You know that scene in Frankie and Johnny – awesome movie by the way – where Al Pacino tells Michelle Pfeiffer to open her robe and he stares at her nakedness for what seems like forever?

That’s what blogging can feel like when you write personal stuff.  Like you are completely exposed and people are staring right into you.  I don’t write much personal stuff here – a lot (a lot) of what I write is made up (have ya read the “About Me” section?), most of the stuff that is true is observational – about other people, not me.

I have another blog that I write anonymously – like being nude but having a paper bag over your head.  I may or may not have mentioned that before, and lately it’s getting harder to decide what to write here. Firstly, because it’s a lot easier to be honest under the cover of namelessness.  Secondly, if the initial goal of this blog really was content aggregation, and I’m pretty sure it was, then I think “Mission Accomplished, Artonym”.

I don’t know.  Maybe a short break will be good.  Just until the lines are a little less blurred.  Or until I get my Artonym mojo back.  Or until I stop saying silly things like “Artonym mojo”.    It could be in as little as a day.  Or as long as a week.  Less…More…  Can’t really say.

But I do love you, Arty.  You’ve been good for me.

I’ve never been a fan of flying but about a year ago, on a trip back from the consumerist nirvana that is Hong Kong, our flight experienced some pretty bad turbulence. At the time, one of the stewardesses screamed and ran the length of the aisle to her seat. I haven’t been able to get on a plane since.

I tried flying to Hong Kong on Wednesday but heavy fog meant the flight was delayed by 4hrs. As the plan was to get in and get out in the same day, 4hrs proved too long a delay. I rebooked the flight for Friday and convinced myself that Wednesday’s abortive attempt to overcome my flying dread was a sure sign that my number was up.

So, having written a brief note bequeathing each of my Apple gadgets to the siblings I deemed most deserving, my shoes to the only charity I know which combines fashion-consciousness with humanitarianism (just because someone is starving and without shelter, doesn’t mean they’ve given up on looking good), handed my sister passwords to my online aliases and a list of websites she absolutely had to delete from my browsing history should the worst come to the worst, I set off again at 5am on Friday morning to face my fate. More fog. And a 5hr delay this time.

So, 600RMB in wasted taxi fare later, I decided to train it to Hong Kong instead.

Shanghai – Hong Kong – Shanghai Train Schedule

This is the most annoyingly confusing thing I have found online in while. Like they intentionally wrote the website content to make everything unclear. You can find out about fares here but the advertised discounts are not available if your journey originates in Shanghai – no matter what the website tells you. The schedule varies but right now, trains leave Shanghai on even dates (not even days, Mr. Data Compiler). So don’t break your brain trying to figure out what an “even day” is, or if they count the first day of the week as Sunday or Monday. To get to Hong Kong you leave Shanghai at 18:24 on the 2nd, 4th, 6th, etc. of the month. Trains come back from Hong Kong on odd dates. Setting off from Hung Hom Station in Kowloon at about 15:30pm. The schedule is subject to seasonal changes, though, so departure and return dates alternate.

Buying Train Tickets

This is kinda inconvenient. Train tickets to Hong Kong can only be bought from Shanghai Railway Station. And then only from counters 11 or 12. Counter 11 is tagged as an “English Speaking Counter”. The editor in me always wants to whip out a big black marker and scribble “English Service Available” over these words but the proliferation of military types milling around with batons puts me off. Like most major stations, Shanghai Railway station smells like a petty crime wave waiting to happen. That may seem like a rather specific smell but if you’ve been there, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you’re paranoid enough, you can almost hear the pickpocketers’ buzz of excitement as they thrill at the throngs of opportunity around them. Tickets are 725RMB for a space in the 4-person sleeper cabin and just over 1000RMB for what they call the en suite “deluxe sleeper”. I’ve ridden in one of these; let’s just call them “2-person sleepers” so nobody gets their raised hopes cruelly dashed.

Be sure to specify that you want the lower bunk, if that kind of thing matters to you (it’s slightly pricier – but only by a couple of kuai).

Check-In

This is exactly like at the airport except that a) you can leave it pretty late b) the waiting room is always full and really, really dirty. I mean really dirty. If, like me, you are on an African passport, expect them to ask you to take off your glasses, let down your hair, shimmy to the left, shimmy to the right and explain the very essence of your being and how it correlates with each aspect of your stay in China. This is either a very misguided seduction ritual or it’s profiling . Yum!

The Train

The T99 train, the overnighter to Hong Kong, is always clean (when you get on, anyway). The cabins are comfy, the bedding is crisp and white, there’s an electrical socket for you to recharge stuff, hangers for your clothes and in-train TV.

Dining Car

The first time we rode the train to Hong Kong, when we got to the dining car, one of the train staff was seated at a table picking the dirt out of her nails with tweezers, onto the tablecloth. The moral of that story? Stock up on sterilizing agents before you make this trip and bring your own food and utensils. Obviously.

Toilets

Well, it’s a public toilet. So…hold your breath and think of England.

Overnight trains to Beijing and Hong Kong are the most comfortable way to get to either city, if you are not in a rush. The route is scenic, the trains always punctual, you cut back on hotel charges, it’s mostly cheaper than air travel and, if you have a phobia like I do, you get to eliminate several nights of anguished terror in the build up to your departure.

I am a fan.

I’ve always found the presumptuousness of this particular cluster of words puzzling.  As though it is the most natural thing in the world to assume a new identity every time I cross a border.  I’m not Sydney Bristow.

I don’t mind being asked if I have a Chinese name.  But people assuming that my living in this SE Asian behemoth means I’m ready to give up my identity makes me … itchy.

I mean we all faux-drink the China Kool Aid, right?  But do we all swallow?

I don’t want a Chinese name.  And I don’t need one.  Not to process my official documentation or to sign up for stuff or to clumsily introduce myself at the myriad of networking events I am now attending to show off my delicious new shoes to expand my professional network.  And in the same way I don’t have a Uzbek name, or a Portuguese name, or a Venutian name, I do not have a Chinese name.   That’s just not how Mama and Papa Iris rolled.

How hard is “Iris” to pronounce anyway?  You don’t get to obfuscate my identity or try to diminish my sense of self-worth for your own convenience, China.  No Sirree-Bob.  I’ve got shamelessly photoshopped magazine covers and ludicrously improbable cosmetics adverts to do that.

I get the whole checking one’s idealism at immigration when one arrives on these shores.  Totally on board with that.
I understand learning the lingo to show a little respect and achieve a level of independence.  Riding that train.
I even appreciate the importance of not whining about every single aspect of this country that is not identical to my own.  Woot woooooot!

But there’s a line.  There has to be.  And I draw it at adopting an Asian alter ego to go with the laowai flow.  Can’t do it.  Won’t do it.

Word.

Once in a while I’ll go for drinks or a meal in Xintiandi or along the Bund and looking at the menu makes me wonder which deity’s DNA they are marinating the food in, so ridiculously astronomical are the prices.

So if you are anywhere along the Maoming Nan Lu area and want a little bit of “Italian”, you can do worse than Pasta Inn where I had lunch today.

What I liked:

1. The food. I ordered seafood soup (RMB29) to start with, they didn’t sconch me on the seafood and it was really very tasty.   So tasty that I’d wolfed mine all down before it dawned on me to take a picture. My friend had mushroom soup (RMB29) and she was equally pleased with hers.   Her penne (RMB29)  was luscious and creamy and the chicken wings (RMB29) I had (served with sweet and sour dip) were crisp and succulent.
2. The location. It’s very close to Huai Hai Zhong Lu and Nanchang Lu so a convenient walk away if you work or are out shopping in that area.
3. The menu. It has all the things I like on it – wine, women and desserts. Of course I only added “women” to make that a list of three things.  Otherwise it wouldn’t be a “list”, would it?  What is the word for something that is too short to qualify as a list?
4. The prices. We ordered two soups, my friend had penne and I had the chicken wings and we spent RMB116 (we didn’t get drinks)
5. The service.  It wasn’t spectacular, but it wasn’t hideous.   I call this a win.

What I disliked:

1. The chef. He did that nasal throat-clearing thing really loudly and for an excrutiatingly long period of time – while still front-of-house! – before spitting into what I can only assume was some kind of slosh bucket behind the bar.  That was so many kinds of gross, but there you go.
2. The real deal? I am not sure how Italian any of it was – other than the type of food served – everything else seemed to be Chinese.   Maybe they should park a Ferrari inconspicuously outside the entrance.  Just to amp up the authenticity a little.
3. Thing Number 1.  Seriously, it was beyond disgusting.  Don’t do that in front of the customers, dude!
4. They wouldn’t let me take a menu away with me.  It was just a piece of brown cardboard so I didn’t think it’d be that big a deal.  A lesser girl than me might’ve just stolen a menu and not bothered to be all classy and ask for it first.  A lesser girl than me might also have to remember to carry a bigger handbag next time in case such an opportunity presents itself again.
5. Thing Number 1.  Again.  I am struggling to get the visual (and the audio) out of my head.

Pasta Inn
132 Maoming Nan Lu (nr Nanchang Lu)
Tel: 5465 9816



So you know how I can’t stand Oprah because of how she is just this random, middle-aged single woman who is always shoving unsolicited advice down people’s throats?  Well as a random, 30-something woman from whom most people know better than to ask romantic counsel, I’m jumping on this advice-giving bandwagon because it seems like a fun place to be.

So…

1.    Don’t take it too seriously. It really is like buying a lottery ticket.  Chances are that it will end in a big fat zero.  Which, to be fair, you should consider a win because at least he didn’t try to kill you.  Set your bar of expectation way low and don’t prioritize that first date over anything else.  Really, don’t do it.  Think about it like looking for a needle in a big old pile of other needles.   Better-looking, socially well-adjusted needles.  Which are all already taken so you are left to sort through “The Others” like some creepy parallel universe version of Lost.  Which is how you feel as you trawl through maybeillfindsomeonewhoisntbroken.com and then self-awareness kicks in – belatedly – and you stop and think: “Eek!  Is this what guys are thinking when they are looking at the profiles of people like me?”
2.    Only use paid sites. This is a biggie.  Ladies if you are looking for a date that has never been, and can never be, described as “the dregs  of society”, then use paid sites.  If you use free sites you will get what you pay for.  Herpes.  No, not really.  But if you are looking to meet a grown up, show the Internet some money.  But don’t sign up for more than a month, until you get a feel for what sort of people are on the site.

3.    Don’t be yourself. Unless you are flawless.  Then, congratulations -  bring yourself to the table.  But in the same way girls cake on make-up, wear bras that…er… jack stuff up and control knickers that suck stuff in so that you don’t spend the whole run up to the date kicking yourself for not joining that gym years earlier…don’t be you in the profile.  Why spend that much time upgrading the outward packaging only to lump it with the same old internal clunkery.  Fake it till you make it, girls.   And if you are a little bit of a nutter, dial back the crazy (dial it waaaaaay back) and do not mention any of the following:

• Phobias / Neuroses
• Grudges you have held since the 80s
• Any of the things you vehemently dislike. (Like the word ‘milky‘)
• How gross you think nature is – unless it’s on a postcard.

4.        Be who you wanna be. When asked, in your online dating profile, to fill out your body type, think of how you actually look.  And then think of how you feel.    And then lie.  This kind of lie is ok.  You can defer meeting him for a few months, actually join a gym this time or make up an overactive thyroid shortly before your first encounter to explain the “sudden” weight gain.  Or post a 10-year old picture of yourself.  That’s cool too.
5.        Don’t take anyone’s advice – especially Internet people  – about the do’s and don’ts of online dating.  It’s far too intuitive an endeavor to be an exact science.   Although do be safe.  It’d be silly not to.

Midnight At a house party.  On the roof, checking out the fireworks.  It’s snowing in Shanghai.  This is either fabulously awesome or hideously inconvenient. I’m wearing a leather jacket, though.  So “awesome” is off the table.
01:00 It was freezing up there.  Back indoors.  Should I have some wine?
02:00 Home and bed.
03:00 Still awake.  Ooh, have just figured out how to connect my new phone to the intertubes.  Send a flurry of emails with that obnoxious “Sent from my iPhone” signature.  I’ve been dying to do that for ages.
04:00 Still awake.  Maybe I’ll start fiddling around with some new ringtones.
05:00 About to doze off…oooh! A text message!  Who can be thinking of me at this hour?  How sexy – and mysterious.  Ah, the phone company – telling me I am out of credit.  Shouldn’t have done the web/email thing.
06:00 Email bleeping.  Will check it out.  Could be awesome.  Happy Valentine’s day from the networking group whose mailing list you didn’t even know you were on, Iris. I love you too, anonymous automated mailing system.
07:00 Lighting up.  Not good.  I’m kinda tired now but if I sleep my body clock will be all out of kilter.
16:00 So…
16:05 Text from J asking if I want to go to dinner.  Do I? I’m still about 4 hours from being properly awake.  I think I’ll give it a miss.
16:30 Shower and faux-tidy around the house
17:00 I can’t remember the last time I ate.  Am I hungry now?
18:00 Ring my parents.  They aren’t Valentinesing but they love me.  Score.
18:30 Ring sister #2.  I seem to have saved her number incorrectly.  A sleepy-sounding British fellow answers the phone.  I could be in, here.  No, that’s gross, Brain.  What are you saying?  Hang up.
18:35 Sister #X sends an email saying that Valentines Day is Christmas for tarts.   This is hilarious.  I send the email around to all the other girls, who apparently have already heard the gag, so it falls a little flat…  This is just like that time when Ana told me that Barbara Streisand was dead.  And then I told everyone.  And we were all shocked, awed and unable to name a single Barbara Streisand song or movie.  And then we found out that she wasn’t dead and -…Ok, I don’t know where I was going with that story.
19:00 Get onto FB to see what the cybersphere is up to.  Bump in to Sister #1 so we Skype.

19:30 I’m worried about whether I will be able to pull off cowboy boots in the summer.  She is worried about getting her son into a good school in the Fall.  My issue will obviously need resolving before hers.  I ask her to focus.
21:00 Maybe I’ll get out of my pajamas now. And call the gym to see if they are open for a late night bout of cardio. They aren’t.  Good.
22:00 Sister #4 calls.  She is well and having an awesome time in Happyland.  I tell her about my day.  She’s suitably impressed.
23:00 Still trying to get hold of Sister #2.  She’s not picking up.  What can that mean?
00:15 Trying on some outfits for the gym tomorrow.  Mid-thigh shorts, three quarter shorts, full length tights…Ooh, definitely not the tights.
00:45 Time to zhoozh up the work out playlist.  Top 10 songs so far:

1. Too Much Booty in the Pants, 2 Live Crew – Literal, but awesomely inspiring
2. Outta My Head, Leona Lewis – Ok, so dance music isn’t all completely vile.  Go Le-Lew!
3. Movin’ Too Fast, Artful Dodger (ft. Romina Johnson) - Irony on the treadmill.  Love it.
4. Push it, Salt ‘n’ Pepa – As if that needs explaining
5. Insomnia, Craig David – Love this song.  Love it.  Love.  It.
6. Cotton-Eyed Joe, Rednex – Never mind Cotton-Eyed Joe, where did you go, Rednex?
7. Alone Now, Tiffany – Did you look like Molly Ringwald, Tiffany?  Or am I just thinking of Molly Ringwald?
8. Gotta Get Through This, Daniel Bedingfield – Awesome for when I’m, breathing hard and thinking of packing it in.  I play this one on a loop.   A big ol’ long, endless loop, sometimes.
9. Jai Ho, A.R. Rahman and the PCD – I love shouty songs.  I have been known to inadvertently shout along.  If you were standing next to me when this happened, I apologize.  It’s how we work out in Zimbabwe. <insert raised eyebrows here>
10. Tootsie Roll, 69 Boys – “Cotton candy sweetie go – let me see that tootsie roll!” Need I say more?

01:30 Maybe I will start doing some laundry.
01:35 No.   I willint.
01:40 Maybe I’ll dance myself tired.
01:50 Or maybe I’ll blog myself sleepy.
03:00 Or maybe I’ll make myself some dinner.
03:02 Or maybe I’ll just stare at the ceiling for a bit …

Hm.

So here’s the deal.  A while ago, I met a person for a thing.
Ok, I met a male person for a social thing.
Ok, I met a guy for a date, leave me alone!

I chose the time and place  – girl power, rawr! – but mainly because of my well-documented fear of being kidnapped.  I worry that certain members of my familial circle will be put off by the scale of the ransom demanded and I can totally hear one of my sisters saying: “You want how much?  Dude, for that kind of money we can buy ourselves a better Iris”.

Anyway, at the end of the encounter (the date, not the imagined kidnapping) I reached for my wallet, fished out a couple of notes and put down what I reckoned was about two thirds of the bill.  I’d had some cake, but shh, don’t tell.  He happily accepted my two thirds and plopped his share on top.

I found that quite…Whoa!

Call me medieval but I would’ve liked for him to offer to pay.  Just to be clear, I am saying “offer to pay” not “pay”.  I would most certainly have insisted on going halvsies.  And yes, I’m aware of the fact that it’s 2010, not 1810, but I’m still the girl, and he’s still the guy and the gesture, even if it had turned out to be an empty one, would’ve been appreciated.

While we’re on the subject:

• I still want him to be taller than me.
• And to carry the heavier bags.
• And to know about DIY.
• And to put that knowing to practical use when I break stuff stuff gets broken.
• And to know more about cars than me (I know nothing about cars but my mom did use her pantihose to replace a broken fan belt once when our car broke down on the highway in Johannesburg.  It was awesome.  By association, and osmosis, I like to sort of claim this feat as my own.  He needs to have equally MacGuyveresque car repair tricks up his sleeve.)
• And he should like to cook.  And match that liking with being good at it.
• And be at least a little bit into carpentry.

Come to think of it, this guy didn’t demonstrate any of these things during the few hours I spent with him.  I think I really dodged a bullet here.

Every time a friend tells me about a new  guy she’s met, my first question is always: How tall is he?  As if that’s all that matters.   But  I didn’t realize just how sizist I was until this week when two things happened.  The first was on Thursday when I met a 6ft tall Russian chick who, when she stood up to shake my hand, heard the first words out of my mouth be: “Ooh, you’re a tawlee too.  Let’s be best friends forever.”

The second was today when the restaurant to which I had called half an hour ahead still didn’t have my order ready when I got there to pick it up.  Because it was a complicated order?  Nope, it was a single item.  Because they were mega-busy?  Nope, there were three diners – all at one table – and 8 staff when I got there.

This really annoyed me because it is the thing that happens quite a lot at this particular place – sloppy service – and just when I was about to demand my money back and storm out as angrily as one can when teetering atop 5-inch heels which you can barely walk in but are oh-so pretty, the manager (new) came down the stairs with his tall, shaven-headed Italian self and I forgot how annoyed I had been.

And then he called me Ma’am* and I remembered all over again.

*I prefer mamacita.

I was out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday – trying to meet my new people quota for the month. Mission accomplished, I think.

I also feel that I have met enough new people to last me through to the beginning of the next decade. Not because they weren’t all really nice – everyone has been lovely. But because this was my Everest. Mounted, branded and conquered, thank you very much.

And my date yesterday was a triumph. Define “triumph”? This guy didn’t bring another woman along.

• My sister, after I wrote some copy for the landing page of her new website: Oooooh, now I get why people actually pay you for this stuff.

• Guy in a bar:  You know, in some parts of the Caribbean you’d actually be considered attractive.

• At the market, a vendor to my Chinese friend: Ni hao mei nu… (Hello, pretty girl…). She ignores him so he turns to me: Excuse me, Sir…