This guy had a ROCKIN' bod, I swear...

8 things to do before you can go home tonight:

1. Arm wrestle a girl and lose convincingly
2. Get someone to touch your bicep
3. Get someone to unbutton your shirt
4. Dance with a black chick (sometimes hard to find in Beijing)
5. Do someone else's job
6. Ride a bicycle
7. Talk to a group of 4 or more strangers
8. Gamble with a Chinese person

It was August, 8th, 2009 and two days before my birthday. I wouldn't be going out on my actual birthday of August 10th, because we would be picking up a number of people from the airport for our North Korea trip. So Nick, my friend/business partner/partner-in-crime, took me out on the 8th and told me that the two of us would be celebrating my birthday tonight.

I had been a little bummed recently about not having a girlfriend, or too many friends in Beijing, and living in a weird old house with poor plumbing and "parents." I had told Nick and he decided on a remedy for my bummy-ness.

"We're going to make a list of 8 things that we have to do tonight before we can go home. To check off an item, either one of us can do it, but you have to do most of them." I went out of my comfort zone that night, but the feeling that this would guarantee a ridiculous night and a memorable story kept me going.

Nick smooothly slid next to a girl sitting next to us at the bar and convinced her to armwrestle me. I tried to tell her that she had no chance at winning, and she would see that if she would only touch my bicep. She refused...

Task 2, Status: Failed, Course of Action: attempt again later

We placed our elbows adjacent to each other on a bar stool and began to wrestle. She quickly resorted to the two-handed "cheater" method and bested me. It was convincing at least.

Task 1, Status: Success, Reward: drink more

We chatted a bit and she told us that she was waiting for her friend and that she was studying classical music and English language. She was a cool girl, but Nick and I were on a mission.

As we walked from Nanjie Bar to our next, as-of-yet-undetermined bar. 顺便, On the way, we passed a woman selling jianbing, 煎饼. A jianbing is Chinese scallion pancake creation which is made by pouring a thin layer of batter onto a circular hot iron slab, next an egg is cracked into the middle and scrambled around, then it is flipped, then hot sauce and salty-brown-paste is slathered onto its insides while scallions and a crunchy 油条, fried bread stick, is tossed in the middle. It is folded into a burrito and served in a plastic bag.

Clearly, I understood the workings of jianbing, and I believed that I could be a jianbing seller. Her business was operated out of a cart, much like the one featured below.

I asked her politely if I could commandeer her cart for a while in order to complete task 5. She responded rather curiously, "You know, you're not the first foreigner to ask me that." Unfortunately, jianbing is a very hot food, and it was a very hot night. In the ten minutes I waited there, there were no buyers. As an alternative... I asked her if I could ride her jianbing Cart. Although the cart had 3 wheels, Nick and I consulted with the judges and asserted that a 3-wheel jianbing Cart is, in fact, a bicycle. I received a brief driving lesson and I was on my way!

The jianbing Cart is an unruly vehicle, tamed only by the most skilled of drivers.

Task 5, Status: Failed

Task 6, Status: Success!

Scoreboard update!

Task #	Task	Status
1	Arm wrestle a girl and lose convincingly	Success
2	Get someone to touch your bicep	Failure
3	Get someone to unbutton your shirt	n/a
4	Dance with a black chick	n/a
5	Do someone else's job	Failure
6	Ride a bicycle	Success
7	Talk to a group of 4 or more strangers	n/a
8	Gamble with a Chinese person	n/a

We wandered to Sanlitun Village, a newly constructed high-class shopping mall, where, on the west side there exists a collection of bars that cater to the young expat crowd, and on the east, a bizarro mirror image of the west. Expat bars are loud and slimy because the expats are loud, slimy, and drunk. The expats sit inside or outside depending on the weather and chill out with a couple of brews or get boozy and dance the night away on a rooftop. But across the way, in bizarro-world, the bars are loud and slimy because they play ear-bleedeningly loud disco/hip-hop (dick-hop?) and have scantily-clad women sing and dance on the stages up front.

At some of the better-funded bars, there are employed "solicitors" outside trying to "convince" potential customers to come in and have a drink. By this I mean that they scream "欢迎光临！(welcome customers!)" in your face as they grab you by the arm and thrust you inside the bar. I imposingly asked a solicitor if I could do his job.

I donned the purple-and-black plaid, fake Dolce & Gabbana, button-up t-shirt that was the defining dress of "Studio 64.”

The waiters brought out a coke each for Nick and I, and we chatted it up as I, albeit quite timidly, attempted to grab people and thrust them into the bar. I commented to one of the solicitors how buff I look in these D&G T's and said to him "For serious... touch my bicep... it's huge."

Task 2, Status: Success, for real this time!

A band of rowdy Irish-folk walked by and they were all quite intrigued with the white-boy trying to sell this Chinese bar. I had told them that the music was good and the drinks were cheap and that they should go inside and have a look.

Task 5, Status: Success, you're doing great!

We went inside to see if there was any work in there that could be done. The boys gave each of us a bottle of Tsingtao, on the house - later that night, I would make "the house" my house.

I saw what appeared to be a group of 4 foreign ladies and I, while still in uniform, walked over and asked them if they needed any help, more drinks, etc. I hoped maybe I could start a conversation with them, but they really, really didn't need any help.

Task 7, Status: Failed

A little sad at having failed so many times tonight, I sat back with my drink and waited for the show that was about to begin on stage. It would be a pole dancing show... and I was very excited.

The guy that got on had a ROCKIN bod, no joke. He was sporting at least a six-pack, maybe he went to Costco and picked up a 30-rack, I can't be certain - at this point I was quite stunned but the rest of the night that of which are about to hear, I assure you, actually happened.

He spun around the pole with the tempestuousness of a whirling dervish all the while maintaining the grace of a plum blossom petal, gently wafting to meet the ground.

Nick and I looked at each other, shared no words, and continued to stare in amazement.

Then she got on. She danced with no delicacy, no apprehension, no remorse. There was power in her movements. She made that pole her bitch. Nick said to me "If we can get her to have a drink with us, then go out for a snack, I'll count everything on the list as finished."

Nick got her to sit down with us, but she didn't have a drink because she was driving home. He also convinced the DJ to play a song and have me bboy (breakdance, whut whut) up on stage. I was reluctant, but the second that song came on, I knew that all my failures of that night would be redeemed when the pole dancer has dinner with me.

Before the 5 of us got in the car, I had to hang up my uniform. The owner of the bar greeted me and asked me what I did on Friday and Saturday nights. "I'll give you a job. Everyone would want to come to the bar with the street-dancin' foreigner." I was honored, but I still refused.

Pole-dancing girl, pole-dancing guy, guy's friend, Nick and I found ourselves at a restaurant a few minutes later. Girl called her girl-friend, and the 6 of us ate and talked.

The male pole-dance, A Quan, had been a Law major at college, but preferred dancing. Female pole-dancer's friend, Bingbing, was a formally-trained modern dancer but worked as a dancer at one of the bars on the same street we were just at.

Nick and I hopped a cab home.

Tonight, success.

I think I'm a Buddhist; don't tell my mother - she'd plotz

"Put down your tchotchkes, wipe the shmutz off your face, and head back to shul like the mensch that you are," is what she would say, had I told her this story.

The Refuge Card (皈依证, guiyizheng) I received that day about a week and a half ago proves that I am an official convert to Buddhism recognized by the Chinese government. The application to convert cost about 40RMB (~6USD) and before getting the card, one must perform the sacred Buddhist conversion ritual that I have described below.

The Beijing Guanghua Temple (北京广化寺) is located in a hutong off of Houhai. If you go right, you are thrust into a commercial paradise of Mao t-shirts, cigarette lighters, fans, and stinky tofu. But were you to choose the left path (not to be confused with the eightfold path), you would be forced to navigate a labyrinthine mess of concrete, beggars, incense, and fragrant wooden bracelets before arriving at the temple.

Nodding my head at a few of the temple's monks, I said "Namo Amitofo" and shoved my way into the temple courtyard which was packed with 800+ Chinese people, all pumped up and ready to convert.

Were all of these people really ready to shun all worldly possessions for the chance of rebirth in the pure land? I highly doubt it, but they are ready to get a free ticket to all Buddhist temples. Mount Wutai, a UNESCO Heritage site in Shanxi province, costs a compulsory 168RMB plus an additional 70RMB for the bus service to each temple you visit, with a total of 5 temples, totalling about 520RMB or $76USD - that's a lot to spend on a meshugga temple, but completely free of cost if you're a "Buddhist."

The ceremony began with a long wait on line to receive our Buddhist meal, meant to cleanse us of something-or-other, I'm not sure. What we got was a bowl of rice with odd vegetables on top. An old lady came around with a bowl of some cabbage-looking stuff, and smiled gleefully as she slapped a ladleful onto my already full bowl. To my surprise it tasted like cole-slaw, and I began to think of Ben's kosher deli, and I fantasised about that as I finished my cleansing bowl.

I was the 226th member of the congregation to be called up to receive my Buddha-pass. Inside the card was my picture with my new "Buddhist name" (法名), Guang An - Vast Peace (广安). I sat on a cushioned bench for kneeling (kneeler), waiting for the last person to be called. After an hour or so, we all turned around on our kneelers to face the head-monk of the temple, and the leader of this afternoon's sermon.

The sermon began simply, with some chanting of Buddhist mantras in Chinese and the soft banging of drums, cymbals, and triangles. Then he told us to kneel by yelling out the Chinese word for "pray", bai (pronounced: buy, 拜), then moments afterwards commanding us to rise, qi (chee, 起).

I stood there bai-ing and qi-ing for about twenty minutes straight. When it was all over, he told us to bai. We bai-ed as the monk instructed us in the tenants of Buddhism. At the end of his speech he asked if everyone understood. The tired-of-kneeling Chinese converts all proclaimed in unanimous chorus "We understand." To which the monk replied "Good, now repeat it to me." The ones who were paying attention tried to repeat it best they could, from the rest you could hear a collective muted grumble.

While we were still kneeling, it began to rain. There were those who were seeking refuge that sought refuge under nearby umbrellas and cloisters. The unhalting rain prevented the ceremony from going on any further, and Matt and I left with our Buddhist Convert Confirmation Certificate.

So I converted to Buddhism to save a little money - think of all the Hanukkah gelt I'd save if all I ate was Chinese cole-slaw.

I sing, you sing, we all sing

The memory of that day was a ginseng root. It began at the top and finished with the roots - nebulous and chaotic.

In order to start a successful independent tea business, we figured it would be best to get spices and ingredients directly from the growers themselves - that way we can make better deals and ensure the quality of their product.

Up in Changbaixian, Liu Baiguo was that grower. The owner of a local Chinese-medicine shop (中药房), recommended Mr. Liu as his farm was the closest to the city, but produced some of the best ginseng. Liu walked into the shop and asked for the ones who were looking for him. He seemed genuinely excited to be able to show his roots to two bright-eyed American entrepreneurs.

He led us out of the shop, out of the marketplace, and into his car - a police car that he got to keep after his work as a chinese border customs official. At his fields, he told us everything he knew about ginseng, how he inherited his fields, how there are 92 workers working for him, how he plants trees on the plots where the ginseng is picked because the roots use up all the nutrients.

This year's business wasn't exceptional because of the economic crisis, but "One day," Liu said, his eyes gazing at the open road ahead of him, imagining it as his own personal runway, "ginseng is going to buy me an airplane."

Liu dropped us off at the Violet Fashionable Hotel and asked if we had dinner plans. We said no, and he said he'd pick us up in an hour to take us out.

If you must know one thing about northwestern Chinese people, dongbei ren (东北人), know this: they are the warmest, most welcoming people in China, and when they ask you to drink with them, you better drink with them, and jeez can these guys drink.

We ordered four dishes at the restaurant:

1. Some kind of fish in a pollution sauce
2. Chicken livers in a spicy sauce
3. Fried crawfish
4. Probably some vegetable, I forgot this one.

and then he busts out the rice wine - brewed by the devil himself, Baijiu (白酒) is an awful drink.

The bus back to Baishanshi left at 7 in the morning, and we didn't want to get too drunk because it would be hard to wake up... like Liu cared at all about that. The lowly ginseng farmer runs out to his squad car, rustles around in the back, and within seconds emerges from the back, holding a prized bottle of Baijiu, cradling it like a prized chalice from which, in due time, we will quaff.

The Baijiu itself is about 120 proof; we each had 3 small glasses of this fire-broth. He yells out to the waitress in a medieval tone to bring us 6 beers - each beer is about the 24oz, the size of 2 longneck ISB bottles. This would not bode well for tomorrows journey.

Needless to say, we got pretty shwasted wasted hammered blasted plastered. At one point, his wife joined us because Liu wanted her to meet his newest business partners. Up in dongbei, the wild wild northeast, women know how to drink too. Liu had to leave because he was already feeling a bit sick, so she told us that she would "take [her] husband's place, and drink for him." Liu, I think thats cheating, but I love you, so it's cool.

We ended up in the public square, chilling out, drinking more beer - I can honestly say I lost track by this point - and doing more chilling. In order to avoid drinking any more, I suggested we get some ice cream. Matt ran off to the stand and bought them before Liu could pay. He's a big guy and insisted on buying ice cream for his new partners, I physically had to push this man back to his seat to let us pay for something on this ridiculous adventure.

At some point it started raining, and I looked around and the square was empty. We should have been sensible and gone home with the rest of the Changbaixian-ers, but we didn't. Instead we rented these little putt-putt electric go-karts so we could ride them around the empty square. Matt and I took turns chasing Mr. and Mrs. Liu around in our wannabe Cozy Coupes (I swear thats what these things looked like), then eventually got Liu to drive us back to the hotel.

We woke up, drunk, just in time to catch one of the most uncomfortable busses I've ever taken.

Until next time, Liu, you crazy ginseng farming sonuvabitch.

Please take me to the Violet Fashionable Hotel

After arriving in Changbaixian the driver said he would take us to a relatively cheap hotel that he knew. It was called 紫羅蘭時尚賓館, the Violet Fashionable Hotel. The violet that was this hotel's namesake was the Violet, the flower, but they used their powerful mastery of English to produce a hotel that took "Violet Fashionable" to a whole new level.

Ladies and gentlemen of the western world, I am so grateful to be able to share this with you today. Let's give our guest a warm welcome, the Violet Fashionable Hotel! (clap clap clap, time for a montage!)

I'm still not sure if we walked into a sex-hotel, or the manager thought that covering everything in cheap purple silky fabric would make the hotel that much more appealing to guests.

We checked in for 2 nights at about 20USD per night.

The next day was spent walking along the Yalu river, taking pictures of the North Korean city that faces china, Hyesan (惠山). This section of North Korea, on the surface, did not seem as terrible as most western media would make it out to be.

First of all, they have this awesome banner.

And they also have houses with plants and easy access to water.

Splashing around in the water, North Korean kids are just being kids.

Of course, this is in the summer and the weather is nice - in the winter these people probably have minimal amounts of electricity or heating and pray [to the great leader Kim Il Sung] that this year's summer comes early.

We walked along the embankment for a couple of hours, snapping pictures, hoping that nobody saw us or no CCTV surveillance cameras recorded us. At one point, we noticed that there wasn't much left that was photo-worthy, so we started looking for cabs to take us back to the city-center. Amazingly enough, a man in a non-cab car pulled up next to us and started speaking to us. Mostly he was waving his hands because he, I assume, assumed that we didn't speak any Chinese. I told him that we needed a ride back and was wondering if he was a cab or if he would take us back. He told us that we weren't allowed to take pictures.

The man was a local border-police who was driving in an unmarked car. He asked to see our pictures to make sure none of them were of NK. I pretended not to know what he was saying, and so he went over to Matt to check his pictures. Matt told him that we were just strolling along with our cameras, but not taking any pictures. He popped open the empty CF card slot so he could put in the card with his "pictures" in it. He scrolled through pictures of his trip to Burma with a couple of friends from a few years ago.

Rewind. Matt sees the officer's uniform, and, like Harry-MOTHERFUCKING-Houdini, slides the card out and slips it into his pocket, while he prepares to take the fake card out of his other pocket.

The cop believes Matt's story and neglects to check my camera, thank Confucius. He offers us a ride back and asks us where we're staying.

"Could you take us back to the Masturbation Hotel?" I say with a straight face.

"Wait no, that's not it... I think it's called the Violet hotel." Says Matt.

"Oh, I think I know the place, I'll take you there," the cop answers.

CHINESE LESSON TIME!!

好好学习天天向上！

Let's break it down one at a time:

1. The hotel's name is "Zi Luo Lan". In traditional characters, it looks like this.
2. The character "Luo" looks very similar to the character "Wei."
3. I did not know how to say the character for "Lan."
4. The word "Zi wei" means "to masturbate."

Next time I'm in Changbai, I think a room for one at the Violet Fashionable Hotel might be more appropriate.

-OR-

Final pithy one-liners from Kim Gemme:

For North Koreans, visiting the Violet Fashionable Hotel would be a dream cum true.

It's going to be hard to forget my stay at the Masturbation Hotel.

I'll always remember those [sch]long nights at the Violet Fashionable Hotel.

The Winter-Melon Eater

We hired a cab driver to take us to Changbaixian(长白县） from Baishanshi (白山市). He was a bit reluctant at first to accept the 400RMB (58.52USD) offer for the 4 hour ride, but he took it.

About 2-hours in, our driver stopped the car to a screeching-halt outside of a winter melon (冬瓜） stand. This is how the exchange went down:

Driver: I want to buy your melons.

Farmer: Each melon is 5 dollars.

Driver: nooooo.

He bargained it down and was about to walk away with a bag full o' melons, but the farmers wouldn't take his money. 100 dollar bills are occasionally counterfeited and some places will place the bills under blacklight to assert whether or not it's genuine.

Needless to say, the gimp, hidden in the back of the fruit stand, did not have a blacklight reader and they rejected his money. Walking back to the car, driver yelled back at the farmers “你们没看过钱！” Translation: "You've never even seen money!"

It was quite a fruitless endeavor.