boooooks (for children)

Following some extended research on the Internet, I jotted down a few places around the city that I can take Declan (and Petra) to on the weekdays that will hopefully put more distance between him and the ever-entertaining TV. Today, it was to a small independent bookstore that's really a residential two-storied apartment converted into the first floor being the shop part that supports local artists/illustrators/children's book authors and the second floor being an open space to read and hold storytelling hours.

One of the best parts of having very young children is the renewed (and very relevant) interest I get to foster in children's books, especially the ones with fantastic illustrations. This little store that we went to today had so many great children's books. This is not always the case, as some people seem to think--judging from books I've stumbled across--that any bounded papers with scribbles or simply dumbed-down letters put together equals children's lit. Declan's childhood is too short and I am too elitist to linger over these, even though the international moves up to now have made quality English (and Chinese) books difficult to acquire without spending a fortune.

So today was a real treat, when after the crowded (the storekeeper said today was the most well-attended reading she's ever witnessed in her three years of working there) storytelling hour, the reader left her box of books there for parents and their respective kids to partake. Declan sat on my lap and listened attentively as I read out loud by his ear (it was really loud with all the kids). He only suspended his focus at the end of each storybook to run to the book box, returning the already-read book, and flipping through several more before picking out another book and running back to sit on my lap. Every single book he picked out was a winner--enjoyed by him, fun for me. I was so thankful that Petra could be held by my mom for a time to make that possible. With enough good books (and someone else to hold Petra), I could be content with reading books to Declan all day long.

There was one child who kept coming over to try to sit down by us and listen in on the story. I would have been fine with that; sadly, Declan wasn't. He grabbed the book away from the child and yelled, "No, mine! My book!" the two or three times the boy attempted to join us, shortly before the poor boy's mother yanked him away and hissed for him to stop misbehaving. (I felt so bad about that. I wanted to say something to the mom, but she seemed angry enough as it was. A part of me hoped she wasn't so harsh with her son due to embarrassment at having "troubled" us. Another part of me hoped that's the case so that it wasn't the usual way she treats her son. But then that would mean Declan and I were responsible for the boy being manhandled. Oy.)

I think I'm finally getting the hang of how to expose Declan to more Chinese while keeping his interest with his inherent love of reading. The key is to choose not-so-wordy Chinese children's books--read the words and quickly repeat the story behind the words in English, switching back and forth between the two languages depending on Declan's receptiveness. When he's more rested and willing to stay still, I would push my luck with going all Chinese. As his fidgeting increases, I increase my on-the-spot English translations so that sometimes we end up reading together for 20 minutes with pure English. Oh well, any kind of reading is good anyways. Detailed and beautiful illustrations help to prolong his patience, as I suspect he keeps himself occupied in examining the drawings while humoring his mother's at-times incoherent recitations.

There was this one book called "I really want to eat durian" (my translation) by a local author. I was doing a lot of on-the-spot Chinese-to-English translation while reading through it, and then at the end of the story, I discovered an English version in more compact layout at the back of the book. This version was almost word-for-word how I translated the story as Declan and I read along! It made me feel an affinity with the book...and I'm probably going to buy it the next time we visit the bookstore.

and what about now?

When the weather is this hot and muggy all day and night long, it really slows everything down. The few times when I decided to mind-over-matter, one or the other of the children would spike a temperature and vomit from the heat. Their less mature internal temperature monitors are just no match for this climate. I looked up the forecast for Haifa this past week; The highs are actually about five degrees lower than in Kaohsiung right now. Joke's on us for thinking we'd be escaping the Israeli summer by visiting Taiwan right about now. I went running in the best conditions the other day: It was low 90s, about 80% humidity, at 5:30pm. Best conditions for real compared with every other day so far.

Is it good to be back for a visit? I love the food. It's just ridiculously perfect to my taste. Little soy sauce-marinated raw clams, meat sauce over the chewiest white rice, perfectly firm noodles in rich beef stock, real spinach. Etc, etc, etc....

But it's not real life, where I have friends to call up and hang out with (hence why living in Israel doesn't really feel like real life either), where I know the public amenities of the city and the bus routes to get there... This is my home but it's still pretty lonely, which makes it more lonely in a way.

I don't mean to be complaining again. I do love that there are these new bike paths and parks along the paths that are perfect for running as well, that go all the way to the harbor or Lotus Lake or Cheng Ching Lake or the Love River Promenade... If I didn't have children who need me to hold them (literally) within 30 minutes to an hour's break, I think I would just run all night, every night, enjoying seeing the many little shops, neighborhoods, and street names that make me feel a part of this land. I love that there're large shopping centers like Costco, Carrefour, Dollars, Geant, which have everything one could desire. Such a nice change from the many places I must trek to for each individual item in Israel.

After much searching, I discovered a children's library in a park yesterday. My heart almost melted into a happy goo in my thoracic cavity when I spotted Declan--shortly after I'd made the executive decision for us to leave due to his rowdiness in the reading room--sitting on a library bench with some books he'd selected from a nearby bookshelf, quietly flipping through the pages. When I told him we'll take some of the books to read at home, he got up and methodically put the rest of the books back onto the bookshelf without my prompting. All this was after our lunch a few blocks away at 牛乳大王, a restaurant I'd eaten at a few times myself as a child (read: very old establishment). There're cow statues in the restaurant. During the wait for our food, Declan ran to each of the statues and loudly counted the number of nipples after pointing at their giant sculpted udders and saying "Num num!" (Our term for breastfeeding.)

I love being able to read and understand everything everywhere I go, and comprehend everyone (as I eavesdrop blissfully and without any shame on random conversations). I love being able to strike up a conversation with strangers and discuss the many options with cashiers without feeling like a nonlocal-language-speaking jerk.  I love that Declan's starting to say Chinese phrases every now and then, and is finally becoming open/patient enough to continue sitting with me as I read books with him in Chinese.

And there's still a few places I want to show Declan, like the Science Museum, the Eslite headquarter in Kaohsiung, and the indoor gym at Central Park. There's always a bit of a lethargic "Now what?" when we arrive at a new place, even if the place is technically home. It is a sad potential fact that the same wish I've felt several times when we'd just came back--that I wish we could have stayed in Israel to continue the routine we'd set there--would resurface about Taiwan when we're due to leave again.

these are some of the usual things

This past Monday, Daniel and I spent the whole day tying up loose ends, packing up the apartment we are vacating forever, and sweeping/cleaning before the original tenants return. I was looking at pictures just two days later (yesterday) of our time this past year in Israel, and already feeling nostalgia for that ugly orangish-yellow couch that was the dominant furniture in our living room. I slept on that couch with Petra on my chest for the night through the newborn days. That kind of time logged with postnatal hormone inevitably creates a nostalgic bond.

Now we're back in the land of warm sauna-like humidity and delicious dumplings. Jet lag means that the kids and the parents all go to bed around 1am and wake around noon. Except I went to bed "last night" around 3am because of a running book by Scott Jurek. Petra's fever, which developed on the flight between Israel and Hong Kong, finally seems to have broken last night... She was required by quarantine guidelines to visit a doctor before 24 hours upon arrival to make sure that we didn't carry the Middle East Respiratory Syndrome into the country. They gave her a suppository to bring down her fever. Now she's at the apartment complex swimming pool.

It's been kind of a crazy two or three days. I should go join them at the pool now. I hear Petra crying.

language obstacle

There is something a bit demoralizing about really wanting to read an interesting-looking book but being totally unable to comprehend anything about it even as I flip the pages and admire the typography and book binding, the illustrations and the random letters I can pronounce individually. Such is my experience every single time I walk past a bookstore here. What was once a momentary burst of joy when I go walking through shopping malls had become a sad, sad reminder that I am in a foreign land and am just as good as, intellectually-speaking, an illiterate toddler or very drunk man.

My birthdays always end with me in a deep funk. I'm not upset at becoming one year older. I'm upset at how childish I still remain apart from my physical state. I am going to try cleaning up the living room to try to snap out of this negative paralysis before Petra wakes up from her nap, during which she is emitting the saddest cries and whimpers every now and then while still remaining asleep. What cruel incubus is bothering her? Maybe flipping through cloth books of animal pictures and frustratingly pondering what it all means?

(half) birthdays

My birthday this year coincides with Tisha B'Av, which is a day of fasting for Jews commemorating the destruction of the First and Second Temple as well as other Jewish tragedies, such as the expulsion of all Jews from Spain in the 1400s. It is considered "the saddest day in Jewish history." The Books of Lamentation and Job are read on this day. Go me!

I guess inviting Jewish friends to feast with me tomorrow is out of the question... I'm actually wondering if I could ask Daniel to babysit the kids so I could have extra time to clean the bathrooms and sweep/mop the floors. That would be nice, like when I mopped the floor for the first time since we arrived in Israel with a new mop on Christmas Day. The floor's really been bugging me but I haven't had a chance to deal with it.

Not to be outdone, Petra turned half a year old today. *Applause* For her birthday trick, she has added rolling onto her back from a planking position by flinging her big head backwards in conjunction with a jaunty swing of her chubby thighs. We are entering a new phase in our relationship--one is which Mommy can no longer do chores or be in any other room while Petra's napping/sleeping besides right next to the bed for fear of Daughter crawling to the edge of the bed and plummeting to the cold, hard floor.

Ah, so fun.

I'm learning all sorts of skills. Try to keep up, Mom!

small victories in the food category

Huzzah! On this lazy Saturday (late) afternoon, upon waking up from a twilight zone-ish Carlsberg-induced nap (let this be a lesson never to drink alcohol in the afternoon ever again unless childcare for the rest of the day is provided for), I whipped up a really fast dinner for the family. No longer owning a bread machine since Pittsburgh or knowing where to buy yeast since...a long time ago, I have become a stalker for easy-peasy pizza dough recipes.

This one may be the definitive recipe for my family's homemade pizzas from now on a la tonight's experience. All I did was mix one cup of self-raising flour (even skipping the baking powder and cornmeal part of the recipe) with 3/4 cup of Greek yogurt, and voila--not even needing to refrigerate the dough for 30 minutes according to a previously easy yeast-free recipe that I have now misplaced anyway. While the dough was spread out and being pre-baked on top of a coconut oiled cookie sheet, I chopped up tomatoes and garlic, salted and sugared the mixture, and made tomato sauce. After 10 minutes in the oven, I spread the dough surface with a layer of cheese, then the sauce, then another layer of cheese, then chopped up ham slices, pineapple chunks, and orange pepper bits. Bake for another 10 minutes and so, and even the pickiest eater in the center of the world (Declan) ate a whole slice while saying every now and then between bites, "Mmm, good. Mama made it." Hawaiian pizza is surprisingly hard to find everywhere I've been, even in the States, so it's great to be able to make it at home and with all fresh ingredients to boot.

If it seems that I am over-the-top proud of this pizza, a simple Italian peasant food, it's because it's really a culmination--a symbol!--of how far I've come in finally furrowing a cost-efficient, organic, good-quality, non-kosher containing path into the puzzling realm that had been grocery shopping in Israel.  For a time, I was a weekly customer of an organic CSA farm that delivers a week's worth of produce right up to my door. This had been an invaluable help when I was living on the third apartment level sans elevator in the middle of the cruel Middle Eastern summer, heavily pregnant with Petra. Vegetables in the supermarkets are notoriously high in pesticide level due to some ridiculous kashrut logic, are for the most part under- or over-ripe, and are extremely overpriced compared with their counterparts at the shuk. However, the shuk is two bus rides away, and given our circumstances, not a sustainable source for my mental welfare.

The benefit of the CSA, then, was that good-quality organic ingredients basically comes to my doorstep for the fairly low cost of 130 shekels per week. The downside is that the delivery is often filled with produce that I don't really know how to cook with or even like to eat. It's great that the box got me into the habit of Israeli salad-eating, but that's mainly due to my cluelessness on how else to get rid of such an influx of tomatoes, cucumbers, and parsley every damn week. These three things, you would find, are Israeli staples the way ginger/garlic, soy sauce, and green onions are expected in Chinese cooking. And rendering my American-raised husband and toddler son de facto vegetarians seem a bit mean. I personally started craving bacon and pork just because being told I can't have something makes it oh so desirable.

After about 11 months of making do, I finally took advantage of the facts that (1) Declan being in gan means I don't need to herd an at-times uncooperative and motion-sickness prone toddler with me on bus rides and (2) Petra is still fairly content to be just looking around as I wear her about town to explore the rumors of cheaper organic produce and markets that sell pork and seafood that goes beyond just salmon and tuna. I got lost several times, made more money errors, was cowed by less-than-friendly vendors who clearly scorn non-Hebrew/Russian/Arabic speakers... and survived!

You have no idea how happy I am to be roasting some bacon in Israel

Now I get my organic produce from a woman-farmer named Ilana who has a Friday produce stand in the mall by Merkaz HaCarmel's Cinemathique. For the same load and with better quality, I pay 1/3 the price of those at an organic store that I used to frequent. The Grand Canyon (a little Hebrew pun; "Kenyon" in Hebrew means "mall") stocks other staples such as coconut oil for more decent prices than I'd been paying as well. My kosher lamb and beef source is an Arab butcher whose store is located in Hadar, right by the staircase that leads down to Wadi Nisnas and close to the children's library where I can check out five books per visit for Declan. My source for bacon, ham, mussels, shrimp, and other nonkosher meat items which I haven't eaten or even seen for the last 11 months while in Israel is a Russian supermarket also in Hadar. No longer will Daniel and I need to gorge ourselves on pork during his conference travels to Italy--hooray!

It's really nice that, in Israel, organic produce cost about the same as conventionally farmed produce. So why not eat organic?  Especially when one has young children whose bodies are even more sensitive to chemicals, not to mention the effects on soil and water quality, etc. The problem has been that conventional farmed produce is still more commonly sold here, but now that I know where I can go, it's worth the needing to ride on various buses and scheduling shopping on separate days of the week. In the end, I also save a lot more money. Cost of living here is, whew, so high.

No wonder when, as a tourist four years ago, I asked Daniel's childhood friend, Mark, what he misses most about the US since he made aliyah three (at that time) years ago, he said, "Places like Target and Costco...being able to get what I need just by going to ONE place." At the time, I thought that sentiment was "so American", since Taiwan has a similar culture as what tourist-me had observed in Israel--lots of little shops and open-air/narrow-alleyed marketplaces. Then again, even in Taiwan, I wasn't the one providing for the day-to-day needs of the family while trying to make our income stretch for as far as it can go. One of those things one must live to understand.

enough with the labels

Just before Daniel and I went to bed for the night at the end of his 29th birthday, we read about the Boeing 777 that crashed at SFO. I admit that the most vital information that I instinctually sought first were: Where was the plane from? Oh, from Seoul? Any Taiwan citizens on board that were taking the flight as a transfer?

Basically, I cared first and foremost whether any Taiwanese people/family were affected. Once my fears were assuaged, my net of concern widened to general casualty, cause of crash, history of mechanical defect, etc.

I do not admit the above without some shame. This is worth remembering by actually writing down because it touches upon something that's been bothering my mind at its periphery even more acutely since I started studying the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from ground zero (so to speak). Namely, the question of whether or not group identification, of which nationalism is one, is a good or bad thing. The report filed by a Taiwanese news source that I subscribe to via FB was followed by numerous comments roughly translated (sanitized) to: "Why should we care?"..."Those dead Chinese had it coming."... "Guess you can't rely on Korean products!"

What in the world? I'm so glad for the comments that rebuked such sentiments, that reminded all of us that we should care because they're PEOPLE. That we need to have more empathy because their families are grieving as we are taking it all in. At the same time, I can't believe we have to be reminded. Yes, I understand the prejudice and animosity Taiwanese people have towards mainland Chinese people. I am aware of the racial tension towards Koreans. But we are all just people in the end, and why can't we get past the cultural vendettas to this basic truth?

It would be foolish to dismiss nationalism as a necessary force for good just yet. It is the only thing holding some groups of people together and preventing civil wars. It is still in some ways a compelling force for community excellence that aims to bring honest-to-goodness and well-deserved acclaim for one's heritage. Perhaps it's one of those seemingly paradoxical forces of life, like predestination vs. free will,  state vs. federal power, true freedom through abstention of hedonism, etc. I've come upon the preachings of self-proclaimed Christs and Buddhas who say that any identification or loyalty for one's particular country, ethnicity, gender, spouse... is limiting to one's true capacity to love everyone and everything. I think that's stupid. But I find myself examining the details of their logic in between the smugness.

This is a ginormous topic for one blog entry, and there're so many things I'm still reflecting on regarding this matter. Just want to jot this down to remind myself to curb my inner racist, and study why I am this way. May God heal the seriously injured passengers as they recover in the hospital, and bring comfort to the loved ones of the two people who died. I read that there's also an infant on board. I hope she or he is spared any permanent harm.