Some things I learned in Kathmandu today.

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Things I did NOT learn: How to make this map make sense.

1. As a part of my position at Next Generation Nepal I will attend regular meetings with the UN. (!!!) For a gal like me who plans to one day work for UNESCO, this is a dream come true.

2. This city is four years overdue for an earthquake that is predicted to kill about 25% of the population. I come from a city that has its own fears about the “BigOne” but the idea of 200,000 casualties kind of blows my mind. My new boss strongly suggested that I prepare a “go bag,” try to get a room in a UN-worker certified flat and register myself with the Canadian embassy. I can’t say I am not a bit shaken by all of this. Ha! No pun intended. *adjusts collar*

3. There are elections called for March, and it is predicted that they will spur massive strikes, protests and violence in the streets. Nepal is a politically unstable nation, and I guess all of the talk of Buddhism, the tinkling prayer bells and the calls of “Namaste” make me forget the grim realities of a nascent democracy.

4. And finally, I learned that I had forgotten how much vagina and boob touching occurs during an Ayurvedic massage. Turns out it’s a lot.

Hours Away From Kathmandu...

A sign in the arrivals terminal of the Tribhuvan airport.

 I am sitting on yet another airplane and thinking about Kathmandu. All I have of my new home is a four-year old memory about how FULL ON it is. Granted, it is a different sort of madness than one finds in the large cities of India – there is this sort of atmospheric, smoky haze that covers everything, and while the traffic is every bit as terrifying and the smells just as pungent, there is also something different. More relaxed. Gentler. And infinitely more strange.

Over beers (and a victorious pub quiz) two nights ago, my friend Tanya recounted her experience driving in a taxi from the airport to Thamel, the main tourist area in Kathmandu. “We were weaving in and out of traffic, and then on the side of the road, there was a sadhu. A naked sadhu. I told Peter to look, and he said ‘what’s happening on my side of the road is too interesting to look away from.’” A naked sadhu covered in human ashes wasn’t the most interesting thing on the road - that should tell you something.

 I am excited to see – in an hour and 45 minutes (!!!!) – if my memory is building it up. If it is as magical and horrible and otherworldly as I remember it being. If it breaks my heart and builds me up the same way. Intrigues and repulses me. Reminds me that the world is a bizarre place beyond all comprehension. And if it still has really wonderful pomegranate juice.

I’ll let you know in a few hours.

Violet Dear

***Author's note - I am now checked into my guesthouse, have eaten momos and drank 2 cups of Nepali chai. And yes, Kathmandu is all of those things. More to come soon - VD

Background (Noise): How I Learned to Stop Hiding and Love the Dark

Kali knows a thing or two about re-birth through death.

In my mid twenties I was an “Adult” with a capital A. Sure, I still had a framed poster of Hedwig and the Angry Inch on my living room wall (since relegated to the bathroom) and when my friends came over to stay on weekends we got absolutely wrecked, but I had a steady 9-5 job, a beautiful apartment in the West End and a fat stack of RRSPs accumulating interest in the bank (or wherever they are).

I also didn’t like myself very much. Worse, I had no idea that I didn’t like myself very much. That combination is dangerous.

I was caught in this strange limbo in which I attempted to show everyone, including my loving boyfriend, just how normal I was. Just how well adjusted and Adult-y and capable and good. I stifled the part of personality that loves dark and macabre things in order to prove that I was not fucked up IN ANY WAY AT ALL. See, I have always loved horror movies and graveyards and scary stories and since childhood I have nurtured a fucked up fascination with death. But in my mind, if I was somehow bad (too brash, too loud, too manipulative, too much ME) then this stuff was contributing to the badness. So it got the kibosh.

Not too many people know this, but while I was backpacking Asia and living in India a few years ago I was also being bullied and stalked online. I filed police reports and cried and lived my life in a kind of quiet desperation, just wanting it to stop. The worst part of it all was that the person who was harassing me seemed to know that I had a molten hot core of self-hate and they knew EXACTLY how to fan those flames. I slid into a world of self doubt and sickly nausea. I would pick at my raw scabs and re-read the awful things that this person sent to me and I would envelop myself in a blanket of shame. I made choices and decisions in my personal life that echoed the swamp of negativity in my brain. I lived in a weird hell.

And my weird hell was constantly being surveilled online. Every blog post I wrote was written with a keen sense of self censorship as I attempted to prove to the harasser – and, by proxy, to myself - that I was good. I left so, so many things out, afraid to admit them even to myself. It was a sick loop. The horrible things they said to me reinforced every fear I had ever secretly held about my perceived inner wretchedness.

I went to talk to a counselor about it last year, and she looked at me in horror as I recounted the entire saga and then admitted that I still re-read the horrible things that the harasser sent to me. She wrinkled her nose and spat out the words, “Well, that’s stupid. You just don’t do that anymore.”

This advice should not have worked. At the time, the counselor's harsh recriminations sent me reeling from her office and I should have landed in the arms of some liquor, the wrong boy and my email archives to worry at some old wounds - but somehow it worked. Since that day eighteen months ago I have not once looked at anything the harasser has sent me. It feels amazing.

Shortly after this breakthrough I started studying Buddhism in earnest and I began to cultivate self-compassion. I forgave myself for all of the pain I have caused others in the past (and started to work on forgiving myself). The old unquestioned notion that I was a “bad person” began to fade away.

And now here is the weird thing. As I work on this monumental task of loving and forgiving myself, all of the sudden I realize that as long as my actions are compassionate and kind, it doesn’t matter whether I love Bauhaus, Dario Argento and grave etchings. Whether I get jazzed about memento mori and Victorian hair sculpture and human skulls. I can still be “good.” I am still good. In fact, I think I am better for it. One of my favourite things about Buddhism is that it actively encourages us to think about death, to prepare for it and to realize that it is nothing to fear.

There is a bittersweet irony in the fact that it took me embracing the dark side of my personality to get to the light. Stifling the weirdo macabre parts of my brain in order to be sweet was like going to war for peace (or fucking for celibacy). Redundant.

This was meant to be a post about my walking tour through Singapore’s Chinatown, and I still want to write about that – but for now I think that this should stand on it’s own. I’m glad I wrote about it, and I promise it will make sense after my next post. The paper effigies, dead women and temples of Chinatown loosened some things in my brain - and made me more ready for the next eight months. To be continued....

Contemplation, forgiveness and Tiger Beer -
Violet Dear

                                      

See! I'm not alone. She is my hero. :)

Turbulence Over the Pacific

Me and my neck pillow, about to board in Vancouver

I left. Throughout my going-away party (which was lovely, thank you) and the final day of packing mayhem and even as I said goodbye to some people to whom it was really hard to say goodbye (hey artist boy, I’m looking at you), I had doubts. Doubts that I would actually do it. But I left. I am gone.

Well I’m kind of in limbo, actually. I am on an airplane. I will actually post this from the safe and cozy confines of the spare bedroom at my friend Tanya’s home in Singapore, but as I write this I am seated in seat 51A of Air Canada flight 7 from YVR to HKG. I have less than an hour in Hong Kong – not enough time for dim sum – and then onwards to the town I once dubbed “The Big Uneasy.”

Once I land at SIN I have been instructed to pick up a bottle of JB Blended Scotch for Tanya and her man Peter – spirits are four times more expensive in Singapore than in Canada, and her welcome email included the lines, “If you exit the passengers-only area without a duty- free bag, we will not know you. In fact, we may even alert security that you’re a known chewing gum smuggler.” I will gladly oblige. And maybe even sneak a nip for myself. Violet Dear loves her vodka, yes – but she also loves her scotch. 

Maps. They don't love you like I love you.

I’m getting ahead of myself with thoughts of scotch. Let’s not forget that presently I am on hour nine of a thirteen hour flight, and I am starting to get into the “bored-child” stage of long distance travel. I want to whine and stamp my feet and pout. I’m listening to Tom Waits. I have watched three movies (The Muppets, Kill Bill 1 and The Dark Knight Rises). I have eaten two terrible meals and drank two cokes. I read the latest Vanity Fair and the new Chuck Pahlaniuk (why did I bother?). Enough already.

These next three days are a kind of limbo in and of themselves. A tropical vacation before the real work begins – the dreaded month of silence and meditation. I am scared of Kopan monastery in a nerve-wracking way, in the same way that the anticipation of a first kiss can tangle your stomach and play games with your head. I know that it is going to be wonderful and rewarding and meaningful, but the lead up is a sort of torture. A strange and scary torture.

I described this to my Dharma teacher last week and she smiled her serene 80 year-old Buddhist smile and said, “well, that’s because you like to be in control. You will need to give up some of that control when you walk through the gates of the monastery.” She’s right.

Right now the plane is going through patch after patch of turbulence. It matches my mood and my Tom Waits-fuelled dreams of scotch. I have always liked turbulence, which my friends and family find strange (sister, I wish that was the only thing they found strange) but I find it comforting. Maybe it has to do with the fact that all control over my situation is completely and forcibly removed from my hands when the aircraft shudders and shakes – there is literally nothing I can do but close my eyes and snuggle into my seat and ride it out. I find it calming.

Shit, did I just accidentally write my way into some kind of metaphorical lesson? I swear that it happened by accident, but it seems fortuitous and I’ll take it where I can get it. So listen here, see: the only way I am going to enjoy the next three days is if I take a deep breath and snuggle into the experience and stop trying to control shit and jump ahead into the future, whether that future is as near as Thursday when I check into Kopan or June 15^th when I return to Vancouver. Or, for that matter, three hours from now when I get off of this fucking plane.

So shut up, Dear. Flag a flight attendant, have a scotch and get comfortable. Enjoy the bumps. Afterall, you can’t control them – and that is fucking wonderful.

Living in the Before

Walking toward the new and the strange.

Sometimes I manufacture a brand new set of circumstances that is guaranteed to shock my life into a dramatic change. Circumstances that will make things "never the same again" and will define all of the time that precedes it as "BEFORE." For other people, these are things like getting married, or deciding to have a baby. For me, it's moving to Nepal and leaving everyone and everything I care about behind (except my hair straightener. I will be bringing that).

I often don't have any notice or control over when these moments are about to happen - things like accidents or deaths or job loss sneak up behind me and catch me by surprise,  so it is a strange feeling indeed to know in advance that everything is about to get weird.

Right now I am sitting on a precipice and my toes are dangling just over the edge of big scary unknown. And while I know that in the past, these seemingly dramatic changes eventually mellow out and become a part of the tapestry of random shit that makes up who I am, it's a bit disconcerting to be able to see that EVERYTHING IS ABOUT TO GET DIFFERENT. And to not know exactly how that will look,  just that I won't ever be the same. It's also a bit crazy-making. While I am completely and totally not ready - financially, physically or emotionally - in some ways I am raring to go. I want to get into it. I am sick of the "before." I want the "during."

First, a few days in Singapore to eat and hang out with my pal Tanya, and then on to Kuala Lumpur for one night only. I have only a few hours in the afternoon, so of course I will be spending those hours eating - I am going to take a street food tasting tour.

When I arrive in Kathmandu, I start with a month in a monastery where I will study Dharma and be silent and meditate and detach and fumble my way toward enlightenment. This stay is bound to tighten - or pry loose - some screws in my head. And then 6 months working with children who have nothing - literally nothing - but who are well behaved, funny and sweet. I have a lot to learn from them.

I will not be the same person at all when I am done. It's exciting. And terrifying.

AND OK ONE MORE THING - I promise that this is the last "before" post. The rest will be "during." And maybe even some "after."

See you in Singapore -
xoxoViolet Dear

We sail tonight (or Sunday night) for Singapore....

"And So I'll Do It" - Looking Ahead to the Beauty

Admittedly, things have been a little doom and gloom around here over the past week. Between some pretty serious Joy Division-fuelled moping and a spell of rehashing the past, I think I have been giving the impression to you - and myself - that I am somewhere on the scale between 'apprehensive' and 'filled with dread'  about my upcoming move.

In reality, you all know how much I love Nepal and how much I love getting out of my comfort zone and into the strange. Last night after drinking a bourbon cocktail (or two) I walked down East 11th and started giggling like a mad woman, thinking about all of the wonderful moments ahead of me. I was simply giddy imagining my next eight months and relishing the promise of things I will experience on a daily basis.

I will eat all of them. ALL OF THEM.

Things like walking through the streets of Thamel and being able to buy big frothy glasses of fresh pomegranate juice made fresh on the side of the road for about 25 cents a glass, a price that shouldn't even cover the cost of the labour to seed the thing, but it does and it is wonderful.

Like the little shops that line the labyrinthine streets near Boudha that waft the smell of temple incense and blast recordings of Om Mani Padme Hum in an attempt to sell relics to tourists and how this creates an atmosphere that is equal parts ethereal and ersatz.

Like the path of tealight candles that line the streets of Thamel during electrical black-outs and that lead you down alleys and up stairs and into bars where Tibetan coverbands play classic rock and reggae as you lounge on cushions on the floor and smoke shisha and drink warm lager from 750 mL bottles. 

This is the best photo of children I have ever taken. They're all perfect.

Like the frantic, joyful interactions with children as they run from their homes and schools to ask you questions about your parentage, marital status, income, age and ethnicity, and the hugs and kisses they shower upon you as they treat you like a human junglegym.

Like the strange shiver-y feeling that creeps up my spine when I confront thousands-year old statues and deities in courtyards between clotheslines and parked motorcycles.

Like the taste of mango pickle and momos and lassi and thukpa and butter tea and dahl bhaat and hippie food from Freak Street and tulsi tea and raita and cornbread and goat curry and yak cheese (ok, maybe not that last one).

And like the sheer fucking joy of seeing guys like this on a daily basis:

Sir. You look fucking fabulous.

 So, ok. I'm kind of excited. I know I will be cold and homesick and at times lonely and ALWAYS craving poutine, but this isn't just the "best thing for me" or "the right thing to do." It's what I want to do. It's really, really what I want to do.

And so I'll do it.

The what, the real, the check (the wank).

Some days, like today, I want to take a deep breath and pause and have time stop for a few minutes. Or days. Or maybe a year.

I leave for Nepal in 2 weeks, and I am fully aware that my melodramatic panic is:
 a) a story I'm making up in my own head
 and
 b) an incredibly self indulgent wank
 but that doesn't stop me from laying in bed and listening to Joy Division, now does it?

Some of the panic is in earnest - I still do have a to-do list that is quite daunting (grad school applications, anyone?) but for the most part things are under control. I gave up my apartment last month, I have the required documents and shots and emergency malaria meds.... but something feels unhinged. And when I say something, I mean me.

In my rush to graduate and then secure the perfect position in Nepal and then deal with a series of dramas (ok, and real dramas too) I may have forgotten to do the most important part of travel - the reality check.

The reality check that in 2 weeks I leave Canada for the developing world.

The reality check that in 2 weeks I will once again see dying dogs on the side of the road.

The reality check that in 2 weeks I will once again see dying children on the side of the road.

The reality check that I'm doing this alone for the first time and I'm scared.

That said, I am fine. And I will be fine. It's just that it's all starting to sink in. These plans that I made in June - what was then a thinly veiled excuse to get away from a particularly toxic relationship - are becoming a reality. And realities are pricks. They need checks - those fuckers will run roughshod over you if left unfettered.

So I am trying to feel it, to imagine it and to let it sink in. 2 weeks. Breathe. 2 weeks. Breathe.

Now if only Ian Curtis could've taken that same advice....

Travel is a hell of a drug - Moving to Kathmandu

 

Sarita and me in Pokhara, Nepal 2009

Well, I suppose I should start by sheepishly saying hi. I mean, it's been over a year. I'm not sure if you missed me, but I sure as hell did. I've spent the last 2.5 years since I returned to Vancouver completing a long overdue BA in Communication and Dialogue, and now that I am all degree-ed I am ready to go again. Y'know. Into the far - to Nepal.

Sure, in the last few years I have taken trips to Peru and to China, but nothing quite as monumental as the trip through Asia and Australia that many of you accompanied me on 4 years ago. I returned to Vancouver on November 22, 2009. And then everything changed.

Ok, so first things first. I know he was a big reader favourite, but S and I broke up shortly after our trip to Peru. This has been both incredibly liberating and heartshatteringly devastating - sometimes at the same time. I also ended a few very, very close friendships this year, and all of these losses were (and are) painful, but also extremely humbling. I learned a lot, and man, the world is a vast place - sometimes people are in your life for exactly the amount of time that they are meant to be there for.  Which sucks, but is, like, a big adult-y sentiment so I will stick with it. ;)

Second. I am a Buddhist. Weird, right? The sputtering, vitriolic, brash little thing you once knew is now a much calmer, sputtering, vitriolic, brash little thing. Less vitriol, more loving kindness - or so is the goal. I decided to take refuge in Buddhism last year when EVERYTHING in my life fell apart and I was in a dark place - meditation, compassion and kindness were quite literally the only things that got me through an incredibly shitty time. But don't worry, my friends call me "the foul mouthed Buddhist" - I'm still a fuckin' piece of work. 

Third. I am moving to my beloved Kathmandu in three weeks. Surprise! I will be working for an NGO called Next Generation Nepal for 8 months, acting as their Ethical Tourism Advisor and creating a branding and awareness campaign aimed at backpackers that works to end the trafficking of children. I discovered NGN when I read the New York Times bestseller "Little Princes." I knew that I was needed, hell, if I was Catholic and all nun-y I would say I was 'called.' I sent them a funny, sweet and bizarre cover letter that waxed poetic about my love of heritage, ethical tourism, Gramsci, salads and travel. They hired me. ;)

So in 3.5 weeks I leave Vancouver again, this time for 8 months. I leave behind my poor cats (those little fuckers move around a lot), a boy I really like and my friends and family yet again. But, I move toward my career goals, all kinds of Buddhism shizz and many new people: Western expats and Nepalis; old hippies and little children; seekers, destroyers and probably a few drunks. I think we'll all get along well.

This evening I was buzzing with anxiety and my nerves were thrumming at a fever pitch and my head was swimming with financial woes and impending heartbreak, yet somehow writing this helped to assuage it all. The old sarcastic and cheeky Violet Dear is still here, but tonight I needed to write this - something a little less quippy and more matter of fact. More vulnerable.

I hope you still want to come on this journey with me. I am going to post weekly until I leave, and then I will be silent for a month as I enter the Kopan Monastery for an intense retreat. But after that, starting mid December? Oh, you just try to shut me up.

See you soon.
Deep breaths and dahl baht - Violet Dear

Scenes from a (Great) Wall

Violet Dear conquers China.

The Great Wall of China. When I was a little girl my grandfather would call me out of bed, no matter what the time, to show me noteworthy television programs about science, politics or travel. As a result I was probably the only 8 year old on my block to miss a day of school to watch the Berlin Wall come down.

National Geographic programs were my grandfather's favourite, and I was pulled out of many a night's slumber to watch sea creatures snake their way through technicolour coral reefs, intrepid mountaineers scale K2 and treasure hunters search through Egyptian tombs. Shows about outer space always fascinated me above all else, and I remember quivering with anticipation when I would hear Carl Sagan's voice inform me about the “billions and billions” of stars in the sky. Billions. Those are big numbers for a little girl.

It was around that time that I learned of the only man-made structure visible from space- something so colossal, so monumental that it marred the earth's surface like a jagged, winding scar – the Great Wall of China.

Slithering its way across the tops of breakneck mountains and rocky crags, the Wall was started around 200 BC and restored by the Ming Dynasty in the 15^th century as a defense mechanism against the barbarian Mongols (I have a little experience with them myself. My grandmother was Ukrainian and had more than a dash of Mongolian blood running through her veins, as evidenced by her epicanthal fold, and my mother and uncle get asked if they if half Asian or Inuit. Thanks Genghis!)

All the king's horses and all the king's men....

When I decided to come here to Beijing it was my one major thing on my “must-see” list, so I was shocked to find out that there are dozens of different Wall sites. Other than a few that have been repaired and maintained, most of the Wall is crumbling and wild, with many stretches far too dangerous to climb. My friend living here in China works for a motorbike sidecar tour company that specializes in trips to the Great Wall, and so he spends his days traversing its lesser known sections. He was excited to take me on a 3 day trip to visit a few that tourists rarely see.

Wild Wall at Jiankou.

We started our tour at Jiankou, a low point in a valley between two peaks. Once we stepped up from the forest trail and onto the Wall itself I was struck with the raw and ravaged beauty of the ancient stones, the sheer size of the structure snaking its way off into the hills on all sides of me. The Wall is less like one long continuous ribbon than a map of the London Underground - it branches off schizophrenically and winds across multiple mountain tops and connects with the ancient guard towers that dot the tops of the hills.

It's a hot mess.

Guard towers, the site of a lot of hot "Brokeback Great Wall" shenanigans, I'm sure.

Jiankou was a serious hike – we spent a lot of the day scrambling up the sides of destroyed towers, scuttling over rubble on hands and feet and climbing up staircases so steep they had to be ascended like a ladder. I'm not normally afraid of heights, but at some points the trail was so treacherous that my knees were shaking like little earthquakes and I thought I would lose my balance and tumble down the side of the mountain below.

Oh, that's ok. I think I'll take the elevator.

After four hours of trekking, and witnessing a fellow Canadian take a nasty spill down a destroyed staircase, we reached another low elevation point in the Wall where we could safely descend back down the mountain and head to the guesthouse. Jiankou was wild, eerie and wonderful.

Huanghuacheng at dusk. The prettiest ever.

The next day, after a motorbike trip though more mountains, we trekked up the side of another Wall site, this time to visit the slightly less ruinous ruins of Huanghuacheng. After a series of steeeeeeep climbs (too steep for stairs – that tells you something) we reached the plateau of the Wall and began the equally steep downhill walk. It was with knees bent and doing a strange little shuffle that I kind of bunnyhopped my way back down. The trademark Beijing haze in the sky couldn't ruin the view of this strange, haphazard Wall zigzagging its way into the distance.

"Stairway to Eternal Palace of Unending Happinesses" just never caught on.

By skipping the typical tourist Wall sites and heading into the wilder, less reconstructed sections we missed out on the throngs of domestic tourists fighting their way along the paths and managed to experience one of the world's most important landmarks in relative peace and quiet. Not quite like seeing it from a space shuttle, but I do think that my grandfather would have approved...

The author with her grandfather, eating ice cream and watching some Jacques Cousteau.

Back That Ass Up - A Sandwich in Beijing

The Hutong version of grilled cheese and tomato soup.

When I think of "Chinese Food." my brain does not veer in the direction of soup and sandwiches. Sure, no Vietnamese food porn session is complete without a thought or two about Banh Mi, and I have had a few good naan and curry wraps in India, but this is a very, very different part of the continent. This is China. And though my love of the sandwich is well documented, while I am in Beijing on a spur of the moment 2 week trip to visit some friends I was not expecting to enjoy any. Noodles and dumplings and Peking Duck - yes, but not meat and bread.

I was wrong.

Houyuan the dog encounters a donkey earlier in the day while at the Ming Tombs.

After a long, four day motorbike sidecar trip (my friend works for these guys, and so we have had full access to a bike) to the wild sections of the Great Wall spent hiking and eating hearty country food, we arrived back in Beijing's Dong Zhi Men Hutong at 3:30 pm with rumbling stomachs.

"Want to grab a sandwich?" my pal asked me.
"I only want to eat local food!" I shouted back over the roar of the engine. He smirked.
"Oh, it's local. You'll like it."

The proud and noble steed awaits his fate as my sandwich.

We arrived in front of the restaurant a few moments later, and once we headed inside I noticed the walls were covered with photos of livestock. But wait... there seemed to be a lot of pictures of ...donkeys? My friend finished ordering in a flurry of Chinese, pausing only to ask me, "do you want one or two?"

After the waitress had left, I looked at him, wide-eyed. "Are these donkey sandwiches?"
"Yes. They are. They're wonderful."
"Did you get this idea when we encountered those donkeys at the Ming Tombs?"
"Uh huh."
"You're a sick s.o.b."
"Uh huh."

(Now, Ms. Violet Dear has a confession to make. In Peru in May things got a little... weird. I ate a little more chicken than I intended. And when I got back to Vancouver for my birthday I decided to order one of my favourite dishes on the planet, duck confit. And since then.... well, let's just say I am on a pescetarian sabbatical, shall we?)

I decided to eat the donkey, Eeyore be damned.

Philadelphia can go fuck themselves.

The sandwiches arrived, kind of like pressed little panini inside kind of a dense oily ciabatta. Sauteed with the cubed donkey meat were peppers and chilis and onion, making the whole experience feel a little familiar.

"It's like a Philly Cheesesteak!" I exclaimed, happily taking another bite. The meat itself was like tender, slightly fattier beef. It was delicious.

The sandwiches are traditionally served with a garlic vinegar for dipping, and optional chili paste for slathering inside (I went for it, of course.) We ordered a few bowls of egg drop soup to go with the donkey, but the results were less than enjoyable.

A delicate broth of water and egg essence.
Sometimes I feel like China is fucking with me.

I'm pretty sure that the broth was simply the water used to poach the eggs, and there was no yolk to speak of. I valiantly tried a few spoonfuls and then decided that egg water soup was not for me.

The best part of the meal was the bill. For four sandwiches, two bowls of soup and a big 750 mL Yanjing beer, the total was 4 dollars. I gladly picked up the cheque.

So the next time you find yourself wandering around the hutongs of Beijing, make sure you make an ass of yourself and eat a donkey sandwich (sorry, couldn't resist.)

<3 V. Dear

Um. Sorry. My bad.
I feel like an ass about it, I really do. I can't help it if I'm assinine.

K, I'm done. Promise.


Ass. Heh.