I'm in Love...

People who don't believe in love at first sight have truly been deprived of a decent touring bike. After weeks of tirelessly refreshing the bicycle want ads on Craigslist, I finally stumbled upon this beauty:


It's a Fuji Del Ray--an awesome 19inch/48cm lightweight touring bike made in Japan. Its frame is Feather Si35 Triple-butted CroMo Ishiwata tubing with chrome fork and equipped with Shimano 105 Exage/Sport/Action components. It was made in the 1990's, but compared to the $800 Specialized and $300 Giant OCR 3s I've tried, the Fuji DR rides like a dream.

There are times in life when things just feel right. This test ride was one of them. Once I got on, I didn't want to stop. Weird for me, actually. The original seat was a bit uncomfortable, but after the seller offered to swap it for a Terry women's saddle, it rode like butter. So soft and smooth.

I shall call this beast Dr. Fuji in honor of its future role in transporting me to and from school. Everyday. Possibly in scrubs (^.^)

Another Lovely Poem

Despite the byline of my blog, I just noticed that there is virtually nothing related to medicine in my last few posts. Thus, in the spirit of my future career, I have provided some literary diversion:

Roses are red, violets are blue,
My medical education is going to be expensive,
So your co-pay will be too.

HOLY MOLY, YES!!!

This may come as a surprise to many of you (no, I am not going on vacation again), but I am a compulsive reader. Nary a day goes by that I don't have some sort of tome in my hand, be it a masterpiece fiction or erudite encyclopedia. However, as much as I enjoy reading, very rarely do I come across things that truly blow my mind.

I can think of a few authors--Woolf, Joyce, Kidder, Clavell--who have written works so engrossing and pithy as to make me anticipate when I'll read the next page. To be absolutely honest, much of my reading is driven by this desire to get high through discovering these gems. Nerd, you say? Hardly. A true nerd wears pocket protectors. Clearly, I have more fashion sense than that.

But the real reason for this post is that I have discovered such another worthy book. Quite by accident. One might even say as a result of destiny, which is ironic considering the subject of the book. It's called Yes Man by Danny Wallace, a BBC television producer who at first glance looks nothing like a serious writer. The story documents his decision to say "yes" to any and all questions for several months. No exceptions.

I really can't explain in one blog post why this book affected me so much. You'll just have to read it. And believe it. Open yourself up. However, I will say that even if you don't like it, you'll probably find it incredibly funny and entertaining. Either that or you're just a terribly dull person. But truly, it contains everything you could ever want in a book--humor, sarcasm, sensitivity, verbosity, puns, dogs, and of course, a real bona-fide meaning. A lesson. A "take-home message" my rambling, tangential college English professors would say but refused to come right out and tell you for fear of being too obvious.

Wallace isn't too circuitous, but he does take one on an adventure. Anyway, I can't help but think that maybe that's the whole point. As the saying goes, "life is a journey, not a destination." Yes Man is certainly proof of that.

It Doesn't Pay to be Cheap

As I prepare to descend into the bowels of destitute studenthood, I thought it prudent to read a few finance books about being thrifty (read: cheap). After all, I'd need all the help I could get given that I am part of that widely detested and spat upon Middle Class--that socioeconomic group which receives virtually no help from the government and even less from multi-million dollar franchises like McDonalds. Tragic, I know.

So, what do all these personal wealth gurus suggest as a means of becoming rich? Why yes, it is to SAVE MONEY! Basically, one should try to skim wherever one can, even if it means cutting a corner or two. Being somewhat lazy, I thought I might manage to put this wisdom into practice in my own life!

I might've mentioned how enamored I was with how people got around in Asia--namely, by foot or bike. Since the subway system around my house is pretty limited, I decided that I would start riding my bike more. The first thing I thought about was getting a trunk rack like that pictured above. That was the rational option. However, being influenced by trashy self-help literature, I opted not to spend the $90 and came up instead with this brilliant idea: "why don't I just try to cram my 21-speed mountain bike into the backseat of my car??!!!"

Yup. It was a frugal epiphany.

In fact, last weekend (before my car died for other unrelated reasons), I shoved my bike into the backseat and drove off to the trails like a proud soccer mom. Granted, it took me 15 whole minutes to maneuver the bike into my car and out again, but hey, so far so good.

That is, until the return trip.

I had stuffed my bike into my car butt first, handlebars last. When I arrived home, I took it out the same way, not realizing that the handlebars would get caught on my low-ceilinged sedan and rip the top to shreds. As I tried to manhandle my bike out of the car, the front wheel and handlebars got stuck on the frame while the rest of the bike hung out of the car rather pitifully. It was so sad that my neighbor who had been smoking and watching me for quite sometime eventually asked, "you need some help with that?" I hope he was entertained by my half-hour struggle.

Fortunately, I got the bike out, but not without scratching up my car and detaching the front wheel unnecessarily. After that experience, I learned a very good lesson: never take life lessons from a financial adviser. If you need to transport a bike, then BUY A TRUNK RACK. Trust me, you'll thank me one day.

But you can thank me now by sending me $1 to laginnad@gmail.com. Thanks!

Fatty Cakes

The one nice thing that happened to me while traveling around China was that I lost weight.

Quite a bit of it.

Perhaps I did not lose as much as the picture above suggests, but it was noticeable enough that my co-workers kept commenting on it (apparently, I am wasting away). Indeed, I noticed that my pants became progressively looser as the days went by, but I chalked it up to stretching them out and just generally abusing them by walking around so much. That much was true, but it was also because my food didn't exactly absorb completely through my intestines.

In a nutshell, Shanghai is a fat man's heaven. Not only are there copious amounts of ridiculously delicious food (rice cake-filled lotus root, enoki mushrooms, fried sesame balls, turnip cakes, milk tea...I could go on indefinitely), but one walks so much that the food is magically burned off! Yes, unlike in America where people complain about parking 2 feet further away from the supermarket than their peers, people walk around in China. A lot. So much so that foot massages are commonplace and (I think) mandatory.

However, this is not why I dropped pounds. It is perhaps unsurprising that in a foreign country with sub-standard sanitary conditions, one is likely to have quick and dirty bowel movements. Due to the frequency of my own, I fairly guessed that my diet back home was so clean I had absolutely zero gastrointestinal tolerance for real Chinese food. This was a shame since there were many things that I wanted to try, but was deathly afraid of expelling all my guts into a squatting toilet. Each day, I made do with maybe 1.5-2 good meals. The rest of the time I was either trying to stay alive, not get cheated, or not collapse with exhaustion.

Moreover, I didn't drink at all. It's amazing what sobriety can do for the waistline.

It goes without saying that I will once again fill out. I tried to keep up the frenzied pace back home, but I can't get anywhere by walking and will most likely get run over if I try to bike. I always knew how commuter-unfriendly the US was, but never was it as apparent as it is now. No wonder we need diet books. Our way of life is so removed from evolutionary existence that it's amazing we can survive in the midst of obesity, diabetes, heart disease and myriad other epidemics caused by excessive eating and little exercise.

Thus, I shall inevitably return to my former size, which is a sad thought indeed. Oh well, they don't call it Happy Hour for nothing.

Ahh, Onsen

Going along with this month's theme of "bodily awkwardness," I thought I might relate my first time at an onsen. Onsen is the Japanese term for hot springs, and it is much like any other spring in which people go to bathe for good health or general relaxation. We stayed at an onsen hotel on Lake Ashi on the Izu peninsula, which is widely known for its gorgeous scenery (it pains me to write that as I'd taken many photos of the lake's cliffs). When you stay at the hotel, everyone also wears a complimentary yukata, pictured at left.

One thing that distinguishes a Japanese hot springs from a Chinese or American one is that one must be completely naked inside. As in no clothes. Butt naked.

Of course, I had heard rumors about this even before going. In fact, a few weeks before our trip the following exchange took place:

Mom: LAG, don't forget to bring your swimsuit so you can bathe in the springs (I don't have one).
LAG: Mom, you can't wear a swimsuit. You have to be naked. It's impolite to wear anything.
Mom: What? That's impossible.

Since my mother never believes anything I say, she opted to ask her Japanese friend in the States who indeed confirmed that one must be completely naked in the springs. Call me conservative, but I'm the kind of person who is deathly afraid of taking public showers at the pool. Everyone may be the same sex, but the last time anyone saw me naked was probably my mother. And I was probably three.

So I had made up my mind then and there to enjoy the waters of the hot springs in the tiny bathroom hotel with a 3-foot-high tub (yes, Jean Hou style :)). When we finally arrived at the hotel, it was late and my mom decided to go downstairs. "Are you coming?" she asked. I politely declined. After all, we had bought a bottle of sake to help with the jet lag, and I thought it nice to have a refreshing glass of alcohol while watching Japanese people try to play human tetris.

However, the next morning my mom awoke me at 5 am and compelled me to try it out. "It's great! If you don't go, you'll regret it." After asking about 50 questions, most of which included, "Is it really steamy inside? So steamy you can barely see?" I agreed to try it out.

She lied.

It's not foggy. It's hot, but you can see VERY CLEARLY inside the hot springs pool, especially since the water is crystal clear. It was an enclosed spaced that looked out onto the lake, and after I got over myself, it was beautiful and quite relaxing. I spent a little too much time cooking because when I stepped out, I felt a little dizzy. Luckily, my clothes were right near the door (pictured at right), so I had easy access out.

Later on we found out that everyone at the hotel pays a hot springs tax, so if you didn't bathe, you basically wasted your money. Despite flagrant deceit by my mom, it was certainly worth the experience. There is nothing like basking in a hot spring with breath-taking scenery in front of you. If I ever had the opportunity, I'd do it again.

I'm definitely going back to Japan someday.

Big Brother China

If you've grown up in the US, then at some point in your educational career you've been made to read George Orwell's 1984 or Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Both of these fictions lay out a nightmarish dystopia from which its citizens are powerless to escape--and indeed--even unwilling to acknowledge. If you've ever thought such fantasies were the product of an overactive imagination, then you've never been to China.

Not to hate on The Middle Kingdom or anything (I may seem bias after the camera incident), but one will invariably see extreme censorship by the government in any developing country. It's simply a lot more obvious in a place with over 1.3 billion people. Throughout my one-and-a-half week stay in Shanghai, not once did I see or hear news about the outside world. Media censorship is outrageously apparent, and one is more likely to hear about a Chinese cow getting assaulted by a moped than 4,000 people dying after a cyclone in Myanmar.

Case in point: there was a blurb in Fortune magazine recently about the Beijing Weather Modification Office preparing rocket launchers full of silver iodide to fire into incoming clouds to flush out excess moisture so it won't rain on the main Olympic stadium. Now, I'm no meteorologist, but preliminary research indicates that the kind of cloud-seeding that China is intending to engage in is sketchy at best. Silver iodide can freeze the cloud's moisture, but the particles are so far apart that it's hard to guarantee precipitation unless a secondary event occurs (aka., the vertical motion of air).


Not to bore you with too much nerdiness, but this is just another example of China's attempts at control. Unsatisfied with censoring your television, radio, newspaper, and internet, Chinese officials have to go and screw with weather patterns too! What's next? Gravity? Maybe they can help really fat people lose weight (the solution is actually going to Shanghai. If you can gain weight after walking around and taking public transportation, then you are truly a hopeless case).

In fact, when I met up with my good friend Jason (who is on scholarship in Beijing), he told me that the local government already proposed ridiculous measures such as even- and odd-numbered license plate driving days and a completely new taxi service to take over only during the Olympics. Basically, the city is being overhauled and all non-Olympic foreigners are being kicked out of the country.

None of this is surprising, especially having been there once. What worries me is that the population at large doesn't much care. Of course there are the academics and the college students who may raise a small cry, but most people are so involved in day-to-day shopping and survival that they could care less about unfettered access to information. Nevertheless, it's the dangers that we aren't aware of which can prove the most insidious. Orwell was right: "To see what is in front of one's nose needs a constant struggle."

Don't Touch My Butt, Please

Aside from getting robbed, assaulted, and yelled at in Shanghai, I had the rare opportunity of getting a full-body massage. Apparently, my aunt whose house we stayed at frequented one massage parlor who could relieve "the most serious tension" that one had. Well, I wasn't one to turn down spa-like treatment, and with a foot massage thrown in for approximately 70RMB (that's about $10 for two hours of human labor), it was a deal that I couldn't refuse. Besides, my mom wanted it so I had no choice but to come along.

Now, the only massage that I've ever experienced is from a Peer Health Educator gripping my shoulder blades in a painful, vice-like grip. We PHEs pretended to teach people how to massage and relieve stress in college, but as we all know, Americans are deathly afraid of bodily contact. In fact, there is a term for this. It is called the "Personal Bubble" and must be observed at all times. In China, however, this idea is laughable. Instead, they follow a different rule, which is: "shove or be shoved." In other words, the only bubbles that you'll be observing are the ones that some little Chinese toddler is blowing into your face on the overcrowded subway. So, as you can imagine, getting massaged in China was an intensely violating experience.

Because I was a young girl (a "xiao gu niang"), they decided to request a female masseuse rather than a male one. One can debate whether it's more awkward to have a guy or girl rubbing your body, but to me, it's pretty uncomfortable either way. The beginning was alright since she started out massaging my neck, back and face. In fact, she spent so long on my back that I thought that was all there was. However, midway through she told me to lie on my stomach and put my face through a hole in the bed so my face wouldn't get squashed (a rather clever innovation, I thought).

All was going well until her hands made their way to my butt. Now, I don't know the protocol for massages, but I didn't realize the butt was a muscle that needed any manual manipulation. After all, it's just made of fat tissue. Although I did sit a lot on the plane, my butt did not cry out for manual relief, and even if it did, I'd probably just sleep it off.

In any case, the butt massage was thankfully short-lived. Once she got to my legs, I felt a little better, but the whole time I was still thinking: "This is such a violating experience. This is such a violating experience." Strangely enough, when we got to the foot soak and massage, my masseuse commented that I was "unusually relaxed" for a first-timer. Hm. I guess I'm really good at faking.