Mario has been my student, teaching English in China, for more than a year. While extremely bright, it is sometimes difficult deciphering the mish-mash of English, Cantonese and Mandarin that explodes from his mouth when excited.  In the parents’ day performance of last week he played the Big, Bad Wolf of Little Red Riding Hood fame. On the cusp of coolness, he fought me tooth and nail over wearing the above cape.

Funny, I would pay to wear a cape.

Last week was Parents’ Day at my school, a monumental undertaking involving 800+ students, 16 foreign teachers, countless Chinese staff, and many parents. Above are 4 of my former Grade 1 “babies”. Toothless Rick (more on him in a future post) introduced himself as 10-year-old Luke. The three-day performance now out-of-the-way, I can coast thru the next week, and live to see the end of the term.

Teaching overseas is a lot of work, but a lot of fun.

Three things newcomers to China should know:

1. Rice is eaten often.
2. People speak Chinese
3. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a security guard.

In my upscale community there are guards everywhere. Parking lot guards dressed in blue, police officers from a multitude of departments (also in blue or possibly brown), and the bao’ans (security guards) attired in brown. They have a rotten job, and take guff from all and sundry. But they can march, sometimes in-step.

I was tried, too tired to put into words. Sleeping for a week is not a physical possibility but that didn’t stop me from wanted to attempt it.

I had been awake for a couple of hours before my wife’s feet hit the floor. For some uncanny reason I asked her if she wanted breakfast. Her morning meal usually consists of fruit or other eat-on-the-go item. She answered in the affirmative and decided on 30 more minutes of slumber.

The last month has been über-busy. Neither of us has much time to shop, therefore the fridge is empty and the cupboards are bare. Breakfast for my beloved was a cipher. I had noodles and water. Tang mian 汤面 is a traditional Chinese breakfast (tang = soup mian=noodles. There was little put in the dish. When served in a restaurant this peasant favorite is served with meat, greens and eggs.

I had four slices of bacon and a partial bucket of KFC chicken. The eggs in my larder had gained sentience. I cracked four of them to discover strange colors and odors from the inside of each.

Scratch the eggs.

Making the soup I found no ginger in my kitchen, not even a dried and hairy nub. In the recesses of the icebox, hidden behind a package of Kraft cheese slices, a small piece of ginger revealed itself to me. It must have been fate. I was doing a nice thing and the Gods were rewarding my efforts.

I added the noodles to the soup. There was precious little in the pot except for noodles and soup. A few pieces of fried bacon could be seen if you picked through the mess. It was not good enough, not for wo de lao po.

I looked again into the fridge, for inspiration. The smiley visage of Colonel Sanders stared at me from a red bucket. Tuesday evening, after a few beverages I decided I wanted, (nay, needed) to eat the KFC family meal myself. I didn’t succeed, hence the bucket in the fridge. I stared at that Kentucky gentleman and wondered, “Dare I?”

Two pieces of chicken were stripped to the bone, the meat diced, and placed in the giant noodle bowls.

How did it taste?

Not as bad as you would think. Fusion cuisine is always interesting. I may look at copyrighting my recipe, just in case the multinational conglomerate controlled by Harlan Sander’s ghost attempts to steal my idea.

There is no room in China for Kraft Dinner, the delightful KD, food of my youth. I think the rule in China is there is nothing grown and raised, or any part/item/organ of the previously mentioned food products, that cannot be eaten or used in a Chinese medicinal preparation.  (aside: My lovely wife once took me to the local clinic. When filling the prescription I was to ingest, the clerk placed large, dried seahorses in the bag with the assorted roots, nuts and berries,. “They taste just like fish,” she told me.)

I have eaten a lot of strange things since arriving in the PRC. Vegetables, for one. I was never a big fan of anything grown in the ground or on a plant, but have started eating such items on a regular basis. I’m more of a carnivore.

After 29 months in China I have ingested tragically few boxes of the standard Canadian treat, Kraft Dinner (Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to my American Friends). Reflecting on this fact, I find it hard to believe. My life is full of Kraft Dinner stories. It was a staple of my youth. (One night at dinner, two Canadian friends and I had a very serious discussion, comparing the pros and cons of regular KD vs spirals and shells. The extra cheesy type of KD was also discussed at length. Our New Zealand pengyou was puzzled and wondered what we were talking about.)

During my childhood the meal was pork chops, French green beans from a can, and Kraft Dinner. This culinary gem was usually eaten weekly. I loved KD. That strange, almost Day-Glo orange color, the faux-cheese taste – what’s not to like. As a teenager I prepared KD for myself when I was home alone. I started to experiment with different ratios of milk and butter in a quest to reach the perfect consistency. My college and university days were full of KD. It was fast, easy and cheap.

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Occasionally, I feel very old.

I begin to feel my 36-years when my early-20s co-workers want to “go out” on a Friday night and I am asleep on the couch by 9 pm.  Or, when discussing television with the above mentioned group and receiving blank stares after mentioning a cavalcade of 80s programs.

I’m not the oldest person in my office; I just feel that way most of the time. Luckily, I managed to get to China before reaching my forties and inflicting my mid-life crisis on another nation. While shacking up with a girl half my age and constantly being a pain in the ass has allure, it’s not the way I would like to be remembered.

As an impetuous teenager I was convinced I would never see 25. A bleak outlook, but listening to the mope rock of The Cure, and the bitter societal lyric of John Lydon had a profound effect on a developing mind.

I joined facebook.com a few weeks back. After getting out of the considerable quagmire of gather.com I had decided not to be actively involved in online communities. I do have a life, a rather good one, which can be better spent away from the computer.  But, a friend sent an invitation and I registered to see his posted photographs.

One thing leads to another, like one beer leads to seven. A coworker found me on Facebook, as did a number of high school, college and summer camp friends. When I started to receive messages that said, “I know it’s been 16 years…..etc.” I felt a slap in the face from age. Where did the time go? It spiraled down the drain, gone and almost forgotten, wasted on hedonism and self-pity.

One former camp friend sent a photo of a very young and angry Stevo. (I showed it to a present co-worker who responded, “You are much more handsome now.”) I don’t want to look back, it’s like looking at a car crash. But, it put things in perspective.

Like how old I am.

As I ride the down-slope to 40 I can only try to make up for my past misdeeds and have an influence, to do something to redeem an almost useless existence.

Wow, this is starting to sound serious and reflective. Far too deep for 6 am, because it’s a school day and too early to drink.