is full of thoughtful rumination. Considering what was to be, what is the reality, and how in the long run Mick Jagger might have had it right when he sang:

You might not get what you want

But sometimes you get what you need

And so that return date, the one where we book movers, and packers, and one-way tickets is moved out two more years. Imagine the ruminating in July 2012.

Jumping Bea(n)

The First Day of Summer

It's the first day of summer. At home Little Leagues are more than half way through their seasons. The sweet corn is nearing it's proverbial knee-high height. (Knee high by the 4th of July...) School supplies will soon be creeping back onto the shelves of Wal-Marts and Targets across the nation. And my girlies are STILL IN SCHOOL. It's the first night of summer, and its a school night!!

Throwing caution to the wind we went out for supper on a school night. We caught the bus. We ate burgers and drank bubble tea @ our favorite spot @ the Marina (just east of the long row of international flags.) We toasted the first night of summer dining alfresco under the dimming rays of the dipping sun and the pearly brightness of a half moon.

The pics snapped on my mobile phone really don't do the night justice. On the other hand, when you're breakin' the rules, its best not to have crisp documentation!

Monday Morning Make-Over

Happy Father's Day Mr Johnson

Father's Day 2009 in QD (with my Dad)

Father's Day 2008 in QD

Father's Day 2007 in Beijing

Father's Day 2006 in Qingdao

Father's Day 2005 in Illinois

(With no idea what adventures the next years would hold!)

Baby Bei Bei - 2005

EHJ - 2002

MGJ - 1999

Fu Qing Jie Kuai Le!

Date Night

Tonight it was Japanese.

Sushi. Sashimi. Wasabi. Teriyaki. Tempura. Asahi.

Japan v The Netherlands on every TV. There was one Hisense set for each table. (Or almost every table.)

The coverage was in Japanese. But all we could hear were the vuzulas.

Two set meals washed down with Asahi = 272 rmb.

Bus fare 1 rmb/pax/each way = 4 rmb.

Watching Japanese football on a Japanese station, surrounded by Japanese fans = World Cup @ its best.

Money Talks

"You can't smoke in here!" I tell my cab driver incredulously.

He looks in the rear view mirror to see if this foreign tai tai is serious.

I glare back.

Serious as a heart attack my glower insists.

(As serious as lung cancer, emphysema, or COPD. As serious as the bronchial swelling, airway constricting asthma that plagues my eight-year-old, and is triggered by, among other things, cigarette smoke.)

He is visibly crestfallen as he notes the 88 seconds remaining on the red light. (Stop lights in China don't use yellow. Just countdown clocks of red and green, and still the process is messy at best.)

He gestures at the cabbie next to us. His cab void of patrons and his cigarette lit.

"If I was in his cab I wouldn't pay him." (And by QD law I wouldn't have to.)

He looks at me once more for confirmation. Which I am more than happy to give him.

"If you smoke I won't pay," I tell him bluntly. (My Mandarin is somehow most fluent when my stress level is raised.)

These are the magic words.

Slowly he slips the much desired nicotine into his chest pocket, and begins a long guttural cough/throat clearing. He slaps his lighter onto the dash.

For a moment I wonder if he'll retaliate with irrational driving. But the heaviness of the mid-day traffic would prevent this. Instead he takes the long way home. Running up the toll by 15 cents.

The 15 cents that were well worth a smoke-free ride.

FIFA Fever

I knew I had it bad when I slipped quietly out of bed early Wednesday morning, grabbed Mr. Johnson's iphone off his nightstand and wandered into the hallway where I could pick up the wi-fi signal through the concrete construction of our two story apartment home. I was searching for results for the North Korea game. And to my surprise the tiny, walled-off nation, that shuns all global interaction (yet stupefyingly qualifies for the World Cup) staved off a pounding by the much favored Brazil. The match in Johannesburg ended with a score of 2-1, in favor of Brazil, @ the end of 90 minutes of play.

I've printed off the official "Match Schedule: 2010 FIFA World Cup South Africa". I've watched matches until mid-night. (Sorry, I'm not as die-hard as my European friends who set their alarm clocks for the wee hours, stumble out of comfy beds and go to watch footie on the big screen of local pubs.) I've learned new things: A screamer is good. A howler is bad.

Most Americans don't really get soccer. Or they don't appreciate it. American culture is more geared to innings. Or halves that involve statistics on touchdowns and injuries. We don't even call the sport by the name the rest of the world uses.

I can't really explain my interest in watching the sport, except that somehow it feels like a great global party. And I want to be a part. There is festiveness to the atmosphere. It is there in the shiny uniforms and lanky athletic bodies; and in the flamboyant hairstyles and dramatic antics. (Some of these guys could be theatrical actors!) And, there are the horns. The Vuvuzelas drone ever on in the background, emphasizing just how many fans this sport draws out for its once-every-four-years global play. There are all sorts of opinions about these horns, most of the vocal ones negative (If you have time and mild interest in this topic and the culture of football fans in Africa consider reading: http://kevin-blackistone.fanhouse.com/2010/06/14/vuvuzela-long-live-the-horn-despite-european-scorn/).

There is also the skill and precision of the game. And teamwork: 10 men working together to bring a ball up the 100 meter field, while 10 more men oppose them. (By contrast, an American football field is 10 meters longer, but they get four tries to move the ball every 10 yards. AND the offense and defense players rotate en masse on and off the field.) In soccer the offense and defense are on the field at the same time and sometimes their roles overlap. They work tirelessly. The clock is constantly running. They are constantly moving. And they don't use their hands. This is the big sticking point for most American dissenters. A sport should involve your hands, they argue. (Just ask England's keeper Green about this theory and wait for his embarrassed response.)

But perhaps the most magical part of Soccerfootball (as my Bei Bei has dubbed it) is it's pure globally unifying aspect. Football is sport played around the world. From dusty pitches in continental Africa to the more posh fields of Europe, soccer is a game played by the children of the world. An untold number of stories have been published in the year leading up to Africa's first opportunity to host the World Cup of young Africans who can't afford a proper ball making them out whatever materials they can find. (The stories include descriptions of balls made from plastic bags or coconut palm leaves twisted around themselves to form an orb.)

Football is a great unifier. The Cote d'Ivoire (with a World Bank estimated per captia GNI of $980 USD) can play alongside Portugal (whose same statistics are closer to $21,000 USD). And for those little boys who play football barefoot... on a dusty patch of land that works as their make-shift pitch... the little boys who could never afford the orange and green official World Cup Elephants of Cote d’Ivoire jersey by Puma, let alone a real soccer ball, can at least dream of one day becoming the next Didier Drogba or Salomon Kalou, who still has scars on his feet from playing barefoot himself, and the Chelsea jersey to prove it was worth it.

(Read more about Salomon's feet here: http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?art_id=vn20100413101518127C445649)

Other stats found @:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/country_profiles/1043014.stm
and
http://siteresources.worldbank.org/DATASTATISTICS/Resources/GNIPC.pdf

World at our doorstep

Maybe it was the 12 kiddos standing on the makeshift platform Sunday morning at the Early Childhood Education (E.C.E.) Sports Day. Twelve kiddos representing 10 countries (US, PRC, Germany, Denmark, Italy, So Korea, UK, Australia, Canada and Singapore). Maybe it was sitting under the flags of nearly every nation Sunday night, as we saw the weekend out at the Olympic Marina, ice cream in hand, as has become our weekend tradition. The world, it seems, is at our doorstep. The world in the swirl of languages we hear around us. The world just overhead in the unfurled flags.

"Which is that flag?" one blonde Johnson would query, to be answered by another. Sticky fingers pointed toward their favorite pattern, or the most unique. Our five-year-old can readily identify the Korean flag and the American one. The flags of China and Canada too. When we came to one that stumped all five of us, we committed to google it. The world is a click away.

Are we going to watch soccerfootball? Bei Bei asked later that night.

Soccerfootball.

The combined nomenclature she is familiar with. Americans (and Canadians?) call it soccer, South Americans and Europeans dub it football. (In Chinese the literal translation is "foot ball" as well). So in her mind soccerfootball makes perfect sense.

We watched as the tall and ruggedly athletic soccerfootballers from all corners of the globe stood at attention on the turf. We listened to the tunes of anthems we don’t know the words to. We watched as they sang along. The world neatly defined in matching uniforms and 90 minute matches. The world on a screen in your living room.

The world on your computer, your TV, your smart phone and mobile device.

The world on your doorstep.

Half a globe away, the world on mine.

Footie Fun